Capital City Luxor

Castle Faust

A severed head, with eyes swollen shut, and a tangled mess of cartilage and flesh where a nose should have been, peeked out from beneath muslin cloths presented to King Silas Faust.

"King Otto of Arheimar sends his regards."

In the court gardens, King Silas hovered besides a swan shaped hedge and pulling at his stomach, threw up violently. He had always been queasy at the sight of blood, and was fortunate enough to have never found himself on the battlefield, forced to swing a sword.

But fate had decided, nearly 100 years of peace in Culorn was more than enough, generous even.

For on the border of the state Arulem in the country of Culorn, after half a year Arheimarian forces had just overtaken the King's men at Fort Penhyrn. The military base of Mutiger had not been taken yet, but once the Arheimarians occupied it, then the town of Wyndham would inevitably fall next.

And from one domino to the other, an inexplorable chain reaction would start, devolving into flames, just like the spark that starts a wild fire.

And just as deadly too.

King Silas quickly covered the brown-grey mass, hovering near his feet.

Sometimes, he thought in a twist of dry humor, a ruler has to cover his stink.

-----

Five stoic faces and 10 enigmatic eyes. Oriented around the circumference of a round table. Eight eyes were on King Silas, as two eyes were on eight. Grey-stone stacked upon Grey-stone coalesced to a point in the ceiling that was shrouded in web of darkness. Wrought iron windows built into the walls with spouting flor de leis like an intricately designed cage, barred those on the inside from the outside world.

"The Grandmaster of Negotiations is dead."

Silence. Just as he expected. The decision to send Grandmaster of Negotiations to the border of Arulem had been decided on a close 3 to 2, but in this room decisions had been made 4 to 1, rejected in a 1 to 4 but never made in a 5 to 0.

To be honest, King Silas had not come in with a plan. He wanted his council to speak. Allow them to lead today- and make the suggestions. When the time was right and he had garnered enough of their good faith back after this catastrophe, then he would feel at liberty to take his place again.

For these past few months had revealed everything that was wrong with King Silas. His weakness, his inefficiencies, his shortcomings. Deep down, he had always doubted his competency, questioned his father's dying wish to leave the throne to him, even if he was first born. He had decided long ago, if he could not be a good king he could at least be a beloved king. But shallow charm meant to divert, rather than compliment a person would always crack when confronted with reality, revealing the unfinished and underdeveloped work beneath.

Grandmaster of the Fight Elda, cleared her throat and spoke. Blood stained eyes locked intensely on Silas and were matched with a deep, booming voice that came from the magic pills she consumed on a regular basis. Arms that sweltered with powerful but unnatural muscles contracted as she gripped the table before her.

"Jacoby was a dead man walking, at 3 to 2. What possessed anyone to think reasoning with the people of a brute would have worked?" Her voice echoed throughout the council room. She had been one of two to vote against the movement and was speaking not only to the King, but those who had voted in favor. "In the end, really it was ego that had killed him. Voted for his own demise."

"Silas the Idealist," suggested Victor. He had been the second to vote against the movement. King Silas watched loathingly, as the derisive grin on his brother's face flickered into an exasperation. It was an all too familiar expression. Thin, pink lips pointed upward like the curve of a scimitar, quickly pressed into feigned concern for Silas. High cheekbones, pulled tautly on skin near the eyes, giving him an almost rigid, masklike appearance. Beneath the skin, betwixt muscle and bone were viscous implants that could be molded with magic alone. Anything to retain dwindling youth. "Deploying trained soldiers to Arulem's border's should have been your first priority. But you underestimated the Arheimarians. I suggest you consider fortifying the surrounding borders while trying to trap the Arheimarians at Fort Penhyrn."

Victor Faust. Grandmaster of Illusion. Silas was born to silver tongue and Victor gifted a sharp mind. He relished in any opportunity to criticize his older brother. King Silas knew what Victor truly saw him as. Weak. Indecisive. Incompetent. And all of King Silas' decisions up until this point had proven The Grandmaster Of Illusion and Trickery right. Silas had ruled in an era of peace and did not know what war was like, unlike his grandfather and father growing up. Victor Faust had long ago resigned in dissatisfaction to the privilege that came with Silas being first born. But now, with his position as king being tested, Silas could sense the cruel satisfaction Grandmaster Faust derived from watching his brother's blessing quickly turn into a curse.

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Sitting across from him, at the opposite head of the iron cast table, spoke Grandmaster Godfrey. (Although come to think it, thought Silas, a circle did not have the edges to have heads).

"We should consider the extent of casualties and injuries first," said the Grandmaster of Restoration, and head of the 3 Grandmasters. "If time is not taken to the honor the fallen, we may forget the sobriety of death."

First General, a long faced woman by the name of Ambrosia shook her head. She was here today to ensure any decisions reached could not end in a tie.

"Grandmaster Faust is right. The longer we wait, the further the Arheimarians will push inland. It is a fear of fire that has brought us to where we are now. If we have some of our pyro-mages to burn the surrounding lands, they may be compelled to turn back. Besides, men will always die in war, Godfrey."

