‘…No… That… that cannot be…’

‘…Emilie… I’m very sorry…’

Felicia was returned from Ström.

But glad were neither her spirits nor the tidings she’d brought home with her. Indeed, when we were sat at last to discuss in earnest what’d befallen that margravate, I could not believe my very ears.

Still, never was Felicia one for flagrant lies, nor one to misreckon a terrible thing so unfolded afore her eyes. This I knew. I knew, and yet… I could not bear it. I could not believe. And neither did I want to.

‘…‘Sorry’…? But… how…? Rolf… how could he…’

…How could he march with the Nafílim?

And fly their pennons? And counsel their warpath?

…And wage battle against his own sister?

My stomach turned when I’d heard Felicia’s report, and more still when she next recounted the grazing blow she’d received from Rolf’s blade. ‘Twas no lie, then. No lie, and yet…

Yet it could not be so. It should not be so.

Why, this was Rolf we were speaking of. Felicia’s dear brother. And… and to myself…

…the one to walk alongside me. The one with whom I wish to spend my every winter, till dotage and death should take us.

Too much yet remained. To answer for. To apologise for. The misunderstandings, the misjudgement, the misheld hearing, the misgiven banishment—these and all. And only from there would the true trial begin. Of making amends, of rebuilding what was broken, of rekindling the candle we once shared.

How I longed for this. How I longed for the chance, one that if given, I should grovel upon the ground afore him, reveal to him my every remorse, and say all the sorries as my lungs would allow, that he might find it in his heart to forgive his dear and foolish Emilie…

…and yet…

‘…Emilie… Brother, he’s… he’s…’

…so far away.

So, so very far away…

“…”

I opened my eyes, finding myself swaying upon my carriage seat, as on and on I recalled aught and all that Felicia had revealed to me not more than a week before. Yet no matter how many times it all played through my head, none of the details dared change in the slightest. No matter how shut an eye I turned to it, never would the nightmare fade.

Felicia was sat beside me, wordless the entire journey. As I looked upon her dour regard, the carriage halted. Shimmering beyond the window now were ornate gates and many sentinels at attention. At last were we arrived at the royal palace, centre of Redelberne, and home of the Londosian Crown.

♰

Ushered through the regal estate, my retinue and I at length entered into its great hall. There, solemn grandeur looked to sigh from the very pillars, the walls, the many inlaid mouldings and more. Lancet windows overlooked from the vaults far, far above, spilling cascades of midlight upon those assembled below.

None were suffered here excepting the highest authorities of Londosius. As evidence, situated in this great hall was the high table, shaped from a long slab of walnut and finished and polished so that it sooner seemed marbled than wooden; and sat along its ponderous length were the realm’s high commanders—the mareschals of Londosius’ knightly Orders.

The Lady Estelle Tiselius of the 1st.

Sir Stefan Cromheim of the 2nd.

Sir Matthias Juholt of the 3rd.

And myself: Emilie Valenius of the 5th.

Seated beside them were each their own retinues of leading officers. Mine was very much the same, with Felicia right at hand. Though as it happened, none of my Owlcranes could accompany me on this day, for their prior commitments were beyond deferral.

“That Brandt,” echoed deep the voice of the Mareschal Juholt. “His seat—stone-cold as ever, I see.”

“I beg you forgive my master, good Mareschal,” said a knight—namely the 4th’s under-mareschal, whose face was flush with embarrassment.

Sir Bo Brandt, Knight Mareschal to the 4th Order. Ever was he the sort to take absence from meetings as this, and today seemed no different—though it be a summons from the Crown of Londosius itself.

And as if on cue, the double doors to this great hall tolled open.

“All rise for Her Royal Highness!” cried the herald, first to enter. At once, we the assembled stood erect from our seats and duly hailed the incoming procession of attendants, officials, guardsmen, standard-bearers…

…and Her Royal Highness herself: the First Princess Serafina Demeter Londosius.

Long was her satin-silver hair and austere were her pearl-grey eyes. With a complexion of delicate nacre, the whole of her appearance was alike to the magnum opus of a master dollmaker, a porcelain figure to define the craft itself.

Glowing from her mien was sagacity, a match for her native excellence and capacity. So much so, in fact, that even at her springtide age of eighteen, the princess had been entrusted by her king father with much of his erstwhile prerogative, and so governed in his stead no few affairs of the realm.

The great stir of footfalls presently calmed. With grace, the princess took her seat at the head of the high table, but soon did much of her royal entourage begin marching their way back out of the great hall, leaving but Her Highness and a scant few others to remain. ‘Twas expected; doubtless matters of strict confidentiality would be discussed hereon.

Once the doors shut with a long echo, the princess looked all along us defenders of her realm. “Pray, sit to your comfort,” she bade, to which we all obliged, as did the man beside her: the lord chancellor of the king’s cabinet. “Your answering our summons during so pressing a time, we thank you for,” said the princess, before turning her eyes to one knight in particular. “And thee more so, Sir Stefan, and withal those that have suffered like pains for this precarious occasion—from far yonder, indeed, have ye travelled.”

“This vassal’s sword is as your own, Your Royal Highness,” Cromheim returned, bowing from his seat. “Through sand or sleet, ever shall its blade brave aught and all to answer your call.”

The knight Sir Stefan Cromheim, mareschal to the 2nd—scarce more than thirty years was his age, though his youthfulness belied those years well, for subtract ten of them, and none would be the wiser. Especially not women; stories abound of their droves charmed straightway by his groomed locks of sunny bistre, mannerisms soft and sophisticated, and other like facets fair to behold. Such, too, belied his worth as a man of the military, for he was accounted far and wide as a rightwise knight, able-armed and just of hand and mind.

