Chapter 1 - Gryswold City

The fields outside Gryswold City extended into the distance like a prairie of wheat and greens, culminating towards the gates where encampments had been set up to provide shelter to those seeking entry into safer walls, rather than spending more time in an open hazard.

Dusk was settling onto the land, and light fled to one side of the world, darkness arising from the other.

A fire crackled in the midst of a downtrodden, weary group of shady-looking individuals, the jumping embers stoked by a fully robed, hooded figure whose face was illuminated by the burning light, while the horses around gave a few wheezes, bordering an occasional cry. Several tents spanned the plaza outside the dark-grey walls, of old stone from a time bygone. The road in between the fields seemed as though a split in the middle of a man-made harmony, a preordained path for any to walk, only to reach Gryswold City.

The snap of a twig brought to attention a figure on the road, shrouded partially by the coming dusk. She wasn’t a sight for sore eyes, but the tedium of a long travel was visible in how she walked, ambling almost, with a pair of infants bundled in strips of leather and furs, rather than the less heat-insulant cloth from weeks prior. The season was on the cusp of winter, thus it was for the best, though she stowed everything within the small backpack she procured recently for later use.

This was Nessa, of the Eques bloodline, a once noble family of knights passed down now to orphans like the ones in her arms. Not that she didn’t already consider them both her own. Conjointly, the dark-blue haired and the crimson-haired infants leaned against the woman’s stout form snuggly, at complete comfort and blissful sleep.

Unlike her, they weren’t as worse for wear, but it was obvious by the grime on their once milky skin and the tiny hints of a frown on the middle of their brows that they weren’t in the best of conditions. Children at the age of three did not fare well on solely oat porridge, after all, and a lack of vitamin certainly was no help.

The one stoking the fire, a long-browed foreigner with swarthy skin, raised a brow, lifting his head to gain a better visual--and by proxy gain Nessa’s sharp-witted attention.

“Another one,” he remarks, in his baritone, husky voice that suggested unmatched experience on the road--and its dangers. By his side lay two, black-edged scimitars against the tree stump where several similar warriors sat seated.

“There haven’t been as many migrants as these days, lately, due to the sudden appearance of those towers,” he adds, engaging in conversation quite naturally, whereas Nessa had scruples with responding to a stranger as she stood by the road, facing the road further down the slope to the gates currently filled with a throng of people. Her head turns towards the man with skin darker than ink, age making it fold and seem akin to soot. The campfires spread about in each encampment lit up the moonless dark like massive beacons, giving rise to a pattern of rhythmic crackles of embers that reflected the sobriety in the air.

“…what do you mean?” She sends back, hoisting up the small Gilthunder in her right arm to set his arrangement into a more comfortable position. “It’s an unsolved mystery,” he quickly replied, eyes wide open in a sudden blink. “We’ve seen countless platoons of Valharden Knights and soldiers leave Gryswold City. Our questions go unanswered.”

For a foreigner, he was quite well-spoken, and more outspoken than she liked. Nessa pursed her lips, appearing grim while in thought. Her eyes grew slightly misty once the image of Eustace flashed through her mind, but she quickly shook it off, taking a seat by a free spot on the four tree stumps placed around the fire in a square.

Surrounded by a backdrop of tents, the flames cast their shadows in a subdued, tame dance across the green leathers and bound ropes covered by night meant to temporarily provide lodgings to all refugees by courtesy of the city regent.

“Eat,” the leader of the scimitar wielders said, his troop of four divided equally on each side of their head honcho on their bench adjacent to hers; in his hand a loaf of bread was extended towards her. “…We don’t get to do it often.”

Not one to shy away from the kindness of others, Nessa takes ahold of it, looking into his dark eyes. “I appreciate it…” Her gaze falls onto the children currently on each side of her lap, partly on the makeshift bench of felled oak, partly resting their heads against her black leather leggings, softly padded. Unlike conventional--or would the word traditional be better?--women, she was dressed as a warrior, always decked out in leather to accommodate her style of gear.

It didn’t hide her stout, well-built figure, however, on the well-fed side, though it isn’t as much as it used to be.

For she gave the loaf of bread to the children resting against her lap--chewing on it by the mouthful to macerate it with her spit, which made for easier consumption. Harsher times were around the corner, and everyone present in the refugee camp were exemplary examples.

“You said even the Knights of Valharden had gone out to investigate?” Nessa’s inquisitive eyes shine a pale green in the light of the campfire towards the scimitar-wielder, a question in her gaze. “Yes...however, they don’t return. They only send more, and some more. It’s really puzzling. Since you’ve come to Gryswold, it must mean you’ve felt the energy emitted from those towers, no?”

She nodded.

There was a tacit understanding between them, by virtue of their senses, that allowed her to asseverate the other as an individual awakened to the power of mana.

