“Dael the Conqueror was the founder of the eponymous kingdom – one of the greatest nations of the Middle Sea, and the largest for sure. His centuries-old legacy still stands to this day, and his many descendants whose bloodlines formed the current Daeli nobility, have always been compelled to carry on their ancestor's dreams of conquest, abruptly ended by an unforeseen tragedy.

-Tarhas, History of the Known World”

* * *

Ezveril

The blurry skylight coming from the high-windows was blinding her yet she kept staring. She could stare as long as it was cloudy, but when the clouds were gone and the sun shined of its brightest rays, she had to face away.

“Err...” said the man who looked up from his canvas and stared at her. “Please keep still, your highness...”

Ezveril grunted and pursed her lips. She then heard her maidservant sigh. “Stop grimacing,” the woman said, and seeing how she kept moving on her seat and playing with her fingers, she reprimanded her once more. “And stop fidgeting!”

“But I'm bored.”

It had been going on for too long. Her back was sore and her bottom ached. Why did she have to stay seated here, getting yelled at every time she blinked or whatever? If the man really was the greatest painter in the kingdom as they said, couldn't he at least make beautiful pictures without a still model?

As if he had read her thoughts, the man put down his palette and scratched his hair. “Shall we take a break? I believe the princess is getting tired.”

You don't say. Ezveril nodded and jumped from her chair.

“She is ten already,” the servant retorted, “she cannot act like a child anymore.” She glared at the maid and was about to turn around and run out of the room, but hesitated and decided to check the painting before. She timidly approached the artist, who simply beamed and stepped aside to let her have a look.

“Why am I smiling? I wasn't smiling!” she squealed, frowning.

“Ah, err... Your highness wouldn't grant me the grace of her smile, so I had to rely on my humble imagination.”

There was a reason she didn't grant him the grace of anything, in fact, but nobody seemed to care about it. She simply pouted and followed her original plan, which was to run out of the room, away from this cursed painting. “Princess, wait!” the maidservant called out, but she wouldn't look back.

At the door stood Hilne clad in her plate armour, and they exchanged awkward glances as the bodyguard moved away from the exit. Ezveril only heard the woman mutter something, and this time she looked back to see her bowing, her neck-length dark hair hiding her face.

Nevertheless, she kept running away, her light footsteps echoing on the marble slabs of the Palace's corridors, blinking back her tears.

She took the large stairs that led out of the tower, to the main keep, and at some point stopped to stare through the windows and watch the knights training in the courtyard. Two of them were sparring under the cheers and applauses of the others – one clad in a black plate, the other in grey steel with a blue and golden cloth wrapped around him.

They wielded maces and iron shields, bashing each other with their weapons, and it went on for some time. Eventually, the knight in black managed to swiftly dodge a swing and went for his opponent's legs in return, tackling him on the ground. He immobilized one of the grey knight's arms with his knee and unsheathed a dagger that he pointed at the man's face through the slit of his helm, therefore achieving victory under the thunderous cheers.

She scoffed, still sour from reasons that had nothing to do with the knights. Hilne could beat the both of them if she wanted to. Hilne could do everything, after all. The female knight was the only woman to ever enter the royal guard, if anyone needed proof of her talent. But never, ever, would she be acclaimed like these two down there. Ezveril knew that.

The black knight offered a hand to help his sparring partner getting on his feet. The latter took his helmet off, revealing him to be duke Reydar Agelien, the crown prince's brother. Ezveril needed not the black knight to show his face to know who he was. The people bellowing his name were more than enough. Darius Neraldes, Darius Neraldes, they screamed. She knew that name. Wasn't he the king's military advisor?

“Princess!” came the servants' voices echoing in the stairs. Ezveril resumed her escape, and went to search for a place where her maids and the damn painter wouldn't be able to find her. As long as the portrait isn't finished, they can't send it!

She ran, and ran, kept running for what could have been ten minutes or an hour. Eventually, she ended up in the royal chambers, where she knew the maids would hesitate to go. The king was grumpy these days, and was prone to bursts of anger for the slightest disturbances. Her grand-father used to be a kind man who loved to play with his royal descendants, but now that he was bedridden, he was very touchy.

The guards bowed when she passed in front of the king's apartments, and for a moment she thought about going in. But she would risk having an empty cup of wine thrown at her if she was to make the slightest sound. If it hits me, I'll have a bruise, though... It could delay the painting. But then again, the maids would probably use make-up to cover it and the painter had no obligation to depict her exactly as she was. He had already painted a smile that wasn't even there, if he was ready to go to such extents, he would surely ignore a mere bruise.

Liars and cheaters, the bunch of them! Ezveril thought, bitter and chafed, as she kept walking deeper and deeper in the royal chambers. They'll never find me.

But then she realized her mistake. The guards saw her, and if the maids asked them where she was, they would surely tell the truth. She turned around and went in the other direction, wanting to avoid being trapped in this floor, when she heard voices in the distance. Already? Fearing the maids, she hid behind the curtains of one of the many windows in the corridors.

“...confirmed the existence and location of the heroes of Atharemine and Xito, at last,” said a masculine, melodious voice. Not one of her servants. Weird.

“Do we know their identities?” That low-pitched voice, she knew – it was her father. She thought about showing herself, but somehow felt compelled to stay hidden.

“Yes, your highness. Xito's is a Callirian girl in the custody of the Blood church, and the Night is a commoner boy who works with priests in the sanctuaries. I'm afraid he is not in Dael anymore, though.”

