A behemoth of the endless darkness called out, and many of its kind answered, their consciousnesses awakening from their immemorial slumber, like signal fires being lit at a moonless night leagues from each other. Their collective song, a deep rumble akin to the earth's groaning, resonated through the emptiness, a song not meant for mortal ears. Gradually, they found harmony in their tones, signaling a consensus. With movements that shattered the stillness of ages, they began to shift, their colossal forms cracking and shedding layers of frost and dust. United in purpose, they embarked on a journey through the featureless abyss.

Buren poured a bucket of cold water over himself, washing the cold sweat of nightmares from his body. Either nobody had heard his screams and trashing this time, or they had gotten too used to it to care. Shaking off the remnants of the nightmare, he dressed and made his way to the dining hall, eager for breakfast and the day's itinerary.

Flynn, eager and punctual as ever, joined him at a long wooden table. As they began their meal, the seneschal—a likely spy for the king—began listing their duties and appointments. His voice echoed off the stone walls of the grand hall, which, despite its capacity to host hundreds, was eerily empty save for the two of them.

Flynn grimaced at his bowl. "Porridge again? You do realize the king dines on exotic fruits and quail eggs, right?"

"Fruits won't sustain you through the day," Buren replied, focusing on his meal.

"We can eat whenever we please."

"You never know," Buren countered.

His attention shifted back to the seneschal as he mentioned an upcoming arrival. "...and the envoy from Nammu-Thum, after several delays, has finally departed the city and is expected to arrive today."

"Today?" Buren grunted, surprise evident in his voice.

The seneschal sighed, his meticulously groomed mustache quivering with disdain. "Indeed. This leaves us with scant time to prepare a reception befitting their stature." The man's appearance was the epitome of courtly refinement, from his polished bald scalp to the fleshy folds framing his eyes. To him, any deviation from protocol was akin to witnessing a murder.

Buren took another mouthful of porridge, mentally bracing himself for the day ahead.

Flynn, sensing the gravity of the situation, inquired, "Who exactly is coming?"

Buren paused, then replied, "My wife."

The carriage's approach was heralded by the melodious chime of bells affixed to its sides. Drawn by four magnificent horses, it was a sight to behold. But, as was to be expected from Antediluvians, the words 'carriage' and 'horse' were not large enough words to describe what they saw. These weren't ordinary horses; they were larger and more majestic than any Buren had ever seen. Their meticulous breeding was evident in the perfect musculature and shiny coats where not a single hair was out of order, even after the long trip, and the way they wore golden adornments that would have broken a lesser horse with their weight. They moved in perfect unison, halting simultaneously at the driver's command.

The carriage itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Crafted from dark wood polished to a mirror sheen—by a number of slaves, no doubt—it was adorned with intricate golden embellishments. A burly man, presumably a bodyguard given his muscular build and the scimitar at his side, descended from the carriage and opened its door. He then positioned himself on all fours in the mud, creating a makeshift step.

Yet, no one emerged immediately.

Flynn shot Buren a series of exaggerated, questioning looks, clearly puzzled by the spectacle.

A mournful cry broke the silence. A woman briefly appeared at the carriage's entrance, only to retreat again. After a few more sobs, she re-emerged, lifting the hem of her luxurious dress and gingerly stepping onto the back of the bodyguard and then onto the ground. Her high heels sank into the mud, and she would have toppled over if not for the swift intervention of her guard.

She looked skyward, tears streaming down her flawless face. "Why me?" she lamented.

The seneschal, maintaining a strained smile, greeted her, "Welcome to Eastend Castle, Lady Inanna."

She responded with a fierce snarl, "Don't address me, you cur. Take me to my room."

Another man, presumably the driver, quickly retrieved an opulent litter from the carriage's storage. It was a plush chair, adorned with maroon cushions and affixed to poles seemingly carved from the bone of some large beast. The bodyguard and the driver positioned themselves at either end of the poles, lifting Lady Inanna and carrying her into the castle, following the seneschal's lead.

Throughout the spectacle, Buren remained silent, seemingly invisible to the distraught lady. As more ornate carriages from the procession began to arrive, unloading servants, decorations, and a plethora of other items, Flynn turned to Buren.

