The city was a maze.

Springfest buzzed with people from all across the Southlands. Most of them came to trade the surplus of this year’s mild summer - herbs, furs and spices. A tall man from Aslecil was selling pearls. A young girl was dancing to the sound of drums. A beggar with no legs stared into nowhere.

Lukis of Aiden Hill would have loved to stop and enjoy the bustling markets full of small wonders, but it’s bad business to let the council wait. To let him wait. Lukis disliked the man, but loved the opportunities he provided. Today was the day, he could feel it. A freezing sense of anticipation that gnawed its way even through his expensive coat. For now, all he could afford were quick glances at full tables and even quicker whiffs of all the lovely smells the world had to offer.

Every now and then the sea of simple folk parted and made room for him and his knightly companion, throwing a dozen different greetings their way. This love was expensive, but worth every head of silver.

“Many rains to you, master councilor.“ Said a tanned woman and bowed slightly.

“From the Ashes, my lord.” Said woman with tears in her eyes.

“Greetings, marquess.“ A skinny man said.

“Harvest abundant, milord.“ Said a footman in the green of House Harvicz, knocking on his hauberk.

All those words. All that adoration. But none of it was meant for the shadow of a man just a few steps behind him; his sworn lordshield Belris of Harrowdin Minor. Men averted their gaze and women held their children close, when death walked the streets.

These days Belris was much more lordshield than harrowknight, deciding to replace his family‘s red and black dreadplate with simple black plate armor and an enclosed helmet of the same color. The only thing that may give him away as a knight of accursed Harrowdin was his unusually long and ornate sword. Belris didn’t speak much, but to Lukis he might as well have been sobbing; the weight of his family’s name was crushing him.

What a fine investment, thought Lukis to himself, enjoying the safety one could only find in a shadow cast by fear.

The closer the two men got to the keep, the more ancient the architecture became. Simple straw roofs gave way to dark brown clay tiles; wooden walls politely made way for ones made of stone.

As the last sweet smell of the market - roasted apples - became too distant to enjoy, they arrived at the fort’s main square. The rough, dark, cobbled stone of both the square and the fort itself stuck out like a sore thumb from the otherwise pristine center of Springfest. It felt out of place, a relic from when the first and only king of the Southlands, Goran of Plamen, had united the land and built this fortification. For its time it must have been an awe-inspiring sight, but these days it looked more like it belonged to a Krajan upstart and not the High Lord of the Southlands.

The meetings of the high council were held every two weeks in the largest hall of the keep. It was a simple, almost bland location, entirely unworthy of its importance. A long wooden table was set in half a circle, with sixteen seats nestled around it: One for each prominent house, one for the Highlord of Springfest and one for the lord steward.

Only two seats were taken so far. One of them was him, the lord steward - Edwin of Plamen. The other was duke Claudin of Lightenar.

“Harvest abundant, Lord Lukis.“ The lord Steward greeted Lukis, barely lifting his squinting eyes from the mass of paper scattered across his table. His harsh voice sounded like grindstones.

It was odd that lord Steward Edwin of Plamen took the words of house Harvicz as his own. In fact, much about the lord Steward was odd. He opted to shave both his beard and his head and refused to take a lordshield, instead he surrounded himself with accountants, alchemists and commanders. He refused to wear a nobles’ garment, instead he wore the simple surcoat of a footman. The only thing that distinguished him from a simple Harviczian sergeant, was a bronze pin on his left chest, bearing the family insignia of house Plamen: A roaring fire in a ring of holy light.

“Harvests abundant, lord Edwin.” Lukis bowed politely, knowing well that being on the lord Stewards good side had its benefits.

“Please dismiss your lordshield.“ Said Edwin with ritualistic monotony.

Lukis nodded briefly to Belris, who turned on his heels and left the hall, his armor rattling as he did. Only members of the high council, or those who brought up grievances, were permitted during meetings.

Edwin placed a gold coin at the far edge of his table and waved for Lukis to come closer.

“The Southlands thank you for your service.“ Edwins words appeared cold, almost forced, but they would not prevent Lukis from honoring this ancient custom. The gold was a nice addition, admittedly.

