His family. His wealth. His birthright. All of it gone in a flash – because of that dog prince and his ridiculous accusations. All of their assets taken from their vaults without warning by the kingsguard. Most had been thrown in jail, before their repeated failed attempts to escape met with the fortune of and eerily uniform success. Surely this was proof that the very gods themselves were on their side.

Eight of them, barred from reaching their destination by the monolithic form of a black skinned knight in burnished plate. As large as a man could be, with his thick arms and muscled frame – it wasn't enough to stop their want for vengeance. What could a simple knight do to them? This was a foreigner, and they were nobles. Born nobles, not quite aware of just how low they'd fallen.

Two other knights, much smaller in comparison, fell to the floor prostrate before the primus. “Please forgive us, primus! They said--”

“Yes, yes.” Jartor acknowledge them dispassionately, staring down at the gaggle of youths attempting to skirt around the Agoronian. He had to admit, for a human, the man possessed tremendous potential. Potential that had never been brought out him, whatever past he'd come from. “Return to your posts.”

“Do you know who we are? You peasant! You son of a slave--”

A smack. Not a hard one. Samson possessed a unique physicality, and the nobles so far beneath him in stature were not exactly best suited to handle his dinner plate sized hands. Enough to get their attention Something that would be considered wholly unacceptable for a knight, who's authority paled in comparison to the middle and upper nobility. Barons varied in influence, the title wasn't a clear identifier of how powerful a nobleman actually was. There was a system for it, and it was complex, relating to their faction party in court... Lots of unnecessary things. Baron Regis had a fair bit of authority, considered an 'intermediate' noble.

The prince laughed aloud, his mop of snow white hair framing his overly pretty face. It only served to enrage the group of young men further. Even when dressed like a commoner, the man looked so... Charming, girlish but a cut of masculinity that shaped it. With three stunning beauties as wives and a penchant for murder and thievery. Communing with the common filth and mocking the nobles, thinking himself safe. That would end today.

“We're allowed to be here!” Another boy protested. Young man, actually, this one was definitely in his 20's. “Our houses have been members of court since--”

“Slap him too.” The prince commanded. Samson did so without question, sending a bean pole of a young adult crashing to the ground with a wordless cry. Some of the boys drew their swords, resulting in the kingsguard and archers concealed behind the various banners dressing the walls to do the same. Drawing a weapon in court... Unless one was spurred, meaning they were a knight or knight aspirant under either crown, retainer, or church – nobody was permitted a weapon here. Exceptions were made for mages, but a college mage was essentially a knight, just of a very different order.

The primus raised his hand before the young men were filled with holes. He had no idea what his father would do in such a blatant violation of the rules. Previous event notwithstanding due to context, Tyr had never been so stupid as to draw a weapon in the throne room. This place was... Well, the men considered it sacred, at least.

“It would seem we have guests.” Jartor did not approve of Tyr's petty behavior, flicking the back of the laughing princes head harder than necessary and addressing the boys. “You are no members of this court, stripped of your titles and annuities, and your sires are dead. You have no right to be here, let alone draw steel on a knight of my House. Though, as you are only children, I will allow you to state your demands.”

“Primus! Forgive us, but we contest this! We had nothing to do with the actions of our--”

The prince laughed again, receiving another flick and cursing at his father.

“Your sires were all responsible for a grave crime. Treason. What is the punishment for treason?” Jartor asked once the room had settled down, this was a drama many of the nobles could get behind. Baron Regis was quite rich and where there was a power vacuum, there was room for advancing their houses. And it wasn't just that House being 'represented' here today. Many had fallen, Tiber had released the dossiers on every complicit house while Tyr had been 'dead'. Jartor, efficient as always, had them all rounded up within a single day. Wives, sons, concubines, even the servants that participated in related activities.

“Death, sire, but--”

“And this sentence has been carried out, in a roundabout way. Have I sentenced you to death? You, or your mothers, retainers, or extended families?”

“No, my primus, but--”

“I've even offered you the good grace of allowing you to be freed from your cells by your hired hands, and still... What do you do? I gave you a choice, and you chose to come here rather than flee. Brave, I'll admit, entertaining even. But foolish. Not one of you is absolved of sin.”

You couldn't get a word past Jartor Faeron on the rare occasion that he spoke. He had that way about him, what people called gravitas. Only now did Tyr realize how clever his father actually was, correctly surmising that the man had known more than he let on. Even the primus had been playing the game, in his own way – and he was still playing it. For who's benefit? The prince had no idea.

