The crowd erupted when Zander hit the stage, their cheers blending with the bear’s deep, menacing growl as it abandoned its broken victim. The beast charged, but Zander sidestepped with lightning reflexes, grabbing its hind legs. With a grunt, he heaved the bear into the air, dragging it across the wooden floor. Its front legs collapsed under the force, and its face slammed into the stage with a heavy thud.
Zander was on it in an instant, crashing down with the weight of his body, forcing the wind from the bear’s lungs. Bloodlust surged through him as he grabbed its legs, flipping the beast onto its back with a swift, practiced motion—like a cook flipping a pancake. The crowd’s cheers became a distant roar, a storm of noise far removed from Zander’s world, where only instinct guided him.
He locked the bear’s head and front leg in a tight hold, bracing his back against the iron pole to keep the animal pinned. The bear thrashed and snapped, its toothless maw biting at the air in vain. In the corner of his vision, Zander saw Alfread pulling the limp challenger off the stage, but his focus never wavered. The bear was helpless, its legs flailing like a fish out of water, unable to find purchase.
The beast’s roar pierced the air, a sound of fury, pain, and sorrow. But Zander had no room for pity. The fight was over, yet the innkeeper made no move to end it. The crowd wanted blood, but Zander wasn’t their puppet.
Releasing his hold, Zander sprang to his feet. The bear groaned in exhaustion, struggling to roll off its back. Zander seized two fistfuls of fur and muscle, yanked the creature upright, then rammed its head against the iron bar it was chained to. The metallic ring echoed through the tavern like a gong. The beast’s legs crumpled beneath it, its eyes glazed over as it collapsed into unconsciousness.
Zander stood over the defeated bear, every muscle in his body humming with exertion. His limbs felt heavy, like the time he’d swam for miles then engaged in lovemaking with Joyce for half the night. The crowd’s cheers swelled, a cacophony of incoherent chanting and thunderous applause, but it barely registered.
He didn’t bow, didn’t bask in their praise. Without a word, he pushed through the throng, brushing off backslaps and drink offers. Women pressed against him, hands roaming over his chest and lower, but Zander’s mind was elsewhere. The crowd, and especially the tavern maids themselves, called for him to return to the stage for his prize, but he had no interest in the reward. His thoughts were on Alexia, his purpose fixed on Archlord Bearbreaker.
Finally breaking free from the tavern’s suffocating air, Zander stepped outside, coated in sweat. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a humid, sticky night. He uncorked his water skin and drained most of it, pouring the rest over his head in a cooling rush.
“All right there, Zander?” Alfread asked, appearing beside him.
Zander wiped his face, offering a weary smile. “I’m fine.” He tilted his head toward the injured challenger. The man’s face was a swollen, purple mess—like an overripe grape ready to burst.
The innkeeper emerged from the tavern, dragging Penny along by the arm. He barked orders at a nearby stable boy, loud enough to be heard over the lingering noise. “Fetch Master Asa!”
The boy sprinted off as the innkeeper approached Zander with a simpering smile, a gleaming golden Leverian held out in offering. “Well fought, sir.” Penny stood behind him, her body language a sultry invitation as she eyed Zander with intent.
Zander glanced at the coin but didn’t take it. He’d never held a golden Leverian before, and tonight would be no different. Instead, he spat in the innkeeper’s face, then walked away.
*************
Alfread led Zander through the cramped streets of Urzport where squalid, multilevel tenements lined the narrow roads like a suffocating maze. Each building seemed to lean against the next, barely leaving room for light. Alfread explained that families squeezed into the two-room spaces on each level, and over every cluster of these buildings loomed a mansion, walled and aloof. The landowners—whether vassal lords, wealthy merchants, or titled knights—owned everything, charging the common folk for the privilege of living on their land. In turn, these lords paid their dues to the Bearbreakers, who then sent their share to the king.
As they climbed a hill, Zander caught sight of Urz’s End. The castle’s stone walls stood twenty feet high, yet the towers soared even higher, their tops peeking over the fortifications. Zander marveled at the sheer size of it.
“This is the most modest archlord castle in all of Leveria,” Alfread said with a smirk.
Zander struggled to fathom castles larger than this one. His world felt smaller with each step they took.
At the gate, Peacewatch sentries barred their way, but Alfread’s diplomatic persistence wore them down. After a tense few moments, a highborn squire arrived and ordered their entry.
