Though obedient, dutiful, and attentive to a fault, none of these qualities have ever seemed to improve "Tilly's" situation any. She's the spare—her sister the heir—and the sooner she accepts this is all the sooner she could one day, maybe, know peace.

Tilly has never asked whether her father ever truly loved her; not for any lack of wondering, but for fear of the answer. She knows her mother loved her terribly, but mother is dead now—has been for years—maddened in her scarce and restless sleep by the Dreaming Fevers. A few wetnurses who doted on her when she was a babe-girl, maybe a scullery maid or two she had once presumed to call friend, but now there is no one. Only an elder sister who looks down on her with pity, and the man who strikes them equally and utterly powerless beneath his well-laid plans—their purpose, their roles, all pre-ordained before they'd ever had any say. Perhaps before they'd ever been born at all. No wonder the younger sister, neglected and ignored (save for when she is being chided), has recessed so deeply into herself, speaking only when spoken to, moving so quietly as to startle those she passes.

Where grooming and rulership have made her sister Helgeða headstrong, willful, and self-assured, years of obsequiousness have turned Tilly to jelly, a slippery, pliant thing, aiming at all times to anticipate the appetites of others, sense their wraths and retributions, and appease these ere they have ever had the chance to arise. A creature which shrinks away into shadows; a creature easily controlled, easily used. Whisper a few false promises into her eager ear, promises of affection and adoration and praise, and she becomes alike to wet clay in the hand. Offer her friendship (real or feigned), and for that friend she would burn the world.

'Tis no secret that her father loathes this fawning complacency, but who else but he could be to blame for it?—when he and all his droughts of passion are the very reason the younger Guillarmes sister so dearly thirsts—for appraisal, for judgment, for consideration, for any kind of regard whatever, no matter how it might condescend to her. Still, in his hard and unyielding wisdom he did not see the role he had played in breeding into the creature the very same weakness he resented, so he gave her, as no heir at all, but nonetheless his daughter, a choice most cruel: to do him, and all his forebears, no dishonor, she could become a magistrate, a prioress, or a soldier. And so on June the 27th, 594 Imperial, Hloþhilde of House Guillarmes chose the sword.

A charming and affable girl from the start, all her life "Hellie" blossomed where her baby sister withered, dared where the latter cautioned, smiled where the other sulked. The wherefore, of course, is not lost on her: she had every access to their family's opportunities and assets, their manservants' fondness, and, seemingly, the sheer luck and good fortune which could only have been scraped straight from the marrow of their long-dead gods—for Hellie comes as caustically witty as her father, as beautiful as her mother, and in all, effortlessly captivating. Any plump rosebush, pruned and watered and bee-visited, would flourish where wilts its brittle and shaded cousin. Their mother loved her, as deeply and truly as she loved all her children (every miscarry, every infant taken by the pox), but their father—their father dragged Hellie to every gala, every court, glinting all the while in tooth and eye ("My lord," he would say, "prithee meet my daughter, Helgeða")—and of this she despised every moment.

Not for the injustice of the sisters' circumstance (though it was certainly unjust) but for its insincerity did she loathe and dread the thought of a life wasted politicking. She had wanted, once, longer ago than she cares to recall, to be a singer, and yet father permitted singing only when entertaining certain guests; guests, he would say, "of the correct temperament for song," lest a child's chirping shouldst irritate and avert. So when very few of father's friends fell into that jovial mood, and those who did were all covetous old lechers with vile ideas slithering across their thoughts the way wrong notes slither between the staffs on the page, less interested in the melodies than the pretty mouth whence they spilled, Hellie stopped singing.

One year, not so many years ago, a new fashion swept through the courts of Laachtalia, and all the sudden the upper classes, but especially young, wealthy débutantes, were seen all over the empire trading the lustre of their jewels for smooth, dull jet, their silvers and moon-golds for pewter or arsenical bronze, all their garishness for funereal black. Walking down a city road, the unaware observer could have sworn one of the emperor's sons or perhaps a prince-elector had died, for the state of dress throughout the city, and every city, forespoke of a populace ordered into mourning; but when the gazettes called the new style infinitely slimming and august, or purported it to bestow on the rakish young a dignity and elegance seen nowhere else across all their ranks (except, mayhap, the opera houses), father fell right in. And Hellie, for her turn, while selling off her favorite tailcoats, pretended she had all her life detested color.

