Ascent of Chaos

      The throne room of the castle is by far the grandest room of all, not that the gods had entertained for centuries. In times past the Ardith had hosted magnificent balls, masques to honor the changing seasons, attended by fae and mortals alike. The stone walls draped in lengths of fabric to match the season. Now they were hung with black, still honoring the passing of Diernic; 7th king of the Ardith, God of Dreams.
      
      Upon the throne carved of Kinth, the great white trees of the Ardith realm, sits Diernic’s second son; Zieldric, prince of the gods. Prince though he was by birth, he is by far too young to assume the throne fate has thrust upon him. With Diernic’s last breath he had entrusted his eldest son, Namerdeis, with a quest to find a cure for the sickness plaguing the Ardith race. As such Namerdeis has traveled to the mortal realm, leaving his brother with the throne until his return.
      
      Zieldric was no king. His father’s rule had spanned nearly half a millennium, and he is little over a century old himself. He need only wait for his brother’s return and then all would be made right. The young prince heaves a sigh, shifting uncomfortably on the large throne. His breath fogging on the air before him, yet the warmth of summer filled the room. Zieldric shakes his head lightly.
      
      Why his brother would entrust the throne to a boy who had yet to even earn control over his powers was beyond him. They had all known, of course, that when he had matured he would rule the winter nights. It showed in his features, hair a black so deep it seemed to absorb the light around it, eyes the cool grey of moon-shadows on fresh snow, and his skin; needing naught but the glimmer of frost to make it just as snow. A god of winter, indeed.
      
      The doors at the far end of the grand room open, a dark form silhouetted in the bright summer sunlight.
      
      “Zieldric, my dear nephew.” Elyra, goddess of the seas, strides confidently into the room, her tone simpering and sweet and entirely untrustworthy. Her gown is woven of many layers of silk the deep blue of night waters, edged by frills and ruffles of gauzy pale chiffon as of the foam on the waves. The gown leaves her shoulders bare but, against her custom, the frothing curls of her hair tumble around her, the bright blue-green of tropical waters. She pauses a few short feet from where Zieldric sits, half-heartedly curtsying with an obvious lack of respect for Zieldric’s place upon the throne.
      
      Zieldric eyes her warily, the woman notorious for her quick temper and lust for power. She had been the one to originally suggest that Namerdeis be Forsaken rather than allowed to assume the throne as was his birth-right, not that the council would let such a thing pass. Though they were kin he knew better than to believe that meant anything to her beyond another body between her and the throne upon which he sat. It would be a sad day for the Ardith, indeed, were Elyra allowed to take control. Her unstable temperament and fanciful whims would be enough to tear the castle and its inhabitants apart.
      
      “What may I do for you, Aunt?” Zieldric asks, his voice as empty as he can make it. He doesn’t even bother lifting his gaze, remaining as he was, elbows resting on his thighs as he leaned forward. Elyra’s elegant face adopts a morose expression and she lowers her head, tilting it to the side just so.
      
      “It’s about your brother…” She trails off barely catching the frantic glance Zieldric allows himself before he trains his eyes back on the floor. She watches him from the corner of her eye as his slender frame tenses, jaw clenched, hands clasping each other so tightly his knuckles pale. He inhales deeply, eyes closing for a moment as he calms himself. He is so obvious Elyra fights the urge to laugh at how easy he is to read. When he does not question her she takes a deep breath, raising her hand to her chest. When she speaks again her voice is soft, perfectly played sympathy. “The Forsaken one has betrayed him…” she pauses, gauging his reaction. His grey eyes cloud with emotion as he worries over the challenges facing his brother.
      
      “Namerdeis is dead.” The words are soft and hang on the still air like a tangible thing. Elyra tries to gasp but the air is forced from her body as the temperature in the room plummets suddenly. She turns her head to look at Zieldric, violet eyes widen in surprise. The boy before her has not moved a muscle and yet Elyra can barely draw a breath for the cold. Ice spreads out from the dais even as icicles stretch from the arms of the throne. Her eyes burn from the cold as she looks up to see snow falling around them in flakes large enough to cloud her vision.
      
      Zieldric raises his head, grey-blue eyes reflecting the falling snow and making them gleam like silver. The sorrow and horror Elyra had anticipated from him is over-ridden by an anger she had never expected.
      
      “Dead?” The word was little more than a breath, soft and quiet on the still air. Zieldric’s own breath fogging before him. Elyra nodded, the sorrowful expression she had practiced forgotten in her surprise. Zieldric had only barely begun to work his power, she’d had no idea he was capable of such things. His silvered eyes unfocused for a moment as a single tear slid down to freeze on his cheek.
      
      Elyra seized the moment, schooling her face into a careful sorrow. “Zieldric…” She says softy, closing the distance between them. Before she could lay a hand on him he stands quickly, his slender form unfolding to a formidable height. As he rose so did the wind, his short locks swirling around his face.
      
      “How could this have happened?” He questioned, voice still soft and quiet as the snowfall. Elyra reached out a gloved hand to him which he promptly smacked away. “How!?!” He nearly screamed at her, snow and ice churning on the wind, a veritable blizzard enveloping them. Elyra’s face went blank. The games would end now before her nephew’s anger gave him more power that she could not predict. He had no control over what was happening. This was magic in its rawest form. She took another step towards Zieldric, her calm demeanor confusing the grief-stricken boy.
      
      Placing a hand on his shoulder she pulled him close, ignoring the snow and ice biting at her bare skin. One hand on his shoulder, the other hidden protectively amongst her skirts she spoke quietly into his ear. “Does it really matter?” Silvered eyes widened, the wind dying as suddenly as it had come up. Elyra released his shoulder and watched as he fell back onto the throne, his tall form seated awkwardly on the grand chair.
      
      Calmly removing her gloves and tucking them away into a pocket hidden beneath her skirts she watched with great satisfaction as her nephew’s waistcoat was slowly saturated with the blood that pumped from the wound. The hilt of one of the few blades possessed of the power to kill the race of gods rising from his chest.  The blade itself was of Sinara’s design and so the blame would fall to him. With Sinara Forsaken rule of the Ardith realm and the Netherworld would be in question. In the chaos that would follow a new and absolute queen would take the throne of both realms. No one need ever know that she had been the last to see Zieldric, 8th king of the Ardith, God of winter, alive.  As she passed the dais to the service door at the back of the hall, she smiled faintly as she realized the snow had stopped falling.