The Dusk Show with Ambrose Whitlock (excerpt from Shadowed Destiny)
“Your Grace!” General Polios shouts for his king, cutting through the bodies surrounding them, breath haggard from hours of battle. “To me men! Protect your King!” The monarch's honor guard who had been overwhelmed for a detrimental amount of time, are fighting the assailants, barely keeping the demons at bay.
King Cyrus is utilizing his steel, five-foot blade an extension of his arm as he cuts down any of the monsters that evade his honor guard. The blackened corpse like demons keep emerging, filing out of the portals to the north and south of the army. Two thousand men will die for naught; Cyrus thinks. His carefully curated plans fall around him along with the bodies of his highly skilled knights. Years of quiet preparation and meticulous design, all coming to nothing in the face of the death and dying surrounding him, his own imminent as well.
“Find my son!” The King shouts, his voice barely heard over the tumult of battle. No one can take heed as they all fight to defend themselves from the army of demons. “Bring him to me!” Standing a hundred meters away upon one of the many rocky ridges that overlook Cori Valley where the battle wages, Crown Prince Aleksander sighs. “We wasted too much time,” he speaks low to his companion who crouches beside him. “Those trials were foolish to prioritize.” “How can we take the blame for decisions that were not ours to begin with?” She replies, rising from her crouch to stand beside him again. Princess Rhian presses her palm to her husband’s forehead. “What are you seeing?” she asks as his deep brown eyes once again flash back and forth to black, pupils expanding wide.
A moment later, Aleksander takes her hand from his face and presses a kiss to the back of it. Turning around, he leads her to the path back down the ridge. “Dreams within dreams.” He murmurs. “My father would not stop his incessant madness of his own volition. I tried to implore him to see reason, but I could never foresee it as well as I would have liked to.” “Killing your own men will not allow for a smooth transition of power.” Rhian hums, ever the diplomat, she may have been crowned through the voice of the people alone if the trials had not existed. “Your father has poisoned them against you, he may fall today but his words will stand.”
“Since I was a child, my father has been known to his citizens as a raving lunatic with a taste for depravity.” The prince speaks in a whisper, breath haggard from such magic expulsion as it took to keep both the portals open. The sounds of war were like nails scraping his skin from the inside, he bore it out of necessity, but his father coveted it. Craved it.
Loud animalistic growls boom across the valley, Aleksander winces as his head once again pounds from an onslaught of visions. Flashes of bodies falling from the sky like rain in his mind. His wife shackled with his own bones to quell her abilities as she is forced to kneel at the enemies’ feet, bloodstained and worn-out. His mother - hysterical and sobbing - tossing herself from her verandah into the sea, three hundred meters below, rather than facing the eventual repercussions of a siege on the capital. His people enslaved, made to be cattle and cannon fodder to the new imperial overlords who keep them alive only for the sake of having trophies of war.
Starting awake, Aleksander finds himself in his bed and stares up at the black and golden canopy. His breath whooshes out of him at the nightmare, and he smiles, relieved that once again, it was a dream. He touches his forehead and rubs his temples. Turning on his side, the prince once again closes his eyes. ‘Dreams within dreams,’ he thinks to himself head throbbing.
He stands outside the castle gates, looking up at his home burned and desecrated, pillars of thick grey ashen smoke covering the sky, choking those who breathe it in for weeks still after all the battles are done. The great houses fallen, sieged, and wiped out. The nobility pleading on the deaf ears of the invaders for the lives of the young children to be spared, all are slaughtered. The merfolk attempting to return to the deep of the ocean only to find themselves and their underwater palaces bombed with mines and warheads. The war council having a toast to celebrate the first victory in defeating the intruders who took the north, having pushed the enemy down south and constructed a fully secured and garrisoned border. His son – the crown prince – and other children playing with the rubble of an attack, then taking an arrow in the neck from invading riders who spring a surprise counter assault. His wife in the thick of a battle, screaming in pain from the slash of a poisoned blade, its wielder raising the sword to make the killing cut on her-
“Are you well?” Rhian looks imploringly into her husband’s face, seeing him come back into himself as she tugs on the hand he holds as they continue the steep walk down. He had said nothing while his eyes flashed, and she was beginning to worry. Since the prince had developed this recent gift, he was usually vocal while the visions occurred.
