"Our spears crashed through their shields, our swords slashed their sides, and our arrows pierced their eyes. When Henri and his forces had been reduced to some four hundred strong, our two thousand encircled them, slowly pressing them in. When victory was all but certain, the sounds of drums rang out from behind our forces - all of our forces. The earth began to tremble so fiercely that we began to break rank without intention. At first there was confusion which was quickly overcome with fear as what seemed like tens of thousands of cavalry road across the hills. We were carved to shreds." - Anonymous soldier retelling the decisive victory by House Pelariaux over House Garlieux due to the last minute support of the Mannes Centaur tribe, 32nd of Motch, 124 PR

Almost all of the arrangements had been made. The flowers would be an assortment of white lilies and lavender. The table clothes would be split in two: one side would be golden roses over a field of black, the other being the opposite. Phillipe thought it odd that their houses sigils were actual opposites of one another, but it certainly made it easier on the tailors and embroiderers. The royal smith has crafted a ginormous heater shield which will be hung directly above the wedding arch. On its center is the face of a rose split down the middle; on the right side it is gold on top of a black field, and on the left it is black on top of a golden field. This was to become their new House sigil, House Desravank. While weddings were typically held in the Temple of Darion, being he was the god of life and health, his father's last decision before falling ill was that the wedding take place in the Temple of Geshana - the goddess of fertility and the harvest. A strange choice, his reasoning was that it would symbolize the 'fertility of this union and bring hope for its many years of harvests.' You could hear the eyes roll from everyone present when he said this. But, it was his last request, and since he might - no, he will be fine.

Phillipe looked across from his chair to his father's bed, where the king lay peacefully, his head resting on silken pillows. He had spent most of the last week sleeping, barely conscious when he was awake, and eating less and less. When Phillipe came by this morning, both dinner from last night and this mornings meal lay cold at his bedside table. With very little left to do in actually wedding plans, Phillipe had taken this morning to sit by his father's side and update his journal. It was difficult, though, to write down ones guilt into permanence while sitting beside the very thing you have caused. It was Bershion who blasted them with such a storm, and it was Syl or Elmira who cursed himself and Mathi to get so lost, and it was Mostrosty himself who placed the disease on his father. Phillipe sighed deeply as he shut out his thoughts. You can blame whoever you want, but it doesn't change the reality. After all, why would the gods smite such a man?

King Francois III was never a cruel man, many would say he was the farthest thing from it. At council meetings, Phillipe recalls how quietly he would listen, scratching his goatee as he simply nodded his head along to whom ever was speaking at the time. It did not matter who it was, they all received the same level of attention. He thought back to the one council meeting in which Hildagard burst in whilst Prince Claude was going over the harvest reports. Claude and Thierry were furious that such a lowborn person would barge in as she had, Claude stood with a face as red as dragon fire with veins about to burst from his head. Despite Claude's expression, it was Thierry who began the accosting, berating the woman for her 'audacity' to barge in as she had. Uncle Mathias attempted to calm his cousins, but they quickly brushed him off, leaving him sitting in his chair dejected like usual. It was just as Thierry began to call for a guard to escort her out, Francois spoke up, barely having to raise his voice, and told his brother and cousin to take their seats. Claude attempted to sputter out an argument against but was given a sharp look by the king and begrudgingly took his seat. Thierry did as he often does and crossed his arms in protest, believing his body language would speak for itself.

After a quiet and barely audible 'my lord' from Hildagard, Francois asked, as he would a member of the council, that the woman speak her business. Phillipe then found himself holding back tears as he looked over to his father's pale skin and ever greying hair. He had forgotten that Hildagard's outburst was for a very good reason; she was informing them of the Queen's death. Queen Heliose Lefeuvre, Phillipe's mother, had died giving birth to Princess Renee Desramaux; Princess Renee would die three weeks later, sickly in her crib. Francois and Heliose had never been lucky with their children, Phillipe being their first and only one to survive passed the age of one. This death was the only that Phillipe could remember clear enough, however, to remember noticing its effect on his father. He was a man who family meant everything to. A good man, a good father, and above all, a good king.

Phillipe shook his head as he quickly wiped a tear from his eye. He wasn't dead. The King was still alive and could very well pull through, yet everyone found themselves talking of him as if he had already been taken by Mostrosty. Even I can't help it. The shame took a fluid motion through his body, as though a rush of blood had just gone through all of him, starting in his head and leaving through his toes. He could pull through. He is going to pull through. He has to pull through. Phillipe clutched his fathers hand for support, already feeling the weight of the crown on his head. It certainly did not take Prince Claude more than a day to begin treating Phillipe as though he'd already been crowned, calling on him to use his 'new authority' to call off the wedding and put an end to such, how did he put it? Ah, yes, 'frivolous and idiotic ideas.'

Claude was not the only one, though. Their own vassals had begun writing to the young prince with requests and updates that would normally be reserved for the king's attention. Just yesterday, Phillipe received a falcon from the Duchess Violetta De Lebatou requesting aid from the crown in her efforts to sure up her demesnes irrigation systems, claiming they had fallen into disrepair and the cost was too great for just her people to finance. Three days prior to that, the Count Gerome Chaucer IV requested the crown intervene on House Chaucer's behalf in a financial dispute over yearly tithes between Houses Chaucer and Aurreau. While these were themselves not out of the ordinary, none of them were addressed to King Francois III, but instead directly to Prince Phillipe, with the one from the Duchess De Lebatou going so far as to address him as His Majesty; a title reserved solely for the King or Queen.

