[TW Warning]
With my arms strained, I wedged my hands under a small log and lifted with vigor. It creaked and groaned until, with a loud snap, it was thrust into the air. In one swift motion, I pushed it forward and against my body, maneuvering it out of the way and into a small patch of bushes. My eyes drifted back towards the dirt path, now cleared of debris, before returning to my mount.
"Hey Irmina," I said, placing a hand on the snout of the appaloosa horse. Her silky brown fur was warm against my cold fingers. Along her back was white with dark spots. She snorted and shook her head, as if smoke fumed from her nostrils and dissipated into the air. I moved my hand back. They were red and dry. The temperature had dropped since earlier in the day, and my nose was running uncontrollably.
Carefully, I swung myself onto the horse, settling into the creaking leather and steadying myself. My legs moved up and down with her breathing, almost rhythmically. Irmina was considerably still and calm—few horses ever reached such a point. It was clearly due to her training, something I was heavily involved in since a young age.
"Come on," The other rider, poised atop his horse, said in a loud voice. With a gentle kick, he nudged the animal into a slow advance. I lightly tapped Irmina's snout, whispering softly. Instantly, we set off, the rhythmic clop of her hooves against the ground resonating satisfyingly. "How much further?" he asked.
Keeping my gaze forward, I replied, "Just a bit more." The man, his clean-shaven face framed by dirty blonde hair, his skin weathered and dust-laden, nodded in understanding. "Dunstan," I said his name, "Odessa isn't gone yet."
Exhaling, a white puff escaping into the air, Dunstan responded, "Surviving this chill is one thing... but returning her to them? That's akin to a death sentence."
"They wouldn't go that far." I assured him, but there wasn't much certainty in my voice. Something he seemed to pick up on.
He shook his head, "You know they would."
"I don't and you don't."
"Alaric, she stabbed one of your families' fucking guards. Screaming out something illegible." Dunstan spat.
"There was no blood." I replied, now more monotone, a usual sign of my annoyance.
"That doesn't matter-"
I cut Dunstan off before he could continue, "There was no goddamn blood. How does that not matter?" Lowering to a normal tone, I went on, "And those people aren't my family. More like captives."
He stayed quiet for a moment, "Are you talking about... that?"
"Yeah." I muttered, "They don't even know about it. Only you and Odessa do. I'm of age and they'll be forcing me out of the household. Chlodovech only wanted them to watch over me until now. When they do, I'm leaving Heladon, screw this place."
"Where would you go? Crossing into foreign land isn't an easy task. Especially since the war started."
"Orerha, Yokonland, even New Heladon — they all seem the same from what I've heard. None are better than here," I mused, my gaze drifting into a distant blankness. "I'll cross the mountains, into the Theosilic regions. The ice and snow there will conceal my tracks." The Empire of Heladon was situated in the upper left corner of the continent's mainland. Above us lay mountains, with Yokonland to our south and Orerha to the east, a nation eager for conquest. Beyond the mountains lay the Theosilic Regions.
The Theosilic Regions spanned about a third of the continent, an expanse seemingly sculpted from frost. Vegetation was scarce, and animals — or rather, creatures of bizarre origin — roamed the windswept terrain. Little was known about this area, even to me, but the idea of escaping here, living a life away from others, was alluring. People can be cold, violent, and greedy, not just for money but for power, and sometimes there's no distinguishing between the two.
There have been attempts to claim this land, but some mysterious force always repelled these efforts. The cold was often too much; like fifty years ago, when the previous emperor of Orerha dispatched what was then the largest expedition to claim a section of Theosilic. The exact number eludes me, but over 30,000 succumbed to the harsh conditions. Yet, it wasn't just the cold that deterred these attempts.
Wars, too, have raged there. Conflicts with other civilizations existing in the region — primitive yet equally blood hungry. Tribes resorting to cannibalism in desperation. Skirmishes, too, with other nations trying to expand into the territory. None succeeded, and perhaps none ever will. It's a land where the very concept of conquest seems unattainable, a tundra-like territory that repels all who dare to enter.
"Alaric." Dunstan said my name, trying to pull me out of my fantasy, "Alaric, you weasel, look." He pulled his horse to a stop, and upon looking, I did the same.
