The small shacks outside the capital city limits of J’lora were in an uproar.  Soldiers ran through the alleyways and roads attempting to find dissenters against the monarchy of the Octava.  They would flush out the poor and downtrodden to gain the answers they needed.  Whenever there was talk like this, it always seemed to begin from those within that class of wretches.  These soldiers, men of burly stock and build, cared not for the people, no matter their quality.  They only followed orders, never upsetting the Queen.

They called the district “The Mends” since those who lived in the shacks would always be mending their walls to keep the heat in, or out.  Their small wooden frames would never support a second level, and balsam wood was all they ever gained for improvements.  Those who lived here had no options left.  The monarchy would take their money as soon as they gained a little coin, and many suffered the allure of alcohol.  The thatch upon the rooftops of the single level homes barely kept up the appearance of a home, and there were no windows found.  And even when there seemed to be hope, those in “The Mends” never discovered means to leave the city. 

Screams echoed from one end of the street as a woman was pushed from her home, grasping the ground for a soft landing.  The soldier following her, torch in hand, barked madly, threatening to burn her house down if she refused to enter custody.

       “But I’m innocent,” the woman cried.  “I didn’t say a damn thing!”  The soldier cared little and grasped her by the shirt.  A wagon came around the corner, citizens from “The Mends” tied in chains to each other, all facing penalties for dissension.

       “I’ve got another one for ya,” the soldier shouted, dragging the woman.  The driver, a female under the employ of the monarchy, stopped the horses, rearing them back.  She was dressed differently than the soldiers.  Heavier armor lined her body, and her build was more impressive than the employed soldiers.  She was one of the elite guards known as the Order Triumvirate Morte.  She jumped down, grabbing the citizen by the arm and escorted her towards the cart.  As more people were pushed from their homes, the lines of innocent “criminals” elongated.  While these soldiers held their torches high, they never once put them against the homes.  It would’ve been even more insulting to burn their homes on top of accusing them without evidence. Destruction was what the monarchy thrived under, and kept them in line.

       Bounding around the corner, atop a large horse, was the unit commander.  Not many knew him personally in this part of the city since he wouldn’t debase himself here, but the soldiers around him bent the knee, genuflecting.  As he dismounted, he strode to one of the soldiers who saluted.  The commander removed his gloves, and the innocent criminals ready for arrest, shuddered at his presence.  There were some words exchanged between the soldier and commander, but nothing loud enough for the people to hear.

      “Yes, Orin,” the soldier claimed, running towards another section of “The Mends.”  The commander turned and looked at them all.  Orin was large, taller than others, and of a large build.  Most of the soldiers within the monarchy’s ranks had the same look, often handpicked by the queen for service based on their build.  He had a slight tinge of orange to his eyes, with a cleft chin and an overly generous nose.  His eyes were frightening enough to scare a confession out of anyone.  One man even remarked that the insides of his body screamed when Orin stared at him. 

       The commander sauntered to one of the citizens lined up for arrest.  He was informed that one of the women within the lines was the head of the local Neighborhood Order.  She would have the answers he required.  The line of prisoners was shoved to their knees, all of them chained together.  When one refused to drop, the rest dragged them down in fear. 

       “Did you call for an election?” Orin asked as he bent to the woman pointed out to him.  Only the head of the Neighborhood Order could call for an election of the monarchy according to the limited constitution.  She didn’t bring herself to look up.  Most people who lived in the shacks were men who held menial tasks, but she was one of the few with authority.  She refused to answer, averting her eyes.  Orin grabbed her face by the chin, turning her eyes toward him, and slowly asked again.  “Did you call for an election?  The Queen wishes to provide you with the rights our constitution allows.”

       “I did,” the woman replied slowly by trance.  She ripped her gaze from Orin’s eyes and he smiled.  Though she confessed at calling for the election, she wouldn’t admit more. 

       “Well, allow me to recite those rights,” Orin smiled as he rose from the ground, towering over the prisoners.  “By the Constitution of the Octava, the people may ask for an election via their Neighborhood Order when they feel a failure in the monarchy has formed.  Any formal request will be met with fairness and civility.”  He looked back down after reciting his statements.  “Now then, are you still calling for an election?”

       “This is neither fairness nor civility,” the woman spat.

