Mio

THE RAZING OF WINBURGH Mitya carried the King of Haense slowly up the hill. The rolling green hues of the Heartlands were nothing like the bleak skies and jagged terrain of the north, and yet it had become familiar to Aleksandr all the same. That notion was a disquieting one - surely these gentle lands, where the sunlight held warmth and the rain did not freeze, should be foreign to him– And yet they were not. Too many years, he told himself as he trotted Mitya past a copse of oaks, their branches bearing red-yellow canopies as autumn set in. Too many years in the east. It had been so long since the war’s maiden battle amidst the namesake stones of Whitespire, where Orc and Veletzian blood ran in rivulets between the cobblestones, and longer still since he first sensed this great war looming on the horizon, but it had all passed in a blur. Breakwater, Brasca, Westmark, Hippo’s Gorge, Stassion, and Drusco all mingled into one indistinguishable battle in Aleksandr’s head, marked by ceaseless charges and endless melees. That, too, felt wrong. Battle should never feel so normal to a man. Perhaps most unsettling of all, though, was that these wars were not merely burnt into Aleksandr’s being, but that of his bloodline. His father had fought these wars. His grandfather had fought these battles. His great-grandfather had fought these struggles. He had always known that, but Aleksandr thought that he would be the one to break that cycle -- while his forebears had won their wars, they had always broken bread with their foe and returned north, only for that foe to strike back when the next generation assumed their thrones. When he read of his ancestors’ conquests as a young man, Aleksandr wondered why they never had the will to break the cycle themselves - to forego the brief reprieve of peace, and make it so that their historic foes would never pass their torch to another. But he understood now. As the wind gusted, stirring his cloak behind him and his locks around his crown, Aleksandr closed his eyes. He had climbed a mountain of corpses to scale the walls of Breakwater, greased the cogs of his artillery with the blood of the vanquished at Brasca, and led the Covenant to victory at Hippo’s Gorge on a road paved by hopeful sacrifice. He understood, now - he understood what only someone who wore a crown, what only someone who commanded a thousand banners with ten-thousand men, could ever understand. His gloves creaked as he gripped Mitya’s reins, and the stallion paused; it cocked its head backwards, and idly nuzzled Aleksandr’s hands. It is no wonder they never endured this path. Unbidden, memories flashed in his head of burgundy-clad bodies hanging from tree branches. Few men … few men could ever endure this. He felt the burn in his throat when he had roared for the Covenant infantry to follow at his heels, and sunder the Veletzian lines. This weight could never be borne … not forever. Slowly, he inhaled. Not forever. His eyes slid open, and shimmered with resolve. But a while longer is all I need. He flicked Mitya’s reins, and started up the hill once more. No cycle went forever unbroken, but he had come closer than most - he had walked farther down the path than any monarch had in centuries. As the whistle of the autumn wind grew louder as he neared the hilltop, he drew what comfort he could from knowing that greater destruction might lead to some greater peace. He had no choice but to believe that. Aleksandr summited the hill finally. Between him and an abandoned Winburgh stretched an empty plain, trees sparsely giving cover to some areas. A decade ago he had dreamed this stretch would be one filled with battle and sacrifice, yet alas – it was a straight path without contest. He mustered a smile; this was it. He raised his sword skyward, briefly glancing behind him. The journey which had brought him here was one drenched in blood, the Covenant had crossed rivers and surmounted great heights, faced great loss and caused greater, in this moment ahead was all that was needed to face now. And so the sword was brought down. In the distance, in the ground – all that could be heard and felt was the grinding of wheels and the stomping of hooves nearing. The Grand Covenant would bring down Winburgh, this war – this age of terror, would be razed to ash. [!] The following letter would be addressed toward all within any and all ranks of the Covenant. “‘LO, SOLDIER OF THE COVENANT, May the peace and prosperity brought upon you be well, the Grand Covenant brings forth a final calling. The Winburgh Proclamation has ushered peace between the realm; our goal has been fulfilled, and you, a monumental part of history. You have endured war, your father and mother would have endured war – their fathers and mothers before them! War has plagued our continent, yet this war is no longer. Rally together yet again, brothers and sisters in arms to bring a final end to this. As per the Winburgh Proclamation it is to be seen that the city of Winburgh be demolished and a monument erected. Surveyors have trotted the lands North to South, East to West, and deemed it certain that no citizen remains within the annexed territory any longer. The Annexed City of Winburgh shall be RAZED in three months and you, called to partake. Marching orders shall be provided to you by your respective commanders and Majesty’s. Let the ruins of Winburgh bear witness: where we walk, enemies bow. Signed, The Covenant"

"Thank Godan." Muttered the King of Haense. "No more rebellion."

The King of Haense had only recently returned to the Prikaz that evening when Amaya sat down to discuss her plan. Aleksandr couldn't help but feel guilty - had his disappearance over the three-months been a cause? Alas, of everybody, he knew Amaya well, and she certainly fend well without him. Thirty-five years was an impressive feat for a Queen, especially one at the forefront of the courts for so long, she deserved rest. "You kept your promise. Godan, how well you kept it."

