Days had passed without contact, and the silence was beginning to wear on Dimer. They should have met these people long ago, yet no trace of them had been found. Perhaps they had been left on the wrong part of the island? Dimer had no answers, and a gnawing fear grew that Hajr had abandoned them here to slowly die. As he stared into the crackling fire, surrounded by the familiar faces of his companions, he felt an oppressive loneliness. He glanced at his marked hand, frustration mounting. Tarkan had unlocked his mark, a moon that glowed with a milky white light under the night sky. Tarkan couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from it, often gazing at it with a wonder Dimer envied. It was as if Tarkan had found the toy he had sought all his life. Dimer, however, remained unmarked, a painful reminder of his perpetual status.
Whenever he was summoned to the throne room—whether for a lesson, a demonstration, or some other matter—Dimer's eyes were inevitably drawn to the family sword of the Altans: The Upholder. Positioned at the top of the throne, the sword could slide down to be seen by all. It was a magnificent claymore, more beautiful than even the Cragorian blade, Sky Piercer. Rubies encrusted the middle of the dark, pristine blade, its hilt crafted from the hammer of the titans, Creator. The sword bore no stains or cuts, setting it apart from all others.
Dimer often dreamed of the day the scavengers would return, and he would be the one to take the sword from the throne, slaying all the enemies before him and saving his family. In his dreams, Hajr would grant him the sword with a smile, the greatest honor any in their family could receive. Even Hajr did not wield this sword, and Dimer never asked why he considered himself unworthy. The castle halls held no whispers of the reason, leaving Dimer to wonder.
Only once had Dimer seen anyone wield The Upholder, and that was when Tarkan was alone in the throne room. It was nighttime, and Dimer had ventured there, perhaps hoping to sit on the throne for a moment of harmless fantasy. To his surprise, Tarkan was already there, sitting on the throne with The Upholder in his hand, its blade resting on the floor. Tarkan wore a regal cloak, looking every bit the king except for the missing crown. When he spotted Dimer, his cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. He hastily dropped the sword and returned it to its rightful place.
“If it had been another man, you’d be beat senseless,” Dimer told him at the doors. Tarkan chuckled, scratching his chin as if there were a beard there.
“Glad it wasn’t,” he murmured, walking towards him. The fluffy cloak swayed behind Tarkan, far too large for him. The hem dragged on the floor, showing intricate embroidery and a distinctive crest that Dimer had seen before, just the previous day, draped over another’s shoulders. “What business do you have here, anyway?” Tarkan asked. Dimer blushed, knowing he would have been guilty of the same crime, yet punished far more severely.
“I’d only come to look at the paintings,” he lied, following Tarkan out of the room. Tarkan laughed as he exited but quickly peered around for guards.
“And what fool do you take me for?” he mused, placing an arm around Dimer’s shoulders. Dimer shrugged them off in mock offense.
“I’m offended you would think such a thing,” he said, stifling his laughter and putting on his most kingly expression. Tarkan’s smile faded as he looked at Dimer. He placed a hand on Dimer’s head, his expression serious.
“The eyes of Dimer suit you better than the eyes of a lord,” he told him. Dimer remembered wondering why Tarkan would make such a statement and only watched, dumbfounded, as his brother walked back to his dorm, the oversized cloak trailing behind him.
“Dimer, why don’t you let Derya get a good look at your hand?” Tarkan suggested, approaching with a smile that barely masked his eagerness. Derya glanced up from her book, her eyes narrowing slightly at the mention of her name. Dimer shrugged.
“I want to unlock it myself,” he replied, determination evident in his voice. Tarkan rolled his eyes dramatically, his hand covering his face.
“Are you afraid of asking help from a girl?” he teased, his tone light. Dimer’s response was swift—a playful punch to Tarkan’s shoulder, sending him into fits of laughter. Derya, unimpressed, returned to her reading.
“What book are you reading, Derya?” Dimer asked, his curiosity piqued. Tarkan’s laughter subsided into chuckles. She closed her book, regarding him with a skeptical look.
“Are you genuinely interested, or just trying to make up for Tarkan’s lame joke?” she inquired.
“Of course I’m interested. You know men also read, right? Now you’re no different than he is,” Dimer said, gesturing towards Tarkan, who had sidled up next to them. Bataar, frustrated, slammed his fist into the ground with a thud that echoed through the camp.
