In the Year 1409 S.T., amidst the shadowed folds of time, the chronicles of Ivonne's realm record a tale both grim and grand—a tale of ambition, conquest, and calamity. King Stefans de Zoroaster, bearing the weighty crown of Verum, raised his banners and led his host southward, forging a path through the snow-clad teeth of the Alps. His aim was Syrii, a prize gleaming like gold in the grasp of its rivals. Thus began the first stroke of a long and bitter symphony—a war to shape the fate of Udoris itself.

  The twelve kings of Udoris, each bound by blood to their lands and their pride, were consumed by a dream both mad and magnificent: to unite the fractious kingdoms under a single sceptre. Yet they were blind to the cost. They dragged the lost tribes—those seclusive, mountain peoples—into their struggle as pawns upon a board vast and merciless. What followed was an era of fire and fury, an age where the promise of glory crumbled beneath the weight of endless war. For four decades, the land drank deep of blood, and the hopes of kings and queens perished alongside common souls.

  The kings of Udoris were creatures of contradiction, cloaked in the chivalric traditions of old but driven by the ceaseless hunger for power. Each monarch fashioned new arts of rule, wove cunning webs of diplomacy, and unleashed innovations in the art of war. Freed from the strictures of the Faith of the Six, whose doctrines had long yoked their ambitions, these lords set their realms aflame in pursuit of eternal renown. Their campaigns brought new tactics and tools—bastion towers that loomed like giants, fleets that strangled coasts, and mercenary legions whose loyalty was bought with coin and kept with blood.

  Among the most storied houses were the Scymaesters of Verum, whose resourcefulness became legend. They forged alliances and bought loyalty with gold, crafting war as deftly as a weaver crafts a tapestry. Their enemies, the Ariens of the northeast, were no less formidable. From their rugged lands came the Immortals, warriors who bound together the finest traditions of Udoris with a loyalty unbreakable as iron. Clad in glittering mail, wielding arms that seemed born of magic and might, the Immortals stood as living proof that even in the crucible of change, old ways could endure.

  Thus, the Great War was not merely a clash of swords, but a collision of eras. The old and the new coalesced in fire and blood, forging the foundations of the world that followed. As the embers of war cooled and the ashes settled, the map of Udoris was redrawn. Twelve crowns were reduced to seven, as Crotha, Lunao, Syrii, Hogan, and Witeron fell to ruin, their lands consumed by victors too scarred to savour their spoils.

  And so, the Great War passed into history, its scars etched into the bones of Udoris. Kings and lords rose and fell, but the land endured, shaped by the ghosts of those who fought to claim it. To this day, its echoes reverberate in the halls of power and the hearts of those who still dream of a united realm.

  ...

  —Excerpt from the scattered notes of Ahoth Dan, chronicler of the Great War.

  ???

  Windy Fir Woodlands, 13th Moon, 12th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  The blade fell with a dreadful finality, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Blood fanned the air in a crimson arc as the severed head spun away, landing among the dry autumn leaves with a dull, wet sound. The headless body toppled in the next instant, crashing to the forest floor like a felled tree, its lifeblood spreading in dark rivers across the earth.

  Vlad stood paralysed, his chest heaving, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Before him loomed the figure of the knight, his steel dripping with fresh gore. The man’s helm cast shadows over his face, but there was no mistaking the cold, implacable intent in his bearing. The silence of the forest was broken only by the rustle of leaves underfoot as the knight took a deliberate step forward.

  “P-pl-please…” Vlad stammered, his voice weak, trembling. “Have mercy…” He stumbled backwards, his gaze darting past the knight, toward two women astride fine steeds a short distance away. They watched impassively, twin spectres of doom draped in regal finery. Realisation dawned on Vlad, cold and final. He was the last. The last of his retinue, his guards, his friends—all lay scattered around him, motionless forms sprawled in grotesque shapes, their blood darkening the earth.

