(Before the Prologue)
Belisarius awoke to a sharp pain—a merciless, throbbing ache that seemed to hammer against the inside of his skull. Instinctively, he lifted his hand to massage his temple, only to find he couldn't move. Panic surged through his mind as awareness slowly crystallized: he was bound, stretched out against a wooden beam that scraped rough and unforgiving against his back.
His legs hung uselessly, and the cold dampness of the morning air made his skin prickle with goosebumps. What happened? The question rolled through his mind like a fog, thick and impenetrable. Memories felt fragmented, like he was only one piece of himself, with the rest missing.
'Who am I?'
The name Belisarius rang in his head—familiar, yet somehow distant. It felt like remembering a story someone had told him, not quite his own. He knew it was his name, but the certainty was weird, unsettling. Like knowing something without understanding how or why.
He forced himself to breathe. Panic wouldn't help.
'Focus on what you can see', he told himself.
The more he thought, the more his head hurt, and the more his head hurt, the less he could think. Looking up, the courtyard around him was in severe neglect. Stone walls, once pristine, now wore a thick carpet of ivy, vines draping from the tops. Overgrown garden beds suggested years of abandonment. And yet, something tugged at the edge of his consciousness—a whisper of recognition. He was living here. Was this his home? His base? But how could a place feel both intimately familiar and completely foreign?
The throbbing in his head intensified with every attempt to remember. Each memory felt like trying to grasp smoke, slipping through his mental fingers the moment he tried to hold onto it.
A sound broke through his spiraling thoughts. Footsteps. Muffled by long, unkempt grass, but definitely approaching.
"Boss, boss! Up bright and early, I see!"
The voice was rough, jovial—carrying an intimacy that struck Belisarius like a physical blow. Fragments of memory flickered: shared meals, difficult conversations, years of... something. Companionship? Partnership?
A man emerged from the shadowed walkway, his broad smile cutting through the morning's gray light. Belisarius felt a sudden, electric jolt of recognition.
Targeld.
The name surfaced without effort, automatic and certain. But certainty, he was learning, was a slippery thing.
'Targeld'.
-----
The memories rushed back like a sudden tide, sharp and vivid. Belisarius blinked, his vision clearing as he took in Targeld with newfound clarity.
The man was a walking monument to survival. Standing well over seven feet tall, Targeld wasn't just big—he was impossibly massive. His body looked like it had been carved from living bronze, every muscle so precisely defined it seemed almost impossible. Years of brutal combat had etched their story into his skin, transforming him from a mere man into something that seemed more legend than flesh.
His skin told a story of its own. Sun-darkened and mapped with scars, it was a canvas of survival. Intricate tattoos spiraled across his chest and arms—each line and curve a record of battles survived, challenges overcome. The artwork wasn't just decoration; it was a language of its own, speaking of a life lived on the razor's edge between life and death.
The contrast of his appearance was almost comical. Startling white hair pulled back in a long ponytail, set against skin bronzed by countless days under harsh skies. A beard as black as midnight framed a face that was simultaneously terrifying and weirdly innocent. The duality between hair and beard was striking, mirroring the barbarian's dual nature: the savage warrior tempered by a sense of honor.
Two massive axes hung at his back, their blades catching what little morning light existed—weapons that seemed to breathe with their own deadly anticipation. Yet despite his fearsome appearance, there was an earnestness in the man's eyes, a guileless simplicity that made his allegiance feel somehow genuine, even if his loyalty was borne out of brute strength rather than cunning.
Before he was able to comprehend the information that had appeared in his mind, Targeld began removing Belisarius from the wooden beam.
"Ahh, there we go," Targeld mumbled, lifting Bel to his feet. "Ripe as a ribbon. Or was it ripe as a raisin...?"
Targeld's gaze drifted, unfocused, as if he were pondering the mysteries of the universe, a fierce determination etched across his rugged features. Seizing the moment, Belisarius turned inward, his thoughts racing as he tried to piece together the fragments of his fractured memory.
'Ahh. My head. Why does it hurt so bad? And why cant I remember anything?'
Looking back up and Seeing that the barbarian was still thinking about his last metaphor, Bel decided to wake him up.
"Targeld, what are you doing."
"Huh? Oh, sorry boss, got lost in thought," Targeld chuckled, the smirk on his face broadening. "I came to fetch you after what the gang and I did last night—putting you up on the pike!"
Belisarius's gaze narrowed, 'What the hell is he talking about? Gang? Does he even know? Looks dumber than a rock.'
Figuring it was probably time to get some more information, Belisarius looked back up at the towering man, a cold edge creeping into his voice. "And who is this so called, 'gang'?"
