The farmhouse door opened into the morning and from the shadows of its interior stepped Caden Sarka, wearing nothing more than a ragged shirt and trousers. The sun lit up the village in front of him, and its villagers walked about their early morning business in the presence of patrolling Sarkanian soldiers. Behind Caden followed Ethelyn, her dress green and worn from age and activity. At the end of the yard, several guards stood watch by a gate.

“Th-They’ve come out!” One of the guards said, nudging his companion so that he would turn around and look at them. “Quick, fetch the prince!”

“Your highness!” Cried another, immediately dropping to a knee and bowing his head low. “You have returned to us!”

“… Good morning,” Caden answered them, still bewildered from all that had happened. He walked slowly and somewhat clumsily towards them, then sat himself down on a bench. Ethelyn watched him do this, then silently sat herself in an old rocking chair.

One of the distant soldiers ran into a tavern that lay further up a dirt road, and Caden turned his head towards Ethelyn. “Where are we?” He asked her.

“The small village to the west of camp. I do not know the name of it, lord king,” she replied.

Caden stared at her. “You keep calling me lord king. Why? I am not king, my father is.”

“There are… Some things you do not yet know.”

Caden closed his fist, tired of the way she evaded his question. He felt himself growing frustrated and was about to raise his voice to demand she answered him, but another raised voice caught him off guard.

“Caden!” Yelled his younger brother, vaulting over the fence and running across the yard towards him. “You’ve alive!”

Caden only just managed to stand before Arian ran into him almost headfirst, his arms wrapping around him tightly. Caden grunted at the force of the impact and the pain from his chest-wound flared, though he did not complain.

“Hello, brother,” Caden greeted him. But there was no answer, and Caden looked over Arian’s shoulder as Harik Wulfsurd marched over towards them with his shirt half-buttoned.

“Arian?” Caden asked, wanting a reply from him, but none came. Caden suddenly began to realize that Arian was crying, and the novelty of Arian’s dramatic morning greeting gave way to the fact that his brother was genuinely upset. Her realized Arian had honestly believed Caden to be dead, or as close to it as one could get, and that Caden’s reappearance was an infinite and solitary relief.

“It’s fine. I’m here. I’m alive,” Caden assured, slowly pushing Arian away from him as his hold softened. As Arian finally stepped away and wiped his eyes, Wulfsurd drew a sword that hung at his hip and stabbed it down into the mud in front of him, then went down to a knee behind it with his head bowed.

“My lord Caden,” Wulfsurd said fiercely. “You have no idea the relief I feel at your good health. I pledge to you my undying, endless loyalty – I will fight for you no matter what odds I might face, I will overcome any challe-“

“Stop, Wulfsurd,” Caden interrupted him. “I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t remember what happened. Where’s my father?”

Wulfsurd suddenly went silent, and Arian took a breath far deeper than usual. “He’s dead,” Arian said bluntly, his eyes still red from upset, and Caden’s heart stopped.

“He’s dead? What do you mean he’s dead? How can he be dead?” Caden asked.

Wulfsurd looked up at him, then slowly stood. “He fell in battle, my lord.”

“Stop calling me ‘my lord’, Wulfsurd,” Caden snapped, irritated and upset. “What do you mean he fell in battle?”

“He… Was hit by an arrow, Caden,” Wulfsurd told him, and Caden’s eyes widened and he put his hands up to his head and turned away, trying his best to process what he could not believe.

“He isn’t,” Caden protested. “He can’t be. Ethelyn, your entire reason for being here is based on my father’s meeting with the Philosopher King. This must be a jest, and I expect you now to tell me the truth of it.”

Ethelyn slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry, lord king, but that is the truth,” she told him.

Wulfsurd looked to Ethelyn then, for he did not know who she was or what she was doing there. “The Philosopher King?” He asked. “Why do you speak of the Philosopher King? What is happening here, Caden? Who is this woman?”

“She’s… An envoy,” Caden answered him, turning back around towards Wulfsurd. “But this is not the time to explain this, Harik.”

“Caden… Your eyes are a different colour,” said Arian.

Suddenly everyone went silent; Arian, Wulfsurd and the guards accompanying them; and they all looked into Caden’s eyes with an intense curiosity. Caden looked at them, then at Ethelyn, who stood and approached him and took something small, flat and square out of her dress. She held the small mirror up to him, and Caden looked into its warped reflection to find his once green eyes were now pale like snow, with the slightest hint of blue.

“It is the result of the methods used to bring him back from the brink of death,” Ethelyn told them, putting the mirror away.

“It is witchcraft,” Wulfsurd suddenly said. “You are a witch.”

“Wulfsurd, that’s enough,” Caden ordered.

“I am sorry, Caden, but it is not,” Wulfsurd answered, then focused on Ethelyn again. “What unholy magic have you used, so-called servant of the Philosopher King? What hold does his sorceress have over the son of my greatest friend?”

“There is no hold, Lord Wulfsurd,” Ethelyn replied with her expected politeness and diplomatic tone. “The lord prince was gravely wounded, and I obtained Prince Arian’s permission to heal him.”

“No. No, I do not believe it,” Wulfsurd said, looking at Caden’s unnatural eyes once more. “I am truly sorry Caden, but you were not just gravely injured. You were dead. I saw you fall in combat; I saw your body. There was a stillness in you that only death can cause, and then you disappeared into a farmer’s hut with a woman who we have no reason to trust and remained there in secret with her for over an entire day, only to emerge with eyes that do not belong to a Sarka.”

“Harik, stop this,” Arian protested. “He can’t have been dead. Look at him! He is here, alive! We have him back again!”

Caden watched Wulfsurd with a disappointed sadness but could not bring himself to speak out against him, even in his own defence.

“But the king isn’t,” argued Wulfsurd. “Why could he not be saved?”

