NONE SO VILE

06: There Will Be Blood

Albedo, Rennaire, 1802.

Crimson petals rained from the sky. Leon leaned back in his saddle, riding easily as he watched the crowds filter by. The officer corps marched ahead of Leon, his marshals behind. The enlisted ranks were not included in the parade, though Leon had seen they were all given a small bonus nonetheless. Still Leon wished they could have all been there with him. The peasantry of Albedo had flocked out in droves, clambering up on boxes and each other to get a good view, waving his newsletters in the air to signal their praise.

This is what you wanted, he thought, watching the people. They cheered for him, not for the King, not for Rennaire, but for him. Peace, that had been his goal, peace at any cost. Did I not achieve that?

He reached into the air, watching the petals fall delicately around his paw. He had defeated the Danegardian Emperor, killed an Angel with his own two paws, and demanded a steep peace penalty from their enemies. The treaty would not hold forever, but no peace ever did. His men were happy to come home, the commoners were happy their sons would stop dying… everyone got what they wanted. 

So why does it feel so hollow?

“General!" Leon shook himself, turning as Minister Joachim La Valette came riding up on his horse, a brilliant chestnut beast adorned with silken veils. The nimble crane gave a playful half-bow from his saddle, falling into step with Leon. 

“How did you manage to weasel your way into my parade, Minister?" Leon asked. 

“Oh, General, I think you'll find I am excellent at finding my way into places I do not belong, parades… other mens' wives…" The man laughed, his beak chittering. “But you… you do not look like a man satisfied with peace. Saving the country is not good enough for you then, Valoisier?"

“Have you ever considered not saying what immediately comes to mind, Joachim?" Leon asked, snorting. He should be more tolerant. Joachim was an old friend of Leon's father before he died. It was thanks to the Minister's recommendation that Leon had been accepted into artillery school, and his political acumen had always helped shield Leon from the worst wrath of his enemies. Before the marshals had been won over, Deuxmoise had apparently sent half a dozen letters to the crown demanding Leon's removal. 

Thanks to Joachim La Valette, nobody who mattered had ever read them. 

“If only you knew the things I chose not to say, dear boy," the crane said, shaking his head. “If only." 

“Truthfully, I cannot help feeling that this war has not ended for me," Leon admitted.

“Oh, absolutely not," Joachim said. “The King is terrified you're going to somehow usurp his influence. He thinks the people love you more than they do him, although to be perfectly honest right now, he is not wrong." Joachim scoffed. “Foreigners in the court, the commoners running wild, I say what is this country coming to? You know I heard they wanted to send you off to some colony? You, Leon, saviour of Rennaire!" 

“I don't know how else to prove myself!" Leon complained. “I stop a damned war, humiliate the Emperor, and push them into signing away half their fucking treasury. I am the greatest patriot this country has, but it's not enough, is it? No. Never enough." A muscle flexed in his jaw. 

In reality Leon knew well enough why they weren't pleased with him. Why they'd never be pleased with him. Because I'm gentry, because I actually worked to be where I am, instead of having it given to me on a silver platter.

“I yearn for the old days," Joachim said. “The King's father would never have stood for this kind of nonsense, these sickly rumours floating about, these paleblood foreigners weaselling their way to the throne. I worry about the future, Leon, truly I do. The King is a great man, an incredible man no doubt, but a house is only as strong as the foundation it is built upon. Without anyone to check him, who's to stop men like Paul Vardé, not to mention that damned mystic, seizing the crown for themselves in all but name?"

“Have you heard about Kiberland?" Leon asked, shifting in his seat. It felt wrong to be discussing it out here in the open streets, but the noise of the peasants bled everything else away, and he knew they might as well be alone. “I hear they've implemented what they call a constitutional monarchy. Representatives vote on passing motions, still under the King's direction… but the country is more… fair." 

“Many here would dismiss it," Joachim said, watching the jaguar intently. “But not you, eh?"

Leon shrugged. “I do not believe in dismissing anything out of turn, my Lord. I believe in promoting based on merit. If the idea has merit, why shouldn't we at least consider it?" 

“Small minds would call that treason." 

