#Everia: Storvorn

[rachrar]

Let's Meet King Storvorn Korik!

Art by Nautes

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A human ruling a land he doesn’t deserve, Storvorn is a king only by technicality. Storvorn reigns with an iron fist, afraid that if he were to loosen even the smallest amount he would be swallowed whole by the Snow that whispers in his ear of his weakness.

Storvorn Korik was the second born prince to the quiet kingdom of Phoseon in the year 580, a beautiful land built upon mountains on the northernmost edge of the Vegrediac Tips mountain range. The land outside was buffeted by the snow blizzards that raged above them and the magma tunnels of the volcano slumbering below left the people with little space to grow, and so blossomed the Faith. Built of the duality of heat and cold, it reveled in the exchange of life and death.

He was Flametouched, born with a vagina but without breasts or a penis, a rare blessing among his people, and Storvorn found his peace in the Flames’ heat. He was a child when he heard the Snow for the first time, the cruel, icy whispers in his ear impossible to ignore. It was always so bitter cold, the ache of distrustful gazes on him encouraging the Snow’s cruelty. His coal hair was a signal to every person in the kingdom that he was born wrong because of his mother’s sins. But if he were the eldest, they would have to silence themselves lest they speak too loudly of their crown prince.

The letter opener was dull but the point was keen enough to sink into Luhen’s throat, his elder brother’s life spilling out in fat, red gushes and staining his clothing scarlet. He would be king. The crown was made for him and him alone!

He was found by his younger brother and the screaming changed everything.

Nothing was said of Luhen’s death. His passing was a mystery to the masses, some sickness that took him in the night, and they all grieved the loss of the firstborn.

He was nearly 9 when he was summoned to his father’s chambers and told his life’s plan. Storvorn was to be betrothed to a king of another land, some small city-state named Everia. 

Storvorn went through the ceremonies marking them wed in all ways but the last, too young to consummate the marriage. It meant that it was technically tenuous, that they were not really married, but it was close enough for the lessers to kneel before Storvorn where they belonged.

The Snow kept him cold at night as his guards left one by one, replaced by people that he did not trust. Only one guard was left in the end, Thane, a guard that had stood by him so long that he didn’t remember when he first met him. A noble man who chose to doff his armor in favor of a jester’s mask on arrival to better ensure Storvorn’s safety; no one would expect that the jester was originally trained as the royal guard.

Years passed and Storvorn’s simmering anger and the Snow’s cold caresses grew in tandem. His 18th birthday was coming up and the night he came of age, he would need to share the king’s bed and finalize his marriage. Disgust welled in him at the idea.

Storvorn’s ambitions led him to meet another with a similar drive, a duchess. Duchess Maghrebi told him of the magic she studied and her plans to become queen, if only there were an unmarried king that needed a queen. Storvorn found her distasteful but he followed along until they came to an agreement.

Storvorn would take tea with Seth that evening and slip poison into the cup. Once Storvorn was past his socially obligated grief, he would take her hand in his and they would rule together. She would ensure that no dagger ever met his back with guards she would magically bind to protect him. He had merely to give her a crown of her own.

The king did not wake the following morning. 

The crowning was quick and the council of nobles that confirmed the rightful king pushed to agree by Maghrebi’s backroom talks. Her demands of Storvorn became stronger as the years passed. Storvorn refused, crying for an understanding of grief to the public and stifling her efforts. Their relationship soured when she realized she’d been played.

Her return to Storvorn months later was as more than a duchess, a goddess-empowered woman who no longer desired the crown. She could control from the shadows, and as long as Storvorn did what he was told, he would stay safe and cozy on the little throne he so loved. Storvorn had been bested and he hated her. Hated her so much that even the Snow turned against her, hissing in his ear of murder more often than it spat against him.

He had been trained for the court as a child but Seth had never shown him the realities of ruling and he floundered. Malcontent grew in the hearts of the citizens, spiking forward into attempts on his life that the Snow swore was because he didn’t deserve the throne, that he had not earned it, merely stolen it. When the attempts become an occurrence to plan around rather than a rarity, Storvorn fell into the Snow’s vicious embrace.

The Snow told him how worthless he was but also of every attempt, many of which never came to be. Enough did, however, that Storvorn’s understanding of paranoia versus realistic worry was blurred and the noose began to swing with more regularity than a clock.

The only rock he could rely on was Thane, the guard turned jester, a man who listened to everything, who eased Storvorn towards reality, who kept his secrets and ensured that his will was done, who kept him safe and made him laugh and forget the sensation of ice sliding over his skin no matter how hot he kept his rooms. Sad, then, that a king’s closest confidant was a fool that ensured his king would never be.