The palace was a vault. Not just a palace, but the most fortified citadel in the entire empire. One didn't simply walk through the front gates unannounced, and yet they'd been allowed to. For what purpose, that remained unclear. Regar had yet to draw steel, connecting the dots came easily. The kingsguard had allowed them to pass, to come here, leaving the regular palace guard on their own.

“You mortals. Always caught up in your games and your intrigues. Do you think me a dull man, boy?”

This boy, a man that seemed nearer to his thirties than his youth, balked. Perhaps realizing his mistake, too late now. Even in the face of the primus himself he clung to his fragile ego and seemed intent on demand of an accounting. “No, my primus. But--”

“You're right.” Jartor nodded, not taking the time to allow the man to finish. “Your fathers did this, not you specifically. Perhaps you are blameless. In that case, does it please the court for me to allow my son to handle such a thing? The prince has been lax in his duties, and I have been lax in delegation to ensure he is ready for my crown.”

Every man and woman present indicated the affirmative, raising their hands in the 'yay'. It wasn't a question, the primus didn't ask questions. Each and every member of the court had heard of the accusations levied against the houses complicit in the empress' death.

“Indeed. In that case, my son...?”

Tyr stepped forward, limping under the strain of his wounds. He was starting to tire again. Magic, even healing magic, was predicated on the vitality one possessed in their own body. It wouldn't be enough to keep him standing for much longer – but he was far from collapsing just yet.

“What do you want?” Tyr asked, simple and to the point. He blinked hard, twice, hallucinating from lack of proper rest maybe. He could've sworn there was a haze around their bodies, a smokiness in the air or... A hot summer day where the air above the sun beaten flagstones began to warp. He could smell it, a most unpleasant odor.

“We want...” They seemed unsure, everything had been going to plan – filling them with confidence. Until now.

“Justice! We want justice!”

“And that would entail... ? You'll have to be more specific.” Tyr mimicked a yawn. “See, I'm very sleepy and I'm not an educated law man. Justice for what?”

Every man had a string, or strings. Strings you could pluck at to draw the reaction you needed when dealing with them. Whether it be in a fight, debate, or negotiation of trade. Pride, fear, shame, greed... It didn't matter, people weren't so different at the end of the day. Put a steak in the mouth of a wolf hunting you and suddenly that wolf finds itself less keen to chase its prey. Do this many times, and you might just have a loyal hound at your side. Unfortunately for these men, Tyr was fresh out of meat to offer.

“You killed our fathers! Do not lie, we know it to be true! You are not primus yet, you are not the law!”

“Yes. I killed your father.” Tyr shrugged, he felt none of the remorse or anxiety they might had expected. He allowed just enough emotion to show on his face as to communicate his amusement at the allusion that he was anything less than happy about what he'd done. “They deserved it. Now, I hope, you can get to the point?”

A thrown glove was answer enough. One glove, and then many, slapping loosely against Tyr's chest. Many could call the nobles 'monsters' based on deed and disposition, but true monsters were rare among men. Few were actually evil, instead they were just greedy or... Misguided. Greed wasn't evil, greed was at the fore of all mankind's accomplishments. These men were greedy for justice, or perhaps revenge. Their houses were gone, their sires dead, and everything they'd once thought owed to them was dust. They, in their ridiculous entitlement, thought everything had been taken from them. But not everything. Not yet. A person was born with a life, limbs and a back to carry them through the last thing they still possessed. Their lives.

“Pick it up.” There was no laughter or amusement in Tyr's voice, now. This was serious, nobody had ever challenged him to an honor duel before. “Don't be stupid. Leave here, and I'll let you live. I am a trained knight of the dawnguard, you can barely hold your weapons, there is no honor in this for me.”

“The mutt prince is afraid...? Haaa!?”

Tyr sighed. He was long passed the time where he'd fly into a rage at something as simple as the irreverent sobriquet. But he had his pride, and it pressed on him to pluck the glove from the floor and wear it while he gouged their eyes out. “One more chance. Pick the glove up, and leave. I will kill you. I'm quite good at it. At the very least, name a champion. Use your head.”

Jartor continued to watch the exchange alongside his daughter-in-laws. Sigi seemed ready to challenge the men herself, feeling left out. Astrid's face remained placid.

“Pick up the glove!” One of the men, a short one... Maybe in his early 20's... Tyr's first observation was that he had a nice head of hair, beautiful eyes, but his lips were far too big for his face. Very red, almost like he was wearing lipstick the way it contrasted his pale skin. “Half breed!”

