Björnólfur Unason found his friend slumped in his home. Learned Prepared Spellmancer Thorleif Valorsson was moping, a month after Panomekon’s Great Brawl.

“Did you at least go cut some elfspawn or something?” he asked as he flopped into the high chair facing the other Icelandic Professional.

Valorsson silently handed him a tankard filled with his own Labyrinth-brewed metheglin. The product that only a confluence nexus like Panomekon could provide: Gamma-harvested honey – from lairs in a weird patch of tier 10 zones with variants of the same giant bees – combined with clove-like herbs from Beta, and a citrus-equivalent from Alpha. One whose acidity was strong enough to pit mundane metals. You couldn’t make the exact recipe without using Panomekon as a trade hub, and the need to harvest mid-tier zones kept it a relatively rare delicacy.

The two slammed their tankards and downed half the mead. A good kick, but of course, no lasting bite. Those were the times when Björnólfur felt the real price of being at the Labyrinth’s Gate when it opened. Immortal… and unable to get properly wasted with one’s friend.

“They always pick on the spell-caster,” Thorleif said finally.

“Yes. But did you work it out of your system? You don’t look like you’ve moved out of your house,” Björnólfur asked again.

“Went up with a raid to a tier 15 trunk Plaza, to roll back a Profession. Light Inflexible Aetherhunter,” Thorleif replied.

“Will it help?”

“Well, this one was a short one, I switched away quickly. I am potentially missing nearly twenty Milestones in that one. Can squeeze some good Potential and skill ranks from those last ones.”

“And you’ll spend two years raising it back to where it was, I guess.”

“Less.”

Björnólfur laughed.

“At least, some optimism. You know, the Hallowskon Brawl is in thirteen months. You can work some of your frustrations there. A few missing levels in tier 15 won’t change your vitals that much.”

“Yes, and Hallowskon abuts Gamma as well, in addition to… how they call it? Green?”

“They like their colours. Red for Gamma, Blue for our Beta, and Green for the first sheaf that found it.”

“So I’m betting Caíreach will be there.”

Björnólfur sighed, at seeing Thorleif moping again.

“She won’t have a Tang Feng to ally herself with to neutralize you. Besides, I hear she’s restarting a team to map more of the Wall’s border. If that goes well, she won’t even bother taking a break to prepare.”

“Even better. Victory by default.”

“My friend, you need something. Besides soloing for experience and grabbing some low-level Cores and Artefacts to sell to young baseline Professionals.”

“And that’s not it?” Thorleif asked, waving at the mead jar.

“No. You need… a vacation.”

Thorleif’s eyebrows furrowed at that assertion.

“It’s time to get home for a while. All the way down. Unless you’ve dropped that Fast Travel access.”

Transit: Sysdar – Earth 311

Integrity: 100%

Active

(405 years)

Stability: 100%

The two giant figures crossed the Great Gate, making heads turn as they landed atop a small cliff in Þingvellir. In 1701, the site was now surrounded by large buildings of stone and concrete, and the Gate courtyard paved with ornamental stones of all types that came from all over the world, a testament to the massive power and wealth that came from being a Labyrinth power, its progress fueled by centuries of Professionals and information trade with advanced Divergences.

The Union guards that surrounded the Great Gate plaza slapped to attention. Professionals came and went, but eleven feet-tall giants, clad in what looked like the garb of centuries ago, meant old High Lords, and they knew it.

The Office of Records wasn’t hard to find. Signage pointed to it. Even if Lords came rarely, it wasn’t unknown for a Professional to arrive, back from a decade or two of wandering in the depths, or someone from a distant Divergence vising a local they’d met years ago.

The clerk’s fingers clattered on the device, drawing Thorleif’s fascinated gaze. A processing machine. One of the mundane devices that always astounded the 13th century Icelander he remained at the core. Of course, they did not work in the Labyrinth, like almost anything relying on mundane electromagnetics – scholars thought the prevalent aether in there interfered too much with electric flows… even as other scholars insisted that doing so would kill anything. Scholars…

“Locally made?” he asked while she was waiting for the result of her inquiries.

“No. We have a solid industry in those electronics, but we’re still a long way before we can equal the products of Earth-501. We wouldn’t get enough capacity for our full info bases. Those things are disgustingly better, even if they cost the Saints’ own relics to import.”

She squinted at the large reading screen before a small screeching sound started to the side.

“There you are. Herluf Bambason, 67, deceased last year. Descendants in main line, Stirnir Herlufsson 37, Birkis Stirnirsson 15. They live in the northern Þingvellir,” she announced.

“The old Aflheim farm it still is then,” Thorleif said.

