The men had stopped leaving. That was good. He supposed. No more desertions had happened, though Tyr considered them little. He valued the men for what they were, a tool, but ultimately they were free men and bound by no true oath. As he'd said to Mikhail...

'If they want to leave, let them leave.'

His training grew less in the physical and more in the... Spiritual? That's what Thomas said. Tyr didn't really 'get' it. All of it was so vague and open ended. Tyr understood a lifting of weights or repetition of effort to build at ones body, but the ways of the sage or the learned were beyond him. Still, he listened. On this day, where he was to perform the fire dance, Thomas he insisted that he'd gone as far as he could on practiced ritual alone. His job for today?

'Walk around.'

What kind of ridiculous notion was that? To 'walk around' seemed no objective at all, but Tyr still walked, trapped in a sunk cost fallacy of effort. Surely it would all mean something eventually. Walking the old stone paths through the forest ringing the village, long weathered by the passage of time. The old places, they called them. Monuments of stone and plaster that had stood the test of the ages. Some testament to civilizations long passed with no apparent purpose. 'Art', maybe. This world was old, and so were the dark placed in the wood. Old beyond ken, older than even the memory of the primus' that ruled the over what some called their 'lesser kin'. Insignificant as much as the next man in their temporary stay here among the roots and trees and mountains.

Maybe this was the lesson. Another underpinning of Tyr's helplessness against time. His own insignificance. If it was, he didn't think he needed it. He understood that the world would move on without him, or his father, or every man that he'd ever met. Even the strongest hand could leave naught but a scratch on the world before their mark was scoured from any stone and left little more than an uneven blemish. Tyr doubted that, though. Thomas seemed cruel at times, but in truth he was not. There was only wisdom in his teachings, and Tyr began to accept the pain and discomfort of coming to his conclusion as part of the path, his fault for weakness, not anyone elses. Walking hurt his feet, and thinking about the philosophy of his erstwhile master hurt his brain. There was always a point to it all, whether the prince was able to see it or not. Eventually he would. Through all the spitting, cursing, and gnashing of teeth.

Didn't seem like a day for answers, in any case. He left the forest as empty as he'd been upon entering them. No, not empty. It was fulfilling, in a way, to stare upon the relics of the past. He liked the stories, wishing the dark places would tell theirs. As ever, they remained as silent. More so, in fact. Clinging to their secrets.

“Big brother!” Tyr had forgotten the boy's name. Boys and girls both, the younglings of the village. A lot of them, the children of a well fed village who enjoyed their fleeting youth by running barefoot through the trees and half cobbled roads. They would harass him nonstop, following him down the paths with giggling laughter. Playing at their games or sharing stories they'd heard from some place or another. Tyr envied them too, for their innocence. Their easy life and relative lack of worries. Clean hands. No matter how dirt caked and filthy their hands became, Tyr knew his were dirtier.

“Hello.” He spoke softly. As irritating as they were, children were blameless. Tyr had little experience with the young, having been surrounded by old men and crones for most of his life. Too many old people. Children were innocence walking, he bore no ill will toward the boys with their snotty noses and the girls who acted and dressed the same as the boys. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell the genders apart. Not like it mattered. They would be and become who they wanted to be. This was a gift and liberty that Tyr would never question. Boy, girl, tomboy, or otherwise. People had a right to choose. They were free to do as they'd like and as long as he was prince or primus he would...

Protect them? Yes. He would do that. He had to. Children, as Thomas had explained, were the future. Jartor himself had said this almost in verbatim. Such a simple thing. They had an undeniable right to be and no man or woman could tell them otherwise.

“What are you doing?” One of the boys asked. A scrawny youth of no more than seven winters, with bright green eyes and a handsome face half caked in mud.

“Go wash yourself, boy. You stink like a pig's ass.”

They laughed. These children would laugh at everything. Tyr didn't understand that either. There was something unconditional about how they treated him. Something that he knew that he did not deserve. They called him 'big brother', as if he were one of their own. It was, in its way, a balm to the spirit. To be an older brother. Tyr had two younger sisters, Signe's children as well, and had never been permitted to speak to them. Not since his mother had passed. He'd seen few of his siblings otherwise, mostly segregated by his father. Jartor had said this was for the best, something had happened in the past with a wife of his. The one before Signe. Tyr didn't know her.

But he'd heard things. Not all of them good. He'd have preferred the children of this place be his siblings rather than those of true blood. Some of those women that shared his heritage were... Well, not great people. Excuses or not, given their upbringing and absent father, they were still not quite so bad as Tyr. His only justification being the fact that he was male and heir primus.

