"What beasts of the wood now march against us? Minotaurs? Centaurs? Grey Giantkin? What winged creatures fly down, clutching our soldiers and tossing them to their deaths? Where did such terrible foes come from? And why do they fight for the Biljvanks?" King Karl Van Niljveld "the Last" upon seeing the collection of tribal warriors who both bore the insignia of House Biljvank and tore through his ranks at the Battle of Niljoorn, 18th of Pictosh, 189PR. King Karl would bend the knee to King Jaap-Jan Biljvank II just one month later.

"Picture the apple." the Priest Volka said in their normal, calming, light toned voice. Volka, of course, was not the priests given name, but rather the name they were given when they took to the cloth. More than likely it was a female name, though Jolijn only assumed that from the priest's  higher pitched voice and lack of a protrusion from their neck. Once someone, no matter their heritage or background, goes through the Trials of the Gods and swears their oath before their chosen deity, they assume an androgynous, uniform appearance. They shave all of the hair from their heads, excepting that from their eyebrows and eyelashes; wear large, loose fitting robes of a color and pattern reflective of their deity; and they abandon their given name and are given a singular name, one they acquire through deep meditation and prayer. It is said that they do this to break priests away from any and all earthly binds, including gender and biology. Jolijn has heard that this was not a universal practice, however, that within the Kingdoms of the Greater and Lesser Athians at the southwestern corner of Eruc only allowing men to becomes priests, and not too far east of them, in the Tribal Confederacy of the Cuugashi, those horsebound peoples have a matriarchal tradition when it comes to who is the holy leader in the tribe. Still, it is to be believed that it is the majority practice of the peoples of Eruc. As for all of Yarucasna, who is to say? With such pressing matters so close to home, the far off nations on Ya'Qi to the east or on Memusnahkan to the south are often of little interest to the nobles of the Biljvanks, they might have entirely different traditions, perhaps even entirely different gods.

For the past hour and a half, Volka and Jolijn have been working diligently as their carriage meanders its way west on the Northern King's Road. Having been traveling for two weeks already, the princess had begun to find herself gaining strength in her abilities, albeit slight. Whether the distance between people, the lack of interactions, or the studying has helped her calm her ziende, or perhaps a combination of all three, the princess was in a happier state. She found herself able to choose when she would read people's thoughts, rather than be inundated with them without consent as before. Their first three weeks of training, one of which was spent on the King's Road, was entirely focused on pushing out the unwanted thoughts of others, harnessing her ziende and focusing it where and when she wanted to; using it to block as well as let in. The last three days, however, Jolijn found herself growing bored and asked to try something new. Reluctantly, Volka obliged.

"Are you picturing it?" the priest asked.

"Yes." Jolijn captured the image of the apple being held out in front of her by the priest. It's red skin reflected the suns rays off with its waxy coat. The stem was rather long, having been clipped instead of plucked from the tree, there was a small leaf at the end of it. Volka's finger tips wrapped around the bottom of the apple, barely holding it up.

"Now move it." Far easier said than done. Jolijn saw the apple, she saw everything in front of her within her mind. She imagined her hand reaching out and grabbing the apple - and pulling it straight into the air! Jolijn opened her eyes wide with excitement. Nothing. She frowned. The apple remained firmly in the priest's hand.

"How are you picturing it?" Volka inquired.

"Exactly as it is in front of me. I do not understand what I am doing wrong."

"Describe it to me."

"Well. It is the apple, it is red, it shines, I see it just as it is now. But, when I imagine myself grabbing it and moving it, nothing." The princess falls back into her seat, her arms crossed in frustration. This was supposed to be a fun break from their normal studies, but having gone at it all day now, it was nothing more than frustrating. Volka scratched their chin with their non-apple hand.

"What else are you picturing?"

"What do you mean?"

"You say it is exactly as it is in front of you, yes?"

"Yes..." the princess said exasperated.

"Do you see my hand?"

"Yes, of course I see your hand. That is exactly how it is in front of me!" Jolijn's tone grew more aggravated than she anticipated, she felt slightly embarrassed for the outburst but said nothing.

"Well, then, princess. Why don't you try it again, and this time, do not picture my hand."

"Do not picture your hand?"

"Correct. Picture the apple floating freely in the air."

"Alright..." the princess gave a small eye roll as she sat herself upright once more. Closing her eyes, she once again pictured the apple before her. Red. A red apple. Fingers holding the - no, no fingers this time. 'Picture the apple floating freely in the air.' How am I supposed to do that? Apples do not float freely! Jolijn crinkled her nose as she tried furiously to imagine the snapshot she had taken of what was in front of her and tried to remove Volka's fingers from grasping the bottom of the apple. Nothing. Jolijn let out a sigh of frustration and let her shoulders drop.

