A Frozen Flame

Godric Isian shuffled through the heavy curtains that separated the main room of his father’s shop, several bolts of assorted cloth lay in his arms, blocking his torso and head from view. His leather clad feet shuffled slowly across the floor, feeling for anything that could trip him up. Finding his destination, the display shelf on the left side of the main room, he callously dropped the bolts of cloth into a nearby padded chair, before picking them up and arranging them by type.

His father, Xavier Isian, was one of the most renowned tailors in the city, known not only for a wide selection and superb quality, but also excellent customer service. They also opened early, often in time to see the first rays of dawn breach the city walls. So it was today, and like always, he was awoken while all was still dark, and set to work preparing the shop for the day. He was not ill treated, far from it, his family was not of the noble class, but were wealthy enough to get by rather well, but that did not stop Xavier from teaching his son how one came about such wealth, work.

Today was also the last day for some time that Godric would be working in the shop. It was required of every able bodied citizen to serve for a period of time in the military. Some chose to embrace it as a career, be they the lowly city guard, or over a time, become a colonel, or even commander. Any higher rank was reserved for nobles, unless you were an Ashborn, they had their own unit, an elite regiment of spell slingers, skilled in arts of the arcane and martial variety.
Godric was to become an honorable guard of the city of Tyvrain, and was to be paid 5 gold a week and live in the lavishly furnished guard barracks, he was, as one would expect, thrilled.

Sighing heavily as he finished arranging cloth, Godric flopped himself down on the very chair that the cloth had just been resting on, and began to pick at the well worn armrests, the goose down used to stuff the chair poking curiously through the beaten and worn fabric, with an elbow on an arm, and a hand on his angular, pointed chin. Bright hazel eyes peeked out from underneath the brown locks of his mop of hair, to stare absently at the oak floorboards.

“All for the good of the Nation eh?” He muttered bitterly to the silence of the morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I entreat upon you, do not go!”

With an irritated sigh Alex Rythlon folded her last tunic neatly into a small leather pack, admiring the fine linen before stuffing it between her childhood and her future. Training. It demanded her person, her obedience, her loyalty, and perhaps even her life. Her existence was a culmination the coming moments, her infancy but the stepping stone to leave her at a new threshold, and she would not let it fall into the sausage fingers of her father to determine.

“Do not exacerbate the situation, father.”

She wished for solace, to consider the next step in her life away from the tumult of foolish notions and panicked blatherings. Peace was all that she required at the moment, but the probability was all but nonexistent. Alex simply let ultimatums and pleadings pour out of a whiskered mouth, falling on all but deaf ears. Practice and persistence had long since taught the child serenity in the face of her father’s tantrums.

Byron Rythlon, by marriage not blood, huffed and puffed furiously, swinging his weight about haphazardly in frustration. The round face, usually jovially plastered with a grin or bits of pastry, now pulsed crimson as he beat his hands against his daughter’s determination. Throwing up pudgy hands, his exasperation reached desperate heights.

“Only fools fight wars they can avoid. I insist it is not worth your life. Deter, daughter,” he said bitterly, clasping the proud shoulders resisting him.

Having ignored him thus far, taking his pleadings with patience beyond her years, Alex finally snapped, detaching his hand with fiery eyes. “Slander my name if you must, but not the honor of Rythlon. I am going; an argument does not exist to the contrary.”

Her tone of voice booked no argument, and the defiance in her emerald eyes declared the conversation over. Regret tainted her excitement, for her father was a weak-willed creature enduringly attached to his daughter; leaving would make him a broken man of temperamental nerves. Fate had sealed Alex, however, amid the ranks of Rythlon’s that had served the Crown for nearly the breath of its existence.

Having left little past dawn, inky pink and gold still painting the northern sky, Alex closed the last chapter on her life with the banging of oaken doors. Initially her steps were light, filled with the excitement of youthful hope, only to be burdened by regret and nervous tension. She should not be anxious reason demanded, training since birth had ensured her confidence, but her heart fluttered fretfully inside her prepubescent chest.

