The heavy clang of metal hitting metal rung out and was replaced by a loud hiss as it was quenched. A man was working the forge. He was creating nails for construction and completely focused on his work, it was because of this that he hit the tongs he was holding when someone shouted his name.

  ‘Arran!’ shouted the man’s voice, ‘my saints it’s been a long time.’

  Arran looked up from his work, put down his tools, and approached the man that’d yelled at him. A smile was planted on his face.

  ‘Willard?’ he asked, ‘I don’t believe you’re allowed to be here, what are you doing?’

  ‘That’s no way to greet an old friend.’

  ‘I’d greet you differently if we were actually allowed to see each other,’ said Arran, ‘we can’t be seen together, my father will find out.’

  ‘About that…’

  Arran looked at Willard with a dissatisfied expression.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Your father knows what I did.’

  ‘That you...?'

  ‘Yes, that I helped you run away.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him where I was did you?'

  Willard shook his head, ‘no, truth be told I’d forgotten until I rode by on my way to Nedervar.’

  Arran turned to enter the blacksmith’s shop he worked at and Willard followed him inside.

  ‘He’s looking for me, isn’t he?'

  ‘Well, no, not right now anyhow.’

  Arran raised an eyebrow, ‘what’s keeping him?’ he said, ‘he knows I’m alive.’

  ‘I can’t tell you, not here.’

  ‘Why, is it something confidential?’ asked Arran as he looked around for material to use.

  ‘Very much so,’ said Willard, ‘I’d like to discuss it with you privately.’

  Arran picked up a crate of metal bars and began to carry them to the forge, all the while still followed by Willard.

  ‘My house is just outside of town, built it myself,’ said Arran as he continued to work, ‘I’ve got work to finish up here but we can meet there.’

  ‘How would I get in?’

  ‘My wife should be able to let you in.’

  Willard nodded, ‘I’ll see you there then.’

  Arran entered his house and walked into the living room, where Willard sat opposite to the fireplace while Merian, Arran’s wife sat next to him. In her arms she held a baby wrapped up in cloth. She rocked the child back and forth in her arms as she sat and listened to Willard talk. She turned her head and smiled when she saw her husband walk in.

   ‘What is it you wanted to tell me?’ Arran asked as his wife handed him their child and got up.

  ‘You’re going to hate this news,’ said Willard, he scratched the back of his head and looked back and forth between Arran and Merian, ‘and honestly I shouldn’t be telling you.’

  ‘Spit it out, Willard.’

  ‘Your father can’t come looking for you because he’s preparing,’ he answered, ‘all of Anglavar’s noble houses are.’

  ‘Preparing for what?’

  ‘War.’

  Arran felt a pit in his stomach as he clutched his child closely.

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I have no reason to lie to you about this.’

  ‘What possible reason could they have for this?’

  ‘My guess is that our king got tired of Daelvor’s behaviour,’ said Willard, he looked Arran in the eyes.

  ‘I can’t leave them,’ he said, ‘you know I can’t.’

  ‘Oh I know, our king doesn’t though, he’ll expect you to serve.’

  ‘So what about you then, are you staying for this?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Willard scoffed, ‘no, your father has already arranged to have me banished from Angalir, I couldn’t even enlist if I wanted to.’

  ‘When is war being declared?’

  ‘I’m not sure, according to a messenger king Valos wants to meet with Christof Daelvor to discuss a peaceful alternative.’

  ‘And the draft?’

  ‘Expect them within the week.’

  Arran stood up and brought his daughter to her crib before turning back around to face Willard, ‘at least this war will be on equal footing,’ he said, ‘unless Daelvor manages to pull another dragon out of his ass.’

  ‘It’d be the first one in nearly a century,’ said Willard as he stood up, ‘now I’ve kept you long enough, I’ve been banished and should take my leave.’

  ‘Good luck on the mainland,’ Arran put a hand on Willard’s shoulder, ‘and thank you for the warning.’

  The next few days Arran spent preparing himself for the inevitable. Every single day between his regular smithing work he would spend time on producing himself armour to wear. He already had a sword: a hand-and-a-half sword he’d brought with him when running away from his home at Draehal Castle. War was coming, and Arran wasn’t going to let himself be put into any unnecessary danger.

  The war between County Daelvor and the Anglan crown of house Ebonblade had long been brewing. The conflict started with their refusal to join the kingdom under the Ebonblade crown nearly a century and a half before today. Then came the incident in the year 853 of the second era, when the Drahali Black Dragon Yraüssing broke free from her imprisonment in castle Daelvor and burnt it to the ground, leaving only a smoldering ruin of molten stone and wood in her wake. Following this came the internal conflicts that led to a bitter resentment between the two nations, now finally culminating in a war that would decide who would sit the Anglan throne.

