Taeg watches his men assemble camp from horseback, his hands crossed on the saddle horn. The Grand Master had chosen a ridge right outside the capitol city of Denand, a vantage point hidden by the great spruce trees of the Pfeists. His men had struggled through the terrain, heavy armor bearing them down, but the sun crept low on the horizon as they peaked the pass, and a guarded area had made itself available for their use.

  Anxiety swam through the king’s thoughts. If General Dacre was caught, they would torture him for information, perhaps sell him to the Taurans. If this battle did not go well, their army was trapped on the mountain. If he did not lead the way as a king should, his men would falter. He looks to General Nathis, his constant companion throughout the journey here.

  “General, shall we send a scout into the city?”

  The older man, looking more and more haggard by the day, slouches uncomfortably in his saddle. “At our vantage point, I would normally advise against it. But we are missing an officer, with tips indicating that he’s down there. I will send a scout to gather information on his possible whereabouts. My apologies, your Grace, I must excuse myself.” Nathis eases himself from his saddle, reaching into his pack and removing a wineskin. He takes a long drink, sighing, and ties his horse to a sapling before wandering into camp.

  Kelo speaks quietly from his left, perched like a wraith atop his donkey. “He looks like he is dying. More so than myself.” The king’s brother almost chuckles at his own misfortune.

  “He is sick. I am afraid we will not have him around for much longer. I’m sure Anarah is in turmoil.” He looks in her direction, spotting her and Lark setting up a makeshift cooking station, their hair damp with dew. His eyes linger.

  “Do you mean to marry her?” Kelo asks.

  The king rips his eyes away.

  “Anarah? Oh, no,” he shakes his head, heat creeping into his cheeks. “She is betrothed to General Dacre.”

  A short hum of acknowledgment comes from the corpse boy.

  Taeg lifts himself up and over the saddle, landing softly in the needles below. He shivers. “Come on,” he commands. “The king’s tent is always the first to go up. You may share my quarters.”

  “Oh, I… I don’t feel the cold, if that is what you are referring to.” Kelo smiles lightly, squinting his great black eyes.

  “Regardless,” Taeg snorts, “you are my brother, and it is time the rest knew.”

  Kelo, mid-swing from his saddle, catches his foot on the stirrup and tumbles to the ground, landing with a shush and a thud. “N- no,” he stutters. “Taeg, please. They will hang me, for sure.”

  “Not if it comes from my mouth,” he replies, nodding his head in the direction of the king’s tent. “Come.”

  The two make their way through the trees to a rare sunlit spot just on the ridge. The Grand Master rushes about, giving orders and tying foraging horses to the trees. The king’s tent is raised, situated among the evergreens. A torch waits just inside the tent’s opening, as well as a washing bowl and a platter of food. From behind him, the Grand Master shouts as he drags a docile, half-lidded gray gelding through the trees.

  “Damn him! If I’d known Dacre had it in him to desert, I would have slit his throat myself. These witless creatures befit his title.” He struggles to tie the animal to a spruce sapling, cursing the reins as they flail under his meaty hands and swatting at the tree’s sharp needles.

  “Grand Master, I’m sure your great services are needed elsewhere. Don’t fret with the horses,” Taeg encourages.

  The large man huffs, flinging away the reins of the gray gelding. “Indeed.” The Grand Master stalks off in the direction of a group of men talking by a freshly lit fire. His ensuing shouting is heard through the trees.

  Taeg winces.

  “We’ll be discovered for sure with a set of lungs like that around.” He smiles at his brother.

  Kelo looks frightened, his hands wringing.

  “Nevermind Argos,” Taeg says. “He’s a brute. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a mighty soldier and brilliant tactician, but his strength overcomes his mind at times.”

  Taeg enters his tent, leaving the curtains open for Kelo. His brother hovers timidly at the mouth of the tent, picking at his fingers. There is a padded cot waiting for the sovereign, blanketed with a black and crimson quilt made by his mother, a down pillow at the head. He seats himself on the cot, removing his boots and rubbing his sore feet. The padded bed is a welcome break from the creaking saddle. He motions to Kelo.

  “Sit, for heaven’s sake.”

  The decaying form moves to a small wooden bench in the corner, hastily built from the surrounding wood. Taeg pads to a table at the far end to grab the plate of herbed roasted quail and soft-boiled tubers. He pops a shred of white meat into his mouth, offering the plate to Kelo.

  The boy shakes his head.

  “You know,” Taeg mumbles, returning to the cot, “you were meant to be my predecessor.”

  He watches Kelo’s pale forehead wrinkle, but no reply comes.

  “You are my older brother, birthed soon after the king and queen wed.”

  Silence.

  “Would you like to reign?”

  He sees Kelo lick his dry, thin lips diffidently, looking at the floor. “No,” he whispers.

