Eating put some energy back in his limbs and confidence back in Tyr's mind. Enough to mimic his customary swaggering arrogance, or at least his surly look that convinced most in the keep not to attempt speaking to him. He only looked this way in the palace, usually. It was the only place that could put him in so foul a mood.

“My uh... Your grace?” After some time, Tythas approached anxiously. Long black hair, glossy like polished obsidian courtesy of a well needed bath. “What... What do you want me to do? Just stand here? Because I can do that, truly I don't mind, but--”

Tyr raised his hand, instantly silencing the man. He could tell the mage was still full of the fear, promise made or not. That was good. His arrogance had yet to return. The prince had to admit that even the mage was handsome. In a new light, with a good cleaning, he had come out looking feminine and as refined as any noble Tyr had ever seen.

He really wanted to punch him in the face. The weasley twitching didn't help the sorcerer's case in the slightest, either.

“Come, mage.” Tyr stood, raising his hand to a pair of burly kitchen boys that would be returning the table. He observed his surroundings before tossing each a coin and a wink. Best not to let a highborn see him act in that way. Altruism would hurt his well maintained reputation.

“Well, actually.” Tythas stammered. “I'm n-not a mage, sire. Sorry, T-Tyr. I'm a sorcerer.”

“...Aren't they the same thing?” Tyr turned, eyebrow raised. What the hell was the difference between a mage, sorcerer, magic man? They all meant the same to him, and he was one, technically. An educated one, but he wasn't so ignorant as to ignore the claim. Haran didn't depend on magic for it's survival, but it made heavy use of it via the colleges. Mages were public servants, or they died. True mages, that is. In reality, most people could use magic for simple tasks and they did. Learning it wasn't hard, and those sensitive to mana were very common in the human nations. They were weak though, and relied on focus' or legally sourced charms, thus no mark was necessary. Only those who could 'cast spells' strong enough to make the power scaling system determined by whatever nation they were born in needed to do anything about it.

They were simply cataloged by a local chapter of paladins and visited every so often. Tyr didn't really know where the distinction started or ended, only that it existed somewhere. Once they came of age they were dragged away for a period of 2-3 years and given a job. Some returned to their villages in a guardianship capacity, or as healers and other industry laborers. It wasn't so bad, the pay was nice and common families could gain great renown among locals if they birthed a competent mage, so nobody complained too much.

“I apologize. No, a mage is a person capable of using spells through cantrips or some other form of casting. Educated into the use of their power. It's a very wide classification and covers most users, but not all mages are capable of sorcerer. Few are, actually, it's quite rare.”

“In that case, how is a sorcerer any different?” Tyr asked, genuinely curious.

“A sorcerer doesn't cast at the basic level, they wield. Magic isn't an external source to them, like most mages – but rather internal. I'm not an authority on the subject of magical lineage, but as I understand it this means that the sorcerer is capable of using their own body like a focus.” Tythas posited, noticeably relaxing as they veered toward a conversation closer to his interests. Walking the path between palace and training yard together, the smaller man following the prince doggedly. “Do you understand?”

“Kind of.” Tyr sighed. No such distinction existed here. A mage was a mage. Anyone who used magic was classified as one. Sure, there were different branches of specialization, but he had always thought the origin of magic, to humans at least, as universal. “I can silent cast minor fire spells, this means I am a sorcerer?”

“You are, yes, but mages and wizards can also silent cast. It's... Complicated. Suffice it to say that silent casting is a skill to them and not a born talent. The bloodline of a sorcerer is closer and more natural to magic, or so they say.”

Tyr shrugged, allowing the man to struggle in an attempt to keep pace with his longer stride. “Sounds a bit too complicated to me, if the differences are too small to go elaborate beyond irrelevant nuance, I don't see the point. A spell flinger is a spell flinger. Where are you from, anyways?”

“Amateus. Brotherhood lands, now.”

“Hmm.” Tyr had never been to Amateus, or what used to be Amateus. It had been conquered some time ago by the Brotherhood. A nation of thieves and mercenaries who simply called themselves 'The Brotherhood' and ruled by economic council not so dissimilar to Milano. Less in the merchant, more in the steel of hardened veterans and cutthroats. Tyr would have liked to visit such a place, feeling like he'd be more at home there, than here. It was violent, though. With annual mock wars of conquest waged for the enjoyment of the people. An exposition to the world of sorts, to advertise the capability of their small but elite mercenary bands.

Tythas' homeland was far to the south, in the free lands and collection of baronies that separated the empires of Varia and Haran. They called this band of countries the 'successor states', and there were hundreds of them that Tyr had never cared to memorize. The big ones were Kriegstad, Amistad, Baccia, Brotherhood, Milano... Agraband? Agramand? The banking clans lived in a mountain bordering the sea, that's all he knew.

“How'd an Amatean mage and noble on the wrong side of the successor lands end up in the capital of Haran?” Tyr asked, turning his head toward the other man for the first time since their departure from the training field. “How'd you even make it through the checkpoints?”

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Mages were heavily regulated. Anyone powerful enough in magic to require the mark was born a criminal, if one wanted to view the custom of Haran critically. Forced into a loose sort of servitude by the colleges, magic law enforced by the templars, paladins, or various churches they belonged to. 'Sorcerer' seemed like an unnecessary amount of syllables, but Tythas didn't argue the distinction again. Once was enough.

