This was an age of growth and grasping hands, an era when the Kingdoms of Udoris surged forward like a tide, lifting all boats and wrecking many on unseen shoals. The years leading to 1560 saw a swelling of both wealth and ambition, a modest rise in the populace after a century of quiet. The sinews binding the realms grew taut, and the wheels of trade spun ever faster, grinding the old ways beneath them.

  It was a time of goods and gold, of merchants grown rich and craftsmen grown clever. New commodities, borne by the robed emissaries of the Sanctuary of Scrolls, spilt into the markets. Fabrics that shimmered like sunlight on water, spices that warmed the tongue and quickened the blood, and inventions that turned toil into profit—these were the treasures of the nascent age. Commerce flourished, and with it came new ways of organizing labour and wealth. For the first time, merchants wielded power akin to lords, their coffers heavy with coin and their hands on the levers of influence. Scholars, ever eager to define the undefinable, would later call this the dawn of Eastern capitalism, when capital began to shape not only commerce but the very politics of Udoris.

  Yet, wealth and power bring not only splendour but change. The cultural fabric of Udoris, long frayed by war and faith, was rewoven in the wake of the Great War and the Reformation. New ways of thinking crept like ivy through the cracks, reshaping manners and minds alike. The people of Udoris began to see themselves differently, their roles within the state shifting like sand in a restless tide. But not all prospered in the shadow of this new age. The liberated peasantry, once the heart of Udoris’s agrarian wealth, found themselves slipping back into chains of servitude, their freedom bartered away for survival. Prosperity, it seemed, was a fickle mistress, offering her favours to few while many suffered.

  The centralized states, growing fat on wealth and order, sought to enforce their will upon the people. In Aries, the crown turned its back on the wandering sects of Radafis, the Band of the Six Divinities, and the Creed of the Twins. Dissenters found their tongues cut and the common man, his tied, forbidden to speak Morgar, the common tongue of the old faiths, isolating them from the wider world. The states, for all their might, grew brittle in their rigidity, a disquieting contrast to the dynamism of their economies.

  The roots of this transformation lay deep, in the blood-soaked soil of the Great War. The war had torn apart the old order and sown the seeds of a new one. The agrarian practices of the countryside were upended, wealth shifted hands like a gambling man’s dice, and the dissident voices grew louder—or quieter, if silenced by force. Entities like the Sanctuary of Scrolls and the Board of Commerce thrived in this fertile chaos, their influence shaping everything from the markets to the battlefield. Gunpowder siege engines, a gift of Eastern ingenuity, rendered castles less a symbol of safety and more a relic of another time. Armies swelled with newfound might, and with strength came the illusion of security.

  By the century’s end, Udoris stood at a height it had not seen in a hundred years. Its wealth glittered like gold in the sun, its people were armed with tools and knowledge beyond their forebears’ imagining, and peace reigned, if uneasily. Yet beneath the surface, the old fractures remained, waiting for the weight that would split them open once more.

  ...

  —Excerpt from Jonas Diane’s Our Origins: A History of Udoris.

  ???

  Mallowston, 13th Moon, 16th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  Much like Faywyn, Mallowston was a town steeped in age and history, its origins hewn from the crumbled stones of Fort Addens. Nearly a century past, the fort had stood as Algrim's bulwark against the shadow of Quilton, tasked with holding the northern marches firm should Faywyn fall. Yet the age of stone and sword gave way to fire and powder. Quiltonnian cannons, courtesy of Verummite ingenuity and the gold of Luscan privateers, had laid the ancient fort low. What remained of Addens was rubble and ash, its bones scattered across the northern plains.

  From those ruins had risen something new. The Citadel of the North, they called it, a stronger bastion of earth and stone, bristling with cannons of its own. Around it, Mallowston took root. The town grew like ivy on an ancient wall, humble beginnings giving way to something closer to prosperity. Now its streets bustled with the hum of trade, the clatter of carts, and the chatter of common folk, all blissfully unaware of the storms brewing beyond their walls.

  James sat by an open window, his gaze fixed on the throng below. The people moved like ants, busy with their daily toils, unaware—or uncaring—of the greater forces shaping their world. He sighed, his lip curling in disdain. Such simple creatures, they were. Sheeplike and malleable. Not unlike the insensate masses of his memories. The earl regarded them with contempt, their lowly state a source of ire. He had always harboured a disdain for the common rabble, despising them and how they so easily let others flare their anger and herd their thoughts.

  His musing was interrupted by the creak of the door. He didn’t turn. The rhythm of the footsteps told him all he needed to know. “You are back,” he said, his tone clipped. “How did it go?”