Aleksander sighs and looked to his princess, searching her eyes for something of which neither of them knew. “Do not be uneasy for me,” he says softly. “As my wife is the fiercest of warriors, I fear that the invaders will fall immediately should they even attempt to launch their plans.” The princess laughs at his sarcasm, and he smiles at hearing it when they reach the bottom of the ridge, near a quarry where rounding the bend will lead directly to the southern bout of the battle.
Following the noise of a dying skirmish, the battlefield is then revealed to them - strewn with bodies, demon, and man alike. Rhian scrunches up her nose at the loss of life, turning her head away from the ground where thousands lay dead, she looks up to the last of the combatants and sighs. Aleksander will not close the portals until his father is slain, and at last he is getting his wish. The latter of the demon’s circle King Cyrus and General Polios. The king's honor guard lay feet away, all dead or dying from their wounds and still being ravaged by the demons. Six enormous demon figures make quick work of them both, despite the decades of training between them. The creatures move with supernatural speed and utilize razor-sharp claws. Their disfigured bodies hinder them none, some stand on two legs and others on three or five. All of them are equally lethal.
Rhian sees the look of regret that Aleksander has taken on and tugs at his hand so that he may look to her instead. “This is his own doing, he pushed us all to a place where there is no turning back from.” The prince does not look absolved however, so she continues, “You are doing your realm a service by ridding him of the world before his plans can be fully executed and he ruins us all.”
“We do not know if having him locked up would have made a difference.” The prince’s reasonings sound deficient even to his ears and the look upon his wife’s face proves it to be so. “I know this this may have been for the best, but you know that thousands of men dying for the sake of one maniac is ridiculous.”
“If he had died at court, there would have been whispers. You may have been under suspicion.” she countered. “Better for there to have been an accident in a country crossing, that way even the small folk are prepared for what may still be coming.”
Aleksander knows this is the truth of it and would have liked to say so to Rhian, but he looks to the battle and sees the moment that his father’s chest is torn open by a demon standing above him. His sword lay scattered an arm’s length away, Polios not far from him, lay dying, breath wheezing, blood pooling and gurgling from a ripped-out throat. The demons continue to ravage at the bodies of the slain men on the ground, ensuring the death of all, bloodlust fueling them, just as Aleksander had initially ordered.
King Cyrus screams as he dies, beating at the multiple hands of the demons that claw at him until his arms fail him and his breath leaves him. Aleksander cannot rip his eyes from the scene, blood drenches his father, covering his entire figure. He watches for any sign of life, but it would be impossible to see anymore through the thick of demons swarming and ripping the bodies apart. Instead, Aleksander reaches his mind out for his fathers, searching for it but finding nothing. Where his father’s mind should be was a void, empty and undetectable.
“That’s done then.” Rhian says beside him, as he snaps both the portals close. The loss of their connection to the shadow realm causes the demons to faulter and then drop. One by one they fall to the ground beside and on top of the butchered and lifeless knights. The prince feels exhaustion from keeping two portals open for an extended period, but he can also feel his strength returning in small waves as his body heals itself from the trauma of acting as an anchor to the shadow realm.
“I shall meet you for dinner,” the prince turns and says to Rhian as he is meant to be resting after his hunt. The shooting party is meant to make their way back to the capital before nightfall again.
“Please do,” she beseeches him as she takes back the hand that he held. “Your mother will need consoling when riders arrive to bring this news. I expect this scene will be discovered soon; it is nearly morning.” Rhian leans on her toes to kiss her husband softly, then backs away a few steps. “I am sorry for your loss, my love.”
