Prologue

  Third Era, 276, Meinsdein, Fourteenth of Third Sleipnir

  Safruuma Keep, Late Evening

  The orange flames from the braziers illuminated the halls. The evening was settling, the orange and violet light from the sunset slowly creeping away through the shutter slits in the walls. It and the brazier fires traded turns in shining light within the decorated keep, trophy heads holding vigil over the now-empty hall while furs and pelts were strewn across the floor. The smell inside was of burning wood and coal, a smoky flavor passing in one’s throat as they walked. The soft dual footfalls, loud against the silence, were the only current sign of life in the halls.

  Two guardsmen did their regular patrol of the corridors. Swords sheathed on their hips, their faces stoic and set. Muscle taut under gambesons and furs, ready for any possible intruder to be found. Their eyes moved from shadow to shadow, intently watching for any movement.

  A sound like a growl came from beside one of them. Virig twitched and his hand shot to his sword’s hilt before his eyes had even glanced at the perpetrator. Then he saw what, or rather, who, and his expression hardened into a mixture of resignation and annoyance.

  “You did that on purpose,” Virig said, flatness in his tone. He let his sword go, keeping it sheathed.

  Gleric grinned at his compatriot and allowed another slow yawn. “You need not be so tense, Virig. You are poised like an Irka will jump out and slaughter us.”

  Virig scoffed and turned toward a brazier that had begun to dim, its coals glowing a dying orange. “Well, when it is dead quiet after the High-Captain’s banquet, and all we’re told is to guard the keep, I will be on the edge of my blade, Gleric.” He reached into a pouch on his side, produced a handful of coal, and tossed it into the basin. The firelight continued to die anyway, letting out a pitiful crackle as it shifted. Virig held his hand over the brazier and splayed his fingers out.

  “Flammen Vast’ein Glosser.” The incantation slipped from his lips with ease as an azure light hovered under his hand. A moment later, the brazier was alight again with renewed vigor.

  “That just won’t do! You know this is a momentous occasion. The High-Captain is about to give birth!” Gleric didn’t shout, but his voice was boisterous and filled with excitement.

  “’Tis only momentous because this is an heir to the Safruum line. I will not allow the whimsy and joy of this to cloud my judgment when the safety of this place relies on us.” Virig turned away and patted his hands on his gambeson, the blackness of the coal coming off on the already blackened spots of his wardrobe. “Our duty is to keep the braziers lit, patrol the halls, and turn anyone away after dusk. You should do the same. You have nary a stain on you from your pouch.”

  “Yes, yes, o-mighty Virig,” Gleric said, placing a hand to his chest in mock reverence as they resumed their walk. “I shall light the flame in your heart for you, just as you ask, and perhaps you will stop staring at every shadow like it owes you coin.”

  Virig’s eyes flicked around into the shadows once again as they walked. “Keep your tongue from jinxing us.”

  Gleric opened his mouth to retort with more comedy, a smile on his face. The chance never came.

  A sudden thud echoed through the hall.

  Both men stopped in their tracks. The lollygagging died on the stone floor where they stood. Steel hissed from scabbards as they drew their swords, and the men planted their feet in preparation. The High-Captain would give birth any day, and the keep had been ordered to be watched. No disruptions, not by drunken servants, least of all intruders, not even the Gods, as welcome as they’d be.

  Light began to grow rapidly at the end of the hall. Torchlight, hurried and bright, erasing the shadows the closer it came. Not an intruder. A courier, perhaps. Maybe one of their fellow guardsmen.

  The firelight turned the corner, and the two let out a breath they had not realized they were holding.

  “Hersir Safruum,” Virig said, lowering his blade a fraction, “why the visit at so late an hour?”

  Stratum Safruum stopped in front of them, shoulders heaving beneath his fur cloak. His chainmail hauberk clinked slightly as it settled, and his torch illuminated his features. Sweat slicked his brow and his eyes were wide with panic, pupils blown. He looked as though he had been running, and for a while, had only remembered to stop when confronted with others.

  “H-hersir?” Gleric probed gently, his cheer evaporating quickly. He steadied his blade and swallowed. “D-do you bear some sort of news?”

  Stratum swallowed heavily, like a stone had sunk into his stomach. “T-the Tilaven,” he forced out. “They were intercepted. About a month ago. We only just got word from the courier.”

  Gleric paled at once. Virig followed soon after, only due to the attempt at a strong front. Which failed. The Tilaven were mages meant to preside over the High-Captain’s labor and to prevent mother and child from being taken by the Realm Curse. Intercepted meant absence. Virig was the first to compose himself, stepping forward and laying a steadying hand on Stratum’s shoulder.

  “Stratum, I…” the taller guard couldn’t find the words. The worst thing that could happen would now most assuredly take place. Their High-Captain would give birth and, in doing so, succumb to the Realm Curse. The Curse of Varathia.

  “But… without the Tilaven, the High-Captain will…” The words died on Gleric’s tongue, the sentence itself a hot coal being put out.

  “He knows what will happen, Gleric,” Virig snapped, turning his head enough to let the hardness come across. “Do not evoke the image in the man’s mind.” His gaze returned to Stratum. “Everyone knows what will happen. The only thing we can do is what we have been ordered to do. Guard this keep.”

  Gleric lowered his gaze, shame and fear flushing over his face. When he looked back up at his Hersir, his gaze was softer, gentler. “My apologies, Hersir. I did not mean to speak ill in such a dire time.”

  Stratum’s mouth felt like leather. He tried to smile, but it died before reaching his eyes. Hollow resignation lived there, where cheer and hope had only been hours before.

  “I understand, Gleric,” he said quietly. “I know what might happen to me, to my wife, and to my child.” He drew a shuddering breath, and exhaled as steadily as he could. “Virig is right. Keep watch. Spread the word to the rest of the guardsmen and women.” Stratum’s gaze flickered down the hall, toward the grand hall. He was seemingly staring through the walls and doors, into a certain room. “I will relay this news to the Jarl. He deserves to know.”