The group fell silent then, and they each looked to each other. Wulfsurd’s suspicions were flared but neither brother answered him, and even Caden knew there was some insight to his question. Even so, he was too like an uncle to the brothers for either of them to argue back, and Caden merely looked to see Arian’s reaction as Ethelyn stood silent at his side.

After a short while, Wulfsurd spoke again. “Forgive me, my lords. I am tired and grieving, and I do not wish to make Caden’s blessed return into something sour. Caden, you are now my king, and no matter what transpires you will have my loyalty and my love, but I must beg you not to trust this woman. Prince Arian, I truly hope that in your desperation to have your brother returned you did accept a condition that you do not understand.”

Ethelyn stayed silent.

“I did not,” Arian answered.

“I am glad,” Wulfsurd said, bowing to the two brothers. “I think… I should leave now. To clear my head.” He turned, gesturing for two guards to follow him back along the road towards the tavern he came from.

Caden watched him leave, then sat back down on his bench with Ethelyn taking a seat beside him. Arian ordered the other guards around them to move back beyond the yard, where they took positions again on the roads into the village. Together the three watched as a mounted patrol rode through the fields of growing crops, and several other squads of soldiers walked the perimeter of the settlement and up and down the banks of the river to the west.

After some time, Caden spoke again. “What happened, Arian? What did I miss?”

Arian closed his eyes. “After your duel, there was a great battle in the valley. It was tough and lasted a good part of the day, but father’s plan worked, and we managed to beat them. Then… As he chased Armand from the field, he was hit by an arrow and fell.”

Caden leaned over onto his knees, then looked down at his hands. “And he couldn’t be saved?”

Ethelyn shook her head. “The methods I used are not kind, lord king. You have seen this for yourself.”

“I am not the king yet,” Caden corrected.

“But you will be soon.”

Arian let out a loud sigh then and decided to push the topic of the conversation from the past and to their next course of action. “Brother, we have captured Armand, as well as many of his knights, soldiers and nobles. We must-… You must decide what we are going to do next.”

Caden remembered the conversation he had with his father the eve before the battle, and how they had discussed strategy and the next steps to take once the fighting was won. Now they had their victory, and he noticed how Ethelyn was regarding him closely to see what he would say. She had been there for that conversation, after all.

“I want you to go to Armand, brother,” Caden told him. “I want him to think I am dead. He will hear rumours to the contrary, of course, but there will be no way for him to confirm anything while still a prisoner. Let doubt be sewn in him for a while, and let his plotting be delayed by uncertainty. Tell him we are taking him to Chaverne.”

“Chaverne?” Arian asked. “Their capital? Is this not dangerous for us?”

“With Armand our prisoner, he knows that any open move against us would lead to his death. Tell him that we will enter their city and stay at the Chateau d’Chaverne for the purpose of negotiating an end to the conflict. No doubt that those who have fled the battlefield are riding to gather another army as soon as they can, but they will not besiege their own city when their king is in it.”

“They might not attack, but will we not also be trapped there?”

“Only by appearance. It will delay further conflict long enough for us to finalize our victory.”

“But is that wise?” Arian asked, suddenly lowering his voice so others could not overhear them. “If we take too long, the Philosopher King might arrive and put an end to your plan.”

“And how might he do that while we are behind the walls of Chaverne?” Caden asked, noticing how Ethelyn seemed uncomfortable with the discussion. “He is not marching an army here, is he, Ethelyn?”

“No, lord king,” Ethelyn replied after awkwardly clearing her throat. “Only a personal guard of a hundred men.”

“Then we have nothing to fear. Even if he was to decide to attack us and join with another Lavellan army, they would not breach the walls of Chaverne until it was too late,” Caden explained, his tone almost cold in how calculating it was. But there was another reason for it – he wanted to see how much he could trust Ethelyn, he wanted to see how she reacted in the minute and unwitting ways that a man in his position had been taught to detect.

When he had spoken with his father about how best to outmanoeuvre the Philosopher King, Ethelyn had remained calm and co-ordinated. Yet now words had evolved into a plan of action to be immediately carried out, her diplomatic façade was beginning to break in the smallest, most undetectable of ways. She was growing concerned, and it reminded Caden that no matter how she had helped him, she belonged to another lord. “I would like you to remain close at my side, Ethelyn, for the foreseeable future. Until we have fully recovered, and the Philosopher King reclaims you to his service.”

“Very well, lord king,” Ethelyn answered him, smiling. Caden believed her when she had said that she did not know the Philosopher King’s true intention in visiting, and he knew because of that uncertainty she would not flee to warn him of a hostility that might never occur. But it was clear to him now that Ethelyn was not just an envoy: she was a spy, and he wanted to know how she would communicate with her master.

“I’ll go and speak to him now, brother,” said Arian. “And I will tell Wulfsurd to get the men ready to march.”

Caden nodded then and watched as Arian stood from his chair and began making his way to the farmyard gate, only to find a question suddenly enter his mind that he could not wait to have answered.

“Arian!” Caden called.

Arian paused for a moment, turning back. “What is it?”

“What happened to Alaric Laurens?”

“He got away.”

-

Nearly two weeks had passed since the Sarkanian victory at what scholars called the Battle of Vaise, named after the valley it had taken place in and the village nearby. In that time the Sarkanian army marched for a little over eighty miles, led at the front by Arian Sarka, Harik Wulfsurd and Edmund Gray, with the Lavellan king Armand riding behind them in a steel cage mounted on a wagon.

Over a thousand Lavellan knights and noblemen marched with the Sarkanians as prisoners of war, the most important tied to wagons and the rest forced to walk with the soldiers who had bested them. Whenever the Sarkanians approached a walled town, or a fortification, or bridge crossing or sallied garrison, several of these high ranking prisoners were taken to the front and put on show beside their king, who had no choice but to grant the invading force free passage and immunity.

