Chapter 2

4 years prior.

The grand halls of the Eastern Palace of Galgador held an unworldly shine to it: a sort of inhumane attraction, that compelled the congregation of doves, and shunned the sight of crows. Tall Mythan trees gyrated softly in the breeze, dark jade strings of leaves bristling with justified excitement. The gates of the outer walls stood ever prominent, the circulation of Imperial guards fortified, as per usual. Imported marble slates for the slanted roof of the entry building, ordered by the King himself, were the solitary shipment of fine construction from Southern Clou Drou. Engineers of varying lineage had cooperated to construct this massive fortification of nobility and militaristic defence.

“Father, I’m pleading of you,” Princess Amber moaned in a sort of childish way, inside-out. Her light crimson curls of hair shaking in her quake. Eyes of pleading demeanour.

Her father, the King of Galgador, paused, his stature stiffening slightly, golden-cloak stiff also- as if mocking his lack of composure. His brows, arched in confusion and slight irritation, accentuated the premature creases of his forehead, and the messy appearance of his hair. “Listen, my Princess, all good things heed in their respective goal’s tribulations. I have dire business to attend to.” He spoke with a hushed sense, his pearly-grey eyes blatantly gazing outside the balcony’s planes of glass behind Amber, and behind the spectating Damien.

“I understand, but… but you promised~” she began, reaching out her hand.

“I promise only the safety of the Kingdom and its people!” The king roared, his anger breaching his self-control in an animalistic manner.

Princess Amber flinched at that, and retracted slightly, lips pursing, but her auburn eyes circulating with premature anger. The air of former respect and solemnness was dispelled as quickly, and was replaced with a more formidable (although subtle) mistrust. As Damien knew her, Amber Origis was not the once to sit in obedient ridicule and take the brunt of any vocalised force: she was the first to respond in what was deemed: an impudent manner.

“My gratia regem, Elmar Vincent and the chair of Elite Council awaits your immediate presence,” a man, cloaked in an enflamed, gold-embraided cape, ushered. The cleanliness and general shine on his Albasteel armour reflected the trickle of sunlight in an enticing fashion.

“Yes, I am coming Sir Lorand,” he stopped to face his daughter one more time, “I am done dealing with your insolence.”

He got up, and Damien following his movement, noticed the shrouded disgust ridden on the Knight Commander’s face when he noticed the foreigner’s presence.

“Why is the Bastard here?” He pointed his finger at Damien without glancing at him.

The King’s mouth opened in silence, and then he clamped it shut. The princess’ foot lifted forwards in a contempt manner.

“It’s not worth it,” Damien looked awry, uncomfortable. Yet he said the words in quiet feverishness.

He said it quiet enough so the King nor the Knight didn’t hear it.

“Forget it, my Sire: my questions of the… the greyfolk bears no importance. Let us depart.”

As the two left, followed by two other knights, Damien wallowed in the sense of ease at how he was referred to as ‘greyfolk’ so easily. Members not of darkness nor white purity, but outsiders. Outcasts, ridden in the sand-dust.

Standing in the breeze of the meadow’s enthrals, the sun dawning in stubborn departure and the envious moonlight filtering in, the Bastard of the Fang family grimaced.

A few feet in front, she- the silent Princess- stood in solemn fortitude, her light silk overalls fluttering gently.

The meadows themselves were fields of indescribable remorse; a beautiful darkness that swept upon the lands of eastern Galgador. The greenness of the grass did not hide the outcrops of redish-brown: the burnt remnants of past woodland- home to indigenous people no doubt. These scorch marks that existed on the outskirts were not of fire, but rather cannon fodder. This land he stood on housed an Empire founded on sacrilege and pillaging; but then again, which great nation wasn’t?

“You did not speak up for yourself back then.” The Princess said softly, still glaring ahead.

“Good observation,” Damien quipped, leaning back against a tree.

“You think it’s funny Damien? Letting these idiots tread over you like dirt?”

Looking away, he couldn’t help but remark, “Yeah, well you wouldn’t know the feeling would you? A princess doesn’t understand the feeling of being an outsider; a Barren One. Barren not just because I can’t use magic, but because I’m fucking useless.” A lot of big words for a young one.

