under pressure (1)

Damian showered at the gym, and by the time he reached his bedroom again, the sun had well and truly risen. Rossheim Palace was livelier too, the hallways beginning to fill with various staff and servants, all tipping their heads in respect as the Crown Prince passed them by.

Outside Damian's bedroom, Pascal the night-guard had been replaced by a familiar gray-haired man wearing a tailed butler's uniform that seemed sophisticated without looking antiquated.

Upon seeing the prince, the older man gave an elegant bow, sweeping one hand across his waist.

"Good morning, young master. I trust you are well?"

"Good morning, Gunther. I dare say I'd be better if that new captain had a smaller attitude and a larger bust. But that'd be asking for too much now, wouldn't it?"

A brief smile flickered across Gunther's lips as he straightened. A statement that might have sounded crass in another situation was merely proof of how close these two were.

"A necessary evil, young master. Lady Brightwell comes from a well-respected family, and her combat prowess is second-to-none. Perish the thought of having anybody else take up her uncle's position."

"And perish I might, if she keeps on antagonizing me…"

Damian entered his bedroom, his butler a few steps behind. He ducked behind the changing partition and shucked off the plain clothes he'd taken from the shower.

Gunther stood a few paces away, hands clasped together. Despite the deep wrinkles in his skin, there was a spry glint to his dark eyes; the Chief of Staff might be pushing seventy, but the old man was every bit as capable and resourceful as ever. Rumor had that, in his day, Gunther could hold a blade against even the best of the Flameguard—and rumor insisted that the butler was not too far removed from his prime, even now.

"Rundown for the day?" Damian asked as he pulled on a fresh set of clothes from the linen cupboard. His black trousers were neatly ironed, his white shirt and black jacket pressed; the overcoat he wore was similarly dark, decorated with gold bands upon the breast and shoulder.

"You are set to meet with the High Table's representatives at 11:30, to discuss the matter of your father's taxation policy. There's been a last-minute change to the party members—the First Seat will be replacing the Fifth for the meeting."

"…Surely, you can't mean Morgan Blackbriar?"

"The very same, young master."

Damian stepped out from behind the partition, his brows furrowed. Gunther began buttoning the prince's jacket, his hands moving deftly.

"I thought the man was a notorious recluse?"

"Indeed, Your Highness. Even among the eccentrics of the High Table, Blackbriar is an oddity. He's never once made a public appearance, and even His Majesty has not met with the current First Seat."

"So a reclusive but powerful member of the High Table steps out of the shadows to meet with me… Hmph. Well, the First Seat has made his opinions known, if not his face. Is he likely to have changed his stance at all?"

"Unlikely, sire," Gunther said, now finished with Damian's jacket. "If anything, he's more resistant to the tax plans than the rest of the High Table put together. If I may, you should consider your position carefully with that man. He's a dangerous sort. This meeting has rather convenient timing, I fear."

"Agreed. Any clue why Blackbriar is bumping the Fifth Seat out of the conversation?"

"Prince Leon suspects some inner workings of the Collective. The papers this morning all report that the Ninth Seat has been missing for several days now."

Damian clucked his tongue, an uneasy feeling settling into the pit of his stomach.

The High Table was an insular group of powerful businessmen and local politicians that effectively controlled the Collective Church of the Deep, better known simply as "the Collective."

In practice, the vast majority of the kingdom were adherents to the Holy Order of the Flame, including—of course—the royals themselves. Yet, a small and rather powerful group of Sidralians fell under the sway of the Collective of the Deep. 

Not only did the Deep espouse a different ideology to the Flame, but living in service to the Deep meant rejecting the Flame entirely, since the Angels each church worshipped were diametrically opposed.

For those raised under the banner of the Flame, they took commonplace Blessings for granted—chiefly, the presence of Cinders that provided light, heat, and energy. All these powers came from the great Angel of the Flame—a heavenly being that rewarded devotion and prayer with the power to summon fire, and for the most skilled practitioners, even heal the body.

Meanwhile, those who followed the Deep were cut off from the Flame—and vice versa. 

In the royal capital of Rosweiss, these adherents occupied a small but important district clustered around the shipyards and older parts of Rosweiss. There, in the district of Tenebrae, worshippers enjoyed nominal protection from the High Table and the Collective's Apostles. In those dark streets and alleyways, the Collective used gas lighting and mechanical contraptions, rejecting the conveniences of the Flame for something they considered far more valuable.

"One more thing, young master," Gunther said, drawing Damian out of his reverie. The butler bowed his head in slight apology. "Prince Leon wishes for your security to be increased while you are in Tenebrae. Hence, he has altered your party—Captain Brightwell shall be joining you alongside Master Dominic."

"That figures. But I can deal with Lynn if it means getting some additional manpower. I might not have a strong link to the Flame, but even I hate being in Tenebrae. The Deep's presence feels so unnatural."

"Indeed. A highly unnerving feeling, I agree. Though I doubt Prince Leon feels the same."

The faintest hint of a smile crossed Gunther's face. Many thought the old man too serious for his post, but having spent most of his life around him, Damian had learned to notice the smallest tells in the butler's face. It was for this reason that Damian fixed him with a sudden look.

"Whatever you're hesitating about, I'd rather hear it from your lips first."

Gunther bowed his head. "You are very perceptive, young master. There was, indeed, something else I wished to talk to you about. It involves your father."

Damian stiffened. 

"And what of him?"

"The Priests saw to His Majesty yesterday. The doctors from Lombrass were in attendance, too. They examined your father extensively, but I fear the prognosis has not improved."

A muscle tightened in Damian's jaw, and realized he'd curled his hands into fists. Slowly relaxing his hands, he forced a long exhale through his nose.

"How long?"

Gunther took a long moment to reply, but his steely gaze never once wavered from the prince's amber-flecked eyes.

"A year. Perhaps less."