THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN

Chapter 10

July 16th, 1520 – Northern Hayes

A mighty army they looked as roughened soldiers spilled out amongst the tree line of the woods. Rosalie had set her eye on Adelton Hall.

The villagers in Hayes locked doors and windows in silent anticipation. They knew it was coming, but they also knew that in a siege, anything could happen. Despite rooting for Rosalie and her followers, the townspeople could not trust the foot soldiers. Men in war did all kinds of things—thought themselves entitled to it all.

Lord Geoffrey Quinn saw them arrive, standing solemnly as the army amassed at the gates of Adelton. It looked like a scene out of the apocalypse, the day of reckoning knocking at his gates. His agitated thoughts received no rest as he saw the troops closing in. And he knew what rested on his shoulders, he knew what it would bode if Adelton fell. Cadherra would be claimed by Rosalie and he would be made prisoner. But the wrath of Victoria instilled a more gruesome fear than what now faced him.

Indeed, it did not bode well. Ominous winds had picked up speed; as if nature herself knew another battle was to take place. Lord Quinn understood that they would not last a siege long. He chose meeting the army on the battlefield rather than have the inhabitants of the castle starve.

Sounds of running footsteps, of panicking footmen and maids, was all that echoed throughout the ancient castle. It was the sound of impending doom as they heard the march outside. The rebels neared with weapons in hand, with a taste for blood. Or, at least, that was what his own soldiers kept whispering.

They stood few: only three hundred in total. Strategy would have to be their friend. Strategy and luck. The young duke, the head of his family, looked at the grim reality.

"My lord," came the commander of his personal army. The only army Victoria had allowed him. "We are ready." Quinn turned around without a word, his face a stern mask. He had chosen the wrong side and he knew it. He should have fled Wessport when he had the chance. But the exceedingly proud lord would never admit it out loud. And he would not bow to someone else when he had already sworn allegiance. He had been there at Victoria's coronation. There was no one more right for the throne than she—the oldest living descendant of Philip Fell. It did not matter that she was a woman. No one else had more claim to the throne than she—despite the atrocities she had committed.

He straightened the breastplate of his armor, walking to the courtyard without a word. The soldiers knew they would lose the battle. But they had great respect for Quinn. He stood by the gates for a long time, perhaps reconsidering his choice.

The army had now passed Hayes and closed in on the castle, the open meadow was the only thing separating them. Quinn was set on taking Rosalie's reputation with him to the grave on this solemn day.

"I refuse to stay locked in here like a coward," he turned to his men and said. Many were pale, many clutched their weapons—the only comfort they allowed themselves. "I will not be besieged, and I will send the pretender a message—that we, the Quinns, do not stand down without a fight. We will be remembered, we will be honored, we will be those who showed true spirit on a day such as this. For as our blood paints the meadows of this valley, as our screams of pain and agony cloud the edge of Durun and Raven's Grove, they will know we fought bravely. We will take down twice as many as they." His nostrils flared as he worked up his own taste for blood, for fighting. "We will die and drag them down with us. Our death will not be a victory for the princess, only a further blow!" he exclaimed.

The men cheered, edged on, eager to prove their worth. Geoffrey's words were not meant to inspire, were not meant to encourage them. They were brutally honest, something many appreciated. Quinn did not fight for Victoria, but he fought for her crown. He fought for his pride. And for his house.

As Rosalie's troops neared, they were indeed surprised as the gates shrieked and opened. The small army welled out, ready to take down all, to leave a scar in Rosalie's army.

The arches lined up along the walls and readied their arrows. There was not enough gunpowder to arm the men with. The civilians had stayed behind at Hayes where everything could be seen all too clearly.

Edward urged his horse to hurry to Fawkes and Saxton who were in a rapid conversation with the princess. "They never planned for a siege, he is meeting us on the field," the masked man growled.

"This bodes badly. He knows we overwhelm him in numbers," Saxton mumbled in response as a frown graced his handsome features.

"Lord Quinn is the proudest man I know. It is a foolish decision in a show of more foolishness," Fawkes quipped as his hands squeezed the reigns. "He knows most of his men—him included—will die."

Edward's head snapped back to the men welling out of Adelton. Grim were their faces, bloodlust shining in their eyes. They would fight to the death, they would fight for more than money could buy. Pride was what edged them on. The same foolish pride that ruled Geoffrey Quinn.

His steed grew nervous under him, reading the tension in its rider. Edward knew that they had to tread carefully, they could not just charge. If they did, it would be considered slaughter and they might end up losing followers. Their dream of joining the south to Rosalie would slip away depending on how things played out on that battlefield.

