The Olive Branch and the Shadow of the Prophets
Prince, would you like to try some?
Magnus, grabbing the olive with his teeth like he was tearing it apart, shoved a handful of dark berries toward him. Arkin shook his head.
Magnus, if I just eat it, it’ll be too bitter…
Puueheok! Magnus scrunched up his face and spat the berry out onto his palm.
Ow, it’s spicy!
You should have listened to the end and put it in your mouth first.
I’m sorry.
Magnus hung his head, utterly dejected.
Your Highness…
What is it?
It’s just… I am absolutely certain that the successor of Solinar can only be Your Highness alone. You know that, right?
Here we go again. Arkin held back a bitter smile and looked away into the distance. But Magnus, as if he had made up his mind, clenched his fists and poured out what he had been holding in with passionate fervor.
Do you actually believe the oracle was forged? How ridiculous! Those ungrateful wretches who desecrated the birch tree—every last one of them deserves divine punishment! I was so infuriated my eyes were streaming with tears! And on top of that, Heaven’s sake, how pitiful! Even though Prince is tormented by nightmares, there’s no way he’d be weak enough to burn such lowly herbs to cope, right?
…Indeed.
Arkin listened to Magnus’s words with only one ear, his gaze drifting to the twisted olive branch. To avoid hearing the comforting words Magnus was so eager to spill, he needed to find something else to think about. But nothing suitable came to mind, so once again his mind turned to that ridiculous princess. Was it truly all right to keep bringing her up? He wasn’t exactly thrilled about it…
That lightning-like sensation. It had struck his chest like a blow, then raced through his body like hot and cold waves. He wasn’t displeased by that feeling. On the contrary, it felt good. That was the problem.
Even the word “fated partner”? That awkward phrase rolling around in his mouth kept irritating Arkin’s nerves. Fate. Oracle. Prophecy. These things. In this era that had grown sick and tired of them, he never imagined he would hear the words “you and I are fated” from a stranger—especially not a princess.
And the worst part was the timing. Arkin Seilir stood at the most critical crossroads of his fate, and here she was, confronting him right now.
***
Several months before the trial tournament. In the dead of night, the tribe elders had requested an audience, claiming they wanted to meet the king. If someone had come calling at such an hour without warning, it had to be an extremely grave matter. Everyone was trying desperately to stay calm, but the rustling of eyes and whispered discussions never stopped.
Arkin walked calmly to the audience hall. The servant who dressed him and tied his belt trembled the entire time, then left with a gloomy expression. He had been about to ask what was wrong, then thought better of it. Was today the day they would finally make their move?
When one thought of Solinar, people imagined a peaceful land overflowing with tolerance. In truth, it was quite the opposite. The elders constantly schemed for the throne, bickering with the king and the prince, and whenever they found even the slightest pretext, they would try to shake Arkin’s right to succession.
The only way to survive was to become the perfect prince. And Arkin had indeed produced flawless results in every aspect, enough to silence any challenge. Since no one could find a flaw in him, the elders began nitpicking his birth, his lineage, and every detail since then.
Arkin, are you ready?
Yes, Father.
The king, who had already prepared, stood by the door with his eyes closed. His face was heavy with fatigue.
Coming at midnight again, I see. They’ve found another thread to tug, have they?
They won’t find anything. Father.
Arkin answered confidently, smoothing the folds of his robe while he waited for the door to open.
The doors will open now, Your Highness.
The massive doors slowly swung open on both sides, allowing faint light to spill in.
Arkin followed his father’s back and stepped inside. Around two large thrones arranged in a semicircle, the eight tribe elders rose as one. Leading them, the Arrowwood Tribe elder, Owen, boomed in a thunderous voice.
Great Seilir King, we greet you!
It looked loyal, but it was nothing more than a formal greeting. These were humans who sharpened their thorns and struck whenever an opening appeared. As Arkin passed the bowing elders, he made an effort not to meet their eyes. With every step he took, the air pressed down on him heavier and heavier.
Owen. What brings you here in the middle of the night?
The Arrowwood Tribe elder shook his fiery orange hair and slammed his crooked wooden staff onto the floor, shouting loudly.
Great Seilir King, before we confirm the successor, we must once again verify Prince Arkin’s suitability.
Arkin glanced sideways at his father. The king’s knuckles were white as he gripped the armrests of the throne. The man who always scolded him for losing his composure was none other than his own father. Yet after the current crisis erupted, the king had begun showing this kind of reaction more and more often.
Are you here to talk about this at such an hour?
It is that grave a matter.
Owen, why do you keep bringing up Arkin whenever it suits you? Arkin has already been verified multiple times. There is no disqualifying flaw in my son. Why do you alone refuse to accept what the entire kingdom knows?
Because his shortcomings are always so obvious.
Owen laughed mockingly.
From my perspective, it looks like you have already decided on an answer and are demanding it.
This time it is different, Your Highness.
Owen smiled with the smugness of someone who had been waiting. Arkin could see the deep, dark malice hidden behind that smile.
As you know, without the unanimous consent of the eight elders, Prince Arkin cannot be recognized as the next king. That is our ancient tradition. So if there is even the slightest doubt about the prince’s suitability, we must investigate it thoroughly.
The oracle named us the birch tree family as king.
Indeed. But at the very founding of this nation, our ancestors were all equal, and the birch tree family was no different from us. We have the right!
Elders, stop beating around the bush and state your intent clearly. What is it you want to say?
Are you not accepting that the birch tree family’s rule has ended? Or perhaps you are hiding the oracle that another family should have been chosen instead?
…What?
Owen’s red eyes narrowed and turned toward Arkin.
As I just said. We eight elders believe that the oracle given twenty-two years ago when Prince Arkin was born was forged.
How audacious!
The king shot to his feet, his voice thundering. He was so furious that the heavy throne creaked as it was pushed back.
Enough nonsense! You have no grounds to challenge us. Without any evidence, you barge in at midnight and cause this much discomfort—what on earth is your reason?
Nonsense? Am I lying?
The Arrowwood Tribe elder chuckled. He glanced at each of the other elders one by one as he slowly shifted his position.
The eight elders of Solinar wanted to call the high priest who received the oracle at that time as a witness. As you all know, he claimed to be suffering from an illness and left for recovery. Now, however, his whereabouts have become a mystery. Even his close aides who always accompanied him are nowhere to be found. And there are rumors that he was assassinated in exile—perhaps he paid the price for covering up the truth?
At the sharp cry that sliced through the air, Arkin unconsciously straightened his posture. The only sound was the faint crackle of the torches on the wall, and a silence as heavy as death settled over the entire room.
So? Does this mean you are claiming I had them killed? Stop bluffing!
The king ground his teeth. The armrests of the throne creaked under his grip. He clenched his fists and glared at the elders with the ferocity of a beast ready to charge.
The high priest responsible for the temple passed away several years ago from illness. How could anyone possibly know the whereabouts of others?