[b][center][h3][color=FDC89A]ℜ𝔬𝔢𝔩𝔬 Ⅰ   [/color][/h3][/center][/b][center][color=#E1E3E2]──[/color][color=#E1E2DF]─[/color][color=#E2E1DD]─[/color][color=#E3E0DB]─[/color][color=#E4DFD9]─[/color][color=#E5DFD7]─[/color][color=#E5DED5]─[/color][color=#E6DDD3]─[/color][color=#E7DCD1]─[/color][color=#E8DCCF]─[/color][color=#E9DBCD]─[/color][color=#E9DACB]─[/color][color=#EAD9C9]─[/color][color=#EBD9C7]─[/color][color=#ECD8C5]─[/color][color=#EDD7C3]─[/color][color=#EDD6C1]─[/color][color=#EED6BF]─[/color][color=#EFD5BD]─[/color][color=#F0D4BA]─[/color][color=#F1D3B8]─[/color][color=#F2D3B6]─[/color][color=#F2D2B4]─[/color][color=#F3D1B2]─[/color][color=#F4D0B0]─[/color][color=#F5D0AE]─[/color][color=#F6CFAC]─[/color][color=#F6CEAA]─[/color][color=#F7CDA8]─[/color][color=#F8CDA6]─[/color][color=#F9CCA4]─[/color][color=#FACBA2]•[/color][color=#FACAA0]⋅[/color][color=#FBCA9E]⊰[/color][color=#FCC99C]༻[/color][color=#FDC89A]༒[/color][color=#FEC798]︎[/color][color=#FEC795]༺[/color][color=#FEC798]⊱[/color][color=#FDC89A]⋅[/color][color=#FCC99C]•[/color][color=#FBCA9E]─[/color][color=#FACAA0]─[/color][color=#FACBA2]─[/color][color=#F9CCA4]─[/color][color=#F8CDA6]─[/color][color=#F7CDA8]─[/color][color=#F6CEAA]─[/color][color=#F6CFAC]─[/color][color=#F5D0AE]─[/color][color=#F4D0B0]─[/color][color=#F3D1B2]─[/color][color=#F2D2B4]─[/color][color=#F2D3B6]─[/color][color=#F1D3B8]─[/color][color=#F0D4BA]─[/color][color=#EFD5BD]─[/color][color=#EED6BF]─[/color][color=#EDD6C1]─[/color][color=#EDD7C3]─[/color][color=#ECD8C5]─[/color][color=#EBD9C7]─[/color][color=#EAD9C9]─[/color][color=#E9DACB]─[/color][color=#E9DBCD]─[/color][color=#E8DCCF]─[/color][color=#E7DCD1]─[/color][color=#E6DDD3]─[/color][color=#E5DED5]─[/color][color=#E5DFD7]─[/color][color=#E4DFD9]─[/color][color=#E3E0DB]─[/color][color=#E2E1DD]─[/color][color=#E1E2DF]──[/color][/center][indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=bdbdbd]The hotel room was a resplendent haven from the morning’s withering heat — a delicacy that Roelo was not particularly keen to sample. When drawing the curtains earlier in the forenoon, he was briefly baptised in the uncondensed power of the sun, which had prompted him to commiserate over the unfortunate truth that the ceremonial attire was primarily black. He had arrived in the city the previous evening, by which time the sun had already begun its long retreat, leaving behind a pleasant, tranquilising warmth. Most prospective students had arrived in the weeks prior; participating in an optional (though encouraged) excursion across Ansbourg, familiarising themself with the sights, the culture, and perhaps most importantly, one another. Jochem had sought to persuade Roelo to participate in this ‘bedding in’ period, but he had no interest in doing so. The past year had drained him of any motivation to socialise — every meaningful friendship he’d cultivated had ended unceremoniously. He felt far more camaraderie with the harbour-folk than the jeunesse dorée. Although he was quite possibly from the wealthiest family of any of the academy’s new crop, he had no interest in flaunting his privilege, and he had even less interest in befriending those who coveted it. He found himself repulsed by the very class of individual that he was surrounded by; the same class that he himself belonged to. Ideally, he’d find some haunt in the crossroads of the city where people came and went frequently; he’d seek to blend in with the proletariat, and he’d make company that lasted until it didn’t. Committing to anything more serious daunted him.

