Of Kings and Pawns

Chapter 22 - The Gathering Storm

The walls of the Kremlin loomed like a fortress of ice and stone, cold and unyielding. Within its great hall, Yvan Rus sat on his throne, surrounded by noblemen and commanders, his expression one of thinly veiled contempt. Three lords had come to the Kremlin, answering summons they could not ignore. They had arrived under a banner of peace, but the weight of Yvan’s demand hung heavy in the air... pledge loyalty, or face the consequences.

Lord Mikko Eston, Lord Maksins Rygg, and the famed warrior Lord Jakob Letton all stood before him. Each wore their house colors, but none seemed at ease. Yvan's piercing gaze lingered longest on Lord Letton, the man known for his valor and loyalty to the fallen. Crossgrave, Letton’s ancestral seat, was a graveyard of warriors, filled with the bones of those who had died for their cause.

Yvan sneered. "Tell me, Lord Letton, are you tired yet of putting up crosses?" His voice was sharp, a mocking edge to it.

Lord Letton met his gaze, unflinching. "It is my duty to protect my people, and I see that protection under House Rus." His tone was calm, but his eyes betrayed no warmth.

A lie, Yvan thought. Letton, the warrior lord, would never truly bow to him. The man was a fighter, born and bred for battle. He could sense the tension in Letton's posture, the way his hand lingered near his sword. The Warriors of Crossgrave would always raise arms in defense of their honor. Perhaps Letton sensed something Yvan couldn’t. Perhaps the winds of war had already whispered their warnings to him.

No matter. Yvan dismissed the thought. Letton would obey, for now.

But the truth gnawed at him. These were not the lords of mighty armies. Lord Eston, known more for his wisdom than his warriors, and Lord Rygg, steeped in ancient traditions, were hardly a threat. Only Letton’s forces carried any true weight, and even that was not enough to tip the scales in Yvan’s favor.

Where were the others?

He only counted three. The absence of one lord in particular burned like a thorn in his side... Lord Elmar Finn, head of House Finn of Lakeshore Watch. Finn had not come, and worse still, had sent a response dripping with defiance. Yvan had threatened Finn, demanding his fealty, but the man had replied in kind, vowing that House Finn would not surrender a single inch of land to Rus, let alone bend the knee.

Without House Finn, Yvan’s ambitions to spread his influence to the northern houses of Sven and Nord were crippled. Lakeshore Watch acted as a buffer, and Finn’s refusal was a direct challenge to his authority. Fury simmered beneath Yvan’s skin, but he kept his expression neutral, unwilling to show his hand before the gathered lords.

"Leave us," Yvan ordered. "This meeting is over."

The lords bowed and took their leave, though Yvan could feel Letton’s gaze lingering on him for a moment longer. When the hall had emptied, Yvan rose from his throne and strode to the War Room, where his commanders awaited him.

The map of the Old World lay spread across the large oak table. Markers and figures denoted the state of the land. Circles had been drawn around the territories of Eroman and Varsaw, two key regions yet to be brought under Rus control. Yvan’s eyes fell on Varsaw first, where he and Otto agreed to split.

"Still standing," Yvan muttered to himself.

Eroman would pick a fight... he expected that much. The Eromans were notorious for their stubbornness. But Varsaw… Varsaw was protected. House Frank and House Brighton, ever the proud defenders of the Old World, had extended their protection over Varsaw’s lands. To strike at Varsaw would mean war, and not just with Varsaw alone. Frank and Brighton would be forced to retaliate.

Still, the thought didn’t bother Yvan. He had never feared a larger fight. In fact, the challenge excited him. What was war without risk?

He traced the borders of Varislow with his finger, then his gaze shifted north, to the lands of House Finn. Lakeshore Watch was vulnerable, cut off from immediate help. If he struck there, he could cripple House Finn before they had time to mount a proper defense.

Yvan turned to his commanders, his decision made. "We will attack Varislow and Lakeshore Watch simultaneously," he declared. "Gather our forces. We march south."

One of his closest advisors, Lord Belvar, stepped forward, concern evident on his face. "My lord, attacking House Varsaw will bring Frank and Brighton into the war. It would be too dangerous to provoke them both."