THE CROWNS SHADOW: REVELATION AMIDST THE REEDS “Where … am I?” As soon as Aleksandr formed the thought, it echoed around him in a disembodied voice. “Where was he?” At first, he thought the voice was mere disorientation. He blinked as the groggy darkness receded, and found himself beneath the bare branches of an oak tree, clawing at a pale sky. The oak stood alone in a glade of tall grass, sparse except for a few saplings that broke through the foliage, and the oak itself seemed to be dead. Slowly, he reached forward, and traced his finger on the deep grooves of the grey bark. He squinted his eyes at what looked like scars and etching in the bark - left by a Descendant hand, not nature. “He wasn’t alone.” That time, he knew the voice was not in his head - or at least, he knew it wasn’t just in his head. Each skittering thought in his frayed mind seemed to … echo, disembodied in the air around him. “How - …?” “He wondered how it was possible.” His heart began to quicken, and he glanced around to see an expanse of that nondescript glaze in every direction. And something about the sky felt … too empty. “Rotting mage,” he found himself growling through grit teeth. “What fell magic is this?! You promised me answers about the stars! Speak, before I carve your lying tongue out!” As his words were swallowed by the empty sky, he knew he was being foolish; knew he was lashing out at something he did not understand. “ … and something he did not understand, and something that his own hubris had wrought,” the disembodied voice finished. Ancient steel hissed against leather as Aleksandr ripped Svjetlast free from its sheath, and brandished it against the emptiness. No sooner than he had, though … “ … drew the famed blade of Svjetlast. Would it serve him any better than a blade of unstoried steel, though?” The words sent a chill lancing through him - he had pondered that very question before, but only to himself, in the deepest pockets of his mind. “And the King wondered how the voice could know those unspoken questions, the likes of which no isolated reflection could recover from his unconscious. So much pride, vested in an old piece of metal … What good did it do him, really?” “You do not command me!” he bellowed so hard his throat stung. “The King proclaimed that it did not command him.” His armour clanged as he sank back against the weathered trunk, and the Voice continued to taunt and tease at his own powerlessness. For what felt like an hour, he could not make out the constant tide of words as the Voice teased him with its monotonous drone, and his vision spun. “I have to move,” he breathed eventually. “I have …” “ … to find a way out of here.” “And so the King weeeent …. That way!” The Voice never faded as he trudged through the grass in a random direction. Despite the fact that there was not a soul in sight, he felt like his boots somehow disturbed the glade’s tranquillity. “ … and he found himself stepping carefully.” He took large strides, and took some small measure of comfort for the sound of the rustling grass just to have some other sound besides the Voice. He resolved to ignore the Voice. “He decided he would try to ignore it.” No matter how far he walked, though, Aleksandr seemed to draw no closer to any of the blurry, distant glades. “And he realised there was nothing else but the tree.” The Voice caused him little duress, now - not while he could narrow his focus on finding out wherever he was, much less how to return home. From the tree, he tried walking every direction - there had to be … “ … something, surely.” Gripping Svjetlast for some vain comfort, he stomped one way. “And so he went -” Narrowing his eyes into a determined glare, he pivoted to another direction. “And then he turned -” He quickened his pace as he changed course yet again. “ … that way!” Aleksandr paused, and Svjetlast fell limp in his hands. He had gone in each cardinal direction - if this place even had directions - and now he faced the way from which he had started. Four directions, four times, and the Voice had input for each of them, practically reading each of Aleksandr’s exact thoughts. Then, he realised. “Are you …” “ … me?” It was no trick of the mage that had teleported him to this place - that much was clear, now. He did not understand how, but it was a projection of him - a vocalisation of his own internal monologue and thoughts. Every action, every belief, and every doubt was laid bare and narrated without filter by the Voice. “ … by himself.” Filled an odd amalgamation of fear and unease, he started forward once more, and the Voice narrated every move. Fear and doubt battled in his mind to trigger panic, but he held his resolve as shakily as he could. “Despair would do him no good, he assured himself.” He counted one-hundred paces from the leafless oak, just to see if anything at all changed -- and he realised that only one thing had. The sun seemed to set quicker, he noticed before long He had no idea if that was because time passed differently here … “ … or if his perception of time was simply warped. In any case, the wayward King certainly had no intention of lingering in this place until nightfall.” It was not just the sun that seemed awry, either; despite its angle in the sky, he had cast no shadow, unlike the endless stalks all around him. Growling in frustration as the tall grass forced him to move with slow strides, he instead sliced with Svjetlast, and sliced his path forward with the ancient relic. The sword of the foregone kings of Ruska - since Barbov the Black himself - used like a peasant’s scythe. “It weighed heavily upon Aleksandr how humiliating it looked - the foremost commander of the Grand Covenant, stalwart King of Haense, and victor many battles, reduced to using his ancestral blade to cut grass.” “What, is this some witty lesson in humility?” he snarled impatiently. “If so, you’ve made it clear enough.” “ … and that it was clear enough.” He let the blade fall still as ribbons of slashed grass drifted around him. “Is that all I have to do? Learn humility?!” He spread his arms. “Fine! You’ve done it; lesson learned! I am a humbled King!” “ … he said, but he knew his words held no truth.” He clenched his jaw, “and hissed in agitation. He believed there was a way out of this place - he had no choice but to cling to that faith. But he knew not whether it was a physical or mental exit; for now, all he could do was to march onwards.” Aleksandr had never imagined he would take umbrage with his own thoughts, but the Voice’s narration felt too much like an external command, that was what boiled his blood. As he took to slashing his way through the chaff once more, he swung Svjetlast with increasing aggression. The angle of the setting sun glared into his eyes, and a biting mark of time’s swift passage and his need to return home. His resolve felt more and more frayed as fear of being trapped in this place - condemned to madness by his own thoughts - gnawed at him. It was just as his hopelessness reached a breaking point that he spotted something that, for the first time since he had awoken here, filled him with hope. A clearing, in the middle of the field. He took off at a clumsy run, his heart pounding until he kicked through the last of the tall chaff, and found himself standing on a flat, perfect circle of earth. Not grass - not even dirt. His boots crunched under something rotten and dry, like dead tubers barely poking through black and burnt soil. It was a circle of death, in a field of life. There was no escape, but there was something there in the clearing with him. It took him a moment to realise what that odd, dark thing was. “A shadow,” he breathed. “His shadow,” finished the Voice. Aleksandr was not sure how he knew it was his shadow that stood in the centre of the dead clearing, “but he simply did know. Yes, he had no doubt. It was innate to him, yet also apart from him. Unreconciled.” The dead soil cracked as he advanced at a slow walk, his eyes fixed on the shadow. The shadow stared back eyelessly, but the weight of that stare almost made Aleksandr flinched. As the King moved, so too did his shadow, holding the shade of Svjetlast in its own featureless hand. Around the shadow, the death rippled, and the soil darkened further as even the tubers withered into crisp, burnt flakes. The shadow raised its blade. “I will not die to some other trick,” he called out bitterly. “And I will