Smoke swirled and danced around, billowing in large clouds that seemed to find every nook and cranny of the obscenely large room, decorated with a level of opulence that seemed to be…compensating, Buyul always thought to herself. The smoke was sweetly spiced, filling the room with an aroma that would almost be pleasant, had the amount of it not threatened to choke her as she navigated around the richly brocaded cushions and pillows strewn about the floors, and the drunk bodies that piled themselves all over them. They were all either drunk or high, Buyul figured, and they lazed about for hours on end in one of Kuncer’s chambers, this court of attendants. She wondered to herself how they could possibly stand to leech off of the kingdom, her father’s kingdom, in such shameless displays of avarice and gluttony. They spilled wine, threw fruits and sticks of cured meat at each other, laughing and gossiping for hours on end. She hated them, and she hated the idea that they would soon be the ones in charge of her father’s kingdom.

  “Ah, there she is, our warrior princess,” a sickly-sweet voice called from across the room. It was Pem Nell’s voice, calling as she lounged on a reclining chaise, adorned in a fine lavender-colored silk dress. Her hair was dark and curly, Buyul could even see how the woman would be considered attractive for her age. How she had managed to seduce her uncle into such a position of authority, she assumed, was quite clear from the woman’s appearance, and his proclivity for such longing that might come naturally to men around her. “Come, child,” she waved a hand over at her lazily, “sit for a moment with me. Your uncle will be here shortly. Please, come.” She waved her hand again, this time more assertively.

  “Where is…my uncle?” Buyul asked, looking around the room at the messy gaggle of half-naked bodies that lazed about the room. Her discomfort was apparent, given the wicked smile that crossed Pem Nell’s face.

  “I believe he is speaking with your father,” the woman replied.

  “My father?!” Buyul asked, “is he well enough to speak? I must see him at once!”

  Pem Nell held up her hands calmingly, “he’s simply conferring with his physicians, child, come. He must rest; he is not yet regained his strength enough to see visitors.”

  I’m his daughter, not some random stranger or solicitor shaking him down while he struggles, she thought to herself, but instead, she came closer to the cushioned chaise. She did not sit, instead shuffling into a more comfortable standing position, more at ease.

  Right as she had settled and was about to speak, the twin entrance doors opened. Pushing on the golden rose-shaped handles, intricately carved and finely lacquered in a smattering of bright red and green shades, her uncle pushed into the chambers. He looked flustered and rushed, perhaps out of breath, Buyul posited. His gout had left him bedridden for the past few weeks, and he rarely exercised. Navigating the cavernous halls from the king’s personal chambers would have seemed as if he had been asked to sprint for miles on end, it was no wonder his skin seemed so splotched and red.

  “Your excellency,” the words dripped out of Pem Nell’s mouth like wine poured carefully from a carafe, “the Warrior Princess is here upon your request. You. Are. Late,” she added playfully, winking at Buyul. Since her appointment as her uncle’s chief advisor, they had made no efforts to hide their relationship.

  “My sincerest apologies, my dear,” her uncle directed at Buyul, as if ignoring the playful exchange with his lover. “Come, please, won’t you?” His voice was still catching slightly, as he feigned composure until he could regain his breath from the exhaustion. He beckoned her over to a corner reclining chaise, empty, save for a few silken blankets draped lazily over the single arm rest. As he limped over and sat, he wiped sweat from his brow. It made her queasy, how sweaty the man was. She chastised herself for having such petty, judgmental thoughts about the future king, but his entire presence felt uncomfortable, and the sweat he seemed to constantly deal with felt as if it represented how she felt on the inside whenever in his presence. Her uncle was hunched over as he sat, wiping the sweat from his brow on his fine ebon silk robes. This particular robe had interlocking patters, random hexagonal and multi-pronged shapes that felt random and disjointed and was fur-lined along the collar; it couldn’t have made the exercise of limping through the endless halls any easier, being so stuffed in, but a chill had spread throughout the halls, so it made sense that he’d dressed as such. He grabbed a carafe of wine and poured the liquid directly into his mouth, gasping for it desperately like some beggars did when it rained in the streets. Not even noticing how un-regal he appeared, he wiped his mouth on the sweat-soaked sleeve before turning his eyes up to Buyul, still standing, now with her arms crossed.

