The_Alloquist Some minor scheduling issues. Efrain sketches should be released tomorrow. Go ahead and vote for next week's characters.
“The incredible arrogance of Degras was typified when he expelled princess Delka over the Lansfied massacre. Any rational assessment, indeed there were several contemporaneous accounts at the time that say as much, would suggest that both law and morality was firmly on her side. One such account, from judge Ymifir Oakes (who it would serve the reader to remember later became the second Master of Laws), would later render it clearly:
“Degras, First of His Name, Hallowed King of Angorrah and master of the house of Eblem, contravened the principle of Noncompliance and the principle of treason. In suggesting that Delka had erred against the Crown, despite her only exercising authority secured by Elbem under the aegis of the Lost, he directly offended the Lost themselves.
In that, king Degras managed to suggest that the Lost’s judgement was lacking, thus satisfying two of three requirements of the principle of Treason. What oral accounts survive of Keeper Yassed’s judgement suggest he bent to the authority of the crown. Arguments against Yassed’s apparent ambivalence are laid out below.
However, the strictures of the principles of Noncompliance had been previously applied to the king, and in this there could be no doubt. Degras was simply in the wrong, having erred from holy law, acted against high priest Salgle’s express judgement, and having violated the dignity of a royal person. That alone was justification for objection to the command Degras would later give.”
Unfortunately, as Degras would later show, open objection would prove rather unwise. A not-insignificant-number of the royal retinue would object at Degras’s last minute pardon at the Lansfied trials. Kalè Yemfagin, Rollos Estabem, and Hecoud Oakes, would end up dead in a matter of weeks after the incident. It seems all but certain that the volatile Degras had elected to silence these overtly-critical noblemen.
Of course, the two most famous objectors, princess Delka and master-at-arms Aija, were seemingly ignored. Delka was dismissed off hand as a mere object of the royal household, due to be married off in only a year or two. Aija was more subtle, though his recovered and preserved private writings suggest the depths of his horror at the lack of firm leadership. Stroe, ever his master’s faithful companion, also appeared to join in his discontent.
As detailed in volume two, the instinct of the military men proved prophetic in the Fracture. Delka discovered the three houses involved in Lansfied once again gathering. In apoplectic indignation at their fragrant disregard of the crown’s mercy, she held trial. With rebellious remarks made at her authority it devolved into a hasty execution of the local lords, and, in the ensuing chaos, the princess had to flee back to Angorrah.
Once again, as detailed in volume two and three, she found a chilly reception, culminating in her open reprimand. A common misconception is that she was exiled, but that was a later justification for her leaving of her own volition. Aija departed with her, as well as Stroe, who’s accounts of this time are the primary resource for what the band did in the three years before the start of the Sunset war.
The death of Degras, along with the rise of duke Helian and his claim to the throne will be covered in chapter four, but in this introduction, we should briefly discuss its conclusion. A long and brutal war of attrition between the forces of Helian and Delka culminated in the battle in the Draskar forests, the destruction of the Helian’s house, whose ancestral lands were the forest.
Unfortunately, Delka of course would never live to see such an occasion, given that both she and Aija were slain during the siege of Angorrah, which in itself is accounted in volume four. Stroe carried on the campaign on their ‘behalf’, though later documents and statements by the future first Triarch of Strength would prove such a proposition rather questionable on the whole.
Indeed, one only has to look at his principal public address during the Watering of the Fields.
“Hark, friends and comrades, see this slaughter not as a tragedy, but as a boon.
Take myself.
I lost friends and leaders amidst the sunset war.
And yet, even in the depths of cruel and bounteous grief, I remember the paths that were opened by their sacrifice.”
It is difficult to not take this as a subtle nod to the ensured destruction of the Angorrah Monarchy via Delka’s death and Duke Helian’s defeat. In fact, some of the more radical among us might even suggest it is an allusion to Stroe’s suspiciously pre-planned expunging of the monarchical institution in the Treaty of Draskar.
In fact, some of us might even suggest that it might indicate he had allowed the deaths of Aija and Delka to happen.”
