"This is disgraceful, spreading our troops out like this will only invite chaos!"

"We run the risk of being overwhelmed if we don't!"

"This hammer and nail strategy has never worked against Orcs!"

Prince Alvin, heir to the Zantzar throne, had come down with a mild case of boredom as he watched his top commanders argue in the War Room. Slicked up in wolf furs and plaid sweatpants, Alvin watched the scene unfold with heavy, glazed eyes, for military jargon had always confused and befuddled the young prince for as long as he could remember.

"This soldier goes here!"

"We’re outflanked here!"

"We can't afford to lose another battalion in the outskirts!"

The incursion into the dark heart of the Orclands was symbolised by a vast array of wooden soldiers; a planned revolt was marked out by a crop of houses towing the line.

His commanders fought over the placement of tabletop pieces like toys in a creche, until eventually a wooden soldier fell from the corner and broke into several tiny pieces.

They would gasp and they would shriek and suddenly no one could remember who had pushed hard for the soldier to hide within the furthest corners of the Yan-Bón-Mor mountains for a sneaky attack.

Now, if only they would take as much precaution with the lives of their real soldiers on the battlefield.

"What does Prince Alvin think?"

The sudden question shook him out of his near slumber. Only a small part of him had been focused on the tabletop, the rest lingered on his artisan studies and the thought of creating more heirlooms once he got the hell out of here. He loved fastening jewels together under the shaky moon of the Zantzar kingdom, but now he was bound by his birthright to the line of duty for the foreseeable future.

"If Marshal Weria wills it," Alvin replied halfheartedly, "then we’ll use the hammer and anvil strategy."

The conservatives within the war cabinet weren’t happy with such an answer, but Alvin didn’t care about tradition. The Marshal's strategies had provided steady victories in the campaign against the orcs, and victories were all that mattered to him and to the people of Zantzar.

"Dismissed!" Alvin exclaimed. He didn't want to hear whining grace the room, which so far had been a hot spot for such ill-mannerisms time after time after time again.

Weria, however, stayed on with a roll of parchment bundled in his hand.

"News on father's condition?" Alvin asked.

“No, not that,” Weria answered, “But the elven fencer we contacted has agreed to help us.”

“An elf?" Alvin was frustrated, "Seriously, Weria?"

“I understand your frustration, my Lord,” Weria replied, "But we’ve done our research, and she’s the perfect fit for a tutor."

Weria handed him the parchment, filled with intelligence gathered by the best spies in the kingdom, and the young elven fencer’s life was laid out before him: A pure-blooded member of a commited Elven Conclave family, she had joined the Zantzar army in pursuit of excellent swordsmanship training under the Zantzar Blades. She served her full term of five years and fought in the Sea-Shanty Wars before leaving to establish a small fencing school in the boroughs, specialising in the epee and sabre.

“Are you sure there isn’t anyone else we can confide in?” Alvin spoke, still very displeased with this whole elf business, "If the other kingdoms learnt we had an elf in the royal co-"

“What remains of the Zantzar Blades are either dead or trapped in the siege." Weria cut him off, "You do recall, don't you?"

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Alvin did recall. His disastrous foray into war strategy had cost the lives of several battalions of soldiers, most of whom had been caught in an easily avoidable Orc encirclement.

He never again entertained the advice of the conservatives within his command, but he had to coax Weria back into the fold with promises of being commander and a considerable plot of land once the campaign was complete. From then on, Alvin was always willing to stand behind Weria during courtyard politics.

"She's the only one left in Zantzar who can train you to a royal standard."

"But she's an elf," Alvin countered, "You know those same people who murdered their own Kings and Queens?"

"Yes, and she's also a commoner of this kingdom," Weria pointed out, "And me being a human commoner didn't stop you from taking me under your wing, did it?"

Alvin could only shrivel up in response, an admission that he'd already lost another argument and was devoid of any reason or logic to continue further.

“I’ll take my leave of absence then,” Weria replied stiffly, “Besides, there’s bigger things to worry about than elves.”

He left the war room and suddenly Alvin found himself alone once more, unwilling to even look at the tabletop that held the blueprints for tomorrow's attack.

However, Weria was right. This campaign against the Orcs wouldn’t last much longer, and soon Alvin would have to deal with much bigger things than he was prepared for.

Things such as fencing with long lost ancient spirits, who’d made a complete mockery of the Zantzar armed forces so far, and eventually him unless this strange elf woman could help him prepare.

It pained him to admit it, but he really was a pacifist right down the core of his nobility soul. It wasn't sure where he'd inherited such a trait; neither of his parents had been the type to stray from the passion of a duel, nor had his twin sister Aeryn been off put by the cuts and bruises she'd taken along the way as she trained up to be the 1st Lady Knight of the Zantzar cavalry.

That terrible shame had always hung over him, that he was the cowardly twin brother who preferred to spend time fashioning new outfits together instead of the rowdy rough play that Aeryn was infamous for.

Growing up, there were times he'd tried hard to wiggle out of it, stowing away in cupboards or hiding in the ostrich stable, but eventually his twin sister found him and suddenly he would be twisted into all sorts of terrible knots and secret knight choke holds.

But that was in the past, and now he often wished Aeryn was still around to put him in a choke hold. He was the only one left from the Zantzar royal family still in a functional capacity: The King was perpetually bedridden with a terrible malaise, the Queen had long shuffled off of this mortal coil and Aeryn had disappeared into the nether after she’d been snatched by forest spirits who’d only been regarded as myth previously.

The cowardly prince was now suddenly on his to guide the kingdom, and he was so completely out of his depth that he surprised everyone by not having drowned in a sea of despair yet.

He decided he would go and see the king, who had once been a source of comfort when he consoled into him about his troubles. His own mother hadn't excelled in soothing motherly qualities, so he had to make do with King Theodore, the famed Orc Slayer of the Zantzar Kingdom.

He found himself indulging in terrible superstitions as he walked. It was hard not to be superstitious after your twin sister has been snatched by creatures hardly any believed in, but now he walked on Ostrich egg shells wherever he went. He even worried that he would soon bring such spirits with him when he visited King Theodore, and snatch whatever life force was still left in him.

It was only when the door was left ajar by a nurse, as it was tonight after a difficult feeding session, would he eventually cave in to enter and not feel responsible if his father’s life was to come to and end.

The handmaidens on duty were waved off, leaving the two alone for a brief chat. His father was still ghastly pale, but a slender stroke of red had emerged across his cheeks. Even on death's door, the Red Sailor still found time to mark his face with crimson.

He wanted to reach out, to feel some sort of guidance in the midst of all this chaos, but retracted away when he realised he could end the entire Zantzar bloodline with one chance encounter with the plague.

The guidance as a child often came before staggering tales of heroism on the Orc front, from which the sensitive Prince had tried so hard to escape from. Stories of escapades, of great battles, of a young king who charged head first to meet with the orc threat where no other cowardly Monarch from the noble families of Mylean.

They were of course much more bloody that and without the theatrics, but the tales of bloodlust hung over Alvin until he was nauseous with frightened dread.

Then he would scamper away, while Aeryn stayed behind on her father's knee, waiting for the chance for him to tell her another, and soon the two were lost in a daze of daydreaming and storytelling.

He couldn't take it, all those unpleasant memories of being caught in a family who drenched themselves in bloodlust. He scampered out once again from his father's brooding shadow, shutting the door behind him, deciding to take his chances with the imaginary spirits who’d snatch him instead.