Seawater sprayed onto the deck of The Kingspear, the weathered planks frothing with foam and becoming soaked, turning them a deep brown. The ship stunk of salt, amassing a lumping bitterness in Lassandra’s throat, but she was not alien to such a smell. A boat was about the most common mode of transport on the island of Manasya. She would have been remiss to admit it did not take time to adjust to it from the rickety cable cars in her home of Karabaster. Bodies of water were a great mystery in the dry expanse that was the Rottas Plateau. She thanked the Winds eternally the day she was promised to her lovely Gor.
The clashing of wooden swords conquered the splashing of waves. As she peered over the railing, Horrus and Cyro, her two sons, ran around the slippery deck, playing at swords, their excitement growing with every clack. How she envied their bliss. Horrus backed up from his overwhelming brother, and stepped in a puddle, slipping, and falling on his face.
“Horrus!” she shouted, immediately running to her boy. “You hit your head, are you hurt?” She wrapped her arms around him, but he chuckled as if he’d just lost a tickling match. “It’s alright, my boy, I’m here.” She grabbed his cheeks to check for cuts or bruises.
“Ow! That hurt.”
Cyro stood over him, laughing, his wooden sword resting on his shoulder, pointing at Horrus. She slapped him. He did not laugh at that. “Cyro! That is not how we treat our siblings. Help him get up.” Lassandra gently let go of Horrus, and Cyro did as he was told. “Now get off the deck! It’s dangerous. One wrong slip and you’ll be food for sharks.”
“Yes, mother,” both replied. They smiled at her, Horrus revealing a gap in his teeth, and they ran back inside of the ship. My poor boy! She forgot to check his mouth after the fall. How could she forget to check! “Horrus, wait—” She felt a firm grasp grab her by the hips. In mere moments, she was spun around and a thick set of lips pressed against her own, beard hair gently brushing against her cheeks.
“Gor!” she said, recoiling. “The children are running about the place, Horrus is hurt, and the crewmen are doing nothing about it!” she continued, trying to contain the excitable whirring in her stomach.
“Don’t mind them, Sandra. Once we reach World’s End, I’m sure they will settle down. The Chancellor assured to me that we would be treated with the utmost care as honourable guests. Let us enjoy this brief ray of light before the dark cave.” A smile cracked from Gor’s lips lobe to lobe, despite the melancholic sentiment in his tone. His smile was intoxicating, as enchanting as the day they met. She held his hands for a moment while their eyes interlocked in a soothing exchange. Yet, she couldn’t help but think, did we read the same letter?
A pungent waft of sulphur waved through the gap between them, and a smoky haze overcame the deck of The Kingspear. A bellowing gust of wind struck the two lovers, and she wrapped her arms around Gor, taut as an iron chain. The smoke was so thick she could barely make out Gor’s face. As the winds calmed, she felt a sudden pressure from an uncomfortable and encroaching warmth.
“Have we arrived?” The smoke cleared slightly. She could just about decipher her husband’s expression; saddening and inauspicious, and his face was soiled in soot.
“I fear so,” he said, coughing before wiping his face with his sleeve.
“Land ho!” yelled the watchman from atop the crow’s nest. The crewmen scrabbled about the deck, the captain shouting commands that meant very little to Lassandra. The sails rippled with a weary sigh as they were slackened. The rigging screeched as the ship lost momentum, the sea’s waves patting at its hull as it concluded its sprint.
Lassandra turned her attention to beyond the railing of the ship and gazed at the land of Ferte that lay ahead. The silhouette, more like. Amidst the shadows was a rocky landmass, with little sign of vegetation. The Ires—Ferte’s three renowned peaks—pierced the veil of smoke like lances shooting up to the sky, crowned by a thick circlet of dark ash.
From the ashy mist emerged a giant cave mouth, its throat still eclipsed in shadow. The ship broodingly approached it, no longer propelled by the wind but drawn by the faint current inward. The mast of The Kingspear barely reached halfway to the cave’s ceiling, where stalactites protruded like sharp teeth. The warmth gradually worsened, and the sulfuric smell was almost unbearable. A stone platform, deep black, shot out from the darkness, a shadowed figure standing at its edge. She tightened her grip on Gor’s hand and prayed to the Winds for immunity from the fires of Ferte.
