Tiberius Thelius and Lancel Geravynn strolled along the great halls of the Palace. Four Honour guards and a half dozen of Geravynn’s banner men followed five metres behind. Lancel and his men wore the official Sadderlonian colours; two of knee length tunics’ quarters were black, the other two yellow. His guards wore chest plates and kettle helmets, the rim leaving their eyes in shadow. Lancel had a well-trimmed dark brown goatee, not matching him now greying hair “It has been too long my Emperor” Tiberius agreed. After Vonn, Lancel controlled the largest number of troops in the empire, however as technically Vonn was responsible for all of the imperial forces, but didn’t necessarily give them orders, that would put Lancel at the top. Sadderlon had always been a major player due to its size and population thanks to its fertile land; even within an empire it held considerable sway. Sadderlon was the first Kingdom to, after several years of war; submit to becoming an imperial province. It was rewarded with a certain measure of autonomy, later enjoyed by all of the kingdoms under Tiberius’ direction. What’s more, as their Kings had willingly surrendered, they had been spared the executions others had to face, such as those of Milanya and Dalshire. Lancel was a descendant of that same line of Kings. Setting an example for the others, leading to Cendryn and Tycarsa similarly submitting, Sadderlon was regarded as the most loyal kingdom to the empire, which was only strengthened by his and Lancel’s friendship “You know I completely back the campaign into Astor, the region is weak and in need of better leadership, but…” Lancel was a foot taller than Tiberius, hunching a little to better make conversation “…if it were possible I believe we should leave the region all but devoid of Knights of the Order” Lancel shared Tiberius’ view of those fanatics “They’re likely to cause a rebellion with their incessant burnings, and they’re dangerous, the last thing the Faith needs is more power” Not fully trusting the honour guards that accompanied him, their loyalties were unknown to him, whether they secretly reported to the Bishops of the Faith, were well placed spies for the Yarkhish, or even informants for Princess Talia, Tiberius quickened his pace to get more out of earshot “A plan is already in motion. Several of the Bishops agree that the Order has gone too far, they have their own Knights of Order, loyal to them not the fanatics. I have planted the seeds of dissent” In a hushed tone he continued “The Order will split into reformists and Stoics and rip itself apart with the infighting, the blood of our soldiers need not be spilled” Lancel looked impressed at the carefully plotted move “It may take months, it make take years, but eventually the Order will be no more, for now though the reformist movement is in its infancy” they continued walking but slowed to allow the guards to catch up now that the secrecy was past. They had reached his office and now stood outside the door. There were already two honour guards presiding over the entrance so he turned to those behind him “You are dismissed-” The four honour guards bowed their heads and placed their right hands on their chests before striding off to fulfil other duties. Tiberius noted that one of them did the action with urgency and then walked off hastily and with purpose. Tiberius noted the face of the man; he would deal with his suspicions later. The Sadderlonians had no other real duties so instead simply relaxed and started to chat amongst themselves instead of wandering off “How do preparations for war go?” Tiberius inquired. No doubt Lancel and Vonn had already talked at length on the subject, being closer than Tiberius and Lancel “Our armies are fully mobilised, we are processing the last of the new recruits” He seemed proud of the prowess of Sadderlon’s military “Cendryn reports similar progress-” Cendryn was always second best in the empire, largest army after Sadderlon and most wealthy and largest fleet after Toren. It was a powerful kingdom, likely the most powerful considering its lack of any real weaknesses “Vasteran too” The kingdom of Vasteran was perhaps the most average province in the empire, well prepared and with good leadership, but smaller and less populated than its neighbours “Milanya and Dalshire are a little behind” the fertile, breadbaskets of the Empire with feeble armies “The northern rabble are marching south as we speak” The Northern Kingdoms were more rebellious and savage than the southern, however they were loyal and loved a good fight “When fully assembled it’ll be the largest force in history, even larger than Janos Giant’s Bane’s army” Janos Giant’s Bane was the man responsible for dismantling the old Elven empire, uniting the tribes and clans of Astor and invading Civela, what the elves called the heartlands. Lancel Geravynn smirked with satisfaction “Astor will be ours within the year, with King Aturack old and insane, Borick impulsive and bullish and that pup Thomas ruling Doravier” Tiberius wasn’t so confident “There are other obstacles, Prince Dorian is a strategic genius and King Venduril is cunning more than you know” Dorian especially worried Tiberius, a ruthless man with a brilliant mind, if a flawed personality…