Silas pressed index and thumb against his temple. His head hurt. The sound of blood roared in his ears, a disorienting rush. Think, Silas.

Godfrey was right. The volunteer militia he had sent to the borders had been all but destroyed by King Otto's men. Young men and women killed. People were talking. He did not want to accrue further casualties than the ones he already had to answer for. He would lead the Grandmasters to this conclusion, himself. Afterall a good ruler should lead—not force his people.

"Perhaps pessimism will prepare us," said Silas. "But optimism will keep us moving forward. Let's explore our worse and best case scenarios."

Grandmaster Godfrey spoke first. "Worst case. We implement scorched earth, the Arheimarians push forward, and now the town of Wyndham whom relies on the surrounding lands to survive, are faced not only with the threat of starvation, but the likelihood of siege."

"And the best case is we place pressure on the Arheimarians at Fort Penhyrn for as long as possible," countered the First General. "Meanwhile, we scorch the surrounding lands. By then we hope, the reserves underground at Penhyrn have been depleted, and the winter is just coming so they'll have enough sense to turn back." Silas could not help to think to himself how First General was here to break ties, not the council. A typical military head. Among her men her word was law.

Grandmaster Elda leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. Eyebrows were wrought in deep thought for a long while before she spoke. "You are both wrong," she said. "Pushing back the savages might not be enough. They're like roaches. They'll come back. You must eradicate them."

There was a piece of advice Silas' father had once given him. If you forget all else as king Silas, remember this— let people speak, and give their opinions. You'll see very quickly how they turn against one another. Use that to your advantage and become the mediator. They will want to compete for your approval—this is when you make your demands, thinly disguised as well intentioned suggestions to keep the peace.

But how difficult it was to keep the peace! If only he had Elda's foresight, Godfrey's heart, and Victor's wit. Then he wouldn't need to deal with egos much too big for the poorly insulated walls of a aging tower.

"How about prisoners of war?" A sinister presence filled the air. It came from the direction of Victor Faust. Silas recognized it at its core. An hollow vessel, filled with darkness .

"Pardon?" Perhaps give him an opportunity to rethink his suggestion.

"Captives. Instead of killing all the Arheimarians, we bring a few back to the castle. Torture them. Get them to talk. You're lacking intel at the moment, Silas."

Victor was a man of any means necessary. This was afterall was how he earned title as Grandmaster of Persuasion. But Victor knew Silas was not. And right now, he was testing him, asking him: will you do what it takes as king?

Silas detested the haughty edge in Victor's voice. How it drove him mad.

Even as children, that edge had always been there, and it said, without shame or doubt, in all facets and forms, I am better than you.

-----

Queen Ada was a fair haired, waif-like woman, with a stomach that swelled with the gift of life. She watched her husband Silas, as her woman of the bedchamber pulled off the bodice pressed against her expanding core.

"A moment," she said. And with a brief bow of the head, the woman left.

Ada sat beside him, guiding his hands to her stomach. Their eyes met, deep-set downturned eyes fixed in a perpetual expression of sadness, with more iris then white, locked onto the heavy lids and swollen under eyes of a woman who had endured nearly nine months of sleepless nights, sickly mornings, and a scare after she had temporarily lost sensation in her feet.

Not again, she had thought, as a familiar dread filling her at the time. Not again.

"It is one thing for a man to die. It is another to kill them," said King Silas. "I do not wish to kill."

Ada knew her husband. The same man whom was now called cowardly behind his back, was the same man, whom a month after the loss of his firstborn had watched his father pass and taken the throne as king.

Favor was like a fruit, she thought. It ripens slowly, spoils quickly.

"There are those who already say you have. Besides, you might have raised the sword, but you will not swing it. It is Grandmaster Faust's job to decide what he will do with the Arheimarians captured."

"I couldn't even look at the face of the Grandmaster I had sent to death. Battered beyond sense. The Arheimarians are not just callous, Ada, they are cruel. Yet still..." Silas massaged the corners of his forehead in a counterclockwise motion. "Ada. Send one of your ladies to retrieve my medicine from the Court Physician."

Ada gathered her skirts. "Head pains again, my lord?"

"Like hell. Must've been that damned council.

Ada instructed he lie down on his back. "Won't be but a minute."

-------

Bathump.

A rhythm like pulse, sauntered at the center of Silas' head, like the precise quiver of a drum, thrusting him into a trance-like state betwixt sleep and wake.

Dream and reality.

Bathump.

The pulse spread, painful tendrils that bore like barbed wired, into the deeps of his mind. They evoked the deepest of memories. Sunken cheeks poked out from beneath an eyelet bonnet, cheeks, far too sunken for an infant's.

Too young. Too young.

Bathump.

Rhythm and pain, converged to a single point. Consciousness grappled with unconsciousness, until in powerful discharge, darkness took over, and light faded.

All was black.

Bathump.