You still remember the cries and the blood. Such sights do not leave a young mind, even with age. They still swirl, deep within you.
But it wasn't just your gift in tactics that gained you respect, but the way you fought. It was a style that you learned through training and forged on the anvil of war and experience.
Your style is…
Eventually, you shake your head to clear your thoughts. Such matters are not important now. You reach the gate of the citadel, its stone walls providing good shelter to the palace inside. The gate guards notice you rushing toward the gate. Recognizing that it's you, they let the large, reinforced oak doors swing open.
You force your steed through, and that's when it gives out. It stands there, just past the gates of the citadel, unable to move any further. With a weary sigh, you dismount, give it a small word of thanks, and sling your bag over your shoulder.
Gazing up, you take in the palace before you. It is quite a sight, you do admit. Its walls are made of the same stone as the rest of the city's, but detailed with finer materials and banners. The proud blue falcon of House Stiedry flies valiantly above the walls.
The house you no longer belong in.
Next
You move through the courtyard quickly, paying no attention to the training fields around you. The professional soldiers, the ones you most associate with, are trained and housed inside this citadel.
You reach the center of the citadel, which contains the royal palace itself, bathed in the majesty of royalty.
A majesty that only extends surface deep. You of all people know this best of all. Up close, the cracks become visible, and the facade of divinity crumbles.
The palace is surrounded by the walls of the citadel, which are surrounded by the city's outer wall. Ancient, powerful walls of stone, built by a civilization that has long since died out.
Moving quickly, you slip through the palace gates, earning a few glances from servants or guardsmen. They know not to disturb you.
The place brings back memories of childhood, before The War. Before it all.
As soon as you slip inside, you…
Your hand drifts over the sword on your belt, and you feel a little more secure with it there.
At the sight, the servants around you take a hesitant step back, and you see a guard who also reaches for his weapon.
Hostile. Check for an escape. Now—
You shake the intrusive thoughts away. The War is over, you tell yourself. But you're worried that another has just begun.
Next
You quickly pull aside into a guest's room to fix yourself up before seeing Queen Mira. It's been a long time since you've taken a good bath. Too long. But you know there's no time for such luxuries.
Instead, you move over to the body-length mirror to adjust your hair and clothes. You raise a hand to…
It was the style you wore in The War. The sweltering heat and dense forests forced you to wear it like this.
Old habits die hard.
You just stare at your hair in the mirror. You remember people saying that it has the same brilliant shade as your mother's. The irony is not lost on you.
Though they weren't entirely wrong. Through sheer coincidence, you and your "mother" share the same shade of…
You let your beard grow out long. Not only that, but you then braided it. A long, braided beard on a scarred, spear-wielding warrior can cause a levy peasant to piss himself.
It was not this, but your eyes that gave away your father's infidelity. It was those damn eyes. They, unlike your hair, shared no resemblance to either the king nor his consort. They took after your true mother, some tanner's daughter.
You still remember how she was punished. How she cried. How the love of the good King Sobik evaporated when his own mistake was revealed. You remember the mockery of justice that was her trial.
You remember the resigned look of doom in her…
But something about your eyes always puts people off. They look older than the rest of you. You're only twenty-three, but you never feel that way.
You don't look older, you just seem older. There's a certain glint in your eye. You spent your whole life after being disinherited constructing a careful mask of stoicism, keeping your intentions, thoughts, and skills hidden.
But your eyes betray your mask. Even you can see…
It's not just the eyes that betray your mask, but the scars. You have too many for your young age. They stand out against your…
You have the most common skin tone in Kanton, however scarred it may be. Fortunately for you, most of the scars are covered by your clothes. There is one glaring exception, however.
You run a finger across the scar that traces…
You tower above most people. Being tall makes you more intimidating and gives you better reach, but it also makes you a bigger target to others.
You readjust your sword belt, taking comfort in the familiar leather. You've worn this sword down bare. It has served you well, despite being a relatively modest thing. It's classified as a bastard sword—the irony of the name not lost on you—meaning that it's longer than a standard arming sword but shorter than a longsword.
A solid three-foot-and-three-inch blade of tempered steel, it looks quite small on your massive frame. The handle is larger than that of an arming sword, allowing you to comfortably fit two hands when not wielding a shield.
With your inspection done, you turn around and venture back into the winding hallways of the royal palace.
Next