The bronze horses, clockwork marvels, pranced into the courtyard, their heads held high, gems and precious metals gleaming on them. They went still, steam blowing from their nostrils, as the carriage driver shut them down.

The carriage was large, thick heavy wood walls and runeglass windows, enchanted and inlaid to resist magic and steel alike. It sat unmoving for a moment, then rocked slightly on the leaf springs before the door opened.

The man who moved from inside the carriage to the dawn lit courtyard was large, towering over the servants that rushed forward to assist him only to be waved away. He had a stern face, lines graven into his skin by years and worries. He had gray at his temples, his black hair cut unfashionably short, and his face was clean shaven despite the fashions of other noblemen. He paused to tug at the cuffs of his jacket, dusting off his forearms as if they were covered by road dust before turning and facing the fountain in the middle of the courtyard.

Elshon stood before the fountain, her orcish razor-sword grounded into the tile in front of her, her hands folded over the end of the pommel. She was dressed in leather pants, a white linen shirt beneath a black leather vest, and heavy marching boots. Her face was grim as she stared at the man who had just left the carriage. The kobold next to her held a spear in both hands, his ears flared out as he watched the carriage and its occupant intently. His exposed scales glittered in the sun, the rest of his body hidden by a leather poncho.

The man sighed, shaking his head, and moved over to stand in front of Elshon.

"I am home, beloved niece," The man said gently.

"Uncle," Elshon said gravely. "Welcome home."

The man sighed again, reaching out and putting his hand on Elshon's shoulder, feeling the implanted war-steel pauldron beneath the shirt. "I see you have set aside your mourning garb," he said gently.

Unshed tears glittered in Elshon's eyes as she looked up at her uncle. "Bashette commanded me. I may not wear them, but my soul is still clad in grief."

The man nodded, ignoring the carriage as the driver moved it past, heading for the stables and storage. He stared down at the young woman in front of him, taking her chin in his hand between his thumb and forefinger.

"I understand, little one," he said softly. "Still, the Six Worlds move on no matter what we personally want," he let go of her and moved past her, the spurs on his boots ringing on the stones of the courtyard. "Come, Elshon, follow."

Elshon nodded, lifting up the naked blade and letting it rest on the pauldron hidden beneath her vest and shirt. She waved for her companion to accompany her then hurried to catch up.

"How did you find the Queen?" Elshon asked gravely.

"By looking in the throne room," The man said, flashing Elshon a grin.

Elshon stopped and stared at her uncle, her eyes wide and mouth open. The man stopped and turned to her, raising one eyebrow.

"What?" He asked simply.

"Uncle," Elshon said, shaking her head. "Be serious."

The man shrugged. "I am being serious. I went to the capitol, entered the throne room, and there she was, sitting on the throne. Who would have thought you'd find a queen sitting on her throne?"

Elshon rolled her eyes. "Any word, then, uncle?"

The man shrugged, slowing down as he headed up the steps toward the large doors at the front of the stone walled manor. "There were words. Also a few numbers. I think I even saw a shape or two."

Elshon stopped and stamped her foot on the ground. "Uncle!"

The man stopped in the doorway, turning and facing her. "What?"

"Be serious."

He frowned at her, staring into her eyes. "What would you have me say, Elshon? That the queen is healthy, and unlike you, wedded, bedded, and swelled with child?"

Elshon opened her mouth to protest and her uncle made a chopping motion with his hand. "How about the fact that the only reason you have shed your mourning clothing is because Bashette ordered it with the authority of House Matron?"

He took a step toward her. "Should I mention that the Queen herself has commanded me to order you to wed? Shall we discuss that?"

Elshon growled and shifted, the blade of the orcish razor sword grinding on the implanted pauldron hidden by cloth. Whitish-blue fire began to sizzle along the blade, scorching the leather and charring the linen cloth. Red fire trickled beneath Elshon's skin, lighting up her throat and the underside of her jaw.

Her uncle reached forward, grabbing the blade, his fingers sliding through the forward groove in the blade before he tightened his grip, stilling the blade. The fire vanished with a crack, sparks shooting from between his fingers as he squeezed the blade. Elshon's knees buckled as her war-fire was snuffed by her uncle's will.

