Chapter 1: -The Last [Mage] King

  “Touch me and I’ll bite your fucking tits off!” Exia warned the maid, but she didn’t seem much bothered by a ten year old’s threat. Mage or not, he was still without his gloves.

  The idiot woman looked at him with an idiot’s sympathy. He didn’t want sympathy—he wanted to be left alone. “Your Highness,” she began, stupidly. “I’m sorry but I’ve delayed enough. General Volkov demands your presence and he is not a man to be kept waiting.”

  “Fuck General Volkov!” He growled.

  The woman’s lips were drawn into a thin line at his words. She turned to the door. “You can come in now.”

  The door swung open and two large, male servants stepped into his room. Both were about as expressive as statues. They grabbed him by the arm and pinned him in place while the maid got him ready for the meeting.

  He struggled, snarled, bit even, but the bastards didn’t let go.

  It felt like an eternity before the maid was done. When she was, she placed a bright blue cap atop his head and forced him in front of a mirror. “There, now you look like a proper Bessmertnyy Prince.”

  He was dressed in a suit, all bright colours and delicate lacing. His boots shined with an expert’s polish and his azure tie glistened with all the vibrance of the ocean.

  It was an attire fit for celebration. This was no day of celebration.

  “I hate it,” Exia spat.

  The woman sighed. “We have to go to the balcony now. I can have these kind gentlemen carry you, or, you can behave yourself and we’ll go there together like adults.”

  Exia glared at the woman, imagining all the ways he would squeeze the life out of her once he got his gloves back. “I’ll behave,” he hissed.

  “Good,” she said, smiling.

  She held out her hand and Exia took it.

  Outside was abuzz. Exia could barely remember a day that the royal palace had ever been this filled, and yet it had never felt emptier.

  Dignitaries from all of Bessmertnyy Kingdom were here. He recognised the long robes of the north, the sharp uniforms and clean haircuts of the south and the blue eyes common across all the nation.

  There was a time he would have excitedly ran up to each and every one of them and talked their ears off with questions about their homeland. That day was not today. They were all scoundrels, bastards and more.

  Their eyes fell on him as he stepped through the halls, but he avoided meeting theirs. He could hear the whispers. ‘Poor boy,’ ‘The end of an era,’ ‘They should all have been wiped out,’ ‘How far they have fallen.’

  He stepped out onto the balcony and glared up at Uncle Volkov—the General. He was his father’s best friend, his closest confidant. Exia remembered going on fishing trips with him, in fact, he couldn’t remember a day without knowing his Uncle Volkov.

  “You’re late,” Uncle Volkov said.

  “Fuck you!”

  Exia didn’t know when Volkov’s cane came down on him; all he knew was that he felt something harsh whip across his face and send him to the floor. He screamed, clutching his hot cheek in pain.

  Volkov looked down at him like a man might a puddle of water—utterly unimpressed and careful not to step in it. “Manners maketh man, Exia,” He said in as imperious a tone as ever. “We both know that, don’t we?”

  Exia only glared harder at him.

  Like always, the man was in uniform, dark grey and dull reds. It was a staple of the General, just like his handlebar moustache and wooden cane.

  “Now you can speak out of turn at me again and face the consequences, or you can behave yourself in the presence of your betters,” he said. “The choice is yours.”

  My betters? A peasant monkey someone dressed up in officer’s clothes as a joke!?

  Exia kept it to himself and carefully got up to his feet, nodded. “I…” He hesitated. “I don’t want to be here.”

  Volkov nodded. For a moment Exia thought he might understand. “I had assumed as much. But today your needs are not what matters here.”

  “But I…” Exia began only to have his words sliced by Volkov’s.

  “Look outside.”

  “I don’t want to,” Exia growled.

  “I said, look outside,” He repeated, more sternly this time, and Exia suddenly felt so small under the man’s powerful eyes.

