The City of Ostengarde

5:00 pm

They say, if you make it to Ostengarde, you've made it to heaven. To live there was a dream to many. For those to whom it was a reality, life was perfect. Easy even, in a city built on the fortunes of forefathers and paved with the dreams of generations to come. It was deeply steeped in an era of peace and prosperity, paid for in blood and sweat that had long since evaporated from every street and every mind. The present king was full of vitality, long he live, young in years and a fire in his heart. The queen was expecting a child, hopefully a son to succeed the throne. To the west lay the noble kingdom of Reich's Arch, their allies and more often than not, brothers. Between them, trade flourished, harvests were plentiful, the hunt successful. Crime was nearly non-existent, business thrived in time with the pulse of the land. They say, it's not getting any better than this.

They were right.

"Tyler?" A woman called. Her extravagant brocade dress and long, pampered golden tresses made statements about her that she didn't necessarily agree with. She was known as Matilde, or better known as the woman who had had the good fortune to marry into the line of Roderick Alcott. Modesty was not Alcott's style. No, he was a name in the industry. A member of an elite upper class lineage of wealthy businessmen that was fiercely sought after, as horse breeders flock to the stables of a winning racehorse, hoping to inject their businesses with a little champion blood. Matilde, however, had to be constantly reminded by her insufferable new high society friends that she had landed the catch of the century. Laying next to a man who wasn't good at much else in bed other than talking about himself endlessly did little to guide her to that conclusion on her own. Honestly, she preferred the horses. On her farm. To these two as different as night and day a son was born who may be considered the median. It was for him that Matilde was rather unsuccessfully searching.

"Tyler!" She called again, a little sharply this time. She stepped out of the colossal mansion and into the manicured lawns. They stretched out to the intricate wrought iron gate in a leap of green, springy grass. Her blue eyes scanned the lush expanse before resting on a tuft of hair sticking out from behind a bush. That was not a part of the new landscaping plan she'd given the gardeners.... She approached carefully.

"Found you."Tyler cried out in surprise and spilled out from behind the bush, guilt written on his face. He was young, a boy of 13, but painfully short for his age. His green eyes, as bright as the grass on which he lay, peered at his mother between locks of snow blonde hair. "What are you doing?" She asked sternly.

"N-Nothing, mother...." But he was sweating and flushed, signs that were more than enough for a mother to glean a response from her child.

"Your father wishes to speak with you. He is in his study." She pointed at the mansion. Tyler nodded, picked himself up and trudged towards it like a condemned man to the gallows. Tyler squirmed under the weight of his father's glare.

"You're late," He said in his scratchy, irritable voice.

"Yes, Father." Tyler avoided his gaze.

"I am a busy man."

"Yes, Father."

"Do not let this happen again."

"No, Father."

"Good boy. Now look here. I'm going to be too old for this business one day. So I've been thinking about your future." Tyler's face fell. The future. That scary, monumental beast that existed only in his father's head, and Tyler's own imagination, slavering over his head as if to snap it clean off. "As soon as you turn eighteen, you shall start running the business. I have already acquired a manor where you can live comfortably with Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth?" Tyler repeated.

"Oh yes," Roderick tweaked his black mustache.

"I hadn't mentioned her last time."

"No, Father."

"Elizabeth is Robert's daughter."

"The liquor baron?" Tyler asked quietly.

"Never mind the liquor, boy, he's filthy rich and you'll be marrying his daughter."

"M-Marrying?" That was new. The boy was horrified.

"When you're eighteen and not a moment later."

"But why?"

"With my estate and that swine, Robert's, think of the fortune you could build!" Tyler had never wanted a fortune. He needed something more. Tyler took a deep breath. "Understood?" His father was wrapping up.

"No... Father."

"What?" Roderick turned those coal black eyes back on him.

"I don't want to continue your business..."