“And I thank the South for the trust it has put into me.” Lukis bowed again and made his way to his seat on the far left of the table. On his way he passed knightly lord duke Claudin of Lightenar, who was still wearing his bright silver plate armor. Unused for years.

“A Silver afternoon to you, lord Claudin.” The greetings of house Lightenar were strange. Instead of having one given phrase, they fit their words to the time of day, the weather or even the seasons. Lukis spent a long time learning all the possible combinations, just as a squire of the knightly house of Lightenar would.

“Silver afternoon to you as well, lord Lukis.“ The knight in shining armor nodded. „We haven‘t seen one another in a while, how‘s life on Aiden Hill?“

”I wouldn‘t know, lord Claudin. I haven‘t been there in months. All I know is that my father and my four brothers are all in good health.“

“That‘s good to hear. Your brother Lewis performed well at the tourney last year. I hope to fence with him again soon.“

“Thank you, lord Claudin. I will let Lewis know, should I write him.“

Lukis hated all of his brothers but most of all he hated his old, demanding father. But he knew better than to wear this opinion on his sleeve. His smile must have seen genuine.

Lukis sat down on what must have been the most unconfomfortable chair in the whole Southlands. Squeaky and creaky, flat and without cushion. But no matter the discomfort, his place had to be in order. His tiny jar of ink on the far left, black plumed quill close on the right. He was one of the few lords who truly cared about these meetings. As the youngest of five cursed siblings, he had to grasp every opportunity he could.

High Council Notes, 1st day of Leaffall, he wrote at the top of his paper. And now began the usual long wait.

The next lord to arrive was Mos Harvicz, a tall, bearded man of short temper. The next one to waddle in was Lady Alchemist Gerevy of Savidon, a fat crone with glowing embers for eyes.

Then came duke Belial Harrowdin, a graceful man of few words and as far as Lukis knew, a distant uncle to Belris. Baron Elyssa of Dur-Mosvatr joined the meeting still wearing her fencing dress; a beautiful redhaired fighter from the eastern fringes of the Southlands. Last but certainly not least came Lakelord Koravin Durvas, a short, bearded man dressed in sailor‘s black. His smell announced him before he even entered the hall. They all took their gold coin and waited, passing time with idle chatter and empty pleasantries.

Every now and then, Lukis caught himself staring at Elyssas freckles. A sharp sting ran through his heart, whenever he did. He knew better than to indulge. It wasn’t time yet.

Lord Belial gave lady Gerevy a book covered in silver swirls, kneeling down and bringing her hand up to his forehead, like a knight charming a maiden - they both laughed with a distant sadness to their voice..

Mos took grunting sips from his new waterskin, which we all knew contained something entirely different than water. With his arms crossed he stared into nothingness, perhaps towards some long forgotten days of glory.

Only Edwin worked diligently at his papers, not saying a single word. Eternal Edwin.

“Bright stars to you, Lukis.“ Lakelord Koravin sat directly left to Lukis and liked to use the spare time before meetings to joke around. In another life, he would have made a magnificient jester. One, for whom battles would have been fought.

Koravin was a short, raspy-voiced and jovial man, who’s black sailor robes smelled of fish and rot. He was also one of the few Lords that did not have a permanent residence in Springfest, choosing instead to travel between the lake and the city, if he felt like it, that is.

“Bright stars, Koravin. How‘s the lake?“

“Wet.“ Koravin spoke the word with such joyful emphasis, that a short laugh managed to sneak past Lukis’s lips.

“How‘s the land?“ Asked the lakelord and began stuffing his mouth with dark bread. „And don‘t you dare say dry, Lukie.“

Lukis was caught off guard as he was just about to reply with exactly that single word, thinking himself clever. „You insult me lakelord, I would never-“

“Yeah yeah. So what did I miss? It‘s been two months now. You landfolk still eating that yellow grass?“

“It‘s called wheat. Or barley. Or any number- why am I even explaining this to you? You are nibbling on a piece of bread, as we speak.“ Lukis couldn’t hide his smirk.

