The rapping noise broke Margaret Rosebreast from an uncomfortable and restless dream. The dream's contents were already eluding her clouded mind as she struggled to move or even open her eyes.

The thudding of a hammer against wood came again, louder this time and more urgent, followed by the muted buzz of noise. The babble of sounds that came to her ear slowed somewhat and resolved into voices—Griffon voices, muddied and difficult to understand.

“WE WILL HAVE ORDER!” Shouted a familiar voice that broke through the mire of her thoughts like a gale-force wind. Gruff and authoritative, it was the voice of command, a voice used to being obeyed. She knew it and loathed it, but her foggy mind wouldn't let her know why.

Margaret tried to open her eyes again and found them crusty and difficult to move. Had she been crying? A slight movement of her limbs revealed that her whole body felt the same way, as if she was swimming through tar that had only recently begun to thaw.

With a supreme exertion of will, she managed to move her upper limbs and rub her face to dislodge the crust that sealed her vision. The clink of chains startled and even alarmed her, so much so that her eyes widened in shock, tearing open with great pain as she sat bolt upright. Her wings tried to shift in panic, but she found that those, too, were restrained by metal.

Sights, colors returned slowly. She needed a great many rapid blinks to get her vision to focus, and the recent rupture of her lids throbbed painfully.

Where was she? What was all this? Why were her arms, legs, and wings bound by chains?

As sight began to return, so too did more of her hearing. The voices that had been a low babbling were now becoming a rushing wind of outrage and anger.

“BY BOREAS I WILL HAVE ORDER!” Shouted that hateful voice. Followed by the splintering of wood as the gavel head flew into her blurry vision to go skittering to a stop next to a platform that was erected in the center of what she realized was a vast chamber. With stunned numbness, she became aware that a gallows had recently been erected.

Her head swung up toward the voice in panic, and she found King Sigurd Bloodbeak Fairheart on an unusually large chair with a back that stretched high to the ceiling above her on a raised dais.

The chair was ornate, with rows of vines and scenes of law and judgment etched into the backing's surface. The desk that sat in front of it was equally as crafted, sharing a similar motif, save for the depiction of a griffon seated before the throne in supplication. There was no color, no gems to embellish the furnishings, only the varnish that had been applied for generations, giving its smoky reddish brown exterior. Just simple redwood that glowed softly in the firelight of torches set regularly around the chamber.

With that knowledge, Margaret recognized that desk and knew where she was. Knowing brought her no comfort.

The Urtailsplit. The Throne of Judgment. That made the chamber she found herself in the Urtail Gerichtsah, the Court of Judgment. Though the name was directed toward the chair he sat upon, the desk was included in the title.

Horror washed through her as her eyes swung back toward the gallows in the center of the chamber. One single noise hung motionless in the middle of the beam.

“T-that is meant…for me…” The realization struck terror to her core, and she cried out in horror though she had tried to stop it. A keening wail broke through her strangled throat.

Her cry did more to silence the crowd of nobles lining the stands on either side than the broken gavel that now lay upon the stone floor.

Everyone gazed upon her. Allies and Foe alike. Anger, worry, concern, contempt. She could see it all and more upon their faces.

“I see that you are awake, Margaret.” Came the much quieter, yet confident, voice of her long-time opponent. The noble hen slowly looked back at him, a small measure of disgust worming its way through her despite the fear in her belly, allowing her to gain some measure of bravado she didn't truly feel.

“Sigurd!” She spat. Her throat hurt, and her beak was dry. “What is the meaning of this?!” It dawned on her at the moment that she could not appear weak, that there may be a way to salvage whatever this was and turn it to her advantage only if she reigned herself in now blossomed in her mind. Calm began to wash over her as the cobwebs and fog therein began to shift. Yet that pit in her stomach remained.

“Margaret, you know why you are here, what you have done.” He replied gravely, but there was no hint of satisfaction in those cold golden eyes. Just calculated awareness of what was happening.

How could she possibly know? Her thoughts drifted. She was forgetting something, something important. Casting back her mind to recent memories, she found a kind of wall blocking her own knowledge. What had happened to lead up to this?

“I see,” came the drake's hated voice, “judging by that look, I would say you may still be suffering from the effects of Wharheitsserum,” Sigurd said evenly. A shout of outrage caught both of their attention, and they turned to the stands.

“Not only have you fledgingnapped a noble, your rival, I'll remind you all, but you DRUGGED HER AS WELL?!” Lord Carthwrite was among the few of the nobility that she could count on to stand for her. If for no other reason, then he had no choice. For she had tied him to her with bonds of marriage between their families and by binding him to her cause with more than a bit of blackmail. Her heart soared at his staunch rebuke of this arrogant King. Surprised, actually. He always seemed the cowardly sort.

“Carthwrite.” The King said stiffly.

“By decree in this matter, we will perform whatever action necessary to ascertain the truth. You will silence yourself or join her. Your own crimes are now well known to us thanks to our investigation.” Gabrielle Fairheart’s response came, her lilting tone harsh. She stood before the desk and throne, likely acting as the bailiff, a not uncommon sight considering the law allowed for such. She had gone unnoticed by the chained hen. “It is only by the mere chance that we believe you may have been coerced into this scheme against your will that you yet keep your seat and not join her before the Urtailsplit. In either case, you will not escape judgment either.”

Margaret’s gaze swung back to her ally, and she was not surprised by what she saw. Carthwrite flushed and sat himself down, not allowing his gaze to drift to anyone, including her. Their fellow nobles scooted away as a pair of armored griffons took up positions beside the now-muted griffon. If she had held the strength, she would have derisively mocked him.

“Will there be further interruptions? Or shall we begin, and all to be laid bare to your own eyes?” Sigurd spoke after a moment.

Silence. No one uttered a word, though now the expressions were ones of shock and worry.

“Good.” He nodded and turned back to her. “Margaret Rosebreast, you stand accused of Treason, of attempted Regicide in the First and Second Degree. You also stand accused of Violating the Rules of Return.” He spoke calmly and with the same authority he had always done. The flat, emotionless tone chilled her to the bone. “There are others, of course. However, for the sake of speed, we shall post those later for the public to ruminate upon.”

Treason, Regicide. She knew what those meant. Somehow, they…a thought shifted, and suddenly, everything came back in a flood, bringing sinking doom to her very soul.

“I am aware that Drystan has been gone far too long, you hatchling.” She spat in annoyance. “However, I will not expose myself by sending missives to him for an update now.” She rebuked the young lieutenant. “To do so would directly paint a sign of treason to us.” She stepped forward menacingly. “To me!”

The hen was one of her subterfuge specialists, but at the moment, she was beginning to believe she could do without this one. Perhaps one of the beasts she referred to as her pets would be interested in a snack.

