Zanac brought his glass to his lips and pulled in a swill. It did not burn, but filled his mouth with flavor.

This is the stuff… the stuff that Hayler brought… Gods this is nice. Has a scant-body, even by the standards of a Rye; but the flavor! Ah. I’ll need to pester him for the specifics of this. No, did he make this himself? Doubly so then.

Zanac was sloshed, as was most everyone. The proceedings of the day had been so exhausting that all those involved that the evening had turned into a near unbound release of stress. The banquet - which had ended three hours previous - had burdened the stomachs of most, and many of those present found solace in alcohol. This consumption had turned corpulent, and the consequences of rampant drinking were evident in most of the upper areas of Valencia. Zanac was in one of the more open lounges, a number of couches filled with nobles too wise to try and stand. swept his gaze around, evaluating the kegborne carnage.

This is unpleasant. That’s Hayler there, passed out… by his own hand! How, how… funny. Davadet… Secrin in his own vomit too. How embarrassing for him. At least I can hold my liquor. Hm. I’m in the mind… in the mind for some more of that beef pie.

Zanac stood, and although wobbling, quickly found sure footing. He resolved himself to make it to the banquet hall. This was no more than a hundred steps distant, which for Zanac in that moment was a journey of significant monument. Out of any member of the Ryle’s, Zanac possessed the strongest resistance to alcohol. Although by no means a lush, this was a point of pride to him. This was bolstered all-the-further when he found his half-sister nearly passed out on a nearby couch, an attendant Climb looking slightly out of place in the revelry surrounding him.

Oh my darling monster, you too? At least you’re a quiet drunk. Don’t think I could stand to hear your voice right now. You have your… dog in shining armor… to stand guard over you, at least. Hopefully he’ll drag you out of here before you… embarrass yourself.

Zanac focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and quickly gained his rhythm. He made it the first fifteen steps, leaving the lounge and entering into one of the corridors that surrounded it. He caught a puff of smoke from someone’s pipe and noticed an odd tang.

That’s not tobacco, is that… Black Dust? Stupid bastard, that stuff will… rot your mind. Who- who is that?

He found himself unable to summon the mental attention to identify the man, who himself was lost deep in the mindless drift of a Laira-high. His clothing was embroidered and fine, enough so that Zanac chose to ignore him. A reprimand would be ill-timed, particularly against someone who dressed themselves in such wealthy garb, and he had none of the sobriety necessary to deliver one. He continued walking. He made it another twenty steps before encountering his next obstacle, his brother.

“Zanac… Are you drunk?.”

“Alcohol? I would… never.”

“I see it can’t separate you from your tongue.”

“Come now, why are you giving me such trouble? This is the first major crisis of the year! And six months early too… er, three? Shouldn’t that be cause for celebration?”

Barbro clicked his tongue and narrowed his eyes.

Wait… he’s sober. Why is he sober?

Some inner part of his consciousness began to stir, struggling to rise from the haze. His mind was weighed down, but still began to churn.

Why would he… He never refuses to drink. Something is wrong.

“Barbro… brother-dearest… why? What’s the cause for your… for your-”

“Come. I want to speak in private.”

“I was going to get some more of that pie.”

Zanac gestured down the corridor limply, in the direction of the banquet hall. Barbro was getting increasingly agitated, and responded with more force than previously.

“You can have some after! Come, and drink this.”

Barbro grabbed Zanac, practically dragging him down a side-hall. Barbro shoved a vial in Zanac’s hand, he looked at it quizzically.

An alcohol antidote. He wants me clear headed too.

Zanac was beginning to become very concerned. A cold sweat broke on him. His brother’s actions made little sense to him. Such antidotes were expensive, and even with consideration of their regal allowances, could not be bought with abandon. His mind spun further, alit with a growing sense of unease.

Barbro does not just want me clear headed, he needs me so, or at least thinks as such.

Zanac popped the cork and hastily downed the vial, the overwhelmingly earthy taste driving him to consume it as soon as possible. He braced himself, struggling to prevent himself from vomiting. The sensation of a crash-ascension from an intoxicated state was deeply unpleasant, headaches followed by sudden nausea. Barbro and Zanac turned a corner, and quickly entered through a nearby door. This was Barbro’s sitting room, a richly furnished space that Zanac was unfamiliar with.

