Ragnarök

My father is a god, or at least I am told he his. They worship him in the temples in Yuno and in the other cities in Schwarzvald; in Einbroch, his figure is worshipped by the blacksmiths, every blow on their anvils a prayer to him.

I had never met him, but I had learned enough about him from the books the sages made me read when I was a child. Anyone educated enough knew who he was from the histories of Rune, knew of his heroics. Drintun, my tutor told me the god helped Thurnatos save man-kind from the evil in the South, eras ago, before all the gods, including my father, returned forever to Asgard.

When I was a child, Aelstrom, the old Castle Sage of our keep in Yuno, told me a story of the day I was born. Aelstrom was an old man, the oldest man in the castle when I had been younger, and perhaps the most respected in my mother’s household. He told me that three days after I was born, the Gothi arrived in Yuno bearing gifts. I was the Thorssen, the demi-god; the Gothi were the order of priests residing in the ruins of Odin’s Temple who were said to keep the sacred book of Ymir.

The queen—my mother—held them in the hall of our castle. Yuno consisted of the three islands; the northern island Solomon, the Isle of Glory, where the nobles lived; in the east, Snotora, the Isle of Intelligence or the isle of the sages, and lastly the Isle of Prosperity Mineta by the south. Traditionally, any guests of the queen were received in the Hall of Yuperos, in Mineta, but the queen’s body had not fully recovered after my birth, and the sages advised she stay in the castle. So she hosted the Gothi, with the sage council, and in the presence of her entire court in the hall of our castle in Solomon.

And there the Gothi handed my mother a gift. The High Priestess, with the queen’s permission, went by her side, close enough to lean by her the queen’s ear, and whispered a prophecy. After that day, my mother shut her court away from the castle. She ordered the kingdom’s business to be dealt only in the Hall of Yuperos and announced the three heads of the sage council as regents. When I asked Aelstrom what the prophecy was, he told me he did not know.

“I would not think too much about it, Your Grace,” he said. “The age of the gods and heroes had passed. Prophecies hold as much truth as the stories of saphas and manuks.”

He leaned in close and added to keep the story of the Gothi to myself, or else I would see his head in a spike the next day. I did not speak of it to anyone of course, but later the head steward had sent Aelstrom back to the Quarters of the Sages and sent for a new Castle Sage.

A few years after Aelstrom left, when I was nine, I tried to see what the new Castle Sage knew about the prophecy. He was much younger than Aelstrom, and I knew it would be more difficult to ask these types of questions with him.

“There is a prophecy, about Thurnatos’ fate to save Morroc,” I said, during one of our lessons, tapping the old book on the desk in front of me.

Thurnatos was a famed knight from Midgard, a country south of our kingdom. According to the songs, he was able to use magic despite his profession of swordsmanship. Some say he was a descendant of Mothi, one of Thor’s first sons—but it was never confirmed by the sages and nor the priests. If he was, he would had been my nephew.

“There is a prophecy about the Valkyrie daughters and how they stay hidden across the world...”

“And that one day, when the Ragnarok would near, the Valkyrie would resurface to carry our heroes to dine in Valhalla. Where exactly are we headed with this conversation may I ask, Your Grace?” Drintun said, his eyes comprehensive. Drintun could pass of as my father. Middle-aged, leanly built, fitting of his job as a sage. A thin beard covered south of diamond-shaped face.

“Do you know about the prophecy about me?”

The Castle Sage only looked at me in cold oddity, as if he was studying me.

“Refrain from thinking such things,” he said. “You are a prince. A son of a god, but the gods are long gone. They brought with them their mysteries, including their prophecies. I suggest you focus your attention somewhere more productive like our studies on geography perhaps? You still have not told me the names of the old cities under Morroc.”

“I do not want to talk about geography. I want to talk about me. About my father. I want to know.”

“Know what exactly, Your Grace?”

“The prophecy!” I said. “Why did he sire me? If the gods are gone, then why am I here?”

Drintun sighed, and for a second there was look of pity on his face.

“There is a reason,” he said. His eyes had glazed over. And after a few moments, he looked up at me, breaking the eerie reverie. “for everything.”

I knew it was not what he had wanted to tell me. I thought about asking the Gothi themselves, but the Gothi were no longer welcome in Yuno. And Odin’s Temple where they resided was in Hugel, in another city miles away. I would never be permitted to leave the castle. My mother would know immediately my purpose if I did.

For a year and more, I wondered about the words that would have followed if Drintun had decided to tell me. But soon I began to doubt there were any at all. I tried once more to get an answer from Drintun, and he answered: “If there was a prophecy at all, my prince, how do you know it was even about you?”

My memory molded, leaning more into the idea that would give me peace instead of the torment curiosity: there was no reason; perhaps what the Castle Sage said when I first asked about the prophecy were merely a poor choice of consolation. Aelstrom’s story meant nothing at all. The gods were gone, the world free of their interventions.

~

A year after I turned fifteen, I left for Prontera, the capitol of the southern kingdom called Midgard. It was a recent tradition for the young lords of the kingdoms in Rune to be displaced at the age of fifteen. The kingdoms in Rune: Schwarzvald Republic, Arunafeltz States, and Rune-Midgard, send their young nobilities for tutelage in a different kingdom for at least ten years. It was an extended effort, a promise of sorts, to maintain peaceful, diplomatic relations whenever there were disturbances across kingdoms. Of course, it was not always this way before, but that is ultimately another story best fit for a historian to tell.

Midgard was chosen for me not by the sages, not by Drintun, but by my own mother; Prontera housed the Swordsman Guild. It was Drintun who informed me of my mother’s decision, when the time came to decide.

I did not object. Traditionally, I had the power to choose otherwise, but swordsmanship was one of the few things I excelled during my studies in Yuno. I would have wished for it as well. I never asked the queen as to why she chose Midgard, however. I had assumed because she had kept an eye on me during the morning spars in the courtyard in Yuno. I would see her up the balcony of her quarters, just watching me, long dark hair gently moving around her head, her skin a flash of pale white over the gray walls of her keep. A familiar yet strangely unknown figure. And then she would disappear inside.

For all the years I lived in Yuno, my mother did not speak to me, not as much as a mother normally would to her child. While I grew up, she left me to the care of the castle; to Drintun, the head stewards and his servants, the guards. She often would go out to hunt with her Royal Guard, Sahilde and some of her men. The longest it would take before they return was three days, with the hide or horns or teeth of whatever creature they tracked down. If she was not out hunting, she would visit the court business in the Hall of Yuperos, or in the Sage Castle. And sometimes, she would remain in her room. She had no lovers that I knew of, no friends in court. Only Sahilde, her comely Royal Guard and maybe the head steward who provided her every need. Like my father I did not know much about my mother, like how she was like as person. She was as quiet to me as the god that sired me.

I often wondered why the god had chosen my mother. The sages, Drintun specifically spoke to me about her once famed beauty when she had been younger. Perhaps that was what enticed the god to choose her; he was from the stories told to be vain-glorious and my mother was a trophy no mortal man could easily win. And in the end no man did but a god.

