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I.The Wolf's Fang
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Twenty Cycles Later
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Sunlight dappled the fields of wheat, casting a warm, golden hue over the quiet valley. Johanus Dhulos knelt in the dirt, his calloused hands working a stubborn stalk free from the earth. He’d lost count of the seasons he’d spent tilling this same soil. There was peace here that he had never known during his years as a revenant.
He leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow, and glanced toward the modest farmhouse perched on the edge of his land. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the faint sound of his son’s laughter drifted on the breeze. Quintin.
The boy was the only joy Johanus had ever allowed himself. A family his younger self thought he'd never have. Born just months after Ghaldre’s death, Quintin was everything Johanus wasn’t. He was bright, kind, and unburdened by the past. Yet, there were moments when Johanus caught a glimpse of something else in his son. A strength, or rather a fire, that made his stomach churn with unease. Johanus had changed from the stoic soldier of a man he once was because of his late wife Aerowyn, who passed when Quintin was only eight cycles due to a sickness.
Quintin was a man now himself in his nineteenth cycle, and Johanus couldn't help but wonder how much longer he would keep him from the world. They looked very similar, but Quintin had his mother's straight black hair that sat neck length. Quintin didn't like it too long from all the farm work and lessons his father would give him in blade weilding. Although, those lessons have been few lately. So, he often practices on his own.
Quintin was tall and the farm work kept him muscular, along with the blade weilding that kept him lean. His eyes shined a bright silver just like his father’s, but Johanus remembered when they used to be blue as the sky just like his mother's in Quintin’s youth.
It had been twenty cycles since Johanus thrusted his blade upon the Kingslayer King. Twenty cycles of peace, at least for the two farmers away from the rest of the world. But Johanus knew, peace of any kind was a fragile thing. And lately, the world seemed intent on shattering it. When the two would travel to the closest town to sell what little crops they could yield, some wooden carvings, and to buy supplies, he couldn’t help but overhear all the talk. All the worry.
Lands were catching fire. Crops were failing to thrive across Centava. Bandit groups were raiding peaceful villages. When the monarchy ended, things were only good for a small amount of time. Johanus always wondered if Ghaldre had it wrong in the end… although, thinking such things at the time would have been blasphemous.
That evening, as Johanus sat at the kitchen table carving a wooden trinket for Quintin to trade at the market, he heard the distant rumble of hooves. He froze, the knife poised above the figurine. Few travelers ventured this far into their valley. Fewer still, rode with such purpose.
Quintin, now a young man of nineteen cycles, stepped into the room, his brow furrowed, “Father? Do you hear that?”
Johanus set down the carving and stood, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of the old sword mounted above the hearth. He nodded, his eyes narrowing as the sound grew louder.
“Stay here,” he said, his voice low but firm.
Quintin hesitated, his eyes wide with worry, “But father…”
“Stay.”
Johanus stepped outside, the evening air cool against his skin. The approaching riders were visible now, a group of six men, their armor dull and travel-worn. At their head rode a man Johanus recognized immediately, Elyas.
The revenant had aged. His face was lined and weathered, but his piercing gaze burned with the same cold intensity all revenants possessed.
“Johanus,” Elyas called as he dismounted, his voice carrying across the quiet field, “It’s been a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Johanus replied, his tone edged with steel.
Elyas chuckled, a humorless sound, “Do you know why I’ve come all this way?”
Johanus said nothing, his jaw tightening. Elyas eyed his hand clenching his rapier, but seemed to ignore it for the moment.
“You killed Ghaldre,” Elyas continued, taking a step closer, “You ended the line of kings and gods, or so we thought. But the world is falling apart, Johanus. Crops are failing, beasts are turning savage, and men… men are starting to believe that not all the gods’ bloodlines are gone.”
Johanus stood firm, his expression unreadable.
Elyas’ eyes narrowed, “Tell me, Johanus. Your son… was he born before or after you killed Ghaldre?”
The question hung in the air like a blade poised to strike.
“Before,” Johanus lied without hesitation, his voice steady.