They were all of them like leeches, beginning to jump from one host to the next. The letters that did not request for aid, instead offered their support and reassured their loyalty to the Desramaux crown. One after the other providing compliments and well-wishes to the one day king, each one placing that day sooner than the last. He was not dead! He was not dying! Why was he the only one to recognize that? The only one who hoped for his father's recovery? Of all the nobility, vassals, and merchants who walked the halls of the royal castle and sent falcons, it seemed Phillipe was the only who prayed for the king to survive. Or at the very least act like he will. Even Mathi told Phillipe to come to terms with it; 'he may not survive this, cousin, you have to understand that.' He was your uncle, by the gods! Forget that he his is your king and think of your uncle! Phillipe felt his blood begin to boil as these thoughts raised through his mind. Prince Claude and his son, Jean-Claude, were understandable. They were his father's cousins, and their role in the family depended heavily on how the future king felt about them - and, for that matter, what dynasty was to rule next. Though, Claude's brother, Guillaume, kept had been keeping to himself throughout this whole ordeal thus far, perhaps waiting for a more definitive eventuality. What angered him the most, was Uncle Mathias and Mathi; how could you accept such things for your uncle and brother? How were they not in the Temple of Darion on their hands and knees praying every day, as he had been doing?

Though, strangely enough, there was another who was not behaving as if Francois were already dead. Phillipe felt his anger subside as the thought came to him, causing him to chuckle even a little at it. Uncle Thierry. Angry Uncle Thierry as he and Mathi had called him when they were younger. The first to speak out against the union between House Desramaux and House Biljvank, the most vocal in the continued protest of the wedding, and often times the first to speak his opinion whenever it most unwanted. It seemed obvious that Thierry would pounce on his brother's illness like so many others have; whether to supplant Phillipe in the running of the country, or attempt to influence his nephew as he once had Francois. And yet, he had done nothing of the sort. In fact, it seemed as if he were the only other person in the castle who still came to the king directly with concerns of the crown. Phillipe crinkled his eyebrows together as he attempted to find the ulterior motive. What was his uncle playing at? Why was he treating this as nothing serious? How had he allowed himself to remain the most vigil at his brother's side, when such an opportunity to seize power might not come again?

The prince frowned as he slumped deeper into his chair. Uncle Thierry was still family. He should not be so quick to assume he was up to something, even if it was the obvious assumption. Perhaps his uncle had finally accepted the union, or perhaps he felt his efforts were only ever good with his brother around to listen. Whatever his reasons were, Phillipe actually found himself grateful to have another by his father's side hoping he might pull through. He looked over to his father again, the withering monarch still as pale as he was the day before, still wheezing with every other exhalation as his body struggled to breath. It was a solemn sight, and most likely a hopeless one. If he can just make it to warmer weather, he would have a fighting chance. The harshest winter month of Berso was almost over, and, despite not being spring until the eighteenth of Clarti, the month of Geshan was notoriously calm. I know he can make it. You have to make it, father. Please. I am begging you. I can not do this alone. 

There a knock at the door. Phillipe gave pause before he went to answer it, giving his father's hand a hard squeeze before he stood. Standing in the doorframe was an attendant, a halfling, standing at around 3'4", her head was bowed as the door opened. She held her hand outstretched to the prince, not uttering a word. Phillipe stared at the letters in her hands, awaiting some form of decorum from the woman.

"Letters for you, your majesty. One's just arrived by falcon, the other by hand." her head remained bowed as she said this.

"Thank you." the prince took the letters from her grasp slowly. "And, 'my lord' will do just fine for now." The halfling looked up at this with a sort of puzzled look, but then immediately bowing her head back down.

"Of course, my lord. Will you be needing anything else from me?"

"That is all, thank you." She bowed and walked away. Phillipe brought the letters to his chair beside his father and opened the first:

To the illustrious Prince Phillipe Desramaux,

I write to you today, not just as your future subject, but as your future cousin as well. In approximately two months time, you and my cousin, the Princess Jolijn Biljvank, shall be wed. Such an event will be momentous as it unifies our two nations through blood. As I write to you, as your future cousin, I simply wish to make a modest request. If you are unaware, as I presume you to be, for what need would you have of this knowledge? Never the less, if you are unaware, I unfortunately suffer from an affliction, one which I have lived with my entire adult life. It is a disease I would not wish upon even my greatest of foes. I speak, of course, of the Dragon's Grip. Now, fortunately, well, as fortunate as one can be with such an ailment, I have the Copper variant. Such a variant, if your highness did not already know, is treatable with daily medication. While there is no cure, so long as I ingest my daily tonic, I can live as long as any other healthy gentleman of my stature might be expected to. That, of course, is not my request. For the entirety of my time dealing with this illness, my medication has been provided to me by the crown; and, while you will not be liege lord until the passing of my dear cousin, King Jurrien Biljvank II, a fate we will hopefully steer clear from for quite some time, I wished to put forth the request that such an expense be continued when you and the Princess Jolijn bear your own crowns.

Now, for the secondary purpose of my writing - as your future subject. In exchange for the continued providing of my medication by your graciousness, I offer up myself as an advisor to the crown. While my ailment has confined me to spaces indoors primarily, this has allowed me the time to study greatly all things known to us. My knowledge is especially extensive in the military tactics of both of our great nations - having seen Biljvank tactics firsthand and read great accounts of your Desramaux kin. I hope we can speak more on this matter when we are to finally meet one another at yours and the Princess Jolijn's monumental wedding.

