[My dearest brother.]

  Eyes flutter open.

  Wood covers his face.

  Smooth, clean.

  Through narrow slits, the world is seen.

  At least, the world around him.

  Slate, decorated with climbing and hanging greens. All enclosed by pillars of great design and size.

  [I have yet to discuss my crowning.]

  Ilmagh lowers himself, sitting beside him.

  [Father will surely accept, for I have prayed to the Divines.]

  [Is it not enough for us to live, brother?]

  [Not at all, Alfred. After all...]

  A flicker of doubt courses through Ilmagh's gaze.

  [This kingdom is only going downhill.]

  [To think that, under the rule of the Ever-Great, it couldn't manage to bathe in gold forever.]

  [But—]

  A hand sets on Alfred's shoulder.

  Ilmagh: [Have you forgotten?]

  [I find your concern worthless, my dearest brother.]

  [I taught you to live and speak. Not to enforce your distrust upon me.]

  The young man bites his tongue, feeling guilty of his brother's words.

  [I am sorry, brother.]

  [Stand. We are going to the throne.]

  [Of course.]

  Both brothers stand, leaving the gardens. Through an ornate door, their steps lead to a circular corridor made of smooth sandstone.

  Serfs carve imprints onto the walls, filling them with glinting gold.

  Nothing else decorates the space.

  At the end of the corridor, a wide staircase spirals upwards into a series of doors made entirely of blue zircon.

  Through one of them, they find themselves in a spacious hall.

  Blinding light filters through tall openings lined in silver.

  Pillars stand throughout the area, never truly touching the high ceiling.

  Crystals hang from above, reflecting drawn stories on the patterned ground.

  And another staircase, narrow and steep, leads to another door.

  An extremely simple one.

  Alfred steps forward, approaching an opening.

  Squinted eyes set outside.

  Pure white buildings of all sizes and purposes, extraordinary in their design, stretching as far as the eye can see.

  Green clings to all, wrapping around houses and hanging from layered temples.

  The closer they get to the center, the more they grow in height and complexity.

  The ones too close seem to merge with all others around.

  Alfie: [It is disconcerting to think not one of the people outside knows of our existence.]

  Ilmagh: [For now. It is in our nature for the world to know our name.]

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  Shoes stamp on sandstone, stepping higher on the staircase.

  Alfie hesitates, tearing his eyes from the sight to meet his brother's gaze above.

  [Hurry up, dearest brother. I will not approach the throne if you are not by my side.]

  [Of course.]

  Alfred steps up the stairs, standing next to Ilmagh.

  He reaches, with trembling fingers, for the door.

  Just as he touches the smooth texture of stone, he's stopped short.

  Fingers wrap around his wrist.

  Impotent in their strength.

  Though Alfred submits.

  [What is it, brother?]

  Ilmagh trembles for a few seconds. Then, he parts his mouth to speak.

  [I was not ready. Now, open the door.]

  Alfred presses a palm, sliding it open.

  Another stairway. Spiraling, too.

  Though crumbling.

  Ilmagh climbs with heavy breaths, followed by his brother.

  His hands press on the walls for support, sliding off as they sweat.

  As such, they climb until the light reaches them.

  Through an archway, they step onto the throne area.

  Open, small.

  Looking over the entirety of the nation.

  Ever-present.

  Ever-standing.

  Ever-great.

  Kneels touch the ground in submission and respect.

  For the figure standing in front.

  For its sheer authority.

  [My sons.]

  [Father.]

  Silence.

  Then...

  [For what reason have you brought us into this world if not for greatness?]

  The king smiles.

  [It's certainly greatness you are born for.]

  [So then... I must ask.]

  [Ask, my son.]

  Ask.

  Have you ever learned to?

  [You must acknowledge your fall, Father.]

  Alfie tenses visibly.

  His knuckles press further onto the ground.

  [Finally.]

  An exhale.

  [Ilmagh, my son.]

  [Do you deem yourself capable of ending my greatness?]

  Fallow eyes widen.

  [I apolo—]

  His words are cut short by his father's expression.

  Pride, as always.

  Though now, relief.

  The king speaks again.

  [I had realized.]

  [Nothing is ever great, my son.]

  [Ever since that day, I searched. For something that could be greater than me.]

  [I have dressed you in white, not because you are blank.]

  [But, because the golden of my clothes has started to fade.]

  Two raised palms.

  Towards the sun.

  [It is your turn. For you to wear golden.]

  Ilmagh moves a single inch forward.

  Alfie flinches, teeth rattling.

  [My son.]

  [Give me three more days.]

  [For my greatness to vanish.]

  [And, if you spend this time inside the kingdom, for yours to rise.]

  The blonde boy stands, gaze still set on the ground.

  [That I will do, then.]

  Turning around, he leaves through the door behind.

  Just as Alfie attempts to stand, the king shakes his head.

  The boy freezes.

  [Alfred.]

  [Why is it that you fear?]

  Birds set on the ground.

  Though not one steps close to the king.

  The authority.

  Alfie hesitates.

  [I do not—]

  [You fear greatness. That is why you hide.]

  [You fear strength. That is why you submit to it.]

  [You fear chaos. That is why you stay afar.]

  [And seek order by any means possible.]

  Was it wrong to feel?

  ...

  [Fear, then, my son.]

  [That is your strength. The greatness of your existence.]

  Alfred stands.

  From his throne.

  Alfie's eyebrows shoot up in shock.

  [Look onto my face, my dearest son.]

  [Delve into my eyes.]

  Slowly.

  Hesitantly.

  As if reaching for a flame.

  He meets his father's gaze.

  Seeing his face for the very first time.

  In so long.

  An unruly beard covers a crippled face.

  Skin twists and stretches.

  Muscles twitch with every movement.

  Ears coil inwards, as if chewn.

  Nonetheless.

  Nonetheless, deep eyes look upon.

  Deep, Azure eyes.

  [Be proud.]

  [In a world where no one hesitates.]

  [You fear, my son.]

  [You cower.]

  [You must also see this world.]

  [Through fear.]

  [As everyone sees through the lens of pride.]

  The king signals for his son to stand.

  Alfie tears his gaze from his father's and turns on his heel.

  The door stands closer than ever.

  Almost forcing him to slide it open.

  Heavy limbs reach towards it, pushing.

  The stairs are steeper than before.

  Just as he steps down, the door shuts.

  Ilmagh waits below, sitting on an opening.

  [Decide, Alfie.]

  [Will you be by my side, after I take this kingdom?]

  Sand flies around, getting into Alfred's eyes. For a moment, he stops midway through the stairs, rubbing them before he proceeds.

  [I do not know.]

  [I will surely follow father's command to see this world.]

  [We will stand apart for these three days.]

  Ilmagh clicks his tongue.

  [That is, unfortunately, what I want, too.]

  [Very well.]

  Reaching the ground, he walks past his brother.

  Towards the unseen outside.