Noble Causes

The boy kept his eyes forward, watching silently amongst the crowd as the wind bit at his face, winter's kiss forcing him to struggle to even keep his eyes open.  Though he tried to bear the frigid chill as best he could, his black-furred cloak did nothing to protect his face from the harsh winter's chill, as much as it did the rest of him. A shuddering arm held tightly around his midsection – his mother's – was almost enough distraction for him to forget everything else, her grip clutching him as if she feared he would vanish if freed from her hold. Silent tears wet his neck as she sobbed into his hair, the young woman kneeling on the ground as she held all her children close to her.

His brother, a thin-faced lad just three summers his junior, gripped the hem of his ratted overshirt as tightly as a boy of six could manage, the tension shaking him as well. He was unsure of what he was watching but unable to help tears of his own as he watched his mother nearly give way to hysterics. The girls were much the same, both of them five and three themselves, crying in the arms of their mother despite not knowing or understanding little or anything at all of what was happening in the slightest.

The boy raised his gaze as a low rumbling voice said something, solemn grey eyes rising to stare at the man wrapped in thick furs attempting to comfort his mother. She paid no attention to the words themselves, much like the boy, unable to tear focus away from what they were about to witness. The burly man lifted his large hand from his mother's back, realizing his words were no good and straightened up, rising from the hard ground on one knee to stand above all of them with his own family. His father's brother – a hard man named Cley – kept his expression as tight as it usually was, his face red behind the mass of hair he called a beard. 

"Jon," the boy's gaze rose again as he heard his name leave his uncle's lips. His own eyes like sharpened flint, he stared downwards with an expression much like his nephew only far more hardened. "Do not move."

Jon nodded back, hands tight at his sides, and turned his head forward again to watch as the Noble Guards – young men just barely half again his age – dragged the bound man forward with strength far surpassing their immature frames. Both boys held their target by his armpits as they walked through the opening in the crowd and hauled him towards the traditional location, neither of them seemingly bothered by the heavy chains that encircled the older man's arms and clasped both his hands behind his back. In seconds, they had reached it and both of them dropped him to the ground without any fanfare, the only grunts or sounds of effort coming from the bound man himself as their rough treatment aggravated his wounds.

They made no move to step away as of yet, the two stomping the ground in unison for a moment as their hands clenched at their sides. The ground underneath them seemed to shift for a moment, before a block of compact earth rose beneath their target's chin, an indent in the block clearly designed for his head to rest. Both boys let out a gasp of tiredness, a slight sheen of sweat visible on their brows but, even still, the crowd goggled at the sight, whispers rising for a moment at the sight of such impressive magic done without much effort by only two boys. It was something the peasants of a village like theirs may go summers without ever having seen, none of them having the skill or power to manage something with anywhere near as much ease, a spectacle treated as almost nothing by the lads in blue and red armor.

Nodding at each other, one guard stepped away from the bound man at their feet while the other stepped forward, gripping him by the hair and forcefully adjusting his head on the chopping block, before doing the opposite of his partner and stepping forward. "This man has hunted on the land of his lord, seeking to rob the Grand Duke Rhyse of his own game! When caught, he proceeded to fight the guards that apprehended him, striking out at them with magic and nearly blinding one! For the crimes against his Lord and crimes against the Empire, he has been brought before his people to face judgement by the Duke himself."

Whispers rose again at this, but they were quickly silenced as the depth of what he had done sunk into all of them. Poaching was one thing but striking a Noble Guard in the process of a crime? They were surprised he had lived long enough to be brought for judgement.

"Papa…" Jon finally spoke up, voice shaky and unsure as the man raised his head for the first time, gaze landing on his family. The bound man gave what might have been a smile under any other circumstances, the expression quickly falling away as his wife's cries shifted from silent to a suddenly audible wail at the sight of his face.

"Arran!" She called his name out over and over again, each cry becoming louder and three of her four children's cries gaining volume along with her. The rest of the crowd – the entire gathered village – looked on with pity but remained silent, simply waiting for it to be over.

Jon's father was in a similar position to his mother, as both of them knelt on the cold ground. The similarities ended there, their appearances and forms as different as one could imagine. Where his mother knelt crying, surrounded by children and family, his father was alone, eyes wet but not at all from tears. His mother was untouched, her garments stained with nothing but the mud she chose to kneel in, but his father was bruised and beaten, face swollen and bleeding, his own clothing stained with blood and the boot-prints of the guards that had done the deed.

