Celestino was off-put Hirdman Dries, but in many ways, more so towards the rest of the Simonese retinue, who had witnessed the maltreatment of their prince and did nothing but turn a blind eye. 

But Dries, though… he alone was the one who placed the commander in such a straitened position. Blindsiding Prince Heiko amidst a discussion with a foreign official - no matter how paltry that conversation might have been - and right within arm’s reach of Celestino, the commander’s first instinct was to assist the viper. That sentiment was only driven deeper when the hirdman opened his mouth.

But when the prince smiled at him, it was like a blade cleaving through his foggy apprehension. An ingenuous gesture, or so it was meant to seem - to all but the commander, that is. In fact, it was almost unsettling how swiftly he was able to decipher the viper’s wordless declaration.

‘They do not know you speak Simonese. But I do.’

But it was hardly the time to be pondering the implications of it. Not as Celestino led the Simonese dignitaries down the brilliant west wing of Girigo Palace, towards an anteroom designed to house foreign ambassadors summoned by the Horned Forum. His focus needed to be unencumbered. 

As they crossed under the threshold of the chamber, they were met with the purposeful ornamentation of bright, glistening fixtures and dazzling beams of light, painted vivid colors as they filtered through the grand, stained-glass windows on the east wall. Such opulence, while invariably spread throughout the entirety of the palace, was reserved in this obvious abundance for the Assembly Hall and its antechamber, only – an overt display of the Republika’s wealth and might.

Palace servants robed in pale green stolae attended them at once with trays of refreshments, that were meant to be taken with haste – merely something to wet their tongues and dissuade impertinence. The Horned Forum was already gathered and awaiting the northern heathens. They would not allow them to indulge on the Forum’s time. 

On the south wall were the massive, white oakwood doors of the Assembly Hall, constructed with iron studs older than the Republika itself. Celestino had given flesh and blood for the sake of his king, as many soldiers had, but the difference was, he did not stop there. He was nineteen when he settled the pervasive dispute between the southernmost city-states and bolstered King Vincente’s iron-fisted reputation as a newly crowned monarch. Twenty when he freed the Haroman islanders from the imperial, domineering suzerain that was draining their resources and young, able-bodied men. Twenty-five when he killed the Ghost King and claimed the Enclave of Reuzen in the name of the Republika. His compensation for all of that was the ability to sit on the other side of those doors – compensation that was well worth the price.

“Commander.”

Celestino might have been jarred by the presence of the prince - who materialized beside him like an ethereal creature that took pleasure in startling the wits from men - had it not buzzed like an eminent thunderstorm upon his noiseless arrival.

“Second Prince.” He did not turn to gaze upon the fair aristocrat, nor his palpable smirk.

“May the gods witness this revolutionary occasion with grace,” Prince Heiko said, and as the sentries worked the doors until they gave way with a low and tired creak, he tacked on, “and may they not smite us where we stand.”

Celestino bit the inside of his cheek, knowing damn well he ought not have replied - stoking a flame of the north only led to painful burns. But how could he help himself?

“Why,” he posed hushedly to the prince, “would the gods smite us?”

“Why?” 

It was nothing but a whisper as the sentries stationed themselves on either side of the now unobstructed threshold, revealing the august and magnificent sight of the Horned Forum – floors of immaculate, white marble; walls garlanded with gilded trim; silk and velvet curtains tied back away from the narrow, skylight windows. A magnificence that the prince could not be bothered to bat an eyelash at. And as he turned to face the commander with a knowing grin, Celestino could not help this time but to give in and gaze back.

“Because if we forge peace,” - the prince’s lips moved with heavenly grace - “whose blood will sustain them on Reuzen Field?”

And his words with heavenly gravity. So much that they weighed the commander’s brow. He was not a pious man, but his stomach, which twisted viciously, seemed entirely unapprised of that fact. Moreover, such a query ought not have been accompanied by the sportive tone with which it was delivered, yet Celestino could find no malignancy in it.

Whose blood will sustain them on Reuzen Field? 

The words rolled over in his mind once more as he turned towards the Horned Forum, who were buzzing with impatience.

He supposed they would find out soon enough, he figured, stepping under the grand threshold and into the chambers.

“Your Majesty.” 

His voice boomed across the room, bouncing from tiled floor to vaulted ceiling, until it reached the ears of every seated member. Directly ahead, King Vincente sat upon a cushioned throne of mauve-dyed velvet, watching with a glinted gaze. He was an Ilysian through and through, with clear copper skin, blessed by the sun, and a thick mane of walnut curls that held in place the golden circlet upon his crown.

Five inferiorly ornate thrones flanked him, four of which were occupied. Only Celestino’s remained empty.

He swept his left arm towards the viper. 

“I present to the Horned Forum the ambassador of the Kingdom of Simo, Second Prince Heiko of Clan Achterecht.”

A quiet ripple of tension sprung to life amongst the legates, but just as Celestino expected, the king remained equable, settling his keen gaze upon the prince with such staidness that one might have easily concluded that it was this Achterecht for whom he had been waiting all along.

“Prince Heiko.” He disbarred the young man’s ordinal designation entirely, employing an unprecedented intonation of reverence. “Welcome to the Republika of Ilyos. We are all graced by your presence.”

But Vincente’s disingenuous match was met with Heiko’s cloying response – a smile so marvelously bright that some buried instinct within the commander was plucked, tightening the muscles of his stomach. He broke his gaze from it swiftly and crossed the marble floor to assume his seat to the king’s right. When he settled, he made a concerted effort to keep his eyes away from the viper.

“The honor is mine, Your Majesty.” The prince’s once cheeky and taunting tone now took such a drastic shift that Celestino couldn’t help the twitch of his brow. His timbre carried with it a command of authority and sangfroid that seemed to blindside even his own retinue – forget entirely the cabinet of legates observing him meticulously.

Just like that morning on Battered Field, Prince Heiko sprung to life, giving the commander no choice but to maintain vigilance as he approached the crescent of seated legates with graceful presumptuousness, paying no heed to the subtle alarm the action instilled within them. When he finally took pause, it was three meters from the king - closer than even a patrician of the land would dare without permission. Still, nothing about the exploit indicated to Celestino a nefarious intent, nor even a play on power and, considering the aplomb of the king, the thought was mutual.

“King Vincente, as a member of Clan Achterecht and, therefore, a representative of the will of the Kingdom of Simo,” the prince began again, his eyes alight with something Celestino could not apprehend, let alone decipher - something contagious, “I thank you for your kind consideration. We both have blood on our hands - I look forward to cleansing them, together.”

⚔