The winds howled, whipping through the desolate, frozen forest as a man, his torso bloodied, clung to survival in nothing but trousers and tattered shreds of a shirt hanging from his waist. The biting cold of the blizzard gnawed at him, the relentless snowfall painting a ghostly scene of standing dead trees all around.
His beard, encrusted with frost, bore witness to the frigid onslaught of the elements of the north, each snowflake a piercing dagger against his shivering body. Half of his face was concealed beneath a blanket of snow-streaked blood.
The barks of approaching dogs echoed, growing louder as he pushed against the thick, fresh snow. He was weary, as he struggled to press on. Realization dawned—he then realized where he was. He gazed around him, as he stood exposed in an open field.
“Give up!” a voice rang out behind him against the howling winds and snow, a taunting declaration from his relentless pursuers.
He glimpsed the soldiers, their silhouettes gradually emerging against the falling snow. Enormous dogs, leashed and held steady, highlighted the severity of his current situation.
“Did you honestly think you could escape?” mocked a soldier, laughter melding with the howl of the raging snowstorm.
“If only we could end you here and now, it would make things easier!” shouted another.
Struggling to breathe, he dropped to his knees in the soft snow, mustering the remnants of his strength. Soldiers and dogs lunged at him, but with a tremendous roar, he unleashed a force of wind that sent them sprawling across the snowy expanse. Then, succumbing to exhaustion, he fainted in the cold embrace of the snow.
Faint noises and distant voices swirled around him, a symphony of elusive sounds. He teetered on the edge of consciousness, his awareness slipping in and out, a feeble grip on the world around him. The strength he once possessed had dwindled to near non-existence, rendering him unable to keep his eyes open. In a fleeting moment, someone ushered him into a carriage, and another figure dragged him across the cold stone floor until, mercifully, warmth enveloped him.
The comforting embrace of the stone floor and carpet cradled his backside, accompanied by echoing voices. Despite the solace, his ability to focus remained elusive, his mind still clouded. Yet, undeniably, the respite he received was a welcome reprieve after enduring weeks of relentless pursuit.
His arms were already cuffed as he attempted to move, a stark reminder of his captive state. Slowly, he pried open his eyes, though they yearned to remain shut. Amid the mélange of footsteps and shouting, he strained to discern individual voices.
After a while, another descent into unconsciousness enveloped him. When he awoke once more, he found himself in a cellar, the surroundings familiar yet foreboding. This time, both of his hands were bound by chains, tethered to the unforgiving walls, amplifying the sense of captivity that had become an unwelcome companion.
“I have heard many things about you, Graveloth,” the man began, a hint of intrigue in his voice.
He squinted, still adjusting to the dim surroundings. “Who are you?” he croaked, the hoarse sound escaping his parched throat.
The man chuckled, a mysterious aura surrounding him. “I’m the man who can change your life,” he declared, his laughter echoing as the prisoner strained to focus. With widened eyes, he finally saw the old man clearly before lowering his head once more.
“What does a Trasidian Aristocrat want with me?” he asked, his curiosity tinged with wariness.
“It’s not that I want something from you,” he declared, and in the next moment, the prison doors swung open, and they unshackled him from his restraints. As he dropped to the floor, he carefully caressed the binding marks on his wrists. The old man crouched at his eye level, revealing a bearded smile, and spoke, “It’s what the Empire wants of you.”
“Give him some water for Arumar’s sake,” he insisted, directing his request to the guards, who begrudgingly handed him a pouch. Swiftly, he consumed its contents before the guard could close the cell doors.
“Give him some more,” the old man instructed as he stood up, taking a seat on a bench attached to the walls with chains, finishing his second water pouch.
“Haven’t been able to go back to my workshop in Gramork. It’s been months, I think,” he mumbled, grappling with the passage of time.
“Almost two years, if I recall correctly,” the old man replied with a sigh. “You make the best swords in the entirety of the Empire — the continent, I dare say. You know that, right?”
He chuckled, “Only to be displayed by people like you in their study. It’s an insult really.”
“But you did make some weapons for the Imperial Army, too. And I must say, the weapons of the Gramork Defensive Garrison are one of the highest quality ever made in the empire. Heck, the Prince visited you once in your workshop,” the old man reminisced.
Tired of the old man’s chatter, he looked at him and asked, “What game are you playing at, old man?”
The smile on the old man’s face slowly faded, and he cleared his throat, “A game of life and death.”
