Denor stood at the edge of New Titania, the city gleaming under the cold, pale light of its sun. His eyes, like shimmering emerald orbs, scanned the sprawling metropolis below, with its crystalline spires and meticulously crafted energy walls. Yet, despite its beauty, the city was an obstacle. The Andronians, a people bred for exploration and endurance, had no use for cities like these, their hearts drawn instead to homesteads and small villages in the snowy wastes.
The snow crunched beneath his boots as he moved, catching the chill of the wind that whistled through the empty streets. New Titania was still recovering from the news that the northern outpost had been destroyed. Denor had arrived not to intervene, but to observe. To try to understand the magnitude of what he must attempt. But as he gazed at the city, he couldn’t imagine how he could storm it with the few people who would follow him.
Turning away from the city, Denor set his sights on the endless white expanse that stretched beyond New Titania’s limits. The snowy wastes called to him, and he needed to find his father and his friends. He adjusted his gear and began to walk, each step carrying him further from the lights of civilization and deeper into the silence of the wilderness. His kind thrived in solitude, and the vast, frozen wilderness was more comforting than any city could ever be. Denor disappeared into the snowstorm, becoming just another shadow in the frigid expanse, his form soon lost to the desolate, untamed horizon.
***
Inside of New Titania, a young man, a picture of insufferable ease, slipped through the melee as if he’d been born to dodge flying batons, flailing limbs, and the occasional thrown object. One thing Tannis did notice, clear as the sun over the battleground: the lad moved with a grace that made everyone else look like they were tripping over their own shadows. He wasn’t jumping or darting about like someone desperately trying to evade, no. He flowed. Like syrup, if syrup were much faster and had no intentions of sticking to anything. So perhaps it wasn’t the best analogy, but the boy was damn smooth.
The crowd parted before him, as crowds tend to when faced with someone who, despite all laws of probability, manages to evade everything.
Even with a small arsenal hanging off him—daggers, a horn, and enough sharp things to give a particularly soft foe nightmares—he moved as though gravity was just a rumor. And the sword, of course, suspended in that showy style, hovered as if it had its own set of engines attached to the hilt. In short, everything the grizzled warriors around the ring had been hoping for—a misstep, a tangle, a dandy’s disaster—was conspicuously absent.
Meanwhile, the fighters were flagging. Batons rose and fell with increasingly laboured attempts, and the recruits moved slower and slower, looking like they’d spent the night on a Sirrian bar crawl rather than in training. The Trunian clearly sensed the moment approaching, ready to bring the lesson to a dignified close, when the nobleman Kouvis sauntered out of his tent and turned his gaze on the training ground.
It was at this point that Tannis, veteran of too many battles and far too many stupid decisions, felt the old, familiar surge of reckless youth. It was as if the years of bloodshed, court politics, and grey hairs had evaporated, leaving him not with wisdom, but with the burning desire to do something profoundly unwise. Without quite thinking it through, he clapped his hands and barked out a command in a voice that sounded like it had spent the last few decades gargling gravel.
The command was simple: pile on. Now, anyone with a speck of sense knew what this meant. A chaotic, teeth-rattling, bone-bruising free-for-all, a time-honored tradition that celebrated the enthusiastic art of ‘every man for himself’. Usually reserved for village festivals and involving young men too thick-headed to mind a few missing teeth, it was not the best way to finish a training session. Especially when everyone involved was already seething, clutching hefty wooden clubs, and ready to knock someone’s head clean off.
The result? Instant chaos. The sluggish recruits snapped out of their stupor with the vigor of men who had just remembered why they didn’t like each other very much. They howled, they charged, and they swung with the sort of wild abandon only seen in those possessed by the spirit of youth—or possibly madness. And there, right in the thick of it, was the young Trunian, calm as you please, weaving through the storm of limbs and sticks.
He inevitably came out of the melee with his honor intact, which, given the circumstances, was no small feat. He dodged one swing, danced back from another, and delivered a sharp kick to a third assailant who was just in the middle of wondering why the sky had gone sideways. The air thrummed with the sound of sticks slicing through it at bewildering speed, and in the chaos, someone was already rolling about in the snow, thoughtfully rearranging their dental work. Others were grappling in close quarters, while several unfortunates had been ejected from the fray entirely and now endured the combined ridicule of the spectators, a fate possibly worse than the fighting.
As for the page—still remarkably unsworded—he deftly liberated a stick from the slackening grip of a volunteer who’d just received an educational thwack to the spine, and made his way to the edge of the rapidly deteriorating battleground.
And then there was Kouvis. His purpling face suggested either a lifetime of unresolved grievances or a profound disagreement with alcohol. He bustled about, shouting incoherently into the din like a man attempting to command the tide to reverse, with about as much success. Tannis joined him in this futile endeavor, and after a few moments of confusion, they managed to bring the brawl to a grudging halt.
