The Gryphon War: The Baptism of Fire

You threaded your arms through the thick sleeves, the Aetorian wool stiff and unwelcoming, the collar still rough despite Hilga’s dozens of washes. The coat’s hue—a deep, regulation navy—clung to your frame, made snug by a row of dull brass buttons etched with the Red Gryphon’s silhouette. Its cuffs were lined in faded red piping, once vibrant but now muted with age and use. You tugged slightly at the hem, straightening the belt clasped above your hips—thin brown leather, barely decorative, purely functional. No frills. No flair. Just the mark of a Cadet. A stitched badge clung to your left sleeve: the snarling wolf’s head of Fernandascourt, teeth bared and frozen in time. The shoulders, squared and stiffened only slightly by the padding beneath. Your boots—well-scuffed and heavy—thudded dully against the floorboards. ‘Ready to Serve!’, the motto vowed. The words fell slowly from your lips as you questioned them.

Behind, the door opened with a familiar creak. No need to turn. Hilga never knocked. She never had to. The short, blonde woman rested the breakfast tray on a small table before sauntering her way over to you. “It was me thought t’catch ye befor’ ye gittup, ser. But it seems ye’ve already woke.”

“Couldn’t afford to stay napping now could I, Hilga? On such a day as this?”

She nodded and chuckled lightly under her bonnet as she adjusted the collar and patted down the uniform.

“It’s just my Academy uniform, Hilga,” you reminded her, “just for a cadet and definitely not the real deal.”

“Ah, yes. That would be true if yer wer’ just any or’nary cadet joining der Gryphon Army, ser.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

She paused her titivating and looked at you, a motherly glint in her eyes. “Yer Aldaine dan Grimmwald. Yer no’ jus’ any young cadet joining der King’s army, ser. Ye come from a noble house, one of House Hannover’s most loyal.”

You nodded, turning your attention to one of your ancestors’ portrait on the wall: a gleaming young man with similar short auburn hair and dreamy brown eyes. His lips narrow and straight like yours and his ivory skin—the artist made no mistake in painting to seemingly glimmer as it caught the mid-day sun.

“One of der greatest men to ever hol’ der name Grimmwald,” Hilga interjects your thoughts, catching you looking up there. “My, my. Saintesknow I can imagine ’im even now. ‘ow proud he mus’ be.”

“You think so?”

“I know so, ser. ’is very own son now ready t’take up arms in der name of der King. Just like he once did.”

You smiled as she finished adjusting your collar.

“Whenever did you start calling me ‘ser,’ Hilga? I never thought I’d live to see the day my wet nurse referred to me as that,” you chuckled lightly.

“Oh, ye know. I be simply t’inking it ought t’be better if I’d get me practice in fer when ye return as der actual lor’ an’ don of dis place.”

“I’ll still be Aldaine, Hilga. The same boy you used to play cards with and chase through the halls.”

“Yes, but Aldaine don Grimmwald. Not an ‘eir, but a legitimate lor’…ser. A legitimate lor’ of a proud an’ ’onourable ’ouse.”

You handed her a generous smile. Yet before you could say anything more, a low and steady voice interrupted from the door. “Except there will be no pride nor honour in this house if he is to not make his way to Fernandascourt within the hour.”

Hilga’s eyes widened and she immediately removed her motherly hands from your cheeks before grasping them tightly within each other and bowing her head to face him.

The figure stood at a good height, just barely taller than you. His skin as wrinkly as a doctor’s glove yet revealed hidden muscles beneath tight jacket sleeves. His walk—steady and firm—not too rushed neither too slow. Despite his eminent age and the fact that he walks with a cane, there was clearly strength in his bones.

“Hello, Uncle,” you greeted him.

He said nothing yet, just stood there observing. His eyes rolled over you like a Royal Inspector perusing the details of a puzzling crime. A chill ran down your spine. The same you’ve often felt whenever he stood near you. Your leg felt a bit weak, yet, even so, you knew better than to show any such sign to him, your uncle and regent.

