The training ground is full of sweaty and bearded men dressed in armour. They fight with axes or swords and some have large round wooden shields. There are poles in the ground for some to try their swing against and further away is the archery range. This is the hellhole where men are made according to the former king. This section of the castle has its own little wall surrounding it with towers and plenty of guards.

Einar Frost is one of these warriors. He enjoyed good standing with the former king and was ordered to make a man off the princeling. He does try. He watches as the now king Kristofer III is hacking away at a defenceless dummy. The king’s stance crumbles away as soon as fatigue sets in. His posture is both too rigid and too influenced by the trajectory of the sword. His entire body is swayed when he commits to a hit. How many times have he accidentally fallen on his face while facing a man of straw?

“What was that?” Einar questions and moves to halt his king. He corrects the king’s stance and encourage another attempt.

Kristofer wipes away some sweat from his forehead. Despite the relatively cold air he himself feel hot, and uncomfortable. He continues with the training as instructed but improvements are limited. For years the king has trained with Einar but he still doesn’t feel anywhere close to ready for something like a battle. He has obviously heard the many tales of battles, shield walls, the hail of arrows. Some youth are inspired to seek out battle and glory for themselves but Kristofer has never shared such a thought. No, the battle he envisioned for himself is a far cry from screaming men with big swords.

“Faster! Stop thinking and just do. Instinct. Ya need the instinct.” Einar needs to shout to be heard over the sound of a dozen men sparring all around.

The King tries his best to follow the directive but with lacklustre results. Eventually the king is panting so hard he coughs out phlegm and Einar sends him on his way. With Thorn walking close behind him Kristofer makes his way to his office.

“Prepare a wet towel for me.” Thorn soundlessly moves to follow the king’s command.

When the king reaches his office, he notices the door ajar. He pushes the door open fully. Katyla sits on one of the chairs. “Hello Kristofer, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You should know I was stuck in training?” He walked in and practically fell into his large seat. To tired to prop himself up in a dignified manner.

“Well, yes but I’m surprised your following through on training like that. You’re the king now, you don’t actually have to train unless you agree with it.” Katyla wears a thoughtful expression. “Furthermore, I’ve been wondering. On your coronation you still seemed uncertain about how to move forward, but now?” Katyla’s thoughtfulness turns to questing.

The king didn’t respond immediately. His grandmothers question hung between them until Thorn entered the room with towels. Thorn noticed the atmosphere so he stood back without saying anything.

“I decided you were right Katyla. I can only be a king in my own way, not a king in my father’s image. I will be the best king I can be and that includes trudging through boring training because it’s necessary.” Kristofer wave over Thorn and use the towels to wipe away the sweat from his face and arms.

“You’ve grown more than expected. Much like your father the crown is changing you, for the better. He used to chase girls around before he inherited the crown. I don’t even know how many bastards he must have fathered in his early years.” Katyla looks older as she reminisces about her son who no doubt caused some problems in his time.

The king and his most trusted advisor continued to discuss politics of grave importance and how difficult it is to write properly when you have blisters on your hands.

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The city of Rhena adjusted to their new king. Mostly because nothing actually changes, even the name of the ruler only changes by adding an additional number compared to the last one. Even the city council of Rhena is more important to the lives of the common folk of Rhena since they handle the day-to-day business of running a city with 27 000 thousand inhabitants. Little is known of how their king spend his time and the interest fades as new topics of intrigue always surface. Rhena is divided in two by a channel of water. Thanks to stone bridges one can easily travel across the channel. The eastern part of Rhena is where castle kalix lies, surrounded by the fancy mansions of the wealthy. The western part is where tradesmen and guilds of various kinds resides.

