Shadows lingered on the edge of his sight, like a memory that was just out of reach, every time he turned to see them, they faded from view. The walls of the great ducal palace at Bordeaux were all about him as familiar as his own clothes, and just as comfortable. For all the familiarity, there was an edge of fear and the unknown, as he could feel the tendrils of something just out of sight reaching for his addled mind.

He had a name, he knew he did, but just as the shadows were hidden from his view, so too was his name hidden from his mind. Still, he stumbled on, unsure why his movements were so sluggish or why he knew this place but not his own name.

Come closer…

The voice was deep and warm and called to him. His head snapped around as he looked for the source but it had come from everywhere and nowhere, it surrounded him and came from him all at once. The sensation made his pain somehow worse, and he fell heavily against the stone of the wall.

You are almost here.

The pain in his legs intensified as he stumbled through the hallways, until at last he came to the arched stone doorway that led to the great hall. It was in every respect a throne room. The Duke of Bordeaux was in every way a Prince of the Royal household, despite his status as a bastard of the old king. He had been acknowledged though as a son, and he was beloved by his half-brother. Named Fitzroy, he had been granted the Duchy despite the title usually being reserved for the Crown Prince.

The hall was lined with rich tapestries depicting knights locked in combat and a great chair for each of the Earls who paid direct homage as vassals to the duke ran the length of the hall. At the far end a throne rose from the white marble like a great lion, but it was not the duke who sat upon it now. Now the great seat of ducal power and its closest neighbors were filled with nine men and women, all clad in archaic armour and wearing golden masks that moved as their faces ought to have.

Welcome son of Roland.

The voice was back and the man who sat in the high chair leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His mouth had not moved but it was clear he spoke. The newcomer fell to his knees and sank to the floor.

We have been watching you, and destiny has yet made its plans, your trials are far from over but they are forging you into the instrument that we ourselves were in a time long forgotten, but you need not face them alone, when you wake you will discover our gift.

“Who are you?” his voice sounded strange, almost hollow to his own ears. His suspicions of the whole scenario being a dream seemed ever more plausible the longer he held the man in the chair’s gaze. A spike of agony that rose through his hip and into his ribs did little to dissuade the notion.

You know us Edward, but who we are is not important for now, we have given you a gift and Fate will march on whether you know us or not. For now, trust in the gift bestowed and continue to grow, your strength and power will be crucial when the final test approaches.

Edward…that was his name. Details began to click together like the pieces of a puzzle as the strange fog that had clouded his mind began to recede, as though his name were some talisman that warded it away. The eagle on the lead man’s breastplate, a symbol of the Empire, and the hilt on the right hand man’s sword, it bore the fleur de Lys that was so common in Arturia. The nine rose and each bowed their head, but the man to the right stepped forward.

A son of Roland you are young Edward, never forget those tenants I first laid down on Roland’s Hill, in them you will find the answers when the world seems dark.

The voice was still curiously choral, as though all were speaking though only the one golden mask moved. Even as Edward tried to ask more, the dream began to recede faster and faster as the clarity intensified, until the world turned black and pain crashed like a thunderous wave over Edward’s body and robbed him of his wits once more.

Light returned to the world of Sir Edward de Marche, third son of Sir Richard de Marche, and with it came the groans and aches of a man who has been put to the test in harness. The fight had been brutal and uncertain for much of its duration and despite his victory, Sir Edward was not left untouched by his bout with the giant. Bruises coloured his fair skin almost from his scalp to his toes, and sharper pains in his sides suggested his ribs may have been cracked and two fingers on his left hand were undoubtedly broken.

The real focus of his discomfort came in the form of his struggling breath, each inhalation of life-giving air was dragged almost unwillingly into his tortured lungs to press further pain upon him from his injured ribs. His only rational thought was that even with his injuries the effort required to breath should not have been so great. He found the source of the struggle in a weight resting upon his chest, and a curious hand was able to feel the strange contrast of smooth surface, and jagged edges of scales.

They were warm to the touch and moved beneath his hand, sharp pin pricks touched his chest as the weight on top of him moved, Edward’s eyes opened to slits and he found his face pressed close to a broad snout with slit nostrils and emerald scales, prominent teeth the colour of bone drew his gaze, and acrid breath with a tang of sulphur hit him like a blow. Edward’s eyes widened in alarm as he took in the fanged maw, heedless of his sore body he strained to pull his face as far back as he could from the perceived danger.

“Calm down, he won’t hurt you,” a familiar voice said from off to the right. Edward’s eyes slid to the side and revealed the smiling form of Sir Clement reclined in a folding camp chair eyes fixed on his former squire and the beast that lay upon his breast, “I’ve never seen a familiar this close before, it’s impressive in a vaguely terrifying way,” the older knight continued as he rose to his feet, “So long as you don’t try to throw him off or attack him, he won’t hurt you, I know that much,” the smile changed, less amused and more warm now, with a tinge of sympathy in the corners that was very much the uncle looking upon his injured nephew, “your men sent for me when you didn’t come too after a day,” he offered as explanation.

