Legacy's Edge

The guard, with a swift movement, snapped to attention and swung the heavy wooden door to the keep open with a hard push. Without stopping, Alaric passed him by and strode inside.

Behind him, Ezran, Jasper, and Kiera—his personal guard—followed in weary silence, their steps heavy with fatigue. Outside, the courtyard came alive with the sound of orders barked by Grayson as he directed the men of his company with a firm and commanding presence to clean their gear before turning in for some sleep. The door, ancient and groaning under the weight of its own history, banged closed with a resounding echo that seemed to linger on the air. It muffled the sounds from outside.

“My lord,” Kiera said, her voice firm and demanding attention. “Would you excuse us?”

Alaric halted his advance and faced his personal guard in the narrow corridor. To his left, a stone staircase loomed, its steps worn smooth in the center from countless years of use, a witness to the passage of time and the many feet that had trodden its path over the centuries.

The corridor itself was dimly illuminated by a pair of oil lanterns hanging from the walls, their flames casting a warm, flickering light that danced across the stone surfaces. The pungent smell of burning oil enveloped them in an almost tangible haze.

Before him, the three stood, the toll of their recent endeavors etched into their weary postures and dirt-streaked faces. Even Ezran, typically the most resilient amongst them, bore the unmistakable signs of exhaustion. The return march under a relentless rain had done little to cleanse them of the grime, mud, dried blood, and gore from battle. Fatigue clung to their beings like a second skin.

“I will not be needing you,” Alaric announced, his tone carrying the weight of finality and a deep-seated weariness that mirrored his companions’. He was so tired, his right eyelid was twitching. “I plan on eating, cleaning up, and sleeping for at least four hours.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Kiera responded, her relief and gratitude clear. She turned away, her boots—fitted with hobnails that echoed her every step—striking against the stone as she ascended the staircase toward her quarters. The sound of her departure was a staccato rhythm that faded with distance. Ezran and Jasper, without a word, trailed after her, their own heavy steps speaking to the day’s hardships and the promise of a brief respite that lay ahead.

Alaric let go a breath and navigated the short corridor leading to the heart of his domain, the great room of Hawkani’s keep. The keep, while modest in size compared to the sprawling estates and castles of some of his peers, held a certain charm and warmth. Upon reaching the door, he pushed it open, the heavy oak swinging inward with a low creak that welcomed him back.

As Alaric crossed the threshold into the great room, he paused long enough to allow his eyes to adjust from the corridor’s dim light to the bright ambiance of the room. Dozens of candles, mounted in six large candelabras to either side, lit the space with plenty of light.

The interior, though modest, was comfortably furnished, reflecting the practical and unassuming nature of its lord. The walls, constructed from thick, gray stone, stood solid and imposing. The room was suffused with the soothing aroma of woodsmoke, emanating from the large, open fireplace that occupied a place of prominence on one wall.

The fireplace, filled with crackling logs and glowing embers, radiated a warmth that contested the chill creeping in from the outside. Its flickering light, along with those of the candles, danced across the room, casting an ever-shifting pattern of light and shadow that seemed to bring the simple furnishings to life.

Here, in this humble great room, Alaric regularly found a refuge from the demands and dangers of his position. The warmth from the fireplace immediately enveloped him, easing the cold that had seeped into his bones during the long, rain-soaked journey back.

Central to the room were three long wooden tables, each able to accommodate more than ten people with flanking benches. This communal area, designed for both the daily breaking of bread and the conducting of council, stood ready to serve its purpose at a moment’s notice.

Further enriching the room were various chests and cupboards arrayed against the far wall, each piece echoing the history of the keep through its weathered and worn appearance. Above these practical furnishings, tapestries of vibrant hues and intricate designs hung from the walls, their threads depicting scenes of valor, the tranquility of pastoral life, and the fervor of spiritual devotion. These woven artworks provided a much-needed infusion of color and narrative to the austere stone surroundings.