Brother Lescotho. Your passion for the material is obvious, but I am glad that you have allowed me to gaze upon it. Your sequencing of events, the ‘bunny-hop’ referencing various chapters, needless detail, even some of your phraseology can be reckless, overinflated, and inelegant. Come see me to discuss more specific suggestions.
I must insist that you take out this idle speculation about the reverend Triarch of Strength, Stroe Annoch. Such pet theories should be strictly confined to the realm of dismissed fiction, unless you wish to draw unhappy eyes.
Brother Amelius Jacobino
The sleep had been a beautiful thing. A long, quiet, dark thing. Daesha had entered it, a young, somewhat talented seamstress, and had exited it something entirely different.
Her lover was stretched out beside her, skin warm, still stained by sweat they’d worked up together. When the sun rose, they’d have a new life. One far away from her father, or his brother, or anyone else they knew for that matter.
It would be great, or so she’d been told - they would find, or make, some small house, maybe in a village, maybe by themselves. On a hill, overlooking grassy plains, or perhaps a rolling coast, or maybe even a forest. They’d grow wheat, or peaches, or apples, tend to pigs, or cows, or sheep, have three, or five, or ten children!
How quaint a life it would’ve been. How unremarkable.
How utterly beautiful.
Daesha kissed her lover with all the sincere ceremony of a youth in love.
When Abaed woke, the sun was up.
And he was alone.
Over seven years later, a grizzled man stood almost alone in a tattered, stained tent. He was in his mid twenties, but seemed a decade older, war leaving both lines of care and scars of punishment on his face.
“It’s done?” Stroe Annoch mouthed.
The relentless pace of the campaign had pushed the young commander to his very limits. The Kingdom of Angorrah was never going to be easy, but the last few weeks had tested their mettle more than any other. Angorrah itself was already in their hands, with the loyalist forces collapsing back to the Draskar forests.
Stroe rubbed his eyes - it would be there that the loyalist forces made their last stand. And it would be their last, he would make sure of it. It had to be their last, or the blood that was now on his hands would never be worth it.
The assassin, such as she was, nodded. A slim, slight thing of indeterminate age and dead eyes. She had come highly recommended, however, and by all the reports he’d received, she’d done her job well. Lost, if the fact she’d managed to slip by his guards with not an alarm sounded didn’t prove her worth, what did?
“Very well,” he nodded, picking up a hefty bag of silver, and opening it for her inspection.
Her eyes lit up, showing some semblance of joy, or perhaps pride, for the first time. That made driving the dagger into her throat that much harder. Her reflexes were good, but not enough. The first punch was brutal, the second painful, the third noticeable. Then merely weak slapping as her limbs went limp.
She seemed a lot smaller then - a young girl lying on the blood stained ground.
Stroe wanted to close her eyes, whisper a prayer - she’d performed him a service, even if it was a dark, filthy one. Fatigue and pity began to overtake his discipline, and his thoughts began to wonder at her, from whence she’d come, why she’d chosen this life? Marshalling himself a moment later, he took out a second dagger, and slid the point across his face. The stinging pain and warm flow almost felt like penance.
He left it in her grip, then turned. The rest was all a routine - knocking over a table or two, a loud shout, panting as the guards rushed in. The failed assassin was taken away, to be thrown nameless on one of the burn piles that littered the city. The subsequent chastisement of the guards felt ridiculous, a playwright’s jest at the ridiculousness of war.
Stroe was left, alone in the tent, with a bandage over his face. Maybe there’d be a scar - a reminder of the gamble he’d taken at this moment. Steadying himself, he called his commanders to him and announced the death of princess Delka and warmaster Aija.
The meeting was fraught, but went as smoothly as he could’ve hoped. As Aija’s public protege, it was only natural he was accepted as his successor. Store was not nearly naive enough to not suspect that some of the more intelligent commanders had suspicions. The ‘attempt’ on his life, however, seemed enough to silence such thoughts, at least openly.
