Northern Galgador, Isles of Gal, House Spine

The dust clogged in the darkness of Kaladin’s room; a deep dwelling within the enthrals of the head Spine household, northern most of Galgador. Light spilled in through the barred window, high above his work desk. Alchemist equipment was sprawled across the thick, wooden table, small steam-powered machinery on the floor: failed remnants of experiments.

A fusion stick whirred quietly in the background, the heat glowing in its back ream of metal, air spitting out the rear exhaust of the tool. Magic assisted of course. Such technology was not deemed possible in Galgador.

A clanging noise: Kaladin dropped his forging hammer, letting it rattle to an uncomfortable silence. His eyes remained dead, staring ahead, as he stretched and exhaled deeply. Knights of the Kingsguard could not comprehend his frustration; the King of a besieged castle, would also be oblivious to the implications which riddled his mind.

The momentary explosion of energy gained from the collision of Pysons presented in concentrated magical filtrate was enough to power an entire small towns worth of machinery. Yet this small, tiny, minute explosion was too fast; too unpredictable to estimate its whereabouts. Unpredictable. Harvestable? Possible. Stubborn? Very much so.

“You tamper with instruments of witchery too often Kaladin,” a voice called behind him.

Kaladin didn’t jump as he heard his… his sister enters the room.

“I tamper with nothing but the perplexity of the mind, Marius.”

“No excuse for ditching magical purity,” she retorted walking to peer over his shoulder.

He chuckled, his eyes never lighting. “Magical purity? Purity doesn’t win combat; ruthless investment in killing machinery does.”

Marius back rattled at this, and she backed off a little bit. “Father said he wanted to speak.”

“The Spine family has a billion servants and a billion ill-minded perverts vying for my father’s power. Can he not substitute my presence?”

She smiled sweetly, her velvety, golden hair bouncing as she did so. So much brighter than his boggy brown hair. Her eyes a vivid grey; his a dead black. A sharp, small nose on hers, like father, but his a much stronger, prominent nose.

“I’m coming he grunted, picking up his overclothing as the two ascended into the blinding light.

“There’s no point in playing it safe anymore,” she said absentmindedly, glancing at horse which trotted past, armour clanging softly.

“Safe from what?”

“Everything. A person of your capability should realise that. The Pope; his alliance with the Elite Ensign Andris has granted him permissions to expand effortlessly. The Holy Paladins will soon outnumber the Kingsguard.”

The mere prospect of the Pope Francifis getting his grubby paws on part of Talon’s power. Not only has his access to the magical rune broadened his magical influence, but the validity of Andris’ ‘gift’ to Francifis is only exceeded by that of the King. Or should he say the Knightshood…

“And what of House Talon?”

“They are vassals of the Origis family. The royals do not seem to care, so why should they?”

Kaladin’s face darkened, yet he smiled. All the same.

His face adopted that of a ravenous crow as he mentally navigated the increased defence of the outer walls of the mansion. It was almost comparable to that of a large garrison or siege castle.

“We can’t be building out of fear of the Pope?” It was so long since Kaladin left the belly of the beast that it was all strange to him.

“We’re building because we’re the closest to the Northmen. Clou Drou.”

“The last I heard of a Northman, he was fucking a sheep,” he gloated.

Marius pouted, slapping Kaladin on his back.

Kaladin grinned.

“Although it reminds me of,” she started, fiddling with a strand of hair, “the Fangs. With that bastard son: Damien. His uncle, Morphis’ also a bastard.”

“I remember Damien telling me,” Kaladin responded truthfully.

“Bastard of the north. His father, Ragar York of North Clou Drou.”

“The Yorks?” Kaladin said with grit teeth. The most notorious north Clou Drouian warriors in Luthadel. Ruthless, powerful: a strong hold, and leading face of the rebellion against the South and Galgador. Since the King’s fall, the colony of Clou Drou suffered terribly, much of the north losing faith and therefore subordination.

She shrugged her shoulders, “They both gather no pity from me; a warped lineage hurts my head.”

Walking up one of the northern towers of the stronghold left Kaladin feeling dizzy, his mind trying to take foothold in the swirling whirlpool which orbited close to his soul. He was the forefront of an attack; an attack so massive, and dangerous that it would plunge an entire Empire into dust if it failed. Pressure had built up in his neck, rising and manifesting itself into a dark seal which cloaked his face. Do not disgrace us further, are those last words. More of a sting than a bite; but it left a scar on him. A reminder of his duty.

Marius had separated with him at the bottom of the tower, mentioning duties of tutoring to their cousin, Randy in the west-wing of the stronghold. To climb the notorious tower, meant passing the dungeons; and to the faint-heart of his sister, she could not stand it and would often give up hope a few minutes in.

“My Lord,” a guard bowed by the entrance of his father’s study room, hundreds of feet high in the sky.

“Ser Drayn, the training’s done you compliments,” Kaladin made a point of remembering the soldiers names. Easier to manipulate.

Drayn smirked slightly, his finger tracing a scar on his forehead, “My eyes held onto a lass’s dress for a tad too long.”

Not bothering to humour the goliath any more, he moved past and entered the room, heaving past the leather-bound wooden door fit to defend from Giants.

A younger man looked up from his desk, not a spec of grey on his face. “Kaladin,” he nodded slightly, his fingers immediately back to rattling on a parched piece of riverweed paper.

