"Keep close the bonds of kinship, there will come a day when that is all that you have to protect you." - The supposed last words of King Francois Desramaux I to his son, the future King Etienne, before dying of a mortal wound sustained against the Pelariaux. 4th of Geshan, 243 PR.

37th of Motch, 300 PR.

"No, no, no, start again." The cruel tone of the young king bit into his sons ears like a viper striking its prey.

"Father I... I am tired. I am sorry. I am tired."

"I do not care if you are tired. Do you think your enemy will care if you are tired?" The king stood tall, unsheathed his blade. "They will not wait! The moment you show weakness they will strike you down!" With a swift motion, the king raised his blade and struck down at a diagonal towards his left side as if cleaving a foe in twain. The young Prince Theirry flinched.

"Do not flinch either! What am I paying an instructor for. You are clearly not learning anything."

"Father I-I. I think we have learned a great deal from our sword master." King Francois Desramaux II turned to the source of the young voice. The twelve year old Prince Francois, eldest son of the king, stood tall, practice sword in hand. The king smiled.

"Francois, my son. How deftly you snuck up on me. Truly you will be a contentious foe. Alright, Thierry. Do you wish to be done for the day?" Thierry looked up at this father with sunken eyes. "Tell me, Francois, how long have you been practicing today?" The young prince and future king looked over to his brother.

"I am asking you a question, son."

"I have practiced for... at least, two hours today with the sword master."

"Very good. Thierry, how long have you practiced today?"

"You already know how long I have practiced, father - "

"Answer my question and do not talk back to me." The nine year old prince thought, staring down at his feet, and then back up.

"I have practiced for an hour today so far, father."

"One hour. Well, I would say you need another, perhaps even two more."

"Yes, father, of course."

"If you ever wish to be as good a swordsman as your brother, as myself, as your grandfather, as his father before him, then you will continue to practice day after day, hour after hour."

"Yes, father."

"Good. Now, let us have another round, shall we? Mathias!"

"Huh?" The small six year old prince, who up until this moment in time had been observing the butterflies in the courtyard, whirled his head around to face his father's voice.

"Yes, father?"

"Come here. Sit next to me. We are going to sit here and watch your brothers duel."

"They are dueling? But, is that not dangerous, father?"

"It is quite dangerous. But, lucky for them, they will only be wielding practice swords. I hope that is all you will ever use against each other." The king cracked a grin. "I could not imagine what life we live if my sons fought amongst themselves."

"Why would we ever fight, father?"

"Oh, I fought with my brother many times before. Of course, we never have resorted to drawing blades. But, there have been plenty of times in which I have made a decision that he greatly disagreed with."

"Uncle Jean would never do anything to harm you father, would he?" Mathias gripped his collar with great concern.

"Of course not. Your uncle and I love each other very much. Just as I love the three of you. It is why I drill you so, you understand Thierry."

"Yes, father, of course."

"Good."

"Here father, this is for you." The young Prince Mathias cupped a tiny golden rose and gave it to his father.

"Well done, Mathias. Perfectly timed trimming. Gather around sons." The three princes circled around their father. His beard was neatly trimmed to hug his sharp jawline.

"At first glance, what can you tell me about these petals?" Thierry stared long and hard and thought. They are gold? No, that is too obvious.

"They are gold!" Mathias blurted out.

"Yes. Very good, Mathias. What else can you tell me about them?"

"They are... soft to the touch." Francois added.

"They are soft to the touch. How could you tell from just looking at them?"

"Their pattern. They... well they look like they ought to be soft."

"Ah, but looks can be deceiving. Of course, you are correct. These petals are quite soft. Naturally so, they should cushion the butterfly or the bumblebee or hummingbird or whatever happens to be pollinating it. Would not want to sit upon a bed of nails, now would you? Thierry, what do you notice?" Suddenly, the young prince's heart began to race.

"Umm... well, umm. There is many of them, and they overlap. But, they overlap in a way that benefits those around them." The king raised an eyebrow at his sons response.

"Would you explain that further?"

"Well they-they fold into one another. If they were to grow in a different way then they might crush each other. But, this way, they can bloom outwards."

"What can you tell me about the outermost petals?"

"They are beginning to decay. You can see that this one here is dry at the top."

"Yes, very good. The outermost layer dies first, then eventually works its way into the center until the entire flower has died." The young prince furrowed his brows as he attempted to discern the meaning behind his father's words.

"Much like... much like a fort."

"Much like a fort. Very good Thierry. Now, what can you tell me of the thorns?"

"They protect the flower from being eaten." Francois said.

"Yes, they are protective, but - " pinching one of the thorns and then giving it a quick twist, the king snapped it clean off of the stem, flicking it to the ground. "With very little effort I am able to destroy these defenses. Not much of a deterrent if I can simply do that."

"So... the rose should have stronger defenses?"

