The palace was alive with noise once more, but this time, not because of a festival or a feast. No, the ruckus today had a different reason entirely: the fat king and his seven wives were finally leaving for the Holy Temple.
Servants scrambled across the courtyard, brushing the glossy coats of the horses and adjusting the ornate bridles. Two grand carriages waited at the palace gates. The first—far more lavish than the second—was adorned with golden trimming, red velvet seats, and pearl-inlaid lanterns at each corner. It was prepared for the king and his first queen. The second, more modest but still extravagant by any noble's standard, was for the remaining six wives.
The sun was unkind today. Harsh and unrelenting, it pressed down on everyone in the courtyard, melting tempers and drying patience.
Above, a black bird perched on a marble ledge, eyeing the activity below with an eerie stillness. At first glance, it chirped like any ordinary bird, but its eyes gleamed a deep, unnatural crimson—watchful, intelligent, and hungry.
BANG!
The palace doors burst open from both sides, and the king appeared—held upright by his queen, a woman of poise and practiced elegance. Behind her trailed the rest of his wives, each dressed in ceremonial finery, their jewels glittering under the unforgiving sun.
The descent down the palace stairs began.
The king, with each step, looked as though he were fighting for his life. His face turned beet red. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. One might wonder why a man of his size and influence hadn't replaced the grand staircase with a ramp—or perhaps simply rolled down in a velvet-padded barrel.
Finally, he reached the bottom.
Panting and sweating profusely, he nearly collapsed into a heap. His queen, ever dutiful, took out a lace handkerchief and began wiping the sweat from his face and neck. The stench was potent enough to make a lesser woman recoil. Yet she didn't flinch.
It was an act of willpower befitting royalty.
The king straightened and, with an exaggerated breath, took a bold step toward the carriage.
And then—
THUMP!
He tripped.
His enormous body hit the ground with a loud, resonant smack, echoing through the courtyard. A stunned silence followed.
Nobody dared react. Some servants bit their lips, trying to suppress laughter. Others simply stared, unsure whether to run and help or continue pretending the sun was more interesting. A few guards rolled their eyes. It was too hot for royal antics.
After a beat, the king groaned and began rubbing his sore backside. His wives, finally spurred into action, hurried toward him, fussing and fanning and fluttering in chaos.
"Are you hurt, my love?" one cried.
"Can you move?" another asked.
The king only chuckled and gave them a broad, toothy smile—one that unfortunately showcased bits of meat from his breakfast still wedged between his yellowed teeth.
The royal butler, standing stiffly nearby, allowed himself a small giggle before catching the queen's glare. He straightened immediately, his smile vanishing like a shadow at noon.
The king reached up to cup his wives' cheeks, motioning for kisses. One by one, they leaned down, and he planted damp, sweaty smooches on their faces. The queen, however, expertly turned her head at the last second, avoiding his lips with the finesse of a veteran.
No one blamed her.
Even his wives, once back on their feet, discreetly wiped their faces with scented handkerchiefs, hoping to erase the lingering smell of stewed meat and poor dental hygiene.
They were all noblewomen, after all—married not for love but for power and the illusion of status. Only the queen had known the king in his youth, long before the crown and the belly. The others endured his company for the wealth and titles his affection promised.
The butler cleared his throat and opened the door to the first carriage.
"Your Majesty. My Lady," he said, bowing low.
The queen gently shoved the king from behind, helping him climb inside with great effort. Once seated, she glared once more at the butler—this time for not hiding his earlier amusement. The poor man shrank under her gaze as he closed the carriage door behind them.
He turned just in time to see the rest of the wives boarding their carriage. A few were still scrubbing their cheeks.
Disgust was thinly veiled on their noble faces.
The butler sighed, bowing as the carriages began to roll out of the palace gates.
From a commoner's view, I could never understand why...
They all came from esteemed families, but none had a decent soul among them.
A shame, really.
Our kingdom may fall sooner than later if left in the hands of such fools.
The iron gates groaned shut behind the caravan.
Meanwhile, at the Temple of the Divine Flame…
Saintess Nia knelt beneath the towering statue of Goddess Lycra. The chamber was bathed in soft golden light, the sacred aura humming around the marble floors and vaulted ceilings.
Nia's ceremonial robes glowed with woven threads of light, the golden bird embroidered on her veil catching the divine rays that streamed through the stained glass windows. It was the same gown she wore when delivering revelations to the royal family.
She prayed silently, her hands trembling ever so slightly. The vision she had received days ago had left her weak, but there was no time to rest. Not when the prophecy was so urgent.
The statue above her pulsed faintly with holy energy, a sign that the Goddess still offered her strength in small doses.
Just then—
"Saintess Nia!" a young voice cried.
A maid priest in black and white garments with gold trim fell to her knees before the saintess, bowing deeply.
"Please, you mustn't go! You are not healed from the vision. Your body is still recovering," she pleaded, voice filled with worry.
Several other saints moved in, forming a barrier in front of the temple's exit. Their faces were lined with concern.
"Saintess, we beg you," said one, a tall man with silver hair and a troubled brow. "If you collapse, what hope does the kingdom have? You are the voice of the Goddess. We cannot allow harm to come to you."
Nia's brows furrowed. She exhaled slowly, rising to her feet.
"I understand your concern," she said quietly, stepping toward the door.
Two saints blocked her path, gently yet firmly.
"Please," said another, a woman with kind eyes. "Let us wait. At least one more day—"
"No," Nia interrupted, brushing past them.
She placed her hand on the doors. The wind rushed in as she opened them, her robes billowing in the holy air.
"That is the duty of a Saintess," she declared, turning back to face them. Her voice rang with divine conviction. "Wounds, pain, exhaustion—none of that can hinder me from saving this kingdom."
"We have waited centuries for the Goddess to speak again. I doubted myself, doubted her silence... but no more. The prophecy is real. And time is short."
The saints hesitated, caught between reverence and fear for her well-being.
She stepped through the doorway.
"We must find the man and the child from the prophecy. They are our only hope. If we delay—"
"Who?" a cold voice cut through the air.
Nia froze.
At the bottom of the temple stairs stood the king and his wives, having arrived ahead of schedule. All eyes were on her.
All except the queen's.
The queen's gaze was sharp, piercing through the holy atmosphere like a blade.
"What do you mean?" the queen asked, her voice low but commanding.
Nia swallowed, but steadied herself.
"A man and his child… They are the chosen saviors," she replied. "They will save us from the doom that approaches. We must find them."
The queen's fan snapped shut.