The Vagrant King

Chapter 1

Julian gazed at his reflection in the gold-trimmed mirrors that decorated the gilded walls of the throne room. His reflection was not a pleasant sight, and he hadn't seen himself since before being dragged to the dungeons weeks ago. He still wore his torn and bloodied clothes from the rebellion. He looked a little madder now, his eyes sunken, his blond hair matted and face gaunt from the days in the dungeons.

Despite his dilapidated clothes and emaciated appearance, he had not yet lost the spark of defiance in his blue eyes. He had not yet been beaten down by the abuse and neglect. It terrified the nobles in the room with enough nerve to meet Julian's gaze.

Julian had been forced to his knees, his wrists bound by rope in front of him. Aldric, one of his tormentors in the dungeons, had thrown him onto the floor and not allowed him to stand. Surely, it was meant to signify something--that Julian had been defeated, that he would soon plead with the King for his life, that his insignificant rebellion had been squashed, that he was the lonely survivor of a failed revolt.

A true king would not require his foe to kneel. Any king worthy of his title would allow Julian to rise and face him in the eyes.

Julian stared expressionless at the empty throne, a beautiful gold chair with plush cushions and a high back. He had lost all feeling in his legs except for a sporadic tingling in his kneecaps. He worried he might fall over if he moved even a little bit. He refused to acknowledge the noblemen on the edges of the room, sipping wine, gossiping in low voices and occasionally stealing glances at the young rebel. They whispered just loud enough for Julian to hear bits and pieces of their insults. Rebel. Treason. Hanging. Wretch. Veneroi. Bastard. Traitor.

Behind Julian, the wooden double doors swung open. The murmuring stopped immediately. Out of the corner of his eye, Julian noticed the nobleman straighten their backs, adjust their fine clothes, and swallow their wine.

King Regulus strode into the room. Guards filed in after him and moved to stand by the doors, backs straight and armour clinking. King Regulus walked powerfully even though he was still a young man and not even a decade into his reign. Eight years ago, Regulus' father renounced the throne on his deathbed. King Regulus knelt at his dying father's side at the age of twenty to accept his birthright, crown, and the Kingdom of Admantine.

Regulus brushed past Julian, not even sparing him a glance, and travelled up the stairs to his throne, collapsing into it. He had dark brown, wavy hair and chestnut-coloured eyes. He was broad-shouldered and handsome, wearing a dark purple tunic with gold stitching. Gold rings glittered on his fingers.

A painful blow to the back of Julian's head caused him to fall forward onto his hands. Bright white circles flitted across his vision and he willed himself not to faint.

"Bow to the High King, rebel." Aldric hissed behind him.

"How does one bow when you insist they be on their knees?" Julian muttered bitterly. He licked his chapped lips and pushed himself back to his knees.

"I would learn soon if I were you." Regulus mused, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. He propped his cheek on his fist as he looked at Julian for the first time. His gaze moved down Julian's body, taking in the boy's bare feet and rags—still bloodied from the rebellion weeks ago.

Julian scowled, turning his head away and gazing at a statute in the corner. He had seen Regulus once, many years ago, on his tour around the kingdom following his crowning. Julian had been hopeful then about a young king. He had thought a new king might actually improve the lives of Admantine's impoverished population. He had been utterly foolish. Regulus and his lot of idle rich brethren had corruption and heathenism bred into them. The disease was not in one man, but the entire system.