The last time Feldon called a Thing was when the new villagers migrated. It was a mostly ceremonial vote to allow the immigrants right to live among them. Ceremonial because there was no real doubt to whether they could stay or not; homes were already being built. At the time, everyone gathered around the jarl’s longhouse, and the community leaders sat at a long table inside. Elders, captains, and Shaman Bak would sit as Feldon stood at the head to declare the Thing. Sherra helped Rael limp there from the infirmary, holding Azmond’s hand through the whole thing. They’d struggled to peek through the windows in the thatch walls, listening carefully as the booming voices of the leaders resounded underneath the ship-like roof.

This Thing was different. People began to congregate at the jarl’s longhouse, only to redirected by the jarl’s wife, Shieldmaiden Edith. The woman was taller even than Rael, and as muscular as Derrol. Rael had seen her around other captains, with a smile as bright as the sun and a booming laugh that rang like thunder. But now, her eyes were hard-set and her voice was grim.

“The situation is still unfolding.” She said in a tone that sounded oft repeated. “Shaman Bak and his apprentices are using the grapevine to understand what’s going on. Jarl Feldon is with them now.”

Sherra, Gault, Azmond, and Rael were soon joined by others walking down the paths to the west trunk of the Grand Mangrove. Their group of a dozen people swelled into dozens, then hundreds as they reached Bak’s hut. There were those in raider gear, gator-leather cuirasses not completely strapped. Hunters in their cloaks and spidersilk face nets, a few still holding their unstrung bows and fishing spears. Chinampa farmers, smelling of peat and willow, were dusting their hands off their thick kilts. Assorted artisans like Sherra and Gault stood with them too, a few of the apprentices still holding the half-finished products. The gathered crowd of hundreds talked in hushed murmurs. Azmond, nervous around all the people, huddled closer to Rael and clenched their left arm. Rael smiled at him encouragingly and pulled him in a sidelong embrace. The kid’s tension left him, freeing Rael’s arm enough to tussle his messy, stark-white hair and caress his ridged horns.

“You should brush his hair.” Sherra noted in a faint voice as she watched them. “Yours is short, so I can understand not taking care of it. But his is almost shoulder length now.”

“Maybe I should cut it.” Rael and Sherra almost chuckled at Azmond’s reaction. He frowned and covered his viciously shaking head.

“You know boys.” Sherra nudged Gault as he rolled his eyes and smiled. “Always trying they can prove they can take the heat with their long hair and beards.”

“It’s tradition.” Gault assented, then leaned to Rael to explain. “Ancient Faulk raiders would grow out their hair so that they could have pieces of themselves for their loved ones to remember them by. Nowadays, we can more easily bring back the bodies of our fallen brethren, but then…” Gault noticed Sherra’s smile. “Right, sorry. Maybe I should have been a skald.”

“Don’t apologize.” Sherra cooed. “I find it adorable. And I think your shaved face makes you sexy.” She kissed him on the cheek.

“You sure the long hair isn’t too hot for you?” Rael asked Azmond, pointedly ignoring the couple’s flirting. He shrugged. “Is it because all the other kids have long hair?” Azmond shook his head vigorously again. “Alright then.”

‘I guess I have to teach him how to brush his hair.’

The crowd shifted and quieted as a stocky man with dark brown hair braided into his beard walked from the hut. Jarl Feldon was nearly three heads shorter than his wife with a face that always seemed to glare at whatever crossed his path. His rippling muscles, however, made it clear that he was a powerful and respected Faulk warrior. He’d recently darkened the skin around his eyes. Rael wasn’t sure what it meant, but the sparse few whispers that reignited in a subtle smolder meant it must have been important. He raised a hand and silence reigned once more.

“High Jarl Fraya is dead. Not of disease, for the wisest of shamans were by her side. But from a craven attack from the Bergin Empire.”

There were gasps. People began to talk, whispers growing into speech, then smatterings of panicked yelling. Jarl Feldon raised a fist again, calling silence back.

“Somehow, they found Hightown Trygyve. Their actions were strange. One galleon and two skirmishers waited overhead and pretended to parley. Naturally, evacuations began as Fraya sent Jarl Trygyve and two of her shieldmaidens to discuss. As Fraya prepared for battle, there was explosion. “

There were shouts of anger, cries of woe. One, a porter, unleashed a scream of anguish as he collapsed. ‘That’s a bit of an overreaction.’ Rael watched the man as he sobbed, a few people patting him sadly on the shoulder. Jarl Feldon gave the people a minute before he spoke once more.