  He turned to run. Panic surged through his veins like wildfire, but his feet betrayed him. The damp, decaying leaves beneath his boots slid treacherously, and he fell hard to the ground. The sound of steady, deliberate steps drew closer. Scrambling, clawing at the earth, Vlad managed to rise, only to stagger once more. Then came the pain.

  It was white-hot, piercing his chest with a force that stole the air from his lungs. His gaze dropped, and he saw the blade’s tip protruding from his ribs, slick with blood. For a fleeting moment, the world tilted and blurred. The blade withdrew, and Vlad collapsed to his knees, clutching at the wound, his hands slick and useless against the tide of crimson that poured forth. His lungs burned as his breath came in choking gasps, blood bubbling at his lips.

  The knight knelt beside him, meeting his gaze with eyes as cold and empty as the void. Vlad tried to speak, but the words drowned in his throat. The knight said nothing, only watched with a detached disdain as the life ebbed from his victim. Then, with an almost cruel deliberateness, he wiped the blade clean with the fringe of Vlad’s tunic and rose to his full height.

  The man turned then toward the women and bowed low, as if he had merely performed some tiresome duty. “Forgive the unpleasantness, Your Majesty. Your Highness,” he said, his voice cool and courteous, as though discussing the weather.

  One of the women wrinkled her nose and turned her head, her pale, perfect features twisting in revulsion. “Hmm,” she murmured, the sight of slaughter visibly disgusting her.

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  The elder of the two, her hair spun gold, her eyes chips of cold blue ice, regarded the knight with a detached air. “And who were they?”

  “Bandits,” the knight replied without hesitation, his tone flat, dismissive. “They fancied themselves hunters. Fools who thought they might make sport of us. Come, Your Majesties. Night falls, and we must not linger here.”

  The knight mounted his horse, and with a slight nod, led the women away into the deepening shadows of the forest. Behind them, Vlad lay dying. Alone. Forgotten. The world darkened, his last sight the bloodied leaves pooling around him.

  Hours later, beneath the dim light of a crescent moon…

  The fire crackled low, its flickering flames casting wavering shadows among the gnarled trees. Lord Aden knelt beside it, feeding the embers with dry branches, his face a mask of weary resolve. Around him, the forest whispered with the muted symphony of the night: the faint rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl, the gentle murmur of a brook winding somewhere in the dark.

  “Lord Aden,” came a voice, soft and uncertain.

  He glanced up to see Princess Iris standing at the edge of the firelight. Her fair face, so often calm and composed, was pale and drawn. She clutched her cloak tightly around her shoulders, as though warding off more than the cold.

  “Aye, Your Highness?” Aden said, his voice even, betraying nothing.

  “My father,” she said, her words hesitant, each one weighed down with worry. “What will they do to him?”

  Aden poked at the fire, his eyes reflecting the embers’ glow. “They will do what tyrants of their nature are wont to,” he said at last, his tone matter-of-fact. “They may starve him, humble him, even torment him, but his majesty will endure. His life is worth more to them than his death. A dead king is a useless king.”

  The princess flinched at his words, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Such talk is unseemly, my lord,” she said coldly. “We speak of my father, your king.”

  “Leonard is my king, aye, but he is kin to me first,” Aden replied, shrugging. “My levity does not diminish my loyalty. It is faith, not jest, that carries my words.”

  The princess’s gaze lingered on him, searching for something—comfort, reassurance—but Aden offered none. At last, she sighed, her shoulders slumping. “And where do we go now?”

  “To Faywyn,” Aden said simply. “My holdings. There, we’ll find refuge until the tides shift.”

  “...Can we ransom him?” she pressed after a moment of silence.

  “Perhaps,” Aden said, his words laced with uncertainty. “But a king’s ransom is no small thing. I’ll need to petition his vassals in the South for aid. If they’ll give it. Together, we may raise the gold—or an army.”

  For a long moment, neither spoke. The fire crackled on, casting sparks into the night.

  “Thank you,” Iris said softly, breaking the silence.

  “For what?” Aden asked, arching a brow. “I do only my duty. If you would thank me, then endure. Protect your mother,” he added, gesturing toward Queen Irina, who lay nearby in restless slumber, her face streaked with the faint glisten of tears.