Dominating the head of the room and the main table was an ornately carved high-backed chair. This chair, more than any other item in the room, signified Alaric’s undisputed authority within the keep and city, a physical embodiment of his leadership and status, conferred upon him by the Cardinal King. Soon, it would no longer be his…

Was that such a bad thing?

Upon entering, Alaric’s gaze fell upon two servants, Michael and Missa, who awaited his return with clear unease. Their anxiety was not unexpected; the arrival of Thorne, sent ahead with news of the coming departure from this land, had undoubtedly set the stage for their apprehension. It was something Alaric could well understand.

“My lord,” Michael greeted as he bowed his head in reverence. He took a shuffling step forward, the movement betraying the legacy of a past wound that had taken him from the ranks to this very hall to serve his house in a different manner. He gestured toward the long table, where the chair, resembling a throne with its elaborate carvings, waited.

On the table, a place setting, a loaf of bread, a pitcher of wine with several mugs, and a bowl of what looked like stew sat. The room was infused with the smell of smoke from the fireplace, tallow from the candles, and the subtle aroma of the stew.

“We have food and wine prepared.”

Alaric gave a weary nod in acknowledgment. The rain had left him drenched and miserable, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He walked over to the fire, its crackling warmth a source of solace. Holding out his hands, he sought the fire’s welcoming embrace, a small comfort for his weary bones.

“Missa, kindly fetch me some dry clothes,” Alaric requested without glancing over. He rubbed his hands together, trying to get the warmth back.

“Yes, master,” came the soft, obedient reply from the girl with brown eyes. Missa, young and slender, with an unassuming appearance that belied her efficiency, bowed deeply. As she hurried from the room, her figure was a fleeting shadow against the candlelit walls, the bottom of her wool dress whispering secrets across the stone, her departure marked by the careful watchfulness of Michael. His eyes followed her before he turned back to attend to his lord.

Alaric moved away from the soothing blaze of the fire. With deliberate movements, he untied and lifted his helmet, a masterpiece of craftsmanship that had seen countless fights, and placed it on the table. The sound of metal against wood echoed hollowly in the room. Dented and scratched, the helmet had seen better days. Next, he unhitched Oathbreaker’s scabbard from his harness, laying the sheathed weapon beside his helmet. Its presence was as much a part of him as his own shadow, a constant companion. He poured himself a generous mug of wine, the rich aroma filling his senses as he took a deep draft. Alaric let go a relieved breath. The poor-quality, vinegarish wine available in Hawkani had never tasted so good.

“Help me out of my armor, would you?” Alaric’s request broke the silence. He set the clay mug down upon the table with a heavy thunk.

“Yes, my lord,” Michael responded, shuffling forward. His hands moved to the straps of Alaric’s breastplate. He began working on a knot along the side. “It is taking longer than it should, my lord. The leather is wet and has become resistant.”

“It was raining through the night, though it’s finally starting to taper off.” Weariness seeped through Alaric’s words. The desire to shed his armor and the soaked remnants of his journey was strong, each piece of metal and leather a burden he longed to be free of. His gaze drifted to the plate of stew, the steam rising invitingly, its scent promising comfort and sustenance. His stomach rumbled powerfully.

Michael got the first knot free and, rapidly after, had another undone. The armor began to yield, loosening its constricting grasp upon Alaric. Soon all the knots were untied. The relief was immediate as the breastplate was lifted over his head, a weight both physically and metaphorically removed from his shoulders.

Alaric’s groan of relief, mingled with the sound of his armor being set aside, was a final release from the day’s trials. Free of the heavy weight and feeling incredibly light, as if he weighed almost nothing, Alaric stripped off his soaked tunic, laying it upon the bench next to the table.

He settled himself on a wooden bench, its surface worn smooth by years of use, running along the length of the long central table that anchored the room. He turned his attention to his boots next, peeling them off with a grimace and a sense of real relief. Each boot was so sodden that it squished when he walked. He pulled off his socks and saw his feet white and badly wrinkled. He handed the boots to Michael, who limped over and placed them near the fire to dry out.

