I hold the knife that nearly killed me in my cool, tense hands. The steel blade is clean now, but still feels stained. I turn it over, seeing my reflection in the crude weapon as I try to get into the mind of the assassin. What was he thinking? Did he wake up this morning with the intention of killing me? Did the whole world collapse on him in one painful moment? Or did he just get up, stare into his oats and milk and say, “I think I’ll kill a prince today.”

Most likely it wasn’t the last one.

I set the knife on my black, painted desk, its thick wood covered with reports and troop listings. A map of the northwestern edge of the Gale Forest falls off the stack of papers. I ignore war plans for now, and stare out my window at the now dark city.

Steel City is huge, bigger than all the cities I’ve ever seen. It should be, though, it’s the capitol, the national center of the Kingdom of Grundar and the most heavily fortified place in the world. In my room near the upper levels of the Iron Palace, I walk onto my stone-inlaid porch and look out onto the city.

Steel City spreads out with large buildings over two miles in every direction. The streets weave through high and low structures and around large squares with colossal monuments in their center. The great Victory River pushes on forcefully through the quiet city, its mountain-fed and gloriously blue waters steadily curving past the citadel and zigzagging on and out the gates.

At the city’s center, a massive waterwheel towers above even the highest point in the palace. Its thin beams of stain-proofed steel spin through the Victory River. Its turning powers the looms, the mills, and the heavy hammers pounding even more metal for buildings and tools and weapons.

The clatter of the waterwheel and the clanging of the hammers gave a never-ending rhythm to the streets. It was an almost musical drive, like the rattling of a drum that marched the Grundarians onward.

Every day, workers in and out of the city would enter the factories the waterwheel powered. They would make their goods and then take their wages to the markets to feed their families.

But most of the factories are calm now. The workers have gone home, and the people are either sleeping or out with friends. And as far as I can see, none of them would feel any better if I was dead.

As I stare at the houses, the shops, and the farms out in the distance, a new thought occurs to me. The sameness, the unexciting feel from my journey across the kingdom, the assassination attempt, and an underlying suspicion I think I’ve always had comes up from some unknown part of my mind. “Something is wrong with this kingdom,” I say.

The burnt oak and iron-pegged door opens with a creak. There stands Len, my lanky and tanned aid. His frayed, blond hair clumps out over a thin-rimmed hat that looks surprisingly respectable with his well-cut clothes and laced shirt. Len steps in, opening the door barely enough to fit his small frame, and closes it. “Are you alright, Millar?” he asks, standing by the door. “You seemed distracted at dinner.”

Len’s grin makes me feel better as he joins me on the balcony. I lean on the cold railing as he stands with his head tilted, waiting for me to explain what’s been bothering me. “How long have you lived in Grundar, Len?” I ask.

“Fifteen years, two years after you were born. Your hair was a lot redder then. And I’d never think you’d grow taller than me,” Len says with a smile. I rub my brownish-red hair, common in Grundar, a little bit embarrassed. Len always encouraged me as I grew up, commenting on whenever I passed another inch on a ruler in height. I’m not terribly tall, a little above average, but the muscle I inherited from my father makes my height more impressive than most.

“I told you this, didn’t I?” Len says as he joins me, leaning on the railing.

Len’s a father himself, and competed with a host of others to be my Guardian. Only thirty-five, he’s the youngest Guardian to ever serve a Prince-Heir.

I turn to the city and stare for a few seconds at the Greatforge, its black smoke still spewing from the long tube of a chimney, towering over the western side of the city like a monument in itself.

The Greatforge has been working hard non-stop for months in preparation for the coming war on Nardor, the nation west of the Gale Forest. As the Prince-Heir of Grundar, I’ll be the one leading that war, since my father was injured in his last campaign in the northern provinces of Sever. It’s a great honor for me, being so young. But I’ve earned my father’s trust through campaigns in the bitter cold of his wars.

“And in all that time have you ever missed Mylea?” I ask, turning back to the ever-patient Len.

