– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Jon's eyes opened suddenly, heart beating furiously in his chest as a wolf howled somewhere off in the distance. His blood felt cold inside his body, the bedrolls that covered him doing nothing at all to warm him. Jon shook his head again, fingers trembling as he gripped the linens and for a few seconds, he simply lay there in the comfort of his bed, grey eyes wide as he breathed deeply through his nose. It took as long as it usually did for him to calm down, one final breath through the nose and another out his mouth before he could get up and face what he had to do. Another morning in a room fit for a king.

His thoughts rang all too true in his own mind, as he stared up at the overly-designed canopy that hid the similarly overly-designed roof of his room from his sight. Doesn't matter much, now does it? No matter how disgustingly gaudy, it's not as if it's all that important. Closing his eyes, Jon decided to face the day rather than remain a prisoner to his own dreary thoughts.

The boy did just that as he sat up on his bed, eyes darting around the darkness of the large room as he stared at an environment that never stopped feeling unfamiliar. The opulence of his bed, it's four posters, canopy, and silk bedding always left him feeling somewhat uncomfortable, much the same as the polished granite of his floors and his spacious bedroom. It was all a far cry from the furs and bedroll he once shared with his younger brother on the floor. And yet, I miss it all the same.

The dark-haired boy rose to his feet, one hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose, as he glanced out the window to see the darkness awaiting him outside. These past three summers had seen him unable to sleep a full night, recurring nightmares rendering any such attempt worthless. In the chambers that once belonged to the late Grand Duke Leobard Rhyse, Jon scrubbed his hand over the speckled growth on his jaw, the soft light of the steady candle flame doing little to ease the troubles on his mind.

Five summers of this and yet, none of it quite felt like where he belonged.

The same nobles who'd once so readily overlooked him as nothing more than a peasant, lowborn to be spit on or ordered about, now clamored for his attention as the Arch Lord of the Craghalls. The attention of a child, one was granted to the position simply for his sheer magical power alone.

Well, that and the brutal murder of the last heir to the Rhyse line…

Whatever the true reason was, it had been enough to stir the Emperor himself enough to declare Jon as the new Grand Duke of Stonestrike.

Him…

A lowborn.

His silver eyes settled upon the circlet of pure brightsilver sitting on his bedside table, the gaudy gems encrusted on it still enough to bring a frown to his face even after all these summers. He knew their purpose now, of course, but it wasn't as if he needed them and he certainly would rather not wear them on his head. Still, the crown that had rested upon Rhyse's head had been presented to him with little fanfare after the Emperor had given him the title and lands, the thing still ice-cold from being freshly retrieved from the iceberg that now adorned his old village.

Jon scoffed at the symbol of his lordship, placing the thing back on his skull after another disdainful shake of his head. As much as he hated the noble that had executed his father, Rhyse had literally been born to be a Great Lord, regardless of whether he would inherit the primary title from his father or not. The man had been pompous, disdainful, uncaring and haughty, to say the least and Jon just… wasn't.

For the past five summers, he had felt like nothing but a fraud. Wearing the man's crown, claiming his titles, administrating over his lands, sleeping in his bed…

Avoiding his courtesans.

He gave a shudder at the thought of them; pale-faced, busty seductresses the lot of them, each one nearly his mother's age with barely a fraction of propriety. Not as if they like me, anyway, he would remind himself on days that he felt his thoughts wandering and bawdry images filled his head. They just want to be confirmed as mistresses.

To a noble not yet married, that carried nearly as much power as a lady of the House. Again, not that he would ever grant them that, if his life depended on it, not that it didn't, if he thought about it anyway. After a moment's thought, the boy laughed away the thought, shaking his head slightly as he did so. He was a peasant at heart, still, and he couldn't deny that. One with magic, yes, but at best, he had been destined for the guards or the army, not…

Not this.

Certainly not by choice.

"M'lord Frhyse?"

Jon nearly found himself stumbling as he stepped down from his elevated bed, both from surprise and from a sliver of irritation as well, as a deferential and somewhat timid voice cut into his private thoughts. Emperor Addam thought himself something of a comedian, granting him the surname Frhyse for his new noble House, in reference to both the method and the means in which he killed Leobard and stole his titles by right of conquest. Truly, the Mage Emperor was a force to be reckoned with.

