(Contains letters about the upbringing of @Sir Alaric Rochefort by his father @Sir Otto Rochefort. Contains a letter @Sir Alaric Rochefort never sent to his father that expressed feelings and reasons for taking @Princess Elara of Alendria. Contains scenes from his exile with her.)
Year of the Emperor 265, Yulezeit
My Lord Otto,
I write not in defiance, but in augury. Alaric, our son, is upon his seventh year. It is time for him to leave his mother and proceed to his father's forge. Yet I fear his softness leaves him exposed to the world he is about to enter.
He watches ants in the garden and speaks of their journeys as if they were knights on pilgrimage. He listens to tales of dragons not with the cold eye of a tactician, but with the heart of one who dreams. I do not say this to soften him, but to warn that such sentiment, if left untempered, may become a chink in his armor.
There is strength in wonder, my lord. But wonder must be forged into steel. I ask that you apply your discipline not to extinguish his flame, but to shape it—to make him strong without making him hollow.
He will be Hesan, yes. But let him be ready.
Yours in duty and devotion,
Mechthild
(Year of the Emperor 271, Frostnacht. Alaric is thirteen.)
The courtyard stones were cold beneath Alaric’s knees. He had knelt there since the second bell, hands clasped behind his back, spine straight, eyes fixed on the iron crest of House Rochefort carved into the wall ahead. The sigil—a firebird—seemed to watch him.
Lord Otto stood behind, silent.
A gust of wind swept through the yard, lifting the hem of Alaric’s training tunic. He did not flinch. To flinch was to falter. To falter was to fracture. And fracture was legacy undone.
“Recite,” Otto said.
Alaric’s voice was steady, rehearsed. “Steel does not weep. Steel does not wander. Steel does not yield.”
“Again.”
“Steel does not weep. Steel does not wander. Steel does not yield.”
Otto paced slowly, the sound of his boots deliberate. “What is the weight you bear?”
Alaric swallowed. “The house of my father’s father. The house of my children’s children.”
“And if you fail?”
“I break the chain. I shame the forge.”
Otto stopped. “And what is shame?”
Alaric hesitated. His fingers twitched behind his back. “A crime against legacy.”
Otto’s silence was approval.
A servant entered with a tray—two bowls of broth. Otto took one. The other was placed on the ground beside Alaric, untouched. He would eat only when dismissed.
Otto sat beneath the archway, watching his son. “You used to speak of dragons.”
Alaric kept his gaze forward. “I do not anymore.”
“Why?”
“They are not real.”
Otto’s voice was quiet. “They are real. But they are not useful.”
Alaric’s breath caught. He had once imagined a dragon curled beneath the Rochefort keep, ancient and wise, guarding the bones of old kings. He had named it. He had drawn it. He had buried it.
Otto stood. “You will rise when the bell tolls. Not before.”
He left.
Alaric remained, the wind biting at his skin, the iron crest staring back. Somewhere inside, the dragon stirred. But it did not speak.
Year of the Emperor 275, Ostarzeit
My Lady Mechthild,
I write now with the clarity of years, and the quiet satisfaction of a forge well-tended. You once warned me of Alaric’s softness, not as a flaw, but as a flame to be shaped. I remember your words, and I have watched their truth unfold.
Alaric stands now as a man of Hesan steel. He speaks with measured conviction, acts with precision, and bears the weight of duty without falter. The sentiment you feared would leave him exposed has not vanished—it has been buried. He does not speak of ants or dragons anymore, and I take this as proof of his transformation.
The softness you feared has been purged, and in its place stands resolve. If there is wonder in him still, it is silent. If there is feeling, it is mastered. He commands respect not by force alone, but by presence. He is not hollow. He is alloy.
You were right to caution me. And I was right to heed you, though I did so in silence.
He will be Hesan. He is ready.
Yours in shared legacy,
Otto
Year of the Emperor 280, Beltanzeit
My Lord Otto,
We arrived at Sitztange Encampment three days past the expected hour, owing to a rockslide that blocked the southern pass. I ordered a detour through the marshland, which cost us time but preserved the strength of the column. The men responded well to the change, and morale remains high.
The encampment itself is well-positioned, though the eastern perimeter required reinforcement. I oversaw the construction of a new palisade and assigned watch rotations to ensure readiness. The Rochefort battalion has settled in with discipline. I have taken care to instill the ancestral maxims in our evening briefings.
Alendrian scouts have been sighted at a distance, but no engagement has occurred. I have issued orders to hold formation and await further instruction. The men are eager, but I have reminded them that eagerness is not valor.
I have noted the way the fog settles over the valley in the early hours. It reminds me of the courtyard at Castle Rochefort in winter—how the mist would cling to the stone and soften the edges of the world. I find it clarifies the mind.
I have also taken time to review the tactical treatises you once gave me. They remain instructive. I carry them with me.
I trust this report finds you in good health and that the affairs of the house proceed with strength.
Your servant in duty,
Alaric
Year of the Emperor 280, Beltanzeit (Speculative)
My Lord Otto,
I write this for clarity. I do not know if these words will ever reach you, but I must set them down.
The matter of Princess Elara has weighed heavily upon me. I understood the logic—her surrender to the goblins would secure imperial stability, preserve the lives of thousands, and ensure the cohesion of our campaign. It was a service to the empire, and I resolved to see it done.
But resolution is not peace.
There are goods, I have come to believe, that exist beyond the bounds of order. And sometimes, those goods clash with the very structures we are sworn to uphold. I have never faced such a moment before.
As we flanked the caravan bearing her to the goblin kingdom, I heard her cries. They struck something within me—a chord of conscience long buried. I do not know what stirred, only that it did.
I stole her away.
I do not know what this makes me. A traitor to command? A servant of a deeper law? I could not let her be handed over like coin.
I will face what comes. But I needed you to know: I did not act lightly. I did not act without thought. I acted because something in me refused silence.
Your son,
Alaric
The sun dips low as the destrier climbs a narrow ridge, its hooves crunching dry leaves and brittle twigs.
"Why did you tell me to stop singing?" @Princess Elara of Alendria asked.
@Sir Alaric Rochefort responds, "Sound carries. @The Riftwilds are not empty. Bandits, beasts."
Elara falls silent. Her lips press together. She’s never been told not to sing before. Songs were the sounds of life. Now they are liabilities.
Alaric continues. "This land is lawless. We’ll take the old tower ahead for elevation. I’ll keep watch."
Elara imagines the dangers—bandits with knives for teeth, beasts with eyes like lanterns. She pictures them in verse, her mind painting peril in poetic strokes.
"Will they come for us?" she asks.
"Not if I’m standing," Alaric says. "I won’t let anything happen to you."
She looks at his back. The massive @Zweihander of the Sky's Wound strapped across it—onyx and blood-red, etched with runes that seem to hum with menace. It is not a sword. It is a warning.
Her voice trembles. "I have a sword."
Alaric turns his head slightly. "What?"
She reaches into her cloak and pulls out @The Veil, a dull, ornamental blade. "I took it from the wagon before you rescued me. I didn’t know if you were a friend. I didn’t tell you."
Alaric stops the horse. He dismounts. He takes the sword gently from her hands, inspects it, then hands it back.
"Keep it," he says.