"This child, the result of vile deeds, shall go on to avenge them. I shall put into her raising all of the love that was so absent at her conception." - Duchess Natalie Obbink I, holding the future Duchess Natalie Obbink II, mother of Nadine

King Rikkert Biljvank, most beloved son of Duchess Hekket Zelderloo, adorned in his usual plate armor, his helmet - a bascinet with a mustached visor and metal neck guard that attached to his gorget - was seated upon his head, slowly filling with sweat as the mid-day sun proved surprisingly warm for the middle of spring. To his left, also bedecked in their crest emblazoned plate armor, was Duke Vaars VIII; though, his armor was not as complete as his liege lords, consisting of no rerebraces or vambraces, shortened cuisses that started at below the hip joint and ended a couple inches above the knee and only supported the front of the thighs. Bits of scale mail were placed to fill in the gaps of the dukes plate. Though this was less than Rikkert's coverage of plate, this was still far more than the average knight, who's typical attire within the Biljvank ranks could be seen as a bascinet with chain neck guard, a brigandine tabard over a chain hauberk - or merely over the leather gambeson they all wear, with leather or splint greaves and vambraces. Of course, then, there was everyone else, the levy. If they were lucky enough to be drafted as a great axe wielder, or bijlman, they would be granted a spangenhelm with a facemask, scale vest, padded leather gambeson, boots, gloves, and vambraces. For the vast majority, however, along with their spear, hand axe, and round shield, they were left with nothing more than their gambesons, gloves, boots, and a spangenhelm for their crown. Archers were not even given that, cloth jackets that were just barely able to keep them warm at night, and maybe a cap to keep their ears warm and good boots for the journey. The old prince looked up at the city gates before him, visions of countless farmers, loggers, smiths, and bakers butchering one another in his name flashed across his mind. He could hear the sound of dogs barking, jaws tearing flesh from bone as a young day-laborer loses the use of his left arm forever.

"Where is Martien?" Rikkert asked without looking to his left, eyes focused intently on the lack of archers positioned on the battlements.

"He should be approaching the northern side of the walls as we speak, my lord." The old king searched around, eyes darting from wall to wall, and tower to tower. No archers. True, the Dietma were known for their brawn, favoring axe and mace to all other forms of weapons, but you would be foolish to put your entire faith into your soldiers skills at the front lines.

"Perhaps they do not know we are here?" Vaars chuckled as he pointed to the walls. They had been camped outside the walls of Diependam since the Sixth of Dekvut, and for the entire three days they have been there not a soul was seen upon the walls. Initially, Rikkert had suspected it was a rouse, that they were hiding in the surround hills. But, after two days of searching, every scouting party had returned empty handed. Confused and frustrated, the king gave the command to carry on with the planned assault. It has now been three hours since it 'began,' and still not even a sound from beyond the walls.

"Leave the siege engines, save for the towers. Clear the path and bring them forward immediately. They do not want to show their faces, we shall just have to make them." Rikkert dug his heels into his horses side as he spun around, making his way to a small rise in the land that sat squarely in the midst of his army. From there, joined by Vaars, he lifted up his vizor and watched. The squeal of wood on wood pierced the sky, interrupted once and a while by the shout of a lieutenant or captain calling on the levy to push. Three siege towers were deconstructed and brought on the trail from Mathieden to Diependam, and now all three made the aging approach to the walls of House Dietma. Birds flew far from the nearby trees as the thud of the towers reaching the stone echoed out. Silence fell over the entire army, all seventy-thousand gambeson bound, axe wielding, spear shaking, and shield bearing levy stood still. They were waiting. They were all waiting. But nothing came. Rikkert slammed his vizor shut, galloped to the front, retinue in toe, and eagerly dismounted when the base of the city was reached. Brand new heater shield clasped to his back, sword sheathed, and companions close behind, the self-proclaimed King of the Biljvank clamored up the steps of the tower, kicked the crank, and sent the bridge plummeting to the top of the battlements. Stepping out, the cold of his steel sabatons meeting the cold of the stone below him, the old prince smiled beneath his metal mustache. There you are. The king frowned.

Directly below the gates, huddled into a tight schiltron, shields bearing the single steel gauntlet knit together as the links of chainmail, maces and hand axes clenched by stone hands, stood what must have been around five-hundred levy prepared to defend the entire city from the seventy-thousand outside of their walls. Rikkert turned to his retinue.

"Two of you, make your way back down and call on the second and third to make their way up." Bowing their heads, Agnes and Betje made their way down from the ramparts and back to the main body. Eyes locked on the motionless defenders, Rikkert searched endlessly for someone of noble stock. As the sound of creaking wood once again permeated the air, the old prince spoke to the crowd before him.

"Where is your liege lord? Where are your people? And where is the rest of your army?" A moment passed, the circle of defenders looked amongst themselves for an answer, when finally someone - the only one wearing chain mail - made their way to the front of the group. She had a dark voice which carried well beyond the stone beneath the king.

"I am Janneke, captain of the guard here in Diependam. Our liege lord, the Duke Aert Dietma II, is aged and very frail. He rests in his estates in the center of our city. As for the people of this city, we received fair warning of your approach and have since evacuated, though we have stayed behind to protect our liege. I am afraid, though, that I have no knowledge of any army which you seek. We are the guards of Diependam, protectors of this city from threats foreign and within."

"I wish to speak with your liege lord, the honorable Duke Diependam."

"I would sooner spend forty days and nights within the plain of fire than allow such an occurrence. I implore you and yours to leave this city, or we will be forced to defend with lethality."

King Rikkert Biljvank, removing the shield from his back and attaching it to his left arm, allowed the ever gathering number of gambeson clad shield bearers upon the top of the walls speak for him in that moment. To his left and to his right, spears by their sides and shields their fronts, stood now two-thousand levy bearing the colors of gold and black; golden gambesons with black roses on their front. The king looked for shock, regret, or any sign of having lost their morale within the ranks of the five hundred guards of Diependam, protectors of the city from threats foreign and within. Much to the king's disappointment, there was none. Even at four to one, the schiltron before him stood ready for even that of a dragon's deadly breath. Very well, he thought to himself as, sword raised high, King Rikkert lowered his arm to signal the attack.

Gold gambesons and black roses burst through the doors of the Dietma estate. His retinue rushing passed him to secure the path, Rikkert, needing yet another replacement shield, mustache bent, and helmet now being carried by a squire, made his way to the bed chamber of Aert Dietma II. Following close at hand, carrying a crimson soaked burlap sack and gritting her teeth harder with every step, was Betje, having taken a mace to the knee as Agnes took one to the face not thirty minutes ago. Entering the sound of the snickering of an old man, Betja slammed the bag upon the closest night stand to the dying duke. His snickering did not stop at this.

"Prince Rikkert Biljvank - oh, no, excuse me. King Rikkert Biljvank. To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence in my great city?" Betje pulled the bag up, leaving its contents behind, as Janneke's empty eyes now met with the dukes.

"You did not even have the decency to close her eyes."

"Where is your army, Aert?" Rikkert now stood at the foot of the duke's bed, left hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

"A shame, really. She was a wonderful woman. I had debated asking for her hand a few years ago, though my oldest, Heleen, you will meet her soon enough I am sure, thought it indecent for a man of my age to wed someone so much my junior. Still, there was something about her dedication, her passion for protecting others that just spoke to me, you know?" Rikkert did not respond, his eyes attempting to bring out the answer he sought from the dying man.

"What am I saying of course you do not. After all, you just butchered the guard of an empty city. All of its residence having up and left two weeks ago. All twenty-thousand of them, gone. Free from your clutches - or rather the clutches of your mother. And how is dear Hekket - ahgh." The duke paused his rant to wheeze, his wiry facial hair flowing up and down with each hack.