Fiddling habitually at the auburn locks dangling about her face, always escaping from the tight bun restraining them, Alex was grateful for the lack of armed escort; she did not wish those she knew to see her state of disarray. Gangly long legs, normally sure of their path, hesitated atop feet booted in the simplest of leather. Yet before she knew it they had taken her to the soaring iron doors of her new life, protesting their metal and wooden glory with open arms and a thoroughly intimidating entrance.

Breathing noisily through her nose, Alex suppressed an admiring whistle.

Having rejected the crude expression, she strode past the shiningly armored guards, the steel shining brightly in the morning glare atop stony faces and hollow skins. She was then ushered through corridor, doorway, and antechamber beyond count, exchanging pleasantries in a rush of formality and tradition. Alex was hardly the first Rythlon to step through the door and would, if fate decreed, not be the last.

It was routine; bowing heads and fake smiles had ruled her existence, ironically coupled with hard steel and discipline. Finally, after time past with decrepit speed, Alex was taken to a starkly clean courtyard, weapon racks and sand pits arranged to maximize division and separation. The goal was not to humiliate, but to partition the rank and file of military recruits. Alex was lead to one particular practice circle, weapons waiting patiently for not only her touch but that of a young boy, roughly her age with a speckled complexion and thick neck. A blacksmith’s son, she guessed by the smudge of charcoal across his brow and biceps twice the size of her torso.

There was no hesitation as Alex strode towards the weapons rack, her strong fingers appreciating the heft of a battleaxe, the dulled crescent blades spinning experimentally before the wide-eyed expression of her opponent. His mouth drooped open, his flat face pinching into an absurd question of incredulity. Had articulation been more apt to reach him, he would have stammered out his disbelief, perhaps even laugh. As it were, he could but stare.

“May thy limb and heart be strong.” Alex bowed her head, giving the axe one last spin before lowering her chin, pupils dilated.

Finally sputtering out laughter, the assumed blacksmith grabbed the nearest sword, wielding the blade with a practiced hand. “Lis’en darlin’… Put tha’ down before ya hurt yaself, eh?”

She ignored him, watching instead the fluidity of his movements and handling of his weapon. Her mind in rapid fire considered the variables before her, shifting through subtleties of everything she knew. Alex weighed her options carefully, automated movement evening her stance before she had even fully decided.

Then the blacksmith squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest, Alex following with an arched brow of curiosity. Envisioning the gap-toothed boy to soon beat his chest as a drum, bellowing his dominance before marking his territory, the brief image allowed her neutral countenance to slip for but a moment, then practicality returned a calm countenance. And when he lowered his head and charged, Alex met his run with a smooth side-step and a swift smack from the flat of her blade. Overbalanced, the boy tumbled ungracefully to the dirt, finding the edges of a blade hovering above his throat when he rolled over.

Alex had no intent of toying with him, and honored him with a quick defeat and bow of her red head. Despite the boy’s inexperience, the young Rythlon thought she detected a measure of skill. With training, she surmised as she turned to the presiding officer, Alex figured that he would undoubtedly become a good soldier. His grammar skills were of wanting, but otherwise she knew puberty would be kind to him.

Her concerns lay elsewhere, however.

"Commander. Your presence is requested at the dinner . . . your dinner. Sir . . ." The lieutenant proclaimed with a dry gulp.

Isthul stood up from his favorite stool, turned from his favorite corner of his favorite tavern. He gazed upon the nervous soldier with a sort of forced patience.

"Sit down Jacob." He said, motioning to stool next to his. "House brew?" He asked.

The lieutenant looked quizzically at his commanding officer before resting his bottom on the rickety stool.

"Yes sir . . . Th- . . That would be fine." He nearly choked out.

Isthul eyed him closely before sitting down. He gestured at the barkeep for two more drinks.

"What is it jacob? What has you wound tighter than a spindle?" Isthul asked as the barkeep set their mugs down in front of them on the hard oak table.

"N- Nothing sir. It's just. The men . . . I've just heard stories sir. Forgive me . . ." The Lieutenant finished. Taking a hard drink of his ale before he set his mug down slowly. Seemingly not to make a sound on the table.

