‘A Proclamation about the dissolving of the Parliament.’

‘Whereas we, for the general good of our Kingdom, caused our high court of Parliament to assemble and meet, by Prorogation on the eleventh month last past, since which time the same has been continued. And although in this time, by the pernicious dispositions of some ill affected persons, we have had sundry just causes of dislike of their obtrusions which beget cessation within common proceedings, yet we resolved with patience to try the utmost, which we the rather did, for that we found in this house a great number of sober and grave persons, well affected to Religion and government and desirous to preserve unity and peace in all parts of Our Kingdom.’

‘And wherefore, by the uniform advice of Our Privy Council, caused sustained meeting of this house until this present day, hoping in the mean time, that a better and more right understanding might be begotten between Us and said members of this House, whereby this Parliament might have a happy end and issue.’

‘It has so happened by the disobedient carriage of those said ill affected persons of this House, that Our proceedings on the issue of warfare were met furthermore with cessation by those that have given themselves over to faction, and to work disturbance to the peace, and good order of Our Kingdom.’

‘To impede Us incorrigibly so draws the tempest, that barrages Our Kingdom’s borders, nearer. Without financial means to incite fealty to Our Union, to raise arms in opposition to foreign foes that seek our conquest, carries hazardous consequences universally, motivated in part in ad-interim political avarice.’

‘And therefore it is Our full, and absolute resolution, to dissolve the same Parliament, whereof we thought good, to give notice unto all the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and to the Knights, Citizens of the Gentry of this present Parliament, and to all others whom it may concern, that they may depart about their needful affairs, without attending any longer here.’

‘God save the King.’

- An excerpt of a proclamation read out before Parliament by Siarad, the Speaker of the House, on behalf of King Brenin, that detailed the dissolving of Parliament. It was a response to the continuous interruptions of Article 5 of financing war against Praeteritum by the Aristocracy and Gentry. It was issued before the Gentry’s response to the Ilwynfen challenge, ceasing the religious polemic, January 1263.

———

“There’s something you’ve been rather vague on, which is your involvement in this fiasco. Despite your justifications, where I find in principle that the action you took was necessary and inevitable, I must remind you that this is my levied army. There are rules and regulations to follow, and it seems that you have circumvented the proper Honnen legal procedures in search of a swift justice. I cannot allow that to go unpunished if that is the case.” Rupert spoke with a tinge of harshness.

“Your reminder is not necessary, Rupert.” Cythraul responded.

“How is it not necessary when 97 of my ranked officers have been executed under your name? I can barely tolerate that you’ve made these decisions while keeping me outside of the know, let alone finding out that you’ve gone against army formality to top it all off! Just think of how it can be spun by the enemies of our Houses. Or even those within our ranks who have withheld their dissent about our alliance. It is certainly not a great look for anyone to have.” Rupert shook his head in frustration, the anger that had been snuffed out began flickering once more.

“You’ve misplaced your concerns, Duke Honnen. You now know what has happened. Now return to the skirmish at hand,” Cythraul replied grimly. “These are not issues that warrant your attention. They are for officers who are more… specialised… at making the morally grey turn into black and white.”

“I would love to do that very much, but this has taken my attention by storm! Your intervention into this case, without my permission, has made it impossible for me to, and in the meanwhile, you refuse to restore my confidence in you. This is not a difficult issue to be solved. Tell me that you followed proper procedures, for God’s sake man!” Rupert demanded with anxiety.

A loud bang resounded, though it was not an explosion from the battlefield. Cythraul’s fist slammed down of the stone parapets, it was echoed by the dull blasts from afar.

“Bah! Your phrasing…” Cythraul spat. “I’ll give you peace of mind. No! I did not act outside of army procedures, for I was not as involved in this scheme as you’ve led yourself to believe.”

“That is not enough to quell even an ounce of my anxiety over this issue. Not only did you just explain how you went about uncovering this scheme, but I also even saw how you commanded justice to be enacted! I don’t believe you to be a liar, Lord Cythraul, but there’s a piece in this puzzle that doesn’t to quite fit. If I don’t solve this correctly, my cousin will hang me from the ceiling for it.” Rupert replied, his back hunched over the stone parapet.