“You look fine enough…nephew,” he finally commented, with a light and satisfied nod. “But that is all well and nothing if you do not get there in time. Many other young scions of other notable houses are already making their way through Grand Aetoria to report for service at Fernandascourt. If we are to preserve the same honour and pride which I hear you chatter of, then we mustn’t arrive late.” He then looked at Hilga and with a flick of his wrist dismissed her. He then waited for her to descend the flight of stairs before continuing. “Understand this,” he said, voice low, “if you mean to honour your house and name, then you best start by watching what you say—and to whom.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you do not speak of duty or honour with the help.”

“But I wasn’t. I was speaking with Hilga.”

“My point exactly.”

You bristled. “Hilga is not the help. She was my wet nurse. She’s known me since I was a babe.”

“As mine knew me. But even so, I made certain she knew her place.”

The disappointment must show on your face, because he softens—but only slightly.

“You see, nephew. It is a lesson all young heirs must learn. The tone you set now—before you’re don—becomes law when you are. Familiarity breeds misjudgement. A company will not follow a captain if they only see a vireman.”

He turned again, voice descending slowly but deliberately. “Respect is earned by knowing your place—and making sure others know theirs.

“Every child must know his place in this world and it is hard to teach that to him when he has already grown into a man. If a don is to command respect from the wider Aetorian society he must be able to command that same respect under his own roof. How can he even do that when he cannot respect himself to know his equals?” With that, the old man pivoted and made his way down the stairs clearly wanting to leave you with those thoughts.

You stood there for a while; your mind awash with ideas, processing what you had just been taught. You closed your eyes as you focused them. When you opened them, your gaze met your father’s in his portrait. He stood proudly, foot placed on a fallen trunk, clutching the reins of one of his many warhorses as he stared back at you. Eyes of determination. Eyes of respect. Respect for himself, respect for his house, respect for even the duty he had to burden.

You turned back to the mirror, observing the creature you had become, suited in your blue coat with Gryphon red trimmings and golden buttons with the seal of the Red Gryphon etched into them. “Duty called and you answered, father. Now it calls me and I suppose I have no choice but to answer.” You stiffened your cuffs one last time, took a good look at the room you had come to know so well before descending those wooden stairs and stepping out onto the front lawn.

The warm morning sun welcomed you, gleaming into your eyes—almost blinding. Before you, rows of servants stood assembled. At the top of the steps, Wilbur—the estate’s steward and most senior among them—stood with his arms crossed, a posture mirrored by the rest of the staff lined down the stone patio. In its centre, the emblem of your house—a vest-wearing raven—was laid into the stone.

“…I see your intentions clearly, Heinz, and you will not succeed.” Your mother’s voice cut through the quiet just as you approached.

Your uncle, however, showed no concern. “Ah, there is the lad! The man of the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” his voice evidently made to seem as though it is the first he was seeing you since morning. He strode forward, hand outstretched to clap your shoulder—but your mother brushes it aside and takes you by both arms.

“Let me take one last look at you,” she said, fussing with your uniform, titivating your collar, smoothing your hair. “Look at you. It seems only yesterday I was cradling you in swaddling blankets, watching you whine through the night. And now… off to join the King’s army.”

“You talk as if you’ll never see me again, Mother,” you said with a half-smile. “I’m only going to the Academy. I’ll be back before my eighteenth name-day to take up my place at Danbury Hall, and then I’ll be off to The Thane come early-summer.”

“Yes, yes,” she sighed, “but the King’s army is a rough and unforgiving place. I learned that much from your father.”

“I’ve no intention of joining the Gryphon Army,” you replied gently, trying to ease her worries. Heinz coughed rather loudly behind her. “Besides,” you continued Uncle says there’ll be no need. The Gryphon Army hasn’t been mobilised since Godric the Bold, and he sees no reason it would be now.”

“If only that were true. I’d believe it—if the words hadn’t come from Heinz. His words weigh little less than a feather to me.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

But before she can answer, your uncle calls again. “Aetorian highways aren’t the safest at night! And nightfall seems to be when you mean to arrive, nephew!”

You turn to your mother. “I’m only going for a short while. Uncle says it’s just to pledge House Grimmwald’s allegiance to the new King and seeing as I am to become don Grimmwald next year, it only makes sense I be the one to go. I’ll be back before you know it.”

She nods, somewhat reassured. “Let us hope then that this King Mikhail is nothing like his grandfather, king Godric the Bold. I do not want my son heading off to any war.”

