“No shit,” he said. “You really meant it?”

Alazar Maxillion took a long gulp of ale before slamming his mug upon the table with a satisfied sigh. The man leaned back in his chair and looked up at him with a smirk.

“Every word, lad. I’m royalty. Now, I’m far from the main line but there be king’s blood running through these veins.”

Taren stared, his jaw dropping like he couldn’t believe it even after listening to the captain brag about it the entire way to the Tipsy Gelding.

“We actually met a royal,” Taren marveled. “In Falden of all places.”

He rolled his eyes and snorted.

“What’s so great about it?” he asked.

Even so he couldn’t help but lower his guard around the man.

Alazar threw his weight around lightheartedly as if he found something funny about his rank and wanted others to be in on the joke.

But despite that he couldn’t get too comfortable. After all, they hadn’t met under the best circumstances. More importantly, Alazar lead the soldier’s who’d come to Falden. The very same ones lord Albryte threatened to force him into joining.

He couldn’t tell if it was his imagination or not but Alazar didn’t seem quite like the fool his boyish demeanor would have him believe.

The way the captain carried himself through Falden’s streets, occasionally brushing the hilt of his sword with a lazy hand, told him the captain was no stranger to his blade.

The soldiers in the Tipsy Gelding’s common room rose from their chairs, greeting them with a well disciplined salute when Alazar threw open the inn’s doors calling for food and ale.

Alazar motioned a few of his men over to their table.

A tall man with closely trimmed red hair took an open seat on Alazar’s left while another with blonde hair pulled back and tied in a loose top knot took one on his right.

He’d seen hard men his whole life, living so deep in the Rockwood valley. The Dreadnaughts were as harsh as they were beautiful and the weak did not survive for long.

These men were harder.

Thin scars crisscrossed the taller man’s hands and face. If not for his close scrutiny he might have missed them. So thin and pale they were, hiding well within his equally pale skin.

The other’s eyes glowed a piercingly blue that reminded him of shallow pools he once found sitting above the ice of a glacier hidden deep in the heart of the mountains.

So clear and pure on the surface, but the deeper you looked the murkier it got as the bottom became a tunnel lost in the ice.

Those eyes filled a face carved out of rock, his cheek bones as sharp and angled as his jaw. The sides of his head were shaved clear and in place of hair, tattoos decorated the skin.

“The sour looking guy is Kevan,” Alazar said, clapping the blonde, tattooed man beside him on the shoulder. “And the quiet one is Marron.”

Kevan crossed his arms and grunted. Marron inclined his head respectfully, studying them with partially veiled interest. The innkeeper, a fat balding man with a spring in his step, set a tray of steamed vegetables and honey glazed ham on the table along with a new pitcher of ice cold Rockwood ale and several empty glasses for the pair.

“Don’t let them bother you, lads,” Alazar said. “They’re both squad leaders. Figured they’d like to have a look at you.”

The captain filled his plate and began to stuff his face, pointing at him with his fork.

“This one here fought those hot headed fools this morning and whooped them like I did both of you back in the day. Raemis’s boys, I mean,” he added between mouthfuls.

Marron glanced at him, amused. “How do you know that?” Marron asked.

“Because I was there. I’m not exactly blind, Marron. It was pretty damn satisfying, I’ll admit. If I had to listen to that little shit Barin whine one more time I was likely to rip his tongue out and stuff it down his throat."

Beside him Kevan chuckled and helped himself to a plate of the ham and vegetables.

“Wish I’d been there to see that,” the blonde man said regretfully.

“That reminds me,” Alazar said nodding at him. “I wanted to hear your story.” The man reached over the table and filled his glass with a smile.

“Let’s start with who taught you how to fight like that.”

“Well, that’s fairly simple,” he started. “Most men around here know how to use a staff or an ax. And some are good with a bow. But it was my father who taught me how to fight with a sword. Taught us both actually,” he gestured at his brother.

“Where’d he pick up his skills?” Maron asked.

He thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “He fought in the war against the North lords. From the legions I would think.”

“What’s his name?” Kevan asked.

“Allanir,” he said.

Kevan grunted, stabbing his ham with a fork.

“Never heard of him.”

“Oh come now, Kevan,” Alazar chided. “Not everyone who lived got a chance to make a name for themselves.”

The captain regarded Taren for a moment before looking at him once more.

“Allanir, huh? How does he spell it? With one ‘l’ or two?”

“Uh, two. Right?” he said, arching an eyebrow at his brother.

“Yeah, I think so,” Taren nodded.

Alazar drummed his fingers on the table and cocked his head to the side.

“It isn’t strange for a peasant to know his numbers, but to know how to spell someone’s name is another thing entirely. I’d wager you both know how to read and write.”

