The Storm King

August couldn’t help but feel energized as he rode into the rocky natural harbor in which the Consul of Discord’s armada had been stationed. Laid out in front of him was the armada, well over a thousand ships strong. To his right and left, Duronius’ Legions, which had surrendered once they realized they’d been caught between his army and the fleets. Behind him were his followers, numbering somewhere around a quarter million. Legions and noble retinues all together.

The south was his. It wasn’t firmly in his grasp, but he’d been getting letters and other messages for days from nobles and Exarchs since his victory over Duronius pledging their support for his campaign.

Most of it was blatant bandwagon hopping, but he found it difficult to blame these people. Octavius held the capital and August had been declared a traitor and a kinslayer. The trial had been a sham, but many lower nobles and the Exarchs hadn’t been present, so they’d only had the official word to go on. Now that it seemed like August was winning, however, it suddenly didn’t matter too much what Octavius had declared him to be.

Riding just behind August were his champions, the strongest mages of his force who were supporting him: Roland and Leon. The two made for a spectacular sight, with Roland in full armor while Leon rode his griffin in resplendent formal attire, the former’s aura strong and robust, the latter’s towering over everyone else’s.

A welcoming party met August at the small stone docks that had been hastily built at the harbor at which the flagship had docked. It was a true leviathan of a ship, too large to sail on most rivers save for those which were slow and deep, such as the Tyrrhenian or the Naga, but it boasted two Flame Lances, emplacements for enchanted trebuchets, ten ballistae to a side, and a deadly ram on the front. It was a floating fortress made of enchanted Heartwood with a crew of thousands.

And its captain had pledged it and all the rest of the ships to his cause. August had been surprised and elated when Leon returned with his news, but the reality of the situation hadn’t struck him until his arrival, until he could see with his own eyes the scale of the force that had joined him.

He was both overjoyed and depressingly subdued about it. On the one hand, the southern armada was the final key he needed to fully assert his control over the Southern Territories, and with its transport ships, getting his army north to the capital would be child’s play. On the other hand, it was at least a hundred thousand more people who could die in his war, probably more, and that responsibility settled itself over August’s shoulders like a heavily weighted coat, crushing him so that he could barely express his joy at this turn of events.

He dismounted his horse and made only light conversation with the knights that had come out to welcome him and escort his command staff to the capital ship. He wasn’t in the mood to speak right now, and as they continued on, his mind was more and more occupied with what he was going to say to everyone, for there was much he needed to say. The past few months had been eye-opening, to say the least, and he needed to express his revelations to his followers.

And so it was that August and several hundred of his followers and bodyguards were escorted over the dock and up the ramps to the flagship. There he was greeted by the sight of a good portion of the ship’s crew standing on the deck in full dress uniforms and in inspection formation. At the front were a dozen individuals, all of sixth-tier strength and dressed in the telltale uniforms of Legates. In front of them was a lone man, dark of skin and large of build, handsome and powerful and dressed in the crisp, perfectly tailored uniform of a Consul.

“Welcome aboard the BKS King Anastasius, Your Highness!” the Consul cheerfully exclaimed, his expression one of joy and delight—it seemed real enough, but August was a little unsure. Regardless, he responded in kind, smiling and offering compliments on the state of the armada and its crew, all of the near-meaningless platitudes that were expected under such circumstances.

They stood there for several long minutes making their introductions, with all the Legates coming forward to greet the Legates and nobles in August’s entourage. Leon and Roland, however, stayed at August’s side, not straying far.

Finally, once the long introductions and traditional small talk were over, the Consul led August’s group inside to the ship’s largest formal meeting hall—which really wasn’t that big in the grand scheme of things, but on a ship, was almost extravagantly large. There were only a handful of seats in the room, with August taking one, the Consul taking the other, and almost everyone else remaining on their feet, standing behind their respective commanders. The only exceptions were four of the Consul’s Legates, the Duchess of Vesontio, Duke Gratian of Lentia, Marquis Aeneas, Roland, and Leon, though August noticed with some amusement that Leon only took a seat once the silver-haired knight at his side poked him a few times and whispered something into his ear. August saw the ghost of a scowl cross Leon’s face, but the young magical prodigy took his seat.

“Now…” the Consul began, taking the initiative to speak before anyone else, “let’s get something over and done with right away. Bring in the prisoner!”