Sincerely - 

Duke Hein Biljvank

Phillipe scratched what was now true stubble on his chin. I'll need a shave soon. But what of this letter? This, Duke Hein. There was, of course, no issue about the continuation of the crown providing his medication. No, that was not the issue. What had caught the young prince by surprise was this Duke's need to point out his knowledge of both kingdom's military tactics. Perhaps there was nothing to it, simply bringing up that his studies covered all kinds of subjects and was not simply limited to his own peoples. Yes, that must have been it. Phillipe folded the letter and placed it in his interior pocket, a puzzled look still gripping his face as he still felt uneasy about the contents of the letter. Attempting to put the matter to rest, he pulled out the second letter and opened it. It was from Uncle Thierry.

Dearest nephew,

Or shall I call you King? That would seem to be most everyone else's assumption within the castle. I wish to talk with you, privately. There are some concerns that must be addressed. Meet me for lunch in my chambers.

- Prince Thierry Desramaux 

Uncle Thierry's chambers were impeccably clean. All of his books were neatly aligned and organized alphabetically by title. His desk was unlike one Phillipe had ever seen; having grown accustomed to the way his and his father's always looked, the prince did not realize it possible to keep such a tidy writing surface. Even the candles, which seemed to be used for both illumination as well as aroma purposes, were burned so evenly, either shaved or carefully burned Phillipe could not tell.

"Won't you take a seat beside me, nephew?" Thierry called from across the room, seated to the right of a small circular table next to the windows. He was smoking coffee in a pipe, a book sat in his other hand, which his head did not lift from as he beckoned he nephew. Thierry Desramaux himself was a rather tidy man. His jackets were always freshly ironed, his shirts smelled of the finest perfumes - usually with a hint of lavender. Despite being an avid rider, Phillipe does not think he ever saw his uncle in dirty boots. Today was no different than other, then. His uncle was adorned in a finely pressed blue jacket with black embroidering along its sides, this sat atop a black ruffled shirt. His pants were sewn into four sections, alternating black and blue, and his boots were a dark, burnt brown; each one did not have a spot on them.

"Yes, very kind of you, uncle." Phillipe took one more look at the strange cleanliness of his uncle's room, something he imagined occupied most of his uncle's time. Someone who likes their things this neat would never trust a servant to do it correctly for them.

"Coffee?" Thierry held his pipe to his nephew.

"I am all right, thank you. I left my pipe in my father's room anyhow." Thierry simply nodded and returned his attention to his book, taking a few puffs along the way. On the table between them, sat two plates, each with an overzealous serving of chicken breast. From the scent, it had been roasted with a collection of spices - peppers, onions, garlic. A hint of oregano? This was to be a marvelous meal, the prince could tell. The chicken was most likely still plump with juices. Beside the chicken was an assortment of roasted vegetables, seemingly the very same vegetables which were used in the cooking of the chicken.

"By all means, do not wait for me." Thierry motioned towards the plates with his pipe wielding hand, his eyes still fixated on his reading material. Phillipe went to reach for his utensils when he was hit with a sudden reminder from his father.

"I will wait, it would be inconsiderate of me not to." His tongue withered inside of his mouth, disappointed by what it had just allowed to be said. Thierry looked to his nephew and simply shrugged his shoulders before returning to his book. Strange. To invite one over for a meal, but there was no sign that Uncle Thierry had any plans of partaking in the meal. This was not a friendly meal. This was to be a business meal. Very well, if there was something his uncle felt was so important to discuss in private, let him initiate. The two men continued to sit in silence, the young prince taking the time to enjoy the view out of the window, a sheet of white consuming the countryside. The old prince, on the other hand, pay no mind to the scene outside, and rather continued to puff his pipe and read from his book. Finally, perhaps when Thierry had reached a good stopping point, the prince's uncle closed it and joined in his nephews gaze out of the windows.

"You are going to be king, you know." Thierry's words struck Phillipe with such force, he nearly fell from his chair.

"Well, yes. That is generally what happens with lines of succession." Thierry took a long draw from his pipe and released through he nostrils.

"I do not mean eventually, dear nephew."

"What do you mean, then, uncle?" Both princes continued their watch of the lifeless snow that filled their home.

"You know exactly what I mean." Phillipe began to feel his blood boil over, still keeping his eyes locked on the horizon.

"You do not say such things about my father, your king."

"I have said nothing about my brother, nephew, only about you."

"But what you say presumes much. Too much." At this, Thierry turned in his chair to face the young prince, who did not return the gesture.

"I had really hoped you would not be so naïve. So, arrogant. Do you know what is said throughout these castle walls?" Phillipe did not respond.

"Do you not hear now so many have already begun to address you? Your majesty." Phillipe remained silent, fixated on the snowy ground all around them.

"Your father. Our king. My brother. He is dying. He is dying and you will be crowned king."

"We are all dying, are we not, dear uncle? Each of us, slowly withering with each passing down." Thierry let out a puff of smoke and a light chuckle.

"Such a positive outlook on life. What I say does not easily come from my lips, you know this, yes?" No response. "Yes, Phillipe?" Phillipe finally turns in his chair, ready to unleash a torrent upon his uncle, when he is stopped by the look in the old princes eyes. Despair. Fear. Welled up tears that refused to make their way down his face. He saw in his eyes, what he had known was within his own. This was not some distant relative seeking power. A vassal attempting to place themselves within the good graces of the future king, with no consideration for the current one. This was an uncle, coming to terms with the inevitable loss of his brother. This was family. Phillipe felt his rage subside, his blood return to normal temperatures as his eyes softened their glare.

