Dark clouds hung ominously from the sky overlooking pastures and farmlands that made quilted patterns on the rolling hills of Nescovia. The pattern was broken up here and there by the towns and villages that dotted the region. Roughly five miles to the north was a small wood. A protected forest, no doubt. Now that the lords had been ousted, Atri wondered how long that would last.

He recalled the words of the eternal ones or elves as they were more commonly known, before they broke off contact with humankind, or so the stories went. No living person had seen an elf for almost a century. Humanity was destructive, they said. This area had once been pristine forests, cut down for farmlands and pastures to feed humanity’s ever-growing numbers. But it was in part due to this destructive nature that humanity now ruled these lands while the elves had stagnated and clung to a small strip of forest to the south.

“We’ll be out of Boverlind soon, thank God,” Carodin grumbled as he rubbed at a stain a rotten tomato had left on the sleeve of his tunic, “we’re protecting these ingrates from a Renfian invasion, and this is the thanks we get?”

“They have figured out who benefits most from keeping the Renfians out,” Atri remarked, suppressing a smile.

His tunic too was hopelessly stained like everyone else’s. His men were riding in tight formation behind them, looking around warily. The reception they had received from the villages they had passed through since Loverto had been icy, to say the least. However, the town they had just left had been downright hostile. It seemed as though everyone, from young urchins to the elderly had turned out in the streets to pelt them with produce.

“I don’t see how you can be so blasé about all this, My Lord,” Carodin sniffed, “insurrection is like a plague, and it will devour us all if it isn’t eradicated soon.”

“Perhaps you forgot what we saw in the Loz Valley,” Atri said gently.

“As if I could,” Carodin replied, turning pale.

The horrors they had witnessed in Baron Lest’s lands still haunted them. Men and women left to starve in boxes, or exposed to the elements in gibbets, live drownings, burnings, all punishments for insurrection or suspicion to commit insurrection, or sedition, or suspected sedition. In some parts the baron’s men were more merciful. There people suffered a quick public hanging or decapitation. Then there was the torture. They had invited Atri to attend a session. He had lasted all of five minutes before excusing himself. Those memories helped Atri and his men stay their hands through the abuses they suffered here in Boverlind.

“My Lords,” one of his officers called as he rode up to them.

“What is it?” Carodin asked irritably.

“We are approaching a village,” the man said, and hesitated.

“Standing orders, lieutenant,” Atri sighed, “keep a tight formation, unless you feel your life is threatened, do not draw weapons. No need to antagonise them.”

“I’d say they’re already fairly antagonised,” Carodin snorted.

“No need to antagonise them any more than they already are,” Atri smiled, “our mission now is to get to Norinvia as quickly as possible.”

“What is it, man?” Carodin demanded, when the officer remained with them instead of returning to the men.

The officer hesitated and looked away. He was a young man, the youngest in the squadron after Atri, and this was to be his first deployment. The man he was replacing had come down with a vague ‘illness’ when the call to arms had gone out. That surprised Atri but not Carodin. He’d said that the war against Renfy was turning into a serious affair, one where men would die in their hundreds if not thousands. Many in the Markvist Cavalry were only there to add military service to their list of honours.

“Out with it then,” Carodin snapped when the man did not answer.

“The men ask… they ask if we could go around the village, through one of the fields instead of through the village,” the officer replied with a small voice.

Atri suppressed a smile. So they had sent this boy as their messenger knowing full well that Carodin would snap his head off. As expected, his second in command’s face turned purple.

“You expect us to slink through these lands like thieves in the night?” he demanded.

“We are Markvist Cavalry,” Atri said, interjecting to spare his young officer the lash of Carodin’s tongue, “we shall ride through the village and show them the pride of the Markvist armies.”

“You are dismissed,” Atri added quickly when he saw that Carodin had more to say.

The officer fled gratefully while Carodin grumbled quietly to himself. Atri made out the words “no backbone and bloody peasants.”

“I don’t know if the men can take much more abuse,” Carodin eventually said out loud, “there may be desertion soon… or violence.”

“It is as you said,” Atri replied, “it won’t be long before we’re in Nescovia.”

As far as reports told, the insurrections had not spread beyond the Boverlind region yet though it was not clear how the Nescovians were keeping order within their borders. Perhaps it would be worth asking them.

“We’re approaching the village,” Carodin warned, “tight formations. Keep your weapons away until ordered otherwise.”

