1. Fall of a Bloodline

Fire crackled, burning merrily atop a low platform erected in the center of the field. Dark smoke billowed into an overcast sky, low gray clouds oppressive. The smell of burnt flesh blew across the field, taking with it heat and glowing ashen embers.

Wide and broad, the field stretched across the center of the city. Proud, stone-fronted buildings marched along the field’s edges, peeking from behind massive old-growth oaks and maples. In the distance, at the far end of the field, a stony castle rose, towers twining into the sky.

Pressed shoulder to shoulder in the center of the field, a crowd watched the fire burn.

In the rear of the crowd, peasants mobbed, dressed in dull tones, rags, and patches. Peddlers sold snacks and hot drinks. Shorter members climbed trees or stood atop borrowed barrels to get a better view. The rowdier members crowed and booed, and paper slips exchanged hands as men and women took bets. An almost festival mood prevailed.

Further toward the front of the press, peasant rags became fine noble clothing, colored in greens, reds, oranges, and blacks. Each color stood apart from the others, unwilling to allow the colors to mix. These nobles watched quietly, whispering amongst each other, the only motion children, peeking through parents’ legs or standing on tiptoe to see ahead.

At the front of the press, nobles wore fine suits in slate gray and silver, earthen brown and gold, navy blue and cerulean. Still separated by color, these nobles stood straight-backed and upright. Their finery shone under the dissipated light that spilled from the thick clouds, all lace and gems and flowers, strings of pearls, silks, velvets. They stood as still as death and as silent as the grave, serious and formal.

Off to the side, a box separated a few nobles from the crowd. The only seats in the house, it provided shelter to a throne and a few chairs, and the men and women within it, in all colors of noble attire, bore the coldest gazes of all.

All eyes were directed at the platform, and the fire atop it.

Tied to a stake amidst the fire, a young woman glared back. Chains bound her wrists to the stake above her head, and again at her waist and ankles. Blonde hair hung ragged in her face. A red wire bit into her exposed neck. Her military uniform, once white, had been smudged and torn almost beyond recognition. Blood darkened to a brown stain over her shoulder. Filth besmirched it everywhere, from mud at the trousers’ hems to an indescribable green-black gunk across her stomach and thigh. Torn open, the front panel of her jacket hung loosely, buttons hanging by strings, revealing a wrinkled shirt beneath. The fire raged at her feet, climbing up her legs.

Her eyes blurred from pain, she nonetheless narrowed her eyes at the crowd in defiance. Her chest heaved, breath coming short. She twitched, half-heartedly fighting the bindings. Her jaw clenched, and tears stained her cheeks, but she refused to scream even so, lips pressed against it until they whitened.

A black-cloaked figure climbed the platform, leading a string of filthy people along with him. Adults and children, youths and elders, they marched, some stumbling, others standing tall. Bruised and bloodied, dressed in the ruined scraps of what might have been finery, once, most sported the same blond hair as the woman, when the color of their hair could be told at all. Manacles bound their hands, and chains connected each figure to the next behind them. Red wires bound the throats of the adults and elders. They marched across the platform to a waiting axeman, paraded one-by-one before the crowd and the woman alike.

One of the men turned and spat at the woman as he passed. “Traitor!”

The woman stared past him.

“You’re the downfall of our bloodline!” he screamed. He lunged at her. The chain pulled the woman ahead of him in line back, then yanked taut, no more slack to give. The man stared, inches from the stake-bound woman’s face. Panting, eyes wild, he scowled. His hands curled into fists, uncurled, again and again.

“Order!” The black-cloaked man clapped the man on the head. He stumbled and jerked the line to the side. The chains rattled. Behind the man, a pregnant woman tripped, stumbling to her knees. Dirty blonde hair lashed her face. Red flashed at her neck, a blood-red wire wrapped so tight it bit into the flesh of her neck. She crouched there, breathing hard, face flushed with pain.

The black-cloaked man lashed a whip. “Up!”

Teeth clenched, the woman hauled herself to her feet and marched on.

The first of the bedraggled blondes reached the block at the end of the platform, a woman not much older than the one on the stake. A kick drove her to her knees. She yelped. Impassive, the black-cloaked man turned and marched off. The axeman raised his axe.

