The sun crept up slowly across the horizon while they all gathered by the hill side. The open space was not a place well visited by many. Truth be told, few even knew of its existence. Despite being the seat of power for the Stygian royal family, Akkad was also known to be situated within a mountainous region. Mountains dominated most of the northern landscape of Iliad, and Akkad served to be the basin of the entrance further north. It was not uncommon to find such hillsides scattered throughout the land. Even from where they stood, much of the high walls of the city could be seen.

  The late summer months ushered in a time of great beauty and delight in the north especially. For winter had already made itself known upon the hills. The gilded white snow shone brightly like individual diamonds. Such beauty was not the only thing that would come with true winter. It was a time for joy and rebirth; the months brought with it the beginning of the seasons and much great fortunes. And yet for the first time in a long time, there was no fortune to come. Not because Iliad had been embroiled in civil war, or once again lost another skirmish with her neighboring realms, or that declines in food storage and coin were growing. Not even the death of the king was what caused the unease that seeped through all their hearts. What hung in the air was the repugnant odor of uncertainty. A realm for several millennia always thought of as steadfast and true in its beliefs. The future looked clouded, unclear where they would go, now without their monarch. Noble and commoner alike gathered to pay their respects. Human and Stygian too. Thousands upon thousands gathered from all over. With heavy silence they all waited, each one lost in thought.

  They all stood on the precipice of change, one they could not account for. The Iliad of old that was ruled by Stygians in earnest, had long since faded into obscurity. Even King Barranagan himself relinquished rule to the members of his council and appointed his youngest son Daimion as Lord Regent. A misguided decision on accounting for his son's education on the history of Aurum and her realms. Damion was meant to lay the foundation for a more shared unity with the other realms once within their rule. Unbeknownst to the late king, Daimion shared many of the same beliefs as the Stygian Lords further north, that a secular lifestyle was paramount over any kind of relationship with allies, thus Iliad's doors were closed for half a decade. As his father's body was laid upon the altar, a part of Daimion was relieved he would no longer have to answer questions about the realm from him. He was free from the shackles of responsibility and free to pursue the throne in his own right.

  "Father, I'm tired," Loukas tugged on his robe.

  "I know little one, it will only be a moment longer," Daimion said reassuringly.

  Cirella moved closer to him.

  "How much longer will we be forced to stand here? Must we all wait for him?" she whispered.

  "Tradition di-" Daimion began.

  "Tradition dictates the eldest present son should light the funeral pyres. That is you," his wife cutting him off. Her impatience far worse than their children's.

  "You know of the ways of the Storm Islands?" Daimion asked expressing admiration.

  "I too have studied husband," Cirella responded.

  She was right. They had been standing here for some time now, waiting for Antares and there was no word of his arrival. This is very much like him, Daimion thought. Having everyone wait on his whim and acquiesce to his desires and every action. His return had unnerved the second son and Daimion was filled with nothing but simmering rage. So soon after his return Antares' very presence commanded those around to follow. He had wanted the funeral to be held closer to the ancient Stygian city of Uruk. Hidden deep within the mountains, it stood as the epicenter of Stygian society. Daimion believed it would've been a show of good will to the elders. But Antares insisted on following the last wishes of their father much to everyone's shock. For the king of the Stygians to want a funeral akin to those of the Storm Islanders was seen as madness. Daimion rolled his eyes at the thought of those speaking ill tidings of his father. He too would have joined them, were it not painfully obvious the great love King Barranagan had for his first wife, Myra Stormborne. Halls within castle Xerxes were decorated with her portraits. Even in death, she still was the jewel of the north, much to the young prince's disdain.

  He looked around to see who was gathered in attendance, many of the-would-be allies of house Xerxes could only manage to send emissaries. No kings from Ichika, Avalon or Laconia were present. Not even the Chieftains of the Storm Islanders themselves, who his father so readily welcomed with his marriage, could make an appearance. The further proof Daimion needed to show that Iliad was all alone. Something his brother did not understand, could never truly understand. Even if Antares was a Lord of War, his title meant nothing to him, for it was Daimion who believed he could lead his people to their rightful place.