“I understand, my Lady. But this isn't a normal delay-” The imputant little fool began, only to be cut off by Margaret’s door being thrown open to slam against the wall. A harried soldier tore in and skidded to a halt on his knees. Head bowed deeply.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” She roared, drawing herself up to the tips of her paws. A dagger appeared in her hand, delicately held by claw tips. Her wings fanned out, preparing for flight, though there were not many places to go to in this circular chamber.

“My Lady! I humbly beg your forgiveness, yet I bring word!” On any other day, it would have been almost comical to watch as this soldier shouted into the carpet. But with the insistent nattering of her watchers and the reports that yet another piece of the Icewall had fallen inward to crush a farm, she was not in the mood for humors.

“Speak!” She snapped, wondering why the daft bird had not seen fit even to remove his helmet. That was out of normal regulations she had passed down by her ancestors since their House’s founding. Considering the scuffed state of his uniform, whatever he was bothering her with must be important. Or she would have him wiped and hung over the cages.

“Prince Gerhard has a force of hundreds at our gates!” He quickly responded, not raising his head.

The world around Margaret went silent. She suddenly felt cold. The chill swept beyond her bones, going deeper. The Ice Wall region of Griffonia was known for its almost frigid evenings. The banked fire in the hearth near her desk was meant to chase away all chill, but nothing could take away the freezing ice that now fought for dominance in her veins.

This feeling came with the sudden pit of dread that had opened within her, spilling noxious winds that clouded her mind in panic.

“How had he gotten so close? How is he not dead?!”

From what Drystan had told her, her latest assassin had not only worked his way into the Heir’s personal army but that he had managed to secure a coveted advisory role within the Prince's inner circle itself. It was only a matter of time before the griffon slit the Prince’s throat, and she could finally have that nasty hookfish out of her nets.

One less obstacle in her way to the throne.

It had been one of many plans to strike the little lording down, though if she were being honest, perhaps she had put too many irons in the fire. The coffers suffered for a great many plans she had unleashed and had yet to recover from the expenditures. Those bandits were not much worth their cost, little more than a distraction really, already having been pushed out of the prime land as that had been where she had meant for them to wreak the most havoc.

Now, before her coward one of her own. Telling her of a literal invasion of her lands. Her very capital.

How and why could be dealt with later. She shook her head, dismissing him for the moment. How best to turn this to her advantage? She looked out the window to see if she could get an idea of what was arrayed against her.

“Lieutenant, assemble the guard immediately.” She wished she had Drystan with her. “And prepare a Horn.” The kernel of an idea popped into her head. “The Prince will not dare take the city. So this little show of force will only be that.” The noble hen giggled, nervousness released, suddenly realizing how foolish a gamble the Prince had made, though the reason eluded her as to why he was doing this in the first place. All missives between herself and the assassin were destroyed from both ends of the communication line, and a letter had not been sent in months. “If anything, he will do more damage to his father's image than mine.” She turned to the odious hen who had been pestering her for the better part of a half hour. “Go, qui-”

A knife stood out of the officer's throat. The agent’s breath came in gurgles of blood. Nearly silent gurgles. Keeling over, she slammed into the carpet's floor in a clattering of plate and mail that was muffled somewhat from the soft fabric Margaret has always insisted upon for her own personal rooms.

“I'm afraid that whatever trick you are planning won't be happening, Lady Rosebreast.” Came the much calmer voice of the messenger. On his paws now, his helmet had been pulled off, and she got a look at him for the first time as she stepped away in shock. He looked somewhat familiar, though she couldn't yet place him. Another blade was held in his grasp, longer than the previous one, dripping with a strange blue color ichor.

“D-d-do…do you,” she swallowed thickly, “k-know who I am?!” She shouted, backing up rapidly and causing the small throne she had made for her rooms to topple over as she retreated toward one wall. A wall that had an escape route that she could access quickly.

“I do.” He chuckled. Where had she heard that voice? It was so familiar. “But I'm afraid that you don't remember me at all, do you, my Lady?” He shook his head and stalked forward, walking around the fallen throne as if it was not even there. “In the name of Prince Gerhard, I, Val Shadowing, place you under arrest for treason.”

“Shadowing?!” It wasn't just some random assassin or spy. It was her spy. Her assassin! The knife she hoped would be the end of Gerhard Bloodbeak once and for all. “Treason?!”

With dawning horror, she realized that Prince Gerhard knew she had been trying to kill him. Val Shadowing was smart and likely had put two and two together and realized she was trying more than one hand to kill the lordling. But what reason would he have to come for her? Why now?

“And…he exposed me!” The heat of anger swept through her, melting away the icicle of fear that was their only moment before locking her in place from inaction.

She had only one card available to her, but she now remembered this little upstart and the leverage she held over him.

“If you touch me, your mother and sister will not live to see the sunrise!” She hissed, her confidence returning somewhat as he paused momentarily in his pursuit.

“Ah, yes.” He growled. “About my mother and sister.” There was no amusement or happiness to be found within his eyes. “I am afraid a team of wonderful ponies and a few griffons from the Prince’s own army saw to their safety. We hit Gremersmich Goal in which you placed them before arriving here.” He frowned, a dark, angry expression. “My mother is not expected to survive the week.” Rage poured from his eyes like coals. “Subjected to your torturers' tender mercies.” He snarled.

That was it. With no leverage on him, she had to flee. She was no fool to think she could still talk, or in this case threaten, her way out of this. Thinking she had put enough distance between them, she bolted for the image of Boreas that had been seated within the wall. She strained to reach the stone push latch, her other hand coming up to shove the wall open as soon as her fingers touched the button.

She didn't even make it three steps. Her wings couldn’t even give her the boost she needed to put more speed into her retreat.

Val Shadowing was fast and was on her in an instant, driving his dagger through her shoulder before she could even get truly moving, pinning her to the faux wall of wood and plaster. Margaret screamed, in agony and terror both.

Val’s gloved fist came fast, and she knew only darkness.

Now, she remembered. With the remembering came the ache in her shoulder, where the blade had pierced deep. It burned like a brand. Whatever had been on that knife had kept her in a foggy daze as her forces were routed, and her city fell.

She also vaguely remembered the trip to the capital, when her body was lowered enough from the main formation that surrounded her to smack into treetops on the way. She also remembered the nights spent suspended above a fire swinging slowly, the flames nearly burning her paws, making it impossible to sleep. The beatings before first light.

They hadn't just been thorough in her breaking. They had been cruel.

Her eyes hadn't been crusted over with tears or sleep but with blood.

The serum Eberhard Lonelycall forced into her mouth and down her throat rose unbidden in her mind. They almost didn't need it by the time she had arrived, yet with nearly the singlemindedness of a laborer. He crammed the cocktail of foul liquid down her throat without so much as a by your leave. Her confessions as she was put to the question by Gabrielle had been brutalizingly honest and straightforward. The drugs had all but made her dance for them.

