"You would kill a child of five? No, uncle, only the primary perpetrator must die and they have done so. We must show mercy, lest we create new enemies in the aftermath of our cruelty." King Francois Desramaux III to his uncle, Prince Jean, in deciding how to punish those who fought against the crown in the Second Pelariaux Revolt. 22nd of Geshan, 304 PR

Unlike House Van Niljveld, it seemed House Pelariaux had a great deal of taste in their decorations. Murals of vast landscapes covered the parlor walls of the Pelariaux Estate. Rolling hills, luscious green fields, and herds of different animals making claim to the natural beauty of the Pelari Fields. Curiously, instead of a mural depicting the family who made this great estate their home, hung proudly above the mantle-piece was a depiction of a great battle - one army adorned in blue and gold are surrounded entirely by another wearing a burgundy and black; charging in from behind appeared to be several flanks of cavalry - no, centaur, though they bore no colors to determine their loyalty with. The Duchess Zelderloo continued to eye every detail within the room as she awaited her host, a half-empty glass of amethyst wine accented her azure attire; her white hair was let down with the silver dragon pendant synched at the center. They pride themselves on their land, and not their bloodline. Curious. The Duchess took a dainty sip from her glass as her eyes darted to the furniture. Fine craftsmanship was all around, each table being made of finely sourced oak with legs hand carved into the shape of a phoenix. But wait, no, not oak. Bloodwood? Larnwy might kill the man if she saw these. Though, admittedly, the Duchess was unaware of how devout the Burraddouddo was to her people's religion. Worship of trees, its a wonder we do not conquer them and fix them. The room was organized to form a half-circle with the couches, each one with velvet upholstering that had been dyed a deep blue. Each couch was flanked by an end table on either side, amounting to four in total with the three couches. Behind the Duchess was a robust bar, stocked with all kinds of wines, brandies, and whiskeys. Pulling the room together, however, was the rug between the furniture and the hearth. It was the hide of a giant brown bear, its teeth and claws still attached with its open maw facing the far side of the room. The body lay perpendicular to the hearth, and its fur had been cleaned and dyed to give it a bluish-golden shimmer. Footsteps approached the double-doors as Hekket slowly moved her gaze to meet whomever was first to step through.

Duke Guyard Pelariaux II was a tall, pale figure in the midst of his fifth decade. His pale green eyes met with the Duchess' as the Duke entered the room entirely, closing the doors behind him.

"I apologize for my delay, duchess. I am glad to see you have helped yourself to a drink, however." His voice was a low monotone, but unnaturally so.

"I had to pass the time." Hekket found her response more playful than she had intended, though she did not correct it. Guyard, fully aware of the Duchess' gaze, made his way around to the bar where he poured himself a tall glass of ruby whiskey. With is back still to her from behind the bar, he spoke.

"Yes, well, I was in the midst of entertaining another guest. Perhaps you know him?" Guyard turned to face her. "He is your king, after all." Guyard made his way to the left of the Duchess, sitting at the first in the crescent of furniture, directly opposite Hekket.

"I did not want to intrude, I understand you were also meeting with his daughter." Guyard crossed his legs and leaned back.

"If my understanding is correct, duchess, the princess stands to be ruler to us both, does she not?" A slight grin came across his face as he sipped from his tumbler.

"The Princess Jolijn does stand to inherit after King Jurrien II." Guyard looked expectantly at the Duchess, awaiting the continuation of a sentence she did not know existed. After a brief moment, Guyard looked down to his drink, sighed, and took another sip.

"Who is that in the painting? The cavalry bares no coloration and I do not recognize the burgundy and black tabards of the surrounding army." Guyard brought his eyes up to meet Hekket's briefly, a chill fell down her spine; she could see directly through his eyes, like glass, and into a furnace.

"That is depicting the Battle of the Last Garlieux."

"The last, who? I apologize, I am unfamiliar with the noble houses so far west." Guyard let out a small exhalation from his nose as a closed mouth smile came across his face.

"That would be, dear duchess, because House Garlieux no longer exists. It was roughly two centuries ago when our families fought for supremacy of the land east of the Trentenn Woods, west of the Forest of Boum, and south of Guillaum's Trees and the Tebber Forests. I am sure you recognize my families colors decorating the defeated soldiers in the middle. No, duchess?" Hekket cocked her head to the side as she moved her neck so she might see the mural and Guyard in her peripheral.

"Am I to understand that your family has a mural of their defeat on full display?" The Duke and Duchess both chuckled as the sipped from their glasses. Then the Duke became deathly quiet with a stare that could do battle with her own.

"No. We won the day, as is obvious to see, duchess. That is not cavalry in the background, but centaurs. A last minute alliance with the Mannes tribe saved us and won the battle and, ultimately, the war." Guyard finished his glass and got up to pour himself another. Hekket raised her almost empty glass to the Duke, who grinned and took it to the bar as well.

"Does this alliance still stand today? Between House Pelariaux and the Mannes Tribe?" Hekket said, not turning to face Guyard, who kept his back to her as he made their drinks.

"No." Guyard turned and handed the glass to the Duchess, his smile from before having faded away and her usually purple liquid having been replaced with a red - ruby wine, how delightful. He returned to his seat and placed his glass on the end table to his left. Opening a drawer, Guyard pulled out a large, dry, brown leaf and a small tin. On the table, the Duke began rolling the large leaf tightly, taking dabs of a thick black paste from the tin once in a while to sprinkle in the folds.

