Legacy's Edge

In the center of Tyfel’s village square, Alaric eased himself onto a rough-hewn stool he had taken from the tavern. The stool’s legs were slightly uneven from years of use. The square, once a hub of the community, now bore the marks of its occupation and subsequent abandonment by those who had once called the village home.

Tyfel had been transformed into a strategic point of operations. Its streets and alleys, which once echoed with the footsteps of its inhabitants, were now lined with makeshift barracks and warehouses. The latter had been constructed with an efficiency that spoke of military necessity rather than architectural beauty. These structures housed not only supplies for the men who had been quartered here, men Alaric had defeated in battle, but also the spoils plundered from Dekar, awaiting the meticulous process of inventory, allocation, and transport back to Laval’s lands.

The sky overhead was a heavy blanket of gray, promising yet another cold, dreary day. Fleeting snowflakes drifted in the air, harbingers of the winter accumulating on the horizon, whispering of the harshness to come. It had been two days since the fight at the camp. The thought of what Laval and Malvanis had attempted to do still enraged Alaric something fierce. His anger burned sullenly within. It took all his effort to just sit upon the stool and not pace while he waited. But in truth, he knew he did not have to wait that long. Scouts had spotted the approaching party.

To his right stood Rikka, with Kiera slightly behind her. On his left, Ezran’s presence was more subdued, his gaze lost in thought, perhaps pondering the fate that had befallen Tyfel as his eyes casually swept the village square. Ezran’s thoughts had always been an enigma to Alaric. The former ash man, though loyal to a fault, just thought differently.

They were facing the direction of the river, its waters hidden from view by the buildings of the village. Off to the left was a two-story tavern. It had once clearly been a way station for weary travelers, traders, and merchants moving along the road with their caravans and staying the night.

The enemy had used it as a mess hall and headquarters. The tavern’s walls whispered tales of laughter and camaraderie that now seemed as distant and muted as the sky above. The absence of life in the village was a real thing, a sad thing, the heavy stillness a reminder of what Duke Laval had done to Dekar.

“Are you certain about this approach?” Rikka asked. “We could just kill him and be done with it.”

“We could,” Alaric conceded and wondered, once more, if the path he had chosen was the wrong one. “But there would be repercussions with the king. I do not know how that might play out, as I am answerable to him. Until I do, this is the safer trail to walk.”

Jasper appeared at the far end of the street. He jogged up to them.

“He landed and has twenty men with him,” Jasper reported. “They have the look of a personal guard. They are well-armed and seem competent enough.”

Alaric gave a nod and gestured for Jasper to move behind him. For once, the man did not have his bow in hand. He only carried a sword sheathed by his side and a dagger.

“Twenty is a lot, more than we expected,” Rikka said. “It could come to a fight.”

“It won’t come to that.” Alaric remained undeterred, his gaze locking with Rikka’s. “At least, I don’t think it will, and if it does, it will be a one-sided affair.”

“This might be mildly interesting, then,” Ezran quipped. “I personally think you should just kill him and be done with it. It is what I would do.”

Alaric let go an unhappy breath. In truth, he did not think he could do that and get away with it, at least not yet.

“You have not seen enough blood?” Kiera asked.

“No,” Ezran admitted. “I have not.”

A heartbeat later, a group, all afoot, came into view. At their forefront was a figure who commanded attention, not only by his position as lead, but by the aura of authority he exuded. As the leader halted at the sight of Alaric and his companions in the middle of the square, his entourage followed suit.

The distinction of this man’s attire was immediately noticeable: ornate chest armor that gleamed subtly under the muted light, meticulously tailored pants, and leather boots of fine craftsmanship. A heavy blue cloak was draped over his shoulders. Coupled with silvered hair and a groomed mustache, framing a mouth set in determination, his appearance painted the picture of a man who navigated the realms of power.

The escort had been marching in a tight column of two behind the man. A brief exchange, a muted query from one of the soldiers, likely the officer in command of the guard detail, was swiftly quelled by a gesture from their leader—his hand raised not in anger, but in command, demanding silence.