“Winds preserve my soul…they…they know everything!”

Margaret Rosebreast wept. Not the practiced petite cry of a hen finding out she wasn't attending the festival that year. No, this was the weeping of the condemned. Sobs wracked her body as she shook her head in angry denial.

How had it all gone so wrong?

There had been murmurs amongst the assembled nobles at her list of crimes. Now, all were silent, watching as she crumbled before them. All her plans, all her schemes for power, all of it broke around her, leaving only the husk of a once mighty and powerful hen behind.

Numbly, barely listening as Sigurd Bloodbeak began outlining her crimes in detail without anger or remorse for what was coming, she sat in her grubby, once-refined clothes and broke once more.

The only thing that stirred her from her morbid thoughts of her coming death was when the rotted severed head of Drystan was dropped upon the floor before her. The stench of decay wafting into her nose in a flood, causing her weeping to stop for a moment.

“He didn't get away either, " she thought emotionlessly. Some semblance of surprise struck her. She had thought that if anyone might escape this, it was he. While he was loyal to the core, he was not stupid. She had vainly hoped he had escaped all of this and might have been mounting a rescue for her. “Foolish.”

“Excuse me, Your Majesty.” Dorothea Von Hardwind spoke up. “I request to know who killed Drystan.”

“Baroness, this trial is not for Drystan.” The King began, but his wife placed a hand on his own and nodded. He nodded back and regarded the baroness again. “However, that can be discussed later. Once this trial is concluded.”

Margaret sighed and hiccuped. She would not even learn of who killed her most loyal pet.

Dorothea smirked but merely nodded, saying nothing. The hen’s eyes met Margaret's, and Margaret's blood boiled in indignation. Her heart remembered who she once was for a moment.

“How dare you look upon me like that?!”

If she could have in that moment, she would have strangled the impudent bitch. She and her husband had been a major thorn in her side for years, and she had wonderful daydreams of making the horrid griffon suffer once she ascended the throne. The death of the late baron at her order would never be satisfying enough.

The trial went on, and Lotti’s crimes and details were laid bare to all.

“Ruined…it's all ruined…” She moaned then, and the tears flowed once more.

“Margaret Rosebreast. How do you plead?” The end of this nightmare had finally arrived. She was not ready. No one could be ready for death.

More evidence had come. After the letters of instruction to Grendal Plumage, or Lottie Eagleheart as it was revealed, which was more than damning to her interference with the Rights of Return protocols, came witness testimony from various griffons. Including those inside her capital and the little village, she believed firmly in her hand. Val Shadowing's own testimony was just another strand in the rope that would soon end her.

The Gallows. It was an indignant way for a noble to die, often slow and painful. Her mind swirled with thoughts of how her end would come, and with lurching thought, she knew it was much worse than just death that awaited her.

By tradition, which Sigurd had already begun to employ here today, binding the wings to the point that they would not do much more than shift uncomfortably, she saw the other implement of ritual. Below the noose lay a pair of chains with large, heavy stones attached to them. When the lever was pulled, the rocks would drop, pulling her down. It was unnecessary; however, the symbolism was always the intent.

The binding of her wings replaced the ancient and cruel method of tearing them off while she was alive and awake—the only mercy that she would be given this day. The chains of iron and stones were the symbol, though, of denying her the right of flight.

“Oh, Boreas,” she thought bitterly, “they are going to feed me to the Gorge. Oh Wings of Salvation, my soul…”

The Gorge of Winds was the final destination for those deemed traitors in Griffonia. The winds there did not ride high like most in other ravines and chasms. They seemed to be sucked down into that imperceivable bottomless pit, pulling all cast into it down into the darkness, never to rise again. Her corpse was not the first noble blood to be done away with in such a way.

Margaret's flesh and feathers would not be burned. Her spirit would remain shackled to its prison. No, it would be condemned, her soul bound to the earth, never to soar under the Wings of Boreas again. No furtherance of her immortal soul to the heavens. No coming back one day by His Grace.

“I am…lost…” she moaned in a whisper.

Gabriella looked upon her with no mercy. Striding from her position beside the desk, she grabbed the once-refined noble hen by the neck and hauled her painfully to her knees.

“How do you plead?” The Queen, acting as bailiff, spat, nearly throttling her.

“Gah-gah-guilty!” She chokingly cried out. What other response could she give? What lie could she contrive to make this all go away? They had everything. They knew everything.

Another explosion of hushed murmurs rippled about the room. Her fellow nobles had been silent for most of the proceedings, watching the proceedings in stunned silence, which made all of this more haunting.

The gavel raised and slammed. Only once. The crowd went eerily silent once more.

“By the accused's confession and the evidence and testimony laid before the Urtailsplit, I proclaim you, Margaret Rosebreast, guilty of the crime of Treason, Conspiracy, Attempted Regicide, and ravaging the land of your fellow nobles in your mad pursuit of power.”

Sigurd Bloodbeak had still not smiled. Not even in his eyes.

“Margaret. Would I be glad this day has finally come for you to face justice? Yet, I, instead, find myself saddened.” His tone was still one of authority, but there was a quiet dispirit in it. “I wish you and I could have seen the same future for our nation, the same path. I wish the events preceding this had never happened.” He shook his head, weary from the hours of testimony that exposed what she had done behind the scenes to weaken his position and elevate her own. “Yet, you held too much pride. Your family, very much like mine, nearly led us to ruin over a millennia ago. You believed so strongly by right that you should have been able to claim your birthright lineage of first Kings and Queens. Much to your detriment.”

She found her voice numb and without emotion.

“And you believe your family was better, having made just as terrible mistakes?” There was no heat in her words, only tired resignation.

“Chance, Margaret. I have also spent my life attempting to undo the damage my family had wrought. Yours's never even tried. That is why they were pulled down.” His gaze hardened. “That is why Icewall suffered. Your family never learned, and you are the sad product of centuries of hate and spite.”

Standing, he looked away from her.

“I strip Margaret Rosebreast of her titles.” The gavel was not in his hand, yet she could hear two pieces of wood striking together with each pronouncement. “Of her land. I strip her family of title and possession. I strike the name of Rosebreast from the roles of nobility.” He paused, shutting his eyes for a moment before speaking further, his now open gaze resolute. “I sentence her to hang by her neck until she is dead.” Turning to look at her once more, his eyes became hard. “I condemn you to be bound by stone, flight taken from you forevermore. May your body tumble into the Gorge of which all traitors must find. May the Gorge of Winds bind you ever more to the earth, Margaret Rosebreast.”

She didn't even feel the arms that roughly grabbed her. She couldn't even struggle to her paws; instead, she was dragged and then lugged up the long steps to the Gallows.

The only thing she could do was tremble as they placed the noose around her neck. The chains were slapped around her ankles.

