Zander awoke wearing naught but the reminder that he had neither his mother nor his life’s mate, feeling an emptiness that passion never filled. These nightly dalliances were like a sunset mistaken for a sunrise, where the promise of warm light always faded into cold darkness.

Still, Zander clung to the locket, hoping that his devotion to Divine Leverith might lead him to the Sunrise, perhaps upriver, where fate might yet deliver him what he sought. With this emptiness pursuing him, even as he chased the promise of glory, he sought out the Divine Thirteen.

He dressed and made his way to the west bank temple, its sandstone walls austere against the early morning mist. Inside, dim candlelight flickered before statues of the Divine Thirteen, casting long shadows that unsettled his heart. Zander hesitated before Zamael, the Dark Brother, whose dead eyes, long, tattered hair, and skeletal scythe chilled his soul.

We fear death because we fear the unknown, his mother’s voice echoed in his mind. He finished her words aloud, “But within, there is peace.” Clutching her locket, he whispered, “Guide me today, ma. Help me find peace.”

Leaving Zamael behind him, Zander approached Meladon, the Divine King, whose mighty hands cupped the world. He knelt and lit a candle. “Father of All, grant me permission to speak with your children.” One by one, he prayed to each of the Divine Scions—Gidi for strength, Yadeen for wisdom, or at least for Alfread to have wisdom, and so on, until he arrived at Leverith.

Leverith’s visage was a young woman holding a flower. Zander touched her stone hand with a tenderness that he felt only for her, cherishing her above all others. “Dreaming Leverith, I hope that my deeds have pleased you.” He lit a candle and placed it in front of the statue with a white carnation he’d plucked on his way to the temple. “I pray you succeed in filling the world with love. I shall be your devoted instrument for all eternity.”

His eyes fell again on Zamael as he turned to leave the temple. The Dark Brother seemed to fix his glare upon Leverith, scythe held firm in his decaying hands. “Be gone, Death,” Zander growled.

Outside, a warm breeze stirred the dandelions, but the echo of a low, mocking laughter haunted him. Zander pushed it away, trying to believe it was nothing more than the rustling of the wind. He sprinted the mile back to the manor, sweat slicking his skin as he touched the door. He forced a smile as he entered, trying to shake off the lingering fear as that cackle echoed through his mind.

Alfread sat at the dining table, already enjoying his breakfast. Zander dropped into his chair, claiming the bowl Alfread set out for him. “You owe me,” he said, a grin playing on his lips.

Alfread glanced up, his face twisting into a playful smirk. “Let me guess. Dinah will no longer be soliciting me because you made such orgasmic, life-altering, once-in-a-generation, Leverith-blessed, soul-shaping, trench-digging tribute with her?”

Zander’s grin widened, no longer forced.

“And you are sweating so much now because you celebrated this revelation the entirety of the night. And,” Alfread raised a finger, “she will no longer be able to park her baggage train in my walking path because you have rendered her immobile with your lusty thrust.”

“She is bedridden, I’m afraid,” Zander said. “We may need to send a medican.”

They laughed, but Zander’s mind wandered back to the temple, to the laughter that didn’t seem like his imagination. Alfread wouldn’t mock him, but he’d explain it away with scholarly terms and it was too early in the morning for a lecture; granted it was always too early for that as far as Zander was concerned.

After breakfast, they readied themselves for the day. Zander looked down at his ill-fitting leather pieces, the mismatched colors a reminder that he didn’t inherit anything from his father. While Mirielda didn’t charge for visits to her clinic and Sir Evan’s holdings produced a subsistence rather than a surplus, Alfread appeared immaculate in his father’s armor. Truly, he wondered just how far Mirielda had fallen for Sir Evan because Alfread looked like a prince.

Alfread’s smile twisted into a frown when he saw Zander. “Certain as the sunrise, you will be armored in steel when Archlord Bearbreaker learns of your skill.”

“Steel?” Zander laughed. “I’m more of a spell-enchanted meladonite man.” He sauntered out of the manor as though he was already outfitted as a Crimsonblade.

Workhorse brayed as they entered the barn, the other animals beginning a chorus of whines. Alfread went to reprimand the mule and Workhorse blew out of his nose, leaving Alfread’s attire decorated with mule snot. Zander felt much less envious after that.

Alfread groaned. “Count me among the grateful that you cannot breed, you infertile son of an ass!”

In the end, Zander had to bribe Workhorse with an apple to get him to stay silent in order to calm the horses.

Of course, Kenneth wasn’t at the meeting place when they arrived. Zander clutched his locket, staring into the sunrise. He felt a sense of peace, waiting on the precipice of one of the most important days of his life.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“The sunrise is even more beautiful than usual,” Alfread remarked.

“The sunrise is always beautiful,” Zander said. “More beautiful than any woman I’ve known. She vanquishes the darkness of night and brings a new day full of light, a day where any dream is possible. The Sunrise is Leverith’s answer.”

“Norali is the Divine Goddess of Light,” Alfread corrected.

“I know that,” Zander snapped.

Then Kenneth appeared atop the gray palfrey they left behind. “Top o’ the mornin’! Took me awhile to git mounted on this here girl.” He grinned. “Didn’t wait too long, did ya?”

