Chapter Text
Reliefs of Yrne, the Goddess of Agriculture, Hearth and Home, decorate most buildings in the Kingdom of Asmoira. The Goddess is always depicted surrounded by livestock, naked, her heavy breasts leaking milk and her hair decorated with a golden wreath of barley. Flowers bloom at her feet and a tender green pumpkin vine twists itself around her ankle. She has an expression of benign nobility, her arms outstretched and bountiful.
Worship me , she seems to say, and I will fulfill all your desires .
Looking at the cast gilt-bronze panel in his room at the Guild, Castiel frowns. It doesn’t matter how hard the desperate peasants of his homeland beseech her, any harvest the poor soil yields is immediately seized to offer as a tribute to the Yrnedell Empire, leaving them with a pittance.
By the time the next sowing season comes round, peasant families are always a member or two short, dead of hunger or the bitter cold.
Castiel’s own parents had died when he was a mere infant, his father hanging from the rafters after realising he couldn’t support his wife or their baby through the winter. His mother had followed shortly after.
Yrne is a symbol of their compliance to the Yrnedell Empire, a gesture of their submissiveness to the Emperor.
Castiel hates the very sight of her.
+
“We have been summoned for an audience with the Grand Duke,” Samandriel, his partner-mage at the Guild whispers to him as they sit down for breakfast, charming open the letter that was just delivered.
“Does it mention why?” Castiel asks him, cutting his steamed turnip into careful pieces.
“None at all. Just that it is a matter of great importance and secrecy.”
“It always is,” Castiel sighs.
“Ugh,” Samandriel complains, frowning at his porridge, “this is horrendous. I wish to Yrne we get a more acceptable cook sometime soon. Even the servants at home eat better meals.”
Castiel shrugs and eats his breakfast silently. Samandriel is the only child of one of the few noble families of Asmoira and has grown up in the lap of luxury, but Castiel has subsisted on bark bread and rancid porridge in the orphanage. Even if he had survived into adulthood, he would have been nothing more than yet another landless labourer, toiling all day during the season for a bit of grain and a corner to sleep in.
His magic had saved him from that life.
+
Castiel braids his long hair carefully, tying it off with a piece of black string. His coat is lying on the bed behind him, along with the ceremonial staff presented to him on his graduation. He preferred the yew staff he had crafted himself, though the ceremonial one was better at focusing his magic. It’s fault lay in the fact that it was far too delicate to wield in a real battle.
Castiel takes one last look at himself before shrugging the coat on, an uncomfortable navy blue velvet one with fur trimmings to the hood and sleeves. There’s gold filigree work to the back and he hates how he looks in it, another pompous, empty headed nobleman, living off the blood and tears of the desperately poor souls under them.
He remembers the day he left the orphanage clearly. He had been with Ambriel that morning and they were pretending to be angels. He had almost caught up to her when she started screaming- high, shrill, screams that reverberated down the stone corridor and brought out one of the attendants, a cane in his hand, ready to whip the offending child. He had stopped short as well and gawped at the giant black wings protruding from Castiel’s back. Someone had run to fetch the local mage’s assistant — a thin, wiry young man with pince-nez on his nose and a pinched expression.
“They’re not real wings,” he had announced, stepping closer to a terrified Castiel.
Castiel had known they weren’t real.
“Then what are they?” the orphanage head had asked him, her tone wary.
“An illusion. Take them away, boy,” he had snapped.
Castiel had trembled, but he couldn’t.
Huffing a disgusted sigh, the man had chanted a counter spell.
“He has potential,” he had said, “my master would like to have him at the Academy. If he’s no good we’ll send him back, but otherwise he will stay there.”
Of course no one had objected, and at the tender age of ten Castiel had found himself inside the walls of the Academy, bound to be a servant of the Grand Duke ever after.
It was only years later that he had found out that anyone who found and sent a child with magic to the Academy would be rewarded a hefty amount. He had always wondered what price he fetched.
“Castiel?” Samandriel knocks at the door, “it is time to go.”
“Very well,” Castiel says and steps out into the cold.
+
The portrait of Aravael, the legendary crown princess of Asmoira, smiles down at them as they enter the Grand Duke’s private sitting room. There are three other men already present. One of them Castiel knows well enough — Abdiel, minister of state and one of the Grand Duke Zachariah’s right hand men. The other two he only knows by sight — Raphael and Uriel, both members of the royal guard. They were both accomplished warriors, but as a mage he had very little to do with them.
“Your Grace,” Samandriel says as he and Castiel bow deeply.
“You are late,” Zachariah states coldly, “but no matter. Samandriel, charm the doors and windows. Castiel,” he says as Samandriel hurries to do his bidding, “we have summoned you both here on a matter of great importance. Would you be so kind as to read this document aloud?”
“Yes, my lord,” Castiel says, taking it from him.
The letter is from Fairhaven, the capital city of Yrnedell. It has the red dragon seal and sign of Dean Michael Winchester, the Emperor of Yrnedell, and is addressed to Governor Aton Stonewell of Asmoira, their official contact with the Empire.
Castiel is well aware that Zachariah is only a demoted King, his title but a courtesy one, all the power rests with Stonewell. Asmoira is but a vassal kingdom to Yrnedell, and it has been for hundreds of years.
“Double the tribute?” Castiel stutters as he reaches the offending line. Behind him, Samandriel utters a shocked gasp.
“That will be all,” Zachariah says, taking the letter from Castiel’s lifeless fingers, “I am sure it has dawned upon you that this is a very... unreasonable request.”
“Our people will starve,” Castiel says, “we cannot survive this.”
“Can we talk to the governor?” Samandriel asks.
“We have tried appealing to Governor Stonewell. He refuses to intercede,” Abdiel says, his face impassive.
“Your Grace, can we send an ambassador to Fairhaven to request-” Castiel starts to say, but is cut off by Abdiel’s booming voice.
“And have it fail, like the innumerable times we’ve sent desperate messages before? This is hardly the first preposterous demand Fairhaven has made.”
“I...” Castiel says, looking at the red seal with disgust, “what do we do then, Your Grace?”
“I have thought long and hard about this,” Zachariah says, “my first and only concern is always for the people of our kingdom. We owe no loyalty to Yrnedell. They are a barbaric people who do not care for our suffering. You all know very well that our peaceful kingdom was attacked, our people enslaved, our land captured, all because the ancestor of the current Emperor wanted her .” He waves at the portrait of Aravael.
Castiel knows of the legend. How the beautiful princess was kidnapped in the night by men who claimed to be ambassadors from Yrnedell over two thousand years ago. How her broken-hearted father sent his army to rescue her, hoping to find her before they escaped. They did not expect the entire might of the Yrnedell army stationed at the border and were utterly routed in less than a fortnight.
“Since we lost the war, we have been little but slaves to the Empire,” Zachariah hisses, “generations of Emperors have come and gone and Asmoira is being bled out drop by drop by each one of them. We need to gain our freedom once again.”
“But Your Grace, we cannot afford a war,” Samandriel says, his face pale.
“We are not going to go to war,” Zachariah states, “the four of you are going to travel to Fairhaven within this week. You are going to assassinate Dean Winchester.”