Mikhail sighed. He didn't want to, but he had to. If he didn't, the entire village would be up in flames and the majority of their wealth would be gone. A man could only take the others down the road a ways for so many days before they became restless. The blackguard, and with hearts to match at times. Near half wanted to raid the village, and the rest were liable to desert at any moment. Mikhail, Samson, and Fennic were the only three that had spoke otherwise. Well, not Fennic, based on the fact that he couldn't speak at all. Tor would probably stay, he only cared about gold. Doug was unpredictable but probably...? Probably too stupid to leave on his own?

Three already had. Tyr hadn't even noticed.

“Tyr.” Mikhail approached the... Man. Subtle changes in Tyr had taken place in the time that has passed. His skin was smoother, no less pale but less of that pallor that made him look a bit unhealthy. Shoulders wider, more rigid, and any amount of softness around the waist had been annihilated through training. But it was in the face, his eyes, that the greatest change lay. Diamond hard orbs of stormy blue that stared.

Seventeen, in Mikhail's opinion, was too young for one to have earned the title of man. Still, he'd seen the prince in action far too many times to assert otherwise. And now, just the way the prince stood – straighter in posture and... A bit taller? Some boys had to grow up fast. To survive. Tyr's growth hadn't ever stopped and he was blooming every day. Perhaps in the right direction now, but Mikhail noticed the shakes still hadn't gone away, neither had the fitful rests. “Tass--”

“I know about the desertions.” Tyr replied with a tone as flat as his face. “Tassin, Percy, and Grover are gone. I watched them leave. These men are not sworn to me in the sense that a knight is. If they grow restless and want to leave, let them.”

Concluded, that conversation had been nearly two weeks prior. Since then, five more had left. They'd departed with twenty one, and were left with thirteen.

“A sad thing.” Mikhail mused over the firelight. He'd never much liked the idea of serving within a band of rogues styled into a royal guard. But they'd fought alongside one another on many occasions, and that had to matter. Even after their words, they'd still left. Gone with the morn, some without notifying anyone of their departure. Taking with them the gold, clothes, and weapons that the prince had provided. Whether he had ultimately been betrayed by the nobility or not, Mikhail styled himself a kings man. Or an emperor's man, in this case a prince's. He wouldn't leave. Not for a while yet, this place was too peaceful and whole. This Riverwood. And he loved Tyr, feared him twice as much but Mikhail wanted to see with his own eyes what would become of the son of his primus. Those other men did not realize the kind of gift they'd been offered, watching a primus bloom. It wasn't about the gain, it was about the gods, all of which Mikhail remained fervently respectful toward.

“Mmm..” Fennic grunted, or groaned. It was hard to tell with the man, but Mikhail had come to appreciate his simple replies. Both were men of the forest. Solitary men that didn't speak more than they had to. Mikhail liked to joke and make witty comments but there was purpose to that, but for the benefit of himself and others. As for Fennic, he couldn't. Regardless, he was a good brother to have at ones back. Hawked eyes, quick with a knife or hatchet, and competent in many things. One eyed or not, Fennic saw all. A withered bastard half hacked to splinters over the years, scars or burns on early every square inch of skin. Mikhail often wondered what kind of life Fennic had lived to earn all those wounds.

“Men will go where men will go.” Samson added. Ever present, ever tending to his halberd or armor even when they had no need for maintenance. “He is right to let them. Bound by no oath, they should walk where they please.”

“And you?” Mikhail asked.

“I shall remain.” The man responded. He was a big bastard, that Samson. Every time Mikhail saw him, he marveled. Thinking toward how they must make them in the south, curious if all the men of Samson's clan were so... Titanic. “Gave an oath. I will keep to it. I like this place in any event, I have no reason to leave.”

“It's peaceful.” Tor, one of the northmen added. A real bastard, that one. Clean in teeth, but dirty in deed. A raider who'd been caught in the northern isles and scheduled for a beheading. The prince had bought his service with no small bribe from the constable who'd taken him. Then, the prince had killed the constable for taking such a bribe, departing with the fox of a man at zero cost. Mikhail felt no guilt at being party to such. A corrupt law man had no right to life, and it went beyond simple bribes. “Fish like these don't exist in the islands, might stay here forever. We got the salmon of course but I like this ass quite a bit, way they fry it up in oil is new to me.”

