Dear son,
This note is for your eyes only, and the eyes of the men you trust. The information contained within this letter is to be used at your discretion.
By the time you receive this note, I will be dead.
Whether it be because of my own paranoia or for my own peace of mind, I have chosen to carry this note with me whenever I am outside of the palace.
I must know that the kingdom will survive past my demise.
Firstly, upon my death, you are to be appointed as an official general of Kanton. My dying wish is for my heir apparent to respect this wish of mine.
Secondly is the matter of succession. Belos, if he is still alive at the time of you receiving this letter, as previously announced, is to inherit Kanton. If he is deceased by the time of receival of this note, I wish for succession to pass to my daughter, Elya.
It pains me to speak ill of my own flesh and blood, but I must not delude myself. Vedran is a stupid puppet who just repeats whatever his brother tells him. He can fight with a blade, true, but he hasn't the first idea how to rule. I take full fault for this failure at parenting.
Thirdly, if Elya and Belos are deceased by the time of the receival of this note, succession will pass to Vedran as normal. If this happens, God help us all. Or help you, considering I am dead.
Finally, I wish to write an apology. I'm a coward. I don't have the strength to announce this news in front of the kingdom, so I shall leave it to someone stronger. You.
I have faith in you, Arthur Hornraven. Advise whoever may rule with my blessing.
I have failed you, the kingdom, and my other children. So I leave it up to you, He Who Was Forgotten. I am sorry for placing this burden upon you.
I am sorry for siring you. My own human urges got the better of me, and you are the result of that sin. I pray God forgives my soul, and forgives yours as well.
And apologize to Mira for me. She didn't deserve what I did to her. None of you did. I am sorry.
Regardless, I bid you farewell. Perhaps we shall see each other soon.
I'll save you a spot in hell,
Dad
The church bells echo their mournful song.
Next
Your hands tremble. The bells ring. Your mind spins. Nobody knows. Nobody knows. Nobody knows.
Nobody ever knows.
They ring and ring. You feel the sound in your chest, pounding away like your beating heart.
Ring and ring.
You grit your teeth.
He's done it again.
Ring and ring.
He's ruined more lives.
Ring and ring.
He ruins them, and I take them.
Ring and ring.
The sins of the father are paid off with the blood of his children.
Ring and ring.
Two weeks Since Arrival at Wrido-
It has been a day since Sobik was laid to rest. The whole time, you've been anxious. You need to tell Belos. You need to tell Vedran.
You know how much being cast down from succession hurts. You wonder how Vedran will react. Maybe Belos will take pity on him.
But the moment of truth is now.
You knock on Belos's door. There's a shuffle of paper, a chair creaking, and then footsteps. Seconds later, the door opens.
A much more subdued, casual Belos is standing in front of you. At the sight of you, his expression turns to one of concern.
"Marshal? What's your business here?"
You clear your throat.
Belos blinks. "W-what? From Da—Father?"
You nod. "It's important."
He shrugs. "Come on in, then." He pushes the door outwards, allowing you to slip inside, and then he shuts it behind him.
The first thing you notice when you enter his room is the paper. Sheets of parchment lie discarded on the ground, scribbled on with ink. More sit stacked on Belos's desk. Multiple empty bottles of ink litter the ground under his desk.
The rest of his room is as luxurious as Elya's, with real, actual windows, a soft bed, and a large wardrobe. You notice multiple swords, some practical, some ceremonial, strapped up to the wall as decoration.
"Doin' some writin'?" you ask as you scan his room.
"Trying, at least. I'm writing a speech."
"For?"
He lifts one of the sheets up, stares at it, then crumples it and drops it to the floor. "Some sort of speech to rally the nobility."
You raise an eyebrow at this.
"Why might you be doin' that?"
He replies, "I'm rallying them for war. If we are to crush Rade early, I need the backing of whoever remains in Wrido."
"So I take it you aren't acceptin' my strategy?"
He glares at you. "We've had this discussion."
Belos shoots you another glare. "You're lucky it is I who is king. Others might not be so merciful."
"Fine, then. That's not why I'm here anyway," you reply dismissively.
"Speaking of which," Belos says, "could I see the letter?"
You reach into a small leather satchel attached to your belt and slip out the note. "It was supposed to be read post mortem."
He takes the note from your hand and unfolds it. You watch as his face visibly drops the further he reads. "Oh."
"Oh," he repeats, turning to you. "This… is not good."
"What are we goin' to do?" you question.
Belos takes a moment to think. "Well… nothing. Not now, at least. As long as I don't die, Vedran doesn't need to find out, right? My children will inherit before him."
There's an awkward pause. "What children?" you ask, without any sarcasm or snark. It's a legitimate question. He's been betrothed twice. Both times, the woman died before they could even say their vows.
"I'm eighteen, Marshal. Cut me some slack," he replies icily, his lack of a wife clearly a sticking point. "You're what, twenty-three? You haven't even been considered for a marriage yet."
That barb doesn't really affect you. You raise both hands in front of your chest, palms facing Belos, displaying your fingers. Your two missing ring fingers are obvious.
"Forget somethin', brother? I can't exactly get married easy when I've been maimed," you reply grimly. It's no lie. Having your ring fingers cut off is a mark of severe dishonor.
The ring finger is the ring finger. Whether it's a monarch's signet or a marriage band, it's where one's rings go. Your father, both a king and a married man, wore two rings on his left ring finger.
You don't have any ring fingers. Such maiming is used to mark a heretic, criminal, murderer, and any other undesirables who are unlucky enough to fall under the knife. The closest category you fall under here is probably a heretic, though your own unconventional beliefs are unknown to most.
When someone is missing these two fingers, it is a sign of untrustworthiness. The fingers that are used to hold the symbols of eternal bonds being gone shows that the person cannot handle such bonds.
