The fire dances around the copper pot, expelling flakes of light from its heart. Something boils in the pot, it smells appetizing. The fragrant aroma diffuses in the air as a large wooden spoon steers the stew. A young man holds the spoon. He wears a simple tunic of linen under a cloak of wool. His long hair is dark as coal and braided with ornate beads. His skin is the color of goat's milk. His grey eyes are familiar, and so is his smile. Turning, he retrieves a bowl from the side and pours the steaming stew into it.
"I hope this is to your liking," the man says as he hands the bowl to Wilmar, who is sitting on the opposite side of the campfire.
Wilmar unwittingly moves forward to take the offered stew. The scent of the spices dissolved into the venison is mesmerising. Wilmar pulls the pieces of baked dough that sat upon the hot stone by the fire, and dips it in the meaty liquid before taking a bite.
"It's delicious, Otto," Wilmar exhales, and then takes another bite with a piece of meat this time.
"Of course it is," Otto smirkes, "Thea came up with the recipe. Why else do you think I terminated her thralldom?"
"Truly, cousin," Wilmar licks the gravy off his fingers, "If any thrall deserved freedom, that would be Thea."
Otto nods in agreement, then pours himself a bowl as well. Wilmar turns to look down the hill ledge upon which they had made camp. He sees the twilight waters of Lake Hedara, on the border of which shimmer the lights from the hold of Hedaeron. The conifer forests of the Astelan fiefdom surround the highland township, like a drop of gold on a slate of jade. Wilmar cherishes such hunting trips with his cousin, for he knows they will not last long. A tear streaks down his cheek as he glances back at the fire.
"You know this is but a memory," Otto reminds, "Do you not?"
"I do," he says, not meeting Otto's eyes, "I was hoping we could spend some time as this was...this was real."
"This is real," Otto corrects, "Sixth of Quentis, two years ago. See the new half moon?"
He points at the sky. Wilmar looks up to see the celestial orb, half hidden due to its astronomical cycles.
"I know that," Wilmar retorts, slightly irritated, "Memories are cognitive recollections of events experienced by an individual. So by that very definition, this has happened. This day has passed. But this is not real. You have altered the experience, that is why we are having an exchange in the first place."
"You do talk a lot when you are stressed, little one," Otto laughs, then chews on a piece of venison.
"It seems so," Wilmar sighs, "What word of counsel do you have for me this time?"
Otto drinks from his bowl before eventually placing it by the fire. His countenance is grim now. He leans in closer, the flame illuminating his grey irises.
"I take it you have seen your first battle," he says, "Tasted it all. The thrill, the power, the slaughter. Allow me to ask, what do you think of the experience?"
Wilmar continues to stare at the campfire, "I feel...well, to be perfectly honest, I feel empty."
Otto gives him a confused look, "I was expecting to hear 'distressed', but I can work with empty. I have felt that several times. A lack of purpose that gnaws inside. The doubt of whether all this devastation is worth it? Is that how you feel?"
Wilmar shakes his head in disagreement, "It is strange,you know, I feel none of those things. It all felt inconsequential. And that bothers me, because I feel nothing, no remorse, no pride. I feel hollow."
"That is unheard of," Otto frowns, "Well, I shall tell you this. You wield the power of a god. Mortals look at you with fear and suspicion, but that is not their sole perspective. They look at you with reverence, they look at you for inspiration. You are a titan Lord," he puts the emphasis on the latter term, "Your task is not solely to slaughter but to lead as well. Your subjects will look up to you for guidance and follow your example. Their deeds shall be a reflection of yours. So never think that what you do is of no consequence."
"I shall keep that in mind, cousin," Wilmar says. The world around them begins to fade into the sea of sand.
Otto steps forward and catches Wilmar by the arm, "One last thing, little one, remember it well. Titans conquer but Lords rule."
As the last word leaves the former titan lord's mouth, he fades with the world, crumbling to dust. Wilmar is alone once more, under the empty void, in the infinite expanse of white sand.
Slowly opening his eyes, Wilmar found himself on a cot in the vast room of stone. Streams of light barged in from the gaps between the curtains and the windows, some even entering from the half opened doorway. With a little effort, Wilmar sat upright and pushed off the blanket. He was completely naked, save for the loincloth, and drenched with sweat. A faint aching sensation still lingered over his body. He had never remained in titan form for a period of time as long as he had done the day before.
Six hours, he thought to himself, or was it eight?
A thrall walked towards him with a small bucket of water while the one that followed behind held a towel and some clothes. A third rushed out of the room, probably to inform Hector or Sigune that he was awake. Nothing different from the protocol, Wilmar realised.
He splashed the water against his face before wiping it with the towel, then slipping on a knee-length woolen tunic that was dyed blue. He rose from the cot, allowing the slave to tie a linen band around his waist which was held together with a jewel-encrusted silver pin.
"Is that filled?" he asked, pointing at a large drinking horn that lay on the table beside the window.
The thrall holding the water bucket placed it by the wall and checked the horn, "It is empty my lord...I shall refill it." she said and left.
Wilmar sighed and glanced at the other one. She now held a comb in her hand and asked, "May I, my lord?"
"Of course," Wilmar sighed, then turned and sat down on a stool facing the window. The thrall slid open the curtains, then began the tedious process of braiding her lord's long hair in the traditional Astelan way.
It was tiresome, with all the strands and knots and beads. Over the last seven months, he had gotten accustomed to it. Yet, the experience was mildly vexing. He, however, understood its significance, the importance that appearances and presentations held. Once the hair was done, the thrall picked up a red shawl, the final part of his attire, and wrapped it around his shoulders.
"Everything all right, my lord?" She held up a plate of polished bronze before Wilmar, who glanced at his own reflection for a fraction of a moment.
