[CS] The Written Word's Characters

[WrittenWord]

Third Consort​ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝖳 𝖧 𝖤‎ ‎ ‎ 𝖬 𝖤 𝖱 𝖨 𝖣 𝖨 𝖠 𝖭 ‎ ‎ 𝖢 𝖠 𝖫 𝖨 𝖯 𝖧 𝖠 𝖳 𝖤

❝ 𝘕𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘺 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦. 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬, 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨. ❞

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The Propaganda
┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓
𝐸𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑗𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ.
𝐹𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑜𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠, 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ'𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑎 𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒
𝑔𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒. 𝐸𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑥𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ'𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙, 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒
𝑇𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑠𝑜 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑡. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑑
𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑢𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝑙𝑜𝑦𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑢𝑠𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑. 𝐻𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑑𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑖𝑔𝑛
𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑦 𝑢𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑐ℎ 𝑑𝑖𝑝𝑙𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑥 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑚𝑠, 𝐸𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑
𝑓𝑜𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑑𝑜𝑚. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑏𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑑𝑖𝑝𝑙𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦, ℎ𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟
𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑢𝑐𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑦.

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The Rumors
┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓
𝑂𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐹𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑢𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑓 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ. 𝐴 𝑑𝑜𝑧𝑒𝑛 𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑠
𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑙 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑟 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒
𝑤𝑎𝑦. 𝐸𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑢𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑒, 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑦
𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟. 𝑆𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑤𝑎𝑝 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑢𝑙𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑧𝑣𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑛𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒
𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠. 𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠
𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑦, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐸𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑢𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑. 𝐻𝑒𝑟
𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑒𝑠, 𝑜𝑓 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙, 𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑟𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑓𝑢𝑙. 𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡
𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐸𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑎 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑡, 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒
𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑡ℎ 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑑𝑜𝑚𝑠.

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The Truth
┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑑 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑢𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑑𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑎. 𝐴 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑒'𝑠
𝑏𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑡 𝑎 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝑜
𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ, 𝑏𝑒 𝑒𝑑𝑢𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ. 𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑠
𝑠𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝐸𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑎 𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑜𝑜𝑙 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒
𝑢𝑛𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑄𝑢𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑀𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑎 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑐 𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑑 𝑜𝑓
𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑢𝑏𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑐𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛
𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑑𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑒. 𝐴𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑃𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒,
𝑤𝑎𝑟, 𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑠, 𝑔𝑒𝑜𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑦, ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦, 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑟𝑡. 𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡
𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑦 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜
𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑀𝑎𝑗𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑦. 𝐶𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚. 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒
𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛. 𝐴 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒
𝑛𝑒𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐸𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒
𝐸𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑗𝑜𝑦 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑢𝑡𝑦, 𝑖𝑓 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑖𝑡𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓.

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The Table
┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓
𝑇ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑏𝑗𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑑.
𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒. 𝐴 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑜𝑟, 𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑒
𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑎 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑦𝑎𝑙 𝑝𝑎𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑎 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ 𝑎𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠
𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝐸𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑜𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟
𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠. 𝑇𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑢𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠. 𝑇𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠. 𝑇𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ'𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑠
𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒'𝑠 𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟.

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The Thrones
┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓
𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ'𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒. 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑
𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑎 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘 𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝑇𝑜 𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛 𝑂𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎
𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑚. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑡 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑚 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑏𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑢𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑦. 𝑊ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑎
𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑠𝑎𝑦 ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑔, ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑠𝑘 '𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠 𝑢𝑝𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑦
𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦?' 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝐷𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑
𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑒𝑟.

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The Oaths
┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓
𝐴 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑, 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑔𝑜𝑒𝑠. 𝑂𝑟, 𝑏𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒.
𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒, 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ, 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒. 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓
𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑐 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑜𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑖𝑓𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒
𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑡ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒. 𝑂𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑢𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑔𝑒
𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑛. 𝐼𝑓 𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑛, 𝑠𝑜 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑐 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑎𝑙 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡
𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑠.

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The Lesser Magic
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𝑆𝑐𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠, 𝑢𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑑𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑒𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑙 𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑙. 𝐴𝑙𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑚𝑦, 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑓𝑡,
𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑐 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑥𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑜𝑟 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜
𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑎, 𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑥𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟.

