Briar watched her child feed, a smile stretching across her face - which was so often pale and emotionless now that Cherry fretted over her constantly - and filling her heart. Her daughter was, of course, resisting Daphne’s best efforts in that quirky way of hers.
Briar sighed, fingers brushing over the facedown paper she’d been reading. It was an Economic journal issued by a Canstein thinktank; only six months ago, Briar would have been issued a copy for free by virtue of her position in academia. Now, even as a Duchess, she no longer had any such luxury.
After all, Therellian’s was owned by the Royal Canstein crest. Not even Haswalth could have saved her from ridicule in the nation’s capital for what her family had done.
Her hands twitched. Haswalth. That’s right. He’s returning next week, isn’t he?
For the naming ceremony.
It was a sobering revelation. The naming ceremony this year should be around the winter solstice, Briar thought, discreetly nibbling at her lower lip.
House Medea was an ancient Dukedom, founded long before even Azer Luceras was christened as king, and bestowed the Sword by the First Hero. It had existed from before even the war of the heavens, and had once been home to the last and arguably greatest of the Heroes. The descendants of Medea and Luceras had signed a pact of mutual benefit; Luceras would be king, and Medea would forever gain their protection from foreign hostiles.
The blessing of Medea - the centuries-enduring enchantment that bequeathed upon the lands of the dukedom - could only be transferred via magic ritual on the heir’s naming. It was the blessing that gave Medean land its legendary fertility, and the unique climate required to grow Yauzenflower. It was what deterred any beast below fourth-Layer from ever entering her domain. There was rumor that the magic of the Herofall had other functions as well, one extending beyond simple prosperity magic - if such great magic could even be called simple - and something much greater, but Briar had never paid attention to such rumors.
And my daughter, Briar mused, brow furrowing, is the next recipient of this responsibility.
It was unclear what the blessing actually did, it being as closely guarded a secret as it was. Even back before, when her relationship with Haswalth had been willing and genuine, the man had refused to speak of the ceremony. The only thing Briar was certain of was that her child would be Named, unlike other aristocratic children, not by selection of characters from the Epic of Canstein, but by the magic of the Herofall itself.
The grave of the greatest of Heroes, Briar recited, remembering the legend. And the rebirth of origin.
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Somewhere on the Eastern front, Haswalth strode forward towards his fallen enemy. Despite the fact he stood in the war-torn battlefield that was no-man's-land, his face was the picture of calmness; his expression carved of granite.
His men were behind him, mopping up the final remnants of the Elven excursionary force. His adjutant had dispatched a formidable opponent - a seventh-ceiling warrior - shortly before.
Haswalth sighed, rolling his shoulders. Can’t let him down now, can I?
The blessing roiled in his core, though like always, it didn’t actually have a tangible effect on him or his magic. It was supposedly a key to some great power, but neither Haswalth nor his forebearers had ever seen even a hint of the great ancestor’s last treasure. At this point, he suspected it was more legend than fact.
Haswalth clenched his weapon - a flat broadsword, devoid of any crest or accessory - as his eyes tracked the mist for his opponent. His spiritual core pulsated, extending his already enhanced senses.
He saw the elf immediately. A seventh-circle Chanter, Haswalth thought. He couldn’t say he was relieved, but this was an opponent he should be able to quite easily kill at his level. In his hotblooded youth, Haswalth may have wanted a better opponent and a tougher fight, just for the fun of it.
But not anymore. Haswalth had a wife - even if she quite understandably couldn’t stand him now - and a child he’d yet to even see. But the lands of Medea bordered the elven forests and was thereby where the Azer Luceran eastern garrison was located; as Duke, and one of the two eighth-circle Breakers in the kingdom, Haswalth couldn’t exactly refuse to defend his own territory.
The blessing twitched. Haswalth winced; it was a little irresponsible for him to be out on the battlefield. If he died, then the blessing of the Dukedom would go haywire until a successor was found to carry it. The Yauzenflower fields would die. The great gearworks would grind to a halt. Medea itself would come to a standstill. It would not damage the magic of the Herofall, but it would temporarily suspend its other functions.
And the responsibility of managing an entire Dukedom would fall on his six-month old daughter.
