I scraped my boots across the floor of the tower chamber.

Why, it didn’t even squeak!

A true caricature of royal abodes! I hadn’t spent a single crown to view it and I still felt poorer for it!

The absolute gall of this man! Here I was striving to enrich my quality of life, and yet merely stepping foot in this parody of a tower chamber was reducing my princess points by the second!

A cost this charlatan had little means to repay.

Fortunately, I was nothing if not reasonable.

Because for all debts, there was a solution. And mine came with ample sunshine, open beaches and a sparkling ocean–for exactly 8.5 seconds of rest period each day while working the soap mines, crafting the soap bars and preparing the soap bars for mass export.

Yet until this thoroughly unkempt man joined the ranks of the productive, I was instead forced to bemoan his presence as he achieved the feat of being the worst blemish of them all.

“I assumed you chose these ruins for your mischief due to being unoriginal. That you’re simply too poor to afford a working castle is beyond my lowest expectations.” 

Before me, the robed peasant picked up a goblet and swirled its contents. 

That he wasn’t actually drinking from it was all the condemnation required. 

“Have you come merely to decry my furnishings, human?”

“No. If I had, I would’ve arrived sooner. Of all the travesties to occur in this kingdom, brown and orange matched together is the most insulting. To masquerade as a king is one thing. But to do it with so little effort is quite another. This is a spectacular display of laziness.”

He offered me an unimpressed look.

Frankly, he should be rejoicing at my kindness in pointing out his deficiencies. Were it the nobles I saw regularly pecking at the crumbs of my servants’ mistakes, they would see that dignity was the very last thing they tore from this man.

“Isn’t it possible for you to simply swing that sword in your hand instead? I dare say it’s preferable to the churlish insults. Especially against what I find to be perfectly acceptable colours.”

I pointed at myself.

“Look at my eyes. What are they doing?”

“... Nothing?”

“Incorrect. They’re rolling in so many directions that they’ve now become stationary.”

The elven man responded with a look of mild grief. His greatest defence.

It certainly wasn’t his words.

“I’m afraid I’ve been busy,” he said, placing his goblet down without once sipping from it. “As whoever hired you doubtless knows, my itinerary is scheduled with restoring the Elven Kingdom. It is a feat as time consuming as it sounds.”

“And yet you failed to spend 5 seconds wondering where you are. You appear to have lost the road to the Fae Realm. This is the Kingdom of Tirea, where its eternal horizon is that of snow capped mountains, golden shores and forests shortly about to be shorn of illegal residents.”

The jester shrugged.

“Today? Perhaps. A thousand years ago, it was not. And within the next cycle of the moon, the spot where you stand shall form the gateway to a revitalised kingdom.”

Indignation came in the form of my palms held high to the heavens, waiting for an answer which hopefully wouldn’t come via any sisters.

A peasant with neither status, heritage nor wealth, no different to the farmers toiling the fields and the stableboys reducing the productivity of my maids.

And of all the places he had to ignore a map, it had to be here.

“There’s already a kingdom here,” I said, helpfully pointing all around us. “There is no need for another. Can you not clearly see that no amount of scheming will permit a third nation to be erected in an area already claimed by two?”

“An issue which I, as the Elven King, will doubtless need to resolve with all affected parties. In time, of course. As I said, I’ve been quite busy.”

As he attempted a bold smile, the tower of stale baba au rhum cakes before him slowly drooped down and toppled over. A sad premonition of things to come.

Naturally, my expectations were low from the outset. 

Druids did not make kings. They were hermits, not statesmen. But my famously warm generosity towards foreign cultures had allowed for the possibility they chose their long lost monarchs based on lineage and wealth. The two most important qualifying criteria.

But this vagabond … ?

Why, I could smell the manure upon him more than the stench of his audacity! 

“You have no money, no status and no charisma,” I said, counting down with my fingers. “Even with my boundless imagination, I cannot begin to fathom how you connived even your own reflection into believing yourself to be a fitting ruler.”

A thin smile poorly hid the soliloquy to come. 

“There was no conniving involved. The heralds announced my coming with the dawning of a white sun. Upon a horizon speckled with lights, I witnessed our ancestors spelling a message in the waves. And by righteous decree, I was tasked with wordswordswordswordswords …”

I idly turned to Coppelia, then began fixing some of the scruffles in her clothing. She made a small pouting expression, her childish groan failing to earn her a reprieve as I ensured her presentation.   

“... And upon the last day, I accepted my burden, placing the Crown of Sages upon my head.”

After I was satisfied, I turned my eyes upon the wreath shaped like a child’s plaything dipping across the peasant’s brow. 

“You placed a garland of twigs upon your head,” I stated simply.

“It is not a garland of twigs,” he replied at once, clearly seeking a better response.

“You collected a bundle of sticks from the earth, then.”

“The Crown of Sages is no bundle of sticks, human child. It is the most sacred relic of the Elven Kingdom. Wielding a power known only to few, it is worn only by those judged worthy to bear it.”

