It was hard to look his father directly in the eye. Tyr had seen and learned too much from his stay in Riverwood to feel much more than disgust. Their relationship was strained at the best of times, and now that his dynamic with the man had been painted by experience... It was far worse than he'd expected. Jartor was too cold. More cold than any parent should ever be, too official and blunt, with barely warmth to him.

But there was weakness in these concerns, the pride in him wouldn't allow him to ask 'why' he'd been treated this way. All he could do was attempt to avoid falling into the trap of self pity and press onward. He'd come when called, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

“So?” His father asked. No long speeches or lectures. Not yet, but the unspoken question was fairly clear. Thus, Tyr told him everything. Anything and everything pertaining to his trip, including speaking to a god, and the existence of 'Thomas'. Only one piece of information was left out – regarding his masters true identity as a part of the Sinean military. Varinn had never given him an official title, only indicating that he had fought with them and held some significant position in the military apparatus. Unless 'first sword' was truly a title.

Contrary to his expectations, Jartor didn't seem surprised in the slightest. “You're taking this a lot better than I thought you would.” Tyr observed his father's stony expression, seated at his hard stone desk in hard contemplation. Not once had his face moved, staring his son directly in the eye and listening for what seemed like hours as the tale was spun.

“What would I be surprised about? I'm old, son. Your old man has been around. Visited most of the known continents, almost every nation in some capacity or another. I've seen things too. More than you could ever imagine, my eyes are open.”

“I'm not sure. The god, world energy, hell – the fact that I'm dying?”

“One question at a time, then. It is indeed interesting that you made contact with a god at such a young age. Although, your consideration of a deity is a bit warped by the church. As necessary as they are, they aren't exactly the most educational of institutions. Nor the most truthful.”

“What do you mean?” Tyr tilted his head in confusion. After meeting Thanatos, and then Jurak, he had pondered what it meant to be a god. How could a god – more relevant in the latter case – walk among mortals. Jurak had been in the world, rather than some other place. According to the churches, there were universal laws that must be obeyed, even by their kind. First, a god could never walk among men. Thus, any claim of messiah or prophet 'god emperors', living gods and the like would result in little more than an easy execution. Second, there was the manipulation of universal law such as magic involving time, forbidden arts, or something like that. Tyr slept through half his lessons even with the more articulate tutors. And priests were always the most boring. “You've seen a god, then?”

“Seen. Heard. I'm not sure if we could really ever 'see' a god the way we see other things. Gods are gods, it's just a word we give to these beings with power beyond understanding, but they are many. Thousands and more of them exist. Some are far stronger than me, and some no stronger than a bird in a tree or a rock that possessed by so-called divine energy. I'm not so keen toward the scholarly, but your grandfather was the primus of wisdom, remember? He taught me a great deal. Not very useful, though. I've never had much need for any of the knowledge and scripture he beat into me.” Jartor replied, leaning forward in the chair before standing. Truly a giant of a man, no matter how much Tyr grew he was always dwarfed by his father in stature. “One thing is clear though, never make deals with them. Ever, under any circumstances. You know this?”

Tyr nodded. Refraining from mentioning his deal with Thanatos. Even as one of the 'prime' gods worshiped under the eight pillar's, it was better not to mention such a thing. He'd long expected his father capable of seeing the truth in him via some strange psychic ability, but Jartor said nothing to indicate he 'knew'. Not in this case.

“Your second and third questions can answer one another, yes?”

“I suppose.” Tyr shrugged. He'd rehearsed this conversation as he had with all the others, always in his head he was yelling and screaming. Once he was here, though, he found all the energy and emotion necessary to do so drained from him. His fathers presence was so overwhelming that it became a vacuum bye which any idea of rebellion or resistance would be whisked away. They had their moments, but it would amount to nothing. Varinn had taught him that. To let go of the past that he'd obsessed himself with and look toward the present. 'Oneness', he said. It helped him cope, a bit, though he still had no clear goal moving forward.