A strange sense of foreboding trickled down her spine.
“It will take a while before we reach the port. Make sure the boys and Zaria are ready to land. I’ll need to straighten some details with the captain and prepare myself for our greeting guest.” She leaned in to kiss him, but he backed away. “Sandra, your face is also covered in soot.” Gor chuckled. Although she felt embarrassed, his smile and laughter proved too contagious. She wiped her face quickly, and her mouth most importantly. She kissed him on the cheek and made her way to the cabins.
The ship’s interior smelled like the cellar of a second-rate winery. Signs of mildew lined the walls of the hull, and dampened planks squished to her steps.
“Zaria, are your trunks packed and ready?” said Lassandra, knocking on the door to her daughter’s cabin. There was no response. As she cracked the door slightly, she heard soft whimpers coming from within. “Zaria, what’s the matter?”
“Mother!” She ran to Lassandra and embraced her tightly. “Horrus ruined the scarf I was sewing for Dantel,” she cried. “He threw it into a puddle. It’s ruined, ruined. He is going to hate me now.”
“Zaria…” Lassandra caressed her hair and kissed her crown. “I’ll be punishing him, don’t you worry, but I’m sure the Signor will like you just as you are. It’s not like you’re to marry him.” Zaria jerked backward, her face red. “We are not here to betroth you, my Zaria. Your father is here for diplomatic negotiations.” The poor girl…she does not know who this man is.
“Yes, I know that. I just wanted him to like me.”
“Why wouldn’t he like you? You’re as beautiful and kind as they come.” If the Winds are kind, he won’t as much as give you a second glance. She walked over and hugged her. “We’ll be landing very soon, so please lock your trunks and the crewmen will unlade them.” Zaria nodded, her hair rubbing against Lassandra’s bosom. She kissed her daughter on the forehead. She rose and made for the exit. “I’ll need to ensure your brothers are doing the same. Please, Zaria, don’t let it haunt your wits. We’ll pass by the embroidery when we’re settled and get you the finest materials so you can sew the Signor a new scarf. Alright?” Lassandra smiled at Zaria as she shut the cabin door.
“Boys? We’re landing soon, please—”
“No, you’re sleeping in the stone bed!” yelled Horrus around the corner. Horrus barrelled out of the passageway, Cyro just behind, each dragging their trunks as if they weighed nothing.
Before she could speak, they vanished around the corner. She shook her head in regret, but she envied them, just a little, for they did not know what kind of place awaited them.
As she emerged from the cabins, she spotted Gor exchanging pleasantries with the tall figure. Four guards stood vigilant, two either side. “…and it is an honour to be received by a man such as yourself,” Gor said, clasping the slender man’s hand with both of his. “This is my lady wife,” he said as she stepped off the ship. “Dahnum Lassandra of Manasya, my two sons, Cyro and Horrus, and my beautiful daughter, Zaria.”
The man clutched her hand and pecked her knuckles with his coarse lips. “It is a pleasure to host your lady, Dhan Gor. I am the Chancellor, Hugo Teriano.” He was a ghastly man with dark circles around his eyes, cheekbones sharper than an Immortal’s spear, and taller and skinnier even than the Tagaldiri Dahn, Gamnan Askul. “I pray; you will find your stay at World’s End of the most welcoming. Follow me.”
Maybe the presence of four armed guards is endearing this side of the Strait…Lassandra grabbed Zaria’s hand before taking a single step.
He led them through a vein of cavernous tunnels scantly lit by torches anchored to the walls. “I hope the Winds remained calm throughout your voyage,” said the Chancellor as they walked. “Not the lazy waters of Manasya here in the Strait, are they, my dahn?”
“Indeed, Chancellor. We braved the rare ravenous tide, but I feel the Winds guided us safely to the shores of alliance,” Gor replied.
The Chancellor smiled faintly. “Please, Dahn Gor, save the politics for the court. Such thorns may prick a man when he least expects it.” Gor laughed at the Chancellor’s ominous comment.