  The real reason any of this bothered Arran was because of one thing and one thing alone: his relation to house Daelvor. Arran was the illegitimate son of lord Illain Draehal, the family that house Daelvor stemmed from. Daelvor Daelvor, first of his name, was a bastard son of house Draehal who chose to found his own house, using his first name as his family name. Arran had originally ran away from home because of his bastardhood, and he wasn’t exactly excited to face the very reason he hated what he was. It was unfortunate that he didn’t even get halfway through making his armour when the officials for drafting soldiers arrived.

  Arran looked up from his work periodically as they entered the town. It was a small group of soldiers carrying pikes, with three men on horseback in tow. He just barely recognised one of them from his childhood at castle Draehal; the man on the middle horse was tall, his hair jet black and a thin, scraggly beard grew on his straight jawline. Brown nearly black eyes looked around the village surveying it for able-bodied young men. Arran recalled his name to be Darav, prince of Anglavar and younger brother to king Valos. They looked almost identical to each other. The thing that betrayed his identity was the helmet that hung from his saddle. Its visor was shaped like a dragon’s head which could open up to reveal the face behind the cold, dead stare of its metal eyes. The helmet was the sign of the Drakeheart, an invaluable position in the army.

  ‘ATTENTION CITIZENS,’ shouted Darav, ‘we call upon the men of this village to serve their country in the upcoming conflict.’

  The villagers gathered around the precession that’d rode into their small town. Confused and intrigued murmurs rose from the crowd as some were eager to learn what conflict he was talking about.

  ‘We are also here to collect a person of interest.’

  Arran’s ears perked up and he glanced away from his work, hoping to the saints that he wasn’t the person Darav meant. Though it ended up being no surprise when his name was called.

  ‘Arran Draehal, please step forward,’ Darav said, looking around the crowd, ‘we know you’re here.’

  His hammer dropped with a thud and he walked out of his smithy, looking on at the royal atop his horse, ‘Here to arrest me?’ asked Arran, ‘as far as I know I didn’t break any laws.’

  ‘You were personally requested by his majesty the king himself,’ Darav answered, ‘I suggest you comply.’

  Arran looked around, some of the soldiers that’d accompanied prince Darav had begun to round up young men.

  ‘Doesn’t he have enough with all these others?’

  ‘Not for the task he had in mind for you.’

  Arran sighed, ‘fine, give me a day.’

  Darav nodded, ‘I’ll allow it, we’re on the other side of that hill there,’ he pointed to the north, ‘my brother will expect to see you once you’ve taken your leave here.’

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  ‘I really can’t stay,’ Arran sighed, ‘and I’m not going to put you and little Emmie in danger by bringing you with me.’

  ‘I understand you have to go,’ said Merian as she hugged her husband from behind, ‘but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.’

  Arran nodded and felt his wife’s arms let go of him, ‘no, it doesn’t mean that at all.’

  ‘You have to promise me something.’

  ‘Meri you know I can’t do-.’

  ‘Fine, don’t promise me, promise her,’ Merian had picked up their daughter and brought her to Arran. He looked his wife in the eyes, they were filled with determination, ‘promise Emily you’ll come back, that you’ll take care of her.’

  ‘I-...’ Arran stuttered as he looked down at his three month old daughter. She was calm. Normally she’d barely cry but this was a moment of undoubtable calm. Emily’s brown eyes looked up at her father, curiosity ever present in them. Arran took the baby in his arms and smiled.

  ‘I promise I’ll come back, and that I’ll take care of you.’

  The military camp Arran was directed to was by far the largest he had ever seen. It was packed with tents left and right, with men both young and old preparing themselves for the very near future. Some lazed around near to their tents, whilst others were exercising or practicing.

  Arran walked past all of them to find the king’s tent. It stood pitched above the rest on the crest of the hill, overlooking the area. It was remarkably large, coloured brown and black in the colours of house Ebonblade. At its opening stood four guards that were meant to hold back anyone not permitted in, but they let Arran pass through without stopping him once. Inside Valos sat at his desk, hunched forward over a map of southern Anglavar.

   ‘You’ve arrived,’ he said as he looked up from what he was doing, ‘finally, you took your time.’

  ‘Why did you ask for me, my liege?’ Arran asked.

  ‘Drop the formalities Arran, call me by my name,’ he moved a rectangle of dyed wood onto the map, ‘we both know your true rank.’  

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘I’ll get to that,’ said Valos, ‘it wasn’t the easiest to find you, but the kingdom and I are glad you still possess your father’s gift of honesty.’

  ‘How did you find me then?’ asked Arran, he walked towards the desk, ‘did you pay Willard to lead you to me?’

  ‘What?’ Valos laughed, ‘no of course not, the fool did that on his own, we only had to track him.’

  ‘Idiot’ said Arran under his breath, ‘of course you did.’

  ‘Your father is still heartbroken by your departure.’

  ‘Let him.’

  ‘What could he have done to you to make you resent him so?’ asked Valos, ‘he has always been a kind-hearted man, a better father than even my own.’

  ‘I think you should know why,’ said Arran as he turned his back towards Valos, ‘bastards of Draehal blood rarely turn out positively, and I wasn’t going to let that ruin me.’