On the whole, there might’ve been some occasional grumbling, but ultimately, there was unity. That was enough cause for him to relax slightly - they couldn’t afford chaos, not now.
The last battle was approaching - Duke Helia and his forces had fallen back to his ancestral lands. Plans were drawn up, alternatives were considered, and commands were scrawled down. One by one, they swore loyalty, and filed outside to return to their duties. Stroe was left, once again almost alone, thumbing his patchy beard as he glanced across the papers.
He raised his eyes to stare across the table. It had always been his place, his current location opposite occupied by Aija. What a loss it had been, what a cruel twist of fate and duty that had led the student to slay the master. He’d tried so hard, for so many years, to make him see - the fault of Angorrah did not lie in the current monarch, it lay with the crown itself.
The first attempts had been subtle, dropped hints in their private conversations and beside musings. It was not in the nature of either of them to shout their objections in public. It had probably saved them from Degras’s more focused attention, like poor Kalè or Count Estabem. Not that Store had liked the latter, but at least Rollos had the integrity to question Degras’s horrendous judgement.
Hecoud Oakes, however, had never been one for subtlety or quiet words. Out of all those lost in Degras’s folly, that one stung the most. Aija had been captivated by the man’s fiery oratory, and after Stroe got over his, in hindsight, absurd jealousy, so had he. The man’s penchant for administration and law would’ve been a powerful boon as well, though his young son seemed to be precocious on that account. Perhaps there was still hope - he’d have to visit the lady Oakes, Lost, how long had it been? And see if that was a seed worth planting.
So distracted was he by plans of this burgeoning nation in his head, that he failed to notice the woman standing in ‘his’ place.
She was not a commander, but one of their aides. Some strategist Vifven had picked up in the outskirts, years ago. Stroe thought her name was Diana, or maybe Danea. There were simply too many men under his command to remember.
“Do you have something you want to say?” he said, looking at the woman.
Her eyes were focused on the board, a simplified rendition of the silver city. They flitted between the carvings on top, and maps of the city that surrounded it. She didn’t even show a hint of fear, being the presence of her superior’s superior. There was something… off putting about them, their colour somewhere between a dark brass and a muddy brown.
“I asked you a question, woman,” said Stroe.
“The princess and the warmaster were under constant supervision, and only allowed where the fighting was thinnest.”
Her voice was clipped, calm, simple and to the point.
“These things happen,” Store said, his eyes narrowing, “I myself told them to remain in camp. They refused.”
Her eyes glimmered, something implacable turning within.
“And with their mistake, you are now chief claimant to the throne. In command of a winning army.”
Stroe and the woman stood in silence. She clearly ‘knew’ something, or at least, thought she did. Something stirred in response to the woman’s blank gaze. Stroe had the sense of staring into a receptacle, a dark deep bowl that would accept anything and everything that could fit. There was a ridiculous sense of challenge, like even his revolutionary ideas could be subsumed in their depths.
Stroe drew himself straighter, his face hardening into a learned mask of command.
“There will be no throne,” he proclaimed, honestly, “no more kings or queens.”
She picked up one of the pieces, marked with ‘Crown’, from its place on the board. She showed no surprise or shock at the absurd idea of Angorrah truly and finally without a king. Stroe’s dream, kindled in his youth by Degras’s stupid cruelty, and reinforced by years of education, discussion, and war, simply fell into the depths of her. Instead, she gently placed the piece back down, before locking eyes with him.
“Is that so?” she said, the voice underlying the statement showing every sign of boredom.
“On my oath,” he said, leaning over, trying to force her to look away from him, and failing.
“How much is that worth?” she said, gesturing to the pieces without so much as an inclination of the head.
The woman was smart, not trusting, like Aija. That openness had attracted Stroe, and many others to his banner and friendship. Delka had been the opposite, suspicious of everything and anything. It wasn’t her fault, being betrayed so publicly and viciously by her brother. It just was a misfortune that she began to resemble him by the end. That, perhaps more than anything, had forced his hand, or so he told himself.
