《Noble Causes》


 Peasants & Power

    Noble Causes


    The boy kept his eyes forward, watching silently amongst the crowd as the wind bit at his face, winter''s kiss forcing him to struggle to even keep his eyes open. Though he tried to bear the frigid chill as best he could, his black-furred cloak did nothing to protect his face from the harsh winter''s chill, as much as it did the rest of him. A shuddering arm held tightly around his midsection ¨C his mother''s ¨C was almost enough distraction for him to forget everything else, her grip clutching him as if she feared he would vanish if freed from her hold. Silent tears wet his neck as she sobbed into his hair, the young woman kneeling on the ground as she held all her children close to her.


    His brother, a thin-faced lad just three summers his junior, gripped the hem of his ratted overshirt as tightly as a boy of six could manage, the tension shaking him as well. He was unsure of what he was watching but unable to help tears of his own as he watched his mother nearly give way to hysterics. The girls were much the same, both of them five and three themselves, crying in the arms of their mother despite not knowing or understanding little or anything at all of what was happening in the slightest.


    The boy raised his gaze as a low rumbling voice said something, solemn grey eyes rising to stare at the man wrapped in thick furs attempting to comfort his mother. She paid no attention to the words themselves, much like the boy, unable to tear focus away from what they were about to witness. The burly man lifted his large hand from his mother''s back, realizing his words were no good and straightened up, rising from the hard ground on one knee to stand above all of them with his own family. His father''s brother ¨C a hard man named Cley ¨C kept his expression as tight as it usually was, his face red behind the mass of hair he called a beard.


    "Jon," the boy''s gaze rose again as he heard his name leave his uncle''s lips. His own eyes like sharpened flint, he stared downwards with an expression much like his nephew only far more hardened. "Do not move."


    Jon nodded back, hands tight at his sides, and turned his head forward again to watch as the Noble Guards ¨C young men just barely half again his age ¨C dragged the bound man forward with strength far surpassing their immature frames. Both boys held their target by his armpits as they walked through the opening in the crowd and hauled him towards the traditional location, neither of them seemingly bothered by the heavy chains that encircled the older man''s arms and clasped both his hands behind his back. In seconds, they had reached it and both of them dropped him to the ground without any fanfare, the only grunts or sounds of effort coming from the bound man himself as their rough treatment aggravated his wounds.


    They made no move to step away as of yet, the two stomping the ground in unison for a moment as their hands clenched at their sides. The ground underneath them seemed to shift for a moment, before a block of compact earth rose beneath their target''s chin, an indent in the block clearly designed for his head to rest. Both boys let out a gasp of tiredness, a slight sheen of sweat visible on their brows but, even still, the crowd goggled at the sight, whispers rising for a moment at the sight of such impressive magic done without much effort by only two boys. It was something the peasants of a village like theirs may go summers without ever having seen, none of them having the skill or power to manage something with anywhere near as much ease, a spectacle treated as almost nothing by the lads in blue and red armor.


    Nodding at each other, one guard stepped away from the bound man at their feet while the other stepped forward, gripping him by the hair and forcefully adjusting his head on the chopping block, before doing the opposite of his partner and stepping forward. "This man has hunted on the land of his lord, seeking to rob the Grand Duke Rhyse of his own game! When caught, he proceeded to fight the guards that apprehended him, striking out at them with magic and nearly blinding one! For the crimes against his Lord and crimes against the Empire, he has been brought before his people to face judgement by the Duke himself."


    Whispers rose again at this, but they were quickly silenced as the depth of what he had done sunk into all of them. Poaching was one thing but striking a Noble Guard in the process of a crime? They were surprised he had lived long enough to be brought for judgement.


    "Papa¡­" Jon finally spoke up, voice shaky and unsure as the man raised his head for the first time, gaze landing on his family. The bound man gave what might have been a smile under any other circumstances, the expression quickly falling away as his wife''s cries shifted from silent to a suddenly audible wail at the sight of his face.


    "Arran!" She called his name out over and over again, each cry becoming louder and three of her four children''s cries gaining volume along with her. The rest of the crowd ¨C the entire gathered village ¨C looked on with pity but remained silent, simply waiting for it to be over.


    Jon''s father was in a similar position to his mother, as both of them knelt on the cold ground. The similarities ended there, their appearances and forms as different as one could imagine. Where his mother knelt crying, surrounded by children and family, his father was alone, eyes wet but not at all from tears. His mother was untouched, her garments stained with nothing but the mud she chose to kneel in, but his father was bruised and beaten, face swollen and bleeding, his own clothing stained with blood and the boot-prints of the guards that had done the deed.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The crowd''s attention suddenly shifted, heads turning from the bruised, bleeding man on display as another figure slowly made his way through the opening in the crowd. He was the newest Duke Rhyse, his father having died not two summers prior, and his brothers, both older and younger, having perished in battle. A common situation, considering just how valuable nobles were to the war efforts.


    As such, the newest Rhyse Duke was exempt from the battlefield himself as the last remaining heir of Rhyse for only as long as it took him to produce a male heir and teach him all he would need. The villagers had all seen him and his lady wife, both of them still childless, enter the village a few days previous, their wheelhouse of a carriage gaudy and colorful as it passed through the gates but apart from that, none of them had even seen the man in person.


