"How many did we lose?" 

Twined arms of smoke swirled up and around Clay's clasped hands, trailing from his cigarette as he leaned his arms upon his knees. 

"Doctor Richmond put the final tally at fifteen dead, twelve wounded that are likely to die in the next few days or won't recover from their wounds, and seven wounded expected to recover, but he asked for permission to keep all the wounded under observation for the time being, just in case something strange happens."

"He has it. Tell him to make sure to mark everything down, I don't want any detail missed.'

"I'm sure he will."

"Yeah...you're right." 

Clay, Prim, and the 4th company had taken five riverboats down the length of the Conheller River to reach the fishery, dismounting a ways upstream to creep through the night towards the building. In the morning light, and after leaving enough soldiers behind to guard the prisoners, they only have enough soldiers still on their feet to get three of them moving. 

"And one of them solely for the dead..."

"You've got that look in your eyes again," Prim stated quietly, aware of the soldiers on the boat with them. She casually glanced off the prow of the boat, but the statement hung in the air.

"What look?"

"The one you wear every time something like this goes sideways. Like it's your fault. Your mother hates it when you look so forlorn."

Someone on a boat behind Clay's started playing a lims; a rectangular, wooden wind instrument with a series of levers on the top that the player uses to modify the internal channel of the instrument and by extension it's sound. He didn't recognize the tune, but it pulled on his heart just that much more. 

"I assure you, I don't have 'that look'. Even if I did, I'll be sure to wipe it off my face by the time I see her next." 

"You know that's not what I'm saying..." 

"I do. And yet it's what I'm saying." He pulled his cigarette from his mouth and tossed it off the edge of the boat. It vanished into the fog before he heard a faint splish on the water's surface. "I know you're trying to say the casualties aren't my fault. Even if that was true, as their commander it was-" The image of the riverboat deck covered in cloaked forms flashed in his mind. "-and is my duty to get them home." 

"That may be so, but you can't hold it against yourself when you can't-"

"I know. It was the first lesson my father taught me and my siblings, and I keep it close to my heart. That's all that needs to be said about it." His tone allowed for no argument. Prim looked like she wanted to, but she held her tongue.

"Yes sir." 

Around them, and in the other boats, soldiers sat on the decks, back to back, sleeping off the exhaustion of the previous night in the early morning light. Clay was glad that his godly status let him go without sleep much longer than mortals, but he couldn't blame them. As the lims-player kept their song going, a soft voice began to float through the fog and to his ears. 

He laid his chin onto his laced fingers and listened. The voice was melodic, light, and soothing. He couldn't tell from where it danced, the fog obscured the origin, but he was fairly certain that it wasn't from his men.

"Must be onshore then."

Even as they floated on, each boat pushed by a pair of men carrying long poles that could reach the bottom of all but the deepest parts of the Conheller, the voice kept up with them without effort.

The soldiers still awake swayed lightly with the song, a few mouthing the words Clay didn't know. Others slowly closed their eyes and were finally able to forget the twisted thing they had seen and fall asleep. Clay felt his own eyes flutter down as he scanned the boat around him. One of the men pushing the ship along danced in place like the pole in his was a partner.

"What song is that?" Clay asked, still fighting the soothing effect it was having.

"Moon of the Heart," Prim responded. 

"I don't think I know that one."

"Really? It's the apple of the theater's eye as of late." 

"The theater is your place of residence more than mine." 

"I keep inviting you out. You could take the chance to relax, and learn something that isn't from your dusty old tomes."

"Where do you think they get those plays, and where do you think they go, other than dusty old tomes?"

"Then why don't those lines make it into your mental library?"

"Well, you see-" A strong breeze came across the river's surface, stopping Clay's moth-eaten answer. It felt nice and cleared the fog temporarily, letting a clear view of the river through. The riverboats were closer to Stormspring than Clay thought.

The brick facades of the waterfront brought him momentary comfort, a few scattered shops amongst the warehouses and docks. More bars and pubs than housing, catering to the riverboat crews that brought grains, fruits, and meats from the easter side of the country into the city. Behind those, he knew that the heart of the city beat. 

