In the great hall, the air hummed with festive energy of Saint Olbern’s Day. The day had begun with the priests, the rituals of supplication, and the thanks to Eldanar for life and prosperity, and it was now concluding with a feast.

At the head table, Alaric sat elevated above the revelry, his keen gaze sweeping over his guests. The hall itself was a grand spectacle, its massive wooden beams adorned with the vibrant pennants of his bannermen and the king. Heavy with the weight of succulent meats, fresh bread, and abundant harvest produce, not to mention the desserts set out with the main course, long tables filled the space.

Around these tables, the bannermen and their families, clad in their finest tunics and dresses, animated the scene with laughter and robust conversation. Important dignitaries, traders, civilians, and allies were interspersed among them, all the voices merging into a lively chorus that resonated off the stone walls. Minstrels strummed lutes and pipers played, weaving music, while jesters danced through the aisles, their wild antics coaxing bursts of laughter.

Bathed in the warm glow of dozens of torches, flickering candles, and lanterns, the great hall brimmed with the energy of his guests. The annual feast was not just a celebration of prosperity, but also a reaffirmation of friendship, alliances, and kinship.

Alaric occupied the seat of his father, a position he had now held for more than two years as Dekar’s earl, yet the chair felt not just uncomfortable, but also unnatural beneath him, almost as if it contested his claim. Memories of his father, a commanding and dominating presence at such feasts, floated through his mind, sharp and poignant.

To his left sat Rikka, reserved, incredibly beautiful, exotic, her keen eyes missing nothing, a true ally in his court and beyond. To his right was his mother. Both were comforting anchors in the turbulent waters of leadership. Though he knew he should feel merriment, Alaric felt anything but. He had worries and headaches, things he could not easily fix—Torrin, the coming war with Averndale, the ambush and attempt on his life by Sunara. Such thoughts nagged at him, weighing down his mind.

Shoving the unhappy thoughts aside, Alaric swept his gaze over the throng of faces once more: lords and ladies, warriors and sages, important civilians from across his earldom, all drawn together at his invitation. A surge of satisfaction warmed him more than the mulled wine he was drinking ever could.

Here in this ancestral hall lay the fruits of his relentless efforts and energies, a realm pacified and prospering under his rule. Yet, as the shadows danced along the stone walls, they whispered of challenges yet to come. Alaric well knew his path, like the flickering shadows, would be fraught with continual trials. The years taught him such was a fact when it came to leading.

Alaric recalled his father as a figure carved from stern stuff, a leader whose judgments were as hard and unforgiving as the winter frosts. Whether his father would have approved of his decisions and accomplishments, the direction he was steering the earldom was a question that often lingered in the back of Alaric’s mind, haunting the quieter moments. He supposed, perhaps hoped, that his father would have seen the wisdom in his actions, all that he had done.

“What is it?” Rikka’s voice cut in, her gaze sharp and concerned. “What troubles you?”

Alaric noted the earnestness in her eyes. It had been a week since he returned from the ambush that nearly cost him everything, and since then, Torrin had clung to life, teetering on the brink of death. Despite the care of a skilled doctor and the prayers of two devoted priests, hope for Torrin’s recovery was dimming. The thought of the knight fighting for his life just a floor above dimmed his spirits.

“Tell me,” Rikka insisted, her voice firm, pulling him back to the present.

Instead of immediately replying, he let his gaze wander the hall once more, observing his mother deep in conversation with Ulden, the son of the Earl of Kanar, Alaric’s neighbor to the north. He was the only other person seated at the head table, a true place of honor.

Ulden was a striking figure, tall and broad-shouldered with an honest face. He spoke his mind, which Alaric appreciated. His blond hair and handsome features were matched by a prowess in the martial arts on the lists, when jousts were held, a fact that was well-known among the young nobles of the kingdom. He was a fighter and, like Alaric, Ulden had participated in the Crusade, though their paths had never crossed on those distant battlefields.

