Korg, son of Gorth, was facing a bit of a dilemma.

Yes, he was proud to use that term so soon after learning it.

“First things first,” sword sister Alendra said, looking upward to glare at him. Though he knew that she was a formidable warrior unfortunately trapped within that puny body, he couldn’t help but liken her to an adorable little wolf-pup growling fearlessly as it tried to assert dominance over the clan’s warriors. “You are not allowed to strut around the academy in that state of undress.”

That was the nature of his current predicament. By rite of mok’garum, he was not allowed any armour, for a warrior’s mettle was best tested by his might and his connection to the spirits. The sigils of the sacred rite etched in ash-bone paste were still inscribed upon his bare chest, announcing to all that this was one embarking on the warrior’s path.

Yet… now, he was told he had to wear a robe.

There was precedent, of course. His father had himself left on his own rite of mok’garum, claiming that he would return with a greatwyrm vanquished by his own hands. Though the sagas claimed otherwise, it was almost certain that he hadn’t displayed the sigils of the rite the entire twenty years he’d roamed the southern lands of the Starhaven Accord.

Considering what he now knew of his quarry, it wasn’t likely that he would return to the tribe any time soon. He could accept having to wash off the sigils and follow the southern demands for propriety.

But a robe…

“This makes me feel exposed,” he complained, even as he slipped on the cloth. “Do you southerners truly walk around without hide or scale for protection?”

“Exposed — you were quite literally walking around topless!”

Korg laughed. He supposed she wouldn’t understand, since it was likely she wore a full suit of enchanted hexplate in battle, as her father did before her.

“Ah, but you see, without these robes I can feel the wind upon my flesh, and shall therefore be more attuned to the portents of the spirits and my own natural instincts and agility in battle.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Ah, yes. Saga of the Stormlord Reborn, Part Twenty-two?” He nodded knowingly. “I do enjoy quoting from the skalds’ sagas as well. You have fine tastes, my new sword sister.”

She stared at him, opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closed it without a word. Too shy to share more of her own favourite verses, perhaps. Korg understood — it was quite the personal affair.

“I can’t believe I’m skipping Arcanist Velestra’s seminar to show you around,” she grumbled. “And after all these years I’d dreamed of meeting Gorth Skullthumper for myself…” She turned to face him. “Come to think of it, why didn’t you introduce yourself as Korg Skullthumper?”

“Why would I be Korg Skullthumper?” he asked, utterly baffled. He gestured toward Blood Howl where it lay secured and strapped across his back. “Blood Howl doesn’t thump. And besides, I haven’t yet found my destined name-worthy foe.”

“Name-worthy?”

“Worthy of naming myself after,” he explained, looking at her oddly. Southerners were strange. “Every warrior will know when the currents of destiny leads them to their fated foe. In the depths of their warriors’ rage they shall awaken the beast within, and glimpse for themselves the missing half of their identity. They will honour the ordained enemy by carrying with them the memory of the hunt for the rest of their mortal lives.” Seeing her confusion, he began to list examples. “Skullthumper. Bonecrusher. Fingers-Jammed-In-The-Eyes, though I only personally know one of them, and everyone just calls him Fjite. Legcleaver. Armsnatcher. Heartrender. Bonebiter. Rocksmasher. Bash-With-Fists. And —“

“Right. I think I get it.”

They continued walking, though Korg knew not where it was she was leading him. Still, he trusted her, for she was the child of one whose martial prowess matched his father in battle. By the blood they carried in their veins, that made them companions and rivals as well.

And it was clear that the other students of this academy paid due adulation to his formidable sword sister. Though they didn’t offer their own greetings or a warrior’s salute, there was a spark of recognition in their eyes as they passed.

It amazed Korg just how large this academy was. It felt like he’d been traveling the battlements and going up and down twisted spires for ages, though from the outside it hadn’t looked all that big. They passed what Alendra termed the ‘Department of Alchemy’ — unimportant to his legendary quest to defeat the Aethergarde Conjecture, by her reckoning, and so he put all thought of that place aside for now.

Then came the Court of Bards, and his ears perked up at that, for he knew that was the name of the southern skalds. Alas, though he longed to witness their great songs and magics for himself, now was not the time, and he vowed to return at a later date.

Next was the Grand Archive, and it was here that Alendra paused.

“Here is where the treasured tomes of Aethergarde are kept. From introductory instructional texts and manuals to specialized journals collecting articles of advanced fields of study, everything you could ever want as a student can be found here. This is the heart of the academy.”

Korg nodded, sensing the weight of what she was now telling him. He inhaled deeply. There was a strange scent in the air, but not an unwelcome one. There was a buzz to this place, an indistinct flutter of activity among the spirits. He doubted that he could draw on their power even if he had the strength to spare — it didn’t feel like they were particularly interested in whatever he could offer, if he could even commune with them at all — but it was clear that this was a place of great history and power.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“If you’re serious about taking on the conjecture, there are probably old tomes and journals from the mages who tried working on the problem in the past,” Alendra continued saying, but raised a palm to curtail his rising excitement. “You’ll need to work on the basics first before even thinking about tackling those manuscripts.”

Yes, that was true. One had to learn to walk before they could run, and at present he could only crawl at best.

Still, that was a helpful hint from her. Though he was not yet ready, it seemed a wise decision for him to redouble his practice of tackling and grappling techniques for when the time came to challenge those ‘manuscripts’. He wasn’t sure why it would be necessary, but he trusted her advice.

