After fuming for several hours, Duronaht had not yet felt his ire peak at Omonrel, even as he could sense Parlon doing what he could to calm the Emperor’s nerves. However, word over the prior few weeks of what Nethron’s declaration had done had gradually eroded Duronaht’s ability to remain peaceable. Just as he began to at least feel his boiling rage soothe, another messenger arrived in the cramped reception hall at Fort Idrivahn, his makeshift castle away from Zarmand.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” the messenger breathlessly wheezed out. “My greatest pardons, but I…”

“Just hand me the message, boy,” Duronaht grumbled.

Weakly, the messenger extended his arm and placed a sealed letter into the Emperor’s hand.

“Thank you. Now, be off,” the Emperor motioned the boy out.

Once he was left in the hall with only Omonrel and Parlon, he began reading the message. His eyes froze on the second sentence, which read simply, “Lord Feradnor, and the city elders of Zarmand, have declared the city’s allegiance for the angel Nethron.” He couldn’t bring his eyes to move past that cruelest of sentences. He alternated between being furious and being deeply depressed in the mere seconds after receiving that news.

“Zarmand’s declared for Nethron,” Duronaht said despondently. His initial placid tone fell away as he continued, however. He saw Parlon’s eyes flash with rage. “Zarmand has declared for Nethron?! NETHRON?! Hunt him down at once! That fucking traitor! He’s cowering somewhere and… I just can’t… We should swing the army around at once and make an example of Feradnor! Gut him and stretch his bowels across Zarmand’s gates!”

Omonrel nodded sagely while Parlon formed a tilted smirk.

“Your Majesty’s wishes are entirely within reason, given the scale of their treachery.” Omonrel said. “I suggest, however, that we do all that is possible to keep your remaining realms intact until…”

“Until what?!” Duronaht screeched, his throat feeling as though it tore. “How many more reports of desertion from our army must I endure? How many more villages and cities turning away toward Nethron do we need to see?”

Parlon’s face lit up. Spinning and twirling toward Duronaht, he sang just under his breath before standing directly before Duronaht.

“I happened across something useful,” Parlon said with whimsical delight. “I think Myrvaness knows where Nethron is hiding now. Those two have a bond between them. Gorondos told me about it from the time Nethron liberated them from Mount Hetras.”

“If that is the case, perhaps we should send her to find him and discuss how we might forge a better relationship against the common enemy,” Omonrel suggested.

Both angels then looked at the Emperor. Duronaht, however, had barely heard them as he became lost in conflicting thoughts. Despite Nethron’s actions splitting his realms, he dismissed it to an extent because at least as much had come out of his brother’s control. More importantly, however, there was the fact that Nethron’s intervention had so greatly improved Empress Torhess’s life, even probably saving it.

With the Silver Aura’s promise, he also could appreciate the draw to it. The fact that he felt this way so soon after being purely enraged was confusing. The rage returned briefly before once again being overwhelmed by the appeal of being able to, as Nethron said, “conquer death.” However, as Parlon’s eyes locked firmly upon him, the angered voices in his mind again surpassed the more sedate and curious whispers. At one point, he wondered if indeed his thoughts were his own. That doubt, too, was soon destroyed by yet another stream of frenetic thoughts.

“Yes, send Myrvaness,” Duronaht said, his throat roiling in anger. “Should she destroy him wherever he’s hiding, I’ll grant her an entire kingdom of her own!”

Parlon and Omonrel exchanged curious glances. Duronaht wondered what they objected to.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

Omonrel smiled and bowed to the Emperor. Duronaht suspected that the Sculptor still thought there was some chance of bringing Nethron to heel.

“Of course not, Your Imperial Majesty,” the Sculptor said cautiously, his crystalline blue eyes twinkling. “I will communicate your desires to Myrvaness straight away.”