"We have to take Geoffrey alive, we cannot kill him—make a martyr out of him. If we can get to him, we can end this battle quicker," he said. "We need to make it clear that he is not to be killed under any circumstance. It is what he wants most likely."

"It will be hard," Fawkes murmured. Carlisle and Jacob stood off to the side with one of the better-trained troops.

"Send only me and Saxton with our men," Edward argued.

"That is not even a fourth of our forces! Why would we make this harder for ourselves? We could all strike now and take that silly little army down. It will be child's play!" Fawkes shouted, attracting the attention of the foot soldiers.

"We will defeat Quinn and our victory shall be seen as just."

"Out of the question," Lord Tyris chipped in as he joined them with some lords from Soroise. "We use our whole army or nothing." Lord Wilson nodded eagerly but kept his mouth shut in the presence of Edward's glare and Rosalie's raised eyebrow.

"You ignore the consequences of that," Edward tried as his voice grew dangerously low. He leaned forward, his frame growing bigger, his aura more threatening. The slits in the mask seemed to house nothing beneath it, just a void of darkness. As if it were a phantom under that mask.

"I am ignoring nothing. What I understand is that we need to win this battle, or we lose a greatly needed support."

"But what General Cullen is referring to is that if we squish Lord Quinn on this day, we will be seen just as merciless as Victoria and none will join this war. Three thousand against three hundred? They will think both sides equally as demented. Quinn knows this. He is willing to sacrifice himself so that, even if we win, we end up being the losers." When Saxton was finished he caught up with his train of thought. "The bloody genius," he whispered to himself. "A fool but a genius."

"You make it out to sound like Quinn knows what he is doing. The man lacks that kind of wit. He has made a foolish decision and we can profit from it," Lord Wilson argued, more forcefully. "We need to take this chance, now!" he exclaimed. The forces of Quinn were amassed, getting ready to attack them. They had yet to send their troops into formation.

Rosalie had kept quiet until that point, never the one to know much about warfare. She was inclined to listen to Fawkes because she found a safety in his experience—more safety in him than in Edward. She felt it her duty to speak up and settle the squabble amongst her generals and lords. "What is our final plan of action? What have we finally decided on?"

"We attack them with our full force, Your Royal Highness. Look at them," Fawkes pointed out. "They look half mad. They have the high ground and shooters on the ready along the high walls of the castle. The fact that Lord Quinn has decided to leave the security of his gates gives us a better chance and saves us a whole lot of time. The final decision is yours to make, but I think we should strike head-on and with our full force," Fawkes finished. Many agreed except Edward and Saxton. For they saw the bigger picture.

Rosalie turned to the masked man. "I follow the advice of my Field Marshal, Cullen. And of the majority. General Fawkes has been on the battlefield for a long time. I trust that he knows best," she offered after a slight pause of thought.

"Only because the majority dictates, does not mean they are right," he growled.

"Maybe." They all could not help to shiver as a determinedness settled within the depths of her eyes. An eerie similarity to Philip emerged. Those who had once known the late king could clearly see the blood Rosalie shared with her father. "We attack. I worry about the consequences later."

"Your Royal High—," he began. Still trying to argue against the hefty idea.

"That is an order, Cullen." His lips settled in a thin line.

"As you command," he turned from her. "Saxton, Carlisle, Jacob, you come with me and take the left flank. I leave the middle flank to you, General Fawkes," he said to the older general.

Fawkes' eyes lit up with vigor, with anticipation. His skin crawled in excitement, already smelling victory. "Form the lines!" he shouted at the troops. "Get to safety, Your Royal Highness," he ordered Rosalie. "Enjoy the show," he blinked at her.

Rosalie did not let any emotion show on her face. She rode back in a fast-paced gallop, ready to rejoin the civilians standing just by the outskirts of Hayes. Many of the villagers had left their houses, looking at the battlefield.

The meadow stretched under clear skies. Dirt and sunshine invaded their nostrils like a tangy perfume. Banners flew in lazy winds, adrenaline and testosterone running high. The lines were swiftly formed, Rosalie's soldiers ready to strike.

Lord Quinn looked at the opposing side. He would not back down now. His honor would not let him. He had the high ground—he would make it work.

A stillness settled. Only flapping fabric and horses uncomfortable in the tension. And blood pulsating. And men shivering.

Fawkes bared his teeth in further anticipation. He craved the thrill before a battle.

