Episode 7

Chapter 27

Kris parried the wooden sword with all his might, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead as he focused on Jasper's every move. The two young men circled each other in the training yard, their wooden swords clashing loudly with each strike.

Jasper, a skilled fighter and aspiring champion, had the upper hand from the start. He easily deflected Kris's blows and countered with precision strikes that left Kris stumbling to defend himself. Despite his best efforts, Kris was no match for Jasper's expertise and experience.

As Jasper's wooden sword finally connected with Kris's side, the force of the blow knocking the breath out of him, Jasper's voice pierced through the air, commanding and authoritative. "Yield, Lad, you're bested."

But Kris, determined and stubborn, shook his head and tried to push himself back up. Ignoring the pain radiating through his body, he raised his wooden sword once more, ready to continue the fight. However, Jasper's next move was swift and decisive. With a firm but controlled motion, he disarmed Kris and brought him to the ground with a combination of skill and force, leaving Kris defeated but not broken.

Jasper leaned in close to Kris, his expression firm but not unkind. "You have to learn when to yield, Kris. A Griidlord always has to know when to quit."

Kris gritted his teeth, the sting of defeat still fresh in his mind. "That's pathetic. That's not true. Griidlords are supposed to be powerful, heroes don't yield."

Stalking around Kris, Jasper's voice was measured and calm. "Combat for a Griidlord is different from normal fights, Kris. We learn to stand our ground because on the battlefield, it is during a rout, when fleeing, that most men die. Soldiers in formation depend on the man on each side of them for support and safety. They need to know they can depend on each other. Yielding or fleeing is usually the quickest way to die. For a Griidlord, the rules are different. If a Griidlord dies, it takes months to replace them, and the city suffers without their protection. Even a wounded Griidlord can still use their Footfield to escape. It's always an option to retreat and fight another day under better conditions, for the good of the city."

Rising to his feet, determination flaring in his eyes, Kris shook his head. "It seems like cowardice, always measuring when to quit."

Jasper's gaze softened slightly, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "To me, it seems like smarts and strategy, Kris. How come you know so little, kid? Your dad was a Griidlord, doesn't he teach you anything?"

Kris's jaw clenched at the mention of his father. "He tells us stories of bravery, of victories."

Jasper fell quiet, his thoughts drifting to the short and tragic career of old Nicolas, Kris's father, who had lost both his legs in battle to end his short career. Words seemed unnecessary as the weight of unspoken truths hung heavy in the air.

Breaking the tension, Jasper extended a hand to help Kris up from the ground. "I knew nothing before I came to the abbey myself. You'll learn fast, Kris. Maybe one day we'll wear suits side by side."

Internally, Kris bristled at Jasper's tone. He wasn't much older than Kris, and the air of superiority didn't sit well with him. "Maybe someday," Kris replied curtly, brushing the dust off his training tunic as he stood up.

Together, Jasper and Kris crossed the practice yard, passing by dozens of young men engaged in various training exercises or performing strange, staged poses. All around them, priests in red robes watched over the activities. This was an Abbey, a place where the doors were open to train the curious in various paths, be it as priests, knights, or practitioners of ancient arts. Most abbeys trained potential Griidlords, always ready in case a city lost a Griidlord to death or injury. It took months to fully accustom oneself to the Griid-Suit, so a roster of potential Choosings was carefully maintained.

Pouring cups of water from jugs, Jasper mentioned, "Several Choosings happening now in Denver and Boston, can't deny the temptation to try out and give my best."

Appalled, Kris responded, "You would betray Cincy, the city that trained you?"

Jasper shrugged nonchalantly. "Don't get sucked into that mindset, Kris. The city trains me because I might be useful to them one day. Gathering Flows, ferrying caravans, winning territory – it's all to make those at the top fatter. Cincy never did anything for me that any other city wouldn't. Look at how your folks live, Kris. Your dad was a Shield."

Shaking his head, Kris didn't forget that Jasper hailed from Pittsburgh, a city he had already forsaken. "My family is loyal. Nicolas leads armies," Kris retorted.

Jasper prodded him, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Is that the same Nicolas that you have to hide your attendance here from?"

With a snort, Kris said, "He's older than me, he remembers the day Father fell, lost his legs. Nicolas has a lot of fear... but I can make our family great again. He could have too."

Jasper's tone softened as he acknowledged, "I've heard he's a great man with a rifle, even better with a sword. People respect him."

