With a tired expression, an armour-clad man observed the farthest reaches of the Sea of Trees. His aeter spread from the outskirts, in a net, and with delicate control. It slithered in silence, as a part of the forest, touching, viewing, hearing. He ambled with a regal gait, silver-haired – long, ruffled yet elegant, and with eyes of the same colour. His skin glistened without blemish, as white as milk, with features best described as feminine.

In simpler words, the man reflected an odd combination of serenity and chaos, stemming in part from the design of his well-fitted, purple and gold armour. It held to the will of its craftsman, with an ego best suited to the traits of its owner.

At the time, the man almost turned away, pausing only upon observation of something different; his eyes perked with a sliver of interest. He retracted his aeter-made net and focused on the presence of another within the Sea of Trees, in battle against one of its fiercest hostilities, the Chrun’s Descendants. His cheeks flushed with excitement, despite what appeared to be an unimpressive struggle. He felt a tremble of freshness from the techniques on display, swordplay that required a dance on initiation, the jade-coloured aura even. His head cocked to one side in bewilderment. He wondered, then more strongly.

“Who are you?”

The more he observed, the more bizarre it became. With victory, the subject of his observation fell into slumber; he later awoke with greater strength, in control of a refined, unexplainably pure form of aeter. The observer scratched his chin, in puzzlement. With a sigh, he shook his head and then refocused to the man in the forest. The latter scrambled, curiously, to collect the remains of the Chrun’s Descendants, their exoskeletons. At first, he stacked them, one on top of the other. He stopped at three, frowned and retreated, hurrying away to a deeper part of the forest. When he returned, he tied the exoskeletons, individually to a vine, and then collectively in a knot to another, a leash.

“He’s entertaining, to say the least,” thought the observer, in a remark. “I wonder if the Godvildian Empire understands him any better…should I try to poach him perhaps?”

“My Prince,” the observer heard, from over his shoulder. “We are prepared to march to Mutuba Village.”

“Baron Noah, I’ve mentioned this repeatedly,” the observer said, slowly. “You are to call me by my name until I am crowned as such. My father is yet to make the declaration, and I will not have my retainers make it for him.”

The older person retreated a little, in a shudder, and then bowed. “Prince Roland, it’s not a declaration! We merely show our loyalty in your address as such.”

Roland massaged his temples, twitching at the corner of his lips. He pictured the frustration in his head and dispersed the thought, easing to a more affectionate expression. His gaze fell upon his older subordinate, in a purple-coloured armour, much heavier than his own. He could merely trace to the glow in the latter’s eyes; despite being a Baron and the Seventh Lord of Relicta, Noah only rarely undressed from his attire of combat. Roland recalled his Baron in fragments from his youth, of a kind and concerned face, blue and wrinkled. Noah represented a demeanour very unlike his Awaran heritage, known often for their large and powerful, demon-like appearance.

“Was it due to the passing of his wife?” wondered Roland. Aloud he said, “I’ve changed my mind. We will not march to Mutuba Village.”

Noah hurriedly removed his helmet and allowed for his white, long hair to fall on his shoulders. He passionately met his Prince’s gaze, with a pair of golden eyes, and stammered a response. “No, My Prince! Your father will be very upset with this decision. It isn’t often the Lord of Fire visits Mutuba Village; the security is weak, and the soldiers posted for its protection are – at best – laughable. I beg that you reconsider!”

“You’re not wrong,” admitted Roland, with a smile. “But I’ve found something, or rather someone of interest. Our attack at Mutuba Village might pollute his opinion towards us.”

With his mouth agape, Noah relented from his position and bowed in quiet acknowledgement. He respected his Prince, but probed for more information, nonetheless. “You wish to poach this person to our cause, a Godvildian?”

“He isn’t anything, for now anyway,” remarked Roland. “But we mustn’t allow him to favour the Godvildian Empire unconditionally. Do we have anyone placed in Mutuba Village?”

“We do, one,” revealed Noah, with a slight nod. “I will gather all you need within two days.”

With a deep breath, Roland tilted his head skywards, and smirked. He waved the retreat for his army and unburdened from his armour. The Relictan Prince then stretched, attired comfortably in common, dark clothing. He yawned, took a step, and gestured for his Baron to follow.

“Have someone take my armour to Father,” said Roland, casually. “I’ll remain here, in hiding, until you return with the necessary information.”

“What would you like me to tell our King?” asked Noah, with concern. “Your decisions often keep us worried, tired as well.”

Roland giddily spun and bowed, startling his older subordinate. The Relictan Prince shrugged without worry, but held to a confident demeanour. Baron Noah recognized the expression as thought. Despite a weak position amongst the Lords of Relicta, he had observed the growth of his Prince more closely than most. He often gazed at the latter as a father would his son.

“Tell me, Baron Noah,” started Roland, slowly. “Does Father heed my counsel?”

“His Majesty strongly considers it,” said Noah. “That is the truth!”

“Then tell him to end the war with the Godvildian Empire!” declared Roland. “It is perhaps time for us to usher into a new era. Tell him, that I, Roland Lar Relicta, Child to a Thousand Mothers, advise him strongly to end the war and make peace.”

“I’ll try and convey that, My Prince,” acknowledged Noah, stifling a laugh. “Leave the matter here to me. I’ll make an excuse for your sake, so His Majesty doesn’t intervene too much.”

“Thank you!” said Roland, genuinely. He felt the urge to add onto his appreciation, but refrained out of habit, more so because of the spectating soldiers around them. “I know just how much you hate the Godvildian people, Uncle Noah. I won’t forget your concession here…”