Like a war flag waving over the battlefield, Alistair's uniform billows out in the breeze. The wind, however, is an enemy. It comes and goes like an invisible giant passing by.
It is the end of autumn, the beginning of winter.
A strong gust picks up a tree's fallen leaves, sending them dancing around his figure as he stands atop the hill. This place has been the turning point of many battles. As of now, no blood has yet been shed. But it is the right place for those who live on the battlefield to hone their minds.
As he is deep in contemplation, a single leaf lands on his shoulder, then another. One by one, leaves and petals of all different colors stick to his back until he finds himself clad in a coat of red and gold. The wind has returned, carrying a message with it: The Rite of Radiance is nigh.
His golden eyes shoot open as though they'd heard the voice from the wind. His hair flutters, the only black left in a world of gold, just as the war flag is the one piece of color in a gray battlefield. It takes a moment for him to realize what's happened to his clothes, and when he does, he laughs.
"Heh, how fitting." His low voice seems to shake the earth itself. He glances down at the hill. The enemy, or rather his future subjects, have yet to show themselves. "They'll come at any moment... And when they do, I will prove to the world that my path is righteous."
Just as he predicted, the leaders of various factions arrive, one after the other. Four flags, representing the four heirs to the Northern Continent of Brunel.
This is but a parade. A declaration. A display of power to show that each is a worthy successor. The winner of the rite inherits control of Brunel.
The rite will begin shortly.
They were in a seemingly holy place—this plain, with the exception of a single tree, was barren, not a blade of grass to be found on its soil. The wind had died, as if in reverence. Even the birds and beasts held their breath. All in attendance had their gazes fixed on the four people standing below the hill.
The Garden of Brunel, a neutral zone where all disputes are to be resolved. Every time the heirs meet here, it becomes the center of the world, its gravity drawing in every soul across the continent.
— "In the Garden of Brunel, only kings speak, and only gods are heard."
And there they are, the ones chosen by fate to hold the future in their hands, standing at the center of it all.
With the use of certain artifacts, their images and voices can reach the ears and eyes of even the farthest reaches of the continent. It's the only form of communication that transcends the barrier of language.
Five heirs. Five siblings.
They were no longer brothers and sisters, but rivals competing for the throne.
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss their silly little faces." Alistair murmured to himself atop of his perch, looking down at his siblings.
With a flourish, he took a leap of faith from his perch.
His siblings stood motionless, waiting for him to come to ground. He could not have hoped for a more suitable entrance to his own ceremony. As his feet touched the ground, a wave of dust rose and settled. The crowd of thousands watching from afar could hear his every move.
Alistair's name and image were being transmitted across the continent, along with his brothers and sisters.
When his foot finally met the earth, it kicked up a storm of red and gold leaves. They circled around him as he walked, like an army following their commander.
One step, then two. Three steps. Four.
With every step, his presence became ever more imposing, his shadow stretching out long and black behind him.
He came to a stop right in the center.
Alistair—The oldest of the five, and arguably the most infamous for his exile. His face was scarred, and his smile had a way of unsettling the soul. At first glance, his smile appeared innocent, but his golden eyes were so bright that no other color seemed to compare. Those eyes, though—they revealed the depths of a darkness that lay deep within.
"You've got some nerve, Alistair. We don't take kindly to those who betray our laws and values."
"Betray?" He cocked his head at his sister, who was pointing a finger his way.
She had the appearance of a young adult, not older than 18. She has brown eyes, and her purple-colored hair tied in a golden ribbon. Her clothes are simple and refined—a white leather armor over her red shirt, a red skirt that ends just above her knees, and black knee-length boots.
Her name is Eulelia. Youngest of the five siblings, and their father's favorite.
"Yes, betray. Did you really think we would forget what you did?"
"What did I...? Hm. What did I do again? Must not have been important, because I can't seem to recall." Alistair scratched his chin, he put his hand atop of her head and started petting her, his sister scowled at the sudden action and slapped his hand away. "Eulelia, my dear sister. Have your manners not improved after all these years?"
"Don't try to distract me, brother! You were exiled, remember? Exiled!" Eulalia stamped her feet, her face flushed. She had grown into quite the beauty, a spitting image of her mother in her youth. Still a far cry from her eldest sister's charm, however.
"It's just a fancy word to say that I've lived on my own for some time. But now I've returned. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?" Alistair let out a sigh of despair. He glanced at his second younger sibling. "Must be hard on you, taking care of a kid sister like that, Alisha."
"Brother, you..." She was at a loss for words.
The third child, and the eldest of Alistair's two sisters. Her name was Alisha.
As a child she loved books. Now her hobby had become studying weapons, and her body was toned and hardened. She wore a purple and red dress, with a sword hanging from her hips. She had long black hair and deep blue eyes. Though she wasn't as charismatic as the second child or the youngest, her gentle and caring personality made her popular in court. With a troubled look on her face, Alisha averted her gaze. Perhaps she was remembering their childhood together.
