Heightened Stakes

It is a well-known truth that the biggest gambles reap the highest rewards.

Less well-accepted is that they also risk the worst failures, and it is the whim of the Fates that will determine which comes to pass.

Conflict had raged for many years through the Land of the Great Falls, entire generations growing up and coming of age under the shadow of war. Of the most recent generation, the major parties had been the kingdom of the Near-Endless Valley, a mostly-human civilisation lead by King Artorius slowly spreading through their aptly-named realm; and the tribes of the Khuawk, the bird-winged folk who inhabited the high peaks that bordered the Valley, and their occasional allies. The Near-Endless Valley had the resources to convince most of those Khuawk allies that they were better off remaining neutral, but the steady drain of the War Coffers was not to be ignored, nor was the effect on those inhabitants who were only near-human, or of mixed heritage.

* * *

A hand traced across a map, calloused fingers tapping against a hilt in agitation. “If this continues, we will not last. Another way must be sought.”

Lips pursed in thought, eyes fixed on something far away as possibilities were considered and discarded in the blink of an eye. “It will be a dangerous gamble. Under other circumstances, I would call such stakes inadvisable at best. Necessity drives us, and so we must plan.”

Prince Arthfael had been trained for war, but this was his first time experiencing it.

The hardest part was trying to keep track of attacks that came both on the ground and from the air, and sometimes both at once, like his current opponent, using her aerial abilities to great effect. A female Khuawk of some rank, her vivid green wings matched her eyes, standing out against tanned skin and dark hair pulled back in braids. If not for her lethal glare and the sword that Arthfael barely blocked, he might have considered her attractive.

A horn rang out, loud enough to shake the earth, carrying even over the roar of battle. Arthfael’s opponent changed from murderous to fearful, and she vaulted into the air again. Before he could turn to face her next attack, sharp talons had sunk into his shoulders, and powerful wings were lifting them both into the air.

Blood and wind roared in his ears, drowning out whatever she was shouting. Finally, she lowered them back to solid land, glaring, her expression shifting again into something approaching helpless rage. “Well-executed, O honourless snake. Both sides will withdraw, for now. Pray that I do not see you again before we meet at the treaty table.”

Honourless? The Khuawk were not known for surrender; part of why the war had lasted so long. Arthfael wished that he could tell her just how little sense she was making, but he had only just escaped with his life. Best not to risk it again so soon.

By the time Arthfael had seen to his men, the war council had gathered, and they were being summoned back to the capitol with all speed.

One of the generals clapped him on the shoulder as they mounded up. “Congratulations, lad - that is, your Highness.”

Arthfael didn’t bother to make an issue of the correction, taking the slip as the compliment it was intended to be. “What for?”

Another general laughed mirthlessly. “You’re the first to cross blades with General Khava and live to boast about it. Keen eye and a keener mind, and her skill for strategy and tactics doesn’t stop on the field, according to our limited intelligence.”

The Khuawk didn’t have hereditary titles, and rank was attained by merit. This Khava must have been extraordinary. The first general sighed, “Not a one for giving up easily, either. Neutralising her will have to be part of the peace talks, if we want the ink to have time to dry.”

At least there would be peace talks, after so many years spent in conflict. Arthfael couldn’t even force himself to regret the non-victory, hopefully the first and last battle he would ever see.

There were times that Arthfael thought he was making progress towards being prepared for eventual leadership.

Then there were times that he felt like he was drowning, in well over his head while those around him spoke in riddles and half-truths. Preparing for the peace negotiations was a situation where Arthfael had lasted about a candle-mark before struggling to keep his head above the metaphorical water.

The base practicalities were easy enough; a pact of non-aggression. The high peaks were of little value to the Near-Endless Valley, and policing them would be difficult at best. The main problem was how to ensure that both sides kept to their agreement; especially when the borderlands had been a hotbed of hostility for generations. Finally, a councillor spoke up. “What about a political marriage?”

King Artorius looked thoughtful. “Please explain your reasoning.”