"I cannot."

"Princess Jolijn. Focus. Remove my hand." Volka said, each word slowly, letting them flow out of her and into the princess' ears as one would to stoke a fire.

"Fine." Jolijn erected herself yet again. Remove their hand. But there was no hand, only fingers. Four of them being visible, their thumb was behind the apple. Maybe. Or was it her pinky? The image now shifted within her head, the priest's fingers having rotated to now expose their thumb and hide their pinky. That's it. No, it was both their pinky and their thumb. Suddenly the image in her head caused Volka's thumb to now slowly vanish. Next was their index finger, then middle, and finally their ring finger. The apple now sat there, floating on nothing. Jolijn grinned to herself as the excitement shivered its way down her body. She imagined her hand reaching out, she could now feel the apple. It felt real, almost as if she were actually holding it. Her fingers tapped at the fruit, getting a good feel for its outer layer, searching for the best place to grip. With her fingers wrapped around the top of the apple, she lifted it straight up into the air, not far, maybe a few inches so that it was inline with Volka's face.

"Open your eyes Jolijn, but do not let go of that image, whatever it is you have."Jolijn, resisting her eagerness, slowly opened one eye at a time, though once her right eye caught a glimpse the left swiftly followed. Their the apple was, being suspended in the air just in front the priest's face. The princess let out a gasp of enthusiasm.

"I did it! I did it!"

"Excellent, excellent. Now, while looking at it, try and pull it closer to yourself so that you might take a bite."

"Are you sure?" Volka gave a smile, the first sign of emotion they had given these four weeks of training. Jolijn, with a new found determination, locked her eyes on the levitating fruit. Ever so slowly she began to hover it closer to her face, as fast a snail it floated across the air. Rambunctious butterflies fluttered about in her stomach. Bumps filled her skin from head to toes as the hairs on her body stood up. It was exhilarating, to go from just a month ago being debilitated by the onslaught of others to now this. She could not help herself from smiling wide. The carriage came to an abrupt stop. All focus was lost, the apple descended and hit the floor of the carriage hard. Jolijn frowned, she looked up, Volka was frowning also. Layrnwy, who had been sleeping beside Volka the entire time, awoke sharply, her left hand ready to draw her sword. Once she noticed what had caused the comotion, she relaxed and opened the door to lean out and ask the driver why they had stopped.

"We are in Niljden." she said as she ducked back inside and retook her seat. Niljden, it was the next largest city after Biljrend on the Northern King's Road, but it was also home to House Van Niljveld. They once ruled over their own kingdom, until King Jaap-Jan Biljvank II crushed the Van Niljveld forces at the Battle of Niljoorn, named after the town just ten miles east of Niljden on the King's Road near where the battle took place. Jaap-Jan was only able to defeat the Van Niljveld forces by gathering the support of the native tribes of the region; the Minotaurs of the Linten Tribes, the Grey Giantkin of the First and Second Kol - relatives to the Malako Clan in the mountains that settled on the Plains of Niljveld some three hundred years ago, and the Centaurs of the Hilleg Tribe. In exchange for their help, the tribes were granted autonomy over their traditional homeland, while providing military support when called upon in exchange for help from the Kingdom during times of disease or famine.

Despite having been conquered almost two centuries ago, tensions have remained high between House Van Niljveld and Biljvank ever since. Three times in the Kingdom's history did they revolt against the Biljvankian rule. Most recently, the house took advantage of the recent death of King Jaap-Jan Biljvank III and the massive loss of military strength as a result of the Second Sun War, just fourty-four years ago in 302PR. With the aid of the Desramaux Dynasty, however, they were able to suppress the revolt within just three years. Her father had always harped on her about the importance of visiting your vassals from time to time. It was the best way to know directly how their section of the realm was fairing, while also reminding those who needed reminding who was King, or Queen in her case. Jolijn had been so focused on her studies these first two weeks of the journey, she had completely lost track of where they even were, as well as where they had planned to stop.

Stopping in Niljden added another whole day to the journey, as they only arrived just before midday and most likely would not leave until midday tomorrow. However, King Jurrien wanted to dine with Lars II, the current Duke and head of House Van Niljveld. 'Lars is a good fellow, and it is important he supports not just my rule, but your impending one. Despite their, difficulties, over the years, they are still our strongest vassal. Also, he always provides the best emerald wine.' The king's words reverberated through her mind, a conversation from just four days ago she had almost forgotten about. Jolijn looked outside her carriage door and out into the bustling city streets. She sighed deeply and paused before exiting the carriage. Studying will have to wait, then.