“Do you three do nothing but squabble?” he snapped, his irritation palpable. Tarkan, attempting to stifle his remaining laughter, placed a finger on Dimer’s lips in a mock gesture of silence.
“You hear that, Dimer? Shut your mouth,” he said sternly. Dimer pushed his hand away, muttering an apology. Bataar rolled his eyes and turned back to his task, the smell of freshly caught fish wafting through the air.
“If we don’t start hunting now, we’ll finish all the dried food. Then we’ll be dead and tired,” Bataar grumbled, poking at the fire. Tarkan had assured him they would find the Nirans before that happened, but Dimer’s optimism had long since faded. The oppressive silence of the island gnawed at his spirit, making their isolation feel like a slow, creeping doom.
“It’s two hands,” Derya said, her fingers tracing the indentations of the title. Dimer felt a flicker of recognition, as if he had encountered the story before but couldn’t place where.
“Is it about… my hands?” Tarkan quipped. Derya and Dimer both stared at him, their expressions blank and humorless.
“Your joke made Bataar’s fish dry,” Zeno remarked dryly, not looking up from his whetstone. Tarkan huffed, his face flushing with irritation as he turned to glare at Zeno.
“I don’t remember asking you,” he snapped. “Go get Ner and Tog and tell them to bring me some of the dried meats and a book as well. Now that I think of it, make them ready me some tea as well. I might as well indulge myself, shan’t I? Bring them to the Sharpened Stone we spotted.” Tarkan’s voice carried an air of self-importance that made Dimer cringe. Zeno rose reluctantly, his movements slow and begrudging. He didn’t voice any complaints, but the weary roll of his eyes and the slump of his shoulders spoke volumes to Dimer. The unspoken irritation hung in the air, as palpable as the smoke from Bataar’s fire.
“Well, what is this book actually about?” Dimer asked, dismissing Tarkan’s poor joke. Derya smiled, a light kindling in her eyes as she thought about the book.
“When Altan first declared himself king of his people, he said that the kingdom was like a person and a person always has two hands. He believed the hands should serve the realm, speak on its behalf, and cup their hands to the mouth to let the king hear their words. So, Altan decided that he should have two hands instead of just one,” Derya explained, her voice tinged with admiration. Dimer scratched his head, puzzled.
“Why did he think putting two people at such a high level of power would ever work?” Derya brushed her hair back with her hands, the droplets of sea water catching the light and making her hair shimmer.
“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was just a test to see if it could work, but he did it nonetheless. The answer isn’t clear; there are too many sources that say different things, and none can be trusted,” she replied.
"So we just don’t know?" Dimer asked, his tone tinged with frustration and a hint of resignation. She nodded, her brow furrowed in contemplation. Dimer sighed heavily, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon him like an unyielding force.
"So what then?" He implored, turning his gaze towards Derya, seeking solace in her wisdom. Derya sighed, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the ocean met the sky, lost in the depths of her thoughts.
"Their names were Lügo and İnoğu," she began, her voice carrying the weight of centuries-old tales. "Lügo, the righteous one, and İnoğu, the self-interested one." Dimer couldn't help but wonder about the men behind the legends, their lives distilled into simple dichotomies of virtue and vice. He imagined their faces, weathered by time and strife, their stories lost to the annals of history until resurrected by the ink of scholars long after their passing. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. "One day," Derya continued, her voice soft yet resonant, "while Altan was away from his realm, most likely in a war near the Cragorian’s Heaven’s Throne, a legendary beast came to the lands. They say it was a dragon that wielded lightning." Dimer scoffed incredulously, his skepticism warring with the allure of ancient tales.
"Are you sure this story is trustworthy?" he questioned, his doubts lingering like shadows in the fading light. Derya's response was measured, her faith in the narrative unwavering.
"It's written by Tumuni Munum, the renowned Teyli who translated all those books written in the Forgotten Tongue," she explained, her words carrying a weight of authority. "Well, one day Lügo—" Derya's words were abruptly cut short by the frantic arrival of Ner, Tarkan’s servant, crashing through the underbrush with panicked urgency. She stumbled to the ground crying out in fear. Almost immediately Dimer found himself moving towards the servant girl but Bataar was already there clutching her arm.
