"Our world is unforgiving; there are monsters in it that are ceaseless in their devastation of the weak, be they man or beast of the former or latter. The gods will not protect us; heros will not protect us, for they have all abandoned us the same. We have our family and our people; and, so long as they are united, we can hold out against the chaos of this world. Now, let me rest. I will need my strength in the wars to come." - The final words of Duke Jean-Paul Desramaux, to his son, the future King Ilias of the Desramaux Dynasty.

The sun had just begun to shine over Desramaux Castle, the grandiose estate of the family and Kingdom. "Desramaux," a name that has stood the test of time; generations of warfare, conquest, and plotting have ensured the name stood resolute against the shifting sands of Yarucasna. A dynasty forged in steel, iron, blood, and wine. And now, Phillipe thought too himself, it might all be lost. Phillipe slouched back in his armchair, taking a sip of deep red wine from his favorite chalice - a simple silver mold with five sapphires encrusted at the node. He was a handsome young man, just into his seventeenth year who, despite the early rousal this morning, was well put together. A fine white linen shirt sat flowing over his torso, atop that a coarse yellow jacket with black embroidery, pants to match hugged his legs, and his long brown hair was allowed to hang just to his shoulders.

He had grown accustomed to his father's morning conversations, especailly now that he was getting older. However, in recent mornings the conversations have grown more intense, a great deal of urgency in his father's voice. 'You will have to rule justly over your people,' Phillipe recollected from a conversation a couple of days ago. 'They have grown over the centuries to be proud of the family that rules over them - do not let that slip away.' As his father's tone grew more intense over the last few weeks, the conversation drifted more and more to their name. 'Desramaux, what does that mean to you?' His father's words echoed in his head. How the Devils should I know? It's a name, a good name. A name that commands respect and obediance. A strong name, tested by time and attacked on all sides at moments, but here it remains. And one day, that name will be heralded by me. Well, by the will of the gods that is. Phillipe sighed and took another sip from his cup.

Keeping his challice close to his chest, Phillipe thought it prudent to finally take notice of the man standing in his room who has been speaking for the last twenty minutes or so; he was his father afterall.

"And that is why you shall marry her," his father finished saying just as Phillipe looked to meet his gaze. Francois Desramaux was a tall and sturdy man almost into his fifth decade, short salt and peppered hair slicked back with only the finest of hair-greases. His goatee had been trimmed recently, though his barber seems to have shaved a little to close on the left side giving a strange lilt to his face. He had clearly been up for several hours contemplating how he would approach this conversation. His legs were stiff, his crown was not on, his gloves did not match with the rest of his outfit, and his shirt was ruffled in all of the wrong places. Phillipe had only ever seen his father this way once before, and that was at his mother's funeral.

"Are you going to say anything?" Francois said with some exasperation.

"Yes." Phillipe stared back out of his window, drawing another sip of wine to his lips. "I only ask why."

Francois sighed heavily, "I've just explained to you in great detail why, you arrogant shit."

Phillipe perked up at this. "To safe-guard the kingdom, yes I know, but why? Why create a new House? The House of Desramaux has been marrying other noble and royal families for generations, but never have we abandoned our name."

"We are not abandoning our name." Francois shot back.

"But we are. Father, that is exactly what we are doing. And for something we ultimately should be taking by force."

"If we fought the Biljvanks we would be devasted. Even if we proved victorious, our 'kingdom' would be too weak and spread thin."

"Then we maintain the alliance, watching each other's backs, or is that not the point of alliances?"

"Do not condescend me, Phillipe. This alliance will never last without drastic action, and neither will our House, for that matter."

"It sounds to me like our House won't last passed this wedding. What of the others?"

"What others?"

"Your cousins, my uncles, Thierry and Mathias. Are they to change their dynastic names as well?"

"The name will live on with them."

"Relagated to be some minor nobility, yes I'm sure they won't be bitter about that. Tell me, how will this unification last if I am assassinated by my brothers or I am deposed by an uncles claim?"

"That will not happen. Both Houses will remain with substantial land and power - "

"Ah, so I will be powerless in my own kingdom."

"No, that is not - "

"Tell me father, how will I execute my will as king if the nobility field larger armies than me?"

"They will not, if you would - "

"How will I be able to collect taxes if I am not longer of the family?"

"Phillipe."

"How is my reign supposed to last without a proper dynastic line? A muddled half-house, born out of the frustration and fear of  two whithering old men. And who is this woman anyways? I have never met her before, what if we cannot stand eachother? There goes the kingdom with the divorce. My reign will be stained with my failure to keep together a contract I never wanted to begin with."

Francois slapped Phillipe across his cheek, leaving his hand imprinted on his cheek.

"Forget about your damned reign and listen to me!"