"That is an option, yes. The other option is numbers. On a rose bush, countless stems grow out and eventually harden with a bark to protect the core. You see, thorns are effective as the plant just starts out - they are small enough and easy enough for the flower to produce around itself, but given time they can create the bark. Look at the base of the bush, you would need a hatchet to take that down. But, there are still thorns on the flower, made with stronger bases thanks to the bark."

"The flower is at its weakest as it is just starting out. But, given time, it will grow stronger and larger." Francois said.

"Exactly. The Desramaux Dynasty is much like a rose bush, my sons. We could have toppled many, many years ago, but, we have continued to grow stronger. Our bark continues to grow thicker and our thorns grow stronger. But, our outermost reaches, our newest stems and branches, still hold thin. We must keep an eye on them to ensure that they do not break off. Well, that is enough blathering for me. Mathias, my son, thank you for this beautiful rose and for allowing me to teach you all with it. Now, Thierry, Francois, let us see you duel."

The two young princes marched forward with initial hesitancy, ensuring they were ten paces apart from one another before drawing their practice swords. As they began to circle one another, Thierry looked deep into his older brother's eyes in hope of finding a weak point, or at least an unwillingness to fight. When there was nothing to find, he swallowed hard and made the first strike, approaching with a lunge in an attempted stab. Francois parried his brother's strike to the side, rotated his wrist, and returned with a downward diagonal strike from the right. Thierry leapt back and was able to block his brother's blow, though, he was too slow and made no contact with the sword. In spite of this, his leap had saved him all the same. Surprise overcame the young prince when he did not feel the force of his sword against Francois', providing the moment of hesitation in young Thierry that the future king needed to extend forward and stab his brother in the chest.

"Oh. Well. It is because I am so tired, father." Prince Thierry rubbed his chest at the point of contact, feeling the bruise that was forming.

"Your brother has been practicing twice as long as you today, Thierry. You are not tired. Again."

"Yes, father."

"Remember, Thierry. Patience. Do not let the small things break your resolve."

"Yes, father, of course, father."

Eyeing each other down, Thierry resigned himself to not make the first strike this time around. Encircling each other for a moment now, making almost five complete circles in place around one another, the older prince finally made the first move. Feinting to the left and then spinning around to strike sideways from the right. Seeing through the feint, Thierry adjusted his stance and parried his brother's strike. Francois was knocked slightly off guard by this, which his younger brother seized upon, going for a lower strike against the future king's feet. This allowed Francois to jump back, swinging his arm around as he did so to bring the wooden blade of his sword against the back of the bent down and extended Prince Thierry. A deep sigh echoed into the young prince's ears.

"Never take your eyes off of your target, son."

"They were on my target." Thierry protested.

"They were on his feet."

"Father... Thierry is tired most likely, I am sure that is all."

"Ah, Francois. Do not interrupt your brother's lesson."

"Yes, father."

"Good. Again."

Once more the two brother's dueled, and once more, Francois won.

"Again."

Francois.

"Again."

Francois.

"Again!"

Francois.

"AGAIN!"

Francois.

"Damnit Thierry!"

"Father, I am sorry. I - "

"Gods be damned." The young prince, who by this point sat on the ground hunched over his sword, could barely hear his father's words now. A pulsing was echoing through his body from each strike point to the next. While his brother was not striking with his full force, the repeated blows he was sustaining were taking their toll on his young body. Prince Francois placed his hand on his younger brother's right shoulder, sending a warm sensation down Thierry's spine, one that made some of the pain go away.

"Father, Thierry is growing tired. He is still - he has not yet reached adolescence."

"You may be my heir, son, but that only affords you greater rights amongst the courtiers. You will hold your tongue when your opinions pertain to me unless asked for them. Again."

"Father, I cannot."

"Again."

"My King!" Just after Francois aided in his brother's standing up and before they were to begrudgingly fight once again, the king spun slowly to answer his call. Standing before them all was none other than their sword master - Marque de la Lame en Acier. A middle aged human, more than likely well into his sixth decade, his hair greyed and short, a beard with no mustache gracing his face. He was roughly average height, perhaps an inch taller, a well built frame and a sword at his hip. A descendant of the late House Trerieux on his mother's side, he took great pride in the craftsmanship that went into his swords and his usage of them. De la Lame en Acier was his title after he was knighted for his service in the Treris Rebellion of 260 P.R. to 268 P.R. against his own family. While this military conflict did begin as the Pelariaux Rebellion of 258 P.R., after the rebels territory was split between Treris and Pelaresse, so too did scholars split the conflict in twain. Since the rebellions, Sir Marque has served as the sword master to those at Desramaux Castle.

"Ah, Master Marque, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I have come to report to you about Francois' lessons. I broke momentarily to wash up before speaking to you. I advised the young prince do the same, but I see he decided to thrash his brother instead."

