Somewhere in the dry sweltering heat, a man in gold linen robes, loose-fitting as the blood-orange tunic he wore beneath, leaned against a sandstone balcony. A faint wind stirred, lifting the hem just enough to cool his sun-browned skin. Rings of beaten gold glinted on his fingers as he adjusted a silk sash at his waist.
While the fabric distracted his hand, the man's eyes, copper like a distant reflection of the sun, remained fixed on the indentured soldiers below. Ghulam, his people called them—orphans, street urchins, the last unwanted mouths in forgotten households, transformed into something more. Ten ranks of eight hundred ghulam slammed their spears against their shields. The synchronized clashing echoed like a mallet striking wood—a sound of finality, the closing nail sealing a tomb. Music to his ears.
An order was given, and the ranks of ghulam began marching in earnest. Each step a thunderclap, the ground rumbling beneath their high-laced sandals. Even perched above, he could feel the thrum, the raw force of their movement reverberating up the stones.
He allowed himself a fleeting smile, mercurial as a sandstorm.
These were men without cowardice, without hesitation, without the burden of emotion. He admired that. Living sandstone, birthed from the streets, molded by iron discipline, and soon be tempered in blood. Five thousand would set sail to Constanbul for a handsome price. Docking the ports of Edrianople, The Everburning City, they'd man it's ancient walls. Pitted in the city's never ending war against the hordes. Within the season's change, they would do much more than defend. When the hour came, the ghulam the follow their command on a whisper—his whisper.
The man broke his gaze, lifting it to a sky blotted by an unforgiving sun. Come night, the sun would lose its arid breath, replaced by a chilly death rattle. Twilight would creep in then, unafraid in the absence of daylight’s ferocity, painting the shadows with a dim, transient glow.
Kasten. Biçent. Ilyna.
The man reminded himself. Each name forever carved into his heart, ever shining. For them, he could wait. Lie burrowed in the sand, swallow his pride and sorrow if need be; nurturing his retribution for years. For the seeds he planted to come to fruition, he must. The mountain lord needed to rally more support for his boy's cause before their descent. Another push was necessary to deepen the talons grasped over the isles iron import. Betrothals required breaking, allegiances to be tempted, a wolf den culled. He would join his place in time, up the twilight, among his little stars.
For now, he let his smile linger as he watched them march. Soon, the sands would turn crimson like the dunes of the Red Wastes, the blood of those who had wronged him quenching the parched earth. The desert prince turned away from the procession of men, retreating into the shadowed coolness of his palace.
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Smoke curled from the red-bricked chimneys of the castle forges. From the steep pathway heading down, Alaric glimpsed the dotted shapes of trade barges and hulks, gliding like swans, on a narrow canal that meandered around Wolvern Castle. The waters fed from the down currents of a Tear tributary, snaking through the eastern wetlands of the Wyrdmire.
Grey Yard, as the castle’s courtyard was known, spread wide before Alaric and Sir Careridan, nestled at the base of the hill. Two centuries ago, Godwin Audramn had nearly emptied Wolvern's coffers to build an outer ring of ramparts, consisting of low walls, turrets, and flanking towers. Before that ambitious expansion, Grey Yard had served as the bailey proper. Where fifty-feet ashen walls, lined with brattice balconies and arrow slits, rose alongside four great corner towers that enclosed the former bailey from foothill to the castle's mountainous backside.
The knight and the prince reached the courtyard, making their way toward the training field near the guard barracks. Hammers pounded metal in a relentless rhythm, echoing through Grey Yard as blacksmiths shaped weapons, tools, and armor. Alaric watched as they quenched cherry-red iron with tongs beside bloomeries churning iron ore into wrought metal. Yoked oxen, accompanied by the occasional sharp crack and cry of a whipped auroch, trudged along paved gravel, hauling a procession of greatwagons and carts that rattled on the road from the main gate. A yell brought Alaric's attention to the stout, friendly, and at times smelling of manure, castle horsemaster, Thom. He emerged from the yard stable, bellowing instructions as one of this younger stable hands struggled to lead out a restless charger from its stall. The hay-straw hair teen released the lead line he held with yelp as the palomino stallion bared its teeth and chomped his hand.
Alaric's legs began moving without command. His heart thudded seeing the youth, no more a year older than himself, scuttle away in fear as the charger reared it's legs with a war cry. Alaric only made it a few steps before a familiar gauntleted hand yanked him back.
No! Alaric nearly cried out, he wanted to help the stablehand first. Several others dropped what they were doing to aid the boy, they rushed past Alaric in a blur. Why was he always stopped? He watched in frustrated anguish, Master Thom arrive and seize the charger's reins, securing the beast.
Everyone always wanted from him, piling up demands like shackles weighted with their wishes, their expectations, their needs—drowning out his own voice. What about what I want? My desires, not theirs! Who are they, but the Forefathers themselves, to decide for me? Alaric felt his panicked heart pounding in his chest, each beat pumping something blazing, fierce. His nostrils flared as he turned sharply, arm shooting out to break the fingers that dared to stop him.
