Prologue 1: Lucas

[Platani, Patrae-Vasíleio]

[1:30 PM, May 29th, 299 ANB]

The forest is dense with trees and brush, but traversable for the acquainted hunter. Bushes rustle and branches crunch underfoot as such a group of men and women approach the treeline. They break out of the dense shadow and into the sunlight of the midday star. Among the small band of five are two who each carry a roe deer strapped to wooden frames on their backs. One of these, the one who also holds two blood-tipped spears, walks in front as those behind him converse with leisure. He approaches the small town of white-bricked houses and orange-tiled roofs ahead and comes to rest at its central building. Here, he lets down the deer carcass and frame, leans both spears against the wall, and continues to a house not more than thirty meters away.

He wipes his brow as he enters, immediately takes a cup of water to drink from a nearby pot, and opens a drawer nearby. Out of it, he takes a pouch about the size of his hand and looks around with disappointment. Just then, a woman comes down the stairs and enters the main room.

“Welcome back, Lucas.” She greets him. “How was the hunt?”

He sighs. “Not bad, two deer and a few fowl.” He opens the pouch in his hand, raising and lowering it to estimate its weight. “Is this everything?”

“That’s everything.” She looks off towards the floor, eyes half-lidded. “The whole village put its drachma together, and it got us one pound. Salt isn’t cheap.”

Lucas looks into the pouch at the white crystals and tries to imagine how a rock could cost so much. His disbelief slowly turns to frustration. “Has an officer come by yet? Or a letter, or anything?”

The woman slowly shakes her head. “Nothing.”

He tightens his empty fist and furrows his brow as a frown spreads across his face. His words are a low growl. “They send dad off on a hunt to die and don’t bother to show the slightest sympathy? Where’s our compensation? It’s been four weeks!” Lucas’s eyes begin to water out of anger, but he holds back tears and does his best to remain composed as a fire burns in his stomach.

His mother stopped trying to console him a week ago, knowing that no amount of words could heal his wounded heart. Even if she were to try, there are no words left. Only dim hope occupies her mind now, waiting everyday for a representative of the Royal Court to come along and drop off thousands of drachma that will never come.

Lucas, while just as plagued, has his pain in the form of festering hatred. His father, the very man who taught him how to hunt, fight, and survive off of nature, is gone from his life for good. No amount of money will take the pain away. But it is not the poverty that infuriates him. He fails to conceive of any human being with a heart who wouldn’t bat an eye at his situation. He can only conclude that the Court is full of such heartless people.

“Lucas,” His mother speaks up and softly places a hand on his shoulder, “I think it’s time you went to the capital and demanded a commission from the Court. You can hunt better than anyone here; they’ll pay you well.”

“They’re as good as murderers. I refuse to work for people like them.” He turns away. “There’s work to be done in other towns. It won’t pay nearly as much, but it can help provide for the village.”

The front door opens and one of the hunters takes a step inside. “You got the salt?” He asks. Lucas nods in response and presents the small bag. The man, upon seeing it, becomes slightly deflated.

Lucas begins walking out of the house as the man backs out and leaves. Just as Lucas is in the doorway, his mother calls out to him.

“Wait.” She enters a corner of the main room and opens a wooden chest. From it, emerges a hatchet, its metal scratched but polished and its dark wood handle tarnished. The woman walks up to Lucas and hands him the hatchet. “If you’re going to do vigilante work, your father would want you to have this.”

He tucks the salt pouch into his pocket and takes the weapon with both hands. Its iron head is weighty, but not overbearing. He slides its shaft down one hand until he holds it just beneath the blade. The wooden handle has depressions for the fingers worn down through use. When Lucas flips the weapon over, an inscription at the base of the wooden shaft catches his eye. “U.G.”

“His first hatchet. Forged it himself when he was your age.”

Lucas moves in to embrace his mother. “Thank you.” He whispers.

They seperate and Lucas exits the house with the hatchet in his hand. A breeze sweeps through the area, carrying the scent of burning wood from the furnaces of surrounding villages. This brings to Lucas’s mind the few people in the kingdom forging their own identities just as his father did and how much better it would be to offer his services to them than to his kingdom’s Court. The scent represents freedom and allegiance to one’s self. Lucas takes a deep breath in.

Prologue 2: Wren

[Patras, Patrae-Vasíleio]

[10:45 AM, March 19th, 300 ANB]

A young woman exhales her anxieties as she pushes through the large, decorated doors leading into the long ceremony room. This room, like the rest of the royal palace, is adorned in gold and purple tapestry, gilded ornaments hanging from the walls, and a polished dark wood long table in the center. Light filters in from large windows along the left and right, stained glass depicting past kings and queens of the realm. Their figures tower over her as though determining her worth.

The room is already occupied by men and women, five in all, in expensive robes matching the colors of the tapestry. They sit formally at the other end of the table. The distance between her and them feels extraordinarily large until the woman at the head of the table clears her throat and speaks. Her voice carries with authority and brings her listener into the moment.

“The daughter of Robert Atkinson is recognized before this High Court of the Grand Kingdom of Patrae, Amaliada, and Pyrgos, convened on this day: the nineteenth of March in the three-hundredth year of Humanity’s New Birth. It is by the grace of providence, made manifest through loyalty, that she stands before this ceremony table. And by the valor of her late father that she has the courage to do so.”

The woman sounds as old as she looks, though she does her best to speak with a grandiose aura about her. The daughter of Robert is reminded that she is in the presence of Beatrice, who is the head of the Court as well as the woman who will be crowned as queen of the realm upon her death. Given her age, illness, and frail health, none expect her to survive more than another month. This is the last ceremony she will head, an honor unique to the woman to whom she is speaking. The bag of bones continues.

“Bring forth the elixir.” She raises an elegant arm to motion for a cupbearer behind her to present a jewel-encrusted grail. The man makes the walk along the long table and hands the cup to the daughter of Robert in silence. “With this, you are inducted into the immediate service of this High Court and given all honors which come with it.”

This is her cue to drink the cup’s contents. She looks down into the grail at the blue liquid. From sight and feeling, it must have a viscosity slightly greater than that of water. She knows not what it’s made of or where it comes from, but it is the only thing standing between her and following in her father’s footsteps. She brings the cup to her lips and tips it slightly. Shortly, the half-full cup is emptied.

The cupbearer takes the grail back and returns to his position. When this is done, Beatrice stands slowly. A woman next to her provides assistance as she proves unable to support herself. After a few coughs, Beatrice straightens up and prepares to speak. THe young woman lowers her upper body in a customary bow.

“May your years in service be many and may your works surpass those of your father before you.” She allows a moment to go by, everyone in the room awaiting her next word. “Rise.” The rest of the robed persons stand as the nervous girl straightens herself. “Welc—” Beatrice’s voice is cut off by a sudden and jarring series of coughs and wheezes. This goes on for a few seconds before the woman supporting her whispers into her ear. In response, Beatrice waves a hand and sits back down.

The woman previously supporting the main speaker puts on a more imposing demeanor, standing straight and raising her chin slightly. The other robed individuals appear to give her as much respect as they do Beatrice. The newly inducted woman, in recent days, has come to know this woman as ‘Eleanor’. She speaks in a loud, definitive tone.

“Welcome to the Royal Guard, Wren Atkinson.”