Chapter 2

“Is it done?” A voice growled, as the door creaked closed behind it.

“It’s been a couple days now. I’ve no word of the Durlesian Prince since we outed him.” A man sat in the middle of a sunset lit room. “His father is such a foolish man.” The man’s rings clinked together as he moved wax soldiers around on his topographic model.

His accomplice moved over to the large window that captured the last remaining sunset light. He stared off into the distant plains. “What a shame, that silly girl. After we spent so much effort…”

“Was it worth it?”

The accomplice crossed his arms, “I never really expected anything from her. A broken soul to start. She wasn’t the only poor spirit we… woefully indoctrinated,” he sneered a chuckle, “ready to serve,” he muttered mockingly. He paused for a second. “The Durlesian Prince - was all just rumors until now, all of it. His appearance - many of them were just false - lies made up from his father, presumably. At first, we didn’t even know if he even had an heir. What she did for us, she was able to mark him. Her presence alone helped mark our target. It allowed us to disseminate which rumors were real - and which were falsely spread. Next, her lack of reports solidified her treasonous end.”

“You really think his father spread all those rumors?” One of the miniatures toppled over the man’s clumsiness. “I think you’re giving him too much credit.”

The accomplice uncrossed his arms. He emphatically tapped his chin with his index finger, “the credit you’re unwilling to give - is the credit that’s going to be your undoing.” He stopped tapping his chin for a second, “In the echoes of your disdain, I should think twice or thrice about writing on the Prince’s tombstone- and if his body isn’t present for it, then…” He looked scornfully at the man playing with his tiny army.

His partner looked up from his board, unamused, “If that’s a threat - you should know that in my current state, it means nothing.”

The accomplice glanced back over to look at the distant sunset. The shadows grew past fields of wheat, hiding corners of the field that have started to rot. “Regardless of how much your hands are tied, everything it’s once touched will be made worth its own weight in gold again.”

“You know I don’t care about that.”

“Then, I’ll hold your apathy in high regard when the time comes. He was the last unknown variable that could’ve stopped what’s coming. In spite of everything, I will take appropriate measures as to not ‘disregard’ a foolish father and possibly his foolish son. Thanks to that silly girl, we’re aware of what he looks like - if ever he does decide to climb out of the ground.” The accomplice turned away from the window. “Three months,” he said softly. “Once the last snowfall melts. Whatever you have left, must be ready.”

His partner sighed, and gathered all the miniature troops in the middle of the board, and without looking up he nodded obediently.

The accomplice shuffled his way back to the entrance of the room. As he opened the door, he quietly murmured, “Shone…” as he crossed the threshold, he shot a quick glance back towards the window, “What a repulsive country.”

---

It was still dark when Taliesin decided it was time to move again. He snuffed out the fire with the pile of snow he displaced for his makeshift fire pit. He was able to rest through a well-behaved forecast.

He cursed under his breath again, aggravated that after six - or maybe seven - different moons he was unable to capture more than a few minutes of sleep.

The second his eyes would flutter closed - the blacks of his eyelids reminded him of the scene, where he last saw his companions. “Maybe, somehow, they made it out - I only got a quick glimpse of their-” he almost puked from the images that flashed through his mind. “I should’ve known,” he closed his eyes for a second to battle with the thought of it, “that tip from that blasted blacksmith seemed too easy.” He clenched his teeth, branding the face of the perpetrator in his mind.

“It must’ve been a trap.” He shook his head at the thought of it. “If only…”

The constant war in his head continued to play out. It fueled him, but at the end of every bout - drained him.

He felt the weather shift as he started marching. The winds begun a percussive crescendo of notes. The biting cold was able to mask the constant aching of his muscles and bones.

“What am I still doing here? I should just go back home…”

The prince was growing less and less confident on his whereabouts. “There should be a stream nearby, right?” He was used to following orienteering advice from a half-elvic ranger. With the growing doubts, came a flash of grief - “Oh, Elowe…” Then a warm- then rapidly cold sensation rolled down his cheeks. It made him shutter enough to make the snow on his hair fall around him.