“Ah, let me guess. He is moving from one sanctuary to another?” The first man grunted as a means of acquiescing. “What else?”

A third voice pitched in. “They are the same age as the others, as your highness surmised.” This one was a hoarse, tired voice. “About thirteen or fourteen, last we heard.”

“They do not pose a military threat as of yet,” the melodious voice added, “but Callir will get more powerful and influential with each year passing, as the news spread. So will the Vierans, now that their chosen has begun to tour their cities...”

The voices passed near Ezveril's curtain, and she held her breath.

“The Sword has also been sighted in the mercenary city of Tehen, I believe? Things are already tense with the kingdom of Paar, we can't have all these city-states showing their fangs too because they got cocky... What of our own asset?”

The man with the hoarse voice cleared his throat. “Ehm... Our champion of Pelirise is still garrisoned at the eastern borders, making an example out of the hostile nomads that roam the plains. The people already speak of him as a saviour of light. He is doing well despite his young age. If... If I may, your highness...”

“Speak, minister Dagheon.” Now that they were walking away, she decided to follow them carefully. Hiding from one curtain to another. Her father was walking between the two others, his ash blonde hair flowing with each step.

The minister, an old man, complied. “If you are worried about the Callirians, I would point out their trade with the Vieran cities. It is where we should strike.”

The melodious voice scoffed. “Do you suggest a blockade? Overly complicated. Can we not simply have the girl die?” Ezveril saw a glimpse of his smug grin and his young face as he mocked the minister.

“No,” Her father replied. “The seers spoke of a coming storm. We cannot risk weakening our enemies by getting rid of their heroes when we don't know what the future holds. And it would only anger the Callirians and give them purpose to track down the assassins. They would ally with the cities of Viera, and perhaps even Paar.”

“Ah... A most wise observation, as expected of the crown prince,” the old man flattered.

The youth stopped and faced the prince. “I have a middle-ground, then,” he said, raising his arm theatrically. “Send assassins, but give them a culprit. Have Vierans do the deed, for instance.”

The crown prince thought for a bit. “...If played well, it would certainly be a blow to the trade between Callir and the other city-states. But what of Xito's hero?”

The grinning man shrugged. “Perhaps she'll live, perhaps she won't. Either way, both sides shall be crippled, and breaking the Vieran's ties to Callir will allow us to retake control of Ocia more easily. It's a risk your highness must be willing to take.”

Ocia... Ezveril frowned. She had heard enough, and now she felt like crying again. “Should we inform his majesty?” one asked, but she stopped following them and the voices faded as she walked away silently.

“No need, father isn't... ...what do you suggest?”

“...make sure to hire... ...it's pointless if they escape...”

“...also use a Vieran intermediary, of course.”

She didn't care anymore about what they were saying. They plotted and schemed and whatnot, and that was all they did. Ezveril wanted no part in it, but none of them would concern themselves with her opinion, not even her own father. Only Hilne cared, but she couldn't do anything.

She turned at a corner and bumped into something hard. “Ah, princess! Apologies.” That voice was the only one she wanted to hear right now.

“Hilne,” she said as she rubbed her stinging forehead and looked up at the knight's face. She was tall, taller than most women, but also prettier than most. The knight kneeled and put a single finger on Ezveril's cheek.

“Why were you weeping, your highness?” She hadn't noticed she was crying. The tears came with a twofold intensity now, and Hilne hugged her against her steel breastplate. It was cold and uncomfortable, yet soothing.

She closed her eyes and put her arms around the knight's neck. “I don't want to go to Ocia...”

“I know, princess,” came the woman's reply after a moment, “but nothing has been decided yet. Perhaps you won't have to, in the end.”

That sounded like a sweet lie. Ezveril knew her father to be a iron-willed man, and so a change of plans was very unlikely to happen. “Am I not fine as long as they don't send the portrait?”

“Your royal father will be angered if this goes on. The regent of Ocia has heard a great deal about your beauty, but she wishes to see the painting before she agrees to marry her son to you. It would be... troubling, if the portrait never came.”

She separated from Hilne and looked down at her feet. “But is it really so important that father has to send me away?”

“You will understand when you're older. Ocia is a key city for the trade between the Middle Sea and the eastern farmlands. It is indeed so important that your father doesn't have a choice but to separate himself from his beloved daughter.”

Ezveril wanted to believe that. She wished so hard she could believe it, yet she couldn't help doubting. What if he was sending her to a foreign city because he didn't love her?

“I don't want to...” she insisted.

“I'll be there with you, my princess.”

“But what about you! I know you don't want to go either. You'll be leaving your friends and family too...”

Hilne gave her a sad but gentle smile. “It is my duty as a royal guard and as a Neraldes, even if I am only from a lesser branch family. My lord uncle doesn't complain when he has to travel the lands with his army. And regardless, I would never leave you by yourself.”

“Really?” She dried her tears.

The knight nodded. “You are my sun, princess. My own Pelirise, if I dare say so, and to hell with the gods and their heroes if it displeases them.” Hearing that, Ezveril giggled.

“Your sun...”

Hilne got to her feet and took a deep breath. “Now, your highness, don't fret. You are the daughter of Arthian Agelien, who will soon become the most powerful man of the Middle Sea – there is no need to be afraid of Ocia and its people. And if the little Vieran lord or his mother are disrespectful to you in any way, I'll slap the life out of them, I swear it on my honour.”