"You did miss some good sport. I just bore witness first hand to how well your lessons go with my eldest. Though... I have also seen how well they go with my second." The young king gave a glowering stare to his son, who by now had retaken a seated position by the rose bushes.

"He learns well. But, he is still young, and his abilities will arrive just as they did with Francois."

"Perhaps." King Francois stroked his chin and took note of all three of his sons. A beat of silence fell over the gardens, Mathias scrambled towards a blue butterfly, jumped after it, and fell to the ground. Unperturbed, the young prince wandered over to his older brother and stared into the flowers of their house.

"There was another bit of news I had for you, my King. The Queen wishes to see you."

"And she could not come here to see me?"

"It sounded urgent and secretive." The king raised an eyebrow at this.

"Very well. Alright you three, stay out of trouble for the rest of the day. Do not forget to wash before supper. Master Marque, if you would not mind adjusting your duties from sword master to that of child wrangler I would be much obliged."

"I would be happy to, my King." King Francois Desramaux II waved his children goodbye and then sauntered his way out of the gardens and into the castle. Sir Marque made eye contact with Prince Francois and then slowly meandered his way over to the young prince seated in defeat.

"So, Thierry, you have been losing to your brother, then?"

"Yes. But I am getting better!"

"I know you are. You amaze me with every lesson. Clearly you practice for long hours on your own, and you always want to do your best. Defeat is just another chance to learn and increase your skills. You will get better. You will always be getting better with each day and each passing moment you are practicing. You will be an excellent sword master one day, Prince Thierry, and even more so, a good man." The young prince looked up to his sword master, a smile appearing on his face for the first time all day.

"Do you really think so?"

"The amount of determination you have to do your best, Thierry, it is inspiring." There was the sudden sound of fast movement from the hallways just outside of the garden. Sir Marque scratched his chin and began to look around anxiously.

"Now, Thierry. I need you to promise me something."

"Yes?"

"Francois, Mathias. The three of you."

"Yes, Sir Marque?" Francois made his way over, standing beside his sword master. Mathias plucked another rose from the bush, though this one was so young, having barely begun to flower.

"I need you all to stay here."

"What?" Thierry watched as his older brother recoiled slightly at the strange request.

"I need you all to stay here, in the gardens."

"Why?" Francois approached slowly and made a barrier between his brothers and the sword master.

"I have grown very fond of the three of you, and something is about to happen which you three must stay far away from, do you understand me?"

"What is about to happen?" It was in that moment that an ear piercing scream could be heard ringing all throughout the castle.

"What was that? What has happened?" Francois gripped his practice sword tight as he attempted to look passed Sir Marque and find the direction of the sound. Horns began to blow, bells began to ring.

"Stay where you are." Their sword master held out his hands, placing one of them on the future king's sword in an attempt to lower it.

"Father." Francois muttered to himself.

"What?" Thierry perked up at this.

"Those bells. Something has happened to father."

"No! No! No!" Prince Thierry began to shake violently as he searched for his own wooden sword.

"Remain calm. I need the three of you to stay here. Stay here and stay calm."

"Why should we listen to you? Why should we ever listen to you? We must go! We must go help father!" Seizing Thierry by the back of his collar, sword master Marque pulled the young prince and heaved him to the ground on his back. He let out a loud grunt of pain.

"I am sorry. I apologize young prince, but, you must, stay, here."

"What has happened to our father?" Francois demanded. Mathias flopped onto the ground, tears streaming down his eyes into the flower he had plucked.

"Your father is dead."

"What?" Mathias now sobbed.

"No. What? You knew. You knew and you let it happen? What do you mean?" Francois lowered his arms as his head began to sulk low with shock and sorrow.

"I am sorry, young princes, but he needed to be taught a lesson. All Desramaux needed to be taught a lesson."

"Are we not Desramaux?" Francois looked up at the knight with tears in his eyes.

"My part in this conspiracy began long ago. But, having gotten to know the three of you, I adjusted its course."

"NO!" Thierry screamed as he bounded back up from the ground, grabbing the hilt of and then unsheathing Sir Marque's sword from its scabbard.

"Easy there boy!" And as Marque attempted to wretch the blade back from the young prince, Thierry elbowed him in the gut, pulled back, and ran the sword master through with is own blade. Sir Marque let out a series of gurgling grunts. Gripping the hilt of the sword, blood gushing across his arms, legs, and torso, Marque coughed. Falling to his knees, the knight looked up and into the eyes of Prince Thierry, tears welling up and coursing down the prince's face.

"I knew I taught you well." The sword master collapsed to the ground as guards rushed into the garden.

"We have found the princes! The princes are here! The sword master is dead!" Thierry clenched his fists tightly as he prayed to the gods that he might reabsorb his tears, that the man lying in a pool of his own blood no longer deserved them.

