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Into the silence you sent me, into the fire consumed, you thought I’d forget, but it’s always in my head, you’re the pulse in my veins, you’re the war that I wage, can you change me?
Iago watched.
The sorcerer stood, cloaked in shadows and schemes, and looked down upon an impressive sight indeed. The Woods of the Forlorn stretched out behind him, a yawning void of darkness and death, but it was the clearing below him he focused on.
The Nohrian squadron ahead was outnumbered by a margin of three-to-one, every man in it at least a head below the hulking creatures they battled, yet still they fought on with a unity and strength that spoke volumes of their commander. Iago studied their formation with a keen eye, noting how their tactician had shored up his weak points, how he’d arrayed his forces to flank their enemy, how he’d left each soldier just enough independence to remain in sync with the ever-fluid tide of battle.
It was, Iago thought, the mark of blinding brilliance in both commander and tactician that the Nohrian forces fared so well.
And that was a thought that terrified him indeed—for commander and tactician were one man, and said man was but a boy still himself, hardly sixteen.
The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed in on the leader, intent on finding some flaw in the boy. His blond hair had darkened a few shades and plastered itself to his forehead, damp with the sweat of even the meager heat of a Nohrian summer. He’d tied up his mount’s reins, guiding the black stallion beneath him through the flow of the fight with naught but legs and seat, leaving his hands free to cast from the tome he held high. As Iago watched, he shouted an incantation—a breath later the creature nearest to the boy found itself spurting black blood from the tree trunk suddenly impaled through its chest.
Iago crossed his arms, one brow quirking in annoyance. He’d told King Garon these Faceless were to be of a tougher stock than his previous breeds. A challenge, he’d promised.
And yet the second prince of Nohr, at the forefront of only his first command, was cutting through their lines with the same bold ease he summoned life itself from the earth at their feet. No, Iago thought. His suspicions hadn’t been paranoia.
Prince Leo was a threat indeed.
Iago had kept careful eye on the Nohrian siblings since their number had settled into the even five it had been for over a decade now. Crown Prince Xander he could keep on as short of a leash as he’d like—all Iago needed was to pull the card of loyalty to King Garon, spout off a particularly rousing line about the glory of Nohr, and he had the current wielder of Siegfried at his beck and call. Camilla, though perhaps one of the most terrifying forces he’d ever seen on the battlefield, had a trump card as well—she turned into simpering, doting puppy the moment any of her siblings came into play. Young Elise he had deemed a threat as small as her stature; she showed interest not in battle but in healing, and her youthful innocence was only outshadowed by that of the imprisoned Corrin.
But Leo…
The younger of the two brothers had piqued Iago’s wary interest from a startlingly early age. Even as a child, his mind was clearly and alarmingly gifted—sharp in the ways of war and a prodigy in the paths of magic. Iago had studied sorcery for longer than the boy had been alive and yet Leo had ended up in a clear, undisputed rivalry of skill with him by the time he’d come into his teen years.
And then, two years ago, the prince had received Brynhildr; and it was at that moment that Iago had truly started to worry.
He looked down at the battlefield, giving a slightly anxious lick of his lip as he watched Leo split the stones at his feet, taking out half a dozen Faceless with the work on one spell. Nohrian victory would be all but assured within the next few minutes—unless, of course, Iago decided to up the ante and throw a few more Faceless in their direction.
No, the sorcerer decided. As neat and tidy as it would be to bring word back to King Garon that his younger son just hadn’t quite been up to the rigors of command, that it was a tragic thing really, his death, Iago was not yet convinced Leo would be entirely unuseful to him. Everyone had a price and everyone had a tick.
He just hadn’t yet learned what Leo’s was.
So Iago watched as the prince’s men cleared the last of the field, waiting until the very last of the Faceless had expired before leaving the ledge that had been his perch. Descending onto the field with a delicate clap, he called out, “Quite excellent, Prince Leo. What a good report I’ll have to bring back to your father.”
To his credit, the only indication of Leo’s surprise was the way his back almost imperceptibly straightened beneath his armor. “Iago,” he said, his voice cold as he ever-so-slightly inclined his head downwards to fix his gaze on the sorcerer. “I wasn’t aware Father sent you along.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have put on a fair showing if you knew I was watching, now would you?” Iago asked. His eyes, however, darted from the prince’s face to his dark mount, who had begun to flatten his ears and give the sorcerer a look that said he was deciding whether or not to find out how Iago tasted.
“Hati,” Leo said in a low, warning tone, returning one hand to his reins and tucking Brynhildr away with the other. The stallion flicked one ear back towards his rider, surprisingly expressive eyes narrowed before he heaved such a sigh that Leo visibly shifted on his back. The prince laid a hand to Hati’s neck for a moment before turning his attentions back to Iago. “I’m sure I’ll sleep far better tonight knowing I’ve won your approval, then,” he said, in a tone that plainly belied his words.
“Excellent, excellent,” Iago said, pointedly ignoring that fact as he brought his hands up and tapped his fingertips together. “And without a single Nohrian casualty, as well. Why, that’s almost as fine of a showing as Prince Xander put in during his first command.”
Leo’s jaw set and Iago resisted the urge to let out a cackle. That, at least, was one button the second prince had that Iago very much knew how to press. “Then I’m sure you’ve more pressing causes to attend than lingering here,” the boy said in a clipped voice. “I’m sure you’ll arrive back in Castle Krakenburg before we will, if you would be so generous as to inform my father of our incoming arrival.”
“Of course, of course,” Iago replied. “Though I would be swift, if I were you. I’ve heard a rumor your siblings were planning on making a trip to the Northern Fortress in the morn.”
For an instant, a sudden spark came to Leo’s eye, the slightest hitch catching his breath in a manner so subtle Iago might not have noticed if he hadn’t been so keenly attuned to watching the prince’s body language. Iago’s eyes narrowed.
That was new.
“I’m sure Corrin will be just ecstatic to hear of your exploits, no?” the sorcerer continued.
The distance in Leo’s gaze faded, his voice still just as hard as it had been when he spoke again. “You ought call her Princess Corrin,” he said with just the edge of the brittlest of smiles—one that said such an easy reminder would come but once.
Iago returned it with the tiniest smirk of his own. “Ought I?” he asked lightly.
It was the abrupt toss of Hati’s head, even more so than Leo’s own posture, that gave away the prince’s surprise that time. Leo was a bright boy, Iago surmised. Surely, if he had not learned the whole story by now, he had at least put together enough pieces to know that the girl he called ‘sister’ was anything but.
A long silence stretched out before Leo finally said, “I’ll see you back in Windmire.” With that, he reined his mount back around and sent him trotting back towards his men.
Iago let out a contented sigh. Oh, but he’d made the right call. Leo could be useful to him yet.
He just needed to watch a little while longer.
I’ve made an art of digging shallow holes, I’ll drop the darkness in and watch it grow, my heart’s an artifice, a decoy soul, who knew the emptiness could be so cold?