The boy of fourteen turned his head to glance over at his door, a small gaggle of servants awaiting his attention already. Not too long after he had taken over in what once was the ancestral castle of the House Rhyse, the servants had realized that their young Grand Duke had a tendency for waking long before the sun would rise. As capable and willing servants, they proved their worth by adapting to him, waking themselves up before even he would rise in order to be ready to meet his needs.

"Yes…" Jon paused, searching his thoughts for a moment, "Daven? What is it?"

The steward named Daven paused for a moment, an unbidden smile spreading across his face as he realized the Duke had remembered his name once again, before getting himself together and continuing his words. "T-the cook has begun preparing a meal for you to break your fast. I have simply come to inform you that your bath has been drawn, and the maids await you."

"Of course, D-Daven. Thank you for informing me," Jon began, pausing himself to clear his throat. "I'll be there shortly."

"Yes, m'lord," the thin man quickly bowed before he left the room, his small gathering of uniformed servants mimicking his words and actions before scurrying along with him. As they left, Jon found himself rubbing the bridge of his nose. A boy of ten and four standing as Grand Duke of Stonestrike…

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

"You don’t understand, my lord, as The Emperor's Sword and Warden of the Gemmlands, you cannot remain unmoved by this! It is your duty!"

Said Arch Lord did nothing but mouth the words of his advisor as he stared quietly at the targets in front of him, the boy himself several meters away from the arranged bulls-eyes and human-shaped straw and wood targets. Jon lazily flicked his fingers, a spike of ice forming ex nihilo and launching itself from his outstretched digits almost faster than the eye could see.

"And just why is it that you believe so, Ser Mollen?" He raised his other hand, stretching out each one of his fingers as frost began to form around each one, jagged crystals of near-translucent ice coming into being with each flex of his outstretched hand, only to recede to nothingness as he curled his fingers back again. Several times more, he repeated the action, the frost forming and layering on each individual digit faster and faster every single time. "I have my own responsibilities and fighting in some war outside of my lands before I am of age has nothing to do with that. You have your own responsibilities and those include advising me to the best of your ability and I pray that demanding a young lord – your lord, mind you – of only fourteen summers to risk himself in war is not the best of your ability."

"You speak of our responsibilities," Ser Reginald Mollen simmered, seemingly accepting the chastisement, but still proceeding regardless. "But what of the Occident Empire to the East? The Gemmlands lie on the border closest to them after the Ironforts, of course. Would you risk the sanctity of your borders to those marauding heathens, Lord Jonothan?"

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"Aye," Jon replied back, returning to his Northern village dialect for a moment to spite the man, tone bearing a hint of smugness as he watched his advisor bristle out of the corner of his eye. "Aye, it is as you say."

“Aye, he says,” Mollen replied back, a slight biting tone to his voice. “Lowborn speech does not become you, my lord. Not anym...” the man’s voice began to trail away as his breath left him in a plume of steam, his eyes suddenly directed towards the ground as he caught sight of a thick line of frost trailing around him in a perfect circle.

Mollen glanced back up at the young man staring him down, the steward shuddering from sudden cold and more than a little fear. “M-m-my apologies, my lord. I did not inte-”

“Mmm,” Jon bid him to be silent with a wave, chilly gaze drifting from his steward back to the targets in front of him. Mollen was a dutiful man, as any Knight-Steward worth the name was expected to be, but the man often took his job to an excess that seemed above his station. I am nearly fifteen summers, Jon thought to himself. No longer am I simply a child. Part of the young lord knew that it had much more to do with his breeding than anything else, but he didn’t see fit to dwell on that, lest his anger cause any accidents.

Any more, at least.

He didn’t need to be reminded that there was in fact a reason for why Mollen made clear to the servants that they were no longer allowed in his general presence while he trained his magic.

Jon fought back his own bristle, the lengthening of his name still a sore spot after all these summers. "My liege lords..." He shook his head for a moment at that, almost aghast at how smoothly the words had left his tongue. Liege lords… That I can claim lords as lesser to me…

He shook his head again, grunting slightly as he regained his focus on the targets in front of him. "My liege lords have already brought forth their highborn. Themselves along with their lesser nobles and their landed knights have collected their armies. I have received missive after missive after missive informing me of their plan to secure the borderlands. With or without my presence, Mollen, there will be no heathen invasion of the Gemmlands, I assure you."