“Fraya’s quick thinking allowed the people of Hightown Trygyve chance to escape, the warriors time to ready their weapons. Witnesses say Trygyve’s raiders successfully destroyed one of the Empire skirmishers and captured the other, but the galleon escaped from the swamps. With Jarl Trygyve.”

When he paused this time, he did not need to raise his fist. The quiet festered and ate at the crowd, stoking fear in the people. The Jarl’s voice boomed, thrumming within the chest of every man, woman, and child.

“We will not let this be!” He stomped, the vibrations jumping up the legs of all who stood near. “The Empire has given up all honor to strike us a blow. They did not face us head-on, as warriors, but tried to drive a blow in our backs. And that can only mean one thing: They fear us!” Jarl Feldon roared. “They fear us, for who else but the Faulk have stood fast against the Empire for over seventy years? Who else but the Faulk took from them with every raid, and sold the Empire’s losses to their enemies across the southern sea? Who else, but us, those that spit in the face of their ‘civilized’ ways, their delusions of superiority, their dreams of conquering Silafel, let alone all of Galladia? Who else but us for them to show everyone how little their word means? To show everyone everything they’ve said, everything they’ve done, every excuse, every lie, was nothing more than pretense.” Jarl Feldon shook his head. “We were never at war with Bergin. We simply took from us when they tried to take from us. But now…they’ve finally struck us a blow. They’ve finally hurt us. It is time we show them what it means to go to war with the Faulkie jarldoms. It is time for them to learn to fear what dwells in the fog.” Jarl Feldon’s voice quieted into a normal tone, scarcely more than a whisper, yet heard throughout all the village. He closed his eyes, the paint across his face hiding them…save for the subtle glowing blue circles painted on his eyelids. “When all this is done, they will tell tales of us, on the darkest nights, when even the moons hide in shadows. They will shiver when hearing our names on warm nights. They will barricade their doors when the fog rolls in. And their Immortal Emperor will learn to fear once more.”

The silence that threatened to eat the hearts of the people was consumed in the thumps of the people stamping their feet in approval. More and more people joined in, until it seemed the stomping of the people would dislodge the Grand Mangrove itself from the muck and silt it had clung to for centuries.

“Ready yourselves. To war!” Jarl Feldon raised an arm, and his people chanted with him.

“TO WAR!”

“TO WAR!”

“TO WAR!”

As they chanted, Jeida came out of Bak’s hut and ran to whisper in Jarl Feldon’s ear. He opened his eyes and searched the crowd, only stopping for a moment on Rael and Azmond. Then he continued to search the crowd before closing his eyes once more. Rael felt Azmond grip their hand harder. Soon, the crowd hurried off to prepare. Rael pulled Azmond along as they followed Sherra and Gault. The two walked rigorously, as if they knew exactly what to do. ‘Which would help since I have no idea what the hells to do now.’

“Now what?”

“We get our affairs in order.” Sherra said gruffly. She sighed and gave Rael a sorrowful glance.

“Sorry you are involved with this.” Gault said as his wife opened and closed her mouth several times. “The last Faulkie war was centuries ago; it’s very different to how things are when we only raid. The skalds say most of our guests leave during these times. War is never pretty.”

‘Where else can we go? I won’t go back to Gulass and chance meeting the Greenthistle family again. Doub is far from the Empire and Gulass, but they are about as rough as the Faulk and as kind as Bergin. Not to mention…’Rael brought the nervous Child of Dragons closer. ‘Az likes it here.’

“We’ve got nowhere else to go. And didn’t you explain that for Faulks, the rules of hospitality are sacred for both hosts and guests? I intend to repay the people of Feldon for the help you’ve given us.” Rael approached the couple with their head held high.

“That’s dumb.” Sherra hissed, pushing Rael away. “Take a ship with the other merchants south. You’re a skilled blacksmith, especially with your strange spell. You can make a living elsewhere. You don’t know what it means to stay.” Gault put a comforting hand on his wife’s shoulder and pulled her back.