Fuck my head hurts. That’s my brother’s adjutant there. Tellior, no, Teloran. Shit, all the warmth from earlier is gone. There goes this night.

Zanac sighed, disappointed that he had been robbed of his drunkenness. He broke from the hold of his brother, and took a seat in tandem with Barbro.

“Barbro, what’s the point of this?”

“I have something to ask you about.”

That’s it? I was expecting more. Wait, no, is he dancing around something? He’s fidgeting. That’s a tad disquieting.

“Ask me about what?”

“Zanac, what will the Kingdom look like after our father finally passes.”

What? Where is the immediacy in such a question?

“I don’t see the relevance in such a question.”

“Just answer it.”

“What?”

“What will the Kingdom look like-”

“I have neither time nor patience to be party to your anxieties about your soon to be practice of kingscraft. If you are so concerned about this matter, we can discuss this tomorrow.”

“Zanac for the love of the Gods, please answer.”

‘Please’?

Zanac sat stock straight. He lowered his voice from his previous annoyance into a far lower tone, quieting himself and doing his best to keep an unwavering timbre.

“When our father slips into the ground, I think you would be foolish if you expect to avoid turmoil. The political situation would fall apart rapidly. You would keep Urovana on your side, and I think…”

Ah how do I say this gently? You’d be a puppet without any chance of breaking Boullope’s grasp.

“... you could pull supporters across faction lines. I think you could get the backing of Marquis Boullope with relative ease. Lytton is a different story, as is Blumrush, and Pespea for that matter. Raeven is a wildcard, depending on how willing he is to deepen hostilities with the Empire. Still, there are so many uncertainties. The biggest threat to you would be foriegn, not domestic. Baharuth has surely already noticed your closeness with the border domains, and when my father ceeds the throne they’ll use it as an opportunity to launch a war. They’ll probably do so in force, to capitalize on the instability.”

“A war… Yes, I suppose I expected that. I wonder what time of year.”

Why does he care about that? I thought that was an accepted reality. It’s not as if any are happening soon. I get the feeling this crisis will break at the knees before any true conflict occurs.

“Now, if you don’t mind pestering me further, I choose to take my leave. I bid you-”

“Stay.”

Oh for the love of the Gods!

“Brother for fucks sake!”

“Stay! We are not done speaking yet.”

Brother you are a vexing man. I cannot believe your flow of decisions tonight - completely incomprehensible.

“Yes we are! Thanks to that concoction of yours I have a vile headache; worse, I have no drunkenness for which to bear the stupidity of my peers with! This conversation is over!”

“I needed you sober and-”

“What could you possibly need that required me to be lucid? Why did you find cause to rip me away from a night of merry making?!”

I’m leaving. Your instability is unbearable.

Zanac made to stand, rising slower than intended. He was denied the use of his left hand in this task, feeling the need to massage his skull in some futile effort to release his pain.

“Are you seriously going to will me to say it?”

“Yes. Brother I don’t know-”

“Tonight will be violent.”

Zanac froze. He rose no further, peering into his brother’s eyes. Barbro’s anxieties, so confusing a few seconds ago, suddenly clicked into place in his mind.

Gods above, what did you do?

“Explain.”

“In a few minutes, a runner will arrive. He will inform the gate guard that-”

“No, wait fuck! Stop! Fuck, stop! Don’t continue; don’t say another fucking word!”

Zanac could not stand to hear anymore of what his brother had to say. Panic gripped him. His heart was pounding in his ears, his entire body being forced to and fro by the force of its throbs. He gulped in air, doing his best to stay upright. His mind shot forth at rapid speed, stumbling over itself as he realized the implications of what his brother had spoken of.

Fuck! If he tells me any more I’ll be party to conspiracy. Why is he so willing to divulge any of this?! Why- why tell me?

Out of any member of the Ryle’s, Zanac possessed the strongest sense of morality. He was by no means a faithful man, but he had certain principles he refused to sacrifice, or at least liked to think himself unwilling to abandon. Loyalty to king. Loyalty to country. Loyalty to blood. Up until this moment, they had never been tested so completely.

“Barbro, what- what have you done?”

