Slayer



There is a place in the southern reaches where the wars have not yet touched, where the fields roll golden beneath an open sky, and the air hums with the sound of bees and birdsong. A place of olive groves, blooming lavender, and orchard trees heavy with summer fruit.

This is Artemia, a kingdom of light and fragrance, where sun-dappled vineyards slope down into green valleys and village chapels ring their bells in peace.

Within Artemia, The Dukedom of Lorraine stretched wide across the heart of the kingdom, a land of rolling hills, sunlit prairies, and endless vineyards. Its villages thrived in the gentle warmth of the south, where the soil was rich and the people lived from wine, wheat, and pasture. The air carried the scent of lavender in summer, and the horizon shimmered gold when the sun fell across the plains.

But farther north, the land changed. There the fields gave way to dense forests and mist-choked fens. Among them lay a vast bog, a place shrouded in fog and silence. The peasants spoke of it only in whispers, and few dared wander near. To them, it was a place apart—unwelcoming, unfathomable, and best left alone.

While the kingdom burned at its edges—torn by border wars, fanatic uprisings, and the slow unraveling of royal power—Lorraine bloomed. Traders passed through its markets with smiles. Priests gave sermons on hope rather than damnation. Even the cicadas seemed to sing longer here.

And perched like a crown above this serene domain stood Château Dargentol—a manor of pale limestone and flowering terraces, nestled atop a gentle hill. From its balconies, one could see fields of poppies swaying like fire under the sun, shepherd boys guiding their flocks between fig trees, and maidens laughing at the edge of brooks. It was a place out of time.

It was Lord Théomund Dargentol who had preserved this fragile sanctuary. Once a decorated captain in the royal legions, he had turned his back on war to protect his family from its hunger. With silver in his beard and old scars hidden beneath fine linen, he ruled not as a tyrant, but as a quiet sentinel. His estate did not owe fealty to the whims of lesser lords or church inquisitors. He bought peace with coin, influence, and the unspoken threat of steel.

And so, his wife—Lady Yseldine, whose laughter once brightened the halls—could tend her garden in peace. His son—Jeannot, still small and quick to smile—could chase crows from the well. And Milène, his eldest, blooming into womanhood with wit and fire, could read her books, wander the mists, and dream beneath the whispering trees.

Théomund had lived through too many winters, too many campaigns, to trust in the permanence of quiet. Beyond the Tarn, the world changed. Kingdoms fell. Faith fractured. Armies marched under banners unfamiliar and fanatical. Refugees passed through the outer villages, telling tales of barons hung by their own men, of bandits attacking the countryside, of witches and dragons terrorizing villages in foreign lands. And though Lorraine stood untouched, its peasants grew wary. They crossed themselves more often. Doors were bolted earlier. Children no longer dared play near the woods.

The Lord of Dargentol knew the silence would not last.

So, in the early mists of morning, the old captain began to dust off his past.

He retrieved his weathered armor from the cellar—steel darkened with time and blood, etched with runes he would not speak of. He oiled his sword, the one he had once driven through the heart of a traitor-prince. And in the courtyard of the manor, between rows of trimmed hedges and marble statuary, he began to train his children.

Milie, at first, resisted. Swordplay seemed a relic—violent, brutish, something that belonged to men. But her father was insistent. “There is no safety in the world,” he would tell her, “only preparation.”

But Théomund, for all the warmth around him, trusted neither peace nor time.

He had seen too many kingdoms fall beneath sunny skies. Too many men smile before drawing steel. And though Tarnemire was still untouched, the world beyond the hills had grown darker—villages razed, heresies spreading, foreign banners rising in the north. The roads grew more dangerous. Rumors reached even the markets of Vellatreux, the duchy’s capital: mutilated pilgrims, poisoned wells, disappearances.

And so, quietly, Lord Dargentol began to prepare.

In the cool of early morning, beneath almond blossoms and the perfume of crushed rosemary, he would take his children to the courtyard. There, beside the rose gardens, he dusted off the tools of war: wooden practice swords, dulled armor, shields too heavy for a child to lift.

He trained them not for glory, but for survival.

Jeannot, though still small, mimicked his father’s stance with unsteady feet. Milie, initially reluctant, learned quickly. She had her father’s steadiness—his caution—and soon enough, she was dancing between strikes like a leaf in wind.

“Watch the hips, not the hands,” Théomund instructed. “Strike to end, not to impress. And always—always—assume the world is lying to you.”

He taught them more than swordplay. He taught them to read intentions, to distrust kind strangers, to remember that not every horror wore fangs. Sometimes it smiled and kissed your hand.

They sparred as birds sang overhead, as sunlight pooled over terracotta tiles.

Each morning, as the sun rose over the hills of Lorraine and poured golden light across the vineyard terraces, Lord Théomund Dargentol would don his old leather gloves and step into the courtyard with the measured gait of a soldier long retired but never at rest.

The courtyard itself was a place of peace—surrounded by colonnades woven with flowering vines, bordered by rose bushes and lavender hedges. Bees drifted lazily through the air. Yet in its center, where marble gave way to packed earth, peace gave way to purpose.

There, beneath the open sky, the lessons took place.

Milie stood beside her brother, wooden sword in hand, the weight of it familiar now, though not yet easy. The haft rubbed against the pads of her fingers, already roughened from weeks of drills. Her tunic stuck to her back with sweat. Around her, the warmth of the morning clashed with the intensity of her father’s gaze.

Théomund did not shout. He was not the sort of man who needed to.

“Feet shoulder-width apart,” he murmured, walking a slow circle around them. “Left foot forward. Let the sword rest between breaths, not during them.”

He carried a cane of dark ashwood, which he used not for support, but for correction—tapping ankles, nudging elbows, lifting chins when they dropped. His own sword, a relic of wars long buried, remained sheathed at his hip—a silent reminder of what mastery could look like.

Jeannot, only four, practiced beside them with a sword too long for his arms. He swung wide and grinned, tripping over his own feet more than once, laughing every time he hit the target dummy in the thigh instead of the chest. Théomund indulged him gently, correcting his grip with a ghost of a smile before returning to Milie.

With her, there was no indulgence.

She was seventeen, no longer a child, and Théomund had seen the world waiting beyond the olive groves. He knew what it did to young women with soft hands and trusting hearts.

“You are not dancing,” he said sharply as she parried too slow, too wide. “You are deciding. Every motion you make must mean something. Strike like you mean to end it.”

He stepped behind her and adjusted her shoulders, then stepped away again.

“Begin again.”

Milie exhaled, lowered her blade, and assumed the starting stance. Her eyes narrowed. She moved—forward, thrust, side-step, feint, parry, pivot, slash—wood clacking against wood, sweat dripping from her brow. This time, her movements held weight. Intent.

She had never been drawn to swordplay at first. Books were her domain—old tomes on history, herbs, the ancient myths of Lorraine. But as the lessons continued, something inside her shifted. She began to understand that this, too, was a kind of language. Every movement was a word. Every blow a sentence. The blade, a voice.

And her father—though grizzled and severe—was a poet in steel.

At the end of the hour, they would stop. The sunlight would be high. Birds would call from the fig trees. And Théomund would finally allow himself to smile.

“You learn quickly,” he told her once, after a particularly deft parry.

Milie wiped her brow and allowed herself a breath of pride. “I had a good teacher.”

He did not reply, but his eyes held something unreadable. Pride, yes—but also a kind of sorrow. A memory she did not know. A fear he would not name.

Then he turned away, and the lessons resumed.