“Do you have a small mind, Joachim?" 

The crane cracked up laughing, slapping his leg. “I am starting to rub off on you, boy! No, I do agree, but I can imagine the naysayers already… a lifetime in politics helps you think up these sorts of things. We can't all afford to be as idealistic and headstrong as you." Joachim sighed. “The situation here in the city is bad, Leon, very bad indeed. We're arresting peasants every day – they keep erecting effigies of the King and Queen in the streets and burning them! There are riots nearly every day, look out at these men–" He stretched an arm past Leon's face, pointing to the commoners at the side of the road. “–more than half of them are without work. They are angry, and in you they see one of their own.

“The King knows this. He is not pleased about your exploits, and I suspect that if you were to even breathe a word of this… constitutional monarchy… he would be half as likely to have you shot."

“You can't be serious," Leon replied. “I only want what is best for this country. What is best for everyone in this country!" 

“And I know that, of course I do," Joachim said, laying a feathered hand on Leon's arm. “But politics are about being malleable, about knowing what to say… and when to say it."

Leon narrowed his eyes. “And are you being malleable now, Joachim?" 

“Always, my boy, always." 

The minister gave Leon a cheerful pat on his thigh, peeling the horse away and quickly disappearing out of view. The Valoisier family may owe Minister Joachim a great deal, but that didn't mean that Leon trusted the man any farther than he could throw him. Joachim was a politician, and he earned his supper by playing both sides without scruples. It was the kind of attitude that had turned Leon away from a political career and directed him towards the army. A man should say what he means.

But that didn't mean Leon could afford to dismiss his help, he just had to keep in mind that Joachim would take the side of whoever he thought would give himself the greatest advantage. I just have to make sure that person is me, Leon thought, straightening in his saddle. 

The victory procession slowed as they reached the palace gates, a small army of royal guards fanning out to block the streets, bayonets fixed and guns held ready, barrels aimed to the sky. It was supposed to be a display of opulence and respect, but Leon saw through that immediately; they're keeping the peasants back. 

“This is not right," he said to Marshal Laurent, as the otter's horse sidled along his own. “The common folk should be able to see us, this victory is their victory as well."

“The city's seen better days, General," Marshal Laurent said. The otter was an anachronistic man – in many senses a typically gruff commander of infantry, and in others a perfect dandy. Speckled strands of white ran through the fur around his chin, the longer strands waxed and curled beneath his nose. As always he wore a tiny set of spectacles, comically out of place on such a large, scar-riddled soldier. “The devil take it, things haven't been this bad since I was a boy."

“You really think it's that bad?" Leon asked, shocked. Everyone knew the story; Marshal Laurent had been five years old when Gerlachia invaded Rennaire back in 1753. For almost three months Albedo had been occupied, before the King had managed to wrangle an alliance from Cielwen and Losaile to come rescue the city. The battle of Albedo had been long before Leon's time, but everyone had heard of it  – artillery that sunk several streets into the Undercity, an Angel that had wiped entire suburbs from the map, and even whispered tales of the poor eating their dead to stay alive. 

Laurent only hummed, stroking his muzzle. “There's a tension, tell me you feel it, General." 

“Indeed I do."

“I can smell it," Laurent grunted. “City's a bloody powder keg, just like it was back then. All that anger's got to go somewhere, you ken? Hunger and poverty turns men into beasts, and when those beasts finally get a sniff of blood… aye, mark my words General, we'll start to see things get vicious soon enough."

“I won't let it come to that. The people are sick of getting stepped on, Marshal," he said, clearing his throat. “They're starving, their sons are dying in countless wars, and they can't even get themselves heard. No wonder they grow desperate! What the people need is a voice, not blood." 

And I aim to be their voice. 

Marshal Laurent actually laughed, turning his horse around to stop with the other marshals at the foot of the royal palace front steps.

Leon dismounted, passing his horse off to a stableboy. “I've proved you and the others wrong before, Marshal, do you truly believe that violence is inevitable?" 

“I pray you do so again, General," said the otter, sliding from the saddle and righting his tiny spectacles with his giant paws. “But for all my chips in the game? I'd be inclined to say, oh yes… there will be blood."