“You will see,” he said, wondering what in the world was driving him on like this, “you will all see.”
“A dream, then,” she said, impassively, “no kings or queens. Only men, only you.”
However neutral her tone was, there was something underlying, something that sneered at him.
“And?” he said.
“When does a victory become a non-victory?” she said, “in the face of the sacrifices you must make to ‘win’?”
“Is there a point to this riddle?” he sighed, thumbing the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.
He didn’t have time for this, he had plans to execute. Duke Helien was many things, but an indecisive man was not one of them. They would have to prepare, to secure the city as soon as possible, then reform and march to-
“You loved him,” came the woman’s voice.
The statement lanced through him like a chill wind. That was a secret no one else knew, nor would’ve ever known, if he had a choice.
His eyes shot open, catching the woman turned around, paused at the exit to the tent. Her face sent a chill through him, a contorted mixture of intense emotion. Grief, sympathy, pity, disgust, anger, all seemed to radiate out at him from the slight figure.
“I understand,” she said, voice still perfectly even, before vanishing into the night.
Stroe was left with his own sense of smallness in the face of something that he doubted he had the faculties to understand.
In the coming years, Stroe, Vifven, and many others would be heralded as those that set the foundations of the Angorrah Empire. Their names, and that of the thousands that followed them, were carved into the sandstone cliffs that split the city in two. Those same names would become worn with age, as the many martyrs, peasants and priests traced their hands across the walls. Even after the great elevator of the silver city was constructed, many would take the harder route, trying to put a face to the legendary names as they passed.
However, just as many were left off, only survivors and those they cared to remember found their way to the pilgrim’s path. One that had fallen into obscurity was one of a young, dark haired woman. Her commanders, her colleagues, her enemies, all forgot the strategist, or attributed her successes to others.
Daesha had vanished from all knowledge after the battle in the Draskar forest. Only two old men spared her a thought in their last days; a dying founder amid his burgeoning empire-to-be, and one who sat outside a house looking out over the fields of wheat, sheep grazing beyond.
The_Alloquist Some minor scheduling issues. Efrain sketches should be released tomorrow. Go ahead and vote for next week's characters.
“The incredible arrogance of Degras was typified when he expelled princess Delka over the Lansfied massacre. Any rational assessment, indeed there were several contemporaneous accounts at the time that say as much, would suggest that both law and morality was firmly on her side. One such account, from judge Ymifir Oakes (who it would serve the reader to remember later became the second Master of Laws), would later render it clearly:
“Degras, First of His Name, Hallowed King of Angorrah and master of the house of Eblem, contravened the principle of Noncompliance and the principle of treason. In suggesting that Delka had erred against the Crown, despite her only exercising authority secured by Elbem under the aegis of the Lost, he directly offended the Lost themselves.
In that, king Degras managed to suggest that the Lost’s judgement was lacking, thus satisfying two of three requirements of the principle of Treason. What oral accounts survive of Keeper Yassed’s judgement suggest he bent to the authority of the crown. Arguments against Yassed’s apparent ambivalence are laid out below.
However, the strictures of the principles of Noncompliance had been previously applied to the king, and in this there could be no doubt. Degras was simply in the wrong, having erred from holy law, acted against high priest Salgle’s express judgement, and having violated the dignity of a royal person. That alone was justification for objection to the command Degras would later give.”
Unfortunately, as Degras would later show, open objection would prove rather unwise. A not-insignificant-number of the royal retinue would object at Degras’s last minute pardon at the Lansfied trials. Kalè Yemfagin, Rollos Estabem, and Hecoud Oakes, would end up dead in a matter of weeks after the incident. It seems all but certain that the volatile Degras had elected to silence these overtly-critical noblemen.
Of course, the two most famous objectors, princess Delka and master-at-arms Aija, were seemingly ignored. Delka was dismissed off hand as a mere object of the royal household, due to be married off in only a year or two. Aija was more subtle, though his recovered and preserved private writings suggest the depths of his horror at the lack of firm leadership. Stroe, ever his master’s faithful companion, also appeared to join in his discontent.