Of course you're no criminal. Not by the laws of Kanton, anyway; the Erisians may say otherwise. But the stigma of one's birth can carry other consequences.
Belos stares at the missing fingers for a second. He was raised like any other Kantonian to be wary of the dishonored, even if he is your half-brother.
Belos snaps out of his thoughts at the sound of your voice. He looks up at you and narrows his eyes. "I could say the same about you, Marshal."
"I'm sure you can, Your Majesty," you reply, folding your arms back over your chest.
He sighs. "Let's… not go down this road again, brother."
You sigh as well. "Agreed."
"Once this war is over, I'll find myself a woman," he says with an air of finality, putting an end to that line of conversation.
"Well," you say, "about the note. Father's first point—"
He interrupts you again. "I know. He says to make you a general. I know, I know, I know."
"And?" you ask with a raised eyebrow.
"I—I'll think about it, okay? I've got a lot of other stuff on my mind at the moment."
I do, too, you think. Your face remains impassive. "Of course."
"Is that all, then?" he asks.
"Aye."
"Very well. Please, give me my space." He passes Sobik's note back to you. "I trust you won't lose it. Keep it safe. I have much more to do."
"Of course, Your Majesty."
Belos gives you a small nod, and you turn to exit his room.
To leave the boy king to his words.
Next
-Three Weeks Since Arrival at Wrido-
Another week has flown by. And you find yourself bored.
You're no stranger to boredom, of course, but this boredom feels… worse in some way.
Maybe it's the helplessness. You've done all you could. You've gone over the walls. You've spoken to recruiters. You've tried to oversee the three thousand's training, but Sir Obren is very keen on keeping you away.
None of it matters. You're still not a general. You're still powerless. And that feeling, that lack of control, is terrifying. Not having any control over your fate or the fates of those around you causes you to mentally check out of the situation.
You want to retake control of your fate.
Next
On the battlefield, especially when leading an army, you have control. Fate is a fickle mistress, and she displays herself in those rare moments of sheer luck when either the weak beat the strong or the world itself grants you victory through the weather.
Some may call it divine intervention. You don't. It's just plain old dumb luck. Half of commanding an army is just exploiting this luck.
But that requires control. And you have none.
You want control. When you fight, you have all the control. It's the ultimate test of martial prowess. You move your weapon, your foe moves theirs, and one falls. You have control over your own fate, along with the fate of those around you.
But when you're stuck, just waiting for the enemy without any control of the army, it feels awful. You feel a sinking sense of dread. Rade is coming, and Belos is going to leave the safety of the walls. He's going to get men killed.
And you can't stop him. Not legally, anyway.
No control. No chance.
But you have control over who you kill. Who you hurt. That is your control. That has always been your control.
Your nails dig into your wrist. Pain rockets up your arm. Pain that you caused. You did it. Nobody else hurt you. You hurt you. And nobody could stop you.
The pain is a feeling. A real one. Something to break the emotional numbness. Something to break through the dead wall of nothingness. Something that reminds you that you're still alive.
A knock on your door interrupts you.
Next
You look up from your bleeding arm at the door, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. You stumble over yourself, searching the room for something to wipe the blood away. You decide to just wipe it against the side of your mattress's fabric cover.
It still feels weird, sleeping on a real mattress, even five years after The War. You spent three in that cursed war, and it burned you more than anything else in your life.
You walk over to the door, your guest room still in orderly condition. Your sword and scabbard lie on top of the empty dresser. The rest of your limited personal belongings were carried with the contingent that arrived last week.
Not counting the one in your shoe, you have three other knives. They sit next to your sword, all sheathed and waiting. Your two or three pairs of casual clothes lie folded on the bed, still not put away in your dresser.
You haven't had a permanent dresser in years.
Your single pair of good party outfits are also folded, resting on top of the dresser, next to your instruments of war. Most of the blood from earlier has been cleaned from them, though they're still slightly stained.
Though there is one thing else. One small thing that you've formed an attachment to.
It's a place for you to vent your personal frustrations, and you find yourself doing so more and more frequently lately.
You would say that you casually swear, but not hard swears. In your journal, however, you have entire pages that are just barely coherent rants where half the words are just "fuck."
You reach the door and swing it open, careful to keep your wrists pointed inwards. In front of you stands Darin, dressed casually, sword sheathed on his left hip and a coin purse strapped to his right.
"Evenin', lad," Darin says, a genuine smile on his face.
Well," Darin says, "I was doin' some thinkin', ay?"
"About?"
He ignores your question with one of his own. "You's mind if I come in?"
"Be my guest," you say, stepping out of the way.
"Thank ye," he says as he passes by into your room.
You lean against the wall as Darin enters and sits himself down on a chair. Before you can question him further, he gestures to the bloodstain on the side of your bed, in plain view from his seat. "Fuckin' 'ells, lad. Ya 'ave a nosebleed er somethin'?"
You stiffen up.
But you can't tell him. You want to—but you can't. You can't pin down why, but you just can't bring yourself to admit it all.
Your impassive mask settles onto your face, and you lie, smooth as silk. "Aye, gov'nor, was a helluva nosebleed." You even throw in a chuckle to make it sound more genuine.
"Seems like it, lad," he says with a chuckle of his own.
"Anyways, if we're done talkin' 'bout yer nose, I'd like to say something now," Darin continues.
"So… what's wrong?"
"Well, I's thought we're all a 'lil tense, ay? You and I haven't seen each other in… fuck, five years?" You nod, and he continues. "And as soon as we met again, it's been all business. We haven't had a moment to just… relax."
You nod. Relaxing sounds really good to you right now.
"So, I've a proposal. You and I head downtown, find ourselves some ale, and just… ya know…" He trails off.