The rattling of chains and whispering of courtiers. Nobody spoke, lest they find themselves at the receiving end of the mallet. Not an axe this time, but a wooden mallet. It was a slow death, a painful one, given traitors or men who had failed in a sacred duty. It'd start with the legs, and then the arms. The spine and sternum would come next, then their head would be crushed. Sometimes it took hours for a man to die.

Executions like these were rare. A cruel thing. Executions held live in the presence of nobles were even rarer. Few of their number enjoyed the spectacle, considering it a peasants' diversion. Men of the silk and cloth found their diversions elsewhere, without need of hearing the blubbering and the crying. It was unpleasant, uncultured, and barbaric. An almost archaic ritual for doling out punishment, and the nobles would much rather be at home in their robes, on overstuffed sofas lounging about or engaging in some drama or another.

Neither man cried, though. They both faced their fate, with a third man that would be given a punishment far worse in comparison, even to this. Two knights, and a court mage that had failed in their sworn duty to protect the prince. Jartor's face remained stony and emotionless. He was a man of action, not words or tears. The decree had silenced the nobles that sought to question him, reminded them just how iron his rule was, how cruel he could be. How he felt, perhaps. A wrathful way about his eyes, otherwise the primus' face was blank. It was in the unnatural gravity around him that unnerved them so.

He didn't speak, allowing his foremost retainer to carry the mallet for him. Knight Captain Regar Faeron. Jartor's grandson via one of his many daughters. Technically speaking, the House of Faeron, like all the primus houses, was very large. Not all chose to become knights, choosing to live in abject luxury in the palace or sequestered away on some estate in the countryside. An inconsistent lot, the extended family of a primus. They could claim no noble title by rite of birth. Such was impossible with the amount of them. They enjoyed the benefits though, Jartor had never taken to throwing them at the wayside so long as they behaved. Otherwise, he barely interacted with them unless they chose to enter his direct service. At which time they would 'officially' earn their birth name. Some chose to become nobles of their own through merit and found satellite houses, like the Goldmane's, about eight generations separated.

His extended family were not born nobility, but not commoners either. Not unless they earned it.

Regar was a tall and well built man, though not overly massive as his lion of an uncle. A born sword, now captain of the kingsguard. The Little Lion, they called him – a name given in respect to his position among the First Legion, the Iron Lions, and of course his relation to Jartor. He had the features of his uncle too, hard and blunt. None of the femininity of his mother or three sisters.

He could see the men, chains around their knees and ankles, with shackles at their wrists. Tiberius Scarr, a man he knew well. A man that had spent much time schooling him in the way of blade and spear. A true knight, or at least he had been, before he'd had the misfortune of surviving the recent assassination of the young prince. Found bleeding and near death, staring impotently at the decapitated and defiled head of his charge. An unforgivable crime in the eyes of Imperial law.

As for the second man. A foreigner, still green in his knighthood. But this would not save him. Silent as Tiberius was, though for a different reason it seemed. He shook in comparison to the older knights stillness, but he didn't shout or rage or shake his shackles like men were wont to do. When facing the mallet, your best bet was angering the headsmen or the overseer to see a quicker end. Perhaps smart in their silence, there would be no quick death today.

Jartor would not allow it.

“Announcing Sir Regar Faeron of the kingsguard.”

So announced, so he appeared, sidestepping the rear of the white marble throne and letting his long strides carry him down the raised platform it sat on. A beautiful thing, that throne, but uncomfortable. Haran was a hard nation with hard rules, built by even harder men. The cliché of the throne being as uncomfortable as the crown. That seat was older than the palace itself, back when the third primus had taken Haran from a small clan of mountain men and began to shape an empire out of their small piece of land.

He didn't speak or monologue about justice, that Regar. There was a custom for such things, but he knew his uncle would forgive him, a man of few words himself. Instead, he kept it simple. The nobles above nervously eyed the bloodstained mallet and the primus, some more anxious than others. Some looked plain smug. Regar would've spat if not for the cleanliness of the hall and expectations of a kingsguard captain.