    That had all changed today as they witnessed him enter the circle of villagers, his gait odd but somehow impressive still as he stepped forward, a gem-encrusted silver crown resting atop his long golden hair. He was dressed in finery, thick clothing in colors brighter than Jon or anyone around him could ever hope to wear. He shone even in the dim sunlight as a chest full of medals and fingers laden with large rings in all sorts of colors glittered as he came near, a brilliantly shining silver ''R'' embroidered on both sides of his beautiful furred cloak. Both guards bowed, dropping to their knees as the Grand Duke came to a stop in front of them, only to step even further back as he waved them off.


    Jon stared at the man standing above his father so imperiously, blue eyes filled with nothing but disdain as they stared down at the man on the block. Dazed and empty eyes, grey as the hair he shared with both his sons, stared back up at the noble with a resigned expression, hollow cheeks and cracked lips blue from the cold. Despite his obvious chill from lack of furs, Arran did not shiver, nor did he falter from the smug, sneering gaze of Lord Rhyse as he asked his questions.


    The words passed over Jon''s head, indistinct and undecipherable like rain on a rooftop. At last, his queries finally came to an end, the disdain in his eyes reaching a new height as Arran mumbled his last answer. Grand Duke Rhyse took a step closer, his hands on his waist as his voice suddenly rose in volume. "In the name of Emperor Addam of House Gemmstone," he began, "Third of his Name, Divine Ruler of Aelantar and all the Golden Realms within, by the will of I, Leobard of the House Rhyse, Grand Duke of Stonestrike, Arch Lord of the Craghalls, The Emperor''s Sword and Warden of the Gemmlands, sentence you to death for the crimes of poaching and treason against your Lord."


    The Grand Duke flicked his hand as he finished speaking, the jewels on his rings glowing for a single moment as a blade of crimson flame appeared in the noble''s right hand, the thing somehow keeping its shape despite flickering and flaring like the material it seemed to be composed of.


    Magic¡­ Jon''s mouth dropped open at the sight, his expression matched by so many others around him, the spectacle of such controlled and powerful magic rarer than any gold or jewel. Papa always said magic is more trouble than it''s worth. Despite being able to use it better than most, Jon''s father had always struggled to conjure more than the smallest flames for even a few seconds without giving into exhaustion. Both the guards and the army required much more than that, even Jon knew that much.


    Other lowborn; boys at least half his papa''s age, would get their ability for magic appraised when the nobles come through every five summers and leave off to join the military or the guards, making money to bring home. Jon had been waiting for his turn, just one more summer, when he would finally be old enough to make his family proud and bring them the wealth only the family of a magic-wielding knight would know. He couldn''t help the heat in his chest, his hands tightening at his sides at the thought of his papa not being there to see it.


    Somehow not feeling the heat, the Grand Duke raised his hand and the ethereal weapon it held high above Arran''s head. Jon glanced back down from the flickering sword as he watched beads of sweat form on his father''s face, his complexion reddening from the closeness of the heat.


    "May the Spirits have mercy on you." He said the words that were supposed to bring clemency with a sneer that spoke of how little he truly cared and the blade descended in a single smooth motion.


    Scarlet sprayed across the snow in a steaming spatter, Arran¡¯s body slumping to the ground in a twitching mess. The same blade flickered and died as the Grand Duke turned his back on his deed, walking over in the direction of his wheelhouse and the guards awaiting him. Without glancing back, Rhyse raised his hands in the direction of the corpse and snapped his fingers, flame jumping from his hands as his rings gleamed again and quickly set the headless body aflame.


    A scream rose into the air, a shrill young voice catching everyone''s attention as the body burned on the frozen grass below it. Grand Duke Rhyse whirled around, surprise on his face as a boy of nine glared at him with murderous fire in his eyes and hands outstretched. The man barely had time to blink as a stream of bright white ice ¨C almost blinding in its intensity ¨C surged toward him in the form of a tall spire, the encroaching mountain crackling like a thousand shattered windows as it shattered on top of him.


    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

 Magic & Majesty

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?


    Jon''s eyes opened suddenly, heart beating furiously in his chest as a wolf howled somewhere off in the distance. His blood felt cold inside his body, the bedrolls that covered him doing nothing at all to warm him. Jon shook his head again, fingers trembling as he gripped the linens and for a few seconds, he simply lay there in the comfort of his bed, grey eyes wide as he breathed deeply through his nose. It took as long as it usually did for him to calm down, one final breath through the nose and another out his mouth before he could get up and face what he had to do. Another morning in a room fit for a king.


    His thoughts rang all too true in his own mind, as he stared up at the overly-designed canopy that hid the similarly overly-designed roof of his room from his sight. Doesn''t matter much, now does it? No matter how disgustingly gaudy, it''s not as if it''s all that important. Closing his eyes, Jon decided to face the day rather than remain a prisoner to his own dreary thoughts.


