A light. Spreading in darkness. The light grew until there was darkness no more. Hal opened his eyes, squinted, and shielded them from the sun with an upraised hand. His face was hot where the sunbeam had trailed before it woke him, and his neck ached. He had been sleeping against a large oak tree, his bow laying in his lap. He cursed; he must have dosed off while hunting that fox. He was getting too old.

Hal got up from his feet and stretched. When he bent to touch his toes, he could still manage to reach all of the way. “I’ve still got something at least,” he muttered. Soon after he began walking back to his home. Why would I fall asleep in the middle of a hunt? It doesn’t matter, I’ve not got gored by a wolf, those are the things that count.

Hal’s appearance was that of a leathery skinned, brown-haired and bushy-bearded labourer in his early to mid-50’s, walking home from a long day of hunting in the woods, empty-handed. Hal was not bothered that people often made this assumption of him and treated him as they thought was proper, which was to ignore him. He was not like the other lords that needed their serfs to grovel at their feet and inflame their egos. All Hal needed from his serfs was for them to pay their taxes on time, and to not form rebel militias, but that was less of a problem. Under house Landoran’s leadership that had never been a problem

Hal adjusted his bow and quiver to a more comfortable position, then began the short journey back to his home. He made his way easily along the hunting trail, which was almost invisible to anyone not familiar with the woods, and gave brief words of greeting to any fellow hunter that he passed. Careful not to let them gaze at his face for too long. He didn’t want to make any lasting impressions. The last thing that Hal wanted was for a serf to recognise him and tell his friends that the wealthy lord liked to hunt alone in the public forest.

After several minutes Hal walked into a bright clearing. He grinned as he looked upon his ancestral home. How long ago was this place built? 200 years, 3? I can’t remember; I never could pay attention during the history lessons.

He made his way along the path to the front door. He looked up at the house again, really looking this time.

The house was a large stone manor, adorned with expensive statues and glass windows. The roof was of grey tile and lined with leaf clogged gutters, which changed into small podiums periodically to allow for the statues. Some of the more fantastical statues were designed by Hal’s wife, Gillian.

They mostly consisted of fantastical beasts in heroic poses, occasionally being ridden by gallant looking knights. But some were made in memorial of family long lost. The original architect had decided that it would be best for each of these statues to be posed the same way (faces downturn and solemn, hands held in front of them) in order to avoid any bias in their making. All the dead are equal in the end, it is said

Hal knocked on the large iron-bound oak door that stood within a large alcove in the centre of the manors face. After several seconds, the small metal panel in the centre of the door slid open, revealing a small, pointed face looking accusatorially out.

“What dayoo want?” The child considered him for a few more moments before continuing, “Old man.”

“Let me inside Dast. It's cold out here.”

“And why should I do that. Old man? “

“Dast!” Hal shouted.

“Ok, ok. No need to get loud. I was only joking sir.” Dast’s pale face dropped down from the hole -after giving a crestfallen look- and the panel was pushed closed. The door began to creak open.

Once it was fully ajar Hal stepped inside, giving Dast a quick rap on the head as he passed. “Oi,” Dast murmured glumly, “rude.”

Dast rubbed the top of his head roughly, mussing his fair hair, and stalked his way into his small room (Hal thought it was really more of a closet) by the door. Dammed boy, why did Gillian let him in again? I must talk to her about replacing him.

Hal took off his hunting gear and boots and tossed them in Dast’s direction. He took in a deep breath. The house smelt of roasted meat and gravy, with a hint of burning fireplace wood beneath. That reminds me, I’m bloody starving.

Hal made his way deeper into the house. Over the years Hal had fostered an atmosphere that he hoped seemed jovial and welcoming. The paintings were all of pleasant things and events, mostly dogs, and the light was neither too bright nor too dark. Neither was the temperature too warm or cold. He had made sure that the Efir globes along the walls were coloured so as to give off a yellow glow, instead of the characteristic light blue that Efir dust tended to emanate when lit. The hardwood floor was covered occasionally by expensive hides and even more expensive symmetrically designed Silidani rugs. The entrance room was circular in shape, having doorways to all other parts of the house spaced along its one grey stone wall. The centrepiece of the room was a grand triple-tiered chandelier of marbled blue-and-silver Efir steel hanging from the ceiling.

Hal looked at none of his expensive trappings as he walked further into his home. He was looking for his wife, and he knew just how to find her.

He stepped through one of the doors in the entryway and into the long hallway that led to the kitchen. He made his brisk way along the hallway, only giving a brief acknowledgement to the two servants that he passed.

As Hal walked into the kitchen, he was bombarded with an almost palpably humid heat. Sweat began to form on his face and back instantaneously. He weaved through the legion of cooks and undercooks that were busy at work making that night’s dinner.

He stopped as he came upon an interesting scene. And was not in the least bit surprised.

