Chapter Text
It is impossible for a man to die twice.
That was what his mother always told him.
A man can die once. Either death is eternal, or one finds the strength to overcome it.
And at that point, nothing else will be able to make you fall.
Olberic had died once.
What he did not know was that his mother had lied to him.
———
Had that been a normal day, Cyrus Albright would have gotten up early in the morning, prepared himself a cup of black tea, and greeted his neighbor as he headed out of the house.
Had that been a normal day, he would have entered one of the Royal Academy’s classrooms and held a history lesson about the Flatlands’ ancient clans in front of a batch of sleepy students.
However, that was not a normal day by any means.
Because Cyrus Albright was running at breakneck speed through the main street leading to the royal palace, as much as his heeled boots allowed him to.
He was carrying a large number of sheets and parchments under his arm, and he had to be quick because the heavy, plumbeous clouds looming over the city would surely bring rain.
He could already smell it in the humid scent rising from the cobblestones and the faint rumbling of thunder in the distance.
One of his colleagues would hold the lesson in his place, that morning.
Actually, it had already been two months and a few days since his colleagues had taken his place at the Academy, thus he had not spent a normal day in, well, two months and a few days.
As much as he liked breaking up the monotony of his work every now and then, he thought that he was starting to miss his usual routine.
He tried to ignore the fact that he was secretly praying for that whole situation to end as soon as possible.
If he met someone on the street, he didn’t notice.
If acquaintances of his greeted him as he sprinted by, he didn’t hear them.
In his head, there was only room for what he would have to report shortly after, and the unbearable impatience pent up waiting for a letter that should have arrived days ago.
When he finally reached the top of the never-ending marble stairway in front of the palace and the armed guards moved aside to let him through, he thought an eternity had passed.
The heart that was beating uncontrollably in his chest felt as if it was trying to get stuck in his throat, so much was the anxiety he was feeling; he made his way towards the huge wooden door of the council hall, which was so tall it reached the decorated ceiling.
He tried his best to control his breath, fixing his messy hair with one hand as he heard the guard on the other side of the door announcing his name to the people in the room.
The doors were opened, and he entered.
In front of him, at the head of the long table that occupied the room almost in its entirety, sat King Osred.
All the other seats were occupied by his faithful mediators, cartographers, war counselors, linguists and the knights at the head of the royal guards.
A huge map of Orsterra was draped over the table, and pawns of every shape and color constellated its coasts and mountains.
Behind them, the most ancient tapestry of the continent depicting that same map covered the whole wall of the conference room, and it was so large that it also depicted the neighbouring countries, up to where mankind had ventured.
Their beloved city was named after that inestimable treasure they owned.
As much as the sight of that grandiose hall never failed to amaze him with its austere beauty, that day Cyrus found himself frozen on the spot when he faced the large number of heads that were turned towards him; a sudden silence fell in the room.
Despite that being enough to make him nervous, he had kept his eyes locked with the King’s as he bowed his head, already registering the names of the men sitting at the table in his quiet mind.
Sir Godric, Deputy Commander of the troops. Sir Adrian, King’s counselor. Professor Lewis, translator and mediator. And-
His heart sank as he was instantly reminded that, sitting at the empty seat on the left in the corner of his eye, was Olberic's seat.
But Olberic was not there; he could not possibly be there, he knew that.
What a fool he was for thinking he could have seen him in the heat of the moment, yet he could not help but wonder why he was not there sitting at the table with them, Olberic wasn’t there-
“Professor Albright”, King Osred greeted him, his face stern.
“Your Highness,” Cyrus replied as soon as he’d lifted his head, “I have brought the plans of mediation elaborated by Professor Roegan and me.”
He prayed that the tone of his voice concealed his quickened breathing.
“Very well. Take your seat”, the King ordered, hinting at an empty chair beside Professor Lewis’ with a gesture of his hand.
His unfortunate colleague would have had to translate in the Northern Tongue the contents of the majority of the sheets he was holding during the next few hours.
He made his way through the hall, feeling everyone’s gaze on him as he walked.
When he was next to Professor Lewis, he turned towards the table, did not sit down, and instead unwrapped the rolls of parchment in front of him.
However, he had a thought in his mind that would not leave him alone, making him incapable of focusing properly.
“If I may ask, Your Highness, before I start explaining the formalities and the terms of the non-aggression pact… “
His heart was beating faster in his chest again.
“ …I inform you that still no news has arrived to us from the troop of soldiers that was sent to Flamesgrace, Albright,'' King Osred replied, furrowing his eyebrows.
