Young Writers Society

This fiercely religious, nationalistic state, managed by an assortment of leaders and incredibly-well organized, has a geography that resembles the Confederacy de Austliere to the south. Composed of relatively healthy grassland, Elchanan is also notable for mountains can be found towards its northern border with the Kindgom of the Valley Sol, as well as its eastern border with the Marshlands and the Wall that protects Ese-Miyre, complete with a few mountain passes to allow access into the Marshlands. Rivers from both The Kingdom of the Valley Sol and the Confederacy flow into the region, which provides it the means by which to maintain a decent-sized crop, on top of its access to mining resources. Too, rudimentary water wheels, installed at multiple spots along the nation's rivers, provide a basic source of power used by farmers to grind crops, an advantage fiercely guarded by the nation. Lastly, Elchanan's southwestern border is comprised of a series of immensely tall pillars. These pillars, which are valued for their massive religious significance, are the source of much revenue for the country in the form of the many pilgrims that travel through the area, though the area is the sight of constant border conflicts with the Confederacy d'Austliere and weakly organized states have gained prominence in the area. However, it can be said that Elchanan is fairly prosperous and well-to-do, and the people are proud of that.

The geography of this land, as mentioned above, resembles that of Elchanan, which itself was formerly a member of the Confederacy before a violent and heavily-resisted (on the part of the Confederacy) separation a long time ago. Stuffed in between the pillars to the west, and Ese-Miyre to the east, this land is closer to the equator, yet slightly more inhospitable than the surrounding landscapes. Some crops and many other resources are imported from The Valley of the Kingdom Sol, thanks to a state of political malcontect and mismanagement among the capital, Wyandanch, and the five states it tries to control. On the other hand, two rivers, one of which from the pillars themselves, and the other from a small patch of mountains there were among the few to survive the construction of the wall that borders Ese-Miyre (long story; I'll explain that later), have filled up a sufficiently sized lakebed at the center of the land. This aptly named Lake of Two Rivers (tentative) provides room for prosperity for every major state in the Confederacy save for Eimhin, which is rather bitter about that fact, in spite of the fact it does border one of the rivers. Technically, only Wyandanch controls and manages the border of the lake, though Eimhin is still the farthest country away from the lake; given its tumultuous relationship with Wyandanch, this is not likely a coincidence.

Amusingly, the geography here does vary between individual states, particularly due to their proximity to the surrounding regions. To the east, the thin and long state of Claec contains a few of the wetter and more diverse conditions of the marshland and Ese-Miyre, which the local races have gone to great lengths to emulate, as they favor such conditions. Thus, the capital looks like an overgrown, almost forgotten, city. The northeast state of Comas, the west-central capital of Wyandanch, and the northwest state of Exedor, which are the closest to the Theocracy of Elchanan, most resemble its conditions. Finally, Eimhin, and its eastern neighbor, Walenty, are also within proximity of the large jungle to the south of the Confederacy, as well as to the equator in general (and its deserts, meaning they often suffer from some form of desert raids, although Eimhin has allowed Walenty to take the land between it and the desert as a buffer), so they tend to have warmer, more moist conditions, although remain as fairly fertile grassland.

On that night, Cassiopeia - a self-proclaimed master of silence and devotion - was doing more than merely contemplating the divine. She was talking to them.

The fairly large lady sat in the middle of the bare stone room, draped in a gray, translucent garb under which was a multi-colored arrangement of clothing that formed an undershirt and pantaloons. Her head was reverentially bowed towards the ground as a guard in a chainmail uniform and pointed helmet waited by the entrance, awaiting one of those telltale signs by which the psychic would indicate that her latest foray into the ethereal had been completed, and their latest decrees ready to be cast upon the world.

Such days were yet rare, but she was patient. Cassiopeia believed in the simplicity of faithfulness, as their messages proved to be blunt and concise. There was no incense to be burned - it distracted her, and was too smelly. The bare accommodations made it seem quaint in comparison to the elegant and elaborate fashions of her peers, but she did not such a high regard for fashion, as her clothing, inherited from her traveling salesman of a mother, indicator. Nevertheless, though she remained as stock-still as she could, eyes strained to capture whatever oncoming message of importance might drift her way, the inner child at heart enigmatically waited for its treat.

That child had to wait for a long time, in the midst of the grand procession of time, but she was used to this. However, such feelings rapidly dissipated in favor of energy as those familiar features began to flicker in front of her. Black hair, blue eyes, dark skin, and a warm smile. Lithe, feminine, and graceful. Cassiopeia knew not if this was an imagined depiction of the man in question, given his powers, but that was for the theologians to discuss. Her heart tripled in beat, and she restrained herself from opening her eyes or shutting them further, lest the image be broken. Sweat began to form on her forehead as this oddly powerful session began, and her reverence captured her spirit. Better yet, the message was more significant than normal.

Though her head was bowed, she felt as though teary eyes were blissfully staring up at Kazuo, the First and Eternal Lord of the Order of Psychics and Child of the Almighty Creator of the World Beyond. Cassiopeia loved her job far too much, but that sentiment never bothered her. Who else could say they listened to a god?

A scratchy voice began to echo through her mind, slightly interfered by their inter-dimensional distance between each other. The silhouettes of figures, surrounded by what seemed to be the edges of a mirror, dashed into her vision. Two were masculine, and one feminine. Two were short, and one was tall. One seemed strangely malicious and dashing, one seemed regal and composed, and the third seemed to be dignified and firm. All were familiar, perhaps a little too much so. They spun around in Cassiopeia's mind for a brief time, before vanishing in favor of a new, much larger image.

"Three people..." called Kazuo, straining and emphasizing each of those words. "Will escape this castle tonight. You...must let them."

The psychic made her best effort not to gasp when she saw the castle projected in her mind, with its towering gray walls, complete with turrets, towers, and holes for the archers; expansive marketplaces and cobblestone streets surrounding it; and the stately mansion within it. Thankfully, this was not an image that she had to devote to memory, nor were the weight of Kazuo's words. The impressions for the former were too biting; for the latter, too strong, and such a sensation didn't need to last long. Her objective, strange as it was, now lay before her, and she had to act quickly, else this cause would be lost.

A loud exhaling of air escaped Cassiopeia as the castle broke apart in her mind, and the shards dissipated into the mist they had come form, as did Kazuo's figure. He waved a final goodbye, though his demeanor seemed far icier and stern than before, with just a hint of concern that matched the psychic's. Eyes fluttered open as the footsteps of the guard rushed over to her. Cassiopeia's fright and sudden weakness did not help.

"Send for the king, sir!" she cried, hands propping her, to the guard with decidedly avian features. He nodded, and then the footsteps of heavy boots echoed out of the room and down the corridor. The lord's private quarters were not that far away, as she was not the only one who understood the importance of these messages. That didn't give her much time, but it would surely do. At least, enough to escape her initial wave of panic and confusion.

And come he did.

"My dear!" cried the light brown-haired man with an imposing mustache, which he twirled in nervousness as the guard rushed over and stood aside for him and his entourage of young assistants and older advisors. He seemed haggard and worn, and his outfit looked hastily put-together, the natural consequence of being awoken in the middle of the night. He had a blue silk jacket emblazoned with the royal Exedor symbol - an eagle soaring into blue skies while clutching a smaller flag with its own insignia, a massive tree. It draped over his white underclothes, loosely bound together around his waist by a thin rope, but did nothing to mask those giant eyes of his as he clasped Cassiopeia's gaunt hands in his own. Kneeling, he said to her, "What news do you bring of me?"

Cassiopeia seemed lost in her own private thoughts for a moment, before her world was snapped into clarity and focus by these words. Mustering her loudest and most dramatic voice, she replied, "My King Renatus, the soldiers of Eimhin and gathered by your border, and are preparing a sneak attack to distract you while they make for Wyandanch on the day of the ball!"

It worked. The distressed King rose in a huff, letting go of Cassiopeia as he turned to his equally-surprised and flustered advisors, and began to issue forth a stream of commands while the guard helped lift Cassiopeia to her feet. As did the blond-haired lady that came to her side, dressed in the same garb as the King. Her gangly features seemed to be even larger, as though her body was trying to flee in all directions with the news. Those sunken, amber eyes looked sympathetically upon the psychic, though the lady herself looked unhealthy and worn. Nevertheless, the Queen Renatus lifted the psychic to her feet, and helped her exit from the room as the advisors and King dashed far ahead, the former's loud voice still emanating off of the walls.

And that was that. The act had concluded, although Cassiopeia's presently frail figure was not a show. As her emotions swirled in her head, she tried to comprehend what had happened. Why had Kazuo been so ambiguous? What was the significance of this event that he could not explain it to her? Why had Kazuo been so ambiguous? What was the significance of this event that he could not explain it to her? What had she begun in motion with those people and that setting? This was all too strange, and she was struck with the sense that, no matter what she hoped, she might never be able to figure out what had just happened. That, if she had just crafted an elaborate and dismal game, she might be nothing more than its pawn.

Yet, her job was to remain ever devoted, and what else could she do but that?

"Jonah!"

The word was muffled by the thick stone walls that barricaded the occupants of the castle, but it was not unheard. Servants hurriedly rushed about upon hearing it, many passing by the open entrance to a quiet bedroom. One such attendant, armed with a pail and sponge, began to clean the floors opposite of the room's entrance, paying no need to the small lump within the green blankets draped over the bed. A gust of wind from the balcony outside lightly ruffled curtains that provided access to the rest of the room, which was marginally bare of noticeable features beyond the said bed. It was dark oak, with downy pillows and a soft, also downy mattress. Only the best for the royalty.

The audible name-calling grew louder and louder as the figure behind it neared. The boy in the blankets shook slightly, but remained stock-still. A part of him was wishing that their latest confrontation could be spiced up. If only he had the ability to light up the torch that graced the wall above his door and kept his room relatively warm on winter nights, and wave it about, as though to fend back a monster. Thankfully, though not for him, he had no proficiency in magic of any kind, and particularly not fire magic.

"Jonah!" called the light brown-haired royal as he strode in, face creased with fury, while attendants began to mill into and around the room, mumbling to each other and jotting down notes onto parchment paper with their quills. There was a yell as one tripped over the attendant's pail and sent water splashing across the corridor, but Trevonn Renatus, the 9th King of Exedor, paid it no heed. Hands clenched and unclenched before gripping the side of the bed, where he gritted his teeth while glaring down at the unwholesome lump, as though his gaze would cause it to catch fire and reveal its contents.

"What, dear father?" replied Jonah in his most innocent voice as the King grasped the blankets and cast them aside, turning to face his father with his most angelic expression. "I assure you, I haven't done a thing." The boy tried to make himself look cute by flashing and blinking his large, amber eyes.

"Brend," said Trevonn, gesturing to the advisor to his right, "saw your little outburst. I find it hard-pressed to find someone who did not, beyond myself. I find it horrible that I cannot look away from my own child for more than five seconds."

Jonah moved himself to the side of the bed where his father clung on to the mattress, an innocent smile becoming smug. His father looked even more stressed and frustrated than usual, and had the appearance of a man who had spent some time yelling. The advisors also seemed alarmed and concerned over some matter, given their energetic background conversations. Perfect. "She would've paid that bread to your lordship either way."

"We," grumbled Jonah's father, struggling to keep his composure and sanity through gritted teeth, "are obliged to protect the people, not steal from them by using our own authority."

The boy's dirty blonde hair rustled as he shot back, "Who says we are required to listen to overcharging merchants and powerless peasants? I say we have the authority to act like the kings we are. We do have the power, do we not?"

Trevonn would not dare harm his child, yet he was perpetually infuriated by the way his son always found some means by which to enrage him, and how he always fell for it. He moved his arms in a strangling motion, but continued. "The power comes from our soldiers, who are our people. If you invoke their wrath, you lose the military, and your utilitarian mindset knows that would mean the death of the kingdom."

In a swift motion, Jonah thrust himself from the bed and stood opposite of the King, placing himself in front of the light streaming from outside to cast a shadow upon those gathered. "There are those who place their loyalty to the crown above their own useless hides. Let them control the rest of the soldiers and bind them to their word, and you are invincible. Did you bring your advisers so you could give them such a lesson?" he gestured to the individuals in question. Some sneered at him, but most patiently waited for the King's response.

"I sent them here," said Trevonn, his voice becoming louder and deeper. He was at his breaking point. "To remind them of how I treat cruelty and stupidity." And, as such, came his long-winded and intense rant. The young boy was pleased to see his father's neck veins bulging, face turning unique shades of red, and spewing out a torrent of words, complaints, and verbal attacks. The man could act so childish and easy to manipulate sometimes. Yet, there was something almost...boring about this. Jonah had been doing this for years, persistently haranguing his father (and vice versa) over swordplay, his other relatives, his actions, and his servant. It felt almost tiresome to see another dispute, even if Jonah had purposely inflicted it. The boy frowned, but decided to pick it up afterwards, particularly that strange sense of a lack of fulfillment that lingered in the back of his mind, which itself demanded to be satisfied. Besides, Trevonn seemed about complete anyways.

"...disappointing child," he bellowed, face purple. "I have never meant to see you ascend to a position of royalty, and I'm glad I had the sense to. You are foolish, pathetic, frivolous, and bratty, and so it will be your sister who shall come to lead the people of Exedor in the midst of your carelessness. I hope she is decent with damage cleanup, as I have tried to do for these past years. If you remain so stupid, and provide yet another public spectacle, there will be punishment, and it will be more than cruel than locking you in your room with no food for the night." He was lying. He'd made this promise before. Jonah just smiled and waved the man goodbye as he, in a loud huff, departed, followers in tow. Trevonn was always accompanied with a personal crowd, in good times and bad. This case was the latter.

"See to it that this room is locked posthaste," said Trevonn to Brend in front of the doorway, easily loud enough for Jonah to hear. "He is but a child, so I will not have him guarded, unless he decides that he'd rather not stay where he belongs."

"And his sister?" asked the latter individual, their conversation now drifting away from Jonah. Trevonn replied with something inaudible to the sniggering child, who relaxed once more on the bed.

As such, that old sense of disappointment returned, consuming his thoughts and causing him to frown. The boy reached into a makeshift pocket in his suit (which he had himself made in an effort to learn to sow, though he'd forgotten the craft by now), and pulled out a flimsy dagger, twirling it around in his hands. The hilt was pale wood and looked worn, but the knife had been polished and now looked even slightly deadly. His favorite servant had snuck this in for him on request. The boy had always thought it the symbol for the operation of his desire. Yes, it was malicious, greedy, and power-hungry. He lived in a peaceful and complacent environment, one in which he was held off and placed beneath his darling sister; what he desired was adventure. A chance to make a name for himself, particularly an infamous one.

The boy cut himself by accident, and stared at the drop of blood on his hands. It was time.

"Madame," said Jonah flatteringly at the maid who appeared at his entrance, scrubbing the floors. Word spread quickly, but it would be some time before they found the appropriate padlock and stuck it onto his door. That was all he needed. "Do send Yorew here, if you may."

"Why are you trying to kill me?" gasped Eremia as the metal and leather corset around her waist tightened. She wheezed, struggling for breath, hands grasping one of the benches of the castle's outfitters room. Suits of armor, as well as spaces and pegs for them, adorned the walls around her, their helmets all seemingly staring at her. Some had holes for wings on their backs, but most retained the typical qualities of a bulky, metal, polished suit of armor.

"Your parents have let you be too free-spirited," chastised the plump maid with bright red overalls, a black, wide shirt, and a gray cape, as she tugged on the ropes holding Eremia's corset together, grunting in the process. "In such events at these, you must be well-dressed and...well-mannered. None of this running about and yelling at everyone who does not please your fancy. I would have you learn swordplay as well, but I'm told you're a mage, and swords are not too your liking. Still, I have the loveliest...scabbard for you!"

"That would be...fine," retorted Eremia, blonde hair flitting over her green eyes, causing her to brush it aside, "...I'm decent with a sword, but it...does not interest me. The dress, though. It seems so...restrictive." Sweat dropped down her face as she rolled her hand over the blossoming blue fabric that seemed to envelop her. It was clearly too large for her, so her maid had had to stuff it around her arms, making her shoulders seem bloated.

The attendant, complete, breathed a sigh of relief and stepped back, clapping her hands for the girl to return around and stare at her reflection within the mirror. "Not as much as it could've been," she noted with reprisal. "Your parents had forbade me from using a hoop-stay or anything too embroidered or elegant. Ah well, it is not as though it is a ball to honor the 18th birthday and formal coronation of the King of Wyandanch. Dearie me, that would require so much more style, particularly from the daughter of his dearest allies."

Eremia nodded, trying to adjust to her restrictive outfit and tight corset. "Wo--wonderful." In all honesty, beyond her freckles and simple frame, she didn't look half bad. Of course, she despised the pain and frustration of getting such an outfit one. The prospect of wearing it for most of a day seemed dreadful.

Regardless, the maid seemed pleased, asking for Eremia to stretch out her arms to either side so that the maid could see her own handiwork. "However, with our little struggle against the soldiers of Bois, that bastard Alliance, I don't know how well attended it will be. Still though, I fear you're too underdressed. Yet, if my King commands me to make you suit from rags, I would be compelled to do so, even if it rots my soul."

"This King, Wielde," said Eremia in concern, somewhat hastily. "He's not one of those hopeless romantic types, is he? I'd rather not leave for home with a marriage proposal because he had 'love at first sight.'"

The maid huffed at Eremia's air quotes while peeking at the seams of the dress and walking around Eremia to analyze the outfit. "The King Wyandanch is a charming young man, if a bit shy and reserved. If the men are not of your style, I assure that the ladies will be simply splendid--"

"I'll come for formality, not romance," shot back Eremia with a pleading gesture and a small laugh. It was incredibly awkward talking to a woman that she hadn't known existed before today, much less her position as a stylist. At least she had a colorful outfit, complete with the lesser used of Exedor's royal colors. That wasn't common fabric to find in this area, so the girl assumed that her parents clearly thought highly of this lady's significance. And, if such was the case, she had to bear with it.

The stylist, complete with her investigation, stepped back and formed a picture frame impression with her hands. "What suits you, then. I will be in attendance, naturally, and I'll sweep the handsome fellow who has been spurned by you off of their feet. Now, your outfit is complete, I do believe, but I would like you to test it out. You should walk about the castle for a time, get used to the corset and dress. Consider it practice."

Eremia had been about to breathe a sigh of relief, but now it was stifled by horror. And the corset, of course.

If it was possible to move by the sheer force of one's internal range, Eremia would've traveled halfway across the country in the short amount of time she walked across the castle. She was fortunate that she was wearing her stitched-together leather shoes (which were not seamless, and a little odd in appearance), with accompanying socks, but the dress was terrible to walk in without looking awkward, arms uncomfortably stuck to her sides due to the puffy shoulders making it hard to move them easily. Then, of course, was the problem that it felt hard to breathe in the dreadful thing. The jeering comments and lewd whistles from the occasional guard that felt as though they were distant enough from her to harass her without invoking her anger did exactly that. Normally, she would be more than happy to shout at them and force them to run off, or perhaps call upon her parents to inflict punishment, but a greater source of fury had reached her ears, and it had to be dealt with.

By the time the girl reaches the corridor, she was seething. Teeth were clenched in rage, which forced to stop every few steps to take in a deep breath and persist with her persistent march. Eremia had the grace enough to walk around a maid cleaning the floor in front of her, though the malicious part inside of her had wanted to kick the pail as far as possible into the room that was her destination.

"Jonah!" shouted the girl as she stepped into her younger brother's room. He was in the midst of talking to a tall, imposing gentleman with gray, military-cut hair, sunken eyes, and a small mustache. He wore a black leather suit that complemented Jonah's, though his had a greater accompaniment of silver buttons, and had the old and wrinkled skin under which was a tapestry of muscles and a tan that had faded slightly with age, yet not enough. Here was their appointed servant, Yorew.

The young boy, previously speaking to his servant in firm and hushed tones, shifted when he saw his sister, and leered at her while he relaxed in the bed's blankets. "My favorite sister! I thought you would come." In the meantime, Yorew turned, bowed respectfully, and never took his gaze away from her. It was unnerving how a man with such sunken eyes could act like he was staring into her soul.

She despised his manipulative and evil little voice, and the way it seemed to drip off of him like honey. "Do you care for your King at all? Why do you keep up these silly antics?"

Jonah laughed. It was surprisingly bitter and conniving, which was odd - normally, it was gleeful and conniving. "You know exactly why. But, I didn't wish you to come here to chat. I have a plan, and I thought you would be perfect for it."

It was Eremia's turn to laugh. "Another one of your plans? Those childish pranks you played? Those were fun when I was five. Now, they're just a nuisance, and you're becoming one as well. I'd say that you'd best stop whatever plan you have now, as it isn't going to work, and it will only dig your hole deeper."

"Hmph, I had hoped my second-in-command would need about as much persuasion as my confidante," mused Jonah is disappointment. "No matter; I just need a conveniently timed event to stun you." He paused, as though waiting for one, and sighed when none such happening came.

The girl huffed at him and approached him, pointing an accusatory finger. "Why have I had to do this for all these years? Why have I, out of the kindness of my heart, had to take the blame for your little games? I'd hoped you'd grow up, learn, change, and become an intelligent and dignified man like our father, but I underestimated you and your stubbornness. What will it take for you to learn?"

"Nothing," snarled Jonah, pupils growing larger for a brief second while he grabbed Eremia's hand fiercely. "I don't want to be a foolish pet under your pretty little reign. I will be my own king of my own kingdom, and I'd rather it be a bloody and vicious land. I'm tired of being inhibited by sucking up to those beneath me and those above, and I say that somebody has to pay for all of these years that you've all tried to control me."

Eremia took a step back in horror, and Jonah seemed to freeze as well. He let go of her arm and looked upon his in surprise and dismay, while the girl ran into her servant, who placed his large hand over her mouth before she could say a word. There was only a dim scream as Eremia heard the sound of the wooden door being shut and the metallic sounds of the padlock being inserted and locked. Yorew let go, and she spluttered out a few breaths and angry, indecipherable words.

"Now!" said Jonah with satisfaction, although he seemed unnerved, "you're stuck. If you call for help now, they'll come to see the king's daughter having the stupidity to be locked up with her brother. How scandalous would that be?"

The girl was dismayed now. The last place she wanted to be was in this room, with these people. Throwing herself off of the balcony could hurt her, but it was easily a better choice. "Not as much as conspiring to destroy your father's kingdom out of anger and vengeance." It was then, of course, that she realized Yorew was still standing right behind her.

Jonah brandished his puny little knife and pointed it at her. "Fine then, threats of violence it is. You're simply not being reasonable today."

Eremia frowned. Yorew was too close. She could try to use her magic, but that would take too long, and he could easily tackle her before then. Or it would blast at both Jonah and Yorew enough to potentially kill them. At best, it could knock them out, but she'd rather not have her brother's brains splattered against a wall. There was no way for her to run to the balcony, or slam the door open, or do anything other than scream. She was trapped, and, as long as Jonah kept Yorew next to her, she was effectively his hostage.

Unfortunately, Jonah recognized this as well.

He smirked as Eremia sighed and bowed her head. "I guess I must follow you," she conceded. "I'd like to say that you've gone too far, but that would be underestimating it. And shame on you, Yorew, for, as always, doing everything he asks of you. You were meant to be our servant, not just his. Or, better yet, have some free will and a voice of your own. Why do you follow this idiot?"

Yorew was not a man of many words, and remained silent as Jonah retorted, "Because he knows who is in need of a willing servant." Eremia hated how the boy emphasized the word willing. "Rather than a princess's puppet. Come then - Yorew has brought with him the ample sum of money that he's paid, and we have some food in hand." He pulled out a sack from beside him in the bed, within which the contents had likely been mashed together during their brief travels. "The King and Queen will think you have skipped dinner to study, as you normally do. I have a simple escape plan in mind, and my loose-fitting prayer robes should fit you just fine. While that outfit of yours is...dashing...it would be too distracting."

Eremia was repulsed. "Turn your perverted little self away, then. Hand me those clothes, Yorew, and see if you can undo this corset. I'm glad to be rid of it, even if I despise the reason behind such. Then we'll discuss your misguided strategy and petty plans."

"Oh, have no fear," replied Jonah, staring out past the sliver of light in between the curtains. "With you here, I will succeed. Just you see."

It was finally nighttime at the castle. A faint wind blew over the spiraling towers as soldiers flew and kept watch in their air, sharp eyes scanning over the quaint and small houses and marketplaces of the surrounding city for anything out of the ordinary. From the east-facing side of the central mansion, a long, rectangular fountain extended towards one of the massive wooden castle gates, which was presently closed. Water slowly trickled from stone statues of young men with pails as soldiers marched about the magnificently carved fountain façade. The light of torches flickered in the area as guards passed among rows of neatly trimmed hedges, stomping along the grass by fruit trees. The atmosphere was dark, quiet, and neat. The proper security measures had been taken in the potential of an intrusion, and the lack of activity thus far did not indicate there would be any. Of course, nobody in the castle could've expected that somebody would be trying to break out, rather than in.

Yorew, Eremia, and Jonah crouched underneath the stony rim of the balcony, which itself resembled a small tower's top, the conical structure replaced with that of alternating raised and lowered stone formations. The boy, of course, kept his knife close to Eremia, who now wore the loose-fitting robes tied around her waist. It would've been far easier to breathe if she wasn't so nervous and sweaty, though on the verge of a panic attack.

Their servant peaked out to view the paths of the guards, evident by the dim lights of their torches. Satisfied by what he saw, he turned to the siblings and nodded. Jonah inched his knife closer to his sister's neck, but hesitated when he heard a slowly building gust of wind from the east. A smug smile appeared as he saw his sister's forehead wrinkle in concentration, and the trees began to sway ever so slightly. Eremia was always most skilled at wind magic. Though the breeze wavered and shook, Jonah knew enough to know that was her nerves, which only amused him more. She had always been the confident and firm one, and seeing her reduced to this gave him some sort of satisfaction.

There was murmuring among the guards, yet not much of a strong response. None of them were close enough to the focal point of the wind, which was starting to blow across Eremia's outfit in ripples and shake Jonah's hair. "Don't spend too long," he hissed at her as the wind grew stronger. He had to bend right next to her ear to be heard. "It just needs to be enough to soften our fall, not carry us down."

After a few seconds, the strong breeze steadied. It was capable enough to influence Jonah's steadiness and stability but slightly, and had no impact on either of the others but wave about their outfits slight. No severe response from the guards. All was according to plan. He grasped his sister's hand with the one not holding his knife, and the two, together, with Jonah pulling his sister, placed a foot precariously over the edge of the balcony. Her eyes closed, and locked in concentration, Eremia gave no response, but Jonah himself was rather surprised by the way his foot felt decently stable atop the column of produced wind, which was now acting like a miniaturized, localized tornado. It was condense enough to help them float fairly easily onto the ground, but not strong or widespread enough so for the guards to take severe notice. As far as they were concerned, it was a typical breeze from the Pillars of the World.

Yorew joined them, and all took a literal leap of faith as they placed their other foot over the balcony and let go. Now they were falling, but only slowly. Jonah breathed a sigh of relief, but it was cut short when he saw his sister make a small incantation. "Creator of Mine, gift upon me that which I have been given," she murmured. His eyes widened in horror, and he pulled the both of them away from their view of the gardens and exterior walls, so that they would face the mansion's cobblestone walls. Yorew did the same before the column of air doubled in strength and loudness, making it easily visible to all neighboring observers. Jonah could hear the flickering and death of torches while guards shouted and scrambled to see what was happening. Those in the air were likely being buffeted by the winds and couldn't approach, but that didn't mean they hadn't been caught. Why, in the name of The Creator, did he place this much trust in his sister?

"Stop!" cried a voice from below, battered by the din and slightly shaky from surprise. "I am Carnell, the lead guard of the defenders of The 9th King Renatus. Speak your identities and purposes now, and no harm shall come to you!"

Jonah's pupils widened, and he turned upon Eremia with a knife, pressing it gently against her throat. "Stop, foolish girl! Would you rather die then let your brother be happy for one in his miserable life?" He stifled a scream when he saw a drop of blood drip from his sister, yet the girl was adamant. Her breathing was ragged, she was evidently sweating, and her face was dreadfully pale. But, Eremia was now the most determined and bravest person he had ever seen, and he had to stop her. By whatever means he could muster that wouldn't leave him with a dead sister and ally.

"Princess," he grumbled at her through gritted teeth, "stop this folly, or I'll have Yorew strangle you, and use your body as a shield. Don't you dare betray your own brother."

"You...don't mean that," she whispered, a tear dripping from her face as she saw right through his lie. "He...wouldn't do that." The servant did not move or respond. "I...will not do it....even for you." Her voice was scratchy and distracted, but the words were heavy.

"Who are you?" bellowed the lead guard again, with an even less steady voice. As the trees began to sway more, and the platform of air grew more stable and steadfast, the resulting of armor and retreating of foosteps indicated that the other guards had decided to leave their posts in terror, convinced in their doom. Carnell's loud and frustrated shouting of, "Fools! Damnable idiots! How dare you betray your King!" confirmed this.

Jonah couldn't help but surmise, in this situation, that Carnell was truly an idiot. Who would indicate that his fellow soldiers had fled, much less name himself and his importance, as though to make himself a greater target to strike? Still, as they gradually descended, the boy noticed from an aside glance that the armored man's torch cast only dim shadows upon them, which themselves were swallowed up by the night. As long as they did not face him, he would not have any idea of who they are, particularly as he doubted that this man knew their appearances all that well. Now was the time for quick thinking, and Jonah quickly reached for the nearest story in his mind. He despised it, as he didn't have much respect for the main character or his military strategies and prudish behavior, but it would do to give him a few more essential seconds.

Moving the knife away from Eremia, the child boomed in his loudest and most impressive voice, "Who dares threaten the Lord of Exedor, Joseph Renatus!? I have founded this house, helped build it with my own two hands, and led my people from the jungles of their origin to build a new home for us. With the assistance of my loyal Marble Knights, I have come to bring my judgment upon the people of this mortal world, and thrust myself free from the chains that have bound me to this world. How may you challenge the whims of the Creator?"

The man was dumbstruck, and stammered in confusion as he neared with his torch. "What...what...how...are you...?" After a few seconds of silence, he began to shout. "You! Stop! I do not think that the First Lord Exedor would have the appearance of a child. Are you the King's--?"

"Oh, Creator, bless me with the powers that I have been gifted," whispered Jonah, feeling a surge of energy pour through his body and into the girl's. It revitalized her and brought color to her face, yet she refused to open her eyes or even look at her brother, nor stopped the sudden onset of slight twitching and sweating. However, she did try to resist when he pulled her hand back, but the movement was too quick for her, and her eyes popped open in horror as the pillar of air exploded outwards from beneath their feet.

The buildup of energy was incredible. The trio were too close to the ground, but even they were spun into the air and toppled head over heels onto the earth. The fleeing guards, in comparison, were blasted away by the sheer force of the wind, which sent even Carnell backwards onto the ground. Trees howled and whistled in despair as water exploded from the fountain, spraying the statue and the ground all about it. The flying guards flapped their wings in horror and scattered about in a panic, some thrown towards the ground or higher into the sky. A masterful chaos sounded its way through castle halls, catching in surprise attendants in their daily business. Only the King, ever an determined and heavy sleeper, did not open his eyes, although his wife did.

Everything next was a blur in the eyes of Jonah. Something had quite clearly broken, but his hearing and senses were so terrible he couldn't identify what had. He groaned audibly as his vision whirled and he felt nauseous, tired, and weak, unable to move off of the ground. Yorew stood up a little unsteadily, but appeared mostly unharmed. The servant walked over to Eremia, bent over, whispered, "I wouldn't," in her ears, and grabbed her with one arm while he proceeded to pick up Jonah in the other. He then paced himself rather hurriedly, trying to escape the oncoming chaos. Were the boy capable of thinking, and didn't remain limp at Yorew's side, he would be impressed as the man's strength, which he had only seen before when the King and Queen tasked the tall old man to lift a few cabinets for them.

"How...how dare you," spat a bruised and bloodied Carnell from his position by the fountain, raising his head to reveal his red mouth. "You...must be apprehended...but…I can’t…wh-why? Who are you? What children fight like that? And what man can stop an army?"

"Ah, ever the mystery," noted Yorew as he walked past the guard, winking at him. In the shadows, it was hard to see him pale and stammer slightly as he looked at the wounded figure beside him. His expression otherwise remained as fixated as ever as he strolled his way past the fountain, grassy paths and shrubs, and made his way towards the east gate. A rudimentary horse stable had been installed by the gardening, and the horses whinnied and neighed in a panic as they kicked at the wooden walls and gates that kept them in place, the torches that had lighted their roofed space blown out and smoking. Looking about, the servant identified a white horse in particular, and proceeded over to it.

Setting aside the children by placing them in a sitting position against a wooden post, the man placed his hands over the familiar white horse and rubbed its nose, relaxing it. When it was complacent enough at seeing its old master, it calmly allowed Yorew to snatch a saddle from another post and stick it upon the horse. The man had been doing this for years, particularly during the King's travels to various parts of his kingdom to inspect the citizenry, and had been working on training Eremia in the art of horseback riding. Thus, it didn't take him much time to tether the saddle in place, upon which he open and closed the gate gently and made his way towards the small stone tower by the massive entrance door. The horse seemed to complain mildly as Yorew stopped paying it attention, particularly by desisting to rub its nose, but the other horses were now somewhat calmed by the man's presence, and so they patiently sat about without much fear or tension, as though waiting for his return.

When attempting to push aside the door indicated that it had been locked, he merely kicked it open. The guard stationed there was unable to pick up his lance and take a battle stance in time for Yorew to pull off his helmet and apologize, whereupon a few quick punches were enough to dispatch him. The servant had to push the man's limp figure aside to grasp the handles of the wooden windlass attached to the wall, its connections extended from behind the stone wall towards the system of counterweights and balances that allowed the castle gate to be lifted. Uttering a small incantation, he rolled up his sleeves, grasped the windlass, and pulled on it with all the strength that he could muster. Grunting, he persisted, trying to work as quickly as possible. It wasn't necessary that he be able to lift the entire structure himself, and he doubted that he alone had the strength to raise those heavy metal gates. All he needed, however, was to raise them just enough to slip by with his horse and cargo, and hope that he could do so in time to avoid the wave of guards that was likely heading to the area already, curious and surprised about what had just happened.

After a minute's work, familiar shouts and cries reached his ears, and the man desisted. Confident that the gates had been risen enough, Yorew dashed out from the room to find a swarm of torches approaching from the distance of the mansion's entrances and the surrounding shrubbery. Loud shouts and the clunking of metal now filled the air, yet they weren't close enough to the fountain, and their armor restrained them. Meanwhile, the loud cries of the avian guards indicated that they were preparing to swoop down on the injured and hapless duo still sitting, slumped, by the stables. Rushing towards them, Yorew saw the girl raise her hand at the oncoming gathering above her head, faint torchlight highlighting her pale and terrified features. It was clear what her intentions were - escape from this kidnapping.

Jonah grabbed her hand, and another gust of wind exploded outwards, buffeting and knocking aside the air squadron. Both passed out, far too exhausted to continue, as Yorew reached for the gate, pulled it outwards, grabbed the children under each arm, and sat them upon the now panicked and frenzied horse, who tried desperately to escape from his position. The servant dodged flailing limbs and grabbed the steed by its reins, sitting atop it and behind the children as he cracked the leather reins like a whip. The stallion sprinted outwards as Yorew ducked under the stable roof. Quickly reining in the horse, to its consternation, it was quickly directed away from the soldiers, yanked in the general direction of the castle gates. Thankfully, they were high enough for the horse and its riders, in full gallop, to dash past.

They were fortunate enough that the castle's drawbridge hadn't been raised, as the King hadn't felt there was a substantial and immediate threat to force it to be used. As such, the last glimpse of the trio was of them framed against moonlight falling upon the water of the moat. The last sounds heard by onlookers was the clacking of hooves against cobblestone as the horse galloped its way onto the streets of the surrounding city, leaving a trail of awoken and spooked citizens in the way.

All that the gradually assembling crowd of horrified and flustered guards could see now, while picking up injured comrades and trying to discern the identities of those involved. Now there was a cry and a fervor over the whereabouts of the King, who was now hurriedly preparing to enter the courtyard, and his family.

Too late.

Eremia awoke to the sounds of morning birds chirping delightfully as she balanced precariously on the large limb of a tree, before falling off and landing on the ground by a pile of road apples. Her back ached, her head was sore, and she felt incredibly tired and hungry.

She guessed today was not going to be a good day.

Her experiences of the previous night caught up to her, and she was swept by wave of consternation and panic that consumed her. Taking a peek at her surroundings, she found herself by a small pond fed by an equally tiny creek, but a speck in an ever-rolling expanse of slight hills that pocketed the countryside, with an interlay of cultivated land and wild, yet simplistic grasslands. The trickling water was clean and clear, and she had the distinct desire to drink from it, until she saw the familiar figure of her brother, sleeping in contention in another tree branch. Then came the sensation of rage and the willingness to shove him off and throw him into the road apples.

"Hello, madam," came a weak voice from beside the pond, and it was then that Eremia looked to see a gaunt, pale, and frail-looking Yorew. The bags under his eyes seemed to indicate that he hadn't slept at all during the last night, and he rested against his horse, which was currently drinking from the pond. The girl had always seen him as strong, confident, and capable, and so this was, needless to say, horrifying. He propped himself up with a staff that he had always kept within a long scabbard, as though it was the only kind of weapon he thought he would use (which was likely the case), and hobbled next to her.

"Where in the world are we?" the girl demanded in her best threatening voice, pointing accusatorily at Yorew, and then at Jonah. The servant walked ungracefully past her and rapped his staff against the tree.

"By the southern border of Exedor," replied Yorew. There was a shuffling and a yawn from the tree, which was interrupted half way by Yorew's statement. After a lot of shuffling and scrabbling, Jonah fell from the tree with a satisfying thud.

"Wha-what?" spluttered Eremia, shooting her brother a nasty look as he righted himself and sat in the grass with a gleeful smile. "How did we travel that far in a night?"

"Exedor is not a big country, my dear," said Yorew contentedly, sitting down by the water while still clutching his staff. Jonah stood up and brushed the dirt off of his clothes in disgust. "And your father led armies and processions - those cannot travel as quickly as one horse and its riders. It was my duty to stay up all night, however, as it is impossible for a horse to enter full gallop for hours, and I had to see that it rested as frequently as I could have it. It was only an hour or two ago that we arrived here."

"And what happened to you?" she voiced in concern, walking over to, kneeling, and clasping Yorew's hand. "What did the guards my stupid brother enraged do to you?"

"Ah, they were no problem," replied the man, brushing aside her hand. "But, you both were badly injured - broken bones on both your accounts, I think, and a concussion. I had to see that you were healed, and you know how magic can tear at the strength of its wielder.

Eremia felt a hand on her shoulder, and whirled around to slap her brother in the face. He rubbed his cheek and frowned, but responded to the questions still in her mind. "It was my idea. Our home is in the south, and we're not far from Wyandanch and Eimhin. I thought that it would be easier to head to Eimhin, as Wyandanch and Exedor are both probably scrambling to find us by now. If we're smart, this can be our base of operations."

The livid girl made to punch her brother, but desisted. "This country is a madman's place," she reprimanded him with. "The King is cruel, merciless, and vicious, and is the leader of the Alliance! Even if we can avoid him and his soldiers, whom I've been told are among the best fighting forces on this planet, we still have to deal with his son and informants. How do you think you can survive here for longer than a day!?"

Before Jonah had a chance to answer, Yorew rose, placing the reins around a tree branch, and began to make his way away from the small creek and pool. Eremia rose and followed him hurriedly. It was not easy, due to his incredibly long strides, but she went after him, with Jonah casually stepping behind her. The girl had a question forming at the back of her mind, but she saw where his gaze fell upon.

In the distance, behind the tree, a collection of houses and stone buildings seemed to rise up from the surrounding countryside. Smoke filtered from the chimneys of some of the structures, and a gathering of townsfolk were rushing to and fro the area. If the girl stared hard enough, she could see the impression of market stalls in the midst of the households.

"I wished that we'd prepared our food more properly," mused Yorew. "Yet, we didn't have time, and so our supplies are presently an inedible mess. I do not think word has spread quickly enough for the citizens to suspect us of anything, so we should be fine. We'll find something to eat, as I'm sure you must be starving, return here, and make our way into Eimhin, so that we may keep distance from the oncoming army the King Renatus is sure to bring."

"And sister?" commented Jonah, placing his hand on Eremia's shoulder again, and then dodging the subsequent fist. Laughing, he continued. "Don't think you can run away from here and make your way back to the soldiers. Yorew is still strong enough to fight you, and we're close enough to Eimhin territory that you're bound to capture their attention. And did I mention you still don't know how to ride a horse well, and must head all the way back to a home you can't even find anymore?"

It was hard for her to avoid the urge to strangle him.

Unfortunately for them, people happened to be rather suspicious of a trio of rich-looking, but definitely beaten-up, group of individuals with the Exedor logo splayed across them. Eremia had once been told that this was the southern border with Eimhin, but this parcel of land had always belonged to Eimhin first and foremost. While the north adapted to its new nationality fairly quickly, this place did not, particularly when Eimhin claimed some of the southern land in a past war. It was no wonder that the King and Queen had troubled with deploying and using soldiers here.

Still, the vendors seemed rather cheerful to have someone buying from them, regardless of who the said buyer was. Eremia, who had draped a hood over her, walked alongside Yorew in the central courtyard of the town, with Jonah right behind them. The girl cast a few glances at the town's armory, and wondered what the militia in this area was like, as well as whether or not they were planning any kind of ambush or otherwise paying awfully close attention to them. However, the few soldiers scattered about seemed uncaring, although a few did stare at the trio with some level of confusion or suspicion, as did many passing citizens. Nevertheless, one butcher, graced in a bloodstained apron, at a corner of the marketplace was cordial enough, greeting the man and girl as they approached and asked for some of the wares.

"We'd have to get this cooked," mused the girl as she observed the collection of steaks scattered about the table. Not the most hygienic of wares, sure, but Eremia was starving, and happy to have what she could. And the food did look fantastic in her mind, if a bit too bloody and fresh for her liking.

"There's a baker a few steps a here," replied the butcher with a thick, heavy accent. It was completely unfamiliar to the girl, but it sounded like what she'd heard of the western voices. On the other hand, he looked a little less than sober, although the girl wasn't sure if his unshaven and battered appearance was leading her to that conclusion. The burly man certainly had a distinct tan and a rugged, worn appearance. "If you've got the money - and I'm guessing ya do - she'll be nice enough to cook it for ya."

"In that case," noted Yorew, pointing towards a particularly large one, "We'll take that fine specimen." He placed a few silver coins on the table, they with the typical Wyandanch symbol that was the currency of most of the area.

The butcher frowned a bit, but picked up the pieces and inspected them, nodding to himself before clenching the coins in his hand and opening a small box under the table to place them in. "Kid!" he called. "Hand me some of that wrapping paper."

A black-haired boy with overalls and a shirt appeared from the other end of the stall, setting down a heavy box as he opened another one and pulled out dull brown paper and some string. He handed it to the butcher while he returned to his duties, and the former wrapped up the selected piece of meat appropriately before handing it over to Yorew. "It's heavy," he said gruffly, and was immensely surprised to see the servant hold it up with ease.

"Wonderful!" said the girl cheerfully. "Thank you for the kind service!"

The butcher laughed and rubbed the back of his head. "You're a bit too flattering there, but fine, then. Good day to you, and the land graced by your presence!" That was definitely a western saying, Eremia noted, as she'd once known a man who'd visited her father's court for a few days and claimed to head from a blood land, whatever that meant, who'd said expressions like that. She was going to ask him a little about himself, for curiosity's sake. It wasn't every day she met a foreigner, particularly as she'd lived in what had been a fairly localized place her whole life.

Of course, nobody in the vicinity had any more time for ample conversation or frivolities about one's location and life, as there were the sounds of a scuffle emanating from somewhere in the marketplace. Eremia whirled around to see where her brother was, and, to her lack of surprise, he wasn't anywhere to be found. In the meantime, the butcher's eyes quickly shifted towards where the sounds of oncoming footsteps were, but what he saw was enough to destroy that gesture. He returned back to looking at his wares, acting completely ignorant as the duo rushed off towards where a small crowd of people was gathering.

