Incendiary arrows, developed during the Late Middle Ages, were innovative projectiles designed to ignite enemy structures and sow chaos during sieges. Early designs featured oil- or resin-soaked tow attached beneath the arrowhead, effective against wooden targets like fortifications and thatched roofs. Their use became prominent during conflicts such as the Great War, where both Crothians and Lunaons employed them in the siege of Dalish, Syrii. Algrian forces later refined the concept with iron containers and tubes filled with combustible substances, though high-speed flight often extinguished the flames, necessitating the use of slack bows or siege engines for optimal deployment.

  Advancements addressed these limitations with designs incorporating metal cages to carry hot coals or thickened pitch, ensuring sustained ignition upon impact. Such innovations proved invaluable, as recounted by Friedrich von Adlerberg, who documented their effectiveness in the Algrian assault on Oran. By the late century, Verum militaries introduced fire arrows with resin-sealed incendiary putty for naval battles, while the Ariens utilized powder pouches, and the Quiltonians experimented with rocket-propelled versions.

  Often paired with siege engines like trebuchets and catapults, incendiary arrows devastated fortifications and enemy siege equipment. Defenders also used them to repel assaults by setting ablaze battering rams and towers. Despite their destructive potential, their use required expertise in crafting incendiary materials and skilled archers for precise delivery. Over time, advances in firearms diminished their role, but incendiary arrows remain a testament to the ingenuity of medieval warfare.

  …

  Excerpt from Milburga Leah's Speculum universale - 'The Voltulian Philosophica', located on the coordinates 00.00.23.01.07; Udoris/Udoris/Arms/Incendiary Weapons/Fire arrows.?

  ???

  Faywyn, 3rd Moon, 16th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

  The churning waters of the Strega kissed Charlotte’s hull as the brig cut through the restless river, her prow slicing upstream against the current. Morning had broken, and the north wind, stiff and unyielding as the ancestors might decree, filled the burgundy sails, tugging the vessel forward with relentless purpose. The deck bustled with life—sailors moving with practiced ease, navigating the river’s treachery, while armed knights stood ready, their hands never far from sword hilts, awaiting the moment to disembark.

  In the dim confines of the captain’s chambers, Lord Richard von Montfort, Count of Norcastle, sat at a heavy oak table. The flickering light of a single candle danced across his furrowed brow as he leaned over a spread of maps and missives, brooding in the silent company of his own thoughts. The king was gone, no male heir left to hold the realm together. Another civil war loomed on the horizon, promising to scourge the land with fire and blood. The scars of the last war had barely begun to fade, yet here they stood, teetering once more on the edge of chaos.

  Richard was no fool; he could feel the tides of misfortune shifting against him, the undercurrent of schemes and ambitions threatening to drown the realm. What troubled him most was the shadowy figure of the young lord of Faywyn. Levi was but a lad, barely out of his swaddling clothes, or so Richard thought. Surely, the lad could not wield true power. No, someone else must hold the reins—someone cunning enough to use the boy as a pawn. But who? And to what end? These questions weighed heavily on Richard as Charlotte drew closer to Faywyn’s harbor.

  The arrival was anything but welcoming. Two small boats rowed out to intercept the brig, their occupants armed to the teeth. The nearer of the vessels bore knights with crossbows tipped with firebolts, while the men aboard the other bristled with suspicion. A knight among them, his voice cutting through the morning mist, demanded the Charlotte declare her name, her purpose, and her cargo. Richard, watching from his window, noted the shadowy forms of cannons atop Faywyn’s martello towers, half-hidden in the haze, swiveling to train their gaze on his vessel.

  Frowning, the count ascended to the deck, finding his helmsman and his viscount, Jack, in a heated exchange with the lead knight. The tension in the air was as thick as the river mist. Jack’s face was flushed with indignation as he barked back at the knight below, clearly unamused by the demands.

  “What transpires here?” Richard demanded, his voice cutting through the rising argument.

  “These men,” Jack growled, gesturing toward the boat, “demand to search the brig before we are allowed to dock, my lord. They persist even after I informed them that Charlotte is no mere merchant vessel but a lord’s craft, exempt from such debasement!”

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  Richard turned his gaze downward, his eyes narrowing as they met the knight’s. “What is your name, ser?” he called out.

  “Ser Mannon, my lord,” the knight replied with a curt bow. “Captain of the Watch, in service to Faywyn.”

  “Then tell me, Ser Mannon,” Richard said, his tone sharp, “why do you insist upon searching my ship before permitting me to dock?”

  “It is the mandate of my liege,” Mannon replied, his voice steady, his expression unmoving. “All vessels seeking entry must be searched for contraband. Until the blight that is Lord Tristan of Khule is quelled, no ship may pass unexamined. Any who defy this decree shall be sunk without exception.”