The last sound she ever heard was the lever being hauled over and the door snapping open below her.

Sigurd forced himself to watch as Margaret's body thrashed and convulsed. Despite the clear sound of her neck snapping, her body yet fought on.

“Tough to the end, even when your spirit is broken, Margaret.” he thought, once more remorseful that the events played out the way they had done. She had been a foe like no other in these lands, or at least one where failure to overcome her ambitions would have been disastrous. Dangerous and cunning, and he could only wish she had chosen a better path.

She had been far too confident. And the details in her personal missives and notes that she had stashed away in a hidden study in her keep had shown a hen becoming increasingly frustrated with the delays and outright blockages to her plans, such as his niece returning home.

This caused her to take chances—gambles that paid off in most cases, but the tally of winnings had to come with a cost. That cost was her overreach in attempting to kill both Gerhard and Grace all at once.

He frowned, watching as the last vestiges of struggle wracked Margaret's corpse feebly.

“Let us not forget, she knew to target the pony.”

Her attempt on Orion's own life had not been happenstance, no. Somehow, she had put things together far quicker than anyone among them dared thought possible. But it merely added another failing point in her slowly dissolving plans.

Meticulousness had always been a talent of hers, but the events of the past ten years proved that once things began to go wrong, her inflexibility to adapt, to change, proved to be her downfall.

“You tried to catch too many currents, Margaret. Never knowing how each wind would take you.”

The body stilled, and he nodded with satisfaction. Distasteful as it was, this had been important. His eyes raised from the corpse to those in attendance.

Worry, fear, and anger were writ large on the faces of the highest and the lowest of the noble class. He could guess at the course of thoughts that flashed behind those eyes.

It didn't matter. Rosebreast's attempted coup had never succeeded, and this trial proved the consequences of that course of action. Others would think twice before challenging his bloodline again.

“The Council shall remain. All others are dismissed.” Sigurd didn't shout. He didn't need to; the oval chamber's design meant that anyone could hear a whisper from his seat.

Paws shuffled, and soon enough, the lower-ranking nobles filed out, heading to the surface for a much-needed drink, most likely.

He waited, watching those ten chosen to remain, including Carthwrite, who was still flanked by the King's own guard. The monarch could see the side eye given to some. Dorothea Von Hardwind herself gave him a defiant stare when their eyes met.

That was good. He needed strong leaders who wouldn't balk at the first real threat to their authority.

Once the last lesser nobles had left, the great double doors were shut soundly in place.

“Come, we will have our deliberations in the Groberatsal. Carthwrite, you will not be privy to this meeting. Given your connections to the late Rosebreast and the still ongoing investigation of how deep into her plans you were involved, I think it best you return to your rooms.” Sigurd paused. “Under guard. I trust that is no issue.”

Carthwrite only pulled in on himself further and nodded meekly. The King snorted at that. His timidness was likely the reason he fell so easily into the hen's clutches.

He turned and left without another word, circling around the overly large throne and down a stairwell hidden behind. He would, of course, get there first, but refreshments had already been well supplied. For this conversation, they were going to need the strongest wine.

Despite its grand-sounding name, the Groberatsal was little more than a mid-sized chamber that mirrored the Hall. It had a large round table built within and plenty of chairs. Both the table and the chairs were simple, a far cry from the previous furnishings placed within.

When Sigurd assumed the throne from his late father, he looked upon that chamber with disgust. While the people starved, his family and those of other great houses built lavish homes, pursued grand projects that fed none and dressed their own meeting rooms in finery no one outside the castles and mansions would ever see but them.

“As if they could make all their troubles go away and pretend they did not exist, that it would solve the problems and make them go away.” It had been a thought he had then, as he did now, stepping into the much simpler decorated Groberatsal.

The wood used in constructing the large table, chairs, and other furnishings was still of the highest quality. But the silks that acted as drapes on the windowless walls were gone. The same went for the paintings and tapestries. In their place, we're the reminders of why they met together and argued and bargained in this chamber. Hung on the walls now were various pieces of recent history painted and sewn by artists whose hearts wept at the lack of their fellow drake and hen.

Griffons on their knees begging for alms. Griffons are tilling the soil of the land and are not getting much in return. Griffons fighting in back alleys over scraps. These were the images he wanted visitors to see when they stepped within. A reminder of their past failures and fuel to push them to find useful solutions.

Sigurd liked to think that these images helped his nation's slow turnaround, not on their own, of course. In this hall of bickering birds, they had focused on the basics of economics, agriculture, and defense. And from those nights of frustration, they had begun to move the nation back towards better winds.

Now, hopefully, in this place, they will try to find a new current upon which to soar. One charted by not another griffon, but a pony instead.

Dorothea, of course, was the first to enter the room after he had already walked to his seat. The hen had not slowed down at all in the many years he had known her.

“How long are you planning to let her stink up the place?” In this chamber, Dorothea Von Hardwind left behind the niceties she often employed in public as she crossed over the threshold. It was a rare treat to see the real her. A hard griffon who brooked no nonsense and defended her claims fiercely.

And he had almost been bound to her instead of Gabrielle.

“For a day and a night, as tradition has always allowed.” He replied calmly, watching as others filled in after her.

Lord Henry Blackpaw and Tobias Tallowbone made their way immediately to the punch bowl, knowing full well that the King would provide something a little stronger than fruit punch in the glass container.

Lady Longflight ignored refreshments and went to her seat immediately. Her beak scrunched up in disgust as she fought to straighten her skirts once she settled into the chair. She hated the seats provided and often complained about them. Yet, tonight seemed to have stilled her tongue.

Lord Ironbark fairly stomped in. Clearly, the trial had not made the shortest member of the Council happy in the slightest. However, it was unlikely that the trial itself was what truly bothered him. Judging by his expression, he was not about to leave it a mystery.

The portly griffon rounded the table, snatching a glass goblet from Blackpaw, the drake’s third, and practically marched to Sigurd.

“What gives you the right to strip a Lord or Lady's lands from her family!” He spat, taking a long pull from the glass and curling his beak in disgust.

“Ah, fear. He worries I will be flexing my authority to remove others from their position. Like himself.” He, of course, didn't say any of that, just gesturing to his seat beside his own.

“Johann. Please, all will be answered as soon as we are all settled. I'd hate to repeat myself more than once, but trust me, you will want to hear what I have to say.”

The expected staredown lasted no more than a minute, and with a huff, Johann Ironbark downed the rest of the drink, grimaced, and practically flopped into his seat with a frown.

The Drake never did like sweet drinks.

After him came Lady Lacewing, Lord Rockfeather, and Lady Heartbreast. Of the three, Lady Gisela Heartbreast may just be trouble. Both she and Margaret are close cousins. They were close cousins, and familial bonds may make her an enemy in the long run. However, she does not have any links to the plot made against him and his family by House Rosebreast, so the best he can hope for is neutral animosity.