"It is curious that we should meet tonight, dear duchess." He said, his focus intently on the leaf.

"Why is that, Guyard?" The Duke looked up briefly at the use of his name, a displeased expression, like paste from a tin, coated his face. His eyes returned to his work.

"Why ask about my families alliances, past or present, duchess?" Hekket's eyebrows raised as she glanced away from the Duke's handiwork and to a mural on the far wall - a family of deer feasted on the fertile plains.

"Curiosity." she said before taking a small sip from her glass.

"Why meet with me, when our two families have never had dealings before?"

"Curiosity." she focused in on the stag who, unlike the rest of the deer in the painting, was not bent over to eat blades of grass, but was instead facing out, as if it were attempting to see beyond the painting.

"What else, dear duchess, are you curious about?" Hekket turned back now to see Guyard had finished his rolling and was now in the process of lighting the end of this leaf, which when rolled together was quite long, but no thicker than his own fingers. He took several puffs before taking it out of his mouth and leaning back, his eyes now back to hers.

"What do you call that?" Guyard looked to his hand.

"A coffar. It is like a cofferette, but more concentrated and lasts much longer." He took another puff and blew it up towards the ceiling. "And it is delicious."

"I see. And what are your feelings about House Desramaux?" Guyard took another puff, this time letting it out towards the hearth, his eyes now averting hers as they made for the flames.

"What should they be, duchess? Loyalty? Devotion? Or do you expect I am bitter, as you have become in your old age. Or were you always like this, duchess?" Hekket took in a light breath, her nose able to take in scents of hazel and vanilla in the, what was it again? Coffar. She exhaled with a smirk.

"There was a time that I was as sweet as a flower. I only ask out of curiosity, duke. You have no need to be defensive or secretive. Our families have never had dealings before, perhaps we could change that." The Duke scratched his chin with his free hand; the short beard of brunet kept only his chin and upper lip warm, with the connecting sides that would otherwise lead to his hair having been shorn off.

"You have come here because you oppose the union of our two kingdoms. And, being my families history with the Desramaux, you suspect I, too, oppose it. Am I correct, duchess?" Coffar in mouth, Guyard looked deep within Hekket's eyes, searching for a physical reaction of any kind. A twitch, perhaps, or a smile even. She gave him none.

"Was it not your father who assassinated the last King Francois?"

"It was, duchess. And that was something he paid for with his life." Guyard said without removing the coffar from his mouth.

"Then it is loyalty you hold in your heart, then? Having seen what betrayal can get you, you feel nothing but devotion for House Desramaux?" Guyard smirked.

"I have seen what acting without a good plan can do. My father thought others would rally behind him when the king was dead. However, you seem to be finding existence of your allies, instead of imagining it." Hekket smiled and sipped from her glass.

"So then we are in agreement, then? We are both against the union, and we both would like to ensure it does not happen."

"I want my families independence and our holdings back. That is my agreement, duchess. If your plan goes sideways, which plans so often do, you will have my support. But House Pelariaux will be a House of Kings again."

"While I can provide you with a plan and a back-up plan, I can not guarantee you and your family their ancestral lands and titles. My son will reign over the Biljvank Kingdom, which has no dominion over this land." Guyard took a few puffs from his coffar, the smoke clouding over his face as he attempted to pierce through to Hekket's eyes.

"Then, perhaps duchess, you should talk with someone who can." Guyard reached into his jacket and pulled an envelope out. "It really is curious, duchess, that you should meet with me today. I received this letter from Prince Thierry Desramaux by falcon today. Interesting letter. He was asking about my loyalty and House Pelariaux's loyalty to the 'true House of Desramaux.'" Guyard laughed and put the letter back into his jacket pocket.

"That is curious." A growing smile slowly overcame the Duchess' face. She drank from her cup in an attempt to hide it, but she could tell Guyard had already made note of it.

"It seems you have another meeting to attend now, duchess. Be sure to write me how it goes. However..." Guyard took a large drag from his coffar before slowly releasing the cloud and continuing.

"Send your correspondence by way of courier. Everyone knows falcons carry messages, and with messages as sensitive as these, I would hate for them to be shot down and fall into the hands of one who might - well, misunderstand." Hekket raised her eyebrow to this as she slightly cocked her head to the left.

"Is a courier not more obvious than a falcon? And besides, falcons are much faster."

"Pelaresse is only a ten day ride from the capital, send a rider. I have always found hand to hand to be a more reliable form of delivery. Certainly over that of talon to hand."

"And what if things happen quickly? Ten days is a long time when some plans may only take minutes." Guyard took another long drag from his coffar before giving a response, his eyes piercing through the smoke.

"You may retreat here if things go awry, no matter what I receive when." Hekket raised her glass and her eyebrows.

"We have a deal, then." Guyard raised his glass as well, the light of the fire gave both of their liquids a dark red glow, making the otherwise ruby complexions appear crimson.

"Yes we do, duchess."

The two drank from their cups.