"I trust she is better than I, at least. Certainly better than dear Janneke. And how much did her head cost you, exactly? I noticed your retinue seems thin, and your companion here carries herself with much trouble." Betje glanced over to Rikkert, who had not moved yet. His eyes burned deeper into the skull of the talking skeleton before him.

"Oh come now, do not pout. Five hundred? Every one of mine for every one of yours? No...? Well, that is interesting. One-thousand then? More?! Certainly it was not two-thousand? More still?" The duke stopped himself to cough and laugh, tears of pain and joy streaming down his eyes.

"Twenty-five hundred. Two and a half regiments of my levy were bludgeoned to death by your city guard." Aert stopped his laughter at this. He tilted his head up so as to make direct eye contact with his adversary.

"Good. May all of your victories be so costly. And what now, Prince Rikkert? Will you put to end the life of an ailing elder? How very noble indeed. Your mother must be so very proud."

King Rikkert Biljvank, most beloved son of Duchess Hekket Zelderloo, did something next that none in the room expected. Grabbing a nearby lamp, shattering it, and spraying the oily contents onto the bed of the aged duke, the old prince then took a torch from the wall and thrust it directly onto the chest of the Duke Aert Dietma II, the Duke Diependam - his whiskers singe was the first new smell to hit the on lookers. Between the screams and wheezes, Rikkert led his retinue out of the Dietma estate to meet with his chief allies just outside.

"Martien, tell your soldiers to look the city. It may be abandoned but there must be something of worth here. Once you feel you are done, start fires throughout. One day they will return here, and there will be nothing here for them. Vaars, prepare the rest of the army, we march east tomorrow at dawn."

"East, my lord? Why east?"

"The Duchess Obbinkerloo is playing me for a fool. Her and Dietma's army must be lying in wait for us. While we would win, it is not a fight I am willing to have while our other allies struggle to hold onto the northern road. We shall leave a contingent in Mathieden to butcher any army that attempts to make its way after us, any army stained with the ashes of Diependam."

A sea of banners fluttered high in the mid-afternoon sky. House Desramaux, Hemramoux, Lu Rene, Lefeuvre, Aurreau, Chaucer,  Pernet, Boutin, Manoury, Renou, Blaise, de Blanche, Lecocq, Menann, de Guy, de la Vache, de la Chat, Corbeaux, Bastelet, and Erable's blazons could be seen blotting out the sun with each flag and each shield, gambeson, or tabard that bore the crest proudly. Aside from the noble houses of dukes and counts, the hundreds of barons and their knights and levy could be seen sporting their family crest proudly as a patch on their left shoulder. Seated deep within the ranks of the army, a small regiment of eighteen levy, each bearing the black field and golden rose on their gambeson and shield, also had patches depicting three golden ears of wheat on a green field sewn into their left shoulder - a piece of home, the crest of their liege lord, the knight of their village and their commander, Sir Jules de Caillauds. Tents of all shapes and sizes, thousands, coated the otherwise green landscape of the Pelari Fields. The sound of knights screaming drills, the clash of practice swords and hatchet on shield, the twang of bow strings and the thud of arrows into the poorly crafted dummies of dirt and burlap sacks drowned out all would be natural noises. No birds were heard calling, searching for their mates as they normally would this time of year. The squirrels had long been warded off, thanks to the countless traps of the many camp quartermasters. Rabbits, those who were not caught for stew, had long abandoned the area already; while any other nearby fauna, be they fawn or fowl, took the warning of the hares and escaped too when the flags first began to fly. Ninety-two thousand soldiers spent their days drilling: shield walls, schiltron (circular and phalanx), wedge formations, and even the testudo, though that was primary carried out by the vanguard. Cavalry tended to their horses, squires trained, knights drank, and quartermasters did their best to keep the water clean. The last two weeks of otherwise clear skies has made that task easier, but darkening clouds could lead to cold wet nights, mud going where it ought not to, and the resulting diseases from such events.

The warm air of the afternoon felt good on the empress' face as she allowed her mare to saunter slowly into camp. Her entourage, or lack there of, followed close behind: Larynwy, followed closely by Priest Volka, and finally Prince Mathi who gladly took up the rearguard. Eighteen days of travel, three whole weeks. While they could have gotten through much sooner, they were waylaid in Renangers when it came time to resupply due to Jolijn's insistence to rest. In reality, all of the travel had exhausted her and her means of shielding her mind and the onslaught of thoughts from the anxious minds of Renangers forced her to seek seclusion for a time being. Feeling rested and more vigilant, the young queen entered the siege camp at Pelaresse with the same determination she left Desramaux City with. As her group of four slowly made their way to the main tents in the center of camp, gasps, shouts for joy and confusion as well as the blank stares of her subjects joined her along the route. After a short while, a soldier in a brigandine vest over leather gambeson took to one knee, bowing low before his queen - the line of onlookers soon followed suit, and the Empress of the Desravank road deeper into the rows of tents, guarded by the bows of her people.

"Why are they doing this?" Jolijn thought towards Volka, not used to such reverence by simply her appearance.

"These people are at war for you, Jolijn. Your sudden joining them has clearly had a profound affect on them. It is not usual that a female ruler joins the front lines."

"Well, these are not usual times, now are they?"

"No they are not." Jolijn could feel the smile curl over the priest's face.

The young empress stopped her mare before the center most and largest of tents. Flying high above was the banner of her new family, House Desravank: a rose per pale or and sable on a per pale field sable and or. Without dismounting, and with the desire for some added flare, Jolijn allowed her eyes to glow a soft purple, noticeable only to those directly next to her. A gust of wind came rushing up from behind her, sending her locks soaring past her face, mimicking that of the flaps to the tent. The sound of astonished voices could be heard beneath the leather tarpaulin which made up what she assumed was the primary residence of the head of her army. Shortly there after, three faces emerged from the tent, the first two with mouth agape were Prince Guillaume Desramaux and Duchess Emilie LuRene. The third person to exit, wearing a regal scowl, was Prince Mathias Desramaux. Allowing herself to read the surface level thoughts of those before her, they were as follows and with respect to the order as they exited the tent: dumbfounded astonishment, welcomed surprise, and confused skepticism. Not a word was spoken by any party for a moment.

"My queen." Mathias finally broke the silence with a short bow from the neck, with Emilie and Guillaume following in kind. The fence of kneeling subjects let up then and returned to their daily regiments, though with more zeal than before. Empress Jolijn dismounted from her mare and, flanked by Larynwy and Mathi, approached the three nobles.

"Does my presence trouble you, Prince Mathias?"

"Of course not, my queen. I am merely surprised and confused by your presence. Please, let us talk without the prying eyes of the masses." The old prince stepped aside, holding the opening up for his empress and all others to pass through before him.

The command tent was almost exactly as the young queen had imagined to look. A central table hosted a map of the realm, with painted little wooden pieces dotting it to demarcate armies and movements. Far in the back sat a small cot, just barely large enough to fit one person, along with two racks at what she assumed was the foot of the cot, one for armor and the other for weapons. The prince's armor was surprising to the queen, as it was not a full set of plate. There was a bascinet helmet with face mask, chain neck guard, rounded spaulders, splint vambraces, breast plate that was clearly the newest piece of the set, steel gauntlets, cuisses that only protected the front of the thigh, and greaves. No rerebraces, couters, tasset, or poleyns. Presumably the prince would wear a hauberk beneath this all, either of chain or scale mail, though she did not immediately notice either of those garments present. True, not every noble within the Biljvank Kingdom could boast a complete set of plate armor; in fact, she could only think of five - Prince Thijn, Rikkert, Duke Lars Van Niljveld II, Duke Aert Dietma II, and Duchess Nadine Obbink, with the latter three being family heirlooms that passed on from eldest to eldest. Perhaps the old prince saw those pieces missing as superfluous and restrictive to his movement, or, despite being a brother to the former king, there was no visible need to spend the money on a complete set - plate armor was, after all, the newest, most difficult to craft, and therefore most expensive form of armor in their part of Yarucasna. The group of seven gathered around the table.