Atri could feel the tension among his men rise as they nudged their horses closer together. The village ahead was a small one. A small collection of thatch topped buildings on either side of a narrow road. There were two buildings with chimneys. A thin trail of smoke rose from one of them despite it being the middle of the day. Probably a blacksmith, Atri mused. He looked over his shoulder at the small castle that stood on top of a hill about two miles away. The lord had vacated it weeks ago after a violent confrontation with a small mob. Even from where he was, he could tell the castle was in poor repair. The lord was probably already destitute and hadn’t the ability to put up any real resistance.

He turned his attention to his more immediate surroundings. There was no one working the fields, which struck him as odd. Wasn’t it time to plough the fields? That was what the peasants in the other places they had been passed were doing, weren’t they? Perhaps they plant different crops here. A boy popped out of a hedge and ran into the road about half a mile ahead. He then spotted Atri and his men and took to his heels in the direction of the village.

“They’ll know we’re coming,” Carodin warned. He then turned to Atri, “perhaps you should drop back to the middle of the formation.”

Atri shook his head. Carodin had suggested this at every settlement since Loverto, and Atri had refused every time. “A cavalry commander’s place is at the head of his men.”

“I did tell you that, didn’t I?” Carodin sighed.

“Repeatedly,” Atri grinned.

“Speed up, men,” Atri called out over his shoulder, “keep it tight.”

He increased speed to a light trot. Best to move quickly, but not so quick that it alarms the villagers, he thought to himself. As they approached the village, he could see that a crowd had already gathered along the edge of the road.

“Steady men,” Atri warned. Something was amiss, but no sense in setting off a tragedy because someone got jumpy.

“This doesn’t look good,” Carodin said, his bushy eyebrows were furrowed with worry.

“They don’t appear to be armed,” Atri observed.

“It could still be a trap,” Carodin’s voice was edged with worry as his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword.

A light drizzle broke out as they drew closer to the village and Atri was soon soaked. Absently, he hoped it would take some of the stench of rotten fruit and vegetables along with it, but quickly forced himself to focus on what was ahead of them. The villagers weren’t dispersing despite the rain, but something else was off about them. Something Atri couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“They’re afraid,” Carodin muttered.

Atri quickly came to the same realization. It was in their eyes. In the places they had passed through before, the people’s eyes had shown hatred and fury. However, here there was only fear.

“What of, though?” Atri wondered out loud.

“Bandits, probably,” Carodin shrugged, “now that the keepers of the peace are gone, those vultures will congregate.”

Carodin snorted derisively before continuing, “maybe that will give them a little appreciation for us.”

Atri pursed his lips. Carodin did have a point. If this region descended into lawlessness, it would become a threat to Markvist’s allies. And what if one of the other nations decided to step in and take advantage of the power vacuum? For now, the rebellious areas only bordered the lands of members of the League and the Lud Elves’ forests to the south.

“It seems it’s in our interests to find out what’s going on here,” Atri announced.

He pulled his horse to a halt in front of the gathered villagers. A wrinkled old man standing at the head of the crowd dropped to his knees. The others followed suit a moment later, while Atri and his men looked bewilderedly at one another.

“My lords,” the old man said, “thank God you have come.”

“Please, stand,” Atri said, as he climbed down from his horse. He heard Carodin cluck his tongue in annoyance and shot him a look.

“What happened here?” Atri asked.

“Terrible things, my lord,” the old man replied, “bandits have made a base in the woods to the north of town.”

“It’s an elvish wood,” one of the boys blurted, “normal people can’t go there, but the bandits can somehow.”

“Hush child,” the boy’s mother said, “don’t go spouting nonsense about elves to his lordship.”

“I saw the woods,” Atri nodded. He winked at the boy and caught a glimpse of the smug look on Carodin’s face in the corner of his eye, “what have they done?”

“They came demanding supplies,” the old man replied, “they beat us if we refuse, and force themselves upon any lady that catches their eye.”

“Why should we help you, eh?” Carodin demanded from atop his horse, “the others have been nothing but hostile to us.”

Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes, “please, you have to help us. We’re good subjects. We’re no rebels, we had nothing to do with throwing Lord Ulrek out. We haven’t arms to do such a thing, which is why we’re defenceless.”

“Why not ask your neighbours for help,” Carodin scoffed, “I thought you peasants had formed a brotherhood or something.”