  Taeg chews a buttered tuber, gazing at the ceiling. He knows Kelo would never take the throne. Oddly enough, despite his lineage, his older brother mirrors a young Roen Kerrich, Taeg’s father. Their reluctance to rule was the very essence of a great king. Their mother, however, was meant for the throne. It was only until she lost herself that she fell behind.

  He peers across the room at the decaying body that is his half-brother. He wishes desperately at that moment that his mother could meet him, but her fading mind would never allow her to truly see Kelo as he was. Despite his patience, Taeg was truly horrified by his brother’s appearance.

  General Stoles appears in the doorway, knocking gently on the wooden tent poles to signal his arrival.

  “Your Grace?” he says. “We have sent a scout into the city to look for General Dacre. He is making his way out of the woods and through the main road to the capitol. We don’t want to arouse suspicion of our whereabouts. Hopefully he brings the general back with him.”

  “Hopefully. Nathis, please sit and stay. Is the camp set up?”

  “Yes. The Grand Master saw that it was accelerated.” He moves inside, wearing his chest plate armor and chain mail legs.

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  “There is food if you are hungry.”

  Nathis waves away the offer, shaking his head. “I’m not one for food much lately. It usually makes its way back up again anyway.” He pauses, rubbing his chin. “Your father would have been proud, you showing up to the front lines like this.”

  Taeg looks up, chewing away at the dripping skin of the roasted quail. “My father hated war, Nathis.”

  “He did indeed, and that is why he would have done spectacularly.”

  Teag is silent, thinking of his father. He swallows, then opens his mouth to reply. “My mother was the true king. She was strong, diligent, peaceful, assertive. And now…” he hesitates. “She’s not the same person that raised me. I do not have those qualities. It’s almost sickening that lineage alone got me into this mess. Truly, Kelo should be king.”

  Nathis chuckles. “I know you hold great respect for him, and excuse me if I step out of bounds,” he nods to Kelo, “but Kelo was not born to a royal family.”

  “But he was,” Taeg blurts, devouring another buttered root.

  Nathis looks puzzled for a moment, staring in his direction. “I beg forgiveness, Your Majesty, but there is no indication that this boy is fit to be king. Is this why you’ve taken to him so?” The grizzled man shifts position uncomfortably.

  Taeg swallows his shock, watching Kelo. His brother remains silent, staring at his hands. “Kelo is the bastard son of my mother, Nathis.”

  The general stops. He blinks for a few moments before turning his attention to the room. He looks across the tent to the table at the far end, spotting a crystal decanter full of burgundy liquid. “Is that wine?” he asks.

  “Yes. Have some.”

  The older man heaves himself up with some difficulty, walking to the vanity. Taeg watches as he grasps the decanter in a rough hand and pours it into a glass, the soft trickle of wine and the hustle outside the only sounds inside the tent. Setting the decanter down, Nathis lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip, staring at the wall. The three sit in silence as the general drinks.

  “Taeg Kerrich doesn’t lie. I know that,” Nathis says suddenly.

  Taeg holds back a laugh as Kelo jumps at the sudden voice.

  “Neither does your expression, General.”

  Nathis smiles at this, looking down at his drink. Raucous laughter explodes from outside, stealing his attention for a moment before he turns back to Taeg.

  “Does anyone know?”

  Taeg is swift in his reply. “No. Only you.”

  The older man’s eyes squint as he looks outside again. A sigh rips from his chest. “Why am I the keeper of secrets? They are so cumbersome. I’m afraid I may collapse under their weight.” His shoulders move up and down as he breathes, eyes still glued to the world outside. “I suppose it is my duty as Commander of the Guard. You learn things when you surround yourself with royalty. You’re not just a guard to a person, but to the castle’s secrets as well.”

  This time it is Taeg’s turn to wrinkle his forehead. He sets his plate down, now empty. “What do you mean, ‘secrets’?” he inquires, leaning back on the cot.

  “The Guard is already aware of most of this.” Nathis turns to face Taeg again. “I was given the task of choosing the Guard that would protect the most important people in Larynth. I did as I was told, with a few added stipulations.” He bobs his glass in Taeg’s direction. “Your assassin, Drair, was not the first. Of course, you know of this one by now. General Tygoh is the bastard son of Lord Dacre. The high lady that raised him was not his mother, but merely a ruse to cover the lord’s grievous mistake of lying with a Xelinite woman.”

  Taeg raises his eyebrows. He leans forward, interested.

  “Lark Viet is Lark Bennet, only heir to the Bennet lordship. She is to be wed to yourself, My King. Though judging by her reaction when I told her, that might not turn out.”

  “And Anarah?” Taeg asks.

  Nathis pauses, shrugging. “Anarah is my daughter, but only due to the blood on my own hands and the guilt that came with it.”

  Taeg nods. “I suppose I never aimed for purity in my associates.” He smiles. “And what of yourself, General Stoles?”