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The Caliphate
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𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑀𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑'𝑠 𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝐸𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑠, 𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟
𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑠, 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑖𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑐 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑢𝑙𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑎 𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑡. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒
𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑑𝑜𝑚𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒 𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑒𝑟𝑠. 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑚𝑢𝑙𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑙 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡
𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑧𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑖𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑀𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝑆𝑒𝑎. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙
𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑠
𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑚 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑑 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑡𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓.

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❝𝘈 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬-𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘯.❞​

Prologue (Unnecessary reading, ooc below)​

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"Nonsense. We are speaking unofficially right now. As friends." A dazzling woman in handmaid's clothing said, wearing a serene smile beneath gently inquisitive eyes. She leaned far forward, bright blue eyes engaging the spoiled Princess before her with searching flicks of her eyes. The youthful girl expressed her woes, fighting for love over lasting bonds painstakingly forged by the Caliph over his far-flung table. The teenager's eyes flicked away, intelligent enough to at least second guess the decision to tell her enemy her next moves. Then her mouth opened, and she spoke...​

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The arrival of any of the Caliph's wives at any of the twelve realms was preceded by eager merchants and noble groans. Two-hundred fresh-eyed customers with dense pockets and bellies that needed filling often followed, although the latter problem most often fell to the Throne Master's purse to extinguish.​

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So it was that upon her arrival on the Meridian island kingdom of Syracuse, that her entourage was met with the press of crowds and eager eyes as her retinue spilled from the gangplank. A young man looked resplendent in a white gown and veil, appearing every bit the woman she was and wearing a crown of spiked glass plated with gold at its crests. Too extravagant for the sweltering tropical climate. Even in her servile gown trailing veiled behind, Emille felt thin streams of sweat squelch at her every crease and step.​

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Her double would meet privately with King Umberto, who would no doubt extend his most grateful welcome to drive her eyes away from that which he preferred she wouldn't see with pleasantries and gifts. Emille slipped away to find his daughter, her true aim.​

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Now they sat together in the garden, naught but a handmaid and the melancholic second princess of Syracuse. Emille sat on a stone bench in the shade while Evana stood behind, each of them taking turns flicking copper coins into a distant well. If they were keeping score, Evana was humiliating her.​

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She had to force herself to miss, save once, when she made it into the second water terrace from the top. Her screaming joy at having done what any marginally athletic person might have accomplished bonding her to the Princess for this very moment.​

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That, and The Step.​

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It was a pattern of movement, acute control of the body, and it was something the princess might have understood better than most, as might a soldier. She sat in a matter befitting her uniform, an unassuming handmaiden who had found the isolated Princess at the perfect time on the perfect day. An accident, rather than a thousand bones tumbling after one another down the same hill. The golden maned woman patterned herself after someone who might have been a friend, rather than a warrior, Concubine or Sultana.​

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"...His name is Syrin, he is a shipbuilder, and he has the strongest hands, Mira," the Princess's eyes flashed with more life than Emille had seen thus far.​

Mira, the name Emille wore for now as she entreated Princess Evana, famed for her beauty and thick black hair. Emille leaned further forward still as Evana came to a stop in front of her, "Truly? You've let him lay his hands upon you?" It almost wasn't her voice. Feigned posh, carrying the reek of a servant's desperation to fit in with her betters.​

The Princess's eyes widened, yet in Mira's eyes she found that the scandal had been met with a wicked twinkle. A *delicious* scandal rather than a wretched one. "And more, so much more.​

"Wow." The vermillion in her cheeks was just as authentic as her double's had been, without the sun or rose to assist her.​

"What of you? As a handmaiden, I'm sure..."​

​

The blossom of her cheeks wasn't calculated. Some things were easier when they were true. "No. Never." The resentment that curdled threatened the careful construction of her tone. Innocent, she reminded herself, not frustrated.​

​

"But you're gorgeous. You could have any man!" The Princess stood as if this were an affront to all of womanhood, and the bloom of pride in the disguised Queen's heart was as real as the sun above and waves beyond the cliff-side garden. "The control they have is absurd! We should be permitted to... To have love!"​