"The sword master is a traitor, and has been handled accordingly."

The first moon had just cracked over the horizon, allowing darkness to descend over the world as its residents awaited the light of the second. A cloud filled night, barely any had shone through to begin with to guide their way. It is perfect. The old king thought to himself. A perfect night. Posted on the walls, the guards would be forced to rely solely on the light from their torches, making it easier for them to know when they were far enough away. Thierry looked over to Huang Gui and Wei Yan and gave the signal. Within moments, ropes were thrown up, hooked onto the spaces between battlements, pulled taught, and secured. Very quickly they were able to begin their ascent, one after another, King Thierry Desramaux leading the way. A total of five ropes had been tossed up, each one now carried two-hundred warriors of the Sun, glaives on their backs, bows and quivers at their hips, rags, oil, and tinder fastened in vials and satchels. Tonight, Pelaresse will burn.

Creeping their way up, the king was the first to peak above. Noticing a light, he quickly ducked his head, pressing himself hard against the stone. The cold surface was a surprising relief to the chills he felt run down his spine, brought on by the sound of the approaching footsteps from the soldier approaching from above. Glancing upwards, Thierry watched as the soldier bearing the colors of House Hemramaux slowly made his way passed. Deftly making his way over and onto the parapet, the king unsheathed a dagger, raced up to the soldier and gripped her mouth with his left hand. Quickly, he slid the blade across her throat, lowered her to the ground, and doused her torch.

"Hurry." The old king whispered, as the warriors behind him came rushing up. "Fan out. Travel in groups of ten. Find supplies, and set them ablaze. Ten of you with me."

Quietly, and in a slightly crouched state, the king and his entourage made their way along the top of the northern most walls of the city. With surprising quickness, they found the stairs to descend the walls and enter the city proper. A wooden stair creaked as they neared the exit and the old king felt his heart skip a beat. With baited breath, he held firm and awaited a response from outside, but none came. There was no guard nearby. Motioning to continue, the group of saboteurs made their way away from the brick and into the streets below. The sound of jingling filled their ears and Thierry made the decision to jump into a nearby building. They had been just in time in closing the door as a patrol came walking passed, torches lit as they made their nightly rounds. King Thierry suspected that, eventually, a guard or group such as this would discover the dead body up on the wall, guaranteeing alarms to ring out throughout the city then. Alarms will be ringing no matter what, tonight. They still more than enough time to achieve their goals, and that was all that mattered. They continued onward, searching high and low for any possible storage facility.

A small temple to the god Ptakoth, the God of Tyrants and Assassins. The temple had been abandoned and converted into a storage facility - no doubt in an attempt to keep practitioners from gathering as the Desravank forces occupied the city. It made a poor house for grain, barely large enough to store enough sacks to feed an army for a day. Thierry nodded his head and immediately one of the warriors with him began dousing the sacks with oil. Flint was struck upon a torch, which was then tossed through the temples door. Within seconds, the crackling of flames and the nauseating stench of smoke filled the air. Swiftly, Thierry and his entourage escaped the area. Shortly thereafter, more and more fires began to spark up around the city, with the inevitable sound of bells ringing accompanied by horns. The old king smiled to himself. It will take them forever to find us - in fact, they will be so focused on the fires we could just walk right through the front gate. He gave pause. I had not considered that. Could we just let Claude in? The king laughed to himself. They would have to see how the night played out.

Continuing along, the king and his retinue found their way to a total of three other make-shift granaries, pouring oil, and setting fire to the contents within. It was then, he noticed, that, despite the clouds in the sky, the night had cleared as blazes scoured their way across the city. A conflagration equal in power to that of the sun. Then he heard it. A crack of thunder. A strike of lightening. It began slow at first, the drizzle. It built in intensity. Bershion be damned. Why do you smile upon me in war and frown when I need you most? Torrents of rain began to pour down upon their heads. Steam and hot grey smoke clouded the atmosphere. Coughing and hacking, Thierry attempted to make a run for it, leading his entourage of ten in the direction of the battlements they had entered from. Amidst the screaming from the fires, the sound of clashing steel began to resonate into ear drums. No doubt, some of the groups of ten had been found, forcing them to fight their way out. Shouting, citizens and soldiers alike ran from well to building. Bucket brigades had formed throughout, uniting those who, until only a week ago, had held each other in contempt. The citizens and soldiers alike were doing everything in their might to douse the flames with the welcomed additional aid of the downpour. With all those fighting the flames, the king had assured himself that his forces would face few, if any, casualties. After all, they had done what they had set out to do. Enough grain had been burned before the rain began, leaving them with nothing, no means of feeding themselves. Even if they put out all of the fires tonight, they will starve in days. But what if they do not? What if they had so many stock piles and they could not get to them all? The old king found himself cursing all of the gods at once. Bershion for the rain, Geshana for the plentiful harvests from the Pelari Fields, Clarion for creating the wheat that they could grow and consume, Darion for allowing those he hated to continue living, and Mostrosty for not taking his foes when he needed him to. Pictoah was the only one he found himself suddenly thanking, though, for she was the Goddess of Wisdom and Innovation. Ingenuity. This was a time for ingenuity. The gates were right there, weren't they? Soldiers and citizens alike were distracted sufficiently, wait too long and they might be able to muster up enough of a defense in so short a notice. It had to be now, to hell with Huang Gui and Wei Yan! They were doing what they were paid to do, and if they did not get out alive then that was their own fault. In a split second decision, King Thierry turned towards the eastern gate.

