My entire life I have worn the title of Lord Tobas. The formal veneer has gone so far that I think I’m the only one left who remembers my given name is Wilmot. This isn’t something I take issue with; in fact, I have encouraged it, not out of vanity, but because my true name is a synonym for ‘haunted’ for me.
Born as Wilmot Tobas of the Lowlands, a village about a two-hours’ walk east from Lysavara, I grew up amidst the squalor of a peasant’s life, my family struggling to make ends meet. We were hollower than names on a ledger to the wealthy landowners who controlled our lives. My mother and father worked tirelessly for a better future for me. But tragedy struck when Lord Cantell, seeking to assert his power, accused my father of theft, a crime he would never have committed. Cantell men seized him, and he was hung publicly. We fell deeper into the volcanic depths of poverty, scraping by on menial work and existing in fear of the landowners’ whims. I say ‘existing’ rather than ‘surviving’ because that was not something we excelled at. My mother was taken by Death’s Ulcers but a year later.
But these dark years were the sowing of the seeds for Lord Tobas. I wanted to never again feel powerless, and soon vengeance came through a chance encounter with Sir Valentin Katia who was on Grimm Woodgairrd’s guard. He took me under his wing, took me to Stormholme, showed me how to use a sword. Eventually he was sent off with three others to an expedition in Novakia, and in the meantime I defected to the young Emannar Woodgairrd’s side and played my part in the Stormholme Schism. He rewarded me with a place on his council, and I have continued this role for Styve.
I never saw Sir Valentin again, and I often wonder what became of him. The most likely answer was of course death, but I like to dream that he’s alive, having made a settlement with the other men and thriving, enjoying the last of his days comfortably, with the medallion I gave him as thanks round his neck or kept in his satchel. He was an exceedingly flamboyant character, and I wanted to be every bit like him. I draped myself in elaborate robes, spoke in grandiose tones, and wove my words into dazzling promises and overtures. I dropped my first name altogether from any formal proceedings and soon everyone was calling me Lord Tobas for they remembered no other means of addressing me. I would be too pretentious for anyone to try to know the real me. Perceptions had always triumphed over reality. Such dramatics served me well.
But with the onset of this civil war my life was much more on the line, and the stakes were far too high for pretence. The Kingdom was fractured. It was time to release my core, the foul darkness that floated through me from a little boy.
Thousands were gathering to witness the coronation of King Styve Woodgairrd, and I stood among them. Stormholme felt less of a capital since Emannar’s death and more of a happy cemetery, jovial yet spiritless. War was marching, and every last one of them knew it. The grand amphitheatre, where the ceremony was to take place, loomed at the edge of the capital. Its vast circular walls were open to the sky, allowing the gods to bear witness, or so Gregory would have you believe. The throne, carved from blackened stone and adorned with golds and silvers, sat atop a raised dais at the very centre. But Styve would never sit on this throne past the coronation; it might as well have just been called an expensive chair.
Surrounding the dais was a massive Sission pool (well, this was more of a Sission lake) that shimmered with its usual otherworldly light. It denied itself the right to be called water; it would not reflect the sky even if the gods commanded it, preferring to hold within it the very soul of the Kingdom.
Closest to the centre, where the dais commanded attention, sat Styve himself. He looked determined, but I had spent enough time with the man to observe the cracks beneath—the doubt, the fear that was gnawing at his innards. He needed this to go perfectly for it would make the people love him, and never before had Styve considered love to be a necessity. His wife and daughter were beside him, while the council, myself included, formed a semi-circle around the dais. To our right, the noble lords and Royal Guard stood in silent vigil. And farther back, almost at the edges of the amphitheatre, the commonfolk gathered. They all blurred together from where I stood, despite the noise. Why did they even care? No matter who became King, they had nothing much to lose.
It did not feel like a coronation. The amphitheatre was mourning a dead man, and consequently becoming a corpse itself. Even the sun seemed reluctant to break through the clouds. Frankly, why would it want to? That would be deifying a band of assassins. Emannar had been a flawed king, but he had been beloved by his people and would never have stooped to such a sin. Styve, on the other hand, had chosen to inherit a kingdom divided by the spectre of war.
