The pleasant fragrance of lavender and rose water gently stirred him out of his dreams. Stretching, he loosened up his muscles and readied his bones for this likely disappointing day.

His skin brushed against luxurious fabrics. The mattress and pillows under him shifted, the expensive materials shifting to accommodate his back. Kicking the blanket off him, eyes still closed, he sat up. On auto-pilot, he swung his legs out of the bed, and found the pair of comfortable house shoes waiting for him there. Scratching his chest, he acknowledged the utter lack of things to notice about the temperature. It was exactly comfortable room temperature. His hand glided over the bedpost of his absurdly sized bed. The polished wood was flawlessly smooth.

After another stretch, he finally decided to open his eyes. The splendour surrounding him was blurry through the unfocused pupils. With each blink, more and more of the true extent of his wealth became visible.

The walls were of a creamy white colour, interspersed with wine red and gentle blue. Corners, especially those meeting the ceiling, were often decorated by plaster carved into flower-shaped ornaments. Wherever it would stick, gold foil had been attached to the rims. The ceiling was covered in artful depictions of victorious angels and vanquished demons. More than one of them bore the face of one of his ancestors.

He rolled his shoulder and stepped away from the large bed, walking towards the oak furniture and just checking what all he had available. ‘They did give me quite the wardrobe,’ he thought, going through it drawer by drawer. The metal was flawlessly forged, moving without a single squeak or screech.

The clothes inside were of the finest make. Suits of black, with all of the appropriate golden ornaments for a royal garb. He did not make a choice on what to wear yet. It felt entirely needless to put on clothes while he was alone.

With a wave of his hand, he made his magic close the drawers. He turned towards the window. Six panes, artfully confined by frames of white-painted wood. The windowsill was broad enough to sit on, carved from a dark stone. The tiled floor was an extensive pattern of stars, coming together in one large lunar sickle.

Rubbing the last bit of sleep out of his eyes, he looked outside.

The softly rolling hills of the Troyk Empire were as wonderful as ever. Wherever he saw the soft up and down of the grass, he simply felt at ease. Here and there, a couple of trees had managed to rise from the ground, sometimes even a little woodland. All of that seemed insignificant compared to the endless verdant that stretched out under the sun.

The estate he was in had been built on the tallest and most central of the hills and so he could see everything. It was an incredible sight, second only to the view from the towers of the royal palace. ‘Although that depends on one’s stance on mountains,’ he thought, his gaze drifting to the mountain range that encapsulated the land.

Save for the large building he was in, nothing had been built within the embrace of the mountains. The peaks surrounded the area in an unnatural shape, taking six sharp corners to wall these grassy hills in an even-sided hexagon. The Competitors Hexagon.

His eyes lingered on the mountains for a moment, then snapped to a dot in the distance. It quickly grew larger, making its way down the dirt road that connected this estate with the valley that led out to the rest of his father’s realm. A carriage, drawn by four magnificent horses, its make as luxurious as the entire mansion he dwelled in.

‘One of my siblings actually caring to say goodbye? Or trying to get in my good graces in case I stay?’ he wondered and chuckled to himself. ‘Always the same… well, I better get dressed.’ He turned to a set of large mirrors, occupying a corner in the bedroom. From every angle, he looked back at himself.

He had always been pale. Not for a lack of sunlight, but he simply decided not to tan. Alteration and Restoration were most useful magical schools to keep one’s body in the shape one desired. The same magic and alchemy were to thank for his muscles retaining their definition. It didn’t help him acquire them, the training he had gone through had been genuine. Getting this fit had been a matter of self-discipline and the healthy diet an imperial prince was afforded. That he was also well hung was a matter of good genetics.

Waving his hand towards the wardrobe, he opened the drawers and doors again. Browsing through what he had been provided, he selected an attire fitting of a meeting between royals. A custom tailored red shirt and pants served as the base. A heavily ornate, black vest with many yellow highlights was put atop. Gold and gemstones were added as appropriate. He had been given all this wealth and he had earned it many times over in the service of the empire. He might as well display it.

In the end, he looked at himself and nodded. His broad shoulders strained the shirt, just like his muscles strained the sleeves. It was just enough to look impressive and just little enough not to inhibit his movement. Red and gold were the primary colours, with all the dangly additions of royalty and military honours. A green tie, the same colour as his eyes pulled it all together.

He ran his hand through his mildly dishevelled, black hair. That was as much styling as he afforded the short strands. Then, he walked out of the room.

Steps echoed in the estate, no competition to them ever raised. He was the sole person in the estate. There were no servants to send to greet whichever of his siblings was approaching. To do so himself felt like a bother. Instead, he waited in the main hail. To pass the time, he put a basic enchantment on a couple of instruments. They played a lovely tune, as he lounged on a red couch. The coffee table and the other couch across were just waiting for a conversation partner.