The councillor looked briefly wrong-footed, as though he hadn’t expected to be taken seriously. “We have been debating how to keep the Khuawk general in line, yes? They earn their ranking, but family and bloodlines are everything to them. General Khava is unmarried, and I believe you have yet to finalise a betrothal for Prince Arthfael. A political marriage would place her under our power, and she would not be able to act against us without losing her own standing for attacking family.”

Arthfael would have considered this argument to be solid reasoning, if it had not been his own future being so casually discussed! His father was already nodding as if this absolute lunacy made perfect sense, and Arthfael braced himself for a long argument.

* * *

“This will fall hardest upon you. Are you prepared for what you must face and endure?”

“No, but I will do as is needed.”

Arthfael tried to restrain a sigh as he and his… wife, he might as well get used to saying it… walked slowly through the gardens.

A month had passed since the hasty ceremony, yet they were still practically strangers to each other. Of course, the situation was not improved by irate nobles who had once planned for their sisters and daughters to stand in Khava’s place at his side, or the peasands, particularly from the border regions, who were not quiet in their refusal to bend a knee to a Khuawk, no matter who she was married to. No trouble had come from those corners yet, but Artorius and Arthfael agreed that it was only a matter of time.

Khava was still silent and subdued in his presence, a far cry from their first meeting. Of course, their first meeting had been on the battlefield, where she had been trying her very best to kill him. That had been one of Arthfael’s arguments against the marriage, after all; did they really want one of the Khuawk’s leaders, her rank earned in blood, in such close proximity to their own leadership?

Perhaps Khava felt the same, having her value diminished from her prowess as a leader, to being defined by the person she married. Arthfael couldn’t exactly blame her for her resentment, either; for all that the Near-Endless Valley desired peace, their conditions for the Khuawk in general and Khava in particular had been… he hesitated to say ‘un-necessarily harsh’, but ‘strident’ certainly fit the bill. The list of things she was restricted from doing without explicit permission was a long one, even compared to any other princess or noblewoman.

The silence was becoming awkward, and Arthfael cast about for something to say. “When you called me honourless… I never did learn why your forces retreated.”

Khava scowled, “The horn was a warning. Some of your forces came upon our nesting grounds, one of our most sacred places. For us to spill blood there would be profane, but you had no such restrictions, and now that you knew where it was, the Nesting Ground, and the nestlings who live there until their first flight, never would have been safe while we were at war.”

Had that been a deliberate tactic, she would have been justified, and more than justified, in her disdain of him, but Arthfael had spent a great deal of time in the War Room before being allowed near a battlefield, and no such thing had been mentioned. Indeed, he doubted that his father knew that there was any such thing as a Nesting Ground, or that baby Khuawk were raised communally, rather than in families. “I knew of no such mission. It must have been a scouting patrol.”

Khava’s raised eyebrow, as she casually dodged a barn owl diving for prey, clearly indicated that she didn’t believe that for a moment, but wasn’t willing to test her limits by openly disagreeing. “For the sake of keeping the peace, I will concede to your - look out!”

Arthfael staggered back from a shove far more forceful than he expected, an even more unexpected projectile narrowly missing his face. He reached for a sword and found an empty scabbard, the clash of steel on steel drawing his gaze to where Khava faced their attackers, as graceful and deadly as the first time he had faced her across a battlefield.

The would-be attackers were dead in the few short minutes before the sound of running feet heralded the arrival of guards, and Khava hastily shoved Arthfael’s sword back into his hand. He let it fall to the grass and grabbed her arm, pulling her back toward him as he tried to slow his racing heart. “What were you thinking?”

Khava stiffened, and he relaxed his grip, wishing she could be less skittish, only to catch her as she started to slump to the ground. Opening his mouth to demand answers, the words died in his throat as he stared at the dark stain spreading across the back of her gown. Shouting for a healer, Arthfael gathered his bride into his arms, looking over her shoulder to get an idea of the wound.

A wicked dagger was half-buried below her shoulder-blade and wing joint. Hardly a fatal, or even a dangerous wound. Perhaps the would-be assassin had terrible aim… or perhaps Khava had not been the target.

