The Duchy of Caledon is an anomaly. Their culture, language, and style differ greatly from the rest of the United Duchies of Amorica. To make a complicated answer simple look towards the duchy's lands. The duchy is situated off the coast of Amorica. There they act as a bulwark against foreign foes to the southeast. There they stand guard ever vigilant, however, every four years they must travel to the mainland to attend the council of nobles. There they enact laws, edicts, and reforms. There they choose the next king amongst their heirs and candidates. There they bicker amongst each other never getting anything done unless told otherwise.  

It is there that the current duke of Caledon, Arturo de Caledon, a middle-aged man who unlike his youth appeared tired and ill. He seemed sick of the boorish events that play out before him. He took power at a young age, twenty-three, his father had passed from a heart mummer. He arrived many years to try to reform the nation. Many times, he watched his plans slip through the cracks that had formed on the very table he sits on. 

He looked around him eyeing the current argument between Duke Rudolph. A large man. A man with a short temper. He had a habit of carrying his sword even in a place such as the royal capital. However, it was this argument over land reform that had caused Arturo to disengage from the meeting all together.  

“Duke Curatir, you do not expect the common people to accept losing the rights to live on their land? Do you?” Rudolph was standing pointing an accused finger towards Curatir. Duke Fionn de Curatir was in Arturo’s thoughts. Fair, pragmatic, but a visionary. The young Fionn simply stared at Rudolph from his chair. 

“Duke Rudolph, I understand that you yourself would be troubled by such reforms simply because you would not have the available hands to work the vast plantations you operate. Is that correct?” Arturo remembered the domain of Rudolph rather clearly. A mostly mountainous region. Where three counties had operated. Using serf labor to continue working the hard soil. They refused to purchase food from the more industrious south simply because Duke Eisenbach had made a joke about Rudolph’s industrial mines.  

The feud in itself was moronic to say the least, but Rudolph simply hated the man. For this simple reason he had let a tenth of his population starve. He then when they rioted sent his own personal guards to quell the rebellion. The act was widely condemned but what can you do when the person you condemn provides the iron and coal needed to fuel your weapons and warm your homes. 

Fionn continued “besides this edict would not see your people released from serfdom. If I had the power, I would outlaw the practice...” before he could say anything Duke Eisenbach stood up and simply said “vetoed.” He then sat down to smoke from his long clay pipe.  

Rudolph stared at Eisenbach a vein erupting from his forehead. Fionn stared before simply crossing his arm and looked towards the only female within the room. Duchess Clarence. The duchess was the only female due to a technicality. Which in itself was highly frowned upon. The dukedom could not and would not send a two-month-old child to this meeting. So as regent Marinette de Clarence came to represent the duchy. However, when she opened her mouth duke Rudolph repeated Eisenbach’s maneuver.  

The fact that a woman no less a woman in her twenties had become regent of a duchy was mind boggling to the seven dukes from the mainland. Arturo didn’t mind it. She made for amicable company to say the least. Her beauty was much more appreciated than Eisenbach’s terrible puffs of smoke or Rudolph’s temper tantrums.  

Arturo grew weary as the table had reached a boiling point. He looked towards the monarch. The seventeen-year-old king Emile de Dupont as if he could deescalate the moment. However, he looked into the young king’s eyes and saw despair. He was tired. His eyes had bags that were deep. Sunken looking like that of a skeleton. However, the way he sat had made him appear apathetic. As if the needs of the realm were a problem he was not needing to solve.  

Arturo thought of many things that Emile could have done. However, he looked across to see his father staring at him. Pierre de Dupont. “Un petit bijou,” that was what he called his domain. “A little jewel.” That sort of tells you about the man. His lands consisting of two islands to the east provide the nations diamonds and pearls. As well as a minor source of gold. He was a conniving man that had bribed his way to the post of duke. The previous duke. Charles de Chevalier defended the island and mainland against pirates. However, due to debts and other unsavory things. Pierre had usurped the title.  

He had brought great wealth to the nation. Yet, there were rumors about the man. He had a criminal enterprise which used extortion, kidnapping, and trafficking. All things that were against the law. However, he knew just the right people to bribe to keep their mouths shut. He was known for this, but to find proof was to count the grains of sand on a beach.  

Pierre had wrongfully assumed that getting his son to be king would allow him to act more overtly. Instead, he had considered his son a great disappointment. He too looked at his son who had evidently lost control of the situation ages ago. Probably long before his birth.  

Arturo simply stood and looked towards Emille. “Your majesty, I think it is time for a recess? Today has been... let's just say enlightening.” The room went silent. Arturo standing and looking around realized that the full table had in fact been emptied. Only the five dukes and duchess were at the table. In the course of several hours. The other dukes had simply stood and left. Arturo placed a hand to his head. How the hell could the nation function if not even half of the electors are here. They couldn’t even vote in the first place never mind the constant vetoes and arguments. 

 He looked around to the full room of nobles. The grand assembly of counts, barons, and knights simply looked on bored to say the least. Only the followers of the remaining dukes were discussing and arguing amongst themselves.  

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Arturo sighed and simply began walking towards his entourage. The count of Dolci Pendii simply stood and shrugged at him. “Your grace, I am sorry to say. They had snuck out during Rudolph’s rant about food and such.” Arturo felt a headache coming along. That early in the discussion. That was hours ago. He also faulted himself for not noticing sooner and calling for a recess.  

