The Fall

The art of war is of vital importance to the state. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry that can on no account be neglected.

– Sun Tzu

Algrim,

Alvia province, the Capital - Greystones.

07.13.1623 S.T. (The seventh day of the thirteenth month, Aten, of the Year 1623. Symfora Telos.)

...

THE SCREAMS OF BLOODIED BEASTS, the thunderous rasp of iron striking iron, the boom of cannons and the barbarous shouts of war. An inhumane cacophony of noises rang throughout the capital. All around was nothing but a whirlwind of violence, confusion and disorder, a blur of despairing colour and vicious motion.

War.

A bloody brawl ensued as men fought savagely on the cobblestone streets, cutting each other down like scythes on ripe autumn wheat. Their parched, panting tongues collected the dust-choked air which intermixed with the bitterness of iron and copper. Deafening, blood pounded in their ears, drumming to a ferocious beat inside their helmets. Invaders bearing the insignias of Hertalean households had breached the bastioned wall, Maira. With the aid of traitors, they pierced a straight line through to the capital, setting ablaze all that stood in their way, desiring the fall of the Algrian royal castle. The defending Algrian fighters fought back valiantly. The prolonged battles and their heavy weapons had started to take a toll on their mortal forms. But they persisted still, charging forth, fighting to reclaim lost ground, with unyielding spirits in the face of the enemy. Far off in the distance perched on the crownwork of a bastioned fort, a tall man, the commanding duke dressed in a dark, slightly blood-stained suit of armour, watched the battlefield with a detached gaze in his edgy, brown eyes. Upon a majestic black steed, he sat, the late autumn wind blowing through his hair. His gore-sprayed helmet hung cradled in the crook of his arm as thin lines of sweat dripped down his handsome visage, stinging at his eyes like tiny vipers.

"It appears we are still losing ground, Your Majesty," Duke Aden said gruffly, his tone cold and even as he stared at the rising smoke in the distance. “We would not be able to hold the inner wall. It is only a matter of time before those pillaging bastard sons of cuckolds arrive within firing range of the castle.”

By the duke's side sat a younger man—most likely in his late twenties—on a white steed of his own as he gazed out at the battle that lay before him. His Majesty wore a suit of armour wrought of silvery steel polished to a mirror-like gleam over his tall, fairly well-built form. The young sovereign's weary gaze slid from the morbidly picturesque scenery in the distance to face the duke, and then he sighed.

"True," King Leonard replied in agreement. "Though, I never thought it would come to this, brother."

“Neither did I, Your Majesty” The duke replied.

"I have a request to ask of you, Aden."

"Speak your mind, Sire."

A pause. Hesitation. Then another self-deprecating sigh.

"Flee," the king said. "Take my Queen and daughter with you and flee."

"This? Your Majesty-”

"Aden," the king called softly, "please, not now. We are not permitted our usual squabbles and bantering.

“The enemy lurks amidst us seeking my downfall,” he said, glancing at his retainers who have been instructed to stay well out of earshot, a hint of suspicion in his gaze. “It's only a matter of time till the castle falls as well, then nowhere here would be safe. Protect my beloved and daughter in my stead. We are losing this war. If I still have the ancestor's blessings and manage to retain control of the capital, you can return...

"If not, please leave Greystones and protect my family as you would your own."

The young sovereign turned back to face the onslaught with a small, pained smile. His ice-blue irises peered ahead, seeming to have seen through all the vicissitudes of life. A gust of wind blew, tossing his blond hair in the air and for the briefest of moments, time appeared frozen in place.

"This is punishment for my frankly foolish optimism, a tribulation I must face alone, as per my oath and royal obligation," the king sighed. “I see no benefit in dragging those I cherish down along with me. This is for me to face alone.”

Aden stared at the younger man for a few tense moments before nodding, his stoic expression unchanging.

“If this is what you command, your Majesty, then I must comply,” the duke replied, nudging his steed as he turned to leave.

"But remember this, Leonard..." with his back still to the king, Aden spoke again.

"Hmm?" The young king gave a questioning hum without turning to face the duke.

"Stay alive, if you die―"

"Hehe, don't worry I won't,” Leonard chuckled ruefully. ”This sovereign is not so easily slain. Be on your way, brother. May our ancestors be with you."