Later that afternoon, Duronaht resolved to settle a longstanding issue in his army’s command. He summoned Ventov, Vildrious, and all of the other marshals to the makeshift throne room he had established in the fortress’s reception hall. One of his marshals, Marshal Wygrand, had succumbed to wounds incurred at the Battle of the Nehal River and no successor for his 9th Army had been chosen despite Grand Marshal Ventov’s insistence that his decision would come shortly. After the disappointing performance of his army at the Nehal River, Duronaht’s patience with Ventov had now entirely expired.

This antipathy did not lessen when he summoned the marshals to his reception hall. Ventov preened, picking dirt off of his tunic and ensuring that the feathers coming out of his plumed helm were all straightened and in the proper color order. The other marshals, including Vildrious, appeared positively frumpy by comparison. This, however, was no longer one of Duronaht’s concerns. Had it been before the commencement of hostilities, he would have appreciated Ventov’s attention to the details of his appearance. After observing battle for the first time, Duronaht now valued efficacy over aesthetics.

“Grand Marshal Ventov,” Duronaht said, motioning his army’s overall commander to advance. Ventov, in a stiff and ceremonial gait, strode forward and bowed gracefully before his emperor. Deferential though his gesture was, Duronaht was unmoved, even grimacing at Ventov’s attempt to ingratiate himself after a disappointing battle. “I’ve decided that now is the time to reorganize the army’s command.”

“Absolutely, Your Imperial Majesty,” Ventov chirped. “I have believed that we need…”

“I wasn’t finished, Grand Marshal,” Duronaht interjected firmly. Ventov seemed to shrink at once, likely understanding where Duronaht’s next words would lead. “I accept my own role for shortcomings in the previous battle, but I’d be lying if I thought we couldn’t do for a change in the army’s overall command. Grand Marshal Ventov, you’ve got a perfectly fine logistical mind, but I don’t believe that you proven yourself to be an effective battle commander.”

Murmuring broke out amongst the marshals while Ventov’s forehead exploded in a sheen of sweat. He managed to avoid making any embarrassing facial expressions, but that wasn’t enough of a disguise. He was terrified. Duronaht knew it. He could feel it.

“Your Imperial Majesty, if there is something you’d like me to explain about the progress of the battle or the war at large, I…” Ventov began with a strong, yet wavering voice. Behind the façade of confidence was a pathetic spectacle, however.

“Oh no, I saw quite enough of that battle to understand it,” Duronaht laughed in dripping contempt. “We were headed for a crushing and irrevocable defeat those three weeks ago. The war would be over right now if your orders had prevailed. Did you want to say something?”

Ventov had motioned as if to complain about the criticisms levied against him, but he failed to follow through. An air of resignation overtook him.

“I’m appointing your Chief Commissary of the Imperial Armies. You’ll doubtlessly do a splendid job keeping our armies supplied in their fights against the Traitor King,” Duronaht asserted, false praise marking his every word. In truth, he was relying on Jagreth and his command of many of the world’s great beasts to keep the army supplied. “You may go now, Marshal Ventov. You shall dispense with including ‘Grand’ in your title. That honor will now go to Marshal Vildrious. Excuse me, Grand Marshal Vildrious. Please step forward.”

Ventov withdrew, sullen and shaking his head. Vildrious, plump, frumpy, and bewildered cautiously stepped forward and dropped to a knee before his Emperor. Duronaht at last recalled that this, rather than bowing, was the true accepted protocol in the Emperor’s presence and greatly appreciated Vildrious reintroducing it without so much as a prompt.

“I… I’m greatly honored Your Imperial Majesty,” Vildrious said. “I promise you that I’ll fulfill your every wish.”

“Do you know why I chose you, Grand Marshal?” Duronaht asked.

Vildrious remained silent, his knee bent and his head pointed toward the floor.

“Please, rise, Grand Marshal,” Duronaht laughed, genuinely amused by Vildrious’s servility. Vildrious rose to his feat, albeit awkwardly and listing like a ship with a hole in its hull. “You, however unlikely it was, proved to be the savior of that battle. Had you not defied your superior’s orders, the battle and the war would’ve been lost in an afternoon. I’d probably be gutting myself in a hole somewhere right now as my broth… the Traitor King closed in on me.”