“I have never in my life tasted this bret you speak of.“ His voice was full of feigned indignation and half chewed rye bread.

For a lakelord his humor was surprisingly dry, but Lukis still enjoyed his company. The two lords were both fifth in the line of succession, so they shared a certain resigned optimism when it came to life. Koravin was close to being something akin to a friend. Very close.

Their conversation joined the chorus of several others. They spoke much, without really saying anything. A dance, that Lukis enjoyed.

After enough time had passed, so that even the laziest of lords may have found his way to the council, the lord Steward stood up from his seat and declared the beginning of the meeting with a short, ritualistic phrase: „The lords have come, let their voices make peace.“

“Shouldn‘t we wait for High Lord Dorian?“ Asked Elyssa with a thick, rolling accent and a deep voice. Lukis avoided looking towards her.

“My father is still unwell. But he does send his regards.“ Answered Edwin, sitting down.

“Still unwell?“ Mos grunted, his drunken whisper skittering across the hall. „The old man hasn‘t attended the last eight meetings. Eight. He‘s getting more sickly by the day.“

Funny that Mos of all people should call Dorian old. The High Lord was barely 59, while Mos was already way past his 60‘s. He couldn’t be 70, or could he?

Edwin shot a vengeful glance towards Mos but refrained from speaking up. There was honest spite in his eyes.

“Today‘s business -“ The Lord Steward started. „We have several small points of order; this years harvest has been surprisingly bountiful and we should discuss if we want to expand this year’s tourney. There‘s also the issue of rights to the silver mines of Foron, a lack of tools for the Westguard, impure beer from Carlon and a whole slew of other minute points.“ Edwin sighed, most likely knowing full well that all of those issues would have to be handled by him alone. But he tried nonetheless.

The hall was awfully quiet as Edwin spoke and tried to explain this law or that succession. Lukis did his best to pay attention and even took notes. Tournament – expanded by another day. Foron Mines – Unclear succession – Split of Family – three branches vying for it – Cornwood, Blackwood, Yellowthorn. Westguard – no heavy tools – severe lack of horses. Something about beer – who exactly cares?

Mos almost fell asleep, Gerevy was knitting and Elyssa was playing with a coin. All of them only ever perked up, when Edwin made a suggestion on how to handle each issue. Foron would be decided by a succession council with Yellowthorn having the strongest claim. Savidon would send supplies to the Westguard. Fines for stretched beer would be doubled.

Done.

“For the main points of order: First, we‘ll adress the issues of raiding along the southern coast, along with the supposed sightings of a ghost fleet and revenants walking the land around Ashehill. Second, we‘ll have to speak of the High Lords health. Last, we‘ll speak of - well, let‘s speak of it once we get there.“ The lord Steward scribbled something on his paper.

“To explain the first point: A courier knight, Tharrant formerly of Springfest, arrived a few days back, claiming that Ashehill on the southern coast was wiped out by -“ Edwin was rudely interrupted by Gerevy of Savidon with her screeching voice full of arrogance and venom.

“The southern coast belongs to the Kraj, at least by culture ye? It‘s a place of superstition and small minds, where the winds supposedly carry the whispers of nature itself and where rivers heal all wounds. There is no ghost fleet and we all know that. The Isles of Bronze and Blood are still not pacified, it’d be no surprise for them to stick their horns in our side again. Savidon will send some of its ships to catch those certainly very human raiders. Now, let‘s not waste our precious time with the ramblings of superstitious mushroom-drinkers. Next.“

Edwin tensed his jaw for a moment and made a few quick notes. Taking a deep breath, he continued.

“Next point. The High Lord is in poor Health. The alchemists of Savidon, as much as we all owe them, were not able to help him. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I suggest we send for every healer in and close to the Southlands.“

“Edwin, you know better than this, don’t you? What did I just say?“ Said Gerevy with an indignant grin. Lukis face did not betray any reaction.

Lakelord Koravin tried to hold back a childlike giggle, unbefitting a man of his grim reputation.

