Gasps and murmurs erupted around the hall once more. To serve in the Eastern Front was an absurd thing for a nobleman, a thing worse than exile. It was known to be the 'dumping ground' for the population waste of the Empire. Its ranks were formed from peasants and petty criminals, always in need of more equipment, more bodies, and more supplies. Yet, they were never granted them.

The anger had faded from Art's face now. A tear rolled down his cheek as he spoke,

"How long? For how long will you make me suffer?" He spoke the words softly, almost a whisper.

"You will serve until I command you otherwise, or until death finds you, whichever comes first."

Jorin brushed aside a strand of hair from his deep brown eyes, his mountainous physique dominated the room as he stood again. No one had expected this outcome, for a Duke to send his own firstborn son away, stripping him of his title and land, of all that made him who he is. It was unheard of.

All eyes in the room gravitated to Duke Beaumont as they waited for his final words.

Art stared up at his father, trying his best to remain composed after hearing of this new fate.

How could he do this to him? To his own flesh and blood? The choice seemed to sudden, too abrupt and uncaring.

'It's not possible that my mother agreed to this, where is she?' He thought.

"Let me say goodbye, at least. Please fathe-" He caught himself before continuing, "Please, Mi'Lord. My mother surely would not let me leave without it."

Jorin lazily waved a hand toward Milton, who immediately grabbed Art by the shoulder and jerked him upright. He began hauling him back out of the throne room.

"No! Please! Let me speak with her! At least let me say goodbye!" He shouted out to Jorin, desperately struggling back against Milton's grip, who, in turn, slugged him in the stomach with a heavy gloved fist.

The court remained silent. Their eyes all set on Jorin as the sound Art's shouting faded through the corridors.

*******

Grenforth, the capitol of the Beaumont Duchy, was situated in the north-western most part of the country. It had once been considered the armpit of the empire, a distant rat-hole, too far from the Empire's seat to be of any relevance.

It's gloomy, harsh climate was considered far too depressing for the fine tastes of the Imperial ruling class. Thus, Grenforth and the wider duchy were "bestowed" upon the most undesirable of the noble families - the Beaumont's.

That was when it all changed. With a newfound sense of motivation (courtesy of their sudden ownership of the territory) the fourth Beaumont patriarch, Braon, set out to transform the reputation of both his family and new his new home.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

In only forty years, Braon turned the fortunes of Grenforth upward. He brought in peasant communities to search for valuables to mine amongst the mountains under which they lived. With the profits from that venture he founded schools of stone-masonry and set to work fortifying his new home, building homes and great structures among the steep foothills, establishing a port through which his people could fish and trade.

He was by all accounts, a humble and loving man, dedicated to bettering life for people of his duchy. Thus, through his painstaking effort and excellent stewardship, the duchy found new life under the Beaumont's. Grenforth became a prosperous trading hub, a seat to some of the finest artisans of the empire, and finally, it's looming mountains became a proving ground for a feared fighting force, the Ravensguard.

Nestled at the foot of the mountain line that marked the border between the empire and its neighbours, the city was under near constant cover of rain, cloud and storm. Facing out to the ocean in the west, it's waterfront was an enormous bay sheltered from the constant assault of harsh tides by a crescent moon of sea defences, broken in the middle for the entry and exit of vessels.

Jorin sat on a balcony extending from one of the castles many spires. He looked down at the bay, watching the docked vessels bob and sway with the lapping tide.

His wife, Duchess Aisling, stood behind him. It was the morning after he had sent Art away without her knowledge.

She did not take it well.

To Aisling, Art had always been the favourite. This was something she would never say aloud, always claiming to love her children in 'different ways'. Nevertheless, it was clear for all to see with whom her dearest affections lay.

"What is it? Don't tell me you've come to grovel for the boy? You should know my mind is set. Besides, it cannot be undone, not for him at least."

Jorin spoke with that same lazy tone, not even bothering to make eye contact with the mother of the boy he had just sent away, he carried on observing the miniature figures scurrying about the harbourside.

"What kind of bastard summons everyone but his wife to court in the dead of night just to banish a boy? I did not know you had become this cruel." Aisling said, her voice tense with restraint.

"He believed he could hide from his birthright, as if responsibility was for everyone but him. It was necessary."

"Necessary! Hah! He is afraid, Jorin. He has always been afraid! You do nothing but lecture and loom over him with your expectations. Not once did you praise him, yet you stayed ready to criticise even the slightest misstep!"

Jorin bolted up from his chair and turned to face his wife, he towered over her, moving forward as he spoke,

"Praise! What could I possibly praise, woman? Another whore sneaked into the castle grounds, perhaps! Or another years worth of working wages squandered at the card tables?" He threw his hands out wide, challenging her to deny him.

"Or maybe the constant embarrassment of a son who would not show his face at even the lowliest state dinner without being piss drunk, or simply absent altogether. No, I won't do it."

Aisling stared up at him. He had backed her into a corner as he spoke. A tear began to well up in her eye, yet she remained in control. Weakness was not something one could afford when dealing with the Duke, he was certain to sniff it out and exploit it.

"The boy is as good as dead, I doubt he will even survive the journey, let alone the borderlands. You have another son, focus your attention on him. He might prove to be less of a disappointment, the bar is tremendously low already."

"I will never forget this, Jorin. As long as I live, I will remember what you took from us."

Jorin turned back toward the bay. Wind and rain battered his face as he stepped onto the balcony again.

"Jorin,' Aisling said, her voice exasperated, "he was your son."

"I have another."