Atri could feel his heart pounding as he led his horse through the knee-deep water. It was roughly an hour before dawn, and it was a dark, moonless night. He looked up and saw the fires of their own camp downstream and used it to gauge their position. He looked over his shoulder and could make out the shapes of his men and their horses following behind him in a long line. The water was freezing, and it was all he could do to stop his teeth from chattering. Any sound they made could be fatal for all of them.

“Just like the dry runs,” he muttered to himself.

Only this time it was for real. Every sound, a splash of water from someone slipping here, the whinny of a horse discomforted from the tension in the air there, sent his heart racing. Even the night sounds of the insects set his soul on edge. Were they louder than usual? Then they stopped. Was it because of their presence? Would the enemy find that suspicious? Had the enemy marked their dry runs further downstream over the past few nights and prepared an ambush accordingly?

After what felt like an eternity, the ground underfoot began to slope up, and he knew they had reached the far bank at last. His fears of being discovered while crossing the river, where they would be at their most vulnerable, gave way to a new set of fears. Making the crossing undetected was always the easiest part of the plan. His plan. The plan he had concocted and brought before the general.

Unmounted scouts moved forward silently, without needing to be ordered. Everyone here had drilled extensively and knew what to do in their sleep. About twenty minutes later, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Everyone’s here and accounted for, my lord,” Carodin whispered out of the darkness.

The scouts soon returned and reported that all was clear before vanishing in the direction of the river.

“Mount up and get ready for the signal,” Atri ordered.

His men climbed onto their horses and looked east, waiting with bated breath for the sun’s first rays to appear over the horizon.

“I hope the Fourth are in position,” Carodin remarked.

“All we can do is trust them,” Atri replied.

Soon, the sky over the eastern horizon began to colour, signalling the arrival of dawn. Atri waved his men forward with his hand and took the lead. Their pace was slow and measured, both to keep the noise down to preserve the element of surprise for as long as possible, and also to keep their attack in sync with the Fourth Squadron of the Markvist Cavalry.

As the sky continued to brighten, their target came into view. The southern perimeter of the Renfian encampment. A flimsy wooden barricade circled the camp, and a pair of sleepy-looking sentries with their green jackets buttoned up tight were huddled close to a watchfire for warmth, focusing more on it than their surroundings. That would prove to be a fatal mistake.

At his signal, the horsemen increased their speed to a canter and drew their swords. A warning bugle sounded out over the northern side of the camp. It seemed the Fourth had either been spotted or had begun their attack early. Either way, it worked out in Atri’s favour as the sentries turned their heads to see what the commotion was about. They died without ever seeing Atri or his men.

Beyond the fence were numerous white tents pitched in neat rows. Half-dressed men were pouring out of them, some still struggling to get their boots on and others scrambling to ready their weapons.

Atri and his men charged towards them, with the green jacketed men none the wiser. Their attention was directed to the far side of the tent where the warning bugle had sounded out from. Atri was a hundred yards away from the first row of tents when the Renfians noticed them. All too soon, the awful thunder of guns came from Atri’s left. His men screamed and horses whinnied as they were struck. The camp’s defences were now aware of them.

“Forward!” Atri roared without turning around, knowing that their only hope was to begin a melee that would force the musketeers to either hold their fire or risk hitting their own men.

“For Markvist!” Carodin bellowed, raising his sword.

“Markvist!” his men shouted from behind him as they drove into the hapless infantry before them, many of whom were unarmed.

With the melee joined, Atri hacked and slashed at the men around his knees, many of whom were tripping over one another in a mad scramble to escape the enemy cavalry who had appeared in the middle of their camp like something out of a nightmare.

Thunder filled the air again as the musketeers let off another volley. A few horsemen fell, but so did many Renfians.

“That’s fine,” Atri thought grimly, they’ll kill ten of theirs for every one of ours if they fire into the chaos like that.