“What in the name of all things sweaty and aggressive is going on here?” Kouvis demanded, eyes bulging in a manner that suggested they were trying to escape the rest of his face. His gaze fell on his nephew, standing proudly amid the wreckage, clutching what appeared to be the remnants of a stick in one hand, while nonchalantly blowing on the knuckles of the other.
“It’s just a standard training exercise, sir,” Tannis said, with the kind of calm that usually indicated a certain degree of detachment from reality. “After all, it was your idea to put this fine young man in charge of training the new recruits. And, it should be noted, he handled himself with honor.”
“Honor?!” wheezed one of Kouvis’s companions, a man so thin and pointy that he looked like he had been put together by a particularly vindictive sculptor. “There’s little honor in a nobleman beating peasants with sticks.”
“Care to try it yourself?” suggested one of the commanders with a grin.
“Yes, Baron,” Tannis chimed in, delighted. “Show us how it’s done. They say you’re quite the swordsman.”
“Swordsman, yes!” the baron spluttered, his impressive nose tilting upwards as though trying to escape the conversation. “Not some common brawler.” He jabbed that same nose accusingly at the commander. “Were you in our ranks, you’d be whipped for such insolence!”
“Return to your duties, Torm,” Tannis ordered, then turned back to the increasingly indignant baron. “In my Legion, we believe that a good fighter can handle any weapon, even ones that aren’t strictly weapons. Like, say, an oar.”
The baron sniffed, a sound that implied not only disapproval but also a sense of deep personal offense. “In addition to lax discipline, it seems your Legion thrives on barbaric customs.”
Tannis chuckled. “What can I say, Baron? The locals here are mostly barbarians, after all. We don’t have the luxury of dueling on polished floors or fending off attacks with flowery gestures. It’s hard to convince a man charging at you that your noble principles prevent you from defending yourself because he’s not wielding a sword.”
He ruffled the page’s hair, as one might ruffle the fur of a particularly promising hound. “And this one here, mark my words, will make a fine soldier one day.”
Kouvis, who had been turning an alarming shade of burgundy, interrupted smoothly. “I’m so glad you approve of my Endir, because it’s him you’ll be taking with you to wrangle those mercenaries of yours and bring them under the walls of New Titania. Consider it… a bonding exercise.”
It was the kind of idea that pops into a man's head like an ill-mannered pigeon—unwelcome, inconvenient, and sure to leave a mess. Tannis had no illusions about the boy’s ability to deduce precisely which well-meaning uncle had kindly arranged for a gang of odorous thugs with clubs to beat some sense into him—or, more accurately, some foolishness out of him. The whole situation needed tidying up, and quick.
Tannis’s thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the young man’s eyes widening, like a deer realizing the hunter wasn’t waving a friendly hello. Yes, Tannis mused, you’ve finally caught up, haven’t you, lad? He didn't even need the boy to say it out loud to draw his conclusions.
"And who, pray tell," Tannis inquired with all the polite venom of a well-aimed spear, "will command the garrison in my absence?" He already knew, of course—this dance had a predictable rhythm.
"The Magistrate’s decision," Kouvis replied with a smile so oily it could’ve greased a dozen axles, "is that I shall take command of the Northern Legion, to deal with the barbarians, naturally. Once the main army arrives from the core worlds, the august powers will decide who is truly worthy of the position."
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It fit like a final piece in a cruel puzzle. He, the founder of the border forces, was to be shuffled off like an old, tired dog to command a rabble of mercenaries. And when the campaign was over? Oh, that was easy to guess. Disgrace. Resignation.
But the one thing he could not imagine—could not stomach—was doing nothing. "I’ll still fight," he vowed silently, a simmering rage barely contained under his outward calm. Even if they brought a dozen armies, they wouldn’t be enough without him.
Tannis allowed himself a small, grim smile of satisfaction as he instructed his officers to carry on their training. He then followed Kouvis to his tent, the evening shadows lengthening like the grim prospects ahead. Artos would be arriving soon, as promised, and Tannis, along with young Endir, would set off.
***
When Artos arrived, he brought with him four of his famous free warriors. They clustered around him like wolves—lean, fierce, and watching every move with the kind of suspicion you’d expect from a man who thought all of civilization might bite him on the ankle. The moment the bolt throwers closed the gate behind them, you could practically hear the mercenary’s hackles rise, their hands twitching toward weapons. The looks they cast at the camp were not of the ‘what a lovely place’ variety.
Artos, though, seemed as unruffled. He barked a few sharp orders at the dogs, who were currently having an argument of their own over who had the most tangled harness, and with a practiced motion, he whipped off his helmet, tossing it into the sleigh like a man who had done it a thousand times.
