Chapter 2

Into the Past, Into the Future

> ...and so we march, in the silence between heartbeats, in the shadows cast by forgotten suns. Our voices rise as one, weaving a lament for the fallen and the yet-to-fall…

>

> — Excerpt from a journal; the passage was written repeatedly

>

> Unknown Soldier

Godfrey winced as Uncle Tarlow’s voice cut through the morning air like a whip.

“Don’t drop your damn guard! You’re holding that sword so low, I’m half-expecting you to start digging a trench. And your footwork in your standard guard—hell, a drunken squirrel could knock you flat on your ass! Now, if Katherine hears I cursed, I’m telling her you made me do it, so keep your mouth shut. And for fuck’s sake, when you’re countering from below the centerline, that should be an uppercut, not whatever the hell that limp-wristed flap was. You look like you’re trying to invite me to a dance, and let me tell you, kid, the last time I danced, I was three sheets to the wind and still had more balance than you. You’re wobbling like a one-legged drunk on a boat—I’d try a counter-riposte, but I’m afraid you’d keel over before I even got close!”

Uncle Tarlow ended his tirade with a mischievous grin. “Seriously, don’t tell your Aunt Katherine I’m cursing at you. You’ll end up under two feet of loose dirt in the mountains somewhere. Explaining your sudden disappearance would be a hell of a lot easier than dealing with the scolding she’d give me, believe me.”

Godfrey, sweat beading on his forehead, nodded vigorously, trying to stifle a grin despite the reprimands. Uncle Tarlow’s exasperated insults were as familiar to him as the weight of the ironwood training sword in his hand and the welcoming sounds of Aunt Katherine preparing breakfast filtering over the small clearing which served as Uncle Tarlow’s training yard. The clearing behind the home was a carefully maintained space; the firm, packed dirt ground spoke of countless hours of delicate footwork, the rough circle bordered by strategically placed stones that outlined the training area.

“Understood, Uncle Tarlow,” Godfrey said, a playful glint in his eye. “I’ll fix my footwork, keep my guard up, and make sure my uppercut doesn’t look like I’m trying to waltz with the wrong partner.”

Tarlow’s eyes twinkled mischievously as he tried to maintain his stoic demeanor. “Good lad. Now, let’s see if you can actually follow through without turning into a ragdoll. And while you’re at it, do try not to make me look like I’m running a comedy show. I’ve got a reputation as a stoic, powerful, and solemn old warrior to uphold, after all!”

Godfrey chuckled as he stood in his standard scorpion guard. He tightened his grip and adjusted his stance, paying closer attention to every detail. Tarlow circled him like a hawk, humor temporarily forgotten, his eyes sharp and his occasional mutterings barely audible but filled with critical precision.

“Better, but your shoulders are still too tense,” Tarlow muttered. “Relax them, or you’ll be swinging like a hammer on a loose nail.”

Godfrey adjusted, his movements smoother now, though he still felt the weight of Tarlow’s scrutiny. The old man had a knack for pushing him to his limits, but it was never out of malice. Tarlow might be an easygoing old man, but he truly wanted Godfrey to excel, to be better than he had been, and that drove every critical word.

“Alright, let’s switch to the third movement of the longpoint,” Tarlow said, his tone lightening. “Picture yourself slicing through a snowstorm—if you’re not cutting clean, you’ll end up snowed under. And for the love of all things warm, keep those feet moving! You’re not sculpting a statue, you’re blazing a trail. We’re aiming for speed, not a gallery piece!”

As Godfrey practiced, Tarlow moved in closer, his hands guiding Godfrey’s movements with a mixture of precision and care. “Feel the blade’s weight and how it flows with your motion,” Tarlow said, his voice brightening with a spark of excitement and reverence as he watched Godfrey’s bladework. “It’s not just about raw power; it’s about the dance between you and the sword. It’s like you’re weaving through the air, and the sword—oh, the sword!—becomes an extension of your very soul. Every swing should be a flirtatious conversation, not a clumsy shouting match. Embrace the elegance of it, and you’ll be writing poetry in blood!”

