“You dishonor us. Sneaking in the dark like a weasel to mingle with rogues and scoundrels.”

Half jokingly, half serious. All serious, his father. A living contradiction of flesh and bone – and a powerful one at that. Beyond powerful, beyond human. That was a primus. And Jartor never made a jest, even if his tone suggested otherwise. Or so Tyr mused, as he sailed into the air after the latest backhand. It was a discussion that had taken place many times. Always the 'you've done' and never the 'why' behind it.

Tyr yearned to explain himself, but his pride wouldn't allow it. He wanted his father to want to know why he did the things he did. He had never asked, and never would. They both knew that. It was all some sick game.

Jartor stood his opposite. His liege and father, the flat headed trainer of a hammer held loosely in his grip. Lazy eyed in the early morn, it didn't require much. Jartor could've killed the boy in a heartbeat if he had the desire. The emperor of Haran, the 'primus'. A divine title, and the man earned it. Strong enough in limb to lift ten ox and then again. A living legend, demi-god. Whatever term one considered, it had been used to describe the man.

And it truly had been. The bane of entire armies. As had happened with a country to the east known as Sinea, so it had been. Ten thousand beastkin arrayed to defend against the depredations of the empire. Those who survived that war were many, but only on the Harani side. What with Jartor walking into it all himself and returning caked in blood and ash. Sinea, a name that only existed now in the historical texts if one could find it at all. Of course the stories varied, most scholars agreed it wasn't Haran that was the aggressor, but the primus Cortus and his failed attempt at an invasion of the empire. Nobody knew, only Jartor and the Moon legion knew what had truly happened.

Jartor, the primus, Tyr's father. A living god, as some might have it. Regardless of the truth, the title of primus was self evident. Few existed among men, four to be exact. Haran, Oresund, Varia, and the Lyran Republic. As far as anyone knew. Children of the gods, men beyond other men to such an extent as to wield the fury of a storm in each limb. A kind of power that went against all convention, each serving as a deterrent to any would be enemies of humanity. Once, and this was known – a story freely shared by the dwarves – they had tried to fight. But once bearing witness to the horrific power a primus was capable of, they'd surrendered. Many other races surely existed, but there weren't any of their cheery lot to tell the tale left in the world.

Tyr knew none of that strength. Never had, especially now sailing through the air as he was. His father was beyond him and always had been, but that didn't stop him from trying. He wanted his cold eyed sire to look at him with anything other than disappointment on his face. Jartor tried to hide it, but Tyr was wise in few ways – and that was one of them. Of men.

“They aren't so bad.” Tyr laughed, though there was no enjoyment present in the expression of emotion. This was their way. The only time he spent with his father was when they were on the training field. Jartor most assuredly waiting for his son to finally show some ability. Picking himself up from the dirt, Tyr spat bloody phlegm from his mouth while his broken ribs ground against themselves in his chest. More work for the healers, but what splendid work they did. Always putting him right back together again.

“And the apostate?” His father asked, eyeing him with great interest. The war breaker, peacekeeper, The Iron Lion. A bear of a man, more like, long in the hair with none of his two and a half centuries of life to show for it. He still appeared at the peak of his youth. A thirty year old man could look older than Tyr's father, easily, though inferior in all ways before him. It wasn't even close, any kind of comparison to Jartor and the average man. Even if one ignored his nearly eight foot stature. “What of him?”

“He took the mark.” Tyr replied, spitting again. “Our house mage. Since we didn't have one.”

“What if I don't allow it? What if I command you to kill this spellcaster? To drive a knife in his gut and spit on his corpse?” Jartor raised an eyebrow, a rare show of emotion. His face was always stony, and it wasn't surprising. Two centuries might do that to a man, or so they said. Jartor was old in all ways but his appearance. As old at the elves in the east, if rumor held true, though they were a reclusive people so Tyr had no way to lend veracity to the claims. Or if they even existed at all, as a youth he'd asked many travelers and quite a few considered them myth.

“I won't.” He replied sternly. That was that. Where Jartor was strong, Tyr was stubborn. In comparison perhaps even inhumanly so. There was something brittle in him. Something that would break before it would bend, and Jartor knew it. At the same time, the father saw the bits of himself that existed in his son, and he relented in rare occasions.