After the waterfront, the buildings got nicer, for a time, streets thinning out as they separated into the veins of the city and headed to different sections. Theater Square, 'Fort Auberge', Charcoal Avenue, and other such places that the cities populace flow in and out of on the daily like a tide.

The boat bumped into the dock, and the sound of the other three followed. Dockworkers moored it off while soldiers slowly shuffled their way off the boat, boots thumping and rifles clattering. Few words were spoken, and tired eyes peered out from under dark-colored brims.

"Captain Baird, get the wounded and the dead to the hospital, then return to camp!" Prim raised her voice as she stepped off the riverboat, leaving clay alone with his thoughts. "And make sure everyone here gets a week's furlough, no exceptions."

"Yes, ma'am" The captain's voice came from out of sight.

Still sitting, Clay watched his men unload. Then the bodies were lifted out. A few dockworkers helped load the covered ones onto carts. The melodic voice still sang and Clay looked back for it, for a respit from the site of white sheets. Peering past small boatss, piles of crates, and containers, and through crowds of early morning dockworkers clocking in, he could see the source.

Just turning down a nearby road that would take them out of sight was a horse-drawn cart that held a family. The horses were directed by a fatherly looking man with a large mustache, a motherly woman, and what had to be a set of sisters, two of them. The one singing looked to be the older one, with brunette hair like the rest of her family flowing in the breeze that kept the fog away. By Clay's estimation, they were both in their second decade. 

He knew he did as well, but it got hard to tell on mortals when his face had looked the same, other than occasional scarring, for several decades now. 

Before they completed their turn, the singer noticed the soldiers at the dock, and waved a hand, her sister perking up and joining in a moment later. Some of the soldiers waved back and others nodded their heads. Clay did neither, his mind wandering back to the night's combat, though his eyes followed the cart of their own volition. 

As the cart completed its turn and rolled out of sight, he saw both of their mouths quirk downwards in a sort of disappointed pout in his direction in the same moment, their faces disappeared around the corner. 

"Major General!'' Came a shout accompanied by the clattering of shod hooves on cobblestone. 

"What now?" Clay thought as he stood and looked towards the voice. A rider in Laidrian uniform sat upon the back of a horse made for running. As the horse cantered across the cobbles, then the dock, Clay voiced his question. 

"I take it you have a message for me, soldier?"

"Yes sir," He reached into a satchel at his side, removing a letter that bore a navy blue wax seal. "Straight from the king himself." 

"Truly?" 

"Truly sir, saw him dry and seal it myself."

"I see... Thank you. Dismissed." 

The rider turned his horse around and gave a small salute as Clay opened it. Prim took notice and stopped her directions towards the soldiers and dock workers.

"What's it say? New orders?" Prim inquired, coming back over to the side of the boat with a quizzical look. 

"Not quite... Looks like his highness has requested my presence at the palace."

"Does it say why?"

"No, but you know Baily. He likes to take his reports in person, and I imagine he's already heard a bit about last night." 

"More than likely. Do you want me to come with?" 

"I'd rather let you rest." 

"Neither you, nor I need to sleep, Clay."

"I might not have to, but I certainly would like to after what happened. No, just make sure the men are squared away and that the rest of the remains of that thing are in a secure place." 

"Family vault?"

"I'd rather avoid keeping it in either of our houses, if it can be avoided for the time being." 

"Deposit box?"

"That may be too close to the public, I think."

"True... What about the naturalist society? They'll keep an eye on it and take proper precautions."

''I suppose that's the best we have right now."

Prim patted a little leather pouch attached to her belt. 

"I'll make sure it gets there. You, however, should get going."

"I will, don't worry." 

With that, Prim retrieved a horse from a nearby soldier and mounted up. It wasn't hers, but he knew Prim didn't like bringing out her preferred horse for business travel.

"Just head back home when you're done, I'll send a runner if something comes up." 

"Will do, Clay."

Prim rode off, leaving Clay alone in the boat again. He didn't move right away, preferring to make sure everything was heading in the right direction first. Captain Baird lead the standing soldiers away, casually marching down the side of a wide road. Carts and people did their best to clear the way. Their column not an uncommon sight in the capital city. The carts carrying the wounded rolled off, with the one carrying the dead not far behind. Though they would end up in different places, their path was the same. 