Seeing the clerk’s surprise, he added, “I helped my nephew build that one. It has stayed in the family for four centuries. Would have hated to show up and find someone else.”

The area had grown since last time. Þingvellir was the great city of Iceland, capital of the Northern Union. You came there to find wealth, power, connections, and many other things besides. Or, sometimes, because that’s where you always lived. A few recent houses showed signs of modernity, but most remained built in the traditional Old Icelandic. And, of course, Alfheim House had been built when it wasn’t Old Icelandic.

“Looks the same,” Björnólfur noted.

“What? I invited me a century and a half ago. I’m not a Spellmancer, but there’s nothing wrong with my Intellect score and memory,” he added at his friend’s surprised look.

Thorleif pointed to the side entrance, which rose well above the rest.

“That way.”

He knocked at the massive door and waited. Eventually, the door slowly creaked open, and a youth peeked out. Then his eyes travelled upward to the two High Lords that were standing there.

Then the door slammed, and the two could hear from beyond the yell.

“Dad. Daaaad! There are TWO REAL GIANTS standing outside.”

The two old men looked at each other, and laughter erupted simultaneously.

“I don’t really remember you,” Stirnir Herlufsson said.

“Can’t fault you. You were… two? Two at the time. Always running at your mother as soon as I spoke.”

Stirnir winced.

“Dead?”

“She died two years ago. A brain stroke. She simply keeled over, end of it. Father never recovered, and he died not long after. It’s still a bit weird, not seeing them around.”

Stirnir’s wince vanished almost as fast as it had come.

“I wondered for a long time why we had such an oversized guest wing. I mean, the bed frame’s large enough to host an orgy for eight,…”

Thorleif thought the number was oddly precise and smiled inside. Youth and old money.

“… then there’s the giant chairs and high tables. So one day, father told me. That it was for ‘uncle’.”

He swallowed some mead.

“That confused me a lot at first. Because uncle Ingiþór didn’t look like he’d need such a large place. But instead, it was about the great-great-great-and-so-on-uncle.”

“Me.”

“You. I’ve had history classes in school, of course. The story of the Labyrinth, the consolidation of the Union of the North, the Danes moving the great hall here, and so on. And then, it turns out that The Thorleif Valorsson himself was actually distant family.”

Thorleif shrugged.

“There are a lot of old Professionals around. But the Lords of the Labyrinth… that’s something else. You’re few and powerful,” Stirnir said.

“That’s the definition of a Professional, not just a High Lord,” Thorleif replied.

Stirnir almost replied but decided to take a new swallow of mead. Thorleif considered trying to warn him. He could outdrink any mundane, so if his grand-and-so-on-nephew tried to keep up, he’d probably be insensate before long. And it would be bad form for a guest to have to tuck the master of the house in his own bed.

“Why?” Stirnir finally asked.

“Why what?” Thorleif asked, confused.

“Why do you have come? Thirty… six years? And you just show up.”

“Because you’re family. And this oaf decided to remind me that I had one,” he said, slapping Björnólfur’s shoulder.

The other High Lord replied at Stirnir’s interrogative glance.

“Hey. My own direct line got extinguished two centuries ago. Young Grani went into one of the European wars and got himself killed before even marrying. I still have lots of them around but… they’re kin, not family.”

Stirnir frowned, and Thorleif decided to change the topic, sensing some unknown problem.

“Now, I have some special delicacies from up-tiers. Stuff you probably haven’t seen. Got someone good to cook those, or should I help?”

“What? No, I have a good thrall who’s very skilled for that. Caoimhín Ó hEaghráin, from Ireland. She’s eleven years out of fifteen; citizenship in four. Which probably means I’ll have to find a new maid and cook soon. And a new secretary, because her husband is on the same calendar since they came together.”

“To the feast then!” Thorleif exclaimed.

The small banquet was held in Alfheim’s main hall, per protocol. Despite not being part of the guest wing, it was large enough to host the two High Lords, once the tables and good chairs were moved. Thorleif had brought a large number of weird fowl cuts, exotic vegetables and fruits, and sweets, and all kinds of stuff that came from the Labyrinth. Þingvellir’s markets may have some of that choice, but not in the variety a high tier Professional out of Panomekon would.

“Here’s my family,” Stirnir said, introducing the rest of the household.

Stirnir’s wife, Hreindís Hergilsdóttir, looked very tired. Thorleif’s been told she was a direct assistant to a member of the Althing, which came with all kinds of odd jobs. And according to her, the parliament of the Northern Union had been overwhelmed for some time.

