Vedran clenches his fists. "Me? Breaking this family? You're the one who tore us apart! You're the one who… who got Father to do this to me!"
You raise an eyebrow at that. "I got Father to do this?"
"Y-yes! You tricked him somehow! You had to!" He takes a threatening step forward. You once again ready yourself to draw.
Before the situation can escalate, the guards summoned by the queen dowager make their way into position, weapons drawn as they near the scene. You scan around, searching for Elya, but Mira has already shuffled her away.
The six guards that you find approaching are, first and foremost, confused. The lead guard tentatively asks, "Your Majesty?"
Vedran turns toward him, gesturing to you. "He's trying to disrupt the peace! He's spreading lies about… my… my reign!"
"Shut up!" Vedran shouts, rushing forward to strike you. You take a step back, and the guards move to intervene. They swarm him, quickly restraining the prince, who does his best to escape and lash out at you.
You stare unflinching at the sight.
"Take His Highness to his room," you command. "He needs to cool off."
The lead guard replies, "Er, yes Marshal."
The guards begin to haul a reluctant Vedran back. He thrashes wildly, attempting to break free from their grip, but six men can easily overpower one. Eventually, he resigns himself to his fate.
However, as Vedran is hauled away, he turns back to you, calling out in a voice that sets you on edge. It isn't filled with rage, but rather cold determination. A voice confident, unflinching, and scarily balanced. "I will not resign myself to this, brother," he says.
You make no attempt to reply and simply watch as he's hauled past the cathedral.
Next
A day has passed since your incident with Vedran, and you finally find time for something important. As you once again knock on Elya's door, you grimly chuckle to yourself about how familiar it all feels. It hasn't been long since you last had to comfort her.
Ever since Belos's death, she's been even more withdrawn; same with Mira. Elya is allowed to grieve. She's allowed to process the loss. She doesn't have the same grueling responsibility that you or your half-brothers did.
Until now.
You know she is to be queen regnant of a nation engulfed in civil war.
A nation whose capital is surrounded by rebel forces.
As you wait for her to open the door, you feel…
There's shuffling from behind the door, then it swings open, revealing an even more disheveled Elya. The first time you attempted to comfort her, she at least tried to appear presentable.
All pretenses of her being okay have been dropped now. Elya's face is smeared with dried tears. Her raven hair is unkempt and wild.
But at the sight of her older brother, her face lights up.
Your sister is the only one in your family that has ever been excited to see you.
"Arthur Hornraven," Elya gasps out, relief obvious in her eyes. "You're here!"
"I am," you reply, and she goes in for a hug.
You tense up as she throws her arms around you. She seems to draw strength from your constantly stoic presence. From your near unshakable will.
If you break, she will too. Knowing this fills you with a sense of dread. There's already too much responsibility piled upon you. You don't want to let more people down.
You let enough men down during The War.
The War.
Next
I promised them a quick fight. A quick engagement at the flatland near Alverton. A break from the jungles and a place to rest. It had been Rade and Cadarn's idea. I agreed.
One final, easy battle. One to finally bring it all to close.
But now I'm fighting shoulder to shoulder through those streets, my dead already reaching the hundreds.
A young man, skewered through the abdomen by an Erisian spear, crumples to the ground next to me. I bend down, gripping his shoulders, trying to heave him back on his feet. He falls back down with a cry.
My own body has been pressed to the limit. Exhaustion fires through me. I collapse to my knees.
I tried. I really did. But finally, I hit my breaking point. An Erisian soldier rushes forward, raising his blade above my head.
I let my men down.
I let everyone down.
"Arthur Hornraven!"
Next
You're torn from the memories by a frantic Elya. She cries your name and shakes your shoulder, snapping you back to reality. There are tears on her face, worry in her eyes.
She's a sniffling wreck, almost reduced to weeping when she witnessed you zone out. I'll fail her. I'll fail her like I've failed everyone.
You must be the rock for others. But they don't know just how… unstable you are. They don't know how you can feel yourself bending. They count on you not to snap or break down.
