“One king is torn down before he can be crowned…” Duke Sumner, the young, brown of hair, and finely groomed mage of the south walked around a table where a map of Vasquer had been arrayed. He planted a crimson pin in the center of northern Vasquer, then lifted his head up.

All of the grand nobility of the south had gathered today. Margrave Reinhardt, leader of the southern rebellion, stood at the head of the table, flanked by his half-blind son Elias. Closest beside him was the ashen-haired Count Delbraun of Jast, the shrewd Duke Enrico of Mateth with his daughter Nikoletta, and the once-obese Duke Marauch of Elbraille. Each and all were avid supporters of the Margrave. They comprised the majority of the southeast of Vasquer.

Opposing them was another faction in the southern rebellion. These people, largely free of ties to the Margrave, had rallied behind Duke Sumner. They staunchly opposed the notion that Argrave should be their backed claimant. Fittingly, they comprised the southwest.

“One king is crowned by jumped up merchants who would play at being lords…” Sumner continued, retrieving a yellow pin and planting it in a city at the foot of the North Sea—Relize. “And now… one king has been maimed by his own son. Who knows? We may yet have a fourth, should the situation in Dirracha change.”

The Margrave took a deep breath and exhaled. “Are you here to joke, Duke Sumner?”

“Only a little,” the Duke shook his head, wavy brown hair swaying slightly. “But… more so I came to voice the concerns of some of the people within this party. Revoice, rather. I think it’s well past time for us to set this matter aside, to mend the small crack of disunity that’s formed.” The Duke spread his arms out. “Everyone has assembled. All the armies of the south willing to fight against Vasquer are here. But—unity in purpose is key.”

The Margrave nodded, leaning forward as he gazed across the map. His red eyes jumped from person to person. “You cannot be persuaded to back Argrave,” Reinhardt concluded. “Despite his deeds.”

Silence reigned—none voiced their thoughts openly, but it was clear that was the consensus from those opposite the Margrave’s party.

“Elias tells me of the boy,” Duke Marauch said, his voice a sonorous thing, not at all like the cloying, almost blubbering tones he’d had when he had been overweight. “I would agree that he’s a rather attractive proposal. And I trust Elias,” Marauch said.

People seemed to pay his word little heed. A shrewish man spoke, suggesting, “It is not the man himself so much as the company he keeps. Though he’s not involved a third party into this war as we feared, but rather merchants in Relize, the bottom line of our worries has not changed.”

“…those worries being?” Reinhardt pressed.

“Usurpation,” Sumner said succinctly. “I am sure many of us, indeed most of us, have engaged with some of the patricians in Relize or their hands. The Relizeans are a… hmm…” Sumner paused. “They are an uncompromisingly avaricious people. They do not act without a motive to profit. I am sure that this war is viewed more as an investment from their oligarchy rather than a genuine rebellion against malicious authority.”

“And why do you assume Argrave would be willing to strip territory from his allies in efforts to repay the patricians at Relize?” Duke Enrico rebutted smoothly, his daughter Nikoletta nodding in agreement. “I have been doing business with the Relizeans in a peaceful and profitable way for much of my life. Though flamboyant and gaudy, they do not overreach—the south is beyond them. If we ally with this force, it is much more sensible for them to seek acquisition of territories in the north and central Vasquer—territories which, I might remind you, are in direct opposition to both our armies.”

“Is it sensible to allow Argrave to distribute these forces to… mere merchants?” another on Sumner’s side questioned.

“All of our ancestors were merely humans with big egos before their land was bestowed upon them by the crown,” Delbraun of Jast pointed out. “Why should the victor receive no spoils? If they can conquer, so be it.”

Elias’ gaze wandered the crowd. “I will say why,” he suggested. “All of you have heard of the devastating blows to the north—Atrus’ fracture, now Orion’s coup. It’s no coincidence our ranks have swelled—you see this as an easy victory, and you seek benefits for your own house in the event of victory. Argrave’s army poses problems to your advancement. You cannot receive the wealth you seek if Argrave promises it to his merchant supporters.”

“Elias,” the Margrave protested, though weakly.

“But let me remind you—in its centuries of existence, the kingdom of Vasquer has prevailed against tremendous threats,” Elias continued. “The walls of Dirracha have never fallen, and dozens of fortresses stand between us and the capital. This is to be no easy victory. We must take every advantage we can get. And, above all, we cannot harm the people of the realm by splintering the kingdom. This is not a war of conquest and spoil—it is one of righteous justice.”

