"Ahem. . .
"Long Live the glorious Crown, let it bask in the illusion of prosperity and bliss.
"Long Live the Usurped who filched it. Long Live the Lapsed who succumbed to it. Long Live the Blest who envied it. Long Live the Tyrants who feared it. Long Live the Almighty who shall destroy it.
"Hail Emperor."
. . . .
[1st Year of the Great Sacrificial Era.]
[In the once-prosperous city of Trila, located east within the Kingdom of Normalcy, Houtis. Year 2430.]
[Maylor Precinct. . .]
"The hospital is full. Go home!"
Air hung heavy as thousands of civilians congested the twin glass doors of Trila Municipal Hospital, pleading hopelessly to be let in. 'A chance, give us just a chance!' they'd cry, kneeling on the rocky floor with hands clasped—women, children, the elderly.
But their fate, decided by the king himself, was the same as all others: cruel rejection. Sad, infuriating, wrathful.
It was a dry morning; the sun's luminous rays parched every last bit of Maylor Precinct, including its poor civilians.
"Have these people gone mad? Military order: Leave the vicinity, immediately!"
No one listened.
"By the Totem, don't make me hurt you!" An officer pushed his sword outward, causing the first few civilians to stagger back fearfully. He bit down hard. "Leave now. Commander Saint ordered me and my colleagues to clear the entrance."
Unfortunately, the sheer quantity of the reignited, passionate masses brought forth immense power, and Officer Ansprand was easily pushed to the ground.
"Ngh–" Trampled and silenced, he beckoned for his comrades to join, but the other two officers stumbled and looked the other way. "Tch, useless!" Ansprand cursed his colleagues.
. . . .
Amidst the chaos, an insignificant-looking man by the name of Charles Vaughan squirmed through two burly men and ran inside.
He wore a plaid flannel, blue jeans, and black sandals strapped to his feet. On his head, a pair of glasses sat out of place—one lens covering his right eye, the other diagonal across his eyebrow. Charles felt the irregularity with thin fingers and hurriedly adjusted them.
"Must have been the traffic. . ." he muttered, stopping at a glass window.
The image reflected a thinly built forty-year-old man with red eyes and short brown hair combed to the side. His cheeks hollowed, his temples receded.
Aging.
Charles grinned like a kid, unable to hide his toothy smile. Today is the day. I can't wait!
Above the glass doors, a red light flashed on and off. Below, an officer roared for the civilians to cease their ramparts.
Ever since Queen Bianca had died, life has been. . . oof. Charles sucked his breath in.
Just a day after Queen Bianca Selwyn of Houtis was brutally murdered, thousands of people dropped like flies. They weren't just ordinary murders; they were brutal onslaughts. Victims missed limbs, organs, and sometimes even half their bodies
Charles shook his head. "I can't worry now—Emory is born!" He clenched his fists and headed toward the receptionist's desk.
At the desk, there were about thirty citizens in line. Some exuded anxiousness, others simple annoyance, and a couple were a mix of both.
One woman at the front banged her hand on the desk. "Hey! I've been waiting for four hours! Just tell me what room my son is in!"
The receptionist, sitting at a large U-shaped table, glanced up, then down. Unbothered, she continued silently working.
Infuriation spread across the waiting woman's face. Seeing her seething expression, Charles internally dubbed her 'Crazy Lady.' Tired of the delay, she forcefully reached into her red purse and pulled out a revolver. "I–I'm speaking! Answer me!"
Despite aiming the gun directly at the secretary, 'Crazy Lady' did not shoot. She was beyond terrified.
What an amusing façade, thought one man a couple of meters back. With an unnoticeable smirk, he watched the sequence. The queue dispersed instantly; not one patron wanted to deal with a deranged civilian.
Houtis was a country full of the crazed.
Charles jolted. A gun! He stumbled on his feet and longed to run the other way.
Just as he was about to leave, a gut-wrenching snap slithered between his ears. He heard the words, "I didn't mean to anger you!" and reluctantly decided to peek back.
'Crazy Lady' lay on the floor. Her body spasmed once before going motionless. The man who had laughed in line walked up to the dead woman's body and knelt.
