"As the fox's tail is scorched by the flames it once fanned, so too are the mighty consumed by the very power they sought to wield. Greed devours the heart, vengeance poisons the soul, and war razes the earth. The gods weep at the devastation, for in the end, only ashes remain, and the winds of time whisper: 'Thou hast reaped what thou hast sown.'"

— "The Five Gods and the Fox", Chapter XIX: Spoils of Mortal Men

AFTER a cold hearty meal, alone in his chambers, as Lord Steward of the Black Marches, Britius retired to the cold and haunting Lord Study in the lowest tower in the castle that was built along the inner wall and towered over it.
    
As Britius sat in his chair behind the long smooth table, he began tapping at the clutter of brown parchment on the table. There were no complaints from the people from all over the Black Marches, the winter had been harsh. Britius had witnessed it when he had once traveled toward the border of the Black Marches on Lord Conan's orders.
    
The people of the village of Blackhill have been devastated. Wolfs came down from the three mountains called the Brothers and ravaged the people's livestock and destroyed their farms and barns. The snow had fallen hard, blown away some of the houses, and the roofs fell in. Some people had been taken by the cold and some had to have their limbs cut.
       
The people were near rebellion against the crown and instead of solving the people's distress, Lord Conan had to cut them down. He was forced to behead the village elder to settle the people down, but since then, he could not stop easing their hollow empty faces in his dreams each night.
       
He sighed whisked the pitcher of wine on the table poured himself wine on a short golden snake-stemmed goblet. The Black Marches were home to more low Houses than the whole of Ustela, it was not that the Marches were great that the people would not abandon them, but it was an old legend that the people would not let to rest. But those old childish legends might help him.
    
He leaned forward and squinted at the brown, tattered map of Ustela on the left. On the map, he looked to the Black Marches, at the signs of the Houses displayed there. There were all low Houses, their word at court was little, but he did need them at court, he needed the lords in the field of battle.
     
He used his free right arm to pull at the map so it covered the clutter of parchment. He ran a finger gently across the map, he stopped first at a sign of a minor lord of a low House. It was the closest House to the Consea Woods and the Shadow Hills. House Knightburn.
      
The lord there was loyal to House Wyncoll, fiercely so, but Britius could bend him to his will. If he recalled right the lord had a bastard son fostered in another low House in the far north near Couver. In the Sealands.
    
And surely the lady of Lord of House Knightburn knew nothing of his husband's bastard and the Knightburns were joined to House Darkhill. If that news about the bastard would be spread, the alliance would be broken and it would be bitter waters between the two Houses, bitter enough that it would come close to blows.
      
But of course, it would not come close to that if the Lord of Knightburn cooperated. Britius sighed and leaned back then sipped from his goblet. The spiced wine ran down his throat, he turned to stare out the window. The orange glow of the setting washed the grey stone walls of the high beamed ceiling of Snake Tower.
      
The walls were featured with shelves and cupboards and candles burning on brackets. The shelves rose
to the ceiling lined with books and scrolls. Bound in leather or wood. It had that one lone window cut into the wall on his left. Britius halved his wine and set back his goblet on the table.
       
Court. The most treacherous place to be and far more deadly than a battleground where you knew your enemies. He missed fighting, carrying a heavy blade, slicing through tender flesh, and the smell of blood and sweat thick in the air, clinging to his life perfume. But those were days long past, gone like a dream, forgotten.
        
Slowly Britius felt himself begin to slip away, then suddenly there was a rapping on the door. Britius groaned, pressing fingers on the bridge of his nose, hard.
        
"Come." He said, gruffly. The door before him creaked softly as it swung inward then there was a groan, a tap on the stone floor, a sigh then a small, thin woman appeared in the room. Britius grimaced, snatching the goblet from the table, spilling some drops then gulping it down deeply.
           
"M'lord," the old woman said starting towards him with a nod of her thin oval head. Thin gold-brown greasy hair tumbled down her head and obscured her face.
          
