Karmand proved a different creature than Rohmhelt had envisioned it. It always had the reputation of a stark and austere city, devoid of the ornamentation of the east’s great cities, but he found these characterizations badly misinformed. After ten months in the great western city, he had grown to appreciate its considerable charms. When he first laid eyes on the capital of the western third of the empire, he felt Duronaht had received the far greater gift. However, within weeks of his arrival he snickered toward the east, feeling secure that he indeed was secure in his place as the true heir.

Built on an elevated disc-shaped plateau at the base of Mount Pivox and bisected by the Nulpan River flowing down from the mountain, Karmand gleamed as a rare gem in an otherwise barren stretch of the west. The city was packed to the brim with narrow shiny black iron buildings, often topped with ragged spires scratching toward the sky, as well as majestic smooth grey marble grand edifices for the temples, libraries, and theaters. Then there was, of course, Koghelt Keep at the base of the mountain. All of it stood on the reddish soil of the Karmand region, nested in the plateau’s pale green grasses.

Mines and smiths provided the city’s commercial lifeblood with vast mines sprawling under the mountain for iron, gemstones, copper, and any number of precious metals. Smiths and other craftsmen populated the city’s eastern half by the thousand to make good use of the city’s riches. While noble lords possessed stout estates within the city walls and just outside them in the precious sparse farmland due south of Karmand, their power paled to the guilds representing those commercial enterprises. Their skillful and prodigious output provided Karmand with great wealth that sustained the entirety of the West.

Rohmhelt approved of Karmand’s modest keep as well. An even smaller structure than Heldraht Palace in Methrangia, Koghelt Keep consisted of a single great hall, three reception chambers, an armory, and quarters for roughly two dozen including the king. Fitting the city’s style, the great hall was unadorned by elaborate archways encrusted with brilliant frescos, but rather it had two rows of simple straight grey stone pillars rising alongside the aisle leading to the throne. His throne itself was a small marble chair with bands of iron worked into the stone to form a pattern of concentric circles on the throne’s back.

Even if he approved of the keep’s modesty, he found sitting for interminable hours upon his hideously uncomfortable seat receiving courtiers a surprisingly vile exercise. Every twenty days he held a general audience, usually attended by some fifty or more petitioners. That day marked his tenth month and was a special occasion with the beginning of the protracted Forge Festival that drew in celebrants from hundreds of miles to revel in Karmand’s greatness.

It also meant that the great hall would be flooded with an unusual swell of petitioners seeking the King’s favor.

Lohs stood at his side to provide a warning for each of these needy subjects. He had read the scrolls they submitted to provide the King with some manner of warning for each petitioner.

“I assure you that we will make every effort to rebuild the levies on the Writhald River, and repair your home,” Rohmhelt forced his words through a smile at a threadbare old man who sobbed before the throne. “See to it, Lohs.”

“Oh thank you, Your Majesty! The High Angel bless you!” the petitioner’s voice broke in his joy.

As the old man departed, Rohmhelt’s eyes turned upward toward the line before him. He saw dozens spilling out into the hall’s antechamber and fought back a massive sigh. He sensed that Lohs moved forward to whisper in his ear.

“You’re doing well,” Lohs giggled. “You know, you’ve gotten better at this.”

“Oh, I try,” Rohmhelt said, still forcing a smile. “Who is this next one?”

“Tezege Cofrand. She wants you to bless her daughter’s marriage,” Lohs said, clearly disinterested.

“Angels save me,” Rohmhelt sighed. “Please, come forward,” he bellowed to the hall.

A matronly woman, whose dress was more presentable than she was, waddled forth between the rows of steel armored guards. She was an Ilthoan, a green-skinned and violet-eyed people in the empire’s northwest corner. Her people were often somewhat of an afterthought due to their remote location.

“Your M… Your Majesty,” she started in her harsh husky voice. “My youngest daughter, Firzege, will be married in a week. I ask that… that you give your best wishes and bless her marriage, if it pleases Your Majesty.”

Rohmhelt smiled politely as he always did for such requests, but fumed beneath the thin façade. I will forget her daughter’s name before I even see the next petitioner. Why this should matter to her I can’t even begin to understand.

“It pleases me greatly to hear this glorious news. I pray that your daughter bares many healthy children,” Rohmhelt said in a trailing voice.

“Oh, thank you, Your Majesty! This means so much to me,” the woman said, bowing several times hastily. “The angels watch over you!”

She skipped out of the hall joyously, singing loudly in a dissonant but happy tune. Rohmhelt turned to Lohs and gritted his teeth.

“I don’t know that I can do much more of this,” he groaned. He glanced down the hall to see a large retinue gathered under the archway at the hall’s entrance. “Who is that?”

Lohs squinted and glanced at a list he held.