“Come, nephew!” Heinz booms, already opening the carriage door.

You place a kiss on your mother’s cheek. “See to it that you return to Danbury Hall,” says Antoinette, your long-haired sister, her smile coy and sweet, her brunette hair casting a shiny glint in the mid-morning sun.

“You can count the days, sister. I’ll be back before this time next year.” You kiss her too, and then step towards the carriage.

Just before climbing in, you pause to take in the sight: Your sister, proud. Your mother, the dame, worried but composed. The servants, smiling—Hilga’s smile the brightest.

You wave one last time, then settle into the carriage.

As it pulls away, Heinz plumps into the seat across from you, sighing as he rubs the head of his cane. The horses canter, then gallop, as the coachman cracks the whip. You look back through the window, watching Danbury Hall and its waving people fade from view—until the oaks of Thornbrook Forest swallow them whole, its polished quartz stone walls and lush front lawn trailing behind like a memory.

You sit comfortably in your cushioned seat, hands clasped neatly, legs aligned beside each other like a proper Aetorian gentleman. You glance up at your uncle, but he pays you no mind. His gaze is fixed beyond the window, following the rolling greenery of the countryside. Yet you know he’s not truly present. You’ve learned over the years that Heinz Grimmwald is a man of quiet depth—his mind always churning, always elsewhere.

Bored and eager for distraction, you reach into your coat and pull out the envelope. The paper is pristine, a soft ivory hue, and the seal imprinted on the back is one you know all too well: a gryphon—part lion, part eagle, part bear—standing on its hind legs, claws splayed mid-roar, with an imperial crown resting atop its head. Two tones mark the wax: a golden base and a crimson overlay forming the beast itself.

“The Red Gryphon,” you mutter beneath your breath.

“The sigil of House Hannover,” your uncle replies without turning. He casts you a sidelong glance. “And the seal of the Red Gryphon.”

“I hope you understand the lengths I went to in order to secure you that partial commission, nephew,” he says, finally shifting in his seat. “After the damage your father’s passing left behind, Skittland Yard wasn’t especially eager to offer House Grimmwald much of anything.”

“How did you manage to get it then, Uncle?”

He adjusts his cravat with one hand, the other tapping idly against the wolf’s head atop his cane. “A man has his ways, nephew. When you’ve been around as long as I have, you find yourself in the company of certain allies—friends in the right places.”

You nod, grateful though unsure how much to say.

“You must make a good impression at the academy. That is the first thing. And a crucial way not to do such,” he added, with a glance at his pocket watch, “is arriving late. Though we may already have your mother to thank for that.”

“She only missed me,” you say softly. “That’s all.”

“Well, she had better get used to it,” he replies, rougher now. “You’ll be gone for some time. And she’ll have to manage what comes after.”

“But I’ll only be gone until early spring. You said so yourself.”

He turns to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his expression falters, confusion flashing behind his eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came.

“Indeed,” he murmurs. “You’ll be gone for a short while—”

“And then I’ll return to Danbury Hall. Take up my place as don. That was the understanding, wasn’t it, Uncle?”

He nods slowly, his voice tightening as he clears his throat. “Indeed. You’ll return and take up your place as Danbury Hall’s new… lord.”

Satisfied, you lean back, a quiet grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“It is a privilege to be admitted to Fernandascourt,” he continues.

“Fernandascourt? You mean the Iron Warden of the West?”

“Indeed. Your father and I both trained there in our first years as cadres in King Godric’s army. House Grimmwald has a storied history within those halls, and Danbury’s name still commands a measure of respect.” His voice deepens, his gaze meeting yours with unusual weight. “You cannot afford to squander what little honour our house still retains. Grimmwald must not be forgotten. Danbury Hall must not be reduced to ruin. That legacy now rests on your shoulders, nephew.”

“I promise,” you say. And you mean it.

He nods again and turns back to the window, his silence an approval more potent than words.

As the carriage rattles down the highway, you notice the shrubs begin to thin, replaced by neatly trimmed hedges and flowering arbours. The fields flatten out, and the muddy byways give way to carefully maintained causeways of white stone and burnished brick. Streams no longer cut beneath your wheels; they’ve been replaced by aqueducts lined with polished limestone. You know what this means. You sit forward. The countryside is fading—and Windsohr is near.