  “How soon can you muster your personal Ironbound guards to join you?” he asked, breath still ragged.

  “Is my father well?” she asked.

  “I said: how soon can you muster your Ironbound to your side?” he re-asserted, ragged breath replaced with an annoyed tone.

  “Your excellency,” Pem Nell said soothingly as she approached the two slowly, “you rob the girl of news of her father, the king.”

  He waved her away as if he was batting smoke out of his face. “We have received important news,” he said, his gaze stern. While he didn’t possess the kingly qualities her father did, he possessed the same air of…well of anger. Her father was kind to her, but upon anger, a murderous fire always seemed to blaze from his eyes. The skin around Kuncer’s eyes sagged more and seemed to be the eyes of a man that could be her grandfather, despite him only being thirteen years her elder. But that murderous, angry fire burned in the eyes themselves, that was unmistakably something that matched her father. “Your father, the king, has demanded that we act upon it.”

  “He’s well enough to give orders?” Buyul asked. She felt the urge to run out of the room straight to his personal bedchamber to see him. He hadn’t seen anyone in nearly two weeks since his latest bout of illness. He had brought his personal concubine to keep an eye on him, but other than Kuncer and his set of healers, nobody had been allowed entry.

  Kuncer didn’t nod or acknowledge the question, continuing on. “We’ve received word; one of those petulant ‘Seven Lights’, La’arak, will be retiring from the capital to witness the birth of his youngest child. A boy is expected; I’m told. Congratulations to him, I suppose.” He took another swig of wine, rinsing disgust off his tongue.

  “My father, he wishes me to…what?”

  “What else do you think he wishes, dear?” Kuncer’s voice returned to its sickeningly performative tone, as if he finally remembered the fa?ade he put on when he was not alone.

  “But,” Buyul’s voice faltered, horrified at the implications, “but he’s expecting his child.”

  “He has others,” Kuncer said, venom thinly veiled behind a mask of humor in his voice.

  “True,” Pem Nell added, her face contorted as she tried to recall an exact headcount. “I believe his daughter is actually on the Council with him.”

  “Pila,” Kuncer added with disdain.

  Buyul hesitated, looking down as she tried to consider the information. “Would my father truly wish to do this? To kill a man upon the birth of his son?”

  “Your father,” Kuncer’s voice dropped to a lower octave and hushed, “my brother. He has bestowed me with authority in his place.”

  “Until his recovery, you mean,” Pem Nell added as an afterthought.

  Kuncer’s face failed to hide his disdain at the notion that his older brother could recover, but he took a moment and nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. And I’m certain that the healers will have him up and about soon. But this information is precious, child,” his voice returned to a sickeningly sweet attempt at sounding soothing to her. “Our spy network notes that La’arak is expected to leave the Holy City in three days’ time. It shall take him two weeks to reach his private estate upon the southeastern borderlands. He is traveling with no more than his personal guard regimen and some hired sellswords to protect his retinue, and none of those blasted Kutsalgoz will be with him.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Buyul remained silent for a few more moments. She wondered to herself what her father would have possibly said at the idea of murdering a father at the birth of their child, unarmed and defenseless. Her father loved war, almost for the sake of war itself. He was angry and quick to shout at his working servants, especially after the war had ended. But he was never cruel. Buyul was about to speak to this, but she was cut off.

  “Don’t forget child,” Kuncer’s placative voice slithered from him. “This war was for the honor of your uncle, my brother’s hero, and the strongest king this kingdom has ever seen. Your father,” he continued without waiting for her response, “continued the war with those religious fanatics to preserve your uncle’s honor, and by doing so, worked himself tirelessly to bring a victory to our home.”

  “But the war is over, it’s been over. And that was a war of honor, of rules of engagement. This is so…so cruel,” Buyul said, finding herself surprisingly emotional.

  “Rules of engagement?” Kuncer scoffed. “Darling, those bastards killed your cousin, took the throne that was rightfully his.”

  “That was in a battle!”