If anything, Haswalth’s purpose in life now was to live. Briar might hate me, but my daughter deserves better than this.
His eyes narrowed, and he flicked the hilt of his sword. A wave of force erupted from his blade, scattering bloodmist and vapor- -and revealing his enemy.
Haswalth sighed. “I’ve never understood you elves. You have your own patron hero - and if I remember correctly, she was the first to forge ties between the outside world and the Verdant. Why betray her will?”
He squinted. This elf was a defeated man; Haswalth’s intuition, forged from countless battles, told him this. The difference between a seventh-Layer power and an eighth was equivalent in size to the gap between heaven and void. Only the greatest heroes of myth and legend had ever been recorded defying such catastrophic odds.
And Haswalth had bordered on the ninth since a decade before. I only need that revelation. Just one more push, and then-
The elf gave a weary sigh. “We never intended to fight against you, child of the Ninety-Ninth. Like all races, we respect the sacrifice your ancestor made to drive out the root of evil. And unlike you humans, we of the long-lived also remember the efforts of the Order to help this world rebuild and rebirth in the aftermath.”
“So why-” Haswalth began, but the elf cut him off.
“Luceras has betrayed you,” the elf said. “He has betrayed all the mortal races. This, the elven seers know. He consorts with evil.”
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Haswalth blinked, then glared, outraged. “Not that I particularly like the new king either,” he snorted, “but the initiative declared by the Archon in response to his idiocy was to promptly declare war against the entirety of Azer-Luceras?”
“Not Medea,” the elf said, shaking his head. “We never intended to breach Medea. But your efforts on the field to defend a futile cause forced our hand.”
He gestured to the garrison, which lay half-destroyed. The soldiers that guarded it were of the Royal Canstein crest - allowing forces of the king into his territory had been one of the concessions Haswalth had made to repair his relationship with the king after the Purges. “We only intend to slay those who have been marked.”
A beat. Then Haswalth grimaced. “You’re speaking nonsense. There is no such thing. Any evil you speak of was long banished and sealed when the Age of Gods ended.”
The elf grinned. “That’s what you think, is it not, human? But you are ignorant. There are forces in this world beyond your mortal comprehension. You, despite your prodigious strength, are not your ancestor.”
Then the world went white.
Phosphation was a very rare phenomenon. When two spirits of above the sixth-Layer clashed, all surrounding ether had a slight chance to gain the properties of phlogiston. Upon activating a spell, all this excess ether would then ignite, causing no explosion but destroying most of the ether in the atmosphere, and creating a blinding flash.
With how many battles Haswalth had fought in, though, the reaction hardly surprised him. The same, however, could not be said for the elf, who reeled back in surprise.
Breaking above the sixth-Layer was when mortals began to approach the Divine. Of course, there were no such gods left in this world, having long been banished into the realm of shadow. But one could still strive to be as close to perfect as possible.
That was Haswalth. Or at least, that was what he had been.
The point remained that the action-reaction forces exerted by their skirmishing self-imposed realities, created by their respective Paths, burned at the very fabric of the Layer of reality itself. That meant the amount of ether about to be thrown around in this battle was undoubtedly going to be immense. It was a fight that even he would have to take at least minutely seriously.
So Haswalth made the first move.
He stepped forward, and suddenly Haswalth had crossed fifty meters. His blade was a blinding arc of steel and ripping space. It was his affinity; after all, his ancestor was the force that bound this world and kept it safe from evil interlopers of the outside realms. She was the greatest master of space and seal in history.
Because, he thought, twisting as the elf dodged backwards and fired a bolt of verdant lightning at him, bursting through three nearby hills in succession. The secret of the Herofall is that it is a seal. An ancient magic, protecting this world from the reach of the Divine. And it is the sworn duty of Medea, as her descendants, to protect this land and secret with all our heart and vigor.
His father’s words from that day still resounded in his mind. He locked eyes with the elf, and his gaze hardened.
“You are a fool,” snarled Haswalth. “If you’re as old and wise as you claim to be, then you’d know that it is better for everyone that no one ever steps foot in this land!”
He swung his sword, and the skies were rent asunder. The cloudfront vaporized, and azure tore open to make way for inky blackness. For a single, uncomfortable second, Haswalth sensed the presence of things moving in that void, but like always, the space was sealed immediately.
