-Housekeeping-

{Excerpt}

In the annals of time, amidst the year 1409 S.T., there arose a stirring tale of strife and conquest, woven within the fabric of Ivonne's realm. King Stefans Zoroaster, bearing the mantle of sovereignty, marshalled his forces, embarking on a daring campaign southward, piercing through the formidable barrier of the Alps to lay claim to the lands of Syrii. Thus dawned a pivotal epoch in the annals of Udorian governance, wherein the twelve crowned heads of Udoris, consumed by a fervent desire for dominion, waged war upon each other—with the lost tribes as their reluctant pawns—in a delusional bid to unify Udoris under one crown.

For four decades henceforth, the flames of ambition engulfed the hearts of Udorian monarchs, each ensnared by the illusion of effortless triumphs adorning the path to supremacy. Adhering to the stringent tenets of chivalry, they honed novel stratagems of diplomacy and warfare, driven by an insatiable thirst for renown and dynastic ascendancy. Their dominions burgeoned with an abundance of men and resources, emancipating themselves from the fetters imposed by the Faith of the Six. The ensuing conflict bathed the realm in blood, claiming the lives of myriad souls, as Udoris languished in a protracted state of enfeeblement destined to endure for generations.

Yet, amidst the crucible of strife, emerged a duality of tradition and innovation, melded in the forge of war's relentless fury. The tapestry of conflict bore witness to a metamorphosis in Udorian governance, as erstwhile adversaries embraced novel modalities of diplomacy, free from the shackles of the Band of the Six. Borrowing from the sagacity of Algrian envoys and the Tequilan art of resident ambassadors, they augmented their arsenal with intelligence garnered through both fair means and foul. In the theatre of war, the Verumittes distinguished themselves as pioneers, harnessing the prowess of mercenary legions, siege engines, naval blockades, and formidable fortifications. Their martial prowess found a worthy adversary in the Ariens of the northeast, who birthed the Immortals—a venerated cadre of elite warriors, melding the finest stratagems and armaments of Udorian ilk with unyielding fealty.

Thus, the annals of history enshrine the Great War as a harrowing crucible, wherein antiquity and innovation converged in a maelstrom of bloodshed, sculpting the contours of Udorian destiny. In the throes of conflict, the hegemony of Udorian politics lay rent asunder, birthing a new order that continues to shape the realm's ethos to this day. As the final embers of war smouldered to ash, the tapestry of Udorian sovereignty dwindled from twelve sovereign states to a mere seven, marking the demise and absorption of Crotha, Lunao, Syrii, Hogan, and Witeron, thereby concluding the great conflict.

...

Excerpt from the remnants of Ahoth Dan's notes regarding the Great War.

{END}

[12.13.1623]

Windy Fir Woodlands.

A SPLATTER of crimson and a lofted blade. A head soared, tracing a bloody arc through the air. With a dull thud, the beheaded form collapsed, crimson rivulets swiftly staining the parched autumn leaves. Vlad stood transfixed as the sinister assailant, a knight of imposing stature, lowered his blade, now glistening with viscous gore.

"Pl-please, have mercy," Vlad implored, his voice trembling with fear. His eyes darted towards two ladies astride noble mounts a short distance away, realization dawning grimly upon him that he alone remained among the living. His retinue of guards and confederates lay strewn about, their lifeblood mingling with the earth in dark pools. Panic seized him, and he turned to flee, only to slip on the decaying foliage. The steady tread of boots drew closer, and as he rose, he stumbled once more. In an instant, searing agony ripped through his chest. He glanced down to behold the cruel tip of a blade piercing his torso.

Before the pain could fully engulf him, the sword withdrew, and Vlad, writhing in anguish, turned to confront his assailant. Yet, the fiend's eyes betrayed no emotion as Vlad felt his lifeblood ebbing away, his futile attempts to staunch the flow met with futility. The thick crimson flooded his lungs, drowning him upon the forest floor. The fiend nonchalantly sheathed his blade, wiping it clean with a stray leaf, a flicker of emotion finally crossing his gaze.

Disdain.

The demon surveyed Vlad's fallen comrades before addressing the ladies with a courteous bow. "Forgive the unsightly scene, Your Majesty, Your Highness," he offered, his tone respectful.

"Hmm..." one of the ladies murmured, averting her gaze from the gruesome spectacle, her disgust palpable.

"And who were they?" inquired the other, exuding regal composure. To the former, she appeared as an elder kin, sharing akin features of fair complexion, blond tresses, and ice-blue eyes.

"Merely common bandits," the demon replied dismissively. "They foolishly sought sport in hunting us. Come, Your Majesties. We must not tarry here. Let us seek shelter elsewhere for the night."

And thus, Vlad watched as the dark-clad figure, mounted upon his steed, rode off into the night, leaving him to languish in a pool of his own blood, abandoned to his fate.

***

Five hours later.

