Marauder

The sunlight spilled across the snow as Sorn and Oden emerged from the Archives after a surprisingly emotional departure. The journey back began in silence, the crunch of their boots being the only sound between them. Oden had offered no explanation regarding their next destination, as typical of him. Sorn glanced at the tall Marauder from under his hood as he tightened his cloak. Eventually, Sorn broke the quiet.

"We're going back to the Quarters?"

Oden didn't break stride. "Yes, we're going to train you now."

The conversation ended as abruptly as it began. Their journey brought them back toward the inner city of the Fortress. It was there, near the border, that the scene unfolded: a trio of Spears confronting a farmer, the Spear symbol on their uniforms flashing proudly.

The Spears turned as Oden approached, their conversation cutting short. They stiffened, instantly recognizing the man before them. Oden pushed Sorn behind his back with one large hand before his arms over his chest as he came to a halt. The size of the Marauder was imposing. Oden was almost a whole head taller than everyone around him despite appearing much younger than the Spears.

"I assume you're looking for us?" Oden asked coldly.

Seemingly the leader of the trio, a wiry man with eyes like a wolf, stepped forward. His face betrayed no nervousness. "That depends on who that cloaked boy is hiding behind you."

Sorn perked up a bit upon being mentioned, but he said nothing. Oden, his patiently stepped aside. His arms stretched out, presenting Sorn like a prize. "Take the hood off, Sorn."

The boy hesitated, but it only took a few seconds before Sorn pulled the hood back, revealing his face to the bitter wind and the sharp stares of the Spears. There was a beat of silence before one of them hissed, as if faced with the Devil himself.

"Even uglier than the rumors said," one of them spat. "Skin like mud, hair like shadow. What foul God spat you into existence?"

Oden's tone hardened, his usual easy confidence now was accompanied by a dangerous edge. "And where," he said, "does a nameless pack of the Fourth Division find the confidence to insult a Marauder and his charge?"

The Spear that first spoke responded without hesitation. "A Marauder? You mean your ragged band of misfits, a 'Clan' born of dishonor? No noble blood flows in your lot. And now you disgrace yourselves further, bringing this thing in your captivity."

Oden took a deliberate step forward, his shadow falling long over the sneering Spear. The two men stood mere inches apart, their eyes locked as neither of them showed signs of backing down. "Do you want me to make you regret those words?"

"We've no wish to cross you, Armored Fist," the Spear replied. "We're simply here to remind you that this little excursion violates the contract. You know the terms. The Outsider is a matter of order, not of chaos. We aren't resorting to violence for your sake. Whether you win or lose, neither outcome will prove good for you and your companion."

An almost mocking curiosity flickered across Oden's face. "You seem confused. Remind me, who stands with the boy right now?"

The Spear's lips pressed thin. "You."

"Exactly. And the Iron Stag's terms were clear: a Marauder must be present. You see no breach of contract here."

The Spear was not so easily dismissed. "And when we tell Varian of this little foray, what do you imagine he will say?"

A slow smile crept between the Marauder's ears. "Let him talk. He may restrict the boy's movements if he likes. We've no plans for another journey anyway."

Finally satisfied, the Spear gave a grunt for a reply and then he jerked his head. The Spears turned and marched off, as proud as they came. The farmer they had presumably been questioning had run away long ago.

Oden waited until they were well out of earshot before turning to Sorn. "Remember those three," he said lightly. "In the Tournament, you'll face students and not soldiers. But those who participate are not mere children. They will be twice as dangerous and half as polite. Train hard, or you'll find yourself flattened."

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

"Again."

Thud.

Sorn's body hit the frozen ground.

"Again."

Thud.

Oden's commanding voice cut through the icy air.

"Again."

This time, Sorn's legs betrayed him entirely. He stumbled backward, his muscles screaming in protest, and slid down the slick, frost-covered wall. His back scraped against the rough surface until he hit the snowy ground with a muffled thump. The cold seeped into his bones, but the soft snow provided a semblance of relief.

The training courtyard was a roofless annex of the Marauder Hall. It had become Sorn's new world over this past week.

After the visit to the Frost Archives, Oden had taken it upon himself to make Sorn a warrior. Relentless was too mild a word for Oden's methods. Sorn found himself sparring with both students his age as well as seasoned Marauders. Worst of all was Oden himself. The towering "Armored Fist" was recognized as the most prodigious among the young Marauders alongside his cousin Serene.