"Should we greet her?" Flynn inquired cautiously.

"No," Buren replied curtly.

Flynn seemed to expect further explanation, but Buren was already heading towards the stables.

"So, we're just going to flee? Mount our horses and vanish without a trace? I must say, sir, I like your style," Flynn remarked with a hint of sarcasm.

"We're attending the final Treaty negotiation," Buren clarified. "By the time we return, perhaps she'll have cooled off by then."

The stables were quiet, devoid of the usual bustling of stable hands, who had been tasked with helping the royal lady move in. They saddled their horses themselves, guiding them into a gentle trot.

"You never mentioned you were married," Flynn remarked as they cleared the castle gates.

"She's a recent...addition."

"During your quest for the Gauntlet, you found time to woo ladies?" Flynn quipped.

"I didn't."

"So, girls just come moving in when you're given the title of a marquis?"

Buren sighed. "It's part of the Treaty."

Flynn feigned indignation. "You could've negotiated a bride for me too! Drama aside, she was likely the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"I didn't ask for this."

"So, she's just a bonus?"

Buren's silence spoke volumes. Flynn pressed on, "Sir, you need to keep me in the loop. Lately, I'm lost. We're in this luxurious castle, the war's over, yet you look like a man facing the gallows. What's going on? Why the sudden wife?"

Buren took a deep breath, pondering his words. "What do you know about the Treaty?"

Flynn responded, "The basics. Various factions agreed on terms to unite against the Malignant One."

Buren smiled drily. "Everyone had demands. Just securing their lives by vanquishing that daemon was not enough. The Gauntlet became a point of contention."

He revealed the arm, flexing its fingers, observing the fluid, silent movement. "All wanted its power post-battle. When they couldn't have it, they wanted it destroyed."

Flynn gasped, "They wanted you dead?"

"Or the arm cut off, likely killing me anyway."

"But you're here, Gauntlet and all."

"Yes. That plan was opposed by me as well as the ambassador of the Antediluvians, who asserted the Gauntlet belonged to his people, as it is as ancient as they are, and as such would not allow its destruction. The compromise? Forced neutrality: I can't ally with any Treaty signatory, so the balance of power is not tipped, but I must marry an Antediluvian royal, ensuring their claim on the Gauntlet."

"An arranged marriage?"

He nodded. "Many opposed it, but the Antediluvians' resources were indispensable. Still, I think they only agreed because they figured they could have me killed anyway after the battle was over."

Flynn realized, "That's why you're always on edge!"

"King Devon supported me, but Duriel, the Reverend, their lackeys... they wanted me dead and the Gauntlet thrown into a volcano or the Rupture."

Flynn shook his head, "Why stay here and not at Apex Mountain?"

"Part of the forced neutrality clause. At first, some wanted to exile me from the known world, but then they realized that way they could not keep tabs on me, and having me reside with Antediluvians had the same problem, since outsiders are rarely let into the royal city. So here I am, in this castle where almost all of the servants have been appointed by the king or those loyal to him, so I cannot go anywhere or talk to anyone without them hearing about it. And I'm sure some of the people here are double agents for parties further away."

"For how long?"

"Indefinitely. The Treaty's specific interpretations are still being negotiated, or renegotiated, but its core is unchangeable, as that would undo the peace between the peoples, and no one is interested in more war right now."

Flynn absorbed the gravity of Buren's predicament. "I've got your back, sir. Always."

Buren met Flynn's earnest gaze, and after a moment, nodded in appreciation.

They ambled through the town unhurriedly. The eastern part, which they had to traverse to reach the King's citadel at the city's heart, was the most impoverished. Grimy tenement houses jostled for space, their residents carelessly tossing waste from windows onto the streets below. In the dim doorways and windows, they glimpsed gaunt faces, heard the cries of hungry children, and the persistent coughs of the sick. Yet, even these residents seemed better off compared to the destitute refugees crowding the streets, squabbling over meager gutter scraps.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"What a dump," Flynn remarked, pulling his cloak away from the desperate grasp of beggars.

"It's our dump now," Buren replied.

"How so?"

