Every day, Andeline woke with the sunrise, as the hour of the cockerel waxed. She donned her mail, the burnished steel, scarlet trappings, and the rearing stallion painted on her shield which earned her the moniker of the Crimson Mare.
She entered the training grounds, alone. Against her father’s wishes, she’d dismissed all of her household guards. She was no helpless maiden. Yet the slight has already been done.
Andeline rid herself of such thoughts. They were but the paranoid ruminations of the contrite and the bitter, she told herself, as she did many times before. The past stays in the past.
The wind around her seemed to still and become tense as she gathered her energy.
Like how mages used mana, aura swordsmen like her used, well, aura. There were several key differences, like how mana could only be used to manipulate, while aura only to imbue. Mana was accumulated over time from a person’s surroundings, the speed and amount that could be stored depending on the number of mana circles. Aura, on the other hand, relied on internal energy.
Her blade began to steam, painting vibrant swaths of crimson in the air. She steadied herself, before raising Fatum high above her head, and cut down in a single smooth motion. A wave of sanguine energy fired from her blade, obliterating the head of the target dummy that was standing on the opposite side of the training field. She dashed forwards, her feet tracing the familiar patterns of the [Thadal Footwork]. Smooth and flowing, like the ocean tides off of Nothr, she remembered her father saying. Not to her of course, but to her brothers, when he personally instructed them in the yard. Her oldest brother had been around fifteen at the time, while Andeline herself was nine. The only steel she touched then were a rare set of Candelas’ needles, which her father had bought for her on her eighth birthday.
That was then, and this is now. She spun on the ball of her foot, parrying to the left, before finishing with a lunge. Fatum was a crimson streak of death in her hand. She lowered the blade, running her gloved hand over it.
Fatum wasn’t an ordinary sword. Anyone could tell that from a glance, from its gleaming edge that never rusted, and from the three bloodstones that adorned its hilt. And in battle, there was no other sword that Andeline had wielded that was as balanced as Fatum. Yet it was definitely not what one would call a ‘mythical artifact’. That was because Fatum’s power was sealed upon the death of its original owner, Andell Nothr, founder of House Nothr and King of the Nothrian Empire. Tales from legends of old claim that the blade’s true power would be discovered once the heir to the Nothrian Crown was discovered, and from him would spring forth a new age of prosperity and freedom.
Freedom. While House Nothr was a powerful force in its own right, its wealth, prestige, and might was dwarfed in comparison to the days when Nothr was in its prime, when the Horse of TIdes could be seen on everything from the west coast of the Alqaran mainland to Maë on Menogol.
Now, though, the house was slowly dying out. Our Tide is rising, the motto of Nothr, had not held true for nearly century.
Instead, the horse slowly sank beneath the waves, receding into the empty sea, day by day, year by year.
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When the last of the sun’s rays had gone to sleep, Andeline returned to her holdfast. It was rather empty and diminutive for a noble estate. There were no guards or servants—only the birds and the crickets kept her company. She lit a fire in the great hearth, casting a light over the fountain, and the hastily drawn up furniture that Luther and she had previously occupied. She glanced at it. Luther’s black rook stood, cornering her king. Bishops and pawns gathered around, as if holding court. She wasn’t paying attention to them, though.
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In the far corner, a white knight stood vigil, the black queen underneath its feet.
Whether that was an omen of ill or a glimmer of hope, Andeline would not know. After a moment of quiet rumination, she strode over to the board, then upended the table into the fountain pool. Pieces scattered about in a loud clangor. One of the pieces bounced off of her foot, and rolled across the floor. A white knight.
Yet white it no longer was, bathed in the warm light of the fire.
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Reagan Merrigold was alone. There was a guard standing outside the door, maids in the adjacent servants’ room. Still, she was alone. Her chamber’s window drapes hung parted, letting in a sliver of light. I…I want to go home. The great fortress Skyfall, situated on the slopes where the Snowpoint Mountains of the north and the Rockshore Mountains in the south joined. The pale stone walls, blue tower roofs, and graceful arches looked right out of a children’s tale. Yet she could not help but long for her home.
Serryln Castle, the ancestral home of the Merrigolds, held sway over the city of Sieferr and its surrounding territories, under Duke Oculos. For the daughter of a mere viscount—albeit a quite wealthy one—to be engaged with the king was pure luck. She should feel grateful, she told herself. My children would sit the throne some day.
Her children. She’d birthed five, but only three lived past childhood. Her eldest son, Eden Ferros, her second son, Caelus Ferros, and her youngest son, Alberich Ferros, who was only seven months old. And look where we are now.
Edden had always been known to indulge in pleasures from a young age, and throw tantrums whenever he was denied such. Perhaps she was naive, hoping that these childish antics would die out as he matured. That was not the case. Instead of sugary cakes and pies, he now stole wine, wallowing in the alcohol until he passed out, and was found in taverns by the guards in the mornings. He consorted with gangsters and thieves, with moneylenders and mercenaries. He squandered money, and attracted an infamously arrogant and narcissistic reputation. Not exactly the poster boy for a “good prince”. As the years went by, their relationship became strained, while it had deteriorated completely with his father.
Caelus, on the other hand, was less troublesome, but more worrisome. Extremely enigmatic, antisocial, and quiet. Unlike Edd, he never shirked from his responsibilities, yet that in itself was concerning. He never voiced his opinions, shared his thoughts, or confided in his mother and father.
Her solitude was her veil, she told herself. She summoned her maids, of whom began to help her dress. Duty demands what it will, she recited mentally. Reagan took a deep breath, before leaving her chambers.
Two guards joined her entourage. Servants lined up neatly against the walls, and bowed while muttering polite words of salutations as she passed. They smile now, though there will undoubtedly be mutterings and rumors afloat. She was not popular in Alqara, she knew. The people saw her as an ungracious, greedy, arrogant harlot, who depended on her looks and wealth.
Reagan winced as she sat down. Last night’s…ordeal had been too rough on her. That was the only time her husband sought her company. The rest of the day they spent apart; him in the great hall with the noble lords and bannermen, whilst she dwelled in the palace gardens, running through the numbers and ledgers.
The gardens were where she walked now, after finishing her meal. Reagan adjusted her hat to better shield against the harsh sunlight. She made her way to the shaded pavilion, her guards standing a good distance away from her.
There was a vase on the table in the middle of the pavilion. Red, they were, contrasting against their dark green leaves. Roses. That couldn’t be. Skyfall’s gardens held no roses; it was much too cold for them. Their cloying fragrance almost caused her to choke. She grasped one particularly delicate-looking flower. I’m sorry, Emilee, Reagan thought, sighing. She buried her face in her hands, to better hide her tears. Blood dripped from a cut on her finger. A thorn had pierced her. She dropped the flower, instantly regretting it. Reagan knelt to pick it up. The fragrance was still present, and just as thick as before. The roses! Bloodred, transfixed by dancing firelight. High-pitched wailing. A woman’s voice, shaking with grief and tears.
Now, she remembered.