The Regent Venessa and her daughter Princess Marguen sat dead center atop the royal dais overlooking the kingdom’s various prestigious houses. The houses were arranged in descending order along an elongated arched table, from wealth and land to honor and merit. Their common thread, beside their allegiance to the royal family, was the emblem of their church’s cross, which hung visible around their necks.

To the far left sat the renowned Sir Tristan positioned beside a handful of like-minded nobles of intertwined interests whose collective wealth rivalled the royal treasury.

At the opposite end sat the regent’s right-hand man: Duke De La Castell. He was a military figure of stature and reputation, which in tandem with the regent’s blessing, eclipsed all others in the realm of soft-handed and iron-glove politics.

‘The truce died with the late King Havious of Mansour. Our only option is to strike now before King Leichhardt II consolidates his rule,’ said Sir Tristan. The peacock-dressed noble, come bachelor, wore his wealth on his sleeve and a poise that peaked its head at any opportunity to further his family name.

Princes Marguen, the last remaining member of the Vasier bloodline, was a quiet, well-tempered girl. And despite her youthful bewilderment, she had a studious mind that absorbed her adviser’s every word. However, her better judgement came from the whispered consulship of her mother, the reigning Regent and ex-queen. Venessa was a tall, slender woman with an unamused disposition, and she had an astuteness that guided Marguen between the competing streams of debate.

‘There’s still the truce, bound by belief. Though we are many churches, fighting our own brethren will only seek to divide us against the wicked,’ said Davos, the more humbly dressed figure, who occupied the positions of both the regent’s administrator and religious advisor. He, unlike the other prestigious houses, occupied a table next to the royal dais.

‘The Mansourians are cut from a different cloth, my dear priest. With exception of our benevolent Regent Venessa, there has never been a Mansourian monarch who did not earn their crown through war or subjugation, and King Leichhardt II is not the later,’ said Andreas. He was a young cynical upstart, whose lowly position in the royal pecking order would have relegated him to minor lord if not for his savvy maneuvering and accumulated wealthy.

‘They worship the same God.’

‘Except their God would find us equally blasphemous as the pagans whose institutions our dear princess seeks to preserve.’

‘Chicanery,’ said Castell, who was dawned in his bright-orange and blue military drapes.

‘Duke De La Castell, you have an opinion on the matter?’ Venessa asked.

‘Yes, opinions. Opinions linger like the fragrance of a blackened egg. However, I will state without full evidence that King Leichhardt II was not the chosen successor. Yet, for whatever reason, he’s found himself some formidable backers who will ensure he sits comfortable upon that throne. His rule might not be legitimate, but he is not in a position of weakness. Insecurity, maybe. The fact Gideon is alive and you, my benevolent Regent, occupy the Vasierian throne, he will not feel safe so long as either of you are able to challenge his crown.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ said Sir Tristan in his obnoxious high-class accent. ‘But says nothing of how we should respond. Their demands imply Gideon’s surrender or else, and so far, that else has violated our territorial rights. It is an act of war, and we should respond in kind.’

‘Every week our adversaries violate our territorial rights. Viking raiders from the north, the sultans in the east, pirates choking our sea-lanes, and you would draw our young monarch into a needless war out of pride. One that risks forming a coalition of kings, bankers, and religious fanatics against us. I can only trust you pick your commercial endeavors better than you pick your battles, Sir Tristan,’ said Castell. His every word was a measured response mixed with subtle jibes against his wealthier rival. The type of friendly animosity built on thick skin and mutual respect.

Such verbal jousting muddied the waters for Princess Marguen as she sought another round of the regent’s consulship as to how to respond to the event at Pragian. Commit to war in all its various forms, pre-emptive, reactionary, proxy, or surrender her Uncle Gideon as a gesture of peace. Her rational mind was plagued by the many variables of treasury, authority, and prestige, for which she lacked proper baring to make any meaningful judgement. Emotionally, the prospect of peace seemed like an end to it all, as though diplomacy was a one-off game, where everyone packed up and went home happily ever after. Yet before the Princess could announce her decision, the room muted to the thunderous entrance of one short but colorful jester.

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The jester entered the court with a rhythmed strut as he paraded around with a twirling baton, purposefully making a muck of himself at the slightest contact, where a mere brushing of an advisor’s feathered cap sent him careening to the floor. Each time, he orchestrated some level of acrobatics that ended with the unfouled baton still twirling around his fingers. ‘Name a highborn who did not rise on the back of a monarch’s demise. My liege Prince Gideon has arrived!’

The antics showed flavor with the young princess, as the sovereign in making broke from her reserved hesitation in anticipation of Gideon’s arrival. ‘Yes, please, my fool. I will gladly accept my uncle’s presence?’ said Marguen.

‘Titles,’ said Venessa with a frustrated sigh at the child’s error.

‘Of course. I welcome Prince Gideon’s presence. With haste, my fool.’

‘Good,’ said Venessa.