  Daimion gazed upon the human nobles and common folk in attendance. The sight of them an unwelcomed addition to the day. To be forced to share such a personal event with them. He had already grown displeased with their continued demands and desires of the throne over the years. A deep crevice appeared as he furrowed his brow instinctively at the very sight of them. The longer he stood here, the more his true feelings about the realm became clearer. Yet he still pushed the feelings down. Now was not the time for that, he had to remain focused. Although he did not turn his head, he could feel his wife glaring at him, urging him to bring this funeral to an end. But he dare not move. It was not for tradition that stopped Daimion from taking action, for he did not care much for tradition these days, especially those of a foreign realm. No, what stopped him from taking action was the physical manifestation of Stygian tradition he was so uninterested in. The three hooded figures that stood in front of the funeral pyre, the darkness that clung to their body bled into the white snow at their feet.

  For a people like the Stygians, tradition had replaced the need for religion. There was no need for gods, when one's own elders lived far longer. The appearance of the Stygian elders was often seen as the nexus point of great change and upheaval. So when they appeared at the funeral for whom many believed to be the greatest the Stygians had to offer, very little was said or spoken. In fact, their very presence was hardly acknowledged. All those present instinctively chose to ignore the sight of them. To the Stygians, they were of divine aspirators. Their connection to their ancestors absolute. They were the physical embodiment of the Will of all Stygians. To have three of the thirteen be present was monumental. One would have sufficed to witness the funeral. Three was a show of power. A power Daimion so desperately craved.

  The young prince had tried repeatedly over the years to gain their favor to no avail. Any and all attempts to contact them ended in failure. They had no desire to speak with the boy, for the ancestors had no plans for him. Despite that, he continued to forge his own plans as though they sanctioned his actions, much to the encouragement of Cirella. The object of power that stood before him could give him what he wanted. It was fortuitous that his father's death brought such ancient and reclusive beings down from the mountains. Once the funeral was over, he would use the opportunity to speak with them. Plead his case why he is the rightful one.

  One of the elders turned to face Daimion. He stared for a moment too long. His entire body tensed under the gaze of darkness. Such overwhelming pressure, and yet only he could feel it. The concentrated focus of a being far too old to remember. It made a point to make Daimion painfully aware of the sizable ocean in power between them. Daimion was no fool. Despite his quest for power, he knew there were beings far more dangerous than him. He lowered his gaze even further, looking at his shoes. He made himself small, so small that he thought he would shrink. His foolish desire to look upon their form put his family in danger. And none of them were even aware. Daimion was no warrior but even he could feel the gaze of death upon his ebony skin; looking and prodding for any sign of defiance. It suddenly turned its head towards the crowd.

  Before Cirella could ask her husband why one of the elders looked their way, the temperature dropped drastically. Collectively, everyone present reacted to the sudden change. Even Daimion and his siblings, Guinevere and Anastasia were not immune to this, despite the cold not affecting Stygians. A biting chill ran its way through his body, forcing him to jerk his head in the direction of such overwhelming sadness. Within the crowd there was some commotion taking place. Daimion and Cirella looked at each other with baited breath, unsure of who was approaching with such a powerful presence. A few moments passed and the disruption made its way forward, the crowd parting ways for him to pass. From there emerged a man. Many had lowered their heads deeply in subservience, others got on their hands and knees and began praying. The reverence in which they reacted to his presence was astonishing. He continued his march through the crowd. Dressed in the royal attire of mourning. The black outfit was dominated with accents of silver, and purple. His violet diamonds hung from his ears. Hair, although still uneven, carried with it the sight of a million stars. He was dressed no different from any royalty. If anything those there would say he looked ordinary, but his attire was not the focus. It was what he was carrying.

  As he got closer Daimion could begin to make out what he held in his arms, logs. They appeared to be logs from a tree. A confused expression came across his face, which soon turned to irritation that was mirrored on his wife's. They had been standing out here for this long so his brother could collect logs, Daimion thought. He looked to his sisters for some acknowledgement of the game he was playing. Guinevere had nothing but concern on her face, something Daimion quickly blamed himself for, for thinking she would adorn any other look. Whereas Anastasia had a look of malice on her face upon meeting eyes with Daimion. He offered her a small nod and she returned it in kind. He knew if there was one person he could count on it was her. She saw their brother for what he truly was. Next to Anastasia was their mother, she looked grief stricken at the loss of her king. An exasperated Daimion looked away, he knew his mother would be of no assistance. Her emotions clouded her judgment. He turned back towards the man.