The squire couldn’t have been older than fourteen, but he had the poise of someone much older. With his sinewy frame, crimson hair, and sharp copper eyes, he was handsome and confident. His armor was well-tailored and ornate, and on his breastplate, three sigils stood proudly: a man wrestling a bear on blue, thirteen rubies on gold, and a grapevine intertwined with an apple tree on green. Zander could tell from the symbols that the lad was no ordinary squire.
“I’m Percival Brighton,” the boy announced with authority. “Squire to Sir Whelan Bearbreaker.”
Alfread was quick to put the pieces together, noting that Percival was the nephew of King Adameon Ruby, his mother being Rozalyn, the king’s sister, and his grandmother, the late Queen Phaedra, a Bearbreaker herself. Zander’s head spun with the tangled lineages, but Alfread neatly summarized it for him: Percival Brighton was Sir Whelan’s distant cousin, grandson of Archlord Brighton, and—most importantly—the king’s nephew. Yes, he was no ordinary squire.
Percival seemed taken with Alfread’s quick mind and led them into the castle’s entrance hall. Zander’s stomach churned as they stepped inside. He was a man built for the battlefield and boisterous mead halls, not this world of noble courtesies and looming stone walls. He felt more out of place than ever.
The hall was dimly lit, and a massive fur rug stretched across the stone floor. Stuffed bears stood like sentinels on polished pedestals, their plaques engraved with dates and names. Zander stopped by the nearest one, reading aloud, “Archlord Wayn Bearbreaker the Sixth, 201 3LE.”
He turned to Percival. “What do these inscriptions mean?”
Percival lit up, eager to share his knowledge. “These bears were slain by Bearbreakers to claim lordship. The one you’re looking at was taken down by our current archlord twelve years ago, in the year 201 of the Third Leverian Era.
As they continued down the fur-lined corridor, Zander had a sudden thought. “Is Urz here?”
Percival shook his head with a wry smile. “Urz is the one bear we don’t have. I’ve asked that same question. My father tells me that if I want to see Urz, I should look in the crypts for Wayn the First’s remains. Wayn the Sixth jokes that Urz is stuffed in his breeches. Sir Whelan thinks Wayn the First probably ate Urz.”
Alfread and Percival continued chatting as they moved through winding corridors and climbed staircases. Zander, meanwhile, was lost in his thoughts, worrying about how he’d handle himself in front of an archlord. He tried the breathing technique Alfread had taught him for steadying his aim, but it did little to calm his nerves for more than a few moments. Before he knew it, Percival knocked on a door, and they stood before the Bearbreaker steward.
Master Tacitus Ogden was not what Zander had expected. Thin and gaunt, with round spectacles perched on his nose, Tacitus had an earthy smell and wore simple undyed cotton, a stark contrast to the image Zander had in his mind—one more akin to the innkeeper at The Wrestling Bear. His study was a chaotic mess that would’ve given Mirielda an aneurysm, but Zander felt an odd comfort in the clutter, which made the lordliness of the castle seem less intimidating.
Tacitus dipped his quill into ink and began taking their report, scribbling notes as Alfread described the unusual behavior of the wolves. Zander’s vision of the shaded man was omitted. Tacitus nodded thoughtfully, his quill scratching across parchment, only interrupting with the occasional “uh-huh.” When Alfread suggested the wolves might’ve been controlled by Celegan tamers, Tacitus paused, tapping his chin with a finger.
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“An intriguing theory,” Tacitus said, his voice calm but thoughtful. “You do justice to your mother’s intellect and your father’s style.” Alfread beamed under the praise. “This claim cannot be ignored. However, my knowledge of Celegan magic is limited. Fortunately, we have a brilliant cognitive-affectomancer here at Urz’s End. You should share your story with her and the archlord.”
Tacitus motioned to Percival. “Send for Master Asa while I escort them to Wayn’s chambers.”
They followed Tacitus through more corridors and stairwells, ascending to the highest tower. At the top, a figure sat sharpening a blade. “Fair evening, Sir Whelan,” Tacitus greeted the man with a respectful nod.
Even Zander recognized the name. Whelan Bearbreaker, the heir to Urz’s End, was renowned throughout Leveria for his skill in tourneys. He was muscular, his chainmail doing little to hide the power beneath. Despite the Bearbreaker family’s reputation for rugged looks, Whelan’s chiseled features defied that tradition. Zander wondered if he could hold his own in a spar against him.
Whelan gave Tacitus a brief nod, barely acknowledging Zander and Alfread. “What brings you here at this angle?”