Godfrey adjusted his stance, sweat beading on his forehead as he concentrated, trying to ignore the melodramatic images Tarlow was spouting. Each swing of the blade grew more fluid, his movements more precise, as if he were beginning to feel the rhythm of the sword itself. Tarlow’s passion for the blade was always evident, and when he spoke of bladework his words took on an almost reverent quality that seemed to infuse Godfrey’s own efforts.

Godfrey slipped into a sort of daydream, each motion flowing seamlessly into the next, each breath synchronizing with the rhythm of his movements. The world around him seemed to blur, time becoming inchoate, leaving only the sword–and the dance he performed with it. Tarlow’s soliloquy echoed in his mind, turning each swing and step into a graceful, almost ethereal performance. The blade felt weightless in his hands, a natural extension of his will, and for a moment, he was lost in the elegance of the swordplay, his every action a reflection of the art he was learning.

Suddenly, the spell was broken. Godfrey blinked, coming back to reality as if emerging from a deep trance. Tarlow’s face was no longer a mask of encouragement but a furrowed frown, eyes narrowed in confusion, mingled with something like awe. The old man’s brow furrowed momentarily, his eyes narrowing as if grappling with an unexpected revelation.

But, just as quickly, the look vanished, replaced by a satisfied grin. “There you go. Not half bad for someone who was about to trip over his own feet a minute ago. Let’s call it a morning, Katherine is making apple tarts.”

Godfrey perked up at the mention of apple tarts, his half-formed dream of dessert already taking shape in his mind. But Tarlow, with a mischievous glint in his eye, shattered the illusion. “Only those who can perform a satisfactory sword form get apple tarts, though. That’s Aunt Katherine’s rule, you know that. And if you think you’re getting them just by showing up, you’ve got another thing coming!”

Uncle Tarlow broke and made a dramatic, sprinting exit of the small clearing behind the home he shared with Aunt Katherine, entering the rear of the home through the thick oaken door while catcalling his wife. The door remained open, and the warm, welcoming sounds of homemaking–lovingly interrupted by Tarlow–filtered out of the kitchen before Tarlow slammed and locked the door with a final warning glare, as if daring Godfrey to try to take any of his sweets. The doorframe rattled with finality; the craftsmanship, sturdy and handcrafted with care, stood as a testament to Oakvale’s timeless charm, echoing the natural strength of the village’s namesake tree.

The home itself, a quaint one-story dwelling, boasted a classic A-frame slate roof that gracefully sloped down to meet the stone chimney. This chimney, with its gentle plume of smoke, punctuated the serene midday sky. Every detail, from the rich oak of the door to the stonework of the chimney, spoke of warmth and enduring strength, making the house a perfect haven of rustic tranquility.

Though the sleepy village of Oakvale lacked the opulence and exotic charm of grander realms, it more than compensated with the mastery of its local craftsmen. The timber of Oakvale was renowned throughout Southern Brella, prized for its exceptional quality and durability. This legacy of excellence extended to the carpenters, whose craftsmanship was rivaled only by those serving the Great Houses. Each piece of wood, meticulously shaped and finished, bore the mark of their unparalleled skill, transforming simple materials into enduring works of art.

Godfrey walked toward the tool shed nestled beside Uncle Tarlow’s home, the place where he’d stowed away his wooden sword and heavy cloth training coat. The shed, though weathered with age, stood resilient and steadfast, its sturdy wooden walls echoing the home it rested against.

The shed’s interior was a cluttered yet organized chaos: racks of practice swords, spears, and shields lined the walls, while helmets and padded armor hung from pegs and hooks. Each item, well-worn and polished from years of use, bore the marks of rigorous training sessions. As a child, Godfrey had snuck into this very shed, his youthful imagination alight with dreams of grand battles, feverishly experimenting with the weapons. Now, at sixteen–and almost seventeen, he asserted strongly even in his own thoughts–he took pride in the fact that he rarely indulged in such playful fantasies, focusing instead on the serious craft of becoming a skilled warrior. Of course, he still played with them on occasion, but that was a fact he would deny to his dying breath.