“We Manasyans are of tougher hide than you think, Chancellor,” Gor remarked. Lassandra said nothing, but she’d seen thicker skin flayed amongst kinder company.
They remained silent throughout, save for the rare warning from the Chancellor of stalagmites or hidden boulder obstructing their path. The warmth intensified the deeper they traversed. Lassandra found herself wiping sweat from her forehead more often than she would have liked. After a right turn, a wooden lift appeared at the end of the tunnel. A slim figure stood by the pulley.
“The lift will bear more no more than three at a time,” said the liftsman.
“Perhaps only one other with the Dahn Gor,” added the Chancellor. “I am pleased they feed you well in the drylands.” Gor glanced at the Chancellor confused and turned to his wife expressing his distaste.
“We’ll do well to follow your advice, Chancellor,” replied Gor. She knew the way his jaw tightened; he was trying, and failing, to hide his pique.
“I’ll stay with the boys. You ride the lift with Zaria,” said Lassandra, grabbing her two sons by the hand.
“Very astute, lady of Manasya,” said the Chancellor, hinting a smirk. “Liftsman, let the Dahn’s lady and the two boys ride first.”
“Of course, lord Chancellor.” The liftsman unlocked the gate and lit a loosely attached lantern on the wall of the cage. Lassandra led her sons forth. “Hold onto the railing.” But she had no hands free. The lift groaned as they entered it. Cyro flinched. Lassandra squeezed his hand tighter, but she would be lying if she denied she did not gasp, too. “To World’s End!” said the liftsman with a chuckle.
She did not reciprocate the laughter. The gate shut with a screeching clang, more a sentence than a precaution. She pulled her sons close to shield them as best she could. The cage dropped abruptly. Just a short distance, but enough to steal her breath. With a jolt came the climb. The lift rattled violently with each jerking tug of the rope, no rhythm to soothe her nerves. The lantern swayed erratically, its flame flickering as though in a panic. Cyro flinched again. She tightened her grip on his hand, but more to still her own trembling. He mustn’t know she was frightened too. Her fearless Horrus giggled with each judder, bouncing on the wooden slats. She smiled faintly at her son, though her heart thundered like a war drum. The cavern yawned below them, extinguishing all trace of light from where they’d parted from Gor and Zaria. “It will all be over soon,” she whispered, but whether to her boys or to herself, she wasn’t sure.
A dull light dawned on them from above. The lift halted with a squeal, its convulsion draining out as it completed its duty. The image of another liftsman slowly revealed itself. Behind him were three housemaids dressed in black with white frills. The liftsman unlocked the gate and moved aside to allow them to dismount.
They stepped into a dimly lit room. Its walls and floor were of grey polished stone, the candlelight reflecting mutedly from its surfaces. The ceiling was uncomfortably low; Lassandra’s head was only a few hand lengths from it. There were no paintings or ornaments, just pillars of thick stone that shot out from the four edges of the room.
“Please, follow us. We will show you to your chambers,” said one of the housemaids, coldly.
“My husband and daughter are still at the bottom,” said Lassandra.
“They will be shown to their rooms promptly. The Chancellor stressed the hurry to get you accommodated.” Lassandra smiled curtly and led her boys behind them.
The corridors were of the same polished stone, and near as narrow as the lift’s cage. Every door was shut and seemed locked, and the distance between each one was eerily far.
The housemaid that had spoken to her stopped at the next door, pulling out a keyring with more keys than Irivan—Manasya’s Seat of Power—had doors. The door unlocked with an uncomfortable click, and the other housemaids helped to lurch it open.
“This is where the two boys will be staying. Follow me to see you and your husband’s room.”
“Excuse me for a moment. As their mother, I must needs ensure they settle in properly.” Lassandra was astonished at their behaviour, but she disregarded it as a cultural clash. She did not give them any time to respond. The room was as bland as the hallway, save for the furniture that was resembled their Manasyan rooms uncannily, with mahogany shelves, tables, and wardrobes, and an arabesque tapestry. Horrus and Cyro threw themselves at the bed and said: “When do we get our swords back? We want to play.” She smiled at them and kissed both of them in the cheek.
“Stay here until I come to get you, alright?” They both nodded, Horrus in an excitable manner, whereas Cyro had a melancholic expression. Oh, Winds protect them.