“Hanabl.” Cythraul spoke with a commanding tone, turning around to face towards the girl in the wheelchair. Rupert swivelled on his heel surprised that they were still with them. Then he shivered slightly, being almost blind sighted in remembrance.

“Of course, Sir Cythraul. Lord Rupert, the piece doesn’t fit directly into the puzzle because you’ve misjudged the situation. I was the one who created this scheme to destroy the scab officers. I issued their death warrants.” Hanabl answered, wheeling her chair forward. Loose debris cracked under the weight of the metal wheel. She felt the gazes of everyone turn to face her, and she cowered slightly from their touch. She spoke in a delicate tone.

“Yesterday afternoon, after Cythraul restored my Wick at the northern trainee barracks, he commanded my presence for a task, though he did not specify when he would call upon me again. As he has already explained to you, he set up inquiries into the nepotist faction within the army, and once he acquired the information, he passed onto me the task. He ordered that I come up with a plan to deal with your opposition.” Hanabl explained. At first, she was shrunk back into the chair, but as she spoke longer, she leaned heavily upon the wheelchair’s arms for support.

“But why you?” Rupert asked, his tone tinged with surprise.

“Hanabl is to be your advisor. Your shadow really. She is to take upon part of this role that I have unintentionally acquired of recent.” Cythraul replied, folding his arms under his chest. He continued.

“Since I found out the effects of your laissez-faire attitude, I’ve known that if it caught up to you, you’d be beaten black and blue. I mentioned a method for you to avoid politics, and this was it. To rear you some protection. Someone with enough power they’d be able to nip your problems in the bud while you play knight. For even Morrigan not to do this surprised me. I thought she’d be wise enough to place someone to watch over you, her dim-witted cousin.”

Rupert turned away from the group, hunching over the parapet once more. His eyes were trained upon the battlefield, though he didn’t see it. He was ensnared by his thoughts. They were chaotic and in disarray. He couldn’t seem to keep up with all the twists and turns that were taken outside of his knowledge.

Apart of him was still furious that they circumvented his power, though by now the majority of him had begrudgingly accepted their criticisms of his leadership. He recognised that while it was lacking, it still wasn’t fair. How could he be required to keep up with these plots when all he was meant to do was lead his army? To ensure that they defeated the enemy and held back the onslaught from ravaging Cymorth without too many casualties.

But he was learning. He made a mistake, but that was a fault of a lack of knowledge. He would not stagnate and nor would he fall back. He knew what to do going forth and he would not cower from it.

His eyes gained focus and he moved his attention from his mind to the state of the battlefield. He saw fountains of fire geyser into the sky, spraying their molten embers onto the long-dried earth.

His soldiers were quite active, their small distant figures formed long lines that were marching away from the star fort, upon the stone plateaus, towards the tents in the distance. The kill squads were being sent out to destroy the remnants of the Berserker brigade.

“Hanabl,” Rupert broke the silence after turning around. “Who gave you permission to execute the 96 officers?”

“Marquis Modau, Lord Rupert. He has been involved in our planning since the beginning, and when we provided enough evidence for the officers to be convicted, he permitted their execution. He justified it by stating that as they were already going to be put to death, to make way for the promotion of the trainee officers, so some formal procedures could be ignored.”

“I’d like to see that evidence myself,” Rupert shook his head in frustration. “For the love of God, did you bypass the judiciary process?”

“A judge provided us a warrant for their execution. The scab officers, supported by the nepotist faction, had been tried before tribunals in the past, but some judges had stated that the trials proved to be unfair. They had already enough evidence to convict them of court martial many a times in the past, but due to a lack of support, or fear of reprisal from not knowing whether they’d be provided enough support to survive the ruling unscathed, they chose to acquit them.” Hanabl explained. Her hand had turned white from gripping the chair’s arm tightly, her fingers curled in cruel contortions around its sides.

“What? Why would they think they lacked support? That doesn’t make any sense.” Rupert exclaimed; his voice raised in shock.