       “But it is,’ Orin claimed slowly.  “Need I remind you of what happened at the last official election?”  The woman’s eyes turned dim at the mention of it.  No one wanted to remember.  “Do you even have a candidate?”  The woman shook her head.  “So, you’re calling for an election because you want the monarchy out of her position, yes?”  She nodded, not being able to form words.  “Without a candidate, I’m afraid your call for an election is treason,” Orin ordered.  “Take them away!”  The chain of citizens were hoisted onto their feet, moving towards the cart.

       Off in the distance, Orin could see a man walking along carrying a large sack.  He was younger than most, just entering his adult life.  Orin strode towards this figure, wondering if he had any part in the talks of the election so he could arrest him.  Still, for someone who was walking nonchalantly, there was some doubt about his involvement.  When he reached the man carrying the sack, Orin noticed who it was.

       “Why is the Prince of the Octava out here amidst such controversy?” Orin inquired of the figure.

       “Because there are supplies needed for the farm, and I must pass through here to return home,” the figure responded.  Orin didn’t want to accuse Prince Joshua Mason of such misdeeds like election talk.  Still, he needed answers from everyone in the area no matter their activity.

       “Very well, Joshua,” Orin responded without a bow or address of his title, “but next time you hear of elections and treason, avoid it.  I would’ve had to arrest you if you were involved.”  Orin walked away in the air of his own smugness knowing Prince or no, Joshua didn’t matter.

Joshua didn’t quite believe Orin would hate to arrest him.  There would be nothing more than joy in his heart for capturing the prince.  Joshua Mason wasn’t ordinary by any means, but he held an ordinary vocation.  On the outskirts of “The Mends” was a farm where he tended the field and kept horses.  While walking through the district, people avoided him because of who he was, but this never bothered him until today.  While the outburst of violence against the people wasn’t surprising, the grumblings he’d heard from them seemed out of place.

       These were grumblings unlike any he heard before.  As it usually was, the people of the Octava were upset about the monarch, Queen Hephata, his mother.  None of those civilians ever saw her in person since she never deigned to appear in front of the poor and downtrodden.  Some were even led to believe that she didn’t exist.  Others thought mentioning her name would strike fear into their hearts.

      “You’re a crazy old coot,” an innkeeper stated to a drunk who claimed she didn’t exist.  “She exists in her own way, though it be unnatural.”  Joshua always heard paranormal things about the Queen.  How she discovered eternal life was unnatural to anyone who heard about it.  Though her soul remained the same, her body often regressed in youth and no person, male or female, ever knew how she performed the ritual.  This change of forms was the main reason no one seemed to recognize her.  While people in taverns and inns talked of demonic possessions and secrets of eternal life, Joshua knew those rumors were all based in truth.

      Joshua saw the Queen twice in his lifetime even though she birthed him.  She was the one who gifted him with this ordinary vocation.  While his job was one of demand, it wasn’t one of necessity.  It was true he was unhappy about the rule of the Queen, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

     This grumbling of the crowd led to heated discussions about an election.  The law of the Octava allowed the people to call for an election whenever they pleased.  Still, in the past five-hundred years of the Queen’s life, the subject came up insufficiently.  Knowing what happened in the past, Joshua ignored the grumblings and went about his work.

     When he returned to the farm after gaining supplies, he headed straight for the stables.  His father, King James, was working the land while Joshua tended the royal horses.  In the fresh night air, Joshua rested on some hay, letting an invigorating breeze fill his lungs.  The crown owned many horses, and it was his duty to tend all their needs, no matter how ridiculous a request from the Queen was made.  Being a stable-hand was a job he both despised and loved. Not many people saw the prince as an upstanding member of society; he never caused any trouble, but in the Octava, a job was a measure of your success.  But he loved the nurture he received from the animals.

     Joshua was twenty years old, and he’d been performing this task since he was five.  His family told him he wasn’t an important member of society due to the demeaning social nature of his position.  As Prince of the Octava, it was the lowliest job any person could perform.  Not many within the streets of J’lora would ever notice Joshua from his appearance.  Still, it was his facial likeness to the king that made him stand out as a member of the royal family.

     But in this world, even the king didn’t matter.