Lady Adele Lacewing would likely be grateful for his and his son's actions, as her lands had been most ravaged by Margaret's bandit mercenaries. The death of a fellow noble, especially one responsible for the destruction of many farming communities, would likely get no sympathy from her. Winters were going to be hard for her slice of the nation.

Albert Rockfeather was a different creature altogether. He seemed indifferent to just about everything. Making him unusually difficult to bargain with or even read. His region of Griffonia, the Spine, butted up against Rosebreast's former holdings, and he chiefly focused on the iron and gems that could be found and dug up there. That seemed to be all the rocky land held. Yet he had an unusual talent for getting consumables and even luxury items in a near flood into his lands despite the general troubles the nation had.

That was likely due to the contacts in Equestria he believed no one knew about.

“Soon, that iron will be put to better use.” Sigurd thought, hopefully.

The last and youngest member was Welhelmina Von Cartflight. She had only recently joined their table in place of her father, Gunther. Despite her massive size, she was timid, and her only real talent was logistics, as had been her father.

Once everyone settled and got drinks, Longflight and Johann being provided wine, he sat down and began.

“Lords, Ladies,” Sigurd spread his hands, “I call this meeting to proper order. Considering the recent events, I can imagine that some here are uncomfortable with the recent trial of Margaret Rosebreast.” He shook his head. “Rest assured, I only acted within the law. No one else's lands and titles are on the line. Not even the absent Lord Carthwrite.”

“It must be real convenient for you, Bloodbeak.” Johann Ironbark said sourly.

“It is. Due to our previous, and likely wiser, predecessors. They understood the necessity of the law and its protections.” He would not argue, would not quibble. Just remind them of the law and its authority, not his own personal power. “However, I think our forebears may have neglected our people.”

That comment got sharp looks from the assembled Lords and Ladies.

“I'll explain in good time. First,” he said, already placing a leather envelope before himself. Flipping it open, he gestured to Albert. “Lord Rockfeather, as is due to your proximity to Icewall, I would ask you to take charge of its management for the time being.”

Nods all around. Everyone had expected this, even Rockfeather. Considering his lands and territory, only he truly understood what might be best for the suddenly leaderless land. He gave a simple shrug in acquiescence. Sigurd nodded gratefully.

“In the meantime, I would ask the Council to help locate and raise up a new Steward to those lands with all possible speed. While the population is not large, its lands are vast and hard to manage from such a distance as Lord Rockfeather’s capital shall allow.”

That did get some surprised looks. Adele gave him a shrewd look before slowly responding.

“In…accordance to the law…you have the right to appoint any family you see fit to replace the Rosebreast line. Why ask us? I had expected you to grant the lands to your niece.” She paused, clearly wanting to say something else, yet she simply shook her head. “So again, why are you seeking our involvement?”

Sigurd interlaces his fingers together, carefully examining the talons that topped them. This was the beginning of the change these rules the griffons may object to. Though less onerous than what was to come, it would be his first indication of how much of a fight he was to have to implement his changes.

“This is true.” He forced a small chuckle. “But as of right now, how many of you believe my claims? No, I don't need a response from you. Just understand that I know some do doubt, no matter the evidence.” Shaking his head, he went on. “I wish for us all to decide because many have grown to distrust my family. Our failings are ones I have worked hard to live down, yet they still stain the tail feathers. No, my friends, I want us all to be invested in their success.” He smirked, one corner of his beak rising. “And I imagine some would want something out of the deal. Besides, right now, my Grace Fairheart is working hard to secure her lands in full.” It was against custom but not unexpected, and the sooner the lands of Seacrest were stabilized under proper rule, the sooner industry could begin booming under her guidance.

“I am surprised at you, Sigurd.” Johann said brusquely. “I had believed you would jump at the chance of securing more power for yourself. To leave it up to us, well, that is a far change from your father's day.” The King could only nod at that. His father had been a deceitful bastard who had manipulated more than nobles to keep his power.

“I am not my father, Johann.” He smiled, though he didn't feel it in his heart. “I will not leave that legacy behind, no matter the cause or reason.” Clapping his hands together. “Now, are we all in agreement that Lord Rockfeather will take charge of Icewall while we seek a worthy heir to those lands?”

A chorus of “ayes” from all assembled. With Margaret dead, Grace currently in Seacrest amassing her authority, and Carthwrite on house arrest; they just barely had the required number to cast that vote.

“Excellent. Now, onto other matters.” Dorothea Von Hardwind’s question from the trial loomed large on the list of subjects they would discuss here tonight, so he figured he probably should tackle that one first. “Dorothea, you asked who killed Drystan. May I inquire as to why that is something you found important?”

The Lady Hardwind was not a hen to be backed into a corner, and such was the case here. Her chin raised, she answered.

“Because I suspect your niece’s mission to Aviary was a success. I also suspect that Margaret had realized what was happening and sought to stop it.” She pulled a folded letter from a sleeve and raised it for everyone to see. “An agent that I will keep nameless reported a great battle was waged at the now fortified gates of Aviary.” He nodded, and the suspicious looks directed at him became hard. Even Albert was perturbed by the revelation. “I believe you have answers to what I seek.”

Sigurd had expected this. Entering an alliance with this hen had been galling, but in order for his niece to succeed, he needed someone else to act in his stead. Orion's involvement with her gave no other option, and it had actually turned into a boon. If one rigged with hookfish.

“Yes, a battle was fought and won at Aviary. A mercenary band of unicorn soldiers tried to take the town and slaughter all within.” He frowned. “At the same time, Drystan attempted to infiltrate the town at the behest of his mistress and kill Grace Fairheart and Orion Falls. Both of whom were inside the village at the time.”

Gasps rippled around the conference table, and everyone started shouting at once.

Dorothea remained silent, smirking.

“You believe you have the upper hand here, Dorothea. Yet I fear you don't have the full picture.”

Outrage condemnation exploded from the drakes of the room, directed at Equestria and her nation's head. The hens, those not in the know at least, cried for retribution against the Equestrian people themselves.

Sigurd let them tire themselves out, remaining locked on Lady Hardwind, who was beginning to frown. She likely expected him to gain control of the matter and make excuses immediately. When he did not, her body tone shifted.

Once everyone had a chance to calm down, they, too, noticed the tension between Hardwind and Bloodbeak.

“Dorothea.” He said simply. Baiting her to act first.

“You…know something.” She said, now alarmed.

“I know that despite their origins, they did not belong to Equestria despite the likelihood of many of the mercenary forces troops being born there. No. From all gathered evidence. This truly was a mercenary force in the purest sense.”

“Yet?”

“Only one missive was found in the wreckage of their camp. A missive that points to the Church of Sol’s involvement with the group.” Beaks tightened in anger.