    The boy did just that as he sat up on his bed, eyes darting around the darkness of the large room as he stared at an environment that never stopped feeling unfamiliar. The opulence of his bed, it''s four posters, canopy, and silk bedding always left him feeling somewhat uncomfortable, much the same as the polished granite of his floors and his spacious bedroom. It was all a far cry from the furs and bedroll he once shared with his younger brother on the floor. And yet, I miss it all the same.


    The dark-haired boy rose to his feet, one hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose, as he glanced out the window to see the darkness awaiting him outside. These past three summers had seen him unable to sleep a full night, recurring nightmares rendering any such attempt worthless. In the chambers that once belonged to the late Grand Duke Leobard Rhyse, Jon scrubbed his hand over the speckled growth on his jaw, the soft light of the steady candle flame doing little to ease the troubles on his mind.


    Five summers of this and yet, none of it quite felt like where he belonged.


    The same nobles who''d once so readily overlooked him as nothing more than a peasant, lowborn to be spit on or ordered about, now clamored for his attention as the Arch Lord of the Craghalls. The attention of a child, one was granted to the position simply for his sheer magical power alone.


    Well, that and the brutal murder of the last heir to the Rhyse line¡­


    Whatever the true reason was, it had been enough to stir the Emperor himself enough to declare Jon as the new Grand Duke of Stonestrike.


    Him¡­


    A lowborn.


    His silver eyes settled upon the circlet of pure brightsilver sitting on his bedside table, the gaudy gems encrusted on it still enough to bring a frown to his face even after all these summers. He knew their purpose now, of course, but it wasn''t as if he needed them and he certainly would rather not wear them on his head. Still, the crown that had rested upon Rhyse''s head had been presented to him with little fanfare after the Emperor had given him the title and lands, the thing still ice-cold from being freshly retrieved from the iceberg that now adorned his old village.


    Jon scoffed at the symbol of his lordship, placing the thing back on his skull after another disdainful shake of his head. As much as he hated the noble that had executed his father, Rhyse had literally been born to be a Great Lord, regardless of whether he would inherit the primary title from his father or not. The man had been pompous, disdainful, uncaring and haughty, to say the least and Jon just¡­ wasn''t.


    For the past five summers, he had felt like nothing but a fraud. Wearing the man''s crown, claiming his titles, administrating over his lands, sleeping in his bed¡­


    Avoiding his courtesans.


    He gave a shudder at the thought of them; pale-faced, busty seductresses the lot of them, each one nearly his mother''s age with barely a fraction of propriety. Not as if they like me, anyway, he would remind himself on days that he felt his thoughts wandering and bawdry images filled his head. They just want to be confirmed as mistresses.


    To a noble not yet married, that carried nearly as much power as a lady of the House. Again, not that he would ever grant them that, if his life depended on it, not that it didn''t, if he thought about it anyway. After a moment''s thought, the boy laughed away the thought, shaking his head slightly as he did so. He was a peasant at heart, still, and he couldn''t deny that. One with magic, yes, but at best, he had been destined for the guards or the army, not¡­


    Not this.


    Certainly not by choice.


    "M''lord Frhyse?"


    Jon nearly found himself stumbling as he stepped down from his elevated bed, both from surprise and from a sliver of irritation as well, as a deferential and somewhat timid voice cut into his private thoughts. Emperor Addam thought himself something of a comedian, granting him the surname Frhyse for his new noble House, in reference to both the method and the means in which he killed Leobard and stole his titles by right of conquest. Truly, the Mage Emperor was a force to be reckoned with.


    The boy of fourteen turned his head to glance over at his door, a small gaggle of servants awaiting his attention already. Not too long after he had taken over in what once was the ancestral castle of the House Rhyse, the servants had realized that their young Grand Duke had a tendency for waking long before the sun would rise. As capable and willing servants, they proved their worth by adapting to him, waking themselves up before even he would rise in order to be ready to meet his needs.


    "Yes¡­" Jon paused, searching his thoughts for a moment, "Daven? What is it?"


    The steward named Daven paused for a moment, an unbidden smile spreading across his face as he realized the Duke had remembered his name once again, before getting himself together and continuing his words. "T-the cook has begun preparing a meal for you to break your fast. I have simply come to inform you that your bath has been drawn, and the maids await you."


    "Of course, D-Daven. Thank you for informing me," Jon began, pausing himself to clear his throat. "I''ll be there shortly."


    "Yes, m''lord," the thin man quickly bowed before he left the room, his small gathering of uniformed servants mimicking his words and actions before scurrying along with him. As they left, Jon found himself rubbing the bridge of his nose. A boy of ten and four standing as Grand Duke of Stonestrike¡­


    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?


    "You don¡¯t understand, my lord, as The Emperor''s Sword and Warden of the Gemmlands, you cannot remain unmoved by this! It is your duty!"


    Said Arch Lord did nothing but mouth the words of his advisor as he stared quietly at the targets in front of him, the boy himself several meters away from the arranged bulls-eyes and human-shaped straw and wood targets. Jon lazily flicked his fingers, a spike of ice forming ex nihilo and launching itself from his outstretched digits almost faster than the eye could see.