      In the Octava, the Queen handed out vocations for her public and he and his father were delegated for menial farm work.  Joshua and his father James spent their lives on the farm only traveling to the palace to see the Queen when summoned.  James, the king, was only called for matters of estate and carnal visits.  In contrast, Joshua was only called for horses whenever needed.  The Queen and her five daughters ruled the six cities of the nation, and the borders of the country were set by the Architect since the beginning of time.  The great deity decreed that the Masons would be rulers of the land.  Joshua always saw the right to rule as a curse, never a blessing.  He was thankful the Architect saw fit for women to command in the monarchy since that burden would never fall upon him.  And with that thought, he rested.

      As Joshua relaxed, James walked by, resting his hands on the edge of the stable window looking at his son.  James hoped he’d never see the day when his son would be taken away, but the time was near and there was nothing he could do about it.  James was a stoic man, the years getting to him, but still kept himself in shape from working the farm.  His hair was thinning, but used to be dark brown, and his eyes drooped, not from the work, but from his life. 

       “Thank the Architect I found you,” James stated.  “With all the commotion in the city, I thought you were caught up in all the drama.”  Joshua, still resting, kept his eyes closed, laughing at his old man.

       “What does the King required of his Prince?” Joshua asked, laced with sarcasm.  “Has the Queen summoned us?”  James pushed the stable door open and sat in a flimsy chair close to his son. 

      “Thank goodness no,” James replied.  “She would’ve sent a royal escort by now if there was a summons.”

      “We can never get away from her no matter what we do,” Joshua smirked.  He opened his eyes and looked at his father.  “I was near the shacks when the complaints about an election were put to rest quite violently.  I’ve never seen it get out of hand like this.  The lines of people being sent for arrest were longer than usual.  I don’t know if she has room in her dungeons to harbor all these dissenters.”

      “There’s talk of an election?  I thought there was just an outcry from the people.”

       “You spend too much time on the farm,” Joshua smiled.  “I stayed away from it all, of course.  The last thing I want is for her to think that I was involved.  I know the laws of the Octava claims people can hold elections., but I’ve never seen it happen.  It always ends with arrests, trials, then death.”

       “There hasn’t been a proper election in thirty years,” James laughed.  “Your mother’s family has ruled the Octava since it was bestowed upon them by the Architect.”  James grabbed a few handfuls of hay lying next to the chair, breaking the pieces.  It was a coping mechanism when he was worried.  Elections were the least of his concerns, though.  “The people haven’t been able to overthrow the Masons, elections or not.  Rest assured…your mother will remain in power.”

       Talk of elections worried James more than usual, though it wasn’t the height of his paranoia.  Upon Joshua’s birth, a strange occurrence happened.  An eagle’s cry stretched about the sky as his son screamed from the Queen’s birth canal, and a note was nailed to his door later that day.  When talk of elections begin, dread will come to you.  He only had one dread: losing his son.

       “Well,” Joshua continued, “the people spoke with such hope.  I’d hate to put down their spirits.  That’s mother’s job.”

      “If anyone speaks out against your mother’s family, she’ll have them all put to death, even if they’re innocent,” James mentioned, standing up from the chair with a grunt.  “The Masons hold eternal power from the Architect.  No one can break it.”  He brushed his pants clean from the hay and headed to the stable door.  “Come inside when you’re done doing whatever this is, and we can have dinner and a drink.  I know how much you love a drink with your old man.”  Joshua chuckled as James walked away.

      The king left the stables and headed towards his small home, leaving his son to bask in his rest.  He stood just outside the door, looking up the hill to the city walls of J’lora, the home of his wife.  If there is election talk, James thought, may the Architect save us. 

       Queen Hephata chose James as her husband shortly after the failed election thirty years ago.  The city of J’lora surrounded the Queen’s keep, and James was always at her call.  He hated the life created for himself and his son.  Hephata was a cruel ruler who allowed no one, except her daughters, to have any voice in worldly matters.  Not that the world mattered.  The borders of the Octava were closed to all others, and even merchants were hindered in what could be traded.  When he was called in for affairs of state, it was only to break tied votes, and he was obligated to vote on his wife’s side.  It was a rare occasion but it had happened.  He was only king in title.

      James pushed the door open to his home, thinking of this election his son had informed him about.  The very notion haunted him to his core, and he worried about the repercussions.  He suffered worry not because of the election talk, but because of that letter nailed to his door.