He met eyes with Charles, whispered, "Shushh," and placed his index finger over his pursed mouth. "Liege Maisedes has been angered, so I'm going to have to take her away."
He chuckled at Charles's disbelief. "Think of it as a punishment, since the times are changing. When bad people do bad things, like blasphemy, they deserve to be punished. We can't pride ourselves on a lackluster belief system, right? Oh, and by the way, you're not going to remember any of this. Praise the Totem."
They both dispelled.
The eager father's red eyes swirled a faint hue of blue.
. . . .
Charles blinked a few times, getting used to the blinding hospital light. He heaved a sigh of relief at the empty line in front of him. "H–Hello!"
He waited for the lady at the desk to respond. Her head was buried in a stack of paperwork, and it seemed as though she hadn't heard his previous call. "Hello?" Charles tried once more
This time, he rapped his finger along the edge of the table.
The receptionist, an older woman with short black hair and deep wrinkles, gazed up. "Hm?" The glasses resting on the bridge of her nose drooped.
"I—I'm Charles Vaughan, here for the birth of my son." Charles introduced himself, putting a hand on his heart for some reason. "Sorry that I wasn't here for his actual birth; work was surprisingly busy." He rubbed the back of his head apologetically.
The secretary coughed.
"Vaughan. . ." She scanned the document in her hand. "There you are. Room 201." She paused. "You're fathering Emory Vaughan?"
Charles, slightly taken aback, answered, "Yes, I'm his father. My wife is Isabelle Vaughan."
"Hm," she replied without inflection. "Alright, be safe on your way there. Congratulations."
Charles smiled and thought, She's nicer than she seems. He waved at the lady and left quickly.
The receptionist watched the enthusiastic Charles leave and coughed again. "Oh, Liege. Have I angered you? I didn't mean to, I swear. I believe in the Totem!"
". . ."
Within seconds, her figure vanished. The receptionist's desk was left empty, and the rolling chair she once sat on spun alone.
. . . .
In the hallways, Charles darted his eyes left and right. 201. . . 201. . . 201. . . He stopped.
"Found it!"
It mirrored every other door: pale oak with a brass doorknob. Dirty brown tile lay below like a sore thumb. The hallway itself was mundane, every room identical to the next. If someone wasn't careful, it was almost like going through an everlasting maze.
Charles knocked on the door. There wasn't an answer, so he tried again. "Should I go in?" he asked himself. It was his wife and son, after all. "Yeah, I'll go in."
The door creaked open, and the smell of blood and chemicals stung his nose. There was an eerie stillness to the room, a novel sentiment. To the right lay a small, vacated crib. Next to the far wall, a black metal frame held the mattress that someone lay on.
Charles felt his heart's rhythm steadily increase.
Thump!
He slowly approached the bed, each step feeling as if two stones shackled his feet.
"Charles?" a woman called.
"Isabelle!" Charles's worry dispersed. His wife was here, alive! He ran over to hug her.
Isabelle's expression warped. Her eyes were dark around the edges and her skin was white as snow. She roughly grabbed Charles's shoulders. "You mustn't let him know!" she shrieked. A loud, ear-splitting scream.
Charles froze. "Let who know. . .? Let them know what? Isabelle, what's the matter?"
Isabelle's voice grew louder. "Please don't let him find out! Charles, please! If he figures out, Maisedes will come! He'll kill us all!"
Charles's heart rapidly beat. "Calm down! What is going on?!"
"Don't let Emory find out! Shield him! Go as far away as you can!"
She tried to get up but failed, her body far too weak. "Find someone with the last name Bersebus; they'll know what to do! They'll protect you! Charles, you can't let him find out! You can't!"
"Isabelle! Please, calm down!" Charles pleaded.
Her tone slowly faded to a decibel he could not hear. "Don't let him find out about Moribund. . ."
Little by little, all her luster and remaining emotion vanished. Her chest stopped moving. Her stomach remained stationary.
Isabelle Vaughan was dead.
Once again, Charles's eyes swirled a faint hue of blue.