A green eye peeked meekly past the curtain and through the fine glass window of a carriage, looking out upon the passing landscape.

Hard land. Hard people. Suspicious glances sprang up from all around as if they could sense the gaze of the occupant of that passing carriage. Though a rather humble thing by the standards of his hitherto former  home, it appeared quite extravagant out here in these borderlands, and in contrast to its own.

Niklas quickly pulled back into his seat, allowing the curtain to once again obscure all view of him from the outside. He sighed as the nerves rattled uncomfortably in his belly.

What have I gotten myself into..? He wondered.

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He remembered his meeting with the young King weeks prior, a gallant and broad-jawed man, clean-shaven, with medium-length brown hair. All told he was a most handsome person with an outgoing and friendly demeanor–quite the contrast to his late father, who had been a fickle, mean and sallow figure, and a tyrant who would not leave a slight forgotten nor a war unwaged; indeed, the kingdom had more than doubled in size under his rule.

Of course, only after the old skinflint had passed and his third and youngest son inherited the throne, had it become apparent that the Kingdom had expanded much faster than it could rightly manage. Like a body whose limbs were so long that the fingers and toes could not be fed with blood and were threatening to blacken and fall off, many of the provinces or colonies at its extremities lacked, in some combination, wealth, food or security. That isn't even mentioning the usual dearth of competent and educated officiants that had plagued these lands even before they were subdued under the yoke of a greedy King.

In fact it was the young King Boratan II’s very first proclamation under his rule that: "Those youth with the highest honors of achievements will be gathered and sent all about the lands, wherever their ability is most needed!" Thereafter, in an attempt to gain favor with their new Liege, men who had just come of age and who were highest ranked among the Institutes of Learning–whether it be in Development or Diplomacy, Swordsmanship or Construction, or any field of education–were in one way or another shipped off by their families to the now long and wide borders of the Kingdom.

Niklas had been no exception to this policy, except for perhaps in the manner that it had occurred to him. For the King had taken an interest in the lad, perhaps due to the fact that they were both third sons of their fathers, and as he was now, Niklas was not in any standing to become head of his Household without some terrible accident or intrigue befalling his brothers.

"I have a task of the utmost import for you, young van der Leigh." He recalled the confidant smile worn by the Royal addressing him during their one and only meeting. "You have just recently come of age, have you not?"

"That is correct, Your Majesty." Niklas replied, though he was well aware the King had already known the answer when he had asked.

Niklas' legs and arms shook with the effort as he knelt before the throne. His weak and spindly body threatened to betray him before the many gathered Noblemen in attendance, but he gritted his teeth and held firm.

"Excellent!" The King smiled and clapped his hands lightly. "For I, with your father's consent of course mind you, have just now approved the certification of marriage between yourself and the Countess Uldred of Petrice!"

A great commotion of gasps and whispers erupted among the gathered heads of houses, and many pitying and sympathetic eyes fell upon him.

Niklas, who was not familiar with the Countess Uldred at the time, only looked up with a shocked and bemused expression.

"I'm getting… married?" He asked, dumbfounded.

The King did not reply except by laughing merrily at the reaction that he had received.

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Niklas opened his eyes once more, his thoughts back in the present.

He was traveling through the most poor and desolate of lands. They were dry and cold all year round, the skies were always gray, cloudy and sunless at the best of times. The soil only supported a few meager crops, and barely enough to feed a small family of farmers, let alone to sell. The wood of the homes was rotten and weak, whilst the stonework of the defenses had long since begun crumbling away.

This was Petrice. The only reason the area had not been subjugated sooner was because nobody wanted it. Nobody, that is, besides an elderly and greedy King, more concerned for whatever glory and renown that he could grasp than for the prosperity of his people. Patrice exported only one thing that was worth having, that being its swordsmen.

As a land encircled on its South and North by steep and treacherous mountains, it was only accessible, at least easily, from the East, where it connected to the rest of the Kingdom. To its West lay an even more inhospitable wasteland than Petrice itself, for it was home to many large and grotesque monsters which roamed freely, devouring whatever they could get their large maws upon–whether that be beast or man.

