He was intimidating and dangerous and powerful and frightening and everyone knew it. But none knew the depths of the man's twisted ways until one month and seventeen days after he was gone.

The servants of the house knew exactly how it went. Their master would go off for his job, doing whatever it was he did for whatever reasons he had for doing them, taking up anywhere from a few days to nearly two weeks. Then, as usual, he would return to the house, demanding a large stack of papers, two pens and a pitcher of water be delivered to his room. The entire mansion staff knew not to disturb him when this happened. The staff turned this into a method of eliminating new and unwanted coworkers, but that is a story for another time.

For up to a few days the man would not leave his room. A new dishboy one day asked the cook when their master would be back, and the old cook and answered wryly "about two days after he gets home" to the snickers of the more experienced kitchen workers. But they only laughed quietly.

Then the man would exit his room and all would be well again. Though the servants were scared of their master, he was generally a good patron and treated them fairly so long as they did their jobs well. They never asked about what happened behind that closed door after his journeys, and as such they never received any answers.

Until one day, one month and seventeen days after the man's demise.

A boy was clearing out the master's bedroom when he stumbled upon a large trunk behind a wall panel. Upon removing the large box, he opened it, revealing row upon row of organised folders of yellowed pages, covered in ink.

He thought back of the pastime into which his master had delved with such fervor, and his fingers and eyes burned with curiosity. He started at the beginning, reading many, many things which he found fascinating, but which hold no relevance in this story.

It is a folder near the end with which we concern ourselves. Particularly fat, filled with photos and letters and many. many pages of notes in his master's writing.

The label scrawled across the front of the folder made the boy's blood cool. He touched the pages' dog-eared corners, hands trembling. His abominable desire got the best of him, and he opened it.

It was this way that the large country of Devia pulled the actions of one of its leaders out of the dark.

But to write here all of what the boy read would ruin the fun of the story. For now, I give you a few lines, and the rest will be told to you by a handful of interesting characters:

Looking back on it all now, I can see my mistakes quite easily. Rather, my mistake. I found the note, I mentioned him as an arrogant, hot-aired prevaricator, her as an empty-headed insubordinate, him as a brawny, disillusioned fool, her as a fickle conspirator, him as a sarcastic, pathetic drunk, she as a spineless, sniveling whore. The whole lot of them as far too young, far too mistaking, and although they are all these things, they may succeed nonetheless.

Beware the young lion; when he grows he will not forget you.