Beneath the waning glow of the sun's farewell, Aden tended a fire, its flickering flames casting dancing shadows upon the forest floor. The woodlands teemed with the hushed symphony of twilight; the distant melody of birds settling for the eve, the rhythmic chorus of katydids, and the rustle of creatures in the verdant canopy. Roots entwined, ferns decayed, and fallen leaves whispered beneath his feet as the duke arranged makeshift shelters for himself and his companions; the encroaching night hastening their preparations.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

"Lord Aden," Princess Iris beckoned, her voice a mere whisper.

"Aye, Your Highness?"

"My sire," she spoke softly, a trace of anguish colouring her words, "what fate awaits him now?"

"His Majesty shall endure," the duke replied, his gaze fixed upon the flames, seemingly impervious to the princess's emotional undercurrent. "Though they may seek to starve, humble, or torment him, he shall endure." Aden knelt by the fire, prodding the embers with a dry branch, his steely eyes reflecting the fiery glow. "His Majesty is a prize to be preserved; his living flesh worth more than its weight in gold. They shall take care to ensure his survival. A dead king is of no value to anyone."

A foreboding silence befell the camp.

Aden looked up to see the princess glaring at him.

"Such levity ill befits discussion of His Majesty," the princess cautioned, her tone devoid of humour. Aden merely shrugged in response.

"Leonard is kin ere he is king in my heart. My levity attests to my loyalty and faith in his fortitude."

Iris fell silent, lost in contemplation, before conceding with a sigh.

"So, where are we heading now?" she asked.

"To my holdings on the border," Aden answered. "There we shall seek refuge until a means to rectify this predicament presents itself."

"Faywyn?"

"Aye."

"Can we ransom him?" she ventured.

"Mayhap," Aden replied. "Given time, we may secure his release," he added, a note of uncertainty colouring his words, "yet a king's ransom may exceed my means. I shall petition some of his more noble vassals in the south for aid before matters worsen beyond remedy."

Another silence ensued.

"...Thank you," Iris spoke at last.

"For what?" Aden chuckled dryly. "My duty as a vassal, friend, and brother is not worthy of gratitude. If you seek to thank me, then strive to endure and safeguard your mother," he gestured towards Queen Irina, who slumbered fitfully nearby, her silent tears a testament to her distress.

"Nevertheless," Iris persisted, "I am grateful."

"I shall keep vigil. Rest now, Your Highness, for the morn heralds a gruelling journey ahead."

***

The next day

Faywyn.

The Kaya, a luscious fruit borne from the Kaya tree, had graced the gardens of smallfolk in Northern Aries and the northeastern reaches of Verum for generations before Ivonian traders spread its cultivation across Udoris. They were typically round and ranging in size between two to three inches in diameter with dense, sweet, purple flesh; one would be forgiven for mistaking the fruit for an unidentified apple cultivar. James surely did, munching contently on one, before remembering that apples, like many other things he remembered from Earth, also existed in Udoris.

A loaf of bread with a large cup of milk lay on a tray by his side. His thoughts wandered, contemplating the possibility that he was never incorrect in assuming the fruit was an apple cultivar in the first place; it could be and Udoris' crude imitation of a scientific community just hadn't stumbled on the fact yet. Biting into the fruit's crisp, succulent flesh, he observed Lancelot who sat staring back at him; dark circles adorned the viscount's eyes, having barely had any sleep at all.

James turned to stare out the window, watching squirrels dart about in a tree not far from his window; a serene quietness, unbefitting of the ambient tension hung in the air.

"...Do you truly deem this wise, Young Lord?" queried Lancelot, his voice tinged with doubt. "I hold reservations."

"It shall suffice," James retorted dully, his attention refocusing on the matter at hand as he delved into his Kaya once more.

"Our ranks number a mere seventy-four, My Liege. His Grace withdrew the bulk of our forces at the war's onset to aid the king, leaving scant remnants. More than two-thirds of our meagre contingent now lie dead or have forsaken us following Sean's insurrection. The Heras presently outnumber us nearly threefold."

Lancelot's gaze bore a trace of trepidation as he sat opposite James. "A single misstep could spell our undoing," he cautioned.

"Thus, I entrust you with this task. I have faith in your capability to navigate these matters with precision."

Lancelot sighed again. "This plan harbours no simplicity, My Lord."

"And what alternative do you propose?" James inquired, punctuating his query with another audible bite of the Kaya. "The Heras shall harry us relentlessly should we heed their summons and forsake the haven of this keep. Count Josh and his ilk, I surmise, shall not honour noble surrender with chivalrous regard. We have no allies close enough to intervene promptly: In light of all that's happened, the Timels cannot be trusted to hour their oaths either. There is no one coming to rescue us. If concerns regarding the success of my plan weigh that heavily on you, relocate your kin to safer confines. Yet, my resolve remains unswayed."

Lancelot hesitated, his resolve wavering before James's steadfast gaze.

"Do you not trust me, Lancelot?" James pressed, fixing him with an unyielding stare.

Silence.

"Lancelot?" James repeated, leaning forward as he steepled his fingers.

Lancelot met James's gaze for a moment before yielding.

"When do we depart?" he asked wearily, surrendering to his Lord's resolve.

"Today." James declared. "It's high time I paid these pesky neighbours of mine a visit."