Legacy's Edge

Alaric pulled Fire to a halt, pausing on the crest of a small, sloping hill. He was less than a half-mile from the town. His heart began beating faster at what lay before him. It had been more than ten years since he’d set eyes upon Dark Forge, and Alaric felt strangely moved. He had not expected this feeling… the emotion of the moment.

The late fall air was crisp, biting at his cheeks with an invisible cold. As the day had progressed, it grew colder, almost frigid. The sun hung low in the sky, preparing to set, offering light but little warmth. The wind, playful yet chilling, ruffled his hair and danced around him, carrying with it the faint scents of woodsmoke, the sour stench of civilization, and the smell of harvested fields alongside the decaying vegetation left behind.

Below him, encircled by sturdy stone walls, lay the town. Its layout was familiar to him, but as a boy, had always held a hint of mystery in the shadows of the narrow streets. He’d once loved exploring Dark Forge. That seemed like another lifetime.

The town walls, aged and weathered, bore the marks of time and the scars of past conflicts, standing as guardians over the inhabitants sheltering within. The only break in this formidable barrier was the town gate, which appeared welcoming, for it was open and not barred. Alaric thought that a very good sign.

On the far side of the town was the keep, his home. Its silhouette, marked by towers and battlements, cut a stark figure against the softening sky in the distance. A moat, its waters dark and still, encircled the fortress, the parts he could see reflecting the last rays of the sun like a mirror to the heavens. This castle watched over the town with an air of silent authority, a symbol of power and protection perched upon its own hill.

Surrounding the town and stretching into the wide lands were farm and pasture fields. They sprawled like a patchwork quilt laid upon the ground, some sections with the remnants of autumn’s harvest, others bare and exposed, revealing the dark, fertile soil beneath. Alaric’s gaze traveled from the fields to the town and then back to the castle.

“That is no keep,” Ezran said plainly.

Alaric glanced over at the former ash man, who was staring outward, beyond the town.

“That is a full castle, a fortress that would make those we knew in the holy land blush in embarrassment,” Ezran continued.

“It is my family home.” Alaric’s voice held a quiet reverence as he spoke of the towering structure, the fortress he had inherited, that had been his father’s and grandfather’s before him. His ancestors had called it their home for centuries.

Though it was a distance away, the castle loomed before them, its age evident in the weathered stones that had witnessed generations come and go. Its grandeur spoke of a time long past, when craftsmanship was revered. For a moment, he could see it through Ezran’s eyes, someone who had never laid eyes upon Dragon Bone’s Rest. In that instant, Alaric couldn’t help but marvel at its size, a sudden connection to the legacy his ancestors had left behind washing over him.

Memories stirred as he recalled tales of the castle’s construction, passed down through the generations like cherished heirlooms. Dragon Bone’s Rest had been built during the last days of the Ordinate, a stronghold meant to secure the empire’s northern frontier from the barbarians. At the end, it had been one of the last holdouts of the empire.

Built upon a slight rise in the landscape, the castle commanded views in all directions, ensuring that any approach could be seen well in advance. Its walls, constructed from massive blocks of granite, were thick and high, designed to repel sieges and resist the ambitions of would-be invaders. It had never been conquered and had withstood all tests when enemies marched against it.

The stones, darkened by time and the elements, bore the weight of history, their surfaces occasionally broken by arrow slits through which defenders could observe and attack without exposing themselves. At strategic points along the walls, sturdy towers rose, their tops crenellated for protection of archers and guardsmen. These towers served not only as lookout points, but also as symbols of strength, their presence a reminder of the lord’s power over the surrounding lands or, at the moment, the lack of it.

The largest of these towers, the keep, what he actually called his home, stood at the heart of the castle, its walls even thicker and its defenses more elaborate. Within the keep were the lord’s quarters, along with rooms for his family, guests, and the administrative heart of the domain. The keep was the last line of defense in Dragon Bone’s Rest, a place of refuge should the outer walls be breached.

Encircling the castle was the moat. The moat served as both a physical barrier to attackers and a psychological one, its presence making the castle seem even more unassailable. A drawbridge, heavy and reinforced, spanned the moat, capable of being raised to cut off access and turn the castle into an island unto itself.

The castle grounds included a courtyard, where daily activities took place, from training exercises for soldiers to gatherings for the castle’s inhabitants. From his current vantage point, Alaric could not see the courtyard, but he had spent countless hours there working the sword and shield under the direct oversight of his arms master and his tutors. Within these walls, too, were the essential services that sustained castle life: blacksmiths, stables, kitchens, and storerooms, each playing its role to keep things functioning.

