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It was stormy.

No-one could’ve seen it coming, but a cascade of water had suddenly started pouring from the before-so-clear skies. Furthermore, a harsh wind from the west was whipping up waves so tall they reached five ships’ railings. However, the ships upon which the skies were crying, kept sailing forth, as their crews appeared wholly unbothered by the hellish weather above their heads.

“O’ great storm! Would you keep quiet for just one minute?!” someone shouted from inside the largest ship’s cabin. “This map is crude enough as is, and if some goddamn storm makes me spill rum on it there’ll be hell to pay!”

None of the crewmen outside the cabin minded the angry outburst.

The man shouting was their captain, Ash Tsuga, the most wanted man in all of Kanburrough, responsible for the murders of fifty-five guardsmen and a number of adventurers for whom there never was an official account. But, despite the captain’s fear-inspiring renown, they simply carried on tending to the damages the storm applied to their respective ships. They didn’t even mind the very real chance that they could sink along with their ships.

Because none of them needed to fear death.

Devoid of all fear and feeling, the undead crewmen slaved on under the watchful eye of Zennereth De Sarr, Ash Tsuga’s First General and Honor Guard.

“Work faster!” he shouted to his underlings, who were already slaving away as fast as humanly possible.

But, despite them already working at max capacity, work faster they did. It didn’t matter if the task was carrying wood, canvas, or the bodies of those who could no longer function—the dead worked faster, exactly as their stark general had commanded.

“Zennereth, come in here; there’s something I’d like to talk to you about!” the lich’s young master called out, from within his cabin.

Since the lich was standing on top of the captain’s cabin, which was full of holes, he could easily hear his master despite the storm’s deafening roars.

“Of course, master,” he replied, and left his minions to keep the ships on the right course.

The first thing that struck the lich, as it entered its creator’s, quarters was the fact that no living man could possibly live there. Water was leaking in through the ceiling, dripping onto the floor which wasn’t rot-resistant in any sense of the word; various kinds of fungi had started forming a carpet-like membrane on the wooden floor.

Even the lich couldn’t imagine having to endure the suffocating feeling its master had to take, breathing in the mold and mildew.

But that wasn’t everything. Empty bottles of rum were lying everywhere on the floor, in a disorderly fashion.

“Master… If I may be so bold… Could you go easier on the drinking?”

“Well, I’m unable to get intoxicated, so I don’t see the point. But, I definitely could take my drinking a step down… And, I definitely will if you do one small thing for me.”

“Anything,” Zennereth said, without a moment’s hesitation.

The necromancer, who was clad in his usual priest attire, leaned back and put his feet on the desk in front of him.

“Sit,” the young elf said, pointing to a stool which seemed to have been used to store his empty bottles before their numbers became too great. “You’ve got a bit of a story to tell—your story, actually. It seems like you omitted to tell me you used to be a member of the ‘King’s Guard’, whatever that is. If your relationship with the king is—was— so good, why were you lying dead outside Elcrada in the first place?”

Zennereth didn’t immediately respond but took the time to clear the stool he’d been offered. Without uttering a single word, the lich slowly removed each of the empty bottles from the plain, three-legged stool and sat down on it.

“Do you want me to… Start from the beginning?”

“Whatever works for you. There should still be a few hours left before we arrive,” Ash said, and motioned for his servant to go on.

“Very well… My story begins in the streets of the Royal Capital…”

***

The sun was rising over the port city, Hauptburg, spreading its warm rays through the city’s densely populated streets. Even though it was early in the morning there were many people roaming around, like ants, carrying out whatever manner of business they might have to attend to.

Accompanying the sun’s ascension to its throne on the sky, shops selling fish and daily wares were hastily popping up all over town.

One stand in particular, one selling porridge and hot milk, always popped up on the main street.

This day was no different.

A boy sitting on a yellow brick wall, a few meters from the shop, always watched the shopkeeper light a fire beneath the pot he used to cook the porridge before proceeding to pour in the ingredients. It wasn’t much, but to the boy on the wall the smell it gave off was the best in the world. The perfect start to his morning routine.

The boy pulled out five copper coins from his gray linen pants and hopped off the wall, which wasn’t more than two meters tall. He followed the alluring smell of freshly-made porridge, and eventually stood in front of the stand.

“What—oh it’s you again,” the shopkeeper said, when he saw the kid, who was a few feet shorter than himself. “I thought sons of noblemen slept longer than”—he looked at the giant clocktower in the distance—“eight in the morning.”

“You know I like to be a bit alternative,” the boy replied, and handed the five coins to the elderly shopkeeper.

“Well, I suppose you are. Let me get you your food.”

