Dahlia couldn’t help but enjoy the winds of Frost, its chilly breeze brushing against her cloak. The cold stung her cheeks and numbed her nose, but it was refreshing regardless. She had always enjoyed the cold, even when it was close to dangerous levels. It was a strange preference, one that baffled even James. Perhaps the comfort came from its inevitability. Death came for all, and with it, its cold embrace. Dahlia had accepted long ago that it would come for her and all she knew. The wind was a reminder of it, a small taste of what awaited her after her long journey. It was almost comforting to know that.
Dahlia stopped her walk in the woods, allowing her party to trudge ahead as she glanced over at James. Despite her morbid acceptance of death, she could not feel the same about him.
The man from another world. The Outlander. The Jarl. The Draugr.
James was someone she wanted more than anyone to stay alive. He was everything to her and had done so much for her. The last thing she wanted was to lose him. Dahlia wasn’t sure why she felt so valiantly for him. Why her heart skipped beats whenever he glanced her way. Why she was obsessed with the glint in those dark blue eyes.
She must have been staring for too long since James glanced back at her with a raised eyebrow. Dahlia quickly turned away, her cheeks burning as she continued her walk.
James was the opposite when it came to death. He wasn’t so accepting of fate. Who could blame him? He had experienced death twice already and had come so close to losing it all. He knew better than anyone how terrifying it was to be on that brink, to come so close to the other side. Dahlia wasn’t sure why she was so callous about her own fate, but she was obsessed with keeping James alive. She had done so much just to save him, including possibly endangering the whole world.
‘Is this what love does? No, that’s stupid to think about.’
Dahlia felt her cheeks burn even hotter, the thought of her feelings for the outlander being the sole cause. Why was she so embarrassed by such thoughts? Perhaps she was overthinking things. Perhaps she was–
“Dahlia?” James asked suddenly. Dahlia had to hold the urge to make a sound out of surprise, her right hand moving to brush at her hair. It was also to hide the fact she was blushing.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Think there’s anything useful left at the vault?” he wondered aloud. Dahlia narrowed her brow. She wondered why he wasn’t asking this to someone like Lowe or Falrick, people who were knowledgeable about the vault. She looked at the two men, only to see them conversing quietly at the front. They were speaking, but the words were still inaudible and in the form of hushed muttering. It was clear they were having a private conversation.
“Probably not,” Dahlia answered. “It’s where the fire originally started, no? The same one that burnt half the island to cinders.”
“To be fair,” Seamus spoke up. “The roof caved in not long after. Chances are that prevented the vault’s contents from being set aflame.”
“Was there anything of note in there?” James asked.
“A couple statues, paintings, old potions,” Seamus thoughtfully tapped at his chin as he recounted. “Armor, weapons, and a crate load of valdoras. But again, there’s a good chance that it’s all melted down to useless scrap.”
“With some luck, perhaps those valdoras are still there,” Dahlia murmured. As convenient as weapons and armor were, money was something that could help in their ventures tremendously.
The White Raven clan was already raking in money from both Elaine’s plays and the increased traffic in Yorktown’s marketplace. Arenian traders brought in a steady flow of income for the town, but it was barely enough to pay for the services of Horuk’s orcs, raven soldiers, town defenses, and other clan-related costs. Some extra money would give them some breathing room.
“How’s the brewing?” Dahlia asked suddenly. She recalled that James was trying to jumpstart ‘Bjorn’s Liquors and Beers’ into a profitable business. The problem was that it was downright impossible for James to replicate the late dwarf’s brew. Bjorn didn’t exactly leave behind detailed instructions on his process.
“Not well,” James admitted. “It’s harder than I expected, and Faust isn’t much help. Turns out, he’s a complete lightweight when it comes to alcohol.”
Dahlia saw how James’ face contorted into a furrowed look, his eyes gazing off to the sky as he sighed. She could tell that he was having an enlightened conversation with the spirit.
“Faust not happy?” she prodded.
