Two years ago, Palace of Andr

The soft eyes of Andris were like orbs of malevolent honey; small, oozing with thick curses and sharp words. When he stared upon the assembly of the gathering he managed to hide it quite well. Morphis Kal picked it up though; a few others too.

“It’s coming to a time of great importance in all of our lives; our children, their children too- even an old man like me,” he paused, a half-smile away from laughing as he rejoiced with others, “but that doesn’t mean the tribulations of our forefathers should wither away from exhaustion or fatigue. As you know- we should push harder.”

He trailed on, his mouth moving like intricate clockwork, but his eyes slowly passing over the audience in a silent fashion, unsettling to those who picked up on it. Damien, young and insolent, struggled to stay awake until Andris pointed towards the man who had walked onto the stage.

“My son, Thaddaus, was a tricky one, as many of his tutors here would know.” A couple of laughs here and there, but everyone’s eyes were transfixed on Thaddaus. “Yet, despite this…despite his refusal to change, here he stands, a new man, formed from the ashes of his past self. Stronger. A true herald to the Dagger and Talon familias.”

Thaddaus, Damien remembered from the Academia, was older than him, but a wiry boy; strong in his fast fingers, but stronger in the head. In fact, his strength was too much for his father, the head of the Lower Council and the Ensign of the Ministries. He stood now, a cape in his quake, light leather bearings, forearms coated in gauntlets of steel, and his face a husk of metal, harder than his gauntlets. His old body was gone, in the dirt somewhere, now in its place something more resilient.

But, when Damien caught his eyes, a few hundred people in-between the two, he froze; his heart, uncomfortable and rigid, seemed to lurch into a slumber.

“Son?”

He felt his father’s hand at his shoulder, a warm, welcome grasp, but one that shocked him.

Damien struggled to open his mouth.

His mother, on the opposite side of his father, turned with worried eyes, about to speak.

“I’m fine,” he managed to gasp out.

Thaddaus, the wolf-faced man, took his attention elsewhere, something creeping on his lips. He, and Andris the snake-faced man retreated as inconspicuously as they had initially appeared, sinking into an enveloping crowd, of pretentious nobles, and angered guards.

The ‘palace’ was more of a plaza, a massive sprawling metropolis of four wings, equally lustrous as the last, prominent, marble figures towering dwarfing facilities. Huge cylindrical towers lined the perimeter, and in the centre, atop chequered mosaic floors depicting legends of the past, was the central palace housing a conspicuous roofless courtyard, hedges rounding it, fountains dotted here and there. The High seats of the houses were positioned in each direction of the yard, Fang at the South and so on.

When the Ensign had finished his speech of luxuries and transformations, idled chatter turned into drink-aided conversation, and any ill-minded caution of assassination dwindled as fires started to smoulder in deep bowls of metal. Smoke spouted upwards, and dancers, dressed as loosely as fresh borne babes took to their fluidity.

Other lower caste families vied for the attention of the big four, whilst the big four- the most ‘mature’- passively confronted each other in discussions of imperialism.

“As usual the Talon lapdogs arrive late following the Origis,” one of his half-cousins smirked, Alan Fang.

“What do you expect when they’re vassal to the royal lineage, you idiot?” Juliet smiled, rolling her eyes.

“Actually,” Alan paused to take a swig of ale, half-drunk already, “my knowledge exceeds that of a wyvern.”

“Whatever Wyvern you’re talking to must be brain-dead,” a random walker by said, laughing as they walked off.

Damien and Juliet burst out into sniggers at a dismayed Alan who twirled round comically looking for the perpetrator.

The sigils of the house bannermen at the stands of their Lords podiums reflected nicely in the filtering moonlight, the dark red and black intricacies of the Dagger looking rather wicked, whilst the lighter blue of the Spines shone, illuminated by soft fluorescence. Magates stood by their Lords, omitting that of Talon (who had not yet arrived) and Fang, whose Magate- who Damien didn’t remember- had died in battle long ago.

Another fat Lord stood atop the stage, bellowing in laughter, addressing his younger attendees of his legacy; Damien’s, and his sister included, drowned out his voice, accompanied by the pretence of listening.

When Camilius Dagger’s hand came to rest on his sister’s shoulder, it didn’t scare nor shock Damien, rather he felt a soft sensation ripple across his body, as if he had just been touched by some foreign spirit.