Her mother, the queen before her, had opted for her to study in Geffen and learn the arcane arts. From there she would learn through the vast libraries of the ancient city, the histories, and all the while learn the ways of court with Geffen nobles. The queen had steadfastly declined. She had trained under the swordsman guild in Prontera instead. Bards sang songs about her all throughout Yuno,--even in Midgard as well—and though most were stories of her beauty and power as the queen, there were a select few that spoke of her adventures across Rune. Songs rarely heard about her skill with her blade Orka, the monsters she slew, and more importantly, the old mentors of hers who had lived long enough to see the Age of Heroes. Perhaps she wanted me to follow her footsteps, to become a warrior, an adventurer whose glory would be sang throughout time.

Perhaps. That is dominantly my state of affairs regarding my mother and my father; speculations.

The day I left for Prontera was the day I last spoke to my mother. The queen had Drintun summon me to her quarters. I walked through the halls of the castle, nervous. I knocked and pushed open the thick wooden doors of her quarters and there she was, standing by the balcony. Her long hair flowed down to her hips, moving like the silk dress she wore. The queen only glanced at me for a brief second and told me come in. My mother and I looked so much alike, that there was nothing left for me to wonder which parts of me were of divine descent. Except perhaps my hair, which burned a bright auburn. My mother’s was obsidian black.

I walked towards her. The crown of Schwarzvald sat on the desk by the side of her balcony window, sunlight glinting on its smooth golden surface, its seven points sharp as a blade. And on the wall above, a set of armor hung by the layered stones. All clearly made of silver, polished yet aged; a dent was clear on the side of the breastplate, fashioned after a woman’s body, and on one of the shoulder protectors. The ring mail that hung where the silver plates ended remained undeterred, dark and shimmering. On the right of the armor, hung the queen’s sword Orka. The ivory pommel had dirtied into a yellowish brown. It was designed to look like the symbol of their house, a white leafless tree, its branches clawing its way into the blade of the sword. On the left side hung her diamond shaped war shield.

I felt my mother step beside me.

“If you were to choose,” my mother, Queen Freja said, “what would it be? The crown or the armor?”

I looked at her, and then back at the wall. The crown glinted in the sunlight.

“The armor?”

“Is that a question?” Queen Freja said. I did not utter a word; my mind had gone blank.

“With a crown, you cannot hope to fend yourself against a sword on combat. Or a dagger, if it’s already on your throat. A crown cannot fight off an orc who wields an axe, a crown cannot protect you from the claws of a beast.

“And yet, with a crown on your head, you need no longer concern yourself with that. Your army will do that for you. A soldier would slay that orc, and a hunter would shoot the beast before it even opens its mouth.”

The queen put a finger on one of the points of the crown.

“Kings deemed as conquerors, murderers—yet they die on their beds, comfortable, without ever learning how to swing a sword. A truth, as you should already know, with all these sages around.”

Queen Freja moved back to the balcony. I followed her, watching her walk as if her feet did not touch the ground, hidden in her layers of silk.

“I expect all is ready?” she asked, not looking at me.

Down below, the balcony gave view of the courtyard where I used to do my training with Sahilde, or some of her guards whenever she was out. Servants went on about their business, probably fixing all my things to the carriage that would take to the aerial port.

“Yes, mother.”

“Yes, my queen,” she corrected. Her voice was low but gentle. “I am queen before anything else. Address your betters properly; you are going to court. In Midgard, they have an entirety of courtiers, with their proper titles. They treasure them, just as they treasure their courtesies.”

I was silent.

“Do not fret,” she said as she faced me. “Do not frown and scowl like that. In Prontera, you will strive for the favors of your betters and you will not win them over with a scowl.”

She looked away now, back to the landscape before her. It made me wonder all these reminders of courtesies—why were they not practiced here? Where was her court?

“My… betters?”

She turned and looked me in the eye.

“You are a guest in Prontera,” said the queen. “Your title as prince can only get you so far. But do not worry, you are safe there. You will find the king is accommodating than most. I had known him since I was a child. I just hope his core remains the same, despite all these news of his sudden devotion.”

I had heard of this too. The King of Midgard had established a faith different from their own just recently, a foreign one replacing their gods, including my father. It was unknown what motivated the king to do so.

Queen Freja breathed out. “When you return, do you wish to be king?”

“I want to be like you, Your Grace.”

“I am not a king. Nor am I a warrior, not anymore. And you cannot be queen, since you were born a man, so again I ask you, do you want to be king?”

I flushed in shame and nodded almost immediately.

“Say it.”

“I want to be king,” I said. “I want to be king, Your Grace.”

Queen Freja looked at me and for a moment, her features betrayed a certain emotion. An unsettled, unconvinced disposition.

“Some of the sages will join your company,” she said, “but they will not be staying long. Only after the summit. They have business there for the sage-regents. Sahilde will accompany you as your Royal Guard. She will be enough, I am sure.”

I did not disagree. Sahilde was a fierce warrior, one of the best fighters in the Republic.

“And what about you?” I asked her.

“I have more than I should,” the queen answered. From the courtyard, the head steward, Micar, started shouting at some servants to bring all of the prince’s belongings by the gates, and to find the horse master to check the reigns of the horses.

“When you come back I expect your answer to my first question,” the queen said. “You cannot choose both; believe me, I tried.”

“And exactly what did you choose, Your Grace?”

I did not mean for the question to sound as sharply as it did. The queen glanced at me, almost icily.

“Fifteen years should be enough time for you to think for an answer,” she said. “You should go.”

I said my farewell. I turned around, and took my leave.

The isles of Yuno were not exactly isles as the word connotes. The city rose above the lands of the Schwarzvald Republic geologically; it lay atop three gigantic rocks that made the isles, like upside down mountains, earning its name as the Floating Capitol. Before my departure from the city, I had Drintun stop the horse master by the isle Mineta where the temples were. In the temples, the priests bowed in courtesy of my arrival. The place was made entirely of marble; statues of the gods surrounded the inside, a god on each corner.

I stopped by the statue of my father, knelt and prayed in silence. The temples in Mineta were the only place of worship in the whole city, and I had wanted to say a prayer to my father in the hopes that he might hear, might have something to say about my departure for Midgard. I strode out a little later, answered with nothing but the silence of the temple.

“All done, Your Grace?” Drintun asked. I told him yes.

When I had entered the temple the skies were clear save for a few wisps of clouds. The strong, perpetual winds was a natural condition for the city because of it’s high altitude. But when I stepped out of the temple, clouds amassed the skies, grey and threatening. Thunder rumbled across the skies, the wind a ghastly howl.

“You have the answer of your sire, Your Grace,” said Drintun.

Weary, I stepped unto the carriage, and rode towards our ship.

~

My travel from Yuno down south to Prontera took only hours compared to the days it would had taken if travelled by land or by sea, which were the traditional path for most of Midgard. With the help of the smiths and mechanics in Yuno the Schwarzvald Republic came first when it came to artillery via the creation of the airships. The ship was manned by a captain Mjorgun, a cousin of one of the royal guards back in the palace. I met him briefly when I boarded the ship back in Yuno.

With me were two companions; children of the lords of Schwarzvald. They were both older than I was: Eiric from the Rusgald house of Einbroch and Petra of house Deitr from Hugel. The rest of the cities, Einbech and Lighthalzen had their young lords sent to Rachel, in the Arunfeltz States. I was not entirely familiar with the young nobles I was with. Eiric was tall and fit, handsome with his smile. He had short brown hair, and half his face were covered in stubble. Petra was a serious lass with a rather gloomy appeal. Long blonde hair flowed down to her shoulders, her skin a tinge of tan from the sunny skies of the Garden City. Petra was quiet save for the courtesies.

