Force of Nadia

Prologue

The winter nights that drifted across Abellium were always cold, but Angor felt the chill especially that night. He was staring out across the King's lands; out to the treacherous Black Forests and plains beyond, the wilds that he had tried incessantly to tame over the long years. Those years had long passed him by and the forest had only grown more dangerous with each lost winter.

The war had rotted away the majestic scenes he had often spent hours trekking to, his horse unable to get by the landscape like he could. Each stone he clambered over, each tree scaled made his muscles ache and his thirst for adventure only growing more desperate. But that was when he was young, and the world had become darker since the King sent him to claim the south. He remembered the days of plenty, when his body was fitter, when he wasn't so used to his court, when he was naïve and foolish enough to think the world would bow at his feet. Despite everything, he missed those days. He wondered why despite all he had done for his King, all he had accomplished in aid of saving countless men from a slaughter, why the Gods would forsake him now in his gravest hour of need.

His eyes slowly moved to the people in the streets so low beneath him, the men and women who continued with simpler lives, dismissive of the grander picture. They didn't care why the King wanted to have the South claimed, they didn't care about politics from those who towered in their great keeps. He couldn't say he envied them, but in that moment, he would gladly have switched places with any one of them in an instant if it meant he could rid himself from his purgatory, the prison that was supposed to help rather than entrap. He watched as a guard and servant met; drinks in their hands as they spoke quietly to one another, flirtatious words and smiles being exchanged. He made judgement as he often did, deciding with bitter jealousy that they were not in love as deep nor as complex as the love he held for his late wife, or his precious daughter.

"My Lord." He recognised the voice, but Angor couldn't respond to him. He didn't wish to hear the news from whichever lady or lord warring in the north or east, he couldn't bear to. But the voice spoke louder the second time, too loud to ignore. "Excuse me, my Lord..."

Angor's head lowered, the pair were kissing and his heart sank at such a sight. "I can't listen to what you have to say, Percil." He replied.

"This is important, sir, it cannot-"

"It will wait." He decreed sharply. "Each moment from the past twenty years Abellium and the King has had my service, my blood. For this... For this they will all wait."

Percil was an older man who had long ago been a fine colonel in the King's army, but had quickly grown as a favourite by the sovereign in his youth. Once he came to power, he was given wealth and an honoured position at his king's side, an advisor who had a decade more of his present king. Unlike many before him, he held his posture tall and his sword remained as supple in his hands as any, still able to cut down overconfident men in their prime before their sword could strike a blow. He had taken the often-mocked position of advisor to the King and made it honourable and respectful once again, a feat that many would not be able to accomplish without a few white hairs in their beard. Yet his calm and collected disposition held a darker side in its wake, his eyes could be sharp like an icicle through the soul when something was done below expectations; allowing many to resent him.

"Angor..." Percil said, losing the official title as easily as a worn leather glove. "Even now you do not see past the end of your nose. Estille has much from her mother, but one quality she has from you is her strength."

"I've heard that too many times over the last few days." He mumbled. "That her strength has waned before and again she'll stand up and live through it. But such words are curbed once they have seen her." He finally turned to him. With him repeating what many had tried to convince him, he wasn't as encouraged as Percil had hoped. "I hear the doctors talk. The damned cowards believe she won't last the night."