When I step into the hall, the herald announces my name.

RORY WILBOR.

No title. Sloppy. If my grandfather were still here …

All eyes turn to me, and I straighten my back, striding in with confidence. Even without my Aura, I have nothing to fear. This is my ancestral home. Hundreds have come from all over Korsa to pay their respects to my grandfather.

In most of the Empire, funerals are a depressing affair, with weeping women and mourning men. But there is no sorrow here. The mood is not grave, but festive. In the North, things are different. For people who die in battle or of old age, those who knew them feast and celebrate. It is foreign to me, but I cannot say I dislike it.

I have been to a funeral once in Cinnabar, where a senior disciple of mine was skewered in a duel over a woman, and passed away that same night. We did not laud his bravery. We only lamented his wasted potential; how another bright youth had been cut down. I did not know him well, but the mood had weighed heavily for weeks. I’d heard that Blademaster Fenis had been furious at the loss of face; not because the fight had been over a woman, but because her disciple had the audacity to challenge a swordsman of another style and lose.

It’s a sea of military uniforms here, pockmarked by the occasional lady in a dress. Exactly how Grandfather would have wanted it.

“What’s so great about nobility?” he’d always grumble. “Just give me a farm and let me retire in peace.”

How ironic that they gave you a plot of barren land, Grandfather. The Empire doesn’t care for its veterans, not even a decorated war hero like you. It chews them up and spits them out. True power comes from individual strength, not loyalty, nor servitude. Blademasters command respect anywhere they go. And now I can’t even wield Aura, Grandfather …

“Master Wilbor, you’re here. How about I show you around and introduce you?”

“That would be much appreciated, Bern.”

The first man he brings me to is imposing. If my grandfather was a great tree that sheltered our family, then this man is like a mountain, a presence so large that it eclipses the very sun.

“This is General Norda,” whispers Bern into my ear.

“Rory Wilbor,” says the man, with a hint of an eastern accent. “I served with your grandfather long ago, before I took up my current post.”

I reply politely, “Thank you for coming.”

He nods and moves on. A man of few words. Or perhaps he doesn’t know me well, and simply doesn’t care for chit-chat. After all, he’s here for Grandfather. As am I.

“Norda commands the Third Legion,” explains Bern. “The whole eastern border falls under his responsibility. I’m surprised to see him all the way up here. I think he hasn’t left the border in years.”

I’d heard something similar. Even in Cinnabar, there’s a popular story that goes something like this: the Emperor had summoned Norda, and he’d refused, citing his responsibilities at the border. Like a jilted mistress, the Emperor had thrown a fit and summoned him once again, only to be met with another refusal—apparently there was a pending Serad attack. Furious, the Emperor had sent out first prince Damian Korsa, who’d apologetically escorted Norda back to the capital for his actions. The next day, they’d received news of a massive Serad raiding party looting and pillaging its way across the Empire, and poor Damian had been sent to escort Norda all the way back post-haste to beat back the invaders.

While it hasn’t actually happened (to the best of my knowledge), the point still stands—the only thing more infamous than Norda himself is his reluctance to leave the eastern border. Some jest that he is the border, and so he has to stay put, while others propose having him walk east until the Empire’s borders span the world! To have him travel this far west … it is a great honor.

From there, it’s a flurry of handshakes, until I can finally sit down at the long, wooden tables laid out with food. The fare is simple and bland, with an array of smoked meat, salted fish, bread, and cheese. There is also soup, made from the bones of a mog, or possibly a goat, and any other leftovers they’ve managed to scrounge up. It is so different from the food in Cinnabar. Almost nothing is fresh. There are few spices too; no black pepper, no cinnamon, no sesame.

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Fortunately, there is no need for flowery speeches or eulogies. Instead, my neighbors regale me with stories of how they knew Grandfather. Some are crude. Others are grandiose. I suspect they are tall tales, but no one seems to mind. They talk about all kinds of things; terrible rations they had to eat on the march, the (lack of) quality of the armor they were given, places they’d travelled to.

In the end, it always comes back to their time on the battlefield. This is a gathering of old soldiers, and I do not belong.

The alcohol continues to flow. I can hear drunk singing and exuberant laughter. From behind, someone lightly taps me on the shoulder.