Leon appreciated the Marshal's candour. Most Generals would be appalled to be laughed at so brazenly, but Leon knew it was a mark of respect. Marshal Laurent trusted him, the entire army did. If they argued with what he said, it was only because they hoped to help. 

I won the last of you over at Zolfreun. Now I just have to do the same thing again for the whole city. Two miracles… why not?

Leon looked to the palace doors, braced wide open, two ranks of Gardes du Corps Impérials aligned to lead Leon forward through the first halls and into the throneroom. He paused beneath the grand lintel, turning back to the city and waving once more. The poor could barely see him, but he felt them out there as keenly as he felt the soldiers and the nobility. The sun shone down on his face, unseasonably warm for this late into autumn, but Leon took it as a sign that the One God of all men was with him. 

We are one nation, one people. The sooner all men see that dream, the sooner Rennaire can take its place as the greatest country in history. Leon swore to himself then that he would unite the people, free the Crown of the pernicious influence from men like Paul Vardé, and chart a path forward to a better, more just future for them all. 

And if Laurent is right, and some blood must be spilled to see this dream done, then so be it.

Bracing one paw on the sword at his hip, Leon left the sun behind and entered the King's palace, his head held high.

Joachim La Valette's warnings were well-placed, and Leon felt the weight of judgement pressing down on his shoulders almost as soon as he entered the room. There was nothing weak-willed nobles feared more than competent men. Paul Vardé and his cronies knew how pathetic they truly were, and they knew that all it would take was someone like Leon coming along and opening up the shutters to send the roaches scrambling. 

The King may be displeased with my forwardness, but he can't argue with my results, Leon thought. In time, I will win him over too. After all, we all want what is best for Rennaire. 

Trumpets sounded as Leon approached the throne. Courtiers lined the walls and stared down from flag-adorned balconies, all eyes turned to the man who had ended the war. Clerks and advisors crowded around their masters, quietly whispering to pages as Leon strolled towards the King. To the very left of the room a painter sat sketching the scene, his brushes rustling over the stretched canvas. 

King Phillipe Auguste de Rennaire XIV sat on his throne, the royal armrests straining to contain his auspicious girth. For once he was actually wearing his golden crown, a purple silk gown trailing over the grand chair and pooling on the floor before him. Queen Adeline-Marie stood beside him, the royal step-prince Jules de Maurice waiting just behind her, the Rennairan sigil of an indigo unicorn over a blue and yellow shield hanging proud behind them all.

They really are worried I might usurp his power, Leon thought. Pulling out all the stops here to remind everyone who is the King… and who is not. It was ridiculous, as far as he was concerned. Leon was a patriot, maybe the last damn patriot in the whole fucking city. All he wanted was to help the crown achieve its former glory, King Phillipe had nothing to fear from him. 

Crown Prince Phillipe-Gabriel Auguste de Rennaire XV stood at the King's right. The young badger was just fifteen, shorter than his mother, and dressed in a finely embossed dark leather coat. It was impossible to see Gabriel and not notice the silver mask covering his face. Expertly crafted, and perfectly contoured to fit his features, the brilliant visage was embossed with ornate patterns of laurels and wreaths, revealing only his soft green eyes in the darkness within. 

The heir to the Rennairan Crown was a leper, and although few had seen the damage wrought by the disease, they all knew what to expect. Rotten flesh, missing chunks of skin, exposed teeth. If it were up to Leon he would bid the boy not hide his war wounds, but there was no accounting for the sensitive tastes of royal fashion. 

The man who had cured Crown Prince Gabriel stood behind the boy, half-hidden in the shadow of the throne. Royal Advisor Alabaster Rafiq, a dragon from the desert country of Urdo. Leon knew very little about the foreign mystic, only that he had come to Rennaire after they invaded Urdo. There were rumours he had led a kind of prophetic cult in the north countryside, before whispers reached the capital that he was capable of curing disease. The Queen had apparently sent for him, and ever since the man had been glued to the crown's side like a burr. 