"Explain what happened!" Bataar boomed, his voice laced with concern. Ner trembled, tears welling in her eyes.
"There was a stranger," she choked out, her voice thick with fear. Derya reached out, gripping Ner's shoulders tightly.
"Where is Tarkan?" she demanded, her own voice trembling.
"Taken," Ner whispered, her gaze darting nervously. Bataar's frustration ignited. He slammed his fist against the ground.
"Where was Zeno?" he roared. Ner shook her head.
"He mentioned retrieving supplies from the camp, but then vanished." Suddenly, Nümen and Münil emerged from the trees, Derya and Dimer's protectors. They rushed over, alerted by the commotion.
"What's wrong?" Nümen inquired, his brow furrowed.
"Tarkan is missing," Derya blurted, her voice tight with worry. Bataar scanned the area, his expression grim.
"Esen's missing too, isn't he?" A heavy silence descended. Dimer's heart pounded in her chest. Why were they so scattered at this critical moment? Dimer knelt before Ner, her gaze unwavering.
"Who took Tarkan?" He pressed gently. Ner hesitated, then spoke in a hushed tone.
"He was...unfamiliar. Tall, with rock like skin and hair the color of snow." Dimer's breath caught. A horrifying realization dawned on her.
"So they were here," Bataar muttered, his voice laced with dread. He swiftly grabbed his sword, the metal glinting in the firelight. "We will find him," he growled, his determination etched on his face. "And we bring him back." Derya's jaw clenched.
"I'm coming," she declared, her resolve unwavering. Bataar shook his head not leaving anything for debate.
“You two will stay here. We are as discoordinated as it is. You must not leave this camp lest my head will be gone.” Dimer was frustrated but another look at Derya told him that she didn’t plan on listening to anything he was saying. When the three knights were gone both Dimer and Derya picked up a sword from one of the large boxes that were on the shore. Ner’s eyes grew wider and she leaped forward to Dimer grabbing him by his tunic.
“Please do not leave me my lord!” She cried, clutching it tightly. “What if they come here and take me?” She fretted. Dimer gently removed her hands from his tunic.
“I doubt they will come here or know we are here. It is just one man so calm yourself. These are not scavengers we deal with.” She pulled her hand back, shaking.
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“What if they are?” She murmured quietly as he and Derya entered the forest. It gleamed brightly despite the bushy foliage above them and they found their way easily to the Sharp Stone but made sure to stay hidden from Bataar and the two knights.
“Gods forbid I knew this would happen. Everytime I said it none of those bastards listened.” Seethed Bataar. Both their sworn swords looked each other in the eye as if they knew they would be getting the brunt of his anger.
“What if we split up ser?” Suggested Münil helpfully. Bataar glared at him as if he couldn’t have suggested anything more foolish.
“Speak when you have something important to say.” He said, turning back from the stone. “We will go this way together.” He said. “Footprints lead this way.” They disappeared into the forest again, Bataar's angry mutterings lost in the thick foliage. When Dimer and Derya emerged they realized on the ground was a wooden cup and some fallen meat but no book it seemed.
“Let's go the other way, we may find luck there if they can’t from here.” Derya suggested to him. Dimer nodded agreeing with her. The both walked through the foliage and as they did Dimer noticed something on the ground. It was a footprint in the moist earth. He knelt down pushing the leaves off it and realized they started abruptly. When Derya spotted it as well they both knew they were on the right track.
“Did that man lay a trap for us?” Dimer said, confused. Derya looked worried as well.
“That means they knew about us and there could be more than one right now hunting us.” Her statement didn’t make him feel any better. There was an abrupt noise near Dimer and when he turned around he realized it was Zenon. Before he could say anything Derya punched him straight in the chest. He looked at her unfazed.
“What are you doing?” He asked, almost confused. She glared at him furiously.
“What were you doing when Tarkan was being taken?” She screamed at him. Zeno looked around his eyes wide and put his fingers to her lip.
“Quiet yourself you fool.” He snapped at her. When she slapped his hand away he spoke again. “I followed hiim to their camp. They’re not many people but I will admit they’re large. I assume they are the Nirans we came here for. A stony gray and all sorts of hair colors. There's a little girl there, and another more comely one I must say.” He said snickering and Derya kicked him in the groin to which Dimer did not object.