"Your family…"

Jon tightened up, powerful, bellowing wind and signs of frost in the air around the training arena as he nearly lost control of whatever he had been doing. "My family is safe, Ser Reginald, and my family will not be spoken of in these halls. I believed we had come to an agreement on that?"

"I understand but it seems that you still lack an understanding of what it means to be both the Emperor's Sword and the Warden of the Gemmlands, Lord Frhyse!" Mollen continued further, taking a tone that Jon couldn't help but note as remarkably daring. "You may not yet be of age, but both titles have meaning. War is your duty as a noble and protecting your realm the duty of a Warden, but it is particularly your duty as the Emperor's Sword. As the strongest mage in the ranks of nobility, it is your duty to represent him on the battlefield."

"Interesting," Jonothan began, turning his head to level an unflinching gaze at the jumped-up servant that chose to raise his voice at him. "If I recall correctly, the Warden before me was excused from war until he was to secure an heir and he had over ten summers on me as I am now."

The young noble kept his voice cool, his gaze even more chilly as he spoke. "So, if I may ask, what is the difference between us?"

The man hesitated; reluctance clear in his eyes. "For one… the late Grand Duke Leobard was, pardon my language, a craven bastard of the worst kind. A weak noble undeserving of the title who had never known battle or death past that of the executions he chose to preside over. His magic lacked power, his strongest spells lacked any force, and he relied on the gems his House maintained in large amounts to catalyze what magic he could muster into even the most mildly impressive displays. He was no better than a merchant noble; as a individual, the man was utterly worthless…” Mollen almost spat the term, lip curling further into a sneer the second the phrase ‘merchant noble’ left his lips. “I mean, without wealth, that is," the steward quickly corrected himself.

"Don't hold back, good Ser,” Jon replied with a slight smile, enjoying these moments more than he should. “Tell us how you truly feel."

"A pampered pompous twit,” Mollen took the words to heart, the foppish man once again missing his lord’s biting sarcasm, “Entirely unpopular with the lowborn he presided over and the soldiers he was required to muster. Even the Emperor only tolerated him because he respected the man's older brother and father."

Jon raised an eyebrow, cunning silver eyes lighting up with curiosity. "And myself, Ser Mollen?"

"You are…” Mollen took a breath and inclined his head towards his lord, “You are beloved among the peoples, a lowborn boy elevated to the second highest position of nobility in the land. Emperor Addam believes you of good stock to marry his eldest daughter.”

Jon closed his eyes at the thought of the white-haired princess that could so easily leave him breathless, not that any other man in the kingdom was immune to the same, the overpowering image of her seemingly omniscient a figure he had grown comfortable with after nearly half a decade of his presence. “Hmmm…”

“The entire Empire knows you are next in line to be King, and possibly Emperor if his Majesty allows things to travel along that path. Your liege lords respect you for your depth of magic and the implications of your future. You are well-mannered, intelligent and have spilled the blood of a grown combatant at an age when most young lords would struggle to start a fire under their own power.”

“I beseech you to stop, ser Knight,” Jonothan drawled, hands lazily drawing a pair of cyclical runes in the air. “You do flatter me so. If you continue, I fear I shall become as useless a lord as your former master.”

“And the Empire would suffer for it greatly,” Mollen played along. For a few seconds, the steward was silent, simply watching with restrained awe and no small amount of curiosity as the young lord continued his morning training, casting spells with not even a word and drawing runes that appeared all but solid in nothing but air without a single gem on his person. Years of witnessing increasing skill and power on display and it had yet to truly lose its luster for the man, or most of the kingdom who bore witness to it for that matter.

After nearly a minute of silent observation, Mollen gave his head a slight shake and drew himself back as he attempted to continue his attempts to convince the young lord. “There is something you should know, sir. I received the missive this morning from my ears near Stonefall, and I believe you should hear what I was informed of.”

“Speak.” The word came out slightly terse through gritted teeth, Jon in the middle of discorporating an immobile golem of pure ice. “If it is of such grand importance, then I should indeed hear it.”

“Very well.” Mollen cleared his throat before continuing on. “The Royal Army has apparently sent a recruiting envoy to your former village just this past month.”