The wheels hum as the carriage merges into the traffic of the outer city, gliding across smooth brick and tarmac so fine it gleams like lacquered obsidian. Beyond your window, the world has transformed. Grand estate houses rise in stately rows, their façades carved with family crests and ringed by wrought-iron fences kissed with gold. Their spires stab skyward, some capped with copper domes now green with age, others still polished to a high bronze shine. Gables, porticos, ivy-covered balconies—each more decadent than the last.

And the people. Ladies parade in silk gowns that shimmer like water lilies in bloom, parasols tipped with lace twirling above powdered hair. Gentlemen in crisp vests, high collars, and velvet coats stride beneath bowler hats or stovepipes, their gloves pearl-white, shoes mirror-black. Horse-drawn carriages roll past in long columns, lacquered in royal blue and crimson, pulled by perfectly groomed geldings. The scent of rosewater, cigars, and freshly varnished wood rules the air.

Then, as the carriage turns onto King’s Boulevard, it hits you—the scale of it. Windsohr stretches endlessly, a tapestry of mansions, plazas, promenades, and marble-paved avenues. The gas lamps lining the road are cast in wrought iron shaped like gryphons, each one topped with a glass flame that flickers like starlight in the late afternoon haze.

Your breath catches as you turn a corner and behold it at last: a dome of sapphire glass rising above a forest of marble columns. “The Courtez,” you mumble, awed.

Yes, the Courtez, the great heart of the Gryphon Realm’s governance. The lawn before it is a flawless emerald sea, trimmed to the inch, scattered with statues of kings, saints, and statesmen. Fountains dance like crystal ghosts in the sun. There’s something hallowed in the air—orderly, ancient, and divine.

Behind you, Heinz does not stir. “Do not think much about taking up a seat there,” he says coolly, as if reading your thoughts. “The Courtez is going nowhere soon. Your priority should be Fernandascourt, and re-establishing some good honour to the Grimmwald name.”

The boulevard ends. The carriage veers left onto Gryphon Street, offering you a glimpse of the distant Port of Ismay, its flagships docked like sleeping giants. You circle Godric Square, with its towering obelisk and cascading tiers of marble, before the city begins to fade again. The glamour peels away: estate houses become cottages, gaslights become lanterns, and brick returns to gravel.

Windsohr recedes behind you, radiant and perfect, a place of painted dreams and immortal dignity.

You face forward now. Ahead lies the Iron Warden of the West—Fernandascourt—and the duty that awaits you.

But that duty seems long off. Unlike Windsohr, the sights of the western Aetorian hinterlands provide very little to be seen let alone amuse. The carriage rambles along the gravel byroad, passing random trees, brushes, and the occasional countryhouse every now and then. You thought you would find some means to pass the time yet Heinz remains even more silent than a temple nun. For some reason, you watch as the old yet fairly muscular man that calls himself your uncle continually checks his gold-rimmed pocket watch moving between it and the rushing by outside world.

Why is he doing that? Does not arriving late mean so much to him?

You think long about the enquiry but before you can make up your mind about asking, a footman riding along announces that streetlights are up ahead. Eagerly, you forget about your question and rush to look out the window. You can spot the sights of something ahead and as soon as the carriage enters the town you notice that they are wood and stone townhouses with elaborate designs and neta hedges albeit much smaller than those in the capital. The road is brick-paved instead of tarmac and some parts of the sidewalk have been taken over by weeds and grass. A few people tilt their hats to you as you ride by before the carriage swings up another hill and then straight through the cobblestone and iron walls of the academy at Fernandascourt.

But that duty feels far off. Unlike Windsohr, where even the horizon stirs the imagination, the western Aetorian hinterlands offer little in the way of charm—let alone distraction. The carriage rattles along a gravel byroad, past tangled hedgerows, sparse trees, and the occasional country house, half-sunken behind unkempt gardens and sagging fences. You’d hoped the journey might offer some diversion, but Heinz has remained quieter than a cloistered nun.

You glance at him: the broad-shouldered old man—still powerfully built despite the creeping grey—repeatedly checking his gold-rimmed pocket watch, his eyes shifting between its ticking hands and the fast-fading countryside.