Stormy, emerald eyes glittered with a wet anger that slapped the boy round the face. The last of the light splashing upon her hair only accentuated her fiery figure.

“Useless? Useless? Don’t think for one moment that just because I’m of noble lineage, I don’t suffer my fair share of tribulations.” She paused, back-pedalling slightly, “How could you even say something like that?” Her face, her curled lips, flurried eyebrows and the shine of her eyes- even in her revoked disposition, he couldn’t help but acknowledge these details

“You can drop the act; using that ‘Bastard’ sob story to get you what you want. Do you think that~” her mouth stopped in silence, and she flinched slightly, eyes frozen in place.

He was standing there, staring at the ground, smiling. His face had become dark, yet he smiled, he smiled awkwardly- he pushed himself. The tendency in which he reformed his character had not left.

She walked towards him, stopping in front. Although being a year older, Damian stood at her eyelevel.

“Hey, listen…” she began, talking quietly; softly. “Sorry, I-I…didn’t mean to be so horrible.”

She rested her head on his shoulder though, her trails of ember-red hair submerging his senses.

She smelt good.

“It’s nothing,” he lied.

The two stood there: night and day, yet they companied each other in ways profound.

“You know,” she started, “If you were like this more of the time, I would consider marriage.”

Damien looked into her eyes which shone nicely in the creeping moonlight. Dangerous.

He looked away, “Not the best time to jest, Princess.”

Her smirk stopped a bit, and then she pursed her lips. “You being magicless is no bother to me. I look for the content of character, not the greed of the strong.”

“My magic is not involved in my reasoning. It is just not meant to be.” He hesitated now, his back starting to grow cold.

Amber backed off.

“Damien.”

He tilted in his head in acknowledgment.

“Damien?” she pronounced his name carefully

“Princess?”

Her disappointment was obvious.

As quickly as the mischievous princess had arrived, she left, brisk in courtesy, but enticing in retrospect.

“Now why in Infernum are women so godammned confusing?”

Current year.

Past the River Gal, Citadel of Isral.

The slave whimpered slightly, her sprawling fingers digging into the silk sheets of the bed. She was careful not to let her voice slip though: that signalled weakness, signalled the sign of her obedience. She would resist.

Prince Origis, Marthax Origis II, drove in with lusty indulgence: his eyes- who normally endeared a deathly gaze- alit with a darker semblance.

“At least wiggle or moan a little bit,” he grunted, legs shaking slightly. “Makes it more fun.”

She shoved her head into the pillow, smearing her screams across the plush luxuries. Her body quaked with a dull pain, and her womb felt like it was being plied apart by coal-hot iron.

Eventually, and only once his stamina had reached a stage of embarrassed discourse, did he climax, tugging on the slave’s delicious hair, eyes squinting, mouth in a permanent snarl.

Sitting in the ample silence of sun-dozed chambers, the Prince bathed in his own plethora of intoxications, basking upon self-assured justification. The slave wept silently.

“Don’t bury your prettiness in your hands, my dear,” he whispered softly, reaching a hand to stroke her hair.

She flinched, but didn’t stop.

His grip tightened, twisting. He no longer whispered, “You dumb Clou bitch; you deaf? Look~” his spur of rage caught in his tongue, before his spine shivered, and he calmed, “Look at me.”

Twisting her gripped head in an awkward fashion, the smeared makeup on her small and sharply-tuned face did not disguise her beauty. Light auburn hair, flowing down her shoulders; almond-eyes, and a small nose with full lips.

She whimpered, sniffling.

“What’s your name?” He asked, unclasping her hair, leaning back on the head of his bedframe.

“Ramella,” she announced through a quiet and rasped voice.

“Ramella, huh? You southern or northern Clou Drou?”

“I…I am not sure, my parents they were…” she trailed off, looking astray, smiling nicely.

“Taken? Killed? It’s a necessary must, I’m afraid: no good Empire is built on kindness, my pretty.”

