Marcus Olagson was no stranger to the idea of strength. Born in the cold, harsh lands of Fjordlan, his family had grown up surrounded by towering mountains, vast frozen seas, and an unyielding belief in the power of might. The land was home to warriors, sailors, and chiefs—people whose strength was their pride, and whose bloodline carried the weight of their ancestors' honor.
Marcus's father, Eric Olagson, was no exception. He had been the chief of their people, ruling over the Fjords with a steady hand and a fierce spirit. Under his leadership, the Fjordlanders had thrived, their culture rooted in the values of honor, respect, and, above all, strength. But their world had changed when they brokered peace with the Empire of Atlas. In exchange for a lasting truce, Eric had made the monumental decision to leave his position of chief, passing the mantle to his eldest son, and move the family across the seas to Atlas, where he was granted the title of Lord of Fjordland.
It was a bold move, one that had come with great personal sacrifice. The peace between the Empire and the Fjords had been hard-won, and though his father had earned the title of Lord, it wasn't without its costs. The new land was a bustling place, unlike the stark, windswept beauty of their homeland. But Eric was a pragmatist. He saw the opportunity for his family to grow, to be part of something larger than themselves.
Marcus had grown up in the Empire, though his heart never truly left the Fjords. He still carried the weight of his lineage—strength, pride, and honor—but in Atlas, those things were different. Nobles of Atlas lived by different codes, and the respect that Marcus had once known for sheer power didn't always translate here. It was a place of intrigue, politics, and delicate webs of alliances. But he was determined to find his place, even if it meant walking a difficult path.
It wasn't until Marcus met Silva Fischburn that his world truly began to shift. He was no more than 11, considered a giant for his age, when he found himself roaming the streets of the noble's district aimlessly when his sister, Frey attacked him. Or so he calls it, she surprised him with a bear hug. She was giant too, standing at almost 6'5 with blond hair in braids. She was one of the Kings-guards. A position given to those who have proven themselves in battle and proven their unwavering loyalty to the empire and the emperor. She was the Shield, therefore her duty was to protect the imperial city from danger, her territory was the outer walls.
"Aww my beloved little brother is out to greet me!" She exclaimed loudly, much to Marcus' embarrassment. She was overly loud and affectionate.
"I told you to stop doing that!" he struggled to release himself from her grip. "You're embarrassing me."
His cheeks went red as she slowly dropped him to the ground. "Aw, but you're too adorable when you blush like that." She smiled even more as he frowned at her, face still red.
"Alright, alright, I'll stop teasing you. But I am your sister, I love you and I want to protect you, can you blame me?" she grinned at him, almost too sincerely.
"What do you want me to say, Frey? That I do? 'Cause I don't. And I don't want to. I am strong and I can protect myself."
The older girl smiled sadly and looked away. "What if you used your strength to protect someone else?"
He was silent. He knew that the duty of the to protect the weak but he didn't want to protect people who could not protect themselves. "They better have my full trust and loyalty if they want me to stick my neck out for them."
She turned back to him mischievously. "Alright, then. Come with me." She his arm and zoomed almost a little too fast for the younger boy to keep up but he didn't want to let his sister know. They arrived at the ends of the noble's district the lesser nobles lived. In the distance, a boy around his same age was being surrounded.
"Him, fight him." Frey said quietly.
Marcus looked at her like she had sprouted a second head. But he accepted nonetheless. He walked up and heard some of the words coming from the boys' mouths.
"Bastard"
"Whoreson"
Marcus knew that he was a violent boy, but the evil that he was seeing was different. If he had been on the receiving end of those words, they would've hit him harder than any punch or kick ever could. He tried stepping forward to stop them but the boy acted first. He knew how to fight. What he lacked in strength he made up for in speed, accuracy and sheer will. When he had beaten all of them he stood above them and with a righteous anger he spoke.
"You can call me all the names you want, but you don't deserve to talk about my mother. She is worth more than 10,000 of you put together for ransom."
He walked away before Marcus could pick a fight with him, the word he spoke didn't make an impact on him as much as his stance and demeanour did. He let himself be ridiculed but drew the line when it came to someone important to him. For the first time since seeing his sister and his father fighting, he looked at this person with admiration.
A few years later…
He had been assigned to work alongside the younger nobleman when they were both still relatively new recruits in the army. Silva, though he was younger, had an uncanny calm about him, a presence that drew Marcus's attention right away. There was something about Silva that intrigued him—the way he carried himself with such quiet confidence, never rushing into things, always thinking several steps ahead.
They had first worked together during a training exercise—a mock battle designed to test their tactics. Marcus, with his raw power and strength, had expected to dominate the fight. Not forgetting his sister's bet to leave him alone should he best the boy. After all, his family's reputation had been built on brute force, and Marcus had inherited every ounce of that legacy. But Silva was different. He didn't rely on strength alone. He studied the battlefield with sharp eyes, anticipating each move, each counter. Marcus had underestimated him, and that mistake cost him.
As the exercise continued, Marcus found himself at a disadvantage. Silva had a way of using his surroundings to his advantage, and Marcus's attacks, though powerful, lacked the strategic precision needed to overcome his opponent. By the time the exercise ended, Marcus had been outmaneuvered, his pride bruised more than his body. Silva had won—not by overpowering him, but by outthinking him.
"Not bad," Marcus had said, wiping the sweat from his brow as he extended a hand. "I thought I had you there a couple of times, but you just keep slipping away."
Silva had looked at him with that same calm expression, nodding as he shook his hand. "It's not always about power, Marcus. Sometimes it's about knowing when to strike and when to wait."
Marcus had been quiet for a moment, absorbing the lesson. There was no malice in Silva's words, no boastful tone. It was simply the truth, and Marcus respected that. He had grown up surrounded by people who believed that might was the measure of a man's worth, but Silva had shown him that there were other ways to be strong.