​

And so the protestations began as the Princess made a plea to the winds on behalf of the Caliph's incognito wife. Sincere and lovely, Emille thought, then, and so passionate.​

​

The falsely spoken woman struck that passion where it was hottest, driving a hammer into the molten, furious heart of a girl too wild to follow someone else's pattern.​

​

A day later, Emille sat in a chair half as high as her father's beside him at the apex of a dozen stairs, as every Throne in the Meridian Caliphate would have.​

​

The Third Concubine dressed for the occasion. Dinner wasn't eaten in working clothes, nor was travelling done in a regal gown.​

​

Armor, and not for ceremony, but for battle. It shone, but the plates bore hairline cuts, blemishes that the crimson accents of her garb didn't hide. Her carmine cloak hung to one side, spilling on the floor like a river of blood between her and a man many would have considered at most a peer. Emilleine's sword was unsheathed, resting tip-down against the step just below her. Emille leaned into the corner of her chair, one leg forward and the other back beneath it, eyes an endless, lazy sky upon which Evana made a lonesome cloud on its surface.​

​

The Princess was being chastised by her father, but the wicked razors of her eyes remained affixed to Emilleine, and they promised an exchange of daggers. Emille suspected that Princess Evana might very well wish she had thought to wear armor when she'd been summoned to court by a summons containing a royal seal, rather than a father's gentle request.​

​

"She intends to run away with the boy," Emilleine said to Syracuse's Lord without looking at him, wrist balancing the pommel of the claymore. "He is done building ships. He says he is eager to sail them."​

She paused.​

"With his bride."​

The bronze skin of the black bearded Throne Master burnished with the insult offered to his disobedient daughter. It was, in some ways, an accusation of disloyalty to the man's house. "What oaths has she sworn?" Emille asked as she hooked one gloved finger at a servant with a platter. The young man approached from below and offered a tray of fruits. Emille perused the local fare and settled on a quartered piece of mango.​

​

"Obey thy Father for one..." The King began.​

Emille nodded. "More than enough. Have her climb the steps two at a time. Eight times." Emille took a bite of the mango and leaned forward, lifting the claymore and tapping its tip on the twelfth step. "All the way to here," she instructed, nodding at the bottom. "Then back." She spoke around her fruit, eyes expressive of her joy in the local flavor. "It should be easy, if you've minded even a single of your oaths. Do that without losing your wind, and I'll pack my things and go home." She hadn't been home in almost a year and wouldn't really be heading that way, either. "Fail and we'll rightly deem you an Oathbreaker. We'll put you in a tower until the day Brathers sends his ships to retrieve you and then you'll get your sunset voyage." She cast her eyes toward their corners, to the lord of the land. "Fair?"​

​

The man grated, "More than."​

​

"It isn't! At least allow me the proper attire! I can't run in a dress!"​

​

Emille nodded, then shrugged. "Take it off."​

​

"You go too far," Umberto said from behind gritting teeth.​

​

Still, the girl paled in front of the assembly. Twenty-four royal guards, a dozen servants of various staff, her father, and Emille. Even if the Princess bathed in front of a servant now and then, it wasn't a pleasant prospect. "Fine." Emille rose and walked down the stairs, sabatons clacking against the fine stairs. "Here, I'll do it with you," she said, glancing down at the Princess as she came to stand beside her.​

​

She waited with one quirked brow as the dark-skinned girl glared with hateful eyes up at her father. Fury answered that matched her own. Father like daughter. Evana's eyes shifted toward the pale foreigner. Unperturbed, Emille took the first step, prepared to be the pacesetter. "Well?"​

​

The Princess flared her nostrils, and they began.​

​

Emille's thick golden braid bounced with every step, but she practically held her breath as she listened for the girl's heart and lungs. She detected a subtle change in her breathing on the second cycle. By the third she was certain of it and by the fifth, the ragged breaths of the oath-breaking Princess humiliated her before the entire assembly. By the seventh, the twelve tall stairs loomed above her like the weight of centuries of tradition.​