The air chilled again and Jon’s head snapped to face Mollen, the crack of shattering ice startling the man slightly as the ice statue the lord had been focused on dispelling crumbled on itself with his focus distracted. “I said… speak, Mollen.”

“Y-y… W-well,” The steward’s words came out in a stammer at first, his eyes still on the fist-like indentation in what was once the golem’s chest before he took a quick breath, hurriedly recomposing himself under the gaze of his powerful master. “A recruiting envoy ventured to your old town of Stonefall and it appears that… it seems th-that your brother was among those tested.”

The air chilled again at those words, Mollen shivering as frost trailed across the ground once more, jagged spikes of ice rising in random intervals as they spread throughout the courtyard. Thankful that this was just the young lord’s magic venting his general frustrations and he was not the focus of the ire, the steward continued on with his report as firmly as he could. "It appears that both his power and reserves seem to be far above that expected from a lowborn as it is, especially without any training. He has not yet been tested for his affinities or shipped off for basic drills but when he is selected, it is almost guaranteed that he would be sent into the front lines to fight by winter's end.”

“Simply for that alone? We’ve only just reached the cusp of summer as it is,” Jonathan asked back almost frantically, the question ringing as both stupid and pointless in his ears. After all, the only reason he was nobility now was because he had unthinkable amounts of both of those as a child, and every year they had grown along with the rest of him. Skill had come along with it, magic training and duels almost pointless against lesser magi with his ability to both sense and blanket offensive magic with the ocean-like reserves he could draw upon. This world is a cursed one, truly.

“Yes,” Mollen answered, a grave nod accompanying the single word. “Simply for that alone. Despite the fact that he is several summers below the standard recruiting age, it is a raw fact that he will face battle before winter’s end, even if he lacks most instruction in combat or magic use."

Jon grimaced, not at all liking what he was hearing. The situation was precarious enough as it was, and he had no wish to draw any more attention to himself or to his origins than he would like. There was a reason he rarely left the castle, as it was. His family lived off of his wealth, but he made sure to keep his relation to them unknown by most others. He simply couldn't risk it.

But news of his brother…

That was something he hadn't factored in.

"Most importantly,” Ser Reginald Mollen chose to take a breath, mouth open for a moment longer than Jon felt was necessary, "you have power. Power without using any sort of gem; raw power and skill with no teaching that eclipses nearly everyone but the greatest of adventures and only dwarfed by those of House Gemmstone, divine royalty themselves. You are no mere lowborn soldier, using what little magic you possess to shore up your body to run faster or swing harder. You are no simple unblooded noble either, throwing fire from a distance and running for cover."

"Oh, how harsh, Ser Mollen," the young lord cut in, not even able to offer a small smile as the bulk of his thoughts remained focused on his brother’s fate. "I'm sure the nobility is good for more than just that."

Mollen continued as if he heard nothing, chest puffed up. "Your first display of magic was to create a literal glacier with no water present, and yet you lived to tell the tale. The mages who could manage that are few enough, those who could survive it a fraction of that..." The steward shook his head, as if still in disbelief. "The stories they tell… If I hadn’t witnessed them, I would call them simple jests, outright lies even. You are more than even the strongest of nobles on the battlefield. A showing from you on the battlefield at your greatest could rout the entire horde and send them back in a day. If you choose not to, good men will die on that battlefield, men and boys alike. You were blessed by the Spirits to be the Emperor's Sword; our kingdom's Young God, and you know this very well. We need your power, my lord."

The air hung between them with silence, Jon's silver gaze locked onto Mollen's ruddy yellow eyes. For a moment, it seemed as if he would say nothing at all but then…

"…Alright, Mollen. You've made your point… as always." As the last syllable left his mouth, Lord Jonothan snapped his fingers. "Have that cleaned up, would you?"

"Have wha-" Ser Mollen's eyes widened, five summers of practiced instincts kicking in and sending the older man rapidly scrambling back as threatening spikes of ice suddenly burst from beneath his feet in a series of repeated bursts. As he caught his breath, the bespectacled advisor raised his gaze again to see his lord walking away, barely catching a hint of the frown present on the young boy's face.

So, they would have me end their war.

Silver eyes flashed with raw magic and the air chilled once more as he walked.

They'll get exactly that.