The room, situated within the Royal Palanquin Hotel, was adequately lavish for a noble of his standing. Rich damask wallpaper of burgundy and honey-gold lined the walls, matched in hue by the heavy artisanal rug that enveloped the floor. A crystalline chandelier refracted delicate light all-around, and ornate mouldings and cornices framed the room, accentuating its features like a bodice to a maiden. The scent of fresh linen and polished wood drew about an aura of cleanliness, something the housekeepers had no-doubt worked tirelessly to achieve. Though spacious, there was no sense of emptiness in the room, with an array of fine furniture plugging any zone that would be otherwise purposeless. Among them; a large canopied bed with elaborate finials and embroidered pillows, a brass-handled armoire, a full-length cheval mirror, a fireplace with a sleek marble mantlepiece, a plush armchair, a recently polished escritoire with an inkstand and quill, and a huge, intricately carved wardrobe. Though Roelo would make use of several of these fittings in preparation for the ceremony, he couldn’t help but consider how little most of them would be used throughout their lifespan, which was presumably fairly short-lived in such a well-reputed institution. A small table acted as centrepiece to the room, serving no function other than to bear a vase of vivid flowers. Roelo had studied the bouquet the previous night, enamoured by the flowers' perfection, having brushed his fingers lightly across their delicate blossoms in admiration. They were strangely oily to the touch, he had found, and upon closer inspection, were not flowers at all, but waxwork imitations — a novel trend that hadn’t yet made its way as far north as île Monding. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but their existence made him profoundly sad.

Roelo adjusted the cheval mirror, angling it to better inspect himself, having already donned the majority of his ceremonial garb. He studied his appearance, his eyes tracing each detail, searching for any significant imperfections. The process felt strangely dissociating, and he found himself peering into what felt like his own soul for a moment or three, feeling a sudden, chilling awareness of self. Quickly, it melted away, and all he saw was a man. A gaunt, pale man, with skin that was frankly ashen when compared to many of the inhabitants of the presently sun-kissed Ansbourg. Cascading down to his shoulders was a head of unfashionably-long, wheat-brown hair, wavy and thick — which might’ve appeared feminine were it not contrasted by a firm jawline. He had dark, melancholy eyes, with a penetrating gaze, nestled ‘neath dark, arched eyebrows. In many ways, he was an attractive man, but one that was dispirited and vacant. He had a pallid look about him, though he carried no sickness; not of the body, at least.

A knock at his door stirred him from his introspection. He answered, and was met by his elder brother, Jochem, who wore a tasteful tailcoat and a less-tasteful tangerine cravat—as was the de Barbroeck way. Jochem's face was much alike Roelo's, though his cropped, groomed hair was perhaps more lordly.

“Now there cuts a striking figure,” said Jochem, clasping his brother firmly upon the shoulder as he entered.

Roelo gave a thankful nod as he returned to his position afront the mirror, where he continued to apply the finishing touches to his appearance.

Jochem sauntered over to the window, full-drawing the half-drawn curtains that Roelo had retreated from after being blasted by the morning sun. He glanced out at the road leading up to the hotel, before turning back to face Roelo. “Are you nervous?,” he asked.

“Not particularly,” Roelo replied, glancing over the shoulder of his reflection to meet his brother’s gaze. Dark circles hovered over the elder’s orbits; he hadn’t slept well. “Are you?"

“A little,” Jochem admitted. “By the turn of the month, if all is well, I will be holding a babe in my arms.”

“Daunting,” Roelo said plainly. “How do you reconcile the gravity of it all?”

“I’m not quite sure that I do.”

“I trust you’ll forgive my absence from such a momentous occasion as the arrival of your heir,” Roelo spoke sincerely, but without a whisper of tenderness.

“Your absence is noted, but not begrudged,” Jochem smiled, though there was a palpable sense of woe in his eyes. Clearly, he’d hoped for Roelo to be present for the upbringing of his child, or, at the very least, the early infancy. “One must follow the course set before them, however untimely it may be... Life has a way of pulling us in different directions, don’t you think?”

Roelo shot him an uninspired look. It was soothing to posit that life’s funny little idiosyncrasies were responsible for the brothers’ estrangement, but it was an insincere thought. They’d had plenty of opportunity for fraternal bonding across the last decade, but they had only grown further apart. Meaningful coincidence absolves a man of his own failings; the synchronicity keeps him sane. Jochem was a man of ambition, an idealist, and above all, a self-deceiver: he had worked too hard and sacrificed too much to take accountability for any failed relationships. Roelo, on the other had, was a cynic, though he might consider himself a realist. He had no interest in romanticising his disaffections. His immunity to sentimentality, and his bluntness, bruised Jochem — but did not provoke him. The older brother was emotionally unavailable, but he was not one to upset the apple-cart, so he changed the subject.