"Holy shit..." I spoke with a barely audible voice. In front of us stood a large stone. As if placed here by some higher power, in the middle of the forest, blocking the dirt path. It stretched upwards into a dangerous point. I reared my horse around it, trying to find an alternative route.
"The trees are too dense for the horses." We slowed to a stop, "How did it even get here?"
Dunstan moved his hood further down, attempting to mask his face from the biting cold, "After Bridgevault fell... these have been, apparently, appearing everywhere."
"Bridgevault... the rebellion? What does that have to do with Heladon, they were against the Orerhan monarchy."
"I have no clue..." He dismounted his horse and began tying her to a tree trunk, "Chlodovech isn't happy about it. I don't know if you recall but sorcery is outlawed."
I dismounted Irmina, following suit. We would have to continue on foot from here. "How could I forget? There was an execution back in the city. They were accused of it, likely falsely."
"Don't dwell on it," Dunstan advised. We squeezed through the dense woods, where the trees were sometimes only inches apart. "Just worry about yourself; it's all anyone can do."
"Worry about myself?" I nearly scoffed. "I've been doing that my whole life, and I'm still doing it. It's exhausting. You might align with Chlodovech's actions, but I don't. I might not be able to stop his reign, but I can at least escape it."
"It's not about agreeing or disagreeing with his actions. It's about abiding by the rules, so you don't end up burning to death on that stage." He stopped speaking, but I remained silent. Thorns and branches snagged our clothes, hindering our progress.
Noticing my silence. Dunstan continued, "You're luckier than you realize. Ever since my father disappeared in the war..." He paused, lost in thought. "It was tough. I had to take charge of the household, watch my mother succumb to illness while I could only mourn. My brother ran away, a disgrace to our family, yet I still miss him. The Faust family took me in. They offered me work and shelter."
"They did that because they needed more manpower, not out of kindness," I retorted, weary of his lengthy speech.
"Perhaps, but it still helped me," A quick breath of air escaped his lips as he averted his gaze from me. We continued until we reached a clearing, only to be confronted by a wall of thorns. With no choice but to endure, we pushed through, despite the pain. The thorns snagged on my skin, pulling and tearing. They ripped across the top of my hand, causing the skin to redden and bleed. I scrunched my face and grunted.
The branch stretched forward before snapping back, letting both Dunstan and I go, and wobbling back and forth. I brushed myself off from any remaining thorns. The outfit I wore was long and black, woolen on the inside, but comfortable leather on the exterior. Buckled around my waist was a small pouch.
The sleeves were cuffed—a style not just anyone would wear. Though it served me well, it conveyed to others that I was similar to other affluent individuals, when, in reality, I had never even glimpsed a superficial amount of wealth. It was all concealed, far beyond my reach.
The only reason the Faust family presented me with expensive clothes and equipment was to prevent me from becoming a greater embarrassment to them than I already was, given the burden of raising a peasant child deemed significant by an unpopular ruler.
No one ever explained my importance to me—not the Faust family, and certainly not Chlodovech. By that time, I had only seen him once in my entire life, during a dinner party where I felt unwelcome, a common occurrence, yet he seemed unusually fond of me.
Angelina and I were walking side by side, her grip tight around my hand. Even then, her hair bore streaks of gray. My recollection of the building is vague, except for a somewhat vivid memory of the great hall they placed us in. The ceilings arched into a grand dome, with colored tiles narrating tales of men long gone.
These depicted legends of monarchs and emperors who slew beasts and vanquished men, posing threats to their people. Initially, I was awestruck, indulging in these delusions for a while, but in later years, I realized that these stories were fabricated for the soul purpose of appealing to foreign lords and rulers.
They ushered us over to a table, fit for a king, quite literally. On each chair were bodies with scattered faces. Eyes gazing downwards with scars strewn as if normal. All strangers, all dead men walking. They were soldiers being celebrated for a victory at some place that has now left my memory.
The whole time I felt like a sore thumb sticking out. Trying to concentrate on the chandeliers above where lit candles danced in their yellow flames. Like squiggles of a painting that grew consciousness and began to move. It wasn't until a door on the other side of the room swung open that the soldiers sat up straight, attention redirected.