Finally, Alaric turned back to Rikka. “It’s Torrin,” he admitted quietly. “He had just entered my service… and I do not feel good about what has happened. Before the feast, I visited him. His condition is unchanged.”

“Yes, I know it.” Rikka shook her head slightly. “The poison has him on the edge of his life, balancing between this world and the next. Should he manage to recover, he will not be the same man he was before.”

“So the doctors tell me,” Alaric said unhappily as his eyes sought out Eld, who was sitting next to Grayson. The two men were talking earnestly amongst themselves. Grayson’s wife, Milda, on the man’s left, was speaking to Duncan’s wife, Sarah.

“I have prayed for him,” Rikka said, drawing his attention once more.

“I have as well,” Alaric said.

“There is not much more to be done, other than simply wait it out and hope our lord and master answers.”

“True,” Alaric said with a nod.

“There is a reason those two knights showed up when they did.”

“Don’t remind me.” Alaric felt himself scowl. She had told him of their order and some of the history. The knights of Saint Vinthus had been the emperor’s personal guard, a shield of steel against threats. In the last days of the Ordinate, they had failed in their duty. Alaric sucked in a breath and let it out. In a way, he supposed they viewed service to him as their redemption.

“What else troubles you?” Rikka asked.

“Nothing,” Alaric said, no longer wishing to talk of the Ordinate.

“Do not attempt to sell me on that. I was not born yesterday.”

Alaric released a heavy sigh, for he knew she would keep at him, badgering until he answered. He leaned closer to Rikka, his voice a soft murmur amongst the cacophony of the merriment, meant only for her ears. “I was enjoying the moment and began thinking on my headaches, and then there was my father…”

“What of him?” Rikka asked.

Alaric gestured broadly at the assembly before them. “I was wondering what he would think of all this.”

“I imagine he would be proud of what his son has accomplished and in so short a time too.” Her voice was steady and reassuring as she eyed him. “You have transformed Dekar. Your earldom is becoming powerful.”

Alaric gave a slow nod, the corners of his mouth twitching in a semblance of a smile. “I suppose.”

“There is no supposing about it,” Rikka asserted. “Given time, you will be the power in Kevahn.”

Alaric reached for his mug of mulled wine, taking a contemplative sip before setting it back down with a gentle clack against the wooden table. He was full, having enjoyed the hearty cuts of meat and the rich array of dishes brought forth by the cooks. Ezran had insisted he eat only what was prepared by trusted hands—a precaution extended to Rikka and his mother as well.

Directly behind him, Ezran and Thorne stood guard, their presence both protective and imposing. Kiera was there too, keeping watch over Rikka, her eyes scanning the crowd. All three were armed, their postures relaxed, yet unmistakably alert. They were a clear and silent warning to any who might pose a threat to do so at their own risk.

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“Put your troubles aside,” Rikka said. “Enjoy the moment, the evening, for all that can be done has been done.”

“That is easier said than done.”

“Then you must put on a show of it,” Rikka said firmly, lowering her voice further and leaning close to him, “an act.”

“My lord,” a voice called over the gathering, “I would like to propose a toast.” The call sliced through the din of conversation, drawing Alaric’s attention to the center of the hall where Grayson, one of his most trusted and seasoned bannermen, now stood. He raised his mug high. Grayson looked around at those gathered and then directly at Alaric. “To our earl!”

“To the earl!” the assembly echoed, lifting their mugs in unison and taking a hearty drink. This was followed by a mighty cheer that seemed to rock the walls.

Just as the cheers began to subside, Duncan rose to his feet, his voice cutting over the noise with equal fervor. “To Dekar!”

“To Dekar!” the crowd roared in response, their voices merging into a thunderous chorus, with hands thumping and slapping on tables.

“I think it is time you said something,” Elara said to him.

“Indeed,” Ulden agreed.

