Rise of the Living Forge

Several cities away from Milten, a beautifully carved wooden door flew open with a loud bang that echoed through the extravagant meeting hall that stretched beyond it. Riches that had once adorned its halls had long since been sold, and a thin layer of dust had taken residence across the room’s surface. And even in spite of that, the air itself seemed to hold its breath in respect for the grandiose presence that the room had once possessed.

Heavy breath filled the silent air as a messenger rushed into the room, sweat streaking his brow and his hair disheveled.

Two people sat at the head of a long table that took up the majority of the room’s space. One was a man with a clean-cut beard and sharp, dangerous eyes. Years of age had taken their toll on him, whitening his hair and wrinkling his skin, but he still sat proud. The man wore leather armor that still bore fresh scars from training that morning. A large swathe of fresh meats, pastries, and other delicacies were laid out before him, completely untouched.

The other was a young man, no older than fifteen. He was thin and frail, with white hair and features that closely matched those of the man at the head of the table. Both he and the older man held several cards close to their chests.

The only thing on the table before the young man was a plate of plain porridge and a deck of cards. A wooden crutch leaned against the side of his chair.

“Duke Alaric!” the messenger rasped.

“Godspit, man,” the duke said, rising from his spot at the head of the table and setting his cards down. He grabbed the hilt of the sword that hung at his side. “What are you doing? Are we under attack?”

“Nobody sounded the bells, father,” the boy beside Alaric said. “We can’t be under attack. Do you concede the hand?”

“We’re not under attack,” the messenger rasped, straightening as he caught his breath. “Your Grace—”

“If we are not under attack, then you should not be blowing down hundred year old doors like they are made from rubbish. And yes, Art. I concede the hand. You win. Again.” Aleric’s eyes turned to the messenger. As for you, have some decorum. What if we were in an important meeting? Think of the impression it would make on the other guilds in Thornhelm. I have a reputation to upkeep in this city. I have already lost enough ground as things are. What remains will not be torn asunder by scrambling messengers. Follow the proper procedures.”

“One of our scout teams was attacked, Your Grace.”

A dozen years of age seemed to appear in Aleric’s face in an instant. The elderly man let out a wheeze like he’d been stabbed through the heart and lowered himself back into his chair, pain crossing over his features.

“No. Who?”

“We believe the Starforge Guild to be at—”

“Not who killed them!” Aleric barked. “Who died? I care more about the lives of my fallen than I do who took them.”

“The Eagles, Your Grace. The only survivor was a boy in training to be an assassin. Yi—”

“Yinta,” Aleric said. He let his head roll back to stare at the ceiling far above him, his features pressed thin, and let out a slow sigh. When his head lifted once more, his expression had come under control once more. “Yes. I know him. A good boy. A good man. All of the Eagles were. Now you will tell me what happened.”

“We don’t have details, but Yinta reported that the Starforge Guild was at fault.”

“This is because of me,” the boy beside Aleric said. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Father, I should just —”

“No,” Aleric growled. “We will not give in to their demands. You will remain here, Art. I will not be ground under heel. Our family may not be what it once was, but know this. Nobody attempts to threaten one that they do not believe to be a threat. The Starforge Guild fears us.”

“They fear my sister,” Art said.

“Then you should be grateful for her strength,” Aleric said.

“Her strength is wasted on me,” Art snapped, grabbing his crutch and jabbing it under his arm as he staggered upright, leaning heavily upon it. “She should not be here. She should not be stuck with a dying guild. She should be with the Adventurer’s Guild, or with one of the powerful independent guilds, trying to find — you know.”

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Aleric glanced at the messenger out of the corners of his eyes. He flicked his hand, and the man bowed before ducking out of the room and pulling the massive doors shut behind him.

“You should not air family matters out before our workers,” Aleric said. “It unsettles them. They must witness a united front.”

“There is no united front,” Art said. He jabbed a finger into the thigh of his right leg. It was thin and spindly compared to his left, stiff and worthless at his side. “Your heir is worthless. The other guilds taste blood in the water. They do not believe we are strong anymore, and you keep Vix here, hidden, instead of letting her live with what time she has left.”

“I have shown them you.”

“I am useless!” Art snarled. “Look at me, Father. I would lose a fight to a common monster. The Monster Horde would find use for me as a toothpick or as a scrubber for their latrines. I could not kill a monster if it was half dead and riddled with the pox.”

