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The room is awash in scattered pools of yellow light. Disturbed by the intermittent drafts, the candles’ flame flickers in and out, at times shuttering what little Leon can read of his document. Outside, the sky looms in the perpetual hue of dusk. Crimson. Indigo. Leon sighs and reclines wearily on his chair. He has a headache, and the strain of reading for hours on end shows in the heaviness of his eyes.
Carefully, he dips his stylus back into the inkwell, its soft, white plume bristling against the occasional draft.
He’s preparing a speech for Marks to give before the nobles of Nohr — a militant call to arms and sacrifice. Windmire suffers from widespread shortages, and the price of bread has soared beyond what the little people can dream of affording. Famine has made the people short-tempered, and a dark cloud of resentment hangs over the shadow of Krakenburg. The law has its limits. Suppression can only stop so many riots. No, Leon tells himself, the Convention must come together. Either they band as one behind their king, or they continue picking each other apart like carrion crow. If Marks fails, the Kingdom of Nohr will soon fall from the hands of the royal family to the grubby claws of opportunists.
An hour later, a knock comes from his chamberlain. “Sir?” he asks, removing his cap and pressing it against his chest in a respectful bow.
Leon rolls up the parchment and slides it into a protective tube. He quickly melts some tallow over his reading candle and spills the molten substance onto the tube’s fastening. With a press of his ring — his token and symbol as the King’s Councillor — he stamps his mark onto the leather container and seals it shut. “Give this to the king. Let no one else see it.”
The chamberlain nods and retrieves the document. He bows once more at the threshold of the door before leaving.
Left alone, Leon lets his shoulders go slack. The air trailing in from the window ebbs to more frigid temperatures. He thinks about calling someone to start a fire, but what’s the use? He might leave the office altogether, or sleep here. He thinks about sparking the fire himself, but childish antics — even in private — won’t do. He can’t be caught wielding power so whimsically. It’s precisely the sort of behavior their enemies will use against them.
Tired, he shuts his eyes. He tries not to think about the last few sessions of the Convention. All the speeches, the screaming, the shouting. He recalls his brother’s voice straining to overpower the mountain of boos and jeers after Leon had proposed his new set of reforms. The plan is to alleviate the suffering of their subjects by redistributing the nobility’s food and wealth. Of course, they didn’t like it. Marks the Great. Marks the Benevolent. But he isn’t Marks the Terrible. Or Marks the Conqueror. No one in the Convention fears him, least of all the nobles who remember what it’s like to live beneath Garon’s oppressive thumb.
So it’s up to Leon to furnish him with sharper words — barbed witticisms and forthright accusations. His brother is too noble, too gentle to fling criticism at their opponents, so he’ll do it for him. He’ll be the voice of cruelty. His brother can apologize for it later — so long as they get the job done.
He awakens before they come for him in the night. Leon blinks back lingering images from his dream. All that’s left are residual moments, blurred memories of bloodshed and tears.
An omen.
His mother believed in omens. That’s why she insisted that the late King Garon crown her as the official mistress of the King when she had given him a son.
Could she have foreseen this for her child?
A knock pulls him from his thoughts. Leon sits up and starts to light a candle. Somehow, he is already expecting them. “Come in.”
“My lord,” the chamberlain greets him. He scurries through the door and kneels before Leon’s bed, removing his cap and bowing low. “News from the front. The people of Chevalier have usurped the barracks and ousted the army. Word has reached Windmire, and a mob two hundred strong has gathered before the Royal Palace.”
His head throbs with the aching need for sleep, but he doesn’t let it show. Still as stone, he keeps his eyes on his servant and cuts to the chase. “Have they breached the gate?”
“No, sir. The Lord General has taken up arms and leads the defenses.”
“What about my brother?”
“He’s being informed as we speak.”
Leon nods. “Good. I’ll get dressed at once and meet with him. What of the royal family?”
The chamberlain bows again. “Her Majesty the Queen is currently in the Prince’s Apartments, along with the rest of the children.”
“Send word to my brother. We’re going to move them outside the city. Have the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting pack for her and the children. We’ll disclose the location shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, the chamberlain draws on his cap and rises. He salutes Leon before promptly marching out, careful to keep the door shut.
A riot? Now?
He rakes a tired hand through his scalp, letting his uncouth hair fall back in smooth disarray. How did word reach the capital so quickly? Who incited the first insurrection? A mob isn’t organized enough to storm a military barracks. It had to be orchestrated by someone with experience and power.