“He’s more of a wine guy,” James responded. “Hard liquor is where he draws his line.”
“Is Rockford any help?” Dahlia asked. She recalled Nathan recommending that the dwarf help out with the brewing.
“Kind of? The stuff he makes is better than mine, but it’s not enough for the market,” James said. “We need something strong but tolerable. Bjorn’s brew was perfect, even when we watered it down.”
“I might know a few men who could help with your liquor business,” Falrick said. Everyone turned to the Wizard, who was walking in stride with Lowe despite the rocky terrain.
“You do?” James asked. “You haven’t mentioned this earlier, why?”
“Because the men I recommend are in Redyr territory. They live in Haven,” Falrick revealed. “After what you pulled after the Midsommar festival, I was doubtful that Frue Margeret herself would be willing to allow you in her waters, let alone her towns and cities.”
James cringed at that. “Right.”
“Did they get back to you?” Dahlia asked. “Redyr? I haven’t heard anything these past months from them.”
After James forced most of Vindis’ shareholders into a pact, there was some commotion in the north. Mainly because James’ clan was so small yet had done so much in such a short time. He was an Outlander with little to no claims and connections. Despite that, he had managed to build up a clan from the remnants of Aldren and orc outcasts, forming a force that was enough to hold its own during the Battle of Vindis.
James had more than made a name for himself, and Dahlia knew it made the other clans nervous. Aside from one, that is. Redyr was the only clan that didn’t have to conform to the pact fully. That was because they had sent a simple advisor as their emissary, unlike Vulpesson and Olafson, who had sent their heirs to meet up with James. Even Villtur’s Jarl was among those who came. That allowed James to force these clans into pacts that allowed him to hold a stake in Vindis without resistance.
Redyr, on the other hand, was not among the ones forced into it. It was initially a problem at first since it meant Redyr’s Frue could resist and push back against James’ deal. Yet they didn’t. Instead, Frue Margeret had sent James the papers for her stake in Vindis, allowing the young Jarl to complete his takeover of the city.
As for the reason why, there currently wasn’t one. Dahlia herself felt it strange that the leader of one of the more powerful clans in Valenfrost would just cooperate so easily. Not that it wasn’t a good thing but Dahlia herself knew better than to accept blind faith and luck. There was some ulterior motive behind it, she knew it. What it was exactly was up for debate and speculation.
“No,” James answered her question. “They haven’t.”
He looked more than a bit nervous, too. It was clear that Dahlia wasn’t the only one who thought this was strange.
“Well, you do have a meeting this week with Vindis’ council. Perhaps Redyr’s emissary shall make an appearance there,” Dahlia pointed out.
“Here’s to hoping,” James muttered as he rubbed his eyes.
Just as Dahlia was about to speak a few comforting words to the stressed Jarl, the terrain below here changed from ashy dirt and snow to the telltale scrunch of gravel. Before she could question it, she collided with Seamus. She nearly fell over as a result, her foot nearly losing purchase upon the gravel below.
Dahlia was about to say something before she realized that the entire party had stopped there and then, their gazes fixed ahead. She turned to what was ahead, her voice dying in her throat. Before them all were fallen Vern trees, their burnt logs facing eastward, almost as if they had all been pushed by the same force from the same direction.
Dahlia’s gaze moved to the source of said force, her eyes blinking at the sight. Before them was what looked like a sinkhole in the ground, its crater extending for hundreds of meters. Upon closer inspection, she could see the remnants of what looked to be an underground structure, the smooth stone walls peeking out from under the collapsed dirt and ash.
“Looks like we’re here,” Seamus called back. “Welcome to the vault. Or what’s left of it.”
----------------------------------------
James kicked over a bit of some rubble as he looked around the remnants of the vault. While the damage was enough to cave in half the underground bunker, he was surprised to see how much of it was still left. So far, the front half of the vault took on most of the explosion’s damage, leaving stone and dirt to cave in most of it.