“Rael,” he said softly, “everybody who can wield an axe, carry a shield, or fly a boat can and will be conscripted. No matter the Jarl’s fancy speech, the Empire outnumbers us ten-to-one. I’ve spoken to Derrol. You’re a decent fighter, but you don’t have a Tome-warrior, and you haven’t trained with us. A shield line is only as sturdy as its weakest hand, a ship only as fast as its slowest sailor, and an axe is as strong as the arm that wields it.”

“Maybe I can’t fight.” Rael glared. “But you’ll need steel, and you’ll need someone who can work it.” The young blacksmith turned to Sherra. “I may be a half-tempered metalworker, but a half-hand is a stronger clenched fist than no hand at all. You said it yourself: I can shave hours off every Damascus blade. Shouldn’t that count for something?”

Sherra bit her lip and grunted as she thought, maintaining eye contact with Rael until she looked away. “Fine. I’ll be sure to tell the Jarl you’re staying and how you can help us.” There was a twang and a crash. Rael jumped up and looked about. ‘A ballista? The Empire?’

“You’ve got good instincts.” Sherra smirked, pointing at one of the thatch hut-nests that hung from the Grand Mangrove. The bridge was rolled back and there was someone hacking at the rope holding it up. With another twang, the thick rope broke, and the hut fell, slowing down before it hit the water. It bobbed up and down, but floated. “Every now and then we have to cut down an abandoned nest, and there’s always someone that does it wrong.” She pointed to the mangled mess of thatch and supports drifting in the water besides the intact hut that just landed. “But during war, we take them down to float besides each other, families joining once more. It’s warmer, more humid, and we’re closer together, but it makes for a quick and easy escape. If you want to stay, you’ll be living with us in something like that.”

“Not quite.” Gault interrupted. “Stenknud, remember?”

“Right!” Sherra slapped her head. “Still can’t believe he got a Bergin tax collector. Does he have enough people to even flip his longhouse?”

“He will now.” Gault laughed. “He always did complain family never came for Winter Solstice.”

“He adds too much salt to his meals. Its inedible, and he’s trying to show off.” Sherra smacked her lips and shook her head. “Rael, Azmond, go to your nest and take everything down so others can use it when it comes down. Longhouses are even better than nests.”

Rael nodded, ushering Azmond to follow. When they got to their nest, there was already someone there. The familiar man was wiping his red eyes, looking around for someone until Rael approached.

“Ah!” He perked up. “You’re here. I’m the porter in charge of the heating stones. Do you need it, or can I take it out for reassignment?”

“Aren’t you the guy who cried when you heard about the High Jarl?” Rael couldn’t help but ask.

“Aye…” He got a wistful look in his eyes. “I hosted her when she came to live in Feldon a few years ago. Her reputation does not do her justice. A master of a hundred crafts, a renown skald, warrior, and lover. No doubt the hearts of dozens of Faulk men and women shattered today.” He frowned, memories of days gone faded. “The Bergin will pay for this. Once I’m done aiding the other porters, I will pick up an axe and join any captain that will have me. Probably after the captains are done meeting with the Jarl in tonight’s war meeting.”

‘I guess that’s one way to win the hearts of your people. Wait, war meeting?’

“Take the stone. I could only ever heat it up with Ember anyways.” The porter tsk’d and entered the nest, mumbling something about a fire hazard. He came out, holding the heavy soapstone slab in one hand and waved them goodbye.

‘You know what…if he can carry that so easily, maybe Bergin should be worried they killed someone with so many lovers.’

Azmond rushed into the shack and began collecting things. He’d never owned anything before coming to Feldon, and he was eager to put away all his things. Clothes, toy carvings made by Barnabas, and a series of etchings on which he’d been working. Rael had less things to worry about. A change of clothes, a hammer gifted by Sherra…and not much else. They laid on the hammock and tried to think things through, ignoring Azmond’s pitter-patter on the floorboards as he ran about trying to figure out what to throw and what to keep. ‘Whatever is happening…the jarl knows something. About us.’

Rael watched Azmond stuff his things onto his hammock, then fold it all together. They smiled. ‘So nice of him to hold a war meeting.’

