The Emperor of all humanity looked down to the harbor stretched out far below him. The sunlight behind the parapets of his palace drove long shadows like knife blades, towards the busy wharves. There, the wine-colored clouds of this winter evening reflected on the waves, staining them the color of Constantius’ robes, the imperial purple reserved only for his household.

The Purple Son was not happy, and the gray-clad messenger who waited prostrate on the mosaic that formed the floor of Constantius’ bedchamber knew it. The man shook a bit as he lay there — perhaps only  from the cold of the tiles.

Constantius looked back towards the ranger and saw the quiver run through the Cimbri’s compact frame. Funny, the mosaic was of a summer hunting scene — the ranger lay right on the back of a lion. The irony was not lost on Constantius. Like most of his race, the Cimbri was lithe and his features were angular. This one was his spy.

“Tell me again, Ferehar.”

The ranger spoke for the third time, his voice muffled by the floor, “I come from the High King’s castle in Faerie. It’s Finvara my lord. He’s not been out of his bedchamber in Tara-Nar for two weeks and the bodies of two of his servants were dragged from his room a fortnight ago. Others have reported screams, and you have my earlier reports of his erratic behavior. Even more strangely, the Glimmerglas, the Faerie king’s personal guard, have moved down near the border and search for something unknown. That is all, Blessed One.”

He let the ranger lay there for a full ten minutes before dismissing him with his thanks and a thick pouch of gold coins — all bearing the Emperor’s silhouette. Constantius eyes fell to the crown that rested in an open ivory cabinet next to his bed – it was heavy now, far heavier than he could have dreamed sixteen years ago when he first wore it. Plum-colored robes swept the floor as he moved back to his simple chair next to a table groaning with charts, accounts, letters and appeals from the corners of his great empire.

From the west: news of fighting in the harbors of Thracan: a galley assaulted and burned by the beast-men. Bread riots in a provincial capitol, a small goblin uprising in the slave mines in the Themes. All of these troubles dimmed due to Ferehar’s news — Finvarra, the old enemy, the enemy of his grandfather’s grandfather, the ancient sidhe king, was insane.

But even this most trusted spy’s words must be weighed with the rangers’ love of Faerie. While spells, and his own keen perception told the Emperor this servant was ever devoted, the Purple Son knew that the approach of the High King’s guard could mean much more. Their cavalry have always been in the vanguard of the Elf Host. If the Glimmerglas ride again this close to the border, it means trouble for the Old Country — the heartland of his Empire.

Something would have to be done.

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— Atrribution