It was a cold room. In more ways that just temperature, it was an uncharacteristically hot and sticky day on the coast, but the room was chilled to the point where mist billowed from the window. A 'study', they called it, even though it didn't look much like one. Everything was stone or metal, not a wood panel present in the place. Even the furniture was carved from the same gray-white marble of the throne. No cushions, no embroidery, no color. Uncomfortable, spartan, cold. Those were the words Tyr might use to describe it. His fathers study. A cold room for a cold man, gray and monotone.

Not seven days of rest and his wounds were healed, even his eye. Again. Vision only the slightest bit blurry and it seemed to improve by the hour. “You called for me?” Tyr looked around the room, suppressing the urge to shiver. It was more than all the stone, something was different about this place. He'd only come here perhaps three times in his entire life. Never in happy circumstances.

“Yes.” Jartor replied, standing in black bearded majesty at the balcony overlooking the city proper. His city. Of all the changes that he'd seen take place in the world over the centuries, and there were many, he liked the capital. Fahl, he remembered when it had been much smaller, once upon a time. It was bittersweet to watch the little ants below change that into something greater. “You seem to have recovered well enough. Not exactly how I would've handled things back in the throne room, but you did handle them.”

“Why can I heal like this?” Tyr ignored his fathers comment on his performance entirely, jumping to the question he'd repeatedly asked the priests for days. All they had done was shake their heads and claim ignorance, something he found hard to believe. “Have I awakened?”

“I do not believe this has anything to do with your primacy.” Jartor shook his head. “It may very well have something to do with your heritage. As for your 'awakening' as they call it – you've already awakened many years ago.”

“...?”

Jartor turned toward his son, seeing his late wife in the boy's eyes if not his features. Many saw Jartor as a hard man, but he was capable of emotion like anyone else, to see an approximate image of the only woman he had loved in over two centuries of life. Primus' felt more than humans ever knew, dedicated their lives to controlling it. “You were awoken on the day that you were born. Before you were born, even. You arrived in this work as 'awake' as any of our kin.”

Tyr felt like laughing. The ridiculousness of the claim astounded him, but Jartor was never one to spout a mistruth. He was too direct and blunt for that. Instead of insulting his father, Tyr remained quiet, content to simply listen for the the first time in a long while. Was this the power of Thanatos, or something else? The 'god' had said nothing of an ability to heal from all wounds. In fact, the contract had been quite clear that Thanatos would only repair his mortal body. Offering no power in return, only a one-time opportunity for a possible resurrection.

“Contrary to popular opinion, a primus has never been born awoken. Ever. Not me, not your grandfather, not all of the grandsires in all of the kingdoms. You were an exception – we and those in the church made privy to this information thought it a miracle. The gift was on you from your first day, until it faded. Now, I cannot see it's light within you. After your mother died, the last shred of what you were died with her. This is not strange in and of itself, the problem is that neither I nor the churches understood your aspect to begin with. Your primus, that which defines you, it's not always so cut and dry as to say 'I am'.”

In other words, Tyr was born strong and had grown weak over time. His memory only went so far back, and he couldn't recall a time where he was ever anything less than a disappointment.

“What do you mean no primus is born awakened? Weren't you?”

Jartor chuckled, not the booming peal of laughter but honest amusement. Tyr had not heard Jartor laugh in many years, and in turn, Jartor hadn't seen his sons features soften to such an extent in twice that time. “I am not perfect, not a god or . Do you hate me boy?”

“I am not sure.” Tyr replied honestly. “Maybe sometimes.”

“I hated my father.” Jartor nodded softly in the evening light. With the oranges and yellows of the sunset he appeared very much the lion emblazoned on their House standard. The white field and the fierce black mane staring straight at anyone who observed it. “For a long time, I hated him. He was the primus of wisdom, and he was wise. Meanwhile, I was a rebellious and headstrong boy not unlike yourself though a little less... Touched. Not so violent.. Something I never blamed you for. I let you seek your vengeance in the hopes that it would reveal your power. It only made it weaker, though I know not why. Strength of limb and wisdom of mind are rarely compatible, you see. Your grandfather and I rarely saw eye to eye, and our relationship for most of our time together was worse than that between us, believe it or not.”

