Prologue
Artume - Southern Kingdom
The roots of a tree are as winding as its branches. Sever a branch and another grows to fill the void. Sever its roots and watch it wither.
Unlike the northern kingdom of Cambria, the southern territories of Artume offered its inhabitants little.
Harsh winds swept across the desert, shifting the sands across the sun-scorched landscape.
And yet, its people endured. Long gone were the days of rampant skirmishes and ransacked villages—the tithes of war.
These were the days of peace, ushered in by a pact between the two kingdoms centuries ago.
Though the years had not been plentiful, the peace held.
But it could not last.
Treaties and accords proclaim peace through every royal hall, but sedition bleeds onto the page before the ink is even dry.
Boundaries are rearranged, and mighty walls, impenetrable for generations, are scaled or reduced to rubble with the innovations of war.
The histories remember peace with a sentence; they canonize bloodshed and sacrifice with marble statues and tomes.
To alter the course of history, one must be brave enough to set events into motion that would see it rewritten.
A monarch’s legacy lives on, not only through the bloodline, but in the chronicles scribed after their reign has ended.
And if the current ruler does not pave a bold new path for their lands and people, then like the delicate rose bush, the bloodline can only survive with a bit of pruning…
King Baelin had no male heirs. His daughter, Princess Embry, would someday reign as Artume’s first queen—should she remain an only child. Her mother’s youth offered her husband some comfort as they continued to try for a son.
Prince Silas, his younger brother, also resided in Baelin’s palace, and one might have believed from his cordial and charismatic personality that he was content to live the life of a royal without the burden that his brother shouldered as king.
He was unwed till recently, when his brother Baelin forced upon him a betrothal to the daughter of a wealthy master of trade.
Silas accepted his fate with little reluctance, but continued keeping company with many ladies of the court and other, more deviant consorts.
One evening, by the dim light and crackle of the fireplace, Baelin played a game of cards with Silas.
A common occurrence for the brothers; a hobby they’d shared since childhood.
Baelin had always been the better cardplayer and had no tells.
He played with honor and a distinct strategy.
Silas, on the other hand, was sloppy, taking risks that often did not pay off.
After losing a number of hands, Silas was confident he had finally been dealt a round of cards in his favor.
He laid the cards down neatly, one by one, to boast certain victory.
Baelin assessed his brother’s cards, then lifted his chin, a smug smile stretching across his face.
Suddenly, Silas lashed out, lunging across the table to plunge a dagger straight into his brother’s chest. He wrapped his hand over Baelin’s mouth, muffling the sounds of struggle.
Silas removed the dagger abruptly, ensuring rapid blood loss and a swift death.
He held his brother in his arms as Baelin looked up into his eyes, the unmistakable gaze of accusation and betrayal.
He tried to speak but instead coughed up blood.
With no use of his voice, there was only his eyes.
A pleading, confused look, as if asking, Why, dear brother?
Silas’ glassy stare hinted at immediate regret.
Yet, he could not bring himself to reply. From a darkened corner of the room, a tall, cloaked male approached. Calm but menacing, he declared, “A new era requires a new heir…”
He crouched down, revealing himself to the dying king. A commotion of screams and ringing of swords echoed throughout the keep. In a quiet, gravelly voice, he spoke again. “Your reign has come to an end.”
Silas, distraught at having taken the life of his own brother, could not bring himself to carry out the remainder of the task.
Instead, a small militia loyal to Silas and the cloaked male finished the initial massacre, beginning with the slaughter of Queen Islan as she slept.
The princess was taken for collateral and locked in the dungeon to be kept under constant surveillance.
Any Kingsguard that attempted to thwart the coup were killed, and any staff that did not follow instruction were also eliminated.
That night would be forever known as the ‘Silent Eve,’ when the Kingdom of Artume fell from within at the hand of the king’s own brother.
Outside the castle walls, as darkness pushed the last rays of daylight aside, the townspeople tidied their kitchens and sang their children to sleep.
Beyond their homes, the night was unnaturally quiet, for somehow even the nocturnal creatures sensed the violence on the wind, and so kept their conversations hushed.
By the time the first songbird gathered the courage to sing at dawn, the castle had installed a new regime.
“My liege, it’s only been a few weeks and we have nearly rooted out all of the sympathizers to ensure our new court consists only of loyal subjects—whether by true belief or fear. Still more loyal subjects are arriving daily to be fully vetted.”
Zarif, the newly appointed Hand of the King, had seen to the effort himself.
Though he towered above Silas, he always approached the king with a curved spine and shrunken shoulders, a clear manipulation for anyone who had truly seen him.
Those that felt his presence fully knew the evil that resided in him.
He was what common folk referred to as hexed, having one brown eye and one blue.
Those who believed in the lore of the old Gods said that anyone with such an affliction had severed their soul, likely in some dark bargain.
While Zarif’s post named him as an advisor for the king’s affairs, everyone knew his counsel was law.
It was by his hand that Queen Islan took her last breath.
With an army at his command and spies paid from the royal purse, Zarif’s true lust for blood and power was unbound.
Hushed rumors quickly spread throughout the land that he was intent on bringing about the next great conflict.
Silas was, by all measures, inexperienced as a leader. He’d long ago stopped paying attention to the mundane affairs of his brother’s kingdom, as he never expected to one day rule. He was a malleable male, especially since he kept himself regularly lubricated with drinks of the vine.
As long as Zarif kept Silas busy with parties in his honor, courtesans at his beck and call, and a full goblet, he was able to enact his own will and call it the king’s with little to no opposition.
“Is all of this violence really necessary? The reports I am hearing are disturbing, even for you,” Silas questioned his Hand.
“You know the plan, do not waver now. Your people must believe that Cambria is a threat once more. Let me sow the seeds of discontent. It is essential we distract them while we make progress on the other front.”
“How are things coming along with the mining operations?” King Silas asked. The sooner their secret endeavor came to fruition, he thought, the sooner the senseless killing of his people could come to an end.
“We’ve located the pocket of the canyon that is rumored to conceal what we seek.
Our people are working on making entry without alerting any of Cambria’s border patrol.
The risk of detection is high, of course, but so is the reward.
I’m receiving regular reports and will continue to share any progress with you. ”
And so the plan continued as Zarif executed the dark and necessary deeds in the name of the Crown, justifying them as a means to an end.
Threaten their safety, show them the cruel face of war, soak their households in the blood of their own, and when it came time to advance on the border, there would only be unwavering loyalty to their cause.
By then, their secret weapon would be ready to provide an undeniable advantage.
Cambria couldn’t prepare if they never saw it coming.
Unbeknownst to them, Cambrian forces had already arrived…