“We sent an armed party of twenty drawn from men here and the two nearby villages,” the old man sobbed, “not a single one returned. They burned one of the villages down in retaliation. Slaughtered everyone, down to the newborn babes.”

“How long has this been going on for?” Atri ventured.

“About a week,” the old man replied, speaking animatedly, “they must be watching the roads because every messenger we’ve sent asking for help from the places further away has not been heard from again.”

Atri frowned, “and how many bandits are there?”

“That’s just it, we’re not sure,” the man said, “we only ever see four or five, so we thought twenty men would be plenty to deal with them.”

Atri looked at the man who looked back with desperation in his eyes that was echoed by the other villagers, around fifty in all. They looked tired and hungry. One woman had a pair of young children hiding behind her skirts. He then noticed the burned-out husk of a building near the centre of the village.

“That was the tavern,” the old man said, “they burned it down after we sent men after them.”

It was a difficult decision. On one hand, this detour Lepon had suggested was taking more time than he’d anticipated, and there was the fear that General Penolith could be overwhelmed or forced to withdraw further if they tarried any longer. On the other, Atri was not without sympathy towards these people and their plight. He looked to Carodin who shrugged. The look on his face said they made their bed, let them lie in it. His men looked equally apathetic to what was going on. Not that he could blame them, with how they’d been treated thus far.

“We are on an important mission,” Atri began, making his decision, “the Renfians have invaded our western borders, and we are urgently needed there.”

A few of the villagers wailed and one or two cursed angrily before Atri continued, “however, we cannot in good conscience ignore the suffering of the common people before us here.”

He paused to let his words sink in and was heartened to see the hope return to the villagers’ eyes. He could also hear a few murmurs of discontent from his men.

“My lord, I feel it is my place to remind you that time is pressing,” Carodin said, lending his voice to their concerns.

Atri turned around to look at Carodin and grinned. “I recall you saying that it is the noble’s duty to protect the common people.”

Carodin bristled. “And getting ourselves to the border will protect far more people than dealing with bandits here.”

“A day or two’s delay won’t make a difference,” Atri replied confidently, “we will probably be one of the first units to arrive anyway.”

“With respect, that’s all the more reason to make haste,” Carodin pointed out.

“I will take full responsibility,” Atri said, as he climbed onto his horse, “let’s set out.”

Carodin sighed and turned to the men, “you heard the captain. About face, let’s move out.”

“Thank you, sirs,” the gathered people called out as they filed out of the village, “bless you!”

“Now they love us,” Carodin remarked dryly.

“Think of this as an opportunity to win the common people over,” Atri said, as he and Carodin rode to the head of the formation, “we will need the people of this land to pull together if we are to compete with the Renfy and Siaro.”

“They shouldn’t need winning over,” Carodin sniffed, “what is the world coming to? Peasants don’t know their place anymore.”

Atri focused his attention on the woods off to the north. Getting there would take them roughly three hours, and then there would be the actual rooting through the forests for bandits.

“Our men aren’t accustomed to fighting in forests,” Carodin warned, “and they’ll have plenty of time to see us coming and set up an ambush.”

“It will be good training for the men,” Atri said.

“One thing does bother me about all this,” Carodin continued.

Atri sighed, “what is it?”

“I haven’t heard of any bandit bands around these parts,” Carodin replied, “even with the disturbances, there isn’t enough money here to make it worth their while.”

Atri raised an eyebrow and looked around and the rolling fields. “These lands are the region’s breadbasket.”

“That’s just it,” Carodin said, “food’s important when you’re hungry, but there’s been no famine. If I were a bandit, I’d be plundering to the north where the rich free cities are.”

“Maybe they’re hungry,” Atri shrugged.

“Maybe,” Carodin said, not convinced, “it just doesn’t add up.”

Atri frowned and studied the wood. He thought he saw the sunlight reflecting off something metallic within the trees. Then, he saw him. A lone horseman emerged from the woods. Then, fifteen more appeared behind him.

“Men, combat column!” Atri called out.

His men adjusted themselves as best they could on the narrow road. Atri picked up the pace, wanting to close the distance between them quickly.

“It would be unwise to follow them into the woods,” Carodin warned.

“I know,” Atri said, “it is unlikely that they’re common folk. Who could they be?”

“Perhaps nobles cast out of their land?” Carodin offered.

