Goosebumps prickled my skin as Lady Ronnow’s knifing gaze emanated an almost tangible threat from two azure cores. I knew this look all too well, one that regarded you as wholly inferior, something not even worth the dust on their soles. “My apologies for the intrusion Lady Ronnow. I am here on your summons,” I gulped. This woman was dangerous, and I wished for nothing more than to leave as quickly as possible, preferably alive.

“Is that right…” she trailed, observing my every movement as a predator would their prey. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused due to your little stunt over a week ago?” she asked, interlocking her hands.

‘A week. Has it really been just that?’ Unwilling to doddle and test the extent of this fiery woman’s patience, I answered. “N-No, ma’am, I haven’t a clue as I was relegated to the Healing Asylum of Thrudsalr for the duration of my recuperation.” I refused to believe the Illugi’s did not keep tabs on me, and hence I did not understand the rationale behind her question, but there was not much else I could do than play along for now.

“Oh? Well, let me shed some light on all that you’ve missed during this period,” she said, listing everything on each finger. “Multiple complaints and demands of compensation from houses whose children were eliminated no thanks to you, increasing unrest amongst the thralls, increased tension between the thralls and karls leading to an uptick in conflict through the populace. And do you know who has to deal with all this shit?” she questioned, slowly rising to her feet, leaning over the desk.

At the shake of my head, her face morphed into something you would only expect to see on a charging rhino moose. “Me!” she screamed, the office shuddering in fright. Books tumbled off the shelves as the flooring screeched and cracked, the sudden shift causing me to lose footing, a sharp pain biting into my ass.

Huffing in disdain, she continued, “You know, I was actually rooting for you. Despite the treatment, difficulties and prejudice, you proved yourself and did it in spectacular fashion. For a moment there, I even saw flashes of your mother…” Her eyes became glassy as she kept going, furrowed brows giving way to a melancholic countenance. I kept quiet, attentively devouring every twitch and hint that slipped free from this woman’s heart.

“You Illugis are all the same,” she sighed, slumping into her seat, pulling on one of the desk’s drawers and removing a sheath that looked oddly familiar. “I should have known better, I should have, but I couldn’t help hoping you were different, like… Ljós.” The leather squeaked under her iron grasp, face hardening into a seething glower, “To think you very nearly brought dishonour to her name. As much as it pains me to say this, I have been informed that you will face no punishment and are to return what’s rightfully yours.” She chucked the sheath toward me with the same care one would have for wastewater, stopping at my feet after clattering along the floorboards. I had put some distance between us during her prior outburst. As they say, one can never be too careful when dealing with a woman.

“Guardian knows why they treat you so, but I have learnt not to stick my head where it’s unwanted lest I have a death wish.” Picking the double-sided holster up and noting the two earthbound knives tucked within, I swiftly stuffed them away in case she rescinded the act. I bowed, relating my gratitude. “Thank you for your kindness, Lady Ronnow.”

“Don’t thank me, this was all their doing,” she scoffed. “If it were up to me, I would have had you stripped and tied to a pole without food or water for a day or two.” I sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever prevented this woman from getting her nasty hands on me, ‘and may the Great Guardian bless them.’ She waved me away as one would do a dirty beggar, disgust warping her otherwise pleasing features. I shuffled backward with lowered head, unwilling to waste a breath longer in this room.

As I turned the knob and slipped past the doorway, the tail end of a whisper tickled in my ear. “Fucking Eyfura, does she see me as a mere errand girl!” I walked back to my room, pondering over all that had happened during our short interaction. Lady Ronnow knew my mother, holding her in very high regard, clearly sorrowful when talking about her. More importantly, she was just a figurehead. Someone was instructing her, at least concerning matters concerning me. ‘Eyfura was it? Never heard that name before.’ There were only a few positions that were higher than hers, but without anything more, I couldn’t come to a solid conclusion on the identity of this individual.

Worryingly I had been absolved of all repercussions getting my knives back on top of it. Moreso, how did they conceal my use of the earthbound weaponry from everyone? Were all the referees on their side? Were they told to target me? If so, why? What do they gain from it? What truly scared me was that nothing involving the deception had been brought up while I was before the council. I couldn’t have been granted the status of a seed if they knew of it, as it went against the warrior code. Yet one way or another, the figure or figures veiled in mystery managed to conceal this matter from people who sat at the pinnacle of warrior society in their own house!

Until now, I had thought they kept me at arm’s length, an outsider that had to be sheltered accounting for our shared heritage, but that had been wrong. Unbeknownst to me, they had been watching from the shadows, observing my every move. The question now was how long. One I had not the slightest clue of an answer to. ‘Worst case scenario, since birth.’ Many thoughts swirled in my head as I absentmindedly wandered the corridors. The suspicion that all my plans were possibly exposed all along left a bitter taste in my mouth. I felt naked, vulnerable—the walls had eyes, the floor, ears. What used to be a safe cage might have actually been an observatory all along.

Tongues of flame licked the forge’s mouth as a reddened piece was wrenched from within. Laid on an anvil whose numerous scars and dents spoke of its many battles, the blistering metal was reshaped by seasoned hands according to the needs of their master. Sparks sprayed out with the descent of a hammer, falling upon charred earth, embers losing light until finally dissipating. The process repeated itself, heating, striking, the lump moulded into what was an axehead. It hissed as it sank into a pail of water, smither releasing a long exhale as streaks of fading sunlight rolled down his body. He stared longingly at the setting sun, thoughts his own until the door swung open.

“Father,” a teary-eyed boy said, using the back of his hand to stifle a runny nose. His emotions ran amok at the sight of the only person who wanted nothing more than himself. He hadn’t any expectations to live up to nor the need to keep his guard up.