Now they had to push aside the strangers as they approached the center of the commotion, earning them many angry and upset stares. Thankfully, it seemed as though the crowd was dispersing, although it was clear that was due to the wall of soldiers now surrounding an empty clearing, their spears pointed towards the onlookers. And, by a vendor who was now cowering beneath his stall of vegetables, was Jonah, struggling with some lady over a piece of cabbage. Eremia sighed. Typical.
"I'm the Prince of Exedor!" he shouted hoarsely, as though he'd spent the last five minutes stating it, which wasn't unlikely. "See? Even the soldiers have come to my aid! Desist at once, you foul peasant, and let go of your worthless food, and I might not kill you."
The old lady then spotted something behind the boy and let out a piercing scream, abandoning the food she'd just bought as she ran off and away, passing in between the soldiers and into the dissipating crowd. Eremia realized she was seeing the same thing as well, and her eyes widened in horror, but she couldn't do a thing about it. Now her brother was lying on his butt, happily raising the cabbage over his head and saying, "You old wench, fool, idiot! I'm happy to see you were smart enough to understand whom your superior is!"

"I'd say your's the idiot here," said a imposing man in a red bandana as he grabbed Jonah by the neck and lifted him into the air. "Prince Exedor, ya say? I say that makes you as good a ransom as any, ya get me?" The man's long blonde hair flowed down a strong body, and, despite the scars that outlined his face and tore up his cheek, the man wore a chainmail vest over a green suit and brown trousers. It actually looked rather opulent, as though an indicator that this man had clearly made himself wealthy from his craft, horrible as it was. Rougher-looking associates began to appear from the alleyway behind the vendor and started appearing at the corners of Eremia's vision. The crowd, as crowds tend to do, had long ago chosen to neglect the scene in its entirety, even as the shouting, swearing, and kicking boy struggled and was pulled into the alleyway by what was most likely the ringleader of a crime group, who was now beginning to be enclosed by cronies.

"No!" shouted Eremia in exasperation, as Yorew smacked one of the poor soldiers senseless. The others all pointed their spears at the duo in unison, but the crime boss, who handed off the boy to a man with a rope, stopped in between the contrasting dark alleyway and bright streets to wave them aside.

"There's'll be," he commented crudely. "I'm guessing you're with this poor sap?" He gestured to the boy before the individual in question was carried off into the shadows.

Eremia's eyebrow twitched. Yorew remained as silent and as expressionless as ever, but the way his eyes narrowed into slits and he cracked his knuckles told their own story.

The un-charming, un-charmed snake of Claec, Alsather Merione, rarely laughed in any form; it was not in his character. All bystanders froze, a shivering feeling working its way down their spines. His smile instantly turned into a frown, and he spoke slowly, deliberately. “It is costly and time-consuming to move my…resources…on such short notice, in or out of the land, as I should imagine your people will be entering that land quickly. I will do as I can, and you may deal with the rest; this has always been our agreement.”

The bear scowled, but waved in a man in armor and dark-blue leather, the latter carrying a metal chalice. Intimidated, he only thought of saying, “My children don’t want ta’ walk to your swamps and fight fools with pitchforks. Did ya’ know how long it took ta’ clear Rigismend?” He slurped the wine in the chalice.

A burly man beside the advisor, wearing rugged and torn clothes underneath a few pieces of shining armor, sneered at the bear. “Kasimir won’t like the taste of that.”

That advisor poked his head up, loosely wiping the wine dripping from the edges of his mouth and chin in a futile and lazy gesture. “What he don’t know don’t hurt him.”

“And how many snakes are there?” blurted out a small girl to Alsather’s side. Frail in her form, she wore a purple and black dress that stretched down to her knees, which were only partly covered by long, black boots. Blonde ringlets streamed from the back of her head as she stared up nervously into Alsather’s eerie stare. The girl had an unhealthy pallor in her face, itself too unnaturally smooth and pale. Her cheekbones were showing, and one of her ears wiggled slightly in what was a nervous tic. “A few dozen, I think. What about the people? How many thousands of them have to die or flee? Why are harming my kind for the sake of yours? Aren’t we in the same country?”

The bear advisor frowned at her. If it wasn’t for the fact she could barely look above the table, she may have noticed. As it stood, she was already cowering from Alsather. “Why da’ ya’ bring ‘er here?” he commented gruffly to the snake after a few seconds. “She ain’t here but to hide under the table and treat ya’ like a king and master. Which you ain’t.”

Alsather’s frown grew deeper, but he ignored the advisor’s commentary as he looked between that man and the girl. “Cerin is the Queen of Claec,” he finally said, after some pondering. “I am her regent. Without her father and mother, she is but a naughty and inexperienced child. I bring her here to teach her a lesson for her irrational behavior. I would think that the leaders of Walenty would not resort to taking personal shots at their allies.”

In response, the strapped man raised out his arm, palm outstretched in the direction of Alsather, his other hand gesturing to the rows of scars and cuts along the limb in question, including a missing finger. “I was a slave too,” he said simply, before rapidly shifting his form into that of a bipedal wolf. “And we’re allies, but the Mad King runs the real show. As for Kasimir, he made you give him your throne, even when he couldn’t take over the country himself. He is your ruler, and you don’t want to take shots at his men. Do you—”

“Enough!” The advisor raised his chalice before slamming his fist on the table, rustling the maps in the center and causing Alsather to take a step back in surprise. Somebody struck their head against the underside of the table as he noted, “Our countries need each other, and I’m not gettin’ in the way of that. Just wanted to point it out, that she might be a child, and she was tryin’ to hold onto my leg a minute ago, but it’s like she’s always naughty, and the punishment is always somethin’ about lives.” Cerin, nursing a bump on her head, pushed her way out of the table and shivered as Alsather placed his hand on her shoulder. The bear sighed and set the goblet out in front of him, over the map. “He wants out ta’ lord over ya’ again, and I won’t argue anymore. There ain’t any budging with ya’, so do what’cha can. I’ll get soldiers in there in a few days.”

Closing his eyes, the bear was gone in a second. In his place was a man about as large as the advisor had been. This person appeared strong and affable, thanks to his dark-blue, royal outfit covering his massive frame, and the huge sword – almost long enough to touch the ceiling of the tent - strapped to his back. With a slightly-protruding chin and warm smile, he looked at the small gathering of leaders and their attendants in earnest. Cerin, staring up from the table, ducked her head again, almost as afraid of this round-faced, brown-eyed, black-haired man as she was of Alsather. Then again, everyone terrified her here.

The new man saw the goblet, took a sip of it, and admitted nothing in his expression as he momentarily quivered and a tear fell down one of his eyes. After a few rough gasps and clutching his chest, followed by handing the chalice to the man who had given it out previously, he ruffled his hair with a tanned hand, revealing small ears trapped in the dark mass. Leaning back in his chair, planting his huge arms firmly on the table, he finally focused his vision on Alsather, smirking. “I thought you hated humanity, you smug old snake. Change in heart?”

The regent of Claec sighed and pinched his nose. “You have asked this question a thousand times, you errant buffoon. You know that I cannot walk in any other of my forms, and performing any task at all would be a pain. Sometimes, I earnestly wonder how you came to be the King of Walenty.”

Kasimir, the Lord Walenty, leaned forward, his smile turning malevolent. “Now, who was the one who said something about insulting allies?”

In response, Alsather scowled, flashing yellowed, but otherwise perfectly ordinary, human teeth. “Charming,” he said quietly, the corner of his mouth briefly shifting upwards in an insincere smile. Deciding that it would be a bad idea to say anything further, he huffed and pushed Cerin into the waiting arms of a tall, brunette lady with cataracted eyes. He ignored the young girl’s worried looks as he marched about the tent, boots leaving faint impressions in the mostly-dried grass as he pulled down maps from spikes along the walls and set them down on the table. Taking caution to not trip over the wooden cabinets and seats interspersed across the area, he rummaged through drawers for further texts and maps, every pair of eyes in the room watching him intently. Kasimir maintained a quiet conversation with his wolf soldier, gesturing and glancing at Alsather a few times. The latter noticed how the soldier nodded his head and left the tent summarily.

“I should hope that Aelius has no one here?” said Alsather at last, grabbing a large bundle of scrolls and laying them out across the war table. He murmured to himself as he stared over the impression of a massive, fortified, hexagonal city, fingers pointing to various marked points of entrance.

Kasimir placed his elbows on the table and peered over, causing the entire thing to bend in his direction. “In this room, no,” he remarked dryly, while Alsather snatched up papers and rearranged them hurriedly so that they would not fall upon the ground. “There is bound to be a spy or messenger scattered in this camp, as I know he isn’t dumb to ignore a sudden move of troops among his allies. He won’t dare to bring any soldiers himself, but he will be more than happy to condemn us. Still, I hope our operation will be over long before he can get the news and react.” The King of Walenty pulled out a large pair of spectacles from a small pouch tucked in his shirt, ignoring Alsather’s death glare, before silently reading the text on the maps.

“I see no reason as to why he has joined us in the first place,” Alsather fumed, walking over to the entrance of the tent and gesturing for a few well-dressed individuals to enter. They gathered behind his seat, patiently awaiting his commands, as he stared down at the still-reading Kasimir and continued, “He persists to believe in his folly of diplomacy with undiplomatic individuals, and then brags and boasts as though he feels he is truly solving the problem at hand while antagonizing and harrying our efforts. The King of Comas preaches lies, and I have no tolerance for him.”

After a few seconds of silence, Kasimir stared right back, flashing a smile. “It’s always enjoyable to watch you rage against kings and lords despite how much danger it brings on yourself. You know that you’re happy to have his name attached to our plot, if not his soldiers.” He stood up and stretched, forcing Alsather to take a few steps back on threat of being hit by a massive arm. “Besides, what better way to get back at him than tie him to something that would ruin his reputation?”

The snake responded with his default expression, but nodded in slight eagerness. He resumed seating where he had been previously, twiddling his fingers in contemplation as he observed Kasimir resume reading. The way that Kasimir would smirk at some random detail was exceptionally unnerving, as it was always hard to tell what he was thinking. He had that knack for making himself look far stupider than he was. Still, never to be done with the conversation, and knowing that it would be incredibly hard to break Kasimir’s façade, Alsather piped up on a different topic. “He will be coming here soon, I imagine. Of course, it is full well possible he may be asleep, and is not bothered by leaving us in this cold weather for so long.”

“I’ve run a mile,” grumbled Kasimir, impatient by being distracted from his reading “and I’m tired of hearing the word ‘cold.’ Inside and outside, you’re the only ‘cold’ one here. The King may be a slouch, and as dour as you, but I’m sure he’s relishing being with his husband rather than being stuck with you.”

Alsather was about to voice a complaint, but was silenced by the loud call of a trumpet’s notes breaking the camaraderie. He resorted to crossing his arms and glaring ferociously at the entrance to the tent. A few seconds passed before the wolf soldier arrived, bringing with him a stern-looking boy with bowl-cut, brown-reddish hair. His elaborate robes, adorned in the center by the emblem of a shield, upon which a man’s outstretched hand held out a sword against a serpentine-looking rivals, were dull gray and mud-splattered, but he paid no heed to his own appearance. The young man set down the bundle of papers and books in his own hand and smiled faintly as he quickly talked to Kasimir, the wolf soldier standing over them both. Even this was silenced under the procession of shadows now forming around the edges of the tent.

There was no need for torches when the sun had already risen for some time; all it did was emphasize the row of soldiers with spears marching across the field of the camp. Though it was slightly masked by the tent flap, Alsather could see several attendants holding up a massive platform draped over with green curtains, hiding the faces of the two individuals within. Smart, well-dressed looking individuals stood at the front of the procession, stepping aside as the platform neared. They, too, wore green; the generals among them saluted as bronze shields of an archer riding atop a deer gleamed in the sunlight. Everyone looked clean-shaven, strong, and exceeding healthy. As the soldiers set down the platform in front of those within the tent, who were now crowding towards the entrance, Alsather sighed. The men within those beautiful green curtains likely didn’t look nearly as dignified.

The trumpet stopped playing as one man leaped out from behind the green screen and stood unsteadily on the grass.

A single word to describe him would be haggard. Lanky, pale, and tall, the man in question rose above Alsather, being slightly higher than even Kasimir. He wore two capes that fluttered as he stood; the bottom was brown and orange, and the top was green. Tight fitting shoes constrained his feet and left him unstable on the ground, although his general haphazard appearance indicated he wasn’t much for balance and prestige. Wearing green robes atop a leather vest and black pants bound by a tightly-drawn belt with a metal buckle, he raised his arms in the air dramatically, he brandished a smug and slightly annoyed smile on his face. Alsather had a hard time looking away from the stubble, deep bags under the eyes, and slightly-maddened stare of the man as he stepped out of the tent and shook hands. The man looked quite happy to see Alsather uncomfortable, stepping forward in pride as he pulled off a green cap to reveal dry and limp, blonde hair bound into dreadlocks.

A second man exited the platform while the first one made his way towards the tent. Dressed similarly, though the outfit was looser, he had close-cropped black hair and looked far healthier, more clean-shaven, and professional, save for his pompous narrowed eyes and scowl that quickly degenerated into an even more smug grin. However, the manner in which he walked around awkwardly, and his eyes seemed to dilate and contract, indicated that he was drunk. None of the generals that had accompanied them, assuming they noticed such an undignified spectacle, said anything about it. It was wiser not to.

As the snake of Cleac retreated back into the confines of the tent, Kasimir stepped out warily, followed by his strategist and soldier. As he made to embrace the leading man, his smile disintegrated into an expression of disgust and discomfort, much to the other man’s amusement. Kasimir rapidly transformed into the bear advisor, who subsequently briefly engulfed the green man in a hug while looking increasingly repulsed. After shaking hands, the green man brushed the hair off of his outfit while the bear shifted back into Kasimir, who sighed in exasperation and defeat and also shook hands.

“Cath,” acknowledged Kasimir in as diplomatic and patient a tone as he could muster. He held an outstretched palm to the slowly-approaching black-haired man, who was trying to keep himself steady through staring at his feet intently. “Leathan. As dignified as ever.”

The blonde-haired man assumed a confident pose, though his face degenerated into a long scowl at Kasimir. “All I have heard you make are backhanded compliments. You should, and must, address your superior with confidence. I don’t want nicknames; I want the respect that I deserve.”

Kasimir sighed and slouched as Cath shook hands with his associates, saying his next lines in agitation and a flat voice. “The Mad King of Eimhin, Lord Catharnach, Deerhunter, and Leader of the Alliance of Boisboudran.”

Catharnach waved aside the Lord Walenty’s associates while calling in his own generals, who broke their silent formation to crowd the entrance to the tent. “I am not mad,” he barked at the other King as that man walked past him and sat down at the same post as before, though now slouching. “You all call me mad, deciding that I’m not worth your respect. Behind every corner, pillar, and wall, you deride me. I know the rumors. Know that I am devoted, and that you should take notice of me.”

With a flourish of his cape, he stood before the tap and pointed to the city at the center of the map. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I have a show to run, and you’re fortunate to be invited, rather than be on the stage of the act.”

He sneered. “It’s almost better that way.”

The sun had already risen for an hour or so when Madeleine guided the depressed Eremia from the private tent set up for her to the no-longer-imposing tent of The Doves, Yorew in tow.

“You should not be a general,” the ginger-haired lady commented, leading Eremia along the trampled grass of the camp grounds as she stared ahead towards the large, beige structure looming ahead. “Alarick is being a foolish and stupid man again, which isn’t at all surprising. You have no prowess on a battlefield, and I don’t want you feeling cocky enough to try. Remember that it is your choice, and he cannot hold anything against you.

Eremia nodded. Yorew pulled a comb from his pocket and attempted to fix her rebellious, scattered hair. She still had a few bandages over the most persistent injuries, though most of her wounds had been healed with ease.

Importantly, the girl had stopped crying a long time ago. What was left was emptiness.

The trio entered the space. Large wooden posts held up the faded tent as it towered over the heads of all the occupants. One of the corners had been burned off by the fire, and the whole place still smelled of smoke. Several people were attempting to brush the ashes off of the damaged table, dusting it away from the ground before throwing it outside to be carried away by the wind. Light shot in through the various holes on the canvas, revealing the central table and its various occupants as they attempted to arrange papers. Some maps and documents had been burned outright, while numerous others were at least partly damaged. Soldiers were carting in boxes from what was probably Alarick’s private tent; the man helped to pry them open and investigate their contents.

Compared to the already partly number of seats, there were few generals. Jonathan nodded politely as Madeline sat down across from him. Eremia sat next to him, Yorew choosing to sit next to her. He remained as blank-faced as ever, although his emotions, however hard to read, suggested concern for the girl to his left. It was when he reacted at all that demonstrated any kind of strong feeling, but Eremia stared at the wood on the table and ignored him. Opposite of Yorew, sitting beside an empty seat with red cushioning, was a strange, gray-haired man in a red and black suit. Everyone, save for the young girl, stared at the front seat as Alarick sat down, with Jonathan to his right and Madeleine to his left, patiently awaiting his verdict.

He sighed and buried his face in his massive hands for a few seconds before looking at the assembled room with a battered expression. The bags under his eyes, deeper than normal, told everyone he clearly had not been sleeping that night. Alarick offhandedly waved away the few people still arranging papers on the table and pulling more from the boxes; they scattered as Jonathan calmly stared at him and asked, “He’s late…as usual.”

Alarick brushed it aside, grasping the table in frustration. “He had to be brought into the infirmary for arrow wounds. That’s all the reason I need for him to be even less punctual than normal.” The leader coughed and tightening his hold on the table. “I must apologize, everyone, for the shabby conditions of our tent this morning, and for the lack of people seated or in attendance. I have had most apprentices and guards sent to patch up tents, collect what little has not already burned, and determine how a small child was able to sneak past my assorted guards in the middle of the night.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow as he set his legs on the table, concern edging his voice. “Where is Terasu?”

An audible sigh escaped Alarick’s lips. After a few seconds, a quick glance between him and Madeleine led the latter to respond, “unstable, mentally and physically. She has been temporarily demoted from her position to deal with…personal troubles. In her place is her attendant, Latton.” She gestured to the man in the black-and-red outfit, who waved briefly and grimly. “He will serve as her voice to the rest of us. If need be, Alarick is having him trained to fight.”

“Yes,” confirmed Alarick, nodding to Madeleine before continuing, “Ceinen is, as Jonathan pointed out, likely on his way. Our friend here is presently sitting where Rowland had.”

Eremia was dismayed to look behind her and see the large, embroidered “R” (in a red and gold pattern) on the seat. Yorew helped her stand up as she, slightly trembling and pale, walked around the table and sat beside Madeleine. The servant and healer exchanged worried looks as Eremia resumed staring at the table.

After a few seconds of waiting and awkward silence, Alarick continued. “Now that the matter of…attendance…has been resolved, it is up to us to create a battle plan. That he, or whatever he was, set this tent ablaze is enough to convince me he has awareness of the political situation in this land. My recon officers, as Eremia here has supported, indicate that he is heading for the capital of Eimhin.”

There was a gasp throughout the room. Jonathan scowled ferociously and crossed his arms. “The Alliance,” he said with contempt.

“What he has planned is beyond me,” remarked Alarick, “but it is clear that he is looking to rendezvous with the Alliance. Unfortunately, he has already made quick work of the border guards, and there is far too much attention on his presence for us to slip in and…retrieve him.” The general had been about to say something else, but a glare from Eremia forced him to change his mind.

Latton coughed for everyone’s attention. “The Alliance of Boisbaudran is still scattered across the Confederacy, yes? We are a large army, but surely we could reach Wyandanch long before they have the chance to move.”

“Why?” demanded Eremia, head shooting up. “He is my brother, and I do want to find him and save him from whatever controls him, but why is it so disconcerting that he join the Alliance? What do they expect from him that they would march on Wyandanch itself?”

“He is the Prince of Exedor,” replied Alarick, instantly silencing the girl. “Four of five states in the Confederacy oppose Wyandanch, though one is begrudgingly so. Wyandanch has long relied on the military strength and leadership of Exedor to keep its already-frail dominion over the Confederacy stable. If the Alliance has the child of the fifth country, they may choose to use him as ransom. Also, now that you and the boy have both left the family’s palace, Exedor is in a panic – I would not be surprised if they have withdrawn their troops from Wyandanch to search for you both. In other words, if he musters or becomes part of a large enough army of Alliance troops, he may walk up to the gates of Wyandanch and force Seres’s hand. Seres cannot attack, for fear of hurting the child of his greatest allies, and is thus forced to surrender or enter a siege he cannot hold. With your brother, the Confederacy may collapse.”

Eremia set her elbows on the table and placed her palms to her temples as she looked down in terror. Madeleine put a hand on her shoulder, but Eremia pushed it aside.

“What is our route?” asked Jonathan after another long pause. He, too, was becoming more disconcerted and frustrated.

“That is the question,” replied Alarick, sighing. “We are a large and slow force, and a single boy – especially one so wrongly powerful - can reach the capital of Eimhin with ease. It will, however, take some time for the Mad King to build a strong army, assuming that he does not have one already. Their lack of respect and cooperation leads me to believe otherwise.”

Madeleine pointed to a map of the Confederacy. “We are by the Lake, and closer to Walenty and Claec than Eimhin. It would be suicide to travel through Eimhin, so we would have to take a northern route through Exedor, or a southern route stretching along the border of Walenty and into the Pillars.”

Jonathan placed his feet on the ground and stared over the table to where Madeleine was pointing. “The south path…is shorter,” he remarked gruffly.

“Indeed,” said Alarick while nodding. “Besides, we cannot head into Exedor with only a single child. They would have us stopped, investigated systematically, and likely try to deliver an army of their own. That would take too long; you, Eremia, want to get to your brother, and we want to defend the capital.”

“And you still don’t trust them,” Eremia snapped.

The commander bowed his head and nodded ever so slightly. “I find it harder and harder than in the past,” Alarick admitted. “Though it’s more complicated, I suspect, than you’ve been told.” Madeleine glared at him, lips tightening, but he had no clear reaction beyond staring at no one in particular.

The girl trembled in rage. “I thought,” she said, fists striking the table, “that you’d promised me I would know everything. If you want a general, I want to know what exactly I’m doing, who I’m doing it for, and who is counting on me.”

Alarick gave her a dismayed, disconcerted expression. “…It is settled. We will be traveling along the southern route. Kasimir guards his country well, so we may have to skirt the country entirely, though I believe we may be able to slip in between two of his more imposing fortifications some distance ahead of us. So as long as we have the moral high ground, and do not interfere in his affairs, any attack on his part will be seen as unprovoked. Assuming he is not already planning to destroy Wyandanch, he should have no motivation to stop us on our travels without the threat of warfare on his back. And, if he is, he will likely be organizing his army towards the part of his country nearest that city-state, and will have too few troops towards the east to concern himself with the movement of another, smaller army.”

“Messengers?” questioned Jonathan, watching as an infuriated Eremia stood up and stormed out of the tent, followed by Yorew.

The leader sighed and beckoned Madeleine to exit as well. She stayed in place, and he responded to Jonathan’s question after a quiet, sharp exchange of words between the former two. “As we should like both Exedor and Wyandanch to be aware of their incoming troubles before our arrival, we will be sending several messages along the lake and into Exedor. Others will be sent along the network of paths in Eimhin – in secret, of course – and make their way to Wyandanch. I expect they will arrive in, at most, a week. I will send them out after this meeting has concluded.”

“What about the bird?” said the archer as Yorew led Eremia back into the tent, a fire in her eyes. Upon hearing Jonathan’s words, she decided to be brave enough to sit on Rowland’s old seat again, fists clenched. Yorew took his seat next to Madeleine as Alarick stared up at the ceiling and mulled it over.

Finally, he looked down and addressed Jonathan. “If he flew all the way from Exedor and was willing to put his life in risk, I believe he is a daring and determined soul. I should like him to be sent back to Exedor, as he would know the quickest path, though there appears to be only one person he is willing to listen to.” He gestured to Eremia.

She scowled at him, but, under his piercing gaze, stared at the patches of trampled grass under her feet. “After all that you’ve hidden from me, and beneath all of your shaky motivations, how do you expect me to listen to you?”

“Because you have no other choice,” boomed Alarick, catching everyone off guard. “Because you want to save your brother.”

Madeleine looked at him briefly, saw his expression, and took over the conversation. “That is not necessarily true. Though he would like you to be a general,” she explained calmly to Eremia, who was now shifting between enraged and nervous, “as you have the proper motivation, that is not your only option. You may also work as an apprentice under Ceinen and I. We wouldn’t mind showing you how to be a strategist and leader, particularly if you are still the heir to the Throne of Exedor, as seems to be the case. You would not have to take direct orders from Alarick, and we can help you become a better leader as you search to save your brother. Would you like that?”

“…yes,” quietly replied the girl, finally coming to terms with the gravity of her situation. “I will do it, if only for him.”

A few second’s silence was broken up by the sounds of somebody tripping outside. Several pairs of eyes focused on the world beyond the tent and saw a man with long russet hair fall onto the ground, nearly dropping the small, white vase he held in his hands. He wore an oversized brown coat and pants, and struggled to keep himself together as he staggered towards everyone else. He wore a tight belt around his waist to hold his outfit in place, and had a small cap on the top of his head that resembled a horn. Eremia noticed the elaborate tattoo designs along his arms, composed of elegant curls and graceful, natural patterns, as barefeet sloppily traveled across grass, mud, and dirt. The man seemed surrounded by an array of faint, but surprisingly powerful, smells.

Madeleine stood up, smiling, and walked over to him, helping him into the space. “Thank you, thank you – hello there, I haven’t seen you before – where is Terasu? – how is that bow still working after all these years? – who is this man sitting at my seat?” he garbled in rushed tones, jumping from topic to topic without logic or reason. Most everyone nodded or stared warily at the vase in his hands.

In response to the last question, Yorew awkwardly stood up and chose the next seat down the table. Eremia could’ve sworn that, for a second, he was blushing, as the new man sat between him and Madeleine. A smile reached the edges of her lips, but was quickly evaporated by the growing sense of responsibility on her shoulders.

Now the ginger-haired lady was a lot brighter. “Eremia, this here is Ceinen.” Eremia held out her hand, and Madeleine nudged Ceinen to do the same. His grip was awkward and shaky, and he was clearly uncomfortable, but he shook hands nevertheless, repeating the process as Madeleine introduced him Yorew. “Eremia will be our new apprentice,” she said with pride.

He blinked his eyes for a few seconds in confusion, staring at her up and down. For a brief second, their eyes met, and she found his weirdly hypnotic, as though they were staring at her and everything around her at the same time. Ceinen realized he was still clenching Eremia’s hand and let go. “But, but,” he stammered in surprise, “did I, I didn’t, have any say!” He placed the jar between him and the girl. “If she can stand this – and none of you have wanted to, by the way – she can face adversity that we have and comes with the job.”

“There is no need for this,” retorted Alarick, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “She wishes to join us, and her demands for the truth and goals have won our approval. Besides, I warned you not to bring that jar with you.”

Ceinen was befuddled. “It is a part of me, and all of me must be with all of you to make all of us devoted,” he rambled, reaching to open the canister. Eremia was now more perceptive of the noxious and musky fumes that were coming from it, and was prepared to abandon her seat in haste. She breathed a sigh of relief as Madeleine placed her hand over Ceinen’s and pulled it back. Still, he persisted to speak. “How, how is she expected to stand and face storms if she can’t learn how to take each of us and our problems and hopes and identities and not run away? Where is her conviction?”

In the midst of peering at a slightly-frayed bowstring, Jonathan looked up and admitted, “He has a point.” The girl glared at him for a second, but his calm and strong appearance broke her stare in two.

The commander sighed and looked upon Eremia with a begrudging expression as her eyes swiveled to his. “Well, will you come with us? Will you join us as we make our way to Wyandanch and end this oncoming calamity?”

“…Who am I doing it for?” said Eremia tensely, after a few seconds of waiting to see how Alarick would continue.

“You know who,” he said. “You must sit on a dead man’s seat without fear for something.”

She breathed deeply for a few seconds and stared down Ceinen (which, given his nervous demeanor, wasn’t that hard). “I may not fight for any of you, but I will fight for Jonah, and I will handle any threat or new experience for his sake. If you can only promise me the truth, and nothing but the truth, I will join you, and keep your status secure through the authority of Wyandanch and my parents, the King and Queen of Exedor.”

When the commander stood up, everyone followed. “That settles that. You are now the apprentice of both Madeleine and Ceinen, Eremia. Your training begins tomorrow, as we have no time to waste. First, I’d rather that you accompany Madeleine and Jonathan to speak with Aquila on the topic of sending a message to Exedor. If you wish to know the truth, that may be your best option. Ceinen, we have a general battle plan laid out, but I’d like to discuss with you some specifics. Everyone else is dismissed.”

With that concluded, the girl exited the tent, most of the gathering in tow. The two asked to follow her did so silently, allowing her confident steps to speak for her. Yorew watched as, behind him, Alarick consoled the stressed and confused Ceinen, who had now opened up several maps and was pointing at various spots. Then he walked alongside his master, observing the way Latton broke apart from the rest and was lost in the maze of beige tents that littered the camp. No doubt he was looking for Terasu’s tent. Eremia, following his gaze, came to the same conclusion. An image of a scorched red tent flashed in her mind. Would the man inform the fiery girl that Eremia had sat on Rowland’s seat?

She sincerely hoped otherwise, as she wanted to live more than one day. Eremia resolved that it would be best to avoid the dead man’s legacy from that moment onwards.

******

Madeleine led Eremia into one of the white-painted hospital tents to find Aquila. As she explained during their walk, the eagle had been burned by Terasu’s breaking his ropes, and had spent much of the previous fight searching for Eremia. It had taken them some time to find him and convince him to stop, but he had been quickly moved into the already-crowded hospital and healed.

They found him lying on the ground in a pile of hay, rubbing arms that were slightly bandaged. Aquila looked tired, but not nearly as panicky as yesterday, when the trio sat down and surrounded him. The girl found it hard to look at him without pity, but it was better than seeing all of the bloodied, burned, and injured troops littering makeshift stretchers and chairs in the expansive space. She had once read that healing magic was far less effective if the wound was not healed quickly, or if the injury was too severe, as trying to heal such wounds would require far more energy than a healer could muster without risk to their own health. If the body gained a short-time idea of what it looked like that accommodated such injuries, it would take a massive amount of force to shift it to any previous goal.

Jonathan nudged her shoulder. She wiped the dirt off and, while sitting with her legs crossed, began. “We need you to send a message to Exedor.”

To her surprise, he shook his head. “I need you,” he responded in a voice tinged with desperation.

“I’m looking for my brother, so I cannot come,” she responded, still caught off guard. “Why am I so necessary now, and not before?”

“Before,” murmured Aquila, looking away, “I was more afraid of dying here than dying there.”

“I…what?”

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed as they jumped between Aquila and Eremia, awaiting a reaction from either of them to interrupt. Madeleine placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder to stop her from trembling in alarm and fear. “…dy-dying there? Wh…what could you mean by that?”

He continued to look away. Eremia’s face blanched as she placed her palms over her chest and tried to breathe deeply. All that led to was a rattling in her throat that made her stutter while she tried to speak. “Wh-who i-i-is your comm-m-ander?”

Aquila sighed as his eyes lowered in what was either shame or defeat. “…The Lord of Eagles,” he mumbled.

The girl gasped for air. Jonathan tried to grasp her other shoulder, but she batted his hand aside. “A-and…why w-would he te-tell you that?” she questioned, her fear and worry beginning to melt away as anger began to rise in her heart.

Silence.

“W-why…would he…why? Eremia demanded, her tone and demeanor becoming more fierce with every second that the messenger ignored her orders and kept himself quiet. Madeleine and Jonathan’s expressions hardened, but she ignored their aggressive stares.

After a few seconds, Aquila stared into her eyes with that same pleading expression that Alarick had given her a short time ago. She hated it. She hated these games, these half-truths, these secrets. And, worst of all, Eremia had the feeling that this was tame compared to the rest of the world. For all she knew, she was in a situation where everyone was more honest than they would otherwise be. It was still far from enough for her.

“Why.” she demanded as the messenger’s eyes darted away from her fuming eyes. “It is my home, and I want to know what my home has done to you.”

The eagle looked to both Madeleine and Jonathan for support, but they each nodded, expressions of firmness and hints of curiosity worming their way into existence. It was as though that each was saying, “She has to learn.” Now incredibly nervous, he fidgeted as he tried to explain. “He told me…told me that the stakes were…d-dire. That I needed to find you and your brother, or, o-on word from the King…the King and Queen…my life would be at risk…if I came back empty-handed.”

Eremia’s lips tightened and she scowled ferociously. The girl stood up, pointing at Aquila. “I know that my parents would never be so callous and cruel. How dare you come to me and provide your excuses and lies. What is your intent, really? Did you decide you were bored with your country and ran off to go in search of adventure? Did you abandon -”

“That’s enough,” barked Madeleine as Jonathan rose and grabbed Eremia’s hand. She looked at him with surprise and rage as Aquila pushed his way towards the edge of the tent and curled up in a ball, shaking. “Take her away and help her set up camp. Until you can improve on your demeanor, Eremia, you will not see him until I explicitly say so. Good day.”

Jonathan, grim-faced, dragged the girl away as Madeleine sat down beside Aquila and stroked his head. Eremia tried to resist, but his grip was incredibly strong, and a part of her was happy to leave that hovel. It left her too angry, too frustrated, and too confused. As he pulled her across the camp, she was hoping to be able to vent out her feelings. Maybe he would try to chide her or act superior to her. Then she could start an argument or a fight, get rid of some steam, and find Yorew to talk to. Unfortunately for her, he kept silent, never once commenting on her behavior despite the number of eyes that stared at the both of them as they passed. As far as she knew, he was waiting for her, and she felt it would stoop too low to start such a conflict herself without legitimate cause. So they stayed quiet.

The tent that had been set up for her was the customary brown-tarp one, with wooden pegs tamping it into the ground on four sides. A few colored quilts had been set up on the ground within, beside which was a tiny wooden drawer. The burned out husk of a campfire surrounded by stones lay in front of the space, and Jonathan gestured to it as Eremia let go and rubbed her hand.

“You need to learn…to make a fire,” he explained, picking up a flint and stone from off the ground. “Without magic.” He set these down in front of her, as well as a bow drill. “And you need to chop wood.”

The girl gasped as she tried to hold onto a large axe that he gave her, it immediately hitting the ground as she tried to pull it up. “And set up a tent,” Jonathan continued, gesturing to the tent pole within as he handed her a larger rock. “…place pegs with a rock…or hammer…carry your belongings…with a pack animal…” As the boy inspected the entire place and added to his list with each glance or moment of concentration, her dismay began to fade in favor of determination. “…ride a horse…dig a privy…get water…cook food over a fire…and be alert at all times.” He stopped and nodded to her as he handed her a shovel, bucket, and cooking pot. “We’ll train…for most of today.”

Eremia looked at everything laid out before her and sighed. “Fine,” she said, staring at Jonathan with a steady spirit.

To her wonderment, he was bemused. “Terasu wasn’t like that,” he commented, laughing slightly (although, given his voice, it sounded raspy and painful). “She tried to burn me.”

“If what I can learn here makes me stronger,” she replied, shrugging. “So be it. And whatever I don’t learn, I can pick up from Yorew.”

In response, the boy ran a hand through his hair, spilling dust onto the ground. “Maybe I should speak to him,” he said at last, now interested. “And be honest.”

“I am being honest!” Eremia snapped back, caught off guard by his remark. “I’m angry and frustrated! What kind of world have I stumbled into?”

“…that’s not it,” he said matter-of-factly, staring into her eyes as though her entire soul was splayed out behind them. “She was like that. She’s still like that. You’re confused. You don’t know…what the truth is.”

“And where do you think I can find it!?” said Eremia as she successfully lifted up the axe, struggling to keep in the air for more than a few seconds.

He shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to…stay and see. Ready for your first day?”

The tent had been crammed, and the Mad King did not make it any better.

He had taken a seat, having pushed aside Kasimir in the process. The latter was standing uncomfortably to the side, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. His companions, equally displeased, had risen when Catharnach had sat down, and were now squeezed between a procession of formally-dressed generals. The man was now staring gleefully at the map he had set down on the table and spread out, it revealing the image of the exterior and interior of a city with hexagonal walls. The western part of the map was partly covered by strange, dark structures, themselves also hexagons, while the east was bare plains. He pointed to a collection of dots arranged in neat squares just south of the city, color-coded with those of the various nations, and the head of each procession marked by a flag.

“It will be a glorious charge,” he said with pride and an expression of childish glee as his fingers jumped between spots on the parchment. Alsather (in his head, trying to avoid the image of Catharnach playing an organ badly) peered over from his seat with an expression that was a mix of curiosity and contempt. “I-” as he stared among the various people in the room, his eyes locked upon Kasimir and he scowled. “Where is your son?”

Kasimir shrugged ever so gracefully. “I have none,” he said graciously, his beaming smile betraying the truth.

“The other one!” barked Catharnach, as Kasimir shook his head in annoyance and shifted to the bear adviser. Large as he was, the generals around him had to push themselves away, and he looked extremely unhappy standing on his own two feet. “Where is he?” demanded the Mad King as he turned slightly to face the adviser. He had that smile of a man who was five seconds away from shouting vehement epithets.

“Not ‘ere,” replied the adviser in a deep growl. “The King o’ the Bears needs ta’ lead ‘is country, and he can’t lead here.”

“Ah,” said Catharnach as he tilted his head and kept on smiling. “I forgot you’re only the former king, Valeri. So charming that your poor health led you to abandon your legacy in favor of your son, the sniveling brat.”

The bear adviser gave an intensely murderous look as Leathan, sitting beside Catharnach, whispered in his ear, “don’t follow it further, or they’ll ask about your son, and we don’t need his weakness here.”

“Yes,” piped up Alsather, “where is the child? Riding off in the countryside? Keeping good company with his hor-”

“You are normally deaf!” shouted Catharnach, standing up pointing at Alsather with a twitching finger. He quietened and sat back down. “And your son is of no threat here or anywhere else, “king,” so I will continue unimpeded. My generals, thanks to your simpering incompetence, will command over half of the army. I will have them at the back and direct cover fire for your troops.”

A blonde-haired lady stepped in, looking momentarily graceful and petite until the onlookers saw the impressive, if small, muscles on her tanned arms. She smiled with charm, winking at Valeri as she walked over to him. Wearing a white dress that glittered in the few holes in the tent, hair drawn up in a ponytail, she looked incredibly bemused as a red-faced Catharnach rose from his seat and shouted at her, “I am tired of your poor sense of time! How dare you interrupt me at such a pivotal time! Leave, or I will make you.” He gestured threateningly with strangling motions.

She arched her neck, moved her face close enough that her long nose touched Catharnach’s, and laughed. It was a deep, rolling one, and thoroughly befuddled him. In part, he was trapped between immense anger and disbelief.

Valeri, from behind, grinned maliciously, shoulders hunched as he leered at Catharnach and the lady. “When she raised ‘er kids, they called ‘er “unbreakable.” A “castle,” if ya’d like. I tried to kill ‘er, believe me, but she said somethin’ about royalty bein’ her pride, and she killed the few that said otherwise.”

“Said as graceful as ever,” she responded, when she finished laughing and wiping her eyes. Walking right past Catharnach, who sat down, eyes twitching and befuddled, and Leathan, whom she patted gently on the head when he frowned at her, teeth bared, she clasped his shoulder with her hand. He grunted in pain as she dug her hand into his fur. “I had wondered if Kasimir would summon you to deal with the diplomacy, you lovable, infestatious tick. You’re forgetting the Mad King does such a wonderful job offending people.” Staring him up and down, she concluded, still beaming. “Especially a man who can be barely bothered to wear clothes. A life eating pastries was not forgiving to you, was it?”

“Confident, are you?” said Alsather in a tone that conveyed how impressed he was. Catharnach glared at him as he leaned back in his seat, his smug smile now more appropriate.

She nodded and took the empty seat next to Catharnach. “As much as I need to be,” she concluded, pointing to the Mad King’s map. He tried to brush her hand away, but she remained adamant. “I could fight his bravest archers by myself and come out victorious.”

“Brave?” remarked Kasimir’s advisor, eyebrow raised, as he lifted his robes over his head, revealing a white undershirt and black pants underneath, before handing those said robes to Valeri, who was now incredibly self-conscious about his appearance. “If what I’d heard was true, your generals would be full of derring-do, King of Eimhin. Why is only one of your generals deployed at the front lines?”

Catharnach pushed himself forward and draped himself over the map as Alsather, curious, tried to peer in. “It is, as I’ve said, for proper protection! When the soldiers on the walls have died or been repulsed by arrows, my generals will command the cavalry to lead the charge into the city itself. What would be the point of keeping them at the front if they cannot feasibly attack the gates without heavy interference?”

Kasimir’s advisor cleared his throat. “In that case, why even have non-archers or non-cavalry in the first place? You would have done well to mention that the archers would’ve provided cover fire for an assault on the city, but your neglecting to call attention to them suggests to me a lack of caring for their significance. As evidenced by making them easier targets at the front, instead of harder ones at the back.”

The former slammed his fists on the table and glared at the advisor. Nobody made to move or comment as he said, through gritted teeth, “I control half of the army, you know.

Alsather crossed his arms and grew dourer. “We control the other half.”

“But I hold half of the army in my own hands,” barked Catharnach in response. Alsather remained silent as Cerin quivered in nervousness. She stuck out her tongue at The Mad King as he looked back at the map, but a quick glance from Alsather made her seemingly shrink in size, cowering beneath the firm grip of the lady holding her in place.

“Now, if I can continue without interruptions,” continued the Mad King, looking about suspiciously before he regained his initial enthusiasm, it quickly degenerating into a sly and mean-spirited grin, “While the positions of most of my generals have already been explained, and their functions are all simple, I have yet to point out and commend Belisarius for his daring to join the front in this thrilling operation. He was the first among my commanders to volunteer to fight alongside my allies here: something that even I, as a general, would not have considered.”

One of the well-dressed generals in a prestigious suit of armor broke his stone-faced and silent expression to glare at Catharnach. “I did not volunteer for your operation, my king; you demanded that I do so. And you were quite happy to forget that I’m a defensive general.”

“But,” Catharnach replied with a smug smile, gesturing that Belisarius walk through the tent to a position where they would be face to face. “You will be defending, my good general. You will be protecting your allies in a brave stand, weathering magic and arrows and whatever else they have to throw, and will surely be among the first to enter the city. Do you want to cement your pride in your country and its leader?”

Belisarius, a black-haired man with greased hair that formed a bun, as well as a long mustache that sloped down to reach near a large-sized goatee, scoffed as he shuffled past Valeri and awkwardly walked across the table. “My king, I must apologize, but I hear that you want me dead; that’s the word that has been spreading among the camp.”

As Belisarius stood beside Alsather, Catharnach looked legitimately infuriated. The expressions of his generals never changed, but they almost emanated an aura of nervousness as Catharnach shot his gaze back to them, and then to Belisarius. “Who would spread such malicious rumors and falsehoods among my army!?” Cath shouted, indignant. “You have my word that I have no such intentions to eliminate you or your men.”

The general scoffed. The snake moved his body to the side as Belisarius gently placed a fist on the table and stared his commander down. “That’s because the rumors tell me that the King of Eimhin doesn’t want to kill me himself, but would like someone to do it for him.”

The staring contest intensified as the Mad King quivered in rage. “Do you,” Catharnach said, pointing up to a few inches away from Belisarius’s flat nose, “question the word of your leader, your king, your master, on the whims of a few lies?”

“It would be perfect,” explained Belisarius in his unbending way. “I’m the only commander not stupid enough to run into any battlefield I see simply because I was promised a bit more money, whether by the hand or my lord those of his treasury.”

Catharnach bent forward and flicked his general on the nose. It was shocking enough that even Leathan’s eyes widened, leading him to grab and pull back the Mad King. “You have come to me to not only question the intentions of my plan, in a public audience of people who are looking upon me as the key to success for this operation, but spit on the reputation of your fellow generals? You should imply that I am actually manipulating all of them, and that this entire plan is a sham to have you killed?”

Alsather raised a hand. “With the way you’ve organized troops, I’d say you’re trying to have us all killed.”