They were untouchable, and Arian marched them north along the River Saiga, past dozens of villages and towns, with their heraldic griffins flying freely from banners held aloft by knight-bearers and noblemen who bathed in sun and glory.

One day during their march a small force of several hundred Lavellan guards blocked a bridge over the river and refused to let the Sarkanians cross, so Harik Wulfsurd dragged their king and several of their surviving noblemen into the open and prepared to execute them right then and there. At the behest of Armand, who demanded that the Lavellan guards surrender, they not only dropped their weapons but surrendered a significant amount of supplies gathered in a nearby town. Thus, the army of men and horses grew a little longer, and a little fatter, and followed the road towards Chaverne with nothing less than total victory guaranteed.

Eventually the terrain changed from gentle, rolling plains that stretched to the horizon, to valleys and passes surrounded by walls of snow-capped mountains. Yet the further they moved from grasslands and farm fields, the wealthier the populace seemed to become. Farmers gave way to artisans, loggers, herbalists and winemakers. Vineyards dotted the sides of hills, and country estates became more common.

After a while the River Vaise curved into a series of three small lakes, all close together in a line, that looked as though giant pebbles had fallen to the ground and left imprints that filled with water. On the north-eastern side of these lakes, the city of Chaverne was built on a hill that rose over several dozen outlying estates and villages. Its architecture was as though out of a fairy tale, with beautiful arches and spires, tall towers around a central palace, and walls with towers and ballistae. Yet most noticeable to Sarkanian eyes was that Chaverne was painted white, albeit faded from years of exposure. Even with the light brown earth of the land around it, Chaverne shone lighter still like a jewel. The jewel of Lavell, they had called it. Soon it would be the jewel of Sarka.

Yet on that day, the fields were empty, and the city shut. The Sarkanian army marched up to the gates only to find them barred, so Prince Arian put their King Armand on a horse and rode with him to the wall.

“Tell them to open the gate,” Arian ordered.

Armand spat down from his horse, then looked up at the men on the wall who were watching them. “I am King Armand I of Lavell. You know who I am,” he yelled, his Lavellan accent thick. “And I order you to open this gate!”

Several of the soldiers on the wall looked at each other, but none of them replied to him, or moved from their posts.

“What is this?” Arian asked, impatient. “Get them to open the gate.”

“Give them time, Prince Arian. Give them time.”

After several minutes a soldier appeared above the gate in full plate armour, one arm resting on the wall battlements and another on his sword hilt. He wore a thick moustache, and a large yellow plume on his helmet, and leaned over to look at them with the plume sticking out from the wall like some bent stick. “King Armand. So, it is true,” the man said, his voice loud, yet full of disappointment.

“It is true,” Armand repeated. “The battle was lost, and I am now a prisoner. Yet we are all of us still bound by chivalric virtues; them by honour and mercy, us by generosity and nobility. They are cold, and hungry, and it seems we must extend our famous Lavellan hospitality, no?”

The officer didn’t react to Armand’s attempt at humour, and instead looked over the Sarkanian column that stood waiting on the road. There were enough of them to take the city by force, should they need to do so.

“Forgive me, my king, but I find myself confused as to the exact nature of this hospitality. Are we to give our city to the invaders, or are we merely to host them?” He asked.

“Unless you plan to disobey me, we have no choice in the matter,” Armand replied.

Then Arian spoke, calling up to the wall with a clear voice: “You will hand the city to us, sir knight, until such a time as we deem to return it.”

“And who are you, Sarkanian?” The Lavellan asked.

“Arian Sarka.”

“The child of the king of my enemy,” said the knight, offering Arian a slight bow. “But where is the king himself?”

“Fallen.”

The knight nodded, then stepped back from the battlements and shouted an order. After a few minutes there came the sound of men working behind the gate to remove a great wooden bar, and it opened to reveal several guards and the yellow-plumed officer overseeing the raising of an inner portcullis that had gone unseen.

Arian took Armand’s horse by a rope, then led the king’s mount back to the front of the army column where Wulfsurd, Gray, Colbert and Anselm waited. Due to their part in the victory at Vaise, the Lord Colbert and Sir Anselm’s influence had grown greatly. Sir Anselm was to become a Lord Anselm, and Lord Colbert had been delegated a trusted advisor to Caden in place of several previous lords who had fallen in combat, though that was yet to be widely known.

Though rumours were abound of Caden’s survival, only a select few knew the truth of it. King Armand had spent the better part of two weeks trying to figure out if Caden was truly alive, and if he was still with the army or if he had been sent home to recover from his wound. If Caden was no longer present, then Armand knew he would have a much easier time removing the Sarkanians from his city. Arian was a talented warrior, and Wulfsurd was a great bear with more wit than he used, but Caden was quickly becoming a lion like his father. Armand had once heard an adage about lions and sheep, and it was not lost on him the divine luck he had reaped when both lions fell. He could only hope now that they remained fallen.

After a short while the yellow-plumed knight rode out on horseback and greeted the Sarkanian lords and his king. “I will escort you all to the chateau, if that is your wish,” he told them.

“It is,” Arian replied. “The lords and several hundred of the kingsguard will occupy the Chateau under our direct command. Sir Anselm, you will occupy the rest of the city and organize the army. We will take over barracks, watch-houses, towers and armouries. Any Lavellan guards and soldiers are to return to civilian life and remain unarmed until our peace talks are completed, and our prisoners are to be locked away in the city dungeons. We will, however, make allowances for certain Lavellan nobles and knights to stay in the Chateau under house arrest.”

“Right y’are,” Sir Anselm replied, turning his horse around and riding back along the column to begin organizing the men.