Targeld's tone was puzzled "Uhh... the gang you made?", Targeld responded, as if Belisarius had asked him why the sky was blue.
Belisarius's expression hardened, the confusion and frustration of his earlier disorientation giving way to a simmering anger. "What. Gang."
Realizing that Belisarius wasn't joking, Targeld's grin faltered, his massive hand scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "Ahahaha, sorry, boss. Ya know, Altera Vita? The mercenary band you put together? You're our leader, ya know. But of course you would know, cause you're our leader..." He turned away, feigning nonchalance as he continued to scratch at his head, though the nervousness in his posture was unmistakable.
Information slowly flowed into Belisarius' mind. He was indeed part of Altera Vita—a small, mercenary band that he had assembled. Why or when he had created it remained unknown, along with anyone that was actually in it.
Belisarius's gaze hardened, his words cutting through the air with deliberate sharpness. "Then explain why I was strung up like a martyr, if I'm supposed to be your 'leader'?"
"You were acting weird so I thought id put you up there, I dunno." Targeld shrugged, losing interest in scratching his head, finding it much more enjoyable to pick his nose.
Without saying a word, Belisarius glared at Targeld and walked away, pacing towards the house while Targeld giddily followed along behind him.
"Where are we anyways Targeld?"
"Well we're in Arendale right now... uhh at least I think we are. You said you had something to do here, but that was a while ago now."
A bell rang in Belisarius' mind, new information flowing from within.
'Of course...the Sovereign's quest.'
Belisarius's hand instinctively reached for his breast pocket, where his fingers brushed against the familiar texture of a sealed letter. The royal emblem of The Gilded Sovereignty glinted faintly in the dim light. It all clicked into place—this manor they were staying at was a temporary base, lent to him for this mission. The Iceforged Clans had grown bolder, coming closer and closer to Aegisgrad. Whatever was brewing, it was grave enough to make the Emperor halt his advance in the civil war.
As the only land border into the Human kingdoms, and the rest of the civilized world, Aegisgrad was a Kingdom granted independence from the other Human territories to focus solely on the realms defense.
Belisarius stopped for a second. What was really happening? Was he really here because some barbarians were seen closer than they should be?
No matter, the only thing on Belisarius' mind was food. Making their way to the kitchen, it was pretty obvious to Bel that Targeld was on the same page, constantly moaning about the lack of beer to drink, and a rat who keeps stealing his meat? Unsure of what that meant, Bel kept on walking until he arrived at the dinner hall.
Targeld had briefly mentioned that the cooks were preparing a feast, and upon seeing it for himself, Bel was sorely disappointed. Yes, it was most definitely a feast, but it consisted of only salad, potatoes, steamed vegetables and all other imaginable greens.
"That damned rat, one of these days, I swear to the Great God." Targeld scowled, scanning the room with his eyes, almost as if he knew something was there, but couldn't quite find it.
All of a sudden, Targeld's head was knocked to the side with a ferocious impact, driving the dark expression on his face into a frightening snarl.
"Come on out you dirty little RAT! I'm gonna kill you this time!" Targeld screamed, his body beginning to let off steam and glow faintly under his skin.
"Targeld mad, yes-yes, Ikit happy, very-very happy."
A scurrying little creature, no more than a meter tall appeared in front of Bel, looking up at him with an unreadable expression, face hidden behind a cowl. Bel wasn't quite sure how to take the sudden appearance of the rodent, but opted to let his mind decide.
'Ikit Ironscratch'
A Ratman in the northern reaches was no surprise, the rich mines under Arendale were in constant contention with the Under-Empire, ever greedy to get their hands on more resources to sate their hunger. Ratmen were too stupid to create anything on their own, and relied on stealing the creations of others.
Flashbacks came to Belisarius' mind. Ikit was the newest member of Altera Vita. He was recruited after Bel ordered a large amount of meat to feed the group, where Ikit realized that following him would result in lots of free meat, and eventually just stuck around.
Dressed in a cloak that flowed with darkness, Ikit shifted slightly to the right, disappearing from Bel's sight.
'What the hell? Where did he-'
Turning his head slightly to the right, Ikit appeared in front of Bel again.
'...am I going insane? What just happened?'
Suddenly, Targeld yelled, running at Ikit. "You damn RAT, and that God forsaken cloak of yours, who in their right mind would give you an Artifact?"
The chase that ensued was a chaotic dance of cat and mouse, with Targeld storming through the hall in pursuit of the elusive Ikit. The ratling's laughter—more of a twisted snicker than anything joyful—echoed off the stone walls, setting Belisarius's teeth on edge. He couldn't quite place the unease the sound stirred within him, but it gnawed at him nonetheless.
