LAUCAN

Depravity in an endless white abyss. Festivities glowed underneath the truth of his reign — one more failure of a king with no deliverance from the blizzard. The time within his magick he gave to the ancient barriers which lined Volaris ebbed and waned as the blizzard's roar reminded them of their doomsong. Embers of dead flames flickered in his fireplace, his icesteel chakrams hanging on the mantle. Shadows pulsed along the dance of fire, and he rested his head in his hands, staring down at the letters of both hope and despair. One drowned out the other.

Cities half-buried underneath wind-sheared dunes. Songs silenced. Evyriaz himself was unable to answer the prayers of his brethren. Snowflakes fluttered across the cyan glow from those who raised their lights and their songs for an answer to the singular question the festival posed. A question he found himself with an answer and no way out. This ends... when one of us dies. Laucan tucked into his evening furs when the last remnants of blood stained his boots. Father's crown, splattered with the ruined life, painted along the walls as two wyverns flew out of the dripping torment and set fire to the rose of Naveera. It pulsed across his temples, straight into his feathers when the world cracked with anxious necessity.

A shadow twisted.

He raised his gaze to the strange, ghostly movement.

Empty of love, he sighed at the tricks his mind played on his soul and burrowed his head into his arms, brow against the wood of the king's desk, with Hayvala returning to her duties as Queen Regent, and Fenrer Pyren himself could not undo what was done to her. Deeper into the pulsing crimson doomsong, he peeked over the hem of his sleeves.

A single, desiccated face.

He lurched up from his arms and blinked, but the visage disappeared as fast as it came. He brushed his fingers across his ice-cold brow, shaking himself out of the stupor at the sound of knocking at his door. "You may come in," he mumbled into his sleeves, his own frayed down poking his ears. The snowrose ablaze clipped to their breast pocket, a sign of the palace staff. Efram carried a small tray with a steaming mug placed atop it. In front of him, Laucan straightened himself out then found himself sinking deeper into judgment.

"Your chocoberry tea, Your Wyvern Grace," Efram said with a polite, courteous bow, their golden curls tickling their own feathers. "Queen Regent Hayvala requests your presence in the throne room to finalize the discussions with the Hanekan diplomats. You also have a council meeting that she also wishes for you to attend for the end of the festivities." Efram folded a towel over his arm and gazed at him. "Do you require anything?"

Agitation curled his feathers, and he said, "Is that her wish or her demand? My answer will change depending on which one."

Because since when have I ever had a choice when the choices of all the rest are on me? He tucked his knees against the ripple of guilt and the creature within his soul. One single choice, and it buried itself in the snow and his hope dissipated like the sun, so far out of reach. He crawled out of his chair to stand closer to the dying embers. He went from piqued curiosity to abhorrent dread at the thought of sitting on the council meetings, listening to the Lords hide their truth behind polite words. I am too weak. I am not my Father, and then I am worse than my Father. He twisted to Efram.

Another decrepit face fluttered on the edge of the shadows. Caught in the dead stare, he tried to shake it out of view, with Efram turning on his heel to follow his confusion. "It was her request, Your Grace," Efram said slowly, not giving attention to the misty wraith so far out of view. "She also said if that is how you responded, to tell you that the Hanekan diplomats are on your shoulders. King Reyn of Haneka approached you about a trade deal and it would be proper to talk to them." He set a hot cover over the tea, then left for the door.

In a blink, Efram and the face of all the dead disappeared.

Released from the tendrils of fate, he bustled forward to guzzle the tea and melt the ancient apathy chewing at his mind. Down to the last dregs, he licked his lips and his fangs before setting it to the side and left his room all alone. His Blizzard Sentinels stood at attention when he passed them, the shaft of their glaives cracking against the stone. A single, formative sound of their history. Atoran Lotayrin of the Ice Glaive as he followed the Snow Prince through every single infernal hell. One of the two greatest knights. One of the two the Snow Prince trusted the most. Ser Atoran, the glaive to Ser Zamira's shield. Songs spoke of him alone, with Hayvala clinging onto Ser Zamira's name.

Blessed by Evyriaz, the Snow Prince descended the steps and became the one and forever future King of Naveera — split apart by two family lines. Travon and Traye. Laucan waddled through the palace full of apathy and the killer of hope. Words fluttered on the wind when he entered the throne room, forgoing the propriety of an announcement and the utter powerlessness in his own name. Hayvala stood between two of the Hanekan diplomats, the ones who delivered Fenrer Pyren onto his home — for better or for worse.

"Your Wyvern Grace," she said with a bow in their broken song. "Are we ready to discuss things?"

Her own voice, dying in the wind.

Yuven Traye stood atop the throne, a symbol of another family's power and hope when he took a seat on the throne and destroyed everything. Laucan sucked in his lips and crawled up the steps to retake it. Chills bit at his hindquarters through his thick furs, and he bounced his head along to the music which left Hayvala's lips. Confused dismay creased her brow, and she took her place beside him.

"King Reyn's terms were an offering," Laucan recalled. "He claims that Hanekan shipwrights could fashion boats to crack through the icy sea, opening a route through the tumultuous waters as well as excess supplies in which we can bear through the worst of the blizzards. In return, he wishes use of our stonemasons and stone to reinforce the southern wall."

"He extends the offer in good faith," the larger Hanekan said. "On our return to Haneka, we shall tell him of the state of Naveera, and how much effort we may have to expend for your people to have a reprieve." His face betrayed none of his thoughts, but Lauacan himself found himself entranced by a distant hum whispering through the palace. "Are these terms acceptable to you, King Laucan?"