He closed the shed door behind him and meandered up the well-trodden lane that connected Uncle Tarlow’s house to Uncle John’s. The path, worn smooth by countless footsteps over the years, was bordered by wildflowers and grasses that swayed gently in the breeze. Godfrey had a few hours to himself before Uncle Hawker would call him for their next session, a rare moment of respite in his otherwise busy routine. As he walked, he let his mind wander, savoring the brief pause in his training and enjoying the simple, serene beauty of the village around him.

Godfrey ambled down the lane that connected Uncle Tarlow’s home to Uncle John’s, the path shaded by overhanging branches and flecked with patches of sunlight. The lane was bordered by well-tended gardens and neat hedges, each home a testament to the village’s charm and the diligent pride of its inhabitants.

As he walked, Godfrey passed a narrow, overgrown path that veered off into the woods. He knew it led to Hawker’s small, solitary cabin, a place of quiet solitude where Hawker lived and hunted alone, or with Godfrey. The path was intentionally left wild and tangled, a curmudgeonly touch from Hawker himself, who preferred to keep unwanted visitors at bay. Godfrey chuckled quietly to himself as he passed, marveling at how much grumpier Hawker seemed to get each year.

The lane soon brought him to the heart of Oakvale through the outskirts, where the village proper lay in all its idyllic splendor. The well-trodden, grass and dirt path blended slowly into graveled, then cobbled streets alive with the hum of daily activities. Oakvale was truly a small town, its modest streets lined with neat rows of timber-framed houses and bustling market stalls. Every few months, the population would surge when the lumber workers stationed in countless lumber mills to the northeast and northwest of Oakvale would float their timber down the Frosmuth, intent on stopping in for re-supply before continuing to the greater markets south of Brella in the Empire proper. Yet, to sixteen-year-old Godfrey, Oakvale felt more like a quaint village, its charm and simplicity masking the fact that nearly two thousand people called it home during quiet months, and as many as five thousand during the harvest months.

As Godfrey reached the market square which served as the beating heart of the village, vendors were in the process of setting up their stalls for the day’s business, offering fresh produce, homemade crafts, and the rich aroma of baked goods to passersby.

Children darted about, their laughter mingling with the clatter of horse-drawn carts. Mrs. Harcourt, a sprightly woman in her sixties with a penchant for colorful gossip, was arranging bouquets of flowers at her stall. “Good morning, Godfrey!” she called out cheerfully, her eyes twinkling. “Fancy a new bonnet for your sword-fighting? You know, every warrior needs to look dashing if they are summoned to court!”

Godfrey turned to Mrs. Harcourt’s stall and considered his attire. He wore a simple black-and-gray linen tunic and breeches, the practical outfit suited for both training and daily tasks. The tunic was a bit rumpled from his practice, but fit him like a second skin, and his sturdy leather boots, scuffed but well-made, marked his every step. His auburn hair, left perpetually unruly, practically shimmered in the early morning sun. It had the potential to be quite striking—if only Godfrey had the slightest interest in fashion.

Godfrey tipped his head with a courteous smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Harcourt. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to pass on the bonnet today. I’m more focused on avoiding bruises than on making a fashion statement.” Mrs. Harcourt gave him a knowing smile, her eyes crinkling with amusement, before turning to other potential patrons, her attention effortlessly shifting to the bustle of the market.

Eliza Thorn, the seamstress, and Martha Gill, the baker, exchanged gossip by the main village well at the center of the square, their animated conversation punctuated by the splash of water as they operated the bucket pulley.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Nearby, Liam Wren, a broad-shouldered and tall youth twenty years of age with an easy smile and square jaw, worked alongside his father, Gareth Wren, at the blacksmith’s forge. As Godfrey passed, Liam lifted his head and looked at him. Godfrey nodded, which was returned, and Liam returned to his work. They hadn’t spoken in years; Godfrey didn’t need the reminder, and neither did Liam, of what happened when they were children.

Outside the library which also served as the schoolhouse, old Master Bertie, the village’s eccentric teacher and self-professed historian, held court on a bench, regaling a small crowd with tales of local lore. His voice carried the weight of tradition that usually repulsed crowds, but in this instance quite a heated discussion was taking place between him and another man. That was when Godfrey realized it was Uncle John, his left eyebrow raised to its absolute limit, wearing that well-practiced expression of exasperated patience that only the truly fool-suffering could wear.