Yvan’s laughter echoed through the War Room. He turned to face Belvar, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "We’ll see about that, won’t we? Let Frank and Brighton come. I will break them as I will break the rest."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Yvan’s commanders exchanged nervous glances, but none dared question him further. The order had been given. War was inevitable.

As Yvan studied the map once more, a cold smile spread across his lips. The winds of war were blowing, and soon, the world would be engulfed in flames.

Varislow would fall. Lakeshore Watch would burn. And House Rus would rise to claim its rightful place at the top of the Old World.

-o-o-o-

William stood atop the watchtower, his gaze fixed on the practice grounds below, where the clang of steel against steel echoed. Henri, his son, moved swiftly through the group of young men, his sword flashing in the late afternoon sun. Artur Conval, Elliott Scott, and Justin Vals—each of them sons of the lords sworn to House Brighton—had tried their best, but one by one, Henri disarmed them, his strikes precise, relentless. His skill with the blade was undeniable, yet William's heart felt heavy with unease.

War loomed on the horizon. Otto Eigermann's recent coronation had stirred the kingdoms, and whispers of full-scale conflict were growing louder. William knew it was only a matter of time before the first swords would be drawn in earnest, and though he had once trained with the longbow—the pride of the Briton Isles—his days as a bowman were long behind him. As king, his place was now on horseback, leading his men into battle.

He watched Henri on the training grounds again, his sword flashing in swift arcs. William had always hoped his son would take up the longbow, preferring him to fight at a safe distance. The longbowmen of Brighton were renowned across the isles, their arrows striking true even from afar. But Henri had chosen the sword. He fought up close, where he could feel the heat of his enemies' breath, channeling his anger into every blow.

William's thoughts were interrupted by the soft sound of footsteps. Eliza, his queen, approached with a letter in her hand. "A raven from Lord Morav," she said quietly, handing him the sealed parchment. "Otto Eigermann has demanded that he move his borders, to reclaim lands lost when House Morav gained independence from Osteryk."

William's brow furrowed as he read the letter. Lord Morav had been one of the few in the central kingdoms who had dared to vote against Otto’s coronation. Now, it seemed, Otto was making him pay for that decision. "He's harassing him," William muttered. "Punishing him for his defiance."

Eliza nodded, her face tense with concern. "Should we intervene?"

William felt the weight of his crown pressing down upon him. His forces were still few, their numbers depleted from recent skirmishes and the growing tensions across the kingdoms. To engage now could be disastrous. But to stand by and do nothing—what would that say about House Brighton's honor? He hesitated, the choice heavy in his chest.

"Perhaps... it would be wiser to wait," he said at last. "Let Morav handle this on his own."

Eliza stared at him in disbelief. "Let him be harassed? What about our honor? What about protecting the weak, as we've always sworn to do?"

William’s voice rose, frustration boiling over. "House Brighton isn’t ready for a war, Eliza! What do you want me to do? Throw away the lives of our people because of honor?"

Eliza sighed, her disappointment evident, though she said nothing more. "I hope," she said softly, "that the time we're using is not wasted. Eigermann is already preparing and he's using every second to his advantage. He won’t wait forever."

Their conversation was cut short by a commotion from the training grounds. Orwell Fenn, the sickly heir to Fennington Hill, was backing away from Henri, his shield raised in a futile defense. Henri, his face twisted in anger, slashed relentlessly at the shield, each blow louder than the last.

"I yield! I yield!" Orwell shouted, but Henri did not stop.

Eliza rushed to the edge of the tower, her voice sharp. "Henri, stop this at once!"

But Henri's rage blinded him. He kept slashing, his strikes growing more furious with each passing moment. William didn't hesitate. He grabbed his sword and vaulted down the stairs, his heart racing as he stormed onto the training grounds.

"Enough!" William bellowed, his voice like thunder. With one swift motion, he disarmed Henri, sending the sword clattering to the ground. He leveled his own blade at his son’s chest. "He said he yields."

Henri glared at him, his breath heavy, face flushed with anger. Without a word, he turned and stormed away, his fists clenched at his sides.

William stood frozen, the weight of the sword suddenly too much to bear. The confrontation with Henri mirrored the letter in his hand, a bitter echo of the reality unfolding in the wider world. Here, he had the strength to stop his son. But in the world outside these walls, where Otto Eigermann harassed lords like Morav into submission, William felt powerless. He could only bring his sword down on his son... but not on a tyrant.