The Wedding I Was Bullied Into

Far From the Palace Walls, Somewhere

It was the height of the day. High overhead, the sun beat down with a merciless intensity, punishing the few unfortunate and exhausted travelers caught in the open. Most sensible folk, however, were indoors, partaking of their midday meal. This included a trio of middle-aged men sequestered within a remote clay hovel. The hut stood in profound isolation, with no other signs of life for kilometers in any direction, lost in a landscape that was practically inhospitable. It was, after all, the desert. The crushing silence and absolute privacy made it the perfect venue for their particular brand of business.

The eldest of the three, a man we shall call Slinsky for now on account of his pronounced stoop, was speaking to the man on his right, whom we might as well label Harrys, whose eyes were almost entirely obscured by a thick thatch of hair. The third, a stocky fellow we’ll call Lompy, listened with rapt attention.

"So, his royal majesty's wedding is today," Slinsky announced, punctuating the statement with a long gulp from his cup.

"Yes, a joyous occasion we must all celebrate," Harrys remarked, his tone dripping with cold sarcasm. "He'll have a new excuse to raise taxes now, won't he?" he grumbled. "The Queen's Tax." This was a levy the populace had been spared since the last queen's death, designed to cover all of her royal expenses.

"As if there's any coin left to pay it with," Slinsky hissed.

Beside him, Lompy nodded vigorously. "Yeah," he echoed. "As if there's any coin left to pay the Queen's Tax with." An unfortunate incident in his infancy, which involved being dropped on his head, had left Lompy a bit… slow.

"I hear she's the one," Slinsky said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial fashion. "The new queen from the prophecy. The one meant to save the King from a certain death."

"Then we have no use for her, do we?" Harrys countered. "The last thing we want is for that despot to be saved. I suspect that's the only reason Julian has held back so far. We were all hoping the King would just die on his own, and that this prophesied Queen would never materialize."

Slinsky shifted. "When do you suppose Julian will get rid of her? He has to, you know. Otherwise, we're stuck with that tyrant indefinitely."

"Julian will kill the witch when he deems it necessary," Harrys stated with confidence. "For now, it is best to let the King enjoy his false sense of security."

Slinsky’s eyes widened. "You know, I heard she truly is a witch! Word is she fashioned a duplicate of herself to carry out her evil bidding! And that she summoned demons to purify the water just to win the people's trust."

"That she is a witch is obvious to anyone who isn't a fool," Harrys sneered. "Who knows? Perhaps Julian will find a way to quietly assassinate the King first. Then he can marry the Queen, secure his own place as the rightful king, and once she gives him an heir, he can have her burned at the stake or some such thing." The three men shared a dark chuckle at the thought. It would be a perfect resolution, solving all their problems at once. They needed the King gone, but if this new queen was what the rumors claimed, his tyranny could be extended for a lifetime.

Just then, the door—little more than a plank covering a hole in the wall—creaked open. A man with dark skin, deep brown eyes, and black hair stepped inside. He was tall and lean, with long limbs that suggested a wiry strength. In any normal setting, such a man might command a brief glance before people returned to their own affairs. But this was no normal setting, and he was no ordinary man. This was the very Julian they had been discussing, and this humble hut happened to be a clandestine meeting point for key figures in his complex network of spies.

Upon seeing him, the three men scrambled to their feet, their expressions a mixture of reverence and fear. "Long live the rebellion," they recited in unison, the creed of their cause. Julian gave a curt nod, gesturing for them to be seated.

"Any new developments?" Harrys asked, his voice now deferential.

"My niece is safe and on her way out of the country," Julian stated. A look of genuine relief crossed the face of Harrys, his staunchest supporter. Julian’s concern for his niece had been a preoccupation for some time.

"Do you have it?" Julian’s voice was soft, so low that had the other men still been conversing loudly, the question would have been lost entirely. The leader of the rebellion was, surprisingly, a quiet man, the sort who could easily be forgotten in a crowd if he chose not to draw attention to himself. This trait did not bother Julian in the slightest. To him, it was merely an asset, one that made it less likely his role in the uprising would ever be discovered.

Lompy nodded and reached for a sack hanging from his chair. From it, he produced an airtight tube and handed it to Julian. With practiced ease, Julian unsealed the container and slid out a sheet of parchment. His eyes scanned the page, and for several long minutes, the only sound was the rustle of the paper. The three messengers sat on the edge of their seats, their bodies taut with anticipation. All of the leader’s communications were written in a cipher known only to a trusted few, a necessary precaution to protect the information. Finally, after finishing his reading, Julian looked up at the three eager faces and gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"It would seem," he said, a faint smile touching his lips, "that our new Queen is not especially fond of the King."