“--m telling you, Bertie, the Empire’s strategy wasn’t some higher-order scheme, they were attempting to end the conflict decisively and finally,” John was saying, his tone firm but measured. “It was about cutting supply lines, isolating strongholds, and brute-forcing positions where surrender was the only viable option. The Battle of Redwater wasn’t won by letters and speeches from Magistrates or the aristocracy. It was a masterpiece of tactical maneuvering, drawing the Loyalists into a trap they couldn’t escape from.”

Master Bertie, a wiry man with a wild tuft of gray hair and an intellect he insisted was both sharp and unyielding, waved his hand dismissively, his voice laced with impatience and thinly veiled contempt. “Ah, but you’re missing the larger picture, John. The Battle of Redwater didn’t occur in a vacuum. The Purge wasn’t merely a series of military engagements; it was a calculated assault on the very fabric of society. The Empire understood that to break the spirit of those heretical traitors, they had to dismantle the cultural and social bonds that held these communities together. Redwater was as much about psychological warfare as it was about tactics on the battlefield.”

John shook his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You give them too much credit, Bertie. The Empire, or at least the faction that is now the Empire, wanted to win the war quickly and brutally to dissuade future conflict, not to engage in drawn-out psychological campaigns, at least not while prosecuting a war. The Loyalists,” John stressed the word ever so slightly, but enough for Godfrey to notice, “were no longer willing to fight after the defeats at Stonehollow and Greybridge. Redwater was about ending the conflict, in tactical terms, not prolonging it in the hearts and minds of the common people. Psychological tactics? Sure, now, but not then. The Empire wants nothing more than for the proletariat to forget all about the Purge, so they are more than willing to keep us relatively fat and relatively happy.”

“Master John,” Bertie began, his voice uncharacteristically steady, though his eyes darted around the square as if expecting someone to overhear, “I must caution you. These are dangerous theories you speak of, even in a place as quiet as Oakvale. The Purge may be history to you and me, but to others, it is a wound still festering, a matter not to be revisited lightly.”

To punctuate his point, Master Bertie spotted Godfrey, and gave John a heavy look. John followed Bertie’s eyes and suddenly noticed Godfrey standing nearby, seemingly the only witness to the argument. The stern lines of his face softened slightly as he addressed his nephew. “Godfrey, what brings you here?”

Caught off guard, Godfrey hesitated, his mind racing for an excuse. He couldn’t very well tell Uncle John he was sneaking off until his evening training. “I... um... I was just passing through, Uncle John. On my way to... uh... check on something. Yep.”

John raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He glanced down at Godfrey’s feet, then traced his eyes along the path he had been taking across the square. “On your way to check on something, eh? Not someone, surely. Well, keep your wits about you. A good soldier knows when to advance, and when to retreat.”

With a soft chuckle, Uncle John gave Master Bertie one last reproachful glance before striding purposefully toward the blacksmith’s forge to speak with Gareth Wren. Godfrey sighed, frustration bubbling up inside him. Of all people to spot him in the square, it had to be Uncle John. You could never hide anything from Uncle John.

Godfrey thought he was being clever, keeping his destination a secret, but it was painfully obvious to everyone who saw him. He was growing more and more anxious as he approached the edge of the north side of Oakvale proper. Oakvale is embraced on three sides by the dense and shadowed Oaken Sea, an ocean of forestland separating Brella from its southerly neighbors.

To the north, Godfrey spied the clear run of farmland which sprinted to the foothills of the Brellan Spine, the majestic and imposing mountain range that cleaved the Province of Brella into two distinct halves. Rising sharply from the landscape, the Spine formed a formidable barrier with its jagged peaks and deep, snow-covered valleys. The cliffs were clad in a perpetual mantle of ice and snow, their towering summits often lost in the swirling mists and low-hanging clouds that gathered around their crests.