Duke Lars Van Niljveld II was a tall, blubbery man nearing the end of his seventh decade. At sixty-seven, he was one of the oldest living nobles within the Kingdom of Biljvank, though still a decade behind that of the Duchess Zelderloo. Lars has enjoyed his time as Duke of Niljden, happily paying his annual taxes to the crown while collecting, and spending, his own. Yes, Duke Lars had grown to be somewhat of a polar opposite to his father, Duke Hans Van Niljveld III, who, just forty years ago, was put to death for rising up against the Biljvank reign. Hekket recalled the first time she met Hans; he was tall, like his son, but physically powerful. The late Duke had a voice that would boom throughout his halls, demanding the attention of all to listen. Even in his final hour, Hekket recalled how masterfully curled his mustache was - one half circle on both sides, with the tip pointed at the nose. She grinned softly as she thought of how handsome his severed head still looked. Hans' son, however, had been anything but handsome. His body had grown very accustomed to being sedentary, a large stomach pouring out over tight fighting pants that covered legs almost as small as the Duchess'. Unlike his father, Lars did not keep a mustache, he kept everything else though. His reasoning was, that facial hair kept a man looking dignified, but that he did not like how much of his food and drink it took. Dignified. Hekket forced out a puff of air from her nostrils. This man is anything but, dignified. And yet, there she was, seeking his allegiance.

The two nobles sat opposite each other in the Van Niljveld manor's parlor. A small fire was alight in the hearth, its crackling flames keeping the aging figures from freezing to death. Though, with Lars' extra padding, he was most likely very comfortable, reasoned Hekket. The Duke was enjoying a cofferette, its hints of walnut engulfed the room as the two sipped their amethyst brandy. The room was covered with tapestries depicting different valiant knights, each one clad in full steel armor, astride a large steed, swinging swords into heaps of enemies. These, of course, detailed the Van Niljveld rise to power into a kingship, so many years ago. Having now been a vassal for over one-hundred-fifty years, Hekket found it humorous and sad how much this house clung to its once glorious past. Not to mention the colors that were used as trim on not just the tapestries, but all of the furniture as well. Blue and green, the colors of House Van Niljveld; a ghastly color scheme, why a noble house chose one such as this was well beyond her sensibility. She had been there only a few minutes now, and already she was eagerly awaiting her release. However, it then dawned on her that she will be forced to return to such a place later this evening as the King insisted she join in on their dinner. She rolled her eyes back and then let them find their way back to the plump man now pouring himself a third brandy.

"Would you care for some more, my lady?" the Duke outstretched the nearly empty bottle, a vain attempt at hospitality. Does he mean to serve me himself? No wonder his house fell.

"No thank you, my lord. I am still enjoying my first glass." Hekket raised her half-full glass and took a dainty sip. "Now, if you do not mind, I would like to get to why I am here." The Duke sighed, finished his cofferette, finished his glass, and poured another.

"Very well, I am all ears, Grand Duchess Zelderloo." Lars began rolling another cofferette.

"I hardly think it necessary to use vague language with a man such as you, with a family that has been punished such as yours has." Lars perked his head up, halting his rolling.

"I do prefer one being direct. Makes things simpler." he bowed his head again and returned to his preferred activity.

"Of course. Of all nobility, you certainly have the most cause to be interested in what it is I have to say, and, in turn, have to ask of you." Lars once again lifted his head to look at the Duchess expectantly, before returning to his work.

"Your family has suffered greatly, and could be substantially rewarded should everything go according to plan." Lars leaned back in his chair, placed his cofferette in his mouth and lit it, releasing a large cloud of smoke from his mouth.

"My lady, I would ask that you get to the point." Fine, dullard.

"I will put it plainly for you then. I do not intend on allowing this wedding to go through."

"What wedding?" Hekket felt the veins on the side of her head bulge as the Duke uttered such a question. Up until now, maintaining loyalty has been relatively simple and vague. Houses Rodizijls  was easy enough to convince. Vague promises of land, power, and wealth, all in exchange for their support against the wedding. A strongly worded letter is the expectation, with the understanding that the letter was more than likely just a metaphor, and the hope that everyone understands and is on the same page. Gaging loyalties was something Hekket always prided herself on, but, with Hein's dismissal of her, it made more sense to keep all of her cards closer, giving very little hints to her partner; she could no longer assume the person across the table from her was on the same side as her. However, it would seem with Lars at least, she perhaps should not even assume that person knows how to play in the first place. One false step, and the floor will fall out next. Hekket took a sip from her brandy and took in a deep breath before responding.

