ROLFE: Heir to the ancient throne

Episode 6

The torches in Rockwyn burned brightly throughout the night. What was once a celebration had turned into a manhunt. 

Jeras stood in front of the chief's hall, breathing heavily with his jaw locked tight like stone. The firelight highlighted his face, making his features look sharp and almost chiseled from anger. All around him, men rushed about armor half-fastened and swords half-drawn shouting orders into the dark woods beyond. 

Kol's body lay in the hall, dragged in and presented as a grim reminder of Jeras' failure. His blood seeped into the ground, staining it dark. 

"He killed him," one scout stuttered. "Kol found the boy in the prison ward. He fought back... gods, the boy really fought." 

Jeras turned slowly, his face blank. "A boy? You mean the whelp that the old chief brought in from the border?" 

The scout paused. "Yes… Rolfe." 

At the mention of that name, Jeras’ eyes changed not with confusion, but with a hint of understanding. He waved off the scout and looked down at Kol’s lifeless form again. 

Kol had been the clan's top swordsman, disciplined, fierce, and fearless in any situation. The idea that he could be defeated by an inexperienced youth was unimaginable. Unless that youth was more than he appeared to be. 

The fire crackled beside him, breaking the silence and unleashing Jeras’ fury. He spun around and kicked over a brazier, sending sparks flying into the darkness. 

“Find him!” he shouted. “Search through every thicket, every den, every streambed if necessary! Bring me Rolfe’s head and anyone who hides him!” 

His voice echoed through Rockwyn, bouncing off huts and walls until even the night seemed to hold its breath. 

By dawn, search parties had disappeared into the woods with their dogs sniffing through the moist air. But Jeras chose a different route: he walked down the narrow corridor beneath the great hall where they kept the cells. 

The scent of wet stone and rust filled the air as he entered. The torches flickered, their flames dimming. At the end of the hall, Malcer sat blood still dried on his lip, his wrists shackled in iron. Despite his situation, he met Jeras’ gaze with unwavering eyes. 

Jeras paused in front of the cell. “You can thank your brother for this trouble,” he said, his voice low yet sharp. 

Malcer remained silent. 

Jeras bent slightly, resting an arm on his knee. “He killed Kol. You remember Kol, right? The man who taught you how to wield a sword?” 

Still no response. 

Jeras grinned coldly. “It’s odd, isn’t it? A boy with no training manages to take down one of Rockwyn's best men, and then my daughter goes missing that same night. Quite the coincidence.” 

Malcer's brow twitched ever so slightly. 

Jeras caught it instantly. “So he didn’t tell you anything? Or maybe he did, and you're just too proud to admit it.” 

Finally, Malcer lifted his head. His voice was weak but held a hint of defiance. “Rolfe didn’t share anything with me because there’s nothing to share. He’s my brother, plain and simple.” 

Jeras’ face changed, caught between amusement and disbelief. “Brother? You think blood ties him to you? He’s not part of your family. He never was.” 

“He belongs with us more than you ever will,” Malcer shot back. 

Jeras slammed his hand against the bars, making them rattle down the corridor. “Watch your words.” 

Malcer met Jeras' stare without flinching. “If you want to know who Rolfe is, ask the wind. Ask the gods that have filled you with fear. My father once told me that Rolfe’s life would go far beyond Rockwyn, that he holds something that will last longer than any of us.” 

Jeras held his gaze for a long moment before stepping back. He spoke in a low, dark whisper. “Maybe beyond Rockwyn, but not out of my reach.” 

He turned to leave, the heavy doors slamming shut behind him as he climbed the stairs. Even as the sound of his footsteps faded away, Malcer's words lingered in his mind like a warning. 

Something beyond Rockwyn… 

The phrase echoed in his thoughts as he stepped into the morning light. He gazed at the forest, where wisps of mist still clung to the ground. Somewhere out there, Rolfe was running with Jeras’ own daughter beside him. 

And that was something Jeras could never accept. 

Gazing down at the vast forest below. His expression was cold and thoughtful. 

“Send a message to the riders at the eastern watch,” he instructed his captain. “If the boy heads north toward Corville, I want that route blocked off. No one goes in or out.” 

“Yes, Chief.” 

As his captain left, Jeras remained motionless. He stared at his hands; the slight tremor running through them wasn’t from fear. Not yet. 

But from curiosity. 

"Who are you really, Rolfe? 

And for the first time in his entire existence, Jeras experienced something new. 

He felt that the tale of Rockwyn was no longer his to dictate, despite being chief.

***

Far from Rockwyn, the forest rustled with sounds of a chase. 

Rolfe, Elisa, and Jarvis moved through the thick brush, their legs muddy and their breaths uneven. The dogs had lost their trail hours ago, but they could still hear horns echoing through the valleys behind them. 

“Keep going,” Rolfe encouraged, glancing back. 

Jarvis stumbled but stayed in stride. “How long until they stop chasing us?” 

Elisa replied sharply, “They won’t stop. Not until my father has your body hanging above the gates.” 

Rolfe stayed silent. 

Elisa shot him a frustrated look from the corner of her eye. Something else twisted in her chest as she said, “You shouldn’t have gone back. You should have listened to me.” 

Rolfe answered softly, “And let my brother suffer while I hide?” 

“He’s still alive,” she pleaded. “That matters. Don’t make his sacrifice mean nothing.” 

Her voice wavered at the end, but Rolfe didn’t seem to notice or maybe he just chose not to. The shadows of the trees surrounded them, and for a long time, the only sound they could hear was the wind whispering through the branches. 

Behind them, faintly

in the distance, the sound of hounds rose again.