Hals youngest daughter, Ophelia was being yelled at by the head cook, Mrs Brackson. Ophelia was covered head to toe in what appeared to be dry flour. She was staring guiltily at the ground whilst Ms Brackston told her to ‘keep her grubby hands out of the damned pantry’. Brackston was gesturing towards a spilt sack of - who’d have thought? - flour laying on the ground. Hal viewed this scene with the tired resignation of someone overly familiar with a subject that he thoroughly dislikes but can never seem to avoid.

Mrs Brackston and Ophelia both noticed Hal at the same time. Ophelia looked up to Hal and gave a wide-eyed pout. Ms Brackston turned her considerable frame toward Hal with a conciliatory look on her wide face. “Good evening sire, I was just reprimanding this young lass for spilli- “

“I understand Audrey. Continue on whilst I take her off your hands.” Ms Brackston gave Hal a pleased little bow and waddled off - not before giving Ophelia a dirty look - to bother some member of the kitchen staff.

Hal grabbed his daughter by the wrist and led her out of the kitchen. Ophelia did not kick up a fuss, she knew it would be of no use. Hal took her into the small personal garden that was located in the middle of the manor. All three floors of the house could be seen from the garden, only allowing the sun to be seen directly at certain times of day. I believe Gillian called it a light well, agh, some nonsense. It seems like a waste of space to me.

Hal let go of Ophelia as they came to an abrupt stop. He leaned towards one of the walls, picked up a pail full of water and emptied it onto Ophelia’s head in one swift movement. She shrieked in indignation at the sudden shock of cold water, her usually short brown hair becoming a near-black mop around her small face.

“Now that I can talk to you properly without that muck covering your face, do you care to explain yourself?”

“Well…I…ugh, it's cold! At least let me dry off before interrogating me!” Hal kneeled down so that he could speak to her face to face. In a stern voice he spoke “Now Missy, for a girl 8 years past, I expect better than this. What happened exactly?”

“I was reaching for the pastries when I accidentally fell off the stool and knocked down the sack of flour.” She said this in a jittery rush, she was shivering hard.

“Tsk, amateur mistake Missy. Should have just ran, cleaned off, and then blamed it on one of the maid’s daughters. You can’t really get in trouble if they have no proof.” Ophelia nodded gravely. Hal let through a small grin. “Good girl, now dry off.”

“Yes Da.”

“Oh, one more thing. Do you know where mother is?”

“She was with Serilin in the library when I walked past a few minutes ago.”

“Thank you, dear.”

He turned his back to Ophelia and walked back into the house. Silly girl. Will she ever learn?

Hal stepped into the library. Its four long walls were completely covered with shelves upon shelves containing neatly ordered books. Rolling ladders allowed quick access to every one, of which there were many.

Hal had collections of almost every genre and series of book that one could find in The Coalition. From memoirs of long-dead leaders to religious encyclopedias to cheap horror. Ever since the Efir production boom 30 years ago books had been in plentiful supply. And demand. I remember when it was uncommon to have more than 2 books per noble household. I am lucky I was too bull-headed to want to read in those days.

In the centre of the room, there were several luxuriant leather armchairs and settees in which to recline when reading. The furniture was spread across the room in what appeared to be a haphazard pattern, but in reality, they were positioned in an elaborate and cunning way that a keen eye could both see and benefit from in social occasions. As the main room in which social functions were held in the Landoran household, it was important to have the upper hand when interacting with guests.

Two chairs that appeared to be out in the open were placed in such a way that the two occupants could have a relatively private conversation with scant interruptions. These chairs were especially useful when one wanted to talk to an important figure without appearing to hog their attention from everyone else.

These chairs were occupied by Gillian and Serilin, Hals daughter.

Gillian was a striking figure. She possessed a head of long auburn hair which draped down to her lower back when unfurled - which it currently was - and eyes that were a calculating green. Her face was sharp yet welcoming in the right light, and mood. Her eyes were spaced a pleasingly far length apart.

Serilin took much after her father with her strong jaw and chin. The rest she borrowed from her beautiful mother. They were both talking in a scholarly manner over a great tome rested on a wooden stool between them. They looked up as Hal entered the room and stopped speaking. Gillian gave a warm smile. Her melodic voice rang clearly through the room “Hello dear, I was beginning to get worried. You were out for a long while.”

Hal walked to the women with a smile on his face, “I fell asleep. I… am sorry for worrying you my gem.” He bent over to embrace Gillian, she put her arms around him and whispered in his ear, a teasing smile on her lips. “Ser says you are too old to hunt anymore. I agree.” Hal retraced himself with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He turned to Serilin. “How are you my dear?”

“Me and mother were just discussing the ethical constraints of the practice of Batu’ar forced conversion.” Serilin looked up inquisitively, “Do you know what that is father?”

“Oh…yes, grim stuff I’ve heard. Don’t they separate children from apostate families?”