"May I be frank, Jolijn?" Prince Mathias asked, not having relented on the scowl he bore.

"Of course."

"Why, in the name of all of the gods, are you here? Do you have any idea how much danger you have put yourself in? House Pelariaux boasts some of the greatest archers in the world, and they would love nothing more than to pierce your skull and put a swift end to this whole conflict. And you, son. You should have known better, why did you allow this?"

"Your son does not allow or disallow anything which I do. I commanded that he came with me, and so he did. The fact of the matter is, that we were useless to the war effort all the way in Desremaux City. By the time we were updated on what was going on and could send a response, the events being brought to our attention had already long passed. We have received no word from Phillipe, Duchess Nadine and my uncle march on Licon, and you are laying siege to Pelaresse. These are my people, I am their queen, and if this cause is good enough for their king to fight for it, then why should it not be good enough for their empress?" Prince Mathias clasped his hands behind his back, straightening his posture before he spoke.

"I was unaware that our empress was so skilled in combat." Jolijn felt her heart sink into the pit of her bowels.

"What was your primary area of study? Sword or lance? And was it horseback or on foot? I presume horseback, given what abilities you have upon your steed, at least so I have heard. Where is your sword? I take it this means you focused on the lance. A wonderful weapon, though I myself favor the longsword. Simply a more personal weapon, you know? Getting up close and personal as you slice the throat of your adversary." The tent held still in anticipation for the queen's response. I would make you kneel if it were not so unwise to do so. A flash of purple shot over her eyes, brief enough to go unnoticed by the group, but with enough focus on Mathias for the old man to react with a flinch of confusion. Each one now awaited for the other to move, to stand down in this unspoken battle of wits. A smirk came over the old prince's face, when Mathi broke the silence.

"Our queen is well versed in tactics, father. And her presence, as we all bore witness to earlier with the rows of bowing subjects, is a symbol for us all to rally behind."

"And sacrifice ourselves for needlessly." Prince Mathias eyed the other six people in under the tent slowly. Larynwy made no attempts to make herself noticed, standing guard by the flap, her hand firmly rested upon the hilt of her sword. Duchess Emilie, wearing her breastplate and gambeson, was agitated by the entire affair - her surface thoughts rang of disgust and a desire to speak plainly directed at the old prince leading them all. Guillaume was made uncomfortable by her presence, but the young queen could not understand why, so she pried. She dug her way into the coffee and wine stained mind of the old Prince Guillaume Desramaux, eldest son of Prince Jean Desramaux, the "Sword of the Dynasty." A man who wanted to burn all of the Pelaresse to the ground in defense of his family, who sired two sons that could not have rolled further down the hill. Jolijn's eyes widened as she found that which she was not meant to know. Suddenly the entire tent became chilled, light seemed to struggle to enter, and the wind outside had stopped. Mathi went to speak, but no sound came out. Emilie, noticing her queen's eyes, followed them to their target, who was unmoving. Prince Mathias, youngest of King Francois Desramaux II, slammed his hand on the table, sending wooden flags flying through the air as all snapped back into reality. Guillaume gasped for air, plummeting himself to the table for stability. They all looked to Jolijn, their queen, their empress. Her eyes were heavy with water, and her heartbeat could be felt thumping into the floor.

"Duchess Emilie, would you be so kind as to see my cousin out? Priest Volka, perhaps you could see if he requires medical attention?" The duchess nodded, placed a hand on Guillaume's back, and led he and the priest out. Mathias focused all of his attention to the still queen before him, her eyes having followed Guillaume out and now remained upon the entrance.

"I am sorry about your father, my queen." The old prince's words rang hollow to the empress, simply meant to placate her. She allowed her eyes to circle back to his.

"He knew. He knew of the attack, and said nothing."

"Yes. How did you find out?"

"I do not need to explain myself to you. You who sees me as nothing more than a prop which your soldiers will send themselves falling beneath."

"Is it a crime to care for the wellbeing of those I am charged to lead?"

"It is admirable. But your fears are misguided, and foolish. I am hear to lead them, and I will fight with them."

"You will not."

"You do not give me orders, Prince Mathias."

"We are fighting this war for you, Jolijn. They all are here ready to give their lives for you and your claims, for the founding of this new dynasty and empire. I cannot risk your life anymore than they will. When we fight, we have retinues, yes, but if we fall, we fall for the cause and another will pick up where we have left off. If you are killed, this all becomes worthless. This becomes a lost cause."

"I am perfectly capable for taking care of myself, Mathias. I am not a little girl in need of the constant protection from such a cruel world by the very men who make it such."

"So you are trained with a sword?"

"I have no such trainings, I have no need for them."

"Forgive my laughter, my queen, but how exactly do you plan to fight without having been trained to do so?" Before Jolijn could respond, Larynwy leapt into the conversation.

"I am her blade." The young queen looked to her protector, sensing she was just stopped from saying too much. He is my uncle now, but you are right, perhaps now is not the time to share such information.

"And if you fall?"

"I will not." The old prince sighed, shook his head, and looked down at the shaken map.

"Very well. You are valiant, I will not take away from that fact. Fighting alongside your people is one of the most honorable things a noble can do. No matter how foolish it actually is." Before Jolijn was able to respond, horns could be heard blowing off in the distance, followed by the shouting off commands from those giving drills. Rushing from their tent, the royal family watched as banners of gold and azure came charging up from the hillside. Pelariaux. The queen was not fast enough to call on her uncle-by-marriage, as within what felt like seconds, he was already clad in his breastplate, spear in hand, shield his saddle and scabbard on his belt. As he disappeared towards the commotion, she could hear bits and pieces of what he shouted. A raid. Pelariaux cavalry were seizing the opportunity to take the camp off guard, burning whatever they could get to as their steeds bolted to and froe. All of the soldiers charged forth at the back of their valiant prince, as practice became action. Eager to follow, the empress made for her mare but felt a firm hand grab her shoulder. Larynwy stood behind, eyes deathly serious.

"Do not go, my lady. We are safe here in the center of the camp."

"I will not stand idly by while my people fend off an assault. If they are under attack, then so am I."

"But they must not see your ziende. Do you understand?"

Jolijn was not entirely sure that she did, at least at first. However, once the initial shock of being stopped by Larynwy passed on, the queen slowly came to her senses. She had spent so much time on her own, able to use her abilities at will without caution that she had almost entirely forgotten the need for secrecy. These people fight for her now, but what about once they see what she can do? Will they curse her and cast her down as a witch? Lay down their weapons and refuse to aid in such a cause that would see a wielder of magic sit on their thrown? After all, it was magic that destroyed the world only three and a half centuries ago, most common folk only knew it as that - the bringer of the end times. The empress slunk away from the commotion, allowing Larynwy to pull her back inside the tent. Perhaps not today, no, for today shall go to Prince Mathias. But I will fight with them one way or another. After all, what is the purpose of my ziende if I cannot use it for all?

Laying in the bedchambers that once belonged to Duchess Belle de Licon, with garments strewn about the floor, two frames lay in the warmth of the other's embrace beneath the wool padded duvet. One frame, beaten down with age after a lifetime of leisure coupled with jousts and duels, and a more recent shoulder injury, was that of Prince Thijn Biljvank. On his back, the old prince ran his fingers gently along the length of the second frame, the curvy and alluring shape of a body aged like a fine amethyst wine. This second frame, of course, belonged to none other than Duchess Nadine Obbink of Obbinkerloo. Thijn adored the silk that was her skin, the soft touch of her skin to his. With his other hand, he slowly made way for her right breast, which was ever so slightly exposed over the duvet. As soon as he grazed her nipple, however, the duchess allowed her eyes to flutter open as her mouth slowly pursed to speak. Contrary to what the love of his life would think, this was the desired effect, for he very much wanted to speak with her.