<><><>

Rael was sweaty after helping Gault’s cousin flip his longhouse and push it into the water. It involved moving the floorboards around, putting in some barrels of fresh water as ballast, and installing a thatch roof. Even with a dozen people working together, it was tough work that lasted until evening. Now, Rael shimmied up the side of the Jarl’s longhouse, eager to find a spot to listen. It was nostalgic, sneaking around to eavesdrop. They almost giggled thinking about how just as they’d outgrown the tree that hung over their father’s smithy, here was yet another massive tree to climb and eavesdrop. Rael gently trailed their fingers across the roof, marveling at how smooth it was. There were no imperfections, but that could be fixed. Summoning their Tome-dagger, they carefully slid the edge in between the planks of wood, struggling to open a tiny crease.

“We can’t send an all-out raid on their provinces—” A captain’s voice leaked from the roof, only to cut out almost immediately.

Rael felt the smirk die on their lips when the little crack they’d opened sealed itself closed.

‘Of course. They enchanted the roof to self-repair. Maybe the silencing spell they’d obviously cast wasn’t clue enough. Reading lips maybe?’

“Life Detection.” Rael whispered, a new sense enveloping the others.

They could see them in the hut now. The familiar shapes of the Jarl, his wife, Bak, and the captains were gesticulating as they passed something around. Likely food, from the smell of roasted trout and buttered garlic and rosemary. ‘Maybe I should’ve grabbed a bite to eat…’While they ate, they talked, but Rael couldn’t exactly read their lips as they chewed. Cursing under their breath, Rael stuck their dagger in again, deeper this time. When they opened a crack, they twisted the dagger in a slowly, methodically, to keep the wood from completely healing.

“Fraya was beloved by many, though I could never be a good host for her.” Jarl Feldon said, mouth full.

“She was a very clever nymphomaniac.” Shieldmaiden Edith grunted as she tore into the leg of a braised waterfowl.

“To be fair,” a captain pointed a no doubt greasy finger at Shieldmaiden Edith, “she was the kick in the pants we Faulk needed. She got assholes like Erikar—sorry, Jarl Erikar, to back off, negotiated loads more traders to visit, and she was more than just a beautiful set of muscles.”

“She was a wise leader, and a…demanding guest.” Bak intoned, licking his fingers as he pulled a fish bone from his meal. “But her following is incredibly devoted, not just among her lovers and hosts, but among the Norns as well. They may count it against you if we do not act adequately against the Bergin.”

“Aye, if you want to be the next High Jarl, we may have to act soon.” Another captain said.

“Whether or not I want the position is of little importance; this was the first time we’ve been dealt a massive blow.” The Jarl growled. “I am not Jarl Erikar; I choose my battles to protect and provide. The strength of Feldon is not within our axes, but every hand that helped carry them. This attack may have only affected Trygyve, but the waves reach us still. Refugees will strain our resources, people will violently settle disputes in the chaos, and traders from the south have lost faith in us.”

“Which is why we need to hit Bergin back! Hard!” The captain said, slamming his fist on the table.

“Peace, Kip.” Derrol wiped some rice from his beard. “Jarl Feldon is saying we need to be careful. A steady arm with a bow and careful eye is worth ten axes in the hands of berserkers, after all. We need to find out why and how the Empire struck us this blow.”

The group pondered in silence, only opening their mouths to eat. Except the Jarl, his wife, and Bak. Shieldmaiden Edith stared at the two men and leaned back into her chair.

“Bak, one of your apprentices came to tell something to Jarl Feldon during his speech.” She crossed her arms. “What was it about?”

Bak tensed. He looked away as Edith stared at him.

“One of the prisoners from the Empire skiff was…interrogated by one of Trygyve’s captains. As you know, their military is very…let’s say, compartmentalized.”

“You choose your words too carefully, Shaman Bak.” The captain, Kip scoffed. “They’ve got a stick in every arse, and a need to have everybody in their place. Buncha regimented idiots who can’t even wipe their ass ‘less someone three ranks above them gives them the order.”

“Kip!” Jarl Feldon snapped. “This is important.”

“Is it, Jarl Feldon?” Bak hemmed. “It’s nothing more than a rumor. Nobody could confirm it to be true.”