“News from Bear’s Crossing,” Tacitus replied. “Your father will want to hear this.”
Without a word, Whelan led them through a grand antechamber that overlooked the castle grounds and the Bear River, and then into a larger room. A fire crackled in the hearth, while a cold breeze blew through the balcony. Whelan must have disliked the breeze because he closed the balcony doorway with a look of cold disdain.
At the far end of the room, a stout man sat at a battered dining table. Hairy and hulking, he was more bear than Bearbreaker, with a booming voice that filled the chamber. “Tacitus! Whelan! And big guests!” he roared, pounding the table.
In the midst of his son’s cold introductions, Archlord Wayn Bearbreaker staggered to his feet and approached Zander, exuding an imposing presence. Just when Zander’s nerves began to tighten, Wayn extended his hand with a surprising geniality. “Welcome to Urzport, boy,” he said, locking Zander in a crushing handshake.
Zander gritted his teeth. “My name is Zander,” he managed through the pain.
Wayn released Zander’s hand and gave Alfread the same treatment, though Alfread was quicker to adapt, narrowly avoiding the same bone-crushing fate. “Sit,” Wayn bellowed, gesturing to the table. “Have some mead. Let’s talk.” He turned to his retreating son. “You too, Whelan! The only stiffs allowed in Urz’s End tonight are the drinks.”
Whelan sighed and reluctantly returned to the table, his posture rigid.
Zander, still reeling from the archlord’s unexpected informality, found himself liking Wayn immediately. He was rough around the edges, but Zander felt right at home.
Wayn grinned at Alfread. “Your father and I fought together in Mirrevar. Fine knight, that Evan. Could tell a story like it was happening right before your eyes.” He laughed. “We watched each other’s backs and drained many drinking horns before that poisoned blade lamed his leg.” The archlord sighed, taking a huge gulp of mead. He didn’t bother to wipe the froth off his beard before he continued, “Miri is one of my favorite people. Back in ‘99, our medicans told me my little Talena wouldn’t live the night. I rode that whole day and night to your mother in Bear’s Crossing and she saved my little girl.”
“That sounds like my mother,” Alfread said.
Bearbreaker grinned, wagging his finger at Alfread. “I remember you were just a little yapper back then, barking questions up at me and your ma. After Talena was safe, Evan busted my balls telling me that I had to betroth her to you as payment for the healing.”
Alfread leaned onto the table, looking severe. “I’ve come to claim my life’s mate, Archlord Bearbreaker.”
The room fell into a brief, uncomfortable silence as Archlord Bearbreaker’s face turned serious. Sweat formed on Alfread’s brow, but the archlord erupted into laughter. “Archlord Bearbreaker? That was my father, boy. Meladon keep him safe from Zamael.” He pounded his chest. “I’m just Wayn. Leave the formalities outside, you big son of a lovely lady.”
Zander couldn’t prevent the laugh from escaping, spitting mead in the process. Wayn guffawed, pointing at Zander. “See, Whelan?” he said, jabbing a finger at his son. “You can break a bear and still know how to laugh.” He slapped Zander’s shoulder. “Why you spitting mead on my table, you big bastard?”
“Because piss is better out than in,” Zander said, raising his mug.
Wayn laughed harder, clapping Zander’s shoulder. “You’ve got the heart of a Bearbreaker, my boy!”
“And what is your lady’s name?” Zander asked, gesturing toward the quiet woman beside the anything-but-quiet archlord.
The petite woman cleared her throat, her voice calm and soothing. “My mother was Lady Oshion, I’m just Hanalei.”
“When I met her,” Wayn said, on the verge of laughter, “she was a girl. By the end of the night, she was a lady.” He erupted into laughter, barely managing his punchline. “Twice.”
Zander was enamored with Wayn. It was like watching an actor masterfully playing the role of the jester and the archlord at once. He was simultaneously commanding, frightening, hilarious, and charming in a brutish way. Everyone couldn’t help but laugh at his contagious laughter—except for his own son who shook his head in exasperation.
Wayn gathered his composure and turned his attention back to Zander. “You’re a divinedamn big son of a bitch! No offense to your mother. I’m sure she’s as lovely as the Love Queen herself. Ever thought of joining the Peacewatch? I could use a lad like you.”
Zander raised an eyebrow, somehow at ease despite being given the offer he dreamt about since he was a little boy playing with toy swords. “We didn’t come all this way for the swill.”