"It seems so," he nodded and said, "That will be all." Then he walked out of the room.
The thrall that had rushed out with the drinking horn was at the end of the corridor, "It's just plain mead, my lord. No wine here, I am afraid."
"It's all right. Mead will do just fine," Wilmar said, taking the horn, "You are dismissed, um...no don't tell me...it's Rafia, is it not?"
"Rafa, my lord," the thrall corrected.
"Same difference," Wilmar tried to hide embarrassment from his face. It was improper for a noble to not remember the name of his personal servants, "You are dismissed, Rafa."
The thrall bowed and returned to the room, probably to clean up. Wilmar gulped from the ornate drinking horn. He found its flavorful taste more refreshing than that of wine. Letting the sweet liquid swirl in his mouth, he made his way down to the greathall of Vanhold. His room had been on the top level of the fortress's central wing, which was four stories from the ground. The interior of the hold had not taken as much of a beating as the ramparts on the outer walls and the courtyards, where most of the battle had occurred.
The third and second levels had been converted into makeshift hospices, where the direly wounded soldiers of Eldia were being treated and cared for by the medics and chaplains respectively. Cries and groans of agony, screams from trauma-induced nightmares, and harsh exchanges among the healers performing their charge rang through the corridors. The whole area bustled with activity, so much so that even the presence of a Titan Lord was ignored by all but those who lacked significant duties, and even they regarded Wilmar with a slight bow.
In turn, Wilmar ignored them all as well. Ever since his ascension, locations like these nauseated him for it reminded him of the weakness and frailty of mortal form. He had transcended the need for trivialities such as healing and treatment, yet the memory still remained and it irritated him. He took a long swig from the horn, swallowing it all at once, and placed the horn on one of the tables in the corridor before climbing down the flight of stairs leading to the ground level.
Like the previous two stories, the ground level bustled with activity as well. Here, however, the collective focus had shifted from saving lives to taking lives, or at least in the forethought of doing so. Everyone present in the greathall, or the whole level, was dressed for war; from the lowest of the militiamen levied from frontier towns of Atika that were covered in thick fur coats and cuirasses of thatched linen to the service legionnaires that had donned their shirts of mail. Even the logisticians and citizens serving in other non combatant roles had been outfitted appropriately. All save for Wilmar, for he no longer had a need for an earthly armor.
He strode into the immense chamber with a slow, calculating pace, observing the vicinity as he walked to the central table. The greathall was predominantly occupied by scribes, ranking officers and their equerries. From what Wilmar could tell, most were engaged in quantifying the exorbitant statistics of prosecuting a war, while the rest were making sense of the losses suffered by the administration and the local military. The rebellion had thrown the province into a disarray so chaotic that it may take months if not years for order to return to Coheria.
Wilmar spotted the towering figure of Hector, his thane and captain of housecarls, whose face was as ever masked under his crested helm. Beside him stood Vigurd, the commander-in-chief of the Astelon auxiliary cataphracts, who had clad in his scale mail from neck to toe, his mane of blonde hair tied into a topknot. Between the two warriors stood Sigune. A coat of polished lamellar plates lay beneath her silver-threaded scholar's cloak, which was rather admirable for a woman of her age. She was conversing with a man whose right arm was in a sling and bandages covered a good portion of his face. The conversation halted as Sigune noticed Wilmar approaching.
"Ah, Master Wilmar, finally," she flashed a welcoming smile, "I suppose you got lost in the fortress given your delay?"
"You know how it is, Ma," Wilmar smiled back, "I don't have a good grasp of structures."
"Sit here," she looked at the chair by the table, "You must be hungry."
"I wouldn't mind a morsel or two," he said, taking a seat as he glanced at the sheets of parchment that were spread across the table.
Sigune snapped her fingers and thrall hurried from the backdoor, a steaming bowl lying on the plate he held.
"Honeyed porridge, my lord," he said as held out the plate before Wilmar.
He nodded, picking up the bowl and spoon from the plate.
"I suppose we begin now," Hector proposed, then dramatically added, "My lord."
Sigune coughed, stifling a chuckle. Wilmar ignored that and said, "Sure."
"Let's begin with casualties," Hector ordered.
"Of course, thane," Vigurd said before looking at Wilmar, "My lord, our estimate is that about seven thousand rebels out of the force of the nine thousand were killed; two thousand by the hands of the brave legionnaires garrisoned at Vanhold and five thousand by our forces lead by you."
"Good enough," Wilmar paused from his meal, something on the table caught his eye, "What is that?"
"This is a report of salvaged war gear," Vigurd informed, puzzled at the question, "Why do you ask?"
"Just a hunch," he returned to his porridge, "It is a bit too big for something salvaged from a ragtag militia."
"They were rather well-equipped for a 'ragtag militia'," spoke the bandaged man, "Forgive me if I spoke out of turn, my lord."
"It's alright," Wilmar waved off, "Please elaborate."
"The rebels were armed with iron-forged spears and war bows, along with various other supplements like shields, fabric vests, and damned chariots," the man explained, "Not to mention an inexhaustible supply of arrows. This is not what one expects from upstart rebels."
Wilmar nodded, understandingly, "I didn't quite catch your name, officer?"
"This is Legate Theowald Gerdan," Sigune introduced, "A former centurion whom I took the liberty of promoting by your authority."
"Well met, Legate," Wilmar greeted, "I see you are on to something."
"It is simply a hypothesis, my lord," he said.
"What do you think, Vigurd?"
"I see what the legate is suggesting," the cataphract commander said, "It is not too far-fetched to believe that the Coherians had external support."
"Well, send word to Korswain," Wilmar rose from his seat, having finished the porridge, "And prepare the horses. We are riding to the Sack of Janaor."