Perhaps later, much later, the bards may ascribe some beauty to that night. Perhaps they will speak of the verdant green surrounding Cresthill Castle. Perhaps they will speak of the noble sacrifice of common men, who gave their lives on the mound. Perhaps, too, those bards, would sing of how uncountable stars shone down upon those dying heroes. How their celestial radiance offered some comfort, or even absolution in their final waking moments.
Perhaps the bards, and those who cling to hopes that the world were so kind, might tell such tales. But as any tavern maid of experience will tell, bards lie.
There was no beauty to be seen in that panicked struggle. A Press of bodies numbering thousands, all stabbing and tearing at each other. The Verdant green of Cresthill, transformed by scores of iron-shod feet, into a muck-filled mire. The stars above went unnoticed by the frenzied combatants, and offered no comfort, nor forgiveness to the mad rabble below.
And in that miserable place, amongst the desperate scrum, a boy fought.
He was not the only child scrabbling for survival in the carnage of what once had been Cresthill, for as we understand, the world is not so kind.
This boy, however, carried something with him. A passenger, lodged in his mind, and unbeknownst even to him, tethered to his soul.
"You are not a hero..."
The boy heard the words again. They had danced through his mind time and time again. Spoken with more kindness than one might expect. Almost pityingly, they crooned.
"You do not need to struggle so..."
The boy knew the words, and he knew the speaker. He thrashed around the crowded battlefield. He was young, true, but this was not his first fight, and he was not weak. Above all, the boy wanted to deafen himself to the sweet voice that called to him.
The child dropped low, the blade of an axe slicing through the tips of his hair. A giant of a man advanced on the boy, cocking his arm back, ready for another great swing. While crouched the boy slashed at his enemy's knee. Perhaps a knight in plate might be unaffected by such an attack, but these were poor mercenaries, and the worn leathers protecting the man's leg came apart like brittle parchment. Flesh followed suit, and the giant dropped, unable to carry his own weight on the now useless limb.
"GAHHH-" The youth's short sword impaled the larger man's neck, only allowing him the barest of screams.
In need of further distraction, the child moved onwards. Every approaching enemy became a fresh sheathe for his blade. Every feverish engagement quieted the voice pestering his psyche, if only a little. As he marched forward, bodies fell around him. Somehow the longer he fought, the faster he seemed to move. Even the outwardly endless swarm of enemies began to thin within his reach.
For all his speed, the boy was not unscathed. His left arm hung limply at his side, broken and twisted oddly. Countless gashes marred his skin, and a long cut over his right brow leaked a pulsing stream of blood into his eye.
"Let me help you...call back to me...speak the words..."
The child could not stop. Even over the screams of combat, even over his ragged breathing and over the thundering of his heart in his ears, he could hear the siren song. It seemed louder now, more insistent.
The edges of the boy's vision began to dim. In wide-eyed horror, he staggered forwards, intent on pushing back the blackness that he somehow knew came to claim him. The call would not be denied however, and with each drum of his heart, the young man's hold on the world loosened.
And just like that, in the briefest of moments, in the space between blinks, the boy's mind slipped backwards. To a time, he refused to remember. To a place home only to darkness and blood.
Blood that knew him, spoke his name, and whispered it’s promises.
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Taking in a gasping breath, Keir lurched upright, his flailing arms tossing aside the rough spun fabric he used as bedding. Casting around his small quarters, he found only blank walls and the few trinkets he managed to squirrel away over his years in the company.
A testament to the distress the old memory had caused, only now did Keir notice a figure holding the curtain to his room aside. A flaxen-haired young woman, wearing leathers under a cloak adorned with the black and gold crest of the Grasping Hand Mercenary Company. The woman, Hala, knew Keir well enough to recognize the cause of his frantic awakening. Hala also knew him well enough to kindly ignore his current state, save for a single raised eyebrow.
“Boss wants to see us, seemed a bit antsy. Might be something big.” Saying only that, Hala rapped on the door frame and let the curtain drop.
Letting out a shaking sigh, Keir ran his fingers through his stark, black hair. His uncovered torso, marked liberally with ugly raised scars, was covered in beads of cold sweat.
“Four years since Cresthill and I still can’t shake these nightmares...” Keir shook his head, pushing himself to his feet. The recurring dreams wouldn’t have bothered him so much if only he could remember the ending, but Keir woke today, as always, feeling as though he had forgotten something of great importance.
After Hurriedly dunking his head in a basin of water, Keir stepped out of his hovel. The morning sun bore down on him, as ever it did this close to the Raskir desert.
