Antares made his way to the great hall. The path he chose to get there was one very few knew about. In his youth, he would explore the castle in the dead of night by himself trying to find mysteries and clues left behind from his kin centuries ago. He had grown up on stories on the construction of Castle Xerxes; on how it was built four times over. Kings through the millennia would each add to the castle, a part of themselves. A moment from their reign engraved into the marble walls of the castle. The exterior of the castle would rarely change, but within its hallowed halls, many were busy at work. To Antares, Castle Xerxes was more akin to a labyrinth than a castle or a palace. And still, Antares found comfort in that as he walked the halls.

  Part of him wondered what all those great kings would say if they could see the castle now. Each one of them building on top of the other, extending in many directions. All for their names to be nothing more than echoes no longer spoken. He looked at the finely carved marble, he could see no fault in the work. Such exquisite work done. And it did not matter. Very little did when time was given enough opportunity to march on. And yet the young prince could not help but chuckle to himself, as much as he admonished his ancestors for their lofty desires. For only a mere moment he thought to himself, he too would like to add to Castle Xerxes; a reminder that he too existed.

  As he made his way around another corner, he could hear faint chatter and people shuffling around. It was not that he was avoiding conversation with people, it more so had to do with Antares growing exasperated with the looks they gave him. They were unsure what face to show when they offered their condolences for his loss. His issues with his father were well publicized throughout Iliad. It was no secret they were at odds but still he loved his father as desperately as he tried not to. He would never fully recover from his loss, but he did not need the constant reminder from those here today as they gave him looks akin to what one would give a child.

  In these empty halls he felt at peace, the light shone through the windows illuminating the great passageways. Although the exterior of the castle was a uniform obsidian, a monolithic structure of pure radiance. But within the castle, the interior was decorated with pristine marble across the floors and ceilings. The contrast was striking, reminiscent of a dream. Different colors danced in the light. Stygian architecture was one of careful consideration. No space was wasted, everything needed a reason to be where it was. Gold trims adorned the many pillars that he walked past, each hand crafted with such care that even thousands of years later the details were still visible. On the wall hung portraits of his kin like that of the other halls he walked through. Again some of them he knew, others he did not. Yet they all carried the same air about them, the air of duty and superiority. As he went around the last corner, he could already hear a large commotion coming from the throne room. Antares let out a large sigh, the arrival of the elders always made people uncomfortable. Part of him believed they reveled in their mysticism and at times might have even enjoyed it.

  As he reached the great doors carved out of an ancient tree, he placed his hands on them. Despite being thousands of years old, he could feel the power emanating from them. It felt vibrant yet old, cold yet warm. He remembered stories of his mother telling him about how the doors were carved and who carved it. A story he had grown fond of as it was one of the few times what he learned about his kin was not steeped in blood and destruction. The tale was about the brother of the king at the time, wanting to show his love and appreciation. It is said the brother was an amateur carpenter wanting to create something out of an old tree that was nearing the end of its life. The story went as he remembered, the brother pouring every ounce of care and love into each carving, he ran his hands through the crevices. He knew the story of what was carved by heart; it was their entire life up till then. Everything they had ever been through, all their failures, their successes and everything else in between. It is said the king it was dedicated to, stood where Antares was standing for days marveling at his brother's creation, overcome with so much adoration for his little brother. Antares gently put his head against the door and spoke in the old tongue.

  "Brother wherever you are please give me strength. Not to rule, but to be strong enough to hold them together... Until your return," he whispered.

  As Antares opened the door, the weight of it creaked and groaned. The sound was loud enough that it reverberated throughout the throne room. It silenced all that were present. Words were not needed, his very arrival was more than enough. All those present stopped and looked at him, some with disdain, others with baited breath. And a few of them simply were expressionless. Antares was not a large man by any means, he cut a slender well toned frame. Even still in that moment, he must have looked far larger than he was. No one dared speak as he approached.

