Gryphon forgot what it was like to be young and impetuous, so full of life that remaining still for a reasonable education was a near impossible task.
In his memories, he was hit with a ruler on the knuckles by the nuns when he couldn't settle down. Now, the scholars gave him a flickering glance while he fidgeted but did nothing to punish him.
The others fared equally well. This was an after-lunch lecture on politics and history. Undoubtedly they were experiencing a similar level of training Gryphon sought out, which meant that in combination with a full stomach, everyone was tired and sleepy.
Tryptophan was a killer. Gryphon didn’t cook turkeys for holidays – that was more of a tradition from across the ocean that pervaded modern society now – but since he raised the feckin geese, he would eat one on the high holidays. It was fair and all.
A roast goose sounded half decent right now.
It was remarkable how this body absolutely devoured anything put in front of it. Half the things Gryphon ate would have sent him to the hospital in his memories, but at this age? At a blossoming 25, heading right into his prime years? Gryphon would eat a horse if given the chance, just for the protein.
Shite, he was supposed to be listening instead of drooling over yesteryear’s dinner.
The complexities of Amnasín’s political situation would have been interesting to Gryphon before. A kingdom in the middle of the map, with vast trading power, immunity from dragons due to unicorns, and the ability to summon heroes? It sounded like one of the shows his grandkids put on to share.
They liked to show their nan the softer fare, like movies about little children in airy, light worlds, or enemy spies who become a family. The kids were late teens, 20 maybe – they had no concept of their nan as anything but a big softie who worked on a cottage homestead during her retirement, gardening and raising animals.
Once Gryphon figured out how streaming worked, there were none of those dozy, light-hearted family shows on the screen. Grandma Gryphon could handle war stories with ease.
Though like the others, Gryphon couldn’t put words to his homeland, he still knew he was from the northwestern edge of a small island known for being emerald green. Plenty of hardship and conflict in his years growing up, less so in the modern era.
Well, that didn’t matter much anymore. He died horribly like the rest, but as far as Gryphon was concerned, any death but in your sleep was horrible. A spill took his mobility; a sickness passing through the hospital took his life.
There were many things Gryphon did not regret, but one he certainly did. Watching the grands’ tv shows and movies spawned many a topic, one of which included gender and identity. A friends’ kid was Saoirse going by Sean now.
It was easy enough to understand, but “Gryphon” had always been an odd bird. On his deathbed, he remembered a casual remark in a discussion about some pink haired boy on the television, one that sent his grandkids looking at each other.
“Life would have been simpler as a boy. Different, but better, I think.”
His [ final wish ] was for another chance to be something different, but better. No Catholic girls school, no nuns, no troubles, no guns and skirmishes while he was left alone to tend to the animals and embroider and many other things, to keep his head down and mind his siblings.
Not only was Gryphon a boy, he was a strapping thing, fit and wanted.
So, perhaps the brawler was boisterous and loud, perhaps his desires were wild and untamed. He had a new life, a new chance to live – to fight and fuck and do all the merry things young men did – and he didn’t want to spoil that on acting his age.
Unbeknownst to the heroes, the system was far cleverer than it let on. Souls were not taken and dropped into bodies with no modification. Ages were accounted for; maturities were altered. Perhaps the heroes lacked memories and experience for certain situations, but a combination of awareness and charisma made up for this.
The old felt and acted young again. The young could make reasonable choices far past their original age.
This was why Gryphon watched Cait so intently as she sat in lecture. The girl looked bored but she was rigidly sitting, feigning attention with quiet grace.
Gryphon didn’t know what to think about the Cait, other than a mild curiosity. He was fair certain that she was younger than she presented, hiding behind quiet when the loud Leon and arrogant Sivanos were present.
But in the few moments they were together and alone – with nothing untoward, Gryphon remained attracted to adult men regardless of the change in bodies – the brawler got this… eerie feeling.
They talked about books and entertaining things, like the jousting tournament, but in the same tone Gryphon took with his grandchildren. The same manner of discussion: a slow buildup of mildly ignorant questions from Gryphon, reluctant answers, then genuine enthusiasm and excitement when no judgment was found.
Maybe some adults struggled more than others, but most adults had a script to follow in social engagements. “How’re ye on?” and “terrible” and the like. Cait startled like a foal seeing a plastic bag when she was greeted, which only made Gryphon more sympathetic to her plight.
Poor creature, dying so young to be faced with this new world.
The world didn’t seem that bad here, if it meant anything.
Slavery had nearly died out, with some countries engaging in it with prisoners and elves, though they were a disliked minority.