“Of course I know about world energy. Go and use your ability to observe your own, and observe the others around you. Immediately, you'll understand. In fact, go ahead and observe me.” Jartor held out his hand to grasp at the arm of his son. Tyr wasn't small by any means, but such were the proportions of his father that a normal handshake would be impossible. His hands with fingers splayed were beyond the size of dinner plates and as hard and inflexible as steel.

Tyr was already a step ahead in this regard. Every moment of every day that he found himself with a bit of free time – he meditated. Channeling his world energy into a vortex around his mana core to relax the pressure on the later while increasing the density of the former. In every normal human, world energy existed in a pit, the size of which varied. Right behind the solar plexus. Astrid's for example, was the size of a blueberry. A normal person was barely visible, perhaps the size of a seed, finger length ribbons waving about on some unseen wind. Sigi's was the size of a walnut, and Samson's was surprisingly the largest out of all of them.

He'd been amazed at it. Even Regar and Tiber paled in comparison. It was the size of a cantaloupe, much brighter and easy to pick out. It would seem that physical vitality had something to do with the size and density of ones world energy, though size and density didn't seem to be any indication of power. Often, younger adults and children would be far larger than the more physical powerful kin, but it was dimmer and less dense.

The princes own world energy was man sized, as thick as syrup. But Samson still overpowered him, there was no measure by which he could put a scale to this thing inside of all men.

Tyr looked, and in response was taken aback. His father had no 'core' of world energy. Then again, neither did Tyr. The princes own energy flowed through his body in a torrent moving far faster than the others. Denser and brighter in all respects. It made it yet harder to draw any meaningful conclusion, or to set some rules of understanding behind the phenomena in relation to ability. World energy in mages was almost universally disparate. Astrid was a better mage than Sigi, and therefore her world energy was lesser. Tythas was a stronger mage than all of them, and his core was incredibly small. The world energy was there, but it seemed to be like a scale of sorts. The more mana, the less world energy.

Maybe that's why mages are usually physically incapable when compared to others...? He didn't know. Couldn't know. The rules of this world were such that understanding it was impossible with so little in the way of sample size or experience. There were battle mages who even without magic could fight on par with a knight. Tyr doubted it was as simple as equating spira to physical strength.

Jartor though... His body flew in convention of any understand Tyr might have had. All living things had a mana core. Some were small, the size of pinpricks. Even birds and squirrels possessed them. However, his father had none visible. Nothing, not even the smallest dot where it should exist just beyond the navel. Instead, his world energy... Tyr's maintained the shape of his body, only illuminating an inch or so beyond it. His fathers was tremendous. A swirling mass of light that if it had been visible to the eye, would surely blind a man. Extending to fill the room and far beyond. Half the palace was covered in the stuff, making even Varinn's own appear as candles before a firestorm.

“I...”

“Yes. Don't stare too long, or you'll harm your third eye.” Jartor replied calmly, seeming a bit smug in the way a father might when his son marveled at his strength of limb. “You are not the first primus to have a mana core. It's happened before and it'll happen again. First in our family, that's all. As with House Stalvarg, they too have had none born to them with dual cores. We share the old blood, whatever that truly means. Mages are less common to us, especially in the males. You on the other hand developed an exceptionally strong mana core at a young age, and what with your legacy as my child... Well, the result is self evident.”

He sighed. For the first time in Tyr's entire life, his father looked a bit closer to his age. Exhausted enough to appear the old man that he truly was.“You'll wonder why I didn't tell you sooner. That's fair. I was trying to protect you because you're weak. Not worthless. Weak. Too weak. The empire and the world beyond will expect great things out of you, but you cannot do these things. For people to know how weak you really are will only invite calamity on this nation. A nation that I've loved. My home, and I've put my life into it.” Jartor remained motionless, staring down at his son with a complex combination of emotions on his stony face. Tyr didn't argue, or rage against it. It was true. He'd never been allowed to sit in on discussions with foreign dignitaries, and his contact with the outside world had been nigh nonexistent. It explained so much, why he'd never taken more than two trips beyond the city in his youth when he should have been spending more time traveling.