Isthul swirled his drink before taking several large gulps. His brilliant golden eyes betrayed no signs of his thoughts. He tossed back the locks of his long silver hair, revealing the hard earned sigil of his rank on his left pauldron.

"I am not on duty, Jacob. Even still. You should know better than to partake in the tawdry banter of eager up-and-comings." He said coldly. "It's that fear, and yearning for acceptance that will see your wife widowed."

He stood, tossing a gold mark onto the table. The unnecessarily heavy gold plates of his armor clanking as he walked to the a small group of officers in the center of the tavern.

"Have that lieutenant arrested for partaking in intoxication while on duty." He proclaimed, gesturing to Jacob.

The men all to eagerly stood up to complete the task. Isthul made his way for the door, donning his helmet. Onlookers gazing at the gratuitous display of prestige.

No time for this. No time for social simplicities. They wanted their enforcer. The shall have it. My ally is the law and only the law.

Xavier Isian pulled away from the embrace with his son, looking into his hazel eyes, his own becoming wet with tears at their parting.

"Godric, I know that this isn't what you want. I know you dislike the idea of following orders, you always have, but, it is necessary. Would you rather be imprisoned for refusing to serve your country?"

"No." came the meager reply. Godric's gaze dropping to the floor.

"Then you must go, and like it or not, you'll have to obey those superior to you."

"But father! There has to be another way to serve the nation than be a blindly obedient ox with a spear!"

Xavier held up a hand to stop further protests, Godric begrudgingly falling silent as his father spoke.

"I will hear no more Godric, the law is the law, and we, like good citizens will obey, not blindly, intelligently. Now, it is time for us to say farewell, your escort is here. And it isn't like you can't come visit your dear father at all is it? Now, go son." Xavier hugged his son one last time, and Godric, with one last look at his father, stepped through the door.

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His escort consisted of two of the royal guard, clad in shining silver plate and carrying ornamental but also quite functional halberds. They seemed two golems crafted from silver, silent guardians, obedient to a fault and fatally skilled. Godric hated them. Whether his obvious look of disgust went unnoticed, he did not know, nor, he realized, did he care. Hazel eyes wandered as leather covered feet trudged reluctantly through the dust covered stone walkways, his eyes bouncing from building to building, yearning for distraction from his thoughts. But no distraction came, not even when he reached the palace, he'd seen it all before, with his father. The immense wood doors reinforced with iron, the high vaulted ceilings, marble floors, intricate support pillars, nothing was new to his eyes, no element of surprise or wonder existed to detract from his anger, his resentment for what he was required to do.

Finally, his distraction came, though it was not going to have the desired effect. His eyes grew wide as his escort lead him to a courtyard full of others like him, inductees undergoing basic combat trials, a means of further sorting. Though the exam, if one could call it that, that each citizen was required to fill out at age 15 had, for most people, already determined what position they would hold, Godric was blessed with city guard.

He was lead by his silent, silver clad babysitters to the area reserved for the recruits that were to be guards of Tyvrain, and after the current initiation duel was finished, shoved, not gently, into the sand filled ring. After struggling to keep on his feet, Godric turned and shot the pair of lumbering idiots a glare, though they showed no reaction as the turned to return to their posts. It was only after he had grabbed a shortsword from the weapon rack did he take a look at his opponent.

The young man that stood across from him was clearly a noble. Godric could almost smell the arrogance exuding off of him, not to mention the custom tailored (though not of his or his father's make) tunic and breeches made of black silk, or the blond hair that was elegantly slicked back with an ample supply of oil, or the condescending sneer etched into his face, or the look of disgust in his eyes. He was tall too, almost two heads taller than Godric's lithe frame. Godric hated him already.

The young man leaned lightly on a long rapier, impatience reflecting in his pale eyes.