"Yes, uncle. It is not easy for any of us. I hope to believe so, at least." a small smile cracked over his uncle's face.

"That is good to hear. I was beginning to fear you saw me as an unfeeling man. One who cared not for blood, but only for what he might get from it."

"I have never thought such things about you, uncle."

"And I pray by the gods, you never will." The two princes shared this moment, however brief it was, simply smiling at one another. Phillipe turned his gaze back out to the horizon.

"Is this why you wished to share lunch with me, uncle? To discuss that which we cannot accept?"

"In a sense. Yes." the old prince leaned closer to the window, flipped his pipe, and tapped out its contents onto the sill. He spoke as he leaned back into his chair.

"The king has had a modest reign. The people prosper. Crops grow well with each passing season, enough to keep our storehouses and granaries filled should there ever be a need. We have not known war since his coronation, but our armies have most certainly not been neglected as a result. You stand to inherit a beautiful kingdom, with hardworking people, loyal vassals, and a strong, thought untested, army." Phillipe smiled slightly to himself.

"Yes. My father has had a more than modest reign, I would say. History will remember him fondly."

"I hope so." the young prince turned to his uncle with a puzzled look on his face.

"How do you mean?" Thierry began to pack his pipe bowl with fresh coffee.

"I mean, along with all that my brother has done for our kingdom, he has also laid down plans. Grand plans that he has been persistent with, in spite of his familial protests."

"You mean the wedding. My wedding."

"Yes. But not just that. What is to happen after the wedding?"

"In what capacity?"

"In the capacity of who shall rule." Phillipe sat up straight at this, now turning his full attention back towards his uncle.

"I, shall rule."

"Yes," Thierry placed his pipe in his mouth and began to light it. "That is without question." He took several puffs from his pipe before letting out a deep sigh.

"But what of the dynastic lands? What of our family that remains?"

"You mean when I am gone? When my children inherit an empire under a new name?"

"Yes. What happens then?"

"That is not something that need be decided now." Thierry leaned over the table now, almost as if to grab his nephew.

"It must be! We will not be snuffed out!"

"Calm yourself uncle!" Thierry took in a deep breath, slowly releasing it as he slumped back into his chair.

"My apologies, my prince. I forgot my place."

"Your apology is accepted, as your passion is understandable. Rest assured, House Desramaux will not be, snuffed out, as you put it. It will be allowed to endure, along with House Biljvank."

"I will take your word, dear nephew."

"I will not make such a decision now, with the alliance not yet formalized." At this, Thierry perked up.

"You have doubts about such a thing? The completion of this union?"

"Of course I have doubts. I have had doubts since my father first presented the notion of the wedding to me. But - " Phillipe held up his hand to keep his uncle from responding.

"But. I mean to see it through on our side of things. Once a member of House Desramaux gives their word, it is their bond." Thierry turned out again to stare out of the window, his pipe placed firmly between his lips, clearly disappointed by the direction the conversation had taken. Phillipe squinted as he looked at his uncle's face. That look of despair and fear had left. The feelings were still present, that much he was sure of, but they were no longer for his brother. Uncle Thierry's only concern, in that moment, seemed to be for survival.

"I am afraid I must be going, uncle." Phillipe stood from his seat, his hands clasped behind his back. Thierry looked over to him, pipe pulled from his mouth.

"So soon? We had not yet even begun our meal in earnest." Thierry said, his hand motioning to the now cold plates between them.

"Yes, dear uncle, I am certain. I fear I have already had my fill for the day. Thank you for the meal, uncle." the prince said as he turned to leave.

"It was my pleasure, nephew." Thierry returned his gaze to the horizon. Phillipe looked to his uncle for the proper bow, but after a few moments was contented on not receiving it. The young prince made his way through the cleanliness before him and left, the scent of the peppers and garlic still taunting his nose.

Thierry stood in the overlook, a room which sat at the highest point of the Castle Desramaux with a grand balcony, allowing for the viewer to get a full three-hundred-sixty degree view of all that surrounded the castle. This served both a strategic as well as ascetic purpose. The old prince looked off in the distance towards the East. Their greatest enemies have always come from such a direction. First, the Lefeuvre's, that small Principality in what is today northeastern Renangers Duchy, right along the border of the old Pelariaux Dynasty. They, of course, were the Desramaux Dynasty's next and greatest of foes. For generations they did battle with one another, even after the conquest of the former by the latter. Two rebellions have taken place since their conquest at the hands of his great-grandfather King Etienne Desramaux in 243 PR; the first was almost immediately thereafter in the year 258 PR, the result of which was the annihilation the House of Trerieux and its namesake, the city of Treris. The second was a far more recent memory for the prince. On the 37th of Motch, 300 PR, King Francois Desramaux II was assassinated on the orders of Henri Pelariaux IV. With his brother only being aged eleven at the time, it was Thierry's uncle, Prince Jean, who took up arms to avenge the death of his king and brother. Thierry remembered the carnage. The Siege of Desramaux City. How the Desramaux forces were barely able to push off the assault that had immediately followed the assassination. Pursuing them as the Pelariaux forces fled east, Prince Jean gave no quarter. The conflict lasted four years, most of the last year being the Siege of Pelaresse. After seven months, the city fell, members of House Pelariaux were escorted out and put to the sword. Guyard Pelariaux II was instated as duke after his father's corpse was paraded around the city. If Prince Jean had had his way, House Pelariaux would be no more. But, King Francois III saw the need for forgiveness. 'I saw how this conflict affected the people, our people. I could not meet out violence for violence. Our kingdom needed peace, and so it has been maintained.' The words of his brother echoed in his head. His brother saw vengeance as a means to 'no end worth having.' If Thierry were crowned king, the name Pelariaux would never be heard again. Vengeance was never the goal, but justice. Justice for the butchering of a good king, the killing of their lord, their father. Francois' call for mercy was something the prince never understood, never forgave.