He looked evil, Leon couldn't deny it. Red eyes stared out from a face of porcelain white, scarlet currents running like blood between his rippling scales. Where most men had fluffy paws with leathery pads, Alabaster had two wicked claws, practically hidden within his flowing grey cloak, small bones and heretic charms hanging about his neck. His stare was magnetic, almost dreamlike, well-defined muscles rippling up his arms. 

Some said he was a necromancer – a sorcerer who defiled the dead themselves. Leon put no stock in the gossip, but his mother had always said that every yarn has a needle of truth buried in it somewhere.

One thing is certain, he thought, meeting the mystic's captivating eyes. You are a dangerous person. 

“PRESENTING!" Bellowed a tall horse, stepping forward as his voice echoed in the hall. “FOR THE PLEASURE OF HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, HIGHEST ONE UNDER THE ONE GOD OF RENNAIRE, PROTECTOR OF TAR AND THE INNER SEA COAST, LORD MAJESTY OVER ALL THE REALM, KING PHILLIPE AUGUSTE–" The horse paused, seamlessly sucking in a breath. “–GENERAL LEON VALOISIER, COMMANDER OF THE GREATER EASTERN ARMY OF RENNAIRE!" 

Leon swept into a graceful bow as the court gingerly applauded him. He'd spent hours with Jacques perfecting the motion. The noblemen would be looking for anything they could use to tear him down, and he would be damned if he'd give it to them easily. 

“General!" The King said, clapping his big paws together. “Your King welcomes you home!" 

“You humble me, your majesty," Leon replied, rising slowly. He kept his eyes downcast, aimed towards the steps before the King. It was considered poor etiquette to look a King in the eyes. “Without your support and the grace of God, I could not have brought myself here before you!" 

“You have done a great thing indeed," the King said. “Brought peace to my nation, and for that, you have my thanks." 

“Our One God will find no sins to punish here!" Declared Cardinal Loïc, brandishing a swinging iron ball of incense. Leon fought the urge to cough as the smoke touched his lungs. “Go in purity!" 

The King picked up a goblet of wine, slurping it up and sighing deeply. “I have been told your position as general has not yet been ratified, I imagine you would be most anxious for us to grant this title." 

Leon bowed, relaxing slightly. Part of him had been holding his breath for this. “If you see fit." 

“I would, I would," the King mused, shifting in place. “But… I am afraid not all is perfect." 

“I…" Leon paused, glancing up. “Pardon, your majesty?" 

His stomach turned as Paul Vardé stepped up to the dais, taking his place behind Alabaster. The mystic, for his part, crept forward to whisper into the King's ear. The royal badger nodded, smiling ruefully, as if he deeply regretted what was about to come. 

“I will not remove your position, you have earned that much, General," the King said eventually. 

But? Leon thought, teeth aching as he squeezed his jaw shut. But? Go on, say it, I'm not of good enough blood? Is that it? My father wasn't quite rich enough? 

“There is the matter of the treaty," the King continued. “And the matter of the Waistcoat." 

Surely he doesn't mean the General's Waistcoat? Leon was incredulous. That was his own unit. The elite corps dedicated to the protection of the army's general. 

“Your majesty…" Leon began. 

“Hold your tongue, boy," the horse herald snapped. “His majesty is speaking." 

Leon forced his mouth shut, glaring up at Alabaster. His majesty might be speaking, but they aren't his words.  

“Your report reads that you yourself took to the field at Zolfreun," the King explained, pausing slightly as more pieces of the report were fed to him. “Supported by the… General's Waistcoat, an elite detachment. It is my understanding, General Valoisier… that this unit was completely decimated in the coming battle. Completely. Is this correct?" 

“Well," Leon shifted. “There are two men still alive… but yes, your majesty. I would say that had we not defeated the Fifth Angel Hashan, the entire day would have been lost. There was no other way." 

“An elite unit," the King replied slowly. “Elite. The best soldiers of our country are completely gone. Minister Vardé, can you estimate the cost of replacing such a force?" 

The broad lion stepped forward, powdered wig bouncing on his head, both paws clinging to the innards of his lavish green coat. “Why yes, your majesty, of course. My council estimates… the… the cost of such a unit at nearly… ahem, point-six million francs."