That was enough. To be a mutt or a dog or a coward is one thing – but a half breed? 'Half breed' was an insult not just to himself, but to his mother. Tyr would remember the look on the mans face for the rest of his life. Few expect to reach toward their face to find eight inches of dwarf forged mithril bisecting their nasal bridge.

It was the first time Tyr had ever used his grandfathers gift in violence. The man fell with a soft wheeze, whoever he was. Like a punctured air bladder emptying its contents into the atmosphere, whistling through the hole in his face. It seemed appropriate, he'd snubbed his nose at Tyr's heritage, and Tyr had split that nose right in half.

“You coward!” It was a fair claim. A duel was a duel, a sanctioned and regulated meeting of swords. Combat didn't begin as soon as the gauntlet dropped. Tyr had done this on purpose, seeing right through their plan to tire him through consecutive bouts. He was injured, after all, and Jartor showed no sign of attempting to stop it. The problem was – for them – they have grossly overestimated their abilities.

Not a single one of them appeared to be a knight, and only one held his sword with a proper grip. The most any of them had ever done was beat and rape the odd servant girl, or abuse peasants living on their families demesne. Tyr didn't know how he knew this, but he did. Some of them just... Smelled like it.

“Shut your mouth.” Tyr barked. “Last chance. Leave, or fight me, all of you at once. Make your choice.”

Samson didn't protest as Tyr dragged the halberd from his hand. More of a poleaxe really, what with its length – but he wasn't exactly an authority on weapon classification. It was heavy, too, a well balanced solid weight that dragged his center of mass down and forward. A bit too big for Tyr, it was designed for a much stronger man. Tyr was used to the steady weight of a hatchet, sword, or much lighter spear. He'd never fought with one of these before.

Shit...

It really was heavy. Twenty five, thirty pounds... Between twelve and thirteen 'kilograms' as dwarves measured things. It was a wonder Samson could swing such a weapon freely for any period of time. It was all that he had, though. Tiber's sword was a weapon of heritage, and though he would yield it without complaint – it would dishonor him. It was the same sword he'd been 'gifted' by the primus after his great failure to protect Signe, a piece of shit sword with a rolled edge and chips on it. Not permitted to repair or reforge it, or use any other weapon. Custom and tradition were like that, a massive pain in the ass. As for his own sword, he simply hadn't brought it. Hence the knife that lay sunk into big lips' skull.

“Come.” A simple taunt. They howled like idiots, some of their battle cries would've been more appropriate coming from a shrieking woman. Awkward and unwieldy. Pale things, soft products of luxury. In comparison, Tyr's whole life had been work. He'd had a weighted trainer in his hand since the age of three, never far from a weapon of some kind. That was not the way these men had been raised.

The first strike was even and off balance. A wide swipe of an axe too heavy for the young man wielding it, soaring wide and left. Tyr didn't swing the halberd, opting to punch at the knobby apple on the mans neck. It crunched beneath his knuckles like venison gristle, an unpleasant noise that disturbed the ears, greeted by a choking warble and clang of steel immediately released in lieu of grabbing at the neck.

The next wasn't so different. An awkward thrust carried by the weight of the soft man behind it, struggling to hold the length of his broadsword steady. Tyr sidestepped it, rolling neatly around the mans flank and burying the sharp point of the halberd in the gut of the boy that followed up the initial attack. Unused to steel, unused to pain – the boy crumpled in a fit of howls. Tyr scoffed, finding himself wondering how these 'men' had even earned their positions. The tip of the halberd hadn't even broken the skin, catching on a concealed leather jerkin. Maybe a layer of the chain.

Tyr was still weak, there hadn't been much force behind the thrust. He silenced the man with a flourished turn of the polearm. Stabbing padded leather might provide some challenge, but the blade of a Harani forged halberd would find the neck of a downed opponent a poor match for its edge. It's silver edge dyed crimson by the spraying arterial blood, Tyr's eyes were without emotion as he cleanly decapitated the boy. It's edge cracked against the marble with the motion of the chop reticent of a lumberjack seeing to his firewood. A lot of blood came from that chopped neck, enough to coat the floor and cause the man spinning in an ungainly way behind him to stumble.

“Coward, mutt, half--!”

Tyr had no need to turn, simply sidestepping and catching the man in the gut with the rear spike of the ungainly weapon. With the weight of it, and the momentum of the charge – the point of the thing carried straight through the linen shirt and between the mans ribs. Tyr left this one to die slowly, based on feel he had punctured a lung. A rough way to die.

