Chapter 11

“Kill everyone that’s not a mage,” Valhen said, examining the prisoners lined against the wall. “Show me your magic and I’ll let you live,” he spoke to the first one.

Terrified, the man produced a paltry blue flame in his palm.

“Pathetic.” He moved on to the next one, leaving the first in tears. “You.”

“Please, I don’t have any magic, I just study–” his pleading was cut short by Valhen’s blade across his neck. Blood spilled onto the stone floor, steam rising from the warm liquid in the cool air. Shocked screams arose from the other students, and Valhen turned, silencing them with nothing but a look.

“I’ll make this quick and easy. Show me your magic, and live. If you fail, or you can’t, I’ll be sure to make it as painless as possible.” Valhen crossed his arms.

Whimpering, a handful of students managed to produce varying blue and purple sorceries of varying complexities, all of them faltering as their elven language was stuttered from the lips of terrified students. Those that didn’t manage anything began to sob, but were quickly executed by the soldiers surrounding them in a swift display of cruel efficiency.

Winter was nearing an end, and with the early thaw brought news of a hermitage of half-elves. Vadrel’s snooping had done some good, and with more magic on his side, he was bound to overpower the Asodonian forces on the border. This kind of thing— magic— was becoming rarer and rarer, and as he weeded out those without any abilities, more and more had just gone and sequestered themselves in hermitages like this one, occupying abandoned ruins and run-down villages. So far, Vadrel had done a decent job of ferreting them out, and Spymaster Durset had done an excellent job of supplying a handful of Runians and half-elves for the war effort.

His soldiers began corralling the crying students in the foyer, lining them up as they bound their hands and legs together. Valhen strolled past the scene calmly, as if there wasn’t anyone there but him. He approached Toric, his gelding, and shoved a foot in the stirrup as he hoisted himself aloft the steed. He supervised as the students were led in an orderly line to the cart that was pulled by two horses. The canvas covering over the ribs prevented easy escape over the side; and once the student prisoners were led into the back, one of Valhen’s men sat on the back, guarding the rear. Satisfied, he nudged Toric forward.

Valhen rode ahead of the caravan with the prisoners. Listening to them weep was too overstimulating, too annoying. It was far more pleasant in the front, where it was quiet. By the time they reached the palace, most of the prisoners had accepted their fate and had hushed, making the last leg of the journey more bearable. As Valhen rode through the gate, he sighed, spotting Spymaster Durset standing on the top of the steps, his hands clasped behind his back. Valhen dismounted, led Toric to the stables, and walked back to where Olivier was standing. His expression was solemn, almost worried.

Valhen sighed. “What is it this time, Olivier?” Spymaster Durset uncrossed his hands and produced a letter. Its wax seal was broken and rested gently on one half of the paper. Valhen took the letter and inspected the seal. It was foreign to him, so it couldn’t have been any one of his own nobles. “Who is it from?” He pushed open the heavy front doors to the castle and strolled inside, letting the guards close the doors behind him. “

Your Majesty, I think you should read this for yourself,” Olivier said, following him into the stairwell. Valhen raised an eyebrow, but walked towards his study, taking a seat in the carved wooden chair as he unfolded the letter. Spymaster Durset lurked in the doorway, looking unnerved.

He didn’t like that. Nothing shook Olivier; that was what had earned him his position in the first place. When Olivier had snuck in to the castle, threatened Valhen’s guards, and then had the gall to ask for a position in his personal guard, Valhen wasn’t one to refuse. He could have killed Olivier, of course, but the young man had an accomplishment in getting into the palace undetected. He’d left everyone unharmed, and had even gone so far as to place his knife in Valhen’s hands

He could have killed Olivier then and there; but Olivier would be far too useful to punish for his audacity. That audacity felt like exactly what Valhen needed to stay on top of his enemies, and Olivier had served his purpose as Spymaster well. He’d informed Valhen of threats before they’d happened, and had personally made sure that Valhen’s nobles didn’t dare step out of line. Olivier got answers, plain and simple, and Valhen considered him to be an arguably more useful tool than Vadrel, that lazy bastard.

Valhen shook out the letter and peered at the script. It began in the same way as all others did, with three lines of flattery and lamenting the disparity in position when called upon. He narrowed in on the later lines.



And so I find myself with one Count Reg Rorsk of Uspar, a Runian bard, and a young man claiming to be the third Prince of Ceskela. As I am unable to verify these claims, I must entrust that someone from your noble estate will return word regarding the legitimacy of this Varis of Ceskela. If you would like him returned safely, we kindly request that you respond with your offers.



Yours respectfully,



Duke Nemes

Valhen placed the letter on the table and took a deep breath in. No wonder Olivier had looked so worried. He supposed it was for the best that Olivier was the one to deliver this news, because were it to be anyone else, he was sure that he wouldn’t be able to control his emotions. Everyone made mistakes, it seemed, even him. Only this mistake had lived, and come back to bite him in the ass.

“Varis is alive, then,” he said, slowly.

Olivier drew a quick breath in. “That’s what it seems, Your Majesty.”

“Fuck.” He definitely should have killed Varis when he had the chance. “What is that little whoreson up to?”

“I’ve sent scouts to the borders that we’re holding, but I only learned of this letter this morning. I’m afraid I’m not sure. If he’s claiming to be a prince, that means that he’s not accepted his exile. The letter is a month or so old, but it seems that there’s only three of them so far.” Olivier shut the study door behind him. “I would be prepared for anything, Your Majesty. It’s been over fifteen years, and if he’s had time to ruminate, I would chance that he seeks your throne, at worst.”

Valhen hummed thoughtfully, and drummed his fingers on the desk. “How old is he now?”

“His mid-twenties, if I calculated correctly, Your Majesty.”