    "And just why is it that you believe so, Ser Mollen?" He raised his other hand, stretching out each one of his fingers as frost began to form around each one, jagged crystals of near-translucent ice coming into being with each flex of his outstretched hand, only to recede to nothingness as he curled his fingers back again. Several times more, he repeated the action, the frost forming and layering on each individual digit faster and faster every single time. "I have my own responsibilities and fighting in some war outside of my lands before I am of age has nothing to do with that. You have your own responsibilities and those include advising me to the best of your ability and I pray that demanding a young lord ¨C your lord, mind you ¨C of only fourteen summers to risk himself in war is not the best of your ability."


    "You speak of our responsibilities," Ser Reginald Mollen simmered, seemingly accepting the chastisement, but still proceeding regardless. "But what of the Occident Empire to the East? The Gemmlands lie on the border closest to them after the Ironforts, of course. Would you risk the sanctity of your borders to those marauding heathens, Lord Jonothan?"Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    "Aye," Jon replied back, returning to his Northern village dialect for a moment to spite the man, tone bearing a hint of smugness as he watched his advisor bristle out of the corner of his eye. "Aye, it is as you say."


    ¡°Aye, he says,¡± Mollen replied back, a slight biting tone to his voice. ¡°Lowborn speech does not become you, my lord. Not anym...¡± the man¡¯s voice began to trail away as his breath left him in a plume of steam, his eyes suddenly directed towards the ground as he caught sight of a thick line of frost trailing around him in a perfect circle.


    Mollen glanced back up at the young man staring him down, the steward shuddering from sudden cold and more than a little fear. ¡°M-m-my apologies, my lord. I did not inte-¡±


    ¡°Mmm,¡± Jon bid him to be silent with a wave, chilly gaze drifting from his steward back to the targets in front of him. Mollen was a dutiful man, as any Knight-Steward worth the name was expected to be, but the man often took his job to an excess that seemed above his station. I am nearly fifteen summers, Jon thought to himself. No longer am I simply a child. Part of the young lord knew that it had much more to do with his breeding than anything else, but he didn¡¯t see fit to dwell on that, lest his anger cause any accidents.


    Any more, at least.


    He didn¡¯t need to be reminded that there was in fact a reason for why Mollen made clear to the servants that they were no longer allowed in his general presence while he trained his magic.


    Jon fought back his own bristle, the lengthening of his name still a sore spot after all these summers. "My liege lords..." He shook his head for a moment at that, almost aghast at how smoothly the words had left his tongue. Liege lords¡­ That I can claim lords as lesser to me¡­


    He shook his head again, grunting slightly as he regained his focus on the targets in front of him. "My liege lords have already brought forth their highborn. Themselves along with their lesser nobles and their landed knights have collected their armies. I have received missive after missive after missive informing me of their plan to secure the borderlands. With or without my presence, Mollen, there will be no heathen invasion of the Gemmlands, I assure you."


    "Your family¡­"


    Jon tightened up, powerful, bellowing wind and signs of frost in the air around the training arena as he nearly lost control of whatever he had been doing. "My family is safe, Ser Reginald, and my family will not be spoken of in these halls. I believed we had come to an agreement on that?"


    "I understand but it seems that you still lack an understanding of what it means to be both the Emperor''s Sword and the Warden of the Gemmlands, Lord Frhyse!" Mollen continued further, taking a tone that Jon couldn''t help but note as remarkably daring. "You may not yet be of age, but both titles have meaning. War is your duty as a noble and protecting your realm the duty of a Warden, but it is particularly your duty as the Emperor''s Sword. As the strongest mage in the ranks of nobility, it is your duty to represent him on the battlefield."


    "Interesting," Jonothan began, turning his head to level an unflinching gaze at the jumped-up servant that chose to raise his voice at him. "If I recall correctly, the Warden before me was excused from war until he was to secure an heir and he had over ten summers on me as I am now."


    The young noble kept his voice cool, his gaze even more chilly as he spoke. "So, if I may ask, what is the difference between us?"


    The man hesitated; reluctance clear in his eyes. "For one¡­ the late Grand Duke Leobard was, pardon my language, a craven bastard of the worst kind. A weak noble undeserving of the title who had never known battle or death past that of the executions he chose to preside over. His magic lacked power, his strongest spells lacked any force, and he relied on the gems his House maintained in large amounts to catalyze what magic he could muster into even the most mildly impressive displays. He was no better than a merchant noble; as a individual, the man was utterly worthless¡­¡± Mollen almost spat the term, lip curling further into a sneer the second the phrase ¡®merchant noble¡¯ left his lips. ¡°I mean, without wealth, that is," the steward quickly corrected himself.


    "Don''t hold back, good Ser,¡± Jon replied with a slight smile, enjoying these moments more than he should. ¡°Tell us how you truly feel."


    "A pampered pompous twit,¡± Mollen took the words to heart, the foppish man once again missing his lord¡¯s biting sarcasm, ¡°Entirely unpopular with the lowborn he presided over and the soldiers he was required to muster. Even the Emperor only tolerated him because he respected the man''s older brother and father."