He smiles at her as she disappears in a flash of blinding light, going back to their rooms in the castle. The light is extraordinary, and it causes his head to pound even worse. He brings his fingers to his temples to massage away the throbbing as his mind begins to flash again. His mother screaming in agony as the news of her husband reaches the keep. General Polios making a scene at court. A scuffle breaking out on the main road to the castle after the final trial, Rhian being assaulted by three soldiers-
Jerking awake, Aleksander finds himself in his bed and stares up the darkness blanketing the room. He is barely able to make out the black and golden canopy above his bed. His breath whooshes out of him at the extended dream. He touches his forehead and rubs his temples. Turning on his side, the prince refuses to close his eyes. ‘Dreams within dreams,’ he thinks to himself head throbbing. “I grow weary of this folly,” he sighs aloud to no one. Aleksander knows that he is truly awake now, his body has settled in on itself and the pounding in his head begins to subside. Reaching for his control panel, the prince gets up from his bed to make his way over to the divan in front of the television set.
As the TV turns on, the signature melodious theme song of a particular news channel coming back from a commercial break echoes throughout the expansive room. “Welcome back to the Dusk Show, all you lovely folks!” Ambrose Whitlock smiles at the camera directly in front of him. None of the ‘lesser’ folk truly know his age. To them, he’s Ambrose Caius Whitlock VII, son of sons of the first A.C. Whitlock who started the modern entertainment industry in Cortana decades ago. The nobility, however, know that less than half of that is true.
“I hope everyone is prepared to turn in early tonight as we rest up for the final trial of the Seventy-Second Tournament of Renata!” Laughing, Whitlock goes on to introduce his newest co host, Miriam Wright.
Miriam has dark skin, whereas Ambrose’s’ is pale white. Her black hair is done up in elaborate braids, while his is styled on top of his head, bleached, and colored a bright yellow this month. It’s vividly stunning, yet not unappealing. They both have wide grins and easy-going natures; at least on television, they do.
“That’s right, Ambrose!” Miriam smiles wide enough to show all her teeth. “Fourteen ladies over almost as many months, and now we are finally down to our conclusive three! This has all been so exciting! Ambrose, I almost don’t want it to be over.” she gushes. As if the lives of eleven powerful women had not been carelessly and uselessly thrown away. More chuckling from them both. “I feel just the same, Mir. But like they say, all good things must end.” He looks deceptively forlorn for a moment but immediately brightens. “The girls truly gave it their all in this conclave. And we can sit here talking about everything that has happened during these many months, but in an unusual turn of events when it comes to this tournament, we simply do not have the time.”
Miriam fake gasps when he finishes. Looking directly at a camera, she starts, “Yes, as you all know, Queen Elspeth herself oversees this tournament and the noble young ladies selected to participate in it. However, it is for the Crown Prince and only him to decide when the final trial will occur to determine his future bride and our future Queen.” Pause, for dramatic effect, of course. “Our good Prince Aleksander decided a week ago that his final trial will take place tomorrow!”
“Very true,” Whitlock takes over smoothly, with actual excitement in his tone. “Generally, the heir apparent will choose to have the final trial at their personal convenience. Why, King Cyrus’ great-grandmother Queen Caliana did not have the final trial in the conclave held for her hand for almost sixteen years!”
“As was her right, of course.” Miriam declares. “Well, viewers, seeing as it is the final night of this wonderous tournament, and we all sincerely do not know when we will be granted the blessing of another, let us take a deep dive into a little of our culture, shall we?”
A small oration that has been on repeat for every news channel with slight variations to it each month plays, narrated in a smooth, Coratnian-accented voice. “The Seventy-Second Tournament of Renata is to be held for the hand of His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince Aleksander Nikolai of Cortana. Fourteen women of noble birth, hand selected by the reigning Royal Queen Elspeth, to participate in three trials spread out over many months. Almost every eligible young lady of nobility has trained since the birth of the Crown Prince for this opportunity, the chance to be the future Queen. To rule for hundreds of years and reign supreme by his side. Honoring their family with ties to the Royal Court for the rest of their days. Produce the next heir - the succeeding Royal to be crowned. Legacy and glory for generations to the one that will prevail.” A slideshow of the trials of the past fourteen months plays while the duplicated speech is heard. The powers of the previous and current contestants are on display for the audiences to marvel at.
Miriam Wright has her eyes closed as if in reverence when the camera comes back on to the hosts. Mouthing the words during the ending, she afterward exclaims, “Oh, I just love that! It is such a tragedy that we won’t be hearing it anymore.” She looks to be near tears, the idiot.