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The crowd's attention suddenly shifted, heads turning from the bruised, bleeding man on display as another figure slowly made his way through the opening in the crowd. He was the newest Duke Rhyse, his father having died not two summers prior, and his brothers, both older and younger, having perished in battle. A common situation, considering just how valuable nobles were to the war efforts.

As such, the newest Rhyse Duke was exempt from the battlefield himself as the last remaining heir of Rhyse for only as long as it took him to produce a male heir and teach him all he would need. The villagers had all seen him and his lady wife, both of them still childless, enter the village a few days previous, their wheelhouse of a carriage gaudy and colorful as it passed through the gates but apart from that, none of them had even seen the man in person.

That had all changed today as they witnessed him enter the circle of villagers, his gait odd but somehow impressive still as he stepped forward, a gem-encrusted silver crown resting atop his long golden hair. He was dressed in finery, thick clothing in colors brighter than Jon or anyone around him could ever hope to wear. He shone even in the dim sunlight as a chest full of medals and fingers laden with large rings in all sorts of colors glittered as he came near, a brilliantly shining silver 'R' embroidered on both sides of his beautiful furred cloak. Both guards bowed, dropping to their knees as the Grand Duke came to a stop in front of them, only to step even further back as he waved them off.

Jon stared at the man standing above his father so imperiously, blue eyes filled with nothing but disdain as they stared down at the man on the block. Dazed and empty eyes, grey as the hair he shared with both his sons, stared back up at the noble with a resigned expression, hollow cheeks and cracked lips blue from the cold. Despite his obvious chill from lack of furs, Arran did not shiver, nor did he falter from the smug, sneering gaze of Lord Rhyse as he asked his questions.

The words passed over Jon's head, indistinct and undecipherable like rain on a rooftop. At last, his queries finally came to an end, the disdain in his eyes reaching a new height as Arran mumbled his last answer. Grand Duke Rhyse took a step closer, his hands on his waist as his voice suddenly rose in volume. "In the name of Emperor Addam of House Gemmstone," he began, "Third of his Name, Divine Ruler of Aelantar and all the Golden Realms within, by the will of I, Leobard of the House Rhyse, Grand Duke of Stonestrike, Arch Lord of the Craghalls, The Emperor's Sword and Warden of the Gemmlands, sentence you to death for the crimes of poaching and treason against your Lord."

The Grand Duke flicked his hand as he finished speaking, the jewels on his rings glowing for a single moment as a blade of crimson flame appeared in the noble's right hand, the thing somehow keeping its shape despite flickering and flaring like the material it seemed to be composed of.

Magic… Jon's mouth dropped open at the sight, his expression matched by so many others around him, the spectacle of such controlled and powerful magic rarer than any gold or jewel. Papa always said magic is more trouble than it's worth. Despite being able to use it better than most, Jon's father had always struggled to conjure more than the smallest flames for even a few seconds without giving into exhaustion. Both the guards and the army required much more than that, even Jon knew that much.

Other lowborn; boys at least half his papa's age, would get their ability for magic appraised when the nobles come through every five summers and leave off to join the military or the guards, making money to bring home. Jon had been waiting for his turn, just one more summer, when he would finally be old enough to make his family proud and bring them the wealth only the family of a magic-wielding knight would know. He couldn't help the heat in his chest, his hands tightening at his sides at the thought of his papa not being there to see it.

Somehow not feeling the heat, the Grand Duke raised his hand and the ethereal weapon it held high above Arran's head. Jon glanced back down from the flickering sword as he watched beads of sweat form on his father's face, his complexion reddening from the closeness of the heat.

"May the Spirits have mercy on you." He said the words that were supposed to bring clemency with a sneer that spoke of how little he truly cared and the blade descended in a single smooth motion.

Scarlet sprayed across the snow in a steaming spatter, Arran’s body slumping to the ground in a twitching mess. The same blade flickered and died as the Grand Duke turned his back on his deed, walking over in the direction of his wheelhouse and the guards awaiting him. Without glancing back, Rhyse raised his hands in the direction of the corpse and snapped his fingers, flame jumping from his hands as his rings gleamed again and quickly set the headless body aflame.

A scream rose into the air, a shrill young voice catching everyone's attention as the body burned on the frozen grass below it. Grand Duke Rhyse whirled around, surprise on his face as a boy of nine glared at him with murderous fire in his eyes and hands outstretched. The man barely had time to blink as a stream of bright white ice – almost blinding in its intensity – surged toward him in the form of a tall spire, the encroaching mountain crackling like a thousand shattered windows as it shattered on top of him.

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