An air of finality descended upon the entire meeting. Scattering his own papers and maps, Catharnach stood up straight and declared, “I have had enough of this parade of torments, lies, and depravity. Were it not for the essential nature of our mission, I would have walked out of here without a second word. As it stands, I am tempted. This meeting is, for the moment, adjourned. My son may arrive here within the next day or two, and perhaps he can help you realize the thoroughness of my strategy and how essential I am. If you wish to win, you must concede to my will.”

“What of the strategists?” called Kasimir’s adviser as Catharnach strode off in an exaggeratedly prideful fashion, preceded by Leathan and several assorted generals. “This meeting has hardly yet begun, and we have not seen your plans before now. What are we to do?”

Catharnach wheeled around to face the adviser, a thin-lipped scowl on his face. “You may remain and do whatever it is you want. As long as the core of my plan remains intact, I will provide necessary support. I must go to Sagittarius to see if he has anything to inform me with, and my own distaste in this meeting keeps me from staying further. I would like to know how much I want to say I hate you all.”

As he and his generals exited, Belisarius squeezing between everyone else to join the back of the procession with a grim expression, Alsather whispered, “the feeling is mutual.” He, too, stood up, grabbing Cerin roughly by the arm as the lady with the cataract eyes sat down and began to pour over assembled papers. She struggled weakly, dragging her feet along the ground as Alsather stomped slowly out of the tent, joined by the surprisingly fast Valeri. Much of Alsather’s entourage left with him as Kasimir’s advisor picked up and rearranged the documents scattered on the ground, humming a light tune to himself before he sparked a lengthy conversation with those still in the room.

Understandably, nobody was happy.

"Guessin' so," he said, unimpressed with the display in front of him. "These here knuckleheads' too afraid to come in with only 'a fists. Can't blame em, though." He snorted, laughed, and gestured to the soldiers around him. This guy was completely crude, and his beet-red skin indicated that he was certainly not from the area. The sunlight wasn't nearly that harsh here, so he'd had to come from somewhere in the south. Eremia guessed it had to be the desert lands, although it was odd that he should look like he would have a perpetual sunburn. Or, she would've thought of this, if she wasn't struck by a wave of complete and abject horror when she heard her brother shouting curse words and what would've been pleas for help, if they weren't stuffed with an overwhelming amount of ego, from the alleyway.

"I'm assuming they're not Exedor soldiers?" calmly said Yorew after a few seconds.

The crook raised up a leg to see if there was anything on his sole. Finding nothing, he responded, "Nope. Couldn't buy 'em if I wanted ta'. We don't like them bluebacks hangin' 'round our towns, so we hanged 'em and let 'em rot! They'ven't been coming back since, heh. This's my own guard, and they can run ya through for all I damn care." He looked behind him and pointed in that direction. "'less you can come up with a ransom, kiddo, 'cause they's typing up that wimp back there, and he won't be around much longer if you don't got the wads of cash I know ya have."

The girl was presently frozen in a bewildered stance and appearance, incredibly pale and with ragged breathing as she tried to consider her options. None of them were looking good. She was outnumbered, outgunned, and she knew that Yorew didn't have a sizeable enough sum for what the crook wanted. After all, the crook had a prince, and one's expectations of a prince's ransom were typically far above the paltry sum Eremia knw that her group had. If she could attack the soldiers and make to run away, Yorew could probably steal a few spears and use them on the attackers, but they could still be easily killed, and Jonah would still be trapped. If she tried to run towards the crook, she would be all but dead, even if she conjured her magic. There were too many people, and likely too strong. It was hopeless. Her brother was going to die no matter what she did.

"Girl, you broke down o' somethin'?" said the crook, with a frown forming on his face. "I ain't here to kill a kid today, ya know that? The little runt's not worth that much effort. What's the holdup? I wanna know if this's worth my time, or I'm gonna give ya up to the nearest batch o' soldiers and let them kill ya themselves or somethin'."

A soldier next to the head criminal gasped and collapsed onto the ground, an arrow embedded in his chest at an angle. Blood began to spill upon the ground as the blonde man's face twitched in fury. The soldiers forming the perimeter pointed all their spears at Yorew and Eremia, the former of whom embraced the latter and tried to keep her from as many of the sharp objects as possible, while ignoring the twitching and bleeding figure on the ground.

"Which one of you traitors an' crooks killed one of my men? They ain't cheap, ya know! You'ere stupid enough to miss me, so ha!" It wasn't a bright or cheery laugh. This man was wholly and genuinely terrified and enraged, and the appearance of a second arrow embedding itself in the man standing in front of him, coupled by a third to make that individual fall, made clear the presence of a teenage boy atop a market stall, bow at the ready. The kid was barefoot and thin, with an outfit that looked like it had been made from re-sewn burlap sacks, and was coated in dust and a few bloodstains, as well as holes. His eyes, which would've otherwise seemed like ordinary brown ones, were consumed in tranquil and devoted fury, and his dusty hair shook particles down his face, casting his visage in an almost shadowy light as he prepared another arrow. Too, though he appeared frail, the muscles on his body indicated the opposite.

Here was a soldier, and he looked a strong and fast one.

The crook seemed to recognize him, as eyes widened in horror. "Kill 'em all!" he called after a few seconds, dashing into the alleyway as a fourth arrow bounced harmlessly off of the cobblestone floor. "Don't let a damned fool alive!"

Of course, by then, Yorew took the clear opportunity in front of him and grabbed one of the spears from the distracted soldiers, slamming one man onto the ground with it as he spun it around and struck another two into the head. Eremia narrowly snatched onto the fourth before its owner tried to thrust it into her stomach, and used all of her strength to thrust the soldier's end into his face. The four collapsed ungracefully onto the ground, and the duo raced towards the alleyway's entrance as more of the criminals' associates poured out, armed with their own bows, axes, and swords. However, the girl watched as the assortment of troops looked up in horror at something in the air and in front of them, and looked up above her as she saw a deer bounding into the air towards the gathering. Unfortunately, not to be bested by mere displays of power, one of the bowmen fired at the deer and struck it in the side.

It landed ungracefully on the ground between the girl, the servant, and the crooks, bleeding as it shifted back into the human boy from earlier. The child, however, apparently undaunted, ripped the arrow from his side, and responded by notching it towards his own bow and firing it at the attacker. The girl almost retched when she saw the blood on the ground, which grew every second as the bleeding teen struck more of the archers and dodged the movements of the men with various other weapons. Yorew seemed to feel similarly, as he rushed over to the archer. At least, as fast as a hobbling old man could travel. Nevertheless, he outstretched his hands towards the newcomer, and it was from these that energy began to spill out.

The girl gasped, knowing that her servant was weak enough already, and that making to heal somebody with that kind of an injury might have worse of an effect. And then, of course, one of the guards, who had not been incapacitated by a mere blow to the head, grabbed her foot. So, naturally, she kicked him in the face and ran off as the other guards assembled their wits and rose. All were now heading towards Yorew, who, in spite of the teen's briefly turning around and gesturing for him to stop, merely mumbled his own incantation and kept going. The teen could only shrug, whirl around, and fire a shot into the head of one of Eremia's pursuers.

Eremia didn't watch as the man collapsed onto the ground, choosing instead to prepare some of her dwindling strength and moving the palms of her hands behind her and conjuring a brief blast of wind. She could hear the sounds of people falling onto the ground, particularly the clanking of their metal armor against cobblestone, as she was flung into the air by the force of her attack. Now taking the stance of an individual in a long jump event, she watched as Yorew finished his efforts, turning paler and weaker, and made to grab her leg and stop her. The servant failed and leaned on his staff even harder, his sunken eyes widened in horror as the girl threw herself ever closer to the teen, who dodged out of the way as she threw her hands in front of her and summoned a second wind blast.

This time, however, Yorew was able to catch her as she flung herself backwards, the wind flying into the alleyway and buffeting the assembled cronies, many of whom were knocked back or shoved ungracefully onto the ground. The teen pulled another arrow out of his quiver and looked around him, observing as the less faithful and terrified of soldiers - among them those who had pursued Eremia - run away in terror and consternation, hiding within panicked groups of citizens. Those citizens were themselves horrified by the bloody and gory display, and retreated en masse from the marketplace and courtyard.

Eremia and her servant collapsed onto the ground. Yorew, though sturdy as ever, was now gasping for air, the breath knocked out of him. Neither heard the sounds of anything breaking, but Eremia could see black spots dancing around her eyes, the pale sky and bright sun over her heard becoming ever more distant as she was consumed by so many emotions. Fear, tension, anxiety, horror. This was the bloodiest spectacle she had seen thus far in her life, as well as the most strenuous use of her powers ever. It was a miracle that she was still alive, but she had no idea if her brother was. She hadn't eaten in a day, she was tired, thirsty, hungry, her body ached, and it felt as though her life was on the verge of collapse. Yet, she would do anything to see Jonah again, regardless of how mean-spirited and horrible he had been over the past few days. She had to see if he was still alive, and if she could help him at all. Even if it killed her.

She suddenly felt herself being lifted upright, and looked behind her to see that it, for a change, was not Yorew. The girl could see the tanned and broad shoulders of a man lifting her and the servant upright, and the familiar face of the butcher from earlier appeared over Yorew's shoulder. All the color and smile in his face had been drained away, and he seemed to be caught between ready to yell and perfectly relieved to see that the girl was mostly fine. Either way, he'd probably done something he'd hadn't the guts to do before, and she was thankful for it, even if it was incredibly hard for her to say something, and taking a step on her own footing and spotting the bloody carnage was enough to thrust her into nausea and dizziness.

"Stop moving!" whispered the butcher, as though he was being watched. "If you're hungry or thirsty, I have a meal for you waiting in my stall. But, in the name of the Creator, you had better get of out of this town now. I don't know what you've started, but it's bad."

"But...my brother," shot back Eremia in a quiet voice. It was hard to say anything in a louder voice than that without feeling desperately ill. She didn't have to, as her next words were drowned out by loud and incessant screaming emanating from the alleyway.

"Who are 'ya, kid? Who are 'ya? Those eyes a yous? What...how did ya' get -- no! No! I swear, I'm innocent, I was bullied into this, yeah, somebody pulled the strings. No! I'll do penance, I'll stop killin' folks, let me go! I ain't worth this divine retribution, stop! stop! stop! I --"

Everything else was incomprehensible. The teen sprinted into the alley without hesitation, jumping over bodies as the few people still left in the courtyard waited in fear and anticipation. The girl was fervently drinking from the bowl of water that had been handed to her, and tearing apart the piece of bread in her other hand. The screaming, and those faint noises behind it, as though somebody was ferociously attacking him, placed a chill into her heart. What was going on? Where was her brother? Was he still alive? Were they fighting each other, and was the man trying to kill him? Or the other way around? Or both?

And then, after a minute's silence, the teen came back, breaking free from the shadows as he clasped the hand of a young boy with blood smeared across his outfit. The boy was holding a long rope behind it, and his knife was clasped in the same hand. He looked dreadful, and his massive eyes seemed on the verge of tears. This kid was devastated and horrified, and almost collapsed when the teen let go and the boy's immensely relieved sister, first handing her bread and water to Yorew, ran and tackled him.

The teen watched as Eremia buried her head in Jonah's hair and cried. He responding by laughing, but it was a frail, glad-to-be-alive kind of laugh, and his face was still etched in shock and horror. All the girl could see was this small child, far younger than when she had last remembered him, and she cast aside her hatred for him, as he was her brother, she had been so close to losing him altogether. As such, everyone watched the spectacle for a minute, seeing Jonah as he bore his few regrets on his shoulders, and tears began to fall down his face.

"You must go," said the savior in a scratchy voice as he placed his hands on Eremia's shaking shoulders. She, eyes red and swollen, looked up at him and frowned as he explained. "Word spreads quickly. Soldiers are coming. Eimhin's guard, led by the...king's son. They have been waiting for...disturbances." He struggled to create sentences longer than a few words, as the effort forced him to take a deep breath before continuing. Speech impediment, perhaps?

"If our horse hasn't torn off a tree branch in fear," remarked Yorew, separating gently the siblings with his hands while handing the bread and water to Jonah, who treated it as his sister did. "I see that we must head to Exedor." Eremia, in the meantime, her waves of panic, fear, and relief dissipating in turn, gradually regained her composure and stopped crying. She turned to Jonah, expecting him to provide some kind of a counter-argument or dispute. After all, it was Jonah who had spent all this time planning this operation, who had wanted them to escape the castle, who had escaped from the castle, devoted what was the most amount of effort to a singular task in his life. The boy said nothing.

To everyone's surprise, the teenager shook his head. "They'll see it coming," he retorted, keeping his firm composure. Eremia noticed that his previous injury was now but a scar, although he still looked pained and tired. "Head into Eimhin."

"I should think we could outpace them," responded Yorew, who rose an eyebrow. That was his version of surprise. "We do have a swift horse, and I'm sure Exedor has taken steps to guard its border troops as well."

"Eimhin is famous for...horseback archers," said the teen, dismissing Yorew's statement. "Exedor is in disarray. They are searching for two...children. If what the boy said...was true..."

Jonah nearly choked on his bread. "That was...that was lies! I am most certainly not the Prince Exedor!" The teenager glared at him with the kind of stare that indicated he had more than enough evidence to suspect otherwise. The prince looked down at the cobblestone floor and silently mumbled, "Yes, I am."

"Who are you?" questioned Eremia suddenly, as her wits came back to her in full force. Her heart had sunk when he had told her that she and her sibling had caused so much chaos, and that did make sense, as their parents were compassionate, but how could she trust his logic, simple as it might be, as not the product of an intimate knowledge of the situation? Too much so? "Why should we trust a man who seems to know so much about Exedor and Eimhin? How do we know you're not setting up a trap for us?"

The teen began to walk off. "I am Jonathan," he said simply. "Exedor has been moving troops...by the border. I live here, and the townsfolk...can agree. They seem to be looking for...something. I saved your life. I must go to find help. You decide if you want...to trust me."

With that, Jonathan murmured a brief incantation, turned into the buck that the girl had seen earlier, turned to nod at her, and bounded past a corner edge of the courtyard, vanishing from view. In the process, it knocked out some of the goods in the area, but persisted.

"Caztaranca," mouthed the boy, before his sister slugged in the arm for the use of such a powerful invocation.

Silence was the rule for the next minute, as everyone tried to grasp with his final statements. The butcher then gestured to his stall, where the kid he worked with grabbed a few sacks and ran over to them. "These are some hard biscuits and jerky for the travel. I'd hand you a glass bottle for water, but glass is rare in these parts, and I don't know what troubles you'll find on the way. As a word of advice, I'd say you go for Exedor. That kid saved your life, sure, but he had the royal animal of Eimhin. He could easily be springing a trap, and I don't think that garrison could get the news and react quickly enough. You're better off leaving as quickly and fleeing as swiftly as you can."

"My exact thoughts," replied Yorew, nodding his head calmly. "In that case, I bid you adieu, and may He grace you and preserve your strength. Come now, children." Eremia clasped his hand obediently, and Jonah threw aside the rope before grasping Yorew's other hand with his non-knife hand.

The butcher and kid waved a goodbye as the trio walked away from the bloody battlefield into what everyone was sure was going to be a firestorm all its own.

It was midday, when the sun was at its hottest and brightest, when the sound of descending wings consumed the dark and bloodstained alleyway. Talons ungracefully scraped against the cobblestones and slipped over the remnants of the earlier fight as the eagle descended onto the ground, shifting into a young adult in the process. The smell was awful, even though the lifeless corpses looked fresh and new. Clearly, the struggle had only taken place a few hours ago.

Even though it was hard to see at all, what was visible was wretched. As the teen's eyes adjusted to the light, and his own keen vision took hold, a series of bodies were haphazardly arranged in the alleyway. Many slumped against walls, some with arrows sticking out of their bodies. The whole area was smattered in blood, and expressions of horror were frozen on many of the victim's faces. The teen stepped over some of them, taking care not to get blood on the brown-and-white outfit that was a few sizes too large for him, and would always billow in the wind.

And, to his amazement, there was still one individual faintly breathing. He could hear a whisper in the air, and focused on the back of the alleyway, where a man in a green shirt and torn chainmail gasped and quivered. His red bandana lay on the ground, and blonde hair billowed outwards, now stained crimson. As the teen grew closer, he realized that the man was covered in stab marks, forming the pattern of an eye across the victim's chest. Too, when he drew near, he realized that the whisper was, in fact, a voice. A mantra of some kind, repeating itself over and over again.

"I am Favrhid. I am not petty. I am not weak. I scorned my father. I did my uncle's bidding. I was a ruler of men, antagonized a country. That child is not normal. That child is evil. My c...I am Favrhid."

The dying criminal looked up at the wide eyes of a hapless recon soldier, but seemed to be staring right through, up at the blue sky above. And so he repeated the mantra to the horrified and disturbed figure, his eyes gradually clouding with mist, wording becoming ever more unclear, garbled, and mad. As that soldier took several steps back, sprouted impressive wings, and soared into the air, the criminal raised his hand out towards him, spat out blood, and died.

Now the child soldier flew in the air, swooping over the small town and searching it intently. He was disgusted and sickened by having to see such a spectacle, though it had not been the worst that had crossed his path by far. His job had placed him in some interesting and despicable circumstances in the past. Nevertheless, that was not something he wished to think of. Rather, he chose to focus on the sensation of relief that began to pour through him. He had been informed by his superiors that the child had had a dagger. Too, he recognized the impressions of a horse's tracks in the form of crushed grass providing a trail from a small pond and creek.

Here was his quarry. All he had to do now was follow the path, find his targets, and send word through the ranks that the children of the King Exedor and their servant were on the cusp of being caught. And then he would no longer have to fear. His superiors and peers had threatened him, placing his life upon this operation. He had worried that he would come back empty-handed and be slain on the spot.

Such was not the case anymore.

Wait, how in the hell does Eremia make that guess about the identity of the leader? She's bright enough to know what the leaders of the Confederacy and their families do, but it is improbable that she would know who exactly among them has a group of soldiers right by the border of her country. It should also be incredibly disturbing to her that that is the case, but she's so disoriented and messed up that I suppose one more detail can be overlooked.

The hills were alive with the sound of a speeding horse.

Yorew goaded on the creature as the trio dashed in and amongst the gradual hills and rises within Exedor. Their servant had been careful enough to avoid farmland where and when they can, but that required their backtracking and changing direction somewhat frequently. After all, they'd rather not go tromping through fields and ending up attacked by an enraged farmer, or injure or spook the horse by leaping over fences and crushing crops. Nevertheless, they all had the silent hopes that whatever army pursuing them, if there was one, had similar concerns.

Jonah was not amused. He despised anything that traveled too swiftly for his liking, and expressed it by swearing his little head off. As such, his sister, who slumped on the horse's back, her sibling and servant in front of her, had to reprimand him with her own shouts. Though it was hard for then to say as such, as they were unbelievably tired and felt weak, they persisted, and the ride soon boiled down into childish shouting while Yorew disregarded them both and focused on his own task, he having long ago figured out that their ranting was not something he wished to get caught him.

Eremia was drowsy, and fog covered her mind. In the back of her head, she couldn't help but feel that somewhat was desperately wrong. Everything was too quiet, or was being drowned out by their own noise. It was so hard to think or come to any kind of conclusion anymore, and yet she wondered how credible their savior had been. The girl could not question Yorew's judgment about the situation, and their choice did seem like the best one. However, was the teen right? Had everyone else had the same idea that the most sensible option would be to head for Exedor?

She shouted at Jonah once more, and started leaning on his back, eyes opening and closing slowly. All she wanted to do now was to sleep, suffocate that nervousness that was contained within her, and wake up in the morning in her own bed, in her own castle, surrounded by the people who love and care for her. The thought consumed her mindset and made her smile, betraying her warmth and contention to the world.

Her perspective whirled in a pirouette, throwing her about. The sky flew towards the ground and rose once again, and she realized that she was now falling towards the earth. Eyes shot open, and her mind pushed for answers. She must've slipped and fallen off of the horse, it concluded, as she was ungracefully thrown onto the ground and rolled against the earth. An horrendous pain echoed throughout her head as her outfit was coated in dirt and grass stains, and she could feel muscles creaking and bruises forming on her skin. Something snapped, although she knew not what it was.

When she finally stopped, she had a roaring headache, and her body was working overtime to identify all of its sources of pain and deal with them. That was problematic, since they were everywhere. So her body screamed with pain, and she groaned as she tried to raise herself up. One of her arms gave out on her and bent awkwardly, and Eremia stifled as scream as she fell back onto the earth. Question answered.

"Hello?" the girl called out, hair falling over her eyes as she scanned the surrounding countryside desperately. Everything seemed perfectly tranquil, and there was the crushed-grass pattern of hoofprints in front of her, extending a short ways in the area, which appeared to be in the middle of a series of hills. It was only when she saw her brother, on his knees and pushing the limp figure of Yorew, who had an arrow in his leg, beside the still horse in which a few arrows had been embedded, did she hear the procession of cavalry thundering in the distance.

"Yorew!" she shouted, propping herself up on her good arm as she crawled towards her sibling and servant. The boy heard her screaming first, and desisted from shaking the servant's arm and demanding that he respond, to face her with tears in his eyes. He had a bruise over his eye, and seemed desperately shaken up, but otherwise unharmed.

"I don't know what to do," he mouthed in horror as she struggled to approach. Eremia wasn't sure if he was referring to Yorew, her, or both of them. With regards to the former, the man looked alive. He was breathing, and his face was incredibly pale, head lolled back to face away from the arrow that was sticking out of his calf. It looked incredibly painful, and the wound was already bleeding. As the girl looked him over, she was struck by the awareness that she hadn't a clue what to do either. If she made to remove the arrow, it was liable to release whatever kind of vein or artery or something of the like had been damaged in there, and the results would be horrific. On the other hand, he was likely already going through internal bleeding and bone/muscle damage. Without a healer, there was nothing she could do beyond hope that one could come soon enough or that he'd be able to walk. That seemed about as likely as her ability to use her damaged arm.

There was a whistling sound, and the girl turned to see a few more arrows stick themselves into the ground in front of her. Realizing that whoever was firing had been accurate enough to dispatch their horse and its rider, and should thus be more than capable of picking off a few still targets, her glance fell upon the hill that the arrows appeared to have come from. And there, upon the proud hill, was an assortment of horses arranged neatly in a row, flying an orange and brown flag of a man waving a sword above his head while riding a deer.

She groaned. Jonathan had been correct. They'd been outpaced and picked off by an Eimhin cavalry squad. Yet, was this the one led by the King's own son?

"You are henceforth cornered!" The somewhat light-in-pitch voice echoed off of the surroundings and waved its way to Eremia's ear. The distance was far, and her own overwhelming anxiety and frustration only served to assure that her heartbeat did its best to drown out as much of the sound as possible. That, and the pain of her arm made her vision wavy and unfocused, and muddled with her other senses. "We have no reason to bring harm upon you, and you should not invite one. Know that you are facing the 3rd Armed Battalion of the Eimhin Cavarly and its leader, Ailean, son of the King of Eimhin, Catharnach. Come with us peacefully, and I assure you that as little harm as we can muster will come to you. Else, we may blind you, as our name and reputation have force behind them."

Jonah shouted in return, as loud as his voice could muster, "Speak up!" Eremia glared at the boy, who smiled sheepishly and returned to focus on Yorew. The servant looked at him and smiled, but glanced at the arrow and fixed his gaze away from it as quickly as he could muster. It was then that he stared up at the sky, trying to distract himself from the sight or thought of his injury, and saw something above. A hand pointed at it, and the boy and girl looked up in response, eyes narrowing as they tried to find what he had seen.

The horsemen must have had the same idea, as the whole army moved in unison a short distance down the hill, making a thunderous racket. The archers raised their bows to the object above, and fired. Eremia watched as the silhouette of a large bird waved artfully around them, trying to speed its way down towards the trio. A second gathering of arrows made it think otherwise. Her eyes widened as she recognized the figure as what she perceived to be one of the Exedor soldiers. There was only a single individual, but she needed all the help she was going to get, and this opportunity was perfect. Besides, where there was one, there could be many.

She looked down at her usable hand. The girl was still immensely tired, but could likely fire a few more blasts of her own. She didn't need them to be that strong, anyway. Eremia stared at Jonah, who placed a hand to shadow his eyes while he watched the spectacle taking place. "Do you have anything of use?" she whispered at him. While the cavalry remained perched on the hill and making its own racket, she didn't want to find out that they had some kind of exceptional hearing or something of the sort.

The boy pulled out his dagger. Yorew groaned. "I have Braemer," he said proudly, as though he had been waiting for the perfect moment to say it.

His sister glared at him. "You named your dagger?" Nevertheless, she sighed, realizing that they were facing an impenetrable brick wall of an armed force, and even a puny knife could serve some use. At least, it would be about as effective as most anything else she had in mind. "Fine, hold my hand. It's going to take a ride."

Jonah looked distressed by this choice of words, but muttered an incantation and clasped her hand. As arrows fell behind them, growing gradually closer with the repeated efforts of the eagle, the girl called upon the energy pouring through her to momentarily dispel her headache and summon a small column of swift air aimed towards the cavalrymen. As a breeze whisked the grass around them and their hair, Jonah sighed and placed the dagger in the column, whereupon it was fired rapidly into the sky, quickly shrinking in size as it sped away from them.

After a few seconds of silence, during which a panicked Eremia worried that her efforts had failed, there came a sound that was a mix of a groan and a scream. Whatever that dagger had done, it had enough of an effect to halt the archers as they prepared another set of arrows, and allowed the eagle to swoop down towards them. Shouting rose from the distance as the force seemed confused, and then another volley of arrows whistled through the air when they spotted the bird's descent. Eremia closed her eyes in concentration and summoned a blast of wind that spiraled into the air, interfering with the arrows' path. The eagle had to dodge out of the way, but the arrows were thrust off balance, and changed their trajectory in a multitude of angles while traveling forward.

Now all the soldier had to do was duck under this procession by swooping towards the archers and over Eremia, and then swiftly fell downwards towards the girl and her associates. He landed gracefully on the grass beside Jonah, and quickly shifted into a boy with dark brown, ruffled hair. Pale golden irises looked the trio over and nodded in satisfaction, and the teen sat by Eremia and Jonah, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the archers with a mix of contempt and fury.

The voice of Ailean, or who Eremia surmised was him, echoed from the hill. "Dare you have the gall to threaten the lives of my soldiers, and make to profane this ground with their blood? Surrender now, or pay the consequences."

Eremia grumbled as the sound of arrows embedding in the earth came from the distance and neared. She was far too tired and injured to muster any other attack, and it was hard to focus any further with her head feeling like it had been cracked open to view the contents. At least they had the soldier, but he looked about as old as she was, and he didn't have any weapon with him. The most he provided was moral support, and that wasn't doing them much good. The Prince had no intention to kill them, that much she could guess, but he didn't seem like the kind of guy who would care about a few broken limbs. Well, she'd been lucky before, hadn't she? All she could do now was hope that Jonathan had actually been looking out for them, and had prepared a force of his own.

"Who are you?" demanded Jonah as he tried to ignore Yorew's objections and swatting away his hands while he tried to pull the arrow of the servant's calf. The newcomer, who was dressed in padded leather armor and a makeshift helmet, which was over a simple outfit that bared parts of his legs and his midriff, stared back.

"I am..." he began, but a volley of arrows striking the earth drowned him out.

Jonah's face shriveled and he tried again. "I said, who are you?"

As Eremia began to move back from her open position, thanks to the strikes growing yet closer, the soldier also began to shuffle back. "I. am..." he said more forcefully, but was again drowned out.

The girl gritted her teeth and tried to cover her ears as the two continued in this fashion, growing ever louder. This was getting ridiculous, and it hurt to move her broken arm at all, which made her present efforts incredibly painful. By now, she had to push herself back farther and farther, as the archers grew more audacious and reckless. Her faith in Jonathan diminished with each row of shots, although she carried within her the faint hope that the boy had predicted that they would ignore him to head to Exedor, and had planned for such.

Finally, seeing a volley heading right for them, Eremia finally stood up and started running. Jonah, terrified, did the same, while Yorew, who couldn't move much at all, began to crawl. The soldier, who was beginning to respond as loudly as possible to the boy's latest repeated question, realized as much, and so moved in front of the servant, shadowing and covering him from the approaching arrows.

"...Aquila!" the soldier shouted, as an arrow embedded itself in his back and he collapsed, falling beside Yorew. The girl and boy turned around in horror, the remaining shots landing inches away from their feet, and dashed back. Eremia cursed the fact that this man hadn't had much any armor at all as she peered over and inspected his bleeding wound. It looked awful, and the way that blood flowed rapidly from it meant that he wasn't going to be alive at all very shortly. What kind of soldier was he, anyway? If any soldier at all? Beyond the bravest idiot in the entirety of the world.

Jonah grabbed her hand before she made to touch the deadly arrow shaft, and pointed towards the hill. "Look!" he commanded in immense relief as the girl thrust her hand away from his, and her eyes followed his gaze and the direction by which he was pointing to orient towards the small procession of soldiers standing in front of them and the archers.

Her eye twitched. This had to be Jonathan's force. Except, of course, it had arrived too late to save one man, and possibly two, and was far smaller than the gathering of archers. What in the world was he planning, and how did he hope to succeed?

"Alarick!" shouted Ailean. Though they were close enough that the former could most likely hear him, she guessed that he wanted everyone else within earshot to listen to his plans as well. "This is the business of the Kingdom of Eimhin. We have been informed that those four are responsible for the murder of our soldiers, the theft of our horse and goods, and a petty diplomatic disregard for the people of our country. If you are to interfere with our country's affairs, there will be war.

The next voice was deep and eloquent, the tones of a well-versed speaker and negotiator within them. It was forceful, demanding, and powerful, and the only thing keeping Eremia alive and relatively unharmed at the moment. "Might I ask why you would send your finest soldiers after three children and one man? I am well aware of the identity of those behind me as the Prince of Exedor, Princess of Exedor, and their associates. The treaty that established my army specified that I have the right to act if I feel as though a member of the Confederacy is abusing its influence on other nations or directly harming them. Your Alliance has spent too long threatening the authority of the throne, and now you look for another country's children and soldiers to make your puppets? Shame on you. Stand down."

Eremia watched as this little feud unveiled itself, and realized that one of Ailean's soldiers was lying dead upon the ground, an arrow through his head and the surrounding soldiers trying to restrain the man's horse from running away. This had to be Jonathan's work, and yet she could not see him in the distance - he was hidden behind some of the other specks. In that fashion, she could only recognize Ailean by his voice, rather than his appearance. "The King's children? Doubtful. I see only fakers, lying Exedor citizens who walked their way into my country and attacked my people. If you would be so kind as to remember the Treaty of Austliere, any individual country has the right to prosecute the leading nation, or even secede, if it feels as though the rights of its people are being infringed upon or attacked by that country or its close allies. Fly away, little Doves - I must show as much force as possible if I am to dissuade your ilk from making their way into my land. I will not have you come in on the whims of a foolish and old state and think that you may meddle in my affairs or kill my soldiers, or defend Exedor-supported liars."

The girl hesitantly taking a few steps forward, eyes narrowing as she waved her arms towards Jonathan's group in the hopes that they could come over and provide aid. She wasn't eager to see this devolve into an argument over treaties and words, especially not with people dying around her. Besides, she had only a faint awareness of the Treaty of Austliere, and none at all of these Doves.

Nevertheless, Alarick gestured to the girl and retorted. "I have a source on the highest authority that indicates otherwise. You are well-known for your lying tongue, prince. With regards to your Treaty, it explicitly calls upon the House of Wyandanch or its allies to crack down upon nations accused of abusing their citizens or those around them. It might not be strong enough to oppose your father's sense of leadership, but it does have enough trust in us and our swords to protect children from a tyrant. The Confederacy is against you, boy, as are we, and we have proved as much in the past. Take a step further, and you invite war upon yourself and your father's kind."

There was a long and audible silence on the hill. Eremia wanted to scream in pain and frustration, but there was nothing she could do at this point but pray that Ailean would desist, and that she would be fine. Jonah, staring back at the victims, one of whom was breathing deeply and closed his eyes so that he not look at his wound or the fallen eagle, clearly felt the same, as he knelt and gave his most desperate and pleading expression to the skies.

"...I did not come here to argue treaties," said the Prince of Eimhin at last, stammering. "I will have those children, regardless of who they are and what their intentions are, and you cannot stop me. But, for now, I see that I am outgunned, and I will need reinforcements. This is no victory on your part, mind you. I will not be so easily stopped by...frauds, as I know them to be. As you were, ladies and gentleman; know that you have violated the Treaty of Austliere in your partisan sentiment, and you will all pay dearly for it."

There was a general sigh of relief among the four as the gathering of cavalry descended briefly down the hill, turned around, and charged up it in a prominent cloud of dust. Swift as they were, they vanished shortly, and the procession of Jonathan's soldiers on the hill wasted little time in making their way towards Eremia when they saw that the army had left.

A few men and women jumped off of their horses, led by a man in a metal suit with his face exposed. It was the face of a tired man, with pronounced cheekbones and a friendly gaze marred by the bags under his eyes and the wrinkles on his face. His short black hair was ruffled when he took off his helmet, and it seemed he enjoyed that appearance, as his hair was greased and parts of it stuck up slightly. The younger lady next to him, with blue eyes and curly ginger hair, proceeded over to Yorew and Aquila while the man stared down at the siblings.

"Get on," he said simply, a slight frown on his face, and he gestured behind him on his horse. Jonah and Eremia looked at each other, and then at him.

"How in the world was he outgunned?" the girl asked suspiciously, eyebrow raised. The man sighed and moved his horse forward slightly, revealing the figure of Jonathan riding his own horse in the back. In front of him, one to his left and the other to his right, were two teenagers. The girl to the left had smooth, bowl-like and blue hair (which seemed dyed) and smiled bemusedly at them. The boy to the right had an enigmatic smile on his face, and his eccentric and large amount of red hair made him look playful and energetic in comparison. Jonathan, in the meantime, winked and stretched his bow taut. Eremia formed an o with her mouth.

Then came shouting nearby, and the girl turned to see the ginger-haired woman pulling the arrows out from Yorew and Aquila. The corresponding spurts of blood, which made her and the woman wince, all but confirmed Eremia's fears. However, though the eagle momentarily broke free from consciousness, shouted, and fell silent again, and Yorew simply groaned and tried as hard as possible to not pass out, the woman concentrated and began to channel the energy that spilled from her. Eremia was stunned, mouth agape as she watched the lady heal the sizable wounds within both individuals. This was a greater amount of healing magic than she had ever seen before, even considering Yorew's talent. On the other hand, she hadn't grown used to bloody carnage until quite recently, a fact that hung heavy on her mind. Everyone else, in the meantime, treated this as a rather mundane spectacle. If they were some kind of military force, that wasn't surprising.

"Who is he?" questioned the tired man, who was most likely the leader. He gestured towards Aquila, but didn't seem to be addressing the question to anyone in particular.

"He appears to be one of Exedor's messengers, Alarick," the lady replied calmly, looking weaker and paler and struggling to take a few steps. Eremia ran over and tried to help her, but the woman softly pushed her aside. "Perhaps a reconnaissance man? Either way, he looks young and harmless."

Alarick shuffled in his seat. "I'm not willing to take any chances," he concluded. "Tie him up and bring him with you."

Jonah accept the leader's hand and was hoisted onto the horse. Eremia, however, crossed her arms and glared at him. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. "If you are allied with the Confederacy, you support Exedor. Why are you tying up its - my - soldiers? Your friend even said he was not a threat, and he only appeared when that damned prince tried to kill us. He saved the life of my servant. Is that not enough for you?"

The man sighed as he pulled a long amount of rope from a bag attached to the horse and handed it to the woman. "I'm going to be honest with you. If what I've heard is true, you, and your allies, snuck out from under the King of Exedor's nose, instigated a country-wide manhunt, and fought a brash group of thugs. As I've been informed, you managed to kill the leader of an Eimhin procession of crooks that has made a living antagonizing Exedor and using its position by the border and the Eimhin army to evade arrest. After all that, you somehow managed to hold off the Prince's army long enough for us to arrive, though we had expected you would come here and had moved as quickly as possible."

"Yes, I appreciate the flattery," said an acerbic Eremia, taking a step back as he extended his arm, while she watched the lady tie up the soldier and drag him towards her horse. As much as she wanted to stop the ginger-haired woman, Eremia knew that she was too tired and weak to do so. The girl had spent herself thoroughly, and now she only wanted rest.

"What I'm saying is that it's a miracle you're still alive," said Alarick forcefully, catching and pulling in Eremia's attention. "You have been reckless beyond belief, but were brilliant about it. That earns my respect. So, if you want to know, we distrust your country, as hard as that is to believe. We feel that they are hiding more than they let on. They did send us to keep an eye on the border before your escape, and we came, but only out of loyalty to the Confederacy. We needed to make sure everything was secure, and that Ailean would not attempt one of his ploys. It was easy enough to find you when Jonathan told us about what had happened, but I do not think we can merely return you to Exedor."

The girl sighed. By now, the lady had lifted the unconscious Aquila onto the horse, and was now helping Yorew stand up and bringing him to where she'd just left the soldier. They were having a hushed conversation, but the sweat dripping down his face indicated it was some serious matter. "So, after this lengthy and verbose explanation, what makes you think that I'll come with you?"

She already knew the answer. Alarick gestured around him and replied, "Do you have any other choice?"

Eremia looked down at the ground, mumbled, and accepted his hand, he pulling her up and behind Jonah. "I think not."

The man in the suit of armor laughed, yet it was a light and hollow one. "We never do. Good girl."

And then, Alarick locked eyes with each of his fellow soldiers and nodded. The elaborate gathering then departed, horses running gently across the fields as they began to make their way through the hills and landscape towards their destination, which Eremia guessed she would see quickly enough.

******

Something was wrong.

The leader restrained his horse suddenly, his followers stopped behind a hill. The girl, half asleep by then, was suddenly awoken by the sight of Alarick cupping his ear with one hand and gesturing for the others to quiet their horses. After a few seconds, he breathed a few curse words under his ears, and cracked the reins of the horse in one quick motion. Now Eremia found herself suddenly responsible for keeping her sleeping brother from falling off of the vehicle as they galloped around the hill, grabbing onto him as she tried to listen in between the sounds of horses dashing and spotting briefly the grim faces of their riders.

After a few seconds, it was then that she heard the familiar rumble of cavarly in the distance, and groaned. She had hoped that her troubles had concluded for the day, but such luck was not to come her way.

By now, she could see a series of tents arranged in the distance, next to an expansive farmland. It would've been easier to see if it wasn't being covered in dust.

As they rapidly neared, she could see the silhouettes of men on horseback firing arrows at arrangements of guards and soldiers who tried their best to fight back. Given what she could see, there was the impression of a large number of fighters on both sides, trying their best to strike down or repulse whatever foe was most available. As such, the conflict looked disorganized and maddening, and the clouds of dust and sounds of screaming and warfare didn't help. Then, of course, Eremia remembered that she was being carried right into the midst of the crisis.

"Jonathan! Terasu! To the right! Gather as many fighters as you can and build a line around your tents!" called Alarick, brandishing a sword. The teen with the bow and the blue-haired girl dashed off in that direction. Eremia hastily realized that it would be a bad idea to try and leap off of the horse when they were so close to the battlefield, and so held on to Jonah as hard as he could. "Rowland! Madeleine! Look for Cienen and defend the general's tent!" The red-haired boy and ginger-haired lady followed his instructions.

With the sounds of war now a massive din, and the other generals lost to the fog and dust, Alarick turned his back to face the siblings, his face contorted in silent, seething rage. "I apologize for what might happen next. I had no intention to drag you into battle, but I have no other choice. I must keep us all alive, and if that means invoking war, so be it. Brace yourselves!"

And, with that, they jumped in to the carnage.

It was a bizarre experience for the girl. She had never seen a battle on this scope before. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as they dashed past tents dotted with arrow holes, some aflame. Soldiers wearing dark gray outfits and chain-mail armor shouted commands and rushed their attackers, who wove those sickeningly orange and brown flags that Eremia had seen earlier. She wasn't surprised, but horrified as individuals dashed to and from the dust and were shot down within it, landing upon the ground. In turn, spooked horses without riders scattered about, people jumping aside as they charged heedlessly. In the distance, blasts of magic cast lights through the landscape, and she could see healing energy beginning to pour its way through the air.

And then came a rider, with his bow stretched taught and prepared to snipe at them. Eremia's eyes widened as Alarick calmly plunged his sword into the man's chest while riding past, and her mouth fell open as Alarick let go of the weapon and the man fell dead onto the ground. He merely sighed and pulled out a second sword from another scabbard.

Now she was rather glad to be with him. In this scene of madness and screaming, she was fairly happy to be close to the one individual who seemed to have some sort of sense.

However, he appeared to be searching for something. Alarick scanned his surroundings while jumping past fireplaces and dodging the arrows that flew all around him, as though a frenzy of bees. It was hard to ignore the blood on the ground, but Eremia squinted and allowed the leader to do his job. By now, they were close to one particular set of magic attacks, which waved fire into the air. As it dispelled some of the ambient dust particles, Eremia realized that it belonged to a series of mages surrounding a particularly large and fortified tent. At the front was the ginger-haired lady and a strange-looking man. In the interplay of light and shadows, he looked like a bipedal deer with large antlers and robes that shook, small glass vials dancing upon them. This man cast beams of ice that stabbed at a parade of archers racing each other in a circle around them.

The general sighted something, however, and dashed off, leaving the scene behind. A few seconds passed by before a large blur appeared on the other end of a still blazing campfire a short distance away, and it was then that the girl recognized an eerily familiar impression.

The mysterious rider came to the same conclusion about them, and his horse began to gallop frantically off. This only dogged Alarick on, and so he followed. Now it came down to a race, which might've been exhilarating if they weren't doing it in the midst of a battlefield, and if Eremia had to grip the horses's sides with her legs as powerfully as her weak frame could muster so that she didn't fall off in the process. Jonah, who somehow managed to be a brilliant sleeper, began to shake and yawn. The girl hoped that he wouldn't have to see this carnage, although a small part of her was more than happy to rub in his face just what his plans had caused.

Whoever Alarick's opponent was, and however skilled they might be on horseback, the leader was still more. He was now almost parallel to the individual in question, and the girl could see his long, flowing blonde hair dance as the impressions of a proud and handsome looking gentleman appeared. Her heart froze in fear for a second, as she assumed it was the crook that had almost killed Jonah, but she then remembered that he looked like her distant impressions of the cavalry commander. This had to be the prince. Were the prince and crook related? Now that she thought about it - or, what little thought she could devote to it - that made sense. Only, this man had a far thinner frame, and his hair was partly tied up in dreadlocks.

"I hope you're good at improvisation," called out Alarick before handing the reins to Eremia with his non-sword hand. She clasped them without a second thought or awareness why, they forming a neck-rest for Jonah. And then she screamed as the general stood up and leaped from his horse, falling down upon the Prince Eimhin. They quickly vanished in a flurry of dust and the faint outlines of fists and swords.

That woke up her sibling, who quickly realized their predicament as the equally-flustered horse charged wildly through the battleground, leading over a fire or two. The girl knew that she had to restrain the beast before it killed itself and them, so she yanked back as hard as she could. That wasn't effective enough, as the frightened creature, head pulled back slightly, snorted and persisted. Jonah bellowed as well, and pain coursed through the girl as her muscles strained themselves and her raging headache persisted. Why had she forgotten to tell anybody about her broken arm?

However, the screaming suddenly began to diminish, and the siblings realized that they were close to the fighting's edge. The girl continued to fight the horse, but found herself rising in the air as the creature quickly stopped and reared in surprise, as it had almost come down upon a burning tent. Caught in surprise, the girl freaked out and let go of the reins, grabbing Jonah by his neck collar as they collapsed onto the ground and the horse wheeled around. They rolled out of the way to avoiding being crushed underfoot as it sped off into the battlefield, likely looking for its master.

Jonah lifted himself up, not caring to brush off any of the dust or blood that matted his outfit, and pulled his sister up. Together they stood, watching the screaming and shouting that marked this violence as it raged onwards. "I have to see if he's okay," Eremia mumbled, before she mustered her courage and ran back into the fray. No matter what happened, she decided that she and everyone she cared about who was still stuck with her was better off with Alarick than with that boisterous and murderous prince. Thus, she needed to assure that the former was still alive. Her brother screamed for her to come back, but she paid no attention, and it wasn't long before the girl could hear his distant voice grow louder and closer.