“Let us go then, sirs,” the Lavellan knight said, then turned around on his horse and led into Chaverne.

Chaverne was a surprisingly wealthy city, and very few of its citizens lived in what the Sarkanians would consider ‘poverty’. They were all reasonably dressed, clean and well-fed, and there were no obvious lingering odours except for the occasional livestock yard they came across.

It was hard to admit, but Chaverne made where they had come from look uncouth and depressing in comparison. Certainly, Chaverne had more colour, more vibrance, and more character – with its cobbled roads that wound uphill and its archways that opened into traders’ markets and private residences.

“I wouldn’t mind an estate here myself,” said Wulfsurd as he rode.

“I wouldn’t bother,” replied Arian. “They’d hang you based on smell alone.”

Wulfsurd suddenly looked hurt, and raised his arm to sniff under it only to recoil. Arian laughed and pressed on.

Over time the Sarkanian army began to split into sub-units under the shouting command of Sir Anselm. They veered off from the main column, which grew smaller and smaller as they moved out into the city to occupy its barracks, guard quarters and armouries. The Lavellan citizens watched them do this, silent and offering no resistance, until only the highest nobles and several hundred of the kingsguard remained.

“They don’t seem to happy to see us, do they?” Lord Gray asked rhetorically.

“And nor would you, were our situations reversed,” answered King Armand, riding behind them with his head down in shame.

They continued to ride uphill, eventually coming to an inner ring of wall with a twin portcullis gate separating the rest of the city from the chateau that lay behind. The Chateau d’Chaverne was equal parts formidable castle and beautiful palace, the primary residence of the king of Lavell and his place of court and military governorship. There were dozens of Lavellan guards there, well-armoured soldiers wielding pikes and swords, but as the Sarkanians crossed under the gate they lined up in defeat to hand their weapons to their conquerors.

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“Make sure to search every corner of the chateau,” Wulfsurd ordered gruffly. “I want no surprises waiting for us, no place for a hidden knife to be found by our foe.”

Arian dismounted, flanked by several of the kingsguard, and waved several covered wagons and carriages through the gate that contained those miscellaneous items of status and command that they would need.

“Arian, myself and Lord Gray will busy ourselves preparing the chateau,” Wulfsurd told him.

“Don’t take too long,” Arian replied. “I’m sure King Armand grows restless.”

Wulfsurd nodded and rode away to oversee another group of men, while Armand sat waiting in the saddle of his horse. “Young Prince Arian,” he said, “perhaps now I might be released, what with my escape an impossibility?”

Arian looked at him, momentarily suspicious, then gave a nod. “You may,” he said, and gestured for a guard to unlock the iron chain that bound his wrists.

Once free Armand sighed in relief, then dismounted and hit the ground with a surprising spring. “Ah, how nice it is to be home again,” he said, looking up at the blue and white banners of Lavell that still hung from the chateau’s outer walls.

“Come, King Armand,” said Arian. “You can give me a tour.”

Armand turned back to the prince, a grin creeping across his face that made Arian’s skin crawl. “Of course, Prince Arian,” he replied, his Lavellan accent thicker than it had ever been. “Of course.”

-

As the afternoon grew late, and Lavellan families sat down to eat their evening meals in the growing suspense that filled the city of Chaverne, Caden Sarka walked quietly through the halls of the chateau. A member of the black-armoured kingsuard stood by the walls every few paces, and at each side of every inward-leading door, but other than their standing to attention as Caden passed them he was alone and unheeded.

It was uncanny how much the Lavellan palace reminded Caden so much of his home. It was well furnished; with wooden floors, soft blue walls and dozens of tables and chairs lining each edge of whichever corridor he chose to walk in. The walls were covered with painted art brought to life by the most talented artists in the southern realms, depicting historical events and portraits of those who had become worthy of note, or simply had the fortune to live in a house of wealth and nobility.

One such painting caused Caden to stop, turn and examine it closely – a portrait of a man at the very height of his life, wearing shining steel armour and a beautiful cloak of white fur with blue trimmings. The man’s armoured foot was on the back of a giant, speared boar, and above his high cheek bones he wore a golden crown. “King Gabriel IV,” Caden read aloud. “Also known as the Great King Gabriel.”

King Gabriel IV had been Armand’s father, and had died when Caden was eleven years old, but what caught Caden’s eye was not the majesty of the man depicted but a small message in gold, carefully penned in the bottom corner.

‘King Armand, may this painting be in honour of your great and noble father. Signed, King Valen II of Sarkana.’

Caden closed his eyes and took in through his nose a deep breath that held back a well of feelings. He waited a few seconds before opening them again, then turned and walked away.

He continued down the hall until a guard opened a pair of wooden doors at the end of it, and he stepped through to find he could now go either left or right. To the left he saw a kitchen, and staff working to prepare an evening meal, and to the right he saw further doors and turns. He went that way, then turned left again until he came to a rear set of stairs that climbed up to the next floor in 90-degree turns. At the foot of those stairs, and on the opposite side of the corridor, two guards stood watch either side a single unassuming door with Arian waiting nearby.

“Is he inside?” Caden asked his brother, who turned to greet him with a nod.

“He is,” Arian said, unable to help himself looking at Caden’s unnaturally white eyes. “He’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you for doing what you did, Arian.”

“There’s no need. I understand why.”

Caden smirked a little, then gave Arian an easy pat on the shoulder as he walked past. “I’ll talk to you later, brother,” he said, stopping outside the door with his hand hovering over the brass knob.

“I can stay here if you like,” Arian suggested.

“There’s no need.”

Caden opened the door and stepped inside, then carefully and quietly shut the door behind him. When he turned back into the room he found a small library, barely a reading room, consisting of bookshelf-lined walls and two comfortable armchairs by a log fire with a small square table between them.

