It was cold. It was always cold. Filth choked alleyways ran along the sides of beaten down buildings. Glass windows seemed nonexistent within this place. Only boards stopped the cold air from penetrating a man’s haven. On top of the filth, fell snow, over a foot deep. Frost covered all that was not hidden by the flakes. One’s breath frosted white against the black of the night.  The alleys, buildings, and slow shambling people of the broken city led to the culmination that was Trael. Three years after the interregnum no place reeked of decay like this place. Inside one of the many taverns—alcohol being the last refuge of the cheerless denizens—sat four people.

The first two sat at their own table. Dark cloaks enshrouded them in darkness. Maybe only a gleam of eyes shined from underneath thick hoods. Backs hunched, the other two gave them much room. Their black scabbards and the red eye crest resting upon it marked them for ‘the town watch’. They were by no means working towards the good of the town or looking for trouble, but they did watch the town with their apathetic eyes. Their bags always jingled with coin from the mayor’s own purse. Only a few indiscernible whispers of the watchmen fell onto the ears of one of the others.

To the third man, it did not matter if the mayor was corrupt or not. It did not matter if the watch had given up. The only thing that mattered to him was survival. No sword rested at his hip, just a concealed dagger kept him safe in the deep of night. The orange light from the small fire danced across his features giving his gaunt face a ghostly appearance. Weighing the options in his head, he wondered if killing the two watchmen would be worth the risk. He settled on deciding once they left.

Finally, the last sat at the bar instead of the heavy oak tables that had miraculously not been stolen and burned for warmth. Barely breathing, he stared at his reflection in the ale that looked and tasted of urine, and maybe other, worse things. His oily hair fell down around his head, reflecting light off his strangely dark hair. One grey eye, even stranger for Thirce, looked back at him. Those traits were indicative of Eastern descent, none too well liked among the Thircians. Out of wont instead of need, he adjusted the eye patch over his right eye. At this point in his life, Lyon had lost his will. At this point, he had lost everything. One last copper penny weighed down his purse, enough for one last glass of the foul ale. It had all come to an end so fast. A point of a sword through his throat and it would be peaceful once again.

Cold flowed under the gaping hole in the doorway. The door strained against its noisy hinges and worn catch. It added to the noise of the fire and the two watchmen. Trying to win a futile war, the barkeep came from the back with a piece of cloth to stave off the worst of the chill. Right before he was able to position it into place, the door burst open.

Much cursing from the barkeep followed the doors unexpected opening as he stumbled back. Fiercely scowling at the newcomer, the barkeep went back to tending the bar. Everyone, a grand total of four people, watched this new man stride in with confidence.

That made everyone wary. All hands were resting upon a blade. They knew that a man only walked with confidence because he had killed too many men to count, or he had just come to town. Both were dangerous. Especially dangerous was his red hair. Only northerners had red hair tied into meticulous braids like this man. Up to the north they were known for their obsession for battle, spilling blood as easily as one would draw breath. Although, this one measured in around five and a half feet tall, no man underestimated the northerners for their height anymore. Fear of them was proven to be a necessity during the interregnum, for they had almost taken the impregnable high keep, Rockreach.

Surprising Lyon, the northerner took a seat only one stool away. Obviously, everyone within the room wanted his solitude. Talk was not in high demand, nor was the supply overwhelming. As he furtively studied the figure more, he noticed anomalies to his first impression. The confidence he walked into the room with was not born of killing instinct, but of three collected knives from a local thieves band. Twenty men had been terrorizing traders outside Trael but this man had taken them out single handedly. He was definitely not new. Sitting straight up was comfortable and normal to the northerner, meaning a man of rank. This scars marred his face, meaning a man of battle. What was a high ranking general from the north doing as far south as Trael? Then Lyon saw it.

On his finger he wore a grime covered gold ring, engraved with the crest of a dragon curling around an unsheathed sword. No doubt arose in Lyon’s mind. This had to be King Arthur’s right hand man. News of his fall from grace had gotten to Lyon many months ago. A price, so large it attracted every bounty hunter from every kingdom, had been put on Abel’s head. Finding this man, Abel, had been his goal and that of his band of thieves. Now, the gods had smiled upon Lyon, giving him this bounty to scoop up.

He had to be careful, though. A man who openly wears such obvious signs of who he is means he is either stupid or an excellent killer. The stories of Abel, although few, collectively point towards the latter. Lyon would be hard pressed to secure the man by himself, especially alive. Better to try to talk to the man first. What he would do from there, Lyon had no idea.