  Richard’s brow arched in disbelief. “The Strega belongs to no single man,” he said coldly. “Not even the king claims dominion over it. Yet your lord dares to bar others from its use?”

  “I know not the thoughts of my liege, my lord,” Mannon answered. “I merely obey his commands, as is my duty.”

  For a moment, Richard said nothing, the wind catching at his cloak as he considered the knight’s words. His eyes flicked toward the harbour, the cannons, and the uneasy tension in the crew surrounding him. At last, he spoke. “Allow them aboard,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of finality.

  Jack turned to him, his face a mask of disbelief. “My lord—”

  “Do it,” Richard commanded, his gaze fixed on Ser Mannon below. The viscount’s protest died in his throat, though his dismay lingered in the lines of his face.

  Richard turned back to the knight. “Come aboard, Ser Mannon,” he called out, his voice low but firm. “But tread lightly. You are in the presence of a lord, not some peddler to be trifled with.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  The young lord of Faywyn was nothing like the man Richard had envisioned when his lady first carried tidings of him. Young, yes, but there was an intensity in the boy’s eyes, a sharpness that belied his years. He sat opposite Richard in the dimly lit chamber, a vast oak table stretching four meters between them. At each end stood pairs of guards, vigilant and silent, their hands never straying far from their weapons. To Richard’s right, halfway down the table, a scribe sat at a smaller desk, her quill poised above parchment. The room felt heavy, the weight of unsaid words hanging in the still air.

  "You have sought an audience with me, Lord Montfort," the lad began, his tone steady and impassive. "Speak your mind so that we might conclude this meeting and attend to graver matters."

  Richard arched a brow, his curiosity piqued. "Are you the one with whom I am to parley? Have you no advisor to guide you in such affairs?"

  The boy paused, then chuckled softly, his lips curling into a faint smile. "I am no puppet, Lord Montfort… if that is your implication."

  Richard’s frown deepened. "Then it was your decree alone, Lord Levi, to strip my wife’s kin of their titles and bind them as serfs?"

  "Aye," the Earl replied, his gaze unwavering. “The Heras were guilty of treason. Tis’ only right they are punished appropriately.”

  "And the indignity I suffered at the harbor—was that your doing as well?"

  "Indeed."

  The lord leaned back, studying the boy’s face. "Before this day, our paths have not crossed. I trust I have done you no offense."

  Levi’s smile widened, faint and sharp. "Nay. None at all."

  Richard regarded him in silence, the boy’s calm unnerving. "My lady has shared many tales of your deeds, Lord Levi—tales I once dismissed as exaggerations. Enserfing noble kin, obstructing passage on the Strega… these are not the actions of a man mindful of consequence. Do you ever consider the repercussions of your choices?"

  "I fail to see the relevance of your observation," Levi replied coolly. "Unless, of course, I have misunderstood the purpose of your visit."

  Richard’s lips pressed into a thin line. He inclined his head slightly. "You are right. It matters not. Let us turn to the matter of my kin. What ransom do you seek for their release?"

  Levi’s smile faded, replaced by a measured expression. "At present, I have no interest in ransoming Josh Hera."

  "Truly?"

  "Aye," Levi said with a faint shrug.

  "And his family?" Richard pressed.

  Levi tilted his head, considering. "’Twould be discourteous to send you back to your lady empty-handed. I might consider ransoming the youngest, Titi, and easing the terms of their servitude. Should you make it worth my while, I may also grant the others improved conditions and a lighter sentence."

  Richard’s expression hardened as he weighed the words. "And Gilbert?"

  Levi’s gaze grew colder. "Gilbert, his mother, and oldest sister were complicit in treason. Only Titi can be deemed wholly innocent."

  A heavy silence settled over the room as Richard deliberated. "How much would you reduce their sentence?"

  "Five years for Josh and his son. Seven for the women."

  "And your price?"

  Levi leaned back slightly, his fingers steepled. "Saltpeter. An initial sum for Titi’s release, then monthly deliveries to lessen the others’ sentences."

  Richard’s frown deepened. "How much?"

  "Two hundred bushels upfront, then five bushels each month."

  "'Tis extortion," Richard snapped.

  "'Tis my final offer," Levi replied evenly. "You may return with an army to free them or join Lord Tristan in besieging Faywyn. But know this: should I suspect your hand in Faywyn’s demise, none of the Heras will survive."

  For a long moment, Richard stared at Levi, his anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. At last, he nodded stiffly. "I require time to consider."

  "Take all the time you need," Levi said, his tone light and easy. "While you are here however, let us discuss another matter. Trade between Faywyn and Norcastle could prove beneficial for both our realms—particularly the trade of saltpeter and charcoal. With the capital in ruins, I imagine you’ve lost a prime market. And as we would have it, I have recently grown an appetite for such things."