“Could you be serious for two seconds?” Snapped Derya. He shrugged, seeming unapologetic.
“Well then there were four more men. Tarkan is there as well. They tied him up with some rope but that largest of them, one with red hair spotted his mark and now they have him just tied to a log and hes unable to move.” Dimer could imagine that and almost found it amusing but dared not laugh afraid of what Derya might do.
“Then take us there” Derya demanded him. He shook his head.
“Where are the other knights? We must go with them since those aren’t regular beings. If they were it’d be no problem for me.” He stated matter of factly. Derya shrugged.
“Okay don’t come. Come Dimer we’re leaving.” She turned and began to walk in the direction Zeno came from. The sworn knight sighed frustrated.
“You don’t even know where their camp is.” He told her.
“Then you should come and show us.” Derya told him to turn back again. He stared at her, seeming to wrestle with his own thoughts and his duties before sighing heavily and moving to show them the way.
“Did you see Esen there?” Dimer asked Zeno, trying to mask the unease in his voice. Zeno shook his head.
“Actually, I haven’t seen that god freak in a while now that you remind me. Wonder what happened to him.” Dimer’s heart sank at Zeno's casual words. Esen might have been odd, but on this desolate island, even his peculiar presence would be a comfort. He silently cursed Zeno for planting that seed of worry. Derya's face reflected the same concern that gnawed at Dimer’s mind.
“Did you see him there? If not, then he is probably still alright somewhere. Perhaps just lost,” she said, attempting to reassure them. But Dimer could tell her words were more for her own benefit than anyone else’s. The group continued in silence, the uncertainty gnawing at them. Every rustle of leaves seemed louder, every shadow more menacing. Their steps grew more cautious, breaths becoming shallow whispers against the dense foliage. Zeno halted abruptly, lifting his hand in a signal for silence. He slipped through the briars ahead, disappearing momentarily.
Dimer exchanged a worried glance with Derya, the unspoken dread clear in their eyes. When Zeno reemerged, he jerked his head, indicating they should follow. Pushing through the briars, they found themselves concealed behind a thick bush. Dimer peeked through the foliage and stifled a gasp. There were nine of them, towering over any human Dimer had ever seen. Their skin was like stone, hues of grey and slate that seemed to absorb the light. Their hair varied in shades of black, white, and red, cascading down their shoulders like wild manes. They stood around Tarkan, who was bound between two trees, his arms wrenched painfully behind him. A gag stretched from ear to ear, silencing any attempt he might make to call out.
“Looks like they changed his prison,” Zeno muttered softly. Dimer glanced at Derya, feeling a tremor run through him. The rage in her eyes was palpable, her fingers curling into her thigh with such intensity he feared she might draw blood. He shared her anger; seeing his brother bound and humiliated ignited a fire within him. This mission had been a folly from the beginning.
“What’s the chance his mark is true and not just some stupid drawing?” asked a black-haired figure clad in a white robe.
“It glows dully, no mistaking it. It’s real,” another replied, his tone grim. The red-haired one grabbed Tarkan’s chin, lifting it to meet his gaze. He removed the band from Tarkan’s mouth, and Tarkan licked his lips, testing his voice.
“Tell us, boy. What business do you have on our land?” the man demanded, eyes narrowed. Tarkan smiled, though his voice was edged with weariness.
“We came looking for you, but I must admit I thought you would be a lot more friendly.” The man raised a brow, but before he could respond, a woman stepped forward and struck Tarkan across the face.
“You bastard! Have you come to kill us all again?” she screamed, her fury unrestrained. A blue-eyed man restrained her, pulling her back. Tarkan looked up, his hair falling in disheveled strands over his face.
“Again?” he echoed, genuine confusion in his voice. Dimer felt Derya shift beside him. She was poised to leap out, but Zeno's iron grip on her arm held her in place. She gritted her teeth, glaring at Zeno but obeying his silent command.
“What is your name?” the red-haired man asked once more, his voice a shade softer but still commanding.
“Tarkan,” he replied, his wariness evident.
“What heraldry do you bear, if any? On whose authority do you come?” the red-haired man demanded.