“I am quite in agreement with you, Mir,” Ambrose says. “But as we suggested a while ago, ladies and gentlemen, we have been pressed for time this week, and discussing the entire tournament will sadly have to wait until the final trial is over and done with tomorrow. Now, I know I can’t speak for everyone, but I simply cannot wait to talk about all that has happened!” Pigs being slaughtered have squealed less.
“Same here. We were all blown away by how well the girls performed straight out of the gate. Fabulous! All of them, fabulous!” Miriam goes on, “The three leading ladies we have left in the race for Prince Alek’s hand are, of course, the lovely Lady Elara Twile, Lady Rhian Marcelle, and Lady Serani Soronas.”
“And we simply cannot let the hour pass us by without talking about these noble ladies, one of whom will be our newest Royal Princess by the year’s end!” Ambrose exclaims, his enthusiasm unmistakable on screen. “Let’s begin, in no particular order, of course, but starting with Lady Elara of House Twile.”
A picture of Elara comes onto the screen. She has the palest skin, a creamy white. Her hair is pin straight and so black it appears almost to attract light. The picture is just a headshot and cuts out the vial of blood she permanently wears around her neck, though the chain is visible. As to whose blood it is has been this country’s question of the year.
Ambrose smiles fondly but cannot manage to completely wipe the slightly uncomfortable expression from his face as he goes on about Elara. “Her powers include necromancy, which we will not get into tonight. She is also excessively skilled in the creation arts of potions and dark objects.”
“Yes, though Lady Elara seems to be the least favored according to our polls last month, she is from the very grandiose noble House of Twile in the deep North and has a lineage that dates back to almost, and get this folks, three thousand years!”
“Wow!” Ambrose says, drawing out the ‘ow.’ “I had no idea, Miriam. Where has that information been hiding these past months?”
“That was a little something excavated out of the Dusk Show’s archives just this very morn, Ambrose,” she replies, winking at him with a grin. “We all know how private the Northerners can be.” Going on, she states, “The gentlemen here at the studio did some more digging after a little snide comment was made against our darling Elara this past week.”
“No way,” Whitlock immediately engages with her at the slightest mention of gossip. “What was it? Something scandalous?”
“Oh no, nothing so bad.” Miriam smiles, looking sly. “There was a passing comment heard here and there through the grapevine that Lady Elara was simply not so nice a girl in the private specter of her life. But of course, she is an absolute darling in all of her interviews, so we here at Dusk absolutely refuse to believe such slander!”
“How terrible for someone to say!” Whitlock gasps, obviously feigning horror. “But of course, we would never believe it of sweet Elara! How could one even think it?” “My exact feeling, Ambrose!” Miriam cries. “An absolutely abominable thing to say! But onto our next leading and lovely miss. Lady Rhian Marcelle, fan favorite and most favored to win this year's tournament!”
“Naturally, we here at Dusk do not take place in the betting that you fine people at home get into, but it seems to me, Miriam, that everyone has money on Lady Rhian!” Ambrose looks almost giddy, showing that he most likely did, in fact, take part in the gambling.
Rhian’s photo on the screen is glowing, just as she usually is. Her eyes are a pot of molten gold. They have been described as a cauldron of honey and amber tinted with saffron. Her skin is the color of smoky quartz. Hair long with dark, tightly coiled curls. Rhian’s entire body exhibits a sort of sunlight which is said to be a physical embodiment of her many gifts.
“Nothing but praises are sung for Lady Rhian.” Whitlock goes on.
“Now, that may not be entirely true, Ambrose.” Miriam chimes, “At the conclave initiation of the fourteen ladies all those months ago, some outlets described Lady Rhian as an opportunist and, correct me if I am mistaken here, but a bit of an instigator in certain situations as well.”
“Yes, Miriam.” Whitlock picks up, seemingly put out by this outrageous degradation of who is obviously not only the fan favorite, but his as well. Barely being subtle, he attempts to defend Rhian, “I have heard those things said, but are those not qualities we look for in a Royal? Someone engaging with practiced leadership qualities?” Citizens watching will love this honest tidbit of his.