James could spot remnants of the vault amongst the damage. Burnt paintings, destroyed statues, bits and pieces of armor and weaponry. It was all useless, unfortunately. Whatever didn’t burn was either melted to useless scrap or scorched beyond recognition. Only their shapes gave a vague sense of what they used to be.
Short to say, this half of the bunker was destroyed beyond any use. The second half of the vault, on the other hand, was surprisingly intact.
At least as intact as it could be.
It was all blocked off by rubble, leaving it sealed off to the outside world. Leaving no way to reach it without magic means. Thankfully, however, they had brought a Wizard with them.
“Levitate!” Falrick’s voice reverberated with power as he cast his spell. He struggled as he formed the runes with his hands, his prosthetic struggling to keep up. Regardless, the Wizard’s spell was true, and its magic worked.
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James watched as the huge pieces of rock and ceiling glowed a bright purple. They shuddered in response as the Wizard’s magic took hold, dirt, and ash falling off as a result. Falrick physically struggled as he raised his arms, the rubble before him lifting into the air.
With a slow, methodical motion, the Wizard guided the huge rocks to the side. They shook and wavered, almost like they were going to fall. James could see how both Dahlia and Seamus took a few steps back. Lowe was the only one amongst them who didn’t budge.
James himself found his feet, taking a few instinctual steps back despite being a good distance away from the floating rubble. It wasn’t that he doubted the Wizard. He just didn’t trust the cheap iron hand he was using to constantly form runes.
Despite this, Falirck’s motions were nearly flawless. He gracefully set the pieces of rubble down not long after lifting them, the rocks barely making a noise as they rested nearby. The Wizard exhaled right after that, his breaths short and ragged.
“Should be clear!” he called out right after.
James squinted at the darkness that was revealed from the Wizard’s spell. He could barely see a damn thing.
“Dahlia?” he called out.
“Candlelight,” Dahlia casted, her voice followed by a small orb of light that floated placidly into the vault's darkness. James followed the orb, its luminance growing as it went deeper into the ruins. Another casting later, James was accompanied by two of the magical lights, their radiance illuminating everything properly.
James almost expected to see something similar to what he saw in the first half of the vault—broken and destroyed ruins with little to recover. Instead, he was witness to what looked like an entirely different place. This part of the vault was spacious, its ceiling still intact, and its contents almost untouched.
Statues, weapons, and crates of items were all still intact. Some of it was scattered and dinged up, but still there. James focused on one of the statues, his eyes gazing over the masonry. It depicted a young woman in steel armor—lumen-made—her right arm raising a sword to the skies. The white stone was stained with ash and dust, with signs of age visible everywhere. It even had its left arm missing.
“Jenis Kord,” James read the plaque, which was surprisingly readable. “Bane of Dorinfal.”
‘Kord.’
The name rang an unpleasant bell in his head. James did not have any good memories of the Kord family. Not when he had front-row seats to their history in the form of Faust’s memories. Whether it be from when he watched Eobard Kord decapitate him or when he had brutally killed Leonard Kord without mercy, James did not associate their name with anything pleasant.
‘That one must be after my time,’ Faust muttered at the statue. ‘Don’t remember her at all.’
“Ah yes, I remember that story,” Falrick called out as he stepped into the dim vault with Dahlia and Seamus. Lowe quickly followed right after the Wizard.
“Jenis Kord was one of the few who sought to destroy the wishing shrine when it appeared the second time,” Falrick said. He rubbed his beard as he examined the statue, almost as if he was reminiscing.
“Did she succeed?” James asked. He recalled the story of the wishing shrine. A powerful artifact that was capable of granting even the most dangerous of vices. He knew it had been destroyed a long time ago but knew little of the details around that.
“No,” Falrick said simply. “Despite her efforts, she failed. There isn’t much about her other than what Lumen scribes have written about her downfall. When she died fighting the Lords of Dorinfal.”
“How do you know about her?” Dahlia asked as she approached the statue. She brushed some dust away from the plaque.