"Alaric." Sir Careridan's voice cut through, his cool demeanor washing over Alaric’s red-tinged haze like a plunge into a cold lake. The knight regarded him with that cool, stoic expression of his, keeping his gloved hand fixed on the Alaric's shoulder, as if willing his calm composure into the prince.
The molten impulses coursing through Alaric’s body, feeding his rage, subsided. His arm fell limply to his side, shoulders slumping as a tension he hadn’t realized he was holding released. It was often like this, losing control. His temper flaring, thoughts igniting, and then the rage flooding through him, unannounced.
"My thanks," Alaric said quietly, straightening his shoulders. Then, with a strained smile, he looked at Sir Careridan and asked, steadier, "Why?"
"Too many hands can do more harm than good, prince," Sir Careridan said, gesturing to the stablehand. The goodfellows who had come to his aid were helping him to his feet; a few laughed off the mishap, and one brushed strands of hay from his back. Sir Careridan’s lip perked slightly. "Let Thom and his hands earn their keep." He swept his gauntlet toward Master Thom, who was shouting orders at his helpers while single-handedly ushering the now-docile charger back into the stables.
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"If any of youse stop, it'll be another lap!" Wolvern's master-at-arms boisterous voice bellowed over the training field. Boots crunched grass as a group of trainees jogged past, red-faced, and their tunics drenched in sweat. Some of them lagged behind, straining to keep pace under the watchful glare of the burly, two-fisted Master Lorne who barked threats with every breath.
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"Archers, on my command!" Elsewhere a dozen arrows could be heard being notched. "Draw!" A line of archers, several hundred feet away from target posts, raised their longbows.
"Loose!"
Bowstrings released with a steady *twang,* and the archers played their deadly song. Alaric looked on with interest as arrows pierced through the air. Most found their target, each shafting landing with a heavy thud into the distant posts.
"Come, prince," Sir Careridan said as he ushered Alaric toward a stone-roofed pavilion supported by tall, weathered columns. The pavilion overlooked the vast training ground where the castle’s garrison kept themselves honed like the sharpened edge of a dagger. Men grappled in fierce bouts of wrestling, others hacked away at straw-filled dummies, testing their mettle. Beside the pavilion, the screech of metal striking metal rang out at steady interval, as pairs of guards exchanged clashes in the dueling yard.
"Wait here." Sir Careridan approached one of the weapons racks. After he moment, he turned, presenting a longsword. "Here, a gift." The longsword clattered at Alaric's feet. "Pick it up," he said, selecting a weapon of his own from the rack.
"We've always fought with wooden swords. Why are you handing me steel?" Alaric bent and cautiously grasped the weapon, watching the sly fox draw a battered sword covered in nicks that attested to its use. The leather wrappings on the handle were worn and rough under his grip. Alaric flexed his wrist, wiggling the blade to get a feel for it. It was slightly heavier, but the balance near the middle gave it an agility he preferred over the hefty, lead-filled clubs he practiced with.
"Since now. A tourney is approaching, His Majesty expects you to participate." Sir Careridan swung the blade in experimental short strokes.
Alaric shook his head. "Father is always hosting grand spectacles. What's the occasion for hosting this one?" He adjusted his stance, letting the unfamiliarity of the new weight settle in his grip." Arm me with a shield, and some padded armor, at least. You know very well, Master Lorne wouldn't condone this." The master-at-arms would die on hill before he let a novice switch to live steel for the first time without proper padding and supervision.
"You shall not need it. Tourney blade, it's blunted." The knight nodded, satisfied with his weapon. He shifted his posture, one foot forward, hilt held beside his head, the blade aimed at Alaric's throat. "Arms raised and slightly loose. Use your strength to lessen the blow, and let the legs absorb the rest."
The prince felt a spike of panic, surely the oathsworn did not think him invulnerable to dulled steel? Over the course of their training, the knight had set out to test Alaric's 'gift'. They discovered that, while his skin bruised and stung as easily as any boys did, unprotected against wood-leaden swords, his bones never broke.
Alaric leveled his sword at the mad knight. "Have you lost your senses? A dulled blade may still—,"he never finished his sentence, because Sir Careridan sprung forth like a snake coiled before its lunge. First came the thrust, it jutted outward like a tongue. Alaric brought the longsword up, parrying with its edge. The knight twisted, bringing his blade back before Alaric could retaliate with a strike of his own.
Second, came a slash that would have cut Alaric from shoulder to stomach. He gritted his teeth and stood his ground, barely managing to block. It didn't end there — the knight heightened the ferocity of his assault, a ruthless whirlwind of precise overhead strikes and fluid horizontal strokes. Alaric's hands grew numb with each jarring impact, the battered sword's blunted force sending jolts down his swords hilt and into his fingers as he blocked blow after blow. Despite Sir Careridan slowly pushing him back, Alaric saw the knight was tiring. The sly fox still moved with precision, yet the weight behind each strike was fading. Feeling returned to Alaric's hands, and he sensed his moment might soon come.