Why does punctuality matter so much to him?

The question lingers unanswered. Before you can ask, a footman riding alongside taps the carriage frame. “Streetlamps ahead!”

You sit up. The weight of your thoughts is momentarily lifted. You lean forward, peering through the window.

The town reveals itself slowly—stone-and-timber townhouses with pitched gables and blue-trimmed latticed windows, their facades half-swallowed by ivy and netted hedges. Smaller than Windsohr’s grand avenues, but stately in their own quiet way. The road beneath turns to worn brick, with weeds prying up the seams. A few townsfolk lift their hats as you pass.

The carriage crests a hill and swings through a pair of yawning iron gates into Fernandascourt.

The academy sprawls out from the ancient bones of what once was a frontier bastion—its moss-covered ramparts still looming like old sentinels. Now, the fortress has been repurposed: a towering, multi-storey complex of grey stone wings with tall, arched windows and flying staircases. Covered walkways connect its limbs like a spider’s web of stone.

“It’s not a school,” Heinz says, noting your expression. “It’s a machine. Its sole purpose is to devour boys and spit out soldiers.”

The carriage jerks to a stop at the bottom of a vast stone patio, leading up to a grand portico. Heinz steps out first, his boots striking the ground with sharp finality. You follow, boots crunching on gravel.

The air hits you at once—thick with the scent of sweat and churned earth, faintly metallic as though fire had recently kissed the ground. A strange, acrid smoke lingers on the breeze, though there’s no fire in sight.

The courtyard pulses with motion. Cadets in stiff-pressed uniforms march in loose formation across the parade square, their boots pounding in a rhythm that never quite syncs. A sergeant with a face like a weathered gargoyle bellows instructions loud enough to scatter birds from the chapel roof. The youngest cadets look near collapse, tunics darkened with sweat—and the sun’s not even at its peak.

Off to one side, captains patrol like hawks. One paces with arms crossed, occasionally rapping a cadet’s shoulder with a short baton. Another watches from near the armory, speaking in low tones with an adjutant, eyes always scanning for imperfections.

Beyond the field lies the riding pen, where a circle of cadets try in vain to control jittery mounts. At the center, a one-legged major balances atop a pale grey horse, his wooden peg clicking against the stirrup as he shouts orders.

From the direction of the smithy, hammers ring out in sharp, metallic rhythm—punishment detail, no doubt.

“We’re not here to admire like gawking tourists, nephew,” Heinz says brusquely, snapping you out of your thoughts. With that, he strides toward the massive doors.

The moment you step beneath the portico and through the heavy ironwood doors, a new kind of chaos greets you—quieter than the yard, but no less urgent.

The grand hall stretches wide and high, ribbed with timber beams and lit by arched skylights. The walls are lined with banners from past regiments and dusty paintings of scowling generals. The marble floor echoes with hurried footfalls.

Aides scurry back and forth—most young, pale-faced, and bespectacled, their arms full of scrolls, ledgers, and files. Officers in dark dress uniforms stride between them, voices clipped and hurried. Somewhere, a bell rings once, then twice. No one seems to notice. This place runs on its own tempo—a rhythm of war preparing itself, even in peace.

Heinz marches ahead, but an aide intercepts you both.

“Cadet Aldaine?” the young man asks, glancing at the paper in his hand.

“That’s right.”

“That means you must be General Heinz?” he says, turning to your uncle.

“General don Grimmwald to you, sergeant,” Heinz whips, a look of disrespect on his face.

The sergeant quickly looks up from his paper, his eyes darting between the two of you before apologising for the mistake. “The colonel has been expecting you,” he adds.

Heinz opens his mouth to speak, but the aide adds, “Only the cadet, ser. Colonel don Aigner’s instructions.” His tone brooks no room for debate.

“Don Aigner?” Heinz scowls, a bit startled, “my, my. This may turn out better than intended after all. Very well. I’ll wait.”

The aide turns, motioning you to keep pace. Together, you pass a row of wide pillars and enter a long, shadowy corridor. Gaslights flicker along the walls. Officers and staff bustle around corners, some too absorbed in their paperwork to look up. You feel like you’ve stepped into the belly of a beast—one that doesn’t much care whether you’re a meal or a cog.