To be clear, I do not regret my part in the assassination of Varn. I was following orders as I always have. I do believe it will be the source of many a downfall, but this is not to say I regret what I have done. Even Annyte was a necessary scapegoat. Nor can I be said to be a slave to my superiors, as I have proved by letting Kristyne Pargion escape Stormholme, going so far as to even kill a knight and conceal the body so thoroughly that by the time it was discovered, she was long gone. I helped her because I knew I could evade any blame—had there been any risk of exposure, I would have snatched the girl and turned her in without hesitation. I have witnessed and participated in so much death that I find little reason to care whether anyone lives or dies. Heir or not, why would I save a boy if doing so could destroy me?
Francis Ashford stood beside me as we watched the preparations, both of us draped in the finery expected of our positions, though neither of us were particularly celebratory. The early morning light had just begun to creep over the edges of the capital, and the air was cool and crisp, but Francis and I exchanged cynical glances, both too old and too experienced to be swept up in the grandeur of it all.
“Quite the spectacle,” Francis muttered with a dry voice. “A farce dressed in sacred robes.”
I nodded, not needing to speak to convey my agreement. The ceremony had begun at dawn, marked by the tolling of the ancient bells that hung in the towers overlooking the capital. The chimes swam laps through the empty streets, trying to stir the city from its uneasy slumber. Soon the procession of Witanegemotes entered the amphitheatre first, each of them solemn and stoic. Their robes were dark as omens, and their movements were slow, deliberate, and every step was like its own prayer.
Next came Styve, the big man at the centre of it all, barefoot and dressed in simple robes of white. Queen Ashlyh was at his side, and Princess Sarisa between them. You always need the King’s family there to make the commonfolk believe they make him a loving man. They moved along the path of white stone that lead to the dais, the journey meant to symbolise the transition from mortal to divine, from humility to power, in some stupid way. It was just another display to impress the masses and remind them of the alleged sanctity of their king.
“They say this is the path from humility to power,” Francis whispered, his tone making it clear he found the notion laughable. “Has there ever been such a thing?”
“Not in this kingdom,” I replied under my breath. “Power has no room for humility, only for blood and steel.”
As Styve walked, the gathered priests and priestesses chanted an ancient hymn, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm that was meant to be soothing and sacred. I didn’t bother to listen to the words, knowing full well they were little more than hollow sounds strung together to give weight to the proceedings. Faith might have moved mountains once; now it moves men like pawns on a board.
His wife and daughter stepped aside as Styve approached the pool. Gregory then rose from his seat and approached the King, taking him by the arm and leading him to the pool’s edge, where the water shimmered with that exotic light, and he began a silent incantation that was said to invoke the divine.
“By the waters of fate and the light of the stars,
Reveal the heart of the King and the path he bears.
O holy pool, show what the shadows conceal,
Grant vision of truth and destiny sealed.”
Slowly he lowered Styve into the pool, and I watched as the ripples danced about him, distorting his reflection. As he was submerged, the amphitheatre fell silent, the crowd holding its collective breath. This was the moment that defined him, the vision he would receive said to reveal his deepest desires and the path he would take as king. But no one but Styve would ever know what he saw. I suppose one could imagine, but not many are able to imagine the true stream of dangers that reality will present.
Francis leaned in close. “What do you think he’ll see?”
“His brother’s shadow,” I replied. “And the blood he’ll have to spill to escape it. Maybe Kase, mangled, lying on the cold earth.”
Moments later Styve emerged from the pool, water cascading down his robes. There were cheers from the crowd, loud and enthusiastic, but I could see the tension in Styve’s shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. The sights in the pool had not brought him peace.
Francis clapped politely. “And so, a new round of the contest begins.”
“The contest began long before this,” I said, watching as Styve climbed the steps to the throne. “This is just the latest move.”
Next, Gregory prayed for Styve’s reign, his voice rising in an ancient cadence. With the vision declared, Styve began his ascent up the steps of the dais, moving with the deliberate grace expected of a King about to receive his crown. The crown itself was placed upon a velvet cushion, gleaming in the morning light. The Supreme Witanegemote approached Styve, his robes rustling softly. He turned to Styve, ready to ask him to swear the Oath of the Saviour. It was a vow, a promise to protect the kingdom with wisdom, justice, and strength—a promise that every King before had made, but few had managed to keep.
“Do you, Styve Woodgairrd, swear to uphold the kingdom with wisdom, to dispense justice to all, and to wield strength in the defence of your people?” Gregory intoned.
