The room fell quiet as Harold's gaze drifted outside the lamplight, eyes cloudy with memory.
"When I was about your age, Luther," he began, voice flat and low, "your grandfather was already a man whose name people whispered."
Luther leaned forward. The cracking of the hearth was the only sound between them.
About Ragnar-
His name," Harold said, "was Ragnar. Thirty-two and already a legend in his own lifetime. He was taller than most men, shoulders like stone, each step balanced and sure. People said he was handsome, but it was more than that—it was the way kindness beamed out of him. He never turned his back on the weak or the needy. Strength, to him, was service.".
Harold's eyes tightened. "He fought like a tempest and healed like a brother. That combination made villagers trust him with their lives."
"In those days," Harold continued, "there were no Lords to rule the villages. Life was wild, scattered. But there was one man above all others—the Master."
The name seemed to echo in the air.
Concerning Master-
The Master," Harold said, "was no ordinary warrior. He commanded all the elements—wind, fire, stone, even the hidden pulse of the earth. Magician and warrior combined. He carried the weight of every village on his back. But age comes to us all. When his powers began to wane, he sought to hand on the burden."
Harold's voice dropped to a whisper.
He announced a competition that would echo for centuries: The Fate of Lord."
Back to story:
"It was not merely a tournament," Harold explained. "It was a proving ground. Ten of the strongest warriors and magicians would battle, and the survivor would be the first Lord. That winner would defend the villages in the Master's place."
Luther's breath caught. "Was Grandfather chosen?
Harold's lips curled. "Naturally. Ragnar was among the ten. And from the start he was the Master's favorite. Not because of brute strength—though he had his share—but because of his heart."
Harold lent forward. "But the title of Lord was not all that went with the title. The victor would receive a treasure the world had all but forgotten.".
The Potara," Harold whispered, savoring the word. "A single earring, forged in ancient flames, imbued with the royalty of strength itself. It wasn't just symbolic. The Potara granted power—spells and energy that could take a warrior beyond mortal limitations.".
He motioned to his own ear as if he could feel its weight. "When the Master revealed it, people caught their breath. No one knew what the design was until that day: a lion, etched in silver and gold. The emblem of courage and unbeatable will."
Luther's eyes shone. "So Grandfather could have worn it?"
He dreamed of it," Harold whispered. "But not for glory. He said to me once, 'Power is a promise. If I win, this Potara will help me protect those who cannot protect themselves.'
Harold's tone darkened. "But the lion Potara's vision corrupted hearts. Warriors who had prepared for years were suddenly burning with greed. Three of the ten began to plot, whispering in the shadows. They recalled neither honor nor the cause for which they fought."
He breathed, remembering. "The Master believed the reward would provoke them to greatness. Instead it bred betrayal. He heard of hidden alliances, and the Master doubted his own judgment for the first time."
Your grandfather stood apart," Harold said resolutely. "While others conspired, Ragnar trained. Day and night he drove his body to the extreme—weightlifting stones until his arms bled, sword-fighting until dawn. He summoned his battle-staff, a weapon holding hidden magic. Under the light of the moon, he trained in the ancient art of Titan Form, stretching his body until muscles rippled like living rock.".
"He said the same thing to me every night: 'Kindness first. Strength second. Only then am I worthy of the Potara.'"
Harold's eyes glowed. "He believed if he disciplined his spirit, destiny would follow."
"The Master devised ruthless trials," Harold continued. "Storm labyrinths where lightning struck from the skies. Mazes of shifting stone. Of the ten warriors, five only remained after the trials. Ragnar was one of them, still and silent.".
Harold's words sped up, transporting Luther to the past.
"I remember the crowd when Ragnar stepped onto the arena floor. The ground itself seemed to incline forward. Children climbed onto shoulders to get a glimpse of the man villagers already called future Lord."
The fire popped in the hearth; Harold barely noticed.
He battled five lower-rank warriors at once first. They fell on him like wolves, but Ragnar was water and thunder combined—staff flashing, wind giving way to his strikes. He defeated them without a deathblow, and each of them knelt before him, calling him Lord before the match was even finished.
"But victory drew darker attention," Harold went on. "The three plotters, desiring the Potara, plotted secretly. They vowed to strike as a unit, not in the public eye but before the final test, when Ragnar would be alone. They desired the lion earring so intensely they were willing to stain the Lord's Fate with blood."
Harold's jaw tightened. "The Master got wind of what they were up to and was fearful of what his treasure had unleashed. He had wanted excitement, not betrayal. But he could no longer stop what he had initiated.
Harold paused, the memory clear before him. "The night before the final battle, Ragnar sat with me at our small fire. He handed me a wood carving of a lion. 'If I win,' he said, 'one Potara will be yours one day. But remember, Harold, power is nothing if we forget why we have it.'"
Harold's voice softened. "I have kept those words in my heart from that day on."
"Morning broke like steel," Harold said. "The arena was packed with every villager for miles. The Master stepped forward, Potara in hand, its lion crest ablaze in the sun. 'Whoever is worthy,' he said, 'will carry this mark and lead the villages into a new era.'"
The crowd roared. The conspirators exchanged hidden looks.
Your grandfather came forward, as solid as a mountain. There was no avarice in his eyes—only intent. The Master looked at him with something close to hope."
Harold exhaled slowly, as if the recollection still tightened his chest. "And that… was when fate turned."
Harold's voice faded into silence. The firelight danced on his face, revealing the weight of years.
Luther sat frozen, heart racing. He could almost hear the clang of steel on steel, the lion Potara flashing in the Master's hand.
"What then?" he whispered.
Harold's eyes returned to the present. "That," he said, the words heavy with foreboding, "is where the true story begins."
He looked out the window where night pressed against the pane. The wind howled through the trees, bringing with it the threat of distant rain.
Then…