From another door entered a second group of Legates, though they numbered only six. Between them in chains that glowed with bright white light enchantments came an older man, gray of hair but still clearly strong of body. His noble attire was a little wrinkled and dirty, but other than that, he seemed in perfect health, with not even a hair out of place.

Duke Duronius, August recognized, and he’d been well-taken care of by the looks of him, even if he didn’t seem to have been given a change of clothes. August noted that the man was glaring at him as if he wanted nothing more than to wrap his chains around the Prince’s neck and squeeze August’s head off. He’d never be able to do so, however, for the six Legates escorting him had firm grips on his chains, and he couldn’t even speak for his mouth had been roughly gagged.

“Our ‘guest’, Duke Duronius,” the Consul of Discord proudly stated, his eyes locked on August. “As a symbol of my dedication to your cause Your Highness, I present to you this traitor, and await your judgment regarding what to do with him next.”

August stared at the Duke for a long moment, his deep brown eyes never wavering even for a moment, not even as the Duke hatefully stared back with as much venom as he could muster in his state.

Finally, August simply and almost emotionlessly said, “Send him back to the brig. Any cell will do, so long as it can hold a man of his power.”

“As Your Highness wills it,” the Consul said. He subtly jerked his head and the Legates half-dragged half-walked the Duke back out of the room.

August glanced around the room, gauging the reaction to his order. He noticed some confusion and even disappointment here and there, and he could guess why: many were hoping to see him order the Duke’s execution right then and there. But that wasn’t what August wanted. Punishments and executions could come later; for now, all he wanted was peace, and the Duke was more valuable for achieving that aim alive than he was dead.

Before he began to speak, August also noted that the Consul was not one of those who seemed disturbed or otherwise surprised at his order. In fact, the Consul seemed to be completely unfazed by everything, smiling around at the room and waiting for August to speak with the patience of a man with nothing to fear.

August lightly sighed, steeling himself for what he was about to say. For what he needed to say, for he could not continue without making himself abundantly clear.

“Sir Abronius, I thank you for your hospitality and your offer of support,” he began, deciding it might be wise to praise the Consul a bit to get on his and his people’s good side. “Ancestors know that the entire Kingdom needs loyal and brave men and women like yourselves to stand up for it when cravens and traitors have hold over our sacred capital, the place where my Ancestor, the Sacred Bull, first Ascended to human form.”

August paused to allow the Consul to respond, which he did in his deep, almost reverberating voice, “And we are honored for your presence and your trust, Your Highness. Each one of us not only considers it our duty to rid the capital of these vipers which seek to strangle us all, but we consider it an honor beyond all others to fight at your side and see your mission through.”

August gratefully nodded, making brief eye contact with all the fleet Legates and Tribunes who filled the Consul’s half of the meeting room.

“The honor is mine, to have so many brave and dutiful men and women believe in me,” he said, letting his voice ramp up a bit to now address everyone in the room rather than simply the Consul. Rising to his feet so that he could more emphatically make his points, he continued, “And my mission is one that requires such bravery to accomplish! For over the course of this war, I have realized the truth, the true nature of the task which my Ancestors have set before me! To see the Kingdom that has been built upon all of our labors brought to glory! The glory of freedom from the tyranny and oppression that my treasonous half-brother would see us all labor beneath!

“My half-brother would see all of us who are not of noble blood thrown out of their positions! He would overturn half a millennium of reforms enacted by my Royal Father, his father before him, and his before his! He would return us to a time when commoners were commoners, when peasants were peasants, when nobles were nobles, and when merchants were merchants, forever! If my half-brother wins this war, we would all be slaves to our class, noble and common alike! And all to serve his vanity! Nobles would be trapped in a cage of gold, where all the rest would be caged in iron and dirt, never free to pursue their passions and fit only to serve at the pleasure of my half-brother and those who sycophantically follow him!”

August paused to look around the room, gauging the response. For the most part, there wasn’t much, with everyone seeming to take time to digest his words and respectfully maintain their silence.

And an oppressive silence it was. August was a little downtrodden by this subdued response—he’d been hoping for something a little more exciting since most of the knights in the room were common-born.