After a moment’s more assessment, perhaps gauging the intent or the strength of Alaric’s group, the leader motioned his men to spread out. His personal guard moved with calculated assurance. As they fanned out, their eyes swept over the shadowed facades of the surrounding buildings—each darkened window, each shadowed alley a potential threat.

Yet the leader’s focus remained riveted, locked onto Alaric, who was still sitting upon the stool, waiting. After a moment’s more hesitation, he started forward. His guard moved with him. They closed the distance rapidly before coming to a halt, a mere ten feet from Alaric and his party. The man’s eyes, sharp and assessing, briefly scanned Rikka, Ezran, Jasper, and Kiera before settling back on Alaric.

“You would be Duke Laval,” Alaric said.

“I am, and to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” Laval’s voice was deep, refined, and as hard and unforgiving as granite.

Alaric’s rise from his seated position was measured, a deliberate action that seemed to draw the very essence of command and authority around him like a cloak. “I am Alaric, Earl of Dekar.”

The reaction to his introduction was immediate among the soldiers accompanying Laval. A current of unease swept through their ranks. It was a reaction born of instinct. Laval, however, remained an enigma, his response—or the lack thereof—a study in control.

The duke’s expression did not waver, other than a slight and momentary flicker of his eyelids. His gaze retained its icy composure. He stood motionless, his stance suggesting a depth of calculation and resolve. In Laval’s stillness lay a challenge, an assertion of his own power and authority.

Alaric already knew Laval was a dangerous man, but in this moment, he realized just how dangerous. He could easily see how Masterson would be frightened of such a man, for Laval was a cold-hearted killer and an opportunist, someone who would stoop to any lengths to see his objectives met. Alaric had known others just like him. Laval was someone who only respected strength.

Alaric would show him real strength.

“Your men are dead,” Alaric stated plainly.

Laval stiffened ever so slightly. “What men?”

“Those led by your son, the ones who have been spreading disorder within my lands—raping, pillaging, looting Dekar.”

“My son.” Laval’s cheeks began to color slightly with the heat of anger and a mounting rage. He took a deep breath and let it out. “You murdered my son?”

“He tried to kill me first,” Alaric said.

“Captain,” Laval hissed, glancing back at the officer who led the detachment, “I want him alive to answer for what he’s done—kill the rest of them.”

“Do you really believe I came alone or am as unprotected as I seem?” Alaric smirked at that, freezing the officer in place, who had opened his mouth to snap an order. “Grayson,” Alaric called, “if you would.”

Grayson emerged from behind one of the side buildings, stepping into the square. With him were more than a dozen bowmen, arrows nocked but pointing at the ground. More bowmen appeared in some of the windows of the nearest buildings. Laval eyed them sourly, then turned his gaze back to Alaric as it hardened even further. “Is that all you brought?”

“No, he brought me.” Rikka, standing at Alaric’s side, raised her hand, palm up, facing the heavens. A radiant sphere of golden light flared to life, a miniature sun cradled in her palm. Eyes going wide, Laval actually took a step backward.

“A witch,” the officer with Laval hissed.

“My magic user.” Alaric intentionally did not use the word “lumina.” He was not prepared for that, though he was sure word would soon get out that one of the last users of holy magic, a conduit to Eldanar himself, had taken refuge within his keep. It was only a matter of time. There was simply no hiding it. “I think my point has been made. Rikka, that’s enough. We don’t want to really scare them.”

“But I want to murder him dead for what he’s done,” Rikka said, a bloodthirsty hunger seeming to drip from her tongue. “Please, please, can I kill him? Can I kill them all?”

Laval took another uneasy step backward. So too did his men.

Alaric glanced over at Rikka in shock. Her eyes had begun to glow red. He had never seen her like this before. She was menace incarnate.

She looked at him with those glowing eyes. “Please. He deserves to die.”

At those words, for a mere breath, his anger surged again at all the man had been responsible for. Alaric nearly gave in and said yes, then nearly forcefully shook his head. “No. Rikka, that’s enough.”

