ROLFE: Heir to the ancient throne

Episode 2.

The square of Rockwyn buzzed with noise. The clan members stood still since the echo of Malcer's scream faded into the rumbling thunder. Blood stained the mud, dark and thin like wine, seeping into the boots of those closest to the fighting ring. Jeras remained at the center, breathing heavily, with his blade nicked and dripping. 

He had not killed Malcer. Only a few noticed the unusual hesitation, how his sword wavered mid-swing when it should have delivered the final blow. The crowd roared, oblivious to details, craving victory. Amidst that chaos, Jeras dragged Malcer’s limp, bleeding body away just as the storm broke over the roofs. 

The rain poured down hard and cold, beating against leather tents and thatched roofs. Many saw it as an omen, either the gods mourning or cleansing the ground of shame. But what the gods truly thought remained unknown. The old seer, Mira, whispered that the storm would last a while. She turned her back on the square and walked barefoot through the mud, murmuring that Rockwyn’s heart had been torn apart but all people saw was her lips move, no word was clear to even the closest person standing by.

In a concealed barn at the edge of the hold, Jeras slammed Malcer onto the straw and shut the door. The injured man stirred slightly, gripping his side. 

“Just kill me and be done with it,” Malcer croaked. 

Jeras crouched down, cleaning blood off his blade with a rag. His eyes shone not with victory, but with something much colder. “No. You don’t deserve the gift of death. The clan must believe I ended your life. Let them have their tale.” 

Malcer clenched his jaw. “You dishonor the Old Way.” 

Jeras leaned in closer, his breath hot and foul. “The Old Way is meant for the dead. I care about the living.” 

He tied Malcer’s wrists and ankles, gagged him with a strip of leather, and dragged him toward a trapdoor hidden under the hay. A ladder led down into the earth, to a pit that once held grain during long-ago winters. Now, it would be used for something else. 

Malcer was lowered down like a broken sacrifice. Jeras took one last look into the darkness and whispered, “You’ll remain here until no one remembers you.” Then he closed the hatch and rolled a barrel over it. 

***

By dawn, Rockwyn had a new chief. 

Jeras was crowned under the clan’s totem, a boar skull attached to the oak post in the middle of the square. His followers cheered, their faces wet from both rain and tears. The older men knelt with hesitation, while the women sang a sad song for Malcer, thinking his spirit had gone to the Vale of Swords. 

“Let our clan rise again!” Jeras shouted, his voice echoing through town. “No more waiting for ghosts. We will show no mercy to those who try to weaken us.” 

His lieutenants, Varn and Kol, lifted their axes high. The crowd repeated his words. It was settled. 

But amidst the cheers, quiet whispers spread. Mira was missing from her hut. And it was now clear to a few persons that evil was about to befall Rockwyn.

Rolfe watched everything unfold from the edge of the square, mostly hidden behind a broken cart. He saw the duel begin and end and witnessed his brother Malcer fall and disappear. Now he saw Jeras standing where Malcer once stood, and it burned inside him. 

He slipped away through narrow alleys with his heart racing. Every face he saw looked unfamiliar now as if the entire clan had changed overnight. 

He knew that he had to escape. 

When the feast drums echoed all Rolfe could hear was a hollow and unpleasant beat so he collected what he could: a water skin, his father's hunting knife, and the small silver token that once belonged to his mother. 

His mind was made up, and the only way to leave Rockwyn unnoticed was through the forest by night. So he waited for dusk, not minding the crazy tales he heard about it.

But Jeras’s men arrived before night came. 

They searched the houses, calling out names. Varn's voice thundered through the rooms. "Rolfe! The new chief wants to talk! Don’t make us drag you out!" 

Rolfe crouched behind a pen, feeling the cold mud on his hands. He slipped under the fence and pressed himself flat behind a pile of timber. The men stomped by, their boots squelching in the mud. He held his breath. 

Then he noticed a hole in a narrow pit where rain had eroded the earth. Without thinking, he crawled inside. The mud engulfed him up to his waist, cold and slippery. He pulled an old sack over himself, shaking as footsteps drew near again. 

“Search the west side!” 

“Nothing here, he'll come out when he’s hungry.” 

Their laughter faded as they walked away. He waited until he no longer heard their boots. Then, trembling, he pulled himself out of the hole. His body was covered in dirt. Thankfully, the rain had washed away his tracks, sign of a small mercy. 

He quietly approached the forest.

The Rockwyn woods were harsh for those on the run. As every corner could be laid with traps. Rolfe hurried forward, relying on his memory that he had once hunted rabbits here with Malcer. 

Every snap of a branch made him jump. Each shadow seemed to resemble a person. He crossed a small stream but stumbled, gripping the silver token tightly against his chest. 

Thoughts of his brother filled his mind, the duel they had fought, the cheers from the crowd, and that last chilling scream. A warm tear traced through the mud on his cheek as he whispered, “I’ll return. I’ll destroy it all. I promise.” 

Suddenly, something broke. 

A glint of wire reflected in the moonlight an old hunter’s snare cleverly set up. It tightened around his ankle, pulling him above the ground. The world spun around him; pain shot through his leg as he fell into the mud, gasping for breath. 

He attempted to slice through the wire with his knife, but his hands trembled uncontrollably. His vision started to fade as a voice was heard calling from behind him. 

“Found him!” 

He fought hard, but the pain left his arms powerless. Cold, rough hands grabbed him, and a hit to his head made everything go dark. 

***

When Rolfe opened his eyes, his mouth felt dry and tasted like blood. He attempted to move, but his arms were tied to a pole behind him. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and damp wood. 

He raised his head and spotted Jeras. 

The new chief sat on an ornate stool, the firelight casting golden shadows on his face. Men with axes surrounded him. Although the storm had passed, its echoes lingered in the room. 

“Little brother,” Jeras said softly. “You should have stayed at home.” 

Rolfe spat blood onto the floor. “You’ll hang for this.” 

Jeras grinned. “No, I will rule.” 

He stood up, approached Rolfe, and lifted his chin with the tip of his knife. “The clan needs order, and I’ve provided that. Malcer was too soft. You’re even worse if you carry his heart, which is a weakness I cannot tolerate.” 

Rolfe glared despite the pain. “Where is he?” 

Jeras’s eyes briefly showed surprise, followed by a smile. “He has gone to the gods.” 

Rolfe shook his head. “You’re lying.” 

Jeras crouched next to him. “Believe what you want. You won’t have to believe for long.” 

He turned to his men. “Take him to the pit. Let him see what the gods left behind.” 

The men hesitated and even looked uneasy. 

“Do it,” Jeras commanded sharply. 

Rolfe's breath caught in h

is throat. He didn’t understand what that meant yet.