Five days. It had been scarcely five days since the wedding of the two great nations to mark the end of the days of war. Scarcely five days since the heir of Griswold, the newly crowned King and groom had met a gruesome end. Five days that the land of Gongor, home to Pelta Lunata and Griswold, had tasted peace. It was an occasion that the two families, driven by the weariness of death, destruction and protracted warfare, had staggered toward with clenched teeth to hide their bitterness. It had taken thousands of deaths, hundreds of towns and villages, the leveling of a dozen cities and farmsteads, starvation and disease to push the feuding families to this point. Four generations of Lannisters and Vilenthropes saw war, each teeming with a sense of rivalry that became warped hideously by jealousy and violence. The suffering of the common folk seemed but an excuse for the nations to abide their time to recover and rebuild their power. But even if it was such a farce as that, the common folk had seen it and sought for it since word of the treaty and marriage had caught wind. It was seen by Lannister and Vilenthrope factions, by Griswoldian and Peltian patriots, by soldiers and civilians alike as a reprieve from the fighting, a breath of fresh air. But it was an unstable one. Blood runs deep and the taint of the hatred the families felt towards each other were renowned across all of Gaea. The treaty was a hasty bandage applied to a festering wound, and its permanence was dependent solely on the families's resolve to hold their blood lust in check in order to regain their strength to fight once more. And the assassination of Kristropher Vilenthrope, heir to Griswold and herald of those five days of peace, was threatening to tear it all apart.

Word of his death had already begun to spread. Despite the lengths that King Ascoth of Hagar had taken to secure the Citadel, it did not stop the stray common folk who lingered around the gates from knowing. The celebrations that were to last the entire week had ended in armored silence and tension halfway through and the fleeing of nobles from the castle only worsened it. Quick feet would bring the word shouting to others as the nobles scurried from the Castle like frightened mice. The feeling of celebration was undercut by the tension of the nobles, so thick that it seeped from them and infected the citizens. Late King Kristopher was dead at the hand of Pelta Lunata's Cedric Lowell, poisoned at his wedding, some said. Cedric, in a fit of jealousy, killed Kristopher while in their nuptial bed, some said. He was caught before he could kill Princess Hilde. Some said that even the princess was manipulating Cedric to assassinate Kristopher. It didn't quite matter the disagreements in the rumors, but they all agreed on two things. Kristopher Vilenthrope was dead. Cedric Lowell, to-be-commander of the Peltian army, was the culprit.

None of the commoners knew what was to be done with the boy. No more word came from the Ascoth Castle as Hagar's King and his men worked diligently to keep the entire affair under wraps. The commoners of the nation of Hagar whispered speculations. The Griswoldians muttered of hate and outrage under their breaths and in the confines of their homes as they threw paranoid glances over their shoulders. The Peltians rode back to their homes as hard as they could. To them, war was to break loose once more. To them, Pelta Lunata had struck first and were retreating back to their nation, preparing for retaliation. To them, Griswold was the fool, to have been unable to see through the farce and to have unknowingly offered their cheek to the enemy.

The world was coming to an end it seemed. And no one seemed to know what really happened. Arthur Lowell and his wife, Cornelia, were the only ones to have stayed behind at the Castle where their son was incarcerated. The rest had already left the castle, fled back home. All these thoughts plagued the Peltian commander, at conflict with the fierce hope that his son was innocent. His legs ached from the constant pacing within the guest chambers he and his wife shared within the castle, and he had sat himself down on a chair, face buried in his hands. If he had been anyone else, he would have immediately believed that Cedric was the culprit. He would have wanted to believe it, that the crime Cedric had committed was one out of passion and not something more devious. He would have been for the death of Cedric if it would conciliate the Griswoldians and maintain the treaty. But he was Arthur Lowell, father to the culprit who killed the late king. And he could not fight the paternal feeling that his son, his child was innocent. His son's wails only reinforced it.

Oh how Cedric had roared when Arthur and Cornelia were allowed to visit. Cedric's fine clothes, wrinkled and reeking of wine from the night of the celebration were sullied by the filth in Hagar's dungeons. His fair golden hair was disheveled with bits of the straw that lined his cell sticking out between the strands. His face was drawn with weariness, his eyes like that of a mad man. Tears streaked down his dirtied face, pleading and begging. It had taken all of Arthur's strength to ask his son, "Why did you do it?"

"I didn't do it! Father, you must believe me!" Cedric's hands, like claws around the bars of his cell, had jerked back and forth, as if it would have loosen the door and set him free. "Someone has set me up! I swear on my life, I didn't do it!"

Arthur pushed his fingers through his hair, smearing the tears in his eyes all over his temples, and he rose back to his feet. He marched over to the bottle of wine set on the dresser in his room, and poured himself a cup, hands trembling. The wine had been given to him on the night of the wedding. For celebration. What did he have to celebrate now? His son was a murderer. And no matter how many times he and Cornelia had gone to their king to plead for Cedric's life, it did no good. Nothing else would placate the Griswoldians. Cedric Lowell must die.

He slammed the wine cup down on the dresser, the golden liquid splashing on the waxed wood. This was no time to drink. Even if Cedric was innocent, Arthur would need more to plead for his son's life. Even if Cedric was set up, it meant that someone else had done it, someone who was invited? Or someone who was skilled enough to scale the walls of the Castle or navigate through the halls without alerting the guards. A hired hand perhaps, which was worse than anything Arthur could have imagined. A hired hand meant it was an assassination, not a murder committed through passion. It meant someone intended to kill the Late King Kristopher. That middle-class doctor's words rung in his ears, "Here is the lifeblood of three nations. No one who truly planned to weaken the powers of a nation would target just one figure. With the faces of the nation gathered here, what other time would a terrorist choose than now to wipe us out?" A conspiracy? To destroy Griswold? Or Pelta Lunata?

Griswold was already about to pounce on Pelta Lunata the second the Peltians would do anything remotely hostile. And the Peltians believed they were framed. The two nations were already at each other's throats now because of what Cedric might have done. Was this the assassin's plan all along? To destroy one of the nations? Or both? The thought made Arthur's head reel. He picked up the wine glass again, downing the entire cup before setting it down and pacing about his room once more. He shook his head fiercely, shoving that outrageous thought to the back of his mind. Regardless of what was happening, if it was to prevent the treaty and respark the war or if Cedric had truly just been mad with jealousy, Griswold had still lost their new king. It was a grievous insult to them. Cedric must die.

"I didn't do it! I DIDN'T DO IT! FATHER!" Cedric's voice still rung, deafening, in his ears. It settled into his stomach like a stone.

Then who did it? And why? Arthur gripped a bed post, leaning his head against it with his eyes closed and his teeth clenched. Cedric was going to die. His nation was going to go back to war if he didn't. What was he going to do?