Jartor rested, nursing his sore arms and staring at the boy. He was well aware of what had happened, how temporary it all was, but it was an advent. Enough to set him straight, though more confused than he'd remembered being in all his years. Somehow, Tyr had accessed the celestial to harness the power of lesser gods. Something that could threaten all of them, gifted or not – it was true that the order had allowed him to wield them. For some reason. The reason did not matter and never would, only that it had happened and Tyr had not been expelled from existence when they'd faded.

It had to mean something.

“Promise you'll never attempt to hurt the others again.” Tyr demanded.

“Done.” Jartor nodded, he'd never intended to hurt anyone. What he'd seen was a monster that had taken his daughter from him. Tyr had achieved something he'd not been able to, and in his own way he was humbled and grateful for it. A shred of the beast still remained within her, but it was smaller now, dormant and docile. Aware that many greater predators existed in its surroundings, reminded why its kind had lost their right to claim dominance of this world. The strong survived.

There was no use in explaining to this child why he'd done it, or how he'd not wished to. Tyr was far too emotional and quick to jump to conclusions.

“Okay.” Tyr nodded in contentment. “But you have to kill me? Is that really how this all works?”

“That is the way... But...” Tyr had never seen his father so indecisive before. For all his faults, Jartor acted without delay. Though never on impulse. Jartor planned for all eventualities and was ready to act on them. This was something he had never planned for, couldn't have.

“But?”

“I cannot, and I will not.” Jartor shook his head. Even if he'd not been confused over the meaning of this, he didn't possess the strength to do it twice. Once would have to be enough, no more could be asked of him. If the gods wanted it done, they could do it themselves. The primus' were not the only servants of theirs on this world capable of doing so. “Repeat this to no one and nobody. Understood?”

Tyr backed away from him with a scowl. He couldn't shed the feeling pervading his mind that the office of the primus was a thing not meant to be. That they weren't supposed to be here, and neither was he. Something kept them here and it felt so incredibly wrong.

“Understood?” His father repeated, tensing at the neck and doing his best to remain calm. Tyr had changed. Before, he was a meek boy. Rebellious and wild, but cowed by his presence in the spira as most others were when it was revealed. Now, he couldn't force his will on the boy, and that was concerning. His mind was like a citadel, body tempered through experience and effort to shield himself. Though at times, it felt like it was less the boy but something else. His introduction to the dao had been phenomenally successful, almost too successful. But what should've contained and shaped him into something better had had... Inconsistent results.

“Fine.” Tyr replied with a glare. “What is it?”

“You are my son. Frankly, I don't expect you to accept information otherwise so easily, but what's done is done. Signe would have never betrayed me. I don't need magic to tell me otherwise. You are now one of my two, and that complicates things in so many ways.”

“How can you know that if you've never seen?” He hadn't been given time to understand it, and Tyr was sick to his stomach. Signe was a near complete unknown. The prince knew they'd spent time together but nothing significant. She was almost always busy with one thing or another, but had always been more present than Jartor. Tyr did not believe his father's guarantee that he was his son, though he still named him 'father' in the recesses of his mind. It wasn't so easy to let go of that familial bond, even if it at times felt so thready.

“Because I knew her.” Jartor responded. “I trusted her. More that any anyone I've ever met, including my own father. More than Octavian who I have always called brother, more than my teachers, of which Ragnar was but one. Is this not enough?”

Tyr snorted. “I always thought... I thought that I was close to her. Or that I knew her the most, but given clarity – I barely knew her at all. I don't care what you say.” He toyed with the bracelet on his wrist, wishing he had the will to throw it away.

“Alright. It's clear that we'll never get along or be as good a pair as the the others are. We are too different, and yet so alike. Exacerbated by the piece of her that's still inside of you. So let me ask you this. What do you want?” Jartor asked with a sigh. He seemed so weak now, that immutable strength in him all worn down until every edge of his steel was soft and rounded.

“Get it over with. For real this time. You failed to kill me.” Tyr said. “I want you to do it again and make sure it works. I'm sick of this, and I've changed my mind. I am filled with this... This feeling that I should not be here, and neither should you.”

“Indeed. And I do not know why. I unraveled your spira and cracked your mana core, and yet here you are. Whole and just as defective as before. But...” Jartor paused. “I can't kill my son. And you are my son whether you believe it or not. I raised you, swaddled you when you were but a babe. Until the day you become a father, you could not possibly understand how I feel. I've watched you grow and watched over you while you played at your various games. I've done my duty once as expected, and I won't do it again. All of my power was not able to do so. Gods be damned if they ask again. So I leave it up to you what happens, but that is not an option.”

“Leave what up to me?” Tyr tilted his head, brow raised and teeth grit. “What more could you possible ask me for? Haven't I done enough, seen enough? If not been enough.”

He was a disappointment. Always had been. Tyr had been born under strange circumstances and Jartor had done everything he could to protect him. But at the end of the day, the son had been left dancing on the fathers strings. Only in his impending adulthood did Tyr understand this. That he'd have had a far difficult time of it if not for Jartor. And Tiber, serving as proxy. All it would've taken was but an ounce of critical thought to realize this, but foresight was 20/20, they said. Tyr had been a puppet, doing what his father could not. His perceived frailty being a honey for the carrion intent on feasting on the empire, just waiting for Jartor to die so they could take their piece of flesh.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“You haven't seen anything.” Jartor's piercing eyes glared back at him, voice as hard and rough as freshly quarried granite. “You think you have, but you are wrong. There is so much that you do not know. Eventually, somehow, you'll find your way. We are all guided to it.”