In one of the chairs sat King Armand, who until Caden entered had been gazing into the slowly flickering flames. The room had a warm and relaxing atmosphere, ‘homely’ almost, and the flames danced slowly like fair maidens. But when Armand looked up to see Caden standing there silently, his face illuminated in fire’s light and his eyes a deathly colour, the King of Lavell jumped and flinched in fright.

“Prince Caden,” Armand said, taken aback. “I am glad to see you well.”

“I will soon be King Caden,” he explained flatly, walking towards the fire and then around the empty chair to take a seat in it.

Caden’s ploy had worked. Armand was unsteady, unsure; as though he was seeing a dead man walking. Perhaps Caden was a dead man walking. “We believed you had died to Alaric’s dagger. Though… There were rumours…”

“Men like us should know not to take credence from rumours, King Armand,” Caden said, leaning back comfortably and looking into the fire.

“Perhaps not,” Armand replied. He was slowly calming, though still confused and unsettled, by Caden’s ice-white eyes. They had been green before, hadn’t they? He was sure of it.

Caden wanted to smile but did not let himself. He pressed on, wanting to gain as much ground as possible before Armand caught on to what he was doing. “Let us talk about why we are really here, Armand. You were beaten, your army routed from the field. You have lost this war.”

Armand closed his eyes. “You have won a victory, it is true. Yet I wonder if it can truly be said that Lavell has lost when so many of our men are still willing to take up arms to defend her? To drive out the invaders?”

“There is no chance of that happening now, Armand,” Caden answered calmly. “We have you, we have Chaverne, we have its nobles and people. We have your daughter.”

“Really?” Armand asked, rebutting. “You may occupy these walls, but it is we of Lavell who built them, who know them. We may be trapped here, but so are you.”

Caden glanced across at the older man, now noticing how his cheeks had grown a little thinner in the previous fourteen days. He had looked thin before the battle, but now he looked ill. “You should eat, King Armand. We would not want you to die before our negotiations are concluded.”

“No,” he chuckled. “You would not. Not until after them, at least.”

“You should not jest,” said Caden. “There are still ways we might find peace.” His concern was feigned, but it no longer mattered. Armand was right where Caden wanted him; defeated, too unnerved by Caden’s presence and overwhelmed by what it meant to be his usual cocksure self. Whether he realized it or not, Armand was being carefully herded into a corner that both knew only had one exit…

“And what ways would they be?” Asked Armand. “Your marriage to my daughter?”

If Caden could have found enough time to smile in secret, he would have. “To your daughter?” He repeated, as though he had not particularly considered that an option.

“Do not play coy, Caden. That is a peace that would satisfy us both, is it not? You would have your victory over me, over my daughter… And Lavell would have its survival.”

And just like that, Caden saw his victory. His father’s victory. Armand would never have offered such a thing were his demeanour in better condition, and now he had been stripped of the opportunity to delay and skirt and freely plot without such an agreement hanging over him.

“It would satisfy us both,” Caden agreed. “I have yet to marry, and it would be advantageous for both me and your daughter. Tell me, Armand, how is Jaqueline? I must have been no older than fifteen when I last saw her.”

“She has grown into a fine young woman, I must admit. Many noble sons have sought her hand.”

“And yet she remains unwed?”

Armand gave a slight shrug. “When Jean died, I became very protective of her. It is why she remains here in the chateau, and not in her summer Palais de Fleur. You can meet with her this very evening, should you wish to do so.”

Caden sat up a little. “I would,” he said. “If it is truly your intention to find peace between our lands through the joining of our houses in matrimony.”

“Save your flowery words for public speaking, Caden,” said Armand. “Right now, we speak as two kings, with none around to hear us but each other. I will not sign a contract now, not until all details have been agreed upon in further negotiation. But yes, let us proceed as though it will be signed.”

After Armand finished speaking, Caden fell silent and looked into the flames. They danced carefully, soft wisps of smoke rising into the brick chimney and coals glowing a searing orange beneath them. He stared; the warmth making his eyes heavy, the flames contorting in his tiny black pupils, the heat warping into shapes and figures until suddenly a pale, feminine face looked back at him with black eyes. He blinked quickly, and then it was gone.

“You will be allowed to roam the chateau freely,” Caden told Armand, “though you will be under guard. If you wish for a private audience with your daughter, or another you have valid reason to see alone, my guards will wait outside until you are finished.”

Armand nodded, though said nothing more. Caden stood then and turned towards the closed door with a sudden growing urge to escape the room. Those black eyes, those tricks of the mind, now haunted him to where he feared to look at the shadows, and Armand’s silence was becoming deafening. With each passing moment he feared it might be broken by an unnatural scream, so Caden took hold of the doorknob and twisted it urgently. “Good evening, King Armand,” Caden told him, then opened the door and left.

-

In the main hall of the chateau, the Sarkanians hosted a dinner that passed uneventfully. Almost thirty people attended, from Sarkanian knights who had distinguished themselves in the previous battle to the lords and commanders of the army. Prince Arian, Sir Anselm, Lord Wulfsurd, Lord Colbert and Duke Gray were amongst them, as were a few Lavellan nobles who lacked the shame that kept their king in isolation.

They joked and laughed, ate hogs that had roasted over an open fire and drank fine Lavellan wine. They discussed battles and knightly virtues, and shared stories of home. Whenever the discussion took too far a political turn, Wulfsurd would clear his throat and bang his fist on the table like a gavel to put a stop to it, and Arian would concur with princely authority.

At one end of the hall a door was opened, and in stepped Caden. For the first few seconds of his presence he was paid no heed, but as one by one they noticed they stopped speaking and watched him cross the room to the far end of the table. Their eyes were piercing, watching, and very few of them understood how or why Caden was still alive… Or why his eyes were now white, like those of a mountain wolf. Yet he was their prince, the heir to a throne that now lay empty and waiting for him to take it, and they treated him with the respect of a king.