Yes, the East had always held their enemies. And now, as he stood there watching the source of his foes, a parade of eastern nobility approached. A parade which has been so openly invited in, not just as guests, but as equals. Soon enough, of course, they would be more than equals. They would become something far worse indeed - relatives.

There was a creek from the door as it slowly opened into the outlook. Entering the room now was Thierry's younger brother, Prince Mathias, and two cousins, the sons of Prince Jean - Prince Guillaume and Claude. Mathias had always shared similar ideas of fashion as that of his son, or, rather, he attempted to take his sons fashions and use them in an attempt to hold to his youth. Today, it seemed, indigo shirts and ponytails were in. Guillaume stuck to a more modest approach with his wardrobe, he even kept his head shaved so as to avoid dealing with hair; and would never be caught seen wearing anything but black and gold, lest anyone forget which Royal House he belonged to. And, of course, Claude. His sense of fashion could only be described as that of lacking. His jacket was always wrinkled, sitting neatly over a ruffled shirt that was often too tight. What wisps of hair remained on top of his head were combed to one side to create the illusion of a fuller head. And, was that a wine stain on the cuff of his shirt? How anyone could leave their chambers looking as he did was beyond Thierry's comprehension. The old prince himself kept his hair cut short and combed to his right side. His shirts, pants, stockings, and jackets were to always be freshly ironed in the morning, with his entire wardrobe being seen by the tailor monthly for any necessary adjustments. Tomorrow would be this months appointment. But, today, the prince had an altogether different appointment to keep.

"Brother, cousins, I thank you for joining me on such short notice. I am aware of how busy your schedules can keep you." Thierry looked over his shoulder to see Guillaume and Mathias had already taken the liberty to sitting down, while Claude waited patiently to be addressed and told what to do. Thierry turned himself to face the three princes and motioned for them to take a seat, eyes focused on Claude. The balding man bowed slightly and, smiling for the direct attention, took his seat. Good dog. 

"Yes, yes, cousin. We do keep busy indeed. What, with your brother hunting, mine carousing, and I keeping to my chambers for reading and the like." Guillaume waved his hand from prince to prince as he said this, a half-laugh given from all as he jabs.

"Of course, and I do hate to take you away from your studies, cousin. Tell me, which novel have you been working your way through?" Thierry inquired as he slowly walked to where he could stand behind his chair.

"Why, eh, the eh, the History of the Resurgence, by a mister, eh, umm... Well, I've quite forgotten the author." Guillaume looked down at his hands as he said this, feigning as though he were trying to recollect.

"Aliec Morgant?"

"Yes! That one. By a Mister Morgant. Excellent read so far, should you like to borrow my copy once I am finished with it."

"I have my own, but thank you, cousin." Thierry finally made his way around to sitting in his chair. He pulled his pipe from his jacket pocket and lit the coffee already within. Taking several puffs he simply cast his gaze from prince to prince, each one giving as confused an expression as the next.

"My apologies. Coffee, anyone?" Thierry held out a small pouch, the contents of which gave off a fine aroma of hazel.

"Very kind of you." Claude reached across and snatched the pouch, dumping its contents into his own pipe; a small bowl with a stout stem. As the balding prince puffed, Guillaume gave out a loud sigh.

"I had hoped you had called us out here for more than just smoking, dear cousin. That history is not going to read itself, you know. And I have matters of the crown to attend to; there is a quarrel between two barons in Aurrennes over percentage ownership in a small caravan business."

"Is that really something the crown must handle, Guillaume?" Mathias' question seeming as if it were an assault by Guillaume's reaction.

"My brother is quite ill, and something that should be handled by, at most, the Duke D'Aurrennes is most certainly nothing to trouble him with."

"That is why, cousin, I am handling it."

"Enough. You are all hear for matters of the crown. Sit down Guillaume, you wouldn't want to ruffle your shirt any further."

"I agree with Thierry, brother, you really must not let yourself get so worked up over simple questions." Claude looked over to Thierry for approval, it was given.

"What are these matters?" Mathias asked, crossing his legs as he began to light his own pipe.

"Well, to put matters bluntly, and since you have already brought this up, brother. The king, my brother - our brother, your cousin, Francois Desramaux III, is dying."

"I thought he had already passed." Claude said with a laugh, receiving only daggers for his joke.

"And, as such, our nephew, Prince Phillipe, stands to inherit the throne much sooner than he or anyone else expected. I have called you all here so that we might come to a consensus on how this should be handled." The other three princes looked across at one another, waiting for the other to speak. Finally, Mathias spoke.

"What is there to be handled? The boy is twenty-two. He has been under his father's wing for some six years now, learning the ways of ruling, both from observation and reading. If he is to inherit now, he is more than ready."