Sir Edward nodded slowly as he tried not to wake the sleeping reptile on his chest. As he came more and more into the world of the waking he noticed additional details, like how the scales turned darker the closer they got to the spine of the beast, being an almost perfect obsidian along the centre of the creature and surmounted by matching spikes, and a pair of leathery wings were folded neatly atop its back. Edward’s rational brain fought against what he was seeing but there was no denying the evidence of his eyes, it was a tiny dragon. As if sensing the young man’s disquiet, one slitted, reptilian eye opened and met his gaze, the wisdom of eons seeming to look deep into his soul from the within the young familiar’s eye.

“My father has suspected for some time that you had inherited a Talent, the royal blood doesn’t always breed true in bastard branches but it has awoken in you, and it is something we will need to deal with, I’ve sent a rider to Duke Felix, and letters to our fathers, you will need training, and we will need to keep this out of the ears of the Imperial University, dragons are not common familiars Edward and the knowledge that one has appeared will be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

Edward broke his staring match with the dragon and looked to his uncle and mentor, “Where did he come from?” he asked.

“Your guess is better than mine, Ser Guillaume said they put you to bed and when they checked on you the following morning he was there, you might want to check the top of his head though,” Clement said with a meaningful nod. Edward rose unsteadily on his elbows, allowing the dragon to slide down into his lap, the sleepy reptile unwilling to uncoil. As he looked down he saw what his uncle had meant, there at the base of the creature's skull was a glowing rune in gold, it was a fleur de Lys, the symbol of Roland, the founder of Arturia and one of the Legendary Worthies.

Edward’s mind reeled as the memory of his dream crashed back through him. He shook his head and looked again at the dragon in his lap, his hand inadvertently rested on its hide, the warm scales soothing his panic as he looked into the one emerald eye that stared back at him, “son of Roland…” he whispered to himself, “our gift,” as if it suddenly made some sort of sense. Edward’s eyes met Sir Clement’s, “do you know who within my Company knows about this?”

“Ser Guillaume and Sir Thomas are the only ones, although getting him out of here will be impossible without others seeing,” there was sympathy in his mentor’s tone as Edward felt his shoulders slump in defeat.

“This is beginning to feel like one of those things where Grandfather has stuck his oar in and I no longer have control over my own life,” Edward groaned as he fell back against his pillow. Sir Clement’s laugh was loud and seemed to explode out of the man.

“You’re a younger son of the nobility and more so a member of our family, your future has been set in stone since before you were born dear nephew, just as mine was,” there was a startling amount of truth in the words, Edward had always known his grandfather to have everything planned out for them, to ensure the power of their family and to ensure his great uncle’s hold on the throne.

“I guess we can only wait to hear back about what the next stage of the plan is,” Edward looked to his uncle and despite the turmoil in his mind he offered the man a smile, “thank you for coming,” Sir Clement nodded and rose to put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Always, you are still my nephew even if you aren’t my squire anymore, besides, can you imagine what my sister would do if I let you get hurt?” They both laughed at the image of the battle hardened knight running from Edward’s mother, although they both knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would run from the terrifying noblewoman.

Duke Felix arrived the following day with a small retinue in tow. His visit was brief but his orders were succinct. Edward was given command of the keep, and commanded to bring in a further fifty lances to ensure it was secure. His role in the war was reduced to maintaining the security of the road south to ensure the convoys to Sir Clement’s force would remain unmolested. He might have chafed at the orders but they were given for good reason and he was allowed an independent command of one hundred lances to see it done. Ser Guillaume was dispatched with six lances to retrieve the new lances from Schwarzberg, and to collect a new member of Sir Edward’s household that had been sent by his grandfather, Lady Maria de Roosebeke, ostensibly she was arriving to assist with logistics, unofficially she was a trained magister and close ally of Duke Erik d’Bordeaux, Edward’s grandfather, and would be in charge of Edward’s training. With a few words of goodbye to his nephew, Sir Clement returned to the front with his own forces and began persecuting the next phase of the Emperor’s war on the city states of the Vallarese.

The Lady arrived two months later and immediately began on her assigned task and it became common knowledge within the men and women of Edward’s company that Ser Guillaume was running the show while the young lord focused on far more lofty matters. Even so it likewise became the standard that every morning saw the officers of the company meet with an exhausted looking captain to train, and he would be beaten and battered for four hours until he would limp back into the keep to return to his other tasks. Ser Guillaume would watch the young man sadly before issuing orders for that day’s patrols and any escorts that were required between Lucca and the front.