And on and on and on.

Tilly will never understand what it's like to be the favorite; because deep in the yearning twinkle of her gaze as it crosses the room, she still envies. It's Hellie who knows best that there's nothing about her to envy whatever. Ah—but it may be 'tis for the best. If Tilly ever offered it, Hellie would switch with her in an instant. A dangerous thought, when there is the prosperity (a meager one, but prosperity all the same) of an earldom to think of. Duty comes first, and Hellie's sister has sacrificed quite enough already, she reckons. 'Tis work best left to those with ever more to give...

Everything he gilds he gilds in pinchbeck; his every surface a veneer like a derelict hôtel, or the hand-crafted facets of a glass gemstone; done everywhere and always in mimicry of a palace's majesty, a sapphire's brilliance. A pretender through and through is he, even though he sits his house seat legitimately; an artifice, though he is flesh and blood like any other.

This is a man who, upon the birth of his two daughters, issued not one thought to the sweat at his goodwife's brow, the labor of her breathing, the blood, the feces. He cannot even admit (not truthfully) to the abject dignity of having wondered what to name them. Oh, his thoughts resided on names, 'tis true enough—but not how melodic their syllables, or auspicious their meanings; rather, what reverence those names should stir in the peerage, and what awe in the commons. In the end he would deign to bestow upon his children, one after the other, the names of Nērunnian warrior-queens, that as women grown they should command more authority and respect wheresoever in the heartlands they one day traveled, from Pfalz-Dräven to the Free Cities. They would find better husbands that way, enjoy the fondness of their more instructors, take more pride in themselves. They would, in a word, seem "more Laachtalian."

His every uttering he weighs and measures, drop by painstaking drop; every tic, every habit carefully cultivated in service to the counterfeit which is his personage.

Have his friends and confidants (of which there are, most assuredly, few) even met the man behind the mask? Had his wife, Agalind, before her death? Has anyone? Even his daughters, those forlorn, long-neglected daughters, struggle to recall a time when he was merry with laughter and drink, or wallowing in sorrow, or swept away, rudderless, on any one of the terrible, beautiful raptures which make a man a man. Which make him more than his own homunculus, shambling empty-hearted along from plot to plot, obeying with all his life some design beyond his understanding.

The rumor which prevails among the manservants goes that after, in very brisk succession, losing first his elderly father to an execution by hanging, and then his wife to that horrific, soul-eating disease, the lord of Rodon succumbed to some delusion dictating that he could have saved either or both of them if he had only been wiser, wealthier—in some tangible measure, more powerful. But no matter. Grief, jealousy, hate, madness—all bevels on the same blade. A blade which has cut at this lowly noble family for as long as anyone alive has known.

Originating from the wealthy riverside city of île Monding, Loðyria, Roleo is the second son of Duke Tælman de Barbroeck, Prince-Elector of Loðyria. The de Barbroeck family is among the most powerful and esteemed in the empire. With healthy internal imperial diplomacy, extensive mercantile influence, and a reputation for loyalty and dependability, few bloodlines are better suited to rulership than the de Barbroecks. Adorned in their distinctively expensive orange regalia, they proudly display their wealth and sterling reputation, embodying stability in an empire otherwise on the brink of uncertainty.

Described as a "haunted child" during his early years by his father, Roelo was always the black sheep of his household. Perhaps his disposition stemmed from his mother, Willemijn, who had long suffered from some form of undiagnosed mental unbalance. When Roelo was ten, she died by her own hand. His father remarried soon after, and it seemed that sweet, sorrowful Willemijn was quickly by everyone except for Roelo. Even his older brother, Jochem, was too encumbered with his obsessive need to please their father to grieve. There had been whispers that Roelo was a product of Wilemijn's adultery, that he wasn't a true de Barbroeck, and that his mother's guilt had driven her to leap from her balcony. Though these rumours were little more than unsubstantiated gossip, they still contributed to Roelo's severe sense of alienation.

