Elias knelt before the framing in his dank tank which was one of the hundreds. No, thousands of tents. He was in a war camp, with the colorful sigils, banners, and tents lining the field to the horizon. It was almost like one of the festivals from back at home. In Réaltimar. He closed his eyes and savored the memories. The smell of sausages, roast beef, pork, ale, beer, and anything else Réaltimarine. It was nothing like this wretched, humid, blistering Carabaí heat. The air was cool back at home. Always a frosty breeze on the air, even at the height of summer. But better yet, the war camp reminded him something of his campaigns back home. The campaigns against Lyeona, where battle after battle he would fight by the side of Karl Altendorf, the late High King. Together, they had conquered Lyenoa. Réaltimarine men and Élirian ships had prevailed against the Lyeonians. Those had been during simpler times when they were fighting for glory and domination. When it was known that the Élirians were beneath Réaltimarines. When Karl had been alive. But when died, the cracks began to show.

Peter, the son of Karl, a man who carved an empire in Evrúopa, was failing. The Élirians encroached more and more on the Imperial Diet. Before the dynastic union with Élira, there had been seven Prince-Electors in the Imperial Diet. There were now thirteen. Six Élirians, seven Réaltimarines. But the alliances shifted and warped every day. The Élirians now completely controlled the Royal Fleets, the very thing granting Peter the ability to even make it island to island. And now, with the addition of the Barbarudi Queen, rumors had begun to spring up about Peter and her... Of course, Elias knew they weren't true, for Peter was but a boy and the Barbarudi Queen in her middle ages, but they were damaging to the boy king's reputation.

He's destroying what you created, he thought to the painting framing of Karl as he knelt on his knees. It depicted the king in his most extravagant garb, green shot through with gold. In the crutch of his right arm, he held his battle helm, a burgonet with the wings of a peryton. In his left hand, he clutched his greatsword, made of faesteel. Weeper, it was called because the banding and mottling of the blade vaguely resemble tears. It was a dark beauty too. A terror to behold.

"My lord," came the cry from outside. "The emperor wishes to see you at the Imperial Diet today."

"Emperor?" he shouted back.

"It is what His Imperial Majesty wishes to go by."

Elias's mouth curved downwards. A foolish move. And one surely to peeve the Prince-Electors. As he stood, he turned to face the painting Karl Altendorf once more. "I shall find your daughter, Your Majesty. I shall counsel your son. I shall save your kingdom." He turned and exited the tent.

The hot, humid, Sersalvonian air hit him once more. But it was the same everywhere in the Isles. Rumors of the hurricane which had hit them continued to circle. Just yesterday, the host of ten-thousand men had burned a village with a small tower just north of where they were now. But before they had set the tower alight, Elias had taken the time to study some of the messages which had been sent. Most he couldn't understand, but a few were written in white the Sersalvonians called the "Merchant Tongue," which was the Common Tongue of Evrúopa. One included the writings of a great storm. This letter seemed to imply it was different from the one which had battered them in Grenaserrat. It had utterly destroyed some island principality east of Grenaserrat. The letter claimed that nothing was left but the few remains of the walls and the keep. He called it the "Wrath of Iusphiel." Whatever that meant. He wondered where that hurricane was now.

He mounted and unhitched his horse. Spurring it to ride off to the large clearing designated for the Imperial Diet. Passing the unorganized columns of tents, nothing like what had been in Lyeona, he felt his disgust deepen for the boy king who sat on the High Throne and played with fire and sword. But there was something else different... he could feel it in the air.

When he took a right turn at the end of the column, he was greeted by a horrifying sight. No longer flew the peryton of Altendorf... in it's place... a dragon.

Ringed with honor guards, the area for the Imperial Diet was wide and grand, filled to the brim with decorations and banners depicting the silver dragon passant upon a sanguine field, breathing silver fire. He had been right: Peter was destroying his father's legacy. The peryton banner of green and silver that Karl had marched under had been completely stripped from sight, replaced by bloodred and a silver dragon.

The High King―no, the Emperor―sat upon a high chair before the Diet, draped in robes of red and silver with a crown that seemed to be a wreath of dancing flames. Just before the steps was Lord Admiral Caelius and some priest whose name Elias constantly forgot. The Lord Treasurer also stood with them. A smug grin quickly spread on Caelius' face as he saw Elias walk in. Peter took no notice and simply nodded as Elias entered.

What has gotten into this boy?

All the Prince-Electors who sat in their designated seats along the sidelines seemed uncomfortable in their seats. Alexander Harrington, the Prince-Elector of Harlester (his was the House Harrington of Harlester, the senior branch to that of Harrington of Hariford, a cadet branch to Harlester), seemed infuriated by the emperor's appearance. His cousin, Sigurd of Hariford, had died in the Battle of Grenaserrat, and his Faeblade Starclaw had been lost. The King had consistently delayed any action to find Starclaw and held no interest in it. Alexander was an old man, nearing sixty-five with salt and pepper hair, a hard face rough with the lines of battle. He too had served with Karl Altendorf in Lyeona. An old-timer and unfriendly to the Élirians. He was also well known for his fiery temper and quick blade. It was said that the Old Hawk of Harrington had gotten into half a hundred duels when he was in his prime. With half a hundred duels came half a hundred enemies, and so the young Prince-Elector had gotten himself close to the High King.

