Haron hated looking out from the balcony, but now it had become a necessity.

In the week his scouts spread his missive, a trickle of men and women joined his cause. Most of them were poor, nary a coin in their pockets or meat on their bones. He grumbled at the sight of interlocking ropes of tents, shabby bazaars, and noxious smithy smoke, but also expected it. They had come from all corners of the empire, trusting in his vision.

And he would deliver it with fire and fury. He would retake Ardalsalam, free the king, and rend this pitiful world of mages asunder. For once, Medicalers will learn to respect their enemies.

But first, he needed to handle another issue.

Vera, who stood cross-armed in the shadows, was much less amused. “God give me the strength to listen to your fool’s word. Only a paltry number come to your lands. At this rate, you can hardly fight off unruly mummer princes of your own domain.” She swigged a goblet of wine. "Are you sure this will work?"

Haron shook at the thought. "Give it time. They will all buckle, as they always have. The light numbers matter not. And besides, I cannot be sure of anything; a sure man is a dead man, and I do not plan on dying anytime soon."

"If you hadn't planned on dying, you shouldn't have declared open rebellion. What stops Northrow and the pig-princes from marching up to your gates? Or the smoke-knights from burning your lands?"

"Farmers," Haron replied. "Greed. Birthright."

Vera loosened the grip on her blade. Greed and birthright had been the reasons she came.

Between them was a war table. On it, a paling map of the region. Wooden figurines off to the sides. One, a crown, sat atop the black dot labelled Saffirsalam.

“Besides, they may rebel, but as long as they deliver their wares, we will have what we need.” Haron’s hands were out front, his claws locked together. He left his Marshall’s jacket behind and instead wore a simple hauberk, fitted to his height and shape, the insignia sanded off. “More come every day, and Berios and Bamrell will keep the machine of the Vsil running.”

Barios and Bamrell. The Sword and the Head Quartermaster. Brothers both of a competitive nature, they found themselves in a life debt to Haron. The brothers were Haron’s great champions, and nary would Ardal find a stronger pair than they.

“Ser Barios cannot stop an army on his own. You cannot stop an army on your own. Should she march, the Regent can take Vsil within months.” Vera joined him on the balcony. Her crows’ eyes surveyed the area.

Truly, the loss of Ardalvsil was one of the great blows to the empire. Sitting atop a 380 feet hill and nearly 4 hectares in size, Haron's three-layered castle was a quirk of Ardalian engineering: long magical keeps of copper lined its walls, slits running every side, ceilings pockmarked with holes for hot oil and tar. Though its walls stood imperiously, its gates were wrought of magical steel that bent and warped but never broke. Many had seen it wobble and shake at the punch of a ram during the last war, but the portcullises never splintered or shattered. These very gates gave the castle its name: The Buckler.

The Buckler had a titan of an inner keep, rows of greenhouses and metaled cords, slits and slits and slits and slits - everywhere you went, slits! Every staircase snaked upwards, every battlement watched, every ballista accounted for. Though the Buckler was known for its gates, attackers were wary of its ballistae. Out of all of the Ardalian forts, the Buckler was its most fearsome, covered with the throwers like a porcupine covered in needles. Attached to them were not bolts but canisters of palepowder. And when Haron declared rebellion, he had done so with a vast stock hidden in layers of hearth so plentiful the Commandant could have torched the entire countryside ten times over.

What few Medicalers remained tended to his greenhouses. Despite his waning numbers, the complement was large enough. Enough was all that mattered.

The rest of Vsil was a quiet village, pricks of light shining through night-time windows and streams of playful smoke during long and cold winters. But now, it was growing into a shantytown, cancerous and wild, a net of patchworked tents, wheel-less carriages, and unfamiliar music. And yet, he understood who they were: his people. He could no longer have simply the wherewithal for war but also the temperance for governance.

After all, he needed his people to live; how else would he field his soldiers?

Though he lingered at the balcony, Haron was not watching idly. He waited and was rewarded: a stream of red and blue flashed through his inner bailey, followed by the shouts of his men and the pummeling of hooves. "It is time for counsel," Haron told Vera. "Prepare your best men; swords may swing."

Over the course of an hour, four men, hide-armoured, sweaty, travelling light, trickled into his keep. Each one flashed an insignia of their own, wrought of solid gold. Haron entertained them with wine and food, though it was simple, modest, and brief.

Rat-sensibilities, they all thought. Vermites have not the taste for good food and time.

However, they also noticed Marshall Vera, plated, poleaxe strapped to her back, the deep green sash of the house of Sindaros wrapped around her waist. Though she was much older than them, Vera towered over them all. She nodded to each one, and they nodded to her.