He was not lacking in wit; far from it. He had a keen intelligence and a clever tongue, but he was an angry boy with an ungodly stubbornness. His defiance often led to self-sabotage, burning bridges that might have otherwise benefitted him in the long-run. Resentful of authority and yearning for a life of freedom beyond nobility, Roelo found himself increasingly isolated, resigning himself to a lonely adolescence, finding companionship only in the children of craftsmen and traders. These friendships were fleeting, as his father quickly forbade any mingling with the commonfolk, placing an increasing pressure on their relationships. Roelo frequently disobeyed his father, first out of desperation, and eventually for any reason he could find. Scandals followed him everywhere: bar fights, drunken escapades through the city streets, even assaulting a household guard. No discipline, no matter how harsh, could make Roelo bend to his father’s will. If anything, it only fueled his defiance further. He wanted no part in his legacy.

By the time he turned eighteen, Roelo knew he would never inherit anything of worth. In all but decree, his father had effectively disowned him. Even if misfortune were to befall Jochem, Roelo was certain his father would favor one of his younger half-siblings. The only point of agreement between them was Roelo’s admittance to the academy. It offered him a chance to leave everything he despised behind, while giving his father an opportunity to wash his hands of him without public scandal—a win-win for the both of them.

Roelo was a gifted fighter. He allowed the prospect of being a soldier to become him. After all, by the time he arrived at the academy, he hadn't much of an identity beyond that of a warrior. Though distance from his father tempered his once-explosive temperament, he remained a tumultuous individual—now more embittered and distant than ever. If not for his combat skills and, more importantly, his family name, he would likely have made nothing but enemies at the academy. Perhaps he would have preferred that -- as special treatment that came from his father's name was not special treatment he wanted.

A man of stoic temperament, Tælman is known for his dominant charisma, and his vicious, zero-tolerance approach to the eradication of pirates and smugglers. Those who know him well would be aware of his deeply ambitious nature, and his intention to etch his name in history as a great leader. A perfectionist, Tælman has micromanaged his estate, ensuring a retinue of the highest quality. He does not accept medicority within his court, demanding that, should his realm be a place of greatness, it should be led by example. This high-pressure enviroment has created some of the finest courtiers in the empire: but it has also broken a fair few. Roelo is a prime example of the latter circumstance; his defiant nature having always contrasted his father's dominance. Although deeply committed to his duties, Tælman is emotionally distant, especially toward Roelo, whom he views as a stain upon his legacy. As he would with his enemies, Tælman opted for an iron-fisted approach to fatherhood. Having long prioritised his legacy over his relationships, his bond with his second son is perhaps the greatest casuality of his career.

Prior to their mother's death, Jochem and Roelo were good friends. A line in the sand was drawn as they matured, however, as Jochem became tunnel-vision focused on become the greatest would-be ruler in the empire. He trained tirelessly, honed his diplomacy, and never let his mask slip. As far as Roelo knew, after Jochem turned thirteen, he ceased having fun entirely. There was a time when Roelo would seek to relate to Jochem over their shared experience of immense pressure, but Jochem was in some kind of perpetual state of denial. The expectation loomed over him the most of them all, but he would pretend it did not. As such, the brothers became quietly drifted apart from one another until they simply became acquaintances. They never one discussed their mother's passing. Now an adult, Jochem seems to harbour some level of guilt for Roelo's estrangement, but maintains his focus on his destiny. He is (seemingly) happily married with a child on the way, and already has a fantastic reputation within the empire.

The first of three children born to Tælman's second wife, Thérèse, Ædra is the Duke's only daughter. A sharp-witted and observant young woman, Ædra is often underestimated because of her age and gender. Keen to avoid being reduced to an object of young beauty that is destined to be used as a diplomatic bargaining chip, Ædra has worked hard to educate herself. Through her childhood, she quickly learned to navigate the complex dynamics of her family, often acting as a mediator between her brothers, but finding closer kinship in female courtiers. Of all his siblings, Roelo is perhaps closest with Ædra, whose empathy and self-awareness is developed well beyond her years.