  Antares had finally made it up to the hill. What awaited him was a somber sight. To his right were the collection of different noble houses that had made the journey. They all gave him a solemn look, some bowing their heads. He noted that those that bowed and those that did not. To his surprise he counted Rodrick Rokbane as one of those who bowed in his presence. No doubt this act of respect had a request behind it. The young prince was not fond of Rodrick's desire to play such abhorrent games at court. Unlike his brothers Kenneth and Titus Rokbane who were renowned for their prowess on the battlefield. Rodrick was the proverbial black sheep of house Rokbane and Antares was acutely aware of that.

  To his left stood what remained of his family and other Stygians of house Xerxes. He saw the faces of cousins he had not seen in ages, some much older than when they last spoke. A sense of shame washed over him, for them to meet again under such circumstances. The guilt and cause of his exile weighed heavy on his shoulders. Their expression grim, as though they too had lost their father. The unity death brought was a small comfort to see their faces. It was not lost on him that it seemed suffering was the only time different branches of the royal family came together. Casspien gave him a nod of approval and he returned one in kind.

  Antares' heart was heavy. The logs that once weighed nothing felt like mountains in his grasp but he believed nothing could compare to what his lady mother was feeling. Lady Alena had to have endured much, seeing the man she loved whittle away like that in his last years. Antares had wished he was there for her during that time, perhaps things would have been easier. But he knew it would not have changed anything. He looked at Guinevere and she offered him a soft smile and he weakly returned one. The last years shared between his father and himself were spent worlds apart but the pain of losing him tore at his insides. The journey here took everything within him to make. But he would not run away, not from what he had to do. As he walked towards the pyre, the elders cut his path off. Their appearance here did not surprise him but the number of them did, although he did not let them know. The elders seldom involved themselves with the matters of Iliad, their focus more on Aurum in its entirety. The royal family could go centuries without ever seeing one of them. But for Antares it had been some twenty years since the prince had last laid eyes upon those who ruled from Uruk. Their last meeting to confirm the death of his mother. Once more again they appeared before him after a great tragedy.

  "He returns.." said the elder in the middle.

  The words of the old tongue wormed its way into his head. It had been a long time since he last heard the ancient tongue of the Stygians. The words reverberated carrying with them authority and power. Such words were rarely spoken this far south, for over the millennia the Stygians of Iliad elected to adopt the common tongue of the humans of Aurum. A kind of peace offering the Stygians believed would show their desire for cooperation with humans who wanted to call Aurum home. But just as many had been willing to adopt a much simpler language, there were many Stygians, within Iliad, and much further north who would seek the erasure of their language in an attempt of destruction. For the elders to have spoken the old tongue here, Antares knew it was done only to further show those present that some ninety thousand years later, the elders had still refused to accept the presence of humans in their sacred home. They would not speak the language of the interlopers. They would never accept them.

  Antares was not as passionate about the old tongue as many Stygians. To him their culture was not so fragile as to hang on words What it meant to be a Stygian could not be spoken, it was much more than that, it had to be experienced.

  "You are in the south. Speak in the common tongue or do not speak at all," stated Antares.

  The air crackled and a wave of pressure was sent out throughout the area. People moved back in fear.

  "Insolent brat, you dare speak with such a lack of reverence?" demanded the elder on the left.

  Everyone could feel the atmosphere begin to change.

  "You have not changed much I see. Good, that is good," the elder on the right said laughing. He carried a soft voice when he spoke in the common tongue.

  "Elder," responded Antares, lowering his head in respect.

  "You delay. There is much to discuss," the elder in the middle spoke.

  "After," Antares insisted.

  "This is not our way. This is an insult," scowled the elder on the left.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Antares looked at the elder to his left that still spoke in the old tongue. He gave him a look of great disdain and despite not being able to see his face, he knew he would not speak again in that language. Not willing to continue the conversation any longer; he had delayed much already and the sun had almost risen completely, he walked past them without uttering another word on his way to the pyre.

  There was still much he wished to talk with his father about, many things he would have liked an answer on. Chief among them was renaming him heir. But such were things that he would not get. It was not that Antares did not want it. After Hyperion's departure he was prepared to assume the throne. For ten years alongside his trials to become a Lord of War, he studied the ways of a monarch. But what happened five years ago, the cause of his exile was far too great to ignore. And still his father did not care, with the last of his strength he gave him back the crown. Such an honor Antares felt he was no longer fit to carry.