    Jon raised an eyebrow, cunning silver eyes lighting up with curiosity. "And myself, Ser Mollen?"


    "You are¡­¡± Mollen took a breath and inclined his head towards his lord, ¡°You are beloved among the peoples, a lowborn boy elevated to the second highest position of nobility in the land. Emperor Addam believes you of good stock to marry his eldest daughter.¡±


    Jon closed his eyes at the thought of the white-haired princess that could so easily leave him breathless, not that any other man in the kingdom was immune to the same, the overpowering image of her seemingly omniscient a figure he had grown comfortable with after nearly half a decade of his presence. ¡°Hmmm¡­¡±


    ¡°The entire Empire knows you are next in line to be King, and possibly Emperor if his Majesty allows things to travel along that path. Your liege lords respect you for your depth of magic and the implications of your future. You are well-mannered, intelligent and have spilled the blood of a grown combatant at an age when most young lords would struggle to start a fire under their own power.¡±


    ¡°I beseech you to stop, ser Knight,¡± Jonothan drawled, hands lazily drawing a pair of cyclical runes in the air. ¡°You do flatter me so. If you continue, I fear I shall become as useless a lord as your former master.¡±


    ¡°And the Empire would suffer for it greatly,¡± Mollen played along. For a few seconds, the steward was silent, simply watching with restrained awe and no small amount of curiosity as the young lord continued his morning training, casting spells with not even a word and drawing runes that appeared all but solid in nothing but air without a single gem on his person. Years of witnessing increasing skill and power on display and it had yet to truly lose its luster for the man, or most of the kingdom who bore witness to it for that matter.


    After nearly a minute of silent observation, Mollen gave his head a slight shake and drew himself back as he attempted to continue his attempts to convince the young lord. ¡°There is something you should know, sir. I received the missive this morning from my ears near Stonefall, and I believe you should hear what I was informed of.¡±


    ¡°Speak.¡± The word came out slightly terse through gritted teeth, Jon in the middle of discorporating an immobile golem of pure ice. ¡°If it is of such grand importance, then I should indeed hear it.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡± Mollen cleared his throat before continuing on. ¡°The Royal Army has apparently sent a recruiting envoy to your former village just this past month.¡±


    The air chilled again and Jon¡¯s head snapped to face Mollen, the crack of shattering ice startling the man slightly as the ice statue the lord had been focused on dispelling crumbled on itself with his focus distracted. ¡°I said¡­ speak, Mollen.¡±


    ¡°Y-y¡­ W-well,¡± The steward¡¯s words came out in a stammer at first, his eyes still on the fist-like indentation in what was once the golem¡¯s chest before he took a quick breath, hurriedly recomposing himself under the gaze of his powerful master. ¡°A recruiting envoy ventured to your old town of Stonefall and it appears that¡­ it seems th-that your brother was among those tested.¡±


    The air chilled again at those words, Mollen shivering as frost trailed across the ground once more, jagged spikes of ice rising in random intervals as they spread throughout the courtyard. Thankful that this was just the young lord¡¯s magic venting his general frustrations and he was not the focus of the ire, the steward continued on with his report as firmly as he could. "It appears that both his power and reserves seem to be far above that expected from a lowborn as it is, especially without any training. He has not yet been tested for his affinities or shipped off for basic drills but when he is selected, it is almost guaranteed that he would be sent into the front lines to fight by winter''s end.¡±


    ¡°Simply for that alone? We¡¯ve only just reached the cusp of summer as it is,¡± Jonathan asked back almost frantically, the question ringing as both stupid and pointless in his ears. After all, the only reason he was nobility now was because he had unthinkable amounts of both of those as a child, and every year they had grown along with the rest of him. Skill had come along with it, magic training and duels almost pointless against lesser magi with his ability to both sense and blanket offensive magic with the ocean-like reserves he could draw upon. This world is a cursed one, truly.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Mollen answered, a grave nod accompanying the single word. ¡°Simply for that alone. Despite the fact that he is several summers below the standard recruiting age, it is a raw fact that he will face battle before winter¡¯s end, even if he lacks most instruction in combat or magic use."


    Jon grimaced, not at all liking what he was hearing. The situation was precarious enough as it was, and he had no wish to draw any more attention to himself or to his origins than he would like. There was a reason he rarely left the castle, as it was. His family lived off of his wealth, but he made sure to keep his relation to them unknown by most others. He simply couldn''t risk it.


    But news of his brother¡­


    That was something he hadn''t factored in.


    "Most importantly,¡± Ser Reginald Mollen chose to take a breath, mouth open for a moment longer than Jon felt was necessary, "you have power. Power without using any sort of gem; raw power and skill with no teaching that eclipses nearly everyone but the greatest of adventures and only dwarfed by those of House Gemmstone, divine royalty themselves. You are no mere lowborn soldier, using what little magic you possess to shore up your body to run faster or swing harder. You are no simple unblooded noble either, throwing fire from a distance and running for cover."


    "Oh, how harsh, Ser Mollen," the young lord cut in, not even able to offer a small smile as the bulk of his thoughts remained focused on his brother¡¯s fate. "I''m sure the nobility is good for more than just that."


