When the setting sun colored the marble walls a flaming red, the lush gardens below the balcony deepened to a forest green and a lonely breeze ruffled the papers strewn across his desk, Sir Ellanher Marches, Royal Sorcerer of Midaelia, and the youngest one to ever occupy the post at that, decided this was indeed the perfect evening to fetch the finest Velan wine from the cupboard, and sulk in silence pondering over his failed love life.

Others-- who were obviously not pleased by his prosperity and definitely envied his riches would pretend to care for him by saying he was dramatic, that he held onto misery for too long and should 'get over it'.

But others had not had the misfortune of being hopelessly in love with a brilliant alchemist during all his years at the academy. Yet how were his feelings returned? The alchemist, clearly too absorbed in his work for trivial things such as romance, answered Marches' invitation to a royal dinner by ignoring the letter and disappearing from the academy without a trace.

For four years.

Come next Spring Fest, it would be five.

Marches still had not recovered from the soul-racking blow to his self esteem. And of his cherished feelings there was left nothing but resentment, or so he thought.

Get over it? As though just any other man or woman would fill the void left in his soul, as though any other would possess such bewitching brilliance!

Down poured the tyrian drink into an etched goblet, and the sorcerer took a long, tragic sip; one step away from becoming such a handsome embodiment of what unrequited love did to tortured souls, the angels carved into the marble walls of Lord Rhilio's temple would envy.

Letting his white hood fall off his head and onto his shoulders, he loosened the gold brooch clasping his cloak.

His eyes lingered on the glittering piece of ornament, a bitter memory awakening at its sight.

Perhaps he'd been overconfident, thinking he could win the alchemist's heart with just a gift.

Yet Marches' mind had been made ever since he'd laid eyes upon the ruby brooch during his visit to Drisia in one of the meetings with the Council. Such a flawless jewel, mined from the farthest reaches of the caves deep in the Drakhall mountains, who else should it have adorned, if not the soon-to-be lover of a Royal Sorcerer no less?

Soon-to-be.

A sad smile spread across his lips. Overconfident indeed.

He leaned back in his lush, gilded chair not unlike a throne-- one that he was glad to occupy, thank you very much. Colorful words such as vain or snob which naysayers might hurl toward him rolled off like raindrops from fresh leaves. This comfort was the least the world owed him after putting his heart through such pain.

This office set on the ground floor of his tower was his safe haven. With a sigh, he felt the day's exhaustion slowly easing off from his tense shoulders. Ah, sweet tranquility.

But his reverie broke then, as the doors to his tower banged open.

Startled, he sat bolt upright and the wine spilled across his papers, and worse-- his priceless silk robes.

"By the Gods, it was actually them! Captain Walric and the Silverhaart Warriors, in the flesh. They ordered a thousand blades from Kilford! Just got the news,” cried his uninvited guest.

Rhilio have mercy on me.

He brought his hands together, taking a deep breath to steady himself after this abrupt interruption.

"Must you always barge in like so, Your Highness?" Marches asked calmly.

"When I have good reason to, why not- Your Magicality?"

At the door stood a stunning young woman, an elegant emerald gown gracing her tall frame. The dying sun cast crimson streaks across her rich brown skin, the light glinting like embers in her dark eyes.

A great friend she was, the princess. But she'd been rather insufferable lately, ever since finding out a past link between the Forthwind family line and some old captain's mercenary company, implying the now outlawed warriors had once served the Crown.

"I come here to give you some phenomenal news, and all you do is complain and grumble." Princess Lysandra, heir to the throne of Midaelia, crossed the floor, regarding the wine and the goblet with a frown. "Ah, is it one of those days where everything-- from the sun and the moon and the trees-- reminds you of your beloved? What was his name again?"

"Ryffin, and no," he said, color bursting on his face. "he's not anything of the sort. He's simply an acquaintance from the academy. Was."

"If that's what helps you sleep at night." Snorting, she seized the bottle of wine to take a hearty swig. "This is good stuff. Got more?"

Marches got to his feet hurriedly. "I must ask you to refrain, Your Highness. It'll likely give quite the wrong impression if you left my tower inebriated," he said, "besides, it's too early for drinking."

