Alijah grinned for nothing felt better than when they were in harmony. First, he exacted, I would take his courage and, with it, the backbone of this tiresome rebellion. Reaching into the minds of the Reavers still positioned outside Namdhor, the king gave them one simple command.
Malliath emanated a sense of pride, raising the hairs on the back of Alijah’s neck. All he wanted was to be worthy of the dragon, a sentiment he couldn’t hide.
Malliath extended one of his front claws onto the platform, inviting Alijah onto his back. We are equal to one another, each a half of the whole. Our fates are bound, destined for greatness.
Greatness sounded good to Alijah but, with someone else sitting on his throne and threatening his kingdom, he would settle for wrath.
2
Northman
Winter was upon Namdhor and, with it, the black city was adorned with white roof tops and lined with powdered streets. Vighon Draqaro walked those streets, his boots crunching through the snow. Though the city’s towering cathedrals and spires lifted the gaze of most, the northman’s sight was cast low, for there were the bodies.
The majority had been claimed by loved ones, but there were still numerous corpses up and down the main slope, draped in cloth. They had fallen two days past, having risen up to fight beside their king and repel the Reavers.
Vighon stopped by one of the bodies and crouched down. With care, he pulled back the material to see the face of a man, perhaps a little younger than himself. He wasn’t attired in the clothes of Kassian’s Keepers but the simple garb of an ordinary man. To Vighon, however, he had been anything but ordinary. Without armour or sword, he had stood up to his enemy and given his life for the people around him, for the realm itself.
He was a hero.
The king looked over his shoulder at the small group who had accompanied him everywhere since they took back the city. Two of Kassian’s Keepers stood tall beside a pair of servants from the keep. Despite his best efforts, Vighon had been unable to walk freely without any of them - Nathaniel’s doing.
“If this man has a family, I want him returned to them. He deserves a pyre.”
One of the Keepers nodded his chin down the road. “Your Grace…”
Vighon turned back to see a woman and a young boy approaching. The mother was holding the child tight to her side, her hands wrapped around his shoulders and head. Even before they reached the king, the woman’s expression fell into despair as she laid eyes on the body. Together, they fell to their knees as tears ran freely down their pale cheeks. The boy cried out softly for his father while the woman gripped her husband’s frozen hand, her jaw set in anguish.
His heart breaking, Vighon made to stand up and leave them to their grief. There was another part of him, however, desperate to leave before the wife turned her anger on him, blaming the northman for her husband’s death. And she would be right to, he thought. He had raised his flaming sword and rallied Namdhor’s bravest to fight with naught but shovels and whatever else they could find.
Before he could stand, the wife threw herself at the king and wrapped her arms around him. Vighon heard the Keepers reaching for their wands as he himself was tempted to reach for a weapon. But the wife simply held him in place, her face pressed to his chest, as her shoulders bobbed with her crying.
“What are we to do, my Lord?” she wept.
Still somewhat surprised, Vighon tensed his arms and hugged her close. “I’m so sorry,” he choked. “Your husband met a hero’s end.”
The wife pulled her head back to lay eyes on the king. “Braden didn’t want to be a hero, my Lord.” Her arm outstretched, she pulled her son into their embrace. “And there’s no sorry to be heard,” she continued. “My Braden looked up to you - always said we had the luck of the gods to live under your kingship. He was there when you stood up to The Ironsworn you know. And the orcs too. He wanted to be just like you.” Her gaze fell over her husband’s body. “He just wanted to protect us.”
“That he did,” Vighon replied softly. He held them both, offering what comfort he could. The moment brought a recent memory to the surface, reminding the king of Inara’s last words to him before she left for Erador.
“Those men and women you called upon,” she had said, “the ones who fought and died beside you - they weren’t there for you. They weren’t even there for the realm. They were fighting for their families. They still are. They died fighting for their loved ones, so that they might live in a world under your reign. Their lives have always been their own, and each and every one of them wanted to fight for what they held in their heart.”
Braden had died fighting for what he held in his heart; the very two people currently in Vighon’s arms. Instead of crushing guilt, the northman felt pride. He was proud of Braden and all who had fallen defending their families and homes. Though his death would leave a sting for some time, he was sure his wife would come to share his pride.
“He may not have wished to be a hero,” Vighon said, “but he will be honoured as one all the same.” The king turned to his servants. “See that they are taken care of - winter will not bother them.”
One of the servants nodded his head. “Your Grace,” he affirmed.
Vighon finally stood up and left mother and son in each other’s arms. “See to it that every family who has lost a husband or a father is honoured with coin and supplies to see them through the frost.”
The same servant hesitated, his eyes darting from the