"The city is divided by its castles: Northend, Eastend, Southend, and Westend. Each castle's overseer is responsible for their respective district, primarily collecting taxes for the king. How they manage public works, law enforcement, and general upkeep is up to them."

Flynn observed, "It seems the previous overseer chose to do very little."

Buren nodded. "Before me, this district languished without proper oversight. The last overseer was a greedy man, raising taxes exorbitantly. When the people couldn't pay, he failed in his duty to the king, leading to his execution. By then, the damage was done: the only ones left were outlaws and those too weak to leave. The district was left to criminals and the destitute. The position of East District's Overseer became a mark of disgrace."

"And yet, here you stand," Flynn remarked.

As another wave of refuse splashed onto the street, Buren sighed, "Indeed, here I am."

As they neared the city center, their surroundings began to improve. The citadel, with its towering walls, loomed above the surrounding buildings. Under King Devon's reign, the citadel had been a beacon of hope, adorned with statues and vibrant banners. But now, under Duriel's influence and at the behest of the Faith, those symbols had been replaced with emblems of fists and eyes, representing the new religion. Buren wasn't well-versed in their significance, but they lent the citadel a foreboding aura.

Crossing the moat's bridge, Buren displayed his arm for identification. Handing their horses to a stable boy, a servant greeted them with a deep bow, guiding them to the king's anteroom where they would await their summons.

While they waited on cushioned benches, Flynn sipped the wine offered to him, but Buren chose not to. Delegates from various factions began to file in. Most ignored Buren, but the Dryad Queen, moving with a grace reminiscent of a prowling leopard, acknowledged him with a subtle nod, which he reciprocated. She seemed to glide past the other nobles as if they were mere shadows. Flanking her were two Dryads, one of whom Buren recognized as Azure, adorned with chakrams and daggers. Azure greeted him with a warm smile and a wave.

Without waiting for permission, the Queen approached the grand doors, but two guards blocked her way. "No one enters until the king permits," one guard asserted, puffing out his chest.

A fierce glint appeared in the Queen's eyes, rendering the guards momentarily spellbound. "Let me through," she demanded.

"Of course, Your Grace," the guard replied, almost in a trance. Both guards hastily stepped aside. As she passed, their expressions shifted from confusion to realization.

A nobleman whispered to his peers, "Enchantress! Using her allure to manipulate. How can we negotiate with such a being?" Murmurs of agreement echoed his sentiment.

When the summons finally came, they took their designated seats around the long table.

"I'd hoped to see the legendary round table," Flynn whispered. "Rumor has it was crafted from pre-Flood wood."

Buren shrugged, keeping to himself that he had smashed the table in half. Surveying the room, he noted King Duriel seated prominently at the table's head, surrounded by his closest allies. Beside him, perfectly positioned to whisper counsel, was a representative of the Faith. The High Reverend, true to his word, had objected and marched out of the negotiations before the final battle when the others had not conceded to his demands, and as such the Faith had no official say in the matters, but whether his name was in the paper or his presence in the room, the Reverend still pulled many influential strings through those loyal to him and the Faith. Following the king's inner circle, the Antediluvian envoy was seated, likely a gesture of respect. The table's opposite end was conspicuously vacant, as the King would allow no one to face him directly. Buren, the Dryad Queen, and the mage occupied the seats furthest from the king, their respective entourages standing behind them.

King Duriel, appearing disinterested and slouched in his chair, raised his hand for silence. "Welcome," he began, his tone lacking enthusiasm. "Let's pick up where we left off. I trust you're all familiar with the Treaty's contents, so we won't rehash its clauses. Remember, its wording is sacrosanct. Any changes would necessitate renegotiation. The sooner we finalize details, the sooner we can focus on rebuilding. Now, regarding the relocation of those from tainted lands—"

The Dryad Queen interrupted, " As thy Majesty may recall, the matter of safe passage for all Dryads was left unsettled, a crucial point for my kind, above all. "

The King's expression darkened. " I do not think there is anything else to discuss on the matter."

"I disagree," the Queen retorted with conviction. "In the Treaty, there's a guarantee for my kin's sovereignty over the Ancient Forest as well as the periphery, and their ensured safe passage to this family, regardless of their current locality."