“Why isn't this information taught to us in our childhood? I could've spent all of this time seeking out my aspect. I could've found it, and protected mother. How easy would this have been if you'd just tested me for it?” Tyr wasn't as angry as he might've expected. There were so many things he'd imagine himself saying when he considered having a real conversation with his father. Rehearsed it, over and over again. All those words he'd thought to speak had caught in his throat. At the end of the day, he was still just a boy desperately seeking the validation of his father – and he hated himself for that. Wanted to cut it out of his breast and free himself from the compulsion to behave with such weakness.

“We did. Your entire life has been a test. I did not awaken until I was six years of age, which makes me a late bloomer as far as primus' go. My father was patient with me, and believe it or not – I've been patient with you. Being born awoken... It makes the process difficult. When you were still swaddled, many elders of many races visited to see you. None could determine what your aspect might be, some claimed you were no primus at all.”

Tyr hadn't taken to the quill, the prose, education, marital bonds, ritual both arcane or divine. He only took to one element, which was rare. Primus' were part of the world, natural things a cut above most others, just by birth they should have an intimate relationship with all elements. One stronger than all others, but the four base elements should be like old friends to them. The process of determining a less blunt aspect like Jartor's was intricate and well practiced. Tyr had been introduced to thousands of experiences since birth and they'd never been able to figure out what was inside of him. Even revenge, that had been a test and in context, he had failed.

“Am I a primus?”

Jartor shrugged, the shocking revelation that Jartor didn't know everything there was to know made Tyr's heart sink. “I believe you are, but I truly don't know. You're still my son. As I've said, I felt the light in you. There is a power in every primus that marks us. We are not human as they are, our souls carry a spark and we can... Well, even if I was lost and without a map I could always point in the direction of another primus. Even now, I can feel Ragnar in the north. Octavian in the south, and no on. We do not share this link to you, and never did.”

Tyr had been, most certainly. But after the events some twelve years ago he had... Lost it? There was no precedent for this.

“How did you--”

“Discover mine?” Jartor smiled softly and his eyes took on a glazed look. Even after two centuries he'd never forget that memory. It was very amusing, especially how disappointed his own father had been when it revealed itself. How similar the concepts of wisdom and strength were, but there was also duality in their relationship with one another. “Believe it or not, I was born frail. They call you 'mutt', but they called me a runt. I was the shortest of all my playmates. Sickly, too. I could scarcely keep up with the other boys when we played. One day, it just happened. It was a girl, a girl that I fancied at the time. She seemed impressed by feats of strength as boys are wont to compete in, and I – after many days, mind you – I managed to do it. Flipped a carriage with my own hands, unfortunately this carriage had horses, and so violent my throw that it killed two, maimed the third. My father beat me for that, as I also ended up sending the thing through the wall, resulting in the demolition of a bakery on High Street. Ever since, I was the 'primus of strength'. A simple word to describe the complex seed that serves as a source of my inhuman power.”

“That's...” Jartor was chuckling gently. Meanwhile, Tyr found it hard to believe. “That's not what I'd heard. That is incredibly anticlimactic...”

“Men are simple creatures, Tyr. As are we, and you shouldn't forget that we exist in their service to them. Men believe what the stories become in the legends. After two centuries, words and tales change until...”

As the tales went, Tyr's grandmother had been traveling on a diplomatic mission whilst carrying the child that one would day become Jartor. As the bards would tell it, they were set upon by an army of trolls. One of them rode a black lion twice as high at the shoulder as any horse. According to them, Jartor leaped from his mothers womb, grabbed an axe, and butchered the army. Except for the lion, which the 'great primus' freed from its abuse and bondage, allowing it to run free. In exchange, he was gifted a great boon by the gods that sat warden over the mountains and forests. It was something like that, he had stopped listening most often when it got to this part. Even to his childish ears, the idea of an infant confronting a band of trolls with an axe was hard to believe. It made his grandmother sound like a cannon that had launched her baby as a last act of defiance.

“The point is, Tyr.” Jartor continued. “We've tried to find your spark, but it never surfaced. This is rare, but not unheard of. A primus' powers can wax or wane, though nobody seems to understand why. There have been days where I have been weaker and days where I have been stronger. Yours has been on the wane for as long as you've been alive, and it is your duty to find that spark. I can't find it for you. If anything, I think that my heavy hand and attempt to control you has done more harm than good.”