“This place will be good for you; a more pleasant clime, plenty to do—a good society of equals.” Jochem fidgeted with his cufflinks, toying with the imaginary manacles that bound him to this awkward interaction. “It’s a fresh start, in many ways.”

“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” Roelo said, unenthused. “Though I daresay you wouldn’t exchange places with me given the opportunity.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t either,” Jochem replied with a facetious raise of the brow: “Or have you been coveting the dukedom for all these years, without my being aware?”

Roelo smiled faintly, shaking his head as he adjusted the sleek fold of his black tabard to ensure it lay smoothly against his chest.

“Remember, this place isn’t all books and drills,” said Jochem, despite having no more of an understanding of the academy’s inner workings than Roelo. “There’s plenty you can do. Fêtes, soirées, debates — much to experience.”

“Debates?” Roelo said, placing his shako, the proverbial cherry on the cake, upon his crown. “So we’re to parry with words now, are we?”

“You speak as if you lack experience,” Jochem approached, helping to straighten the cap, positioning its maroon sash over Roelo’s shoulder. “Persuasion, rhetoric — it’s all part of the training. You never know when it might serve you.”

“I’ll be sure to hone my tongue, then. Wouldn’t want to be caught unarmed.”

“I find that very unlikely,” Jochem chuckled, grateful for Roelo’s efforts to engage in small-talk. “But better to be overprepared than the contrary.”

Roelo gave his reflection a final appraisal. He was not one to agonise over his appearance, but he knew that it was a matter of dressing well himself, or being pulled aside by his father and dressed by a retainer. If appearing the part would mean his father’s prompt departure, then appear the part he would.

“Ready to go?” Jochem asked. “Father should be here any minute.”

Roelo nodded.

It occurred to him that this conversation with Jochem might well have been their longest in years. Clearly, the elder brother had discovered a yearning for reconnection as they arrived at the precipice of partition. Roelo’s first thought was: ’too little, too late’; that he’d been left to drown in his solitude by Jochem for the best part of a decade, and that any attempt at an idyllic farewell would be bluntly rejected — but he couldn’t help but feel pity for the firstborn. Roelo stood now at the very gates of his father’s domain, and was moments away from walking out a free man. Jochem, on the other hand, was burdened for as long as their father lived to a life of subservience. Roelo had always suspected that Jochem’s stoicism was a flimsy veil that he hid beneath, and had resented him for not braving grief’s storm together; he couldn’t forget that, nor forgive, but perhaps he could appease Jochem’s conscience with a smile. And so he did, and though it was a forceful one, a hollow one, it was a smile nonetheless — and an indication of some remaining concern for Jochem’s wellbeing.

As they brothers departed the hotel, their father’s prior arrival was evident. Dragoons bearing the orange lion of de Barbroeck flanked a five-glass landau down the lane, which was drawn by two healthy shires. The streets were not yet fully a-bustle, for the de Barbroecks would be arriving at the academy early, the Duke having arranged a brief meeting with the establishment’s principle. Jochem, followed by Roelo, approached the carriage, whose driver held a door open dutifully. The vehicle was an elegant piece of craftsmanship: its body made of a lustrous black wood engraved with intricate gold detailing. It seated four passengers vis-à-vis, though it was presently only occupied by one.

“Good morning, father,” Jochem initiated, taking his seat, followed by Roelo, across from the Duke.

Tælman was dressed with gravitas befitting his station, but with a level of subtlety that would prevent him from becoming a distraction. He wore a long, double-breasted frock coat of deep midnight blue, the fabric woven from the finest wool. Small, polished brass buttons ran in two neat rows down the front of the coat, each one engraved with the family crest — a lion rampant intertwined with a laurel wreath. Like his firstborn, Tælman wore a tangerine cravat, which was matched in colour by the fine embroidery upon his cuffs and lapels. He was a man of two faces. One was that of a striking socialite; a man of charisma and magnetism. The other, and the one he wore at present, was the stern, unmoved face of a patriarch. The latter, of course, was his true self. He was feared by those close to him, and beloved by those he kept at an arms distance. Despite his icy mannerisms, he seemed content with what he saw before him.