​

Or millennia.​

​

Emille climbed to the top and looked back at her, expectant, and the Princess fell to her knees, covered her face in her hands, then wept into them.​

​

"Oathbreaker," her father said from his throne, fists clenched against the ancient stone's arm rests.​

​

Emille nodded. "I'll take her, then."​

​

"No, it should be me." Then he glared at the concubine. "Have you any more business in Syracuse?"​

​

An ill tiding rarely prolongs the warmth in a welcome. "I will watch over her until ships from Brathers arrive. Other than that, everything in your house seems well in order, my Lord." She lowered herself a step and bowed to the master of this realm. Peers they were, yet the armsmen in the room would almost certainly follow his order over hers. "I'll make way for your..." The graceful woman smacked her lips as she flicked her eyes between them. "...Your conversation." She pivoted on a plated toe and glided down the stair, defying sound with a step that seemed ignorant to gravity.​

​

When she stood beside the Princess again, she knelt and placed a gauntleted hand on the young woman's shoulder. The tears were gone, and the young woman looked up at Emille with unveiled but hooded fury.​

​

Fury found naught but deterministic sympathy. An arrow that mourned its target even as it planted deep. "These things have a way of growing on you. You'll be fine." All that separated truth from lie was a future neither of them controlled. The liar abandoned the Princess to the marble floor at the foot of her father's throne.​

​

Her lover was more tenacious than she'd believed possible, though. He sang at the foot of her tower, and spent some of his doubtless meager pay for a minstrel's instrument behind his voice, which was fairer than it wasn't. Emille listened and watched, disappointed herself, when a watchman broke it up. The Princess glared from on high, framed by her prison's window. As if it had been Emille who had given the command.​

​

But Syrin, with a little push, was more tenacious still.​

​

A week later, Emille strut among her retinue during a shopping venture. She bought souvenirs to send back to the children and a birthday gift for Hashiana, the seventh concubine of Caliph Sharad'Amun Davut al-Riza. With Brathers set to arrive in a couple of weeks, they also arranged their ships resupply. A barrel of powder had 'gone bad' according to her quartermaster, confirmed by her head gunman. While they inspected a new barrel, Emille slipped away. Easy enough to do, despite the warning from her guardsmen, that the marketplace was too busy for solo excursions. But she figured she wasn't carrying a purse worth cutting, anyway.​

​

True, but any assumptions of safety were proven inaccurate, even with an empty coin purse mere moments later, as if by the design of a careful hand.​

​

Emille felt a blade press into her ribs, pricking deep enough to make her wince in pain and shallow enough that it was a warning rather than an end. A gruff voice gave her an instruction too simple to make a mistake with. "Keep walking." Another arm snaked through her elbow, and she was drawn along further down the docks. They stopped at a lumber mill between stacks of cut wood, the scent of the sea and sounds of the waves washing up against the wharf an invitation for an isolated woman fearful for her life.The one holding her elbow released her and the strength of a larger man urged her forward until they faced down a dozen men in masks. The man behind her put his arm around her neck and squeezed. Ah, no time to think. Smart​

​

"Keep your eyes low." The voice behind her warned. One man stepped forward with a writing pencil and a piece of parchment. "Write up the orders. Princess goes free. Delivered to the docks and put on the last ship in the harbor."​

​

Emille snorted despite the constriction.​

​

"What?" The man ahead of her asked. "You'll do it or it'll get worse." He seemed to note the way her slippered feet twitched as the big man behind her lifted her off the earth. "Ease up on her."​

"Mhm." The man released her neck enough for her to fill her lungs and set her feet back down on solid ground.​