“You want me to find my aspect?” It wasn't a difficult concept to understand. Most of this information was well known to him, though much of it was a closely guarded secret The difficulty lay in the 'how' he'd go about doing it. There had been a lot of primus' throughout history. Well documented, or perhaps not so considering the unfortunate effect dogma had on information over the centuries. More 'aspects' existed than independent studies of magic, which were already vast beyond belief. “How do you expect me to do that? That's not very helpful...”

Endurance, strength, challenge, wisdom, patience, knowledge, valor, nature, beasts, sky, moon, earth and all of the elements... Hell, there'd even been a 'primus of salt'. Some of them were quite literal. Haran and Varia both had very literally aspects. Strength and endurance, both fairly similar in comparison. But it could be anything that bought an aspect into being... In the old tales, the 'primus of salt' belonging to a long tribe had only discovered his aspect after being drowned twelve times. His people had feared his strange prowess and tried to kill him for it. It wasn't a very happy story. And as with near all of the forgotten primus', nobody even knew his name. Just that 'he' existed.

Tyr was afraid of deep water. There was not a chance in all hells that he'd allow himself to be drowned, aspect be damned. Primus' were not wholly unique to the individual either. A primus of strength for example had existed before. There had been six or seven primus' of war, though never at the same time. Through the process of elimination using conventional knowledge, it'd take an eternity to find his own if he hadn't already.

“You fancy yourself a man, Tyr. And you are now. Seventeen winters and soon to be eighteen. It's time for you to act like one and go find out for yourself.” Jartor concluded. “But first, I'd like to ask toward your future. Have you given thought to attending the academy?”

“The magic academy?” Tyr asked in confusion. His magic was, relatively, fairly weak. He'd used it many times to bluff his way out of difficult situations, but it had never done much for him. He barely used it at all these days. Mages rarely 'got stronger', everyone knew that. They grew into a certain level of ability and everything else came through study or achievement. “There's no way I'm going to a damn magic academy.”

“I understand that with your assessment, you wouldn't normally qualify. But you are a prince, and my son – as well as a primus. This gives you a level of authority. I recommend you attend. Perhaps you shall find the answers you seek there. Our powers do not come from magic, but there may be a relationship between them.”

“I'm still too young.” Tyr replied. Too old, at the same time. Primary education ran from the age of six to the age of eighteen. Secondary education would only come later, and his birthday was in July. It had only just begun to turn autumn in the empire. Mages were proud, prouder still in regard to that which they were permitted to control. They would not make an exception for him just because of his assumed status. Noble mages were more common than mages from the peasantry, but that was likely only due to wealth and access to knowledge. On the whole, they were no fans of the nobility, certainly not the royal family of an empire that effectively indentured them. Mages, even noble born, formed their own factions in the colleges and stepped away from their born houses more often than not.

Mages were feared, reviled in some cases. Haran was a bit softer on them than a nation like Varia, but only a bit. Superstition, the church, and magic did not mix well. You either took the mark, and lived bound by invisible chains, or you took the mark and joined the colleges or a church. Templars were technically mages, but the system that governed them was different. Tyr didn't know how or why, only that it was. Secrecy was part of their supremacy, he supposed.

“Well, you've got time. There are things I need to attend to first before you can leave the capital. Until then...”

“Ah. I know, I was planning to handle it myself.” Tyr knew exactly that which his father was referring. Settling old accounts. Jartor had known everything since the start. Not who was responsible, but he had possessed a general idea of it. Allowing his son to chase down leads instead. He really was, if one was allowed to be inarticulate, a piece of shit. It was akin to the concept of 'sink or swim', a bird being thrown out of the nest. Spread your wings and fly, or die slowly broken on the rocks below.

“Then do so.” Jartor nodded his assent. “After that, consider yourself on your own. There will be no permanent lodging for you here at the palace. You are, unofficially, exiled. Try not to abuse your authority when you're out there, and mull over my recommendation. It's your choice, but I might change my mind and force you to attend regardless of what you decide.”

It was 'for his own good'. Tyr didn't much care for an explanation. There was only death on his mind, and a lot of it would come. In a way, this was bittersweet, knowing his long mission was near at an end.

Seventy one men, that's how many had survived the assault on the warehouse. Or at least how many had been caught attempting to flee the city by the kingsguard and other associated organizations in service to the primus. Tyr killed most of them quickly. He had a sickness in his heart that seemed to grow stronger with every swing of the axe he use.