Yet the agony bore fruit. Sorn had begun to master his strange ability. "Emerald Wisps," as Oden had named it. When activated, the glowing green wisps charged Sorn's body, granting him physical attributes that made even older Marauders take notice. In those moments, he felt invincible. It was the only time he could hold his own against Oden.

Without this power however, Sorn's body felt like that of a frail child. He was utterly incapable. The payoff for using Emerald Wisps was that it drained his stamina with alarming speed, reducing him to a breathless wreck in minutes. This was still a major improvement. A week ago, he couldn't hold the Wisps for more than twenty seconds without collapsing.

This was why Oden had shifted the focus of their training. Initially, he had wanted to train Sorn like a Marauder, building all his attributes from the ground up, but something else took priority.

"Forget strength," Oden had said that first night. "Forget technique. Without stamina, you're a corpse waiting to happen."

So, for seven grueling days, they pushed the limits of Sorn's endurance. His threshold had grown from mere seconds to an astonishing ten minutes. Ten minutes where he could fight Oden to a standstill, his fists flying faster than his eyes could track.

But Oden wasn't one for celebration.

"Don't get cocky," he'd warned Sorn. "Those you're sparring with, they don't want to kill you. They're pulling their punches, and not one of us is using our abilities. The same won't be true in the Tournament. There, the only mercy you'll find is a quick death. Especially from the Spears who'll likely be using the situation to hunt you."

It was a sobering thought. The Tournament loomed large over the horizon, its shadow growing darker with each passing day. There would be no reprieve.

And then, there was the Prophecy.

The words hung over Sorn ominously. He didn't fully understand its implications, but the way Oden spoke of it gave him a hint of nervousness.

Oden's voice brought him back to the present. "On your feet, Sorn. The snow isn't your ally. It'll catch you when you fall, but it'll keep you there if you let it."

Sorn groaned as he pushed himself upright. His legs trembled and his arms felt like lead, but he managed to stand. The Emerald Wisps flickered faintly around him. He closed his eyes, focusing to bring them back to their earlier intensity.

Oden gave him a hard look. "Next week will be worse. Limits are for men who've earned the right to rest. And you have a long way before you reach that point."

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

Oden had left Sorn to his own devices that evening, as per usual. The boy pushed himself while his limbs screamed for rest and his lungs barely functioned. The cold night crept onward but still, he persisted, driving his body until exhaustion finally claimed victory. By the time he stumbled back to the Marauders' stronghold, the world around him felt like a distant dream, blurred and softened by fatigue.

The Fortress was silent, its inhabitants deep in slumber. Sorn's boots echoed faintly as he slowly made his way to the heart of the stronghold, a cavernous chamber the Marauders called "The Mess." It was a simple room, large and unadorned, with long tables stretching from one wall to the other. It was the kind of place that was regularly filled with hearty cheers and crude laughter, but now it stood empty, bathed in the faint glow of torches along the walls.

Sorn's gaze fell to a plate left on the nearest table. Oden had set it aside for him, as he often did, perhaps the only kindness the Marauder gave him in these long days of work. Without bothering to even sit down,, Sorn grabbed the leg of meat by the bone, tearing into it hungrily. It was cold, but it didn't matter. Hunger made a feast of anything.

He didn't notice the presence behind him until the voice broke the silence.

"Hungry, aren't you?"

Sorn froze mid-bite, his heart leaping into his throat. The voice was deep and gravelly. A familiar low rumble that caused Sorn to immediately to see the towering figure of the Storm Troll.

Behind Bjorn stood two other figures Sorn had come to recognize well. Harvard and Gunnar. They were fixtures of the Marauders, inseparable from Bjorn. As a trio, they were known throughout the Fortress as the most elite warriors to be produced by the Marauders. When the subject of strength arose, as it often did with Marauders, the question of who might triumph between Bjorn's trio and the First Division of the Spears sparked heated debates that often ended in violent scuffles.

In the Marauder Hall, infighting was not a shameful thing. In fact it was encouraged, as many believed it to build character. Sorn, for now, had been spared the brunt of such quarrels, though he sometimes wondered how long this fortune might hold.

"Didn't mean to startle you, boy," Bjorn said, his grin widening.

Sorn swallowed the bite he had been chewing and managed a stiff nod. "It's fine."

Harvard and Gunnar stepped past him, each offering a brief nod of acknowledgment. The pair disappeared into another room, leaving Bjorn alone with Sorn.

It struck Sorn then that this was the first time he had ever been alone with Bjorn.