​

A mistake.​

​

Emille's fingers coiled at once around his full purse, twisting and squeezing to the tune of his scream as she twisted away from the blade of the dagger. It nicked her, slicing through part of her unassuming gray gown. Emille grimaced, and the man screamed, the impossibly strong and lithe woman torquing and pulling him a step forward with her. She didn't need to look to know where his wrist was with the knife, or her hands were in comparison. She released his jewels and one hand chopped up to stun his limb at the wrist, the other stole the knife from his deadened grip.​

​

Emille smashed the pommel of the dirk into the man's jaw as he sank toward his knees and she watched his eyes roll as the lights went out. She almost laughed that no one in the marketplace had noticed the length of the blade pressed against her. Her mirth made way for the grimness of the predicament. Emille was surrounded, but there was a moment of uncertainty which she exploited by taking the middle ground between the fallen and standing man behind her, and the dozen before her. A bright horizon flicked over masked faces.​

​

Her heart thundered in her chest. "I assume one of you is Syrin?" Exhiliration, rather than fear. None came forward. "Or else someone caught the poor end of the Vydian deal?" Silence continued to follow the flipping of the table. She filled their hesitative silence with a contemplative "hm."​

​

"You can't kill all of us!" A jagged growl, probably intended to disguise his voice. As if she even cared to identify him.​

​

Her voice and posture held the same edge as the knife. "Nor do I wish to try." These weren't a gaggle of brainless henchmen, after all. They had lives and children, and friends enough to scrape a dozen of them together to try something this ludicrous with little more than a nudge. "And I think none of you wants to kill me," she added, the bow of her lips forming a thin smirk. Her gown bore a tear just beneath the bodice, revealing creamy skin and a thin line of blood that seeped into the bottom tear of the cloth.​

​

"We just want you to let the Princess choose her own husband." We, she thought as she scanned the group for the voice that came just beyond one of their tallest, sounded suspiciously like I.​

Emille tilted her head. "That's noble. For her or for you?"​

"Both of us," answered a youthful voice, stepping forward and stripping away his mask.​

​

A golden tan, rosy cheeks and dimples that could break even a Queen's heart. He wore a vest, the practical garment that showed much of his chest and workmanlike physique. Hands that had held the Princess and gave her what would be sweet memories carried a sledge. "Unfortunately," she said, lowering her head in partial condolence, "that isn't how it works in the Meridian."​

​

"And why not?"​

An answer as cold as the southern coastal beaches where the blue of her eyes originated. "Because love doesn't balance a scale. It's the first thing to evaporate when it's convenient."​

"Not ours. We will last."​

"But you won't. She sets sail in two weeks and you will never see her again any closer than you are now." Emille waved her hand. The tower was far, far away, too distant for even its top to be seen. "Can you see her?"​

​

Syrin stared at her, testing his grip on the sledge as Emille arrived at the crux of her point.​

​

"No. You can't." She threaded her fingers on both hands around the dirk, holding it before her as if it were a bouquet rather than a weapon slick with her blood. The man on the ground stirred. "Nor will you ever; if you keep me here."​

The boy grit his teeth, "and?"​

"And if you let me go, Ill swear an oath that you will spend one last night with her. A farewell before she leaves."​

​

"Not good en-..."​

​

Emille silenced him with a gesture. "It's done, the deal is made by men greater than you. It wasn't what any of us wanted, or a choice any of us here, made, but it's done. There is no arguing with it. This is all you have now. Goodbyes and memories, or you can just have memories." The woman made Angel rolled one shoulder. "Decide. Now. I can bring you to her tower tonight."​

​

The boy grimaced and looked at his peers. They weren't eager to fight, but no one told him to take the deal, though their eyes implored it. The hammer slipped from his hand, "F-Fine..."​

​

The air changed around the woman, and when she exhaled, so did many of the surrounding men. "Perfect!" Emille twisted the dirk in her hand and approached the fallen man just as he rose. She held it out to him, pommel first. "Excellent work… A naval officer? Which conflict?"​

​

The man scowled. "Brass breasts..." He cursed within an exasperated exhale. "South Meridian, the Jabaru." He took the knife from her.​