"The wedding between the Princess Jolijn and Prince Phillipe." Lars only responded with the continuation of his blank stare.

"The wedding that will unite not just our kingdoms, but the ruling Houses as well, forging an altogether new one." Blank stare.

"Ah, yes. That one. What of it?"

"I, along with other interested parties, are planning on ensuring it does not happen." A slight pause before Lars responded.

"Very good. We'd all lose quite a lot of power, with an influx of an entire other kingdom's nobility and now two thrones." Hekket felt herself gasp slightly with a bit of shock. Perhaps he is not as dull as he would appear.

"Can I assume I have yours and House Van Niljveld's support, then?"

"That all depends on what you plan on doing, duchess." Lars smirked with cofferette in mouth, blowing smoke out of his nostrils.

"All you need to know, is that there is a plan in place. A plan that will end the ceremony, and a contingency plan should the first plan fall through."

"Are you saying you expect the plan to fall through?"

"We both know I am not." Lars gave a questioning look to the Duchess, he eyed her up and down as he leaned ever further back into his chair; the furniture screamed for help. The large man finished his cofferette and extinguished it in the ashtray on the table between them, all while maintaining eye contact with the Duchess. She felt herself struggling to maintain her focus, not just on his gaze, but on holding still as well. It was making her want to squirm, as if moving would force his eyes to release her. The Duchess felt a shiver move down her spine as the hairs on her body began to stand up. It had been a long time since someone had made her this anxious, this uncomfortable.

"So," the Duke finally moved his head away, his eyes now forcing the fire into an uncomfortable position. "You have in place a method which, you believe, will destroy this wedding, eliminate the merging of the kingdoms, and cripple the dynasties so much, that such an idea will never happen again. Am I correct so far?"

"Yes."

"Very good. This plan, however, you believe will also have no repercussions on those found out to have been involved with it."

"Only a fool would believe any action has no repercussions, no matter how grand or insignificant."

"And, I take you believe yourself not, a fool that is."

"To insinuate anything else would be a grave insult, Duke." Hekket squinted her eyes at Lars, hoping to pierce through is flabby exterior and clutch his heart in case he says something like that again so she might crush it.

"Of course. My sincerest apologies." The Duke finished his third glass and placed the empty container gently on the table.

"You mean to kill them." Hekket's eyes bulged out and then quickly found their way back to their proper positioning. "No need to respond, dear Duchess. I was simply confirming. I do hate it when people beat around the bush instead of just saying it."

"One can never be too careful, Lars." Hekket took a swig from her glass, finishing it.

"No. No, one can not. So, that is your plan. And I am to be at the ready should you suddenly find fresh yoke on your face?"

"I never liked eggs, my lord, and I don't intend to wear one any time soon."

"But one can never be too careful, Hekket." the Duke smiled at the spindly Duchess.

"No. One can not."

The streets of Niljden were busier than expected. The Market District was a bustle as the mid-day rush of all different classes of peoples came searching for their second meal of the day. Smiths, clad in their leather aprons, with black soot caked to their arms, hands, and faces strode passed the two Biljvank Princes, paying little mind to should they dirty the noblemen's clothes. Rikkert grabbed his brother and pulled him to the side as a gaggle of small, ragged children ran by, the group hot on the tail of another child who held up proudly a freshly cooked pheasant. No doubt, it had been swiped and would now be split to feed all six of them. Such a small creature would be a regular meal to Hein or Rikkert. Hein felt himself cough slightly as he steadied himself, using his sturdier brother for support.

"Are you alright?" Rikkert asked as Hein finally found his barings.

"Yes, yes. Let us find a place to sit." Hein released his brother's shoulder and wandered over to a bench that sat just on the outskirts of the market square. There, the two brothers could sit, enjoy the mid-day sun on such a clear day, and watch the chaos of city life from afar.  While his brother had been to Niljden dozens of times in his lifetime, Hein found himself soaking it all in for the very first time. His bedroom walls had been his world for so long, he had barely even seen much of Biljrend, despite having been there his whole life. Everyone was always so afraid that his illness could take him at a moments notice, they thought it best to keep him where they could always find him. Gods forbid he be found dead, in the middle of a brothel, mucus stains up and down his clothing; perhaps a woman of the establishment as well. Probably not. Hein had never had much luck after his diagnosis. Even before then, he did not have much experience with sex and love, being just fifteen when he came down with the Grip. Still, his mother had insisted he find a wife and, what had she said? Ah, yes, 'procreate.' How wonderful, for his own mother to treat him like a prized race horse with a broken leg, perhaps they could get a good child from him before he finally perished. Koen was his son's name. He rarely saw him.