not …” “... die without fighting.” He closed the distance, and brought Svjetlast down with pure instinct, and no form nor stance. Like parting water, the shadow glided away from the blow … and the next one, and the next one. Aleksandr drew on whatever measure of composure he could, and fell into his sword-forms as he pursued the shadow: the rapid thrust of Sigismund’s Eye, precisely side-stepped; the tripartite-arc of the Huntide fell inches short; and even Bralt’s Folly, a deadly manoeuvre meant for much younger men, somehow never touched the shade. “... never touched the shadow. He wailed his blade around, trying to hit something that could not be struck.” Aleksandr slowed his strikes. The shadow did not strike back; it merely circled around him, as taunting as the Voice. Of course, that was ridiculous, since … “ … that would only mean he was taunting himself. The Voice, like the Shadow, was him.” Aleksandr clenched his jaw again. “If that’s the case …” “ … then why was it apart from him, he wondered? Separated. Denied.” The anger faltered, marred by doubt. He did not need to ask what he denied himself, for … “... he had always been proud. Too proud to kneel;” As the shadow moved, the clearing rippled, and, for a second, the empty realm changed. Instead of the shadow before him, instead Aleksandr saw … “... himself, when he refused to kneel before his allies and the Pontiff to make peace with the Adrians, long before he ever fought Veletz. The senseless act of kneeling; the ceremony of respect. Denied from himself. Unreconciled.” “Too proud to think.” Another ripple, and another distortion. The shadow became Aleksandr again, staring down at a boy named Louis Dresney as he presented a box of two leather balls before the Haeseni Court. His breath almost caught in his throat as he watched the shadow - “watched himself,” - drew Svjetlast, and skewered the boy for his insult. “Blinded by pride, and sparked to senseless rage. Denied from himself. Unreconciled.” “Too proud to see.” The shadow rippled once more. Now, Aleksandr saw himself standing on an icefield, facing down a gaggle of bearded men. “That …” “... was the memory right before the King had found himself in this place.” From this unseen angle, Aleksandr saw the faces of his retinue standing behind him as he faced the bearded mages, “and he wondered why Ser Walter’s hand was glued to the pommel of his blade, ready to draw. He wondered why his wife’s face was etched with such sickly worry at what she was seeing.” Memories of the biting wind whistled around him. “And he wondered why his own eyes seemed glazed; fixed at something unseen, something greater …” He watched himself step towards the tricksome mage. “ … and yet utterly oblivious to what was happening around him.” As the emptiness stabilised, Aleksandr faced the shadow in the dead clearing once more. The shadow did not move, and nor did he. “What in the Skies am I supposed to do?” he growled. “What, he wondered, was he supposed to do?” He tried to summon his anger again, and grip Svjetlast with determination, but it would not come - what the shadow, what the Voice - what the reflection of himself - had shown him clung too sickly, too cloying. His anger melted out of him. His pride - his strength, his weakness - melted. “What am I,” “supposed to do?” The sun had ebbed almost to the horizon, bathing the empty world in deep gold. His voice quivered as he asked, “What am I supposed to do?” “ … he begged, now. He knew there was no foe here to vanquish; no army to crush. The realm truly was empty, for the King was utterly alone within it. The Voice, his voice; the shadow, his own. The memories …” In the blink of an eye, sprung from the shadow, he saw what felt like everything throughout his life. He saw not only those moments of baneful pride from before, but also … something else. He saw his family - Amaya, with her steadfast love, who ran herself ragged as the very hearth that kept Haense warm; Emma, whose innocent spirit vindicated Aleksandr when he felt the burden of rule; and Ivan, in whom he put all his hopes for the future, and in whose name he did everything for that future. He saw his friends and companions - Viktor var Ruthern, who had worked tirelessly to smith arms and mail so that they would triumph in war; Ser Walter and Ser Gawyn, knights who pledged to him their blades, and their lives; his allied sovereigns, John, Sybille, Catherine, Sigrun, who had all joined their vision together to beckon Aevos into a new age. “ … his regrets,” the Voice finished. For all the love of his family, it had never given pause to his pride - that was the exact reason he had ended up here, fooled by some wizard because he had been so confident he could never be so duped. The same was true for his friends, his allies, his people … “The King looked back towards the lone oak, not far back in the field.” As the sun began to set, he slowly started back towards that tree, and let Svjetlast’s tip loosely scrape against the ground in his limp grip. The sun’s glow grew deeper, from gold to orange, as the shadows fell sharply across the field. His shadow from the dead clearing followed behind him, still. Something - something important - gnawed faintly at his mind as he kicked through the chaff towards the tree, his shoulders slouched. He knew what he had to do. “He just wished to watch the sunset a little before he did it.” He was only mildly surprised when, as he neared, he saw that the oak’s branches were no longer bare. A leafy canopy of brilliant green had sprouted, through which the setting sun’s light fractured in orange cracks. The bark, too, was a lively brown and traced with moss and lichen, but those man-made markings Aleksandr had spotted when he first awoke remained. Aleksandr looked down to Svjetlast, and then raised it. Clumsily, he carved ‘ALEKS’ into the bark in blocky letters to join the markings of those who came before, and idly wondered what fate they had met. “ … and what fate he himself would meet.” As he turned back to face his shadow - which remained some ten feet away - the sunset light had almost faded. The sky was a darkening blue, touched only by the last of the orange light to the west, and he was mildly surprised to see distant constellations sparkle in a sky that was no longer empty. A faint wind blew, stirring the grass around him and the shadow. “He could not kill his shadow, for it was a part of him.” Aleksandr closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath. “It was those parts he had sealed away, and refused to acknowledge.” He slowly opened his eyes, and gripped Svjetlast tightly. “It was cast by him, though he denied it until now.” The last of the sun’s light glimmered on the fabled blade’s edge as he raised it. “And so, he knew how it could be vanquished.” He pressed the blade’s tip against his breastplate, and pushed. No sooner had the point began to press into him did Aleksandr’s eyes pop with the sound of howling winds, and his flesh jolted with biting cold – the warmth of a campfire his lonely company. With a clatter, he dropped Svjetlast to the frozen earth, and staggered back as the gale tugged at his cloak and whipped his hair. It was familiar, alas, “This is …'' He began, and paused. No Voice spoke his thoughts aloud. “ … where I vanished.” The sound of hooves nearing stampeded in the distance, he heard orders shout aloud and the clambering of armour and mail at that same length. “YOUR MAJESTY . . ?” Called one, the voice carrying over the lake and resounding through the valley. He was back, his sword at his feet, and … he blinked, looking around. Tucked under his left arm was some kind of … book? He remembered feeling it within his grasp before, right before he had been transported to that alternate, empty realm. It had been in the hand of the mage, but … why did he have it now? Is this what …? He let the thought trail off. There would be time for answers later. He knew not how long he had been gone, and he knew his absence would have only sewn chaos. “IT’S HIM!'' – “BY GODANS GRACE HE HAS RETURNED!” – “SEEK OUT THE PRINZEN AND KOENAS.” – “SEND WORD HE APPEARS WELL.” Those calls of nearly a dozen knights and soldiers in disarray brought the King to sweep and spin. He must compose himself. He bent down, and picked up Svjetlast. He did not bother to wipe the snow and dirt off it as he slid it back into its sheath. After all, it was just a sword.