He moved his focus upwards. His eyes blurred as he tried to make sense of the fuzzy constellations.

“Bara, it’s no use! Just take me now and be done with the foreplay!” He cried out to the winds.

“Hey!”

The prince thought he heard a familiar voice, “Bran?”

“Over here, did you hear that?” Definitely not a familiar voice.

“Oh, screw me- no- I was kidding, I was kidding, please more foreplay please.” The prince instinctively dropped his large ruck on the ground and sprinted into a nearby berry bush a few paces away. The thorns of the bush cut into the prince’s skin. He felt the sharp thorns dig into his skin, he wanted to scream.

He looked through a viewpoint between the thorns. By this time, a mild blizzard picked up. The snow laid a thick enough haze to obstruct anything past 10 paces. He quieted his breathing until he was able to hear nearby footsteps.

“1, 2, crap, there’s 3”, he thought to himself.

A heavy pair of footsteps noticed the ruck, “I think I heard something near this snow covered rock.” The prince couldn’t see his face - only up to his neckline, his undertone gave off a slight greenish hue, not as deep green as normal Dargon’s but enough to allude to the ancestry.

Another pair of footsteps followed behind. “That’s not a rock, Gak - there’s someone nearby.” The prince was able to make out a short man - his head would barely make it above the prince’s shoulders. He carried a wooden bow, slung around his left shoulder, and a quiver on his right hip.

The man, not Gak, brushed off the snow and uncovered the flap to the top pocket of the prince’s bag. “It’s probably the guy we’re looking for.” As he meticulously dug through the ruck.

Gak unrolled a worn out drawing, “this guy?” It was a rough sketch of a clean shaved man. His hair, slightly curled, reaching just below his brow.

“Have you ever stopped to consider the ethical dilemma of our profession?” A new pair of footsteps walked towards the bag. The prince was able to see his hands, he raised them up and down as if here measuring the weight of two items. “Our livelihood is perpetuated by ending other lives. It’s like a poetic irony.”

The man rummaging through the ruck rolled his eyes. Mockingly he said, “as the snow falls simply on my eyeballs - it’s like I’m staring at life in of itself, I’m so poetic, I’m the life of the party, ladies and gentlemen alike know the name of Metnor.”

Metnor snorted in reply.

“Go make yourself useful, poet. Search the area for the owner of this ruck.”

Metnor frustratingly strolled away as he spoke under his breath, “nobody gets me”, and soon after faded into the snowy whites.

Not-Gok shook his head in annoyance.

Gak giggled at the mockery, and he started to lick his lips. " Berries… " He hurried over to where the prince was hiding.

Without inspecting - he rapidly shoved handfuls of berries in his mouth.

Not-Gak reached the bottom of the ruck. “No coin, damn.” He heard his partner munching furiously, as his eyes wandered towards his counterpart - he noticed footprints leading to where Gak was feasting. He cocked his head inquisitively. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, simultaneously readying his bow. “Gak…” he whispered. He notched an arrow - but waited a moment before he drew the arrow.

“Gak don’t feel so good.” The quarter-Dargon turned away from the bush - seeking aid from his partner.

Not-Gak ignored his plea for help and continued to ready his bow. “Move, Gak.”

Gak pouted his lips in return, and started to walk away. After one step, a knife darted out of the bush and plunged itself deep in Gak’s neck. Synchronously, the prince’s other hand grabbed Gak’s elbow and pulled him closer to the bush.

Not-Gak - on pure reflex - loosed his arrow. It flew right into his partner’s back. The prince gasped painfully as he revealed himself from the thick web of thorns. He pulled back his blade while shoving the near-lifeless Gak to the ground.