Ridiculous. It's expensive, but that is an absolutely insane figure.

Alabaster whispered, and the King spoke. “Will you pay this sum, General Leon?" 

“I… er…" Leon's face burned as he shifted in place. In his worst fears he hadn't imagined anything like this, to be called out in front of everyone. How was he supposed to argue? To talk back to the King of the damn country? “Thanks to my men's sacrifice, the war has ended, your majesty!"

“And you took the liberty of dictating terms yourself too," said the King. He gestured out to Joachim La Valette. “Do you think you have a better mind for diplomacy than our own minister?" 

Leon glanced at the crane, who refused to meet his eyes. 

At least on a battlefield you know who your enemy is. 

“In light of… these considerations…" Paul Vardé continued, voice rising to be heard. “That is to say… in order of prudence… and… considering the finances done from the… the loss of the Waistcoat, and re-organising the treaties… our recommendation is the… well…" he threw his paws out. “Postponement… of the ratification… just until we… sort this business, of course." 

Leon went still, a hushed gasp passing around the court. The rest of the words blew past him, and he only nodded, offering a small yes majesty when it seemed appropriate. 

Postponing the ratification.

They knew he'd done too much to demote him now. 

But they could dangle it, leave it hanging, and wait for him to make the tiniest slip…

Leon glanced between the King's advisors, the hackles on his neck standing straight. 

Vardé. Spineless. 

Joachim. Untrustworthy.

Loïc. Sycophantic. 

Alabaster. Evil. 

They were the rot Leon would have to cleave away, corrupt weeds each of them, slowly throttling the life out of the country's soul. He rose slowly from the final kneel of fealty, the courtiers already filing out of the room. The King was already gone, his departure announced. Leon felt numb as he moved off the floor. 

It's not a setback, he told himself. They haven't actually punished you. It's only a delay. Gathering himself, Leon made to leave, trying not to appear too desperate to escape the palace. This was what corruption led to – the punishment of good men. The commoners were chanting his name, even the enemy were in awe of him… but his own King was blinded to it. 

Maybe Marshal Laurent is right. Maybe blood is the only way. Leon tried to clear his mind. He'd always known that changing his home would not be an easy process, but nothing worth doing ever was. More than ever he was certain that the people needed a voice, that a King should serve the people as much as they serve him. 

But how? How do I claw away men like Vardé long enough to let the King see reason? They'd be whispering in his ear, constantly reminding him of the uppity paleblood who had tried to talk back in his throne room. 

“General?" The voice froze him in place, halfway out the side door to the palace. Leon exhaled slowly, glancing back, already knowing who he'd find.

Alabaster stood there plainly, his two wicked claws held before his stomach in a small bridge. A distant smile sat on his thin lips, slitted nostrils flaring as he breathed. Again that hypnotic tug plucked at Leon's chest, drawing him in, shortening his breath. Those deep red eyes sent a current racing through the jaguar's body, shooting down his spine and curling around his hips. It was magnetic, and it reminded Leon of the first time he had seen Jacques naked.

“I wanted to introduce myself to you," Alabaster began, bowing slightly. The words were sharp and smooth, like the keen edge of a knife.  

“Pleasure, advisor," Leon replied, nodding as he fought to keep his head. “I apologise, but please educate me… what is it precisely that you do here?" 

“I see to the Crown Prince's health, primarily," Alabaster said. “Beyond that, anything and everything his majesty may require. I am his lamplighter – a spiritual guide through the unknown aspects of our world." 

“Cardinal Loïc might call that heresy." 

“Many do. That does not make it so." The dragon shifted his weight, and Leon hated the itching sensation it gave him. Looking at Alabaster was like staring into the jaws of a predator, and it set every one of Leon's nerves on edge. “Congratulations on your victory at Zolfreun. A dead Angel, I hear… and humiliating Emperor Ferdinand himself, no less. Tsk. Tell me, what is your secret, General?"

Leon laughed. “No secret, I swear."  

Alabaster said nothing.  

The awkwardness bit at him, and finally Leon shrugged. “It is merely about exploiting weakness, and having the wisdom not to interrupt your enemy when he is intent on making a mistake. Truthfully, the Emperor practically impaled himself on the bayonet of my army."  

