It’d only been recent that his wife Magdalene had stopped sleeping in her private chambers and had begrudgingly returned to their shared bedroom.

She still wouldn’t let him touch her, but to him it felt like a small victory in a long-fought cold war that had brewed between the King and Queen of Stormheim ever since that strangely brilliant barbarian Davian had demanded the liberation of the Redstone.

Toril had given Davian his newborn daughter as hostage to prove his sincerity, and since then, Magdalene had moved to her own rooms, and outside of formal functions where they were required to speak to each other, was icy cold and bitterly silent.

The damnable High Elves weren’t doing him any favors, either.

Supposed allies, equal partners in their shared struggles to tame the lands that threatened to kill them at every opportunity, the terror of other countries out there, equally cruel and monstrous, eager to wage war on an ill-prepared nation...

The High Elves didn’t look at Stormheim as an equal partnership. They looked at humans the same way that a human might look at a rotting dog carcass in the street gutter: down their nose, indifferent, with a sense of disgust and revulsion.

Toril had seen the power and indomitability of Davian when he’d marched through the city, through the castle, and demanded negotiations with him.

Toril wanted, even if it was just a fraction, some of that power for himself. It wouldn’t be long before he sent the envoy to the Redstone Spire to pick up his daughter. He hoped that Sheilah had managed to take in some of that relentless nature; they could certainly use some of it here.

His wife, normally bitter, cold, and uncommunicative, had returned to his bed. Once Sheilah Stormheim returned, perhaps some happiness would return to his life. Perhaps he would find a way to get some advantage over the High Elves.

Toril sat up in bed and scratched his beard, now mostly white.

“I know you’re awake, Magdalene.” He greeted with a bitter chuckle. “If you’re happy with only a platoon of soldiers for protection, would you be amenable to be the one to greet Sheilah?”

For the first time in a very long time, his wife looked him in the eye.

“I’d like that more than anything, but don’t pretend to tell me that you’ve forgotten we have an appointment with the High Elves over the Silverlands.” She reminded him, her voice brittle.

He let out a bitter sigh. “The Silverlands were a mistake.”

“A mistake your grandfather made and we have been unable to escape.” She remarked, her voice still cold and brittle, like a jagged shard of ice.

She was baiting him again. He was not responsible for the disaster that was the Silverlands; that was a mistake made by his grandfather, a mistake handed down from father to son, a mistake they had no easy way out of.

“It’s a three month trip. Six weeks out there, six weeks back.” He mused thoughtfully. “They’re not expected for four months. You could make it.”

She did sit up then, and faced him.

“You really think it can be done that easily? There’s no real roads out that way, not anymore.”

He stroked his beard in thought.

“It’d be uncomfortable for you.” He allowed. “You’d have to forgo the usual amenities, I think. Two carriages, one platoon of soldiers on horseback. Riding from dawn to dusk.” He scratched his beard. “I think it could be done.” He raised his arms over his head and twisted and listened to the bones in his spine creak and pop.

“And the elven ‘advisor’?” She reminded him. Nothing happened in Stormheim without Damiel’s scrutinizing eye falling on them.

“I’ll think of something.” He promised weakly.

She gave him a dubious look, but nodded. “I’ll consult with the Generals and make the necessary preparations. If all goes well, I’ll try and set out by noon.”

They offered each other tentative smiles for the first time in fourteen years.

*****

When Magdalene explained her request to the Generals- that she wanted to accompany the platoon east to the Redstone Valley, they immediately decided to scale up the mission in order to accommodate her.

There would be a fleet of wagons for supplies and tents, carriages for riding, carriages for sleeping, for both her and for all her attendants, maids, and servants. Naturally, the troops would need to be increased, and the expected trip would take months.

“This simply will not do.” She replied. “I do not mind a small discomfort. I alone will accompany the soldiers on the trip.”

There was a wave of denials and refusals directed at her for this statement, all under the guise of politely worded explanations of propriety and necessities to protect her honor and alleviate her discomfort for such an arduous trip.

Frustrated, she summoned the lieutenant in charge of the escort to one of her public rooms. He was young, though he had a small scar down one of his cheeks.

“I permit you to speak freely.” she began after the appropriate bows and introductions were given to her. “I want to know exactly what sort of hardships and discomforts you expect to encounter on the trip between here and the Redstone Spire. Omit nothing.”

He gave her a confused look. She gestured imperiously. “I am someone who is unused to travel in the manner of soldiers. I wish for you to explain to me, who is unused to such things, what you expect to face, from the perspective of a commoner.”

His face grew more sickly. Why did she want to know such things from a commoner’s perspective?

“Well, Your Highness-”

She cut him off. “I told you to speak freely. Forgo the usual honorifics and provide me with the explanations I require.”

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“Ugh.” He sighed, and scratched his cheek with his finger. “We don’t... take a lot of food with us on missions. Most of it is foraged. There are times when there isn’t anything to forage and we go hungry. There are dangerous beasts in the forests. Sometimes there are bandits.”

She nodded. “And? Go on.” she gestured imperiously.

“You said ... I am to speak freely.” He offered tentatively. She nodded.

“I... would like to know why, so...” He paused as his eyes roamed around the opulent sitting room as he scrambled to think of a reason. “S-so that I can give you the answers you need!” He stammered out in a half shout.

She took a breath, held it, and let it out.

“Because I intend to be a part of your mission to pick up Sheilah Stormheim. The expedition is to leave in four hours and I don’t intend to keep you from your duties. Be quick, be frank, and omit nothing.”

His face grew even more sickly at that.

“There are no... amenities that you would need for such a trip. No tents, no room for your maids and attendants-”

“I will not bring them. I will go alone.” she replied imperiously.