One day, very soon, Tyr would realize he practically did not exist to the wider world. It would explain why very few people recognized him even among imperial villagers. There were no statues, no paintings, nothing by which to see him as their future primus.

Jartor continued. “It's why I finally let you go out and see it for what it is, for good or ill. Though I never would've allowed you to cross the border. Now that you're a man, you'll have to answer this question that even the greatest scholars I've found could. Dwarves, elves, telurian, Anu, beastkin... Everywhere I've searched, never has anything like this occurred. A warped mana core, and it is in this thing that I have found of my greatest failures. I couldn't fix it.”

What he was saying, to summarize, was: 'Do it yourself.' Tyr didn't blame him for that. He'd always wanted to have a longer conversation with his father, and this may very well be the longest they'd ever had. Surely, he'd never heard so many words come out of Jartor's mouth. Something was different about him. Very different, enough to unnerve the prince and give notice of how unfamiliar it all was.

“Things will work out. I am beyond confident of that. Even when the gods fail to respond and the various so-called masters have no answer for us... You are a primus. There is no problem our kind cannot solve as long as we stay true to our purpose.” Thankfully, or perhaps not... It was hard to say, Jartor changed the topic. “That weapon. I see you've changed your preference from the sword to pole. Why?”

“Well...” Tyr winced at that, hoping the question would never come up. “I, uh... I lost the family sword.”

The family sword. A millennia old magic blade that was rusting in the corpse of a tusker deep beneath the mountain he'd been thrown from by a 'god'. Not that cronite or mithril alloys could rust, that was impossible, just a figure of speech.

“The 'family sword'.” Jartor chuckled at that. “A fake. A decent replica for what it is, but if you think I'd entrust a cronite blade to a seventeen year old boy – you're both mad and foolish.”

“...” Tyr very much wanted to strike his father now, though he understood. Everything Jartor ever said made some sense, and that's what Tyr hated the most. He didn't speak in riddles like others might. Cronite was one of the most expensive mana-rich metals on the face of the planet, and it was rare. Rare enough that no known mines of the stuff existed, and nobody knew how to find it. They called it a 'divine mineral'. Whereas mithril, adamantite, and other materials could create perfectly fine approximations, and were much easier to forge – cronite was cronite.

“No, you cannot have the real one.” Jartor answered Tyr's question before it had even been asked. “Until you can prove to me that you'd never be able to lose it. Cronite is too expensive, but more importantly, that weapon is a crutch. One of last resort. I don't even use it.”

The reason behind that was more in line with the fact that Jartor favored blunt instruments, and had no need for an edged weapon when he could pulp small hills (reportedly) with a swing of one. A cutting edge was overkill for someone of such incredible might.

“I was more curious why you chose to form the auronite of your weapon into such a bizarre shape. Exotic. You've never trained with the glaive, always the spear and sword.” Jartor extended his hand beyond the lip of his balcony, confusing his son until the haft of the glaive carried across the room and slammed into his grip.

What the hell? He'd never known his father to use magic. He couldn't use magic. Then how would he explain that?

“World energy is not, in any way, inferior to mana.” Jartor answered the question, again before it could be asked of him. “If you ever get a grasp on yours, you'll understand that it is superior to it's counterpart in many ways. Maybe not as flashy, but that's not the topic at hand. An interesting thing. I haven't seen auronite in many years.”

“Is it rare?” Tyr asked, having never heard of any element called auronite. He'd gotten the weapon practically for free all told, having no concept of its true value. The whole thing was cast of it, and considering the size of the glaive, it'd make two or three longswords by itself. If it was as rare as cronite...

Jartor disappointed him, shaking his head. “Not common, but not rare either. The problem is the forging. Auronite isn't your typical metal – it's alkaline. It's used in a variety of applications when crafting more expensive magical tools, but even the best runesmith can't cast it like this. It's vampiric, sucks up mana and world energy alike. Won't heat, won't cast. There are mountains right here in the empire full of auronite, but it's natural state is liquid. I'm not sure how they did it, but weapons like this – while the material isn't – are very rare. I've seen them before, not man-made though.”