“You said it best, Ambrose,” Miriam concludes, not willing to enter what is sure to be a lost mêlée on her side. “Lady Rhian of the noble House Marcelle is the daughter of Lady Apolline Marcelle, who we all know to be a Cortanian hero known for her valor in almost singlehandedly breaking the Rebellion of 1889.”
“Of course, Mir, I still get chills thinking about that dreary season.” Whitlock does a dramatic little shudder, then smiles widely. “Our exquisite Lady Rhian takes after her gallant mother. The common people describe her as the loveliest soul on this side of the realm.” Ambrose grins while the picture of Rhian is still shown on the screen. “And I am quite inclined to agree with them.”
“She is the loveliest of creatures, to be sure.” Miriam concurs. “Lady Rhian’s powers seem to be in abundance. She wields the magic Sun blade ‘Soleil’ of her house, Marcelle. No one but the Marcelles are technically aware of what happens to a person when killed with this blade but be assured, dear viewers, that you never want to end up on the wrong side of its luminous point.”
Laughing, Whitlock agrees and says, “Right you are, Mir, the blade is the deadliest I’ve ever seen, and from what we know, it was passed down to Lady Rhian from her mother when she was only one and twenty.” He’s basically drooling at this point but continues trying to recover himself. “Along with her marvelous blade, Lady Rhian has the power to bend light and travel through it! We have been in awe of these gifts for the better part of a year now, Mir! I am still of the belief that the best part about the Renata Trials is the insight we mere mortals get into our prestigious nobility. I mean, who would believe it!”
“Spot on, Ambrose, you’re absolutely correct!” Miriam completes. “And Lady Rhian is not finished there either! She is known to be a prodigy at telemente - that’s mind reading for all of you living under a rock - and has proven herself immune, not resistant, but immune to fire! Now, how about that!”
“We have literally seen her on fire! Wasn’t that a sight, Miriam? I do believe that second trial will go down in the history books as one of the best.” Whitlock gushes, grinning like a loon as a photo with Rhian’s entire body engulfed in flames comes onto the screen. Flames dripped off her and set the grass around her to cinders while she remained unharmed and glorious, dressed in fire retardant training leathers. Rhian was the first to finish that second trial and had beat the other girls, eight left, at the time, by a landslide.
Rhian is, simply put, strikingly gorgeous. Glowing, she radiates and reflects sunlight. Her dark skin absorbs it and lets it flow out the same way, keeping the balance. She wears rings and necklaces of solid pressed gold. Bracelets on her ankles and wrists that should, by all the rights of physics, make a sound when she moves, but they do not. She slinks quietly like a cunning tigrine and is more provocative than anyone had a right to be while still somehow remaining respectfully modest.
Both hosts go on about Rhian and her powers for a while, fascinated with her materialization gift most of all. It’s rare in Cortana for a person to have particular gifts and common with others. Abilities involving a carbon body's mind or physical movement are rare, while others, such as the elements fire, water, earth, and air, are more common. Rhian has two rare gifts which, in the eyes of many, make her blessed.
“And finally, dear viewers,” Ambrose says. “Our final leading miss is the lovely and aquatic Lady Serani Soronas!” Seranis's picture comes onto the screen. Her lineage shows in every aspect of her physical human body. Her people are of the deep. She descends from a significant house of merfolk nobles. The only daughter of the Archduke, who is a king in everything but name in his oceans.
The picture on the screen displays the sharp cheekbones of a mermaid, even though she has not resumed her proper form in more than two years. When Cortana was introduced to Serani all those months ago at initiation, she was a beautiful pale, slender creature, not used to standing on two legs permanently. After years on land, she tans exceptionally but never seems to keep it. Her skin always reverts to its translucent white. Eyes the color of unmarred fresh sea smoke and hair so pale white it appears see-through at some angles.
“The princess of the ocean they call her, Ambrose!” Miriam peals, laughter and derision ringing clear in her voice. “If she weren’t so handsome, I’d cringe at the obstinacy of those repeating the title.”
“Come now, Mir, it’s all in good fun.” Whitlock twitters, obviously amused at his cohosts’ blatant dislike of the mermaid. “Our delightful Lady Serani is of the high seas! We have it here at Dusk on good authority that Lady Serani has been overheard more than once, saying she despises the contest and only wants it to be over so that she may go home.”