Two opponents left. One, the man who had spoken first and the eldest among them. The other... The other had held the broadsword and missed Tyr completely. Panting, eyes wide with the fear, that tip wavering about again in horror as he watched his peers die. There was the matter of the man who'd had the wind knocked out of him, though. Tyr stepped over and just as the man attempted to rise, kicked him viciously in the chin, snapping his head upward. “I told you.” Tyr said, reaching his hand into the open mouth as far as he could lodge it and letting him drown in his own vomit. It took a while, over a minute, but this one was quite rank with the stench. Something wrong about him but now he was dead.

“What's your name, boy?” Tyr turned, using the identifier of 'boy', but in all reality he wasn't much younger than himself. A chubby lad clutching a well adorned broadsword like his life depended on it. Eyes filled with terror.

No steel.

By happenstance, it had been the only boy to not throw a gauntlet. On further inspection, he was the only one of them wearing his glove. His house standard was still embroidered on his stained doublet, a red chalice on a field of white with a foxes head pocking out of it.

“Ah, young Baronet Regis. Didn't you have a brother?”

The boy couldn't speak, and didn't, continuing to shake and waver with the whites in his eyes clearly visible in his fear. Tyr shrugged, there was no challenge or fun to be had taunting the weak beyond what was necessary. All he was left with was the older man, in his late twenties. Gaunt and hooked nosed, he recognized the man immediately. Like father, like son.

This one had some confidence to him, a razor sharp rapier held loosely in his left hand, right tucked neatly behind his back. Milano style sword, that of fencing and flashy maneuvers. Of all the men lying dead or dying on the throne room floor, this was the only one who had shown any grit at all. And yet he had waited until everyone else had dispatched, motionless in the rear. Cowardly, waiting for Tyr to be tired out, probably not expecting it all to end in less than 30 seconds. Tyr had even revealed his back to the man on two occasions and he hadn't taken advantage of it.

At least this one is trained...

Hawk eyed and steady, but weak in body. As was Tyr, in his current condition. He might even lose this fight, it wasn't impossible A halberd was a good weapon, a balanced weapon that could be used in all sorts of situations – but with his lack of ability to wield it freely it was at a disadvantage against a rapier. Halberd's were made for men in armor, not for the prince dressed in only linens and soft buckskin breeches.

This son of the count and mastermind of Signe's murder wasn't half bad. Count... Randal? Something like that, Tyr's mind was starting to blur with exhaustion. At the very least, he was fast and agile. Tyr was sluggish in comparison. It was of no surprise to anyone when the rapier rolled around his guard like a snake to strike as his shoulder. Just below the joint, it bit into his flesh

“Tsk. I'll admit, you're not half bad – but I expected more from our prince. Even with your mongrel blo--”

Duels were primarily to first blood or submission. After all, if every challenge of a duel resulted in one or both parties being killed – Haran would never lack for open seats among among the nobility. The problem was, those were the rules. Those who played the game knew better than to allow themselves to be wrapped up in regulation they had no need to follow. Duel customs be damned, Tyr was not only the prince but also the challenged. Once they had rushed him as a unit, the concept of a 'duel' no longer existed and he had the authority to call it whatever he'd like.

Thus, imagine the surprise of this man, the son of the count that had hired the hands that killed Tyr's mother – watching the bloodshot eyes of his sworn enemy grow closer. That's the thing about a rapier, its a shit weapon designed for over privileged fops who'd pretend at fighting. Sure, it'd kill a man, as sharp pointy steel was wont to do – but men of killing wouldn't carry a rapier when so many other options were available. It stung and pierced, and it took a long while for a man to bleed out through such a shallow wound.

It was in the predilection of 'sticking'. Stuck on chain, stuck in leather or cloth, and with little weight or leverage to see itself free. Perhaps if it was a true rapier and not a wide beveled saber with a basket grip. Tyr didn't know, but he could feel the blade split the skin and erupt in a wash of blood on his back when he carried his own weight into the thrust. It hurt, the thing was sharp and enchanted for piercing, lodged firmly against his clavicle.

Balking at the devilish sight, the man swiftly plucked a dagger from his belt. A thin and stiff bladed rondel made for punching through plate. Perfect for finding it's way through gaps in a knights armor, notably the eye slits present on a helmet. And that's exactly what the man did, forcing it through Tyr's left eye with a squelch until it too emerged from the other side of his head.

Someone called out for him, or to him – he couldn't tell – only aware that it was a horrified exclamation full of concern. The vague shuffling of armor before it was stopped in its tracks by something to the side. Tyr had been surprised by the deftness of the thrust, impressed at how fast it had come. His vision dimmed, the pain was unbearable, but he could hear one thing rather clearly. Some nervous boast from the count's son. He didn't know exactly what the man had said, but it made him angry.

