Wiccer gripped the wooden sword tightly as he lifted it to parry an overhead attack. His dark skin glistened from the sweat that covered his face. His older brother constantly taunted him, “You'll have to be quicker than that if you want to survive going toe to toe with a Rabbit, little brother.”

Avren swung his training sword deftly, striking Wiccer on the side of his arm, “Still too slow, brother!” Avren shouted.

Wiccer rubbed his arm as pain pulsed beneath his flesh. He brushed back his tightly curled hair and wiped away a layer of sweat. He may have only been thirteen but his brother was treating him as if he were a fully grown man.

“Hey, Avren, you’re going too hard,” Wiccer said exhausted.

“Too hard?” Avren scoffed, “We Newsun are trained at a higher standard. You think our mother would have settled with our father if–” Avren caught himself. He knew the subject of their mother was sensitive around Wiccer. He hadn’t known her as long as Avren had. After all, Wiccer was merely a toddler when she died, but still they were close.

Wiccer spoke up, “You don’t have to pretend that she didn’t exist.” His memories of her weren’t fresh, nor were they faded.

Avren grinned awkwardly, “You think I’m going hard on you? Mother’s training was so hard on me that my hands were bloodied and blistered from holding onto that training sword.” He laughed, “I wasn’t allowed to call her ‘Mother’ either. It was Lieutenant Cutter…” He was quieter now as he recalled his Mother’s face, “Lieutenant Vivian Cutter…”

“Avren?” Wiccer prodded his brother who was clearly lost in thought.

“Right, back to training, little brother.”

Avren's white cloak danced in the breeze of his flowing movements, in sync with his long, dreaded hair. He spun on his heel, whipping the practice sword around, glancing across the back of his younger brother’s tunic, “You’re still not getting it. Stop trying to over-analyze my steps and pay attention to the blade in my hand, Wiccer. The White Cloaks will never accept such sloppy swordsmanship. Just because our father is Captain Marcus Newsun doesn’t mean we get special treatment!”

Wiccer took a step forward. This was his daily routine for the last two years. After breakfast he would practice swordsmanship and footwork. He would endure the bombardment of lectures and insults from Avren and later he would receive lessons on politics and history from his father. All this was so that he could earn a white cloak of his very own. It was a family tradition. The only family tradition he’d ever known.

A sharp rap to the side of Wiccer's head snapped him out of his thoughts, “Dead again, Wiccer. Are you even trying?”

Wiccer rubbed the side of his head, “Let’s go again, I think I’m getting the hang of this!”

Avren barreled towards him whipping the training sword over his brother’s head. Wiccer barely managed to block it in time. Avren pressed his weight down until Wiccer’s legs buckled down into a kneeling position. Avren knocked his younger brother onto his back before pressing his foot down on his chest.

“You were saying?” he said jokingly.

“Why do the Elves even need us? Why can’t they just defend themselves and go through all this training instead of me?” Wiccer roared in frustration.

Avren tossed his brother a waterskin, before taking a seat on a nearby stump, “Father hasn’t covered Long Whisper politics yet?”

Wiccer shook his head after inhaling a mouthful of fresh stream water, “History of the human nations; not much on the elves.”

“He talk about his time in Alva?” Avren said, cracking a wide smile.

“Nothing specific. Just about the history of the war between the Queen of Chains and the Gladiator King. Why, is that important to Long Whisper? Isn’t Alva in the desert realm of Scorch?”

“No, they aren’t related. I was just curious how much Father told you about our roots.”

Wiccer edged closer to his older brother, “I know Mother and Father are from the desert lands of Scorch, but did Father fight in Alva? Did Mother? Why did they leave for Varis? It’s such a long trek to the realm of Cypress.”

Avren shook his head, “Forget that I brought it up, it’s a long tale and we don’t have that kind of time. Let me answer your original question and you can have Father tell you everything else.” Avren took out a small leather pouch of deer jerky before giving Wiccer a quick lesson, “About thirty or forty years ago, Long Whisper was a land that was occupied by various tribes of elves. They had no central leadership of any sort; not even a council. At some point, an elf by the name of Jaelyn Dawnedge united the tribes under one banner and was crowned king of Long Whisper. Not everyone agreed with such a change, particularly the warrior tribes who left for lands elsewhere.” Avren paused, “Do you see where we come in?”

Wiccer examined Avren’s cloak – an alabaster color with a silver trim, “The White Cloaks are their warrior tribe now?” he asked, “Why don’t we at least train a militia or a body of law enforcement? Surely they could at least solve their own minor problems.”

“Minor problems are indeed solved. Thievery and other small squabbles are dealt with leaders who are elected by the people of Long Whisper. Think of them like the mayors of Varis. The White Cloaks are used for much larger problems such as protecting villages from bandits and rendering justice to murderers. We also protect the crown from all threats – foreign and domestic. Do you now see why we must train so hard?”

Wiccer nodded intensely.

“Good, now pick up your sword. Back to training.” Avren said, tying his jerky pouch tightly.

“Come on, Avren, five more minutes! I want you to tell me about Alva and our parents’ role in it,” Wiccer pleaded.

“Dammit, Wiccer. Don’t give me that look,” Avren sighed.

Wiccer raised his brow and puffed his lower lip like a sad puppy.