The Smiling Alisha — that was what people called her. Even when the world turned its back on her, she never stopped smiling.
But her smile wasn't meant for him, her oldest brother, and her eyes looked straight through him, as if he wasn't there at all. That's how much Alistair had fallen in her heart. And the one to blame was none other than himself.
"Did you come all the way here just to annoy us?" Eulalia's shrill voice interrupted the silence. She crossed her arms, and a frown marred her pretty features.
"I'm glad to see you haven't changed. Your mouth has gotten even sharper since the last time we saw each other. Oh, have your cheeks always been that squishy, or is my memory failing me?" He laughed, pinching her cheek.
"Hey, shtop thuat." Her protests were muffled as his fingers sank into her puffy cheeks. They felt surprisingly soft to the touch.
Alistair couldn't help but laugh as his sister struggled to pull away. Their exchange seemed to thaw the frozen air.
Though, all of them knew how fake it was.
"If I may, can we move on from this foolishness, Brother?"
A cold voice echoed, and a tall, slender young man stepped forward from the shadows of his siblings. His eyes were the color of the setting sun, and his hair, of honey. This was the second child, Aluin. The prince who had the highest chance to succeed the throne.
"The Jewel of Brunel, huh? Is that what they call you these days?" Alistair asked, a slight smile playing on his lips. It was his nickname given by the common people of the northern continent, who had become quite fond of his beautiful features, his honey-colored locks and sunset-hued eyes. But unlike Alisha's, whose smiles had brought warmth, Aluin's were sharp and cold.
Aluin was the complete opposite of the warm and loving Alisha, but the masses didn't seem to mind his aloof nature. If anything, his lack of interest in others made him that much more desirable to the commoners.
His beauty was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, his appearance and the impression that it gave was the only reason why the nobility and the military were not able to get rid of him. But his looks also led many to believe he was too weak and unreliable to become king, a mere plaything for women and men alike.
"Did you finally sleep your way to the top of the ladder? Or are the fools around you just as foolish as I remember?" Alistair's grin was mocking. In return, Aluin smiled at him, a small, sharp, almost imperceptible tug of the lips, a smile that didn't reach his cold, empty eyes.
"You have not changed a single bit, Brother. Your jokes are still just as unfunny and cruel, and your sense of fashion is still abhorrent. Really, couldn't you have at least tried to dress up for such an occasion? You were summoned for the Rite, after all."
Alistair chuckled, amused at the fact that Aluin had not lost his sarcastic streak. It was comforting, somehow, to know that not all had changed in his absence. He unbuckled his uniform and threw it aside. As his uniform fluttered to the ground, the wind began to blow, making his black hair flow like the wings of a dark beast.
His linen shirt, black pants and knee-high boots, though simple in design, were obviously of the finest quality. More striking than any of his clothes was his physique. Alistair was well over 182cm (Roughly 6ft), and his body was built of solid muscle. His golden eyes seemed to shine brighter as the sun reached its peak, its rays falling directly onto him. Despite his youthful age, his appearance and presence alone made him stand out even amongst his own siblings. Alistair had never been the type to seek the spotlight, but when he was in it, there was no doubt that the world around him was his to command.
The only ones not taken aback by his dramatic entrance were the four heirs and their retainers, and Alistair's gaze met the last of his siblings, the one standing behind his two sisters.
"Julius, is it really you? Look how much you've grown!" For the first time since the start of the ceremony, a genuine, non-sardonic smile spread on his lips, a hint of tenderness in his expression.
Julius, the middle child. He was neither as charming as Aluin nor was he as talented and intelligent as Alistair. He was rather androgynous, and had a penchant for causing mischief and trouble. Unlike the others, his clothes were a simple combination of a brown tunic, dark grey pants, and worn shoes.
Despite his average looks, he was no less a potential heir. Julius was smart and quick on his feet. And most of all, his eyes burned with an insatiable desire for the crown. A trait shared by the rest of the royal family.
"Yes, it has been a while... Brother," the fourth prince replied, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. He bowed, his head held low, his bangs covering his eyes, hiding whatever emotions might be swirling within him from view.
His four siblings sighed in disbelief. Their eyes bored into him as though he were a pitiful sight to behold.
"Why are you bowing your head, you idiot?" Alistair frowned and clicked his tongue.
"B-because we are in front of our father's statue. It is the polite thing to do, no? Or have you forgotten your manners in that godforsaken place you were sent to?"
"Father's statue?" Alistair tilted his head, looking back at the statues of the previous rulers that stood at the very top of the hill. His father's statue was no different from the rest.
He walked past Julius and the others, his strides sure and steady, until he arrived before his father's statue. "What's so special about it?"