He stared at the man across the table, at a loss for words. Alazar grinned and held up his hand in apology.

“Peace, lad. Just wanted to know how much you’ve learned. I already heard a little about your upbringing from lord Albryte.

“Your father was the master of arms for the previous lord, Victor Silvertree, before Raemis came along. But Raemis recognized your father’s talents enough to keep him for a short while. Meaning both of you must have grown up in that manor.

“Must be tough looking at it from the outside knowing someone else is likely sleeping in your bed.”

He frowned into his cup. If he stared hard enough he could almost see his pitiful reflection in the ale’s dark surface.

“Did he tell you what happened after that?”

A long silence fell over the table, broken only by the sound of Kevan slurping his ale until Taren cleared his throat. Alazar sighed and poured himself another drink.

“So you learned to fight from your old man, eh? How about it then? Want to join the lads here and wear a fancy uniform? Put that training to good use?”

The captain wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.

“Thank you for the offer, my lord,” he said carefully. This was exactly what he was afraid the man was going to do. “But I can’t accept. Father’s health is getting worse by the day and I don’t want to leave his side. I hope you can understand.”

Alazar’s face remained the same, bright and cheerful, but something in his eyes told him he’d let the man down.

“I’m sorry to hear that, lad. Might there be something I can do? I know a good doctor or two back in Solaren. You don’t need to worry about the cost either. I’ll handle it.”

The sincerity in his voice took him by surprise. Did the nobleman really care about his father or did he simply want to remove the obstacle in his way?

“You’re too kind, sir,” Taren said.

His brother was a lot better than him at speaking. He’d thank the soldier for his offer and turn him down gently. He relaxed, taking a drink of his ale.

“Thank you so much. If there’s any way you can help our father we’d be in your debt.”

He almost choked as Taren wrapped a big arm around his shoulders.

“Can you believe our luck!” Taren cheered. His brother downed his drink and refilled it a moment later.

A chill settled across his back despite the cozy warmth of the common room. Alazar smiled as Taren thanked him once more.

“It’s the least I could do for a fellow soldier. I’d love to meet him sometime.”

“Of course,” Taren said. “You should come to our house tonight for dinner. I’m sure father would enjoy the company. But you should know he’s not fond of his memories of the war.”

“Very few men are,” Alazar said. “I’ll most certainly take you up on that offer.”

The man reclined in his chair and studied him for a moment as though he were trying to read his mind.

“You needn’t worry, Lad. I won’t hold it against you. It’s just when a man has the power to do something good for someone other than himself it’s a damn shame if he chooses not to.”

“I see,” he said slowly. “I just don’t have much trust in nobles these days.”

“Perhaps you simply need to expand your horizons. Go out and see the world. You’ve been caged here your whole life, haven’t you?”

He glanced pointedly at the man and Alazar laughed.

Then a grave look suddenly took over Alazar’s boyish charm, surrounded by an air of intensity. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“What do you know about the Blessing and the Curse?”

He blinked at the sudden change in topic.

“The what?”

“Vocaria’s Blessing and Fengar’s Curse. What do you know about them?”

“It’s what the North lords used to justify slavery long after we got rid of it in the south,” Taren jumped in.

“And?” Alazar said, eying them both.

“And it’s all bullshit,” he said. “There’s no blessing or curse laid down on us by some fairy tale god in the woods. There’s nothing to say one person is favored over another. The Dragon and Lycan forms are just byproducts of cultivation and gaining power.”

“So you don’t hate Lycan form cultivators?”

“Of course not, why would I? If there’s anyone I should hate it’s the Dragons. The Arloni enslaved us for centuries.”

He bit his lip to keep himself from shouting.

“You’re entirely right, Saul. My ancestors committed many acts that damned them. But you’re half Arloni. Just like your brother.

“If your parents could have a family together despite their differences then surely we as a country can live peacefully with one another, don’t you think?”

“Where are you going with this?” he asked, losing his patience.

“I’m just curious, is all. You have the look of a Delcairan, but Arloni blood flows through you just the same. Taren here looks just as Arloni as me but he’s half Delcairan.

“No one descended from both races have ever been able to cultivate beyond the first World and manifest the form of their soul. So I wonder what would happen if either of you could? Would you be a Dragon or a Lycan?”

He sighed heavily and took a long drink of his ale until the cup was empty. Of course he felt grateful for Alazar’s help in slipping them out of the mansion but this man was gradually getting on his nerves.

“I’m going to cultivate as much as I possibly can until I can’t grow any further,” he said eventually. “If I never break into the second World, then so be it. But if I do, I’d want to cultivate the Lycan form. Dragons look fierce but I’ve always thought Lycans looked…stronger.”

“I see,” Alazar said, nodding thoughtfully.