“If our alchemists couldn‘t help him, how do you expect some leafseer, or worse yet river warden to help your precious high lo-“

“He‘s our High Lord.“ Edwin raised his voice. „And he is my father. As such, let me be perfectly honest-“

The Lord Steward stored his quill in a small glass of ink and rose from his seat.

“I hoped more Lords may attend today, it would have saved me precious time, ink and parchment. Whatever is happening to High Lord Dorian is not natural.“

He took a moment to look each Lord in their face, as if searching for something.

“And I think one of you is behind-“

The door of the hall flung open and two men came stumbling in. Mayor so-called-lord Kivken of Saffron, drunk like a Krajan during the darkmoon revolt and baron Tolas Flaxer. Seeing young Tolas keeping the fat mayor standing at least somewhat upright was an awe inspiring sight.

“Apologies lord Steward.” The young man spat out. “Hope we aren’t too late. Was difficult to get lord Kivken away from the bottle.”

There was a genuine look of disbelief on Edwins face, almost as if in shock. But Lukis knew that beneath that, Edwin was fuming with anger. The lord Steward took a deep breath and fell back into his chair.

“Sit. Just sit.” Edwin said, shaking his head.

After Tolas helped Kivken struggle to his seat, he rushed back to close the door, before finally standing in front of the Lord Steward. The hurry with which Tolas skittered back and forth was almost comical.

“The Southlands thank you for your service.” Edwin nodded and presented a gold coin. He leaned forward and beckoned Tolas to come closer. Lukis couldn’t tell what the men whispered about, but it became obvious once skinny Tolas was handed a second gold coin. While sitting back down, Tolas’ slid the coin over to Kivken.

“Mayor Kivken.” Edwin yelled loud enough, so that even the drunk mayor would notice him.

“The Southlands thank you for your service.”

“They’re ‘elcome!”

There was a brutal silence in the hall, no one knew what to say, no one knew what to do. Edwin just sat there and stared at his desk with empty eyes.

“I had a speech prepared for all of you. But the moment for that has passed, I feel. So let me make this brief. Someone is slowly killing our High Lord, my father. I have a good idea of what the plan is. You’ll wait until he’s dead and then you’ll mourn for the customary three days. After that, before I become High Lord, you’ll vote to abolish the position of High lord and probably lord Steward as well. And then, well, you will do whatever you want.“

Accusations of treason?

Even sly Lukis felt his mouth dry out and his fingers turn cold. What started out as a lovely day with even a bit of theater sprinkled in, suddenly turned sour.

“I will not let that happen. We‘re sending for healers to find out what exactly is killing our High Lord and every noble house will be honored to pay its fair share. I have my eyes on every Lord and Lady of this High Council. Once I have found out who is behind this, I will use the old ways - labratr tym jol.“

Mos lowered his waterskin, eyes wide open.

Edwin leaned back again, picked up his quill and started writing.

“Speaking of fair shares, we‘ll start with all of you. I revoke todays lordgold. Pass it to your neighbor until it reaches me. Except mayor Kivken, I would like you to present yours yourself.“

The lordgold, the golden coin they all received as payment for their attendance to the High Council, was a sacred symbol of trust. Revoking it was much more than a simple financial punishment, it was a harsh way for the Lord Steward to voice just how little he trusted them.

Mos Harvicz was first to part with his coin, slamming it on the table. Belial Harrowdin surprisingly put forth two. Only Claudin did not put forth a coin - as a proud Lightenarian knight, he must have refused the gold to begin with.

Returning the coins was an awkward spectacle. With so many lords absent, the ones present had to lean uncomfortably far or even stand up to pass their coin. Only Edwin remained comfortably on his seat.

It pained Lukis to part with his gold, but he knew he had no other choice.

As the coins reached Edwin, even he put forward a single gold coin from his own purse. Only Kivkens coin remained. The fat merchant lord was struggling to even sit upright, let alone walk. He stumbled and fell, only to rise and fall again. He knocked over the chair of absent house Protias and finally gave up on standing, instead crawling towards the lord Steward.

All eyes were on this embarrassing spectacle. Claudins face betrayed a mix of pity and disgust, Elyssa was mildly entertained, only Koravin seemed to cheer the mayor on with a silent nod of approval.

