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I don’t think I’ll have any post for ultimate decades for the next couple weeks. I am currently out of town and working possible storylines.

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(AI Generated Images)

History of Valois

Valois was originally a loose confederation of duchies and counties that shared language, customs, and a devotion to the Church of the Watcher. By the late 9th century, raiders from other countries threatened the northern coast, prompting several lords to unite under a single military leader.

King Alaric I (r. 912–946) is considered the founding monarch of the Kingdom of Valois. A warlord of southern origin, he was crowned by the High Bishop of Lyonfleur after repelling a massive Caledonian incursion.

The early monarchy was elective, chosen from among the most powerful nobles, though often reaffirmed by bloodline.

Throughout the 10th and 11th centuries, Valois expanded inland, establishing permanent borders with SierraLuz to the south and Aethelmark to the west. The capital of Lyonfleur grew around a sacred shrine and river crossing, eventually becoming a cultural and spiritual hub.

Valois Geography

Valois is a lush and fertile kingdom, crisscrossed by gentle rivers and framed by wooded hills and foggy valleys. The kingdom enjoys a temperate climate with wet springs, warm summers, misty autumns, and cold but manageable winters. Agriculture thrives here, particularly in the southern countryside where vineyards, orchards, and wheat fields blanket the landscape.

Lyonfleur, the capital, is a bustling royal seat located along the River Lys. Grand stone bridges, manicured gardens, merchant quarters, and the towering royal palace define the city’s skyline. It is both the political and cultural heart of Valois.

Mons lies northwest of the capital, nestled between thick enchanted forests and mountain-fed rivers. It is known for its strong connection to nature and superstition, giving rise to tales of witches, healers, and ancient spirits. It is quieter than Lyonfleur but rich in tradition and lore.

Government

Valois is an absolute monarchy, with the King holding full authority over legislative, judicial, and executive matters. However, to maintain noble loyalty and regional stability, the monarch convenes a Royal Council, made up of high-ranking nobles, clergy, and select wealthy merchants.

Monarchy

The House of Clarillot has ruled Valois since the mid-1200s, tracing its lineage back to a knighted noble who rose during a bloody war of succession. Known for their silver stag sigil and motto "Par le fer, par la foi" (“By the sword, by faith”), the Clarillots are fiercely proud of their bloodline and dominion.

House of Duresse (c. 1023–1205)

The War of the Three Princes (1205–1247)

House Clarillot (1247–present)

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The family tree of House Clarillot from the survivor who won the crown after the War of the Three Princes, King Gautier I, to the current monarch, King Geoffroi I.

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1322 Royal Updates

Here are the birthdays, marriages, and deaths of the royal side households in the year 1322. This list will not include anyone from my main household or any of the Blackburne siblings, and their families (Smith, Hicrest, and Vorona/Ravn)

Aethelmark

House Stagfield

Birthdays / Line of Succession

Prince Evrard takes in his illegitimate son, Torsten, to become his heir against his brother, the King, wishes.

Marriage / Betrothal

Princess Margery has become betrothed to Lord Hugh Ashdown III after the death of her older sister, Princess Letha.

Death

Princess Letha - Age: 13 years old / COD: Illness / Poison?

House Davenport

Birthdays / Line of Succession

Lady Antonia Davenport - Age: 21 years old / Lifestage: YA

Lord Henry Davenport - Age: 3 months old / Lifestage: Infant

Lord Henry has been named as next in line for the Davenport title due to the death of his father.

Marriages - None

Deaths

Lord George Davenport - Age: 21 years old / COD: Illness

Valois

House Clarillot

Birthdays / Line of Succession

King Geoffroi has named his younger brother heir to the Valois throne until the time that he has an heir of his own.

Princess Blanche has decided to follow the path of the watcher and has entered a nunnery, against her brother, King Geoffroi's, wishes.

Marriage / Betrothal / Annulments

King Geoffroi has annulled his marriage to Margaret Brabant.

Death

Dowager Queen Emma - Age: 40 years old / COD: Fallen from horse

House Brabant

Birthdays/Line of Succession

Lady Eleanor Brabant - Age: 5 years old / Lifestage: Child

Marriage / Betrothal

Death -- None

Caledonia

House Dalriada

Birthdays / Line of Succession

Princess Fiona Dalriada - Age: 13 years old / Lifestage: Teen

Marriage / Betrothal

Princess Fiona betrothed to Lord Lornel

Princess Mary betrothed to Lord William

Death -- None!