He chuckled, “My life is for myself to play with, old man. I don’t need anyone to do it for me.”
Then the old man leaned a bit closer and said, “How about the life of an empire and the six free kingdoms?”
He was surprised and confused; he pulled away from the eccentric old man and looked at him. “Just who are you, really?”
“I am Ferrier Ole, Imperial Diplomat, representing his Royal Highness, the Imperial King. Currently on a diplomatic mission from the Arch Chancellor Menoich Anarchu,” he finally introduced himself.
Dumbfounded, he looked down and tried to present himself properly.
“No need, Graveloth. I know what you’ve been through. I understand your current predicament,” Ferrier stood up, preventing him from trying to stand. With Ferrier’s back turned, hands behind him, he continued, “I must say, though, it is truly a shame what they did to you.”
“You have no idea, Your Liege,” then he looked at him as Ferrier faced him, “May I ask, though, what does a Diplomat want with me? Did I commit a crime or something back in Gramork? Because I was sure I was following your rules and laws. Even the codes for forges there,” he asked, curiosity etched on his face.
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He once basked in a semblance of fame when the Imperial Prince honored him with a visit. However, the realization that another influential figure in the Empire now sought his attention exceeded his belief.
“You did nothing of the sort. I am here because I want you to join a mission called upon by the Arch Chancellor.”
“What would you want a blacksmith for? I can only make weapons,” he said, skeptically.
However, the man leaned in closer and whispered, “We both know what you can do. I saw what you did in the dead forest,” then pulled away once more.
He froze upon hearing those words.
He’s been discovered, he thought.
“Your secret is safe with me, young Graveloth. After witnessing what you did back in the forest, I concluded that it should be you who joined the mission. Not the Princess of the Kra’ens whom the King here strongly recommended.” Then he sat back and continued. “Of course, the King strongly disagreed with me, and he did not take it well.”
“Like daughter, like father,” he commented, to which Ferrier chuckled a little.
“So I proposed a fight between you two. If you win, you get your freedom back, and you join the mission. If you lose—” he scoffed, “Which we both know has no prospect of happening anyway, but if you do, they will take your hands. So it would be a shame to live as a handless blacksmith.”
He was speechless by then. He didn’t know how to react or what to say, really. But at least he now had a way to win his freedom back, at long last after a year of running away. Plus, he now had a way of getting payback.
“I’m curious, Graveloth. Why did they chase you for this long in the first place, anyway?” Ferrier asked.
“I made a weapon for the Princess. She didn’t like the color. She asked it to be made of gold. So I said, okay, but I’ll have to cover the iron and kra’enite with gold. But she cut me off and said she wanted it made of solid gold. So I looked at her and said we can’t just make a solid gold weapon; it will be too weak. But she insisted. So I said, for a Princess with an education from the Empire, you sure don’t know how metals work.” He looked at Ferrier, whose jaw dropped at what he just said.
“So you basically called her stupid?” Ferrier said slowly.
He nodded.
Ferrier erupted in laughter over the short story. It was a mistake on his part that led to a year of running away after getting back from Gramork. Slowly, though, he found the absurdity of the story and chuckled to himself, finally having a good laugh about it. He hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. He needed it.
It echoed through the cellar as both slowly wind down from the laughter.
“I’m going to be honest. I never thought you had the guts to call a Kra’en Princess like that. Well played, my friend, well played,” Ferrier said as he slowly caught his breath.
“Is it safe to assume they don’t know of your ability?” Ferrier whispered.
All he did was nod.
Ferrier stood up, applauding with enthusiasm. “If that’s the case, then I look forward to witnessing you fight for your freedom tomorrow. It will be a victory that I will never forget. I can tell it now. I should make a bet with someone,” he said, smiling, and exited the cellar, escorted by a guard. He glanced back and remarked, “See you on the other side.”
With the fading echo of footsteps, he took a deep breath, readying himself for the challenges awaiting him the next day.
On the following day, the coliseum filled with spectators, eagerly anticipating the showdown orchestrated by the king. The buzz of excitement reverberated through the grand arena as midday approached.
Two guards approached him, carrying his armor and imposing blade arms. Another guard removed his handcuffs, and they handed him his armor. A smirk played on his lips as he donned each piece with the assistance of the guards, especially relishing the weight and familiarity of his blade armlets.
