The night was alive with sensory delights. The crackle of campfires, the aroma of wood smoke mingling with the scent of roasting meat, the soft, rhythmic strumming of an old lute playing old songs. Loran, who was our guide, with his dark hair and the shortsword, spoke with an accent that brought images of far-off lands to my mind. "In the east, we say the night is a blanket that covers all sins," he shared, his voice a gentle rumble over the campfire's dance.
As we gathered around the fire, the world around us seemed to slow. The stars above were more than just lights; they were witnesses to our stories, our fears, and our hopes. The night air was crisp, carrying the songs of the tribesmen, each note a thread in the tapestry of our journey.
The stars, they weep in silver light,
For paths we walk in muted sorrow,
Our spirits heavy, dreams take flight,
To lands where hope might dwell tomorrow.
The lament drifted from the lips of a tribesman, his fingers coaxing sorrow from the strings of his lute. A woman's voice, sweet as honey, joined him, weaving a tapestry of sound that painted a tale of loss and loyalty. They sang of Windmere, a capital city cradled by mountains and sea, rich with mining but cursed by a sinister fate. The House Storm, with its men dying young, had seen its lineage end with a boy-king: Artus the Timid, his sister Rosaura, and a knight whose loyalty transcended blood or law: Renard the Loyal.
The song wasn't of valour but of a singular, unwavering fidelity, a knight who stood against the tide for his lady, even unto death. The scent of roasting meat lingered, mingling with the sharp tang of pine, as the fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on our faces.
Ragna and Stigr, lost in their own world, their laughter a momentary escape from the melancholy tune. The leather and copper of Ragna's braids caught the firelight, a soft metallic clink accompanying their mirth. As they kissed, I felt the need to leave them to their moment, the cold earth under my boots a reminder of my solitary path.
Rowan wasn’t far, his laughter mingling with Loran's near our campfire. Their conversation was punctuated by the crackle of burning wood and the occasional clink of metal cups. Loren's voice, filled with respect and playfulness, contrasted with the song's sombre notes. "Remember when you first went on the hunt with Lord Thorvald, m’lord? You tried to scare off that bear with just your shouts and shoo." Rowan's reply was a deep chuckle, the sound of shared history.
The night was crisp, the air so clear you could almost taste the stars. Old Frida's voice was a soft beacon, her tales drawing the young ones closer, their eyes wide with the fire's reflection. I moved towards the couple wrapped in the fur of a black wolf, their closeness a silent narrative on their faces.
This was my moment. Questions I had carried since Duskmoore swirled in my head, unanswered.
I approached, the grass whispering under my weight, the cold seeping into my bones. The chief, Sigerd, with his broad shoulders and a gaze that seemed to see through to the marrow, shifted slightly. His wife, Agretha, her hair like spun gold in the firelight, gestured for me to sit, her eyes briefly meeting mine before darting away, perhaps caught by Frida's tale.
I approached cautiously, my boots crunching softly against the grass and dirt. Sigerd shifted as I neared, the movement subtle but deliberate like a predator acknowledging another presence. Agretha glanced at me briefly, her warm smile offering neither encouragement nor dismissal.
I inhaled deeply, the cold air sharp in my lungs, and spoke, "Chief, I have something to ask of you."
Chief didn’t look at me, his gaze locked on Frida as if her words held some unspoken truth. His tone was measured when he replied, “I know, boy. What answers you seek. We will talk after she finishes.”
I frowned but held my tongue as he gestured toward Frida. “Listen. Perhaps her tale will answer some of your questions. It’s the story of how I earned the title, The Toothless Wolf.”
There was no anger in his tone, only a heavy sorrow. Agretha's smile was a gentle warmth, a reminder of my mother's love, grounding me in this moment.
I nodded reluctantly and took a seat on the ground beside them. The cold earth seeped through the fabric of my cloak, but I focused on Frida’s voice as she continued her tale.
Her words painted vivid images of blood and fire. "They accused them of harboring demons that attacked the sacred city of Valar, but the truth was a twisted web of lies. House Leonhart, once again came into the plot of House Valar after the change of their head. But this time even the High Council was against them. The accusation was severe with strong proofs that wake up the instinct fear of every house and lords, which made even the High King not to intervene."