SierraLuz

House Almanzor

Birthdays / Line of Succession

Princess Constance Almanzor - Age: 5 years old / Lifestage: Child

Marriage / Betrothal

Heir to the throne Princess Dionora is betrothed to Duques Alfonso

Death -- None!

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1322 update for the Blackburne clan and the side households (Smith, Atwood, Hicrest, Vorona/Ravn)

Birthdays:

Freya Ravn - Age: 3 months old / Lifestage: Infant

Katharine Blackburne -Age: 5 years old / Lifestage: Child

Isaac Blackburne - Age: 5 years old / Lifestage: Child

Alexander Blackburne - Age: 21 years old / Lifestage: Young Adult

Lilyana Blackburne - Age: 21 years old / Lifestage: Young Adult

Elric Hicrest - Age: 13 years old / Lifestage: Teen

Eden Atwood - Age: 1.5 years old / Lifestage: Toddler

Faran Smith - Age: 13 years old / Lifestage: Teen

Elizabeth Atwood - Age: 21 years old / Lifestage: Young Adult

Kingsley Atwood - Age: 21 years old / Lifestage: Young Adult

Deaths:

Selena Blackburne - Age: 40 years old / COD: Infection

Marion Blackburne - Age: 1.5 years old / COD: Influenza

Marriages:

Henry Smith married the innkeepers daughter, Nesta Wilburn

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TW: Death of Infant, Grief

The waning days of 1322 draped a quiet melancholy over the Blackburne Farm. Lilyana was heavy with child, nearly eight months along, and Alexander had insisted she rest more. His younger sisters, Brenna and Lucia, now older and more capable, had readily stepped up to help with the endless farm chores. It had been a grueling six months without Selena’s steady hand and comforting presence, but they were, slowly, painfully, finding a new rhythm.

Yet, amidst their fragile adjustment, a new shadow had fallen. Marion, Alexander and Lilyana’s youngest daughter, had been sick for weeks. A persistent cough, a fever that stubbornly refused to break, and a weariness that clung to her small frame. Lilyana spent countless nights by her daughter’s side, doing everything in her power to soothe the child’s cries, rocking her, singing to her, offering sips of cool water. But nothing seemed to work. Marion only grew weaker, her breaths becoming increasingly shallow.

One morning, just as the first light of dawn hinted at the horizon and Alexander was preparing to head out to the fields, he heard Lilyana call his name. Her voice was strained at first, then became urgent, bordering on frantic. He raced back to their room, his heart leaping into his throat.

He found Lilyana on the floor, cradling Marion against her chest, her face pale with terror. "Alexander!" she cried, her voice raw. "Her breathing... it's so slow. It feels like it's stopping!"

He knelt beside them, his own breath catching in his throat. He reached out, his trembling hand brushing Marion’s forehead, now clammy and cool. "Please, Marion," he whispered, his voice hoarse, tears stinging his eyes. He begged, pleaded, with whatever higher power might be listening. They had already lost one child, sweet Theda. He had just buried his mother, Selena. He couldn’t bear to lose anyone else he loved.

Brenna, hearing the commotion, instinctively dashed out of the house to fetch the local healer. But the distance to the village was long, and the healer’s remedies were often more hope than cure. By the time Brenna returned, breathless and anxious, it was already too late.

Marion lay still in Lilyana's arms, her tiny chest no longer rising and falling. The precious, fragile life had slipped away. Alexander felt a crushing blow, his mind refusing to accept the reality. Lilyana, however, erupted in gut-wrenching sobs, her body shaking as she clutched her baby girl, her cries echoing the unbearable pain of a mother’s loss.

They laid Marion to rest beside Selena, a tiny, fresh grave marking another absence. As they stood over the mounded earth, saying their final, heartbreaking goodbyes, Lilyana looked up at the vast, indifferent sky, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "Selena," she whispered, her voice broken, "please... take care of our baby girl." The world felt utterly bleak, plunged into a darkness that seemed impenetrable.

