Wooden pieces scraped across a marble game board.
Horse heads. Archer figurines. Towers. War banners.
At the center of the board stood the sigil of Kaine Sect: two red wings spread wide. Around it, other pieces formed layered defenses, shielding the wings at every direction.
"For generations," Fredder Kaine narrated, "Elsem thrived under Kaine rule."
A carved owl banner shifted forward from a corner of the board beneath his fingers.
"But others grew weary of our reign. So discontent festered."
Another piece joined the owl. Then another:
A spearhead banner.
Then a coiled serpent banner.
"The Whyteleafes," Fredder continued, "with support from Yorke and Dravane Sects, plotted against our grandsire, Eobard Kaine. Rebellion disguised as reform."
The three banners advanced together until they formed a crescent around the red wings.
"He could have gone to war. Let rivers run red. Ended bloodlines. But Eobard Kaine was a man of peace."
The red wings retreated across the marble squares.
"He deserted Elsem with his family and two thousand loyalists. No civil war. No massacres."
The owl banner claimed the center square.
Far along the edge of the board now sat the Kaine piece, facing the throne it had surrendered.
"Like a bird sheds old feathers and grows new ones, new wings replaced the old."
The Kaine piece was rotated away from the center.
"In his youth, my father, Lio Kaine, wished to reclaim what was lost… through war."
The piece remained still.
"But time taught even him the value of peace. Still," Fredder paused a moment. "the owl owed blood — even if not to us."
A new piece entered the board. A black-flame banner. It advanced square after square with an army of archer and horse-head pieces — toward the center.
Unstoppable.
"Invaders marched upon Elsem from the east. The Elmerian Empire."
The black flame continued forward.
"When the Crown begged us for aid, my father ignored them. Elsem should have fallen during that war. Instead, it birthed the Master of Conjuration."
A single horse head piece was shifted forward.
"Leonhart Whyteleafe was a Runemaster said to rival the gods themselves. He ended the war almost singlehandedly and drove the Elmerians back to whence they came."
The Kaine wings rotated again, facing the center of the board.
"For the preservation of our Sect, my father submitted to the Crown. And so, Leonhart named his condition for allowing our return to Elsem."
Fredder's fingers rested on the Kaine piece. Sat across from him over the other end of the game board was his nine year old son: Bard. Named after Eobard Kaine; sharp-eyed; hair black with reddish temples just like Fredder's and styled just like Fredder's.
"You." Said Bard.
Fredder looked up from the board between them. The chamber around them was lavishly furnished with floor cushions, embroidered curtains, silver candleholders.
No chains. No guards. Hardly a room for a prisoner that he was.
"Yes," Fredder answered. "At one year old, I was sent to the Whyteleafes as proof of goodwill and loyalty. I grew up here in the royal court. In this very chambers, actually." His tone remained casual, though distant memories flickered behind his eyes. "I did not meet my real family again until I was ten. That was when Kaine Sect was finally permitted return to Elsem."
Bard stared at him for a long moment before looking back down at the board. Then his eyes widened.
Fredder's archer now had a clear path to the center banner.
A smirk tugged at Fredder's lips. "And there," he said, tapping the marble lightly, "you lose."
Bard groaned in frustration.
"You always form the same defensive formation," Fredder added. "Again and again."
The boy crossed his arms, pouty.
"That is how strategy becomes pattern." Fredder leaned forward slightly. "And patterns make men predictable."
Bard's frustration slowly faded. "Your pattern, father — is that you never stay home for long before leaving again." He said, saddened.
"And why is that, hmm?"
Bard sighed, "Because you are expanding Kaine influence across other kingdoms."
"Good boy."
Bard hesitated before asking, "Can I come with you then next time? On your next journey."
Fredder's expression softened. He reached over and ruffled the boy's hair. "This isnt home, is it? You could say we are on a journey together right now."
The boy's face lit up.
A dark ripple suddenly appeared across a wall.
Fredder's eyes shifted there, recognising the Sealbearer's Shadow Conjuration instantly.
"Go find your grandmother."
Bard looked toward the wall with recognition, then obeyed.
The wall vanished. The Sealbearer entered before it reappeared behind him.
Fredder remained seated on the floor cushion. "You know, most people use doors." He remarked.
The Sealbearer glanced briefly as young Eobard exited the unlocked, unguarded door.
"Oh."
Fredder stood. "People are only as bold as they are powerful," he said. "You seem to overestimate how powerful the Crown truly is without Leonhart Whyteleafe."
"I will remember that."
Fredder's gaze shifted briefly toward a nearby sandglass. The last grains were running thin. "My trial will begin shortly. I ought to find someone first."
"The Kaine Guard is assembled outside the gates. Just say the word."
Fredder adjusted the sleeves of his coat. "Spread word about Brimmah." He ordered. "His enchanted arms. The Runeborn beast he slew. I want all of Elsem hearing the story before sunset."
The Sealbearer looked genuinely surprised now. "What are you planning?"
Fredder walked past him toward the door. "You'll see."