Kivken lifted the coin towards the Lord Steward, with what must have been all of his strength and wit. But Edwin did nothing. Instead, he only tapped on his table, seemingly unreachable for the worm-mayor on the ground.

“On my table Lord Mayor, please.”

What started out as a somewhat amusing display turned into a brutal humiliation, as Kivken desperately tried to lift himself off the ground and get the coin on the table. Koravin leaned over to Lukis and whispered.

“Now it’s just getting sad.”

As if on command, Kivken began spewing red vomit all over the floor. Lukis was impressed by the mayors presence of mind, as he managed to turn the spew of half-digested wine away from Edwin just in time.

“Alright, it’s funny again.” Said Koravin and giggled.

The sad performance continued for an uncomfortably long time until finally Tolas Flaxer stood up, grabbed Kivkens arm and helped him place the gold on the table, after wich Tolas dragged Kivken back to his chair. If Lukis didn’t know better, he’d say that the Lord Steward was impressed.

Without wasting any further time, Edwin began to speak again, this time in a surprisingly calm voice.

“If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear. And if you have nothing to fear, I apologize for my harsh words. But for now, we have to stop all of this petty squabbling and save our High Lord.“

To an outsider Edwin must have appeared reasonable, calm even. But to Lukis, the Lord Steward was foaming at the mouth with anger. This wasn‘t the first time Edwin had lost his temper, but his demeanourr grew more unrestrained and more violent over the years. There was a time, years ago, when Edwin showered the councilors with honest smiles and his eyes were not yet hollow and full of bitterness.

Lukis saw an opportunity.

“Lord Edwin, if I may - Aiden Hill has close ties to the Bonesingers of the green valley. They were allowed to keep their beliefs in exchange for their services, they‘ll surely help.“

“Aye. The healers of Dur-Mosvatr will do their part too. I‘ll send messengers to the hill tribes, see what they can do.“ Elyssa joined in.

“We don‘t have any healers in that sense, but I think we can help too.“ Said Belial and smirked..

Soon the hall erupted into a bidding match about who could do the most for poor High Lord Dorian. Only the hag of Savidon remained quiet with a bitter grimace.

It took a while before the hall calmed itself again, agreeing to send for every healer, soothsayer, river warden or bonebreaker in the whole Southlands and beyond.

“Good. It is settled then.“ Said Edwin with certainty in his voice.

“Before I continue, I ask all of you to treat this matter with respect and clarity of mind. We had enough theatrics for a single day. The third and last point for today concerns matters of arms, as such I need your vote.”

Both Mos and Claudin perked up.

“Thanks to my father and this council we have lived in relative peace for more than fourty years. But I fear for the future. Lavreux is at our borders, there is unrest in Foron and raiding in the South. I propose the creation of a small standing host, made up of ten men of every house prominent. If it proves beneficial, we shall expand this host.“

Lukis didn‘t care about the proposal and would vote any way the Lord Steward would see fit, especially after todays meeting – besides, even his family could afford to send ten men at arms away from their holding. It helped, that this would greatly upset the old man of Aiden Hill.

Still, it seemed like an odd time to talk about such a contentious issue, after all accusations of treason were levied left and right just a few moments ago, on top of the humiliation of a high councilor.

“If I may.“ Said knight Claudin calmly. Edwin nodded.

“Lord Steward, I ask you to withdraw this proposal. A standing, centralized host is a breach of both tradition and trust. Tradition, because the High Lord was never meant to hold this kind of power. Even if it was a single man for each house, we would be betraying our sacred duty to protect the independence and traditions of everyone in the Southlands. Trust, because I fear we would be handing our safety into the hands of not knights or sworn men at arms, but peasants and drunkards.”

Mos slammed his waterskin on the table and shot up.