They hadn't traveled far, and mostly in a straight line. The girl skirted around fires and ducked under shots, jumping out of the way as an errant cavalryman pulled out a sword and tried to stab at her, but miscalculated and ended up speeding away. After just a short time, she saw the figure of Alarick in the distance, wearing a metal suit. Now the man was exerting an incredible amount of effort, and a second's vision made clear the was lifting a man into the air, before casting him down upon a pit of what looked like one of the army's latrines. Eremia gagged, as did her brother when he arrived, out of breath and paler than ever.

"I didn't think that you would be this conniving," the leader grumbled, as his opponent sloshed in the muck and tried to rise. Alarick's horse was now at his side, and he patted the beast while his sword was pointed at the prince. "You have killed my soldiers, threatened my people, and endangered the lives of innocents. I am tired of your petty threats. War or not, it makes me happy to see you trapped in the crap that your father helped to build, and that your cousin had to die for it. War or not, there is blood to be paid for blood, and we know whose it will be."

He raised his sword in the air. The prince held out a hand over his face and tried to lay low. The girl screamed in frustration and ran over to the general. "Stop!" she cried, grabbing his sword arm with both of hers while ignoring the terrible pain.

The leader, with his incredibly imposing and mildly-bloodshot gaze, turned his entire focus on her. "Madame, why would you dare?"

Eremia stammered and grew quiet for a few seconds, yet her fury and overwhelming tension with the world at large superseded her fear. "I have seen death before, in old nurses, attendants, and friends. It has always been uncommon, quiet, and peaceful. Today, I have seen countless people die violently. I am tired of it, and I will not have another, heinous as he might be. Whether you let him live or die, you will start a war. I know enough that, if you kill him, his father will come down upon all of us, and there will be nothing to save us when the madman becomes crazier. Let him go."

A couple of Eimhin archers nearby jumped off of their horses and stood by the pit, bending over and grasping the prince's hands to pull him up. Alarick looked between the girl and them repeatedly. At first, swiftly, but it soon became a slow and thoughtful gesture. The anger faded from his face, and he returned to his sad expression. He waved them off, and the men seemed to nod in response. "I would let your father know that he was unwise to let a fool do his errand," the general said bitterly.

The Prince Eimhin's face twitched, but he, recognizing that he had narrowly gotten away with his life, called out, "Retreat!" This cry was echoed by his men, and then through further voices in the cavalry.

"Leave me be," whispered Alarick as he walked off, bringing his horse with him while he shrugged aside Eremia before she could say anything. The siblings watched as Ailean was lifted onto a horse and carried away from the battlefield, and the entirety of the remainder of the cavalry picked up the command and began rushing away from the campsite. There was only the sound of dashing horses and the shouting of injured men, and even the dust was beginning to fade away. Their sense of order and pride was amazing, though it meant that the girl could now see a steady stream of healer's energy and the rushing of soldiers as they made to tally the dead and injured, and take control of the situation.

That was all the girl could remember before her senses caught up with her, and she fainted.

Eremia had always had the distance hope that she would finally see the seashore, hear the lapping of waves against a sandy beach, and wriggle her toes in and amongst the sand as she ran about the shore, her family at her side. Unfortunately for her, today was not going to be that day, despite how hard and how long she dreamed of it during the night.

When she came to, she could hear the sounds of what she surmised was the ocean, and her heart rose up in joy. It was summarily shoved back down her throat when she remembered what had happened the previous day, and she heard the sounds of horses moving across the ground. Nevertheless, the others in the wagon only saw the girl open her eyes in the midst of a pile of blankets, her disappointment blocked by the latter covering part of her face.

In one corner, there was Jonah, sitting contentedly in a pile of his own blankets while holding a bowl of water in one hand and a pot with hard biscuits and dried fruit in the other. He didn't seem happy, but didn't have the urge to complain. The boy stood up when he saw Eremia awake, and ducked under the wagon's tarp roof as he walked over and handed her the foot and water while she rose, propping herself against the ground with her arms. Leaning against the back of the faintly-smelly wagon, the girl took the food from her brother's hands and began to eat and drink.

The girl's normally straight hair was frizzed, but Eremia was too tired and sleepy to care. Her head faintly ached, as did her arm and various parts of her frame. It was only after a minute or two of silence did she notice her brother pouting in the corner, arms crossed and scowling. And then she saw the eagle in another corner, he having turned back into the soldier with leather pads and poor armor. A set of gauze bandages were wrapped around his stomach, and he was draped in a blanket or two. He remained patiently observing his surroundings, and Eremia realized, as one of his blankets slid down partly, that he was tied up, and couldn't move at all.

Anger rose in her heart. The wagon was as well-kept as it could be, but it smelled faintly of manure and hay and the sweat of travelers. Everything did. She was fortunate enough to be in a warm and snug space, yet that seemed to trap some of the smell, and the trap kept the heat in. It was growing warmer, and Eremia guessed that it was early morning by now, with the sun rising and throwing its hot rays upon all. That all ended up playing second fiddle to her overwhelming distrust of the people who had already saved her life twice, but refused to take her home, and feared the intentions of the family she'd known throughout her life.

So her undying fury manifested itself when footsteps emanated from nearby, and the young man with spiky red hair jumped onto the back of the wagon, ducking so he wouldn't bump into the tarp, and smiled bemusedly at them. "You look happy. Good morning, friends!" he said, continuing to maintain a genuinely joyful expression while Eremia gritted her teeth and balled her fists. The man had a green scarf and a suit of light metal armor upon which was carved intricate swirls, some red-painted and with the impressions of wolves. The girl wasn't sure of their origins.

"What makes you think we're happy?" she retorted, growling. Jonah cast the man a disdainful look and snubbed his nose.

That didn't dissuade the newcomer from gesturing to Aquila. "You're young, you're alive, and clearly lovebirds. I was told you were the poet?"

Jonah grinned mischievously. "Did you come all this way for the sake of a pun? Yes, we're all quite happy here."

"What is wrong with you people?" replied Eremia in exasperation. "We're siblings!" She looked at Jonah, who was enjoying himself way too much by taunting her, playful as it was; and Aquila, who looked disinterested and even mildly depressed.

The man's now looked confused and a little flustered. "Wait..." he said, trying to specify something, "So...you and the eagle are...siblings, right?"

Eremia stood up and rushed the man. "Get out! Get out, you pervert!" The young adult complied and leaped from the back, landing on his feet and waving. Jonah laughed while the girl sat down and wrapped herself in blankets again. On one side, she was a little relieved to see her brother back in his usual spirits. On the other side, she now remembered how annoying it was for him to be malicious and conniving. At least he still maintained that edge of horror and dismay in his eyes, and appeared tired and unkempt. Yesterday was still fresh on his mind, and, though he wished to use his talents to swat them aside and deal with his frustration, they lingered. Maybe he would finally learn a lesson, she hoped.

Suddenly, a girl stepped onto to the back of the wagon. It was the blue-haired girl, and Eremia could now see how young she looked. This individual could stand under the roof without fear of hitting the ceiling, and was incredibly youthful. If it wasn't for her faintly tanned skin and the impressions of muscles indicated by a scattering of holes in between pieces of her suit of armor, she could've quite easily passed as a pre-pubescent girl. Eremia suspected otherwise.

"You'll have to excuse Rowland," the new girl beamed. "He has a strange and somewhat offensive sense of humor, but he's fun and friendly when you get to know him. I'm sorry about his latest outburst."

"Why should you be sorry?" retorted Eremia, though it was harder to yell at this girl than at Rowland. She exuded grace and warmth, whereas Eremia's impressions of Rowland had been ruined the moment he spoke. "Are you two...a couple?"

The new individual gestured to her frame and responded, "If you're referring to my age, I assure you that I'm older than I look - I'm around 20. Also, no, not exactly. I mean, we respect each other, and I find him hilarious, but it's not a completely romantic relationship. We're still figuring this out. He can get on my nerves sometimes, and he sometimes dotes on me too much. Or I freak him out."

Eremia raised an eyebrow. "As in?"

The girl shrugged it aside. "Just a temper. Anyway, I forgot to mention myself. I'm Terasu! But yes, I'm close enough to Rowland that I take some time to clean up his messes. It's not exactly a great way to introduce a new member of the Doves, and perhaps a tad alienating."

Jonah lounged in the back, patiently waiting as the conversation took a new turn. Eremia had worried that he would be barging in with some stupid or offensive remark, but that fear was quickly consumed by frustration. "New member? I most certainly didn't sign up to this! I didn't fall for my brother's stupid plot, get dragged across half a country and several fights, to be conscripted into an army led by people whom I don't even know, but have decided to tear me from my home and the people I've only known my entire life. All I want to do is find Yorew, and bring my brother and this soldier with me so that we may return to our peaceful lives. Is that so much to ask for? I swear that I will not inflict ruin or injury upon you people, as you have said our lives."

Terasu laughed. It was an uneasy one, and failed to rebuild any kind of bridge that Eremia was burning with her eyes. "You're by no means the first person who has come here and felt that way. It's a common reaction among our new recruits. You have to understand, it's safer than were you would be otherwise."

"How I am any safer in the middle of a wagon riding by the sea in who-knows-where?" shouted Eremia. "How am I expected to distrust my own family and country?"

That anger issue was starting to make its appearance. The new girl clenched her fists, and looked displeased, but continued to act as calm as she possibly could. "You won't be easily seen here. These are international waters and Confederacy land, and we aren't pushovers. We're not as likely to attract attention as we would when we were at Eimhin and Exedor, when a lot of powerful people were close enough to stab at us without fear. You saw that. The other nations wouldn't dare attack now that Exedor is beginning to extend its reach, nor in the middle of these troubling times. Word has spread extensively enough who the Doves are bringing with them, but neither side wants to tell. If the Alliance makes a move, knowing they are going after the Prince and Princess Exedor, the Confederacy can declare war on them, and the Alliance would not have a good reason to counter. The Confederacy doesn't want to show weakness by indicating the children of Wyandanch's lead allies have run off. We were in danger when your escape was known by Eimhin, which was close enough to attack you without interference because Exedor was muddled. Now none of the Alliance is close enough to strike, and the Confederacy is compensating. We're relatively safe here."

Now Eremia hummed a brief tune in concentration. "Sure, that's not terrible logic. It's not great, either. If you're right, and there are many influential people here, it would be easy for the Alliance to surround us and hold us hostage, and the Confederacy would have to concede. We are better off behind a castle, town, and the sizeable force of Exedor and Wyandanch, even if the Alliance knows who we are and how to get to us, and then they wouldn't dare. Besides, what if they want war? What if they already know where we are? What if something is preventing them from taking advantage of this?"

The new girl shrugged, but remained steadfast and confident. "I'll admit, I'm not as good at this strategy thing than Alarick or Madeleine; I just come in and hit people over the head. But he always told me to never trust a large army, because they always have some secret intentions of their own. Even the Confederacy does. We're best off staying away from them and having them block each other, which they will. Besides, I have one little card that I don't like to tell too many people." Terasu leaned over next to Eremia, smelling slightly of the same scents Eremia had been bombarded with, and a hint of blood (likely the trace of the latest battle that she hadn't yet been able to wash off), and whispered, "I'm the Princess of Comas."

The Princess Exedor shuffled back in frightful alarm. "How can I trust you now?" she said fearfully. "If your father is one of the senior members of the Alliance, will I be sure to be safe?"

Terasu's face froze. Her hair cast shadows over her eyes, and her expression turned grim and tense. "I'm going to get Madeleine so she can knock some sense into your head, or Cienen or Alarick or one of the other generals. Feel free to worry yourself to death while I'm gone." She turned and jumped off the back of the wagon.

Jonah clapped his hands appreciatively. "That was a wonderful show, sister. I don't know how you could be any more disrespectful and cynical. You make me proud." His sister, in the meantime, stood up, bending slightly due to the ceiling, and walked over to Aquila.

"Yes, having your sincerest appreciation of my efforts makes me feel fantastic, thank you," she shot back sarcastically, voice trembling with concern and anticipation. The soldier looked at her with an eyebrow raised, but was otherwise quiet as she sat beside him and quietly said, "You can change your form, can't you? It should be easy enough for you to slip free from your bonds. I don't think anybody's watching, and it won't be that hard for you to escape. Tell my parents we're by a seashore or lakeshore or wherever we are, I don't know. Just provide as much information as you can."

The soldier nodded, and Eremia stood up and strode over to the wagon's entrance, peering out under the tarp. Yes, there did appear to be another wagon in front of them, although the girl couldn't see who the rider was without shrugging the roof aside and poking her head through. Too, there were a few other soldiers scattered about, silently marching in dark uniforms, with a variety of faces and appearances brightened by sunlight. Yet, hopefully her blocking any onlookers from watching the soldier as he shifted into his eagle and slipped free of his bounds would keep anyone from suspecting what was going on until it was too late to react.

Jonah watched with curiosity as the eagle clawed the floor for a few seconds, prepared a flight position, and shot out like an airplane heading down a field. Eremia sidestepped at the last second as it soared into the air, and then jumped back a few steps, partly in surprise at the soldier's quickness and her own reflexes.

"Do you think that's going to work?" he replied in genuine interest as his sister turned and gave him two thumbs up. "And aren't we going to be in trouble for this?"

As a commotion released itself outside, the girl responded, "I'm sure they'll assume he made a break for it at the most convenient opportunity. They can't be that reactive, right?" Shortly after, a terrible squawk announced the return of Aquila, who was thrown ungracefully back into the wagon and shifted back into his soldier form. There were bruises around his neck and shoulders, and he had a horrified and surprised expression on his face. Eremia's face twitched ever so slightly as she struggled between being furious and being depressed.

Jonathan jumped onto the back of the wagon, casting a shadow over everyone in the room. "Nice try," he said with a hint of respect. "Tie him up again." He bowed and exited quietly.

"How can a man of few words be so effective at saying them?" mused Jonah as his sister sighed and grabbed the rope, throwing it over the soldier, who had gone back to his previous position of sitting in the corner. Both of the latter individuals were quiet, and Aquila was content with being tied up again, but there was a noticeable lack of spirit. Eremia's efforts had failed, and now she remained concerned for her life and furious about what she had already gone through today. Now she didn't have much choice but to wait. She wasn't sure what the soldier was distraught about, but she supposed that he did have a family, as she did, that he couldn't see. Doubtless, Exedor was concerned that it had lost one of its soldiers.

After a minute or two, there was once again the sound of footsteps. "He was being honest, you know," said Madeleine as she pulled herself into the wagon, a grim Terasu behind her. They both sat, which the girl behind and to the right of the lady. "That was a wonderful stunt. But, our Jonathan is well known for his resourcefulness, as you've seen."

Eremia sighed, sat down, and wrapped herself in blankets. "Yes, I concluded that. What kind of wonderful story are you going to make me listen to?" Her face was edged with contempt and frustration that was all but dissipated when the ginger-haired lady pulled out a series of letters from her satchel and threw them onto the ground.

Jonah picked a couple of them up, while his sister peered down at them. The soldier looked from his own corner, but didn't seem to understand what the letters suggested. Likely illiterate. Nevertheless, all three of them could clearly recognize the seals by which the letters were bound.

"As hard as it is to believe," said Madeleine in her soothing voice, "we do cooperate with the Confederacy. You can see the signatures of your mother and father, do you not? I'm sure that you're well aware of them."

The boy waved his letters about. "They look right, but it's just as likely they could be forgeries. Besides, what good does this do? For all we know, you might be leading them along as you've led us along, and are working to backstab us both."

Before Madeleine could speak, Terasu huffed. "Is everything just a front to you people? Do you walk up to every single stranger you meet and question their faces?"

"Now, they do have a right to be paranoid," noted Madeleine. "They did escape their family's home and were almost killed more than once by Eimhin soldiers. However," she continued, staring down Eremia, who paled when she realized that this individual was rather intimidating when stern, "that doesn't necessarily mean we're lying as well. If Seres is who he is, there are good odds that he's placed a spy among us that we cannot find. The fact that we are not mentioned in the same breath as "traitor" indicates much. And why would I give you valuable military documents if I wanted you as my prisoner?"

Eremia wasn't willing to look at the lady directly when she snapped, "Where is Yorew? Is he alive?"

"He's safe," snorted Terasu. "Scared half to death when we had to clean up whatever blood was still on his outfit, but otherwise fine. He's been asking for you over and over again."

The boy entered the conversation before his sister had a chance to start ranting. "The problem is, if you say you work for the Confederacy, why haven't you already handed us to Exedor by now? If you are willing to work with them, why distrust them? It seems like a begrudging coalition. So, why all this effort to keep two children from their country?"

Madeleine nodded and pointed at Jonah. "It is begrudging. Seres can be a manipulative man at best, and cold-hearted at worst. As for Exedor, we're more cynical than you might think. It is the fact that they continue to act spotless, shiny, and benevolent in this word of backstabbing, conniving idiots that worries us. Rest assured that, after this conversation, and after we build a mutual understanding, Yorew will be sent to you. But, for the sake of impartial and sensible discussion, we had to keep you apart, so that you wouldn't plan to lie to us. At least, not in the same fashion."

The girl sighed. Their logic was surprisingly reasonable, and they seemed decent enough. At least, they hadn't threatened her yet, and their argument, beyond their thoughts of Exedor, was solid. However, it was still impossible to take anything that was said at face value without understanding the entire situation or the people involved, and she couldn't help but be suspicious. She didn't know enough, and she didn't know how she would be able to under the circumstances. "Okay," she said, resting her forehead against the palm of her hand. "I don't think we'll be able to totally agree, and I'm sure you're aware that I'll remain suspicious of you and your intentions. However, I'm tired, frustrated, and would rather go back to sleep. I also don't have any more questions. Except for one that I had forgotten - where are we?"

"Ah!" replied Madeleine, having apparently also forgotten to inform Eremia. "This is the Eferung Lake. Remember, the Lake of Two Rivers? We should be not far from the border with Walenty at the present time, but Eimhin is long behind us. It helps that you slept for almost a whole day."

Now the girl flopped back down on her blankets and stared up at the roof. This was the absolute last place she wanted to be right now, but had been told that it was somehow the most reasonable option. Where was the logic in that? All she wanted to do was go back home again - was that really so hard? Was anyone else in the world having as challenging and as annoying a day as she?

As it was almost always, it was quiet in the chapel.

Rows of empty seats had been pushed aside and stuffed into corners to allow the procession of grim, older men to continue with their chanting and incantations. Their blue and white robes shook as they formed an elaborate circle, casting their arms into the air and asking prayers of the heavens above.

The young man in the middle had sat down and kneeled to face the ground. White hair, tinged with streaks of blue, matched the outfits of the bishops quite nicely, and pooled down to around the man's neck. He was dressed in a blue shirt bound together by polished metal pins, and a streak of black crossed diagonally through white and blue. His pants had black stripes, but maintained the same color scheme, and also bound with buttons. Brown boots provided the only variation, but they were buried by a long, blue, soft cape, that which the priests were taking care to avoid.

We call upon thee, our Eternal Leader, to bless this kingdom and its ruler for another year, that they may live in prosperity and peace everlasting...

The child scoffed as he heard the old language emanating down the towering, hexagonal structure, made of strange black rock. Not out loud, of course. Yet, it was hard to feel meaningful when he understood the despairing conditions of his land. The boy pulled out a large, golden-hilted sword and a blade encrusted with rubies, from his scabbard. It was incredibly heavy for a child with little balance and no muscle at all, but he held it. Gritting his teeth, he rose it into the air. Rasia, the Holy Blade.

...and our greatest king, Wyn, who had driven back the creatures of this land with a noble heart and a steely spirit, and settled it with his fellow travelers...

The boy's gray eyes flashed upwards, past the elaborately carved columns and polished floors to the balcony on the second floor. There, hand clasping the wooden railing, was a towering man. The tall figure with a burly frame stared back down, amber eyes piercing through the child, who returned to staring at the ground. This figure had military-cut hair, a massive mustache, and wore a set of blue robes. It was ceremonial, and hid the massive scabbard on his back as well as his dark-blue and brown outfit beneath. The black boots still poked out from the edge of his uniform, though.

...may he come in our time of greatest need and aid us all once more, though the spirit of his descendant, our soon-to-be royal leader of this land and its legions of devoted followers...

"My general," whispered a man with large spectacles as he walked across the balcony to the tall man, who turned to face him with a wary and patient expression. The spectacled man's eyes were rendered large, and made one's vision focus on those, rather than on the short, slick and black hair; the blue half-robe that denoted advisors; and brown pants. "We cannot find who has taken them."

"Have you interviewed any of the onlookers? Which of our garrisons were the nearest?" replied the general with his quiet voice, one that was yet edged with threats and tension.

The advisor paled. "They...do mention a boy with a bow. He was a brilliant aim. Looked dreadful, poor, but he...could turn into a stag, general."

The general pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought you had careful reconnaissance on the Hearts' Choir. How hard is it for me to trust you?"

"I-In my defense," the advisor stammered, "we lack soldiers. And the last of your spies to enter the camp didn't leave...freely."

...thus we hope humbly that this coronation process proceed smoothly, and signal the unity and prosperity that the Confederacy d'Austliere desires. Here we pray to you, our Lord, for the safety and guidance of the King of Wyandanch, Wielde!

"They should cause no harm," dismissed the general, stepping away from the procession to look outside. "The children will be alright. Send word to Eurynome and Trevonn to continue searching nevertheless."

"Seres," called the advisor as he ran over to join the general, passing by a staircase that spiraled towards the ground while he approached another balcony providing a clear view of the city. "Does this not threaten our strength if our ally is so disorganized? Have they not already pulled some of their troops from here? Too, doesn't our enemy already suspect the children's location, or is moving to find them?"

The general turned and stared him down. "You will address me as your leader and general. The Alliance knows better than to fight us, lest they loose too many of their own soldiers, with or without Exedor's help. This city-state is well-guarded. If Alarick is smart, and I know him to be, he will keep as close to our land as possible. If the Alliance wants to lead a preemptive strike, they will only invoke wrath among themselves and lose the initiative they crave. They dare not attack."

"As you say so, general. Yet, be ever so careful. You don't know how reckless people can be when they find reason to." The strategist had unbelievable nerves, Seres noted, at times; those occasional bursts of confidence allowed him to stand up to any talking down or condescending behavior. It also happened to be incredibly irritating and useless.

Seres chuckled without happiness or pleasure. "I know that much. Nevertheless, if the Alliance thinks it can capture them and hold them for ransom, I'm sure Aelius will be most displeased to see that they are surrounding his daughter. As much as he hates us, it is clear to whom his loyalties lie. The Confederacy can also instill spies and resources as necessary, and their army would be large enough to make a good target to infiltrate and break apart."

The general stared from the balcony. The city-state of Wyandanch gazed back, in its glum and dreary tones. Gray houses stretched from beneath him, extending to imposing walls that surrounded the city. The roads were abandoned and covered with garbage, and many roofs were dotted with holes. There was no life here anymore; it had all been lost only a couple of generations ago. Now, most residents were conscripted as soldiers, and the patiently waiting army was stuck in a decrepit and weakened city with few allies, fewer resources, and still fewer respect for their leaders. Even beyond the walls, endless grassy fields rustled in the breeze, taunting the city by demonstrating their readiness to outlive it in spirit and mind. Which they could feasibly do so now. Still, the earth looked dull and quiet, and the colors of the setting sun from behind Seres did little to splash color onto the scenery.

He turned around. The advisor hurriedly conversed with a man of similar attire, who ran down a flight of stairs upon seeing Seres. "The young prince is done with today's ceremony," noted the advisor. "Will the coronation commence as you ordained?"

The general joined the advisor as they began to proceed down the polished black-stone staircase. "In a fortnight, yes. And speak nothing of the ball; I do not know how the Alliance spread such a lie, but it was effective."

And the world returned to silence.

When Jonah awoke, his heart momentarily froze. He thought, however briefly, that all the events of the past day had somehow never existed. Now he was standing in his unkempt clothes, with a dirty and messy face and hair, in the midst of rolling plains and hills, shrouded in tough and thick grasses. This was uncultivated land, yet it looked far too like the scenery when he and his associates had dashed their way through Eimhin. Although, even Eimhin hadn't seen this bare, devoid of life, and raw and wild. Except, that's what he had surmised. Had the past day and a half been all but a dream? Had he fallen off of the horse and been abandoned? Except, his sister would've had to be more careful than that, unless she fell off as well. He couldn't see her anywhere.

His second start came in the form of seeing a young boy with dirty-blonde hair and the blue outfit of a royal crisscrossed a short distance from him, staring down at the ground. It looked exactly like Jonah, down to the blood across the shirt and muddy countenance. It spun a smaller dagger in its hands as it realized it had an audience, looked up, and stared at Jonah with completely white eyes. They lacked any sort of a soul or meaning, much less the vibrancy of the boy's hazel eyes.

"What are you?" sneered Jonah in contempt and disgust, his effort to make himself seem above this duplicate marred by the fear that tainted his voice.

The duplicate smiled. It looked friendly. "I am you, child. I have been for quite some time now. Not for much longer, I'm afraid."

It felt as though somebody had applied a block of ice onto Jonah's back. He shivered, staring about him as though he was trapped and being locked in by some kind of force. The boy had his own interpretation for those words, but he knew that it wasn't the truth. Still, it was worth figuring out. "So, is that it? You'll just run off and hide? Where are we, anyhow? Is this some stupid dream?"

It stood up, with a grin that remained rather pleased and energetic. "Oh, child, I have been hiding for far too long. You would like to think you have, but you know they have given you far more privilege than you ever deserve. But, no life is made without some experience. For you, this will be no dream; I think of it as a brat's cage."

Jonah paled, and pulled out Braemer from his own pocket, pointing it at the replica. "Do you think you're any better, with your lifeless eyes over my body? What freak are you to hide in the shadows? What kinds of bloodshed do you harbor within you?"

"Ever so lyrical," mused the duplica, walking over. "I needed something by which to distinguish myself from you." He flicked aside Jonah's dagger with his own. "Not for your sake, of course - I would never deign to make myself easily seen for the sake of a child. As for the blood, be lucky that it won't be yours. At least, not yet."

The boy turned and began to run furiously. "Who is the one throwing insults and tirades? I don't think I'm the child here. I will wake up, and I will call my sister, and she will get to the bottom of your strange presence, and what exactly you are." He froze when he realized that he felt like he was being strangled, and had been running in place the entire time. The replica held its dagger at him while stretched the other hand in a strangling motion.

The figure make a tsk! sound and walked around Jonah. "It does amuse me to make it look like I'm strangling you with my hands." It desisted from the gesture, and the pain remained. "You are so...simple-minded, and willing to throw your problems on others. I cannot be so easily killed or repressed, not when I have already used what little strength I have left to keep you within this frail mind. My name is not important at this moment, as I have something else in mind - a game."

"What...are the stakes?" gasped Jonah, placing his hands around his throat and struggling for breath. It was constricting, like a leash had been thrown over his neck and tightened. And, naturally, it ached and screamed. This felt too real; all of his sensations were working at overdrive, attempting to comprehend every inch of his surroundings. He could hear the whistling of distant wind, feel the prairie grass brush against his leg, and see his amused opponent. This corruption of himself, who was trying to accomplish its goals, which including trampling the boy. Jonah would not let it.

"This is a simple game. I do believe you will find military strategy to be amusing?" The duplicate stood in front of Jonah, holding out a black collar encrusted in diamonds, attached to a long, leather leash. "You need but swear that whoever loses must entrust the control of this mind to the winner. Otherwise, though you think you may resist me, I will keep you in here. I have had the ability to be patient for countless years; you, I suppose, have not had to have such devotion for more than a week. How long will it take before you crack, before your faith in your friends, who cannot help you, falls, and you turn to me? Days? Months? Years?"

The pain and suffocation of Jonah's neck grew. He began to kick and shout hoarsely, but the replica only frowned. After but a minute or two longer, the boy's head drooped, and he silenced. As the strangling sensation dissipated, he took a couple of deep breaths. "Fine," Jonah whispered at last, in defeat. "I swear that your mind game will commence, and the loser must surrender this mind to the winner, and be bound by the leash in your hands."

A large smile appeared on the duplicate's face as it took several steps back and pulled out a series of flashing blue cards with silhouettes printed on them. Jonah glared at him fiercely, enraged by his own submission and the battle he'd been thrust into, and shoved a hand into one of his own pockets, pulling out the same cards. He stared at them in confusion, although the impressions on them were eerily familiar.

"I'm not strong enough to be bound to my normal sources of power here," mused the replica as it flicked each of the cards into the air. "So I took the liberty of pulling from your memories and building my arrangement from that." Images of Eremia, Alarick, and Aquila appeared. However, they were not precisely clear and vivid. Alarick wore his helmet, did not hold any of his swords, and all three flickered or were distorted mildly. Only the girl remained marginally unaffected. Aquila stared at him with piercing and skillful eyes, but those changed iris color with an odd frequency, and arms constantly reformed into wings and forms in-between those.

Jonah threw his cards into the air, and watched as the same trio materialized in front of him. "These are based on your memories, after all," commented the replica. "Those are so...pliable, and unreliable. Nevertheless, I will let you go first."

The boy closed his eyes and thought, unsure of what else to do. He would've rather said his battle plan, but he wasn't sure if that would work, and it would give his opponent something to manipulate. Jonah imagined his general raising both of his swords and dashing towards the duplicate's version of his sister. She was the weakest and would be least likely to dodge, and he decided using a brute force ploy would be an effective first impression. He opened his eyes when he saw his helmeted general pull out those swords - long, stately and sharp blades, and enact his battle plan. He smiled maliciously, waiting for the clone to react.

In response, it merely shrugged and pointed toward its Aquila, and then to the opposing general. The soldier, at once, transformed into an eagle, and rushed the boy's Alarick before it could attack the replica's Eremia. The boy's Alarick waved around his swords fruitlessly as both participants initiated maneuvers in their thoughts. However, Jonah did not see the replica's Eremia summon a massive, localized wind blast until it was too last, and his version of Alarick was sent spiraling into the air, landing behind him in a heap.

"A leader must be able to see and react to all conditions of battle," chided the duplicate. "One point of view is not enough."

Jonah gritted his teeth and sent his Aquila after the replica's, while having his own Eremia forge a gust of wind herself. The replica's was too tired to react, and his Eremia forged a wide column of air that swept the other combatants. The Aquilas were buffeted as the replica's was chased by Jonah's, but the duplicate's Alarick was only forced back a few steps, and otherwise remained steadfast. As such, there was nothing Jonah could do when the duplicate's Alarick rose its sword and sliced through his Aquila, which had been pursuing the replica's as it had moved behind its ally general. The eagle collapsed onto the ground, and vanished in a plume of smoke, leaving no trace. Jonah looked behind him, and saw nothing of his Alarick either.

When he turned back to face the battlefield, he was horrified to see the duplicate make its Eremia craft a horizontal column of air. Jonah tried to move his own Eremia out of the way, but the replica placed Braemer in the column and watched as the impromptu air cannon shot the dagger. It went through the chest of the boy's Eremia, and he shouted in dismay as she collapsed and faded into dust, dying with eyes wide open in horror as they stared at him.

The boy pulled the second dagger from the earth and held it in his other hand while the all of the replica's memory fighters burst in a cloud of smoke and ashes. "I had assumed you would do better, child," spat the replica as it walked through the cloud in a dramatic fashion. "I hope you will fare better than your playing cards in our personal duel. After all, this is the part of the game that you cannot lose. Though I had hoped our frivolous game would convince you of your futility against me, I suppose I must commend you for your willingness to stand. Now, this is the real challenge."

"What?" shouted Jonah, but now the duplicate was rushing him. They screamed as Jonah lifted his daggers and sent them down upon his replica.

A piercing scream threw a rock through the window of the partly cloudy, dreary night.

First responders awoke in their tents and jumped out in alarm when they saw flames emanating among the black soup of the sky as the large strategy tent burned brightly. Madeleine was being escorted - coughing, weary, horrified - from the expanse, questions thrust at her that she could not answer. Soldiers scampered to the lake with wooden buckets in hand, prepared to drain the lake as necessary to save the documents that were being grabbed in a hurry and rushed away from the building towards Alarick's tent. The general was trying to coordinate the effort, directing the fire mages to control the blaze and ordering everyone else to scour for water and the source of the shout.

It was Terasu, who was hastily able to fit on a metal breastplate and arm herself with a long spear, who found the answer. She rushed over, as she had been commanded the previous day, to the wagon where the sort-of prisoners were being kept. That was when she saw Jonah thrust out of the back of the wagon and land on the ground, coughing and spluttering as he held a hand under a bleeding nose, parchments stuffed into his shirt. The blue-haired girl took a step back when she saw him convulse and writhe while trying to stand up. A pair of iris-less eyes glared at her as the boy hissed a sentence in a language she didn't know, or could begin to comprehend, and Terasu was too disturbed to react as Eremia jumped from the wagon and landed on her brother, feet-first.

"Guards!" the blue-haired girl screamed as loudly as she could. "Apprehend the boy!" Soldiers began to rush out of tents half-dressed and armed with the nearest weapons of convenience as the boy summoned a blast of black energy from his hand, propelling Eremia into the wagon. The snapping of wood prefaced her exit out of the other end, while Aquila, still tied up, tripped and fell on top of her.

Jonah stood up, head facing the ground so that its hair masked its eyes, and began to levitate, a column of pitch-black darkness forming under him. "I...the boy," he croaked in an indecipherable accent, further shrouding its broken words. "Leashed...control!"

The gathered guards struggled to find any words or actions for this situation, and it was Terasu who was first able to break from this spell of horror and fear. She heaved her spear like a pole arm and sprinted in Eremia's direction. It came as little surprise to her when Jonah conjured massive black fists around his arms, captured the spear, and snapped it in two. However, she realized with horror that, whatever had happened to Jonah, or whatever he had become, it was quickly realizing how to manipulate its strength. Soldiers scattered as huge fists crashed against the earth, while the blue-haired girl knelt beside Eremia and lifted her head up. The girl looked bruised and unconscious, with pieces of wood sticking out of her arm and back. Terasu swore. Where was a healer when she needed one?

Well, at least she could do something about Aquila, who was still struggling in his ropes. The girl knew that she couldn't just drag him along and try to carry Eremia at the same time. At the same time, was it a good idea to let him go, especially as he could escape and report on them? Sure, they needed all the help they could get, but it was just as likely the survivors would be made prisoners. Then the girl restrained a scream of dismay when she saw one soldier crushed by a black fist. That man had only joined two weeks ago, and had been a young, if not very bright, recruit under her command.

The eagle nearly started shouting when Terasu turned and began to use little wisps of flame to singe and weaken his ropes, particularly as she summoned a massive pillar of flames behind her, rising to Jonah's height and bearing down upon him. Magic was something that did not like to be restrained when a person knew their potential, and so this was a nice trick that also allowed her to invoke her massive amounts of anger. Aquila broke free of his bonds, and Terasu gestured to Eremia's limp form before screaming in rage and rushed into the battlefield.

"I'll help you!" shouted a loud and brash voice from behind Terasu as she struggled to repulse one of the hands. Jonah's too-fluid expressions shifted from stoic to confusion to rage as it tried to push against its small and seemingly young opponent, but made no progress. That face turned into a smile when a cloud of dust and loud galloping announced the arrival of a fully-armed Rowland, with sword and spear in hand.

Terasu, breathing heavily and sweating from the exertion, shouted to him, "Get out of here! He's gone mad! You won't be close enough to land a blow!" He just smiled and slashed at a tendril that had attempted to sneak its way towards her, forcing it back as it exuded black-colored dust. The blue-haired girl's soldiers, seeing her valiance as she made to hold back both fists, joined her in the battle, rushing over to provide their own energy or slash at what they could find of the dark energy. Terasu smiled internally at their devotion, but it was clear that Jonah could easily brush aside their weapons and send their wielders flying when they were able to sink their blades into the black material.

"I'm not that easy to drive off," remarked Rowland as he neared his associate. "What kind of little girl fends off an evil abomination all alone, anyway?" He smirked as he hacked through more of the tentacle-like tendrils, and Terasu smiled at the corners of her mouth while she cupped her hands and forced a wall of flame towards the head of the massive, dark creature being summoned around the boy. The entire figure was pushed back, hands and all, and those said hands rushed to cover the thing's face.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps to the blue-haired girl's right, and she saw, out of the corner of her eye, Alarick, hands cupped around his mouth. "Are you daft? I've ordered an evacuation of the area; this thing is far too strong for us. I will not risk the lives of my generals and soldiers for this foolish sense of bravado and chivalry!"

The blue-haired girl grunted as her strength began to wane. By now, some of her fellow soldiers had been picked off, and the ground smelled of blood. It was disgusting and tiring, and she was beginning to regret having picked a fight with this creature. It, too, was beginning to weaken, however, particularly due to her efforts. The dark man's energy faded and grew smaller, yet kept pushing outwards, waiting for a chance to strike. "I...wish...it were that easy," she shouted in response to her lead general as she kept the fighting going. "But...the damage...this thing could do...if we can't...stop it!"

"Exactly!" agreed Rowland as he hacked at a spear that one of the tendrils threw, almost striking his head. "If we give up now and make our retreat, it could stab us all before we take ten steps! Think of this as our heroic sacrifice, so that we can move everyone away. Come now, old man - surely you haven't lost your spirit! Join us!"

The general's eyes widened and he rushed forward, waving his arms frantically as his horse whinnied and followed him. "Step back! Look out!"

Unfortunately, the young man was too busy laughing and saying, "I jest! I jest!" to notice. He parried another tendril offhandedly while staring at the general, his smile momentarily fading before he winced, and stared down at the spike of dark energy now embedded in his chest.

"Rowland!" yelled the girl in such a loud and high-pitched tone that even Jonah was repulsed, forced back a few inches by the overwhelming noise. However, its massive hands could now force back the wall of flames being thrust against it, and so it fell upon Terasu, who jumped out of the way as fire cascaded upon the grassy earth, scorching it and forming a massive semi-circle around her. She sat up, hands outstretched to where she had last seen the young man while Alarick rushed over and grabbed her, lifting the girl up. She persisted to shout in horror, a tear slipping from her face as she struggled to break free from the general, who proved too strong for her.

After a few seconds, the flames dissipated into a cloud of smoke, and through it they could see the towering figure of what Jonah had once been. The figure was cradling the bleeding body of a limp Rowland and a perforated horse in its humungous hands, and looked upon the duo on the ground with contempt. "Fools...," it breathed, a voice like sandpaper being ripped into pieces and thrown over a fierce wind. "I...they...called...Corruption. ...am Renewal, and...should do nicely."

"Give him back!" Terasu screamed, shooting a pillar of fire towards The Corruption. It began to take steps back, and dodged the relatively weak blast, its range and ferocity waning as the girl grew more tired. "Give back my friend! My...my..." she began to enter a phase between raging and crying.

The center of the darkness, now engulfed by a massive mask imitating its expression, made an audible, gasping breath. "My cause...begins here. I am...weak, I...go." His eyes seemed to latch onto the stretcher that had been suspended by two guards as they carried Eremia's weak frame over to a makeshift tent by the burning one. "This sister...his...what a fool...why did...listen?" The creature swiftly turned, growing shorter and shorter by the second, and carved a path through tents and among screaming and terrified soldiers, making for the southwest.

The blue-haired girl started laughing. A long, eerie, broken one, in-between fervent tears and grabbing for anything she could find. Alarick looked down upon her, but she craned her head around and smacked him on the chin. She was strong enough to force him to let go, and he held the injured part of his anatomy while she sprinted furiously towards the stretcher, fireballs appearing on her hands. He dashed after her as the guards brandished their spears with her arrival, but a mere touch of the wood sent the weapons ablaze, and the soldiers cast them aside in exchange for swords.

"What do you know?" the blue-haired girl screamed at the half-awake Eremia, inching flames closer to her face. Terasu cackled. "Did you let him die? Why did you let him die? Why!?"

Eremia, still bleeding and disoriented, only mildly raised her eyebrows. "Jonah? Where is he? Did you...love him?"

The general locked his arms around Terasu's shoulders and pulled her back as she bellowed in rage, flames fired into the air and landing all about her. He gestured the guards to take Eremia away, and they wasted no time in running as fast their legs could take them. "She did nothing," Alarick said in his booming voice. "You know as much. I warned you, and you underestimated that...creature. You risked your life needlessly, and he had to die for it. Terasu, you killed your boyfriend."

"Wasn't it obvious?" she responded, persisting to laugh. Tents burst into flame as she was pulled back to the original battlefield, the earth becoming blacker with each step. Alarick was determined enough to ignore the overwhelming heat and smoke. "He was horrible, and he was stupid, and he was brave, but didn't I love him? And didn't I see myself in him? And didn't we love each other? How could I see him off? I have lost everything, and I will lose everything else! I will kill everybody!"

She was struck in the back of her head with the flat of Alarick's blade, and collapsed face-first onto the ground.

"In His name, what have you done? What did he do?" called out Eremia as she sprinted towards the general, pursued by a procession of guards and a fuming Madeleine. The lady nevertheless directed many of the men to pick up whatever buckets were still available, head to the lake, and come back with the water to douse the fires. In the meantime, Eremia leaped over Terasu and fell into Alarick's embrace.

The man looked at her and sighed. "I'm not entirely sure. We tried to stop him, but you can see how effective that was. I can't tell you where your brother is."

Eremia stared up at him with a shocked and exasperated expression. "What do you mean, he's gone....is he dead?" she said, face paling and voice now but a whisper. Madeleine glared at her and the general as she stood beside them, but Alarick raised his palm to tell the healer to stop before he responded to Eremia.

"If I knew, I would tell you," he noted. He turned himself and the girl around to watch the now distant, looming figure being absorbed by the shadows. "That cannot be him; he is being controlled by something. Whether or not he's still alive in there is a mystery, much less what the thing that has possessed him is. It's not something that you or I have ever seen before, or perhaps ever heard of before."

The girl began to silently cry, banging a fist against his chestplate. Staring down at the ground, she struggled to come up with her next words. "He tried to...he tried to...strangle me. There wasn't anything left in his eyes...just a void. I screamed...and I threw him out...and he never said a word. I thought...it was a dream...and then I felt the pain...when he fought back."

She fell on her knees, buried her head in her hands, and cried, staring out occasionally to watch as her brother disappeared from her view entirely. Alarick sighed and picked Terasu up. He didn't know how to treat children, or to console them. The most he could do was leave them alone. The general handed the unconscious blue-haired girl to the healer, who struggled to carry Terasu's weight, but was fine. Madeleine tapped her foot patiently as the general looked away, likely in an effort to find something else to coordinate. To lead. That was what he could do best.

"I do not appreciate your striking soldiers over the head," the ginger-haired lady protested, "or let my patients run away and hurt themselves."

The general looked straight into her eyes. "What else did you think I was supposed to do? What do you think I can do? We knew the risks when we brought in the children of Exedor---"

"These were the risks we predicted!?" shouted Madeleine, gesturing to the flames and chaos all about her. "One of our generals is dead, the army is in disarray, we've had several battles over the past couple of days, and yet you persist to give our officers even more head damage!"

Alarick wiped the sweat from his forehead, and shot back a frustrated response. "There is no consoling that girl when she reaches a spell of rage. You know that much! I warned her, and I warned Rowland to stay away, and they ignored me! I accept full responsibility for his death, and all this madness, but I did what I knew must be done. Could we have risked war by leaving those children with a madman?"

The lady sighed, and dropped Terasu into a makeshift stretcher whose carriers had spent the past minute patiently waiting for her. Madeleine reached an arm down to Eremia, and gently ruffled through her hair. A teary-eyed girl stared up at the ginger-haired lady as the latter explained, "Come now. It will do you no good to stand out here and cry. You need rest, and some consolation." While Eremia sniffled, nodded, and grabbed the lady's hand, Madeleine stared at Alarick. "We will discuss our next move, and whether or not to appoint a new general, tomorrow."

A duo now assembled, Madeleine gingerly held Eremia's hand. "I think we already have some answer," mused Alarick, walking behind them as they made their way towards the massive tent, now only partially aflame. "She has conviction now - a reason to fight. It would be unwise of you to ignore that."