Malrion watched as Prince Dorian stood at the end of his father’s bed. Malrion was the court wizard and advisor to King Aturack. The now gravely ill man, slowly slipping into insanity, never left his bed. He used to be a strong, generous man but as he grew older he became more and more paranoid about his former friends and allies. Though it seemed strange, Dorian was now the sane one. The Prince was bald and short, with a relentless temper. Aturack continued to babble quietly to himself in his bed, whispering nonsense about betrayal and conspiracy. Dorian looked from his father to Malrion “What is he saying?” Malrion had been sat beside the King, cleaning his fingernails to pass the time “He appears to be cycling, he’s back on the ‘snakes and ravens eating his skin’ again” Dorian had no sense of humour, not even blinking at it “Perhaps it has some meaning, what could he be talking about?” Malrion rolled his eyes and sighed. He was the damned Court wizard of Manea, he had better things to do than translate the ramblings of a vegetable “The snakes and ravens could well refer to the houses of Triss and Cylan, but they are loy-” Dorian had started to walk out of the room. There was that fierce temper. Malrion got up hastily and ran after him “My prince wait, your father’s mind is not what it was, it was all meaningless” Malrion grasped Dorian’s arm and span him around “My father may not be sane, but I’ve never known him to be wrong. I’m going to find out their plans and hang them” Malrion stared deeply into his eyes “That may not be the best way to handle things my Lord…” It occurred to Malrion what would reconcile Dorian “Your father has made you prince regent and protector of the realm, it will be difficult to rule if your lords hate you…” Dorian looked shocked for a moment, but then frowned and released himself from Malrion’s grasp “Very well, I’ll spare them for now, but do not lay a finger on me again mage” Malrion glared at the Prince “As you know the proper title is wizard, I shall ignore that slight and leave you to your business” Dorian stormed off in the direction of the throne room. Malrion bore no ill will toward the Prince but he hated babysitting the monarchs. A man of his position should not have to do such a demeaning task. Malrion straightened his robe as he watched the furious little brat stomp away “Difficult to control is he?” The wizard turned to the source of the voice, a spell ready to be cast in one hand; a trained reflex that had saved his life on a few occasions. Lord Mercer Quinn stood in the hallway to his right. Obviously listening into the conversation he stepped forward smiling “More than you know…” Malrion grumbled. He didn’t trust Mercer, he was not the sort to murder or plot against someone, but he did have ambition, an amount bordering on dangerous “What do you desire most, grand wizard?” He had dispelled the spell in his hand as Mercer approached “Peace and quiet, so I can continue my studies uninterrupted” Malrion was 6ft tall, a whole head above the lord. He got his height and magical ability from his elven blood. One of his great grandparents was a snowy elf “You and I, our wishes are in alignment, I too wish for stability in the realm” He looked up at the wizard with a cunning smile “I believe we can assure that stability together, with a little harmless manipulation of …” They both turned to look after the Prince. Malrion raised an eyebrow and looked back at the lord “What you speak of is treason, I thought you smarter than that” Lord Quinn made himself looked sarcastically innocent, widening his eyes as if to say what are you talking about “I merely propose we use our positions of power to prevent unnecessary bloodshed” he dropped the sarcastic look and continued “He trusts you, whenever I advise him you back me and we’ll all be better for it” Malrion crossed his arms “You believe he’ll listen? Forgive me but you’re not that charming” Mercer smiled in response “He desires a father-figure to look to, why else would he cling to the King so?” “And how do you plan on becoming his father? Will you adopt?” Mercer chuckled again “Your wit is a rare thing, but no I won’t become his father” Mercer had his attention, whatever he planned seemed well thought out “I have a daughter, I’ll become his father by law” But that didn’t make sense to Malrion, thinking back to the news of the kingdom he remembered “But your daughter Lysa is already betrothed to Lord Triss’ son?...” The realisation suddenly dawned on him, it was clearly visible as Mercer smiled again “An angered Lord Triss will likely lash out, giving us the excuse to kill him thereby gaining the Prince’s trust by removing someone he’s already suspicious of” Malrion could not help himself, he started to clap slowly, Lord Mercer bowed sarcastically. The two would get along well “I assume you have an answer to this too, but what about Triss the younger?” Malrion couldn’t wait to hear how Lord Quinn’s devious mind worked “Leave that to me, you just make sure you take your cue” The two men parted, with mutual admiration. Mercer was cleverer than he thought.