The three children were subdued, impressed by the high-ranking visitors. Thorleif smiled benignly until his sight fell on the young daughter, and he blinked in surprise. He’d learned to ignore the descriptors of mundanes centuries ago, but those still registered. And when they went that way… his mind stopped ignoring them.

“My youngest, Sveinlaug,” Stirnir said, oblivious.

“I greet you, young lady,” Thorleif, bringing a blush to the nine-year-old.

“Thanks, High Lord,” she managed to reply.

“Thorleif,” he insisted. “Or Learned Prepared Spellmancer if you really want to insist on a title. That's how Professionals greet each other.”

He turned to her father, asking, “Did you test her yet?”

“Ugh, no. There’s little need before puberty hits, anyway… wait, did you?”

“A Lord’s gaze is better and faster than any Potential reader machine. And yes. Your daughter is an exceptional one,” Thorleif confirmed.

Strength: 18

Dexterity: 17

Agility: 17

Constitution: 15

Stamina: 15

Wisdom: 15

Focus: 15

Presence: 14

Fortitude: 17

Intelligence: 15

She gasped in shock at the announcement.

“It’s too early of course. You need to wait about a couple of years after puberty before the Great Gates let you go through. But once you do… you will be known as Breaker Sveinlaug Stirnirsdóttir.”

Björnólfur extended his wrist, and she looked at it uncomprehending.

“It’s the traditional greetings among us,” he said, smiling. “Of course, you don’t have a descriptor yet. But when you do, you’ll see who I am, and I’ll see who you are, exactly.”

She gingerly grasped the giant wrist. Thorleif’s friend guided her fingers gently.

“Your fingers shouldn’t touch the palm or back of the hand. You need to touch only the wrist or beyond, or you don’t get to see the descriptor.”

“Why?” she managed to ask.

“If you find out, all scholars across the entire Labyrinth will know your name,” Björnólfur answered with a smile.

The mood of the dinner was much changed with the surprising news. Sveinlaug’s mood cycled between giddy of excitement and totally subdued or even worried several times per minute before settling into a much more stable state.

“There’s a school for future Professionals not far from the Great Gate. Usually, youngsters get tested at thirteen or fourteen… I’ll see what to do,” Stirnir said.

“Good. She will be a glory to her country, I am sure.”

Stirnir hesitated a second before his eldest son interrupted.

“Has our family had a Professional? Besides you?”

“I don’t really count. But actually yes. There was a young cousin to your great-great-great-grandfather. A Pilot, 18 Presence. But otherwise, it’s all down to luck.”

“What does it mean to be a Breaker?” Sveinlaug marshalled her courage to ask.

“You wield hammers. Big ones. Like Thor’s hammer. Maybe even with the lightning. Why, a few months ago, I was fighting a competition match and there was that valkyrie using two of them Lightning Hammers on my face. And I completely lost to those.”

Björnólfur started to frown and Thorleif almost imperceptibly wiggled his eyebrows, silencing him. The mundane members of the table would almost not have noticed.

He added immediately, “And you are an exceptional would-be-valkyrie yourself. Such high base Agility, Dexterity, and Fortitude offer you many options. With your third Milestone, you can take of course the standard path, the Smasher. But you also unlock three completely different Professions as well. You can pick Rock, Juggler, or Tightwalker. All different builds for being front-line damage. So if you want to pick pointy daggers or slicing axes, you can easily do so.”

Sveinlaug’s eyes were huge on her face.

“But believe me. Big hammers make people take you seriously. Even if the critters of the Labyrinth do not really care what you use on them.”

The last of the sweets were gone, the children – even the oldest – dismissed, and the three men back to the guest wing, as the mistress of the house took her leave to go and crash in her bed.

“She’s probably going to be a handful for a while,” Thorleif guessed about Sveinlaug.

“She was always very physical. But I didn’t think it would be that… much.”

“None of the old Professionals ever thought they’d be lucky until they faced the Gates. The aether readers changed that. You’d have known in a few years anyway.”

“True.”

Stirnir stirred his mug. He’d switched to a much lighter mead at the end of the meal, as the heroic amount of drink available took his toll. But he held strong, which Thorleif could appreciate.

“Why have you come?”

“Told you. If you do not stay in touch with family… then who are you, but a relic of a bygone age.”

“I thought you… we could use your help.”

Thorleif frowned. “What do you need?”

Stirnir didn’t reply directly to the question.

“What do you know about the situation in central Europe? You… you probably remember about the breakup of the Holy Roman Empire.”

“There were in the last death throes of their internal civil wars when I came last time.”

“It took time, but the situation stabilized a bit. But of course, it wasn’t stable. We nibbled north, the Byzantines nibbled east, and the middle tried to play both sides until they couldn’t.”

Thorleif realized where this was heading.

