He was not overly fond of the boy. Simen was soft and dull and lacked any sort of obvious skill, but there wouldn’t be much for him to have to do during the armistice, all things considered.
I’m sure even he can handle that.
Simen Lowe grinned, spreading dimples across his freckled face. “T-thank you, my king. I won’t disappoint.”
“Come. March with me, baron,” Emery offered.
Emery removed his crown, replacing it with a visored helm adorned with floral engravings for the ride. He handed his prized crown to his new squire.
Artima Lowe fell into line with the king and prince while his cavalry separated into two equal halves to guard the flanks of the infantry in precise formation. Simen Lowe, the king’s new squire, rode just behind his father and the king.
The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, yet there were no clouds overheard. No one mentioned the approaching storm; there were too many other things to worry about.
“How’s the arm treating you, lad?” Artima asked, glancing over to Petir.
“No better, no worse,” Petir said, leaning forward to try and hide his slinged stump from view. The last thing he wanted to do was talk of his humiliating injury.
The Old Bear grunted. “We will find justice for what happened to you, my prince. Tobius would be a madman to ignore such a threat of power.” Artima gestured towards his cavalry.
Emery cut in. “I must urge you both to let me handle Tobius Seynard. He still holds my daughter captive, and we will not be throwing idle threats in his direction unless I am the one to do it. We must face the Caldaeans as a unified front. Is that understood?”
“Of course, my king,” Artima bowed.
Petir nodded just once. Emery knew his son had a lot he wanted to say to both Wesley and Tobius Seynard after what had happened in Andervale, but this would not be the time nor the place for it.
Within ten minutes, Emery’s forces had reached the outskirts of Tellersted. The main road narrowed where there more densely packed houses and branching streets.
The curious, fearful eyes of townspeople watched over them with uncertainty from street corners and windows. Many scurried away like rats or ushered their children indoors.
Emery did not want to bring his army into the town itself, merely have them on standby and as a show of strength. From the height of the Citadel, the enormous army must have appeared daunting.
Emery slowed Midnight down and ordered his soldiers to a halt.
“Ser Yelin, you will have command of the camp while we meet with the Seynards,” Emery said to his royal guard. “Keep our men out of Tellersted. We want to make a statement, not a threat.”
Ser Yelin rode down the ranks of the infantry, barking instructions to set up camp and delegating responsibilities to the sergeants, all the while ensuring order was kept.
Half-stature Anai began doing their duties, hammering nails into the ground to pitch tents, and setting up supply caches around the camp.
Emery rode on into the town with an entourage of well-armed bodyguards, Artima and Simen Lowe, and his son Petir, at a steady trot.
Midnight’s hooves clapped against the cobblestone road at a regular, soothing beat. Emery straightened his posture, sitting as upright as he could to project a kingly presence.
Riding in from the easternmost road, they passed by confused patrons at the Two Horns Inn. No threats, shouts or curses were hurled their way, yet Emery could see in their suspicious eyes that the commoners still held resent towards the kingdom of Ashen.
Most of the dead-eyed drinkers sipped their ales and stared. A newly-carved Moon Mother statuette hung from the front door to the inn.
The walls of the Citadel at the centre of the town were remarkable, built higher than the outer walls of Tellersted itself, like the fortified heart of the settlement.
At the outer gate with an unimpressed look upon his face was Baron Bennet Decaster. The ginger man had beady little eyes and a mop of orange, oily hair atop his thick head. He stood with a group of guards, crossing his arms at his chest.
“Baron Decaster, always an honour,” Emery greeted, lifting his visor. He tried his best to not sound sarcastic, despite loathing the pretentious fool.
Decaster, formally an Ashen lord, had been bitter towards the eastern kingdom since the Caldaean takeover.
Decaster had taken on to his new lieges a little too quick for Emery’s liking, tearing down statues around town dedicated to the Chantry and replacing them with effigies of the Moon Mother.
It’s hard to believe they were once our people. They had altered their entire customs and religion practically overnight and punished residents unwilling to change.
Rumour had it that Decaster ordered his guards to burn any blasphemer at the stake in the light of the Moon Mother soon after the takeover had occurred.
“King Emery,” Decaster huffed, refusing to bow when most others would, “back so soon to our humble town? I recall you coming through on your way to Andervale not two weeks past, if I am correct?”
“Yes, I’m afraid we had to cut our visit to the capital short.”
“I hear that’s not the only thing that was cut short,” Decaster said, eyeing Petir with a grin.
Petir clenched his jaw, looking about ready to pounce from the back of Fury and launch himself at the weaselly baron. Emery, however, was glad that the prince met the insult with no response other than a spiteful glare.
“You have all the charm of a wet sock, Decaster,” Artima Lowe shouted pompously, loud enough that the people around them could hear it clearly.
“You know why we’re here,” Emery said.
“Oh, yes, of course. You are here to meet King Tobius! Silly me, I assumed you were here to exchange witty banter with
