"As I had expected." Grifford spoke. "If your brother is innocent or not, either way, someone framed us with a purpose in mind. That means soon we will have Mortadire's armies marching onto our borders."
"But what purpose would they have to attack us? It makes no sense to me.." Brigham said.
"Simple." Alaric began. "You've never attended any of the Clan wars, thus your strength is unknown. Whoever framed you must believe you are weak, thinking that Mortadire would easily triumph over you and claim your territory for themselves, thus giving more angles to march on the other Clans from."
"So you are saying.. we are basically just a small stepping stone to be used so Mortadire can conquer the other Clans?" Brigham asked.
Alaric nodded in response, though, his eyes never left the flickering flame that danced upon the wax candle. The wax would slowly melt away, rolling down the sides of the candle. You could see the small string that protruded from within the wax, poking out of the top turning black as it was burnt away by the flames.
"Yes. They intend to wipe away the other clans, sweeping them all out of history like a wave of flames consuming a forest." Alaric said. "They will leave but only ash in their wake, from which they will nurture new trees of tyranny."
"Well put." Grifford spoke. "I agree. How soon do you believe they will be upon us?"
"Not sure. I imagine soon though. Within the week maybe?" Alaric responded.
"I see.. well. We should begin preparations. You shall get some rest. Tomorrow you shall wake early and I will test your strength." Grifford spoke. "Thank you for coming to us."
Alaric bowed his head before rising to his feet and turning about, following Brigham's burly figure through the archway. As he pushed the cloth aside, he heard the old man began to him a soft tune that seemed to echo across the whole of the valley.
As he and Brigham descended the stairs, a strikingly beautiful woman approached them. She stopped before Brigham, glancing up at Alaric and back. She wore a kimono and put her hair up in a ponytail, a silver clip shaped like a dragon head holding it up.
The girl had lush, pale skin, a narrow jawline, sharp nose, and cunning green eyes. Her dark black hair was silky and soft and her features were well filled out. Alaric figured she was maybe only a year or two younger than he was. He felt some strange jolt run through his rib cage when his eyes met with hers.
"Who is this, Brigham?" The girl asked.
"Yeah, found this kid on our borders. Erm, it's a lot to explain. Maybe ya could as em yourself, 'cuz I don't feel like explainin'. Maybe take 'em to his quarters then? He'll be stayin here. I'd appreciate it." Brigham spoke.
The girl cast eyes of judgement over Alaric. She seemed suspicious of him, which was understandable.
"What's your name?" She asked, locking her eyes with his.
"Alaric." He said simply.
"Alaric, huh? Well, I am interested in hearing your tale. Follow me, I'll take you to the guest quarters." She spoke. "By the way, my name is Lyra Sarua, daughter of the boss."
Alaric blinked in surprise. Daughter of the king of Sarua? She held a higher position than he'd first thought.
Lyra turned away and began to walk down the way he and Brigham had come from before.
"I wish ya luck, kiddo. Tomorrow especially. Get some rest, yeah?" Brigham spoke, waving his hand and splitting off down another path.
As Alaric walked behind Lyra, she began to ask questions about him and where he was from. As soon as he said he was a son of the Mortadire Clan she became tense. He told her the same exact details he'd explained to Brigham and Grifford, and it seemed with every word he spoke she grew more and more tense.
"War huh?" She asked. "Well.. I sure hope you really are on our side, and not just some spy."
"I assure you," Alaric said, "I am no spy. I intend to end my Clan, with or without the help of others."
"I hope so." She stopped walking. "Here we are."
Alaric turned his head to see the large log cabin. It seemed to be three stories tall and it was most likely quite old. Alaric was guessing it was the guest quarters, an inn of sorts.
Lyra twisted the wooden knob and swung the door open, holding it for Alaric. He walked in past her. The inn was spacious on the inside, two sets of stairs spiraling upwards on either side of a desk where a middle aged man stood. Along the walls were paintings, animal heads and skins, as well as shelves of old rusted weapons.
"Welcome to my humble abode, yadayadayda." The man at the table yawned. "Can my shift be over yet? I wanna go to sleep."
"Not quite." Lyra answered. She held her hand out to Alaric, introducing him. He was pleased she didn't introduce him by his full name.
"Alright, then here. This is the key to room twelve. Go on up the stairs to the second floor, down the hall. There you'll find your room." The man spoke.
"I hope you do get some rest." Lyra said to Alaric as she turned back to the door. "The test is not what you'd think. It is extremely difficult to pass. Contrary to what you believe, we are a Clan of warriors and hunters."
"I understand." Alaric spoke. "I should be fine. I am well versed in the use of a sword." He patted his hip where his wakizashi hung.
"Yeah. Let's hope so, and let's hope you have good eyesight." She said. "Good luck."
With that, the door softly clicked shut and she was gone. Alaric was left standing in there in spacious first floor of the inn. Some lamps hung from the roof casting a dim light over the walls.
The innkeeper knelt down beneath the table and grabbed out a set of keys, holding them out to Alaric, who took them.
"Thank you." He said simply, without anything else to say, as he began to ascend the staircase.
Once reaching the second floor, the staircase would continue to spiral upwards but there was a platform that led to a hallway to step onto. He did so, following the path until he came upon a room with the number twelve engraved into the door.
He lifted up the little key he'd been given by the innkeeper and put it to the door handle, inserting it into the lock before twisting and pushing the door open with a soft creak. The room inside was pitch black.
Alaric looked around for anything that could possibly be a source of light. He felt over a desk for a long moment until he felt a wax candle. He felt around it a bit longer before his finger passed over a box of matches.
Picking up the box, he opened it and pulled out a match, striking it against the box. The wooden stick quickly burst into flames, lighting up before his eyes and casting a dim glow over his features. It lightened up anything near it, but the shadows it had been unable to reach seemed to only grow darker.
Alaric held the flickering flame to the candle. For a moment, nothing happened, but then the flame quickly grew larger, the flickering fire spreading to the candle and dancing to and fro. Alaric pulled away the match, flicking it and putting out the fire.
Lifting the candle, Alaric looked about the room. It was small, especially compared to the entrance below his feet. There was one singular bedroll, a desk, and a shelf. That was it. Otherwise everything was completely empty.
Alaric knelt down, placing the candle beside his bedroll. He pushed his feet into the bedroll, followed by the rest of his body, pulling up the blanket to his shoulders. As he rested his head, staring at the wavering flame, he felt exhaustion overcoming him. It was like a void that he was being sucked into, swallowing him whole. The blankets consumed him, his mind lulling and drifting away into a deep sleep as his eyes blurred.
His eyes were opened and he could see the flickering fire, but he was not looking at it, as though it was a waking dream, vivid yet unreal. His eyes slowly began to close shut, the light of the candle casting a soft glow over his eyelids as he drifted into a deep, deep sleep.
That night as he dreamt, he dreamt of blood, metal, and war. He dreamt of soldiers marching over blood soaked land, he dreamt of metal dyed crimson glistening a winter sun, the snow below the feet of thousands of soldiers turned a brilliant red, drenched with blood. Corpses were scattered across the landscape, no matter where one's eyes rested, you could never escape the sight of mutilated bodies, their flesh being torn away by black crows.
Flags flickered in the bitter cold wind, on one side of the valley were the flags bearing the Mortadire insignia, on the other were soldiers carrying the flag of the Ettra Clan.
His dream.. it was less a dream, Alaric thought, than it was a premonition. He knew then that this war that would soon begin, was much more important than he'd thought. It would last for many months, years even, and in that time, the land would be littered with death.
And this, Alaric hoped, would in the end result in the corpses of his family laying at his feet.