"I've called this meeting because I am a simple creature, and simple creatures do not play games of court and politics." Haron took a deep breath and bowed his head. "I ask for your aid and loyalty in my quest to seek justice against the usurper."

The four men looked at each other. One, a clean-cut man in his forties, sallow-faced and burnt, nodded and placed his insignia on the war table. "You know where I stand, Haron. There is no need to bow, you've saved many of my men before, and I find no other worthy place to be than to bring down Heaven's justice by your side."

"Alsaria, you continue to pamper this old rat, and kindly so!" Haron smiled.

The other three stayed their enthusiasm. One man, almost as tall as Vera, crossed his arms and leaned back. "What stops us from siding with the Regent?"

Haron's answer was quick and simple. "The Regent, Ormadros of the Song Blade." The other two exchanged glances. One was a greasy-haired, pockmarked youngling, the other a clean-shaven, one-eyed man with gaunt cheeks. "Tell me of what campaigns the Regent has won."

"Shayle of Attam does not need to win her campaigns; her generals must." The one-eyed man walked up to the war table, looked at the map, and then set his sights back on Haron. "And if one of those generals should march upon our lands..."

"Sarry, if they are marching on your lands, then they have already cut through the Owmdrach and made Parasson submissive." The four of them stood in shock at the last bit of news. "Oh, yes, I have eyes out of the Arch, that boy sleeps with naught but whores and they are more than willing to aid me." Haron grabbed a few wooden pieces and placed them on the map by the Wentlane. "Gassaria is not yet a trustworthy ally, for he moves allegiance with coin. But, the wolf Parasson is bored with torching Salah and now hungers to sink his fangs into man-meat. Scouts reported that only a small group remain on the eastern front. This, Sarry, Alsaria, Ormadros, Irphonse, is the work of a man regrouping and consolidating his power."

Alsaria placed his finger on the edge of the forest, at the edge of haunted Wraithwoods, the dominion of savage elves. "The Salah move in, take the eastern borders, and they pressure." His fingers trailed over to Witchway, the home of Irwin of Clearfang, and ally to the Regent. "You want the Salah to pressure the eastern front."

"Parasson wants the Salah to pressure the eastern front." Haron smiled. "I want time. You can already feel the morn become sharp: the month of Solitude is coming, and winter will soon sheet this land in ice and snow. Think about it: the Wall is down, so Ardalsalam must, for the first time, feast with need upon its farms." Haron put a few pieces on the southern edges of Ardasalam. "They are stuck between us and Parasson."

"And what's to stop Parasson from taking the lanes down to the capital?" Irphonse, the young man, asked. "Are the Wentlaners more equipped to take Ardalsalam?"

"The Wentlaners will deal with Vendirsalam. The real threat is Keteron, out of Ardalowmeren. Of that," Haron introduced Vera, "Marshall Vera will show that impetuous twerp how common-folk may wage war."

"So why pray do tell, did you ask for our loyalty?" Sarry ran his fingers through his white whiskers. "It seems you have everything planned out for this retaking of the capital, and Bamrell has already hounded my men and badgered me, so why do you seek my vow?"

"I cannot march towards the capital with hyenas at my back. But what if I could march with lions at my side; how fierce and strong! I will reward and repay you once the Vsil is safe and the Regent ousted."

"Parasson and his wench-slayer of a son will already oust the Regent, so would it not be prudent to wait?" Ormradros' eyes were scanning the entire.

Vera shook her head. "We will soon control the only warm-water port. Parasson will not suffer paying us coin. That wolf will not stop marching, he chokes the capital out of its farms, and he knows it. Solitude is soon upon us and Shayle is no logistician. They will go hungry soon, and Parasson will enter its gates, heralded as a saviour with food, wine, and water. And we, the upstarts, will be seen as upstarts still."

"And what if he marches at once? Parasson can take the gates now, his armies have not yet fallen to sickness."

"He controls the farms, and will not risk starving his men through the winter. He will let Shayle rip herself asunder, and then march with strength next spring. And unlike us, he will have to keep an eye on North Ardal at his back."

"But what of the Siralians at our own heels?" Irphonse asked.

Haron pulled out a sigil, porcelain-white, an eight-petalled rose wreathed in thorns. "Of that, we have no fear. I have already sent my nephew as boon to celebrate the fairy's command."

Irphonse was sweating. His face was in his hands. "Dear God, dear God." He knelt and collapsed. "Is this not a road to ruin? Marshall Haron, did you plan this?"

Haron's tiny shoulders fell, his claws on the war table, his snout twitching. "I had planned for this rebellion differently and had hoped I would not need to involve you. But, I had underestimated Parasson's greed, and I will not underestimate it again! So I ask you again, will you march with me?"