  He turned his focus outside, gazing beyond the balcony and down at the garden. It used to be a vast field of lush leaves that Mother had hand selected. Now it was packed densely with a mass of bodies—peasants all of them—sullying her sacred place.

  They all had their eyes set on the far wall, where Mother and Father stood—gloveless and shackled in heavy bolts.

  He could barely recognise them, and it wasn’t just a matter of distance either. Mother looked gaunt, once-full cheeks folded inwards from days of starvation in the castle’s dungeons.

  Father looked just as bad if not worse. Exia struggled to remember a day where he wasn’t smiling. Now he seemed an utterly broken thing.

  The peasants threw rotten food at them, snarling and cursing insults at his parents with dripping vitriol.

  ‘Whore!’ they called Mother.

  ‘Tyrant!’ they screamed at Father.

  The pair barely seemed to react to it, but Exia’s heart sank when mother fell from a particularly well-thrown orange smacking into her face.

  His parents were being taunted, tortured, humiliated. And he could do nothing about it. If I just had my gloves, I’d save them, I’d kill them all with my bare fucking hands and I’ll save them.

  “What do you think is happening there, boy?” Volkov asked.

  “They’re hurting my Father and Mother!” he snarled.

  Volkov nodded. “Yes, but why?”

  “Who cares why?!” he snapped.

  “Oh, I do. And so does the world.” Volkov explained. His eyes fell on his parents—the King and Queen of Bessmertnyy. “You see, Exia, this is what happens when the rulers of a nation forget their place, when they think they exist to line their pockets and not polish the boots of the masses.”

  Something else hit Mother; not fruit this time. He saw blood pour down the side of her head.

  “Make it stop!” Exia begged.

  “The revolution cannot and will not be stopped, Exia.” Volkov replied calmly. “It is merely the progression of things—from anarchy, to monarchy, to feudalism and then finally human civilization arrives at its proper destination. A Democracy. This, boy, is the death of the Bessmertnyy Kingdom and the rise of Bessmertnyy Republic.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Twelve soldiers stepped in front of the wall, and pointed their rifles at his parents.

  They were going to kill them—they were going to kill Father and Mother.

  “I don’t want to see this…” Exia pleaded, tears running down his cheeks. He couldn’t breathe, his nostrils clogged with snot, he felt like he was going to puke. Exia shut his eyes.

  “You will see it!” Volkov commanded. “That is the price you must pay for keeping your life. You will see it—so that when you are a man, and the enemies of the people whisper in your ears about the luxuries of the royal family, and conspire to put a Vanfoster back in power, you will remember this: monarchs dragged through the mud, reduced to nothing, and put to death the moment they move to subvert the will of their people. As. They. Should.”

  Volkov took a deep breath. “You will see it,” he said, and Exia didn’t know whether it was the finality of his words that pried his gaze open or wanting to see his parents alive one last time, but soon his eyes were open.

  The men fired on them with guns emitting the roar of thunder. Mother screamed a blood curdling cry—she was still alive, though bleeding. They’d botched the execution and she was in agony. Her body seemed misshapen by the bullets, mangled past the point where he believed it could live but so very terribly alive. Exia whimpered.

  The men readied their guns again, fired, and then there was silence.

  Exia ran, he tripped, fell and continued running. He got to his room, slammed the door behind him and crawled underneath his bed. Mother was dead, Father too. He couldn’t protect them, he couldn’t do anything.

  He was trembling, crying. It wouldn’t bring them back, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t strong enough to keep a level head like Father always was. He was pathetic. Weak.

  The door opened and he saw the clean boots of General Volkov make its way inside. He stopped, just before the bed and Exia felt like he could see through it and at him, curled up and sobbing.

  “Is that any way for a King to act?!” the man chastised.

  King?

  “Yes,” he said, and Exia feared the monster could read his mind.

