Echoes of Change
North Elandia, Swan Castle
Bengrieve awakened in the middle of the night and took a moment to understand where he was. It was a different bed and a different place, yet he recognized it at once. The chamber was far too opulent, even for someone of his stature. Several gemstones set along the walls cast a faint, feeble golden glow across the carpeted floor. The light was gentle on the eyes, low and soft enough that no one outside the window could see in. It was the kind of careful illumination meant for quiet hours, just enough for someone to walk safely if they rose from bed.
The air carried a mild fragrance and felt cool and fresh, likely maintained by another gemstone that circulated and purified the air better than any mage could.
“Faram, you there?” he asked, shifting in the bed and propping himself up on one arm.
“Yes, My Lord,” his young mage squire answered softly. A small glow flared from his gemstone of light, revealing his presence amid the darkness.
“What time is it?”
“Sometime after midnight. Would you like to drink, Master?” The squire readily rose from his seat.
Bengrieve took a slow breath. “Just water.”
The squire approached with a silver goblet in both hands. As he offered it, he whispered, “There are no night birds outside. I hope Master can return to sleep easily.”
Bengrieve drank quietly. What the squire truly meant was clear: no watchers, no spies. And if that was the case, then the Lady Heir, as she did not wish to be called a Duchess, truly held full control over the castle.
“How is security?” Bengrieve asked, returning the half-full goblet to the squire.
"Guards and Mage Knights outside."
Bengrieve gazed at the young man. "Do they notice you?"
"I believe they have," the squire answered, recalling the warm gaze and firm nod they had given him, a silent acknowledgment.
"Competent ones then." Bengrieve nodded and turned his gaze toward the thick window.
Despite being the husband, he was under no illusion that his safety was guaranteed. Inside the vast Swan Castle, a power struggle had surely begun after his marriage and his declaration to retake the Capital. Some factions likely leaned toward King Gottfried, believing that any other path would only lead to needless war. Those men who wished for peace at any cost would certainly prefer him dead.
"Make sure our men take the antidote each morning, even without symptoms, and check the signs on their silver. I want no surprises."
"Yes, Master. I will notify our staff."
Bengrieve drew a long breath and settled back against pillows stuffed with the softest swan feathers. The bed was massive, yet he lay alone.
Even newly married, for high nobility, it was common for husband and wife not to sleep together throughout the night.
Each kept separate chambers, but it was not a sign of marital trouble, merely a normal protocol.
The husband’s bedchamber was part of his personal guard structure. A wife had her ladies-in-waiting around her. Each required her own dressing rooms, attendants, and offices connected to her quarters. Mixing their living spaces constantly was impractical.
For those who lived at the top echelon of nobility, even their private chambers were semi-public, with attendants, guards, servants, scribes, messengers, and personal guests coming and going at all hours. True privacy barely existed.
Moreover, having grown up in different Houses and different castles, they were accustomed to different routines. When to wake, when to take breakfast, when to work, hold audiences, or rest. To avoid friction, tradition held it best not to force them to share a schedule. Thus, despite living under one roof, aside from public appearances such as court, luncheon, garden walks, and dinner, the pair visited each other only when needed.
Their night in the same bed was almost ceremonial, and afterward, they usually returned to their own rooms.
Despite the unfamiliar ceiling, Bengrieve felt drowsiness creeping back with ease.
But before he drifted off, he took a moment to savor his breathing, now deep and easy. His usual short, heavy, coughing breaths were gone. The ache in his abdomen that never left him, his weak appetite, and the lingering fatigue that had clung to him for years had all eased. Everything felt lighter, cleaner. And for all this, he was quietly grateful to Lansius, who had warned his Steward about the lead plumbing in Cascasonne that gave the water its strange sweetness.
He had always known the pipes were lead, but what he had never considered was that the metal might be poisonous over time. That warning sent him to several old books and a handful of alchemists, and from them he learned that some old records suspected that lead could sicken the body if taken in small amounts day after day. But lead was everywhere, for the metal was easy to work with and plentiful. Its mixture was used to make pewter jugs, goblets, pots, spoons, and other utensils, even cosmetics, medicinal salves, wine sweeteners, and children’s toys.
Lead was popular and seemed harmless, thus the warnings fell on deaf ears.
Perhaps for people who used it only a little, it would not be as harmful.
Meanwhile, Bengrieve had been drinking that water since childhood, and the effect might have built up within him.
