Straight lines stretched beyond the horizon, describing an intricate labyrinth with structures sprouting from the ground, as sublime as they were varied. An endless canvas whose wonders challenged the perfection of nature: the very divine creation. That painting was the capital city of Netzach as seen from the heavens, a privilege reserved exclusively for the birds and the ruler of the metropolis: King Renardin of Grianz.
The crystal windows of the Royal Palace gifted him that beautiful perspective, which, nonetheless, was not enough to fill him with joy. He wore a somber expression that he only allowed himself to adopt in solitude; the only confidante to whom he revealed his vulnerability. The king sat on his throne, perched on a high platform surrounded by stairs on both sides, reinforcing his majestic aura.
At his feet lay a wide circular space, with a mosaic depicting a white emblem in the center of its violet floor. Renardin lowered his gaze, observing that grand symbol with nostalgia. It portrayed in profile a robust creature surrounded by two laurel branches: a sort of armored beast with a large, flattened head wielding a horn, protruding above its snout like that of a rhinoceros. A round tuft of hair hanging from its forehead added a small touch of humor to an appearance that was otherwise fearsome.
Beneath that creature, a short name was written in cursive letters.
Lebias. The king read it in meditative silence. It was the name of the kingdom that had occupied this celestial palace for generations before his arrival. Despite the fact that, in essence, Lebias had ceased to exist, and Renardin ruled these lands in the name of his powerful motherland, Grianz, the monarch had left these and other vestiges untouched as a reminder of the roots of this place, which had become his second home since his youth.
I have worked day and night to defend your legacy, the legacy of the Dragar dynasty. But I remain stuck, unable to restore your former glory.
He was oppressed by a bitter helplessness that extended to his left hand, clenched into a tense fist. For a moment, he had the illusory sensation that his right hand was doing the same, but he only had to glance to where it should be to come back to his senses: he had lost it along with his forearm years ago. His eyes moved to his prosthetic arm, resting on his lap. The shiny finish of its metal and the beauty of its reliefs did not extinguish the disdain he felt for it. It was exceedingly uncomfortable to wear; he only forced himself to do so in public because the humiliation of exposing his pathetic stump to his subjects outweighed the inconvenience.
ELKAN! CURSED BE YOU! He shouted inwardly, delivering a spiteful blow with his only fist to the left armrest of the throne. You have destroyed everything I love! You have seized our riches to hand them over to the heretics of the desert... But you will not set foot in the city you betrayed again! The king swore, draining all the hatred he felt for his greatest enemy. For him, the source of his greatest misfortunes. No matter how vile your cursed Nefesh has become, or how many puny heretics you have gathered under your command. You will never surpass the defenses of Najta. I still have Elvira and the Order of Lebias by my side, but you insist on challenging Renardin, provoking the sister homelands of Lebias and Grianz!
The king turned his gaze back to the city. His brow furrowed even more.
What is your plan, you puny Bunta? What does that damned 'Abiyr' have to do with you? How do you intend to attack me this time, 'Mugnatir'?
He tilted his head. In addition to the concern about this new threat, which he had not anticipated even in his worst scenarios, he had another older, but equally present concern.
Half of Elvira... I only have the secure support of half of Elvira…
This honest reminder increased his tension.
Although all the Holy Houses of Elvira were bound by alliance on paper, it was quite fragile in practice, almost fiction. Divisions and low-profile rivalries had emerged over the years. Just as he had allies, Renardin had powerful opponents on the continent, and that angered him. If there was one thing he could not tolerate, it was his authority being questioned, both inside and outside his domains.
Suddenly, he felt the end of his armrest vibrate slightly, bringing him back to the present. The king moved his hand and pressed a small plate beneath an oval gem of transparent crystal.
"Your Majesty!" a voice emanated from small apertures between the gem and the plate of the armrest. "I apologize for interrupting your moment of reflection, but Lady Jan is here and wishes to speak with you," explained one of the palace servants. "She says it's urgent."
"Lady Jan?" the king responded, surprised. Lady Jan, his Minister of the Interior, must have a good reason to want to meet with such urgency. "Let her come up to see me. I'll attend to her immediately."
"Understood," the servant complied, cutting off the communication.
The king returned to complete silence, carefully adjusting his prosthetic arm as he awaited his visitor with mounting anticipation. Then, he could hear the door to the throne room open and close beneath him; Lady Jan had just entered.
With calm and measured steps, the Minister advanced to the center of the room and turned around, lifting her gaze to meet the king's.
"Your Majesty," the lady said, her voice deep but feminine, reflecting her character, as she curtsied to the king.