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The wolf is a national symbol of sorts in Kalixen but a more apt animal for Rhena would be the bear. The city hibernates much like a bear so for a few months a year the city sleeps. The chill is a dangerous foe so most people keep inside during the worst off it. Like a great grizzly, she’ll eventually stir and witness how colours return and the soft warm breeze will once again give strength to aching bodies. There are plenty of ways to make money while avoiding the outside. Some weave baskets while other make clothes. Those born to wealth spend these months reading or arguing about politics.

Castle Kalix was anything but asleep. The king kept meeting with people appointed to serve the crown and the famed engineer Holfson was a regular guest to the king. When the king stirs so does the many servants who live and work withing the castle, they hurry to keep up with their liege. During these hectic days one can observe a marquis with black circles around his eyes plead with his king and an older lady with grey hair smile and encourage her friend.

Time march ever onwards, day by day. Eventually the snow is all but gone and sign of life returns. The surest way to know that spring is coming is when preparations for the festival begins. Marquis Jorn and Lady Katyla spend their time arranging food and planning with religious leaders of Rhena. This’ll be the first public duty of the new king.

The public square is prepared with a large wooden statue of Duluhir, The god of rebirth. A celebration would hardly be called such without many, many barrels of ale that will be offered to the people. Vendors set up all around the square with the help of city officials who manage the permits. Carpenters build a temporary raised platform for the king and the religious leaders.

Happiness and excitement spread likes flame. People have been cramped in their houses for the winter so their eagerness for a rowdy celebration is palpable. Everyone can’t fit in the town square so the streets are lined with stalls and clusters of people.

As the sun reaches its peak an old man with a cane walks up the plateau. He holds a bouquet of snowdrops in his left hand. In the middle of the town square is the 3-meter-tall depiction of their god.

“Today is not our day.” His raspy voice somehow carries to the large assemble of humanity. “Today is the great Duluhir’s day. He who gives life to the earth, to the flowers and the trees.” As prof of this statement, he holds the flowers high for all to see. “We give thanks to Duluhir for melting the snow, for the clear skies and for the green grass.”

The common folk shout in support of their benefactor god. Hundreds of people raise their own snowdrop flower to the sky. Those who failed to find a flower of their own or without the funds to purchase one hold another flower, preferably a white one. Far away from the town square where the poor folk reside people hold stalks of grain as their sign of veneration. A daughter sits atop her fathers’ shoulder and strain to see the statue of Duluhir for herself. A glimpse. A glimpse is all she catches but she squeaks in joy and point it out to her father.

The old priest continues his speech after drinking some ale. “The best way to honour a god is to smile in his name, to be joyous in his name. For this reason our kind king will offer drink and food for his subjects, so all can feel joy this day.” He made a grand gesture with his cane-hand and a number of servants brought barrels of ale to the jubilant cry of the people. The king walks with sure steps to take position next to the priest. The short old man stood far smaller than the king. This visage is further reinforced by the bulky royal garb.

“My people! This day we dedicate to Duluhir. Long ago, before the time of Duluhir, this land was plagued with eternal cold, eternal ice. No man could survive in this land. It was Duluhir who decided to break this curse and he did so by making life flourish and the snow melt. This sign shows us that when he awakens during spring, he too awakens the land!” The king raises a snowdrop and attach it to himself.

The crows roar in approval of their god. Some people even throw their flowers into the air, as the snowdrop flowers slowly descend it almost looks like it’s snowing.

“Let’s enjoy this important day, the day when the earth awakens from its slumber.”

At these words’ barrels were opened and bread distributed. Vendors sold food and drink to the mass of people. People carried around their own mugs and pushed to get some of the free ale before it ran out. It always run out early. Around the feet of the large statue there are flowers aplenty, by the end of the celebrations it will evolve into a great pile of white flowers. As people move around the poor folk will have a chance to offer a prayer beneath the representation of Duluhir. On the order of the King some bread and ale were saved for later in the evening to be offered to those who appeared in poor clothing.

The king himself sat amidst the city council, his advisors and some nobles. He was thankful the tradition dictated one drink ale rather than wine on this particular day.