  ‘So instead you reject your title and the right to prove that belief wrong.’

  ‘I don’t believe that power should’ve been in my hands.’

  ‘Such little confidence in yourself,’ Valos got up and walked towards Arran to stand next to him, ‘you are far different from those lunatics.’

  ‘I’d rather not risk it,’ Arran disregarded what his king said, ‘would you please tell me why I’m here in the first place?’

  ‘I’ve decided to invite you to join me as a personal honour-guard, at least for the upcoming war.’

  ‘But why?’ Arran’s eyes narrowed, ‘I’m not particularly well trained, and I’m not going to stand around looking after you all day.’

  ‘Barring the fact that your father is the man supplying our efforts, I need someone to be skeptical of my plans of attack.’

  ‘Didn’t your father teach you to be an infallible strategist?’

  ‘Well yes, but that won’t necessarily mean I can’t make mistakes, and those mistakes need to be pointed out before they happen,’ said Valos, putting a hand on Arran’s shoulder, ‘judging by the fact that you ran away from your title and your family, I thought you’d be the optimal candidate to tell me what exactly I’m doing wrong.’

  Arran shook his hand off and sighed, ‘I suppose I’m not left with much of a choice.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Splendid!’ said Valos, turning around and returning to his desk, ‘see the quartermaster to be outfitted for the job, we will have to speak shortly, as I am already to meet with Christof soon.’

  Arran returned to the camp after his conversation with Valoss. He’d been told to orient himself. Forces from all over the country had gathered in the camp. He found himself walking past the infirmary, where healers were preparing supplies for the coming conflict. Amidst them was a slender, tall woman with long blonde hair. Her emerald green eyes pierced through Arran. She resembled Merian to an almost eerie degree. The woman he was looking at was her sister Eleyna, a talented magic user and healer he’d only met a few times before. They’d never really become acquainted.

  ‘You’re staring, Arran,’ she said, ‘did you confuse me for my sister again?'

  ‘Not on purpose,’ answered Arran, ‘I can only ever tell by the eyes, you look virtually the same otherwise.’

  ‘How’d they get you then?’ she asked, putting down a crate of dressings and rubbing alcohol, ‘did they threaten my sister?’

  ‘No, I was requested here by his royal highness himself.’

  Eleyna faked an impressed look, ‘wow, I’m surprised you agreed so willingly.’

  ‘I was hardly going to risk treason, was I now?’

  ‘Where do you think this is headed?’

  ‘A war, undoubtedly,’ said Arran, ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to dissuade Valos from doing anything stupid.’

  ‘Wait, why would you be the one to dissuade him?’ Eleyna narrowed her eyes, they widened again when she figured it out for herself, ‘you’re in his personal guard.’

  Arran nodded, ‘I’m meant to curb his worst impulses in the affairs of war.’

  ‘That’s quite the task.’

  ‘And how, I doubt I’ll be very successful.’

  ‘Well, as long as you try, right?’ said Eleyna, ‘then at least you won’t have to blame yourself.’

  Arran nodded, ‘I’ll have to go see my trainer now, we’ll talk more another time.’

  ‘Tell her I said hello.’

  A tall woman with black hair bound back in a braid, and muscles most men would envy stood barking instructions to a group of soldiers Arran assumed were new recruits. Some of the men the woman was ordering around were barely old enough to grow hair on their chins.

  ‘I see you have decided to join us,’ said the woman to Arran in a completely different tone of voice. She sounded confident, yet not overbearingly so, ‘I trust the encampment is to your lordship’s liking?’

  ‘I don’t have a strong opinion on it really,’ Arran replied, raising an eyebrow, ‘Did he tell everyone?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘His Royal Highness? Well yes, people should be aware of your status as the next lord Draehal,’ the woman shouted at those she was training to stop before commanding them to do another exercise, ‘come, sit,’ she directed Arran to a small wooden bench. He followed instructions and sat down.

  ‘The name is Aliss,’ she extended her hand. Arran reached out and shook it. She squeezed his hand tightly to try and test his mettle, being pleasantly surprised when he didn’t simply budge.

  ‘Valos told me you were the one to train me.’

  ‘You’ll need something of a refresher for all the time not spent fighting, wouldn’t want your sword arm getting flabby.’

  Arran stretched his shoulders a bit as he watched the other men run around in circles, ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘I will be honest with you and say that I don’t believe you’ll be doing a lot of fighting,’ said Aliss, ‘it’s a cushy job, sitting on a horse overlooking the battlefield shouting commands.’

  ‘I bet you’d know,’ Arran laughed, Aliss did too.

  ‘You won’t be following their regiment, trust me, these boys have a lot to learn before they’ll even see a real sword,’ she said, ‘you on the other hand already know a thing or two and it’d be pointless to put you through this.’

  ‘So what will I be doing?’

  ‘Sword practice mostly, though also you’ll be spending time with the men you’ll be commanding in the field.’

  ‘If it has to be done...’ said Arran as he stood up, ‘when do I begin?’