1 Artima

"I'm sure that she wrote about it in that diary of hers." a young boy stated, abruptly cutting off the teacher in the middle of his lesson. "Why yes, Artima. She wrote every tiny detail in that book." Mr. Tomphson quickly replied, returning his attention to the chalkboard as he began to scribble his teachings.

"I told you to call me Art. The 'ima' is unnecessary." He injected before Tomphson had the chance to begin talking again. "Well, your father says Artima, just as everyone else in the kingdom. If you don't like it, bring it up with the king."

Art quickly laid back against his chair, rolling his eyes and staring out the window as Mr. Tomphson began his lesson once again. In the kingdom, he's the best history teacher there is. Unfortunately, his sessions are incredibly long and incredibly boring. And, as heir to the throne, Art gets private one-on-one sessions.

Art never really got along with his father. Of course there were a few good times, but after mother died, a distance grew between them. His father was always focused on work, leaving only minutes of his day to talk with him. Then came the tiny differences like the whole 'Art' and 'ima' thing just now. Moreover, nothing interested Art, except for the occasional war stories of past conflicts Dasmainia partook in.

"-and she was stabbed 23 times." Mr. Tomphson finished, placing the chalk on a small wooden ledge attached to the wall. "Now tell me Art, how did the Angels invade Northern Dasmainia?"

Art continued looking out the window towards the town, not even batting an eye to the question. Realizing Art was lost in space, he let out a quick sigh and approached his table. He leaned against the side of the desk, thus gaining Art's attention.

"Artim- or should I say Art, I know this doesn't interest you as much as magic does. But please, at least try to act like you care. What would your father say if he caught you slacking?" A quick sigh escaped from Art's mouth as a subtle "I'm sorry" followed.

A loud Bell rang from outside as the uproar of kids echoed throughout the building. Art looked down at his bag, then back up at Tomphson. "Yes, yes, you can go." He followed as Art stood from his desk and picked up his bag. "But please, make sure you study for your exam."

"Yeah, yeah." Art quickly responded as he exited the classroom.

* * *

He walked through the hallways of the academy as oncoming students gazed, as if they viewed him as some kind of a mythical being. It wasn't uncommon though. He has seen many attempts to befriend or date him. Although, he already knows why. The stench of greed coming from each one of them is too much to handle.

No one at school has gotten close to him. Well, except for the occasional students who have managed to befriend him. Naturally, these are the people who don't adore him. Those who don't treat him like a god. All he ever wanted was to be normal. A peasant boy, the ones he sees on the streets in the city. Always happy and cheerful, not a care in the world. But it's just a fantasy. One that will never come true.

With his power and status within the kingdom, it's impossible for him to be treated normally. Most people fear or revere him, always after the power they can gain from him. That's what makes people who don't acknowledge him so intriguing to Art. On rare occasions, he would even approach them, despite being the non-talkative type. In other words, he was an introvert.

* * *

The 'Grand Palace' is what the locals call it. A place so luxurious, many dream to see it one day. 'Paintings made entirely of gold, large, spacious hallways, rooms the size of a house, a dinner table that can hold thousands!'

People from the city tend to exaggerate what it's actually like. Only the rims of the paintings are gold, and the dining table can only seat 18, a much lower number than the previous 1,000. However, they were right about the rooms. Although they had a dividing wall, they were only a tad smaller than a regular house. All bedrooms require their own washroom and living area. As Art pondered, fantasizing about the plump, lovely round tarts the chef makes. It's crispy yet smooth, silky texture. Although abruptly, a hand was placed on his shoulder rather aggressively.

"Son," Art hears behind him, quickly turning around to see his father.

Art's father was a stern man. Large, gold eyes with a huge beard to go along with it. His hair was a pinkish-white, and was very spiky, almost as if tiny prods were coming from his head, and that I would get pricked if I touched it.

"I want you to meet me in the meeting hall. It's urgent."

Art knew, almost immediately, what 'urgent' meant. Normal meetings normally only go one way; asking questions. 'Is there enough food in store for the winter?' or 'Should we increase funding for…'

The only times 'urgent' are implied are if we get attacked, a riot/revolt, or of course… king selection1.

* * *

Art entered the meeting room, peeking his head through first to see who was in here. He saw his father, standing at the end of a shockingly large, round table; probably large enough to seat 12 people (with large spaces between them, of course). Standing next to him was Yuga. She's head of defense for the city, serving directly under the king. She tends to dye her hair rather frequently, but for the last two months it's stayed a warm blonde with the classic nonchalant hairstyle, as the tips of the droop fade into a nice brown.

Everyone else was a new face, though. However, it was quite easy to make out their place within the hierarchy. Mainly high-class nobles and officers/generals appear in the meetings, sometimes even with a member of the committee showing up, something that rarely happens.

"Art, sit down." His father spoke while pointing at a chair beside him. Art nonchalantly stumped to the chair and sat down, leaning his back against the backrest. Almost simultaneously, everyone else but the king sat down in an instant. I'm assuming the king told them not to sit before the heir came.

"You all know why I called you here?" He raspily asked, almost as if he was mad at us for our presence.

"Of course," One noble responded, wearing some kind of cult-like robe with balding-white hair. "The discussion is of the young imbecile you're putting on the throne."

The king quickly slammed his fist on the table, as if to silence him. "You shan't speak of my son like that, Bruta." The king quickly followed. Art looked at Brutus, almost out of shock. Although he just called him an imbecile, he knew he was right. So did everyone else in the room. Art could tell they were all thinking it. So did the king.

"Whether or not he's ready to take the crown doesn't matter." Yuga started, "We didn't call you here today for the king selection."

"Odd. For the last two months, all meetings were just about how Art would take the throne." Brutus stated.

"No, not today." The king responded. "Tonight… Well, it's the night I die."

* * *