I was only ever acquainted with the young nobles a few times in the council summits I had attended in the Hall of Yuperos, so I could not exactly call them friends. Sahilde came as promised, as well as the party of emissaries sent by the sage-regents.

“For diplomatic reasons, Your Grace. No need to concern yourself with it,” Ranon Ilard answered me when I questioned their purpose. He patted me on the shoulder, like an uncle would to his child nephew. Ranon Ilard was one of the three heads of the sage-regents. He governed in Mineta and was named as Head Emissary of the Republic. With him were two other lesser sages I was familiar with. They wore the entirety of their attires, including the golden ring that Drintun refused to wear because of its weight. The ring was massive, circling their shoulders from one end to the other. The sages called them seidr discs.

Another one of the party was an agent wearing the gray robes of the Rekenber Company from Lighthalzen. He introduced himself as Demyter Ghalstein. Though he was sent to represent Rekenber in the World Summit a few months from now, he had said he had other businesses to take care for the Company’s behalf.

The airship was a luxurious thing. It was designed by the engineers from Einbroch, made specially for the royal family. It had enough rooms and more for everyone in my company, a common room with cushioned seats and massive glass panes that overlooked the skies.In the airship, I took up most of the time staring out these glass windows watching vast lands of green and brown, mumbling the names of the lords and ladies of the Midgard. Drintun had me memorize them all from a list, in the hopes of not humiliating myself when I introduce myself as the Prince of Schwarzvald. The Castle Sage sat across me, and Sahilde standing by the other side of the ship, looking down through the windows. Demyter Ghalstein stood beside her. Some of the sages were on the other side of the large room, as well talking amongst themselves.

“King Tyrstan the Fourth, Princess Caecilia and the Princes Jorgenn and Yulen,” I spoke under my breath. Naked brown hills rolled down below us, covered by patches of brown and green woods.

“Nobles of Payon, Lord Aron Durnstumm, and Lady Ein. Nobles of Izlude…”

“Lord Dayton Yggdrus,” Drintun said from in front of me. Drintun was only to stay with me in Prontera until I finish the course of my studies with him. After he would travel back to Yuno and start his studies to become an arcane scholar. I did not know the length of his stay would be, but I had hoped it would be long.

“Your father,” I said. “I forget you are a lord, sometimes.”

“I was, Your Grace,” said Drintun. “Izlude would fall to my sister now. Long may she reign.”

He said it with no enthusiasm, but not with contempt either.

“Do you ever think of it?” I asked him. “You could have been the Lord Drintun of Izlude.”

“No,” he said. “You do not look back when you have chosen the right path. And I believe I have.”

“Oh,” I said. I turned back to the window, and ran the names of the lords and ladies all over again. When I got to a certain city, I turned to Drintun again.

“What do I call the lords of Morroc?”

Drintun peeked one eye open.

“Lord and lady, of course,” he said.

Morroc was a city south of Prontera. Unlike every other city of Midgard, Morroc had no lush green lands. It was a dessert city, covered with beige to brown sand plagued by sandstorms and droughts. The people there were different as well; their skins were darker, their mannerisms less civilized as of in Prontera. It would stand to reason that Morroc had once been a kingdom in itself; its great cities levelled into vast lands of dessert. Wastelands. There was a song about how it happened, songs about the creature called Surt. The hero Thurnatos drove it back to the depths of the Sograt Dessert, but only after most of Morroc was leveled. It had happened eras ago, according to the tales, during the time where magic still existed. Some of the scholars back in Yuno doubted its truth and accuracy, said that time had molded and stained the truth with fantasy. It was an outrageous claim for most of the devout, so their arguments remained as theories against the religious.

But now, during these times Morroc’s stifles were different; there were rumors of a planned independence of Morroc from their overlords in Midgard. A renewal of sort. Instead of lords, the nobility in Morroc had reclaimed their titles as royals, not the nobles of the Midgard king.

“They are still under Midgard,” Drintun said, “regardless of their ambitions for autonomy.”

“Would it be so bad if they separated?” I asked Drintun. “They were once a kingdom. We did it when the Arunafeltz States declared autonomy.”

“Arunafeltz States were formed because we had no chance of winning a rebellion four hundred years ago,” said Drintun. “It cannot be said the same with Midgard. By Prontera alone, the knights outnumber the soldiers of Morroc, even with Assassin’s Guild’s numbers assimilated to their troops. What more if the King calls forth his lieges?”

Drintun shook his head. “The lords there tread dangerously close to treason.”

“There is nothing there but sandstorms.”

“That is incorrect, Your Grace. The mines of house Miellr provides King Tyrstan’s realm with iron and elunium, and their house controls the trade with Arunafeltz as well. Have you not been listening to my lectures?”

“I have,” I said. “Mount Mjolnir has the mineral resources as Morroc and more. Oridecon, and much more amount of steel. And Alberta has connections with the Arunfeltz States and the Western Countries through the Merchant’s Guild. Midgard has nothing to lose that are not really expendable.”

Drintun nodded, “True,” he said and sat up, squinting with that look of his that told me, now he was serious. I noticed Sahilde had moved her attention to us as well walking otwards us in cool interest.

“Clearly, you have put quite an amount of thought into your trade classes with the head steward,” Drintun said with a challenging smile. “Then, my prince, in the thought of strategic hold, if you were king, would you rather be surrounded by two kingdoms, or three? Which number would be less work, would be less of a threat? Would not a lesser number of enemies be easier to control?”

I said nothing, knowing he had had me cornered.

“My prince, relations between different lands is of utmost importance in upholding peace. And as king, you are the Keeper of Peace. Wars have been waged because of things as petty as a slip of the tongue in the days of old. A jest taken ill by a prideful prince, or a misunderstanding between a king and a prince from another land. Do you remember your studies of the Millenium Wars? Its histories?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking through the studies I had back in Yuno. The histories of Rune was taught to me Aelstrom, the old Castle Sage before he was sent back to the Quarters. I told Drintun what I remembered, that The War of Emperium was the third of the five wars of the kings of the continent, when the kingdoms fought to obtain a golden rock rumored to be of great power. It gave the wielder such power that it could force anyone to submit to whoever held it.

“It happened during the reign of Rino the First, the Rebuilder, known as the High Engineer of Schwarzvald during his time. Partos the Malevolent was the king from Midgard, and Flur Deitr, the Rose King of Rachel. It was nine years after the end of the age of heroes. Partos won the war after the Rose King and Yuno conceded.”

“But?”

“But the Midgard King realized the Emperium rock had no actual power. It signaled the end of the Arcane Age. The Midgard king executed the High Wizards in Geffen after that.”

“And what do you get from that piece of history, my prince?”

I shrugged, suddenly tired of all this. “I don’t know.”

The sage leaned closer to me. “Wars often start from folly, Your Grace. Power is a fickle thing. In your early age as prince, you should learn to wield it wisely.”

I leered at Drintun. “What would you know about ruling? You ran away from your lordship years ago.”

“And found my way in the presence of your queen, and maintained a position as Castle Sage. That title holds certain power, does it not?”

“Not really.”

Drintun shook his head. He was quiet for a while, and then he noticed Sahilde, standing close by. Drintun spoke again.

“You know, your mother almost started a war.”

I turned to him slowly.

“Do I speak correctly, Sahilde?”