“Alright.” His father replied with a nod, dusting his hands and dropping the hammer into the dust with a dull thump of finality. With that, he left the field. That was that. No amount of 'fathers' would bring him back. It never did. When their time was over, or the man grew bored, he left. Always. A decade or more of this had rendered Tyr into a man who swore to never ask him for anything. No requests for a favor would leap from his mouth this day. Tyr did, whatever he wanted to do, because what was the alternative? He'd never awaken, not in a thousand years, and he'd be disposed of for it. There was no point in this life of his if he didn't at least try to work around the encroaching testament to his mortality.

Tyr panted on the field as he often would. Tired, body ground down by the short exchange. He thought himself an equal for any man, but there was a magic in a primus. All of them. He had seen the primus of Varia only once, and it was the same. Jartor, the primus of strength. Octavian, the primus of endurance. Two empires of similar capability that would never see eye to eye, though they weren't enemies.

Good friends, actually, at least among their sovereigns. Octavian and Jartor always had been. Born in similar years just like Tyr was born in the same year as Octavian's own son, though he could not recall ever meeting the other man despite claims otherwise. One male each, that was the way that things worked with a primus. Always the males, unlike the powerful mages that tended to be female more often or not, there had never been a female primus. Not in recorded memory, at least. Not among their kind.

'Their kind' was... Well, to make a long story short – Tyr did not think himself a primus. The office was categorized simply. You were born the way that you were. Jartor himself was born walking, tearing out of his own mother with the force necessary to kill her. And he had, in his way. According to the tales – she hadn't lived.

Jartor was strong. Octavian was strong. They were all strong, insanely so. There was always an aspect to a primus. Strength, endurance, will... Something to mark them, a unique characteristic. But they were all unique and powerful in their own way. Every single primus in history had been beyond human. Tyr had never met his grandfather, but even in his 400th year as the 'primus of wisdom', the man was capable of breaking any other. Bare handed. Superhuman, in all respects. Not superhuman, no man could hope to possibly reach that level of strength, not even through an infinite cycle of forbidden magic.

They lived long, too. Jartor was two and a half centuries old. Octavian around the same. Old Ragnar in the north was nearly four centuries in the tooth, and looked no older than his mid twenties. Or so they said, the story tellers, Tyr though he looked a bit older on their meeting in the past before he'd taken his daughters hand, but he didn't look old. Not at all. They were true immortals. Even the more elder races cowered in terror at a primus' steps, the greatest of all living things. They feared the primus' of men, even if they did not fear men themselves. A primus would live forever, until they simply left. Upon the ascendancy of Tyr's paternal grandfather, the man had departed these lands. Alone and never to be seen again.

That was the way, but Tyr was not one of them. He knew it in his bones. He was athletic, strong, willful, agile, and learned enough. Could even use magic, albeit in minuscule amounts. But he couldn't break a man with a flick of the wrist – and that was enough to know. His fathers son, he was the only example of a primus that wasn't. A cursed child.

A mutt born by the bonding of blood from north and south. A woman the primus Jartor had truly loved and taken over the panoply of Harani wives offered at the time. Wife after wife, over the course of two centuries – but no heir. Was it Tyr that was cursed, or his father? Over forty sisters he had, biologically, though he had met few. Some were as old as eighty. Some as young as four years of age, Jartor and Signe had continued even after the son had been born.

A voice came from the rear, but Tyr ignored it. Sinking into his self deprecation.

Over forty girls and one boy. And it was him, and that was just in the more modern era. A living record of shame and disappointment. He saw it in his fathers eyes. A man that was like to avoid comparing him to the son of Octavian, another boy of similar age who had grown into his power at the ripe age of three. His father wasn't sterile, see. He was virile beyond believe. Over one hundred children in total, over the centuries, taking many wives.

But Signe, Tyr's mother, had given Jartor a son. A son! Tyr had been celebrated throughout the bits of his youth he could remember. Festivals and parades thrown annually in his honor. But those had stopped, and the scathing looks of nobles had begun. Without a true primus, Haran couldn't exist. Tyr was a threat to their very safety, just because he was alive. More than their safety, he was a threat to the economic dominance over the northern half of the continent that allowed the nobles in the empire to become obscenely wealthy. It was a meritocracy, few families held titles forever, but a single term as Baron could turn a family of paupers into silk wearing elites if their sire had an enterprising mind.

That voice came again.

True enough. Facts were facts. They hid it well, but no man could keep their emotion a complete stranger on the brow. Even the knights, though they didn't hate Tyr. They pitied him. Tyr Faeron, the cursed child. A dead man walking, primus of a father or not. Jartor's existence alone couldn't keep him from the touch of the viper. Like his mother. Tyr hadn't just experienced the loss, he had witnessed it, before the queensguard had done their duty. Tiber himself had swept him from the river. Perhaps that was why he was the last of their number still in service.

