The thunder of hooves reached them before the riders did, its drumming vibrating through the very marrow of Lothar’s bones. Out of the shifting gray veil of the morning mist, the twin gatehouses of the city, once the proud capital of Oizen now an another addition jewel to Yarzat, emerged like the bleached ribs of a giant ghost. As they drew closer, the silhouettes of the approaching party solidified, though they remained curiously blurred against the white horizon until they were a mere stone’s throw away.

The reason for their spectral appearance became clear as they closed the distance: the riders were draped in heavy white cloaks that mirrored the fog.

The prince had sent his own guard as the welcoming party.

"Greetings, Legate," Rut called out as they drew closer, his voice rasping as he offered a sharp, respectful bow from his saddle.

Lothar felt his father stiffen beside him when the recipient of the greeting came into view. It was impossible to mistake the man leading the white-cloaked party. Lord Jarza stood gargantuan even among soldiers, his height and the distinct, deep hue of his skin marking him as the well-known commander of the Primogenia and right arm of the Fox.

"Hounds," Jarza acknowledged, his nod somber.

"We found this lot dallying on the road while we were out hunting for tattered cloaks and bandit filth," Rut said, his grin visible beneath the wolf-maw of his pelt, looking more like a snarl than a greeting. "Lo and behold, the legendary latecomers have finally graced us with their presence!".

"I see," Jarza murmured, his dark eyes settling on the travel-worn party with the clinical detachment of a butcher with his sheep.

Lord Cregan, sensing the shift in the air, finally spurred his horse forward. "We greet you, my lord. I am Cregan of Apulio. We offer our humblest apologies for the delay; we made way the moment the summons reached us. We come to answer the Prince of Yarzat’s call and are eager to swear our oaths to the new sovereign".

Jarza’s gaze flicked over Cregan with disinterested speed before anchoring on Lothar. The boy felt as though he were being weighed on a scale and found wanting. "This your son? He’s awfully quiet for a lad.’’

"He is," Cregan said, giving Lothar a sharp, warning shove in the shoulder.

"My name is Lothar," the boy managed, his voice steadying despite the hammering of his heart. "I am honored to make your acquaintance, my lord. I have hear much of the might of your legion."

Jarza tilted his head, his eyes narrowed as if observing a bird perching on the hilt of his sword. "I see. Lothar... I recall Ser Aron mentioning a boy who spoke a lord and most fiercely, when he arrived to deliver the Prince’s call to arms. The herald on him was also similar to yours."His eyes turned hard ’’Any correlation?’’

The boy felt the blood drain from his face. He wished he could fold himself into his own cloak and vanish. Beside him, he could feel his father’s silent, white-hot fury boring into the side of his head.

"I am... honored to be remembered," Lothar whispered, forcing himself to meet the Legate’s gaze. "I hope you will forgive my previous words. We were enemies then. We need not be so now".

A heavy silence fell over the road, broken only by the mist-dampened snorts of the horses and the creak of the wagon’s wet wood. Just when father and son thought things could turn bloody , deliverance came down on them like an angel’s hand, as an hearbeat later the legate gave a single, slow nod dispelling any dangerous notion.

"Indeed, we need not be. From this hour, we serve the same man". He spurred his horse closer, the massive animal dwarfing Lothar’s mount. "All past transgressions are buried. All sins are forgiven the moment you bend the knee. Everything else is just wind"

"My son and I are eager to present ourselves to His Grace’s pleasure," Cregan added quickly.

"Displeasure, more likely," Jarza countered dryly. "You have been expected for a long time".

"The rain, my lord—".

"Aye, I am not seeking the reason or any excuse," Jarza cut him off, waving a gauntleted hand toward the ruined fields. "We can see the wretched state of this land for ourselves. But you may find some comfort in this: His Grace intends to expand the Magna Strata directly to the city gates. Your lands sit right in its path. You can expect more caravans to pass through your fief than you’ve seen in a decade and the road not to turn shitty as soon as anyone pisses on it".

The news came to the lord like a well-liked song. Apulio was starving for coin, and war-torn lands were usually avoided by merchants like the plague. Economic lifeblood was a better gift to welcome a man in the fold.

’’Now’’ Jarza said, his horse circling the party to inspect the black courser and the heavy wagon. ’’The gates are open, but the walk to the throne is long. Shall we move, or do you intend to let the horse freeze to the road?I presume that your gift, no?".