Sighing, Kris admitted, "I do too. You have to respect Nic. I just wish he had more adventure in him."

Chapter 28

Clive felt a heavy weight in his chest as he secured the tarp on the wagon, the long preparations for his journey to the oil fields weighing on him. Several deliveries had been sent ahead of him, but now it was his turn to prove his worth at the secret facility Jarway had prepared for him. Despite the opportunity, loneliness gnawed at him as he prepared to depart.

Captain Hearthguard, disguised as a caravan guard with his face covered, tended to the horses, ensuring everything was in place for their journey. The wagon was laden with supposedly empty oil barrels, but they actually contained the last of Clive's gear for his stay in the Oil Fields. It was a chance for him to conduct his work away from the watchful eyes of the priests who guarded their arcane knowledge so fiercely.

Clive's thoughts drifted back to Aerilyn, a serving girl who had provided him with comfort and companionship during his time at the abbey. He knew he shouldn't be dreaming of making her a part of his life, as she had her own path to follow. However, he couldn't shake the feeling of leaving behind his only friend.

Approaching him, Hearthguard spoke, "The horses are ready. Be prepared to move in a few minutes. Once we get the signal that the rest of the convoy is moving, we'll roll out and blend in seamlessly."

Unable to hide his trepidation, Clive responded, "Great."

Hearthguard chuckled and slapped Clive on the shoulder. "Don't worry, oddling. That serving girl will wait for you. You could come back a wealthy man, and I bet she knows it. She'll be hanging about for you."

Blushing at the insinuation, Clive hesitated before blurting out, "It's not like that."

Looking puzzled, Hearthguard raised an eyebrow. "Is it the gents you prefer? She's a pretty young thing."

Clive was taken aback by the blunt and open discussion of his preferences in this medieval setting. He still wasn't used to the way the people here spoke about such things, with such total innocence, free of even the slightest hint of propriety or taboo. He cleared his throat and replied, "No, I like women."

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Hearthguard nodded, considering. "Then you're holding out for a lady of higher standing, is that it? Lord Jarway might promote you if he's impressed with your work. But mingling with noble ladies can be tricky business..."

Stammering, Clive shook his head. "No, it's not that. I just... I don't know if it's proper."

Hearthguard furrowed his brow, trying to understand. Clive continued, "If I made...if I made an advance on her, she might feel obliged because of my station."

After a moment of silence, Hearthguard burst into laughter, the sound hearty and boisterous. "Don't you worry about that! You don't have any station...not yet, at least!"

With a final chuckle, Hearthguard walked off, wiping a mirthful tear from his eye, leaving Clive to ponder his words, unsure of how to feel.

Clive returned to staring at the wagon, the vessel of promise that felt more like a prison wagon to him. Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder, then on the opposite side, but when he spun around, there was no one there. With a sense of foreboding, he turned again, only to find Aerilyn giggling mischievously behind him.

Panicked, Clive whispered urgently, "Aerilyn, you can't be seen here. You're not supposed to know about this mission. If Hearthguard or Jarway found out I told you, they might kill us both!"

Aerilyn, surprisingly unfazed by the danger, continued to smile warmly. "I really wanted to see you before you left. I know how lonely you've been and how hard it's been for you, and now you're going off alone..."

Clive tried to reassure her, "Not alone. Captain Hearthguard and his men are coming with me."

Still smiling, but with a depth of emotion in her eyes, Aerilyn replied, "I know it's not the same. They won't be good company. You're shy, you learned to speak to me, but I can't imagine you confiding in them like you have with me."

Stuttering nervously and glancing around for any sign of Hearthguard's return, Clive said, "Of course not the same, but I'll have to make do. If I do well enough, it could mean a lot for-" He stopped himself, realizing he was about to say "mean a lot for us".

Aerilyn looked down, her toe flicking at the dirt, before meeting his gaze again. In that moment, she looked so pretty, innocent, and alluring. "It's not just that I think you'll miss me or that you'll be alone... I'm going to miss you too, Clive. I arrived at the tower the same time you did, under different circumstances. I had no friends, nobody to talk to. You have been just as important to me."

Struggling to find the right words, Clive was interrupted by the clanging approach of Captain Hearthguard returning. Urgently, he whispered to Aerilyn, "You have to go now, before you're seen."