“Don‘t think I don‘t see through your thinly veiled insults you silver clad sissy. You‘re not even man enough to speak your poison to my face. House Harvicz is proud to adopt promising fighters, proud to knight everyone who serves loyally, proud-“

“Proud to be an abomination of knighthood.“ Said Claudin, firmly meeting Mos’ stare. „You have what, 8000 men under arms and how many of them are Knights? 6000? 7000? And that‘s not counting your vassals. All of this is an insult to knighthood. None of you deserve-“

“Aye, we weren‘t born in gold and silver. We had to earn our titles. I know this is hard to understand for a spoiled brat like you, but-“

“True. You weren‘t born in gold and silver, dear Mos. You were born in a pig stall and you should have stayed there with the whole house of Harvicz and dear old mother pig.“

“You prancin‘ boylover I‘ll bash your head in!“ Screamed Mos, angrily pointing at Claudin. Lady Elyssa, who sat next to Mos, gave him a tired look.

Silver Knight Claudin rose to his feet and looked towards Edwin.

“I demand satisfaction.“ He said calmly, as if this was daily accurence to him.

Edwin mustered both men, sighed in pure desperation or perhaps disappointment and let his head fall into the palms of his hands. The two lords in turn anxiously stared at him, not speaking a word.

“I‘ll allow your duel.” Ediwn said, still speaking into his hands, before finally raising his head.

“But first we vote. All in favor of a standing host, raise your hand.“

Lukis, Gerevy , Elyssa and Tolas raised their hands. Blinded by rage Mos almost forgot to raise his but soon followed suite.

“All who oppose, raise your hands.“

Claudin, Belial and quietly giggling Lakelord Koravin raised their hands.

“I cast my vote in support of a standing host. The lords absent will be informed of today’s decision.“ Said Edwin, turning the vote into a six to three with one very, very drunk abstention.

“But I also respect the sovereignty of each ruler in the Southlands. You shall not be forced to contribute to any standing host, at least for now. You will however also not enjoy any protection such a host provides. Let‘s end this farce of a meeting, enough bile has flown for one day. Lord Mos, lord Claudin, take your blood-business outside the copper square. I would welcome it, if both of you stayed alive. This meeting is over.“

Mos stormed out of the hall, kicking its door open and slamming it into lady Elyssas Lordshield, a tall woman in green armor, who almost fell over.

Claudin followed shortly after, making his way through a group of perplexed Lordshields who were waiting outside the hall and seemed wholly unaware of what was about to happen.

Lukis considered his options for a moment - stay and maybe earn favor with Edwin or walk outside and see the spectacle about to unfold. The decision was made for him. Edwin called him over.

“Lukis. A word.”

“Of course.”

“I saw you take notes. Not just today but on every other meeting.”

“Yes. I like to review them now and then. It’s good to keep track of what’s going on in the Southlands.”

That was a lie.

“May I see them?”

Lukis didn’t even both responding and instead immediately handed over his little booklet. It took the lord Steward an uncomfortably long time to examine them, Lukis grew anxious, afraid he’ll miss the duel or worse yet, the Steward would see through his act.

“You really do make notes, don’t you. Ha. I always thought you were just pretending.”

Diligence pays off.

“I’m just trying to do good work on this council.”

Edwins eyes narrowed, as if trying to poke a hole into Lukis’ very soul.

“Alright then, Lukis of Aiden Hill. I’d like your advice on some matters. Would you mind visiting me tomorrow noon in my study room, it’s just down the hallway.”

YES

“I can make time. What will we be discussing?”

“I’d rather keep that quiet.” Edwin glanced behind back towards the snoring Kivken. “You should hurry now; the duel will be interesting. I’ll join you all in a moment.”

It was early evening and the sun sat already low on the horizon. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered at the edge of the marketplace, men, women and children of all regions, houses and classes.

Lukis found a good spot next to a fruit vendor selling roasted pears and was soon joined by Elyssa, Koravin and their lordshields, who all seemed at least somewhat entertained by all of this.

“The lot of you‘s weird.“ Said Koravin in a voice made hollow and screechy by a lifetime of screaming orders.

“Oh you don‘t ‘ave duels on the lake?“ Asked Elyssa with innocent curiosity betraying her inexperience. Lukis tried not to stare on her painted lips.

