Lord Asag of Helvia, Third Legate of the Yarzat Legions, wore no armor the day he was to meet the princes of the South.

When the great iron-studded gates of the Bastion groaned open to disgorge the small party that had thwarted the League for two moons, the lords of the South were prepared for a sight of martial splendor or at least the grim dignity of a high commander.

Their imagination did not meet reality.

Asag rode a sorrel stallion, his hands nowhere near the reins; he guided the beast with the subtle pressure of his stirrups alone. His breastplate seemed as if it had just came out of battle, dented and scarred, but it was the helm that arrested the eye. A massive cave-in sat just below the right temple, a blow so savage it seemed a miracle of the gods that the man’s skull remained in one piece.

The closer he drew, the more the miracle seemed a curse.

His left arm was bound in a crude sling, resting limp and lifeless against his chest. His left thigh was wrapped in heavy bandages, through which a persistent, dark bloom of red seeped with every rhythmic motion of the horse.

Yet, his visor was raised. The face beneath was not that of a victim, but of granite. His features were hard, unyielding, and utterly devoid of the deference a man of his station was expected to show the glittering assembly before him.

Opposite him, the League’s party was a riot of opulence. They shone in the morning light, a sea of silvered steel, gold inlay, and towering crests of silk and plume, all things Asag would have gladly traded his soul to bury a halberd in.

At their center sat the architect himself.

The man was a spectacle of excess. His armor was so heavily gilded that the Legate wondered if the Prince could even draw a breath beneath the weight of his own vanity. With his short-cropped blonde hair and a face that would have been flawless if not for a slight, aristocratic dimple at the bridge of his nose, he looked like a god cast in gold. Or at least he liked to present himself so. No doubt he had never played in the mud. Or ever toiled in his life.

He toyed incessantly with a heavy signet ring, sliding it on and off his finger with a lazy grace.

Asag would have very much liked to shatter those fingers with a stone to see if the gold would still fit over the swelling.

The Princes and Great Lords still waited however. They sat tall in their saddles, their silence an unspoken command for the Legate to begin the customary greetings, as was his duty to men of such high birth.

The Legate obliged them indeed, and he gave them the most beautiful of greeting he could spare.

The green phlegm he had been nursing since the gates opened.

It landed with a wet thud in the grass between the horses.

"I haven’t the patience for a long day of preening," he rasped as he made sure to give each of them a stinkier gaze than the phlegm at their feet. "If you have words to speak, spit them out and be quick about it. If not, turn your beasts around and send your men into the mud. I’ve no desire to see my breakfast again, and the stench of your perfumed arses is beginning to choke my horse."

They were stunned.

And for a long moment, none said anything.

They all sat frozen, their mouths agape, as if the Legate had slapped them with a gauntlet made of filth.

When they found their voice, it belonged to the one who, of all of them, should have stayed put.

For It was the crownless prince who spoke, his face flushing a deep, angry crimson that rivaled the rubies on his breastplate, that never saw one hint of danger.

His hand dropped to the hilt of his gilded sword. "You stand before the sovereign blood of two principalities, commoner! Is this any way to behave before your betters?"

"Drop your hand, Prince," Asag rasped, not even shifting in his saddle. "We both know a stable boy with a broom would put up a sturdier fight than you. I’ve yet to hear a single song of your prowess that wasn’t paid for in gold.

And what behaviour is required to give heed to an unwelcomed guest? Unless the sight of your rotting soldiers wasn’t hint enough. You are not welcome and ought to leave’’

But of course the invitation was not taken.

’’This is my land, and I am meant to fight you all for it.No matter if it is you or that rotten dog-master of yours, which you’d gladly take the piss in your mouth and call it honey! I have yet to see him among those spilling blood. I very well think he has left you here for dead.’’ Piped up the prince, who somehow had the gall to do what he could not at Apurvio.

Rise up to any resistance.

’’Fight me?Have I heard well?The gods has my witness you said that!’’ He laughed as it were the funniest joke he had heard in the longest times. ’’Even now, broken as I am, I could send you to meet your father with one hand and take a piss with the other. Which one of those acts kills you is up to your imagination. And for the love of the gods, stop staring at the scar. My eyes are down here."

Sorza’s jaw worked.

He was indeed looking at the scar. "You—!’’

"Yes, indeed I do," Asag cut him off with a weary groan. "You’d save us all a great deal of time if you understood that I don’t give a cold fuck about your titles. I’ve no desire to speak with you. Go find a ball to play with in the dirt while the adults speak.Only reason you are here is to give you some face, nothing useful will come out of you."

"That is no way to speak to a prince, Lord Asag," Nibadur finally interjected, his voice a cool, stabilizing force before Sorza could choke on his own rage.

It was royal, as the shit he was probably privy to see after dinner.

Asag turned his granite gaze to the Habadian. "Ah, I forgot I was speaking to one, Your Grace. My apologies. Last I checked, the boy lost his crown at Aracina. Did my liege give it back to him? Yes? Pity. It would have made a fine garment for an egg... though we’d have the devil’s own time finding one big enough for it." 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

"Perhaps we would be better off starting the parlay instead of trading insults like tavern brawlers," Nibadur attempted, his patience visibly thinning. As of now, he had hoped to get a move on it.

"Yes. Perhaps we would. Apologies," Asag said, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. "I’ve had two full moons to nurse these insults, you know? There’s only so much time I can spend sending your men to the worms before my mind wanders.

Still, let us begin... I see quite a notable company outside my gate.

His Grace of Habadia, whom I finally have the ’honor’ of meeting, you have given my master quite the trouble, I hope to give you the same coin you have offered him.

And of course,I see the Lord of Aragustaven among you as well... we gave a warm welcome to those mercenaries you hired to raid our caravans, my Lord. Perhaps I’ll have the honor of hosting you in the same ditch if you ever find the courage to lead an assault."

Asag’s gaze drifted down the line, to the pair of suns. "And I haven’t forgotten our dear Prince of Oizen, and the poor youngling he saw fit to dress in harness.’’ It was the first time he had seen Sorzas’ younger brother, but is attention came as it went ’’ Is that your brother or your sister over there, Prince? Stop squirming in the saddle, boy, or you’ll go balless to your wedding night."

"I had hoped," Nibadur said, his voice hardening, "that we would be able to conduct an honorable parlay, my lord. One befitting men of our station.This is the third time I recall vulgarity in your words."

Asag laughed, at that, a motion that ended in a painful wince that pulled the scar closer to the eye. "Honorable? I’ve yet to find the honor or nobility in your way of war. Tell me, which book of chivalry teaches the virtue of hollowing out rotting, plague-ridden corpses and flinging them over my walls with catapults? Is that the conduct of ’betters’?"

Nibadur’s eyes narrowed. "And I have yet to find the honor in the slaughter of surrendered knights, or the way your Fox leaves the dead to be picked by crows rather than granting them a grave."

Asag shrugged, his left shoulder hitching awkwardly in its sling. He winced as a fresh throb of pain shot through his arm, his fingers twitching. "I suppose," he grunted from the pain, that however did not dim the smile on his face, "that we both lost our ’right conduct’ under the bed a long time ago. War is a filthy business, I’d say. Able to make devils out of angels.

There is some dark spirit in all men that summons the worst of us when we get steel in our hands."

"Then perhaps," Nibadur said, leaning forward slightly, "it is time we find it anew. Before, there is nothing left of the South but a charnel house."

"Oh, is that an offer I hear? Peace terms? Very well, speak your due; the very least I can do is listen...All-knower know I only did the talking.’’