  “Better than anticipated, my lord,” came Ser Lancelot’s reply. The knight moved to join him at the window, his own eyes scanning the streets below. “The Heras remain convinced you are confined to the Keep. For now, they remain blind to our departure.”

  James nodded, his fingers drumming idly on the sill. “And the others?”

  “Ser Carter faces some difficulty,” Lancelot admitted, his voice tight. “There are whispers among the peasantry. Loyalty is... not as firm as we might hope. He’s detained a handful he suspected of serving the Heras. Still, he and his men should reach us before the hour grows much later, provided fortune favours us. As for the Heras…” Lancelot paused, a faint grimace crossing his face. “Their preparations for the western campaign are nearly complete. Merchants, sappers, strumpets, and three fortnights’ worth of supplies—they’ve left little to chance. Their retinue will march by the morrow’s noon.”

  “And they feast tonight,” James murmured, more statement than question.

  “Aye,” Lancelot confirmed. His lips curled in a wry smile. “They deem Faywyn’s fall a certainty. Who could fault them? They outnumber us greatly, and their lord is no fool. By all accounts, their confidence is well earned.”

  James turned to face the knight, his expression calm but unyielding. “And you, Lancelot? Are you steadfast?”

  The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken doubt. Lancelot hesitated, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. “My lord, should this venture fail—”

  “Should it fail, we die,” James interrupted, his voice sharp. “That much is certain. But what alternative would you suggest? To flee? To cower in the shadows and hope the Heras grant us clemency? Do you wish your wife and daughter to run like prey, to clutch at hope while hounds nip at their heels?”

  Lancelot said nothing, his face dark but resolute.

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  James turned back to the window, his gaze distant. “There are moments, Lancelot, when retreat is wisdom, when caution saves more than boldness. This is not one of those moments. I have read that the key to peace lies in two hands. In one, the promise of mercy and magnanimity; in the other, swift and unrelenting destruction. To possess one without the other is folly. Peace comes not from kindness alone but from the fear of what will follow if that kindness is refused.”

  He looked out toward the Keep on the distant hill, its walls dark against the fading light. “Tonight, we make our stand. Tonight, we remind the Heras that they play a dangerous game. Do you doubt me, Lancelot?”

  The knight straightened, his uncertainty giving way to grim determination. “No, my lord.”

  “Then ready yourself,” James said, his voice cold as steel. “For tonight, we feast on the broken spirits of our enemies.”

  ???

  Bycrest

  Beneath the ancient stone floors of the subjugated Algrian castle, deep within the damp recesses of its dungeons, flickering torchlight cast long, wavering shadows across the cold walls. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and despair, broken only by the sharp crack of a whip and the muffled groans of its victim. The grim symphony echoed through the desolate chamber, a cruel counterpoint to the silence of the world above.

  At the far end of the dungeon, seated upon a simple wooden chair, was a fair-haired youth of middling height, his stocky frame clad in richly embroidered garments. His tunic bore the insignia of a crowned, crimson-scaled dragon—a proud emblem of Hertalean royalty. His features, though striking, were marred by the tension etched into his brow, his expression one of perpetual vexation. He sat motionless, his eyes closed, as if the scene before him was a dull affair unworthy of his attention. And yet, there was a weight to his stillness, an air of tightly coiled malice waiting to be unleashed.

  Everhard opened his eyes at last. They were a bright, glacial blue, piercing and cruel. Before him knelt a man whose bloodied back bore the marks of countless lashes, the flesh torn and raw. Leonard, once king of this place, now little more than a broken figure upon the cold stone floor, remained silent as the whip cracked again. His breaths came shallow and strained, his shoulders heaving under the weight of his agony.

  The young prince raised a hand, and the knight administering the punishment halted mid-strike, lowering the supple leather whip. The dungeon fell quiet save for Leonard’s laboured breathing.

  “Where… is she?” Everhard’s voice was soft, but each word carried the weight of his frustration.

  Leonard lifted his head slightly, meeting the prince’s gaze with eyes that refused to yield. He did not speak. The defiance in his silence was louder than any words could have been.

  “Where. Is. She?” Everhard repeated, his voice edged with irritation.

  Still, the deposed king offered nothing. His parched lips parted only to release a rasping breath. His impassive expression betrayed no hint of the thoughts stirring behind his gaze.

  The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating. Everhard leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly, as if summoning patience. When he spoke again, his tone was almost conversational, yet laced with venom.

  “Reports suggest that some of your retainers and courtly women have fled southeast,” he began. “Scattered like frightened birds. Were I less informed, I might think your loyalists had abandoned you entirely.”

  Leonard remained silent, his gaze fixed forward, unyielding as stone.