“On the authority of Hajr Altan. I bear the goat of our house,” Tarkan replied. The man's eyes widened, and he grabbed Tarkan's face, pulling him closer.
“You say Altan?” he spat, fury igniting in his gaze. Dimer's heart skipped a beat. What had Hajr done to these people to provoke such rage? His brother blinked, holding his silence until the man released him.
“I bear no ill will and do not know who any of you are. We came here in hopes of peace.”
“We?” echoed a short-haired one, suspicion thick in his voice. Zeno jerked his head, signaling them to fall back into the shadows. Dimer's pulse quickened; every step backward felt like a retreat from hope. At that moment, another girl came running from the other side of the shore. She was short, clad in a simple dress, her hair a striking shade of purple. Zeno stopped in his tracks.
“Aelar, who is that?” she cried, rushing up to them. The red-haired man, Aelar, glared at her furiously.
“I told you to stay there. This man is far too dangerous,” he growled. The white-robed man picked her up, his expression stern.
“This boy you see here is far too dangerous. When we deal with him, you can come back,” he told her. She looked uncertainly at Tarkan, who offered her a kind smile. The white-robed man called for the woman who had struck Tarkan, naming her “Rhea.” Rhea took the girl and walked away, but not without spitting in Tarkan’s face. Dimer's fists clenched at the sight. He hated seeing Tarkan like this, humiliated and bound.
“I wish I knew why all of you hated me so much,” Tarkan said, his voice genuine. Aelar looked down at him, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
“I don’t think he lies,” said the one who had taken the girl away. “He seems to speak the truth.” The white-robed man considered his words, his expression thoughtful as he studied Tarkan. Dimer's mind raced. Why did these people hate them so much? What ancient grudge did they hold against the Altans? He glanced at Derya, her eyes narrowed with fury. Her fingers were digging into her thigh, a silent testament to her restrained anger. She was barely holding herself back, and he feared she might lash out any moment. Aelar's reaction to Hajr Altan's name was alarming. The rage in his eyes was unmistakable, and Dimer felt a chill run down his spine.
What history did these people have with the Altans? What grudge did they bear? When the girl arrived and was swiftly taken away by Rhea, Dimer's thoughts were a whirlwind. Her contemptuous spit at Tarkan only added to the mystery. What had the Altans done to earn such hatred? He wanted to rush out and rescue his brother, but he knew it would be suicide. They were outnumbered and outmatched. All he could do was wait and hope for an opportunity. He glanced at Derya again, her face set in grim determination. They needed a plan, and they needed it fast.
The white-robed man's gaze lingered on Tarkan's mark, his eyes tracing its intricate lines with a mix of fascination and suspicion. Dimer observed the subtle shift in Aelar's demeanor, noting the way his brows furrowed slightly, as if wrestling with an internal debate. Aelar's voice was measured as he spoke, each word carrying the weight of uncertainty.
"And you’re never wrong about a lie," he confirmed, his tone betraying a hint of skepticism. Tarkan's laughter rang out, echoing through the tense air like a discordant melody. His fingers unfurled, revealing the mark etched into his flesh. It glimmered faintly in the dappled sunlight, a mysterious sigil against his skin.
"Nice, isn’t it?" Tarkan remarked with a grin, his bravado masking the nervous energy that thrummed beneath the surface. "I myself don’t know what it does, but I do hope to find out. Our Shah, Hajr, told us you could help us with these." Dimer watched the exchange with a mixture of apprehension and intrigue, his mind racing with questions. Why was Tarkan revealing so much to these strangers? And what did they truly know about the enigmatic marks that adorned their skin? Aelar's curiosity seemed piqued by Tarkan's revelation, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he considered the implications.
"Us? There are more of you here with marks?" he inquired, his voice tinged with a note of wonder. Tarkan nodded, his expression earnest.
"Yes, one of my friends has a sun mark, and my other friend's hasn't appeared yet." Dimer felt a surge of anxiety at Tarkan's openness, a nagging fear gnawing at the edges of his mind. Were they revealing too much? And what would be the consequences of their indiscretion? As Aelar pressed for more information, Dimer's thoughts raced, his mind a whirlwind of doubt and uncertainty. Tarkan's grin widened, his confidence unwavering in the face of uncertainty. "That's where we hoped you'd come in," he proclaimed, his voice ringing with conviction. "An alliance, perhaps—you help us, and we help you."