“You just cut me off in the middle-”

It was fucking rhetorical! My question was- Fuck this is agony!

“Whatever you’ve done, I want no part in.”

“I haven’t even-”

“Whatever it is you are clearly a collaborator in; a co-conspirator.”

“Oh for the love of the Gods brother why-”

“‘For the love of the Gods?!’ Brother- Barbro. How dare you invoke the name of the divine in anger here? Are you not insinuating, no, revealing a horrid secret?!”

“We both know this Kingdom would be better off without him staying crowned. He’s overstayed himself.”

“You’re speaking of treason! Of murder! Of our father!”

“Of a father who has done-”

“Close your mouth! I will hear no more of this!”

“I wanted you on my fucking side Zanac!”

“Your side against what?”

Barbro opened his mouth to shout back a response, and closed it. His face slipped between several separate emotions, each time him seeming ready to finally deliver his anger at his brother’s insolence. In time, it became clear to Zanac that words would not come. He finished standing, giving his sibling a look absent of any brotherhood.

“You do this - whatever it is - you will not be able to step it back.”

“You think I don’t know that? Besides, it’s already done. The time simply needs to come.”

You speak of the material fact of the thing, but I speak of you. A threshold you can’t return from.

“I cannot- I do not know how to speak this to you and have you understand.”

“Then don’t. Zanac, I’ve always been fond of you. I have always appreciated your wit, even when aimed at me. I wanted you to be part of this, to be by my side. You deserve that, a place in the next rule. I still want to give you that, even if you see fit to reject it. I say this now, heed my words. You’re a wiser man than I, but double in your naivety. This needs to be done. If you will not stand alongside me, do not stand against me. There will be no place for those who fought against me. You think this is a selfish act. That is not true. Baharuth knocks on our borders and yet we do nothing to stop them. This is selfless, this is for the Kingdom.”

Zanac shuddered. He found the content of his brother’s words so hollow, so offensive as to destroy any trace of decency left to his name. Zanac offered no response to his brother's words, simply turning in place and exiting the room. To his surprise, Teloran made no move to stop this, Barbro watching him leave silently.

For yourself. You don’t give a shit about the Kingdom besides stoking your pride. How could you do this? To threaten to have me killed if I speak against you? Gods. I- if I warn my father and his plot falls apart, Barbro will likely die, as well he should. But if it doesn’t, father dies, as do I. No, Barbro may avoid death even if I do warn father, for who would think the Crown Prince would do something like this; my end would be certain. I do not understand what I must do.

Zanac entered the hall outside his brother’s quarters, opening and shutting the door without looking back. He didn’t have the stomach to face Barbro, his body sapped of all bravery and valor. He felt as empty as he found his brother’s words.

I’m succumbing to cowardice. How- how could I not tell my father? Shout it in the palace hall. Summon the royal guard and have Barbro set and seized upon. Why am I not doing that? I- I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Gods, I’m such a fool.

—

She’s really out, isn’t she?

Climb smiled slightly, finding it painful to do so. Renner was drunk, more so than he had ever seen her.

She had a lot tonight. I wonder why? Maybe the stress of this crisis is getting to her, or the stuff with Eight Fingers. This whole day has been consumptive of her time; no, her being in general. She accidentally giving herself “vitalia-hyperphlosemia” - that’s what Pharmaturge Jund called it anyway. Having to stay for the war councils; and reception of Evileye’s message too, now that I think about it.

Renner slipped slightly in her seat, her lean onto the armrest increasing a little more. She had been creeping unintentionally from the stock straight position she had meant to keep for the last half hour. Losing ground twip by twip as her eyes drooped lower and she found her voice less and less.

I believed her when she said that she forgot to get Vena a gift. Strange to say she lied to me. No, I can’t think of it like that. As soon as she had me alone, she apologized and told me in detail what happened. I know she couldn’t have told me with the maid in the room.