      Inside the house was a small table near the fireplace meant only for two people since it was only himself and Joshua.  But now, a man was sitting there, wearing faded golden robes.  James knew this was the reckoning he’d read about on that letter.  It was only a matter of time before his son was taken from him, at least that’s how he interpreted the message. 

     “Time grows short, James,” the man announced, and he rose.  Standing before the king was a man of above-average height with long brown hair; his complexion was an olive shade and stood with his hands folded.  The assumption of his clothes defined a monk from the Odinshire monastery.  James spoke with him many times throughout Joshua’s life.  “The prophecy is nigh.”

      “Prophecy,” James scoffed.  “How many times has prophecy been averted?”

       “You’re allowed to have your doubts, your majesty, but the matter still stands.  It’s time for his training.  You knew this day was coming.”

       “The Eagle will never soar,” James stated, placing a cracked talisman-like stone from his pocket on the table with an eagle etched into the rock.  “She’s seen to that.”  The king sat at the table, gesturing for the monk to sit back down, fire crackling in the background.  “Hephata will rule the Octava for eternity.  Tell me, Launius, how this so-called prophecy works to end her power?  Then, if you’ve convinced me, you can have my son.”

      “I’ve explained it to you time and time again,” Launius remarked, rolling his eyes.  “A screech will come from the egg of the Raven, and an Eagle will be born out of an age of darkness.  Therefore, he will come forth and re-form the nation from the clutches of the fallen Raven.  Since the inception of her rule, the Raven has claimed dominance, so sayeth the Architect along with our Prophet.”  Launius gave James a long stare waiting for the king’s reaction, but none came.  “Joshua is the Eagle.  Yet every time I see him, he’s shoveling hay and manure.  Why aren’t you teaching him about the Alphas?”

      “His mother has spies everywhere.  If she found out I taught him these things, you’d no longer have your Eagle.”

      “Nevertheless,” Launius continued, “we’re behind.  The void has called for the Alphas to identify and they must answer.”  There was a long pause as both looked at the cracked talisman-like stone on the table.  The thin rock was an invitation of the Architect’s power.  Talk of the Eagle and an election on the same night was what James feared.  “Hephata’s time is ending and the Architect is displeased.”

       “It’s about time he’s shown displeasure,” James mocked.  “Five-hundred years of unnatural life, and it’s not until now that he’s displeased.”

     “No one can ever understand the will of our generous Architect,” Launius added.

       “The queen has eyes everywhere.  She’ll know you took him.”

        “She’s meant to know,” Launius replied.

       “He’ll not go willingly,” James mentioned.  “He’s stubborn like his father, and greatly fears what his mother would do if she found out he abandoned his post.”  James looked at Launius.  “Have you ever undergone torture from her soldiers, or heavens forbid, the Order Triumvirate Morte?”  Launius’ head shook.  “Joshua’s endured it twice, the only two times he’s ever seen his mother.  They slide a knife down your side, allowing you to slowly bleed out, and then deprives you of water.  Blood loss and lack of water creates an insanity that wipes away your mind.  So no…he won’t leave in fear of her.”

       “I thought as much.  I’ll have to use force to take him with me to make it look convincing as an abduction.  Otherwise, she could label him a criminal and hunt us on the road.  I don’t want any interference here.  He hasn’t learned a thing, and we need to get him to the monastery,” Launius responded. 

“That doesn’t mean you have to bash him over the head.”

“What would Hephata do if she discovered a monk stole the prophesied Eagle?  She would gather her resources and kill him before he gets to his power.  If she discovers he’s abducted, then she might not care.”  There was silence, the crackling of the fire echoing in the silence as James slowly nodded.  “Do you remember what happened when he was born?  The cry of the Eagle spread throughout the city.”

      “I’ll never forget the look on Hephata’s face,” James interrupted with a laugh.  “It was pure terror.  She wanted the boy killed instantly, but I snatched him away, begging her not to do so.  Instead, she gave him the lowliest of jobs: a stable hand.”

      “The boy knows deep within himself that he’s important.  Surely he deserves to know why.  He deserves to be recognized as the theological leader he was born to be.  I don’t know what happened to Hephata in the past, but her methods have broken the Octava.  For hundreds, nay, thousands of years, the Masons have ruled and existed as king and queen, but Hephata broke that ideology.  Now, only she can rule, and only her daughters have a voice.  And you, my dear king, are kept around for her own sexual gain, no matter what you tell yourself.  Is this the life you want?  Is this the life you want for your son?”