’’Indeed it is.’’

"Well, follow us then; we shall make the way. Chambers have been prepared for you in the eastern wing of the Tower," Jarza announced, his voice booming over the rhythmic squelch of hooves in the mire. "For a moment, His Grace was considering sending the army to catch you up. It is a good thing you appeared when you did. As for the beast, would you prefer leaving it to the stable-boys, or would you like to present it to His Grace yourself?"

"I would prefer to bear my own gift, my lord," Lord Cregan replied.

"I suppose that would make a better impression. He has been overwhelmed with gifts as of late," Jarza said, spurring his horse forward toward the looming gates. Just before passing under the portcullis, he turned back with a final word of advice: "Keep it short inside. He is already half-burnt."

Both father and son found the warning to be apt.

War and a chronic lack of sleep had carved their toll into the Prince of Yarzat. Deep gray circles hung beneath his eyes, and a mask of profound boredom lay over a face that had clearly just come out of a round of ruling. The former had however left a more permanent mark than exhaustion.

The rumors were true, Lothar confirmed, the Prince had taken part in the slaughter.

Lothar remembered the Battle of the Ford from the safety of the rear, watching the lines clash while his father led their flank. He recalled in the midst of that exchange , the frantic riding of messengers and the crushing news: their Prince had seemingly deserted, the center had collapsed, and a rout had followed.

It was hard to hear, especially after good tidings had been brought at the start of combat.But already they could see the contourns of the bittle pressing on the opposite flank of theirs, and it foresaw nothing good.

His father had wisely retreated then, unwilling to bleed for a lost cause. Looking at the man now, Lothar struggled to reconcile the man that resembled a bit of a vulture, with his sharp, clean nose and slicked-back hair, with the war prince who had snatched victory from the jaws of a graveyard.

The boy realized he was staring a second too late. Alpheo’s hazel eyes, though bloodshot, snapped to his. Lothar dropped to his knees instantly, aided by the insisstent tug of his father’s hand.

"We greet the Prince of Yarzat," they spoke in unison, their voices echoing through the hall that had once belonged to Sorza.

"I see the lordship of Apulio is finally among us," Alpheo said. His tone was surprisingly light, an airy contrast to the conqueror Lothar had imagined.As of last many things he had imagined just did not came to be.

He sat upon a chair of simple black wood; the ornate throne of Oizen that had clearly departed with its former masters. Looking around, Lothar saw a sea of unfamiliar Yarzat faces, true enough they were indeed the last to arrive. Not that he had any doubt after both legate and Rut informed him of such.

Lothar noticed almost at once that warriors, for the most part were the one sorrounding the prince, great men in heavy armor some with red others with white plumes.Not all of them had the white cloak however, and as for those that had accompanied them , they had long made their way at the side of the prince. Just like the legate of the Primogenia did.

For a moment he wondered if it was only them,only Yarzats, but a better look revealing a man in horned helmet overlooking from the side revealed the truth of it. The Kakunians were still here.As for why, Lothar could not find the sense.

Still it was in that sea of iron that his father made his apologies.

"We are unexcusable for the delay, Your Grace," Cregan murmured. ’’It was not our meaning to be of such disrespect.’’

"I already know the reason. Do not fear; I am not as monstrous as the songs might suggest. At the very least I do not eat babies...yet." The court chuckled and the prince went , leaning forward with an understanding tilt of his head. "I was informed you brought a gift to mark this... new beginning.Hopefully auspicious one."

Cregan rose slightly, gesturing toward the entrance. "Your Grace, even now, I cannot help but admire your gracious armor. I am of the belief that a charger of the same hue would be most fitting for such a sovereign that bravely took part in the slaughter at the Ford."

On cue, the black courser was led into the hall. It was a magnificent animal,that had to be aknowledged, midnight-fleshed and powerful, its hooves clattering loudly against the polished stone and as if aware of its own splendor being admired, like the proud animal it was, it raised a leg in a resting position...and....along with it also rose its plumed tail, up and up.

Much to the horror of both father and soon who already read the sign and knew far too late what was to come.

For it was in that honored comapny of gathered nobility, warriors and the conqueror’s own guard, that the black creature unburdened itself, shitting squarely upon the floor with the sound of a trumpet blaring up in a battlefield.

Alone and echoing till the end of times.