If she had been standing elsewhere, the dagger would have hit Arthfael in the heart.

* * *

“I do not trust them to defend you in the face of attacks. You will be attacked; of that I have little doubt.”

The surviving attackers were being interrogated, and Arthfael was sitting beside his bed as a healer finished tending to Khava, pale and clammy and only just regaining consciousness. “Why?”

He stared at her, honestly baffled. What could she mean, why? Why was she under the Healers’ care? Why had he stayed? How could the answers to either question be anything but obvious? “Perhaps you could clarify your meaning.”
Khava’s face smoothed into the placid mask he had come to hate, her eyes sliding closed again. “No matter. Their poisons rarely have a counter. You’ll be free soon enough, free for the one you wanted.”

The thought made something twist uncomfortably, deep inside him. Khava hadn’t been the bride he wanted, by any stretch of the word, and he resented her for the woman he loved having to marry another… but that didn’t mean Arthfael wanted his wife to die!

But he hadn’t really done anything to show her the contrary, had he?

He’d avoided her when he could, and been stiff and formal when he couldn’t avoid her company. She’d been given no more choice in the marriage than he had, perhaps even less, but at least he had freedom within their union. Khava had been a warrior, a leader, before Arthfael’s father had demanded her as the price for peace, before she had been banned from carrying the weapons she had earned, forbidden from training, and confined to the ‘ladylike’ pursuits deemed suitable for a prince’s wife.

The courtiers cared nothing for her company, and many of the servants came from the borderlands, keeping a chilly distance even without the difference in rank between them. The new pet he gave her could hardly carry on a conversation - it had been silly to fall for the idea that Khava could talk to birds just because they both had wings and talons. Barring the brief visits from ambassadors, who demanded evidence of her wellbeing but left almost immediately afterward, Arthfael was her only consistent source of interaction. How lonely and isolated she must have felt, and he hadn’t even noticed!

Uncomfortably, he tried to change the subject. “Fortunately for you, this was one of the rare ones. The antidote has already been administered, though the healers say your road to recovery will not be short, and they aren’t precisely well-versed in Khuawk physiology.”

* * *

“You must gain trust. Make them believe that you care. Without war to bind them, they are not as united as they believe.”

“I have good news. You’ve been accepted to act as a representative during our other peace talks.”

A number of emotions flashed across Khava’s face - surprise, pleasure, and disappointment the only ones Arthfael could identify - before she settled on regret. “I am grateful that you thought of me, but I cannot. That would be… counterproductive.”

Arthfael tried not to snarl in frustration. Hadn’t Khava been struggling not to complain about boredom and inactivity as she healed from the attempted assassination? He’d spent hours convincing his father to give her this chance, only for her to throw it back in his face, and the King no doubt remembered the wasted time as his face hardened in disapproval. “Why is that?”

Arthfael winced, but Khava merely raised an eyebrow as she extended a wing. Normally, she kept them tightly folded behind her back, but spread out, the damaged feathers and missing plumage made the wing look distinctly bedraggled. “Because the ambassadors will take one look at me, and at the new court fashion for feathered headpieces, and walk right back out, treaties be damned.”

A side-effect of the poisoned dagger had been heavy moulting, and some bright spark had saved the feathers to sell to assorted nobles as some kind of gruesome trophy, a fashion which the rest of the court had promptly jumped upon. Khava was right, the optics were awful, even if the source was non-malicious. “Then why didn’t you say anything before now?”
Khava’s lips firmed impatiently, “Because by the very wording of the surrender you forced on us, for me to act or speak against your will is to give you justification to re-start the war. You, your heir, the members of your court… I can refuse you none of you anything without dooming my people.”

What did that have to do with it? Artorius interjected before an actual fight could start. “That was meant as a precaution to stop you from killing my only remaining heir as soon as we left you alone to consummate the marriage.”

Arthfael’s wife inclined her head, “But subject to literal interpretation, as the majority of your court and population seem to have understood it, I do not even have the right to negotiate any ‘request’ made of me.”