  “The last Royal. The last [Mage] King. You will not be allowed to marry, no, not under Zcigmagus’ blue skies. However, the last Vanfoster cannot die by execution. Such a thing might risk turning your family into martyrs. And we can’t have that.” He explained as if Exia’s fate were simply mathematics. “So you will be King, but you shall merely be an extension of the Senate and its will, and we shall make good use of you yet. Oh yes, Exia, I shall make sure of it myself.”

  The best thing about a birthday party was that it was a good excuse to get blackout drunk; the worst thing about it was that when it ended, he was left with a killer hangover.

  Now Exia was no amateur; well trained in the art of drunkenness, he knew the ancient remedy of staying in, sleeping the pain off, and ignoring anyone inconsiderate enough to bother him.

  It had worked out perfectly during his twentieth birthday, but someone had decided that his twenty first should be different.

  “Your Majesty,” the voice called again, and it was quickly becoming apparent that answering would be the easiest way to get rid of it.

  He blinked awake with a groan and found himself staring up at a red-haired stranger. The woman had eyes as green as leaves, and skin like snow. She wore the red and greys of the Bessmertnyy Republic’s army and looked down at him expectantly.

  “I… don’t remember specifically requesting a whore in uniform. But regardless, you’re quite late—and I’m currently nursing a hangover.” He shut his eyes, settled back into bed, and let himself relax. There, handled and over with.

  “Your Majesty,” she called out again, voice digging into his ears.

  Exia groaned. “Fine, if you insist, you can get on top of me while I try to get some rest—but please be gentle.”

  “General Volkov sent me,” she replied.

  Well that didn’t sound right. Exia sat up immediately and nearly threw up as a result of the sudden motion. The woman raised an eyebrow. “So…” He cleared his throat. “Not a…”

  “Not a whore.” She nodded.

  Exia winced. “You must forgive me, it’s a simple mistake to make, you have a very nice pair of…”

  She glared.

  “Eyes,” he finished, blinking away his doubled vision.

  She nodded sharply. “I see. I am Captain Sasha Osin, a Mage of the Sixty-sixth magnitude. I will be your new Handler given the disappearance of Captain Morozova.”

  “Huh, the General’s quick to assign me a new leash,” Exia hummed.

  “Yes,” She nodded. “And a new assignment, Your Majesty,” she said, then began. “We will be going to the city of Gorodlzhi–-”

  “Face the door.” Exia interrupted.

  “Excuse me?” She frowned.

  Exia sighed and spoke quickly. “I am about to get out of bed and grab my robes, now unless you’d like to see my cock and balls hanging out, I’d recommend you face the door.”

  Captain Osin faced the door.

  “Thank you.” Exia slid out of the duvet and donned his night robes. “You can turn back around now.”

  Captain Osin did so, her demeanour was carefully calm. Only the hint of a crack showing, well the general does pick the best. The fact that she was a woman said enough in itself really. The Mages of the senate, for all their talk of being pioneers of thought, were like a playground full of adolescent boys, which naturally meant ‘no girls allowed.’

  At least unofficially.

  So to see one rise through the ranks was rare; to see one do so with a peasant’s accent—well, Exia had never seen that before.

  Volkov wasn’t like the rest within the senate though; he believed in things like meritocracy and other such fairy tales. So it made sense that this one would fall under his own study. Not that it was always the senate who lay claim to war-Mages, military matters were Volkov’s concern in general.

  “As I was saying,” she continued. “We will be going to Gorodlzhi.”

  “To do what?” Exia asked, making himself a cup of tea.

  “I would rather not discuss critical details while we have company around.” Captain Osin looked to the side and Exia followed her eyes to his bed.

  It was currently occupied by a wide variety of beautiful women from all corners of Bessmertnyy and beyond. All sleeping, or at least pretending to be asleep. “Oh them?” Exia laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “I assure you, Volkov’s associates ensure that only the most discreet of professionals are allowed on palace grounds.” He grinned. “I mean half of them don’t even speak our tongue.”