“You mean the King's army," Alabaster corrected.  

“It is our country," Leon replied, jaw tightening. “Our army. Our victory."  

“But yours first, correct?"  

Leon twitched. “Some might see it that way."

“I have met men like you before, General." Alabaster stepped closer, forked tongue darting between his lips. “To be candid, you're lucky the King doesn't have you shot. I read your little pamphlets. All this talk of fighting for the common man and believing in the good of your men, but I see you for what you are." 

“A simple man and nothing more," Leon raised his paws, trying to pry himself back from the dragon's allure. It must be a spell of some kind – Alabaster was self-serving, a heretic, and there was nothing about a man like that which Leon could ever find… attractive. “I have no patience for bloodlines or divine rights without merit. I was told you were born a slave, I thought you would understand that."  

Alabaster winced. “And yet I earned my place here. Perhaps if I thought you appreciated that, I'd have let the King ratify your position. You have no respect for authority."  

Leon jammed a finger in Alabaster's face, letting the anger flare in his chest. “And you have no respect for other people. Just like every other aristocrat you want to sit here in this ugly fucking palace and maintain complete control over every thought every man has. The city is on fire, monsieur, I do not know if you have noticed that.  Something must change. "

“I've heard men talk like that before," Alabaster sneered. “Reformists, talking of constitutions and dividing power. You'd have every peasant sitting in on the King's meetings, weighing in with their worthless opinions."

Leon scoffed. “I'm no reformist, but surely we all want to see a system free of corruption. Don't you, Alabaster?"

“You truly think Kiberland is more just than us? You think calling themselves constitutional means anything is different there, Leon? I will tell you the truth here and now – all systems are corrupt, it is the inherent nature of power." 

Why bring up Kiberland? Alabaster couldn't possibly know that Leon aspired to match their system. If they are not just, it only means they didn't go far enough.

Outwardly, he bristled. “I refuse to believe that. The war is over but Rennaire still has enemies, both here and abroad. Together we are strong. Alone we will fall."  

“I'd rather individual strength than collective weakness!" Alabaster hissed. 

“And how many wars have you ended, monsieur?" Leon spat back, grinning. It felt good to finally get under the lizard's scales. “How many Angels have you killed? I am willing to work with you, Alabaster, but change is coming to Rennaire, and I won't let you stand in my way."

“In your way? You're a boy," Alabaster growled. “You don't know what you're playing with."  

“I've heard that one before, sorry."  

Alabaster narrowed his eyes. “Print as many leaflets as you like. He will send you to the colonies before the year is out."

Leon leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “He can try." 

He turned on his heel, leaving the furious dragon alone in the doorway as he went to find himself a carriage home. 

When Leon reached his family's home on the eastern side of the city, his head was pounding. A furious migraine broiled behind his eyes, pain stabbing out from within. The sun was setting now, and the temperature outside had plummeted. Leon absentmindedly wondered if it could be a bad omen.

The argument with Alabaster had rankled him, and he hadn't been able to sit still the entire journey home. What was the mystics game? Obviously he despised Leon, though for what reason exactly the jaguar had no idea. Something about the dragon felt wrong, it turned Leon's stomach over, prickled beneath his fur. His cock was hard in his trousers the entire carriage ride home, purely a result of all the excitement and adrenaline, nothing more. More than once a paw drifted down to stroke himself, but he forced himself to abstain, clinging to the frustration and anger of the day.

I was a fool back there. Had he given too much away? He'd allowed the so-called 'lamplighter' to get in his head, worse than that, he'd allowed himself to get angry, taking out his annoyance with the Crown's treatment onto Alabaster. 

How much did I say? He tried to wrack his memory, but the migraine was putting up walls that made it difficult to think. He'd definitely mentioned the idea of giving commoners a voice… but had he first brought up Kiberland, or had Alabaster? Was that a test, to see if I'd take the bait? Did I?

The whole of Midland was watching Kiberland, trying to see what would come of a King that willingly submitted power to a parliament. Absolutism had been the popular system for decades now, but a change was coming, slow but sure. The idea of republics and democracies were beginning to grow, just like in the days of Kazmar the Great. People voting on their opinion, with a King to oversee the results rather than dictating every decision himself. 