  He could feel all the eyes on him as he made his way around the pyre setting down the logs. Only those who called the Storm Islands home, understood what he was doing. He took it upon himself to complete a promise his father and mother made to each other. Deep within the frozen forest, there lay a tree marked with the magic of his mother. It was a tree only he and one other could sense. It was part of the funeral process of those from the Storm Islands. The same funeral method was used for his mother. A tree imbued with her magic was used during her pyre, and here this was the last of that tree, used for his father. He had only seen the funeral once and it stuck with him since. He knew that is how his father wished to have passed on to another life. There was only one woman who managed to change his father so much that he rejected tradition. He was envious of their love. Even after her death, King Barranagan did not speak of her much, if at all. He could see it in his eyes that he still loved her deeply. To Antares, this was perhaps the last way to honor his father, to show to himself that he did love him and that their relationship meant something to him. But perhaps this was more a form of redemption for the prince, who wished to beg for forgiveness yet could not muster the words.

  As Antares finished placing the logs around the pyre, he looked at his father once more. He touched his face and it felt cold to the touch. It was said his father had been a handsome man once. His face and by extension his body was covered in scars, but to Antares that beauty remained. The regal calmness of him permeated throughout his body. Even in death, he was still divine. But that divinity came with a heavy price. He had lived a life of suffering, but for the first time in a long time, in Antares' eyes his father looked at peace. Tears began to roll down his face. Memories flooded his mind of simpler times. He wished his father could finally find peace in the land beyond this one. The prince stepped back from the pyre, readying himself. Antares then opened his left palm and with a flick of his right wrist, a frozen dagger materialized in his right hand. He cut into his palm slowly, deep enough to draw blood. When he was done, he dissolved the frozen blade and squeezed his left hand tight. He reacquainted himself with pain, the sensation washing over his whole body. As the first drops of blood began to fall upon the snow, Antares spoke in the words of the storm.

  "Forgive me Father," the words rippled with thunder.

  A familiar metallic taste coated his mouth. Not since he lost Faye had the language of his mother left his lips. The first words spoken were of an ancient Storm Island death rite. The tale meant to guide those to the lands beyond. In Barranagans last years, he wished to follow the same rites that his wife had gone through herself, in hopes of finding her again. So Antares obliged his father's final request and spoke the words with such fervor and emotion. He uttered the words so clearly so all around could hear. So there would be no mistake. Reacting to the power in his words, each drop of blood began to sizzle upon landing on the snow at his feet. The now boiling blood moved toward the pyre. Steam had risen around where Barranagan lay. All those looked on, curious to see what would happen.

  Antares finished the incantation, and his blood caught fire. It snaked its way towards the pyre and as it reached it, enveloped it in flames. The flames began to crackle and burn slowly, eventually picking up with intensity. As they grew larger, Antares gazed into the fire. Within the flames, he could see someone, a person. Perhaps two. The incantation had worked, a soft smile came across his face. To him this was perhaps the greatest honor, to be the one to put his father to rest. Those that attended even as far back to the bottom of the hill could feel the heat from the flames. The magic that burned was powerful, a testament to the love of a boy for his father. The flames danced as the sun rose, as though it were emboldened by it. Antares stood closest and yet there was no fear of the fires burning him. He looked determined to watch as his father had once done before him for his mother's funeral. He recalled the look of determination his father and brother had, and so he too carried the same look in his eyes. He would watch the flames dance until they could dance no longer.

  "Goodbye father," he whispered.

  He raised his left hand to his face and he watched as the cut began to heal itself. He had wished the pain in his heart would heal in such a manner. He turned his attention back to the fire and watched as his hero, his father, his king, burned fiercely. Smoke from the fire rose high, dispersing into the welcoming blue sky. It was a beautiful scene Antares thought, something his father would have disliked very much. He stood there continuing to watch the fire. As time went on, people began to disperse. Many paid their respects, offered prayers for the king and went on their way back towards the main city. In time even the nobility left, all believing they had stayed long enough paying their respects. The only ones that remained were the Stygians. And moments later, one by one, they too left, but not Antares. He was determined to stay, to burn the images of his fathers pyre into his memory. He would never forget. He would never allow himself to forget this moment.

  In the end it was just he and Guinevere that remained. Daimion had taken his family inside and Anastasia had helped lady Alena away from the pyre. Casspien took his leave as well, leaving Antares to his thoughts. Guinevere stood there quietly for a long time, not knowing whether to go to Antares or leave. She wished she knew what to say to him. She could feel his sadness as she was sure everyone else could. She admittedly did not have the best of relationships with her father, but she respected him, the man he was and what he stood for. She mourned his death just like everyone else and it did pain her to lose him. But her pain was nothing compared to what she could feel from Antares; the sadness he expressed with something she had never felt. Some part of her felt embarrassed for not having the same expression as her brother.

