May the Weaver take a steaming shit on that man’s thread!

All had gone to madness. Madness and vain ambition.

He stomped along the battlements of the city, the very city whose fall had flipped the gaming table and scattered the odds of this conflict to the winds. For nearly a year, the patronage had been a smooth, profitable glide. Everything was moving with the grease of a well-oiled machine, and then, inevitably, a stone had jammed the gears. When was the last time life had handed him a gift that wasn’t a splintered stick up the arse?

Steel clattered as he moved. The rhythmic click-clack of Yarzat-forged ringmail hauberks signaled his approach, the soldiers , whose equipment most likely was also Yarzat-made, parting before him like a tide. He radiated a heat that seemed to turn the biting late-September air into a humid, stifling swamp.

With a lazy, practiced eye, he noted the numbers. There were more men on the walls than when they had started. Normally, a growing army was a balm for the soul, and yet he could not find a hint of reassurance in that.

Inquisitive stares followed him, thick with the sour stench of suspicion. The Kakunian soldiers looked him up and down, their eyes silently demanding to know who this man was, he who strode through their conquered town as if he held the deed to every cobblestone. None of them moved to block him, though. There was something in his gait, a pure unadulterated annoyance, that dispelled any notion of a casual chat.

The treeline he had spent the last moon staring at now looked so utterly hateful that, were he the prince, he’d have every trunk leveled and salted just to spite the horizon.

And speaking of princes... was there a single one left in this gods-forsaken land who was sound of mind? It was a race to the bottom of the madhouse.

One prince sent him on one death-trap mission after another, apparently under the impression that he was forged of Yarzat iron and didn’t have a backside that ached every time the frost set in, a kind gift from a Romelian arrow. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

The other would-be-prince, the one currently occupying the governor’s manor, was a coin toss: you never knew if he wanted to bed the next thing that walked through his door or behead it.

The rough stone and the sweaty faces of the rank-and-file eventually gave way to lush red carpets and the wide eyes of servants.

You would think the man wasn’t even at war, given the sheer amount of time he spent redesigning the décor. That should have been the first hint! The bastard never had any intention of leaving this city. He’d played him for a fool from the start, turning a temporary occupation into a permanent nest.

The Green Bull of Kakunia was everywhere. On the tapestries, the shields, the flickering sconces. He’d seen enough cattle in the last three moons to last him a lifetime. By the time he reached the heavy oak doors of the inner sanctum, his blood was a rolling boil. He’d thought the lunacy of the Fingers was the peak of his career; life had clearly taken that as a personal challenge.

"Inform his lordship I ask to enter," he snapped at the guards.

Their equipment was superb, a gear that rivaled a Yarzat legionnaire’s in every stitch. The only difference was the lack of the trademark black stripes; in their place was a raging bull on a field of emerald.

"Who asks—" the first guard started, his hand moving toward his lance

"Fuck off! You know exactly who I am!"

The guard’s jaw tightened, but his partner, a man who clearly valued his teeth, stepped in. He held his companion back and gave a sharp, measured knock on the door.

"My Lord," the guard called out, his voice neutral. "Our Yarzat guest petitions for an audience."

Yeah. Petition for the fat arse of your mother, he thought, though he had enough wits to stay put.

He took a sharp, lung-stinging breath, trying to force his heart rate down. There was no sense in bashing his head against a bu—gods, he was starting to think in their metaphors.

....This place was definitely getting under his skin.

The doors finally groaned open, and Marcus stepped into a chamber that smelled of beeswax the newest perfume Yarzat’s ally employed. He looked at the man lounging within, a man whose throat he had threatened with a dagger less than a year ago....it was lucky that he had been a good sport about it.

Merelao had traveled a long road since that night. He had evolved from an unassuming shadow that was simply a thorn on the Kakunian Prince’s side, the only one in this fractured land willing to walk hand-in-hand with Yarzat.

He was an actual force now, though he still possessed the unsettling quality of a dog with half its screws rattling loose.