Born a year and a day apart from one another, Matthijs and Bastiaan are two peas in a pod. Assumed by many to be twins, the youngest de Barbroecks are athletic and headstrong. While perhaps lacking the brains of their older siblings, they seem destined for greatness, with both capable of outclassing children several years their senior in sparring. Despite often being the source of chaos within the household, the boys are capable of falling in line when their father's foot comes down. Given his distance in age, Roelo has little in common with the duo.

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Seeking to put an end to a fifty-year-old blood feud, the Breitkreutzs and the de Barbroecks have, in recent years, explored the possibility of wedding Jan-Hugo and Ædra de Barbroeck. While Roelo has no interest in familial grudges, Jan-Hugo is a staunch traditionalist, and has always held a chip on his shoulder about the de Barbroecks, making his distaste at the prospect of marrying one very clear. With that said, the two did not have much of a relationship at all. They crossed paths again upon realising that they would both be admitted into the academy, and a dynamic of spiky animosity quickly formed. Jan-Hugo embodies so many of the things Roelo despises: arrogance, self-righteousness, and ruthless ambition. Likewise, Roelo's lack of respect for authority infuriates Jan-Hugo. Having developed a rather prominent ego in his flourishing adolescence, Jan-Hugo now has rather bullyish tendencies. He takes pleasure in provoking others, and he knows exactly which buttons he can push on Roelo to incite his anger, referencing his tarnished reputation and rumors of his illegitimacy. Despite his antagonistic nature, Jan-Hugo is charismatic and well-liked by most, and is among the most impressive prospects in the academy.

With a magnetic, intimidating charisma, a reputation for fanatical perfectionism, and a glittering record of service; Ferdinand Hladekný is regarded by many as an exemplar of military leadership. For fifteen years he has overseen the progression of would-be officers for the Laachtalian army. Though purportedly iron-fisted, Hladekný is a rather personable man who merely maintains a visage of ruthlessness to inspire discipline in his subordinates. His menacing aura is punctuated by his booming, bassy voice. He cares deeply about the growth of the academy's students, with his decision-making process being centrally based on what is likely to benefit their long-term success. He is generally pleasant to the academy's staff, but has a low tolerance for poor standards of teaching. He also spends a great deal of time making an effort to understand his faculty, dissecting methodology and curriculum in meticulous depth. Any professors with unorthodox methods, such as Herr Schöst, have the implicit trust of Hladekný to generate results, as he has sought to understand their ideology.

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Few young kin ever leave the glinting and gilded walls of the Imperial Harem; fewer do so with the life they had entered with. For within such walls of whispered pleasures and foretold blessings of coin beyond one's most greedy imagination was a structure of power much too similar to the lands beyond its confines. Wherein lay a pyramid based upon the birth and favor of a mother in a sea of scheming concubines all to eager to please. And for Asli Muruvvetoglu, the 10th son born from Sultan Hurjanic III Muruvvetoglu’s escapades to a mother who had lost favor from such a man years prior to his conception, it was a battle futile from the beginning.

Yet, in a complex of people vying for the top, of mothers who wrought their hands through dirt for their son to be the heir, and of sabotage of brother against brother, his quaint family carved their own safe place within the walls. One safe from the prying eyes that scanned for but any sign of cracking, and the ears of those who would use any and all against you. It was the home for which the first decade of his life was spent, spent with a mother who had only lived for their survival, with a brother too entrenched in the life of fighting for his spot in the sun, with a twin sister who was but the opposite of him, but as a unit they stood. His mother had been the one who taught him to revel in the moment, to enjoy the sun as it shone onto your face from within the courtyard and the breeze that passed through the gates of the harem. It was his brother, who, though divided in age by a decade, he had played petty schemes upon his half-siblings with, who taught him to find such joy in the sword. Asli had been clever, rowdy, with a wit and tongue that even struck his brother down some days. However, the Sultan had begun to rot. A quiet rot, akin to a curse struck down upon him from the Gods, and the man who had known as his “father” began to falter.

