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“And lo, the sons of Arakor became fat, and complacent, and weak, and the Gods did put Their heirs through trials and tribulations, that they may remember to never eschew neither their curses nor blades for blessings and walls, for indeed the Enemy cometh, and he cometh with the bow, to bear plague, suffering and death against Their people."

• The Prophecies of Selangor, Book of Arakor, 59:12-15.

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Chapter I

Daylight was waning and weak, dim rays of auburn sunlight speared through the window grilles of the stone walls. The sound of clashing blades echoed through the halls of the keep. A day like any other for the noble youths of House Tarador, practicing their swordsmanship in the training room.

Clang!

“Lift up your arms, young master! Elbows tucked in!" Yelled the old instructor. “Now, quatremonte!"

The spectating young esquires, pages and servants watched the Lord's third son as he struggled to adjust to the instructor's commands and skill with the blade.

The aging, white-haired man swung down his longsword as he called out to the youth before him. The young male brought his blade up in a sloppy guard, barely parrying the heavy blow before he managed to step in and riposte with his own downwards swing.

“Garek, please! Pitiful! Poor, poor, poor!" Cried the trainer in dismay as he easily chambered the swing into a parry and shoved the blunted point of the sword into the young man's chest.

Garek's muffled cry turned into a grunt as the thrust sent him tumbling back onto his arse. Ouch. The small crowd broke out into murmuring chuckles and laughs, clapping as the fight wrapped up. An all-too-familiar sight. Few could best House Tarador's best swordsman, even in his old age.

“Agh! Master Guillefort!" He complained, taking off his helmet and tossing it aside, heaving for air as he breathed erratically. The blow had been softened but the training session had been long and he could feel his entire body burning up from the exertion. Old man Guillefort relented, grumbling. “We've been at it all day, I can't grip my sword anymore!"

“Fine, fine! We will end it here. It is about time for supper anyhow." The man conceded, sheathing his blade, and shaking his head as he looked out the windows. It was snowing outside and the sun had begun to set. It was getting dark. Night would come soon, and with it, the chilling temperatures of winter. It was, after all, why they'd been training indoors today. Simply too cold to stay outside for too long. The weather had been getting worse as of late, but on the other hand, it made for a nice change of pace. Even the peasants got to rest this way.

“Go and wash up, young master. We shall continue to work on your swordsmanship tomorrow. And your endurance. You're lacking!"

“You needn't tell me twice, Guy." Garek slumped back onto the floor, groaning as he splayed out like a starfish.

“Up and up, Garek, or you'll stink up the place..." The old man chuckled as he made his exit, taking a towel from one of the servants that stood nearby. A gaggle of young swordsmen followed after the instructor as they driveled on about techniques, what-ifs and buts. Garek groaned again. That old man could swing his heavy longsword for hours on end without rest. A freak of nature he was. Skillful, and talented to boot.

A furry black hand stretched over his face, hovering over it. Garek took it, and he was suddenly yanked off the ground and onto his feet with ease. A hulking youth of similar age stood next to him with a gentle smile on his face, still holding his hand as he steadied Garek, before letting go.

“You okay Garek?"

“I'm fine, Niks, thanks for asking." Even though Niks was a year or two younger than him, he stood a full two feet taller than him. Niks was every bit as intimidating as most people found fangbears to be, and yet, he was the meekest one of the boys in the castle. Garek rubbed his chest where the old swordmaster had thrusted his blade into. He could feel a bump forming under the linen cuirass. That was going to be very sore tomorrow.

“Oh. Okay." Niks muttered, patting Garek on the back a couple times, softly. “Don't think bad of Master Guy, I hear he goes hard on all the pupils he thinks have good potential."

“I hope so, otherwise it just means he's taking all his stress out on me and I'm not sure how I'd feel about that." Garek scoffed, smiling slightly.

“Well, I don't think Master Guy is that petty. At least, I hope so." Niks tilted his head, thoughtful. “Okay, maybe he can be a little petty, but I'm pretty sure he thinks well of you."

“I'll take your word for it, Niks."

Garek rolled his eyes, giving his furred friend a light punch on his shoulder before gesturing towards the corridor leading out of the training room. “Let's go then. I'm starting to feel the sweat settle in and I don't want to spend an hour scrubbing it and the dirt off. I'll see you at the dining hall."

Niks smiled. Somehow was endearing to him, even though he knew most people would've been scared shitless seeing so many sharp fangs close to their face, grinning like a hungering predator. He knew from experience that his friend couldn't exactly make a more gentle expression, but to him he was like a teddy bear.

Garek gave his friend a pat on the back before he headed off to his personal bathroom, one of the servants having long since left everything prepared for the young nobleman.

It didn't take long for him to settle into the warm tub, his eyes closing as his mind drifted off to nothingness. Times like these, he could spare a moment to meditate on his life.