Stripped down to just his pants, Alaric allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation. The bench, though hard and unyielding, felt like a throne of comfort.

Missa reentered the room, her arms bearing the simple luxury of dry clothes, along with a towel. She placed the fresh tunic and pants on the stool beside him, her movements swift and unobtrusive, a dance of service and care that had become second nature. Alaric offered her a nod of gratitude, an acknowledgment of her contribution.

Sitting there, he fully inhabited the moment. The room was a personal sanctuary, warm and comfortable, as it had been ever since the keep became his seat of power in this land. The sensation of just sitting, of allowing his body to rest, was a magnificent indulgence that bordered on the surreal. The day’s exertions weighed heavily on him; the march of nearly forty miles there and back in so short a time, along with the clash of battle, had taken its toll. Every muscle ached, a chorus of protests from his feet to his legs and back, a physical inventory of the day’s demands. Even his hands, fingers, and arms hurt, not to mention his neck, which was incredibly stiff. He rolled his neck to work the discomfort out.

Yet, in this moment of stillness, there was an underlying current of satisfaction. The aches and weariness spoke of survival, of yet another battle fought and endured. It was a warrior’s respite, brief and hard-earned, a pause in the relentless march of duty that defined his life. Alaric’s gaze lingered on the flames, their dance a mesmerizing difference to the stillness within him, a warrior momentarily at peace with the tumultuous world outside and all its waiting problems.

“Is it true, master?” Missa’s inquiry, soft yet laden with concern, bridged the gap between servant and master. Her brown eyes fixated on Alaric, and in them, he saw a depth that seemed to mirror her soul. Her features, kissed by the sun, bore the distinctive mark of the local populace, a blend of resilience and exotic grace carved by the harshness and beauty of their land. “Are you leaving Hawkani, master?”

Before Alaric could respond, Thorne’s voice cut through the tense air, emanating from the shadows near a side door from which he emerged. The door led to the kitchen. “As I told you earlier, we are leaving, Missa. Lord Alaric has already given the orders and commissioned the ships to take his people home.”

Alaric, wearied from the demands of the day, could only nod in confirmation. His acknowledgment sent a ripple of emotion across the room. Missa’s gaze darted toward Michael, a silent exchange fraught with anxiety and unspoken hope. Alaric observed the momentary connection, a wordless conversation that spoke volumes of the bonds of shared fates formed under this roof.

Discovered on the unforgiving streets of the city, Missa, an orphan, had been half-starved. She’d been selling her body for a pittance, just to earn enough to eat. When they’d first met, one of her clients had just beaten her horribly.

Alaric could not put his finger on what had drawn him to notice her so many years ago, a pitiful figure amongst the press of the crowd, shuffling her way down the street in the opposite direction. Fate or perhaps divine intervention caused him to glance around and pick her out. There had been something about her that had spoken to him. Long ago, Alaric learned to listen to his instincts, his gut, and that had changed her life.

He had seen beyond the desperation of a starving and hurt girl just into her teens, to the soul residing underneath, and felt a moment of pity. He had taken her in and had her injuries tended to. Ultimately, he’d also seen her trained as a servant, and over the years she had made her own place amongst his household. In truth, with Michael, she ran it. More importantly, she was fiercely loyal, and he did not wish to part with her services now.

“Do you wish to go with us?” Alaric’s question was gentle, offering her a choice, a crossroads between past shadows and the promise of a new dawn. “If you choose to remain, I will reward you with gold for your service. The amount will set you up with a comfortable life.”

“That would be a life under the ash men,” Thorne added. “There is no guarantee they will treat you right, especially given your history with the current lord of Hawkani.”

Missa looked to Thorne, then at Michael, and finally, Alaric. Her bottom lip gave a slight tremble.