"Oh?" He had gotten to his feet, his tone dangerously low. Tyler clasped his hands together and took a step back."And what are your alternate plans?" Roderick made his way around the desk to stand in front of him.

"I-I want to be a painter!" He cried out.

"A painter?" Roderick burst out laughing. "You fool!"

"I mean it! A-And... When the time comes... I will marry the girl I love." The sharp, loud sound of an impact rang out in the high corners of the room. Tyler placed a hand on his throbbing cheek, where his father had struck him.

"What do you know about love, boy? Is that something you read in one of your make-believe books? I told your mother the only books you need are of the mathematical variety." Tyler closed his eyes and tried to bite back tears. "Pack your things. I am boarding you at Stafford Business Prep first thing in the morning. Now out of my sight."

Tyler didn't need to be told twice. He pushed through the double doors and ran blindly. He pounded down the carpeted hallways, wove between the pillars and eventually came to a halt before a long, tapestry draped wall. On it, framed in rich gold, hung the portraits of generations of his forefathers. They all reminded him bitterly of his own father. All the same. Pale, sleep deprived faces with long, pointed chins and hooked noses. Faces that slaved their whole lives away only to be rewarded with a gaudy gold frame in death. Adding little more than another cold-blooded, reptilian set of eyes to the gallery.They stared down condescendingly at Tyler as he stalked down past generations and generations of businessmen and finally stopped at the empty space beside his father's. The one reserved for him. His face flushed with anger. He slammed his fists against the wall and sank to his knees screaming,

"You can't make me!" That wall was a curse that would kill him, and trap his soul in layers of paint.

That night, Tyler was sent to bed at eight pm sharp. He watched the candle until it began to drown in its own wax and then leapt out of bed. He had... packing to do. In the back of his dresser, he found a small dusty bag he hadn't touched since the last time his father took him out. Theoretically the first and last time his father had planned an outing with him had been cancelled due to 'unforeseeable economic emergencies.' Which Tyler translated as, 'I changed my mind. Spending time with you costs too many brain cells.' Tyler quickly set about stuffing it with candles, matches and some clothing. Then he dropped to his knees beside his bed and carefully pried back one of the wooden floorboards to reveal a hidden cache of drawing materials. He picked up an old sketchbook, and a crinkled note fell out of it. He quickly picked it up and smoothed it out. Words lilted over the page in his mother's calligraphic cursive: a message to pursue his art, if it made him happy. A slight pang of pain pricked his chest. At least there was one thing in this murder machine that he would miss. Tyler hugged the note to his heart, then tucked it back into the sketchbook and tossed it into the bag with a few pencils. Tyler peered out his window to see one of the servants locking the gate. It was time.

Tyler snuck into his parents' room. Two lumps lay snugly under the fluffy, gazillion thread count sheets, one of which was snoring softly. They were sound asleep and remained so as Tyler retrieved a pouch of gold from his father's dresser. He wouldn't miss it. He'd made enough gold to fill hundreds of pouches like that one, after all. Tyler considered it the only part of his inheritance he cared to take. He was a good older sibling, considering he was an only child! Tyler took one last look at his parents from the doorway. His gaze lingered on the more petite bump in the sheets that was his mother."Goodbye." And he was gone.

Tyler stared up at the final obstacle in his path. The daunting black iron gate that had towered over the boy's head his entire life. A formidable barrier that kept the peasants out. And kept Tyler in his cage. The cool night air filtered through gaps in the intricately shaped metal and drove the chill of apprehension down his spine. He froze and, for the first time that night, his exhilaration clouded with doubt. 'What am I doing?' Then he felt it. The hot breath of a beast searing the back of his neck. The future. Poised to eat him alive. Piece by piece. Tyler's fingers hooked through the metal and he began to climb, desperately driven forward by the dreadful presence snapping at his heels. His breathing became shallow gasps of air, but his eyes were fixed on the spiked tops of the gate. Just a little more. Just a little more, and he would be free.