The rider pushed forward, the reins trembling in his damp hands.
His breath came in sharp bursts, but despite its quickness, it did nothing to settle his nerves. He tried to calm himself, forced slow breaths through his nose, clenched and unclenched his jaw, but it was all in vain. His heart pounded like a war drum inside his chest and it appeared that it wouldn't settle anytime close.
He didn't know much about the second prince. Not truly. Rumors abounded, of course, but separating truth from exaggeration had always been impossible. Or, more honestly,in this case, too terrifying to attempt.
It was said that while the first prince had inherited the father's crown, the second had inherited something else.
"The first took the head," the saying went. "The second took the balls."
That alone should have been warning enough for the type of man he was..
He was known for decadence, unashamed, gluttonous indulgence. Lavish feasts that spiraled into orgies so wild, even the gods might have blushed at them. By dawn, the palace floors would be slick with wine and sweat, and the whores would leave so full of seed and silver it was a wonder their legs held them.
But the libido of the second prince was not the worst of it.
No, worse still was his ego. Unchecked. Unquestioned.
Once, a man had dared lay with one of the prince's favored concubines. The only thing the prince left intact was the man's head, perhaps so he could still hear the screams while the rest of him was reduced to red chunks.
Priests who once condemned him from the safety of pulpits had grown strangely silent. Their sermons, once full of righteous fury, faded into whispers... and then to nothing at all. Many never spoke again.
The messenger swallowed hard as the horse beneath him snorted, its flanks quivering from exhaustion. Hours of hard riding had nearly broken the poor beast. He should have deserted when he had the chance. He had no wife, no children. A little silver would have bought him a quiet life in some nameless village far from any prince's shadow.
But now, that option was gone and he cursed himself for letting it go.
His gaze drifted forward and with a jolt, he realized he had already reached the outer perimeter of the camp. He'd ridden ahead without noticing.
Archers along the walls had their bows drawn, the tips of their arrows gleaming like glass in the sun. Cold, hard stares followed his every movement.
He lifted both hands slowly. "I come in peace!" he called out. "I bring word from the capital.I request an audience with His Grace!"
He deliberately omitted any title: no "prince," no "emperor." Better to risk offense through omission than to call the man by the wrong name.
The archers didn't answer. They didn't need to. Instead, the wooden gate groaned as it opened outward. Not a word was spoken.
The messenger dismounted , knees aching as they hit the earth. It was an unspoken law, ancient and absolute: no man rode into a military camp, not unless he intended to claim it. Only the emperor himself and his personal guard were afforded that right. Not even nobles, no matter their rank or glory, dared to break it. Even the High Marshals of the Imperial Provinces walked beside their mounts past the gate.
The man did not wait for orders. As three guards approached, he already understood their purpose. In silence, he unbuckled his sword and drew out his dagger, offering both without resistance. The moment the weapons left his hands, he felt a strange hollowness settle over him.
But he knew the truth.
If the Second Prince wanted his head, no amount of iron would change the outcome.
The guards searched him thoroughly, their hands firm and practiced. They checked for hidden blades, for poisons tucked into seams, for anything that could disrupt the peace of the tent ahead. Once satisfied, they stepped back and gave him permission to move forward, flanking him as silent escorts.
Every step toward the grand tent felt like a step further into judgment. He had done nothing wrong. He was simply a voice sent from afar. Yet with each pace, the noose seemed to tighten around his neck.
The tent rose before him like a monument. It was the largest structure in the camp, anchored to the earth by eight massive wooden stakes. Heavy cords stretched tight across the canvas, creating a roof that seemed more fortress than shelter. The whole thing looked theatrical, built not just for war but to impress and intimidate.
The flaps opened.
The prince was already inside, waiting.
He sat upon a lavish chair beneath the golden crest of House Katazoukenes. His posture was relaxed, yet there was no mistaking that he was the axis upon which the entire room turned. He looked like something painted rather than born, every feature too smooth, too graceful.
His chestnut hair fell neatly to his shoulders, framing a face with no scars, no hard lines, no shadow of battle. He was handsome in a fragile way. Not the kind of beauty forged by life, but the kind preserved in velvet and scented oils.
He looked nothing like his father.
Where his father was meat, his son was pillow.
Noblemen from the eastern provinces stood on either side of him, cloaked in silk, adorned with gold in their armors, and silent as statues.
Their eyes followed the messenger, sharp and unreadable.
The guards released him at last, and the man dropped to one knee without hesitation, his head bowed.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice steady, though his stomach churned.
"You may rise," Prince Mavius replied. His voice was smooth and warm, carrying the cadence of one used to being obeyed. There was a playful lilt to it, but it did not comfort.
"I see you wear my sigil and come from my capital. Shall I assume the southern lords have finally come to their senses? Have they sent you to invite me to take my throne at last and raise my swords under my name?"
The ambassador lifted his eyes, careful not to meet the prince's too directly.
"I regret to inform Your Grace, that is not the case." His voice cracked on the last word, and he clenched his jaw to steady himself.
"The Queen Regent has sent a letter. She wished it be delivered to Your Grace in person."
He reached into his satchel and presented the sealed scroll.
The prince did not reach for it.