"You're not much for words, are you?" Bjorn remarked.

"I just wasn't expecting company this late," Sorn replied cautiously.

Bjorn let out a low chuckle. "Late hours are the best for talking. No one to interrupt. Just two souls sharing the quiet."

Sorn shifted uncomfortably, unsure of where this was heading. "I suppose, sir."

Bjorn's grin was easy, but the sheer enormity of the man made the gesture no less intimidating. Even among the tallest Marauders, he stood a full head higher. Sorn felt as though he were looking up at a mountain.

"There's no need for such courtesy, boy," Bjorn rumbled. "Under this roof, we are all equal."

Yet even as he said this, Bjorn extended a hand, palm open, his meaning clear. Sorn didn't even hesitate before handing over one of his chops. Without a word of thanks, Bjorn bit into the meat, tearing a generous chunk free. Sorn watched him eat, wondering what could the leader of the Marauders possibly want with him at this hour?

When the meal was finished, Bjorn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gestured for Sorn to sit. The boy obeyed, taking a place at the end of the table while Bjorn settled into the largest chair, its reinforced frame groaning under his weight.

"So," Bjorn began. "I hear your training is going well."

"Yes," Sorn answered, doing his best to sound confident despite the exhaustion still pulling at him. "I can feel myself improving every day. Oden is a great teacher."

Bjorn let out a laugh. His voice, even lowered in respect for the sleeping Marauders, filled the cavernous Mess.

"A rare sentiment," Bjorn said, leaning back in his chair. "None have said those words before you. Every trainee Oden has taken under his wing has broken and fled back to the plow. Yet here you are. Not even an Elemental, and yet you've held your ground."

As Bjorn spoke, Sorn's thoughts once again drifted to the peculiarities of his existence. He had come to understand even more about this world. There existed three Elemental races, each confined to their own floating island. Here, in the north, mortals once lived in harmony with the Ice centuries ago, only for all of them to be banished. Living conditions worsened exponentially the farther south one travels. Common consensus was that no mortal could endure such an environment, that they had surely been wiped out long ago.

And yet, Sorn was a contradiction to all that was known. It was the Emerald Wisps that set him apart.. They were something else entirely. Sorn also lacked the telltale marks of the Elementals. He didn't have the hot reds of the Fire, the green hues of the wind, and of course, the chilling blues of the Ice. His jet-black hair stood as a declaration of his difference, a trait none could explain. The Marauders had taken to calling him a "strange mortal," and though the label was dismissive, it was likely accurate.

"Never in my life did I think a mortal was still alive, much less one that I could wholeheartedly accept as a true Marauder." Bjorn leaned forward as he continued to speak, and placed a large hand on Sorn's shoulder. "I've come to like you, and your drive. So I'll tell you this, boy. I'm sure you've heard whispers and made conclusions of your own. But I, as a member of the Council, will tell you this here and erase your hopeful doubts. Seeing you among us makes the blood of every Spear boil. Varian will not hesitate to kill you off, and if you are not careful, you will be a quick victim in the Tournament. So when you train remember that the less you try, the more likely you will die."

The Marauder gave an amused smile in reaction to Sorn's blank stare. The boy had been completely entranced by the giant's words and had forgotten his fatigue completely. Sorn hesitated, looking back at his food. Someone had killed this animal in cold blood. To the Spears, Sorn was equivalent to that animal. A lesser being to be slaughtered. He picked up the fork stuck inside the meat, before twirling it in his finger. Bjorn's warnings were similar to the one's Oden told. But the way Bjorn spoke was less respectful. It was as though the giant expected Sorn to die, and the entire circumstance was no more than a meaningless game to the Storm Troll.

Sorn couldn't explain why, but this manner of being belittle annoyed him greatly, causing his next words to be uttered with more venom then he'd have liked.

"I appreciate your words. But I don't intend on dying in this cold world, where I am a sheep. When you slaughter an animal, you do so without expecting it to fight back. I am that animal. But I am also rabid beast disguised as a sheep. And I will kill any to try to hunt me. So I don't need you to motivate me or treat me differently than any other in your clan. I am a Marauder that does not intend to be pierced by any spear."

Sorn had welled up a lot of courage to say this, and he winced a bit after realizing his words. But to his surprise, Bjorn's smile was wider than it had ever been before.

"I truly expect great things from you, Sorn."

Saying that, the Storm Troll walked away, leaving the newest addition to his clan alone at an empty table after calling him by his name for the first time.