The king's burial was somber and grand, his body burned and his ashes placed in the tomb of kings. Lumar, once the proud capital of Skjoltrheim, had lost its former glory. Queen Eliziah was no longer recognized as queen, but rather a mere proxy, taking the title of Jarl. Norrvik's leader, Jarl Tuomas, arrived with aid and supplies to help rebuild the ravaged city, but it would never be the same.

Meanwhile, Aethyrvald grew up in Fjallgard, a land renowned for its towering mountains, lush forests, and clean rivers. The Phalanx guild resided here, under the leadership of Jarl Reagan, in a remarkable building known as Aegisheim, an ancient hall crafted from the remains of a colossal ship dating back to the 1st Era—one of the oldest structures in Skjoltrheim.

Aethyrvald was raised under the watchful eyes of his grandfather Bjorn, alongside the fierce and skilled Aelha of the Nine, a dual-sword-wielding huntress and tracker. Vilma, the old maid who tended the hall, also played a crucial role in his upbringing. Aethyrvald’s childhood was filled with joy and laughter, and Bjorn’s stern warrior demeanor often gave way to lighthearted moments in the presence of his grandson. By the age of three, Aethyrvald could already read, thanks to Bjorn’s storytelling sessions, where he sat the young boy on his lap, sharing the tales of ancient heroes.

By the age of four, Aethyrvald had already earned a reputation for his mischievous sense of humor. One afternoon, while they watched new recruits drill in the courtyard, Aethyr and Bjorn sat on the steps of the hall, eating cookies and drinking honeyed milk.

"Son, may I have some of your cookie?" Bjorn asked.

"Sure, grandpop! Try dipping it in the milk—it tastes amazing!" Aethyr beamed.

Bjorn, curious, dipped the cookie into the milk and took a bite.

“You know why it tastes so good, grandpop?” Aethyr said with a grin. "Because it’s made with my hard-working sweat!”

Bjorn paused mid-bite, a confused look crossing his face. He then spat the milk and cookie out, sending crumbs flying and milk dribbling out of his nose, to the laughter of everyone around.

Velma approached, chuckling, and reassured Bjorn, "Don’t worry, it’s not true. He didn’t help with the baking—he just did all the eating."

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Wiping his face with a napkin, Bjorn let out a booming laugh. "Son, you’ve made me feel 100 years younger!"

After their laughter subsided, Bjorn grew serious, sharing a tale of the Phalanx with Aethyr.

"You see, lad, the Phalanx are not just warriors. We are the defenders of the realm, forged in the fires of the 1st Era. Our numbers have often been small, but we have never failed to protect this land from the evils that once roamed it. Our ancestors, led by Ystremore Whitemane, nearly wiped out the vile creatures that plagued our people. But it came at a great cost."

Aethyr listened intently, his young eyes wide with curiosity.

"Ystremore wielded the mighty axe Witherbrand, and with it, he vanquished the Faun—a creature of forbidden magic, half-goat and half-man—and the monstrous gargoyles. They were nearly driven to extinction. But the battles were fierce, and the Phalanx’s numbers were greatly diminished. In his grief, Ystremore shattered his axe, vowing that it would never again be used in war. The fragments of Witherbrand were scattered across the land to ensure that no one could wield its power to bring harm.”

Aethyr's brow furrowed. "So... we can't fight?"

Bjorn nodded solemnly. "That is why, my boy, we of the Phalanx vowed never to join wars for power or politics. We only fight when the land is threatened by monsters or vile beings. We protect, but we do not seek conquest. That is why we did not fight alongside the king against Vargrath."

Aethyr’s eyes sparkled with understanding. "But what if someone finds the pieces of the axe?"

Bjorn placed a hand on Aethyr’s shoulder. "If someone gathers all the fragments of Witherbrand, they could wield the power of Ystremore, and the Phalanx would be duty-bound to follow. But until then, we remain as we are—defenders of this land, bound by the vow of our forebears."

Aethyr sat quietly, the weight of his lineage sinking in. But the gravity of the story didn’t dampen his youthful spirit for long.

“So… that means no more pranks with cookies?” Aethyr asked, a mischievous grin creeping back onto his face.

Bjorn laughed deeply, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, lad, you’ve already outsmarted me once today. Let’s not push it!"

As they sat on the steps, watching the recruits continue their drills, the bond between grandfather and grandson grew stronger—a bond forged in wisdom, humor, and the knowledge of the Phalanx’s ancient duty. And though Aethyr's path remained uncertain, Bjorn knew that with the right guidance, his grandson would one day become a force of his own in Skjoltrheim.