“Have you seen Ethelyn?” Caden asked his brother, his voice low as he leaned over the table.

“No. She’s taken a guest room in one of the northern towers, that is all I know,” Arian replied.

“And hopefully she stays there,” quipped Wulfsurd.

Caden cast a glance over to Harik but did not respond to him. “And what of Armand’s daughter, Lady Jaqueline?” He asked them. “Where is she? Has she eaten?”

“I do not believe so,” Sir Anselm said, bringing Caden to realize that he had not spoken to the man in days. “I did need to speak to you about her, lord. She has taken over an entire wing of the chateau, and her ladies in waiting guard it far more fiercely than the kingsguard. We have left them there for now to avoid unnecessary conflict.”

There was a chuckle, but Caden merely stood back and straight. “Let her keep it if she feels safe there. This is her home after all, and we are not exactly welcome visitors,” Caden replied.

“No, but she must learn that she cannot simply lock away an entire portion of the chateau simply for the sake of her ladies,” said Gray, which caused Wulfsurd to laugh.

“I don’t know, Lord Gray. Some of our own men here have a voracious appetite for women, and indeed some of our lords have the same,” said Wulfsurd.

“Do not be juvenile, Lord Wulfsurd,” Gray replied.

Caden looked around the table for a clean, empty platter and took one, then began to fill it with meats, bread, cheeses and vegetables. “I will take her some food as an offering of peace,” said Caden. “I will not have the lady, or indeed her ladies, lock themselves away both hungry and scared.”

“Shall I come with you?” Wulfsurd asked, already brushing himself down and preparing to stand.

“No thank you, Harik. Not to belittle your extraordinary eloquence and skill with high born ladies, but I fear you’d terrify them into locking their doors permanently,” said Caden. The lords nearby laughed, and Wulfsurd slumped back down in his chair in embarrassment.

“Then at least take someone else to guard you,” pleaded Wulfsurd. “A maid with a dagger is still capable of killing a king.”

“Not me, I fear,” said Caden as he held the platter in one hand and took a full bottle of corked wine with the other. “A knife couldn’t finish me the last time, and I believe they’re averse to repeating mistakes.”

Caden turned then, walking away from the table with his hands full of food and drink. He made his way back across the dining hall, then slipped out of an open side door and into a candle-lit corridor beyond.

He walked through the chateau in silence, giving unusual care into taking in his surroundings. The Sarkanians had not been there long, a few hours at most, but Caden knew the importance of learning the structure by heart. Caden may have subtly guided Armand into doing what he had wanted, but the King of Lavell was by his nature a crafty fox. Those next few days and weeks would be filled with plots and schemes, and Caden had to notice if even the smallest thing was out of place.

Eventually he came upon an empty hallway with a set of double doors at the end that led into a wing of the palace once reserved for guests. Caden found it somewhat incongruous that Armand kept his guests in a place with only one entrance, and considered how Armand was as much wary of plots as he was keen to enact them. Still it was a natural place for Armand’s daughter and her maids to take refuge, for they were as safe as they were trapped. It would not be easy to open that door from the outside, and Caden could only hope they had not yet gone as far as to barricade it.

He approached the door carefully, placing the bottle of wine down on a small round table and then rapping above the handles with his knuckle. There was no answer. He rapped again, louder this time, and thought he could hear something on the other side moving around as though feet were shuffling on a rug.

“Hello?” He called to the door. “I am Caden Sarka. I wish to speak to the lady Jaqueline, and I bring her food and wine as an offering of peace.”

Several people began to whisper then, their words muffled by the door. Caden tried to make out what they were saying but knew he would not hear what they did not want him to. “Hello?” He called again. “I am alone. I do not wish to cause trouble or harm.”

More whispers, then the sound of something wooden being dragged. Then he heard a satisfying click, as though a lock had just been opened by a wrought iron key, and stepped back as the door was pulled slightly ajar.

A young woman’s face appeared in the opening, and with brown eyes she looked at him. “Prince Caden,” she spoke in a thick Lavellan accent, “the Lady Jaqueline wants assurance that neither she, nor her maids, ladies in waiting or other servants shall be harmed or otherwise touched by your soldiers.”

“She has it,” Caden replied, then gestured around himself. “I have come alone. There’s no-one here but me, and I do believe I have neither the strength nor the libido to act in a manner beneath my station.”

The girl’s face stared at him unamused, then she stepped away and pulled the door further open until Caden could see several maids in dresses and work gowns standing in the hallway between the guest rooms.

Between them stood the Lady Jaqueline, her pale hands crossed softly over the front of an expensive but tight-fitting dress of golden brown. It was no ball-gown or ceremonial garb, but rather the kind he might expect her to wear in the comfort of private company. His eyes ran up the dress and to her neck, around which she wore a delicate silver necklace, and then came to a stop over her face.

She was beautiful, her lips full and red and her cheeks so very lightly freckled. Her eyes were blue, like her father’s, but whereas Armand had short blonde hair, Jaqueline’s hair was brown and fell past her shoulders. Her hair was not quite plait, and had golden ribbons weaved gently into it, and he followed them down to where her hair fell over the curve of a breast that was far fuller than last he had seen her. He smiled at her, but she did not smile back.

“Lady Jaqueline,” he greeted with a gentle bow, the platter of food balancing on an outstretched arm. “How many years it has been since last we spoke. I thought you might be growing hungry, and so I have brought you some food.”

Jaqueline looked at him but stayed perfectly composed. “Lord prince,” she greeted him, slightly lowering her head as she did so. “I thank you for your thoughtfulness, but alas I do not feel like eating.”

“For your ladies, then?” Caden asked her, setting the plate down on one of the tables. “And there is a bottle of wine just outside the door.”

