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The Hubs of Bewls and Horses clopped on the wooden planks of the bridge, drowning out

the burbling of the river.

Nags winnyed and dade, protesting against their writers in the load straining their backs.

The beasts, the only ones that could be found in the tiny hamlets of the historian coastline

of Northern Spain, hardly suited the elevated quality of their writers.

These were some of the finest dobles in Europe.

Their fashionable velvet, woolens, and silks stained by the early fall mud coating the

backwater tracks of this part of Northern Spain.

One young man in his late teens coughed through a mouth that was left slightly agate by a

jutting, almost malformed jaw.

His cheeks were flushed.

He lifted a hand up and felt the heat of a fever, then shivered.

His prominent teeth shattered, despite the several cloaks trying to keep him warm amid the

october mist.

The nobleman around him eyed the young man with concern.

His name was Charles, and he was the heir.

He heir to everything, already the ruler, flanders, rebought, burgundy, and Luxembourg.

The king of Castile, Aragon, and Naples traversing his new kingdoms in Spain for the very first

time.

He would one day inherit Austria, Tyrell, Sterea, and Corinthia, and perhaps the throne

...