Aleksandr roamed a plane of grass and wheat; lost. He'd thought that all would be well upon his return - if he could. Alas, time would prove to that King the truth of the matter: this would not be the case.

THE WINBURGH PROCLAMATION Agreed on this 13TH of OWYN’S FLAME of 1962 between the GRAND COVENANT and the DUCHY OF ADRIA LET ALL AEVOS HEAR AND TAKE HEED, For upon this day, the Grand Covenant and the Duchy of Adria, as both predecessor and successor state to the League of Veletz, have warred for ten terrible winters. This was not a campaign lightly fought, for, as recognised by the Duke of Adria in his Provisions of Ducal Austerity, the nations of the Grand Covenant were compelled to arms by numerous violations of their sovereignty and security, from the regicide of the late King Edmund of Aaun, to the wanton brigandry across Covenant lands. Tens of thousands of soldiers have marched across the Heartlands; innumerable farmsteads have been torched, and countless lives slain in the defence of home and honour alike. From its triumphs at the war’s maiden battle at Breakwater, to its death throe at Euler’s Steppe, the forces of the Grand Covenant have decisively defeated the Veletzian-Adrian hosts. Now, as winter befalls Aevos for a tenth time since this war was born in the bloodied streets of Whitespire, both the Grand Covenant and the Duchy of Adria accept that the war is won in favour of the Grand Covenant, and that there exists no reason for further battles nor bloodshed. On this day, denizens of all Aevos rejoice; for the War in the Midlands is ended. I. Surrender of the Duchy of Adria I.I. The Duke and Siege Tribunal of the Duchy of Adria, as successor-state to the League of Veletz, accept responsibility for the following acts of aggression committed against the Grand Covenant: - Conspiracy with the vanquished House of Stassion for the murder of King Edmund of Aaun whilst allied to the League of Veletz, - Kidnapping Queen Sybille of Balian without provocation whilst she was heavy with child, - Failure to comply with the provisions of the 23rd Golden Bull of Jorenus issued by High Pontiff Sixtus VI with a view to resolving tensions, - Armed attack on the Haeseni capital of Valdev after the Brotherhood of Saint Karl provided protection to High Pontiff Sixtus VI during his visit to the League of Veletz to resolve tensions, - Forcing Queen Renilde of the Petra to withdraw her Commonwealth from the Canonist League under wrongful duress, - Armed attack on the Petrine capital of Vallagne due to Queen Catherine’s diplomatic relations with the Kingdom of Haense, - Armed attack on the Holy See and the forceful kidnapping of High Pontiff Sixtus VI, - Burning of the Abbey of St. Edmund in the Commonwealth of the Petra, - Destruction of the Cloudbreaker artefact, and, - The enfeoffment and hosting of bands of marauders, whose intention to raid and harass the realms of man was long-since known to the Duchy of Adria and the League of Veletz. I.II. As atonement for these crimes and following its military defeats at Breakwater, Brasca, Hippo’s Gorge, Stassion, Drusco, and Euler’s Steppe, the Duchy of Adria hereby surrenders to the Grand Covenant pursuant to the terms agreed. I.III. Consequently, all hostilities against the Duchy of Adria, its ensuing diaspora, and its ally the Iron Horde are hereby ended. II. Dissolution of the Duchy of Adria II.I. The Duchy of Adria - as a sovereign state - shall, upon execution of all terms, be dissolved in its entirety. II.II. The titular title of ‘Adria’ shall henceforth enter abeyance. II.III. The inheritance of the ducal title of ‘Adria’, as a title of immense cultural and historical importance, shall be determined by way of traditional Dumapalooza, the terms of which shall be determined by way of subsequent decree by the Holy Mother Church within three years. III. The Middelan Diaspora III.I. The present free citizenry of the Duchy of Adria shall, upon the Duchy’s dissolution, be termed as ‘the Middelan Diaspora’ for the purposes of this surrender. III.II. The Middelan Diaspora shall be free to seek sanctuary within the lands of any present or former Canonist sovereign state of the Grand Covenant, provided that they do not: - Lay claim or attempt to reconstitute the League of Veletz, nor, - Host any of the wanted persons pursuant to condition III.III or any of the exiled bloodlines nor the Ferrymen marauders pursuant to conditions IV. III.III. The Middelan Diaspora, including the Duke Markus Sarkozic and his Siege Tribunal, shall be free from harassment or persecution, with the exception of the following who shall be recognized as wanted and sought for persecution: - Heinrik Sarkozic, former Duke of Adria, for his treason against the Kingdom of Aaun and his excommunication by High Pontiff Sixtus V, and, - Gaspard van Aert, former Captain-General of the League of Veletz, for initiating the sovereign violations committed against the Grand Covenant under the treaties first article and his excommunication by High Pontiff Sixtus VI. IV. Adrian Titles & Lineages IV.I. Duke Markus Sarkozic’s title of the County of Aldersberg shall be retained, to be held and maintained by him and to be inherited by his kin. IV.II. All other titles of peerage within the Duchy of Adria, whether landed or otherwise, shall be distributed as follows: - The Barony of Brasca shall be assumed by Queen Catherine of the Commonwealth of the Petra, - The Duchy of Blackvale shall be dissolved entirely, and, - All other titled peers are relieved of their holdings, but are free to petition any sovereign state for re-enfeoffment. IV.III. The following lineages shall suffer the following consequence per the wars conclusion: - The lineage of the House van Aert, with exception for the Queen of Aaun, is barred from ennoblement, and any other van Aerts may reject their name and legacy to live lowborn lives, and, - The lineage of the House of Stassion, be exiled from the realms of man, and offered no land nor sanctuary forevermore, - The lineage of the House of Mareno, save for those who swear fealty to Basiyl Mareno, be exiled from the realms of man, and offered no land nor sanctuary forevermore. IV.IV. The marauders known as the Ferrymen shall be exiled from the realms of man, and no nation shall permit: - The erection or display of paintings, statues, nor artwork portraying the Ferrymen, - The wearing of uniforms resembling the Ferrymen, namely a teal bandana, nor, - The public praise nor commemoration of the Ferrymen. V. Adrian Territories V.I. All lands still retained by the Duchy of Adria shall be surrendered in full to the Grand Covenant. V.II. The Adrian territories annexed by the Grand Covenant throughout the course of war shall be distributed as follows: - The Kingdom of Haense shall annex the territories of the West. - The Kingdom of Aaun shall annex the former lands claimed by the Principality of Stassion. - The Commonwealth of Petra shall annex the former lands belonging to Drusco. V.III. The city of Winburgh shall be peacefully evacuated over the course of two years with Covenant oversight, then demolished, and replaced with a monument to wars past and present for the peace and commemoration of all mankind. V.IV. The ‘Winburgh Memorial’ shall be claimed by no nation. VI. Reparations VI.I. By way of reparations for the punitive military campaign propagated by the Grand Covenant, all remaining assets of the Duchy of Adria are to be seized, furthermore, Lord Markus Sarkozic as the leader of the Middelan diaspora shall inherit reparations of the Horde, these shall be paid through: - The national treasury, - All funds retained and belonging to the Duchy of Adria and, - All caches of weapons and armaments. VI.II. These assets shall be distributed to members of the Grand Covenant which are not annexing Adrian territories pursuant to Article V, namely the Grand Kingdom of Urguan, the Kingdom of Balian, and the Protectorate of Hyspia, in respective order of priority. VI.III. In lieu of territorial reparations, the Kingdom of Haense, the United Kingdom of Aaun, and the Commonwealth of the Petra undertake to furnish a further total of 5,000 mina to mitigate the campaign costs incurred by the Grand Kingdom of Urguan, the Kingdom of Balian, and the Protectorate of Hyspia. VII. Future of Man VII.I. The Grand Covenant and all its military and political obligations shall remain indefinitely intact. VII.II. The crowned sovereigns of the Grand Covenant shall attend a conference held within the following two years with a view to determine the course of mankind and to prevent the outbreak of future wars and conflicts between Descendants. Peace upon the victor and the vanquished alike. With the conclusion of this monumental war, let all warriors sheath their swords and let ashen fields be tilled. The weaving of the Tapestry of Man is often greased by blood, and thus let the end of hostilities between the Grand Covenant and the Duke of Adria serve as the cornerstone from which the future of man -- the peace of man -- is charted. The war is ended. T H I S I S O U R P E A C E SIGNED BY, HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, Aleksandr II, by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Hochmeister of the Order of the Crow, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Slesvik, Solvesborg, and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia, and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald, and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Siegrad, Torun, Toruv, Valdev, and Werdenburg, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Astfield, Buck, Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, and Rytsburg, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector and Lord of the Highlanders, etcetera. HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, John Alexander, by the Grace of GOD, King of Aaun, Prince of Alstion, Duke of Vienne, the Lowlands, Balemena and Corazon, Count of Whitespire, Enswerp and Florentine, Baron of Blanchet, Protector of the Realm HER ROYAL MAJESTY, Sybille I, by the Grace of GOD, Queen of Balian, Princess of Providence, Duchess of Helena and Lorraine, Countess of Pompourelia, Viscountess of Eflen and Anatis, Baroness of Renzfield, Brucca, Valens, Malenos and Ciavola, Lady of Portoregne, Atrus and Monterosa, Warden of La Costa Rubinissima, Protector of the Heartlanders and the South, etcetera. HER MAJESTY, Catherine I, Queen of the Commonwealth of the Petra, Marquise de Val d’Estenou, Countess of Temesch and Moere, Baroness of Garmont, Valfleur, Vallagne-en-Petra, Artois, and of the Phoenixspire, Protector of the Meadows HIS RADIANCE, Kello the Lime, Grand Poobah of Serrimor HIS HIGHNESS, Cesar II de Pelear, Viceroy of Hyspia, Duke of Pacazu, Baron of Arenisca and Del’mar, Lord of La Dorada, Lord of Niseep, Gereon's Hold, and Ciudad de Plata, Protector of the Hyspian People, Patriarch of House de Pelear. HIS GRANDNESS, Sigrun Stonehammer, Grand King of Urguan, Clan Father of The Stonehammers, Priest of Dungrimm, Hero of Dungrimm, Three-Time Grand Champion of Urguan. HIS GRACE, Markus Marie Sarkozic, Duke of Adria, Count of Aldersberg