“Not as much as you, big bro. You have long hair like a girl but smell like a boy. My mother says that you're beautiful. Best hope my paw doesn't see you pointing your eyes in the wrong direction!” Another laugh. Tyr didn't understand the joke, if there was one. These kids were clever and spoke as if adults at times. Fancied themselves as grown, too, dreaming of swords and maidens and knighthood. Playing with sticks and beating at his thighs from time to time with demands of a duel. He'd accepted. As one might expect, he'd never lost. Yet still, troubling the prince, they kept pestering him for more beatings. Like it was fun, getting thrown around into the mud, these children fancied themselves invincible. They saw him as a knight, and he allowed them to. Some begged him for a squire, but Tyr did not possess the right nor the authority to give a man his spurs. He wouldn't be given leave to spur a man until he was twenty years of age, at a minimum.

Or a woman, Tyr had pondered the old man's questions wondered if he would ever have a woman for a squire. After all, female knights existed in the extra-national chapters. The Blue Rose, Water Temple, etc. Famous organizations, well lauded and celebrated all around the world.

“And where's this 'paw' of yours, you rat?” Tyr's tone was accusing and arrogant, but his gaze was soft. They laughed again, scurrying away from his grasping hands. The villagers were kind to him. Kind enough. They didn't like much of the blackguard, but the presence of swords seemed to soothe their tired spirits and they mostly minded themselves. Even fed themselves, those 'hoods'. Hunted and gamed, leaving free furs for the villagers to sell as they'd like. Few 'knights' were so giving or mindful around these parts.

Samson in particular was the favorite to both the old and young. The children would clamber about his still body like climbing a tree and he would softly hum some strange tune of his people. Smiling like a statue as they tugged at his braids and pestered him with questions. Tyr found them annoying, but Samson bore a great love for the young ones. He would play with them, in his way, speak to them and sometimes tell them stories over the fire before they went to bed.

He'd never talked to Tyr as much as he spoke to the boys and girls of the village. Hauling logs single-handedly and acting very much the chivalrous knight. Always helping, mostly silent, watching over the children as the adults worked. Never complaining as he was struck in the head by a loose rock or rapped on the arm with a switch in their never ending mischief. Tyr often slipped away, so Samson had filled his time with other things. Growing comfortable in the shade beneath the unending trees.

“Big brother?”

“Hmm?” Tyr asked. One of the more effeminate boys was braiding his hair, of which the length had passed his shoulder. Cording it in the back with practiced hands alongside his twin sister. Doing a spectacular job, what they called a 'rangers knot' here. A pleated strip of hair stretching down his back typically thrown over the shoulder to hand over his chest. Loosely worn hair pulled at brambles and branches in the undergrowth, so this was a popular hairstyle in the region.

'Big brother'. They had an odd way of speaking in these parts. To refer to one as family by common term was bizarre near the city. The raw disrespect of it, if one were noble... The allusion or inference that you were equitable under blood or lawful relation. People took their titles too seriously, Tyr thought. Here, they were less formal and more friendly. Big brother, little brother, or just brother. Everyone gave him a titled honorific that seemed strange to him, but he didn't dislike it.

The boy hanging from his outstretched arm giggled and spoke again. “My sister is almost of an age and seeks a husband. She is very pretty, will you marry her? Then we can be real brothers.”

“I'm already married.” Tyr responded an amused snort.

“It'll be our secret. Please? She doesn't have to know.”

“You wouldn't be asking me that question if you knew my wives.” Tyr could only imagine how Sigi or Astrid alike would feel about him getting married to some commoner in the boonies. Regardless, 'of an age' meant '14'. He didn't think that was right. After observing his own faults and lack of wisdom regarding what he wanted out of life... To marry at the age of fourteen suddenly seemed so foolish. Tyr was only now starting on his path, people should wait longer before deciding who to pair with.

“Then duel me!” The boy dropped from Tyr's arm and swaggered over to a pile of kindling set beside the longhouse. These were their weapons of choice, plucking a switch from the pile and settling into what must've been, in the child's mind, a fighting stance. “If I win, you marry my sister and my mother.”

“That doesn't sound right...” Tyr responded. If he remembered correctly, the tall child was Micah's youngest brother. He couldn't remember the boys name, but he towered over his fellows in a mirror image of his eldest brother. Even at the age of ten or so, he stood nearly five feet tall. Too tall to be hanging off the arms of a man only a foot or so taller, that's for sure, yet Tyr entertained them regardless so as to avoid being hit with rocks or splashed with water.

Better to pick one's conflicts wisely.

