Arne leaned on the cold windowsill of his father’s study, his gaze wandering over the wide bogland sprawling underneath castle Hohenfels. It would be a long time before he could enjoy this familiar, rugged landscape again. He already felt homesick, even though he hadn’t left yet.
“It’s only four years, Arne.”
“Father, I beg of you,” Arne pleaded, turning around to face the man who had interrupted his melancholic musings.
Arnold II., Margrave of Hohenfels, fixed his son with a warm, but firm gaze. Compassion. Regret. Conviction. “We’ve had this discussion countless times. You have to go.”
“But-”
“Do you want me to list the reasons again?” The older man sighed, rising from his cushioned chair behind the massive oaken desk. “Our house is not strong enough to stand without allies. We need connections. We need friends.”
“Lisa has that handled,“ Arne pouted. He knew very well that his complaints were unreasonable, but the prospect of four years surrounded by noisy, emotionally unstable noble brats made him want to hole up in his room for the next decade.
Arnold turned to face his son. Exasperation. “We cannot rely on your sister’s reputation alone. You know that,” he said flatly.
“She is a paladin!”
“She is a bullheaded menace. Appointing her as my heir is a given, but she needs support.”
“What about Er-”
“Erwin is only marginally better than her.”
Grinding his teeth, Arne spat out, “Four years, Father!”
“Yes, four years,” the Margrave sighed. “It was hellish for me, for your grandfather, and for your great-grandfather. You’ll manage, too.” Pity. Resignation.
“You said yourself that my talent far surpasses most of our ancestors. Including you!”
“Indeed. Which is exactly why you cannot let it go to waste.” Sighing once again, Arnold stood in front of his son and put a hand on his shoulder. “You will get through this. Your control has improved by leaps and bounds, and most students wear protective charms. Power through the momentary discomfort and live a peaceful life as Lisa’s advisor once you return.”
“…That does sound appealing.”
“Good. With that in mind…”
Arne could never truly get used to witnessing his father entering ‘work mode’. Those kind brown eyes turned distant and hard, his entire body language shifting to bring out the ruthless man who had defended the Hohenfels territory for almost seven decades. With hands clasped behind his back, graying brown hair combed back to reveal a long scar on his left temple, and his aura thoroughly restrained, Arnold II. was the very picture of a no-nonsense frontier aristocrat. A carefully cultivated image that reflected exactly what the Margrave wanted to portray to the rest of the world.
“Prince Arnold, you are hereby ordered to attend the Imperial Academy, as is tradition. You will depart for Halden at your earliest convenience.”
“By your wish, Father,” Arne replied, a smile creeping on his face. “Thank you for listening to my selfish whining. I will do my best.”
His father’s stoic mien broke as he returned the smile. “I’m sure of that.”
Taking the not-so-implicit dismissal as what it was, he left the office with a bow, closed the rough oaken doors and began to stroll towards his chambers, silently dreading his fate.
“Finally done in there?”
He had only a fraction of a second to prepare for the inevitable, before getting the air knocked out of his lungs by his older sister’s not-so-gentle greeting. Still coughing, he turned around to face her.
“Lisa, for the love of all that is holy, stop hitting my back when I’m not in armor!”
Princess Elisabeth von Hohenfels grinned unapologetically, her mischievous expression framed by her long brown hair. Amusement, glee. “I can’t believe you’re still that weak after all this fighting! Maybe the academy will finally make a man out of you. Though I bet you won’t set a single foot onto the training grounds while you’re there.”
The insults lacked any bite given that he could feel the deep fondness in her aura, but he couldn’t just let that one slide. “Not everyone can be a brute like you. Just go wrestle a bear or whatever it is you paladins do all day.”
That earned him a headlock. “Spoken like a true silkling,” she cackled while ruffling his hair. “How do you expect to find a good wife while looking like a twig?” Her playful punch to his arm felt like a hammerblow thanks to the magic reinforcing her muscles.
“Hey, I’m decently well built by all reasonable standards!”
“Hmph, you’re still lanky compared to Erwin.”
“Erwin is not a reasonable standard!” Count Erwin von Rotenbach was a veritable mountain of muscles, gained over years of martial training and military expeditions. But as the husband of a renowned Paladin and accomplished veteran himself, that much was to be expected.
“I suppose that is true. He is a magnificent man.”
“Ugh. Spare me. What did you want in the first place?”
“Ah, right,” she relinquished her stranglehold. “Come with me, I’ve got something for you.”
“It’s not some kind of exotic animal again, right…?” Arne could still vividly remember the flesh-eating squirrel creature she had brought home from an expedition to god-knows-where. He had found it kind of cute, until it started enthusiastically munching on a servant’s forearm.
“No way, it’s much more interesting!” By this point, Lisa had utterly lost the sad excuse of courtly poise she usually managed to muster and was bouncing on her toes in a manner entirely unbefitting a princess thirty-seven years of age. “Come on, come on!”
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Arne’s trepidation grew as she dragged him out of the castle onto the training field, a big yard next to the servants’ quarters. One of the estate’s maids stood next to the pells, reverently holding what was obviously some kind of sheathed weapon. Lisa plucked it out of her hands and unceremoniously passed it to Arne. “Here, for you.” Smugness. Anticipation.
The weapon turned out to be a saber with an elegant, though unassuming hilt and sheath. At first glance, it could have passed for a normal cavalry saber, but on closer inspection, it was clearly the work of an expert weaponsmith. Understated, but obviously a masterwork with none of the telltale signs of mass-produced weaponry to be seen. ‘Enchanted, too,’ Arne noted.
He slowly drew the blade, and was greeted by a very familiar feeling. “No way. Is this–”
“Banesilver! Well, some kind of alloy, at least.”
