~Duke LaVelle

  The upper nobility has been called to council. Dukes of the realm, Marquesses, and Counts. The Vicounts and the Barons. They had all been called to the King's council chambers.

  Duke LaVelle wore his court costume, the ornately embroidered velvet coat heavy on his frame. All the gentlemen in the council chambers looked more or less the same, decorated far beyond their daily wear, which was ostentatious enough to begin with, especially for the upper nobility. Duke LaVelle looked around the room, catching the glint of gold thread and the polished sheen of medals that had, until this moment, been nothing more than expensive costume jewelry for most of the men here. Now, those medals seemed to mock them.

  Only one lady was present—Baroness Liptoff was in attendance while her husband was away on business. The King marked her attendance with an arched brow, but raised no issue with her.

  The King sat at a throne at the head of the table, a map of Dorandia and her surrounding countries rolled out on the dark, rich wood. Miniature flags, horses, and trebuchets dotted the southwestern border of Dorandia.

  He had eyed that map when he first sat down, worried that the King might announce some kind of dispute. Was the King after the nobles' money this time…or bodies to bolster his army?

  Duke LaVelle's fears were soon realized.

  "We are going to war with Liutan?ia," King Roark announced. "They have infiltrated Dorandia, destroyed part of our sacred Mount Doran, and even plotted to steal from the mountain."

  "Saintess above!" someone gasps.

  Something deflated inside Duke LaVelle, leaving a feeling of emptiness behind.

  He glanced at Duke Mercado. His eldest was twenty-five—he'd been engaged to Elaine not long ago. Mercado’s face had gone the color of parchment. They were all thinking the same thing: the peace they had curated like a delicate garden over the past few decades was being uprooted by the King’s ambition.

  "We will call upon the gentry to supply knights and footsoldiers in accordance with their obligations," the King continued. "His Royal Highness Prince Andrelandros will lead the Royal Knights. Duke LaVelle, you or your eldest son will lead the LaVelle retinue to battle. Duke Mercado, you or your eldest son will lead the Mercado retinue. Marquess Rowanward, you or your eldest son will lead the Rowanward…" and so on and so forth until the lowest House had been called to battle.

  "Your Majesty," Viscount Bloodwell began after the King had finished his announcement. "So it's true that a dragon has hatched in Mount Doran? Will the dragon join us for battle?"

  King Roark's mouth pressed into a firm line. He was displeased, yet not surprised, that the rumors had reached the gentry. "That is confidential for now," was all he said. "Prepare your knights, cavalry, and foot soldiers as quickly as possible. We will converge here—" he used a croupier rake to push a flag to a specific spot on the map, "—at the Brackenfold Plains in one month's time. Now, tell me how many men each of your Houses can provide."

  He nodded to his aide to take notes as each of the men, and one woman, in the room gave their numbers.

  "Four hundred heavy cavalry, two thousand infantry, and six companies of archers, Your Majesty," Duke LaVelle reported. To his ears, his voice sounded steady, a practiced mask of ducal authority, but in truth, his stomach was twisted in knots.

  This is not the first time Duke LaVelle has been called to war. When he'd newly inherited the Duchy title, there had been a conflict with a group of rebels from the mysterious Straya-Swon. That war had been a series of small skirmishes up until the Dorandian soldiers had finally managed to surround the stealthy Straya-Swonsians. It had been a bloodbath after that, and there hasn't even been a whisper of conflict from Straya-Swon since.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Duke LaVelle could still feel the phantom ache in his shoulder where a rebel’s short-sword had bitten deep. That version of him—the young Duke LaVelle—had been fueled by a desperate need to prove himself worthy of the title. Now, thirty years later, he felt only a profound weariness. Now, the time has come again.

  The question was, would he go to war? Or would he send Miles?

  Duke LaVelle wasn't a young man any longer. He'd let himself grow lax in his training over the years, prioritizing paperwork over parrying. Could he lead his men to battle? Likely. He still knew how to command—that was a skill he'd never lose.

  But if it came down to hand-to-hand combat, he was not confident he could even save his own skin, let alone any of his men. Would it be a disservice to the LaVelle retinue to send someone so derelict?

  If I went, he thought, I would likely die. A commander who cannot hold his seat in a scrum is a liability. But if I sent Miles…

  Miles was capable. He was fast, he was sharp, and the men respected him. But he was the heir. He was the future of the LaVelle name.

  And then there was Florence.

  Duke LaVelle could see the gears turning in Roark's head; he didn't just want the LaVelle steel, he wanted the LaVelle mage. If he sent Miles, would Florence be far behind? Would the King demand his "Battle Mage" follow the retinue to the Brackenfold Plains? Duke LaVelle had received enough secret reports on Florence's studies at the Academy—he knew exactly how capable she was. Which meant the King also knew.

  He looked down at the map, at the tiny flag resting on the plains. It looked like a flag of surrender…or perhaps a mourning banner.

  "One month," he whispered to himself. How would he tell his wife?

  The council began to break up, the air filled with the frantic shuffling of chairs and the low, panicked murmurs of men who had suddenly realized their silk shirts and velvet coats were no protection against Liutan?ian steel. Duke LaVelle stayed seated for a moment longer, his hand resting on the cool wood of the table. He had to get home. He had to warn them. They were no longer just a family of the realm; they were assets in a game the King intended to win at any cost.

  Even if the cost was their own lives.

  ?????

  ~Florence

  War. I've known about it for a few days, but only now are the whispers of war starting to tiptoe through the streets of Doran City. Our guests in Midnight Garden Cafe speak in hushed voices, hunched over their tables. Students at the Academy whisper behind their books, worry contorting their faces.

  Dorandia has known peace for as long as I've been alive. Now, all that is about to change.

  I am afraid.

  I am afraid that I will be called upon as a fledgling Battle Mage to take part in their retinue. We would be protected by the Royal Knights…but anything could happen.

  I am afraid for Raius. The King wants to use him, possibly trick him into a contract of some kind in order to exploit his might.

  I worry for my father and my brother. One, if not both, will soon be called upon to rally our men and march off to war. Father is not as young as he used to be, and Miles, while well-trained in the art of the sword, prefers books to battle strategy. Neither is well-suited for war.

  I worry for Lord Trevor and Sir Thorne. Even if Lord Trevor is known as "The Iron Knight," that doesn't mean he's indestructible. Anyone can die in war. Too many will die.

  Seeking retribution, vengeance, or whatever excuse they're using, that's all it is—an excuse. This war is not necessary. Justice has already been meted out by Raius.

  So why is the King pushing so hard to attack Liutan?ia directly? Could there be another motive?

  …Could it be the dragon they have in captivity?

  ?????

  ??

  -xo??kb