“Any words?” He lowered himself. He had no wish to stand tall in superiority over his old mentor, nor the unnamed knight who had yet to earn his spurs. This was not a day for petty enjoyment, but justice had to be served nonetheless. He thought it cruel, but had gained his position through hard work and a keen understanding of the law. His adherence to duty. Not just in words, but his entire self.

Otherwise, the kingsguard was a dull post. Not much need for defending an immortal, a veritable god among men.

Tiber shook his head, and the foreigner didn't reply at all. Regar matched his old teacher, just as somber in the expression. If one had said Tiberius would have ended up in such a position, the captain would've called them a liar or perhaps even dropped the glove on them. There was nobody more loyal to the Empire than the old knight, but here he knelt – all the same. With no fear on his face, resigned to his fate, staring into the jaws of death without balking.

Steel was important in a man, but at times like this – it was just sad. Men should struggle when facing a doom, accepting it communicated a level of cowardice that was below old Tiberius.

“You sure?” Another violation of etiquette. Nobody questioned it. This time, Tiber looked up at him with empty eyes. Weeks had passed, and time it had found itself at home on the old mans face. He looked old now, truly, not the virile middle aged man that Regar remembered. Old, tired, and ready for rest, he'd be given one, Regar hoped. Tiber had a dark past but if anyone had ever found absolution in the eyes of the gods, he hoped this man had.

If the gaze he offered up said anything, it was 'do it.'

'Get it over with.'

'I deserve this.'

Steel in a man. Sad. Regar wanted his old teacher to stand and demand trial by combat. Jartor would've allowed it. Might have allowed the old man to live should he bare teeth like he used to, if it amused him. But there was no fight left in Tiber, not anymore. Regar knew that he wouldn't make a single noise throughout it all. His steel would break before it bent.

“In accordance with the law. And in the name of Primus Jartor Faeron of House Faeron, sovereign of Haran and lord over the northlands – I, Regar Faeron, sentence you to death by breaking.”

The commander felt sick to his stomach, the first time he had ever felt uncomfortable with a direct order. Tiber was first, as per his station. The highest always came first in order, both a privilege and a punishment. Regar handed the mallet gently though with no small amount of reticence to the headsman, a well built man with thick arms, a black ceremonial hood over his face.

“Swing.”

CRACK.

Steel in a man. Three swings of the hammer it took to break his leg. A spray of bright crimson struck the marble floor of the throne room. Tiber didn't scream, didn't even groan. Didn't grit his teeth, his face blank, motionless. Ready. Steel in a man, steel in the land, steel in hand. Tiber wasn't Harani, but Regar knew the old imperial proverb would've been impressed by the iron in him.

“Swing.”

Again, the other leg. This one took four strikes to break, an impressive feat. Regar could see the cracks along the haft of the mallet where it met the head. This headsman was no weak man himself, laboring for breath under his hood after putting all of his strength into each swing. A flicker of embarrassment and rage in his eyes as if to say 'how dare my mallet break before this man did'.

Tiber remained silent, still. When the final stroke on the leg came, the bone was visible through his skin and blood began to pool. With the way things were going, he'd bleed out before the process was finished. A flicker of strain began to show on Tiber's face, reddening, a vein in his forehead begun to pulsate, the only representation of his agony.

A hand was raised, from the throne no less. Jartor was rare to speak, but rarer to move at all in matters of court. Often, he would be as still as a stone until an event concluded, allowing his eyes to speak for him instead. It was easy to tell if an idea would receive his approval or not by the eyes, but a look was rare as well. More commonly he'd let them do as they pleased.

A day for many 'firsts', leaving most wondering what the future had in store for them. Jartor stood then, radiant and fierce. Black hair tied back in a loose warriors tail, fringe bangs, and a well manicured beard that accentuated his masculine beauty. Jartor was not traditionally handsome, he was... Something else, like a statue come to life of such graceful lines as to boggle the mind of any craftsman trying to match his features to a bust. Regal, majestic, something beyond romantic consideration of 'good looking'. Like a tall mountain over a field of snow, or a waterfall, something that struck awe in man.