“Did things go well?" Jacques asked, as Leon stole into the main room of his family's estate. He'd sent the rat ahead to aid his sister and prepare rooms for them all to stay in. Leon meant to be home for some time, and he looked forward to spending time with Cosette again.

“No, Jacques, things did not go well," Leon snapped. He crossed the room in an urgent stride, picking up a decanter of red wine and pouring himself a glass. He choked it down quickly, pouring another and drinking that too. “Setbacks, corruption, and selfishness wherever I look. Paul Vardé is the minister for finance for God's sake, why he has any input onto my military appointments is beyond any reason or logic." 

He sagged against the counter, sighing. Looking back, he saw the rat staring at him blankly. 

“I am sorry, my friend, I did not mean to lash out. I am merely… tired." 

“Of course." 

“Oh, Leon!" A grin overtook his face as Cosette dashed into the room, her dress bouncing around her in a very un-ladylike fashion. At thirty-one Cosette was two years older than Leon, but they were so close as children that people had often mistook them for twins. She ran right to him, instantly wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his neck. 

“Srgmftseeybroth!" She mumbled. 

Leon laughed, slipping his paws beneath her shoulders and prying her back. “I can't understand you love, but it is good to see you as well. You look in good health." 

“I am, I am," she said, sniffing up. They made no mention of her husband; Lefre had thrown himself from the One God's First Cathedral only two weeks before Cosette discovered she was pregnant with his child. It had been a dark time.

“My goodness," Cosette continued, eyeing up her little brother. “I daresay you look twice the man you did before you left. They must feed you good out there." 

“It is all in the uniform, cuts quite a shape," he replied, grinning ear-to-ear. “Now, please, ever since I received your letter I have been desperate to meet dear Émeric. Where is he?" 

“He's…" Cosette paused, pulling back as a shadow fell across her face. “He's asleep, I'm afraid." 

“Nonsense!" Leon exclaimed, his migraine already forgotten. “My first nephew?! Wake him, only for a moment, please sister, I am begging you!" 

Cosette did not reply, staring at the ground. Leon frowned, glancing at Jacques, but even the usually unflappable rat had averted his eyes. 

“What am I missing?" He asked, a hollow shape turning in his chest. “Please, no please, do not tell me…" 

“No!" His sister seized his arm, realising what he was afraid of. “I promise he is well, just in the next room and I… come then…" 

Confused, Leon followed after her. 

“There's talk of your daring in all the salons, Leon," Cosette said, wiping at her eyes. “Every eligible woman in this city seems intent on marrying you, I've never had so many friends, they are all begging me to introduce them. Is it really true you defeated an Angel with your own two paws?" 

“That's…" Leon wasn't sure that was the kind of thing women should be thinking about. “Yes, I did." And apparently it might have cost me my generalship. 

She stopped before a closed door, hesitating. 

“I travelled to visit the First Cathedral recently, and I saw one of them there. A jackal, with black and gold markings." 

“Lazare Toussaint," Leon added. Lazare was the twenty-third Angel, assigned to the Rennairan crown by the Church of the One God.

Cosette nodded. “A father told me there are always a hundred Angels in the One God's holy army, his children with their blessed blood." She sniffed, making the sign of the One God over her heart. “When one dies, another is… woken. Someone who lived an ordinary life, suddenly whisked off to some monastery by the Church to do… only heaven knows." 

“Well, their powers are very dangerous." Leon felt his fingers prickling, a warm tide washing down his spine. “Cosette… dear, enough of this talk… let's just see the babe." 

She broke, sobbing once into her paw. “They'll take him, Leon, I know they will! Please, I don't know what to do, after… Lefre… now Émeric is all I have left! I can't lose him!" 

“Enough!" He pushed her aside, opening the door and stepping into the darkened nursery. 

His heart sank as soon as he saw it.

Inside the crib laid a two-month old jaguar cub, swaddled in blankets and fast asleep, innocent as anything. Over his head it hovered, flat as a shadow and glowing faintly.

A halo.