The owls’ call drift over the cool breeze; fed and content they settle in their nests. And the forest critters praise Ferus for her protection. Those who survive live to face tomorrow; and the cycle that governs the world continues. Like the celestial bodies above, Remo orbits the worktable inside his tent. He squeezes his temples, feeling the blood swoosh in his ears. But the noise trickles through. It vibrates and rattles the inside of his skull. The sound scratches his skin with a dull palate knife. Leaving unseen gouges over his arms and back. Every nerve is on high alert; painful and responsive to every stimulus. It takes over his consciousness until his only focus is the sound and the pain.

His measured paces flatten the grass as he tries to halt the incessive noise squeezing his brain. But the flies discover the dirty plates from his late-night supper. The delinquent pages haven’t returned to complete their duties. Now the buzzing swarms the pile of dishes littering his table. They zip by his ears; a sound that echoes like a drum. His blood boils against his feebleness. He reaches for his knife but realises its uselessness as he swatted at the insects.

Instead, he startles a field mouse who tip toes among the plates, and the creature knocks over a stack of utensils. They slide from the mountain of plates, screeching over the tin and topple to the grass. It grinds through his nerves; his knees give out; dropping him to the ground. Wave over wave, the sensation peels his skin apart. He chomps on his bottom lip; fighting the agony bubbling in his throat. He bites until he tastes dribbles of iron on his tongue then relaxes.

The dishes stabilize and the clamour outside dulls. No longer vigorous and dynamic it slips into a lazy rhythm. A necessary evil, he tells himself. After all he insisted on the training regiment. He jams his fingers in his ears to dull the sound. It eases the pain but isn't a cure; but it'll have to do until the watch changes. He longs for midnight; the hour silence falls over their camp and his real work begins. The clatter diminishes; at this hour their limbs are stiff and sore. The soldier's enthusiasm is all but gone and exhaustion settles over them.

But this is the only way, perfection is the path to victory. He takes deep breaths, filling his lungs and letting it out in a steady breath. He repeats his mantra; his plan for prosperity. Margaret promised resources and he developed a plan. But his men are too limited in their ways. They fail to understand they are on the cusp of something greater than themselves. That their sacrifice is required for excellence. He knows the sense of family found in the ranks. And it depends on all members to fulfill their role; and that means if one suffers, they all do. Until they triumph, they will endure together. The bond of brotherhood is never broken. Where one is weak the group is strong which is why he demands loyalty above all else.

Outside an officer calls the training to an end, and the shields thump to the ground. The whisper grumbles follow the sheathing of swords. He knows what they say about him under their breath. The suspicion, the madness that grips him, the blunt irrationality of his orders. But there’s a reason why they fall silent as they pass his tent. The candles are lit, his shadow paces through the space; they know the danger within. But executions have that effect; it reveals certain priorities. In one meticulous sweep he eliminated most of Diamond’s loyal dogs. But any rat-catcher knows where's there's one there's more hidden in the floorboards. They know that they play along, they’ll have wages to send their families. If not, it’ll be a body bag sent instead.

A chill grip his muscles causing his body to tremble. He pulls a wool blanket from his pristine cot, draping it over his shoulders. Tightening it around his neck he fights off a draft and he regains his composure. He runs his fingers through his hair and flattens the wayward strands. With silence he becomes himself again; and his mind sets to work. Candles shoved in holders stand guard around the tent. The flames almost reach the base and the goopy wax spills over the holders. He unrolls the heavy parchments over the workstation and runs his fingers over the map lines. The inky borders he once thought absolute are on the verge of changing. And he’s new the mapmaker; redefining the known world.

He draws out the plans; connecting the dots until the path forms. This phase is precarious; but Margaret claims her information is correct. Even with their planning, failures occur. A cold draft tickle his neck and he tug the blanket tighter. Their target would still be a mystery if it wasn't for her officious nature. If it wasn’t for an unsuspicious letter, they wouldn’t know Edgard's secret. Neither of them knew the potential power skirting the Bellaverian border.

To imagine such a talkative man keeping something like this to himself. If only he wasn't dumb enough to leave the evidence in his desk drawer. Any man married to Margaret should realize a desk lock can't stop her meddling ways. It was a lesson poor Edgard learned the hard way, but there's no ill feelings; after all, now they know the truth. And soon all of Umara will know as well. Dragons, he let the word dance in his mind. The power. The possibilities. All at his fingertips; its too tempting to ignore.

His scarred finger pads trace the familiar mountain range he once called home. He follows the outline of the palace symbol rising from the pointed peaks. His heart longs for it, Alexanderia; a place of opportunity and a prison all rolled into one. He recalls the shop windows; displaying fragments of a perfect life. The people strolling over the streets with their pleasant laughter. Families and friends greeting each other as they go about their tasks. But the life in the palace was different. Smiles hid dark intentions, lies where told with a grin. Everyone knew the game and played along. It puzzled him when they feigned bewilderment when their enemy revealed the treachery.