From nearby, a child's voice piped up, "But why didn't the king help?"
Frida's reply was patient, "Because, little one, even kings must follow the laws created by their ancestors when it comes to demons and dark magic. High king may have power over all the houses but the High Council is there for a reason. He cannot blindly push his decision over each house, each major decision only comes into action after voting of every six great houses. But his vote carries the weight of three houses combined, which gave him an advantage over any other houses."
Frida paused, her eyes drifting towards the chief as if seeking his permission to continue. He gave a curt nod, his expression grim.
Her tale resumed, "The order came for the execution of the Lord of Devil’s Gate and Commander of the Order of the First; He was no other than the Heir of Emberfell and Firstborn of the Flame Dragon: Edward Leonhart. No clarification was sought, and Edwinn, bound by his ancestor's oath, remained silent. But he could not let a blood of dragons be accused without truth, so he sent his most trusted knight, Ser Sigerd Ravnvald, to find it."
A murmur ran through the listeners, the story's tension palpable. Someone in the crowd whispered, "Edward of the Flames, he was a legend. With talent not just in his old magic but also in swords. He was one of the best knight ever lived who surpassed his teacher before even reaching knighthood."
Frida’s voice softened, her tone like an elegy for a time long gone. “The battle for Devil’s Gate was not one of glory but one of despair. The allied forces of the Great Houses were a tide, and yet the defenders of the Order, those sworn to protect living from nightmares were standing against each other. Many still wonder what drove them to such height for some traitor. For weeks, the bricks of the castle stood unbroken, though the cost was a wall of corpses. The forces finally breached the gate after a month of struggle and constant attacks without giving defences to rest, it was not through strength but cunning.”
She paused, her eyes falling on the children huddled around her, their small faces illuminated by the flickering light. Her audience clung to her words, their young minds caught in the gravity of the story.
I couldn’t ignore the weight of her tale. Edward Leonhart was my uncle. And his death was not just a tragedy but a carefully orchestrated betrayal. Each word she spoke felt like a hammer striking an anvil, the sparks casting new light on the fragments of my truth.
Frida continued, her voice barely more than a whisper now. “Sigerd entered the chaos not as a knight of battle, but as a knight of honour, bearing a secret himself. To find the truth, to protect the future of the Leonhart bloodline, and to safeguard the dragon’s blood.” Her gaze flickered to the chief, who remained silent, his head bowed slightly as if in silent penance.
Agretha leaned in closer to him, her voice low and steady. “Honour weighed more than chains, didn’t it, my love?”
He didn’t respond immediately. The firelight caught his eyes as they lifted, gleaming with an intensity that pierced through the haze of the night. When he spoke, his voice was rough, each word scraping the air like the growl of an old wolf. “I didn’t protect him. I watched. I watched as his blood spilled by those hounds that called themselves knights. That’s the truth of it.”
I felt my stomach tighten. “Why?” The word escaped before I could stop it, raw and sharp. The question lingered, carving through the quiet that followed.
His gaze locked onto mine, unflinching. His voice carried the weight of decades. “Because the honour of the house was worth more than a single life, even his. Edward knew that. No men in the history of his house have tainted the name of their house, at that time he was only the Lord of Devil’s Gate, and the treason was on his head as Lord of the castle, not as ‘Leonhart’. If I were to intervene, this would have been a whole lot different. Perhaps that’s why the high king asked Lord Leonhart not to intervene. And perhaps that was the reason why he made me promise to protect what mattered most to the house, his son.”
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Frida’s tale resumed, her words like threads pulling the story together. “Edward fought without magic, as his ancestors would have. The old magic cannot be used against someone who cannot wield magic, these teachings have run through each old bloodline of dragons. When he fell, it was with a roar that echoed through the ages.”
Sigerd’s jaw clenched, the muscles twitching as he held back whatever storm brewed inside him. “I didn’t bite because a wolf doesn’t bare its teeth unless it can win the fight. I chose to live to protect the only remaining heir of Leonhart, to fulfill my promise. If that day I fought with Edward, the bloodline of the house would have vanished throughout history. And I would not be sitting here, listening to my own tales.” He shook his head, his voice turning bitter. “Everyone knew that, yet the history remembers me as the ‘Toothless Wolf.’”