He heard the leader of the group bark out a command though they were too far away to make out what it was. They drew their swords and began riding their horses through a field towards Atri and his men.

“They’re military,” Atri observed, “deserters, or an enemy reconnaissance force?”

Atri frowned. They were in the middle of Gothria. Why would a hostile nation send forces all the way out here? There was nothing but farmland for miles around.

“Perhaps they’re the ones inciting the rebellion,” Carodin mused, watching as their mysterious enemy increased their speed.

“Then why attack the villagers?” Atri wondered out loud. Nothing about this made sense to him.

“Men, prepare to defend yourselves!” Carodin roared. The enemy was a thousand yards away now, with their swords levelled at them.

“They’re really going to attack us with so few?” Atri asked incredulously.

“Perhaps they hope to punch through us and escape,” Carodin offered.

“It would have made more sense to wait for us to enter the woods and escape from another side,” Atri said, shaking his head.

“Perhaps they panicked,” Carodin offered.

“Here they come,” Atri cursed, they would have to figure this out after the battle, “spread out, form a line. Allow none to escape!”

Atri and Carodin fell back with ten men while the others advanced, forming a wide line three deep ahead of them.

Carodin gritted his teeth, “we’re not getting out of this unscathed.”

“It can’t be helped,” Atri said, knowing that the formation he’d chosen would reduce their opponent’s chance of escape, but result in more casualties for his side.

They were four hundred yards apart now. Their leader barked a command and as one, the bandits veered to their left.

“Brace right!” Atri called out.

Atri moved with his ten riders to the right arm of his formation to reinforce it. The right arm fell back while the left arm advanced, ready to envelop the enemy and hit them from the rear once the two bodies of horsemen clashed.

“For House Markvist!” Carodin roared as they were about to clash.

“Markvist!” his men answered.

There was a sickening crunch as horses collided head-on. Men went flying through the air, and the whinny of horses and the screams of men filled the air. Four bandits broke through the line in front of Atri and he spurred his horse forward, severing the arm of an advancing bandit and parrying the blow of a second just in the nick of time. Carodin roared and sent the man’s head flying with a mighty swing of his sword.

The bandits put up a ferocious fight, but they were badly outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed. Only one lived to be taken prisoner.

“They fought like demons,” Carodin panted.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Atri agreed. Even when mortally wounded, their foes had fought to the death. They were only able to take one prisoner, the man whose arm Arti had severed.

“There go more of them!” one of the men shouted.

Atri looked to see a group of ten mounted bandits burst from the eastern edge of the wood, galloping at full tilt east.

“Do we chase them?” Carodin asked.

“No,” Atri said, thinking quickly, “we would have to chase them for days to catch up with them.”

“Agreed,” Carodin nodded and looked back at the men, “we’ve lost seven dead, nine wounded. Some seriously, too.”

Atri looked at his men who went about their work stoically, recovering the dead and treating the wounded. He’d lost sixteen men before the battle had even begun. He wondered if he’d made the correct choice in pursuing these bandits.

“We’ll need to borrow a wagon from the village,” he heard Carodin say, “we travelled light because we wanted to be quick.”

“Send one of the wounded,” Atri said absently and focused his attention on the captured bandit.

“Can he talk?” he asked the soldier bandaging the stump of his arm. Another man stood nearby with his sword drawn, looking happy to kill the man if he showed any sign of resistance.

“He’s not made a peep the whole time we’ve been treating him,” his man replied, “he has to be in incredible pain.”

Atri bent over so that they were eye to eye. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“I have nothing to say to you,” the man replied, “kill me and let us be done with this farce.

The man’s Gothrian was flawless, but there was the slightest hint of an accent. Atri decided to follow a hunch.

“What are Siarons doing in the Gothrian heartland?” Atri demanded in fluent Siaron. Most of the higher nobles spoke Ernaefian and Siaron, and Atri was no exception. He watched the man closely and saw a brief moment of panic which was all the confirmation he needed.

“What gibberish are you spewing?” the man spat, recovering quickly.

So they were Siaron and crack troops at that from the look of it, Atri thought to himself. He looked at the woods and wondered what on earth was going on.

“He’s Siaron?” Carodin asked and followed Atri’s gaze.

“If we had the time, I’d very much like to comb every inch of the forest,” Atri breathed. Now that things had calmed down somewhat, he noticed a strange mist inside the forest.