  The throne room was truly magnificent in all of its glory. This was not unique to Iliad, truthfully, all the throne rooms throughout the nine realms were spectacles in their own right. But what set the Stygian throne room apart from the others was not its sheer size or magnitude. It was the reverence one felt being in it. It was the oldest of the throne rooms throughout the realms, and over the millennia it was responsible for the death of millions. Although they would never admit it, the irony was not lost on the Stygians that one of their greatest objects of power was entirely constructed by a human. A fact the Stygians are never quick to mention. In comparison to the rest of the castle, the throne room was completely covered in obsidian. Its presence devoured all light around it. From it darkness seemed to emanate. And still plenty were drawn to its allure. At the angle the castle was situated, it had constant sunlight for much of the day. The sun's rays bounced off its walls and illuminated the entire room. Livery of past Stygian rulers covered the walls that seemed to stretch into the sky. The ceiling was decorated with an otherworldly large mural of the Stygian God King Gilgamesh, the first emperor of Aurum. He was adorned in his golden armor surrounded by his legendary weapons. If there were those who did not think him a god, those thoughts were quickly dispelled upon looking at his mural up above. It is said the creator of the mural was incapable of properly capturing Gilgamesh's likeness. Instead, where his head should have been a large sun was painted, as it was believed to look into the eyes of the emperor was to look into the very sun itself. A golden like hue radiated from the mural as though Gilgamesh would come down at any moment and reclaim his title of Emperor.

  In the four corners of the room stood statues of what many considered to be the greatest Stygian rulers to have ever lived. In the first corner, standing proudly Dyros Xerxes . The first son of Gilgamesh, in all his glory. A large man who was said to stand seven feet tall and whose accomplishments were even larger than he was. In the second corner standing resolute Antares Xerxes I. The man that was known as the only being ever to slay a true immortal. Antares did not only share a name sake with his kin but many believed he and his father were spitting images of their ancestor, more so Antares himself. In the third corner, standing calmly was Adelheidis Xerxes. Not only was she the first and only human to ever sit upon a Stygian throne, it is widely believed if not for her, the Stygian people would have longed since followed the Fire Giants into extinction. And in the last corner standing defiantly, Xerxia Xerxes. The last Stygian Empress that many considered to be the Goddess of Spears and the only Stygian woman to be given the title of Lord of War.

  These four people who lived throughout different times, forged themselves in different ages represented the Stygian culture as one that is not only powerful, resolute and calm but overwhelmingly vengeful. Their marks never to be forgotten, their stories to be told for as long as men had tongues to speak. To Antares he felt small in the presence of merely their statues. He believed he could never have a life worthy enough to be mentioned in the same breath as these heroes. Each one a savior in their own right. He, a drunk outcast at best, and a failure of a prince at worst. As he passed through the crowd, they parted ways to allow him passage. And in front of him stood the throne.

  Memories flooded within him looking up to meet his father's gaze. Back then the throne to him was so high up, his father might as well have been sitting amongst the stars. But yet for some reason even now that he had grown much over the years the throne still felt a long ways away from him. If he tried to reach out and grab it he felt he would never truly reach it. His interest was not on the gold plated designs that adorned the chair, nor the various gems that dotted all around it; each one seemingly brighter than the last. No, his interest was squarely on the three beings that stood in front of the throne like sentinels. It was they who would grant permission, or deny him.

  "Finally you grace us with your presence exile," uttered the elder on the left.

  "Perhaps he is unaware of the magnitude of what is at stake," responded the elder on the right.

  Antares knelt much to gasps and muttering of those around him. He lowered his head and touched his palm on the floor.

  "Forgive me elders, there were matters I needed to attend to," Antares responded softly.

  "Matters greater than this?" said the being on the left motioning to the throne.