The following days of Yeng’s coronation were packed with pomp and ceremony. His most important duty for today was to greet the ambassadors of the Yarkhish Confederation. Emperor Yeng sat on the imperial throne in the Hall of Empires. The room had 10 Chosen Blades along the walls, stoically standing straight, with a grip on their sheathed swords. Jan-ye sat next to Yeng on a far less imposing seat than the Throne. The double doors slide apart and the three ambassadors walked through, toward him. The three were vastly different in everything. The Shyal ambassador wore simple beige robes, like that of a peasant and had a thin, almost gaunt body and no shoes. The Daiya ambassador had a very ornate green robe that stretched down to his feet with a variety of jewellery and baubles hanging from it. He wore soft velvet slippers with an upturned tip and a wide headdress with more baubles hanging from that. The ambassador himself looked plump and well fed, with a round face and large red cheeks. Lastly the ambassador from Khalyar was a completely different matter. Khalyar was ruled by the Faleen and whilst its culture was more similar to Yarkhish, they had much Macian influence in their territory. The Faleen wore armour, dull blue, with red trim. He was short and skinny for a Faleen, but still towered over the Daiya next to him. The three stopped around 20ft in front of him and all bowed. Again the diversity of these bows showed more of the individual cultures they came from. The Shyal got down on all fours and pressed his forehead against the floor. The Daiya, almost lazily, titled his torso forward and bowed his head. The Khalyari knelt, placed a hand on his knee and lowered his feline head. From what he’d heard, had been told and now seen for himself, the Yarkhish Confederation was extremely varied. The Shyal were humble and pious preferring simple farmers lives. They had agreed to become a vassal of the Rho in exchange for protection thanks to the diplomacy of Jhe II long ago. The Daiya were somewhat self-important, maintaining a cool rivalry with the Rho and possessing the largest land army of the confederation. Lastly the Khalyari were quiet but confident. Their lone city of Khalyar was well protected and their troops were capable. The Yarkhish rarely interacted with anyone outside of their confederation meaning no other envoys were really accepted. Yeng thought it a little narrow minded, back in the days of the Phoenix, Jhe II invited ambassadors from all the kingdoms on the continent. Jhe was a master diplomat, the trade routes and alliances he secured lasted for centuries. Yeng doubted he’d ever live up to the legend of Jhe, but he could at least try. Jhe had already had more than 40 years of experience before he became emperor, travelling the world and meeting the common people which gave him better insight into the world he lived in, Yeng would likely never get the chance. Yeng whispered to Jan-ye about inviting more ambassadors as the three finished their bow. The Daiya stepped forward and began eager to make an impression “Your eminence, the flame of your soul burns as brightly as your father’s and forefather’s. I am Lang Li, Lord of Tyuvo and humble servant of Emperor Ti, Lord of all the Daiya” He signed with his hands Great Respect to You. “My ruler wishes for continued cooperation between our great Dynasties, and a combined effort against all those you would invade our lands” He bowed again and stepped back into line with the others. The overly polite nature of the speech made him seem insincere even if he was truthful. The other two ambassadors peered at him, a mark of contempt especially from the Khalyari. The Faleen was next to step forward “My condolences for your loss, even now it weighs heavily upon us all. He was a great man” He bobbed his snout in respect “I am Emyr of Khalyar. As before, we gladly pledge our swords to the Confederation” Short and to the point, Yeng liked Emyr already. Lastly was the Shyal “We are your ever faithful vassals, your will is our purpose. We live to serve, Son of the Phoenix. I am Shyal Hao” That too was Jhe’s doing also, he persuaded the weak, unassuming people of the Shyal to become the Rho’s vassals in exchange for protection. This gave the Rho a far greater income and additional forces to add to its own which, at the time, gave the Rho the edge over their Daiya rivals. Thanks to this new alliance, back in the 2nd Age the Rho, with Shyal assistance conquered the Daiya cities of May-Sheng and May-Pyang, yet another part of the legacy of Jhe II. As tradition had been satisfied the meeting was adjourned. This had been the final event of his coronation. He was now free to rule as he pleased without having to worry about the past.