The breath of spring was light in the air as Godfrey trudged along the northwestern side of the village, which followed the curve of the woods before opening out into the rolling farmland upriver. Eventually he reached the outskirts of the village proper, which gave way to homes scattered in the less densely wooded environs.

Nestled in a bend in the dirt path along the woods on which Godfrey walked was the third largest home in Oakvale, the home of the Windermeres. Alric Windermere was not born in Oakvale; instead, he arrived in Oakvale as a young man, having completed his apprenticeship in Centria, the bustling capital of Brella. Trained under a master apothecary, Alric had a natural talent for healing and cultivated a deep knowledge of herbs and medicines. He decided to leave the bustling city behind in favor of a quieter life, settling in Oakvale, where he could establish his own practice and serve the local community. Alric eventually met and married Linna, a strong and capable woman who became his partner in both life and work, and had a beautiful, and altogether frightening daughter, Elara.

Godfrey, lost in thought, barely noticed the soft rustling of leaves or the faint scent of wildflowers that danced in the air. It was only when a musical voice, sharp with amusement, cut through his reverie that he realized he wasn’t alone.

“Oh? What’s this? A thief, sneaking through the forest? Oh, but I wonder what nefarious purpose he is about at this ungodly hour!” Elara’s voice carried a playful edge, though her storm-gray eyes sparkled with a glint that suggested she knew precisely why Godfrey had been walking the path abutting her family home.

Godfrey froze, and spun. Elara Windermere stood just within the stand of trees to his left. Elara was a wild beauty, as if a forest sprite had taken human form. Her dark chestnut hair fell in unruly waves, framing a face of sharp angles and soft curves. Her storm-gray eyes, flecked with blue, held a depth that both captivated and unsettled, as though they could see right through him. And she could, too; she could always piece together the whole from its parts.

She moved with a fluid grace as she skipped alongside him, giggling. To Godfrey, she was a vision of perfection, a bright flame in the quiet shadows of Oakvale.

Needless to say, Godfrey had been madly in love with her for as long as he could remember. It did nothing to help his hopes that she was almost nineteen years of age, and, therefore-to Godfrey, at least–a pillar of experience and wisdom.

“So, what are we up to today, young thief? Have you found any treasure worth stealing away?” Godfrey turned at a slight change in Elara’s voice. He found her staring into and through him, piercing him with those stormy eyes, and at once Godfrey found himself unable to breathe.

Elara’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she continued, a playful smirk curling her lips. “Or are you simply out for a leisurely stroll, hoping to bump into a certain someone?”

Godfrey, flustered and struggling to maintain his composure, stammered, “I, um, I was just—”

“Just wandering?” Elara interrupted with a knowing smile. “Is that all you’re up to today? Or is there something you’re not telling me?”

Her teasing tone and the way she so effortlessly toyed with him left Godfrey fumbling for words. “Well, I... I might have been hoping to see you before my evening training,” he finally admitted, trying to sound nonchalant, and failing miserably.

Elara laughed softly, the sound like a gentle breeze through autumn leaves. “Hoping to see me, you say? How charming. And what if I were to tell you I had some mischief in mind? Perhaps even a small adventure? And, that I had been coming to find you before I caught you skulking around my home most inappropriately?”

Godfrey’s heart raced at the prospects for a myriad of reasons; of spending time with Elara in the woods, of Elara needing him for something, and of potentially being late for Uncle Hawker’s lesson. “An adventure,” Godfrey laughed, “What kind of adventure? I have to be at Uncle Hawker’s house by dusk for evening lessons.”

Elara leaned in closer, resting her hand on Godfrey’s upper arm, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she looked around dramatically. “Oh, you know, the kind that involves a bit of danger, a touch of excitement, and a whole lot of fun. Won’t take long, I promise. You up for it?”

Godfrey’s breath caught in his throat at the sudden contact. “I…guess I have some time. If you really need help, that is.”

Elara’s eyes twinkled with satisfaction. “Good. Lead the way, my handsome young thief.”

With that, she looped her arm through his, her touch sending a thrill through him again. He tried not to focus on her calling him young, and instead, simply on her presence at his side. As they walked together into the forest, Elara pointed him due west of her family’s home.