“To prevent a fair trial, while the judges themselves weren’t directly hurt, their families were targeted. Ultimately, they were racketeered. Members of their families were killed, maimed, raped, or harassed, until the judges were forced to deliver a false justice to save the innocent. The nepotist factions covered it up, using their power to quell the cries for justice.” Hanabl replied through clenched teeth.

“Burn me!” Rupert punched the parapet in anger. This was not tolerable, and nor would he tolerate it. “We cannot let the nepotists get away with this!”

“Soon, Rupert. Plans are in motion to deal with them. Some of those wretches are already undergoing their punishment. That will be left to Cyffre and Hanabl to deal with, though,” Cythraul said. “Finally, we end with Arian. What do you want to know?”

“You’ve covered all bases, it seems. At least it can’t be spun against us.” Rupert muttered to himself, a deep routed weariness setting in. “Fine, tell me about Marquis Arian.”

“We got evidence of his betrayal, which initiated the arrest,” Hanabl explained. “He was ordered to be court-martialled, then was taken to the walls. He then admitted guilt before Honnen ranked officers, who decided among themselves to execute him. They performed it themselves, we have no involvement in his death. If anything, the officers hold collective responsibility over his death, it can’t fall unto us.”

“Thank you, Hanabl.” Rupert nodded; his face evidently tired.

“With your trust restored, I will be leaving.” Cythraul’s voice resounded from behind him.

“What? Where are you going? Don’t you need medical assistance?” Rupert turned to see him walking away. He called out after him.

“I have already received it. I no longer hold any critical or sustaining injuries. That is enough for me now. Similarly, I’ve replenished my Malevolent reserves, and I shan’t stay any longer than necessary,” Cythraul paused, then turned sterner. “Rupert, I believe that you are better suited to be a knight, not a general. Once your duty here concludes, return to be such.”

“Why?” Rupert asked.

“This isn’t a new assessment of mine, and it shouldn’t be to you either. We, humans, are limited in time. For a currency as fickle as it, we should spend it wisely. Success isn’t always guaranteed. But I promise you, nothing is to be gained here for you. Don’t waste your talent, Rupert.” Cythraul reprimanded, or what Rupert saw as reprimanded, himself.

“I do not agree,” Rupert shook his head and hints of indignation trickled through. “Maybe in time I will, but I don’t think I’ll be proven wrong.”

“We will see,” Cythraul sighed in response. “I have resolved most of your political issues, and Hanabl will conclude the rest in my stead. If you are wise, you will pledge Marquis Arian’s reserves to her, using the Officer’s Betrayal as justification to take power away from the army and restore its natural hierarchy. I also pledge the remnants of the Berserker Marquis to her as well. She needs real power if she is to support you, and ultimately the survival of Cymorth’s Frontier. Think of Cyffre too.”

Rupert nodded in response, pausing for a moment. He stepped towards Cythraul, holding out his hand.

“Goodbye Cythraul. I hope to see you once I return to Pentref next year.” Cythraul clenched his hand. There was a subtle fondness, as well as respect, that passed between the two men despite their final difficulties.

“You too, boy.” Cythraul strode away along the walls, descending the staircase. Rupert lost sight of him as Cythraul disappeared into the streets of the star fortress.

He felt someone tug at his hand, and he turned around once more.

“Greetings, Lord Rupert. Please allow me to reintroduce myself. I am Hanabl Cadarn Honnen.” She gave a half bow from her seat.

“Thank you, Hanabl. Though, I thought you were called Hanabl Cadarn, not a Honnen.” Rupert’s expression turned strange towards the end.

“That was once true, but I was born a Honnen. I rescinded my name as a Honnen after the family betrayed me. After I was made into this,” Hanabl pointed towards her legs, and then her heart. “After it happened, I changed my surname to that of my father’s, Cadarn. That was until yesterday, when members of the very family that took more than they gave, gave back to me. I have not forgiven the Honnen’s for what they have done to me. But I place my trust in them, in you, once more for the retribution you enabled me to deal out to those who sinned against me. That is why I will keep both surnames now.”

“I am sorry for your treatment,” Rupert paused. “It was a result of my inactivity and incompetence. I am a general… a knight… not a politician. This was a situation outside of my reach, and you were burned because of it.”