"Can we not simply lay here, love? Or was thrice not enough for today? A woman my age needs her rest between bouts, you know."

"I would love nothing more than to spend the rest of my days wrapped up in your embrace. Our bodies pressed against one another."

"All right, that is quite enough of that flowery language. Stroke my hair." The duchess rotated to her other side, keeping the old prince's right arm beneath her, she utilized it for a head rest and wrapped his hand in hers. With his left, Thijn began doing as he was instructed, slowly, going through her locks to her back so that his finger nails might graze the skin, scratching ever so slightly back and forth down and back up. She smiled and curled her back in enjoyment. I would hate to ruin this moment, but I really have to know.

"Love." Thijn asked after some time, allowing their moment of bliss to continue for as long as possible. His hand not stopping in its motion.

"Yes, darling?"

"May I ask you something."

"Of course." She nuzzled her head further into the crux of his elbow, sending a shock wave of emotional warmth tingling down his entire central nervous system. His muscles relaxed, his mind wandered, his question slowly being formulated.

"Last week, when we took this city, Belle de Licon had said something, something very strange." Before he could continue into his question, already he could feel his world tense up beside him, her skin growing cold with anxiety.

"I understand that, in the moment, you would not explain yourself. But, I really must know. What did she mean by, 'see how she treats her own flesh and blood?' And further more, well... I have never seen you so - so... hateful. Your desire to harm the House de Licon, even your suggestion at wiping it out. Where did this all come from?" Nadine took in a deep breath, letting it leak back out slowly through her nostrils. Thijn had still not stopped stroking her hair and scratching her back.

"We are at war, are we not?"

"We are."

"People die during wars, Thijn. And they will say whatever they can to try and survive. Try not to get so caught up in all of the deaths we will cause."

"There just seems to be a theme in how you and House de Licon have interacted with one another, regardless of the war. Were we at peace, I still believe you and Belle would have had it out for each other, and it comes as a surprise."

"So, what, you think because we've slept together for a month now that you are owed something from me?"

"What?" Nadine snapped to her back and sat up, her breasts now out to the world - which would normally have taken the full attention of the old prince, but instead were merely something in the peripheral.

"I do not owe you an explanation for my actions, Thijn. But, what, you feel you are deserved one?"

"No, no. I -" Thijn sat up straight now too, his eyes transfixed on hers.

"You what, then? House de Licon supports our enemy. They are a house of traitors, cowards, and rapists. If it were up to me, we would not have allowed her to surrender. Rounded them all up, her nephews and her, had them executed in the marketplace."

"Nadine. That is excessive and - and..."

"Of course you do not understand. What would you know? You have only just now popped back into my life, and now you make demands of me? You think you are owed something from me?"

"Nadine, my love. No. I do not feel entitled to anything from you. If you were to demand I leave this instant and never lay my eyes upon your beauty again, I would do so." Thijn stared deeply into her eyes, praying to the gods that she does not take him up on his offer.

"You should no better than to make such an offer to me. Than to throw yourself down to my command so willingly."

"I already do so every day."

"Yes because you want to be inside of me."

"If you think that is all I value of you, you are gravely mistaken."

"I know it is not. I know my intellect frightens you, my humor comforts you, and my bluntness sends you into cardiac arrest."

"You are everything the perfect woman. I watch you mold this world to your desires every day, even when far away in Biljden, I asked those around you to write me with updates, so that I knew if you were happy or not."

"Instead of just writing me directly?"

"You were married."

"When did that matter to you? Gods you are an idiot, and you should know I was not happy."

"Why not?"

"It does not matter. It did not matter then and it does not matter now. What is done is done and that is it. You of all people should understand what it means to finish and leave something behind you." Thijn looked down at his chest, tears welling up in his eyes. He wanted to comfort her, he wanted to be everything he was not for the last twenty years.

"I am sorry. I allowed my hatred for the de Licon to get to me and I have taken it out in part on you just now. You at least do not deserve that." The two sat in silence for a moment. The old prince placed his hand back to the duchess' back and once again scratched gently, neither one looking at the other.

"You are a real bastard, did you know that?"

"I have been informed by some enemies of such, yes. Though, I admit a level of shock hearing it from you."

"You come back into my life and we - we just pick right back up where we left off. As if the last twenty years never happened, as it we were young and free once again. Except we are not young and we are certainly not free. The weight of both of our family lines keeps us down, demands our next moves. But we are fighting for what we think is right, yes?" Nadine looked up to Thijn with genuine curiosity in her eyes.

"Yes. My cousin has usurped the throne, he slaughters his own people."

"And are we really any better? All of Belle's children are dead."

"You were very solid in your conviction to wipe them all out. Do you need me to validate your actions for you?"

"Of course not, do not think so little of me. I would do what I did again in a heart beat, no shorter. But..." Nadine moved in closer, pulling Thijn's right arm back around her waste as she rested her head against his.

"But?"

"Damn it all. Damn the gods, damn this war, damn House de Licon, and damn you, you insufferably loving man." He turned his head to kiss her on the forehead.

"You never did have good aim." The duchess looked up to plant her lips on his, slow and intently. After time stood still for a moment, she released him from her spell and returned to her resting place upon his shoulder.

"Do you really want to know the source of my mutual hatred for this place, and this house?"

"Only if you wish to tell me."

"I do. Not out of any obligation, not because I feel you deserve to know, but because I want you to know." The duchess took a large breath, and continued.

"Seventy-five years ago, my grandmother, Duchess Natalie Obbink I, was ousted by her younger brother in a push for the Duchy of Obbinkerloo. Young, at the age of twenty-six, Natalie fled west with a small retinue to Licon. There, Duke Ademar de Licon II, Belle's grandfather, greeted her with open arms. They discussed an alliance between the houses, though mostly a mercantile one. Obbinkerloo would provide discounted lumber to Licon, and Licon would provide the soldiers to retake her seat of power. The deal was set, and they held a large feast in these very halls to celebrate. That same night, however, Ademar made his drunken way to Natalie's guest bed... and raped her." Nadine nudged Thijn's hand with her shoulder blade, indicating her desire to no longer be touched. He obliged, though she left her head resting on his shoulder.

"The next morning, Ademar's wife demanded Natalie leave, calling her such things as whore, seductress, and the like. Returning home, Natalie begged for lodging with a local baroness. Two months later, she found she was with child. News quickly spread to Licon of Natalie's pregnancy, and suddenly Ademar saw the prudence in following through on his promises - now that a child of his would sit on the Duchy of Obbinkerloo. Marching at the head of the Licon army, wearing the very plate armor I storm into battle with, my grandmother retook her home, imprisoned her brother, and saw to it that Ademar would fall in the fighting. While he did not die from his wounds, the Duke de Licon was severely injured, losing his ability to procreate. However, before this all had happened, he had already sired three children with is wife: Edmond, Belle's father; Edgar, who did not live into adulthood; and Felicity, who would go on to marry Anselm Pelariaux II, eventually giving birth to Guyard and his sister Heliose. Edmond would have two children before his untimely death from a Desramaux spear in 302PR: Belle, and Hadrian, who Belle's eldest son is named after due to his equally untimely death from disease. Hadrian's two sons, Ademar and Edmond, are the last remaining members of House de Licon after Belle. But, not the last to be able to claim the Duchy of Licon." Nadine allowed a small grin to come over her face, one which Thijn still did not know how to interpret.

"In taking advantage of my grandmother's vulnerability, Ademar de Licon II unwittingly sowed the destruction of his own house. My grandmother, Natalie Obbink I, had my mother soon after retaking her home, Natalie Obbink II. Then, my mother, of course, had me, making Belle my half-cousin, and making me the next closest living descendant of Ademar II's direct lineage, should any misfortune befall the remaining members of House de Licon. As the Pelariaux do no recognize claimants from the female line, and due to my mother having been born just months before Felicity, Guyard would not be able to claim Licon over me."

