King Tanmeus became the Ravens’ puppet king of Vidora after the death of Bretislaus Katea, the usurper. Tanmeus was distantly related to the royal line, but his ancestry had previously earned him little more than a minor position at court in Ostengate. His family considered even that appointment an achievement worth protecting. Tanmeus considered it an obligation he would gladly have surrendered.
He struggled to follow conversations in which the meaning depended on what remained unsaid. Courtiers could praise a proposal while undermining it, offer friendship while gathering information, or ask a question whose honest answer would become an accusation. Tanmeus understood their words more readily than their intentions. He often answered too plainly, agreed too quickly, or continued explaining himself after everyone else understood that he should stop.
His difficulty navigating these exchanges made him an object of amusement to some and embarrassment to his family. They coached him before formal occasions, corrected him afterward, and reminded him that his conduct reflected on people whose prospects depended on maintaining the court’s respect. Tanmeus learned to speak less. Silence spared him some humiliation, although it did little to improve his understanding.
The Ravens recognized how cheaply they could control him. They needed neither their most persuasive agents nor their most capable political minds to keep Tanmeus compliant. A confident explanation, a reminder of his responsibilities, and the suggestion that disagreement would disgrace his family were usually sufficient. His royal ancestry gave his elevation a useful appearance of continuity after Katea’s usurpation. His dependence on others ensured that the appearance would conceal no meaningful royal authority.
Tanmeus had never wanted the throne. He would have preferred a remote home somewhere like the Valley of Peaceful Escape, where a request meant what it appeared to mean and a day’s responsibilities could be understood before it began. He imagined knowing his neighbors, walking without attendants, and eating without wondering whether his choice of company would offend someone. The imagined quiet mattered more to him than any promise of luxury.
His family treated his elevation as the restoration of their proper standing. They spoke of honor, duty, and the opportunity to redeem years of being overlooked. Tanmeus heard that refusal would disappoint them. He had spent much of his life trying to avoid that disappointment, and the crown made their expectations harder to resist.
The throne brought him greater discomfort than his former position. Ceremonial clothing weighed on him. Crowded audiences exhausted him. He dreaded the pause after a petitioner finished speaking, when everyone waited for an answer he did not know how to give. The Raven representative standing nearby became a source of relief. Tanmeus learned to look toward him before responding.
That dependence did not make Tanmeus incapable of recognizing suffering. A frightened voice or a visible injury could trouble him more deeply than an abstract account of unrest. He might ask whether a punishment was necessary or whether someone could be released. The Ravens answered with explanations about security, disloyalty, and dangers he lacked the judgment to assess. His objections rarely survived their certainty.
His weakness became part of the machinery that harmed his subjects. Orders issued in his name carried royal authority regardless of whether he understood their consequences. Every reassurance he accepted made the next easier to accept.
Tanmeus’s tragedy was that the life he wanted required less power, while everyone around him benefited from placing more power in his hands. He wore the crown because he could not bear to disappoint his family. The Ravens kept him wearing it because he could not bear to confront them. Vidora paid for both failures.