Amid the swell of voices, Alaric placed his palms firmly on the table and stood, the heavy chair scraping back. The thumping and cheering reached a fevered pitch, filling the hall with an almost physical energy. Alaric let the noise wash over him, soaking in the adulation and support, before raising both hands, commanding silence.

When a hush finally fell over the crowd, Alaric picked up his mug, holding it aloft. All eyes in the hall turned toward him, every hand mirrored his, raising mugs high into the air.

“To Roderick, the king!” Alaric’s voice boomed out, clear and commanding. “Long may he reign!”

“To the king!” the assembly responded as they stood, their voices mingled with a gravity that underscored the solemnity of their allegiance. Alaric drank. Everyone followed his lead. “To the king, long may he reign!”

“Long may he reign,” Alaric called again. With that, the hall erupted once more as everyone took another drink in honor of the king and then cheered.

As the clamor gradually subsided, Alaric gestured with a gentle sweep of his hand for the gathering to be seated. The room filled with the sound of chairs and stools scraping against the stone floor as the assembly complied. Placing his own mug down, Alaric stood alone in the quiet, the focus of every gaze in the expansive hall.

He gathered his thoughts. The weight of leadership lay heavy on his shoulders. In this moment of communal reverence and political significance, he understood the power of his words and the impact they could have. He needed to speak carefully, for words mattered.

“Friends, lords, ladies, and honored guests,” he started, his eyes scanning the room, making connections with many who met his gaze. Alaric gestured at the central pennant hanging from the beams in the middle of the hall, a red field over which lay the head of a lion. “Tonight, we stand united under the banner of our king, a symbol of our loyalty and our shared purpose. Yet, as we honor our king, as we honor Kevahn, we also acknowledge the road ahead—the challenges we must face and the bonds we must strengthen amongst ourselves.”

“Hear, hear,” Duncan said and thumped his mug down upon his table.

“Two years ago, I returned home to a land in crisis, one without law and order. I vowed to make Dekar strong and prosperous… once more respected. I have worked tirelessly toward that goal, but I could not have done it alone. At my side, you were with me every step of the way. Together, in a short time, we have accomplished much and, God willing, will in the months and years do much, much more. Yet, tonight, we relax in the company of friends; we celebrate our faith, our health, and all that we have done this past year. I wish everyone a happy and healthy Saint Olbern’s Day.”

There was pounding on the tables at that. A grumble of approval ran through the hall.

“We have plenty of drink, so drink up!” Alaric added as he picked his own mug back up and took a hearty swig. There was more cheering and thumping of the tables. Glancing over at his mother, Alaric sat down. “How was that?”

“What of war, my lord?” came a shout before Elara could reply. Alaric looked over and spotted Keever, who had stood, having posed the question. “Word is war is coming, that Averndale seeks to conquer Kevahn, that the border has been closed.”

In a heartbeat, the atmosphere shifted as the convivial murmurs and sounds of the feast hushed to an attentive silence, once more all eyes turning toward Alaric. The weight of the room’s expectations settled upon his shoulders. Understanding the rumors of war between Averndale and Kevahn would be on everyone’s mind, he now understood he should have addressed this as well. Alaric had wanted to keep things lighthearted, saving weightier matters for the days ahead.

Alaric came once more to his feet and looked over the assembly, his expression composed, grave. His eyes met Keever’s briefly, acknowledging the gravity of the question before sweeping over the rest of those who gathered with him to celebrate. He was not angry at the man, for it was a valid question and Alaric encouraged his people to speak their minds. Clearly wondering what he would say, Ulden was looking curiously at him as well.

“I had hoped to keep such matters for another time, another day,” Alaric admitted, his tone carrying a trace of regret. He took a deep breath, steadying himself before continuing, “But it appears we must confront our reality sooner rather than later. The rumors are true. Averndale is assembling a powerful army and soon it will march.”

This caused a stir of hisses and murmurs that ran throughout the gathered crowd like lightning.