Rikkert made his way towards the outskirts of the make-shift settlement, his horse being allowed to slow its approach. The prince stopped his horse altogether when two warriors began approaching. Adorned in a brown fur cloak, presumably from a bear, the prince still shivered as the large grey figures got closer. The First and Second Kol were a tribe of Grey Giantkin, having left their other tribes high in the Olde Biljvank Peaks to the east, who found herding in the Plains of Niljveld an easilier life than that in the mountains around three centuries ago. Aside from their considerable height and build - averaging nine feet tall with broad shoulders, square heads, and large muscles - the other most defining feathers of the Kol was their grey skin and black tattoos that adorned their entire bodies. They typically were in geometric patterns, often being a series of stripes with the occasional swirl while being entirely symmetrical. While Rikkert did not know the purposes to their tattoos, he presumed it denoted clan affiliation within the tribe as a whole. He had never thought to ask a member of the Kol, not wanting to possibly sour relations with a possibly inappropriate question about their culture - they were known to keep their cultural traditions from outsiders, something that has caused problems with their relations in the past. The prince gripped his reins, his knuckles turning white as he attempted to steady himself. Gods, protect me.

The two warriors who met Rikkert were considerably underdressed considering their was still snow on the ground this far to the north. Iron breastplates sat tied over leather jerkins, with sleeves that only came down to just passed the shoulder - if you could call that a sleeve. Their pants appeared to be made of burlap, or perhaps a thicker material, though there was clearly fur sewn into the inside, as was made apparent by the tufts that poked out of the bottom around their shoeless feet and ankles. On their hips sat battleaxes that were tied to their belts with leather straps, and on their backs sat large round shields that Rikkert swore were as tall as he was along with two javelins each. Aside from being so underdressed, what astonished the prince the most was the fact that the two warriors seemed to be female. Though all Grey Giantkin were bald, only the males grew beards and only the women had breasts. Besides those two defining features, Rikkert genuinely could not tell them apart. This was wrong. The prince thought of his grandchild back in Biljrend, his brother enjoying buttery croissants in Pelaresse, and his mother bitterly sipping a dark liquid.

Was this wrong? Rikkert thought of the princess, to her recent strange mannerisms, seemingly staring into the void as conversations happened around her. Her eyes never quite glossed over, but her mind clearly elsewhere. Perhaps his mother was right, perhaps she had gone mad. What then? A mad queen? No, a mad empress. His children could not grow up in such a court, his family living on in the shadow of a mad woman. What if she loses her mind completely? What of the kingdom? Of their people? This was wrong. But what other choice did they have?

"I am Prince Rikkert Biljvank. I have traveled to convene with your chief." The two warriors exchanged looks and then words in a guttural language that pelted the eardrums like a barrage of pebbles. It was the language of the Giants, their ancestors. It was as coarse as the mountains they came from and as dense as the snow that filled their peaks.

"Come." One of the warriors said in a deep voice as they turned around and made their way to the settlement. The Kol were herders, primarily tending to flocks of sheep and goats, but, unlike the herders amongst the humans, the Kol traveled around with their flock, often uprooting and resettling every few weeks as their herd searches for greener pastures. As such, their homes were triangular tents that could be easily taken down and set up within minutes, with the ability to be rolled up into tight bundles that could then be put into wagons or on the backs of the giant eagles they were known for tending as well. The only permanent structures that were left behind was that of their temples to Bershion and the chief's house. Despite their nomadic nature, they often would revisit old pasture lands, making their migrations somewhat known and trackable by outsiders who would have dealings with them. The old prince could feel the eyes of the Kol watching as he, a strangely dressed outsider, one who covered himself with so much furs and did not walk, slowly approached the chief's house.

Along with being one of only two permanent structures, the chief's house also differed from their usual dwellings in so much that it was made in the shape of a cube - four walls and a ceiling made entirely of animal skins supported with wooden scaffolding. Even the temple of Bershion, though large, was that of a pyramid with a hole in the top to allow smoke out. In the center of the chief's house was a lit firepit, surrounded by benches adorned with furs for cushioning. Above the firepit was a small wooden door that could be lifted and closed to allow smoke out when a fire was lit, at the present it sat cracked open, propped up with a small stone. The door flap swung shut behind him as Rikkert made his way to the fire, he did not dare to take a seat until invited to do so. Across from him, with the shadows of the fire licking her face, sat the chief of the First Kol - Mahakiloki'awali, known by outsiders as Stone Jaw, simply referred to as Chief Stone. It is customary that Grey Giantkin only share their true names with members of the tribe, though Rikkert knew the chief's true name thanks to King Jurrien, who had let it slip one time during late night conversations. Rikkert had promised the King he did not remember the name mentioned.

Though slouched over the fire, Chief Stone sat just as tall as Rikkert stood. Her shoulders sat broader than the horse he road in on, a simple fur poncho sat over her torso with a leather belt at her waste to house her axe and hold up her trousers. As Chief Stone straightened her back and stretched, the prince found it difficult not to notice other features of hers that were quite large, though the loose fit of the poncho could have been obscuring his powers of observation. Stone Jaw's tattoos were two straight lines that ran parrallel from the back of her hand, up her forearm, triceps and wrested at the bottom of her jaw on the left and right sides of her neck. On her face was a crescent on either cheek, with the concave portion facing her eyes and the convex side facing down her face. Four smaller lines ran parallel from the convex side of the crescents straight down to halfway the side of her face and then went forty-five degrees away and down to her jaw line, leaving the slightest gap between those lines and the two on her neck. Rikkert could not see any other tattoos on her body, but assumed she must have more. Her piercing white eyes locked with his.

