Harin pushed back his hood, running his hand through his freshly cut hair.

He liked to cut his hair before he left the city, allowing for it’s growth to mark time for him.

“Sire, General Galis would not approve of you being out in the public with just myself at your side,” Brago asked.

Harin muttered, looking around the small Inn he’d stopped at. The smell of food had caught his attention, the wafting steam of stew from the windows of the place had made his mouth water. He could taste the savoury on the air.

“What was that sire?” Brago whispered.

“Galis is already on thin ice. I don’t need a general telling me where to go and what I can do Brago. Why would a king want that?”

“Sire, I will have to tell him the truth of it,” Brago said.

“Stop calling me that,” Harin said. Lowering his voice.

“Sire,” Brago pleaded.

Harin felt his face flush. “Brago, enough!” He hissed. “I do not need to be recognized out here,”

Brago went rigid.

Harin let out a breath, his anger at the Council, the Church spilling into his mind on this fine day. He looked up at the sun and closed his eyes, letting the rays bathe his face. He knew that he was putting his Legate in a bad position with the General of the Praetorian Legion. “I’m sorry Brago,”

Brago kept his face impassive but his lips were pursed.

“My father, the Council,” Harin said by way of explanation.

Two shouting children could be heard from a window above the main floor. Harin looked up, the shout of a woman following it, silencing the children's squabble.

“My mother was harsh too,” Brago mused.

“I wish there were another answer,”

“I understand sire, if I could speak freely?”

Harin nodded to his Praetorian.

“Sire, we must appease the Council. The Compact ties us to them in more ways than one. They control the south, the movement of food and goods,”

Harin narrowed his eyes. “Not just a simple soldier, are you Brago?”

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Brago laughed. “I am a simple man, but I have ears,”

Harin watched the people flow down the street around them. The Inn was on a corner in the center of Landor’s business district. The rich dined here with the poor. The working men and women of Landor moved through their day, from their homes to their work, then back to their families.

He envied them, the peace of it. No decisions to make, no pressure of war or famine. He could feel the crown atop his head even now, remembering what his grandfather, Kallen had said to him when he placed it atop his head. “You will feel the weight of the crown as it if were the nation itself. Do not let it crush your humanity my boy.”

“If my father had simply moved his legions, we would not have to march ours to Skellen,” Harin complained.

A waiter came to the table, interrupting them. She was young, her hair pulled back, the telltale bags under her eyes of a woman who’d stayed up all night raising children.

Harin smiled, her sweet voice a match to the earlier shouts.

“Two ales, please,” Brago ordered, passing the young lady two coins.

The young lady came back a moment later, Harin and Brago enjoying the peace of waiting.

Harin had always

“You must fight for Landor, and we must appease the Council. Can we not send the Eighth?” Brago asked.

Harin chuckled. “If it were only a Legion they looked for, yes. But they do not only look for a Legion Brago. They want a Sunborn. They want my father or me at the Skellen Pass,”

“Does that not leave Landor unprotected? What of the Capitol?” Brago asked.

Harin had always spent the days before campaign in the Capitol. The short hair had allowed him to go unnoticed by most. His clothes simple, Brago’s as well. If anyone were to give them a second look, they’d appear two normal men about the city. He soaked it in, the place, the smells, the people. He needed to remember why he did it, what he fought for. His weapons were not knives and swords, but legions and words. He fought to protect this place, his nation from the real wolves.

And they always came for blood. The crown too rich an opportunity.

“General’s Hasper and Eris are in the west, on patrols. None will challenge the nation while I am away. Not with Dragh in the south, whatever the pit he’d doing,” Harin said.

Harin picked up his ale, taking a long drink and wiping foam from his face.

“Good ale, this,” Harin said.

Brago grunted, his brows knitted.

“Ask, we are just two men enjoying a sunny day in Landor Brago,”

“Yes, S- “ Brago caught himself and stopped before he said sire again. “If I may, you fight for the soul of this palace, it’s people, if we do not heed the Council, we will end up in another war, perhaps of their making,”

“Thank you Brago,” Harin said, a smile pulling at his face.

Brago took a breath. “Your father, he fights for this places heart. Your mother, she was loved by the people of Landor. She was of the people, her father a merchant, her story well known to all in the realm. Whoever killed her, whoever your father hunts, I hope he kills them. What he does, he does with the vengeance of the nation. The heart of the nation. Our enemies must know that if they strike at us, at the Sunborn, there is no force on earth that will stop us from our revenge,”

Harin sat back in his chair, seeing his Praetorian, truly seeing him for the first time.

The heart of the nation. He’d never considered it. He’d thought his father vengeful and arrogant. But, perhaps his father did what he did out of love, some version at least.

Brago began to turn red under Harin’s scrutiny. He fidget with his mug of ale, not meeting Harin’s eye.

“Thank you Brago,” Harin said putting his hand out across the small wooden table.

Brago looked up in surprise. “Thank you?”

Harin chuckled. “You taught me something today. Something that I’d not know before,”

“What’s that sire?” Brago asked.

Harin corked an eyebrow. “That this place needs my father, as much as it needs me. That Landor may need it’s revenge more than I do,”

Brago gave a tight smile. “The nation loves you sire, but your father, the people love him too,”

“Indeed Brago, they must,” Harin said, looking around at the people on the street.

Harin picked up his ale and drank the rest of the mug.

—--

Brago and Harin made their way to the back entrance to the castle of Landor, a single wooden door striped with steel. One guard stood at attention as they approached, lazy, leaning back on the castle walls.

The young man, his face still had sparse peach fuzz on it. He finally noticed the King and the head of the Praetorian guard walking towards him. The guard pushed himself up, grabbing at his spear leaning on the wall.

“Sire!” He shouted to Harin, snapping a quick salute and fumbling his spear.

Harin kept his face calm, trying not to laugh at the young man. He remembered his crowing day, his grandfather and father had been on the dais looking down on him. All of Landor’s nobles had stood in the throne room, packed wall to wall. A small walkway between them down the center. He’d felt his nerves then, just like this young man.

“Open the door, solider,” Brago said to the young man.

“Yes sir, sorry sir,” The young man said, knocking on the door and giving the day’s password to the man inside.

Most of the castle’s doors only opened from within. Which made the castle safe from intruders. But, Harin thought, only safe from those without, those within were the ones that you always had to worry about.

The door opened quietly, the rolled iron barrel hinges were well oiled.

Harin nodded his thanks to the guards on both sides of the door. If they’d thought it odd that the king was entering the back of his own castle, they said nothing.