  The General stands stiffly in the opening of the tent, the sun shining off his armor. There is a weakness to his stance that Taeg has never seen before, and certainly never expected to see – the favoring of a knee, a stooping of the shoulders, a shaking in his hands.

  Nathis looks outside, watching the needles on the spruce trees shiver in the breeze.

  “I am a dying man. And that is all I will be for the rest of my days here.” He turns. “The kingdom should know about Kelo. But first, we need to make him more presentable. I’m sorry, boy,” he says, looking over his crooked nose at the corpse boy in the corner, “but that mug is horribly terrifying.”

  A gentle smile curls the thin, cracked lips of Taeg’s brother. “I know…” he whispers.

  “The apothecaries, maybe they know of a cure.”

  “We have some of the best physicians in Vaeba.” Taeg smiles, looking at his brother. He sees Kelo’s eyes dodge his own, quickly darting back to the floor. His hands writhe in his lap. “You don’t think so?” Taeg says.

  “I- I don’t,” Kelo peeps. “There is no cure.”

  Behind him, the canvas tent flaps in the mountain wind, covering up the silence. Smoke from the campfires drifts in among them and Nathis reaches to close the entrance flap behind him, plunging the three into dim light. Taeg lights a lamp near his cot and settles back down.

  “Did you try to find one in Tauris while you were there?”

  Kelo remains silent. Nathis moves to take a seat next to Taeg. After some time, the boy speaks again.

  “No. But there are more like me who did.”

  Taeg looks at the older man next to him.

  “More with the same condition?” Nathis asks.

  Kelo nods.

  “I am the result of an alchemic reaction. I’m sure Your Majesty is familiar with the ancient alchemists?” He looks up at his brother, dark eyes swimming. Taeg nods. “Alchemy is the use of one resource to create another. They learned quickly that something could not be created from nothing. Did you even wonder why the alchemists exist only in Tauris? It is the only place they could hide from persecution or enslavement should the other sovereigns find them out. Our people, too poor to clothe themselves properly, were just grateful for the business.”

  He pauses, taking a deep breath.

  “The Xelinites were an alchemic creation. A stretch for power. Their race was created from the flesh of others. From my flesh. But the alchemists didn’t know this until they ran into our kind. After years of gathering the living corpses, doing countless hours of research, they soon found that their mistake was larger than they could handle. It required a trade-off. To correct the imbalance of energy, to cover up their mistake, they needed to sacrifice their creation.”

  Taeg looks away as tears begin to form in his brother’s eyes. Kelo’s breathing comes in shuddering inhales and lengthened exhales, hands shaking in his lap. General Stoles lifts himself up again and pours another glass of wine, this time offering it to the boy in the corner. Kelo huffs out a laugh, smiling for a moment, taking the cup and sipping from it. He swallows, continuing.

  “They began inciting war against Xelinac by making showcases of the Lynac’s power. Eventually, news reached your continent, and Denand and Larynth came together to destroy the Xelinites, a genocide fed by fear. It wasn’t enough. Simply destroying them didn’t correct the imbalance. They needed to directly funnel the Lynac’s power back into the corpses.” He gestures to himself, the holes where his nose should be.

  “So they began collecting stragglers, but they wanted their involvement to remain a secret. If the other rulers found out about their mistake, they’d be wiped out. The alchemists traded any empathy they had left for the pursuit of survival. They preyed on desperation. They hired those who wished only for food to survive. Their order was to find any existing Xelinites and bring them to Tauris.

  “I was offered the opportunity to change my appearance, to get my life back. I refused. They used the Xelinites, sacrificing them to correct the corpses. I left soon after, paid a dock worker to smuggle me onto a ship, moved to the Pfeists. I didn’t want to be a part of that. My mother pushed me to do it, saying she hated to see me like this. I just couldn’t. It was wrong.”

  Tears stream freely down his face. “I wish I could have told you before, but I needed to know that your intentions were in the right place. And I need to stop you now, but I could not work up the courage. Denand is not your enemy. I’m sure they were pulled into a deal with the alchemists. Their country suffers, people dying of starvation in the streets. What little food they can grow is sold to Tauris for coin. I’m sure Silon made this decision out of desperation. There is no army waiting for you.” He covers his face with his hands, sobbing. His thin shoulders rise and fall with each violent breath. “I’m so sorry,” he pleads.

  Nathis is looking down at his hands, arms resting on his knees. “The Xelinite War was a puppet show.”

  Kelo clears his throat, wiping his eyes. The candle on the bedside flickers over his face. “I’m sorry.”

  Taeg purses his lips, looking at the ceiling. Drops of dew cling to the canvas, trembling just before they fall into the needles below his feet. They sparkle in the candlelight. “I trust you, brother,” he murmurs. “We can save Denand and come out with an ally. And we can save the Xelinites. And we will do our best to save you.”

  “We need to find Tygoh,” Nathis grumbles.

  “Yes. But I believe he is already way ahead of us.”