Seven of the most powerful men in Clovin sat around a circular table. Those with male heirs old enough to attend brought them along to stand behind them. Their retainers, noble Blessed who had sworn their loyalty, flanked them on either side. Advisors, important and trusted enough to listen in, hugged the edges of the walls and strained to catch what the seven men said.

"Shall we begin?” Evrard, Highlord of the Northern border, a large bald man with an unkempt beard, broke the temporary silence that had swallowed the room.

“Besson has not yet arrived.” Frederic replied, somehow calm as ice despite what just happened to his son.

Sylvian snorted. “Nor will he anytime soon. He wants us to stew.” The Highlords exchanged suspicious looks with each other. Old rivals and friends crammed into Besson’s meeting room, not a sliver of trust amongst them. “I think it would be prudent to start before he arrives.” Sylvian continued, fighting back his boredom and annoyance.

“I agree with Sylvian and Evrard. We should start.” Said Highlord Cristopher, an average sized man with mousy hair, who sat closest to Sylvian around the table.

Gustave, a brute with a long greying beard, chuckled dismissively. “Of course you do.” Cristopher gave him his best withering stare, which Gustave only laughed off.

“It seems to me,” Said Isaac, a well-kept man with immaculate posture and silver hair, who was Highlord of the Southeast Coast. “That since we are addressing our complaints towards Besson, we should wait for him.”

They bickered back and forth amongst each other for a while, and Dere became more than a little annoyed. Arguing over whether or not to start a conversation, only in politics. He hid a yawn underneath his hand and looked around the room. Besson never missed an opportunity to show off in his own home, it seemed. Even something as basic as a meeting room, with only a large central table and a fireplace for furnishing, displayed his wealth. Fifteen Coats of Arms of exquisite craftsmanship adorned three of the walls. A huge window, looking out over the courtyard and decorated with ornate images of fire, dominated the fourth wall. Through the window, Dere saw the party below. He thought he spotted a flash of silver hair amongst the guests, Arlette, perhaps.

“Enough!” Sylvian slammed his fist down on the table and even Dere jumped a bit. “Duval has gone too far, and we will discuss it!” Some of the Highlords nodded, others glared at him with clear malice.

Cristopher took the stunned silence as the opportunity they needed. “The rumors out of Freeholt, what Duval has purportedly done to Maurius’ family and holdings, are disturbing.”

“And untrue.” Frederic maintained his calm, but Dere could read the frustration dancing underneath his eyes.

“I have that information on good authority.” Said Cristopher, unwilling to back down, not with Sylvian on his side.

“I’ve heard similar things.” Said Evrard, stepping in to help Cristopher. “After what he did to Erdrick, it seems feasible.”

Frederic curled his lip but said nothing. Isaac spoke up next. “Yes, Duval has ignored some of the etiquette expected of the nobility during wartime.”

Gustave sneered. “It’s war, Isaac. We may play pretend about proper procedure for wartime, but it’s just that, pretend.”

“Always willing to revert to savagery, Gustave.” They exchanged heated stares, their hatred for each other filling the room.

Dere kept one eye on Sylvian during the exchanges and the other out the window, so he could watch the party. The conversation bored him. He wondered if this meeting had been a waste of time.

“We’re arguing about etiquette while ignoring the actual problem.” The youngest of the Highlords, Albert, broke into the conversation. His voice echoed loudly for his small frame and stature. “Duval has monsters, lest we forget.” Just like that, Dere’s interest reignited.

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The others turned to look at Albert. “You mean the men who feel no pain?” Isaac asked.

“They’re not men.” Said Sylvian, reentering the conversation.

“If they’re not men, what are they?” Highlord Nathaniel, a tall, cold-looking man, broke his silence.

“I don’t know,” Said Sylvian, meeting Nathaniel’s freezing gaze. “But perhaps Frederic would.”

Frederic’s sneer travelled around the table, landing on Sylvian. “Was that an accusation?”

“It can be, if you want it to.” The others looked at Frederic, none of them willing to jump to his aid.