  Stratum made his way through a set of doors and into the main dining hall. Long tables stretched on either side of the room, with a large firepit parallel to them in the middle. Platters filled with the remnants of food and half-filled tankards littered the tabletops. Cattle bones sat picked clean on the stone boundary of the firepit, and iron spit-roast stands loomed above it, empty now but still accusatory in their shape. He looked over what had been a celebration of life and felt sickness in his stomach. His vision suddenly swam as the contents of his stomach began to reach his throat. Stratum stumbled toward a bucket at the foot of a table and retched.

  His wife. The High-Captain of the Safruuma Guard. Menícula. Pregnant with their child. Their only child. He remembered the first news, the first tell being her missed flower. The way he had smiled like a fool, trying to pretend he was calm. Then, one day, he felt the kick. The way his heart soared at the thought. The way his joy filled his lungs until it hurt. It was beautiful.

  He would be a father.

  And now, he might not be one. Or he might be a father without a wife, or have a child without a mother. Or not be there for his child and wife. Every scenario tore at him, ate away at his thoughts. It ripped into his heart like a blade of rot. The sheer horror of hearing the news from the courier, who looked as though he had barely made it out alive, filled him with a dread he thought he had grown accustomed to through his many battles. Now, however, he was fighting a battle with existence as he knew it, and there was no victory to be found.

  He heaved himself up, spat the remnants of his stomach into the bucket, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes fell upon a tankard partially filled with ale and, without thinking, he grabbed it. He took a harsh swig and slammed it down, the sound loud in the empty hall. Then he looked toward the large doors at the far end of the dining hall and set into motion again.

  The doors swung open with force, blasting outward until they hit the wall with a thundering crack. The impact shuddered through the hinges. The doors rebounded and swung back toward closed, not gently, but in a heavy arc that ended with a hard catch as they settled back into place. It startled another pair of Safruuma guards, a man and a woman, who both drew their swords on instinct.

  Stratum sighed, not aloud but deep in his chest. He didn’t want to relay the news again. There were only so many times a man could say those words before he broke. He raised his hand in a disarming manner without slowing his pace.

  “Klarek, Amra, my apologies for alarming you.”

  “What seems to be the matter, Hersir?” Amra, ever the worrier, asked.

  Klarek’s gaze met Stratum’s, and his eyes widened at seeing their Hersir in such a state of panic. Huh, Stratum thought, it must be visible on my face, then.

  He passed them without stopping. “Virig and Gleric will tell you. I must relay to the Jarl at once,” Stratum called back to them, his voice sharper than he intended, already fraying at the edges. He pushed through another set of doors to the living halls and did not wait for their response. His eyes quickly scanned the corridor, spotting yet another pair of guards posted at the Jarl’s quarters: Alastair and Colm.

  “Is the Jarl in? I have…” Again, his mouth dried like tanned hide. He swirled the word in his mouth as though it might cut him when it left his lips. “News. I have news.”

  The two looked at one another before Colm nodded. “Aye, he’s in. Him and the Frue are winding down from the banquet.”

  “Good,” Stratum said tersely as he pushed past them and into the Jarl’s room.

  The door opening was abrupt enough that, when he saw the Jarl and the Frue, they jumped slightly. The room was highly decorated. A fireplace was alive on the wall directly across from the door, the sconces around the room having been put out. Multiple fur rugs lined the stone floor and surrounded the large double bed on which they both sat. A trophy of a bear looked down from another wall, while a set of war axes hung ornamentally on the opposing wall. For a moment, Stratum wondered if he had interrupted an intimate moment, but he very quickly shook the thought from his head. Turning, he shut the door behind him and took a deep breath.

  He was going to tell a father he might lose his daughter.

  “Jarl Ysgrauf,” Stratum greeted as he turned, hopeful he was concealing his feelings well enough.

  “Stratum, my boy,” Ysgrauf Safruum chortled. Stratum still didn’t know how to feel about being called that after marrying Menícula, “you gave my wife and I quite the scare!” He gently rubbed his wife’s back in a reassuring way. Oh, how Stratum wished he could be next to his wife right now.

  “A courier arrived after the banquet at the gate, my Jarl,” Stratum said. “He brought with him news of the Tilaven.” Stratum swallowed hard, standing straighter and not meeting Ysgrauf’s gaze. He could feel it, though—that stare boring into his soul, “The Tilaven Mages en route to us were intercepted by the Dekest Pirates nary a month ago. They were, supposedly, forced to retreat to Tilavenal Keep.”

  The silence was suffocating. He felt as though he was drowning in that moment. Stratum tried to keep his gaze away from his wife’s father and mother, his Svinor and Svaena, but could not keep avoiding their eyes. He heard someone stand and slowly lifted his gaze. There, he met the gaze of the Jarl.

  The horror on his face was probably nothing compared to what Stratum felt inside, if Ysgrauf’s feelings were any similar to his. The way his face paled and his mouth gaped caused Stratum’s own gaze to become watery as the truth behind the situation fully hit the three of them. A low wail began in the room, and it was only a moment before Stratum realized it was the Frue, Grisalda Safruum. Her hands clasped her face roughly as her eyes widened, and her wail eventually rose into a shrill scream of despair and agony.

  Ysgrauf walked over to Stratum and grabbed both of his shoulders, staring down at the smaller Varathian. Stratum was small by normal standards, standing at approximately six stones in height, when the average was about seven. So, when Ysgrauf grabbed him, Stratum was summarily lifted off his feet. He bore into his Svinor’s gaze as he awaited the Jarl’s words.

  “B-but,” the grasping for hope began, trembling on the Jarl’s lips, “it takes four months to arrive here from Tilavenal Keep. A season by water and one third that by land.”