  Iris nodded but said no more. Aden stood, his gaze scanning the darkened woods. “Rest now, Your Highness. Dawn comes swiftly, and the road ahead will not be kind.”

  ???

  Faywyn, 13th Moon, 13th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  The Kaya tree had graced the gardens of smallfolk in Northern Aries and the northeastern reaches of Verum for generations. Its fruit, the Kaya, was a lush thing—round, sweet, and purple-fleshed, about the size of a child’s fist. More than one traveller had mistaken it for some strange apple, though its flavour was richer, its flesh softer, its skin thinner. For years, the fruit was little more than a rustic delight, enjoyed by those who tended the humble groves, until Ivonian traders carried its seeds to far-off corners of Udoris. Now, the Kaya flourished in places its forebears had never dreamed, as common in the marketplaces of southern cities as it was in the wooded groves of the north.

  James bit into the fruit with a soft crunch, the juice running sweet and sticky down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, staring absently out the window. Outside, a squirrel darted through the branches of a tall oak, its tail flicking in time with its quick, nervous movements. The morning was quiet, serene even, but there was tension beneath the surface, like a lake frozen just thin enough to crack.

  The Kaya in his hand might have been an apple, he mused. At least he’d thought it was. Even now, he wondered if the difference was anything more than names. Perhaps the uninformed scholars of Udoris had simply failed to notice what was plain and incorrectly classified it. He chewed thoughtfully, savouring the crisp sweetness, before his gaze shifted to the man seated across from him.

  Lancelot sat slumped in his chair, dark circles shadowing his eyes. Sleep had not visited him, quite obviously. His fingers twitched nervously at the edge of his cloak, and his face was drawn, etched with worry.

  “Do you truly deem this wise, young lord?” Lancelot’s voice broke the stillness, low and hesitant. “I hold... reservations.”

  “It shall suffice,” James replied, his tone indifferent, his attention still half on the window. Another bite of Kaya, another burst of sweetness, as if the gravity of Lancelot’s words were nothing more than idle chatter.

  “Our ranks number seventy-four, my liege,” Lancelot pressed, leaning forward now, urgency creeping into his voice. “His Grace withdrew the bulk of our forces to aid the king at the onset of the war, leaving us with a bare remnant. Of that remnant, more than two-thirds are dead—or worse, turned traitor since Sean’s insurrection. The Heras outnumber us nearly three to one.”

  James did not so much as blink, his gaze fixed now on the last remnants of the Kaya in his hand. He finished it with a deliberate bite before tossing the pit onto the tray beside his half-finished loaf of bread and cup of milk. “Thus, I entrust you with this task,” he said simply. “You will manage it, as you always do.”

  Lancelot exhaled sharply, his frustration plain. “This plan harbours no simplicity, my lord.”

  “And what alternative would you suggest?” James asked, leaning back in his chair. His voice was soft, measured, but there was steel beneath it. “Shall we heed the Heras’ summons? March out of this keep and into their waiting arms? Perhaps Lord Josh and his ilk will greet us with chivalry and cups of wine before they slit our throats. Or perhaps we stay here and wait for the Timels to honour their oaths. But I think we both know the Timels would have no intention of aiding us now, not after all that’s transpired.”

  Lancelot was silent. James leaned forward, his hands clasped before him, his gaze steady and unyielding. “We are alone. There is no rescue coming, no cavalry on the horizon. If my plan troubles you so deeply, then take your kin and find some quieter corner of the realm. But I will not waver. This course is set.”

  For a moment, Lancelot’s gaze dropped to the table. Then he sighed, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “Do you not trust me, Lancelot?” James asked, his voice softer now, almost gentle.

  The viscount raised his eyes again, meeting his lord’s gaze. Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, before Lancelot finally spoke. “When do we depart?”

  “Today,” James said. A faint smile flickered at the corners of his mouth, though his eyes were cold as winter. “Muster the men. It’s high time I paid my father’s unruly vassals a visit.”