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A few days after Selena’s passing, the Blackburne farmhouse felt hollow, echoing with a profound absence. Alexander sat alone in the dimness of the main room, the weight of his grief a physical burden. Selena, his stepmother, had been his last living parental figure, a steadfast guide even in his adulthood. He’d looked to her for wisdom, for comfort, and for quiet lessons on how to be a better father. Now, the farm that had always thrummed with her presence seemed mournfully quiet, and he wondered if it would ever feel whole again.

Lilyana found him there, shrouded in shadows, and came to him, her touch gentle as she laid a hand on his shoulder. "I miss her too, Alexander," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "She became a mother to me after I lost my own parents so young. Her kindness... it filled a void."

Alexander sighed, the weariness deep in his bones. "I just don't know how we'll go on without her, Lily. She was everything."

Lilyana sat beside him, rubbing his arm in slow, comforting circles. "I remember what she told me after Theda... after we lost our baby girl," she began, her voice a fragile whisper. "She said that the darkness would be around for a time, but after the darkness, there would always be light again."

Alexander took a small measure of comfort from her words, but the idea of light seemed impossible, distant. "How, Lily? How can there be any light after this darkness?"

Lilyana looked at him, her eyes filled with a quiet strength. "Because, my love, we still have so much light. Brenna and Lucia need their older brother, their protector. They are healthy, and they need you. Ingerid is happy and vibrant, and she needs her father." Her gaze then drifted down to her own stomach, and a soft smile touched her lips. "And this new life growing inside me," she continued, her voice filled with tenderness, "needs you to tell them stories of Selena, of the love she gave us, of the guidance she offered."

Alexander’s eyes widened, a jolt of shock passing through him. He looked down, noticing the subtle curve of her belly beneath her tunic. "You're... you're pregnant?"

Lilyana nodded, her smile widening. "Selena helped me confirm it, actually. I wanted to wait a little longer to tell you, with everything..."

Alexander reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he placed them over his wife's rounded stomach. In that moment, a warmth spread through him, a feeling he couldn't explain. He could almost feel Selena's presence, a gentle touch of reassurance. A faint, real smile touched his lips. The darkness still surrounded him, heavy and profound, but now, a fragile, hopeful glimpse of the light had begun to pierce through.

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TW: Sudden Death, Grief

The Blackburne farmhouse, usually bustling with the energetic sounds of childhood, held a temporary quiet. Selena Blackburne had spent the better part of the morning in familiar rhythm, her hands soothing Marion’s cries, rocking the baby gently in her arms. She missed the days when her own youngest, Brenna and Lucia, were so small; now they were older, eager to explore the fields and help Alexander with the farm chores. The house was quieter now that Beatrice was gone, pursuing her own path in Valois, and even Thomas visited less often.

All day, Selena had felt a subtle disquiet. Her breath had been shallow, her limbs heavy with an uncharacteristic weariness. She'd brushed it off as the fatigue of age, or perhaps just the endless demands of the farm and two young grandchildren. As Marion finally drifted off to sleep, Selena bent to kiss the soft crown of the baby's head. When she straightened, a searing, shooting pain lanced through her chest, sharp and sudden.

She gasped, her hand flying to her heart. The room spun, and she instinctively reached out for the nearby table, hoping to steady herself, to call for Alexander or Lilyana. But her legs gave way, and she crumpled to the wooden floor. The pain intensified, a crushing weight in her chest, as the familiar farmhouse ceiling swam before her eyes. Then, mercifully, the world dissolved into darkness.

Later, seeking a moment’s respite from their chores, Alexander and Lilyana stepped inside the house. The quiet was unsettling, deeper than usual. Alexander’s call of "Mother?" went unanswered. They found her on the floor, still. Panic flared in their hearts as they rushed to her side, but a chilling stillness had already claimed her.

In the small, hallowed ground behind their home, where the wind whispered through the tall grass, they laid Selena to rest. She joined her beloved husband, Edward Blackburne, and their youngest son, Edward II, beneath the ancient earth. The farm felt profoundly empty without her steady presence, a silence settled upon them that no amount of children's laughter or buzzing bees could entirely fill.