As detailed in volume two, the instinct of the military men proved prophetic in the Fracture. Delka discovered the three houses involved in Lansfied once again gathering. In apoplectic indignation at their fragrant disregard of the crown’s mercy, she held trial. With rebellious remarks made at her authority it devolved into a hasty execution of the local lords, and, in the ensuing chaos, the princess had to flee back to Angorrah.
Once again, as detailed in volume two and three, she found a chilly reception, culminating in her open reprimand. A common misconception is that she was exiled, but that was a later justification for her leaving of her own volition. Aija departed with her, as well as Stroe, who’s accounts of this time are the primary resource for what the band did in the three years before the start of the Sunset war.
The death of Degras, along with the rise of duke Helian and his claim to the throne will be covered in chapter four, but in this introduction, we should briefly discuss its conclusion. A long and brutal war of attrition between the forces of Helian and Delka culminated in the battle in the Draskar forests, the destruction of the Helian’s house, whose ancestral lands were the forest.
Unfortunately, Delka of course would never live to see such an occasion, given that both she and Aija were slain during the siege of Angorrah, which in itself is accounted in volume four. Stroe carried on the campaign on their ‘behalf’, though later documents and statements by the future first Triarch of Strength would prove such a proposition rather questionable on the whole.
Indeed, one only has to look at his principal public address during the Watering of the Fields.
“Hark, friends and comrades, see this slaughter not as a tragedy, but as a boon.
Take myself.
I lost friends and leaders amidst the sunset war.
And yet, even in the depths of cruel and bounteous grief, I remember the paths that were opened by their sacrifice.”
It is difficult to not take this as a subtle nod to the ensured destruction of the Angorrah Monarchy via Delka’s death and Duke Helian’s defeat. In fact, some of the more radical among us might even suggest it is an allusion to Stroe’s suspiciously pre-planned expunging of the monarchical institution in the Treaty of Draskar.
In fact, some of us might even suggest that it might indicate he had allowed the deaths of Aija and Delka to happen.”
Brother Lescotho. Your passion for the material is obvious, but I am glad that you have allowed me to gaze upon it. Your sequencing of events, the ‘bunny-hop’ referencing various chapters, needless detail, even some of your phraseology can be reckless, overinflated, and inelegant. Come see me to discuss more specific suggestions.
I must insist that you take out this idle speculation about the reverend Triarch of Strength, Stroe Annoch. Such pet theories should be strictly confined to the realm of dismissed fiction, unless you wish to draw unhappy eyes.
Brother Amelius Jacobino
The sleep had been a beautiful thing. A long, quiet, dark thing. Daesha had entered it, a young, somewhat talented seamstress, and had exited it something entirely different.
Her lover was stretched out beside her, skin warm, still stained by sweat they’d worked up together. When the sun rose, they’d have a new life. One far away from her father, or his brother, or anyone else they knew for that matter.
It would be great, or so she’d been told - they would find, or make, some small house, maybe in a village, maybe by themselves. On a hill, overlooking grassy plains, or perhaps a rolling coast, or maybe even a forest. They’d grow wheat, or peaches, or apples, tend to pigs, or cows, or sheep, have three, or five, or ten children!
How quaint a life it would’ve been. How unremarkable.
How utterly beautiful.
Daesha kissed her lover with all the sincere ceremony of a youth in love.
When Abaed woke, the sun was up.
And he was alone.
Over seven years later, a grizzled man stood almost alone in a tattered, stained tent. He was in his mid twenties, but seemed a decade older, war leaving both lines of care and scars of punishment on his face.
“It’s done?” Stroe Annoch mouthed.
The relentless pace of the campaign had pushed the young commander to his very limits. The Kingdom of Angorrah was never going to be easy, but the last few weeks had tested their mettle more than any other. Angorrah itself was already in their hands, with the loyalist forces collapsing back to the Draskar forests.
