The kingdom of Rodacoff came together in its entirety and began researching forbidden death magics. Once the flurry of research began to settle, the question remained of who would become the undead king. They selected the youngest prince, a sickly boy named Zoras with little time left to live.
And thus, Zoras became the undead king of Rodacoff and ruled for the following 400 years.
Though, in reality, “king” might not have been the most accurate title. He was more a weapon than a ruler. By the time he reached 400 years of age, his level had reached 700—powerful enough that he could single-handedly win battles against the entire military of a small country. He wasn’t treated as a normal person, rather he was worshipped like a god.
When it came to the government, it wasn’t just Zoras in charge. There was a council of wisemen, ten of the country’s leaders gathered to decide the kingdom’s future. Zoras himself had very little say in politics. He was more a figurehead who signed off on decisions as a matter of ceremony.
And over that 400-year period, the chaos in Locklore began to settle into a modicum of peace, and Rodacoff began to have difficulties controlling a powerful individual like Zoras. The country hid the inconvenient truth that it took the sacrifice of many lives to make Zoras undead. Instead, they proclaimed him a man who achieved sacred power and eternal life through divine blessing.
Zoras, too, grew bored of his long life. He had no freedom because anything happening to him would be a threat to the kingdom. He could have no children because he was undead. He had not a single equal in his life. He’d already accomplished the role he’d been given. It wasn’t uncommon for him to spend his days sitting mindlessly on his throne, like a weapon gathering dust in the corner. He would occasionally devote himself to researching magic, but that didn’t truly provide a balm for his soul.
“Oh, will no one make time move for me again?” he murmured sadly to himself as he sat on the throne.
“They may be mere words, Your Majesty, but during emergencies, the kingdom requires your strength. It is not my place as a mere man to give my opinion to one so great and wise as yourself, but I would hope you would seek peace, Your Majesty. The kingdom is at the height of prosperity. Nothing need change at the moment.”
The man who spoke as he knelt was Fudolf, the prime minister. He was middle-aged, with elegantly curled hair. He was the head of the council of wisemen, and, if Zoras was the king in name only, then Fudolf was the king in practice. He also acted as an advisor for the Royal Magic Association.
“What a sober man. That would be your answer,” replied Zoras with a sigh.
Then one day, something happened in the court. The king of a small kingdom came on a visit and presented the gift of a young high elven girl as a slave.
High elves normally resided in the country in the sky; they rarely came to the surface. They were better with magic on average, compared to humans, and blessed by the spirits.
This was a clash of cultures. The other country assumed a gift of a person from a rare race capable of using magic would be joyfully accepted, but general views toward slaves in Rodacoff meant they were seen as lowly, filthy beings. No matter how rare a high elf slave was, it was an insult to gift one to someone like the king, someone near godhood.
But Zoras decided no good would come of turning this minor infraction into a quarrel and kindly accepted the gift, thinking the girl might come in use in his magic research. He calmed his troublesome vassals who were throwing a fit and smoothed the situation over.
The problem was that—even if he hadn’t really wanted to—he had to keep the girl because he said he would.
When the discussion turned to educating her and giving her some work in the palace, Zoras was taken by a whim.
“She is a rare high elf, and I should make her useful since I was the one to accept her. I will tutor her myself,” he said.
Fudolf’s face paled, and he argued against it.
The relationship between humans and high elves was poor to begin with. The only reason a large-scale war hadn’t broken out was because the elves resided in the skies, far from the humans on the earth.
And this high elf girl, named Elsie, hated humans as well. She had been chased out of the high elven country for her parents’ crimes, then attacked by slavers once on the surface. There were many in the court who felt she couldn’t be trusted, even if placed by the king’s side.
But Zoras insisted and took on Elsie’s education himself. He was a false king, ruler in name alone, and he had plenty of free time.
In the beginning, Elsie had a bad attitude toward Zoras, and that threw his retainers into a panic, but he knew she meant no harm. She began to open up as she interacted with him.
“Your Majesty! I can now use level 3 spells!” she said one day.
“Ah, well done. This is how I know you are suited to be my disciple.”
She would report happily to him every time she learned to do something new. He would pat her head and compliment her. That was their daily routine.
Before long, Elsie became the only person who treated Zoras like a normal person.
In the beginning, he’d been the youngest prince—and a sickly one at that. No one expected anything of him. He was finally given a role, turned undead in an occult ritual, then treated like some sort of god. But he’d never been treated like a man. There were a few limited emotions people seemed to have when dealing with him, and those were disinterest, adoration, and fear. This was the first friendly relationship the lich had felt in his hundreds of years of life.
When he was with her, he felt like he was with his own daughter. When he interacted with her, he thought about how he couldn’t even remember how his own father, the former king, treated him so long ago. Had he been treated with love?
This high elf girl may have only come to the palace out of a misunderstanding, but she ended up healing the heart of Rodacoff’s ultimate king.