Once upon a time, there was a Kingdom famed far and wide for its animal husbandry. Its stallions were studs. Its cows gave milk pre-creamed if desired.
And their Princess->Queens only ever gave birth to third children.
They didn’t drown or send away all the other children. They simply…chose not to breed something obviously inferior. So with struggle, and frustration, and dedication, for five hundred years, the noblewomen sought women who would only give birth (as mentioned) to third children.
It was a survival trait. First children are too arrogant to live. Second children are mediocre. Third children aren’t even targeted until the other two have been attacked, and they’ve presumably learned something by then.
Don’t get us wrong. The Dread Attack of the fey killed thousands, or maybe doubles, or at least some; the remaining aristocracy are frustratingly canny about how many of them there are.]
The Kingdom of Third Son prospered. It had defeated the witch and shown its system superior to others. It would surely do well.
If it didn’t need to do anything except complete quests, and marry royalty, it would do that. But no. Having spent time defining Royalty than anyone other than certain cheating immortals, thought they’d have immortal power.
As if power grew automatically with wealth or brain-matter.
As if Magic were a pet to be tamed and followed, not seven times seventy lighting bolts for a couldless sky.
The Kingdom of the Cloudless sky was doomed. The Mage waited for thunderbolts. Everyone else waited for thunderbots.
They would both be happy.
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