Forsaken || Ruelle Dolion Sivandre

The Great Hall of Hemnif Castle was made of gold and shadow, its vaulted ceilings hung with the white and black banners of the Sivandre dynasty. The cloying scent of myrrh and frankincense seasoned the stuffy air, clinging to the robes of nobles and their stiff coils of hair. Light streamed through the towering stained-glass windows, washing the altar with hues of red and gold. A mosaic depiction of Miche took the place of the largest window.

He is always watching.

Ruelle Sivandre knelt before the altar with his head bowed in reverence. He'd been waiting for this moment, when he ascends to the throne and claims the title of King of Mixe’sstev. His platinum hair gleamed beneath the glow of dawn, dust drifting around his silent figure like motes of starlight. The coronation robe weighed heavy on his shoulders, embroidered with gilded constellations that bore the legacy of kings.

The High Priest Lestofi stood beside him, clad in ceremonial crimson, jeweled staff raised high. "By the grace of Miche," is voice echoed off the stone walls, the crooked fingers of his influence stroking the ears and souls of the fervent followers in attendance. “We anoint this heir, whose blood flows pure and—”

”WRONG.”

A ripple ran through the gathered nobility, startled gasps spreading like wildfire, burning Ruelle's skin. He flinched but didn't dare move, drawing in shallow gulps of air to sustain his pounding heart. Miche had never spoken during a king’s coronation before. Never. The rites were sacred, a mere formality to affirm what was already known—that the blood of the Sivandre line was pure and unchanging.

So for Miche to interrupt—to halt the proceedings—Ruelle’s stomach twisted, a tight knot of dread coiling in his gut. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his head bowed, hands steady.

It’s fine. It has to be fine. Surely this was a test, a moment of divine spectacle before the ceremony resumed. Surely Miche would correct himself.

The golden chalice in Lestofi’s grasp, filled with sacred wine, shuddered violently. Bubbles frothed over the rim, hissing as they splattered onto the polished floor, steaming and popping like molten lava. The Priest dropped it, clutching his scalded palm to his chest.

Ruelle’s breath stuttered. His fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, gripping tight enough to wrinkle the silk.

The boiling wine spilled across the floor, far more liquid than could have ever fit in the cup naturally. Lestofi’s body stiffened and his pupils vanished into white as he staggered, mouth parting in a soundless gasp. The staff fell, striking the floor with a hollow crack.

Ruelle’s hands shook, clasped together with desperate force, murmurs of fevered prayer falling from chattering teeth. "Miche, forgive me. Miche, guide me. Miche, tell me what I’ve done wrong." He rocked back and forth, begging under his breath, hiding his eyes from the god above.

The stained-glass of the Great Hall flickered, dimming as the hall was plunged into eerie twilight. Frightened screams and hoarse shouts assaulted Ruelle’s ears, but he only looked up when light suddenly poured from a portal above the altar.

Not a dream nor a sight into the future, but a memory, raised from the past and replayed for all to witness.

A babe. Surrounded by royal family members. A crib. A birthmark. White hair? Too quick to see. Wailing, kicking as he was pulled from his bed.

Forward.

The child was gone—and in his place, another infant. Wrapped in commoner’s cloth. Brown curls, bright eyes. A woman cradling him—Ruelle’s nursemaid. Placed gently into the Queen’s arms.

The vision shifted again.

A figure, his face alight with divine radiance. Approval. The true heir, grown up.

Ruelle had never seen him before in his life.

And yet, Miche’s voice, deep as the earth’s marrow, spoke from the heavens once more.

“THIS IS MY CHOSEN.”

The High Priest collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been snapped, robes pooling around him. The last of the sacred wine seeped into the cracks of the floor.

The cacophony of voices rose higher and higher in horrified disbelief. “Blasphemy!” they cried, stamping their heeled feet. “A false heir!” they wailed, pulling at the hair on their heads.

Fingers. Manicured, polished, slender, fat, wrinkled, smooth. Pointed at their prince. No, not their prince any longer. He was a fake. He was a commoner. He was worthless.

Accusations bled through the white noise of Ruelle’s brain. He had stopped praying, for what was the use of words if they fell on deaf ears? Miche would not listen. His fingers were numb in his lap, his face ashen and slack. Ruelle turned, seeking out the one person whose authority could stop their madness— his madness—

King Aldebrand was still seated. His fingers rested on the arm of his throne, expression unreadable beneath the heavy crown. Queen Evienne remained similarly composed, her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes locked onto the scene before her. Disappointment had tightened their brows. Shadows stretched at their feet, that ever present chasm keeping Ruelle from getting too close.