  “Aye,” Stratum choked out in confirmation. He knew the route well enough. “They were intercepted when they were about to make landfall. They had been followed through the last of fall before they lost sight of the pirates. What they believe happened is that the Dekest Pirates made landfall before them and lay in wait off the coast.”

  It was the best guess Stratum could provide, and it left the taste of rot in his mouth. He had proposed going out with a detail of troops to wait for the Tilaven Mages to make landfall and then escort them to Safruuma. However, Menícula had convinced him to stay. He could not say no. How could he? And now, this was his punishment for not being as careful as he normally was.

  Ysgrauf slowly put the shorter man down, though his hands didn’t leave Stratum’s shoulders. The two stewed in the sobbing and wailing of Grisalda, each shriek reverberating through them. The pain they all felt at what would happen during or after the birth was horrifying.

  The Realm Curse, the Curse of Varathia, asked a toll of those who bore children. It was said that love begot grief in Varathia’s life, and because of that, all births were fraught with risk. The child could die, or the mother, or the father. There was almost never a case where one did not greet death after a birth. That was where the Tilaven Mages mattered.

  The Tilaven Mages would commune with all the deities in the realm of Varathia, performing a ritual straes to prevent the curse from taking hold. They were essential for population growth and stable births and were typically brought in by the Holds to help their citizens deliver. But with them unable to arrive now, Menícula would give birth, and either she, Stratum, or their child would die.

  Stratum’s vision began to swim with tears, a breath catching in his throat. His body was vibrating; the shaking became more violent. Only, it was not him. He brought his hand up to his eyes and wiped them clear, only to see Ysgrauf staring down into the floor with clenched teeth. His hands, which were still holding onto Stratum, were harsh in their purchase and conduits for the shaking he endured. The raw anger, fear, and despair fed from one man to the other in this very moment. It felt as though one wrong move and either of them would break.

  Ysgrauf looked up from the ground and into Stratum’s eyes with a desperate, pleading look, “Statum,” he rasped, “w-what can we do? My daughter will die.”

  Stratum licked his lips and caught the taste of salty tears. Crying wasn’t something he’d done often, and even now it surprised him a bit.

  The Safruum family, the namesake of this city, had taken him into protection twenty winters ago. There was a rapid increase in the Irika-Luga goblin tribes raids along the Eastern edge of Iskalda hold. His hometown, Flaegen, became a victim of a large raid during this time. It was in the last fires of his home, he himself bloodied and slick with mud, that he was saved by an angel. She shined so beautifully that day, even through the fires. He could not even thank her, he only spoke Dvastein. He didn’t even speak common at that point. The first thing he learned was how to say her name and offer his gratitude.

  “Menícula. Thank you.”

  They had opened their arms to him, albeit reluctantly. He had not earned his flud‘oanor, the Varathian word for “blood-honor.” It took him two years, but he eventually did so. He was taught to read, to write, and to fight. He slaved his way through doubt and discrimination, both as a commoner and as a shorter Varathian, into the position of Hersir within the elite guard. It was only then when he proposed to Menícula. It had been eighteen years since then.

  Stratum shook his head and moved his blonde hair out from in front of his face, “I am unsure, Ysgrauf,” he took in a deep breath, then exhaled, “But I am certain of two things: The chance for death is between myself, Menícula, and our child. And second, the Tilaven Mages don’t just turn tail and run. I will hope that they appear.”

  “I envy your hope, my son,” Ysgrauf whispered gently, the sobbing from Grisalda had turned to softer whimpers, muffled by bedding. Ysgrauf turned towards his wife and his heart sank.

  His gaze never returned to Stratum, “Please, leave us. I must do my best to comfort both the Frue and I this night.”

  “Of course, my Jarl,” Stratum gave a slight downward tilt of his head, “I shall go and be with my wife now, if you will permit.”

  “Aye, I permit,” Ysgrauf acquiesced, walking slowly towards the bed. He stopped for a moment, barely glancing back at Stratum, “Thank you, my boy.”

  The Hersir nodded and turned on his heel, opening the dark wood door to the outer living halls once again. Shutting the door, he looked back at Alastair and Colm. He himself had calmed a fair bit more now, but the two guardsmen had heard everything. He could see the faint traces of tears on their face, even as they still held post.

  “Keep watch. Do not let anyone disrupt the Jarl and the Frue. They… need time.” Stratum ordered in a hollow tone. He chose not to look towards them too long, opting to look down the living hall towards the first door. The birthing room.

  “Yes, Hersir,” the two choked out in unison, the slight clinking of their swords and indicator of them fixing their posture.

  Stratum made his way down the hall; every step filled with weight. He felt as though he was walking through mud. This next part may very well break him. As he approached the door, he softened his step. As he reached out to the ornate handle depicting a Wyrmling, his mind raced. Memories of his wife filled him, thoughts of battles they fought and the history they shared. It hurt.

  He clenched his eyes hard to try and hide them away, but to no avail. They assaulted him relentlessly. His grip tightened on the door handle. He had not even opened the door yet, and he was already in shambles. How was he meant to face her like this? How would he deliver such devastating news? How would she take what he planned to do?

  “Stratum, my velainor, is that you?” His eyes shot open, glassy and unclear, as he heard her voice in his home tongue. It was never soft, not for lack of trying. She was strong, and it showed in every ounce of her being. With a deep breath, he opened the door with more care than when he carried his sister through the fires of Flaegen.

  “Yes, my velainor. It is I,” His brown eyes looked into hers from across the room, and he felt like crumbling right there. “You are beautiful this night.”

  Menícula’s platinum blonde hair was loose and splayed over the bed she lay, her azure eyes filled with love and adoration. She wasn’t in her usual attire. No chainmail hauberk, no leather bracers. Her azure eyes unobscured by a helmet, her torso only covered by a loose-fitting tunic. Her pale belly was swollen, and she rested a hand on it, smiling happily, unknowing of what awaited her in the coming days.