But he also knew that they were hopelessly outnumbered. The attack would fail even if they killed twenty of theirs for one of his. Only twenty-four thousand soldiers had arrived at the border out of the fifty thousand promised. The Renfians held favourable positions on the opposite bank of the river, and this risky and potentially very costly surprise attack was the only viable strategy anyone could come up with.

This has to work, Atri thought bitterly as he hacked at a man who stabbed at him with the bayonet at the end of his musket. His plan had not been well received by the cavalry commanders. He suspected Captain Novist of the Fourth Squadron had only volunteered to lead the other attack because he felt it was his duty to support the son of his prince. He desperately wanted to look up to see if the main army had made its advance across the bridge but knew that to take his eyes off the battle before him would be fatal. The Renfians were beginning to hold their ground and fight as the element of surprise wore off, and soon, he knew his men would be overwhelmed.

“Circle up!” he cried, as he saw three of his men pulled off their horses to be bludgeoned to death by the horde of enemy infantry around them.

Creating a defensive perimeter would improve their odds against the disorganized infantry around them but would make them vulnerable to musket and cannon fire. However, there was no other option now.

Soon, a circle was formed, and his men had better luck fending off attacks that could only come from in front of them.

Then came the sound he had feared the most. The deep boom of a field gun. Half a moment later, the cannonball crashed through taking out three of his men and twelve Renfian infantrymen.

“Infantry, step aside,” came an order in Renfian, “they are surrounded and have nowhere to go.”

The Renfian infantry disengaged, and Atri looked up to see a cannon pointing at them from a rise that also covered the river crossing. In front of it, fifty musketeers had assembled and were standing in two neat rows with their guns levelled at Atri and his men.

Atri looked up and swallowed, knowing that charging them would be a hopeless prospect.

“Lay down your arms and we will guarantee your lives,” a man who was standing close to the cannon shouted. He was wearing the plumed tricornered hat of a Renfian officer.

Surrender to be ransomed back to his father in shame? Heaven protect him from such indignity, Atri thought bitterly to himself. Where was the main attack? Had General Penolith left them all here to die?

“May I suggest a final charge?” Carodin panted. His tunic was bloodstained, and he was clutching a wound on his chest with one hand and his sword in the other, “show them the valour of the Markvist Cavalry.”

“Forward!” Atri shouted, “for the prince!”

“For the prince!” his men roared, echoing his cry.

The cannon fired as they charged forward landing amongst the men behind Atri. On the rise, the musketeers fired a volley. A shot whizzed past Atri’s ear, and he heard his men fall behind him but didn’t dare turn around. He saw the Renfian officer remonstrate with the front rank as they began reloading as the second row stepped forward and levelled their guns.

Then came a bugle from the far side of the river, behind the Renfian position. Something was happening behind them. The officer pushed aside his men to look while the second rank held fire. The officer quickly began talking animatedly to his men who hurried to rearrange themselves just as a cannon shot landed amongst them, ruining their cannon. Around him, the Renfian infantry stopped to look in the direction of the river.

Atri took the opportunity to look behind him and his heart sank. Only fifteen riders remained with him, all wounded, and their faces set with fatalistic determination. He spotted the fallen form of Carodin in their wake and gritted his teeth. Sixth Squadron had been all but wiped out. No wonder the Renfians barely acknowledged their existence now that a new threat had appeared.

“Hear me men!” he cried, holding back his tears, “though we are battered, we can still contribute to this battle. We will smash into the centre of their camp and soften them up for the main attack!”

“As you say my lord!” the only surviving sergeant and now de facto second in command replied with gusto.

“On me!” Atri led his men on their charge through the confused masses of infantry. Soon, they saw the main barricades built around their end of a broad stone bridge. He recognized the colours of the Third and Fifth Heavy Cavalry leading the charge across. They had already breached the first rank of Renfian soldiers. Nescovian League infantry was hot on their heels. Cannon batteries on the Nescovian side were engaging the Renfian batteries, hindering their firing on the crossing.

“Forward! For Markvist!” Atri shouted, eager to banish the agony of leading so many of his men to their deaths.