MARCHING ORDERS: OPERATION RETRIBUTION IUDICIUM ACCEDIT Issued by the THE GRAND COVENANT on this 18th of The Sun’s Smile, 165 S.A. MISSION TITLE: OPERATION RETRIBUTION OBJECTIVE: COMPLETE ANNEXATION OF THE MIDLANDS REGION MOBILISATION DATE: 24TH OF OWYN’S FLAME COMMENCEMENT DATE: 18TH OF GODFREY’S TRIUMPH PARTICULARS: OPERATION RETRIBUTION encompasses the three OPERATIONS in succession after OPERATION TALONIS. These OPERATIONS are: OPERATION RISING TIDE, OPERATION SETTING SUN, and finally OPERATION DAWN COMES. OPERATION TALIONIS was successful, the NORTHERN HINTERLANDS have been wrested from ADRIAN control. THE COVENANT managed to charge the ADRIAN lines- causing a full rout of ENEMY forces within a few minutes of combat. On the 24TH of OWYN’S FLAME, all COVENANT forces shall march westward to RALLY POINT BRASCA. From there they shall set up camp and prepare to re-engage in a battle at the WESTMARK previously lost. OPERATION RISING TIDE requires the capturing of the lands in the WESTMARK. Expect heavy cavalry presence from ADRIA and the IRON HORDE. KING ALEKSANDR shall assume full authoritative command of the entire COVENANT forces (taskforce “MITHRIL”), composed of the armies of HAENSE, AAUN, HYSPIA, BALIAN, PETRA and URGUAN. CAPTAIN BANJO shall lead his elite force (taskforce “YACHT”) to [INFORMATION REDACTED]. COVENANT war statisticians determine RISING TIDE to have a 99.90 percent chance of SUCCESS. Should RISING TIDE be a SUCCESS, the COVENANT army shall move back through the NORTHERN HINTERLANDS, to besiege the former land of ADRIA in OPERATION SETTING SUN. In ADRIA, KING ALEKSANDR shall take control of MITHRIL, with Patriarch Josef being placed in command of COVENANT artillery batteries (taskforce “NORTHERN THUNDER”). Following heavy siege of the KEEP at ADRIA, COVENANT forces under command of ALEKSANDR will storm the CASTLE, taking control of it from the ADRIANS. Following OPERATION SETTING SUN, COVENANT forces shall march NORTH-WEST, approaching the CAPITAL of WINBURGH from the NORTH. Once COVENANT forces have arrived, OPERATION DAWN COMES shall commence. Once again taskforce NORTHERN THUNDER shall render any defences at WINBURGH useless- before the main COVENANT taskforce of MITHRIL breaches the walls of the city under command of KING ALEKSANDR and PERCY DE LYONS, with CAPTAIN BANJO and taskforce YACHT being delegated the capturing of the KEEP. FOLLOWING UNBEATEN VICTORIES, THE COVENANT SHALL TAKE FULL CONTROL OVER THE MIDLANDS REGION THROUGH RIGHTEOUS CONQUEST. NO FURTHER MARCHING ORDERS WILL THEREAFTER BE GIVEN. WAR IS WON. THIS IS OUR PEACE. DAWN COMES. WARCLAIM

PRIDE OVER PEACE: ON THE PEACE SUMMIT OF 164 SA I U D I C E M A C C E D I T Issued by the GRAND COVENANT In the year of 164 SA People of Middelan, It is with regret that the War for the Heartlands is fated to continue. Know that upon this day, the Duke of Adria convened with the sovereigns of the Grand Covenant within the Haeseni capital of Valdev in order to determine whether the war could be ended in a manner both peaceful and sustainable for the future peace of Man. This did not transpire. The Grand Covenant has affirmed at length that it does not seek the arbitrary annihilation of all Veletzian nor Adrian citizens. Your death is not desired. Your death is not necessary. The Covenant began its march in order to exact judgement against the state that rules over you, and that which has led you astray down this path of folly and tragedy. This war began because of grievous crimes committed by your lieges -- this much is confessed by the Duke of Adria in his Provisions of Ducal Austerity. However, by way of clarity, we recount them once more as follows: 1. That the League of Veletz wilfully conspired with the vanquished House of Stassion to murder King Edmund of Aaun - God keep his soul - whilst the United Kingdom of Aaun stood as allies to the League; 2. That the League of Veletz, without provocation, kidnapped Queen Sybille of Balian prior to her coronation and whilst she was heavy with child; 3. That the League of Veletz compelled Queen Renilde of Petra to withdraw her Commonwealth from the Cannonist League under duress whilst the Commonwealth of Petra stood as allies to the League; 4. That the League of Veletz invaded the city of Vallagne with a view to capturing the young Queen Catherine of Petra due to her diplomatic relations with the Kingdom of Haense; 5. That the League of Veletz ignored the commandments of High Pontiff Sixtus VI in the 23rd Golden Bull of Jorenus; 6. That the League of Veletz desecrated holy ground, namely through the burning of a consecrated church in the Commonwealth of the Petra; 7. That the League of Veletz conducted armed attacks upon holy ground and captured High Pontiff Sixtus VI; 8. That the League of Veletz gave land and sanctuary to marauders who regularly pillaged the lands of the Grand Covenant long before its formation, namely the Ferrymen led by the Elf Vyllaenen. That you no longer call yourself the ‘League of Veletz’ means nothing. As Adria preceded Veletz, so too did it succeed it. The Duke of Adria is not a redeeming rogue who defied the callous acts propagated by the Veletz before or during this war - the banners of Adria stood firmly astride their liege when all the crimes enumerated above were committed. It matters not if you did protest these acts, for just as a bandit might question the conduct of his crew, his own guilt is not mitigated if he still assists in cutting a wayfarer’s throat. These crimes are not mere stains left by your predecessor; they are scars which you helped carve. They are scars which many of your Siege Tribunal, chief among your Tribune of Civic Defense, helped carve. Thus, ask yourself - how could the Covenant ever accept that you are not one and the same as the League of Veletz? The question before the Grand Covenant today was whether the Duke of Adria and his Siege Tribunal could be trusted to aid in ensuring that the Middelan institutions never again spawned a conflict of this magnitude. Based on all described above, the Duke failed in this task. The only solution apparent to the Grand Covenant, therefore, was the dissolution of the Adrian-Veletzian state. The Duke of Adria was compelled to see reason and to do so bloodlessly, so that you - the people of Middelan - would be free from war to resettle wherever on the continent you wished, with the Kingdom of Numendil namely being a loud voice in offering hospitality and swearing upon themselves their goal of fair treatment - as all Covenant nations vowed. This was refused - the sovereignty, legacy, and name of an Adrian-Veletzian state took priority over all else such as the lives of Middelan people for the Duke of Adria. He has hence decided to value his pride over peace. Having failed to demonstrate why he, as one complicit to all crimes of Veletz, could be trusted to maintain the peace of Man, he affirmed that there could be no independent and sovereign Veletzian-Adrian state tolerated. He has therefore condemned the War to continue. We issue this missive not only as memorandum of the ill-fated peace convention held on this day, but as warning to the people of Middelan: Your deaths are not sought, nor are they necessary. Flee the crumbling remains of your liege’s folley, and be granted amnesty in any Covenant lands. From the Duke of Adria, to the Captain-General of Veletz, to the Duke of Adria once more; your lords have led you down this path, and brought you only ruin. They do not deserve your blades. Winburgh is fated to fall. B U T Y O U A R E N O T