The slave twinged at that, but she nodded in acceptance, looking at her scathed hands which sat uncomfortably in her lap. Even now she shook out of fear.

“Ramella, do you love the Prince and his kingdom?”

“Y-yes,” she managed.

He paused, and then smiled slightly, his green eyes lighting slightly.

“Do you love, me?” His voice was rugged now, intoxicated in liverish perplexity.

“yes…” she spoke, softly and very carefully. Her eyes met his for less than a moment, and were immediately cast downwards.

His smile vanished.

“You say you love me.” He states, to which she looks up, her hands trembling now.

“Yet you look away when you do so.” His eyes look up. Just his eyes: he glances up, the shadow of his forehead casted atop his pearly, now livid eyes. His knuckles turn white.

“Ah,” she began, lifting her fingers up as if to touch the air.

But it is too late.

He grabs her by the hair, slamming the back of her head into the bedframe’s wooden ends. She screamed, quietly though, she didn’t want to wake the others.

He grappled her by the neck, with both arms, slamming her down again onto the pillow this time. Instinctively, her small hands reach to touch his in defence, but she fails to lift a single finger. She opens her mouth, her tongue starting to loll to the side, her eyes bulging in panic.

He looks into those eye, a lopsided smirk plastered upon his malicious face. He leaned in to her ear.

“Even when dying, your eyes look beautiful my pretty.”

Knocks at the door. Muffled yet strong enough to class it as Kingsguard.

“My liege, dire approvals await your presence,” the muffled voice speaks.

The prince grunted. “In a minute.”

“My Prince, the King himself be~”

“Come in Ser Davlar.”

He relinquished his grip on the slave girl, who fell back, scratching at her neck, heaving.

The Knight walked in, and his hand instinctively leaped for the pommel of his sword, seeing the red-faced Prince, and a…half-dead slave? The Knight grimaced, all-though his face did not show that.

“I will change,” he began, sitting up, not ashamed of his bare-skin. “And will join you and your squire at the Maid’s hall.”

The knight left quickly as he entered.

The Prince stood up, his erection hard.

The slave-girl, still panting, her throat bloody, smiled weakly at him. “T-thank you so much my Prince.”

“You’re welcome.”

He waved his hand, setting her face on fire with a simple incantation.

She screamed. He smiled.

His cock grew ever so harder.

Half an hour later, dressed in noble golden cloaks, he entered the Maid’s hall with a rugged countenance.

“My liege,” Ser Davlar knelt, ceasing his conversation with the head maid immediately.

“You may stand,” he waved his hand, walking past the Knight.

“What are the issues now. Constraints on slave expenditure?” He pointed at that, considering the shortage of war with other nations, The Conglomerate in particular, hence the lack of war prisoners.

“Partially right, my Prince. Andris Deus the Sacred will explain at the meeting.

The Prince scowled at that name.

Glancing through the windows on his east side, he appreciated the beauty of dawn, light filtering in through the mountain range, casting the city of Undis in a complex arrangement of purple hues. Horse carriages, out skirting the wall’s perimeter, clotted along gravel paths, civilians and lesser beings congregated at the lighting of torches.

Stepping into the courtyard and pacing towards the central Palace, he recognised the unique architecture’s individualism, his father shipping in architects from overseas, from southern Clou Drou, to construct this five hundred room monolith. Exotic peaked roofs, accompanied by brilliant white pillars, and arches on the ground floor. The flagstone floor was also shipped in, and in the thinning light of dusk, shone a soft blue hue that had never been seen before by even the wealthiest of nobles in Undis. No replicas of such buildings would be replicated, ordered the King

Inside the largest room, protected by multiple patrols of Gal Imperial troops, sat just under a dozen of the most influential province lords and governors Galgador had seen. The most powerful was King Origis’ chieftain, Andris Deus, a crude man who didn’t attempt to hide his selfish desires. He sat at the apex of the long, wooden table, draped in dark auburn linen tunics accompanied with embraided patterns and pendants swung from his short and stocky neck. Even through the clothing, his stomach protruded, and his bony fingers writhed.