“Nah, we do. Plenty even. But we don‘t ask permission. If someone calls me a prancin’ boylover, I‘ll cleave his head open and take his wife. If I’m feeling kind even in that order. Simple, really. That said, ten silverheads on the prancin‘ boylover.“ He laughed.

“Aye, I‘ll match ya ten. But on old Mos. You don’t get that old for no reason. What about you, Lord Lukis?“

“Thank you Lady Elyssa, but I‘m no betting man.“

That was a lie. Business was gambling and he was one of the best gamblers there was in the Southlands. Under any other circumstance he would have joined the bet, but he had noticed the lord Steward quietly walking up behind the six of them. Still. Lukis was curious about the outcome.

“Belris, who do you think will win?” Lukis asked his Lordshield in a hushed voice. If anyone had a good idea of who would come out on top, it was certainly him. For a moment Belris was quiet, then he removed his helmet and took another moment to study the two fighters. It was unusual to see his face, even for Lukis. The lordshield was deathly pale and had long, greasy black hair. He appeared more as a spectre then a man. Finally, Belris leaned over and spoke in a hushed voice.

“Any other day, good death for Claudin. Today? Bad death for Claudin.”

“That’s an odd prediction. Why?”

“Anger.”

“Full sentences, please.” Lukis usually found the way Belris spoke charming, but right now he wanted proper answers.

“Mos is shaking with anger. Took him ages to get dressed. He’s in a fog. He’ll overpower Claudin, yes. But it will be ugly. Mos is one of the best brawlers I know. He could kill the whole council and there is nothing all of you could do to stop him. Claudin is scared. Hasn’t fought in years. Proper fought, that is. He’s a better fencer, much better. But Mos holds all the cards.”

Lukis took a moment to think about this. He simply couldn’t see what his Lordshield was speaking about. But he knew better than to second guess him.

“Belris.” Lukis began, unsure of where the following question was coming from or even leading to. “Could you beat Mos?”

“Depends.”

“On what?

“Armor.”

“Sentences, Belris.”

“Mos and I are similar in strength, I am a bit faster, he a bit more experienced. He is also very old. Outside of armor, it’s for the Lady in Grey to decide. In armor, I will exhaust him before driving my dagger into his left eye.”

Before Lukis could ask about why the left eye specifically, the crowd cheered.

Both men had removed any armor they had worn and instead put on simple garments of their house. Claudin wore a blue and white tunic and chose a longsword as his weapon. Mos wore a heavy green and yellow tabard and was wielding a long, twohanded warhammer.

Their Lordshields were still in-between them, trying to negotiate a peaceful solution. Claudin‘s lordshield was a sad looking Lightenar knight with long black hair who carried a Halberd, the lordshield of Mos was a scarred spearman of house Tyr by the name of Kotis. Lukis made the mistake of drinking with him once. A week of precious time lost.

After a short negotiation, both lordshields bowed to one another, Kotis extended his hand, but the Lightenar Knight simply turned and left for Claudin. For a moment the spearman stood there, arm extended and his gentle smile slowly turned to a bitter frown. Soon, he too left for his lord.

The crowd tensed up. Did they reach a peaceful agreement or would the duel proceed?

Lukis didn‘t hear what either pair discussed, but soon Mos raised his warhammer to the sky and let out a bellowing roar.

Claudin nodded sadly, lifted his swords crossguard to his face and whispered a few words.

The duel was to proceed and the crowd went wild. A large group Harviczian footmen locked shields and performed their infamous warcry: Hiding their mouths behind their shields, they began chanting a dull o-sound, as lengthy as their lungs allowed, then they took a deep breath and started over. This was the first time Lukis witnessed this warcry firsthand and he immediately understood its reputation. He couldn‘t make out any of the individual voices, instead all he heard were waves crashing against cliffs.

Both duelists nodded. And the fight was on.

Mos charged forward, holding his hammer high above his head. He was unbelievably fast for his old age and could easily keep up with most young men.

Claudin lowered his sword, placing it low besides his legs, the tip facing behind him. From the little fencing that Lukis knew, this position was called scythe.