Beautiful in the way nature was. Not that any woman or man for that matter would deny the draw toward his unique gravity. A gravitas only a primus could command.

He stepped forward, steadily. All that could be heard were the plated boots of his armor clanging gently against the marble stairs. Jartor looked down at Tiber, who struggled to bow in such an awkward position.

“My old friend.” Jartor spoke. “My wife loved you as a brother. To my son, you were an uncle. To me, no less than family. Do not hate me for doing what must be done. I thank you for your service, and your tenacity, I will end you quickly and grant you an appropriate death, I celebrate your strength and commitment to silence.”

Voice a heavy baritone, like two boulders being rubbed together, like the shifting of the continental plates below their feet. Old, ancient, timeless. A pounding of waves against the face of the cliffs on the western coastline. An avalanche. It was a powerful voice that sent every downy hair on a mans body rising when they heard it, as if even the smallest parts of yourself wanted to submit and stand at attention.

The law was the law, and Tiberius was godly enough of a man. A primus' words were akin to that of the gods themselves. He accepted it, managing a nod through the pain that dimmed his vision.

Just a swing. One swing. That's all it would take for Jartor - who's strength was legendary. But for the first time in centuries – maybe his entire life – he hesitated. Tap. Tap. Tap. The call. But it wasn't the intensity of it that concerned him, it was the silence that came when it ceased entirely. Even in his rare sleep he could hear it, and had for over a century. Louder and louder until it felt like a nail being driven into the base of his skull.

Now, there was nothing. For now, he knew it wouldn't last forever. Instead of tranquility, he felt... Not fear, but a discomfort of the mind. This had never happened before. Pleasant, he would have been ecstatic, but it felt wrong. That sound had become like an old friend to him, always present, to have nothing there was... Disturbing.

“My primus?” Regar had a look of concern about him. He'd never seen his uncle hesitate in anything, and was there to observe Jartor, nearly always. Twenty years of observation had given him some measure and understanding of the man, but the waters ran deep in a being that old and mighty. Jartor, and his fellow primus', had forgotten more than mortal men would ever know – by and large. Stepping through many eras to see the very world itself change.

A shake of the head to match the hush of the whisper. Nobody aware of the exchange but the two, not even the headsman who knelt on the floor behind them, mallet pulled from his hand by the primus' own. Not even Tiber, who awaited his death, pacified at the promise of eternal rest though his breaths grew hoarser as the pain took him.

One swing, and the man would break. Jartor would do so, remembering his duty and shrugging aside the curiosity of the call fading in his mind. An end to young Tiber's suffering needed come before Jartor would give way to focusing on himself. This was a man who deserved face, and while Jartor would not forgive such a failure, he was empathetic to it. Tyr had done himself in, and his anger at the passing of his son had faded as he watched this proud man abused at his command.

But again, Jartor paused. He spun away from the kneeling man just in time to catch a streak of white and a flash of steel angled with trained precision at his neck.

–

It had all happened so fast. A fist shot through the marble face, bloodying itself with the shards embedding themselves in the skin. Someone screamed. Undead were uncommon in the Empire, and for one to rise in the capital itself after all manner of rites had been performed on the body? Impossible.

Tyr rose, or what had been Tyr. It was hard to tell. His face had been manicured as best it could to appear human. Nothing could be done to truly reverse the damage though. His body had been defiled, with the rune for 'dog' and worse things carved into the flesh. Both eye sockets were but gaping pits, the organs removed and discarded. A clink of coins falling from their place over the empty eye sockets revealed a nightmarish visage.

Lips cut and torn free to expose a ghastly grin. Presentation of a body before burning was the most common custom, but Tyr had been so monstrously defiled as to appear an aberration. Thus, he had been entombed and preserved with only the likeness carved into the marble to display his face. An uneven line demarcated where he'd been beheaded and stitched back together again.