Not-Gak was able to notch another arrow, but before he was able to achieve a full draw, the prince chucked his knife - reaching the base of the short man’s neck. He lost control of the bow and arrow. The arrow flew right into the prince’s left shoulder, and the bow fell beside the short man. The force was just enough to lodge the sharp-end fully inside his skin.

“Metnnn-” Not-Gak gurgled out as he slumped towards the ground.

The prince sprinted towards him - trying to retrieve his blade. Before he was able to Not-Gak slumped face first into the snow, covering the blade with his body.

The prince heard hurried footsteps nearby. The prince attempted to move the small body. Pain emanated from his left shoulder as he attempted to rotate Not-Gak. In desperation, he grabbed the bow and attempted to grab an arrow from the short man’s corpse. The arrows were somehow wedged between the quiver and the corpse. The first hasty attempt ended with a snapped arrow. Pain worsened as his heart dropped. He thought for a moment, mulling over the pain.

He yanked the arrow out of his shoulder - he ensured the arrow had a straight exit out of his flesh. It worsened the wound, tearing away more skin - but the arrow became free without any breakage.

Metnor emerged into view. The sight of his companions made the color of his face turn into the same hue as the surrounding snow. Frantically, he searched for his blade, his left hand dancing around where the handle should have been. The prince readied his bow, moving purely on muscle memory - he notched and drew the arrow, yelling in excruciating pain. Metnor flinched at the raw sound of the prince’s anguish. He was able to partly draw his sword before the arrow was released. It sunk right above Metnor’s right breast. Wincing, he was able to draw the rest of his blade, but the desperate prince was already charging him.

The prince feigned a strike from the bow, Metnor flinched as he raised his sword above his head to block the blow. As soon as the prince’s next foot struck the ground, he stooped to where his shoulder matched the height of Metnor’s stomach. Metnor felt the prince’s arms wrapped around his own waist. The force of his shoulder was enough to wind Metnor. While he gasped for air, the prince posted his forearm against his left bicep - simultaneously grabbing the sunken arrow. With quick succession - the prince brutally stabbed the poor poet until he felt his bicep turn limp.

The prince hobbled back over to his disarranged ruck. He slung it over his right shoulder and then staggered to the short man’s body. He kicked him over to retrieve his blade. He caught a glimpse of his face, his lifeless eyes - they were stuck in a look of sorrow. The prince stared back, matching his melancholy expression. He heard gurgling sounds behind him followed by shifting branches.

He turned to see Gak stumbling his way over. He walked in a drunken manner - each step took an enormous effort. Blood covered the entirety of his torso - enough so, that the prince cringed at the metallic stench of it. The Dargon’s fists were clenched, he started lifting it above his head.

The prince allowed his ruck to fall once again, readying his bloodied knife. Gak was about two strides away from him before he fell face first into the snow. His chest still rising and falling, each breath becoming softer and softer. Gak’s hand relaxed, revealing the paper he was holding before. The prince clearly saw it now- it was a printed image of him. The curls clearly matched his, but ambiguously showcased its pitch black hue. Three more papers were tucked in the Dargon’s back pockets. The prince inhaled deeply, knowing what the papers could be. He grabbed the documents, and shoved them into his pocket.

When the prince made an attempt to stand, he started to feel weak. He was unable to resist the weight of his body when it fell into the snow. He heard Gak’s last breath, the foulness alone expedited the prince’s fleeting consciousness. He made one last attempt to lift himself up with his right hand - he glanced at his forearm. He noticed dozens of superficial wounds caused by the berry bush.

He laid on the snow - barely holding on to his sensations.

He heard a pair of footsteps crunching in the snow - then the sound of constant wood creaking above a set of hooves.

When he finally opened his eyes, he saw a blurry vision of a hooded man leading a horse. The traveling stranger was accompanied by the jingling sound of trinkets.

Eventually, Taliesin’s view turned into darkness. His body succumbing to the icy embrace.