  “Oh? Do you still believe that fairytale that your father told you?” he smiled at her wickedly and cruelly, relishing the secret. “That story was to protect the honor of your beloved Jojune. Yes, the Immortal was at the battle of Redwood Glen. That is of little doubt. But the notion that he, the boy meant to lead our destruction of Dunyasik, was simply killed by mere sellswords? Fantasy.”

  Buyul started to speak but found no words, so he continued.

  “The night before the final massacre of the battle, the men were poisoned, your cousin included.”

  “Poisoned? But…that’s against the laws of engagement established with the Dunyasi.”

  He nodded at her, the smile gone, his secret revealed. “Buyul, my sweet princess, rules of engagement are simply the tools of smart men who wish to remain out of combat that treat war like a game. They look at peasant soldiers conscripted into armies and they place them like little game pieces, like a master Vahr player,” he mimicked the motions flamboyantly of moving the board game pieces.

  Buyul thinly veiled her disgust at such notions; to her, to her father, war was a sacred rite, the measurement by which all kings compared themselves to others. The Dunyasi, for as often as they invaded and forced their religion upon others by means of battle, universally seemed to have a distaste for war, and they seemed to have some amount of respect for the battles that they had fought over decades. She dismissed the notion quickly, refusing to believe her cousin died an inglorious death, but she undeniably still sought revenge. But her father thought of war reverently, he respected those with whom he fought. The idea that he would authorize such a cruel act against a political enemy was clearly against his character, so she figured she must quickly compromise and acquiesce so as to keep his legacy untarnished. She believed her father would entrust such an important mission to her, and if she flatly refused, her uncle would simply hire some wretch to kill him in the dark, silently. “I will go, uncle,” she said, nodding. “I will do this.”

  “Good!” Kuncer smiled greedily as he clapped his hands together. He was about to speak when Buyul cut him off.

  “I will capture this man, this Dunyasi council seat. I will not poison,” she uttered with venom in her words, her eyes showing an obstinate fire to them that made clear she would not budge on this notion.

  Kuncer’s smile curled into a sneer, but Pem Nell saw this and interjected, “then he shall hold trial for the crimes that he committed against your cousin, breaking the holy rules of engagement and dishonoring your father,” she said with a hint of malice, though her face bore the expression of one desperately trying to cool hot heads.

  Buyul nodded in agreement. While she still could not quite believe the Dunyasi would stoop so low, she had always held belief that her cousin truly was immortal like so many of the noble houses called him. “I shall need a guard, my Ironbound, of course.”

  “Urta, yes, and perhaps another,” Pem Nell nodded.

  “Tyinna, she is a most loyal companion and guardian.”

  Kuncer nodded, his eyes now seemed sullen.

  Pem Nell, seeing Kuncer’s energy drained, continued: “and you should bring four others. Too many of the Ironbound would be too conspicuous to bring on such a mission, but I believe that four more guards should be able to attend without drawing too much attention.”

  Buyul saluted, “I shall bring the enemy back, I swear it,” she uttered with rote memorized militaristic enthusiasm.

  “I have no doubt,” Pem Nell said with a devious smile, “that the Warrior Princess of the Golden Court will bring glory back to Ginlesi halls upon returning.”

  Buyul tried to beam proudly, but her misgivings about the originally intended plans still lingered in her heart, so she smiled weakly. If only she could speak with her father, she maligned to herself. She nodded again, and headed straight out of the personal chambers and made the long journey through endless hallways to the equipment storage room.

  Once the princess was safely out of earshot and the opulent doors to his personal chambers closed, life seemed to return to both Kuncer and his various attendants and revelers. “Leeches, all of them,” he muttered under his breath as he sipped wine, eyeing the revelers with disdain. Buyul’s defiance in the face of his orders had struck a blow to his ego, and Kuncer was a bitter man, quick to anger and lash out in violence.

  “Your plans are still underway, my love,” Pem Nell said with a cooling tone as she ran her fingers through his hair.

  “Our plans,” he said as he grinned a devilish grin. “I could not be in this position without you, dear.”

  “You are the only one strong enough to return the Ginlesi people to glory, to restore honor to your family’s name. The only one who is clever enough to see the machinations of the world at large. Far smarter than your brother and far too clever for that princess to derail any plans you make.”