"Did I say you may approach?" Britius demanded. He pushed back from his table, wooden chair legs scrapped the floor producing an awful sound like the grinding of bones. The woman paused for a moment and looked up at Britius. Her eyes were golden like his, Asemon. If she was not then they would have been brown. There was something in her eyes that made him pause.
      
Britius sighed again, then strode towards the window and peered out, down the walls and Nury. The last red and orange and gold rays of the sun fled the streets of Nury, and a gentle wind from the brilliant canvas of the sky blew through the streets, whipping at the forms of the people and their cloaks. Peddlers rode their wagons and carts towards their nearest inns and the people, drunken, tottered down the cobble streets.
        
Oil lamps and candles were lit in some houses and inns, their light illuminating through the windows. The bright golden light poured out into the cobbled streets.
        
"Tell me, Griselda." He said. The crone snored, nodding as she pulled a chair and struggled onto the chair. She snored again, nodding slowly. The walking cane in her hand taps the stone floor occasionally. A dull, annoying drum. Each tap was like a stab in Britius' ears, he clenched his teeth and leaned against the window, trying not to shout at the crone.
        
"D'ye want to know?" She asked him in her raspy voice. Dread suddenly slithered through him. Britius rested his head on the cool window, down far below, outside of the outer walls of the castle, less than fifty men were guarding the keep. The rest of the Wyncoll army had been sent to the army and the half was accompanying the Lord of the Black Marches to court.
        
"Yes," the word echoed in the Lord's Study, seeming to bounce on the walls. Griselda laughed. Britius turned to her then walked towards the table and sat in his chair.
     
"One Crown, Two Claims and an Impossible War to be won...." she began, her eyes rolled over turning white. She threw her head back and gasped, her body shaking and lifting off the chair. "Beware of the King who rules the night, he will drape the world in his shadow, guide the princess so lost in hatred and bitter vengeance, she will be her doom, blood will rain from the red skies, pyres will be lit and screams will ravage the land but none will hear them. The Seven Lords, the gods, and the demons far below will not hear them...war is coming and the crown shall brew it." She recited. Britius' heart froze, stilled like a stone in his chest. He clenched his fists, folding the pages on the table, shriveling them.
      
War is coming and the crown shall brew it, those daunting words haunted him. Before he even realized it, he had sprung out of the Lord's Study and running down the corridor. Shadows dance in his haunt as if mocking him.
   
And in his mind, chaos came a few simple words. Seven Lords shelter her.

His hands shook, aching and bleeding from the day's work of brushing horses and carrying away broken glass when brawls from drunken men broke out. He squinted into the dark as he treaded down King Crown Alley, the night air whipped at him. He shivered but carried on.
     
It had been less than a week since he came into the village in a strange place now called the Black Marches. It was still in Ustela but this was where the battle of him and his brothers and sister took place. The village was small and welcoming. He dared not to use his real name, Ardes. That name even now still caused fear. That was some small mercy to his pride at least, but now he was known as Archimbaldus.
      
It was the name of his Lord Commander during the Age of Conquest, the age that the people now called the Age of Darkness. At the edge of the road, Ardes turned to Ravens Ways and headed to the apothecary house at the edge of the street. This was his home, for now. Once at the door he raised his fist to knock, but hesitated for a moment, to listen. There was no sound. A smile broke his face.
    
Gently he knocked on it. There was a silence then there was a sound of breaking pottery and glass then the door swung inward and standing before was a young girl of thirteen. Her hair was in hues of red and brown and gold, seeming to change colour on where she stood. At the sight of him, she smiled and drew him inside the house.
      
Her blue Asemon eyes mirrored his own, though she was not of his powers. She was a mere Healer, but she was useful in her ways. The girl closed the door behind him, the light from the streets and moon grew dim and died leaving the small room in darkness.
     

 Ardes squinted his eyes into the house. A faint moonlight filtered through the windows. "Father has retired to his bed, come now Archie," Linnet said softly leading him towards the small cookhouse on the other side of the apothecary house. The smell of earth and herbs hung in the air like perfume.