“I’m afraid we’ve wasted too much time here as it is,” Carodin pointed out.

“You’re right, we must depart at once,” Atri declared.

He looked at the wounded. Those who could walk, four of them were standing at attention to the best of their abilities. Among them was the young officer from earlier. His leg was heavily bandaged, and he was leaning on a makeshift crutch.

“I’ll leave the dead and wounded in your care,” he said to the young man.

“I’m so sorry I got wounded before we even got to our battlefield,” the man replied with tears in his eyes, “I was careless.”

“You did well,” Atri said, “go north through Baron Lest’s lands and report what you saw here to him.”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied, saluting smartly.

“The men are ready,” Carodin announced, “we can depart on your order.”

“Let’s go,” Atri replied and looked back to the young officer, “we’ll talk again back in Gradja. God speed.”

Atri took one last look at the woods and found himself filled with foreboding. He made a mental note of coming back this way on the return trip to thoroughly investigate the area.

“It rubs me the wrong way too, leaving things like this,” Carodin remarked, “but we have no choice.”

“You’re right,” Atri said, “we’ll come back this way after we’ve dealt with the Renfians.”

Carodin nodded. “I agree. The Siarons can’t be up to any good here.”

“I’ll have to inform Listel about this,” Atri said thoughtfully. His eldest brother and heir apparent to the Markvist throne was an ambassador in the Siaron Imperial Court and one of the smartest people Atri knew.

There was a commotion, and Atri turned to see their one-armed prisoner wrestle a sword from one of the men only to be cut down in the scuffle.

“Bloody fanatics,” Carodin gasped, white-faced as they both stared at the now-dead Siaron who lay dying on the ground.

“Men, let’s move out,” Atri said grimly.

It was evening when Atri led his exhausted men over the bridge spanning the Lowash River. On the other side was a small town whose people had come out to greet them. Among them was a middle-aged man wearing colourful clothes made from fine silk. His hat with a brilliant indigo feather stuck in at a jaunty angle. He was flanked by a dozen guards wearing the flamboyant yellow and purple tunics of the Benovite Guards, the household troops of the Haroway Dynasty. They held three-meter long pikes, their traditional weapons as well as more modern muskets slung across their backs.

“Welcome to Nescovia, Earl Atri niv Markvist,” the man said formally, bowing low. He raised his head and grinned revealing two rows of strong white teeth.

“Duke Muscan, this is quite the honour,” Atri blinked as he climbed down from his horse so he could greet the duke as an equal, as protocol demanded.

The duke was from the ruling family of Nescovia, and this town was fairly rural by the region’s standards and miles away from Vindel, the capital.

“It’s the least I could do when I heard that one of the Markvist sons was entering my lands,” the duke replied as he gripped Atri’s hand firmly, “please, allow me to entertain you and your men tonight.”

“It would be an honour,” Atri said, sighing inwardly.

He wanted nothing more than an early night, but when a man of the duke’s stature came to greet you personally, allowing yourself to be entertained for an evening was the least you could do. After all, his family was part of the powerful Haroway Dynasty, and his great aunt was from a branch of the Caldins, the ruling dynasty of Renfy. If Atri recalled his genealogy correctly, she had married into the Gothrian branch of the Haroways after her own family lost a war of succession, which made the rest of the Continent wary of his line, for it held a claim to both the Renfian and Holy Calfurion thrones.

“However, we must leave first thing in the morning, the situation on the western front is quite serious,” Atri added.

“Of course, I understand,” the duke said, “I must praise Markvist’s efficiency. My son will be leading an army west, but unfortunately, they won’t be ready for another three days.”

Atri allowed the duke to lead him into what appeared to be some sort of workshop that had been converted into a ballroom for the evening. Inside, a plush and luxurious carpet patterned with the twin griffons of House Haroway had been laid out over the floor. Out of curiosity, Atri looked to the edges of the room and saw that it was cut perfectly. Workers were scurrying around, setting up fine furniture and all the other preparations for the evening’s feast. The reputation of the Haroway’s for hosting lavishly was well deserved and Atri couldn’t help but be struck by the wastefulness of it all.

“I apologize for the disorder,” Muscan said, and Atri could detect no modesty in his voice, the man was dead serious, “our guest of honour has arrived, and nothing is ready.”