Styve, standing tall and resolute, repeated the oath with a voice that, despite its firmness, betrayed a hint of uncertainty. “I swear to uphold the kingdom with wisdom, to dispense justice to all, and to wield strength in the defence of my people.”
As Styve spoke the words, the skies above began to churn ominously. Dark clouds rolled rapidly in, twisting and writhing as though summoned by some unseen hand. The storm gathered with a speed that was both awe-inspiring and unsettling. The crowd gasped as their faces lifted toward the heavens, and the churning clouds darkened the very air. Supposedly, this was a portent that the gods were watching, or so the priests and Witanegemotes would have us believe. It was meant to signify divine approval of the new King’s reign. But to me it seemed more a theatrical effect, a grand illusion designed to heighten the drama of the moment. I had seen enough of the world to know that not everything was as it seemed, and Gregory had always had a penchant for dramatic flair. But the logistics of creating such a storm…how would he manage such a feat? The sky was a vast expanse, and controlling its moods was not something that mere mortals could typically achieve. As the storm continued to rage, Gregory prepared the Crown to be placed on Styve’s head. The rain began to fall, a fine mist at first, then heavier as if the heavens themselves were weeping for joy.
We were seconds away from officially having a new King Woodgairrd when that sharp whistle sliced through the air.
The sound barely registered before I saw the crossbow bolt fly. It struck Styve with a sickening thud, burying itself deep in his chest. The storm was now doubly in the sky and in the people as the King staggered, clutching at the bloodstained bolt, his once-pristine white robes now rivered with crimson. The amphitheatre was in savage disarray. My mind felt pierced by quarrels as he sank to one knee, his fingers trembling as they gripped the bolt embedded in his flesh. Redness seeped through his fingers and was swallowed by the rain that began to fall more heavily.
My eyes darted frantically among the masses, searching for any sign of the assassin, but the throngs of people obscured my view. Chaos was a living, breathing thing, and amidst it, I saw Styve’s remarkable resilience. Against all odds, our one true King managed to rise to his feet, each movement slow and agonising.
The rain intensified. He raised his hands to the sky, his voice rising above the cacophony as he declared, “They can toss me into the deepest pits of Magnar! The gods have chosen me! I shall not fall!”
The crowd was swept back into fervent belief. This was no mere man before us; this was a figure touched by the divine, a chosen one favoured by the gods. We needed to love him, to worship him, to do whatever we could to service his aims. Gregory, maintaining his composure through the drama, stepped forward with a look of reverent triumph. He approached Styve, the Crown in his hands, and placed it atop the King’s head. There was a ferocious roar of approval from the crowd. The rain was now a torrent, almost magical. The other Witanegemotes filled buckets with water from the Sission pool and started splashing the crowd, a blessing to reinforce the divine favour.
I glanced to my left, expecting to see Francis equally caught up in the fervour. Instead, he was laughing. Laughing in a life-or-death crisis.
“How can you laugh?”
He turned to me with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh Tobas, you’ve no idea what a spectacle this is. I suppose I’ve always had a peculiar appreciation for drama.”
“Drama?” I replied. “I suppose the drama was nice, but our King’s life was almost at stake!”
“Was it?” Francis raised an eyebrow, his gaze drifting back to Styve, who now stood with the Crown upon his head, seemingly impervious to being struck in the chest with a crossbow bolt. “I’d say it’s a masterstroke of theatre. Styve’s display is nothing short of magnificent.”
“Magnificent?” I echoed.
“Absolutely,” he said with a soft chuckle. “It’s rather poetic, don’t you think? Even the gods were watching. They were certainly entertained.”
I shook my head, disoriented. “But the people are frightened.”
“Frightened?” Francis gave a dismissive wave. “No more than they were before. This is merely a grand reassurance. Styve’s ability to endure such a blow will only serve to solidify his position. It’s quite clever, really. This performance will be remembered for generations.” I looked back at Styve, his soaked robes clinging to him as he stood victorious with his wife and daughter in his arms. The Crown was shining through the storm. The roaring of the crowd refused to cease. Francis was right; the whole thing was staged. But they would all think it real.