Like a hot needle... No, he literally had a knife through his eye – there was no need for metaphor nor simile. The problem was...

How am I alive...? Tyr's faculties remained enough to consider the fact that his brain had been stuck clean through and yet he was still... Well, thinking... Better to take advantage of a situation once it presented itself.

“W-wha--”

Tyr, skewered by not one but two blades pounced on the man. The grinding, mind splitting pain was enough to make him howl, dagger buried to its hilt in his skull. The throne room seemed half lit in candlelight. Pain came in flashes, in his shoulder, eye, and hands. Eventually, he felt it. The wilting and slackness of the man beneath him. Howling like an animal with a face masked in blood, beating him to death with his bare fists. Slamming his knuckles into the mans face until little was left but gristle, pulped cartilage, and splintered bone.

“Is he dead? I can't see...” Tyr punched again for good measure. His free eye seemed completely worthless, everything washed through with a formless scarlet.

“Yes. Well fought, my prince.” That was Tiber, Tyr would recognize his voice anywhere. His father must've held the man back from intervening. It was good that he had, Tyr would've lashed out at him too in his confusion. Though he figured Tiber probably would've been able to disable him in any case, Tyr wasn't a real threat. Not like this.

“Oi...” Sigi, he thought. She was close, sounding near to his shoulder with his body slowly being lifted and stabilized by three or maybe four pairs of hands. “You have a, uh... You have a knife in your eye.”

“It hurts.”

“I should think so...”

He tried to shrug in his swaggering sarcastic sort of way only to wince as the rapier sent another wave of pain through his shoulder. It was deep now, almost to the fuller in his flesh. Pushed deeper by his assault on the counts son. “Please pull it out.”

“Healer!” Someone called. Tyr didn't recognize their voice, it sounded like a woman.

“Wait, there's one more of you isn't there? Regis, you here?”

“Yes, uh... P-prince...” Metal clattered to the floor, followed by a fleshy thump. The boy had keeled over, maybe even prostrated him entirely. The smell... It was clear that he'd pissed himself. Tyr had no fight left in him. By all accounts, he should be dead – a steel spike pushed through him like that. He was bleeding a lot, and could both feel and hear the misting blood coming from his ruined eye.

“Come here, Regis. Pull this dagger out of my skull and I'll let you live.”

To his credit, the boy did as he was asked, not gently either. Shaking as he was, it felt like he did more damage in the removing of it than the knife had caused in the first place. It earned him a backhand, or something like that. More like an angry swat of the wrist, Tyr couldn't so much as curl his fingers with the state his hands were in. A mans skull was hard, and so was marble. Tyr had hit both.

“Get out of here.”

Regis didn't reply. Something Regis, Tyr would have to remember his name later. A fat ginger cunt with a pig nose and weak bladder. An 'are you sure, my prince?' from a kingsguard came, but Tyr ignored that. If the child rose to power again to threaten his life, so be it.

“Are you alright?” Astrid assisted in holding him down while the rapier was dragged from his shoulder and replaced by the dull heat of healing magic. A primus was a strange thing, capable of stuff of legends and uniformly immortal. Not invincible, they could be injured in some cases. She chalked it up to that, but she'd never seen any man regardless of their title take such a wound like that and shrug it off. There weren't enough primus' left to draw a conclusion.

“Well... You know.” Tyr repeated with grit teeth. “It definitely hurts.”

“They have a legend in our lands.” Sigi mused with a grim chuckle. “The one eyed wolf that chases the moon away after Lady Luna failed to fell it with an arrow. Guess we could call you the one eyed wolf, or perhaps mutt from now on. They call you one eye already, right? Perhaps this is all prophecy.”

“Shut up.”

From her, the words didn't rouse any anger in him. Not that he could manage any emotion at all in holding back his grunts and wails. The agony he was in was fierce. He'd taken knives before, but something about the hole in his head felt off. Tyr supposed it should, considering his brain had been skewered. But the brain didn't have any nerves, so it shouldn't be painful to this extent.. Vision returning, albeit slowly and only in one eye, he saw what he had wrought.

This man, the son of Count Landis, that was his name, was ravaged. Very dead. His skull collapsed and pulped under the assault it had taken. Grotesque, his eyes bulging and jellied, bits of shattered teeth poking through his lips. Lots of blood, too. It always surprised Tyr how men carried so much blood within them.