The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury. A greater man than Tyr had put those words to page, he killed without compassion, remorse, or an ounce of mercy. Perhaps he lived up to that prophecy yet, as the gagged victims were clearly unused to such thoughtless slaughter. He was different, just not in the way the bearded sage was who'd written those words.

Seventy one men, and one woman. Seventy three deaths. He could feel it in her womb. Cut it out of her to ensure that it was dead. He'd done it alone, for there was a darkness to such a deed that Tyr would never sully another mans hands with. But it was necessary, Jartor had claimed. Tyr's virginity was not left intact, they'd taken that too. She had, this woman, whoever she was. Not a peasant though, and Tyr wept when he cut her. Wept when he burnt the bit of red flesh that would never have a chance to grow into something... Living? Was it alive? He wouldn't call it compassion, it was sickening beyond anything he'd ever done, evil even. But he did it, and felt very little.

'There is a reason why there are no bastard primus' in the world. A reason why the priests sanctify and charm the birth. If you do not, I will. This is the way it must be.'

He still hated it. He burned the men, removed them of their parts so that they'd never be able to use them on anyone again in this life or whatever came next. Left exactly thirteen alive and limbless. Mewling, mad things with no eyes to see and no hands to grab. It'd be a slow death for them, cauterized by the fire and left to bake in the sun in square beyond the palace gates. A testament to every member of court to ensure nothing like that would ever happen again.

Tyr was sure it would. Almost eagerly awaiting the day those who'd escaped his wrath revealed themselves once more.

–

“You're leaving?” Astrid was in her court dress. She looked radiant, fine linens just as white as that which she'd worn on her wedding day. A gown of silks and lace that curved in a shallow 'v' just shy of revealing her bosom. A marriage that should be considered invalid, what with the lack of consummation and all. Apparently that didn't bother her too much.

“Yes.” Tyr replied, no interest in a conversation. In truth, he hadn't planned to say his goodbyes at all. A wholly unnecessary thing. They were not friends. It was common for nobles to marry, have a baby or five, and never speak again. Barely a part of each others lives. He had no idea why she would pester him like this.

Still, she did look nice. His heart ached at the idea of it for the briefest flicker of a moment. He had his priorities, and she – sadly – was not one them.

“Where will you go?”

“South, probably.”

She pursed her lips. Sigi was elsewhere, fighting someone, probably. Polishing her armor or reading a book. Climbing rocks or shouting at someone or something. Tyr found that woman in particular to be uniquely strange. Half tomboy and half bookworm. Either chasing him with a stick or asking him for more money to buy something. Jartor was the leader of the household and evidently never refused them anything, but Sigi would always ask Tyr directly. Not like other women though, she'd come back with an armful of scrolls, a book or two, a taxidermied tiger once. The strangest thing she'd ever returned to the keep with was a duck with two heads, one that breathed frost and the other fire. Even now it could be seen in the lower gardens quacking about and... Doing duck things...

“Can I come with you?” Astrid asked, snapping Tyr from his thoughts.

“No.” Regardless of whether he wanted her to or not, it wouldn't be allowed. Jartor would certainly never permit it. Princesses in Oresund might be a rough and rowdy lot like their menfolk, but Haran was different. Equals on paper, until they married – at which point the husbands authority took precedence over the wives. Most of the time. Tyr supposed it depended on their respective lineage, but he was not a woman. He could not empathize with their struggles, only ambiguously aware that they existed.

“What will you do?”

“I suppose I'll walk until my feet get sore. Goodbye, Astrid.” He departed, pack over shoulder and twenty three black hoods silently detaching from their formation against the walls in his wake. Tyr paused for a moment, plucking the ring that sat mostly unused on his dresser, sliding it onto his finger resolutely. “Be uh... Be well.”

“You too.” She replied. Her mouth seemed intent to open once again, but if she said anything beyond that he didn't hear it.

No 'I'll miss you!', or 'I'll be waiting for you.' He supposed it made sense, Tyr certainly didn't deserve either of those. They left in relative silence, no horns of departure for the blackguard. Men with no strong familial ties, titles, or homes of their own – and that's why he'd chose them. Those that had survived. They called themselves blackguard, but all Tyr felt was gray. Leaving the castle behind with nobody to stop him this time.