Damian stood before his great mirror in his chambers, smoothing out the wrinkles of his tunic. Morning light bathed upon him through the high-arched windows built thoughtfully around the room. Dressed in imported fabric from Barlos, the land across the sea to the north-east, he calculated his next move carefully. His hazel-eyed reflection stared back at him, appreciating his chocolate brown beard, trimmed close to his cheeks. His medium-long hair was tucked behind his ear on one side.
A reflection worth being painted.
He walked over and ran his hand over the finely smoothed granite window sill. Before him lay the entirety of the Capital, Thios Reach, a city founded two hundred years ago by the late King Thios himself.
Grandeur and elegance emanated from the buildings below. Hidden history, only spoken through aged yet maintained architecture scattered around the city. Thousands of homes, made from either timber or limestone, ran across his view. Cobblestone streets bustled with people. Noble estates with high, ivy-covered walls that climbed to intricate balconies. Churches were proudly decorated with stained-glass windows depicting the four gods. Even the harbor’s stone piers could be seen jutting into deep waters, along with the labyrinth of stacked homes and narrow alleys that made the commoners’ district whole. He soaked in the city, thanking the gods that the eyesore of the slums wasn’t visible from his room.
The castle in which he stood, made primarily of sandstone and granite, was once home to King Thios, but now houses all the members of The Court of All and their families. Damian believed it to be the strongest fortress in the land, though some would say it was up for debate.
The city longed for a single ruler, looking up at him as if it were his for the taking. Soon enough, he thought, as a knock brought him from his daydream.
“Enter.” He said.
The large door, made of refined cherry wood, opened soundlessly. An armored guard of blue and black armor marched in and promptly stopped at the entrance of the chamber.
“I am to inform your lordship that the Court meeting will begin two hours from now.” The guard said, his trained eyes locked straight ahead.
“Very well.” Damian started. “Tell me, has Joran Tarasian returned from his visit to The Shade?”
“No, your lordship. Joran Tarasian has yet to return to the castle. Lord Tabaris Thurgon has not yet been seen in the castle as well.”
Damian turned his sight towards the guard, eyes wide. “Tabaris Thurgon is missing a Court meeting again? Guess I shouldn’t be too surprised, Tabaris is here as often as he’s not.” He scoffed.
He thought to himself in silence for a moment. “Fetch me Tabaris’s Court assistant, Westil. You may leave.” He ordered dismissively.
The guard turned on his feet and left the room, closing the door behind his exit. Damian took one last glance in the mirror, verifying his confidence, and prepared himself.
Moments later, the door swung open. “Court assistant to Tabaris Thurgon, Westil Graham, as requested, your lordship,” the guard said, as the weasel-faced man walked into the room.
“That is all,” Damian said, keeping his gaze fixed on Westil. He never liked Westil, nor his curly, red hair, his soft green eyes, and his high chin with hardly any facial hair to speak of. Damian believed him to have weak features and a personality to match. Though he could not deny his vast intelligence.
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“Good morning to you, Lord Damian,” Westil said graciously with a bow. “What is it you’d wish to see me for? Right before we see each other at the Court meeting, nonetheless.”
Damian lifted his chin high, looking down onto Westil, as he gestured for him to take a seat in the chair next to him, a fine, blue cushion, laced with gold accents in its fabric. Following his invitation, Westil sat, and Damian did so opposite him.
“I hear you will be sitting in for Tabaris once again!” Damian exclaimed kindly. “You might as well take the position for yourself at this point.”
Westil smiled at his charm and relaxed his shoulders. “I am content giving aid to Tabaris while I learn the ways of a proper member of the Court.”
“Well, you’re practically doing the work of a member while he travels and reaps the benefits.” He said innocently.
Westil looked at him, perplexed, not quite knowing what to make of his point.
Damian gave a devious grin back to his silence and leaned forward in his chair, closing the gap between them.
“What if you were able to become the Commerce Minister by the end of the year?” Damian whispered curiously. “Would you still be content if you didn’t take what was in your reach? You sit idly by for the next five, seven years, doing all Tabaris’s work, waiting for his retirement, and that’s if he chooses to retire. It’s far within his right to hold a seat in court until his final days.”
“Lord Damian, what is it you are trying to say exactly?” The weasel asked cautiously.
“I know why and where Tabaris has been traveling. Or rather, I know enough that would cause trouble for him.”
Westil sat quietly, lips pressed firmly together.
Damian continued, “Since his wife and daughter went missing two years back, Tabaris has been going city to city, town to town, camp to camp, every place that he owns a business in. That, in itself, wouldn’t cause anyone to bat an eye, but what may, is that he has been seen in all these places with multiple groups of the afflicted, usually women, that are never seen again.”
Westil sneered, dumbfounded at Damian’s unhidden audacity. “Rumors, nothing more than rumors of people who dislike him for his support for the afflicted.” He said proudly, in defense of his master.
“Rumors are they?” Damian laughed. “Well, these rumors have a handful of witnesses, most of whom have names and attachments to their loved ones that are now missing.”
Westil’s eyes widened, his jaw began to drop leisurely. “If what you say is true, what do you believe he’s doing to these afflicted women?”
“Who knows—possibly murder, slave trade, sex trafficking—any of the options spell trouble for a noble in the Court of All. If these whispers were given the right projection, the people would force the Court of All to not only remove, but execute him as well.” He said with a devilish look.
“Why are you coming to me with this? If what you say is true, we should confront him immediately and question him!” Westil’s voice rose in volume.
Damian brought a finger to his lips to settle him. “You do indeed have more to learn in the art of politics. Swords can kill a man, but knowledge can destroy a legacy. I can assure you, Tabaris would rather fall upon a spear than have the reputation of his proud family torn to ribbons.” Damian spoke with more purpose, peering Westil down with intensity. “Originally, I was going to confront Tabaris myself, but with his absence, I feel we both can gain advantage from this information.”
Unsure how to continue, Westil sat lost in thought. “What do you propose?” He said hesitantly, as if his words might set off a concealed trap.
“In exchange for this information, you support my push to alter the exile of afflicted in the Capital to an execution, and for all future matters, may we work together, finding compromise on matters in which we disagree. You, in turn, now have the power to ruin your master. He has no choice but to abide by your decisions.” Damian sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, indulging in his hubris. “I’d recommend you let him keep doing whatever the fat pig desires, outside of court matters, of course. String him along for a year until you reach the required time served as a Court Assistant, and then take your throne alongside the seven of us.”
Westil stood abruptly and started to pace back and forth in the center of the chambers. Damian traced him in his peripheral vision, patiently waiting, already knowing his answer.
He stopped, walked toward Damian, and put his hand out to be greeted. Damian stood slowly and shook his hand firmly. “I’ll see you at the meeting, friend.”