The air stood still as Phillipe placed his hand to his red face, feeling the warm pain flow off of it. He's never struck me before. He went to drink from his cup but Francois snatched it from his hands. The two share a moment of anger, both fuming into the other one's eyes.

Finally, Phillipe relents, as he notices his father's eyes begin to well up. It is just then that he sees how they were already quite like his wine. Of course, he's thought this all through a million times. He sat back down into his armchair, head down to the floor. 

Francois stood there staring at his sons bright red face, despite his long hair falling over it, he could see the burning hand mark slowly fading away. It shouldn't have come to this. He thought to himself. I'd rehearsed this a hundred times, but I didn't think he'd be so resistant. Francois sighed and walked over to stare out of the window. The warm autumn breeze felt a relief against the chilled, drafty interior of the castle. He drew a sip from the wine, a crisp morning ruby to perk up the senses.

"We cannot stand alone," he said still facing out towards the window.

"We have for centuries." Phillipe said barely lifting his head to speak.

"Yes, and look at where that has gotten us. Our enemies surround us, those we've conquered continue to push back even after a century and a half under our rule, and our only saving grace is an alliance that has always been loose at best."

"Then why are we unifying with them?"

"Because, that was the agreement." Francois sighed. "Believe me, Jurrien is no happier about it than we are, but he understands as much as I do and now you must too." Francois took another mouthful before handing the remains back to Phillipe. He lingered there, staring out into the morning's shimmering horizon.

"The Delricians, the Shelvirans, the Sun, the Xaltharans, they all grow more ambitious by the day. I know it, Jurrien knows it, just as much as we know our alliance has always been one of convenience. This stops that convenience and makes it a reality. Your marriage to Jolijn Biljvank will forge an empire that will stand for thousands of years. And that, my son, is more important than any one reign."

The two remained silent for a moment, Francois could tell the boy was thinking. This was a lot to put on his shoulders. If only I could be the one to bear this burden. He kept his eyes out over the surrounding hills and fields, all of the land that belongs to his family, his dynasty, his House. But not for much longer.

"And what about any one name?" Phillipe lifted his head slightly to look at Francois. He continued to stare intently out the window, taking a moment to let his eyes dry up before turning to face his son.

"What about a name?" Francois turned to face his son, his hair now brushed back to reveal a face recovered.

"Is the empire more important than any one name? How does abandoning one's House, one's legacy, mean so little?"

"You are not abandoning your name, you are forging a new one. By truly unifying our names, we make this new empire inseperable."

Phillipe ran his hand over his face. The boys stubble had begun to show on his chin finally and he clearly had not gotten used to it yet. 

"But that is my point, father. No one will listen to rulers from a novice House. They will turn to the remnants of the original Houses, with the western nobles turning to Desramaux, and the eastern nobles turning to Biljvank."

"Then you must ensure that does not happen. I know this is a lot to bear, but I know you can handle this." Francois gave a smile to Phillipe, who in return forced out a grin. He's not convinced.

"It just, feels unnecessary. We already command respect with our House."

Francois grabbed the chair from Phillipe's desk and pulled it out, sitting across from his son to still look out the window. He stared blankly for a moment, scratching his goatee. Damned barber shaved too close. 

"Do you know how House Desramaux became a Kingdom?"

"We conquered our neighbors." Phillipe slouched back in his chair, taking the last sip of his wine.

"Eventually, but in the beginning, no. Your ancestor, Jean, was elected mayor of a small village in the aftermath of the Resurgence, and under his leadership this small village prospered and attracted survivors from all around. By the time he died, that village was a large town surrounding a small fort. His son, Jean-Paul, was elected mayor, continued his father's trajectory and named himself a Duke."

Phillipe seemed to perk up at this, a quizzical look frozen on his face. "Named himself? The people didn't crown him?"

"No, he declared himself Duke and expanded the fort to be a small castle."

"And the people were alright with this?"

"They were more than alright with it. In fact, under their next leader, Ilias Desramaux, they built a castle miles away from the now burgeoning city." Phillipe now sat upright, his eyes intently on his father.

"Why?"

"Why wouldn't they? Ilias hired them, paid them, established a town garrison and small military to guard against the dangers of the world. They had come to rely on House Desramaux. So much so, that they crowned Ilias's son, Jean-Phillipe, King of the Desramaux Dynasty."

"Is that why our motto is 'Peace Through Prosperity?'"

Francois laughed, his head tilting back with his closed eyes to the sky. After a moment he stabilized himself and returned his gaze to his son, who looked confused by his father's amuzement. 

"Our motto is 'Peace Through Prosperity,' because as soon as we became kings, we became conquerors. Our kingdom was taken through steal, iron, blood, and wine, but how do you think conquered people would feel if their new rulers shouted proudly 'Steal, Iron, Blood, and Wine?' 'Peace Through Prosperity' has a much softer ring to it, and is also based in truth." Francois' face grew more serious as he pondered out towards the window.