"My lord, where are we going?" Whispered one of the warriors accompanying him.

"We are going to let in our reinforcements. Take them by surprise."

"They outnumber us three to one."

"Do you doubt your king?"

"You are not my king, you are my employer."

"And I pay you to do as I say."

"Very well, sir."

They continued forward. More bells and horns began to ring. Approaching the first gate, preparing to make the ascent to the gate house, Thierry noticed something. The bells. The bells were clearly ringing out throughout the temples within the city. But, the horns. Where were the horns coming from? Searching all around, squinting through the smoke and using his sense of hearing to follow the sources, he could find no inner horn blowers. They were duller than he had initially thought, as though they were - as though they were coming from outside of the city. With quickened resolve, the old king made his way up to the top of the walls, he had to see the source. Sword drawn, he found himself slashing through any who would cross his path, soldier and citizen alike. His retainers began loosing arrows capped with flaming oil soaked rags onto the unsuspecting down below, an attempt to build upon the conflagration.

Reaching the top now, he searched far and wide for the source of the horns. Then he found himself looking south, and the old kings mouth fell agape. Tens of thousands of soldiers approached, all waving different banners. Despite that the second moon was higher in the sky, the clouds from the rain still made the burning within the walls the only reliable source of light. More horns began to blow, still outside of the walls but much louder, much closer and further north. Claude, you bastard. Thierry watched now as the siege camp began to bustle about, soldiers breaking down tents and packing horses, backs, and wagons with all the gear they could gather on such short notice. Whoever was approaching from the south, they were no friends. The old prince clenched his jaw as the realization of failure washed over him like hot wax. They were succeeding where they had failed. They were breaking the siege camp of Pelaresse, and without even raising a spear, but simply by blowing horns. Who was this? Who could possibly be coming north? Who road at their helm? It did not matter. What mattered now was getting out of the city. Even if they could get the gates open and take the city, they would only be swapping their position with this new southern force. Making another split second decision, this time fueled by the longing to survive, the king ran along the top of the walls, entourage in tow as he attempted to slash his way back to their entrance point with the ropes.

"My lord."

"What?" Suddenly the group stopped as the king whirled with scowled face to the soldier who called out to him.

"I do not recommend we continue this way."

"And why is that?"

"Look, see the torches approaching? They are storming the parapets, I suspect they have found our ropes and are searching for their owners." The rest of the warriors gave concerned looks. Another responded.

"Are you saying we have no escape route, He Jin?" The gatehouse was still open, the king noticed. We have one.

Without saying another word, sweaty palms dripped tightly on the hilt of his sword, King Thierry Desramaux led the charge back across the walls of the hated city. They were helpless without him as their guide, their leader. Silhouetted by the flames of the city, the eleven warriors raced back across the corpses of those who were stupid enough to stand in their way as the first made their rounds on the walls. The bodies of Sun elves began to catch the eye of the king, several of them had run into a group of some twenty guards and met an untimely end as they no doubt attempted a similar escape. In a pool that continued to grow around them, their blood drenched the stone beneath them, white eyes glazed over, stark white hair stained the same midnight purple as their half-elven blood. They did what they were paid to do. Reaching the gatehouse, Thierry found, to his horror, that it had been shut and the sounds of guards could be heard within. Without saying a word, for his breathes had become to heavy to allow such a waste of air, he raised his hand and pointed to the door. Utilizing their famed glaives, the ten warriors broke down the door and descended upon the unfortunates that now stood in their path to escape. He did not know how much time had passed, nor did he hear the blood curdling screams of the fallen, only seeing their mouths open wide as the blade of glaives entered their bodies. Walking into the cleared gatehouse, he looked around at the five bodies strewn about - three of them were clearly too young to be wearing a soldiers uniform, while the other two were too old.