As August turned, making eye contact with everyone he could, his eyes eventually landed upon Leon and Roland, the two strongest warriors in his camp—though it was arguable in Roland’s case. Roland smiled and nodded, his support never in question. Leon, on the other hand, had the more powerful response—especially since, due to his background, August was far more eager to have his approval—though it was far more subtle. His face remained stoic, his posture stiff and formal, his aura and demeanor calm, but as his golden eyes locked with August’s, a smile briefly appeared on his lips, giving August the swiftest of glimpses into Leon’s approval.

August took a deep breath to steady himself for the inflammatory declaration he was about to make and gave Leon a subtle and grateful nod.

“Friends, countrymen,” he whispered, breaking the oppressive silence in the room, “we are held back by notions of nobility. Notions of birth and inherited authority stymie our growth and weaken our Kingdom. It is time to set these things aside not just for the benefit of the Royal Family, as was my forebearers’ intent, at least in part, but for the benefit of all our people!

“When I went to Ariminium to aid my Uncle and relieve the Talfar siege, my uncle, Prince Trajan…” August halted for just a moment, and he was a little more gratified to see far more eyes turned in his direction with the mention of Trajan’s name. Even now, months after his death, his name still carried a great deal of weight with the Legion and nobility. “… promised to support me over my half-brother, but he only did so under the condition that I continue my family’s work in liberating us from the archaic notions of class that stifle our people and diminish their talents! I agreed, but it wasn’t until I saw the scale of death that our people have to endure in this war that I truly recognized its importance and necessity!

“All of us deserve the freedom to choose what to do with our own lives! We all deserve to thrive under our own powers, and to rise to greatness without being blocked by the jealousy of those who resent our skills and talents! And I would not have the support of anyone who does not share these ideals! I would not accept the support of any noble who would stand against the march of progress and resist the changes that are necessary to ensure the greatness of our Kingdom! If you support me, then you support my vision of the future, and you will work to see it come to be!

“Now, then, Sir Abronius,” August said, now facing the utterly baffled Consul instead of slowly circling in place so that he could make eye contact with everyone, “will you support me? Will you dedicate your efforts to see the chains that shackle us to mediocrity broken?”

August waited, demanding an answer from the Consul. There wasn’t much choice that he could make, though, since Duke Duronius was now languishing in a prison cell.

But August saw conviction in the Consul’s eyes, he saw the passionate fire of a man who believed.

“I will support you, Prince August,” the Consul growled, his baritone voice smooth and calm, betraying none of the thoughts or emotions that August felt were there.

Turning now to the next highest-ranking person present, the Duchess of Vesontio, August asked, “And you, Your Grace? Will you support me?”

This was the much harder question, August knew. The Duchess, if she agreed, would essentially be handing over her ancestral lands to the Crown if August were to win, something which no noble in their right mind would ever agree to. It may not happen immediately, but her noble rights and privileges would be forfeit.

August knew that the question would likely have been much easier if he’d chosen others to answer before her, to build up some momentum before giving her a chance to shoot him down. But he didn’t do that, he wanted to hear from her, first.

The Duchess fixed her cold gaze upon the Prince, but August showed none of his anxiety, he simply stood before her, wordlessly prompting her to answer.

“… You say freedom, Your Highness,” she said, her voice soft but still carrying to every ear in the room, “but what would that mean for me? If I were to agree, what would that make me? What would that make any future children I might have?”

“That would depend on you, Your Grace,” the Prince replied with a smile. “However, you can rest assured that your private property would remain untouched, even if political power must be returned to the Crown.”

And there it was. If there was to be any nail in August’s coffin, that statement would be it. He unambiguously stated that she would have to forfeit her title and political authority to him. She controlled her emotions well, giving nothing away, but August could hear disbelieving and discontented voices murmuring elsewhere in the room over his asking of such a thing.

“Your Grace, what is your answer?” August asked.

August felt like the Duchess’ stare was going to bore holes into him. She didn’t look around at the others, she didn’t try to pander to them, she simply sat there, thinking over the possibilities.

Finally, after an excruciatingly long period of time, she said, “I agree.”

The room fell silent, the quiet mutterings silenced by her unexpected agreement. But August gave her a glowing smile, then moved on, turning to Duke Gratian.

“Your Grace. Will you support me?”

Gratian’s control over himself wasn’t as great as the Duchess’s was. He stared, his mouth open just a bit to showcase his shock in August’s speech, his question, and in Vesontio’s answer.