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TW: Illness, Death

Lady Antonia Davenport moved through the silent halls of her husband's manor, a phantom touch of Thomas's skin lingering on hers. A month had passed since their reunion, since she had felt his arms around her in his bed, and the memory was a persistent, unwelcome whisper in the quiet moments. She would shake her head, a stern reprimand for her wandering thoughts. She was a married woman, and though her union with Lord George Davenport was loveless and arranged, it had given her Henry, her precious son, for whom she would be eternally grateful.

Her guilt, a heavy cloak, intensified with George's worsening illness. He had always been a frail child, but they had all believed those sickly days were far behind him. Yet, for weeks now, he had been confined to his bed, a pale, unmoving shadow of a man.

Antonia sat by the hearth, a book open in her lap, but her mind was elsewhere. Suddenly, a piercing scream tore through the silence from the room above. Her heart leaped into her throat, and she raced up the stairs, dread cold in her veins.

Baroness Catelyn Davenport, her mother-in-law, was kneeling beside George, her body wracked with sobs. George lay prone on the floor, utterly still. Catelyn’s pleas for her son to wake up echoed hollowly in the opulent chamber. Antonia could only stare, a silent scream caught in her own throat, the shock holding her captive. Then, the booming voice of Baron Trystrem Davenport, her father-in-law, cut through the grief-stricken air, yelling for the servants to fetch the doctor. But Antonia knew, with a chilling certainty, it was already too late.

Days later, Antonia stood in the solemn stillness of the family’s private cemetery. Her gaze was fixed on George’s freshly turned plot, a mound of earth marking the end of a life. Tears flowed freely down her face, not for a lost love, but for her son, Henry, who would now grow up without his father. A small, insidious voice, barely a whisper, tried to tell her she was free. She fiercely pushed it down, rebuking the thought. This was not the time for her own complicated feelings.

Turning from the grave, she walked back into the manor. The familiar sight of her son, bright-eyed and oblivious in the nursemaid’s arms, was a balm to her aching soul. She took him, pressing kisses to his soft hair, cuddling the young boy who was, and always would be, her entire world.

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It was a brisk morning in Valois, but Beatrice Blackburne barely noticed the chill. She hummed a tuneless melody as she moved among the buzzing hives in Lily Hagen's garden, the sweet scent of honey and blooming rosemary filling the air. Her hands, once accustomed to the rough earth of Blackburne Farm, now moved with a delicate precision as she coaxed the golden liquid from the frames.

Life in Lyonfleur was a symphony of new experiences. The Valoisian language, once a confusing jumble, was slowly becoming familiar, its nuances unfolding with each passing day. Lily, with her calm demeanor and boundless knowledge, was an exceptional mentor. Beatrice devoured every lesson, her mind alight with the intricacies of herbal remedies and the delicate art of diagnosis.

She spent hours poring over dusty tomes in Lily’s small, fragrant apothecary, memorizing the properties of plants she had only ever dreamed of. When not immersed in study, she accompanied Lily on her rounds, observing as her mentor patiently listened to the ailments of the capital’s less fortunate. Beatrice learned to discern the subtle signs of fever in a flushed cheek, the dull ache of a sprain from a broken bone. She felt a profound sense of purpose, a calling that resonated deep within her soul.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments between patients or when the last of the sun dipped below the city rooftops, a pang of longing for Aethelmark would strike her. She missed the familiar fields of home, the earthy scent of the Blackburne farm, and the comforting presence of her family. She thought of Alexander and Lilyana with their two little girls, of her sister's Brenna and Lucia. The person she thought of most often was her mother, the person loved her enough to let her go. But these moments of homesickness were fleeting, quickly overshadowed by the profound gratitude that swelled in her heart.

Here, in Valois, Beatrice was not merely a daughter of a farmer. She was a scholar, a burgeoning healer, forging a path uniquely her own. She was learning, growing, and contributing, choosing a life that resonated with her deepest desires. And for that, she was immeasurably thankful.

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Three years into their marriage, the kingdom of Valois remained without a living heir. Queen Margaret, though she conceived shortly after her wedding to King Geoffroi, had endured the heartbreaking loss of her first child in 1320, the infant dying just hours after birth. Since then, the immense pressure to produce an heir had taken its toll, leading to multiple miscarriages. Each loss compounded her grief and the ever-growing burden of expectation.