Every few years, the system flared up in a hiccup of magic and overran a series of [ territories ] with beasts. These flares could lead to further global conflicts, as neighbors took advantage of military issues to claim land.
Heroes were summoned to deal with beasts and humans alike. Amnasín was the first kingdom to perfect the art, but that was hundreds of years ago. The methodology leaked over time, leading to 0ther nations summoning their own heroes, though the number and process were kept secret.
The heroes of Amnasín were given strict orders to report any contact with other nations’ heroes, in the event a passing phrase held the key to their summoning secrets.
Gryphon couldn’t abide by that ruling. He simply didn’t care; if he met another hero, a sparring match was what he wanted, not a debate on which royal summoned dead humans the best.
The scholars were careful to skirt around the politics of King-Consort Cyciphos’ summoning, remarking that it was unique due to its flaws but nothing more.
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On the outskirts of the city, Hallvar was receiving a very similar lecture, though Viktor would willingly say what Anton dare not.
Kovateli was the nation to the immediate east of Amnasín. It was perhaps more profitable than Amnasín regarding trading importance, as its peninsula impeded sea travel. The city of the Spur saw a hundred ships dock for supplies in a single day, both large and small.
The gulf was lined by both Amnasín and Kovateli shores, the no-man’s land of the Seafowl Refuge in the middle. It was a ruined fortress with a forgotten name perched on a rocky, uninhabitable isle, now broken into pieces and crumbling.
The lack of importance wasn’t the reason sailors ignored it; it was inhabited, just not by humans.
Rodu the Wisen long ago claimed it as his lair, his [ territory ]. For all that wonderful fish and rare beasts spawned on the rocks, no sailor of any intelligence would willingly step into a dragon’s land uninvited.
His presence was, perhaps, the one thing that kept Kovateli from annexing the Amnasín. While the capital of Kovateli lay in the gulf, with plenty of room for warships, they could not easily sail through a dragon’s waters.
Like most dragons, Rodu was sentient and could be negotiated with. The Pinaytar Launch was a failed attempt at a war, though it never reached battle stage. It was aptly named, though the lettering was reinterpreted from two hundred years ago.
Now, only scholars could access the stupidity of the maneuver – pinaytar, or pine tar, was a key ingredient in waterproofing sailing vessels, and it was very susceptible to dragonfire.
The Kovateli fleet rested scorched at the bottom of the ocean, and they never attempted a sea-ward assault on Amnasín again.
The land border between the two nations was rocky and cold, filled with natural icebergs and crevasses that endangered the ankles – and life – of any mount or human that passed through.
Aside from the single maintained pass with bridges and guards from rolling rocks, there was no easy way from Kovateli to Amnasín. Even kjerrborn – the largest natural, non-sentient beast in the southern lands – were rarely sighted in the Exile’s Pass.
The road narrowly avoided several [ territories ] dotting the way, so although a small caravan or a few adventurer’s might be able to trespass, an army would attract notice immediately. Rukh spawned in those lands, giant fishing-birds whose claws and beaks were made to rip open both armor and ribcages.
And while the sentient harpies largely ignored adventurers as they were too inconvenient to fight, they would certainly descend on free horsemeat and supplies if offered by an arrogant general.
So, Kovateli existed in an odd state of being. They would certainly invade Amnasín if given the chance – Hafneir and Myelford were still struggling to regain bits of land stolen from them – but the chance was questionable at best.
That was why Cyciphos was of great importance and why he remained King-Consort despite his frequent aggravation.
He was of Kovatelian descent, a lesser prince of their bloodline. Marriage to the Amnasín princess was a tenuous alliance, or at minimum a promise to cease verbal hostility in regards to border disputes.
Thus, his arrogance took root.
Their first daughter, Vianne, failed to claim her title as princess. She tried for many years, but ultimately, she chose to leave on her own terms. She did not abdicate but simply disappeared.
Their second daughter, Casilda, lived long enough to marry and produce several children. Though her husband became jaded by the inconstant nature of his own treatment – not a royal, but father to a few – he conceded to allow their youngest child to be raised by her grandmother, the Queen.
Thus, Princess Catarina was heir-apparent to the throne.
Cyciphos spoiled the girl, beyond what any reasonable parent would. She was his chance at remaining relevant, a girl with a sliver of Kovatelian blood. Her attitude made her increasingly unpredictable, as she neared the last rays of childhood, stepping into her teenage years.
Though mostly fact, some of this was conjecture from Viktor – Cyciphos knew his power lay in the hands of a tempestuous little girl, and since he was at the mercy of his ever-patient wife, he elected to gather his own power.