As if to punctuate her words, a courtier hurried over, curtsying to King and Prince, before abruptly reaching for Khava, “The wind blew my feathers away, I need a replacement.”

Before Arthfael could even open his mouth to ask what the courtier was talking about, they had yanked several plumage feathers free and left as quickly as they came. Khava’s face was tight with pain and fury, and she had to unclench her jaw before she gestured at the departing courtier. “Besides, it is not as though many of them even saw a need to ask.”

* * *

“Such a union… there will be objections, and indignities, and whispers. You must rise above it all.”

Today’s audience was… awkward, to say the least. Emira, now Lady Sevrill, and Arthfael had shared an understanding, only waiting for the details to be finalised before being formally betrothed. When that fell through after the peace negotiations, she had been hastily married to the first man who would have her. Now, said Lord had requested a private audience, and Arthfael was trying to look attentive while the man used a dozen words in place of one, waiting for him to get to the point. Belatedly, he realised that Lord Sevrill had finished talking, Emira looked faintly embarassed, and Khava was very clearly wishing she had access to a sword.

Arthfael dismissed the pair, citing a need to consider Lord Sevrill’s words. They left, and Khava enlightened him, as though Arthfael was merely working through the torrent of words to find the meat of the proposal, rather than having no idea what the Lord had been blathering on about. “He’s hinting that he knows you and Lady Sevrill have a Past, and that he’s willing to let you sleep with his wife, as long as you return the favour.”

At first, Arthfael only comprehended the first part of her statement, distracted in the idea of being able to pretend that his lost love was, in fact, his, even if only for a night. Then he noticed the tense, vulnerable way the woman he was bound to was holding herself, and the rest of her words sunk in. “Wait, by ‘return the favour’… he actually thinks I’d jeopardise the treaty like that?”

Impatience and anger flared in Khava’s eyes, hastily concealed. “By the terms of the contract, you may do as you like, and I must submit to your will.”

Arthfael very nearly commented that whoever wrote the terms clearly hadn’t met her - but thought better of it as memories of how the Court in general treated Khava, and a number of very ugly thoughts sank in. “Has anyone…”

He wasn’t sure how to finish the question, but Khava had doubtless been dwelling on it for some time. “Lord Sevrill is the first one bold enough to say anything to you, but a lot of them have been thinking about it and making comments. Some have discussed what they think are the best ways to approach you.”

All his life, Arthfael had been taught to pay no attention to the rumours and gossip that were the lifeblood of the court. That was starting to feel like a mistake, now. He shoved aside his instinctive outrage - really, what kind of man did his courtiers take him for? - in favour of finding out how much damage he had to fix. Starting with a question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered. “Your previous willingness… how much of that was real?”

Khava didn’t meet his eyes - sometimes, Arthfael wondered how much of her typical bluntness was due to being a terrible liar. “The treaty stipulates that I must give you an heir.”

That was almost an answer in itself, but Arthfael had his fill of half-truths and hints. “Just give me a straight answer. Consider it a demand, if you like.”

Khava shrugged defensively, “I was willing, but I didn’t enjoy it, and I will have no objections if you wish to have seperate rooms once we have our heir.”

Well, he had asked for honesty; he had none but himself to blame for getting an answer he didn’t like. “Once - do you think you are with child?”

She shrugged again, a new tension in her strong shoulders. “I’ve never been pregnant before, but the signs are there. We’ll know in a week.”

* * *

“You will not be the only one affected, but there are steps we can take.”

A scream jolted Arthfael awake, Khava almost falling off the perch she’d made of a nearby chair, still refusing to return to their shared bed, and bateing her wings frantically to regain her balance. In any other situation, it would have been comical, but Arthfael’s blood ran cold when he determined the direction of the noise. “It came from the nursery!”


Khava crossed the room in a single bound, halfway out the door before Arthfael had even risen from his bed.

