Lyla Llywelyn, Princess of the Adarian Empire, shared much of her appearance with her father, Cormac. The imperial line was a mostly unbroken procession of golden-skinned, chestnut-haired individuals with dark brown eyes, and she was no exception.
The imperial bloodline originated from the city of Dunmarra in the deep south, a tropical climate dominated by humid weather and harsh heat. The story of their migration and rise to power had been blurred and mangled over the hundreds of years since its occurrence. However, their origin remained clear to any who could see them.
The princess stood before her father with her arms folded over her chest. Her small stature combined with her near-flawless appearance often made it difficult to appear intimidating, though she tried nonetheless.
"Explain, Father."
"The boy was simply causing his father too much trouble! Something you ought to bear in mind should you decide to keep behaving as you are..." he grumbled.
"... and don't forget that Duke Beaumont has shown utmost loyalty to the imperial house! His Ravensguard are among the most feared fighters on the continent, and yet he orders them to train our men, asking nothing in return! If I allow any man to break tradition, it is him."
Lyla gawked at her father, struck with disbelief.
"That's it? All it takes to buy the emperor's favour is a gesture or two? You cannot be serious."
"Oh, silence, child, please."
Lines began to appear across the emperor's forehead as he grew exasperated with his daughter.
"Once again, you fail to realise that it is simply bigger than you. Look past your history with the boy, for once. Do you not recall how he embarrassed us with his incessant rule-breaking, or his constant disregard and shirking of duty? Gods, Lyla, you still champion him even after what he did to you!"
She stared at her father, appearing a little less confrontational now.
"Have you nothing to say?"
"..."
"I thought so."
Lyla stood before him, suddenly feeling incomparably small. She did not challenge her father often, especially not as she had just done.
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Realisation started to kick in as she thought about how she would pay for this affront. That was the way her father, the emperor, chose to conduct his rule.
He would often appear tolerant, allowing himself to be publicly criticised and seem the concerned ruler. Yet, behind closed doors, he would make every effort to ensure the misery of whoever dared to openly oppose him.
There had once been a teacher of hers, a favourite instructor in the art of swordsmanship, Master Donn Corvus. He had been personally selected by her father and pulled from the empire's intelligence directive, Ord na Folaithe.
Not much was known about Corvus. He was twenty-four when the emperor chose him, only four years older than Lyla at the time. Their relationship quickly progressed beyond master and student. Both of them had been lonely in their own unique ways; as such, they found some relief in each other's passion and company.
Soon after, Cormac had brought the young instructor before Lyla, bound and gagged, then forced her to watch as he was brutally lashed.
This was her punishment for resisting him.
Cormac smiled at his daughter. His demeanour held a slight hint of anger, though he concealed it well.
"My dear, I do hate it when you're so unhappy with me. You know, I only do what I believe is best for you. You understand, don't you?"
She was ready to snap at him, to shout again and do her worst, then images of Corvus flashed through her mind. She thought of him on his knees, staring at her in silence as he bled.
Her mind could not handle another punishment from her father.
"Yes, Father. I do."
"Wonderful."
He flashed a wide, false smile.
"Go now. Off with you, you are to resume your combat tutoring this afternoon, no? I expect you to raise your skill to the next rank by the year's end."
"Yes, Father."
She replied in a meek voice before backing out of the room.
Unbeknownst to her, far away in the northeast of the Adarian Empire, Art was well into his journey toward the Borderlands.
Cormac, in a moment of what he often deemed to be great wisdom, had ordered Duke Beaumont to send advanced notice to the captain of the border that Art was to be sent there.
He simply could not risk the boy running from his punishment and disappearing into the wild and unpredictable lands of the northern half of the empire. That would be a severe cog in the works of his plan.
When the Duke had proposed such a thing to Cormac, he had done so with utmost reverence. It was as if he knew his request was so outlandish, so far beyond the customs of the empire that he must grovel with his ruler for permission.
Of course, the emperor had feigned shock and disgust at such an idea, allowing him to make his case, then slowly coming around to the idea.
Jorin had left that meeting believing that their agreement would remain a secret, a skeleton in the closet to never be spoken of again.
Sure, it was possible for Art to shout and scream that he was a Beaumont, to beg for an audience with any who would listen. But the Adarian Empire was large, unfathomably large.
Outside of the city of Grenforth, barely anyone had ever seen the faces of the Beaumonts. So, Jorin had believed his son would spend the remainder of his pitiful life begging to be believed, to be sent home.
But Cormac had other plans. Jorin had set a precedent with his outlandish request.
For one of the highest-ranked nobles to come before him, kneel and ask for permission to strip his son of everything.
Jorin had set a precedent....