It was Hein's twenty-seventh birthday, he recalled the strangeness of it all. His father knocking at his bedroom door. 'Hein, how are you feeling today? I was hoping, it being your birthday and all, you might be in higher spirits.' Prince Aart's discomfort always rang true in the way he used to speak to Hein. He knew his father knew the disease was not contagious, and very treatable, but Aart was always noticeably discomforted by his ill son's presence. Hein was in slightly higher spirits, not because it was his birthday, but because Rikkert had promised to take him out hunting later that day; a side effect of it being his birthday. The fresh air, the feel of the wind on his thin face, getting to picture himself in his brother's shoes as the bow was drawn. What happened next, however, diminished Hein's excitement. Prince Aart would then introduce his son to the young Katrien Mathijs, the eighteen year old daughter of Duke Martin Mathijs. She was young, beautiful, and healthy - his father could not stop emphasizing that detail. After his father introduced her, he left the room, but not before whispering something to Katrien and then smiling at his son. What followed, was a very awkward fifteen minutes of conversing as the two tried to get to know each other. 'I am to have your child.' Hein remembered Katrien saying, such a shocking statement, not even bothering to mention that they were also to be wed later that evening. No. They were to get right to the point of it all. Prince Thijn had already made it clear he had no intensions of having children, and King Jurrien had said he would never remarry after his wife's death. With so few Biljvank's alive, Prince Aart grew paranoid at the fall of the house, the lack of male heirs to carry the bloodline on. It was for the best he died before all of this; before Prince Jurran's death, before the merger of the houses, and before the eventual coronation of Queen Jolijn.

Katrien Mathijs and Prince Hein Biljvank were married on the night of the 33rd of Dekvut, 320 PR. Their son, Koen, would be born a month prematurely on the 3rdof Geshan, 321 PR. Hein only first met him eight years ago on his eighteenth birthday. Since then, they had tried to build a relationship, though it was difficult with Hein's strength so far gone, and his 'wife' fearful Koen might catch the Grip. It was because of her fear that Koen was kept from him for so long. Hein had never forgiven his father for it all - the unceremonious wedding, treating his own son like livestock to breed and raise in pastures. What he held against his father the most, however, was taking away the hunt with Rikkert. 

Hein glanced over to his brother, who now was enjoying a freshly baked loaf of bread, using it for to fill his belly with warmth. Despite the sun being high in the sky, it was still winter, though the season was slowly coming to an end.

"Would you like some?" Rikkert extended the loaf to Hein, who gracious ripped off a piece and ate it. It was deliciously sweet, with buttery undertones that warmed his heart as the temperature warmed his mouth.

"Thank you. We should grab some more before we leave this city." Rikkert laughed as he handed another piece to his brother.

"If you think this is good, just wait until we reach Pelaresse. The wheat from the Pelari Fields are some of the finest grains on the continent. They create the fluffiest, flakiest of pastries, they call them croissants. These breaded delights are so buttery they feel as though they should slip right out of your mouth." The Prince rubbed his belly as thoughts of the pastry filled his head.

"We'll have to take a stroll there then, as well. A loaf each. Or, a basket of croissants, as it were. If it is as good as you say, I should like a whole bushel of my own." Hein laughed as he snatched the piece from Rikkert's outstretched hand and stuffed it into his mouth. A look of surprise overcame the ill prince as he noticed his brother's subdued response.

"Is something the matter, Rikkert? You seem to have lost interest in the croissant." Rikkert bowed his head and gave a sigh.

"I am just disappointed I will not be able to enjoy that delicacy with you." Hein sat up straight, maintaining the questioning look in his eyes.

"Why is that?" Rikkert looked out towards the market square. A group of children, no, not children. A group of halflings made their way towards one of the stalls that sold meats, two of them pulling a cart full of freshly butchered goods.

"I am not going to the wedding. Our kingdom needs me elsewhere."

"What? Where? Where could you possibly be needed?" Rikkert sat up straight now, half a loaf of bread still firmly in one hand, though neither brother still shared a desire for it.

