ROLFE: Heir to the ancient throne

The sky grew heavy with clouds so dark that day seem to become night. Thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing through the valley like the roar of a long-forgotten creature. This storm carried an omen which even the elders couldn't interpret.

When the first flashes of lightning lit up the sky, the returning warriors were seen from the watchtower, making their way along the muddy path into the settlement. There were far fewer than those who had left weeks earlier; only a few remained where there had once been a hundred. They held no flags and shouted no cheers of victory. Their shoulders drooped under wet furs and broken spirits. 

Despite the stormy weather, villagers gathered to welcome them back. Mothers and wives wrapped shawls around themselves, their faces pale and filled with worry. Children peeked out from behind legs and cloaks, searching for familiar faces among the warriors. But all that returned were shadows dressed in flesh. 

Rolfe pushed his way through the crowd, his heart racing with every name called out in sorrow. He stopped short when he reached the front. The warriors looked serious, especially Jeras, a tall man with broad shoulders and a scarred cheek that glistened with rain. His eyes were as fierce as a storm’s core, cold and unyielding. 

Rolfe searched the crowd anxiously, scanning faces until he realized that the one face he wanted to see, the only one that truly mattered to him, was missing. 

His father, the chief of Rockwyn, had not come back. 

The thought hit him like a cold wave. Around him, the villagers’ cries and curses faded into a muffled sound, drowned out by the thunder. He felt the weight of their stares and whispers followed him like vultures. The orphan. The outcast. The foundling. 

Years ago, people had found him among the dead after a fierce battle, a crying child amidst the chaos. The chief took him in and raised him as his own son, but the rest of the clan never accepted him. Many called him cursed. A few just avoided him altogether. Only Malcer, the chief’s true son, treated him like a brother. 

Now that their father was gone, Rolfe understood what his future would hold. 

He turned just as Jeras locked eyes with him through the storm. The warrior smirked knowingly telling a silent promise of what would happen once everything calmed down. 

“Come with me.” 

Rolfe jumped when someone grabbed his wrist. It was Malcer tall and strong, with dark hair sticking to his face and eyes red but firm. He pulled Rolfe away from the crowd before anyone could say anything. 

“Tell me he’s alive,” Rolfe gasped once they were safe, struggling to catch his breath between words. “Tell me he was captured that we’ll bring him back ” 

“I watched him fall,” Malcer said, his voice rough and thick as he held his tears. “An enemy's sword pierced his neck from behind. He didn’t get back up.” 

As the sound of those words Rolfe felt the ground shift beneath him. For a moment, he thought he might be sick. 

Malcer put a hand on Rolfe’s shoulder to steady him. “We’ll honor him. But you need to stay hidden tonight. Jeras will act quickly, and you know what he’s capable of.” 

Rolfe nodded, tears mixing with the rain as Malcer guided him toward the hut near the edge of the village, their shelter since they were kids. 

“Lock the door,” Malcer instructed once they were inside. “Don’t open it for anyone but me.” 

Rolfe wanted to protest, to ask questions, but Malcer’s serious expression stopped him. The warrior’s jaw was tight, showing that he had made up his mind. Then Malcer turned and left, slamming the door behind him. 

In the gathering square, torches blazed despite the rain. The survivors of Rockwyn gathered around the large pyre pit, their damp cloaks steaming in the heat. At the center stood Jeras, speaking to the clan as if he already wore the chief's title. His voice rang out strong and deep through the air. 

“For twenty-eight years,” Jeras announced, “our leader guided us with bravery. His spirit will join the honored dead. However, we cannot remain in sorrow. The Rockwyn cannot be without a leader. I will guide you into a new era filled with strength and revenge. I will defeat the clans that harmed us and forge peace from their remains!” 

The crowd burst into cheers. “Hail Jeras!” 

Then Malcer stepped forward, his cloak still heavy with rain, resting his hand on his father’s old sword. “I may be young,” he said, his voice steady yet filled with challenge, “but I have fought alongside all of you. I learned from our chief, my father, what it means to lead, to fight, and to stand for Rockwyn.” 