Though worn by years of weathering, detail was evident in the aesthetic touches of the castle’s construction as well—the intricate stonework around windows and battlements and the occasional stained-glass window that told an ancient and mostly forgotten story or heralded an alliance of some sort that was lost to the mists of time.

Alaric felt himself scowl. There were normally banners and flags that flew from the battlements and the top of the keep, each bearing the colors and crest of the lord’s family, his family. There were none in view. That was clear confirmation something wasn’t quite right.

Yet, for all its strength and majesty, the castle was not just a military fortress. It was a home, a place of courtly life where feasts were held, where troubadours sang, and where the court engaged in the intricate dance of politics and diplomacy, not to mention family life. It stood as a center of power, a protector of the realm, and a symbol of the lord’s authority and responsibility to his people.

And Alaric meant to get it all back.

Lifting himself slightly in the stirrups, he cast a glance over his shoulder. The column behind him was a formidable sight, a procession of armored figures. They climbed the hill with purpose. The rhythmic crunch and thud of boots and the creak of leather filled the air as they steadily advanced toward the crest. At the forefront rode Grayson beside the standard-bearer, his presence commanding respect as the column stretched back along the road to the forest’s edge, where the civilians were just beginning to emerge.

“Your family home is quite impressive.” Ezran’s voice broke through Alaric’s thoughts, drawing his attention back to the castle.

Alaric nodded, a wistful smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Honestly, I had forgotten how large Dragon Bone’s Rest was.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be that when you return to your childhood home you are surprised by how small it is, yes? This makes Hawkani’s keep seem tiny.”

Alaric gave an amused grunt. “I believe you are correct.”

Movement on the town’s wall caught his attention. Squinting against the fading light, he strained to make out the figures gathered there. His heart quickened with excitement as he realized the significance of what he saw. Hundreds of civilians were lining the battlements, their presence signaling the success of Krebbs and Jasper’s mission. They had come to watch their lord return.

His gaze was drawn as a pennant was raised and hoisted over the town’s gate. It was a striking display of artistry and history, over-large and unfurling gracefully. Alaric knew it only too well. The pennant’s field, a rich tapestry of blue and gold, was split vertically, symbolizing the union of two powerful ancient lineages that had centuries ago forged an unbreakable and powerful alliance through marriage and shared conquests that had lasted centuries.

On the blue side, a majestic golden lion signified courage, strength, and the noble spirit of the family’s warrior ancestors. The lion’s mane was detailed with such intricacy that even from afar, Alaric could almost sense its wild majesty and untamed fury.

On the golden half, a castle was embossed in sable. The castle was not that of Dragon Bone’s Rest but signified the unbreaking spirit of the alliance that had been forged, the walls upon which all struggles and conflicts would crash and be turned away.

Bordering the pennant was a delicate trim of silver, reflecting the light of the sun with a brilliance that seemed almost magical. Alaric’s heart began beating faster. This was his family’s pennant, their crest. The shimmering boundary symbolized a commitment to purity, honor, and the pursuit of enlightenment, to God—ideals that they had upheld for generations.

At the very top of the pennant, a crown rested, not just as an ornament, but as a declaration of the family’s regal status and their divine right to govern. It was a right they traced all the way back to the Ordinate. As the overly large pennant danced in the wind, it seemed to Alaric not just a piece of fabric, but a living chronicle of history, each thread woven with the stories of those who had come before him, those who had blazed the path Alaric now rode.

“It seems they are welcoming you home,” Ezran remarked with a side glance.

“That it does.” Alaric’s gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression solemn yet resolute. “That it most certainly does…”

Ezran’s gaze shifted back to the pennant fluttering over the town’s gate. He gestured at it. “Not many know the history of that banner.”

“No, they don’t,” Alaric admitted quietly, his thoughts drifting to the countless souls who had rallied to its call, their stories now lost to the annals of time and history. “I think that a good thing…”

Ezran’s gaze met Alaric’s, an understanding passing between them. “Your people don’t know either, and that includes Grayson.”

A somber silence settled over them before Alaric spoke again, his voice firm with conviction. “It means something to me.”

Ezran’s expression softened, a flicker of solidarity in his eyes. “As it does to me.”

“I’ve told you—I am not the one mentioned in prophecy,” Alaric said, feeling a stab of unhappiness.