Every breath he took while donning the armor held the weight of nostalgia. He remembered the first time he wore it, the feeling of each piece settling into place. Glancing at his Blade Arms, he took a deep breath before affixing them, rotating his right arm, and checking the blades. A couple of swings followed, a ritual to reconnect with the weapons he hadn’t worn for so long. Weapons about to taste battle once again, this time for his freedom.
Satisfied with the condition of his weapons, he retracted the blades and strode confidently towards the arena. In the corridor, the growing crescendo of the crowd’s cheers became apparent, especially as they chanted the princess’s name. Emerging into the light at the end of the corridor, the crowd’s roar intensified.
Surveying the banners of the Iron Kingdom and the royal family’s sigil, Jaghjourns, he felt disgust and irritation, fueled by the injustice they had subjected him to. Settling the score with them became his motivation that day.
Turning to the opposite side of the arena, he spotted the princess, already in her battle gear. The crowd erupted with cheers as she acknowledged them. Both combatants met at the center of the arena.
Accompanied by the imperial diplomat, the king made a grand entrance, waving to the audience before taking his seat. The crowd’s excitement reached a peak. The king wasted no time with a brief but impactful speech.
“My fellow Kra’ens! This battle will determine the warrior that will represent us! My daughter Princess Melia versus the arrogant blacksmith Graveloth! I’m not going to make this long! So let the battle begin!” The crowd erupted with excitement.
The princess swiftly unsheathed her blade and attacked. He managed to block her assault, countering and sending them both sprawling. A confident smile adorned the princess’s face as she spun her double blade.
With cold determination in his light blue eyes, he crossed his arms, swung them on both sides and deployed the blades. Charging towards the princess, he leaped into the air, delivering a powerful strike. Melia deftly deflected his attack, forcing him to his knees. Yet, he pushed back, and as Melia attempted another charge, he staggered to his feet, surprised by the unexpected ferocity displayed by the princess.
The relentless clashing of blades reverberated throughout the arena, drowning in the cheers of the crowd. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, summoning a swirling wall of wind that caught the princess off guard, hurling her against the arena wall. The king, witnessing the unexpected turn, sprang to his feet in disbelief. The powerful wind dissipated as he smirked at the stunned princess, who screamed in response.
Undeterred, Melia charged again, but he spun once more, conjuring an intense gust of wind that encircled her. The swirling blades within the windstorm struck her relentlessly from all directions. He then propelled her upward with a column of wind, delivering a barrage of blows from every angle. The princess, battered but determined, regained her posture after the tumultuous descent.
Approaching her with a devious grin, he ceased the fierce winds, revealing himself. Melia, still recovering from the onslaught, stood her ground. He spun again, slicing off the swords she clutched. Determined to deliver the final blow, he summoned another gust of wind. To the surprise of the princess, the tornado vanished as he leaped out of it, his blade poised. Shock rippled through the crowd, the king, and even Ferrier; the arena fell into a hushed silence.
Melia collapsed, unconscious, as he stared at her with cold eyes, maintaining his smirk. He retracted the blades from his right arm and stood there for a few moments. Ferrier, stunned by the performance, whispered to himself, “Not a bad decision indeed.”
After the intense battle, inside the warriors’ den of the arena, Ferrier approached Him. “Here is the map to the location of the meeting place,” he said, handing over the map. He accepted it, engrossed in packing.
A query interrupted his task. “Aren’t you going to bring me there personally?” he asked.
“I still have one more stop before I can go home, Graveloth,” Ferrier replied, stopping in front of a window. Looking outside, he continued, “This mission may cost your life if unsuccessful. I need you to do your best.”
“Do you know the Prince?” Ferrier suddenly inquired.
He paused, contemplating the thought. “The stories don’t really live up to him.”
Ferrier chuckled, “When you face him and feel that he is still that man, can you do me a favor?” The pain in Ferrier’s face conveyed the unspoken request.
Meeting Ferrier’s gaze, he understood without words. Finishing his packing, he tied the last knot of his bag and said, “You saved me from my execution. You gave me a new life. I am in debt to you. I will do my best to honor your request.”
Ferrier only smiled, patting him on the back several times before leaving the room. As he exited Mathron, snow had just begun to fall. Surprisingly, the guards nodded and even saluted him.
Consulting the map, he folded it and tucked it into his arm protector. Gazing at the sky, he discerned a bright star peeking through the clouds. Sensing something from the star, he decided to trust the feeling and followed its direction. This star, the Eldemenster star, only appeared when imminent danger loomed over the entire west, guiding him to the Eldemenster Castle, where powerful warriors were gathering.
End of Chapter XII