“They may eat if they wish so,” Jaqueline agreed, and suddenly two of her maids moved to the plate to take small pieces of food. Another went outside to get the wine, then returned with it in hand. Jaqueline suddenly raised a hand to the wine, causing the lady who carried it to pause mid-step. “Is the wine poisoned, Prince Caden?”

Caden looked disappointed by the accusation and shook his head. “It is not,” he assured her. “Why would I deliver poisoned wine? What reason would I have to harm you or your servants?”

“You are our conquerors, are you not?” Jaqueline replied. “Our invaders. Foreigners in this chateau not by invitation, but by victory in battle and my own father’s enslavement.”

Caden stopped for a moment, then shook his head. “I did not wish for this, Lady Jaqueline. Events have transpired beyond my control, and now that my father is gone it falls upon me to deal with their consequences.”

Jaqueline looked into Caden’s eyes. “King Valen has died?” She asked him, pity in her voice.

“He has.”

“Follow me, Prince Caden. There is a lounge nearby where we may talk in private.”

Lady Jaqueline turned around slowly, then began to walk through the guest wing until a set of doors on one side of the corridor opened into a lounge area with several tables and chairs arrayed around a central fire piece built into the far wall. Like most rooms and corridors in the chateau it was lit by candlelight, though there was enough in the room to prevent it from being dim.

“Please stay outside, and do not listen,” Jaqueline told her maids, who curtseyed to her and then stepped aside. Caden followed the princess past them, though he had a feeling there were quite a few more of Jaqueline’s maids and ladies than he had been shown. Hiding in the guest rooms most likely, the lady they served offering herself to plain view so that they might go unnoticed.

The two entered the lounge and Jaqueline took a seat on one of the sofas, with Caden joining her in a chair opposite. They were silent for a moment; each taking time to try and find in the other changes that had occurred since the last time they had met. Jaqueline was nineteen, just over two years younger than Caden, but when he had been just fifteen the two had spent time together; courting innocently in the palaces of their fathers. At that time, she had been the closest thing he had experienced to love, at an age where love was both everything and misunderstood. He could not help but wonder if some of it had remained, even if their romance had never progressed beyond childhood notions of infatuation.

“What has happened to your eyes?” Jaqueline asked.

Caden blinked for a moment. “They are… Different,” was all he could think to say.

“I know that, Prince Caden. But why? What happened to the green eyes that I once admired?”

“Eyes change, Lady Jaqueline. Innocent eyes become hardened by death and war, cold eyes become warmed by love and fulfilment. Sad eyes become happy. Happy eyes become sad.”

“But green eyes cannot become white eyes, Caden. Summer eyes cannot become winter.”

“Mine can. They have.”

Jaqueline sighed and shook her head, and decided to change the direction of their conversation. “How is your brother? Is he well?”

“He is,” Caden said. “He’s here.”

“That’s good. You were always close,” Jaqueline said with a smile, though it soon disappeared again. “I am sorry about your father, Caden. I truly am.”

Caden lowered his eyes. “It is the risk we take when going to war,” was all he could think to say. “Though I will not pretend that I do not desire vengeance.”

“Against whom?” She asked. “My father?”

“My brother tells me that your father is to blame.”

“… My father has many qualities, Prince Caden, and few of them are good. It is not befitting a king to kill another king, but somehow I can believe that mine still would.”

Caden looked up at her again. “It is not my plan to harm him, Jaqueline. We will negotiate for peace, and once an agreement is reached, we shall leave. This war can be put behind us.”

“And what will it cost the people of Lavell?” Jaqueline asked. “How much of their dignity, their treasure, will they be expected to spend on peace?”

“Only you.”

“Me?” Jaqueline asked, very slightly tilting her head.

“Soon I will be crowned king of Sarkana. Your father has offered you to me in marriage. The cost of peace will be our union.”

Jaqueline took in a deep breath and shook her head the smallest amount, her eyes closing. “So, my father would sell me to save his crown,” she surmised. Caden could not tell if she was angry or disappointed, but it was not long until he realized she was likely both.

Lady Jaqueline of Lavell had always been known for her strong temperament and sense of independence. She had yet to agree to marry, despite her many suitors, precisely because she despised the idea of being treated as a commodity. Her father had respected that wish for several years, especially since the death of her older brother, but it seemed that Armand no longer had a choice.

“The politics are beyond either of us,” Caden told her. “I must do this not only for my sake, but for the sake of the kingdom my father leaves to me. Your father must do the same. Our marriage provides peace, legitimacy, unity and friendship between nations. I cannot simply ignore that for your sake.”

“None of this makes sense, Caden. Our nations are at war, our armies have fought, our men have died. You have fought against Lavellan knights, and my father has fought against your own. All of this has happened, and is happening, and will happen for a reason: sovereignty. You would make the war we have fought mean nothing, solely to make me your wife? You would give my father back his crown, when you could simply take his head and that crown with it?”

“If I killed your father and took your country, the people would never accept it. They would call me a thief, a kingslayer, a usurper. Our marriage would make such an action legitimate… Legal. I would become king not because my father’s army won a battle, but because I became one with the beloved Lady of Lavell.”

“And was that your plan all along, Caden? To beat my father in battle, to imprison him and force him to marry me to you?”

Caden went silent for a moment, then stood and walked towards the fire to warm himself. His form cast a large shadow across the room behind him, and Jaqueline sat in it and waited for his answer. “I don’t know what my father was planning,” Caden lied. “We argued about this war. I did not agree with it.”

“Yet it seems to have worked out well for you,” Jaqueline said.

“And what would you have me do, Jaqueline? Go home with nothing? Start my rule by telling the people who look to me for leadership that the deaths of their loved ones, of my father, were for absolutely nothing? I cannot.”