“No,” Zander grunted.

“Good, I don’ think I could’ve lived with meself if I’d disappointed the big man.”

Zander ignored Kenneth and urged his Paladin northward. “Ride forth! Our glory awaits!”

*************

The sun was high when they stopped at their third village. The first two had offered unlikely rumors of a massive wolf with silver eyes that led a pack of feral beasts. Zander’s gut told him that this village would provide something more tangible than fanciful stories.

It was barely a village—two plantations, a few shacks, and a tiny temple. Most of the people were laboring on the western plantation, with a few fishing on the river. Mirielda’s descriptions of Rubinia, Meridian, Urzport, and the other great cities of the kingdom had always given Zander the impression that Bear’s Crossing was a backwater village and not a proper city. Even compared to Bear’s Crossing, these villages were creeks that dried up in the summer heat.

“I don’ think this place ‘as a tavern. Travesty, I name it!” Kenneth said.

“We’re here for the wolves, not wenches and wine,” Zander admonished.

Alfread pointed to a signpost. “The residents name this village Willet.” He dismounted. “Shall we ask around?”

Zander knew better than to let Kenneth question anyone, lest he offend someone or eye their daughters. Amazingly, Kenneth possessed some degree of self-awareness. “I’ll stay an’ watch the horses.”

Zander nodded.

Alfread headed for the busy plantation while Zander approached a farmhouse by the river. He was about to knock when he heard laughter—a father tossing his son into the air, the boy’s giggles incessant. Zander wished he felt happy for the boy, but instead, sadness gnawed at him.

He thought of the closest thing he had to a father. Sir Evan scolded him when he made childish mistakes, taught him bawdy jokes, showed him what it meant to love. Sir Evan told him stories so detailed you could almost envision yourself in them, and many a time he had even made Zander the heroic knight in those tales. Sir Evan loved him, when Zander’s real father had given him nothing but absence and an empty space in his heart, but Sir Evan did not look at him the same way he did at Alfread.

Watching this father play with his son was a knife to the heart. His own father never put a smile on his lips or made him laugh. He wasn’t there to guide him when he felt lost or uncertain, to promise to him that everything would work out. Zander wished his mother had given him a name so that he could hate the man more fully. She had told him not to hate the man who left but to love the boy who he was. Well, times like these, Zander couldn’t even love himself. How could he if his own father didn’t?

Zander knocked hard on the door, nearly breaking it, his frustration bubbling over. As he turned to leave, the door creaked open. A young maid stood there, her tangled blonde hair, thin frame, and unwashed scent betraying a hard life. Her bruised arms didn’t escape his notice either. The fear on her beautiful heart-shaped face tugged at Zander’s heartstrings.

“Hullo, sir,” she squeaked.

“Greetings,” Zander said. “I’m hunting wolves.”

She retreated into the house, leaving the door open. Inside, the house was even more rundown. Paint peeled, the walls were crumbling. Zander’s thoughts lingered on the girl. He fingered his locket, wondering if she might the Sunrise. Thinking of the bruises on her arms, he barely held back from rushing in, sword drawn, when he heard a man’s voice, loud and drunken.

The stench of alcohol hit him as the man appeared—yellowed skin, bloated, and belligerent. He looked like a drunken pig taught to stand on its hind legs. The man took in the sight of Zander in his mismatched armor. “Bearbreaker sends a stripling instead of proper Peacewatch.”

Zander hated this man instantly. Zander stepped closer to the man, letting him see how outmatched he was. “Bearbreaker sent the best warrior north of Urzport.”

The man scoffed. “Bearbreaker sent a disrespectful boy. The name’s Sir Otis. A real Peacewatch knight.”

Zander recoiled in disgust. This foul cretin was a knight? It was disgraceful. “If you know anything about the wolves, speak.”

The girl hovered beyond a doorway inside the house. Otis barked at her, “This ain’t yer business! Git back to work!”

She flinched, her eyes meeting Zander’s before she retreated. In that brief contact, Zander saw his own pain reflected in her sad, green eyes—she was an orphan, just like him.

“That your daughter?” he asked.

Otis scoffed. “That’s none of your business, boy.”

Zander’s fists clenched. “The wolves?” he said, unable to say more without shouting.

Otis grinned. “Yer one o’ Edward’s pissants, ain’t ye?”

“Do you know about the wolves or not?” Zander demanded.

“That ain’t how a squire talks to a knight, boy,” Otis sneered.

“You’re no knight. You’re a stain on the name of everyone who has ever been called sir.”

Otis bared his teeth. “Knighted by Edward ‘imself.”

A floorboard creaked and Otis’s head snapped to the side. “Damn it, girl! I told ye!” He stumbled into the house and slammed her into a wall.

Her stifled sobs were the final straw. TEAR HIM APART, Zander thought as a nauseating rage burst inside of him. He slammed Otis into the wall, plaster and old boards giving way as the rotund man crashed through. The piece of shit reached for his dirk, but Zander was faster. His punch landed with bone-cracking force, sending Otis limp to the floor.

Zander stood over him, chest heaving. In the eyes of Meladon, killing a man in his own home was a mortal sin. In the Ruby Kingdom, it was punishable by death.