Thinking of that, Bengrieve gave a short, amused snort. Who would have thought that his move to Elandia had also freed him from an unseen harm?
He turned onto his side on the enormous bed, thinking about the unsuspecting savior.
Lansius.
He thought of the unassuming man. Even he had to admit that where he stood now, and all he had gained, even his restored health, was partly because of that one man who had suddenly appeared at Toruna. A man with no background and nothing to show, caught in a web of fate around him.
Barely some skill in calculation, a single battle’s worth of experience, and strangely no ambition. All in all, the man had never seemed promising. Bengrieve had originally assumed he would die in Lowlandia, poisoned or cut down by the ruffians they had recruited for the war to bait the Lion of Lowlandia.
To him, Lansius had not even been considered an agent. Merely an expendable henchman. Thus, he was given a forged identity as a knight from the Eastern Kingdom, making him a convenient scapegoat and sending him to an early grave.
Yet how great an error of judgment that had been.
The man had won against the Lion of Lowlandia on the latter’s own ground, a feat impossible even for the finest of Bengrieve’s knights. From there, his tenacious rule began in faraway Korelia. Against all advice, he stayed, as if on a suicidal errand. All he had asked for was a little salt to borrow.
And how that salt had enabled him to survive a full year in Lowlandia and defeat the coalition of the western Lords of Lowlandia was something beyond natural, a victory stronger than any magic.
The Ancients had clearly shown their hands.
Even Audrey, the woman Bengrieve had chosen to lead the Monastery as a counterbalance to Saint Nay, had forsaken him and chosen Lansius instead.
The newly made Earl scoffed again and drew a long, deep breath.
The Ancients truly loved a cruel joke. Sending another elf after the previous one is dead.
There was no other explanation for how Lansius had achieved all he had. The man had brought peace to Lowlandia after centuries of strife. He survived mage assassins, laid waste to Midlandia, put the rebellious Monastery in check, and secured half of Midlandia, ending the civil war.
Even more surprising, his support for a free legion in Nicopola had shielded South Elandia’s southern flank. Bengrieve remembered how none of his staff could believe their ears when they heard that the Gray Skull Legion had secured East Nicopola, erasing any threat from marauding Nicopolan mercenaries and armed refugees for the foreseeable future.
Bengrieve recalled all this gleefully, a sharp, private amusement rising in his chest.
Lansius’ rise had allowed him to climb to the very top. Even after losing the Monastery and his grip on Midlandia, another path had opened.
Moreover, with Midlandia now held firmly by Lansius, an ally, Bengrieve was free to direct his full attention where it was needed.
Certainly, he was not ungrateful to the one who had given him so much.
“Faram,” he called softly.
“Yes, Master.”
“Have you sent the messengers to South Midlandia?”
“I have, Master.”
“Good,” Bengrieve said, letting silence settle over the chamber once more.
He had sent the Lord of Midlandia a gift he could not refuse.
***
The Great Plains of Lowlandia
The sun burned overhead in a vast, nearly empty sky with only faint traces of clouds. A group of five hundred men had been marching for nearly a month across the Great Plains from South Midlandia. Like any south-bound wayfarers, they made short stops at Ornietia and Ordu Khan to rest their weary bodies and limbs before pushing on along the northern route toward Korimor, Hill Fort, and finally the path that led to Three Hills. The long, forced march had taken its toll. Their steps grew heavy from fatigue and heat.
The Great Plains had gone dry since summer’s height. The soil was cracked and hard beneath their feet, with only thin strips of grass clinging to life. Each stride sent heat into their boots until the leather felt half-cooked.
Their wide canvas or wicker hats spared them from the worst of the heat. Without them, many would have collapsed under the merciless sun. They were also grateful for the spare shoes given to them before the march. Taken from unfortunate rebels, the footwear served them well, and without those spares, half the column would never have crossed the plains.
Each night, many of them sat down to mend their worn pairs, trying to keep at least one set in good shape, never knowing when the pair they were using would fail. The march was hard on their bodies and just as hard on their gear.
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But what truly kept them going were the nomads’ resting places. Set half a day’s march apart, the places called Market Posts offered water, shade, and food. Ever since the Lord Shogun had ordered their construction, and after they proved beneficial for wayfarers and nomads alike, more had spread across the plains. Now they covered almost all of the Great Plains, even the new northern route from Ordu Khan to Korimor and Hill Fort.
While a Market Post could not accommodate all five hundred at once, even a small refuge was better than the harsh, empty plains.