"So, with them being wiped out, you would inherit the Duchy. Something not entirely possible until the unification of our realms."

"Exactly, love. A tale of revenge, mixed with advantageous land grabbing."

"But you could not bring yourself to do it?"

"Would you think poorly of me if I did do it?"

"I could never think poorly of you, Nadine."

"I am being serious, Thijn. Save your lover's talk for later when I am screaming your name to the world." Thijn glanced around the room. The portrait of a younger Duchess Belle, surrounded by her five young children, sat high above the fireplace. A great peryton looked out over them all, as if prepared to protect them at all costs. A noble creature, for such an ignoble house. And yet, they only acted on what lies they were told. Must an entire house suffer for the cowardice and abuses of their predecessor, when they themselves were told a believable lie? Or perhaps they did know. There would be no true way to know, for they would either deny it or refuse to believe. We are fighting a war, perhaps the gods will decide for us in the battles to come.

"Come what may, I shall be by your side."

Pulling the rope taught with all of his might, the old prince slowly lowered it to the ground as another came over, clad in carnation and brunatre, to pound the stake into the dirt. Exhausted after only his second tent, Prince Hein walked slowly to his attendant, who had been keeping busy tending to the horses. Riedry looked about uneasily as his lord approached, giving Hein a half-hearted smile.

"How are the horses carrying on?"

"Just fine, my lord. Though it does trouble me that we must keep them fully equipped, caparison and all."

"We know not when Lebatou will sally forth, so we must be prepared at all costs. And these steeds must be especially ready, they will be the ones to ride out to call on the others."

"I understand, my lord. Have you any need of your medicine?" Hein took in a large breath, with a surprising amount of ease.

"Not at the present moment, Riedry. While I am anxious over this whole operation, my grip seems to be at bay from my morning's usual ritual. Besides, I do not want to go through it if I can help it, I do not know when we can resupply next."

Hein looked out over the horizon at the walled city a half a mile away. The modest settlement of Lebatou, home to House Batelle, overseen by Duke Henri Batelle, a middle-aged man who enjoyed the pleasures of being a good distance from his realms capital. Grain was what his home was known for, and lots of it. And because of their great abundance of wheat, barley, and rye, the locals in the city and surrounding counties have taken to distilling a wonderful spirit they call Vin d'Orge, which translates from Quynian as Barley Wine. Offering a variety of flavors, including apple, pear, plum, and even some citrus, though those are often far more expensive. The old prince had only ever enjoyed the taste of Vin d'Orge once before in his life, a pear flavored sample. He recalled the notes of lavender and honey that were applied during the distilling process to this particular vintage. He also recalled how it caused him to fall on his ass after only his second glass. Thanks to their distance from Desramaux City, though, the city was known for skimping out on their taxes, often lying about the volume of liquor produced and therefore the amount that would be taxed was consistently lower than expected. That city was the reason they remained saddled, for at any moment a force could march from those gates to meet them. Perhaps Phillipe and I will enjoy a glass of Barley Wine from the battlements some day soon.

The old prince soon realized that that day may be sooner than he thought. Prince Hein looked out on the field before them as a mixture of excitement and terror quickly overcame his senses, each feeling clashing for his attention. Unsure of how to process, his body responded the only way it ever truly knew how to as he could feel the mucus build within his throat. Choking it down, the old prince, gripping the hilt of his sword, called for battle positions. A great clattering of feet and armaments filled the air, Duke Serge howled for his soldiers to drop all supplies, leave the tents to the wind, and take up shields. The Duchess Parseille could be heard on the wind forming her levy in perfect order, every soldier from each banner having already had their gambesons on, with retinues baring their brigandine. By the time the two-thousand soldiers had formed a very successful phalanx, Serge Garlen taking the center position alongside his claymore wielding retinue. The left flank was helmed by Zoe Pascelet, with the right flank, to most everyone's astonishment, being helmed by Prince Hein Biljvank, least beloved son of Duchess Hekket Zelderloo who was himself adorned in brigandine over a leather gambeson, the weight of which nearly toppled him with each stiff breeze. Some claimed the combined weight of his armor and sword was more than that of his own frail frame; even so, he was determined to fight along with the rest of the soldiers, after all, what kind of strategic advisor would he be if he could not put his sword where his mouth was, so to speak? During the initial commotion at the formation of the phalanx, six riders set off from the rouse camp - three road north and three road south, they were now the crux of this entire operation being pulled off.

Marching at the head of the Lebatou forces was none other than Henri. Quickly surveying their numbers, the old prince counted fifteen thousand, eight thousand of which were infantry wielding a smattering of shields, spears, and halberds; another five thousand was that of archers, and two thousand cavalry took up the rear. Given their size and lack of armor, they were most likely light cavalry designed to run down fleeing enemies, something the Duke no doubt was expecting to encounter when dealing with such a small siege force. Hein did, at this moment of calm before the storm, find a foreboding sense of confusion. Was this really so easy? Did the duke really believe that only two thousand troops were sent to besiege his city? Or, does he possibly have more forces within the city and is only sending out a portion of them to deal with the camp. Though, even if that were the case, fifteen to two is a bit excessive, he probably could have gotten the job done with three thousand infantry, one thousand archers and five hundred cavalry - a third of his current forces. Despite these sensations of confusion and doubt, the old prince could not also help but feel a certain sense of pride that his plan, at the moment, was working. As the enemy army approached, out to the right and to the left, two more flanks were forming, each one with an additional ten thousand soldiers to add to the impending fray.

Seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours. Then finally the time came for the battle to begin. Spears dug themselves deep within the gaps of shields, halberds cracked down upon the skulls of the unfortunate infantry who had lost their shield to a different assault prior. Allied spears met the faces of the enemy, as claymores finessed their way from shoulder to hip. Screams could be heard from all around, the shield wall was holding, but could only hold for so much longer. The old prince himself was in the third line of the infantry shouting out orders.

"Back! Thrust! Back! Thrust!" A veritable skewer and release method as the phalanx rammed their pikes forward piercing the enemies, taking some with them, and then proceeding to scrape the unfortunate souls from their shafts using the shields of their allies in front of them. Attempts were made by the enemy archers to rain hell from above, but they would either overshoot or kill their own, quickly being commanded to stand down, for there were too few besiegers to safely send a barrage into without taking out much of their own. Of course, prior to the engagement, the archers did send off three volleys in an attempt to weaken the small force before the main body could reach it. This met little success, however, as the tight formation of the shield wall allowed the quick adjustment into a testudo and then back into a phalanx just as the halberds came within reach. Looking up after shouting an order, the old prince felt good, feeling the fire of something other than disease burning in his chest. Was it pride? Was it joy? Was it valor? Could have been all three. But, having now brought his attention to that beyond his immediate periphery, he could see the frustrated face of the Duke Henri Batelle. Determined and angry, the prince could just barely tell what the duke was planning. It was then he realized, in no short order, that while they waited for their allies their back was completely open - and this was something the duke had come to understand as well. In a frantic moment, two thousand horses split - one thousand making their way around the right and the other around the left. An attempt was quickly made by the old prince as he shouted more vigorously, commanding those in the third and fourth lines to about face, bring up their shields, and form a circular spear wall - a schiltron. This however, came to no avail, as very little could be heard over the roar of battle from outside of his little section.

Serge, as Hein could clearly see, had gotten himself terribly caught up in the thrill of battle, taring to pieces with great pleasure anything bearing the colors of House Batelle. Duchess Zoe on the other hand was much more resigned; she was butchering, however, the joy did not seem to control her senses as it did the Duke Garlennes. They did not see what he could see, all the same. It was then that he could hear the thudding of hooves, feel the earth tremble beneath him. He looked forward and backward. The horses had not begun their charges. Further off, there was shouting, there was screaming, there was the sound of horns. Prince Hein turned and a smile over came his dirtied face as their reinforcements finally made their way over the hills. Arrows flew back and forth, chaos began to overcome the Lebatou forces as their duke hysterically whirled his head from left to right. He shouted, he cursed, he commanded his squires blow their horns as immediately his soldiers began to make their retreat. His archers fired left, right, and forward down the center as all attempts were made to provide cover for the fleeing forces.

