The Viceroyalty Palace was a five storey building of the same old pale. Multiple footsteps were few and far in between, purposeful shifting and striding, one’s echo of sudden clasp and thud of shoes all around the man, leading an entourage.
Its foundation raised almost three hundred years’ by history, the building symbolised His Majesty’s jurisdiction throughout Yohannesian Adrastos; an epitome of the nineteen countries’ crown colonial order and existence, visual poetry of Yohannesian 18th century architecture. A few chipped stones here and neglected paintings there, greyish pillars of the earth one may observe unwillingly stood the test of time, high and proud.
He stopped abruptly, and turned to a woman opposite him. “Greetings, Mr Aberdeen, this way if you please”, her voice was just barely audible to the stocky man behind the Foreign Minister over the immediate step below.
Reaching their destination, the door was opened for him to lead the way inside. It was a spacious office. The crackling of kindles and hissing coming from a fireplace nearby contrasted deeply with the loud and sound of blowing, furious wind through the half-opened peripheral window.
These windows were archaic, protruding into the street below, promising an interior’s grand view, though their sidings were amusingly rusty by now. “Shall be maintenance of one’s heritage… or a perverted case of neglect, I do say Sir…?” the man waved his hand, detachedly and with lightness, wondering, looking at the painting. It was a stoic piece of masterpiece, the late Lord Kingsley, thirty-seventh vice-royal of Korrapati in Adrastos and a ninth generation, blue-blooded of Yohannesian stock. The man’s eyes pierced right into his soul, asking, demanding an answer. What shall be the legacy of yours, my dear young chap?
”I do not know indeed, fine Sir” the newly appointed Vice-royal bowed in reverence. Looking curiously, his aides and attachés await the man’s dictation.
It was a grandiose gesture, especially counting the fact that in his past capacity as deputy head of the HM Government Foreign Office & Trade; his daily routine was that of a few. Urgent papers here, recorded missives there and wrapped up communiqués on the go. Such was life for the thirty-five years’ old father of two adoring daughters, husband of a loving wife and masters of twelve devoted native Korrapati servants.
“The Honourable Lord Kingsley… there you be!”
They were greeted by another officer. Her hair was beautiful and long, her clothes wrapped in a courteous yet revealing manner. She was a pretty one, Aberdeen thought and wondered at the same time; she was not feeling cold? It was of course the middle of winter in Ardenfontein, famous for its cold and harsh winters.
He turned toward the voice, expecting.
“A pleasure to finally see you personally myself, dear Sir”
It was clear and he was wrong.
A pause, slowly looking at the painting above, pleading.
“So vast is art, so narrow human wit”
![[ National Flag ]](https://i.imgur.com/7vADKOP.png){kind=link}