Jaqueline sighed, then stood herself. “I apologize, Caden. I know this is a difficult situation, I understand it better than most. But know that no matter what happens I hope that we can, at the very least, remain friends.”

Cadent turned his head, his ice eyes looking at her from over his shoulder. “Let us hope,” he told her. “Let us hope.”

-

Armand sat in silence in a tall, cushioned armchair; his fist propped up by his elbow and pressed into the side of his head in thought. It was late now, and he was in a small guest bedroom that was hardly bigger than a pantry. The door was solid at least, and locked, but there were armed guards outside who would under no circumstances leave him.

A tall brass candle bathed the side of his face in light, and as he stared at his bed and the wooden wall panels besides it, he began to think of his daughter. Was he really going to lose her to a Sarkanian? True, they had been friends once… But now they were enemies, and part of him feared sending her away from home to warm the bed of the man he had tried to kill, and the man’s father who he had.

There was something strange about Caden now, something off-putting. He couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out how Caden had managed to survive Alaric’s blow and recover so quickly. The dagger had entered his chest and they had all seen it, and almost certainly his heart. But more than that were his eyes; white like snow, but also cold. As a child Caden had been gentle and warm, and rumours of him arguing with his father about war had spread from Kedora to the lands beyond the mountains.

Why then did he now feel so distant? So ruthless?

He pondered for a moment if the Sarkanians had a mage amongst them, but that must be nonsense. There were no mages in the southern realms, everyone knew this. Magic did not live in these lands. Besides, if such a person was to visit the Sarkanians he would have heard of it. His spies would have sent word.

Yet Caden was still alive, and the more he thought about it, the more magic was the only answer that made sense.

Armand closed his eyes and thought himself a fool for being so unnerved, so manipulated. He should never have offered his daughter; he should have delayed and thought of another way out of defeat. But he knew it was too late to go back on his word - he would simply have to work around it.

The King of Lavell opened his eyes again to see a wooden wall panel sliding, in complete silence, into a state of openness. A small and secret passage lay behind and from it stepped a man shrouded in a dark hood and cloak.

Immediately Armand raised a finger to his lips, bidding the figure to be quiet. The figure gave a nod and stayed in the shadow of the passage, his escape both quick and guaranteed should someone try to enter.

Armand stood then, taking a small enclosed letter from the underside of a wooden table and scraping the wax from it. He took the letter over to the figure and held it out in his hand. “You know who you must deliver this to?” Armand asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I do, my king,” the figure said, taking hold of the letter with a hand but finding that Armand would not release it.

“It is imperative things proceed according to the plan outlined in this letter, do you understand?”

“Yes, highness.”

“Take it to my daughter first. Tell her that if we are to survive this, she must kindle a flame of desire and love. He must trust her utterly; he must be willing to die for her.”

“As you say.”

“Go then,” Armand whispered, releasing the letter and turning away. He walked back to his chair and turned around, sitting in it again and shifting to make himself comfortable. When he looked once more for the man and the passage, he saw only a wall.

-

Caden entered his room and closed the door behind him, the room in darkness except for moonlight that shone in through the window and bathed the floor and his bed in pale light. It had been a long day, and he was tired, and without a thought he kicked off his boots and undressed and left his clothing folded over the back of a nearby chair.

He got into bed then, pulling the light summer duvet over his body and lay there on his back in silence. His mind was awash with endless thoughts and considerations, and he found himself unable to calm himself, to empty his mind and find peace.

He had not slept properly for two weeks, not enjoyed a truly deep slumber since he woke with Ethelyn over his heart.

His heart… That she had saved, by sacrifice and magic. The red string that had connected their wounds had long gone, but the wounds themselves were identical. He carefully brought his hand to his own, running his fingers gently along the wound’s edge and wondering just how much of his heart was still his.

He sighed and closed his eyes. There was darkness behind them, and he peered deeper into it hoping to escape the waking realm. He wanted the day to be over, the morning to come, but he saw nothing but shifting shadows and shapes.

Then a mirror; distant and hazed. He became lost in it, watching as within a face began to form that glowed gold in the light of a fire or candle. It was feminine, and soft gold eyes began to investigate his own. He could feel hands brushing soft mahogany hair, and in the mirror he saw a woman do the same. Ethelyn?

He mumbled and shifted in his bed, watching how she lowered the brush onto a night table and then stood, his eyes peering out of her own, and the mirror disappearing as she turned. She approached a bed, then raised the covers and went under them, and soon he could feel the warmth of it. The warmth of her skin against the mattress, against the duvet. He could feel the tiredness sweeping over her, the magic that ran through her veins… Yet he could also feel that she was peering out from behind his own eyes, and feeling what he could feel.

“Ethelyn?” He thought.

There was no reply but somehow, he could feel that she was thinking about him. There was something faint, and primal there. Growing. He could feel her touch her own chest, her own wound… But then her surprisingly cold hands moved to her breasts, and Caden found himself wanting her.

She was thinking about him. And she knew he could feel it, feel her. And he knew that she could feel him, that they were distant, but somehow one. Caden gulped slightly and Ethelyn’s hands began to trail down along her body, only for his own to do the same. Her hand found warmth between her thighs, and she closed them around and released an unintentional gasp.

Then there was pleasure. It was sensual, and warm, and Caden felt belonging, and rhythm, and destiny, and he could feel her heart beating with his own. It grew faster, the pain of it pounding against their chests numbed only by the delectation they shared in an experience as intimate as it was remote.

Then there was crescendo, and breathing, and recovery, and Ethelyn’s soft moans of satisfaction as she drifted into truly exhausted slumber.

Caden’s fingers ran once more over his wound, but his own overwhelming desire for sleep was growing. Just as he began to feel the terror of what had been done to him, he followed her into a dreamless sleep.