“The Bergin Empire is foolish.” Jarl Feldon said slowly, icily. “But the advantages that come with their military structure are many. The ability to field troops quickly and support them from nearly anywhere. The ability to send legions upon legions of soldiers, trained for a purpose greater than themselves. The ability to focus their military on one target and relentlessly crash against them in an unrelenting tide. It matters little if the rumor is true. What matters is that the Empire believes it to be true.”

“He’s just a child!” Bak stood and slammed his hands on the table. Rael’s heart dropped.

“He’s a TARGET!” Jarl Feldon roared. “Now speak, Shaman.”

“…The Empire thinks that the Edge of the world opened.” Bak sat back down sullenly. “And that a Scaled, no more than a child, is the cause. They went to Hightown Trygyve because someone believes him to be in the Faulkie Jarldoms.”

The captains froze. Someone dropped a piece of food, causing the plate underneath to clang. Rael wanted to slide off the roof and run. To pick up Az and take him elsewhere, anywhere else, even Doub. But if they left now, they would be missing vital information. They grit their teeth and stayed still.

“How did they know to go to Hightown?” Jarl Feldon continued, staring at his own plate.

“He didn’t know.” Bak shook his head. “He honestly believed they were there to negotiate for the Scaled.”

“Was there word on the Grapevine about the Scaled child?” Jarl Feldon picked up a bone, examining it.

“No.” Bak chuckled mirthlessly. “I wanted to brag about him at the Meeting of Stones, so I kept quiet.”

“Small blessings.” The Jarl nodded. He motioned to his wife. “Could you bring me some of that wine that we got from the south? The spicy one with a dark finish.” Shieldmaiden Edith nodded and left the longhouse.

“Jarl?” Another captain asked. “What if the rumors are true? I’ve been hearing strange things these past months…more demons, strange weather, and whispers of the Rage of the World. If the child can open the Edge, it’d mean more trade, more arms against the Empire, more opportunities.”

“Or more enemies.” Another captain said, using a thin fishbone as a toothpick. “More unfamiliar lands. Our home is unique and works to shield us from all that would try to hurt us. And if it wasn’t unique? We’d lose our advantage. Who knows what the people of the other side of the Rainbow Fire have been up to?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jarl Feldon drank from his mug. “Bergin is blinded by their own hubris, thinking they’d be stronger than whatever’s on the other side. Maybe they’d be smart and establish trade, but that’s never been their first action. What’s important is that we have what they want. And we can use it to our advantage.”

Rael grit their teeth.

“You can’t seriously be saying to use Azmond as bait!” Derrol growled.

“Maybe.” The Jarl said, turning his empty mug upside down.

“He’s a Child of Dragons!” Bak hissed.

“Aren’t we risking the ire of Xythael?” Another captain hummed nervously.

“Xythael isn’t around to protect us any longer.” Jarl Feldon stated coldly.

Rael had heard enough. They dispersed their Tome and slid down the roof. Slowly, carefully, they glid down the smooth roof and fell, landing on the balls of their feet.

“Hey.” A voice said from behind them.

Rael ripped around and threw a haymaker at the Shieldmaiden. She caught the punch and nodded. Rael resummoned their Tome-dagger, slicing at Edith’s arm. She let go and stepped back. Rael ran forward with the Tome-dagger aimed at Edith’s chest. The burly woman smirked and readied a sidestep.

“[Ember].” Rael called, still aiming directly at Edith…and the dry thatch wall behind her.

The Shieldmaiden frowned, her Tome-Warrior appearing behind her for a moment as she twisted her body strangely. She stepped to the side to strike Rael in the stomach, ignoring the flame. Her fist raced forwards and stopped just short. Only for a blow to hit Rael from the opposite side, driving them straight into Edith’s fist. ‘What the fu—”

Edith twisted her arm, and there was like a jolt that passed through her body and into Rael’s. The Meta spasmed, their own muscles moving against them. “Silent casting. She’s silent casting Faulk magic.” Rael collapsed, struggling to glare at the Shieldmaiden. Edith looked down at her and nodded.

“Smart.” Edith picked Rael up with one arm and heaved them over her shoulder. “But still weak.” She walked to the entrance of the longhouse and pushed open the door.

“Here comes the southern wine.” Jarl Feldon clapped his hands. “Spicy, with a dark finish.” Edith brought Rael over and dropped them unceremoniously into an open chair.

“Jarl, it’s against the rules of hospitality to abduct a guest.” Derrol stood up.