Lassandra followed the housemaids to her chambers. In their defence, it was the next door down but reaching it felt as if she’d traversed the cavern from the port to the lift all over again. The housemaids vanished into the dark hallway as soon as they let her in, the door shutting unaided behind them.
She sat on the foot of the bed, rearranging her rings and jewels, waiting for her Gor to barge through that door and take her back to Manasya, or her home in Karabaster, or to the snows of Tunaq. Anywhere but there. Her room was an exact copy of her sons’, except for the tapestry, which depicted the countenance of Gareq, the Tuni god of fire.
The door clicked again with a painful turn of the key. She flattened her skirts before the large figure of her husband set foot into their chambers, ducking his head under the door frame. Once again, the door closed on its own, this time slamming harder than the last.
“I would throw those housemaids out to the street if they treated my guests as they have treated us here. All too hasty. I will be mentioning this to the Chancellor.” His hands cut sharp, impatient shapes in the air, gestures he only made when he was truly angry.
“It’s probably nothing more than a cultural clash, Gor. I wouldn’t let it haunt your wits,” she said, standing up to caress his arm. Gor sighed.
“You’re probably right…I don’t know, Sandra. The more time I spend here, the more I feel we aren’t welcome. Jafar assured me this voyage would not be hostile, despite it being against my recommendation. Winds damn that self-important, callous excuse of a prince. I forget myself, a Lord Speaker now! If the Khah had been at that assembly, we would not be in this situation. That, I can assure you.”
“We are all together here, Gor. And we are safe. That is all that matters.”
“The Chancellor seems kindly enough. I’m almost certain I can barter with him and the other members of the court for favourable terms of allegiance…but you are right. Fertelians have an eerie air to them. We should all tread carefully, and we will not spend a single moment more here than is necessary. You have my word.”
“I don’t doubt you can,” she said, undoing the top button of his shirt, “Come, let me lighten your stress,” kissing his neck and rubbing her hands all over his broad shoulders.
“Not now, Sandra,” he said, gently pushing her hands away. “Believe me, there’s nothing more that I want to do right now, but the Chancellor has requested my presence in the auditorium as soon as I made myself at ease with our lodgings. The Court of Cinders will be holding session.” Gor paused and placed his lips on Lassandra’s hand. “Please come. He suggested that you sit amongst the audience. Apparently, they discuss all political matters openly in this part of the continent. A farce, in my opinion, but it would do both you and Zaria well to gain an insight into world politics. Not the boys, though. They are too young.”
“I wouldn’t miss it, but I’m not proper! We’ve just gotten off the boat, are you certain it’s to be so soon? And I’m not sure it’s the best idea to expose Zaria to the facades and veiled slights of open court. I would also like to delay her meeting the Signor, Dantel. She’s made up this image in her head of a gallant prince, I fear. It could not be further from the truth,” she said, ruefully.
“You are as beautiful as the day I laid my eyes upon you,” he said, holding her hand. “Have my word, the lord Dantel will not attend. Not to any political capacity, at least. He has yet to ascend the Wrathrone, but I believe his rites are due soon, according to what the Chancellor said in the letter.” Gor paused again, but this time it was not to kiss her hand. He pressed his lips together, the way he always did when he was holding something back.
“What is it, Gor?” she queried.
“Zaria is…soon to be a woman proper. It may prove beneficial to find her a worthy suitor.”
“This better be meant in jest,” said Lassandra, her brow perching above her eye like an angry hawk.
“Think about it, Sandra. What better suitor is there than one who will bring peace among realms?”
“You cannot be serious,” Lassandra remarked. “Zaria is your daughter, how could you even say that? I may have never met that man but ask any Gorhadi and they will tell you a thousand and one stories, all differing accounts of his evil. And as much as it pains me to say it, Dantel will think of himself as a king. Anything less than a princess will not suffice—”
“Shh!” Gor whispered, his finger pressed against his lips. He pointed to the hallway, and shortly after heard muffled steps disappearing as if in a hurry. “Let’s not speak of this again,” he said, still cautious over his tone of voice. “We must needs make our way to the auditorium. An escort should arrive shortly. If Fertelians are known for one thing, it is their haste.” They both chuckled but Lassandra would have lied if she said Gor’s words had not struck her like a blow to the chest.