‘At once, your majesty,’ said the jester with a tumble roll backwards into a flamboyant jump. He then righted himself into a casual lean upon Sir Castell’s shoulder, whereupon he received a firm shrug by the less-amused noble, sending the jester tumbling further towards the door. ‘Oh, my. Best I stop myself less I cause further controversy.’ The jester departed with a rudimentary bow to both the Princess Marguen and Regent Venessa, but he saved his more exuberant arm to fling a curtsy for the stone-faced Sir Castell.

‘Does the sovereign flavor military or diplomacy?’ asked Sir Castell with a more forceful tone. His body was slouched as much as a man of his discipline would allow, knowing full well the answer, but needing to press the question none the less.

‘Um …’ said Marguen.

‘The Princess believes war is inevitable but not immediate. She grants you Duke De La Castel the full authority to prepare us for that eventually, while Sir Tristan, you are to lead all diplomatic efforts to avoid war, else our princess impose the taxes necessary to fund it,’ said Venessa.

‘I will do as my princess demands,’ said the honored commander before he excused himself, offering the customary patronage to the newly arrived Gideon and his entourage as they passed.

Gideon, however, fell to one knee and said to his sister and niece, ‘My princess, my regent, bearers of the best bloodline west of the barrens and north of the great blue dessert.’’

Venessa sat up straighter and replied, ‘Enough with the flattery. We have no need for a prince who brings the wolves to our pastures.’

‘Perhaps such tests are necessary to prove a worthy shepherd and remind the wolves who rules the land?’ said Gideon with a cheeky smile, knowing full well the appeal of his wit against the cold, callus logic that corroded any sense of the regent’s humanity.

Venessa rolled her eyes. ‘Always one with words. What a great fool you would make.’

‘The greater fool is the one who hunts me, while the wiser of our linage rests upon the revered Vasierian throne,’ said Gideon, diffusing each insult with humbled charm.

Amused, but not outwardly projecting, Venessa waved over her closest maid. ‘Madeline, please escort Princess Marguen to her chambers.’

‘But I wish to stay with Prince Gideon,’ the princess replied.

‘Patience and indifference,’ said Venessa.

‘Of course,’ said Marguen, emotionally retreating into a mirror image of her mother as she excused herself to a room stood at attention.

‘For those not named Prince Gideon or Sir Bradfrey, please excuse yourselves?’ said Venessa. Her steely gaze was bluntly focused upon her irritatingly jubilant brother.

‘Don’t smile too hard. You might break that beautiful face of yours,’ said Gideon, rising to his feet in anticipation of his sister’s ceremonial slap to the face.

Yet, amid her haste to assert authority, her dress became caught and ripped upon a loose protruding floorboard. The struggle broke her demeanor, and she devolved into teary-eyed frustration, upon a half-haphazard slap to an already expecting Gideon.

‘If only you had listened and killed Leichhardt, before father died … we could have averted all of this.’

‘Yeah. I don’t suppose surrendering me to Mansour came into question?’ said Gideon. More laughs than regrets.

‘I don’t care if it costs me my kingdom. I will never surrender you. Not to him, not that despicable brother of ours,’ she said before finally embracing her brother with free-flowing emotions from her untapped tear ducts.

‘Should I excuse myself, my regent?’ said Sir Bradfrey, his attention diverted as to never lay sight on his beloved regent’s uncomposed state.

‘No, not at all. Trust is a finite resource that’s becoming scarcer by the day.’

‘Court politics getting the better of you?’ Gideon asked with a smirk.

‘I will age a lifetime before my daughter is old enough to rule. She is everything to me, and I will not permit her to become someone’s puppet.’

‘Are you sure she doesn’t need more rope to learn her own way?’

‘In time. As for you, Sir Bradfrey. Your commitment to duty is beyond repute. I cannot thank you enough,’ said Venessa with a stern pull at his armor, until the young knight could not without grave insult avert her red puffed face.

‘Thank you, my regent, but all is not well. Grand Master Wizard Coble has befallen an ill fate.’

‘Oh no, by who,’ Vanessa said, her fist clenched harder against his chain mail.

‘Mansour knights working with a known pagan assassin. All of whom are captive or no longer burdening the living.’

‘And who will take Coble’s place?’

‘Draconian,’ said Sir Bradfrey, his head lowering in anticipation of the regent’s disappointment.

‘Personally, I find him perfectly reasonable to take over the role. Stubborn, yeah, but workable,’ said Gideon to the eye-rolling reception of Venessa, and Sir Bradfrey, dismissing Gideon’s comments as ignorance.

‘Well, Pragian’s wedged between us and Mansour. Any outbreak of war inevitably draws them in, and it has always been in their best interest to remain a protectorate of Vasier. Especially, given my brother’s ruthless eye for pagan lands. So, we’ll see how long Draconian reverts to isolationism before accepting Princess Marguen’s rule as the lesser evil,’ said Venessa as she gathered her emotions back behind her steely persona. She was no longer Gideon’s sister, but the strong-willed Regent of Vasier.