The small village of Poolbridge was quiet and dull. The entire history of the hamlet had been one long, uneventful story, so when Prince Thomas and a hundred knights came riding through the entire populous could do naught but gawp. Dale watched as several of the knights dismounted and began to talk to the ealdorman of Poolbridge. The ealdorman then called the townsfolk to assemble. Dale set down the bundle of logs and twigs he’d been carrying and strode over to join everyone. Riding next to Prince was a large, fully armoured Lord, old and bearded. He spoke for the young monarch “People of Poolbridge, your men are to be conscripted for the royal army of Prince Thomas, Ruler of Doravier and head of House Vass” At this a few of the women began to weep. Many would not see their husbands and sons again, it was understandable to cry “Anyone over the age of 16 is eligible for recruitment. To refuse is to be considered a deserter, all deserters will be hanged!” a quiet murmur spread through the common folk. Thomas rode forward, ahead of the Lord. He looked nervous but proceeded regardless “People … People of Poolbridge” The Prince stuttered slightly, raising his volume to be heard clearer “The Kingdom of Addun has taken the Tyla Plains, taking the people’s land and livelihoods with it. If we show weakness what is to stop them from doing the same with the rest of Doravier? We must show our might and fight for our brothers on the other side of the river!” For a 13 year old, that was a good speech, not that Dale had heard many speeches. He himself was only 18; he hadn’t even been able to grow a patch of facial hair yet. Dale, for one, was willing to go, if he stayed here nothing would ever happen in his life. He had no one to stay for, his parents had perished from a plague many summers ago and he had not yet taken a wife. Over the next few hours all of the males in the village had been sorted through; only the elderly and young were left. The royal procession continued on to the next town to continue the recruitment, whilst a dozen of the knights escorted the group of around 50 peasants toward Tretton. Dale had never been this far outside of Poolbridge. On the East Bank of the Tyla next to the bridge into the town, a small camp of 20 navy-blue tents stood, gathered around a fire. The new soldiers were provided with a single, grey gambeson and a blue tunic to cover it. The Tunic had the crest of Doravier on the top right quarter. Dale was also given a spear and a simple conical helmet. The other recruits were given a variety of weapons and helms, swords and axes, conical and kettle helmets. Over the next few days they underwent basic training. The camp’s master-at-arms, a career soldier with greying stumble, bellowed orders that the militia eventually picked up. Two of the knights, Ser Frey and Ser Duncan had been keeping constant watch over them. At the end of the 5th day Ser Frey stepped forward “I require five volunteers, to go north, we will be the scouts for Tretton and holding off the Addunian raiding parties!” Three recruits immediately raised their hands. Older, middle aged men who’d showed promise in training since the start. The other 43 peered at one another and remained silent. Dale was among them. Ser Frey cracked his knuckles and started to appear agitated. Dale would kick himself later, but he wanted to feel useful. He slowly cautiously put up his hand as well. The man next to him, a farmhand from Poolbridge he knew as Stephan, looked at him like Dale was insane. He shook his head and likely because of the pressure he too raised his arm. Dale could see he already regretted his decision “Good lads! With me” he turned and began to walk toward the bridge. The master-at-arms glared at the five “Well what are you waiting for!?” The five of them worriedly strode after the knight. Dale could hear over his shoulder as the master-at-arms started screaming at the remaining militia “You yellow or somethin’, I didn’t realise we’d recruited a fuck-load of milk drinkers! Disgrace, absolute Disgrace! Those are brave FUCKING men over there, I wish I had a platoon of those marvellous bastards, you bloody Cu-” at that point they’d gone out of earshot, but Dale couldn’t help but feel proud. Stephan was wide eyed and trailed at the back of group, looking regretful. Dale slowed his step to fall next to Stephan “We’re gonna be fine, there’s nothing to worry about” Stephan looked doubtfully back at him, almost whispering “We’re outnumbered and under trained. We’re doomed” He patted him reassuringly on the back “You’ve seen Ser Frey fight. He’ll cut the Addunians in half, we’ll be fine” Dale wondered if he was right or had just made the greatest mistake of his life.