“So,” Alaric asked, “what will it be? Will you come with us and continue to serve me?”

“I will, master,” Missa replied, her voice steady, her resolve clear. Her glance toward Michael, Alaric’s loyal manservant, spoke of the bonds of loyalty and affection that had grown in the unlikeliest of soils. “If Michael is going, I will go too.”

“I am going,” Michael said. “I wish to go home to Dekar, my lord.”

“Then it is decided,” Alaric proclaimed, his decision not just a command, but an affirmation of the family they’d become, bound not by blood, but by the deeper ties of loyalty, compassion, and shared adversity. “Missa, you will go with us when we depart for Dekar.”

Alaric lifted the mug of wine once more and drank. When he set it down, he looked between his two servants. They were staring at one another, emotion and meaning in their gazes. He felt a softening in his heart. Both had been wounded, one physically and one in the heart and soul. Here was a chance to do some good.

“Right,” Alaric intoned, the weariness of his bones seeping into his words. “I am tired and spent. Missa, I need to bathe before I get some sleep. Can you see to that?”

“I will draw the buckets, master, and have them waiting in your room.” With a slight bow and unshed tears in her eyes, she glanced once more at Michael, her gaze deeper than ever, then moved to fulfill the request.

Michael’s eyes lingered on the path Missa took. He shifted his gaze to Alaric. “I did not think you knew, my lord.”

“Of course he knew of your affection for Missa,” Thorne replied, his tone laced with gruff assurance. “Now, give us some peace. Take the armor and see that it is thoroughly cleaned, made free of rust, then packed and ready to be moved to the ship. As soon as it is, send me word.”

“Yes, sir.” Michael picked up the armor and, limping, followed after Missa.

“Any trouble coming back?” Thorne’s question, casual, yet mired with the concern of a seasoned soldier, cut through the room’s temporary reprieve.

“No,” Alaric responded firmly. Rising from his seated position, he was greeted by a chorus of protests from his legs. With a groan, he shed his wet pants, the fabric clinging stubbornly to his skin, as if reluctant to part ways. He dried himself with the towel Missa had brought, then slipped into the dry pants. It was a small comfort, for the stone floor was cold beneath his bare feet.

Alaric pulled on the fresh tunic, then moved to his chair. Seating himself, he reached for the loaf of bread, tearing it in two with a decisiveness born of hunger. Dipping it into the stew, he watched as it soaked up the juice. The first bite was an act of reclamation, of grounding himself in the present, each chew a momentary escape. Not only was the stew fresh, it was also hot, which was more than welcome. He swallowed, then looked back up at Thorne.

“Sunara’s cavalry did not trouble us,” Alaric continued. “I think they were too busy keeping the Cardinal’s forces from escaping the trap that had been laid than worrying about us. The rain—well, fortune favored our withdrawal.”

“They had bigger fish to fry.” Thorne gave a nod and poured himself some wine. He took a drink from the clay mug.

“I got your message on Bramwell’s agreement,” Alaric said. “Five thousand in gold is a lot, though, more than I anticipated spending.”

“He wanted seven thousand, especially for a hurried departure, claimed on such short notice the food stores for such a voyage would cost a fortune. He said he was planning on beaching his galleys to work on their hulls and had reserved space, and that would cost too.”

“You’ve not paid him yet?” Alaric asked.

“No, not fully,” Thorne replied. “I gave him a thousand gold sovereigns as a down payment. He eagerly pocketed it and is looking forward to the rest.”

Alaric nodded and took another bite of his bread.

“The garrison has already begun work on packing our equipment and supplies.”

“Good,” Alaric said. “Has there been any panic? Disorder in the city?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Thorne admitted as he took another sip of his wine. “The word is out, but people are going about their lives.”

“Really?” Alaric asked as he took another bite. He found that surprising.

“There have been so many reverses of late that I think it is hard to shock people these days.” Thorne scratched an itch on his neck. “Lord Merrick came by to see you about an hour ago. I told him to come back in the morning.”

