The Jaws of Vasier—two towering bastions perched on isolated islets—guarded the harbor’s entrance, where the wealth of nations poured in. A chain of islands, unbroken and fortified, shielded the port from the sea’s unrelenting grasp. Within, the city’s defenses formed a labyrinth of concentric rings, each layer a testament to haphazard expansion and past vulnerabilities, reforged over time into insurmountable barriers of stone and steel.

  As the ancient Rowan Empire fractured, Vasier endured. Straddling the crossroads between East and West, its merchants flourished. Through the shifting tides of history, its borders wavered but never broke. Even when steppe hordes laid waste to entire regions or theological wars consumed the Middle Ages, nothing was more unshaken than the Vasierian throne.

  Nothing more fleeting than a continental army.

  Bent and broken against Vasierian steel and Pragian magic, Mansour learned to fear what it could not conquer. Yet the true tale of Vasier’s victory was not in the triumphant return of its knights, but in the hollow figures trudging through the city’s pebbled streets. Their visages, marred by the scares of an empty triumph, bore no trace of glory.

  The ferocity of battle clung to Duke De La Castell like a medal, etched into his battered armor. Upright yet weary, he carried his right arm bound in splints while his squire led his horse by the reins. With his only functioning arm, he hoisted the royal banner high, the fabric rippling in time with the chants of “Long live the Queen! Long live Vasier!”

  Like the turning of a grand, gilded page, the palace gates swung open, revealing an honor guard kneeling in perfect unison, as if the Queen herself had bestowed this victory upon them. From the rose-lined hedges emerged Sir Bradfrey, standing tall in a magnificent gold chariot, the sun glinting off the polished armor that adorned him.

  As Castell approached, Bradfrey dismounted with effortless poise, caught in the rising swell of the crowd’s chants. With a knightly bow, he welcomed him as escort to the Queen’s courtyard.

  “Lesser men would have sought rest before accepting their triumph,” Bradfrey said, a wide smile betraying his elation.

  Castell handed the royal banner to his squire. Bracing for the descent, he dismounted, pain lancing through his leg like splintering knives. But a hero could not show weakness. He turned to the crowd once more, raising his one good arm in recognition of the cheering commoners. Yet behind him, the toll of their pyrrhic victory pressed heavy on his knights' battered bodies—so unlike the unscathed Sir Bradfrey, untouched by war’s physical and emotional scars.

  Leaning against the chariot’s frame, Castell forced a smile, masking the truth beneath. “Only conquerors deserve triumphs. I’ve merely held the pendulum in place,” he said, his voice betraying a sliver of his struggle.

  “When that pendulum carries four hundred years of prosperity, we’re grateful it does not move,” Bradfrey replied.

  Beyond the adoring gaze of the crowd, Castell’s expression hardened. New lines deepened across his face as he grimaced, resisting the urge to look away. “I could have used you out there.”

  Bradfrey, focused on the reins, answered with gentleman like courtesy. “The regent’s orders. She needs people she can trust.”

  “You’re not an errand boy, and she shouldn’t treat you as one.”

  “I led the relief force against a Viking war-band. Not quite the glory of open battle, but we protected the people all the same.”

  “That’s a polite way of saying you failed to catch them.” Castell remarked. “I know I’m being harsh, but you’re not my squire anymore. You’re a knight. Failure carries shame, not whatever you call this.”

  “We were too slow…”

  “No, you were too big,” Castell cut in. “You let size dictate your actions, not the task. A dozen good men and a well-placed trap would have had greater success.”

  “I will request—”

  “Insist.” Castell interrupted again, his tone leaving no room for debate.

  The sudden shift in tone unsettled Bradfrey, his lapse in concentration nearly steering them into the rows of kneeling guards. A sharp overcorrection sent painful jolts through Castell’s battered limbs, leaving Bradfrey silently questioning why he had volunteered for this duty in the first place. Yet, true to his unwavering politeness, he simply said, “I will insist the regent return me to your banner—if you’ll allow it?”

  Castell exhaled, his grizzled voice edged with resignation. “Your lack of merit troubles me, but I know everything Vanessa touches turns to dough.” He bit his lower lip before finally conceding, “Leave it with me. I’ll get you an assignment, while you… spread some slander about yourself, make trouble—anything displeasing enough for Vanessa to let you go.”

  Inside the royal court, the festivities were well underway. Laughter rang out as the jester made a grand spectacle of Castell’s victory.

  “Sally forth! For God and country!” cried the jester, clad in oversized knightly garb, proudly astride the back of an unfortunate servant dressed as a horse.