Camilius’ smirk was returned by a small smile from Juliet who turned her head to meet Camilius’, high above hers.

“Juliet,” he greeted, and then nodded to Damien, a smile creeping up on his lips.

No words escaped from him. He now saw it: other Daggers dotted, amidst the sparse crowd around them, their sigils no longer beautiful, but dark and menacing in the lowlight. He felt enclosed; the eyes of his sister stayed ignorant though. Something flickered on her face.

Someone taller than Camilius followed through, gliding in a low stance, as if there was a need to remain inconspicuous. His face was hard, with a sharp jaw and dark brown hair plastered to his face, like that of his green eyes which glowed ominously in the torchlight. On his breastplate was the Dagger sigil, and scrambling by his side- if not a bit further forwards- was a smaller girl, with darker complexation, dirty-black hair and two swords in tiny, scuffed hands.

She could barely carry the weight.

She hopped forwards, narrowly missing a stranger before being toppled to the ground by Camilius’ protruding heel. She hit the ground painfully hard, the handguard of the Greatsword slamming just below her eye, blood spitting out.

“Bloody hell Camilius, watch for my swords, I don’t desire another cleaning,” the man chuckled, baring teeth of white.

“All is calm, Brutus, no damage has come. A simple mistake is all,” Camilius and Brutus laughed, and his sister smiled, but her eyes darted down to the girl on the ground.

No care for the girl twitching on the ground. None.

Camilius glanced to the girl on the ground, moaning and grunting, shaking hand reaching for a phantom arm of aid.

“Get up,” he said quietly, as if he was embarrassed of a crying child.

She nodded roughly, and stumbled to her legs, swords barely in her hands now.

“Apologise to Lady Juliet for frightening her. Come on,” he ushered her towards Juliet, whose face was as pale as a spirit. Her eyes remained on Camilius, intolerant.

“It’s fine, I~” She started but Camilius held a hand, smiling sweetly.

“No. I… must implore this girl to apologise to her higher-up.”

Brutus also smiled, revealing cracked teeth and a disfigured face. His hand, stroked the curls of hair lightly at first, before roughly grabbing a fist-bunch and pulling down, so hard that tears bristled at the girl’s eyes.

“Now,” he growled in a low voice.

“paenitet… P-paenitet,” she whispered in a coarse voice, looking up to Juliet.

“It’s a shame the wench can’t speak in High tongue; even low Galanian would have been fine speech.” Camilius shrugged.

“Why,” Damien whispered through clenched teeth.

“Hm?” Camilius turned.

“Why…why do you still have a slave? Is a squire not enough?” His fists were clenched, his chest heaving. Fury boiled inside him, and then shame did at his uselessness; then even more anger at how shameful he felt. Even now, with half of his lineage from the same Woodthicket as this girl, he wasn’t able to stand up for her.

Brutus leered and Camilius spoke softly, “You know, I’m surprised they let a bastard into these halls. I mean I know your uncle’s here, but at least he has the dignity to remain silent.” He smiled.

Damien looked up to him, sharp jade eyes- not soft like Andris’ but a smooth pearlescence like soft metal- and sweeping golden hair, like some perfected figurine. Light stubble framed his jaw, thin lips framed in a wicked smile.

A few closer nobles paused, glancing over. The air cooled down despite Damien’s face burning. Juliet’s lips twitched and Brutus’ hand slipped over the pommel of a dagger at his waist. Out the corner of Damien’s eye he saw Master Blem, dressed in simple ballgown, but already starting to move, fingers tightened round the hilt of his sword.

Even Uncle Morphis turned, a younger, ashen-haired man by his side eyeing Blem move forwards. Father and mother were nowhere to be seen.

Damien saw ancient-style sorcery rippling across Camilius’ forearm, and held his breathe. He could do nothing.

Suddenly, a claxon horn interrupted.

“Here ye, here ye, make way for the Royal bloodline!” A terrific shout, that shut up half the room with the first few words.

People looked up, Camilius included, and Damien’s heart skipped a beat.

Descending from stairs of marble, hands gliding atop glass bannisters was none other than the majority of the Origis family, first few sons and daughters, followed by the parents, and then the King himself. A tremendous applause, cheering and graceful blessings shouted towards the country’s legacy.

