'Click, clack, click, clack.'
The sound of boots striking stone echoed through the castle hallway. They belonged to a nervous, sniffling man who was hurrying down the wide corridor that led to the throne room. He had no time to waste. The message he carried was of the utmost importance. The fading daylight urged him forward, as did the tremor in his step, born from fear.
Despite his anxiety and growing impatience, there were strict protocols that had to be followed when entering the throne room. No one was allowed to enter without first being formally announced. Once admitted, one had to walk slowly, head lowered. To look at the king without permission was to invite certain death. Before speaking, one also had to place their right hand over their heart and bow by fully prostrating themselves before the steps of the throne.
The nervous, sniffling man did his best to honor every step of the protocol. Even with the urgency of the message in his hand, the rules could not be ignored. He knelt in silence, forehead pressed to the floor, and waited until the king gave permission to rise. Only then did he stand, holding the sealed missive tightly in his grasp.
"My liege, my king, I have news of the utmost importance!"
The king lounged on his throne, his expression one of bored disinterest. At the words of his minister, he did not move. There could be only one matter that would cause the man before him to tremble so visibly. The king raised a hand and motioned for the minister to approach. Words were unnecessary.
"At your bidding, my liege."
The minister advanced quickly, dropped to his knees, and presented the message with great care. He kept his head bowed low, taking special care not to meet the king's gaze. The king snatched the missive from his hands in a sweeping motion. With his duty fulfilled, the minister retreated, observing every step of the ritual as he exited the chamber.
This involved walking backward, never turning one's back to the king. To do so was considered an offense to the king's personage and would be punished by death. The minister kept his eyes lowered in a partial bow, his right hand over his heart, and walked as carefully as he could in reverse, descending the steps from the throne and exiting the chamber. Only once the doors closed behind him did he allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief. He was finally free to go.
King Aetherius Crassus Di La'gun, still wearing an expression of utter boredom, opened the missive and read the words written inside.
"For too long have our people toiled under the rule of an illegitimate king. The Great and Wise King Arnalf Rodolfo Ere Di Jaspel, my ancestor, ruled over the lands of Varne, which your Kingdom of La'gun now claims as their own. Unless you return our rightful demesne by the morn of the 1st of Celestia, the Kingdom of Jaspel will be forced to deliver a formal declaration of war, etc. etc."
King Aetherius saw no reason to finish reading the farce of a letter, signed by the current king of Jaspel. He had been expecting this. In fact, he was more surprised it had taken this long for the king of Jaspel to send it. He felt no concern. The two kingdoms had a long history of conflict. Typically, they exchanged a few skirmishes before one side sued for peace and the matter ended. It was a routine affair that no longer excited him.
"Minister Shar!" the king bellowed, his voice echoing across the throne room.
A gangly minister approached, adhering strictly to the required protocol. Unlike the last man, Shar showed no signs of fear. He was calm and composed, once responsible for many military matters within the kingdom. Under the current monarch, however, most of those duties had been stripped from him.
Shar was not a warrior. He was a strategist, known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. His strategies had kept La'gun safe through past conflicts. But despite his record, he remained a commoner, and neither the king nor the nobility held much respect for him. Were it not for the late king's personal praise, and Shar's vital contributions during the previous war, he would have been removed long ago. As things stood, he was little more than an errand boy, and a convenient scapegoat.
"My liege," Minister Shar answered promptly, bowing in accordance with protocol.
The king offered no explanation. He tossed the missive toward him and waved dismissively. Shar retrieved it gracefully from the floor and left the throne room, betraying no emotion or thought.
The minister's unreadable expression always unsettled the king. Where others trembled in his presence, Shar remained impassive. It bothered Aetherius, but the man had yet to give him cause to be dismissed, or executed. The king considered himself merciful for allowing such a lowborn to serve in his court, as long as the man remained useful.
Shar's position brought him no gratitude. He had served his homeland faithfully, as his father had before him. His family had never owned land, nor were they ever part of the nobility. But his father's service to the previous king had earned him a ministerial post and the means to educate his son. From an early age, Shar had been taught to read, write, and study military tactics so he could one day serve the kingdom as his father had.
He remembered standing beside his father in this very castle, back when the late king still ruled. His father, armored and grim, had knelt with pride but never fear. The old king had listened to him then—not because of noble blood, but because of merit.
Shar had been no older than twelve, clutching a bundle of scrolls and watching his father speak with the confidence of a man who had earned his place. "A king must value wisdom over flattery," his father once told him. "Otherwise, he rules a kingdom of ashes."
The current king had never once asked Shar for counsel. Not truly. Not in the way his father had been sought after. And yet, Shar still returned to these halls. For his father's sake.
His low birth drew constant scorn from the nobility, and those same nobles filled the king's ears with rumors and slander. None of it was true, of course.