  Typical. Thought Antares. Even in their old ages, the Stygian elders still were full of theatrics. This whole event, the death of his father and the choosing of the next king was all a spectacle to them. Truthfully he knew a majority of them were glad his father had died, but he could not voice his opinion. Not now at least. The mystery surrounding the elders was one that dated back thousands of years. Who they were was unimportant as they shed any sense of identity upon ascending to their positions. What little is known is that they were once powerful Stygians during their time. Every age had one, a Stygian who transcended all others, who showed feats and capabilities only ever heard about in stories. In total there were only thirteen of them at a time. Each of them were of various ages, ranging from a few thousand years old to a few ten thousand. It is true the Stygian King ruled Iliad, but the elders in some eyes ruled over the Stygians and by extension the realms. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately depending on who benefited, they rarely if ever involved themselves with the matters of Iliad and what lay beyond. They remained in the ancestral city of Uruk in the far north, hidden behind a lake that never freezes and mountains that never thawed. It is said one can count on one hand over the last ten thousand years how many times they have left Uruk and come this far south. Their reclusive nature, their desire to operate within the dark offered them many opportunities, none more greater than the freedom to do as they saw fit. Away from all those who would dare wonder. Each elder was indistinguishable from the other, their garments masked them in a thick darkness, hidden behind their hoods were faces which were not so easily gleamed. Some had not been seen for millennia and they were content with that.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  For Antares his relationship with them was a complicated one, his father's actions following the day his mother was killed, soured any chance of mutual association for the foreseeable future. What made the elders terrifying was not their reach or combined wisdom, but their constant communion with the Ancestors. The Ancestors guided the Stygian people from The Great Beyond and the elders were the only ones capable of connecting them. Stygians had no need for Gods or anything as inconsequential as that. Those who came before would lead them to a future fate had carved for them all. But that angered Antares. Long had his people been slaves to fate, resigned to carry the will of those who no longer were here to experience the consequences of those actions. To Antares, the elders were merely puppets, men and women enamored by the tales of old, for a future that was abstruse.

  "Enough now, rise prince Antares." Spoke the elder in the middle.

  Antares rose slowly making sure to mask any and all looks of worry on his face.

  The elder in the middle took a step forward.

  "All those who do not carry the blood of Xerxes leave this room at once." He commanded.

  Kingspeak. Thought Antares.

  Antares had read the stories of its origins and was taught it in his youth. A power capable of bringing any man, beast or being to its knees. It took him a long time to learn how to master it. In that moment his thoughts went back to his youth using the power on various small animals trying to command them. If only his younger self knew how proficient he had become in using it, he might have even learned it earlier.

  And yet being proficient as he was, paled in comparison to how the elder used the power. Antares could feel the primordial pull of his words, clear and concise in his delivery. His entire body shuddered under the gravity of the words. They were words that carried the weight of thousands of years, words that had experienced much suffering and great conquest. They were the words of a king. He turned to look as the humans shuffled themselves from the room without protest. Their faces were adorned with blank expressions as they left, very much so under the effects of Kings Speak. None could muster the urge to even argue, not even the great houses themselves. Antares did not like this, he felt at the very least house Robin, Nuthatch and Bunting deserved to remain. They had been his people's closest and oldest allies. At least one member of each of those houses had been present when a new king was selected. This tradition dated back some fifty thousand years. As the last of them shuffled out of the room all that remained were those of the royal family numbering some 30 people. In this room the next ruler of Iliad would be decided.

  "With that done, we can finally begin!" exclaimed the middle elder.

  Without missing a beat. "Elders! I welcome you to Akkad, the second greatest city in all the lands. I see you have come to right the wrongs," exclaimed Daimion.

  "And what wrongs are those, little boy." Asked the elder on the left, cocking his head slightly.

  Daimion took a step back and tried to gather himself. "T-that is of course the line of succession for the throne."

  "So you presume to know our purpose?" retorted the elder.

  "What no-" began Daimion before he was cut off.

  "Insolent brat, I have slaughtered thousands for less," threatened the elder approaching Daimion.

  Tensions were rising, Antares began to take a step towards his younger brother. He would not let anything happen to him, not in front of his wife and children. The elders were on edge, even by their standards, he could sense something was bothering them. He turned to Casspien and without a word he knew he could feel it too. They exchanged words with their eyes and were prepared to intervene if the situation demanded it. In that moment the elder in the middle raised his hand and the elder that was advancing stopped.

  "Enough of these games. He may lack understanding, but he is right. We are here for one reason only, to choose the next ruler of Iliad." Finished the elder in the middle.

  There was an audible silence in the group, all knew there were really only two candidates, despite once being four. Antares and Daimion exchanged looks, and Daimion's eyes were filled with nothing but contempt for his brother. Antares looked away with sadness.