It took them longer to disappear from sight, many people in the street clearing out more quickly, a few making their own signs of reverence. Many just gave them a resolute look. 

When they had passed out of view, Clay finally stood with a slight wearied groan. Many of the dock workers were giving him sidelong glances anyways, so he figured it was time to go. Stepping onto the dock, he made his way to a relatively clear section of ground, placed his thumb and middle finger just inside his mouth, and whistled. The sound had a high-pitched resonance to it, and many of the workers stopped to look at the strange display. 

Clay worked out a tune that slowly rose and fell. 

In front of him, a pool of light bubbled up, similar to the light of the stars he called up and that danced in his eyes. It expanded outward, flowing like water. When it stopped, it lapped at the very tips of his boots, but was otherwise serene. A large silver-gold puddle just sitting on the ground.

Suddenly, a large form burst forth, trailing the metallic liquid. It leapt from the pool, a set of shod hooves unleashing a loud crack as they impacted the cobblestones and sent sparks flying. It looked like a horse, and technically was, but it was also something more. Much like the gods were to mortals, this was to horses. Known as a scoradger, this was a breed fit for a god. It was certainly a fit for Clay.

It was as big as a warhorse should be, if not slightly bigger, with a black coat that seemed to shimmer when it caught the wind just right. After Clay had bonded with it, that shimmer took on the same color as his stars. It's mane seemed constructed from pure silver light, but it still flowed like horse-hair, and it's eyes shared that same coloration. 

After trotting a circle, Lost whinnied at Clay and pushed a curious nose towards his head, bending the brim of his hat down in front of his eyes. He pet Lost's neck, and gave the horse a firm pat on the shoulder.

"How you doin' boy?" 

Lost snorted.

All of Lost's tack was already in place, saddle and all. A black and charcoal afair, a more unique version of the standard saddle for Ladrian cavalry that matched both the horse and Clay's uniform. Clay grabbed the opal saddlehorn, put a boot in a stirrup, and hoisted himself up and into place. 

With slight nudge of his spurs, Clay set off towards the heart of Stormspring.

The city was as bustling as it ever was. Carts of people and goods, raw and finished, as well as other solo riders built a relatively constant traffic even in the industrial portion of the city. Once Clay passed out from under the massive edifices of the factories and their smokestacks, more pedestrians were added to the mix at the same rate the streets became cleaner.

He turned onto a wide avenue that he knew was the main artery of the city, practically cutting it in two. Willow Alley.

It was wide enough that a series of arborsculpted fruit trees and godcrafted statues of the nation's past heroes bisected the two sides of the road. Knights and kings intermingling between statesmen, rangers, and soldiers. Some of them even changed positions under their own power at different times of day or other criteria like holidays and celebrations. He knew a few of the statues were related to him, at least tangentially, and often liked to let Lost do the walking when he passed through the area, taking in the city and its history as it passed around him. Even as he did, the back of his mind poked at him so that he didn't forget how much of a problem that street would be if the city ever came under attack. An annoying habit, but a useful one for his line of work.

Today, however, the king's missive weighed on his mind, and he rode with his eyes cast to the ground. Not to mention the letter his father had sent in the middle of the night, while he knew Clay was on assignment, with no prior reason. I sat in his breast pocket with surprising weight.

"Do not take 2nd corps away from the city..." Clay ran the simple message through his head again. "It bore father's seal, written in the family dialect, and yet that's all he said...." 

For all he knew, Clay's father was in town and would most likely be at the meeting Clay was heading, given his position as Field Marshal. Second corps, along with most of the other corps that made up the 3rd army, were still stationed in a ring around the city. 

"Why not tell me then, or make the order official so as to not be messed with by whatever father thinks is going on to make this necessary?" 

As he rode, he passed through commercial and residential areas alike, knowing he could easily turn down a street up ahead if he wanted to abandon the meeting to attend his favored barroom. A childish thought, he admitted to himself, brushing off a king to get a drink. 

Perhaps he could indulge the inner child another time when things weren't so strange. 

His time riding was approaching forty-five minutes when the royal district came into view. A grand stone arch stood over the road as he turned off of Willow Alley, one that matched the others that stood at other roads that went into the royal district. It was more like a block of black marble with an arched shape carved out of its bottom to let people pass through and it blocked the sun from as clay passed underneath. 