"It's never too early for drinking, my friend." Lysandra gave him a tired look, primly adjusting the silver circlet atop her dark curls. "Come on. Father asked you to take some precious time out of your schedule to teach me sorcery, not become some nagging nanny!"

"Yet you do not heed your teacher's warnings," said Marches, taking the bottle away, and lowered his voice to a whisper, "you have spies running around in Silver Knife Square yet again, something I distinctly remember telling you not to. It's dangerous."

He sighed and gestured to a servant outside the door, who rushed in to magick away the wine stains from his robes, and from the sodden paperwork.

"Well, I need eyes and ears out there, people whose words I can trust. News about the city hardly makes it to me, let alone the distant provinces. I would venture out in disguise if I could, see for myself the kingdom I'm supposed to rule one day."

"But His Majesty forbids-"

"Father might sit at ease with his revered Royal Guards, but I do not, not after knowing how many of them are high up to their necks in corruption. Set aside your formalities for a moment, Marches, and tell me this: do you truly trust the Royal Guards?"

He didn't. Miveresk governed the Royal Guards like his older brother Sir Troth did at the Silver Knife Square. And if the tale he'd once heard from a certain genius alchemist he never got the chance to have dinner with was true, the elite guards would not hesitate to kill even a Royal Sorcerer if it meant protecting the throne, as the fate had befallen one such wizard many years ago.

No, Marches wanted nothing to do with it. Midaelia could go up in flames for all he cared, he would rather stay in his tower, keep his head down and do his job. But Princess Lysandra here had different things planned for him, things that were much too troublesome than the posh jobs he preferred.

"I don't trust them, either," he said simply, wishing that would be the end of this discussion, and she would not ask of him a sorcerous solution to this problem, because there wasn't one. "But I believe you should pay heed to His Majesty. All this spying around is doing you no good. Better you focus on your lessons instead."

With a bored look, she snatched his goblet, downing what was left of the Velan wine, then poured herself some more.

"Of course. Master swordsmanship, learn strategies, read history, follow in the footsteps of your ancestors-- for what?" The goblet landed harshly against the tabletop. "To have a handful of guards to make decisions in my stead, like they do for Father."

Now that was something Marches agreed with. Royal Guards held too much power.

King Forthwind had simply left the rule up to the elites who had served them for generations, whose fealty to the Crown had never been questioned in the past hundreds of years.

Yet cracks had now begun to appear in that loyalty, thorny vines twisting around it in the absence of a firm hand to grip the reins.

"You must take it up in your hands to bring them under control then, when you ascend the throne. This is solely why I insist you train yourself well now, not at all to support His Majesty's decision."

"It's not that simple. I have my spies among them, stalking their every move, so I know."

Marches sighed. Like numerous other times, she had flicked away his words of caution with little hesitation. Yet he was intrigued nonetheless. "What are your findings, then?"

She folded her arms upon the table, and took a deep breath. "The root of corruption runs too deep. In the last twenty years of my father's reign, Silver Knife Square has thrived like never before and so has most of the Royal Guards."

He gave her a wry smile. "I can see what you are getting at."

"And as for the city, the lower district is in shambles, places half flooded from the canals. Diseases spread like fire. The very air there is poisonous. I have forged Father's seal-"

"You what?"

"-to sanction funds for their aid, yet it never reached them, and found its place in some official's pockets on the way," she finished.

Marches stared at her in horror.

Forged Father's seal.

With an uncaring parent, no siblings, and no one but servants to provide her company, it hadn't taken Princess Lysandra long to befriend the young sorcerer soon after he had been appointed. Marches was more than pleased to have an acquaintance among the royalty, and he may have taught her a few questionable tricks of sorcery.

Forged Father's seal. His head was spinning, and it had nothing to do with the Velan wine.

"Is that what you've been doing with the magic I taught you?" His eyes twitched, King Forthwind's furious face swam in his vision. And to think, he had given Marches the responsibility of helping her learn sorcery.

Somehow the prospect of Lysandra leaving his tower drunk seemed considerably better than the chaos she was causing now.

Sweet Draedona, the king would hang him.