“Markvist!” his men shouted as they threw themselves at the backs of the Renfian infantry, dying their green jackets red.

Atri and his men fought with a suicidal frenzy and their addition to the fray only threw the Renfians into further disarray as the heavy cavalry ploughed right through their ranks, scattering them like chaff in the wind.

It was not until he recognized the plumed helmet of a Markvist cavalryman that the red mist cleared from Atri’s brain enough for him to become aware that he was calling his name.

“Lord Atri are you alright?” the man asked.

Atri shook his head to clear it and recognized the man as Baron Vorlitz, commander of the First Squadron of the Markvist Cavalry. They were heavy cavalry, riding massive, armoured chargers. The riders wore heavy steel breastplates and helmets and were armed with swords.

“I…” Atri began and looked around. Any green jacketed soldiers who hadn’t fled were being mercilessly cut down and trampled by Vorlitz’s heavy cavalry, “we…”

“You and your boys did a hell of a job,” Vortlitz said kindly as infantry and cavalry piled forward around them, giving chase to the retreating Renfians, “I dare say you and the Fourth have won us this war.”

Atri nodded, numb to the praise. He knew how important this battle was. They had crossed the river and all that lay between here and the border was rolling hills and with the Renfians in full retreat, it was unlikely that they would have time to set up any defensive positions. Momentum was now in favour of the cavalry heavy Nescovian League. But at what cost? He began looking around desperately for his men and could scarcely find five of them.

“Why don’t you return to the rear?” Vortlitz said compassionately, recognizing the agony on the young commander’s face, “we’ll take things from here.”

“But the battle,” Atri muttered.

“You and your men have done more than your fair share,” Vortlitz said reassuringly, “I’ll be sure to let General Penolith know.”

“And what of the Fourth? Any news from them?” Atri asked. This plan had been his idea and any casualties there would be on his head too.

“I’ll be sure to let you know the moment I find out,” Vortlitz replied. A messenger rode up to the captain and waited patiently for him to finish his discussion.

“Yes?” Vortlitz asked, turning to the messenger.

“Headquarters says the First is to continue its pursuit down the centre and the General wants the commander of the Sixth to report to him,” the messenger said, saluting crisply.

“Understood,” Vortlitz said and turned to Atri, “we can talk more later.”

Atri nodded as the captain of First Squadron rode off. He took a deep breath, and shouted, “men of Sixth Squadron, on me! We are withdrawing!”

He didn’t dare turn around to see how many followed as the Nescovian League infantry parted way for him. Once he crossed the bridge, the lanes they had opened up filled in as they scrambled across, eager to pursue their fleeing foes, and for a chance at the glory and prize money that went with it of claiming an important Renfian head.

Atri sat down tiredly as the booming voice of Margrave Nisteril rose over the general din in the room. The Margrave was in a good mood. After all, his lands had been retaken, and he was now advocating for the League’s forces to cross the border and take more Renfian land. Not that there was much appetite for such a venture amongst his peers, for the Margrave would be the only beneficiary.

“Now we can’t have that,” Kotro said, as he stood over Atri, “you’re the day’s great hero at a victory ball, and you look like you’re attending a funeral.”

Atri raised his head and glared at his brother. He had just found a quiet corner where he could sit down after being forced to wear a smile and thank people for their vacuous praise all evening. He now wanted nothing more than to spend some time alone with his thoughts.

“I’m directly responsible for the deaths of one hundred and eighty-three men, brother,” Atri said icily, “forgive me if I’m not in a very celebratory mood.”

Three men in his Sixth Squadron had survived the assault on the Renfian camp and another thirteen had survived from Fourth. Their captain had fallen leading an assault on a battery of Renfian guns trained on the bridge. It was their sacrifice that had allowed the Nescovian League’s armies to cross the bridge with relatively light casualties. Seizing on the momentum of crushing the enemy camp, the follow-up forces had driven the Renfians all the way back to the border, where they were halted by the defensive line there.