“No, I’m sure you haven’t had much time to prepare. Your people have done an incredible job to get this much done,” Atri said, putting on his best smile. His eyes were drawn to the ceiling where crystal chandeliers hung.

“Lovely, aren’t they?” Muscan asked, following Atri’s gaze.

“Most exquisite,” Atri agreed, admiring the way the light glittered off the countless teardrop shaped crystals.

“They’re made from Anoristian crystal,” Muscan said, as he accepted a drink from a uniformed servant. Atri did the same out of politeness.

Atri tore his gaze from the chandelier and felt he had given enough time over to the interminable pleasantries that etiquette demanded. “We encountered a group of Siaron soldiers earlier today.”

Muscan’s eyebrows soared. “Siarons, this far west? What were they doing?”

“They were lurking in the woods like common bandits,” Atri said, “it was most peculiar.”

Something had been bugging him about the bandits. He felt like he had an important clue about their motives, but tired as he was, could not think of what it might be.

“Perhaps they were deserters,” Muscan mused.

Atri shook his head. “No, their actions were those of elite soldiers on an important secret mission.”

Muscan scoffed. “Forgive me, but what could possibly be important in Boverlind? It’s a backwater in every sense of the word.”

“I don’t know,” Atri replied.

“Until now, Siaro has been content with claiming and subjugating the frozen wastelands to their east,” Muscan frowned, “they boast the largest empire on the Continent, yes, but they can only use about a twentieth of it. I fear their king fancies himself an emperor, and it’s known that he wishes to expand his borders west within his lifetime.”

Lepon often told Atri that Fluvia and Siaro were shaping up to be the next great powers of the Continent. Fluvia with their domination of the seas, and their growing overseas empire and Siaro with their massive lands. It was a view not shared by most of the Gothrian nobility. For now, Fluvia’s armies were not large enough to take on any of the continental powers in a ground war, and Siaro was a largely agrarian kingdom that seemed content on expanding eastward.

“Well, you did well in sending them packing,” Muscan continued, and lowered his voice, “do you suppose they have anything to do with the unrest happening over there?’

“No, they were terrorising the peasants,” Atri said.

“Not really the actions of agents provocateurs,” Muscan agreed, “well, I shall ask my cousins in the Siaron Imperial Court, and let you know if they get back to me.”

“That would be very helpful,” Atri smiled.

House Haroway was intimately involved with the ruling Houses of almost every Continental power, but each branch had its own agenda, and there wasn’t as much unity as in their glory years when the Holy Calfurion Emperor ruled the Continent with an iron fist.

“Duke Muscan,” called a distinguished-looking man wearing a three-piece suit and a bowtie, “Lord Abergist has arrived.”

“Ah, it’s time,” Muscan said and tapped Arti on the elbow, “come greet my guests with me, would you?”

“I would be delighted to,” Arti said, sighing inwardly, knowing it was the duty of the guest of honour.

Atri sank into the plush chair gratefully. He was already exhausted from the battle and from travelling all day before the party started, but now it was all he could do to stop himself from falling asleep. He looked out the small window. It was dark outside, and the party was finally winding down around them. Most of the guests had already left, but the important ones sat with him around a small table in a quiet corner of the room. Duke Muscan was sitting next to him talking animatedly about negotiations with Renfy while Atri listened with half an ear. The gist of it was that the Renfians were determined to regain the territory they lost in the war with the League five years ago and would demand an indemnity on top of that.

“Renfy is growing bolder and more aggressive by the day, and Siaro is always sniffing around looking for an opportunity to grow her borders,” Lord Bastian sniffed, “the Nescovian League needs this battle to be decisive to show our neighbours that we are strong and will not be bullied.”

“That is why I believe the League should push for the restoration of the Calfurion Empire,” Muscan declared.

Atri sat bolt upright. The conversation now had his full attention. “Almost every member of the League would be violently opposed,” he blurted.

“Not if House Markvist leads the push,” Muscan said, “of course House Haroway will put their full support behind the endeavour.”

Of course they would, Atri thought to himself. House Haroway’s decline had been a slow but steady one, and it was no secret they yearned to restore the Empire to its former glory.

“Forgive me, but for all his virtues, I do not think Emperor Dorniver has the charisma or the drive to lead such a movement,” Atri said as delicately as he could.

“That old fool couldn’t lead a dog, never mind an empire,” Muscan spat derisively.