“Bastard Star...”
Grumbling as he tried to walk off the drowsiness still weighing down his mind, Keir walked into the crowded, semi-permanent camp that the Grasping Hand maintained just outside the desert city of Resche. While the leader of the mercenary company insisted on naming it a camp, for political reasons that Keir deigned not to learn, the Grasping Hand’s base of operation was practically a town in its own right. A sprawling maze of tents and wooden palisades. The company employed enough blacksmiths to equip over a thousand fighters, cooks and merchants to feed them, and housed a good number of families besides.
Entering a large training area, more of an arena at the centre of the camp, Keir halted for half a step as he came across half a dozen men, armoured in chainmail and the tabards of a noble house. The crest of which, Keir was not familiar. The soldiers stood at loose attention at the bottom of a ramp which led to the command tent above the training grounds.
As Keir passed the men, thinking to pay them little mind, he heard whispers. It was with great relief, that Keir realised this murmuring was mundane in nature. Rather, it was the kind of gossip he knew well.
“Barely more than a child.”
“Do you suppose the boy can even lift the sword he carries?”
“Why do we bother with this rabble?”
The men did not speak in a particularly hushed tone, Keir could in fact hear every word. He supposed that was probably the point. Breathing a small laugh through his nose, Keir continued up to the command tent.
“There you are boy!” A jovial voice boomed the instant Keir stepped through the entrance. The shout came from a stocky man with sun-bleached skin and wispy white-blonde hair. He wore a gaudy red tunic and a matching oversized tricorn hat. Standing next to Hala, the man grinned wide and placed his calloused hands on his hips.
“Not like you to sleep in, Pup. Thought perhaps you’d found yourself some company!”
“No such luck, Vander.” Keir smiled ruefully. “Hala said we have work?”
“Oh yes m’boy, yes, we do indeed. Come! Let me introduce you.” Vander beamed, rubbing his hands together greedily. Turning, he beckoned towards a well-dressed man, accompanied by a shorter, hooded individual.
“This here’s an old comrade of mine, Sir Eston Ramsey. First knight and acting envoy of His Royal Highness Lirian Kianthi...Var...um...Asting?”
“Vash Astarion! Really Vander, I realize you have little interest in matters of nobility, but it might serve you well to at least learn the names of the Kings own children.” The knight glanced at Vander with the kind of long-suffering look that spoke of many similar conversations.
“The King has more children than I have hairs left on my head, and Lirian wasn’t even one of the first ten!” Vander retorted.
Seemingly pretending not to have heard the mercenary captain’s potentially treasonous statement, Sir Eston turned his attention to Keir.
“A pleasure, young Keir.” Eston smiled cordially and tilted his upper half in a perfunctory bow. “Sir Eston Ramsay. And my page, Ren.” Eston waved at the hooded man. “I have heard much of your skill from my old...acquaintance.” The knight spoke politely, but his tone contained a hint of doubt.
Oblivious to that, Keir nodded his head in return.
“Good to meet you.” Keir replied, not really comfortable with such formal behaviour. “So... uh, the job?” the young mercenary flicked his eyes to Vander and Hala as he spoke.
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“Babysitting.” Hala grumbled. Although she wore a small smirk as she did.
“Bodyguarding!” Vander corrected. “Seems the young prince plans to attend Fallmir Royal Academy.”
“Um, well, he IS royalty. Seems only right. Why would he need protection?” Keir scratched at his cheek.
Shaking her head, Hala propped herself up on the table.
“Think it through, Keir. You can’t be king without having entered the academy. Something about how ‘A ruler must possess not only strength, but knowledge and wisdom to correctly lead their people!’” Hala quoted, making sure to role every ‘R’ in the sentence.
“So, if someone in the line of succession enters the academy-” Vander began.
“They’re essentially making a claim for the throne. Got it.” Keir finished. “Alright. Where’s this prince? When do we start?”
“Ahem...” Eston reinserted himself back into the conversation. “Yes well, considering the important nature of this assignment, there would of course need to be some proof of ones’ ability.”
“Of course, of course!” Vander agreed merrily. “But how are we to test my young proteges?” He mused aloud. “Oh, what luck! We stand mere feet away from a fully stocked training ground.” He announced in poorly feigned surprise. “There’s even a group of trained men to test them against. Surely, our fortune is gifted by Goddess Rialta herself!”
For whatever virtues Vander may have possessed, subtlety was not among them.
