Climbing the last of the carpeted stone steps to the balcony, Remo shuffles through the mournful crowd and sits in an empty pew. Ignoring the Priest below he marvels at the carved stone arches ascending to the vaulted ceiling. In the centre is a delicately carved interweaving design surrounding a beautiful painted goddess. Dancing around her are cherubs and waterfowl; specifically, the white neck Swanbon with ribbon-like tailfeathers. She’s memorizing, but she doesn’t compare to the woman plaguing his thoughts every minute of the day. Ever since that frightful night, he can’t rid his mind of the beautiful enchantress. He thinks of her smile and the soft perfume of her skin; perfection in every way. Staring at the goddess of Paradise, he feels his beloved watching over him as he sits. We will meet again, my love.

Today isn’t the only time he felt the grace of the gods endorsing his purpose. They smiled from behind the glittering stars, as the rebellion begins and his life changes forever. He remembers his anxious horse outside the palace. He didn't dare look at the men standing rank and file behind him. Each one ready to put their lives to the hazard at his single word. Unlike them, his resolve cracked, held together by the veiled promise and a hope to dream. He watches the warm palace lights glow against the rocky mountain background. Each countless room alit, flickering, and inviting. A place once resented became a welcomed home. Squeezing the reigns, he knows Alexandria will never be the same; after tonight he'll no longer be free to walk these streets. A twinge of guilt snakes in his gut. Tonight, both their lives change forever.

"Remo," his superior barks, summoning him to their task. "This is the only way. Our people, your people suffer because of him. A heathen king who defies the Gods, who incurred their wrath, and now children starve in the streets. Barren crops, and savage seas that rip our ships to splinters. The mines collapse in protest burying brave men like your father in early graves."

His father was cruel and drank their money away. But tonight, isn't the night for those memories. Its for action, for righting wrongs and settling old scores.

"Sir, you know as I do, the crown prince will fight to protect his coward father."

"Yes, but the palace guards are with us. Allan is weak, isn't that what you've told me?" General Braun smirks, "A feeble mind in a shell of a warrior."

"Yes, I remember." He clenches his jaw. They shared many such conversations. Countless nights on patrol sharing dark secrets. Their resentment and anger only set free through admitting the truth. The royal family must die. Only when he spills their blood over the street will his people finally be free.

"They are a plague, and we must eradicate them." He shouts it louder for the soldiers to hear, their cheers rise into the night sky.

But what of her? A frail voice whispers.

“Kill the king!” The chorus starts.

She isn't one of them. Like him she's trapped, born to suffer by their hand and grace.

“Kill the king!”

She’s a victim of their evil.

"Do this for me Remo," Braun whispers, " do this, it's the only way to save her."

The snake uncoils, unfurling the sails of fire in his stomach. It burns, igniting in his chest and flowing through his body. Courage, strength, revenge swell into his limps. Drawing his sword, he lifts it high so the metal glows in the light of their torches.

"Kill the King!" He cheers motioning for them to charge.

The thunder of hooves echo through the stone courtyard. From the corner of his eye, he sees ropes tangling around the fountain. Wrapping around the clawed paws, the snarling face, and tie the noose around the neck. The crashing of stone and gushing water tells him the destruction of royal rule is at hand. Loyalist guards burst through the palace doors and challenge his men in the yard. The man in the center unclasps his cape, the garment bellows in the unnatural wind emitting from the palace. The soldiers flank his side but the hot-headed prince grips his hilt and meets his eye. He draws as Remo dismounts, accepting the challenge with a grin. But Allan's temper fumes, the wind circles them, as dust swirls at their feet.

"How could you," Allan shouts, "he treated you like a son!"

"I was barely a man when he made a soldier of me. A life of rank, orders, and unquestionable obedience? Is that a life a father wants of his son?"

"For a son of a king, it's all we can hope for."

"I won’t be saddled with your fate.”

“This is the path you chose, destruction of our moral order?”

“I chose freedom Allan! Either join me or step aside.” Allan responded with his staff. The dark walnut base twisted at the top where it encased a radiant colourless iolite gemstone. A Mage with a staff, one of Umara’s most threatening foes. But tonight, Remo is unstoppable, he had justice on his side. Zander smiles upon him, blesses his arm and he will not fail. “So be it.”

He squeezes the swords grip, soaking in the energy. Allan, with his clean-shaven youthful face, knits his brow and raises the staff to the sky. His skin prickles as the air surrounding them cools, the edges of his tunic flick against the breeze. The chill, unusual for the hot sticky summer, kisses his skin. Allan’s dark shoulder length locks dance in the breeze. Soon the gust swirls, gathering speed and he will release his famous whirlwind.

But Remo knew his every move. Brothers, not by blood, but they shared a warrior’s heart. They’ve faced each other countless times. He steels his heart, swallowing the regret swelling in his throat and charges. She will forgive him. She had too… all of this is for her.

Weeping seeps into his ears, not from his memory but some the ladies crying into handkerchiefs beside him. The collective mourning of the audience becomes apparent, only magnified by the solemn song from the bishop. His ivory and charcoal robes drag behind him as he sings the hymn on his approach the gilded altar. People from all walks of life cram into the pews paying their respects to the wooden casket. The candlelight dances over its polished surface, illuminating the metallic paint decorating the walnut wood. He notes some smudges from the pallbearers’ sweaty palms. His widow isn’t a patient woman, no doubt she rushed the ceremonial preparations.