Elyas studied him for a long moment, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile, as he caught Johanus sizing up the other men he brought, “Theres the king’s bitch. You always were a terrible liar.”
The tension between Johanus and Elyas crackled like lightning in the air, but Elyas didn’t wait for an answer to his unspoken accusation.
“Before or after. It doesn’t matter. This is the only possibility,” Elyas said coldly, drawing his blade in one fluid motion. The steel caught the dying light of the sun, “I’ll see the line ended here, once and for all.”
Johanus’ hand darted to the sword he had taken from the house and kept at his ready. It was the old blade he used under the kingslayer. His movements were swift despite his years, as the blade sang when he unsheathed it. It's edge still sharp from years of care with the fox staring up from the pomel.
“You’ve brought this fight to my home,” Johanus said evenly, “But maybe you’ve finally gone mental like Owl always said you would and I was left to teach you everything you know.”
Elyas sneered, motioning to the men at his back, “You trained me, yes, I am grateful. I assure you. But the world is crueler now than it was in your day. You’ll find my edge has been sharpened by blood you’ve never seen and things you'll never understand.”
The other men began advancing, weapons drawn. Johanus’ stance shifted imperceptibly with his grip on the hilt firm and steady. He moved forward to meet them.
The first attacker lunged, a clumsy overhead swing that Johanus sidestepped with ease. His counter was immediate in a single, precise slash that opened the man’s side, spilling out his innards. He crumpled with a groan.
The second and third came together, a coordinated assault that forced Johanus to pivot and weave. His sword struck out in quick, calculated arcs. One man dropped his weapon with a strangled cry as Johanus’ blade found his shoulder. The other fared worse. His momentum carrying him into Johanus’ well placed blade as he turned the man’s shoulder to line up with the other's face. Through the nose and into the brain went Johanus’ rapier as he kicked back on the men together, pulling lose his sword and the man's barely attached arm as they both fell to the ground in a bloody pile.
The remaining two hesitated, glancing at one another as their comrades lay lifeless in the dirt.
“Still want to test me?” Johanus asked, his voice calm, but edged with warning.
The men hesitated a moment longer as Elyas gave a dirty look to them. They charged in and Johanus met them head-on. His movements caculated with precision, it was as if performing a graceful dance. In a matter of seconds, one was disarmed and ran through as the other lay sprawled in two on the ground with blood pooling beneath him. Johanus turned to Elyas, breathing heavily, but standing tall.
“All your men,” Johanus said, his tone laced with grim satisfaction, “Gone. It’s just you and me now.”
Elyas stepped forward, unshaken. He raised his sword in a revenant stance, one Johanus recognized immediately. The hilt was held upright and the blade downwards across his gauntlet, essentially looking upside-down to any normal trained fighter. To Johanus, it was death’s greeting.
Revenants were trained to make due with any weapon to accomplish whatever goal was needed. So it was their hands, not their blades, that were their true weapons. This stance allowed the blade to take the back seat as the revenant used his hands to deliver quick blows with speed and precision while twirling around the body and pushing the blade inward at opportune moments to deliver fatal strikes.
“They were just hired mercenaries, down on their luck. Shame you had to dispatch them, but I needed to see if you still had it in you. I expected you did, you hust confirmed it. But now don't you worry about me though, I learned from the best,” Elyas said, his tone almost reverent, longing for this showdown, “Still, don't you think you’re moving pretty fast for someone your age? But ah well, even the best grow old and slow.”
“By the gods,” scoffed Johanus, “You're ten fucking cycles younger than me, you asshole. Shut up and fight.”
Johanus lunged first, their blades clashing in a flurry of strikes and parries. The sound of steel rang through the air as the two warriors danced across the field. Johanus' precision was unmatched. His strikes were a masterclass in efficiency. But Elyas was indeed younger, but moving as though he was younger than he seemed, and also proving to be faster, more relentless.
The duel stretched on, each man giving as good as he got. Elyas would spin, but Johanus would counter. Even still, he was slowing down. Sweat drenched Johanus' brow, and his breath came harder with each exchange. Elyas pressed his advantage, forcing Johanus back as he changed movements and spun the blade around to traditional style.