"Though, it still hasn't changed the feelings of much of those we've conquered." He crinkled his face and looked out at the blossoming horizon. Phillipe leaned forward in his chair, elbows placed on his knees.

"Is that really how the people feel? Like they are the conquered and us the conquerors?" 

"Oh, not all of them, but a fair amount for certain." Francois kept his attention to the horizon. "But that can change, a novice House does not come with the dust and decay of an established one. It will be one name for all to unite under. I will be the last Desramaux to rule, something that I am still struggling to come to terms with, but it must be so."

He looked over to his son, who by now had slouched back into his armchair once more, spinning his empty cup between his hands, gaze off at the maps up on his wall. Francois looked back out towards the horizon, over the plains and hills now brightly lit by the morning sun, some farmers now clearly out tilling the fields. The two stayed in this moment for some time, neither one moving, simply staring at their respective worlds.

"And what will this new name be?" Phillipe broke the silence. Francois glanced over to him briefly before turning his head back out to the window. 

"Desravank." He got up from the chair to stand by the window, a hand placed on the wall to steady himself.

And just like that, Francois thought, generations of warfare, conquest, and plotting, turn to ash. 

'You are a cirlce my dear.' Jolijn sat on her bed, staring blankly into her wall mirror, her father's words echoing in her head. 'The end and the beginning.' The bed itself was roughly the size of a small carriage, large enough to sleep six comfortably. Supported by black steined oaken posts with golden fleural molding twisting up, a black canopy sat firmly ten feet above the bed, golden curtains with black roses flowed down each side. Her dress matched her bed in the reverse, with golden roses along a black fabric, forging a contrast as she sat beside the curtains tied up on one side. In her lap sat a crown, gold braided itself into a circle with four opals sitting encrusted into the center of golden roses, forming four corners. At the base of each rose was a sapphire with two amethysts on either side. It felt strange in her lap. It's always felt strange. She was not supposed to rule, according to her relatives; her brother Jorran would have been the better choice. Unfortunately he has been dead nine years now.

A shadow crept through the doorway followed by a soft knocking on the doorframe.

"Does it fit?" Jolijn turned to face the tall wirey man who now stood in her doorway. A long white beard fell down to his naval, a crown of rose gold vines sat firmly on a head that has long been bereft of hair. 

"Not quite, it is a little small, but it is all right."

"Nonesense," the gentleman said, bowing his head slightly to propel himself forward into the room. He stopped before her and took her crown to inspect.

"We shall have the smiths adjust it once more." He turned the crown around several times, stopping to inspect each curve. It had to be perfect, at least that's what he believed. Jolijn found herself caring less about the crown, the dress, the courses to be served, the dances that will be done, which castle will host, and anything else that pertained to the wedding day. The only thing that seemed to have any weight was the actual day itselff; not even her or her part in it mattered.

"Perhaps I won't wear it, father. Phillipe might - "

"You must wear it." Her father glared into her eyes, his knuckles white as he gripped the crown. "Generations have worn it, and you shall too." His voice holding a firm tone that is almost always reserved for discipline, one Jolijn was not used to hearing. That was another thing her cousins felt strongly about - her father was always too soft with her. 'Jorran would have never gotten away with that,' she recalls her great aunt Hekket's nasally voice after Jolijn had mistakenly bumped into a stand sending a vase shattering to the floor seven years ago. As if it were something to get away with. Children run, children play, and children make mistakes, and sometimes that mistake involves playing scale tag with your cousins and bumping into stands. It didn't matter if she did topple the vase, though, she was sure her great aunt would have scolded her for simply having fun in the first place if she got the chance.

Her father handed the crown back to her, pulled up the chair from her desk and sat in front of her. He rubbed two fingers at the bridge of his nose and held up his head with his right hand. King Jurrien Biljvank II, in all of his usual glory this morning, stared at his daughter, his face squished from years of scowling. 

"This was not an easy decision to come to, you know." his voice rasped with exasperation. How many times were they going to have this conversation?

"But, it was a decision that had to be made nonethe less." He forced his back to arch upward, bringing his body to an upright position.

"I know, I know father. And I am just as accepting now as I was the first day you told me." Jolijn held her crown gently in her lap, her left hand placed over her right. The first day, the second day, the third day, the fourth day, and all of the other days as a matter of fact. She thought, bringing a small grin to her lips. If her father reminded her one more time about the wedding, the arrangement, the agreement, the deal, she was going to have an anerism. All of these things were acceptable. She'd always known she would be wed off to some prince or duke one day, that was not the issue. Phillipe was nice enough, so she'd heard, though they've never actually met before. Two years her senior, he was described to her as tall, tan skinned, with emerald eyes and hair as black as the Shifting Hour. Well educated, with some of the best tutors in Eruc, it's said he speaks four languages, can map out the blueprints for a castle, and is well versed in the time before the Resurgence. He will make a remarkable king one day, and she will be his queen. Is that it? Is that all she is to be?