  Her gaze returned to his as he shakily walked forward into the room, shutting the door behind him with the same care that he opened it with. Her smile waned slightly, thoughts flashing across the blue pools into her soul. She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped and thought about what she was going to say.

  “My love, what ails you so?” She gently broached, with as much tenderness a warrior could muster. Stratum removed his gaze, staring into and through the furs and hides on the floor. He wouldn’t tell her what he was going to do, but he had to tell her the news.

  “The…” he paused, swallowing the stone that had found its way into his mouth, “the Tilaven Mages were intercepted on their way here, to Safruuma. I fear they may not make it.”

  Menícula sat up straighter but was countered by Stratum coming to her side and easing her back down. Any undue movement was not safe, and the stress he was going to burden her with was going to be more than he should have to, “Was it the Dekest Pirate group again?” She asked, her eyes hardening.

  Stratum let out a small smile and a chuckle, “Ever the warrior, Meny. Able to see the battlefield before it is shown to you,” he brushed her bangs from her face.

  “I have no need for your prancing around words, Stratum,” Menícula huffed, but still held hardness in her eyes, “how long are they delayed?”

  Stratum’s smile faltered, “That, I cannot say. The courier said they were forced back towards the ocean before making landfall, but I hope they somehow broke through.” He gently lay a hand on her belly, staring at the life hidden underneath.

  “Yes, even one of their order can perform the ritual. I know that,” she watched as Stratum held her belly before joining her hand on his, “but do we have any news that they made it through?”

  “No.”

  Silence permeated the air as Menícula rubbed Stratum’s hand absentmindedly as he retreated into the depth of his mind. He kept working through everything in his mind, and he only came to one solution every time. Oh, how it hurt him. What he would have to do to ensure his wife and child’s survival. Breaking from his thoughts, he was surprised to find Menícula staring at him already.

  “Do you know the history behind the curse, my love?” She asked, her eyes were unreadable to him. It was hard to tell what she was thinking at this moment only because his own thoughts and dreams were in shambles, like a destroyed home.

  Stratum nodded sagely, “Yes, love, I do.”

  “Sing me the legend again. I must prepare myself.” Stratum’s heart sank. He let out a shaky breath before he began.

  “Oh, Varathia,

  The Goddess of Stone.

  She loved so hard,

  She wanted her own.

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  Adventures she had,

  And battles she did.

  The old gods refused what they owed.

  They injured her deep,

  Strangled her womb.

  Killing not her,

  But her children, they doomed.

  On this realm’s new birth,

  The grief of her wound.

  Struck into the life of her wombs.

  Now in this realm we call home,

  Where we labor and strife.

  We must also not falter,

  When it comes to new life.

  As just with Varathia,

  The riches of birth,

  Are unknown to most,

  Due to Varathia’s curse.”

  His singing wasn’t the greatest, but Menícula had shown appreciation for it. During this song, he watched as she closed her eyes and tears welled across her lids. He gently brought an arm up to her face and wiped away her tears. She gently held his hand against her cheek and opened her eyes, meeting him with hardened knowing.

  “Stratum Borig Safruum. I have an inkling for what you plan to do. You know as well as I the cost of the curse, and should it be met before the child crowns, it will remove it,” the sternness of her voice was betrayed by the tremble it also held. Stratum felt his heart begin to shatter and his gut began to drop.

  Before she could continue, he spoke up, “My velainor, do not dare to speak of it. If I do nothing, sit and… and wait powerlessly, the odds only turn towards you and the child more and more. I cannot bear it.”

  “I know, husband,” Menícula choked out the words, “It is the worst that could happen. All I ask is that you stay with me. Please. Do not leave my side.” She begged, and that alone gave Stratum pause. She never begged. He once again looked deep into her clear blue eyes and saw. The absolute despair, the sadness that plagued her now like a sickness. The clear knowing of what he was thinking of doing.

  They both knew that, to subvert the curse, one had to die before the child crowned. The only one capable of fulfilling that was the father, to ensure safety for mother and child. And now, she was asking him not to do so. To risk her and their child for comfort.

  He could not say no to her. As much as it hurt him, he would be there, by her side, the entire time.

  The man chuckled with only a little mirth, “Eighteen years and I cannot say no to you. Even in such a crisis such as this.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

  “Come,” she mumbled, patting the bed next to her, “lay with me this night.”

  He could not, and would not, say no.

  Third Era, 276, Tarsdein, Seventeenth of Third Sleipnir

  The Birthing Room, Safruuma Keep, Late Morning

  Stratum felt as though he had just gained thought for the first time. A dream, he first thought, when he once again awoke next to his wife. The last three nights he had spent with his wife to ensure she was comfortable. The light shone in through the opened shutter as a Menícula’s housecarl, Ylva, came through the room. Stratum was not fully clothed, his hairy mound of a chest peeking from under the furs. But he did not care. Everyone had seen everyone in much less among that Safruum Guard, typically due to ale and mead stealing their common sense.

  He rubbed the tiredness from his eyes before turning towards his wife. As he took her in, his eyes slowly widened. A husband knows when his wife is in pain, especially when they have fought together for multiple years. So, when he saw the light beads of sweat on her brow and the sickening paleness of her complexion, he shot up from his side of the bed.

  “Ylva!” He shouted even though the housecarl was right there. The suddenness of it caused her to jump; she had just placed down fresh clothing for the two of them. “Ylva, it’s happening!”

  Ylva’s eyes widened to the size of platters before taking off into a run, tripping over the foot of a small table and rolling on the ground. She recovered at once and then tripped into the door. She flailed again as the door lurched open with a loud crack, and from her perch on the ground, she saw the bell that was placed just outside the birthing room.

  It rang with weight through the entire keep.