The heroes.
This decision would have one of two results for Cyciphos. Either he would become tied to the Crown through oathed heroes, or he would fail and receive punishment for spending this dynasty’s only chance at hero summoning.
His desperation was logical, rational; yet it was mad.
In Aestrux, in Amnasín, heroes were necessary as an emergency defense against beasts and humans alike; for Cyciphos, the heroes were a means to an end.
That was why Hallvar was endangered. Cyciphos would kill the guildmaster to rid himself of an enemy and cripple the Court Mage’s influence. He would do anything to bring Hallvar under control.
“There’s no way out,” the supposed hero stated, not expecting an answer.
“Not unless you risk Exile’s Pass,” Viktor responded drily. “And, as named, it is considered only as a last resort. I would not choose that danger.”
It was one of many reasons why Viktor remained in Amnasín; escape required too much danger and risk.
Anton chuckled. “Or the Qhai Republic, though you would need to brave the desert if you wanted to avoid the outposts.”
The hero didn’t respond. What was there to say? That the political system was complex as it should be in an entirely new fantasy-centric world where magic and a system came into play? That Hallvar didn’t expect to be tossed into the middle of a power struggle this early on?
With a groan, Hallvar stood up to stretch. “Is there anything else?”
The plan was explained first and foremost in this meeting. Hallvar was to remain quiet and stay out of trouble until the Queen’s arrival.
Anton reluctantly admitted that she was due to return in less than two weeks, solely depending on the travel of her entourage and visits within the Qhai Republic.
If the King-Consort found them, Hallvar needed to buy time and not consent to any oaths. The Inquisitor would be the one to draw up the magical oath, with no explanation of who that was. They were reassured that if there was no consent given, no oaths could be forced upon them.
The Court Mage could buy time as well. He was not royalty, but the King-Consort could not order his execution without the Queen’s consent, even in her absence. At worst, he would sit in a cell for a few days.
Viktor, on the other hand, would need to play the same waiting game as Hallvar, either by lingering in confinement, likely the dungeon, or disappearing until the entire affair was settled. The King-Consort could execute Viktor without no repercussions, albeit under heavy objection from the Court Mage.
Any resistance toward Cyciphos was hopeful and futile at the same time. He would get his way over time, as it was either obey or risk death, but time would also end his reign of logical madness.
The supposed hero was dismissed, wandering off for lunch and a promised date.
The Court Mage and the guildmaster looked past each other in thought.
One made plans for arguments, debates, convincing other advisors to take his side, convincing the First Knight to delay but not resist commands.
The other considered the advantages of escaping to the woods or survival undercover, whether it was wise to sit in a dungeon uncomfortable but not hunted, or to run and keep running.
“Should I prepare to track them?” The Court Mage could do so, but any of his agents would question who this red-haired stranger was, that the Crown needed them followed.
The guildmaster hummed under his breath, an amused sound. “You missed our discussion earlier.”
“And?”
“I remind them of their dad.”
Anton raised an eyebrow at his partner, an irritatingly elusive man. “I fear for their childhood, then.”
Viktor settled his hawk-gaze on the man. “If you can reorient your mind from insults to coherent thought, Court Mage, that means loyalty.”
“To you?”
“To family, which Hallvar has all but sworn we are.”
“We?”
“By virtue of marriage, yes.”
This sat strangely with the Court Mage. He certainly would not reject the notion, but it was curiously offered all the same. He was, and had always been, nobility. To Anton, friendships were a means to gain status and power. One could enjoy the company of strangers, but it was always with a purpose.
It was less antisocial than it seemed. With eyes on the Court Mage constantly, any stranger, any friend he favored without a clear purpose to do so would be swarmed by others, hoping to find fortune in Anton’s mysterious companion.
Meanwhile, Viktor was and will always be poor. Certainly, he held a lot of money, authority, and status now with his attachment to the Adventurer’s Guild, but his roots were in the mud of Fyrmann, heir of the lineage of fishmongers and ropemakers.
Family kept you from starving in the winter.
Viktor didn’t believe in kindness anymore, nor did he care for the flickering hope that the world was a good place. A war took his family, his remaining child sent off to her mother’s relative to live in peace.
His loyalty to Fyrmann extended as far as it could go then snapped when someone else made unspoken promises that were far more fulfilling.
That loyalty had never wavered. The Court Mage did nothing to suggest his had either.
Perhaps this was a function of the hero’s ignorance, the elf’s hope and determination, but Viktor did believe in his small, tenuous family. He didn’t trust their kindness, but he wouldn’t starve in the winter.
That was all any of them could ask for.