“Are you okay...?”

The voice cut through his thoughts, but in the end Tyr was left sinking even deeper into the mire of his thoughts. His mother. Gods, she was beautiful. Perfect, elegant, and radiant. Warm and loving in contrast to his stone cold father. A soft touch in a world where everything was hard. His studies, his training. Everything. Tyr's father had been desperate at one time to find the aspect of his son, growing evermore passionate in his 'lessons' that were only tempered by the fact that mother was still around. After she left this world, so had he. Jartor had left Tyr's world except for increasingly rare moments, all of which were of singular purpose – a scolding.

He was not a bad father... Per se. A primus had a duty. Tyr knew this, but he hated the man in his own way. A cold and hard individual, but just and fair in all things. Willing to put up with the degeneracy of his son and protect him from subsequent attempts on his life. Even in person, as he had in the past. Cutting swath through the cutthroats that had ambushed a young Tyr on the market street in an attempt on Tyr's life.

That hadn't happened for a while. His father appearing to save the day, that is. But the attempts on his life? They had never stopped. It was in the black cloaked watchers that they were caught. Assassins themselves, half of them. Or maybe just common cutthroats with a flair for the dramatic. They watched. Always. Some in court called them the 'blackguard'. Positing that the primus himself had formed them, but it wasn't so. It had been Tyr, alone. He had found them, formed them, sworn them to his service in exchange for gold, or whatever promise he found fair. A more unpleasant collection of ruffians you'd find nowhere else – but they were men of honor in their way.

Evil men and bandits were not mutually exclusive. They, bandits and mercenaries, were a product of their environs. Born poor – what else were they to do? If they had been born wealthy, they'd be the finest knights Tyr could ask for. Brothers in arms. Akin to a family. Tyr didn't really have any talents other than scrapping and eating. He wasn't smart, had an awful hand at magic, and... Well, maybe he'd make a good politician – but if born common he would've either ended up dead or a sellsword in any case.

That voice again. She really didn't know how to give up.

In better days they would have been called the 'gilded guard' or given some other ridiculous soliloquy. Perhaps the dawnguard, as his mothers own retinue had once been named. Or something involving lions, for his father. All that mattered was that they watched his back and were quick to put a knife in someones neck if they pushed their luck. Tyr didn't need pompous duelists, only killers with a shred of conscience. Proud as he was, the fear of death was in him. For what man was it not...? A madman, perhaps. Tyr wasn't mad, not in that fashion. He was not ready to die, if only to spite the powers that be who'd made him less than everything else. A twisted little monster.

He had sworn and kept to his sacred oath that he would find the killers who had seen to the death of his mother. On that much, he was resolute. His only promise to the world. Fuck the ascendancy, fuck the succession, fuck a primacy. He would string the corpses of the man responsible for murdering his mother and make him scream and dance in the moonlight. No, he'd blood eagle them. Give them a fate worse than death. And if death didn't hold it's 'end of the bargain', he'd storm over the river black with his find them. Tear into them with his teeth if he was without blade, beat and bludgeon.

He didn't fancy himself as overly cruel, but those men. Those fu--

“My prince. Are you okay...?”

A concerned voice. The voice of a stepmother. Great Veles anal glands, but Tyr hated her too. She was a kind woman. Even and calm in disposition. Young, only a few years his senior. It was the principle that mattered, though. She might not be a bad person, but she was no replacement. That much was certain, and he had let her know on many an occasion. But she kept on. Digging and digging and digging and digging at him. Scratching at the anger hidden deep in his brain in her constant attempts to forge a decent relationship with the prince. He figured it was all some game, no wife of a primus wanted to come late after the son had been born. That didn't compute, all mankind was birthed and bathed in greed.

Tyr wanted to cut her. Bludgeon her. Bash her brains out on the stairs of Thanatos' temple and ask for his mother back in exchange. He loved women, on the whole – the empire was built in an equal share between man and woman in his mind. And Tyr's mind was warped through experiences, but wanting something and actually doing it were not the same. His fever dreams of violence would never come into fruition, he didn't even want it. Just didn't want to accept her.