Mos brought down his hammer with a fury usually only seen in animals, screaming curses in the old tongue of Harvicz as he did. Claudin switched the position of his legs and brought his sword up to deflect. Pushing Mos‘ murderous blow to the side with ease, Claudin made a big step to the left and brought his sword down towards his opponents neck.

Duels were usually fought until one party surrendered, their lordshields stepped in or first blood was drawn, but this duel seemed personal, as both men clearly tried to kill one another.

Mos deflected the sword blow with the backside of his hammer, stepped forward, grabbed the knight’s right wrist, pushed his opponent’s sword aside and aimed his hammer at the knight’s forehead.

Before the hammer could gather any force, Claudin too stepped towards his opponent and secured the deadly tool with his left hand.

The two men struggled for the briefest moment, before Claudin let go of his sword, hooked his hand behind his opponent’s neck and rolled backwards. It went too fast for Lukis to understand what exactly happened, but both knights landed on the ground. While Claudin landed gracefully, Mos was thrown on his back like a wet sack of onions.

The war cry of the Harviczian footmen got louder.

The thunderous roar of the crowd must have awoken something in Mos, some old memory of a glorious battle perhaps, as he rose back up to his feet, undeterred.

Claudin rolled away from Mos, picking up his sword as he did, but before he could stand up and turn around, his face was met with the right fist of Lord Mos of house Harvicz. This was no punch. This was a smith shattering iron with his greathammer.

A single strike was enough to send Claudin back on his knees. The sound of snapping bone was so loud, that Lukis felt it as if they were his own.

The Lightenar Knight tried to cut upwards, towards the belly of Mos. But in his dazed state he was just a moment too slow. Mos grabbed the sword, one hand at the very end of the pommel, the other towards the middle of the blade. With a twisting motion he tore the blade out of Claudins hands.

Even Lukis knew the fight was over.

Mos raised the sword high over his head, gripping its blade and wielding it like a hammer.

“I yi-!“ barked Claudin, before his own swords pommel shattered his skull. He fell over backwards.

“I-i y-yie, yie-“ he stuttered, laying on the ground, his right arm wildly twitching and beating his chest. One of his eyes was beaten out of its socket and blood ran down his cheeks. He looked like a corpse on a beach, bloated and unrecognisable.

Mos brought the sword down again.

And again.

And again.

The warcry of the crowd reached its climax as Mos of house Harvicz raised the bloodied sword towards the sky, revealing deep gashes in his palms.

“Told ya.“ Said Elyssa, grinning widely.

“Haha, you win some, you lose some.“ Replied the Lakelord, handing over a handful of silverheads to the redhaired warrior princess.

Mos approached the other knight of Lightenar, with Harviczians all around him celebrating his victory with furious passion.

This was an exchange that Lukis did not want to miss. He left everyone behind; the lord Steward, Elyssa, the lakelord and even his own lordshield, as he snaked his way through the ever denser sea of people.

“I heard your weapons are sacred to you, little one.“ Said Mos to the Lightenar knight, whose tired eyes seemed to look right past the old bear.

“This man insulted me, my house, my brothers, my family. Ever since we met at high council.“ Mos continued, anger swelling in his voice.

“So I think it’s time for some compensation.“ He lightly lifted the sword.

The Lightenar knight did not respond.

“I’ll keep this one. You know, as payment for his misbehavior.“

The Knight lowered his head.

“Tell you what boy. I‘ll go back to Vid-Gavatr and you can come by and visit me. Ask nicely. Apologize on his behalf. And maybe I‘ll give you back the sword. How does that sound? Harvicz has a new heirloom brothers!“

Mos screamed the last part and was swarmed by excited onlookers and loyal footmen alike. Their cheers were deafening, making even as much as hearing ones own thoughts impossible..

As the crowd heaved Mos high above their heads, the Lightenar knight finally looked up and stared straight at Lord Mos.

It was too loud for Lukis to make out what exactly the Knight said, but Mos was close enough to understand him and all the joy, satisfaction and vanity disappeared from his face.

Lukis knew why. Under all the screaming, vulgar singing and leftover war cries - under all the chaos and commotion he could make out two words the Lightenar knight with a halberd said.

“Killed. Father.“

Oh no.