All that had happened the day before, and with their objective achieved, the Nescovian League declared victory. Atri had spent the day trying to think of what to write in his letters of condolence to the families of his fallen men, which was his duty as their commander. The hardest letter to write would be to Carodin’s family. Dame Limas, his wife had always been nice to him and his twelve-year-old son, Astav was looking forward to the day he would be able to serve alongside his father.

Kotro sat next to Atri, bringing him back to the present. Around them, the atmosphere was gay. Men were retelling stories of their gallantry during the battle while women listened eagerly. They had shown the Continent that the Nescovian League was still strong, and their ambitious neighbours would think twice before thinking about setting foot in their lands.

“Sending people to their deaths is how war works,” Kotro said softly, “how many men do you think I’ve sent to their deaths as vice general?”

“My squadron is dead,” Atri replied. He paused to swallow, and tasted bile, “Carodin is dead.”

“Ah Carodin,” Kotro said, filled with melancholy. He had been fond of the old man too, “his loss stings. But he was a soldier, and he gave his life for our House gladly.”

“I regret coming up with that plan,” Atri said bitterly.

Kotro broke into a wry smile. “I suppose you now know why the other commanders were so against it.”

“And I was so adamant for it too,” Atri choked, “I called them blind and cowards.”

“It worked though,” Kotro said, “and our casualties are far lighter than we feared.”

He paused before continuing, “knowing all that, would you push for it again?”

“I don’t know,” Atri admitted, shaking his head. He paused and looked at his brother, “does this mean I’m not suited to leading men in war?”

“There is nothing more dangerous than a commander that does not value the lives of his own men,” came an authoritative voice.

Atri and Kotro leapt to their feet and snapped to attention.

“At ease, gentlemen,” General Penolith said, “Kotro, could you give me a moment alone with your brother?”

“Of course general!” Kotro replied formally. He winked at Atri before walking away.

“How may I help you, general?” Atri ventured once they were alone.

Penolith niv Nevowise appraised Atri for a moment and the younger man wondered if he was in for another lecture. To his surprise, the general patted him on the shoulder.

“I’m man enough to admit I was wrong about you,” he began.

“General?” Atri asked, puzzled.

“My first impression of you was that you would throw the lives of your men away without a second thought if it would bring you personal glory,” the general said, “and my fears were reaffirmed when you proposed that plan of yours.”

“But you approved it in the end,” Atri pointed out.

The general straightened his back and the numerous medals pinned to his breast jingled as he tugged on his jacket to straighten out an imperceptible crease. “That is because even though it was a foolhardy and risky plan, I felt it was worth gambling on.”

The general paused but Atri sensed that he wasn’t done talking and politely waited for him to continue.

“At the same time, it was not something I could in good conscience suggest myself,” Penolith continued, “I am thankful that you came up with it and advocated for it as much as you did. Without you, the battle could well have ended in disaster.”

“Thank you general,” Atri breathed, “that does make me feel a little better.”

Penolith nodded and looked around to make sure no one was in hearing distance. He then rubbed his face and sighed. “I hear you encountered Siarons in Boverlind.”

The question caught Atri off guard. It would not be unusual for him to have his own network of spies but to get word of things so quickly.

“I did, they were a small band but very disciplined,” Atri replied. Then the itch in his mind returned. There was an important clue he had been missing that might hold the answer to what the bandits were doing in the woods.

Penolith nodded gravely. “Do you have any idea what they were after?”

Atri shook his head. “The woods they were hiding in looked unremarkable, and it was in the middle of farmlands. The whole area is plagued with insurrection, but it didn’t seem as though the Siarons were behind it.”

“It’s most vexing, isn’t it?” Penolith sighed, “we deal with a threat from the west and now a new one from the east appears.”

The old general looked tiredly out the window and continued, “I suspect the Fluvians are plotting to bedevil us somehow as well.”

“That’s unlikely, we don’t threaten them on the seas and there is the whole of Renfy between us and them on land,” Atri replied.