XXX

Tarlow knocked on Hawker’s door, fully aware that the old bastard had likely heard him coming and could have opened it himself. He heard a grunted “It’s open” from inside, and pushed the door open. Tarlow found his oldest friend sitting in an armchair by a freestanding hearth, crackling with a fire that pushed back the slight chill that still permeated the early spring morning.

“Morning, Tarlow. I suppose you’re here to complain about something?” Hawker asked, glancing up with a wry smile on his face.

“Or perhaps just to see if you’re still alive,” Tarlow replied with a chuckle, brushing the forest dust from his coat as he entered. The cabin was warm and inviting, though cramped, filled with the quiet chaos of a life well-lived. The armchair Hawker was sitting in, rigidly, as if he had never been told to stand at-ease before leaving the service and was too stubborn to relax, was draped in a motley assortment of carpets, no doubt expensive and exotic in his Soldiering days, now faded. Shelves lined with maps, old weaponry, and assorted curiosities told tales of Hawker’s service to the Empire, but mostly reflected his general love for knick-knacks.

Tarlow took a seat by the hearth, the fire crackling softly. “Godfrey had quite a moment this morning,” he said, his voice carrying a note of both pride and unease. “The boy slipped into a Battle Trance during training.”

Hawker’s brows shot up in surprise. “A Battle Trance? That’s… unusual for someone his age. You’re sure?”

“Aye, sure as can be. Unusual? That’s putting it lightly,” Tarlow said, leaning forward, his tone growing more serious. “It’s rarer than hen’s teeth, but it shows he’s got something more in him. The boy’s a natural when it comes to Focus, and his Control... it’s already better than mine was when I was inducted. You should have seen him, Hawker. His Trance was beautiful, almost poetic; it reminded me of the old Captain when he would drill with us.”

Hawker nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, his eyes darkening with concern and with unwelcome memories of his greatest failure. “Hmph. Well. We’ve always known what he’s capable of. I’d expected it to emerge in time, but this early? That’s dangerous, Tarlow. If certain people got wind of this…”

Tarlow shrugged, but his expression was anything but carefree. “He’s a quick learner, and stubborn as a mule. But you’re right; we’ve got to be careful. His skill could draw the wrong kind of attention, and not just from those we know.”

There was a long pause, the fire crackling in the hearth the only sound in the room. Tarlow’s gaze flickered to the flames before he looked back at Hawker, his voice quieter, laced with an uncertainty and solemnity he rarely showed. “You think it’s only a matter of time, don’t you? Before someone notices.”

Hawker didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he rocked himself out of the motley armchair and moved to the one glass window the cabin boasted, peering out into the forest beyond. When he spoke, his voice was measured. “With a boy like him, driven as he is? It’s in his blood, Tarlow. We can only shield him for so long. If there’s one thing the Empire excels at, it’s rooting out anything—or anyone—that might threaten the status quo.”

Tarlow nodded, the concern etched into his features giving way to humor once more. “Aye, but we have time, don’t we, old man? We’re out in the middle of nowhere, here! Who would be watchi–

Hawker’s gaze sharpened as he turned to his old friend, his old Squire, and he replied with a calm, steady voice. “I taught you better than that.”

That hit Tarlow like a splash of cold water. He shot Hawker a confused glance.

“Think. What would John say about the strategic value of Oakvale and the potential for Imperial observation.” Hawker grunted, ending the discussion there, “Better yet, let’s discuss this when he’s back from the market. I want his input before we start fretting over nothing.”

As Tarlow leaned back, his thoughts drifted to the village. He was a man who typically thought no further than the reach of his sword arm—a focus that made him a formidable Soldier on the battlefield or the dueling ring, but even he understood the implications. On the surface, Oakvale seemed like just another small, insignificant settlement tucked away in the quiet reaches of the Empire. But the Frosmuth River that wound its way along the eastern edge of Oakvale carried a different story. A significant portion of the lumber the Empire relied on for its endless constructions traveled down the Frosmuth. Oakvale was more than just a backwater—it was a link in the Empire’s supply chain, if a small one.

However, anything of value was never left unobserved.