No, the Royal Guards would behead him like the sorcerer who had built the enchanted dark alleys.

"Are you listening?" boomed Lysandra's voice, terrifyingly similar to King Forthwind.

"I think I'm having a stroke, Your Highness," he sprang from his seat, "I think I have to lie down--"

"Well, that's too bad." A knowing smile spread across her lips as she sipped some more wine. "My men also have news about the academy. Aye, that very place your beloved alchemist is from."

His stroke subsided and ears perked.

"Acquaintance." he scoffed at the choice of her words. He sunk back into his seat nonetheless, curiosity flickering to life in his mind. "What else have your spies found in the academy?"

"Nothing that sparks hope I'm afraid," she sighed. "That institution is a joke in the name of education- thank Draedona that Ryffin left that awful place. Not even a league afar, folk engage in dark magic down in Ebon street. Half the youth in Silver Knife are Dragontail addicts, and here Sir Troth begins construction of yet another manor in the upper district. The Council doesn't bat an eye."

Aye, His Majesty has singlehandedly screwed up this city indeed.

Making the wise decision of not voicing his thoughts, Marches rose as she finished her drink, and strode to the windows facing his desk.

In the darkening gloom, his own reflection stared back at him; a tall, slender young man clad in spotless white, gold-trimmed robes. Flowing blond hair framed his sharp-jawed face. The sorcerer swung the glass panes open.

Outside, lights had begun to come to life in the windows of the city below, smoke billowing in milky-white coils from the chimneys of the elegant, cut-stone estates of the noble houses. Bells rang in the temple of Lord Rhilio in the upper district, the deafening sound resonating across the rooftops. Six bells, counted Marches.

The gargantuan stone statue of Migdros stood guard over the academy on the far right. In distant horizons, the Lockefell river glittered in the last rays of the sun.

And to think, this city was in ruins. Despite his efforts not to, the princess's words churned in his mind and he could no longer cower behind the shield of indifference. As the Royal Sorcerer, this was part of his responsibility as well.

Lysandra came to stand beside him, looking down at the buildings sprawled below, boats sailing by in the gridwork of canals, carriages clattering across roads.

"Mere giving strict commands to the Royal Guards would do no good. We need to uproot this poisonous tree," he said to her.

"Aye. We need new people, and rebuild the Guard from scratch," said Princess Lysandra. "But that would not be so easy as having some spies snooping around. If I mess things up, Father gets more reason to blame me for the misfortunes of his life."

"He does not blame you, Your Highness."

"Oh, doesn't he?"

Despite his efforts to tread carefully, Marches ended up striking an old wound, one that never healed, but festered with hatred.

"If that is your conclusion after working for him for years, you might as well have plugged your ears and kept your eyes shut," she said, "twenty years of my life, sorcerer, and all I've seen in his eyes is regret whenever he looks at me."

This was a familiar turn conversations with Lysandra took often, yet managed to shake him every time. The untimely demise of Queen Eir shortly after Lysandra's birth had created a divide between father and daughter, one that had never truly mended. While one closed himself off from the world and let grief consume his existence, the other had done everything in her capabilities to make her father proud, a little happier, step out of the enslavement he had posed upon himself.

Her efforts and achievements ever remained unappreciated, the affection met with indifference, until she had given up.

"Father may choose to wallow in misery forever, view the world through a pair of fogged glasses and leave it up to others to do his work, but I can't." Lysandra's eyes narrowed, hands clutching the windowsill so hard her nails dug into the woodwork. "I can get by with an indifferent parent, but a kingdom can't go on with such a ruler. Those who once served the Crown must return."

Marches looked at the stars reflected in her determined eyes. She could be the one to bring back Byton to her former glory. Her habit of barging in his tower as she pleased, or using his spells for questionable purposes might cause him displeasure, but he believed in her.

"You know what to do," said Marches with a smile. She nodded.

"Dissolve the Royal Guards and find Captain Walric-" started Lysandra.

"Focus on your lessons and-" began Marches.

"No!" yelled both in unison.

"Fine, Your Highness!" he said, "just tell me this: how are you so sure that you will be able to reach them? Considering who your spies saw in Silver Knife Square was the actual Captain Walric and not some random mercenary?"