The woman nodded a solemn nod. Sahilde was a large woman. She was not beautiful, but I had long thought that beauty meant nothing to her. She was like a man; her arms and legs were thick with muscle, as thick as a woman’s body could, and a scar went down from her for head to her right eye. Her thick orange hair was tied behind her back.

She said in a deep yet gentle voice, “It would have been the sixth war of Rune.”

I waited for her to continue. I had not known this; there were songs about the queen’s adventures; her fight in the Mjollnir Mountains, or the exploration in the Sograt Dessert, but there had been no songs about her in wars, or her waging them.

“It happened years before you were born,” said Drintun. “I was just a scribe then, working in the Sage Castle. Word of it spread fast in the keep. The sage council and your mother’s court worked to keep the feud between Schwarzvald and Arunfeltz, but Midgard soon heard of it as well. There was an issue with some men crossing the edge of the Einbroch Fields without the consent of the lord. The trespassers hailed from the city of Veins from Arunafeltz.”

“They said they were hunting drosera stems,” Sahilde added.

“The Lord of Lighthalzen, at that time was outraged with the trespass, since the land they stepped into was theirs geographically. It was an insult to his lordship, to have invaders hunt on his land. The men from Veins were unapologetic. Prideful yet outnumbered by one to a city. We got word of this the next day, and the queen, your mother, held a small hearing in the Lighthalzen Castle where the men from Veins were held captive. The King of Arunfeltz went off from his seat from Rachel, to join the hearing and to vouch for the men. They were men from the house of Pytar, you see, the house of the King’s mother. Leaving them to the justice of another nobility not sworn to their lands were deemed as another insult, at least by His Grace’s mother. During the hearing, the Queen Mother from Arunafeltz called our Reigning Queen a selfish, whore.”

“ ‘Selfish, war mongering troll of a whore,’ were the exact words,” Sahilde said with a smile. “I was there. She demanded Queen Freja’s head, and even went to the extent of calling Schwarzvald as too soft to keep away conquests, and was ripe for the taking.”

Sahilde laughed a deep, baritone laughter. I scoffed with her as well, at the thought of it; Arunfeltz was only a fourth of the entirety of Schwarzvald. The thought of them as conquerors and pillagers was ridiculous.

“So what did my mother do?”

“Queen Freja was outraged,” Sahilde continued, “wanted the old crone’s head.”

“She was insulted under the house of one of her lords,” said Drintun. “Insulted in her land, by a foreigner. It took all of the Council of Sages to instill some wisdom back into her head. Later, she had the Veins men released, in exchange for the Veins Lord to pay the droseras they cut down. The King from Rachel agreed and that was that.”

“What of the queen mother?” I asked.

“Not a word. Only rumors and false truths about her plotting your mother’s demise. She was humiliated for sure, but her son had controlled her well enough to stop a war from raging.”

I turned away from Drintun, to the window, picturing my mother in armor, wielding a sword and shield and marching off to war.

“Do you see what I am trying to say, my prince?”

In all honesty, the story made me want to go to war. My mother almost did. I imagined myself donned in a knight’s armor, but made of pure silver, like the queen’s but with golden rims, and the symbol of my house sewn on a red cape. I faced Sahilde.

“Did my mother don her armor during the hearing in Lighthalzen?”

Sahilde again smiled her grin. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

Drintun’s point was not lost on me. I nodded to him, and the sage started questioning me about the houses that ruled over the lands in Midgard, their symbols, the guilds sworn to them. I submitted, reciting family names and their cities.

After the sky had turned orange and the sun began to descend, Drintun had me prepare what to wear for the evening. In the sky, I remember watching in awe from the glass windows of the airship. I saw the sun amongst the orange and blue sky, a circle of thin and long wisps of clouds around it; The Court of Sol, the arrangement was called.

The moment I arrive in Prontera there would be a feast with all the lords of the kingdom, along with the majority of the noble houses. Like I, some younger lords and ladies were to stay in Prontera for tutelage for a few years. I would have peers, which was something new for me. Back in Schwarzvald, the houses of the lords had heirs years older or younger than I, so peers of my age was not so easily found. Even Eiric and Petra I could not consider as peers. The practices were different as well; Yuno only invited its lords for summits, its ladies to serve as handmaidens for the queen or princess. My mother held no summits as queen, and wanted no maidens. She had only the sage-regents and the sage-regents served in the Hall of Yuno, not in the castle where I grew up in.

Drintun spent the early afternoon reminding me of courtesies in Midgard, their ways their systems. Adapt, Drintun said, you are as much a prince there as the minor lords of Midgard; same thought my mother told me.

“Your father will not have much credit there, my prince. Do you understand what this entails?”

I stood still, the tailor pinning needles into the excess of my skirt. The mirror in front of me showed my face, pale, my short red hair cut clean on my sides. I wore a thick beige muffler that fell from my shoulders to my elbows. The symbol of house Vangr, a large, leafless tree, pinned the thick cloth by my collar. I remembered what my mother had told me about the king and his faith.

“They have different gods now,” I said.

“The claim of your descent will be questioned. There, Thorssen means nothing.”

Drintun watched by the side, looking at what I wore. He gave directions for the tailor to have the sleeves folded by my wrist; a Pronteran fashion.

I shook my head.

“I am still prince of Schwarzvald.”

Drintun nodded. “Good answer, Your Grace.”

~

We reached Midgard late by the sunset. Prontera did not have a port; its lands gave no heights, no ravines or cliffs for an installation of an air-port, only rolling plains of grasslands and forests. Captain Mjorgun had informed us that we would not be landing on Prontera, and he had opted to take route to Izlude, southeast from the capitol. There in Izlude was a deep shoreline, a port well-enough to secure the airship. It was the nearest town by Prontera, but required at least half a day’s travel by land.

This had made Drintun uneasy. “Can’t we opt not to land the airship at all? Simply let it hover above the city and have us down through ropes?”

Mjorgun scratched his head. “It is dangerous, having the prince on board. As I see it, it would not seem fit for the prince to clamber down a piece of rope. It would be too tedious.”

“Does the lord of Izlude know we are coming?” I asked.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Drintun shook his head and led me back to the common room of the ship. It was not long before the captain announced our arrival. When he did, I took a peak down and saw the small, square civilization of Izlude. It was all in grayish-blue, the cobblestones that make up the small town glimmering a soft lapis-lazuli. It reminded me of oceans, as if the sea beside the city had seeped into its cracks and crevices.

Mjorgun never landed the ship—airships were harder to buoy up into the sky with no proper facilities present. Fortunately, the ravines of Izlude was almost similar to the ports in Snotora; it gave low enough altitude to level the ship with the land. A small bridge was built to connect the ship to the cliff on the northeast side of the city. Across the ravine, what it seemed to me, was the entire population of the small city, welcoming us. Some of my company had gone ahead, knights and courtiers standing by the bridge. The sages went before as custom demanded. When it was my turn at last, the herald announced my title; Prince Augvald of Vangr, Thorssen, Heir to the Crown of the Schwarzvald Republic.

Across the bridge, I could see the crowd welcoming me. I remember stepping off from the wooden bridge that connect Izlude to the airship, strong winds gushing around me. There was a small clearing up ahead, and around it like a crescent moon stood the crowd. My hands were cold holding on to the ropes of the bridge. When I stepped foot on the gray rock of land, I felt my knees buckle beneath me. It was a strange land, and I was a stranger to this strange land. The thought that my mother once stood in my place comforted me.