  Two weeks prior, Menícula had been moved to the birthing room, a special room dedicated to childbirth. It held all that was necessary for the Tilaven Mages – if they were there – to perform the ritual straes. It was also to be a dedicated room for mother and child to stay together during the important months after. Thus, Stratum jumped into action, pulling out the large wood basin from underneath the bed. It was already filled with water. He dragged it across the floor over a set of markings on the stone, ritual spiel-straesa. Grabbing a handful of thyme from the small table, and a few pieces of straw, he held them in his hand over the basin. He was missing something.

  He looked around and noticed the last thing, a string of teaweed, was on the ground. It must’ve been knocked off the table moments ago. He exhaled and grabbed it, tying it around the thyme and straw before dropping it in the basin. Kneeling, the man held his hand out splayed over the water as blue veins on his forearm, his sīgà, began to glow faintly.

  “Fla’gamein, en dross ivast unfrauen,” the ritual words fell from his tongue as the thyme and straw burst into blue flame in the water. Rapidly, the water began to steam, until the flame had died out and only ashes remained within the water. However, putting his hand in, he was satisfied.

  “Water! Ready!” He shouted towards the hall before standing and rushing towards Menícula. The time for bravery was over, as his wife’s face was contorted in pain. He brushed the hair out of her face, “Meny, look at me. The midwives will be here any moment, just hold on.”

  Menícula opened her eyes and tried to smile, “You know, everyone told me how painful it was. But I thought, “It can’t be as bad as being stabbed.” I see now I was wrong.”

  Before Stratum could make his own retort, three midwives burst through the door. He pulled away from his wife reluctantly and out of their way, accidentally bumping into one of them, before standing on the far wall. He looked at his wife as they crowded around her, pushing straw supports under her legs and wrapping her thighs in linens.

  Before he could do anything further, Gleric slammed into the door frame to the room and cracked it, dragging in breath rapidly as sweat poured down his face, “Hersir Safruum! The gate!”

  “What?!” Stratum snapped, his eyes not leaving his wife, “If it is not a raid, then I shan’t leave Menícula’s side!”

  It took a moment for Gleric to catch his breath as he swallowed air with gross fervor, “No! T-Tilaven! Tilaven Mage, at the eastern gate!”

  Stratum moved.

  He was out the door without a second thought, bursting with speed through the corridors and hallways of the keep. Each step was like thunder in the force it carried, and he pushed and vaulted and careened around and through those in his way. This was the stride he had been hoping for, that the Tilaven Mages had not simply turned back after being intercepted. Their job was too important to simply be abandoned after making more than half the journey. As he broke through the last of the doors, the thoughts came back to eat at him. He should have sent out a detail to intercept them on the road. He should have known better.

  “No,” he shut down those thoughts, “I had done all I had known I could do. There was no way of knowing for sure.”

  He pushed open the large, ornate doors that formed the barrier between Safruum Keep and City of Safruuma. They swung open with the sound of grinding wood on stone, but he did not care for the traditional way of opening them in this moment. Once open just enough, he twisted his body sideways and squeezed through the gap, now allowing the loss of the braziers and wood overhead in lieu of the sky’s presence.

  The sky above was dreary grey, covered with clouds and the ground covered with snow. Winters were harsh and cold here, and this one was as indifferent as the last with its inconvenience. His feet crunched hard with the snow as he passed short but long wood buildings, that and shingled roofs mixed in as far as you could see. It would take him, walking, about an hour to reach the eastern gate. It was a good thing he planned to make it there and back within that time.

  Turning a corner, he let out a loud growl at what he saw. On Tirsdein and Tarsdein, a market would take place within Safruuma, where traders from the other holds would come to trade their furs, foods, and trinkets. At this point in time, however, such a marvel of economy was unwelcome. The swaths of people before him were an obstacle, and he would move them to ensure his wife and child’s safety.

  The Hersir took a deep breath and bellowed, “Move!”

  Most of the crowd ignored him for a moment, but a few had their attention grabbed. They moved aside, making a small hole in the crowd. Others saw and caught on, doing the same. Stratum once again began a dead sprint through, ignoring the indignant squawks of protest or ire that were thrown his way.

  He kept going, dodging his way past carts and through people. A crow sounded above him, grabbing his attention. It was flying with him only a few feet above his head. Pressure built his skull as he shoved dark thoughts down into the pit they were crawling up from.

  Turning yet another corner, his eyes fell upon the eastern gate leading out of the city. Vigor and strength filled his every fiber, and he practically pounced toward it. He could begin to see the distant shapes of figures, guards from the colors he could see. But another color mixed in, one that did not belong with the standard red and gold colored tabards. Blue was the most visible. Tilaven Mages wore blue. He almost cheered in glee.

  Stratum eventually made it to the gate, trying to keep himself from heaving from how hard he had run. He couldn’t tell how long he had been gone but he knew it was getting too long. Looking up from the ground and at the towering mage in front of him, he spoke sternly and swiftly.

  “You. Me. Now.”

  The mage nodded, and Stratum twisted on his heels and sprung the opposite direction, back towards the keep. The hard footfalls of the sprinting mage behind him filled his chest with some relief, but even still something gnawed at him. The Hersir, in all his wisdom at Forty Summers, felt as though he had missed something. Something important.

  A murder of crows cawed from overhead.

  Stratum slammed through the doors to the dining hall. Unlike a few days prior, it was clean. No platters, no ale or mead in tankards. The spits over the firepit were empty, and the fire itself dead save for a few embers. Someone hadn’t come and reinvigorated it with an incantation, and he certainly wasn’t going to waste time doing so. He glanced behind him at the Tilaven Mage. He wore robes of a royal blue that stretched with each step, his hood down to show darker skin and not get in the way of his face. The white embroidery on the sleeves and hem distorted, and Stratum could just tell he was brimming with Eós. He focused forward though, ducking to the right towards the living hall.

  He opened the large doors and stepped through, and he exhaled. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. He looked to his left where the birthing room was and could still hear commotion. Good. Things hadn’t gone awry while he was away. The Hersir motioned the mage forward into step with him. The door was shut. He grabbed the handle and pushed it open.