He laughed, the prince, picking up a stick of his own and forming up against the lad. “Ah, you're no match for me you cretin.”

“I, the greatest knight in the empire, will defeat you. You demon!” Micah's younger brother, that boy could barely hold back his chuckle as he awkwardly swung his stick until something thwacked into the gate overhead.

Hmm? Tyr turned, Micah's younger brother... Isaac... His name was Isaac. And Isaac paled abruptly, letting out an awkward wheeze, staring behind Tyr's shoulder with a pale face.

Children began to run away in a panic, with some staring at the arrow that had buried itself in the thick pine palisade with similarly shocked expressions. Dragged away by their fellows and other friends. As for Tyr and Isaac, they turned to face the small group of men with varying degrees of confidence. As with most children, they would venerate and emulate the elders around them. Tyr found himself near ready to slap the boy about the head as he noticed his every minutia of movement was being mimicked, albeit awkwardly. Isaac was emulating him, and while he was obviously terrified, he saw Tyr as a knight, something he wished to be in the future.

“And you are...?” Tyr asked. He almost laughed when Isaac mimicked that as well.

“W-who goes there!?” The child stammered.

Not one man, but four. Four hooded men in tattered brown clothing that must have been a gray of some sort once upon a time. They were dirty, and clearly hadn't bathed in a while. Downwind of them, the prince felt his nose crinkle at the smell. Growing more sensitive to these things while staying among a village of well washed commoners so near a river and all of the amenities fresh water could provide.

“Got us a live one. What say I stick an arrow between this pretty boys eyes?” One of the men chuckled. Cackled, would perhaps be the more accurate depiction of the sound he made. Like a hyena half starved. It reminded Tyr of Tor's laugh. Tyr, Tor. Tor Tyr. Tortoise. The man was toothless and for some reason it elicited thoughts of a turtle in Tyr's mind.

“Who are you?” The prince repeated calmly, dragging the boy to his right behind him and never keeping his hand far from the handle of his knife. These parts were safe, so he didn't always carry his sword. As of now, it was likely resting on the covers of his bed. His habit of wearing it had relaxed in the face of never needing it for much of anything, out here in these quiet woods.

“Oi, he's daft in the brain.” Another man laughed. “We's uh... Bandits. 'Spose? Who the hell are you? Not seen such a pretty one out here in Riverwood in... Never seen a noble in Riverwood at all actually.”

“My name is Tyr.” Tyr replied. “Tyr... Ebonfist. A knight.” He used the last name of his late mother, a house that still existed in Oresund. He'd hoped that the name of this great house might cow them, but they didn't seem to recognize it. Not overly surprising, peasants and commoners rarely took interest toward foreign affairs, or their houses.

“A knight?” The first man guffawed, revealing a set of uneven teeth with half of them half worn to black. Not keen on dental hygiene, this one. “A knight with no sword. A knight, this boy says? You think me an idiot?”

“Shut up, Carlson.” A voice came from the thick foliage near the side of the road. “Come out, we have land to cover today and I have no interest in gaming about.”

First, it was only one. A well dressed man with a manicured goatee and a shock of black hair that hung to the neck. Tall and gaunt, overly skinny if Tyr was any judge. Not a lick of muscle on the man. Clean, though. Too clean to be a 'bandit'. After him came many more. A dozen, and then two dozen. Before Tyr had much of a chance to react, there were fifty men standing in front of him in a rough formation.

Rough men. Road men. Or at least they'd fancy themselves so. Tyr recognized desperation when he saw it. There were no mercenaries, not a lick of steel in most of them. It was the finely groomed man at their head that concerned him the most. Otherwise, they weren't so impressive. Certainly not career bandits. More like clumsy thugs. Tyr hadn't feared their ilk before, and now... It was almost laughable, trying to posture like this.

“Go home, Isaac. Lock the gate behind you.”

“But--”

“Do it now. Protect your family.” There was an authority in Tyr's voice that brooked no question. His own emulation of his father. A poor thing in comparison. Nevertheless, to a boy well used to scoldings from his parents – it worked just as well. The flimsy gate was swung shut with the dull clamor of log striking log. A pitiful thing, calling it a gate seemed an insult. Six inches at best of roughly hewn pine that a large man could kick through should they had the red on them.

“Who are you?” Tyr repeated for the final time. He didn't much like talking, and less so repeating himself. This time, he addressed the only man with an intellectual quality to him. Or rather, more crudely, the only man with a brain enough to wash while on the road.