      
The faint smell of candles still hung in the air, thin trails of mist curled above their hosts and hissed their flames and light dead. To their left was the square counter and beyond it, set into the wooden wall was a cupboard with herbs and potions. They walked into the cookhouse, Ardes ducked under the doorway pulled out a chair, and sat on it.
         
Linnet left his side and headed for the cupboard set into the wall. The door creaked as she pulled it open and took a carved wooden bowl from it. "How passed thy day's foil?" She asked him. Ardes sighed and reached for the laces on its neck and began unlacing his cloak.
    
"Dread, that ol' fool 'een workin' me te the bone, me hand's gotten them cuts and splitters 'rom grooming those horses and picking that glass after a brawl." He grumbled, finishing the knots of his cloak. It fell silently behind him and just before Linnet set down two cold loaves of bread and warm broth before him.
     
"Father's 'eard rumblings o' witchery in t'Woods an' it's got t'villagers a-spooked. Strange 'n' light near t'hill they reckons." She said with much dread in her voice as it was coiling inside of him. He gripped his wooden spoon tightly and stared down at the warm broth. Its smell made his mouth water. His belly growled, and a hunger panther gnawed his inside. But he could not eat.
    
His drool turned sour on his tongue. Could they? No, no, it couldn't be them, they are forbidden to enter the Forbidden Lands without right from the folk of the Lands. But that did not calm the storm of dread conjured inside of him. A gentle hand on his large calloused ones brought him out of his reverie, he looked up at Linnet.
      
A look of worry was set on her small face. She was not a great beauty, handsome would be more like her. She had rough cheekbones, a squared face, and a jawline. Long noses and hollow cheeks as if leeches had suckled the meat from them. Ardes tried for a smile but it came as a grimace.
     
"Is something amiss, Archie?" She asked, tilting her head to one side. Ardes shook his head slowly and used his free hand to caress her cheekbones. With the darkness of faint silver light, Ardes could not make out the colouring of her cheeks but he assumed they did. The young woman of the village sniffed after me behind him like bitches looking for hounds to mate.
        
He could have chosen any other girl, but he much preferred this one. Folk had less liking for Asemon than he did for their fret and worrying nature. "Finish up that broth o'yourns and come to bed."
     
" Aye, Mistress."He teased earning a gentle glare from her. Ardes wolfed down the bread and broth, after his meal Linnet brought him a keg of fine ale from her father's cellar.  He drank his ale deeply, rivulets of ale ran down his chin dripping to the wood table before him.
        
When the keg was empty, he sighed and set it down on the table then pushed back from the table. Linnet took his arm again and pulled him up, leading him to the upper floor where she slept. The sound of their footfalls creaked as their weight pressed down the stairs that were in the storehouse behind the apothecary's main room. The upper floor was short and narrow with only two doors and one window at the end of the corridor.
        
Candlelight from the neighboring house poured into the corridor. Linnet's door was the last in the corridor. She led Ardes into her room. It was small and cramped. A small window into the wall on their left. A candle burned on window sills, its wax ran down in rivulets on the wooden walls.
       
The space was occupied by a single straw cot and two cupboards taking the space on the right wall. One contained concoctions and the other had Linnet's dresses. After closing the door behind them, Linnet began unlacing his shirt. Ardes' cock stirred, straining on the tight woolen breeches he wore. Linnet's thin fingers worked on the laces on his shirt, quickly unlacing them then she pulled the shirt off his body.
      
Let it drop to the ground. Her fingers ran over his bare chest. Her fingers lit flames under his skin, his cock grew. Her breath stirred the hairs in his neck causing it to rise and curl. Ardes' breath hitched, and his heart pounded in his chest, drumming a soft beat.
       
Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum....he had made love with her before, he had been in this village for three moons at least yet still her touch made her skin hot, as if it was engulfed in flames. Linnet's fingers wove down to his hips, to the rim of his breeches. His breath caught again. She kneeled and looked up at him.
      
Ardes could see the question in her eyes, bright as sapphires. Her breath seeped through the weaves of his breeches into his cock, warming it, stirring it more. Ardes touched her head gently and caressed her smooth silk hair. Then carved away with his thumb to her cheekbones, he traced their rough edges and then nodded slowly. Linnet smiled and unlaced his breeches. They dropped to his knees.
       
