The afternoon sun caught the palace gardens through windows that measured four meters tall and two meters wide, glass panes so pure they were invisible except where light refracted at the edges. Conrad Ashford ran across marble flooring that was polished to mirror brightness, his leather shoes—custom-made by the royal cobbler from calfskin imported from the northern breeding territories—producing rhythmic sounds that echoed through corridors designed specifically to carry acoustics in aesthetically pleasing patterns.
His younger sister Elara was three steps ahead, her dress—pale blue silk with silver threadwork that had required two seamstresses working full-time for a week—trailing behind her as she ran. She was four years old, would turn five in three months, and had the kind of fearless energy that came from never experiencing consequences for actions. When she ran, servants scattered to avoid collision, their trained reflexes ensuring the princess never had to alter her trajectory for anyone.
"Conrad, you're too slow!" Her voice carried the particular quality of a child who'd been taught proper diction by tutors but hadn't yet internalized the formality. She looked back over her shoulder, her hair—dark like their father's, elaborately braided by attendants who spent thirty minutes each morning on the styling—swinging with the motion.
Conrad increased his pace, his twelve-year-old legs giving him speed advantage his sister's shorter stride couldn't match. He closed the gap in five seconds, reached out to tag her shoulder in the game they'd invented that morning. "Caught you!"
Elara spun, her expression shifting from competitive focus to theatrical betrayal. "That doesn't count! I wasn't ready!"
"You were running. How were you not ready?" Conrad grinned, the expression genuine in a way that was becoming increasingly rare as he approached adolescence and the weight of royal expectations began pressing on his daily existence. But here, in the private wing of the palace where only family and trusted servants were permitted, he could still be twelve.
"Because—" Elara started, then stopped mid-sentence, her attention captured by something beyond the windows. "Look! The fountain!"
The gardens visible through the western windows were maintained by a team of sixteen full-time groundskeepers, their work overseen by a master gardener who'd trained in the royal academies for seven years specifically to understand the aesthetic principles the Algorial royal family preferred. The fountain Elara was pointing at was the central feature—marble construction, twelve meters in diameter, with water channeled through Uncos-enhanced pumping systems that created patterns impossible through gravity alone. The water formed spirals, helixes, geometric shapes that shifted every thirty seconds in sequences that had been designed by mathematicians and artists working in collaboration.
"Father says the fountain cost more than a village produces in a year," Conrad said, repeating something he'd overheard during one of the administrative meetings he was required to attend as part of his princely education. The statement had seemed abstract when he'd first heard it—what was a village's production compared to the necessity of beautiful fountain?—but recently he'd begun wondering what that actually meant in terms of people's lives.
Elara pressed her face against the window, leaving a small breath-fog mark on the perfect glass. "It's pretty. Can we go see it?"
"Maybe later. Hans said he wanted to talk to me this afternoon." Conrad glanced at the ornate clock mounted on the corridor's eastern wall—gold filigree surrounding a face marked with numbers in the traditional Algorial style, maintained by a clockmaker who visited the palace monthly to ensure accuracy within five-second tolerances. Two-fifteen in the afternoon. Hans had said to meet him at two-thirty.
"Hans is boring," Elara declared with the absolute certainty only a four-year-old could muster. "He just reads all the time."
"Hans is going to be king," Conrad corrected gently. "Reading is what kings do."
Elara considered this, her expression thoughtful in the way that suggested she was processing complex ideas with limited reference framework. "When Hans is king, will Father not be king anymore?"
"Father will retire. That means he stops being king but he's still Father." Conrad had asked the same question when he was younger, had received similar explanation. The mechanics of royal succession were taught early in Algorial noble families—understanding the hierarchy was fundamental to understanding one's place in it.
"Oh." Elara seemed to accept this. "Can we play more before you talk to Hans?"
Conrad checked the clock again. Fifteen minutes until he needed to be at Hans's study. "One more game. But we have to stay in this corridor—if we go to the east wing, the afternoon court session is happening and Father doesn't like noise during official business."
They played. It was a simple game, children's entertainment that would have looked absurd if observed by the wrong people—heirs to one of the five great kingdoms of The Order, their combined future influence spanning millions of lives, running through palace corridors playing tag. But for those fifteen minutes, Conrad let himself be twelve, let himself exist in the space before responsibility became all-consuming.
At two-twenty-seven, he left Elara with her governess—a stern woman named Mistress Carvane who'd been responsible for royal children's education for three decades—and made his way to the southern tower where Hans maintained his private study.