The royal district itself was like something out of the books Clay's mother used to read him in comparison to the section of the city he had just left. The bustle was immediately left behind, replaced with a few scattered carriages and high-riding men in suits. There weren't even any guards at the archway, yet it was like there was a wall between this district and the last. 

Around him, buildings and paths were ringed by finely trimmed topiaries and manicured lawns. Each building, with its glittering windows, had its importance here. The Office of Public and Military Records, The Agricultural League's headquarters, and a dozen other small buildings loosely surrounded the real jewel of the district. 

The Citizen's Palace. 

Once called the Palace of Iron but renamed by the current king to be less...imperial, it was now where the General Assembly and the King himself held court. 

It was separated from the rest of the buildings in the district with a wrought iron gate, though the gate sat open with a collection of soldiers standing at attention. He knew before he looked that there were more. Sharpshooters hidden from view on the roofs and balconies by glasssilk cloaks. An idea from Clay's younger brother. 

Riding in through the gate with a nod at the soldiers that saluted him, an attendant was waiting by the palace's front door, who took Lost when Clay dismounted in the shade provided by the Palace's impressive edifice.

"Major General Coffee, it is good to see you at the palace again." 

"Philomon, the pleasure is mine as always." Clay only knew him by his first name, no family name had ever been given. He was sure that there were more objectionable things that could be said about a king's right-hand man, though none of them were ever said about Philomon. 

"The King has been waiting for your arrival since before the sun rose. Pacing, as usual."

"I thought I might be walking into something like that." 

"He's in the usual place, as is your father and masters Jackson and Michael." The fact that both of Clay's younger brothers were at the palace made him frown, but he didn't say anything. Philomon caught it anyways. "It was a specific request from your father, though he did not share with me as to why." 

"Thank you Philomon, I'll head in then. Wouldn't want to keep everyone waiting." 

"Of course, sir." 

The doors of the palace seemed to open of their own volition, and Clay stepped into the cooled interior. Certainly, a relief from the sun beaming down onto him. He was never a big fan of the sun on its bright days, in any case. Certainly thankful that the uniform he wore included a wide brim.

The floors were the same material as the Guardian Arches that stood at the entrances of the royal district, that same black granite. Clay's boots clicked loudly on it, echoing in the solitude around him. Not a soul in sight, in any hallway he traversed or any room he glanced into. He swore he could see the bottom of a shoe or the heel of a foot rounding a corner just as he turned down one himself. They always seemed to be going in the same direction as him, but he never caught up, nor even caught a better glance at the limb he was seeing.

Not unusual for the meetings he usually had with the king, but he had never quite gotten used to it. 

Finally, he reached the large doors that opened into the king's assembly. For a moment, he thought of lighting a cigarette before he went in but thought against it in the same breath. His father would just try and convince him to use a pipe again. 

Instead, he took a breath and exhaled, placing a hand on either door and pushed his way in. Either because of his strength or some godcrafting in their fibers, it took almost no effort.

The room itself was huge. It could have fit a regular-sized house in the city within its confines with relative comfort. On either side of Clay, rows of seats climbed up the wall on the opposite side of a banister. Usually, they'd be full of senators, officials, and other interested parties conversing, shouting, and making amiable or rude gestures at each other. Mercifully, they sat empty and silent at the moment. 

On the far side of the room, at the precipice of a set of stone-carved stairs, sat what would be the king's throne. Minimal in its design, simply carved from the same stone as the floor, but not lacking the imperial stature that a king's seat should have. A bit more strangely, it too sat empty. 

Looking at the six sets of familiar eyes that regarded him now, he found the king standing at the side of a large table carved from fine dark wood. His gaze was friendly enough, but perhaps far too intense to really sell the feeling. The face, expression aside, was a strong face. Cut deep with lines, like wind-worn rock. A neatly trimmed goatee surrounded his mouth and covered his chin. His eyes were deeply set, and even now looked ancient beyond belief. Like the eyes of a statue placed in a mortal head. Behind the king's shoulder, the recently familiar face of Philomon looked on cordially. Clay had learned to ignore the fact that the kings aide tended to simply appear where he was needed. To the king's right, stood the charcoal-clad forms of the rest of the Coffee family present.