Bitterly, Leon clicks his tongue and rubs the remainder of sleep out of his eyes. He needs to see Marks now.
He pours some water from a nearby pitcher onto his silver washbasin. Resting his hands on its wide, heavyset rims, he plunges his face into the bitter cold. Only then do his senses awaken, and the incessant drumming in his temples calms to a steady beat. Refreshed, he digs into his drawers for the first waistcoat and breeches he can find. There’s no time to wait for a servant to dress him. Ceremony can be dropped when times are desperate.
When he finally crosses over to the King’s Apartments, he’s relieved to see Marks already awake and dressed. The double doors to his office open him to a room bathed in the golden glow of countless candles. The servants had already lit and prepared the room for a Council Meeting. All that’s left is to wait for the others to join them.
“Did you sleep?” he greets his brother.
Marks is focused on the map spread out on the table before them. Despite the devilish hours, the air around him is alert and rife with productivity. A heap of scrolls and letters pool together on the floor by his feet. His lips are pulled taut into a heavyset scowl, and the churlish furl of his brows do much to hide the sagging half-moons under his eyes.
When Leon reaches his side, his brother only grunts in acknowledgment. Not good, he thinks. Marks is never so silent, especially when the time calls for his ruling. But the disappointment and anger of having been betrayed has frayed his patience. Leon can see it — how his brother is seething in barely withheld rage. If they don’t do something about this insurrection now, he doesn’t know if Marks will be able to hold back against the culprits.
After a long pause, Marks finally speaks. He turns slightly to his brother and asks, in a quiet calm voice, “What do you propose?”
Leon straightens his posture, folding his hands on his back and clearing his throat.
“Trying to make arrests and suppressing them with the military might make things worse and inspire future insurrections. We need a different method — something that will appease the masses and convince them to go home.”
“Oh?” he asks, surprised by this novel idea. “You don’t plan to do anything about this treason?”
“On the contrary,” Leon returns, “this isn’t a military coup or challenge to your power. This is a riot. Mobs don’t form unless someone is stoking the flames. I suggest we appease the crowd now and hunt down the leaders when they least expect it. It’s easier to arrest and execute individuals than it is to commit hundreds to trial. The time, resources, and fees expended will drain our coffers.”
Marks purses his lips together, mulling over his younger brother’s suggestion. “I see, and what about Chevalier? The provinces need to know that I won’t tolerate disloyalty.”
“Chevalier is an important province, but it’s farther away and harder to control. It might take months to march out the Windmire reserves and retake the Barracks.”
“Your plan?”
“Send me,” he says, turning to the map. He glides his finger on the ink-blotted space above the dot marking Chevalier. “I’ll select an elite battalion of soldiers. We’ll stealthily approach the city from the forest up north and retake the barracks. Once we’ve secured the town, we will oust the insurrection’s leaders and grant amnesty to the peasants, same as here in Windmire.”
Marks, however, doesn’t seem keen on the idea. His scowl deepens, and his eyes glisten with palpable concern. “Is that safe?”
Leon bows his head again. “With all due respect, I’ve managed more desperate battles in far worse conditions. Retaking a village in the province won’t be a problem.”
“But what about the Convention? It was supposed to hold the session today.”
“You don’t need me to make your speech.”
To that, Marks sighs out wearily. He lays a hand on his brother’s shoulder, smiling to mask his disappointment. “It’s your speech. I was hoping you’d give it.”
Surprised, Leon stares incredulously at his brother. “The people need to hear you, their King. I only provided some words you can use to direct them better.”
In truth, Marks is the far superior public speaker. Leon still recalls those days when they warred against Hoshido, the many times his brother stood before thousands and spurred them into violent action. He can do the same again; he can recapture the magic and impress upon the nobles the dire situation of their kingdom.
Still, Marks seems unconvinced. His brows droop low and winces as if in pain. Leon is unsure what seems to be the matter. “Don’t worry,” he reassures him. “I won’t fail.”
“It’s not failure I’m worried about,” his brother answers back, but before he can add further, he pauses and turns toward the fire on the far end of the room. “Things are different now. When our father was alive, no one would have imagined harm to any of us, but now…”
Leon arches his brow. “Don’t tell me you’re beginning to regret things, but anyway, before I go, there’s Corrin we need to discuss.”
There, a change of subject. His brother instantly forgets their minor disagreement. “I heard,” he replies. “You mean to send them away from the capital.”
“For the time being,” he tacks on. “With rebellion in our midst, we don’t know where our enemies might be. For all we know, some of them work in the castle, plotting.”