A while later we found ourselves in Stormholme’s grand hall. Nobles, lords, and knights mingled around tables laden with a feast of roasted meats, exotic fruits, and rich wines. I found myself seated opposite Sir Jervas Azemar, the newest member of the Royal Guard. Jervas had been appointed to fill the vacancy left by Byrron Vikarin’s departure, which was a move we designed to cement the loyalty of his father Gnaeus to Styve. The young knight was a striking figure, with an almost boyish enthusiasm that seemed at odds with his new position.
“I didn’t notice you at the coronation,” I remarked, trying to make conversation. “Were you not present?”
Jervas took a sip of his wine. “I find coronations dull and overblown affairs,” he replied with a dismissive wave. “I prefer to process the more pressing matters at hand. Like the word I’ve just received from House Gladwin.”
“Mm, yes, how goes their battle with the Redmonds at the Bluffs?” I asked.
“Well, the Bluffs are notoriously treacherous—high, jagged cliffs shrouded in nearly constant mist. It makes visibility poor and navigation difficult. Perfect for a protracted skirmish rather than a decisive engagement.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Skirmishes? I’d expect something more decisive.”
“That’s the nature of the terrain,” Jervas explained. “There have been small, intense clashes throughout the early hours. The mist has made it almost impossible for either side to organise a full-scale assault or cavalry charge. Instead, it’s a series of hit-and-run skirmishes, meaning this battle will go on for a while.”
I could picture the scene—a grim tableau of soldiers fighting in the fog, their forms barely discernible against the shifting mists. “And what of the strategy?”
“Gladwin’s familiar with the terrain,” Jervas said. “He’s using that to his advantage. He wants to thin Redmond’s lines and disrupt his supply routes, forcing him into a more disadvantageous position. It’s not a straightforward battle by any means.”
“So it’s still far from over,” I realised.
Jervas nodded. “There have been reports of confusion among the troops. Friendly units clash in the fog. Gladwin’s manoeuvring is all about leveraging the chaos.”
My head was full of mist. “And what of the supply lines? Have they been disrupted significantly?”
“From the reports, it seems Gladwin is making headway,” Jervas said, his gaze thoughtful. “But the Bluffs are unforgiving. Every gain is hard-fought, and Redmond is no fool. He’ll counter every move.”
I took another sip of my wine, reflecting on the broader implications. “It sounds a bloody mess.”
Jervas nodded again with a slight smile. “It is. But I’d rather Lord Gladwin won the war through patience rather than charging in and losing His Grace many a valuable man. Regardless, Lord Tobas…why haven’t we already gone to ransack The Maroon? We could catch Kase by surprise now, humiliate him while he’s still gathering his men. Seems a missed opportunity to me.”
I let out a bark of laughter and shook my head at his naivety. “Oh, Jervas,” I said. “You’ve got a lot to learn. It’s never that easy. Such bold plans might sound enticing in theory, but warfare is never that simple. We need to prepare for any potential invasion ourselves before we strike out recklessly.”
Jervas’s face fell slightly. “But surely there’s something more immediate we could do. Gold’s fine, but I want more than just a fat purse when this is all over. But, being the newcomer, I know that I will need to earn that through combat.”
I leaned back. “Styve is an honourable man,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “He will reward you for serving him well. But you must understand that slower, more methodical approaches often lead to greater rewards.”
Jervas’s brow furrowed. “I still think an attack on The Maroon could give us a significant edge. It could be decisive.”
This poor naïve boy. “And why are you even on the Royal Guard if you have no concept of patience? We’ve got more pressing concerns to address first.”
Jervas’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I have a spy in The Maroon,” he said. “He’s told me that Kase’s men are planning an attack on Grimm’s Cross.”
I gave a dismissive wave. “Of course they are. It’s a strategic target.”
Jervas’s laughter was almost triumphant. “That is true, but I believe there is something my spy is not telling me. And speaking of not telling me everything, I’ve heard whispers of a failed assassination attempt on Styve at that coronation. You seem remarkably calm about it for someone in your position.”
I allowed myself a faint, humourless smile. “I was certain that a simple crossbow bolt wouldn’t be enough to take down our mighty King. It was merely a distraction, nothing more.”
He looked at me sceptically but did not press. “I want to be sent out to battle. Surely you can find something for me?”
I met his gaze with a steady look. “You will be sent out whenever the gods will it.”
Jervas’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer, almost challenging me. “And who are these gods you speak of?”
