Marion Wyatt knelt down and took a seat on a chunk of pius stone, the flattest piece of ruin he could find of “the old kingdom.” He loved being out here, surrounded by the teetering columns of crumbling rock, the tangled vines and shy flora of Mother Minerva, consistently working to reclaim the lands that were rightfully hers. And if he listened closely he could hear Mother, softly singing a hymn to the breeze, perhaps as payment for carrying her seed across the rolling hills of grass, and even further, presumably scattering it to every corner of Corinthia herself.

  Yes, there was nothing like this sound for the fatherless boy who yearned to be a man. Sometimes, just a rustle above pure silence was golden whilst sitting upon stone and catches, eyeing the spherical prophets of the sky while stuck in preponderance.

  Though as blissful as it was, it was also saddening, as Marion was nearly the only one who ever ventured over here, to the past age of the mountain. The new kingdom, Myriddia, was on the other side, and there everyone stayed, from noblest king and queen, to the most disreputable quaffer. They too had their blissfulness, the poor and wealthy alike. They were content within the walls of the great steepled kingdom, possessing shelter, food, and above all else, safety, as there hadn’t been a single reckoning in nearly eight hundred cycles of Gorgas, the most dominant sun of the upper beyond.

  But this peace wouldn’t last forever, would it? No, that was impossible, or at least so Marion hoped. Now don’t misunderstand, it wasn’t as if the budding teen was yearning for total destruction, severed limbs and gaggles of steeple guard to be cut down all across the kingdom, blood flowing thicker and faster than the waters passing from flap wheel to flap wheel. He just wanted a little bit of action, just a taste, enough to analyze what his life truly meant. This wasn’t a lot to ask for, though it was still far more than anyone else wanted.

  Yes, how perplexing it was to witness everyone so content with their lives, waking up to the rising Gorgas each dawn, a doppelganger to every previous day before it, devoid of so much as a sniff of adventure. There was so much out there to be witnessed, thousands of cultures to enrich one’s self with, a million paths to and from each one, more than enough for Marion to make a new footprint with every step forward.

  But when would it happen? No one but he, and perhaps the black wizard even bothered to look to the sky anymore, to decipher what the prophets foretell.

  Before Marion could continue pondering, his mind was pulled out by a voice suddenly calling from behind, “A different stone, but the same old wants and wishes, aye Mare?”

  It was Naythaniel Kiddery, Marion’s partner in his misadventures, his best friend since all the way back at Instructor Quigley’s beginner course of numerics, the first bit of schooling every child of Myriddia must take when entering their third year.

  “You know, eventually you’re going to run out of new things to dream about, what then?” he asked.

  Marion disregarded the question, instead rising from the stone and looking at his pal somewhat peevishly. “I wouldn’t run out of them nearly as quickly if someone arrived when they were supposed to.”

  Naythaniel’s jaw fell. He let out a sharp pawh, acting as if what was blatantly true was somehow a shocking insult that came out of nowhere.

  “My apologies, dear King Bryan. Please don’t send the lad to The Winding Road just yet. I promise by the weight of the upper beyond, shall it fall on my head, that I shan’t ever be late again.” Naythaniel took a bow, passing his buddy a grin.

  “You shouldn’t make hollow of a promise, Nayt,” Marion spoke earnestly, his expression void. “My pop says a man’s worth lies in his word more than anythin’ else he’s got. He says without it, no matter his other riches, he’s as broke as one could possibly be.”

  Nayt rolled his eyes and nodded along, seeing his pal was in one of those philosophical moods today, something he always found less appealing and fun than when the pair were just free of it all.

  “You act like I arrived late for some important affair, like a High Summoner’s pyre, late enough that he doesn’t even smell of soused hog anymore.”

  “Soused hog?”

  “Yeah. You know that’s what they smell like when they burn, hog meat. They soak ‘em in all those minerals so the flame burns nice and bright, and those minerals give off a pungent aroma, like soused hog. I tell ya, I can’t even go to one anymore without getting hungry. Do you remember my Uncle Pylo? A great big fat man he was. They sent him off with an extra thick coat of glaze, so cloying I could taste it on my tongue.”

  Marion let out a stupefied chuckle. As long as the two had been friends, Nayt’s candidness still retained its shock value, every so often revealing just how twisted his mind was.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “You can not be serious, getting hungry over Myriddian flesh.”

  “I’m as serious as a King Cawdry portrait,” Nayt assured him, pulling his sword out from behind his back and holding the blade’s edge up to his own eye. Marion unsheathed his own craftier, far more decorated sword, swiftly knocking it away.

  In reality, both weapons were nothing more than wood, each fashioned from a limb they’d sawed off a tallow tree. Soft and malleable upon first being cut, tallow wood was easily shaped. After it dried, its durability also strengthened. This made it the most popular resource in all Myriddia. Furniture, carriages, dishware and the like all contained at least some bit of tallow. It was even more prevalent in the lower crescents of the kingdom where the poor folk lived, making up their shoddy, sunken chairs, nicked up tables, and wobbly beds. Not to mention, nearly every child’s toy was tallow-made there, as none of the poor folk could waste their hard earned coinage on polished metals or even a heartier wood.