On a silk mattress, under furry pelt cover, Venduril lay next to his queen. They were still breathing heavily. Their reunion in Korphal had been a blessing. More than a week away from home had weighed deeply on his heart. They were now in a loose embrace, Philippa’s hand resting on Ven’s chest, and he had his arm around her shoulders “We should part more often…” She seemed satisfied “Perhaps I should send you off to war” She grinned, he smirked back at her “You know I’m not much of a fighter, and I don’t think I’d be able to please you so with… bits missing” She felt under the covers and gripped something hard, making Ven flinch and grin at the same time “Better wear a codpiece then” She then released her grip “And besides you’re not that good…” Ven looked at her, feigning surprise and grief “But I thought tonight was good, I was on top form” Philippa chuckled, rubbing her head against his shoulder “Enough games… tell me about Tretton, I hope you plan on helping at some point” She appeared concerned, her big dark eyes gazing up at him “Thomas is such a sweet boy, I’d hate to see Borick meet him” Ven hugged her closer to reassure her “Thomas is braver than you think, he downright refused Borick’s peace, he’ll be a good King, and it’s not as if the two are going to clash on the battlefield” Philippa didn’t seem overly satisfied with the answer but moved on “And Borick, how did he look?” Venduril sighed “he looked in good spirits, but it’s still hanging over him” Borick Lyrion’s tale was a tragic one. Philippa’s Sister, Lisa Dunton, sister also to King Aturack of Manea, had married the King and given him two beautiful daughters. Weakened by childbirth however, a fever took her and ultimately killed her. Borick had been devastated, he was hardly a stable and calm man beforehand, but this had pushed him to drink himself into a stupor. Hunting and fighting was said to be the only things that cleared his mind “It’s a shame, he used to be such a jolly fellow. And news of my brother?” Latest reports from Malrion in High Keep, revealed little good about Aturack Dunton “I’m afraid he’s now permanently bedridden, he’s said to talk to himself all day and through the night” Aturack was several years her senior but even so the affliction of the mind that gripped him was unexpected at his age. Even powerful wizards like Malrion had no experience with the strange illness. It was curious that Aturack still kept a court wizard, out of fear and mistrust of their powers most Kings no longer allowed them. The Faith had also outlawed the use of magic; in Toren it was punishable by death by fire, though Astor never did have the same religious fervour as the empire “Astor is quite a mess, isn’t it” Philippa snuggled closer into Ven as she spoke “Mm, ripe for the taking, Tiberius must be grinning from ear to ear” She looked up at him “Do you really think Toren will invade, after so long a peace?” Again a look of concern on her face “If I were Holy Emperor Tiberius Thelius, Chosen of the Divine Lord, I’d invade. 3 of the 5 kingdoms of Astor are vulnerable and the other two aren’t strong enough to fend off his armies alone” Venduril kissed her on the head, he then slid off the mattress “I have a thirst” he replaced the covers to make sure she stayed warm. He then donned a evening gown and walked over to a table, pouring himself a goblet of wine. “Perhaps there is hope though. Your nephew Dorian, the Prince Regent now, he’s quite an able tactician and Manea’s armies are capable defenders” Philippa rolled her eyes at that, sitting up with the covers around her “That little creep, I don’t care if he’s my nephew and a marvellous strategist, he’ll ruin my brother’s kingdom. He has a fierce temper and a severe lack of a personality” Ven turned and looked at her, an outlandish yet far from impossible thought entered his mind “Careful, soon enough he’ll be your last of kin. The last two Dunton’s” Ven wasn’t sure about voicing his wonderings until now, the look Philippa gave at the mention of his nephew “…We could take it, Manea I mean. You are a Dunton after all, and we already have a powerful kingdom” Philippa looked disbelievingly at first, but after Venduril maintained the gaze she looked more serious “Really? That would start a war wouldn’t it?” “Only with Dorian, as you say a man with no personality inspires little loyalty” Philippa pondered it for a moment “I may well loathe him, but I don’t want him dead” Ven came and sat by her side “It was just a thought, forget I mentioned it” Philippa did seem to wave it off. Venduril quietly sipped his wine. It was an interesting idea, very interesting.