He can’t make out the images from his seat but he assumes it’s the same tapestry every royal casket receives; The crossing into the Paradise. He imagines they painted old Edgard as taller and more athletic as he recounts his life before the Goddess Alona. Her scales, calculating the worth of a soul, decorates the side panel in front of him. Of course, elaborate scenes illustrating the painter’s version of Paradise decorate the top. Bountiful flowers, birds, fish, and the encompassing heavens reveal a glorious utopia for all to see. Painted propaganda, he mutters, an infantile fantasy.

He can’t ignore the audience’s whimpers as the bishop blesses the casket. After the mumbled prayers, the brass bells signal for the spectators to sing the grim funeral hymn. He crosses his arms as the melody vibrates through the air. The strength of his sword is greater than the faith of the church. War is instinct; pure and simple. Who needs complications like faith when the enemy demands blood?

As the service ends, the family of the deceased rise to their feet. Edgard’s wife, wearing a shining crown on top a head of inky hair leads the procession. A contemptuous expression plasters her face as her daughter struggles to contain her composer. Nicole, doe like in appearance, with a head of golden curls pinned in place struggles to keep her mother’s impatient pace. The queen’s eyes catch his; obeying the summons he pushes past the spectators until he exits the cathedral behind the group of nobles. Bellavere’s elite disregard him as he maneuvers through the ranks; passing lords and barons in single strides.

Through the covered pedway, a discrete passage used by the ruling class, he makes his way to the castle. The sun beams through the stain glass windows casting the stone tunnel into a rainbow of light. Violets and sapphires dance over Nicole’s pale skin, like a wilting flower her grace withers under the devastation of her father’s sudden passing. She lacks the strength and integrity required for courtly life. Unlike his beloved who was unbreakable, unyielding, and unforgettable even in the end. He nods as he passes her, hoping his appearance resembles even an ounce of sympathy. But she shies her smudged face into a handkerchief.

A commotion ahead of him draws his attention, the queen shrieks in an angry vitriol uncommon for the occasion. If the last few months told him anything, Bellavere is a quiet somber place. One where citizens spend their free time in prayer and contemplation. Disagreements occur behind closed doors, but Margaret is different. Red face and fierce she points a long slender finger accusingly at the broad shoulder man twice her height. Every child knows of the Giant of Bellavere; the legendary General Diamond whose reputation claims he’s as hard as the gem of his namesake. His eyes surveyed every corner of the kingdom, but now, those dark eyes stared fiercely into the queens.

“Remove yourself from my sight!” she orders, “if you step one insolent foot inside the castle, I will your blood spilt in my street!”

“You send this kingdom into ruin!” he bellows. Clenching his jaw, he storms past Remo and vanishes in the crowd.

“Ah, Remo” the queen’s face brightens, “just the man I wanted to see.” She motions for her associates to withdraw and he stands alone with her in the corridor.

“My apologies, Your Majesty, however, I cannot help but notice the ardent exit of the general. May I offer my assistance?”

“My husband’s death left him rather emotional. I am afraid they were very close.”

“Emotions make a soldier weak.”

“Walk with me,” she smiles and leads him to the cathedral. The kingdom’s grief hangs in the air and the incense burns his nostrils. The people pass him like walking spectres, lifeless with a cloak of grief hugging their bodies. Edgard was a strong king, but never allowed the decorum to interfere with his love for those who he held dear. Some will call him noble, and Remo called him a friend. He was a traveller when they met in that foreign land. But they shared a love for adventure and became fast friends as they explored the newly discovered terrain.

Margaret was different from her husband. Where Edgard climbed narrow mountain paths, she lounged at the base camp with her servants. He attended banquets from tribal chiefs while she complained of the gamey meat. He never met a more opposite pair. He assumed they were a better match when away from public eyes. But the more time he spent with them, the more he realized their love was dangerously one sided.

“Why the precautions, Your Majesty?” He asked as she closed the rosewood doors.

“Secrets,” she muses, he follows her past the pews; his heavy footsteps echoing through the empty space. She passes her husband’s casket; dismissing its presence as if it's old furniture.

“Women spin secrets like spiders’ spin webs. No disrespect, Your Majesty, make your point,”

“Why so anxious Remo?” she smirks.

“I rather not spend the day in the house of the Gods.”

“Does Their ominous judgment scare you?”

“I do not fear death. But we both know neither of our souls are entering Paradise. Not mine and after this little stunt,” he knocks on the coffin’s lid, “neither is yours.”

“My husband, despite his worldly tastes, was a safe man. Bellavere and her prospects waste away while he panders to other kingdoms. Yes, the Treaty insists on a status quo but We deserve better.”

“You told this story before,”

“Say what you will, but under my guidance, our enemies will fear Bellavere.”

“I assume these motives incorporate a plan General Diamond refuses to execute?”

“He is weak... but you, however, are a great asset.”

“In what way?”

“Your experience, skill, and knowledge of the enemy.”

“The enemy...” His only enemy was the first and last man to stand in his way. “I see the conversations we shared are not speculation.”

“It is time for action.”

“Will Diamond interfere?”

“Not after today.”

“I hate to imagine the man who will dispose of him.”

“All it requires is the right price.”

“A man for hire is a wretched end.”

“I do not dirty my hands,” she motions to the casket. “This is your opportunity for the satisfaction you desire. Help me, Remo, help me and we both get what we want.”

“Your Majesty doesn’t know which end of the sword is deadly let alone military tactics. If you grant me what I desire, then I will ensure your victory.”

“Name it and it is yours.”

“Blood.”