“Is that so? And did it decide that before or after you opted to leave so much dirt covering its eyes? If you’d taken the time to wipe it before placing it upon your head, it'd have opted to return to its hole in the ground.”

An unamused frown flashed across the elven man’s face. Which was just as well.

I wasn’t being humorous. 

“This is the arbiter of our people,” he said with a flat tone. “Once relied upon to choose between the sons and daughters of our realm. The Crown of Sages possesses a wisdom of its own, able to discern those who are fit to rule from those who are not. Were I unworthy, I would not be where I am.”

I let out a quiet sigh.

Oh, but how poorly this man knew. Him and all the other pretenders wishing they could be more than the barnacles clinging to the underside of a shipwreck. 

Lineage made a king. Not a crown. They were but decorations, their worth chiefly in discerning betrayal from those whose eyes looked upon it with the glint of opportunism.

Because when it came to royalty, only history mattered. 

That is why a Contzen would always sit upon the throne of my kingdom. And why even when my father sleepwalked in his pyjamas while wearing only a sleeping cap as a crown, he was still king, his aura unbent and his commands as non-negotiable as iron.

Sometimes, I wondered what the servant tasked with fetching a unicorn from the clouds was doing. 

It was quite overdue.

“You are no king,” I said simply, offering a smile in gratitude for the jest. “To be a king is to rule a nation. You do not even rule the crown upon your head. Instead, your most laudable achievement is to breathe. An impressive feat for one with so little wit as to cause mischief within the kingdom which harbours you.”

A rapping of the man’s finger against the linen tablecloth met me. 

An unusual way to plead, but there was time to learn. Soap Island was open all day and night.

“And who are you, to know what makes a king?” he responded, leaning back in a birch chair liable to break from its lack of quality. “I wondered if it was the High Council who brought you here. It would not be beneath them to use human girls as their tools of assassination. But from your words, I see this is not the case. Whom do you serve?”

“I serve the Kingdom of Tirea. And I do so as the boot of authority.”

A frown met my statement.

“The Kingdom of Tirea is as blind to my presence as they are to the stars above them. Were they aware of me, they would send more than … this.”

“And why would that be? I have my right boot and I have my left boot. That’s already one too many for dispensing with a vagrant overdue on a litany of fines, all of which I haven’t yet made up. As you’ve little way of paying, I shall offer you advance warning to prepare for an indeterminate number of centuries on Soap Island instead. Please bring your own toothbrush.”

The elf had the audacity to look like he didn’t understand.

“What is … Soap Island?”

“A place of joy and sunshine. You’ll find no shortage of scheming peers there. Perhaps together, you may be able to conjure up a successful plan to boil a bucket of water.”

The hoodlum ceased tapping with his fingers.

He rose from his mismatched chair with a brush of his robes, the napkin still remaining as forgotten as his dignity.

To my enduring sadness, he didn’t offer himself to my unfair and partial judgement. Instead, he turned towards a hideous tapestry of childish drawings behind him … and also the small fountain it overlooked, silent of any running stream. 

“Amusing,” he said, tracing a hand upon the fountain edge. “But I’m afraid I’ve little time for dallying. I don’t know how you came to pass the hound at the gate. But I shall offer prudence to your sword, if not your–”

“Wait.” I held up my hand. “Is that … ?”

I rose to my tip-toes, scarcely believing the sight.

Though little more than a puddle in a basin, what was revealed within the white marble was undoubtedly a sheen of crimson, its colour bolder than anything else in this dour chamber.

And thus– 

The first of the peasant’s designs was unfurled.

An elven fountain. 

A thing of the oldest magic. And now tainted with that oldest of reagents.

Blood.

My hand went to my mouth.

“Unpleasant, no?” The schemer adopted a satisfied smile at my expression. “If you find the sight too frightening, I welcome you to cover your eyes. It shall make the next few seconds more tolerable … perhaps. I make no guarantees. Know only that your death was in vain, and that you shall perish knowing nothing of the ideals you sought to stop.” 

No … there wasn’t a moment of doubt in my mind.

This was a cursed pool of magical power. 

And yet for all the shimmering of its bloody surface, it was little compared to the ambition now fully aglow in the elven man’s eyes.

For a moment, it was all I could do to stare at the horrific sight. 

This … This was far more than I had anticipated.

To think that of all the ways this archdruid, a keeper of magic long forgotten, had chosen to undermine my kingdom, a fountain of blood was how he intended to achieve it.

After all–

This wasn’t just the bottom of the barrel as far as schemes went.

It was the ground beneath it, groaning under the weight of so much disappointment.

“Oho …”

“Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch–”

“Ohhoho … ohohohoo … ohhohhohoohohohohoho … !!”

This time, I didn’t only raise my hand to my lips.

I held it to my stomach as well, Starlight Grace hugging against myself as the feeling of overwhelming mirth mixed with utter disbelief assailed my diaphragm. Within moments, I could feel as the beginning of tears began to creep from the corners of my eyes.