Aerilyn, her eyes glassy with emotion, nodded silently. Breathless and speechless, she turned to leave but then, with a sudden boldness, she grabbed Clive by the shirt and pulled him close, pressing her lips against his in a tender, promising kiss. Her sweet breath and the heat of the moment lingered as she released him, her eyes searching his face for a reaction. With an impish smile and a twirl, she disappeared around the corner, leaving Clive breathless and conflicted, his heart racing as he stared after the ghost of her presence.

Chapter 29

As the pale moon rose over the shattered skyline of what was once New York City, the ruins stood in stark contrast against the silver glow of the night sky. More than a millennium had passed since the fall of civilization, and the once bustling metropolis now lay in decay, a mere shadow of its former glory.

The skeletal remains of towering skyscrapers, once symbols of human ingenuity, now stood as broken sentinels, their steel frames rusted and twisted by the inexorable passage of time. The skeletal remains of what was once the Empire State Building reached desperately towards the heavens, its windows shattered and its once proud spire lying in ruins.

Nature had taken its course, reclaiming the city with a relentless grip. Vines and moss snaked their way through the cracked pavement, winding up the sides of crumbling buildings like nature's grasp reaching out to reclaim what was once stolen from it. Trees sprouted from the decaying remains of skyscrapers, their roots burrowing deep into the concrete as if seeking to anchor themselves to the past.

Yet amidst the ruins, signs of new life could be seen. The people of this new world had found ways to adapt to their surroundings. The crumbling walls of the old subway tunnels now served as shelters, their dark, winding passageways providing refuge from the elements. The Central Park, now overgrown and untamed, had been transformed into a labyrinth of gardens and vegetable patches, sustaining the inhabitants of this new world.

In the distance, the skeletal remnants of the Statue of Liberty stood sadly, her torch long extinguished but the jagged remnants of her corpse still commanding awe and respect. The new inhabitants had repurposed her pedestal as a watchtower, a beacon of hope in this desolate landscape.

From above, the view of the once-great city revealed a tapestry of destruction and rebirth. The remnants of a fallen civilization mingled with the burgeoning life of a new one, creating a hauntingly beautiful mosaic of decay and resilience. The night winds whispered through the abandoned streets, carrying with them the echoes of a past long forgotten, but not entirely lost.

As the shadowed figure paused on the side of the gleaming North Tower, high above the city, a symphony of torchlight and kitchen fires flickering in the distance mingled with the electric lights below. The wind whipped around the figure, carrying with it the whispers of a thousand whispers of the past and the promise of uncertainty in the future.

There was an ominous stillness in the air as the figure stood, seemingly unaffected by the treacherous height and slick surface of the tower. It listened intently for a moment, as if attuned to some ancient melody that only it could hear, before turning with a purposeful grace. With swift and effortless movements, it traversed the towering edifice, its movements purposeful and unwavering.

The North New York Tower rose like a pillar to the sky, a beacon of power and authority in the heart of Manhattan Island. Its walls gleamed with an almost otherworldly gleam, seemingly untarnishable by the passage of time or the ravages of nature.

As the shadowed figure moved along the side of the tower, there was a sense of foreboding in its presence, a terrible purpose driving its every step. The certainty of its direction, the single-minded determination in its movements, spoke of something darker and deeper than mere mortal intent. It was as if fate itself had laid out a path for this figure, and it moved along it with a chilling inevitability.

The shadowed figure continued its upward climb over the towering structure, a feat that human hands could never have achieved or even imagined. The rain fell gently, a soft patter against the gleaming surface, adding a sense of tranquility to the stark surroundings.

As the shadow drew closer to a massive open window, the soft glow of white light emanating from within cast a beam through the falling raindrops. The light danced and shimmered, creating an ethereal effect that seemed to defy the laws of nature. The figure moved closer to the window, the light beckoning like a beacon in the darkness.

Through the curtain of rain, the figure could see the interior bathed in the comforting glow of the light, casting long shadows and illuminating the intricate details of the space beyond. There was a sense of warmth and serenity emanating from within, a stark contrast to the cold, wet exterior of the tower.

The figure paused for a moment, taking in the mesmerizing sight before continuing its upward ascent. The allure of the light, the promise of what lay beyond the window, propelled the figure onward, each step bringing it closer to the source of that captivating glow. In that fleeting moment, amidst the rain and the shadows, there was a sense of anticipation and mystery, a moment of beauty and intrigue suspended in time.