A young man adorned in a rich earthy robe, stepped forward in to the clearing. His high boots were of rich leather, and a strong sheathed sword hung on the side of his waist.

“Is that your brother?” I asked Drintun. He shook his head.

“I am not quite sure who he is, my prince. But that is not my family. At least, that I know of.”

When he reached a considerable distance, he bend to his knees and introduced himself as prince Jorgenn of Ginnregin, Tyrstensenn, First Born Son of Lord Ginnregin of Prontera, King of Rune-Midgard and Keeper of the Realm.

The prince was a tall lean looking man, his chest and shoulders wide. He had the light brown hair and brown eyes of his house. He looked at me in such intensity that I looked down at my feet in an unexplainable embarrassment.

“Welcome to Rune-Midgard, Your Grace,” said the prince.

~

We stayed a night in the Izlude Keep. It turned out that the welcoming feast was re-planned a day ahead of us. Mjorgun had sent a pigeon a day before about the state of affairs to both the lord of Izlude and to the king and the king had ordered to send word across the nobles that the feast was postponed for a day. We were to spend the night in Izlude, and in first light, we would ride for Prontera. After landing the airship and meeting the young prince of, we walked towards the center of the city, to the Keep where the lord of the city was waiting. On the tread, the prince was jovial enough. He asked questions about our ride, about the airships and how the privilege of riding one was lost for the nobilities of Midgard.

“You will be able to ride one someday, Prince Jorgenn, I will make sure of it.”

I caught Drintun nod at me in approval.

“I will hold you to that, little prince,” he answered and I felt myself suppress a retort. Did he just call me little? Before I could say anything back, Drintun cut in to the conversation. The sage asked how he had arrived in Izlude in such haste. As he remembered, the travel from the capitol to the Izlude was at least two days.

“I went by horse, my lord, with only two of my companions,” Jorgenn said, nodding at the two people trailing behind us. “Sir Van and Lady Circe. With no stops. ”

The two nod at me as I glanced at them. Sir Van was a large knight in full silver armor. He wielded a long spear by his gauntlet. The lady beside him was clearly a hunter. A crossbow hung by her waist as well as two quivers full of wooden bolts. I turned to the prince and thanked him; his efforts of hospitality had not gone unnoticed. The prince laughed, a loud, delighted and put an arm around my shoulders. I felt exceedingly short as he leaned in close to my ear.

“No need for the courtesies between us, Prince Augvald. You will be staying in our castle soon enough, and for god knows how long. To me we are good as brothers.”

I smiled bashfully not knowing how exactly to feel towards the prince’s offer of brotherhood.

The Hall of Izlude was a small hall, a building made of old, and yellowing marble. Four tables were set vertically across the hall parallel, to each other. There, I realized we were addressing the lord wrongly. The lord of the city was a woman. She stood tall on in front of a huge marble table by the end of the hall. I figured it was where the rest of the lady’s family would sit during summits or feasts.

Lady Dreja was a tall, strong looking woman. She had the same brown hair as Drintun’s, same strong chin and thick eyebrows. They had different eyes though; Drintun’s were smaller while the lady’s eyes were huge and brown, which gave her a much more intimidating effect than her brother. Around her shoulders were thick, padded white furs, and falling down around her body was a dull brown robe. She did not look regal at all. In fact, she looked feral.

On her right was an old man, seated and seemingly blind. Half of his face was covered with gray beard. As she received us, Lady Dreja introduced the members of her house. The old man was the former lord of Izlude, and on the lady’s right, a small boy at least half my age was her son, Fenrir. A man stood a distance from them, but still on the dais, donning an odd sets of black, and red robes. Veins of gold beautifully carve into the black and red fabric, trailing across the torso up to the collar. There, the design was much more intricate and detailed. They seemed to me like crosses. Of all the people in front us, his attire seemed the most deserving of nobility.

Lady Dreja introduced him as Leannder Torreth, the city’s High Priest. The man was sent by the Archbishop of Prontera a year ago.

“As they should, to profess the new faith,” Prince Jorgenn said still with a warm smile on his face. I remember how cold the look in Lady Dreja’s face was, the short but noticeable silence before her reply. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

Prince Jorgenn turned to the priest, acknowledging him. “Good day, Father.”

“Your Graces,” the priest said, nodding. This was their priest here, I thought. I could not help but compare the priest to the ones we had in Yuno, where the priests wore humbler clothes, and preached in temples, not in courts. I wondered how they practiced their new faith here in this country. I watched him, the Leannder Torreth and found that he was looking at me as well, rather intently, a glint in his eye that made slightly uncomfortable. I looked away.

“You are all welcome in my house, and so is the rest of your company. Tonight, I will hold a feast to honor you, Your Graces as the guests of my castle,” the lady said, her voice booming in the hall. “I reckon you are all tired from your journeys. My servants will lead you to your quarters for you to rest and settle down. May God’s light bless you, Your Grace, Your Grace.”

“And you too, my Lady,” Jorgenn answered.

I glanced at Drintun who in turn only raised both his eyebrows.

That night, I saw the rest of Izlude’s nobilities at the feast, along with the prince’s company. I was placed beside him on the marble dais, with the Lady of Izlude and her family. The aging hall had been transformed, the rusting chandeliers hanging on the ceiling now illuminated with candles, food abundant on every length of a table in the hall. A group of bards sang a familiar song I had recognized; it was a song from Yuno.

“Are you familiar with this song? The Ballad of the Iron Queen. I heard it from a visiting bard from Hugel.” Prince Jorgenn asked, his voice louder to beat the clamoring noise of the hall.

I nodded. “I do.”

From the corner, the bards sang the song with three lutes;

She wields war in her sword,

her soul in her shield,

Fear upon the foes

from her skin made of steel…

“Do the words speak the truth then, of the fierce warrior queen?”

The prince had asked this as a jest, but I could not help but feel my face warm upon the high esteem he held on my mother.

“Her skin is just as soft as mine,” I answered him. “But her armor is made of strong silver steel. It had dents in it, I had seen it.”

“No need to convince me, my prince,” said Jorgenn, “but this skin of mine should be closer to hers than yours, if the rumors are true.”

I looked at him, wondering what he had meant. He looked at me then leaned aback with a short laugh.

“My jest seems lost on you, my prince,” said the prince, “never mind, Your Grace; a repeated jest would lose its essence. That one, I learned from a traveling minstrel we once hosted back in Prontera.”

With his loud amiable voice, he called for a maid for more ale, and turned his attention to the Lady Dreja. The song continued on and ended, replaced now with a song I was not familiar with. Later, with much humiliation with the time it took me to realize, it dawned on me that the prince had spoken about my bloodline, the first anyone had spoken to me about it and it was lost on me. I wondered if my obliviousness would serve to discredit me or not. I looked around for Drintun, and found him seated on the table just below us. The sage had his back on me, eating and speaking with one of the castles men. It was clear that the sage had no place in his family’s table, now that he served a different house, and a different kingdom entirely. Instead, Drintun shared the table with Petra and Eiric, the sage emissaries and the Rekenber agent, along with Lady Dreja’s Noble Guard, a hulking man covered in armor, and my Royal Guard Sahilde; the Lady’s head steward, and finally her priest, who sat across my tutor. I watched them, Drintun, then Leander Torreth. He ate slowly, his eyes moving across the speakers in front him, as if feeding from them as well. He eventually spoke his way to Drintun’s attention.