“Leave me the fu--”

The words could barely escape his mouth. Behind her were his wives, and thus it was improper. Jartor had remarried, and Tyr had married. A bid to produce a grandson as soon as possible, most like. His father was an immortal, after all. He could laze around for a theoretical eternity and wait for many subsequent generations to provide a replacement. Tyr didn't hate them, though, even if he'd thrown as intense of a fit as possible to stop the eventual from coming.

They were blameless, his wives. Ever dutiful, at least the two standing there beside Charlotte. But they hated him. He could see it in their eyes. He refused to touch them, forced into marriage as they were. That was a cruel thing. Tyr would remain a virgin. Always. That was a vow, too, one that he had not spoken aloud, but made to himself. Though, obviously, he'd wanted the opposite at one point in time, at least. They were handsome women. Both of them. One a daughter of the north and one a daughter of the lands west across the sea. The lost lands that no man would ever see again.

A rare breed, both. One of silver hair, one of... Was the color pink? Like the sakura blossoms that flourished in Lyra, there was a tree like that on the cliff-side overlooking the docks in the city. Tyr found them both more than adequate, but he did not want them – and that feeling was mutual. He would let them hate him, if it soothed their shackled souls. A source of ire, a scapegoat to lessen the discomfort they were yoked to as a courtesy of their gender. At least Harani women were mostly given a choice. Elsewhere, such was not the custom. Arranged marriage was common among mankind, especially those of 'highborn' stock.

“Oh, pardon me.” Tyr bowed, low and sarcastic like. He wanted her to feel it, but he didn't want it to be obvious. Just enough to give her pause. To keep her up at night wondering. “Step mother, as charming as always.”

He kissed her hand. She didn't back away or startle easily. Uniquely irritating as she was, that Lady Charlotte of Krath. Smart. Incredibly sharp. Smarter than him, and twice as proper. Wise in the ways of court and possessive of a talent to meet knowledge with action. Unlike Tyr, who had been scolded on more than one occasion for brawling right there in the throne room with one noble idiot or another. Even coming close to skewering a wrinkly old bag of no less than sixty winters. A skinny, ugly bastard with a hook nose. He was dead now, but that came after the holding of court. Tyr had been beaten for the first, and nearly beaten to death for the second.

Only his father knew the truth. In the name of order, a heavy hand was necessary for the wayward prince.. A rapist, that nobleman was. Had been, before he had met his end after a 'mishap' in the gardens. But it didn't matter if there wasn't any proof of wrongdoing. The thing about falling two hundred meters is that it didn't leave a lot behind for the morticians to pick apart. Much less find the tiny incision of the quill Tyr had slammed straight into the mans windpipe. People knew, probably, but the law was the law. Innocent until proven guilty, if your heritage allowed you the courtesy. Most times it was the exact opposite, but Tyr was a prince.

She returned his bow with a curt chuckle. No mocking in it, but Charlotte was familiar with their routine after two years of 'marriage' to his father. Marriage, though she was little more than a ward of convenience until the future revealed itself. Jartor seemed to tolerate her well enough, but as far as Tyr knew they had never had as much as a single conversation as husband and wife.

“My darling prince. My son. Be at peace. I've come with refreshments.”

Tyr paused. He was taken aback. There were priorities on the brain, a mans brain. Sex, liquor, food, and a good fight. This was a fight, but not one he'd walk away proud of. The same pride that crumbled away in observance of the heaping pile of food presented to him by the servants. She liked it, he could tell. As indiscernible as he was, she wasn't an evil woman. She did what she did for a reason – always. But she didn't hate him, nor dislike him. He could see it in her eye, Charlotte was a gentle and conscientious person who saw all of Tyr's flaws and wanted to fix him. It made him sick.

There might've been affection. Or love, of a kind, if he knew the meaning of the word. That Charlotte. She wasn't as quite as fit as his own 'wives' that he'd been forced into marrying, but he'd have taken her if only for her charming personality in different circumstances. She had that way about her. The seductiveness of a proper lady. Though young, she had a mature and elderly aspect to her. An older sister to many younger brothers – and it showed. All families dreamed of marrying into the line of a primus, some even trained their children into it.

But he was tired, and in no small amount of discomfort. Wanted to be left alone above all else. Solitude was a poor salve for his bruised flesh and pride injured yet further and more wholly than by Jartor's hand – but it helped. A heaping plate of steaming beef was sometimes worth more than his fragile ego. Tyr was self aware, he knew who he was, and didn't often like what he saw.