"Four of you, stay here and open the gates. The rest of you, with me, we will clear a path and get out of here." Unsure, the ten looked amongst each other, until finally the one called He Jin tapped three others on the shoulder, turned to Thierry, and nodded. After returning the gesture, the old king made his way to the steps off the wall with the remaining six. Flames licked up the sides of the wall, steam stung their eyes, the combination of bells and shouting rang their ear drums, with the feeling of heat eating up every ounce of moisture within their bodies as they reached the gate. Slowly it began to open, the old king smiled to himself. They were going to escape. There was nothing more in their way. Heavy footsteps came up behind them now. Thierry whirled around to see a group of twenty, all adorned in different colors - House Aurreal, House LuRene were the only he recognized. Gripping his sword tightly with both hands, he remembered his training, and rushed forward, the battle cries of his Sun Warriors echoing in his head.

Ducking the blow from a mace, the king continued his run to the left of the assailant in carnation, using the momentum he had built to drive his sword through their face and out the back of their head. He twisted himself at the end so that their body would fall off effortlessly from his blade and onto the ground. Heat covered his back. Thierry trotted backwards a moment, attempting to keep himself moving, turning back around, and regaining speed as a soldier in brown ran forth with a spear. Spinning his sword downward, he blocked the stab and ran along the length of the shaft, bringing his blade upward in a flicking motion just before impact with the wielder of the longer weapon. Feeling it make contact, he quickly jumped a step back, reared his arm, and thrust forward and into the belly of the beast in front of him. The soldier in brown doubled over and hit the dirt road, turning it crimson before them all as he attempted to breath his last. Pity almost overtook the king, but instead a rage filled him as he watched the axe blade of a soldier in yellow lop a glaive in half and find burial in the half-elf's chest in front of him. That was a very expensive kill. The old king thought to himself as he ran forward, both hands gripping the hilt of his sword as he swung it high above his head. Eyes widened in terror, the levy in yellow - more than likely a farmer who simply got a lucky hit in - raised their weapon in an attempted block, seeming to close their eyes in anticipation. Side-stepping and rearing back a two handed swing, Thierry tore into the side of the supposed farmer in yellow, entering through his back and exiting his front, cleaving him nearly in half. No sound came from the soldiers mouth as he slumped to the ground.

Thierry continued slashing his way through the pitiful forces in front of him. A levy in carnation came at him with a hatchet, having lost her spear to the blade of a glaive as she and another doubled up on a Sun warrior - she escaped with her hatchet, her compatriot lost their left arm. Turning to what she more than likely thought to be the easier target, she swung her axe wide to the right. The old prince saw the look of surprise as he deftly spun to her left, lifted his sword, and swung down on her aw struck face. A soldier in brown with three golden heads of grain emblazoned on his chest leapt at the king with a mace. The old king dodged to the right and returned with the pommel of his sword to the soldiers face. Cupping their nose, the soldier staggered backwards, tripped, and fell into the conflagration - Thierry grimaced as the screams were snuffed out. The rain seemed to let up a little at some point in this conflict, the gates nearly open as he removed his blade from the stomach of a levy in blue who lay on the ground after the old king severed their right leg. Now was their chance. They could make it out and ride away with Claude's retreating camp. Looking around at the fallen soldiers that littered the ground all around him, Thierry gave the signal to the three remaining warriors. As they began to run, the old king froze in his place as he heard a familiar voice call out to him.

"Thierry!" It cried out. He turned to look but only saw the rising conflagration with the receding rain.

"Thierry!" It cried out once more from the fiery void. Squinting through the smoke, swallowing in a dry throat and breathing heavily, the old king only saw the shadow of a figure before him.

"Thierry! Stay your hand!" A voice he had not heard for what felt like ages, and which brought no comfort to his rapidly beating heart.

Prince Mathias Desramaux stood at the edge of a wall of flame. Lighted by the very same wall, and surrounded by the corpses of those who once would have fought for him, was Prince Thierry Desramaux. Smoke stained, shaking, and wet from the rain, Mathias wanted to feel rage at the sight of his brother. The one responsible for all of this madness, all of this needless destruction and carnage. He did not feel joy either at the sight of him after so long, after so much loss to the kingdom, after the loss of Guillaume. He felt nothing in this moment, or rather, he felt everything, and no one emotion was able to top the rest to claim dominance in his mind. His hand wrapped firmly around the hilt of his blade, slowly withdrew it, and extended out to point at his brother's figure.

"Brother, is that you?" A moment of recognition froze the old prince momentarily. It had been what felt like lifetimes since he had heard the sound of his brother's voice, and it will have to be the last.

"Face me, coward." The words bit forth from his lips with a monotone venom. The old prince watched as Thierry glanced over his shoulder at the three remaining Sun Warriors, nodding to them to make for the gate and secure the old princes exit.

"You call me a coward? I am the one who made the necessary choices to save our family. You hide behind the walls of our enemy and I lead a force to burn your supplies."

