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An old woman's worst fear found her. When he was a child, a babe-in-arms, his mother had taken an oath to protect at all costs his happiness - to ensure his safety, his wellbeing, his freedom. His joy. His gentle heart, that placid child with a warrior's spirit and a brilliant mind. He had been a good man. A courageous man. He had been their pride, their Kazimir, and though he died well - still, it was all too soon.

Martin blinked three, slow times, pausing from mid-preparations to stare at the crow-brought missive. “Well,” he mused to the delivery bird. “At least they’re keeping it light.”

VOL I. | CARDINAL WRITINGS WRITTEN AND PUBLISHED BY MARTIN 'DIMASSON' KORTREVICH 11th Svensmánaðr IAÁ 568 | Gronna ag Droba E.S 591 I. THIS LAST LIGHT... In homage to Borris Kortrevich There. On the horizon that smoke-dance still twists: its ash, ours to inherit. One day, when the embers cool, we will carve what is left of our father from the stones. II. COUNSEL OF CONCERN What good is worry? That which creases the fair brow and wipes clean the merry smile: It sows no fields, raises no spade, grows no crops, wields no blade; clears no skies, tends no land, guides no one with wise enough hand. And all the while the worried mind shies from shadows, finds foes in friends; fears and festers, folly incarnate. What good, then? What good does worry bring? III. CRIMSON-CLAD ARE THEY With gratitude to Ms. Toreador Red for shame, the old book said, bound in scarlet leather. Red for glory red for kin: red for debuting in. Red like swords, red for war; red for oaths, if not all kept - red like faith like flame, like brick-laid paths towards hearths and homes well-known: and red like comets, soaring overhead.

Martin was ecstatic, practicing quiet lullabies in the family nursery.

Martin seemed overjoyed to be made a brother anew; yammering ceaselessly about the child, her little smile, her tiny hands. He grinned and flitted about, considering in his light way appropriate gifts, and fretting over his mother all the while.

Somewhere, atop white horse, a silver-haired warrior awaited her daughter. The call came for them all in the end, and the hunt would be hard; the battles many. When Nadya came from her service, when she came from the place she'd poured her heart into making a home, she would not face the dark alone.

Martin Kortrevich cried, not for knowing yet the grief he would inherit but for the wants and whims of a little child, hardly yet aware of the changing world around him. In years to come the quiet twin might yet start to notice the gap in his family: the sorrow which cloaked them, the loss of what never would be. And elsewhere Sabine sat astride a white horse, staring grimly from atop a forested crest onto once had been Koravia. Where a boy became a man, and might have yet become something more if fate only gave him the chance. She did not weep. She lit her pipe, and turned away.

Sabine Weiss sets a lone candle aflame in the window of Novkursain, hands planted on the sill. She stares into the night, and she mourns for a young life.