His words struck me like a blow. I stared at him, the weight of his grief settling over me like the stars above. For a moment, no one spoke, the silence a tribute to the memories they carried.
Finally, I found my voice. “Chief, didn’t you speak to him?”
Sigerd’s gaze locked onto mine, his eyes sharp as knives. “I spoke to him before his final dual with Eldric Thorvald. He confessed that the accusations laid upon him were not entirely baseless. But the truth, as he revealed it, was far darker and more insidious than anyone could have imagined. During the raid beyond the gates, their First Knight and a rookie abandoned the battlefield. While their forces were locked in combat with the demons that followed, these two vanished into the chaos. When the dust settled, the whispers stopped.”
My voice caught up in my throat, as I forced it to come out, “Whisper? You mean…”
His gaze turned to the fire, his expression distant. “Those whispers… everyone who moved through that region knew them. A constant hum of despair, a sound that gnawed at your sanity. They came beyond the gates, a constant reminder of why the Order of the First exists, created by the First High King and the First Council. But when the whispers ceased, they all knew what it meant. A demon had crossed the border. Not just any demon, but ‘the witch’ itself.”
The campfire crackled, the only sound between us. Frida’s tale lingered in the air, a ghost that refused to be exorcised. The truth I sought had only unearthed more questions, more doubts. As I turned to leave, Sigerd’s voice stopped me.
“Boy,” he said, his tone softer than before. “Your path will lead you to truths you may not want to find. Be ready to bear them. And if the time comes, don’t make the same mistake as the Toothless Wolf. I may have saved one bloodline but with the cost of something far greater. I still believe that his words were true and House Valar may be just the pawn in some bigger play.”
His ice-blue eyes locked onto mine, searching for a crack in the mask I wore. The firelight danced across his face, throwing sharp shadows over his weathered features. I stared past him into the black stretch of plains beyond the camp, but his words clung to me like a brand pressed to skin. The air was cool, yet thick with the earthy tang of trampled grass and the faint, acrid smell of burning wood.
I didn’t answer. My jaw clenched as I tried to untangle the threads of everything I had learned in the last few weeks. The truth of my mother’s lineage. The sacrifice of my wife made for me, who walks alone in the realm of men. And now this, decline of House Leonhart with schemes of major houses. And then there was the warning from my mother and my uncle.
“Einar,” Agretha’s voice broke through, calm but unyielding, like a blade drawn with purpose. “If you have questions, now is the time. Speak them.”
Her gaze pinned me, sharp as a hawk’s. She sat tall beside the fire, her black robes trimmed with white fur that caught the flickering light.
I hesitated, my thoughts twisting and coiling like a snake ready to strike. “I… suppose I wanted to know how you knew my parents,” I said at last, my voice low, steady. “But the tale seems to have answered that.”
She chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. “Did it? Or did it simply scratch the surface?”
Before I could respond, a shuffling sound drew my attention. Old Frida stepped into the circle of firelight, her gait uneven, her form hunched under the weight of years. Her face was a map of deep lines, her skin like weathered parchment, her milky white eyes darting between us. The flames reflected off her wild, tangled hair, turning it into a crown of fire.
“I remember his eyes,” she said, her voice rough as stone grinding against stone. “Glowing red, like blood spilled on snow.”
I turned to face her fully, my muscles tensing. The campfire crackled between us, sending sparks curling into the air. “What do you mean?”
Agretha’s gaze flicked to Frida, then back to me. Her voice was measured, but the weight of the words pressed down on the space between us. “Frida was the first to hold you after your birth. She was the one who pulled you out from your mother’s womb.”
Frida nodded slowly, her bony fingers curling and uncurling at her sides. “Your mother came to us after leaving her homeland. She was desperate, heavy with child, hiding from people's eyes but holding the man beside her as the only support. That man was your father, Aeron. He was trained by Sigerd, which was the only reason for their arrival in the village and us accepting them. She gave birth in our village: Lathor, far from the prying eyes of lords and soldiers.”
