The trail stopped abruptly, twenty minutes into the tedious trek. The transition between the rocky sand of the steep cliffside and the vibrant, verdant grass of the flat plateau was all but nonexistent. For a stretch of land so much closer to the sky, the field upon it has no business being as rich and luscious as it was, nor, Heiko pondered as his horse stomped gleefully at the grass, did the palace that topped it have any business looking so akin to a heavenly temple, with its tremendous pillars that glittered with gilded veins and marvelously pleasing geometric proportions. 

It was larger than the Achterecht’s castle, but that made sense for the type of government that the Republika of Ilyos had adopted. All official business was conducted in Girigo Palace, which meant it had to be equipped with an entire wing dedicated to housing the members of the Horned Forum and any foreign dignitaries who were serendipitous enough to make it through the front gate.

His family wasn’t so congenial. Decorum be damned, you didn’t allow a stranger into your den. All Simonese business was conducted at Arend Hall, a secondary estate that’s sole purpose was to act as the seat of the king’s witan. Heiko supposed that the Horned King was plucky enough to take joy from having potential enemies so close to his bedchamber.

His horse snorted then, alerting him of the nearing page, who wavered only momentarily before taking hold of his reins.

“Be watchful,” Heiko spoke to the young boy gently - he couldn’t have been any older than ten winters, after all - as he dismounted the beast. “Eiber will nip anyone who doesn’t pay enough attention to him. He doesn’t mean to hurt,” the prince continued, reaching out to stroke Eiber’s withers, “but he doesn’t know his own might.”

“He will be well taken care of.”

The subtle brushing of grass against boot had already cautioned Heiko of someone approaching him from behind, but he wasn’t expecting it to be the commander. Still, he maintained his composure. 

“I should hope so, commander,” he replied without diverting his attention from his needy beast. 

Typically, foreign officials, no matter from where they hailed, would take the lead of those surrounding Prince Heiko - those from the witan or the king’s trusted hirdmen - and treat him as an ornament. A royal seal of flesh and blood, authenticating the Achterecht backing of whatever spewed from their mouths. 

Nobility could be led like lemmings by even the subtlest of suggestions, thinking that they were outsmarting the rest. Perhaps that was precisely why such a thing did not fool Commander Adesso. Common-born men were not afflicted by the necessity to maintain the status quo because it was only in breaking it that they could become great and if ever there was an exemplar of such a feat, it was Celestino Adesso.

It was then that he finally turned to the legend of a man. He was tall for an Ilysian, standing a good hand above Heiko, and even though the prince had a bit more growing still, he would likely never surpass the commander.

His brother Ingo stood at a massive six foot four and Alfred, only a hair beneath him. Heiko, however, was unlikely to sprout beyond six feet – the highest mark of his father, as well – and the prince could confidently estimate that such was Commander Adesso’s height.

His eyes were rich rings of copper, lucid when met with the southern sun. They did not recoil upon first setting eyes on the prince – the way many-a man would, diverting their gaze, angrily stifling how intrigued they were by Heiko’s person. More impressive, still, was how the commander kept his composure back in the receiving tent, even when the prince pushed the limits of propriety and sat beside him in what could only be taken as a blatant gesture of impudence. But all the man did was cross his arms over his broad chest, his gaze steady on Heiko – a feat that even men with double his experience could not manage in the past. Of course, he expected a great deal from the soldier who slayed his father, but something in his gut was unsettled that his reputation did not fall short of the real article.

“Is it you,” his voice had a low timber, soft when delivering neutral words, “that must appraise me now?”

The query struck a chord in Heiko’s belly, tugging the corner of his lip taut and arching his brows in delighted surprise. 

“Is that what you think-”

“Aetheling.”

A voice not so soft undid all that the commander achieved in those short seconds, coiling Prince Heiko’s muscles like the viper that he was endlessly compared to, before a viselike arm hooked around his waist, stealing his balance and making him teeter. 

“Why do you appraise the Iron Lion like a puzzle?” 

Dries’ purrs were delivered in the northern tongue. They made the prince prickle with ire.

“Are you Dries?” Commander Adesso asked in Ilysian, not having at all been affected by the sudden seizure of Heiko - not outwardly, at least.

For reasons unbeknownst to the prince, it made him nauseous, but it was only momentary, soon overwhelmed and overtaken by an emotion far more ferocious.

“He is the hirdman called Dries,” Heiko said to the commander curtly, before turning on Dries with a vicious snarl. “This is your attempt to undermine my authority in front of a legate? Pitiful. Unhand me now, you useless cur.” 

“I think not,” the hirdman countered with an enlivened grin, his firm grip tugging at the prince’s waist. “Now be a good boy and say your goodbyes to the lion, aetheling.”

⚔