  She felt as though only he could truly honor him and for that she hated herself. She was the first daughter of the great King Barranagan Xerxes and yet she could not express herself as she wished. Her own memories of her father were difficult to understand. He asked many things of her, more so after Antares' exile. He sent her to fight many battles, forcing her to prove her strength, and she did. Her name was well known beyond Iliad, for her great victories in the face of defeat. And yet for her father it was never enough, he demanded more of her. She was ashamed to feel relief that he was gone, that is why she could not bring herself to go to Antares. Instead, she turned and walked back to the castle by herself.

  Some time had passed and the sun had fully risen now, and as the rays of sunshine bounced off her, her hair glowed a deep red. Had it not been for the event that just took place, one could be forgiven for mistaken her for a goddess coming down to the world. Such was the beauty of Iliad's Red Wolf.

  "Hello, Red Wolf."

  The mention of her famed moniker snapped her out of her deep thoughts. A frown came across Guinevere's face, the name was not one she was fond of. To her it was nothing but tales and stories of bards alike and those of superstitious soldiers. She was a knight, she had no need for such titles. When she looked for who would dare address her so casually, before her stood a Lord of War, Casspien Xerxes. She relaxed a bit upon seeing him. Still annoyed being referred to in such a way.

  "Must you address me with such a title?" she asked.

  Throughout Iliad and the greater part Aurum, titles were often given by those who presented themselves as being exceptional on the battlefield. To have a title was to be recognized as someone who was a worthy warrior. Every warrior longed for a title, more so one that reflected their strength and power. Titles held power, and with power came strength. The mere mention of one's title was enough to invoke fear among one's enemies before the battle could even begin. So when Guinevere Xerxes was awarded the title of Red Wolf by those she vanquished in battle, time and time again she despised it. For she had never wanted to be a warrior to begin with.

  Guinevere was blessed with the physique of one destined for battle. She was shaped like a woman and because she was Stygian she was blessed with beautiful features. But her most defining characteristic was that she stood at six feet and six inches tall. And she carried blazing red hair. Truly a giant of a woman, her presence on the battlefield served as a towering reminder of the danger she posed. Adorned in her golden armor and wielding her fabled hammer Heracles, she ended the lives of countless men in gruesome fashion. She did not have the same proficiency in ice manipulation as her siblings or other Stygians. Instead she channeled her powers into physical strength. And that served her immensely.

  Casspien chuckled, "I only jest cousin." He started, "You looked lost in thought."

  "It is not a day for jokes, I am in no mood Lord Casspien." Guinevere responded coolly.

  Her response was colder than she would have liked. There had been a lot on her mind. Prior to the funeral, war was still happening along the borders of Iliad. She had been forced into a stalemate by the Nephilim during her western excursions. The shame of being so utterly stopped carried her back home, where her reward was the death of her father. And now with the return of Antares, tensions only rose further. Many, including herself, were unsure if her campaign would continue. She could feel a great change coming and she was unsure of what to do.

  Casspien sighed and leaned against a tree. They stood there in silence for a moment.

  "If you are in no mood to jest," Casspien looked towards the city. "Then perhaps you may be in the mood to explain to me why your battles to the east with the Nephilim have ended in multiple failures."

  "We are in a stalemate. Hightower is not so easily captured." Guinevere corrected him.

  "Failure has as many forms as words to soften its shortcomings. Call it what you like," responded the Lord of War.

  Guinevere turned her full attention to the lord in front of her, she needed no reminder of her failures. "Tomorrow I will leave for the the battlefield-"

  "You will not," Casspien said matter of fact.

  The young general could not hide the annoyance on her face, her blazing twilight eyes slowly turned a crimson red. "You would stop me? My orders were given to me by the king himself."

  "The king is dead."

  The words cut through her so effortlessly. The anger that built itself within her had completely vanished. The reality of the situation took hold of her. The king was dead, her father was dead. Casspiens words had forced her to remember what she so desperately wanted to forget. King Barranagan himself had tasked her with the challenge and she foolishly accepted, unaware of what would follow. And now her father was no longer here. She failed him even in his last moments. The once proud general slumped her shoulders, her eyes fighting to hold back tears.

  "Which means you are free." Casspien began, "Free from a pointless conflict. Free to focus on the real dangers."

  "What do you mean?" asked Guinevere.

