Year 212. Royal Alliance Caravan - Lydoros Highway - Khirn

RUNEMASTER

The caravan was on the move as a unified force, hundreds of thousands strong. Sabatons, sandals, boots, hooves, and wheels trampled the grassy edges and cracked the cobbled stone of the broad highway leading into the vast diplomatic center of Lydoros, once used as the seat of power to Khirn's ancient Golden Lords. Sunlight broke through a cloudy sky in rays, settling on various patches of luminescent flowers and clusters of vibrant colossal trees nearly as tall as the buildings in Holmgan. Their bark was a burnt brown with streaks of midnight black forming geometric shapes in chaotic patterns, topped with bushels of green and red so thick as to appear fluffy and soft. Compared to Dekun, a vast swath of savanna and the rare rainforest fit for a warrior and a hunter, Aslofidor was a disgustingly lush place suitable only for the philosopher and the meek.

He rode a splendid steed through this landscape, a massive red courser in a full bard enameled a rainbow of colors after his armor. The Spear of E'grn was held in his right hand, held upright in a stiff manner like a banner, while his left hand held the reins of his horse. He was in the middle of the host's vanguard, leading his cohort with a purpose beyond simple violence slowly brewing in his heart as the words of his new woman replayed themselves in his subconscious.

Akma Yal rode next to him atop his own steed, a black destrier draped in silks with a golden chamfron protecting its face. He wore his full plate, helmet covering his head entirely, with only a snarling jackal providing any semblance of emotion to his countenance. But Erik Apa knew what his second's expression was. Concern and regret for his decision to bring the woman to camp. "Tohyi, are you sure this is wise? Having her for a night or two or even a week is one thing, but taking her to Lydoros is profoundly different."

Erik Apa sighed, casting a wayward glance to his second and allowing the subtle whirring of his lenses to indicate disapproval at the comment. "You brought her to camp for my use, and I shall do so as I see fit," he stated, confirming that disapproval. "If I wish to bring her to Lydoros, then I will."

Akma Yal bowed his head. "Of course, Tohyi. I know that I brought her here for such things, but will your mother and the other men-"

"My mother is too busy with the politics of this country to care about what I do in my own tent," he grunted with an air of dismissal. "And the men, yourself included, will have to remember that I am Maprapeyni. I am entitled to it."

"Of course, Tohyi," Akma Yal said. "I did not mean to offend."

Erik Apa shot a short burst of laughter from his lungs. "You have not offended me, Akma Yal. I am just remembering my position in this army and the potential I have within it."

He felt Akma Yal's expression turn neutral behind his helmet's face. "Yes, Tohyi. I will ensure that no man or woman in our ranks derides your decision."

Erik Apa straightened his back. "I care not if they do, but see that they do not attempt to bring their own companions to camp. The law is still in place for them."

Akma Yal nodded and returned his attention to the forward march. The woman in question was far behind them, locked away in hiding within a two-story wagon house intended for the more esteemed non-combatants all deemed necessary for the upcoming diplomacies at Lydoros. Members of Aslofidorian Houses like Kroiso, Philon, Erehthus, and Akamus inhabited that mobile construct alongside Scriptlords and Glyphladies like Akse Bas, Ogut Akg, Aziz Ter, and Sevi Sen. Erik Apa had stated that her presence or her purpose in that place and the caravan was not to be oppugned by anyone. That she would inform him if any of them did just that. Silence, he hoped, filled that wagon house. His position within the hierarchy of Dekun and the alliance, he hoped, was respected.

"Iren Ney is inert on his horse, Tohyi," said the suddenly appearing Goka Tur, outfitted in lamellar with his face still painted. He rode a beast similar to Akma Yal. "The effects of withdrawal from howler are hitting him hard. I ordered Ulek Aks and Yola Tal to ensure he does not fall from his mount."

"Good," Erik Apa replied in a curt voice. "I take it you also ordered them that if he falls regardless, we are to leave him behind, correct?"

"Tohyi?" His eyes narrowed. "That does not seem wise. If he is left behind in his current state, he will either die or cause panic throughout the countryside."

"The Aslofidorian countryside is vaster than our entire forests, Goka Tur," he snorted. "He will die, and that will be that. His mother will give us one of her better sons, and we will move on."

Goka Tur hummed. "If you are so against him being in the cohort, why not transfer him or kill him now?"

"I have thought of it," Erik Apa admitted. "I even told Akma Yal to execute him if he became addled again. But it would cause more headaches than anything else, even with my mother's laws. Him dying in the country due to his own weakness will ease the integration of her other sons. She won't be fearful for their lives, afraid that I would kill them too."