"I am to stay here, in Niljden. From here, I will make my way north to the Grey Giantkin clans of First Kol and Second Kol. I will then traverse back towards Biljrend, stopping to speak with the Hilleg Centaur tribe. If there is time, I will then head south to seek out the Chiyou Bullmen, but I do not think that will be feasible." Hein found himself reeling from all that his brother said. The First and Second Kol were roaming clans in the Plains of Niljveld to the north. Other than their involvement with the conquest of the Van Niljveld, they have stayed far away from Biljvankian affairs'. And the Hilleg tribe, while instrumental in putting down the first Van Niljveld rebellion one-hundred years ago, they have kept to their own since then, even seeming to harbor some kind of resentment towards the Kingdom. Hein tried to picture the Chiyou Tribes, whom many started to believe no longer existed - they had not been seen since the Battle of Niljoorn in 189PR. Once victory was had, they disappeared back into the Forest of Boum.

"What - em. Why are you seeking them out?" Rikkert continued to stare out into the market square, seeming to use everything in his power not to make eye contact with his brother.

"Mother asked me to."

"Of course. And I take it her reasons are her own?" Rikkert laughed at this.

"Quite right. I do not even know why. I have been assigned the task of humble messenger." Rikkert tapped his lapel, the sound of paper rustled against clothe came forth.

"You just did not want to wear your suit." Hein jeered as he bit into the piece of bread from earlier.

"Now what makes you say that?"

"You are afraid it no longer fits. All those, what were they called again?"

"What? Oh, croissants?" Rikkert said, letting air out of his nose sharply as he spoke through a laugh.

"Yes, that. Been eating too many croissants. I can see the gut you are developing." Hein jabbed at his brother's side, feeling not an ounce of fat.

"Alright, you have caught me. I tried it on before we left; a button popped off and nearly shattered my mirror." The two laughed as Rikkert made the motion of his jacket bursting open and the sound of shattering glass.

"I thought so. I do wish I could have such problems. My clothing seems like it needs to be made smaller and smaller every time I put it on." Hein held out his sleeve, waving his arm around to show how loose it felt.

"If only we could switch places, then." Rikkert smiled as he took another piece from his bread and stuffed it into his mouth.

The two brother's looked out at the market again. The halflings had finished unloading their cart and were now making their way out of the square, though an angry woman who was yelling at an older man selling eggs was blocking their path and gave no sign of moving in the near future.

"Will you check in on Koen, while your back, then?" Hein hesitantly asked.

"Of course. I always love seeing my nephew. I will tell him you plan on bringing back as many croissants as you can carry. To help fill out your clothes." The two laughed as they continued their watching of the market square. Splitting the rest of the bread, they hoped it would hold them over until dinner. Both brother's were hoping for an extravagant meal; though anything would be better than the dried meats and stale bread they'd packed for the journey. They had run out of wine three days ago.

The dining room of the Van Niljveld Estate was far more lack luster than Jurrien had remembered it to be. Paintings of all of the Van Niljveld's, from Lars III to King Huig Van Niljveld I, adorned the walls to the room; gold trimmed frames with at least two decades of tarnish graced the outline of each portrait. The table itself was sturdy, long enough to seat twenty, and very clearly would be used without a table cloth at times. The King could feel the grooves of damaged wood beside his place setting - perhaps a knife that was used to cut a little too zealously, slipping and putting a gouge in the table. Though, why such a thing would not be filled in, he did not know. House Van Niljveld had money, though one might not assume so if they were setting foot in the halls of their estate for the first time. No, one would assume they were a once great noble family, now fallen to ruin. Well. Jurrien thought to himself, such an assumption would not be entirely untrue. But, to come to the conclusion that this noble family was cash poor, would be very untrue. Trade with the First and Second Kol has granted Niljden access to fine furs, bone carvings, and delicious types of meat that no human would attempt to hunt. Taxes on the merchants, of course, is the main way earnings from this trade makes its way into the pocket of the liege lord. And yet, they could not clean the wax from their candlesticks when the King visits. Jurrien had half a mind to leave before even sitting down when he saw that. Beautiful silver candlesticks, covered with an age's worth of melted wax. Could Lars not spare fresh candles for such a meal? Two reasons kept the King from leaving in a huff: he wanted to learn why the Van Niljveld's were putting on a front of poverty, and he was starving.

"You had a good harvest this passed Autumn, did you not?" the King said plainly, his right hand taking a firm grasp of his goblet of sapphire wine as he brought it to his lips to drink. Lars placed his knife and fork down gently beside his plate, grabbed his napkin from his lap to wipe his mouth and then returned it.

"It was decent. We averaged ten bushels per acre, with at least one bushel per acre being no good, ground it into feed." the Duke grabbed his glass of crystal wine, the clear liquid sloshing high in his silver goblet, nearly spilling from how full it had been poured.