“Curtis Greenwind.” The reply was simple, bereft of any honorific. This man was no noble, Tyr could tell, but he had – once, perhaps – occupied a position of some authority. A simple response one would expect given to a man of inferior position, communicating that Curtis did not respect the simple position of 'knight'. If he believed the claim at all. In his black linen and leather riding pants, Tyr appeared to be like any other man, albeit slightly better in the dressing. Taller, well shouldered, nicely built. Not like the stouter men more common in the region. But unlike a knight he wore no armor today, no rings or obvious jewelry either.

“What do you want, Curtis Greenwind?” Tyr asked, as simple a request as the answer he'd be given. If it had been the three, or five, or even ten – he'd have felt confidence. Near sixty men stood on the road now. A warband in and of himself. He'd grown in the preceding months, but not to the point where he could handle them on his own. He would stand, though. Almost eager to see just how immune to death he was.

“Horses. Gold. Provisions. What else could a man want for?” Curtis' lips curled into a sneer. He was a handsome man, but he had a wicked look about him. Dark and brooding as northern imperials were wont to be. “Ten horses, a hundred sovereigns, and... Let's say two months of provisions for a group of sixty. All for the price of... Well, we won't kill every man woman and child in the village. What say you?”

Tyr laughed at that. An anxious laugh, but a laugh to draw the ire nonetheless. They could field six horses total, perhaps twenty crowns. As for the food? That was the only demand, should they have the disposition to offer it, they'd be able to meet. Even if they included the goods present in the village, they'd manage fifty crowns... At best, a fact shared by Rorik. Tyr had no eye for trade or the mercantile professions. All of the logs that might've met this total had long been carted away before the winter came in earnest.

After the briefest moment he was allowed, Tyr recognized them for what they were. The barons men, or at least most of them had been. There was a thing in the way they were equipped, dirty and ragged as they may be. It was in the steel. Castle forged steel, imperial weapons not so separated from the hands of a skilled armorer. A real blacksmith had made their arms. Those not of bandits and foresters, but the steel of axes and spears forged in fired forges by a professional.

“You laugh? Why is this?” Curtis asked. His face betrayed no emotion. Of all the men, he seemed to be the only disciplined one among them. Whatever he was, seneschal or captain of the guard most like. “You're a knight, and I see your brooch. Do you speak for this village?”

“I do.” Tyr replied. As a prince, no – even as a knight of the capital he'd have commanded such authority over Rorik. This was the way and custom of the empire. “You're a learned man, Curtis, yes?”

“I'd like to think so.” The man replied with pursed lips. There wasn't an ounce of aggression in him. That was the way with a man used to commanding others. When fifty or even sixty men stood at the back, one tended to feel stronger.

“You know that this village cannot field that much wealth.” Tyr replied, equally as calm. Even in the face of so many men, he found himself – in the words of Thomas, unimpressed. “I could board you, allow for the taking of a tree. One hundred gold in a trunk, two if you remain amenable. Two horses and a wagon to carry them. All the way down to Baccia, where I hear it might fetch as much as four hundred. Maybe more.”

Two hundred crowns minimum was no small number. Riverwood wasn't exactly a wealthy village, but the state of it was a testament to the wealth its lumbering trade commanded. In terms of hewn and planed logs, a black yew could easily carry a price of one hundred gold crowns, even without planing them. Quite the sum for bandits, and it was a wonder that such a place was so unprotected to begin with. Each and ever tree could keep a village of this size going for a year or five. They had the means to cut more trees even in the off season. Lower quality product, but still quite valuable. And yet the man didn't seem impressed although his associates stared at one other with greed plain on their faces.

Not wealthy, but taxes were taxes. Even bereft of a baron, custom and law dictated that the profit of their ventures make its way to the capital. By Tyr's order, they were to keep the gold for themselves, but the merchants would not come until just before the first snowfall. Not for another month. Sometimes they didn't come until the spring, everything was predicated on credit in terms of the logs and an exchange of bank notes would come after delivery of the wood. No doubt a process devised by someone keen on laundering. Far be it from a simple village to pay too much attention to a balance sheet, something only the baron would likely see.

“We've no interest in trade goods. We'll have the gold, and the horses, or your kit in exchange. Armor and sword as befitting a knight. Surely you have them?”

“I do.” Tyr replied calmly. “You will not have them, though.”

“Why die for this... This dump?” Curtis asked, spreading his arms to indicate the village. It was little more than a small collection of wooden buildings only given the value the baron had once placed on it. “You could join us. We could always use a steady sword. We'll leave this land soon and make for the Brotherhood. This empire, man... It is decrepit, corrupt beyond belief – I know things that would shock you.”