"They are quite the upstarts in her family, I hear," Goka Tur commented with a far-away voice, his face scrunched as he visibly recalled the tales of these sons. "Erki and Demi proved quite capable against the Aqela raiders when they were sent to the coast for excursions."

"I hear they killed the pirate Narbet Uydark during that time," Akma Yal added. "An Elven mercenary, I believe, in service to the pirate lord Silnor Arnala."

"Silnor," Erik Apa growled, the memory of that leper beast burned into his sight.

"A longstanding foe to Dekun," Akma Yal commented. "More beast than man, they say. Unkillable."

Erik Apa scoffed. "Everything is killable, and I will kill that man upon a day."

"Having her sons in our cohort would better help us understand his force's fighting styles," Goka Tur said.

"Perhaps I will have them brought into the cohort regardless of their brother's status."

Goka Tur nodded. "It would go a long way in securing their mother's continued service to you."

Akma Yal agreed after a moment's silence. "And keeping your family in charge of the Runes come the Metamorphosis. A better alternative to Iren Ney's death."

"Hence my sentiment that transfer would be preferable to outright death," Goka Tur concluded.

Erik Apa brooded on this as the clouds broke for a great period of time and allowed the sun to beat down on them without hindrance. A distant roll of thunder sounded in the sky like the beat of a million war drums. Far to the southeast, coming towards the slowly forming town of Lydoros, great darkness had gathered. Spears of lightning split the sky in phalanx formations, while shield walls of residual light kept portions of the darkness of those clouds to a dried inky gray. The contrast to himself helped him compose his thoughts.

The Metamorphosis was a period of time within Dekun where all the Lords, Ladies, Masters, and Archs would gather in a grand ceremony within the capital of Vaauta Ujad to test the purity of the associated family's connection to Dekun's latent arcaenic power. For centuries, the Apas had proven the greatest and had thus remained in charge of the Runes - the most powerful form of Dekun's arcaeno. By association, they ruled Dekun. But politics, as much as he loathed to admit it, still infested his homeland in this Era of Divinity.

"You may be right," he finally admitted, almost under his breath. Akma Yal and Goka Tur shared glances across him. "Goka, once we make camp again, send a bird to Scriptlady Ney and present my offer to place her sons within my cohort at the price of transferring Iren back home. Explain every necessary detail. Understood?"

"Yes, Tohyi," Goka Tur said with a grin. "Iren will have to stay with us during our time at Lydoros, however, and likely through the campaign for a few months more."

"Fine enough, as long as he keeps his head clear," Erik Apa grumbled. "Keep him away from the drink. Water only."

"Of course, Tohyi."

"So this Metamorphosis was somewhat like an election?" Nina Aulffe asked.

Gíla nodded. "It was, officially, though extremely hereditary in truth. Arcaeno, at that time, was severely limited in who could use it and use it properly. Dekun happened to have the most potent connection to it in Khirn, likely due to its coastal location and proximity to the more sensitive land of Aqela. So, there were many families there that could use it, but only a few could use it well. Many were limited to simple parlor tricks and minor manipulation of the land around them."

She stood up, picking up a stick to begin drawing a simple diagram of shapes and lines in the dirt beneath their feet. A representation of the hierarchy of Dekun. "But the Glyph Families, the Script Families, and the Rune Families had always been able to use it far more extensively than the rest of their population. As such, their power was passed down from member to member, and the ranks in the hierarchy never changed unless a family was killed in a war or a particular family was ousted by their enemies."

"And the Apas?" Kuragis Locus asked.

Gíla drew a deeper line from the twelve circles at the top of the diagram and made a small but very pronounced square close to the fire. "The Apas had held their position for centuries. They were uniquely strong, hence their connection to the Runes - a devastating form of Arcaeno once native to a land in the far north of Aqela. I cannot remember the name. With it, they could alter the entire world around them. Make canyons if they so wished. Mountains. Wildfires. Granted, doing such things would kill them, but the possibility was there. No other family in the centuries of their control had ever come close to their power."

Thilas and Mordo made 'Aaah' noises in tandem. "So if they lost their position because of enemies made, Dekun would be ruled by someone far weaker?" Mordo asked, to which Gíla nodded.

"How had Dekun not been censured or crusaded against for their usage of Arcaeno? Was it not vilified throughout Khirn?" Pinnacle asked, drinking her own cup of tea filled by Thilas.