By 1322, King Geoffroi's patience had worn thin. Convinced the Clarillot line was in jeopardy, he declared his intention to find a new wife. He approached the head of the Watcher's church and, after subtly hinting at Margaret's perceived closeness with certain male court members – a cruel insinuation with no truth to it – was granted an annulment.

Geoffroi, with a chilling lack of empathy, proudly informed Margaret of the dissolvement of their marriage. A furious fire ignited within her. She screamed at him, vehemently denying any impropriety, asserting her unwavering loyalty. Geoffroi, however, merely brushed her off, coldly stating it didn't matter. All that mattered, he reiterated, was a secure heir for Valois.

Days later, Geoffroi summoned Margaret to the throne room. With the full court as witnesses, he stripped her of all royal titles and banished her from court. Margaret, her heart shattered and dignity wounded, felt the piercing gazes of the assembled nobles as she made her solitary, disgraced exit.

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The summer of 1322 was approaching its zenith, and Thomas was on the cusp of a significant milestone. He had excelled as a squire, his dedication and skill earning him the respect of the King's Guard. The knighthood, with its promise of title and financial security for Una and their children, was within reach. Yet, beneath the surface of his outward success, a persistent ache lingered in his heart. The years had not erased the memory of his first love, Lady Antonia.

One afternoon, as Thomas strolled the grounds of the guard's barracks, a familiar figure came into view. Her hair, the color of spun gold, caught the sunlight, and his heart quickened with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. It was Antonia.

Their last encounter, a tense and painful exchange on her wedding day in 1319, hung heavy in the air. Thomas had allowed his anger and heartbreak to dictate his words, a decision he had long regretted, especially now that he was a married man himself.

"Antonia," he said, his voice softer than he intended.

"Thomas," she replied, her voice a melody that had haunted his dreams.

They exchanged polite greetings, inquiring about each other's families. Thomas spoke of Una and their children, Katharine, Isaac, and Tobias, his tone carefully neutral. Antonia, in turn, shared news of Lord George and their young son, Henry. Her words were dutiful, but Thomas detected a flicker of sadness in her eyes, a shadow that mirrored the longing in his own heart.

In a moment of impulsive tenderness, Thomas reached out and gently touched her cheek. He quickly withdrew his hand, a wave of guilt washing over him. They were both bound to others, their lives irrevocably intertwined with their respective spouses. Yet, in that fleeting touch, the years seemed to melt away, and he saw once more the vibrant young woman he had fallen in love with.

"It's been a long time," Antonia said, her gaze searching his.

"It feels like a lifetime," Thomas murmured.

Before he could fully process his thoughts, Antonia proposed a playful challenge. "I bet I can still outshoot you at the archery range."

A spark of their old camaraderie ignited as they competed, their laughter echoing through the air. Antonia managed to hit the target twice, while Thomas, with his years of training, scored five hits.

He then offered to show her the barracks, a gesture that felt both innocent and laden with unspoken meaning. He led her to a ladder that scaled the outer wall of his room, leading to a tower that offered a breathtaking view of Aethelmark.

As Antonia gazed at the panorama, Thomas found himself captivated by her beauty. The years had only enhanced her grace, her presence radiating a quiet strength. The words slipped from his lips before he could restrain them.

"I've missed you," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion.

Antonia turned to face him, her eyes filled with a poignant mixture of sadness and longing. "I've missed you too, Thomas," she whispered.

He reached out and took her hands, his touch tentative at first, then growing firmer as the years of suppressed desire surged within him. He pulled her closer, their bodies almost touching. He didn't know who initiated the move, but their lips met in a tentative kiss that quickly deepened into a passionate embrace. The years of separation dissolved, replaced by a desperate need to reclaim what they had lost.

Reason warred with longing. They were bound by duty and vows, their lives intertwined with others. Yet, the pull between them was too strong to resist.

Antonia broke the kiss first, but instead of pulling away, she tugged his hand toward the ladder. He followed her back to his room, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.