  Everhard’s lip curled, his irritation mounting. “Do not mistake my words for ignorance. I know of Iris. I know she travels with one of your loyalists, likely seeking shelter with some vassal foolish enough to defy me. Or perhaps she aims for one of the southern ports, hoping to flee beyond my grasp.”

  A flicker. Barely perceptible, but there. A brief tightening of Leonard’s jaw, a faint narrowing of his eyes. To most, it would have gone unnoticed, but Everhard was watching closely, like a wolf circling wounded prey. He leaned forward, his lips twisting into a cruel smile.

  “Ah,” he said softly. “Am I not correct?”

  But Leonard, though betrayed by his fleeting reaction, held firm. He did not speak, did not give Everhard the satisfaction of a reply.

  The prince’s patience snapped. With a sharp exhale, he gestured toward the knight behind Leonard. “Continue.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the knight replied, lifting the whip once more.

  The lash fell, and Leonard’s body jerked with the force of the blow. The dungeon once again filled with the sound of leather striking flesh and the muffled groans of the deposed king. Everhard watched in silence, his gaze cold and calculating.

  “Iris,” he murmured, almost to himself, as though the name were a prayer. His eyes gleamed with dark determination as he rose to his feet, the faintest of smirks playing at his lips.

  “Where do you think you can hide from me now?”

  ???

  Windy Fir Woodlands

  Among the yellowing trees, where the air hung thick with the decay of late autumn, the Bandit Lord Reamus strode with deliberate purpose. His garments, once the envy of courtiers, now bore the faded wear of too many seasons and too little care. He was a stout man of middling years, his face lined with experience and tempered by bitterness. Yet it was his eyes that betrayed him—cold, calculating, glinting like shards of ice. They spoke of a mind honed for ruthlessness and a soul long acquainted with the darkness of men.

  Beside him walked Outhor, his aide and confidant. The man was tall and sinewy, his lean frame clad in a gambeson that, while plain, was impeccably clean. His face was sharp, his bearing exuding a quiet confidence tinged with arrogance. There was danger in his composure, the sort that came not from brute strength but from intellect sharpened to a razor’s edge—a rare and treacherous breed of miscreant: the educated kind.

  “Have you uncovered the culprit?” Reamus asked, his tone betraying neither anger nor sorrow, though his words hung heavy with the weight of unspoken vengeance. His hands were clasped behind his back, the very picture of restraint.

  Outhor’s reply was measured, calm. “Nay, my lord. The trail grows cold. One among them is skilled—cunning enough to elude our pursuit thus far.” He paused, then added, “But we have recovered Vlad’s remains, as you commanded.”

  A silence fell between them. The forest seemed to listen, its usual chatter of birds and rustling leaves stilled as if in reverence—or fear. Only the wind moved, whispering through the high boughs, carrying the faint scent of earth and decay.

  Reamus walked on, his gaze fixed ahead. “Outhor,” he said at last, his voice distant, almost contemplative. “Have I ever told you of my life as a noble lord?”

  Outhor, knowing better than to interrupt, said nothing.

  “I had ambition once,” Reamus continued, his tone tinged with something perilously close to nostalgia. “And it was my undoing. I lost everything—my wealth, my title, my kin. All of it torn from me by the Dark Gryphon, come to collect the cost of my folly. Only my nephew and I escaped that night. Vlad’s father, my brother, gave his life so that we might flee. So that we might endure…”

  He trailed off, his face a mask of stoic detachment. Yet in his stride, there was something harder, something darker, as the two men reached the edge of a clearing.

  In the centre of the glade, six corpses lay shrouded beneath rough linen. Five were arrayed in a neat row, but the sixth lay apart, as if set there with care, almost reverence.

  Reamus approached the lone shrouded figure. Slowly, he knelt, peeling back the coarse fabric. A rancid stench filled the air, thick with the sour tang of rot. Flies rose in a buzzing cloud, but Reamus paid them no heed. His eyes locked on the face beneath the shroud—a face frozen in terror, its features slack and pale. There was a faint resemblance between the corpse and the man who now gazed upon it, though the life that once animated those features was long gone.

  Reamus reached out, his fingers tracing the cold, clammy cheek. His expression did not waver, though his icy gaze softened for the barest of moments. Tears welled in his eyes but did not fall. He blinked them away, his face hardening once more as he covered the body again.

  “Rest well, my son,” he murmured, the words almost too soft for Outhor to hear. Rising to his feet, Reamus turned his gaze toward the forest, his hands once again clasped behind his back. There was no grief in his stance now, only the cold resolve of a man who had made his choice long ago.

  “Find them,” he said, his voice like the crack of a whip. “The wretches who dared strike at my blood. Hunt them to the ends of this world if you must. And when you have them…”

  He turned, fixing Outhor with a gaze that could freeze the sun.

  “Bring them to me. Dead… or alive.”