Wrath sighed in annoyance as he sat on the side of his bed. Hunched over a small war map he had teleported into his room, placed upon his bedside table. With the whole of the Kingdom of Orvivia splayed out before him he realised how little he knew of his enemy. He had been there a few times with his father, but only as a child, it was clear to him that the nation had changed drastically in the decade since then. It had been far too long since he stepped foot in the Red King’s domain. The traitorous cunt that had murdered his father, or at least had led to his demise.

Anger bubbled within him, as he recalled all the times his father had aided the traitor as an ally. He practically considered the King extended kin, asinine, in truth. His sire had been foolish, placing so much faith in a lesser being, one would think after what happened to the Elves every Blessed would distrust mortals on principle.

Personally, he trusted none but his siblings and even then only so far. The betrayal of the former Lord of Love only reinforced this ideal. If even those who he fought beside for years could stab him in the back it was best to watch all with a critical eye.

The devastation of the Sentinels of Wrath had done more harm than he had thought. If the heir apparent could be spirited away in the night without his knowledge. The Lord Sentinel had warned him, true, but Wrath had not dared believe it had been as bad as it was. It would have to be rectified immediately, no matter the cost, if they were to send the Thousand Masks to war. Galliard being kidnapped was more than enough proof that the Sentinels needed to be reinforced.

Not only this, he thought looking down at the map in his hands, but the western continent of Shevara was a harsh battleground. Mountain fortresses stood as bastions across the northern and eastern lands. Attempting any landings there would have them spotted before they even reached the shores. Not to mention having to siege the stone bulwarks, or even worse, go around them. Either would have them harried by knights and mages looking to whittle them down for the next pitched battle.

No, they would have to come from the west to the port city of Gordartown. They were always looking for a reason to rebel against the Crimson Kings. Yet, south of them was the Redwater Duchy and their Elven thralls. It was dangerous to sail in the crimson waters, the curse of the divine corroding all that trespassed in the Crimson Sea. Their presence, however, was not to be ignored. Not with Blessed under their command, the Elven Nobles of another age, few as they were in comparison to their own. What side would they choose in the war to come? It was no secret that the enslavers of the Elven nobility were ambitious, ever looking to gain more power. Having them at their backs could prove disastrous…

“You have been sitting here looking at this thing for hours,” Syrin crawled up behind him, getting on her knees to rub his stiff shoulders. “Go lay down, get some rest, you can resume in the morning and look at it with rested eyes.”

“There is no time to rest, we must make a move before they do,” Wrath put his head back to rest it on her. Syrin ran her hands down his chest as she kissed his neck and shoulders. “The Red King may be the one who betrayed my father but it is the Brotherhood we truly must be wary of.”

Syrin hummed her agreement as she continued her ministrations. The actions of his beloved sent shivers throughout him as her hands drift up to his chest. A sharp knock on the distant door drew him out of the pleasant sensation, however. He was beginning to wonder if his servants had some kind of supernatural ability to sense when he was at ease. They seemed to have the desire to frustrate him when he was at his most relaxed.

Standing from the bed smoothly he strode towards the door, placing his mask back onto his face as he did so. His preferred armour was donned with but a thought as he grumbled at the interruption. Behind that door, Monica, the frightened little rodent girl his wife had apparently become fond of, flinched away from him as he glared down at her.

“What is it?” He ground out, none too pleased with her presence.

“M-my lord,” The stammering girl took a moment to give him a shaky curtsy. “Your Lady wife has requested my presence at this time.”

The man grunted, unamused by the turn of events as he was, but stood aside as the Lady of Wrath stepped through the doorway to greet the shorter woman. He listened for a moment, then discarded the pair from his mind as they spoke of the new servants and their progress. He would have to review their advancement himself sooner or later, but for now, his thoughts were occupied with more pressing matters.

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Taking his leave of the two, he began towards the barracks of the castle. Nodding to the head maid Cleo as he passed her in the halls. No doubt to berate the other Rabbitkin for some failure or another. He briefly wondered if allowing her to train them would lead to some form of trauma but discarded the idea, the mortals would die in due time anyway.