The figure rose from the pulverized marble... A figure, for it was no prince of theirs, such a thing was impossible. It heaved, a hoarse intake of air through its lip-less mouth. A rattle, an ugly noise from a torn throat, the wheezing and flapping of loose flesh within stood testament to the hasty job. An egg hatching. If one were to observe, that's how it would appear. An egg hatching to birth a true monster into the world. Few felt safe from it, even though the primus himself stood among them.

Tyr's face, or what was left of it, twisted. He began running before coiling his legs beneath him and then bursting toward the primus, the sword that he had been buried with clutched tightly in his hands. The sword of Haran, an ancestral blade and one of powerful magic. Breath caught in throats as they watched it descend towards the neck of their sovereign, steel licked from pommel to tip with pale fire. An eerie thing, like mist toiling off the runic blade.

He knew he had him, his father, that is. Had him dead, and no amount of strength could save him from the edge of this blade. A hand rested on his shoulder, not one of men but of... Something else. Watching him, filling him with confidence when he felt it. A subtle infusion of power, just enough to make him fast enough to kill the bastard. His father. That Primus Jartor that would wreak vengeance on one of their most loyal knights.

A breaking. Tyr couldn't believe it. The cruelest of deaths here in the middle realm, only the northerners could challenge them in brutality with their blood eagles and gilded dragons. Tiber was bleeding. A lot. He'd be dead soon. Tyr had considered waiting until he had to make his move and see to his vengeance. First his father, then the man he hated even more than the former. A gift of knowledge from Thanatos and Baron Regis alike.

But it wasn't flesh that met bastard sword to bastard neck. It was hard. It took a moment for Tyr to realize, with his 'wives' rushing forward to stop him, alongside the household guards. They had weapons, too, his wives. A primus always wed warriors, that was the way. Astrid was poised to loft a spear at him, and Sigi's two handed crescent greataxe was held high, her dress... Dress? Sigi was wearing a dress, Tyr would've laughed if not for the madness in him. Her eyes were wild, ready to cleave him in twain as soon as she reached him. Tyr froze in the air, balanced on that length of steel that had struck hard and fast only to be stopped.

Jartor had caught the blade of the sword between his teeth, still holding the mallet aloft with a look of cold determination, staring at what had been his son once. It had all happened so fast. A primus. No man knew the extent of their abilities. For Jartor, it seemed like the steel within him lay in the mouth, enough steel to stop even the azure length of a cronite blade. Something that shouldn't be possible.

They hadn't even chipped, those teeth. They ground themselves against it until Tyr's own momentum carried his stiff body forward, forced to release his grip lest he break his wrist – flying impotently past his father. He managed to rouse himself just enough to dodge a downward swing of a kingsguard halberd. Another, sloppy in the coming and held by shaking hands. Whatever he was, undead or not – few of these men were used to seeing it and had the fear in them. The mind killer, the thing that made the hands sweat and the leather bound hafts of their weapons run loose in their lips.

Tyr could smell the fear. Taste it. It was thick and viscous on the air. The electric tang of his own adrenaline making him slaver for more. No lips to stop the strings of saliva coming from his bared teeth.

'DIE!' He wanted to scream. Something like that. Instead, it came out as a hoarse roar. Tyr was strong, for his age, but he was just a man. The first knight crumpled under a broken nose, a young man clearly unused to a scrap, clutching at the crunched cartilage to become a heap of limps catching the feet of his brethren. Another met with a kick to the gut. A third, and the last, Tyr pounced on him like a beast. Clawing at the mans gorget until it was free to throttle him.

He felt... A lot. Too much. Waking in such a way after his maddening journey through the stars left him with very little in the way of sanity. His mind was foggy, tinged red after seeing Samson and Tiber on their knees and in chains. Tyr knew what was happening, it hadn't taken but the briefest of moments for the significance of what was being done to them to paint his mind red.