“That is to be seen.”

Alaric scowled again. The rhythmic sound of boots and the steady clop of hooves pulled their attention away from the town as Grayson, accompanied by Thorne marching just behind the captain, arrived at the head of the column. The company’s standard waved proudly in the cold breeze.

“Column, halt!” Grayson’s command echoed across the hill as he and the head of the column reached the crest, the words carrying the weight of authority. Behind him, the column came to a grinding halt.

Drawing alongside Alaric, Grayson brought his horse to a stop, his expression one of solemn respect. “My lord. At long last, we have arrived home.”

Alaric acknowledged Grayson with a simple nod, his gaze still fixed upon the town below and his thoughts on the conversation with Ezran. Through the open gate, a procession of men emerged, their purposeful strides halting just before the threshold as they turned their attention toward the hill where Alaric sat astride his horse.

“A welcoming committee,” Grayson remarked, tone laced with cautious optimism.

“Yes, it is,” Alaric affirmed. He turned his attention back to the column, gaze sweeping over his soldiers as he thought ahead to their pending arrival. “Many of the men will have family within the town.”

“Undoubtedly, my lord,” Grayson concurred, his own gaze following Alaric’s. “Is that a problem?”

“It might be,” Alaric said. “We will not dismiss them when we arrive before the town. We may need them when it comes to the castle.”

“I understand, my lord,” Grayson said. “Once you have concluded matters with the mayor and town officials, I will form the company up and explain why they won’t be released. They won’t like it, though.”

“I know. But that can’t be helped. We will make camp outside the town tonight. The men’s families can come to them. Once the castle is secured, we will consider releasing them on a limited-pass basis.”

“Very good, my lord. That will make things much easier.” The captain paused. “There are undoubtedly relatives in town who will be looking for their own amongst our ranks. They will not know their loved ones have fallen in battle.”

Alaric gave a nod, his thoughts already turning to the challenges that awaited them within the walls of the castle. What was he dealing with here?

A sudden eruption of cheers from the town walls cut through the crisp afternoon air, their hearty resonance carrying even across the distance to Alaric and his companions. The sound echoed once more, a chorus of joyous celebration that reverberated through the surrounding landscape.

“Shall we go, my lord?” Grayson’s voice broke through the jubilant din, his tone expectant as he awaited Alaric’s command. “It seems a shame to keep them waiting.”

Alaric nodded, his steely resolve undeterred by the cacophony of cheers. There were serious matters that needed attending, and he was now wasting time. With a gentle nudge of his heels, he urged his horse into a slow, deliberate walk, Ezran matching his pace at his side.

“Column!” Grayson’s voice rang out, commanding attention as he raised his hand high into the air, a signal to the men behind him. For a moment, he held the gesture before pointing forward toward the town. “March!”

With that directive, the column began moving once more, the rhythmic cadence of their footsteps echoing the steady beat of Alaric’s heart. Each heavy clop of his horse brought them closer to their destination, the town looming larger with every passing moment.

Alaric stole a glance over his shoulder, taking in the sight of the company marching behind him down the hill and road, moving steadily toward the town. Grayson had tightened the march up, ensuring that every man moved as one, their feet in step. They were not just soldiers; they were a symbol of strength and solidarity, a power that his enemies would have to reckon with.

Under the golden hues of the late afternoon sunlight, the gleaming armor of the men caught the light, casting dazzling reflections that danced across the landscape. It was a sight to behold. He felt a surge of pride in them, for they were his men, and he was their lord, their ultimate leader.

As they advanced down the road, flanked by farm fields and pastureland, Alaric’s gaze remained fixed ahead, anticipation coiling in his chest as they neared the main gate and the waiting reception committee. The figures came into clearer view as they drew closer, each one bearing the weight of their respective roles in the town’s hierarchy.

At the forefront clearly stood the mayor, his distinguished presence marked by the regal robes of his office and the wisdom etched into the lines of his aged face. Beside him stood the solemn figure of a priest, clad in pristine white robes that spoke of his sacred calling as the spiritual leader of the community. The priest’s hands were clasped before his chest and a golden compass hung from his rope belt. Alaric’s eyes shifted to the man in light armor who stood with them, recognizing him as the likely commander of the local militia, those who were guarding the town.