It was a waiting game, they wanted to see who would attack first.

Quinn rose a hand and the cannons were fired. The iron balls flew whistling through the sky, missing their target on the first round. The soldiers fought hard to stay in place, especially those at the front line. "Keep the line!" Edward shouted. Saxton joined him.

"This will be a massacre," Emmett mumbled under his breath.

"Take Quinn alive if you can," Edward said to the lord. "Do not let him die on this field."

"You think that would change anything?" Emmett asked in disbelief as he shifted in the saddle.

"It might save us some face." Edward did not voice a further opinion. Rosalie was too misguided, Fawkes too eager to battle. The old general did not see the disadvantage, the ramifications their victory would have. They would only find defeat in victory.

The second shower of cannonballs flew through the sky and hit some men. Screams echoed through the meadow as the first men lost their lives.

Isabella had chosen not to watch the fight. She sat with Sofia, her mother and Alice by the town square, trying to block out the screams, the cannon fire and the smell of gunpowder. They had left camp early, Rosalie deciding it was time to march on Adelton and claim it once more.

It was soon that Friar Nicholas and Alan came up to them. Alan looked at them strangely, but his thin lips were sealed shut. She figured it was the battle taking place a few paces from them.

Alan had not told a soul what he had heard just a few days prior. He had not yet processed that information. And as combat dawned on Rosalie's army, he found there was no time to process such words. Not yet.

"May we join you?" Nicholas asked.

"Please," Isabella said before Sofia could interrupt.

They sat in silence, eyes wide and hearts racing. Sofia was grounding herbs into a powder trying to keep busy. Alice was mending a piece of cloth. Isabella found the normalcy bizarre when the thought that only a few paces away, a battle was taking place. She found it even stranger to be so close.

Geoffrey Quinn growled as Rosalie's forces would not stand down. They would not attack either. He had only a limited source of gunpowder and when that went out, they would charge. Better it be him first.

"Men, prepare for combat!" he shouted. It was time.

The soldiers said one last prayer and mentally prepared for their demise.

The other side saw the change in stance. They were ready to respond. Fawkes rode by the front line, making sure all was ready. The spears were sufficiently sharpened, the men wore their gambesons, ready to battle. The old general grinned as he rose his sword dramatically in the air. "For Rosalie!" he shouted.

At the other end of the line, Edward's men—those who had fought with him with the English shouted something else.

"Audeamus!" Let us dare! It was their battle cry, their chant whenever they followed their general into a fight. And it rang in Edward's ears like a nostalgic cry from the past.

At the same time, Lord Quinn ordered his men to charge. "For the crown!" he screamed as they pressed forward.

Getting to the clash of both lines made time slow down. Horse hooves rang through the valley, vibrated through Cadherra who had not seen such a scene since the time of the three kings. The men shouted ferociously as they charged with all their might. When the clash came, it exploded as one side met the other. They all fought in blind rage, time catching up as blood splattered in all directions, as steel met steel and flesh. Edward got off his horse killing to the left and the right. Saxton, Carlisle, and Jacob were not far from his side. Their flank held its formation as they braved on, Quinn's side already taking a hard blow. He ignored as a sword suddenly caught him faintly in the upper arm, drawing blood. Edward braved on with a mission. He would not let Quinn die on that battlefield.

It was surreal for him to see the masked man appear from the thick smog of fired muskets. He looked like the devil, all black—even his armor the shade of night. There was something unsettling, almost evil to him about Edward Cullen. Quinn fought to the left and to the right, ignoring the cuts, the flashes of pain. He would never surrender. He had seemingly gone completely berserk, hitting in all directions.

Tyris of Soroise had caught sight of the commander as well. If he got to Quinn before the masked man, he would kill him without a doubt. Edward pushed forth, Saxton by his side, defending his back. They worked together as they tried to save Quinn's life and, thus, Rosalie's name.

He got to the fury and they met in heated combat. Edward deflected harsh blow after blow, impressed at Quinn's strength—no doubt the adrenaline and anger played a big part in it. He fought with the strengthened sword in one hand and a knife in the other, blocking the broadsword as it came crashing down, a breath from squishing his skull. Edward's muscles cramped as Quinn put his whole weight in the sword.

"Surrender to me Cullen and I will let you walk," Quinn growled through the effort.

"I am not here to kill you, Lord Quinn," he snapped back. The words only made Geoffrey more furious.

"I will never stand down! Death first!"