Rikka shook herself, and the glowing orb in her palm vanished. A moment later, the light within her eyes died off too, turning back to their normal black color. For a moment, she just stood there and breathed, her chest rising and falling as if shaking off whatever had overcome her.

Laval studied her for several heartbeats, eyes narrowing before returning his attention to Alaric. He seemed to recover a measure of himself. “You knew I was coming, that I would be here this day. You were waiting for me. How and why?”

With a simple, authoritative gesture, Alaric raised his hand, giving an expected signal. The sudden, jarring noise of the tavern door being flung open punctured the tense silence of Tyfel’s square, drawing all eyes. Keever and Thorne emerged, their figures momentarily framed by the darkened interior of the tavern, before stepping into the muted light. Between them, they half-dragged, half-carried Malvanis. The man’s appearance told all, for he was bound and clearly battered.

As they brought Malvanis to Alaric and released him, his collapse to the ground was not just a physical fall, but a symbol of utter defeat. With a groan, he rolled over onto his side and moaned weakly.

“You beat him,” Laval accused.

Alaric noted that despite the duke’s apparent anger, there was a hint of relief in his gaze, relief that his son lived. At the same time, the bruises and marks of violence on Malvanis’s face told a story, an eloquent narrative of what had transpired. They also spoke to the lengths to which Alaric was prepared to go. In truth, he had almost killed Laval’s son—had the bastard hanged like a common criminal. He had wanted to, and badly, but reluctantly decided otherwise, to take a different approach.

“I questioned him.” Alaric made a show of looking at the back of his right hand. The knuckles were bruised and slightly swollen. The same could be said of his other hand. He looked back up and met Laval’s gaze. “He told me everything. Do you wish him back? I have a mind to execute him for leading a war party upon my lands, for orchestrating what was done to my people—on your orders. He also attacked me and my men.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“He is my son,” Laval said. “Killing him would mean war between our two houses. You cannot be so foolish as to want such a thing to pass.”

“That does not answer my question. And if I wanted you dead, you would be so.” Alaric gestured to Rikka. “All I need do is give the word.”

Laval did not reply, but his gaze flicked to Rikka.

“Let me simplify things between you and me,” Alaric said, deciding to stop playing games with the man. “These are my terms. You can take your son and go. If you or anyone serving you ever sets foot upon my lands again, I will kill them. You leave me, my family, my holdings, and my people alone, and I will give you the same courtesy. Test me on this, and you will regret it. I shall not warn you a second time. Consider this your first and only warning.”

“I am a duke and sit on the king’s council. You are but a lowly earl. Killing me would have serious repercussions. The king would not stand for it.”

“There,” Alaric said, “we understand each other’s rank. I believe we are making progress. Oh… and”—Alaric glanced over at his bannerman—“Keever is no longer yours. He is mine and I am claiming him as such. So, hands off.”

Keever stiffened, his gaze going to Alaric, eyes widening in disbelief and clear alarm. The man’s face had paled considerably. Alaric ignored him, for he would deal with Keever soon enough. He kept his gaze focused on Laval.

“It was Keever who sent your son word we were marching on Tyfel. Your son took it into his head to ambush us on the road. That,” Alaric said, “was a mistake, one that might have cost him his life and may still if you refuse my terms.”

Laval glanced down at his son, who was still lying upon the ground, moaning softly. A look of disgust overcame him. “That would not have happened were I leading.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Alaric said with a shrug. “However, if you wish to test that theory, feel free to come back and try me. The choice is yours.”

Laval clenched a fist. Murder was plain in the man’s stare. After several heartbeats, his gaze shifted to his son.

“Very well,” Laval said and glanced over at those with the bows before turning his attention to Rikka and then Alaric. “We understand one another. You and I will have peace.”

Alaric clapped both hands together. “Then you may take your son and go.”

“Take him to the ferry,” Laval snapped. Almost instantly, two men stepped forward and grabbed Malvanis, each taking an arm. He moaned louder as they dragged him off.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Duke Laval,” Alaric said, inclining his head ever so slightly.