"Good morning, my Lady." Renardin greeted her with cheerful gestures. He observed carefully as she began to ascend the stairs on the left side of the throne, immersed in a justified delight that had dispelled all his displeasures. She was a mature woman with fair skin, long black hair, brown eyes, and thin lips, charming like those of a feline. Her luxurious long dress, dark red with black floral motifs, accentuated her curvaceous figure.
"You look stunning today," His Majesty praised.
"I could say the same about you, my king," Jan replied, finishing her ascent, reciprocating his flirtation. "Your speech this morning was wonderful."
With a slight blush on his cheeks, the king flashed a wide smile.
"If I couldn't lift the spirits of my people to the highest, I wouldn't be worthy of being their rooster," the monarch responded, highly flattered. There was nothing that pleased him more than receiving compliments. However, he soon adopted a more serious demeanor. "But you haven't sought to see me at this hour merely to 'boost my morale,' have you?" he asked, bringing his hand to his beard in a thoughtful pose. "Tell me, have any issues arisen?"
"No, everything is going perfectly," Jan denied, stopping to his right. She ran her hands along the backrest of the throne, lowering them to play with the king's hair. "The military preparations are almost complete," the minister continued. "All the Houses have confirmed that they will send reinforcements, including Magnolia and Kornblume."
"Magnolia and her lapdog Kornblume answering our call... It must be a miracle," the king said in a disdainful sarcasm. After Mugnatir, those two Houses were his other major political antagonists. "The 'Blessed' better not spring any surprises on us. Even that damned father of his would have had the common sense to back us in the face of a high risk of Tarburian invasion."
With a graceful turn, Jan straightened in front of the king, occupying his entire field of vision.
"The Tarburian interference, precisely, that's what I wanted to talk to you about, Your Majesty," she announced, adopting his same circumspection. "I have serious suspicions about what has happened in the Niespalian holdings. Significant doubts about what we've been told about that Abiyr appearing in Cirencre."
Renardin blinked, puzzled by his advisor's skepticism, recurring since the day the first reports arrived.
"Are you still unconvinced? ... But Ser Janpelan of Salamandera came to confirm the rumors personally," he said. "As terrible as it may be, there is no doubt that it is real. The Tarburians are conspiring again; it seems the League will finally have a genuine excuse to unite again."
"What I question is not the existence of this Abiyr or the likelihood of a Tarburian invasion, Your Majesty," she clarified. "The source of my doubts is precisely the Niespalian captain. I believe... he is hiding something from you."
Perplexed, the king arched his eyebrows, taking a moment to collect himself.
"Why, why do you have these thoughts?”
The Minister took a few steps around him, never breaking eye contact with the monarch, who continued to follow her gaze.
"Think about it. Doesn't the 'arrest' and 'escape' of the Abiyr seem odd to you? How could he have gone completely unnoticed through the Niespalian territories since then?" she argued. She halted her steps to the left of the throne, touching her king's hand gently as she brought her lips close to his ear. "As formidable and cunning as he may be, it's impossible that he suddenly became invisible to the authorities overnight. Someone must have helped him hide."
Renardin turned sharply toward her. Although Jan was his closest court advisor, he was not at all pleased with what she had just suggested.
"I've known Ser Janpelan since the Nefeshic Wars. I wouldn't say we're friends, but I've shared enough with him to know he's a trustworthy man," he reminded his Minister, increasingly at odds with her insinuations. "Why do you distrust him, a Holy Warrior from an allied kingdom?"
A short but tense calm settled between them. Lady Jan turned her face toward the large windows of the room. The canvas of the capital city was the stimulus she needed to organize her thoughts.
"Ser Janpelan told us that the Abiyr escaped from their dungeons while they were attacked, and since then, they never heard from him again. But very different versions circulate in inns and taverns," the lady explained. She returned her gaze to the king. "They claim that the Abiyr went to save the Niespalians from the corsairs. Some even dare to say that he remained in the city after the battle ended. Some claim to have seen him protected by Niespalian soldiers, soldiers led by their captain…"
"Wait, wait," Renardin extended and opened his hand as a signal to stop. "Are you trying to say that, according to them, the Abiyr and Ser Janpelan became friends by the grace of Maskirio?... Hahaha!" The king erupted into loud laughter. Such tales sounded so ludicrous to him that they helped alleviate the displeasure caused by the serious accusations they implied. "Surely they also saw them out for drinks! Singing troubadour songs together!..." he exclaimed with playful irony, finishing his laughter. "You said it, my Lady, they're just drunken tales with no rhyme or reason. I don't understand why you're giving them so much importance."
"Most likely, they are just that, I agree, but it wouldn't hurt to investigate," Jan replied. "You have always listened to the voice of the people; that's what sets you apart from the other leaders of the League. Are you going to ignore it now just because it sounds absurd?"