“Which is why Father has shown the guilds you rather than me.” A soft voice echoed through the hall from above, and a young woman dropped from the beams running across the ceiling, landing nimbly on top of the table. Long black hair ran down from her head and all the way down to her waist, tied together with golden bands. Her features were strikingly similar to Art and Aleric’s.

“How long were you there?” Art asked, leaning against his crutch as he shifted back a step.

“The entire time,” Aleric said.

“I will have to practice more,” Vix said. “I did not think you realized I was there.”

“I’m not that old yet,” Aleric said with a raspy chuckle. “Listen to Vix if you will not listen to me, Art. I do what I must for our family.”

“Maybe you care about some family too much,” Art snapped. He slapped the cards in his hands face-down onto the table. “Isn’t the entire Nightviper Guild family? Isn’t Vix?”

“Of course they are,” Aleric said.

“So why do you keep me as Heir? Vix would present a united front. She can fight. She can inspire. What can I do other than present an open neck to our enemies?”

“You can lead,” Vix said. “I can’t. Being a good fighter doesn’t make me a good leader, Art. The guild trusts you — and what good would I be as a leader when I will be dead within three years? At least you have no expiry date.”

Art winced. “I’m sorry.”

Aleric rose to his feet. “Enough. You have heard both of our thoughts, Art. Vix does not want to be Heir. It must be you. I fear I am too old to work on making another Heir.”

Art’s jaw clenched and his gaze averted. “I don’t want to be the reason our guild collapses, Father.”

“You will not be,” Aleric said. “It is only after the castle has fallen that the flaws in its design are made apparent. Continue as you are. Our family will not fall. It has you — and it has Vix. There will be an opportunity. You must simply be prepared for when it arises.”

“There is an opportunity,” Vix said.

They both turned to her.

“What?” Art asked.

“The Secret Eye approached me. We’ve been invited to the Proving Grounds,” Vix said.

Aleric smiled. “And so the Mesh provides, just as it always has.”

“That could be what we need,” Art muttered. “A chance to demonstrate our power. We can’t attack the other guilds directly. We aren’t strong enough. But if we can win the tournament, the Secret Eye would give us the wealth and the location of someone who could help Vix. We would have our strongest player on the board.”

“Assuming I survive the tournament,” Vix said, her lips curling up into a bitter smile. “Training does little when your body rots away from the inside.”

“It’s gotten that bad already?” Aleric asked, his features paling. “Perhaps you should—”

“I already accepted the Secret Eye’s offer.” Vix cut Aleric off. “Death marches for me regardless. I may as well do something with the time I have left instead of wasting away, training for a fight that will never come.”

“It is your decision,” Aleric said, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. “I wish I could do more for us, but we must make the most with the pieces we have. If you can win the tournament, there is a chance. Perhaps our only one.”

“So were my thoughts,” Vix said. She hesitated for a moment. “There is only one requirement.”

“What is it?” Art asked.

“They mandated that you must be one of the members of my party,” Vix replied, her features going grim.

“Godspit,” Art said. “This is a setup. Why would they want me in the tournament? What do they think I could do?”

“I don’t know,” Vix replied with a shake of her head. “But it’s the only chance we have, Art. The only one I have — and the only one this family has. I should have asked you, but—”

Art’s jaw clenched. “No. You’re right. I can’t fight, but if you can fight well enough for both of us, then it doesn’t matter, does it? We have no choice. If we wait around, you’ll rot away and I’ll have my throat slit a week later once the other guilds realize we really do have nothing left.”

“Ideally, we will have to find a third,” Vix said. “But I do not know anyone to call on.”

Art was already nodding. “That’s fine. I’ll find somebody. I think we may have a few connections I can call on. There are still people that owe us favors. I will find someone suitable. We will win the tournament. We have to.”

A small smile crossed Vix’s lips. “And this is why you are Heir and I am not.”

Art didn’t hear her. He was already limping out of the throne room, his crutch clattering against the stone with every step as he muttered under his breath.

Aleric watched him leave with an inscrutable expression on his features. He reached over to where Art had sat and flipped the boy’s discarded cards over. A chuckle slipped from his lips. It was straight trash.

His family had not been dealt a kind hand in life, but it was from the worst hands that the best bluffs were played.

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