Prologue

I recall the frigid, slippery caverns; the terrible navaric beasts, and the tang smell of blood... Within the belly of Avalon, my vision was tainted red. But I would not give in to fear. For fear—was death.

Troan the 'Most Wanted'

____

I hold no love for my father. He was...unjust towards me, despite being the first elemental child of my House.

It shouldn't have surprised me when he deposed me. He always alluded to it—a hanging threat to keep me in line.

But I would not subject myself to him, to the ruin he planned for me, and my actions gave him reason to depose me.

A savory opportunity—one he ruthlessly pounced on.

I always wondered why he loathed me.

I reckon his hatred towards me stemmed from my mother. He called her a witch once. That she was, but she was good to me—in her way.

I was ten when I lost my claim to the throne. A few days later, Mother took me out of the castle.

She said to me in her sweet, lulling voice.

"Your father has abandoned you. But House Ages will not," a mysterious smile tugged at her lips. "You have been sentenced to Avalon? Fear not. It is a horrid place, but you will prevail and Vitrus will come to regret his choice."

As I was guided away to a carriage, unto my unknown fate on that cold, snowy day. I looked back across the drawbridge at my sister.

Being only seven then, she looked so delicate as she fought back against her tears.

The king wasn't there to see us off. I believed he despised me. He would rather spend every free moment training and teaching my step-brother, now the crown hier to Nauvaus.

This saddened me greatly, but I would not cry.

My dignity would not allow it.

"Come now, son." Mother called.

I remembered turning to her and feeling the chill of winter's breath upon my heart, as the snowstorm blew her long white hair askew, her enticing eyes like rubies beckoned me closer.

"I will make you worthy of the name, Ages."

Her lips settled into a gentle smile, her eyes full of faith.

——

Time blew by in a flurry and I was 11 years old.

Having survived Avalon, I was brought to see the head of House Ages for my...adoption.

I remember soldiers milling about, swords being sharpened, and rifles being reassembled. The rattling of armor and smell of ice troll dung barely registered in the abating blizzard.

"Wait here!" Mother yelled as she stood before a large tent.

"I will go speak to your grandfather."

Staring at her with eyes devoid of life, I nodded, and she put on her best facade of a proud smile. But I could read the nervousness in her eyes—anxious thoughts in her head.

She taught me to speak less and observe more; she taught me too well, it would seem.

She was hiding something, and I was all too keen to find out.

Standing still, I scrutinized the armored sentinels with their fur cloaks, observed the tent inscribed with runes to keep out the cold, and then the abnormally large dire wolf lying beside it.

A saddle was fastened unto its back, a mount it seemed to be.

Noticing my stare. It glared at me with ferocity in its cutting eyes, growling. But I returned the glare with as much coldness as was within my heart, almost growling in return... But the vestige of my dignity would not allow it.

It whined and looked down, forfeiting its challenge.

I ignored the sentinels who stared at me motionlessly through the visors of their battle-worn helmets and tried to listen in on what was being said within the tent.

At first, it came in hushes and mismatched words, but soon my ears attuned to the sounds.

"Avalon has made him—feral. As he is, he is too dangerous to be brought back to the royal capital." Mother's voice came through.

"Hmm." A voice hummed in a deep baritone, "I empathize with the boy. I faced the Ancestor's trial long ago, It left me broken for a time. But worry not Sauraia—my dear daughter.

"I shall temper his physique and, most especially, his heart. He shall learn the ways of a military noble, and the martial doctrines of our House."

"This is good to hear."

"Where is the boy?"

"He awaits outside."

Soon, the tent flapped open, and a man brushing shoulders with old age stepped out.

Greying dark hair reaching his shoulders, well-trimmed beard, and slash scars cutting diagonally across his face. It seemed to have been done by some creature's claws.

We shared a resemblance in our eyes, both displaying a unique shade of frosted blue.

This was a trait that traced back to the Ancestor himself, a bloodline heritage of the House Ages, one that had persevered for over a millennia.

Dressed in a worn dark gambeson, he seemed no different from the common city guard or an old adventurer one might find at a tavern, telling farfetched tales of heroic deeds of times past with a tankard in hand.

Yet, something in this man's stance, the way his steely eyes, that of a veteran gazed into mine...made me want to conjure an ice blade.

For the first time since Avalon—I felt threatened.

Ba-dump!

Immediately, I felt the familiar surge from within, an icy flow of var coursing through me, pumping through blood vessels and spreading to my hands and feet.

Shss—

It's effects, an ethereal shimmering mix of condensation and frost on my right hand. A process enacted so many times it required naught but the sense of being endangered.

"Easy now, boy." His voice came deep yet calming.

His face twitched as he made a conscious effort to soften his hardened features.

"You must be Troan... I am the Supreme Commander of the armies of the atrocious north, the High Steward of the Duchy of Bluestone, and the sixth Lord of Avalon. To you, however."

He allowed a small smile.

"I am your grandfather, and soon to be your guardian. Commander Marl Re' Ages, the 'Regent Slayer'."