Clay's father, the largest man in the room, stood between his younger sons. Broad shoulders decorated in silver braids befitting his position as Field Marshal, and a host of medals clinking on his chest.

Micheal, the oldest son under Clay, was almost as tall, and just as broad. The cinnabar band threaded through his hat marked him as being trained as agrenadier, and if there ever was a better example of the classification, Clay had not seen it. Clay wasn't small, but Mac still stood most of a head taller than him.

Jackson, the third oldest of the Coffee children, was also the smallest of the trio. Not as broad as either of his older siblings, nor as tall, yet he had a litheness about him that immediately indicated he was quick on his feet, and the coin he casually walked across his fingers furthered the image. 

"My king." Clay snapped off a salute. "You requested my presence?"

"I did, Major General, in response to your operation last night. To say the reports I received were out of the ordinary would be an understatement."

"I can imagine, sir."

"Care to fill in the gaps?"

"Of course, sir." Clay leaned his hands onto the table. The sixth person in the room made a face, probably thinking on the lack of decorum or some such, he but kept his tongue. "Last night, after sunset, I took a company of second corps to the Kinnard Fishery, out on the coast."

"As per my orders."

"That's correct. When we arrived, we found exactly what your agents had described. Some sort of smuggling deal. The assault went normally, bar one ship, labeled as the Kempral, that got away in the chaos-"

The sixth figure smirked, all self-assured. Lieutenant General Zaccheus Barnet, an average-sized knife-edge of a man with skin tanned by a lifetime of sun and marching. Where it gave Clay's father a worldly air, it left Barnet looking gaunt. 

"-is there something you have to add, Lieutenant General?" 

"Nothing at all, I'm just simply surprised that you let a whole third of the enemy slip away, what if they are the ones that hold the key to this mystery?" His voice was on the lighter side, with little base,  and his tone showed what he thought of the term 'mystery'. 

"And how do you expect that we should have given chase? I'm no god of shipwrights, nor sailors, Lieutenant General. Even if the smuggler's other ships were in any condition to be sailed anywhere, and they weren't, we never would have caught them. We'd reach the bottom of the ocean floor before we ever managed to catch a trained crew, Lieutenant Gen-"

"Clayton, please-" The king interjected. "Continue with your report. And Lieutenant General, please keep your comments to a minimum unless it's actually relevant."

Barnet's self-assured smirk didn't disappear but his face took on a glass-like quality at the reprimand. Clay huffed but continued.    

"In any case, once it was over we noticed certain... irregularities."

"How so?" The king asked with a thumb and forefinger gripping his chin.

"Well, as we were sorting through the bodies and interrogating prisoners, it looks as if our mystery crew used the chaos to clean house. Seems everyone who could have known about the meeting met an end from someone standing next to them."

The king didn't make a noise but cocked a brow. Barnet had even dropped his expression for something more intent on listening.

"Whoever it was that got away, managed to do it cleanly. Not a single trace. Can't even give an initial heading, as before the ship had even gotten out to the deep water, it vanished."

"Vanished?" The lieutenant general asked.

"The ship let off a light bright enough to blind me temporarily, and several of my men in a more permanent fashion, before disappearing completely. I can only assume that it was transported somewhere.

"The whole ship? The sort of power that would take would-" Barnette started, before clay cut him off.

''Either an immense amount of prep or a rather ancient god, yes, Lieutenant General. We discussed the possibility at the time." Before Barnet could snap a retort, Clay continued. He heard Jack chuckle, and barely suppressed a smile himself. "After that we, that being Colonel Primrose Ghest and myself, descended to examine the holds of the ships we had wrecked." 

He reached into his coat and pulled a small vial containing the long since cooled remains of the creature he and third company had fought. He was taken aback for a moment when the blob at the bottom caught light coming through the windows and took on a purple glow and let a breath suddenly caught in his throat release when it vanished as he removed it from the light.

"In the hold of a ship named the Red Hawk, we found an artifact of sorts. A large glass cube, they had it labeled in their invoice as a 'singing cube', covered in carvings, hovered in mid-air under its own power. Moments after we uncovered the object, it reacted as if it possessed a will of its own and transformed into some sort of skeleton. Its proportions were all off, but it was certainly deadly. Just as strong as me, and fast as the wind."

