Eligon had never quite believed the North's promise to join his campaign to reclaim the capital. Oh, he knew he ought to; the elves themselves had intervened on his behalf, even if their aid had been purchased at the price of his own throne, a price he was most bitterly reminded of every time he played with his son. I sacrificed your inheritance for the good of the country.

Despite that, a part of him had expected the North to find some reason that they could not come, some excuse to delay their march south. He hadn't really believed they'd help until now, as he surveyed the camp stretched below them.

The Celestians had arrived, and though their army was still setting up camp, their tents had already swallowed up the entire vale. So many men.He'd known the North was stronger than the South, of course; the southern and central provinces of the Empire had been ravaged first by the Fey Wars and then the Zalancthian invasion, but they had experienced their own share of troubles, having borne the brunt of the fighting during the Desolyton.But if the number of troops that filled the valley was any indication, they had recovered far better than he'd realized.

Maybe if they had answered my call in the first place, this war would already be over. His fists clenched in irritation, and his horse, sensing his mood, stamped its hooves.

"Are you ready to continue, my lord?" Naklāti's dulcet tones broke through his anger, and he nodded resignedly.

"Aye, as ready as I'll be." There wasn't much Eligon dreaded; he'd slain his fair share of stoneflesh and monsters, put down a revolt or two, and even faced down the hostile lord of the Dead, but he was dreading the coming meeting nonetheless.

Lord Ittûl, the Commander of the Northern Armies, had been a thorn in his flesh since the moment Eligon ascended to the throne. Ittûl had abstained from outright rebellion, but only barely. Not once had he answered a summons to battle, not till now, and his current presence was hardly the result of loyalty. Truthfully, Eligon wanted to throttle the man, but he knew he couldn't allow himself to do so. He needed the commander's troops too much to lose his cool and, even if he didn't, Ittûl was Naklāti's father.

He stole a glance at the woman riding next to him and sighed. Things would have been simpler if he hadn't fallen in love with her. He would have met with Ittûl once, just long enough to acknowledge his arrival, and otherwise relied on messengers whenever they were forced to communicate, but that was no longer an option. He had to convince a man who hated him to let him marry his daughter.

His entourage sounded their horns, they reached the edge of camp, announcing his arrival, but no one rode out to meet him. "Naklāti, does your father know we were coming?" He finally asked, after a few minutes of being ignored.

Though her cheeks colored with shame, she met his gaze firmly. "Aye, I told him myself."

Then he's scorned us on purpose. Anger flashed through him at the insult, but he choked it back as he replied. "Can you lead us to his tent, then?"

Her eyes swept across the camp, and she pointed to a green flag in the distance, adorned with a stag wearing a crown of flowers. "He should be there."

The soldiers ignored them as they rode through the camp, not even stopping to give a respectful nod as they worked on raising their tents, and he gritted his teeth. I'll be having words with the elves when they arrive - this wasn't part of the deal.

Still, he choked his anger again, until they reached her father's tents and the guards stepped forward to bar them. "Lord Ittûl is not accepting visitors right now. If you want to meet with him, you'll have to make an appointment-"

"Finish that sentence and die," Eligon snarled.

"My lord!"

Naklāti's distressed cry barely registered as his vision tunneled in on the guard in front of him. "You will march into that tent," he continued, with a barely subdued rage, "and tell Lord Ittûl that if he does not come out and greet his liege lord as is my due, I will drag him out by his ears."

The captain of the guard seemed to regain a bit of courage, daring to shake his head. "And with what army will you accomplish that, my lord?" he spoke the epitaph with a sneer. "Your false southerners are not here to save you-"

The guards were driven to their knees as Eligon activated Burden of the People. He was well used to the pain the spell forced on him by now, barely noticing it as he slid off his horse. "Tell me, captain, what is your name?"

The man struggled in vain against the pressure Eligon forced on him, but he could not rise. "S̆a-S̆ams̆ābī," he gritted out.

"And the punishment for treason," he continued calmly.

"There can be no treason against a false-"

*Schwap* The man's words ended in a wet crunching noise as Eligon wrapped his hand around the man's skull and squeezed, exploding it like an overripe melon. With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, he spattered the kneeling guards with the blood and brain clinging to his fingers, before wiping his hand on the dead guard's clothes.

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"Does anyone else have something they like to say?"

The smell of piss filled the air as the guards trembled, but none dared speak up. "You there," he pointed to a guard in the back. "Get up and fetch your lord," he ordered.

The guards scattered like chickens before a hawk as he released the pressure on Burden, leaving them alone outside the tent.

"I'm sorry, Naklāti," he spoke softly, not wanting his words to carry to the camp. "But your father pushed too far. An emperor must command respect, or he is no emperor at all."

"I know," she nodded sadly. "I had hoped for better, tis all."

Their conversation was interrupted as the tent flap flew back and a man stepped out with an angry scowl.

Lord Ittûl was not visually impressive. Tall and slender, he lacked the physical brawn of southern Corsyths, but Eligon knew that his appearance was likely deceptive; the blood of elves ran stronger in northern folk, especially amongst the nobles who were so interbred they were practically elves themselves.

Ittûl's long blonde hair matched his daughter's perfectly, though his blue eyes were closer to steely grey than the pretty azure of Naklāti's. His face was a thundercloud as he strolled over to them, his eyes glued to the dead guard.