“I’m sure that Your…” Vildrious began, seemingly blushing.

“No, no. It’s true. I won’t deny it. You saved me and our common cause. In our world’s greatest ever battle, you proved that you are worthy of the trust the angel Myrvaness has placed in you,” Duronaht said. He noted that Vildrious appeared uncomfortable at the thought of crediting Myrvaness. Vildrious wanted to withdraw. That was clear. He felt unworthy, but this was what Duronaht wanted. “The chosen commander of the angels is my chosen commander as well.”

Duronaht rose from his chair and descended the steps to Vildrious, slapping a hand down on each of his new Grand Marshal’s shoulders. He felt Vildrious quiver. He smiled knowing this.

“I’m honored to accept. Hail Emperor Duronaht!” Vildrious meekly turned toward his new subordinates.

They swiftly followed, each trying to beat the other in responding, creating a dissonant rush to applaud their emperor.

“Hail Emperor Duronaht!” they said in delightful dissonance, even the emasculated and drained Ventov, who appeared as though he wanted to cry.

Later that evening, Duronaht retired to his bedchamber where Queen Torhess had waited him, already tucked into bed and writing correspondence on his behalf. She smiled at him, her warm eyes glowing.

“This was a far, far better day than I would’ve thought with the way it began,” Duronaht laughed, sloughing off his chainmail and extensive imperial garb underneath. While warming in the Autumn weather, he found it to be a hideous burden to carry around the full day. He could only imagine what his loyal contingent of Solnahtern endured. He at last was down to his undergarments and flopped down in the quite uncomfortable bed next to his wife. At once, feelings of anxiety and dread left him as she snuggled alongside him. “You heard about Zarmand?”

She nodded as her head lay on his shoulder.

“If I’m honest, I never liked it much,” she giggled. “Crown jewel of the East or not.”

How would I endure anything without her? Duronaht smiled.

“We’ll have it back, but I agree with you. When we win this war, we’ll build a new capital city. Perhaps far to the south. Right along the ocean, overlooking the great Alkors as they lunge across the waves. It’ll certainly be better than those smelly summer fish that rot and stink up all of Zarmand,” he chuckled. “This Nethron annoyance, we’ll clear that up before long. Omonrel’s assured me and…”

“There’s something else that’ll make you happy. I heard just an hour ago,” Torhess interrupted.

“Oh?” Duronaht asked, his imagination running wild with what news she might have heard that he hadn’t. Perhaps some of Rohmhelt’s troops had defected and come across.

“The apothecary was here while you were busy earlier,” she said, before pausing. “We’ll have a son.”

His jaw popped open. Those words seemed ethereal, as though they had floated in from a dream. He rued that some of his first thoughts were of his father and what he would have thought. Emperor Covifaht had long-criticized Duronaht’s attachment to what he thought was a barren minor noblewoman doomed to an early death. Hearing this made him relish those wrathful stabs he’d delivered into his father’s eyes.

“You’re certain? A son?” Duronaht gasped, almost unable to even contemplate what she had told him.

She revealed her belly, clearly beginning to swell, but not so much so as to be that noticeable.

“But, how does he know that it’s boy?”

“When he placed his hand on me, his eyes flashed. I was scared, but then he told me it was a vision through the Auras. He said the soul attached to our child is a man’s, a great man’s. Flowing with great power,” Torhess said, almost transfixed by her own words. “Your line will continue on, ruling these lands for generations, millennia, for all time once this war is won.”

Skepticism still gnawed at him, despite Torhess’s earnest assertions. This was unalloyed triumph. He’d grown distrustful of any news that seemed too positive. However, it was useful, fully true or not. He needed to be sure that Rohmhelt knew of it as he realized his brother would view it as an immediate threat and he might once again attack recklessly. When he placed his own hand on Torhess’s belly, his doubts vanished.

“My love, we’ll rule this world!” he gleefully squealed. “You, me, and our son. With our angelic friends behind us, it’ll be a reign that will never end.”