A rapping came to their chamber door.
“That will be the escort, I assume.” They held each other’s hand and exited into the hallway. Behind the door was a small man—Lassandra stood a foot taller over his head—dressed in courtly attire. Of dark skin, similar to Gor’s skin tone, and black slick hair. His nose protruded from his face like a butte on a plateau. He bowed curtly as they locked eyes and hurried away down the corridor.
He made sharp turn after sharp turn, each corridor dimmer than the last. Candlewax dripped like tears from the candle holders as if the flames feared the dark closing in. Their shadows stalked them on the walls, looming over their shoulders. Gor’s, especially, hunched over them as a ventriloquist would its puppet, given that he could not walk straight due to the ceiling’s low height.
After a narrow staircase, the tunnel opened into a wide hall filled to the brim with people not dissimilar to their escort. Save for the odd whisper, they stood in silence, waiting. A gargantuan gate stood opposite them, its doors of the same thick stone that surrounded it. Instead of hinges, stacks of gears attached the stone doors to the walls.
With a deep roar, the gears started to turn, and the stone doors began to part. Lassandra instinctively took a step back as the heat poured in. A final slap of warmth blasted Lassandra’s face as the gates finished their grinding march. She felt sweat immediately welling up in her forehead and chest. The swathes of people began feeding through the gates. Beyond them stood a towering fortification of black stone shooting up from the bottom of a valley. Lining the face of the cliffs was a circular fortress.
“The famed Furious Keep,” said Gor, in awe, as well. “And its surrounding Outer Rim.”
Four bridges connected the Outer Rim with the Furious Keep, each as wide as Victory Road. What had seemed like a sea of people inside the hall now was wasted on such a large bridge. They crossed the lava lake that encircled the Furious Keep and entered a hall identical to the one on the other side. The Fertelians rushed into three different corridors, labelled: ‘Upper Deck’, ‘Noble Stand’ and ‘Petitions’.
“The Chancellor advised me to sit in the ‘Petitions’ stand. You should be able to find a seat in the Noble Stand.” Gor kissed her knuckles. “Goodwind, Sandra,” he said before disappearing into the ‘Petitions’ tunnel. When she turned to search for the escort, he’d vanished as if smoke burning from incense.
Lassandra traversed the tight tunnel. The auditorium was narrower than she’d expected—long and tiered, with stone balconies rising on either side like the galleries at the theatre. In the middle were eighteen steel chairs, eight on either side, each with a different sigil. Lassandra assumed they were the different families that resided in World’s End. She turned her attention to the back of the room. A monstrous throne stood atop a dais, shrouded in a coat of thorns. Another steel chair stood beside it, dwarfed by the magnitude of its prickly counterpart. The audience benches filled up fast. The mass of people convened in the court reminded her of the annual colosseum games held in Jaidon. She found a gap between two families. She rearranged her skirts as she sat down. Her eyes scanned the benches opposite her in search of Gor, but to no avail.
A trio of trumpeters began their fanfare. Any chatter ceased in an instant, and the whole court rose. Then entered the court parade. Two rows of eight noblemen, all dressed in dark grey and a dark red doublet with each of their family sigils emblazoned on their chest. Chancellor Teriano stalked at the back of the parade, his gait feline and fierce. Beside him sauntered the woman who she knew to be the Signora, Niccola de Caldera. Each courtier paused before their seats and waited as the Chancellor and the Signora climbed the dais. The Signora took her seat on the Wrathrone, and the Chancellor turned his attention to the audience in the stands above them. He cleared his throat and chanted:
“The Ires tremble, yet we do not falter.
Its lakes scorch our walls, yet we stand unburned.
In honour of the ashes our ancestors laid down on this very ground,
let the court begin its session.”
As the Chancellor finished his recital, he sat first, and everybody else followed suit.
