"A strong ruler cannot rule through terror and fear alone. That was my father's mistake. When my father fell in the Battle of the Four Kingdoms, our armies still held the advantage. Had we pressed the attack, the day would have ended with our victory. But instead of moving forward and avenging the death of their king, many tribes began to retreat. Without my father's iron fist to maintain peace between them, they feared that their rivals would take advantage of their weakened state to attack. So like cowards, they fled, leaving my father's corpse behind as a symbol of their defeat. I will not make my father's mistakes. I have unified the tribes and clans, brought them together under one banner and earned their loyalty through actions, not fear. In the last war, the men of the south stood together as one, unifying to fight my father's armies as a whole. Now they have forgotten why that was. The three kingdoms that once made up the Irmatei Alliance now fight among themselves, plundering each other's trade caravans and skirmishing at the border. The n.o.bles that stood on the frontlines, leading their people on the battlefield now quarrel with each other, employing a.s.sa.s.sins to kill their neighbours and poison their rivals. They have fallen into ruin while we have rebuilt. Soon, they shall realize their mistake. But by then, it will be too late."

Inside a gilded hall, a tall figure sat upon an iron throne. Wearing a suit of plain, unadorned armour, he gave off an imposing aura, warning those kneeling in front of him to throw away any desires they harboured towards the throne beneath him.

Barely daring to breathe, one of the kneeling figures struggled to speak, searching for the words as he confronted the man before him.

"My liege, it's not as if we don't agree. But if you do not punish the cowards who fled Lichfrost, then others will begin to waver. If the troops think that desertion is preferable to charging forth, then our lines may collapse in the middle of battle."

"If I do not? Are you trying to tell me what to do, Vornok?" the figure asked with an amused tone. However, there was no amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes, barely visible below the heavy crown upon his brow.

"Not at all, I wouldn't dare. None of us would, we would never -"

"What he means to say, my liege, is that he is merely offering a different viewpoint. The final decision rests with yourself of course," another figure cut in smoothly, emerging from her position behind the throne. Wearing a suit of heavy, black armour, adorned with a sigil in the shape of a large fish with sharp teeth, she cut a sharp figure, standing tall against the dull backdrop off the hall.

"Orka," the man upon the throne greeted her. "Do you agree with Vornok then?"

"I agree with my liege's decision. The survivors are not cowards. They fled only when the battle became unwinnable. Had Grimarok not fallen, and had it not been for the presence of Alistair Frostbane, the butcher of Crowsea, then the battle would have swung in our favour. Vornok's suggestion isn't wrong under normal circ.u.mstances, the context just doesn't support executing our own soldiers."

"That's fair," the seated figure replied agreeably. "Then what would your suggestion be? How should we deal with the survivors of Lichfrost?"

"Allow them to rest, give them new gear and rations. Promote those who were reported to have performed admirably. Then reform the division and send them back south. They will fight all the more fanatically if they know that they have the support of their king, rather than living under the fear of execution," Orka replied smoothly. The seated figure nodded.

"Then let it be done. General Vornok, General Crima, see to the survivors. Tend to their wounds and organize a new division with a survivor as the captain. It will be known as Grimtooth Division. Give the captain you choose full control in determining the division's crest, formations, leaders, and other effects. After three days of rest they are to head south. Their mission will be to attack Nova.n.a.lban and Eirewick interests. Have the captain split up the division into squads to harry their trade and civilian settlements."

"Yes my Liege!" the two kneeling figures in question affirmed.

"The rest of you may depart, you have your orders."

"Yes my Liege!" the other kneeling figures shouted, rising and giving the seated figure a bow before departing.

"They will continue to question your authority until you make an example of one of them. Once one is dead, the other rats will fall in line," Orka said softly. "They still don't trust you as their king."

"I wouldn't trust myself either. The prince disappears for years and reappears to take command of the leaderless horde. He could have changed, he could be under the control of another, he could even be someone else entirely, merely posing as one thought long dead."

"But you're not. You are their rightful king, and they owe you their respect," Orka argued.

"They owe me their loyalty, their respect is something I must earn," he replied.

Going silent, Orka regarded her king with a critical eye before turning away.

"I will return to my position," she stated, giving him a salute as she left. Watching her leave, words sprung unbidden to the lips of the figure upon the throne

"As I earned yours," he whispered softly.