“Follow along then.” The captain waited not a moment, swaggering out of the tent and towards the arena. A truly smug smile plastered across his face, the whole while.
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Fourteenth Prince in line to the throne of Fallmir, His Royal Highness Lirian Kianthi Vash Astarion, or Page Ren, as he was currently disguised, trotted along after the mercenary captain. If he was to be honest with himself, the deception was largely unnecessary here, but the prince had something of a love for dramatic reveals. To that end, Lirian felt he could learn a thing or two from the flamboyant Captain Vander.
As Lirian considered the captain, his gaze drifted to the younger members of their small party. One, Hala, a rather strongly-built young beauty, with hair matching in colour to Captain Vander, who Lirian knew to be her father. From the few, brief interactions he had seen Hala engage in, Lirian gleaned that she had inherited some of her father’s cheerful nature, but hid it beneath a taciturn exterior. Whether this façade was normal for her, or simply professionalism when hosting clients, Lirian couldn’t be sure. What the prince could say with some certainty, was that within Hala, raged a veritable torrent of Mana.
Owing to his heritage as a royal of the Astarion line, Lirian had eyes that could actually observe the flow of Mana, where most could barely sense it in the air around them. As he watched Hala now, the life-sustaining energy pulsed through her in amounts far exceeding what one might expect to find in even 10 people. The wild, unrefined waves of magic exuding from Hala, lay in stark contrast to the young man by her side.
To Lirian’s eyes, Keir was for the most part, average. Tall, for his age, but not towering. Muscled, but not excessively so. Even his personality, from what the prince had yet seen, was quite unspectacular. Keir seemed affable enough, while maintaining a polite distance. Keir’s capacity for Mana, too, looked quite mediocre.
What did set the mercenary apart, and was to Lirian’s eyes, quite unnerving, was the absolute stillness of Keir’s Mana. Magic, by its very nature desires movement, it must ever change. Within Keir, though, dwelled an ocean absent a tide. Prince Lirian had never seen the like; if asked an hour earlier, he would have said confidently that it was impossible. He could not even begin to speculate how such an absence of flow might affect a person’s ability to wield magic. Allowing his lips to curl up at the corners in satisfaction, the prince supposed his questions would be answered shortly.
As Lirian’s group approached the waiting soldiers, his keen eyes caught his men make at least some attempts hide their displeasure, at being forced endure the presence of common mercenaries. Even that was a victory, Lirian admitted to himself. Nobles, as he knew perhaps better than any, were at their core, prideful creatures. For these knights, admitting that a commoner could do something that they could not, caused near physical harm.
“Harker!” Eston bellowed, placing himself in front of the armoured men.
“Sir!” One of the largest knights snapped to rigid attention.
“There is to be a test of arms. You, as the most senior of my knights, will spar with one of these two.” Eston extended an arm towards Keir and Hala. “Pick one of the others as your second.”
“Sir? These two, but they’re childr-”
“This is a matter concerning the safety of our liege. Coddling them would only endanger our lord and would be a great discourtesy to our hosts. Would you not agree, Harker?” Eston interrupted.
Lirian hid a smirk. The first knight certainly knew how best to motivate nobility. Only the aristocracy could interpret NOT beating a young man half to death, as rude.
“Bailey.” Knight Harker thumped the chest of another soldier. “I’ll take the boy. You deal with the other.”
“I’ll go first!” Hala, called. Nearly bouncing with excitement now, she seemed to be losing her grip on stoicism.
As Hala and Bailey squared off at the centre of the training field, Lirian was momentarily startled to find that Keir had, at some point, sidled up beside him. Keir stood with a relaxed posture, wearing an easy smile, as though he had no concerns at all for how his comrade might fare in this fight.
“You think she’ll win, then?” Lirian asked, and Keir’s eyes snapped to him instantly. Seemingly taking a moment to realise Lirian was talking to him, Keir returned his eyes to the centre of the arena.
“I do. Hala is only twenty as of last month, only three years my senior. But that woman scares damn near everyone in the company. Even Vander, I think.”
“Including you?” Lirian asked with a chuckle. Choosing not to mention that he thought seventeen was also quite young to be a high-ranking member of a mercenary company.
“Especially me.” Keir laughed good-naturedly. “Hala’s been knocking me senseless as long as I've known her.”
Sir Eston, calling for the bout to begin, dragged everyone's attention back to the main spectacle. Hala and Bailey faced off; weapons raised. Hala held a ridiculously sized greatsword in her left hand with contemptuous ease. To counter that, Bailey wielded a more traditional sword and heater shield.