Turning back around, Hein's smile began to fade, as the two thousand light cavalry began their charge. He screamed, he bellowed with all of his might.

"Turn you fools! Turn! About face! About face! Brace! Brace for impact! About face!"

The few forces of House Garlen and House Pascelet that could hear turned around, took one knee to the ground and braced; shields up, spears out, a row of shield bearers took shape while just behind them a row of pikes formed up. Thunder. Cries and screams. Impact. Horses flipped, sending their riders soaring through the air to land in a heap some thirty feet away, quickly to be dispatched by a nearby Pascelet or Garlen. Those brave enough to face the charge found themselves with similar fates to their charging enemy. Hooves trampled entire bodies, crushing rib cages and cracking skulls. Animals that were skewered still flung forward as their two ton corpses now brought revenge from beyond the grave. The cavalry that managed to break through bore down, lancing any such fool that was in their way to retreat. The old prince could feel his chest begin to compress, and the all too familiar feeling began to push out the new and improved pride and joy. His eyes darted about as horses flew, soldiers cried out in pain, sections upon sections of shield wall plummeted. Pikes did what they could, but looking to his front, the forces that still had their backs turned were carved to pieces as they joined the ranks of such fools to get in the way of a lance, mostly unknown to themselves. The prince frantically ran about, attempting to help those who had fallen, any that were possibly breathing, calling for medics, though there were few. It was only then after a few moments, that he began to realize that they were too close. The Lebatou forces were going to make it home. Twenty thousand pursuers were only able to cut off a very small portion as they folded in on them. Most of the archers, half of the infantry, and all of the cavalry that made it through their charge followed the duke close behind as they approached their city gates. While he obviously could not hear the words, he could see the hands waving back and forth as the Duke Henri Batelle screamed up at the battlements for the gates to be flung open.

Hein hung his head in defeat. His plan, it had worked, and yet, it did not. A siege would have to take place after all. One, two, possibly three months would be wasted to take the city. In that time Rikkert - Rikkert. In just thinking his name, the old prince could feel the mucus rising into his throat in an attempt to force its way out. Swallowing hard, Hein turned, and immediately felt the shake once more. Thunder. The noise of thunder. Thousands of hooves, crashing down upon the earth. The entire battlefield rumbled, all forces, all sides, soldiers of all colors and banners froze in their tracks as they searched for the source. Horns filled the sky, and then there was screams, shouts. The old prince took his hand away from the side of a now dead shield bearer and ran his way forward to the sound, sweaty palms clenched his swords hilt. A cacophony of roars could be heard easily one thousand miles away, of this the old prince was certain. It grew in intensity with every passing second - and then they were upon them.

Thousands of cavalry stormed forward cutting off the walls of the city from the retreating Lebatou forces. They circled back around and charged. It was beautiful, it was beautiful in its terror as these cavalry, with spears, hatchets, and bows in hand carved to pieces the forces of Duke Henri Batelle, the Duke Lebatou. In a matter of minutes that felt like seconds, Prince Hein watched as a depleted force of what was then twelve thousand soldiers - infantry, archers, and cavalry - met fate at the hands of this unknown brigade. Then, far at the front, adorned in his armor, a banner of the black and gold rose on a field of gold and black bellowing in the wind as he charged, was King Phillipe, and beside him, High Chief Blazing Arrow.

Seated upon his horse, King Phillipe looked out at the field of battle before him. At least, that which remained of it. Already, the banners of House Batelle were being stripped from the city walls of Lebatou, and the bifurcated rose of gold and black streamed over the sides as a torrent. Directly to his right was Blazing Arrow, Mother, Chief, and High Chief; to his left, was Prince Hein. Before him, kneeling, hands bound behind him, and helmet ripped off, was Duke Henri Batelle, the Duke Lebatou. To his left was the Duchess Parseille, and to his right was the Duke Garlennes, his claymore firmly clenched in both hands, tip held at the nape of Henri Batelle.

"Duke Henri." the King spoke.

"You will answer your King when addressed." Serge nudged the kneeling duke, who, after his head up, it became obvious to see had not lost his helmet of his own volition, but rather he now bore a large scar down his left cheek. Clearly the blow was powerful enough to both knock his helmet loose and carve a momento. While the bleeding had slowed, there was still a small trail that came from the tip down to this chin and dripped to the earth below once in a while.

"I do not see my king before me. You are a not a king. You are a boy! A child! What, you think this is owed to you? This is your birth rite? Birth rites are earned! I earned my birth rite, I expect you do the same." Henri spit on the ground before Phillipe's horse. He did not allow it to take his attention.

"Do you not consider this," the king gestured to the fallen surrounding them, "earning my birth rite? I bested you in battle. Carved your soldiers to pieces, taken your city." Henri laughed a low, quiet chuckle for a moment before spitting harshly once again.

"House Batelle recognizes none but the King of Pelariaux, the Crown of Pelaresse."

"And yet for generations you have recognized the Desramaux as your supreme overlord. Why a sudden change?"

"Because, for generations, as you have put it, there was no Crown in Pelaresse. But there is once again! King Guyard Pelariaux. Yes he is a king. You may scoff at off as you will, but that does not change the fact that he is a king, and House Batelle recognizes him as our king."

"Would you be able to recognize him as a king without your head?" The small entourage glanced up to the king, who had not changed his focal point the entire conversation.

"What?"

"Would you be able to recognize him as a king without your head?"

"Is this a threat?"

"It is a promise." King Phillipe caught a movement from his left peripheral of Prince Hein formulating a question or concern. Without moving his eyes from the downtrodden noble prostrate before them, the young king held his right palm up firmly, without even lifting it from the pommel of his saddle. The old prince recognized the small gesture and stopped his formulations.

"If you make any movement, aside from that of lifting your right knee, so that you might take your pledge properly, my friend and loyal subject, the Duke Serge Garlen will do the honors of freeing your shoulders from the weight of your head. Though considering your obstinance, I do not imagine the loss will be that substantial." Henri burst into a steady cackle, his head and neck shaking as the humorous noise reverberated out of his body.

"Ah, the king is funny. The king in Desramaux is funny. You will not cut my head off."

"That is correct, I will not. Duke Serge will."

"He will not cut my head off."

"There is one way to ensure that." The two nobles remained locked in a battle of the eyes for a moment, before the Duke Lebatou broke the stand off as honorably as he knew how to, by once again, and with astonishing accuracy, spitting at the hooves of King Phillipe's horse.

"Very well. Try to stay still. Serge." Serge raised his claymore high.

"Wait!" The duke froze, his great sword held high above the neck of the now less arrogant duke.

"Aha, ha ha. I - uh. I see you are not bluffing." Henri let out with a nervous intonation.

"No, I am not. You may continue to serve me, and rule at your familial seat. Or this time, I will be the one to swing the sword, I will be the one to remove your head, and I will find every last member of your family, bring them out here, and force them to walk with nothing but the clothes on their backs as they are forever banished from this empire." Duke Henri perked his head up higher at this.

"Empire?"

"Yes, Henri, an empire." Henri, looking back and forth, first to the claymore still raised high above his head, then to the duke holding it, then allowing his eyes to float around the army before him, the thousands of centaurs that made quick work of what he had believed to be a strong fighting force, and then King Phillipe watched as the obstinate duke's eyes finally made their way back up to meet with his.

"Very well. I, Duke Henri Batelle, Duke of Lebatou, to hereby swear my undying allegiance to King Phillipe of the Desravank Empire. On pain of death, should my oath be broken. I thank my liege for his mercy for allowing me to maintain my life, at the present moment."