“Mylea? It’s a part of Grundar, Millar. How could I miss it?” Len asks.

“You know, don’t you miss things about Mylea? The culture, the people? It’s where you were born, isn’t there something you miss?” I ask, turning around and relaxing with my back on the railing.

Len stands beside me, his hands together on the railing. He blinks his blue eyes, the only physical trait we share, in thought.

“The people, the culture, that stuff’s not much different than in Steel City,” Len says, looking out at the massive waterwheel as if to confirm this. He nods. “Grundar took Nestte and the rest of Mylea hundreds of years ago.” He laughs. “We’ve assimilated so much we don’t even consider ourselves separate anymore. In fact, had we known about all the prosperity we’d achieve with being a part of Grundar, I don’t think we’d ever have fought. Do you miss Mylea?”

“No.” I pause.

I think about my journey across the kingdom. Len’s right. Mylea wasn’t much different from Grundar, though long ago it was. The cities of Nestte, Bershalem, Sever, Morandus, they all had streets and shops and an overall feel not much different than the city I look down upon now. All throughout that journey, I felt like I never left home, an eerie disorientation in places so distant from what they should be.

The Iron Palace is a giant, spike-tipped block of steel. It’s square-shaped on the lower levels, and gets smaller as it rises, like a multi-layered blade sticking out of the ground. Stone covers sporadic parts, but it’s mostly metal. So when I punch down on the railing out of disgust from this homely disorientation, the sound rings down to the first level. I stalk off the balcony and into my room, pacing as I ignore the pain and the blood.

Len slowly steps inside with his arms behind his back. “Should I get some wrappings for your hand?” he asks calmly.

Gritting my teeth, I say, “No. It’ll stop soon.”

“Good, then you can stop now. Tell me what’s making you so upset. It’s not that girl again, is it?”

I rub my hand, feeling the pain subside and the bleeding slow.

I shake my head at Len and quickly walk over to the desk and pick up the knife. “No, Len, I gave up on her before the trip. This is what,” I say, and hold out the simple little blade with the dark wooden handle.

Len looks at the knife, then turns his eyes to me without saying anything.

“Yes, and what about the hunting knife?” he asks after I don’t continue.

“Someone threw this at me this afternoon,” I say.

Len’s eyes go wide. “They tried to kill you?”

“No, they wanted to invite me to a party. They’ve gotten a little creative with the invitations this year — of course to kill me!” I throw the knife across the room. It thunks into my door, solidly protruding from the red and black wood.

Len walks over slowly, his feet making light tap-tap sounds on the tiled floor, and frees the knife after one solid pull. It comes out with barely a noise, and Len turns it over in his hands, examining it.

Without looking at me, he says, “Sarcasm isn’t going to make things easier. I can’t recognize this blade type. It’s definitely not Nardoran, or Severine. Those are the only two nations left on this continent, and the wild tribes to the west wouldn’t care to send an assass—”

“The assassin was a Grundarin,” I say, and tap my fingers on the desk. “I got a good look at him right before he threw it. He was an old man with a red beard. And he had pure, hate-filled eyes.”

“Maybe that’s why he missed. I’ve heard hate can really throw off your depth perception,” Len says.

I can’t resist a quick chuckle.

“This isn’t funny, Len,” I say, stopping the laugh.

“Of course not,” Len agrees. “Okay, then let’s look at this analytically. Someone tried to kill you. They must have had a motivation. Most likely it was a Grundarin hired by Nardor or some Sever family with a grudge. And there is a solution: we increase your guard while searching for the man you described. The kingdom won’t even have to worry about it, and you can go on without another thought to this. I’ll tell the Citadel Captain right now.”

“Len, stop.”

Len halts mid-step and turns around.

“It’s not that he tried to kill me,” I say. “I’m royalty, I’m bound to have at least one person try to kill me in my lifetime. Heck, my father had three assassins come at him when we attacked Sever’s northern provinces. What I can’t get across was… he was Grundarin.”

