When the missive from King Ingo of Simo arrived in Ilyos, it was sent in a small whitewood box, the lid emblazoned with the crest of Clan Achterecht. Along with the letter was the ivory feather of a Simonese snowbird, a creature that had been bred by the royal northern line for centuries. A symbol of goodwill and diplomacy.

The Ilysian king’s response was to send his most trusted commander to receive them – the very same commander who slew King Ingo’s father, not three years prior. It might have seemed to be a callous and unwarranted rejoinder to something meant to mend a broken past, but only to those who knew not the ferality of the Achterecht Clan.

And if Commander Celestino Adesso had learned anything from the single battle he had waged against a snarling Achterecht, it was that they paid no mind to name or status or wealth. It was a singular thing that drew their attention - the way glimmers drew magpies, or honey drew flies - and that was strength.

And that was precisely why that very same commander took up post at the base of the steep, heavily fortified cliff that Girigo Palace was built upon, within a simple canvas reception tent. It was bare, save for a rug, a scattering of chairs – one of which Celestino currently occupied - and a small table that held the whitewood box. Against it, rested his sheathed sword. 

He had been given two commands by his king when he set off that morning. First, receive the northern clan decorously, absent of any and all blood covered memories Celestino harbored of them. Second, should there be even a whiff of duplicity, cut them down with extreme prejudice. 

“Commander.”

Celestino looked up from the letter written in immaculate Ilysian that he had been rereading for the umpteenth time. At the entrance of the reception tent stood his tribune, Dado, with a pressed brow.

“First Prince Alfred is not yet thirty, isn’t that so? Six and one third feet, walnut hair, angry, pale eyes.”

“Wears a scowl like he’s being assaulted by a perpetual malodor?” Celestino added as he folded the letter back up. “Yes, that’s him. You ask as if you did not fight in a battle against him.”

“I wanted to be sure of myself before informing you.”

Cele furrowed his brow. “Informing me of what, Dado?”

“We’ve spotted riders,” the tribune exhaled, crossing his arms over his chest. “A retinue has arrived - undoubtedly Simonese - but the First Prince is not amongst them.”

It was not out of character for the Achterecht’s to pull this sort of nonsense so early into this nearly impossible diplomatic endeavor they’ve decided to craft. In fact, the commander supposed he might have been a bit disappointed if it went off entirely without a hitch. Still, if there was no Achterecht present, there was no discussion to be had with the northern territory.

“How many in their party?” Celestino hummed.

“Five, commander.”

The commander hummed thoughtfully. The way of diplomacy with the Ilysian Republika was almost singularly through the Horned Forum, a cabinet of five councilors hand-chosen by the king himself, of either fame or nobility or, in many cases, both. With the Horned King of Ilyos at its helm, the forum sat at six. It was customary for foreign dignitaries to match that number in their own representatives - to furnish any less would be taken as a great act of arrogance by the Horned Forum and, more to their detriment, a gross display of ineptitude. 

But the extolled Kingdom of Simo was an exception. The exception. As they always were.

“Only five,” Celestino murmured, “and the Polar Wolf is not amongst them.”

Traditionally, if foreign lands wanted relations with Ilyos, it was expected that the king of said land made the journey himself. The practice was far greater than a mere incommodity - it was parlous. Injury to the monarch on the road to Ilyos was always a factor to consider, though such a fate would’ve been far superior to acts of treachery performed in his stead while he was away - but that was precisely why the Horned King of Ilyos did it.

‘Why would I want to ally myself with a man of no appreciable mettle?’ he’d ask past that subtle, cheeky grin he quite fancied. ‘If I cannot share a drink with a man, how can I know the value of his word?’

Of course, the royal creatures that ruled the Paramount of the North had already proved their mettle with steel, sweat, and blood. More than that, the value of a treaty between Simo and Ilyos was commensurate for both parties. When the Horned King agreed to this ‘summit’, he knew damn well that King Ingo would not be lifting his northern ass from his icy throne. He knew damn well that the second born brother - the infamous Polar Wolf of Simo - would be more than ample supplementation for the absence of the king.

And so did Celestino. The fact that the king and his younger brother were each other’s closest companions was almost as commonsensical as knowing the sun provided light. It did not matter from which of their mouths sprung the words - the only difference in them would be the voice through which they were delivered. Whatever King Ingo might have been able to accomplish while on Ilysian soil, First Prince Alfred would have possessed the wherewithal to accomplish the exact same.

“They approach, commander,” Dado informed mutedly.

Celestino sighed, cracking his knuckles. “They always do.”

The Simonese had been heathens for longer than they had worshiped the gods in the heavens, and that disposition remained with them – even in their most pious of priests. They were indeed inclined to be towering people with fair skin, but physical characteristics paled in comparison to the wild spirit they inherited from their godless ancestors.

The commander had met that spirit only once before. His body was vibrating with adrenaline, then, bordering the realm of numbness. His heart pounded loud and fast enough for the droves of his men already slaughtered by the northern wraiths to hear as their heavenbound souls were compelled upward. His ears rang with the crooning of the dying.

Still, in this moment, poised in a position of power, with his sword at the ready, and the scent of some sort of Simonese ploy teasing the tip of his nose, Celestino found himself itching with anticipation. It was not a noble feeling, and the commander had tried so very hard over the long years to construct himself into a noble man. Perhaps he could blame the heathens - was ferality contagious, he wondered. 

Only when Dado took up his chair to Celestino’s right did the commander manage to break away from his musings.

“We weren’t positive of their sincerity even when we assumed General Alfred would be leading the march,” the tribune said, quiet but calm, “so ought we be even less optimistic now?”

Celestino shifted in his chair, half listening to the gentle uptick in noise beyond the tent - a response, he was sure, to the arrival of the foreign retinue. Still, they had some time. Horses would need to be dismounted and led away, the diplomats - whatever be their pedigree - would take a moment to rearrange their skewed trappings, and another to gather themselves into a proper mindset. 

He turned to Dado. 

“We ought to keep our minds clear of any suppositions. We are ready to act with the force of the entire Ilysian army if there is but an inkling of doubt, but they know that and they are not fools. And the royal family has such a tight grip around the necks of their nobility that it doesn’t matter who they send along - the latter would never act against the former. Whatever this is…” He sighed, shaking his head. “It is nothing more than an overt and dangling piece of bait.”

He hoped.

⚔

AN:

If you made it this far, you should definitely hit the subscribe button because love is in the air!!

Just kidding. Definitely not 'love' yet... but how about some steamy tension, instead?

Hope to see you in the next episode!

~ Higgins