Wayn beamed. “Tacitus, my good brother, can handle the paperwork and give you your enlistment coin. If my sister’s man knows anything, it’s how to lift his quill.”
“I can lift flagons too, boss.” Tacitus raised his flagon and drank. Speaking from within his flagon, he added, “And your sister.”
Wayn snorted. “It was all simpler before Camellia’s Good Service Promise. Divinedamn laws make my head hurt.”
Striding to the hearth, he gestured for Zander and Alfread to kneel. As Zander’s knee touched the fur rug, visions of glory filled his mind. He saw himself aiding the Bearbreakers to victory, earning his knighthood, and claiming the attention of even King Adameon. This was the start of everything. He would be the sorceress’s knight. Sunrise and Moon, they’d rise higher than all.
Wayn’s voice turned solemn, reverent even. “The First Wayn was a simple man, a servant of the Love Queen’s goodness. Though he was no poet, the Peacewatch Vow was his way to remind us of our true purpose. Repeat after me.” He closed his eyes, breathing deep. “I pledge my service to Leveria’s truest protectors, the Bearbreakers of Urzport. I vow to embrace peace and love, for that is the righteous cause. I swear on Meladon to see that justice always be done. I swear on the Love Queen that Leveria shall be one.”
Zander and Alfread echoed his words, their voices firm with conviction. Zander felt the weight of the vow settle in his chest, a pride swelling that made him stand taller. He was honored to become a member of the Peacewatch and serve the greatest archlord in the realm.
“That’s it,” Wayn said, gesturing for them to rise.
“Thank you, Wayn,” Zander replied, rising to his feet.
Wayn’s momentary seriousness vanished like smoke. “Thank me? What for?! You’re the one risking your life to fight for me, big man. That’s right! You’re men now, and I plan to put you to use as Asa’s escorts. As much as I like having the little thunderbug around, she’s needed in Mirrevar.”
Zander’s heart quickened, the excitement surging through him stronger than any mead. Mirrevar, he thought, my birthplace. His hand instinctively reached for his locket, only to realize it was gone. “May I make a request?” he asked.
Wayn raised an eyebrow. “Of course, but I may chuck it into the privy if its shite.”
“My life’s mate awakened as a witch this sunrise,” Zander said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I want to serve as her sworn shield.”
Wayn’s eyes widened in surprise before a grin spread across his face. “Now that’s beautiful.” He gave Hanalei a nudge. “No better guardian than a lover. Where is she?”
“Ferrickton.”
Wayn chuckled. “Ferrickton breeds them well. Asa’s from there too. I’ll send for your life’s mate and have her trained by Asa in Mirrevar. Our girl is one of the brightest witches in the kingdom, she’ll have your woman battle-ready in no time.”
Zander fought back the tears. “That would mean the world to me. Thank you.”
“You can’t entrust Asa’s safety to two squires you just met!” Whelan objected. “And sending an untrained cognitive-affectomancer into battle is reckless.”
Wayn turned to his son, his voice losing its jovial tone. “Whelan, for the sake of the Peacewatch, you need to learn to lead with your heart, not just decorum.” He pointed to Alfread. “This man’s mother saved your sister’s life. His father saved mine. And this one,” he gestured at Zander, "bested a bear and speaks fluent Bearbreaker. For Leverith’s sake, his life’s mate awakened today, and he stands here, ready to serve. They’ve been trained by one of the best blademasters in the realm and come with high recommendations. Someday, boy, you’ll learn to follow your heart and watch for peace rather than run every feeling you have through a divinedamned blizzard of logic.”
Whelan’s expression remained stony, but he didn’t argue.
The door to the antechamber swung open, drawing all eyes. Percival entered, followed by a woman. The master of magic was nothing like Zander had imagined. Young, stunningly beautiful, with bronze skin that seemed to carry the warmth of distant sands. Her appearance reminded him of the shaded figure he’d seen in the wolf’s silver eyes.
But that wasn’t the biggest surprise.
Master Asa of Ferrickton glowed like a star, her aura more brilliant than any noralistone. Golden hair shimmered around her, and her robes of red and white were embroidered with four symbols of power. In her hand, she held an alabaster staff, its pearly sheen amplifying her luminous presence. Her emerald eyes swept across the room, assessing Zander and Alfread in an instant. A warm smile illuminated her face, and her aura of golden light beamed more brilliantly.
Zander felt Alfread nudge him sharply in the arm. “That’s her!” Alfread whispered, awe in his voice. “The woman from my dreams!”