"Was it some sort of godcrafted golem?" Asked the King, finally breaking his stoic silence.

"Of that... we are unsure." The lukewarm response caused everyone listening, bar Philomon, to look troubled. "Mundane bullets bounced off the thing as if it was divine in some way and a godsbane round seemed to actually hurt it, yet when it skewered me clean through the wound closed up as if it wasn't divine at all." 

Jack and Micheal leaned towards each other, exchanging hushed words. Well, Jackson spoke in a hushed tone while Mac nodded. Philomon cupped a hand to the king's ear and whispered something that king bailey nodded at. His father looked like he was both weighing what had been said and appraising Clay for injury.

"Whatever it was, it was tough. Even when we thought we'd shattered the damn thing-" He shook the vial. "-its little fragments took to the air and started shredding my men before coming back together. When I finally succeeded in killing it, in no small part to my soldiers putting themselves in harm's way, it melted down like mundane glass."

He rolled the vial across the table, and the king picked it up to appraise it.

Everyone was silent as he turned it over in his hands, then handed it to Philomon. 

"And you have no idea what it was?"

"No idea, sir. I've never seen anything quite like it." 

"And you say it stabbed you, yet it was like a blow from a mortal?" 

"It did indeed, sir." 

"The strength that thing would have needed to do so..." 

"I've avoided thinking about it until this very moment, but had the blow been at chest height instead of the waist, that thing could have killed me outright."

"Let us be thankful that you're still amongst the living, then. I'll give the Songbirds this information and see what the net catches." His gaze still had that intensity it had before, but now held a pensive edge to it. "The songbirds also mentioned the smugglers had a god with them? I take it was one of the crews that didn't get away." 

"That's correct sir, though..." Clay felt a twinge of embarrassment. "The god in question managed to flee."

Again, that self-assured smirk found its way onto Barnette's worn features, though Clay didn't acknowledge it. 

"Some sort of god related to water or the ocean itself. Colonel Ghest reported that she managed to land a blow, but he shot off like a startled minnow once he was in the water." 

"I see... I will admit, I did not think I was going to hear anything like this when I sent the summons for you."

"I'm sorry, sir." 

"Don't be. In fact, I think this may be able to play into our next step." Without any sort of indication to do so, Philomon stepped to the table and started moving objects around the table before starting to unfold a large paper map and laying it out. "We have had some disturbing reports filtering through the border we share with Praulta.''

He pointed to the large nation that bordered Laidros to the east, and north all along the Bluehawks mountain range until the continent ended at the sea. The king continued.

"They've had an unusually bad spate of revolts and riots in recent months. They've all been put down so far, but the way messages are coming through indicates that they aren't dying down like they usually do. In preparation, we're going to be moving the Fourth Army east to the mountains, so as to reinforce our outposts along the border and keeping agitators from slipping through." 

"Sir?" Barnet question, posture shifting, and surprise on his face for the first time in the meeting. "What about defending the capital? Wouldn't the fourth be better applied-"

"No, it won't. I still will retain the First and Second armies within the area and am sending most of the third southeast towards the Blue Ridge. So don't worry, neither you nor Amos will be getting the honor. I won't have my generals bickering when our neighbor and ally might be overtaken by revolutionaries, and who knows what will follow."

Barnet didn't look like he accepted what the king told him.

"Is that understood, Lieutenant General?"

"Of course. Sir." His words were clipped. 

"You're dismissed then."

Without a further word, the Lieutenant General saluted and turned out of the room.

His boots sounded all the way t0 the chamber's massive doors. Everyone looked at each other as the door's creaking reverberated through the room. With a final boom, they closed again, leaving the chamber quiet.

The whole table seemed to relax at once. 

The king dropped his head to his chest as he leaned on the table again, this time using it to stretch out a bit. Clay went over to Mac and Jackson, the brothers greeting each other with firm smacks on the back, though Clay and Jackson both braced themselves for even a light blow from Mac's massive hand.