“Good gracious,” Miriam replies, seemingly put out. “Well, let’s just hope she doesn’t end up in an unhappy situation then.” Not hiding her distaste at all, she continues, “Maybe those crystals she constantly wears about her person will aid her in her aspirations.”
Whitlock sniggers again. “I sure hope so. But let us not count out Lady Serani just yet!” He grins, “Her powers are divine. We know to be aware of her deadly siren song. It is said to be alluring enough to convince a person to slit their own throat.”
“Very true, Ambrose,” Miriam pronounces, looking straight into the camera again. “We saw this for ourselves in the very first trial. You will remember, folks, she enticed one of her opponents to jump from Mount Lacey straight into crushing black waters below!”
“It was extremely shocking, to be sure,” affirms Whitlock. “But of course, this tournament is every young lady for themselves.”
They both speak about the three ladies and how well they have performed. “No word yet on which lovely lady the Royal family prefers, good people, and truly, your guess is as good as ours.”
“During the Seventy-First Tournament Renata, when our exquisite Queen Elspeth won her conclave, she had not been the crowd favorite.” Miriam goes on, “It is well-known that the reigning Royals at the time - King Cyrus’ parents, King Mikal and Queen Amira - did not favor Queen Elspeth, who was then known as Lady Elspeth of House Doran.”
“Yes,” Whitlock continues. “Queen El was not favored to win her conclave, and King Cyrus’ mother, the Queen Mother Amira, has never made her aversion of Queen Elspeth a secret.” “It was quite the scandal back in the day, was it not Ambrose?” Miriam cackles. “Certainly,” he replies. “In fact, I still hear it whispered about now and then. But of course, this is the Seventy-Second Tournament of Renata folks, not the Seventy-First!” Grinning, he continues, “Our charming Prince Aleksander seems to be taking this all in stride as we prepare to know who the future Royal Princess will be.”
Miriam chimes back in, “I would be restless with anticipation if I were him, Ambrose! To think that by tomorrow, we all will bear witness to the future of our great country.” “Now folks, we’re coming to a closing for tonight, and the final polls are in.” Ambrose perks up, more animated than ever. “Of course, Lady Rhian leads by a whopping sixty-seven percent, with many comments saying ‘opposites attract’ regarding herself and the Crown Prince.” “Mm, this is very interesting.” Miriam looks intrigued. “As you will all be aware, our Prince has some rather extraordinary gifts himself. He has powers of shadow walking, which likens him exactly yet oppositely to Lady Rhian’s capability of traveling through light. But truth be told, this is not Prince Aleks’ most prevalent power.”
Whitlock states his agreement, “Right you are, Mir. Our Prince is a man of many talents. His major power is in the soul-shattering aptitude that he possesses.”
“This ability is why some have voted for Lady Elara in the polls, saying that ‘like calls to like’ and she and the prince may thrive best with all that they have in common.” Miriam raises her eyebrows as she goes on, “Lady Elara is behind Lady Rhian in the polls with only twenty-nine percent. And Lady Serani at the bottom with a measly four percent of voters on her side, how terrible.” The smirk on Miriam’s face conveys she doesn’t think it’s terrible at all.
“Well! That’s all for tonight, you beautiful people!” Whitlock says, bringing the program to a close. “Make sure to turn in early tonight as we’ve all got a big, big day tomorrow!” Miriam, still grinning, adds, “That’s right! We here at Dusk wish you all blissful dreams and an early rise in the morn to witness the final trial of the Seventy-Second Tournament of Renata. Join us as we watch live, right here at noon!” Both of them smile at the camera while the theme songs volume increases. The camera cuts, and the channel goes to commercial break. Sighing, Prince Aleksander uses the control panel to turn off the television, leaving the room in darkness just as it was previously. In his reclined position on the divan, he closes his eyes, preparing himself to be assaulted with visions once again. Behind them, he sees gold glinting and an irresistibly alluring, perfect smile that appeals to him more than the air in his lungs. Silently, the Prince enjoys the information that he and his people appear to be on one accord. Some desperately needed sun was on the horizon to brighten his country, and the dawn could not approach quickly enough to bring it.