But standing behind him, his younger brother Gaius stared at the Prince in something more akin to awe and wonder. As the youngest member of his House, Gaius knew that the most he could hope for was to remain a knight in his older brother’s service, maybe being granted a small castle or villa to live in and administer some of his brother’s land from. If what August was saying was true, then he could be whoever he wanted without the threat of his family disowning him or retaliating against him. If he wanted to follow in the Third Prince Antonius’ footsteps and become a scholar, he could do so without fear of political judgments. He wouldn’t even need to swear himself to any other Lord or to the King as the Legion knights did.

As if feeling his brother’s excitement, Gratian lightly scowled. He was a rich man, though Lentia wasn’t that rich of a Duchy. He’d be quite well-off even if he lost his title and some of his land. The more time he took to think, the more August could see his expression starting to turn.

“I will support you, Your Highness,” Gratian whispered, to the collective shock of everyone listening.

But August again smiled and moved on, giving no one any more time to recover. But from there, things went much easier. The rest of the nobles didn’t feel comfortable refusing when even the most powerful of their number were agreeing, and none of the Legion knights were particularly disposed toward disagreement, anyway. The support for August was nearly unanimous, save for a few of the lesser nobles who slipped away before August could call upon them—not that he cared too much, they had less than ten thousand troops between them, not enough to affect the war in any meaningful way at this point.

When August reached Roland, his friend almost leaped to his feet in expressing his support for the Prince. Leon, on the other hand, remained seated. August was hoping for a bit more from the young seventh-tier mage, but all he got was a quiet, “Your Highness has my support.”

August contemplated dangling the option of becoming a Paladin in front of him, but he resisted that urge, for he doubted Leon would take it up if he turned down even the Archduchy of the Great Plateau, and he could do without the embarrassment of Leon turning him down in front of everyone, as August was sure would happen.

But he was going to take what he could get. He had the support he needed, and pride bloomed in his chest with every person who continued to agree. By the time it was all over, he felt like he was floating.

“Thank you, everyone!” he shouted, his voice quavering with the emotion of a man who was just proven right, despite his worst fears. “When we retake the capital and throw my traitor half-brother to the curb, we will usher in a new era in this Kingdom!”

---

“What are you doing?!” Octavius demanded, hissing through his teeth in rage. He stood outside the Royal Palace, now nearly deserted save for a handful of Royal guardsmen. It was long past sundown, though given how few people still worked within, the time of day hardly mattered for there was so little foot traffic.

The subject of his furious question was his maternal uncle, the Earthshaker Paladin, Petrus Duronius.

The Paladin was just as furious as Octavius, and his aura and killing intent both radiated from him like light from the sun.

“I’m going to rescue my father and slaughter that Royal bastard like the swine that he is! And anyone else who gets in my way!” he shouted.

“You will do no such things!” Octavius roared in response, his eyes wild and his clothes disheveled. “You will stay here as you have been ordered! If you leave, I will declare you a traitor!”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Earthshaker responded, “because you have so little left, if you stand in my way, you’ll die! I will not stand idly by as your cause is destroyed out from beneath you anymore! But I will return, dear Nephew, and when I do, I shall have my father! And once we are back, we can fix this sinking ship you call a ‘Kingdom’!”

Earthshaker waited no more for Octavius’ rantings, moving on the stables to fetch his horse. With his magic senses, he could see the Sapphire Paladin standing by a few buildings away, but she wasn’t moving against him despite how much Octavius was screaming for her. He could see the embarrassment on her face as Octavius screamed himself hoarse right there in front of the Royal Palace for all the guards and what few people still remained within to see. She was the only one he was worried about, for if she stood in his way, then he might’ve been stopped.

As it was, Earthshaker was so preoccupied with the news that his father had been taken prisoner that he couldn’t even muster any lecherous thoughts about the beautiful blond Paladin, as would’ve otherwise been his wont.

Instead, he came peeling out of the stables without a single squire to act as his entourage. To wait for them would’ve cost him time, and he had others along the way he could recruit. No, his pride and honor demanded that he leave with all haste as soon as he could.

His eyes turned dark as he rode across the bridge connecting the capitol island to the rest of the capital city. He would do exactly what he just declared he would: he would rescue his father, murder August, and destroy anything in his way.

The possibility that he might fail in this task was not one that ever entered his mind, for he was a seventh-tier Paladin and the only seventh-tier mage that August had was hundreds of miles north. Getting his father back would be easy, Earthshaker just had to get there before anything could happen to him in captivity.