SWNOVELS Chapter Chapter One - Ramiel
I hate the smell of lavender.
It sets the precedent for all other fragrances: soaps, waxes, and flavorings, all made from those dry and dull purple flowers. Their miasma had been misted over my mother’s dead body in a pathetic attempt to preserve her beauty, making her reek of that awful sweet smell—a distasteful way to honor her life.
Over the years, I’ve festered an intolerance to their stench.
The fragrance wafts into the room from burning candles sitting on the stone sill outside. Even though many years have passed, the castle’s workers still burn them out of respect for my late mother, and I don’t have the heart to tell them to stop. They’re perhaps the only ones—other than myself—who still care about her short-lived existence. Though the scent is usually pretty subtle, the summer heat amplifies its dizzying effect, and I’m forced to refrain from reintroducing my breakfast to the world.
“Ramiel,” a voice calls from the door of my room. It’s the warm, elderly voice of my favorite maid, Bernadette.
“Come in,” I call back without inhaling. I stand and roll my trousers down my calves; the humidity is brutal this time of the year, making them constantly sweaty. My shirt is hurriedly tucked in—it would not be seemly to display so much uncovered flesh, even if she is the only maid who’d dressed me as a child.
The small grey-haired woman peeks in through the door and with her small, judging eyes appraises the room to see what needs to be returned to its proper place. This always makes me feel like she’s expecting someone uninvited to jump out and scare her. But then, something feels off—anxiety fills her eyes and her skin pales, beads of sweat appearing on her small forehead.
Her gaze finally settles on me as she kneels slowly, as an old woman does, a few feet in front of my bed where I stand. She places her hands daintily on her stained apron, brushing the folds down, and looks at me with a soft expression. It’s rare for her to smile, and in this moment I believe there’s a hint of one there.
“May I ask why you request my audience?” The phrase comes out harsher than I usually say it; perhaps I’m beginning to feel paranoid, too.
Bernadette shifts her small, wrinkly hands slightly over her apron, her breaths weak and shaky as a leaky bellow. Her eyes never leave mine. “My boy,” she whispers dryly, and the sadness in her voice slices through me, cold. It’s so sudden that I lose my practiced composure and for a moment, my entire body is weightless as I wait, suspended in the silence of her breath. Her eyes glisten with budding tears. I grasp her shoulders tightly and pull her close to me.
“What happened?” Her body shivers in my arms, and her hands fiddle with the edges of her apron, turning them in over the dark grey skirt. “Tell me what happened.” My voice softens and this seems to help her calm down a little.
Her lip quivers as she barely squeaks the words out, but they’re there and they’re nothing that I would’ve expected and everything I’ve always dreaded.
“Xavelor has been defeated,” she whimpers, and looks away to cry. “Rami, your brother is dead.”
Numbness dominates me as my father, the king of Arioch, mournfully breaks the news of my brother’s death to the royal council. From the large table, all eyes shift immediately to me, and my bloodless fingers grip the edge of my seat so tight that wood splinters and pierces my flesh. I need to feel something to calm the darkness consuming my heart, drenching it in fear.
The song my mother used to sing to me plays in my head, its rhythm and haunting melody drowning out the raging men around this grandiose meeting table. The words to the nursery rhyme have long since left me, but I remember how it sounds. Her voice, fabricated from years of being apart, hums softly as though trying to calm my racing heart.
My father’s mouth turns down and I’m sure he’s said something to me, but everything sounds muffled like I’m underwater and everyone has been screaming nonsense at me this entire time.
I move my lips but I’m not sure words come out. I try to say “Yes, your Majesty” but the sound isn’t there. Instead, it feels like I’m really drowning, because I start to cough and shake.
The military men bustle around the table, some standing and others pounding fists in protest. Some point fingers at me and others choose to glare. It’s all the same, though. It’s what I’ve been used to my entire life. I’ve always thought I’d be safe, even with those stares and hostile accusations, as long as my brother was triumphant in his military-related endeavors. The thought that he’s dead and gone doesn’t settle yet, and I won’t let it. I can’t let it. If he’s dead, then... then... I don’t even know where to begin.
Xavelor, the dragon slayer. The war lord. The promising son of King Azriel. The crown prince. All titles bestowed upon him since birth were well-deserved and as prophesied. As far as the general public knows, he’s the only son of King Azriel. The only legitimate one, anyway.