    Mollen continued as if he heard nothing, chest puffed up. "Your first display of magic was to create a literal glacier with no water present, and yet you lived to tell the tale. The mages who could manage that are few enough, those who could survive it a fraction of that..." The steward shook his head, as if still in disbelief. "The stories they tell¡­ If I hadn¡¯t witnessed them, I would call them simple jests, outright lies even. You are more than even the strongest of nobles on the battlefield. A showing from you on the battlefield at your greatest could rout the entire horde and send them back in a day. If you choose not to, good men will die on that battlefield, men and boys alike. You were blessed by the Spirits to be the Emperor''s Sword; our kingdom''s Young God, and you know this very well. We need your power, my lord."


    The air hung between them with silence, Jon''s silver gaze locked onto Mollen''s ruddy yellow eyes. For a moment, it seemed as if he would say nothing at all but then¡­


    "¡­Alright, Mollen. You''ve made your point¡­ as always." As the last syllable left his mouth, Lord Jonothan snapped his fingers. "Have that cleaned up, would you?"


    "Have wha-" Ser Mollen''s eyes widened, five summers of practiced instincts kicking in and sending the older man rapidly scrambling back as threatening spikes of ice suddenly burst from beneath his feet in a series of repeated bursts. As he caught his breath, the bespectacled advisor raised his gaze again to see his lord walking away, barely catching a hint of the frown present on the young boy''s face.


    So, they would have me end their war.


    Silver eyes flashed with raw magic and the air chilled once more as he walked.


    They''ll get exactly that.

 Revenge & Royalty

    They called him Meat.


    His real name was Matthias, though, born the son of a successful butcher from the lower part of Stonestrike. No one seemed to call him that, though, not since the Army had got a hold of him. They all liked to call him Meat, not that he really knew why. He could venture a guess or two; whether it was for his father''s job, the way he seemed to sweat with the stench of pork or the fact that he was a rather portly lad even at eighteen summers, but he could never be sure which of them it was.


    Not a single one of the soldiers he trained with ever seemed eager to clarify either.


    Much like his chosen name, Meat had never felt much choice when it came to his life. He had grown up the son of a butcher, much like his father, and his father before him and so on. Truly, aside from being stronger than most boys his age, he had seen nothing that would make him stand apart much. As such, he had expected to become a butcher''s boy much like his father and his father before him.


    That had changed four summers past when the Royal Army''s wheelhouses entered his village.


    It was that day that he, along with six other boys in their town of several thousand, was singled out as special. He had a good amount of magic; they told his papa. He would rise high in the Army, given some summers of training, was what they had told the man before handing him a small bag of coins and unceremoniously shipping him off to the Crownlands like a bag of potatoes.


    His papa had essentially sold him to the Crown, he would later find out, for boys were not supposed to be shipped off so quickly and so early. The Army had wanted to shape him; shape his magic, shape his personality, shape his ability, shape his body; simply remake him into something the Crown could be proud of. Unfortunately for them, as much as Meat''s body and face resembled a lump of clay, his flesh wasn¡¯t the sort to be so easily molded.


    Three summers of rigorous training and schooling had left him with magic that he could barely control; more suited to making his body stronger and faster than it was remaking the landscape or calling elements to his will, a body that was still quite unimpressive to look at despite the power he held within it. Truth be told, he always was a hungry lad and he made sure to get food even when his trainers refused him, and a mind that was just a few hard knocks to the head from being completely useless; no one ever said he was a smart lad, anyway.


    In short, he was still a lump after three summers of training; a slightly more focused lump, but a lump, nonetheless.


    It made sense, then, that the Crown decided to cut their losses and throw him into the frontlines, off to fight some border skirmish that the Crownlands had no belief they would lose. A summer of war had come and gone and yet, despite all expectations and fears, he was somehow still alive.


    They had meant to kill him; Meat knew that much, and if he had time to think, he believed he would hate them for it.


    If he had time to think, at least.


    Yet time was never in much supply in the face of battle.


    His blade flashed again on the battlefield time and again, cheap steel meeting swords of a more curved make repeatedly as he rushed through the fields. Magic was more than just fire, ice and lightning, every soldier and noble knew that much. It was more than just light and sound, thunder and smoke. Magic was the body, as well; speed and strength, force and power, muscle and blood and stamina and¡­


    Well, many other things, Meat could only guess. He was no scholar, after all.


    It wasn''t enough, though.


    Despite all their fire and ice or force and muscle, they were still being routed, chased back by sheer numbers of the Occident savages. It was all Mead could do but swing his sword and run as he did his best to ignore the pained screams of his fellow soldiers and the demanding voices of the nobles for them to stand and fight.


    Let them fight, Meat thought to himself, leaping over an attempted pincer by two fur-wearing raiders. He turned in mid-air and carved the both of them in twain, sword flicking out faster than a normal swordsman would believe humanly possible, especially for someone of Meat¡¯s size and frame. It almost sung as it slid through meat and flesh, butchering beasts of men with an ease his father would have given anything to have obtained. Considering he had given his son, it could even be said that he had obtained it, in a way.