Godric wasted no more time sizing up his opponent, he wasn't a stranger to a sword, having practiced a bit with his father, but he obviously had not experienced the training that the noble boy had. His initial charge was easily avoided with a side step, Godric barely turned in time to block a quick snap from the rapier. The strike, though incredibly agile, carried unexpected power, and Godric was knock on his heels, having been ill prepared for the blow. For the next several seconds Godric could barely remain on his feet as he blocked strike after strike from the lightning quick sword. His anger was growing, his impatience pushing his fury over the edge. With a roar of frustration he attempted to parry one of the many blows raining down at him, and overcompensated. The young noble flowing with the momentum of the parry into a spin and slapping Godric over the back of the head with the flat of his blade. He was slapped twice more, once on either side of his face, as he struggled to rise. He managed another parry, this one more successful, before being caught unexpectedly by a knee to the gut, knocking him back to the sand. He was halted by a blade at his throat.

"Yield." Came the snide comment from the noble.

Anger consumed him then, he wasn't going to be beaten by a sniveling statue of arrogance, he wasn't going to be shamed like this on his first day here. His hand clenched tight as he started to rise anyway, his other hand roughly shoving the blade out of the way. The noble, by his smug expression, clearly took this for a victory and began to turn away, until Godric's words turned his head again.

"Piss off."

"Wha-" was all the man managed to say before a handful of sand collided with his face, he roared in surprise and pain as the sand got into his eyes, he hastily dropped the sword and raised his hands to his face, trying in vain to clear his vision.

But Godric was already atop him, spear tackling him to the ground. They appeared as nothing more than a mass of writhing limbs for a few moments before Godric managed to straddle him and begin to furiously beat him, his punches were fueled by fury, not by discipline, and thus, had power but no accuracy, he hit the man's chest and face as much as the sand, and the blood on his hands was as much his own as the nobles. It took only a few seconds before the scuffle was broken up by the guards on duty, but they were brutally long seconds full of agony and fear for the noble, and as he was aided to his feet by another guard, his face bloodied and battered, his eyes were full of fear, not disgust or disdain.

"Well you're on your way to a bad reputation already young man, not even got your uniform and you're already in trouble. I think you'll do fine." Said the guard that was escorting him to the holding cells, his voice was gruff, but its tone was that of amusement, not anger or annoyance.

"You're goin to fit right in boy."

The clamor of the banquet hall was an unwelcome eruption of noise. Guests, consisting of mostly officers and their young trophy wives, had congregated into many small cliques. If ego was a fire to stoke, it was in overblaze this evening.

Isthul's Image passed between pillars in golden gleam as his way was made to the courtyard. Various torches and candlelight danced across the small pond in the evening air. Returning to the commotion after a much needed breather, He winced in the bright light of the event inside the open structure. Eyes adjusting, he made his way back into the fray.

"I'll take a skirmish to this any day . . . " He muttered to no one in particular.

Guests stirred and smiled at his reemergence to the festivity. He fraternized for most. Forced a smile for others. He eagerly awaited the end of a day wasted on his account or at least the celebration of such a foolish notion. A veteran? It was but a word. A word that, to him, provoked the image of what a bone must feel after being fought over by a pair of hounds. There was no consultation in surviving bloodshed. As far as he was concerned, the dead had it easy. The only suffering they continue to endure is the slandering of their names over justification. Some preconceived notion of a cause. There was another word for that. One more befitting of a savage than a soldier. Vengeance. It was all the same.

"Isthul!" A young man shouted. Making his way over to the dim, golden, tower of a man.

"Freddrick." Isthul greeted with a smile. "Good to see you alive lad."

Freddrick embraced his former mentor, his lanky frame sitting nearly a head shorter than Isthul's. Clad in priceless finery, he appeared to be more concerned with strumming up the excitement over his own newly encrusted sigil of rank. Isthul's eyes narrowed upon seeing it.

"Commander huh?" He said in a flat tone. Failing at all attempts to hide his seed of frustration. "Congratulations Freddrick."

"Thank you Isthul. It means alot coming from you. Long time in coming if you ask me." He beamed, attempting to arouse a laugh from the now gathered guests.