“Are you saying the Church is responsible?”

“I am saying the Church had their own reasons and motivations outside of Equestria's control. There were unicorns found working with the bandits my son was hunting as well. Providing logistical support from what we had gathered. But there was an incident when First Lieutenant Shining Armor found Gerhard.”

“This is an outrage!” Johann jumped to his paws, shaking a fist in the air. “That blighted church should be brought to its knees, and the lot of them should be hung!”

Sigurd was inclined to agree with the drake, considering what he had learned and told about the events that transpired in the ancient fortress of Bulwark. He was more than furious to learn of the pony's involvement himself.

Dorothea, herself, was appalled to learn just how far that particular group of ponies was willing to go in order to secure victory or escape. He could see it on her face as he laid out the incident with the Fiend that had been summoned. Eyewitness testimony of Val Shadowing and his team all but confirmed it. This wasn't a game of jockeying for power anymore, and it must have dawned on her just how close he had been to losing his son.

“To bring something like that…into Griffonia…” Muttered Adele Lacewing. “We are fortunate that due to Orion’s negligence in obtaining permission prompted that…prompted Celestia to send in Shining Armor and his force when she did.”

“Even if the intent had never been to help us.”

The unspoken words lingered in the room. Had Celestia not sent her forces, small as it was, and the ponies in that tower been cornered in some way, then odds were the Creature would have ravaged his son's army and the countryside before whatever materials used to bring it forth had run out.

“My friends,” Sigurd said after a moment of allowing the information to set in, “I wish we could bring these letters found at both Castle Bulwark and Aviary to a tribunal between nations.” He shook his head. “However, I believe that would be a mistake. One that may expose someone to a danger that we must protect at all cost in this instance.”

All eyes fell on him, and he sighed. The moment of revelation of just what went down in Aviary had come. He knocked upon the table three times, and Eberhard Lonelycall walked in with Gerhard behind. Between the two was a crate that both struggled to carry.

The King stood and moved his chair to the wall, making a space for Eber and his son to lift the box and place it on the table. With a bow, both left without a word.

“Dorothea, to finally get to your question of who killed Drystan,” Sigurd Bloodbeak gripped the lid and ripped it off casually. The nails came out of the top with a squeal, making the others wince but not look away. Setting the lid aside, he reached into the straw and fished out an ingot of metal. “Is the same one who taught our smiths in Aviary how to forge this.” Setting the ingot along with several others on the table, he smiled and stepped back. “Orion Falls, with the help of the late Gilda Broadwing, brought the bastard down. Gilda bought him scant time with her life, but that hen did her duty, and I plan to reward her family, though I doubt any coin will replace the fine griffon they had lost.”

Shock. Every Lord and Lady of Griffonia sat rigid. All for various reasons as they stared at the steel bars sitting casually upon the table.

“Take flight while the wind rises under your wings.” He mentally admonished himself. It was best not to let this group get their wits about them.

“Before you may ask. No. Orion was never an agent of mine. Or anyone in this nation.” He chuckled. “Of all the reasons that brought him and made him divulge his knowledge to us, it was the simple desire of doing the right thing, as he has told Eberhard and my niece.” He shook his head. “It seems that's what it has always been about, though even now, I find it difficult to believe.”

“That…pony? Just...just gave us the knowledge to create steel?!” Henry Blackpaw said in a strangled squeak. He hated public speaking, or speaking much at all, as his voice had never matched his visage.

Sigurd chuckled.

“I still find trouble believing it myself.” He said, pushing one ingot to the Lord. Henry picked it up with shaking fingers and traced the emblem with a claw.

“It is real?” He whispered.

As a nation of rulers and individually, they had tried for years to obtain somehow the knowledge to create their own steel once again. Every avenue was blocked. Every source dried up. Even when they believed they had gotten a recipe in their claws, it was found just to be nonsense.

It was obvious that someone out there was moving against them. Celestia had always been one easily blamed, but it made no sense considering other nations not within her control supposedly were unable to help. Yet, time and time again, their efforts had failed. This had gone on for generations.

“Now…now I believe we know who has been blocking us from our own birthright.” The question remained as to why.

“The Church of Sol,” Dorothea began, “I assume we can all acknowledge they are somehow responsible.” He nodded.

“Them and their precursors.” He added.

“And we cannot expose them without exposing the pony who put his life on the line to help us. If…if it is known what events occurred in Aviary, then any tribunal of nations we call for will learn of his involvement. Thus jeopardizing his life.”

“Yes,” Sigurd said simply.

“Heh. What do we care for one pone.” Johann asked into the silence that followed. “Justice is at hand! We can finally bring destruction to that farce of a religion and be the better for it!” This has been what the King of Griffonia was afraid was going to happen. “Why not just-”

“Have you no honor?” Cut in Albert Rockfeather, his quiet tone cutting in like a knife.

“Wha..what?!” Lord Ironbark bristled, his neck feathers ruffling angrily out of his tight collar.

“You do realize that this…pony will be facing treason and possible death, yes?” He had somehow gotten his hands on one of the ingots and was regarding it with appreciation. “Should we expose him, we potentially lose out on a source of information, not to mention what knowledge he may possess and be willing to share.” He set the bar down and, for the first time in history that Sigurd knew of, gave Johann Ironbark such a hard look that the portly griffon gulped.

Once he was satisfied that he had cowed his fellow noble sufficiently enough, his eyes softened and swept to Sigurd’s own. “I assume we cannot just suddenly begin mass producing steel as a product.”

Sigurd nodded at that, happy to see that another had understood the larger issue.

“Correct. If we were to start churning out steel suddenly, the pony could still face questions that I'm not certain he could navigate successfully. However,” the King smiled, “that does not prevent us from building the infrastructure to meet demand; perhaps that would be best. Dissemination of our metal will have to be quick. Having everything in place before then would make the process that much quicker.”

“How long do you propose we wait?” Adele asked.

“No more than three years. That should be sufficient time for us to lay…yes, Welhelmina?” The tall hen dressed in a pleated gown of gray-green cotton looked like she was going to explode.

“Oh!” She gasped, surprised at being called on. “I…ah…well, this is embarrassing. But…I may just have a way to hide our activities from prying eyes.” She finished, ducking her beak down as everyone else stared at her.

Wilhelmina Von Cartflight was often the quiet sort. Despite Sigurd's attempts to include the hen in their discussions, she often played the role of a mute and just watched on, hopefully learning from those more experienced.

“Oh?” Dorothea said in surprise. “Do tell…Baroness.” She stumbled over, almost calling the hen what everyone at the table viewed her as. A fledgling.

“Well, as you know, my family has specialized in shipping for years. From carts to ships, you name it.” She slowed down awkwardly, noticing the impatient looks she was getting at what was obviously a rehearsed speech. “Sorry. Ah…we have an island in Lake Groundbeak. We have…well…” The flustered griffon faltered.