"It was something of an open secret," Gíla answered. "One of the many foundational reasons that Aslofidor and Dekun could never peace. Aslofidor despised Arcaeno. Dekun embraced it in their own way. Humorously enough, King Hippon and his family were not even the ones who hated this the most. That would belong to Duke Barat."

A collective 'ooh' crossed the camp as realization dawned on each student.

"Did that come into play during the meeting?" Lu'Rorca inquired with a hasty interest.

Year 212. Lydoros - Khirn

JIRA ne'JIRAL

Lydoros. In any other place, it should have been considered a city. A metropolis even. Capital of an entire nation. Not a town. Yet, it was considered a town. All six-hundred-fifty squared miles of it. The size was ludicrous to Jira, for it gave her the ability to truly appreciate the absolute audaciousness of Jore and the further incomprehensibility of Khirn and Aqela. Here, a population of nearly ten million people awaited the meeting that would decide their future safety and their future allegiance. It was set half-and-half over the largest river in Aslofidor, Lion's Tail, with the northern and southern halves connected by a movable bridge that raised either of its sides into the sky like shields.

Only a contingent of a few thousand of Duke Barat's forces with the Belanorians entered that city for the purpose of this diplomatic meeting, Jira included. The rest remained stationed outside the city's walls, adopting defensive positions and waiting for what could have been the inevitable - or perhaps, the avoidable. She expected, conceivably naively, for the King's son and the Dekunians to do the same.

For the time being, however, she could enjoy the solitude of being just another face in a train of armored flesh and dapper clothing, mixed with Aslofidorian and Belanorian faces. She looked to her right, meeting the wide stressed eyes of Nara-ward. "Are you okay, boy?" she asked him in a near motherly tone.

"Yes, Lady ne'Jiral," he lied. He could see that she noticed his lie and sighed. "I'm just worried, is all. This is a very important meeting, and if it goes wrong, then...well, Devil, take our souls."

"Yes, it will be quite a travesty if it goes wrong," Jira admitted, much to his unveiled dread, prompting her to quickly add: "But you and I will be fine. You won't partake in the fighting, and I am quite adept at surviving tragedies."

"I hope so," he said. "I know you'll be fine, but the hatred between everyone has been rising the past few months. And hate is terrible for the spirit, Crius says. And the good of the land."

"More with the Crius wisdom," Jira laments with a smile. "I thought he would be out of reach this far from Jore, but even here, his pretentiousness still pierces the ear."

Nara-ward frowned. "Crius is a wise man, Lady ne'Jiral. You could...do well yourself to learn some spirituality from him too. He is almost Belanorian in his piety."

"That is quite the claim, Nara," Jira laughed. "Has he quoted the Codices as frequently as they do?"

"In almost every lecture, he finds a way to bring several sections to context, often in more ways than one," Nara-ward answered. "He has even drawn comparisons to Tahririan beliefs. It is comforting, to say the least."

"Maybe you should have warded for him to become a priest instead of me to become a knight," Jira smirked.

"You chose me, Lady ne'Jiral," Nara-ward smirked back. "Besides, can I not be both? A crusader like the Belanorians?"

Jira shrugged. "You can, it will just extend your lessons." She thought for a moment as the train came to a momentary stop. "Hell below, if you want, you can consider spending some of your squireship in Belanore once this whole ordeal is done, assuming everything goes well."

Nara-ward's eyes widened at this. "Are you sure that's allowed? Aren't I required to at least stay in the same city as you?"

"Unless otherwise specified," Jira said. "I would be willing, considering how much Crius' lessons have affected you. And taught you."

Before Nara-ward could answer, a great shout of commotion erupted from the front of the train. Jira turned her gaze toward it, her mouth going dry at the horrible thought that everything had just fallen apart before the meeting even began. She pushed her way toward it, bustling past row after row of gilded plate and silver scale until she broke the front lines of the train, bearing witness to the cause of the ruckus. Duke Barat, the Prime, and a host of Barat's greatest diplomats and royal guards stood before a cluster of Dekunian and loyalist soldiers. Each of them bore steel and shield, their stances apprehensive. Uncountable sets of eyes stared at the situation in the streets from the lines of crisscrossed buildings around them. Some from alleys, some from windows, some from the side of the street, and some from doorways.

"What is the meaning of this?" the commander of the Duke's royal guard growled. "We were to remain unaccosted until we arrived at the Iris. How dare you impede us?"