"Sit." she commanded, not loosening her gaze as the prince slowly sat with great rigidity across the fire from her. The two sat in silence for a moment.

"Why have you come? We have no business with Biljvank, our tax was payed."

"I have not come to collect your taxes, Chief Stone."

"Then why come? Why trek across land that is harsh to your kind? Why alone?"

"After we have spoken, you will know why I have done these things. But first." Prince Rikkert pushed his fur aside to reveal a leather satchel. He opened it slowly, reached inside, and pulled out an ingot of silver.

"Silver?" The chief narrowed her eyes as the prince proceeded to pull four more ingots out of the satchel and stack them on the bench beside him.

"Five silver bars, a first of many should you agree to my proposal." Chief Stone leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, a glare slowly forming on her face.

"A bribe."

"An offer." The prince removed the satchel from his shoulder and placed it on the floor of the house. "Many years ago, you and your people of the First and Second Kol fought for mine against the Van Niljvelds to the south. You fought with us with the promise of freedom from the Van Niljvelds, freedom to graze and wander with your herds whenever and wherever you pleased within the Plains of Niljveld."

"We have done so since then, our people are free. The Kol are free."

"Yes, because you chose to fight on the right side, with the right kingdom. You are once again being faced with such a decision." Chief Stone scratched her chin.

"We fight with the Biljvank. We fight with King Jurrien."

"What of King Rikkert?" Chief Stone burst into laughter. Rikkert attempted to hide his blushing cheeks as the chief slowly regained her composure.

"I know of no King Rikkert, only a Prince Rikkert, who is strong but will never be king. Why? Does he send you to me, hoping to be king? Hoping the Kol will give it to him?"

"Prince Rikkert knows enough so as to not insult the Kol to not come to you himself." Chief Stone's eyes widened slightly.

"Prince Rikkert, my mother fought with you many years ago against a group of bandits to the east of here, yes?"

"Yes she did. Your mother was a ferocious warrior. I presume you are as well." Chief Stone patted her axe.

"I have been lucky to not have to test my strength yet, though all Kol are always ready if they time should come."

"And should the time come, who will the Kol fight for?" Chief Stone narrowed her eyes at the old prince, slowly letting her hand off of the head of her axe. She seemed to stare at the prince for an eternity, a bead of sweat slowly descended down the back of his neck.

"The Kol fight for King Jurrien II, and all of his descendants. That was the deal we made two-decades ago for perpetual lands for pasture and a lesser tax. We have not fought your wars for many years, only joining in skirmishes when bandits make their homes too close to ours. So, Prince Rikkert that wishes to be called King Rikkert, who do you ask the Kol fight for?" Rikkert felt a chill run down his back as the bead descended his spine, more eventually joining its descent along his face and brow. The fires heat felt to intensify as the chief waited for an answer. The only problem was that he no longer had an answer. At least, not the right answer. The Kol had made a promise, somehow without his mother having heard about it, to King Jurrien II, his cousin, the king of the Kingdom of Biljvank and head of House Biljvank. The king, who's daughter was next in line to rule, his descendant, and whom the Kol were now loyal too lest they break their word. Silver would not buy them. If not silver, then what? Rikkert thought on what little he knew about the Kol, despite having spent much time with them in his travels throughout the years.

"What if Prince Rikkert were to offer you more than perpetual lands, what if he were to offer you total independence?" Shit. But the words had already left his mouth. He knew this was his best bet to get the Kol to join his side should it be needed, but to lose them entirely would be detrimental in the defense against the Dynasty of the Sun should they ever invade from the north. Chief Stone chewed on his words for a time. A breeze kicked the flap to the house open and froze the sweat that had been pooling along his neck and forehead at the hairline. Finally, after an eternity, Chief Stone stood, right hand on the head of her axe and left hand on her large hips.

"A Kol does not break their word. That is something Prince Rikkert would know, no matter what empty promises he attempts to make against it, a Kol does not break their word."

"But my promises are not empty - !" Before Rikkert could utter another word, he saw the flash of steel as Chief Stone pulled her axe from its strap. In an instant, the prince had thrown the flap behind him and was leaping onto his horse. Kicking furiously, head down against its neck, a javelin whirled passed both their heads as they bounded across the snow covered ground. Looking back for only a moment, Rikkert saw the two warriors who had escorted him let go of two more javelins. The prince pulled his horse to a hard left just as the points of the projectiles would have otherwise met their targets with deadly accuracy. He heard the shouting of the Kol in the language of the Giants, Chief Stone could be heard above the rest. Visions of giant eagles swooping down and taking him and his horse in their mighty talons swirled through his head as Prince Rikkert road hard, knuckles white on the reins, heels digging into his horses side, as he dared not look back at those who now wished to kill him. One less ally, fine, we shall just ensure they are not our enemy too. Rikkert did not loosen his grip until the settlement had no longer been visible from behind him for at least an hour. Exhausted, cold, and defeated, the old prince allowed his horse to stop and rest as he remained on the saddle, leaning over the front so as to mimic lying down as best as he could. Tying the reins to his hands, the prince entrusted his stallion to carry him to the nearest village of humans, closing his eyes for a brief respite. The Kol was only the first of many visits the old prince still had in store, and time was his second greatest enemy.