He pulled one of the corners of his mouth, watching a lock of her hair fall from her shoulder as she fell deeper to her side. She had managed to keep her glass upright so far, hands clasped around its stem, but now that too started to shift in her slackening grasp. Climb gently reached around, grabbing its mouth and lightly pulling it away. She gave no resistance, the breach over her eyes having sealed a few seconds prior. With it in hand, free and clear of hers, Climb took two steps back and gestured to a maid who was herself resting against a wall. She saw, but did not move, her eyes coldly evaluating Climb. She had been collecting glasses all evening from those upper-crusted who had lost their senses to drink, making her refusal to do the same for him all the more pointed. It was a blunt powerplay, clearly born from some dislike of Climb by the sin of his nameless blood, but he had no way nor will to fight it. He assented, walking over to hand it to her. She took it without comment.

I hate that she has to concern herself with that. That she has to hide herself around maids. The fact that they would spread something like that. That her highness could- could fight for the Kingdom so valiantly and yet need to keep it secret. When she explained that she was reading these books so she was not wrong-footed by magical matters. That she would know what she heard of people like Paradyne or Evileye or Agnamen or Gown or Osander or Ulsen or the Ba-folk Gazers or Zurrenorn or any of those arcanists. Why does she need to know that? So she can fight Eight Fingers more effectively? So she can lead a war against their crimes? She has done more in the last month to fight Eight Fingers than- than anyone else in the last year. Done more for the Kingdom. She’s exceptional.

Climb looked back to his mistress, and then up, scanning the room. There was a game of cards on, a few nobles Climb could not place playing in some format he could not recognize; the latter because he did not gamble. This was not out of pride, or from some sense of justice at being the Princess’s servant (for Renner would certainly permit it), but simple fear of the thing. Watching his friends lose their wages at guardhouse tables was disheartening, and turned him off from the pursuit entirely. The glint of the coins in his memories were a pale white, but he spied now the color of gold rolled back and forth between lords. He turned his gaze away, feeling discomfort at its presence in this room.

“Ahah! A full pyramid! I told you Heyal, I have the blessing of the Greed Kings tonight.”

“Curse this Gods forsaken game!”

Clamor broke out at the cards table, half the men there laughing, the other half sulking. Coins were shuffled back in forth, a pile on the table far larger than Climb had expected

I guess someone won. Still, where is the substance in it? Can’t you just lose it all again? I- I don’t understand it.

Climb walked back to Renner’s side, watching her twitch slightly at every perturbation and noise made by the table of gamesmiths.

I need to get you to bed.

Climb took a few steps, circling around to the front of the lounge that Renner was laying in, now taking both seats by virtue of her horizontal inclination. He knelt, folding his hands into hers with care. He spoke quietly.

“Your Highness…”

Her eyes opened slowly, she looking blearily into his. A smile crept onto her face weakly, albeit wider than her typical visage.

She’s really drunk, isn't she?

“I think you should retire for the evening. Come.”

She nodded, yet made no other movement.

She can’t right under her own strength, not like this. I’m going to help her, meaning that…

He swallowed, realizing he would need to lift her up himself. To avoid hurting her, this would mean pulling her close into him, lifting her. As if this was not enough, the room was filled with people.

At least they’re drunk. I hope they don’t notice.

He closed his eyes, steeling himself. He tightened his grip on her hands, repositioning her arms before wedging his left under her. Hooking it around her back, he nestled her abdomen in his elbow, gripping the other side of her chest as he did so. Straightening his legs, he brought her and himself up, doing so in long enough time for her to get her legs under her. Renner struggled to do this, her heels having been perfectly usable to her earlier in the evening, but now requiring a dexterity beyond her to in any way stand in, walking a task even further agap from her ability.

If she can’t stand herself up, she probably can’t walk either. Certainly not the distance to her room. I’m sorry Your Highness, this may take a bit.

Renner weighed no more than fourteen standards, and although conditioned, Climb himself was still young. Combine this with the weight of his armor (another four), and his blade (another half) this meant he was bearing his body weight once over. She was at least taking a little of the load, but he would still need to walk her over two-hundred paces back to her room. Climb started slowly walking, holding her against him using his right arm.

I’m aflame. She’s- She’s right there. She’s holding me, cleaved to me. Her highness. Princess.

Climb looked around. Only the maid from before looked at him, no one else giving more than a passing glance. He and Renner made it out of the sitting room, into the halls towards her quarters. Her head slunk against his shoulder, some of her golden strands getting caught betwixt his pauldron and chestpiece, a few of them pulling out with each shared motion. For every small pinch of pain it brought her, Climb suffered ten-fold. He tried his best to brush them away, but a few caught in the joints of his greaves, and as he pulled his hand back, more came with. She twitched slightly at the sudden discomfort.