“Well assembled,” he said dryly, regarding Roelo.

Roelo nodded. His father’s words were always sincere, but seldom complimentary. Today, the flattery was well-deserved. The Roelo that was being shuttled to the entrance ceremony was not the usual Roelo — but a fleeting chimera summoned by the Duke only on special occasion. Today, even the most discerning eye would be fooled into considering him a man of refinement and grandeur. Of course, a day away from the demands of his liege-father would be pinprick enough to burst the bubble containing this imperious air: but for today, it enveloped him. This day, after all, was not truly about him. Though pomp and ceremony was intended as a hospitality for the tenderfoot of the Command Academy: for Roelo, it felt more like a political exchange. Just as a young woman is ceremonially wed, Roelo was a benefaction offered by his father for political gain. Duke Tælman, the gracious and fair, would present his contribution to the Laachtalian army in an act of bittersweet deference — reluctantly, but pridefully, offering up his beloved son for the good of the realm. That was the narrative that would be spun, but it was an apodictic mistruth. In actuality, Roelo was a stain upon Tælman’s personage; an unsightly wart that made ugly his otherwise spotless reputation. Of all parties, it was Tælman who benefitted the most from this situation, ridding himself of his greatest impediment once and for all, and looking reverent while doing so. Roelo wasn’t entirely dissatisfied with the prospect of enrolling at the academy, however. It freed him from his shackles somewhat, granting reprieve from his bitter existence in île Monding. When all was said and done, it might allow him to be recognised for his rank, not his family name — something that had become a veritable poison upon his tongue.

Any sense of rapport between the de Barbroeck brothers shrank under the watchful eye of their lord-father, with the carriage rolling smoothly into motion. Roelo was quickly reminded of the true driving force behind their estrangement; it was not their late mother, nor either of the young men themselves, but their insatiable senior. When in his presence, Jochem became an incarnation of the Duke’s will; he was the Duke’s loyal blade, his devoted servant, his justice, his wrath. He was whatever Tælman desired him to be. This, of course, reflected very poorly on Roelo, who lacked even a fraction of Jochem’s zeal. And so, a strange quiet fell over the three, and the journey passed by mostly in silence, with each de Barbroeck feigning an intense interest in the city views — so not to reveal the true extent of their individual discomfort.

As the carriage crested the hill on which the academy sat, Roelo's future stretched out in panorama before him; a fortress of learning and discipline, perched like a crown upon the brow of the landscape. Though they were arriving an hour early on account of the Generalfeldmarschall’s invitation, there were already scores of prospective students arriving, many accompanied by a family member or two. The carriage slowed to a halt in front of the gatehouse, which drew open for the Duke’s early admittance, though its passengers would disembark outside. The driver dismounted the landau, once more opening its door, allowing the three de Barbroecks a graceful exit. They took a moment to compose themselves, taking in the establishment’s scholastic charm, before their attention was drawn to a man who stood uniformly beside the now-static vehicle. A figure who, despite not being particularly imposing in a physical sense, wielded an aura of dignity and dominance. Hladekný wore a garb of pine-green and white, a crimson sash sitting across his chest to make clear his station. A ceremonial sabre hung from his braided belt, and a white-plumed bicorne hat with a green cockade was perched upon his head. His tunic was crowded by a panoply of medals, all delicately polished, but clearly earned over the span of several decades. Roelo, having been instructed a-thousand-fold to do so by his father, regarded Hladekný with a reticent bow. The white-haired man seemed pleased by this, outstretching his hand to the Duke with a phlegmatic smile. While Hladekný was surely aware of Roelo’s dalliance with impropriety, it was clear that he was glad to welcome the son of a prince-elector, especially one who was a passionate advocate for the imperial military.

“Duke de Barbroeck, a pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance,” Hladekný said, his voice deep and rich. “I have long admired your unabated efforts to expel the ‘vrijbuiter’ from your shores; not to mention your continued generosity toward the academy.”

“Likewise, Generalfeldmarschall,” Tælman smiled warmly, accepting Hladekný’s outstretched hand with a firm shake, and adopting his 'other face'. “Your reputation precedes you. It is thanks to men like you that this empire still stands through its many vicissitudes.”

“Vicissitudes that bare discussion, I daresay,” Hladekný replied, before turning to regard the younger de Barbroecks. “Gentlemen, enjoy the ceremony.”