The accompanied violin music sung a beautiful melody in the background, but did not manage to eradicate the foul mood that had situated itself in the courtroom.

All, including Andris, stood up at the Prince’s arrival. Opposite Andris, on the other side of the table, his empty seat invited him. Normally his father’s, yet he was nowhere to be seen.

The Prince sat, leaning upon his arm in a bored fashion. He eyed the fat man with a promiscuous frown. “You interrupted me, Andris.”

“Ah,” he began, smacking his lips, “that is unfortunate. Yet, politics do not wait.”

“Everything, waits for me, Andris Deus.” The Prince pronounced.

“Of course…”

Moments of irritating silence.

“Is anyone going to speak, or are we going to waste time like fucking school girls?” The Prince growled, his eyes glowing dangerously. His voice, unlike the brave lords at the table, was not loud nor prominent, but it was twisted in a perverted sense that forced one’s ears to prick.

A lower governor of no noticeable features spoke with held breath, “Your father, King Origis II, is away currently dealing with affairs of…important matters. So, you were the next in line to ask, my liege.”

Andris started, twirling a golden cup, “The King issued means of peace with the leader of The Conglomerate, Gorr Ironthrawl. The constraints on our naval capacity were nearing to uncomfortable costs.” He shifted in his seat. “But in the East, past the Greater Sea of the Midderns, trouble brews in the Karatis islands.”

“How so?” The Prince asked, catching the eyes of a beautiful violin player.

“The clans of the Great Expanse have moved west towards the closest Island of Mandir is being subject to the pillaging of the Dreadnought and Armageddon sects: they claim it is their rightful land.”

“And what of Kuklata and Drenga natives? I assume they are not happy with the barbarians~”

“They are dead.” Only Andris would dare interrupt the Prince.

Marthax tensed his shoulders at that, grinding his back teeth. “Dead? Both of them?”

“Yes, my liege,” one of the closer governors said quietly.

“By the Titans…” he muttered, rubbing his temple in disarray. “What do the other’s think of that? The four households of Galgador; the Conglomerate. This… this Gorr Ironthrawl?”

Andris’ eyes didn’t leave that of Marthax’s. “The Conglomerate, excluding Urs Woodthicket of course, is ambiguous to this news: although we know they are not planning to involve themselves until we make our moves, as rightful owners of the lands. We can assume that they will join our side. If we decide to intervene that is.”

“The households…” Governor something-something, started with his rasping voice. “Spine and Talon are deciding their involvement as irrelevant. But Talon and Fang both have rightful ownership to the northern island, closest to enemy-occupied Mandir. Kana’s spiritual essence is invaluable.”

The prince scoffed at this, his finger swirling the edge of an empty, golden-crossed goblet. “Fang has no possession on the lands.”

“By whose decree, if I am not prying too far?” The Minister of armoury asked.

“Mine. The King’s relationship with the House’s Lord is established; to an extent that’s morally appeaseable. My intents… are less of that nature, and more of a necessary one.” His words dragged in the air.

Others shifted uncomfortably now.

“What worries me,” Andris started, “is Gorr’s succession to his throne.”

“His succession to the Iron Isles is as likely as his retardation fixing itself,” a Minister chuckled to himself.

“Retardation?” The Prince entertained the insult with a smirk.

“The son’s some sort of freak. The exact details of that is unknown and not important- what is important, is that no such mad heretic will gain incalculable power like Old Aegis the Second.” Andris remarked.

“That…That would be a shame.” The Prince couldn’t help but gaze to the ceiling.

*

Galgador, North West Landing of Dagros, Dagger Familia

The lanes of neatly trimmed shrubbery outlined the outer courtyard, pale sunlight shimmering in through the chequered wooden roof of the raised platform that usually housed the High Council of the Four Houses. Yet in their place, was the dishevelled clump of individuals whose presence clashed like wildfire.

Morphis Kal sat with the figure of a drunken sell-sword. Slumped back atop a golden lined wooden chair, he had his crossed legs hidden behind a crumpled fur-trimmed velvet grown, accompanied by a padded long shirt and silver embroidery of the House Fang.