Clay's father, Amos, took a pipe out of his coat and packed it down with a thumb that started to glow like a hot iron with the tone of the sun itself. The smoke that stuck its tendrils out of the top of the pipe was the same ruby red that came from Clayton's cigarettes. 

'You know, I hate dealing with that old man." Much of the hard edge was gone from the king's voice when he spoke up again.

"You did well, sir," Amos said with his deep, gravely voice. 

"Don't lie to my face, Amos, I couldn't stop myself from taking shots at the church's guard dog."

"Nothing I wouldn't have said myself, sir." 

"I believe that is the crux of the issue, Amos. You did not say them, despite your desire to. I don't think anyone, including your sons, can truly match the demeanor of the 'Granite Man'."

All three of the younger Coffees nodded in agreement. Philomon leaned in to whisper something again, and the king nodded. 

"I do have something further to discuss, however, with all of you."

"My family is at your disposal, as always." Clay's Father stated.

"I'm glad to have your support at a time like this, Amos. I fear that things will not be easy." This time, Jackson spoke up wearing a wolfish grin. 

"When is it ever easy? If it was, we'd be out of the job."

His father reached over and smacked Jackson on the arm with a frown. The king just chuckled.

"I suppose that's true, young Jackson." He seemed like he wanted to continue on, but couldn't stop an anecdote from slipping out. "You know, I have known your father for a very long time. He has been a steward for Laidros for nearly four hundred years, before that he fought for it just as long, and has always seemed a permanent fixture of the country." 

Clay nodded. He and his brothers had heard the king relate this in much the same way quite often. Even did it in from of the dignitaries from Caussaulka once. They didn't seem to mind, but it was several minutes that made his face burn. 

"You were already born when I came into this world and grew up alongside me. Guided me when I was young, much like your father has. Then came a day that I realized that I had lines on my face, and you did not. You still retained the energy of youth, while mine has long since passed and been replaced with the lead blanket that the crown seems to place upon me. I hope that one day you will be there for my son, and any future children I might have, like you and your father were there for me."

He sighed deeply. The following silence seemed like it weighed the king down just that little bit more, stooping the shoulders and bowing the head ever so slightly. 

"Which makes the idea of asking you to do things like what I'm about to all the harder."

This wasn't how the story usually went, and Clay couldn't help his head cocking to the side slightly. 

"How do you mean, sir?" 

"I know that you all are used to operating as a unit, but the nation's many concerns call for strange measures. I'm having your father move the third army south towards the Blue Ridge like I discussed, but your duties will be much more than that. I'll have to detach second corps to make anything work."

"Detach, sir?" 

"Your father will leave whatever elements he thinks necessary behind to shore up the forts on the Blue Ridge, but will take the rest across the border to the capital of Praulta. We've already signed a pact promising to help them stabilize the country." 

"Is this why you sent the 4th army away from the capital?" Jackson asked.

"It is. I couldn't have it here and unoccupied while my focus is elsewhere. They may call Barnet the church's guard dog, but I think vulture is the more accurate term here."

"Smart move, sir." Mac rumbled with a confident nod. 

"That brings us to you boys. I want Clayton's second corps to remain in the capital." 

Amos inhaled deeply, as if given news he was expecting. Clay connected that with his father's note.

"Only second corps? Why?" He asked, trying to keep the pit in his stomach from sinking deeper. "What about the first and second armies?" 

"I want them focused on securing the region. Plus, they'll be available for support should second corps need it." 

"And what do you want to second corps to accomplish by ourselves?"

"I want your boys to root out whatever this 'singing cube' business is. Hopefully, this is a singular occurrence and Clay put an end to it before they got a foot in the door-"

"When are we ever that lucky?" Jack quipped before being silenced by a stern look from his father. 

"-and if we aren't, then we put a stop to it before anyone else get's their hands on whatever these things are." He looked to Clay. "I'll put you in touch with both the Songbirds and the police commissioner, but those are all the resources I can spare at the moment."

Clay could feel his eyebrows draw together, and he was thankful the king made no comment on it. 

"We'll make do, sir. I'm sure we can scrape together a few resources between the three of us." He said, looking at his brothers. "If not, we'll start tearing the bricks out of buildings."

The king almost chuckled at that, then had a flash of memory that drained his humor. His mood shifted back to what it had been at the start of the meeting, though a trace of that good-humored light remained in his eyes. 

