~A KING'S HONOR~ (THE SUMMER LANDS)

A CLOUD OF THICK, BLACK SMOKE arose from the packed streets, rising up in hellish fumes to the heavens above. The sun was briefly blotted out by the dark cloud and the stench of hot piss filled the air.

A man stood burning at the stake while a happy crowd watched on. His clothes glued to his charred flesh and the warm puddle at his feet sizzled as the flames licked up the urine. The man had pissed himself at his final moments.

A few uniformed kingsguard stood roundabout, blocking out any over-enthusiastic fellow that dared disrupt the public execution. Their blue capes breezed with the wind and they stood gallant and shiny, silver helmets in place. The dead man burning at the stake was a Wytcher, or so the soldiers claimed.

He had been some poor farmer found drunk at the doors of a whorehouse. The kingsguard quickly fell upon him, seeing an opportunity. The summerlands weren't known for hospitality, and with Calipsos as it's capital, being a commoner was all the excuse a Blue Cloak needed to pounce.

Up above, in one of the four towers at the centre of Calipsos: capital of Syveria, region of the Summerlands, a decorated army commander walked to the highest chamber. As he ascended the stone steps, his sandals clashed with the rough stone and his armor wayed him down but his body still moved effortlessly up the steps. He was a soldier of Syveria. A Blue Cloak, and he had been trained in the finest army in the continent.

The continent of Adramon was the largest on the maps. It held the world's seat of power: SYVERIA, and although the summer dwellers hated their northern neighbors, the Icelanders, there was nothing they could do about it. The blood forests made sure of it.

Adramon was divided into two thriving political empires. The Summer lands of Syveria to the south, and the Ice realms of Valkalon that dominated the whole frigid North. Syveria was bordered in the east by the Carrean sea. A dazzling spectacle of blue which housed the largest ports in the whole continent. In the west, it was bordered by Eracuse which spanned entire miles to the North.

Beyond, amidst the Carrean sea lay the Isles of Mithos; the realm of a bronze-skinned warrior race that were rumored to ride on winged horses. Across, lay the hot deserts of Irkalla.

Syveria boasted the wealthiest cities. It's capital, Calipsos held estates of noblemen, Highborns and foreign merchants, and the colossal Ivory Castle: home of House Pierran, the Royal family. The four towers of the Seers nested right in the centre of Calipsos. The sapphire-glass monstrosities were the first sight that greeted ships docking into Syveria's ports.

It seemed that the Summerlands possessed more riches than their northern neighbor, Valkalon.

But the Ice realms had something even the Seers of Syveria could never understand. The winter glory of the Otherworld.

While Valkalon did not boast any golden cities, bordering seas, or wealthy ports, the vast North was a haven to fantastic beasts. In the icy splendor of Valkalon dwelled the flame-haired Icelanders; mighty warriors of great stature. The Fae princes, and also the Wytchers; mages that made syverian seers look like squabbling chickens.

The Seers of Syveria were a formidable power clan, with their machines and metal contraptions. But they were nothing compared to the might of Valkalon's Wytchers. It was said that they could summon the stars and command the frost. It was rumored that Valkalon had also opened it's lands to creatures of the night. The ones that nested deep in the Blood forest, the children of Eracuse. Vampires and werebeasts.

The Syverians hated that Valkalon made them look small, even with all the gold of Calipsos that shone from the Carrean sea.

In the past, the summer kings had moved to destroy Valkalon and claim the North as theirs but swords were no match for claws, neither were metal spears any match for magic spells. This was centuries before the blood forest grew, ending the conflict. Tales had been told that Eracuse was the blood of vampires spilled on the earth, transforming the trees into blood drinkers. No summer dweller ventured near the Blood Woods, because many a goat had gone missing right up the tree trunks.

The blue cloak finally reached the last of the tower steps and took a moment to catch his breath. He was about to face his brother, the King.

~. ~. ~.

"You murdered a man!" A low voice growled in an empty chamber. A golden crown with the Pierran royal crest glinted on his head and his back was turned to the Commander behind him.

The chamber was stark save the mindless scribbles of Seers along the walls.

Latchlon Pierran neared his brother and immediately gave a bow.

"Your majesty!"

"Spare me the theatrics, brother!" The king growled. "You killed a man. An innocent man, burnt at the stake like a mere swine!"