  The Hersir was left at the door.

  Stratum stepped inside and froze.

  Within the room, on the bed, was Menícula. Her complexion was returning to its natural color, and her legs were no longer being propped up by straw bundles or wrapped in linen. He could see his wife’s hair was a mess, sweat causing it to stick to her forehead. She was magnificent. White and golden mottled light wrapped around her as her attention was drawn to the swaddle in her arms. It must have been quite the thing to make the Great Menícula look unguarded.

  Something was in her arms.

  Something.

  Stratum looked to the floor, along the edges of the bedframe. Under the bed in the birthing room, there was a ritual straes that had been compiled by the Court Mage – whom he noticed was present in the room now. Its primary purpose was to heal, and heal well, those who had to undergo the stress of childbirth. Why did they activate it? It was only meant to help heal the tearing. Yes, it’d not take long to gather the right catalysts for the ritual again, but every moment mattered here. They shouldn’t need to actualize the ritual straes until…

  Until…

  He looked up once again towards his wife, his beautiful wife. She glowed. She glowed so brightly. Menícula looked up from her arms at Stratum. His wife’s azure eyes met him with hardened might as she frowned and spoke.

  “Virig, Alastair, stop him.”

  Stratum was tackled to the ground and pushed onto his back and had his arms wrenched to his sides. He struggled against them both, clenching his teeth as he felt his hunting knife wrenched away from his grip. When had he unsheathed it? He didn’t remember taking it out. That was when he noticed the small amount of pain near his throat.

  “Hersir, please calm down! Do not end yourself here, we beg of you!” Alastair grunted out as he struggled to keep Stratum down.

  Stratum’s eyes bolted left and right, looking for an escape. Escape? Why? He kept looking. What was he trying to do? He felt the taste of iron in his mouth. He caught a look at the mage he brought with him from the front gate. Why wasn’t he setting up the ritual? Everything he needed was in this very room. Did Stratum forget something?

  It was only when, instead of beginning the process of the birthing ritual, the mage fell to his knees that Stratum let out a howl of despair.

  He had been too late.

  He looked towards his wife once more, his vision rapidly swimming, and saw her smile a sad, but loving, smile. She moved her arms and rearranged her grip, paying careful attention to the item in her arms. Then, she lifted what had had her enraptured earlier into his view, and he felt the world steal the air from his lungs.

  In her hands, was a small thing. It was pale, and still had some blood on it, but the pale hair was unmistakable. He watched the child – his child – squirm in the swaddle wrap as Menícula held them in his view. It took all his strength to hold still as the small cries from them filled his ears like warm water. Stratum stared, glassy eyed, as his wife lowered the child back into her arms and close to her chest. The slight cries were eventually silenced, and he looked around the room while he was still restrained on the floor.

  The father looked at his wife again, and she met his gaze. Sadness and love both swirled within her azure pools as she hiccuped, “You promised you’d stay.”

  He then saw the Jarl and the Frue, both not meeting his gaze but the saddening despair clear in their posture. He looked at Virig and Alastair atop him, their faces scrunched in a mixture of sadness and shock. Stratum then looked towards the Mage, the one he had been resting his hope on this whole time. He bore into him with his eyes, searching for anything. Any sort of hope.

  The brown eyes of the Mage briefly met his before moving down in shame, “I’m…sorry.”

  The mage then sucked in a deep breath, standing from his place on the floor. He bravely looked around the room before speaking, “The curse is retained. By the babes third dawn, either it, mother, or father, will die.”

  Stratum’s sobs filled the keep.

  Third Era, 276, Shlendein, Twentieth of Third Sleipnir

  Safruuma Keep Courtyard, Early Afternoon

  It was snowing today. The end of the last month of winter was upon all Safruuma, of Iskalda Hold. And it was colder than any other day that had come before it. The third dawn had passed, and at that first light, the cost was paid.

  Stratum ignored the snow. He stood in front of a burning pyre along with the rest of the Safruum Guard, in all his glories. Trophies from past battles he wore and if he couldn’t wear them, they sat at his feet facing the pyre. Skulls, skins, scalps, and weapons pillaged from past conflicts. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and in his arms, he held a babe wrapped in three layers of dark furs. It squirmed slightly. He looked down. Blue eyes briefly looked into his before shutting again. The father exhaled, and looked back at the flames. Within, the faint outline of a body encased in charred hide could be seen, though it was slowly crumbling. The smell of burning flesh hit his nose, a smell he had endured many times before, but this time it made it want to burn with it.

  He stared on, ignoring the others that stood behind and beside him as Ysgrauf walked in front of him. The man looked tired, as much as himself honestly. The Jarl didn’t wear a crown so much as it was a headdress of trophies, helmets from other conflicts and fingers and toes. It was grotesque and awe inspiring, the amount of combat Ysgrauf had seen.

  The two met eyes, and both hardened. Ysgrauf nodded to Stratum, before sweeping his gaze across the men and women in front of him and taking in a deep breath.

  “As is proper on today, a day of loss, the Passing Rites shall be given! In honor of new fallen, in that we ask those who fell before her, whether in the fires of battle or in the comfort of illness, welcome her into their arms in the High Realm!” Ysgrauf’s voice cracked as tears threatened him, “May she find warmth in halls unsullied by conflict, and comfort in her ability to watch over us now!”

  The Jarl brought his gaze down to Stratum, sadness and something else in his eyes, “Hesir, you may now begin the Varathian Passing Rite. As her second, her husband, and father to her only daughter, I give you that honor.”

  Stratum clenched his jaw and nodded, quickly wiping his eyes of tears. He stared into the burning funeral pyre, where his dear Menícula now rest. He swallowed hard and deep.