Jurrien's eyes darted around the room for reactions to the statement. Seated at one head of the table, nearest to the entrance to the home, was the Duke, seated opposite him and with his back to the hearth, was the King. On the left side of the table to Jurrien sat immediately Jolijn, Hein, and then Lars' youngest son, Dirk-Jan who was much taller and sturdier than his father. Across from them, at Jurrien's right, was Hekket, Rikkert, and Lars' oldest son, Lars, who shared much more than just a name with his unappealing father. Behind Hekket, was a young male attendant, one of the newest, recently brought on and quickly snatched up by the Duchess. Jurrien thought very little of the illicit activities of his late uncle's wife, her affairs were her own. But, it was strange how quickly she grasped him in her claws. He was young, perhaps the waning years of his second decade, eighteen or nineteen. A slender frame, with short brown hair, green eyes, and an attempt at facial hair. To each their own. Niels was his name. That was it. No. Or was it Nijil? No, Niels. It was Niels. Hekket had kept him so much to herself, Jurrien had almost forgotten about him entirely.

Looking to his older cousin, Rikkert simply nodded along to Lars as he prattled on about the most recent harvest. Detailing eggs laid, chickens hatched, geese cooked, wood chopped, it was rather impressive how much detail the Duke knew about his people and the lands he watched over. It seemed he had almost every village's name and ealdorman committed to memory. It almost made him forget about the candlesticks; almost. The King's younger cousin seemed to be far more interested and listened intently to Lars' account. He would have made for an excellent advisor and liege lord had it not been for his disease. Damned grip robbed him of his life, whether he treated it or let it take him. Of course, Aart had not helped. Not helped at all. The King recalled how his uncle's response to the diagnosis was isolation, and a puppy. True, Hein did come to love that dog more than anything, and in some sense it did help lift his spirits. But, the Prince may as well have just abandoned his son in the woods with the pup. And then how used his own son like livestock. Jurrien never forgave his uncle for that; but, he could not find it in himself to exile his own kin. It was a blessing on the family when fever took him seventeen years ago.

Jolijn, of course, was the most engaged of all of the Duke's guests. A great Queen in the making, Jurrien found pride when he looked upon her in these types of situations. Always the dignitary, always attentive, and now, most likely, also always reading. She has begun to take pride in herself as well, as of late, wearing her gold rose crown more and more often, including tonight. Yes, many of her vassals and adversaries alike will try to underestimate her, the King was certain of that. It was a thought that often would keep him awake at night, staring blankly into the rafters of his chambers. After the scare, however, and with Priest Volka's help, Jurrien was confident Jolijn would make anyone who underestimated her live to regret such a decision.

The King now turned his attention to Hekket. She was not paying attention whatsoever. The aging matriarch idly drank her wine, tapping on it halfway through the dissertation for Niels to fill her cup. He was not very skilled. Bits of amethyst liquid hit the brim and trickled their way down to the blue and green tablecloth before them. Perhaps Hekket had told him to do so; her disdain for any family colors but her own was well known throughout the realm. She even had the audacity to wear a silver and white shawl over her black and yellow dress to Jurran's funeral. The gods took note, Jurrien was sure, for he was too distraught at the time to do so himself.

"And thus ends my report, your majesty. I am sure it was great to hear it read allowed again." The King placed his goblet down on the table and brought his gaze to meet Lars'.

"This time was much more informative. You should tell you scribes to have you recite the reports first before they send them out, this way they are more accurate. As I recall, you only reported eight bushels per acre." The Duke ground his teeth and produced a forced smile.

"Thank you for the suggestion, your highness. I will do so. How are you enjoying your meal?" Lars extended his hand to motion to the feast before them. Stuffed roast quail, freshly cooked boar bacon from the hunt this morning, sweet potatoes, fresh greens, baked carrots and tomatoes. For dessert, which the King was most excited for, the chef was preparing a strawberry pie. Jurrien found himself eating less food than he had initially planned, hoping to save as much room as possible for the sweet delight.

"Your hospitality and chef's abilities are always a pleasure, Duke Lars. Do tell, though, what of your candle maker?" The King grabbed three slices of bacon with some baked tomato slices onto his plate as Lars attempted to close his mouth.

"What ever does my King mean?" the words fumbling their way out, not unlike the caramel drizzle Jurrien hoped to find on the pie.

"They are old. They are worn and used. One can hardly see the craftsmanship of the smith who made their holders, and the wick finds itself gasping for breath in a chasm of wax." the bacon was deliciously crispy, the King giving a solid crunch to punctuate his sentence, taking his time to let the fat melt in his mouth.

