~ North Francia
The banners came at dawn — not Romanus red, not Francian fleur, but white with a Red Cross, coupled next to flags with the roaring lion of Britannia.
They rose from the sea like ghosts from old prophecy.
At first, the fishermen of Caerbonne thought them pirates, and rightly so.
What sane man would sail into the frigid, broken waters of the northwest coast in spring's earliest breath, where ice still clung to stone like memory?
But then came the drums.
And the fire.
And the war horns that hadn't been heard on that coast in hundreds of years.
Britannia had come to war.
~
Cael Montaine – The Royal Capital of Francia
The king's council chambers burned with the light of a hundred candles, all guttering in the draft of voices raised in fury.
"They've done what?!"
Duke Savarin, hands spread over a splayed map of the western coasts, trembled with rage.
The wax-sealed courier sat hunched in the corner, clutching his satchel as though it were armor.