He was a large, burly man with a dark brown beard that hung just below his chin. His face was undefined, marked by puffy cheeks and eyes that gleamed green. The clothes he wore seemed fuzzy and warm, gold in color, wrapping around him like a blanket, yet equipped with armholes. It draped down and swayed with every step.
"My lord," a woman said as she pulled back a large wooden chair positioned at the end of the table. His expression brightened before he took a seat. The chair groaned under his weight, as if struggling to support him. Scanning the table with sharp eyes, his gaze softened upon noticing me.
"There he is..." His voice, not as deep as I had anticipated, boomed loudly, echoing off the room's vast walls. It had the timbre of a younger man, though his speech was much more direct. "Alaric..." He surveyed the room, then pointed at the same woman. "Bring him over to me."
She crossed the room, which took a good ten seconds given the size of the space and pulled out my chair. The girl took me by the wrist. "Come on," she whispered. I hesitated but carefully stood up, following closely behind her.
Chlodovech put his hands upon my cheeks. They were warm, soft like that of a child, clearly never having to do his own work before, "Are you ready...?" He mumbled, moving me around to examine my body.
"...Ready?" I asked hesitantly, my voice barely above a whisper.
Chlodovech suddenly stopped moving me around and studied my face. "Yes, boy, ready... but I don't think so." The emperor looked up from his chair. Gazing at all those around, who were staring at his actions. He stared back for a few seconds, then slammed his fist on the table. Everyone averted their eyes.
He spoke to me further about my living conditions and the Faust's, but his interest seemed to wane unless the topic specifically involved me and my actions. Even then, it felt odd. Chlodovech, the last true monarch and a suitor seeking a marriage, surprisingly directed his attention towards me throughout the feast.
I returned to my seat, surrounded by discussions of the war against Orerha. The conversation was utterly tedious to the point that I mentally checked out. It was during this time that I began to harbor a deep-seated aversion to violence and the nature of humanity. They were eager to slaughter, raze, and even torture merely to secure a victory in a war where their chances of success were slim.
We had been indoctrinated to adore Chlodovech and have faith in his military prowess. However, the harsh reality was that resources were dwindling, and his forces were diminishing day by day. Orerha, though only half the size, was more efficient and stealthier, with leaders and generals who truly understood how to carry out their goals.
Chlodovech's ascent to power was akin to a gamble. The heir to the throne met an untimely demise, and with his second eldest brother being frail, the decision was made to take a risk and bestow authority upon him. Thus, Chlodovech became the youngest monarch in the nation's history. This unprecedented rise came with many responsibilities and lessons he had not been exposed to, coupled with the immaturity typical of a spoiled child.
Engrossed in thought, I became utterly unaware of my surroundings as I searched for Odessa. Suddenly, the fog of my distraction lifted with a single word, "Lavshire..." Dunstan swore, invoking an ancient term from the Heladonic tongue.
"What happened?" My question was barely a whisper, yet it did not take long for the scene to catch my eye as I swiveled my head. The old tower before us was partially in ruins, its stone foundation on the left side shattered. "I hope she's not in there," I murmured.
Dunstan moved ahead silently, and after a brief hesitation, I followed closely. The grass near the tower was dead and shriveled, with some areas reduced to mere patches of dirt. The towering structure cast a vast shadow, blocking the sunlight necessary for growth, which explained the barren landscape.
As we neared the entrance, marked by a modest stone archway, a wooden pallet obstructed our way. "Help me with this," Dunstan muttered, then positioned himself against the doorway, hands placed under the plank for leverage.
"On it," I responded, quickly positioning an arm around it. Soon, we began to heave. The plank was unexpectedly heavy, likely jammed against something, causing my arms to ache. We heard some cracking sounds, but eventually, it gave way. Pushing forward we let it crash to the ground.
The tower was crammed with broken furniture and part of the structure collapsed. A staircase spiraled upwards to various floors. From a hole above, sunlight filtered downwards, partially lighting the floor,
"Odessa-?" I called, my voice bouncing off the walls. No response. We waited. Listened. If she were trapped under the rubble, we could possibly hear her. After a few minutes of us searching around in silence, we heard something. A weak, mumbled voice, barely above a whisper,
"Here..." The voice was barely audible, repeating every few seconds, "...Help..."