“Interesting. And you’re looking into this Count Rorsk? Does he have any substantial holdings, any men?”

“I’m not sure yet, Your Majesty. I’ve sent letters out this morning, but unless I have a direct order, I hesitate to send scouts all the way to Uspar just to investigate one single count.” Olivier met Valhen’s stare.

“No, you’re right. We can’t risk men like that, not with the borders of Asodon nearly under our control. You’ve already taken care of everything I could ask, thank you.” Valhen crossed his legs and stared at the letter.

Varis and his duo were last seen in Asodon around a month prior. There was no telling where he was at now, but it wouldn’t take very long for the scouts to report back with word of them, especially if Varis was claiming to be a prince.

Varis had always been a thorn in his side. When their father had remarried, Valhen was a teenager. By the time Varis came along, Queen Merith was busy ruling over Praeca, ignoring the plight of the two elder princes. King Valére was never a good father to begin with, doling out beatings as if they were daily rituals, as mundane as getting dressed. Vadrel got the worst of it, of course, as he was always getting into some mischief or another. Varis, even though he was the youngest and the favorite, didn’t escape unscathed, either. By the time he was exiled, he had an intricate web of scars covering his back from King Valére’s whippings. Valhen wondered idly if those scars had faded with the years or not. His own certainly had, and the only scars he bore proudly were those from battle.

It was never fair that their father seemed to favor Varis with the better tutors, instructors, and even fewer beatings than his brothers. Queen Merith, of course, did nothing to stop the King’s rages, as she herself was the occasional target. In Valhen’s opinion, she deserved it, especially for standing by and letting him continue his reign of terror in the palace household. When the both of them had passed from disease, leaving the throne to Valhen, it was a good riddance. Even better of a riddance was exiling Varis, or at least so he thought at the time. Killing him outright would have garnered too much pushback from nobles that frown upon that sort of thing. Not that he needed to eliminate heirs, Vadrel’s continued existence was proof of that. It was merely a matter of principle. Varis was the favorite, and it was time for him to get his comeuppance. Valhen had assumed that setting loose a spoiled princeling on the world would get the world to do the dirty work for him. Apparently not.

He drummed his fingers on the table and looked back at Spymaster Durset. “Have you told Vadrel yet?”

“No, Your Majesty. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

”Very well, then. I suppose that honor falls to me.” Valhen stood and opened the study door, looking back at Olivier solemnly. “I want to know the moment they set foot in Ceskela.”

“You will, Your Majesty,” Olivier replied with a bow.

Valhen left the study and headed directly for Vadrel 's chambers, Duke Nemes’ letter in hand. He knocked, not out of concern for privacy, but out of distaste for whatever heathenry Vadrel got up to behind closed doors. The door swung open with a creak. Vadrel stood, half-dressed in his linen trousers, hands on his hips.

“Aren’t you a pleasant sight?” Vadrel said, grinning.

Valhen frowned and pushed the door open further. “We need to talk.”

Vadrel frowned as well. His hands dropped to his sides, and he nodded in the direction of the bedchamber. “Come in, then. I hope you know that I haven’t gotten into any trouble, and I’ve definitely not killed anyone recently.” Valhen rolled his eyes. “Anyone important, anyway.”

”You’re in the clear, brother.” Valhen shut the door as he stepped inside. “I see that Seven is out.”

”Well, yes, I had some things I wanted him to take care of, you see.”

”Hm. More killing and blackmail?”

Vadrel grinned again, wider this time. “Perhaps. What do you want, then, Your Majesty?”

”Varis is alive.”

Vadrel’s expression soured and his face paled. “He is? How do you know?”

Valhen handed over the letter and studied his brother’s face as he read it.

“A ransom from Asodon?”

”Indeed. More importantly, it tells me that Varis has friends. A Count, apparently.”

”And Spymaster Durset, is he doing anything to confirm this?”

Valhen nodded and took a seat on a nearby chair. Vadrel followed suit, sitting across from him with his legs crossed one over the other.

“Spymaster Durset has sent scouts to the border and to the duchy in Asodon.”

”What about this Count?”

”Nothing yet,” Valhen responded, “We have more important matters than one lowly count. I would be more concerned if it was a duke, but as of now we don’t know what Varis is hoping to accomplish. All we know is that he was in Asodon around a month ago, still claiming the title ‘Prince’.”

Vadrel hummed thoughtfully as a smile crept back to his face. “Oh, please say it, dear Brother.“

Valhen rolled his eyes again, but obliged. “I’m sending you and Seven to deal with them. Check the duchy with the scouts, but leave no stone unturned. Find out where they’re going, who’s with them, and most importantly, bring Varis and the Runian to me unharmed. I don’t give a shit about the count. Kill him if you want.”

Vadrel clapped and laughed gleefully. “Your orders are excellent as always, Brother.” He stood and bowed, heading to the chest that stored his clothes. “Is that all?”

Valhen nodded. “That’s all. Varis and the Runian. Unharmed. I don’t care what you have to do to get them.”

His younger brother nodded in response, pulling a shirt out and over his head. “Gladly.”

He stood up from his repose on the green plush chair and headed towards the door. Valhen pulled it open and stepped out, shutting it behind him with a heavy sigh. Sending Vadrel ran the risk of chaos, but thankfully chaos was just what he needed in order to capture his youngest brother.

It was imperative that he get to right his wrong in letting the little whoreson live. And more than that, the Runian bard he traveled with intrigued him. He had a handful of Runians on the front lines, and one more would make a valuable addition to his forces; especially if that Runian was one that Varis deemed valuable as well.

As he headed back to his throne room, he smiled. With Olivier and Vadrel on the trail, he was bound to get his chance soon.