They made their way down, and people quietened. Three approached the front.

“This congregation…this congregation blessed by the upper Gods of themselves, is here- breathing, enjoying… and living.” The Knight on the right side of the King, who was no small man himself but still dwarfed by the head of the Kingsguard, recently signed to the Creed of the Sacred Knights.

The King spoke now, “Like the mountains that line the skyline northwards, enormous tribulations stand, waiting in the future, like some perverse leper. But we will not fall. We will not fall to the barbarians that live in the east, across the seas in Karatis. We will not fall or make way for the remnants of Hell in the Forgotten Lands. I, as king, will not allow this!”

Screams of congratulations and woos of brilliance. But something was wrong. He wasn’t sure if anyone else noticed it- no, his father did. Looking over, the Lord of Fang was not amused; he glared slightly, brows creasing. He realised it. The king delivered such an impressive speech of honour and hardcomings- yet why did he look so platonic? Even now, in the face of so many supporters, his eyes looked dead. Not that noticeable no: with such a grand gown, and jewellery equivalent to a Lord’s entire life earning, not many people noticed. But it was there in the greying of his beard and the creases on his face- age? Maybe?

“…” Damien, as usual, corrupted himself with cynicism.

His thoughts were interrupted by the Princess. Looking at her and saying she was attractive would be an understatement. Like her cousins around her and her father, she had waves of reddish-brown hair, the darkest of embers red, with stormy grey eyes mixed with blue. Her dress was extravagant too; then again most did. The Talons had assembled on the other side of the stage , Andris’ wife mixed in with other important figures including Becky Talon, cousin to the Magate of Talon, Lancifer the Pure.

Marthax arrived also, but before Damien got a good look at him he slipped off, with a smile on his face.

“No need to stare so hard.” His sister elbowed him in the side.

Damien chuckled awkwardly, rubbing his side, “What’d you mean?”

“Ever since you talked to her at Duel of the Nomads, you’ve been thinking of her haven’t you, you lecher?”

Realising that he still hadn’t responded, she rolled her eyes and whispered, “Don’t even think of it. Not only is she out of your league, have you seen her brother?”

More than seen him.

Walking down into a group of nobles was King Origis’ sister Kathrina Origis, mother of six. Her face was a portrait constantly framed into disappointment, as if the world owed her a great deal of things. Even now, speaking to people, a smile must of consisted of too much labour as she seemed to be glaring the entire time.

With the Talons came the Deus himself, Francifis, elite high pope of the church, as well as dictator of the Holy guard. Cruel rumours spread of him, but the old man in person was much more fragile; his slumped shoulders clinging too tightly to the white and gold-edged robes. He moved to a younger woman, and then paced to Lord Fang and Morphis Kal.

His sister must’ve seen something because she quickly reached out to Damien to pull him away.

But Brutus stepped in the way.

“Why leave? The party’s just begun?” Camilius smiled as, escorted by half a dozen guards close behind, the Princess arrived.

“I hope you’ve entertained the guests, son,” Helten Dagger, father of Camilius asked.

Damien froze, as did his sister.

“It’d be wise to bow for the Princess, child,” Helten spoke again. Damien hated his voice: it was always quiet, like a bit of steel slowly scraping across mossy-stone. It seemed, through the talk of his paper-thin lips, that words of great harshness escaped. But always in between the apex of a whisper but at the brink of a snarl.

“Princess,” the word drooled uncomfortably from his mouth.

Amber paused, pausing her lips, and then spread to a half-smile.

“Its fine, no need for pleasantries,” she seemed to say with those grey twinged eyes of hers.

“I’m happy the bastard got invited, he’s a quiet one. But as you know they are always the most resourceful, don’t you think?” Helten turned to Amber, completely ignoring Damien.

“I… I think I should leave,” Damien said with a coarse voice. His throat seemed to hurt.

“Stay.” Camilius whispered.

Juliet looked between the two, her face somewhere between confusion and anger. She was about to say something dangerous when another noble interjected first.

“Agreed. He’s a magical cripple, a degenerate-one at that, but you know your manners, don’t you son?” The lady in the crimson dress smiled at Damien with shut eyes.

“I, uh…” Damien turned to the wall, across the halls where no one stood.

“The lady just addressed you, son of Fang.” Helten said, still smiling with those small lips of his.