“The golden troves of House Fang is inadequate in funding of an entourage.” He murmured, flicking leathery hands of iron.

“Entourage? You make a coup sound pleasant,” Rosetta remarked. Today her long auburn hair was tied into exquisitely formed braids, slung over her small shoulders, a similar colour to her cloak.

“I did not come here to exchange means of ill-mannered insults, Lady Dagger. I came here to discuss the future.” Morphis returned, his eyes a dangerous shade of dark.

“If you will Lady and Ser...” a senior Talon man ushered a bit of quiet, his form stiff and his presence redundant as ever.

“Why’s the Talon here?” Morphis nodded to him, failing to address him correctly.

Rosetta opened her mouth to speak, but the Talon man spoke, “Me and my kin are vassals to the Origis family, and therefore the High Council, Morphis. My presence is necessary in~”

“You’re here because the rest of the Talons are too afraid to make any change.” Morphis stated nonchalantly, taking a sip of water- wine was a distraction- and glancing to the game of jousting which took place parallel, in the dual runways.

The man bit his tongue, but remained silent. Near him, a tall, jackal-looking man stirred.

“Alza, give me the roll,” Morphis issued.

Silently, a roll of paper was slipped to his palms, sealed with the red signia of the Fang insignia: a small curved canine, atop a crest with the background of some sort of beast.

He read it aloud, obviously not interested in its contents.

“The contents of this paper are highly private, and should not be opened without the presence of a reigning Origis family member, a supreme Magate, or a member of the High Council.” Morphis’ eyes darted to the man, understanding of his presence now, and back to the paper, “The land, holy or not, within the realms of the Karatis Islands are still under debate of royal decree: meaning, Fang still holds at least half the farm lands, the Craggy Valley and the lands of the Lightlings. This is under moral, ethical and Imperial obligation of the Crown, King Origis II himself. However, it is still under debate within the families of Dagger and…” he trailed off, his fingers shaking slightly.

He dropped the roll.

“Fuck,” Rosetta whispered under her breath.

Morphis’ rage was always silent: perhaps this is what made him frightening.

“The King… The King is a coward.” He managed, sitting up now, his knuckles white.

Rosetta Dagger’s green eyes hinted a harsh hue in the light that filtered through.

A curdling scream as one of the Knights was flung of his horse, splattering to the ground in a mixture of horrific crunches and metal clangs. Dust clouds rose up.

“Watch your mouth, bastard.” Rosetta warned.

“What?” Kal’s eyes rose up to meet hers, his body leaning forward.

“You think any of us has forgotten? Your whore-mother interloping with Ragar York of the Northmen from Clou Drou.”

He leant back, exhaling through his nose, chuckling quietly. “Watch your tongue, Lady Rosetta. If you’re not careful, you could cut it.”

“This…this coalition is only built upon our mutual hate of the Fang family. Nothing more, nothing less. Don’t forget this, bastard.”

“You yammer on and on about bastardry, yet your brother married off his daughter to the Spine family... Krista, was it? Would be a shame if that frail connection between the two broke up.”

Alza’s hand moved to the pommel of his sword.

Rosetta smirked at this. The Talon man remained silent.

She got up from her seat. “This coup must survive, beyond you or me. For too long the Fang family’s irritated the waters of Galgador with its uncleanliness.” She paused, eyeing the roll. “Pass me it.”

He did, and quicker than Morphis, she skimmed the paper.

“The seal: its authorised by King Origis.”

“That’s the issue,” he remarked.

“Not by the Knightshood. King Origis is friends with Lord Howard of the Fang House. Of course he’d remain neutral in the feud between your family and mine.”

“What’s your point, Rosetta?” Morphis asked, but his mind had already worked out the answer.

“The Knightshood see all; know all. I’ll show it to my brother, Lord Helten. He’ll pass it to the Knightshood.”

Morphis shrugged his shoulders, relaxing again, “What reason would the Knightshood have to support your claim to the lands?”

She chuckled, rolling one of her braids between her fingers. “My house is strong; influential- of course they’d support me.”

She stepped forward to leave, but Azal stood in her way.