SHOULD DAWN COME: ON THE RECONCILIATION OF ADRIA I U D I C E M A C C E D I T Issued by the GRAND COVENANT In the year of 164 SA Duke of Adria, We congratulate you on your ascension as sovereign of the remaining midlands, and on your dissolution of the League of Veletz. While the Covenant readily welcomes a world in which a polity that has wrought war and tyranny upon Aevos is a thing of the past, it is prudent - should you aspire to walk the path of peace - that the nature of our cause is understood. For while you have proclaimed we are no longer your enemy, you remain ours. This is not because of your blood, your House, nor your heritage. No -- it is because of your deeds. For you, Duke of Adria, have stood as our enemy upon the shattered bulwarks of Breakwater; your standard flew from the ruined ramparts of Brasca; your kinsfolk triumphed upon the field of Westmark, and perished on the sands of Hippo’s Gorge; you donned your colours amidst the rain of stone at Stassion; and your blade was raised on the burnt hoardings of Drusco. The sovereign realms of the Covenant collectively bore their arms to avenge grievous acts of war committed against them. We therefore beseech you, Duke of Adria, to realise that your lone words do not wash your hands of the blood of martyred Edmund; your words do not hide the steel brandished against the Queens of Petra; your words do not undo the kidnapping of the Queen of Balian whilst she was a princess heavy with child; your words do not expunge the Darkspawn harboured within your halls; and your words do not douse the flames of the marauders sicced upon our lands long before this war erupted. Your reconciliation was pleaded not in the wake of any of these atrocities, but in the face of absolute defeat. That you held firm to the course charted by your disparaged Captain-General is the very definition of conscious complicity, as is true for those who now compose your tribunal. Disavow yourself of the notion that the destruction of Veletz, Adria – or whichever name you abide by is sought for destruction’s sake. The Covenant marches for two reasons: The first of these is to render judgement unto those who propagated these crimes, which is measured only by justice -- a murderer on the gallows cannot undo his crimes through his lone plea. The second of these is to dismantle the midlander institutions from which these acts of war were birthed for the peace of all mankind, an objective that the Covenant was forced to pursue through force after the demands of His Holiness were unabashedly rejected prior to the outbreak of war. If it is peace you seek, it will not be brought by crocodile tears. You shall be permitted to come before us to seek a resolution, but know that the forces of the Covenant will not tarry in their march to see this war through should your words prove to be but wind. Two months prior to the coming battle, and the worth of your words shall be measured. By your will or ours, judgement still comes.

The King of Haense twiddled his thumbs. Then, he began to pen a missive.

Ve Jurasz Stalka THE STALLION DECREE KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM Issued by the CROWN on this 10th day of Grona ag Droba of 513 E.S. VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG EDLERVIK, Throughout the esteemed reign of my ancestors, the House of Bihar has been blessed with many virtuous servants in their eternal quest to champion the Highland peoples. Foremostly among these servants in recent history are the Great Houses of Baruch of Valwyck, who have stood as the foremost governors and legislators of the realm for centuries; Ruthern of Vidaus, who have stood as the unflinching bulwark of Haense since they brought the Kongzem back from the grave in the miraculous Greyspine Rebellion; and Barclay of Reinmar, who, despite the relative youth of their bloodline, have defined their military and tactical prowess from the fires of the War of the Two Emperors to the cementation of the Kongzem as humanity’s foremost power in the Successors’ War. It is the Great House of Barclay who shall form the subject of this Decree. Long have the Reinmaren been scattered across the realms of Almaris and Aevos, serving various lieges under various names, namely the Sutican dynasty, the Savoyard bannermen of Freimark, and the Aaunish bulwark of Minitz. The Duke of Reinmar has approached the Crown with a request; To gather these disparate tribes under a single banner, and to live as one behind their own walls. It is as the Protector and Lord of the Highlanders that I grant the Reinmaren their wish. The Ducal House of Barclay shall, at the conclusion of the Covenant War, be released from their oaths of fealty to the Dual-Kingdom. The Reinmaren are permitted at once to join their brethren in the Principality of Minitz in preparation for their exodus into the hinterland. All titles currently held by the Ducal House of Barclay shall be gifted to the Duke of Reinmar upon the signing of a final agreement between the Reinmaren and the Crown of Hanseti-Ruska. Any lands associated with said titles shall be forfeit. DLUM EDLERVIKI, DRUZ ZVAERDI, HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, Aleksandr II, by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Hochmeister of the Order of the Crow, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Slesvik, Solvesborg, and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia, and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald, and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Siegrad, Torun, Toruv, Valdev, and Werdenburg, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Astfield, Buck, Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, and Rytsburg, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector and Lord of the Highlanders, etcetera. HIS PRINCELY GRACE, Alfred Konstanz Barclay, ESTSR, ROKSG, Prince of Sutica, Duke of Reinmar, Count of Freimark and Kretzen, Baron of Madvon and Freising, Lord of Sankt Johannsburg, Wilheburg, Erwinsburg, Freiburg and Rozenfeld, High Chief of the Reinmaren

Even the Haenser King whistled the tune.

Amidst the debris of yet another successful conquest, there stood alone a man, his figure a striking presence against the backdrop of the conquered castle; there stood Aleksandr II of Haense. He was now an aged King – practically the product of war. The Haeseni King’s armor bore the marks of countless battles past and battles new; Godan, he was an ugly sight. He set eyes upon the castle's ruins, gone silent amidst somber reflection. His thoughts drifted to the echoes of the past, to the voices of the historians and educators who taught him the tales of his forebears who had clashed with the ancestors of Prince Richard I and Frederick II. Now, finally, they were vanquished and erased from the continent. Emperors to naught. The King was pleased. Despite the passage of generations, the struggles of man endured. “Victory,” he mused. How it came at a great cost, tempered by the bitterness of loss. How the world was an ever-turning wheel, and Aleksandr was but one of its countless spokes. He grew old and tired, yet duty called, as it always did. He stood as the protector of his realm, the guardian of his people, commander of the Covenant. His duty was to ensure the safety and prosperity of his lands and those beyond, regardless of the cost – for he would pay it. The fourth victory now, and while the thrill of battle may have faded, the weight of responsibility had only grown heavier. With a deep breath, he straightened his posture, longing upon the horizon that rose. The cries of his victorious allies echoed around him – TANDEM TRIUMPHANS – a chorus of triumph that reverberated through the land. The legacy of his family had been upheld once more, and the Heartlands given room to endure. The King was pleased. And so Aleksandr II plucked Svjetlast from the ground, and finally, as those cries waned, the King shouted late: “ T A N D E M T R I U M P H A N S. ”

Leonidas placed his hands into the shape of a triangle, poking his eyes through the center of it as he looked upon the ruins of the Stassionite palace. This was not a war he participated in, yet an active observer the Ferryman-Mareno was; and truly did it break his heart. "Another day . . . another victory for the OG's I suppose."

