Ironhold (Part 2)

Neve and Duke Fallon sat in silence for a few moments, the sound of Vale slamming the door echoing in their minds. Waiting for the Duke to speak, Neve stared at her hands, which were neatly clasped in her lap.

"I didn't mean to imply that you are disposable to the duchy," Duke Fallon said, his tone resigned.

'But it's the truth,' Neve scoffed. She kept her expression neutral.

"Vale is my only suitable heir," the Duke continued. "Wren is sickly and far too young, and it's a little too late for me to go about changing female inheritance laws."

"I know this," Neve replied slowly. "The person you should be convincing is Vale. I am aware of my position and I am not opposed to going to Hell's Gate."

Duke Fallon clicked his tongue. "I am trying to apologize. I'm sorry that there is nothing I can do. Though I am a Duke before I am a father, I do wish for the safety of all my children."

Reeling from her father's apology, Neve nearly fell off her chair. The surprise on Neve's face must have been evident, as the Duke clicked his tongue again.

Abruptly, he stood up, turning his back to Neve.

"All you have to do is come home alive," he said. "I will take care of everything else. Forget your pride. Being a coward is better than being dead."

Neve was rendered speechless. On many occasions, Neve had been taught House Rosentine's adage: death before dishonour.

"I will not disgrace the Rosentine name," Neve replied, offended that the Duke would even suggest that. "Shouldn't you be telling me to bring glory to the duchy?"

Duke Fallon laughed. "You are certainly my child."

He turned, walking away from his desk. Neve turned her head, watching the Duke as he walked the perimeter of the study. Eventually, he stopped, standing before the fabled Rosentine sword that was mounted on the wall.

It was a longsword, made of expertly crafted steel from the iron ore of Ironhold's mines. First wielded by the founder of House Rosentine, the sword was imbued with his powerful mana. Ice blue mana stones lined the hilt, almost humming with energy.

Or so the stories said.

Duke Fallon reached for the magnificent sword, removing it from the wall. He tested the sword's weight in his hand, a pleased expression on his face.

"A beautiful blade," he commented, enraptured.

Extending his arm, the Duke looked at Neve expectantly. She rose to her feet, approaching the sword as if it had called to her. Neve felt a strange pull that beckoned her forward.

Neve gripped the hilt, taking the sword from Duke Fallon. It was heavy in her hand, heavier than all the swords she had ever handled before. Still, Neve couldn't help but bask in its glory. Energy thrummed deep within her, awakening something dormant.

"Ancient swords are beings within themselves," Duke Fallon explained, sounding distant to Neve's ears. "Call upon it, and it will awaken."

"What is its name?" Neve asked.

"I don't know," the Duke replied drily. "It never told me. Listen closely, and it might answer your call."

Neve closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling of the sword in her hands. It did feel like another being, connected to Neve's own self in a manner beyond physical. Though it was almost overwhelming, the sword felt somehow familiar to her.

Suddenly, a voice resonated in her mind–clear, as if someone had spoken. Neve smiled.

"Estarius," she breathed.

Power erupted from Neve's body. The wind was stolen from her lungs. Neve could feel something being pulled from inside her, ebbing away like a rapid.

It was channeled through the sword–whatever it was. It emanated from the sword in crushing waves, sending the study into chaos.

In a split second, the room was filled with frigid winds, upturning furniture. Ice began to grow–seemingly from nothing–and formed large crystalline structures. Duke Fallon had fallen to his knees, overwhelmed by the sudden force of it all.

With a cry, Neve dropped the sword. As it fell from her hands, the magic receded, leaving behind a bone-deep chill.

A resounding clang rang through the study as the sword bounced off the floor at Neve's feet. She stared at it wordlessly, unsure how to process what just happened.

Her hands were shaking. It was overwhelming. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.

"What was that?" Neve finally spoke.

"Magic," Duke Fallon replied simply. "It seems you inherited some of the founder's power."

"What?" Neve balked. "I–I can't–that's not possible. Only the Royal Family can wield magic."

"Old noble families like the Rosentines are descendants of magic users–the founders of Asteria," the Duke explained. "We inherit a fraction of their power, though it lies dormant within us. Certain...instruments amplify its effects."

"You never thought to tell us?" Neve demanded. "Does the Royal Family know?"

"It's not common. Until now, I wasn't sure if it was a rumour or not," the Duke replied evenly. He scratched his bearded chin. "The last record of a Rosentine magic descendant was seven generations ago."

"You don't possess magic?"

"No, which is why I could never wield that sword," Duke Fallon said. "Vale doesn't, either. I gave him the sword when he came of age."

Neve frowned, her gaze returning to the fallen sword. "So only I can wield it."

"Consider yourself lucky. You may survive Hell's Gate, after all," the Duke mused, though his voice lacked humour.

Neve leaned down to retrieve the sword, its weight heavy in her hands. She felt it calling to her again, reaching for Neve's magic.

When she called its name, it felt like the sword had taken more than just her magic. Neve was left empty, hollowed of her spirit. But the desire to feel the immense power thrumming through her body was paralyzing.

The sword, its magic. They were addictive and frightening. Neve didn't want to call upon the sword again, fearing it would take more than just her magic. She sealed the name deep in her mind, vowing never to repeat it.

–––

Neve stepped into the hallway, closing the door to the study behind her. The founder's sword was sheathed securely on her hip, a comforting weight.

She turned, meaning to find Vale, but two small bodies accosted her midstep.

"Neve!" Blanche cried, burying her face in Neve's chest.

Despite herself, Neve laughed, pressing a kiss into her younger sister's unruly mane of white hair. She felt a tug at her sleeve. Neve knew who it was without looking–her kid brother, Wren.

The raven-haired boy was small for his age. He was pale and thin from seasons of illness. Neve moved to the Capital when he was young, maybe four years old. While he had grown, Wren was very much the child Neve remembered. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

"Sister, what's going on?" Blanche asked tearfully. "Are you truly going to the battlefield?"

Neve detached herself from Blanche, offering her a half-hearted smile. She took hold of Wren's hand.

"Let's go find Vale," Neve said, avoiding the question. "We have a lot of catching up to do."