After eating his porridge, the boy headed for the harbor—as he always did. It wasn’t because he had anything special to do there; he just didn’t like spending time with the other nobles.

Subsequently after having been to the harbor, the little nobleman headed back to his family’s estate, where he was taught swordplay and etiquette on a daily basis.

Needless to say, it was a boring life, and the boy hated it.

So, on the day of his sixteenth birthday, he ran off to join a band of mercenaries, who taught him ‘real’ swordplay and common folks’ etiquette.

“Come on, fight like a man! I don’t wanna see none of this fancy-man swordplay!” were the new words his superiors in the mercenary band would greet him with, before giving him a thrashing.

The nobleman soon learned that very little of the swordplay he already knew was of any actual use.

So, he adjusted in accordance with what he was being taught. He trained his muscle memory and intuition with every battle, learning from each and every bruise he earned himself.  

Soon, his superiors would go from mocking him, to acknowledging him, to eventually fearing him—all in the span of a few weeks. He had gone from a fancy nobleman playing pretend with a fancy sword to becoming a fierce warrior with the skill to turn anything into a weapon, and defeat his opponents, no matter their numbers.

“Teach me, my Lord,” were soon the routine greeting he received every day.

And that bored him immensely.

So, he decided to move on yet again; this time to magic. He politely said his farewells, as he’d been taught by his parents, leaving behind his now bitter and bruised superiors.

Then he enrolled at the university in Roughensburg where he started pursuing his new interest with unwavering love for all there was to learn.

“That is wrong,” they would say; “How ignorant can you be?” they would ask.

The young boy wasn’t deterred, though. On the contrary, everyone’s low expectations of him encouraged him to do more, and to reach higher.

But he never reached the heights he wanted.

In his household, he had always been number one—the eldest and best son out of his four siblings, neither of whom were literary geniuses like their brother. The same thing was the case in the mercenary band—no-one was as good as the, at that time, newly-recruited nobleman. He had an affinity for learning, only seen in one or two people out of a hundred thousand.

Roughensburg had fifty million residents.

The boy became a man the moment he discovered that he was but a slightly more intricate snowflake in a snowbank of mediocrity. But out in the world—the real world—which he was only just getting introduced to, he was just another step up the ladder of intricacy. Hardly anyone special. That realization finally gave the nobleman something he’d missed for the longest time.

A goal, something to work toward. And that goal was nothing short of attaining perfection.

Suddenly overcome with obsession to be something more than mediocre, someone every single one of Roughensburg’s fifty million citizens would look up to, the young man worked harder than ever before. Too many nights to count, he stayed up to study and practice, until he eventually mastered every single spell related to Water Magic.

“No, that can’t be all,” he said to himself, when he’d finally reached the pinnacle, “There has to be more.”

So, he began experimenting, and made great advances in the field of Water Magic. At the age of twenty-one, he was appointed Head of Magical Studies at the university, due to his infinite passion for everything related to magic.

Soon, his name was known to every student, and his heart was filled with joy knowing he had accomplished something great. But he was still short of his goal.

And that frustrated him. Infuriated him.

Harder, he worked; less, he slept—and it payed off in the end.

One day, he’d woken up, buried in paper with his own, disorderly notes scribbled all over them. One piece of paper—a letter—hadn’t been of his own making, though. It had the Royal Family’s seal on it and turned out to be an invitation to the Royal Palace, where the nobleman had been invited to prove himself worthy of being in the king’s service.

And thus, the professor, as he was now called, headed back to the Royal Capital, Hauptburg.

“Professor, what are we to see from you today?” a man wearing butler’s attire asked, when he received the nobleman outside the palace’s gates.

“I’d like to break my presentation into three sections if that’s alright with his highness.”

“Why of course. If you would be as kind as to share with us what you need for your presentation…”

The professor pulled out a roll of parchment from his brown trench coat.

“This is a comprehensive list of everything I need prepared in order to perform. I hope it isn’t too much trouble,” he said and handed it to the envoy.

“Not at all, I’ll see to it.”

The boy, who had quickly grown up to become a man, was led inside the palace where he was fed a wholesome meal by the finest chefs in Kanburrough. For the first time, since moving away from his family’s estate, he was asked if he wanted seconds, even third servings.

It reminded him of the repulsive, routine lifestyle he’d lived. Except it couldn’t have been further from life with his family. He was his own person now; not the thing his family wanted him to be. He was someone the Royal Family had taken notice of. Someone they wanted.

The nobleman was given a room for the night, and, when the sun rose over the horizon, he was gently woken up by one of the palace’s many maids.

“It appears his highness wants to see you in his study,” the maid said, and led the professor to a room filled with books of all sorts and genres.