“They say it’s a relic of the past--from the High King who unlocked the magic of angels, reality magic. Impossible dangers roam those towers, they say.” While she doused the surprise building up in her chest, breathing sharply, Nessa stared at him, lifting an eyebrow, but spoke no words.

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“I’m Alemid, and you?” He asked. One of his men gave her a long look, but she didn’t pay attention to it. The other three were roasting some game they had hunted from the forest on twigs over the fire. For some reason, she felt as though they knew more than they let on.

“Nessa.”

The gates of Gryswold suddenly shook, the portcullis slowly grinding its way up, revealing an entrance into the city. A quorum of knights in golden mail stepped out in perfect synchrony, marching up the uphill road past the camps. Every gaze was upon them, but Nessa noticed an old knight in silver step out a short moment after. He stood in front of the gate like an impassable wall condensed into the shape of a human, but the kindness in his eyes was indubitable. While the march of the Knights in golden filled the area with the sound of clamoring metal--the mesh of their armor and boots playing a tune of cold steel in motion--the old man began to cough.

It was a low sound.

Yet, it drew the attention of each and every single person in the few five tents scattered about the gate entrance, as if the old man’s breath alone had an allure they couldn’t ignore. The brief daze ends for them all, and they couldn’t help but feel a pressure that was nowhere to be found around the silver knight. This was magic—a tacit agreement that was mutual for those capable of magic amongst the congregation of refugees.

He was unpredictable, like a maze without end, ever-changing in nature.

“I am the commander of the Gryswold militia, Ainsworth, good friends from faraway lands, my compatriots, and those that can’t be counted amongst the former two groupings.” He begins, stepping forth, overtly pleased by the silence. “The regent has noted the sudden influx of refugees, and we’ve come to a decision—“ his unfocused, blue eyes suddenly sharpened with a sweep across the area. “Depending on usefulness and necessity, we’ll allow entrance...and of course potentially becoming a citizen, yes.”

However, as he finished looking through the various camps, an emergence of veins suddenly began to protrude at his temples; snapping his head towards the danger that he sensed, his steel-blue eyes land on Nessa after it had abruptly vanished from roughly where she sat.

“What an interesting young lady; a compatriot to boot.” He yells, unaware of his oversight. The nearby Alemid merely smiles to one side, tilting his head to let his cowl shade his face from the light of the fire. “Come, come,” the old knight gestures for her to come hither. “Allow me a closer look.”

Picking up the two toddlers, she doesn’t waste much time to approach, albeit unwillingly. Her steps were wary, and the way she looked at Ainsworth was rife with suspicion.

“What’s your name?” While calm on his exterior, the old commander was mystified.

‘How strange. I can’t feel that threat anymore, and she isn’t capable of producing such strength.’ He noted the children in her arms, letting his sense sweep past both.

A playfully delighted expression had his eyebrows lift up, dancing almost. “These are some…interesting children you’ve got.”

He could feel mana beyond their years from them--and a toddler born with such was a rarity seldom seen. And here, two such rare gems had appeared in front of him. It made him instantaneously decide that they could prove useful in the future. For a moment, the old man stared long at the fur-wrapped Gilthunder and his portal-borne fellow infant. The former of the two infants almost seemed to be glaring back at the old commander.

This was a great catch, he thought.

The saying went that magi - usually knights of vocation - possessed the ability to sense what they shouldn’t be able to. As all creatures were surrounded by ‘energy’, whether projected by themselves or by the natural world was a topic still often debated fervently within scholarly circles, there were also traces of an individual’s ‘emotions’ and current mental state left within a subconscious aura.

This old knight, however, wasn’t quite at that level.

To truly decipher emotions would require abilities on par with a Paladin-ranked individual — someone theoretically equal to the Knights of the Round from yore, at the peak of human power.

“Are you going to let us in, or not?” Nessa was not willing to stand around and expose the children to scrutiny from an old knight, breaking his bubble quite suddenly. The fact that she could not see through even an iota of his power did not help relieve her cautious nature.

“Oh, yes, I have a job offer for you…can’t live in Gryswold without money, after all.” His smile was lipped and welcoming, but it made her hair stand on end. “…Speak.”

“There’s an old man who is in need of a caretaker. He lives in the Purple Courtyard district. It’s sort of hard to take care of him without being capable of magic--which you seem perfectly capable of, no?” This surprised many of the people in the other camps, and some had faces green with envy. Unlike Nessa, they knew what it meant. The Purple Courtyard district housed the wealthiest individuals in Gryswold, after all.

Ainsworth knew of her suspicions--he could virtually feel it--but he also knew he had the upperhand. “Lodgings, food, everything is taken care of, yes. What say you?”

Nessa couldn’t help but glance back towards Alemid. He responded with an encouraging smile, while one of his men whispered into his ear subsequently, catching an occasional sideways glance at the old Knight.

Her gaze falls back to Ainsworth.

“Fine.” After all, beggars can’t be choosers.