"I am tired of all of these gods damned apples!" Priest Volka dove for cover as a dozen red apples flew through the air and into the stone walls behind her, each one made into apple sauce almost immediately. The pulverized red deliciousness slowly dribbled down the brick as the priest slowly stood and regained their composure. Before them, roughly twenty feet away, stood the Princess Jolijn adorned in a scarlet velvet dress hemmed to just above her ankles, which of course were covered by her brown riding boots. While the Princess knew she must always be presentable, she could not stand the sight of dirt or grime on her clothing, and as such demanded her clothing always be hemmed hire and she be allowed to wear boots as often as she deemed necessary. With a face that blended in with her garments, Jolijn's eyes slowly lightened as she blinked her eyes more rapidly. Her breathing slowed back down to its normal pace; her arms, which had been outstretched, stiff, and slightly behind her, relaxed and returned to their state by her sides. Volka stood up from their hiding spot, slowly wiping away what splatter had managed to reach their bald head. The two stood in silence for a moment, the priest allowing their glare to pierce the princess as she slowly lowered her head and eyes to the floor. A loud, mushy splat broke the silence as both looked to see that the remains of their teaching tools had slowly collected in their descent and had reached critical mass, causing an avalanche of fruity pulp to give way and hit the stone floor. Volka darted back to Jolijn.

"Feel better? Gotten that all out of your system now?" Jolijn did not respond, simply keeping her head to the floor. Volka clicked their tongue and sighed, placing the index finger and thumb of their right hand to the bridge of their nose. The priest approached the princess and placed their hand on her left shoulder.

"They are just apples, your highness. We can always get more."

"I should not have done that, though. I do not care about the apples, you could have been harmed." Jolijn finally tilted her head to meet the priests gaze. Priests were meant to take a vow of celibacy, asexuality, and androgyny when they take their vows. Most, as a result, will keep their heads and faces completely shaven, wear no forms of make-up, and will wear loose-fitting robes to hide their physical features. Father had once explained the reasoning for all of this, something to do with total disconnect from the world and those around them allowed them to better commune with the gods, though that never made much sense to Jolijn. How does removing oneself from the people and community around them - the people they are meant to serve in their service to the gods - make them better priests, better servants? How can they serve their community if they do not fully understand the wants and needs of that community? Though, she supposed, it would create less distractions from their study. Perhaps that is why Volka knows so much in the ways of controlling the ziende, even if they do not have it themselves.

"Yes, I could have been harmed. Frankly, princess, you could have killed me." Jolijn's eyes widened in horror.

"Pierced, with apples?" Volka smiled and laughed.

"Quite so. They would have found my body with several apple shaped holes through it. Try explaining that to your father. An apple assassin, sent after the lowly priest of Dekinhold." They walked back to the juice covered wall and stared down at the remains.

"How can you joke about this? I never want to cause anyone harm with these abilities, this ziende." The princess crossed her arms and narrowed her eyebrows.

"I hope you never have to, your highness. And, I make light of it because I do not know if you would have killed me, injured me for certain, but fatally so I do not know. But, you did not injure me, and now we know you can do this." The priest looked back to the princess with their right arm extended, pointing to something on the wall. "Come see."

Jolijn hesitantly approached, her stomach began to churn as her hands slowly clammed up. What was it? Had she hit a fly? A spider? Perhaps Volka simply wanted to show her how little of the apples remained. Perhaps they were going to make her clean up the mess. Her eyes widened when she saw it. There, on the stone bricks that made up the foundation of this estate, hard, dark grey slabs of stone, was a crack. At where the point of impact had been its hardest, the red delicious apples cracked the stone. She could not believe it. Her hands went to her mouth to cover her gasp as she took a step back.

"Now imagine it were sticks, or rocks. Or arrows. Or swords. Perhaps even a knight in full plate armor; though, I suspect you would have crushed the knight within the armor. Look at me your highness. No, not the ground, not the wall. Me. This is what you are capable of. This is what you can be capable of once we have learned how to control your strength. But, if we cannot, this is what you will be capable of should you have another outburst. People will think you are dangerous, we cannot let that happen, for your sake, for the Kingdoms sake."

They were right, of course. Whispers of her losing her mind still had not fully been subdued, her great-aunt was the reason for that she was sure. The nobles would not need much prodding from the Duchess Zelderloo to oust her for one of her cousins, should she not control this ziende. It must be hidden, it must be controlled, it must not be used unless absolutely necessary. She must control it, or it will control her. Jolijn paused for a moment, allowing her hands to rest back down at her sides as her eyes returned to their natural endearing state. She wanted to ask, but did not know if she could, if she should. But she had to know, it had been bothering her ever since she learned of her powers, of her family's powers.

"Volka." the priest stepped away from the mess on the floor and approached Jolijn, who by now was standing back in the center of the room.

"Yes, your highness?"

"My brother, he had this ziende, yes?" The priest inhaled slowly and let out a long sigh.

"Yes. He did."

"Could he control it?" Volka stared into Jolijn's eyes. They do not want to answer this question. The princess did not have to probe their mind for that knowledge. The priest's posture had become sunken, their shoulders, normally back straight, slouched forward ever so slightly. Their eyes softened, with one eyebrow slightly raised above the other as their mouth became a straight line. Volka began to open their mouth to respond.