“Yes, but they claim it is for the children’s own good, that if they were not separated, they would lead impure and unhealthy lives, that their kidnapping is saving them. I find it very interesting.” Hal grunted agreement and turned back to Gillian. That girl is too intelligent by half, but of course, Gillian did not want to raise ignorant children.

Hal extended his hand to Gillian. “If I may my love? I wish to speak with you.”

“Of course.” Gillian stood up, flattened an imperceptible fold on her intricate black silk dress and nodded slightly towards Serilin. Serilin Leaned forward and hauled the large tome shut, projecting thousands of dust motes into the air. She walked over to one of the shelves, tome held fast in her small arms.

For a girl of seventeen, Serilin seemed to have a hidden strength that confused Hal to no end.

Gillian followed Hal out of the library, head held high in her naturally proud manner, her dress made it seem that she was gliding along the stone floor. Hal could not help but look back at her. It feels as if we were wed just yesterday, not over 30 years ago… you could not tell from her face.

They entered Hal’s study; Gillian gently closed the door behind them. Hal sat down at his desk, which was a large and ornate piece of cured mahogany.

Hal’s office décor mostly consisted of the occasional painting of a beach and some military paraphernalia framed on the grey stone walls. He made sure to keep his workplace free of distraction whenever possible, thus making it a somewhat grim place when compared with the rest of the house. Of course, this ensured that the children never had many reasons to barge in unannounced.

Gillian swayed over to the front of the desk, facing Hal. She leaned against it with her pale arms, face slowly descending closer to Hal’s. “You had a question.” She smiled, showing no teeth. Hal spoke after taking a deep breath “After the Coalition began the military recruitment drive over the past months, we have had a… shortage of young, healthy men to staff the house.”

“By a shortage, you mean a complete absence?”

Hal sighed, “Yes.” Hal shifted in his chair; Gillian leaned back.

Hal continued “I understand that you have tried your hardest to find competent replacements for the guards but… Dast? He’s a little shit!”

“Tsk, he is a child,” Gillian replied reprimanding.

“Exactly!” Hal replied, “An annoying child. Could you not at least find one that does not enjoy taunting me?”

“I like Dast, he is a charming little fellow.”

“When he bloody well chooses to be, specifically when he sees some reward or punishment in sight.”

“I am sorry darling, but the orphanage was almost empty by the time I got there, the farmers needed helpers, and Dast looked like the best option.”

Hal sighed again, louder this time. He saw that he had no legs to stand on, she was the one that had bothered to go out and search after all. “Well. We will just have to tr- “

There was a knock on the door. They both instinctively turned their heads towards the sound. Gillian stepped to the door and opened it part way, peeking her head out. “Yes dear?” Her voice came through muffled. “Oh. Come in, both of you.”

Gillian opened the door wider, beckoning two figures into the room. The two men walked into Hal’s office.

The first was Carwyn, Hal’s son and twin to Serilin. He had dark, moppy hair that was severely unkempt framing his face. Which itself was strong lined and bold like his fathers. He was wearing his training fatigues, which would explain his general state of uncleanliness. His face showed that he would rather be somewhere else but would not dare say so.

The other man was more composed than Carwyn, but less clean. He was in the royal courier uniform, but the characteristic black and green of house Daymoore was reduced to a grey-brown due to the dirt and grime that caked him. His kettle hat was held beneath his left arm and his hair was clean-shaven. The man was a hand taller than Carwyn, who was of average height himself. His face was solemn and almost sorrowful as he walked up to Hal’s desk and gave an outward-facing salute.

Carwyn spoke in an exasperated voice, “He rode in at speed whilst I was training and asked for you. I hope we're not interrupting anything.”

Hal spoke firmly, ignoring Carwyn, “Greetings soldier, state your business.”

“Sir, I have been sent personally by Grand King Harold Daymoore of The Coalition. Co-ruler of Moradania, Yatarva and Northern Skogur. I am to inform you of the formal request for you to join the Coalition army that has been formed due to the recent Borani activity along our southern border.” The man gave himself a small nod, he had most likely been practicing that speech his entire journey.

Carwyn was the first to speak “No! Father has already fought enough of Harold’s stupid wars; can’t they find a replacement?” Gillian put a calming hand on Carwyn’s shoulder, the courier looked blankly at the space above Hal’s head, his face expressionless.

Gillian whispered something in Carwyn’s ear, and he appeared to regain his calm. Yet he continued, speaking in harsh tones “What say you father? Will you let him do this? Surely you will say no.”

Hal leaned his arms onto his desk and covered his face with his hands. Gillian spoke calmly “It is the family’s duty to follow your father, it is fully up to him whether or not we leave.”

Although Gillian spoke in a tone that suggested she was neutral, Hal knew that she was anything but. I’m sure Serilin and Ophelia would be against this as well. And I’m doubly sure that Gillian is with them. All those things would make it seem like an obvious decision.

So why am I smiling?