And with that, they absconded. No invitation to their moot, no personalised welcome for Roelo. He liked it better that way. He didn't want special treatment. If he was to emerge successful from this place, he would want it to be through hard-work and good merit, not nepotism. Though, he considered, every single man and woman who would enter the assembly today was, to some degree, a beneficiary of nepotism.

Roelo and Jochem strolled down the cobbled roadside, taking in the campus' surrounding views with time to kill. It was silent for a little while, before Roelo spoke once more.

“Jochem, what do you think you'll name them?,” he asked. “Your child, I mean.”

“Well,” Jochem seemed to release a long-pent-up breath. “I've always been fond of the name Lœfri. It was our great-great grandfather's name. It means 'beloved warrior'. I'd venture to say it sounds rather powerful.”

“It's grand,” Roelo said with approval. “And what if it's a girl?”

Jochem was silent for a few moments, seeming a little flustered. “Well - you know, I couldn't...”

Roelo stopped still, closing his eyes, pained. Couldn't name her after mother; that was what he was going to say. It hadn't been what Roelo was even searching for, which made it sting all the more. Of course he couldn't name her after that woman, for we do not speak of her. Jochem's cowardly reaction repulsed him. Why couldn't he have just said a name?

“I haven't decided,” Jochem continued, aware of his faux-pas, and keen to quickly bury it. “I will have to ask Friða.”

Roelo felt no desire to engage in further the conversation. He resumed walking, steadily tracking the border of the academy's campus, waiting for the bell-chime that would summon him to the ceremony. Jochem was not fool enough to add further fuel to the fire, and joined Roelo in his silence.
[/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][center][color=#E1E3E2]──[/color][color=#E1E2DF]─[/color][color=#E2E1DD]─[/color][color=#E3E0DB]─[/color][color=#E4DFD9]─[/color][color=#E5DFD7]─[/color][color=#E5DED5]─[/color][color=#E6DDD3]─[/color][color=#E7DCD1]─[/color][color=#E8DCCF]─[/color][color=#E9DBCD]─[/color][color=#E9DACB]─[/color][color=#EAD9C9]─[/color][color=#EBD9C7]─[/color][color=#ECD8C5]─[/color][color=#EDD7C3]─[/color][color=#EDD6C1]─[/color][color=#EED6BF]─[/color][color=#EFD5BD]─[/color][color=#F0D4BA]─[/color][color=#F1D3B8]─[/color][color=#F2D3B6]─[/color][color=#F2D2B4]─[/color][color=#F3D1B2]─[/color][color=#F4D0B0]─[/color][color=#F5D0AE]─[/color][color=#F6CFAC]─[/color][color=#F6CEAA]─[/color][color=#F7CDA8]─[/color][color=#F8CDA6]─[/color][color=#F9CCA4]─[/color][color=#FACBA2]•[/color][color=#FACAA0]⋅[/color][color=#FBCA9E]⊰[/color][color=#FCC99C]༻[/color][color=#FDC89A]༒[/color][color=#FEC798]︎[/color][color=#FEC795]༺[/color][color=#FEC798]⊱[/color][color=#FDC89A]⋅[/color][color=#FCC99C]•[/color][color=#FBCA9E]─[/color][color=#FACAA0]─[/color][color=#FACBA2]─[/color][color=#F9CCA4]─[/color][color=#F8CDA6]─[/color][color=#F7CDA8]─[/color][color=#F6CEAA]─[/color][color=#F6CFAC]─[/color][color=#F5D0AE]─[/color][color=#F4D0B0]─[/color][color=#F3D1B2]─[/color][color=#F2D2B4]─[/color][color=#F2D3B6]─[/color][color=#F1D3B8]─[/color][color=#F0D4BA]─[/color][color=#EFD5BD]─[/color][color=#EED6BF]─[/color][color=#EDD6C1]─[/color][color=#EDD7C3]─[/color][color=#ECD8C5]─[/color][color=#EBD9C7]─[/color][color=#EAD9C9]─[/color][color=#E9DACB]─[/color][color=#E9DBCD]─[/color][color=#E8DCCF]─[/color][color=#E7DCD1]─[/color][color=#E6DDD3]─[/color][color=#E5DED5]─[/color][color=#E5DFD7]─[/color][color=#E4DFD9]─[/color][color=#E3E0DB]─[/color][color=#E2E1DD]─[/color][color=#E1E2DF]──[/color][/center]