To think it would soon be his twenty-first birthday, and he'd yet to engage in any real battles, to test his mettle like his father, or his grandfather. At age seventeen and fifteen respectively, the two of them had already been thrusted into the midst of bloody battle, embroiled in House feuds for control over their lands. House Tarador was a respected family and lineage, but ever since Lord Cetrik had become the new head, things had… cooled down, so to speak.

His father had brought about stability to the region after all of his military campaigns. It was something to be proud of, of course. Marauding bands of ne'er-do-wells and predatorial rival Houses had been pushed out, and the banners of House Tarador hung proudly on every square of every town and every village within their borders.

It was good.

And yet he found himself feeling envious of his forbearer's achievements. He never even had the chance to truly prove himself. Now he spent his youth being tutored by educators from across the land and constantly swinging his blade. And for what? He was only the third son, never to take charge of his House. The times for war were apparently over. Would he be married off to one of their allied Houses? Gods, he hoped not, but it wasn't beyond his father's political schemes to do so, after all, he had to get some use out of his leftover son. To have him vegetating around the castle forever would be negligent, and he was more than a man already.

The only tasks he'd ever had the pleasure to do were those in which he led manhunts for roaming bandits, and those poor souls barely had none of the training the Taradorians did.

Garek sunk into the tub, making bubbles in the water.

Then, knocking on the door to the room.

Garek splashed around in the tub, startled.

“Master Garek? Lord Cetrik requests your presence at the dining hall." A feminine voice came through the door. One of the servants, most likely.

“Tell him I'll be right there in five minutes!" Garek called out, quickly hopping out of the tub, grabbing a towel and patting himself dry. Spent enough time idling in the bath.

“Yes sire." The servant replied, the echoes of their steps growing more and more distant.

Garek's head hung low as he breathed out. 'What will become of me?' He thought.

A worry for another time, however. In a matter of minutes he'd gotten a new change of clothes on and had made his way out of the baths and into the dining hall. The hall was well-populated with a number of huge tables, each one replete with stews, soups, breads, wines, butter and flavored oils, as well as a number of sausages and cold, dried cuts of meat. Everyone in House Tarador ate well if the Lord could help it, and it included their servants and serfs, at least those living within the castle walls.

Upon entering the room he immediately spotted Niks, sitting at the far end of the room at a table with his close family of fangbears, throwing him a friendly wave. Master Guillefort sat on another corner of another table, surrounded by off-duty veteran commanders of the Taradorian guard, laughing raucously as they no doubt exchanged tales, colorful jokes, and memories.

Lord Cetrik sat at the head of the great table at the center of the hall, holding a goblet in one hand as he chatted away with Garek's brothers, Meriadoc and Thibault sitting at his right hand, while his mother Ysvette sat at his left, right next to him.

He was a tall, stocky man, with a barrel-chested frame and broad shoulders. He bore a short-cropped, well-kept beard and his salt-and-pepper hairs reached down to his shoulders, which framed his steel-gray eyes fiercely. The lord didn't look a day over forty, and yet he was nearing his eightieth year. In one word: imposing. Cetric's sole presence seemed to dominate the room.

As soon as Garek took a couple of steps into the hall, Meriadoc tapped their father on the arm, and Cetrik turned his gaze onto his son.

“Garek, good of you to finally join us." Cetrik eyed his son sternly. “You may sit next to Thibault."

“Y-yes father." Garek bowed deeply and he promptly took his cue to sit next to his elder brother. The middle brother, who most resembled their grandfather, the tallest of the three, more so than even Cetrik himself, though leaner and with sharper, intelligent eyes and facial features. Thibault on the other hand, was the spitting image of Cetrik, though perhaps a version of him in his thirties. His hair was styled in much the same way, with a few more braids and with a far cleaner beard. Garek on the other hand… Well, his father often remarked how much he resembled a masculine version of his mother.

Long, curly locks of raven-black hair with silvery streaks and tips, with eyes as pale-blue as the moon itself and skin that resembled polished bronze. Garek was a handsome man, if by no means as imposing and intimidating as the lineage of his father's side, he instead had his mother's more regal, nobler appearance. His mother's Alevanni heritage proved strong.

“You're late, little brother." Remarked Meriadoc, a mischievous look on his face.

“I know, I could see the look on half of everyone's faces. You don't need to remind me." Garek quietly snarked.

“Don't be like that, I made sure to save you a spot next to me, you know." Meriadoc grinned.

“So you can slip pickled sardines down my neck again like last time?" Garek gave him an annoyed look.

“No, Father would string me up by my toes if I did that again." Meriadoc muttered under his breath, returning Garek's side-eyed glare with one of his own.

“That I would. Do not embarrass me again, Meriadoc." Cetrik sternly spoke. The man seemed to have a preternatural ability to hear anything.

“Yes father." Meriadoc immediately responded, lowering his head slightly as he huffed.