Linnet's finger curled around him. She ran gentle fingers on the curled hairs around his cock before she took him in her mouth. A soft sound of satisfaction escaped his lips. Pleasure took him whole, her mouth and tongue ran long his length. This was a pleasure. The pleasure he was denied in his three thousand years of imprisonment. Soon he would conquer the world, but in his days, these finer ones of peace. He would pleasure himself like a god.

The wheelhouse rattled up the uneven streets of Birk, the capital. Its jerking and lurching turned Aalina's stomach over. Her heart leaped to her throat at each lurch. She gripped the wood of the stool beneath her to steady herself and peered out the window in the city.  Birk was the seat of power of the royal family, her family. The Leafvale's of House Eedlu. They had just crossed into the Second District of the city. All buildings of stone, wood, and straw leaned over the cobbled streets.
        
Wagons and carts drawn by ox or donkeys rattled to and from in the streets. The air rang with raised voices of the peddlers shouting over the city, earning deadly glares from the hawkers and stall owners. The smell of cooking and spices hung in the air and the screams of children weaving through people and dodging the wagons and carts blasted the air.
        
Mothers shouted after them while fathers helped their sons beat dusty carpets with wooden whackers, venting their frustration. Good wives hung over their open windows, their hair done into buns and braids. Wire lines crisscrossed over the rattling wheelhouse, wagons, and carts, hanging wet clothes.
       
Spring was here after harsh winter so the good wives ought to have their houses cleaned for the coming festivals. Aalina shifted in her seat, trying to relieve the pain throbbing on her backside. They had been riding to the capital for two weeks, now. Twenty days and nights of sleeping in a poor inn of straw cots or sleeping in the wheelhouse, and Aalina had just had enough of it all. The jerking and lurching motion and the rattling of wheels, the odd smell that hung in the wheelhouse.
      
It was a wonder why she was not dead yet, but what she truly wanted to escape was not the wheelhouse but her escort. He sat across from her, smiling at her like a drunk fool watching a serving girl flash her tits and the hole between her thigh. His eyes seemed to glint in the semi-darkness of the wheelhouse, but his hair still kept its golden radiance.
     
"My Lord, staring at me would get you no further than a wind trying to lash at a stone." She snapped as kindly as she could muster.
    
Ardenor's eyes widened for a moment, startled then it was replaced by a smile. "Is it a sin to admire the beauty that rivals the Seven Lords?" He asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He tilted his head to one side, his smile widening. Aalina turned away fully from the city just before the wheelhouse passed under the stone arch, The Great Gate, that separated the Second District from the First.
      
The red glittering tile roofs of the low-slanted houses of the First District shone into the dark wheelhouse. Casting red shadows over the corners of the wheel house looking like specks of blood. "No, My Lord, it is not a sin though it is a sin to admire too much," Aalina said tugging a loose strand of hair behind her hair. The sound of clanking filled the small silence that choked the wheelhouse.
     
Aalina's hair had been done into a long red tail with shards of red rubies sewn into a thin wire and used as a net over her hair. The rubies glinted as well, casting blood shadows over the darkness. Ardenor smiled after a moment, leaning back in his seat and resting his back against the closed window of his side.
      
"My Lady hostility will do you no good especially since you're to be my woman soon." At that she flinched, dread tightening its grasp on her. He cruel smirk formed on his lips. Aalina's heart throbbed in her chest, heavily unlike a dull drum but a pound of a mallet on hot steel.
      
She tried to form a smile on her lips, but it faltered. Ever since her uncle Ricardus' reign began, women had little to no rights at all. They were used as property or accessories for their families to be married off to families for political gain, especially in the world of nobility.
     
During her father's and mother's reign, women had their voices in court and would speak their minds, but when Ricardus came to power. He blamed the deaths of her family on her father. He wove tales such as the old king was seduced by a woman from the Isles and let the murdering Ufrals cut them down like meat. That was an insult to the Dragon People, Rossemund was their Dragon Heir and one of their own.
     