Jolijn fidgeted with the crown as these thoughts raced through her mind. 'Stop that.' What? She stopped for a moment, directing her attention to the alien voice within her head. It had sounded like her father. 

Damnit girl, stop playing with it, you're going to wear down the metal. King Jurrien eyed his daughters fledgling fingers as they pawed at the golden crown. She stopped for a moment, looking at him with a brief quizzical look, she's been acting strange lately.

"Then what is the matter?" His voice wheezing through the uncomfortable silence.

"What is the matter with what?" Jolijn spat out, her eyes avoiding her father's.

"The wedding, the engagement! By the gods, Jolijn, you have been obstinant throughout this entire process!" His eyes bugged out wide as he slammed his right hand on his leg.

"I have been very forthwith with my feelings towards this matter. I accept the terms, as is my duty to House Biljvank and the Kingdom at large." So is her answer to all things pertaining to the wedding. Since the day he first told her, she'd responded with defiant acceptance. First it was the gown; far to tight in the bust, so it had to be let out. The bust was fixed but now the hips were awkwardly shaped. The hips were tailored but then shoulders were too poofy. The shoulders were adjusted but then the veil was too long. Then the tailor quit. The dress was settled. Next was the ring. It was too large, then it was too small, then the gem was too gaudy, then it wasn't bright enough. Time wasted and wasted again, with every issue and adjustment, more and more time was wasted. Now it was her crown. The Royal Smiths had already adjusted it five times! And what was this comment about Phillipe and her not even wearing it? She will not sow doubt.

"Put it on." Jurrien said in a low monotone voice.

"Put what on?" Jolijn feigned confusion.

"Your crown, put on your crown. If the smiths are to fix it once more, I must be able to tell them where the problem lies. Put it on." A brief pause between the two as they lock eyes. With a knod and a point of his hand, Jolijn slowly lifted the crown and placed it on her head. The four gem encrusted roses refracted the light from all corners of the room, creating a rainbow display deep within each crystal. The golden vines wrapped gently around her scalp, pressing just down to her temples. She looked right, and then left, the crown did not move. She looked up and then down, still it remained. 

"There is nothing wrong with your crown. You shall wear it." Jolijn's cheeks grew flush as she stared down to her feet.

"Yes, it appears it lacks imperfections." She seemed intent on averting her father's gaze, perhaps worried about some wrath that hasn't brewed in him for almost a decade now. He let the muslces in his face relax, his saphire eyes deepened.

"Jolijn, your people will follow you wherever you lead them." His voice bereft of any malice. "The people of Biljvank follow the rose crown, and they always will." The tenderness in his voice felt strange at first, as if his vocal chords had to warm up from the otherwise disgruntled tone.

"They will not be my people any longer, not after the wedding." Her eyes began to well up.

"What are you talking about? You will always be a Biljvank, you will always rule these lands."

"What of Koen, or Rikkert?" her voice trembling. Jurrien rose from the chair and tromped across the room.

"To the hells with them! They are not heir to the throne, no matter what my aunt tells them. Is that what this is about? The words of your cousins doubt weighs you down?" His voice had found its way back to a gruff intonation. Jolijn stared out at the curtains on her bed, running a hand along the golden silk. 

"I know my birthrites. What I do not know, are my children's."

Jurrien took a step back, his eyes widening slightly as the sudden horrid thought hit him for the first time. How had this never occured to him? A dynasty, a new dynasty would rule the empire as a whole, but what if the old dynasties don't like it? They are going to have to.

"My child, you are no longer the little rose bud you once were. You are a bright shining flower that grows above the others in the bush, with thorns that will cut any would be thief. You shall wear the crown of your people, you shall be Queen of the Biljvank alongside your King of the Desramaux, and your heirs will rule them all together. It is on you to see that it is so."

"And what of my cousins?" Her voice standing firmer than seen before, the tears that were stored in her eyes having finally descended down her cheeks with no reinforcements in sight.

"The Biljvank name must live on, but it must follow its rulers, first. They may plot, they may disavow, and they may even fight, but you are the First among Biljvanks. But more importantly, you are my daughter. You are a bulwark of force, you just haven't had to use it yet." A smile came to her face as she rose from her bed and embraced her father with all of her might.

"I certainly hope I won't have to." She said as she pressed her head into his chest.

"You may hope, I encourage you to hope. But, you must also expect."