“Sorry! Y-Your Highness.”

“...is f-fine…”

Her response was slurred and quiet, her having felt no indignation or offense at the act. Climb exploded at himself.

You idiot. You fool. How could you think to do that? Of- of course her hair would catch in your hands. It's all mail and plate! Gods I’m dull. Is she just pretending to be fine with it? She would do that. She wouldn’t want to hurt me.

Climb breathed out carefully, feeling his heart pounding against his ribs as he did. His face flushed with blood, entire body lighting up with turmoil and heat. Everything about this moment was agonizing.

She’s touching me.

This realization threw him over the precipice. As a child, she had demanded from her father that Climb would sleep with her. From the ages of four to seven, Climb would let her wrap her arms around him, her grip tight and unwavering. In time, he would hug her back, and they would rest together night after night. It was blissful, and it made it ever more torturous to be prevented from fulfilling that roll when she turned eight. Climb had learned then the worst truth of his life.

I’ll never be with her. Even if I can hold her in moments like this. Even if she leans into me, depends on me, needs me to keep her upright, it will never be.

It took a few years for Climb to realize why Ramposa had done what he had. Discovering his body had been a strange process, but the realization of the true meaning of what fit between his legs had brought with it a new anguish. A feeling of heat in a way only natural to describe as natural. His desire to once again sleep in the same bed as his mistress was no longer innocent, but now a more base need. A need he could no longer embrace without guilt; not to sleep alongside her, but to sleep with her. The descriptions of braggart men in the guardhouse had given him a sketch of the mechanics of the thing, him piecing the rest together from crude guesswork and lusts. He tried once to envision himself with the princess, but was consumed with an overwhelming hatred of himself when he brought his mind to envision her bare. Other women had snagged his innards, palace maids and the like, but placing himself with them in his mind never got him far.

It’s all sick. It’s all wrong. I can’t do that. I can’t. How could I do something so insane as desire her? She’s the princess! She’s Vaiself. She had blood in her veins. I have none. I would just be some contamination of that. Some mistake. Some problem.

Anger, embarrassment, shame, lust, and pride ate at him.

It feels like I’m falling into a river. Caught in the flow, unable to come up to breathe. Lungs filling with water if I try. Pulled and torn in all round all ways. Dragged in only one direction, the one I do not want to go.

The image was oddly potent in his mind. Climb could swim, Jelka having rotated men out upstream of Re-Estize to swim in the waters of the river that cut through it. Even being one of the few in the Kingdom that could enter a river and not fear a drowning, it contained a depth and force that brewed a sense of powerlessness; a complete insignificance in its face. He remembered the sensation of water swirling around him, of it pushing him along. He recalled the feeling of being in its center, the speed one could build simply by letting it run by you. The feeling of being submerged, the all consuming touch it would give. Climb felt himself stroking towards the banks, and suddenly saw with his inward-self the mongrel prowling at the water’s edge. It was gaunt, its teeth more needlelike than any dog that would actually exist. It looked at him hungrily, regarding him as no more than food. He could not void its presence in the scene, and so drew himself back to the moment.

We’re here.

His imagination had consumed him so deeply that he had forgotten the world around him for a moment, his legs having brought him and his mistress along an automatic route whose bead he would never lose. Climb looked at Renner. She was fine, nothing awry in her besides her stupor. He reached out and opened the door. The room was just as they had left it hours prior when they departed for dinner.

I suppose all the maidstaff are busy tonight. None on duty.

Climb walked himself and the princess into the room, dimmer than he had thought it to be. In the rapaciousness of this night, the lighting and replacement of candles in side-quarters had been neglected, and all but a few in Renner’s room had consumed themselves utterly. Climb clicked his tongue, disappointed to see wax slag had dripped onto the floor.

Her quarters are usually so tidy. They ought to be kept as such. Such a mistake would never happen for his Majesty's room, or those of the princes. No, this nation has one prince. Barbro doesn’t deserve that title, not for being the traitor he is.