The weapon suddenly felt so, so much heavier in his hands, and he desperately tried to hand it back to his triumphantly grinning sister.
“Where in God’s name did you get this?! I couldn’t possibly–”
“Adalbert von Wangen owed me a favor.”
“The bishop of Domstein…?”
“Exactly! This beauty was forged by his best blacksmiths, and consecrated by the bishop himself.”
“Wait, what, how…” Arne stuttered, trying to find words. “Does Father know about this?”
“Of course! I ran the idea by him last year. He was all for it, and said something about strengthening our ties with Domstein.”
‘That does sound like a good plan,’, Arne mentally conceded. Prince-Bishop Adalbert was the singular link between the Protestant northern territories and the Pope, and thus vitally important for House Hohenfels’ long term ambitions. He stopped his futile attempts at returning the saber and drew it again, admiring the craftsmanship that went into forging the banesilver blade and allowing himself to bask in the comforting dullness it brought to his aura senses.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Right? Make sure to wear it instead of that dainty thing,” she insisted, pointing at the gratuitously decorated smallsword hanging on his belt.
“Mother won’t like that. That toothpick was a gift from Uncle Wilhelm.”
“While I deeply respect our dear Uncle,” Lisa lied, “I can’t stand the idea of my little brother strolling about the academy looking like a pillowknight. Come on, put it on!”
Sighing, Arne sheathed the heavy saber and attached it to his hip, replacing the smallsword. Its weight was strangely comforting, even though it reminded him of long days on horseback and grueling battles against the Khanate’s hordes. “You’re right, this feels a lot more natural.”
His sister shot him a sly grin. “Looks a lot more manly, too!”
“Right,” he chuckled. “And it’s one hell of a statement, as well.”
“Indeed, carrying a weapon worth more than a barony will certainly raise a few eyebrows. Mother might complain for appearance’s sake, but we both know how much she loves statements,” she said, still grinning. “And speaking of Mother: She has something to discuss with you. Seemed important, so you should probably head to her study sooner rather than later.”
“All right, I’ll go there now.” Arne waved to the maid, who had discreetly retreated a few dozen paces, and handed her the discarded blade. “Take this to my chambers.”
“Understood, Your Highness.”
He bid farewell to his sister and trudged towards the central keep, still considering the implications of routinely carrying an item worth significantly more than most heirlooms inside the Hohenfels family vault.
Upon arriving at his mother’s study, he knocked gingerly on the finely decorated door. “Mother, it’s me.”
“Enter, Arnold.”
As he opened the door, the familiar scent of herbal tea, parchment, and wax candles greeted him. Adelheid von Zehlen, cousin of the current Duke of Falkenstein, sat behind her carefully arranged desk, sorting through correspondence.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she grumbled, glaring at the saber on his hip. Thankfully, she made no further attempts at conveying her clear displeasure. “Make sure to wear the smallsword during meetings with my brother.”
“I will, Mother.”
“Good. Now take a seat, we have much to discuss.”
The next two hours were a blur of names, family trees, gossip, and a ridiculous amount of rumors. He tried – and failed – to pay attention, but as his boredom and disinterest became more and more apparent on his face, his mother gave up on the relentless barrage.
“Just make sure not to step on any ducal toes if they don’t do it first,” she demanded. “Can you do that, at least?”
“I shall try my very best, dearest Mother,” Arne grinned, performing an exaggerated bow. Annoyance. Amusement.
“And don’t hole up in your chambers for days on end. I know, I know,” she held up a hand, preempting his protests, ”you don’t have to mingle all day, every day. But please, for the sake of our family, at least talk to some people on a regular basis.”
“...I really can’t promise that, Mother. You remember what happened after Lisa’s wedding, yes?”
“Vividly so,” she sighed. Resignation. Disappointment. Frustration.
“Then please, cut me some slack.”
“If you stop talking like a sailor, Arnold. Lord above, it was a mistake to send you on that last campaign…” Arne silently agreed with her complaint, though for decidedly different reasons.
Adelheid picked up a letter from her desk and waved it around demonstratively. “Speaking of chambers: The academy has sent word that the renovations of our hall have finally been completed. You will use the main suite, and Friedrich will get the smaller one. I realize you prefer less spacious chambers, but this is a matter of status and prestige.”
“Understood. Is the bathhouse still intact?” Castle Hohenfels held a large bath in the style of the old empire, and the previous margrave had incorporated that luxury into the family-sponsored dorm at the academy as a matter of course. Most modern bathhouses were practical affairs with little comfort, but relaxing in a steaming hot pool was very high up on the list of things Arne was not willing to give up on for any extended period of time.
“It is, thankfully. Good thinking – the privilege of using it will be a valuable means of negotiation with students from other dorms.” Pride. A feeling of hard-earned accomplishment.
“Yes, Mother.” ‘That’s definitely what I meant,’ he inwardly grinned.
“That should be all for today, then. The Adelar will depart to Halden the day after tomorrow. Your cousin will join you at castle Steinberg.”
“Understood. Is there anything else I should know?” ‘Lord in heaven, why did I say that…’
“Yes, one more thing,” his mother said gleefully while he inwardly cursed his poor choice of words. “Keep your eyes open for potential marriage arrangements. A Falkenstein girl would be optimal, but any of the ducal families will do. Except for the Eisengrunds, of course.”
“Not this again,” he complained fruitlessly. “Can’t I just marry some nice, homely daughter of a lesser noble from our lands? I really can’t handle the ambitious types.”
“Arnold.” Exasperation.
“...Mother?”
“If we want to see your father elevated to the rank of Duke any time soon, you will have to do your part in either strengthening existing ties or forging new ones.”
“...I will do my best,” Arne grumbled for the second time today.
His coming stay at the academy was shaping up to become the most dreadful experience of his life.