“Captain, it is against the rules of hospitality to spy on your host.” Jarl Feldon threw back, running his hands through his beard. Derrol groaned and shot Rael a look of pity, shaking his head.

“’Ih ahainght hules o’ ho’hihality ‘o muse a keust as mait!” Rael struggled to talk through their spasming jaw.

“Why should you care?” Jarl Feldon turned Rael’s chair to face him. He barely needed to lean to look them in the eyes, but his voice was as cold and stiff as a corpse. “Even without his dragon bits, he doesn’t look related to you. You could have passed him off to any family, they would have been honored to host him. But you chose to stay. You chose to care enough to eavesdrop when you saw me staring at him earlier today. You chose to help him.” He waved at Edith, who dispelled the effect on Rael with but a thought. “Why?”

Rael massaged their jaw and met his stare.

“Because I’m not the type of person who’d abandon a child to strangers. I’ve known him longer than anyone else on this landmass.”

“He would have been cared for. Practically worshipped.” Feldon leaned closer, making Rael feel as if the world itself rested on their shoulders. “So why?”

“This is stupid.” Rael averted their gaze. “He saved me, I’ll save him. You understand blood-debts, right?”

“Fine.” Jarl Feldon leaned back and shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t even matter whether or not the Edge of the World opened for a Scaled, nor if the both of you were there. What does matter is that you’re responsible for him. And as my guest, I am responsible for you, Dragonward.” The others stood up straighter as he said those words. “That means, wherever I go, you and Az must follow. Should he commit a crime, dishonor anybody, insult any of my betters, you will suffer in his place. By my hands. Is that clear?”

“This is bullshit.” Rael said, tone glacial.

“I agree. But rules must be absolute, Dragonward. The mantle of responsibility is a heavy one. Now eat.” Jarl Feldon shoved a plate of food in front of them.

“Um. What?” Rael blinked a few times. There was still steam coming off of the catfish, nestled between wild rice and rosemary leaves.

“You are Dragonward.” Jarl Feldon sat back down, the intense atmosphere dispersing as quickly as it came. “Since Azmond the Scaled is not yet grown, you represent his interests, earning you a seat at the table. Where I can keep an eye on you.”

“You can’t be serious.” Kip deadpanned. “I fought in dozens of raids before I became a captain and this little one gets to sit at the table just for taking care of a child?”

"There are precedents." Bak admitted.

Rael looked at their plate, the steamed catfish smiling back up at them. There were no spoons or utensils. They slumped their shoulders and pinched off some of the soft, glazed meat. “This is bullshit.” Rael agreed.

“Aye.” The Jarl nodded. “Politics always are. You’ll see it more at the Althing.”

“And you’re bringing them to the Althing?!” Kip threw his hands in the air.

“That sounds like you’re volunteering to come.” The sadistic glee in Jarl Feldon’s eyes overshadowed his deceptively sweet smile.

“What?! No!” Kip blanched under his sparse beard. “I mean, it’s an honor, but—”

“That makes Kip one of the three captains in my retinue. How will I choose the others?”

There was no sound. All of the captains had even stopped masticating their food. An errant mosquito buzzed around the room, landing on the nose of one captain, who struggled to keep still. Finally, Derrol raised a hand and grunted.

“I still have to train Rael.” He huffed. “If you’re taking them, I need to go with so they won’t get soft.”

Still, the other captains kept still.

Shieldmaiden Edith nodded as she sopped up her plate with some dark bread. “Don’t let them fight over it again, Feldon. The first two times, the biggest losers went with you. And the last, it was the one who could not injure themselves on their foe’s blows fast enough to ‘lose’.”

“Yes, that was embarrassing.” Jarl Feldon sighed. “Oh well.” He raised a finger and pointed it to the captain closest to him. She stiffened and looked around, hoping beyond hope that he’d made a mistake. “Eenie,” Feldon pointed to another captain in turn.

“Meenie, miney, moe, catch a dragon by the toe…”

This sent them all scrambling about as they struggled to mess with the Jarl’s counting order. Unabashed and hiding a small smile, he continued to count randomly.

In the end, another captain was chosen. Ulric, saddened by his misfortune, accepted his misbegotten fate: the honor of going with his Jarl to the Althing.