"Very good. You may untie him. Captain Jacques." The captain, who proudly led the left flank of the reinforcements during Hein's operation, as the King was told, made his way in between the kneeling duke and the mounted king.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Would you please escort Henri back to his city, he needs to start making some preparations. You see, his forces have just sustained some heavy casualties, and I fear he will not be able to make a proper addition to march at the present moment."

"Of course, my lord." Captain Jacques helped the duke to his feet and began untying his bonds.

"What are you talking about? What march?"

"Well Henri, it is quite simple. You are my loyal subject, my loyal vassal. I need soldiers, you will provide them." With a caked on scowl, the newest addition to the ranks of the Desravank forces slowly made his way back into his city, an entourage of gold and black ensuring he does so calmly. Duke Serge and Duchess Zoe approached the young king, Hein and Blazing Arrow adjusted themselves to form a small circle of the five of them.

"Well you certainly have excellent timing, my king." Zoe said wiping her brow, a combination of sweat, dirt, and other people's blood coming off.

"In some sense, yes. The Mannes tribes and I have been camping out a two miles north of here for the better part of the last four days. Our scouts watched the events unfold and we responded as quickly as could to join in. I must admit, I was genuinely confused when I first heard the reports of a two thousand armed camp with the rest of the forces camping a half mile north and south." Phillipe watched as Zoe and Serge turned their attention to Hein, so the king followed in kind.

"Cousin?"

"Oh! Yes. That was my idea. A fake, and pitiably small force would set up a siege camp in an attempt to draw the defenders out into a pitched battle, thus allowing us to take the city far quicker than should we be forced to actually lay siege to it. Once drawn out, the other two sides would fold in and cut off their escape. This, well, was working in a way, though had it not been for you and Blazing Arrow, Mother, Chief, and High Chief, Henri would have reached the city walls in time to begin the defense of the city against a siege, though with a severely diminished force. I estimate we would have taken out half of them by the time the gates were fully sealed."

"It is a bold strategy, very risky, but very rewarding." Blazing Arrow gave Hein a look that the king could have sworn was admiration.

"Well, your strategies never fail to impress me, cousin. What is the status of your armies?"

"I have one thousand foot knights, seven thousand shield bearers, one thousand sword bearers, and two thousand archers. We have not taken stock of losses from this battle yet." Duke Serge stated matter of factly.

"I also have with me one thousand foot knights, seven thousand shield bearers, and three thousand archers. I presume my losses to be some where between five hundred and fifteen hundred from today's battle, most likely entirely shield bearers." Zoe Pascelet surveyed the banners behind them all, as half of their soldiers had made their way into the city to resupply while the rest set up camp outside of the city walls.

"Very good, combined with those with Blazing Arrow, Mother, Chief, and High Chief, that puts us at just over thirty thousand soldiers at our disposal. I expect Duke Henri to provide us with an additional ten."

"Can we rely on him?" Hein interjected.

"We have to."

"But after this display, with almost removing his head, threatening banishment his - well I will just say - dubious pledge. I really do not think we can trust him after how evident he made of where his loyalties truly are."

"And if I go back on my word now? What then? Am I to be a king that people can not trust?"

"That is not what I am suggesting, Phillipe. Simply that... look, Duke Henri is not trustworthy and I would not count on his soldiers fighting whole heartedly for you."

"I will have to count on it, until I can not, and that is the end of this conversation. Have we heard anything from Rikkert?" Phillipe immediately noticed as Hein reached for his throat at the mention of his brother's name. Looking to the rest of the group, he saw as equal reactions of anger overcame the faces of the Duchess Parseille and Duke Garlennes.

"What fate has befallen Prince Rikkert?"

"You mean king Rikkert." Scoffed Serge Garlen. Phillipe felt his stomach sink as chills ran over his body.

"My brother... Rikkert Biljvank, has declared himself true ruler of the Biljvank Kingdom and has been leading a campaign along the Southern Road similar to our own, however his end goal was to meet with Licon and Lebatou to take Garlennes, Parseille and then push for Desramaux City. The Duchess Nadine Obbink intercepted a falcon meant for Licon from the Duchess Zelderloo detailing this information, and she so kindly passed it on to us."

"And where is Rikkert and his army now?"

"By now they should have reached Diependam. Nadine has informed us of her plans for Licon and wishes for us to meet between Lebatou and Licon once our operation here was completed." The young king gritted his teeth, but held back the desire to let out a sigh.

"Then we shall march east in three days time. Now, go, rest, see to your soldiers. We shall reconvene the night before our departure." Zoe, Serge, and Blazing Arrow departed the circle, Phillipe gave his cousin by marriage a look which informed the old prince to remain.

"I understand your objections."

"What?"

"I understand your objections to trusting Henri. And you are right. We can not trust him, but we have no choice, especially now." The king looked off to the horizon. Hein walked closer, resting his hand on the neck of his cousin's house, his eyes attempting to see that which Phillipe could see.

"My brother is a disgrace."

"Your brother is - acting out of self preservation. It is no different than my own uncle, or the cousins that have joined him. They fear this change, and they want the power that otherwise they would never know." Phillipe could hear his cousin wheeze through a depressive sigh.

"But we will persevere. Do you have any idea how many Pascelet and Garlen soldiers you saved today with your strategies? A prolonged siege would have seen half of their forces wiped out to a mixture of disease and grueling street fights that come from a siege camp and city assault."

"I appreciate your sentiments." Phillipe looked down at Hein briefly before looking back out at the horizon.

"I noticed you are in brigandine."

"Oh, yes, it was fitted for me last second. I will admit it is a little large and certainly heavy, but, well, I am at least able to stand still in it."

"You were fighting?"

"Well, more managing within the thick of it. I did not wet my blade if that is what you are asking."

"But you were there?"

"Yes, yes. I was amongst the soldiers. I watched them kill and be killed. I was there, in all of its terror. People find glory in this. My brother finds glory in this."

"Well, some find glory in this, while others, whose ranks you seem to have joined, recognize it for all that it is - reckless carnage. My point in bringing this up, is... I can not allow this to happen again."

"What?" Hein pulled back from the horse, nearly tumbling backwards as he faced his cousin by marriage. Phillipe still looked out at the horizon.

"Hein, cousin. You are far too important to me. I can not risk your death on the battlefield."

"But, I - I have armor, I have a sword. I can fight just like anyone else."

"Be realistic with yourself Hein." Phillipe could feel his heart sink.

"I am being realistic." It now bottomed out in his stomach.

"Take a stance then." The young king went to dismount his horse.

"What?"

"Take a stance."

"Phillipe I - I... I hardly see this as necessary. I will fight. I might not swing my sword as well as others but, I will be with our soldiers. I will command from the front lines. It is dishonorable to do otherwise. I am a noble, I am a prince! I am a member of the Desravank royal family."

"You will do as your king commands, cousin." King Phillipe watched as the fire in his cousin my marriage's chest slowly extinguished. The light in his eyes flickered for a dull moment only to be whisked out again. I have robbed him, but I must. The old prince, who a moment before had veins bulging from his forehead, slowly slumped his shoulders down, the weight of the brigandine being felt in totality. His head sunk slightly, releasing itself from being held high.

"I - I will do as my king commands..." Prince Hein brought his gaze down to his cousins feet.

"I will do as my king commands."

29th of Qitoto, 336PR

The young princess felt herself jolt awake. It was just after the break of dawn and the sun was fully visible above the horizon. Clouds began to roll in, thin, white clouds that only made the day feel darker with no promises of rain. Despite how cold the nights had been, she felt sweat trickle down her backside causing a chill to follow the length of her nerves sending tingles throughout her body. The young girl slowly brought herself up, gingerly touching the wooden floor below, the cold fall nights left floors of ice which the young princess loathed. Once she had faced the impact of the cold wood on her warm skin, she shuffled her way over to her dresser, swung it open, and quickly changed from her sleeping gown into a dress of gold with black fringes. Her hair was still done up in braids that went down to the middle of her back, and she had hoped to have it washed today so she might leave it flowing. She so liked when her hair was allowed to whisk in the wind as she rode her mare Snowball. Braids made that very difficult, in fact, they made that impossible. Placing wool lined slippers on her feet, she skipped her way to the door and creaked it open.