"You know he was a noble?"

"That openly threatened treason," Eligon replied as calmly as he could.

The man's face twisted into a scowl. "Bloody fool," he muttered to himself, before inclining his head in the slightest fraction of nod he could manage. "Welcome to my camp, my lord."

"Am I?" Eligon snorted. "Your hospitality seems lacking. We sent word of our coming, and yet there was no one to greet us. We announced our presence, and your men did not even acknowledge us. We approached your tent, and your own retinue turned us aside and spoke of open treason. If this is your idea of welcome, I shudder to think how you treat your enemies."

"The throne belongs to the House of Nūrilī, as it has for a thousand generations," Ittûl replied. "Your house has no claim."

"And yet the gods granted me the Burden and not your precious heir - the heir that even you don't trust to handle this war."

Ittûl's face flushed red. "Now just a minute-"

"We had a deal," Eligon spoke over him. "I humiliated myself and my family for the good of the country, agreed to surrender the throne to your popinjay of an heir, But. In. Exchange," he ground out the words, "You agreed to accept me as your lord until the Zalancthians have been repelled. If this is how you intend to honor your word, then we can consider our argument void and null."

The Northern lord seemed about to argue, but Naklāti placed a hand on his arm. "Father," she said beseechingly.

"I-" The lines on his face eased as he stared down at her, and begrudgingly, he nodded his head. "Understood. Would you care to join me in my tent, my lord?"

Maps were already strewn across the war table as the commander ushered them in, with a nearly emptied pot of maqta testifying to how long Ittûl had been working on them.

"I see you've received the maps we sent you."

"Aye, we had maps of our own, but judging from the differences, much has changed since the last time we rode south."

Perhaps it wouldn't if you'd answered our calls. Eligon bit back his irritation and kept his voice neutral. "Our scouts can assist you until yours have gotten their bearings."

"We'll manage," Ittûl grunted. "What about the Djinn? I'd heard they were joining us, but I don't see their banners."

"The Djinn were delayed by weather crossing the mountains, but have reached Abāya. They should be with us in a month or so. What of the elves? I see only a handful of their banners amongst yours."

"Yammaqom sailed down the coast rather than march with us. Last I heard, their fleet was already blockading the capital."

"And Onkodos Laos?"

"Their troops are a few weeks behind us. The Bastard Prince insisted on raising more men before traveling south."

"Kanēnas is coming?" Eligon barely kept his surprise off his face. While he'd come to think of the elf as a friend during his visit to Dūr-Ṣadê, he hadn't expected the man to return with an army.

"Aye, apparently you made an impression on him. Thanks to him, the numbers you're receiving from Onkodos Laos were probably doubled. I heard even he managed to scrounge up a few volunteers from Nal-Ḫalab. Thank Selene, the men from Yammaqom are coming by sea, or you might have another war on your hands," Ittûl added wryly.

"Yes, I imagine they're not fond of him," he chuckled, "but I will certainly appreciate his presence."

The mood in the tent eased as the two men went over the list of banners Ittûl had brought south with him. Despite the disrespect the northern lord had offered him, it was clear from the size of the army he'd recruited that they shared at least one goal in common - the desire to reclaim the capital. Of course, he only wants it for his bloody pretender.

But the topic he'd been avoiding couldn't be shirked forever. As they finished running through the list, Eligon found himself stalling for more time until Naklāti finally had enough.

"Send the others out of the tent, Father - we need to talk."

Ittûl frowned in confusion, but acquiesced, waiting until the others had departed to speak. "Now what was so sensitive that even your cousins couldn't hear it?"

Eligon froze as she placed her hand on his, intertwining their fingers. "Lord Eligon and I are to marry."

In different circumstances, he might have laughed as the commander's eyes bulged almost comically. "Absolutely not! You would marry this, this-" he sputtered, knowing his previous agreement prevented him from calling the emperor a pretender.

Reining his temper in with a visible effort, Ittûl tried again. "Daughter, when the war is complete, Lord Eligon will step aside and House Gonya, no offense," his lip turned down, "has few lands to its name once they surrender the royal holdings. Give me time, and I'm sure I can arrange a marriage with House Nūrilī-"

"As if I would marry that layabout," she replied scornfully.

"He's a good lad, just a little boisterous, but with a firm hand-"

"He thinks of nothing but drinking, and hunting, and fucking."

"Naklā," her father gasped, "You shouldn't talk like that-"

"I have no interest in marrying him."

"But House Gonya will have practically nothing after the war is done-"

She cut him off again. "First, Father, the war will likely last for decades. Once we reclaim the capital, there is still the entire south to recapture. And, second," she smiled broadly. "We have to reclaim the south."

"Yes, you already said that," Ittûl replied irritably.

"Lands that have lost nearly all of their noble house and will need new lords," she pressed on. "And as its conquerors, House Gonya will have the greatest claim of all."

"An ambitious plan, daughter," he bobbed his head in acknowledgment, "but I doubt House Nūrilī will be pleased to see its-" he choked down the word 'usurpers' "-rivals granted such power."

"Then perhaps House Nūrilī should be the ones leading this war," she snapped. "House Nūrilī is not beloved in the south, father. They will either accept it, or they will have war."

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