“I'm sorry, Charlotte. I can't play the game today. I...” He found himself unable to continue. He liked her well enough. Hated her too, but that was the thing. Hate was not so different a concept than respect. His words caught in his throat, full of self deprecation.

Unfit.

She softened at that. It was rare that he declined her invitation of vocal sparring, but not unheard of. Charlotte could see the longing in his eyes. The greed, and the fear. Both in equal measure. She'd take him right then and there. Mount him, though she too was a virgin. Her own husband wouldn't touch her, though she was of an age. Wouldn't look at her, or speak to her. A true marriage of convenience to ensure the Krathi sealords kept to a very favorable trade agreement, and that's just the way it was. It would have been nice to have broken the boy beneath her. Ensnared him, bred the next primus. He was unique, different. But ultimate... He was weak. Thus, not worth a damn by traditional consideration. Charlotte was cruel like that, well masked and skilled in the art of concealing her rabid ambition and lust for dominance. Haran liked to claim equality between the genders but oftentimes this was not the case.

However, he was her friend. Something like that. Perhaps the only member of court who was honest with her. Always, without reservation. As honest and blunt as his father, but more articulate in the telling of it rather than glaring around silently. Tyr didn't talk much... He was just more of an open book, she suppose she'd say. He was also very handsome, and strong, just not in the way he was expected to be. His brutal efficiency pleased her, and he'd become a great man if not for his failure to properly ascend. Jartor was a stubborn old bull, but Tyr was more akin to a wolf, charismatic and charming but only when he wanted to be.

She laughed at his reply. “Yes, yes. You look rather worse for wear, my prince. Please, eat.”

He did. Tyr had priorities. The priorities of a man as defined by himself, and his appetite came before near all things.

“You'll be fat and ruddy one day.” She giggled in amusement, arching a brow at his sublime lack of table manners. Haran was a courtly place, and Tyr an ill fit for it. Such that one of his three wives refused to see him at all. Not that he'd ever mind. “Best lay a woman before that day comes. Perhaps one of your wives...?”

He ignored her as he was wont to do. He would always ignore her, but that was okay. She knew he was listening. Knew he had his own problems to consider. He'd be dead soon, and she'd mourn him though she knew not from where the blade would come. Charlotte would visit his grave every day for the rest of the life just to hear him squirming in the coffin in an attempt to scare her off. There was a comedy to their relationship, and how uncomfortable she made him.

A less savory part of her personality. Irrespective of this source of pleasure in harassing him, she departed without another word. Her step-son had been sullen of late, more morose than usual. She enjoyed discomforting him, if slightly, but wished to push no further. His eyes were sad, and she knew that he would see through her pity for him. Charlotte had no wish to tempt his ire, nor to kick a dog when it was down.

“Princess Astrid Stalvarg, and Princess Sigi Faeron. Both of Oresund. As always, your graces, it is a pleasure to see you.” Tiber was no stranger to court politics, though he loathed them as much as his young charge. Despite that, he always acted and spoke in observance of them. Especially in the company of young women who deserved no less than his respect, perhaps even a bit of pity. As the former captain of the queensguard, he was no stranger to serving directly under fine ladies either, stepping into old habits without much effort.

“Tiberius, a fair day is it not?” The first of the pair turned to him. Astrid Stalvarg. The third princess of Oresund and she certainly looked the part. Well proportioned, though a bit skinny – more on the athletic side of things. Pretty, though, and tall for a woman as most of her countrymen were. Strong features and high cheekbones set her apart from the rest. It wasn't her shockingly blue blue eyes that were her most striking feature. But the color of her hair. That sakura blossom pink was very unique. Northerners had quirks in appearance like that, though usually not so unnatural in hue as that. Haran was their sister kingdom and always had been, but the old blood flowed thick beyond the sea in their windswept home of ash fields, craggy mountains, and dark forests.

Some said magic flowed thick in the northern blood, thicker than the rest, that it made them stronger because they were the 'original man'. Fortunately, Old Ragnar had no love of any concept related to eugenics and quashed those rumors with all his might. Men were different based on their climate, they adapted in a way that suited them best, that was all. Harsh environs bred stronger men, but it didn't make them better.

Looks aside, she was very pleasant to speak with. Sharp and well educated, a cunning mind behind the deceiving mask of her politeness and impressive beauty. Always behaving as one might expect from her position, but possessive of her own sadness that rendered her mute more often than not. Likely to be missing home. Oresund wasn't so far away as to prevent a visit, but it was different. A world away in terms of disposition, not a place where the courtly nobles of Haran would find much in common with Astrid's kin. People who spoke more honestly, laughed and celebrated everything. Brightly dressed in wild hues, Haran was much more subdued. More repressed in their love of life, more focused on progress than enjoyment of the little things.

