Ricard Pafaheim was adjusting his saddle with practiced hands. Despite being well into his ninth decade, he had never required a squire for such mundane tasks, save perhaps when donning the more intricate suits of armor. His son, Helmos Pafaheim -- whose dark, raven-hued hair fell in a careless cascade upon broad shoulders -- was likewise engaged in the readying of his own accoutrements. Triumphant Fort stood proudly at the heart of Pafaheim City, less than eleven hundred yards from Cynthia's imposing main gate. Father and son worked in companionable silence, each attending to his own preparations.

  "It still strikes me," Helmos murmured, more to himself than his sire, "that there was little true need to integrate our entire levy into the Cynthian Crown's standing army."

  The old man's face creased in a smile, his cropped white beard quivering slightly. "I perceive no meaningful distinction," he replied mildly. "We maintain command just as before. Cass!" he called to a youth staggering past under a burden of warhammers. "This bridle's sizing is incorrect. Fetch me one with greater slack."

  "Yes, my lord." The boy released his grip, sending the weapons clattering to the flagstones. "But... where might I find one?"

  The Duke of Pafaheim regarded the boy, amused by his earnest bewilderment, and released a hearty chuckle. "Ah, no matter. Some tasks are simply better seen to with one's own hands," he declared, tossing the ill-fitting bridle aside. "Continue with your duties. I shall retrieve it myself."

  "Yes, my lord." Cass stooped again to collect the warhammers that outweighed him considerably.

  "Simply inquire with Slankai, the armory master," Helmos instructed the lad. "Leave those implements where they lie."

  The boy glanced between father and son, then nodded and scurried away. "You've robbed me of a fine excuse to stretch these old bones, lad," the elder Pafaheim grumbled good-naturedly, nudging a stray piece of harness with his boot before finding a low stool and easing himself onto it. "At your venerable age, one might expect a reduction in physical exertion rather than an increase." Helmos Pafaheim gathered the abandoned weaponry and deposited it into a nearby iron barrel. "Father," he ventured, "do you not find that our behavior more closely resembles that of common farmers than nobility?"

  "In what manner?"

  "Performing all manner of tasks with our own hands." Helmos's lips tightened thoughtfully.

  The Duke's robust laughter rang out once more. "You continue to harbor resentment regarding my transferal of our forces to the queen." His son offered no contradiction. "In practical terms, we retain battlefield command. Her Majesty promptly returned operational authority to me."

  "Then for what purpose did you incorporate them into House Cynthia's military structure?" Helmos drew up a stool and positioned himself opposite his father—a long-established ritual of their private discussions. "They now march beneath royal standards, emblazoned with the Cynthian Bobtail Lion rather than our ancestral snow leopard."

  "House Cynthia constitutes the royal lineage, the legitimate ruling power of this realm, and our rightful sovereign. Therefore, when referring to them, I would prefer you employ the term 'the Crown'—such is the respect due." Helmos responded with a noncommittal shrug. The duke continued, "Furthermore, perhaps you might recall who originally bore the lion as their heraldic emblem?"

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "Our house did."

  "Indeed. During the era when House Pafaheim dwelled within the Blessedwood—no, more northerly still—amid the Terras Ice Wastes beyond the Greatwood Taiga. We too have experienced degradation and displacement."

  "I grant you, the Argonians gave us shelter when Alaxia itself was but a fading memory. And true, they led our people south. But Father, you must also recall that it was our swords, the strength of our House, that scoured these lands clean of the Ertotos barbarians, those towering, muscle-bound brutes who held sway here--"

  "We assisted the Argonians in their victory," he interjected firmly. "And so, when they founded House Cynthia and chose the Bobtail Lion for their sigil, our ancestors, without a moment's hesitation, relinquished our own ancient claim to it, adopting a new crest in its stead. To repay a debt of honor, to remember a kindness received -- that, my son, has been the guiding tenet of our House down through all the ages."

  "Your expressions of indebtedness toward Cynthia—the Crown—have surely exceeded all reasonable measures, surpassing even the comprehension of most observers, myself included."

  "That merely illustrates the limitations of your worldview." Ricard issued a contemplative grunt. "Legend speaks of a feline that dedicates its entire existence to repaying kindness. Though I cannot aspire to such heights, I deeply admire the sentiment."

  "Such behavior borders on foolishness. Or perhaps mere na?veté."

  "Hmm. Each individual may interpret as they see fit." The duke rose, accepting the fresh bridle from Cass's return. "I harbor no desire for your perspective to mirror my own. Thank you, young man. Resume your duties."

  "I only wish to understand you, Father," Helmos said, the sudden, raw earnestness in his voice catching Ricard slightly off guard. "I seek to understand your thought processes, your decision-making methodology. You consistently make determinations that command respect—from others, I mean. I desire to know how one arrives at decisions befitting a true lord."

  Ricard Pafaheim contemplated this request before offering his characteristic subtle smile. "Such wisdom defies simple articulation, Helmos. It derives from your daily observations, my son—and subsequently transforming those observations into personal experience. One principle, however, remains immutable: you must consider the maximum possible factors, then anticipate the widest array of potential consequences."

  "Abstract counsel offers neither illumination nor persuasion. I require greater specificity, Ricard."

  "Then let us employ the very situation that continues to trouble you as our illustration." The duke methodically examined the saddle's security. "King Salt perishes, elevating Queen Claire to the throne. A queen previously uninitiated in statecraft must transform into a genuine monarch—a substantial undertaking. Then, as misfortune would have it, Godman forces advance northward, establishing positions outside Cynthia's walls. At this critical juncture, I transferred my military assets to the queen's authority—simultaneously demonstrating unwavering loyalty and alleviating her considerable anxiety. Given our position as the primary defensive line, and having demonstrated our fidelity to a sovereign we had yet to encounter personally, it was inevitable that command would revert to us. Thus, our sole sacrifice was the replacement of the snow leopard on our banners with the bobtail lion."

  "You articulate this with certainty, yet whether events unfold according to your expectations remains undetermined," Helmos Pafaheim countered. "These arrangements were orchestrated entirely through the Archmage. Hamilton may be excessively occupied to properly brief the queen on these matters. Should that prove true, your meticulous strategy amounts to nothing."

  "Such matters lie beyond my sphere of influence," the duke remarked, affectionately patting his mount's flank. "I can only implement what I judge to be the optimal course of action. The subsequent decisions of Hamilton, the queen, or indeed you, my son—none fall within my control. Life provides no immutable script. More frequently than not, circumstances evolve beyond our capacity to direct them."

  Helmos Pafaheim offered no verbal response, acknowledging his father's wisdom with a thoughtful nod.