The Vixen Queen

Chapter 1.1

CW/TW: references to abuse and r*pe.

Part One: Lost Causes

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They called it peace, but there never was such a thing.

Not for all.

Not for me.

There were those who their peace didn't benefit,

Those they used their peace to exploit.

I could see it in their eyes: predation, indulgence, arrogance.

It was a farce, that peace.

It was never theirs, given to them by better men,

And ruined by them, the lesser.

Aurora's Journal (c. 4A Y392)

The 392nd Year of The Nordur Imperium

The 17th Year of The Reign of King Sigurd V

4A Y392

MINNEHIL

THE OLD KINGDOM OF THE HINTRIA

Ganzig stared wearily at the banks of The Jadar River. Its dark blue waters flowed calmly, albeit powerfully, down towards the southern mouth of The Oduba Channel a hundred and twenty leagues away. For all his magic, securing a restful night's sleep was a cat and mouse game, fought over centuries of long nights in lands not his own. Not to mention The Dreamlands had become a place he rarely liked to visit. Memories ever haunted him, memories of suffering, memories of drifting, memories of guilt. Lately, what plagued him was uncertainty. Uncertainty...and inevitability. Something waited for him, circling him like a buzzard, ready to pounce on his battered, beleaguered soul the very moment it was ready to give up its fight.

No. Not a buzzard. An owl. Circling.

He looked up, hearing the owl's eerie call. "Hoo..." Its brown and white wings fluttered in the wind as it glided. Circling. Who? Me. Is she returning? Gods...I hope not.

More memories had come in the night, from nearly fifty years in the past when he assisted House Colt in keeping Baedsten's throne from falling into Jadar hands — -he very same Jadar he lived amongst now. Hintrians, in fact, the oldest line of the Jadar race.

He watched from the east banks of The Jadar, peering across the river with enhanced vision, puffing on his pipe. Their gray-white skin was muted in the easy pastels of the morning light as they went about their business, fluffing out rugs, walking leisurely down The Eastern Highway, opening shops, and watering plants. Such a docile appearance characterized these people, but beneath it was a rage unparalleled, a scary adeptness for war, for magic, for believing in and acting upon their own supremacy. They had little sense of the capabilities hidden behind his amber eyes and copper skin, so radically different from the others. There was no genuine respect for the legends of their actual superiors: The Nordur, The Karhai, The Fel Aurelians. The Spirit of The Four Brothers was strong within them. Eyn Sof's infinite potential had found a home in their hearts, along with a fear of inferiority that drove them mad.

It was that delusional self-belief that drove a man by the name of Asher Miskin to claim Baedsten as his own upon King Agnar's death. His heralds spread his message like street preachers, moonlighting as terrorists when words failed to gain their desired levels of support. Four thousand troops from The Rockanies and Avelon burned in The Rissard Sea for the arrogance of their leaders. Four thousand men and women, burned to a crisp by Ganzig's alchemical weapons. A further two thousand were slain in their attempted landing, many at his hand, still more by his sword. Baedsten held strong, with Thaeweth and Iyentis at their backs, and him, the legendary Rogue Warlock, tipping the scales of what would otherwise have been a lopsided fight in The Jadar's favor. Five words rang in his head as they fought, repeating like a chant: I need you to win.