Instead, he turned to the tall man at his right. "Lord Aron, would you?"
"At once, Your Grace," came the response. Lord Aron stepped forward with a short bow, retrieved the letter, and returned to the prince's side.
Mavius took the parchment as if it carried a stench. He peeled the wax seal away with one finger and unrolled the letter. His expression turned blank as his eyes moved across the words.
Then he laughed.
It began as a quiet chuckle, but quickly grew louder, echoing through the tent with open mockery. The sound was rich, polished, and cruel.
"Ah," he began, lifting the scroll and reciting in a booming, theatrical voice. "By the rights of man and by power granted by the gods..."
He paused to glance around the room, grinning at the nobles, who remained stone-faced.
"His Highness Mavius Katazoukenes is hereby summoned to swear allegiance to the rightful emperor of Romelia, Mesha, First of His Name."
His grin widened into a smirk, and he read on with deliberate pomp.
"Furthermore, all men in the company of the Second Prince are extended the same invitation. Should they fail to repent and return to the fold, they will be declared enemies of the state. Their lands will be confiscated, and their titles stripped."
He dropped the scroll to the ground, where it landed with a soft rustle reciting the rest by memory.
"Let it be known," he said, raising an invisible cup into the air, "that justice stands with Emperor Mesha. The unlawful pretenders shall be..."
He barely held in another laugh.
"...smitten down by the rightful sword of the rightful emperor and his loyal servants."
That final line broke whatever restraint he had left. His shoulders shook as he burst into uncontrollable laughter, wiping a tear from the corner of one eye.
The nobles around him forced polite smiles. Some chuckled softly, though none dared to laugh louder than the prince.
The ambassador remained still, frozen in place. He was unsure whether to speak, kneel again, or simply wait for the worst.
Eventually, the prince's laughter subsided. He sat upright once more, brushing his cloak aside.
His eyes locked onto the messenger, and all traces of humor vanished.
"Well," he said, his voice suddenly cold. "That was entertaining."
He leaned forward.
"It was a waste of good ink," Prince Mavius muttered, flicking the discarded scroll with his boot. "Still… it seems my father's wife is only good for opening her legs to whichever fool knocks at her door. Perhapse if they search her bed, they will find the prince of Arlania waiting for his turn."
Only then did the prince's eyes settle on the messenger again, as if he had just remembered the man existed.
"What have you to tell me for this scandalous letter?" Mavius asked, his tone light, but his gaze heavy.
"Nothing beyond what Your Grace has already read" the messenger replied, his voice barely steady. "I was tasked only with delivering the message."
"A disappointing letter indeed," the prince murmured, his fingers tapping the armrest of his throne. "Tell me. Were you aware of its contents?Be honest..."
The messenger hesitated, then swallowed hard. "I had my suspicions, Your Grace."
The temperature in the tent seemed to drop.
Lord Corbray stepped forward, his white mustache twitching as he spoke. "Your Grace, I recall your father receiving a similar message once, from his brother, no less. The gods favored him that day. The emperor had the poor fool quartered in front of the entire camp. Morale soared. Or perhaps he did it simply for amusement. Either reason seems appropriate. No better way to start your reign than by following in your father's steps"
The color drained from the messenger's face. His words came in a rush. "Your Grace, please, I am only the courier. I had no part in the writing of the letter. I bear no loyalty to its contents."
"Of course," Prince Mavius said with a lazy smile, as though offering mercy to a dog. "Lord Corbray speaks true, but surely we are not so barbaric as to flay a man for his master's words. Mercy, when it costs little, is a coin well spent."
He turned his head slightly. "Lord Landoff, might I borrow the service of one of your knights?"
"Your knights are yours as much as mine, Your Grace," Lord Landoff replied with a short bow. The older man stood tall, still wrapped in the honor of his new title, High Marshal of Red Rose, bestowed by the prince himself.
"Then let us make a lesson of this." The prince stood. His voice grew louder, more theatrical, reaching every corner of the tent. "Nail the letter to the envoy's hand. Let him crawl back to my dear little brother and scurry like a rat beneath his throne."
He turned again to the trembling man. "When you return, tell him this: Go back to your toys, Mesha. The affairs of men are not for boys. Inform him that I shall soon return home and he will be able to play with his toys in peace once again."
"Excellent," Lord Landoff said, turning to one of the armored figures standing at his back. "Ser Varthia. Do the honors."
The knight stepped forward, silent, taking hold of the man's arms. The messenger began to cry out ,pleading, begging, but no one listened. He was dragged from the tent, his protests fading into the hot morning air.
Then came the sharp ring of steel on flesh.
The sound was followed by a scream. High. Human. Real.
But inside the tent, the conversation resumed, untouched.
"Your Grace," Lord Corbray said, folding his arms behind his back, "the letter demands an answer."
Mavius gave a thoughtful nod, sitting once more on his throne. "Indeed, I doubt that man will remember each word.... Draft one, Lord Corbray. Speak in my voice. I trust you will make my meaning... clear."
"With pleasure, Your Grace," Corbray replied, bowing low.
Outside, the cries of the envoy echoed across the camp as the first blood of the war was drawn not on a battlefield, but beneath a prince's tent.