King Alonso – that’s King Alonso the Great of House Capriellus, Premier Vanguard of the Alvari Kingdom, Holy Protector of the First Scriptures, Dragonslayer, Chief Patron of the Circle of Mages, Hero of the People, He who Commands the Seasons, the Magnificent and Magnanimous, and the Destined Ruler of All Nations to you, thank you very much – sat upon his throne with a decidedly bored expression gracing his plump, double-chinned face.

The full cheeks and jowls of a well-fed fellow; the airy eyes of a peacetime king.

Indeed, everything about the elf, from the thick Northern furs that lined his robes to the blood-red jewels that adorned his pointed ears, screamed of the utmost comfort and opulence.

Of course, Alonso wasn’t entirely a picture of glory.

If one stood back a bit and squinted their eyes, Alonso could almost pass as a halfbreed of elf and pig. But to the king’s credit – and in his defense – he had once been a dashing young fellow. Somewhere beneath the folds of fat, behind the thin, wispy beard and head of graying hairs, the handsome features of the young Prince Alonso could still be found.

Somewhere.

...

Probably.

As if mourning the once-glorious appearance of his liege, the head advisor, a spindly elf who looked to be everything Alonso was not, let out a saddened sigh. How he missed the sight of the king leading his soldiers into battle, riding on the back of a pure white steed, sword raised defiantly into the sky!

Some years ago, the advisor had even gathered the courage to warn His Majesty about his growing waist, but Alonso had been none too pleased. For the insolence of pointing out that the king was, in fact, fat, the head advisor had paid dearly with his…

Well, nothing really.

Contrary to what his appearance and rather gratuitous set of titles might suggest, Alonso was actually a very good king. A great one, even. He was known to deal fairly and justly with his subjects, was well-liked by the bourgeoisie for the various economic reforms he had put in place, and he had, in fact, struck the killing blow against an invading dragon during the peak of his youth.

Even now, though he looked detached as can be, he was actually in the middle of carrying out his kingly duties, and was listening to his marshal’s daily report.

“We continue to train our soldiers in the usage of the longbow, sire. As I believe I said yesterday, even the elves and men who have been training for over a year still struggle to hold their draws. We are, of course, on the path to doubling our efforts in this regard. Ehm…”

The marshal absentmindedly twirled the ends of his handlebar mustache as he scanned the rest of his notes.

“Other than that, sire… there is only the matter of the Rosy Raiders left to report.”

At the mention of the mercenary company, Alonso’s ears perked up. He prompted the marshal to continue, speaking with a sonorous and commanding voice that contrasted impressively with the state of his health at large.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“And what of them, good marshal? Are they still making themselves a nuisance upon our border?”

“Well ah… yes sire, they are.”

The speed of the marshal’s mustache twirling increased; the change was slight, but it was enough for the king to notice.

“And?”

“Well, sire, they’ve actually become bolder in their antics. They’ve… laid siege to the human town of Pirreno… But there is, ah… there is, of course, no need to worry yourself about this trivial matter, sire. I’ve already dispatched a regiment of our finest troops, and we’ll have the heads of those bandits mounted on stakes before the next moon.”

He hesitated.

“You have my word.”

Alonso leaned back further in his throne and sighed. Peace was good and well, he thought. But peace also meant that mercenary companies like the Rosy Raiders (who sported a god-awful name, he might add) were out of honest work and would often resort to banditry and pillaging to keep themselves fed.

He held out a chubby hand and waved to dismiss the marshal.

“I... have faith in you, Riccard. You may go.”

Riccard bowed deeply, grateful relief evident in his eyes.

“Your Majesty.”

As the marshal turned to leave, his cape whipping around him as he did so, Alonso reached out and motioned for his head advisor to move a bit closer.

“Tell me, Marsus. What do you make of these ‘Rosy Raiders’?”

The advisor hummed softly as he gathered his answer.

“I am of the belief that they are hardly a cause for concern, Your Majesty. These poorly-named mercenaries are but an insignificant droplet against the overflowing cup that is our nation’s great military.”

Alonso gave a short chuckle.

“You still aren’t a very good poet, my friend.”

“My deepest apologies, sire.”

“Mmm.”

A moment passed in silence.

“But! To return to the subject, Your Majesty. The only things you should even be remotely worried about presently are, dare I say it, your health…”

He paused to gauge Alonso’s reaction, and he continued when the king gave no indication that he was going to take the bait.

“...and Archmage Ataraxis’s letter from two moons ago.”

At this, the king furrowed his eyebrows.

“Marsus, kindly remind me of the details.”

“Absolutely, sire. The Archmage wrote to us regarding a ‘temporary tear in the Ether,’ and described how something catastrophic could happen if the tear were to open again. That said, he also wrote how the chances of that happening are virtually nonexistent, and that he would quickly send word if it did.”

Alonso formed an “o" with his lips as he recalled the incident. The Archmage had a habit of fear-mongering, only to tell the victim just a few words later that everything was actually going to be perfectly alright. It was an annoying trait of the otherwise agreeable elf, and the curt letter had given Alonso quite the scare despite the reassurances it contained.

“I couldn’t sleep for a number of nights after reading that.”

Marsus smiled knowingly.

“Neither could I, sire. But as we have not heard from the Circle of Mages since, it would appear that all is well.”

“So it would. So it would...”

Finding himself sufficiently back at ease, Alonso let out a sigh of content.

“Say... might it almost be time for my midday meal? I am feeling rather –”

There was a loud bang as the doors of the throne room flew open, and a single robe-cladden figure marched his way inside.

“Your Majesty!” the figure hollered as it lowered its hood.

A clean shaven head with runes tattooed on the scalp. A pure white beard so thick that it wholy compensated for the hairless void above it.

It was Ataraxis, Archmage of the Alvari Kingdom. And he looked worried.

“The Ether!” he shrieked.

Alonso and Marsus turned to face each other.

...

“Blast.”