"And there is no disagreement about his readiness for the crown. My dear nephew Prince Phillipe is more than ready, I agree. But I fear for some of his decisions, namely his continuation with this wedding."

"Now, that is something I have brought up to him already, Thierry, you need not worry." Claude said proudly. "I told him, 'Your majesty,' him so close to being king, and all. 'Your majesty, you must use your power to call of this whole wedding nonsense. Your father was not in his right mind when he set out to create it, and has not been in his right mind ever since.'" The balding prince placed his pipe in his mouth triumphantly as he crossed his arms and puffed.

"Yes, and I am sure he took that to heart, calling his father crazed was a sure strategy for ensuring the merger of our two kingdoms be called off. Well done, brother." Guillaume rolled his eyes and scoffed. Claude nodded in agreement.

"Thank you. So, it seems the matter is already settled."

"Right. Well, let us assume it is not. What do we propose we do to call off such an event?"

"Last I heard, the Biljvank wedding party was already enroute. To turn them away now might cause devastating repercussions." Mathias said with a matter of fact tone in his voice.

"What are you suggesting, brother?" Thierry asked.

"Yes, cousin, what are you suggesting?" Claude repeated.

"Please, Claude, let him answer."

"I mean, there seems to be no merit in calling off the wedding now. It is too late."

"You would give up on your own dynasty? Your own name?" Thierry's tone shifting from inquisitive to sharp.

"I am not giving up on anything. The only thing being given up here, is the ideas of our brother, our king. Francois was - is, an intelligent man. He has been a good and noble king. Why should we question his ideas? Why should we call doubt into what he saw best for the kingdom he has run so well?"

"How do you not see it, Mathias? Within one, two generations time, the name Desramaux will cease to exist, cease to be spoken. It will live on as a distant memory for this new bastard dynasty. All that we and our ancestors have fought for, have died for, will be lost to ruin." Thierry said as he stood from his chair and began to pace back and forth between his chair and the balcony.

"You are being overly dramatic, brother. Our name will not longer be, kings, queens, but our blood will still flow in the veins of our peoples leaders. The nobility, the justice, and the legitimacy that goes along with that will carry them. Not to mention, one of us is to be named Prince of the Desramaux Principality. At least, that was the idea when I last spoke with Francois about it." Thierry laughed lightly to this.

"Ah, yes, of course. We shall forever be princes. Princes in a house where we stood as kings. No, brother. I will not let us see such a fate. I will not allow my children, my children's children, nor my children's children's children to see such a fate. For I would rather see the name Desramaux be snuffed out, and live on in legends as the names given to kings of old, than live on as an inferior, subject to a bastard blood line crafted out of desperation and fear. It will contain our blood, yes, but also the blood of our enemies."

"House Biljvank is not - "

"Yes they are! They have always been our enemies. We both know our alliance has always just been one of convenience. Let us sort out our own problems before we ready to conquer the other. It amazes me Francois did not conquer the Biljvanks when he had the chance just fifty years ago."

"He was fifteen, and we had just finished reunifying our own borders." Mathias interjected.

"What would you know? You were just six, you don't even remember it. Our Uncle Jean would have led us to victory, squashing their Hastrian heads beneath our boots. This marriage, instead of one of unification, would be an act of desperation by the Biljvanks to hold onto their importance within the realm. Our brother was weak, Mathias, you know this, you have always known this. We cannot allow his son to suffer the same fate, or else we all will." The room fell silent as the two brothers locked eyes. A burning flame was lit behind both of them, but neither made the decision to lash out, burning those around them. Mathias stood and continued this staring contest for a few moments before going to exit.

"Mathias." Thierry's call made the prince stop. "Do not go. We have business to attend to." Mathias kept his back turned to the other three, his gate still ready to continue towards the door.

"No, brother. You may have business to attend to, but I have a king to attend to first. Thank you for the coffee, the hazel was delightful." Mathias looked over his shoulder to bow his head slightly to the three princes before making his departure. As the door closed, Thierry let out a deep sigh and turned to face the east once more, his hands clasped behind his back. Claude and Guillaume, seeing this, stood and joined the old prince on the balcony.

"Well, what now?" Guillaume inquired. "Without Mathias - "

"Do not take any heed to my brothers actions. While he may hold himself with the so much self-righteousness as to name his own son after himself, as if it meant something, my brother is nothing more than a flag hanging on by a string, going which ever way the wind takes him. He will come around soon enough."

"Can we be sure of that?" Claude added.

"I fear we cannot be sure of much these days, dear cousins." Thierry took his pipe from behind his back and replaced it in his mouth.

"What should we do about the wedding? How can we convince Phillipe to call it off? Now. That it is so close?" the balding prince asked, his shoulders in a constant state of bowing to the old prince before him.

"I shall handle that, all I need from you is your unanimous support. That will give me an upper hand in the upcoming debates. My nephew loves his father dearly, and wishes only to do right by him, even after his death it would seem. He is currently intent on seeing the wedding through."

"Then what is there for us to do? What is there for us to say? If you have already spoken with him, why call us here to debate something that is already settled?" Guillaume presented in protest, his tone of voice now one of great frustration, now doubt he's upset he can be back in his chambers 'reading.'

"Because, Guillaume, the matter is not settled. We shall convince him, yet. He seeks to preserve his father's legacy, we can use that. Try and explain to him how detrimental it will be to such a legacy, not just his father's, but his entire dynasties, should he continue with the plan. The proximity of the Biljvank party be damned. Whether they are just leaving or just now departing their carriages and entering Castle Desramaux." Thierry paused at this. Or, perhaps while they are here. Yes. A large grin came over the old princes face.