Isthul stood in mock happiness. Cold tower of dim gold. Freddrick was not deserving of command. What he lack in ability to command was only dwarfed by his eagerness to make decisions based on a misplaced sense of monetary gain from supposed glory. This was no doubt his father's doing.

"How is your father, Freddrick?" Isthul asked above the now commenced gossip, attempting desperately to change the subject.

"He is well." Fredderick replied in mild irritation looking up from his would be worshipers. "He still speaks highly of you. He misses your company. Your days spent in battle must seem ages ago, yes?" He nearly sneered.

"We had taken an arrow for each other across campaigns. Not something that's easy to forget. Nor is a loyal friend such as Marcus. I trust his insight serves a son well?" Isthul countered.

"Quite." Fredderick smiled.

"What of your bride-to-be? Alex must be a fine woman. I've bled beside many Rythlons. Her mother is a dear friend." Isthul proclaimed in an attempt to cool the situation. His patience for nepotism had subsided with his days in the clergy.

"Alex is also well. We have yet to pick a date but I'm sure she is just nervous. One couldn't help but be in light of such a merging of families." Fredderick replied, turning to face the crowd again. "Enough of my tales, friend. You have a speech to give." He said motioning to the podium. The crowd of guests stirred at this concept.

"I think I'll have to decline friends. You have my apologies. The day is gone. I must prepare for our departure in the morning. I bid you all goodnight." Isthul dismissed as he bowed before beginning the walk back to the barracks.

Time, in its fleeting fancy, rushed by in tumultuous repetition, scores of classes and training falling through the cracks of recurrence. Trainees and their like lived a simple life of hard work, wielding knowledge against ignorance and unfamiliarity, molding children into Crown-shaped soldiers. A young Rythlon, struggling not against the physical enemy but the social monster, found herself seeking the solace of a flat-faced blacksmith.

As fate decreed it, Alex found a friend in the surprisingly chatty boy, struggling against the bonds of rank with determined glares and sharp swords. Ferin, as she had learned, was remarkably chatty, using an easy smile and brotherly charm to woo all he met. His female counterpart, however, could not have opposed him more if she tried; trainees called her the ‘Ice Queen’ when they thought they were being clever. They were not, she decided.

Their friendship was surprisingly beneficial to both, with one introduced to the next social ladder and the bonuses of proper grammar, while the other discovered the simplicities of life outside of golden gates and stony guardians. Days quickly molded into months, a more inseparable pair could not have been found. For Alex sought solace in the unasked questions and simple acceptance of her indifference, and a simple blacksmith had discovered an open ear.

Roughly a year to the day upon their meeting, both peered silently into the waiting evergreens, ears straining to catch an unwelcome sound. However, over the loud mutterings of Ser Hierrick and the sharp clank of well shoed horses, neither could do anything but carry their vassal’s armaments and supplies.

Mumbling under his breath, Ferin kept his voice low, “If M’lord doesn’t learn to quiet himself, I’ll be more keen ta shut his mouth for ‘im.”

“Ser Hierrick simply is in want of rest,” Alex replied slowly, weary from a forced march.

They had departed nearly a week late from their allotted camp, the fault of poor hygiene, a barrel of ale, and several serving wenches. And because of it the small troupe, comprised of only six mismatched members of varying rank, had forcibly marched for two days; most could only conceive of a hot bath and full stomach.

Ferin suppressed a snort. “He is more keen, I’m sure, to a full bosom and a lovely pair ‘o legs.”

Perhaps it was fatigue, or perhaps it was simple inattentiveness, but none expected any foul play amid the towering pines and dusty road till an arrow punched through the soft flesh of Herrick’s neck.

Then all was chaos.

7 Months ago. City of Tyvrain. Royal Court.
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The Court Magister of Tyvrain stood in front of the mass of people that had gathered for the trial. Everyone in attendance had come to witness the sentencing of one Godric Isian, a merchants son turned city guard. Godric stood silently behind the two royal guardsmen that were his escort. He liked to call them babysitters, a moniker that applied to all of the royal guard as far as he was concerned. Though as he sat there in the great hall, which had been cleared and arranged for his court-martial, his anger, for once, was held in check. His mood sobered by the gravity of the situation he was now in. The high, raspy voice of the Magister, who was acting judge of the proceedings, began its slow wheeze, words began to form, and the crowd fell silent, whether from respect for the man, or curiosity of the charges he was about to utter, Godric couldn't know.