“That it is, your grace.” Tiber returned her soft smile, rising from his bow and stepping to the aside. “And this...” He bowed again at Astrid's counterpart.

Princess Sigi Mournstone-Stalvarg, technically. Now a Faeron, by marriage. As was custom, Astrid – as an equal member of a royal house kept her surname in respect to her father and kingdom. One could say it either way and he was sure she wouldn't mind – it was just proper. Sigi on the other hand hailed from Trafalgar. A dead nation to the far west that had at one time been a simple fishing colony of Oresund. The mists came, and two centuries of isolation returned a wholly independent nation of its own. A naval power beyond equal that grew insanely wealthy with their proximity to the lost continent across the sea. The 'old world' where man was said to have originally hailed from.

Though this was well before Tyr's time. Now, Trafalgar, or what was left of it had returned to Oresund. Some great war against a foreign enemy had destroyed the nation, sending refugees fleeing east to merge with their sister houses in the north. Or settle elsewhere, he wasn't sure. Buying their positions in their new homes by merit or rare goods found nowhere else. Revolutionary advancements in shipbuilding, and other bits of engineering related knowledge not common in the east. A land shrouded in mist that no man returned from. Many tried, but nobody succeeded, the mists were a storm like no other and the seas beyond it were a graveyard for anyone foolish enough to try.

“Good morning.” It was a simple greeting, but Sigi was a simple woman. Not simple in the mind, but in bearing. Not surprising, considering that even at the ripe age of eighteen, she was already a veteran of war by default. If rumor held true, she had held the breach at Trafalgar's harbor with an axe in each hand while holding only twelve winters beneath her belt. Or above it, Tyr didn't know how it worked for women. 'Below the belt' was a suggestive turn of phrase that had always confused him, but not even his wisest elders knew why it was said that way.

Compared to Astrid, she was different. If one word came to mind when they saw her, it was 'big'. No, not 'big'. Big for a woman, maybe. Beauty standards in Haran were very particular. Tyr didn't understand it, it was like everyone wanted for the same exact woman and spurned anything foreign. Not as 'ugly', that couldn't be the case when foreign matches were so common, but too 'exotic' – especially if they were from countries that didn't share borders with the empire.

She was tall. As tall as Tyr was – at least six feet at the crown, with strong arms and stronger thighs. Fit at the waist and athletic as well but not in the way of a runner. In the way of a fighter, perhaps even a laborer, definitely a warrior. Dressed the part, too, always wearing armor and looking down her well sculpted nose at the shorter men who refused to fight her on the training field. Compared to Astrid's predilection toward polite silence, Sigi was domineering, even rude at times. Otherwise, she behaved like most of the other knights, though she favored halberd over the more common sword or warhammer.

As far as her looks went... It was hard to say. Many men would claim her an incomparable beauty if only she were more petite. Surely, in Tyr's opinion, she matched Astrid in terms of raw charm. Personality aside. Built wider and longer, with well muscled arms. Silver hair, an almost polished iron gleam to it. Gray-green eyes like seafoam. Otherwise, with her northern features, she'd appear a blood sister to Astrid by any reckoning. Both had the same cheekbones, same jaw, even the same pink lips of such form that they appeared carved by a master sculptor.

Tyr wasn't overly familiar with either, but he was a man. He had eyes. Any man would find themselves over the moon to secure such a bride. He'd been presented with over twenty courtships, and all of them had failed. Either he hadn't shown up, and been beaten – or simply stared at them from across the table their houses met at – and been beaten.

These women, however – as well as his rarely seen third wife – were different. Or perhaps just these two. Alex had declared to the whole world that she was not his wife. Which came as quite the drama because she (or rather, her family) had proposed to him. In the middle of court no less, refused the betrothal even after deed was done. Jartor had laughed, and so had her lord father Gideon – with considerable anxiety in the exclamation. She was worse than Sigi. A mage, that Tyr had met during his primary education and had always held a strong aversion toward, one that was shared by her. Low and behold them sworn to betrothal from birth and again – she'd been given the chance to refuse and hadn't. Turning toward claims of 'that never happened'. She was... A bit cracked, all told.

