Sparks of the All-Forge - Preludes

Prelude 2- Terra Brineheart - To Be Harder Than Steel

"The High King has ridden out to join the battle! Remain calm! His eminence's presence will strike fear into the hearts of the rebels!" The High Crier Abner Fawn had been nigh-on screaming this message for an hour and then some. The words were supposedly motivational yet more so a warning to those who would flee in the night, it seemed that the High Crier truly believed in the king. The king who would not ride out into battle until the rebels had supposedly split; the king who had allowed the Maran rebels to isolate Regalia out of cowardice despite their man advantage.

The queen, Terra Brineheart, sat beside her three children. Arol, The Mother bless his heart, was so tense that he might truly believe his mother would let him attack anyone who breached the Great Hall. Little Svana didn't really grasp the severity of the situation outside of their walls. How could she? She had seen four brief winters and no more. The child was likely more aware of her dolls than the lives of their men being wasted outside of the walls. The baby Andrius, named out of both spite and of love, was bundled up and cooing in her arms. There were others in the hall where the Mithrocki throne resided: servants, cooks, handmaidens, the three Servicemen that Regis had left behind, and more. None of them mattered as much to her as they had the day before. Regis likely hadn't cared a lick for them either. Nevertheless, they seemed to be relieved each and every time the High Crier yelled out his words of motivation. They believed in the High King's chances of success. The High Queen did not.

Regis will only strike fear into the hearts of any maidens or wenches who find themselves on the battlefield. Regis was no soldier; he was hardly a king. He had been something, once, before his heirs had been born. A king. A king above kings. She had seen him off, the duty of the High Queen, and watched him struggle to climb atop his horse. The High King Regis could hardly be regarded above his own mount. Nonetheless, the time to think pettily was at an end. Regis would likely die on the front lines. She was the High Queen of Mithrock and she was a mother. Strength was required of her; strength and patience. What happened with the Marans? There was one man in the entirety of the Maran faction she could depend on to show her a modicum of sympathy rather than the way to the butcher's block. If Alastor has fallen...

Shaking her head of such downcast thoughts, Terra looked to her children. She stretched her hand out to Arol. Her firstborn was still a boy, no matter what he thought, yet he was wound so tightly she thought he might pop. A quick survey of the room showed that the servants, even the High Crier, were watching her every move. Some had even flinched when her hand left her side. Tighter than a flies arse stretched over a barrel, indeed. "My Prince, come here," she lovingly beckoned. Calm, she had to sound so even if she could not be. The servants and guards knew what might happen if the rebels managed to break through either gate, North or West. Every one of them had likely experienced a nightmare or two in their lifetime about this exact ordeal. Pillage, rape, fire, a dozen different ways to die. She would not let her children feel that kind of fright. Not right now.

That fear had reached her eldest, false bravery manifesting in response to an emotion the headstrong child had likely not understood. "No," he said far too coldly for a boy of seven, "I have to be ready."

"Ready for what, my child?" A thump to the head? Alyn Mara had promised no harm was to come to her children. Alastor Alden had promised the same, and she trusted him much more than she did the usurper. Her wand floated from the small latch on the hip of her dress and into her hand. "I have my magic. Lord Maxon has his blade and spell-forged armor. Children will not die whilst we live." Sighs of relief filled the throne room as she took the hand of her Arol and looked to the young Haydon Maxon. At fourteen years of age, Haydon was more skilled with the blade than any guard she had ever known save Andrew. Even across the room, he seemed a statue of good spell-forged steel up to his neck; he was smart enough to know that wearing the full suit of armor would do even more to fill the throne room's occupants with worry. He was a handsome lad with a hard face and silver-blonde hair that he kept tied back in a neat braid. The guard's sad green eyes met hers as he nodded and placed his gauntleted hand on the grip of his sheathed blade. Haydon's eyes had not always been so morose. He knew far too much for a lad of his age; the fault lying with herself and his old Lord Captain. Nonetheless, he was wed to loyalty and she trusted him to help keep her children safe more than anyone else in the capital.