The aide stops outside a thick door embossed with a gilded insignia—crossed sabres over a mountain eagle.

“Colonel don Aigner is inside. Knock once,” he says, and with a quick nod, vanishes down the hall.

You stand there for a breath, hand hovering just above the polished wood. With the weight of all Heinz had said resting heavy on your mind, you take a breath—and push the door open.

Immediately, the smell of burning oil, old books, and horse leather attacks your senses, almost intoxicating. The light from an ensconced lamp barely covers the room, locked in an eternal battle with the pitch darkness that hangs on the far side. Still, you manage your way to the escritoire at the back of the office.

“I expected a messenger,” Aigner said at last, his voice as crisp as boot polish, breaking the silence. “Not the boy himself.”

“I can assure you, Colonel, I am no mere boy.”

Aigner half-turned. Silver-haired, square-jawed, and wearing the old crimson sash of the Royal Dragoons—with just enough irony to make it feel earned. His eyes settled on you like weighing scales.

“Of course not,” he said, sarcasm coating the words. “You are Aldaine dan Grimmwald, second son of your father, set to take up the lordship of Danbury Hall in a few weeks.”

He read your profile like a dossier. Then turned fully, sizing you up, before taking a seat in the leather-cushioned swivel chair. Only once he was comfortable did he offer you one.

“You have your father’s posture. I suppose Heinz meant for that to impress me.”

You stiffen. “You know my uncle?”

“Know him? Ha! I boarded with the man. Him and your father, back under King Godric.”

It dawns on you then—this was Colonel Karl don Aigner, lord of one of the Unified Monarchy’s old noble houses. You’d heard his name at Danbury Hall before, though never in much detail.

“My uncle meant for nothing. I came here of my own accord.”

“Ah. Of course. We need servants of the realm. Men who follow orders. Understand hierarchy. Understand that even lions get eaten when they wander into the wrong den.”

His words come sharp, capped off with a stare that cuts.

You brace yourself, aiming to show him you are no coward. “I came to serve.”

“Where?”

“In the academy.”

“A place,” Aigner echoed. “And I suppose this is all to satisfy the ol’ Grimmwald name, am I wrong?”

“To pledge its allegiance to the new King and his army. Just as any other house.”

“Army? What—the same army it betrayed?”

Your brow furrows. Your lips twitch. Betrayed? You’ve never heard of such a thing.

“Oh, it seems neither of them told you.” He leaned back, almost amused. “The old war dogs brushed it under the ballroom carpet, then retired to the sweet, quiet life of running a fiefdom.” He stared into the lamp’s flicker, voice softening. “While the rest of us picked up the slack.”

Aigner stood, walking to a nearby sideboard where a squat decanter waited, glistening with a brick-red liquid. With deliberate care, he poured two glasses of what you quickly recognize as Ta’ruskan Blood Whiskey—equal measures, precise as a soldier’s march.

You lean forward, unsure whether to thank him or wait for the offer.

Aigner returns to his chair.

He downs the first glass.

Then the second.

Each vanished with the same sharp breath between his teeth, followed by a low sigh. “Never leave anything half-done,” he muttered, more to the room than to you. “Or some other man will finish it for you. A lesson worth revisiting.”

He set the empty glasses down with a quiet click, then met your gaze with a vague smile.

“I see, young Aldaine, that the task of watching you has passed from that fox of an uncle to me—and through loyalty and oath to the Gryphon Throne, I am otherwise coerced into acquiescing.” He motioned for the envelope you’ve been clutching all this time.

Aigner dipped his quill in ink and signed his name with the elegance of a man who had practiced it hundreds of times, solely to intimidate. “This academy has no shortage of capable men. Sons of barons, counts, and merchant princes. Saintesbedamned—I’ve word the Duke of Hattenport’s second son is to board here. Hattenport,” he mused, “now that is a fine name. And the lad with a sport performance at the Thane—and a speech at the Courtez, no less. No Hannover, but he is third cousin to the King.”

He folded the letter and handed it back to you.

“You, Aldaine, arrive with nothing but your name. And not even a favourable one.”