There was a quaking, sad laugh, as the ginger-haired lady brushed aside some hair that fell in front of her face. "This girl has little battle experience, commander. She has been a secluded child her entire life, and only now has she been able to see the bloodshed and terror of the field. She lacks the skills or awareness, and I do not think she is eager to learn more."

They were now close to the partly doused structure. People ambled about, some confused and dazed, but most in a state of firm order. Documents were being piled on barrels and boxes, as firm-looking men and women in armor led the recovery efforts. Healing energy flowed onto individual after individual amongst a wide swath of injured, bruised, and bleeding soldiers. The ginger-haired lady hummed a tune as she set Eremia down on a box, and walked over into a neighboring tent, all the while talking to multiple of her subordinates. The conversations blended together, producing a strange kind of melody, if melodies spoke of casualty lists and exasperation.

Alarick snatched a few maps from a pile of documents, and quickly skimmed through them. Satisfied, he pulled a box up to Eremia and sat down on it, so that he was staring directly at the girl. Her outfit was bloody, dust mattered her appearance, and her blonde hair was ruffled and incredibly disorganized. She was still crying, although not as fiercely as she had before, and now appeared to be caught in despairing contemplation. This girl quite accurately captured the entire spirit of the army, the general noted.

"I'd like you to have these." Eremia received the maps presented to her and began to pour through these, while the general patiently watched. "You knew him best, and, even if he isn't himself anymore, I think you should be able to tell me where he is most bound to go," explained Alarick when she stared up at him in confusion.

The girl mulled over the maps for a few more moments, and then pointed to a particular spot. "I think he wants...destruction," she mumbled. "He did try to kill us all. He'd want to go here to do the most damage."

With a raised eyebrow, the tired Alarick stared at the spot on the map she'd pointed to. His face, at once, seemed to grow years older, and the bags under his eyes far larger. It was as he had expected, although he had hoped otherwise. Now, however, there was shouting a short distance away, and the general watched glumly as a commotion broke out among a group of soldiers. A well-dressed man broke free from them and dashed over to Eremia. "Yorew!" she screamed in a mix of joy and sadness as they embraced, and she began to cry all over again while he rubbed her hair gently.

Madeleine stepped forward from her tent, a puzzled expression on her face when she saw the blonde girl and her servant. Alarick could see eyes striking the back of his skull as he turned and walked away, but all he could do was shrug and say, "She'll do well. Bring her and this man to my quarters tomorrow."

"She will fight to save him, and I daresay that she'll save us in the process."

It was mid-morning by the time the small gathering of some of the most prestigious people in that part of the world had commenced.

"The land of Haughein to the south will be yours, if you are so willing to move those in the area," spoke a gray-haired, blue-eyed orator, gracefully pointing to the spot on the map where the tiny state had been drawn elegantly.

At the front of the table, a massive, bipedal bear in a suit of armor that barely fit it, and had been partly ditched for a cloth around his waist, grumbled and gently scratched his chin. "If 'ou don't move all your victims there."

Alsather chuckled gently. It was not reassuring.

It was only a few minutes after sitting down that Valeri found himself in the one conversation that he had wanted to be in.

“How’s my son?” he asked, sitting on a small chair that strained and groaned under his weight. The tent wasn’t particularly large, nor did it contain much within it. There was a drawer to the side, a mirror resting atop it and beside a quill pen laying over several pieces of paper. A stout wooden rod in one corner held the polished blue-and-silver armor of Kasimir, which failed to glisten due to the sun’s shining perpendicular to the space. A large bed was positioned opposite the tent’s entrance, marked with blue curtains and a full wooden frame that would be a pain for anyone to carry if not for the fact that the Lord Walenty himself would assist in placing it in covered wagons during travels. Kasimir was utilitarian, but admired bright colors and intricate designs on that which he had, so that the armor and curtains had an inlay of the emblem of Walenty – a sword protruding from a dragon’s maw to stab at a coiling snake, with a star overhead the scene. Valeri had never much liked that symbol.

The woman in the full suit of armor, holding a lance that nearly pierced the top of the tent, replied, “he does well.” The lady’s armor was black, but silver ceremonial epaulettes and a cape cemented made clear her allegiance. “The country is wary of its king’s departure, but they are quieter and less troublesome than normal.”

“How’s my son?” Valeri reiterated, huffing in frustration as the chair beneath him threatened to give way, leather straps at the bottom struggling to uphold his large weight.

The woman’s voice didn’t change. “He keeps to his studies and wishes you well.”

“Is he keepin’ himself healthy?” questioned the bear, accidentally clawing the armrests as he shuffled around.

“The boy runs and has been tended to by the best physicians, and his diet is acceptable,” she said hollowly.

He laughed in what was, thanks to his appearance, a deep voice that made it sound almost like a growl. The woman remained steadfast as ever as his reaction shifted to bemused and curious. “And the military? Pfanxi still alive?”

The suit of armor clinked as the lady nodded in response. “She has it easier than usual. Alsather and part of his government leaving means that their soldiers cannot be as hostile as before, though the people are more aggressive.”

As one of the legs on the seat finally snapped, forcing Valeri to stand up, he sounded disappointed. “I thought kickin’ out Alsather’s enemies would make his people happy, considerin’ they’re all a bunch of racists.”

“Aye,” said the woman in the suit of armor, nodding again. “Yet, in both countries, there is distrust. Everyone is afraid of the Mad King having arranged this meeting and inviting their leaders to come over. They fear that he might kill them, or at least create a bad deal that would grant him greater control over the other countries of the Confederacy.”

The bear frowned. “I can see that,” he concluded, “’cause that’s what he wants to do. Have us dead or have us lorded over. And we’re supposed to be Claec’s enemies, so they probably trust us to take advantage of this thing.”

“That is why your son is asking if your life’s work is paying off.”

Valeri froze, his arms behind him and gripping the chair. His face (or, what was visible of it), scrunched up in frustration, beady eyes shrinking in size as he glared at her. The lady took a step back before he breathed a long sigh and hung his head. “Can’t shoot the messenger, ‘cause my its own son that doubts me, not you. Not like I can really fight anymore. Or ever could, now that I think about it. But Eimhin and Claec always were friends, and Walenty was born to shut up the snakes and push them into a puny state. Of course it’s taken me these few decades to try to push them apart, even with the Mad King madding it up. Ya’ can tell him that much, and if he rolls his eyes and tells you that’s what I’ve said every time, tell him it’s what I’ll keep saying until it happens.”

“And…” said the lady, hesitating, her lance hovering warily, “how are you negotiating with Alsather and his people?”

Rolling his eyes, the bear responded, “same as ever. Kickin’ out his enemies and gettin’ them out of the country so he can say he’s done somethin’. We’re also workin’ together to see if we can force the Mad King to end this whole game when we get to speakin’ tomorrow, if it doesn’t take him ten minutes to get angry and quit. Speaking of, since you’ve come all this way, I’d like you to look out for somebody.”

“As you command,” said the woman, while Valeri turned out and bent over to shove the leg back in the chair. “What is his name and appearance?”

Finished, the bear groaned, having strained himself in that effort, and sat back down on the seat, which precariously wobbled but remained firm. “They call him Belisarius. He’s got a lot of facial hair and probably looks grumpy right now. Look for the guy in the shiniest and stupidest suit of green armor who looks more interestin’ than the others.”

“More so than Karikoff,” she replied. Valeri imagined her raising an eyebrow.

“Yep,” he said, the leg immediately falling off the chair as another one snapped and sent him toppling forwards. The woman stepped outside the tent to avoid his wide girth, and then walked back in and he rose up and pushed the broken chair into a corner. “It’s funny, ‘cause the Mad King hasn’t pushed him up to the front yet, but I bet I’ll come down tomorrow and hear he had a change of plans.”

“Not if we can stop him with a second playing card,” replied the soldier, bowing respectfully.

“That’s the idea, so get to it!” commanded Valeri as the lady bowed once more and exited, her lance briefly cutting the top of the tent so that a small amount of light flooded in. He laughed as he whispered an incantation and shifted back into Kasimir, who sighed exasperatedly as the King spotted the roof and then peered behind him to find the broken chair.

“It’s inspirational,” remarked the blue-haired boy as he propped his elbows against the battlement and placed his chin down on the stone. “Except that I’ve seen barren plains a thousand times, and would rather that there be some houses or mountains or something more interesting.”

One of the two men on either side of him nodded in agreement. “Seres wants you to know what your kingdom looks like. Perhaps he hopes that it might be something more, or perhaps he fears it will be a battleground.” He scratched his white hair, a thick mustache covering part of his mouth. There were large bags under the man’s eyes, but he stood tall and straight, towering over the small boy.

“He’s hoping that I have an imagination? Hasn’t he already seen me enough to know that’s true?” Wielde blew at an errant strand of hair as he sighed.

The other man, looking almost identical to the first save for having longer hair and lacking any mustache, retorted to his apparent sibling, “This is a city-state. I suspect that the daft fool only has our King look outward because the insides are too rotten.”

“The adviser wants a unified Confederacy, and so there’s no point in looking inside the city,” replied the first man. “He wants our King to look and not see himself trapped, as there is no trap but that of the mind.”

“And how many of us have exited this city in the past few years? We are trapped, but the fool wants the King to ignore it. He wants our King to be as daft as the last ruler.”

“Uncle Franz!” shouted Wielde, whirling around and pointing to his mustached relative, and then to the other. “Uncle Emmerich! Must you always fight like this? We are damned without Seres, whether or not he is showing me the future, or hiding the truth, or both. And, considering how soon my visit to my mother is, I’d rather not hear about how stupid my father was. True as it might be.”

The uncles immediately silenced, looking stoic in their full suits of armor with dragons emblazoned on them. They placed on their helmets and stared down at their nephew, leaving Wielde to press himself against the battlement. The young boy had ditched his earlier fancy outfit to wrap himself in a blue cape, under which was a blue shirt marked with the emblem of stars shining above strange, hexagonal projections, with a curling dragon at the base. He walked across the imposing wall surrounding the city, followed by his uncles. The guards, dressed in baggy brown pants and metal plates with the same symbol, saluted and raised their spears at the threesome passed by slowly, as the young King’s strides were short.

“It would have been simpler,” said the young King in exasperation, trying to climb up stairs while tripping over his robe, “If the lineage went along the House of Wyandanch, so it would be one of you or your sons who would have the crown on their head.”

“You do well, my King,” said Uncle Emmerich, voice muffled by his helmet. “You are part-Wyandanch, and have their brilliance, whereas your advisor is a servant of Exedor first.”

“It’s so nice to be judged by birth,” remarked Wielde bitterly as the trio reached the top of the stairs. “Does it not prove my point to say such, when you are both truly born into the House of Wyandanch?”

The uncle thought for a few seconds before saying, “We have always been generals, and such is our favorite trade. Wyandanch is built on its traditions, and you are the only child of an eldest Wyandanch child of an eldest Wyandanch child and so on. Why my sister married that Lecizstan bastard is beyond me, but the result is you, you are the King, and I serve you. You are a masterful King; it is merely your advisor that leaves you to worry about your competence. The sooner he might be replaced with someone who trusts you, the better.”

The trio made their way towards a large set of stone archways towering far above them. A tower protruded above the wall to mark the place where another wall jutted straight into and through the city, splitting it into two sections. Wielde strode unconfidently into the utilitarian space. Various guards saluted, but the majority sat around glowing fires, holding their hands close to the scattered embers. Others pulled weapons and armor from an array of shelving in another corner and cleaned them. Stairs clung close to the walls as they rose around the interior of the building, disappearing as they snaked into the second floor. Cross-shaped windows lined the wall facing the outside world, and a soldier or two practiced their aim with the longbows in their hands.

A young soldier walked past them, holding up a heavy piece of metal (as could be told by the way he bent towards it to keep himself balanced). He’d apparently cut out a lot of pockets in his pants and stuffed them with wrenches and assorted tools. Nervous, he darted about wildly until he stopped the King, whereupon he shouted, jumped back, and dropped whatever it was he was carrying. It was apparently some kind of box, as a few errant metal spheres and rusted pieces of weaponry flew out.

Wielde sighed, stopped, and grabbed a few of the pieces. The soldier’s legs trembled as he attempted to bow to the King in reverence, but the boy only responded by running (and tripping) towards whatever was sliding away, grabbing what he could, and placing it back in the box. Upon seeing this gesture of kindness, the soldier stopped quivering as intensely and looked up, nodding and appearing immensely relieved. “That man has more of a goal than I do,” explained Wielde to his generals as they walked away, the soldier picked up whatever else had escaped, closed the hatch on the box, and continued carrying it. “He, a nobody, has more he can and will do than I, a king, do.”

“We have no idea what it is he does,” said Uncle Franz as they turned and walked on the wall leading into the city. “My son tells me that he’s panicky, he tends to throw whatever he’s holding at anyone who asks him questions, and only says that he’s from the north – assuming we can understand his accent at all. We only use him to get rid of our junk. You, my King, are worthy of more, and your policies and desire for the well-being of the people, under the guiding hand of our key ally, mean that you have more you can and will do.”

It was pointless arguing with his uncles, so Wielde desisted. There was some applause among the gathered soldiers as they passed through the space and turned to travel down where the wall split through the city. The young king sighed as they continued in almost perfect silence, his uncles marching in perfect tune to each other. A few other guards along the path saluted before grimly staring at the abandoned streets, markets, and weathered buildings that marked the so-called Two Thousand-Year Capital.

Capital of what? Wielde contemplated. This desolate and withered city of Wyandanch was his home, and he was not satisfied. Few people wandered beneath him on the streets, and those that did looked starved, destitute, and in rags, aimlessly shambling towards whatever few resources might keep them alive. Many of the homes and shops had been abandoned, as their exposed roofs, moss-covered walls, and shattered sparse windows indicated. Torches on tall sticks lit spots besides the few open stores in the area, where purveyors of goods and weapons and other such items beat on rugs with sticks, covering themselves in the dust that pervaded the air. The purples and reds of a distant sunlight looming in front of him as he approached his quarry was blocked by humongous black, hexagonal spirals that towered almost infinitely into the sky, these Pillars suffocating the city in darkness. He felt it an apt metaphor, to be crushed by one’s own, decaying history.

It stung that this was all that he owned. It stung more that he did not truly own any of it. At least, not yet. The King was now around 18 years old, so it was likely that he would be coronated within this year or next. Or, however long it took for him to master his training in the magics and see that his white hair turn into blue – dyeing it did not count. It wasn’t as though the rest of the world had chosen to ignore him in the meantime; for instance, he had recently received a favorable letter from the prestigious kingdom to the west. The Eternal Queen was unable to write, and her beloved advisor had apparently been in one of his “episodes,” so the message had been dictated to him by a messenger. Something about goodwill, cooperation, the destruction of the Alliance, and a half-mumbled message about ignoring the malevolent voices in one’s head. However, Seres, ever the true center of attention, had received a far larger letter on military strategy and friendliness.

By now, Uncle Franz had taken a temporary detour to embrace and talk eagerly with a young woman at the head of a brigade. She was charming, with a clean (though almost eerily pale) face and a strong-looking body, and dressed in light armor with the typical symbol of Wyandanch. Her short-cropped white hair now had tinges of blue, and the King could see sparks of electricity dance on metal gloves as the young lady displayed her prowess to her father. An axe poked out from beneath the piles of hair and her beaming face as she, despite the large bags under her eyes, laughed and talked eagerly. Wielde huffed and seemed to shrink in size, feeling weak and frail in comparison to his own cousin. Why couldn’t she, with her credentials, military strength, and reputation, take the throne? Alternatively, wouldn’t it be simpler to marry her and let her rule? As much as he wanted to become a King, he felt plagued by his own comparative incompetence and foolishness.

The uncle returned to the gathering, which proceeded in earnest. Wielde simmered in the stew of his own discontent as he trudged along the long path. Heavy outfits did not befit him, as did almost everything in this place; it did not help that he was full-well aware that he was barred from traveling to the rest of The Confederacy - that which he, in theory, “ruled”. Honestly, what point was there to life when he was trapped in a prison without even the key to free him from the chains that binded his hands? Even if he did become King eventually, Seres, as an associate of his only major advisor, and commander of the military forces in the city, would keep ruling. Seres would keep treating him like a child, keep ignoring his policy suggestions, and keep him as far away from a public that he still knew looked at him as a spoiled brat. And here he was, slowly heading for yet another part of his dreadful existence – a visit.

The long, wide wooden bridge that dug itself into the stone wall on one end creaked under their feet as the trio proceeded to a small, spiraling tower surrounded by a continuation of that wall. The bridge was merely there as a defense mechanism in the event of the wall’s control by the enemy, though Wielde always worried it would be used too quickly and against the wrong side. Still, despite standing by two men in suits of armor, the ageless bridge held. Several guards on the other end stood aside, saluting and bowing as they pointed imposing spears away, allowing Wielde to thrust open the damaged, slightly charred wooden door. Its planks held barely together by rusting metal, which also composed the hinges, the boy pushed himself up a flight of stairs in the narrow corridor as the uncles stopped and worked to put the door back into place.

He stared at the smoothly carved black steps. Many of the most prestigious buildings of the city had been carved from the quarries stationed within the Pillars. No one knew of what materials were in the Pillars, or if it was entirely safe to take chunks out of them, but the blacksmiths under the dominion of the first Lord of Wyandanch, Wyn, had found the flames of a dragon’s breath allowed for the melting and recasting of sections of the Pillars. In the wake of the House’s union with the dragons, this proved quite a boon, allowing for structures such as these, beloved for their immense strength, rich colors, and existence as a status symbol, due to their rarity and value. Of course, when the dragons had grown tired of the kingdom and made their leave, their construction had become more of a lost art. Regardless, these ancient, dust-covered steps were more admirable to view than the artfully colored tapestries over his head. After all, he was not invigorated by seeing past kings and their successes, and he did not want to see his dead father’s face beaming down at him.

“My daughter!”

Wielde cringed and shuddered in a fit of anger. The young king stared hard at the ground, breathing in and out as he resisted the urge to make fists, and then walked his way up the last few steps to face his mother.

The lady was sitting graceful in her bed across the small, circular stone room. Smelling faintly of scents that Wielde had no interest in focusing upon, she stared up absentmindedly to the ceiling, where her bed curtains, adorned with the ever-familiar shape of a dragon, frowned right back at her frail composure. Atop a pile of faint blue and green pillows, a blue blanket draped up to her chest, her milky eyes looked about the room until they spotted him. She smiled, revealing yellow and coal-blackened teeth. “My, you’ve grown so quickly!”

The boy slumped to the ground and bowed reverentially. “Madame de Duches au Austliere,” he said in a quiet and intensely frustrated voice. He let his fiery gaze fall upon the stones. “Yes, it has been so long. Yes, I can now talk.”

The Queen of the Confederacy fiddled with the hairpiece in her long white hair. She seemed baffled by these questions and rose slightly, propping her spare hand against the bed as she did so. “How did you know that I was going to ask that?” she said, eyes scanning the room as though she were both looking for nothing and everything – some distant bit of memory clawing at her, perhaps. Her eyes lit up with happiness and ounces of confusion as Uncles Franz and Emmerich squeezed in, one at a time, beside Wielde. “My loveliest brothers! Zin and Emmy, you’ve aged! I had though only I would grow old with….” The lady looked confused, now staring at everyone to carry the thought for her.

After a few seconds, Wielde grumbled out, “My father’s demise from the wrath of the Uncrowned Queen.”

His mother nodded in approval, a frightened expression turning into only complacency. “She is quite the smart one,” the lady remarked to her siblings. “And how is your daughter, Zin? Is she still five?”

“Rose, what your brother—” began Emmerich upon seeing Franz frown and grit his teeth (though not as powerful as Wielde’s seething rage”), but the other man held a hand in front of his face.

“Twenty. She’s twenty, Remdé.”

A store of tension exploded its way across the room, consuming everyone in a wave of panic and surprised emitted from the Queen. “I…,” she began, laying herself back down onto the bed. “H-h-h-ow have these years been passing? Is this but a prank?”

“If it is,” snapped Uncle Franz, “it has been going on for far too long. Do you think I am happy explaining to you every week why my daughter is six, seven, eight, nine--!” Emmerich clamped his hands down on Franz’s shoulders, and the two stared at each other angrily as they descended the staircase backwards with the pace of a snail, watched attentively by mother and son.

Wielde rose and grasped the bedframe, picking up his mother’s worn, wooden staff. The old lady stared at him with a mixture of panic and distrust on her face, shifting her gaze between him and the two men disappearing down the narrow steps. “You must keep your body intact, healer or otherwise,” said the young boy tersely and quickly as his mother edged towards the corner of the bed and reached with frail hands towards the outstretched staff. “We’ll walk.”

Right before she reached the staff, the lady hesitated. “Are you true when you say I am your mother?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

Part of his mind proposed the questionable theory of seeing if being as blunt and honest would force her to change, launch the both of them out of this evil that was slowly consuming his mother. He was angry – upset more at the specter of illness looming overhead than the poor, sad old woman whose only love was dead and was convinced she had given birth to a daughter. Or, that was all he could say to snap out of his spells of hatred and help her in any way he could, however futile. Too, as his mind always pointed out, no matter what he did, she would continue to cast aside that narrative and expect a new one during the next visit. So it had been, so it would always be.

Wielde sighed and pushed the staff into his mother’s hands. “Yes, you will always be my mother. Your brothers may have been pranksters as children, but they certainly didn’t lie, and they aren’t now. Don’t worry about it; walk with me.”

By the end of a minute of silence, the young King was leading his mother, Remdé Wynsitar, gently down each of the long, blackened steps into a desolate kingdom, passing under the tapestry image of his father. One hand held onto the staff as the other clutched the young man’s hand and, warily, they temporarily escaped the haunt, both fearing the past and wondering of the future.


******

It was quick, and nobody dared to get in the way.

Summoned from her reverie by the waving of a fan and a hearty supply of rushed comments, the middle-aged, somewhat large lady stood atop one of the short towers that surrounded the deep chasm that itself enclosed an imposing castle. Dressed in green and brown baggy trousers, a tattered shirt with a logo of a sweeping arc suspended over a lake with an island poised in the center, she draped a cape around her as the guards saluted towards the procession.

“What’ve you come far for?” she asked, groggy and confused as the guards on both sides of her pointed their spears warningly at the troop below, led by a young man with dirty-blonde hair, an outfit coated in blood and dust, and eyes that pierced the heavens in their clarity.

This figure saluted her and called in a scratchy and shattered voice, almost indecipherable, “Where is the King? Who are you?”

Taken aback by these questions, the woman hesitated for a few seconds. “I’m…a nobody, really. And the King you’re looking for all depends on who you think is the King, because we’ve got a lot of people pulling strings here.”

She was intensely disturbed by the way the teenager glared at her in contempt, fingers awkwardly forcing themselves into fists, as though he didn’t know how to make the gesture. “Cath,” he boomed in a broken syllable.

After an awkward pause, the woman frozen in place and left to contemplate whether she should point at the teen and order the guards to act, she sighed and began to walk down the steps into the tower. Guards swarmed her with every step she took, patiently waiting for a command or call to action, but she merely focused on reaching the ground safely, walking across the barracks and weapons storage that was sliced in two by the path snaking in the walls and around the castle, and opening a creaking door to the outside world.

The city was alive, but it was not to her benefit. Groups of crowded and concerned citizens were shoving against the barricade of guards that formed a semi-circle through most of the square that the woman had entered. Some of the polished granite stones of the King’s Square of the Earth were covered in ashen footsteps that appeared to have melded with the rock itself. The fountain spewed water complacently as soldiers escorted lone musicians away, kicking aside their hats with sparse coins in the process, and allowing straggling merchants and sellers to drag their carts of wages away in discontent. She was lucky that it was sunset, with the sun casting its final rays behind her, and that the crowd had already begun to diminish before this event. However, to her surprise, she could see further men, women, and children gathering around the square, massing in their underclothes and some shouting of danger. Many of them looked horrified.

Waving at the soldiers around her, the woman said, “Let no one else step foot in this square, and may nobody else see this.” There was shouting and arguing as the guards advanced and pushed upon the crowd, but the group moved away without too much conflict. They, of course, were rather used to being shoved about the military of Eimhin. Regardless, she chose not to watch, instead focusing on the troop that moved out to surround the young man tapping his foot in impatience.

“A map?” half-asked, half-demanded the stranger as the lady pushed her way through several people and breached the perimeter of the circle. Nobody dared to stop or challenge her, particularly with the fire that seemed to be flying from her eyes.

“Or else…?” she questioned, rummaging through the cape to inspect various inside pockets. Pulling out a few scraps of paper and notes, she shoved them back in and persisted.

When she, at last, succeeded in finding and unfolding a parchment atlas depicting, in general terms, the country and its greatest cities and landscapes, she noticed the boy waving his arm behind him. It was upon following the strange motion that she became quite aware that she should not have been napping. Indeed, she cursed her habit of being a heavy sleeper, having completely ignored the opening of a gaping hole through the stone that marked the humongous, 30-foot-wall that enclosed the interior of the city. The new entryway looked as though it had been blown apart and scattered with ashes, reaching high enough that it threatened the tower and battlements on top. Beams of distant energy indicated that the healers were busy, and the near-constant lights made it that much more appalling. All of the guards around the young man stared at him and, for the first time in the woman’s brief tenure as the captain, quivered in fear. Lastly, at his feet, the stone blackened and withered.

Grumbling, the woman displayed the map in front of the boy as her spare hand searched through her outfit for anything to make a mark with. “My boss’s father is in the middle of a meeting at the moment, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind visitors.” She pulled out a dry stamp and stuck it against the northeast corner of the map. “He’s somewhere by a town around here, and he’s so vainglorious his army shouldn’t be hard to spot,” she finished, pointing to the location in question before handing the marked map to the teen. He gripped it with his usual lack of grace, crumbling the paper slightly as his hand trembled and he peered at the spot.

Looking up at her, the young man frowned. “I had…expected a fight,” he said with slightly more clarity than before, stressing each word slowly.

The lady, for the first time that day, laughed. “You must be joking,” she responded, slapping her thigh as she stared at the flustered teen. She spent a minute of alternating between deep breathing and laughing before she composed herself and stood at full height. “I have no experience whatsoever protecting or commanding anyone. The real captain of the guard left with the King, his son, and all the competent people, and my husband thought it would be a brilliant idea to put a couple of decades of marriage to the test. You’ve torn a hole through a wall that hasn’t been breached in over a hundred years, killed a few of the remaining competent people in this city, and are going after a man I couldn’t care less about. If you have good intentions, then he’ll succeed in his goal, he or his son will come back, and I’ll be out of a job. If you have bad intentions, then he’ll be dead, his son or someone else will take the crown, and I’ll still be out of a job. If you die in the process, either of the above can happen, and I’ll still be out of a job. I’m a temp and a failure, so there wouldn’t be any need for me.”

The boy’s frown deepened, but he swiveled about and began to walk away, still holding the map. Guards jumped in fright out of his way as he walked. “Cornered rats fight best,” he called out to the woman before stopping at the fountain and shoving his head in for a great gulp of the water. Pulling himself out, he coughed and spluttered as water dripped down him, partly soaking the map. Struck by a thought, he turned to the woman and asked, slowly and warily, “What does the King seek to do?”

“How should I know?” she replied reproachfully. “Nobody thought I was worth enough attention to tell. Whatever it is, it’s important enough that Cath was willing to abandon his own capital to meet with other nations, so one party or another is worried about being stuck in the same castle at him. And that means there’s armies involved, and where there’s armies, there’s plots. I think the Alliance has decided it’s done waiting.”

Yorew had found himself little to do this evening, and resorted to strolling among the assorted tents that marked the small camp. It had been over a decade since he had last visited the Eferung Lake, mostly as part of a brief beach vacation to round out a formal visit to Wyandanch. He now found little reason to walk upon the same beach sands a short distance away, and ignored the distant sounds of lapping water – it was meaningless without the bright young girl whose life he was sworn to oversee. The man was only distressed that he had two fists and one body with which to keep her safe.

Until this time, however, he had been unable to see her. Madeleine had worked to assure that the wound left from the arrow he had taken was as fully healed as could be and that it had produced minimal effects. As far as he could tell, the only major consequence was a limp, so he walked with a cane in hand. That feeling of weakness frightened him, but he was happy that Madeleine had seen to his care. She had seemed so confident and steadfast, even in an environment that he feared and abhorred. Were it not for the sight of blood and bodies, he would have been more than happy to visit her again. Nevertheless, his priority was still at the forefront of his mind, and he only glanced a few times to observe the last few glimmers of sunlight as the sun descended in the direction of the Pillars, they partly blocked by the rolling hills that marked the Eimhin-Walenty border. Far ahead and to the right of him were the faint impression of the mountains of north-central Eimhin. He marveled at how quickly they had escaped that country.

The soldiers scattered around him, none of them wishing to stand in the way of a tall and imposing man, old and as limping as he looked. He stood out like a sore thumb, and so it wasn’t long that Jonathan, sans his bows and arrows, walked over. Yorew had not looked at him that extensively before, and he was surprised at how tall and gangly the young man was. Jonathan, in spite of his dirty appearance and tired expression, had that same admirable sense of speaking in few words and calm expression. Under the circumstances, Yorew was content to respond to Jonathan’s question.

“You’re calm,” said Jonathan neutrally as they kept walking. Men and women saluted the young man, casting nervous glances towards the old one.

“That is my job, yes,” said Yorew, looking up at the dispersing clouds in the sky.

The teen scratched his head, spilling dust over him. “Who are you?”

Caught off guard by the question, and distracted enough to accidentally stumble over a box, Yorew pulled himself up with his cane as one woman slid the box away, looking a little startled. “Hmm?”

Jonathan waited until Yorew stood up and they both began to walk before he said, staring up at Yorew’s eyes, “What’s your story?”

“I am just a humble servant,” replied Yorew after a few moment’s pause, “do I need one?”

By now, Jonathan had taken the lead. Yorew reasoned that Jonathan had likely guessed where his destination was. “You act like you’re…home,” said the young man, spacing his words out.

“I may be calm because I have nothing to fear, or only one detail to worry about,” said Yorew matter-of-factly. He wanted to sound as resolute and determined as he felt, though he was doubtful he was living up to such standards, especially with his limp.

Jonathan frowned, looking slightly frustrated. “Tell the truth,” he said as he placed a hand over his eyes and searched the crowd of tents. “You can set camp?”

The old servant furrowed his brow and made his eyes look even deeper-set than they normally were. “I have had to assure that my King’s children could sleep properly in their tours of Exedor. You are observant, but what has happened in my past is inconsequential to you.”

As the boy quickened his pace and pointed to a distant green tent beside a pole with a blue-painted tip, he responded with, “A tent? Isn’t that lacking style…for a princess?”

Yorew made to respond, opening his mouth slightly, but couldn’t find a proper response. Any response would either call into doubt his story or damage the reputation of his country, neither of which he found to be any less suitable than the other. Besides, Jonathan had now found Latton, here wearing a gray cape and black trousers with a black shirt containing a red lapel. They greeted and bowed to each other respectfully.

“You remember him,” said Jonathan as he stepped aside and gestured to Yorew. The two old servants shook hands and nodded to each other.

Latton coughed twice, appearing as anxious as the others had been, and then said, “Your mistress is tired at the moment from an afternoon’s worth of exercise, but otherwise fine.”

Bowing courteously and then nodding, Yorew looked down at the smaller man and asked, “I hope that yours is doing fine. Has she been keeping herself well?”

In response, Latton shot a nervous look to Jonathan, raising an eyebrow. Jonathan stared between him and Yorew for a brief time before nodding and gesturing for the conversation to continue. Sighing, the Comas servant said to the Exedor servant, “Still quiet in distress and struggling with her loss, I’m afraid. This young man here has attempted to console her, though it may be some time before she regains her stability enough to reclaim her position. Do keep the Princess of Exedor away from her in the meantime. Now, I hope you excuse me if I must leave, as I should like to head to her soldiers and dictate her commands, as well as whatever else I need to.”

“Go ahead,” said Jonathan in response, ending the conversation. Latton bowed once more and walked away, allowing the duo to proceed in peace towards the tent.

When they finally stepped into the small space that was Eremia’s, Yorew cast a glance at Jonathan and was slightly amused to see the latter’s expression of surprise. The boy had likely assumed that she would disobey his commands and simply not do the work, or run away. Eremia, true to her nature, had done neither, although the camp did not look professional. She was lying on her back in front of a pile of smoking wood, head resting a few inches away from an askew peg. The tent leaned to one side, and the objects within looked crammed together and haphazard. The ax had been driven into the ground – an intensely easy way to break it, Yorew thought – while the shovel was still stuck in a foot-deep, empty pit. A half-filled bucket of water had been placed neatly beside the fire. Naturally, it didn’t take more than a second’s staring to realize that Eremia was soaked.

The girl propped her hands against the ground and pushed herself up, breathing heavily as Yorew walked around the fire and sat down on the burned grass to face her. Jonathan looked over the scene and nodded as the old servant wore the faintest of smiles on his face. After a few seconds, she, surprised by this amount of warmth from him, smiled weakly in response. However, she was too distracted by her own tired state, as demonstrated by the way her arms shook and the girl rocked from side to side, head rolling slightly. Reaching for one of her hands, Yorew found it ice cold. His expression immediately turned worrisome.

“I feel faint,” she said, as Jonathan raised an eyebrow and walked over to her, holding onto her other hand. Seeing this, she tried to brush both hands aside, but even their weak grips proved much too strong for her. “I don’t think this was healthy,” Eremia whispered after a few more seconds, trying to move her arms and legs with little success. “I’m scared.”

Jonathan let go of her hand and stood up suddenly, waving his hands and shouting out, “Help! Help!” As other became to raise cries of alarm and the footsteps of soldiers and other individuals drew nearer, Yorew watched as the girl began to fall back. Alarmed, he tried to heal Eremia, his hands glowing as he channeled a parcel of strength into her. Her eyes, which had been closing but a moment ago, shot open. She jerked forward in alarm, flailing and accidentally striking Yorew in the chest. Ineffective, he nevertheless grabbed her arm in an effort to restrain her.

“Madam! Please, wake up!” said Yorew, betraying a piece of his western accent as the lady lost her strength and fainted, collapsing on the ground.


******

Karikoff, it was agreed by most who had met him, was a man who felt that laughter contributed to any conversation. Fortunately, he had the flowing and graceful voice to pull it off.

“My dear!” he said, embracing the young and strong lady standing in front of the green tent. It had taken her some time to shed her black suit of armor, stash it within her personal tent, and then evade guards and slip away until she arrived at the Eimhin camp, but his personality made the journey worth it. “The light of the moons complements you well!” He held the black-haired lady at arm’s length as she beamed in response, dressed in a tan shirt with a green sash and slim, smooth pants. The quiver at her back was empty of arrows, but her sharp gaze made up for their intensity. Wearing flimsy sandals, her steps were far quieter than those of Karikoff’s heavy boots as they, observed by several armor-wearing soldiers also donning the brown and orange cloth and symbol of Eimhin, walked away from his imposing tent.

“As will our impending victory,” she said as they held each other’s hand. “It would be marvelous to see our King’s chosen heir poised atop that tiny land with the ego to think it can rule us.”

Jaunty, the long red hair of Karikoff spilled out from the helmet that covered his head and part of his face, rustling and shining in the moonlight cast from the brightest moon, which was now beginning to rise from the west. “Oh, but don’t forget how our allies wouldn’t be content with any of their King's better relatives. They secretly all want to stand on the bones of that ruined city.”

She laughed in a way that was far more grating and rough than Karikoff. Guards looked at their antics and eager expressions with an air of interest, having little else to do but observe the second moon make itself visible from behind the first (only a delightful sight the first dozen times). “They and what army? Maybe our King should make himself the successor, just to see how angry they’ll become.”

Jutting out his chin just a little more than it already was, Karikoff’s chiseled, strong-looking face displayed a sense of pride, lip curling upward in an expression of contempt. “Catharnach knows best how to unify a country, unlike them. I know that we haven’t a single traitor or turncoat among us, while you are a beautiful demonstration of Kasimir’s failure to rule."

“He’s a man who wants a court of the faithful, but all he runs now is one of liars,” she said, shrugging.

They were interrupted mid-step, betwixt rows of compressed tents, by two men drawing out their spears. “What is your purpose?” One of them demanded from beneath a tall and pointed helmet. “Why’ve you come to wake up the soldiers?” Indeed, several men and women, looking sleepy and frustrated, poked their heads out and shot nasty glares towards the loud and boisterous couple.

In response, Karikoff, dressed in his full suit of gleaming armor, bowed gracefully. Both soldiers, faces turning pale as they recognized they general, took a step back while he regarded them with a smile. “My messenger has come to deliver some news to Belisarius,” said the man in the strongest voice he could muster. “You need not worry – she and the message mean well.”

The other man moved his spear closer to Karikoff. “We can’t trust anybody these days, especially that girl.” However, the first soldier placed a hand on his companion’s shoulder and whispered something into his ear. Karikoff placed his balled-up hands on his fists and hummed, never once breaking his smile. The lady to his left raised an eyebrow, ears twitching slightly as she tried to listen in. Fortunately, the moon helped hide a strong blush on her cheeks as the soldiers shot furtive glances to the both of them, mentioning “lovers” and laughing to each other. Infuriated, she stormed past the guards as they bowed with respect, retracted their spears, and allowed the duo to pass. The others stared for a few seconds longer before many retreated back into their tents, the rest listening contentedly to Karikoff’s humming.

After a minute, the general said quietly to the lady, “I wish I had brought some of my men. This night worries me.”

Flustered by this offhand remark, she quickly responded, “If even all the soldiers cannot, I will keep you safe.”

“He might be spreading rumors about me. It might be best to worry about my men. Have your excursions been getting tougher?” The general had stopped humming and now frowned, making him look pitiful. It pulled at the heartstrings of the spy, though she didn’t like to admit it.

“The Mad King isn’t crazy,” she admitted, rubbing a hand through her short-cropped black hair. “There’s more guards at all entrances than in the past couple of days. I fear it might be impossible for me to come and go when his son arrives.”

“Then we’ll have to make this visit count,” concluded Karikoff as they entered a small, mostly abandoned clearing. A massive tent had been set up in front of them, poking up above the crowd that littered the land for miles. No light gleamed inside of it, so it only caught the moonlight on one side from the two moons, though the other was struck by pinpricks of light from the tiny, rapidly rising third moon. A few stern-faced guards, dressed as the previous ones had been, stood guard around the space. One marched over with his palm held outwards.

“What purpose you may have of our general must wait for morning,” she explained carefully to Karikoff and the spy. “The man is a deep sleeper.”

The spy saw what she thought to be Karikoff breathing in deeply, as though ready to laugh and taunt the other commander on his laziness, as she recalled him having told her as much during her last visit. Instead, he only sighed and stretched out a palm in the spy’s direction. She quickly reached into a pants pocket and yanked out a wrapped-up, slightly yellowed message. The guard watched as Karikoff delicately took the note and passed it over, she accepting it and bowing. “I shall need it checked for poison or any other such danger,” she said, walking backwards to the original post as her eyes darted between them, “but thank you. May the war only kill you.”

“May the war only kill you,” Karikoff and the spy said in unison before turning around and walking away.

They made sure to dart in and amongst the tents for some time afterwards. With each passing minute, all but the most devoted and sturdiest of soldiers remained awake, much less outside their tents. The fourth moon, also rather small, could be only seen as a shadow over the first one, doing little more to hide the two figures already trapped in shadows. As the lady was familiar with the camp’s schedule, she knew that soldiers would soon be waking up to take control of the second shift. She would have to make the rest of her visit quick.

The lady kissed Karikoff on the cheek. “Thank you for this quiet and wonderful night,” she said, still leaning close.

“I think you have a bit more to be thankful for,” he replied, blushing as he held her hands and stared into her eyes. “Now, go find our maddened lord and see if he’s still awake.” As such, he let go gently, and they parted. The lady immediately slipped back into the darkness as Karikoff marched happily and peacefully back to whence he had come, resuming his humming.

Catharnach was not a shy exhibitionist, nor did he believe in late hours. Were it not for the guards taking positions and looking attentively about them, the spy would have only spent a few minutes before reaching the edge of the most imposing structure in that part of the camp. As it stood, a quarter of an hour passed before she arrived at her destination, dodging countless guards and befuddling the rest with a few distracting pebbles. The multi-room tent was held by stout wooden beams – she could spot the wagons that had carried them surrounding the building. The horses in the area whinnied and paced around the posts they were tied to as she approached, but she was adept enough to dart into a wooden privy stationed beside the tent before the guard marched their way over and planted their feet firmly in front of it. She despised the smell and the fact that she was effectively trapped. Most of all, she hoped she would be silent enough to eavesdrop without notice.

There were several lights inside the tent, easily lighting it up and making its presence clear to even distant observers. He must have felt secure in his position, the spy guessed, and many a pair of quiet footsteps in and around the tent indicated that she was far from alone. Only her own skills had saved her this time, a statement to which she still expressed a hearty doubt. Regardless, from her vantage point, she could see the figure of Catharnach lying on a comfortable palanquin within, eating what looked to be grapes. Beside him was someone else. Likely his husband, she guessed, and this was confirmed by her good ears.

“Why is it that Alsather does not have a throne? His people are a group of racists, so why not join him in casting aside that foolish girl and ruling Claec?” said Leathan in a slightly rushed voice, breathing in and out deeply.

“Because that smug bastard wants some amount of legitimacy. Her parents were ousted in a “scandal,” and it just so happens the last direct heir dies heroically for her country, bequeathing all her remaining power in the most competent man. He is too blind and deaf to realize that we all know he keeps her alive as a pawn to remove. If only he were dumber than that, so that I might march into his country and sever his head from his body. Kasimir and his kin should have finished their job when they had the chance.”

Catharnach had a characteristic terse tone to his voice, spitting out and emphasizing half of his words. His silhouetted arms moved in frustration, accidentally hitting Leathan in the chest towards the end.

There was hence a moment or two’s silence as the other man coughed. The Mad King appeared to move back, saying nothing, as Leathan said, “That’s…specific. How do you know?”

Demonstrating his favorite attitude and quick shifts in temperament, both of which leading the spy to assume that he was smiling smugly as he spoke, Catharnach said, “It’s too obvious, isn’t it? He could have had that entire family executed as soon as he had the power to, seized the throne violently. That he didn’t says all I need to hear.”

“Can’t you spread the word and undermine him?” Leathan attempted to rise up, voice growing a bit faint. “It’s so hot in here.” The lady watched as Catharnach moved closer and pushed down his companion with a firm hand.

“I would risk everything,” said Catharnach with a loud, venomous edge to his voice. “I have made a guess, not a confirmation. There is no doubt that many have thought the same, yet to act upon it without any evidence would anger both Claec and Walenty. Valeri – may he rot – was a hedonistic glutton in life, but his bonding with Kasimir has allowed him to outlive death and keep his alliance going. I can do nothing now.”

Another pause, characterized by the couple’s mutual deep breathing. “But I thought making them angry was-”

The King’s voice doubled in intensity. “Divided, not angry! Why else would I flood them with maps, plans, and arguments? They must be stupid enough to fail to see into my plan. And that is another reason I dare not challenge Alsather now; he would latch closer to Kasimir, and the more they put their heads together and cooperate, the more they understand my intentions.”

“You did say the charge would kill him anyway,” said Leathan in response, hungrily grabbing a few of the grapes that Catharnach had been steadily eating.

“Exactly! There is no need to take further shots at his reign, which is already too stable to resist us, when we are already sending him to his death.” The man took hold of a goblet and sipped it, coughing a few times before proceeding in his smug tone. “Right now they all think that I want to seize Wyandanch; I am sure that they do not entirely realize I have no interest in taking that city. They’re too concerned with their own lives to consider my endgame, and so they can’t think as a group and pierce through my strategy.”

“Belisarius might,” said Leathan simply, lightly grabbing Catharnach by the shoulder and trying to pull him closer. The King swatted aside the hand, but did sidle right next to Leathan, leaning over towards his companion.

The spy tensed as she heard what sounded like footsteps heading to her location. Her feet felt stuck to the gross floor, leaving her rooted to watch this spectacle as she fearfully waited for the door to be thrown open. It took much of her willpower not to gag and throw up while also fishing from her pocket a black cap and placing it upon her head. Trying subsequently to remain as still as possible, her fingers clenched the rough wood as she heard the king reply tersely, “That makes him too much of a threat. However, they might unify against me if his word is proven correct, so I have sent word to my son on the matter.”