Her words painted a picture I hadn’t asked to see, each stroke darker than the last. “It was the darkest night of the year, with heavy rain and winds carrying screams of thunder, that was the day you were born,” Frida continued, her voice softening, “your skin was rough, cracked like stone, like dragon scales. Tiny black horns on your temple and black wings with red shade on the edges appeared for but a moment, and then they vanished instantly. Your eyes… they burned with blood, boy. Burned like the old tales of the Crimson Queen.”
A cold knot twisted in my stomach. I clenched my fists to keep my voice steady. “And my father? Did he know?”
Agretha shook her head. “No. Lyra kept it hidden from him. She feared what he might do, what others might say about that appearance of a child. And Sigerd—” her sharp gaze shifted to the tribesman—“knew better than to pry. He was bound by oath to House Leonhart, as to your mother. And Ragna—” a faint smile tugged at her lips—“she adored you from the moment she saw you. Took to you like a sister who’d been waiting for a brother her entire life.”
Frida let out a low chuckle, dry as autumn leaves. “A strange child you were. Walking before you could crawl, babbling in words we couldn’t understand. Foreign words. Words of power.”
“Valeria,” she said suddenly, her voice sharp and clear.
The name struck like a dagger to my chest. My breath caught, and I turned to her, my voice barely above a whisper. “Where… where did you hear that?”
Agretha leaned forward, her face grim. “It was the first name you ever spoke. Even before calling for your mother or father. ‘Valeria.’ I don’t know what it means, but it made your mother weep with joy.”
Her words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, the fire seemed dimmer, its warmth failing to reach me. “And yet,” Agretha continued, her voice softening, “that joy did not last. Not after that day…”
“What day?” I asked, the words coming out sharper than I intended.
Sigerd, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. His tone carried the weight of a man who had lived through too much. “The day everything burned.”
Agretha took over, her voice tightening with the memory. “Our village was attacked in the dead of night, only few days after your mother gave birth to a little girl and the day when most of the men joined for the battle of Devil’s Gate. Shadowy figures came in silence that moved like wraiths. No sound under the night. Your father fought them with his sword as no other than him can put a scratch on them, with his blade forged from cold iron. It was the only thing that could kill them, and for that, we believed them to be demons wearing the skin of humans.”
She paused, her jaw tightening. “There was one in them that was different than others, who was leading these demons in the fight. He fought head-to-head with Aeron, both were heavily injured but he had the upper hand with numbers. It was then when your mother… did what no magic-wielder should ever do. She used her blood as a catalyst for spells far beyond her strength. She won the battle, but it broke her from the inside. Her essence cracked, leaving her magic like a leaking flask.”
“And my father?” I pressed, though I already knew the answer.
Sigerd exhaled slowly, his broad shoulders seeming to sag. “He was poisoned. That person left him with something dark, something that ate away at him from the inside. Slowly, painfully. It was a death without mercy, a rot that no healer could touch.”
I stared into the flames, the memories of my father’s slow decline burning brighter in my mind than the fire before me. “He never told us. Not me, not my sister. But I knew. I saw it in the way he grew weaker each day, in the way he stopped using his sword. He would just say, ‘There’s time for that,’ every time I asked him to teach me.”
Sigerd’s voice hardened. “And yet here you are, boy. Still standing. You have your father’s determination, your mother’s flame. But do not let their love become a sin. Do not let your blood make you a bastard.”
His words cut deeper than any blade, but they didn’t leave me hollow. They left me burning. I stood slowly, the glow of my crimson eyes reflected in theirs. Even Old Frida, who had seen far worse things than death, shifted back slightly.
“The sins of my parents will be cleansed,” I said, my voice low, unwavering. “By blood, if that is what it takes. Vengeance is not something I can afford right now, not with words atleast. But with strength, it may be possible.”
I looked down at my hand. The blackened veins that once marked it pulsed now with a deep red glow, threads of power twisting under my skin like living lightning. “And for that, I must master what lies within me. Without it, I am nothing but a pig waiting for the slaughter.”
Without another word, I turned and walked away, the tension of their stares pressing into my back. When I reached the edge of the campfire’s glow, I found Rowan waiting for me, his eyes curious, but I said nothing and moved towards the caravan. Finding the only place for my emotions to calm.
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