[center][b]Ennis, Days Earlier [/b][/center] All things considered, he had been expecting a warmer welcome. The ambassador—no, that wouldn’t do anymore—the heir didn’t want some grand parade or a soiree for his return, nor did he expect fireworks or a string quartet, but at least a greeting by his family would have been nice. Instead, the only familiar face he saw was the one of his father’s steward, who coldly told him to wait for Lord Dedrick Cade in his study like a common businessman. Too tired by his travels to make a fuss, Ennis took a seat in the leather chair facing the much larger, emptier one across the desk from him. There he fidgeted nervously, trying to think of how he’d convince his father to have his men join forces with the Barceans and Guratans against Gartian. Certainly, more impossible tasks had been accomplished before. Ennis heard footsteps and stood, turning in time to see his father arrival. Lord Cade had his son’s face and height but not his build. While Ennis could barely lift his sword without straining himself, even in his sixties Lord Cade still looked like he could best most men and even a few Divineborn in a fight. Looking again, however, Ennis could see the slow gait in his walk and the exhaustion in his eyes, and his hair had greyed significantly since the last time the two had spoken and had receded so aggressively that it looked like a bird’s beak and two wings. To make up for the lack of hair on the top of his head, the man had taken to growing plenty on the bottom. Ennis took a step forward and held out his hand; the old man was having none of that. Reaching forward, he pulled his son into his arms and gave him a strong hug, patting him twice on the back with both hands. “What, they didn’t feed you down there?” said Dedrick, pulling himself back from his son as if to fully take him in again. “It’s good to see you too, father.” “Good doesn’t even begin to describe it, son,” he said, taking a seat at his desk. He gestured for Ennis to do the same. “I heard quite a few rumors about you growing friendly with those Serio brats and was worried that perhaps our King had heard the same. For once I am glad that he has deaf ears, otherwise I feared you may not have been able to make it home so easily.” “Y-yes,” said Ennis, nervously glancing at the desk. Everything upon it was neatly sorted and organized, with not a single paper out of place. He swallowed hard, and then began to spin his yarn. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. Before I returned home, I had a chat with the Queen. She had any interesting proposition for me, well, for us.” He decided it would be easier if he made it sound like it wasn’t his idea; at least not until he could get a read on his father. “She called it a way to broker a prosperous peace between H’kela and Barcea. An alliance of sorts, if you will.” Something in that statement struck the elder Cade as amusing, causing him to hoot and slam his fist on his desk. Ennis was able to muster a slight, uncomfortable smile as his father continued to laugh and shake his head, incredulously. “So she was like her father after all: unable to accept defeat.” “Defeat?” said Ennis. A smirk lined Dedrick’s lips. “Barcea lost. The Queen surrendered herself the other day to protect their city. An admirable, if naive, sacrifice. But surely this is not news to you, because I cannot see why you would want to talk about this amusing anecdote otherwise. Surely, it would be unwise to even suggest that you gave consideration to an alliance between our families. Why, it would almost be as stupid as admitting that you had willingly suggested the idea in the first place.” “What?” asked Ennis, caught off guard by the clear implications of his father’s words. If he wasn’t certain of what his father was saying, he didn’t have to wait long to figure it out. Dedrick dropped the smoke and mirrors right there. “Don’t try to play the fool with me, boy. Who do you think taught you that trick?” he said, standing up and putting his hands on the desk, his shadow looming over Ennis. “You think I don’t know what my own son has been up to? You think I won’t make sure that my heir doesn’t get himself killed because he was embarrassed once by his King? His King, mind you, that his father has sworn loyalty to, just as the Cades have always sworn loyalty to?” “You were spying on me?” “I was keeping you safe, boy,” said Dedrick, glaring down at his son, “from your own stupidity and from the talons of that Queen you so admired. Do you know what it would have done to our family, to our legacy, if word got out that you had been colluding with the enemy? If Yan and Nia hadn’t been there the Kirun would have been in flames. We both would have been hung. Is that what you want, boy?” “No. I just thought—” “You didn’t think. It’s not your job to think. Your job is to shut the hell up, produce a male heir, and to respect your father. Our time will come, boy, but not yet. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, father,” said Ennis softly as he sunk down in his chair, feeling as if he was a child being scolded for breaking a vase. “Excellent. Until things have settled and I can see that you’ve come to your senses, I will not permit you to leave the premises. I had Danners make up your room for you; you are dismissed.” With that, Ennis stood from his chair as if he was a puppet being drawn by strings and made his way to the door. His hand had hardly grabbed the handle when Dedrick called out to him: “Oh, just one more thing.” Ennis turned back, trying to avoid his father’s gaze. “Welcome home, son.” [center][b]Vesta[/b][/center] Yet again a spell of silence had fallen over Vesta once Cyril broke the news about their Queen’s capture. She seemed calm on the surface as they headed into H’kela, but underneath she was a thunderstorm of anger. As they rode, she killed the time by passing judgment on the others, although mostly her eyes just casted accusations on Krissandria for failing in her duty to protect the Queen. If Olain’s daughter had been harmed by Gartian in anyway, or if she had been k—she felt herself bitedown on her lip, using the pain to distract her from the potential reality. Too many times did she picture what she would do to the Queen’s Guard if they didn’t reach Kori in times. It was hypocritical, considering her own failure years ago, but she couldn’t help herself nevertheless. They were to blame. [i]No, Gartian is to blame,[/i] said a tiny voice inside of her head, and it was this little voice that she forced herself to listen to, yet only when she witnessed that the Queen was still alive did she truly divorce the idea of seeking some form of retribution from Krissandria. She was unable to enjoy the feeling of being able to freely walk again as she pushed herself through the crowd, desperately trying to get as close as possible to the scaffold. For every rib she elbowed and boot she stepped on the favor was returned right back to her by a H’kelan, eager for the blood of their enemy. It was easy to think of them as monsters, despite knowing deep down that if the roles had been reversed and if Gartian had been up in the block a similarly large crowd would’ve formed in Barcea as well, even if their new Queen seemed to be done with the barbaric way of the old. Yet as Alasa let his arrows fly and they pierced the executioner, the crowd changed back into a mass of humans that, upon witnessing the death of one of their own, fled in horror. And then, it was just two groups of soldiers, [i]us[/i] and [i]them[/i]. Vesta dropped her cloak—it was too damn warm for that thing anyway—and drew her sword. She knew that the Lady of Demons had told her not to put too much strain on her knee, but she also knew that she was still better with a blade than she’d ever be with a bow. Besides, a trial by fire would be the perfect way to see just how much of her old movement she had retained. Running ([i]Running![/i]) at the first soldier in yellow that she could see, the woman had already slashed her sword across his side before he could even raise his weapon to thwart her. When was the last time she had been able to close a gap like that? She couldn’t remember. She felt her vision shift from the execution block to temple balcony and then back to the block again. Their snipers would be able to keep their enemies off of Kori for the time being, but it was still imperative that they saved Kori before going after Gartian. How long until one of their watchful eyes missed a crossbowmen that had his sights trained on their Queen? But the way to the Queen was behind a sea of angry yellow and sharp steel, dotted with splashes of explosives, bursts of magic, and peppering of barrages from her side. It wouldn’t be easy for Vesta to reach alone, even if she was more whole than before, but even if it turned out to be impossible it didn’t matter to her; she had to save Kori. Her sword bite into another soldier as she smacked a spear to her side with her scabbard before she dropped low to avoid a broad slash and then drove upwards with a mighty slash. No pain in her knee yet; she could feel a smile form on her face as she sprung to the side of a hammerblow. She ripped and tore into the enemy soldiers with her blade, twisting and turning her body like a dancer to avoid getting opened up herself. Slice, turn, stab, duck, cut, spin, sweep, gut; the routine continued on uninterrupted, each step as fluid and practiced as it had been decades ago. Yet she could still hear her breaths get more ragged, could still feel her arms get heavier with every swing. Karin may have cured her knee, but she couldn’t cure the damage of time. [i]The Queen, the Queen,[/i] she thought as she urged herself onward.