Whispers broke forth among the gathered men. Some frowned while others exchanged worried glances. 

“There is no rule stopping me from taking this role,” Malcer continued. “Our youngest chief became a leader at sixteen, far younger than I am. I have strength. I have the right.” 

Jeras turned slowly, his expression hard to read until a crooked smile appeared on his face. “Your father led with honor, yes. But he disrespected our traditions. He brought an outsider into our family, called him son, and forced us all to act as if it were true. He tainted the lineage that defines us.” 

The whispers grew sharper and more dangerous. 

Malcer tightened his grip on the sword's hilt. “What defines us, Jeras? Is it blood or loyalty? Isn’t it the spirit that connects Rockwyn?” 

“No, boy,” Jeras replied. “It’s blood. That’s something your father forgot when he took in that cursed whelp.” 

The clan elder raised his staff, his voice shaky with age but filled with the weight of tradition. “Enough. We will honor the rite. At sunrise, we will settle this challenge the old way.” 

His words crashed down like thunder. The old way. 

A fight to the death. 

Malcer didn’t flinch. Jeras grinned. The storm around them grew louder, as if even the heavens wanted to witness what was about to happen. 

By dawn, the rain had lessened, but the ground remained drenched and dark. Fog slithered along the edges of the village as the clan gathered again in the square. 

Inside his tiny hut, Rolfe awoke to the sound of the door creaking open. 

“Mal?” 

His brother paused mid-step, fully dressed in armor and prepared for combat. 

“What’s happening?” Rolfe whispered. “You’re all geared up, don't lie to me.” 

Malcer turned around, a slight smile on his face. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” 

Rolfe felt a lump in his throat and from Malcer's body language he could tell what he was up to. “You’re going to fight him.” 

Malcer stayed silent in shock as to how Rolfe was able to make such an accurate guess.

“Don’t,” Rolfe urged, stepping closer with tears in his eyes. “You can’t defeat Jeras. Please, Mal. He’ll kill you, and I’ll…” 

Malcer placed his hand gently on Rolfe’s cheek, quieting him from finishing that sentence. “Listen carefully. Today isn’t the day I die. Stay out of sight. If I win, I’ll call for you. If I don’t…” He hesitated before forcing a smile. “Then you run, and don’t look back.” 

Rolfe wanted to shout, to grab Malcer and plead with him, but he couldn’t find the words. He could only watch as Malcer stepped into the fog. The door closed behind him. And everything fell silent except for the distant sound of drums beating. 

By midmorning, the whole clan had come together once more. The dueling pit was a circle of mud and blood. Jeras stood without a shirt, a giant of muscle and scars. Opposite him, Malcer tightened his hold on his sword, which belonged to his father, the very blade that had once protected Rockwyn from many attacks. 

The elder lifted his staff and declared, “The rite starts now. One will rise. One will fall.” 

Immediately, the two swords clashed like thunder. 

Malcer attacked first, quick and accurate, but Jeras countered with sheer strength. Sparks flew as their blades met air, armor, and flesh. The sounds of metal clashing and heavy breathing filled the square. 

Jeras’s power was immense, but Malcer was quicker. He ducked under a swing and cut across Jeras’s ribs. Blood splattered onto the mud, causing the crowd to gasp. 

“Yield,” Malcer said, out of breath. 

Jeras grinned with blood-stained teeth. “Never.” 

He charged forward, slamming his shoulder into Malcer’s chest and sending him crashing into the mud. The young man rolled away just in time to block a deadly strike. For a moment, their eyes locked one filled with anger, the other with defiance. 

Then Jeras pretended to attack high and drove his knee into Malcer’s stomach, knocking him down. 

“Your father was weak,” Jeras sneered as he lifted his sword. 

With a desperate shout, Malcer swung upward and sliced into Jeras’s thigh. Both fighters were bleeding now; every breath was hard to take. 

But Jeras had age and strength on his side. He broke through Malcer’s defense and slammed the hilt of his sword into the boy’s face with a sickening crack of bone. 

The crowd erupted in cheers as Jeras kicked Malcer to the ground, pressed his boot on Ma

lcer's chest, and lifted his sword for the final strike.