The conversation had been enough time for Edward to find his footing. He shifted the weight to his left leg and brought the other one behind Quinn's legs, bringing him down to his back and directing his sword to his throat. The battle continued around them, but both men were caught up in their own moment.

"Kill me now, Cullen," Quinn smiled arrogantly. "I would consider it a great honor to have you end my life. Come, I am ready to meet my maker!" he blurted out as he started feeling the intense fatigue. Yes, Quinn was more than ready to die, to get away from it all. He had fought a good and honorable fight.

When Edward Cullen removed sword and knife from him, Geoffrey did not understand. "You will not die today, Lord Quinn," he shouted through the chaos. He brought the handle down on the exposed head and knocked the leader out. Edward called Jacob over and commanded him to transport Quinn back to Hayes.

He had succeeded. Edward looked around him and saw death and destruction, a tight pain gripping his heart as the grim reality of war and death settled in. He saw Angloan blood being spilled, heard the cries of agony and froze for a faint moment. Men cried out for their mothers, for their lovers as they realized it was their end. He found no honor in it. There was no honor in dying in such a way, only a waste of life.

It seemed Fawkes did not see it that way, for the general was having the time of his life until the swing of a sword brought him down hard from his saddle.

Fawkes gasped in pain while air left his lungs. The metal of the sword found an opening in his plated armor and dug into his flesh. Fawkes saw the lone soldier; the fellow eager to finish what he started. The pressing heat of the sun greeted him as he tumbled to his back and started realizing that his time might come. Fawkes would, however, not die on his back. He got up with a loud grunt of pain and swiftly killed the soldier who had stabbed him. But, soon, another managed to cut his calves and the proud general fell to his knees. There was only echo, only pain as he stared at the executioner nearing him with blood dripping from his weapon.

Fawkes eyed him defiantly, a grim smirk settling on his lips as he accepted his fate. But his death never came. Edward Cullen and Emmett Saxton had reached him before it was too late. Fawkes' laugh rumbled through the ranks as he realized he had been saved, seconds away from certain doom.

Edward got on Fawkes' horse. "Stay down!" he shouted in full force to both sides. More than two-thirds of Quinn's men had fallen, painting the meadow red. "Lord Quinn has been captured, it is over. No more blood needs to be spilled!" he continued. "Throw your weapons and I will spare your lives!"

The enemy stared at each other. They had gone into this thinking they would lose their lives. They had been luckier than their companions who lay dead under the summer sun. It took them little time to cast down their swords. They would surrender, but only because they respected Cullen, only because they knew who he was and that his word was the absolute truth. If he promised to spare their lives, they believed it.

In the course of a lazy afternoon, the second battle of the war had taken place and, once again, Rosalie Fell was the victor. But Edward did now wonder what consequences it would bring with it.

Like wine, the blood flowed in the meadow, glinting under the sun, shining like a million rubies had been scattered. Once the shouts and screams of battle were over did the spectators of Hayes step forth to witness the outcome.

Isabella had seen death and destruction before. But never like this. To think that each splayed body on that field was a lost life soured her stomach. For Alice, who stepped forth with her, she could not take it and the contents of her breakfast spilled out on the wet soil, mixing with the foulness before them. Renée made the sign of the cross for the lives lost, watching in horror. Many did the same as her, they understood it was not a victory, how could it be?

Edward caught the horrified expressions of the people emerging from Hayes. Rosalie was one of them. Her face was pale and clammy, her hand clutching the cross. "Not like this," she had whispered at one moment. "Not like this." Friar Nicholas had, with the help of a pale Alan Moore, started scouring the field for survivors.

They were all lost for a moment. Then Edward decided to take charge as the rest had frozen. He ordered Fawkes and other wounded to be taken to a makeshift infirmary in Hayes. Lord Saxton and Jacob got the painful task of managing the villagers and civilians by Hayes while he dealt with Rosalie. They had to be composed before entering Adelton Hall.

Jacob had gotten to Isabella, a green hue to her skin gave away her real state of mind. But her features showed nothing. When he asked for her help in dealing with the others, she took responsibility as well.

"Your Royal Highness," Edward murmured as he caught up to Rosalie, her eyes still fixed on the death before her.

Fearful eyes found him, a lost girl finally breaking through the hardened woman she tried to be. "What have we done, Cullen? What sin is this that I have ordered?"

He had no words of comfort for her, no words to try to salvage her state of mind. There were none. Rosalie had ordered the charge, despite his objections. "This is the reality of war, Your Royal Highness." It was the only solace he could offer her.

"All these souls are gone, because of me."