Faster than his legs could carry, the man rushed to the boy, lifting him up in a hug, worried the boy may be lost again if released. In the protective embrace of his father, the boy finally released all those tightly sealed emotions that choked his core. Defeated wails occupied the surroundings, the shadow of a father consoling a weeping son extended with the slanting sun. The evening was well past its infancy when the boy finally stopped, the darkness encroaching quicker during the winter months, almost like the cold bolstered its assault. The man ushered the boy into the shop come residence and towards the back room that doubled as both a resting and living area.

Silvern rays streamed through a window with cobwebbed corners, illuminating the table beneath and an outline of the rest of the room. A bed large enough for a single adult lay opposite the door with a blanket and pillow neatly made. To the right was a cobblestone fireplace, blackened by ash and soot, a stack of firewood on the side. The man squeezed the small hand in his as he set a lamp down on the table, the boy taking a seat while he started the fire. They ate in silence, backed by the warm glow, chewing on preserved meat and stale bread.

The man broke their stalemate, saying through gritted teeth, “I’m sorry you had to go through everything alone. I tried, again and again, but they didn’t allow me in.”

The boy was silent, formulating a response, cheeks stained by dried tears. “You did nothing wrong, father. It is I that should be the one saying sorry. Because of me, the whole family is now in dire trouble.”

“No, you are not the only one responsible for what happened. You’ve always been a perceptive boy. I’m sure you figured out our family’s situation and felt the need to outperform everyone to help us,” the man said with a pained expression. The boy listened, playing with the crumbs of his meal on the stone top table. “I failed you, Sǫl. As your father, I failed you, and that’s why I apologise,” he murmured, choking on his words.

“What was mother like?” the boy abruptly asked, forcing a sob out of the man.

Seeing the boy’s conflicted gaze, eyes holding a myriad of emotions, the man thought back to bygone times when everything in the world was simpler. A smile graced his face as he recalled the figure of the woman he fell in love with. “Your mother was quite the woman… Kind, compassionate, she had this amazing quality that allowed her to step into the shoes of another and experience their highs and lows.” The boy sat quietly, looking up at his father, whose eyes seemed to shine as he spoke about his wife, recalling all sorts of tales about her.

He continued, “Of course, as with anyone, Ljós had her flaws. She was, dare I say, more stubborn than a donkey mule, had one of the foulest mouths of any person alive and did not hold back from speaking her mind; consequences be damned. But it was precisely these flaws that made her who she was and why she was so beloved rather than anything else.”

The man drew near, flickering lamp highlighting his ponderous visage. “People have a sixth sense, an innate instinct that subtly draws them towards those who are genuine. It’s not easy to wear your heart on your sleeve. It leaves a person vulnerable, their deepest thoughts and emotions exposed, but she did it unabashedly, and I have not known anyone more suited to it than Ljós.”

“I think that was the reason everyone looked to her. She was like the sun, lighting our way, a good person illuminating this dark, dark world. That was why I fell in love with her; she showed me that I too could be a good person, a true person.” His shining countenance drooped, knowing his boy would never meet his mother. He was so much like her, which was also why he worried for his future day and night.

“Becoming a true person?” The boy, oblivious to his father’s troubles, said, furrowing his brows.

The man caressed his head, chuckling, “You’re still young, Sǫl. One day, you will understand in much the same way the first spring dew arrives, breathing new life into once slumbering earth.”

“And what happens if it never arrives? How then will I become like mother?” Sǫl puzzled.

“There is nothing wrong with that. You will just have to find your own way to live up to her. But promise me one thing,” he paused, staring at the boy, “Promise me that this is not for me, the family, or anybody else but you, Sǫlmundr Ljós Illugason.”

The boy put on a stern face, declaring, “I promise you that everything I do will be for myself, father.” The man held onto a weak smile, wondering where this boy of his would be a few years from now.

‘Ljós, please watch over him. This boy of ours takes after you far more than I want to admit. I don’t want to lose him as I did you,’ he prayed before grabbing the lantern, flame dimly swaying with the movement. “Come on, time for bed. You’re a growing boy and need all the rest you can get to grow big and strong.”

“Okaaaay,” the boy yawned, their heart-to-heart dragging on till the dead of night. His father joined him in bed with barely enough space to hold a grown man and child but just enough. Shadows marked the snuffing of lamplight, drawing the boy to introspection. His whole life seemed to flash before his eyes—the struggle that was his birth, living as a social outcast, needing to work twice as hard lest he is overtaken by his peers, leading to that pitiful fight on the Vigningsväg. This was a sobering moment, and though he was blind to the challenges and troubles ahead, the conviction to head into the all-encompassing fog and carve out his own path was stronger than ever.

Failure is a funny thing, an odd facet of life that is as integral to all existence as hunger or pain. Yet the difference between it and the rest, even success, is that we have the final say in the outcome. Failure is what we make of it, never the other way around. It can crush a person leaving them forever broken, or elevate them to heights they could never reach without, a double-edged sword of our own making.

Staring at peppered skies with infinity baring itself in all its incomprehensible glory, reflecting the unmatched beauty of reachless nebulae, the boy knew there could be no other path to tread on.

‘Though I may stumble and fall, amidst bramble and thorn, as long as breath rests in my lungs, I will rise again. To overthrow my demons, to emerge a renewed man, to be worthy of the eternal light I shall forever seek.’

His eyelids grew heavier and heavier, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic respirations of his father, slipping into the realm of dreams, dancing amongst the stars.

What do you think of this chapter? Did it seem real? What are your feelings concerning mc’s father now?