The room smelled of medicinal herbs and aged parchment, a scent Lorin could have never associated with his father. It clung to the thick air like a ghost, mixing with the distant crackle of the hearth.
On the grand bed, draped in silk sheets embroidered with the Frex sigil, Eldrid Frex lay with his back turned, his breathing shallow but steady.
"So, this is what power looks like in the end."
Lorin lingered in the doorway, fingers twitching at his side. He had expected—he didn't know what, exactly. A frail old man gasping for his last breath? A bitter tyrant clinging to his throne? What he found was neither.
"Hello, Lorin."
The words came without hesitation.
Lorin stiffened. He hadn't made a sound since stepping inside.
His father chuckled weakly. "Your sword clinks against its hilt. A mark of mediocre craftsmanship. My knights use well-made steel."
Lorin scoffed. "Could've been one of your servants."
"Your boots clink too. Heavier than a house servant's slippers. Lighter than a knight's plated greaves."
Finally, Eldrid shifted slightly, just enough for Lorin to catch the ghost of a smirk. "Besides, I doubt anyone else would stand in my doorway for so long before speaking."
Lorin rolled his eyes but stepped closer. "Still sharp, even while rotting away, huh?"
"The mind outlasts the body, boy. For a little while, at least.
Lorin hesitated before sitting in the chair beside the bed. He had told himself he wouldn't stay long—that he just wanted to see the man for himself.
But now that he was here, he wasn't sure what he wanted.
Silence stretched between them.
"How much longer do you have?"
Eldrid exhaled slowly. "Two years. If I remain in bed."
Lorin scoffed. "Not much of a life, is it?"
"It is still life."
Lorin studied him, searching for any sign of weakness. The once-imposing Lord of House Frex was reduced to a man tethered to a bed, his once-strong frame worn thin, his sharp features drawn with illness. Yet his eyes—they were the same. Cold. Calculating. The eyes of a man who never doubted his choices.
"Why did you call me?"
Eldrid didn't answer immediately. His gaze shifted toward the ceiling. Finally, he murmured, "I don't know."
Lorin's jaw tightened. "You expect me to believe that?"
His father sighed. "Tell me, do you truly have no desire for my position? For my power?"
Lorin barked out a laugh. "No, Lord Frex. For all the power you have, you're still just a man who will die." He stood. "I will take my leave."
"After all," he added, his voice turning cold, "I am a bastard son."
Eldrid's voice, still steady despite his weakness, followed him. "I never treated you like a bastard."
Lorin stopped. He turned, his expression unreadable. "You never treated any of your children like children. We were just pieces in your politics. I was nothing more than some petty change you had no use for."
Eldrid studied him for a long moment. Then, at last, he spoke.
"Men of Frex are the first clutch against demons, beastkin, orcs, elves, and all the rest of them. I let the people who killed my brothers inside these walls to achieve this fragile peace. You think my life did this, boy? It was war. It was cold-hearted politics."
His voice was low, but firm.
"It was choosing which of my own men I would send to die, knowing their wives would curse my name. It was making alliances with men I despised to ensure our enemies feared us more."
His fingers curled slightly against the sheets. "It was feeding the wolves just enough to keep them from tearing out our throats."
Lorin stared at him, his fists clenched. "And what did it cost you?"
A beat of silence.
"Everything."
The words were quiet, but they rang through the room like a death bell.
Lorin exhaled sharply and turned for the door. He didn't look back.
"You are my son."
Lorin paused. But when he spoke, his voice was unreadable.
"No. I was just another name on your ledger."
And then, he was gone.
The Iron Maw Den was dimly lit, the scent of cadle smoke and ale thick in the air. Gorrack, the hulking commander of iron bone orcs, leaned back in his chair, gnawing absently at a strip of dried meat.
Druth sat stiffly,while Ghaz remained calm, watching Gorrack with the patience of a man who knew he was going to win.
"Alright," Gorrack drawled. "Let's go over this again, little healer. You want a clinic. I provide the space and tools. My men get treated for free, aside from the cost of herbs and materials. That's a steep request."
Ghaz nodded. "It is."
Gorrack's sharp yellow eyes gleamed. "And you expect me to arrange a meeting with Velga for your brother's new arm?"
Druth shifted, uncomfortable.
"That's right," Ghaz said.
Gorrack's smile widened, his iron plated jaw clinking with every word he spoke. "The medical tools you listed are complicated. Expensive."
Ghaz didn't flinch. "So are infected wounds."
Gorrack chuckled. "You've got some nerve, healer."
Ghaz tilted his head slightly. "Tell me, Gorrack how do your rotting gums feel?"
The grin vanished. Gorrack's fingers curled against the table.
"Like betrayal,It now fuels me" he rumbled.
Ghaz leaned forward, unshaken. "I can fix that. But I need the right tools."
The orc watched him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose and leaned back.
"Fine."
Silence settled over the room like a held breath. Then Gorrack spoke again, his voice quieter now, but heavier.
"Do I have your word? Through the thickest forest, the hottest desert, the deepest ocean and the tallest peak?"
Ghaz met his gaze without hesitation.
"You have my word. Through forest fire, the coldest winter, and…" His voice dropped to something almost solemn. "The deadliest plague."
The deal was sealed.
And with it, the first piece of something far bigger than any of them realized had just been set into motion.