"Calm yourself," one of the loyalists hissed. "We aren't here to fight, as much as we'd love to. Prince Hippon the Ninth and his councilors requested that we lead you to them for easier travel. And to ensure our honorable alliance with Dekun is upheld."

"Already doubting your agreement with the Dekunians, kinsman?" the commander grimly chortled.

"Careful, Petos. Do not put undue stress on already tense bindings," Zetus Gogos warned. "I would not see the day ruined before it even began."

"A wise man you are, despite all this," the loyalist said. "Follow us and see this ordeal end."

Through winding streets filled with landmarks of beauty and honor, they marched. As the clouds above them swelled with rain and darkened with thunder, they marched. As lightning struck the grounds, the river, and the buildings and split the sky, they marched until they reached the Iris - an open-air amphitheater constructed on the eastmost end of the city, halved by the river with a stone bridge connecting both sides. The stage was simple white marble topped with polished timber and decorated with the twin statues of Lydoros' foremost philosophers of old: Illyius and Satros. Brave men with more honor than a Drayheller archaeologist. Jira wished they could be present in flesh and blood today rather than cold stone and history.

"Be calm, and do nothing that could jeopardize this if you get called on for any reason by the Prime," Zetus warned her. "Understood?"

The theatre seats were filled entirely within the hour of the Duke's arrival. The south side was filled with the Duke's procession, while the north was filled with the alliance of Aslofidor and Dekun. A man fatter than any fat man Jira had ever seen presided over the meeting, robed in silks far too delicate for his girthy frame. Three chins hung over the collar of his shirt, wobbling with every minor movement he made. He motioned to those of the north. Hippon the Ninth, dressed in full battle garb, and a woman that could only be Runearch Ezel Apa, along with a cadre of two dozen councilors, sat on cushioned seats overlooked by the statue of Illyius. On the south side, Duke Barat and his councilors, along with the Prime, took their seats. Jira and Nara-ward sat in the theatre, breath bated. The sky cracked with the roar of thunder, lightning flashing white and blue, yet no rain fell. A dry storm. Ominous in Aqela. Dangerous in Khirn.

"What will happen if it starts raining?" Nara-ward asked above the quieting hum of chatter.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "Postponing. Continuing. I'm not sure."

"Ladies and gentlemen of Aslofidor, Dekun, and...Belanore," the fat man began, momentarily pausing as the sight of the Belanorians was fully absorbed by his eyes. "I welcome you to this most auspicious of gatherings. We are here to discuss the terms of peace between King Hippon Aslofidor, eighth of his name, and Duke Oudet Barat."

"Where is your king?" the Prime of Belanore immediately spoke up, staring hard at the Prince as he interrupted the fat man.

"He is grave with illness," the Prince answered as the tension of the interruption perverted the storm-dense air. "I am here in his stead per my mother's request."

"Ah, the Raven Queen," the Prime grunted, his voice a seething death rattle. "Her absence is also notable. I take it she is caring for your father?"

"Yes, she is, for she is a dutiful queen," the Prince answered. "Surely your wife would do the same for you?"

"Bela'norians do not fall ill, Prince Hippon," the Prime said. "We are a robust people."

"Right," the Prince said. "As it is, I am taking over my father's role and will see this meeting go smoothly lest war kills us all unless that is what you are here to declare."

"War is not what we are here to declare at all," Zetus Gogos stated, cutting off the Duke before any damning words could be said. "We are here to negotiate peace before blood is spilled."

"And what terms are needed to be met for this peace to last?" Runearch Ezel asked. Jira regarded her with a mix of awe and fear. She was similar to her son in size and stature, though a few inches shorter and more on the robust side. Her armor had been painted black for the occasion, with streams of silver and gold forming glyphic markings across the plate.

The Duke answered. "That my Duchy is given to me as its own nation. Jore and all of my territories will be regarded as a separate entity from the Kingdom of Aslofidor for as long as I, my family, and all of my family's cadet branches survive."

"You ask the world from us," the Prince guffawed as a boom of lightning flashed blue across the theater. "You declare open rebellion to the crown and seek to have your lands separated from its control? Is it your own crown you are after? Your own declaration as a king?"

"He seeks to have the peace of life for his people without the threat of the crown taking more than he can give and strangling them when he cannot," Zetus Gogos retorted.

Murmurs spread like fire across the theater.

"More than he can give?" Hippon asked, incredulous, rising from his seat to an uproar from those in the theater. "He rules the largest city in all of Khirn, capable of sustaining the densest population in all of its histories, and claims that he cannot give to the crown?"