A familiar word cuts through the babble of upraised voices lapping around me. It’s the word that’s haunted me since birth: bastard. While my brother enjoyed many regal, honorable titles in his life, I’ve always been stuck with one lousy label... one that I didn’t even have any control over.
As the bickering over my fate descends into shouting matches, my father’s face twists and contorts with anger and confusion. His dark eyes finally align with mine, and I see no warmth in them.
I prepare for the worst, even if it means I’ll be banished. I’ve lived in this palace my entire life and have done nothing to earn my place, while Xavelor slayed violent beasts to secure his glorious future in kingship.
However, instead of speaking of exile or condescension, my father remains calm as he raises his hand. His expression is unreadable, though stern. The lines pressed into his face are from years of frowning, so even his resting expression makes him look perpetually agitated.
The room quiets down and all eyes are glued to me and the aging king. I can feel the heat rising along my back, soaking my clothing slowly with sweat, layer by layer.
“Ramiel is still my son by blood, even if he is not the son of the late queen,” his voice booms. The energy in the room zings between us and suddenly it feels like it’s just me and him—a worthless prince that pales in comparison to his warrior father, the king. I shrink into my seat. I just want to disappear. “He is the next rightful heir to the throne.”
All heads turn, eyes full of shock, and my face wears the same dumbfounded expression. Never had I ever heard such words uttered from the king’s mouth. Am I dreaming? But this feels more like a nightmare, if I am truly not awake.
My limbs go cold. Maybe I really have died, and this is my reward. Recognition. Some obscure, nonsensical version of what I’ve always wanted—acceptance.
“How does he plan on replacing Prince Xavelor, your Majesty?” a voice growls, filled with doubt. I gulp back the anxiety that suddenly floods over my tongue. The question of the hour permeates the air like poison.
“Silence!” King Azriel commands. The yelling ceases, but murmuring lulls around the table like the receding tides. “We are in a time of war. With Xavelor gone, we have no choice but to find a warrior to replace him before my kingdom discovers his absence.”
The men grow quieter still, almost indistinguishable from the warm summer breeze playing with the trees outside. We all know my father is right, but am I really the best choice for this?
The king studies my expression. I don’t know what he sees, but I’m sure it’s far from what he wants to see. Still, his grey eyebrows stay flat over his dark eyes and the lines of his face remain as they are. He’s unfazed by whatever face I’m making, and it’s one of three—pure shock, fear, or humiliation. I’m not even sure which it is.
“Ramiel will be taken under the wing of a master of martial arts, and will learn his princely duties from those in the castle.” His voice hardens at the end, and I know he’s about to explain his conditions. Of course I wouldn’t receive the training I’ve always wanted for free as Xavelor had. It had been his birthright as the son of the late queen. My father turns to look at me, his expression darkening. I can see it in the slight movement of his eyes. “Xavelor was supposed to return victorious, then make his first appearance at the Feast of Undying. You have until then to prove yourself.”
I begin to object, but one of the men from the table does so before I’m able to utter a word.
“That gives him three months, your Majesty! Not even Xavelor could’ve managed such a feat!” His voice is filled with mockery and complaint, though my father doesn’t flinch at his words.
“Three months,” King Azriel echoes. Then, he looks away. His eyes relax, and I see that this isn’t his decision alone. He lowers his voice. “I suppose you ought to find a master soon, then.”
I nervously gulp the spit that pools over my tongue. As the group whispers among themselves, I just know they’re agreeing to make it impossible for me to find a master. Who would want to teach a prince who has no swordsmanship experience, magic-using history, or skills in the martial arts? Others my age have already mastered many of these elements. I’m only good at things like science, literature, and history—fresh from recently finishing school, but all completely useless in battles against dragons and other magical beasts.
My eyes wander up to my father, but his thoughts must be somewhere else, his grey eyes concentrating on the table. Perhaps he’s thinking about who he’ll appoint to be king when I fail in three months. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s thinking about how the kingdom will celebrate when they discover a new warrior prince, perhaps even one better than Xavelor. If that’s even possible?
King Azriel turns and locks his gaze on me. His eyes are, for once, unguarded. Hope stirs within me; it’s almost like he’s saying I believe in you...
But as soon as that thought surfaces, I dismiss it. After all, the chance to prove myself has finally come. My success, or otherwise, is now in my own hands. Only I can prove that I’m more than I seem.
This is my chance. I have to do this on my own.