───────────────────────────── ⋅ ───────────────⊱༺༻⊰─────────────── ⋅ THE MOTHER’S FIRE ⋅ ───────────────── ⋅ A thousand hooves pounded along a road she once knew. The years taught her to fight alone: to steal to the road in the night, to move by foot and strike in silence. It was a life on the outskirts of a far grander war. This was no outskirt. Before them sprawled dread forces the like of which she’d never seen. The earth itself seemed to weep; the grass twisting for mercy, crimson like blood not yet shed, and the skies clouded by sick gray swathes of smoke and shadow. Sulfur crept through the air, rotten stink twisting around the cavalry’s horse-sweat and leather. Her blade had been hers for nigh-on thirty years, but not once did she raise it among so many. On the horizon towered demons and a golem of warped flesh and bone alongside shambling, groaning monstrosities. The Descendants’ cavalry sat astride their horses in shifting certainty – knowing at any moment the foe would be upon them, but not to what end. It was invigorating. She could almost taste the blood unspilled, the hungry burn of courage and righteous fury alike burning in her veins. She yearned to spur their horses forward and cut a swathe through – to conquer for the Light, to cloak themselves in glory. Soon. Sooner and sooner still. But not yet. ⋅ ───────────────⊱༺༻⊰─────────────── ⋅ THE FIRST CUT ⋅ ───────────────── ⋅ They’d named her hope. Nadya. White light bounced from her sword unto the steel of the Weiss women as their horses nickered and stamped their hooves beside one another. Nadya’s rallying calls cut like steel through the throng, a ringing bell without a tremble. Behind their line Kazimir readied his greatsword, though unseen to her: willful son. Petyr, trustworthy, sat just behind him. Azja, beauty, clutched the reins of their steed. Her eyes met Nadya’s. Then the younger woman’s blade plunged not into a foe, but upwards; a rallying command roared from the young warrior, as before and behind the soldiers began to surge forth. “GODAN protect us,” Azja said. “Courage guide us,” Sabine replied. Then she was falling from her daughter’s horse, and fire rained from the sky. ⋅ ───────────────⊱༺༻⊰─────────────── ⋅ THE YOUNG BLOOD ⋅ ───────────────── ⋅ Azja rode on. Of course Sabine had swung for the first and largest demon she could find. Of course it took her, in one blow of its spear, from their steed into the dirt; and of course now she rose to face it head-on and alone. From around the breadth of it and through the glow of its blue hellfire, she could still make out the silhouette of dark armor and the swish of a Zvaervauld mare’s tail. In a moment, a memory – – a girl of thirteen winters, blood on her armor, bandages to her throat; red on white on skin, tears unshed – before the distant crack of Azja’s flail against the weak ribs of the undead drew her back. She would endure. Sabine, on the other hand, had a towering behemoth of flame and wrath to contend with. By instinct her blade drove through its spear, wood splintering beneath her white flame as she rose shouting – only to fall again, the beast toppling them both into a pit of more mundane fire. Her steel drove across its throat as she fumbled for the merciful hand of a stranger, black blood drenching them like the most warped baptismal waters. Elsewhere, Azja’s flail and shield drove through foe after foe; relentless, unyielding. The girl Sabine feared for was not to be found in the warrior ahead, beating down the grotesque flesh golem she meant to slaughter alongside a throng of fellow fighters. The lastborn child had long since endured her proving grounds. Now she sought to soak them in blood. Around them, the fray unfurled. ⋅ ───────────────⊱༺༻⊰─────────────── ⋅ THE DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD ⋅ ───────────────── ⋅ Terror and death drive even the hardest warriors to call for their mothers. Sometimes, they answered. “I was brave,” Duncan Baruch – a man she remembered as a boy, round-faced and jeering from behind a bar or laying on flattery in the barracks – called. He sat dazed, battered; something broken, maybe? Another lay sprawled in the dirt, medics swarming like flies. Her own daughter, commanding Nadya, spat blood. One son hovered over the other – Petyr. Petyr. Shrouded in strange light, Petyr – – burned and battered and bloodied. Ever-bold Nadya and ever-brooding Petyr, twins, both beneath the tending hands of weary healers. Around them, kings spoke softly of a grim futures. Worse wounded moaned in pain and grief, and the fires still burned, curling plumes of dark smoke like the funeral pyres to come. But Petyr lived. Moreover he lived through something she did not yet understand, though the whispers around them spoke of halos; of a blade in his hands unlike the steel of mortal forges. She saw no halo. She saw no blade. She saw a boy, his eyes a mirror of hers as she cradled his helm. His blood soaked her hands, but he lived; and now they had the grim honor of taking the twin’s broken bodies home. ⋅ ───────────────⊱༺༻⊰─────────────── ⋅ THE HEALING DAWN ⋅ ───────────────── ⋅ Clean light flickered through the clinic windows. Joren, Nadya’s betrothed, had at last allowed her to coax him into a cot and mop the grime from his face. Healers fluttered over Nadya and Petyr; Azja already at rest, Kazimir blessedly unscathed, shifting to and fro with water and his easy smile. Outside, the city murmured: word spreading as the soldiers poured back in, though many carried. Somewhere, kings and holymen plotted the grand next move. To their family, though, life was simpler. They would heal. Bones would set, bruises would fade. The dents to their armor would be repaired and leather polished, blades sharpened, potions restocked and kits restored. And when dark smoke once more plumed on the horizon or the warhorn once more bellowed, they would ride. Sunset felt ever-nearer to Sabine. Stooping over her children, she couldn’t ignore the silver curls escaping her braids. Time wove an ache into her bones she couldn’t escape, and the batterings of battle took ever-longer to heal. In some ways she envied their youth – their vigor, their banter even from their hospital beds. In others, she feared (and she did not often fear) how bright their light shone – how easily it might be snuffed. But there, on that day and in that clinic, she allowed those fears to become distant. They lived. When the next challenge came they would meet it, and if it were their last, then the rest might meet the next with twice the vigor they had before. So it had been, and so it would be. At least, she supposed, for now. ⋅ ───────────────⊱༺༻⊰─────────────── ⋅

Sabine Weiss's pride knows no bounds. The work is copied, bound, and put in a place of pride in both the library - and in her travelling-pack.

They’d named her hope. Nadya. White light bounced from SABINE's sword unto the steel of the Weiss women as their horses nickered and stamped their hooves beside one another. Nadya’s rallying calls cut like steel through the throng, a ringing bell without a tremble. How could she have known, then? How could she have known how true a name might be?