"He cannot give more than what he does already, Prince Hippon," said another councilor - a woman of respected age and wizened countenance. "You ask much already."

"We ask for what the Duke can provide his liege, nothing more," the Prince countered. "This is a farce. I have wasted my time-"

"Quiet yourself, Prince," Runearch Ezel calmed, practically pulling the young man back into his seat. "Still your humors or find yourself silenced for the rest of this meeting."

The Prince collected his breath after the shock of being so rudely handled wore off. Jira smirked at the sight.

"Your city is, arguably, the greatest in all of Khirn. The fact that it remains the home of a Duke rather than the King should be a testament to the trust that the King has in you, Duke Barat," the Runearch explained. "It sustains a way of life that should be impossible for its size. You have entire stretches of farmland within it, I'm told. Surely you can give more than enough to the crown and then some. Yet you have declared open rebellion and given that as a reason?"

"It is reason enough," Zetus said. "The King has grown his demands over the years. Yes, Jore is blessed uniquely, but even it has limits. Crops take time. Animals must grow. In a few decades' time, we will be strained with how much we must give to the King's holdings, especially as the winter months grow upon us each year."

Runearch Ezel shook her head. "No. Such reasoning joins all previous ones that have fallen flat of the truth that lies so greedily against your tongues. So, as King Hippon, Queen Iondai, and many others have asked...why have you done this? Why have you declared rebellion? The truth, this time, Duke Barat, and we may be able to discuss proper terms of peace."

Silence. Silence passed through every single soul in that amphitheater as they awaited the Duke's response. Only the wind and the thunder provided sound to their ears.

"We are seeking to live free of the King's...sinful ways," the Duke answered bluntly, much to the sudden, shocked stare from his councilors.

"My Lord," Zetus Gogos tried to say.

But Duke Barat would not let him. "The truth was said when I declared my rebellion so long ago, yet the audacity of it must have remained lost in the minds of those I rebelled against. Sin. Sin and evil and the machinations of a dark queen and a vile, rotted king."

"My Lord! Please!" Zetus Gogos pleaded.

"You insult my father so brazenly?" the Prince burned, rising to his feet again and reaching for his blade. "You dare?"

The Duke rose to meet him, marching across the stage as his royal guard and councilors rushed after him. Jira's heart raced with worry at the scene, doubled by the growing roar of the crowd around her. The Prime remained seated the entire time. "Your father is an addled, old man incapable of seeing your mother for what she is. A witch. Consorting with demons."

"My Lord!" the councilors shouted in tandem, though their voices were drowned in the cacophony of rage within the theater.

"Blasphemy!" the Prince boomed, slapping away Runearch Ezel's hand as she attempted to pull him back. "What truth do you have to lay such a claim upon my family?"

"The truth of what I have seen!" the Duke retorted. "I have seen her crimes for myself. The results of her dealings with the Devil."

"My Lord, this is not the time or place!" Zetus Gogos wailed, trying with all his aged might to pull the Duke back into the safety of his royal guard.

"You claim my mother, your queen, as a witch because of what you have seen?"

The Duke bellowed with unrestrained rage, the meeting falling apart as instantly as Jira feared. "I have been affected by it! Greatly...terribly...my own son was taken from me and turned into a vile beast!"

The Prince began to unsheath his sword. "Then your son is no more a beast than you, Duke!"

Zetus Gogos finally managed to begin pulling his liege back into the guard. "My Lor-"

Jira finished the scream for him. Everyone around her finished the scream for him.

Zetus Gogos was a fine man. One of the finest Jira ne'Jiral had ever seen in her time. He was a man who had taught her many things in the art of diplomacy, subtle changes in tone and inflection, and the ability to read faces. Under his tutelage, she had learned the languages of the Belanorians, the Veorisians, the Tahririans, and the Dekunians. She had learned histories and fictions of Khirn to rival that of the finest Drayheller and Orc'kin scholars. He had been a second father when her first had failed her.

The man screamed only the first syllable of a scream when his head became inverted. Where had once been flesh and muscle and cartilage now rested open bone and dangling fibers. Blood spilled like cake batter down his body as he twitched with the last vestiges of life, the gurgles that should have been screams bubbling at the hole of his opened neck. His thrashing broke his spine, his brain stem tearing like old parchment, and his head lulled so much that part of his skull broke open to reveal the inside of the face within. He fell to the ground, defecating and urinating in throes of humiliation. His final lesson to the woman he had thought of as a daughter.

A lesson she had to carry for the rest of her days.