A goblet flew. Ruelle could not turn in time before the wine splattered against his cheek. He rose to his feet, shaking. This wasn't his fault. Why was this happening? Why was he being blamed?

“Deceiver!” they screamed, clenching their fists. “Liar!” they roared, voices growing in multitude. Creatures howling and frothing for their victim, ready to hunt. Ready to tear limb from limb and feast upon the ripe meat and perfumed flesh they had formerly praised.

Someone overturned a brazier. Embers skittered across the floor, giggling as they leapt to the edges of low-hanging banners. Smoke rose through the already stifling air. The stench of incense grew stronger. The pillars of the hall groaned with the weight of truth.

Ruelle sucked in a sharp breath, his throat raw from the acrid smoke rapidly filling the air. His knees threatened to buckle beneath him, but he forced himself to stand tall, to shake the trembling from his limbs. He had spent a lifetime carrying the weight of a crown—why, now, did his own body feel foreign?

The light of hungry flame twisted the faces around him into those belonging to snarling beasts. An outsider could never look into the hall and believe that these were people in positions of wealth, of power and high standing. Now reduced to nothing but agents of malignant justice.

Royal guards were already rushing forward. The prince reached for them, hand outstretched for protection, for mercy. It was ignored. The king, queen, and Cassian were ushered away, out of the hall, to safety.

Why had he been forsaken?

The coronation robe clung to Ruelle like wet cloth, soaked in the blood of betrayal and false hope. He clawed at his collar, wheezing now. Panic. Fear. Anger? Fury. He could hear the scrape of movement against stone, the monstrous swarm surging toward him with hands curled into claws, eyes blazing—he had to move.

But his feet wouldn’t obey. Fitting, for why would anyone or anything obey an imposter?

He was swallowed by the thrashing bodies and expensive cloth. The sharp toe of a boot caught Ruelle's shin—his knees buckled, striking the floor as he was forced to kneel once more, pain blooming up his legs. They were too loud—he couldn’t make out the words anymore. His vision swam, blood pounding against his skull—he was going to be trampled, crushed by their vehement chaos—

A hand yanked him from the mob. The sudden force wrenched him upright, his feet barely finding purchase on the soft hands and arms of his attackers still scrabbling to pull him back. The robe was wrenched from his body, but they still screeched for more, for his title, for his bones.

Smoke stung Ruelle's eyes, but he opened them wide, blinking away tears as he was dragged from the burning hall. Princes don't cry. The perfume of burning incense stung his nostrils, mixing with the metallic tang of spilled wine and sweat. He must keep going, he wasn't safe here. This wasn't home anymore.

The maids in the corridors made way and clutched at their holy pendants, murmuring prayers to Miche, their voices quivering as though afraid the god himself might smite them for what they had just witnessed.

His mind reeled, grasping at fragments of thought, but every time he tried to piece them together they slipped through his fingers like sand. He wanted to stop, to force the world to stop, but the hand on his arm dragged him ever forward—away from the wreckage of his coronation, away from the ruin of his faith.

“Who—?” His voice came out raw, barely more than a rasp. The question died before it could fully form, choked off as his gaze caught the side of his savior’s face.

The man from the vision. That stranger who had ripped his world apart. Miche’s Chosen.

Ruelle recoiled like he’d been struck, violently tearing himself free. His breath came in ragged bursts as he staggered back a step. He looked {{user}} up and down, eyes moving frantically—shoulders, the set of the jaw, the arch of the brow, the way he stood. The realization clawed at his chest, bile rising with it. He could see it—the traits that belonged to the royal family. The ones Ruelle didn’t have.

Why not me? He wanted to hurl the words, wanted them to break the stranger's skin like broken glass. But saying it aloud would force him to taste the truth. Every muscle in his body screaming for an outlet. But what was there to fight? Miche himself had seen fit to strip Ruelle of everything.

His voice, when it finally escaped the thrashing of his soul, was filled with some violent, animal-like thing. It couldn't be described as either rage or desperation. It might have been both.

“Say you had nothing to do with this.” He swallowed, shaking his head as he forced the next words past clenched teeth. “Say you didn't know.”