“Foremost, on today’s bill, is to affirm the rites our Signor Aspirant will have to endure to claim the vacant Wrathrone. The Petitions corner will be able to voice their opinions upon instruction. Second is the arrival of visitors from the mainland, Dahn Gor of Manasya, a minister of the Khah, and his family. We will hear his opening remarks in brief.” The courtiers threw subtle glances at each other, some of amusement, others of disdain. “Lastly, we will hear any Motions brought by our Representatives, and after, we will open the court to Inquiries.” The Chancellor’s raspy voice sent serpents down her spine.
Chancellor Teriano reached into his robe’s pocket and presented a scroll before the court. Its edges were worn and charred. “As per the crowning conventions, the mourning period for our late Signor has now elapsed, and it is pertinent to the survival of our traditions that his rightful heir ascends the Wrathrone. The customary rites, as all may know, are to trudge the molten bridge barefoot, and to hold the thorned sword upright from dawn until dusk. However, due to the circumstances surrounding the current heir, I believe harsher trials should be imposed.” Before the Chancellor could get another word out, one of the courtiers sitting opposite Lassandra rose.
“Senator Jaume, speaking on behalf of the Caravaglio family—The circumstances, while extraordinary, should not require a change of tradition. Dantel, by fortune or ill fate, is next in line. I would urge the Chancellor and the rest of the court a speedy coronation so World’s End may return to its intended state of political stability.” Half of the courtiers tapped their armrests in approval.
“Senator Buocci, speaking on behalf of the Verdivenci family—Dantel was not raised to be an heir. It is known the Wrathrone rejects those of weak will. The seventh son of the late Signor Luccecio must prove himself before his people. It would benefit the court to hear the Chancellor’s, and other Representatives’, suggestions of additional rites.” The courtiers were not as fast to agree with Senator Buocci’s point, but after hesitation, most tapped their armrests, including the Chancellor. Only the three sitting at the end of the row closest to her, all bearing the same sigil, did not concur.
“A strong will is not all that is required to sit the Wrathrone, Senator Buocci,” said the Chancellor with immediacy. “A sharp mind may smite the blades of a thousand soldiers if they lack wit. Perhaps a test of the mind could prove beneficial to resolve this dispute.”
“Please, Chancellor. Dantel was raised to be a scholar!” The audience gasped as Senator Buocci rose from his seat. “If this were the Pillar of Eadala I wouldn’t have any reservations. But the truth is, World’s End necessitates a strong leader, not a glorified student.” He turned to face the audience behind him—where Lassandra sat—and said: “We now all see where your priorities lie, Chancellor.”
There were no taps of agreement that time. Due to disagreement, or fear? Lassandra could only guess. But to deny that he did not incite the odd whisper or nod in the audience would be of disservice to the truth.
“Now, now, Senator Buocci, this is not a question of who,” began the Chancellor. “Dantel will stand trial before the Ires. That is not for us to contest.”
Silence prevailed in the court until the courtier closest to the Chancellor in the opposite row cleared his throat and rose. He was much taller than all other Fertelian men she’d seen, and his voluminous arms stretched his silk robe to the limit. This was no ordinary man. “Senator Massimo, speaking on behalf of the Rivialdi family—I believe my learned friend forgets himself, Chancellor. In simpler times, a man would have lost his tongue on besmirching our monarch-to-be’s name in such a way. Lady Fortune has his side, although I struggle to conceive a future where Signor Dantel is an ally of said lady.” His words penetrated the quiet veil as a thrown dagger would a bedsheet. “On the matter of the rites, I am of the same opinion as Senator Jaume. If I may, I suggest a mock debate. A trial of wits and a defence from verbal daggers.” His recline was met with an overwhelming amount of taps.
The Singora didn’t seem the least bit piqued by the court’s discussion. She sat reclined, her eyes wandering from side to side. This is your child’s future, Lassandra would have shouted if she could, but not all mothers thought the same. As dire as that may be.