As the shadow clung to the exterior wall outside the window, out of view from within, muffled voices drifted out into the night. Peering cautiously into the interior of the room, no detail went unnoticed by rare eyes.

The room was vast and gleaming, with walls made of sleek metal and polished plastic, giving it an almost otherworldly appearance. However, despite the modern materials, the room was adorned and furnished in a style reminiscent of a medieval lord's bedroom.

In the center of the room, a massive canopy bed stood, its ornate wooden frame intricately carved with ancient symbols and motifs. The bed was draped with rich tapestries and velvet curtains, giving it an air of grandeur and opulence. Beside the bed, a large wooden chest sat, adorned with intricate metalwork and jewels that caught the light in dazzling patterns.

A large wooden table stood in the corner, piled high with scrolls and leather-bound books, their pages yellowed with age. On the walls, shields and swords hung, their polished surfaces gleaming in the ambient light.

Standing at the end of the ornate bed, a stunning blonde woman in a Griid-Suit, her head without the helmet, faced a toweringly huge and stout man clad in the rarest silks. The shadow understood that it was witnessing a pivotal moment between Dania and Erik Jornwyn, the North King of New York, and Master of Manhattan.

Dania, her voice laced with concern and authority, spoke boldly to Erik. "Father, it's foolhardy to risk trusting the Southern bastards. It's been decades, centuries since a New York King was foolish enough to trust another. If we expose ourselves and give them an opening, we'll bleed for it."

Erik, his grip firm on a cup of wine, tried to pacify his daughter. "Dania, enough. You'll have your turn to make decisions around here. For now, still your voice and learn from me. I've been at this game for a long time. I'll guard us. You should know better than to doubt me."

But Dania, undeterred, locked eyes with her father. "I think you're blinded by the chance to rule without the Empire pulling your strings. You're being a fool. You always taught me not to trust the Southsiders, and now you're making deals and plans with Garreth that could lead to ruin or even treason if the Emperor were to find out."

Erik downed his glass of wine and moved to a nearby sideboard where a full jug awaited. "The Empire won't find out. I know all their spies, and I feed them enough to make them think they're doing their job. Garreth wants to rule without the Empire's yoke just as badly as I do. If we throw off the Empire, we can free ourselves to wage war against our enemies once more, maybe even unite the Towers at long last."

As Erik poured himself more wine, Dania pressed on. "And what of Garreth? Is he as wise as you are? Does he have all the Emperor's informants within his tower just as carefully muted as yours?"

Erik's tense demeanor was palpable as he admonished her, "That's enough. If someone overheard you talking, the consequences could be catastrophic. The Sword of the North-King can't be heard to be discenting like this."

Dania, looking down at her armored hands, as if to remind herself of the immense power she possessed in her Griid-Suit, stood resolute, her thoughts and doubts swirling in the air between them.

As Dania quivered with anger and turned to leave, the door to the bedroom hissed open and closed behind her, allowing her swift exit. Erik stood in the room, the silence heavy around him as he sipped at his wine, his thoughts burdened and his eyes lost in the distance.

Feeling the weight of his words and the sharpness of his rebuke towards his daughter, Erik slowly made his way toward the open window. Leaning against the windowsill, he gazed out upon his kingdom, the lights of his domain twinkling against the dark backdrop of the night sky. Regret washed over him as he ruefully considered the harshness with which he had spoken to Dania.

Little did he know as he stood there, the cool night air caressing his face, that this would be the last time he would ever speak to his beloved daughter.

The shadowed figure moved with incredible speed and agility, leaping down from above the king in a swift and silent blur. Before Erik could react, the figure was upon him like a jungle cat striking its prey. In a flash of steel, a knife materialized in the shadow's hand as it grabbed the hulking giant from behind.

The dark figure's cloak billowed as it tightened its grip on Erik, the blade slicing across his throat with a deadly precision. Arterial blood sprayed out, painting the curtains and windowsill in a macabre display. The room was filled with the sickening sound of Erik's gurgling breaths, his mouth a fountain of crimson as he dropped to his knees, the life draining from his body.

With a final, guttural sigh, Erik's eyes stared blankly ahead as the shadowed figure leapt from the window. Wings seemed to sprout from its back as it soared out into the night, a silent specter disappearing into the darkness, leaving behind only the chilling echo of its deadly work.