There was only one port on a narrow strip of land that connected Greater Gothria to the sea. In fact, most of the seaborne goods destined for Gothria arrived in Renfy, or the Seven Kingdoms of the United Dormands to the north-west, before being transported overland.

“I fear a great war is coming to these lands, young Atri,” the general continued tiredly, “we will need leaders like you to fight them.”

“Your words honour me, general,” Atri said.

The old man patted Atri on the shoulder and walked away, leaving the young man alone in his thoughts for the first time that evening. A Siaron plot? Probably. Then, the clouded puzzle piece from his memory fell into place. They were hiding out in elven woods. Or at least that’s what the villagers said it was. Could that be important? Possibly. Perhaps it was worth bringing up to the general. He scanned the room and saw the old man deep in conversation with Baron Dorsky who had personally led his army of five thousand in battle and thought better of interrupting them with a peasant child’s tale of elvish woods.

He'd wanted to explore the woods on the return trip, but it was in lands hostile to the likes of him and he hadn’t enough men to do so safely. Because he had led them all to their deaths. Carodin was one of them. His melancholy returned and he quaffed a drink offered by a liveried waiter before slumping into a chair.

“You’re a difficult man to get alone.”

Atri looked up to see Doriny smiling down at him. She wore a deep blue dress patterned with flowers and a matching hat. Flowers and jewels were delicately embroidered onto a beige stomacher, and she wore her hair piled high on her head, which was the latest Anisian fashion. Even though the kingdoms were at war, Gothrian high society still took its fashion cues from the Renfian capital. A man wearing a cavalryman’s uniform stood nearby. No doubt a Salani chaperon for it was unacceptable for an unattached young lady to be at such a social event unescorted.

“I must say, all I wanted was a few moments to myself until I saw you, my lady,” Atri said as he got to his feet and bowed.

Doriny curtseyed in response and smiled. “You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“Perhaps I do, lady,” Atri sighed, “I’m surprised to see you all the way out here. The battle only ended yesterday.”

“Oh, father was being hosted by Archduke Stovan in Vindel when we heard the news,” Doriny replied, “it was but a short ride over.”

Atri raised an eyebrow. “Vindel is still over sixty miles from here. You must have ridden like the wind.”

Doriny laughed. There was a pleasing lilt to it that heartened Atri’s weary soul. “It was worth it to pay tribute to our brave soldiers.”

“The duke didn’t come with you?” Atri ventured.

Again came that wonderful laughter. “No,” Doriny said with a twinkle in her eye, “even the duke isn’t so shameless as to appear here when his armies did not.”

Forces from House Haroway never did arrive at the front. There had been interminable delays, and the general staff wondered if they had ever attempted to raise an army in the first place.

She paused and lowered her eyes demurely. “I hear you were one of the heroes of the day.”

“It’s overblown,” Atri shrugged.

Doriny bit her lip at the cold response but recovered quickly. “Have you given my proposal any thought?”

Atri smiled uncomfortably. “I haven’t, truth be told. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“It’s not polite to keep a girl waiting, you know,” Doriny pouted.

Atri stared back at her blankly. He had to admit, she was an attractive young lady from a powerful family. Oftentimes that was more than enough for a noble to get married. That talking to her lifted his spirits was the cherry on the cake.

“Well, it seems my dream of uniting Gothria under our two Houses is in tatters anyway,” Doriny sighed at length. She tossed her hair irritably and shot her chaperon a look. The man dutifully stepped three paces back, and Doriny continued, “the Vetorians are going to surrender their sovereignty and proclaim the Archduke as their emperor.”

Atri’s eyebrows shot up. “He told you that?”

The edge of Doriny’s mouth curled up into a coy smile. “Of course. They want my father’s support.”

“He didn’t give it, did he?” Atri gasped, as his mind raced through the possibilities.

Why wasn’t he approached? Was it above his station? Possibly, or perhaps they wanted to get House Salini on their side against possible Markvist opposition. Either way, this was something outrageous to admit to anyone outside their inner circle. Unless House Salini was part of the Haroway’s inner circle…

“Of course he didn’t,” Doriny laughed, “my father’s no fool. He was noncommittal to their face but in truth, outraged by their brazenness.”