Anger brewed inside Climb, he doing his best to keep it down. He drew his left hand into a fist, what short nails he had digging into his palm, fitting into well-worn grooves. Renner stirred in his arms, unconsciously nuzzling into his armor. The close presence of his mistress slaked his ire, but triggered worse things for him. Sensations stirred below.

No, no. I need to stop. I need to get her to bed now.

Climb hastened his pace, drawing Renner with him. They made it to the entrance to her bedroom. Typically, he would have shirked from entering, but he felt an imperative unlike any before to be hasty in his action. He opened the door without hesitation, practically throwing it ajar. He drew her quickly to her bed, her spilling onto it without any of her normal grace. With that, Climb was able to pull away. He spun round, none of the mental fortitude necessary to look at her. He curled his left fist, intentionally drawing pain from action to try and distract his thoughts. It did not work, and his mind filled with images of her.

How could I dare think these things? Am I vile? Am I perverse? Why am I so willful? So willing to… to… see her.

Self hatred consumed him. Climb could find no justification for his desire. Nothing to assuage his guilt. A pit opened inside of him, his chest hollowing out. He felt ground down to the bone. Shuffling of covers came from behind him, his mistress letting a few whispers escape herself. A clack, and then a second as her shoes fell to the floor. For the second time this night, he pulled in a breath as preparation, and turned around slowly. She had gotten tangled a comical amount, and struggled limply to draw herself into bed . He resigned himself to his fate, and unlaced what of the sheets he could, repositioning her legs before drawing the comforter over her.

She’ll need to… doff her dress herself. I can’t do that.

Climb shifted his gaze, looking at her nightstand, relieved to see no molten wax had spilled. To that end, there was not a candle but an oil lamp. He reached out, turning its wick down low enough to snuff it. He placed his hand over the top, catching the smoke and holding it for a moment before slowly releasing it. The room fell into blackness, the moon near enough its nadir to mean little light cast through the windows. Dark enough that even through the window, he could see stars sparking on the face of the heavens. Satisfied, he made to leave the room, knowing deep in his heart that he had overstayed his welcome. Renner slipped her hand into his, and he stopped.

“Don’t go.”

Looking back to her, he could do much more but see the rough outline of her silhouette against the bed. His words could not resolve into words, smearing into a canvas of sufferings. Images of her at her most effulgent, the crushing weight of the structures above him, the imagined suppleness of her hands through his greaves.

I won’t Princess.

He set his right hand on his left forearm, twisting it to disengage his glove. She twitched when the cold metal pulled from her, but quickly regained her composure when the warmth of him touched him yet again. Climb let the weight of his armor draw him down, not letting his hand untwine from hers, sinking down by the side of the bed. He leaned against its frame, resting his head against her mattress.

“I love you.”

His world broke, swallowing in fear. It took a moment to convince himself that what he heard was really spoken, and another moment to realize what it meant. It was overwhelming, every mental fortress he possessed sundered. Time passed forward relentlessly, and he realized he drew ever farther away from being able to respond. He doubted his senses, doubly his recall, and felt ready to write it all off as delusion.

She’s drunk. She’s just… she… I don’t know. I don’t know what she is. Can she really care for me like that? Can she really want me? She’s the Princess. There's nothing I can offer her, no wealth, no security, no future. I’m just her guard. I can never be anything more, nothing greater. I offer nothing but my life, my death, myself. None of this makes sense.

Climb could no longer tread the river, his buoyancy leaving him. His head fell under once, and even as he breached the surface, he knew it would fall again. He came up again, but lower, and could not manage to grasp air before the interface swept up his face. He kicked and desperately reached, reverting to whatever swimming skills had been drilled into him. This did nothing, and he sank deeper under the surface of the water, the weight of his armor drawing him further into the depths. He watched the rays of light from the surface fade from bright beams to dim streams, until they could no longer be distinguished from the crushing black that surrounded him. The water was cold, colder than he had ever experienced, his heat leached from him. His body was clammy, his vitality escaping him. Last, violent exertions using every remaining drop of strength he had did not reverse his course, only serving to exhaust him. His lungs screamed, but he no longer could bring himself to care. He released his mouth, letting the river fill his insides. It hurt less than he expected, acceptance of his obliteration bringing a clarity that he had never known before.

I love you too.