"You did not kill them, not directly," came the dark voice. For the first time, Rosalie noticed his appearance. Blood soaked his front and had splattered across his mask. It was not his blood. A small cut slashed his upper arm, but it was nothing substantial. Before she could say anything else or attract more attention, the masked man led her away from it all, away from the ghastly sight. The Godfearing woman closed her eyes and let him whisk her away, behind a house that shielded her eyes.

She was finally away from it and found the stillness of that backyard even more unnerving. She looked at him as if asking him why he had brought her there.

"You are allowed to be upset by what you saw. It is normal. But I think it best if it is in private. Let no man see your weakness, Your Royal Highness," he offered.

Rosalie had started shaking. "I am like Victoria." Her face twisted in pain.

"You are nothing like her," he growled with ferocity.

"Then tell me, Cullen, what differs me from her? Would she not have done the exact same thing as I did on this day? What differs us in this action?" she demanded him in anger, lashing out at him.

"You feel remorse and admit to your fault. Victoria blames her actions on everyone else," he answered calmly. It caught Rosalie off guard. "You have a conscience, Your Royal Highness. Your sister seems to have lost hers, or it is buried deep within her."

She clasped both her hands around the wooden cross of her rosary, thinking hard for a moment. "What happens now? Word will spread of what transpired here this day. I will not be a prideful fool. You were right, Cullen, we should not have attacked in such a full force. Now Lord Quinn and his men will be remembered as defiant heroes in their deaths."

"Lord Quinn was not killed in battle. He is alive by my capture. We try to go forth, all is not yet lost, we can still turn this around," he reassured her.

But Rosalie did not feel so reassured after the massacre she had just witnessed.

July 19th – Adelton Hall

Word did indeed spread like wildfire. Before the week was out, all in the realm had heard of the massacre at Adelton. All had heard of Lord Quinn's bravery in battle. For Victoria, Quinn's defeat might have been a hard blow at first, until she realized it was working out in her favor. Some lords that had been strongly in favor of Rosalie were now, once again, neutral in the conflict. It added to her confidence that she would win this war. And she would not take her sister's forces for granted anymore.

Meanwhile, Adelton Hall had been taken up as Rosalie's residence while she regrouped her forces. Fawkes had realized his thirst for battle had clouded his judgment. On the third day of his recovery from his wounds, he had sought an audience with the princess. She had not wanted to see him after the massacre. But she did not blame him because he had, after all, acted on her order.

Rosalie had never seen Adelton before. She appreciated its magnificence. It did indeed inspire awe in those who entered the castle. She understood why her lineage had resided here for so long. The Throne Room in itself was a masterpiece of finely crafted art, high in roof and with the summer sun spilling in through the warm windows. The old throne, older than the creation of Angloa itself, was uncomfortable but spoke of the rich and proud history of her people.

Most people present that mid-afternoon were men of war, her council of war and some ladies in waiting—mostly wives to her advisors. Isabella, Cullen's fiancée in everyone else's eyes, was standing close to the princess. They had exchanged the simplicity of Raven's Grove for a castle fit for an aspiring queen to be.

Fawkes neared the princess, who now looked more like a queen perched on her throne. Despite being in that decadent room, she was the very picture of humility, never once looking prideful or condescending as Victoria might have done.

Fawkes had to use crutches as he walked up with her, a prominent limp slowing him down. The armor was replaced by a simple doublet in bright colors. He looked tired and older, but otherwise well-recovered thank to Sofia's amazing skills.

Mrs. Hammond was there, having survived through these past few months through wit and willpower. She eyed the limping man, trying hard to hide her mouth from dropping. She had heard much of Anthony Fawkes but never seen the man in person.

When Quinn's army had been defeated, Adelton welcomed the new conquerors with open arms, Mrs. Hammond running up to Isabella and showering her with hugs. Mrs. Hammond had secured Isabella her old chambers as well as Renée's. There was plenty of room for the newcomers to the castle, at least most of them. The foot soldiers took up residence in the barracks and The Palas. But it could not house them all, so some of them went to Hayes, the villagers too afraid to deny them housing.

Fawkes stopped just in front of the throne, struggling to bow, but did so as gracefully as he could with his wounds. The murmur died down as the sunrays pushed against the decorated walls, jumping off the shiny golden surface and rich details—outlining them further.

"Your Royal Highness," he said as he straightened.

"General Fawkes, we hope you are feeling better."