God, I thought. Hours ago, after Lady Dreja had dismissed us from the hall of her keep, it was the word that lingered inside my head. That afternoon, a group of servants had led me to my quarters with a few of my luggage. Most remained in the carriage, since we would be riding towards Prontera in first light.

The room the lady gave me was humble; a bed, a table, a balcony with potted plants and flowers overlooking a cool, blue-limestone courtyard. That afternoon, the fading indigo-yellow light of dusk fell on to the cobblestones, giving the light-blue hue of the limestones a warm glow. In the middle of the courtyard stood a statue of one of our gods back in Yuno. A large, humble figure, and although I was quite far from it, it was clear who it was; the shadows of the folds of his peasant robes evident, the large hat and staff: the king of Asgard, Odin, in his norman form. It was clear to me how old the statue was, the discoloration of gray and green on the once strong clay; the noticeable chips on the edge of his robes. The figure had weathered through time.

Servants had entered the room with my luggage. Drintun soon followed, striding in his usual pondering gait; steps purposeful, his eyes focused on the floor, it was as if he was covering them, afraid anyone would see the gears of his mind working.

“God,” I had said regarding his presence. “They say god. Not gods.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. This new god they have seems an envious one.”

“What do you know about it, Drintun?”

“Unfortunately, not much. It is a foreign faith from countries in the east. It revolves around a creator, a god of light. I will have to do some research. It seems it is quite some importance to the prince.”

I turned towards him. “It was nice to meet your family. They are very odd.”

Drintun walked towards me slowly his eyes cumbersome.

“We are an old family, Your Grace. It may not reflect well on me. As you already know I have diverged path from my own kin. Mine has strong foundations with this land: the men are expected to be warriors or hunters. And I am neither.”

He sighed. He put his hands on the stone rail of the balcony.

“My family is also strong with the faith,” he said, looking at the statue. “The old faith of this lands at least.”

“The Lady of Izlude did not seem so keen, the way she spoke about the priest.”

Drintun nodded, “It is a stranger’s faith and Dreja had always been stubborn. Strong, yet infuriatingly single-minded as most warriors are.”

I turned watching the opened halls that enclosed the courtyard.

“The priest was watching me. Did you see it?”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Drintun said. “If I were him, I’d be just as interested. Your existence challenges the very foundations of their beliefs.”

I smiled at Drintun. “I want to know all about this god of theirs. At least I’d have something to amuse me.”

“You find that amusing?” Drintun asked. He sighed. “At least one of us does, Your Grace.”

Drintun in turn smiled wearily.

“What do you mean?”

The sage snapped out of his reverie.

“Nothing, Your Grace—“

“Say what you mean.”

“Well—Your Grace, things are not quite the same since I left. I see it in the people, the way my sister held court with the prince’s presence. And the priest. Things are different Your Grace, and it seems we caught them in a time where things of old are more likely to weather through this changes. A volatile time. But like I said in the airship,” Drintun straightened up, and suddenly he was my strict tutor again. “We shall adapt. We shall cope, Your Grace.”

After he left that afternoon to tend to his belongings, I descended my quarters and walked around at the courtyard, at the old statue of Odin. I had not noticed it before, but large steel stakes were pounded on the platform of Odin’s statue, the hardened rock crumbling into gray debris. A volatile time, Drintun had mentioned. The foundation of the statue had already been chipped off, revealing large gray rocks, held together by the hardened clay. A prerequisite for a clean demolition, the steel stakes had skewered through the god’s feet, cleanly like real steal would through flesh.

Hours later I came to the feast, and again held in honor by the Lady Dreja of Yggdrus. After the feast, I thanked our host again for her hospitality, Drintun beside me. The prince of Prontera was intoxicated to some degree, but remained courteous all throughout the night, his white face pink and still ever smiling. Soon, he was ushered by Sir Van back into his rooms.

“Your Grace,” I heard a voice from beside me. It was Lady Circe. She made a small bow.

“Our prince likes to enjoy himself in parties, no matter the place, you must forgive him.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Lady Circe,” I said, willing all the energy left I had for niceties. “It is his kingdom after all. Nor does it bother me.”

“I noticed you did not have a cup, Your Grace.”

“Drintun thought it best not to drink tonight, at least not too much. We are leaving by the first light tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes, how wise.” Lady Circe said nodding. She looked at the hall where her prince disappeared into.

“Our prince is a good prince, Your Grace,” she said. “Forgive me for being presumptuous, but I dare say you are under good hands. The prince already has plans to take you around the cities of Midgard. In Alberta, or Payon, or even Morroc—if it pleases you, of course.”

“That is very thoughtful of him, my Lady. I look forward to it.”

The huntress bowed, “As do we, Your Grace. Good night.”

Lady Circe walked away, her steps strong yet graceful.

“She suspects you distrust them,” Drintun said as the Lady Circe walked away. They head towards their quarters themselves.

“Distrust who? The prince?”

“The Proterans. Midgard. It is common wisdom during wartimes, to drink only wine from your own keep. That is why she asked about the absence of your cup. Sharp eyes, indeed of a huntress.”

“Should I have reason to distrust, then, Drintun?”

Drintun looked at me with a small smile in his face. “I do not think so Your Grace. But let us keep our minds sharp and eyes open. See you in the morning.”

~

A thick mist hung over the city at dawn. After we broke fast, my company as well as the Prince Jorgenn’s party, said our leave to the Lady of Izlude. She said it had been her honor serving both crowns even for one night then supplied us ten horses and three carriages to carry my court to Prontera, plus twenty of her men to escort us to the capitol. She sent us her horse master as well. Jorgenn thanked her, and said that the crown appreciates her aid, and shall be well compensated. I thanked her as well, and told her her hospitality will remain remembered by the Schwarzvald Crown.

The host of carriages rode out of Izlude in the crisp cold of dawn. The cold was nothing to me; the heights of Yuno invited colder winds, yet the men the Lady of Izlude sent with us wore thick robes, with furs covering almost the entirety of the faces.

I shared a box with Prince Jorgenn, followed by the carriage with Drintun, Ranon Ilard and Demytr Ghalstein. Sahilde, Petra and Eiric rode alongside us each with a mount. Sir Van and Lady Circe rode ahead of the host, followed by our box, Drintun’s, then the rest of the sage emissaries.

The clicking of hooves on the city’s cobblestone’s soon changed into muffled steps on soft ground. From the opened window of the box, I could see the bluish walls of the city fading into the mist. I wondered what my tutor had felt, leaving his hometown. Back in the Hall, Lady Dreja did not even cast a glance at her brother’s direction.

When I looked away the window, I caught Prince Jorgenn watching at me with an amused smile. He sat just across me, in a black doublet and with gold embroideries, the colors of his house.

“How old are you again, my prince?” He asked, squinting with a smirk.

“Fifteen.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I hear you plan on learning with the Swordsman Guild. Are you good with a sword?”

“My Royal Guard Sahilde trained me since I was nine.”

“Ah, I look forward seeing you hold a sword, then Your Grace. I am sure it will be a pleasurable sight.”

There was a playful edge the way he said his words, the edge of his lips tugged that had me confused.