Standing in the center of the platform, the black-cloaked man cleared his throat and unfurled a parchment for all the crowd to see. “For the crime of leading an uprising against our glorious King, ordained by the Highest God Caelum himself, for the crime of massacring members of the high and low nobility, for the crime of misleading the common folk and deluding them into believing themselves more wise than the king and the nobles appointed by the gods and blessed with the gods’ powers, Mélanie Vie is sentenced to burn at the stake.

“Her bloodline, found complicit in her crimes, is sentenced to extermination, so that they shall never rise up again, nor harm and deceive the common folk.”

The axe fell. Blood sprayed. Eyes wide with shock, a head tumbled into a waiting basket. A red wire sprang loose, rolling down the side of the platform and into the shadows. The body tumbled to the side, and a man took the first woman’s place.

“Their Well shall be destroyed. Their temples, demolished. All proof of their god’s existence shall be wiped from the face of the earth.”

Another head tumbled into the basket. A boy, barely ten, dropped to his knees. No red wire wrapped his slender neck. He sniffled, tears streaming from his eyes. The axe lifted, trailing blood.

“From this moment forth, their god is declared an evil god. Any who persist in worshipping their god shall face the same punishment as Mélanie: burning at the stake!”

“As it should be,” a man in the box murmured. Dressed in slate and silver mousy gray hair slicked back from his face, he carried himself with noble bearing despite his youth. Disgust flashed in his eyes, in sync with the blazing flames.

The man beside him, arrayed in red velvet and accents of pink silk, nodded. “At last, we can all rest easy. All thanks to your noble efforts, Your Majesty Cyrille.”

The silver-clothed man nodded once, acknowledging him.

Brown and gold coats flapped. Limping heavily, hoisting himself along on a gold-tipped cane, a young man burst up onto the stage. Dark chestnut hair flew. Teak eyes shone with madness. He carried a teacup in his other hand, tea somehow still within it despite his vigorous motion.

The man in red jumped up. “Duke Jerome—”

A powerful hand clasped his arm and held him down. King Cyrille shook his head. “Easy, Henrí. Let him go. For all that he’s suffered at her hands… he deserves this much.”

Reaching the stake, Duke Jerome stared at the woman. Indescribable emotion passed over his face, his chest heaving. The black-cloaked man drew closer, but hesitated, unwilling to command the Duke.

Duke Jerome’s hand tightened on the cup. Whole body trembling, he leaned heavily on his cane, tea sloshing out of the cup. Loud enough to hear from the platform, he growled, “You…”

“What is he—” Henrí asked, disturbed by the Duke’s antics.

From the other side, a woman in navy and cerulean leaned in. “Her ‘revolution’ took his entire family. His elder sister, his younger brother, his parents, all died at her hands. Of the direct Terrabloodline, Duke Jerome is the lone remnant, and even then…” She grimaced. “She left him crippled, unable to walk without a cane.”

“And the… tea?” Henrí asked.

“Don’t mock the mad, Henrí,” Cyrille cautioned, gently.

“He’s—?”

The woman in navy shook her head. “After all that happened… it’s a miracle he’s with us at all. Don’t begrudge him a few eccentricities.”

“My apologies, Duchess Demeri. I… was not aware of the extent of House Terre’s difficulties,” Henrí said, bowing his head.

She huffed. “So it is true that House Amour has paid no mind to the war at all, but spent all their time… socializing.”

“Duchess Demeri,” Cyrille said quietly.

She huffed again, but fell silent.

Atop the stage, Duke Jerome’s face twisted into an awful scowl. His trembling ceased, and he threw his cup of tea in Mélanie’s face. She turned away, still impassive.

Red with rage, the Duke drew back his hand and hobbled at her. Spraying spittle, he shouted, “The last one! There’s no more left! Only one!”

The dark-cloaked man jumped forward and grabbed the Duke by the arm. Before the Duke could strike, he dragged him back from the stake. The Duke fought, struggling toward Mélanie. His cane fell by the wayside. He twisted free of the dark-cloaked man and ran at her.

He made it one step. On the second, his bad leg crumpled under him. He fell into the dark-cloaked man, who grabbed on tight.