The elven man’s face fell into shock. 

It wasn’t nearly a severe enough reaction. 

Were he to truly realise the sheer lack of creativity he was displaying in reinforcing his fledgling rule, he’d be so mortified he’d pretend he was being mind controlled by a lich!

This … !

Why, I could see what this was without a moment of passing thought!

Here was the first page of the first chapter of every history book on failed despots whose futile reigns lasted no longer than it took for their own right hand to betray them!

A fresh king shorn of loyalty, crowned with nothing more than a garland of dead foliage scooped from the ground … and now he was filling the vacuum of his authority with forbidden magic!

Why … the sheer mundanity of it beggared belief!

“Ohhohohohohoho! Look at this, Coppelia! The absolute state of villainy on offer! I wouldn’t be surprised if he hoarded his own goblin army! That’s the level of originality we’re contending with!”

“It’s not so bad. He did the goblet swirling thing. That’s important, right?”

“Yes, it is. But swirling a goblet can imply many things. Implications are good. Nuance is good. A fountain of blood is neither. Why, he may as well go straight to sacrificing orphans since that’s the standards he possesses … ohhohohohohoohohoho!!”

The robed elf parted his lips in supreme indignation.

They should be widening in grief at how amidst all the poor furnishings to decorate this chamber, his little fountain of scheming was the least valuable of them.

“You have no idea what this is!” he insisted, gesturing at the fountain like a shopkeeper towards his unsold wares. “This is a plan centuries in the making to–”

“Ohhoohohohoohohoho!! Centuries in the making, he says!! And yet he spent all of them scratching an itch behind his ear!!”

“This …. This is a meticulously crafted ploy to pit two rivals against one another! A scheme to bathe the fields in the colours of a new empire that will span a–”

“Ohhohohohoohohhohohoohohooho!! A meticulously crafted ploy!! The same one which is hatched by countryside barons every night in their dreams!! Perhaps I do the nobility a disservice! Why, I had no idea they were so thorough while they slept … ohhohohoohohoho … ohoho … oho … !!”

The peasant’s chest rose as he inhaled a deep breath. 

All the while, he waited for me to finish my mirth at his expense. Acknowledgement needed to be given. A surprising bout of politeness. 

And I would return it in full.

“Ohoho .. oho … ahem … my apologies, please continue. Go on. Explain why your fountain of blood is different from all the other fountains of blood.”

He didn’t immediately reply. 

Sadly, as much as I was quite willing to offer him as much time as he required, no amount of thought was going to allow him to explain why I shouldn’t break down into mocking laughter yet again.

“I do not know which … other fountains of blood you refer to. But I can assure you–the raw empowerment this provides, and the stability–it is far, far beyond what even the ancient wizards of our time have accomplished. This is the culmination of hundreds of years of study into the forbidden.” 

I nodded, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye as I did my best to be professional.

Very well. An explanation of my own, then.

“You … whatever your name is–”

“Eucian of the Stars.”

“Yes, that. What you just described is every fountain of blood. Every incarnation is the newest and most stable. And were you at all acquainted in even the least of highborn matters, you would know that there has not ever been once in any period of history where they were considered fashionable. Do you know why?” 

I leaned in slightly, then flicked at a bruised grape. It flew and landed in the fountain.

The look I received was nothing short of horror.

Good. Much better.

“It doesn’t work,” I explained simply. “And not merely because a fountain of blood is as much intrigue as wielding a brick. If power were consumable, it would be alchemists who rule and not kings. You may succeed for a day, a month, perhaps a decade. But it is borrowed power. And borrowed power is to invite a very permanent response. To use a fountain of blood is to witness every peppy farm boy with a sword stumbling like drunkards into your new domain. One moment you’re bathing in crushed pearls and surrounded by terrified minions as they desperately search for the exact towel you desire. The next, you have more fated heroes than rats at your doorstep. You see, power is not built on overt displays of evil, but on false showings of righteousness. You must be a saviour, not a villain. And in doing so, the dumbest of the farm boys will instead flock to your side.”

I provided an angelic smile along with my brief snippet of wisdom.

He didn’t need to know that I’d be adding an additional expense for both.

Sadly, all I was offered in payment was a stunned expression, and then a tragic smile as he slowly fixed his gaping mouth flapping like a goldfish.

“Human. You appear to be under a grave misunderstanding. I am no fool.”

“That’s not a grave misunderstanding. That’s an apocalypse of knowledge.”

The peasant deliberately stepped away from the fountain, the ire clear upon his temples.

And then, he raised both his palms outwards.

“You see, I do not need borrowed power,” he said as his eyes took on a golden hue. “The blood you see is only to soothe what I already possess. For I am not only a king. I am an archdruid of the elves. And I do not require anything else to remove unwelcome guests from my table.”

He cracked his neck.

And then … it continued to crack.

I leaned away slightly, mildly horrified, but also somewhat envious at the contortion ability. The amount of spaces I could flee to from my tutors would widen exponentially.

And then–

He began to grow wings.