In Collapsus, our kings were not mere men. They were the Echoes of the First.
We were taught from childhood that the first King, Leo the God-Slayer, did not just found a kingdom; he defied the heavens. The stories say he warred with the capricious Old Gods, and in a battle that split the sky, he struck one down. From that god's fallen power, the royal bloodline was born. Thus, every king since has been seen as the God-Touched, a divine intermediary. To rule was a sacred covenant, not a political appointment.
A king was born with magic, never without. A king was taught statecraft from the cradle. A king was remote, majestic, a figure to be viewed from a distance during ceremonies, not conversed with in corridors. To speak to the king directly was a privilege granted only to his Hand—myself—and his Sworn Shield, Duke Michael. For anyone else, requests were filtered through layers of bureaucracy, through me. It preserved the mystique, the divine aura. A king who is reachable is a king who can be questioned. And who questions a god's chosen?
King Reynard, however, never fully embraced the remote divinity of his role.
He was, at his core, a soldier-king. He had spent his youth on campaign, sleeping in muddy tents, sharing bread with his men. He found comfort in directness, in the clear logic of a battlefield, not the opaque rituals of the temple. His magic was strong—a potent, earthy force that could make stone tremble—but he wore it lightly, without the oppressive display Duke Michael unconsciously projected.
This was his greatness, and in the eyes of some, his fatal flaw.
I found him one afternoon not in the lofty High Study, but in the barracks yard, casually repairing a stone section of the practice wall that had been shattered by a novice mage's errant bolt. Sweat stained his simple tunic. A few off-duty guardsmen watched, not with the terror one should have before a deity, but with a mixture of awe and familiarity.
"Sire," I said, approaching with a scroll. "The trade agreement from the Maritime League requires your seal."
He nodded, patting the last stone into place with a mere touch, the rock fusing as if it had never been broken. He took the scroll, his eyes scanning the text. "They're still short-changing us on the timber tariff. Send back a counter-proposal."
"Through the usual channels?" I asked.
"No," he said, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Have their ambassador come to the Small Solar tomorrow. I'll explain it to him myself. It's simpler."
There it was. I'll explain it to him myself. My professional soul shuddered. The Small Solar was informal, but it was still a direct audience. Accessible. Human.
As we walked back towards the citadel, I chose my words carefully. "Your Majesty, the Duke of Thornwood has been… vocal. He suggests that such direct dealings diminish the Crown's sacred authority. That it makes you seem… common."
Reynard stopped, a weary shadow crossing his face. It was the same look he got before a difficult charge. "Alistair, do you think the First King won his war by being unreachable? He fought alongside his men. He bled with them. This idea that I must be a statue on a pedestal…" He shook his head. "A king who cannot hear the true concerns of his people is a king who rules a fantasy."
"I understand, sire. But the pedestal is what keeps certain minds in check. They see your accessibility not as strength, but as…" I hesitated.
"As weakness," he finished, his voice flat. "As an opportunity. I know what they say in the whispers of their marble halls. 'A god cannot be replaced. But a man? A man who walks among us, who speaks plainly? A man can be persuaded. A man can be… changed.'" He looked towards the soaring towers of the citadel, where his son slept. "Their plotting didn't end with Leo's birth. It just shifted. Before, they wondered who would succeed me. Now, they wonder if they can shape the king who will shape the future king."
The truth of it hung between us, colder than the mountain wind. By refusing to play the part of the remote, untouchable God-King, Reynard had made himself mortal in their political calculations. His very love for his people, his soldier's camaraderie, was seen as a crack in the divine armor. And cracks are where poison seeps in.
He was a king trying to bridge two worlds: the ancient, divine mandate of his blood, and the practical, human needs of his kingdom. In doing so, he risked satisfying neither.
As we entered the dim, cool hall of the citadel, leaving the bright, common yard behind, I felt the weight of the old stones, the portraits of stern, remote kings lining the walls. They seemed to stare down at Reynard's sweat-stained tunic with silent, stone-faced judgment.
The celebration for Prince Leo was winding down. Now, the real tension was beginning. It was not a war of armies, but of ideas. Could a "mortal" king hold a "divine" kingdom? And what would that mean for a golden-haired prince who would one day have to choose what kind of king he would be—a distant god, or a reachable man? The clans, watching, were already placing their bets.