  “Neigh,” the servant muttered, his voice heavy with resignation. With a sigh, he crawled forward on hands and knees, dragging himself through the charade with the weariness of a man long past caring.

  Clad in a silverware-studded breastplate, the jester delivered a firm slap of encouragement to his weary steed’s backside. From a sluggish crawl, the servant lurched forward, charging at a phalanx of Mansourian-draped dwarfs armed with wooden spoons. The jester’s child-sized lance effortlessly parted their ranks.

  But one dwarf, wielding a blunt broomstick, boldly broke formation, thrusting forward with a guttural cry. “Death to Vasier and all who question the One True God!” he bellowed in his most exaggerated, villainous accent.

  The valiant attack struck the jester’s lower ribs—but not hard enough to stop his considerably larger backhand. The dwarf stumbled back, swearing as he broke character, clutching his reddened cheek while staggering offstage.

  The jester, unfazed, threw himself into an exaggerated death spiral. “Oh, I am wounded! What fate befalls my army, my people, my queen?” he wailed, toppling backward in a dramatic tumble—straight into the onlookers’ feast. Arms flailed, steins flew, and a shower of mead and roasted fowl rained down upon the joy-stricken guests.

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  “Don’t worry, you weren’t hungry anyway,” he quipped cheerfully, pushing himself back to his feet and charging back into battle.

  From the sidelines, a sack-hooded figure leaped into the fray, his voice cracking with heroic intent. “I, Draconian, will save you!”

  With that, he upended a full bucket of water over the raging dwarfs.

  Their reaction was instant. With great, theatrical flailing, they collapsed onto their backs, thrashing and clawing at the air as though drowning on dry land. Their spasms slowed, limbs stiffened, and finally, they lay still—martyrs to the cause of comedy.

  A thunderous applause erupted from the nobility, sealing the jester’s triumph in absurdity.

  Or at least the side of the Queen’s partitioned court, draped in Vasierian purple and gold.

  Opposite the local nobility sat the foreign guests and religious dignitaries—the less amused faction of the royal court. Many wore their discontent openly, still bitter over Vasier’s swift and decisive victory against Mansour. Among the most notable were Amos, the stoic knight clothed in white and red cross, and Bishop Arcadius, resplendent in his impeccably tailored robes.

  The Queen’s religious adviser, Davos, attended to them with practiced charm, ensuring their every need was met and their plates piled high with a feast fit to banish famine itself.

  One plate remained untouched.

  Arcadius sat in deathly stillness, his goblet clean, his expression unreadable. The silence between him and Davos turned awkward despite the latter’s effortless politeness.

  “Don’t worry, Arcadius. The people shall know the pagans brought this upon us, and that the Lord’s grace blessed us with peace,” Davos said smoothly.

  “How can a kingdom remain faithful when beset on all sides by heathens?” Arcadius murmured.

  “You must understand, Vasier has no love for the central kingdoms or their religious wars. By remaining agnostic toward non-believers, they gain a protective moat. The pagans aside, the Sultanates have a vested interest in keeping Vasier neutral—if not at odds with the central church.”

  “But Vasier contributed to the Crusades. Did it not sever ties with the Sultanates after we reclaimed the Holy Lands?” Amos asked, restricting himself to the carnivorous side of the feast.

  “When the central churches secretly fund a continental army against you, believe me—many concessions were made to mend those wounds.”

  “Sounds like Vasier prefers to deal with the devil,” said Arcadius.

  “Against my recommendations,” Davos replied.

  Arcadius gave a knowing nod. “Of course. We recognize your persistence, given the rot festering at Vasier’s roots. But rest assured—change is coming.”

  With that, Arcadius excused himself, stepping into the revelry crowding his exit tot eh adjoining courtyard—only for the raucous laughter and clashing goblets to fall silent.

  A gust of wind swept through the chamber, heralding Castell’s arrival. The rising tide of nobility caught the bishop off guard as he found himself crowded in by raised goblets, each one toasting Vasier’s victorious general.

  An aura of indestructibility swelled around Castell, masking the fragility beneath. He entered without haste, no urgency in his step to address the new monarch of Vasier—the fully grown, yet eerily restrained, Queen Marguen.

  “It’s…” Castell began, his weary mind clouded, his spirit burdened as though the very air in the court had been sucked dry. “My great honor to… bring—”

  “Bring you the terms of peace, my queen,” his squire interjected, handing him a sealed parchment.

  Davos, ever the opportunist, snapped his fingers to summon the squire his way. “Allow me.” He took the parchment, turning to the queen and cleared his throat. “Queen Marguen, in recognition of our young and fortuitous alliance…”

  “Duke De La Castell,” Marguen interrupted, her voice soft yet distant, as though repeating words not her own. “In your words, what peace have you brought me?”