     “Not all my children hold her beliefs,” James stated angrily.  “Genoa doesn’t believe in her mother’s values.”

       “I have the utmost respect for Princess Genoa, but she’s still overpowered by the queen.  If she continues to speak out against her mother in public meetings, she won’t inherit the crown if Hephata ever expires.”  He paused a moment and looked at the cracked talisman stone on the table.  “But there are other plans for her involving the Eagle.”

       “What?” James asked shockingly.  “The Alpha can only be attached to one person.”

      “The Architect works in strange ways, my friend.  Her time has yet to come.”  Launius stood and walked toward the door, but James blocked the entrance knowing his son was being taken.

      “Don’t tell me Genoa is –”

        “Yes,” Launius replied.  ‘We’ve analyzed the bloodline closely and found it to be true.”

       “But she was born before Joshua,” James exclaimed.  “She shouldn’t have that power.”

      “The Eagle didn’t cry when she was born, but she has a destiny…especially since she’s the only one who defends her brother whenever the queen plots to kill him.”

       “She what?”

       “There’ve been rumors that Hephata attempts to kill Joshua at least once a year,” Launius remarked.  “But by Genoa’s grace, Joshua still lives through subterfuge or displacement.”  Launius pushed James out of the way, heading toward the stables.  Just outside James’ home, the horse Launius arrived on was securely tied.  As the monk walked, he spotted a large stone and reached for it, tossing it in the air to judge the weight.

       “And what of the Bear!” James shouted, following Launius.  “And the Ram, Sparrow, and Asp?  Have they been identified?  Are they the same as before?  Not to mention Hephata is the Alpha of Ravens!”  Launius didn’t care to listen, continuing to stride toward the stables.  “The queen will know the Alphas have been called to identify, and she’ll kill them!”

       “I know, James!  That’s why I must take him!” Launius returned, moving to slap James with his free hand.  “The other Alphas are safe in their monasteries.  They’ve all answered the call except the Eagle and Raven.  Every ten years the Alphas are asked to identify and peace only reigns if the Eagle is present.  There hasn’t been an Eagle for all of Hepahta’s reign, not for lack of trying.  Joshua was too young to answer last time, but now he’s twenty.  Other Alphas may be young when they handle the call, but the Eagle needs to be in sound mind before he can answer any of it.  He’s old enough to identify and the queen fears the prophecy behind her stammered face.”  Launius paused for a moment and took in the serene silence.  “She has the power to kill him, and you’ve protected him his whole life.  The Octava will thank you one day for what you’ve done.  He’s a bright boy.  I’m sure he’ll understand why he has to come with me.”

      Looking toward the direction of the stables, James saw that Joshua stirred from his rest and was walking toward them, wondering who this other voice was in the conversation. 

       “You don’t understand,” James said.  “If you take him, and you’re found, she’ll make you beg for death.”  James sunk to his knees ready to weep.  Launius stopped for a moment, rock still in hand, and bent to the king.  “He’s all I have,” James cried, his face in his hands.  “Without him, I…will live in fear of what she’ll do to me.  Please, don’t take him.”  Launius laid a hand on the king’s shoulder, trying to ease his emotions.

       “I take him, or he dies by his mother’s hand,” the monk coldly responded.

       “Then take me with you,” James sputtered.

       “You have no place in the monastery.  You can’t even get into the building without any trace of the power.”  James rested on his ankles in his grief.  “I’m sorry, but it’s for the best.”  Launius stood up and headed to the approaching prince.  James couldn’t move.  The grief he was feeling was too much for him to bear.  All he could do was listen as his only son fought against the monk, his voice screaming for his father’s help.  In the end, Launius could be heard whacking him on the head and taking his limp body over to his horse.  His son was being taken, and there was nothing he could do.

      When he finally had enough energy, James wandered to the area where Joshua fought.  There were signs of a struggle with some blood on the ground, most likely from the strike to his son’s head.  Knowing what the queen was capable of, he wanted to give them time on the road, away from the prying eyes of her spies.  He dug a shallow grave for his son, grabbed the blood-stained hay, and mounted a horse, rearing it toward the Queen’s Keep.