Haswalth winced. In his frustration at the elf’s cryptic message, he’d used a relatively taxing technique. He’d been warned not to use it in excess, and never outside of Medea - only within the Dukedom would the Herofall be able to automatically seal his magic.
If used outside, the void would spill into the world until reality corrected itself. It would cause even more untold devastation.
He sheathed his sword without furor. A second later, the elf’s upper body splattered to the ground, dead, and the peak of one of the taller mountains exploded in the far off distance.
Haswalth gave the elf one last look. He was a powerful soldier, and in almost any other kingdom in the world would have been a protected weapon. The elven forest, though, seemed to have a predilection for wasting elite warriors like flies.
It was all very suspicious. And that thing he’d said - that Luceras had betrayed them. But that was impossible; the Luceras line had been appointed by the Heroes themselves. The current elven Archon was also well known for being an extremist, and acted like some self- appointed prophet of the Order; Haswalth hated people like that. As a descendant of Medea, it was an insult to everything he stood for.
Still. The new King acting erratically. The mortal lands, plunged into war. The increase in noble debauchery and cultish ritual as of late, which was in large part what had led to the purge. And now, what this… elf had said.
Haswalth frowned. The seal was still as strong as ever; the blessing, pulsating in his abdomen, was a constant reminder of that. As long as the Herofall was intact, this world would remain sealed forevermore. And even then, so long as a descendant of Medea’s blood remained alive, that seal would remain, however partially.
He sighed. There should be nothing to worry about, then.
So why are my instincts stuttering?
Haswalth didn’t have any time to think about that subject, though, as he sensed the presence of his men moving towards him. He had to play the part of a good commander, even if he was obviously shaken.
“Good work, men,” he said, nodding sharply at them. The guardsmen, none of whom looked worse for wear, all snapped to attention. They were all powerful warriors - at minimum fifth-Layer - sworn to protect the blessing and secrets of Medea. When he was younger, Haswalth had personally taken it as his responsibility to bolster their forces, and he felt proud of what his boys had become. “I take it none of you were injured?”
The lead soldier - Egwhart, he remembered (Haswalth always made painstaking efforts to remember the names of the men that served under him) - laughed. “We just had to clean up after the vanguard, sir. Lord Vernas took care of the rest.”
Haswalth blinked. The man in question strolled over; his armor and purple sash was flecked with blood, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear.
“This ‘expeditionary force’ was pathetic,” Vernas said. “You yourself could have cleared them all out in a fraction of a second, cousin.”
“Weren’t there two seventh-ceiling Breakers among them?” Haswalth asked, frowning. “I would have assumed that’d be a tough fight, even for you.”
Vernas rolled his eyes. “The elves may have high-tier soldiers in droves, but they’re pretty much all fodder; blasted things,” he said, shaking his head. “An actual Archon would be much scarier. But I digress. None of the boys were injured, so there’s no mourning to be had. Can’t say the same for the Kingsmen, though.”
Haswalth winced. “That’s not our responsibility to undertake, though I can imagine King Elias will throw quite a fit.”
He coughed. “Anyway. Good work, men! Your valiant efforts today have protected the sanctity of not only Medea in its entirety, but your wives, friends, and children. Take pride in this; you may have baptized yourself today in blood, but better some poor long- eared bastard than you, hey?”
The men roared in victory. Haswalth smiled; this was one thing he’d never tire of.
Still. It was time he headed home. It had been a long six months on the front - he’d be ashamed if he had to stay away from his newborn child any longer.
First, though, would be a diplomatic forum with the King and the House of Lords, explaining why their soldiers were so pathetic. Then there’d be...
As he and Vernas led their men back through the crimson fields of the Garrison Plains, Haswalth internally groaned.
His daughter’s Naming ceremony was scheduled for the Winter solstice. The blessing seemed to quiver at the thought, but Haswalth only winced. The ceremony was a nightmare to prepare; the guardsmen had to be mobilized, and they had to travel in absolute secrecy. The location of the Herofall was a sacred secret, after all, and that meant he had to draft multiple binding vows. Then he’d have to...