  Of course, what Marion held in his hand was certainly no toy, not judging by the manner in which he held it. This was a man’s weapon, the one and only vestige keeping him from becoming a soused hog himself, as vital to his being as his brain or heart.

  Truth be told, the fatherless boy had about a dozen more back home, but each time he chose one, the moment his fingers clenched around it, that was the one above all others.

  “I see you had to go and get yourself a new tallow,” Nayt mocked. “I must have done a number on that piece you wielded yesterday.”

  Marion smiled as he inspected his own craftsmanship, the sharp edge of the fanned blade, the elaborate insignia he’d scrolled into the wood, filled in with the deep blue ink of the nocturnus flower.

  “Is that the brand of a steeple guard I see on there?”

  “Not just any steeple guard,” Marion declared proudly. He turned the tallow broadways and held it there, letting his friend take a good look.

  Nayt immediately belted, “Ha! A member of the First Decreed? You?! Go find another stone to sit on, and do so with haste, because you are dreaming again!”

  Marion’s smile grew wider. “Is that so?”

  “That’s right. The great General of the First Decreed, Jody Osiris would never accept someone of your size, you runtling.”

  Marion scoffed. “I am one haircut shorter than you. Besides, I’d have to be no taller than a totter to best one carrying a knob as horridly misshapen as that.”

  Nayt turned his wrist left and right, examining the tallow limb he’d carved and sanded not more than two days ago.

  “Horridly misshapen? What, so it doesn’t possess as sharp an edge as yours. So it’s got some nicks and notches. And perhaps it is a bit knobby. But all of these things are what gives it character. Each imperfection is a story in itself,” Nayt nodded confidently, believing every word of what he said.

  “Your weapon does not have character. It is being held by a character,” Marion chided, adding, “And who wants to hear a story about some fat old wench and the stick she uses to unclog her shat box?”

  Nayt burst out with laughter. He quickly gathered himself into a somewhat proper stance and extended his “unclogger.” “You’ll see just how skilled I am with my shat stick! Come meet your death!”

  Marion took his own stance, the pair giving each other a gentlemen’s nod, and then…

  Clack-clack-lack-lack-

  “HA!” Marion held the tip of his sword to Nayt’s throat.

  “Again,” he ordered.

  Nayt thought for a moment, then lunged forward.

  Clack-clack-clack-shwhip-clack-lack-clack-

  “DEAD!” Marion shouted, pressing the tip of his blade to his pal’s chest.

  “What happened? I was expectin’ at least a ten exchange. Did you already forget everything I taught you yesterday? Remember your crosses. You have to embrace a state of trance, block out everythin’ around you, everythin’ but the one who is trying to kill you,” Marion spoke passionately. Nayt rolled his eyes and shook his head, mumbling incoherently like a scolded child.

  “Now come on! AGAIN!”

  Still, he took another crack at his friend foe, and another. The pair squared off ducking, weaving, and pushing each other away off the cross. Hours would pass by, the best friends stopping only for brief moments to catch their breath, or take minute glimpses of the Upper Beyond as the prophets drifted across, drawing nearer to that fateful position.

  Yes, a dark gray was coming, perhaps even black if the premonitions were to be believed. And yet who in the kingdom was heeding this dire warning? The texts were all but lost, tucked away in vacated rooms collecting dust, their authors dead and gone. But soon all would find out that a long period of peace had bred ignorance, and ignorance comes with great cost. As orange skies turned to minty dusk, and the massive backdrop of the great Gorgas blushed deeper within the contrast, Mare and Nayt took a seat upon the old kingdom’s stone.

  “I guess it’s time for me to finally retire this tallow,” the spiky blonde-haired kid mused, holding up his sword.

  Mare nodded in agreement. “Come to my home, tomorrow. I’ll let you choose any piece you want.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I think you’re good enough now that it won’t be a waste.”

  “Pff. Oh, you think so?” Nayt chuckled. “I didn’t even score a single blow.”

  “No, you didn’t. But you never gave up, no matter how badly I destroyed you, no matter what names I called you, you kept your composure. You’re going to make this king a fine steeple guard, a First Decreed steeple guard,” Marion nodded confidently.

  Nayt scoffed, “And you say about me speaking hollow words…”

  “They aren’t hollow. I said I will be King, and I will.”

  “You also said you would wed Tabitha Eavesborne, the moment you first laid eyes on her in Quigley’s class.”

  Marion looked over at his pal, utterly stoic, “And who do you think is going to be my queen?”

  Just then, the massive, twelve-ton blue bell swaying high above the steepled castle sounded off, echoing down across the mountain and out over the hills of swaying grass.

  “The seven bell…”

  “Yeah. We better get headed back."