Each day, they marched until they reached the first Market Post, rested and ate there, then marched again until they reached the second.
The Market Posts had been built to serve slow-moving caravans and carts. Because of that, an unencumbered group like theirs, carrying no wagons or carriages, could easily pass one or even two in a single day.
When such a post was unavailable, as not all of the route was covered, especially the harshest stretches, the situation turned pitiful. With water so scarce, rationing was the norm. And while the noon was hot, the night was bitterly cold. Without the rugs provided by the nomads who guarded the posts and without the great bonfires they tended, the Great Plains showed its true desolation.
Sometimes, no matter where they looked, there was nothing. Not even a single tree for miles upon miles. Only the faraway mountains in the west, which never seemed to grow any closer, no matter how many weeks they traveled.
Still, despite the harrowing conditions, the painful blisters on their feet, the aching legs and shoulders, and the constant thirst, the men spoke of no mutiny.
For these five hundred, this was their last chance in life.
Before and behind them moved a smaller group of fewer than a hundred Lowlandians who marched alongside them as guides and escorts. These men walked tens of miles each day with startling ease. Their steps were steady and unhurried, almost casual, even while carrying full packs.
The Lowlandians’ endurance was nothing short of astonishing, and it left the rest of the troops with little room to complain. After all, they wore roughly the same gear and carried nearly the same burden.
Since leaving South Midlandia, the whole column had marched light. Not a single cart or carriage accompanied them, all to ensure speed. Each man bore only a canvas bag on his back, with a few horses and mules hauling the extra baggage.
"Meister," a young man called, his lips dry, his face red and sweaty, and his voice thick with fatigue.
The lieutenant of the five hundred men turned his head but kept the pace.
"It has been a while. Will the Lowlandians not stop to rest?" the young man asked.
"They should halt soon. Just keep going," the newly made lieutenant replied in an encouraging tone.
From their side, an athletic man with ringmail bulging on his canvas bag scoffed. “Surrender, I say. Let us join them, I say.” He, whom many considered their unofficial vice, mocked himself, prompting the dozen around him to chuckle or snort.
Instead of blaming him for their fate, many drew long, heavy breaths. They were in this together.
"These Lowlandians are inhuman. How can they march so steadily for hours on end?" a strong looking man who used his bardiche like a walking stick remarked, half awed and half in disbelief.
"No wonder we lost to them. All of Midlandia did, rebel or not. They march like mules," another added.
"Well disciplined mules," their vice quipped, earning laughter that drew the attention of the hundreds around them.
The Lowlandian groups in front and behind merely glanced. For them, laughter on the march was a good sign, nothing worth worrying about. Despite these five hundred being technically rebel captives who had volunteered to join the Shogunate's army, ever since they reached the Great Plains, they had not been treated like prisoners. If any tried to run, the nomads or the vast, empty plains would surely kill them.
Indeed, a small band of nomads had been escorting them, appearing at random hours every day or two. Other nomad groups, driven by curiosity, also passed by to trade a few words with their allies or exchange small supplies.
This march was, arguably, the best test of whether these men truly wished to serve the Shogunate or only hoped to escape punishment. And so far it had worked. None had escaped. Interestingly, none were injured, courtesy of the robust health checks they had undergone in Ornietia and Ordu Khan. Unfit men were sent elsewhere, not into the volunteer army.
"How about you, Meister?" the vice with the ringmail on his canvas bag asked. "Any regrets?"
The former leader exhaled and said with a dry smile, "You should call me a lieutenant by now."
"Well, lieutenant," the man corrected with a smile, "do you blame anyone, or me for this misfortune?"
"You have been asking that for days. I already gave you my answer," the lieutenant replied, weary but keeping a thin smile.
A few men around them snorted as they marched on, the orangish dust hanging low and gathering at their feet. Their shoes had all turned dark orange, and the same dust clung to every part of their clothing.
"Well, there is nothing else to do, and you still seem to be hiding your true answer. I can smell it," the man persisted.
"Why would I do that?" the lieutenant countered his vice with a hint of frustration.
"Perhaps to spare us the guilt," the man said with a smirk.
The lieutenant snorted and adjusted his strap. The helmet and cuirass given to him for his rank weighed on his shoulders, heavy even if not as burdensome as ringmail.
"Lieutenant," the young man who had once served as his aide called out. "I am also curious. Do you regret surrendering and joining the Blue and Bronze?"