  Casspien carried the same expressionless face he always had, "I am sure even the soldiers of the Red Wolf are not impervious to gossip. You better than anyone have had first hand accounts of the state of Iliad."

  Guinevere recalled hushed nights after a grueling day on the battlefield. She would walk through her encampment and she would hear soldiers talk of Iliad and of the plight of her people. They spoke of the closing of her borders, of the new Lord Regent who cared not for humans. So many tales she heard and yet she ignored it, for a general, a knight had no need for doubt. She was the blade of the king and wherever he pointed she would go. But even she was not impervious to the gossip of men. She would only ever admit it to herself and her closest allies, but she knew of all the dangers that faced Iliad from outside, none more pressing than what was happening in the king's court. Led by her twin brother, Daimion.

  "I do not deal in gossip, Lord Casspien. I will handle whatever threats appear in front of us." Guinevere responded, making her conviction known.

  Casspien turned to her with a raised eyebrow, "Us?" he began, "Forgive me but, one of the 'threats' as you put it, are those who the current Lord Regent, your twin brother, has aligned himself with."

  "What are you implying?" Guinevere gave him an animalistic look.

  "Well perhaps your loyalties might be–"

  The abruptness in which Casspien stopped himself from finishing his words was because he was unsure he would leave their encounter unscathed. The air became tremendously heavy, and a blistering sensation of heat exploded from Guinevere, burning the leaves off the trees nearby. He knew he pushed things a bit too far but Casspien could not help but indulge in one of his curious thoughts. Even still, he was more interested in Guinevere's reaction. And it was quite a reaction she gave him. The ground all around her had been burned black.

  Guinevere walked up to the young lord, her towering figure loomed over him," I am merciful, Casspien." The sun hidden behind her masking her face in darkness but for the two fire orbs that radiated from where her eyes would be. "So I will permit this insult only once. I swear to you, you will not live to make it a second time."

  Guinevere did not wait for a response, she continued on her way. Although she rigorously avoided the conversations her soldiers or those around her had in regards to the Lord Regent. Her and Daimion were twins, but that was all they had in common. He was more of a stranger to her than the very servants who tended to her on her visits to the castle. Long had they both chosen to walk different paths, but her love for him never waned. And as the years following the exile of Antares, she saw what power did to Daimion. And she detested it. She heard rumors of treasonous words spoken, of plans never thought possible. All these conversations carried many names, none more prominent than Daimion Xerxes. Her anger at Casspiens words was not for him. She needed to show herself her loyalty, her devotion to the one she believed in. For Casspien to question her allegiance, it disgraced her. She would further prove herself to her brother. Antares was the only man she ever pledged her sword to. She would not fail him.

  "Forgive my wayward remarks, first Crown Princess Guinevere Xerxes." Casspien responded as he bowed deeply.

  He did not raise his head until Guinevere had walked far enough out of sight. When she was, he slowly raised his head and let out a deep sigh. What he did was a huge gamble, one that admittedly could have cost him his life. He looked to the tree Guinevere placed a hand on and it had been completely destroyed. Tree bark and leaves were everywhere, with a mere touch she obliterated what remained of a tree that had stood for a thousand years. What she lacked in her ability to wield ice, she made up for in her overwhelming control of pure force. Something that, according to Casspien, made her one of the strongest Stygians alive. Even at a mere twenty years old, it would not be long before she could challenge Typhon in a contest of strength. He was thankful she responded how she did. She was well within her right to display her fighting prowess, something that may have ended horribly for all involved. Instead, cooler heads prevailed. Casspien knew himself to not be one for such brazen acts, but the embers of war sparked and flittered all around. With Antares' return, more now than ever he needed to know who would stand with them, and who did not. But he was thankful that he would be able to count the Red Wolf as an ally and not an enemy. He did not want Antares to spill the blood of his sister if it came to it.

  As he walked back to the castle, he took the long way in hopes of not running into Guinevere for some time. He did not wish to push his luck anymore than he had. But it was time he finally met with Antares as, with the arrival of the elders, it meant the line of succession was about to be made official and what that would mean would be a declaration of a new age. Even though he tried to hide it, Casspien could feel a creeping smile come across his face. It had been a long time since he and Antares would battle again on the same side.

  "Come to think of it," Casspien wondered out loud. "Where is that big buffoon anyways? He was not at the funeral."

  A cool breeze blew over Casspien, the day was only beginning and still much would occur that would have ramifications for centuries to come.