Stroe rubbed his eyes - it would be there that the loyalist forces made their last stand. And it would be their last, he would make sure of it. It had to be their last, or the blood that was now on his hands would never be worth it.
The assassin, such as she was, nodded. A slim, slight thing of indeterminate age and dead eyes. She had come highly recommended, however, and by all the reports he’d received, she’d done her job well. Lost, if the fact she’d managed to slip by his guards with not an alarm sounded didn’t prove her worth, what did?
“Very well,” he nodded, picking up a hefty bag of silver, and opening it for her inspection.
Her eyes lit up, showing some semblance of joy, or perhaps pride, for the first time. That made driving the dagger into her throat that much harder. Her reflexes were good, but not enough. The first punch was brutal, the second painful, the third noticeable. Then merely weak slapping as her limbs went limp.
She seemed a lot smaller then - a young girl lying on the blood stained ground.
Stroe wanted to close her eyes, whisper a prayer - she’d performed him a service, even if it was a dark, filthy one. Fatigue and pity began to overtake his discipline, and his thoughts began to wonder at her, from whence she’d come, why she’d chosen this life? Marshalling himself a moment later, he took out a second dagger, and slid the point across his face. The stinging pain and warm flow almost felt like penance.
He left it in her grip, then turned. The rest was all a routine - knocking over a table or two, a loud shout, panting as the guards rushed in. The failed assassin was taken away, to be thrown nameless on one of the burn piles that littered the city. The subsequent chastisement of the guards felt ridiculous, a playwright’s jest at the ridiculousness of war.
Stroe was left, alone in the tent, with a bandage over his face. Maybe there’d be a scar - a reminder of the gamble he’d taken at this moment. Steadying himself, he called his commanders to him and announced the death of princess Delka and warmaster Aija.
The meeting was fraught, but went as smoothly as he could’ve hoped. As Aija’s public protege, it was only natural he was accepted as his successor. Store was not nearly naive enough to not suspect that some of the more intelligent commanders had suspicions. The ‘attempt’ on his life, however, seemed enough to silence such thoughts, at least openly.
On the whole, there might’ve been some occasional grumbling, but ultimately, there was unity. That was enough cause for him to relax slightly - they couldn’t afford chaos, not now.
The last battle was approaching - Duke Helia and his forces had fallen back to his ancestral lands. Plans were drawn up, alternatives were considered, and commands were scrawled down. One by one, they swore loyalty, and filed outside to return to their duties. Stroe was left, once again almost alone, thumbing his patchy beard as he glanced across the papers.
He raised his eyes to stare across the table. It had always been his place, his current location opposite occupied by Aija. What a loss it had been, what a cruel twist of fate and duty that had led the student to slay the master. He’d tried so hard, for so many years, to make him see - the fault of Angorrah did not lie in the current monarch, it lay with the crown itself.
The first attempts had been subtle, dropped hints in their private conversations and beside musings. It was not in the nature of either of them to shout their objections in public. It had probably saved them from Degras’s more focused attention, like poor Kalè or Count Estabem. Not that Store had liked the latter, but at least Rollos had the integrity to question Degras’s horrendous judgement.
Hecoud Oakes, however, had never been one for subtlety or quiet words. Out of all those lost in Degras’s folly, that one stung the most. Aija had been captivated by the man’s fiery oratory, and after Stroe got over his, in hindsight, absurd jealousy, so had he. The man’s penchant for administration and law would’ve been a powerful boon as well, though his young son seemed to be precocious on that account. Perhaps there was still hope - he’d have to visit the lady Oakes, Lost, how long had it been? And see if that was a seed worth planting.
So distracted was he by plans of this burgeoning nation in his head, that he failed to notice the woman standing in ‘his’ place.
She was not a commander, but one of their aides. Some strategist Vifven had picked up in the outskirts, years ago. Stroe thought her name was Diana, or maybe Danea. There were simply too many men under his command to remember.
“Do you have something you want to say?” he said, looking at the woman.