It was simply by the Seven Lords' mercy that Ustela had not been razed to the ground by the colossal beasts that the Dragon People rode. But even so, the realm suffered because trade was cut. Steel from the Isle was unbreakable, forged not from ordinary flames or Pyrofender flames but dragonfire and what was more valuable about the Dragon People's steel was that it was dragonsteel. It did not lose its edge or rust, forever sharp as a newly forged blade from the forge.
       
For power and ambition, Ricardus had doomed the realm and it was all blamed on the women. Aalina turned to peer out the window, at the sky. It is clear blue, with flocks of birds darting by occasionally.
      
But then he will not be king for long, his time to wear the crown has passed and now it is my time to rule, and rule I will.
         
Soon the wheelhouse left the First District behind, rolling beneath the smoothly paved path under the arching bridge of the portcullis. The Crown Bridge stretched on before the wheelhouse, taking a long stride over the Lord River that the castle was entrapped around with. Thorn Castle was built on an island at the heart of the city, with the moat now called the Lord River around it, the waters of it running out the city through the Lion Gate up now headed to the city.
       
The island that the castle was built on was nothing small, it was large in that allowing the castle to have its spires around its walls, but there were two that were built near the foot of the island, nearly submerged in water. Those two towers had narrow winding stairs climbing up the island and there was a small wooden bridge built between the towers. It was the way grain and food were sent into the castle.
       
The Crown Bridge was flanked by eight towers on its side that held up the arching bridge. There were two at the start of the bridge, two more midway through the bridge, and last on the island. Aalina leaned against the window and peered out to the sky where majestic birds painted the sky in beautiful hues. The waters below the Crown Bridge glittered like a thousand spires. The sun up in its throne was an ore of molten gold, burning down at the land.
      
The wheelhouse rolled by until it crossed the final arching bridge into the long courtyard of the Thorn Castle. It stretched on from left to right to castle stairs towards the Bridge, glowing in green and red and violet and blue and pink flowers that should have been out of season.
       
Rows of bushes cut lines and mazes in the courtyard scattered with knights of the guard of House Eedlu. Their green-painted armour glistened in the sun like emeralds and their cloaks trailed behind them like rivers of blood with the sigil of House Eedlu sown on their cloaks.
      
On the long winding walls surrounding the island marched spear and lance men with a few archers standing guard between them. The castle doors were flanked by two banners of House Eedlu, hung down from the windows of the short tower above the Great Hall.
    
The wheelhouse drove around the path toward the stairs, when it arrived at their foot it lurched to a sudden halt nearly hurling Aalina out the window. She grumbled, rubbing the sore on her elbows which she had dug with on the rough wood of the wheelhouse.
     
The castle hadn't changed much since Aalina last saw it, but even so. After fourteen years of being surrounded by Alderth Castle's grey somber walls and plain gardens, Thorn Castle felt foreign to her. Strange like a dream long forgotten. The door of the wheelhouse swung open, and Aalina squinted her eyes in the bright light that suddenly invaded the darkness of the wheelhouse.

"M'lord, m'lady–Seven Lords a dra—
        
"You'd best move out of the way. My arse be aching here." Aalina heard Ardenor grumble as he moved on towards the door and climbed down.
       
"M'lord, 'tis good to see again."The herald said with a bow. Aalina climbed out of the wheelhouse after Ardenor, stretching her backside which ached as if being poked by needles.
       
"Yes, I suppose it is," Ardenor said absently as he began his ascent up the castle stairs. Suddenly Aalina felt its imposing shadow hanging over her like a giant, ready to crush her with its giant spires. Aalina looked up at its height. Her heart swelled with fury for the death of her parents and brother, joy that she had returned after so long, and sadness because she was turning alone.
        
Phethahaehr, methahaehr, bethahaehr...I'm here, I've returned home. For my crown, my revenge....
     
"M'lady," the herald called, softly. Aalina turned to him. The man smiled, gently so as if he knew a secret that she did not. "Welcome to Thorn Castle, m'lady." He said.
       
Yes, I am home, finally.