She leaned in to whisper and Atri had to force himself to avert his gaze from her bosom. “That will really set the Continent ablaze, won’t it? The Calfurion Emperor sitting on the Marble Throne once again?”

Atri swallowed. It really would. He had thought it all conjecture himself, but if the Haroways were canvassing support, it was close to being a sure thing.

“The Siarons and the Renfians will not stand idly by if that were to happen,” Atri hissed, “they have to know that this course of action will get them crushed by an alliance of two or more kingdoms the moment the gold laurel is placed on his head!”

“That’s why it’s puzzling, isn’t it?” Doriny remarked. Atri felt a faint pang of disappointment as she straightened herself, “the Archduke needs more than the combined might of Vetory and House Haroway to declare himself emperor of Vetory, and perhaps he has it.”

“Who else could possibly be supporting him?” Atri wondered.

Doriny made a face. “He was tight-lipped about his supporters, but he was confident that those who were opposed would not be a threat.”

“Does he expect the Nescovian League to stand behind him?” Atri asked, “because I can think of more than a few Houses that would march to war with the Renfians or Siarons against House Haroway. Ekestron would probably turn against them as well.”

“Yes yes, any fool knows that they’re inviting the destruction of their House. It is the gilt-edged excuse the Continent has waited centuries for,” Doriny said impatiently, “yet they’re going through with it anyway. They may be many things, but they’re no fools, the Haroways. The Archduke, in particular, is quite the opposite.”

Atri nodded and made a mental note to bring this up with Lepon when they next met. However, it was likely the news would soon get out to the rest of the Continent. No one trusted the Haroways, and every noble house that could afford it had spies reporting their every move.

Doriny took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and drained it irritably. “I fear this entire affair may set a united Gothria back decades. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a Renfian or Siaron plot.”

It was well known that the greatest fear of Renfy and Siaro was a united Gothria, for they were in accord only on the defensive through the Nescovian League. And both knew that the pact was a tenuous one at best, as proven by the latest conflict between the two powers. Keeping Gothria fragmented was the cornerstone of the other continental powers’ foreign policy.

“Bringing the Haroways back to prominence is playing with fire,” Atri mused.

“Well let me just tell you that even though uniting Gothria may no longer be on the cards, I’m still interested in you, Atri niv Markvist,” Doriny said. Her nose crinkled as she broke into a broad smile, “if nothing else, it will show up my sister who thinks she’s done so well marrying a distant relation of the Siaron King.”

Atri smiled in spite of himself. “I must confess that I am interested,” he allowed, “but I need to consult such things with my parents before I will be able to answer you officially.”

Doriny smiled brightly and leaned in to kiss Atri on the cheek. “There,” she said as her grin widened, “that will set the hens a clucking.”

Atri raised an eyebrow.

“Truth be told, I haven’t consulted my parents about this matter either,” Doriny confessed, “now we’ll both have something to tell them.”

Atri fell silent as he spotted Kotro approach them out of the corner of his eye. His face was serious, but the spring in his step belied his excitement.

“Lady Doriny,” Kotro bowed stiffly.

Doriny grinned crookedly as she returned the greeting. “Am I permitted to be privy to what you’re so desperately eager to tell your brother?”

Kotro blanched. “Is it that obvious?”

Atri couldn’t help but grin. “A vice general who can’t keep a secret? That could be fatal to your career.”

“Oh come now, little brother, teasing isn’t your strong point,” Kotro said in mock anger. He glared at Atri and lasted all of five seconds before breaking into a broad smile.

“The Renfians are sending one of their crown princes to negotiate peace terms.”

Atri’s jaw dropped, “That’s huge.”

For the Renfians to offer terms, and to send someone as highly ranked as a crown prince meant that peace would be very much in the Nescovian League’s favour.

“He’ll be here in a few hours,” Kotro beamed.