But it was not Cleo he was concerned with at the moment. No, it was the man leaning against the door of the Sentinel barracks. One leg propped against the ancient wooden barrier as he flipped a blade between his deft fingers. Tristan, he had not seen the man for a month or so, after he informed him of Herra’s intentions to infiltrate the Crystal Palace as a servant. He almost wished he could see his sister’s face when she saw her lover there. It was a sight that he dearly wanted to be there in person for. Lamenting at the missed opportunity to tease his younger sister he waved Syrin’s Clansmen to follow him.

“My Lord.” The man bowed in respect as he reached Wrath. “I have sampled the honeysuckle and its nectar was sweet.” He spoke with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

Wrath had suspected that Tristan had found what he wanted before the words even passed his lips. The people of the clans were proud, doubly so, of the Clan of Envy. The man before him would not have dared to show his face before Wrath until he had accomplished the goal the Lord had given to him.

“Follow me.” Was all that the lord said as he walked through the doors of the council room.

Tristan shut the door behind him, as he was about to speak, Lord Wrath put a finger to his covered lips, silencing him. His magic reached out, crawling across the stone and swimming through the air. Enclosing the room with his power and shutting it off to the rest of the world.

“Lady Kindness has located the leader of the rebellion,” He stated, glancing down at his notes. “They are camped out in Ravoldy in Orvivia.”

“In the planes, how have they not been run down by the Orvivian knights?” Wrath questioned.

“Stolen horses, large moveable camps, scouts at all hours.” Tristan shrugged.

“That sounds like the tactics of the eastern nomads, who is leading them?” The Lord asked, curious.

“A mortal Knight, Mariun, exiled for unknown reasons,” The retainer hummed to himself. “Although I suppose insubordination may have had something to do with it.”

“Evidently…” Wrath scoffed, walking to the centre of the room where a large map lay.

Shadows flickered unnaturally in the torchlight, rising as mountains formed, rivers spread through the land and castles stood defiant on the world of parchment.

The western continent of Shevara lay there, every mountain, the many rivers, every hold and the houses that kept them. Still, there was so much he did not know. The spirits that guarded the natural world, the spies of the other Blessed and the servants of the twin churches. Was that not a headache in the making?

“The Churches of Dawn and Dusk may lend us aid in this if we can prove our cause.” His retainer spoke, looking thoughtful.

The Churches of Dawn and Dusk had spread far since the second cycle. Now, they were found anywhere mortal life persisted much to the annoyance of the Church of Twilight. Still, they were useful for many things, not least of which were their Saints. Messengers of the Divine and powerful combatants in their own right. It was not uncommon for Saints to be seen when the Churches called a Crusade upon the enemies of the Gods. Calling forth all who were faithful to the banner of the Church to cleanse the world of Xendrada of the sinful. Yet the Red King was, in the eyes of all, as devout as they come. Ever pious and ready to assist the devout in their needs. To the mortals of the Western Churches, he was a man who embodied their tenets to the letter and never failed to show his devotion to the One Thousand Gods.

“The Red King has the support of the Western Churches, they will not attack him without due cause, we can not rely on them…” Wrath shook his head at the question, they had yet to intervene in the rebellion so far, after all.

The Lord of the Thousand looked down upon the shadows, ever-shifting, to the heart of Orvivia Crimson Keep. Mountains to the north, a great river cutting it off if not for the great stone bridge, the flat planes and farmlands beyond being scouted by riders at all hours. The more he thought of the terrain of the Altan’s domain the more of a headache he got. Their ability to overpower the mages of the Kingdom was also in question, though not due to the mortals. With the support of the Fang Brotherhood, the battles to come would be explosive and bloody.

“The war to come will define the direction of this cycle.” Tristan noted, sounding exhausted at the thought.

“Yes, it shall,” Wrath agreed, looking at the map intently. “Let us pray to the Gods that we come through it intact.”