"Shall we discuss that even the Red City Senate has officially discussed your mourning, Elshon?" he asked as the sword made a metallic sound of pain. "Officially discussed what it means for House duRalvden that it's Patron refuses to wed?"

He let go of the blade, turning away. "Every day, every week, every month, that our house goes without an heir the blade thrust into our chest during the civil war slips closer to our hearts."

"I am not a warm belly brood mare," Elshon snarled, straightening up.

"A warm belly would have produced a half dozen heirs by now," The man snapped. "A warm belly would be more use to the house than any of our House has been."

That made her stop. "What?"

Her uncle turned and faced her. "Beshette, Nadrak, you, me, Yarvin, none of us have produced issue. I'm not even sure if Beshette even can produce heirs, her womb may have been scorched when she burned out. You refuse to so much admit you exist blow the neck. Nadrak is too busy consulting with spirits and what her blind eyes can see. Yarvin would be confused and frightened by the bed chamber much less the sight of an unclad woman. The house needs heirs, Elshon, and a warm belly at least would have produced the heirs we so desperately need."

"Then you produce them, Uncle," Elshon snapped.

And suddenly regretted her words.

Her uncle slowly turned and faced her, his face hardening as he slowly drew himself up to his full height. Elshon shuddered at the rage she could see in her uncle's eyes, the brown color draining away from his eyes to replace the iris with cobalt blue that glimmered and gleamed in the sudden shadows that covered his face. The servants, who had been hovering nearby, drew back in sudden fear as the nobleman rolled his shoulders beneath his expensive suit, the sound of metal plates grinding covering their gasps of fear. The door frame creaked as it suddenly bowed outward and the floor groaned as weight pressed down on it. Glass in the doorway snapped and squealed as it cracked and crazed.

"Release me, then," The uncle growled in a terrible low voice, clenching his fists. "Release me from my oaths."

Elshon stepped back, shaking her head. "No," she whispered, sweat prickling her skin. By her side her kobold companion ducked his head to make himself smaller.

"Release me, Bloody Elshon," The man said in a terrible voice as he stepped forward with the creak of unseen metal. "Unbind me. Free me."

Chains rattled and clanked from somewhere beyond Elshon's senses as her uncle stepped forward. She could smell rusted iron and hot blood, the smell of scorched war-steel and the acrid taste of battle-magic. The war-soul she had been bonded to urged her to go down on one knee, to bow her head, to submit to the figure that the war-soul could see wrapped within the man.

Elshon swallowed thickly. "No," she repeated. She stepped back, out of the doorway, as her uncle took another slow step forward, this time the jangle of spurs on stone ringing out as his boots moved on the carpet. The kobold let out a small noise of fear as he laid on the ground, his arms and legs extended. His ears folded up and flipped back to press tightly against the side of his head.

The man's shadow warped and shifted in the hallway, expanding and widening into an flat black and white imprint of an armored figure, bound with heavy chains. Warfire crackled across the carpets, burning the image into the woven rugs of a massive armored figure chained and bound.

"Unbind me from the Queen's chains, Elshon," the man stated. He took another step forward, the sound of dragging chains echoing from far off. "Release me, Bloody Elshon, from these chains forged by blood and duty."

"No," Elshon whispered again, backing away as the seams on the shoulder's of her uncle's suit tore to reveal heavy iron plates engraved with runes of power and protection that began to flicker with an inner light. The cloth rent and tattered, exposing black enamled war-steel covered in war runes that began filling with fire. The symbol of the Iron Legion burned with a silver light on one pectoral plate, the sigil of the Stygian Wave lit with dark red fire upon the other as the runes clashed with one another.

"DALN!" The shout came from deeper in the hallway. Beshette emerged from the shadows, stopping at the edge of the man's shadow. She reached down, wrapping her hands in the shadows of the chains and lifting them from the carpet.