In one way his guilty of such treachery. His mind dances to the night he lost his best friend. A sacrifice for the greater purpose. His trembling hand reaches for the goblet within his reach. He tries to forget the smiling stars and the victorious war cries. The smell of sweat, fire, and the laughter of a madman. He clutches the blanket, fighting the chill washing over his body. With every ounce of focus he grips the goblet and places in in front of him. To his left is his saving grace. Unscrewing the tincture bottle, he places measured drops into his drink. Then a few more and finally the last one for good measure.

After a few sips, the concoction slithers through his limbs. The warmth soothes his body, alleviates the pain, and quells the erratic tremors vibrating his body. Pleasure replaces the agony; euphoria's embrace transcends all existence. His heartbeat slows, as the world swirls. He takes a seat, allowing the medication to take hold. Leaning his head against the backrest he recalls Allan’s smug face as he moves his staff into the offensive position. The wind brushes against his legs and sweeps his cloak into the air. Allan smirks as the gem radiates with a soft glow. He grips his hilt, the electric energy from the air pulses through his body; urging him onward. His sword strikes are fast and precise. But years of sparring prepared Allan for that night. He sidesteps and dodges all the while dust and ash from the burning kingdom swirl around them.

Childhood memories of competition for their instructor's attention flood back with each strike. His youthful ambition tingles at the back of his brain. But Allan’s darken face flashes before his eyes. His desperation grew with Remo’s fury. That night Alan knew he was at the brink of losing everything. For once they will be equal; equal in misery. The golden son will soon fall and for Remo savoured it.

That night a violent icy gust whipped his skin. Even in his tent the chill washes over his skin causing the hair to stand on end. Shutting his eyes, he recalls the smoky sky becoming pregnant with rolling swelling clouds. The electric power charges the air around him. The cyclone blows, they dance death's masquerade into the sky. Climbing higher over the courtyard. The wind gathers him in its turbulence; sending him torpedoing in all directions. His iron stomach lurches, the contents threatening to evacuate over the fighting below. Alexandria is a blur, tiled rooftops, and golden flames fuse together with the deafening thunder from above.

But the rushing wind isn't as chaotic as he first thought. His body adjusts to the circular pattern. He flies close to the palace, then over the broken statue, above the chaos in the streets outside the palace gate, then round again. His men throw their torches through broken windows and the homes ignite. His foot grazes the palace wall. The shattered panther statue spills over the stone; the water gushes over its remains. People rush into the streets clutching children and valuables. The palace is solid under his boot: he pushes against it, gripping his sword and cuts threw the wind. It's behind him and shoots him like a cannon through the tornado. As the thunderclaps and the lightning flashes he reaches his target. His friend. Brother. Enemy. His sword pierces his shoulder and Allan's painful cry echoes in his ears.

The entrance to his tent jostles open. Peeling the flap like unfurling a flower she steps into the candlelight. Her golden hair curls past her shoulders, the locks unbridled and playful. Her porcelain skin shimmers as she stands before him like an angel draped in lace. Her posture demands his obedience, and he leaps to his feet to fetch her a chair. She sits poised and expecting. His heart races as he regards her beauty. The world around him stops and all he sees is her. They exist in this sacred moment; together in bliss. How far did she travel? None of it matters now that he stares into her loved drunk eyes. Like the stars the night she became his.

Sitting across from her he raises his cup in a toast: “To you, and your radiance.”

She smiles and he relaxes in his chair. He lounges among the comforts of the travelling campaign; all the beauties of conflict with the luxuries of a dining hall. And now a goddess at his side. Its compensation for the injustices; payment for the years he was left destitute. The sun-dried earth that burned his skin, the punishments that tested his body and will. Working as a slave on foreign land; he imagines what those mongrels think of him now. He gazes at her, recalling the dreams they whispered to each other. He once dreamed of her with him on campaigns; a companion at his side. Her beauty among the violence of war. He sips his drink, the bittersweet flavor rolls over his tongue. The tremor in is hand pauses and his head clears. The woman before him is silent, her eyes watch him; worship him.

“To you, my love, I christen this victory in your blessed name.” But her eyes darken; no longer hopeful, but twists into a scowl. “My darling, that is not the face for whom you love!"

But her posture transforms, her fingers grip the armrests like a snarling beast. Her angelic grace darkens revealing the demons inside. His body recoils, the tension fills the room. The tremor possesses his arm and drops the goblet; spilling the last precious drop over the blades of grass.

"Do not act this way; my plan is necessary.”

But his composure crumbles as her disgust rips through him. Ghosts whisper in his ears; the vitriol she once spat at him. The words that sliced deeper than any knife. No number of victories; defeated enemies, or medals ever garnished her favor. All he did was try, dream to wish and bare his heart to her. And this is how she repays him!

“Why won’t you love me!”

He flips the table sending the dishes crashing over the carpet. She sits unfazed in her chair, her curls dance over her ivory lace dress. Her glare burns his veins, he snaps the leg of the table wishing her face splintered instead.

“General, are you alright?” a soldier barges into the tent with his sword drawn.

“What happened, Sir?” the second asks, staring at Remo standing alone amid the destruction.

“Insolence! Get out of my tent!”

“But sir we heard you shouting, we thought someone was in here with you?”

“Can’t you see I’m alone?” he barks, “now get to your posts!”