Vystr was Tiberius’ least controversial child. Shorter and more boyish than Taylor, he was reluctant to become his heir. Vystr had been the only one who ever really listened to some of Tiberius’ lectures on economics, alliances and other such important matters, despite them being directed at others. He was also well read and spent a lot of his time talking with advisors and scholars. The more Tiberius thought of it the more ideal Vystr seemed to be for his heir. They were both currently in his office pouring over a map on his desk “…and your opinion on Macia?” They had been sat for a few hours discussing the strengths and weaknesses of the kingdoms and empires of the continent. Curiously no one had ever really come up with a name for the entire land mass. The Elves had called the Heartlands, their former empire, Ci’ve’lan, meaning the Lands of Civilised People, which had been the extent of their knowledge until the discovery of Astor and the young race of humans. The continent seemed so divided that Tiberius thought it fitting that the land mass didn’t have a single name “I would say unconquerable, at least by today’s standards” Tiberius leant back in his comfortable chair “explain…” Vystr smiled, cheerful at the opportunity to show his knowledge “Our economy relies heavily upon Macian trade, whilst this won’t necessarily cause hyperinflation within the empire it would be enough to cause strife among the populous and create several uprisings. And even if we were able to successfully mobilise the Macians also have a well drilled and well equipped army and a large fleet, though primarily mercantile it could be quickly repurposed. They would likely be able to resist any assault against them and the Toreni Empire would be devastated” Tiberius nodded thoughtfully “Good, you already understand more than most of my damned generals” Vystr grinned proudly, but then looked down at the map again more seriously “Father… why me? Over Talia, Gren and Taylor I mean” Tiberius exhaled heavily, sitting up in his chair and adjusting his tunic “Talia is a women, and according to laws older than the kingdoms of men, some man decided women weren’t as important…” He’d convinced himself that by listening to those ancient laws he wouldn’t anger the torch wielding fanatics he called subjects, but if he hadn’t perhaps he’d still have his daughter, instead of a torch wielding fanatic of his own “… and you are aware of Taylor’s perversions, and you are 3 years Gren’s senior” Vystr’s expression was frustration “I know all of that, but isn’t it irrelevant? You’re the Holy Emperor of the largest empire in the world, doesn’t that count for something? And what would mother think? She always adored Talia and-” Tiberius slammed his hand on the table a little harder than he meant to, irritated more by the mention of Talia and the naiveté of the question than his dead wife “Your mother’s dead!... and Order of the Faith has enough power to depose me quickly and violently if they are given reason to…” Vystr sat back, easing off from his interrogation “Sorry father, I forget you miss her” If Vystr was to be his heir, Tiberius should at least be honest with his son, even if just to satisfy his inquisitive nature “I… never loved your mother…” Vystr looked deeply shocked by the revelation, and couldn’t help his jaw dropping “Don’t mistake me, I liked her very much, certainly I never hated her… but there was no love either. It was my duty to further the family line, and it was hers to provide children, arranged without thought for feelings…” Vystr appeared to get over the initial shock reasonably well “But you were so miserable, are so miserable ever since she died, why then?” Tiberius met Vystr’s gaze, however he doubted he’d be able to keep back tears if he continued the tale and looking at his son “It was of guilt and shame… she died whilst I was with the only women I did truly love” Vystr was surprisingly resilient, he appeared upset but still inquisitive “And who was this women?” Tiberius peered off to one side as if recollecting the memory “During the Penryni rebellion, in the second year of the conflict, I went to inspect the troops to boost morale, seeing that their emperor was alongside them and all that. It was back in year 656 (3rd Age) and I was a younger man, only 14 years younger but still, I had promised to stay by the