Alistair stood there in silence. For a few seconds, his face remained impassive. Then he raised his hand, reaching out to touch the stone surface. He ran his fingertips over the cool, rough surface of the statue, feeling the smooth curves of the carved folds of his robe, the sharp angles of his face, the chiseled lines of his jaw.
And slowly the thing in the back of his mind grew louder and louder. An indescribable emotion that he couldn't put a finger on. Like a whisper, barely audible in his ears, that gradually rose in volume, drowning out his surroundings.
The wind died, the clouds ceased to drift in the sky, the birds fell silent.
While the statue began to breathe. Its chest rising and falling rhythmically, the stone robes fluttering gently as if in a breeze, its eyelids twitching and its eyes darting to and fro beneath them, its hands tightening around the staff in a death grip. The sounds of rusted metal scraping against each other emanated from it.
"People of Brunel," A booming, thunder-like voice came from the unmoving lips of the statue. Everyone present, even the five heirs, stood straight and quiet at the sound of that familiar voice.
"My beloved citizens, and my honorable guests from foreign nations, I welcome you all. My children have finally come of age. It has been near 60 years since I last sat upon the throne, ruling the Northern Continent of Brunel, the land that has nurtured us for generations. Soon, I will pass on the mantle to one of the five that you see in this Garden."
The crowd was silent. No one dared speak or interrupt, lest they risk the wrath of the late king. Even the heavens themselves seemed to hold their breath.
"I have lived a long life, full of both triumphs and tragedies, and in that time, I have seen many great men rise and fall. I am proud to call myself the father of these children. I am certain that they will continue to carry the torch that was lit so many decades ago. May the gods be with us!"
A deafening roar shook the garden and the whole world at that moment, as the people of the northern continent cheered and celebrated their late king's wisdom. Some were overcome with emotion and cried tears of joy. The scene was a testament to the greatness of the ruler they had all once had and loved.
— Some say the Garden of Brunel still echoes with the breath of the gods. Others say it's where the first oath was carved into the earth itself.
"But, I cannot simply entrust the kingdom to a child who hasn't proven their worth." The king's words rang loud and clear throughout the whole continent. Everyone held their breath as the statue continued to talk. "As tradition has dictated, the one who will inherit my crown will have to prove themselves to be worthy to sit on the throne. Let the rite of radiance begin!"
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
The heirs knelt down and placed their right hands over their hearts in reverence.
Though, Alistair didn't bow, and instead just crouched in front of Aluin and pocked his cheek. He ignored the glare his brother gave him, and just continued to poke him repeatedly, enjoying the reactions he was eliciting from his siblings, and the crowd at the same time. "This is fun," he said. His voice carried a tone of amusement that contrasted starkly to the solemnity of the situation at hand.
"Your Highness!" Someone called from afar, her shrill voice echoing in the otherwise silent Garden of Brunel. "Are you not aware that this is the beginning of the rite? How can you behave so flippantly towards His Majesty?! Do you have no respect for your father's legacy?!"
A woman clad in a white uniform stepped out from behind her fellow soldiers. Her face was contorted in rage. She had a sword in her left hand, its point resting on the ground.
"Why would I bow to a pile of rock?" Alistair's reply was nonchalant, bordering on disrespectful, yet not lacking in its sincerity and honesty.
"Your highness..." the commander of the royal guard trailed off. She was visibly shaking in anger, her grip tightening around the hilt of the sword.
"If you pick that thing up, I'll consider that as a declaration of war," he warned. His eyes narrowed. "Do not forget that you swore to serve Brunel—not my deadbeat dad and his stupid statue."
He leaped onto the statue's head, and kneeled. His hands extended toward the Heavens, he spoke thus:
"I, Alistair von Branier, kneel for Brunel. Not my dear old man, nor his fancy rock, or his imaginary friends." His words were met with a wave of confusion from the people watching from afar. They were unable to understand his reasoning.
—After all, what sort of person would dare disrespect their own father?
"Throughout the centuries, our traditions have become nothing more than empty rituals," he continued, "but, I'm not a servant of the crown. And I'm not a son of the king. Instead, I'm a slave to the nation of Brunel. A dog. And dogs do not have fathers, only owners."
The royal guard was seething at this point, and their faces were twisted into scowls. Even his own siblings had mixed emotions regarding his bold declaration.
"So," his voice echoed in the garden and across the continent, "I vow to bring honor to Brunel, the only owner I'll ever need. To me, the country, the land itself is the greatest God, and my loyalty lies solely with it."
It was not the first time in history that someone has defied tradition. Throughout the years, many had challenged the established customs, but never to this extent. This act, in particular, was a slap to the face of every ruler and noble houses of the northern continent. Such a shameless display was not tolerated in polite society, especially among royalty and those in power. But to Alistair, that was the whole point.
"For, I am Brunel and Brunel is I." With that final phrase, the Rite of Radiance had officially started.