Leaving the room and entering the courtyard the sun pierced through the foliage of a tree. Standing near a powerful oak was the Duke Curatir. Arturo remembered the cold of the north and noticed the pale features of the young duke. Curatir took a couple of steps stopping just before Arturo. “Your grace.”  

Arturo returned the greeting. Before he could inquire Curatir spoke once more.  

“That was a terrible situation. I’m surprised it took you this long to call for a recess.” Arturo shot him an annoyed grimace. “You could have” he reasoned. The duke simply shrugged. “I find myself wanting to try to push my way to better improve our situation.” Arturo stared at the young duke with much chagrin.  

He wanted to leave. He looked behind the duke to see the duchess walking along with her entourage. Followed closely and tightly. Arturo thought it amusing. The duchess had another name. Engel, she had a kindness to her. In the north she was considered one of the kindest. However, there are always two sides to a coin. She is known for introducing new medical techniques that had stopped a plague that had started in her domain. Yet, rumors of how she had gotten this knowledge had chilled him to the bone. Simply she has another name. Entführer, a taker of children.  

 He looked towards Curatir. He thought about all his talks of reform and betterment. However, he was preparing for war. A year before this a revolt had killed the last supporters of the king in the duchy of Curatir. Sure, he had squashed the rebellion with the use of firearms. However, it had consolidated power within his domain. 

The introduction of black powder to the army had seen a revolution to say the least. He had witnessed its use even thinking of setting up a factory in his domain. However, he would need to import some materials from the mainland or from Curatir himself. He despised the idea of owing a favor to the duke to say the least.  

He made his way to the church walking through the recently cobbled streets. Sleek with the muck of the morning. He hated this place. The smell, the weather, and the people were terrible. Yet, all that left his mind when he heard a noise. The sound of a sword being drawn. He looked to see some poor serfs or what he assumed was a serf was draw his sword. Charging towards him. His personal guard of thirty drew theirs and placed themselves in front of him.  

He instinctively tried to reach towards his waist. Aware that nothing was there. Then he turned to see the sounds of hooves beating on stone. A host of cavalry were riding down the street. Then the booming sounds of firearms erupted all around him. He watched as the assassins and his guards were cut down in a single blow. He looked towards the sound only seeing a thick fog of smoke.  

He picked up a sword and readied himself. The blood dripping down towards the guard. A single guard stood to join him. The count had survived. Clutching a growing pool of blood on his tunic he looked towards Arturo. “Fedele, thank you for standing with me.” The count gritted his teeth from the pain with a chuckle. “I am afraid I may not be standing long enough, your grace.”  

A rider comes forward. A sword in their hand. Arturo called towards them. “Who are you? Who sent you? How much?” The last question got a laugh from the rider. Who simply raised a sword “The fair.” Which then caused the rider to go into a gallop. Charging forwards the rider slashes downwards to the right. Fedele tried to raise his sword but was slowed by the wound. Arturo not wanting his remain guard to perish parried in a quick stroke of his sword. The blade ringing in his hand. He followed by slashing at the back. 

Only clipping the legs of the horse causing the beast to fall. Throwing the rider. Arturo charged the rider and stabbed downwards. The sound of gurgling filled the silent streets. Arturo turned to see Fedel using the sword to keep himself upright. Striding to assist his loyal follower. A stinging pain began to burn in his chest. He looked to see Fedel with a paled look in his eyes. He looked down to see the once bright yellow cloth stained a deep maroon. He thought it wasn’t his.  

He took a step stumbling. Falling before Fedel who tried to approach his duke. His eyes began to become blurry. The dark grey landscape of the capital began to fade away. Replaced with the memory of Caledon. The vibrant island with its many brightly colored frescos. 

 The voice of Fedel calling towards him is instead replaced with the last words from his son. That’s right. Adler. His young son. “I’m sorry Adler. It appears I leave you in such a position.” He thought of his wife Elizabeth. “My love.” He reached a hand out. Something grabs it. Must be Fedel. Oh, he wanted it to be his wife. “Fedel.” He can’t hear a response. “Tell her I will be heading out first. I hope to see her soon.”  

Fedel looked at the face of his duke. Arturo had died on his feet slayed by a lead ball. He could not fathom the death of the duke. His men, his vassals had fought to keep him alive. Slayed like dogs in a street. Only to end up failing. 

The duke shot out a hand looking blindly towards the sun. Fedel took it. The duke began to mumble. Something about the young master, his wife. Oh, his wife. He heard the duke call for him. The duke just stared onwards. Told his last words. Fedel knelt holding the hand of his lord. The warmth quickly dissipating from his body. His eyes clouded. However, a smile had crept on his face. The count began to cry. He openly wept. He called for help. Then saw a figure approach. More began to appear. 

The dukes and duchess sliced through the fog to see the bloody scene. The count looked at them trying to greet them in the manner that his lord would have wanted. They waved it away calling for their healers. Their guards fanned out to defend the lone survivor. Fedel looked at these upper nobles and a thought went through his mind. The convenience of it all. All of them coming to his aid after his master’s death. However, he could not think anymore. His mind slipping into misery. His vision began to fade away. Being caught by one of the healers. 

 A week had passed. The council had through the fear of assassination cancelled further discussions. Fedel was recovering looking broken. He stared out the window. The duke was dead, three counts, twelve barons, and fourteen knights had died. A huge blow to the duchy. Then he remembered the words of his duke. He needed to return. To tell her grace and his highness. No, his grace. Adler, the young teen. Needed to take his father’s place to retain the rights of the duchy. He thought of the many things that needed to be done. However, he was alone in the capital. He needed to return home.