“I suppose we ought to start from the beginning,” Bernardo said. “Prince Heiko is the youngest of the Ghost King’s three sons, born in the Year of Trochta, 1039. General Alfred is his elder by seven years and the current king, Ingo, by thirteen.”

Cele hummed. That made the prince twenty summers.

“He was the first Achterecht in eight generations to inherit maternal features.”

The commander furrowed his brow. “Are you referring to his eyes?”

“His eyes,” Bernardo agreed, “his flaxen hair, his fine bone structure - all of these things. His paternal bloodline is known for its consistency in producing hardy people - plain in appearance but intellectually superior.”

“And yet…?” Cele prompted.

The old man exhaled a knowing chuckle. “And yet, Second Prince Heiko took after his mother, Queen Lieka, who hailed from the nomadic tribes of Vion, to Simo’s north. He is her spitting image.” He sighed, gesturing to the tome titled ‘5th-9th Century Proceedings of the Simonese Witan’. “From what I could piece together from our limited intelligence on the current Achterecht generation, the witan was… perturbed by his appearance.”

“Perturbed?” the commander asked.

Bernardo nodded. “What I gathered was that a number of the more pious ealdormen believed that the young prince’s striking features were the result of the queen’s heritage. Vion rejects the gods of Reuzen. They remain heathen, pray to ancestors and spirits of the earth and the sky, believe in curses and magical spells, the whole bit.”

The commander considered that. “So, they believed that Prince Heiko’s appearance was a result of… a magical Vionese spell?”

“Or so it was claimed. Likely,” the old man shrugged, “they were intimidated. It placed the prince in a precarious position.”

Cele furrowed his brow. “A precarious position? As in, people wished him harm?”

“As in, people wished him dead.” The correction was hardly needed. “After what was recorded as ‘attempts on the safety and wellbeing of his person’, King Gotthard decided that it was in the boy’s best interest to leave not only Verglas Castle, but the Kingdom of Simo, altogether.”

“No further explanation was given?” the commander demanded, shocked by the very idea of the Second Prince having to defend his life within the confines of his own home - especially when endowed with the protection of the Achterecht name.

“Gotthard refused to divulge anything more,” Bernardo answered.

Cele looked down in thought. “So, he left Simo. Where did he go?"

The archivist sighed and returned to his desk to rummage through a pile of parchment.

“At the time,” he murmured, squinting to read the documents without his spectacles, “the Enclave of Reuzen was in the possession of Simo.”

When he located the piece for which he had been searching, he offered it to the commander.

“So, he was taken in by the Revenant Horde?” Cele guessed as he scanned the words scrawled over the page. They were in Simonese, which made sense - Reuzen was a sovereign that had no ruler of its own, allowing itself to mold and adapt to the culture and language of its occupier. Not only did it allow for a smoother transition, but it also functioned as a unique way of recording the timeline of each conquering custodian.

“Taken in by them, yes,” Bernardo nodded, gesturing to the record, “but claimed by the Afflatus Temple.”

The commander didn't bother to hide his alarm. The Revenants were warrior monks who knew nothing of fear, beyond that of their gods. The priests of the Afflatus Temple, however, were different beasts entirely.

“The Afflatus?” he murmured, scouring the foreign words until he found it - the seal of the Grand Priestess. It was embossed with gold ink, and consummated with the brown smudge of a dried, bloody thumbprint. Beneath it, read: Heiko Achterecht, Illumined Muse of Ozik. “Ozik.” Cele looked up to the archivist. “The god of song?”

“His realm of authority has grown obscure over the centuries,” Bernardo admitted, “but Reuzen marks him as the master who defends the sanctity of tradition.”

Cele considered that. Giving the prince an obscure god seemed odd, though it was unlike the keepers of Reuzen to offer any mortal - royal or otherwise - such an exalted position simply out of pity, even if it would save their life.

“An Illumined Muse,” he said, “and, yet, he is not residing in Afflatus Temple on holy soil. He is here in Girigo Palace, testing the extent of the king’s leniency."

The comment amused Bernardo. “As I've said, the prince was delivered to the steps of Reuzen during Simonese occupancy. It provided both his family with ease of access.”

“Something they exercised?” asked Cele.

“Oh, quite frequently, indeed.” The archivist reclined back in his chair once again. “He was beloved by his kin. It was said that during their various exploits, Alfred and Ingo would always bring back a trinket or tome that they knew their little brother would enjoy. And at least once a moon cycle, Gotthard, himself, would make the journey to the temple. When Ilyos launched their campaign to retake Reuzen three years ago, that access was threatened.”

The commander crossed his arms over his chest, brow furrowing. “Yes, but even so, that wouldn’t have imperiled the prince. The Mute Laws would’ve protected him on holy ground. The only thing threatened by Ilysian conquest would’ve been visitation from his father and brothers. I’ve heard happy endings more tragic than that."

“He was trapped as a hostage - that was how King Gotthard had worded it when he made the plea to His Majesty.”

Cele jolted in alarm. “No plea was made regarding the Second Prince.”

He was there, by the king’s side for most of the campaign. It was something he would know better than anyone. But the archivist was not jostled by his reaction.

“No,” he agreed, “not specifically. But a plea was made. A plea that was ignored.”

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