His sneer grew even larger. “I know as little as you do.” The other Highlords didn’t believe him, but Dere thought differently. He could tell. Frederic told the truth.

“You’ve known Duval a long time, Frederic. I find it hard to believe that you know nothing.” Evrard spoke, and some of the others nodded with him.

“I wasn’t at the battle. I only learned of their existence after. Duval and Besson won’t say a word about them, even to me.” The Highlords still seemed suspicious. Old prejudices clouded their vision. Something about the way he talked, though, some of the weakness underneath his tone, caught them off guard. They were still suspicious, but they weren’t so sure that he lied.

“Damnit, where is Besson!?” Evrard slammed his fist down onto the table in impatience, cracking the sturdy wood. Some of the advisors around the edges of the room flinched at the casual show of strength. None of the Highlords even reacted. Sylvian rubbed at his moustache and beckoned to Florian. Florian bent his head and Sylvian whispered something into his ear. Dere ignored the still ongoing argument and strained to hear what Sylvian said, but not even his ears could pick up the whisper. Straightening back up, Florian nodded at his Highlord and left the room. Only a few paid attention to his exit. Dere returned to the conversation as Florian closed the door behind him.

“I’ve heard whispers out of Vandar and Coln, of the faceless men on their border. Does Duval intend to invade?” It was Albert this time. He spoke to Frederic, whose collected facade began to slip. They pestered him with more questions. His face started turning the same deep red as his son’s when angry.

“I don’t know!” Frederic’s explosion silenced the rest of the room. Every eye fixated on him. He spoke much lower, almost at a whisper. “I’ve heard next to nothing from Duval, nothing. He has changed. I hardly recognize the man anymore. He has become as monstrous as those things he employs. Stop hounding me for information. I have none. Speak to Besson.” The onlookers broke into worried frowns. Dere swore under his breath. Not even Frederic knew what was going on. It seemed that only Besson had the answers he needed.

The room descended into quiet. The conversation turned from shouts between the Highlords to murmurs between advisors. Dere caught some of what they said. They whispered about Duval, about Besson, about his tardiness. Rubbing his head, Dere suppressed another yawn.

“This is a waste of time. Besson hasn’t even shown up, and he probably never will. Who called this meeting, anyway?” Gustave shattered the odd silence that had befallen the room. The Highlords looked amongst each other, suspicion etched onto each of their faces, but nobody spoke up.

“I was told it was Sylvian.” Cristopher said.

Sylvain snorted. “Like I’d ever want to meet with this bunch.”

Albert spoke next. “I was told it was Isaac.” Isaac shook his head, confused. They continued bickering back and forth between themselves, naming each other. Dere watched them as they did, his mind sorting possibilities. It was clear, to him at least, that none of the Highlords here had called the meeting. Who did, then? Whoever called it didn’t want the others to know it was them, yet had the capability and influence to round them up.

The solution hit him like a steep fall. It was Besson. Besson called the meeting, but why? Dere looked around the room, searching for answers, but he only found the Highlords and their advisors. Grey eyes flitting through faces, Dere latched onto one advisor who looked off somehow. He stood by the window, blank expression on his face. He exchanged no heated words with the others and hadn’t the whole time. Dere met the man’s eyes. The man smiled at him and put his hand on his heart. The heat in the room began rising subtly. An odd orange light emanated from the man. Dere’s eyes went wide as the revelation struck him. It was a masterstroke, really. All his past and future rivals taken out in one fell swoop. He couldn’t believe he didn’t think of it earlier.

Dere screamed as loud as he could. “It’s a trap!” Then, he sprang onto the table and ran across it. Most of the people in the room just looked at him, stunned and confused. The quicker of them, Sylvian and Frederic among them, took his hint. Dere ignored them all. He took one last glance at the fake advisor as he ran across the huge table. The man’s face was placid and calm. He had bright red hair, Dere would later recall, fire red hair. Dere looked away and flung himself out the window at full force, smashing the priceless artwork with all his strength. Behind him, the world devolved into fire and heat. It blew Dere further through the air and he felt a searing pain across his back and legs. He saw the ground rushing towards him, and everything went dark.