T H E C O V E N A N T ' S S C O U T (you) You’re a loyal soldier of the Kingdom of Haense, an Armsman within the Brotherhood of Saint Karl; yet in recent years, you serve primarily the vanguard of the Covenant cavalry forces. Skilled atop a horse, you are; you’ve bested your comrades in nearly every joust the recent years have had to offer, and even in the most recent battle of Hippo’s Gorge you could’ve sworn you nipped the Captain-General of Veletz’s ass with your lance. The King (of haense) of Haense, as noble and honorable as he is, seems to favor you, and so he sets you upon a quest: “Brother! Scout the Marcherlands which we shall siege in the coming days. Inform us of any changes to the Stassionite-palace and defenses they have possibly prepared.” “My Lord! My King! My Liege! I shall do as vy beckon me to, I am your loyal soldier! Right away m’lord!” You reply, eager. A King (of haense) as royal as He has set you on this legendary quest, your renown has finally begun to pay off. You set upon your childhood-steed, Bruciefella, he has been with you since you were a youth, and other than a handful of arrow wounds from foolish Orcs with large hands and human sized bows; he has survived just as well as you. You leave the Kingdom’s walls, an adventure ahead… You embark towards the Marcherlands of Stassion . . . Down the winding King’s road . . . Passing the torrenting winds of the River Petra . . . A final rest taken at the von Theonus’ castle . . . “This is where we shall fight then.” You presume by the general location, taking these few moments to note the surroundings. Regardless, you mount Bruciefella once more, and finally arrive in the Stassionite lands. (Your view of the Stassion Palace.) “They are as much of fools as my King says them to be! A lord who presides over lands as vast as these and his residence is a mere palace? Where is his castle? Where are his parapets? No cannons or ballistas hang from his walls?” You erupt into a fit of laughter, alas, this siege shall be as easy as you predict! A foolish Lord, the Lord of Stassion is, for he is the Prince of a Petty Palace. With your duty complete, your quest quested, and your heart thirsty for the Siege that shall come, you return atop your steed and begin back toward the Kingdom of Haense . . . “My Lord! My King! My Liege! I bring vy great news! News of fortune which shall please yours and the Covenant leader’s ears!” You call to your King (of haense), hastily sending Bruciefella off and approaching the King (of haense) in the square. “Back so soon?” Aleksandr II (king of haense btw), jests. Of course, you think, a soldier as keen and swift as you would’ve wasted not a second. “Aye my King! The Stassion’s are as foolish as vy thought! The lands are simple – a palace without defenses, without a wall to encapsulate his stead – only a single tower for their petty archers to shoot arrows from!” You feel overjoyed. “Just as I had thought.” The King (of haense) nodded. Of course they would not be ready for a siege. The Realms of Man had been massaged by the lack of cruelty the ages had to offer. Where King’s (of haense) feared declaring war, and so Lord’s need not prepare their homesteads for the worst. “Vy did well – well, vy did as I had expected.” With a pleased smile, the King (of haense) handed you a few Brotherhood of Saint Karl tokens; you almost thought for a second that a comment he made a fine promotion was to be your way. T H E D A Y O F T H E S I E G E A R R I V E S. You awake in your home within Waltonburg. The day was a mild cold, less bitter than those of previous sieges – perhaps good fortune truly was upon you. Your wife had already gotten up for the morning and allowed you to sleep longer, she knew the toll and risk each siege brought. If this was to be your last day – you would at least be well rested. You gather your belongings, drawing yourself out of bed as the sun breaks over the horizon. A golden glow casts itself through the window as you reach to your left and grab the hilt of your trusty Daemonsteel longsword. It was another day of killing Veletzers in the name of your King (of haense). Simply another year, another battle. Your mind swells giddy as you think of the peasant-like palace you witnessed a few days past- and you get up, bid farewell to your beautiful wife and child and exit the door, armour clad and sword in hand. You march beyond the walls, towards the Marchlands of Stassion… You march down the winding King’s road . . . You march past the torrenting winds of the River Petra . . . You stop marching, a final rest taken at the von Theonus’ castle . . . Y O U M A R C H O V E R T H E H I L L . . . “W H A T T H E F U C K .”

The King of Haense marched North, returning to his homeland with those of his closest retinue. "A mild disturbance that fight was, don't you think?" Spoke Aleksandr, riding atop his leal stead who lived another day. . . . "Don't you think?" Asked the King again. Yet he heard no response, the King turned to see where his retinue had gone... ...And in song, they had erupted ♫ "Sir Gaspard and all his cronies couldn’t even defeat the unarmored ponies!" ♫ ♫ "Sir Gaspard and all his cronies couldn’t even defeat the unarmored ponies." ♫ ♫ "Sir Gaspard and all his cronies couldn’t even defeat the unarmored ponies!" ♫

Marius Audemar, Prince of renown, perhaps would have considered his attendance. Yet this Prince is only fond of tea parties, and due to the lack of tea parties mentioned in this missive, decides otherwise. Alas, he shall not attend. Oh does the Prince wonder why this is.

The King of Haense -- Aleksandr II -- he sat somewhere within the complexity of his castle. Speaking simply to the air to the thin air among him, and upward into the night sky: "Among the stars we shall meet."

