The Day the War Began
Noaen Highsorrow sat in his study, a cigarette caught between his lips as he studied an expense report from The Golden Thorn. He gave an amused chuckle as the expense report was replaced by another report, his jade eyes reading over the reports of the House expenses, it was boring, but still necessary work. A singular knock came at the door, and he barely glanced up from the report. "Let Mathsaen in, Draelian, thank you."
The doors opened to admit his eldest son, a tall picturesque Sin'dorei clad in armor that was pristine and polished until it gleamed. All silver and gold, as he always appeared, Mathsaen Highsorrow strode into the study with a polite bow for his father. The door had already been closed behind him before he straightened, golden eyes fixing his father with a curious gaze. "You called for me, father? Have you decided to take my advice about separating those profane hedonists, and arranging a marriage for Fayniria?" The question was hopeful, betraying Mathsaen's desire to strike at his younger siblings, so see them parted and forced away from each other.
Noaen sighed, setting the reports aside before glancing at the glowing family tree that still hung in the air above his desk, an image forged by the arcane, a simple trick for a Magister to manage. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, setting it aside in an ashtray before regarding his eldest, fingers steepling before him. The smoke poured forth from his lips in a steady stream before hanging int he air between them, finally beginning to dissipate before he spoke. "I have made a decision, yes. As of last night, I have decided that my children will decide who among my progeny will be my successor."
The normally eloquent paladin stammered, clearly shocked and dismayed by this announcement. "Father... you can't truly mean"
That was as far as Mathsaen got before his father cut off his objection. "I certainly can, and do mean that you are not, as you had expected to be, endorsed as the future of this family. If you want to be my chosen successor, you will have to earn it." He raised a single brow, his right hand raising to forestall any further comments. "I will put to you the same challenge that I have offered your siblings. Prove to me, Mathsaen, that you can overcome your siblings, that you can wrest control from chaos, and you will win my endorsement."
Mathsaen narrowed his eyes, quietly contemplating this challenge, that to win what was his rightful place required only that he do what he had been praying to do for years. Bring his hedonist siblings to heel under the Light. He growled, wisps of the Light starting to play along the edges of his muscular frame. "I have waited years for this, father. I will see them properly reborn in the light, and returned to you as virtuous paragons of our House, you have my solemn vow."
Noaen considered his son's words for a moment that stretched on in silence before speaking. "I expect that you will try, Mathsaen. Consider this meeting my giving you fair warning. They will come for you, and for all of your theatrics with the light, I do not believe you are prepared, not for this. They have had you in their sights for years, and now they have permission to act. You will fight, my son, but I do not expect you to win. Should you surprise me, remember this, none of my family will die in this conflict. That is my only rule."
Mathsaen grunted as though the air had been knocked from his lungs. "I have the Light, and with it I cannot be defeated. You will see, father, that our family is prepared to rise above our reputation, to become examples of how to live in the Light." He truly believed every word, poor, naive pious Mathsaen. He was going to learn just how true the rumors about his siblings are. Noaen waved his hand dismissively, sending his son away wordlessly. Only after the door had closed did he quietly hum. "I have seen the fury within their eyes, and I am not certain that I did you a kindness in requiring that you be left alive." His shoulders rolled in a shrug before he selected the bottle of whiskey on his desk, half-filling a glass with the amber liquor before raising it to that family tree in a toast. "Let the games begin."
Thus ends the first chapter of the Highsorrow War.
@fayniria