  “O’light, o’fire pure! We bring to you a warrior, a wife, and a mother, who hast been laid bare in all that she is! She, who fought valiantly and fiercely,” an image of her in battle with him, side by side, flashed through his mind, “Both within and without our borders, is one we deem fit to bless your halls! She has brought great victories,” he remembered when they discovered her pregnant, “endured great losses,” Menícula’s form, usually much bigger than his own, small as she curled into him within their combat encampment, the loss of her youngest brother only fully settling once away from all others on the battlefield, “and strived to live her best! We do ask of you, those warriors above us here and now, to accept her into your arms, and let her watch over us! No greater comfort,” Stratum choked out the word, holding back the sob that threatened to spew forth, “could be afforded to us,” that was a lie, they could bring her back to him, “We thank you for your victories, and may we forever consider hers to be a part of them!”

  Stratum finished by stepping forward and pulling the knife from its hilt on his belt. Ensuring his daughter was secure in the crook of his left arm, he took the knife and slid it over his left palm. Blood swelled at once, and he quickly clenched his hand three times, spreading it across his palm evenly. Then, swapping the child to his right arm after sheathing his small blade, he put his hand over the burning pyre.

  “Fla’mengen, Ibrash, Zenílen,” The words spoken, he watched as blue light appeared in the palm of his left hand. The blood began to flake off and fall into the fire, and the flames darkened ever slightly into a more crimson hue. Red motes began to drift up and around the pyre as Stratum backed away from it, and the next person walked up. They repeated what he did. And so did the next. And the next. He watched as over one hundred men and women repeated the ritual straes. It felt like years were going by all at once.

  Once the final person had done the ritual, the funeral pyre turned into a deep, crimson color. It was the end of the Passing Rite, as marked by Ysgrauf walking up once again.

  “It is done. May Menícula Varesha Safruum look down upon us from the High Realm, and may she be proud of the men and women she made part of her life.” Ysgrauf choked out, ending the rite. When he did so, everyone began to break rank and return to their homes to grieve silently.

  Stratum just looked down at his daughter, brushing some snow off the top of her head. At the touch, she opened her eyes once again. Those blue eyes were so clear, so bright. Though, at this moment, they seemed to be giving a slight air of annoyance. Stratum smiled slightly as his daughter once again closed her eyes.

  “My azure eyed child, you will be safe with me.” The father spoke at her, knowing she didn’t, but hoping she understood what he said. Nothing would happen to her, not if he could help it.

  He stalled for a moment. Safe. That’s what he was feeling, holding his daughter near the fires of his wife made him feel strangely safe. He looked between Menícula and his little girl a few times, the sound of footfalls behind him still rustling.

  “I’m sorry, my child,” he whispered into her ears before raising his head and gulping breath, “Safruuma! Grīgo’rén!”

  The Varathian word meaning ‘stay’ caused all those within earshot to pause and look towards Stratum, Ysgrauf included. Some showed slight ire, but all listened as the husband of their beloved High-Captain, and their own Hesir, spoke with a confidence they hadn’t heard in days.

  “It is within this day of loss that we have reason to celebrate! For with the High-Captain’s passing, we have another rite to bear!” Stratum raised his daughter, swaddle and all, up high above his head, “In witness to those in the High Realm, I name this babe now on her third day, as is customary to do so after one falls to the Curse of Varathia!”

  Everyone around looked at each other with wide eyes as they remembered, that while their beloved warrior queen had passed, that the new life she brought into the world still deserved celebrating. Smiles slowly began to come across faces, some more reserved than others. Ysgrauf’s own face only slightly changed.

  “I name this child, my daughter, in honor of the loving wife I knew, and the loving mother she will never know,” Stratum couldn’t see straight, the wetness in his eyes blocking his vision. Voice cracking, he continued, “I name her Vyra Menícula Safruum! Daughter of Menícula Varesha Safruum, and myself, Stratum Borig Safruum! Granddaughter to Ysgrauf Helvig Safruum and Grisalda Ngrod Safruum! New babe within the realm!”

  There was an amicable silence after Stratum announced his daughter’s name, but it was short lived. Lively clapping from a single pair of hands cracked across the courtyard. Gazes fell on the Gleric, before strained chuckles broke out from others. He was standing at the edge, clapping far too intensely and nodding vigorously. Virig was stood beside him and shaking his head, but the awkward smile present on his face betrayed his true thoughts.

  The clapping evolved further as more joined in with uncertainty. one began cheering, two more hugging, and eventually laughter began filling the courtyard. Ysgrauf shook his head solemnly, hiding his tears of pride in his daughter’s troops, and began to walk back into the keep. Stratum looked back towards the burning crimson pyre and caught a glimpse of a figure floating above it. He looked up and gasped with wide eyes.

  There, floated Menícula, in an ethereal majesty she seemingly owned. She looked down on Stratum, a wide, sad smile on her face. Stratum’s own mouth was agape as he quickly glanced around to see if anyone else saw this, only to return his eyes back to his now departed wife to drink in her face one last time. He stood there, staring at her. She stared back, smiling all the while.

  And then, he smiled.

  Third Era, 276, Wederfraut, Twenty-fourth of Third Helvítis

  Carriage Between Ivanafeld and Eiden’Rith, Northward of Safruuma, Midnight

  The only thing Stratum could see ahead of him was the stone and dirt pathing, the outline of trees in the moonlight, and the light of the torch he held. The flame bobbed and dipped along with him, as the two horses tacked to the front averted obstacles and moved with practiced ease along the road. Stratum pulled his cloak loose slightly and looked underneath, checking the small body of his daughter, before pulling it tight again. Vyra was asleep and would not be waking until he moved outside of the ritual spells range – which was good. She needed the rest until they reached Eiden’Rith, which they would stay for a few days, then head on to the next town.

  Leaning to the right, he looked behind him. Two faint torch lights were in the distance and growing closer. Stratum couldn’t tell who they were. If it were Virig and Gleric, then he’d be able to relax. Anyone else from the Safruum Guard, and Stratum would only be given two choices: surrender or fight. And as much as he was fleeing, he would rather not harm any of his bond brothers or sisters.