“Believe it or not, I used to live in Lumen City,” Falrick revealed with a chuckle. “Studied there in my time as an apprentice. Jenis Kord and her family tree are much more well-known there than here in Valenfrost.”
“You’re Azurvalian?” James raised an eyebrow at that. He turned to the Wizard, trying to see if he could spot any defining features.
“Can’t you tell from my azure eyes and blond locks?” Falrick joked with a grin, his hand brushing his near-white hair back. While it was dark in the vault, James could clearly see that Falrick’s eyes were a very dark green, their tint bordering on black. He could also spot the faint streaks of black in his beard as well. He had the features of Valenfrost’s nomads.
“I was born to Valian parents and adopted by Lumen nobles,” the Wizard explained right after, almost as if he could hear the question that appeared in James’ mind. “Studied to be a Wizard before I sought out knowledge and power in Valenfrost. A story as old as time.”
“I feel like there’s more to that,” James prodded.
“There is. However, that is all you’re getting for the time being,” Falrick said. There was a hint of a smug smile on the Wizard’s lips. “For now, I shall busy myself with making sure this vault is secure enough for the artifact.”
With that said, the Wizard went off to do his thing, Lowe following closely behind. James turned to his friends, who were busy examining the contents that had survived. Dahlia was checking crates, peering through them in search of loot. Seamus was focused on another part of the vault, his focus on some of the paintings that were scattered around.
“Was your dad a patron of the arts or something?” James asked as he approached the younger man. Seamus glanced back at James, his shoulders shrugging.
“I think these were more for my mother than him,” he answered. “She always loved paintings. Especially ones that captured moments of the past.”
Seamus picked one of the canvases up, his hands propping the frame upright so that James could examine it.
It depicted rolling green fields, a beautifully painted sky, and a forest behind it. There was even a distant city of silver in the far background. The painting gave James an unexpected sense of nostalgia, bringing up memories of when he was looking at a similar visage.
James looked down at the painting’s name, engraved at the frame's bottom.
‘Lumen Province, Azurvale. Age 400.’
He almost wanted to chuckle.
‘Funny. The perfect setting for fantasy. One that pretty much screams cliche. Shame I’ll never be able to experience it for myself.’
That left a bitter taste in his mouth. As much as he hated to admit it, James knew he would never be able to visit Azurvale. Not when there was an entire kingdom there that was more than ready to kill him on sight. For the foreseeable future, James was stuck in Valenfrost.
‘Not really. I mean, I can always go visit Areno.’
While true, there was some doubt in that. James had a clan to run and politics to wade through. There was no time to go traveling and vacationing.
“Are there any other paintings?” James asked. He broke his gaze from the painting in front of him. Now wasn’t the time to sully over missed opportunities. Before he could give Seamus a chance to say anything, James’ eyes passed over one particular canvas. He stopped dead in his tracks, his focus on it.
“James?” Seamus asked.
James didn’t answer as he picked up the framed painting. It was half destroyed, the top half of its canvas scorched. Still, James could make out the guy depicted in it. He wore chainmail over a dark-colored gambeson, his gear light and bare. He had a wolf insignia on his belt, the symbol eerily familiar. Half of the man’s face was gone due to the burnt canvas, leaving only the bottom half of his face and shoulder.
He had blond hair, paler than James’ own. It was messy and long, his braided rattail resting on his shoulder. He bore a wide grin, his beard almost as shaggy as his head hair.
“Are you alright?” Seamus prodded, his finger poking at James’ shoulder.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” James muttered. He looked down at the painting’s name, half of which was scratched out. There was only one word left.
“Blyth,” James read aloud.
‘The wolf clan?’ Faust asked. Both Centurion and Earthling recalled the stories and rumors of the fallen clan, which had once been prolific in Valenfrost. James recalled what he had learned about Blyth, which was minimal, to say the least. He only knew of their downfall, which had happened a few years before the Outsider Wars. Which was roughly thirty years ago.