In the fading light of New Titania as the sun lazily sank behind the hills, casting the sort of dim glow that might lead a man to wonder if the gods were simply dimming the lights for effect, the city barracks became a bubbling cauldron of heated arguments, mostly about the newcomers and their odd ways. Voices filled the air, blending together into a sort of verbal soup. And like any good soup, it was starting to boil over.
Artos's companions were the focus of it all, being harassed by just about anyone with a tongue and a grudge. A few particularly creative souls threw in dogs for good measure, because what's a proper insult without a snarl at your heels? "Look at them, all shifty-eyed and sword-happy," someone muttered, nudging their neighbor. The crowd, well aware that calling him a thief was about as subtle as setting fire to a thatch roof, seemed eager to see where this line of thought might lead.
Amidst all this, a few veterans, seasoned border fighters who’d seen enough to know how quickly these things could get out of hand, tried to calm the mob. But their attempts at reason were like pouring a cup of water into a bonfire. The Legion’s officers, darting between the increasingly agitated throng, were painfully aware that Tannis himself had invited the Temrit mercenaries to New Titania, but explaining that to a crowd spoiling for a fight was entirely pointless. And so, the officers dashed about, trying to keep the whole mess from turning into an outright disaster.
For some unknown reason, their scouting forces had recently suffered some rather nasty losses to the remaining Andronians, and in the strange logic of soldiers, this meant anyone not Trunian was fair game. Add to that the natural animosity simmering between the two races, and you had the sort of tension that could be cut with a sword.
And then there were the dogs. All teeth and fury, crouched low at their masters' feet, growling and barking as if they, too, had a score to settle. Their eyes—red and gleaming like someone had swapped them out for little fireballs—locked onto the Trunians while their masters stood, shields raised, eyes hard, ready for anything.
And then, the moment. Someone shouted something like a blessing—or was it a curse?—and steel rang out as the Temrit drew their swords. This wasn’t going to end well.
Standing a little apart from all this was a baron, his long nose twitching with the sort of excitement one might expect from a man who smelled an impending disaster—and knew he could make it someone else’s fault. He was already mentally drafting a letter, rich with florid prose, explaining how the Legion had come to pieces under his watch. But, alas for him, no blood was spilled that evening.
Just then, Tannis arrived, like a hammer in a room full of eggshells. “What’s all this nonsense?” His voice sliced through the air, scattering the crowd like a wind through autumn leaves. He shoved his way through the onlookers, his mind casting aside the intricate web of politics and intrigue that had occupied him just moments before. There was no time for subtlety when blood was about to spill.
The Legion officers tried to explain, but Tannis didn’t need to hear it. He saw it in the eyes of his men—hungry, angry eyes, stripped of all civility and eager for a fight. He saw it in the Temrit, too, the look of warriors already resigned to the afterlife, ready to drag as many foes with them as they could manage on the way.
"Officers! Clear the area, now!" His voice left no room for argument. "Torm—if you don’t get back to the recruits this instant, I’ll see you serving tea to some whip-wielding squire in the capital!” The brewing storm might not be stopped, but for tonight, it would be delayed.
As Tannis dismissed his grumbling warriors—none of whom were fool enough to argue, not even with a sideways glance at the battle-hungry Temrit—Artos elbowed his way into the scene like a man with something on his mind and no time to think twice about it.
"Oi, you lot! What happened while I was off? Did something spook you? Perhaps it was these hounds—” he pointed at the growling dogs, “—or maybe it was the Trunian over there, sniffing around like a bear that’s found some fish that's been dead longer than it ought.”
The Temrit, who were wound tighter than a drumskin ready to snap, suddenly let loose, laughing and lowering their weapons. All eyes turned to the baron, whose expression flickered with a mix of indignation and shock. It was, after all, Artos’s command of Trunian that sealed the deal—a language everyone understood, including the baron, and quite unfortunately, the legionnaires who had gathered, each one looking like they'd just caught the punchline of a joke at their expense.
The tension, which had hung over the camp like an ominous thundercloud, dissolved as a wave of laughter swept through the men. Artos, as sharp as a well-honed axe, knew exactly what he was doing. He could feel the anger and fear running through the camp, but as any good leader knows, sometimes it’s easier to let aggression out through laughter than through bloodshed.
The baron, feeling the heat of a hundred eyes boring into him, stepped forward with the swagger of a man who was no stranger to duels or, for that matter, showing off. He knew his reputation was at stake, and if he didn’t put this barbarian in his place, he might as well pack up and head home.