Bashette gritted her teeth and let the arcane burn inside her infuse her burnt out mage-channels as the shadows turned to heavy black iron in her hands, smoking runes glowing with dark red fire graven deeply in the metal. The raw arcane energy filling her poured into the chain as she leaned back, pulling as hard as she could, her tendons standing out as she pulled with more than raw muscle.

Her hands began to drip blood as she pulled on the heavy engraved chains. Blood that was not hers, but instead spilled upon battlefields for over a century by the massive armored figure the chains were welded to.

The chain lifted from the carpet, emerging from the shadows, as the man's suit tore completely away to reveal a massive figure in heavy war-steel armor, his face covered with a mask of unmoving metal carved in a snarling visage. The kobold covered his eyes with his hands out of primal instinct to be unseen, going completely still.

Elshon backed away from the massive armored figure that had replaced her uncle, resisting the urge, the training, to bring her blade into the guard position, instead of shaking her head.

"RELEASE ME!" the figure bellowed, lifting its arms. The roar of battle began to surge, the bellowing of war cries, the shriek of battle magic, the din of steel crashing against steel.

Blood sprayed across Elshon's face, hot and steaming in the morning air, as the figure took another step foward into the dawn's light.

"UNBIND ME!" The figure roared as the chain in Bashette's hands went taut and blood sprayed across the walls of the entrance hallway.

With a surge of arcane burn Beshette pulled hard on the chain, arresting the figure's motion. She wrapped the links around her hands again, poured the arcane burn from within her into the chain, and pulled again.

The armor split down the front, the man emerging from the armor as it slid away like a snake shedding its skin. The armor dissolved into shadows that tattered and wisped away like smoke. The chain in Beshette's grip poured from her hands like water.

The man stood there, dressed in the suit he had been wearing, that had been torn and shredded by the emergence of the armor, the cloth again intact as he stared down at his niece.

Beshette crumpled to the floor, panting, the burning white light fading from beneath her skin.

"Every day," he growled at Elshon before turning away. He walked past the crumpled Bashette, not even looking down. "Every heart beat."

Elshon watched her uncle turn a corner, moving to one of the smaller hallways, and let out a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding. Her kobold companion opened one eye, saw that Daln had vanished into the manor, and let out a sigh of relief. He slowly got up, his ears unfolding and relaxing.

Beshette slowly got to her feet, trembling with exhaustion. She moved out of the entryway, into the warm sunlight, and stared down at Elshon, who was panting heavily and shaking.

"Nicely done, sister mine," Bashette said, putting one hand on Elshon's unmarred shoulder. "You managed to anger the House Titan chained inside of our uncle. What were you thinking?"

"I did not. My temper flared and I spoke without thinking," Elshon admitted. She shuddered and straightened up.

"Yes you did," Beshette said quietly, staring out at the courtyard. She shuddered suddenly, leaning on her little sister's shoulder. Elshon shifted to support Beshette's weight as she felt her older sister's fingers dig into her shoulder.

"The Black Ryder approaches," Beshette said softly, staring at the just risen sun. "I can feel him. I can taste the Singing Wind upon the morning breeze."

Elshon looked up at her elder sister, feeling the war-soul within her thrumming with agreement.

"The Dreaming Titan is close, sister-mine," Bashette said softly. "I can hear his name in the warmth of the morning sun."

She released her sister's shoulder, turning and moving back into the manor, her legs trembling with the effort it took to move under the heavy weight of destiny and fate denied and rewoven. Two of the manservants moved from an alcove, steadying her, supporting her, and helping her further into the manor.

Elshon looked down at the kobold next to her and gave him a wan smile.

"It's early, Talak," she said. "Shall we see just how much of the day I can ruin before dinner? I could roll around in mud like an old hog and then run through the house splattering it on the carpets and artwork, that may be a good start."

Talak huffed his amusement, pointing toward the gate.

Elshon looked to where her companion was pointing.

The gates, closed behind her uncle's carriage, were opening again to reveal a delegation of Phelan gathered up around a Matron's Travel Chair.

"Well, that just figures," Elshon sighed. "It looks like I'll have the chance to make just everything worse for the entire district. By the dead gods, if I really work at it, I might be able to offend every Phaelan living."

Talak just huffed his laughter.