“A noble?” Tythas laughed nervously at that. An unsteady cadence that betrayed what lingering anxiety had reared its head in him. “Not a noble, sire. Just a--”

A look. That's all it usually took. Tyr had enough expressiveness in the eye for that. 'Don't lie to me' they said. Behind them carried a weight that was a threat in and of itself. Not that he planned to harm the mage. The man could run, if he wanted to. Tyr wouldn't chase. Wouldn't seek retribution, oath or not. But he'd die tired, nonetheless. How he got here was a mystery, but he'd never leave unless something was done. The paladins would find him eventually.

“Count Titus Slakt. You know this name?”

Tyr nodded. Of course he did. Count Titus Slakt was a member of the ruling triumvirate of Amateus. One of three rulers who had lost their heads after similarly losing a war of succession against the Brotherhood. Fabricated claim on the throne or not, it was armies who took castles – rarely a magistrate with an armful of long scrolls could convince an invading host to stand down. Proof was irrelevant, nobody cared about the successor states and it might be better if they stayed destabilized.

“He was my father.”

“In that case, I can understand why you fled. Still, your father...?” Tyr had never been to that nation, only twice in his life had he traveled through the successor states and not so far east. The trip had mostly been spent in a magically induced sleep so that he didn't cause any trouble. That was a region nearly as wide as the twin empires itself. Too out of the way, a frontier land. While he couldn't claim a visit, the same could not be said of them.

Successor states, free lands, free marches, free baronies, borderlands. There were so many different names for the place. They were one in the same. An old and massive stretch of land cutting the continent in half, established by armistice dictating that no army from either Haran or Varia was permitted to cross. A demilitarized zone of sorts that was settled by others after centuries of peace. Nobody cared to push them out, letting them squabble among themselves in their tiny kingdoms. It was a wall of sorts that would prevent the largest kingdoms on the continent from fighting another war that saw millions dead, though Tyr could scarcely believe such a preposterous number. The entire population of the capital was one and a half million at best, temporary residents included...

“I saw Count Titus, perhaps five years ago at the tourney in Longroad. He couldn't have been more than thirty five. And you expect me to believe that you're his son?” Tyr didn't look back at him again, still walking. He didn't believe, it was a rhetorical question. A noble, Tythas might be – but he was in his late twenties at best and early thirties at most.

Tythas sighed softly. “I am eighteen years of age. Not much older than you.”

At this, Tyr stopped walking and faced the man. “Do you count years differently than we do, in the south?”

Surely there must be some misunderstanding here. Everyone on the continent practically spoke common, was this man duller behind the eyes than Tyr reckoned?

“No. Eighteen winters as you northerners call it. I know that it's hard to believe. Sorcerers, as I explained, aren't just different in how they use magic. Biologically, my body might as well be in its forties. I am destined to be torn apart by my own magic. Dying, I suppose.” He didn't look sad at such a bleak lot. Tyr supposed the man had enough time to consider it, growing comfortable with the grim reality so that he might do nothing more than grin and shrug at his doom. “It's not even a guarantee that we're stronger, but some – not all – of our kind suffer from this infirmity. No rhyme or reason to it, maybe it's genetic.”

“I see.” He replied, and that was that. No more talk of magic, or nations, or anything. They walked and walked, and walked some more. The palace was large. Then there was the inner ring of the half-moon shaped city. A place of manors, estates, and well manicured parks. Beyond that, the middle ring. The neighborhoods of neat houses and clean shops or inns where the well-to-do commoners lived alongside knights and minor nobles.

Then, the artisan ring. Where craftsmen work, and where the city was notched to roll around the wide docks and trading port to the north. Another at the west. Here, the population of the city mixed and became more diverse. A place of industry, where nobles could be seen in their fine carriages or overstuffed apparel walking among the peasantry. Even other races, who were not permitted deeper in the city. Haran wasn't explicitly racist. Everyone, with a handful of exceptions, could become citizens as long as they could speak the tongue. Even beastkin. They couldn't become true citizens though. This was a human kingdom, and would remain human at the top. That's just the way it was. It was far worse in other places.

Beyond that was the true common district. Not so much a ring as an ungainly sprawl outside the large circular walls framing the city that spilled out onto the land beyond. They called it the 'outer ring' but it wasn't. A typical city sprawl where the highly organized architecture and the layout of a planned city gave way at the outer walls to residences and businesses alike. A few trading houses, loading barns for goods carried over land.

This was where Tyr spent most of his time. It was nicer here, in a way. In it's own way. Freer. But it stank, by gods it stank. It was something you couldn't consider properly until you've experience it. All of those bodies pressed together with their sweat, waste, and unwashed mouths. Haran city was clean for the most part, but once you left the walls – all of those rules were thrown out the window.

Just like the pile of waste thrown from an overhead window that nearly took Tyr full on the shoulder. But he'd been around this neighborhood long enough to avoid the eaves. Whatever woman tossed that bucket of slop had an arm on her. Nimbly avoiding it, he crinkled his nose at the rank odor of piss and shit. Why his father hadn't seen fit to have the place installed with a proper uniform sewer system akin to the one inside the walls, he'd never know.

A few blocks later, and they were at the same inn that Tythas worked at. Of course he didn't work there anymore. Not full-time at least, but Tyr wanted more of that beer. And he had his own personal beverage chiller in tow. How funny life was.