front lines until Cassadar had once again fallen to imperial rule…” Cassadar being the Capital of Penryn, a smaller northern kingdom “… Seeing as how a tent would not do for my chambers for so long a period, a dozen of my honour guard, several of the military advisors and myself stayed in an Inn for the next year of the war. The tavern was called Cassadar’s Hearth, a small but agreeable establishment. As Holy Emperor I was not required to pay for a thing, but I made sure the rest of my entourage did. The Tavern owner Mary must have made a fortune from a year of rich clients. It was with Mary that I fell in love, slowly and unnoticeably at first. She did what no one else ever did; she treated me as though I weren’t the damned Holy Emperor and God’s Chosen. I stayed in my room most of the time reading and planning, she brought me my meals and one time commented on the particular book I was reading. After that we talked every day. Eventually I realised my feelings and we …lay together. It was just the one time. The day after, I received word of Victoria’s death from the Capital. A week later the city surrendered. I wanted to return to Toren but the generals insisted I take part in the negotiations and make sure the city was in our hands again. An entire bloody month I had to stay in that accursed city. At that point word reached me that Mary was pregnant, I had one of my honour guard, you know Samuels, stay and watch over her and when it arrived the child, whilst I returned to Toren” Vystr seemed to have a moment of realisation, eyebrows raised as he said “That’s why Gren’s here, he’s your bastard” Gren Thelius, formerly Gren Carter had been brought to the capital to live with his family at the age of 11 “Careful, he may be my bastard, but he is still your brother” Vystr politely bowed his head, allowing Tiberius to continue “Any way, I felt so guilty and ashamed that I refused to contact Mary again… but…” He was past letting tears fall now, though he still felt mournful “…In the year 667 she too… died” he rested his head on a hand “The two women who bore my children, who I lay with, who I loved…” He realise he did love Victoria, but not in the same way, how could he not love the woman who gave him his children “…I was there for neither when they needed me because I was too concerned with the other…” Still no tears fell from his face, but Tiberius could feel their presence in the corner of his eyes. The two sat in silence for what felt like an age. Vystr did let a few heavy, watery drops loose, wiping them from his eyes. He looked up, with sad, red eyes and smiled in a kindly manner. He stood and rounded the desk “…Thank you father…” The exact same words and the exact same actions as Taylor less than a week ago, but the quieter, more emotional tone had a different effect on Tiberius. Vystr wrapped his arms gently around his father; Tiberius touched the arm of his son. They stayed like that for a moment, with a mix of grief and bliss that seemed to culminate in …contentedness. Vystr then released him, looking down at Tiberius, still seated “Shall we adjourn for today… and continue tomorrow?” Tiberius nodded. Vystr walked from the room, smiling at him as we closed the door softly. With the click of the handle, Tiberius wiped away the still stored tears. He unhurriedly rose from the chair, not wanting to strain his old bones. He peered out of the grand window again, but instead to toward the city he looked down to where Gren and Taylor were fencing in the courtyard. The resemblance was obvious between the two. Taylor’s physique and cheek bones were a little leaner and he had his mother’s eyes and jet black hair, whilst Gren’s was a muddy brown and his skin, from the northern blood was paler. The same northern blood meant that Gren was bigger and had greater brute strength than Taylor, able to smash through his half-brother’s defence, whilst Taylor was nimbler and artful in his finesse. Taylor usually won their friendly sparring matches, but Gren was persistent and tired significantly less than Taylor. Tiberius looked up at the midday sun thoughtfully. He closed his eyes. No matter how hard he tried, he could remember neither Gren’s nor Taylor’s mothers. Not even their faces came to him. Just 14 years and both Victoria and Mary had become ghosts to him, only half formed in the darkness of his mind.