Leathan’s voice became clearer and more rapid upon mention of the said son. “He’s still coming? Has he been traveling through the mountains? How many of them has he killed by now?”

Catharnach chuckled, causing the spy to shiver, alongside something falling on her shoulder. “The boy has said that five more now lie dead among the passes, and the rest are too fearful to go near him. Five more lives removed in route to my goal.” He now pushed himself atop Leathan, so that they stared eye to eye.

“I did want to talk to you about Ailean,” said Leathan in a pleased tone, lightly wrapping his arms around Catharnach’s head. “Why not make him your hero? Wouldn’t it braver if the front lines died off and he was left leading a few more attacks on the capital walls? If you want to inspire the Alliance to rally around you, why don’t you give them a show?”

To the spy’s surprise, the Mad King nodded in approval. “It’s dangerous, but he has enough bodies to hide behind until the right moment. What better than to show the resilience and bravery of the Alliance against a cruel government than to put my own son into the spotlight? I had felt that my son’s request to stay at the back screamed of cowardice, and being at the lead would cost me a dear son, whether by Wyandanch’s hands or those of my supposed allies. This is an acceptable compromise. If he is injured or forced to flee, then our propaganda need not be entirely unjustified.”

Footsteps against the grass, combined with the couple’s growing intimacy, were enough to wrench the spy from where she stood within the bathroom. Eyes dilated and fearful, she hoped that her makeshift hat would identify her as one of the king’s watchers, particularly among the shadows in a cramped room. All she needed was a few seconds by which to state a goodbye and dart away among the wagons and horses towards the sea of tents, and then she could escape this dreadful camp.

“I know you want a show,” said Catharnach in what he might have thought was a seductive voice as the footsteps ceased, followed shortly after by the clanking sound of the armor of the guard stepping aside from the privy, and the door swinging open. “But my son considers it improper.”

“Your son isn’t here,” replied Leathan.

The man stared at the spy, interrupting his own whistling in this process as he identified the figure in faint moonlight. He was wearing gray shirt and pants, sans any shoes – she surmised that he had woken up and left his armor and weapon behind. After an awkward few seconds marked by mutual blinking, the intruder then blushed immensely, bowing his head down. “Sorry to have bothered you,” he whispered as the lady shoved past him, happy to be free from the wretched place.

The guard was befuddled by the presence of a woman whom he had not seen entering the stall he was supposed to protect, but she had vanished before he could say a word. The person, seeing their cap and thinking them being of the King’s private guard, thought almost nothing of it afterward.

The army had no time to waste, so the stray fisherman or two observed a cloud of dust when the sun poked out from the eastern sky. Horses strained to move heavy carts and wagons, several still being loaded with supplies, weapons, and other odds and ends of camp life. The clanging of swords being thrown about was matched by the smells of Ceinen’s incense as he carried it from his own small tent in a box. Men shouted and strained as officers walked about and watched the proceedings, checking to assure all that was needed had been gathered. The largest tents, though partly-burned, were dismantled as their wooden supports were pulled away in teams, the canvas folded and neatly carried to where they would be taken southwards. Observing all of this from the vantage of a clear sky, Aquila marveled at the efficiency and swiftness by which Alarick’s army dismantled their very living spaces, hard as it was to see.

He swooped lower, eyes attentively picking out armored men and women in the crowds. Jonathan had taken to standing atop a wagon and hauling up heavy objects, still inexplicably covered in a layer of dust. The gray-haired man he had been told was the replacement for the red-haired girl was not among his own soldiers, but directing the bowed, quiet latter person from her tent. Terasu kicked the earth in frustration. Aquila, having heard of what had happened to her boyfriend, felt immense sympathy. Before he could plummet from the sky and see if he could give her a hug, of course, he heard a whistle from the ground far beneath him.

Madeleine had now taken to wearing black trousers and a brown shirt with an orange scarf. She looked intensely stern – arms-crossed, hair pulled back, shooting a deadly glare - as the eagle shot downwards, slowing down and landing gracefully upon the ground. In his half-form, the eagle had the body of a man, rising to a few inches under the height of Madeleine, covered with feathers and wearing green shorts and a sash. His claws dug into the earth briefly, leaving him to squawk and extricate himself as he otherwise stood obediently, chest puffed out and head held high. The lady nodded in appreciation before returning her gaze to the tired and frustrated Alarick.

“Are you happy with yourself?” she said, poking the leader in the chest as he stood in front of his tent, itself abuzz with the activity that consumed the camp. Alarick looked impatient and tense, tapping a boot on the ground and crossing his own arms. There was no hint of a sneer or contempt on his face, however, as his sagged face and weary, partly-closed, reddened eyes indicated. Unshaven and dressed in gray pants, a black coat with silver lining and a gray interior, behind which was a blue undershirt, he came across as imposing and grand until one looked at his face. Aquila thus focused on the shining pins on his coat, extolling his successful military campaigns.

“She’s fine,” Alarick said forcefully. “She woke up within a minute and was responsive thereafter.”

To his and Aquila’s surprise, she slapped him across the face. “And don’t you think there is a problem?” Madeleine said, paling and placing her hands behind her back. “Over the past week, the girl has wiped herself out, given a chance to relax, and repeat it all over again. After the day before yesterday, I am convinced she’s hurt her head. Jonathan had the respect to give her time to relax and rest, but you are still placing too much stress on her too quickly. Don’t you see that it is damaging her? Isn’t it my job to care about that?”

Now nervous, Aquila watched the two with a frantic expression in his eyes. Alarick rubbed the sore spot on his cheek and sighed. “She’s done it to herself. If what I know is correct, she and her brother left their home willingly. We were only late to the show. As for the second time, did you expect this? Did you expect her brother to turn into some kind of…monster? What I’m doing now is to keep her safe, because she’s clearly in danger.”

Madeleine grumbled something under her breath. The eagle gasped quietly, having heard a strong epithet, and Alarick’s eyes swiveled to him. In response, he covered behind Madeleine, who was now focused intently on the ground. “We had to teach Jonathan quickly,” the man said, waving his arms in the air in frustration. “Terasu threatened to set us on fire, but she learned how to be a member of this army and fight for herself. Even Ceinen, despite your concerns, acclimated quickly. Why can’t she-”

Her eyes, now fiery shot up at the mentioning of Ceinen’s name. Pointing sternly, she said, “You’re no doctor, and how dare you consider your solution to her health better than mine when you can’t take care of your own. The amount of stress she’s going to will give her fainting spells, and I fear that her head injury will only make her that much more susceptible to them. I do not want to drive the daughter of one of our most important allies – whether we like those allies or not – to fall dead before your “training” is complete. None of the others have had these problems, and you need to remember two of them could already fight. As for Ceinen, I thought he was too emotionally unstable for the role, but it turned into a happy escape for him.”

“So, what do I do?” said Alarick, clenching his teeth. “Let her servant or Jonathan do the work for her? Convince her she needs no work ethic and keep her vulnerable?”

“If it keeps her alive, then I say yes” said the lady firmly, brushing off the eagle’s feathery hands from her shoulders. “From what I have seen, she’s a smart girl with a good, if undeveloped, grasp of magic, and as studious and devoted as her parents. She needs to ease her way into the position, but I know that she can do everything you ask of her, and more, if you only wait for her to recover. In the meantime, I have seen her servant, and I know that man will fight to the death for her. He told me himself.”

By now, a trio of men and women had gathered behind Alarick, looking with concerned expressions at him as they held up boxes or pieces of parchment. They seemed defensive and a bit frightened, shrinking back and sagging under the weight of what they were carrying, but said nor did nothing. The commander, out of the corner of his eye, spotted them. He sighed and turned around to address their questions, saying clearly to Madeleine, “On the condition that she be trained as her injuries lessen, I will let you do what you want. Though she is under your command, do not forget that you are under mine, and I need by army in the best shape if I want to protect a sieged city.”

Aquila could see, with the way his general stood still and firm, that she was infuriated. He jumped back in alarm as she said, “That was my plan to begin with. How nice of you to have considered that,” before swiveling around and marching off. Snapping her fingers once and loudly, Madeleine stormed her way through the disassembling camp and rows of horses and wagons passing by, calling Aquila to follow her. One last glance to the commander showed him taking no heed to her leaving, as he was instead focused on pointing soldiers in the right direction and pouring through papers. Then, moving lightly enough to not embed his claws into the earth, Aquila obeyed.

They proceeded among the dust and clouds for only a minute or two before the still-enraged general began to slow down. “Where are they?” she asked to Aquila as she jumped over a crate, he walking around it.

The eagle closed his eyes and tried to remember what he had seen earlier. For this, he found himself rooted in the ground, breaking his concentration as he struggled to pull himself out again. Still, annoyed as he was, Aquila spotted a wagon with a tall pole atop it, which had not moved since he last saw it. Using it as a marker, he pointed in one direction and nodded his head. The lady swiveled herself around and strode down a dirt path. Fists balled, staring through the dust in search of her destination, soldiers parted while Aquila kept three paces behind her.

“You have a human form,” said Madeleine in a voice that tried, and failed, to be soft after Aquila once again rooted himself into the earth. Feeling embarrassed by this comment, Aquila shifted immediately, watching as the feathers disappeared from his skin and his senses waned. On the whole, he wasn’t happy with reducing his exceptional vision and hearing in favor of the bland ones of human beings; beyond walking slightly faster, what was the point in allowing himself to be surrounded by this dust and noise and be unable to make sense of it? However, she, for the time, was his general, and he never said ill about his generals. Too, she was in the middle of asking another question: “Do you know what I like about you?”

“Umm…no?” said Aquila, ducking beneath an empty stretcher carried by two soldiers. One of them shouted in disapproval as the eagle sped up and walked beside her.

After a few steps further, distracted briefly by a soldier marching past, Madeleine gave a reply. “You are a quiet and straightforward man. Best of all, you know when to listen to your commanders on topics that they know best.”

Something about this conversation made Aquila uneasy. The lady reminded him somewhat of his old commander, who was well-known for being a control freak. Nevertheless, she was correct about his obedience. “Thank you?”

“Everyone is so adamant about having his or her way,” she continued, slamming a fist onto her open palm. “They are all convinced that they must work until they collapse, as doing otherwise would threaten this army. Even Jonathan is hard to stop; no matter how long he’s been fighting, he wants to take the first watch, or list commands for his soldiers, or dig holes, or get food for the horses, or all of the above. As such, that man is perpetually dirty.”

“They’re all…” began Aquila, struggling to find the word in his head.

Madeleine found the answer for him. “Work addicts,” she said resolutely, dodging a horse racing past. “I hadn’t though so many could be in one place. Each one of them is so emotionally troubled that they must do everything to run away from their problems. Rowland is dead, and that man can’t even make a public statement. All he does these days is plot the safest routes and conscript the girl that he died for into his little charade. Perhaps it is to keep her from going mad as well.” Taking a deep breath, she coughed and waved a hand in the air, futility pushing aside the dust. “Do you have any hidden emotional baggage I should know about?”

He looked down at the pebbles on the ground. “Not much before my last mission.”

The lady watched as the eagle slowed and moved behind her. “Bullying? Prejudice? Angry family member? Dead family member?” Aquila was uncomfortable with these prodding questions and the firmness with which Madeleine asked him. Did she consider everyone in the world so dysfunctional?

“Some bullying,” he confessed after a minute of tense silence, with her casting constant glances to see his expression. “My family history is odd. Why…um…why…?”

“After the families I’ve seen and been a part of, I assure you that I will not scoff at whatever you say. As for why, I am beginning to lose my patience. After the past few days, I find that my advice has, once more, been cast aside, and the girl I am in charge of has passed out because Jonathan wanted to train her. All the generals are either falling apart or working their way to exactly that, and this brilliantly stupid army expects me to come in and fix their problems with a flick of my finger. Perhaps I’m a hypocrite with my own tragic backstory plastered on and an impulsive desire to control everyone about me to hide from it. Nevertheless, I am still the best healer and medical expert they have, so I’d rather they listen to me than drive themselves into their own graves!”

The eagle was well aware of the true center of the conversation, letting his new general seethe in her firm steps and solid gaze while he remained ever behind. When he caught her looking at him from the corner of her eye, he remembered her request. “Well…” he began, pausing and wondering if he should eat up more time by stammering. Madeleine stopped and stood aside so that he might walk alongside her. Sighing, he said, “it’s not who raised me. My parents are lovely and kind. It’s who I was born to.”

“…Oh. Are you a hybrid, then?” said Madeleine in a soft, almost underwhelmed tone.

Before Aquila, sweating and staring harder at the ground, could response, a voice called out, “Lovely! You will be a marvelous fit!”

The general sighed and placed her hands in her pockets. After a few seconds, a young lady emerged from beside a small box to their right. Her auburn hair spilled behind her, reaching down to her waist. Wearing a blue dress tightened at the midsection with a small leather strap, as well as sandals woven out of what looked like reeds, she beamed with the aid of her amber eyes as she approached. Aquila noticed her slightly protruding nose and how her eyesight focused on the two of them before sighting figures behind them, ears twitching with each step of a passing soldier.

Shorter than even the eagle, the girl was dwarfed by Madeleine, but rose a hand. “Katerina,” said Madeleine, taking her hand from one of her pockets and shaking the girl’s. “I had expected as much.”

Choosing not to let go, Katerina began to lead the general away from the north and towards the east. “They come to us rather often, you see,” the former explained to an unnerved and surprised Aquila, running briefly to follow. “It is hard to spot one unless they tell you as much themselves, as they can always hide in one form, but men and women are cruel and speak ill of such hybrids We are known best for our hospitality” – Madeleine laughed briefly – “so they join us.”

The eagle, frightened, was tempted to raise his voice and declare it to be untrue, in the hope that all those in earshot might believe him and carry on without suspicion. However, to his surprise, Katerina dominated the conversation by turning to look at Madeleine and asking eagerly, “Why did you not tell me you had brought a princess?”

“You know that we cannot allow apprentices to attend such key meetings,” said the general strictly.

Katerina could only laugh in response. “Our commander was afraid that I would tell you something you did not wish to know.” Twirling, she suddenly embraced a teenage girl with blonde hair and green eyes. “Isn’t she such a darling, though? Far more gracious than the last one.”

They had entered a small space centered by a fire pit covered in wet ashes, last tendrils of smoke lost among the sea of dust. Ceinen was sitting on the back of one of the wagons, staring absent-mindedly before he spotted Madeleine and eagerly patted the wood beside him, looking quite cheery. Also of note was Yorew, who stood right behind Eremia and inched his imposing hands closer to the young girl embracing his mistress. For her part, Eremia, with her frazzled hair and wild-eyed expression, seemed unhappy and awkward. She saw Aquila and glared at him in fury, causing him to recoil and hide behind the general, limbs feeling heavy and weak.

“Oh?” said Madeleine through gritted teeth. “What, exactly, did he want to hide?”

In her cheery way, Katerina let go of her embrace, as Yorew’s hands were now a few inches from her shoulders. “My sources tell me that Alarick told Jonathan that my companion here was to be treated as a normal member of the army in case her darling brother were to come back.”

Everyone watched the general’s face convulse with rage. “Then do be sure to tell Jonathan, when you next see him, that the plan has changed. Eremia will be trained under my supervision and rules. She will, for now, only do what she wants to do.” Taking a few deep breathes and correcting her slight slouch to stand at her full height, the lady continued. “I assume that Ceinen has already told her of you?”

In the background, the man in question, now in his deer half-form, nodded his head fervently. Katerina pointed to him before facing Eremia and curtsying. “Now that you are aware of who I am, we have the more pressing matter of making our leave. I hope it should not be imprudent if I come with you,” the girl stated, looking at Madeleine after every few words.

“Yes!” said Ceinen in agreement, his voice dimmed by their surroundings and in between fits of coughing. “The girl – the girl – the… - Katerina! needs a friend of her own age. A…a…peer!”

Madeleine raised an eyebrow and focused her gaze on Eremia, who, after a few seconds of staring at the ground, returned it. Her servant, standing austerely, gave not a single hint that he had any opinion on the matter, so Aquila saw the general overlook him entirely. Appearing to be lost in thought, a sudden realization came to the girl, leading her to start and nod in Madeleine’s direction. Unsure and uneased by what exactly this revelation was, as indicated by her raised eyebrow and confused stare, the lady apparently saw no particular harm in it. “Fine,” she said at last, causing Katerina to breathe a deep sigh of relief. “You may accompany Eremia and her servant.”

At this, Katerina jumped up and embraced Eremia again, pulling her towards a wagon that appeared to be stuffed with blankets, boxes, and drawers situated under a beige tarp. Before he had a chance to see what would happen next, the eagle jumped back in surprise as the lady whirled around. “I will need you to sit beside the driver and pay close attention to whatever they say,” she whispered to him. “You have better hearing as an eagle, so pick whichever form is more convenient to you.”

Aquila nodded, though he felt uncomfortable to be watching one of his royals by the command of someone who was not. As Madeleine walked away, he watched as his princess pulled herself into the wagon, following Katerina, who helped heave her up. Eremia cast a wayward glance at the eagle and frowned, though it was mixed with some confusion. Nevertheless, Aquila got the message. Yorew stood, observing Aquila with those eerie eyes of his. Then he suddenly swiveled around and jumped onto the back of the wagon, causing it to creak and bend momentarily (to both girls’ consternation). The eagle sagged his shoulders and walked away, still staring at the ground. He ignored Madeleine as she passed him, though she did not respond.

The driver himself was unremarkable. For a second, Aquila looked at the teenager and his drab clothes and assumed him to be Jonathan. Consumed by rage, he summarily realized that the man wasn’t dirty and had black hair, as well as being shorter. By then, however, he had angrily leaped onto the front of the wagon, shifted into his eagle half-form, and propped his legs against the board separating them from the two horses, both standing still. The man gave him a few odd looks, but coughed and pulled on the reigns. They moved slowly at first, the driver attempting to navigate his way through a sea of similar wagons and marching soldiers. However, when it soon became clear that everyone was heading in the same direction, it was a simple matter of turning to the right and following the trail of footprints and hoofprints.

The challenge, for Aquila, was trying to focus on the noises emanating from the wagon, drowned out heavily by his surroundings. He could first hear someone say, “It will do so nicely to have someone else to talk to!” That was Katerina; she always had a chipper tone and a light voice.

“I though the generals had other apprentices?” Since the tall man almost never spoke, it wasn’t hard to guess who was.

“You would imagine, but they’ve never been enthusiastic about it. They’ve done their jobs so long that they don’t feel the need to bring in new blood, especially when it doesn’t last.”

“Ah…Rowland.” The name popped into the eagle’s mind; he had been briefed of the young man when he was notified of his duties. Poor soul.

“Yes. They all weep for him, you know, as have I. He was immature, but really a nice man. Jonathan and Terasu were fellow students under our commander, and the three of them had a bond like siblings. Now, I think it’s best we relax and watch the road, because you never can know who exactly is listening, can you?”

The eagle gasped, but covered his mouth. Whatever they were doing next was lost among the wave of sound. She was too smart for her own good.


******

“I had not thought the man would be unreliable, though I should have expected as much from his late-night request in that poor handwriting of his.” Alsather, dressed in white clothing, stood outside his tent and stared at the sun. He was a man obsessed with health – it made him much harder to kill – but a second was all he needed to tell him that the sun was halfway towards its peak.

The lady with the cataract eyes looked across the vast expanse of the camp. “The Mad King’s son arrived a few hours ago,” she concluded, setting down a black mat that Alsather then stood upon.

“Smelling of shit, I hear,” said the advisor to the throne before laughing. “What a fool.” He stopped, raising a hand to his mouth. “Though that is silly of me to say.”

“It has been said,” she remarked, before walking back into the tent.

He continued to watch the unfurled banners and gatherings of soldiers from the small hill upon which his own home had been set. Catharnach’s grand tent was still poised too far in the distance for him to see much, though he could’ve sworn there was a large number of soldiers darting to and from it. Within a few minutes, the lady had returned, carrying a small lens in her hand. She watched patiently with him, staring through the lens that he had imported for her from a distant country, and eventually pointed to a spot in the distance. Alsather squinted, but soon spotted a small gathering of men and women. One in the entourage unfurled a flag with a familiar emblem, leading Alsather to nod in approval and turn around.

“Bring to me a horse,” he commanded, causing his servants to run about, most grabbing spears and armor while others went towards the makeshift stables established down the hill. “I want to leave a good impression for our visitors.”

By the time he and a few compatriots were saddled and had rode down to their destination, Kasimir had been waiting for some time, though his smile was still friendly. He stamped his foot and uncrossed his arms as Alsather, kicking up a cloud of dust, leaped off his horse and handed the reins to a befuddled guard. The lady with cataract eyes joined her leader only a few seconds later, a dour expression on her face.

“What a nice reception!” said Kasimir, clasping his hands. “I had worried I would have to deliver my news to these…fine men.”

Alsather frowned. “If I had been told it was information, rather than a meeting, then you would have. However, I don’t suppose it would be dignified of me to leave.”

The blonde-haired lady poked her head out from behind Kasimir and grinned. “Wouldn’t it be apt?” she said. “Turning yourself away in pride and scampering back to your hovel, like the Mad King? Still, it would be so poor of you to leave, as I don’t enjoy being snubbed.”

“Enough with the threats,” said Kasimir through gritted teeth. The lady’s smile widened as she disappeared behind the king. “The news we bring is essential, as I’m sure you’ve always wanted to know how exactly Catharnach plans to kill us. We’re still stepping stones, but not in the way you think.”

Looking about him, the snake’s frown deepened. He said, in a voice that sounded more like a growl, “no wonder you leave Valeri to do the talking; you haven’t any talents yourself. Do you believe the Mad King hasn’t been spying on your little parade by now?” Alsather straightened his shirt and scowled, causing the lady in the cataract eyes to reach for a pocket.

Watching her pull out a glass lens and peer among the surrounding tents, Kasimir’s smile faded only slightly. “It doesn’t matter anymore, because we’re not leaving.”

“…You want to make him the target, I suspect?” After a few more seconds, his attendant placed her lens back, gestured to a few of the assembled soldiers now massing around Alsather, and marched off towards a set of black-colored tents. “There is still the matter of his army. And his son.”

Kasimir waved dismissively. “I want hostages, not victims. To have him and his son killed would be wonderful, as it would save us so much trouble. No, we need to hold a united front against Wyandanch if we hope to keep our rebellion, and the Confederacy, from collapsing. To that end, we can-”

“Enough!” shouted Alsather. The soldiers behind him all stepped back in alarm as he took a few deep breaths and composed himself. “…you have said enough of your plans in public. Let us not raise suspicion that we’re doing anything more than simply resisting him.” He gestured behind him to the tent on the hill. “You may tell me in my own quarters. I suppose your strategist and his friend will not be attending?”

“They’re too busy speaking with the other generals,” said Kasimir as Alsather clambered onto a horse, catching up with his slowly-moving group as soldiers began to surround the King of Walenty and his men on all sides. He gestured for the blonde lady to step between him and the snake at the front of the procession. “Pretending that the Mad King is aiming for the city, rather than our lives.”

The blonde lady looked around her and sneered. “This had better not be a game,” she said, staring up at the horse and its rider in front of her. “It would be a shame if you weren’t fast enough to run away from me.”

As she took a step closer, a dagger flew inches from her face, startling her. Jumping back in alarm, she nearly crashed into her King as she watched the projectile fly past her, striking right at the wooden post holding up a tent. The structure bent and collapsed, leading to a few frustrated soldiers pulling themselves out and observing the damage as the blonde lady turned her attention to where it had come from. Standing silently, arm still outstretched, was the lady with the cataract eyes. She smiled.

“What need do I have to be fast enough? I must only be smart enough. You are not nearly the first person who has needed that reminder.” Each word was quiet, yet deep. Alsather didn’t bother turning around as he continued, so that he did not see Kasimir’s expression of concern dampen his smile. “Fear not. I need your King, as only together can we stand against Catharnach. Isn’t it a marvelous game, to be at each other’s throats with the awareness that the rest of the world is watching us? If we cannot take power quickly and resolutely, the enemies of the Confederacy will show no mercy. Catharnach is a fool to think he can kill us and build his own empire through us. For this, we will crush him.”

The written language of Fayne, Eremia felt, was a nuisance at best. There was a symbol for each word or idea, so that it was both hard to remember and use properly. When stuck in a cramped wagon in the mid-day heat surrounded by boxes, blankets, a lamp, and assorted books, writing was the last thing on her tired mind. Naturally, Katerina was now opening a chest and peering through its contents, pulling out pieces of paper.

As she turned around and observed, Eremia could see Yorew walking behind the wagon at a steady pace. When he had been asked to leave by both girls, who found that his presence made it hard for either of them to sit or stand without touching him, he had been characteristically quiet about it. He now seemed unbothered by the heat and elements, waving aside some of the dust from his face as he focused on the wagon, though not looking directly at its passengers. It was impossible to get a read on him, so she was curious to hear what Madeleine promised to tell her about him at their next stop.

There was no doubt in her mind that he was innocent, as she had always seen him as loyal, silent, caring, and helpful. Of course, she had felt the same way of her country, to which she now felt ambivalence and confusion. Frustrated, anxious, and pained as she was, that nagged at her the most.

Feeling something being placed on a leg, Eremia shifted her focus to it. On the piece of parchment, placed over the green dress she had been given, was scrawled one symbol. Hello.

Katerina placed a small paintbrush and bowl of ink between them. Questions swirled around Eremia’s head as she struggled to think of the symbols she wished to use. Finally, she set down the paper beside the bowl, writing down what was the front of her mind. Who are you?

More than a student, responded the other girl, after gingerly taking the quill from Eremia’s hand. I was trained to learn, watch, and spy.

The blonde-haired girl glared as she read, snatching the quill from Katerina’s hand and shooting back a question. Is that why you are with me? To watch me?

If I did, I wouldn’t tell you to be silent for an hour and avoid the eagle by writing. Audibly sighing, the lady in the blue dress handed her message to her companion.

Is that what he is here for? Is that what he has always been here for? Eremia’s writing, in her rage, was sloppy and disorganized, causing Katerina a few moment’s confusion.

No, he has never been with us before the past few days. Madeleine has repurposed him, as he is afraid to go home, but still trusts his country and its allies. Mostly, she believes he cares for you, and there is no sense in sending him away.

Eremia felt a tinge of guilt inside her as she finished reading, her mind flashing back to when she snapped at him and when he had tried to protect Yorew. Uncomfortable, she waved for Katerina to continue writing.

You might not already know, but I am not human. I was trained to work for royalty, you see; it was my people’s agreement with Wyandanch. We were meant to be impartial guides that could bridge the gap between nations. What are the odds I should find a princess?

After hesitating, the blonde-haired girl raised an eyebrow. What are you, then?

Smiling broadly, Katerina crossed her arms and shifted, sprouting red fur across her body as her face contorted and elongated to that of a fox. She sniffed with a protruding nose, her smile now eerie among her rows of teeth. This is the real me, she wrote, struggling to move the quill with clawed hands. I am now loyal to you alone. My former mistress is a nice lady, but she is not royalty.

What is she? Who are The Doves? Disturbed, the royal struggled to read Katerina’s scratchy handwriting and found it hard to look into her face. Still, she was intrigued by the vixen and the prospect of having a loyal spy capable of answering her greatest questions. Hence, much as she wanted to leap out of the wagon, she persisted.

Katerina took away the piece of paper and pulled another one from the box, squeezing her hand in while keeping her face from bumping it. The Doves are who they say they are. Seres founded them as a peacekeeping force, as you cannot stop swords with mellow words. They deal with local troubles around the Confederacy, even among the nations of the Alliance. As a small army, they cannot challenge any of the Kings, who are content to let them travel as they may. I know little of the generals, though I can say Madeleine is from the lion’s country. So is Alarick.

A name flashed into Eremia’s mind, dissipating as quickly as she tried to write it down. El… she began, before staring at the quill in intense frustration.

The fox took the quill from the girl’s hand and finished the word. Elchanan, yes. I am surprise you know so little of the world around you. You are aware they border Exedor, right?

Yes, responded the blonde-haired girl without hesitation. Yet, I do not know much about them. My parents allowed me to visit the country’s borders with them, but I did not personally come to see negotiations. Visitors, travelers, and books have taught me about the Confederacy and some of the surrounding countries, but not much about their cultures or people. You cannot believe how much the world has grown for me.

For once, Katerina raised an eyebrow, mixing surprise with, of all things, expectance. It seems your parents have raised an insulated heir. We feared as much.

Why do you fear Exedor? wrote Eremia, hand shaking as she did so. Her breathing quavered.

We do not fear them, per se; we are wary of them. The eagle is not the first to run to us with news of being threatened. From what we have heard, Exedor keeps a constant smile on its face, though it is secretly strict and demanding. Perhaps it is nothing. One must go to extreme measures to survive in this world, so they might be a dictatorship out of necessity. Still, when you talked with the eagle – Aquila, was it not? – you were genuinely surprised to learn about your country’s actions.

Eremia scrunched her face in concentration. Yes, I was, she admitted. I am the daughter of the King and Queen, so I should know what they are doing, and I have seen them do nothing like what you say. Once more, Katerina replaced the paper.

Precisely – you should know, but you do not. I imagine your parents rarely speak to you, and your teachers never mention the country’s internal affairs. That is why we are more wary of them, as we do not know what they have planned for you. I wish they had told you.

It was hard to be angry and confused when she already was. The girl felt increasingly tired as she wrote a sloppy response. Why did they not?

I imagine they thought you would react better to seeing it, not being told of it. I suppose it only made you defensive.

Can I trust you? The blonde-haired girl resorted to lying down on her belly, legs barely dangling out of the wagon.

Katerina gasped and looked hurt. I gave you more of an explanation than they did. You have every reason not to trust me, but I am devoted to you. Do you have a choice?

Sighing, Eremia accepted the pen from her vixen companion. Fine. I do not think I can apologize to the eagle…I just realized he has the same name as the Lord of the Eagles. How should I refer to him?

Call him Aquila for now, but he probably has the formal name Aquila the Lesser. The Lord is Aquila the Greater, thanks to a large number of parents having the same idea as our friend’s.

I can do that. Still, I do not know if any of you – him included – can judge my country. How about you tell me about the generals?

The fox tapped a claw on her chin, closing her eyes and humming. She still easily grasped the quill as Eremia handed it to her, and soon attempted to write. About as much as you know. Terasu could only be less secret if she screamed her identity to passerby. Jonathan is a royal from Eimhin, and Ceinen, I was told, was found and picked up by the doves after escaping his home in Eimhin, back when the Mad King instigated a genocide. Everything else has been kept a secret between the generals. The papers that do exist are with Alarick, but he watches them constantly. I cannot wrest them from him; I am a spy, not a fighter.

Holding her head in her hands, Eremia scowled at the paper. Would it not be simpler if everyone was honest?

Honesty is a vague concept, and those who are fully honest usually end up dead. Katerina tried to replace the paper with a new one, but Eremia held one corner of it in a quick movement and finished reading. If she was upset, the vixen did not show it, choosing instead to briefly yelp in surprise.

So, wrote Eremia after accepting the pen from her companion, who kept a hand over her mouth as she pulled out another strip of paper. What did you mean when you said you would be loyal to me?

It took a minute for Katerina to contemplate a response. You may do with me what you would like. My roles are all under your supervision, so you can have me spy on, listen to, or investigate the camp as you see fit. My old mistress now has no more control over me, so she might be understandably furious. Still, this is what I have dreamed for; it is what I have been raised for over my entire life. I am happy that I should be so fortunate to find you.

Eremia thought about this. The vixen acted legitimate and cooperative at every possible opportunity. She had warned the girl about the eagle’s watching her, was personable to a fault, and everything she wrote made sense. By now, even as uncomfortable as the truth was, it was hard to accuse Katerina of being a liar. As far as Eremia could conclude, she now had a faithful attendant, one capable of providing her the truth about her surroundings. Still, if Katerina really did transfer her own responsibilities from Madeleine, there was the possibility the girl would start out on a poor footing with The Doves. Besides, the thought of being able to watch people made Eremia intensely uncomfortable; she enjoyed privacy and quietness, and didn’t want to wish anything less on anyone else.

My first request is that you continue to inform Madeleine, began Eremia. She looked up to see Katerina’s dejected expression and hastily continued. You are still welcome to talk to me, and I would like that you inform me about every time I am in a conversation. I just do not want to intrude on the privacy of others. All I want to do is look for my brother.

The vixen uneasily accepted the pen from Eremia, her hand more shaky than usual as she wrote. I do not like Madeleine, as she is so easily frustrated, but you are my mistress. You will give you my report as quickly as I can find you, and I wish you the best of luck finding your brother, though you may not like what you will see.

I already did not. As for now, I am tired, and I would like to rest. Thank you.

No, thank you, for giving me my purpose. Is it fine if I nap with you?

Yes.

As she flopped onto a pile of blankets and sighed a breath of relief at the way it eased her back, the girl watched as Katerina pulled a small box from the larger one and gently placed the pot of ink within it. Everything was put away in less than a minute, and the vixen curled up around another blanket on the opposite side of the wagon. Eremia relaxed as the beat of her heart and the rolling wheels beneath her synchronized, and her eyes slowly closed as she looked at the tarp above her head. In short order, both fell asleep.

******

“Father!”

The Mad King stopped, breathed dramatically, and adopted his haughtiest pose as his son, dressed in a tight outfit and armed with a bow, raised a hand and ran towards him. “I should hope your old clothes fit fine,” remarked the man, “as you may be wearing them for some time.”

“I did not expect him to be so brazen,” said Ailean, raising himself up to his father’s height with ease. “He is far more capable than you, father, though you are both similar in age.”

Catharnach waved dismissively and scowled. “I do not want to be reminded of my mortality,” he said swiftly. “I would like to know why my son could be beaten by an old man and saved by a little girl. I raised my son to be smarter and swifter than that. When you lead the charge of your compatriots into the heart of Wyandanch, you had best hope it makes up for the damage you have committed against my throne.”

Caught off guard, the Prince of Eimhin took a step back and resisted the urge to stutter. “Father, I did not know of this arrangement, I had assumed…did Leathan arrange this?”

Catharnach turned and began to walk, his son automatically following him as they perused the rows of tents flying their country’s flag. Soldiers in the vicinity fell upon one knee and bowed in reverence, and the procession behind them marched solemnly. The young prince could care less about such reverence, as he did not want to pit his pride against his father’s, but hated the smug smile that the Mad King wore. “You may call him your father, and I your King,” the old man said simply.

“Fa—my King, I dare not be indolent, but I should like to be informed of when our battle strategy has changed. I do not think my father has my interests in mind.”

A confused soldier sounded on a trumpet when he saw his royals, but was smacked upon the head. The music died about when Catharnach wheeled around, hands twitching; the prince, used to his father’s attempts to intimidate others, was not at all affected. “He is an attentive and gracious man, with the success of our country at the forefront of his mind. You would be well to be like him, as I can only count upon you to ride gloriously into battle. When not covered with…excrement, that is."

“As you will it. Can I trust you to remain faithful?”

Ailean saw his father’s face contort strangely. Saying nothing, the Mad King quickened his pace, nearly causing Ailean to be engulfed by the oncoming wave of attendants. Eyebrow raised, Ailean easily caught up to his father, who turned in another direction. “Is that how he convinced you, my King?”

“What he and I do is none of your concern, you pestering child, as much as you like to think it is.” Catharnach leaped over an arrangement of boxes, followed shortly thereafter by his son. Frustrated guards and servants worked their way around the obstacle, some colliding with one of the tents. Ailean was admittedly impressed at his father’s agility, considering the man never walked around much and was easily winded. Of course, he could hear Catharnach’s breathing turn raspy ahead of him.

“Only as long as you remain faithful to her, I have no troubles with what you are doing,” retorted Ailean. His father shouted something incoherent towards a guard and pointed the latter at the prince. The soldier, dressed in a full suit of armor, tried to stand in front of Ailean, trembling. They breathed a sigh of relief as Ailean slipped right around him, before jumping back into a tent as the gradually diminishing gathering followed.

The Mad King disappeared among the multitudes of tents and soldiers. Ailean looked about him with an expression of fury, balling his fists. For a few seconds, he could only hear the sounds of marching soldiers and conversation. “Do you not have an army to command, you prat?” said the tent next to him. The concerned faces of the people around him filled him with a greater anger, and Ailean reached inside the tent and yanked out the pole from within, showing his father crouching behind the canvas.

All at once, Catharnach, staring at the assembled faces, rose to his full height. Chest trembling, he nevertheless managed to look ferocious in his stout stance and piercing stare, enough to leave those around the son taking a few steps back. Ailean shot a look back in response, holding his chin up high. “Your mother is dead,” said the Mad King. “I do not need be reminded.

Silence dominated the scene. Ailean watched his father slouch once again, knees shaking as he coughed and gasped for breath. Whatever urge he felt to sob – and it was strong enough that he could not stare at his father’s face, lest he be further reminded of his grief – was not nearly as strong as the Mad King’s was. Indeed, Ailean’s mother had died when he was born, but he knew the way that Catharnach had always doted upon her, what he had done for her sake. His father’s love would always be stronger, but Ailean had always envisioned her as kind, devoted, faithful, and charming. That his father could not live up to such standards still infuriated him, as much as he loved him, and so Ailean responded. “But I believe him to be using you. It shames her that you should so readily abandon our Queen for the first person to so much as wink in your direction.”

“And do you think I would be happy pulling her up from her grave and seeing a skeleton by my bedside every morning?” said the King, spitting as he spoke, voice jumping erratically as he interspersed random pauses into his statements. “Would you? I called you here because I wanted to know if you would approve of my killing a man, not to be chastised for attempting to bring back warmth into my life. You may throw your winter upon someone else.”

Befuddled, the prince saw the men and women around him surrounded the King, saying nothing and carrying with them expressions that seemed to be staring down at him. He bowed his head in defeat. “I am sorry, my King. I acted imprudently. I had overstepped my boundaries. Who is it that you should like permission from me to kill?”

“Our troublesome general, Belisarius,” came a scratchy voice from within the small circle of people. “Your father and I fear that he may choose to disclose that I have no plans of taking the city to our…allies.”

Ailean sat cross-legged on the ground. “Putting him in a position where he could easily die would certainly not give a person much respect for their throne,” he said, after a minute of contemplation. “That man is too uninterested in our efforts to coax him into brazenness by land or by wealth. He has always been a threat to us, and I can only say it would be simplest to kill him. The matter is how to have him replaced.”

“Nobody need know that he has been replaced. It could be simple enough to say that he has fallen suddenly ill, and send one of his more easily-coaxed soldiers to take his place in any further meetings.” His voice was now smoother, though it still broke at times.

“My King,” said Ailean, raising his hand. “That would only make them more suspicious. Perhaps it would be best to recruit one of our spies to look and act as he does, so that it does not look like we are quelling dissenting opinions. We might even surround him with guards, just to demonstrate that his concerns are being taken seriously.”

Catharnach responded quickly. “Too much effort. They will be concerned no matter what I do, because they already understand how much I value their lives. As long as I command the largest single army, I can force them into compliance. As for now, though, it would not surprise me if they are trying to talk to him, coax him into revealing my strategy. Even if, by some strange chance, they already know, he could easily be recruited into conspiring against me, taking his soldiers with him. I cannot lose my advantage; he must be killed. Deeply as you have wounded me, my son, I believe I will do it myself. Send out the call for a meeting, and I will let him know how I despise cowards.”

Because today had been such an uneventful day, Belisarius regarded the low sun with an air of suspicion. He eased into his chair as much as an anxious man could, watching his soldiers as he messed with the fork in his hands.

The second day of negotiations had gone poorly, as he had expected. It had merely been his peers demanding that Catharnach’s battle strategy be left unchanged, though the rival nations had proposed other arrangements and more subtle ways to strike the city. Of course, he had not been there to see it; he had been informed that this meeting was to be less formal than its predecessor, so his presence would be unnecessary. He resented that he was being so easily pushed aside, but more so of his outburst against the King of Eimhin. The man was unpredictable and ruthless, and the letter warned him that he had earned Catharnach’s full wrath.

Admittedly, given what he knew, he was going to die either way. It was just a matter of whether he wanted to be speared and painfully, slowly die in battle, or be drawn and quartered and painfully, slowly die in front of a bemused audience.

Burying his head in his hands, he screamed. Looking up, he found nobody giving him the slightest glance. As he felt, they all knew that the Mad King had requested to meet with him, and it awkward to be around a dead man. His own subconsciousness was more in the mood to imagine his mother and father living securely in their tiny house in the city, sweeping the front door and talking with the soldiers. And, of course, the soldiers that would come to the gate with torches in hand, waving banners as they demonstrated what happened to families of traitors.

A trumpet blasted directly into his ear. He shouted and jumped up from his seat, causing it to topple over. Clutching his chest and breathing rapidly, he wheeled around and saw four well-dressed men and woman, all armed with swords and bows. At the center, standing and, for a change, scowling, was Catharnach himself.

“How deaf are you, frightened child?” said the Mad King. Those around him parted as he marched towards the general, who sat back into his seat while trembling. “And have you no respect for your King?”

“I was…surprised, my King,” said Belisarius, staring into the darkening sky. He reached down and patted the ground to search for his helmet, turning his gaze away as Cath stood in front of him and scowled.

Bending over, Catharnach grabbed the helmet from in front of Belisarius and ungracefully pushed it over his head. “You are mortified, coward. I suppose you still believe in those silly rumors. You have not possibly considered that I might concede to your demands?”

Belisarius gulped as he stood up and bowed reverentially. “No, my liege, it had not.” By now, he noticed that the surroundings encampments were eerily quiet. Beyond Catharnach and his guard, a few others had appeared on the fringes of the small clearing, including a few men in suits of armor. A brief flash of confusion appeared across Catharnach’s face, but he quickly dispelled it by donning a smile that was far too eerie to be genuine.

“Then let us speak of it in private,” said the Mad King loudly, marching over to Belisarius and grabbing him by the shoulder. He gestured for his soldiers to stand outside the entrance to the tent as they entered the small space. As the Mad King flopped down on Belisarius’s soft, curtained bed, leading Belisarius to sit on the ground in front of him, the former continued speaking. “I had hoped to use the position to motivate you, though it seems it may be better if I promote one of my more eager generals to take your place. Would a position at the rear suit you?”

Black spots danced at the edge of Belisarius’s vision, and he felt faint as he stared up at the expectant face and stuck-out chin of Catharnach. “Y-yes, my King, I would like that.” His heart skipped a beat as the Mad King nodded.

“Then it shall be done,” said Catharnach contently, sighing and pulling out a dagger from within his outfit. “You will be serving me among the dead, and your living compatriots will be worshipping me.”

Belisarius breathed a deep sigh of relief as Catharnach raised the dagger, aiming for his neck. Expecting some far slower, worse torture, Belisarius couldn’t help but find this relatively benign. There was then a sudden ruckus from outside, the sounds of yelling and warnings prefacing the arrival of a strong, tall man in messenger’s garb and a helmet that pushed his hair over part of his face.

The stranger looked panicked. “My King, I have something I need to say—”

By then, however, Catharnach had thrust the dagger downwards, stabbing the stranger through their outstretched hand.

The messenger dropped onto his knees, screaming as he held his bloody hand. Surprised and shocked, the Mad King quickly retracted his weapon, sending blood flying into the air and splattering on the roof of the tent. Belisarius, forgetting to breathe, watched in horror and amazement as the messenger, facing Catharnach, removed his helmet. His screams diminished as quickly as they came as he said, “you’ve lost, you stupid bastard.”

The Mad King, twitching as he rose from the bed and stood over the messenger, shouted high-pitched orders that Belisarius, too relieved to be alive, could hear clearly. To his right, Belisarius could see the entourage of soldiers attempt to barge their way into the crowded tent, but pushed aside by the men in suits of armor. Catharnach, with surprising speed, shoved himself under the opposite side of the tent and vanished in seconds.

“Let’s talk,” said the messenger. “He knows what will happen if he kills me, so you’re safe where you stand. I have a way to make sure that you have the same immunity. If we play this just right, you can work with me, and you don’t have to die trying to take the city. Does that sound fair?” Standing up, the messenger turned around. Belisarius gasped as he recognized the face of Kasimir, King of Walenty.