A smile spread across her lips, a smile that excited and terrified him, because it always meant she had something devious in mind. "Well, I can't exactly reach them, not with the City Watch prowling the streets. They'll sniff out their sorcery at once. As we both know, laws in the capital are still stricter than in other places, be it mostly eyewash," she said, "but do you know who are beyond the reach of the City Watch, or hell, even Father?"

The answer was at his tongue at once. "The Council, of course."

"Exactly, and those feisty mages are always stirring up chaos, issuing decrees nobody asked for, declaring scores of people outlaws everyday for the slightest missteps, and shoving random folk into dungeons to clear some blue-blooded lord off their blames. The usual."

Marches couldn't help but chuckle. "If they hired common people to nail their wanted posters, it would alone solve the unemployment problem overnight."

"Imagine if Captain Walric manages to get her hands on one such random outlaw and arrives to collect the bounty. Disguises would be needed, of course, but there's a great chance the City Watch would not dare stop them, not when they've got the Council backing them up."

He regarded her with a sour grin. "Imagine? Seems to me you have already set this plan in motion."

"That I have. But tracking down a criminal deadly enough to attract the Council's attention is no easy task either. So far I am trying to get a lead, and point them out for Captain Walric to catch. But things like this are tricky when you have to coordinate a gang of spies, and also be the proper heir to the throne and show up for your lessons at the same time."

"Absolutely, Your Highness. Besides, you also have to find time for... recreational activities such as forging seals and whatnot. Ah, being a princess is surely not easy."

"And heavens know what the sorcerous f--rick is going on in Kinallen on the eastern frontiers," grumbled Lysandra. “Thought it would be better if I send someone, since reports claim Captain Walric is apparently hidden around there somewhere. This is what I came to tell you, actually."

"Your Highness." A solemn voice rumbled at the doorway, making both jump.

"Ah, speak of the devil!" said Lysandra to someone he couldn't see in the gloom.

Marches had not noticed how long they'd been talking. Darkness engulfed the tower, all pitch black except the stars and a thin column of light from the ajar doors slanted across the floor.

A snap of bejeweled fingers, an incantation of fire uttered under his breath.

The candles set in alcoves, on the candelabra, tabletops and upon the chandelier high up on the ceiling blazed into life on the sorcerer's command. Warm light danced on the elegant interior of the tower and on the steps of the central spiral staircase connecting all the upper levels, illuminating the portraits of previous Royal Sorcerers and Sorceresses lining the walls.

A hooded, black-clad figure stood motionless near the door.

"Your report," commanded Lysandra.

"I bring tidings from Kinallen," said the spy, then seemed to have trouble with where to start with said tidings. "An overwhelming amount of bizarre things have happened there, including two raids on the village, one of which was staged to capture an assassin. Also, there is this rumor about the 'black-blooded ones'."

Lysandra's frown deepened. "The what?"

Even the spy looked confused by what they were saying, but they pressed on with the report. "It's got something to do with Ancient Sorcery and Necromancy... combined. Near-invincible corpse demons, to put it briefly."

Marches didn't realise his mouth was hanging open until a bug seeked refuge inside. Lysandra's brows seemed eager to disappear within her hairline.

"I ...uh, I have taken notes. Your Highness and the Royal Sorcerer may take a look at them, for I cannot make sense of this either. But folk all around there speak of them," said the spy, retrieving a small, leather-bound journal from their belt-pouch and handing it to them.

Marches leafed through the cramped pages while Lysandra turned to the spy, her tone shifting to a casual one. "So that's all been going on there, eh?"

"There's more," said the spy with a grin, producing a rolled parchment from a hidden pocket. "A rogue soldier who has been causing mischief-- one you and your fabled Captain Walric might like. Bounty is quite high, and the Council and the garrison at Kinallen are at each other's throats over her. Not a bad bait to enter the city with, I'd say."

Lysandra's face lit up as she unfurled the parchment, revealing a wanted poster with a young woman's face printed on it. Marches set the journal aside and turned to take a peek.

"Do tell, Your Highness, who is this troublemaker?"

A grin spread across her face.

"Farren Clearstrike."