"It is a coward who attacks under the cover of darkness" Though the night was dark still, there was just enough light provided from the flames that Mathias could see his brother clench his jaw at this. Thierry stepped forward. Five yards now separated the brothers from one another, weapons drawn and at their sides. Mathias stared into his brother's face, his older brother's face - one which he no longer recognized. It had grown twisted, his hair longer and disheveled, his beard seemingly unkempt, and a while look in his eyes that said "I will stop at nothing." Both wore gambeson of black and gold - Mathias the bifurcated rose of House Desravank, Thierry the golden rose on a field of black of House Desramaux.

"I see you wear the emblem of a false house." Thierry said with indignation. I offend you with my colors? The old prince thought to himself. Good.

"I see you dub yourself king with neither crown nor kingdom. You wear the colors of your house yet you have come here to kill kin." Mathias saw the tension rising in his brother as he spoke. Thierry took one step forward.

"Mathias. I wish no ill will towards you. It is not too late, brother. Come back with me. Abandon this folly."

"Folly?" Finally an emotion overtook him. "You call this folly? I am not the one betraying his House, his family, his kin."

"Betrayal? You wish to speak to me of betrayal? In spite of everything that we have lived through, our brother would destroy our future with this marriage, this union!"

"This union preserves us, your inability to see - "

"You are blind! Blinded to the true effects of this union! It writes our destruction, our downfall!" Mathias squinted at his brother for his response. He wished to hold to his erroneous beliefs to the end? Very well.

"Enough of this." Thierry said with a huff. "If you wish to fight me, then fight me, for you are no brother of mine after all."

Without saying another word, the old prince brought his blade up with two hands and slowly approached. The two brother's began to circle each other. Flames silhouetted the face in front of them with the occasional flash of light, revealing only half of them. Swords raised and at the ready, they squinted into each other's eyes in an attempt to read the other's mind. Thierry made the first lunge. Raising forward, he swung downward. Mathias parried, leaping to the right to come at him from the back. Whirling around to his left, Thierry was able to bring his sword up in time to block and leap backwards. The two once again circled.

"You know, Mathias. I really wish it did not come down to this."

"I will not hear empty words from you, brother. Are you happy? Are you pleased with yourself?"

"What ever do you mean?"

"You have had your vengeance, Thierry. Just look all around you. Pelaresse burns. This is all you wanted, is it not? Vengeance, revenge, a supposed justice? It is all you have ever wanted. All that has ever driven you."

"We should have butchered them when we had the chance! Francois was weak. The Pelariaux deserved nothing more than death for their misdeeds."

"Yet you would make bedfellows of them." Mathias immediately braced himself for impact as he saw this words gave the desired effect. Thierry once again gave the first strike, bounding forward.

Feinting with an upward swing, the older prince spun, and sliced across from the left. Mathias dodged backwards just in time, bringing his arm up to block the blow. Despite his swift reflexes, the swing was still strong enough to stagger the younger prince, forcing him to rebalance himself instead of seize upon the opening his brother left post block. Thierry came back with a diagonal strike from the right. Mathias blocked, pulled back and went for a stab which was quickly smacked away with a quick turn of the wrist from his older brother. Using the momentum from his brother's block, the younger prince spun around and came back with a diagonal strike from the left, both hands white knuckled on the hilt. This forced Thierry to abandon a stab of his own and leap backwards, nearly evading the point of his younger brother's sword. The two once again circled.

"I will not be called a traitor by my younger brother." With beleaguered breath, the older prince kept his sword outstretched, hilt gripped with both hands.

"Then what would you be called?"

"King!"

"King? King. You no more deserve to wear the crown than I do."

"You do not think yourself worthy?" The surprise in Thierry's voice did not go unnoticed by the younger prince.

"None of us do. Francois was worthy - "

"Francois is dead."

"And is this really how we should honor his memory? Honor our father's memory?"

"To the hells with the both of them. Neither of them had the intelligence to foresee who our real enemies were. They both placated the Pelariaux, and we have seen what that has gotten them."

"Placate? Our father kept a boot down on the neck's of the Pelariaux, that is why they struck out! A people, once proud and free, subjugated to a measly existence of subservience will only tolerate it for so long."

"You sympathizer! You have always sympathized with those who are lesser. You and Francois."

"Because we know we are not above anyone else."

"Then you will die a fool just as he did." Jumping forward once again, the brother's collided, both of them coming forth with downward swings. Their swords clashed, faces inches away from each other and with gritted teeth, they could hear the sounds of gritted teeth from one another. Sliding to the left and away from the blow, Mathias struck Thierry's open right side with the pommel of his sword, sending his brother reeling backwards as he gasped for breath, the wind thoroughly knocked out of him. The older prince regained it just in time to raise his arms up to block a downward strike from his brother. Pushing his brother's sword up with his own as he raised his torso back up, Thierry swiftly extended a leg to deliver a kick into Mathias' chest, sending him back.

"I do not know who you are anymore, brother."

"I am who I have always been."

"I will never understand your need for vengeance."

