Baron Cumberlyn was perched upon the high-backed chair he sat in at every moment from once he seized it to the very day in which he stared upon fresh feast set in front of him. There were meats, breads, pastries, pies, and more to the content of any man’s heart. He had stacked his plate heavily with a bit of everything there could be adorning the table.

All the while his council sat abound, only taking what was nearest to themselves. Good Merrilyn was allergic to the pine-nut tarts and yet they were but plated nearest to her. Yet she was not bothering to move so Cumberlyn made no affair in rearranging the seating. Not that it would be much longer that they were to sit about the table.

“Baron Cumberlyn, we’ve little of note this eve.” Ser Corrant raised a finger. “But there is the matter of a delivery that is to be made in the courtyard before the day’s end.”

“Is this some missive brought to me?” The lord raised a brow. He cared not for the coming news of the ever ebbing and flowing struggles along the Basin, nor that of the rest of the Valley. All that was of his to care were his peoples, his family, and his ever growing belly. And he was certain to keep them all well and happy for the past 15 years and, stars willing, would go on for another 15 more!

“Not a missive, Sir, but a gift, chatles that came by cart early this day.”

“How much earlier, Corrant?”

“The hour before this fine feast, Sir.”

“And do any know of what manner this gift is?” He twirled his hand about to stir better words from his council.

“We but know that it has arrived, not even a name nor title had been given to it.” Madam Brinnel, clutching to her husband’s arm, lifted her chin to speak proud. Not that it would extinguish any ire he would have in her lack of truths. “The man of the cart simply insists it be delivered to you, Baron, up your behest.”

“And no guard has inspected it so?”

“Not with the recent scuffle of ruffians that scourged the southern alehouse.” Corrant bit his lip.

“That upon the docks?” Cumberlyn furrowed his brow.

“Aye, we have had one such report that it was a brutal and messy affair. The guard will be there in their time of need to persecute the ruffians, clean the blood staining the streets, and aid those of the less fortunate in this debacle.”

“My stars! Why has this not been mentioned at the table until now?” He smacked a meaty palm against his forehead. “Tharold and Desmond, figure out why this cart has been brought to me and of what matter this supposed gift is.”

Both of his servants nodded before they rushed out the door. Cumberlyn then placed the edge of his fist on his mouth. It was rarity to be delivered a any succor when asked of by the Baronies, but to be unknowing bestowed a gift was beyond legend and myth. Not that any hated one another, but as each their own sovereign state, it was strange to hear of any word other than the anual summit or news of a coming tournament.

“Good council…” He harrumphed and took his fist away from his mouth. “…is there not another baron, noble, king that is well and fond of me? I myself cannot conjure a name.”

“Sir Aston, perhaps.” Corrant raised a finger. “He was privy to your daughter was he not? This mayhaps be another attempt in so too winning your heart as well.”

“Hmm, perhaps.” He stroked his chin. “Madam Brinnel? You are knowing of many lives in and out of my lands.”

“Of all my gossips, Sir Cumberlyn, I am unaware of any that have mentioned you in great renown recently enough to warrant an unsolicited present.” Brinnel no longer clung to her husband, but her brow was not as level as was usual of her often cold demeanor.

“Might it be worthy of checking the recent missives, perhaps?” The ever quiet Maestro Frederiek shrugged as he took a casual draugh from his mug. “Would there not be of some hint to a fondness or interest in this package?”

“Of whom, some secret admirer?” Madam Brinnel scoffed before stuffing her face with the rim of her wine glass that her husband had placed in her hand.

“Very wise words Maestro.” Cumberlyn nodded to the armorer’s guild alderman. Then he gave a sharp eye to the madam. “And rather untowards of you, Madam Brinnel…

“I will be up to my audience chamber, were any of you to need me. That is, as we come to learn of this supposed gift and its origins. During such time, all present are to stay within these manor walls. Leave and I’ll see you to the stockades myself upon the hour.” The baron stood from his high-backed chair and lumbered up the nearest stairs.

Once to the audience chamber, Cumberlyn shuffled through all of the missives and other letters he had received in the most recent year. It was not many and there were few that spoke any more than meager news. There was one from Baron Averston who cared not to include any pleasantries, a few from Sir Aston who only pleaded for true love in return for nothing, and another from the Tailoring Guild of Rosendale that wanted to establish a seafront trading post, which he never responded to. In all the letter nothing had stuck out to him being worthy of sending some unnamed gift. So he cleared the desk, all the pages flittering onto the floor.

However, tucked beneath one of the piles of melted candles was a corner of one last page. The wax snapped and crackled as it was pulled up, the letter still stuck to the bottom of the candle pile. Careful to not tear any of the page, Cumberlyn removed it and looked over the elegantly scrawled words.

_To the Baron of Cradbury,_

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_I, Count Jeanoun d’Roue, demand an audience upon the docks of Por’Duexrrou the seventh moon, third day. The harassing ships of your pitiful Westernly navy only provokes the might of Ruetounant’s own!_

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_If it is the power of our ships that dares not to move your heart then it must come to a greater agreement. Unless your pride sinks so low in your heart that my nation must bring you upon your knees! Tarry not long in your decision, Baron, lest the blades come at night._

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_Ambassador, Count Jeanoun d’Roue_

A greater agreement? Blades come at night? He had first passed the message off as senseless Rueschan ramblings to scare him into submission. Yet he was not part in the naval assaults, so what reason was there to take heed in any of such words. That was until such a “gift” landed upon the very gates of his manor.

Cumberlyn dashed down the stairs, belly jiggling and flopping along the way. It was not until he reached the main hall that he stooped and knew it was all too late. Four armored men in livery he had never seen before in his life had slit the throats of each council men. At the doors laid the slain Tharold and Desmond.

“In Jeanoun‘s name…” The mustachioed man of the soldiers, rushed forth with a sword in hand. “For Ruetounant!”