ISSUED BY THE HONOURABLE 10th of Jula & Piov | 562E.S ⋅ ───────────────⊱༺༻⊰─────────────── ⋅ Lady Nadya Heloise Weiss, age 7. With great pride, the House of Weiss cordially invites kin, allies and friends alike to join in celebrating the coming of age of Lady Nadya Heloise Weiss, eldest daughter of the Viscount and a valiant soldier of Hanseti-Ruska. This momentous occasion will be marked by a series of festivities honoring her achievements in youth and the woman she is to become. She stands to bring great honor to her House and her name, and it is the delight of Novkursain to open its gates and invite all to come together in celebration of her accomplishments; her spirit; and her bright future. ⋅ ───────────────⊱ BESTOWAL OF BEADS ⊰─────────────── ⋅ Nadya will be honored with the presentation of each bead she has earned throughout her trials and triumphs. Each bead, to be worn in the hair as the lion bears its mane, represents a milestone in her journey as a warrior and her dedications to the Maxims kept by her honourable House. ⋅ ───────────────⊱ TOURNAMENT OF BLADES ⊰─────────────── ⋅ A friendly competition where Nadya herself will face those skilled combatants willing to showcase their prowess in the art of melee combat in a spirited display of martial skill, strength, and strategy. ⋅ ───────────────⊱ STRINGING OF BOWS ⊰─────────────── ⋅ For those with steady hands and sharp eyes, the archery contest: a test of precision, skill, and focus. As her mother’s debut before her, this fun, engaging challenge offers the chance for all participants to demonstrate their marksmanship against the Debutante’s herself. ⋅ ───────────────⊱ RECEIVING OF GIFTS ⊰─────────────── ⋅ Though not required, the receiving of gifts is a time for friends, family, and allies to present Nadya and the House Weiss with tokens of affection, respect, and admiration for their eldest daughter. Gifts will serve as a symbol of her achievements and act as tokens for the love and support surrounding her as she steps into adulthood. ⋅ ───────────────⊱ DUEL OF DANCE ⊰─────────────── ⋅ Traditional Haeseni dances will be practiced with a unique twist, incorporating elements of combative footwork. This dance will honor the grace and elegance of Haeseni tradition while reflecting the martial background of Nadya’s family and her own passion for the art of combat. It will be a lively, joyous celebration of her heritage, strength, and poise. ⋅ ───────────────⊱༺༻⊰─────────────── ⋅ ⋅ ────────────── ⋅ Formal invitations are hereby extended to: His Royal Majesty, Karl IV, King of Hanseti-Ruska, and his royal pedigree His Grace, Dmitri var Ruthern, Duke of Vidaus and his noble pedigree His Grace, Sigmund Ludovar, Duke of Kvasz and his noble pedigree The Most Honourable, Davyd Colborn, Margrave of Kazan and his noble pedigree The Right Honourable, Duncan Baruch, Count of Ayr and his noble pedigree Their Right Honourable, Erik and Emma Kortrevich, Counts of Krusev and their noble pedigree The Right Honourable, Nerida Amador, Viscountess of Zvezlund and her noble pedigree The Right Honourable, Sifra Korvacz, Viscountess of Koppány and her noble pedigree The Right Honourable, Adelina van Leuven, Baroness of Furentaliz and her noble pedigree The Honourable, Varon Kovachev, Baron of Kovgrad and his noble pedigree The Noble, Florence Valkonen, Matriarch of the House of Valkonen and her noble pedigree The Noble, Ilya Ivanovich, Patriarch of the House of Ivanovich and his noble pedigree Personal invitations are hereby extended to: His Excellency, Magnus Raudrag, Lord Marshal and friend of the house His Excellency, Ser Sigmar var Ruthern, Lord Speaker and friend of the house Her Excellency, Mahaut van Leuven, Grand Lady and friend of the house His Royal Highness, Joren Manfred, the Duke of Alban and friend of the house ───────────────────────────── LEKONSKED VA VE LVINYY, The Right Honourable, KARL VARON WEISS, Viscount of Novkursain and Baron of Zvaervauld The Right Honourable, SABINE EMELYA WEISS Her Ladyship, NADYA HELOISE WEISS

The pride — and worry — of Sabine Weiss knows no end.

Sabine has a copy bound in crimson leather, and kept in a place of pride within the Novkursain library - thusly penning a letter of congratulations to the Countess.

1350 A.H. - Present ─── From Ashes, We Rise EST 143 E.S. - Present | 1590 A.H. - Present ⋅ ───⊱༺⠀☨⠀༻⊰─── ⋅ 13th of Tov & Yermey | 542 E.S The couple upon their engagement, as illustrated by H.S.H. ⋅ ───────────────⊱༺⠀☨⠀༻⊰─────────────── ⋅ VA EDLERVIK, It is after decades of service that the Viscount and Princess Royal at last see fit to abdicate their posts as Peers of the Realm, and that their heir-presumptive NERIDA “THE RISING TIDE” of AMADOR shall hereby swear her oaths and take her seat as Viscountess of Zvezlund and Baroness of Mondstadt. The Viscount-emeritus and Princess Royal do much look forward to golden years spent doting on their grandchildren, recovering their health, and in one another’s company. May the young NERIDA serve well and wisely as Matriarch and Peer. PETRAVEZK IV VATRAGAN, The Honorable Henrik III Edvard Amador, Viscount of Zvezlund, Baron of Mondstadt, and Lord of Queen’s Crossing Her Serene Highness, Emma Anastastya, Princess Royal of Hanseti-Ruska, Duchess of Karlsburg and Karosgrad, Viscountess of Zvezlund, Baroness of Mondstadt and Lady of Queen’s Crossing Portrait courtesy of Karl Isaak Falkner nee Amador. Wedding portrait by Deia.