  Captain Osin hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Very well then, if you insist.” She said, “Gorodlzhi has been the target of a number of copycat serial killings. We believe a group of powerful Disciples are responsible, with a magnitude in the sixties at the very least.”

  Sixties…Having recently become a Mage of the Seventy-ninth magnitude, Exia could take any one of them. The classic rule was tens and threes—a Magnitude gap of ten meant a three-on-one fight with the weaker Mages was roughly balanced. Roughly, some punched above or below their weight. And, of course, some came in fours.

  “So this was what Morozova was looking into when he was murdered,” Exia noted.

  “Captain Morozova is missing in action, we are unsure as to his whereabouts,” she replied diplomatically.

  “You’re entertaining the idea that a Disciple of the Sixty-ninth magnitude simply poofed off the map?” Exia scoffed. “Now that’s rich.”

  With the Republic currently getting its arse kicked in the war, he very much doubted they’d be eager to let valuable assets like that just disappear.

  “There is a chance.” She replied, incorrectly.

  Exia sighed.

  Osin inhaled sharply. “There have been five deaths so far—”

  Exia raised a finger.

  “What is it, your Highness?” She asked, clearly resisting the urge to glare daggers at him.

  “It’s six.”

  “My briefing says five.” She replied stiffly.

  “With all due respect Captain, your briefing was made by incompetents and morons,” Exia explained.

  The Captain’s eyes narrowed. “So who’s the si—”

  “The sixth.” He interrupted and saw her clench her teeth, a vein bulging in the side of her head. There we go. Exia grinned innocently. “The sixth is Miss Angelina Zhdanov, my dear Captain.”

  “Who?”

  “Daughter of Dmitry Zhdanov. He’s of the merchant classes—rich enough to cover up the fact that his daughter was brutally murdered,” Exia explained.

  “And you’re certain she's dead because?”

  “According to her family, she’s taken a trip to the countryside for some fresh air,” Exia explained.

  “That could mean anything,” The Captain countered.

  Exia wagged a finger. “Not when the girl’s father intends to sell her off to the son of a Governor that'll be arriving in one week.”

  That gave her pause.

  He continued, “Dmitry’s probably going about pulling his hair out, not out of grief for his daughter, no, the bastard’s far too serpentine for that. You see, he’s in debt, and that dowry was supposed to bail him out of the hole he dug himself into.” Exia shook his head, “The Governor's son probably wouldn’t have gone for her anyways. He has a type, you see, and Angelina simply isn’t pale enough…. Well she might be now.”

  Osin stared at him as if he were the suspect of some grizzly crime. “And how do you know all this?”

  “Oh, I knew you were coming so I did some light reading on the topic,” Exia explained. “You’re earlier than I expected though.”

  “I see,” she replied, clearly not believing him. “Well, we have to go now, do you have your things packed?”

  “I’ll have that arranged in a second,” he assured her.

  The Captain nodded and made her way out of the room, shutting the door behind them. Exia walked over to the blinds, braced himself, and pulled back the curtain.

  Morning light washed in and he found himself recoiling from it like some sort of Nosferatu. It couldn’t be helped, he had a day ahead of him. Outside he saw the garden, the same one his parents had been slaughtered in eleven years ago now.

  The bullet holes were still visible on the walls despite the weathering, and a dark patch on the floor was all that remained of their blood.

  He remembered demanding that the wall be replaced and the floor cleaned. Then he remembered asking. After that came the begging, pleading and crying. Volkov didn’t have any of it however. ‘It must remain, to stand as a reminder of what you are, a slave to the people, a servant of the state!’ Exia remembered him saying.

  Bezdna palace was a building with a grandeur unmatched in all of Bessmertnyy. It had once been his home. Now it was his prison.

  He was allowed the freedom of travel, as every once in a while somebody powerful needed to die. Exia turned, and made his way for the door.

  It was time for the Hound of Volkov to go hunting.