Behind these key figures stood a group of men adorned in civilian attire, their expressions displaying both curiosity and anticipation. Among them, Alaric supposed, was the bailiff, responsible for administrative matters within the town, and the reeve, tasked with overseeing and catering to the needs of the local peasantry. The remaining individuals were likely prominent members of the community—business owners, leaders of influential guilds, and esteemed and wealthy citizens whose voices carried weight in matters of governance and commerce.

Alaric reined in Fire a dozen yards before the assembled group, both scrutiny and respect in his sweeping gaze. To rule, he would need these people. If they worked against him, it would complicate the job that needed doing. He then acknowledged the onlookers lining the battlements above. There were hundreds, perhaps even thousands—the populace of the town mixed in with the militia. All stared downward. A heavy silence hung on the air, thick with anticipation and expectation, as Alaric assessed the gathering before him.

“Column, halt!” Grayson’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a clarion call.

Alaric’s gaze lingered on the assemblage, noting the undercurrent of nervous tension. Unease was etched into the lines of their faces, their postures betraying the weight of responsibility they bore and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

With a fluid motion, Alaric swung his leg over the back of his horse, dismounting with a sense of purpose that seemed to infuse the air around him. Ezran mirrored his actions, dropping to the ground. At Grayson’s direction, a man from the ranks dashed forward and took the reins of both of their horses.

Alaric approached the man he presumed to be the mayor, his gaze meeting the older man’s with curiosity and respect. The mayor’s appearance spoke volumes, his weary countenance bearing the unmistakable marks of adversity. It was clear that he carried the burdens of leadership with a heavy heart, a weight that Alaric could empathize with all too well.

“Earl Alaric, I presume,” the man spoke, his voice raspy with age and laden with deference and apprehension.

“You presume correct, Nightwell,” Grayson confirmed, joining Alaric and stopping at his side with a steady presence that lent reassurance to the tense atmosphere. Grayson offered a nod to the mayor, which was returned before Nightwell shifted his gaze back upon Alaric.

“It is my pleasure to welcome you home, Lord Earl.” With visible effort, and shaking slightly, Nightwell lowered himself to a knee before Alaric. The gesture of respect was tinged with the weariness of someone who had borne the weight of their duties for far too long. Beside him, the others followed suit, their actions an acknowledgment of Alaric’s authority and the gravity of the moment.

Alaric regarded them for several long heartbeats, his gaze piercing yet measured as he assessed each individual before him. He had the sense these were all frightened men, looking for not only help, but leadership.

“Rise,” Alaric commanded, his voice carrying the weight of authority tempered by understanding.

As the others rose to their feet, Nightwell remained kneeling. He made an attempt to stand, but his old and shaky legs failed him. His cheeks flushed. Alaric approached him, extending a hand. The mayor took it gratefully. Gently, Alaric pulled Nightwell to his feet.

“Thank you, my lord,” Nightwell murmured gratefully as Alaric stepped back, allowing the mayor to regain his footing. “We are pleased you have returned. We are here to serve. Will you accept our humble offer of service?”

The last were formal words. If Alaric rejected the offer, these men would lose nearly everything, most of their wealth and power. But he could not do that. He needed them as much as they needed him.

Alaric took note of the lingering unease that still clung to the assembled men. To them, Alaric represented the unknown, but also the hope that the world could be put right again and Dekar made safe. He understood their apprehension—they stood before a leader they did not know, one who had spent a decade at war, yet the weight of their allegiance remained unquestioned. For they understood, as he did, the immutable bond that tied them to their rightful lord, the Earl of Dekar, and he to the people and land.

With a sense of conviction burning within him, Alaric raised his voice, projecting it so that all could hear, especially those lining the town walls. “I have returned home! Together, we shall make Dekar right again! We will push back the darkness that threatens our home.”

The proclamation was met with an enthusiastic cheer from the gathered crowd upon the town’s wall, their voices rising in fervent agreement and thundering down upon them. Alaric turned his attention back to Nightwell, and a glimmer of hope showed through his steely resolve as he met the mayor’s gaze.

“The town is yours, my lord,” Nightwell declared, a solemn acceptance of Alaric’s rightful authority. There was a note of relief within his voice.

“And what of the keep?” Alaric inquired.

“That is a different matter, my lord,” Nightwell conceded with a look of sadness. “You may need to reclaim your ancestral home by force of arms.”

Alaric glanced over at Grayson unhappily. It was a moment of shared understanding. They would have to free his mother the hard way. That much was clear. It was something he had feared might become necessary.

“So be it,” Alaric affirmed, his voice steady with resolve. “So be it.”