    Barely able to throw magic for even a half hour before weakening and they claim to be better th- Meat''s thoughts halted in his mind as he saw fires burning through the breach, boulder-sized jets of flame soaring above his head and exploding near the fringe of the Occident horde.


    Reinforcements!


    His heart jumped in his chest and his disdain of the noble class faded for a moment as the jets of flame continued, similarly-sized blasts of lightning, water and ice rocketing towards enemy lines alongside them. He could see them even from here, the nobles standing atop ramparts casting their long spells and thrusting their palms out like they had tried to teach him.


    All at once, they released fire again and a haze of orange light was suddenly burning over the horizon. Meat''s eyes widened as he could suddenly feel the rumbles in the ground. unsure of what was going on. The fat soldier glanced up again and saw one noble, a grey-haired lad dressed in finery surpassing any he had seen even in the Royal Guard suddenly leap from the ramparts and take to the sky.


    Flight? He can fly? How can he fl-


    The portly young man could only stare as the noble stretched out his arms and a bright white light hissed over the battlefield with no warning, a sound like thousands of windows shattering at once filling the air and sending the hearts of men racing.


    Across the borderlands, entire legions of marauders from the Occident were being scorched into ice on a scale no one had imagined possible. Not even the strongest of their magic-bodied warriors could survive this onslaught, their blood freezing in their bodies before the rest of them.


    Meat gazed at the approaching sight in what could only be described as utter fear and rapture, an army of soldiers in white and gold doing the same around him, as a mountain of ice formed from the ether and crashed into the rocky ground with a force like that of a god''s fist.


    The world went deaf with the impact and those struck with it were either smashed to paste or sent flying only to meet the same fate later.


    Leagues away, the fields remained buried by snow and ice and crystalline spires that defined the categorization of either as they stretched their way up to the clouds like the spires atop the castles of the Crownlands. In literal seconds, the bloody fields of green had vanished under nothing but white as far as the eye could see.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    For the first time in years, the true visage of winter had marked the borderlands, a harsh, icy wasteland on the ground, even as the skies above remained clear as summer.


    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C


    A week had passed since he lay here.


    Over seven days and Meat''s body was still frail and weak.


    Frail, weak and useless.


    His lungs struggled with each inhale, the once-soldier had noted when a healer had asked if he had any trouble breathing. If that wasn''t enough, the pain in his chest was nothing short of agony.


    His hands - what was left of them - felt numb, and he felt like he had lost some of the movement in his remaining fingers. The only thing that he had to live for ¨C his own body ¨C was now useless to him, nothing but scarring and weakness where there was once hearty and stout strength. He hadn¡¯t cried, though, when he first woke up.


    He hadn''t cried when he found that his left leg was rendered a complete stump, rendered useless by the sheer unimaginable cold and apparently amputated while he was unconscious from pain. He hadn''t cried when the low-rank healers of the Royal Army had refused him anymore help. He had pleaded, almost begged them for something, anything, that they could do to fix him and he was met with nothing at all. Weak spells did nothing but ease his pain and minimize some of his lesser wounds but that was nothing, really. The weak potions and similarly classed healers that the Royal Army spared for soldiers of his rank and breeding often struggled with simple stab wounds from a lance, let alone something of this caliber.


    To recover an entire limb was so ridiculous a request that Meat knew he would be better off praying to the gods for a miracle.


    His right leg, while not lost, was almost nearly as bad.


    Stiff and weak, so much so that Meat struggled to move it below the knee, he doubted he would even recover full feeling in the limb even if he lived for a score of decades. Ugly gouges on his leg greeted his eyes, letting the soldier know where the razor-like hail had stripped the muscles from his upper thigh.


    He hadn''t cried those first few hours he spent lying on his filthy cot in the recovery tent, staring at every wound he could see, his mutilated hand especially. His eyes tracked the ice burns on pale flesh, the scars from where he had tried to tear away the painful leech-like snow digging into his skin. With only three fingers, he could scarcely recognize his own limb any more.


    Meat had also lost three toes; two on his left foot, and one on the right. The frostbite had bit them clean off and thankfully, he felt no pain from them. Just a raw emptiness whenever his eyes landed upon his scarred feet.


    He remembered that when he''d first left Stonestrike so long ago, he had scarcely any scars at all, a round-faced boy who had barely known any hardship and never went without the fullest of bellies.


    And now¡­


    Meat choked back a sob, the sound coming off as a pained groan.


    He hadn''t cried that first day, yes, but every day since was an entirely different story altogether.


    What woman would have him as he currently was, an ugly cripple?


    Marriage, a faint hope for the sweaty butcher boy turned soldier, was now an unthinkable dream.


    What money could he make as a warrior, with his body like this?


    The army wouldn¡¯t keep him on as he was, not even if he begged and pleaded. He wasn''t a renowned soldier or a noble bastard worthy of a high-ranked healer of priest to bless his wounds and recover his body. Any unaffiliated healers were expensive, often working strictly for nobles, the royal family, or off traveling with adventurers and even if he were to try and find one, the small pension the Army would unceremoniously hand him for just a single year of service wouldn¡¯t be enough to return him to anywhere approaching full health. Even if he drained every last silver that they gave him, he would be lucky to recover his missing limb in its entirety.