"If that has been settled, then I imagine we should adjourn this meeting before the church decides we've been skulking about for too long and tries to beat down the doory." 

Clay's father, and his brothers, turned to leave, and Philomon started to gather up the papers on the table in front of them.

In a garden outside of the Citizen's Palace, Clay caught up to his family members deep in conversation, which paused as he sauntered up. He greeted his father first.

"Father. Sorry I missed you when you got back yesterday."

"Son. I am also sorry the only form of communication I sent was a letter I scribbled out in the moments after I got the king's orders."

His father gave him a warm look, and all the brothers nodded at each other in greeting. They were all quiet a moment while Amos tapped out his pipe on a low stone wall that lined the path they were on and brushed the embered tobacco away, releasing a familiar scent of sweet cherries into the air. Clay was the first to speak again.

"So... operating on our own... Does this have to do with the letter you sent me?"

His father nodded, but glanced around as if he was checking for prying ears. Clay and his brothers leaned in conspiratorially. 

"Yes." Amos said, his unlit pipe held between his teeth in thought. "I don't have a solid reason, just a gut feeling. In fact, I suggested the king leave your corps with you just because of it. Do you think you can manage?"

"I think so. Twenty five thousand men seems more than enough to investigate some arms smuggling." Clay said and smiled in a way he knew didn't look totally convincing. It didn't quite make it all the way up his face. "If it isn't, then we might have problems other than my operational capacity when alone in the field."

"Jack, Micheal?" 

"It's certainly a new duty of ours." Jack responded, leaning against a wall without his usual grin. "And it'll be strange to not be reporting to you directly." 

"I thought so as well." Mac rumbled out.

Amos nodded, a faint and fading smile played on his face. He removed the pipe, from his mouth and placed it in his dress uniform's coat and gave it a light pat. 

"I understand. When I fought under my father, I too was hesitant to go without his guidance. In a family like ours, we each have our own time to take the reigns. Sometimes by choice, often not." 

He placed a hand on Clay and Jack's shoulder, ushering all three brothers in front of him like he did when they were small children and he needed to them all to pay attention.

"I know you will do fine. Clay, you've commanded 2nd corps for 15 years without fail. Jack, your work with the sharpshooters and irregulars has always been something to aspire to. And Micheal-" He moved a hand to his largest son's shoulder. "You have been a backbone for your siblings since the day you were born. A spine of steel that you have put into your men."

Each of his sons beamed at the praise.

"On the upside, the situation you are face with is less dire than it could be." 

"What do you mean? Some new weapon, more dangerous than we've seen before coming into the country from an unknown group, possible infiltration of anarchists, and possible war with an allied nation on the horizon? Seems pretty dire." Clay stated, while Jack nodded in agreement. Mac gave tacit agreement by not grunting.

"War on the horizon is not war in the here and now, though it can easily become as such." Amos responded in a tone that said he was teaching a lesson. "We must work in the ways we have been tasked to prevent that change from hypothetical to reality. Now, I..." 

Clay noticed that his gaze became less focused, and he seemed to look past his sons instead of at them. It was like he suddenly became lost for a moment before coming back. When he was speaking again, his voice had lost a little bit of the weight that had been there before.

"A little bird is telling me I should go see the rest of the family before I start to gather the Third. Your mother will be livid with me if I don't at least stop in." Clay smiled knowingly, and he knew his brothers did too. "Do you boys know where you're going to start?" 

"At Clay's request, while the moons where high in the sky I might add, I put out a few inquiries with my usual crowd." 

"Come now Jack, I know you weren't asleep. You were probably down at the warfs again or someones manor playing dice." Clay scoffed, and Mac gave a small amused smile.

"I was not in fact 'playing dice' as you put it, dice has become passé these days anyways-"

"But you were playing just two weeks!"

"And that week is not this one, dear brother. I was, in fact, within someones manor, but to become more acquainted with the duke of Angelyard's daughters." Amos was going to say something but the Jack rolled on."In any case, I've got a few hit's across the city for thing's that sound like they could be smuggler related, though I haven't heard anything about something so heavy as weapons." 

"Then we start by crossing names off that list."