  “One of faith for gold. Mansour offers a wagon twice its weight in riches for your conversion from the Church of Saints and the Divine Spirit to the Church of the One True God.”

  “Overseen by the most devout Bishop Arcadius,” Davos added, casting a glance toward the crowd as he struggled to single out the bishop, awkwardly trapped among the gathering.

  Queen Marguen’s gaze sharpened. “Purists?”

  “That is correct,” Davos affirmed.

  From her place beside the queen, Venessa spoke, her tone far more insistent than her daughter’s. “What of Prince Gideon?”

  Castell met her eyes. “He will renounce all claims to the Mansour throne and accept his place among the church’s ministry.”

  A ripple of laughter broke through the chamber.

  The queen and her advisors turned their attention to Gideon, who remained blissfully unaware of the sudden shift in focus. Reclined lazily, his well-lubricated buzz had left him thoroughly engrossed in a thin figured lady of blue velvet. Only a discreet tap on the shoulder and a quick recap from a nearby servant snapped him back to reality.

  Blinking, he let out an awkward chuckle, his deaf eyes ringing with the sound of silent stares baring down on him. In his usual high-pitched voice, now edged with nervousness, he quipped, “I never knew my brother had such a sense of humor.”

  Queen Marguen held her composure, her mother’s reassuring hand resting upon her shoulder. “Thousands of lives depend on your abstinence, Uncle. Should that not be cause enough?”

  Gideon exhaled theatrically, rubbing his temple as if to ward off the effects of drink. “Ahh, the sober me will probably think more clearly on the matter, my queen.”

  His gaze drifted once more toward his would-be mistress, who stiffened under the scrutiny. Shoulders shrinking, she smoothed the folds of her dress, her attention shifting warily toward Venessa, whose mere presence carried an unspoken warning—one that needed no words to be understood.

  “In your words, Duke De La Castell, is this truly peace between Vasier and Mansour?” Venessa’s voice cut through the hall like a finely honed blade. Though no longer Regent, her authority still commanded the room. The handpicked nobles—bright-eyed and eager—hung on her every word, their rapt attention almost tangible.

  A few steps away, Queen Marguen idly picked at her fingernails, her gaze flickering with barely concealed irritation.

  Castell rose, his posture strained. “The folly of man is built upon flawed assumptions, as is this alliance. But to deny it would be to condemn us to the worst of all outcomes.”

  “Such pessimism is devoid of faith,” Davos countered smoothly. “The Mansourian king will honor the treaty, as his father did before him. As should we, given the plight of heathenous Vikings stirring trouble north of both our borders.”

  Castell exhaled, exhaustion settling deeper into his frame. “What would you have us do, Davos? Our fields need harvesting before winter, and their raids will hibernate until the next campaign season—by which time we will be united and ready.” His body tilted involuntarily to one side, his squire quickly adjusting his balance.

  Venessa’s voice rang out again, sharp with disapproval. “Seat him at once. Is it not enough that we ask him to win our wars, let alone parade him under ill health?”

  Davos, unshaken, turned toward the queen. “My queen, the Blood of Templars—the knights of the One True God—are more than capable of holding the porous north against these unruly pagans.” He gestured to Amos, the attending Templar leader. Weathered but striking, Amos carried himself with quiet confidence, his blond locks framing the single remaining heartbreaker of a blue eye.

  Marguen straightened. “How many knights can you contribute to our northern border?”

  “Two hundred, my queen. But make no mistake—we’re the only two hundred you’ll ever need,” Amos replied.

  “That they are,” Marguen said, though her voice wavered slightly. “Then we will honor the treaty. If you would allow Duke De La Castell to lead your knights?”

  “He has done enough, my queen,” Venessa interjected, leaning in just enough to assert her influence. Her rigid poise unearthing Marguen’s childhood insecurities.

  Marguen swallowed her mother’s objection, forcing the words down like bitter medicine. She took a slow breath, the burden of expectation pressing against her chest like a cage. “Duke De La Castell, who would you recommend to lead such an expedition?”

  Castell, who had stayed silent through the exchange, finally lifted his head with quiet certainty. “Sir Bradfrey, my queen.”

  Marguen nodded instinctively. “Then Sir Bradfrey it is.”

  For a moment, the decision felt right. Perfectly reasonable. Perfectly familiar.

  And yet, as her gaze flickered toward her mother, doubt crept in. Had she chosen well, or had she merely followed the invisible strings of Venessa’s control?