Her gaze swept over the simple furnishings, lingering on his bed, then returning to his eyes. The unspoken invitation hung heavy in the air. Passion overwhelmed their restraint. Thomas pulled Antonia close, their kiss igniting a fire that consumed them both. They spent the night in each other's arms, lost in a world where the past and present collided, where duty and desire became indistinguishable. For those precious hours, they forgot the years that had separated them, the promises they had made, and the lives they had built with others.

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TW: Illness, Child Death

The pale spring sun cast long shadows across the courtyard of Stagfield Keep, a stark contrast to the darkness that had settled over the royal family. The year 1322 had dawned with a bitter chill that had seeped into the very stones of the castle, mirroring the unrest that simmered within the kingdom. King Philip, his brow furrowed with worry, spent his days quashing whispers of rebellion, the nobles’ resentment over the Ashdown family’s rapid ascent a constant thorn in his side.

Beyond their borders, the drums of war seemed to beat louder. Tensions with Caledonia had reached a fever pitch, and Philip, huddled with his grim-faced advisors, strategized another costly campaign against their long-time rivals. The air in the war room was thick with maps, hushed voices, and the scent of beeswax candles, a stark contrast to the hushed sorrow that permeated the family quarters.

Since the harsh beginnings of January, a shadow had fallen upon Princess Letha. A relentless illness had gripped the vibrant twelve-year-old, her laughter replaced by weak coughs and labored breaths. There had been days when the castle held its breath, fearing the worst, but then, a slow, almost miraculous recovery had begun, attributed by the devout to the Watcher’s merciful hand.

As the first blossoms of spring unfurled across the land, Letha’s spirits had begun to lift with them. Her thirteenth birthday approached, a beacon of joy in the otherwise somber atmosphere. She had regaled her younger siblings with tales of the grand celebration she envisioned, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

One crisp March afternoon, her excitement bubbling over, Letha sought out her father in his chambers. She wanted to finalize the plans for her special day, her voice filled with the innocent enthusiasm of a child on the cusp of becoming a young woman. But as she stepped into the familiar room, a wave of dizziness washed over her. The tapestries seemed to sway, the intricate patterns blurring before her eyes. A weak cry escaped her lips, "Father..." before the floor rushed up to meet her.

The thud of her small body hitting the stone echoed in the vast chamber. King Philip, hunched over maps, looked up with a start, his blood running cold at the sight of his daughter lying still on the cold floor. "Letha!" he roared, rushing to her side, his heart pounding with a primal fear. He bellowed for help, his voice raw with panic.

Lady Edrea, drawn by the commotion, stood frozen in the doorway, her face pale, her hands clasped tightly. She stared down at the small, still form, a strange mix of pity and helplessness swirling within her.

Philip cradled Letha in his arms, his fingers desperately searching for a pulse. It flickered weakly, a fragile butterfly’s wing against his skin, then grew fainter, slower. He pressed his ear to her chest, straining to hear the steady beat he had always taken for granted, but the silence that met him was deafening.

A guttural cry tore from his throat. "No! No, please!" He looked heavenward, his eyes wild with despair. "Watcher, let her live! Please, I beg you!" But the skies remained silent, unmoved by his desperate pleas.

Tears streamed down his face, hot against Letha’s cooling skin. He held her lifeless body close, the reality of his loss crashing down upon him with brutal finality. The grand celebration, the joyous laughter, the dreams of a young girl blossoming into womanhood – all extinguished in a single, terrible moment.

The following days were shrouded in black. Stagfield Keep, once echoing with life, was now draped in heavy mourning cloth. The family moved through the castle like ghosts, their faces etched with grief, the weight of their loss a tangible presence in the silent halls. Letha’s small coffin, adorned with the Stagfield sigil, was carried through the hushed courtyard, followed by a procession of weeping servants and stunned nobles. The vibrant promise of spring felt like a cruel mockery against the stark reality of their profound and inconsolable sorrow. The future, once uncertain with political strife and the threat of war, now held a new, gaping void – the absence of a beloved daughter and sister, a wound that threatened to never truly heal.

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The spring of 1322 brought a renewed sense of hope to the Blackburne Farm. Alexander and Lilyana had recently celebrated their 21st birthdays with a quiet celebration, their focus on their growing family rather than grand festivities. Alexander spent his days tending to the crops, his mind often drifting to his new venture – crafting and selling mead. The sweet nectar, a byproduct of his beekeeping efforts, promised a new source of income, a glimmer of hope amidst the ever-present financial strain.