"What is it, cousin?" Claude asked impatiently.

"We shall convince Phillipe to call off the wedding once the Biljvanks are here. Then, with all of the heads of state - King Jurrien II and all of his leading vassals - here, within our stay. Our soldiers will seize them, and force them to surrender to us."

"You mean to hold the Biljvank royal family hostage, in exchange for their land?"

"In exchange for their kingdom, dear cousin. Now, that, will be a truly worthwhile legacy for the boy." Thierry's smile grew as he bit down on his pipe and puffed.

"I do not think the young prince will go for such a bold strategy, cousin. It is too audacious, and far too risky should they say no." Guillaume presented.

"They will have no other choice, Guillaume. Either way they will lose their kingdom, whether through signature or loss of head."

"It is perfect, Thierry, a truly wonderful idea. Prince Phillipe will take your idea and run with it!" Claude said with great pleasure on his face.

"I am not so sure." Guillaume looked away from his cousins, now staring off into the east with pipe in mouth.

Never mind the doubts. The two stayed, and therefore their support is given. Mathias will be dealt with, of course. The prince will see that Thierry's way is the way of their dynasties survival. And Phillipe. He will see the light that Thierry so desperately wants to show him. He will see there is more than one way to unite and form an empire.

The world around him felt cold, wet. The night wind blew in through the windows at an otherwise gentle pace, despite the vicious feeling it brought when it grazed his cheeks. Francois felt the desire to shiver come over him, yet his body did not respond in kind. Reality was slipping away. Phillipe was here earlier, was he not? What time is it? Damn my eyes! Open! Francois struggled desperately to open his eyelids but was met with great resistance. Had he lost that much strength in so short a time? It had felt like it was just yesterday when he road out into the snow and ice, searching tirelessly for his only child. He remembered spending much of the ride debating how he might kill his son for forcing him out into such conditions, for being so foolish with his own life to travel during a storm in the first place. How could he have been so daft! I raised him better, didn't I? He recalled the thought, it had come to him just before they received the message informing them of Phillipe's true location. As soon as that letter was read, there were no thoughts in the king's head other than finding his son. No more thoughts of anger, the ice and snow felt like clouds, his sightlines clearing as the storm began to subside. It was as if Bershion himself had seen the king's desire to see his son to safety and, now with the knowledge of where the prince had been, granted the king safe passage at last. All feelings of pain and freezing numbness melted away when the door was opened to that manor. It was not from the warmth of the fireplace, however, it was from seeing Phillipe, safe, warm, and unharmed.

Will they say it was worth it? It was quite obvious the king's illness came from his galivanting endlessly that night through the bitter cold. How many of his relatives would have preferred they had let the prince have whatever fate he had found himself in, be it safe or harmful. His cousin, Claude, attempted to talk him out of going out with the search party, saying they could not risk the jeopardy of both the king and the heir. Francois remembers simply scoffing at his cousin's remarks before turning his horse around to ride out. And what if it were Jean-Claude, dear cousin? Would you not ride out for him? He had wanted to ask, but found it a waste of time that they may not have had. The idea of clenching his fists came forth, though, again, his body did not obey. If only he could wake himself enough to talk to his son. Tell him it was not his fault, even if it was. Phillipe needs words of comfort, he needs his father's last minute advice. But that advice may not come. For the first two weeks of his illness, Francois could barely speak, and by now, he finds himself regularly falling in and out of consciousness. Even if he managed to utter a sentence to his son, how would he know if he heard it? If he understood it? Odds are he would pass out before hearing the reply. Why have the gods cursed me?

"We haven't." A voice unknown to the king echoed around in his mind. It was a deep toned voice, one that spoke with the authority to condemn one to death. Francois suddenly felt himself seize up with fear, this time his body did oblige. He could feel every muscle in his body clenching tight, his eye lids attempting to burrow deep within his skull. Then, in a flash of bright light, the king was relaxed. Not only did he feel entirely relaxed, but he felt well, he felt himself again. Francois was no longer in his chambers. He looked around frantically; he was in a small room with a circular table in the center. Around the table were four chairs, each one with a different figure inside of it, including the king. To his right, sat a slender gentlemen with the face of a raisin and a long grey beard that had clearly weathered the years. He had a simple robe on, though the design of the garment was far from it. It was a menagerie of different shades of blue, all weaving in and out of one another to create several diamonds, each one interlocking with its partners. Directly across from Francois sat a younger looking man in military garb. His jacket was freshly ironed, with the insignia of a large sword stabbed into the sun sitting on his chest to the right. This soldier's face was clean shaven, though he had clearly allowed his hair to run out a little bit. The third member of the table was a terrible looking man. He face had scars that cut across in what seemed like every direction, it was a miracle he had any face left at all. His head was bald, and he was wearing a full set of plate armor; entirely black. The tables and chairs were made of a vibrantly red wood, one that Francois had never seen used in craftsmanship before, but knew all too well from his personal armory: Bloodwood. Such lumber was near impossible to come by unless you were a Buraddouddo, and even then, due to their sacred nature, only certain trees could be harvested; though, how they determined, Francois did not know.