Unable to hide it any longer, the lieutenant drew a sharp breath. "As I said, if we fled, there was a good chance many of us would be killed. They had riders on both sides of the path. We were surrounded on that hill. So surrender was the correct choice."
Many around him nodded.
"And secondly," he added, prompting the man with the ringmail to smirk, knowing the truth would finally come out.
"I just did not want to face the ducks." After admitting that, the lieutenant lowered his wicker hat to hide his eyes and walked faster.
The tens of men around him turned to each other and suppressed nervous grins. Yet none dared belittle the lieutenant. After all, they had all been part of the three thousand rebels who camped on the road to the Monastery, and they all remembered vividly the rainy night when, the heavy duck cavalry charged their position with devastating, even nightmarish results.
"Saint Nay warns us to fear the Black Demon, yet she never said the Demon has feathers," a tall, stout man said bitterly.
“And a massive beak,” someone shouted, clearly reliving the terror. “I saw one peck a man’s clothes until he was naked and swallow him whole.”
"Fuck with the Monastery. I will side with whoever tamed those blasted ducks," the vice declared, half joking and half serious.
"Like the hero tales of old," the young former aide commented.
"You are well educated. I am so dumb my mother never bothered to tell me stories."
Then someone yelped in pain. "Ouch! Blasted stone. Why so sharp?" he cursed, then lamented, "I have never walked this far in my life."
"Heck, I did not even know the world stretched this wide," the vice joked again, keeping the spirits high.
From the front, the lieutenant turned to them and raised his voice, "We were not the only ones surprised, you know."
The men looked at each other, doubt written plain on their faces.
"Know that they," he nudged toward the Lowlandians in front, "were also surprised by us. They thought most of us would die in the Great Plains, but we persisted. We proved stronger than they expected."
"Hear, hear!" the strong man with the bardiche responded loudly, and the men’s steps suddenly felt a little lighter, carried by a rising sense of pride.
"Lowlandian brutes. I will show them we are still better than they are," the vice shouted despite his thirst.
"Let us outmarch them," another suggested.
"You fucking little shit! Talk as if you do not have blisters all over your feet," came the quick reply from his friend.
Raucous laughter burst out among them, many of them entertained.
Seeing the moment, the lieutenant shouted, "Midlandians, strength and courage!"
A wave of encouraging murmurs rose from the column. Their lips cracked into dust-stained grins, spirits rising. Now their footsteps no longer felt as heavy or as weary as before.
Soon, a hill appeared on the horizon, much closer than the green, jagged mountains in the far distance.
Before sundown, they would find good roads and villages. And before they knew it, the walls of Three Hills finally came into view.
***
East Nicopola, Gray Skull Legion
In East Nicopola, this year's harvest was a heartfelt scene as the population saw, for the first time after years of famine, the land return to life again. The golden, ripened crops were carefully harvested. Their yield was small compared to their glorious past as a breadbasket province, but not insubstantial. Each grain was taken with deep gratitude, for it was the fruit of many hard labors. For land ravaged by wars, even a successfully harvested crop seemed like a miracle. And the people celebrated their success with a harvest festival.
In villages, towns, and cities, communal kitchens were busy boiling varieties of pasta to make up for the lack of grain that they kept for winter. As the night drew near, women carried steaming pots to long wooden benches, along with pottages of onion, lentil, and barley, sweetened fruits, and ale. Men lifted their mugs and shouted blessings into the warm evening air.
It was a harvest festival, but since most of what they ate these days was pasta, many calling it the Pasta Festival. Many praised the Lord Shogun for his generosity in sending them the pasta. The colors of blue and bronze were hung on every post and balcony as a sign of respect. Those who did not have a banner fashioned one themselves, stitching an orange chevron onto blue cloth cut in the shape of a shield, trying their best to imitate the famous standard.
Music drifted through the streets and across the village or town plazas, mixing with chatter, laughter, and the clatter of wooden spoons against clay bowls. The air smelled of bonfire, wheat, garlic, and freshly churned butter. Even the mules in the pens brayed noisily, as if cheering with the crowd.
Amid the rowdiness, a sudden hush swept through the festival grounds.
The old condottiere, Sir Servius, had arrived with tens of his guards.
Even limping on his bad leg, his presence alone cut through the noise. The musicians faltered, their fingers hovering over strings. A few officers straightened their backs, unsure whether they were about to be scolded for allowing a harvest festival when food was still scarce, and a war still raged in the mountains.
“Sir, we can explain,” said the ranking officer, stepping forward with sweat beading on his brow.