Atri saw Lord Barick’s neck turn purple but held his tongue. The young man was from the emperor’s branch of the family, but even he couldn’t refute such a statement.

“Has House Haroway decided upon a new leader then?” Atri asked as he felt a cold sweat trickle down his cheek.

“Yes, the Archduke, my father,” Muscan said, “the Family Council has decided unanimously that he is the fittest to lead.”

Muscan looked pointedly at Barick when he said the last part, and all the young man could do was smoulder.

“If House Markvist, the bastion of Gothria’s east throws their lot in with us, the most powerful House in the west, we will sandwich the rest of Gothria between us. Then let those who oppose us beware,” Muscan beamed, “first we unite Gothria, then the Continent. Then my father will make House Markvist will the greatest House on the Continent after House Haroway with Greater Gothria as their personal domain. So what say you, son of Markvist?”

Atri forced a smile as the others looked at him. “I’m afraid I hold little sway with my father,” he began uncomfortably.

By most scholars’ estimations, House Haroway’s rule had set the Continent back hundreds of years as they grew more and more corrupt before ultimately collapsing under their own weight, fragmenting the Continent into the numerous states that existed today. The Calfurion Empire left such deep scars over the land, that even if a new, competent emperor were to emerge with a clear vision, and the will to carry it out, he would be bitterly opposed.

To make things worse, there were hushed rumours that the kingdoms of Vetory, which were separated by the Lud Forests to the south of Gothria, were planning to unite under the Calfurion Emperor. This was significant as Calfuria, the largest city-state in Vetory had been the Calfurion Empire’s seat of power. The threat of a resurgence of the Empire would undoubtedly provoke Vetory’s neighbours, Renfy to the west, Siaro to the east and the Darman Empire across the inland sea to the south into war. The fear was that if such a war were to break out, the Haroways in Gothria would use their influence to embroil the Nescovian League in it.

“All you need to do is present our vision to him,” Muscan pressed, “the Continent is the centre of the world, and at present it’s fragmented. If things remain, we will be dominated by either Fluvia, Siaro or both.”

Atri swallowed but could not clear the lump in his throat. “I will present the idea,” he managed to choke at length, “but I can give no guarantees that they will take the proposal seriously.”

“Time is short, and you must press the matter,” Muscan urged, “Renfy invaded because they sensed weakness. Siaro is probably meddling in our lands for the same reason.”

The men seated around him nodded gravely. Atri had told the tale of his encounter with the Siarons at least a dozen times that evening and the gathered men looked deeply concerned. Or was it perhaps a convenient excuse to further their agenda?

“I will do my best,” Atri decided a white lie would be best in this circumstance and wondered how serious they were about installing Archduke Stovan Haroway as Emperor.

He had met the man twice, and he struck Atri as a competent man who was focused on restoring the glory of House Haroway and had pledged to build a strong military to counter the Renfian threat. Could that military be used to attempt to unify Gothria by the sword? Perhaps, but Renfy stood at his back, and if he were to commit to that course of action, it was inconceivable that they would not take advantage.

“Thank you,” Muscan smiled, “I hope to hear from you soon.”

“I hope to bring you good news,” Atri lied, “but first we have the Renfians to deal with.”

Atri yawned, intentionally allowing his tiredness to show.

Muscan smiled. “I only wish I could be there with you on the battlefield, but my father has instructed us to stay behind to command the reserves. He says there will be leaders enough in our western army.”

“Perhaps that is the best use of your talents,” Atri said politely. He looked around the ballroom and saw that only a handful of guests remained. None of his men were present save for Carodin who was chatting with someone near the door. Atri knew his second in command was just as tired as he but was waiting to leave with him.

“Well then gentlemen,” Atri said as he got to his feet, no longer willing to wait for his host to take the hint, “I’ve had a long day and an early start tomorrow so I must excuse myself.”

“Oh but the night is still young,” Muscan protested.

“I’m sorry, but I really must be leaving. I’m almost asleep on my feet as it is,” Atri insisted.

“That’s a shame, we were looking forward to spending more time in your company,” Barick said as he adjusted himself in his seat.

“Perhaps another time,” Atri smiled tiredly, “good evening, gentlemen.”

Knowing it was rude but not caring anymore, Atri walked away without waiting for a response. He tried to process the implications of the Archduke ascending to the Imperial throne and a reborn Calfurion Empire, but his exhausted brain refused to work.