Chavier the second, king of Mance, was as majestic as the sun. Which is to say, desperately needed and very hard to look at.
The process of inbreeding in the Mench royal line, combined with their supernatural love of expired cheese, and a certain unhealthy fashion of ingesting the mysterious tenth crystal, had created a masterpiece.
When the king was born, every mirror in the delivery room decided to try for reincarnations. Preferably as something blind.
But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and the king's mother had rose-tinted glasses on. The tint may have been so thick that it would be best used as welding goggles, but everyone else in the room could see one thing clearly before all else. Like a prisoner focusing on the swaying rope and admiring the quality of the knot.
So King Chavier the Second grew up spoiled rotten, and not just because of his birth. Usually, inbreeding has certain effects beyond health. Intellect was notably lower, although that could be from the fact that the inbred tended to have parents that couldn't think past second cousin.
But the dice for King Chavier fell on a different fate, and the gods of this realm decided to do something really, really funny. No looks. No good character traits. Not even the aforementioned intellect.
He was blessed with a pool of mana so vast that even the sleeping Crystal King noticed.
And the Crystal King was always one to recruit potential.
****
In the beating warrior's heart was pride for things that didn't last. The satisfaction of victory. The following celebration with what food stores they had. The following nature of women afterward.
Duke Wellington Peckishire, or Welli, had been a simple man once. Side by side with his brothers in arms, except his victories were bigger. His food was nicer. The women were prettier.
The unofficial ones, anyway. The official women he had to court tended to be…not great on the eyes. Of course, he should have still been kinder to them. But he had spent too much time around bawdy soldiers to suddenly flip a switch and turn into the second son of a duke.
And then his older brother had died. One of the barons of their lands had been…harrassing a peasant woman. Several women, actually. Welli's older brother had been a better man, but not a stronger one. There was no other way to defend the woman. She had no rights before the king or the duke. The Baron was from a powerful family. It was the way of things.
So a duel was the only option.
At first, Welli had considered nothing but dueling the man in vengeance. But the king had forbidden duels to avenge other duels. It was devastating to the compensating royalty.
Welli's father had said that, if Welli did well in battle, he would pass on the dukedom. Welli's father was a cunning man, and favored the third son. Every head Welli brought home meant nothing.
So Welli had gathered power in his troops. Respect. Experience. Strength.
And one day, after a terrible time listening to another tale of injustice, a dragon had attacked.
Welli came back to his senses holding his victory. He could remember it all, but there had been no restraint. He'd cut down the dragon as his men fled the fires. He'd cut off the legs. He'd hacked at the spine as the creature flailed and howled. Then his ax snapped as he destroyed the armor on the neck. It barely moved at this point.
Then Welli pulled the entire spine from the now dead dragon.
When he left that day, the spine stood as a flagpole. It waved his personal banner. It was held up with the remains of armor of their fallen comrades. That and the unwavering loyalty of thousands.
The Dukedom was his within a week.
And Welli, with all the subtlety of a man that rips out a dragon's spine, hacked out the laws which brought equal law to all in his duchy.
It also brought a Mench noblewoman named Primrose to his door. Breathtaking grace, a spine of the hardest wood, and a shared desire for a better world. They made a fantastic team that wrought the duchy into order.
She tended to play good cop.
****
The nature of secrets is in darkness. The nature of nobles is in broad daylight and late lunches. When the two meet, it is usually over a cup of tea.
In this case, the tea was a calming chamomile. The head of the Taste'r house was on his last box of the stuff. Although the late morning sun shone beautifully upon his white gazebo, he was about to switch to alcohol.
A letter sat, scrubbed by his eyes in fervent dismay.
Clout was serving his penance, but who was to suffer for the defeat in Stalt? He couldn't punish the Homemakers. They had fulfilled their contract to the letter, and already had half of their payment. He felt like kicking something, but unaware eyes were watching.
Maybe he should cancel the plans in the capital. It was obvious that the resounding success of destroying the Silver Sword's castle had made him…overenthusiastic. He'd tried to solve every problem with the monster mercenaries.
He would cancel the plans on the capital. Thankfully, he had purchased the option to pause those operations for only a thousand gold. Another year.
The twins would be problematic, but they didn't have any real evidence against the Taste'r house. Just some hearsay from Clout. The king would not act against the Taste'r house without more than that.
He would just let the girls be. They wouldn't rebuild their noble house for years, especially if they stayed within another lord's territory. The more reliable information from this latest attack had confirmed the presence of a high mage, if not an arch mage in their team.
And, most importantly, their now hostile allyship of the Baron Butcher.
The noble sighed, scratching feverishly.
"I'll have to leave them be." the head of house Taste'r said, "And focus on shoring up my other plans."
Then, as if some water arch mage was in the room, the noble felt his gut tug. He turned, reflexively, to the corner of the room. To the door that wasn't there.
His master bid him to council.