A sea of shining metal armour marched through the streets of the capital.
From a castle window, a young man with brown hair watched as soldiers carried a casket towards its final resting place. The morning sun glinted off their polished breastplates, turning the procession into a river of silver.
"Do they have to put on such a show?" he asked.
"Yes, Master Gin. The Black Ministry — the military — would have it no other way. It is how they wanted to honour your uncle."
The explanation came from a butler standing a short distance behind him. He wore a spotless black suit and a pair of immaculate white gloves, his posture as rigid as the soldiers below.
Gin clicked his tongue.
"So even in death, the Black Ministry intends to use my uncle to boost morale."
The butler offered no reply.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the distant, rhythmic clatter of marching boots.
Suddenly, the door swung open.
A soldier hurried inside, his breathing ragged from running.
"Master Gin!" he exclaimed. "We've been searching everywhere for you. The Queen Mother. She has ordered you to make your way to the hall. Immediately. The funeral is about to begin."
Gin sighed and glanced out of the window once more.
He narrowed his eyes, staring at the procession for a moment before turning towards his butler.
"Suppose we'd better get going, Baker."
He hopped down from the window seat and brushed a few creases from his clothes.
"You may return to your duties. I'll take the young master to the hall."
"Of course."
The soldier straightened and brought his arm diagonally across his chestplate in salute before marching out of the room.
Gin watched him leave.
"Ordered," he muttered again.
Down in the streets below, crowds lined both sides of the road. Children ran ahead of their parents, scrambling onto fences and climbing trees for a better view of the procession.
"Look! It's the Black Ministry!" one child exclaimed excitedly.
"Look at all the crests on their chestplates!" shouted another, pointing at the soldiers as they marched past.
"And look at the men at the front! A blackened eagle. That has to be House Irin!"
At the head of the procession marched rows of soldiers bearing the black eagle upon their armour. Their polished breastplates gleamed beneath the morning sun, each step falling into perfect rhythm with the next.
The children watched in awe.
The adults, however, paid little attention to the soldiers themselves. Their eyes were fixed on the three figures riding horseback at the very front of the procession.
"All this smiling. It does make your cheeks ache horribly," remarked one of them.
The man, seemingly in his thirties, possessed blonde hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were aquamarine, and his lips carried the redness of a rose. His features were almost unnaturally beautiful, as though some artist had spent years perfecting them.
"Mark, silence your tongue, or must I cut it out myself?" came the quiet reply of the older man riding ahead of him.
His beard was white, his head entirely bald, and scars ran across his face. Even on horseback, he carried himself with a stern posture like a unwavering stature who will never fall.
Mark pulled an exaggerated grimace.
Turning towards him was a woman riding beside Mark, she lowered her voice and whispered.
"You always know just when to say the right thing, don't you, brother?"
She chuckled.
The procession soon reached the vast castle grounds at the heart of the capital.
As the soldiers marched through the entrance, the crowds lunged forward, desperate to catch one last glimpse of the procession. People pushed and shoved, scrambling over one another as the enormous black gates began to close behind the soldiers.
Dozens of hands seized the iron bars. Some tried to peer through the gaps; others attempted to climb high enough to see over them.
"Get out of the way! I can't see!" shouted a boy.
"Ow! That's my foot!"
"get off me!"
Similar complaints rang along the length of the black bared gates as the crowd continued to jostle for a view. One by one, bit by bit, view by view. The gaps between the bars disappeared until the gates slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the city.
Within the castle grounds, the atmosphere was altogether different.
The three riders dismounted before a large wooden door leading into the castle's main hall. Waiting to receive them stood three figures, each dressed in the fine garments. Diamonds, topaz, aquamarine, and iridescent bismuth glittered beneath the sunlight, forged into ornate brooches, rings, and chains of gold.
Mark straightened his coat and brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve. The older man paid him no attention, while his sister suppressed another amused smile.
The two figures stepped forward and gave a deep bow.
"Your Majesties…"
An older woman stepped forward, her expression warm and welcoming. "My Lord Mark and Lady Marane of House irin, and Your Grace. I am pleased to welcome you to the royal castle on this occasion. I am glad you could attend my brothers funeral."
"Ah, Your Majesty," the Duke replied. "The uncle of our young king and your brother was a distinguished general. He served the Black Ministry for many years before his unfortunate passing. We were all deeply saddened to hear of his demise."
Then he gestured to an attendant, who stepped forward carrying a small wooden box.
"Please, Your Majesty. Accept this as a humble token of our respect for the Crown."
The lady opened the box to reveal a dazzling golden brooch.
"Oooh! So pretty!" exclaimed the young man standing beside the Queen Mother. Before she could react, he reached out and attempted to snatch it from her hands.
"My young king you mustnt-" Mark chuckled.
"It seems His Majesty has taken a liking to the brooch. Surely, Your Majesty, wouldn't stop the king from getting what he wants, even if it is such a small pleasure?"
The Queen Mother's expression tightened.
For a moment, she looked down at the child beside her. Then, with a strained smile, she relinquished the brooch to the young king.
Mark responded with a bright smile of his own.
Bending down until he was level with the boy, he offered him a shallow bow.
"Your Majesty. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
The young king, already engrossed in his new treasure, barely seemed to hear him.
Running late was Master Gin, accompanied by his butler, Baker. They arrived just in time to witness the exchange by the great wooden doors.
"This almost makes me feel sorry for her." Gin Whispers to his butler.
"Now, now, young master. This is neither the time nor the place," Baker replied quietly.
Before Gin could respond, the Duke of Irin, his children, the Queen Mother, and the young king began making their way into the hall.
"Big brother!" shouted the young king as he rushed towards Gin, his arms outstretched, practically demanding to be picked up.
Gin's expression softened as he bent down and picked the boy into his arms.
"My king," he declared with exaggerated formality, before breaking into a smile and gently poking the child's nose with his index finger. The young king giggled innocently.
Then the Duke of Irin spoke. "Master Gin. It's good to see you're still in the capital. I was sorry to hear you hadn't taken me up on my offer." Gin turned towards him.
"Duke Irin. It's always a pleasure to see Your Grace." He offered an awkward smile. "Unfortunately, there was no time to visit your holiday villa. It's so far away that the journey there and back would have taken weeks. I doubt I'd have made it back in time for my uncle's funeral had I left."
"Well my villas doors are always open to Prince Gin. Maybe some other time." The Duke offered a courteous nod before turning and walking into the hall.
From foreign dignitaries to nobles everyone soon began finding their seats. The kings mother offers but a glance at Gin as they sit together in a royal box situated high above the rows of wooden seats that lined the hall.