What a nefarious word, Leon thinks. His brother seems to agree, for his scowl grows more pronounced upon hearing it.
“Still,” Marks persists, “I don’t like the idea of being far from my family. There must be a way…”
Leon wants to sigh. He wants to tell him to forget sentiment. They need to be logical. He can understand, as a husband, how Marks might want to keep Corrin and their children by his side. But he is no ordinary husband, or an ordinary man for that matter. Marks is also a king, and by extension, his wife and children are equally as subject to the ire of their enemies.
“There is no other way, unless you see one. In the end, I can only give advice as your Councillor. If you choose to keep them here, I will respect and obey your decision.” To add ceremony, Leon bends his waist and gives a deep bow. The gesture embarrasses Marks, who turns away, his mouth twitching with discomfort at his brother’s zeal for custom.
“Very well, I’ll give word to-”
“Sir!”
The two brothers are startled by the explosive burst of the double doors. One of the attendants has barged in, their face haggard with bloodshot eyes.
“Forgive the interruption!” he says, trying to catch his breath in his bow. “Shots were fired from the crowd! The palace guards have formed a perimeter and are waiting for the command to volley fire. Sir!”
What?! Leon’s lips tremble. Shots were fired? How? Who gave them a gun?
“Do they know who fired first?” Marks is quicker to action. He directs a stern and implacable gaze on his subordinate. Though he isn’t wearing any armor, his body bristles with the easy violence of a seasoned veteran, ready to breach the surface after a long dormancy.
“No sir,” the attendant replies. “The captain reports that the shots were heard from outside the palace. It couldn’t have been one of his men.”
Leon clicks his tongue in disapproval. It might as well be. He’s hard pressed to believe that someone in the crowd had a gun. The peasantry can hardly afford a bowl to eat from, let alone firearms. When they riot, they bring torches and pitchforks. Rifles are a modern luxury reserved for the army. Someone — someone among the upper echelons of Windmire Court — must have supplied them.
“Leon?” his brother intones. His stern voice pierces through the roil of doubts and confusion.
“Don’t fire back,” he blurts out. Leon approaches the attendant, kneeling to level with him. “Do you hear me?! Don’t fire back! Control the crowd. Evacuate the Queen and the royal family. Whatever you do, don’t fire back!”
“Y-yes, sir!”
They wait for the attendant to rush out and for the chamberlain to close the door before they dare utter another word.
“Brother,” Leon mumbles, his eyes still fixed on the doors. Somehow, he can’t shake it off — the fear that the worst has already happened. “You need to go out there and show yourself.”
Marks balks at him. “I thought you said we won’t fight back.”
“Not to fight, no… Right now, someone somewhere is instigating this riot. There’s no way the commoners had a gun. A nobleman had to have supplied it.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is… Mobs are easy. Mobs are simple. They follow the most powerful voice in the room. Right now, that voice belongs to one of our enemies, but if you show yourself; show the people what real power looks like, what it sounds like…” Leon pauses, turning to face his brother. The hard lines of sleeplessness do nothing to take away from his regality. Even in his chemise and waistcoat, he has the bulk and stature of a king. His mere presence will remind the people that divinity on earth does indeed exist. It exists in him.
“Show yourself, and command your subjects. They will bow to you once they see you. I know it.”
Marks turns away. His mouth is pulled taut, as if fighting himself for an argument against Leon’s plan. There is no argument, Leon is sure. His brother can stare at the large map on the table all he wants, but nothing else will beat out the logic. Politics these days requires finesse with the people. Marks has that, and it’s time he uses it.
“If things go wrong,” his brother finally speaks up, “take Corrin and the children with you. Make for the Eastern border and find safe passage to Camilla.”
Leon gives a curt nod. He wants to remind him that he has an urgent mission of his own, but he doesn’t want to distract his brother. If something does indeed happen, the chain of command falls on him. It will be up to him to guide the survivors of the royal family to safety. Rebellious provinces be damned.
“Of course,” he replies, “good luck.”
Marks steps toward the door but stops beside Leon. Turning the opposite direction, he smiles and lays a soft hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. “Stay safe — especially you.”
Leon is tempted to throw the sentiment back at him. Leon is always careful, always safe. His concern is misplaced, if not spurious. In truth, Marks is actually the one with a reputation for being rash. Where lives are concerned, duty always takes precedent. But what if duty requires that he show no mercy? To subjugate the people he had sworn to protect and love?
Marks the Benevolent, they had called him. Briefly, Leon wonders if that title will stay for long.