Yet his honeyed declaration earned but a faint chuckle from the princess. “…Then by those words,” she said to him, “thou wouldst measure the absent mareschal a truant sword than chivalric steel?”

Answering in Cromheim’s stead was the 4th’s under-mareschal, who fretted in his seat. “Your Royal Highness, if I may—”

“Have ease, good knight,” the princess stayed him. “Know we well thy master’s worth and ways, of how he availeth our realm even to this moment. And that is enough,” she said. “Now shall we hold council. Chancellor?”

“Yes, Highness,” so obliged from beside the princess the Lord Chancellor Hugo Rudels, a stern man nearing six decades in his years. Sweeping a look across the table, he then addressed us all. “As you all have been made aware, we convene today as touching the margravate of Ström. Or more precisely…” he paused, knitting his lips, “…the former lands thereof.”

Graveness darkened further in us all.

That’s right: Ström was lost. No longer was it a margravate. No longer was it even of this realm. No; ‘twas wrested by hands of the Nafílim host. Such we’d known through classified missives sent from Central leading up to this day, but the weight of the chancellor’s words bore no less crushingly upon our shoulders.

And painfully upon my heart.

This very morrow at the royal inn had found me seized by fits of retching and disgorging. Such was my dread for this moment, my brimming anxiety for this council. I’d disappear at once, were I allowed, for I wished not one bit to share a word in this matter, nor give ear to any. This was a topic most anathema, and looking beside me, I was certain the same was so for Felicia, who had hitherto been darkly sat, hushed and downcast.

“From months prior has the fortunes of Balasthea Stronghold been taking turns most fair. And the Nafílim tide that had so broken upon its walls? Quite the opposite,” the chancellor recounted. “To such extent that the Margrave Aaron, Lord of Ström, saw fit to foray into nearby Hensen and herald doom unto that Nafílim nest.”

Balasthea—once a fort ever teetering over the edge of destruction. That its situation was turned ‘round completely was a fact known to every mind in this great hall. And as well, the fact that such was achieved only after a certain man took up the post as its new acting commandant.

“The margrave’s foraying Fiefguard… two thousands strong, they were. But now, two thousands slain,” the Lord Hugo emphasised. “Yes, my good Mareschals. An ill and utter defeat for the score of Man. Half a hand could well-count the survivors, but not a finger may lift even for Balasthea’s best, for verily had all thirty of them, too, joined the foray. Not one whereof has returned.”

Many brows furrowed. No recent memory could recall so arrant a defeat. And certainly no mind could’ve expected the lord of Ström to suffer it, known as he was for his effectivity and long years of keeping the Nafílim at bay.

A host of a hundred score—surely had he scried some glint of victory, to have sent such a number. Yet as all now knew, ‘twas a light as false as ‘twas fatal.

“And alas, the Hensenite hounds ill-sat silent. They marched in vengeance, bending their baleful thought upon Balasthea. And Balasthea they took,” the chancellor went on. “Arbel’s remnant men mustered an immediate answer, to be sure, but in their march from the city gates, they were waylaid, and laid low.”

Uneasy murmurs frothed through the air.

We’d all known the “what” of Ström’s fall, but not so much the “how”. Would that the Fiefguard had barricaded the city instead and stood their ground. Thus surely would a gladder fate have awaited their land. Why, then, had they eschewed the safety of their city? Why risk open battle? Such questions filled our every head. The one to air them at last, however, was the mareschal of the 2nd.

“They had but to sit still and steel their walls,” he said. “What worm was it, I wonder, that had so tempted them from their perch?”

“The worm of cunning, Mareschal Cromheim,” the chancellor answered. “Reports tell of Nafílim snakes spreading lies the night prior, of what but the Fiefguard’s ‘victory’ at Hensen. Yet occupied as it was, Balasthea would have served but a snare against the unknowing ‘victors’ in their return. That was the worm the margrave pecked.”

“Devious, those devil-vermin,” remarked Juholt. “They played the lord’s pride like a puppet, for no better plan had he if delivering his precious men were foremost on his mind. Such is certain!”

The 3rd’s mareschal huffed grimly. A man in his early forties, Juholt’s was a sharp face with deep-set eyes, framed by a grown stubble and a crown of short-sheared hair, both dusk-gold in colour.

For fifteen winters and more has this man served as mareschal. Whether it be of field command or strength of arms, of administering his Order or mastering his temperament, Juholt was as staunch as a bedrock, never to err, never to founder. Indeed, a veritable lynchpin of the realm’s military, he was ever constant and noble in the face of war.

At such a knight the chancellor nodded. “But a plan put to motion nonetheless, to the price of seven hundreds more slain,” the Lord Hugo further revealed. “Already had the margrave lost a hundred scores at Hensen. And so was his hand too hasty, his cards too few—a fate sealed the moment he bit the bait.”

“Were that hand mine, consulting the deck might’ve cut a brighter course,” mused Cromheim. “Mercenaries—some coin for their lot ought’ve bought much breath for the failing Fiefguard, no?”

“The margrave’s was mayhaps very much the same mind, Mareschal,” the chancellor guessed. “As it happened, he had, in fact, sought the service of sellswords, for tarrying then in Ström-land were none other than the Zaharte Battalion.”

Another sea of murmurs stirred amongst us all. Zaharte was a name vociferously known to us, not least to every corner of the kingdom itself. And yet…

“Faith! The lot led by the Östberg siblings!” Juholt cried, smiling. “Young spears, those two, but more keen and quick than their years let on!”

“Old acquaintances, I presume, Mareschal Juholt?” the chancellor asked flatly.

“Indeed. Though but once did we meet, and long ago,” Juholt nodded. “Come, Lord Chancellor. Regale me of their valour.”

“Valour?” The Lord Hugo cocked his brows bitterly. “My dear Mareschal. They are vanquished.”