His face went red. “There is no way two platoons would be sufficient to protect someone of your status!” He argued.

“And yet two platoons would be sufficient to protect my daughter?” She asked, confused and angry.

He dropped his gaze to his feet.

“You will not be able to bathe, Your Highness. Nor are there... appropriate means for... relieving yourself. There will be no way to ...protect your honor and... dignity.” He offered delicately.

Her eyebrows shot up at this. She hadn’t thought of that at all. It occurred to her that there would be no way for her to change clothes either, with no handmaidens.

“I’ll bring along one handmaiden to assist me with my ...difficulties. We will use two carriages as planned; one for riding and one for sleeping. The one for sleeping will carry the necessary... amenities while not in use.” She decided firmly. “Make the necessary adjustments. I will be coming along, and we will be arriving on schedule, in six weeks.”

He gulped at that, but nodded reluctantly.

It was the right of the nobility to demand the impossible; it was the responsibility of the commoners to make it possible.

*****

Toril sat in his office, not seeing the hanging tapestries, the wooden paneling, the gilt-edged furniture, or the expensive carving done on the edges of his desk. He didn’t notice the maid tending the roaring fireplace, the enormous paintings in golden framework. All he could see at this point was the stack of paperwork in front of him; things he refused to allocate to his ministers, who were expected to oversee everything. He liked to audit random things to make sure the kingdom of Stormheim remained prosperous.

Once again the settlement in the Silverlands had been wiped out. Men, women, children. Soldiers, craftsmen, farmers, so on and so forth, all of them were irretrievably lost in what the High Elves reported to be a monster attack.

Of course nobody had survived.

Of course, the High Elves had done everything to assist in protecting them.

The Silverlands was a coastal region in the Northern Continent, known for its silver deposits. The Northern Continent was home to the various races of elves, and the Silverlands was no different.

Toril’s grandfather had made a deal for a portion of the Silverlands to be gifted to Stormheim. However, colonizing the Silverlands was fraught with peril, because it was untamed lands, populated with all manner of savage beasts.

No matter how often or how aggressively they tried, Stormheim was unable to successfully establish a beachhead on the Silverlands. Stormheim could no longer sustain an attempt to establish a colony in the Silverlands. Regardless if they were capable of establishing a colony there Stormheim still had to pay tribute to the elves for the land.

Many many times Stormheim had attempted to give up the Silverlands, give it back to the Elves, but the Elves refused to end the contract- and had hinted at war if Stormheim broke contract.

The kingdom dangled on the precipice of bankruptcy because they couldn’t get at the silver, they couldn’t pay the elves the yearly tribute. Without money, they couldn’t afford a standing army, field a navy, or feed their people.

The door to his office opened, and Damiel strode in, a slight smile on his ebon face.

Damiel was a Dark Elf, with pitch-black skin, shockingly light blue eyes, and reddish orange hair. He came and went as he pleased, without regard to formality or privacy. He was there, ostensibly, to assist in the elf-human alliance, but really he was a mole for the elves, reporting everything back to them with the weight of diplomatic immunity behind him.

“I couldn’t help but notice the gathering of soldiers in the Common Square of the Horse.” He began without waiting for Toril’s approval or acknowledgement. “Do tell- what is going on down there?”

Toril frowned at him, and then exaggeratedly pulled a paper from the pile; a report on grain production from the westlands and pretended to examine it.

“If they’re following their orders, they’re erecting scaffolds.” He offered, and then eyed Damiel. “There’s been reports of people walking into rooms without requesting the owner’s permission. It’s gotten so bad, apparently, that the highest offenders will have to be lynched.” He set the paper down. “Do remember to knock. It’d be a tragedy if something were to happen to you.”

Damiel chuckled. “Everyone, from the highest to the lowest, should know by now that I am immune to your laws. I can go where I want and do what I want and none can lift a finger.”

“Do the farmers in the westlands know this? Do the clansmen in the Redstone? Do the pioneers in the Shadowlands?” Toril asked. “Be careful where you step, elf. Some overzealous but uneducated might put an arrow... or a pitchfork through you.”

The elf laughed again. “I actually pray for that to happen, you know. Then we can finally let go of this petty farce of an alliance and take your lands for ourselves once and for all.”

Toril felt his rage boil up, struggled with it, tamped it down. “Was that it? You were curious about some soldiers following orders in the commoner’s district?” He asked, feeling an augur of pain building in his head, the start of a headache.

“Actually, I was wondering where your Queen was.” the dark elf replied. “She’s been gone all morning.”

“I don’t care.” He replied.

“Awww, and after you just managed to patch things up with her! How cold of you!”

Toril tucked the papers he was looking at into his desk, pushed the elf outside of his office, slammed the door and locked it.

If he was lucky, the bastard would pay no more mind to the soldiers than that. If he was lucky, Damiel would fuck off and bother someone else. If he was lucky, his wife the queen would be heading off to the Redstone Valley to pick up their daughter without that obnoxious elf tagging along.

He settled himself into his chair and leaned back to relax a bit before he got back to work.

Like a mosquito that won’t fuck off, Damiel opened to door to his office and strolled back in.

“I have a question for you about something you mentioned.”

Toril closed his eyes and pretended the elf wasn’t in the room. Eventually the creature would give up and go away. He hoped.

“What’s the Redstone?” The elf asked.

“It’s a land of canyons and cliffsides. I hear that it’s pretty unpleasant; that it boils in the day and freezes at night.”

“And people live there?” The dark elf asked, curious.

“I wouldn’t recommend visiting them.” Toril advised honestly. “They don’t like visitors, they’re immune to magic, and I hear they eat dragons.”

“Oooh.” The elf gasped theatrically.

This time, Damiel left for real.