“Duke Jerome, please,” the dark-cloaked man urged.

Laughter.

The crowd fell silent. The dark-cloaked man and the Duke stiffened. Only the steady schlick-thump of the axe continued, as the line of chained people grew ever shorter.

Tied to the stake, flames licking at her legs, Mélanie Vie threw back her head and laughed. Long and loud, her body shaking with the force of it, tears squeezing from the corners of her eyes. The red wire around her neck cut into her throat, drawing blood, and still she laughed.

“Duke Jerome, mad? No. That is madness,” Henrí murmured.

Eyes wide in fury, the Duke struggled toward Mélanie once more, coats flying, clawing at her bare-handed. The black-cloaked man restrained him with effort. Without his cane, he lacked the strength to fight free of the dark-cloaked man.

At last, the guards reached the stage. They escorted the Duke out, half-fighting, half-carrying him. He struggled all the way, mindless as his fine suit grew rumpled, as he lost his hat, as his hair grew ruffled, until finally he vanished out of sight.

“King Cyrille!” Mélanie shouted. “You will come to regret this day! More than any other day in your life, you will regret what you do this day!”

All eyes turned to the box. The youthful man in slate gray in its center, perched atop a silver-white throne, stood, arms crossed, fine platinum circlet shining in the overcast light. King Cyrille, Storm Lord, Ordained by the Skies Themselves, Chosen of the God Most High, gazed out over his subjects, over the platform dripping in blood, over the growing pile of cold bodies, over the woman burning at the stake.

A smile touched the corners of his lips. Stormy gray eyes crinkled in earnest mirth, though a hint of sadness hid deep within. “I doubt it.”

He swept away, cloak lining flashing silver.

--

The guards manhandled the Duke into his carriage. A sad-eyed, dark-haired maidservant awaited him, dressed in the drab gray-brown of the Duke’s household. She helped the guards wrestle him into his seat, pinning him with familiar ease.

“Do you have any rope?” one guard asked, narrowly dodging a wild punch.

“No need,” the servant replied. Dipping a free hand into her pocket, she raised a vial of liquid to the Duke’s nose, and he went limp.

The guards stepped back. One removed his helmet and mopped his brow, shaking his head at the Duke. “By the gods. You wouldn’t think a cripple would have so much fight in him.”

Another nudged the youngest guard, grinning. “I think he gave poor Devin a black eye.”

The servant bowed. “I can take him from here.”

“Are you sure? We could send a guard with you. In case he gets violent again.”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid he might become frightened if he wakes up to an unfamiliar face. His mental state is quite fragile. The safest thing is to leave him alone with me.”

“Are you sure?” the guard insisted.

“If I need assistance, I’ll signal Andre,” she replied, nodding toward the driver, and bowed again.

“If you insist,” the guard said. He tipped his helmet at her. “Then, we’ll take our leave.”

A high-pitched whimper emerged from the carriage. All eyes whipped toward it.

The Duke sunk down the wall, letting out a piteous whimper.

“He must be having a nightmare. Please,” the servant said.

“Right. Let’s leave him some of his dignity.” The guard backed away, nodding one last time.

“May the gods go with you,” the servant replied, bowing again. She drew the door shut.

The carriage drew away.

They’d barely turned the corner when Duke Jerome sat up abruptly. He ran a hand through his hair, raking it into place. A smile broke out on his lips, and he hummed a little tune to himself. At last, satisfied with his hair, he turned and beamed at the servant. “Do you think they bought it?”

“I think you certainly sold it,” the servant replied primly.

Jerome grinned. “And the child?”

Kneeling, the servant drew out a pair of bassinets from under the carriage seat. Each held a child. One, wrinkly, pink, and still stained with blood, twitched in his sleep and whimpered. Another, ever so slightly older, slept quietly, a curl of dark hair already falling in his eyes.

“Two?” Jerome asked. He glanced at her.

She leaned in and whispered.

Jerome’s lips curled. “Ah. You do know me well, Madeline.”

The servant bowed again. “As it pleases my lord.”

A bassinet in each arm, Jerome sat back in his chair and laughed, hugging them close. The wrinkly baby shifted and began to cry, but he paid it no mind. “At last, at last, at last my turn begins!”