Lilyana, meanwhile, found her days filled with the joys and challenges of motherhood. Ingerid, their spirited elder daughter, was growing into a whirlwind of energy, while little Marion, just four months old, was a constant source of wonder. Lilyana marveled at their rapid growth, each passing day bringing new discoveries and milestones.

One afternoon, as the sun began its descent, an unexpected visitor arrived – Thomas, Alexander's younger brother. It had been some time since their last meeting, Thomas's duties as a King's Guard keeping him away from the farm. As the brothers caught up, Alexander couldn't help but notice a melancholic undercurrent in Thomas's demeanor.

"You seem troubled, brother," Alexander remarked, concern lacing his voice.

Thomas hesitated, then admitted, "I've been thinking a lot lately, about… about the path I've chosen."

Alexander raised an eyebrow, curious. "What do you mean?"

"Una and I… we have a good life," Thomas said, his gaze drifting away from his brother. "The children are healthy, we have a comfortable home. But sometimes, I can't help but wonder…"

Alexander waited for him to continue.

"I wonder about the life I could have had," Thomas confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "The love I gave up."

Alexander was taken aback. He had never known his brother to harbor such regrets. "Love?" he echoed, his curiosity piqued.

Thomas shook his head, a look of pain flitting across his face. "It's nothing. Just… thoughts. Things I shouldn't dwell on."

Alexander pressed further, his concern growing. "Thomas, you can tell me anything."

But Thomas remained silent, a wall of unspoken emotions erected between them. The brothers continued their conversation, sharing stories of their lives, their families, their hopes for the future. But the lingering question of Thomas's unspoken regrets hung heavy in the air.

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1321 update for Blackburne clan and the side households (Smith, Hicrest, and Vorona/Ravn).

Birthdays:

Eden Atwood - Age: 3 months old / Lifestage: Infant

Tobias Blackburne - Age: 1.5 years old / Lifestage: Toddler

Marion Blackburne - Age: 3 months old / Lifestage: Infant

Deaths: None!

Marriages:

Eloise Hicrest marries Stephen Graye (Previously Bright)

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The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting the barn in a deep twilight. Alexander Blackburne, his face illuminated by the flickering light of a single candle, worked tirelessly on his latest woodworking project. He was determined to turn a profit from his craft, to supplement the meager income from the farm.

The weight of responsibility pressed down on him. With Beatrice leaving for Valois, the burden of providing for his family fell squarely on his shoulders. His wife, Lilyana, had given him the gift of another child, but the thought of another mouth to feed filled him with a mix of joy and trepidation.

He was lost in his work when a sound startled him. Footsteps crunching on the gravel outside. Alexander tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for the hammer beside him. He had no desire for visitors, especially not unwelcome ones.

The barn door creaked open, and Baron Trystrem Davenport stepped into the dim light. Alexander's heart pounded in his chest. He remembered their last encounter, the raw anger and resentment that had passed between them.

"Please," Trystrem said, his voice a low rumble, "let me explain."

Alexander hesitated, his hand hovering over the hammer. Something in his uncle's posture, the way his shoulders slumped, the haunted look in his eyes, made Alexander pause.

Trystrem stepped further into the barn, his gaze fixed on the floor. "I know I don't deserve to be forgiven," he began, his voice thick with emotion. "But I need you to know that I regret my actions deeply. The way I treated your mother, the way I abandoned you and Thomas..."

He paused, his voice cracking. "I never got a chance to apologize to Elsa. To tell her how sorry I was, how much I loved her."

Alexander listened, his anger slowly subsiding. He had never heard this side of his uncle, the side that was consumed by regret and guilt.

"I hated Edward," Trystrem confessed, "for taking her away from me, for stealing her away from the life I had planned for her. But now, looking back, I realize that she found happiness with him, true love. And for that, I am grateful."

He paused, his gaze meeting Alexander's. "I know I can't make things right. But I see the weight you carry, the burden you bear. And I know Elsa, and I know Edward, they would want me to help."

Trystrem stepped closer, holding out a small, leather-bound case. Alexander's eyes widened as he opened it. It was filled with gold and silver coins, more than he had ever seen in his life.