“I wish I could say the same,” Laval said, then with a last parting glance at Rikka, he stalked off, his cloak swirling. His guards parted for him, then followed. In a few moments, they were gone from view.

“Jasper,” Alaric said, “make sure they leave and cross the river. Then cut the ferry’s rope once they are across. Going forward, we will have no trade with Laval or anyone associated with him. As such, I do not see the need to maintain a ferry.”

“As you command, my lord.” Jasper jogged hastily off.

Alaric turned to face Keever and took a step closer.

“Ultimately, he will never abide by your terms.” Keever’s face was hard as he met Alaric’s gaze. Though the bannerman had paled, he stood tall and firm. Alaric found himself impressed. It was clear the man had inner strength. “He will come after you again and again,” Keever added.

“Ultimately, I expect he won’t abide by the terms I set this day, and he likely will test me again,” Alaric said, “but for a time, there will be peace and a chance to rebuild. While I have it, I will take that opportunity.”

Alaric did not mention he had greatly bluffed Laval. He only had his company of soldiers for real strength, his bannermen, and the militia to help back them up. He would need to raise more soldiers and soon—otherwise, he’d be in trouble when Laval realized just how weak he was. He glanced at Rikka. The show she had put on had been magnificent. That alone might buy him the time he needed.

“And what will you do with me?” Keever asked, his tone hard. “Now that you know I betrayed you, sent word to Malvanis.”

Alaric took another step forward. He eyed the man for a long moment. “Nothing. I will do nothing with you.” He moved around Keever and toward the tavern, with Rikka in tow.

“What do you mean, nothing?” Keever demanded. “I don’t understand.”

Alaric stopped and turned to look back. “From this point forward, you will serve me loyally. If Laval, his servants, agents, or anyone else dares to approach you to undermine me or in any way harm my family or Dekar, you will listen to what they have to say, then report it all to me. At that point, I will decide what will be done.” Alaric took a couple steps back so he was facing Keever directly, almost in his personal space. “Betray me again and I will kill you and your family. I will bring your entire line to an end. Do we have an understanding?”

Keever swallowed and gave a nod. “I—I—we do, my lord.”

“Good,” Alaric said. “Then let us forget this bad business between us and move on. I am not one to hold grudges. You now have a clean slate with me.”

“Yes, my lord,” Keever said.

“Besides, before, you did not know me. Now, you do.”

“That I do, my lord,” Keever conceded and bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Alaric glanced at Rikka. “I want some time alone with my lumina to talk. Thorne, Ezran, and Jasper, see that we are not disturbed.”

“As you command, my lord,” Thorne said.

Alaric looked at Kiera, who had moved to follow. “And I mean alone, Luminary, just the two of us, Rikka and I, no one else.”

Kiera glanced at Rikka, hesitated, then gave a nod of acceptance. She took a step back. “As you wish, Lord Alaric.”

With a determined stride, Alaric turned on his heel and made his way toward the tavern. The building was a quaint edifice of weathered stone and plastered-over timber, its door ajar as if in silent welcome. Pushing the door firmly open, he crossed the threshold with a measured step, the heavy wooden door creaking softly. Inside, the common room stretched out before him, bathed in the soft glow of the hearth’s dying fire and a couple of lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The common room was deserted. A lone, unattended jar of wine sat upon a table near the fire, flanked by several clay mugs.

Moving with purpose, Alaric approached the table, his gaze lingering on the liquid bounty before him within the jar. He poured the rich, dark wine into a mug, the heady aroma rising to greet him. Just as he lifted the mug to his lips, the faint sound of footsteps heralded Rikka’s entrance. The door thudded shut behind her, sealing them both away from the others. Alaric took a deliberate sip of the wine, the taste complex and slightly tart on his tongue.

Rikka paused just inside the door. She cast a quick glance around the empty room, her eyes eventually settling on Alaric, almost fixing upon him like a predator might prey. With a quiet sigh, one filled with resignation, Rikka moved to join him at the table.

