Prologue

In the blistering heat of a summer scorched by the flames of war, an unexpected meeting unfolded between the Envoy of Vénissieux and the formidable Standardbearer of Inor, amidst the looming threat of invasion and utter annihilation.

Ive penned another contract, the Envoy announced, his words laden with uncertainty, as he broached the topic.

Another offer akin to the fleeting pleasures of the Queens pleasure-barges, mayhaps? retorted the Standardbearer, his sharp words cutting through the tension like a sword. Those barges, once symbols of decadence, now naught but ash in our cooking-fires...

Archerus, you knew their intended purpose when we struck our bargain—

Or perhaps another deal tainted like your poisoned grain? interrupted the foreigner, his voice dripping with disdain. A hefty sum you extracted, claiming obligation. I should have paid you in worthless copper and watched you struggle under its weight.

But this contract, my dear Standardbearer, is of a different nature, insisted the Envoy. It strikes at the very core of my realm and its queen. A scion of Vénissieuxi royalty, the last of the line, offered to your Emperor in marriage. And whispers speak of potent magic surrounding her, a fascination for your people….

The Standardbearer pondered, his gaze sharp and unyielding. Forgive me if I approach your sudden generosity with caution.

The Envoy attempted a semblance of sincerity, though it faltered under scrutiny. Challenges will undoubtedly arise, given my allegiance to the queen. But were this royal under your banner, objections would hold no sway.

I enjoy to see you squirm, torn between contractual fervor and loyalty to the crown, mused the foreigner, a wry smile playing upon his lips. It would please me to see the Emperor so humbled, denied the privilege of uniting with the bloodlines of his own people. Court at home would be aflame… and no doubt, it might yield more opportunities to plant him in the ground beside his sire.

Shall we then set quill to parchment and seal this pact? proposed the Envoy, with a flourish reminiscent of courtly grace.

The Standardbearer, his disdain for such dealings evident, pushed the inkwell forward with a heavy thud. Peace, for a magic-ridden princess. And your vessels, your services, your coin... Tell me, what manner of sorcery afflicts her?

The affliction, replied the Envoy as he reached for the quill with a steady hand, his tone somber, is visions. This royal scion foretells the demise of all they encounter. And alas, their prophecies come to pass.

With a grim determination, the Standardbearer reached for the quill, ready to affix his mark to the unsettling pact laid before them, sealing their fates in ink and blood.