  "Princess Guinevere, step forward." Spoke the elder on the right, for the first time. Her voice, an icy steel.

  Guinevere jolted up. The group looked amongst themselves and to her and yet her eyes were only looking at the floor. The elder on the right, motioned her forward. Guinevere moved through the group, her attire one of mourning. She wore a dress that was adorned with several Stygian symbols of death and loss. Despite the occasion, it was a beautiful dress. It hugged her body and carefully displayed her features. Her exposed shoulders gave way to a figure that had both a harsh and soft touch to it. Standing at six feet, six inches she towered over many as she made her way through. Given her large size many would be forgiven for thinking that was her defining feature, but it was not. It was her wild red hair. Antares had always known how it bothered her, and yet he loved it anyway. The burning look of it almost as though it was alive. As she reached the front she moved some of her hair from her face exposing a beautiful dark-skinned face. She had the eyes of someone in a pain one can only experience in losing a parent. She knelt down.

  "I am at your service, great elder," Guinevere said submissively.

  Even with her kneeling, Guinevere towered over the elder like a giant. The elder chuckled to herself, it was not lost on her the sight she was seeing. Guinevere gave a quizzical look and the elder waved her hand dismissively.

  "Forgive me child, the ancestors whispered an amusing tale in my ear just now." Began the elder, "Are you aware of why I have summoned you?"

  Guinevere hesitated, looking for the right words.

  "I am aware today is not a day for these things, given what you have lost, what you have all lost. But the fate of our home is at stake," she finished.

  Guinevere took a deep breath, "I am one of the chosen next in line for the throne."

  She had always known but not once in the five years since Antares exile had she ever uttered it out loud. Saying it now, in front of her family overwhelmed her. She cursed herself for feeling so helpless. Someone of her status should not waver as she had in front of the elders, especially not in front of Antares. She could not bring herself to meet his eyes.

  "That you are," began the elder. "But I am told you have rescinded your candidacy despite having plenty of support and instead choose to support another name. I would argue you are the worthiest amongst them here, but I would like to know why?"

  Silence filled the massive room. All focus was on Guinevere and her response. Many would say that despite her fame both on the battlefield and off it, Guinevere was never a talkative person. Even by Stygian standards. That was one of two traits she inherited from her father, the other being is otherworldly strength and durability. Being only twenty years old, Guinevere was extremely young by both human and Stygian standards, yet many would argue she held the most important decision in Stygian history here today, dating back at least ten thousand years to the Age of Conquest; of the time of Xerxia Xerxes and her kin. Guinevere was not misguided in this, the pressure of what she needed to say seemed to lodge itself in her throat. She wanted to speak but could not seem to find the words.

  "It is alright child, tell us what you wished to say." The elder said, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  No one had noticed the elder cross the distance between them so effortlessly, let alone Guinevere who felt her icy touch on her shoulder. Regardless, she filled her with a sense of power and agency, it seemed she finally found the strength to say what she wanted to say. She took a deep breath.

  "For as long as I can remember, my father has only ever talked of one person sitting on the throne and it was not himself." She began, "He hated being king, he despised every meeting, every inconvenience that came with ruling over people. And the truth is, my father did not die today, he died decades ago. And as such the land and her people have been dying too. But despite all of this, he knew who could save our people, who could lead us anywhere but here. I do not care what happened five years ago, I do not care about your disdain for my father. Do not let your feelings cloud what you already know to be true. There is no better ruler of Iliad than my elder brother, Crown Prince Antares Xerxes," concluded first Crown Princess Guinevere.

  The air was heavy, many had been waiting for this day but none of them could have quite guessed how it would have happened. For many months now, perhaps spanning two years. There was talk of a faction slowly growing for an outcast prince to assume the throne as he was once destined. At the time it was only small embers in the palace shadows. But now, what Guinevere had done after two years of preparation was finally to ignite the raging fire. And she had done so beautifully. Those who supported Antares led by Casspien could not hide their smiles. Although Casspien was not foolish enough to relax, this was only half the battle won. His gaze shifted to his left and rested upon Prince Daimion. How he would respond would be telling.