“Salhilde, is it? She is quite the giant. I wonder what it would be like seeing your guard against Sir Van. He is the head of my own guard, magnificent with his spear. Would you fancy a wager, Your Grace?”

“I would not bet against Sahilde,” I said. “She might not don a knight’s armor, but her axe has served my mother even before her ascendency as Queen of the Republic.”

“Has she?” Jorgenn said, surprised. “Fascinating. Women are such fierce warriors outside of Midgard. Here, most of the noble born ladies stay in court, served as ribbons to tie off alliances. Even my sister. Have you heard of my sister, Your Grace?”

“Princess Caecilia’s beauty is famed even in Yuno,” I said.

Jorgenn laughed. “I have seen better, but to each his own. Yes she is beautiful, I suppose. She’s always wanted to train in the Swordsman Guild but Father never let her. She is probably destined to marry some lord. Perhaps the young lord in Morroc, or that pretty boy from Alberta. Have you heard of him? Heir of Alberta, beautiful, gentle boy they say. And good with a sword such as you, I wager.”

The prince looked at me. “Do me the favor of speaking to my dear sister, Your Grace, I am sure your stories of female warriors will entertain her so.”

I nodded despite of seeing through his intentions.

“I hear the princess from Morroc knows how to wield weapons,” I said in attempt to stir the subject away from his sister.

“I hear she has snakes growing out of her hair, and poison on her fingertips,” Jorgenn said grinning. “The women in Morroc are the exception to the limits here in Midgard, of course. And Your Grace, they are addressed ladies and lords despite whatever rumors people are spreading around. They are still under our liege.”

I flushed and said my apologies.

“It’s all right, Augvald. You are young,” he said, again with that odd smile on his face. “Is this your first time to travel, Your Grace?”

“Does it show?”

“Perhaps. You look a little bit uncomfortable. Can’t be me, I hope. I have heard I am spectacular company.”

I laughed although I had no idea what sound I let out. I suddenly felt the need to say something, so I inquired about the Midgard cities; what exactly was Alberta like? The prince spoke of the merchant city in high esteem, its beauty, the breeze of the sea perpetually wafting down from the docks. He spoke of other cities, about this lord and that, and that I would see soon, the lords, when we reach Prontera for the feast. When the sun had risen eventually banishing the mist around the woods, the Prince pointed out the Mjolnir Mountains, a shadow above the trees covered in clouds. He spoke of the creatures there called orcs—barbaric creatures, said to be the spawns of the humans and demons that existed before the end of the Arcane Age.

The Prince of Midgard, as I learned throughout the ride, had gone through various expeditions around his country, mostly with his guard Sir Van and Lady Circe. They had gone to visit the century year old camps in The Gorge, in the desserts in Morroc; sailed to the Byalan islands east of Alberta, and even spent a few days in the infested tower in Al De Baran, a city-state north of Prontera. One place he had not gone to, and hoped to go someday, was the fallen city of Glast Heim. Even from Yuno, the fallen city and its accursed reputation was known, told through bed times stories to scare children to sleep. I remember Aelstrom telling me stories of Midgard’s attempts to cleanse the city, and their continued failures; these stories consisted of traveler’s tales of the night-mares, their headless riders and all sorts of stories about ghosts and undead men.

“Is the king still permitting entrance to the city?” I asked.

Jorgenn shook his head. “No, not at all. It is barred from everyone. No one whoever enters the city returns alive. Or when they do, they are not the same people as they were when they entered. Do you know of the story of the person who last entered Glast Heim?”

“I do not,” I said.

“Ah,” Prince Jorgenn said. “A pity then.”

The Prince spoke no more of it, and instead asked about Yuno, spoke about how he wished to stroll around the Floating Capitol someday. His abrupt yield about the subject intrigued me; from the few days I had met him, he seemed like a person who saw a conversation through the end—but that observation came with the prince’s rather narrow attention span and a fondness of burning through dozens of topics in a short amount of time.

A little later, Jorgenn stopped the carriage and excused himself; he had the urge to ride, and immediately sent for his horse. The ride resumed, and I spent the rest of the ride with my window opened, watching the woods that surrounded us. The trees around the outskirts of Prontera were not thick, the mid-morning sunlight illuminated the darkness beyond the trees. We eventually stopped on a wide, windy clearing to eat, servants preparing a small feast of roasted lamb and rabbits, sweet fruits, some bread, butter and wine. A servant escorted me down my carriage. There was a small table set on under the shade of a huge tree. The seats overlooked the wide green plain surrounded by trees. Wind blew softly around us, and the sunlight soft and warm.

There, I met with Drintun and the rest of my company. Drintun shared that he and Ranon Ilard spent most of their time talking about the policies down south and of course, the priest and the nature of Prontera’s religion. Prince Jorgenn was not around yet, and Sir Van and Lady Circe were absent as well. Some of the men Lady Dreja sent with us informed us that they had gone riding ahead and shall be back shortly.

“I learned some things about their faith last night, Your Grace,” said Drintun. “Torreth, the priest was eager enough to share the word of their lord.”

“It seemed he was trying to convert us,” said Ranon in rather contemptuous manner.

Into the clearing, I spotted Sahilde and the young nobles Petra and Eiric unmounting their horses. Sahilde towered over the two nobles, clad in her leather and furs. She had handed Petra her axe; Eiric had taken up position against two guards, his sword unsheathed.

Drintun continued. “He told us that their god had no name. They address him in their prayers as ‘God’ or ‘Lord’. He has no form, for figures and statues associates with mortality, and their god, they say, is eternal.”

“As opposed to the destined twilight of the gods,” said Ranon. “If I am not mistaken, we have books cataloguing their faith back in the Republic Library, Your Grace. Although, I am not quite sure of the depth of the research; the religion is young, at least around Rune. It originates from the Western Continents.”

The clinking of steel echoed from the clearing. I watched as Eiric parried sword against sword. He was up against the two guards at once, hacking and slashing with his sword in one hand, the other at his back.

“Where?” I asked, my eyes still on the practicing swords. “Ayothaya?”

“No one knows, Your Grace. Last I heard of Ayothaya, they served nature gods of trees and tigers. Not a formless god,” said Drintun. “Lord of Grace, Lord of Light, Holy Father are some of their god’s titles.”

Ranon snorted. “’Holy Father’—odd how they claim their god to have no form, yet settled on a gender.”

“Indeed,” said Drintun.

In the field, Eiric had disarmed the guard by twirling his blade through the guard’s sword and then snapping blade’s flat side on the guard’s hand. Eiric then pivoted, parrying a slash from the other guard. They exchanged blows but eventually, the young lord of Einbroch had the guard disarmed as well.

“Excuse me, my lords,” I said to Drintun and Ranon and headed down the clearing. The men were laughing ahead of me, the guards picking up their swords from the ground for what it seemed another round. Eiric saw me striding towards them and immediately, his grin vanished and bent his head down in courtesy. Everyone in the field followed suit when they turned to see my approach.

“Your Grace,” they said in an unmatched chorus.

“It’s all right,” I said, lifting a hand.

“You have a good hand at swordplay, Lord Eiric,” I said. Eiric looked up seeming pleased.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Our arms keeper Jordan taught me since I was child, back in Einbroch. He served in Schwarzvald Camps for almost thirty years before becoming our weapons tutor,” said Eiric. His voice was deep, almost like a man’s. By that time he almost was, nearing his twenty-first year. He wore a dark doublet, and his hands were gloved with leather.