“It's bass. Not ass.” Mikhail corrected.

He laughed, that Tor, but he was like that too. Given time to know the man, they'd find him amenable, though mostly for the promise of silver. He'd already found himself a widow in the village who'd been more than happy to fall for his northern 'charms'. A rough man, but steady. Keen on his oaths, though most northmen were, that was common knowledge. Keen enough to remember the wager and collect no less than twenty silvers from the men who'd taken him on his bet of finding an 'honest woman'. Mikhail didn't hate him, but it was hard to let go of his old life of chasing down men like him in pursuit of his own paycheck. He wasn't sure if he could ever see Tor as much more than that.

“I gotta ask, though. Anyone know what our little pup is doing out here? Thought we was bound for a right adventure, we was.” Tor asked.

“Carrying rocks up the mountain again.” Mikhail replied. He had no idea why, but Tyr had been following an old man around like that for months now. Near every day, ignoring all else.

“Odd one, that boy.” Tor concluded with a laugh. “Always has been though.”

Nobody could disagree. Tyr had always had a strange way about him. He did odd things, said odd things. Talked in his sleep about 'eyes' watching him. The men were wise enough to know that the burden of a prince must be fearsome, though. Must've been a heavy one.

“Yesterday...” Mikhail's raspy voice carried over the crackling of their campfire and the hissing of dripping fat sloughing from the meat of the small deer spitted over the coals. “Our prince asked me if I was his friend. If we, the hoods – were his friends.”

Tor leaned forward at that, his scarred face twisted in confusion. “Really? How'd you answer?”

“I didn't know what to say, but I was honest with him. I said no.”

“Poor kid. You're a real ass, Mikhail. Hurt his royal feelings, might get our pay cut.” Someone said from the rear.

Tor laughed at that. A predatory laugh like that of the hiccup-esque barks of a barghest. It was a creepy, violent exclamation. “Don't think that little monster even has feelings. No disrespect.” He turned toward Samson who remained seated near them, bereft of his charge as he often was in recent days at the princes request.

“He asked me the same.” Samson rarely spoke, never participated in their jests, but when he did speak everyone listened. Deep and baritone, the man was taciturn and placid at the best of times, rarely weighing in on any variety of subjects. Typically this would've been a source of ire for the others, but what with his size – few had called him on his distant behavior. “I answered the same. It is best to not lie to a child, lest they learn to behave like their associates.”

There was an accusation in that. 'Their associates'. Samson did not approve of Tyr's company, he saw merit in Fennic and Mikhail, Doug wasn't so bad, but everyone else was a scoundrel. Nobody called him on that either though. Lest they end up like young Percy fleeing from the camp with his tail between his legs and what was like to be more than a few broken ribs. Though that had been less of a calling-out and more of an overly aggressive attempt to bed a village woman. Someone Mikhail had approved of, though the prince probably would've done far worse if he knew what had happened.

“Did he look sad to you, when you answered him thus?” Mikhail asked.

Samson nodded. “I have concerns for that boy. We spoke about it at some length. It would seem that he has no concept of what a 'friend' is. I told him that is not one who follows or serves, and one of a similar age most times. Though I feel I had spoken too harshly. He did not look pleased with my words, though he thanked me for them.”

“Oi big man, are we your friends?” Tor asked with a straightening of the face. “Do you even have friends?”

“No.” To both questions, it was a resounding and confident response in the negative. Samson replied, still working at the shining steel of his halberd. That was that, the big man returning to his maintenance and no man would call him on that either.

–

If Tyr was odd, then Thomas were odder. He'd have to be. What else could explain the bizarre movements he began to perform upon their meeting on this particular morning. The prince had even gone so far as to fill his pack with rocks in anticipation for a run only to find the meeting place occupied by an old man dancing. All of the trees were removed, roots and all, the ground almost completely flat in a ten meter radius. Stark naked but for an immodest loincloth covering his nether regions.

“...Why don't you just go the extra yard and show me your balls while you're at it?” It was ridiculous, though Tyr knew the dance well. He'd seen it a hundred times. A dance for old men and priests that venerated the fire god. Astarte, the god of war and challenge and all things related to either. His twin children, Agni and Indura following in his wake. One of challenge incarnate, honor and compassion, the other of purity and justice. War god worshipers were a strange lot.