Those words prompted the king to respond with a cutting and disapproving silence. He was not receptive to such comments that questioned the symbol he was convinced he was for his kingdom.
"I know you don't like to hear criticism, but my job is to advise you on potential threats," the Minister continued, interpreting his thoughts accurately. "Ser Janpelan may have been one of your comrades in arms, but that doesn't change the fact that he's married to a Diklah. She could be manipulating him for some purpose."
"As much as she is a Diklah, I remind you that his wife helped us regain the loyalty of the Order of Lebias and defeat the Mining Guild's coup," the king rebutted, still on the defensive. "Without her, I might not still be sitting here."
"But can you say the same about the rest of his family?" the minister replied, determined to persuade him. "After all these years, they still mock you. Even that insolent theater actor, their new 'adoption,' is determined to follow tradition. It seems they weren't satisfied with taming just that beast of Mugnatir."
Those infamous mentions were a slap in the face for the king, who averted his gaze. His lips twisted into a grotesque grimace as he vividly recalled the faces of the Diklahs: one of the oldest and most influential clans in the region. The clan that raised his nemesis. The one that had adopted a Bunta, a member of the minority race inhabiting the "heretic empires of the desert," as one of their own. He cared little for their long history of suffering and slavery at the hands of the majority Ayarians. Since Mugnatir reunified the Sulfnats and became the first Khalsuf, the first supreme leader of Bunta blood in history, they all became the same scum to him.
Lady Jan smiled slyly as she observed His Majesty immersed in his murky resentments. She was achieving what she intended.
"It is true that General Or defended your divine right to the throne of Netzach when you needed it most, but remember, opinions can change," she said as she moved to sit on his lap, once again capturing his full attention. "It's no secret that in recent years she has become more distant from our government. At best, it could be a simple and harmless dissatisfaction with your administration; at worst, she might be seriously considering conspiring against you, just as the rest of her clan did during the Mining Guild coup," she suggested. "That's why you must order an investigation into her and all her closest associates to ensure as soon as possible. Nothing should be left untouched."
Intoxicated by desire, the monarch held the lady's right hip with his only hand, pulling her to merge her body with his.
"You're absolutely right," he agreed, smiling at her with a mischievous sensuality that she reciprocated. The two brought their lips close, about to merge them in a passionate kiss; another page in their long clandestine affair.
However...
"Ah?!"
They both separated in mutual startle. Both had just heard someone else enter the room unannounced, closing the door hastily.
As they recovered from the shock, they both lowered their gazes to identify the intruder. It was a man dressed from head to toe in a suit of fine white fabric, as delicate as silk. The fabric was covered by protective pieces of shining silver at vulnerable points on his limbs and chest. His mouth and nose were hidden by a mask of the same material, attached to a helmet with a curved and pointed top. The mask exposed only part of his deep-set brown eyes, mysterious like the rest of his appearance.
The masked figure executed a silent bow to the king, who was too dismayed by his untimely visit to respond to the greeting.
"Renardin. Your Majesty," he said with a firm yet calm voice, correcting his protocol lapse just in time. Even in private and among trusted individuals, his king demanded to be addressed by his titles. "I bring you a report. An arrest has just taken place at the Ahmal station."
That simple clarification only served to further inflame the ruler's temper. He expected that his "moment of reflection" had been disrupted for something much more exceptional.
"An arrest? Are you an idiot?" he lashed out, forgetting all his manners. "Have you only come to tell me some trivial crap like that, Zeham?!"
The harshness of his complaints did not faze "Zeham," who showed no sign of submission.
"If it were trivial, I wouldn't be foolish enough to be forced to disturb you, Your Majesty," assured the masked man, maintaining a calm composure, indicative of infinite patience. He briefly shifted his gaze between the monarch and the Minister. His mask concealed well his repulsion at the scene. He didn't need to be a general of the Order of Lebias to deduce what kind of act he had interrupted. "And indeed, it concerns you, Lady Batrand."
Jan furrowed her brow lightly; the masked man had just addressed her by her marital surname. She was equally annoyed by the unwanted presence of the visitor and his attitude, but at the same time, she felt genuine curiosity about the news he had reserved for them.
"Sublieutenant Docemin Batrand of the Grianzan army, your daughter," he finally conveyed, emphasizing visually on Lady Jan before returning it to the king, "has just been arrested at the Ahmal station along with Lieutenants Cyprain and Renel Cotores, sons of your general Maxilan Cotores, on charges of false accusation, extortion, disturbance of civil order, and improper use of nefeshic arts. General Chatel Chatel has personally ordered their confinement in the station dungeons, awaiting their court-martial."
ns 15.158.61.12da2