“And it is part of my firm resolve to make sure that it cannot happen again. I have proven myself worthy to Cythraul, for he chose me to replace him. I shall seek to eradicate any political elements within the army, so that it enables you to lead as a general without distraction.” Hanabl responded.

Rupert noted that she did not accept his apology, but it wasn’t for him to judge. It would be impossible for him to understand how she felt about the Honnen family and army, though they shared a similar hatred towards the perpetrators. But that was only hatred, not pain, not sadness, not her suffering.

He turned once more to face out towards the battlefield. Fires raged across the flatlands, though they were slowly weakening from the winter winds that buffeted against them. A small line of soldiers was returning to the star fort, though the vast majority were still out hunting in the distant planes.

The soldiers were trailed by weak figures that were strung in a line by chains, stumbling as they were dragged and yanked forwards. They were those who were captured as prisoners of war, and they soon reached the outside walls.

He watched as the soldiers pushed the prisoners of war onto the nearest stone plateau, pikes and swords were pressed against their backs, and they ascended onto the walkways. They were forced to walk the ladders into the star fortress and were led away by those that guarded the bastion walls.

The captives had been stripped of their Channeler’s weapons, and their arms and legs were cuffed by manacles. Metal chains linked them together by a single line, passing over to the man or woman that stood before them. The soldiers that commanded lines kept a tight grasp on the iron chains, their hands clenching as if as soon as they let go, the prisoners would disappear.

Rupert heard sonorous reverberations behind him. It was the sound of boots marching against stone. The Hepa legion had seized the fruits from triumph’s boughs and returned victorious in their skirmish with the Praeteritum brigade.

Cheers erupted from the buildings surrounding the streets. Civilian’s left their houses, or waved from windows, to welcome their defender’s home. The cries of joy took a sudden shift, with boos and jeers taking over. They were towards the losers, the prisoners of war. Those who took the lives of their mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, brothers, and sisters.

“It is time we go.” Rupert announced, turning his back on the battlefield, and striding to the staircase. Cyffre and Hanabl followed behind, the creaking of the wheels silenced by the din from the streets.

They both helped Hanabl descend the stairs onto the street and untied their warhorses and the Earl prisoner of war. She sat slumped against the interior fortress walls, unresponsive. Rupert took control of her leash once more, wrapping the links of fire around his hand. They glowed softly like embers, but they were not hot.

Rupert flicked his horse’s reins, pulling the chain and the Berserker forth, and his warhorse set off to the strategic division to declare the end of the skirmish.

Morning light crept across the battlefield. The real sun had finally broken passed the horizon. The poignant misery of dawn was unveiled with daybreak, sobering soldiers, officers, and civilians alike. The once hanging flare had afflicted all with a drunken bloodlust making the fort’s defenders unaware of the salient. That their friends and family might not return to the living ever again. That they would have to tally the butcher’s toll, and find what the fee was.

The dawn light illumined the grotesque and macabre warfare of the night. Bodies lay, some severed and disfigured, others whole. Some within exploded craters, yet others in ditches. Some drowned in the moat, others crushed under debris inside the tunnels. The only survivors of the enemy were enslaved. The rest released into the freedom of death.

———

A whip cracked down against already broken flesh. Blood coagulated only to be blown away by the force of leather against skin. The cut formed slowly, opening to the dank cellar air like that of a blooming rose.

Its blood trickled up their back like crystalline tear drops reaching their neck, then it flowed slowly into their long, brown hair. They dripped from the matted hair into a crimson pool that coalesced on the mossy cobble floor, beneath their head.

A cockroach scuttled out from within the cracks and crevices, and the green jungle that grew within, into the pool. As it began to swim with the tortured’s blood, a damaged black boot crushed it with a single step. A crack resounded once more as the whip lacerated flesh.

A man dressed in white, his clothes incongruous to the setting as they were still in pristine condition, held the whip. He was the Honnen torturer, tasked by the duke himself with making the Earl prisoner of war speak.