Even stranger than the old man himself. Friendly, in Tyr's experience. For a 'war god', Astarte's followers didn't seem all that keen to a quarrel... Content to walk where the killing was, taking great joy in it and mourning the fallen afterwards with open hearts in elaborate ceremonies to communicate their respect. This dance was one of those ceremonies, performed both before and after a battle. Or so Tyr had heard, there was no war in Haran. Hadn't been a true invader in centuries. Sinea was testament as to the 'why' behind this, it was wise to remain on your side of the border and let sleeping lions lie.

“What do you see before you?” Thomas asked, never ceasing in his smooth movements. That was his way, to answer a question with yet another question. It was infuriating, and yet Tyr felt sarcasm and half-wit of no interest to him this morning. The morning after they had finally reached the mountain top. He had been somewhat eager to return to chopping trees today, only to find that he'd be doing nothing of the sort.

“You're doing the fire dance. I know what it is, but why?” Tyr asked. “Are you a follower of Astarte?”

“Not quite.” Thomas responded. Deep steps and smooth extension of the arms, never stopping in the dance. It made it difficult to have a conversation, Tyr thought. “Though I'll admit that I am a student to his teachings. The path of fire, they call it. I am unused to these movements, believe it or not. Vortigern is the patron of my family, and of the personal – I have always found the ways of Aran to be more to my liking. My father was with the wind, but I have always felt the call of the earth more fitting to my character.”

“That doesn't really answer my question.” Tyr sighed, still carrying his pack of rocks.

“I perform this rite every morning. On a cycle of four to match the base elements, giving due diligence to the pillars by which our reality rests on. You're early today, else you'd have seen it before. Consider me impressed that you managed to roll out of your bed before dawn broke.”

“...Yes, teacher.” Tyr relented, unwilling to go through another round of critiques on his work ethic. “What will I be doing today?”

“Today, we will be walking the path of fire. Or at least performing the ritual of those that do.” Thomas spoke softly in the morning mist, weaving between tendrils of the vapor that hung low over the forest floor. Loamy soil coated in a dense layer of pine needles, with ferns growing here and there between the spindly trunks of pine and spruce. The old man was moving with such grace and precision that the low mist was disturbed only in his path. Almost like he was stepping through the air itself, the mist both within and without the circle remained still. “In the coming days, we will be doing this until you've a good understanding of the motions. Every other day, and it is your choice what you do in between. You have been tested in body, and passed. You would fail a test of mind no matter how many times I gave it to you, so we will be exercising the spirit instead.”

How is he doing that...? Even the subtlest of movements one made would disturb the air around them, natural law would dictate that the circle Thomas moved about would be bereft of any mist. Instead, it clung to its position and hung there in a gentle mass of chilled air. The ground was dry where he walked, cutting a line of light browns and yellows whereas the rest of the forest floor was still moist with morning dew, white with snow.

Tyr didn't understand. The fire dance was just that, a dance. It held religious significance, or so they said – but he failed to connect that with any training that would be useful to him. Regardless, he followed the old man as best he could – his movements far clumsier in comparison. Looking behind him, he could still see the lazily swirling path through the mist whirling around and closing the clear line of demarcation that Thomas had created. Tyr moved, the air moved, and it billowed about in all directions, finally disturbed.

“With all due respect, why are we doing the fire dance?” Tyr asked. He'd never done it before, he wasn't a priest nor a godly man. Neither had his father been. They lived alongside the various churches and gave them their due, as was custom, but a primus did not worship the gods as men did. Primus' revered them, sometimes idolized them, but Jartor's lessons had been quite clear. They had patrons, something akin to a family in the heavens, and that was all.

“There is great significance in religion, when one is able to read between the lines of their dogma and superstition. So much can change and warp over time but when a sharp mind cuts through the nonsense you might just see some truth.” Thomas pivoted, his movements becoming more quick and aggressive. Yet still, the mist didn't react to his presence. Like some unspoken agreement kept the two separate in their own little worlds. “What do you know of the natural elements?”