Bailey kept his shield high, perhaps made somewhat cautious by the enormity of his opponent's weapon. Hala poked at Bailey, probing, but seemed content to let him make the first move. Emboldened by this, the knight surged forward, jabbing the point of his weapon at Hala’s shoulder.
Hala clumsily jerked away from the strike, stumbling forward in a manner that left her head low and exposed, and to Lirian, seemed a little overly theatrical. It was apparent that Bailey did not share the prince’s concern however, as with a shout of triumph, he abandoned his defensive stance and rushed to slam his shield into Hala’s face.
Lirian heard a pitying groan escape from the young man next to him. In the next instant, he saw the Mana in Hala’s body flash outward, past the bounds of her body, then condense back down, stopping at her skin.
The hollow, booming clang of steel meeting steel, rang out across the grounds. Bailey tried to stifle an agonised cry, as his shield arm came to a sudden, jarring stop against Hala’s now unyielding flesh. Hala used her greatsword more as a club, in an overhead swing, completely taking the heater from bailey’s grasp. Then, almost faster than the eyes’ of the onlookers could see, Hala raised her knee to her chest, then kicked out.
All the air, exploding from his chest, Bailey, while making quite the undignified sound, hurtled across the arena. He bounced and rolled, eventually coming to a stop, reduced to a groaning heap on the ground.
“I think that will suffice...” Eston drawled.
Lirian knew that First Knight Eston, while also harbouring doubts as to the ability of these young mercenaries, found this kind of affair unsavoury. It was Lirian who had insisted on seeing a display of skill. Such a thing was not strictly necessary, but the young prince was ever curious. Knowledge bred power, after all.
“W-what did she just do?” Lirian asked Keir, in the stunned silence that followed Eston’s words.
“I’m not too sure, honestly. Hala doesn’t have a name for it, and she’s such a bloody genius, she can’t even explain how she does it.” Keir griped. “I think it’s similar to that shiny spell, knights are always using, though.”
“You cannot mean...” Lirian began, eyes widening.
“Harker, present yourself.” Eston ordered.
Keir shrugged and patted Lirian on the shoulder, stalking towards his own match.
“Time to earn my keep.” He said, and unsheathed an unadorned length of steel from his waist. Scarcely more than a grip and blade, the sword about matched the length of Keir’s arm. As with most things so far, after witnessing Hala’s mighty blade, Keir’s seemed a touch underwhelming.
As Bailey’s compatriots carried his only now waking form from the field, Keir and Harker stood before one another. Harker, deadly serious now, after the sudden defeat of his ally, raised his weapons. Commanding some Mana of his own, he channelled it into his armaments. A fairly standard bit of magic, used by most knights of substance. This spell was colloquially known as Bulwark, and created a near unbreakable layer of magic around the user’s weapons. Harker’s sword and shield began to emit a pale blue light and he smirked confidently. Keir, for his part, adopted a rather strange posture. He held his body in a half-crouch, arms drooping lazily at his sides.
Lirian watched the whole scene from afar, with eyes granted clarity by heritage and magic. Not wanting to miss even the smallest detail of what was to follow, the prince began to push Mana from his centre towards his eyes. As power began to reinforce his perception, time seemed to slow.
Lirian was the youngest of his siblings, and the least loved, he knew. He did not have the martial prowess that the King prized, but Lirian’s mind was by far the sharpest. Beyond that, his Vision magic was near peerless, even at only seventeen years old.
As Lirian’s magic did its work, time seemed almost to halt, his eyes allowing him to see his surroundings in almost microscopic detail. He watched as Sir Eston, at an almost painfully plodding pace, raised his arm to start the bout.
It was then, in that stillness, that Lirian saw Keir’s Mana stir. Seeming to begrudgingly wake from the motionless slumber the prince had seen before.
Lirian could not know the reason, but as he observed the barely shifting Mana, he felt the hair of his arms begin to stand. He felt his heart beat quicken, even in that moment, separated from time. A creeping dread began to worm its way into his heart. Lirian’s throat began to tighten, as he observed Keir’s Mana. He felt it, more than saw, as ‘something’ noticed his gaze. The Mana stirred; it began to writhe. And the prince knew, with terrifying certainty, that unseen eyes turned his way.
On the tenth day, of the three hundred and forty-third year of the Vintershard calendar. On the very edge of the Kingdom of Fallmir, figures from legends-yet-made came to meet.
Time stood still.
And Prince Lirian Kianthi Vash Astarion, looked at something he should not, and heard a whisper.