The Marshal of the West crouched on the floor of a high platform in the Sun Pyrotechnic Institute, surrounded by scattered tools and bits of metal. With a compass in one hand and a diamond-tipped scribe in the other, he etched careful lines across a sheet of metal, drawing shapes that would later be cut out and assembled into armor plates.

As he mulled over the layout of a particularly intricate retractable gauntlet mechanism, a second presence joined him on the platform. Few would dare interrupt him during times of concentration, but those who did must bear important news indeed to disrupt his work. The Marshal set aside his tools and stood, brushing gloved hands off against the tough fabric of his workshop trousers. Grey streaks of metal dust transferred onto the grease-stained brown cloth. Recognizing the visitor, he gave a brief salute.

“Good day, Advisor. You should not be in the Institute.” The Marshal made a mental note to look up the duty rosters for today. The individual presently on security duty at the doors would be spending the next dozen shifts at the stables.

“Let there be peace between us, Marshal of the West. A united front succeeds where a divided one will overturn.” The Advisor carefully aligned herself by the Marshal’s side without touching the platform railing with so much as a sleeve. Her careful motions did not go unnoticed by the Marshal; such pristine scholarly robes did not belong amid the soot and oil of real progress. The Marshal stiffly gestured toward the exit stairs.

“Let us speak in my office,” he offered, voice clipped with careful politeness. The Advisor did not take the hint. After waiting several seconds, the Marshal stepped toward the stairs first. “I, too, have read the Sage General’s treatises, and: ‘inviting one cuckoo dooms the whole nest.’ The Sun Army should act only at its King’s behest, and you are no true supporter of the Sun King.”

The Advisor stepped carefully after the Marshal, avoiding the tools and scraps littering the ground. Smiling faintly, she said, “I am as much his follower as you are the Sages’ disciple.”

A shadow of old conflict passed across the Marshal’s face as the two descended from the platform. At ground level, the noise multiplied due to the neverending workflow of the factory production lines. The Advisor’s soft tone became barely intelligible amid the bustle of industry.

“And yet here we are, far from the northern mountains. An acorn need not fall beside the oak to develop equal might. We are alike, you and I. We both seek a better world; we both employ what means we must to achieve that end. Even when our masters have strayed, we uphold their ideals without falling prey to the same weakness,” the Advisor said. The Marshal froze two steps from the bottom of the staircase, one foot hanging in the air. He slowly lowered it to the next step and turned: first only his head, then his whole body.

“You may have fooled the Sun King, but I will not be plied by the counsel of a deceiver. We both know where this path leads.” The full force of the Marshal’s ember-bright glare fell upon the Advisor. “When your schemes come to light, the Marshal of the East will revolt against the Sun King, tearing our hard-earned unity in two.”

“Yes.” She met those burning eyes with cool composure, ignoring the question in their depths.

The Marshal could not voice that question: why? After all the sacrifice and effort poured into reforging the rotting old Empire in a better vision, why would the Advisor conspire against all that they had aspired to build? Even as the Marshal wondered, he knew that hearing the answer spoken aloud would drive him to attack the Advisor, and the Sun King would be upset if his favorite subordinate mysteriously disappeared. The Marshal backed down, bowing as a soldier to a civilian lord.

“Fare well this day, Advisor. For the Sun King’s sake, I shall not debate with you, but I need not listen to these insults either.”

The Marshal turned on his heel and marched back up the stairs, retreating to his workspace once more. This time, the Advisor did not follow. She looked over the factory laid around her, at the machines and manpower that the Marshal of the West had gathered at his command. They were loyal to him alone, just as he served the Sun King alone, bound by the fanatical devotion that transcended all reason. As the Advisor’s power grew, the Marshal’s suspicion only transformed into a greater hindrance to her ultimate vision.

Pale eyes narrowed in an uncharacteristic breach of the Advisor’s tranquility. That night, a rider raced from the Capital to the northern campaign of the Sun Army, bearing the following message: “The sword is not to blame for its wielder’s misdirection.”

In the early hours of the morning, the residential sector of the Capital was silent save for the ever-vigilant watch of the City Guard. Bright stars hung like dewdrops in the night sky, and the Marshal of the East sought a like mind on the streets below.

The Marshal of the West lived in a modest house in a central sector of the city. By all appearances, it was indistinguishable from the others on the street, if not for the name-plate over the door and the perpetual flicker of firelight from inside. Here lived safety; here lived power and the right hand of the nation. The Marshal of the East pounded on a door he knew almost as well as his own, and soon a shadow moved behind the windows. The door opened to reveal a curious Marshal of the West.

“Brother?” the Marshal of the West greeted, curiosity in his voice. He stepped aside, sweeping one hand inward. “Do come in.”

Inside, the Marshal of the West’s house resembled a workshop more than an actual place of living. An oil-lamp flickered in one corner, and a series of strategically placed mirrors spread the illumination across the whole room. Tools and half-finished projects were piled on every surface, but the Marshal of the West flipped over an empty wooden crate for his guest to sit. Both were soon settled across a low workbench-turned-table with cups of hot water.

“What brings you back from the northern front so soon? Good news, I presume?” the Marshal of the West asked.

The Marshal of the East shook his head. It took all of his concentration to prevent the rest of his body from shaking with outrage as well.