“Would any of the other Representatives like to speak their mind?” Nobody rose. “Then we shall vote on it. As we are currently an unfilled court, I shall refrain from voting on this topic. Option one will be to keep the rites the same. Option two, the addition of Senator Massimo’s debate. Option three, to reopen the discussion at a later convenience.” The Chancellor rose. “All those in favour of the first option?” Senator Jaume and six others tapped their armrests. “The third option?” The courtiers looked at each other perplexed. Nevertheless, five of them tapped their armrests, Senator Buocci with more heart than the others. “That leaves the second option as the most favoured. In the name of procedure, we will have those in agreement voice their opinion.” The remaining seven voted as expected. “Then it is settled; the Signor Aspirant will undergo the traditional rites of ascension in addition to a mock debate that will be elaborated upon closer to the ceremonies.”
The people of Ferte met the Chancellor’s words with applause. Lassandra kept her hands to herself. The affairs of this foreign island were of no interest to her, and carried disturbing, constricting, air Lassandra couldn’t wait to be away from.
“I believe this ought to turn our attention to diplomacy. If Dahn Gor of Manasya would please take his place at the foot of the dais,” the Chancellor announced.
Excitement suddenly coursed through her veins. Her Gor was an outstanding speaker, and evermore the persuader.
Gor appeared from a staircase under the opposite balcony, his blue cape flapping as he marched to the centre of the room with chest puffed and chin high. His eyes sparkled with determination.
“Dahn Gor, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” said the Chancellor, turning his attention to the audience on his left, then to his right.
Gor bowed to the Signora, the Chancellor, then the Representatives, and last to both balconies. “Your Highness, Chancellor, Representatives of the court, and people of World’s End, I thank you for the opportunity to speak before you in open court. I come as an envoy from the mainland of Gorhad, as a trusted minister of the Khah, Darius II Zhargari. We have long been amicable neighbours, and our bond was never stronger than during the reign of the late Darius I, when Gorhadi and Fertelian alike fought as brothers to rid Shanghala of the Tusked Kings and their tyranny. It is known the reconquest would not have succeeded without your help.
“As it may have come to your attention, the Khah has set his sights westward. He has embarked on the most ambitious journey in the history of Obria; the unification of the continent under one banner. His Valour’s request is not one of subjugation, but one of allegiance. One where Gorhadi and Fertelian can travel freely, purchase freely, and marry freely. Let borders be but geographical divides, not social dichotomies. In a world marching toward unity, those who choose to remain silent may soon find themselves unheard.
“In this light, the Khah is open to offer similar circumstances to those Dadan was granted all those moons ago. Governance of World’s End and the rest of Ferte shall remain at your discretion. The Khah does not wish to encroach upon it. Where this accord will differ is that your treasury will remain untouched. It will, as all wealth will under this new union, become an extension of the Khah’s wealth—Obria’s wealth. Under the stipulation that you swear to come to Obria’s aid should it ever be needed. Many of these terms will be open to negotiation.
“Ferte was an irrefutable sword that severed Gorhad’s rotting limb in the past. I ask only that it now becomes the needle to sew a healthy and prosperous future.” Gor’s speech was immediately met with eager applause. He nodded at the Chancellor and stood firm before the court with a stern expression on his face.
“A very elaborate speech, Dahn Gor. An opening remark worthy of the name,” said the Chancellor with a tone of admiration, but the grin across his lips screamed condescension.
“These terms seem favourable enough,” said Senator Massimo. Yet another smile lit up the Court of Cinders.
“Indeed. We would prove very loyal vassals to your Khah, Dahn Gor,” added Senator Jaume.
“I fear, however,” began the Chancellor. “We cannot deliberate on this matter at this moment. You come to us with a proposal from your Khah, when we have no monarch of our own. That seems a rather unilateral negotiation, does it not? Our deepest apologies, Dahn Gor, your words are wasted on the ears of us lowly courtiers.” The Chancellor followed his words with a disturbing chuckle. “Until the Wrathrone accommodates another Signor, I, by my authority as the Chancellor of the First Ash, declare this matter shelved.” Gor stood before the court, astounded. The courtiers shared his upset, Senator Massimo and Buocci shooting daring glances at the Chancellor. “You may return to your seat, Dahn Gor. I hear the cushions on the Petition stands are rather comfortable.” Gor’s shoulders dropped, and any remnant of that sparkle in his eyes had been extinguished like a candle in the rain. “Now, if those wishing to bring forth a Motion or an Inquiry, would please rise.”
© Jaime Abad 2025