THE BATTLE OF BREAKWATER KEEP A hawk drifted through the morning sky. Its wings spread, it cawed as the rolling green plains of the Aevosian Heartlands spread out beneath it. Over pastures and farms did the hawk fly, casting its soaring shadow on the quilted landscape of budding amber grain, as it flew northward beneath sparse clouds. It rode the wind northward, leaving behind the sparse smattering of keeps, farmhouses, and manors in the vicinity of Winhburg, and it crested the hills in the northern Heartlands. On the other side of those hills, the teal towers of Breakwater Keep, citadel of the infamous Ferrymen reavers, cast long shadows in the morning sun. But those shadows did not fall across the usual barren stretch of fields surrounding the keep. Instead, the sun and shadows fell upon an army. Atop the ramparts of Breakwater, banners streamed. The star of Celia’nor flew alongside the burgundy bull of Veletz above the forces of the keep’s defenders, wearing steely determination beneath their helmets and cowls, while the black-red scorpion standard of the Iron Horde was draped over the stakewalls that ringed around the keep. Across an expanse of trodden and churned mud rose a bulwark of earth and wood, and it was there that the Covenant banners billowed in all their dozens of colours. There was the purple-blue-and-white of Aaun, standard of the 2,000 soldiers marshalled by the freshly-crowned King John Alstion; the regal crimson of the 3,000 Petrine warriors, there alongside their child monarch Queen Catherine; the Ashtree of Norland, carried by its 2,000 warriors from the far north, who made the long march for a righteous battle; the four-pointed white star of the 1,200 of Numendil, rallied to the Covenant cause in the name of justice and piety; the purple-white of King Adrian’s 3,400 of the Balian Armada, who were first to take up arms in defence of their honour; the orange-grey of the 2,000 Urguani legionnaires, ever eager for battle; the rich blue of Cesar II’s 2,000 Hyspian skirmishers; and 7,400 seasoned Haeseni soldiers, many of them veterans of the Adrian War, under the direct command of King Aleksandr, the Covenant’s commanding general. As the morning sun slowly climbed above the horizon, the grass sparkled with the night’s dew, and the light flashed against the thousand of spear points jutting above the stakewood walls of the Covenant’s siege encampment. Instead of the usual calm sigh of the morning wind as it blew through the trees, Breakwater was a ceaseless torrent of noise; countless boots stomped against the ground as the Covenant arrayed their colossal force of 20,000 soldiers and officers’ voices echoed in the air. “SQUAD FOUR AND SEVEN, FALL IN!” “PIKEMEN, TO ME!” “TWO MORE ON THE ARTILLERY!” As that hawk glided above it all, the Covenant forces bustled like ants. 20,000 - one of the greatest armies marshalled in all Descendant history - formed up in their resplendent mail and national banners, their eyes and hearts fixed on Breakwater and its garrison of 15,000 Men, Orcs, and Elves. As the hawk continued on its flight, a lone feather drifted down, stirring on the wind as it fell to the Covenant camp. As it made its slow descent, so too did time seem to lull as the Covenant forces awaited the order. In that calm before the storm, seconds seemed to stretch into hours and the enormity of what awaited the army weighed on them. Marius Lovetts of Valfleur, a Petrine armsman, held his longbow with a tremble. He had hunted deer before, but never had he drawn his bow against another person. But, as he stared across the palisades to the walls of Breakwater, he searched for his resolve. He pictured the face of his beloved little sister back in Valfleur, who was the same age as their Queen, Catherine -- the same Queen who had almost been cut to ribbons by Veletzians who had stormed the city after the Queen failed to do their bidding. “You bastards,” he hissed under his teeth, his breath steaming in the morning cold. As his hand reached into his quiver, it did not quiver with fear -- it trembled with rage. “I’ll never let any of you threaten a child again!” Boon of Merryweather ran an oiled cloth along his sword as orders were shouted all around him. He stared into the polished reflection of his blade, and his scarred and eyepatched expression stared back. He had been among one of the guards in Aaun when the Stassion rebels had murdered King Edmund - the king they had been sworn to obey, and the king he had been sworn to protect. Boon felt no fear as he took to a knee in the middle of the camp, and bowed his head as he gripped the blade. “I failed you then, King Edmund,” he whispered to the steel, “but I will not fail you today.” Farald; Brotherhood of Saint Karl, he stepped back and dusted off his hands once the trebuchet had been calibrated. Unlike many of the greener soldiers around him, he wore an ecstatic smile, for today would finally be his chance to follow in the footsteps of his forefathers. His father had fought the Adrians after their rebellion on Almaris; his grandmother had served under King Karl III when he laid waste to the Kingdom of Oren; and his great-grandfather had been one of the honoured standard-bearers for the Brotherhood at the fabled Battle of Eastfleet. Farald grinned so broadly it began to hurt; for him, killing Van Aerts was simply the family business. The descent of the hawk’s father finally ended as it fell upon the helmet of a Norlandic warrior, and with it ended the calm. A warhorn peeled across Breakwater as the signal was given, and the battle began. The air erupted with roars of ‘Krusae Zwy Kongzem’, ‘Tandem Triumphans’, ‘In Hoc Signo Vinces’, and dozens of other battle-cries as the Covenant initiated their attack. It began to rain, but it was not the soft rainfall of early summer: rock and fire rained down upon Breakwater as the Covenant siege engines sang under the command of Patriarch Josef, Dante DeNurem, and High Keeper Ellenore. The white stone was stained black with soot as the cannons rocketed, and the teal tiles of towers splintered across the keep as trebuchets hit their mark. While the united Covenant siege engineers began their bombardment, the rest of the Covenant forces stood in airtight formations; King Aleksandr II oversaw the main force, alongside Rickard of Valdev and Django Mareno who shielded the artillery team, while the joint Petrine-Balian army under King Adrian, Percy de Lyons, and Villorik var Ruthern assumed the rear-guard of the encampment, while Cesar II’s Hyspians held the gate itself. The defenders of Breakwater, however, did not stand idle as their fort began to crumble. Squads of elite Ferrymen horsemen took to the field, weaving their steeds between occasional volleys of Covenant arrows, encircled the Covenant encampment in small knots and pried for weaknesses with their bows and javelins. Yet, for all their skill, they found no easy pickings at the Covenant encampment; at the rear, the Petrine-Balian army ruined any hope of a flank, while King Aleksandr’s force peppered any horseman who neared the Covenant artillery with arrows. Eventually, every horseman returned to the keep with an unbloodied blade. And so, for hours, the rain of rock and smoke continued. The Veletzian trebuchets were destroyed before the sun reached its apex at noon, and Breakwater’s garrison were forced to shelter beneath what walls remained standing as the Covenant fired relentlessly. By an hour after noon, the first teal tower fell, and splintered into the earth. By three hours after noon, the second fell. As the sun began to ebb towards the western horizon, the siege engines slowed as ammunition fell scarce and the barrels of the cannons begun to malform from the heat, and the waiting soldiers of the main army and the Petrine-Balian army marched on the spot to prevent their legs from going numb. At five hours after noon, the signal was given. “THIS IS OUR PEACE!” came the splitting roar of King Aleksandr from atop the Covenant bulwark. With Svetjlast, ancient blade of the Ruska kings, in arm, he levelled the tip towards the crumbling ruin of Breakwater. “CHAAAAARGE!” Petra. Balian. Aaun. Norland. Numendil. Urguan. Hyspia. Haense. Not always had these nations been comrades throughout history, and on precious few occasions had they even all thought of one another as friends. And yet, on that day - the day that Breakwater was smashed - they charged as one, and fought side-by-side in one of the greatest armies ever fielded by Descendant-kind. Together, they buried their pikes into the Orcs of Krugmar as they crossed the muddied battlefield; united, they sunk arrow after arrow into Celia’norian Elves on the slope to Breakwater; and, as one, they rent the flesh and shattered the bones of Veletz as they stormed the ruined corpse of Breakwater. Both lines broke in the shadow of Breakwater, but no soldier was dettered as a bloody melee ensued. The splintered stone of Breakwater was painted crimson as the Covenant pressed their colossal numerical advantage, and not even the legendary Ferryman tacticians could stem the tide. Sigrun Stonehammer, marshal of Urguan’s legion, bested a Ferryman lieutenant in the fields outside the keep, while a Captain of Adria was wounded by King Aleksandr in the woods fringing the battlefield. One by one, the banners over Breakwater fell. The scorpion of the Iron Horde was crushed in the melee. The Celia’norian star was shredded by stone shrapnel. The bull of Veletz was the last to fall; as it was sliced from its halyards from the flagpole in the main keep, there was a brief moment of silence as the burgundy cloth drifted to the ground. Then the cheers came like a thunderclap. For on that day - the 16th of the Sun’s Smile - the Covenant prevailed. On that day, history was written. On that day, Breakwater Keep fell. T H I S I S O U R P E A C E .

The King of Haense stood over the wartable, sighing as he sharpened SVJETLAST. "The time is nigh." while... Leonidas Mareno, in distant lands, watched as those who once fought together - would be at odds. "Funny how war works."

MARCHING ORDERS: OPERATION ANCHOR IUDICIUM ACCEDIT Issued by the THE COVENANT OF FIVE on this 30th of Harren’s Folly MISSION TITLE: OPERATION ANCHOR OBJECTIVE: ANNEXATION OF THE FERRYMAN KEEP MOBILISATION DATE: 17TH OF GODFREY’S TRIUMPH AIMED COMMENCEMENT DATE: 21ST OF TOBIAS BOUNTY PARTICULARS: On the MOBILISATION DATE, all COVENANT OF FIVE forces are to embark from RALLY POINTS A, B, C & D and march to the staging ground, where a fortified encampment is to be erected under the garrison of the BROTHERHOOD OF SAINT KARL. Once all COVENANT OF FIVE forces are assembled, they will enter the lands of the LEAGUE OF VELETZ on the COMMENCEMENT DATE to execute OPERATION ANCHOR. The operational objective shall be the capitulation of the FERRYMAN KEEP and annexation of its environs to be repurposed as a new staging ground for subsequent campaigns into the LEAGUE OF VELETZ. On the COMMENCEMENT DATE, the full COVENANT OF FIVE forces shall approach the FERRYMAN KEEP in PALISADE FORMATION, and erect artillery weaponry behind LINES 7, 8, 15 & 16. Operation of artillery engines shall be the responsibility of BSK TASKFORCE “MITHRIL”, and PETRINE TASKFORCE “TRIDENT”. All other COVENANT OF FIVE forces, under the command of KING ALEKSANDR, shall maintain a defensive PALISADE FORMATION around the artillery. PHASE ONE shall commence with artillery bombardment of the FERRYMAN KEEP by TASKFORCES MITHRIL and TRIDENT while the main force defends against enemy sallies. When the FERRYMEN KEEP has sustained sufficient damage, PHASE TWO shall commence by storming the keep. MITHRIL and TRIDENT shall comprise two strike forces intended to breach and flush the keep, assisted by strike forces who split from the main army in the form of TASK FORCES “HAMMER” and “ANVIL”. END OF BRIEF. WARCLAIM WARGOAL: COMPLETE ANNEXATION [Starting with Tile 21] ATTACKERS: The Kingdom of Haense The Kingdom of Balian The Commonwealth of the Petra The Viceroyalty of Hyspia The Grand Kingdom of Urguan DEFENDERS: The League of Veletz and its Allies LOCATION/WARPATH: DATE: TBD