They didn’t enter the archives proper, instead continuing past the complex at the heart of the academy toward the western wing. This was the Department of Arcanometry, and where ‘semi-nars’ were held to teach mages the arts known as arcanometry and spell theory. Practical magic was put into practice at the training grounds, but alas, Alendra was adamant about not bringing him there todayc and he deferred to her wisdom as one more experienced in these matters.

“You’ll begin classes here once we figure out where you presently stand, and which series of lectures best suits your current ability,” she said. “Aethergarde hosts students from all over the Starhaven Accord, and even those who hadn’t delved deep into spellcasting before are allowed to attend the introductory classes catered toward them. Hopefully, one of those would fit you well.”

Classes. The foreign concept felt bizarre to him. In the north, everything was learned out in the Wilds, beneath the watchful gaze of the spirits of the land and with experience as the greatest teacher of all. Yet, despite it all, Korg was surprised to find himself excited for what lay ahead.

Perhaps… perhaps he might have some talent in the southern shamans’ magics, after all? He was Korg, son of Gorth, solid of body, quick of wit, and he was certain he could accomplish anything he put his mind to. And as much as it shamed him to admit this with his beloved Blood Howl still strapped to his back, he’d always wondered what it would like to be the greatest hero of all sung in the sagas of his tribe; to wield the powers of the heavens as Monus Stormshroud did. As a child, he’d always pretend to be the great shaman whenever he and the other fledglings of the tribe played Huscarls and Heroes…

“Is this all you do in the academy?” he wondered, as he was once again led elsewhere. “Do you spend your days attending these classes and seminars, and practicing against your battle brothers and sisters in the training grounds?”

“Mostly,” Alendra replied. “There are some opportunities for odd jobs and modules dedicated toward adventuring or mercenary work, but —“

“Adventuring?” Korg stared at her with awestruck eyes. “You mean… like defeating a Lich? Slaying a greatwyrm? Banishing archdaemons back into the abyss from whence they came?”

“What? No,” she denied. “It usually tends to be courier or escort duties, perhaps gathering reagents or clearing out a nearby infestation of monsters if the master arcanists deem it safe enough for students.”

Ah. Not too much different from home, then. Korg didn’t like to brag, for he was humble in all things, but he had his fair share of experience in monster slaying. Scores of chimaeras, wyverns, drakelings, and revenants had all tasted the bite of Blood Howl.

A shame, for he would have liked to engage in the noble quest of breaking into the accursed dungeon known as the ‘Magistrate’s Jail’ to rescue an abducted companion as his father had before him, fighting off scores of ensorcelled soldiers bound by enchantment magics to the accursed warlock. Still, maybe an opportunity for that would arise in the future.

Finally, they travelled north, past a vast courtyard where the spirits were rich and footfalls were little. Then, further down the path was their final destination, that Alendra now revealed to him.

“This is the dormitory for Aethergarde’s sizars. Students admitted to the Academy but are unable to pay the usual fees, and who are not deemed worthy of a scholarship. They perform odd jobs here, in exchange for subsidized teaching and accommodation in the Academy,” she explained, sensing his confusion. “Their lodgings aren’t quite as impressive as those meant for full scholars or with the backing of noble or wealthy patrons. You will be staying here, at least for the foreseeable future.”

She cleared her throat. “I know it can feel beneath your station, Korg, but you must understand that your sudden arrival has put Uncle in a difficult position, and if he were to use his authority to raise you to a full scholarship his enemies could take the chance to accuse him of abusing his —“

“Enemies?” Korg’s eyes narrowed, thinking back to the sagas. “The Duke of Deceit yet lives? Or perhaps… Cadmean the Vile? I had thought that my father’s crushing of his skull had been quite thorough, but it must have been an illusion conjured by that slippery rat…”

There was a moment’s silence. Perhaps she, too, was sparing a moment’s reverence in honour of the countless unnamed heroes of the sagas.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Many enemies. I’ll explain everything to you at a later date, but for now just know that the powers of the Starhaven Accord are in a precarious state of tension. Please, please try your best not to cause any more trouble for him?”

“You have my word, and that of Blood Howl,” he said solemnly, tracing the etchings on the axe’s shaft. “Just as my father before me, I shall do nothing to bring shame to the names of Monus Stormshroud or Harold Rhogard.”

She appeared skeptical — and he understood, for he had never distinguished himself to the southerner’s eyes, relying instead on his father’s legacy — but still she accepted his oath.

“And now, I must in turn ask,” he said. “If Harold the Hero wed fair Edith, he must have become chieftain of the clan: for indeed, you are the princess of Werland.” He continued at her slow nod. “Forgive me, but if noble Stormshroud is facing the threats of yesteryears… why has his bosom friend not risen to aid his battle brother in this time of need?”

The already delicate features of her face turned brittle, and it was then that Korg knew he truly had overstepped.

“My father is dead,” came the quiet reply, and Korg’s entire world lurched.

Dead?

But… Harold the Undefeated was his father’s equal in battle… and if he indeed did die, why had none of them sent for Gorth Skullthumper that they may unite against whatever monstrous foe it was who could match the noble warrior in battle? No, no, she had to be mistaken —

“We should go,” she said, already moving toward his new lodgings. “Let’s hurry. I still need to attend Spellbreaker training in the Knight’s Quarter after this.”

Though Korg followed her mutely, his thoughts were running wild. Harold the Unbeatable couldn’t just die. Why were the southerners accepting that so meekly? Was this… was this some strange magic of enchantment at work? One that had ensorcelled even wise Monus Stormshroud?

Something was rotten in the southern lands. Korg, son of Gorth, didn’t like it one bit.