“Ah, this is Lady Adrenyk from Gildresyk Province, far northeastern corner where your lands meet your father’s to…”

“I know where that is. What does she want?” Rohmhelt interrupted.

“There is a land claim dispute to a…”

“Say no more,” Rohmhelt grumbled. “Please, come forth!”

Lady Evinda Adrenyk paraded forth in a frilly, ostentatious bright orange dress as she was flanked by four guards in scale mail armor bearing large polearms. She was tall and crimson skinned with brilliant white hair, traits typical of the Kyosok people, most of whom hailed from the far-removed Kastor Valley. However, Lady Adrenyk belonged to a small splinter group of Kyosoks who had settled in the central portion of the Methrangian Empire centuries before. Her family had consolidated their holdings over an unusually large swath of land for a younger family, a feat which drew alternating admiration and disdain in the imperial court. At only thirty-one years, it had taken an odd series of deaths with no clear successor for her to lead her family.

“Your Majesty,” she said, bowing when she came before the throne. “I come to ask for mediation of a conflict brewing between several of my landholders and rival claimants sworn to another house. My landholders have held these lands under their names for more than four centuries and have every right to the crown’s protection.”

As with all northerners, she had a harsh accent that grated against Rohmhelt’s ears, which had been trained to listen to the smooth flat voices from the central provinces. Her elegant appearance, however, more than compensated for this one flaw.

“Where are the lands in dispute, specifically?” Rohmhelt queried.

“Bordering the eastern shore of Lake Folegraht, Your Majesty,” she said before drawing a deep breath. “Is Your Majesty familiar with whose house controls the lands to the north and east of mine in that region?”

Rohmhelt glanced as lightly as he could back to Lohs.

“Omonrel,” Lohs whispered.

The King’s heart jumped in his chest. He remembered it now. Omonrel and the House of Kedholn, his adopted family, where he served as its eternal patriarch and he chose sons and daughters to be his progeny as no angel could bear children with a mortal. As Omonrel was the finest craftsman among the angels, he had constructed a palatial estate without equal to lord over those lands. Words of advice from his father rang in his ears regarding dealings with the angels. “Give them a wide berth since they don’t care much about you.”

“My lady, lands controlled by Omonrel, or any other angel of Ceuna, are a unique circumstance for reasons that you must understand. I will do all that I can to address your concerns, but this may be a difficult matter to adequately resolve,” Rohmhelt said, trying as he might to avoid sounding fearful.

“With the greatest respect, Your Majesty,” Adrenyk responded with a modestly biting tone, “the angel, whether he is immortal or not, is your subject. Your Majesty’s ancestor, Emperor Vignaht, granted him those lands three centuries ago under the condition that he behave as though he were any other noble lord. Your Majesty can command him to cease the transgressions of his underlings.”

Rohmhelt almost wanted to laugh. The idea was positively absurd. Angels, such as Omonrel, may have resided on his lands, but the notion that such a thing made them true subjects of the throne strained credulity.

“My lady,” Rohmhelt coughed and forced a smile, “the fact that Omonrel was given those lands by my grandfather’s grandfather is a telling thing. He lorded over those lands centuries before I was conceived and will endure millennia after I have turned to dust. I may be king, but those are his lands.”

Lady Adrenyk approached the throne with two more steps, glaring with hostility at the king. Two Solnahtern clanked forward reflexively to guard the King.

“Your Majesty is sovereign over all of his domains, is he not?” she inquired. “For what is a king if he is not sovereign?”

“Be firm,” Lohs whispered behind Rohmhelt.

Rohmhelt clasped the throne’s arms angrily with both hands, boiling at the suggestion that he was not a true king. He could imagine Duronaht smirking if he could see this. Still, the desire to maintain a peaceable court restrained his desire to speak plainly.

“That will be all for now, my lady. I appreciate the issue being brought to my attention,” Rohmhelt said graciously and motioned for her to depart.

Adrenyk stiffly bowed without smiling and paced out of the hall past her retinue, who all followed swiftly in pursuit. As his eyes followed the lady out the hall, he saw the endless line of petitioners gathered at the door.

“Lohs, wine,” Rohmhelt ordered as he rubbed his head.

“It would be irregular for His Majesty to imbibe at an audience,” Lohs cautioned.

“If I can’t drink wine in my own halls when I wish, then I’m truly not king,” Rohmhelt growled back.

“I’ll have some brought for you straight away,” Lohs murmured.

Wine was the only modest consolation afforded to him for the remainder of the day. The petitioners ranged from the pathetic to the actively irritating. Just before dinner he had finally dispatched with the petitioners and retired to his chambers.

I’ve come to think father thought it was a fun joke sending me here, he pondered as he lay in his bed.