Generations of Petrician men and women took up arms and armor against these monsters, and with what appeared as superhuman ability, they could rend even the most massive of creatures in twain with their signature Flamberge swords.

Obviously, word of skills such as these spread through traveler's mouths all across the continent, and sometimes a warring state or territory would entice one of these mythical swordsmen away from their home and duty with offers of coin and food and finery, things you could not find in this poor land.

Niklas had been forced to study all aspects of this land before his departure. For, though he was a weak and small thing, the King meant for him to save this poor place.

"Go and transform the desolate County of Petrice into a land of opportunity!" had been the King's final decree for him.

"From what I've seen, that will be no easy feat," Niklas grumbled aloud. "Even for me, and I was foremost in the study of Stewardship among my peers at the Institute..."

Suddenly a knocking sound came from the front of the carriage. The worn knuckles of the old carriage driver rapped against the wood, calling for Niklas’ attention. A panel slid open then, but one so small that it only revealed the weary old man's drooping eyes.

"We have almost arrived." He said flatly, before slamming the small panel shut again.

Niklas bit his lip as his nerves began to play up again like worms wriggling in his gut. Nonetheless he clenched his small hands in determination.

No, I cannot be discouraged. I'm going to whip this County into shape, and I'm going to prove to my family that it was a mistake to give away a talent such as me so freely!

He would, however, not maintain such motivation for long; after descending down from the carriage step with his large trunk in hand, the thing sped away just as quickly as his courage. For a moment he stared up, mouth slightly agape, at the old and haunting visage of the Castle the Duchess of Petrice called her home. The stone of the building was black and ominous, and he could've sworn he saw a corner of one of its towers crumble and fall away as he looked upon it.

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At the sight of his new home he could only think: Oh dear…

 Finally, he mustered up the mustard to trek his short legs across the drawbridge, before which sat the gate; at either side stood two soldiers fully clad in blackened plate armor and with halberds in their hands.

"He-hello?" He called out to these two men. "I am… I am the Countess' new husband! I am here to see the Countess!"

There came no reply, and the two men did not move from where they stood.

Niklas gulped and slowly approached one of them.

"Hello?” he tried again. “It is rude to ignore somebody, you know? Let alone one who hath just arrived!"

Still, there came no reply. 

Niklas now stood directly before the guardsman, and he reached out a hand towards them. "A-are the two of you unwell?" 

But as he put his hand upon the guardsman, they simply collapsed into a heap with much clanging and clattering, the noise causing Niklas to jump backwards with a yelp. No one stood inside these suits of armor–they had only been erected to grant the illusion of a stationed guard.

Niklas huffed out a sigh as he rubbed his forehead, thankful that no one else was present to witness this embarrassing display. Now realizing he was alone, he peered over to the closed gate.

"How am I supposed to get inside, then?" He wondered aloud. 

No sooner had he done so, however, then did the single-frame door, which was cut out of the center of the rightmost gate, slowly swing open as if by his command!

Niklas approached the door and peered through it towards the courtyard, but no-one could be seen therein. "H-hello?" He called, but no reply came. "Well, that is a most queer thing indeed!"

With no other choice presented to him, the young lad trotted across the courtyard to the inside doors, his luggage dragging in tow. When he arrived, and with some hesitation, he reached up to the knockers and cracked them down upon the wooden door. 

For a time, nothing came of it. But, eventually, a light and fast-paced footstep soon met his ear, and with a creak the old door was pushed slightly open. There, staring at him through the crack, was an elderly and old face with drooping features, a large nose presiding over a thick white mustache that came down over his mouth, and equally bushy eyebrows which threatened to obscure most of his vision.

"Who is it?" The man asked Niklas with an accusatory look.

"It… it is the new Count sir!" Niklas stammered in reply.

This old fellow looked him over from head to toe for a long moment with clear suspicion. Then, as if recognizing his description, the man raised his brows in alarm, and then the door was pressed open further, although not without some effort.

"Welcome, my Lord!" The old man greeted him excitedly, eagerly taking Niklas’ hand and shaking it vigorously. "Welcome to Castle Petrice!" Before he then all but pulled Niklas forcefully inside.