Avren laughed, “Alright, let’s make this quick. I’ll be the one getting a beating if Father finds out I’ve been slacking on your training!”

Wiccer cheered before getting comfortable.

“Father was a sergeant who was assign–” Avren began before getting interrupted.

“Sergeant? Father wasn’t a Captain?” Wiccer said wide eyed. He had only ever known his father as a Captain.

“Back before I was born, our father was only Sergeant Newsun and he was assigned to the desert country of Alva across the Serpent Sea. Alva was at odds with the Queen of Chains, herself, Isana. Alva’s leader was Traven, who was the–”

“The Gladiator King!” Wiccer interrupted, happy to show he learned something from his lessons on political history.

“That’s right, little brother. Now quit interrupting, or else this story will take until sundown to tell.” Avren waited to see if Wiccer was going to sit quietly before continuing, “Isana was declaring war on Alva and our guild was chosen to assist King Traven. At the time, Father was to serve under Lieutenant Vivian Cutter.”

“Mother…” Wiccer whispered in awe of the story.

Annoyed, Avren briefly glared at Wiccer, “They fought countless battles together until one day Marcus was grievously injured in an ambush during a routine patrol. Vivian was the only other one left alive. She fought tooth and nail and dragged him into a nearby nomad camp. There they stayed, for months, until Marcus was ready enough to walk back to base.”

Wiccer’s face was plastered with wonder. His Father never told him war stories, “Is that where Mother and Father fell in love?”

Avren chuckled, “Not at first. She saw him as a nuisance for being so easily injured, but over time, the Newsun charm worked its magic.”

“But they didn’t stay in Alva; you and I were born in Varis…”

Avren took a deep breath. Wiccer was starting to tread on ‘that’ story. A story that he wasn’t ready to tell, “It’s true, our mother and father were married and set to be stationed at the guild headquarters in Varis. They had me and then later they had you.”

“And the rest is history.” A new, deeper, sterner voice chimed in, ending the tale before it could continue.

A muscular man with a finely trimmed black beard stood behind the two boys. His white cloak draped over his shoulders, his black leather boots were polished to a shine, and his blue dyed leather armor had a silver trim that went well with his pearl colored cloak. Their father, Marcus, was the leader of the Guard of the White Cloaks for the Long Whisper division. He was a legend within the guild for his countless missions and unrivaled swordsmanship.

“Wiccer, show me what you’ve learned.” Marcus said, folding his arms over his broad chest.

He watched as his two sons sparred in the cool autumn morning. It was an idyllic setting. He nodded his head as Wiccer made a thrust at Avren's chest, but the blow was met with the clunking sound of oak slapping oak. Marcus again nodded at both of them before he put up a hand, halting the lesson.

“Avren, a word.”

Avren tossed his practice sword to Wiccer, who made a clumsy catch. Wiccer eyed his father and brother as they walked into their cabin. The stone house smelled of moss and rain from the past couple of days. Smoke billowed from its chimney as sounds of a lightly flowing river crossed by their small patch of land. Wiccer headed inside to hear what his father had to say.

Marcus sat down in a chair by the wooden table where they ate their meals while Avren sat parallel from his father. Avren put his hands on the table, “Well?

Marcus stole a glance at Wiccer, who was still holding the practice swords. Eagerness to hear the news was plastered on his face. Marcus made a shooing motion to his youngest child, “Wiccer, this is Guild business.”

Wiccer's face drooped, “Aw, but Father, I've been training real hard. The White Cloak is in my blood. I'm practically a member!”

“Quit your whining, boy, before I tan your hide! Now be gone with you. Your brother and I have much to discuss,” Marcus said sternly.

Wiccer lowered his head and sulked away into another room. Once out of sight, he crept to the edge of the wall and held his breath to strain his hearing, hoping to eavesdrop on any bit of information he could gobble up.

Avren smiled and whispered, “You know he's still listening?”

Marcus shook his head chuckling, “If he wasn't born to be a Cloak, He'd probably be a Rabbit.” Raising his voice, he continued, “Now listen up son, I bring news from the Guild. King Jaelyn requests more Cloaks. The city he's building around the elven home tree needs more security. I want you to take over leadership there, while I stay here to finish Wiccer's training.”

Avren grinned widely. He always wanted a chance to prove his leadership skills. Although he wasn't taking over the Guild, this was a step in that direction, “You want me to take over duties in Lost Dawns? Father, I'm honored. I won't let you down.”

“See that you don't. Also, more importantly, be careful. You shouldn't trust half of those Elven Lords. Not all of them wanted to unite the tribes, let alone build a city around that tree of theirs.”

“You suspect that they've been hiring Rabbits?” Avren asked.

Marcus crossed his arms and nodded, “Aye. Though, of the eight tribes, I know not which one. So, suspect all of them until you can manage any proof.”

“When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow at sunrise, so get some good sleep. I've arranged a squad of Cloaks to go with you. Roads are dangerous these days.” Marcus turned his head to the doorway of the kitchen and the living room, “Wiccer, come in here.”

Wiccer jumped a bit, not knowing how his father knew he was there. He poked his head around the wall and shuffled in, hoping he wasn't in trouble, “Yes, Father?”

“I'll be taking over all your training. Your brother is leaving on a mission to Lost Dawns. Go prepare dinner. This will be the last meal we'll have as a family for a long time.”