"Good morning Princess Jolijn." Alfred was her usual guard at night. From dusk till dawn he stood at her door, ensuring none but family and certain servants could enter. It must be awfully boring, she often thought to herself. Just standing there, all night! She sometimes could not believe it, as she sometimes could not even fathom standing still for more than a few moments. Fighting the initial impulse to punch the guard in the gut - something she did most mornings in order to test his reflexes and help keep him sharp - hunger had gotten the better of her.

"Good morning Sir Alfred."

"My lady, you know I am not yet a knight. Simply a humble soldier in your family's employ."

"Do you hope to be a knight someday?"

"I do. Who would pass at the chance?"

"People who do not want to be knights I suppose. May you escort me to the kitchen?"

"Are we hungry, my lady?"

"Yes, we are."

"Then it should be my pleasure." Spear in hand, and other by his side, "Sir" Alfred the not-yet-knight walked side by side with the young princess. Down the winding corridors, passed the dozens of windows only facing north and south, and finally through the grand parlor, the two made their way into the castle's kitchens. The scent of bread being freshly baked stuffed Jolijn's senses with wonder, a sweet and buttery joyride overtook her smell and guided her to the source. The head baker, an older woman by the name of Gerda was in the process of preparing some more dough as the first batch of loaves were nearing completion. She could not remember the exact amount, but Gerda had told her one time how many loaves they would make each day in the castle - some grand number like one hundred thousand; or fifty, she could not remember which.

"Young princess Jolijn, my lady. So good it is to see you this morning. Do you know how special today is?" Gerda looked down at her with a wide smile on her face. Of course! Today was the 29th of Qitoto, it is Jurran's nineteenth birthday! Jolijn's older brother and the crown prince to the Biljvank Kingdom. He was out hunting this morning, most likely having left long before the sun even began thinking about rising. She had heard that that was the best time to go hunting, as you catch the animals as they are waking and still groggy.

"Are you making a cake today?" The young princess bounced her way to the counter full of dough.

"I am, your highness. A nice, sweet, tasty, and large round cake to celebrate. Should have it ready for luncheon - so, do not spoil your appetite little princess."

Suddenly the desire for breakfast had lost all pull on her, for a new object of desire had filled her mind's eye. Still... she should eat something, otherwise father or momma might yell at her.

"Might I have a small bite to eat then, to hold me over until then?"

"Why of course, your highness. The head chef should be able to whip you up something light rather quickly." And that she did. While Gerda ran the baking, Hilda ran the cooking. A woman of equal stature to the head baker, the head chef differed with her short black hair and permanent scowl, which often lead to the misnomer that Hilda was a bitter woman, when in reality she was as sweet as Gerda's baking.

"Hilda, might I have some poached eggs."

"Oh certainly, nothing else?"

"Momma does not like it when I just eat eggs, but Gerda said to save room for luncheon, for it will be special for Jurran."

"Well she was right to tell you that. I will just give you those eggs, and we just will not tell the queen, how does that sound?"

"That is agreeable." Jolijn smiled with the head chef as she began to boiling the water. Cooking so fascinated the young princess. Mixing otherwise bland ingredients to get something delicious was a remarkable trade to her. And the amount of things that could be cooked and eaten? It was remarkable there were books that attempted to categorize them all. Perhaps I will be an excellent chef one day, when I am older and Jurran is king. As Hilda placed the plate before Jolijn, the young princess suddenly felt her heart sink and the saw the walls spin slightly. Just then, a commotion of running, shouting, and crying could be heard coming down the corridors of the castle from the direction of the grand parlor. Alfred looked to his princess and gave her a look that she knew meant to stay put. Gripping his spear tightly, the not-yet-knight slowly rounded his way out of the kitchens and towards the sound of the commotion. Jolijn crept away from her seat and slowly made her way in the same direction. It was as she neared the threshold of the kitchen she heard a whispered conversation between Alfred and another guard.

Following the words that she heard, the young princess rushed passed the two guards, much to their chagrin, and bolted her way into the grand parlor. Passing her cousins Hein and Rikkert on her way through the halls, the two of which were biding there time on entering as she could hear their mother being accosted by Thijn for attempting something Jolijn did not fully understand, her ears less focused on the dialogue so her eyes could focus more on getting to the grand parlor. Thijn then pulled himself away from the conversation to catch up to the young princess, grabbing her by the right shoulder and pulling her back.

"And just where do you think you are going, young thing?" His voice was low and comforting, his eyes soft in the dim light.

"To the grand parlor, I have to see him. I have to be there."

"I understand your desire, young thing. But your father and mother are in there right now with all of the castle priests and..." he stopped for a moment, his eyes falling to the floor. Then he made his way to one knee so that his face might be level with hers, his right hand gently placed on her left shoulder. Tears began to well up under her eyes.

"Listen to me, Jolijn. I understand you must have heard something of what is going on and what has happened. Your mother may not like me being so open with you, but I do not care, you have a right to know. Your brother has been hurt. Very badly too. But, right now we are doing everything we can to make sure he ends up okay. The less people that are in the room right now, the better the care can be. Does that make sense?" Jolijn nodded her head slowly in agreement, a tear ran down her left cheek and onto her uncle's hand.

"As soon as you can go in, I will bring you in, I promise." Father and a strange man in a blue cloak came rushing out of the room in a heated argument. Jolijn faintly recognized the man in blue, he was a mage or something, he had visited on multiple occasions within the passed five years, always to see Jurran. The young princess focused hard to try and listen in while other's cleared the way.

"You were supposed to prevent this, you said you could help him!"

"I said I would try, your highness, and try I did. These things can be hectic, unpredictable. You knew this."

"And I also knew you were here for ulterior motives, were you not?"

"What? Oh do not stoop to base accusations now, your highness, you are above that. I did what I could for your son, but it is not always enough in extreme cases like this."

"So now you are leaving?"

"There is no longer a reason for me to be at your court. I am sorry, King Jurrien." The man in blue left quickly down the hall, father fuming as he watched the mage depart. Next his eyes met Jolijn's, who had been poorly sequestered to the side by her uncle.

"My darling. Come, come here." Jolijn ran to her father's embrace, wrapping her arms tightly around his chest as he knelt down to meet her. Releasing her and pulling back, the young princess saw tears in her father's eyes for perhaps the first time.

"Come with me." Holding her hand in his, Jurrien led his young daughter into the grand parlor. Laying on the large sofa, wearing his usual leather hunting jacket, though now it had blood stains and was wrapped heavily with bandages, was her brother, Prince Jurran. By his side, kneeling in hysterics, was their mother, Queen Myrthe. Jolijn, led by her father, slowly approached her brother's body. On the other side of the couch, prepared with all assortments of medical salves, ointments, and bandaging, was five priests of Darion. The young daughter of the king placed her hands on her brother's left arm. He slowly turned his head to her and opened his eyes with a flutter as a faint smile cracked over his pale countenance. He attempted to make a sound, but was quickly stopped by a wince and his eyes closed once more. In the brief moment they were open, Jolijn saw what she thought was a purple flash. Their father kneeled beside him, placing himself between Momma and her. Placing his hands on his wife and daughter, the king kissed the forehead of his son. Momma let out a loud wail as she looked high up to the ceiling and then back down at her son, her hands clasped together in prayer by the young princes legs. Jolijn simply watched, her eyes welling up and dripping salty water down her cheeks and onto the stone floors below. She watched as her brother's chest rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell; and then it did not. Momma let out another wail.