“We are well aware of the contraband your family has peddled in for centuries, Wilhelmina.” Sigurd remarked dryly. He could see now why she rarely said anything. She was a terrible liar.

“Oh. Oh!” Her eyes grew as big as saucers. “Well, I…uh…”

“Wilhelmina, if neither I nor anyone else in this chamber has stopped your family from doing so, do you think it matters now? Out with it.” He said, exasperated.

“Ah…yes, I…suppose that's true.” She wilted at his heated glare a bit. “What I mean to say is many of the caves on the island are completely dry! We go there so much to store our goods, but due to the economy being what it is, even the contraband doesn't take up too much space!” She practically squeaked at the end.

“Are you offering your contraband caves to the crown?” He asked, mildly surprised.

“Yes!” She licked her beak, eyes darting. “We will only take a shipping fee. Storage will be free of charge.” That was a surprise that must have shown on all of their faces, for she flushed indignantly. “I-I want…our nation to ah…be free too!”

Sigurd couldn't help the smile that spread across his own beak. Patriotism. This is what he had hoped for, patriotism for the nation they were born into.

“I believe that can be arranged, Lady Von Cartflight.”

The hen beamed as the others began talking amongst themselves. Johann seemed soured, but even as he and Lady Lacewing argued over the merits of staying quiet about Orion's involvement in return for such a powerful industry, one could easily see that the drake was no dullard. Even he could see the merits of having such a powerful asset from among the ponies.

While they were distracted, Sigurd dug into the crate once more and pulled several leather-bound notebooks. He walked around the room, handing them out.

“One of the things Orion discussed with Master Lonelycall was the need for information distribution. Within these pages is not only the recipe for steel and the construction of forges but also a complete list of agriculture techniques and methods that can be used depending on the region. Orion thought it best that the information on steel should be widely taught. In classes, no less. That way, what happened in the past would be very difficult to occur again.”

The details surrounding the loss of steel centuries ago were muddled. No one truly knew how it had happened. Just one day, griffons were unable to remember the quantity of the ingredients or the temperature required from heat; none of it could be recalled. Panic set in only when it was discovered that all their notes, guarded or otherwise, were simply gone—as if someone had just snatched the knowledge from their minds and homes.

“What does he suggest?” Lord Rockfeather asked, opening the notes and beginning to read.

“Heh, he says if we have to, write in on cave walls, make pillars of stone to stand in forests. Burying it in old fortresses and villages that had not seen a soul in centuries.” He shook his head, smiling as he handed Tobias Tallowbone the last envelope. “He said tell it to the poor and the rich alike.”

“Prudent.” Albert said quietly. “He is wiser than I believed for a fifteen-year-old colt.”

“He also possesses a mean streak I don't often see outside of a griffon with a perpetually sour beak.” Muttered Dorothea.

Adele frowned. “You've had contact with this pony.”

“I have.” Lady Hardwind said dryly. Placing the leather folder aside. “Had the displeasure of being on the receiving end of ill-treatment from him, though I cannot say I did not invite it.”

Sigurd was surprised. Finding out that she had tried to kill him had been one thing. Yet he had never learned how the pony had managed to get out of that attempt on his life. But a niggling worm of fear worked its way into his belly.

“He…made a spell to blind and deafen your guard?” Henry Blackpaw said incredulously. He was more than a bit tipsy now, having gone back to the punch bowl several times this evening.

“Yes, and developed a spell to protect himself from the effects.” Dorothea shook her head wonderingly. “Very smart, that one.”

“Why attempt to kill him?” Lord Rockfeather asked, eyes shrewdly watching her.

The King's stomach dropped. “If she tells them…”

“Truthfully? I thought he was a spy, and I had plans to wring out the truth from him. Instead,” she chuckled, and Sigurd's bowels righted themselves, “he offered me a deal.” Her eyes swept to him. “I assume I am still getting a discovery fee in all this?”

“Damnation.” She had him over a rock there. At the very least, he owed it to her for keeping her beak silent on what she knew of the pony.

“Yes. You helping my niece at his behest will afford you a larger cut of the profits once we begin selling our steel to the world once more.” She nodded graciously, but the shark-like smile on her face had more than a few of her fellow nobles giving her shrewd looks.

Dorothea Von Hardwind had just moved ever so slightly higher in the power hierarchy.

“I have a question,” Tobias asked. His eyes were on the notes before him, but his ears were standing high. “What did Ironblood want?”

Sigurd inwardly groaned. He had been hoping to avoid that subject, as its ramifications on this meeting were rather large. Yet, he could not deny that the timing couldn't be better considering what had been discussed already.

“Simply put, Tobias. He wanted to give us the secrets to steel.” He said, causing the room to explode. “My friends! Please! Let me explain.”

Johann didn't give him the chance. “He was willing to give us steel, and you want to protect the pony!? Don't you think that was important for us to know?!”

Adele Lacewing was right behind him. “Ironblood’s deal would have accelerated the timetable for the release of our steel production! Why, by the Winds, did you not take that deal instead?!”

Everyone had their own complaint, much the same as the first two, yet it was three that said nothing at all that he couldn't help but be relieved at.

“I imagine that Ironblood likely had some…conditions for his gift.” Albert’s voice cut through the noise of his fellow nobles. Pulling their tirade up short.

“What do you mean?” Henry asked, confused.

“I think we should let the King inform us of that.” He gestured to Sigurd neutrally.

“Well…yes. There were conditions.” Conditions were so onerous that there was no way he would ever get his fellow griffons to acquiesce to them, no matter how he worded it.

Sigurd Bloodbeak Fairheart watched on, sweat matting his fur at the base of his back, making his undershirt cling uncomfortably to him. But he could not shift in his throne, nor could he reach around and scratch there for relief. It was maddening.

The reason for his inability to adjust himself was that he was currently pacing back and forth before him—more like stalking.

Emperor Ironblood. The Emperor of Minos, Guardian of the Gate, Watcher of the Labyrinth, was full of energy as his gaze swept Sigurd's straight-backed troops standing as honor guard about the hall. His eyes looked for details only the old bull could see and nodded with approval at what he was finding.

There was a strange collar around his neck, clearly a recreation of some ancient trinket, but one that made no sense. It hung about his throat like a shackle, clinking quietly against the plate steel bound across his chest.

Rather than dressing like an emperor, the bull wore only armor, plated and a dull gray. Unrefined, unpolished. As if he expected to go into combat at any time.

His vigor was a bit of a surprise, considering the minotaur was purported to be over nine hundred years old, though if you were to look at the slightly graying Minotaur, you might mistake him for being in his middle years of a hundred and ten. Tall, broad across the shoulders like an oak, he was an imposing figure that nearly matched Princess Celestia herself in presence alone. He was the epitome of power.