As Elias approached the High King, he nodded at Sir Mason Daleston, Commander of the High Guard. The most accomplished knight in the realm. In his forties and had been sworn in the final years of Karl's reign. A staunch supporter of Peter's crusade against the Sersalvonian mercenaries; a quest of vengeance for Mason, considering they had killed one of his men when they first approached Peter in a duel... what was his name? Elias couldn't remember. And it was inconsequential anyhow.

Elias did the customs as usual, going down to one knee and pulling his fist to his heart. Simultaneously, all in attendance rose. "Rise, Lord Elias," Peter said, with a smug look on his face. Not too unlike Caelius. When Elias rose to his feet, his old bones creaked. He had to control the flush that almost went to his face. He was getting old. Peter nodded and Elias took his place by the side of the High King. A chair had been put down for him just one step below the king. The boy gestured and all in attendance took their seats once more.

It began as it always did, with the ceremonious prayer from the priest. Once that had been finished, the court began.

Prince-Elector Alexander stood and faced the king. He went down to one knee and arose. "Your Majesty!" he cried.

"Imperial Majesty, Serene Highness," corrected the Lord Admiral.

Alexander shot the man a look of contempt and ignored him. "I must ask: what is the meaning of―" He gestured to the red and silver dragon banners "―this."

Peter tilted his head. "Is there something wrong with it, Prince-Elector?"

Alexander's eyes went aflame. "I do not see the sigil of your father."

"I am not my father," the boy shot back.

"No. That you are not."

Peter narrowed his eyes at the thinly veiled insult. "I find the dragon much more fearsome than the peryton, Prince-Elector. And it is fear we need to strike into our enemies."

"I did not sail here under a dragon banner, Your Majesty," retorted Alexander. Peter bristled. "And it was the peryton who led us to victory against the lions of Lyeona. The peryton which wed the bull of Élira. And it is a peryton which I shall follow into battle!"

Peter was getting furious quickly. Elias knew he should step in as he usually did but... he wanted to watch. And listen.

The boy king's pale face was as red as a cherry. "You will follow whichever banner I choose, Prince-Elector. Whether it be peryton, dragon, or a bloody mouse should I wish it!"

Alexander laughed incredulously. Such an open display of defiance was unheard of. The other Prince-Electors shifted in their seats uncomfortably. The Prince of Harlestar shook his head, as if the king was a child... which he was. "Your Majesty, you dishonor your father's memory and those of your ancestors by throwing away their banner so quickly."

Peter shot to his feet. "You dare accuse me?" The boy was about to get violent.

"Your Imperial Majesty," Elias called. "The Prince-Elector had too much to drink last night. He is not in his right mind."

Alexander's eyes bulged. "What?"

Elias forged on, "An intoxicated Prince-Elector is not one fit to attend the Diet. High Guard, take him away."

Alexander sputtered furiously, spittle flying out of his mouth as the three of the High Guard escorted him out of the Diet. He'll hate me for it for a time. But that's alright.

Seemingly out of breath, Peter took his seat once more. The fingers of silence gripped the Imperial Diet. No one was quite sure how to continue. Unfortunately, it was Caelius who broke it. "We are but a two's day march away from Sapinsville, Your Imperial Majesty."

Peter nodded absentmindedly. "Splendid. When we arrive, there shall be no quarter. Now, is there anything else that needs to be brought to my attention?"

Caelius' lips tightened as he was dismissed like that. But Emmerich stood this time and faced the king. As he went down to one knee, his wide girth made him unstable and forced him to use a hand to support himself.

No one laughed.

Emmerich quickly rose and brushed the dirt off of his extravagant dress. "Your Imperial Majesty," began the treasurer, "I ask that you dispatch a regiment of men to the north to secure the silver mines of the Comodus Mountains. These mines single handedly doubled the revenue of Rivièrra in a year. It would be extremely profitable should we take hold of them."

Peter nodded. "Done. A regiment of men at arms supplemented by a company of knights. Elias shall lead them."

What? Elias's head snapped to the boy on the throne. "Sire!" he protested, forgetting his place. Karl would've never stood for that.

"Are you going to defy me as well?" Peter seethed. "Do as I say, Steward. It is I who is Emperor. Not you, or Alexander, or anyone else!" the boy emperor screamed.

He's removing me from his presence. All who will remain to counsel him will be Emmerich and Caelius.

Peter slammed his forearms onto the arms of his chair. "I'm done with this Diet! Out, everyone out!"

An unorthodox way to dismiss everyone to be sure. The area quickly emptied as the Prince-Electors and their retinues shuffled out. Elias did not hesitate to follow, but he threw one glance over his shoulder. And at the side of the emperor remained Emmerich and Caelius... whispering, and planning.

He made up his mind right there and then.

He wouldn't let Peter destroy the kingdom Karl had created.