The palace's southern tower was seven stories, each level dedicated to specific administrative or personal functions. Hans's study occupied the fifth floor, positioned to provide optimal light during afternoon hours when he did most of his reading and correspondence. Conrad climbed the stone staircase—even the stairs were luxury, each step carved from single blocks of granite, worn smooth by two centuries of royal feet—his hand trailing along the iron banister that was polished weekly by servants whose entire job was maintaining metal surfaces.
The door to Hans's study was heavy oak, carved with the Ashford family crest—a crown above crossed swords, encircled by olive branches symbolizing peace maintained through strength. Conrad knocked three times, the pattern they'd established when Conrad was seven and Hans had started requiring privacy for his administrative work.
"Enter," Hans's voice came from within, carrying the resonance of someone trained in public speaking since childhood.
The study was exactly what would be expected from someone who'd spent most of their twenty-three years preparing to rule a kingdom. Books filled floor-to-ceiling shelves along three walls—histories, military strategies, economic treatises, philosophical texts, everything a future king needed to understand governance. A desk dominated the room's center, solid mahogany imported from western forests, its surface covered with papers, maps, and correspondence organized in systems only Hans understood. The western wall was entirely windows, providing natural light that illuminated the space without need for candles or oil lamps during daylight hours.
Hans sat at his desk, dressed in the formal attire expected of someone attending evening court later—dark blue jacket with silver buttons, white shirt underneath, black pants that were tailored so precisely they looked like they'd been painted on. His appearance was perfect, as always—hair cut and styled appropriately, beard trimmed to exact specifications, posture upright even when seated. He looked like illustrations of ideal nobility from textbooks about proper royal bearing.
He was also in the middle of writing something, his pen moving across paper with practiced fluidity that came from writing dozens of letters daily. He held up one finger—wait—and Conrad waited by the door, watching his brother complete whatever sentence he was constructing.
Thirty seconds passed. Then Hans set down his pen, capped the inkwell, and looked up with expression that shifted from administrative focus to something warmer. "Conrad. Sorry—had to finish that thought before it escaped. You know how ideas are."
Conrad approached the desk, glancing at the papers spread across its surface. Letters, all of them, addressed to various nobles and administrators across Algoria and beyond. Hans's handwriting was immaculate—the product of years of calligraphy training that made every word look like it belonged in illuminated manuscript. "You write a lot."
"Kingship is correspondence," Hans said, gesturing at the stacks of completed letters waiting for wax seals. "Military decisions are dramatic, economic policies are significant, but the actual work of governance is mostly writing letters. Coordinating between administrators, negotiating with other kingdoms, managing the thousands of details that keep a nation functioning." He smiled, the expression carrying self-awareness about how unglamorous the reality of his future position was. "Not what the legends emphasize, but it's the truth."
Conrad moved to the window, looking out over the palace grounds. From this height, he could see across the royal district—the administrative buildings where The Order's bureaucracy operated, the military barracks where soldiers trained, the merchant quarters where goods from across the three continents were traded. Beyond that, the common districts where regular citizens of the capital lived in conditions that were comfortable by peasant standards but incomprehensible poverty compared to the luxury Conrad knew.
"Is something wrong?" Hans asked, his tone shifting to concern. "You seem distracted."
Conrad wasn't sure how to articulate what he was feeling. He was twelve—old enough to start noticing contradictions in how the world was structured, not old enough to have developed sophisticated frameworks for processing those observations. "I was thinking about the fountain. About how you said it cost more than a village produces in a year."
Hans was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice carried the careful neutrality of someone choosing words precisely. "That bothers you."
"I don't know. Should it?" Conrad turned from the window to face his brother. "We live here—" he gestured at the study, at the palace beyond it, at everything their family represented, "—and people out there live in houses that would fit in your study. And we're supposed to rule them. How are we supposed to make good decisions about their lives when we don't understand what their lives are like?"
"By being intelligent enough to learn what we don't experience directly," Hans said. He stood, moving around his desk to join Conrad at the window. "You're right that we don't live like common people. We can't—our position requires certain standards be maintained, certain appearances be upheld. But that doesn't mean we can't understand their conditions through study, through advisors who report honestly, through economic data that shows us how policies affect populations."
He put his hand on Conrad's shoulder, the gesture affectionate but also pedagogical. "You're asking the right questions. That's good. That's what separates adequate rulers from exceptional ones—the willingness to examine the systems you're inheriting rather than accepting them as natural and inevitable."
Conrad felt something relax in his chest. Hans understood. Hans always understood. "Father doesn't ask these questions."