“What does he want?” Alaric said between bites. He had never much gotten along with Merrick.

“What do you think he wants?” Thorne asked sourly.

“The city,” Alaric surmised and set the bread down. “It is a good thing we have more men than he does.”

“Yes, it is,” Thorne agreed. “Otherwise, he would have moved against us long before. But now that we are leaving, he will get it without a fight.”

“He’s welcome to Hawkani, and all the headaches that come with it,” Alaric said.

“Are you not concerned about leaving?” Thorne asked curiously. “You did swear an oath to the Cardinal King.”

“I did,” Alaric said. “Long ago, he betrayed that oath. I no longer feel obligated to honor it.”

Thorne nodded as he took another swig of wine.

“It is time to go home to Dekar and Kevahn,” Alaric said.

The door creaked loudly as it opened. Grayson entered. He closed the door behind him, the latch falling into place with a click.

“How are the men?” Alaric inquired, his voice carrying the weight of responsibility for those under his command. The well-being of his soldiers was a constant concern.

“Tired, worn, which is understandable,” Grayson reported as he made his way across the room, his gaze momentarily drawn to the stew, speaking to the hunger that mirrored their shared exhaustion. Alaric tossed him the other half of the loaf of bread, which the captain caught with practiced ease. “As you ordered, I sent them to the barracks to get some rest.”

“Good,” Alaric approved, his mind already moving to the next phase of their plans. “In five hours, we roust and put them to work alongside the garrison. We must load the ships rapidly before a panic can set in amongst the populace. We take everything we can with us.”

“Yes, my lord,” Grayson acknowledged. “What of the city’s treasury?”

“That too. It’s mine. We bring it all and leave nothing behind,” Alaric declared. “Anything of value is to come with us as long as there is room on the ships.”

“Merrick will not be happy about you taking the treasury,” Thorne interjected. “When he takes control and finds the treasury bare, he will be put out.”

“I don’t care about Merrick. Besides, he has money himself. Let him spend his own funds on fixing Hawkani’s problems for a change.” Alaric turned his gaze back to Grayson. “See that it is done.”

“I will make arrangements for that to happen,” Grayson said. “We will do it quiet-like, under the cover of darkness. No one will know.”

“Good,” Alaric responded, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over him. At the moment, all he wanted was to eat and sleep some.

“It helps that the treasury is kept here in the keep,” Thorne commented.

“With your permission, my lord, I will withdraw to clean up.” Grayson glanced at the door to the left, his readiness to retire and change apparent.

“You don’t need my permission,” Alaric said. “We are long past that.”

“You are still the lord and senior here,” Grayson said. “Respect and honor demands that I ask.”

Alaric gave a weary nod.

Without further exchange, Grayson took a bite of his bread and exited the room through the same door Michael and Missa had gone through, his departure leaving Thorne and Alaric alone in a contemplative solitude.

In the quiet that followed Grayson’s departure, the room seemed to shrink around the two of them, the air charged with the unspoken understanding of warriors who had weathered countless storms together.

“I’m beat,” Alaric confessed quietly.

“I can imagine,” Thorne responded, his voice tinged with empathy. “I rode, but you marched all the way. Though, since I got back, I’ve only managed an hour of sleep myself.”

Alaric, seeking solace in the simple act of eating, picked up the wooden spoon and took a hearty sip of the stew. The warmth of the broth seemed to seep into his very soul. Thorne, respecting the moment, remained silent. He drank a pull of his wine, the fire crackling cheerily in the background.

Before long, the stew was finished, the bowl empty—a small victory in the grand scheme of things, yet a significant one for a man who had spent the day battling both the elements and the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him, along with keeping his men moving and marching back to Hawkani.

Alaric sat back, a yawn escaping his lips, a clear signal of his body’s demand for rest. The readiness for sleep was more than physical; it was a bone-deep craving for a few hours of escape from the burden of command.