“Is that…?” Falrick’s voice called out.
“Do you know him?” James asked.
“That is Einar Blyth,” Falrick muttered. “Former ally of Yorn. Never knew he had a painting of him done.”
The Wizard approached the painting of Einar, his hands touching the burnt parts of the canvas. He frowned.
“A shame that his only legacy doesn’t even show his face,” Falrick sighed.
James could see what looked to be a hint of sorrow in the old Wizard’s eyes, which prompted a question from him.
“What was he like?” James asked. He didn’t know why, but he felt compelled by the canvas. Einar didn’t even seem all too interesting, yet the aura and sense of familiarity from the painting urged his curiosity in a way he didn’t expect.
“Before or after his clan was wiped?” Falrick answered almost callously.
“Both,” James muttered without thinking. He regretted answering instantly since it made it seem like he didn’t care much for the Wizard’s feelings about the man. Regardless, Falrick didn’t seem to mind.
“Well, he was once an idiot. Heir to the Blyth clan itself. Squandered everything his family had built up,” Falrick explained. “Still, he wasn’t a bad man. If anything, he was a good example for Yorn.”
“Example?” Seamus questioned. “My father?”
“Yes, your father. Yorn Halvorson himself looked up to Einar like an older brother,” Falrick chuckled. “They had become friends back in their younger days, not far from your own age, Seamus. Back before Kjor went on his rampage across the north.”
Falrick’s expression faltered at the memory, his gaze moving back to the painting of Einar.
“Einar and Yorn were brothers essentially. He even assisted the younger Halvorson in taking down Kjor when he was at the height of power. Einar had even gotten his own clan to help, becoming a Jarl in the process. They weren’t easy to convince either. Einar did his damndest to regain their faith, to prove to them that he wasn’t a useless drunk.” Falrick recalled all of this with a look of guilt, his fingers rubbing at his eyes.
“The bards say Yorn won that fight all on his lonesome, his support near to nil. What they won’t tell you is that the Blyth clan was right behind him, giving their lives to get past Kjor’s own forces and allies,” Falrick recounted. “If it wasn’t for Einar, Yorn wouldn’t have become what he was. Without the Blyth clan, the Halvorson clan would not have existed.”
The Wizard was quiet after that, his gaze fixed on the burnt painting.
“I’m guessing his clan fell not that long after?” James asked quietly.
Falrick took a deep breath before he answered. “Blyth suffered heavy losses from the small war they waged against Kjor. Because of this, they were left vulnerable. Enough for some damnable clan from the south continent of Atrox to come and ransack their islands. No one could do anything. Yorn barely had any way to help, and the other clans were still recovering from Kjor’s reign. Blyth was left to burn.
“By some cursed twist of fate, Einar was the only one to survive the purging. As a result, he became a bitter, angry, and violent drunk. He frequented the bars in Vindis and Bernis, drinking away his sorrows and regrets,” Falrick sighed. “Of course, Yorn tried to help. We even offered to take him into the Halvorson clan. He rejected all of our offers. Only wanted to be left alone.”
“What happened to him?” James prodded. He was invested in the story of the fallen man, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“He’s dead,” Falrick said simply. “At least, that’s the only logical explanation. I haven’t seen or heard from him in nearly thirty years. Safe to say he died, possibly drowning in the canals during a drunken waltz in Vindis.”
James could sense a bit of doubt in the Wizard’s voice. It was almost as if the elderly man didn’t believe it himself. He decided not to press it.
“Anyway, that’s enough reminiscing for today. I suppose we have a vault to restore,” Falirck sighed as he set the painting against the wall. He turned back to the back of the vault, heading off to do what he came to do.
James looked at the painting of Einar Blyth, focusing on the dead man’s features and expression. He seemed happy and content, almost naive in a sense. His body language was casual and free, like there wasn’t a care in the world. It was clear that this portrait was made before he had lost it all, before his eventual downfall.
For some strange reason, James felt a tinge of nostalgia from the painting.