Two years after Prince Heiko witnessed the death of his father during the 91st Battle of Tyton, and subsequently, the defeat of his kingdom, he was sent to the gates of the victor, armed with nothing but empty words and a command from his elder brother to form a treaty of peace. 

Two years after General Celestino Adesso released the arrow that felled the great king of Simo, he is presented with the youngest of his sons. Though barely a man at seventeen summers, the prince was far from wet behind the ears. In fact, his tactful yet brazen form of statecraft vaulted him far beyond his years. Coupled with his draconian mannerisms, and a knack for callous pleasure, it was only a matter of time before Celestino caught a whiff of something sinister. 

But Prince Heiko was no fool. He was betting heavily on that sharp nose. He wanted a sense of dubiety to gnaw at the general. He needed to create mistrust in his elder brother in order to build credence in himself. Because he knew of Celestino Adesso, and of the illustrious king he served. He knew they wouldn't trust him over his elder brother any more than they would trust a raincloud to bring sun. He knew that to those men, he wasn't honorable, and because of that, he was forced to play the games he was known for. The ones that conspired in the dead of night, the ones that spoke no words but shifted kingdoms. The ones that could obtain the allegiance of General Celestino. Little did the young prince know, however, allegiance was not all he would obtain. But no matter how much Heiko wanted to offer the man what he desired, he could not - not while bound to the gods. 

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It was another hour or so after their conversation lulled, that footsteps sounded in the back hall of the kitchen - and when he appeared at the threshold, there was a moment in which Cele did not recognize the young, statuesque prince. 


He cast a quick and effective gaze over the room, before finding Cele, squatting on the stool and bound like a pig. 


“Prince Heiko.” The general offered a wave with his tied wrists. 


“I see my men have bound you like an unruly cur.” 


He made his way to the general and pulled a knife from his belt before seizing the general’s wrists in his cold fingers. He looked wildly divergent from the Simonese prince that he had seen in an Ilysian chiton not a week ago, especially when he so deftly slid the blade between Cele’s hands - without a single catch or nick - and gave a single upward yank, severing the rough hemp. 


“My lord, he’s Ilysian,” Kaifin reminded cautiously. 


His master turned to him, eyes wide. “He is?” 


Temperate Penumbras - Part 1