Yet strangely, Shar felt no bitterness. He did not serve for thanks or status. He served to honor his father, a man who had once saved the previous king's life and had loved his son dearly. His loyalty was not to the current monarch, whom he privately regarded as a fool more concerned with court etiquette than the responsibilities of rulership. Aetherius surrounded himself with sycophants and fools, sitting on his throne while the people suffered from the threats of war.
In truth, Shar longed to serve a king worthy of the title.
He already knew the contents of the missive. It had been a long time coming. The deadline given by Jaspel was the 1st of Celestia. Today was the 1st of Planar. That left exactly one month. The letter was no more than a ploy. Jaspel's king likely intended to use the time to prepare his forces for rapid mobilization. Did he truly think La'gun's army would sit idle and wait?
Shar made his way quickly to the barracks within the castle, hoping to advise the army's commander. Though La'gun's castle was modest in size, it was built solidly and would not fall easily to an invading force.
The barracks weren't especially large, but adequate for the standing army of La'gun, which numbered only a few thousand professional soldiers. If necessary, several thousand more could be levied from the surrounding countryside. In times of war, the vassals and their armies could also be summoned swelling their numbers. However, the vast majority were peasants and every soldier conscripted was one less hand to work the fields.
When Shar arrived at the commander's quarters, he was greeted with a sneer. Commander Deren Freis Arburn, a noble appointed by the king, was surrounded by fellow noble officers, mostly second or third sons. They did not respect Shar, but they had to acknowledge him due to his official position. As Shar approached, he caught the end of a conversation between two of the younger officers.
"I hear House Merik's already preparing to claim the southern villages once the fighting starts," one whispered.
"Let them," the other replied, adjusting his polished gauntlet. "Once Jaspel folds, we'll all get our cut. Maybe even a barony, if the king's in a generous mood."
They quieted when Shar drew near, but the smirks remained. These men weren't preparing for war. They were preparing for spoils. Shar didn't care about their disdain, only that they listened. Unfortunately, getting them to listen was the real challenge.
"Commander, we have finally received the missive from the Kingdom of Jaspel. We are to go to battle on the 1st of Celestia."
The commander slammed his fist onto the table in front of him. "It's about damn time!" He seemed pleased, as did the officers around him, who congratulated him as though he had accomplished something grand.
"As I'm sure you already realize, this is a ploy by Jaspel's king. We need to mobilize and reinforce the border immediately. I recommend—"
He was cut off by another loud slam of the commander's fist on the table.
"I do not need your advice to defeat Jaspel. They're nothing but a bunch of sniveling cowards. We'll summon the full strength of our forces and crush them on the battlefield. There's no need to waste time preparing a defense. We'll meet them here, along the Fields of Varne, and destroy them."
Shar sighed quietly at the commander's shortsightedness. While such a strategy might win the battle, victory alone was not the goal. It was about how many of their people would live to return home. Every death meant one less soldier, one less worker in the fields, one more grieving family. These men couldn't see beyond the glory of war.
"Oh, and Shar," the commander added smugly, "this time we'll levy all available men for the front. No need for our professional soldiers to die in this fight."
He looked pleased with himself, clearly proud of the idea.
"Commander, I do not believe that is a good idea."
"Silence. Even if the king tolerates your continued presence, and even if you've done a service or two for the kingdom, don't get ahead of yourself. I am the commander of this army."
Shar could tell there was no point in saying more. Reason would find no foothold here. His only remaining thought was how to mitigate the damage and protect as many lives as possible. He turned to leave, unwilling to waste another breath on the matter, but was halted just before he reached the door.
"Do you understand what I mean, Shar? Every able-bodied man. That includes those damnable Demihumans living in the forest. It's about time they served their country. They've lived peacefully under the protection of the kingdom, and yet those scum have done nothing for the nation."
The other officers chimed in with eager support.
"That's right. 'Bout time they paid their dues."
"We should send those rats to the front lines."
"Let those Demihumans take a few spears before our men do."
They continued on like this, laughing and trading barbed remarks, failing to notice the flicker of anger that passed across Shar's face. Fools. They were going to destroy the kingdom with their ignorance. Shar wanted to speak out, to argue, to warn them of the consequences, but he knew it would be pointless.
There was no chance the Foxkin of the forest would agree to conscription. Forcing the issue would mean bloodshed. The Foxkin wielded powerful magic, and while the Kingdom held the advantage in numbers, any conflict would come at a high cost. Many would die on both sides. And for what?
The forest was their home. They would defend it with everything they had. No army marched into such terrain without paying dearly for each step.
Shar felt an urgent need to act. If he could reach them first, perhaps he could reason with the Foxkin, convince them to cooperate, if only to prevent an avoidable tragedy.
He left the barracks with a heavy heart, fully aware that the kingdom he had devoted his life to protecting was now walking straight toward disaster.