Gold and silver threads sparkled in the light of the bright lamps. Hundreds of gems, built into the heavy crown, gleamed on his head. This was the crown that Haver had almost never worn. Moreover, it had once looked more like a headband, but now it was a massive, golden monstrosity.
As Primus walked toward the former General, people bowed to him, not daring to look up at their ruler. However, Hadjar kept staring into the usurper’s eyes. There, in the depths of the King’s blue eyes, almost as bright as his own, he saw scenes from the distant past.
He was a small, four-year-old boy and had just asked his Uncle Primus to find him a horse. Primus had laughed, teased his brother, and then put the Prince on his own shoulders so that the boy could see the hundreds of thousands of roofs in the capital.
Another memory came to him. The three of them: Hadjar, his uncle and his father, walking through the park. The brothers had been telling the Prince stories from their turbulent youth. They’d even promised Hadjar that they would take him to the eastern border of the Kingdom, to see the beginning of the Great Valleys. They’d said that there was nothing more beautiful than those vast expanses that stretched out toward the horizon and got lost in the Sea of Sand, which was many thousands of miles to the east.
They’d told him that, in their youth, their father, his grandfather, had taken them there to plant a tree. It had probably already grown. The time would come for Hadjar to plant his own tree next to it. Their royal family would eventually be able to plant a whole forest there.
Primus walked toward the General, nodding to the grandees and the nobles, greeting the most important among them. The musicians weren’t playing anything on the improvised stage, but Hadjar heard music from the distant past.
It had been Hadjar’s birthday. He’d had to wear frilly, pretentious clothes and a black steel crown. He’d been introduced to his future bride, the daughter of an influential person with whom Haver had planned to form an alliance.
Hadjar had been extremely dissatisfied with this, which had prompted Primus to make fun of him that evening. Then, in tandem, they had begun to poke fun at the nobles, which had almost ruined the celebration. Hadjar’s parents had reprimanded them both for it severely.
Primus stood in front of Hadjar. Once, long ago, he had towered over his nephew like an impregnable rock. Hadjar had thought him to be almost as amazing as his father. Now, Hadjar suddenly realized, he was nearly a head taller than the usurper.
A heavy silence filled the hall. Everyone was looking at the center, where the Mad General wasn’t bowing to the King. They looked into each other’s eyes, their palms on the handles of their blades.
Hadjar couldn’t lie to himself — he had loved his cheerful and courageous uncle when he’d been a child. That’s why the memory of his betrayal had dug its claws so sharply into his heart. With a swing of his sword, Primus had taken his father’s life. With his own hands, he had torn the heart out of his mother’s chest. Primus had thrown him into the eternal darkness of a cramped dungeon, turning him into a helpless freak.
The man in front of Hadjar wasn’t the uncle who had carried him on his shoulders and shown him how to untie the ribbons on women’s corsets with just one hand.
No.
A murderer stood in front of him.
The man who’d taken his mother and father away from him.
A usurper.
He was so close that Hadjar could grab him by the throat. He could unsheathe Moon Beam and try to bring peace to his parents’ spirits. At that moment, such a rage was smoldering in Hadjar’s heart that if it spilled out, it would burn down the entire capital. It would awaken the ancient gods themselves and they would launch another attack on the Heavens to regain their former power.
“Greetings, my King,” spread throughout the hall.
Everyone present at the celebration breathed a sigh of relief when the Mad General bowed to the King.
It wasn’t yet time for Hadjar to spill the usurper’s blood. It wasn’t the right time to draw his blade. For thousands of nights, he had dreamed of this moment. For hundreds of days, he had reflected on his plan. He could be patient. His father and mother could wait a little more.
“My King,” Nero bowed, holding the iron pot that served as his helmet.
“Your Majesty,” Serra performed a curtsy. She wasn’t a subject of Lidus and Primus wasn’t her king.
“Stand up, glorious heroes,” Primus laughed.
He put his hands on Hadjar’s shoulders, and the young man was eager to shake them off and draw his blade. The former General had to repeatedly tell himself that he had come here for a different purpose tonight.
No matter how deep and all-consuming his hatred and rage were, they nevertheless succumbed to the feelings he had for his sister. The happy memory he had of her had been a guiding star on his endless journey through the abyss. It had kept him sane through many battles with demons. Both real and imaginary.
“The songs don’t lie, Honorable General,” Primus’ voice, despite the sensational merriment all around them, sounded weary. “You know nothing of fear, manners, or respect.”
The courtiers looked at each other. As far as they could remember, the King had never treated someone with respect. However, after seeing the laughter in the man’s blue eyes, they soon realized that, even now, Primus wasn’t showing any appreciation to the General. Rather, he was arrogantly mocking him.
“Alas, my King,” Hadjar straightened and met the King’s gaze boldly.