“I have recently confirmed this information. I’ve also written the king on what I have learned. As it is too early to receive a reply, we have yet to receive his counsel, but we must move forward in full anticipation of war.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “The time for preparation is now, not later. The spring rains are almost done. The ground will soon harden with the approach of summer. When that happens, I expect armies to march.”

If a pin had been dropped at the far end of the room, Alaric was certain he would have heard it.

He hardened his tone. “I expect my bannermen to start readying their men to march. While we have time, use it wisely, begin gathering supplies—rations, dry goods, tents, wagons, carts, mules, and horses to move our supply train. Ensure each of your men are properly equipped for an extended campaign, one that might possibly last beyond the season and into the next.”

“And what of your standing companies, my lord?” Jaxen asked, speaking up. “What are your orders to us?”

“My company commanders will receive specific orders within the next few days as to what I expect of them and what I want them to do.” Alaric paused, allowing that to sink in as he met Jaxen’s eyes. He shifted his gaze to the mayors of his towns and headmen who led the villages. They were seated together at the same table off to his left. “Each town and village will contribute food stores and a portion of their militia for the campaign. We must be unified in our effort, strong in our commitment if we are to defend not only our homes, but Kevahn as a whole. When the call comes, we will be ready.”

The hall responded with a mixture of stoic acceptance and resolute nods. There was a sense of gravity, but also an underlying current, a willingness to rise to the challenge. He could sense all that.

“When the time comes to march,” Alaric continued, raising his voice and tapping his chest with a finger, “I will lead our forces to war.”

The hall erupted in cheering again. Alaric raised his hands for silence and, after a few moments, got it.

“Now,” Alaric declared, “I wish to hear no more talk of what is to come. Tonight is a night we give thanks that we have once more been inscribed in the Book of Life, that for the moment, things are good. Tonight, we celebrate, and that is what I expect you to do!”

The response was spirited. A hearty cheer burst from the assembly and echoed off the stone walls, rebounding around the hall. Satisfied with the shift in mood, Alaric settled back into his chair, feeling the weight of his responsibilities momentarily lighten.

His mother leaned in close. “That was well done, my son, well done.”

Alaric acknowledged her praise with a slow nod, his eyes sweeping across the now lively and reinvigorated crowd. The mirth had returned, mugs clinked, and laughter pealed, yet beneath the jovial surface, he sensed subdued tension. The reality of impending war had already cast a long shadow.

“My father believes war is coming as well,” Ulden said as he sipped wine from his mug. “Since we are closer to where the fighting will likely take place, we have been preparing for weeks now, mustering our men of fighting age and training them up.”

“I know.” Alaric gave a nod. Ulden’s father, the Earl of Kanar, was an experienced leader. Though Kanar was smaller and less prosperous than Dekar, they were known for producing good fighters. “In our last correspondence, your father told me as much.”

“We will not be caught idle,” Ulden said as a servant moved by the table. She held a platter of assorted meats. Turning his attention from Alaric, Ulden called her over. He plucked several off the platter and put them on his plate.

Alaric ran his gaze back over the hall, his guests. He had not been idle either. Since he’d come home and settled the issue with Laval, Alaric had worked hard to grow his own military might.

Though he longed for the killing to be done, to put aside his sword, it seemed like that would not be an option, not while Averndale desired war. He gave himself a firm nod. “If war comes, it comes. So be it.”

“What?” Elara asked, leaning close again. “What did you say, my son? I did not hear that.”

“I am a killer, Mother,” Alaric confessed, his voice low so only the two of them could hear. “Despite all I have accomplished here, the one thing I am truly gifted at is leading men in battle and killing. So, it is that simple; I am a killer.”

His words hung heavy between them, and Elara’s response was a silence filled with a mother’s concern and the weight of understanding. Her eyes held his, sorrow reflecting back at him.

“I am a killer, Mother,” Alaric said again.

“Aren’t we all, my son?” Elara’s voice was tinged with a profound sadness. “That is the true legacy of our house, killing.”