The man with the piercing green eyes spoke, his voice a low rumble that cut through the tension like a blade. "Are you trying to indebt us to you?" His words hung heavy in the air, laden with suspicion and distrust. Tarkan shook his head, his expression earnest and unyielding.
"Quite the contrary," Tarkan replied, his voice unwavering. "We were left here by our Shah with few supplies. We don't know how long we will stay here, but we know our goals could be mutual." His words were a plea, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between them and their captors. Aelar's gaze shifted from Tarkan to each member of their group, his scrutiny weighing heavily upon them. Dimer felt the weight of his gaze like a physical force, his nerves thrumming with anticipation.
"We don't want to be killers," the white-robed man interjected, his voice soft but firm. Aelar’s expression was thoughtful as he considered their words. The blue-eyed man stepped forward, his gaze piercing as he addressed Tarkan.
"Where are your friends right now?" His question hung in the air, a silent challenge that demanded an answer. Dimer turned to find Zeno, his heart racing with a mixture of fear and apprehension. But when he looked back, both Zeno and Derya were gone, leaving him alone with his mounting anxiety. Panic threatened to overwhelm him as he scanned the surrounding foliage, his mind racing with a thousand dire possibilities. But then he saw Derya returning, her urgent gestures pulling him back from the brink of despair. With a sense of reluctant relief, Dimer followed Derya through the underbrush, his senses on high alert for any sign of danger. As they emerged into a clearing, Dimer's heart clenched at the sight before him—a scene of chaos and imminent danger.
Zeno stood poised to strike, a knife glinting in his hand as he advanced on the young girl and her guardian, Rhea. Dimer's breath caught in his throat as he realized the gravity of the situation unfolding before them.
"What is your plan?" Dimer asked Zeno, his voice tinged with apprehension as he watched the unfolding confrontation. Zeno's smile was a grim reflection of determination, his actions speaking louder than words as he moved with calculated precision. Before Dimer could react, Zeno lunged forward, seizing the girl with startling speed. The girl's shriek pierced the air, a sound of pure terror that sent a shiver down Dimer's spine.
Dimer's stomach churned with unease as he gripped his sword tightly, his knuckles turning white with tension. Every fiber of his being screamed in protest, but he knew they were teetering on the edge of desperation, their options dwindling with each passing moment.
"Bring us Tarkan, and the girl lives," Zeno's voice sliced through the tense silence like a blade. His words seemed a lot more like an ultimatum then Dimer would’ve liked. Dimer's heart pounded in his chest as he watched the scene unfold before him, a sickening sense of dread settling in the pit of his stomach. Rhea's expression twisted in horror as she stared at Zeno, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief. Before she could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps shattered the stillness, heralding the arrival of the other men with Tarkan walking freely behind the,.
Dimer's breath caught in his throat as he locked eyes with his brother. Tarkan was free? "What are you doing?" Aelar's voice thundered through the clearing, his tone laced with fury and disbelief. The tension crackled in the air like lightning, the atmosphere thick with the weight of their collective uncertainty. Tarkan's calm demeanor belied the turmoil roiling beneath the surface as he addressed Zeno with measured authority.
"Let the girl go," he commanded, his voice steady despite the heavy tension. But Zeno's gaze remained wary, his eyes darting from one man to the next as he weighed his options with cautious deliberation. Derya's defiant stride toward the group sent a ripple of apprehension through the assembled men, her determination palpable as she dropped her sword to the ground. But her path was blocked by the white-robed man, his imposing figure casting a shadow over her with an air of silent menace. Dimer's heart clenched with apprehension as he called out to her, his voice tinged with nervous urgency.
"Derya, come back here," he urged, his words a desperate plea for reason in the face of impending conflict. With their allies scattered across the island and their fate hanging in the balance, Dimer knew they stood on the precipice of a perilous decision—one that could spell either salvation or ruin for them all. "We will give Tarkan back," Aelar declared, his words a solemn vow tinged with wary distrust. "But after we do... all of you must leave this island. Otherwise, I will have your heads as the foundation of my reign." Now another ultimatum was made and they would have no choice but to follow.