“A hired assassin,” Len says.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I shake my head. “He was old, and there was a look of more than just a professional in his eyes. He wanted to kill me. I could almost feel it.”

Len pauses, trying to work his mind around this concept. “Why would a Grundarin want you dead?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. And it’s brought to light something that’s been building up in my mind since we left for our trip around the kingdom. He wanted to kill me, for one reason or another, because he was dissatisfied with Grundar.”

Len laughs and says, “Dissatisfied with wealth, peace and safety in the cities, healthy people all over the kingdom, and an army that hasn’t allowed anyone into our borders for a hundred years! This is the nation that is dissatisfying?” Len shakes his head and laughs again, looking at the knife as if it were an anomaly, an object that simply couldn’t exist.

“Come here, let me show you something,” Len says, and walks over to the balcony.

I follow.

“There, look there,” Len says, pointing to the shores of the river. About half a mile from the palace is a lantern. Sitting next to the lantern, kicking his feet against the stone bank of the river, sits a man with a fishing pole. “That is Jules Garnell. He’s a retired carpenter from Gale. He came here fifty years ago, found little work but enough to keep his family going. He’s probably the poorest person in the entire kingdom.”

I can barely see the man’s clothing. By its tattered look, Len’s right.

“But he’s one of the happiest. He’s getting his retirement pension, he’s healthy, and his family sees him all the time. If this lowly man, who spends his days and many nights fishing, can be happy and well-looked after, then who in the kingdom would be dissatisfied with that?” Len says, and laughs once more.

I walk over to Len and take the knife out of his hands. “I am dissatisfied as well,” I say, and walk back to my desk. I sit down with a sigh, and rest my head in my hand.

Len stops laughing and clears his throat. “Alright.” He walks over and pulls out a stool to sit down next to me. “What’s there to be dissatisfied with?”

I stare into my hand, fiddling with the knife. After a while of desperately searching for the words, I eventually give up and say, “I don’t know.”

The chimes of the citadel clock ring ten o’clock, a piercing noise that travels all over the city like the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. The echo from this massive timepiece, halfway up the citadel and just beneath the main balcony, spreads all throughout the city. It’s the only addition to the Iron Palace in its long history. Its powerful sound gives me little comfort, and only reminds me of the clock chimes of Grundar’s other cities, all ringing the same unfeeling tone.

“Listen,” Len says as the chimes die off, “you’ve just had a tough experience. You’ve been home less than a month and have the impending war to worry about. That army camp outside the city keeps clamoring for you to lead them to glory again. Obviously, you’re going through a lot right now and that’s normal. Passing feelings like these are just that, passing feelings. I think the best thing for you right now would be some rest.” Len rises and walks to the door.

“But I know youth, and how things like this can seem the most important thing in the world. So I’ll leave you with your thoughts,” Len says. He opens the door and takes one last look at me before leaving, giving me a nod of encouragement.

He closes the door behind him, and I know that he’ll check up on how I’m feeling in the morning. Good old Len.

I look at the knife again. “Maybe I am just making too much out of this. Peace, prosperity, happiness, these are the things nations have to make. And we’ve done that,” I say, and laugh as I put the knife into a desk drawer. “You missed.”

There’s a knock at my door as I stand up, feeling better. “Yes?” I ask.

Len sticks his head through the door. “I was just thinking of how to cheer you up, and I thought of the first steel blade,” Len says.

“The story?”

“It was always your favorite. And I figured that hearing some of Grundar’s history might make you feel a little better.”

I think about this, and slowly nod my head. “Yes, yes I think a little tale of historic glory would be just the thing right now. Is there a storyteller around?” I ask.

“I’ll look for one,” Len says, and exits again.

I light another candle and pour a cup of water for the storyteller. I haven’t heard a good story in a very long time. This should be entertaining.

History is exciting, and reading about past glories is always enjoyable. But there’s something much more enthralling about hearing a story the way a Grundarin storyteller strings it. They can make you feel like you’re really there, seeing these great events of Grundar’s past first-hand.

