In a land not too far from the duchy of Schameister, past hills dotted with peculiar white rabbits that always seemed to be running late for some unknown rendezvous, there existed the flamboyant castle of Duke Estragon. It was an eccentric structure, full of improbable towers and turrets that seemed to defy the laws of gravity, an architectural wonder made even before the empire, by ancient people’s whose history is mostly buried in the sands of time. The many dukes that had resided there were known to make enemies, to hear whispers at every corner and to be followed by a strange scent – a scent that filled the castle.

Within the highest of these towers, in a room covered wall-to-wall with ornate mirrors that reflected myriad versions of reality, Duke Estragon sat pondering. The duke was a man of low stature, with a tuft of perpetually tousled hair and a moustache that curled whimsically upwards. He wore a purple waistcoat adorned with golden snitches and his fingers bore more rings than one might find in a regular game of quoits. An irregular, one might jest – before finding themselves at the pillory.

“I wonder,” he mused aloud, gazing at the myriad reflections of himself, “why everyone insists on seeing the world as they do and not as it truly is. Marchoss, for instance. Why, it’s practically begging to be part of my domain! It is the entrance, the grand ticket to the throne, after all…”

A dainty cat jumped down from a shelf to a cushion in the wooden floor, or so had the duke seen. And he even heard the cat speak... “You know, dear Duke, the world isn't always what it seems. Just like me, who appears to speak to you, but am in fact, just a figment of your imagination.”

Duke Estragon chuckled. “Ah, Sylvestris, always a treat to hear your purring wisdom. But the castle, its land, and its people — they're as real as the nose on my face!”

Sylvestris, the cat, yawned, stretching leisurely, revealing teeth much larger and sharper than one might expect from a house cat. “Yet, Duke, why do you not see the danger? Stay here, and listen to the wind whispering its secrets… It knows, it has foreseen…”

“Ah, young Camio,” Estragon murmured, swirling a glass of what looked like plain water but smelled suspiciously of roses. “He believes he’s the rightful ruler of these lands, he believes he will overturn the empire even, but the Schameister lineage has always looked down upon those of us who do not herald from the days of the founding, those central maggots must be taught a lesson. No more, Sylvestris. It's time they learned that empires can rise... and can fall.”

The deep-seated animosity between the central noble houses, including the Schameisters, and the outlying lords like Estragon had its roots embedded in the annals of the empire's early days. The core imperial nobility had carved their way to prominence with sword in hand, annexing smaller territories and assimilating them under the empire’s vast umbrella. Many noble houses had ended and many still had been curtailed from kings to small and distant vassals. They were side-lined in the empire, reduced to mere footnotes in the grand tapestry of the empire’s history. Thus, to Estragon and many others, the central nobles were those who had taken their lands and titles — conquerors who had robbed them of their rightful place in history.

Estragon chuckled, “Danger, indeed. But also, poetic. And it works just fine, does it not? Marchoss is mine, as it should have been a thousand years ago.”

Sylvestris purred, and the duke saw him vanish in a puff of smoke.

There was a pause as Estragon poured himself another glass of the fragrant water and continued to speak even without seeing the cat. “You see, this isn't just about land or power. It’s about respect and it’s about taking back what is mine. From the opening act to the downfall of empire. Only these ancient walls are witness to things like these, from days forgotten and now sunken into the great seas of sand.”

Estragon got up and looked out of his tower window, gazing at the landscape. “We march to the capital. With Marchoss under our banner and, undoubtfully, Countess Mireille by our side, that Schameister won't stand a chance. The age of empire is over, and the world will soon see another Lone Star rise at dawn.”

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, three taps, then two. Estragon’s knights trusted grand master entered, a stiff and serious man.

“Sir,” he said, “the troops are ready. Your knights are mounted and ready to depart, and the guards have been dispatched in advance to guard against counter strikes. And we have sent word to Countess Mireille, detailing all our plans. The messenger departed early, undercover, he should have no issue passing through the central region.”

Estragon's eyes sparkled like the twinkle of a star on a summer evening. “Ah, the plot, like my favourite pot of tea, thickens.”

“Yes, your grace,” continued the grand master, producing a map from within his cloak. “Here is our route, as ordered. We shall take the winding path through the imperial roads, around the hills that surround the castle. We will arrive by the time the Schameister banquet begins, and Marchoss will be vulnerable to our advance, while they make the security of the event in their duchy’s capital.”

Estragon rubbed his chin thoughtfully, tracing the route with a finger. “And what plans for Marchoss’ own defences, good sir? Surely, the lord of Marchoss must have caught a whiff of our intentions, and would prepare some resistance just in case?”

The grand master, adjusting his plume hat, replied, “Indeed, he did, but as luck — or perhaps fate — would have it, Lord Marchoss is also occupied with festivities in his liege’s grand hall, celebrating the ascension of the young Duke of Schameister. He cannot lead the defence directly and he has no organised command. Our surprise attack, under the cover of night, will take them by surprise. It is usual that chaotic camps will rout. Our spies within will also open the gates right on cue, so there will be time for nothing.”

“Good work, sir Astrag. On another note, are our banners and flag at the ready?” Estragon inquired, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“A splendid sight, my lord!” the grand master exclaimed with a rare chuckle, “The emblem of Duke Estragon is ready to flutter defiantly atop the towers of Marchoss, signalling our dominion.”

Sylvestris, the mysterious cat, appeared once more, this time seated upon the grand master’s shoulder, which, for the record, was an unusual place for a cat to perch, especially during a strategic discussion. “Ah, victory's sweet, but the road ahead is riddled and wrapped in enigmas. Young Camio might be but a baby in the woods, but babies grow up so fast... hahaha”.

Estragon looked at the cat, raising an eyebrow. “My, you are quite the philosopher today. But fret not, my feline friend. I have every intention of putting down the baby, that the story of legends has already taught me.”

The grand master cleared his throat, not certain who his liege was talking to, but quite used to the situation. “My lord, we must depart. Please give the order.”

“Ah, let the command be heard by our knights,” Estragon said, a smile playing on his lips and his feet leading him to the castle’s military patio. “Men! My loyal knights! Let us go to our glorious victory!”

Sylvestris again faded slowly into a puff of smoke, leaving behind only his iconic grin in the duke’s sight.