Damien plastered a crooked one in return. “Y…yes of course my Lady. You are right.”

“Cripple or no, lady Cornipus, I’m sure you must be familiar with men of equal calibre. I heard your recent husband is barren, is he not? No fish in the barrel?” Princess Amber chuckled quietly, yet her eyes did not laugh.

Lady Cornipus juggled with her words. “Ah… Y-yes of course, my Princess, it’s a great shame that~”

“It’s a great shame that you would attempt to create such a hostile atmosphere at a party,” she pursued, her voice quieting.

Lady Cornipus glanced between the group for a few seconds, before bowing awkwardly and retreating.

“For being a cripple, you’re a handsome boy, Damien,” the Princess whispered to his ear as she passed by, followed by an entourage of guards.

Time passed quickly after that, Damien and his sister floating into several conversions that all seemed to neglect him.

Last came the ceremonies of sorts; a chance for members of the four houses to publicly address the lineage. Not many wanted to, but it was considered a custom.

They lined the side of the elevated stage, ready to ascend pairs at a time. Damien was behind his father and mother and in front his sister and one of his cousins. He was paired temporarily with a tallish looking boy, with dark hair- nearly black as his- and a pair of steel eyes. Something wrong with his right hand too. It looked like half-formed tree bark.

“Don’t stare too hard,” he said, his voice like a Hydra’s: powerful but masked enough to be considered a boy.

“S, sorry,” he whispered in return, “What happened?”

“A deformation at birth. I thought I’d be damned if I met anyone unluckier, and here you come, half white half black, without magic, and born into the weakest family.”

That hurt. But Damien didn’t deny any of it.

“Aren’t you going to hide it?”

“Hide what?” The tallish boy was honestly perplexed.

“Your arm. In front of the royal audience.”

He paused, and then sniggered, scratching it,” I have nothing to hide. These rich-fucks sit in their idealisms without realising that true perfection doesn’t exist. Even the Magates; the sacrifices they sent off to the Knightshood to be converted- they aren’t perfect either. I bet the Gods aren’t either.”

He had never heard to the Magate chosen ones referred to as sacrifices before.

“But,” he started, wriggling the fingers of his left hand, “I bet I have the fastest draw out of anyone in this room with my good hand. “Everyone’s gotta be good at something- otherwise we wouldn’t live this long.”

“Kaladin Spine of Spine familia, take your place,” a Baron called out, and without seeing it, Kaladin had slipped away.

Everyone’s gotta be good at something- otherwise we wouldn’t live this long.

“Lord Fang, and his lineage; arise!” A voice bellowed. The king’s.

Shallow pools of light flickered on the stone floor, and much of the Fang family moved up, his father first, followed by his brother and then captain of the Fang guard, Neros Kilman followed by the few other inheritors to the Lord or Lordess’ name.

“You’ve aged, Howard,” the King stated after a few moments of silence.

“I could say the same to you, old man,” Howard Fang replied, a smirk rising on his lips.

The guards around didn’t know how to interpret there, and stood awkwardly in the silence, until someone in the audience started laughing, and then the two: lord and king, started laughing together. It was known, at least in the other familias, that Damien’s father and the king were friends of old, stretching to the War of the Nomads against the Northernfolk.

They discussed, the members of Fang and the royals of the Origis, matters of the rich, irrelevance of the poor, the slave trade in the east, towards islands surrounded in perilous seas in conflict with barbarians from the Great Expanse.

“Come! Come shake the Prince’s hand, sons and daughters of Fang!” The king cheered.

When the first few came up, Damien’s heart had calmed; but after seeing him plant a kiss on his sister’s hand, for a few seconds too long, his blood broiled. Something about the lecherous young boy angered him. He looked no older than seventeen, and yet his eyes prowled the realm of Juliet’s body, who must’ve been three years younger. It was not a secret that prince Marthax was a violent man; not different from many of the others within the Lordship, but he in particular was the most warped: he, unlike the others, held no shame showing his cruelty.

It was all like a trophy to him.

“You’ve grown taller since last time I’ve seen you, boy,” the King smiled.

Damien returned the smile, and gathered his words.

“It’s a shame he still looks like a weasel,” Kathrina said, quiet enough for the King not to hear, but loud enough for Damien.

He decided to ignore that. “Lots of things have happened since then; things have changed your, Lord.”