Inside the farm house, Quintin watched from the window, his hands gripping the sill tightly. His father had always been a source of unshakable strength, but now he saw something he never expected, Johanus faltering.
Elyas capitalized on a misstep as Johanus was taken off guard by the style change and Elyas’ blade sliced a shallow cut across Johanus's side. Johanus grunted, staggering back, but kept his grip on his weapon.
"You're slowing down," Elyas taunted, circling like a predator.
Johanus's lips curled into a defiant smirk despite the pain, “Takes more than that to end me!” Johanus shouted as he darted forward on the offensive again.
Elyas feinted left with a spin from the previous style and even with his blade's positioning, he was able to drive it into Johanus' abdomen. Johanus' eyes widened with a sharp gasp escaping his lips as the sword pierced him.
"Father!" Quintin's voice rang out as he burst from the house, a wooden staff in hand. He darted forward with such incredible speed, that dust flew up behind his footsteps.
Elyas turned, but not quickly enough as Quintin struck the back of Elyas' knee, forcing him to stumble and fall over. Johanus, blood pouring from his wound, used the moment to knock Elyas' sword from his grasp. He looked up from where he kneeled to the oncoming Quintin.
Quintin followed through with a flurry of strikes. His movements were precise and relentless like a seasoned soldier himself, after all the lessons with his father over multiple cycles since he was a boy. Elyas reached for his fallen blade, but realized the force of the blows and the spots they hit had immobilized his body. Quintin seized it instead and then, drove it into Elyas' chest with a roar.
Elyas gasped, “I knew it,” he smirked, then slumped to the ground with the sword still protruding from his chest.
Quintin turned, dropping the staff as he rushed to his father's side. Johanus had collapsed to his knees, one hand pressed against his wound. Blood seeped through his fingers.
"Father," Quintin whispered, his voice trembling.
Johanus reached out, his hand trembling as he grasped his son's shoulder, "You... fought well," he said, his voice weak, but filled with pride, "Better than I could have hoped."
Tears welled in Quintin's eyes, "Don't talk like that. We'll get help!"
"No," Johanus interrupted, his grip tightening, "There's no time. More will come... they don't care what you are. As long as your my son, you're in danger."
Quintin's voice broke, “I don't understand."
"You're the last, I… always had my suspicions, " Johanus said, his breath growing shallower. He reached for his sword, pressing it into Quintin's hands. "Take this. Go. Leave the farm... see the world, like you always wanted. Don't let... anyone ever control you."
Quintin clutched the sword tightly, his tears falling freely, “I can't leave you! You are all I have."
Johanus managed a faint smile, his eyes shining with pride and sadness, "You're stronger than you know. Your mother would be so proud. Now go... before it's too late."
Johanus' hand fell limp as his body went still in Quintin's arms.
Quintin knelt by his father's lifeless body, his heart a storm of grief and guilt. For a long moment, he sat there, holding Johanus' sword and staring at the man. The last family he had from the only one he had ever known. He knew what his father said was the truth, but he couldn't leave, not yet.
With trembling hands, Quintin wiped his face and stood. He moved to the barn, gathering a shovel and tools. The sun dipped below the horizon as he worked, digging a grave beneath the lone tree that overlooked their fields. The soil gave way to his effort, his tears falling silently as he labored.
When the grave was ready, he carefully laid Johanus to rest, wrapping him in a clean bed sheet. He knelt by the grave, whispering a final prayer, or rather a promise, "I’ll go. I'll see the world,” he declared, "But I'll tell you all about it. When we see each other again. Someday."
As dawn broke over the fields, Quintin packed a few belongings. He saddled his father's horse, gave one last look to the home they had all built together, and rode out past Elyas who was still impaled into the ground. He didn't deserve a burial. Not in Quintin's eyes. As he passed Elyas on his way out, he didn't look at the man, nor back at the farm. It was time to leave it all behind.
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End Part 1
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