“Good day, Milord,” she shouts, trying to make herself heard. “My name is Amelia Eador, of the Eador Trading House.”

Dazzling, emerald green eyes. Chestnut brown hair flows down to her shoulder blades, two braids on each side wrapping around to form a small half-crown on the back of her head. I think she is a couple of years younger than me.

“I’ve never heard of the Eador Trading House,” I say, and Amelia looks crestfallen.

“We’re a relatively new merchant house,” she explains hastily. “My father started it about ten years ago. We’ve travelled up north looking for new business opportunities. We heard about the funeral and came to pay our respects.”

“I see. Thank you for coming.”

I can see they’re thrown off by the atmosphere. It’s their first northern-style funeral. Like me, she feels out of place.

“Earl Eador, Milord,” says the man standing behind her. He has the same shade of hair, but different eyes. Her father, I presume. A foreign noble? There are no earls in the Korsan Empire, only counts.

“Earl? You don’t need to call me Milord,” I remind him. Unusual to see nobility dabble in the trading business.

“It was the name my parents gave me,” he explains with a pained look, and I can sympathize.

“Looking at the food here,” continues Amelia, “I notice that there aren’t many spices. Our usual route is up and down the west coast, and we can pick up some spices along the way. Would you be interested in that? I’d also appreciate if we could discuss more on what local specialities can be found here …”

I hold up my hand to interrupt her. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow, Amelia. Let today be a day for my grandfather.”

It’s a question for Bern to answer. I’ve spent too many years away from home.

“Of course,” she says. “My condolences for your loss.”

With a well-practiced curtsy, she dips out, leaving me surrounded by drunken revelry, and I wish I had kept her company longer.

After that, everything is a blur.

The next morning, somebody shakes me awake and it’s not Bern.

“Who are you?”

He’s younger than me. A servant? But I’ve been away a decade, and he would have been suckling at his mother’s teat the last time we could have met. The pounding headache doesn’t help either.

“Master Wilbor, your uncle is calling for you.”

Not my favorite person, but duty calls.

“Take me to him, then.”

It’s not long before I arrive at his study. The last I had seen of it, it had been full of preserved specimens and books—not a cheap hobby when everything has to be transcribed on vellum by hand. I’d heard rumors that a nation to the distant east had paper, cheap and practical, but we’d never yet managed to figure it out, and at that distance it would be too expensive to transport anyway. In any case, nothing has changed here—the study is much how I remembered it.

“Rory! It’s been a long time,” he cries out in an exuberant tone.

“Hello, Uncle.”

The man I remember was childish and excitable, with a weakness for food and money. Time has not been kind to him. He sports a large belly now, and all of Grandfather’s efforts to whip him into shape have already gone to waste. The price of marrying into a military family, Grandfather had always demanded. So much for that.

“I was worried that you’d forgotten us all. After so long, many of the people here don’t recognize you anymore.”

As he expresses his concern, I narrow my eyes. We’d never been close.

“Then I’m sure the people are glad to hear of my return, Uncle. With Grandfather’s passing, leadership is needed.”

“You don’t need to be concerned,” he assures, casually stroking his flabby chin. “Ever since his health started to decline a few years ago, I’ve been taking care of the family lands.”

The words do not surprise me. Never much of a warrior, he’d always fancied himself as something of an intellectual, buried in books and fiddling about with coin. It’s a mystery to me why my aunt agreed to marry him; I’ve never dared to ask.

“That’s good. I should think that it would be a smooth transition, then?”

He smiles at that, shaking his head slightly.

“About that, Rory. You see, I heard you had … an accident. Maybe it’s best if you took some time to rest.”

“No,” I insist. “I’m ready to resume my duties now.”

He leans back, continuing to shake his head. “That’s the thing. From the beginning, Clan Wilbor has always been a military family. Don’t you think it will weaken our position if the next Baron Wilbor is a cripple? How can we keep our heads up if our family head can’t even fight on the battlefield?”

“What are you suggesting, Uncle?”

He chuckles and rests his elbows on the table. His beady eyes gleam in anticipation.

I’m asking you to support your cousin as the next head of the family.”