With that Duke Aden left his liege and sworn brother behind to his fate.

{COS}

Algrim,

Souville province, Duchy of Greenfields.

Duke Aden’s Keep.

11.13.1623 S.T.

...

The muted rays of the late afternoon sun fell upon the body of a young man. He laid on a large bed, lengths of faintly blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his head and lower torso, and a mess of tousled slick obsidian locks framing his pale effeminate face. The young man’s eyelids fluttered briefly for a moment, his eyeballs rolling underneath. A moment passed before his eyes peered open, breaking the hardened seal of their natural secretions to reveal limpid dark irises, still pools black an utterly soulless night, to the world.

James stared at the ceiling, confusion slowly clouding his features, his pupils contracting in doubt.

“M-m'lord?” A voice stammered by his side.

Glancing at the speaker, his eyes met that of a woman in her early thirties standing beside him. The wet towel in her hand was frozen in midair, presumably to wipe down his naked body. Only a plain piece of cloth over his crotch area preserved his decency. Appearing to be a caretaker, the woman had an oval face with average yet friendly facial features. Dressed in a cream-coloured linen dress with a brown tunic that faintly pronounced her mature figure, she gave off a matronly aura. Her light brown hair that fell to her back was hidden partially underneath a cream-coloured simple. Silently they stared at each other for a few moments, the worried expression creasing the maid’s face gradually morphing to one of barely restrained joy.

“M'lord, you have awakened!” The caretaker said again to a confused James. His gaze swept around the room, noticing it was rather modestly decorated. Wooden antique-looking bookshelves, a wooden table and chair, stone walls, an open window framed outside by withering ivy and a few unlit candles. The room felt comfortable, minimalistic and unfamiliar… Before feeling familiar yet again the next moment.

Confusing thoughts. Conflicting emotions.

Curious, James sat up to get a better view. Or at least tried to before a pained groan spilt forth from his chapped lips prompting him to touch the bandages by his waist.

“Careful Levi,” A voice called out from the other side of the room. "Rest easy, your injuries are still healing."

James turned to his left as another person, a man, sitting by the door stood to walk towards him. Handsome and dressed in a dark brown tunic and arming coat, he had a slightly chiselled face, dark brown, almost black hair and green sloe-like eyes that gave him an attention-holding gaze.

“Try not to move too much, lest you stir up your injuries,” the man said.

“What happened to me?” James asked before a memory flashed through his mind along with a wave of various emotions. A bloody brawl, confusion. Spilt gold from a chest, betrayal. Dead bodies with vaguely familiar faces, rage, loathing. An antiquated crossbow not unlike that one from the museum down st. Avers street next to the city hall aimed at another familiar figure, terror. And James himself tumbling down a flight of stairs with pain blossoming from his torso where a bolt impaled him, pain intermixed with relief.

Not waiting for an answer, James asked another.

“Who are you?”

The man’s expression froze, his face turning slightly ashen, before replying. “Young lord, do you not remember me? It is I, Lancelot, your father’s Viscount.”

James paused for a moment before replying

“Lancelot… Lancelot Draagon?” he asked, a memory fell in place.

“Yes, yes,” Lancelot replied, relief appearing on his face.

James turned to face the caretaker by his side, ”Sarah?”

“Yes, m'lord,” she said with a warm smile, her expression also one of relief.

‘But, who am I?’ He asked no one in particular after a brief pause.

Silence befell the room for a few moments as Sarah and Lancelot once more exchanged worried glances.

“Levi, m'lord,” Lancelot ventured. “You are Levi von Greifenburg. Earl of Greenfields, son of Aden von Greifenburg, Duke of Greenfields and Governor of Souville Province.”

“No,” James shook his head, his confusion thickening. “No, I am not.”

Then another memory flashed through his mind. A void, an orb of light… The contractor!

The young man froze.

“I am not dead?” he asked, turning to face Lancelot, his pupils dilating as panic and disbelief flashed through them.

'Am I?'

Disclosable Information

Bastion wall/fort- A bastion fort is a fortification in a style that evolved during the early modern period of gunpowder when the cannon came to dominate the battlefield. It was first seen in the first half a century shortly after the introduction of gunpowder weapons in Verum, Anno.