Across the pillars carved by old snow, a rotted hand crawled from between the cracks. Laucan pressed his back against his seat as the world silenced itself with an eerie hiss. In the shades of his vision, the Hanekan diplomats turned around to the corpse, but as before, they ignored it to gaze up at him in equal confusion.

"Laucan?" Hayvala mumbled. "Is something wrong?"

Shapes born of Father's paranoia. Laucan drove his fangs into his lips and brought himself back to a flimsy reality. "These terms are acceptable," he pushed through with a blink of erased history. "I give you leave to talk to the stonemasons. Understand how we work our stone. I cannot say if they will come with you back to Haneka, for the change is too jarring. It is my hope that one may agree to oversee the reinforcement of the wall, but I would not hold my breath." He nodded at Hayvala, who walked down the steps once more with strength and certainty to hand over a thick scroll. "There is everything Reyn will have to know about this trade deal. When you are ready to return home, you may take Volaris' Umbral Gate. It is powered with your arrival and departure."

The large Hanekan diplomat took the scroll from Hayvala and stuffed it into his own cloak. "Thank you for the audience, King Laucan," he said with a stiff head-bob. "King Reyn will be delighted that the broken bridge between our peoples has a chance to repair the damage done by a tyrant." He nodded at his fellow, and walked out of the throne room.

Past the shard of existence. Out of view, Hayvala stood in front of him.

"Laucan."

He got off the throne and walked down the steps, lulled into the distant whisper. Harder footsteps sounded behind him, and he twisted on his heel when Hayvala tugged at his shoulder. "Aren't we supposed to go to the council meeting?" he mused, drained of his energy and gave it to the song. "I'm fine."

"Have you been to the icehearts?" Hayvala accused and followed him out of the throne room. "Laucan—"

"I'm fine," he repeated the same old song. "Let's just go finalize the festivities with the other Lords."

"Your absence was noted at the ball."

He broke the steps of the wyvern dance. Hayvala's shadow loomed beside him, moon-shed spirals following a trail of stars when she gave him a concerned side-eye. Into the council room, everything blurred past him in harsh words hidden underneath polite songs with himself at the head of the table, but trapped in the gaol of power. As Hayvala spoke, he nodded along on the strings of others. Lord Vlazis took his regular seat, the same blank expression on his face Efram carried. Each one, more apathetic than the last. Lord Lazron, with his old demands and his push for forceful returns. It dragged down his eyelids in the boring cascade of the aristocracy.

Underneath the crystal chandelier which shed off flakes of light, he raised his weary attention to the doorway.

In the frame, a crimson crown sat atop the same desiccated face of Father.

Laucan leaped out of his seat in the rush of wyvern flames screeching throughout his bones. Hayvala and the other Lords jolted at the sudden movement when he slammed his hands onto the table to support himself from the heavy doomsong their father left with his croaking throat. It shivered down his spine, but he froze in place when the aristocracy slowly turned back to him, expressions unreadable.

Save for Hayvala, whose eyes widened in confusion.

"Is there something the matter, Your Winged Grace?" Lord Lazron asked cooly.

Jumping at shadows. Laucan bumped his knees against the table and brushed his fingers through his feathers. "Nothing is the matter," he forced through his fangs and sidled out of the way for Hayvala to take his place. "I have nothing to contribute to the matters we've been discussing." I don't even know what they've been talking about... nothing that matters. "I leave the rest of the council discussion to the Queen Regent." Around Lord Vlasiz's side, he stumbled out of the hall and feared a corpse waiting for him.

The corridor was empty.

I'm just stressed... haven't been able to sleep...

Laucan waddled through the empty palace lacking in the people's happiness, full of blame and the song of despair. He found himself in the atrium to the icehearts, swaying on his feet as the platform responded to his magick and it brought him into the bowels of true power.

The whisper grew into a haunted, fatal cadence when he walked upon the lake of singing crystals. Ripples escaped from his footsteps, where claws drove themselves against the mirror beneath him and he crept closer to the pulsing rose made of blooming magick. It pulsed out the distant song, and he gazed into the surface of the crystal.

Irimount, the city of the dead from on high.

He brushed his fingers against the surface, and the melody intensified in his ears.

Am I finally hearing the song after all this time? He let go of the iceheart and sank to his knees, bringing a hand up to his damp brow, where his own white hair tangled through his fingers. It's so far away still, I need to get closer to listen to it... I need to understand it. He lifted himself off his own wings through the mirror when he wrapped his hands around the sphere, where the magick bloomed around his fingers and slipped across his skin.

Its tug too powerful to resist.

It ascended into the wyvern's wings when he listened to the constant flutter of a song. It bathed the dead white into the crimson of life, a call for action. He leaned closer as the blizzard spun further into the heart. It swelled in his ears as he fought to get closer, all to understand the fate of his home. Teeth cracked along his mind, and he let go of the sphere with a gasp, trying to shake himself out of the drain. The song near disappeared once more, his heart screaming for reprieve, but he shook his head once more and rested his brow into his fingers.

Blood pounded through his ears as he dragged them down the bridge of his nose as he tried to listen to his breathing instead, echoing throughout the crystal chamber of old songs. What's wrong with me? He slid his fangs over his lips and forced himself back from the pulsing rose. Another tremble of his neck, he fluffed out his feathers and took one last step. Shades swam underneath the mirror's surface as he drew his gaze downwards.

A wraith of a wyvern shimmered underneath him, its scales half-rotted against the white expanse, its sky-blue eyes emptying out of all life. He covered his eyes before bringing himself back to the world.

In the mirror, it was himself, ashen faced with his wavy white hair stuck to his clammy brow.

The song silenced itself in the ice.

All he wanted to hear was its melody.