Sarry cracked his finger and scratched his head. He helped Irphonse up. "I cannot agree to this. You are a rat ravaged by disease, and I cannot see how you could field an army even to take the capital. The people will not stand for this."

A stifling silence filled the room. Far off noises from the Vsil could be heard. Sarry kept up a fearsome grimace, but not for long. Haron returned to the balcony. He softened his voice and spoke in common-tongue. "Do you know why I call myself Commandant?"

"Longer title?" Ormadros sneered.

"That's nice, but to make a long matter short, a Commandant doesn't need titles. They don't need heirs and lineage, for months and representation." He cast a wicked smile. "They don't need ransom."

Ormadros picked up on it immediately. "Haron, are you not clan head of Grimwracker? Have you given up your Bantat's right?"

"I don't need such trifles in the wake of purpose." Haron leaning against a pillar, Haron grabbed his glaive. "The empire's in chaos, gentlemen. The greed of the Wentlaners'll starve out the city, the Regent will panic, and her allies'll be too busy to deal with me. The need for unity is key and immediate. Fight with me, or fight against me."

"And if I so choose to disobey? How will you gather your forces when they are beleaguered by pox?" Sarry's hand gripped his sword, but he was the only one. He noticed but refused to relent. "You have already committed treason. For what reason would you also want to undo the system that has long given us, including you, purpose? Do you believe that I will allow you, Haron, to step upon the House of Sarry, which has been in these lands longer than your clan has infested mountains?"

"Sarry, your mind's quick and sharp. But understand that I'm a Commandant."

"And what does that have to do with anything? That you have given up your lands and honour to wallow with peasants and drink with criminals?" Sarry turned to Vera. "Come to your senses Vera, he seeks to undo even the lands of Sindaros! Will the Crow Lords not rebel against this fool's promise?"

Vera's crossed arms hid a hand on her pommel. "The destruction of nobility comes with the destruction of lineage. And you know of my station, Sarry. I will let Sindaros die before my brothers pilfer it."

"You'll retain your lands, Sarry." Haron offered. "But you'll be a noble no more and folded into an order of the meek."

"I will march under no banner but mine." Sarry pointed to his insignia, the bear beneath a shield. "This is mine! I have fought and bled and become blind for this, and you seek to undo my birthright!"

"Of course! Birthright's a poison. What matters is true merit! There's no truth in the lineage of mages, and this disease has shown it! Do not make me repeat this: I've given up my lands, I've given up my right to ransom, to Heaven's dictations, to rights of noble court," Haron pointed his claw at Sarry, "and I've given up my right of treatment."

At those words, Sarry bolted from the door. He was immediately stopped by a knight in oily, black armour, without insignia, plated with strips of silvery tin and smelling of juniper. Berios, the Sword.

Sarry turned to Haron. "If you break the right of treatment, you will not be able to curry a single noble to your court, Haron. You have undone your legitimacy as emperor -"

"You misunderstand me again, Sarry!" Haron cackled. "I don't seek the title of emperor or any of your pitiful titles! I seek nothing more than upturning of this vile magical establishment, and what I need is men and women, not nobles!" He grabbed his glaive. "And why should I curry the favour of nobles when we can make a new world without one?"

"You are a mage, Haron." Sarry kept tapping at the badge on his coat. "A mage! Where is your magic's oath?" But when Haron merely shook his head, Sarry's hand turned to fists. "Radan was a fool to have let you out from that cage, for he has not released a rat but a warhound, and now without its master, all it does is bite. May the disease rip you apart, for I will have none of your insanity, and neither will my House!"

Ormadros pulled his blade, but so did Vera. Alsaria stayed still, and Irphonse cowered at the sight. "Let the new world rip me asunder; it has already ripped my men and women. Don't you understand? I already know! This is a plight on mages: Magepox! They call it Magepox! The era of magic is over, and with it, any who sympathize with their slavemasters. The Mandate of Heaven is lost, but it's not lost on a House, but mages themselves."

"You are mad, Haron. How are the rest of you swallowing this?!" Sarry whipped around, but aside from Ormadros, who had now sheathed his blade, the others were on Haron's side. "The House of Sarry will not tolerate this insane notion, and this rat-man will betray you all; he is without honour! How can you trust the words unshackled by noble obligation?!"

"The vision is worth seeing, at least for now." Ormradros nodded. "And in the shadow of mages, I would sooner trust the one who understands small-folk than a concubine shored up in her tower."

"I do not seek the plans of a madman, and I assure you, I will stop you."

"No, you will not." Haron slammed the bottom of his glaive into the ground. "Your son will, but I doubt he has yet to develop his father's mind for war. Berios, capture Sarry and his guard; I will speak to his son. As for the rest of you." He generously placed the wooden figurines on the war table. "We have a war to plan."