The Nurse was crouched by the overturned cradle, blankets strewn across the surrounding floor. Khava shoved past anyone still in her way, pawing through the cloth, where there should have been a tiny body, downy wings the same red-brown as Arthfael’s hair. “No! Where is he?”

She launched herself out of the window, unsteady on her ragged wings. “Whoever took him can’t have gone far! We can -“

Her words cut off with a cry as ropes wrapped around her, yanking her wings closed even as the guards pulled her back inside. Her body struck the wall below the window with a sickening crack before she was hauled back up. Grieving the child he’d loved from it’s first breath, Arthfael barely noticed as Khava was dragged away.

He should have known better than to trust in mercy from his short-tempered father, or the prejudiced, insular court. Khava had returned to their bed, but hadn’t left it since, her listlessness bringing back horrible memories of the near-poisoning. Arthfael felt guilty, and helpless to fix things, almost eclipsing his grief at his lost son. “I want you to be yourself again.”


Khava’s glare lacked it’s usual heat, and Arthfael was surprised to find himself wishing for a hint of her prior murderous gleam. “From the moment we were forced together until less than a day ago, ‘myself’ was objectionable.”

He tried not to look at her wings, the primaries torn out or broken beyond repair, or notice how her voice was hoarse from the screams of despair and denial as the guards held her down and made sure she would never fly again. He reached out to touch her shoulder, trying not to notice the aborted flinch away. “Not to me. I’m sorry for… well, everything.”

She turned her face away. “There are some things that apologies can’t fix, or make better.”

That was true enough. The ambassadors who had previously been willing to negotiate peace had been abruptly withdrawn by the rulers they answered to, and even some of the Near-Endless Valley’s human allies were looking at them askance. King Artorius’s spymaster reported disgruntled muttering from the common folk, whispers and suspicion that the nobility, far removed from the consequences of war, had never desired Peace at all, to judge by the treatment of their Peaceweaver. Arthfael wondered bitterly at how swiftly they had changed their tune from seeing Khava as something sub-human to be despised, to supporting her.

Everything was in shambles, no matter how much the Court tried to pretend otherwise, and Arthfael had no idea of how to even start to fix it.

* * *

“I will not fail.”

The Great Hall was filled with dead or dying nobles, Arthfael’s father forced to kneel before his own throne.

A familiar figure occupied the ornate chair. Green primary feathers had been replaced by a riot of other colours, held in place by steel filligree that covered the entire wing in swirling, graceful patterns. Khava would never soar the sky that was her birthright again, but she had turned that loss into a proud display of remembrance and strength.

The cold distain that marked her expression, at least, was very familiar.

Forced to his knees before her, Arthfael glared up at his wife. “So it was all a trick? I have to say, I admire your dedication to a ruse.”

Khava drew her wings close in an almost defensive motion. “Too many of our allies believed that surrender would result in mercy and peace. Proving otherwise transformed us from scattered tribes to a united force that cannot be beaten.”

Arthfael stiffened at the implication that she’d expected to be abused, even if she hadn’t been wrong. “I never acted dishonourably toward you.”

She hummed agreeably, “You didn’t, and I probably wouldn’t have risked it if I suspected that you wouldn’t cling so hard to your honour… but your people are another story.”

King Artorius surged to his feet, and was promptly clubbed into unconsciousness and dragged away. Arthfael knew a lost fight when he saw one. “In the interest of negotiating surrender, what are your plans for my people?”

The sound of fluttering wings distracted him for a moment, as a tiny body fell as much as it flew into Khava’s arms. She smiled tenderly at their son, safe and unharmed, “Be careful, Arthawk. Those of your people who are willing to live peacefully may remain. Those who are not will meet a less-kind fate. We have given enough chances, and none will fault us for not trusting you again.”

Neatly trapped, Arthfael inclined his head. “It is a risk, but I know when to bet and when to fold.” He met her eyes squarely, and saw, for the first time, a flicker of respect. “After all, the greatest gambles bring the highest rewards.”

If you liked this story, leave a heart or a tip, and follow me on Vocal and Medium!

For a story with less Grimdark and more Romance, I recommend Captive Hearts...