"Never mind, Volka. You have given me your answer already. No, I did not read your mind, I swear it by Dekinhold." The priest gave a slight smile. They walked over to a small table that sat in the corner of the room and motioned for Jolijn to join them. The two sat in the small, unsteady chairs, creaking with every slight movement.

"You have an incredible gift, your highness. Do you know how many people in the entire Kingdom of Biljvank have such abilities as yours?" The princess thought on this for a moment. When she was younger, they had employed a court mage by the name of Geoffrey Morgant - a tall, lanky, tan skinned human with shoulder-length brown hair, a long beard, and a patch over his left eye. She never remembered seeing Geoffrey perform feats of magic, though she had heard of his studies of the animals in the eastern mountains. He had taken a particular interest in Jurran, she recalled, though he was only employed for a short time, perhaps four years, before he left of his own accord. Hein began having more energy during and after the mages tenure at Biljrend, more than likely he had found better ways to treat the Copper Grip.

"Perhaps, ten? Twenty?" The priest gave a large smile as they gripped the princesses hands with theirs.

"If only that were true. I know of only two: you, and a druid who I know as Mother Taurus - she used to live in the Ruins of Boumzijl, from which she would look after the entirety of the Forest of Boum. Though, I admit, I have not heard of much of her activities in almost a decade from those who frequent the area."

"Does Mother Taurus have the ziende as well?" Volka released the princess' hands and shook their head as they leaned back in their chair, sounding as it if will break from beneath them.

"No, she is lucky enough to have made connection with the primordial force of magic in our world. It is a raw and often times volatile source of magic, but because of its ties to nature, it remained behind after the Resurgence. To my knowledge, it takes an archdruid to even begin to reach this source of magic, let alone utilize it." Source of magic? Their were sources for it? Where, then, did she draw hers from?

"How many sources of magic are there?" Volka looked to the ceiling, eyebrows raised in thought as they took in a deep breath.

"Oh, I honestly do not know how many there are. Perhaps infinite. I do know of, and have had dealings with, four. For centuries, before the Resurgence, the most powerful source of magic in our world was the Weave of arcane force that flows through all worlds. It was remarkably easy, by today's standards, for one to study and utilize magic thanks to the abundance of the Weave. But, with the Resurgence cutting our world off from the Weave, magic has become an almost entirely lost art, with only the most powerful of mages being able to harness a source, which, unfortunately, lead to many outlawing magic or keeping a registry of mages - which, could lead to more nefarious - " The priest paused for a moment, looking back to make sure Jolijn was still paying attention.

"I am entering a tangent, my apologies. The Weave, once the most abundant, now nonexistent. Second, is the primordial force which we have already talked about slightly. This source of magic is drawn from the natural world around us, which is why it is so volatile, but it is also raw, in the sense that it is fresh, giving its wielders greater power, if they can control it. Unlike the Weave, where if you lost control, your spells simply did not cast. If you lose control of the magic you pull from the primordial force, it will destroy you. Giant's have an uncanny ability to tap into this source of magic, leading those who wish to conquer it to seek out clans that will train outsiders - I know of none that do. The third source that I know of, is that of what many call 'gifted' force. It is called 'gifted,' because this source is in fact a gift from another being. Usually it comes from a dragon or giant who - be it owes a favor, signed a pact with, or some other form of payment - has granted a part of their natural force to someone. Unlike connections to the arcane force through the Weave or the primordial force, 'gifted' force can be inherited, which is why I like to call it life force. I also call it this, because, as I have found, it is volatile and raw like primordial force, but also powerful and abundant in its users like arcane force once was. The reasoning for this, I have determined, is because the mage controls and draws from their own life force, they are their own source, thanks to the boon granted by another magical being."

"And, that is the type of source I have? Life, or 'gifted,' force?"

"Yes. The initial gift was when your ancestors experimented on and drew power from the amethyst dragon egg they had found. When you use your ziende, you are pulling from yourself to control it, this thing that is inside of you. That is why, if you cannot control it properly, it - well, it could..." Volka allowed their words to trail off, Jolijn leaned back in her chair and let her eyes face the worn table.

"I understand. What is the fourth?"

"The fourth, is referred to as natural force. This is a source of magic that seems to be naturally found within the creatures that utilize it. Dragons, Dragonkin, and Giants all have this natural force, with Dragons being exceptionally powerful with large sources within themselves, seconded by Giants. Dragonkin, on the other hand, while they have it in their ancestry to connect with the natural force within themselves, it does not come as naturally as it does for Dragons and Giants, with many never realizing this connection within themselves. There are others, too, with varying degrees of powerful connections with their own natural force: Fae Elves, Vampires, Lycanthropes, Elementals, and any others who were left behind on our world when the gates to other worlds were closed during the Resurgence; they all have this natural force within them, though many hide it for fear of persecution or exploitation. Thankfully, many kingdoms, including our own, outlawed the brutal practice of Scale Harvesting almost a full century ago, but many still fear for their lives and do not use their powers."

"I've heard of this source before, this is how Hein is able to treat his Grip." Volka slowly nodded their head.

