The sun was setting in the courtyard, a hazy blot above the thatched roof. Underneath a purple and red sky, children clapped and stomped. Some danced. Some adults joined in with them. Chickens clucked and pecked at the dirt. A young woman with a lute weaved a melody growing ever faster as Kean juggled more and more eggs, and stones, and even a knife. The arc grew until his hands became a blur. The song swelled. Feet became thunder.

And then a man in royal colours stepped into the courtyard.

For a moment, one off-beat, Kean faltered. That was all it took. It all came tumbling down. Eggs smashed, stones flew off into the distance. The knife clattered at Kean’s feet. Children screamed and squealed, covering their heads. All that, from one tiny moment of hesitation, one minute mistake. 

At the time, Kean had been furious, and apologised to the crowd, mostly refugees he had escorted to a host family that could take care of them until something else was arranged further from the conflict’s front. But then again, at the time Kean didn’t know why the courier was there. The letter was a huge relief; he’d have hated to have to kill another man. In fact, the letter was more than just a relief, it was an omen, a calling; he’d been praying for an end to all this, and it had just been shown to him.

And so here he was: hobbling down halls that disappeared upwards to a lofty ceiling, flanked by two guards. 

Getting to the palace had taken a week of hard riding from that remote farm, and it was [i]hard[/i]; he’d gone through three horses and every muscle ached for much forgone rest. Entering the city was agony. It felt like he was sticking his hand in a hornet’s nest. For so long he had been careful to avoid bastions of imperial fervour, and now here he was going willingly and unhidden into one. Nobody seemed to recognise him, and he supposed that was fair; he had been using a different name back then, and he was much younger, and the last attempt to bring him in was over two years ago, but even still, he was on edge. The size of it all left him in awe, but the familiarities: soothsayers and beggars, they kept him grounded in reality. 

The letter bore the Emperor’s seal, as the courier had told him, and waving it at the guards had granted him an escort directly to the palace. Rather lucky they recognised it, since he reeked, and must have appeared like one of the homeless.  

But yes, the [i]now[/i]. The guards opened a door and eased him forward at the shoulder. 

Kean almost keeled over, disgusted. He bit back the bile surging up his throat. The blatant excess that decorated the throne room could feed all the starving in Dramon and beyond. A dark grimace painted itself over Kean’s features as the guards announced his arrival and fell to their knees. He limped further in, stopping in front of the throne. 

“Your Imperial [i]Majesty[/i],” Kean said, with an exaggerated bow, ending it with another unnecessary flourish. He looked around the room, his eyes sliding over the lapdog Templar. “Am I the first?” He asked, holding a finger to his chest.