“Lies. Lies. The border invasion, the Sun King’s justice—all lies,” he fumed. Catching his brother’s gaze, he spoke in a soft, pained voice. “Have you ever seen the cities of Crystal Valley? They are not a military state. They have no walls. No fear, no war, no conquest—the Crystal Valley Coalition had neither reason nor ability to provoke us to the degree in our reports. They were unprepared for battle, content to live in peace at our borders. We invaded them.”

Sympathy, not surprise, flooded the Marshal of the West’s face.

“Your trials have brought great pain. For this, you have my condolences.” The Marshal of the West looked away, fascinated by the glow of the oil lamp. “The Sun King is a farsighted leader. He must have planned for this outcome. It is not our place to doubt his commands.”

A bitter laugh tore from the Marshal of the East. “Our precious Sun King is a fraud and a hypocrite! Why do you still praise him?”

The cup slipped from the Marshal of the West’s hand, clattering to the table below. His face turned several shades paler than usual. “Brother, mind your words.”

“You are honorable and just, brother. How can you support a deceiver such as him? Does he have some blackmail over you, some unseen threat to compel your sword and fire?” Concern mingled with outrage in the Marshal of the East’s voice. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I will find a way to free you. We can dispose of this tyrant together.”

“Insolence,” the Marshal of the West gasped. He righted his cup and stood stiffly, gaze fixed upon the floor. Firelight from the hearth caught in pained eyes. “I did not hear you speak this night. Return to the field, brother, and question no more the wisdom of the Crown.”

Fifteen minutes after being unceremoniously shooed from his brother’s house, the Marshal of the East tired of wandering the empty streets of the sleeping Capital. He returned to the raised doorstep outside of his brother’s house. He sat there, elbows resting on knees, and buried his face in the wooly green cloak stretched between crossed arms. Truly, what could he expect from a man who had followed the Sun King for nearly two decades? The Marshal of the East wanted to believe that the Sun King had been justified in condemning the Crystal Valley Coalition, but at the same time, belief would not change facts.

“If my own brother will not understand, how can I convince the Sun King that this war is unjust?” the Marshal of the East demanded of the night.

“Where reason fails...” a voice like the morning fog floated in. The Advisor sat on the doorstep besides him, a wisp of ghostly light in the darkness.

A mob swept through the Capital, led by the Marshal of the East who had turned Traitor against his King. The mob included citizens and soldiers wielding pitchforks and swords. Only a small fraction of the Capital citizens had joined the rebellion, but in a city with a population in the tens of thousands, even a small fraction constituted a significant mob of several hundred. All involved chanted as one for the overthrow of the “Sun Deceiver.”

On a side street, the Advisor watched the mob pass. Past, present, and future flickered before clouded white eyes as she sorted through the possibilities. Too few supporters, and a rebellion was doomed to failure; too many, and there would be no heroic restoration of order once the rebels were crushed. However, this mob had just the right number of people. The Advisor swept a hand through the air, tracing the mob’s path across the roads of an invisible map.

“Present turmoil begets future order,” she whispered.

The Advisor stepped into a swift carriage with bits of tattered cloth and rotten wood nailed to the outside. Brushing aside the heavy blackout curtain, helpfully double-layered with old cleaning rags on the out-facing side, the Advisor whispered instructions to her driver. The carriage set off at a brisk pace, heading for the Central Garrison two hours’ ride from the Capital.

The Traitor had only the support of citizens from the Capital; the bulk of his troops were still deployed on the northern campaign against the Crystal Valley Coalition, awaiting his next orders. With the Sheriff temporarily out of the city on a police assignment, the Traitor had also enlisted the support of several City Guard members. However, the Advisor had ensured that the Traitor’s call for overthrow would never reach the northern Sun Army campaign, the nearby military garrisons, or anywhere outside the walls of the Capital.

The troops at this garrison were still loyal to the Sun King, and guarding the homeland from dissent was as much a part of their job as defending against external threats. Once the might of the Sun Army descended upon the Capital, this would-be revolution would end quickly. Anyone who survived would owe their lives and loyalties to the Advisor, either for leading the reinforcements or granting a pardon.

The setup was complete. Now, only time would determine who among equals would become the victor and the vanquished.

At the Sun King’s palace grounds, the Traitor and his mob stormed through the outer gate. Over two hundred followers poured in after him. Other sympathizers gathered around the edges of the courtyard, cheering their fellow revolutionaries on. When the mob reached the actual palace entryway, the elite guards stationed there flung open the doors, welcoming the revolution with shouts of camaraderie.

The Traitor and his fellows moved past palace security easily. Many of the royal guards supported and admired the Traitor, war hero and military legend that he was. These either surrendered or outright joined the movement, adding their strength to the mobs. Other royal guards either fled or fought and fell victim to the Traitor’s wrathful supporters. Inside the corridors, the Traitor and his fellows split into smaller groups to search the inner chambers.

“Find the Sun Deceiver and bring an end to the wars. Peace will be ours!” The Traitor held his sword high, and a flame raced along the blade, blazing unnaturally green before fading to the typical orange color of ignited naphtha.

“Peace! Freedom! Down with the Sun Deceiver,” the mob cheered, shaking their own spears and staves in time with the chant. “Down with the Warmonger!”