"Yes. Out of necessity, those who still wished to harness magic found ways to pull from the natural force within creatures through usage of their bodies, making dragon scales a high commodity. But I cannot help but think of all of the innocent Dragonkin, Elves and others who were slaughtered so some mage could perform a spectacle." Jolijn recoiled slightly as Volka - unintentionally or otherwise - slammed their hands on the rough table before them, possibly breaking it further as she could hear the snap crackle of wounded wood.

"I apologize, your highness. I should not have let that get the better of me."

"It is alright, Volka. I understand your concerns. Thank you for your lessons." The priest gave a surprised look to the princess.

"Why do you thank me?"

"I know what would have happened to me without them. I know the toll this must take on you, and I know the years of study that went into this for you, just to help a princess throw apples at a wall and almost kill you." The priest smiled and let out a low chuckle.

"See? It is good to make light of such things." Volka slowly stood, the chair squealing for someone to end its miserable existence. "Perhaps next we shall work on mending. If not for the apples, but for this chair and all other decrepit furniture."

"I could mend things with the ziende?" Volka nodded.

"In theory, you could possibly put something completely back together again from nothing but its ashes. We have only just begun to scratch the surface of what you can do. Read minds, grab and control things, even create something out of thin air. But, for now, we can focus on collecting the ashes first." The priest looked her eyes to the far wall and motioned towards the mess on the floor. Jolijn understood, closed her eyes, and began envisioning the grizzly remains of the dozen red delicious victims, their guts having by now piled up into a mush of meat and seeds and begun to cake themselves their forever.

33rd of Dekvut, 310 PR

The fresh Spring air struggled to enter the mucus ridden throat of the young prince. Despite the difficulty, it was a relief to inhale outside the dreary walls of the castle and subsequent room that all but become a cell. It had been almost two entire years since his diagnosis, and the prince found himself beginning to go stir-crazy. How many landscape paintings could he curse another canvas with? Not that it mattered, he was getting progressively better with the brush, though his tutors had only just recently begun entering his chambers again. I am not contagious. Of course, that did not matter to some; a diseased person was to be kept at a great distance, especially when they are so unfortunate to have been stricken with the Dragon's Grip, and at such a young age. Still, he found himself more energized now that he was outside again, in nature, amongst the trees and the deer that he so desperately tries to put to canvas. Hopefully, with this energy, he might be allowed out of the castle more often, proof that the isolation is doing more harm than good now that his strength was back up.

Hein sighed, looked to his left and stroked the backside of his large canine companion. Lars was now two years old, though still very much like a new pup. 'The Prince and the Pup,' or so Rikkert referred to them as; always annoying servants as they would first see a small leather ball bounce far down the hall, which they now know means a large - and often clumsy - mastiff was soon to follow bounding after it. Such a large animal needed a great deal of play time during the day to rid itself of all its pent up energy, especially one so young. Today was a special day for both of them, then. Not only was it Hein's seventeenth birthday, but it was the first time since his diagnosis that he could leave the castle, and it was the first time Lars could run about freely, bobbing and weaving through trees and bushes. The pup had just finished such activity and now was laying beside his friend and companion. The two of them never went anywhere without the other. Even just now, with all of the wide open space to roam in, Lars stayed within eye-sight of Hein while he leapt about aimlessly, chasing a butterfly or two.

"I should have guested I'd find you two, lazing about." The mastiff perked up its head and began wagging its tail, thumping the ground beneath it. Rikkert laughed and approached the princelings, patting Lars on the head and scratching just under his chin.

"You may accuse me of many things, but lazing about is certainly not one of them." Hein shot his older brother a dirty look followed shortly by a wide grin.

"Well, you may not be lazy, but you aren't very useful on a hunt for sure. I've had to track the stag almost entirely by myself."

"Good thing I've been keeping a keen eye on Lars then, wouldn't want him scaring away your potential kill." Rikkert let out a soft chuckle, grabbed the leather ball beside his brother, and threw it far. Lars shot off like an arrow, bounding along the hills after it.

"I will never be able to keep myself from laughing at his name."

"Why is that?"

"You named your dog after the Duke Van Niljveld."

"Well, yes, but you see, it is really a compliment to the Duke Lars II. One is a slobbering, over excitable, sometimes mangy, animal that must have an eye kept on so it doesn't get too riled up. And the other, well..."

"And the other?"

"Is a dog. And I think the Duke could stand to have his name attached to something as lovable and endearing as a mastiff with brown fur." Rikkert snorted and took a seat by his brother, placing his bow and quiver beside them. They both watched as Duke Lars II clumsily tripped over a log, turned around to attack his own tail, remembered what he was doing, found the leather ball, and proudly trotted back to the two princes. Hein extended his hand, in which Lars then plopped the saliva covered toy.

"He is excellent at fetching things." the older prince pulled a piece of salted pork, tore off a smaller piece, and held it out in his left hand for the mastiff to scarf down.

"I should hope so, aside from his companionship, he's supposed to be able to fetch my medicine when I need it."

"How does that help if you can't tell him you need it? Choking on mucus makes it hard to talk I imagine." Hein laughed.

"It does, it does. Luckily, and I really do not know how he does this, but Lars can smell when I have a fit coming on." Hein threw the ball again, not nearly as far as his brother had, but still far enough for the dog to eagerly, and with a great level of goofiness, go after it.