Belisarius shook his head. “No, you can’t be, there’s no way that one of the most powerful men in the world would –”

Smiling, Kasimir raised a bloody finger. “Be so stupid? Unfortunately enough, that’s just who I happen to be. That I could get my hands on an ill-fitting messenger’s suit and run between thousands of soldiers to get to you should be your real question. I can’t answer it myself, honestly.”

“But…oh my,” said Belisarius after some thought. “You’re not unharmed, though.”

Kasimir shrugged. “True, but I’ve had worse. We’re also straying from the topic here – your safety, and maybe an alliance to come with it. A real one, I mean.”

“What about my soldiers?” blurted out Belisarius, rubbing his hands through his hair. “There are too many innocent men and women here, and I’d rather die if I was placing my life above theirs.”

The King of Walenty rested on Belisarius’s bed, bending backwards to look up at the red-tinged ceiling. “That’s why I like you. You’re not some glory-loving halfwit ready to die for an idiot of a king. You’re the rotten apple in his eyes, thanks to your being more caring and scrupulous than any of us.” He pushed himself up to a seating position.

“I’m going to be honest with you, it might already be too late. Even without you, he still has a lot of good men, and his son is smarter than he looks. We might still be forced into battle, and we might still all die. At the least, a lot of your soldiers are in trouble. But I’m not a man who backs down so easily. I have a few cards left to play, and I was wondering if you and your soldiers would want to help. You don’t really think you have another choice, do you?”

Belisarius buried his head in his hands. Though tempted to scream for a third time, his mind eventually thought better of it, though not without some self-deprecation and dismay. “No, I suppose not. I can’t die and let the security of the people I care about go to some gallant cur who won’t think twice about putting them before Wyandanch’s arrows. I’m interested, but I must let you know that I still can’t entirely trust you.”

“That’s another reason I like you,” said Kasimir, grinning playfully. “No smart man has ever trusted me. Still, we have a mutual interest in not dying, and so I hope you’re willing to talk some strategy with me. With the information and people you have, we can make sure that the Mad King can’t kill you without destroying himself.”

“What information could I possibly have that-” began Belisarius angrily, seething at the absurdity that he, as neglected by his compatriots as he was, should know anything. He hesitated.

Kasimir’s smile grew wider. “That only you and your fellow generals know their soldiers are going to die pointlessly? Yes, my friends and I are already quite aware, and that’s just one idea I have in mind. Now, if you’ll excuse me” – he stood up and gestured to somebody standing away from the entrance of the tent – “I need to make sure I not die at the moment. I will give you my word, as a King and a good man, that I will do the best I can to keep you and your soldiers alive.”

“And I need all the help I can get,” mumbled Belisarius. “I don’t know how much worse things could possibly be.”

******


The boy struggled. This impressed it.

Of course, he had no tact or skill. He had clearly never bothered to listen to his lessons, read his books, or study the art of warfare. It knew as much, because it was him, if only for the moment. Though they shared the same brain, one of the two was clearly using it more. For now, Jonah was confined there, constantly playing the game, desperately using the same frail strategies and watching his pieces be picked off, one by one. Their sparring wasn’t fair; it had thousands of years of experience and the knowledge only provided by hundreds of brilliant minds. He had nothing save his ego and his spirit. Both were strong, but they were still those of a child’s. It was ancient, and had the wisdom and power that came with it.

Still, that its control should not be so complete infuriated it. It was regaining its powers; energy no longer seeped from its body, so that it did not blacken the ground where it stepped, or burn holes through its clothes. However, it had to continue with this stupid, outmatched game. It hadn’t the absolute power to totally oust Jonah from what it felt was the mind it wanted. Erasing other men was simplicity itself, but supplanting a new body and mind required much more tact, energy, and time. The most it could do was play its game and hope that it would become strong enough to eliminate an entire personality without killing itself in the process.

It was nighttime when it arrived at the camp. It had originally relied on a stolen horse, but the horse had proved too easily tired and too frightened, so it had called upon the last reserves of its own energy to create a pillar on which to propel itself. The guards, awoken by the noises of cutting grass and wind that came with the pillar, had seen its approach from a distance and now cowered in fear. It suspected they were unsure of how to react to the seemingly-limp body of a young boy standing atop something unnatural and unseen by mortals in this land for…it forgot how long ago it was. It could not remember much of the first few millennia after it gained the name that it so hated: The Corruption. It was so weak back then, as it was now.

“You will take me to see this “Alliance” and its leaders,” boomed a voice that couldn’t help but be light, considering that it possessed the vocal chords of a young teenager. Upon seeing the guards shivering, huddling together while they raised their spears towards it: “Or, if this is too hard, one of you may inform them that the Prince of Exedor is here to offer a helping hand.”

They were each eager to volunteer for this task, but the youngest and sprightliest of them finally sped off into the camps. It watched the retreating figure with utter disinterest, contemplating instead the most convenient way to dispel Jonah’s latest offensive. While it stared absentmindedly at the guards, who remained too frightened to even move away, its image of Eremia cast the real Jonah far into the air. Of course, their little battlefield was still a construct of the mind, but there was no doubt he felt the pain of falling into the ground. It was so tempted to laugh; that child didn’t have to accept to play the game, but he always chose so. Of course, he would never be able to win back his body if he didn’t. Those were the rules.

It was some time before anyone returned from the masses of tents. A small gathering of figures were now sprinting towards the assembled guards, who were all too happy to step to the side as their well-armored replacements arrived. It could hear them as they approached, and smiled in amusement.

“You blasted idiot? You would let a child frighten you?”

“My King, he calls himself the Prince of Exedor, and I’ve never seen powers like his!”

“How could you even presume that my son’s target would evade him, decide otherwise, and walk right into our jaws?”

“Ask him yourself!”

Soldiers now began to awaken and push themselves up from their beds to watch the gathering. It could easily identify the sweating, panting man known as The Mad King. With his awkward gait, the robes that he still struggled to shove on, and his blood-splattered outfit, his identity wasn’t hard to guess. The men on either side of him – one with black, bowl-cut hair and a pleased smile, and another that looked to be the King’s son – were the first to halt upon the sight of it. The King, looking first at them before turning to face it, lost his momentum shortly afterwards, as did his entourage.

“Good afternoon,” it said, bowing as it expanded its pillar and rose above them. “I presume you to be the leader of the Alliance?”

The Mad King gulped and gaped.

“I am here for a simple proposition,” it continued, stepping around its pillar. “I would like to help you burn Wyandanch to the ground. Since you appear to have been desperate enough to chase after an unfounded rumor by coming to me, I believe you will be happy with this.”

Catharnach scowled and shut his mouth. “I have had trouble, yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “And you do resemble what the spies have told me is the prince. What are your motives?”

“None,” it said automatically. “Only a sister, father, and mother to kick off the road to my glory. Surely, you must have experience murdering family members, as I have little doubt a Mad King could rise to power so peacefully.” It laughed internally; Jonah had already done the work for it. It was such an easy fantasy to pluck from the putrid child’s head, even if ultimately untrue. After all, Jonah had dreamed of stabbing himself through his hand after the night he fled the castle and hurt his sister.

“I am not the Mad—” began Catharnach.

Its pillar shot out and positioned itself so that the feet of the creature were inches from Catharnach’s head. “Of course not,” it said quietly as the King shrieked, his attendants raising their spears as Ailean lifted his bow and Leathan tried to stand in front of Catharnach, his smile replaced by a ferocious scowl. “You have not truly been a king in madness. It is merely a name conceived by idiots and used for my amusement. I can show you how a truly mad king acts, if you so wish.”

The Mad King opened and closed his mouth. Ailean lowered his bow briefly, face paling as it nudged his father’s head. Catharnach, to the surprise of everyone, did nothing but lower his gaze. “What are you to scare my father? Are you truly the Prince of Exedor to wield such strange powers?” Ailean asked at last, voice trembling.

It allowed Leathan to shove its shoe away. “This child asks the right questions,” it said, nodding. “You have done well, Catharnach. As for what I am, you may only think of me as the Prince of Exedor. Otherwise, I am that I am. My nature is not important. I did not wait thirteen years, slowly driving a wedge between a boy and a girl and separate the former from empathy, to be thrust here and made to explain myself. I came to negotiate.”

“Or what?” said Leathan, thrusting his chin up at it. “There’s too many of us. All your fancy powers won’t stop us from shooting you in the heart.”

Cackling, it began to move its pillar to surround Catharnach. Leathan embraced him as they cowered, it surrounding itself in its own dark materials. As they were its own constructions, it could see through them to observe the terrified people below. “I need not be taunted, children,” it said.

The Mad King raised a hand, the other clutching Leathan. “I surrender!” he shouted. “If you are the Prince of Exedor, so be it! We will raze that city together!”

The pillar gradually receded. “You will not regret this,” it said as it descended onto the ground, Catharnach’s entourage surrounding him. Ailean, moving unsteadily, stood between it and his father, bow at the ready. It laughed and pushed him aside easily, choosing to leer at Catharnach. “I will see to it that you are placed upon the Throne of Dragons, and then be off on my merry war. You will try to kill me afterwards, of course. I would like to see you try.”

“When I am upon that throne, I could send the entire world crashing upon your head,” spat Catharnach.

“When I have placed you upon that throne, the entire world won’t be enough to stop me,” it said, laughing. “I could have murdered all of you at this very spot, yet I am merciful. Work with me, King, and you will have your piece of the pie. I will gladly take the rest.”

The innkeeper, clearly half-asleep and engrossed in staring at the floorboards, did not worry about the man in the brown hood who strode through the door and requested a room. She accepted the few bronze coins slipped into her outstretched palm, vaguely gestured to one of the rooms upstairs, and handed the man a skeleton key. He, nodding, walked without care up the oaken steps of the quiet, weathered hotel, slipping the key between his fingers and humming a brief tune.

His room was about as well-kept as the rest of the hotel. First choosing to sit on the small bed tucked away in the far corner, he then jumped up and brushed the straw off of his back. The shelves were empty, save for a cracked mirror, and he stared at it in contemplation. Night already covered his face, though the light of one of the moons now began to poke through the open window.

Stroking his chin, he finally lowered his arm and walked over to the candle on the nightstand beside the bed. He glared at it, envisioning a lit wick. It soon burned gently, adding color and light to the room. The man was proud of himself; he had grown proficient enough at magic that his body and mind demanded to use more of their strength, but his restraint proved true. With little else to do, he stood in front of the window, poked his head outside, and whistled loudly.

In only a few minutes, there was a loud scratching some from the wood on the side of the hotel. The man stepped back as claws gripped the edges of the windows, shifting into hands. A lady in a red coat pulled herself smoothly into the room, stomping her shoes onto the wood to remove the mud and dust.

“Edana,” said the man, bowing.

“Are you here to give the order?” Edana asked, sitting on the edge of the window. “It is much later than I was expecting.”

The man sat gently down on the floor opposite Edana, crossing his legs. “This is something she can’t handle anymore.”

Edana laughed. “You mean to tell me that she could handle anything to begin with? With her sense of daring, if what you’ve told me is true, only chance and her friends have kept her alive this long.”

“You forget her power,” said the man, waving a finger side to side before desisting and sighing. “She has always relied upon it when all else fails. However, after the past few days, she has lost her supports and the spirit behind her strength.”

“So,” said Edana, standing up and walking around the man, “you fear that she won’t survive whatever comes next. I can understand. But you can say the same of when she started, when she didn’t have the slightest idea of what she was going to do, or how she was going to fight.”

The man balled his fists. “She needed to learn,” he growled. “Now she’s learned more about this world than she deserved to, and I can see no reason to keep her from him any longer.”

Edana grabbed him roughly by his shoulders and pulled him to the windowsill, shoving his head out of the window. He tried to shout in alarm, but she covered his mouth. “You are lucky that our King and Queen agree with you more, or I would happily carry you from here and throw you into their jail. This is only mercy after a long cruelty, and I expect her to return a broken shell.”

“She is stronger than that,” hissed the man after Edana momentarily pulled her hand away. “All that matter is that she will return and accept her position. Had we kept her in place, she would’ve taken far more lives than she did. Which, to my recollection, is none.”

Flinging the man aside, Edana began to push herself outside. “She is more valuable than a thousand of them. You, and our leaders, have taken a dangerous chance. If she isn’t that strong, and if she is crushed by her emotions, then all she will have left is fury. How many lives will she take in the process?”

The man, breathing deeply, groaned and pushed himself from the wall, rubbing the back of his head and observing the blood on his hand. “You have a duty,” he shouted, rising to his feet. “Complete it, and then we’ll see who’s right.”

“So be it,” said Edana, jumping into the air. There was a brilliant flash, and then she was gone.

“Always a charmer,” said the man, brushing off his clothes. He would have to tell them it was an accident in his sleep. Perhaps he could use the knife that he kept under the bed. They had bought all the other stories before, so it would be simple to leave the knife in the middle of the tent, wash the blood from his head, and wrap the dagger in the towel for a brief time.

Of course, he first had to return to them. Rubbing his hands together, the man in the brown coat pulled the skeleton key from his pocket. He unlocked the door, placing the skeleton key outside of the room before he closed it again. The man then went to the window, pulling and readjusting himself so that he was hanging outside of the inn. From there, it was easy enough to climb down, grasping footholds left by the decay of the wood.

As he walked some distance from the road, staying parallel to it, he pulled another knife from his pocket. There were too few people for a highwayman or band of robbers to be roaming the countryside, but it never hurt to be sure. It had been some night, he reasoned, and he didn’t want anything else added to his troubles. Fortunately, only the moon graced his travels, leaving his mind free to think of the excuse he could create for The Doves. True, he hated lying, which was so unnatural for him; he hated playing this game of deceiving legitimately good people for a good cause.

Fortunately, he guessed, it would all be over soon.

When she woke up, Eremia felt blissful. Her back dimly ached, but warm sunlight streamed through the entrance and rested upon her feet, covering them in graceful orange-red hues. It took a few seconds for her to realize that she was not at home, and the weight of her memories then crashed upon her.

Fidgeting, the girl groaned in exasperation as she crawled towards the back end of the wagon, pushing aside books and knocking over a mostly empty lamp. It landed with a dull thud on the blankets, one of which she reached for and pulled around herself. Eremia, wrapping herself up, peeked outside and blinked. The camp of the Doves, now established and coming alive, stretched out a fair distance around her, blending into plains that felt hotter and drier than she had felt beforehand. Far off in the distance, partly blocking the rising sun, was a city whose interior was surrounded by an imposing wall. Spires climbed into the sky, looking menacing as they towered over multitudes of houses and buildings, which stretched from the inner sanctums to the large river that drifted lazily through the middle of the landscape. Roads extended from all angles of the city, littered with passing people and pack animals, all staying clear of the army. The group itself was not far from a farmhouse, whose chimney puffed peacefully.

Peering to her right, Eremia could see Katerina, in fox form, arguing with Madeleine. It wasn't hard for Eremia to guess what they were talking about, as each would gesture to her at odd intervals. Finally, Madeleine hung and shook her head, her hair spilling out around it; it was messed up, and she looked tired. Katerina, with an elated expression, turned and ran over to Eremia, vaulting over boxes in the process.

"Good morning!" she said cheerily, as Madeleine walked towards the wagon. "Do you like the sunrise?"

"I find it wonderful, yes," said Eremia, half-asleep and squinting at Katerina. "What were you talking about?"

Katerina grabbed the sides of the wagon and began to pull herself up, causing Eremia to push herself back. "I decided it would be hard for me to be at risk, so I went with honesty." She beamed as she squeezed inside and sat beside Eremia. "You may still have to answer to her, of course."

Madeleine had vanished behind a corner, but soon returned, carrying a pile of books and straining under the effort. Hunched and breathing deeply, she looked happy when Yorew appeared from around the side of the wagon and took the stack of books from her hands. She waved as Yorew set the stack in the wagon, causing it to tilt slightly backwards. "I hope you haven't changed your mind about that position," Madeleine said. "Because I'd rather not get some more exercise at this hour."

"Yes...oh! Of course!" Eremia leaned forward to stare into Madeleine's eyes. "And whatever she told you, I'm sure I can support --"

Putting up her hands, Madeleine shook her head. "I suspected she would come to you, no matter how much I tried to stop her. It will just be easier for you to adjust if you know more about us, I suppose. Hopefully, she'll keep being informative." Katerina smiled beatifically and nodded. "Besides, she needs someone happier than me to throw her cheeriness on, and maybe you'll be that person."

"I could do with a smile," said Eremia, before turning to see the city again. Her mind began to work more energetically, and she recognized that this was something new to her.

Madeleine followed her eyesight. "We've made good progress, yes. This is the City of Axes, as they like to call it. Walenty's capital."

Eremia's eyes widened. Her lessons had taught her little of the Confederacy d'Austliere, but she was familiar with Walenty's allegiances. "How could you not be worried of an attack?"

"They're used to us. We're not strong enough to actually fight any of the kingdoms; we just deal with little conflicts here and there. Often conflicts in villages or forces that both sides would like removed. Besides, whoever has one or both of you has power, and Eimhin is treacherous enough that it won't bother telling the Alliance where you are. You're safe."

"Hmph." Eremia stretched and yawned. "I would rather not be here long, if you understand."

"Naturally," said Madeleine. "We just have to restock, and then we'll be making our way south."

Katerina snatched Eremia's hand. "You look too tired to be reading right now, so what about something exciting?" - the vixen waved her other hand at the end - "Don't you want to see Jonathan while he's training?"

Trying to appear as disinterested as possible, Eremia shrugged, yanking her blanket off. As she jumped off onto the grass, she found that her entire body ached. Struck by the wave of pain, she staggered briefly, letting Katerina wrap an arm around her. Madeleine stepped forward in alarm, but Katerina propped Eremia up, and the latter waved dismissively. "I suspect this is the new normal for me, so I will not let it concern me."

"I...make sure to take a rest when you need to. You need some fun, and resting is perhaps too boring, so I can't stop you, especially if Katerina has anything to say about it. Hmm...would it be too much to ask, then, if I could have Yorew for the day?" Working on picking her feet off the ground, Eremia turned her head back, eyebrow raised in confusion. "I could use somebody to carry my stuff around, and he seems interested in my work anyway."

Eremia was suspicious that Yorew was more interested in Madeleine than just her work, even if he was a healer. Smiling, she nodded approvingly, and turned away, allowing Katerina to walk her through the camp. She would have to tease him about it sometime, since she had never known thought of him falling in love anyway. Yet, Madeleine saved his life, and he had to have been in the hospital with her for at least some time. Besides, he had also been sent away when Eremia had been training, and perhaps the hospital was the only place he thought of going to. Why not see if Yorew could be happy for a change?

Few people gave Eremia any heed as Katerina led them across the camp. Most were waking up, stretching, and talking among each other. A few grabbed their gear and walked in various directions. Eremia guessed it was time for the changing of the guard. She felt better now, and walked alongside Katerina, who pointed to different groups of tents and explained who their occupants were. Eremia reasoned that she should probably be listening, but couldn't muster the energy to do so. Besides, Katerina seemed quite happy to just be talking.

Eremia couldn't help but think of Jonah. She hadn't seen him for this long in years, and it hurt. Sure, he was a prick, and a childish brat, and embarrassing, and stupid, and naive, and a million other terrible things. He hadn't always been like that, though - she remembered fondly when she had had a younger brother to run around in the gardens with, or read books to, or look at the stars with. Jonah had been so curious and eager, and she had been happy to have something to keep her from being lonely. Something had gone wrong, though and he had gone to be sourer and crueler, more distant and more uncaring. Yorew had eventually joined them, but he had been - and was - as personal as a rock. He was withdrawn, at the least.

Maybe that was why she felt so calm around Katerina. There was something distantly nostalgic about the vixen. Eremia still wanted to believe whatever it was that inspired love and energy was in her brother. That, in that hard and stupid shell, maybe there was a little boy trying to claw his way out, screaming to swallow up the world and make it his gem. And she was tempted to cry, because she had seen him so...soulless, empty, dead. He had tried to strangle her, she was sure of it. Now she wasn't sure if she could even find him ever again, or if there would be anything left to find. It was hard enough to handle that now, but she imagined it would be worse if she ever saw him again.

Katerina waved a hand in front of Eremia's face. "Are you alright? I thought you were just looking at him, but you looked so...sad."

Eremia blinked. "Oh? Oh, yes, I--"

They were standing by a small grassy field. A few targets had been positioned on one end, and about a dozen people stood opposite them, raising their bows and firing without order. Jonathan walked between each person, correcting their posture and whispering a word or two of advice. He was, as usual, dirty, and had clearly been working for some hours beforehand, but was unbothered. In fact, he seemed to be in his element, and didn't look at either Eremia or Katerina as he walked to the targets and easily pulled arrows from them.

"Everyone likes him, you know?" commented Katerina, watching him intently. "He has some kind of rugged handsomeness that gets attention from boys and girls. Not that he ever really notices."

"Yeah..."

"I swear, he could lead anybody just by standing and pointing. He just hates the attention, though."

"Mhm."

"If it were me, I would take advantage of it whenever I wanted. I could tell somebody to find me an apple in the middle of winter, and just sit back and watch them fumble around in the snow. Arms flailing, kicking up a drift, freezing themselves senseless. I'm not that mean, but I totally could, right?"

Eremia was about to made an offhanded reply when she smelled something burning. Turning to the right, which was a challenging task, she saw Ceinen, in his human form kneeling on the ground, humming poorly as he stuck a stick into the earth and placed a flint and stone aside. He was surprisingly focused, wiping sweat from his brow as he leaned back and stared into the sky.

"What are you doing?" said Eremia in a neutral voice. Katerina gave her a warning glance, but Eremia walked over to him anyway.

Ceinen appeared not to notice her.

Eremia sat criss-cross beside him, trying to keep from looking at Jonathan. She watched the sweet-smelling burning stick, and something she had read in a book ran through her memory. "Incense?"

"...Oh! Oh! I didn't, hadn't seen you there!" Ceinen lowered his head and smiled at her. "Yes, that's incense. It's hard to buy, but I used to make them when I was younger, and I still do now." Looking at the incense, his eyes widened, and he reached to grab the strange-smelling jar to place in front of it. "How silly of me! Wouldn't it - it would - be silly if I wasn't directing the offering? Maddie - that's Madeleine, by the way - sometimes buys them for me, but they never have one of those small statues or trinkets. I make do with this, then."

Eremia titled her head and crinkled her nose. "Do I want to know?" she said, as Katerina frantically gestured for her to stop talking.

Narrowing his eyes and bowing towards the incense, Ceinen tried humming again, but stopped, thinking of something briefly. "The director has to be some part of whoever makes the offering, or something the maker has touched, or maybe a representation of some deity or spirit, and it's all sort of complicated. I just use my scent, then." He looked between the incense and Eremia as he spoke, watching her expression sour and smiling sheepishly in response to it. "It's easier to do when you're a deer and not a human, of course."

Katerina sighed, threw up her arms, and walked a distance away. "Wait, deity or spirit?" said Eremia, covering her nose with a hand. "There is only the one, correct?"

Ceinen's smile, distantly eerie, didn't dissipate, and he focused on the incense. "A test, then! Can you explain to me - in simple words or complicates ones, whatever you want - what bonding is? The process?"

"You cannot be serious," said Eremia, still pinching her nose. Her parents had raised her to be respectful and graceful - as royalty should be, they said - but Ceinen was unfathomable to her. She suspected he was one of the polytheists, which was disdainful enough, but he acted and talked so strange. It was hard to remove the contempt in her voice, and that wasn't successful. "It is the rituals wherein two people or creatures are spiritually linked, usually with the aid of a psychic. They can perceive the other's reality, and one at a time can call upon the Creator to be granted with the power that is shared between them. The only consequence is that the summoner has to deal with the mind of the other, as they will accidentally fight for control of one body's senses."

"And what happens to the, the, winner? Loser?" Ceinen responded, gesturing for her to continue.

"The winner controls the form the body manifests, based on all of the forms of the two who are bonded. The loser has to watch until they can seize control again, or pull themselves back and wait until they are needed." Eremia recitied it from a book that she had read when she was younger (before Jonah tore out some of the pages to make wings for himself).

"Is that always the case?" Ceinen sniffed as the incense wafted into his nose, but didn't push it out of the way.

Eremia saw Katerina out of the corner of her eye. The vixen watched from the background bored, distracted by passerby. She wasn't normally this evasive. Now suspicious, Eremia continued. "If one makes a minor incantation, no. The summoner gains only a slight amount of power, but the other mind is almost certainly not strong enough to resist. What is the point in all this?"

Ceinen nodded and stood up, leaving the dust on his robes. "And if one is dead, in some distant star?" He turned and looked down at her, apparently in concentration.

"In the World Above, you mean," Eremia said quickly, then thinking. "...Yes, one can be dead, and it is common for human royalty to bond themselves to nearly-dead members of the royalty of their companion species. This is what has kept the peace for ages."

"What is - do you - what is Exedor's again? I think - I know I forgot." Ceinen stared at the ground.

"The golden eagle. I have bonded to...well, it is my family's, yes."

Suddenly, he reached out and placed his hands upon her shoulders. She knocked them off swiftly, glaring at Ceinen as she heard Katerina run towards her. "Then, by all means, please, please tell me e-exactly why I'm wrong about my religion. If it makes you happy."

He was intimidating when angry; even if skinny as a reed and stammering, his height and conviction told Eremia that she was stumbling on a deeply personal issue. Unable to reply, out of fear of invoking his wrath, Eremia walked backwards gracefully, moving right behind Katerina. For her part, Katerina sighed and grumbled something quietly about newcomers always being the same.

"Don't worry, Ceinen," Jonathan said, walking to the edge of the training grounds. "She meant no harm. The Lady of Dawns happy?"

Ceinen's anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. "From her p-pool she grants us blessings, indeed," he said, nodding happily at Jonathan. Eremia breathed a sigh of relief. "Is - where is Madeleine?"

Jonathan pointed towards where the medical tent could be seen. "Oh! Of course," replied Ceinen, picking up the jar and burnt stick of incense. "I would - I will! - talk to her about the student."

As Ceinen disappeared, Jonathan turned to face Eremia, who hid behind Katerina. "He won't do anything. He's too shy. Don't do that again, unless...he wants a debate. Then talk."

Eremia peeked out from behind Katerina's shoulder for a second, and then blushed at her own silliness. She was royalty; she was expected to be more professional. Calming herself - though her heart still raced - she stood in front of him. "Is he the only one who believes what he does? What faith can be correct when there are so few adherents?"

"It is his; that's all that matters to him." Jonathan narrowed his eyes in warning before his expression softened. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Eremia said, choosing to accept his warning. A tad afraid to speak to Ceinen, she was nevertheless hopeful she could overcome his falsehoods if he would want to talk to her.

"The training," he replied, looking surprisingly downcast. "I overdid it. The commander told me to...and I didn't realize you had problems."

"I just hit my head a few times. It will go away soon enough. The training was nice of you." It was hard not to talk swiftly, but he had been, for the most part, wonderfully likeable (save for what he did to Aquila, but she reasoned that was his job), and it was odd to see him depressed.

Jonathan shook his head. "It was too much. I'll set things up for you tonight. We can train when you feel better."

It was then, as Eremia was about to respond warmly, that Katerina jumped in between the two. "But first," said Katerina to Eremia, "before I forget, you should go and apologize to Aquila. Maddie says he's been cooped up - excuse my pun - in the medical tent since yesterday, and won't talk to anyone. She forgot to tell you, but he's taking up space and needs some fresh air."

Pulling back her long hair, Eremia nodded. She had been hoping to avoid that conversation all day; it wasn't like her to apologize to anyone save her parents, and there was something undignified in doing so here. However, she had no solid reason to hate him anymore, and she decided that it would be better than to leave him upset, particularly as he had tried to help her in the past. "And I will see you tonight," she said to Jonathan, hoping that she sounded reasonable and regal. Eremia couldn't help but feel excited, though, and walked eagerly as Katerina led her away.

Drusus, holding a sword a few sizes too short for him, weakly swiped the air in front of his canine opponent.

"You thought that dagger would be useful?" the wolf said, raising his own blade and stabbing at Drusus. It caught the edge of Drusus's robes, which tore as he leaped back.

Now preparing a defensive stance, Kasimir's strategist breathed deeply, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "It will do fine," he said, before sidestepping another strike.

"Where's your energy?" The wolf rushed towards Drusus, kicking at a leg with his clawed feet. Drusus winced and nearly fell on his knees. Looking smug, the wolf ignored Drusus reaching out for the former's sword until it was too late.

"Right here!" replied Drusus, grabbing his opponent's sword hand and thrusting his dagger at the wolf's middle.

Surprised, the wolf regained his senses and countered almost immediately, shoving the sword in their hands towards the dagger. The dagger landed harmlessly on the dusty ground, thanks to the wolf's strength. He then pushed forward, sending them both toppling onto the ground, the sword embedding itself in the box that Drusus had been sitting on before the fight.

"Well done," Drusus said, looking up into the wolf's burning-forest eyes. The wolf immediately rose up, so that Drusus could prop himself on his elbows, but the gap between them couldn't hold anything larger than an apple. "Why do you even need me around, Torion?"

"You know exactly why," Torion said.

Drusus sighed when, as expected, the moment fell apart with the arrival of someone in blue and silver armor. He gestured for them to speak as Torion hesitantly pulled away and sat on the ground, looking at his sword.

"Valeri would like to inform you that he has received a letter from his son," they said. "His situation is well; Pfanxi still holds the route into Claec, the borders are secure, and he wishes you all well."

"Isn't that what the King always says?" Torion commented dryly, sounding upset. "Why does he have to bother us with this?"

The messenger shrugged. "Be fortunate that Valeri did not have to tell you himself. Finish with whatever it is you're doing, because we'll be leaving before noon. Kasimir would like to speak with the both of you shortly, so you had best come to him." They marched off without hesitation, joining the moving throngs of people.

Drusus stood up and brushed himself off, looking around to make sure that nobody else was watching. "Our King must be putting the final details on his plan."

"I could guess that myself," Torion said sarcastically, leaning back to stare up at the blue sky. "Is everything packed up?"

"As far as I am aware, yes" said Drusus, sitting in front of Torion and joining him in watching the clouds. "At least we are fortunate enough to not have had to do it ourselves."

Torion ran the back of his furry hand through Drusus's hair and laughed. "The King needs that fine head of yours. What's the good of it if you're using your hands to lift some books?"

Pulling a red apple from his pocket, Drusus took a bite out of it and swallowed. "Fair point. Though, I could have someone to talk to while I work."

"Nah, I could do the work for you," Torion said, placing an arm around Drusus's chest. "It'd be an hour, maybe?"

They were silent for a little while. Drusus eased his head onto Torion's chest and smiled, still eating the apple. He could spot, from the corner of his eyes, a few people walking by, but their quickly averted their gazes and moved on. They were alone, the sun warming them and rewarding them for their minute's laziness. They had had many moments like this in the past, almost as soon as they'd first met, back when Kasimir promoted Drusus to assistant strategist and personally welcomed him to the City of Axes. That was before the lead strategist retired (whether by force or not, Drusus didn't know, as the old, half-blind codger had little respect for Kasimir), and he was faced with a whole new world of responsibility and service. At least the King Walety and the King of the Bears were young themselves.

But he was thinking too much. Besides, Torion was raising his hands over Drusus's head and conjuring tiny sparks. They danced between the fingers and gently floated onto Drusus's face. "Do you think I'm getting better at it?" Torion asked, wagging a finger playfully.

"Absolutely," Drusus said, putting his own hand through the wave of sparks. He yanked it back when it jolted him, but felt more amused than hurt. "You've been learning well. Still not much compared to this, of course." He concentrated, sending jolts of eletricity coursing through his body and arching up his nose, shooting into the weak sparks and intensifiying them.

"Wow!" said Torion, yanking his hands back. "It doesn't get old, that's for sure." He went back to embracing Drusus, placing his chin on the strategist's shoulder. "Hey, remember that day when we first met? Wasn't that fun?"

Drusus threw the apple core aside. "Hmmm...if I recall correctly, I caught you getting dressed, and you immediately tried to hide behind a closet. And you tripped on your pants and fell over onto the floor."

If Torion could blush, Drusus had the suspicion that he was doing such right now. "Y-you did pick me up, wasn't it?" said the wolf after a few seconds of awkward silence. "I don't...uh...don't remember looking that silly."

"You looked fine," said Drusus reassuringly, gently pushing himself up off the ground. "Now, let us see how the King's doing, and prepare for his little game, and find out what that creepy child hopes to do. As for now, I would like to my leg checked on."

"The Mad King thinks he can ransom that kid or hold him hostage, and bring Wyandanch to its knees. Honestly, I'm worried that the kid's going to cause some problems of his own. Do you know how strong he is? They said he-" Drusus's words sunk in. "Woah, I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Standing, Drusus smiled and pulled the frightened Torion up. "No worries; it didn't hurt at all."

As expected, Aquila was in the hospital tent. He'd been moved this time, onto a makeshift bed nudged up against one corner. Eremia hated the room - it smelled too much of blood and organs, and half of the objects had a pale yellow color. She pretended not to listen to the faint groaning of some of the patients, or that some of them didn't move. Eremia stepped daintly over sheets scattered onto the floor as Katerina led her inside, tromping and slipping around. Once or twice, Katerina nearly yanked the both of them to the floor, but her quick reflexes saved them. Why Katerina had decided to go barefoot, exposing her claws, was beyond Eremia.

Aquila tried to hide his amusement, but it was clear on his face. Nestled among the blankets, he seemed, as he was also tinged with sadness, almost complacent. When Eremia looked at him, he wrapped a blanket around his head so that only his beak poked out. "Hello," he said nervously.

Katerina aggressively kicked one of the sheets aside. "I swear, Madeleine does this on purpose. She always said that I would be better off standing on the other side of camp while she worked."

Eremia thought of a sarcastic response, but shelved it - she didn't want to upset the person keeping her on two feet. I suppose she would be a friend? That might be a bit much, since I only met her such a short time ago. And she seems to be everyone's friend. Is she even ever angry? What would that look like? I cannot imagine her as intimidating, and yet -

Nudging her, Katerina whispered in her ear, "whatever you're doing right now, you've been staring at him for almost a minute now, and I think it's making him uncomfortable."

She was right; Aquila was shivering. Eremia coughed and tried to think of something. "Ahem - about that time - ". The princess in her scowled and crossed her arms; Eremia would have nothing to do with these indignities, she declared. Why, she had merely acted rashly, and he hadn't bothered to explain things to her. By all means, it was he who should be apologizing to her, for worrying and confusing her so. Why did she have to stoop to his level?

Yet, she couldn't help but see Aquila as a frightened child, who hadn't known what to say to her in the first place, and was intimidated by her. "- my apologies. I had not meant to be so - callous."

Aquila stopped shaking. "Accepted," he said, "You're my lady, and I just want to show that I'm still a loyal soldier. I was afraid you hated me and that I couldn't - I couldn't - ". He resumed shaking.

"Wait, is that it?" Eremia whispered into Katerina's ear. "That anticlimatic?"

Katerina glared at her for a brief, unnerving instant, but went back to smiling. "Yep! All he needs now is a hug." And she went up and embraced Aquila, leaning on the bedframe to do so. Eremia, cautious and awkward, followed, hugging him from the other side of the bed.

Laughing briefly, Aquila said, "I guess I was a bit jealous, because you were with her, my lady, and whatever you were doing, I thought that I was less helpful than a foreigner, and that hurt me."

"I'm hardly a foreigner," replied Katerina immediately, but warmly. "The Confederacy isn't really that big, you know. But, I'm not exactly close enough for your nationalism's sake. Also, I've been meaning to ask a question."

"Hmm?"

"Every time I hear your name I think you're the King of the Eagles, because that's also his. What's the deal behind that?"

Aquila stuck out his head a little more as Katerina and Eremia both let go and went back to standing in front of him. "Sort of a respect thing? If it helps, I'm generally called Aquila the Lesser."

"Called it," whispered Katerina happily into Eremia's ear.

A voice, deep and low, came from behind them.

"Good day. It is nice to see you awake and well, Eremia. I was sent here to see that the sheets were still in place."

Eremia wheeled around to find Yorew, as expressionless as ever. She felt the blood rush to her head, and Katerina quickly propped her up with a shoulder. "Interested in her work, are you?" she said when she had her coherency.

"Healing is a very old profession of mine," explained Yorew, a tad too hastily, "And there are hardly enough here."

"You have been a constant presence in my childhood," said Eremia, smiling. "That you should suddenly disappear for longer than I can remember in so many years is particularly suspect, especially because you like to dote on me whenever I am ill. I did not think that it would take you this long for you to find someone you fancy."

"It is not - ah, it is not what it seems. The injury was rather large, and so Made- they did not heal it perfectly. I have had some issues in these past days, and they did not want me to upset you by acting so frail. Romance is hardly a thing on either of our minds."

Sighing, Eremia shook her head. “You are dreadful at lying, you know; I hope that you did not take lessons from Jonah.” She watched him as he bent over to rearrange the sheets, moving patiently and silently. He was not going to respond, and that was final.

Aquila yawned and stretched. “I think I’d like to go outside now.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Katerina, stepping away as Yorew smoothed the sheet next to her feet. She nudged Eremia. “Might as well see if we can find your handsome man again, am I right?”

Eremia blushed as they stepped away from the tent. For a second, in a passing glance, she thought she could catch Yorew smiling out of the corner of his mouth.

“Nah, I know he’s wonderful, but word is that he’s only interested in Terasu. Old friends, always been together, a shoulder for her to lean on, all that. Has anyone heard from her lately? She’s so quiet these days.”

In summary: The House of Wyn - the Dragon Lords - settled in Wyn's land, had one prominent rival. On the land that is now Eimhin, Comas, and Elchanan - lest that land have been separated further, as so often happens to the bodies of empires - was once the House of Costava. Aligned with the phoenixes, they claimed to be the descendants of some of the mages who had gained the blessing of The Creator in their journey from the Ascended Lands to this continent, just as Wyn claimed to be the leader of those mages. Both houses vied for control of the land that is now the Confederacy, as each desired control of the Erefung Lake, that jewel through which bounties sailed from the ever-wealthy northern kingdoms (now Lecizstan) to the cruelties of the deserts beneath. They also wished to seize the Pillars, around which the whole world was oriented, as it would be easier to assert their closeness to Him. This conflict finally resolved itself when-

Terasu slammed the book shut, growling as she stared at its eloquent cover, illustrating a dragon surrounding a spire. "This is still stupid. Where are the golden-haired heroines, and the villians beheading good kings and sending out their dark armies? I didn't come here to learn politics."

"Your father wanted you to learn the history of your kingdom," Latton said, pulling back the tent flap to look inside the spacious, candlelit room.

"My father is an ass[/b]," replied Terasu, crisscrossing her legs and combing her disheveled hair.

Latton sighed, seeing the poor job she was doing, and came over to assist. "Language, my princess."

"There are [i]rules, Latton. I will not let him spit in the face of the Confederacy by trying to replace the King. It only makes us look weak." She yanked the comb away from his reaching hands.

"Wielde is not particularly strong, is he? Does the Alliance not oppose him because of the fear that he is seen as weak by the rest of the world?" Latton fell upon his knees and looked into her bloodshot eyes. She glanced at him for a second, and then a fire rose within them, locking her vision in place. "...But I came to serve and protect you, not to dispute."

"Correct," Terasu said, handing him in the comb in a quick, firm movement. As he pulled at her hair, she blew some strands from her eyes. "It's hard to take you so seriously when you injure yourself so often."

Humming, Latton began to arrange her hair into a bowl shape - it fit easiest in the helmet, Terasu had always reasoned. "I have no idea how it happens, madame. I suppose I am so often tired, and then I often forget to sheath my dagger after practice."

Terasu waved it off. "Fine, but I might have to hire a servant to watch you. Wouldn't that be odd, to have a servant watch a servant?"

He said nothing. Terasu stared at her lap, at the small tears in otherwise immaculate pants. In the corners of her mind, she wished, however faintly, that there might be blood. Rowland's, to be specific. There had to be some trace of him. Beyond the bows that Latton had made her take off, all of Rowland's possessions were stashed somewhere in Alarick's tent. Alarick would not let her touch them, no matter how much she had Latton plea for her case - it was unhealthy, Alarick said, and she needed to move on.

And she wanted so hard to break that veil, that funeral gown draped over her head, shading and souring her vision. It kept her up at nights, staring hopelessly at the stars; it kept her unkempt, unclean, weeping. She was never a good writer, but she had spent fruitless hours composing poems for him. It stabbed at her soul and fractured her mind, and she desired so badly to throw it aside.

But then she thought of the girl who declared her a traitor, and then she couldn't help but wrap the veil tighter around her. That freak had done something to that boy. He had been so calm and...normal before that night, but he had killed her Rowland anyway. She thought that there was no question; it was the girl who was responsible for her miseries, who had charmed the other pallbearers of her innocence in some nefarious way, who danced freely as Terasu sank into the ground. She could remember only that night, and it would not leave her memory, not until that girl was gone.

"Where's Jonathan?" asked Terasu all of a sudden, breaking the silence.

Latton put the comb aside and breathed deeply. "Training some of the newer recruits," he recited. "Eremia is nowhere in the vicinity."

"Have him sent to me," Terasu said, after a few seconds of thought. "And is there anything else I need to know?"

"Ceinen is rather distraught these days," remarked Latton as he stood and lifted her up, with some resistance. "Something about Madeleine and her attention towards him."

Terasu laughed bitterly. "Nothing new; he's always been crushing on her." She turned to face Latton. "Well then, leave me be, and make sure to bring him. We are going to talk about that girl, and I want him to do something for me."

Latton bowed. "As you wish." He began to step outside the tent, but hesitated. "You know her name, you know."

"It makes her more real than she is."

******

"What - what - what is the point of this!" demanded Ceinen, hoof planted on a box in the medical tent, trying to drum up anger that couldn't make it above his frown. "You let that - that - that - charlatan among us? That fake?"

"He does his work well," explained Madeleine, reaching up to grab a hoofed arm and pull it down. Ceinen relented in only a few seconds, sitting down on the box beside hers. "And it keeps him away from her."

"But, what if - what if! - he's poisoning them? How can you be so confident when - when - he is so unknown! Do you have another reason?" He poked her chest lightly with a hoof, and recoiled suddenly, looking at the offending hoof like it was a murder weapon.

Madeleine, unbothered by this gesture, leaned and stared into his frightened little eyes. "I would know if he was doing any harm, because I watch over him constantly. It is the simplest option, and my only reason. He doesn’t know that, but it is the truth. Do you have another reason of your own to not like him?"

"N-n-nothing at all," replied Ceinen, shaking his head vigorously as his eyes darted away from her. His pupils dilated, he breathed more rapidly, and Madeleine felt a wave of sympathy fall over her. "There-there is nooo reason at all beyond who he i-is."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. He squirmed, but didn't try to push it off. "There's nothing personal about it," Madeleine said softly. "You shouldn't worry yourself about it."

Ceinen eased ever so slightly, though a stray hoof still tramped on the earth. "Do you - do you - do you," he tried to say all at once, loud enough to visibly surprise Madeleine. He saw and shrunk back, stammering incoherently and throwing out what may have been a vague apology. That he still had the ability to look at her, even if briefly, impressed Madeleine.

"...y-yes," said Madeleine softly, watching his face, hoping that he didn't understand the pause. He immediately brightened.

"Really?" Ceinen smiled in his crooked way.

She rose, hesitating as she thought of what to say next. "You've always been good to me. Now, how about we walk, as it's nearly sunset, and I'm tired of staying in here."

Ceinen nodded eagerly and stood up as well. Incapable of holding hands, they instead chose to walk side-by-side, exiting the mostly-empty hospital tent. Madeline reasoned that her staff could keep an eye on the remaining patients for long enough to distract Ceinen from that feeling of bitterness that she suspected was still beneath his cheery expression. Ceinen trusted her, but she wondered if he would consider Yorew a threat, given Yorew's feelings for her. The critical voice inside her head laughed at her, dropping salt into her eyes as it taunted her game. You're playing with a house of cards, it said.

It's going to fall apart, and you're too scared to get out of the web you're hiding under. Well done.



"Wake up! Please!"