'Natural elements'. Every church was a 'house' – just like those of royal and noble lineage. The house of fire, water, earth, air, among others. Darkness, light, space... There were many natural elements beyond the six primal elements that were revered by the churches, but the 'pillars' of all were predicated on elemental affinity of which there were only six officially. Space existed in study, but not in religion, there were no gods of 'space'. There was anima, too, but while the churches recognized space as a component of the natural world the same could not be said for whatever anima actually was. The schools of magic were a little more specific. For example, one could specialize in fire magic, or water magic. Typically matching the element they found most comfortable to them. Tyr replied as he had been instructed by his tutors in the days before he'd replaced quill with knife and sword.

Thomas chuckled at this. “A bit textbook, but that's alright. What you say is true, but it goes deeper than that. I am no scholar, but I have chosen the path of fire to continue your instruction, for two reasons. Do you know what those reasons are?”

“I'm assuming because I can use fire magic?” Tyr could only use fire magic. He still didn't understand what a sorcerer was, but among those capable of wielding mana, it was rare to possess only one element. A mage should be able to wield them all with the right training, all of the primary elements to a certain extent. As for Tyr, he'd tried everything, thinking that he'd awoken to the power of a primus only to find that he could summon only the smallest wisp of flame in his hands. Weak magic, weak enough that a carnival showman or common villagers using water magic to wash their dishes could be considered his superior. Magic was very common at the most basic level.

Thomas nodded. Still dancing through the mist while Tyr followed awkwardly behind, failing to prevent a disturbance in the mist. “Close enough. What else?”

“I don't know.” Tyr responded, becoming frustrated at the incessant riddling. “What does a dance of the priests have to do with learning of the sword?”

“You've seen knights and masters at arms spend... What? Years, decades, their entire lifetimes focused on a martial discipline? How many of them do you think could beat me in a fair match?”

“None.” That was an honest answer, and the only one he could give. Tiber and Regar might be worth ten men on the field, but Thomas was a monster. If they were worth ten, the old man would be worth a hundred. Maybe a thousand... He'd never known any of his various instructors from foreign nations to possess such an otherworldly power. Thomas didn't use magic, yet he was able to achieve feats beyond natural law without the boon mana was able to provide. “You are the strongest.”

“It's not about strength, and I am far from the strongest. Perhaps we can say that I am the strongest of all men, but not the most able – or effective. There is a subtle and complex nuance to what you consider 'strength' that goes beyond words. Beyond even action.” Thomas' response was hard and cutting. “I promised to train you, should you meet my criteria. To train you in the broader sense, not to teach you the ways of the sword. You may prefer them for their aesthetic appeal or balance in utility, but the weapon you wield is chosen after you master the basics. Not before. To constrain yourself to one particular tool based on nothing more than pride or vanity would stunt your growth. An able man can pick up any implement, and be just as effective. A 'sword master' is a fallacy, ignorant and vain. Steel is steel, the blade of grass bends with the wind, the river flows around the rock, rigidity is weakness. A weapon is just a tool, you can use what you like but it is irrelevant. I will teach you no stale and ridiculous doctrine of one implement over another. You, a primus, will one day possess a body more deadly than any form humanity has ever thought of, this is what you were made for. You are the tool.”

Tyr sighed, continuing in the motions. It was exhausting, once again testing muscles he didn't use and wearing down his hard earned stamina. After months of training, his body was as hard as it'd ever been. Chopping at the trees took less effort, until he was able to fell three in a single day if he put his back into it. He'd wanted to equal Micah, but as Thomas had said, Tyr did not possess the body for such work. He'd never make up for a genetic difference by raw effort alone. The world was unfair like that, and the river did not force itself, it flowed. Trees bent, all natural things surrendered to their own perceived inadequacy and acted in subtle ways all for their own survival.

“You've changed.” Thomas chuckled. At times, he was no different that the kind old men who would have greeted Tyr in his childhood with a wink and a sweet from the market. This was one of those rare times. “Once you would have cursed me for a foolish old man and perhaps thrown a rock at my head. You have your anger, but you do not act on impulse. Why is this?”

“Because I've learned.” Tyr shrugged as best he could, weaving and spinning under the slowly growing intensity of the dappled light reaching through the canopy of trees.