I didn’t miss a beat. “Styve is our god now,” I said, my tone resolute. “He is the one we follow, the one whose favour we seek.”
Jervas chuckled, a sound of dark amusement. “So what does that make you and the other councillors? The authors of his holy book?”
I nodded slightly. “Perhaps. But I assure you, Styve is much more the warring type than Kase. You’ll likely be sent out soon enough.”
Jervas seemed satisfied with my response, his grin returning. “Perhaps if Styve can grant me Queen Ela’s hand in marriage after Kase is dealt with, I’ll forgive the delay.” He was driven by ambition and a thirst for glory, like any other young knight; they could make him both an asset and a liability.
I sat in the grand hall for a ridiculously long amount of time that day. All the others had left, the fire in the hearth was now embers, and the banquet was now just remnants spread before me, untouched for hours. I absently pushed a piece of meat around my plate with the tip of my knife, my thoughts far removed from the feast.
The earliest ancestor of mine I knew of was Gerald Rawkin. Rawkin had been a reputable noble, serving Queen Loreena I Woodgairrd during the turbulent days of her reign. He was a fighter, ruthlessly ambitious and fiercely loyal, but also a man whose choices had led to the decimation of his own bloodline. The Siege of Basindale had been his darkest hour. He had followed the Queen’s orders without question, massacring the rebels who had dared to rise against her rule. There was no glory in what he did, only destruction. The screams of the innocent, the blood gushing over the streets—those were the legacies he left behind. For his obedience, Loreena had rewarded him with the command to fight for her at the Battle of Gate Morbrand. But her reward had been laced with venom. She had threatened to strip him of his lands and titles if he failed her, to punish him for his willingness to kill innocents at her behest.
None of it had mattered in the end. During the battle, all of Rawkin’s issue—his sons, his heirs—were slain. His bloodline, once poised to thrive, was cut down in a single day. Stricken with grief and rage, he did the unthinkable: he turned against the Queen, siding with her enemy, her own aunt, Royse. But even that treachery brought him no solace. The Rawkin name, he knew, was destined for extinction. When the Sack of the Longbow came, he chose not to fight, not to flee, but to fall on his own sword. He died as he had lived—following his own twisted sense of honour, a sense that ultimately led him to ruin.
But the Rawkin line did not end with him. His sister, a woman whose name history must have forgotten, lived on. She got married, and through her Gerald’s blood continued, generation after generation, until it flowed in my veins, the last of the line, childless and burdened with a history I had chosen.
I wondered, not for the first time, how similar I was to my ancestor. Gerald had been willing to give up everything, to abandon all he had fought for, because he saw no future for his name, no legacy worth preserving. Could I, too, find myself in a position where all my work, all my loyalty to the Crown, would come to nothing?
The fire crackled softly, and the hall was almost completely dark now. I set down my knife, staring at the cooling meat on my plate. What would Gerald think of me, I wondered. Perhaps he would think me his truest descendant.
I had just begun to consider retiring for the night when the heavy wooden doors creaked open. Sir Maximilien Engeramus, another new member of the Royal Guard, stepped inside.
“There you are, my Lord,” he said with a deep bow. “The King summons you.”
I nodded, setting aside the weariness. A summons from Styve was not something to be ignored, no matter the hour. I followed Maximilien through the winding corridors of the palace, and when we reached the King’s chambers, I noticed several sworn lords and other councillors departing, their expressions ranging from thoughtful to grim. None of them acknowledged me as they passed, their minds clearly preoccupied with whatever had transpired within.
Standing near the entrance was Gregory, whose eyes found mine. “What did you think of the coronation, Lord Tobas?” he asked. “The pools have whispered to me of the glory awaiting our Kingdom under His Grace’s reign.”
I resisted the urge to sneer. “Whispered of glory, have they? How comforting,” I replied. “I’m sure the pools will be of great use on the battlefield.”
Gregory’s smile remained, but there was a flicker of something—perhaps irritation—in his eyes. I didn’t care. The Witanegemotes and their so-called visions had always struck me as delusional at best, utterly useless at worst. They spoke of destiny and divine favour, while it was men like me who had to deal with the harsh realities of the world.
Without waiting for Gregory’s response, I pushed past him and entered the chamber. Styve sat in the centre of the room, his regal attire replaced by a simple tunic and his posture relaxed as if the day’s events had been of little consequence. There wasn’t a scratch on him, not a single sign that he had been struck by a crossbow bolt mere hours ago.