"Many have already journeyed there without hindrance," the King replied dismissively.

The Queen's eyes blazed with fury. "Yet, countless remain in slavery, forced to push their flora beyond natural limits or face savagery. Executed for trying to resist or flee! And they're exploited by men driven by their basest perversity."

"That's how these lands have been tilled since the times of our forefathers. It's the natural way."

"That order ends now. Release my people as you have vowed."

"We won't obstruct them," the King snapped, "but they must leave the trees and fields behind."

"You're well aware that can not be done; a Dryad requires her bonded vegetation, so they must also move on."

"We can't let them uproot our fields and orchards!" the King roared. "We are already facing starvation. The Malignant One's poison has already blighted vast tracts of our southeastern lands. We don't know when they'll be fertile again."

"This, we were promised," the Queen shot back defiantly. "And your people will not be missed, at least by Dryads. However, we're willing to negotiate trade routes with your kingdom, offering terms far more generous than you deserve, given your onerous treatment of my people."

The Antediluvian envoy interjected with a sly grin, "Our newly acquired lands are flourishing. We can offer you their produce at a reasonable price, just as before the Treaty."

The Faith's representative whispered into the King's ear. After a moment, the King leaned back, his demeanor shifting from anger to smug satisfaction.

Addressing the Dryad Queen, he said, "The Treaty doesn't specify trees or other vegetation. Those belong to the landowners. Unless they consent, the plants remain. Gentlemen, your thoughts?"

With a theatrical flourish, he gestured to the assembled nobles, who responded with derisive laughter and a resounding, "No!"

The King smirked, "There you have it. Your people may leave, but the landowners might just fell those defiant trees or burn the crops to enrich the soil for the next planting. Taking our property without consent will be deemed an act of war, voiding the protection promised to your forest realm."

The Dryad Queen's face twisted with rage, reminiscent of a wild beast ready to strike. "So be it," she thundered, rising abruptly. "When famine grips your lands and your crops fail, don't plead for our aid, we'll just ignore the wail." With that, she stormed out, her guards following closely, and the doors slammed with a resounding echo.

The Queen's final remark had wiped the insolence off the King's face. In a more measured tone, he said, "Our next agenda is to find suitable lands for the refugees, ideally where they can cultivate and sustain themselves."

A heavy silence filled the room, as none were eager to host a desperate throng, especially with resources already strained by the war.

Seizing the moment, the Antediluvian interjected, "Our newly acquired territories will soon be connected to the empire through roads and canals. We'll need labor. We're willing to employ some of these refugees."

"They are free citizens, I can't just sell them to slavery," the King retorted.

"We merely seek your consent to recruit them," the Antediluvian clarified. "They'll join us willingly, under agreed terms."

The King pondered, his face clouded with thought. A whisper from the Reverend's aide seemed to sway him. "Agreed," he said begrudgingly, "but ensure my involvement remains discreet."

The Antediluvian smirked, "On Apex Mountain, even a slave sleeps sated."

Eager to shift topics, the King said, "Next, we address the remains of the Malignant One."

The mage, seated beside Buren, leaned forward. "I believed the matter was settled," he said, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"It might be," King Duriel countered, bolstered by the priest beside him, " The body was handed to you, as dictated in the Treaty, but there is still the matter of how long you will be keeping it, as well as how you are to report your dealings with it."

The mage's smile didn't waver. "Such details are our prerogative. A trifle, considering our contributions."

The King, visibly frustrated, took a deep drink and massaged his temples. "Is there anything else to discuss?"

Buren, with a determined voice, said, "The Treaty doesn't bind me to this capital. I intend to leave soon."

A noble supporting Duriel blustered, "Regardless of the Treaty, you'll obey your King if he tells you to stay!"

Before Buren could retort, the mage intervened, "If the Iron Hand resists, will the King wage war? The Treaty forbids him from aligning with any here. Such demands seem an attempt to control him."

The Antediluvian added, "I stand with the wizard on this issue. The Bearer of the Gauntlet can't reside within Nammu-Thum's walls, so it is out of the question that any other party could have any claim to his place of residence. That would be a breach of the Treaty, risking our fragile peace."