Hands on his hips, he let fly with an insult so grand and elaborate that it could have won prizes in any capital city, and the legionnaires, ever appreciative of a good verbal lashing, clicked their tongues in admiration. Some even mumbled, “That’s ours, not some court pet.” The Temrit understood the tone well enough and started jeering Artos, egging him on for what promised to be a far more entertaining show than they’d seen in days.
Artos, not one to be outdone in simplicity or directness, shot back a retort that was as brief as it was cutting, accompanied by a wink at Tannis, who mouthed back, “Just make it quick. No killing. We leave after this.”
The crowd, with the eagerness of a mob sensing something worth gathering for, formed a circle around the two, and the insults continued to fly like arrows. One of the warriors passed Artos a blade, while the baron, showing off with flair, drew his own slender sword and gave it a few swipes through the air, much to the delight of the onlookers.
Meanwhile, Tannis turned to Endir, who looked torn between watching the fight and obeying orders. “Ready for the road?"
"Well... yes, sir, I suppose so," the boy stammered, clearly hoping not to miss the fun.
"Good. Go to my tent, fetch the datapad in the chest." Tannis’s grin widened. "You won’t be missing much here."
Endir blinked, clearly unconvinced. "But sir, the Baron—he taught me swordsmanship. I saw him win at the tournament just last year."
"Did you now?" Tannis’s grin turned wolfish. "Well, then. Stay. You’ll learn something today—something they don’t teach at fancy tournaments. You’ll be spending some time in the Outer Rim with us. Consider this an early lesson."
The page didn’t fully grasp the meaning behind Tannis’s words, but he didn’t ask for clarification either. His eyes remained fixed on the circle where Artos and the baron were ready to face off in a contest of wit, skill, and—if things went according to plan—just the right amount of violence.
Artos stood like a mountain that had decided to drop in for a duel—immovable, unflinching, and largely uninterested in the baron’s flourishes. His opponent, the Baron of Someplace-Very-Fancy, was doing all sorts of clever things with his blade, drawing enough invisible shapes in the air to start his own calligraphy school. He crouched low, wrapped in his shield, and made several fancy little attacks, all aimed at convincing Artos that now would be a good time to cross swords and play along.
The problem, of course, was that Artos wasn’t the sort to play. The Temrit, a warrior used to practical fighting where the rules were simple—‘You hit them harder than they hit you’—was beginning to feel like he was watching a particularly complicated dance. After a few moments of this, and having grown thoroughly bored, he decided that enough was enough. With a roar, Artos launched himself forward, swinging his sword from top to bottom with all the grace of an avalanche in a hurry. He leapt, armor clanging, sword slashing, and looking for all the world like a rampaging red bear.
The Baron, who had not planned on fighting a bear (let alone one in full armor), dodged with an understanding that not getting his shield hit by this monster was really quite important. He pulled back, weight on his rear leg, and then lunged forward in a movement so smooth and quick it looked like his sword had made the decision for him. The blade seemed to aim for Artos’s stomach, then with a flick it shot upwards, aiming for the beast’s throat.
Normally, no one could stop such a strike.
Artos, however, had missed that memo. Instead of bothering with any of the usual business of parrying or countering, he squatted down, and an excessive amount of energy flowed into his shield.
The Baron's blade connected, but not with anything fleshy. No, it struck the shield with a flash of light. The blade shattered with a delicate, musical ping, which might’ve been beautiful if it wasn’t also so wildly inconvenient. Artos swayed a bit at expending so much madra, but otherwise remained unruffled. The Baron, on the other hand, nearly crashed into him, caught entirely off-guard by the fact that he had just broken his weapon on the shield.
Artos responded by smacking him in the chest with the flat of his sword. The blow punctured the shield and sent the Baron stumbling back several steps, which was generous of Artos, as there was no reason it couldn’t have sent him flying into next week. The Baron tried to stand, but his hand—now holding nothing more than the hilt of his shattered blade—betrayed him. Blood trickled from his throat, indicating that the Temrit could have easily killed him had he wanted to.
Endir, loyal and panicked, rushed forward, catching the Baron and lowering him gently into the snow. Around them, the crowd erupted in cheers. Well, most of the crowd. The page stood in awe, stunned by how quickly the duel had ended. One blow, one counterstrike—it had all taken less time than it took to tell someone to blow out a candle. And yet, in that brief moment, it had become abundantly clear that Artos had been playing. Playing! The Temrit had swatted the baron aside like a lion toying with an overconfident mouse. If Artos had wanted, that first swing could have been the end of it.
“And now we’re going,” muttered Tannis, as if a fight hadn’t just unfolded before them.
Artos, meanwhile, was already walking back to his companions, not looking back, his heavy boots crunching through the snow and grinding the fragments of the baron’s once-magnificent dueling sword into the icy ground.