Over the next few months, Marcus and Silva became friends. They spent countless hours training together, sharpening their skills both in combat and in strategy. Marcus, with his innate strength, was a natural in hand-to-hand combat, while Silva excelled in tactics and precision. They complemented each other in ways Marcus had never anticipated. The friendship grew as they shared stories of their respective pasts.
Marcus would tell Silva about his homeland, the harsh beauty of the Fjords, and the respect that strength commanded there. Silva, in turn, spoke of his own upbringing, his struggles with the nobility, and his quiet determination to make a name for himself without relying on his lineage. Their bond deepened with each passing day, built on mutual respect and shared experiences.
Still, there were times when Marcus would reflect on their first meeting. He had been taken aback by Silva's calm, collected nature. It wasn't just the precision with which he fought—it was the steadiness of his spirit. Marcus was used to people charging into battles, eager to prove themselves, but Silva was different. He didn't rush in; he waited, observed, and then struck with purpose.
"You're always so calm," Marcus had remarked one evening as they sat around the campfire, cleaning their weapons. "I've never seen you get rattled. Doesn't anything get to you?"
Silva had chuckled softly, his gaze distant as he stared into the fire. "I've learned that there's no point in getting worked up. There's always a way through, even when it seems impossible."
Marcus had grinned, shaking his head. "I don't know how you do it. I'd go crazy if I had to keep all that inside."
Silva's smile was small but genuine. "I suppose we all deal with things differently."
And deal with things, they did. The army, with its hierarchy and complex dynamics, was full of challenges. Nobles who resented Silva's rapid rise, jealous rivals eager to see him fall. But time and time again, Silva's calm demeanor, his critical thinking, and his tactical brilliance had carried him through. And Marcus had been there every step of the way, backing him up when needed, offering support in quiet moments when the weight of the world seemed too much for Silva to bear.
Despite their friendship, Marcus knew there was a side to Silva that remained distant, a part of him that was hidden beneath the surface. Silva's commitment to his family and to the promise he had made to the deities haunted him, and Marcus could see it in the way his friend carried himself. Silva was never truly at rest. His past, his choices, and the heavy burden he had accepted all weighed on him in ways Marcus couldn't fully understand.
But even so, Marcus admired him. He admired the way Silva held fast to his convictions, how he never wavered, even when faced with adversity. And so, Marcus stood by him, loyal and steadfast, knowing that whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together.
As the army continued its campaigns, Marcus and Silva's bond grew stronger. Their mutual respect for one another turned into a brotherhood that transcended mere friendship. Marcus, with his boisterous laugh and larger-than-life presence, balanced Silva's quiet intensity. And Silva, with his sharp mind and unwavering determination, anchored Marcus's impulsive nature.
One day, as they sat in the barracks after a particularly grueling training exercise, Marcus looked over at his friend. He was always the one to break the silence, and today was no different.
"You know," Marcus said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, "you've got a way of making things seem so simple. I swear, you could take on an army with nothing but your wits and still come out on top."
Silva gave him an amused look, his eyes gleaming with a quiet humor. "It's not about making things simple, Marcus. It's about making the right decisions when it counts."
Marcus leaned back, his broad shoulders relaxed. "I think you might be right. Maybe I should try to be more like you."
Silva's smile was small but genuine. "You don't need to be like me, Marcus. You're already a force on your own."
As they sat in the flickering candlelight, surrounded by the sounds of the camp settling for the night, Marcus knew that their friendship, forged in the fires of competition and tested by the challenges of the army, was one of the rarest and most valuable things he had ever known. They were warriors, yes, but they were also brothers in arms, bound together by respect, loyalty, and the unspoken understanding that no matter what the future held, they would face it side by side.
A quiet day
During one of the rare times they found themselves having a day off they often spent the day just talking. Two boys, growing into men having being surrounded by strong women talking to each other were often joke of the other boys.
"The fact that they walk around like that," pointing at one of the sniggering nobles, "Thinking girls will talk to them is the reason they need arranged marriages. No one wants to approach that of their own free will." Marcus said shaking his head. Silva chuckled at his Friend's words.
He had never thought about marriage before because he had been looking for his Charlotte so he asked Marcus.
"Will you be having an arranged marriage, Olagson?"
Marcus put his hands together and bats his eyelashes, "I would never betray you like that! You're the only one for me, Sir Silva." His voice higher in pitch.
Silva shook his head with a deadpan look. "You know that's the reason they make fun of us? Because you keep making jokes like that."
Marcus, feigning offence, "Is that what I am to you? A joke?" He put his hand to his forehead, pretending to faint. "You wound my heart!"
"Marcus, I'm serious." his tone although light was still stern.
"Nah, I don't think so." He laid down on the grass staring at the grey skies. "The idea of marriage has been brought up to my father but he is a Floridian through and through." His face proud. "We marry who we want, when we want. Men and women are equal and we marry each other because we want to."
Silva nodded slowly and also laid on his back.
"What about you, Fischburn? You thinking about arranged marriage?" Marcus asked, curious about his friend who had never mentioned girls, bringing up marriage.
"No."His voice was resolute but far away. "I'm waiting for someone who I know is here."
Marcus sat up, looking at his friend suspiciously. "What does that mean?"
Silva closed his eyes. "Someone whose laughter holds the key to my soul. Someone worth dying and crossing worlds to be with. I'm waiting for her. I'm waiting for Charlotte."
Marcus was so curious, but something in Silva's voice told him that he would be getting no more answers out of him. He had never mentioned a girl before, let alone a Charlotte. But he knew that there were people who simply knew that there was someone out there for them.