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The castle was as dark and eerie a place inside as it was out, Niklas observed as he trotted sheepishly behind the old Butler; even in this midday light the interior was black as pitch, dusty and cobwebbed, and their only source of illumination was a small candle which the old man held on a brass saucer.

Does anybody even live in this place? It looks all but abandoned! Niklas wondered as he looked about. Perhaps this 'Countess' Petrice does not exist, and is simply a guise for embezzlement?

As the two walked, soon enough their path widened out from the dusty old hall, and like some spelunker looking into an old cavern, Niklas stopped to marvel over the grand hall before them, which managed to look somewhat regal and splendid even in its unlit and unkempt state.

"Keep close, sire!" The old man called to him from up ahead. "Wouldn't want you to get lost!" He was much friendlier now than he had been at the door.

…Perhaps he is finally happy to have a master to work under? Niklas wondered, eyeing him.

Finally, I'm not the shortest one here! Was what the old man had actually thought, for while their heights currently matched, the aged butler walked with a great hunch.

Their footfalls began to echo as they stepped through a wide open ballroom-like space, then ascended the old grand staircase up to the second floor where more halls awaited them, but these were lined with portraits of the many Counts and Countesses of Petrice of old. They were scowling, leering things whose eyes followed your every step in a most judgmental way.

Finally, and after what felt a much longer journey than what it was, the two stood before a set of double-doors, dark wood with gilded handles.

"Here we have the study, where the Countess works through her many tasks." The Butler announced, gesturing to the door, which he then knocked upon. "My Lady,” he called, louder this time. “the new Count is here to see you!"

Silence reigned over them, one which grew more awkward with every moment that passed. 

"Hm.” The Butler breathed. “It appears that she is not in her study." The nervous sweat upon his brow suggested that he had been hoping that this was not the case.

"In that case..." he then unexpectedly clasped his wrinkled hand upon Niklas'. "Come with me!" With a surprising swiftness and strength, he pulled the young soon-to-be Count along behind him in a most undignified way, all but sprinting back the way that they had come!

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Soon enough they stood before another door, this one smaller, but otherwise much like the first. Niklas also noted its gilded handle was much tarnished, clearly worn from frequent use.

The old man cleared his throat obviously attempting to maintain some matter of decorum despite how he had just dragged his Lord behind him like a coat in the wind–and he firmly and loudly knocked upon the door.

"My Lady, the very important guest of whom I spoke earlier has arrived!" He called.

As they waited in silence once again, Niklas wondered to himself what kind of woman it was he would soon be wed to.

I heard that the old Count was a man tall in stature and dark of hair, with a stern countenance. I have neither seen nor heard of the former Countess, perhaps if my… wife, takes after her father she will be slightly taller and wider of frame..?

Niklas started as there finally came a sound from within the room– the creaking of bedsprings.

"Has the Countess… been in bed all day?" He asked, to which the Butler only sighed with exasperation.

Soon enough they could hear slow footsteps approaching the door from the other side. With every step closer they seemed to grow in weight, and so too did Niklas' reservations grow along with them.

Finally the door swung open and inward, and Niklas’ eyes grew as wide as saucers.

Standing in the doorway was a figure so tall the crown of their head nearly scraped the top of the doorframe, while the width of their mighty shoulders almost brushed its sides! They were clad in a dark and ragged cloak, with armor beneath it that was stained with old spatterings of what could be blood or mud. Upon their face they wore a hooded mask that covered them from their chin to the top of their forehead. It was a muted, dirtied silver, carved with the face of a fair lady set in a neutral expression. Behind its eye-slits shone two bright violet irises which looked down upon Niklas with a cold hostility. 

In his surprise, Niklas could only stare up, aghast, at this massive person. They then spoke, and while it was a female voice, it was low and growling like a beast, only slightly muffled behind the mask.

"Go… away!" She snarled, before she slammed the door shut with such force that the rest of the hall rattled along with it.

Your Majesty… What have you gotten me into?! 

Niklas stood frozen in his shock, recalling the King's confident and laughing face as indignance rose through him in a hot flush.