After having a drink myself, I patiently wait for the storyteller to arrive. The whole time I pace around and my excitement builds. “I wonder if he’ll tell the story about Suldar and the Crimson Charge, or the conquest of Shalem. Maybe it will be something new. Hmm, I haven’t heard one in so long I guess anything will seem new,” I say, and laugh at how childish I feel.

The door creaks loudly and I turn to see it open. It slowly moves and reveals an empty hallway, extending into the lit rooms my family members occupy.

“Huh?” I say, and walk over to the door. All I can see is the long hallway and two guards sitting at a table in the middle. They’re eating bread and cooked chicken.

“Excuse me,” I say.

The guards look up, eager to help.

“Did you see someone?” I ask.

“No, greatness,” one of the guards, Beln Mason if I recall, replies.

The other, Keller Horshand, shakes his head.

“Would you like us to find someone for you? Or look for him?” Keller suggests.

“No, that’s fine. As you were,” I say, and pull the door closed.

When I turn around, I see an old man standing in the middle of my room, staring at the bare walls.

“Hey! How’d you get in here?” I ask. I stride over to the man and look down at him, waiting for an answer.

He doesn’t respond. He just slowly scans the room, as if surveying every bit of the wall, every fabric of the curtains, and every cold tile on the floor.

“Who are you and how did I not see you come in?” I ask again, this time crossing my arms.

The man continues to just look around.

I clear my throat, impatiently trying to get his attention. He’s got a sort of crouch and has his hands are clasped behind his back, as if holding himself up. His clothes don’t look like anything I’ve ever seen before, including his dark brown, hooded cloak.

Apparently satisfied with the room, he turns his attention on me.

“I’m giving you two seconds to tell me who you are before I send you out of here,” I say as the man strokes his wispy, gray beard and squints his large, green eyes at me. I can’t quite place where he’s from. He must be a mix. I can usually tell mixes even five generations old, but this man seems beyond that. “One.”

“I have yet to see a prince with such feeble accommodations,” the old man blurts out. His haggard voice sounds travel-worn and dusty. It has a piercing quality that grabs my attention so suddenly I barely hold my shock. “You stand to inherit a great kingdom, yet you live like a common tailor. It’s quite pathetic, actually.”

I can’t help but laugh. “What?”

“You seem to be a man of great valor, young Prince Millar Grundarin. Tell me, why is it you are so troubled this night?” the man asks.

“Ah, so you’re the storyteller then.”

“Humble and clever. I’m sure the nation will be very proud to have such a wonderfully insightful man at their lead one day,” the man says with a bow, his eyes wide and never leaving mine.

I laugh again. This one is interesting. He may be a bit strange, but he’s very interesting. “I was hoping they’d send someone with a little flare. You do talk funny, though,” I say, and sit down in the creaking wooden chair at my desk.

There’s a sudden pain in my chest, and I look down in shock to see the old man’s wrinkled finger jabbing me.

“My mode of speech is not a matter of mockery!” he snarls as he stabs me repeatedly with his fingernail.

“Ah, oh, oke, okay!” I say as I try to push away his finger and he deftly avoids my attempts.

After a good seven or so pokes, he pulls away and takes a slow, deep breath. He stares down, as if wondering if I’m worthy for him to go on with.

“I can take a joke, but don’t do that again,” I say, ignoring the urge to rub my ribs.

“As long as we are clear that I am the teacher here and you are the eager and ignorant pupil,” the old man says. He scans the room again, as if he feels he might have missed something in his first look. He begins a slow pace around the room with his hand delicately rubbing his chin.

When he walks, his head stays completely still, but the rest of his body seems uncontrolled and flimsy. His legs move awkwardly in a not-quite-drunk but very unbalanced way. His body flails about as if it were always falling down a hill. Yet the whole time, his head stays completely still, as if he’s so deep in his thoughts that his body is moving without his control.

I laugh at him again. “That’s fine and all, but you have to admit you walk weird too,” I say without thinking as I relax in the chair.

