The northeastern territories of the Kingdom of Oriaet were rugged, yet far more developed than the northern frontier. However, the area was still plagued by frequent monster swarms, coming down from the mountains and dense forests. The region was a mix of settled towns and untamed wilderness. The potential locations where the fallen object could have landed were limited, but the mystery surrounding it was far from simple. King Gaberil didn’t know exactly what had fallen, but in the past, such celestial events either heralded a great omen for the kingdom—or a terrible one. Throughout history, the rise or fall of entire nations or races had followed the arrival of such phenomena.
Gaberil didn’t feel as tired as one might expect after a full day's ride. His body had been conditioned through years of both combat and courtly endurance. The journey north-east had been long, yet the crisp air and the weight of responsibility kept him alert. In two days' time, they would arrive at Braunsted, the most significant city in the northeastern territories. There, he would set up his temporary seat of command, and from this stronghold, he would oversee the kingdom’s affairs and manage the search for the fallen object.
Beside him rode Didrich Braun, a trusted nobleman from these lands, his grizzled visage hardened by years spent in the untamed northern reaches of Oriaet. Didrich had recently returned from the capital, where he had briefly enjoyed the festivities of the new year—a reprieve from the constant struggle of frontier life. But duty called, and Didrich had swiftly gathered his forces, bringing with him four hundred of his best soldiers, along with a contingent of battle-hardened mages. These warriors were not the polished knights of the southern cities, but men and women forged in the crucible of constant monster attacks and bandit raids. They were rough, unrefined, but fiercely loyal.
Didrich was a man of more rugged appearance compared to the polished nobility of the southern cities. His brown beard, streaked with gray, was untamed, and his rough exterior reflected the harshness of life in Oriaet’s northern reaches.
"What weighs on your mind, Didrich?" Gaberil asked, breaking the silence between them as they rode side by side.
Didrich grunted, his brow furrowed beneath his weathered face. "Mmm," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, like the crunch of stone beneath their horses’ hooves. "None of us are willing to speak the truth aloud, though we all know it deep down." He glanced at Gaberil with a grim look, his eyes darkened by years of experience in the unforgiving north. "This is no ordinary falling star. This is the descent of a deity—or something close to one. Whether it’s a servant of the gods or perhaps a child of one—who’s to say? These things are more common in the wealthier, more prosperous kingdoms, where the gods’ eyes are always watching. But we’ve heard the stories, haven’t we? We know the signs when they come."
Gaberil sighed audibly as the words landed bluntly, without the softening of pleasantries. “I believe you are right, old friend. But the question remains: How do we handle it?”
Didrich’s gaze turned forward, his eyes narrowing as his mind turned over the possibilities. "If they belong to the deities we honor here in Oriaet," he said matter-of-factly, "we throw a grand celebration. Shower them with respect and make it clear that Oriaet reveres them. Anything less would be unthinkable." He nodded to himself, as though already agreeing with his own assessment. "But if they are not among those we honor, we offer to take them to whichever nation does. We make no enemies if we can avoid it. Let another kingdom bear the burden of their divine arrival."
“I agree," Gaberil said, "but what if they belong to none of those deities? What should we do then?” His voice carried a sharpness born of concern, though it was tempered by the weight of the situation.
Didrich’s eyes were as cold as ever, his face betraying no emotion. "If they’re hostile," he replied without hesitation, his voice like the cold edge of a blade, "we do what must be done. We kill them and send them back to the heavens where they came from." He spoke as though it were the simplest of truths.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
Eston, riding just behind them, sat up straighter in his saddle, his ears perking at the words. His youthful face contorted in disbelief as shock spread across his features. "Kill... a being from the heavens?" Eston blurted, incredulous. "Isn’t that blasphemy? To even think of striking down a celestial being... wouldn't the gods curse us for such an act?"
Didrich shot Eston a hard, unwavering look. "You’re still young and ignorant of the true nature of this world, boy," he said sharply, his tone carrying the weight of years spent in the harsh realities of life on the frontier. "The heavens aren’t all golden halls and benevolent angels. They’re home to monsters as much as they are to gods. The gods of the goblin tribes—are they not real? What would you do if it’s the offspring of one of those foul creatures? Or worse, a child of a rival deity, one who seeks to destroy us, to bring ruin upon our lands?" His words struck hard, as if trying to sever Eston’s naive view of the world.
Eston gaped at Didrich, his youthful idealism clashing violently with the older man’s bitter pragmatism. "But—" he began, only for Didrich to cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"You’ve lived too long in the safety of the capital, sheltered from the harsh truths your father and I have faced. The world beyond those walls is cruel, and when the time comes, if it’s a hostile being, I wouldn’t hesitate to take its head clean off." Didrich’s voice dropped into a low growl, each word laden with icy certainty. "Even if it meant earning the wrath of a god. Better to face divine ire than to allow an enemy to tear us apart from within."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle on Eston. The silence that followed was heavy, laden with the unspoken truths of the world Didrich had known for far too long. "This realm—our world—it’s the playground of gods," Didrich continued, his gaze steady and cold. "And we mortals... we’ve been their playthings for as long as history can remember. Don’t ever forget that."
Eston swallowed hard, his youthful bravado faltering in the face of Didrich’s brutal honesty. The notion of killing a celestial being seemed unfathomable to him. His mind raced, struggling to reconcile his idealistic understanding of the world with the harsh reality Didrich spoke of. He wanted to argue, to protest, but no words came.
Gaberil watched the exchange between the two, his expression soft but serious. He knew this moment would shape his son’s future, and the truth of what Eston was being taught hung heavy in the air. "Eston," Gaberil spoke up, his voice firm but not unkind, "your mother sheltered you too much. Her love for you is undeniable, but the world you will inherit is far less forgiving than she would have you believe." He turned in his saddle, meeting his son’s gaze, his voice softening with paternal concern. "The truth is, I had already planned to teach you more about what it means to rule in these times—the harsh realities that come with power and responsibility. It’s not enough to be kind or just. You must also be strong."
Eston shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. Gaberil pressed on. "I may still be young by the standards of those who walk the path of power, but time moves quickly. If I don’t continue to grow stronger, the years will catch up to me. I may live another two centuries, if fortune is kind, but that’s not long enough if I stagnate. You need to be ready to face the world, not just as a prince, but as a ruler—someone who can make hard decisions when the time comes."
Eston remained silent, the weight of his father’s words sinking in like a heavy stone.
----------------------------------------
As Braunsted entered their view, Gaberil’s thoughts momentarily shifted to the city ahead. Though not as grand as the capital, it was still a sizable city, serving as the heart of the northeastern territories. The homes were made of pine on the upper floors with sturdy stone on the lower. The city felt like a reflection of the northern lands—strong, enduring, but raw and weathered.
The Braun family manor stood tall, not overly flashy but with a subtle elegance that spoke to the family's status. Gaberil couldn’t help but admire the way it reflected Didrich’s style—simple, but sturdy and reliable.
Didrich wasted no time. He, Eston, and Gaberil moved into the main study and unfurled a map of the northern territories.
Didrich pointed to a small town marked on the map—Hemsberg. "We have a small house there, House Garet. My men said they believed the impact was in this area. Lord Garet has likely already sent out scouts."
Gaberil nodded. "Then we’ll send Prince Eston to Hemsberg to meet with Lord Garet and coordinate the search efforts. The rest of us will stay here." He turned to Eston. "Your journey will be more than just an errand. You'll need to help guide this search and show your strength as a leader."
Eston’s hand, trembling ever so slightly, rested on the hilt of his sword. "Understood, Father."