Tyr blamed himself for his lack of realization, but he blamed his father – too. How easy could it have been to have rendered vengeance on those men himself when he knew all of this? No man was infallible, and a primus was no exception. But allowing Signe's killers to run free for years, allowing his son to do it instead... It was vile. It made no sense...

“You can hate me all you want for what I did, but there can only be one. For all of the time we've existed that has been one of the few rules.” Jartor said. “People have this expectation of me. To be a living god, and an emperor. We are as weak to our wills and impulses as any living creature. What was I to do? Kill an untainted infant? I made the choice that was best in the situation presented to me.”

“Aye. And as I said, I would have done the same.” Tyr replied. “But that wasn't my question. What do you want me to do?” He asked. The prince had thought that he'd had little time for games, and he was bitter over the fact that he'd been the mark for his entire life. He could taste it on his tongue. So tired all of these politics and even tired of the simple act of speaking. To anyone, or anything. He wanted to be alone, but they denied him even that. He wanted to die.

“You have to kill the boy.” Jartor was completely serious. Hard in the face and matter of fact. It wasn't 'kill the boy' It was 'you have to kill the boy'. A need to do so. Because that was the way. There could only be one, and Jartor had always known Tyr was his own, only seeking to save the women from any kind of suffering. If the churches learned that he'd had two children, it would invite calamity, Jartor was safe but Tyr and all of those associated him would be hunted. It was better to bury it under intrigue and become a cuckold than to damn his house and his empire. People would blame the mother, and the Ebonfist clan was too far afield to suffer overmuch.

“You lot are so sure of yourselves. So confident and 'wise'. Gods, but it's unreal. Fuck you and fuck the primus'. Men do not need you, and I take your titles and spit on those too. Do you know what I've been through?” Tyr asked, feeling an uncomfortable burning sensation in his eyes and mouth. “Ah, but of course you do. The great primus Jartor that pretends to let men be in control while he controls each and every little thing around him. I won't kill my brother. And if you try to kill it, I'll kill you. I will always find a way, you can believe that. Even if you leave before I've found it, I'll climb my way up those stairs.”

Children were blameless. Infants more so. Tyr was a hypocrite in this way, perhaps. He would say as much, but he wouldn't go around saving people like some sort of hero. Wisdom and time had shown him this truth, but an infant did not deserve to be held accountable to godly concerns, and neither did he. Tyr was his own man. He'd received an offer of godhood, even if a questionable one, and spat on it. Children were light, and the future. Perhaps, one day, Haran would have a proper primus rather than whatever half-thing Tyr was. He knew what he was, accepted it, and the warm touch of the spira accepted it as well, else he would be gone from the world by its very same will. It was something else that wanted him gone... Something even more real.

Jartor's eyebrows furrowed. Not in offense as Tyr would have expected give the content of his words, but in sudden amusement. A curiosity. “Oh? Do you think you could, as you are?”

All who could see were aware. Tyr's power was not his own. A gift that had been revoked. That is all it was. Jartor didn't understand what that had been, and neither had Ragnar, but it was clearly temporary.

“No.” Tyr replied with a wry grin. “But I'm immortal. Kill me a million times and I'll come back a million times, stronger with each return. Forever. I am inevitable. Alex said it, didn't she? If not I, then we will grind your empire to dust. Together if necessary. And I'll kill you without flinching, but I will never harm a child.”

“A man's got to have a code.” Jartor chuckled, a deep and rumbling noise that would've sounded pleasant on the ears in any other circumstance. “Of all the lessons to take from me... I suppose it isn't the worst. In that case, I accept. I accept the fact that you are just like me with all the stubbornness of our blood, exacerbated to the point of madness.” With that, his gaze cooled and he stared at Tyr with his crystal clear eyes. Confidence exuded from his gaze. The truth. His existence itself was undeniable reality. “Then you. My son. Believe what you want, but you will accept the consequences?”

“I will.” Tyr replied. “And if they are consequences that I don't like, you'll see. I will never be a puppet or patsy ever again.”

“I see.” Jartor nodded in acceptance. A bit more dramatic for his taste, but they served to show an ounce of spine in the boy, and that was good. “Then go, do what you want. I'll see to it that your women are give the chance to do the same and your brother does not fall into the same fel cycle that you did, that he remain safe. Is this agreeable?”

“Yes.” Tyr could ask for nothing else. His freedom, and that of those he cared about, was all he cared about. Freedom to do what he wanted, whatever the case. He was lost, unsure of what he did want.

“Then by the powers vested in me...” Jartor sighed. He wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing or not, but for all his strength he was weak. He could not do what must be done. Once was too much, and twice was impossible. Thus, he followed his heart as his father before him had once instructed, it would be better this way. “I, Jartor Faeron of Haran, primus of strength and....” He resisted the urge to curse everything and stomp away. Tyr had many failings, but he would've made for a decent emperor with such talented wives by his side. His son had a cool steel to him, and a casual nature that would've seen many necessary things done. “And your father... I strip you of all rank and title but not your family name. For you are my son, whether you believe it or not. I declare you unfit for service and exile you, named bastard and never to lawfully return again on your departure. Do you understand the significance of the path you've chosen?”

“I do.” Tyr replied. “And I accept. Goodbye, Jartor of House Faeron.”

“Goodbye.” Jartor would have been lying if he said he wasn't hurt by the coolness in those words, as if he were not a father to the young man at all. “Tyr, also of House Faeron. Whether you choose to claim our name in your future.”