Her eyes were focused on the board, a simplified rendition of the silver city. They flitted between the carvings on top, and maps of the city that surrounded it. She didn’t even show a hint of fear, being the presence of her superior’s superior. There was something… off putting about them, their colour somewhere between a dark brass and a muddy brown.
“I asked you a question, woman,” said Stroe.
“The princess and the warmaster were under constant supervision, and only allowed where the fighting was thinnest.”
Her voice was clipped, calm, simple and to the point.
“These things happen,” Store said, his eyes narrowing, “I myself told them to remain in camp. They refused.”
Her eyes glimmered, something implacable turning within.
“And with their mistake, you are now chief claimant to the throne. In command of a winning army.”
Stroe and the woman stood in silence. She clearly ‘knew’ something, or at least, thought she did. Something stirred in response to the woman’s blank gaze. Stroe had the sense of staring into a receptacle, a dark deep bowl that would accept anything and everything that could fit. There was a ridiculous sense of challenge, like even his revolutionary ideas could be subsumed in their depths.
Stroe drew himself straighter, his face hardening into a learned mask of command.
“There will be no throne,” he proclaimed, honestly, “no more kings or queens.”
She picked up one of the pieces, marked with ‘Crown’, from its place on the board. She showed no surprise or shock at the absurd idea of Angorrah truly and finally without a king. Stroe’s dream, kindled in his youth by Degras’s stupid cruelty, and reinforced by years of education, discussion, and war, simply fell into the depths of her. Instead, she gently placed the piece back down, before locking eyes with him.
“Is that so?” she said, the voice underlying the statement showing every sign of boredom.
“On my oath,” he said, leaning over, trying to force her to look away from him, and failing.
“How much is that worth?” she said, gesturing to the pieces without so much as an inclination of the head.
The woman was smart, not trusting, like Aija. That openness had attracted Stroe, and many others to his banner and friendship. Delka had been the opposite, suspicious of everything and anything. It wasn’t her fault, being betrayed so publicly and viciously by her brother. It just was a misfortune that she began to resemble him by the end. That, perhaps more than anything, had forced his hand, or so he told himself.
“You will see,” he said, wondering what in the world was driving him on like this, “you will all see.”
“A dream, then,” she said, impassively, “no kings or queens. Only men, only you.”
However neutral her tone was, there was something underlying, something that sneered at him.
“And?” he said.
“When does a victory become a non-victory?” she said, “in the face of the sacrifices you must make to ‘win’?”
“Is there a point to this riddle?” he sighed, thumbing the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.
He didn’t have time for this, he had plans to execute. Duke Helien was many things, but an indecisive man was not one of them. They would have to prepare, to secure the city as soon as possible, then reform and march to-
“You loved him,” came the woman’s voice.
The statement lanced through him like a chill wind. That was a secret no one else knew, nor would’ve ever known, if he had a choice.
His eyes shot open, catching the woman turned around, paused at the exit to the tent. Her face sent a chill through him, a contorted mixture of intense emotion. Grief, sympathy, pity, disgust, anger, all seemed to radiate out at him from the slight figure.
“I understand,” she said, voice still perfectly even, before vanishing into the night.
Stroe was left with his own sense of smallness in the face of something that he doubted he had the faculties to understand.
In the coming years, Stroe, Vifven, and many others would be heralded as those that set the foundations of the Angorrah Empire. Their names, and that of the thousands that followed them, were carved into the sandstone cliffs that split the city in two. Those same names would become worn with age, as the many martyrs, peasants and priests traced their hands across the walls. Even after the great elevator of the silver city was constructed, many would take the harder route, trying to put a face to the legendary names as they passed.
However, just as many were left off, only survivors and those they cared to remember found their way to the pilgrim’s path. One that had fallen into obscurity was one of a young, dark haired woman. Her commanders, her colleagues, her enemies, all forgot the strategist, or attributed her successes to others.
Daesha had vanished from all knowledge after the battle in the Draskar forest. Only two old men spared her a thought in their last days; a dying founder amid his burgeoning empire-to-be, and one who sat outside a house looking out over the fields of wheat, sheep grazing beyond.