"Godric Isian. You stand here amongst the people of Tyvrain to be sentenced for crimes against not only the citizens of Tyvrain, but the Royal Army as well. You are charged with assaulting a citizen of the Lordship, as well as Assault on a superior officer, and stand accused of numerous further counts of assault on a citizen of the Lordship. We have word from the Officer involved confirming the first two, but as for the others, how do you plead toward such crimes?" Though overall he said little, it seemed to Godric as if he took forever to get it all out in his wheezy, slow, drolling tone. Godric already disliked the man.

He squared his shoulders and locked his eyes on a black marble pillar behind the Magister, eyes that had once been a light hazel, now shone a deep crimson in the torchlight. His voice had deepened slightly in the few months that had passed since he had been recruited, but it still retained its smooth fluidity.

"I will say nothing against the charges, for it matters little what I say. Everyone in this room has already made up their mind, has already judged me, your only job now is to humiliate me, so have at it, Magister." He said proudly, lacing the last word with such venom that the Magister hesitated for the briefest of moments before continuing.

"You are aware, boy, that the crime of attacking a superior officer is enough to get you a long, long sentence in the dungeons, if not get sent straight to the gallows. If you say nothing at all to the additional charges, we will assume guilt and you will be punished for those as well, you'll be lucky to live your life in a dark cell, if you don't get hanged." He said malevolently, his gaze darting behind Godric for a brief moment as he said the word 'Officer".

Godric followed his gaze, saying nothing immediately. His eyes found the Commander he had attacked one night ago. He reached a manacled hand, dragging the other along, up to his right eye as the memory came back in a flash of pain and anger.

Godric threw his mailed fist down once more, crushing into the man's gut, causing another bout of coughing to wrack the poor man's body, blood mixed with saliva, and dripped copiously from the man's torn lips. He was a merchant, like his father, like he was to be. But that didn't register at the moment, all that Godric was thinking, was that it was either him or the merchant. If he failed to collect a tax, or dish out punishment for not being able to pay, then he would get beaten. At least that was the threat. He didn't know for certain, he had never disobeyed. Another rush of fury washed over him as he threw the man unceremoniously to the ground, his clothes now stained with mud as well as blood.

"Please, I can pay twice the amount next time." He sobbed threw broken teeth and mangled lips.

He started to say more, but the two young recruits with Godric didn't let him, they wanted to appease their sadistic side as well, moving toward him, and testing his ribs with their steel covered feet.

"He's had enough, lets go, we've got two more collections tonight." He said quietly, in a feeble attempt to stop the two young men. They ignored him, he knew they would, and he said nothing more. He turned his back and tried to catch his breath. For a few moments all he could here were muffled impacts, and meager cries of pain from the semi conscious man. Then, he heard a rustle of movement and two rather loud cries. He turned quickly, his hand falling to the short sword at his side. His two comrades were lying on the ground, still, but breathing. There was a man, a rather large man, in plate armor, he was kneeling by the wounded merchant.

Before Godric could speak, quiet words spoken in stern tone reached his ears. The man was speaking while tending to the Merchant's wounds.

"If you had been men, not just boys, this man would be dead. Fortunately you are not. I see I'll have to have another talk with the Lieutenant, he does not seem to understand that there is a limit to enforcing tax laws. As for you, have you any idea what the punishment is for assaulting a citizen of the Lordship boy? Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in? Do you-" His words were cut off as Godric rushed him, blade drawn. He wasn't particularly angry at the man, whoever he was. He was angry that he had failed, was afraid of the consequences.

He didn't get far in his attack however, his blade was swatted aside like he was but a boy with a stick, then all he felt was pain as the man grabbed his wrist and wrenched the blade free. Then he was struck in the chest by an open palm, the light blow knocking him off his feet. He landed in the mud, on his back, some 5 feet away. His chest was in agony, even through the mail hauberk he wore. He was sure several ribs were bruised.