"Father is a good king by the metrics that matter to his generation—stability, prosperity, military strength. But the world is changing. The Order's systems are being challenged by groups like the Liberators, by regions that resist centralized control, by economic forces that don't respond to traditional governance methods." Hans's expression was serious now, the warmth replaced by intensity that Conrad recognized as his brother's planning mode. "The next generation of rulers—my generation—needs to ask different questions and find different answers."
"Is that why you read so much?" Conrad asked. "To find those answers?"
"Partially. Also because I enjoy it." Hans returned to his desk, picking up a book that had been lying open beside his correspondence. "Do you know what this is?"
Conrad recognized it—a historical text about the founding of The Order, required reading for royal education. "We studied it last year with Tutor Pemberton."
"What did Pemberton tell you about why The Order was founded?"
Conrad recited from memory: "The Order was established five hundred years ago after the God Wars, when the Supreme Eight defeated the fallen god Van Hellsin and restored peace to the three continents. The five great kingdoms swore allegiance to the Eight and agreed to unified governance to prevent future conflicts."
"That's the official history," Hans said. "Here's what the official history doesn't emphasize: before The Order, kingdoms were smaller and more numerous. The consolidation that created the five great kingdoms involved considerable violence—wars, forced annexations, populations displaced or eliminated. The peace we have now was built on foundations of systematic conquest."
Conrad felt uncomfortable hearing this—not because it was surprising but because it was being stated so plainly. "But that was necessary. To prevent worse violence."
"Was it?" Hans set the book down, his expression thoughtful. "Or is that the justification we use to make ourselves comfortable with benefiting from historical conquest? The Liberators would argue that The Order's peace is just imposed stability that benefits those in power while exploiting those without it. Are they wrong?"
"They're rebels," Conrad said, repeating what he'd been taught. "They want chaos."
"They want change. Whether that change would result in chaos or improved conditions depends on whether their alternative systems are viable." Hans leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. "I'm telling you this because you're my brother and because you're old enough to hear it: kingship isn't about defending the status quo because it's traditional. It's about understanding systems well enough to adapt them when adaptation serves the greater good, and defending them when defense is justified. The question is always: justified for whom?"
Conrad's head was spinning with concepts that felt too large for his twelve-year-old framework. But he trusted Hans, trusted that his brother wouldn't share these ideas if he didn't think Conrad was ready to process them.
Hans seemed to recognize Conrad's cognitive overload. His expression softened, became more approachable. "Come here. I want to tell you something."
Conrad moved closer to the desk. Hans gestured at one of the letters he'd been writing—this one sealed already, addressed to someone Conrad didn't recognize.
"I'm going to be king," Hans said quietly. "Father's announcing it officially next month. The coronation will be in six months, after the proper ceremonies and transitions of power are completed. I'm telling you now because I want you to hear it from me before it becomes public knowledge."
The announcement should have felt momentous—his brother becoming king was literally the most significant political event that would occur in their lifetime. But somehow Conrad had known this was coming. Hans had been preparing for kingship since birth, had been groomed for the position with systematic intensity. The actual announcement felt like formality rather than revelation.
"Congratulations," Conrad said, meaning it genuinely. "You'll be a great king."
Hans smiled. "I hope so. I have plans—substantial changes to how Algoria operates, how we engage with The Order's broader systems, how we address the underlying issues that create resistance movements like the Liberators. I'm going to make this kingdom stronger, more prosperous, more secure than it's ever been."
"What kind of changes?" Conrad asked, curious despite his mental exhaustion from the earlier conversation.
Hans's smile widened, became something that looked ambitious in a way that was almost unsettling. "Everything. Economic restructuring, military modernization, diplomatic realignment, social reforms that address the grievances fueling rebellion. I'm going to transform Algoria from a regional power into the dominant force in The Order. And from that position of dominance—" he paused, and when he continued his voice carried weight that made the words feel like prophecy rather than aspiration, "—I'm going to reshape the entire world system."
Conrad stared at his brother, trying to reconcile that statement with everything else he knew about Hans. The scholarly brother who read philosophy and wrote careful letters. The methodical planner who thought three steps ahead of every decision. That person had just declared intention to reshape the world.
"You mean like Van Hellsin tried?" Conrad asked, the comparison feeling obvious given their earlier discussion of history.
Hans's expression shifted, became more complex. "No. Van Hellsin tried to overthrow the Supreme Eight through violence, to replace their divine authority with his own. I have no interest in fighting gods. I'm interested in making their earthly systems—The Order, the five kingdoms, the economic and military structures that govern three continents—so efficient, so powerful, so absolutely dominant that resistance becomes not just difficult but impossible."