Atri blinked. That was incredibly quick. The Renfians were in a hurry to discuss terms. Why was that? They should know that the Nescovian League had no desire to pursue them across the border. Had they captured an important prisoner?

“Wait, here?” Atri objected as his mind raced, “they’ve just sacked it. Surely Vindel would be a more suitable place. No one loves signing treaties in lavish surroundings more than the Renfians.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” Kotro said, “we think they’re moving to exclude House Haraway from the negotiations.”

“How curious,” Atri mused, as he stroked his chin.

“The entire brass is going to be there,” Kotro continued, “and you’re invited as well.”

Atri’s eyebrows shot up and he pointed to himself. “Me? I’m just a lowly captain.”

Kotro clapped Atri on the shoulder and gripped it firmly. “You’re the hero of the day. You have every right to be present for the negotiations.”

“And what about me?” Doriny asked hopefully.

Kotro shook his head gravely. “It disappoints me to say this, my lady, but the men in charge won’t feel it suitable for a lady to be in attendance.”

Doriny’s shoulders slumped and Kotro continued, “don’t fret, my lady, I’m sure that my brother will be happy to keep you informed, should he be permitted to.”

“I’m afraid we’re leaving shortly,” Doriny frowned. Then, she took Atri by the arm and led him a few paces away, “write to me. As soon as you are able. Or better yet, come find me. We’re being entertained in Vindel for the next week.”

Atri swallowed. “I’ll try.”

The prince was a tall, slender man dressed in a royal blue riding jacket and black trousers. A crimson sash ran across his chest, and he wore a bicorn hat bearing a single crimson carnation, the symbol of House Caldin. He had an incredible air of nobility about him and dominated the room as he stood amongst the gathered League’s generals and their staff.

The mood in the room was light. The prince had just praised the skill and bravery of the Nescovian League’s army with flowery words and offered an immediate end to hostilities as well as a generous indemnity for their trouble. Even Margrave Nisteril, who had been initially hostile had warmed up to the prince. After all, the greatest portion of the indemnity would go to him.

“However,” Prince Agust de Renfy continued, “our offer does have one condition.”

The jovial mood in the room disappeared in an instant. It was almost dawn and Atri had slept little in the last two days, but he too was suddenly alert. All eyes were on the prince who was second in line to the Renfian throne. He would be an extremely valuable hostage if the negotiations went poorly and everyone, most of all the prince knew it and yet, there was fear in the air at what the condition might be.

“Spit it out then,” Penolith said gruffly. He alone had been unaffected by the celebratory mood of the others and had been cold to the prince since he arrived.

“House Haroway seeks to crown themselves Emperors of the Continent once again,” the prince declared.

The silence was thick. That much was no secret.

“Soon, the kingdoms of Vetory will bend the knee to their new Emperor,” the prince continued, “first they will unite their old base of power under their banner and then attempt to spread their influence through the rest of the Continent. No doubt the lands of Gothria will be their first target.”

Atri studied the faces in the room. It seemed that most were already aware of the developments in their neighbours to the south.

“They will find few if any lords in Gothria who will willingly bend the knee to them again,” Penolith said flatly.

“All Renfy asks for in exchange for peace is this,” Agust de Renfy said formally, “do not interfere with our armies or our lines of supply when we march east to crush Haroway Vetory.”

“And what of the Haroways in Nescovia?” Penolith asked dangerously, “are they to be crushed too?”

“I am aware of your pact of mutual defence,” Agust replied, “any Haroways within the lands of the League are safe, though we must urge you to destroy them, or expel them from the League so that we may deal with them, for the safety of the Continent.”

“Is that why you invaded?” Penolith demanded, “to keep your line of invasion safe?”

Agust nodded. “That is the only reason.”

“Nonsense,” Nisteril spat, “you’ve always coveted Norinvia.”

“It was once part of our great nation, yes,” Agust said, “but Renfy is willing to forsake its claim to that land in exchange for your neutrality in our upcoming war with Haroway Vetory.”