"Don't do that again." Came the stern reply to his pitiful assault.

That's when the anger came, he wasn't used to failure, refused to accept it. He glanced around furiously, searching for a weapon, his sword lay at the man's feet, out of reach.

A booted foot on his chest knocked him to the ground once more, and held him there as the man spoke again.

"Get up, and you'll experience real pain."

That's when he saw it, the rank insignia on the man's left pauldron, he was a Commander in the Royal Army, but underneath the Commander's Sigil, there lay another symbol, an eye. The symbol for an Ashborn. He had the misfortune to encounter one of THEM. He blinked and the man was gone, once again kneeling by the merchant, his mouth moving, making silent utterances in the torchlight. Instead of fear however, only more anger greeted Godric, he didn't know why, didn't care why, all he knew, was that it was this man, this commander's fault. Spotting a short piece of chain Godric scrambled to his feet and snatched at it, spinning wildly and rushing blindly at the commander. The Commander turned calmly toward him, showing no surprise, even as the chain in Godric's hand burst into flame as he swung it overhead.

Then, pain, excruciating pain. Pain was his world as he lay there, he was vaguely aware that he lay in the cold mud, several meters away, vaguely aware that the Commander was kneeling over him, but all too aware of the burning agony that worked it's way up his right arm, and covered most of the right half of his face. Then, darkness greeted him coldly.

Godric snapped back to the present, his now red eyes narrowing at the Magister as he dropped his hands away from the burn scar that covered his right eye and cheekbone, his brow gone forever on that side.

"I won't deny the charges set before me. I am not a Liar. But I will say that I am not without regret." He fell silent, fighting to control the rage that burned within, the rage that burned only to hide his shame.

"Very well then, I will proceed with the sentencing then. I-"

"If I might have a say in the matter Magister, it would be appreciated."

"Ah, you have something pertinent to add Commander Rayd?"

Godric turned to lock eyes with the golden gaze of the Commander he had attacked, but the man's stony expression revealed nothing of his Intentions.

"I say let me have the boy."

Isthul could hardly believe the words were coming from his mouth.

"Commander Rayd. This is highly irregular." The Magister droned.

All Isthul could see was the fire in that boy's eyes. A look that betrayed a soul ready to burn the world for all it's futility. That kind of rage is the precursor to power. A power that was almost frightening to Isthul. If not controlled he would go on to hurt many, many more. It must be done.

"I understand, Lord Magister, however these are irregular circumstances." Isthul continued. "The boy is Ashborn. As our law demands. He must serve. If that's not enough for this court. I would make it known that I fear for his jailer's well being."

"Commander Rayd we are confidant in our abilities to keep this boy detai-"

"My Lord. I feel that I am not overstepping my role to ask for the insertion of a potentially powerful Ashborn into my unit. I welcome any disciplinary actions on my behalf if I am." Isthul Interrupted.

The Magister mulled this over. Turning to speak to his peers in hushed tones. Isthul eyed the boy who could only look down at his shackles. What was going on behind those crimson eyes, only that boy knew. Who did he remind him of? Who . . . That rage. It was the shell. To something bright. Something presently unshaped. Isthul would be the mold. It would not happen the same way twice. Godric would not be another Freddrick.

"Your proposal is unusual, Commander Rayd, however this council will grant your request. Godric Isian will be released into the service of Commander Isthul Rayd. If he should attempt desertion or Commander Rayd reports further misconduct. You will be exectued young man." The Magister announced in a low tone. Adding intentional emphasis to the last few words.

"Thank you Lord Magister." Isthul bowed before locking eyes with Godric. A stare that seemed to last an age.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seven months since the trial. Seven months of patience. Seven months of punishments. Seven months of tribulations. Isthul had broken Godric to see him shape anew. Hostility intact. It became evident that he would not sway this boy by mere command. It would take a shinning example. Something Isthul was in no position to do. Not right now.