  “Still,” he said, taking another gulp, “I don’t like her disobedience. Once I am king, I will leave her no room for such displays of petulant, childish disobedience. My authority will be absolute; my orders will be followed.” He stood up, the wine dulling the ache in his leg that would normally bring him to a crouched over limp. “For thirty years we fought an unwinnable fight based out of a misguided notion of honor and with the false pretense of our love of war giving us the edge needed in a fight against an opponent with superior numbers and strategy. My brothers brought chaos to my house, I’ve seen it since I was a boy. My big brother riding in heroically into battle, charging straight into a phalanx of pikemen rounded up from Dunyasi peasantry. He died what he thought was a glorious death, but it was simply a fool’s death.” Kuncer’s voice almost sounded sad as it dampened in anger. “He wished such a life upon his son, and the boy got exactly what his father wanted…he died. I say that there is no glory in death when life and a life of power can still be had. I will raze Erenamune, and when those fanatics come screaming out of their burning, derelict homes, I will slaughter them. I have bided my time; I have been patient. The Ilerleans play coy in their skirmishes with the Dunyasi, and they’re ready for Ginlesik to strangle those zealots, to remove the stain that they’ve brought upon these lands with their notions of spreading the ‘Light’ of their god, ignoring the older gods that ruled before him. This coming war will not be glorious for the sake of glory. It will be glorious because I will end it swiftly.”

  Pem Nell smiled seductively, eyeing him as she sipped her own wine, it was dark and rich, nearly syrupy in texture. She couldn’t wait for the days when she could return to a good and light honey wine, amber in color and bright in flavor. “You have nearly removed all obstacles in your way, my love.”

  “My brother is at death’s door; he’ll be dancing in the three hells by the week’s end,” Kuncer said matter-of-factly.

  “And the girl?”

  “The warrior princess? She’s… a thorn, to be certain,” Kuncer started.

  “Thorns must be removed, my love,” she said as she reached up to bring him back down to the chaise with her. “Lest they bring dirt and infection into the body.”

  Kuncer nodded, pondering for a moment. He had always hated the child, though mostly for her unfounded adoration of her father. The bombastic king, the king who played at being a warrior and a scholar, but was simply a poor imitation of their eldest brother. He had always hoped that with time the girl’s loyalty would simply shift to him, or that he could otherwise slowly shift her away from any semblance of influence. She was a useful warrior on the battlefield, to be certain, and she posed no threat to him politically with her earnest and simple attitude. But perhaps Pem Nell is right, he thought to himself. Leaving her alive would allow her to at least attempt to fill in the vacuum of power. Regardless of his brother’s decision to name him the heir, Buyul was beloved for her prowess in battle, the thing that it seemed all Ginlesi kings and queens were known for, as simple-minded as that was. “I suppose, it’s best not to leave it to chance. Perhaps…perhaps some type of insurance is needed.”

  Pem Nell nodded, her smile turning wicked, “with such a clever king, Ginlesi glory will be restored.” She snapped her fingers, and the opulent doors to the room opened again.

  For a moment, Kuncer hesitated, worried that she had double-crossed him and that the princess had somehow heard all this. But his fears were assuaged, replaced with a feeling of confusion and wonder at what stood before him. In through the open doors walked a figure in all black. He was tall, slender to the point of looking nearly emaciated, and his oily black hair fell to his shoulders, blending into the linens and leather of his wardrobe. At his side hung a black scabbard, long and radiatin a dark energy, or perhaps sucking in energy. He smiled, but his face was so pale that it almost seemed like a skeleton or a ghoul was smiling at him. His eyes were a dark color and the whites blended into his pale skin, giving him a nearly alien appearance. Whoever this man was, death and Darkness clung to the air around him like a mist of pain and terror. As he stood, Kuncer sat motionless, fear gripping him and forcing him to remain silent.

  “You called for me, Sister?” the figure asked, his voice so kind and contrasted with his appearance that it frightened Kuncer, causing the sickly prince-in-waiting to shiver as the room chilled to an icy temperature.

  “My dearest, may I introduce you to Sekzint Hazar?”