Overwhelmed by the bizarre series of events, Belisarius simply chose to sit down, with dinner proceeding in somber silence. The meager vegetable spread did little to quell the gnawing hunger that plagued both him and Targeld. The absence of meat hung heavy over the meal, and not even a keg of beer could put a smile back on Targeld's face. Unfortunately, Ikit had vanished back into the shadows before Belisarius could ask about the, 'stolen meat', although it was pretty obvious what happened to it.
-----
After dinner, Belisarius figured it would probably be smart to figure out where exactly he was. Who exactly he was. He must have been someone of significance—a letter from the Emperor of the Sovereignty confirmed as much—yet the nature of his renown remained a mystery.
Settling into what appeared to be a guest accommodation lounge next to the dining hall, Belisarius began pouring over his thoughts. Targeld, ever the idiot sat nearby, his massive frame completely absorbed in staring at the wall... counting spiders.
Luckily, if his memory served him well, which he wasn't quite sure it did, an inn would be a pretty easy place to find general information. Perhaps he might even uncover something about himself in the process.
"Targeld, lead me to the nearest inn," Belisarius commanded.
Targeld looked up from his spider census, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Of course, boss! I knew you'd come around to a good ol' pint."
'Not what I meant idiot.' Belisarius thought, suppressing a groan.
As they navigated Arendale's streets, the city's oppressive grandeur enveloped him. Its walls, forged from the same near-indestructible stone as The Black Bastion, were a testament to the ancient craftsmanship of the Giants of Brobdingnagian. They stood as a silent reminder to a time when the city's defenses were built not just to withstand siege, but to endure through the ages, untouched by time.
The streets, though bustling with activity, seemed to pulse with an undercurrent of tension, betraying the strength the walls gave off. Merchants hawked their wares, voices blending into a cacophony of noise that barely masked the sense of unease that hung in the air. Citizens Belisarius walked past averted their gaze and moved with a hurried purpose, eyes darting nervously from shadow to shadow.
Belisarius payed them no attention, instead, his gaze drifted upward, tracing the razor-sharp silhouettes of four towering spires anchoring Arendale's perimeter. Each pinnacle supported a shimmering, invisible barrier that stretched across the sky like an ethereal dome.
'Magic? What exactly could this be?'
Belisarius squinted at the shimmering sky, then turned to Targeld. "Those four towers—what purpose do they serve?"
Targeld's expression shifted from blank confusion to sudden recognition. "Wait, you mean Flux of Calamities ward? You're seriously asking me about that?" His tone carried a mix of surprise and mild disbelief.
"I am asking," Belisarius replied flatly, "so enlighten me."
Targeld scratched his head, studying Belisarius with growing concern, "...boss are you okay? Something's off. Are you feeling alright?"
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Belisarius forced himself to maintain composure. "I'm perfectly fine. Just. Explain. The. Towers."
"Right, right," Targeld nodded, his previous playful demeanor giving way to a more serious explanation.
"That madman Flux—one of the Magi—used an Artifact alongside his magic to create this massive ward around Arendale. And It's not just some fancy decoration. This barrier keeps the cold of The Wastelands from turning us into ice sculptures, keeping it nice and toasty inside the walls."
Targeld paused for a moment, his massive frame seeming to grow more contemplative. "According to the old legends," he began, his voice taking on a rare tone of reverence, "Flux didn't just create the magical ward. He fortified the city's walls with a protective enchantment after the Deity Wars. Those were dark times—every stone, every inch of wall was a battle against extinction."
He swept his hand toward the massive stone fortifications, his eyes momentarily distant. "Back then, the walls weren't just stone. They were a promise. A promise that nothing—no Demon, no horror from beyond—would breach Arendale's defenses." A soft chuckle escaped him. "Nothing strong enough to challenge those walls has approached the city in generations."
A dangerous glint entered Targeld's eyes, his voice dropping an octave. "Not that it matters much. Anything—and I mean anything—tries to breach this city, and it'll have to go through me first."
The final sentence carried an unexpected edge—a subtle, vague killing intent that transformed the gentle giant before Belisarius, revealing something primal and untamed lurking just beneath his surface.
For Belisarius, Targeld's explanation crystallized the purpose of the magical defenses. This wasn't about repelling invaders, but about survival. The ward was a lifeline, shielding the city from the relentless, merciless cold that clawed at the world beyond. Inside Arendale, the air was almost stifling in its warmth—a deliberate, defiant contrast to the frozen wastelands that stretched endlessly outside the city's magical embrace.
Satisfied with Targeld's explanation, Belisarius continued forward.