Cyrus felt himself sink a bit deeper into the ground below.
Why? It had been two whole weeks already. Did something happen? Did the carrier pigeons get lost in a snowstorm? Why did the Gods have to be so cruel, hells, if only he could do something, but he could not-
“ …Very well,” he said, forcing himself to remain calm.
He cleared his throat, keeping the parchments still with one hand as he stared at the multitude of wooden pawns scattered across the table.
The small number of blue pawns placed upon the figure of Flamesgrace seemed to stare back at him, mockingly.
“Let us begin.”
———
Cyrus could not believe his ears when, three months earlier, the royal guards of Altasdam had given the official news that the clans from the North had started invading Orsterra.
Back then, that sounded like an eventuality so remote it was almost unthinkable.
And Olberic could not believe it either, when the King had called him to send him to the Frostlands with a small troop of soldiers as a representative of the Kingdom of Wold.
Nevertheless, against all odds, the frightening news proved itself to be true: the tribes living in the North of Orsterra, beyond the mountain ranges of Northreach, had walked through nature’s barriers and had invaded the cities of Stillsnow and Flamesgrace.
On top of that, the sudden snowstorms that had been raging across the region for weeks now were making the letter exchanges harder, to the point that the authorities of the Knights Ardante defending the city had not been able to send proper information to the neighboring regions.
Not much was known about the clans of the North, except that they spoke a different tongue, an ancient one, that they seemed to hoard special powers; and that during certain moonless nights, on the mountaintops above Northreach, multiple sinister bonfires could be seen glimmering in the distance.
Nobody knew whether they could ever pose a threat or not.
Nobody could know, after all.
“I will be fine”, Olberic had reassured Cyrus one chilly morning, saying goodbye to him with a kiss on the lips and a promise: he would be back to Atlasdam in a month and a half at most, as soon as he and the soldiers Osred had entrusted him had made sure that he Knights Ardante had the situation under control, lending them their help if needed.
“Please come back to me safely,” Cyrus had replied, placing one hand on Olberic’s.
Nothing to worry about. Protecting the borders of the Kingdom of Wold was part of his duty as First Knight after all, and so he would comply.
Cyrus, for his part, had decided to suspend his role of tutor and teacher at the Academy in order to receive help from the royal palace’s rearguards, putting his experience and his knowledge to use by being at the service of the King and his collaborators so that the Kingdom could be prepared for anything.
Mediators, scholars, and counselors worked every day by researching, communicating with the Church, and, should that be needed, coming up with a defensive strategy.
In his heart, Cyrus refused to consider war as a possibility.
The other reason why the scholar had decided to assist the King in his palace was that by doing so, he could be informed of the movements of Olberic’s troop thanks to his letters, impatiently awaited by all members of the council.
By Cyrus in particular, since every crumb of information implying that Olberic was alive and well always brought peace to his aching heart.
That day, though, he was in luck, for the long wait he had endured for weeks had finally come to an end.
———
Cyrus was in the middle of explaining the conditions of peace between Orsterra and the continents sharing a common land border when he was interrupted by the anguished chattering coming from behind the big wooden doors, and one of the guards keeping it closed was forced to slightly open them to see what was happening.
“Please, it is urgent, it cannot wait”, murmured a breathless voice from behind the threshold, as everyone turned to the entrance.
Cyrus, half bent over the map, froze completely.
“Your Highness, Sir Thomas-” the guard babbled, almost pushed aside by the young red-haired knight who stormed into the council hall.
King Osred frowned, “I said that nobody was allowed to enter during-”
“Your Highness!...” Sir Thomas panted, and Cyrus noticed that the young lad was desperate; he was holding a piece of parchment in his hands, and the blood in his veins turned cold.
“It’s… it’s from Sir Eisenberg”, he continued as he waddled towards the King sitting on the other side of the table, and a low murmur rose through the air at the sound of his name.
Cyrus heard a ringing in his ears, and suddenly his knees felt unsteady, but he did not care. He had to trust his self-control enough not to jump at the lad and snatch the letter from his hands.
He was alive, he thought, Olberic was alive.
Everybody’s eyes were locked upon King Osred’s imperturbable face as he took the piece of parchment from the knight’s shaky hands, opened it, and let his eyes scan its content.
But the relief Cyrus had felt until moments ago turned into dread when he saw the King’s expression suddenly change, and his face grow paler.
The silence was so still it sounded like everyone in the room had stopped breathing, so dense was the tension that a knife could have cut through it.
And finally, Osred spoke.
Outside the windows, rain began falling copiously.
“Flamesgrace has fallen.
War is upon us.”