“Father.” The words felt odd on his lips.

“No need to call me so in the privacy of my own room if you wish, Kaladin,” his eyes rose from his pen, meeting Kaladin’s who didn’t flinch.

Kaladin paced across the large room, walking to the window, a small canopy of glass leering over the mountainside. The Spine fortress which they resided on clung to the cliff’s side, nestled neatly into massive cliffs of limestone.

“When the Barons of the North fought across here, and the Isles of Gal back in the early years of 1050 to reclaim their part of Galgador the Spine family was nearly crushed. It was an embarrassment really.” His father talked slowly, as if speaking to a foreigner.

“It would be an embarrassment for any well acquainted familia, Siegfried. It’s no different for us.” Kaladin returned.

“It might be. It might not of been,” he panned to Kaladin who stood over him, hands resting on the back of his neck. He leant forward, “what matters is we’re~ I am the Spine. The people down there?” He pointed out the glass, “they me be insignificant but they’re the Spines too.”

“Like ants,” Kaladin muttered, his eyes roaming the edges of the mounted axe opposite him, behind Siegfried.

“Hmm?”

“Useless in singularity but in a swarm, incalculable and tremendous in strength.”

Siegfried smiled at that and opened his mouth, but Kaladin’s tongue was quicker, “until a rat big enough comes over and crushes them underfoot.”

“You’re a cunning boy; one of the meanest I’ve met without even a tad bit of stubble. But you’re lucky you proved allegiance to the Spines more than a decade ago. Otherwise your head would be on a pike outside Fort Grodd.” He smiled.

Kaladin smirked, a spell on the tip of his tongue.

“I called for a reason.” He stood up, his soft hazel eyes lecherous in the low light of his oak room.

“Speak under the name of the Titans.” Kaladin didn’t frame the point in a question.

“I speak truthfully, as leader of the Spines; not as a father, but as the true Lord of the house.”

He paused; for dramatic effect maybe, or to gawk at the sight of a Griffin’s silhouette in the horizon.

“Those screams in the dungeons; they aren’t from Karatis war slaves; nor broken whores.”

“A bored necromancer maybe?” Kaladin didn’t look away from the most powerful man in the isles.

“Do not, jest about the forbidden arts so close to the religious lands.”

“Those screams; I realised they weren’t foreign warlords- their screams don’t die nearly as quick as those ones did. How long did they last? A day?”

“Four hours, most of them. I didn’t kill any.”

Kaladin’s eyebrows raised at that. “A bit cruel don’t you think?”

“Some of them are yours and Marius’ second cousins.”

The room got a bit colder, but Kaladin didn’t stifle. Internal familia questioning was not abnormal; treachery often ran close to the family, often within it. Torture was the inevitable outcome.

“Were you betrayed?”

“My own sister, Jean.” He managed to spit the name out with bitter entrails, a dark look upon his cast face. Hazel eyes had turned misty in the pale mood.

Kaladin followed Sieg’s eyes to the letter he was writing. The scrawled, tight line of font too small to read.

“Her copulation with Alfric of the house Stanton probably influenced her.”

“Influenced her to stand against you, why?”

“Alfric Stanton was an alleged forefront of his house, before it was overridden by the Order of the Knights. According to the Oathtruthers his mother, Lidda Clayton, was forced by the hand of a Knight.”

“He was a product of rape?” Kaladin pursued, his knuckles whitening.

“By a member of the Knightshood, yes,” Siegfried said bluntly.

Such with the ease of a humming bird taking off, did Kaladin’s hand reached for the hilt of a hidden blade under his loose overalls. But the movement was well concealed; it was slow. His fingers encircled it very slightly.

“And you stand by them? The Knightshood?” Kaladin would be a fool to not know of the secret creed. He had spies; smart ones.

“The spines will not ascend to the top of the four households; to rival the Origis without the aid of the Knightshood. They are powerful warriors.”

“Powerful warriors who control the King,” he responded, his brows sharpening, teeth grating an inch.

“Maybe so, but I do not conspire to the whims of others.”

“So did Nawrack before he became Magate.”

“My brother became part of the Knightshood because he was ready to dedicate his life to near immortality. As a protector of the realm. The knights of the creed gave that to him. As they did to the Magates of the other familias.” Siegfried spat, standing up now.

A magical ensign warmed on Kaladin’s back, letters starting to illuminate a damp amber colour. Killing the old man would be easy enough; asserting control and blaming it upon others would be a hassle. Marius was smart; others too, his false promise of allegiance was his only safety net.

“I do not know where you were brought up, or who trained you, but it would be wise to listen. Your brother Del, and Marius are wise to follow my decree. The family is already torn in half; despite my efforts, Jean’s children still remain against the Knightshood because of their father’s foolish teachings. As my son, not by blood, but by respect I hope you pick the right choice.”

Kaladin said nothing, but traced the dagger back into his belt.

Siegfried smirked, as if he knew. He glanced towards Kaladin’s right hand, “You’re terribly brave for a cripple, boy. No other one-handed man, let alone boy, would be so confrontational.”

Kaladin looked at his hand, despite knowing what lurked there; fingers, long and strewn like rotting bark, some fused together, his thumb crooked. He couldn’t move it below the elbow even if he tried.

He snarled, barely able to control his anger. Outsmarted; controlled, again.

“I hope to speak to you again, father.”

“As do I, son.”