“Weirdly, strangely, abnormally,” the old man recites to the air. “These are all descriptions I can feel secure and happy in.” He suddenly turns to me. “But do not use improper speech when giving it!”

That’s the second time he’s directly insulted me and it’s starting to get old. “You’re either a very angry old man or you’ve lost your mind. Not that I’m upset, it’s just new for someone treat me unfriendly,” I say, and lean the chair on its back legs, my hands behind my head.

The man comes close and says, “This prince does not need any more friends. What you need, Prince Millar, is an enemy.” He pulls my chair down and I come to the floor with a thud. “Sit.” He points to the square chest at the foot of my bed.

“You know, I’m actually kind of tired. I think I’ll skip the story tonight,” I say, and stand up, incredibly annoyed.

“Oh really,” the man says, pretending to be curious.

“Yes,” I say a bit too defensively. “I’ve had a very hard day.”

The man says nothing, simply stands and nods, rubbing his chin. “As hard as this?” He pulls his sleeve back to reveal a long, red scar running down the side of his left arm. “Or this?” He pulls his pant-leg up to show me a dark, circular scar. “Or even this?” The old man traces a line from his gray head down the side of his neck, lining parts of a partially visible white line.

Each scar is unique, and like something I’ve never seen. Burn marks aren’t that dark, slashing weapons don’t leave so deep a cut, and I have no idea what could make that white line.

“But this, this was the worst day of them all,” he says, and slowly pats his chest over his heart as he stares into my eyes.

I clear my throat. “Can you tell me about the white scar?” I ask, and casually sit down on the chest.

“Maybe,” he continues, and speaks quickly, walking around the room. “I don’t much like the tales of my life. I prefer the thrills and adventures of others. So where do we begin, eh? Shall you listen to the founding of Sevens? Will I tell you of Priman and the Ancestors and the great war? Or maybe you’d like to know why the Sevens Prophets hid their power after the war.”

He stops and waits for me to respond, his hands clasped in front.

“Sevens? Priman? I thought Len sent for someone to tell me the history of Grundar,” I say, blinking in confusion.

“History is simply what is in the past. And since all past events lead to one another, yes, this is a part of Grundar’s history,” the old man says.

“A new one, eh? What’s your name, storyteller?”

“Eelian,” the old man says in a whisper. Then he continues in his normal, broad tone, as if wanting to forget he’d said his name. “Please, silence yourself as I begin the tale. I say tale because to call this a story would be understating its depth. It is not a tale for the close-minded, or those who are not willing to see something never before seen.”

He moves his hands as if he’s about to start a melodrama. His entrancing voice pulls me in to whatever he says. Then he pauses, looking down at me as if waiting for me to stop him. When I don’t do anything but sit and stare, he nods, satisfied, and continues.

“We begin with The Ambassador, a tale of discovery when a young boy learns that the world is not as big as he thought,” Eelian says.

“A boy?” I say. “I thought I was going to hear history not…”

Eelian moves so fast I can’t react, and slaps me right across the face.

“Hey!” I say.

He slaps me again.

“Stop.”

Again.

“Will—”

Again.

“Do you—”

And again as I vainly put my hands up to stop him.

“Okay,” I say, and one last slap sends me rolling off the chest with a clatter. I wipe a tiny bit of blood from my lip and glare at the crazy old man.

“Do not interrupt the tale!” he shouts.

For a moment, I only stare with wide eyes, hoping that I can move if he tries to hit me again. Impatiently, he comes over and sets me back on top of the chest.

“The tale is long, but it must continue without ceasing,” he says. “And as for it concerning a young boy, it is right for you.”

It’s as if I’m in a trance. He spins his words and swiftly wipes the trickle of blood from my lip.

“You must begin as a child, Millar,” Eelian says. “You are completely relearning all that you have ever known about the universe. And as a child, you must see this new thing. Then, maybe, after you have learned, and maybe after you have seen these new things, you will be ready to learn the true history of Grundar.”