“Yes of course, hopefully for the better, I heard Blem’s taught you swordsmanship; a handy thing for you in particular,” the King nodded to Master Blem, and a few bits of applause sounded within the royal audience.

“Helpful for a magical cripple.” Marthax grunted, sitting back on a throne next to his father. The King smiled awkwardly and shifted in his seat.

“Now, in front of the noble audience, I wanted to address controversy over the Holy church, lead by Elite Pope Francifis.” He paused, looked down upon a few and then opened his mouth to speak.

But the man by his side, who had been silent, lurched forward and spoke faster. Damien’s eyes met his sister, who was equally as shocked that this man had interrupted the King of the country. The most recent captain of the Kingsguard, Ser Rolat was no where to be seen, despite his reputation of being beside the King at all times apart from his chambers. Instead, a rugged, silent man stood, in armour even more exquisitely crafted than the previous captain. But it was not armour of the Kingsguard which was lighter plating: this was Usmite heavy chainmail covered by Briantine steel padding. He wore a helmet even now, and behind him a white cape, pristine and reminiscent of a Karatis shellfish shell.

He whispered something in the King’s ear. In return he shrugged his shoulders, and returned something quickly, almost exasperated-like.

The man standing beside him paused, the glimmer of his eyes peering out the darkness of his helmet; dark red, a stronger kind of man. And then his gauntleted hand came to rest on the King’s shoulders; the King stopped in his tracks, his eyes stuck facing forward. The helmeted man leant forward again, and spoke slower now, Damien just picking up traces of a deep, resonating tone. The King nodded, slowly, uncomfortably. Damien glanced at Thaddaus, half-expecting him to leap across the stage and attack the man. The audience was too busy talking amongst themselves to notice, but those closest did. Kathrina saw too, and shifted, glancing at Thaddaus, eyes saying help me. But nothing came. A couple guards started to reach their sheathed swords, whilst other knights from the Knightshood reached for theirs.

“I-it seems an issue as arisen in the lower council.” The King stumbled over his words.

Andris looked up this, his face perplexed. Damien knew he was head of the lower council; if its own leader had no idea of an issue, why would a random knight intimidate the king?

Leaving people confused, the King and the Knightshood left, capes bellowing in their quake.

The sound of the massive wooden doors slamming broke the silence, like shattering it like a vase.

Damien turned to the Prince who had a hand extended.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to shake it? My father’s no longer here so I have to take the concluding formalities.”

The spokesman cleared his throat, ready to speak but Marthax held out his hand to stop him.

“Damien Fang, son of Howard Fang,” Marthax began, looking sideways out towards the audience, “Heir to the treacherous family of Fang, filled with bastards, traitors, and magical cripples. I thank you, and your fellow rats for coming to the annual four-house celebration.”

He turned to Damien, a savage grin on his face. “Won’t you take my hand now, Damien?”

A few laughs and giggles from the audience- most had an amused face. Damien’s body shook from anger; maybe fear, probably a lot more fear than anger. He reached out a trembling hand, forcing a smile.

And in that silence, probably left over from the King’s departure, a sound of hand meeting flesh was heard.

Dumbfounded, Damien stared at Marthax- who appeared to not even of moved- a sharp pain stinging on the side of his cheek.

Marthax appeared confused, “Damien? Aren’t you going to celebrate with me? Formally?”

Damien rose his hand again.

Another slap, this one even harder than the last. His vision blurred from his right eye a little now, and he felt something wet and hot trickle down.

Marthax laughed now, deep and powerful, glancing at the audience, and then his sister halfway across the opening.

Kathrina had stopped laughing now.

“So sorry; my hand seems to be a little shaky from last night.” He didn’t even wait for Damien to raise his hand this time, and drove his fist into Damien’s stomach, buckling his knees. He knelt there, clutching his stomach, blood coughing from his mouth. Even now he felt the remnants of whatever magic Marthax had used, still swirling around. His shallow breathing was the only thing heard.

Marthax knelt down clutching Damien in a friendly embrace, starting to help him up.

He leant close and whispered, his breadth cold., “If you so much as look at my sister again, I’ll gut you and feed you to the fucking dogs.”

Everyone’s gotta be good at something- otherwise we wouldn’t live this long.

What bullshit, Damien thought.