“Hello, friend,” said Lyon scooting one seat over. “This one is on me.” He pulled out his last remaining penny. Before he even clicked it onto the table the barkeep snatched it like a hungry wolf. That was when Abel did something so unexpected Lyon almost fell from his seat.

He smiled.

It was a warm smile that ran against the grain of this dark place. Startled, Lyon searched for words but they all swam in incoherent circles. All he could do was emulate this Abel showing his teeth in something that might have been a smile in some forgotten part of civilization.

“Thanks, friend,” said Abel. “I wasn’t expecting such pleasantries, especially in this town.” He downed the ale. If its taste bothered him, he did not seem to show it. “I must know the name of the man who would bestow such gifts.”

“Lyon is the name.” He had now recovered from the staggering blow that was this man’s goodness. “I am glad to make your acquaintance.” Lyon offered his hand which the other shook firmly. “I would wish to know your name as well, to make things alike.”

“Ulric.” This falsity was not surprising. Only a dead man gives his real name when being hunted. “I beg you to accept a gift of another cup of this fine ale. Only in this way can our situations truly be alike, as you say.”

“It is said well,” nodded Lyon. Abel called the barkeep over for one more glass. “I cannot refuse such a generous offer.” Lyon drank his cup within seconds, trying not to taste the bitter concoction. Wiping his mouth, Lyon started again. “What brings you to such a place?” He pointed to the well-worn armor that adorned Abel. “Your choice of cloth seems to invite trouble.”

Abel almost looked surprised as he looked upon himself. “So it does,” he said without any derision but almost like Lyon had pointed out the sky was blue and Abel had just failed to notice. “So it does,” he repeated. “Nevertheless, this has turned a sword’s point many a time. Without it, my chest would be full of holes!” Abel laughed at a joke he seemed to have made. It came from his chest and maybe, only slightly, lightened the mood before everyone realized where they were again.

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“True enough, but what of the sword?” Lyon could not help but see the scabbard hanging from Abel’s waist. Grime and dirt covered some of it but the rest was a striking blue. Designs, no, letters that Lyon could not read were etched into it. Its pommel had the head of a cat, its mouth open in the middle of a roar. “An openly worn sword has the habit of pulling danger towards it.”

Abel only smiled. “Maybe the sword likes to have a bit of merrymaking every so often?” Lyon grunted while Abel laughed at his own joke. Lyon was perplexed by the man in front of him. His cheery demeanor had no place here. The way he carried himself was not of someone of this city, let alone this time. Everything about him was so lighthearted and genuine. It sickened Lyon. However, he had to overcome his disgust of such a simple man. To survive in this age meant he had to destroy this western deserter.

“A warrior then?” Lyon asked, acting interested.

Abel gestured for another round, for the both of them. “Aye. What gave me away? Was it the sword?” Wry smiles mirrored each other. The barkeep set down the mugs. Abel raised his. “To long forgotten heroes.”

“I could drink to that.”

They both downed their drinks. A companionable silence fell between them as they drank their fill of alcohol. After many minutes, Abel broke the silence. “Which side were you on?”

The question was a common one, three years after the interregnum. “Originally?” Lyon swallowed another mouthful of the foul stuff. “The Duhn dynasty was my patron. I sold my sword, for my master had died under my watch.”

“Ah, a terrible thing to happen. A stroke of bad luck, I presume?” Surprisingly, Abel knew much about the shame of failing to protect one’s lord. His face showed a knowing pain, the many times used folds in his skin folded once more into a frown. Maybe, this man who sat opposite of Lyon knew of honor as he did, a long time ago.

“Indeed it was.” Lyon grunted. “And you? Which side were you on during the war?”

Now Abel grunted. “You fought against me. In the end, Childermass’ had become my lord.” Lyon rethought his conclusion on Abel’s character. “Do not misunderstand. I do not, and cannot, justify my time within Childermass’ army. I can justify, however, that Arthur was a just and honorable man. At the time, my judgment was clouded by false ideals spouted by Arthur’s own son.”

Lyon thought himself foolish. Of course one would fight on this side or that side. Everyone was a soldier during the war, whether they wanted to be or not. Abel had the sense and honor to realize that he had fought for a man who had massacred thousands senselessly. Nevertheless, Lyon had to bring himself to an objective distance. He might have to kill him still.

“How much of it were you there for? The fighting I mean.”

“Since The Battle of Thuring’s Hill.”

“You were there for all of it?” Not even Lyon had been there for all the fighting. The constitution of this man must be awesome.