"Fascinating. It amazes me what we can train animals to do for us. Perhaps I could have him fetch smaller game for me then, like quails or hares. If that's alright with you? He is your dog."

"So long as I get to come out with you two, I don't see a problem with it. Now, hand me some of that pork, its not just for the dog, you know." Rikkert took out a fresh piece, as he had eaten the rest of the first piece himself already, and handed it to his brother. As Hein went to grab it, Rikkert pulled his hand back quickly, then he slowly extended it again only to snatch it back a second time. This went on for two more times before the younger prince, annoyed, though laughing, grabbed a handful of dirt with his other hand and hurled it at his brother as he reached for the pork. Distracted, Hein was able to pull the snack away and take a glorious bite of victory.

"Where did you learn such underhanded tactics?"

"In one of the recent books father got me. On The Stratagem of Wars, by Gongsun Shao, once a general for the Dynasty of the Sun."

"Once? Why is he no longer?"

"He died of course, there's really only two ways you stop being a general, and the other way doesn't help you sell books on strategy."

"Well, what did General Gongsun Shao have to say about underhanded tactics?"

"Not much, honestly, namely not to do it. He was writing for the armies of Sun, which primarily utilized lightly armored infantry to allow for deft movements, arming them with glaives for reach and variety. These soldiers were referred to as guandao warriors. After them, there are your standard archers, and then jian infantry, who are soldiers that were armed with a sword and shield. General Gongsun emphasized placing your jian infantry in front, followed by a line of guandao warriors and then your archers in back. This allowed for stronger shield formations, as their shields have notches on the top corners to allow the guandao to thrust their glaives from behind without sacrificing any protection from the shields. Then, when the time was right, the guandao would leap from behind the jian shields and weave through the enemy lines like razors through hair." Rikkert scratched what little of a beard had finally begun forming on his face, at twenty-one, the prince was almost beginning to look like a man. Of course, compared to the rather gaunt figure of Hein, the older prince looked far beyond his years.

"When did General Gongsun write this book?"

"About one-hundred years ago."

"Hmm, if only we'd had this book just fifteen years ago."

"Why do you say that?"

"I just remember father describing some of the fighting with their armies, towards the end of the war when I had turned twelve and he saw the merit in talking with me about it. From what I remember, they still used those same tactics, which matched much of our own with our shield bearers, spears, and sword guard."

"Well, it's a good thing we don't publish our tactics for the rest of the world, then - what is it boy?" Lars had by now run back to the princes and sat patiently for them to take the ball from him. However, he now had dropped the ball and begun whining and barking quietly, pacing back and forth with eyes fixated on Hein. The young prince's eyes widened suddenly as he scrambled for their pack, the wad of mucus beginning to form in the back of his throat. A small, stifled cough began, growing in intensity as he searched more frantically, his face growing red. Rikkert took a moment to long to understand and, by the time he had begun looking through their packs as well, Hein was already doubled over, choking, hacking, green globs spewing from his mouth and onto the pristine forest floor. Lars leapt over his friend, shoved his snout into a pocket in the pouch and presented a bottle to the older prince.

"Good boy." Rikkert popped the cork from the bottle, tilted his brothers head back and poured half the contents into his mouth - the hope being that enough would be swallowed. The older prince sat there, heart pounding, holding his brother over his knee. Hein's eyes bulged, green veins popped up from under his skin as the mucus began to bubble slightly. After a small convulsion, the young prince let out a final agonizing cough, spewing much of the contents of his lungs onto both he and his brother. Gasping for air, Hein slowly brought himself to an upright seated position, Lars began licking his face.

"That was disgusting." Hein looked back to his brother, he could see out of the corner of his eye that Lars had done the same. Both princes stared each other down, moving their eyes up and down briefly to examine the other before they both burst into laughter.

"Yes, yes it is not a pleasant experience. Though that one wasn't as bad as others." Wiping what he could from his shirt, Rikkert stood and began putting their packs back in order.

"You mean they can be worse?"

"Quite worse, yes. But, this medicine helps, at least I think it does. Alright, Lars, that's enough." Hein playfully pushed the mastiff away, trying to keep him from ingesting any of the green slime that had been excreted.

"Well, perhaps it is time to head back then. I used most of the bottle just now and would rather you not die out here, or at all really."

"Agreed, plus, we both need a change of clothes."

"Do you think mother will be angry?" Rikkert pulled his younger brother up from the ground.

"When is she not?" As the two princes made their way out of the woods, Hein whistled for Lars to follow, who had gone back to bring his ball with him for the return journey.

13th of Clarti, 346 PR

The withered prince shivered as the cool night breeze pierced his bones, paying no mine to the clothe and paper skin protective barriers. Biting through the crunchy exterior, the inside of the buttery pastry filled the old prince with warmth. Hein slowly chewed, taking in every last piece of perfection that was the croissant. The gardens of House Pelariaux were an astonishing sight on such a clear night. Torch bugs lit up the stems and pedals of the sprawling greenery, casting new light to already such vibrant colors of blue, gold, yellow, and white. Finishing his fourth puffy pastry, the prince looked to his right side, where, seated on the bench with him, remained several more warm wrapped croissants. He did not know how or if he would be able to eat them all, but, he had promised to eat enough for the both of them. Hein had made a promise to his brother, and he would be damned if he could not hold to it.