We stood at the edge of the balcony, Vincent’s weighing his body a top the arm guard and myself stood against the glass door behind us. Arms crossed, I watched from above the raving parade. Lines set up at the center road of the town from where rows of people threw an assortment of flowers. The scent lifted all the way up, to the upper sector. Every inch of the city, from the pearly white houses to the beige, almost dirt brown mudhuts below sung praise to the marching soldiers. I grabbed from a tray near us, pouring myself a glass of wine. Vincent waggled his fingers and I passed him the urn. He drank straight from the lip, pouring into his gullet. He burped and set it down.

“That’s unbecoming.” I said.

He chuckled. We observed. I took small sips. Xanthus came down, a dozen men carrying him and his throne down the steps. He sat high, waving his arms. Next to him was a smaller box draped with purple, a pale hand would come out every so often to give gentle gestures to the peasants weeping by the sides.

“And who are they to think us weak?” Xanthus said. “That we would hold our arms as they burned our cities?”

The people screamed. Blacksmiths and tailors and weavers all coming out from their domed workshops, fishermen with scarred and suntanned bodies approaching from the docks.

“It is war they declare? You see this, don’t you? You saw how they burned our soldiers. How they damned them!”

The wailing faded as Xerxes made his way down to the lower caste where the majority of the population was. Somewhere far below, in a circle of peasants at the food of the Capitol. So far down that his voice could no longer reach us. All we could hear was the march of his army as it went down the city in rote fashion. All those fancy, bronzed men with the red plumes out the tops of their helmets. A cape pinned by the Xerxes’ family seal. They came down, fifteen different files of men approaching from each side of the city out to form a large army at the front of the city. The gates were propped open. City guards on horse backs were clearing the doors.

Vincent bit his thumb. It bled.

“I should be down there.” Vincent said.

“We’re mercenaries, it would be an affront for cut throats to stand with the Capitol’s army.”

“I know that.” Vincent said. “It doesn’t make the hurt any easier though.”

“You sure he wasn’t mad about the village?” I asked. “That little speech seems otherwise.”

“Of course he doesn’t care.” Vincent said. “Asmodas was a shitty eye sore to him, he’s probably glad it got torched. Clears the way for his army to march in.”

“For us to march in, you mean.”

Vincent smirked. He wiped his thumb against his cotton trousers and stepped back into the house. A flower passed my face and settled down on the balcony. It was a vacant house, once owned by Nobleman Forkemps. Now recently vacated after a sudden death. Heart attack, that’s what they told us. Though considering he was a…dissenting voice of the war…then…

Nevermind.

I made my way back, staring at the portrait behind Vincent. He was pacing, jug in his hands still. He took sips.

“I shouldn’t get so heated.” He said.

“That’s right.”

“Our time is coming soon. You know that?” He said. “After this siege, there is no way for him to deny me nobility. I’ll settle in this city, find a spot in the senate. Have all of you knighted and then…”

“Then it’s just a slow climb to the top.” I said. “You’ll be general of his army.”

“I will marry his daughter.” Vincent said. “He has one, a young one from his last wife.”

“What about his new one?”

“Cecilia?” Vincent threw his head back. “He’s postponing the wedding until after the war. That’s what he says, the truth is - he doesn’t like her. Xerxes has an addiction to whores, you see.”

“What doesn’t have have an addiction to.” I settled down into a seat. A pristine room it was, stained with puddles of wine and thrown clothes and feathers from a torn pillow. A crazy last few weeks it’d been, dealing with the king’s tantrums. Mostly on Vincent’s part. I sat, sipping the same glass of wine, watching Vincent’s reflection off the marbled floors.

“He likes to drum up the drama, that Xerxes guy.” I said. “When are you going to replace him?”

“Replace him? Please, don’t say it so openly.” Vincent laughed. He drank. He walked over to the picture, Old Man Forkemps there in his fat-self in a watercolored painting. A look of absolute disgust on his face, his two small children below him at each of his arms. His deceased wife behind him, like a phantom watching over. All of them dead now, of course. Vincent took a hard look. A flower rolled in from the doors and struck my leg, clinging to my trousers. I shut the glass panes to the balcony. The noise of clinging armor fading now to a muffle.

“We don’t have any pictures.” Vincent turned. “Did you know that? The Solarus family. We ruled the South, before the civil war. Not a single picture. No one even remembers the family, or maybe they don’t want to.”

“What happened to your nation?”

“Dissolved. There’s about fifteen little countries taking space of what my father claimed his own.” He shook his head. “What a joke.”

“You want to reclaim it. Don’t you?” I asked.

“No. Or maybe better said, not just it.” Vincent said. “You saw those kids, didn’t you? The ones that survived. All those orphans. They’d still be there if we didn’t take them in.”

“And I’m glad you did-”

“That’s not the point.” Vincent said. “Xerxes rules like a fool. He’s ignoring his city in a bid to expand. The canals are rotting away with each wave of water. There is shit littering the streets down in the lower quarters. The people here can barely afford a bag of rice, all of it is being processed and wasted for every stupid feast. This city would be dead if it were not for the institution of war that inspires these dumb citizens.”

“Why don’t you tell the king that? I’m sure he’d love to know what you think of this city.”

“Why waste the breath? The more his people hate him, the easier it’ll be to take it from him. Let the fool kill himself, glory will come to us all the same.”

“You’re really bent on this, aren’t you?” I stood still. The picture behind me emanating some glossy glow from the candle light above, the halo of light dimming around us and focusing on this picture. On this man. On this particular wall.

“Yes.” Vincent said. “I will not go quietly to death. Not like my parents. I will not. Can not. I will see my people resurrected in another nation. I will see my people flourish.”

“Your people? Your people are dead.”

“They will be if I lose focus. My people will live through me, through Kaviria when I claim it my own.” He said. “That way and no other.”

We stood in the quiet, absorbing the muffled sounds of the troops below us. Vincent set down his jug and stood, wobbling a bit. I went over to my hand on his shoulder but he stopped me, stood, then made his way to the door. He stopped in front of it, hand on the door knob.

“If the King’s watch keeps giving you trouble, tell me.” He said.

“They aren’t no trouble at all.” I said. “I’m a very innocent person.”

Vincent chuckled, opened and left.

I sighed and set my glass down, leaning the old wine jug to the lip of my cup. There was nothing left. Funny. I reached into my pants and took out a knife. Not just any knife, but one I had found on one of the mages who had attacked. It was Kavirian steel. Perhaps bought by that old pedophile? Perhaps gotten by…other means.

“I should have asked.” I flipped the knife and tucked it back into my pants.

I wanted an answer to the knife. Wanted to know why it was in the east. Perhaps it was stolen…?

I walked back to the windows, watching the march from inside. The sun bright against me, through the glass panes. Behind me, a room mostly covered in darkness. Curtains all wrangled together, draped and dragging against the marble floor. I crossed my arms and watched the bright bronzed men. The terracotta army approaching down the steps. Horses. Carriages with spears in the center of their axels. Weapons of war; trebuchets, primitive canons smoking with purple wisps out their black abyss holes. Lions on chains, snagging the steel coils taut as they leapt out towards the crowd. Growling, hungry. Whip masters slapping at the floor. Pedals of fire dancing across the sky like autumn fall, the fire-speakers behind, orchestrating their mad song of flame.

Oh, I should have asked about the knife.

But it was a good thing I didn’t. The real answer never would have come to me otherwise.