“Jordan?” I said, looking at Sahilde. I remembered the name mentioned once, during a story Sahilde once told me of my mother’s old companions. Sahilde confirmed it with a nod.

“You must be very skilled then. But don’t the lords of Einbroch usually wield hammers?” I asked, genuinely curious.

Eiric opened his mouth, and then closed it. He lowered his eyes as he said, “Traditionally, Your Grace. But my choice has always been the sword.”

“So it is a matter of preference?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

It was the manner of reluctance in his voice that intrigued me. I tried to remember the Einbroch line and asked him if I was wrong to recall he had a younger brother?

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

“Where is he?”

Eiric hesitated. “By now, I presume he is in Rachel, Your Grace. He went with Einbech and Lighthalzen nobles.”

“Does he prefer swords as well?”

Again, the young Einbroch lord hesitated.

“He wields a hammer, Your Grace. He is a blacksmith.”

I blinked. “And he is in Rachel.”

My eyes went to Sahilde, whose eyes would not meet mine.

The galloping of horses heralded Prince Jorgenn’s arrival. I turned to look, momentarily distracted. The prince was slowing down as he neared us, his short brown hair in a soft flurry of curls. Everyone but I lowered their heads.

“What do we have here?” he said, reigning his horse to stop moving. He was followed by Sir Van and Lady Circe, all in their own mounts. Sir Van donned his silver armor from shoulders to his feet, the butt of his spear poking from behind his right shoulder. Lady Circe donned thinner clothing of leather and lace, her long dark hair tied behind her back. Her crossbow hung by the side of her mare.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is my wish to see Prince Augvald hold a sword coming true? How premature, I had wished to see it under conditions of my own,” said Prince Jorgenn.

I saw Lady Circe smile to what the prince said, but turned it into a pleasant greeting to me when she saw me look. She bowed her head, and Sir Van followed suit.

I said, “No, Your Grace. I was simply an audience to Lord Rusgald’s practice.”

“Rusgald?”

“Of Einbroch, Your Grace,” said Eiric in his deep baritone.

Prince Jorgenn looked at me with an approving frown. I stepped aside and introduced Lady Petra Deitr of Hugel. Petra seemed surprised as I did so, her eyes widened and her face suddenly flushing pink.

“Deitr?” The prince said. “We must be related then—my mother’s maiden name is Deitr of Rachel.”

“Y-yes, Your Grace. The Deitr from Rachel branched off from our line in Hugel during the Rebellion of the Rose.”

“That makes us what? Cousins?”

“I’m.. I am not sure Your Grace. Perhaps… But our line is older, so it is possible I might be some far-flung grandmother--”

Prince Jorgenn did not let her finish as he let out a boisterous laugh. He dismounted his horse with a swift jump, lifting his leg to meet the other on one side, then sliding down in muffled thump of his boots.

“Grandmother? You delight my Lady. Well,in any case, I am pleased to meet the nobles of Schwazvald. I am sure my mother would be pleased to meet you, Lady Petra,” said Jorgenn with a handsome smile. Petra murmured something incomprehensible, her face now even redder.

“Now,” Jorgenn said facing me. “Perhaps you would honor me with a duel, Your Grace?”

Eiric turned to me. “Let me serve as your champion, Your Grace. I will not dishonor you.”

“This is only practice, Lord Rusgald,” said the prince in a small laughter. “I assure you, I have no intentions of harming Prince Augvald.”

“Your Grace,” Lady Circe cut in with a soft but cutting voice. “I am afraid we do not have the time. The sun is almost at its peak, and if we intend to reach Prontera before the feast, then we must go and with haste.”

“Ah,” Jorgenn said turning around to look up to Lady Circe, still up on her horse. “Always the wise crone, you are Lady Circe. Very Well. Perhaps, when we are in the grounds of my home, Your Grace?”

I nodded and they all started towards the small feast by the tree. When they were all up ahead of me, I turned to Sahilde.

“Your Grace?” she said, looking aloof.

“Does my mother have something to do with this?”

“With what, Your Grace?”

“Lord Eiric. I find it curious to find a Rusgald Lord without a hammer. What exactly does she expect a hammer from Einbroch will do? Will father come down from the heavens and take me away just because Lord Rusgald brought a hammer?”

“I am not in the place to say what the Queen thinks, Your Grace. But the young lord went here to his own accord. Your mother did not intervene.”

“Only influence, perhaps” I said, walking away towards the shade.

We resumed our travels after the prince, as well as the rest of my company had taken sustenance. Prince Jorgenn had opted to ride the rest of the journey on his own horse, leaving me alone in the box we had shared. The thought of my mother’s control still reaching down even across kingdom’s bothered me. In Yuno, it was the little things that gave it away, her fear of the gods, but most of all my father. Though to the rest of the realm, perhaps even in the whole continent of Rune, the gods were gone or either unreal, they were still very real to her. Their figures, statues in the Yuno Castle were removed from where they once had been when I was an infant—or at least that was what the servants had told me. Their faith was only dealt or spoken of outside the Isle of Solomon. But most of all, the blacksmiths of the nobles had been displaced and transferred to Snotora Isle. Micar once told me it was because the isle represented the knowledge of crafts, but the timing coincided during the days my mother stepped away from the court, and the realm of the sage-regents, and the Gothi’s delegation…

Lord Eiric’s lack of the arms of their house, of their city, was a feeble attempt to isolate me from anything that had to do with my sire. The pettiness of it infuriated me, this constant managing of conditions. It made wonder, made me think of questions I do not longer want to ask; questions I would rather forget. The queen wanted nothing to do with the gods, its was clear enough, but she never fails to remind me of that.

Eventually, Prince Jorgenn appeared by the window on his horse. His hair was still wild, as he rode his horse. He seemed more alive on his mare, and even handsomer than he already was. The prince pointed out directions for me: on the western side of the kingdom, right past the farms of Prontera, I would find the Fields of Geffen where the orcs were said to dwell, in hiding. South from there, the Morroc Cities, then up north, Geffen and the Mjolnir Mountains. The prince asked me if I would fancy a ride, to freshen myself; I seemed rather low in spirits. I answered I was fine, and would prefer to have my person intact when I arrive in Prontera.

“Perhaps you miss my company, Your Grace?” he said above the winds and the sound of hooves galloping. I smiled and told him perhaps, I did.

He said nothing and continued to stare at me, his eyes squinting against the afternoon sun.

“A jest,” I immediately said. I began to regret having entertained his teasing. The prince laughed a heartily laugh.

“You wound me greatly,” he said, then galloped away.

For the rest of the ride, I stared out the stranger land through the windows. We were past the thin forestry of the hills of Izlude and now on rolling plains of farmlands. The road we were on was called the Leith Roads. On both sides of the path, vast farmlands went on for miles ahead of us; wheat, rice and barely on wet ground. The lands seemed to go on forever, at least from my view from the west side of the Roads. The Mjolnir Mountains was a bluish shadow along the horizon, right below the sun. Occasionally farmers and boys would appear waving ankle-deep from the wet farmlands. Some boys were by the side of the road, wearing stained tunics and large straw hats, running alongside our host. They called out to Prince Jorgenn in surprise and glee. From up ahead I could hear Prince Jorgenn’s laughter mixed with the sound of his name, carried by the winds.