Alexander looked up at his uncle, his gaze filled with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude. Trystrem, his face etched with a mixture of relief and shame, turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness.

Alexander stood alone in the barn, the weight of the coins heavy in his hands. He didn't know what to make of his uncle's unexpected generosity, but he knew one thing for sure: his life, and the lives of his family, were about to change.

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[timesimmer]

The crisp autumn air of late 1321 nipped at Selena Blackburne’s cheeks as she tended to the chickens, their clucking a familiar comfort in the quiet of the morning. She straightened her back, wiping a stray feather from her apron, when she spotted a figure approaching the farmhouse. As the figure drew nearer, a smile bloomed on Selena’s face. It was Lily Hagen.

Selena hadn’t seen her dear friend since Lily had left Eastcliff years ago, chasing her ambitious dreams in the distant kingdom of Valois. They had been inseparable as girls, sharing secrets and laughter by the riverbank. Lily, even then, had a thirst for knowledge, especially when it came to healing herbs and remedies.

“Lily!” Selena exclaimed, rushing forward to embrace her friend. The years melted away as they held each other, a rush of shared memories flooding back.

Over mugs of warm cider in the farmhouse kitchen, Lily recounted her adventures in Valois. She had indeed pursued her passion, studying diligently and finally opening her own apothecary in Lyonfleur, the kingdom’s bustling capital. Her heart was set on helping the less fortunate, those who couldn’t afford the exorbitant fees of the city’s established healers.

“It’s rewarding, Selena, truly,” Lily said, her eyes shining with purpose, “but it’s been difficult managing everything alone. I’ve been considering taking on an apprentice, someone with a genuine interest in the craft.”

Selena’s mind immediately went to Beatrice. Her eldest daughter, with her quiet intensity and her unwavering fascination with plants and their properties. The conversations they had had, Beatrice’s yearning for something more than the traditional path laid out for her.

“Lily,” Selena began, a hopeful tone in her voice, “I might know just the person.”

She called for Beatrice, who entered the kitchen with a curious look on her face. Selena introduced the two women, explaining Lily’s journey and her new apothecary. When Lily mentioned she was looking for help, Beatrice’s eyes widened, a spark of excitement igniting within them.

Lily, sensing Beatrice’s interest, turned to the young woman. “Tell me, Beatrice, what draws you to the study of medicine?”

Beatrice, usually reserved, launched into a passionate explanation of everything she had learned from her books, from observing the plants in the fields and forests, her voice filled with an eagerness that made Selena’s heart swell with pride.

Lily listened intently, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You have a remarkable passion, Beatrice,” she said finally. “I could certainly use someone with your enthusiasm and knowledge.”

Both Lily and Beatrice turned to Selena, the unspoken question hanging in the air. The decision, they both knew, rested with the matriarch of the Blackburne family.

Selena looked at her daughter, her heart torn. Valois was a world away, a different kingdom with its own customs and language. Beatrice would be leaving everything she knew, her family, her home.

“Beatrice,” Selena said, her voice serious, “do you understand what this means? Valois is far. You would need to learn their ways, their tongue. You would be leaving us.”

Beatrice met her mother’s gaze, her own eyes filled with a quiet resolve. “I know it will be difficult, Mother. I will miss you all terribly. But this… this is my dream. I can’t let fear hold me back.”

A wave of understanding washed over Selena. She saw the burning desire in her daughter’s eyes, a yearning that mirrored her own youthful ambitions, though hers had been confined to the familiar comforts of Eastcliff.

“Then go, my child,” Selena said, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. “Go and pursue your dreams.”

Beatrice gasped, a look of pure joy illuminating her face. She rushed to her mother, wrapping her in a tight embrace. “Thank you, Mother! Thank you!”

The kitchen buzzed with excitement as the three women began to plan Beatrice’s departure. Lily spoke of the journey, the language, the challenges that lay ahead, but Beatrice listened with unwavering determination, her spirit soaring at the prospect of her new adventure. Selena watched them, a mix of sadness and pride swirling within her. It was a bittersweet moment, the letting go of her eldest daughter, but also the joy of seeing her finally embrace her own path, a path that led far beyond the familiar fields of Blackburne Farm.

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