Having conquered Avalon, you shall be in my charge while your mother returns to the royal capital to fulfill her duties there. During your service here I shall oversee your grooming—whenever I am disposed. But for now..."

He paused and glanced at his sentinel by the tent, who nodded and immediately went into the tent for reasons unbeknownst to me at that moment.

Grandfather then continued his monologue.

"There is much to do. But before we commence anything, you may bow to acknowledge me as your guardian—such as is customary."

I remembered offering a deep bow and the subsequent weight of the necklace grandfather placed on my neck.

The sentinel was back and this was what he retrieved.

It was a light blue medallion that glowed slightly upon contact with my skin.

A navaric artifact made of metals not of this realm. It was a protective and indicative artifact, designed solely for those who completed the Ancestor's trial, surviving Mount Avalon and finding the Ancestor.

Engraved on a side of the medallion was a depiction of a looming snowcapped mountain: Mount Avalon.

On the other side was a caped knight kneeling on one knee, and resting on their sword, head bowed.

A depiction of the Ancestor.

It had ancient texts of Kadi'an inscribed around the borders, no doubt a witch's spell.

Its craftsmanship was ornate and detailed, no less than the works of goldsmiths personally serving a king or even the Empress.

I stood up straight, and my grandfather folded both hands behind his back with a small smile.

"Welcome to the family. Troan—Re' Ages."

He declared with a subdued pomp to his tone that oddly seemed to convey solemnity despite his smile.

At once, both sentinels banged their gauntlet-protected left hand against their breastplate in salute.

A display of respect.

An honor, not even a Count would receive from this illustrious pair of soldiers.

Thinking back, I didn't care much for the medallion or the measured regaling. It was the acknowledgment in grandfather's eyes that struck me, the warmth in them.

It felt like someone finally lit the dusty fireplace in my heart.

A feeling the king always denied me.

—

But that was eight years ago. A short time to some, but so much had changed.

I had changed.

And now, as our steps echo around the large hallways of the royal castle, Mother, who never seemed to age, hums in delight beside me.

She smiles at me.

"You have left your father's side for so long, but it was worth it."

Her eyes sparkled.

"He will appreciate what a fine man you've become, he will have no choice but to."

My eyes critically appraise a pair of houseguards in steel armor plating and bronze-yellow colors patrolling past us.

"He is not my father." I reply subconsciously.

I feel my mother's gaze on me but she says nothing.

King Vitrus El' Seasult.

The Lord of Davor, the greatest port city; King of Nauvaus and the Isles of Man, the Sea King and Master of the corrupted seas.

To many, he was feared. To most, despised. Some dared call him the empress's dog, but those words were always amongst their last.

Regardless of what epithet he was assigned, one thing everyone agreed on was his overbearing strength and brutal cunning. He always seemed—untouchable, invincible even.

He stood as a pillar of stability in our ever-troubled territorial lands and seas.

Though, from my knowledge, the king had not been to the capital for a long time. He traveled on his own frequently, leaving his duties here to his queens and High Chancellor.

It is also known that my step-brother has been studying at Xagerios' Grand Magic Academy for some time now, in a country of arcanists, far east of our empire.

A Land of Arcana.

Our relationship with them has always been a patchwork affair...

I suddenly hear someone approach quickly, with steps so light it proved suspicious, and I deftly move between Mother and the one who accosts us.

Though we were in a secure castle. Among the martial doctrines grandfather carved into my being was the 'Always ready' doctrine.

Coolly watching the stranger standing before me. It was a woman, dressed in shades of grey with a hood. I notice the crest on her chest. The intricate symbol of a snowflake: The Loma.

This was a division of elite spies that had served under the House Ages for centuries. They were responsible for intelligence gathering and covert operations.

It was currently under Mother's control, which was odd as she had married into House Seasult, and no longer bore the name Ages.

The woman gets on one knee and respectfully holds out a scroll.

A black scroll...

Black scrolls never came with good tidings.

"It's alright, Troan." Mother places a placating hand on my shoulder, and then reaches for the scroll.

"You may go."

She relives the spy who leaves as quickly as she came.

Taking a deep breath, with slightly trembling hands she unfolds the scroll and reads it, but soon it falls to the ground.

Dropping on her knees, Mother wails.

The sound feels strange to my ears since she had never cried before me.

Her cry conveyed a mix of emotions too complex for my gelid heart to empathize.

I always thought nothing could make her sad.

There was always a quiet air of cheer around her—even when she carried out deeds some may deem cruel.

Suddenly, it was like the door to a furnace was opened within me, and a fiery sensation filled my chest. Burning so hot...It was almost freezing?

My hand grips my chest and I drop on one knee, struggling to regain composure.

But her wails only seemed to stoke the raging flames.

There was a sudden yearning to find whoever caused her such grief. A zeal to deal unimaginable torment to the violator.

My eyes let out a soft glow as jagged veins of ice creep across the floor all around me, climbing up the walls.

The black scroll rolls out before me, and a great sadness grips me.

And though, I did not want to believe it.

This feeling—was mine.

"—the King has passed away. His soul was received into the light of the Northern star..."

I always thought I didn't love him.

But now...the king was gone.

For now, my father—was dead.