And you know they'll be disappointed.
You force the thoughts away, assure her you're fine, and try to shuffle her further into her room.
Next
You sit down on Elya's luxurious bed as she sits next to you, leaning on your shoulder for support. While she catches her breath from her crying, you catch your breath from your sudden flashback.
The room is still evidence of her privileged upbringing. There's still so much luxury in such a small space. But it's unclean. Discarded, tear-stained pillows litter the ground.
You know that you're one of the worst people to possibly comfort her. The sudden flashback proves it.
Everyone calls you a liar. Vedran, Mira, the men once in your command. Why should you think differently? If everyone says so, they must be right.
And you know they're right. Because you are a liar. All you do is lie. You lie to yourself. You lie to Darin. You lie to everyone that you're okay. You lie and you lie, because there's nothing else you can do.
Maybe you're afraid if you tell someone, they'll treat you differently. Maybe you're afraid you'll lose control. Maybe the fragile house of cards that is your life cannot handle any honesty.
Maybe you've lied so much that it's the baseline.
After all, Elya doesn't need to know about your suffering. You must alleviate hers, not promote your own.
Arthur Hornraven… what happened?" Elya asks.
"Memories," you reply vaguely, attempting to change the subject.
Elya takes this response with a nod. A knowing nod. She knows better than to press. She falls quiet, allowing you to ask your questions.
Elya shrugs against you. "I don't know."
"You don't know, or you just don't want to tell me?" you ask.
"You're one to talk," Elya mutters.
The comment stings.
You're bad at comforting. She knows this. You know this. And she's tired of pretending that you're good at it. She's said it before, but that was different. That was banter. This was real.
You've become incredibly hardened and apathetic toward insults. It's rare for them to hurt you.
But this one worms its way through your mask of apathy. It attacks you where you're weakest. And it cuts deep.
And Elya doesn't know. And you won't tell her. You can't tell her.
As if reading your mind, Elya immediately says, "Arthur Hornraven! I'm sorry… I—"
The tears begin to fall from her eyes. She weeps into your chest, the tears staining your tunic.
Minutes pass. She continues to cry. Your hands come to awkwardly rest on your legs as she continues to wail.
Mixed into this crying are occasional words like "Belos" or "Father." The rest is an incomprehensible mess of sobs.
Finally, after calming down enough, Elya wails, "Why must Father and Belos die?"
You pause, and then you realize she's asking you.
Elya pauses, taking in your answer. "What d-do you mean?"
"We will all die, Ellie. All of us. Grieve those who die, of course, but always celebrate life while we still have it."
You're actually somewhat proud of this response. Elya looks satisfied by it, as well.
But there's still one thing that weighs heavily on your conscience. You must tell her.
She must know.
Next
You will not be your "mother." You will not withhold information from Elya.
"Elya," you say gently, getting her attention once again.
"Yeah?" she mutters, still resting against your shoulder.
"You're going to be queen."
This gets her to sit straight up, breaking contact with your shoulder. "What?" she asks, voice cracking from her recent crying.
"Vedran has been… skipped in succession. You're next."
Elya emphatically shakes her head. "I can't rule! I… don't even… I don't even know how!" She coughs, tears threatening to reemerge. "You should be king, not me!"
This confession catches you by surprise. She continues, "You're strong! You… you can fight! And nothing ever hurts you! You never cry or anything!"
She says this with what sounds uncomfortably close to admiration. The last thing you want people to do is admire your inability to feel.
It doesn't matter," Elya insists. "Can… can I just name you king? Just take the crown and give it to you?"
"If you want the country to destroy itself," you reply.
"I don't… want this. I-I just…" She drifts off.
After a recomposing deep breath, Elya says, "I've been raised all my life to be a… princess. To be a wife—a mother." Her gaze drifts away, and she stares at the floor. "Not a warrior. Arthur Hornraven… I can't rule. I just can't."
You feel…
You sigh. "That's why I'm here, Ellie. I will help you. I'll be with you. And goddamn it, I won't let you down."