"Gear your horse. We leave tomorrow." Isthul said flatly to Godric. He turned sharply after the command to leave the stables and return to the barracks. He stopped suddenly and turned. "You did well today." He sputtered awkwardly.

He turned and left before the moment had time to linger. Truth be told he had grown somewhat fond of the boy. His concern for his safety manifest in his mind more than anything now. He had grown into a remotely disciplined, skilled combatant. Many had praised Isthul for his work. Only the two of them knew how much more there was to go.

She smelled blood.

Its inky fluidity colored the air, stained the ground, and bubbled from the flesh, a visceral paint striking discord into the hearts of the attacked. As lives met their end in an astonishing speed, one red-haired demon barely had time to draw reign before her surrounding burst into flashes of steel and the screams of the dying. Flesh was rent on both sides, choking gasps whispering the end of soldiers and vassals, while the common man struggled to prevent iron from stealing their lifeblood. Of the six, three still drew ragged breaths, fending off men of rough stock and darkened countenance.

Through a hail of arrows, raining death from the cover of dark pine, Alex felt the muscled mass beneath her buck and crumple as an arrow viciously greeted leg and flank. The world spun as the mare fell, staggering drunkenly with pain before teetering to embrace dirt cushioned death. Jumping from the weight threatening to turn her bones to powder, Alex hit earth with a mangled roll, catching her foot on the stirrup before rolling away to safety and a bitten lip. Tasting copper, she spit before levering steel against the sword raised to strike her down.

They met in a clash of steel, adding to a thunderous din till all but the screams of dying horse and the shouts of warning could be heard.

"Rigel! The archer! Take down the goddamn archer!" Ferin screamed frantically as he narrowly deflected the clumsied efforts of a hammer.

He returned the gesture with a solid strike to the attacker's torso.

The troupe was grossly outnumbered and frankly outmatched, clinging to life by the virtual skin of their teeth. Three to one, they tired. Slowed. And died. But, meeting a practiced strike to her ankles with a neat sidestep, Alex met her assailant with patience and the whirling bladed pendulum of a poleaxe, twisting and twirling till naught was left but death. Momentum carried her away from greedy metal, parrying strike after strike. One attacked, he was missing all but three teeth, and lunged towards her, blades aimed towards her throat. In one swift motion she brought her weapon's shaft up to block it, throwing her weight into not the deflection but to the swift collision of her forehead with the softness of his face.

He screamed, gurgling on blood pouring from a shattered nose. Without hesitation Alex brought her weapon to bare, narrowly avoiding a wild slash of desperation, before burying the axe's blade deep into his shoulder, slicing through bone and tendon as it nearly tore him in half. Through a shower of blood and the precise strikes of two more opponents, the young Rythlon then felt reality slip from her iron grip.

In rapid succession Rigel, his lithe frame normally ensuring agility and safety, found itself separated from his skull, followed closely by a surge against Ferin. He was surrounded, fighting tooth and nail against those that wanted to claim his life. But he was fighting a loosing battle, and soon enough his guard slipped and one sword revealed the sight of his bowels to the earth. Even through the pain, however, he smiled, hooking his killer in the face.

Darkness soon claimed him and the world of light faded from view.

Screaming, Alex felt panic seize her throat. "Ferin!"

An ugly taste of rage poisoned her mind, clouding her vision in a red haze as she tore through her enemies. There was no skill, no finesse, simply unadulterated fury carving a swath of wrent bone and blood. Her mind burned away, she reveled in every death, every blow of her axe ending with screams. The 'Ice Queen' had lost her cool, replaced by a creature who saw not but the dimmed brown eyes staring up at her. She felt nothing as a blade scraped across her hip, sliced cleanly over her shoulder, and grazed dangerously near her spine.

It was not till the last of her enemies lay dead or dying, she had bathed in their blood, and basked in their destruction that she finally calmed. Vomiting the last of her panic in burning shame, Alex collapsed as her mind cleared, long legs buckling beneath her. She shook not with pain, but with fear.

"What have I done?" she whispered to skies.