The witch-queens of Narys were no more.
Hachon the Younger watched the last of that foul breed turn to ash in the enormous pyre his men had erected, and tried to feel pride in having fulfilled his father's ancient pledge to their people. All he felt, however, was tired. He was an old man, now- old enough for the sobriquet "the Younger" to taste bitter on his tongue- and the years felt heavy on his soul. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that, no matter his own accomplishments, no matter his success where his illustrious father had failed, he would only ever be remembered to history in terms of his relationship to "The Good King".
"The Good King, indeed," Hachon snorted quietly to himself. His father, ever grandiose, had ensured his mythic legacy by decreeing that not even Death could force him to relinquish the crown he'd wrested from the Tirrhin Dynasty, and that he would one day return for it. Thus Hachon the Younger (and all his descendants) were to be Princes, rather than Kings, holding the throne in trust for The Good King's inevitable return. Why the people accepted this mysticism after all Hachon's father had done to destroy all other hints of magic, Hachon could not fathom.
But he knew his role.