Three knocks on the door. Pulling two fingers in, he made the door open. Behind it stood, by himself, his oldest brother. “Temeran,” he greeted the sibling, twelve years his senior, and gestured for him to approach. “Sit down.”

Although just as well built and finely dressed as himself, Temeran hesitated for a moment. Nervously, he kneaded a hat he was carrying. “You seem to be doing well… despite the isolation.”

“When wasn’t I?” he asked, watching as his brother sat down on a couch opposite him. “You all are always so eager to put me in a position of honour.”

Chuckling a little too quietly, Temeran said, “You deserve all of them… ever since the slaughter at Mariksfield.” Hastily, he continued. “You deserve this honour especially! This mansion and the opportunity to be chosen by the gods.”

“The opportunity to be whisked away and be removed from the inevitable succession war, you mean,” he responded to his sibling. Leisurely, he put his arms on the backrest of the couch, while the eyes of his brother went wide. “What, you thought I did not understand what this was?”

“I…. uhm… brother…” Temeran stammered, then took a deep breath and addressed him by his name.

"…Rykard, I assure you that no one has any ill intentions for you. It is in the good name of the gods, that we offer the most valuable asset of the empire to the gods and-"

Rykard raised his hand to make his brother stop in his persistent assurances. "Temeran, I am not angry," he told him. "I don't care."

"You don't… care…?" the older man sounded everything but convinced.

Putting his elbow back on the polished backrest of the couch, Rykard just shrugged. “I haven’t cared in forever. Really, I am looking forward to this chance to get away.” He gave Temeran a bored stare, like the man wasn’t even there. “Why would I care about any of you? Since Mariksfield, you all have been keeping me a thousand paces away at every opportunity. To be removed from you is no punishment. Really, don’t we both crave it? Me, being off this world so the rest of you can fight it out when mother dies?”

Temeran swallowed hard. “I never intended to make you feel alienated, brother, just…”

“Just you saw me channel the power of the royal mages into a fireball that killed a hundred men in an instant,” Rykard finished the sentence for him. “It has been ten years, brother. I have reflected thoroughly on why you all pushed me away. Oh, I was furious for a long time. Resentful, even. More than once I considered tearing your estates apart, just to see how far I could get.” Breathing in, Rykard let out a hearty yawn. “I am beyond such juvenile fantasies. I understand you all are afraid of me. The joke is that I don’t care to inherit the empire.”

“You don’t want the throne at all?” Again, Temeran sounded doubtful.

Another shrug, whatever he said would be construed as a potential lie anyway. Rykard couldn’t even blame his siblings. He was a singular force of destruction, while all of them had to rely on the imperial treasury and the weight of their dynasty to acquire power. The talents he had been born with would have made him the inevitable victor in the succession. “What joy is there in inheriting a realm already consolidated?”

“Then the game of the gods will be to your liking!” Temeran was swift to hook into the opening to give him all the compliments he could. “A whole new world, to be filled with all the Exile Hexagons you could think of.”

“Indeed, if I get summoned,” Rykard confirmed. “I would have to be one amongst ten from an untold number of worlds.” He laughed, a smug smile spreading on his handsome face. “Man, you must be desperate. I thought the snakes you smuggled in my bedroom would be the worst you would ever get.”

Temeran turned a little paler, “I– that’s the first I have ever heard of such a plot!”

“I’m sure it is.” Rykard waved off with another chuckle. “No matter. The truth is, Temeran, that I don’t care. Not about your ploy and not if it succeeds. If the gods whisk me away, I lose nothing. I haven’t had a family in a decade.”

“And… what if you stay…?” Temeran asked carefully.

“I will head to the Exile Hexagon. If that too fails… perhaps you and I should have a long conversation.” The grin on Rykard’s face broadened and Temeran lost what colour was still in his face, until he was of a sickly, bedsheet colour. To clarify he meant an actual talk would have been to rob himself of the satisfaction of seeing his brother squirm. Rykard had lied just a little bit. He did enjoy torturing those he was related to by blood. Not the payback they deserved, perhaps, but as much as he was willing to bother with. The greatest revenge was a life well lived. “You should leave now. The time is almost upon us.”

“Yes… yes, of course,” Temeran was quick to agree and stood up. He marched towards the door much quicker than he had walked towards the couch. “I had my servants bring you something! I hope you’ll like it!” he said, before closing the door behind him.

‘Not even staying to present it to me,’ Rykard shook his head. The instruments still played on their own in the background, adding a calm music to his laughter. “They’re all such nervous wrecks! This empire is going to fall apart no matter which one of them takes the throne.” He stood up and walked out the door. The carriage had already turned around and was galloping away from the mansion at the highest speed the horses could maintain.

Raising an arm, Rykard waved his brother goodbye. He even shouted a few heartfelt, happy words.

‘I’ll have to treat him a little better in the future. He did bother to say goodbye, at least,’ Rykard stated. ‘It was incompetent and two-faced, but it was a goodbye. Let’s see if that gift is similarly incompetent and two-faced.’