“That,” Rikka said, “might have been a mistake.”

“Letting Keever live?”

She nodded.

“I need fighters,” Alaric said, “and Keever is a fighter and a leader. He proved himself to me during the fight. He will bear watching, but I doubt he will betray me a second time, especially after this…”

“Perhaps,” Rikka said.

“That was an impressive show you put on,” Alaric said.

She scowled slightly as she gazed back at him. “What show?”

“With the eyes.”

Her scowl deepened, and she seemed uncertain, almost afraid. She glanced down at the ground. “That was no show. I—I… it…” She trailed off.

“It impressed Laval.” Alaric took a sip of his wine. “That’s all that matters.”

“I suppose you are right,” Rikka conceded. “What will you do now?”

“Now?” Alaric sucked in a deep breath and released it, allowing the tension to go with it. He considered his answer before speaking. “Now, I will turn my energies to rebuilding Dekar and making my domain strong and powerful once more, strong enough that Laval or anyone else dare not challenge me without fear for themselves.” Alaric took another pull of the wine, draining the mug. He set it down upon the table with a hollow clunk. “And maybe building a port for a certain pirate I know. All that will be my focus, at least until the next crisis arrives.”

“I will be here at your side for that.”

“Will you?” Alaric asked.

She gave a nod.

“Then I want to know more about you. I would learn about the woman who wants me to take up a banner long since fallen, a woman who wants to have a child with me.”

She did not immediately speak, but her gaze grew intense. Under the dim light of the common room, her eyes seemed blacker than night.

“Tell me, and one day, I might just raise that banner for all to rally to.”

“I do not want that for me,” Rikka said. “I think you know that.”

“Then what do you want in return?”

She considered him, then her gaze went to the jar of wine. “Pour me a drink, will you?”

Alaric obliged, his movements fluid as he poured a generous measure of the wine into another mug and extended it toward her. She accepted it with a nod, her hands wrapping around the mug, but rather than partake, she held it close, her attention captured by Alaric as he refilled his own with the dark, aromatic wine.

Breaking the momentary silence, Rikka’s voice carried a hint of jest, tempered with an underlying seriousness. “I hope there’s more wine where that came from,” she mused, a slight smile playing on her lips. “For we have much to unravel tonight—should you truly demand it of me.”

Casting a brief glance at the jar sitting on the table, now diminished in its contents, Alaric met her comment with a lighthearted grin. “Fear not, for our supplies are far from exhausted,” he assured her, motioning toward two barrels that sat off to the side and against the left wall. One had been tapped, the other not.

Rikka took a cautious and almost nervous sip of her wine. Her gaze met Alaric’s, a sudden storm of hesitation swirling in her eyes. “Are you certain you wish to delve into what I have to share? You may not like it. In fact, I expect you not to.”

Alaric’s response was immediate, a nod of earnest assurance, even though he was uneasy at what he might learn. Still, mutual trust was born of truth, and Alaric would have that if he was to have a life with her. “Speak, Lady Lumina. Lay bare the tales and truths that burden your heart. Show me the real you, the person I have begun to care deeply for.”

“Show you? Is that what you really desire?”

Alaric gave a nod.

Rikka took a deep breath, the initial sip of wine seeming to fortify her resolve. She sat down upon a stool before the table with the jar of wine. She placed her mug upon the table’s surface as Alaric pulled a stool over and sat opposite, gazing at her from across the table.

She drew in another breath, and as she exhaled, the air seemed to shimmer around her. Slowly, her features shifted, her face subtly contorting as if molded by invisible hands. Her eyes deepened and the pupils widened, her cheekbones slid upward, and her skin took on an ethereal glow.

Alaric blinked in disbelief, his body tensing as he straightened upon his stool.

“You are not human,” Alaric breathed, his voice a whisper of fear and fascination as he stared back at her.

“No,” Rikka responded calmly, her voice steady, despite the profound change she had just undergone. “I am not—what you call human.”

The End

Alaric and Rikka’s adventures will continue. Book 2 is waiting for you on Patreon!