The King's face turned reddish purple matching his wine. The Faith's missionary practically jumped to his ear, and after a lengthy whisper from the Faith's emissary, he said, albeit reluctantly, "I never meant to confine the Marquis of Coldwood indefinitely. He's free to leave, but he must notify local officials of his whereabouts. To comply with the Treaty, of course, having him visit our cities and noble personages without the others knowing would send out the wrong message, don't you think?"

Duriel held out his emptied chalice, and a servant rushed to fill it to the brim. He imbibed deeply, but still pursed up his lips afterwards, like there was a bad taste in his mouth he could not wash away.

The mage nodded approvingly. "A wise decision."

The King, eager to conclude, announced, "This meeting is adjourned." As he exited, the room emptied in his wake.

The mage turned to Buren, "I'll soon return home, but remember, we'll be watching. You're always welcome among us."

Buren replied, "I have other matters first," and left.

The mage's laughter echoed behind him, "Of course, but our doors are always open."

Buren and Flynn made their way to the Eastend castle, with Flynn's enthusiasm for the mage's homeland evident in his every word. "How long until we depart? A week? Maybe ten days? I've always felt I had a knack for magic."

Buren merely grunted noncommittally in response, his thoughts elsewhere as they approached the castle. The courtyard was a mess, the carriages having transformed it into a muddy swamp. They squelched through it, the mud doing its best to suck the boots from their feet, but they made it to the castle steps without soiling their socks. As the doors swung open, Buren was taken aback. The interior was transformed with unfamiliar tapestries, vases filled with foreign flowers, and strangers in exotic attire and upturned noses.

A commanding voice halted them. The seneschal, now draped in luxurious silks, admonished, "Not another step in those boots. Lady Inanna has just laid these carpets, and they shall remain pristine."

Buren's gaze was icy as he asked, "Is dinner ready?"

The seneschal, clearly unnerved, replied, "Not yet. The Lady's chosen meal requires more preparation."

"Notify me when it's ready. Ensure Lady Inanna is present; we need to discuss matters. Flynn, take note of all the newcomers she's brought. I'll be in my quarters." Buren made his way upstairs, ignoring the lavish changes and unfamiliar faces. His bedroom remained untouched, a sanctuary amidst the chaos. He lit a fire, poured himself wine, and began documenting the day's events in his logbook, knowing the importance of keeping accurate records as he figured remembering exactly what had been said and promised could be useful someday.

A knock interrupted his reflections. Dinner was ready. The dining hall was transformed, now a vision of opulence with gilded tables, chandeliers, and a on gold plates and ornate pitchers sumptuous foods and tempting drinks filled the lengthy table.

And she was still miserable.

"Do I really have to suffer your company this evening?" she complained as he sat down.

Buren retorted, "You're in my castle, regardless of how you've dressed it up. Adjust to it."

She scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. "I doubt I'll ever adjust to the stench of this place, or to you. And just so we're clear, don't expect any marital privileges tonight or any other night. Tell me, that iron grip of yours must be a cold comfort on those lonely nights?"

Buren's eyes narrowed. "Mind your words. Why blame me when it was your own people who insisted on this union as part of the Treaty?"

"Because the High Family and their representatives are infallible, you ignorant castoff," she snapped.

"So, by that logic, you should be thrilled with our union since it's clearly for the greater good," he retorted.

Her anger seemed to waver, replaced by a hint of vulnerability. "It's not the union that saddens me. It's leaving my beloved Nammu-Thum, trading a sacred city filled with virtuous souls for this forsaken land of the crude and vile." Tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

"Have you ever ventured beyond your city?" Buren asked, his tone softer.

"Of course not!" she exclaimed.

"Then how can you know what's it like here?"

She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "Our teachings say that when my ancestors sought refuge from the Flood atop Apex Mountain, they cast out the wicked, the lazy, and the criminals into the waters below. Some must have survived, for when the waters receded, my people encountered the various tribes of the lowlands." She shot him a disdainful glance. "You all descend from deadbeats, thieves, murderers and rapists, the dregs of society, and this land is a testament to that. And now, I feel like I've been cast out too." Her voice trembled, and she abruptly left the room.

Buren was left staring at glumly at the table.

"She barely touched her food."