There.
A lunge left Sir Careridan's midriff open. Alaric parried it aside, riposting with an outward jab. A ghost smile possessed the knight’s leathery lips as, impossibly, the Saltcoaster contorted, Alaric's sword sailing harmlessly past him. With a flick of his wrist, Careridan became a golden blur, his white cape fluttering behind like a butterfly. Alaric found himself sprawled on the floor, disarmed. A sabaton placed itself firmly on his chest, Sir Careridan peering from above.
"Yield." He said in his usual stoic manner, but the slight crinkles around his eyes spoke of mirth.
Alaric struggled under the weight of the man's armored boot. "What happens if I do this time?"
The knight cocked his head, "You run. Six laps around the field."
"Four." He immediately retorted. The pressure on top increased.
"This isn't a negotiation."
"Ancestors…curse...you." Alaric wheezed, he felt his chest slowly being crushed. He raised his arms, reaching for the sly fox's foot. Once he had his hands wrapped around, there would be no escaping his grip. And then Sir Careridan would see how it felt to be crushed.
"Let me finish." Sir Careridan removed his foot, leaving Alaric to grasp empty air. "Six around the field. Three going up the Den's motte and down. Then we'll condition your strength." He held out an arm, unafraid, staring down at the prince expectantly.
Alaric shoved aside the knight's gauntleted hand as he stood up.
"Why is it only I that's out here training every day? I never see Jordan waking at the crack of dawn to learn about geography or history, religion, seven hell's — stratagem and warfare!" Alaric kicked the longsword laying by his foot, sending it skidding off the manicured lawn.
"Sard!" He immediately cried out in pain, dropping to the ground, letting loose an unsavory string of words. Sir Careridan returned the bastard sword into the rack and left. A moment later, he came back with Alaric's sword, placing in its rack.
The knight cocked his head, watching Alaric writhe and clutch his foot. "Finished?" He lifted a limping Alaric to his feet.
Alaric squeezed his eyes shut and looked away from Sir Careridan, reaffirming the seal over the tears threatening to fill his vision and spill from his eyelids. His breathing hitched as he stifled the pain with short, shallow breathes. After several moments, he opened his eyes and let out a hiss.
"Yes."
Sir Careridan patted Alaric on his shoulderblade. "Good." The knight pressed his gloved fingers firmly. "Listen well. One day, Crown Prince Jordan will be king. He will have men like me to do his fighting. Men like your grandfather, the Lord High Steward, to run his kingdom. Noblemen like your uncle, to keep his treasury, and a royal council of men for everything else."
Alaric tapped a small pile of cut grass with his foot, wincing at its tenderness, still unwilling to meet Sir Careridan’s gaze. It grated on him that the sly fox spoke some sense. Every High King, since Lewyn first donned the Crown, surrounded themself with a group of advisors. Some offices in the royal council had shifted over time, different titles and new appointments added or dissolved as the needs of the realm changed. Yet always, a king without counsel was a king dooming his heir come the Kingsmeet. Allies are a necessity, Alaric clenched his jaw, recalling the Lord High Steward's words. The High King could not rule the kingdoms alone—this lesson had been drilled into him time and again.
I don't want to be Jordan's blasted steward. And I, dear Lord Laersmont, want nothing to do with you or your ancestors' cursed obsession with passing the mantle onto me.
Eventually, Alaric caved to his anger and looked up. "Then what is the point of being king? Sit on a throne and do nothing, twiddle my thumb while I look majestic? Meanwhile, I work the people beneath me to a bone and take all the honors. I refuse, nay. I swear to never respect such a—" A gold plated gauntlet smacked against his cheek.
Sir Careridan lowered his arm, his stony eyes flashing a silent warning as he shook his head at Alaric. The knight stood to next him, rigid and rapt at attention. Alaric, swallowing the sting on his cheek and the indignation simmering in his chest like smoldering coals, followed Sir Careridan's gaze. He found the honey brown eyes of a man with hair speckled in hues of aged oak and snow. Lord Commander Hebrith Crowsbert gave Alaric a deferential nod, acknowledging his status as prince yet mindful of his own esteemed position as head of the Oathsworn, and His Majesties chief enforcer: responsible for ensuring all members of the court adhere to established protocols and show proper respect to the High King. His face—small-nosed, with a well-rounded chin flanked by floppy ears—was soft; a chubby contrast to the two more severe figures beside him.
Sir Accaclon, a cheerful, lofty, lean muscled whipcord of a young man, and Sir Brandt, a sturdily built mid-aged man with cedarwood red hair. Behind them, walking silently, his bearskin cloak draped over his massive frame and seeming almost alive as if it stood on its own legs, was the king.