Abel stared into the distance, a forlorn look sweeping away his cheerfulness. “Yes, yes, I was there. I saw the fall of Aikaterine. I saw her, the last Meciian, clash against the last of the elves. It was an epic battle that I shall not forget within my lifetime. Besides that honor bound duel, the rest is just an almost unremembered quintessence of battle, swords, blood, and pain. When Flielnune made his deal with Arthur, only to be absent when Arthur’s own son, Childermass, flowed upon the battlefield to kill his father, I was there.

“When Rithton and Eckhart made their last stand upon the River of the Horse’s bridge, two against a thousand. I saw men just as strong as them die upon an unlucky arrow. I saw the land ravaged by magicians and mages alike. I saw them until Thuring battled Huxley to the death and the combined powers destroyed the ties of the supernatural to us. I was there when magic was destroyed through Thuring’s brazenness and Huxley’s pride.

“I was there when the great Tiger of the East deserted, for he would not ravage a defenseless town.” Lyon sank into himself, remembering. “After Arthur had died, I ran behind Luther’s banner. The screaming of the dying echoed across the battlefield, louder than the screams of men trying to kill their compatriots. Hu Duhn pitted his entire force against Luther’s battered troops. Hu destroyed Luther’s army but before the last of Luther’s men, and Luther himself, were killed, Childermass flew once again across the hill. Childermass,” Abel spat the name, “murdered the emperor and finally struck his deal with Luther, sealing the fate of the Easterners.

“I was there when the last battle was fought. Flielnune appeared again, the last roadblock against Childermass’ unstoppable army. His army of ferocious highlanders from the colds of the north clashed against Childermass for five days. Men died of exhaustion more than by a blade at the end of it. After each army was almost nothing, Flielnune and Childermass themselves fought.” Abel looked to the ceiling. “It was beautiful. Fleilnune swung his gleaming battleaxe in wide arcs while Childermass countered with his unyielding sword. Alas, Flielnune was wounded and could not cut down the monster. I was there at Childermass’ death when Luther’s blade bit into Childermass’ back. I remember distinctly the look of disbelief as he died only looking at the sword protruding from his chest.” Abel finally drew himself back. He shook his head from the memories of yesteryear. “Sorry, I seem to have forgotten myself.”

The two men looked at each other with newfound respect and laughed. Lyon said between laughs, “Old times that shall not be forgotten.” They hit their mugs together. Lyon hadn’t felt this in high spirits in months.

Lyon said old with only a bit of irony in his voice. The interregnum had aged the land considerably. No young men sought adventure in these lands anymore. All that was left were the children, old men, and the hardest of people that had somehow survived The Battle of Trael, The Battle of Horseblood, and Childermass’ Fall. It had all ended a scant three years ago. Two years after Childermass’ Fall; Luther, Flielnune, and Xiao Duhn gathered together to end the madness in Thirce’s capital, Farsung. Their agreement became known as the Tripartite Coalition Agreement. It finally ended the one hundred year period that had been referred to as the interregnum.

“I must agree with you.” Abel sipped his ale slowly. “I must agree.” This intensely sober moment brought about Abel’s cynicism. He thought of the day his king, Luther, declared independence from the Coalition, forcing the other two nations to follow. The pure futility of success.

They both sat there for some time, thinking, reliving the best and worst moments of the great war. Their surroundings faded into the background. The two corrupt guards no longer bothered Lyon, nor did the surly barkeep. The screams of the dying echoed in his head. The master swordmen and elite tacticians battling upon a field of death and blood. Lyon remebered Aikaterine, the greatest warrior to have ever lived severing heads from shoulders. Her blue sword swinging through bodies like they were made of water.

Lyon looked at the sword at Abel’s hip. Forgetting himself he said, “That sword, it looks much like Aikaterine’s.”

Abel looked at the other sharply. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

Lyon fumbled for words. He had lost himself in the memories, not thinking. “I have heard stories, like all have.” He silently cursed himself for his folly. He tried to recover. “Blue steel is not common.” Blue steel was common, but not the blue steel of Aikaterine’s blade. Only someone who had seen it in person would know the difference between unbreakable steel and a common northerner blade.

Resting a hand upon his pommel, Abel smiled. This time, though, there was no warmness within it. A hint of fear seeped into his eyes. “Where did you say you were from?” Lyon’s eyes hardened. He had no way out, the muscles of his arms tensing for the imminent strike. “Was your name Lyon? An uncommon name, is it not?”

Beyond any hope of recovery, Lyon mirrored Abel, resting his hand upon his sword’s handle. “It is indeed.”