"My deepest apologies, my king. I had forgotten your love of craftsmanship outweighed your appreciation for being frugal." Lars made eye contact with a nearby attendant and motioned with his brow to go for the candles and replace them. Jurrien lifted up the bacon slice.

"There is no need, now. I have grown accustomed to their aesthetic. Thank you, though." the attendant looked back to the Duke for instruction, he simply shrugged and motioned for them to return to their post.

"So, Rikkert." The King, now bringing his attention to his right side. "Your mother informs me you are parting from the wedding parade from here. I would like to know why."

Jurrien kept a sharp eye on Hekket to gauge her reaction. Nothing. Lars, however, seemed to also look to Hekket, not for her reaction, though, but for a signal. Rikkert fidgeted with his napkin as he wiped his mouth before responding.

"I - err. Apologies, my king, you have caught me in the midst of chewing." Rikkert chewed quickly, attempting to force the food down his throat so he might answer quickly.

"Do not choke, cousin. Take your time." Rikkert bowed his head to say 'thank you' as he slowed his mouth movements. About a minute of silence went by, the entire room watching as the Prince finished his mouthful; the quail was apparently chewier than anticipated. Finally, clearing his throat, he responded.

"My apologies, again, my King. I received word this morning that my son's wife is pregnant and due rather soon. Something they had kept from us all so as to not take our attention away from the momentous occasion of the Princess' wedding."

"Congratulations! Being a grandfather. I should like to be one one day myself. Good for you, and for, which son was it?" Lars leaned forward in his chair, almost burying himself into his food.

"Mart. And thank you, they had hoped we would return to the child's birth, but she has had a difficult pregnancy and entered labor a month early. I will be returning home to provide as much support as I can." Rikkert replied, the silence of everyone else drowning out the Duke's congratulations. Jurrien looked to his left to make eye contact with his daughter. 'He is lying. But, not about the pregnancy.' His daughter's words finding their way into his head, the king nodded imperceptibly and then looked to Hein. The Prince was not in the least bit excited for his brother. No doubt he knew the true purpose of his departure. Or, perhaps he simply did not want to be left alone with their mother. King Jurrien raised his goblet.

"Congratulations, dear cousin. I, too, look forward to the day I can hold my grandchildren. The heirs to an empire they will be." Awkward looks were exchanged throughout the room, along with soft chuckles.

"To House Biljvank, House Van Niljveld, and the Empire to come!" the King stood and raised his goblet high, the rest of the room repeating his chant back to him as they too raised their drinks. After a pause, everyone else waiting for the King's next move, Jurrien sipped his sapphire wine, the rest following suit.

"Does your son and daughter-in-law have a name picked out?" Lars inquired.

"I do not know. I do not even know if it is a boy or a girl."

"Well, your family has lots of strong names to choose from, from either side." the Duke making a motion to the Duchess Zelderloo, who simply smirked and drank from her cup. Yes, who could forget the great names like Vaars Zelderloo I, or Vaars Zelderloo V, or of course, Vaars Zelderloo VIII. The King sat down once more.

"My King," Jurrien turned to face Lars' oldest son, who had not spoken the entire time at dinner. Dirk-Jan had occasionally provided a word or two, but primarily kept to himself as well. Lars continued.

"I could not help but notice your brother is not traveling with the wedding parade, will he not be attending?"

"Much like my cousin, Prince Thijn has good reason to not be attending the wedding. He has been left in charge with governing while we are away. A task he was reluctant to take up, but knew I'd order him to do so if he did not take it upon himself willingly."

Lars simply nodded his head as he returned his attention to his food, perhaps feeling as though he had contributed enough for the night. Doltard. The sound of rushing footsteps suddenly came echoing from down the hall. Was it time for dessert already? A slice of pie will help take his mind off of his cousin's illusiveness and his subjects. He will not press it further here, but wait until they are at their next stop; he will corner Hein and get the truth out of him then. The King frowned as he saw, not the chef or a server, but a messenger come running into the dining room.

"My lords, my ladies." the woman said through gasps for air. "I have an urgent message for the King, it just arrived by falcon not a half hour ago." Jurrien motioned for the messenger to bring it to him. He grasped the letter from her and examined it quickly. It was fine parchment, fresh smelling ink, and it bore the wax seal of House Desramaux. He opened it slowly, taking his time to break the seal and unfold it. He read it without haste, taking in its meaning and brevity as many times as he could before glancing, almost imperceptibly, towards his frail aunt, then over to his ailing cousin, and finally to his sweet flower of a daughter.

"What is it, father?" Jolijn's voice like a soothing sip of fresh water to the dry throat the letter produced.

"King Francois Desramaux III, has died."