"Vengeance? You fool! It is not just vengeance, it is legacy!"

"And this is how you plan for us to preserve our legacy? By killing each other?" Mathias brought himself back upright, his chest still smarting from his brother's surprisingly high kick. The flames forming all around them now reflected perfectly from his brother's eyes.

"I will do whatever is necessary to preserve the Desramaux Legacy, even if that means pruning the branches." Thierry leapt forward once again, and once again the two clashed.

Thierry feinted with a strike from the right, only to come upwards with a diagonal slice to the left. Mathias parried, side stepped, and came forward for a strike sideways across his brother's abdomen. Whirling around it, Thierry dodged his brother's strike and returned it with a blow to the younger princes back; smacking him across the gambeson, sending him forward. He whipped his sword around and went for another downward strike diagonally from the right. Mathias, using the force from his brother's strike, spun himself around in time to block the next attack. Stumbling to the right, Thierry recovered, feinted, recovered, and reared back to stab the younger prince in the chest. Flinching, the younger prince swatted the blow to his right with his left hand, reared back, and went to return with a stab to the right side of his older brother, which had now opened. Ducking and rolling to evade, Thierry came down to one knee, lunged forward with another attempted stab and caught his brother in the side. Just barely able to dodge the strike, Mathias felt the sting of pain from the cut. Gripping his now bleeding right side with his left hand, the younger prince lifted his sword and went for another downward strike. This was easily blocked by Thierry, who returned with a kick to his brother's right leg, bringing him down to his knee. Mathias lifted his sword arm as his older brother gripped his right hand, holding it high, matching him in power in strength to stop his downward swing. The older prince lifted his own sword to strike. Mathias, forgetting the pain out of necessity, freed his left hand block Thierry's downward strike, gripping his right wrist with his blood covered hand. The brother's now struggled against one another, each trying to hold back the other's strike while seeking to bring their own blow through. Finally, Thierry utilized the advantage of his upward leverage and pushed his brother down, forcing him to his hands and knees. As he attempted to stand back up, the older prince kicked the younger in the abdomen, sending him to the ground on his left side. Grunting, the younger prince looked up, his rib cage now screaming at him after his brother's kick, the old injury resurfacing from the force. Mathias winced and glanced up to see his brother looking down upon him, pity in his eyes against the conflagration surrounding them. Sweat dripped down both of their faces as the heat became more and more unbearable.

"Mathias, brother. Our legacy is more important than any one Desramaux, than any one person. We will survive this, I promise you that. A Desramaux rose will grow in every corner of our lands and further. I will be a good king. A righteous king." Mathias spat on his brother's shoes, the action sent a wave of pain through his side and ribs thanks to the use of his diaphragm to send the spittle soaring.

"And how righteous you will be, standing in the blood of your own family, ruling over your kingdom of ash." The younger prince forced himself to push past the pain in his torso and extended his fist to deliver a punch into the side of his brother's knee, buckling it and sending him down. As the older prince winced in pain, Mathias stumbled to his feet, hefted his sword and prepared a strike. This would end here and now. There was no chance of saving his brother any more, he had made his bed and was all to eager to lie in it. Am I any better for what I am about to do? He thought to himself, hesitating for just a moment. This was all Thierry needed to rush back to his feet, a sobering motion that brought Mathias back to the precipice he stood at. Eyes wide with determination, the younger prince brought his sword down towards his slowly rising brother. He felt the moment of impact, blinking as it happened. It was not steel to flesh, though, nor bone or cloth. What he felt instead was steel to steel as his strike was met with his older brother's own blade in a block he did not think he brother fast enough to perform. Equally as shocking, Thierry twisted his wrist around and slid his sword across his younger brother's throat.

Gripping his now bleeding neck, Mathias stumbled backwards. King Thierry Desramaux, second son of King Francois Desramaux II came back fully to his feet and ran his brother, Prince Mathias Desramaux, third son of King Francois Desramaux II, through the chest with his sword. Their eyes locked for one final moment. Mathias' bloody hand gripped Thierry by the lapel, smearing down his coat as he slowly slumped to the ground. He heard the metallic gliding of his brother placing his sword back into his scabbard. Listening intently, the younger prince hoped to hear even a modicum of emotion emanate from his brother. Instead, all he heard was crackling flames and footsteps slowly making their way out of earshot. He used what little strength he had left to look towards the gate.

As Mathias' eyes slowly closed, his heart beat its last, and his lungs collapsed one final time, he was met with one last image. A silhouette, his brother's turned around, before a flame and a burning banner of gold and azure with a falcon and a bow. Mathias managed a few words under his breath.

"So... brother... this is how you plan to... leave me? Bleeding my last over our family rose... Running away... in a field of... field of..." His vision blurred, the last visage of the silhouette breaking through the flames surrounding the gates. Flames were all he could see now, as all went cold.