No satisfaction would come of it though. The flat of a wooden mallet cracked against his head and sent him whirling across the floor of the throne room. Strength beyond a man, enough strength to break his neck. He felt it, but he also felt the grinding of bones as they reset themselves. Whatever had happened to him, it wasn't as simple as a resurrection. Everything itched, burning as if he'd been dipped in boiling water. Especially his face and neck. He could feel his own flesh worming independently toward some unknown goal. Little worms licking at every piece of his body, he could see the red tendrils of his own flesh wiggling in his peripheral vision.

“Ahh! Undead! An undead in the capital!”

Women were screaming. So were the men, those in the viewing galleries pushing against one another to escape the room. Jartor was on him, holding the blood caked mallet. Head tilted and brow low. He said nothing, marching forward to push past his impotent knights. Tyr howled up at him in response, a wordless scream that carried all of his emotion after being forced to re-live his own life time and time again during his journey here. The eyes kept showing him failures, all of his failures, painting a reality that even small things he'd barely considered were his worse ones yet. And now he was back, with promises that only more of these failures would come. He hated it, hated his father, hated everything and anything in that moment. Hated it so much he'd kill every living thing on this world just for some semblance of peace. A great desire to paint the world crimson encapsulated his thoughts.

Bastard!

Some less savory words beyond, if that were possible – he would've given voice to them. Without lips, it was hard to speak. Lips were important for that, as was a tongue. Tyr had neither. There was some comedy in that, the idea that if Fennic had lived he could've written 'twins' or some such in the dirt to amuse the man. The old bastard, but he was dead now, and Tyr had no vain amusement left in his raging mind.

“Kill it! Kill the fiend!”

As was Mikhail, the others... Soon to be joined by Tiber and Samson. Tyr cared for them all, in his own way. Wrathful in the sense of a child that was forced to watch his father break his toys, for most of them. And Jartor had. Doing nothing from his throne while the Empire went to shit. Some 'emperor'...

Was there respect in his fathers eyes? Respect in the action of letting the broken boy rise? Respect in offering mallet to son and waving away the knights attempting to encircle him?

Tyr didn't know. He didn't ask. Jartor still held his sword in his teeth, leaving the wooden mallet as his only weapon. Tyr took it, and threw it with all of his might. With all his strength, a strength he shouldn't have been capable of, though he knew this was only temporary. Some lingering magic from the core of energy that lay where his heart should be.

The gaunt, bald, hook nosed bastard. Thanatos had given him the information that years of torture and killing hadn't. This was the man who had done it, and the last man he would've expected. Count Harold of Tercia. A man who had held Tyr aloft in his infancy and a second cousin by blood to Tyr's mother. Just the same, he had seen to her death. As to why, did it matter? Tyr knew why, in his heart of hearts. Maybe. But it didn't matter now. Again, he'd be dead soon – and he'd be damned beyond damned if he wouldn't take the rat bastard with him.

Men are easily broken. All of that life and decades of experience, but with a twist of the hands it was all over. In this case, it was a wooden mallet carried by ungodly precision to catch him in the throat. A long neck, but a thin one, no muscle to it. Knobby around the apple of Adam. Tyr heard the crunch and wet rasping even over the screaming crowd and watched in silence as the man struggled in vain to breathe, trampled by his peers. Whatever fight he'd had in him once, it was gone now. Nobody stopped to save him, not a single one of these powdered wigs cared a lick for the limp man groaning under their frantic flight toward the exits.

Tyr's subsequent attempt to end his father as well was easily foiled by the hands of his 'wives'. They grabbed him, bucking as he was, carrying his weight to the ground and cursing him. Not as a man, but a creature of death. A fiend.

It's done. Your vengeance, rest now.

He had no need to close his eyes for he didn't have any. Those fleshy sponges slowly filling his eye sockets were sightless. All of this had been scripted. Tyr was just a puppet. He could see nothing, smell nothing, taste nothing, and speak... Nothing. Everything was... It was strange. His senses were not his own but those of the mist coiling off his limbs. Now, that mist was gone, and with it – his ability to know what was happening.

Another halberd. It's blade frosty against his neck. The voice of his father giving the order. He heard that... Somehow.