“Lord Tobas,” greeted Styve calmly.
I studied him for a moment before responding. “Quite the display, Your Grace. I suppose there’s no need to ask how you survived.”
Styve’s smile widened as he leaned back in his chair. “It was all carefully planned. I hired a devout peasant named Dunkel, a marksman of considerable skill. The crossbow I provided him with was specially designed—smaller than usual, easily concealed. And the bolt, well, that was the true marvel. Its tip was blunt and hollow, filled with a dye that mimics blood. The impact was real enough to be convincing, but it did me no harm.”
I nodded. “I assume the peasant has vanished by now.”
“Not quite. After firing the bolt, Dunkel slipped away through a hidden passage carved into the amphitheatre. But he hasn’t truly escaped. Dunkel believes in me, in the cause, so greatly that he agreed to be arrested, imprisoned, and executed as a traitor. He’s convinced that his sacrifice will further my reign.”
“Do you believe it will?” I asked.
“I do. The people need to see their King as invincible, chosen by the gods. They need to believe that nothing can bring me down, not even a bolt to the heart.”
I considered his words, then nodded slowly. “Then let’s hope that belief holds.”
“It will. It must. For all our sakes. Anyways, now for why I called you here. There’s something I need you to look at.” He pulled out a scroll and gave it to me, and I unrolled it to scan the words written in Styve’s precise, neat hand.
Proclamation of Treason and Reclamation of the Throne
To all lords, knights, and free men of the Kingdom:
It is with the gravest of hearts and the utmost conviction that I, Styve Woodgairrd, rightful heir of my elder brother Emannar, do hereby denounce my brother, Kase Woodgairrd, as a traitor to the crown and to the realm. By his actions, Kase has defiled the sacred line of succession and spat upon the traditions that bind our great Kingdom together. He has conspired with the enemies of our land, fostered dissent among the noble houses, and sought to undermine the stability and prosperity that we, the House of Woodgairrd, have long upheld.
Let it be known that Kase’s treachery will not go unpunished. His attempt to usurp the throne, to which he has no rightful claim, is an affront to the gods and to the memory of our ancestors. As King, it is my solemn duty to protect this realm from all threats, foreign and domestic. Therefore, I declare that Kase Woodgairrd shall be apprehended and brought before the Royal Court to answer for his crimes. Upon his capture, he shall be executed without delay, for such is the fate of all traitors who seek to destroy the unity of our Kingdom.
To those who would still stand with Kase, let this serve as a warning: your loyalty to a false king will be met with the full force of the crown. Surrender now, and you may yet find mercy. Continue in your defiance, and you will share in Kase’s fate.
To the noble houses that remain steadfast in their allegiance to the true King, your loyalty will not be forgotten. You shall be rewarded with lands, titles, and honours befitting your service to the realm. Together, we shall restore order, and together, we shall build a future worthy of our ancestors’ legacy.
In this time of trial, I call upon all the gods of our forefathers to witness this declaration, and to lend their strength to the just cause of our Kingdom. May they guide our hands as we march to reclaim what is rightfully ours.
In the name of the gods, and in the memory of our noble lineage,
King Styve Woodgairrd.
I looked up from the scroll, meeting Styve’s gaze. “Are you truly ready to execute your brother, Your Grace?”
Styve’s jaw tightened. He looked away, as if searching for an answer in the wall. “I have never loved my weak little brother. I do not wish to spill his blood but I know that I must. If I want to be seen as a strong King, a King who doesn’t tolerate dissent, I have to show that even my own blood isn’t exempt from justice.”
I folded the scroll, handing it back to him. “Justice is one thing, but if your immediate resort is destruction then you’ll find the word that comes to many a mind when thinking of you is ‘tyrant.’”
The change in him was immediate and startling. His face contorted with anger, and he slammed the scroll onto the table. “Tyrant?” he spat, his voice rising. “You dare to call me a tyrant? You think I’m some bloodthirsty despot?”
I stood my ground, refusing to be cowed by his outburst. “I’m saying that resorting to execution, especially of your own kin, is a dangerous precedent. It’s not just strength that the people need to see, Your Grace. They need to see wisdom, restraint. A ruler who kills his brother could just as easily kill anyone else.”