And there he was, the most powerful man in the country, sitting in a rocking chair. His golden locks and the silver strands therein, the high cheekbones, and the piercing, blue eyes truly underlined the power and stature of the man known as the King of Kanburrough.

“You—your highness,” the professor stuttered, and bowed before his king.

“No need for that, professor. You may stand,” the king began, “You see, you’ve proven yourself to be an interesting man, in more ways than one”—he stood up—“having the nerve to include a conversation with your king as part of your presentation is rather bold of you.”

Having taken the king up on his request to stand, the professor now stood face to face with the forty-something-year-old man.

“I hope you do not see this as some sort of inconvenience. I promise you, this shan’t take long,” he assured the king, and went over to one of the king’s many bookshelves.

A game of chess was standing on it, and all the pieces were neatly lined up upon it.

“Your highness, I hear you’re quite the sharp chess-player. Shall we play?”

“Oh, chess… How I love that game—so simple, yet so intricate. Figuring out every strategy, even the obscure and inefficient ones, perfecting your style—personalizing it—is truly a joy for a man like myself. Very well, I will show you your place with this game.”

And so, they played. Three hours passed before any of them spoke a single word other than ‘check’.

“Checkmate,” the professor said, after having cornered the king’s king with two rooks and a queen.

“Well, I must say I get why they call you ‘The Professor’ now. You’ve earned my respect for your intellect. But, chess never was my forte, and, as it turns out, you listed more… aptitudes you’d like to show us,” the king said, and shook the nobleman’s hand. “Now, your next test awaits you in the garden, professor.”

The professor went to the floor beneath them, out the door, and to a small arena made out of well-kempt hedges which had been prepared for him and another person, who the professor had only read about in the newspapers.

The King’s Honor Guard, clad in their pristine, gold embroidered armor. Their face was obscured by a helmet which muffled their voice quite a bit. Their gender was undeterminable because of the full-body armor, so the professor couldn’t determine whether or not he’d be able to win with raw strength alone.

“Well met,” the guardsman said, at the sight of the King, and the nobleman that accompanied him.

“So, how’re we gonna be doing this?” the professor asked. “Swords, spears. Maybe axes?”

The honor guard pointed to a weapon rack on which there rested a plethora of masterfully crafted and polished weapons.

“Pick one, and I shall do the same,” the guard said. 

“Well then, much obliged,” the doctor said, bowed, and walked past the weapon rack to pick up a branch which had fallen off a large tree that craned over the arena.

“Are you mocking me?”

“On the contrary, I’m choosing not to fight you barehanded, which would be mocking you.”

Deciding on a large sword around 2 and half meters long, the honor guard turned to face the professor.

“I am Juliet, The King’s Honor Guard. May I hear the name of he who dares underestimate me?”

“Please, just call me professor, miss Juliet.”

Juliet shivered at the nobleman’s rudeness, but took her starting position with her head held high. There could be no doubt—the professor wouldn’t survive unless he won the fight.

Shortly after, their fight commenced.

The professor defended himself with the branch, and valiantly fended off each of the honor guard’s devastating blows. Unfortunately, for him, he had to stay on the defensive, while Juliet advanced with every swing of her massive weapon.

Eventually, the nobleman was standing with his back against the arena’s edge. Juliet was slowly approaching him, sword pointed toward his throat.

“I must say, for a branch-wielding maniac, you did quite well. For a future King’s Guard, however… You won’t be meeting the bar.”

She lifted the sword high above her head, exposing herself.

And that was her mistake.

Swiftly, and with strength far too great for a man with the professor’s build, Juliet was kicked in the abdomen. Her surprised outcry accompanied the screeching sound of her armor bending and her body hitting the ground.

Before the guardswoman could recover, she had a branch pointed at her throat.

“I’m sorry, miss Juliet, but you appear wholly unfit to protect the king”—a regretful smile was painted across his face—“fortunately, I’m not here to steal away your job. I bid you a good day,” the professor said, and turned to face his king.

“You sure surprise me with everything you do,” the silver-blonde man said, eyebrows raised. “Follow me.”

If the king was trying to actually act surprised at the nobleman’s victory, it wasn’t working. Something was telling the professor that the King of Kanburrough had prepared a tough opponent for the next test.

“As your highness commands,” he joyfully said, and did as instructed.

The two of them soon found themselves on the palace’s roof, where the king had made his servants—elven slaves—prepare two pillars with ladders leading to their tops, which were beautifully decorated with engravings of Kanburrough’s national animal—the lion.

Since the professor had come up with the test himself, he climbed up the closest pillar without a moment’s hesitation, while ignoring the harsh wind which seemed to be trying its best to blow him off the ladder.