“What is Dekar like?”

Alaric’s gaze shifted to Thorne, the inquiry pulling him from the precipice of exhaustion into a moment of reflection. Thorne, with his origins in the Southern Isles, possessed a perspective shaped by seas and storms. Alaric dove into the recesses of his memory, where images of Dekar lingered like echoes of a song whose words were long forgotten but not the tune. The question stirred something within him. It had been so long, at times he felt like he’d forgotten himself what home was like, and that troubled him deeply.

“Well?” Thorne’s voice was tinged with curiosity.

Alaric gathered his thoughts, the imagery of Dekar coalescing from the mists of his mind.

“It is a green land,” Alaric began, his words painting a picture starkly different from the landscapes that surrounded them now. “With large forests and trees aplenty, not plains and grasslands like this one we find ourselves in… nor the vast stretches of baked sands to the south.”

“Lush, then,” Thorne pressed, seeking to clarify, his interest clearly piqued by Alaric’s words. “No deserts?”

“No deserts.” Alaric nodded, the affirmation carrying with it a sense of nostalgia, a longing for the beauty and tranquility such lands promised.

Dekar, in his memory, stood as a bastion of natural splendor, very different to the arid expanses and the relentless and seemingly unending sands they had known in this land.

“Yes,” Alaric said. “Dekar is bountiful. My homeland is rich, and the ground is good for farming, very fertile. There is no real hunger, not like here in the south. The summers are nice, temperate, easy. It snows in winter, but that’s generally manageable.”

“I’ve never seen snow,” Thorne admitted.

“I think you will like it. Everything is blanketed in a layer of white and seems clean.”

Thorne gave a nod, then grew somber, his gaze going distant as he looked toward the crackling fire. “It was the sands that were our undoing.”

“The desert?”

Thorne nodded gravely. “We lost many trying to cross their depths to reach the enemy’s strongholds—too many good men. It bled us, the Crusade, white. That expedition was doomed from the beginning. The Cardinal should have heeded your warning.”

Alaric took another sip of wine as he regarded Thorne over the rim of his mug. “It was the corruption, the lack of focus, turning away from the mission God entrusted to us—building a righteous kingdom in his name.” Alaric stabbed a finger down onto the table. “That is why we lost, the greed for more than we needed.”

Thorne nodded again. “He should never have looked that far south.”

For several moments, they did not speak.

“What now? What comes after this?” Thorne asked.

“We go home,” Alaric said.

“To Dekar.” Thorne appeared contemplative as he rubbed his shaved jaw. “And then, tell me—what comes next?”

“I am hoping the end of war, at least for us—the end of the killing.” Alaric took another sip from the mug. He let go a long breath. “I’ve seen enough to last me a lifetime. If I never pick up Oathbreaker again, I will be a happy man.”

“Maybe.” Thorne gave a shrug. “But no matter where we go, you and I know there will always be those who need killing. Besides, you seem to bring out the best in people”—Thorne grinned at him—“and then they need killing.”

Alaric found himself scowling at Thorne. He set his mug down upon the table. With a decisive movement, Alaric brought both palms down onto the wooden surface, his family ring and signet on his right hand clunking heavily, the sound echoing slightly in the near quiet of the room. He stood, his body protesting the motion with a groan.

“Enough talk. Eldanar willing, what will come will come. I will not tempt fate by worrying about what has yet to materialize.”

Thorne gave another decisive shrug.

“Besides,” Alaric said as he started for the side passage that led to his quarters. He stopped at the door and looked back at Thorne. “I make my own fate.”

“Don’t I know it,” Thorne said. “It is why I swore myself into your service—that and your faith in our god. Where you go, Eldanar’s justice follows.”

Resisting a scowl, Alaric held Thorne’s gaze for a long moment. He turned away for his quarters, where he badly needed to bathe and then get some sleep, leaving Thorne and the great room behind.