His arrival has been a whirlwind. When the reports had first come in that his ships, airships no less, were no more than five hours out, it was a scramble for Sigurd and his bride to get everything into place for a welcoming audience. When the great lumbering ships had flown overhead in a mere four hours, he realized two things.

Ironblood had been courteous in allowing him time to prepare, and those vessels that plowed wind and cloud alike were much faster than anything Equestria had to offer.

Once the Emperor and his courtiers had disembarked on the little used airship field that had been rarely maintained, the old bull had practically bowled his way into the King's audience chamber inside the castle keep. Bypassing all protocols.

Now that he was here, he was almost languid in his brief conversation. Touching on topics of little interest. Then he had gone silent, and the feathers on Sigurd's neck were raised.

He had known this wasn't a social call. The last time Ironblood had been outside of Minos, some six hundred years ago, his ancestors were still trying to keep their own crumbling empire together.

Now, with the flurry of activity from emissaries dispatched all over the known world, he had made a personal visit to Griffonia himself.

Trade deals, by all accounts were being discussed at length, and Sigurd had thought no such opportunity would come for his people as they were barely surviving as it was. What little export they did have, mostly peppers and furs, was of little interest to the mighty yet secluded nation.

“Sigurd, I know you are aware this is not a social call.” His voice boomed, though it appeared he had taken efforts to restrain his speech. The bull’s words just naturally seemed to sound like he was shouting. Perhaps that was due to age and time on the throne. Celestia often had a quality similar to that of her tongue.

“I had surmised that, yes, Emperor Ironblood.” Unfortunately, due to the power dynamic between the pair, he was placed begrudgingly beneath. “I had also assumed you would get to the reason for your strange arrival to my lands when you were ready.” Ironblood gave a smirk at that remark and strode back to the middle of the chamber.

“The reports about you are accurate. I'm pleased to find that to be true.” Sigurd kept his face smooth and impassive. Other nations had spies, of course, even if Equestria’s was laughably ineffective in their careers. The smirk broadened into a grin. “No nonsense, but straight to the point. Also,” he raised a thick finger, “remarkably well informed. A very sound investment, marrying Gabrielle Fairheart, Sigurd. Her family's network is one of the best in the world, from what I've been told.”

He knew flattery would not work on him if he were as knowledgeable of his activities as he appeared to be. So why go through the effort? To inform him that he knew, that his network of agents was just as good, if not better.

His beak did not tighten in agitation no matter how much this bullish arse wanted to get a rise out of him. He would not react.

“Hmm, you can also keep that famous Bloodbeak temper in check. I'll have the clerks file that away later.” He chuckled. A dangerous sound coming from a walking mountain of muscle. “I'll get right to the point. My goal,” he gave a rueful grin, “is the dissolvement of the Equestrian Empire.” He stated simply.

“As far as I'm aware, Emperor Ironblood, Equestria is one nation isolated to this one continent—” he began but was interrupted.

“On paper and lines of the map, yes, yes.” He waved a hand dismissively. “We both know that harpy has her hooks into pretty much every nation with whorses. That effectively means an empire without the public knowledgeable of the subtle issue. I want to break that.”

Sigurd paused and considered the old bull.

“If…you were to do that…what? " The urge to lick his beak nervously almost overwhelmed his self-control. What would be our role?” Outright refusing was out of the question. Stories told that Ironblood of the Minos had a tendency to react first and worry later. “What would be the benefit?”

“For you, Sigurd? Why, the return of secrets long cherished by your people, of course.” A cruel twist to his lips made the drake's stomach want to curl in on itself. “Steel.” His chuckle rang out. “It's amazing that the Sun Bitch has managed to keep your people in the dark for as long as she's had. I will give you steel, Bloodbeak. In exchange, I need soldiers. I need an army. Many armies, but yours is far more important. Your nation shall fall like a hammer upon that monster's domain armed with the best armor and blades anyone can afford.”

“This does not sound like you rejected him,” Dorothea said, tapping her beak and giving him an odd look.

Sigurd shook his head, weary from even remembering that tense moment.

“One does not reject Emperor Ironblood to his face, Dorothea. I requested time to consider his offer.” He frowned. “The strangeness came from how easily he accepted.”

“I assume he then simply flew away?” Rockfeather’s question got a swift nod. “How long did he give you to consider?”

“Eight years. Said he would only be ready by then. I am unsure of what that may mean. I have Gabrielle and her agents looking into it.” The King of Griffons shuddered visibly. “I have only read about him, but he was more than imposing. There was a…madness there I could detect but not understand.”

“Perhaps his age is finally catching up to him.” Johann Ironbark said sourly. “But why not just accept his offer? Soldiers for our due once again. Sounds like a fine-”

“Of all the short-sighted ideas I've ever heard pour out of your mouth, Johann!” Snapped Adele, interrupting the portly drake. “Listen, fool! If the King had acquiesced to his deal, our territories, no, our nation itself, would have just become a vassal state to his Empire.” Johann had attempted to argue, opening his beak several times to fire back, but upon mention of the consequences of such a deal, he snapped his mouth shut and scowled.

Sigurd nearly breathed a sigh of relief. If one had seen the implication, that meant others did too. Henry, despite his intoxication, was also frowning into his goblet.

Welhelmia was also looking a little glum. “This is not easy to mark a solid path through. If we don't accept his offer, he may come back with more than a couple of airships.”

“Yes.” Dorothea nodded, a pleased look on her face. “Yet, I somehow think it won't matter.”

The King kept his face impassive and nodded for her to continue.

“By the time he does expect a response, we will have already been in full production. Judging by these notes,” she tapped the sheaf of papers in front of her, “our food production should more than meet our people's needs.” Her pleased smile turned predatory. “Don't think I haven't noticed the timing of your schedule, your Majesty. Orion Falls should be graduated by then and, supposedly, out of harm's way when we begin.”

“True, but it is also necessary.” He stood. “Eberhard, please come in here.”

The reedy little secretary drake ducked in a flash, quietly shutting the door behind him.

“My Lord.” He bowed.

“Eber, tell them.”

“Ah, yes.” He gave another short bow to the nobles present, all who were now watching him with curiosity. “We have two actions that must begin at once. First, a purging of the foreign soldiers currently within our borders. Any chance that they may discover the truth must be eliminated quickly.” Nods. “The second is the reformation of our government.”

Author's Note

No Twilight just yet. I know a few of you are only her for the autistic purple spaz. But like the dragons, she is coming.

So, the end of Rosebitch hath finally arrived. I hope I injected a bit of the cultural standards the Griffon's have in this world I have created. If there are any questions, go ahead and leave 'em down at the bottom. Starting this week I will begin to respond to comments again. This whole month has been a bit busy for me.

You all have a wonderful week, and I'll see you in the comments.

Thanks for reading!

Peace!