For a moment I thought he might strike me, his rage so palpable that it seemed to radiate from him in waves. But then, just as quickly as it had come, his anger dissolved into a twisted smile. “And what would you have me do, Tobas? Let him live? Let him fester like a disease, spreading dissent? No, he will not get that chance.”
“Then at least give the people something to believe in,” I suggested. “Send messengers to all territories—those who are loyal, those who are neutral—so they understand what will happen if they dissent. But make an appeal to the gods, too. It will satisfy the religious factions. Just be vague about which god. Everyone believes in something different; it’s the best way to appeal to everyone.”
Styve seemed to consider this. But then, unexpectedly, his anger melted into fragility. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he sank into his chair, hands trembling slightly. “I’m not like my brother, Tobas. I can’t be like him,” he whispered. “The people…they’ll never love me. Not like they loved him, or even like they love Kase.”
“Your Grace—”
“I don’t regret assassinating my nephew,” Styve interrupted. “But I do regret getting Francis to kill that girl…Annyte Pargion. She was just a child, and we pinned the blame on her. We should have let the girls flee, blamed some random peasant. But no, I…I was foolish and short-tempered. I tried to fix it all with the coronation, thinking the people would deify me. But they don’t, do they? They never will.”
He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, his gaze distant. “Now, I think love is something I must tear out of their misery through crushing my brother. If they won’t love me willingly, then I’ll make them fear me. And maybe, in time, they’ll come to respect me. My mother told me that being a ruler meant making sacrifices. Sacrifices that no one else could understand. I know now how right she was.” He stood, straightening his tunic as if the simple act could wash him of sin. “I need to go to war, Tobas. It’s the only way. But I must be careful. I can’t afford any missteps.”
“You will decide on the right course of action, Your Grace,” I assured him, though in truth, I wasn’t sure if I believed it myself. “And when you do, your Kingdom will follow.”
Styve nodded. “Yes, Tobas. They will follow. They will have to.”
I remained standing as Styve paced the room. “If you seek to weaken your brother,” I began, “then smaller, more localised conflicts would be effective. As you know, House Gladwin is fighting House Redmond in the Bluffs, and they’re proving successful in scattering Kase’s smaller forces. If we continue to engage his followers in these smaller, strategic battles, we can deplete his numbers without overextending our own.”
Styve turned to me, his lips curling into a derisive smirk. “I didn’t summon you here to state the obvious, Tobas. Any fool could see that much.”
I bit back a retort, forcing myself to remain composed. “Furthermore, Grimm’s Cross should be heavily fortified, Your Grace,” I continued. “It’s the most crucial point between your stronghold and Kase’s. Whoever holds it controls the lifeline of this war.”
Styve dismissed my suggestion with a wave of his hand, as if swatting away an annoying insect. “Of course it should be fortified. I’ve already considered that.”
“I spoke with Sir Azemar today, and the lad is eager for battle,” I suggested. “Perhaps he could be sent with some of his father’s men to the Shale Fields? They are southwest of Stormholme so by securing them we could prevent Kase from flanking the capital. They’re also near House Greensong, who have declared for him.”
Styve paused, considering the idea. The Fields were once a vital resource for shale stone and tar pits, but they had long been abandoned. But they could be strategically significant.
“A good thought,” Styve finally acknowledged begrudgingly. “I could equip House Azemar with the Stoneworn Company—those veterans from the Shale Wars of my father’s time. They know that terrain better than anyone. And I’ll send some tarblades with them as well. Heh…” He fell silent for a moment. “I remember a time,” he said slowly, almost as if speaking to himself, “when I was just a boy. There was this runt of a dog in the castle kennels. It was small, sickly, the runt of the litter. I remember feeling sorry for it. But then my father’s beastmaster told me that feeling pity for such things was foolish He grabbed the dog, and…” Styve broke off for a while. “When he was finished, he told me that weakness only invites more of the same. That to lead, one must be the wolf, not the runt. I’m sick of weakness, Tobas. These past years I have found strength only through belittling the weak, like my brother. Now I desire to belittle the strong.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” I said, inclining my head. “I will see to it that the necessary preparations are made.”
Styve gave a curt nod, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. I turned to leave, and the door closed behind me with a soft click, and I walked down the dimly lit corridors of Stormholme till I finally found myself abed.
Dylan Brennan 
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