Eremia was sitting on a suspended, oversized cabbage, staring down a pair of pale suns, when the words broke through her fragile dreamscape. One of the suns flickered - a wink? - as her surroundings darkened, and she found herself in the closed confines of the wagon. Wrapped in warm blankets, she wasn't eager to pull her head up, but somebody was nudging her less and less gently. "Who's it?" she mumbled as she placed hand on her forehead, feeling how sweaty it was. It had been an endless dream, eerie in the way that darkness had trickled through those suns, and voices had echoed just out of reach. She was happy to be free of it.

"Eremia, please, I-." Eremia could hear sniffling. As her eyes adjusted, she became increasingly aware of Katerina in her fox form, kneeling beside Eremia. Katerina covered her face in her hands (though her vulpine nose still stuck out) and sobbed.

"Something wrong?" said Eremia, voice cracking under a parched throat. She watched as Katerina stopped weeping, uncovered her face, and looked at her, eyes red and drooping.

"He - he used to put ribbons in my hair, you know," Katerina said, staring right through Eremia. "And they were always so blue, and they blew in the wind, and-"

Eremia fumbled in the darkness to try and get up. "Who?" she asked, though she felt she already knew the answer.

Katerina aged a decade in that moment; it appeared, in the way that she slumped, that she hadn't slept all night. "R-Row-"

"Rowland?" Disconcerted, Eremia reached for the lamp beside her bed. Katerina picked it up before Eremia could reach it, setting it towards the opposite end of the wagon.

"There's no point, I won't be here long. Nobody cares, nobody cares..."

"Nobody?" said Eremia, reaching up to embrace Katerina. She didn't know what else to do, as unfamiliar as it felt.

Leaning on Eremia's shoulder, Katerina started to cry again, breaking her sentences into small fragments. "I went to everyone. Terasu tried to set me on fire. Jonathan buried his head in his hands. Ceinen talked to me about the weather. Madeleine doesn't wake up easily. Alarick always has guards outside his tent, and he doesn't like night visitors. I'm sorry, you're the only person left, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Katerina's fur brushed up against the side of Eremia's face; it felt warm and itchy. Eremia didn't let go, because she couldn't stand to see Katerina this disconsolate. "Would you...like to talk more about him?"

"I don't know," Katerina said, wiping a tear from her eyes before she continued to talk, shakily. "He was always so nice and, and, and, he would compliment me, and ride off everywhere and talk to everyone and do everything. I always wanted to be close to him like Jonathan and Terasu were, and make that blood oath -"

"Blood oath?" Eremia raised an eyebrow. It distracted her from the sadness that was struggling to pass through her throat.

Katerina laughed unsteadily. "I was told it was a few months after they met. They called themselves 'blue blood brothers' and swore to stay together. And one of them would mention it every now and then and I always felt so jealous because they were so happy about it, it was something of theirs, it was their little part of the world."

"I'm sorry," whispered Eremia.

"It's...fine," Katerina whispered back after a minute. "All of it is, really. I'm sorry, I didn't want to bother you, but nobody else would talk to me. And, and, I want to smile and make everyone happy, but nobody ever notices me. And sometimes I can't smile, I just can't, it's too hard - and it hurts that everyone has even more reason to ignore me, because they all hide when they're sad, that's what they do, and that’s probably what they expect me to do. I'm sorry, I know I'm saying too much, I know I'm freaking out, I know and I know and I know that I've already asked more of you than I should. But can you please stay up with me, just for a little bit? You don't have to say anything, we can just sit here and, and maybe look at the stars. Please?"

A few tears fell down Eremia's face. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths before speaking. "You need someone, and I need someone, so yes, absolutely. I will stay with you the whole night if I have to, for your sake."

"Thank you."

Eremia rued the day that Jonah dragged her out of the castle. If she had stopped him, he wouldn't have come here, he wouldn't have become that creature, and he would not have killed Rowland. She was disgusted in herself. Not at Jonah - something had always been wrong with him, and his transformation had just been the final nail in the coffin. Not at Yorew, either - he only did what he was told, even if with a stupid stubbornness. It was only her fault; she wasn't strong enough, she wasn't smart enough, she didn't try hard enough. Perhaps that was wrong, as those two were more resourceful than she'd expected. However, what was the point in casting blame on anyone else if her inaction, however significant, had led to Katerina crying over her should?

She hadn't felt that way before, but something about her weeping friend - and now Eremia found it hard not to think of Katerina as a friend, because Katerina was willing to share that depth of feelings - flooded Eremia with guilt. A flame sword of self-loathing stabbed through Eremia, and so she did spend her night sitting at the edge of the wagon, Katerina by her side. Eremia pulled back the hair from her eyes and peered at the moons, the clouds that passed among them, and the infinite stars.

The few days that followed, before and even after Eremia was deemed healthy enough to walk in the camp without supervision, were a blur. Madeleine had been angry at Eremia for the latter's insomnia, but it meant that Katerina was back to her cheery self; that improved Eremia's health considerably. Jonathan visited frequently now, whether to start the fire, bring in fresh food, or just sit with Eremia (talking was, with him, a brief event). His presence was always blissful, and he added a drop of exciment to her boring schedule.

The land, in the meantime, grew more arid the farther they headed south. Katerina had said that The Doves were not far from the desert, and would soon arrive at The Confederacy's border. This unnerved Eremia, as the border guards were infamous for their defenses; she had read they were most of the reason that the Confederacy had not been challenged by a foreign power for almost a century. However, Katerina had merely addressed that by saying that they were harsh on those coming in - those leaving would most likely be ignored. The worry didn't dissipate, though.

One morning, when the skies were cloudy and grim, Yorew had arrived instead - Jonathan was off on a hunting party, he said.

"You summoned me?" Yorew asked, poking at the ashes of the fire with a stick. A few embers jumped out and vanished in the breeze.

Eremia ate porridge from a bowl as she sat, criss-crossed and wrapped in a blanket. She watched the ashes intensely. "Yes," she said at last, eyebrows furrowed. "I would like your help."

"And put the charming young man out of a job?" said Yorew, as neutrally as possible.

Blushing, Eremia set the bowl down between her and the former fire. "Hardly," she said, straining to sound sarcastic and roll her eyes. "I would like to do something more than read. Are there any towns nearby?"

Yorew pointed towards a black speck in the distance, past the green-brown flatlands. "What do you want from such a town?"

"A trainer," replied Eremia gruffly, picking up the bowl and standing up, staring him in his sunken eyes. "I want to know how to use a sword."

"I-" began Yorew, setting aside the stick and sounding almost indignant.

"You have been busy," said Eremia just as quickly, gaze softening. "I would like someone more available than you and the others here. And I cannot stand walking around here for much longer, as everything is the same."

"Don't you-" Yorew said, breathing in deeply and concentrating afterwards. "-As you will. Will you bring anyone else with you?"

Eremia thought for a moment, then looked around and waved towards someone in the distance. As that person began to run from the background, Eremia turned to Yorew and nodded. "Katerina, of course."

Katerina arrived in her usual fashion - embracing Eremia and nearly toppling her, knocking the bowl from Eremia's hands and sending it flying into a flustered Yorew's grasp. "What do you have in mind today?" asked Katerina, pushing back to look at Eremia.

The latter pointed off towards the distance, while Katerina turned her head to follow its motion and squinted into the distance. "I should like to head to the town and find a trainer."

Katerina looked back and frowned. "That might be hard. I'm not sure if Madeleine would want to let you leave. And Alarick-"

"Well, this is for my education," said Eremia with a smile. "What are they going to do? There are no prisons here, and confining me to that wagon is not anything new."

They let go of each other, and Katerina steepled her clawed fingers. "And you've been in one place for so long that they'll hardly think you'll just up and leave. Still, I imagine the Doves' spies will figure it out, so we'd better not attract attention to ourselves. Do you have to bring him?" She pointed to Yorew. "He sticks out like a massive sore thumb."

"We need defenses, correct?" replied Eremia, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, yes, that'll be fine," said Katerina, waving off the thought. "I'm sure I can find something for him."

Katerina disappeared without another word, leaving Eremia to wait. Eremia was impatient, as this was to be the first time that she would leave the camp in however many days, and she was interested to see if the culture of Walenty was any different from her home's. Of course, she was not pleased when Katerina ultimately returned carrying two large, black cloaks, nor did Eremia like Katerina's reasoning that they could justify it as Eremia and Yorew being ill. Nevertheless, Eremia wanted badly to leave, so she slipped one of them on, helped Yorew fit into his (it being a few sizes short for him, so he looked almost like a poor preacher), and let Katerina talk the guards at the edge of camp into enough of a state of boredom to allow them to pass.

A faint wind blew from the south. Eremia was happy that she had her cloak, as the traces of desert sand carried by the breeze buffeted against her. Katerina was, of course, unbothered by it, and skipped along happily. Both kept a few paces behind Yorew, whose long strides would've cast wide shadows over the earth, if the clouds weren't around. They carried on in silence. Eremia swam through the depths of her mind, faint worries rushing through her ears. Walenty was the best for axe-users, and she wasn't about to handle something so big and unwieldy. Their disguises looked stupid - maybe the townsfolk would only focus on them more. She hadn't even come up with a good comeback for Yorew.

If one existed, a lightbulb would've flashed over her head. "And where might your love be, Yorew?"

"We've treated the patients from that little spat," he said calmly. "She doesn't need me much now."

"Naturally," said Eremia sarcastically. "You might have put her out of a job."

"Now, there'll always be a need for healers. The more, the better." Yorew began to walk faster.

Eremia wiped some sweat from her brow as she tried to catch up. "Is something amiss?"

"Not at all. She merely doesn't need my help."

He went silent, and gave the unsubtle impression that he wasn't going to be talking anymore. Eremia whispered in Katerina's ear, "Do you know?"

Katerina thought for a few seconds. "Ceinen's always taken a liking for her. She helped nurse him back to health after he joined us."

Eremia scowled. "The false gods deer? Is that his competition?"

A big gust of wind caused Eremia's cloak to billow, briefly masking Katerina from view. "Well, I don't know if Madeleine likes him back. That's the complicated part."

Throwing her hands up, Eremia groaned. "Ceinen may be threatening him, then? Why should that bother Yorew?"

Shrugging, Katerina said, "I don't know. He's your servant, isn't he?"

As Yorew moved ever faster, Katerina and Eremia started jogging. "He has always been a prude. Not as though we talk much."

"Why not?" said Katerina, voice cutting through the mild wind. "Haven't been you close? He's usually with you."

"Yorew has been quiet. He only answers questions, and in few words." Eremia panted, and her steps became more uncertain.

Katerina laughed. "Something like Jonathan, then?"

Hesitating, Eremia thought out a response between her short breaths. "No," she said slowly, "Jonathan is more liable to give advice. Why should that matter, anyhow?"

"Just that you don't seem to like quiet people, and both of them are locked doors when it comes to feelings."

"However-" said Eremia, before she looked behind her and realized that she'd shot ahead of both Yorew and Katerina. Stopping, she turned around and saw the village spread out in front of her.

It was, to put it simply, small. The main street was mostly abandoned, a dirt road passing from and to nowhere. A tavern/inn, a blacksmith's shop, and a general store were on one side of the road, and a few houses, each with chimneys, graced the other. Homes littered the countryside in the distance, and Eremia thought she could see farmers plowing the land. The place seemed desolate, and it amazed her to think that anyone could grow anything here.

"May as well start looking," said Yorew, walking forward. Eremia bent over and tried to catch her breath as Yorew and Katerina went past. As she watched, the two walked towards the two-story, windowed, dull-colored tavern, where Yorew said something in hushed tones to Katerina. Katerina nodded, and Yorew pushed open the light door to step inside. He vanished from sight, the faint candlelight of the tavern peeking through the cracks of the door.

"What - did he ask you?" Eremia said, as Katerina tromped back.

"Only that he'd see if anyone was there. If there was, he could tell them that we were looking for a swordsman."

Eremia pulled herself back to her full height, waving the hair from her eyes. "Why not let you join him?"

Katerina suddenly seemed shy. "You didn't look too well, and he wanted someone to keep an eye on you."

"Fine," replied Eremia. She looked around at the "town," and quickly came to the realization that many of the homes, and even the buildings, seemed to be made of adobe. There were hardly any trees in the area, and so she guessed the residents had had to do with what they had. The houses were pitiful, composed of blocks stacked together in odd angles, several tilted to one side and with pieces falling out. Not another person, beyond Katerina, was in sight. Smoke emanated from one or two chimneys, but Eremia wasn't in the mood to know what they were burning. She could already smell it. Katerina's fending off an expression of disgust said the same.

A man shoved open the door of the tavern and sprinted down the road, a bronze coin falling out of his coat. The door, knocked off its hinges, lay on the ground. Yorew arrived shortly to lift the door, put it back in place, and pick up the coin from its resting place. He returned to the tavern.

"Is this normal?" Eremia asked, raising an eyebrow as she put a hand over her eyes and squinted at the horizon, watching the fleeing man.

Katerina shrugged again. "Walenty's not a happy country, that's for sure. The King lives off in his palace and plots to topple Wyandanch, but he doesn't care much for the poor. I know there's groups of nomads that come in from the south sometimes and raid. There's also-"

"Raid?"

"Yeah, they're from the desert. Guess there's more food here than over there. They like to pick on the herders." Katerina watched with Eremia, smiling as the man disappeared behind a distant house.

"I find it hard to believe the herders were doing well in the first place," said Eremia.

Yorew carefully pushed open the door and walked outside. "It doesn't seem like it, but at least they don't have to sleep in a house of mud." Katerina noticed Yorew first, turning around and waving to him. "Any luck?"

"Someone lives off to the east," Yorew said, pointing towards a distant shack, not far from where the fleeing man had hidden. "He's shy, doesn't visit the town much. The owner also said he's handy with a sword, and he works odd jobs for whoever has the money."

"Well then!" said Katerina, starting off on a brisk pace. "He sounds good enough. Let's meet him!"

Yorew nodded in agreement and followed, quickly regaining the lead. Eremia came last, jogging to catch up with Katerina.

“What did you do to that man?” Katerina asked as the group left the boundaries of the town, briefly running up to Yorew to ask the question.

“He was being a nuisance,” Yorew said, “so I dealt with the problem.”

Satisfied with the answer, Katerina stopped and waited for Eremia to trudge past. “What does he mean by that?” Katerina asked, whispering into Eremia’s ear while staring at Yorew in intense curiosity.

Eremia glowered at Yorew – she was getting tired of how impassive and deflective he was. “Perhaps he just frowned at the man. I have seen Yorew throw people in his yearly analysis, but he does not like to use his strength.”

“Yearly analysis?” Katerina stopped and reached down to pick up a small blue flower. She examined it eagerly as she caught up.

“He looks after royalty. As old as he is, it never hurts to check.” Eremia though she could see Yorew tense up when she said “old,” but it was hard to gauge his reactions.

“How old?” said Katerina, smiling bemusedly; she had seen what Eremia had.

Eremia shrugged, grinning. “Not a clue. One hundred years, perhaps.”

Yorew briefly coughed, then pointed to a speck in the distance, growing closer. The girls silenced, and Eremia frowned as she tried to walk a little faster, to keep up with Yorew. As the figure approached, taking wide steps, Eremia realized it wasn’t the man they had seen before. It didn’t appear to be a man at all, but a bipedal, brown hawk. The hawk looked tall and graceful, dressed in a black tunic adorned with a blue sash. Peeking over its back was the scabbard of a large sword. Beads jumped on the side of his head as it spotted them and walked faster. Yorew slowed and stopped, crossing his arms; Eremia realized he was tensing up.

“Morning!” it hailed in a masculine, deep voice as it stopped beside them. His large wings spread out as he bowed, feathers dancing in a faint wind.

Yorew bowed in response. “It is.”

The hawk opened his beak in a smile, showing plenty of sharp white teeth. He closed it quickly, though, and resumed a grim expression, his piercing stare utterly ineffective against Yorew. “Were you the man that frightened that poor bastard I passed?”

Eremia and Katerina exchanged nervous glances. “He was making his leave when I caught him,” said Yorew. “The man dropped a sack of money and sprinted out the door on my command.”

The hawk threw his head up, laughing. “That thief!” he shouted, nearly knocking into Yorew in the wide sweep of his wings. “I always knew that he’d run into trouble. Well done!” He bowed again, after controlling the mirth that shook his feathers. “Might I ask who you are, to scare him off like that?”

Unsubtly, eyes narrowed, Eremia moved behind Katerina, peeking behind Katerina’s head to see the lofty stranger. Yorew made no effort to respond, so Katerina took initiative. “Hello!” she said, bowing deeply herself. “This man here would be Yorew” – she gestured to him – “I’m Katerina, and she’s – well, shy.” Katerina stepped out of the way and stretched her hand to Eremia, who remained glowering.

“Shy? What an odd name,” remarked the hawk without any hint of sarcasm. “My own is Iasquam.”

“-How do you pronounce that?” Katerina replied, smiling uncertainly.

“E-s-kawm,” the hawk said, emphasizing each syllable. “It means ‘Amber Cloud’ in the Old Language. As a fox, you would know this, correct?”

Katerina looked embarrassed. “Well, there are a lot of old languages,” she said, laughing nervously.

Yorew intervened, causing Katerina to breathe a sigh of relief. “I believe you are who we’ve been looking for. Are you the mercenary?”

To Eremia’s surprise, Iasquam’s dour expression grew sadder, and he looked down momentarily. “Perhaps we’d better talk of this in my home. It’s not far from here.” He turned around, not waiting for a response, and stepped forward briskly. Yorew stood still, watching Iasquam for a few seconds, and then turned to face Eremia, eyebrow raised. She nodded, and they followed the hawk.

In spite of Iasquam’s long steps, Yorew caught up to him easily. They uttered snippets of a quiet conversation between them, Eremia straining to hear as she walked alongside Katerina. Yet, try as hard as she might, Eremia may as well have been listening to the wind. She quickly grew impatient, and turned instead to look at the dreary landscape and piteous homes. Perhaps Iasquam’s would look better, though she was tired enough that she would be content as long as she didn’t have sit on the ground.

Katerina nudged Eremia, who turned her gaze from a partly demolished, empty mud-brick home just off the road. “They haven’t been saying much,” Katerina noted, as Eremia saw Katerina’s large ears perk up. “Just greetings and comments on the weather. Yorew still looks so tense, though.”

Eremia focused on Yorew, and realized that Katerina was right. His hands were balled up in fists, and she could almost see the muscles from beneath his suit. It was a discomforting sight, since he was hardly ever this stressed by anything. A few faint words reached her ears, furthering her suspicious – “Have I seen you before, Yorew?”

For a few lengthy seconds, a heavy silence fell on everyone. Yorew leaned over to mention something in wherever Iasquam’s ear was. Iasquam nodded in response and stayed quiet, a bead or two on his head being rustled off by his pace and landing on the ground. As the group turned from the path, heading onto a smaller dirt road, Katerina picked up the beads, feeling their smooth surfaces in her furry hands. She passed them over to Eremia, who moved them through her fingers as she looked at their dulling colors.

“I am a mercenary, yes,” said Iasquam loudly enough for everyone to hear, without provocation. Eremia saw Katerina’s arm reach out, blocking her, and stared up at the small earthen house that appeared to be Iasquam’s home. Blushing in embarrassment, Eremia handed the beads back to Katerina, who accepted them happily. “Apologies for my home. I used to be wealthier once, but my sister was the reason for it. Did you notice that the blacksmith’s place was empty?”

"I did," Eremia said. "My condolences. Is it rude to ask why?"

Iasquam silently turned and pushed open the door to his home, holding it for Yorew to pass through (and duck under, since it was a short doorframe). Eremia followed just as Iasquam responded. "This is a cruel place, and it destroys even the best of them. And she was the best."

"I can believe that," said Katerina as she entered the tiny shack and admired the pristine swords attached by strings to the walls. Many of them had been battered with age and neglect, but the rest still looked in great condition, and some even gleamed. "So, she made all of these?"

Closing the door behind him, Iasquam nodded, taking a seat on a wicker chair placed by the center of the home. "She was proud of them, and often wouldn't sell them to anyone that she didn't like. But, with her skills in battle, she was legendary enough that to even be able to speak with her was considered a privilege."

"In this, of all places?" asked Eremia, gesturing to the barren landscape outside of what might've once been a small, rounded window. She took the only other seat, opposite Iasquam. Yorew remained standing, while Katerina poked her head through the once-window and watched the lowest clouds roll past.

"It was better, once," Iasquam replied, nodding. "That town used to be alive with mercenaries and traders. The Kings of Walenty funded wars on the desert, and she was one of their crown jewels."

"Until the last two kings ruined the nation's fortunes in their civil war, where Kasimir crushed his father and took the throne," Yorew said quietly. Eremia looked at him in surprise; as she'd been kept out of the loop on the recent affairs of countries that weren't her own, his own knowledge was disturbing. "Even before then, neither had any desire to cultivate a 'wasteland'."

Iasquam sighed. "The soldiers trickled away, the funds dried up, and the desert charged in. My sister led all the people she could muster to defend this town. And she did - or, at least, the heart of it lived - though at the cost of her life."

"And you?" said Katerina, peeking back inside to ask the question.

Silence. "As her brother, they all looked to me. I was her - her apprentice, and she trained me to - follow her path. I couldn't do as well as she could, though. I couldn't. I was scared to, and I didn't have the talent." Iasquam bowed his head, shaking it as he struggled to find any remaining words, which he said slowly. "They left, and the rest of the town fell apart."

"Do you want to stay here any longer?" Eremia said, struggling to sound calm and not saddened. Yorew raised an eyebrow at her. She said it without thinking, but it was clear to her that there was no purpose in his staying, beyond an attachment to the land that had likely withered with time.

Iasquam turned his head up, looking at nobody in particular. His beak seemed to shift into a frown. "They don't often ask that," he mused. "Usually it's some brief guard job while they make their way towards anywhere else." His gaze focused on Eremia. "What do you have in mind?"

"I would like you to train me," Eremia said. "For as long as necessary. The army that I am a part of is making its way to Wyandanch, and we could use more helping hands."

"I can't imagine I'd be a good trainer," Iasquam said despondently, after a minute of silence. He raised his wings suddenly, sending a small gust of wind sprinting through the cracks and holes of the home. Eremia felt herself pulled against her chair, and Katerina pulled her head out of the former window and ducked, shouting in alarm. The hawk shouted in the same tone, "This is pointless, this is all pointless, this is even worse than the normal reasons! I can't just leave her! I can't just leave them."

Yorew stepped between Iasquam and Eremia in a few strong steps. He stared down the hawk in such a way that Iasquam retracted his wings and cowered. "She knows some of the basics, and wishes to learn the rest. Surely you should have some knowledge of those. You know what you can do."

"Is there anyone left of either that wants you?" Eremia replied neutrally, pushing her hair back in order. It was a cruel question to ask, and she knew it, but she was close to finding herself a trainer. Perhaps it would be more healthy, as well, if he were to leave this cold and abandoned place, where he didn't have to face what he'd once been so fond of.

"Whoever there was disappeared when the raiders killed her and set fire to the town," moaned Iasquam, burying his head in his wings. "Only her swords are left, and they aren't her. They will never be her. You make a - fair point."

Katerina stepped behind Iasquam and embraced him; he didn't respond. "You can take the swords with you, if you'd like. I'm sure we can find someone to fix up the broken ones, and keep them all safe. Won't you come with us? You could see the world, make new friends, find a special someone."

Iasquam gently moved his wings to push her away; she obliged. "I might never come back," he said.

At this point, Eremia could only think of him as a ball of rustling feathers with legs. It would've been funnier, save for their situation. "Do you want to?"

"...No." Iasquam poked his head out, facing Eremia, and sighed. "I've disappointed everyone. I was too young, and too afraid, to fight with her, so I've also disappointed her. I loved them all so much, but now they've all become ashes and spirits, and I guess I need to admit that. It may be best to leave them to my memory. I can teach you, Shy, as long as her swords are safe."

"They will be," promised Eremia, nodding her head.

Iasquam pushed the chair aside and stood up. "Then let's go."

They were ready in fifteen minutes. Iasquam had almost no possessions; if he wanted to sleep, he would turn into a hawk and perch on one of the chairs. The clothes he had on his back, which he said were a gift from a caravan he defended, as his old ones were torn apart fighting would-be robbers, were his only ones. The group pulled swords from the wall, strapping them onto Yorew and Iasquam, who now looked like the world’s largest pincushions. Iasquam chose not to look back as they exited the shack for the final time, walking along the maze of dirt roads that seemed to stretch forever.

Nobody said anything in their march. Eremia, sobered by Iasquam’s story, trudged along. She hadn’t needed to walk this much distance in most of her life, and so her feet ached, which she tried to distract herself from by taking long, deep breaths. Nevertheless, Eremia slowly fell behind Yorew and Iasquam, and Katerina eventually started to push her forward, arm at Eremia’s back. Eremia appreciated the gesture, as overtly personal as it felt to her.

As they neared the familiar expanse that was their camp, Eremia stared up at the position of the sun. A couple of hours had passed, she guessed, and she’d traveled perhaps a few miles. Everyone else appeared fine, but she felt exhausted. Her weakness was embarrassing to her, and so Eremia tried to hide her frowns and scowls around Katerina’s still-beaming (if restrained, as she’d also heard Iasquam’s story) smile.

Yorew put his arm in front of Iasquam. Both stopped as Eremia and Katerina caught up. Peeking through the space between them, the girls saw an assembly of soldiers and cavalry at the edge of the encampment in front of them, waiting patiently for what Eremia realized was her arrival. “I don’t think we tricked them with our disguises,” Katerina admitted, rubbing the back of her head. Eremia rolled her eyes.

“Did you honestly believe that would work?” said Alarick furiously, stomping over to them in his thick suit of armor. He held his helmet with one arm, pressing it to his side.

“Yes?” replied Katerina, before ducking behind Iasquam. The two men blocked Alarick from going any further, much as he seethed at them.

“I’ve had spies watching you since you left that house with him,” Alarick said, setting down the helmet and poking Iasquam in the chest. The hawk narrowed his eyes, but Alarick ignored it. Eremia saw Alarick trying to peer behind the men in search of Katerina and herself, as the next sentence validated. “Why would you put yourselves in danger?”

Tired of hiding over something she had good reason to do, Eremia walked around Yorew and looked up at Alarick defiantly. “I needed a trainer,” she said, gritting her teeth. “I found one.”

Alarick turned to face her, his expression consumed in wrath. “Do you know how vital you are?”

“You wanted me to be a general,” said Eremia, pointing to him. “That you had not the thought to bring in anyone dependable who could teach me swordplay is your fault.”

Burying his face in his hands, Alarick groaned. “What I wanted you to do is-” he began, voice muffled. “-can he fight?”

“He says so.”

Iasquam pulled out a sword and swung a few graceful arcs in the air before sheathing it.

The rest of the group of Alarick’s soldiers moved forward cautiously, but none drew their weapons. Alarick, for his part, yanked his head out of his hands and shook the former, ruffling his hair. His expression and voice returned to their usual melancholy. “He can stay, as long as he works for free. Promise me you won’t ever leave this camp again, not unless I know when and why.” He turned around , picking up the helmet in the process.

“That went better than I expected,” Eremia said to no one in particular, watching Alarick bark orders to his soldiers about Iasquam and a tent.

Katerina laughed. “He’ll take anyone. With the battles we go through, he’s not strict on getting new soldiers.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Eremia rearranged her hair.

“I doubt I’ll be a good fighter,” admitted Iasquam, bowing his head and sighing.

Yorew frowned. “They’ll find a purpose for you. I couldn’t fight, and they made me a healer.”

“You can-” began Iasquam, but Yorew marched off.

“Do I know him at all?” asked Eremia, eyebrow raised as she saw Yorew leave.

Iasquam shook his head. “It appears not, and he told me not to say anything more. Let’s go.”

******


Again dressed in archer’s clothes, Karikoff’s spy walked through the Eimhin camp, observing the buzz of men and women as they swarmed tents, whispering among themselves and eating. She was, as usual, neglected, particularly after she ducked into a group of archers traveling towards the large tent at the camp’s center.

That she could be here at all was the testament to her skills. Most everyone that Eimhin could send patrolled the perimeter, covering every inch in their gazes and spears. It was dangerous enough that Karikoff had used a messenger to send her archer’s clothes to her, and she had slipped them on in a small shack just outside the perimeter. However, she was nothing if not competent, and so here she was, scanning her surroundings for anything of use.

Her internal voice told her something was wrong. The plan had been secure enough that Catharnach should have had no idea of its existence, but his army’s movements said otherwise. Kasimir had reasoned the creepy child had, by some unknown means, stumbled upon the plot. Alternatively, “Jonah” could have found Catharnach was hated by the other armies, and had rightfully predicted that they might threaten his supremacy. In any case, the spy’s goal was simple – find “Jonah,” and extract as much information on him and his plots as possible.

She guessed that he had to be close to Catharnach, since he was such a vital piece to The Mad King’s operations. It still amazed her – The Prince of Exedor or not, there was a close enough resemblance that Catharnach could actually rule over Wyandanch. It was an immensely disturbing thought, and propped up her second goal: if possible, capture “Jonah.”

Now she was heading to The Mad King’s temporary home. It loomed ever closer, swallowing up and expelling a constant parade of soldiers, all of whom seemed tense. None of the other archers paid her any heed, as she was just another person in the crowd to them. She, as was her duty, watched all of them, and noted their pained, frightful expressions. The whispers in their conversations suggested “Jonah” was at the center of their anxieties, though they knew only that he was assuring Catharnach’s security. Nevertheless, “Jonah” proved creepy enough that they questioned his intent. As she also wondered, what was his ultimate plan?

“I have grown very tired of you.”

With that, she felt herself yanked by a huge amount of force, ripped from her position at the back of the group. The spy froze as she was thrown onto the ground inside of a tent, a chainmail-wearing soldier looming over her. He appeared normal, but his deep voice contained an almost unearthly edge, and sometimes struggled with words.

“I have not wanted to kill anyone, but you’ve made things difficult for me.”

The spy tried to shout, but the soldier leaned forward and grabbed by the throat, stifling her. She tried to grab onto his wrists and yank his hands away, but to no effect.

“I had hoped your petty squabbling would not threaten this mission. Instead, a cursory look at Karikoff’s documents tells me that your people plan to capture or kill Catharnach and Ailean at Kasimir’s leisure.” The soldier’s eyes flashed, irises temporarily disappearing as the voice became more inhuman.

“I-,” stammered the spy, as the grip around her neck tightened.

The soldier scowled. “You are one of Karikoff’s pawns, and it appears he dotes on you.” A smile. “What happens if I give him reason to weep, hm?”

“You – wouldn’t – dare,” spat the spy, desperately trying to breathe as her face turned shades of purple and blue.

“Had you considered no less than treason, I wouldn’t have,” the soldier responded, nodding. His face hardened, shadows lurking across it. “Catharnach must be The Dragon King. Nothing. Else. Matters.”

The spy flailed her legs, barely striking him in his knee. He didn’t respond at all, beyond setting his feet back. Her vision began to blur, and she could feel the strength draining away from her arms and legs. Grip weakening, she gasped, “Kari!”

“Yes, he’ll get the message. It’s midafternoon? He’ll know by tonight, and then those fools won’t dare trouble the mission. Even Belisarius wouldn’t be of much use. I have little need for more puppets now, but this is simply too convenient. Thank you.” The soldier bared his teeth, jerked his hands to the side, and snapped the spy’s neck.

Among the countless active soldiers, the sound never traveled past the tent.

“I would like to begin this emergency meeting by welcoming Terasu back to the generals’ table,” Alarick said, standing and with his fists on the table. “It is good to see she’s in enough health to join us.”

Some mild applause, mostly from Jonathan, Madeleine, and Ceinen; everyone else nodded or remained still. Terasu placed her feet on the table, leaning back and allowing her hair to hide her face. From the opposite side of the table, Eremia could see the inklings of a frown, which was only half as powerful as the contemptuous scowl that Latton bore as he looked down on his mistress. It was hard not to mimic their scowls, but Eremia had to remind herself that she had done nothing wrong, so pursuing any rivalry was pointless.

“Our progress is fine,” continued Alarick. “We should be at the border in the next few days. It will then be easy enough to skirt the Confederacy’s edge until we arrive at The Pillars.”

Jonathan raised a hand. “The raiders?” he asked, surprisingly bitter.

Frowning, Alarick nodded. “Good of you to point out,” he said in a weakly approving tone (the most Eremia felt he could muster). “As is our policy, we’ll come to the aid of anyone that should be attacked by them, but we will not engage them first without due cause. Does everyone approve of this?”

“Shouldn’t we at least ward them off by attacking them first?” asked Terasu. “It will be a nice exercise for the useful generals.” Terasu glared at Eremia, who ignored her by watching for Alarick’s reaction.

“We have trained enough,” Alarick replied in a bitter tone. “We don’t need a refresher on how to murder.”

Terasu made a crude gesture and looked away. As she could now see Latton, he instantly removed his frown with a neutral expression.

For a few seconds, Alarick attempted a strangling motion, but caught himself upon seeing how fearful everyone became. “Our last note,” he said at last, “Is the sudden and unapproved recruiting of a new hand by the efforts of our newest general-in-training.”

While Terasu snorted, Eremia stiffened in fear. Had he had second thoughts?

“He has no interest in working for payment, and seems competent. I leave it to Madeleine to help him choose a position among us.”

Eremia breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“That’s all I should like to say. Terasu, I want you to stay, so we may have a conversation on your health.” Alarick slumped into the chair behind him.

“I’m fine,” retorted Terasu as the others stood up. She distinctly glowered at Alarick as she sat on what had once been Rowland’s chair, wisps of fire appearing around her head. “I just think we’re being weak.”

Pinching his nose, Alarick sighed. “Compromise keeps us stable, so we’ll have to work something out if you find that your plans differ from ours.” When Jonathan took a few steps away from the seats, Alarick also called out, “We’ll also have to talk tonight about your new training, Jonathan.”

Jonathan, facing away from Alarick, stiffened temporarily and made fists, marching off and disappearing among the wave of tents. Unwilling to listen to a potentially violent and angry conversation, the still-relieved Eremia followed Jonathan. As tranquil as ever, Yorew kept pace with her.

"Jonathan!" Eremia called out, as she caught him laying on the ground, staring up at the sky. She stood over him, partly blocking his vision; he shifted his gaze away from her in response. " What does he mean by your 'training'?"

"He wants a successor," Jonathan replied, placing his hands behind his head and watching a passing cloud.

"Were you always supposed to be?" said Eremia, sitting beside him and following his gaze. Yorew, seeing that he was not of much use, disappeared from view after a few seconds. Eremia suspected he was heading in the direction of the hospital tent.

Jonathan closed his eyes. "No. I'm his backup."

Eremia tried to speak, but she had the sudden and terrifying realization that she already knew who the original had been. "Do you...want it?" she asked, too surprised to think of it as a stupid question until he replied to it.

"I am not a leader," Jonathan said, looking at Eremia coldly. "I don't want to be him."

This had been the longest conversation they'd ever had about his feelings. Baffled and embarrassed, Eremia jumped out of the way as Jonathan stood up. "You'll have to do your own work," Jonathan continued, pausing to take a long breath. "We'll go to Madeleine and get her permission."

She nodded weakly, and they walked off. Eremia felt like an idiot for having asked a question whose answer was written all over his face. The romantic inside of her screamed angrily that she'd damaged the bridge between them. The rest of her wasn't sure what to say. He was normally so impassive and quiet that his aura and charm bled out into his surroundings - his mystique was the infinite words in his silence. His showing emotion was new and frightening, especially in his willingness to lash out for a change. It was not without justification under the circumstances, she knew, but it was hard to keep close to him as they made their way through the camp, for fear that he would be enraged again. Normally, she didn't care much for angering anyone, but he was something of a special case.

He didn't say another word until they arrived at the tent. Madeleine, exasperated, stood at the front, and her face brightened as she saw Eremia. "I believe you know how to rein them in better than I do," Madeleine explained as she pulled Eremia close and dragged her into the tent before Jonathan could say a word. Eremia saw him standing patiently, though sulking and staring at the ground, as she entered the tent.

Madeleine directed her first to a bed, where Iasquam and Aquila sat on opposite sides, shouting phrases in the Old Language. Both, in their respective hawk and eagle half-forms, were furious, and Eremia had the suspicion that Aquila, who was carrying most of the conversation, was speaking in curses. Aquila flapped his wings on sighting Eremia, beginning to speak in the Old Language. He shrunk back and corrected himself. "Did you bring him to us?"

Iasquam turned his head to Eremia, nodding respectfully. "I thought that it would be a good idea to make our new arrival another reconnaissance man," whispered Madeleine into Eremia's ear, "but Aquila thinks that he's losing his job."

"Is that all?" Eremia asked. "That should be easy."

Madeleine coughed uncomfortably. Slowly turning around, Eremia saw her point towards another corner of the tent, where Yorew was overseeing a pale-looking patient. Ceinen stood next to him, holding the jar and opening it at random intervals. Each time, Yorew would take a few steps in the opposite direction, frowning a bit deeper each time. For his part, Ceinen was fuming, stamping a hoof and pointing his antlers at Yorew.

"I have a feeling it may be your problem," replied Eremia sarcastically. Madeleine paled, but Eremia turned towards the first dispute.

Both heads watched her as she jumped onto the bed between them, pointing at Aquila. "You are fine, she said. "If you were not working for her, I would happily recruit you myself."

"But he has swords," mumbled Aquila, not looking her in the eyes. The claws on his feet tore holes in the blankets. "And, uh, maybe I'm not g-"

"What of it?" Eremia said assertively. "As you are smaller, I should think you would fly faster. You have no need to worry about yourself." She swiveled around to point at Iasquam, index finger inches from his face. "And you had no reason to answer his paranoia."

"I was telling him to leave," Iasquam replied. "He barged into my conversation with your commander, having heard of my arrival, and wouldn't leave me be."

Eremia clambered off the bed. "You should not have answered him at all, but left him to me. Go off, Aquila, and let him speak."

Sighing, Aquila jumped off the bed, shredding its side. "Maybe I'm only fine to you because you haven't looked close enough," he whispered, before flying through the entrance to the tent.

She would deal with him later, she decided. Heading over to Yorew and Ceinen, she was disappointed to find that Madeleine had done nothing. Ceinen was still being spiteful, and Yorew seemed not far from barfing.

"Just tell Ceinen to stop," Eremia said quietly, taking a position beside Madeleine, who was clenching her hands together and shaking.

"I can't," Madeleine confessed.

Stamping her foot, Eremia retorted, "Should it really be that hard?" Her thoughts immediately veered towards Jonathan, whom she had forgotten about in all of the excitement. It would be hard to say "no" if he were doing something like Ceinen was, particularly as Jonathan always had a reason for everything. She paused, thinking up a good response. "Do you love either of them?" Eremia asked, almost too loudly.

"Stop!" Madeleine shouted to Yorew and Ceinen. They both ceased, Ceinen looking to her in a panic. "Don't you have better things to do?"

Eremia didn't feel in the mood to hear the response, so she walked back to the entrance to bring in Jonathan.

She found him dour, and he put up no resistance as she pulled him into the tent, seconds after Iasquam finished talking to Madeleine and flew off.

"What's this for?" Madeleine asked, eyes shifting between Eremia and Jonathan. Amusement lurked in the shadow of her agitated and frustrated face, the latter shown by the way her face twitched and she stamped a foot on the floor.

"Can she work on her own now?" Jonathan said, just barely raising his voice to indicate that he was asking a question. His hair fell over his eyes as he spoke, but his monotone voice and frown gave his mood away. "I'm busy."

Madeleine put a finger to her forehead and sighed. "That idiot," she half-whispered, half-spoke. Her words then returned to their normal strength. "Yes," she said, "just see to it that she's properly trained. I believe whatever head injury she's had is gone, but the symptoms may show up again in the next few weeks."

Eremia nodded. "So long as I can train."

"Definitely - as long as he doesn't bonk your head with a wooden sword or something like that, you'll be fine." Madeleine wiped her brow, the color slowly returning to her face. She waved them off towards the entrance, saying, "Don't train for too hard or too long, alright?"

When they came back into the light of the sun, Eremia breathed deeply. "If I can find Aquila, I will see to his well-being. If Iasquam trains me in the morning, would you teach me by the sunset?"

Jonathan shook his head, dust cascading onto Eremia's shoulder (she brushed it off). He stood further away from her. "My sessions are in nights. How about the evening?"

The romantic inside Eremia shouted with delight. She restrained that inner voice with a gracious smile. "That will do."

As Jonathan made to walk away, she reached out and touched him on the shoulder. He turned around. "You will be fine," Eremia muttered, blushing. "And - and I love you, so you know."

He stiffened and paled. For once, he looked at a loss for words; Eremia withdrew, fighting with her sense of embarrassment as she waited for his response. "Thanks," he said at last, drawing back some of his hair. "I feel the - the same. You've been honest, and decent."

Smiling awkwardly, he swiveled back around and disappeared among the tents. Eremia's elation was only broken by a dagger of anxiety. Had she said the wrong thing? Had she been presumptuous about his feelings? Her own? She dismissed it, even if she could hear the voice of Terasu somewhere in the background, arguing with Alarick. Terasu hadn't noticed, which Eremia was perfectly content with.

Eremia most worried about Terasu. Jonathan and Terasu had been old friends; that wasn't going to change anytime soon. Perhaps Terasu thought of him as a sibling (as Eremia believed, and feared wasn't accurate), or perhaps she thought of him as a romantic partner. Terasu had already lost Rowland, so who else could there be for her? When it came to Terasu, Eremia had no interest in making an enemy. Yet this romance made sense to Eremia. Besides, Eremia was going to go home, so it was bound to be fleeting. What was the worst that could happen?

Quite a lot, her mind recognized, but she chose not to think about it.



None of the soldiers dared to go near Karikoff's tent, particularly as the last one had been knocked over by a table.

He stomped on a stack of papers, picking them up and tearing at them. Tears streamed down his face as he shouted at nothing and everything. Were he capable of using magic, he would have burnt down the space long ago, creating a funeral pyre for himself. His mind, however, had to resort to echoing "Those bastards!", which only channeled his rage.

A bulky messenger ran towards the tent flap. "Hail!" he said loudly, dodging a pillow. "Ran out of things to throw?"

Karikoff stormed out, fists balled, face red. "They killed her. Those bastards killed her. I saw the body myself." He screamed curses at the messenger, whose eyes appeared as glints from underneath the helmet.

"The show must go on," said the messenger. He neared Karikoff, who fidgeted to show a thin tolerance of the messenger's close presence, to whisper, "Kasimir gave us our orders."

"He can enact them himself," replied Karikoff, pushing his way back into the tent. "I've spent too long pretending to be a gift to Catharnach, an escapee to my men, and an agent to the King of Walenty. I clearly haven't spent enough time murdering."

The messenger stood patiently outside. He leaned forward and whispered, "You are vital to this mission. Without you, we cannot hope to know The Mad King's plans and seize our target."

Karikoff appeared again, wielding a sword in one hand and an axe in the other, aiming both gleaming, pristine weapons at the messenger. "You wanted to kill him?" Karikoff bellowed. "That's what I'll do. And screw your target - I'll kill him too!"

It was fortunate that Karikoff had sent his men to patrol the camp, or he would not have made it ten steps without being shot dead for treason. Uncomfortable, the messenger took a few steps back. "We need hostages, or all of them in one place. If you kill the King, his son may take over. Or perhaps the King's husband, or the boy. The march will still go on."

"And if I kill all of them?" Karikoff spat, hair starting to levitate from the magical energy that appeared as white jolts of eletricity around him. The messenger started to gravitate towards Karikoff, the helmet attracted to the metal weapons.

"Then Eimhin will retreat, their country will collapse, and we will never be able to seize Wyandanch!" the messenger said in a pleading voice. "You must-"

"I would leave that city standing for a thousand years more if it meant I had my revenge," shouted Karikoff, lunging forward and swinging his sword in an arc at the messenger.

The messenger struggled to duck, thanks to the attractive charge. As the sword connected with his head, denting the helmet, the messenger shouted in pain and alarm as he was flung onto another tent, causing it to collapse in loud pops.

Karikoff stood there, huffing as he gripped his weapons tighter.

"Sorry about this, old friend," a voice behind him called out. Karikoff, too angry and breathing too deeply to even recognize the sound, hardly had the time to spin around before he took an axe to the gut.