Sweat beaded Atri’s face. It was unprecedented for a nation like Renfy to renounce its claim on so much as a blade of grass if they thought they had the slightest right to it. At the same time, giving them a free hand to conquer Vetory was also dangerous. If they annexed the kingdoms, a powerful foe would emerge on their southern borders, even if the only avenue for an attack was through the southern corridor, the narrow gap between the Lud Forests and the kingdom of Ekestron. Atri wanted to voice his concerns, but at the same time knew that as a junior officer, he had no right to speak amongst such distinguished company.

“Say you do succeed in ‘crushing Haroway Vetory’,” Kotro said, stepping forward, “what happens to then?”

The prince blinked, and Atri blessed his brother for voicing his concern. “Why, we would administer them of course.”

There was an uproar amongst the League’s generals, but General Penolith’s voice cut through, silencing the others. “You can understand why we would find that unacceptable,” he said.

“Then perhaps a joint invasion,” Agust suggested, snapping his fingers as though he’d just of it, “then we could divide the lands up between ourselves.”

“Ekestron would never stand for that,” someone scoffed.

“They will have to grin and bear it,” Agust shot back, “what else can they do against the combined might of Renfy and the Nescovian League? Perhaps this could be the beginning of an alliance that will dominate the Continent.”

Atri could see that few if any present were tempted.

“You are asking us to stand aside while you go to war against an ally,” Penolith remarked. His voice was soft, but there was a dangerous edge to his voice, “what if we say no?”

“Why would you?” Agust asked, furrowing his eyebrows theatrically, “surely no one here wishes to see the Empire return to power?”

The prince paused and examined the room. Hostile eyes glared back at him. “No, of course not,” he continued, “we must nip this attempt to resurrect their Empire in the bud.”

“You make good points,” Kotro said, and Atri blessed his brother’s presence. On top of being a vice general, he was the representative of House Markvist, and just barely had the clout to speak, “the League will discuss House Haroway’s ambitions in private and I dare say no one present is qualified to promise that we will not interfere if you move against the Vetory, who are still presently our allies. If that jeopardizes the peace you offer, then so be it.”

Agust’s hard brown eyes bored into Kotro. “Does the vice general speak for all of you?” he demanded at length, spitting out his rank with distaste.

Margrave Nisteril was about to speak when General Penolith cut him off, “what the vice general says is true. We are but military men and must defer to our political masters to decide on such matters.”

Agust raised an incredulous eyebrow. “So the military of the Nescovian League are but dogs to the politicians.”

He snorted derisively before adding, “it seems I have wasted my time coming here.”

A few of the generals bristled, but an icy glare from Penolith silenced them. He then turned his attention back to the prince. “Tell your father that the Nescovian League has no desire to see the Calfurion Empire return to power. As to your proposal for a joint war against Vetory, you will have to wait for the League to discuss the matter before receiving our reply.”

The corner’s Agust’s lips curled into a sneer. “Fine. For now, then let us agree to a ceasefire.”

“What about the indemnity?” Margrave Nisteril demanded.

“We can discuss that when we discuss what actions we are to take against Vetory,” Agust replied.

“That is acceptable,” Penolith said quickly.

“General!” Nisteril protested.

“Agreeing to a ceasefire is within my authority as the Lord General of the League’s armies,” Penolith said, before turning back to the prince, “have your people draw up the terms and we’ll agree to it today, if possible.”

Agust gestured to one of his valets who stepped forward and handed a scroll to Penolith. Arti had the presence of mind to step forward and take it on the general’s behalf before handing it to him. It would have been seen as a loss of face for the general to take the scroll from a servant’s hand. Penolith read through the agreement quickly but carefully before signing on a small side table.

“There,” he said.

“We’ll be back,” Agust warned, before stalking out of the room with his valets in tow.

Whether ‘we’ was the prince and his entourage or a Renfian army was anyone’s guess and they watched in silence as he left. Once the servants closed the door behind them, the room descended into chaos.