"I had wondered when the fates would finally bless me with your presence," Merelao said. His voice was a silken ribbon, smooth and effortlessly graceful, lacking any of the rough edges one expected from him. He sat perched upon a massive oak table, which, unlike the paper-choked desks of Prince Alpheo, was remarkably bare. There were no maps, no ledgers, no ink-stained reports to signal the labor of command.

Instead, there sat a solitary cup and a carafe of deep, amber liquid. Marcus gave the air a subtle, practiced sniff.

Cider. Of course.

"I trust the world has been kind to you in my absence, my little spider?" Merelao asked, his head tilting.

"Please, my Lord, Marcus will suffice," he replied, keeping his voice level despite the itch of irritation. "And yes, the world moves according to your design. Your entry into this conflict has overturned the table entirely.I and my Prince thanks you for it.

The host currently starving at the Bastion is scrambling to respond to the loss of this city and its stores. His Grace of Yarzat has doubled his efforts to choke the enemy’s lines. You have been the pivot, my Lord; without your stroke, the blow would not have landed half so hard."

Merelao let out a soft hum of approval "Wonderful to hear. It is a singular pleasure, is it not? To see men who once walked so arrogantly upon one’s own soil trip over the very pride they wore like armor." He poured a stream of cider into his cup, the sound loud in the quiet room. "I see your prince has kept himself busy. It seems the two of us are playing a very similar game. But speaking of games... how much longer must I wait for my little prize?"

His eyes, vast and still as a mountain lake, settled on Marcus. No matter how many moons they spent in collaboration, those eyes always managed to unsettle the absolute shit out of him.

"I have satisfied my portion of our pact," Merelao continued, his tone remaining light, almost airy. "It would be high time I received the corresponding reward for my...part in this."

Marcus saw nothing wrong with that.

"We are doing our utmost to repay your Lordship’s favor with interest," he reassured him, inclining his head just enough to show respect. "The wheels of Yarzat move , no matter how slow they go forward. "

Merelao stared into his cup for a moment, his expression unreadable. "It has been some time since the Bull was seen besieging the Bastion," he muttered, almost to himself. He batted his eyes once. Only once. ’’Perhaps I am being too eager. I shall endeavor to be more patient, Marcus. For a little while longer."

He took a sip of the cider, his gaze drifting away from the guest to the grey expanse beyond the window. "Is there a specific reason why you have graced me with your presence? As much as I am pleased with your company... looking at you, I suspect this is not a visit of simple pleasure."

"As much as it pains me to cause you displeasure, you are right," Marcus replied, "I had thought that we had reached a firm consensus on the war-plan to employ. And yet, somehow, I have the distinct feeling that we are no longer following it. Am I correct?"

Merelao simply offered a small, enigmatic smile that didn’t reach his lake-like eyes. "I had a change of mind. Our previous strategy, while sound on paper, somehow fell short of my expectations."

"Your expectations?" Marcus pressed, his chest tightened a bit.

He received a simple, graceful nod in response. "Given our shifting circumstances, I have instead labored to ensure my regards for this conflict are more firm than we had initially intended. We have received some... positive news, you could say. News that cemented my change of heart."

Marcus felt his heart skip a beat, a cold stone of unease settling in his gut. He was completely off-foot. What news? There was no way Merelao’s web of spies caught a whisper before the Yarzat intelligence did. If something had shifted on the board, Marcus should have known it an hour ago.

Still, if the news was "positive," perhaps things weren’t as bleak as the Prince’s sudden silence suggested. He allowed himself a flicker of hope. Perhaps the madman’s reach had finally found a grip in the Prince’s court?

"Has Ser Aldon finally seen reason?" Marcus asked, leaning in with quite some hope.

The man may have been a simple knight but he was a titan in Kakunian politics, a man whose long career as a valorous knight had earned him the unshakable respect of the nobility. If he cast his sword at Merelao’s side, the city he had governed for eight years would follow him through. With Aldon’s and consequently the imprisoned garrison support and the city’s deep stores, they could laugh at a winter siege. Perhaps Marcus had been too hasty in his judgment of Merelao’s erratic nature.

....Not even an instant later,his hopes had been dashed down to dust

"Unfortunately not."