He stood, moved to the window, looked out over the capital with expression that Conrad couldn't quite read. "Van Hellsin wanted to take the gods' throne. I want to make a throne so powerful that even gods would recognize its authority. That's my dream. That's what I'm going to build."
Conrad felt something in his chest that was part admiration, part something else he couldn't identify. His brother wasn't just going to be king. His brother was going to be the kind of king that history remembered for centuries. The kind that transformed everything they touched.
"I want to be like you," Conrad said, the words emerging before he'd consciously decided to speak them. "When I'm older. I want to accomplish things like that. I want to be someone who matters."
Hans turned from the window, and his expression was serious in a way Conrad had rarely seen. He crossed the space between them in three steps, knelt down so they were at eye level—unusual gesture for someone who maintained careful dignity in all interactions.
"Conrad," Hans said, his voice carrying intensity that made the words feel important, "never wish to be like someone else. Not me, not anyone. Always be yourself."
Conrad was confused. "Why? You're successful. You're going to be king. Why wouldn't I want to be like you?"
"Because you can never truly know what someone else is thinking. You can never understand their complete psychology, their motivations, the internal logic that drives their decisions." Hans's hands were on Conrad's shoulders now, grip firm but not painful. "When you say you want to be like me, you're saying you want to be like your perception of me. But your perception is incomplete. You don't see the thoughts I don't share, the decisions I make in private, the calculations that I keep hidden because revealing them would be counterproductive."
He released Conrad's shoulders, stood, resumed his normal posture. "Be yourself. Develop your own principles, your own goals, your own approach to the world. Learn from others—from me, from Father, from anyone whose methods seem effective—but always filter those lessons through your own judgment. Never abdicate your moral reasoning to someone else's example, no matter how much you admire them."
Conrad understood the advice intellectually, but emotionally it felt wrong. Hans was perfect—intelligent, capable, ambitious in the best way. What could possibly be wrong with wanting to emulate that?
"I'm going to be like you anyway," Conrad said, the stubbornness of twelve asserting itself. "You can't change my mind about that."
Hans laughed—genuine amusement rather than mockery. "Then I hope your perception of me is accurate. For your sake." He returned to his desk, picking up his pen, indicating the conversation was approaching its natural conclusion. "You should go. I have seventeen more letters to write before evening court, and you have lessons with Tutor Pemberton at four."
Conrad moved toward the door, then paused at the threshold. "Hans? Thank you. For telling me about becoming king. And for the advice."
"You're my brother," Hans said without looking up from the letter he'd already started writing. "Looking out for you is part of the position."
Conrad left the study, descended the stone stairs, returned to the wing of the palace where his own quarters were located. His mind was full of the conversation, processing Hans's words about kingship and change and the weight of perception versus reality.
He wanted to be like Hans. That desire felt fundamental, unshakeable despite Hans's warnings. His brother was everything Conrad aspired to become—intelligent, powerful, visionary enough to see beyond current systems toward something better.
If being like Hans meant inheriting some hidden complexity Conrad didn't currently understand, that seemed like acceptable price. Everyone had complexities. Everyone had thoughts they kept private. That didn't make them dangerous or wrong.
Conrad returned to his quarters, completed his afternoon lessons with Tutor Pemberton—today's subject was military history, specifically The Order's campaigns to consolidate power in the eastern territories after the God Wars—and later attended evening court with his family, watching his father conduct the routine business of kingdom administration.
He watched Hans too, observing his brother's behavior during court proceedings. The careful attention Hans paid to every detail, the way he took notes on decisions and discussions, the expression of focused analysis he maintained throughout the three-hour session. That was what kingship looked like. That was what Conrad wanted to become.
In six months, Hans would be crowned king of Algoria. In the years that followed, Hans would transform their kingdom into something unprecedented in power and efficiency. And Conrad would watch, would learn, would prepare himself to serve his brother's vision of a world reshaped according to principles that prioritized strength and dominance over the chaotic uncertainties of freedom and individual choice.
He didn't know, couldn't know, that twelve-year-old Amari Zanders was simultaneously preparing for his first mission with the Liberators three hundred kilometers to the southwest. Didn't know that a blind slave named John was running through forest with a ruined hand, having just escaped captivity through methods that should have been impossible. Didn't know that the world his brother planned to reshape contained forces that would resist that reshaping with everything they possessed.
Conrad was twelve, living in luxury beyond most people's imagination, watching his brother prepare to become king. The future felt clear, glorious, inevitable.
He had no way of knowing how much blood that future would cost, or whose blood would be spilled to build Hans's throne that even gods would recognize.