He had a lot of tasks over the forth-coming weeks, but this excited him the most, for now. Despite the array of nobles and aristocrats that would pass through his chambers, and be caressed by his instruments, they didn’t hold a candle to the torch that was an exotic version of them. A Praeteritum Countess and Earl. A Berserker.

A hand was placed before him, halting him from lashing out with his whip once more. If she did not speak again, it would mean he could try more of his instruments. He might try a wind instrument next… to make their voice howl song in the wind certainly tickled his fancy.

“Are you going to talk now?” A voice that spoke in Tereum broke the torturer’s thoughts.

The prisoner gargled, delirious almost to the point of being unconscious. Almost. He knew how to give and take, push and pull, the how to control his work. He was well versed in performing this art, how to stimulate pleasure from both of them. How to keep her locked in this state of ecstasy. He could keep her barely conscious for as long as he and she wanted, though there would come a time when he would allow her respite. Brief respite, that was.

She spat a viscous glob of red saliva out from her mouth, though her positioning made some of it trickle down her lip and into her eyes. She was strung upside down. Hooks penetrated her hands and feet, but just enough ropes to support her without breaking her. That wasn’t there to torture her. It was to be a constant reminder of their presence, even if they weren’t there.

“Wvat… dew… ewe… want… thow… no?” (“What do you want to know?”) The prisoner of war asked, pausing between each word. She breathed rugged pants making a disgusting, snorting noise.

The translator sighed and repeated the question they had asked countless times now.

“Why did you attack?” They asked. Their voice was a low rumble that emerged from deep inside the throat.

While skirmishes happened often on the Frontier, they weren’t usually to the scale of 550 strong. There had to be a reason behind an attack such as this.

“Ve… vere… bethrayed.” (“We were betrayed.”) The prisoner finally responded, spluttering.

“By whom?” They stepped forwards into the weak candlelight. It was a man dressed in torn military garb. A man currently held in disgrace. Dinol Honnen.

The torture smirked to himself, after all Dinol Honnen had just been relieved from his chambers to make way for the prisoner before them.

“Ouwa… owem… Vwar… lword.” (“Our own Warlord.”) She replied.

“Why?” Dinol asked.

“Ve… vere… thow… layd… ver… assault… nd… vey… thow… voin… utgh.” (“We were to lead the assault, and they to join us.”) She took longer to speak this time, her words jarringly disrupted. However, Dinol could understand her. Barely.

“When were they to join?” Dinol continued.

“Asth… swoon… asth… ve.. atack… ve… vere… en… contak… vith… vem… untile… ve… vegan… thiting… contak… dwvopped…. Vhen… ve… earvs… dvived.” (“As soon as we attacked. We were in contact with them until we began fighting. Contact dropped when the earls died.”) She answered.

“How many were to support you?” Dinol frowned to himself.

“Virthy… thive… thowzand… berzerkerth.” (35,000 Berserkers) The prisoner responded.

“Burn us.” Dinol cursed in Cymorthian.

“Are they going to attack?” Dinol swapped back to Tereum.

“Ves.” (“Yes.”) She paused. Before Dinol could ask a second questioned, she started twitching and shuddering. The hooks in her hands dug into her flesh, pouring fresh blood out of the wounds. It dripped to the floor. The ropes and chains whipped back and forth, making clinks as it rattled.

Black markings like tendril tattoos formed on her body. They snaked and coiled first around her naked legs, then up her back and arms, finally into her neck and flowed up her face. Her eyes dilated, then it broke free from her iris, covering all of her eyes' black.

The torturer stepped forwards, lashing the whip down upon the prisoner. A sharp crack punctured through the noise, and he continued repeatedly until he forced the prisoner to calm down.

She choked, gargling blood once more before spitting it up her face, over the top of her closed eyelids. Gradually the markings receded, and with it she regained awareness of the room.

“Von… monwth. Vey… attak.” (One month. They attack.”)

She had regained contact with the Tereum force, and they promised retribution to the brigade’s survivors. She relayed this information to the Cymorthian army, for it didn’t mean much to her now. She had been forsaken, caught up and left to die in some unknown plot orchestrated by the distant Magnus Khan that had finally turned his gaze to Cymorth’s Frontier.