In the end, however, he found himself at the very top, where he could see all over Hauptburg; not a pleasant sight. Just from where he stood, he could practically feel the boring, routine lifestyle he would’ve been forced to live, had he stayed there as a child.

And the nobleman knew the smell down there; it disgusted him, and he was glad the pleasant smell of the garden below him was masking the scent.

 “Hey, you, snap out of it!” someone said, cutting through the professor’s thoughts.

On the other pillar stood a girl wearing a silly, stereotypical wizard’s hat.

“So, you’re the one that’s been chosen to spar with me?”

“Yes, I am,” the girl replied.

“You got a name?”

“If you beat me, you can have it.”

The professor cracked a smile and readied his palm. He had a particular spell in mind that he planned to knock the girl right off her pillar with.

“You ready?” he asked, and received a nod that immediately prompted him to fire his first spell.

But he didn’t speak any words to fire it.

Wordlessly, the spell was activated, and was sent flying in the form of a fist-sized ball of water.

It was flying fast, but not so fast that the girl couldn’t evaporate it by shouting, “Flame Lance!”, thereby cancelling out both spells.  

The professor was a bit surprised by the mage’s quick reflexes, but that didn’t stop him from immediately firing three spells of similar nature, varying in shape and size.

“Too slow!” she shouted, and followed up with the same spell as before, raising the amount of power she was conjuring it with, comparatively with the power her opponent was using. But, just as the last drop of water had turned to steam, a lance of ice came piercing through the veritable cloud that’d formed around the girl.

It pierced her shoulder and exploded at a snap of the professor’s fingers, blasting her right off of her pillar.

Just before hitting the ground, however, she managed to shout, “Heat Wave!”, which created a blanket of hot air to soften her high-speed collision with the flat roof below her.

That was the hardest thing the nobleman would have to do for a long time to come. He had proven himself to be the strongest among the king’s swordsmen, magicians, and tacticians; his dream was, in a sense, achieved. Yet, for many years following that, he felt hollower than ever before. Even though he was showered in the people’s love, bathed in their devotion no matter where he walked, he couldn’t help but feel isolated from what he truly enjoyed—struggling.

And after having lived a long life as The King’s Honor Guard and First Knight—the highest military position—that desire brought him to a forest outside a town, which had been formed by some of the members of the mercenary band he used to be a part of. The former King’s Honor Guard, Juliet, had told him of a frightful creature—a lich—which supposedly dwelt in the depths of the forest.

He searched under every tree, every rock; he lifted every branch and searched everywhere until he came across a dark cave, which, in his mind, was the perfect hiding spot for a creature such as a lich.

However, it wasn’t a lich that hid in there, but the former King’s Guard, Juliet, and the girl from the professor’s magic-based duel. They weren’t alone. All around them stood a handful of the mercenaries who the nobleman had once worked with.

“So that’s how it is,” he calmly said—not because he was confident in his chances of surviving, but because he had accepted his fate.

“That’s our line of work,” the mercenary captain said, and signaled for his twenty-or-so comrades to prepare themselves.

There was no need, though. The nobleman wasn’t going to fight back, because he finally knew what he’d been lacking. The single imperfect part of him.  

As the swords, fireballs, and spears reduced him to bones, he couldn’t help but feel incredibly stupid; full of regret. Why hadn’t he noticed the only thing he’d been lacking was companionship, friends—people with whom he could share his dreams and ambitions. It had never been the people’s love he was after, but someone special’s acknowledgement.

Those reflections left a last thought in his mind.

“I wasted my life.”

***

Ash was looking his servant dead in the eye. He couldn’t help but feel their pasts were bound together by a thread, drenched in the sweat and blood they’d shed to get to where they were.

“I suppose I’ll go easier on the drinking, then,” the young elf almost monotonously said, got up, and walked to the cabin’s door. “And, Zennereth… Depending on how useful you prove yourself to be in the future, I suppose I’ll be that friend you never had in life.”

With those words, the two of them left the cabin in silence to stand by the railing behind which snow-covered mountains were slowly emerging above the blue horizon.  

The storm had passed, but something was telling the two of them that they’d only just grazed the surface of the horrors they would have to face in order to achieve their dreams.

 

“Crew,”—the young elf spread out his arms in an extravagant gesture aimed at his undead minions—“today, we reach unknown shores. I want you all to be the best version of yourself,” he began, and pulled down the hood of his blood-stained robes. And with a voice, colder than the northern wind, hoarser than a desert wanderer’s, he said, “Not that it matters, either way. There’ll be plenty of corpses in the ice, soon enough.”

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