As people bristled, the Margrave quickly spoke, “My son is right in that this is to be no easy victory. And Duke Sumner presents a good point in mentioning the disunity this matter has caused. Consequently, I declare this—Argrave will not be our claimant. As suggested, we proceed as champions against injustice and tyranny, seeking to overthrow Vasquer.”

The Margrave stood straight. “What happens after the war… we will consider it only once we have breached the walls of Dirracha once and for all.”

#####

Two people walked through the door to one of the mystical transporters filling the center of the Tower of the Gray Owl, hauling a large, tall object between the two of them. They looked around, fascinated by the area they entered. Unlike most other areas of the Tower, this place was wide-open, and accommodated only one person.

Tower Master Castro cleared his throat at the two as the large disc they held, wrapped by cloth, wobbled dangerously. The men refocused on their task.

“This way,” the Tower Master instructed them.

The two laborers led the giant cloth-wrapped disc to one corner of the room, bending their knees as they lowered it to the ground. Once done, they gave a polite bow then made for the transporters, eyes still wandering about the gigantic room atop the Tower of the Gray Owl.

Castro stared at the disc, its form hidden by a large white cloth. He took a deep breath and exhaled, as though what he was about to face required him to steel himself. He walked to one corner of the room and retrieved a booklet. He read it as he walked back to the disc, and then raised one hand to unwrap it.

Just then, the baby-blue haired Ingo stepped out from his room, and Castro turned his head.

“Should you be up? Do you feel well?” the Tower Master questioned, holding the booklet open.

“I… you’ve been fretting about this thing for days, Master. I was…” Ingo’s voice faded.

Castro pursed his old lips. “If you feel fine… it is no trouble for you to look upon it.”

Ingo smiled his innocent smile, then walked closer. It was clear from his steps that he was not totally well. “What is it, Master Castro?”

“Proof, or so I’ve been told,” Castro said cynically, reading the booklet one more time. “Went through a lot of effort to retrieve this. Called in many favors. From what I read, it’s…” he shook his head. “Well, enough.”

Castro shook himself briefly, then stepped to the wrapped disc. He grabbed the cloth, slowly unwinding it bit by bit. The white fabric collapsed to the floor, revealing ever more of the image. It was carved stone, and difficult to make out without the full image before the person. The disc was held in place by two clamps on either side—it looked as though it could be rotated.

As the last bit of cloth fell away, Castro stepped back to where Ingo stood, craning his neck to get a full grasp of it. The stone itself was gray green, almost like patinaed copper though with more of gray than green. The image depicted was disturbing. The centerpiece was an eye, undisturbed. On its fringes, abominations of all kinds wrapped around it, as though the eye was the centerpiece of a vortex.

“Eye of the storm,” Ingo said at once.

Castro turned his head. “A vision?”

“No… well, not one right now. But this… I’ve seen it before,” Ingo explained. “I see what exists, not what will be.”

Castro nodded, and gently touched the boy’s shoulder. He stepped away, heading for a tall piece of glasswork in the back of the room: a bottle. The bottle’s bottom resembled a diamond, while its neck was long and tapered off to a dropper that limited how much liquid could escape. Castro seized the bottle by the neck and walked back to the stone disc.

The tower master tilted the bottle to one side, holding its dropper against his finger. A single drop of deep black liquid the faintest hue of red came out. Castro looked at the droplet briefly, then craned up. He rubbed the liquid right in the center of the eye, then stepped back.

The black liquid seeped into the stone almost unnaturally. Then, the liquid spread throughout the eye, giving it depth. It spawned veins where one might expect to see them on the eye, and in seconds, the image became three-dimensional. The eye started to move, looking about. Castro watched it warily.

The eye met Castro’s gaze… and then, the Tower Master knelt to one knee.

Like the eye had never been, the image faded back to simple gray-green stone. Ingo knelt beside the old man, shouting, “Castro! Castro!” in a desperate panic.

“I’m fine,” Castro assured at once. “I’m fine. All is… all is okay.”

“Are you sure? That eye…!” Ingo looked back up towards the stone, but it appeared to be nothing more than what it had been.

“Damn… Argrave…” Castro exhaled. “I saw what you wanted me to. Why’d I… trust…”

The Tower Master collapsed to the floor, the booklet falling as he held it. Ingo shook the wizened man almost hysterically.

Near the end of the instructions written on the booklet, the final line read, “If you’re a real man, use one droplet of dragon blood. If not, I’d advise portioning it out to ridiculously small amounts.”

Slowly, the Tower Master’s eyes opened, fluttering about like slots on a slot machine before they focused. “Gerechtigkeit,” he whispered softly.