“I appreciate your offer, but no thank you.” Tyr answered.

“Why not? This is an unjust land of bureaucrats and a primus who does not care for the common people. I know what you're thinking, I do. How dare a pack of rabid bandits criticize the crown. We have our reasons for being here. As do you, I suspect. Fuck the baron, fuck the empire, and fuck the primus. Haran can rot, I'll look after me and mine.”

Tyr nodded at that. If it was his choice, he'd leave and never come back. Or stay, perhaps, but he certainly would abandon his right as prince if given the choice. He thought... Unfortunately, primus' only have one son. A man could not kill a primus, and never had – not truly. But the same could not be said of a father making way for another heir. This was the motivation behind many of his decisions thus far. Slowly preparing himself for a reckoning with his father who would surely come to end him once the years had passed to reveal a truly talentless son. “Fuck the primus.” Tyr repeated with a chuckle, noting the amusement reflected in this Curtis' eyes. “We could see you to the border, even into the successor lands. Could guarantee it myself with my authority as a... As a knight. Oaths honor. But I will not allow you to rob this village. You want food, or two trunks of black yew, I can give that. Two horses. Final offer.”

“You operate under the illusion that you can negotiate. A negotiation of business requires leverage. What leverage do you think you have?”

“My oath.” Tyr replied simply, and dramatically. He cringed at it, but it didn't seem to affect the well groomed man at all. At the end of the day, regardless of the protestations of his men – this man was in charge and they trusted him. Trusted, if not feared.

The prince could feel the presence of his men. Hear their whispered voices mixed with those of the villagers who had hastily gathered beyond the palisade. They had yet to crest the walls upon the platforms to allow for archers to fire into the group, instead giving Tyr time to engage in his failing negotiations. These people counted on him, and he felt sorry for that. Trusted him, for no reason that he could understand.

Curtis laughed. A barking, dark laugh, not unlike Tyr's own. It made his fingers and toes curl in the hearing of it – wondering if that's what he sounded to others. “It's not enough.” The man replied. “Not nearly enough, the oath of a capital man is worth little out here. Less for a knight nobody has heard of. Except you're not a knight, are you boy? Playing at one, perhaps, wearing a mask just like we are. But why, I wonder?”

“That's true.” Tyr shrugged. He felt his time here coming at an end. Surely, with this, should he not die... It'd have to. There was no point in hiding his identity any longer. “My name is Tyr Faeron, the prince of Haran and heir primus of the empire. I gave you my oath, on my honor, but you seem to be under the misconception that I was guaranteeing your... Profit. My oath, such as it is, is that you accept my grace with grace of your own. Consider it an early pension for your service to my kingdom. Do so, and live, to walk free and see another day a rich man. Refuse, and I will pull you apart like the insects you are. Leave your tiny corpses rotting in my forest. My forest. My oath is that I will crush you, flay you alive and bleed you dry as I have so many before. Including your fat fuck of a baron. Choose wisely.”

That shut them up, as one might expect. Only for the bandits such as they were to burst into laughter at the hearing of it.

“Prince!? Ah ha ha!” Clapping of backs and grasping of guts. Everyone except for Curtis found the idea to be, apparently, the peak of comedy. “And I'm the--”

“Yes, yes. The Emperor of Varia.” Tyr repeated the words he'd heard every single time he'd made the very valid claim of his heritage. Still riding through the villages. Still plowing the fields and training with Thomas. Every day. “On and on and on we'll ramble, and for what? At the end of the day, I'm still going to--”

Thwump. Red, lancing pain erupted in Tyr's skull. He felt a roaring, a pressure like that of a waterfall or a mountain fit to burst. The weight of a loosed arrow slammed into his head and nearly bowled him over if not for his being prepared for it.

“Oi... Who just shoots an arrow while I'm in the middle of talking? That's incredibly rude, you know?” Tyr hissed, the red hot pain and wooden shaft buried in the socket of his left eye scratching at his composure. “Why's it always my eye?”

Someone hissed in returned. Another made the sign of the horns. Yet more seemed weak at the knees, crossing their hands as followers of the sacred light would do to form the star. A game. Even after all of his time trying to escape it, the prince found himself savoring their fear at the revelation that whatever he was, primus or not, he had taken an arrow to the eye without dropping.

“And so he is the half breed prince.” Curtis making a 'tsking' noise and raised his hands, poised in the air like dual vipers. “Die, mutt. We'll have what's ours, and vengeance along with it.”

“That's derivative, and I was never a fan of that particular fantasy--”

The last thing Tyr saw was a slight bending of the air in front of him before his head was separated from his neck.