​

"Well met." Then she leaned forward, her eyes glinting dangerously. "Mind your oaths, then. Try again and I'll take them with me." Her eyes flicked toward his groin. The men behind her laughed, but the spread of his heels suggested bruised plums.​

​

"Yes, ma'am, thank you for not..." She pat his cheek through the cloth mask, then tugged it from his face. Some men behind gasped. Emille examined the man, the flickering sapphire of her eyes investigating as she filled in the details of his face.​

​

Conspiratorial knowing passed between them. "It would've been a crime to steal you from your work." Then she stepped past him and glanced back at Syrin. "Come along."​

​

Priceless, she guessed, a night with a Princess for a humble dock worker. She wondered at the rest of their story while they rolled in the sheets and shed tearful goodbyes only a few floors up. Perhaps they planned still, dreaming of birds that mated for a lifetime and could so effortlessly fly away from their places in life. It was a bitter place for their story to end, together, but at least for the Princess, there was some sweetness to it.​

​

As for the dock worker...​

​

Emilleine arrived with her master at arms in the morning. One foot carrying the war born strength of an Empire smashed through the cold iron lock on the door, disrupting the couple's naked slumber. "Arrest him and place him in the prison on my ship!"​

​

Four men with arquebuses strolled forward to apprehend him. The scuffle was brief and traumatic. The Princess was tossed aside when she attempted to intervene, though she was much more concerned with her nudity than the freedom of her lover.​

​

Love was always the first thing to evaporate when a scale needed balancing.​

​

The butt of a handgun smashed Syril's nose and rag dolled him. The dockworker was dragged out past Emille within a minute of their arrival. She wore a crown, a white gown, and white gloves, and in her hand she carried a dueling cane. With her four men carrying Syril off, another woman walked into the room carrying a stoppered drink.​

​

The Princess cowered beneath the sheets. Modesty was a wonderful trait, though hopefully she wasn't too modest in Brathers. "He'll be shipped off to the Sultanate. His health depends on your good behavior in Brathers and here, Princess." Emille wore a melancholic frown. The apothecary approached with the tincture. "Drink. We can't insult their Duke by shipping him a pregnant Princess, can we?"​

​

The Princess might have leapt from the tower if they left her immediately, so wrought with anguish was she. Emille would have preferred to be a friend, to be Mira, instead. Evana really was a sweet girl, both intelligent and lovely. She would do well in Brathers if she found her footing.​

​

A day later, Emille watched the Brathers' ship set sail with the girl aboard, then settled in for one more meeting aboard her ship before they were to set sail.​

​

A former naval officer with a bruise on his jaw sat across a small round table in her ship's parlor. He was already mixing his sugar into his coffee when she arrived. "The Rizan stuff is always the best," he said, sporting a thin smile.​

​

She answered with one of her own as she sat across from him. "I thought you would enjoy it; how's retirement?"​

​

"Safer, usually, but the menial stuff could be easier." She answered him with a shrug, then cleared her throat. He knew what it meant. A hurry. Report to give. And he gave it. "Where are you headed now?" He asked when he was done.​

​

Emille's lips compressed into a thin line. As close as she ever got to expressing displeasure at her lot in life in public.​

​

"Where my husband needs me, of course."​

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『 out of character 』​

│ Greetings and thank you for your time and attention with my character.​
│ If any of it resonated with you enough to pursue a story with me, message me with the word 'Triumph'.​
│ Character is can be adapted from medieval to modern-fantasy settings. These settings will always be divorced from 'Earth'.​
│ Things about the world can change as we make decisions. The Prologue is a good gauge on this character (and my writing) but by no means mandatory reading.​
│ Please read custom kinks. Don't anticipate writing with me outside of a long format. Smut is rarely instantaneous for me in any story.​
│ Have some meat to your approach, please. Small talk is wonderful at the grocery store, and while I love getting to know people, I prefer shop talk over weather talk.​
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