Childhood friends, his father had said. He didn't remember the angry woman a single lick. Regardless, grand exposition was never much interest to anyone. It was what it was. He was stuck with three wives and divorce wasn't an option.

“My ladies, this is Sir Samson. He has yet to earn an oath title, though I expect him to hold one soon. Samson here is oathsworn to the prince, and vice-versa.” Tiber pursed his lips at that. Astrid and Sigi both exchanged glances. Respectively, the former looked astonished – the latter amused. It was plain on their faces. That was a rare thing indeed. To give an oath to a royal was common, but to receive one from them? A problem waiting to happen if the nobility were asked their thoughts on the matter.

Samson didn't bow, as Tiber had. He knelt. A strange kneel, too. On both knees rather than the one customary of sworn knights. Head held high, looking directly at the princesses instead of the ground, staring them directly in the eyes. Perhaps some custom of his people, Samson was clearly uncomfortable in the setting. Unused to the incredible wealth displayed in the palace. Most were, even foreign dignitaries visiting for the third or fourth time would find themselves speechless before it.

It wasn't the largest palace on the continent, not covered in cast gold and silver. But one could tell by the workmanship of it. This wasn't made by man. Every stone was enchanted and fit so close together with no apparent mortar to keep it all together. Yet never in history had a single brick slid free of its mooring. No invading force had breached its walls, no engine of siege had so much as scratched its surface.

“Your majesty.” Samson said, his deep baritone seeming like it might shake the floor at any moment. He repeated himself to both of the women individually, never lowering his head.

“I am delighted, sir knight.” Astrid's face returned to a soft smile. She met the gaze of the man, made his measure as she often did. Liked him immediately, or else her eyes wouldn't have been so placid. Neither woman seemed offended by the lack of decorum, or at least – neither were offended by the strange greeting. Tiber on the other hand... More training was necessary, not everyone was as forgiving as the princesses and their status in the palace was rocky even at the best of times.

“Who is this black man? Gods but he's a big bastard. Would you like to fight?” Sigi bent at the knees, adjusting her breastplate to bring herself to the eye level with the man. Took his measure, too, just in a different way.

“If I have disrespected you, your majesty, please forgive me.” Now Samson, realizing his mistake, lowered himself a bit too much. Now he was in the position of the kowtow. An eastern tradition. In Haran, no man lowered his head to the stone. Only those who lost their right to call themselves men and begged for mercy to avoid the block would do such a thing. Most times, it'd only serve to get them there faster.

Still, Sigi laughed now. She had a nice voice, softer than the hard edges of her appearance. At least when she was in the mood to show that kind of emotion. Throughout it all, Tyr remained eating. Observing quietly from the wide table that had been dragged awkwardly across the soft sand of the small training field. Considering the fact that the mess hall was less than fifty meters away, where the knights ate, it seemed wasteful... He wasn't complaining, in any event.

“I like you. Sir Samson. Do not take me for a petty lady caught twisting my skirts at the smallest failure to adopt a proper kneel. Raise your head, big man. You are a warrior, yes?” She asked. “Do you mind if I call you Sam? Samson is a nice enough name but it doesn't quite roll off my tongue so well, you see?”

Samson obeyed. “I was once, your majesty. A warrior. You may do or call me as you please, for I am at your service.” He turned his head toward Tyr with a near imperceptible nod from the latter. Samson wasn't sure how to act in this kind of company, but his promise with the prince was of great significance to him. One day, he'd claim it, and he believe Tyr's assertion that Samson would receive his due and more. “After the princes.”

“No longer? Arms would tell a girl otherwise.” Sigi tilted her head, confused at this statement. In Oresund, a warrior was always a warrior. There was never a time from birth to death that a man or woman wouldn't consider themselves such once the path was chosen. To do otherwise would be to spit on ones most sacred honor, not a comment taken lightly. Still, she was patient. Foreigners were everywhere around her and she was a sharp one, everyone was different and she wanted to learn more of the world.

Without warning, Tyr's voice cut through their conversation. “Leave us.” His 'hard' voice. A few vocal intonations were all that were needed to communicate intent and urgency to the few who knew him well. He didn't turn his head, only the slight flick of his eyes toward Tiber to indicate who he was speaking to. Tiber bowed, taking Samson by the arm and dragging him free of the field. It was sudden, a jerk and the men were gone, leaving behind two startled women.

Tyr didn't miss the look of gratitude in Samson's eyes.

“Why for?” Sigi rose to her feet, a look of offense plastered on her face. She was blunt with both words and emotions. Not unlike Tyr himself, though she was less playful and more... Mean.