A boyish grin escaped him, the smile cutting through his handsome yet aged face. "Had I been twenty years younger, I would have been on my feet the very same day. Alas, age does not favor anyone, I fear," he answered. Fawkes paused briefly, continuing to speak before Rosalie could. "But that is not why I am here."

"Indeed? We had a reunion yesterday with the council where you were absent, my lord." Theodor Glovendale and Thomas Athar had put forth a plan to win back the lost support. It was an outcome many had disliked, trying to talk Lord Quinn into joining their side. He had been imprisoned in the dungeons of the castle, refusing to speak to anyone. They all did not know if they could succeed in such an endeavor. When Fawkes heard of it, he had been against it, saying Quinn did not deserve to join them for the traitor that he was.

"The battle for Adelton, for Cadherra," Fawkes started in a loud voice. It echoed throughout the room, bouncing off the walls, booming loudly in their ears. "It has made me realize something."

"Ten golden crowns says he is about to do something stupid," Carlisle leaned over and whispered in Edward's ear as they stood close to one of the windows of the room.

"I second that," Saxton grinned by their side, joining in on the bet.

Edward shook his head and sent a glance their way. When they thought he would reprimand them, he looked at them straight on. "I hope you are not attached to that money," he said back. The gesture was so unlike Edward that it baffled the two. Jacob had to hold a hand in front of his face as he failed to mask a grin.

"What has it made you realize, General?" Rosalie asked.

"It has, just like these wounds, made me see that I am old and have grown foolish. I know you keep insisting that it was you who gave the order, but many others and I pushed for you to do this. I think I might have been the loudest voice for this. I realize I am not fit to be in charge of your full army when I make simple mistakes like this one."

A painful silence settled as they started realizing what Fawkes was getting at. Athar shifted where he sat and exchanged a glance with Glovendale. Edward caught it and he realized immediately that they had something to do with this.

"But we won," Rosalie stated. "So why are you giving up your post?"

"Because the price we paid for this victory was too expensive," Fakes said tightlipped. It had never been a fair battle. And the dried blood had darkened the meadow. The view from the windows was not as beautiful as it once had—not with death hanging over them.

"Are you telling me that you willingly give up your post as Field Marshal, as the head general of my armies?" she asked astounded.

"No, Your Royal Highness. I am asking you to order me to do it."

"Why on earth would I do that? You served my father and cousin well throughout the years. Why would I wish to remove you from such a post?"

"Because it would send the rest of Angloa a message that you distance yourself from those who advised you to attack Adelton Hall and Quinn's army three days ago," he offered. It seemed Fawkes had thought this out for a long time. No doubt the solitude in the recovery wing of the castle hospital had given him time to reflect.

"I will not make you the scapegoat of this, General. I refuse," she stated loudly. Her own voice now echoed through the room with the force of a storm.

"Your Royal Highness, give my post to someone who deserves it more, to the man who advocated for the right thing even when most were against him." Fawkes turned to Edward who had been leaning casually against the wall up until that moment. Edward was not liking where this was headed—into a territory that would mean even more responsibility for him, yet another thing that would tie him down to Angloa. "Give Edward Cullen my post," his voice boomed.

All their eyes turned to the masked man.

Another weight to add to his shoulders.

Strangest of all was that Rosalie was not opposed to the idea. In fact, she could see the switch working out very well.

The princess reflected on her answer for a moment, the room held its breath collectively while awaiting her answer. Athar watched Edward with intent, saw as he shifted uncomfortably as he awaited the final verdict.

"Very well, but only because I see reason in your proposal, General Fawkes. Therefore, I hereby strip you of your title as Field Marshal and pass it over to General Cullen."

'Another title', Edward thought. Mere words. A title he did not need.

"I would still have you as my advisor, Lord Fawkes," she added, dropping the title of General.

Fawkes bowed again, relief and pleasure gracing his features. His time had come and gone. His faults had finally caught up to him and he had realized it was time to let power go—something few did. Fawkes had stepped down with dignity, others had not been so lucky.

A hand found its way into his and Edward realized it was a small leather purse clinking with coins. Behind his back, Saxton and Carlisle had put their lost money together. Carlisle handed him the twenty golden coins, the small insignificant thing weighing heavy in his hands.

"I do not want it," Edward muttered as he pushed it back into Carlisle' hands and turned his back on him. This was one bet he wished he'd lost.

A/N: There it is! Another chapter for you. I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews I've been getting. I have the best readers ever! I appreciate that you are still reading this story. I myself have grown too attached to posting each week that it will be hard to see it go. But I am working on something that may come after this, so look out for it!

Cheers,

Isabelle