    Meat choked back another sob as he stared up at the roof of his tent, the cold of the outside barely even an afterthought in the face of the aches he already felt. A lame soldier was dangerous to himself and the men he fought with, an embarrassment in the eyes of the appearance-obsessed nobles even if he maintained any dregs of skill and power.


    He was done for, he knew this deep in his heart.


    Even to his family, if he deigned to return to them, he would be a burden to them all, a load barely worth the coin his father had sold him for.


    Meat once again felt his face with the same hand, unsteady hands almost dragging themselves over his cheeks. He had no mirror, but his features felt pale and gaunt, like his skin was stretched tight over the bones of his face leaving him a skeleton, a far cry from the jolly girth he had once been proud of.


    Everywhere, his skin felt rougher, like it had been burned by the unrelenting cold that mage had sent forth with frightening ease. He had lost both weight and muscle, his body now something closer to what the Royal Army¡¯s trainers had tried to force upon him with exercise and starvation. He had seen men who had been exposed to the winter before in Stonestrike, poor men with no respite from the cold; they always had carried with them that haunted look in their eyes.


    The cold would always leave its mark, is what they said back home.


    Now, Meat knew what that mark felt like. Between his gauntness and his wounds, the boy doubted if he was even recognizable anymore.


    It was over a week after he first awoke that his eyes fell upon the one who had done this to him, the noble with such immense magical power arriving to the healing tent Meat had been stuck in since the day the battle had come to such a quick and horrible conclusion. He was exactly as the once-portly mage soldier had expected, a handsome-looking long-haired figure adorned in all the trappings of nobility, from the silver circlet that matched his hair and eyes to the embroidered fur cloak with the letter ''F'' on it in similarly-colored stitching, and the many, many rings that lined his fingers; more than one for each finger, it seemed.


    Meat knew him, he realized, as he caught sight of the boy.


    Knew of him, at least.


    It had been popular gossip for years now that a new noble had arrived out of nowhere, some idiots claiming that he was even a peasant that the Emperor had risen up as a reward for striking down an unjust noble with powerful magic. Those were clearly lies, most people rightly assuming that he wasn¡¯t even a lowborn, the general thought among the Empire being that he was a male bastard the Emperor had born on a maid or courtesan, likely due to the fact that his Empress had born him nothing but a line of daughters.


    Beautiful daughters that enraptured the senses and minds of any man that laid eyes upon them and immensely powerful in magic, but daughters nonetheless. More likely rumors said he was next in line to be the Emperor and Meat almost found himself believing it;  just looking at the boy a few summers his junior told him all he needed to know; handsome, composed, the type that was born to be a noble.


    Rumors being what they were, he wished he could dismiss the claim of royalty as nothing but the jests of attention-seeking fools, but Meat knew it was likely as true as anything else, watching the noble stride into the tent the way he did. Nothing bad ever happened to people like that,  his voice whispered in his head with cloying hate.


    He watched the Emperor-to-be speak to the other men in the tent, the rigid and haughty face barely even sparing them a look as he paused at each of their cots to accept their praise for his actions on the battlefield.


    And praise him, they did.


    Each one of them, without the slightest shame or dignity, clutched at the man''s cloak as if they were nothing more than the most pathetic of beggars. Each one thanked him with tear-streaked faces for his actions even as they lay injured and wounded, likely from the boy''s actions as much as that of any enemy.


    To make matters worse, the noble even had the gall to play with the idea of humility, speaking softly and attempting to lower himself to their level, but Meat could see through it, his one good eye still useful for something. He made motions as if to touch the injured soldiers but never actually did so, hand trembling in disgust as he neared them, and as they clutched at his cloak, praising him like he was one of the gods descended upon the Empire, he felt the need to pull his garments away and escape from their dirty touch.


    Most of all, the boy noble could not hide the look on his face; one of fear and disgust at seeing the lowborn in front of him. It made sense that he wore such an expression, what else for a people that could barely stomach them when they were clean and whole? Meat''s eyes were vicious and heated as the noble finally neared him, hand inching toward his sword as the other boy approached.


    "Well met, soldier," began the noble, silver eyes looking down at Meat still with that same haughty expression, "you fought bravely on the battlefield. I only wish I had arrived sooner to prevent you from being injured as you are."


    You injured me. IT WAS YOU! His own voice screamed bloody murder in his mind as Meat stared up at the noble of his own age with hate in his eyes, muscles tense as his fingers finally met the hilt of his now-chipped blade resting by his cot. "Aye, wouldn''t that be a blessing, m''lord?"


    The noble nodded, not even willing to pay the conversation enough mind to notice the heat in Meat''s words as the man responded back to him with such false humility that it made Meat grit his teeth. "You speak true. May I have the name of one who fought so well?"


    A savage grin burst across the wounded man''s face as his fingers tightened around his sword; an expression he wasn''t used to but one that felt natural all the same. "They call me Meat."


    With that sentence, he swung the sword.