For the eldest sons of the sultan in a kingdom where an heir is never declared, blood shall soon fall at their feet. And Asli’s brother Mahzon didn’t allow such to be his kin’s, for when Asli was but only twelve, his father had succumbed to the sickness that reigned over his final years like a miasma, and he was subsequently shipped along with his mother and twin to lands in which she hailed.

The Osterland was where he had grown into a man, for to Asli, it was a land far, far from those he had been born. One of green fields and rocky cliff faces as opposed to the sandstone walls and chalky dirt of the Capitallands of the Muravvettan Sultanate. He grew up under years of tutelage from the frontier guards, picking fights and joining their training when not herded to his mother’s side. Wielding the sword the same way in which his Mahzon had taught him, he still kept that temperament of years past. He had been loud, he had been boisterous, he had learned to care not for the words which others spout about him, yet he still held to watch what was said in the presence of prying ears. As for but even the young had understood the conditions of the harem, and those had yet to leave him. He could almost be called a snake, like his brother had taught him; he could slither his way into relationships with silky words and plush promises. If the harem taught one thing, it was how to manage people, how to keep up appearances.

And when he had come of age, the academy was but the only option he had before him. For in a land he could call his own, yet so drastically different from where he was born, there were but few roads paved in stone.

Melancholia was what they called it, a disruption of the temperaments. For but his whole life, Asli had known his mother, Liesl, as a kind woman. The type to be able to hold a stranger near and dear to heart, to bend over backwards for those that she loves, yet throughout his life, there had always been a miasma cloud of locked away hurt and tears that fell in the witching hour of the night that followed his mother. She was a woman that rarely spoke upon her past, rarely mentioned the early years in which she had lived within the harem or how she had even become a concubine of the sultan in the first place, yet even on her darkest days when the plague of the mind had struck her bedridden, she would push beyond it for her children. Liesl would tell them tales of the journeys she had ventured to calm Asli and Hace from a fright that left them sleepless, and worked her best to make sure their upbringing was the best that they could’ve received.

A selfless woman to her core, wherein the little hate she held in her heart only seemed to be centered upon herself. She lived for her children, for in this world where the clouds always seemed to block the sky, they were the few joys that broke through the coverage.

In the days of yore, when both were but only boys and stood upon the same mosaic floors, there was not but a single day Asli hadn’t been by his brother’s side. Mahzon had been many things: a protector on the darkest of nights, a mentor in the times beyond mandatory instruction, and a man who cared for him more than the paltry number of times their father had even been in his presence. Though Mahzon had always been an ambitious man, he had been one of the oldest sons in the harem and fought to keep himself in the eye of a father who cared not for him. He toiled in the background of the imperial court for years to learn to rule, to lead, yet in the days of his father’s moments upon this plane, he made the decision to send his family away. To send the ones in which he held most dear over any crown away, he protected not only them but himself.

It had been a long, forlorn time since Asli had last seen his brother, since he had last received a letter from him. A Sultan has still yet to be crowned, and as but barely any whispers from Orient cross into Laachtalia, he can only wonder about the status of his dear brother.

Hace was never a very loud girl, even from birth when she came from the womb with Asli crying til his lungs ran dry, she held still, silent in the chaos that surrounded her. And yet despite differing from her brother in ways obvious to any who lays an eye upon the two, the bond the two hold only grows stronger. She was one of the few who could keep her brother in check in his great expansion of freedom upon the Osterland frontier, with a quiet voice but a strong will. In ways she was akin to a reflection of the stories they heard of their mother; she was that girl who sought to learn everything new, whose eyes snuck looks beyond the confines of the boat and upon the open seas as they departed the Sultanate, who explored the backwoods of her uncle’s holdings as Asli regalded her with stories of history from long ago, and who dug her head into the breadth of books held in the library.