Right before Tyr's very eyes, the 'auronite' became a two handed maul. A bit small in Jartor's hands, but when handed to the prince, he realized that not only had he altered its shape, but mass as well.

“It's... Heavier...?” Tyr observed, rolling the haft of the weapon in his hands to test its balance. “how?”

“Aye. Tricky thing. It's pure too, which makes it all the more confusing how they do it. Auronite exists as in a liquid state where world energy or mana is particularly dense. Like mercury. Communicate your will onto the weapon and it should be able to take most any shape you like based on whatever enchantments it holds. Unfortunately, I do not understand the runes of the Orik. I don't know much about them at all, though your grandfather found them quite interesting. I've never shared the compulsion to study fallen races, they fell for a reason.”

Tyr tried his best, letting his world energy seep into the metal. It lapped at it, hungry yet controlled, only taking that which was freely offered. Ultimately, he failed. He could use the result as a weapon, surely, but what came of it was a half melted sort of one handed club with uneven ridges patterning the rough metal. No longer polished to a mirror sheen as it had been, more like cast iron somebody had painted white.

“It takes time. Practice your mental imagery and try again. Eventually you'll succeed.” Jartor stated calmly, taking the tool from Tyr's hands and returning it to the state of a glaive, and then back to the maul, and then to a bastard sword patterned with strange black runes. “It can't become anything, or at least I don't think. The enchantments are such that it has hundreds of forms, but not infinite. You can tweak them as you like but it'll resist becoming anything it does not want to be. A plate, or a goblet, something that had nothing to do with its purpose for example. This is the 'magic' of auronite, if you want to call it that, and what makes it so useful. Can probably even repair itself if you feed it energy, either works in my experience.”

“Ah...” Tyr's mind was whirling at the revelation. He'd never expected any element capable of such a wild thing. His father had shown him once again how small and insignificant he was. “The world is a big place.”

“Bigger than you or I or anyone could ever imagine.” Jartor agreed wistfully, leaning against his desk with arms crossed and nodding slowly. “Hang onto that. If you try to sell it, I'll break your legs. I'd also avoid letting anyone know its true capabilities. If they ask, tell them its 'allomancy'. You're technically capable of magic so it won't be hard to believe, they exist.”

Tyr stood there, awkwardly cradling the sword and looking about his fathers office. It stretched on, the silence, for far too long. The sword itself didn't seem to be made for human hands. The haft was too long and too wide to be held with perfect comfort. The balance was a bit off and the blade a bit too long. He could use it, but despite being a sword it was still unfamiliar in his hands. A bastard sword by any approximate.

“I didn't find it yet.” Tyr said. “But I'm trying.”

To find his aspect. He had no need to elaborate on such a thing. After all that time, he still felt no closer. It felt like an eternity, just shy of a year – but to Jartor this was a small thing. As insignificant as a day to a normal man.

“I know, that's why I'm sending you to the academy.”

“No way.” Tyr protested. “First of all, I have no idea how to even use real magic. Second of all, if you couldn't answer the question how could a bunch of dusty old books--”

“If you fail, you fail. I don't care. All has been prepared and you're to begin in the new year. Don't make me drag you there myself.” Jartor interrupted his son with a raised hand. There was both a threat and a promise in his words. Tyr knew, as any man who hear that tone, that Jartor really would do such a thing and even hold him in place during his orientation if necessary.

“Okay.” Cursing his sheepishness all the while, he turned to leave.

“Ah.” Jartor stopped him with a snapping of his fingers, returning to the surface of his desk that was covered in a swath of documents stacked high atop it. “One more thing. You'll be bringing Astrid, Sigi, and that Amatean child with you. Alex too, she'll be meeting you on your way, and your caravan leaves within the hour. Don't worry about packing, I saw to that.”

“And what if I refuse?” Tyr asked.

“I've already called Alexis.” His father shrugged. “I'm sure she wouldn't mind stopping by the capital to discuss it with you.”

Tyr, for all his self stylized stubbornness, was out of the palace within that hour.