The old condottiere with the harsh, battle-worn face raised a single hand. “Don’t.”
His voice was cold enough to still the crowd.
Sir Servius let the quiet hang for a heartbeat before he finished, “Don’t stop the music.”
A murmur rippled through the festival, half disbelief, half laughter. Before anyone could react, several musicians stepped out from behind Sir Servius’ guards carrying gitterns and flutes. They spread across the grounds and struck up a lively, merry tune.
The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles, feet stomping in rhythm, children spinning and laughing as the music swelled.
Servius allowed himself the faintest smirk as the festival roared back to life. He walked through the celebration with a firm, uneven stride, taking a bowl of pasta with butter and grated cheese from a wide-eyed girl and giving her a brief nod that sent her scampering away in delight.
By the time he reached an open table, everyone was dancing. Colorful, makeshift banners of blue and bronze fluttered proudly in the night air.
The musicians played an impromptu tune, and a man with a great voice began to sing.
"Her name was Nina, a bold young stall-girl,
With ribbons tangled in her hair,
Spinning round the market square.
She twirled and laughed like sparks from fire,
While every lad she passed would stare,
And try to win her with a dare."
Even Sir Servius enjoyed the catchy melody. It stirred memories of a time before famine and war hollowed this province out. For a moment, he could almost see the crowded night markets, the lively festivals in the town plazas, and the merriment that once filled these lands.
As busy as he was as the administrator of this region, a responsibility close to a baron’s if not more, he had heard of the Pasta Festival spreading through every village and town under his care. Curiosity had driven him to visit a few himself. The people needed something to lift their spirits, and he had no wish to stop it. Not only did he permit the flying of blue and bronze flags, but he also encouraged it wherever he went.
Servius knew Lord Lansius would hate such attention, but there was no helping it. He needed to win the people's hearts and minds. With King Nico dead, there was no looming threat to unite the youngsters. Their admiration had to be guided, directed toward someone worthy, and there was only one man who fit.
If there was no common enemy to bind them, then better that they found a figure to look up to, even if it risked becoming something close to worship.
The old condottiere would rather his youths praise Lansius than rally behind another ambitious pretender to a crown.
...
South Midlandia
Lansius sneezed inside the moving carriage, and that drew worried looks from Audrey and from Arryn, who gently rocked the tired baby Gilly in her arms. The baby had been restless, likely a bit unwell after having his sleeping schedule upset by the travel. Because of that concern, they pushed on toward home today, sending Karl to inspect the last manor in their stead.
“Don’t tell me you’re sick again,” Audrey said softly, the worry plain in her eyes. Mother Arryn, seated across from them, also glanced over but said nothing, continuing to rock the sleepy baby as he nuzzled his face against her shoulder.
“No, it’s just a sneeze. I don’t feel anything wrong,” Lansius reassured them.
Audrey exchanged glances with Arryn, who suggested to him, “You should have warm spicy soup before sleep.”
“And some spiced wine,” Audrey added.
“That’ll be lovely,” Lansius agreed, then turned toward the glass window to look at the night sky outside.
With the sky turned completely dark, their convoy moved at a slow but respectable pace. Polished, reflective lanterns and long torches burned bright, giving everyone adequate visibility and allowing their well-trained horses to press on. The foremost carriage even had a gemstone of light mounted on a pole with a reflector dish, turning it into a simple floodlight that cast a clear beam across the dark road.
Still, without a clear skyline or any landmark, it was hard to predict when they would arrive.
He estimated it would still be another hour or two, and he solemnly prayed Gilly would not wake, for that would mean endless crying. Knowing this, the coachman and Francisca at his side had tried their best to avoid potholes or any sudden jolts along the way.
Thus, when Audrey furrowed her brows toward the window as if noticing something, Lansius grew curious.
“You see anything?” he asked.
“Yes, we’re near,” she said. “You should be able to see the lights from the city and the horse race arena after the corner ahead.”
Just as she said, as their carriage made the turn, Lansius could see numerous feeble lights on both sides. He instinctively knew the lights to the left belonged to the horse-race arena that was still being renovated, while the ones to the right marked the watchtowers and the city walls.
After more than a week of traveling, visiting their first steel industry at the heart of the valley, supervising the manors along the way, inspecting the commoners’ school in search of talents, and setting the new silver standards, Lansius, his family, and his riders finally returned home to Canardia.
Even while he was away, the world beyond his realm had already begun to move again. Men’s will and ambition would once more clashed against the long shadow of fate.
***
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