The High Prophecy

Chapter 3: Three Musketeers

Chapter 3: Three Musketeers

A giant, beautiful castle room decorated with gold. A large, devilish black skull with a large snout almost resembling a dragon's, and a large blade struck into its left eye, is attached above the door. We are in the Nexonish Castle, the place that some may consider to be the capitol of the world.

A dozen guards scatter across the path leading from this room's door to the throne room. The throne room itself has much of the outside aesthetic, except that the windows are heavily tinted, though it seems that the tint has accumulated decades of rust, causing the rays of the sun to pass through in a brown-ish shine. The room itself is not very different from its windows, rusty, dusty, and wrapped in cobweb at every corner. It looks like the throne room of a king deep in regret and sorrow, sworn to isolation.

On the throne sits an old man in his late fifties, with a slim figure and a large white beard, in an expensive purple and gold cloak decorated with jewels, a crown of gold on his head with four glowing jewels atop it, of orange, blue, purple, and green. He wears a silk black eyepatch on his left eye. He holds a long breed between a staff and a scepter - A scaff? Stepter? No that sounds weird - with an eerie white-glowing foggy orb inside of it, spinning insidiously and almost sucking your soul right in.

The old man looks to be troubled and deep within his thoughts. He is brought back to his senses by a slightly-shaky but monotonic deep chanting voice from the outside, as the door starts to open magically. The guards on the outside are moving away as a young man in a royal-crafted steel armor wielding a large steel blade walks in, a handsome, muscular knight-figure of not more than 20 years, he wears the expression of a soldier, but the skin and aesthetic of a prince. He looks troubled and slightly angry.

He moves closer, kneeling to the old man.

"Your Majesty, King Harry." cries the young man.

"Rise, son." says the king.

The young man, Prince Markus Wyvern as he appears to be, stands once more, moving closer to the king.

"There is a troubling matter, your Majesty." says Markus

"The fish again?" says the king, stroking his beard, frustrated. "I thought this had been taken care of."

"It hadn't, your Majesty." says Markus. "The matter worsens day after day. I assure you father... This is the Dark Lord's doing."

"The Dark Lord!" cries the king, mockingly, waving his hands at him. "Bite me!"

"Your Majesty, you do not know what danger this could pose-"

"The fish are dying, bad weather, bad season." says the king, brushing him off. "Same old winter!"

"Nothing is the same, father... I have seen it myself!" cries Markus. "I have been to the shores, your Majesty... From Nexonin to Stratfort to Alijone to Tefermore, the ocean is infertile... it is a curse! We must execute the Dark Lord at once! It is the only solution!"

"It is not the only solution, my son, and you very well know that." says the king, staring him in the eye. Markus shakes his head, repulsively, looking away.

"Father, you know my word on this matter."

"You have to get married, Markus, and oh dear, will she treat you right!" cries the king.

"Father, she's-"

"What do you despise about the respected Princess Matilda? She is of the Eagle family, daughter of none other than King Damien Eagle himself!" cries the king. "They have the blooming greens and the vast blues and the shimmering gold! And... she is..."