He glanced over at Taren who looked down at his plate when their eyes met. It was time to end the conversation before Alazar asked any more weird questions.

“Thank you, by the way, for not calling for the guards earlier,” he said. “What happened was a private matter between me and them.”

He stood and offered Alazar a small bow. He figured if the man hadn’t lied about his relation to the royal family he deserved that much at least.

“I have to go, but I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

“Don’t thank me yet, lad.” Alazar said.

He frowned at the sudden fright in Taren’s eyes and followed his brother’s gaze.

Half a dozen of lord Albryte’s guards filled the entrance to the Tipsy Gelding’s common room with a very angry Barin standing at the front. The young lord’s face lit up with furry the moment his gaze found him.

“Arrest him!” Barin screeched.

The guards fanned out through the room, faces grim and thirsting for his blood.

Around him, the sound of chairs screeching against the inn’s hardwood floor cut through the air as all the soldiers in the room stood at once. The guards hesitated, not entirely sure what to make of it.

“What are you waiting for? Arrest him.”

Alazar pushed himself to his feet and came to stand beside him, his boyish flair back once more as if it had never left. The captain studied Barin with a curious look and chuckled loudly for the whole room to hear.

“And what is this about? If I’ve offended you in any way I sincerely apologize. Let’s talk it over. No need to get your men involved.”

“What?” Barin sputtered. “No, not you. Him.”

Barin jabbed a long thin finger at him and sneered.

The bruise left behind after getting struck across his eyes looked ridiculous. His brow was swollen and his checks were painted black and purple.

“That dog assaulted me. And in my own home no less. I’ll have your head, peasant,” the young man spat at him.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but you can’t have him.” Alazar said casually.

Barin opened his mouth to fire off a retort when a gasp filled the room. Several of the guards looked as though they wanted to be anywhere else but there.

Alazar’s eyes flickered blue. Not their natural blue, but the phantasmal color found at the center of a flame.

And like a flame, the color danced and waved over the whole of his eyes as though the inside of his skull were a raging inferno.

“Holy dragonmother,” Taren gasped.

Barin found his voice, smoothing over his face with a shaky grin.

“You’re bluffing, Alazar. If you get in my way you’ll by making an enemy of my father. The lord of the Rockwood Valley.”

Alazar chuckled. He picked a knife off a plate and tossed it straight up into the air. He caught it by its point, balancing it on the tip of his finger.

Barin regarded the knife warily. His guards shuffled nervously, glancing back and forth between Alazar and the soldiers who silently watched, hands resting nonchalantly on the pommels of their swords.

“Your father is not as important as you clearly believe, lad. Take this knife for example. It’s dull and unimpressive. There’s a reason no one cares much about it. It’s easily replaceable. If I don’t like it, I can simply get rid of it.”

A blue flame erupted from his fingertip and the knife disappeared in a flash. The flames wavered and flickered out a moment later. The knife was simply gone.

“So you see, it’s rather simple. If you don’t want to find yourself becoming the son of the former lord of Falden, then I suggest you take your men out for a stroll around the village. The weather’s fine today. I bet they’ll enjoy it.”

Barin’s eyes bulged. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the young lord soiled himself. One of his guards whispered in his ear and the young man nodded slowly. Barin glanced at him for a moment and a flash of hatred glimmered underneath the fear.

Then he grimaced and spun on his heels, shoving his way through the guards blocking the door. They glanced over their shoulders as they shuffled out, as if expecting an explosion of essence to follow them outside.

Alazar let out a long sigh and the blue flames in his eyes wavered and disappeared.

“Alright everyone. Sorry about that. Everything’s fine. Don’t let me get in between you and your drinks.”

A couple soldiers laughed, resuming their seats. Alazar flashed him a boyish grin.

“I think that went well.”

“You threatened to kill his father,” he said, stunned. The most powerful man in the valley. For him.

Alazar shrugged and picked his cup off the table.

“I’ll talk it over with old man Raemis. He’ll understand. Boys like that don’t simply take no for an answer. You have to show them a little force.”

He shook his head, rethinking what he thought of the man.

“What was that before? With the fire? I didn’t know essence could be used like that.”

“Ha! Jealous, lad? Don’t tell me you didn’t think that was impressive.”

He hated to admit it, but in fact he did.

Now that the guards were gone, Marron and his brother struck up a quiet conversation while Kevan studied him with a cold unblinking stare.

“I’ve been thinking about what you meant earlier,” Alazar said suddenly. “Three things make a cultivator powerful but only one will make him strong. I can think of plenty reasons why someone’s powerful. But what makes you strong?”

“It’s something my father once told me,” he said quietly.

And without another word he left the Tipsy Gelding, leaving behind his brother in a room full of soldiers and a man who wielded essence in a way he couldn’t even begin to understand.