Jackal Among Snakes

“Duke Rovostar heads south, Prince Orion, to combat the approaching forces of the south. Though we can still see the dust clouds from their horses, we long ago lost sight of the army itself,” a kneeling royal knight said to Orion. Bandages peeked out from places in his golden armor, marking him as a plagued Waxknight. “We would need to send scouts to confirm where they are precisely.”

Orion patted the man on the shoulder. “I would not risk lives by sending men out on foolish scouting missions. I trust what we can see from the walls of Dirracha,” he assured his man.

The knight knelt a little lower and continued, “Our conjecture, my prince, is that the army of Rovostar heads to reinforce the southern fortresses. By now, the Margrave will be heading out to begin his war. Winter has passed, after all, and the snows melt from north to south.”

Orion nodded. “Good, good. Felipe has stocked this city well enough to last a year with its provisions—even the city’s residents itself can be fed. Distribution fares well, does it not?”

“It does, my prince,” the knight confirmed.

“Excellent. The people will not starve under my watch,” Orion declared. “Carry on. I must visit with Vasquer.”

The knight walked away, leaving Orion alone in the royal palace. At once, he clutched his head.

Ninety-six voices raged against his mind constantly, battering at the walls of his consciousness. Orion had always been whole and hearty and remained so, yet dark circles underneath his eyes indicated both stress and fatigue that were foreign to him. Just as he had gone against his parent, defying the wisdom of the gods, so too had they gone against him.

The gods—for indeed they were still gods, even as deceivers—did not allow Orion a moment of repose. He was acting against their instructions, and for this, he was constantly beset by their pleas and demands. Their whispers became not comfort nor guidance as they had always been, but an insidious punishment. He was kept from sleep, kept from focus.

even rogue as he had gone. Instead, they constantly insisted upon the debt that he owed them, the relationship that they shared. It was like a leash tugging at the neck. Worse yet was that the gods of Vasquer were not in unity—some wished for him to kill Felipe and take his place as king, while others yet wished for him to resume the

snake moved, coiling around Orion in greeting. At once, like a balm upon his wounds, some of the intensity of the

metal rings binding Vasquer. They were numerous, thoroughly enchanted, and took tremendous effort to remove… but all Orion had was his effort. He’d

was coming. Orion would prepare for its advent. He would mend his shattered family, right all of

to him by the great serpent: “If there was ever a line in the sand between good

and so he had always been told. But as Argrave said, he knew of what was to come and the evil behind it. And now, lost spiritually and breaking down day

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red scales slammed against the walls of the castle. Margrave Reinhardt’s wyvern clung to the stone, its breath

manifested, swinging towards the wyvern’s head and the Margrave both. But Helmuth, the dark-haired spellcaster with eyes like purple vortexes,

of solar flare. By the time the flames subsided, the Margrave had already dismounted and charged into a crowd of men flanked by

practiced skill. Bodies fell into the inner courtyard of the castle, some of them in pieces. The Margrave himself rushed after the mage. As the man prepared another spell, Reinhardt grasped at his belt and threw a dagger. It stabbed through the man’s wrist, ending his spell prematurely. Margrave Reinhardt fell upon him, cleaving him in the neck

the castle, the now-unmanned walls could not even attempt to stop the approaching force. Numerous brave men carried a large and sturdy ladder, preparing for an escalade. The ladder was tilted, fitting into a spot between the parapets so naturally it seemed to be engineered to fit there—and

them. By now, mages on other sides of the walls moved to reinforce the point of assault, but mages on the side of the rebels countered whatever magic was thrown at the invaders. Like this, the fortress was breached—knights

with the invaders. Soon enough, the largest problem became the cramped spaces. One unlucky soul was pushed by those behind him and fell into the courtyard

to the courtyard. Spellcasters received the same treatment.

is ours, Margrave Reinhardt,” one of his knights reported as he walked the walls, his breathing still heavy and his ax still held close at hand. “All our captives be lamenting

a difficult position by our act of rebellion,” the Margrave instructed. “Take five good

gray, a white moon as his sigil, stepped