"My king..." Latchlon began.

"Do not interrupt me!" The king growled again, his crown shivering upon his head as his body tensed in fury.

"Brother..." Latchlon continued and the king turned to him. Their sky eyes reflected into each other and the familiarity in their features showed clearly in the room.

"Why?" The king whispered to Latchlon.

"It is for the good of Syveria and your protection. You must never be considered as weak." Latchlon placed his hands on both shoulders of the king as he spoke, and even though the two men looked alike, Latchlon stood taller and broader, his silver armor contrasting against the King's gilded vestments.

"I did not order you to kill anyone. You are the Commander of the Blue Cloaks not a fucking god. Do your job!"

The King turned to walk away but Latchlon held him in place. His eyes bored deep into the King's.

"You are a king, Arlon! THE KING! Like it or not," he growled, "That is who you are. Arlon of House Pierran, King of Syveria. As king there are choices to be made, orders to be given. I as your brother, know you can't give those orders so I conduct them in secret for you...."

"Killing an innocent man should never be an order!" Arlon fired at him.

"That was no innocent man. He was a Wytcher. An Icelander. A fucking blood sucker! You want to know what those cold bastards would do to us if they caught us lurking in their lands? They would fucking feed on us, fill their goblets with our blood and suck us from the sinews like fucking bats. That is what they would do. So I say to you, King Arlon, would you that I let the bastard live to fucking infect our kind?"

Arlon looked to Latchlon like a seer might look upon a madman brought for healing.

"That man was not a Wytcher. You know that, brother."

With that said, Arlon Pierran turned and strode away, his gold cloak billowing behind him.

"You are the King. Do your fucking job!" Latchlon yelled at his retreating back.

"Fuck!" He growled into the quiet room. Arlon was right. The man he burned was innocent. A poor drunk farmer. But the people needed to know that Wytchers were not welcome in the summerlands. How else was he to make them get the message?

Arlon had always been soft, right from when they were little boys still suckling on their mother's tits. That was why he was the King and Latchlon the Commander. They both had their places. Arlon's was diplomacy. His was war. That was what he did best, and he fucking loved it.

There hadn't been any wars in the last decade, save the occasional raiding troops of the Iron clans from the eastern borderlands. Latchlon needed war. The Icelanders needed to know who was in charge. Only Eracuse made it hard for him to storm their lands with a ready legion.

"Fucking blood forest!" He growled into the chamber.

"Commander Pierran?" A male voice echoed from behind him. Latchlon turned to the sound. Two huge kingsguards stood by the sides of the door with a freckled boy in their center.

"The lad got's some information," one of the blue cloaks said, never shifting in his rigid stance.

"What is it, boy?" Latchlon growled at the young soldier before him. The lad lowered his eyes, looking everywhere but Latchlon's fiery blue eyes. He should have come later. The man could easily have him burned too.

"Ser Pierran, I have some information about a..."

"Spit it out!" Latchlon interrupted, growling deep in his throat.

The boy finally raised up his eyes, looking up to him.

"The Eracusan patrol sighted a Wytcher."

Latchlon immediately froze at the boy's words. His boots clanked heavily on the stone floors as he walked towards the lad. He stopped an inch from the boy's face, towering over him.

"You better not be lying to me, boy."

"Tis true," the young soldier immediately clarified. "....he was a Wytcher. He had hair and beard white as snow and garments were frosty with Valkalon's wind...."

"Where is he now?" Latchlon interrupted again.

"I saw him walking towards Calipsos."

Latchlon gave a single nod and the young soldier walked away.

A real Wytcher on Syverian lands?

The man must be mad. As Latchlon's sinister mind made plans to capture the Icelander, he also wondered how the man crossed the Blood forest.

He walked to the large windows of the chamber and looked down at the city beyond. The Seer towers were so high, the Carrean sea looked like a shiny smudge from its peak. Latchlon looked to the North. His eyes set on the bushy red of Eracuse.

The forests stretched as far as the eyes could see. From the tower's height, it looked like a single red line. Latchlon slowly smiled at the forest. If a Wytcher could cross Eracuse, that meant the forest wasn't so impenetrable afterall.

With a grim smile in place, he turned and strode out of the room. He had work to do.