"It is your turn, your majesty." the gentleman from across the table motioned to the king, who just realized he was holding five cards in his hand, and before him on the table was a series of cards all lined up. They were playing Four Dragon's Chest. The king laughed to himself, having not played such a game since he was a boy. And yet, now he found himself playing such a game with a wise old man, a well-groomed officer, and a hardened knight. Or, so he presumed. He quickly looked over his hand, it seemed he was utilized the red and black teams. Three red wyrmlings, one black drake, and one black draconian. On the board for his team, already, there were four red draconians and two black drakes; he had ten points on the board so far, and he seemed to be the second highest team on the field. After some pause, he decided to make himself the highest team and placed one of his red wyrmlings, raising his score to fifteen; just one more than the officer. The other three at the table went wide-eyed suddenly before slamming their cards down.

"Well, there's no need for that. You all could easily - " the king trailed off as he looked back down at the table. The red wyrmling had grown before their eyes into a massive red beast, dominating the board with an additional fifty points. The king found himself closing his mouth so that he might stutter for an explanation.

"Now, I promise you I had no idea the card did that. I swear to you, it was a wyrmling when I pulled it. Why don't I take it back?"

"Do what you want, Francois, we are at your disposal." the knight now stood tall above the king, a large mace strapped to his side.

"I'm - I'm sorry, what do you mean?"

"You called for us, didn't you? You had questions? Yes? No?" the officer responded.

"Well, I might have questions for you, if only I knew who you were. And, where we were." At that the table disappeared, leaving the four of them sitting in a line with one another, a fireplace how warming their feet.

"We are in your mind, your majesty." responded the old man, who was now puffing on a long pipe.

"You have accused us of cursing you, and, frankly, we thought we'd come and sort the whole thing out." the knight walked over to the fire where he warmed his hands before removing his mace and hanging it up. It suddenly all became clear to the monarch. The old man, his bright blue eyes and simple attire - he was Darion, god of life and health. The officer, was not officer at all, but Dekinhold, the god of justice, law, and order. And the knight, of course, he should have known by the mace - it was Harbinger, the weapon of choice for Mostrosty, god of death and pestilence. I'm sitting with the gods? No, that couldn't be possible. The gods are all powerful, all knowing, all present. What need would they have to visit a sickly king?

"Our need, as you've so put it, is to clarify some things with you." said Dekinhold, now sitting cross legged with his elbow on the arm of his chair to rest his head on his hand.

"Excuse me?"

"We know your thoughts, your majesty. We are in your mind, remember?" 

"Of course. I - um. This. No. This, uh - ca not - "

"It is, your majesty."

"But. No. Why... why me? Why grace me with your presence now?"

"We can grace you with our presence whenever we like. We've certainly done so before, I am surprised you do not remember."

"I - I think I would remember when I last met a god."

"You met me twelve years ago, twice in a very short span of time as I recall." Mostrosty spoke in a low grumble, barely audible as he keeps his back to the king.

"You... you are referring to the death of my wife and daughter. Yes?"

"Yes." Francois suddenly found himself overcome with anger. No. Rage. A feeling he has not felt in ages, if at all.

"You took them from me! Why? Why would you take something so pure and innocent?"

"My will is not my own." the god spoke in the same monotone level as before.

"Your will is not your own. Then whose is it? Who tells you who to kill? Who to send disease to? She was an infant. Not even two weeks old and you - " the king paused to choke back tears of anger and grief, grief he had thought long gone. "You killed her."

"You are mistaken, your majesty. I do not kill, I simply collect. I do not spread disease, I simply oversee those who are afflicted. Such as your daughter."

"How did she fall ill, then? Was there no hope for her? Answer me damn you!"

"Hold your temper. It was from the water." the king breathed heavily as he tried to calm himself, slowly returning to his seat.

"The - the water?"

"Yes. The water your priests gave the babe was diseased. She had little chance after her first sip."

"The water. The water." Francois found himself repeating this softly under his breath as he slid deeper into the chair.

"Now you know how your subjects feel. The countless children I have carted away for similar reasons. A malnourished animal provides diseased milk, a coop left filthy due to lack of attention creates pestilence in the meat and eggs. Your people kill themselves, whether intentional or not. I just take them to what comes next." Francois found himself snapping back to reality after this. He felt his heart pound as the feeling of anger fully subsided and found itself replaced with fear.

"What, what does come next?"

"Worry not of that. All find out for themselves, eventually." Dekinhold put out his pipe as he stood and walked over to kneel beside the monarch.

"We are digressing from why we are here. You are not cursed, your majesty. You are not being judged for wrongs you have committed. You are not being punished for any misdoings you had done in your reign, be them intentional or not."

"Then why am I dying before my time? Why am I at risk of not seeing this plan through? I might leave my son before he is ready. Before I am ready."

"None are ever ready." Mostrosty continued to stare into the flames of the fire.

"Who is to say you will go before your time."

"You do not know? Are you not all knowing? All seeing?"

"No, your majesty, we are not."

"How is that possible? How can you be gods and not know all?"

"Because, your majesty, we know no more than you do. Are no more powerful than you. Are no more present than you are. We are you. And as such, can be no greater or lesser."

"I - I do not understand. Will my son be safe? Will the kingdom endure, when I am gone?"

"We do not know, your majesty."

"Please, you must know, you must know something."

"We know that you hope he will be safe. We know that you want nothing more than for Phillipe to be safe and the kingdom to endure."

"Then you are not real. Or you are not gods." Darion stands at this, the last bit of smoke going out from his pipe. He approaches Francois and grabs his hands into his.

"Rest, Francois. You must rest."