  Since Menícula’s death six months ago, the political landscape in Safruuma changed viciously. Ysgrauf and Grisalda had called their other sons and daughters from the Iskalda-Yvakia frontline, and they had come at once. With the rest of their children, Menícula’s two brothers and three sisters, they grieved. No one had seen hide nor hair of them for a month before they showed themselves again. When Ysgrauf called Stratum to him, the man was different. He looked on his Ad’svinor, his son-in-law, with pity and disgust now. Something had been said during grieving, a notion shared perhaps. Or had the grief simply seeded itself so deep that some outlook changed? Stratum did not know.

  He put up with a new wave of discriminatory glances and sharp remarks, not from just Ysgrauf, but the rest of the Safruum family. It had been no secret to him that Menícula’s siblings did not hold him in the highest regard, but for them to turn Ysgrauf? Grisalda still treated him with respect and compassion, but even when it came to her husband, she simply wouldn’t meet Stratum’s gaze.

  Stratum’s relationship with the Safruums eventually began to fall through completely when they tried to use and take the one thing they should not have: his child. It was already hard enough that he couldn’t stay with Vyra every moment, what with the

  The torch lights in the distance were larger now, and the faint sound of hooves against stone rumbled closer. Stratum looked back, then looked forward, and then at his torch, “Sigor-en.”

  The flames immediately died at the incantation, smoke puffing for the briefest moment. He grabbed the reins and applied pressure to the right and shifted his weight with the carriage as it moved off the road. Once he felt he was hidden enough in the tree line, he stopped the carriage and dismounted. Feeling his way through the darkness, he leant against an Erd Tree and peaked around it until he spotted the two torches. They were closer now, and he could make out three horses. Stratum squinted in the darkness. Were those two people atop a single horse, between the other two with torches.

  He closed his eyes and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he held before stepping out from behind the tree. Slowly walking towards the road and into a ray of moonlight, he brought his hands around his mouth.

  “Virig! Gleric! Here!” He shouted, hoping they would see him. The torches twitched before the horses came to a walking pace, then a full stop. Their riders, Virig and Gleric now clearly seen in their torches light, walked up to Stratum.

  “Thank Varathia, Hersir! We thought it’d be yet another month of a season to catch up to you!” Virig said, happiness present in his tired voice.

  Stratum chuckled hollowly. A month ago, Ysgrauf had tried to take Vyra from him, deeming him unresponsible as a father, and stripped him of his title of Hersir. No doubt the snake, Gronith Safruum, Menícula’s older brother, had whispered poisoned words into his svinor’s ear to make the Jarl come to such a decision. The action of stripping him of his title alone was enough to cause a ruckus in the court, as a handful of the warrior houses disagreed with the action. The Frue even disagreed, sparking a more personal argument to happen later. Ultimately, Stratum concluded that his life in the Safruum house was ending, and if he could not guarantee the safety of himself, then he could not guarantee it for his daughter.

  And so, with Vyra on his back, he fled.

  The man brought a finger to his lips and shushed Virig. He gestured to his fur cloak and the soldier clammed up, “D-does she still sleep?”

  “Yes, she does,” Stratum affirmed, “And she shall until we make to Eiden-Rith. Tell me; who do you bring?”

  Virig turned and waved a hand at Gleric and the other two persons who hadn’t dismounted their horse. They walked over, and with the light of the torch illuminating their faces, he beamed.

  “Ylva, Sigurn, it is good to see you again,” Stratum nodded at the two of them. Ylva only nodded in return, a firm frown on her lips as she did so. The other, Sigurn, smiled gracefully at him.

  “Good to see you Stratum, how is the child? Does she need milk?” Sigurn’s velvet soft voice asked. He shook his head, “No, she should be all right until we arrive. The straes has and will continue to prevent hunger until that point.”

  Sigrun sighed, “That is good to hear. I assume young Vyra will be famished when she wakes though, so we best make our leave.”

  Stratum nodded. Sigrun was a Milk Maiden. She gave birth to a child, yet that child was the cost of the Curse of Varathia. And so, a mother without a child, with enough milk to give, she was given the job of feeding newborns until she could no longer. Stratum had picked her out specifically from the others, and it was a relief that she agreed to accompany him on his mission out of Safruum.

  “Hersir, we should make haste at once,” Ylva stated harshly. Stratum gave her a questioning gaze, and she sighed, “Lady Menícula made me swear on my name that I was to give my life in service to you should she pass from the curse. I am here to accompany you, sire.”

  Stratum smiled a sad smile before nodding sagely. His dear wife, so smart, being able to see the battlefield without seeing it. How lucky he was.

  Shaking himself gently, he walked back towards his carriage, “Virig, Gleric, head back to Safruuma. As much as I wish it, too many of us will look like a scouting party, and we are coming closer to the Iskalda-Yvakia battlefields.”

  “But Hersir! We wish to aid you as well!” Gleric contested gently. Stratum shook his head.

  “While your aid is appreciated, I do not wish for it. You both have lives back in Safruuma and I will not have you abandon them. Go, tell them you lost us at the border. That will send them off our trail.” Stratum heaved himself into the carriage, grabbing the reins before looking at them both. The two men looked down in sorrow, unable to fully counter what their Hersir said. Stratum could feel the grief cloud them, and it began to worm its way into himself. He closed his eyes and breathed. In and out.

  “I am sorry, my friends. This is the last time we shall see one another.” Reins cracked and horses knickered as Stratum set off. Stratum looked behind him one last time as he saw Ylva and Sigurnn catch up to him, and Virig and Gleric stand in the road with lit torches. His heart ached at the actions he had committed over the last month, and the abandoning of his bond brothers and sisters. But it was no longer just his life anymore. He had a daughter he needed to be safe, the last piece of his wife that was left for him.

  And he would do so by any means necessary.