The lamplight flickers across the walls as silence sits between you.

“Then let my sword do the talking,” you say, jaw tight as you take the letter from his fingers.

Aigner studies you again. And, to your surprise, nods.

“You’ll be quartered in West Barrack. Room twenty-seven. Report for morning drill at first bell. No exceptions. No indulgences. And no illusions about your pedigree earning you anything but suspicion from me, Cadet.”

You salute him, as you were taught.

“I’ll be watching you, Cadet Aldaine. Closely. Not out of interest—but caution. Bad roots don’t always grow good trees.”

“Noted, don Aigner.”

“I just signed your commission, Cadet. From now on, when you address, speak, or even think of me—put a Colonel on that ‘don Aigner.’”

“Noted, Colonel don Aigner.”

A slight smile touched his lips, but never reached his eyes.

“But until then—dismissed.”

As the door clicks shut behind you, your mind folds inward, circling Aigner’s words. House Grimmwald? Betrayal? Never had you imagined your father’s name could share a sentence with treachery.

Heinz. Of course. If anyone has answers, it’s him.

But when you return to the Grand Hall, your uncle is nowhere to be found.

“Cadet dan Grimmwald?” an aide calls, stepping closer. Despite the old spectacles slid down his straight nose, you can tell he is young, perhaps no older than you. “Your uncle asked me to hand this to you,” he says, handing you a note and then darting off, melting back into the traffic of bookish adjutants.

You recognise immediately the handwriting—the letters long and spidery joined together as though written in a hurry. Definitely your uncle’s hand.

’Whatever happens, your duty is to your family a fact I have ignored for far too long. And so it is time I finally take care of mine.’

At first glance it seemed unsuspicious, a simple farewell. Yet as it begins to simmer into your thought you question whatever does he mean he has to finally take care of his? Hasn’t Heinz been caring for Danbury Hall since father? Wherever has he gone?

The question sill rings loudly in your mind as you climb up the old wooden stairs. It blinds the your mind’s mind as your footsteps echo down the dimly-lit corridor only breaking when you arrive at door 27. With a steady hand turn the knob, the door already unlocked, and step in.

The room was fairly lit, bright enough for you to make out the couches arranged in a square around a small rectangle coffee table with only one missing as to allow access. A wide white rug ran over the wooden floor, saving the corners where potted plants stood like silent sentries staring back at you with loud harmlessness. You make your way over to the wooden table pushed to one side of the room closest to you. The table is finely carved from lacquered mahogany wood. But that is not what caught your eye. In the centre lies a piece of metal and wood smelted and carved with practised precision in manufacturing with a wide enough muzzle.

A flintlock pistol.

The small bottle of olive oil next to it and the soiled cloth quickly tells you it was being oiled. Which means the presence of someone else. You look around the room. Quiet. Just you. Curious, you step over to one of the couches where a book lies open.

“’In war, suspected the unsuspected’,” you read just before the light flicks off.

Startled you look into the darkness. “Who is that?”

Nothing. Only footsteps racing behind.

“The flintlock!” you say to yourself racing over to the table to try and find it.

It’s gone.

Someone took it.

Then you hear a click. The sound of metal scraping against metal. A sound you’ve heard rarely before—the half-cocking of a pistol.

“Who’s there?” you demand, trying to sound brave as your heart begins to thump away at your chest.

No answer. Then the sound of boots again, racing away from you. And then quiet. Silence loud enough to convince you that only your loud panting shares the room with you.

But you’re no fool. You know what you heard.

“Declare yourself, whoever you are!” you try to steady your voice but even a deaf man can hear its quivering.

A cool breeze blows the windows open casting a beam of light in to the room. That is when you see him. A shadowed figure dwelling in the darker corners of the room, a figure somewhat taller than you are.

“I can see you,” you let him know, hoping this revelation makes him cower.

It doesn’t. Not even a bit. Instead he says in a cool yet sinister tone, “not for long though.”

Before you can answer, you see him stretch out his hand far enough for the sunlight to touch the muzzle of the gun.

Then he full-cocks the pistol.

You try to move but your feet feel like two tonnes of brick.

Then the loud crack of gunfire, washing over the room and stinging your ears.

You fall to the ground.

Not dead.

Tackled.