Elya gives you a nod, then presses against you, weeping again, and you can only make out a singular phrase.
"Thank you."
She sobs it, again and again. For several minutes, she continues until she's all spent. All the tears remaining in her expelled onto you.
Elya then rests up against your shoulder. You attempt a small smile at her, causing her to give a pained laugh.
The two of you stare out the window together, watching as dawn breaks through the clouds, shining golden light through the windows.
And golden light upon the fields of dead.
Next
-One Month after Belos's Sally-
The bodies of the riders have long since been collected by Rade's forces. You've no idea what has happened to them, but you aren't so keen to find out.
Autumn is in full swing now. The leaves have turned their vibrant colors, falling from the trees. A chill has set in the air, not unbearable, but just cool enough to be uncomfortable.
Though the colder air feels better on your aching, though healing wound. You were lucky enough to be spared the rot, but the wound still hasn't fully healed. You suspect it will scar, being added to your already somewhat expansive collection.
Pillars of smoke have been rising from the countryside for days. As you predicted, Rade's men have set out for the countryside, torching and pillaging. From atop the walls of Wrido, you watch as homestead after homestead is turned to ash.
The fall harvest is being devoured and stolen by hungry soldiers to sustain them in their siege. Wrido has already started to ration food. The city was expecting more food to arrive after the fall harvest, but Rade's siege disrupted that severely.
It is a grisly sight. It serves to remind you how powerless you are. Rade is out there, killing and stealing, and there's nothing you can do.
But your mind is preoccupied with statistics and numbers.
Of the one-thousand-and-five-hundred men that charged from the walls of Kanton, only eight hundred remain combat-ready. The rest are dead, wounded, or maimed.
With such high death tolls, you know that the great heavy cavalry of Kanton cannot be relied upon to hold the city. As such, you've spent time "recruiting" more and more of the local peasantry.
Many are eager to fight. To defend Wrido. To defend their home.
Others are not so.
However, like many things, a little force goes a long way.
Next.
Even with your ever-increasing quantity of levies, you realize you lack professional forces. You lack the hardened veteran troops of your campaigns during The War. You lack the inhuman ability of the Krorid rangers.
But you seek to remedy this. You seek to acquire an extra force of archers. Such troops will be invaluable if Rade ever decides to assault the walls.
You sit in the back of the Huntsman's Respite, hands folded and rested on your desk, leaning forward in your chair. The place is ominously still. The majority of its patrons were pressed into service.
It used to be a place of merriment. It used to feel happy.
Now it is empty. Only Tija stands at the bar, idly scrubbing away at the counter with a rag. The place would feel unbearably still were it not for Tija's disinterested motions.
And you're the reason it lost its happiness. You pressed those men. It might have been in the name of Elya and carried out by Darin and Obren, but you gave the orders. You're the reason so many of them will die.
You shake your head to clear away the dangerous thoughts. You know Velinor is soon to arrive. You have a deal to strike with the experienced hunter.
Just then, the door flies open. Velinor steps through, dressed casually, though a blade is still sheathed on his hip. You respect the weapon. He greets Tija, who wordlessly points a finger in your direction.
Velinor's gaze falls upon you in the back corner. He sets out for you, grabbing a chair on the way over, the action eerily similar to how he first approached you and Darin the first time you met him.
He sets it down at your table and sits. Despite the oddly grim atmosphere around you, Velinor seems strangely cheerful. There's a half-smile already on his face, and something about the casual way he carries himself radiates nonchalance.
He says, voice calm and untroubled, "So… Marshal, ya have somethin' to ask meself?"
"I have a proposition to make," you say.
Next
Velinor leans forward on the table, folding his hands much like yourself. "Is that so?"
You nod. "I know that you're a huntsman, gov'nor."
"That I am," Velinor says, beaming with pride. "A damn good one, if I say so meself."
"And I'd be correct in sayin' that you know other hunters?"
"Yup. Know lots of 'em. I know's a lot of 'em got levied for this new war," he replies, his tone even but subtly menacing. You show no reaction to this shift in tone, keeping your face blank and unreadable.