"Over here," I called to Dunstan, pinpointing the source of the sound. Together, we spent the next few moments clearing away debris until the sound grew louder—the unmistakable sound of wincing groans. "Odessa... holy shit," I muttered, extracting her from the rubble. Fortuitously, she had been sheltered by a piece of stone wedged above her, guarding her against the falling debris. Her long, silky black hair was now tangled and matted with grime, her face marked by streaks of dirt. She was just a child.
"Lavshire..." Dunstan swore again before kneeling to assess her, "She's malnourished."
"A few days will do that," I replied, then carefully lifted her into my arms. She was light, stinking of mud. "How long has she been under there?" I asked, looking back at him.
He shook his head, "The day she ran... I'd assume." With Odessa in my arms, I stood and began the journey out of the tower, my legs weak—not from use, but seeing her like this. We started back towards the trees,
"Gunnar will—" My words were abruptly cut off by an intense, throbbing pain that erupted in the center of my stomach. A pain so overwhelming it commandeered my entire being, only to vanish as swiftly as it had arrived. In that moment, every sense dulled; sound and sight slipped away into nothingness. In a slow-motion haze, I released Odessa and crumpled to the ground. An arrow had pierced me from behind, tearing through to exit the other side. Faint screams pierced the silence around me, yet they were overshadowed by the ghastly sound of my own labored breathing. I could feel the chill of the dirt beneath me, but it was the numbness surrounding my wound that dominated my senses.
"...Drop all of your belongings..." An unfamiliar voice echoed in my head, its threat directed towards Dunstan, "...or the girl will end up like him..."
The impact of the fall must have roused Odessa or jolted her into a panicked state, for I could discern the sobs of a young girl and felt her hands trembling as she shook me. I endeavored to move, to make any semblance of action, but my body was unresponsive, as though it refused to move.
Everything went dark. Everything should have gone dark. Instead, I awoke, and was adrift in an expanse of nothingness, as though the very fabric of reality had dissolved around me. I was enveloped in an infinite void, its ground a deep crimson that extended as far as the eye could see. Above, dark clouds churned in a sinister dance, their blackness stark against the encompassing void, swallowing everything in their path.
"...Llasvior miorrlafo pllionada..." A voice spoke, startling me where I stood, and as soon as it was uttered everything came back to me. My vision flickered through images of red and white. Over and over until I could see sunlight. I could smell the stench of blood from my stomach, the dampness of the dirt, feel the warm liquid trickling down my skin.
"That's everything." Dunstan's voice quivered. Slowly I stood up, twisting my head to the right. Two men cornered Dunstan and Odessa to the woods. One with a ragged, overly worn dagger, the other a flimsy bow.
Unable to speak, my attempts to vocalize yielded no sound. Motion too eluded me, until, autonomously, my arms acted on their own accord, gravitating towards the arrow embedded in my stomach. With a swift, singular motion, the arrow was wrenched free, blood erupting outward. No sound, even then, escaped my lips.
My movements were unsteady, as if relearning the art of walking, my body approached the bandits against my will. Dunstan, casting a glance over his shoulder, uttered in disbelief, "Alaric..." inadvertently revealing my presence.
Reacting as one of the bandits turned, I drove the arrow into his stomach with force, then shoved him to the ground with a kick. "You motherfucker..." My gaze snapped to the archer, compelled to witness the unfolding horror, unable to resist an unseen force's command.
"You're... you're a—" His accusation was cut short as my hand struck his jaw, silencing him. He stumbled back with a cry. Lunging into a run, I tackled him to the earth, gaining the upper hand and pinning him beneath me.
He attempted to plead, but my hand smothered his cries, the other hand finding a jagged stone. "Alaric—" Dunstan's call went unheeded, my actions beyond my control. The bandit's muffled breaths wet the underside of my palm. With all my strength, I brought the stone down upon his head, the impact splitting his skin, blood beginning to seep. I struck again, relentlessly, blood splashing onto my skin, the taste of iron invading my mouth, yet my body remained unresponsive to the revulsion.
The bandit lay lifeless, yet I persisted, his body gradually melding with the earth beneath, "STAY. FUCKING. DEAD." My own voice, foreign and detached, resonated through the forest, the rock drenched in red. Moments later, control ebbed back to me, and finally I could again control my own body. As soon as that happened, I blacked out.
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