“Burgundy and the Franks are the last independent kingdoms of any size. We offered Protectorship, but they keep saying no. The Byzantine pushed a bit too far north and got spanked two decades ago in Silesia, and they’re eyeing west now instead. Which would be unacceptable to the Althing. We haven't conquered the two of them yet to avoid provocation, but it's not going to matter for long.”

“War. Again,” Thorleif said.

“Yes. The Byzantines never took their last defeat lightly. And they’re pushing back now. And you could make a difference. We both call upon our base Professionals, but a tier 19 High Lord… like Thorleif Valorsson…”

“No,” he said.

Stirnir frowned.

“Why? Why not? You’re the most significant advantage the Northern Union could have? Are you not an Icelander anymore?”

“I’m not going to go against Apollonius Rhagabe. And his wife.”

“Who?”

“One of the five original Byzantine High Lords. And a guy in my team for two centuries. Who probably resurrected me more than I resurrected him.”

Stirnir blinked, not understanding.

“The High Lords… are a tight community. Often, there are not enough of us to really choose who we team with. And so… I’ve teamed with the Byzantines. And the Egyptians. And the Aztecs. Even the Javanese. All two of them,” Thorleif said, half laughing at remembering the flamboyant pair of spellcasters.

Stirnir was starting to object when he let the Presence out, cutting the interruption.

“If I went to war for the Northern Union, it would give Apollo a free pass to help his own old Empire. And he could probably call upon all of the old ones. All High Lords agreed to the compact over a century ago. Do not interfere with your Divergence’s politics, lest brother fights against brother.”

“You would not…”

“Waging war against any other country? I would. But this? I will not because you’d lose.”

“What’s stopping the Byzantines from joining then?”

“Because they care about honour, just like us. Ultimately, this is what separated men from barbarians. Holding to old compacts, made for the good reasons, and not falling prey to their base impulses. All of us Norsemen need time to learn that lesson.”

Stirnir was starting to object and Thorleif stopped him again.

“That’s my last word. If Appolonius, Basil, Praesentinus, Ionnia or Firmina intervene, you will find me, Skaði, and Björnólfur at your side. But we will not be the ones to make this war – or any other – escalate to the levels it would.”

The two High Lords stood before the Great Gate in the waning light of evening.

“Sorry it soured a bit,” Björnólfur apologized.

“Don’t worry, it's not your fault we came at that moment. That’s the problem with being a figure of old. He is family, but for him, I’m just a legend of power. He sees me as an abstraction, a weapon to be wielded for the good of the government he works for. An immediate tool for the moment's problem.”

Thorleif laughed.

“Normally, I’d say I would stay away for a few decades again, to come back and see his son and his grandchildren when that war has been forgotten. But I think I’ll come back in a few years, to see young Sveinlaug’s off to the Plaza.”

His friend smiled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, the Brawl wasn’t exactly like that. But she needs dreams. All those Professionals need some, to face the centuries to come. Labyrinth knows we need some, to wait for the rest to catch up in front of the Wall at Twenty.”

They stepped through the Gate and immediately engaged their Recall.

As Thorleif and Björnólfur neared the neighbourhood where they clustered, the former noticed a team making its way toward the area where their own Gate – to Alpha – stood.

The old tier 19 Professional could recognize that team from anywhere, just from the regalia alone. Hrosskell Guthrumsson’s night-sky garb was quite distinctive, and the fearsome appearance of the floating sorceress next to him was always associated with the Inquisition enforcer.

“Mission, Hrosskell?”

“No, honoured Learned Prepared Spellmancer. We’re just taking a few months to get some experience. And a triple trunk Plaza run later. None of us will change Professions soon, but it’s always a good thing to accumulate a couple of Milestones when you can.”

“Then I wish you good hunt. I’m probably going to see if old Appolonius is up for some because it’s a good idea.”

The two groups separated and went on their respective ways.

“It always feels strange,” he noted.

“Hrosskell?”

“I grew up with him as a kind of idol. He was a great man, who went to negotiate the Old Covenants in Norway, to bring solidity to our land. The kindly and fearsome elder next door. And three centuries later, I see him arrive in Panomekon, from Alpha.”

“Does he…”

“No. I would have been not even a year old when the Labyrinth opened his Divergence. Why would I have been anyone? No, it’s better left unsaid.”

“Another legend of bygone times, like you are?”

“All of us, Björnólfur, are the legends. Products of the True History. No. The true men and women are those who follow us. Young Sveinlaug will never have some mirror to measure against. Only herself.”

He stopped and looked to the side at a home from which exotic smells were coming.

“Oh. It does look like Appolonius and Firmina are home.”