He returned to his meal in disinterest before pausing ever so briefly, clearing his throat. “Thanks for coming. You can go do... Whatever it is that you do.”

A lack of interest in their marital bonds was not an excuse for being rude or dismissive when he didn't need to be. Tyr knew they felt the same. How couldn't they? If in their shoes, he could throw a stone into a troll den and find a better and more attentive partner. One who would live to see thirty. Probably with a better reputation to boot.

“I don't think I will.” Sigi's face warped. Two steps forward of her long legs and a stout handled hatchet thumped into the wooden table, intercepting the hand reaching for his flagon. “I was talking to your man, which makes him my man, you have no right to disrespect me. Next time, my aim will be forward, and much lower. Understand?”

“Oh dear.” From behind. That'd be Astrid. Throughout it all, Tythas – the mage – waited in the corner to be summoned. Wondering exactly who he'd agreed to serve. In his defense, he was never given a real choice. Tyr absolutely would've killed him if he'd refused. Better a knife to the neck than the lords fire down your throat. Maybe. Tythas had not said as much, but came from a highborn household, this wasn't the worst martial spat he'd ever seen...

It was a routine. With Tyr and Sigi, that is. Astrid was much more amenable to his behavior at this point. Friendly, even. But she had to be, there was no feeling behind it. There never would be. A woman forced into a marriage with a man she had never met had little choice in the matter. The perks of royalty were many, but so were the downfalls.

Tyr seemed ready to pounce for but a moment. Just a moment, before the cording of the muscles framing his neck relaxed. They'd fought, on more than one occasion. Tyr was as liable to put knuckles to jaw as Sigi was. There was a concerning frequency in their fights, when they lie panting and bruised, sometimes even laughing. Astrid couldn't understand it, simply observing when present.

It didn't seem like a day for that. A glazed look flickered over the princes eyes. An exhaustion that went beyond the physical.

“There are things you shouldn't ask a man who is sworn to speak the truth when prompted. I am sorry.” He said softly, staring up at her flinty gray's with his deep blues. “He needs time.”

'Sorry.'

...

SORRY!?

Never once, in their three years in Haran had they ever heard the prince apologize. Not for anything. It went beyond pride, too. The prince wasn't the worst sort, though his reputation among the members of court might say otherwise. But he was selfish. Extremely so. A selfish bastard and beyond rare with a smile, look of praise, but most of all an apology for his words or actions. Any sort of appreciation or recognition of misdeed at all were completely foreign to the ears of the women.

The prince. That prince, had said 'sorry'.

Sigi was taken aback, forgetting her hatchet entirely as she stepped away. “I...?” The fluttering look of fading indignation of her brow was pretty too. A rare softening at the eyes. Rare as the princes words.

“Only this time. I'll forgive you this time.” She said, remembering her hatchet and dragging it from the wood with a dull scrape before returning it to the loop at her belt. “Well... Ah... Goodbye, then.”

Astrid echoed the same, though kinder and more articulate in her phrasing of it. They left without further comment, leaving him alone to whatever thoughts held him in such a strange mood. To remain and pester him was well enough, but there was no enjoyment in this. They understood why Charlotte had departed so calmly as well.

Some ways down the path that would return them to the large keep built into the mountain, Sigi turned to her 'sister'. That was how they referred to themselves. She was, in law, a Stalvarg after all, though only by oath and not by blood. “What's the matter with him?”

She had been of a mood all day. Another round of sitting through her fussing servants who spoke too politely and suggested an afternoon gown as her daily dress too often. Looking forward to sparring with a man who wasn't afraid to hit her back. Who respected her enough to see her as a warrior and not as a woman or an object, at least, even if he accompanied it with a foul attitude. In Trafalgar, the warrior was just as commonly a woman as a man, but here it was 'improper' to fight as a woman given her position. If she'd listened to those naysayers, she'd only be allowed to train behind closed doors in a private chamber. Fortunately, her father-in-law didn't share that predilection and could be seen watching her spar from time to time.

“I am unsure.” Astrid said, the soft melody of her court voice hard now that she was free of expectation. An iron to it.

It wasn't in his apology, his tone, or even the slumping of his shoulders. It was in his eyes. Too soft for Tyr. That look didn't suit him at all. The princes eyes were supposed to hard, flinty, and watchful – not downcast like some scolded pup.

A weakness to it that made her stomach turn at the sight.