Scattered throughout the Hrefn Sea, just north of the Kingdom of Aethel, lay the Free Isles of Fjell. Founded independently at various points throughout the Twilight Age, it was eventually determined that the island city-states would benefit from forming a coalition. But among the Free Isles, few were as isolationist as Edelheim, and of the ruling houses, few were as enigmatic as the Drakes. 

King Regnant Sagramor Drake had ruled Edelheim for thirty-five years with minimal interaction with the rest of the Isles, but his health had deteriorated in the succeeding years, so his sons and advisors had largely been ruling in his stead. 

The eldest of his sons, Prince Percival Alarch Drake, had been groomed since birth to rule Edelheim. He had been trained in statecraft since he could walk and had felt the pressure of the crown for just as long. His brothers—Meliodas, Bedivere, and Elyan—had also been trained as competent noblemen, but it was an unquestioned fact that Percival would succeed their father.

~~~

Percival was sitting in his father’s study, poring over various political documents. Usually, Chamberlain Wigan would be the one to take care of this kind of work, but he had been called away on family business. The light of the candle flickered, and Percy felt his eyes begin to glaze over, his eyelids becoming leaden and heavy. 

Just a bit of sleep can’t hurt, he thought, resting his cheek on his hand.

“Your Highness!”

He shot up, the weariness washing away as he hurried to the door. He threw it open to see a thin man in a green cloak, panting and out of breath. The king’s study was at the top of a high tower, and it seemed the poor man had run the whole way up.

“A missive for you, sir.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “It’s the middle of the night. Couldn’t it have waited until morning?”

The courier shook his head and cleared his throat. “No, Your Highness. It’s from High Cleric Ascena.”

Percy’s eyes widened, and he quickly snatched the missive from the courier. Indeed, it held the insignia of the Covenant of Light: two golden rings intersecting. He tore open the seal and quickly skimmed through the letter. He looked back up at the courier and stood up straighter, brushing a stray hair from his eye. 

“Summon my father’s privy council at once.”

The messenger nodded and then dashed back down the stairs.

Once every ten years, every kingdom on the continent would send a representative to a conference, which is usually hosted by the Covenant of Light. For the last century and a half, Edelheim had been excluded from these conferences—until this year, if this missive signed by the High Cleric’s hand was to be believed.

“It’s an insult!” The king’s most trusted advisor, Lord Escanor, slapped his palm on the table, causing the light from the candles to waver slightly.

“Now, now, let’s not jump to conclusions.” Lord Pernam sighed. He was the oldest member of the privy council and had served under Percival’s grandfather, King Demetrus, shortly before his death and had been on the council longer than anyone in living memory. 

“Pernam is right.” Lord Tristam, the final member of the council given Wigan’s absence, crossed his arms. “This could be an olive branch. The High Cleric is not a vindictive woman, and the Covenant gains nothing from the humiliation of Edelheim or the Drakes.” 

Tristam was the youngest in the council, only a few years older than Percy, but was also the only one among them who had any experience outside of Edelheim. He had spent six years in the Empire of Valmera, serving as an advisor to Empress Élisabette D’Mer’s half-brother, Duke Despereaux.

“Your Highness, you are regent in your father’s absence. What say you?” Pernam folded his hands, his large eyebrows falling so low over his dark eyes they were almost completely hidden.

Percy hesitated. The Covenant had never given a reason for excluding Edelheim from the negotiations, nor were they under any obligation to do so. 

Technically based in Aethel, the Covenant of Light was independent from any one country’s jurisdiction, answering to no one but the Gods themselves. This meant denying them would be tantamount to denying the Gods. Furthermore, the High Cleric was the Gods’ direct emissary on earth, which made denying the high cleric exponentially more offensive. 

Percy glanced at the creased piece of paper in the center of the table, the black ink shining in the candlelight. 

“The High Cleric asked for me by name.” Percy cleared his throat. “I don’t see any way that we can refuse such a request without insulting the Covenant and the Gods.”

Tristam nodded. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Escanor didn’t look happy, but the old man never looked happy. Pernam looked content, but at that age, he had figured out how to turn nearly every scenario to his advantage. The one person Percy had never learned how to read was Tristam. There was a twinkle in his eyes, like he always knew more than he let on, and he had a vulpine smile that made Percy’s stomach churn. There was something off about Tristam, something under his waistcoat and perfectly pressed lapel. 

Percy dismissed the privy council and returned to his father’s study. As he began penning a letter to Meliodas, the cawing of the ravens outside his window welcomed the rising dawn.