“Not learned. You're not very good at that, but that too is irrelevant. Steel does not learn, it is tempered into ideal form.” Thomas shook his head. “Grown would be a more apt term. You have grown. Perhaps slower than some of my more gifted students in the past, but your foundations were far weaker in comparison. Considering that, you have a fair bit of talent. A bit dull in the head, at times, but your natural gifts have allowed you to come this far. It's not your body that's failed or constricted you, it's your mind. But also your spirit.”

“My mind? Do you mean to say I'm lacking in intelligence?” That was an honest question with no offense to it. Tyr knew better than everyone that he was not the cleverest person in the room. He took ill to the scholastic and while he didn't consider himself overly dull, it was a self evident that he was no born academic.

Thomas stopped in his dance, bringing his spread arms together into a smooth circle and bowing in respect toward his student. Tyr returned the bow automatically. “Intelligence is, as many constructs invented by men of society – a myth. How could we measure intellect? Ability to memorize, knowledge of the world? A sea is not intelligent, and a mountain is not learned. Yet both such possess a wisdom and power that no man of quill and tome could match in a hundred lifetimes.”

“That's...” Tyr scratched at the back of his head, noticing how long his hair had grown. Thomas constantly made metaphor of nature, and personified it beyond what the prince would consider rational. “Very vague... Teacher.”

“What meaning is there in fire? What is it the element of?”

Tyr knew the answer to this question as any self stylized warrior would. “Fire is the element of desire, passion, and pride. And power.”

“Yes.” Thomas nodded sagely at the words. “You possess all four. A desire to become more than the self. Pride, too. Plenty of that.” He winked playfully. “While your passion is yet unclear, you would have needed it to come this far. A passion, to be seen and maybe even celebrated, is a stunted passion but it is passion nevertheless.”

“And power?” Tyr asked.

“You are your father's son. I can see him in your face and your bearing beyond a doubt.” Thomas crossed his arms. “A frail primus you may be, a primus you are. Despite your doubts, I can confidently say you are not human, even in the way I am. Somewhere within you, there is power. I cannot find it for you, but it must exist. Now do you see why I've decided that this is the path you should take?”

“That's fair, if we're following the religious texts. But the fire dance? It's just an... An old ritual, what use is there in that?”

“There is great significance in ritual. Significance lost on the transient minds of men. Men who see it as nothing more than a simple dance. Something for the festivals. If you, even after these last three hours, still see it in such a light – I'd ask that you look around you. Open your eyes.”

Open my eyes? Tyr scratched at his head again in anxiety. Everything Thomas said confused him, what with his proverbs and 'wisdom' laced behind incredibly vague statements. Except...

“How did you do that?” Tyr asked, staring at the forest floor with wide eyes.

“Me? I've done nothing. My relationship with the fire is a small thing, at best. The primary element which I wield most freely is earth, but I've a fair hand with air. Can either do this?” He gestured toward the forest floor.

Below them sat a near perfect ring of scorched earth and cinders. Pine needles cracked and popped with cherry red sparks sizzling on the dry earth. Their steps had seemed to dehydrate the detritus before finally igniting it. A circle of burnt forest, prevented from becoming a full blown forest fire by the moisture provide by the snow and morning dew. No natural fire, this. Or rather, there was no fire, only burn – yet not a wisp of smoke existed to indicate it as such.

“I did that?” Tyr asked, looking at the old man with wide eyes.

“You did that.” Thomas replied with an edge of pride in his voice. The pride of an old man thought long beyond his days of instructing the youth. A poor student, perhaps, but still a student – it was a poor teacher as well if he felt none of the warmth of seeing his disciple blossom and grow. “Fire is the element of power and passion. It's also the element of love. Like water, it's elemental 'opposite', fire is the tender love and protection that had carried mankind and the other thinking races forward through the great dark to become what they are today. Not necessarily romantic love, but that of the hearth. You possess all other things, but not that. A free lesson for you without preamble or riddle.”

“I see.” Tyr replied, staring down in wonder at what he had wrought and wondering how such a thing were possible. “Thank you, master. I will never forget this.”

“Measure yourself.” Thomas said. “Fire is the element of love, compassion, life. So many things, but fire is fire. All the elements are capable of cruelty beyond ken and you must be ever watchful that you do not surrender to much to their call should you hear it. Balance is where life exists, reach beyond it and you will only leave scorched desolation in your path. As you have, just now.”