“What of me?” Morphis stood up as well.

“Ensure their retched children don’t gather wind of this: unlike their parents, they are more pressing. I assume you’ve gained most control of their army?”

“Since Meslae the Illborne died, it was an easy task.” He pointed out, truthful.

She pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. “Mobilise them. Test their faith. When you become Lord of Fang, make sure the men of the garrisons listen to your barks of orders.”

With that she left, her long, golden dress waving in her quake.

“She’s a dangerous woman,” Azal said, leaning against a pillar, dark hair laying over his eye. His accent was northern: thick and sturdy.

“Why I’ve teamed with her and not my foolish half-brother.”

Morphis saw it in his eyes. The hesitation. The anger. “Don’t worry, my boy I don’t know who did it. The Fangs maybe; but I’ll find out who, and let you kill him. My allegiance with them is temporary.” He paused, glancing at the young man’s sword, “what did the boy call him again? Your brother.”

“Master. Master Blem.”

*

A few years prior, Fang Households

Damien’s mouth opened slightly in exasperation, condensation floating out.

The rat startled him.

A fucking rat.

The crypt, tens of meters below the surface, was closer to Infernum than any other location on the manor; darkness consumed everything down hear, moist clumps of dew in the corners of the arched walls. Cracks lined the walls like tree roots, cobwebs blossomed outwards like veins in a bloody arm.

Inside this hollowed behemoth’s stomach was lines of arches, small stalagmites scattered here and there, but mainly statues; massive stone replicas of past overlords. Past and present apparently, as a massive statue of his father, Howard Fang, with his sword raised stood. Stone cloak stopped halfway in the air, his face mid-shout, as if declaring war. He looked skinnier then, younger too.

Skittling and sounds of groaning. Dust fell from above.

Something cold lingered on his shoulder.

“I don’t remember asking you to come down here.”

Damian jumped, and his father laughed at this, “Lords forgive; what would happen if I was an assassin?”

“If you were an assassin you’d be a pretty shite one since I’m still talking.”

Damian nearly keeled over and his father wore a drooped smirk.

“I had long hair back then,” his father picked up, quickly, glaring up at the statue’s head.

“Tied up in a bun as well; bit different to now,” Damian chuckled glancing at his father’s thinning hair. “You’ve changed,” he said more quietly, in the faded legacy of his other sentence.

“Haven’t we all,” he responded, even more quieter. “You know, back then, I didn’t have to worry about being the Lord of a house, dealing with a flow of information, expenses, land and such.”

“What’d you focus on then?” Damian asked.

“Women and Swordsmanship. A bit of magic on the side.”

Damien paused in retrospect.

“That was before I met your…your sister’s mother, Lily. And then yours, of course.”

“Yeah,” he trailed off.

“Being a bastard,” his father, grabbed him by the shoulder, looking down, “Being a bastard is nothing. Yes you’ve got foreign blood, but the history of the fabled is nothing in comparison to the legacy you can forge.”

“What legacy can a magicless coward make?”

“The same legacy your father made in the face of the last remaining forces of Lord Daidric,” he responded, solemnly.

Damian decided not to ask on how his father fought the forces of Hell nearly five thousand years after their leader’s death.

Silence passed like time until his father was ready to leave the crypt.

“Wait, who’s… who’s that?”

Howard Fang followed his son’s gaze.

A crippled statue; fragments of stone were scrambled below, and the figure was collapsed, part of its left arm had fallen in itself, its cape bearing so many fractures it appeared like a mosaic. All seemed like natural irrigation until the face: completely mauled, chinks and gouges from blades, sprawls of etched writing over, and over again; “Illborne”

The only thing that could be made out was that it was female.

The name-plate, although nearly unreadable, was still recognisable.

Damian leered in: “M…Me~”

“Meslae…Fang. Your eldest aunt’s daughter.”

Damian could see it in his father’s face. His eyebrows arched, his face uncomfortable.

“One day, after all this nonsense with the other houses are over, I’ll explain. Explain it all. But she was a valued member of the family. You would’ve liked her. As did I.”

Was. Was. Was.