Garek grabbed himself a plate and loaded it up with some food, before he started to munch down. Everyone was already eating after all.

Lord Cetrik eyed him with a stern look on his face, before he regarded the rest of those present. The clinking of utensils on plates and bowls no longer echoed through the room as much, instead a constant murmur of conversations taking place.

Cetrik licked his lips, and clapped his hands three times, loudly.

Candle lights flickered, the murmuring ceased, and everyone laid their eyes on their lord. Absolute silence.

“Thank you," he began. “I trust you have all enjoyed your meal."

The multitude nodded approvingly, a fair number of them smiling ear to ear. Garek looked at his father as he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. 'Today wasn't a special occasion, was it? No, no,' he thought, musing to himself.

“I am glad, then. It is best to deliver grave news on a full, happy stomach." A multitude of curious eyes held their gaze on their lord. “House Czarasek has committed capital treachery. They have claimed independence from the Empire and allied themselves with the Dominion."

There was complete silence for but a second, then outrage broke out.

“TREASON! TREASON!" Cried the multitude, a number of them standing up and slamming their fists onto the table. Wine and food spilled onto the ground.

“WHORESONS! Every last one of them! Traitors!" Old man Guillemont's face contorted into pure rage, his hand crushing the steel goblet it held as he spat out in anger. Garek had never seen such an expression on his instructor's face, nor his fellows for that matter.

Lord Cetrik stood, and the mob quieted down, the lot who stood up now hunching down in submission. Fear crept into their faces. Cetrik stared them down, his expression inescrutable.

“I know how you all feel. But I will not have any you turn into savages in my court."

The crowd bowed. Cetrik sat down.

“I understand your anger. I feel it too. My heart yearns to hang these mongrels from their heels. And yet, the Emperor has not called a summit. I can only wonder what thoughts weigh on his mind, and into what direction must he steer our proud nation towards. The unthinkable has happened, but the decision for war is not one so easily decided upon."

Silence hung in the air after his words, until Guillemont spoke up, his face hardened.

“Then what shall we do? Will the emperor simply allow the Czarasekian duke and his dogs to trample over our pride? Over his own peoples? My Lord, we must make ready for war!"

Cetrik clenched his jaw. “And make ready we shall, Guillemont. But we will not make a move until the emperor decides on a proper course."

“My lord I—"

“Will remain quiet on this matter, Guy."

“... Yes milord."

Guillemont broke eye contact with Cetrik, hanging his head low.

“This is neither the place nor time to discuss strategies or political directions, however I surmised that word of these news should come from me first, so that no one may spread falsehoods in my name or the emperor." Cetrik eyed his men and his family, then stood up once more.

“...My sons, if the time to draw blades comes once more, will you stand with me once more?"

Every man present, old and young, stood up, defiance and a fiery look on their eyes as they each brought their fist to their hearts.

“With bravery and pride!"

Cetrik gave them a sad, bittersweet smile.

“Then let every man in this hall make true on his word, for tomorrow we will assemble our forces. We shall ask of every able-bodied man across Valinor for his sword arm. Whosoever taketh up the blade in the name of our House shall be recompensed handsomely, both him and his kin, that they may not want for their base needs, nor die of hunger." Cetrik drew his blade and raised it above his head.

“We shall not be found wanting. Should we head to war, we will bring our enemy to its knees, for while there still remains a Taradorian that draws breath, there our hope for victory remains! So speaks Cetrik, Lord of House Tarador, Duke of Valinor, and may the Gods strike me down and turn my body to ashes should I break mine word!"

Cetrik's blade burst aflame, heat radiating off its obsidian length.

“Truth!" Cried out the duke.

“Truth!" The people echoed.

“Justice!" The blade pulsed, a halo of flames surrounding it.

“Justice!"

“Honor!" The light from the blade began to brighten to an almost unbearable degree.

“Honor!"

“Death!"

“DEATH!"

The sword's blaze burst across the room enveloping all the men and women inside in white flames, yet not a scream was heard.

Their bodies were wreathed in dancing firelights, a beautiful spectacle which seemed to invigorate their bodies, lighten them. Garek felt the pain of his bruises and sore muscles leave him, replaced instead with a sense of soothing warmth, the magical flames licking at his fingertips, singing away nothing.

A warcry swept through the crowd, and they all rose at once, thumping their chests with their fists. The young noble could not help but follow, his cry for victory joining the others'. His arms tensed, his chest tightened, and an immutable sense for battle nearly overwhelmed him.

Cetrik drew his blade into his sheath, where it clicked into place. The flames vanished and the room darkened once more, now dimly lit by candlelight alone. The crowd's cheers died down quickly enough, and curiously, the air was now easier to breathe once more.

“We shall meet at the morrow on the courtyard. Make ready, for we will travel to town to relay the news to the townsfolk and the rest of Valinor."

Garek breathed out unevenly, feeling himself filled with determination. Could this be it?