Another dawn broke over Naboth. Dew lay in silver beads upon the vineyards, each drop glimmering as though the earth herself wept with joy at the coming day.
Beyond the palace gates, amber fields rolled beneath the newborn sun. There, amidst the fragrance of ripening grapes, the sharp ring of steel broke the morning calm.
Brothers Luther and Jack met in combat—as they had since boyhood. What once were sticks of oak were now blades of tempered steel, yet the rhythm of their sparring remained as it ever was: spirited, brotherly, proud.
"What's the matter, elder brother?" Jack cried, laughter curling through his words. "Afraid that I may best you at last—or do your thoughts still dwell on the barmaid from the tavern, the one with the—ample virtue?"
Luther's smile betrayed the soldier's mask. He might have ended each match swiftly, yet he let them linger, savoring the rare warmth of kinship.
"Ah," he countered lightly, turning aside Jack's stroke, "you mean the same barmaid you vanished into the alley with that very evening, brother?" His sword flashed, striking the air before Jack's shoulder—a warning, not a wound.
Jack dodged and laughed breathlessly. "Excuse me, brother—I acted only where you hesitated. We discussed, in earnest, the size of my—girthy bar tab."
"Girthy bar tab?" Luther roared. "Third in line for the throne, and you bicker with barkeeps! We could have bought the tavern!" His mirth faded, replaced by a soldier's focus. The sun touched his helm, and he raised his sword. "Come now—are you ready, brother?"
"Ready," Jack grinned, lifting his blade.
Jack lunged—wild, reckless, full of vigor. Luther sidestepped, pivoting as easily as wind through grass. Jack's foot caught the earth, and down he fell, breath bursting from his lungs as the ground embraced him.
"Looks like you blinked, brother," Luther said warmly, hand extended. The sunlight crowned him—a victor without cruelty.
Luther lifted him to his feet, brushing the dust and grass from Jack's vest as they turned toward Naboth. The twin spires of the city rose ahead, their marble crowns bathed in morning gold.
For a while they walked in silence, the air alive with the scent of vine and earth.
Luther laid a hand upon his brother's shoulder. "You were off today, brother," he said gently. "Your form was wild—more so than usual."
Jack's head hung low. He wiped the dried mud from his cheek and sighed. "It's Father. He doesn't understand me. Always lecturing, always scolding. I grow weary of it, Luther. I want out of these walls. I could scream."
Luther's gaze softened. "Father only cares for your well-being, Jack. I know he can be harsh, but—"
"But since Mother died, he's not been the same!" Jack's voice broke through the calm, fierce with buried grief.
"Jack…"
"I'm tired of being treated like a child, Luther. I want more."
The wind stirred between them. Luther stopped walking, his hand still resting upon his brother's shoulder. His tone, when he spoke, was quiet and sure.
"Jack," he said, "you are a fine brother—and though not much of a swordsman…"
Jack scoffed, the edge of a smile cracking his frown.
Luther's eyes warmed. "Give Father grace. Trust his judgment, and be grateful for the life we have. I love you, brother."
Jack turned toward the breeze, eyes distant, his chest rising with a long breath. "Maybe, brother… maybe."
He stepped close, clapping Luther's shoulder with a grin. "Come now. I'm hungry—and perhaps that virtuous barmaid might be persuaded to forgive our outstanding debt."
Luther laughed, shaking his head. "You'll be the ruin of me, Jack."
Their laughter carried over the valley as they made their way toward the gates of Naboth.
When they reached the palace gates, a crowd had gathered. Whispers ran like wind through reeds.
"Who is that?" a woman gasped. "What an awful smell!"
Luther pushed through the throng, calling out, "Guard! Report."
The soldier straightened, saluting. "Sire—men approach the gates. They seek speech with the King."
"Men?" Luther barked. "Open the gates."
The guards obeyed. The iron crank turned, shrieking, and the gates of Naboth groaned wide.
There, upon the sunlit road, stood King Harrod of the North. His raiment was of blackened velvet, his frame thin as a corpse's dream. About him gathered twelve hooded riders in red, their mounts great black war-horses whose breath steamed like smoke from Hell's furnace.
Luther raised his chin. "You stand before Naboth's gates. I am Prince Luther, son of Jarec. State your business."
A hush fell.
Then came that voice—soft, silken, sickly sweet.
"Good morning, noble prince of Naboth," Harrod hissed, bowing with exaggerated grace. "It is I, King Harrod of the North."
The crowd shuddered, rippling backward. Murmurs rose—
"Harrod? The Scourge of the North?"
"The butcher who razed Bluud…"
Jack leaned close to Luther. "Was he not the very one Father spoke of last night?"
Luther ignored him. "What brings you here, Harrod?"
"I come," said Harrod, lifting his head, "to seek audience with your King. I wish to speak of… trade."
Luther nodded curtly. "Then you shall have it. Guards—send word to the court. Inform my father he has a guest."
Within the great hall, sunlight poured through the high windows. King Jarec sat upon the marble throne, his robe of deep blue shimmering with threads of gold. His face was stern, prepared for Harrod's game.
Harrod entered, bowing low, the motion graceful yet wrong—like a serpent mimicking reverence.
"Noble Jarec," he crooned, "and noble sons. What joy it is to behold the rulers of such radiant lands."
Jarec's hand rose to his chest. "To what do we owe this… pleasure, King of the North?"
Harrod's hood fell. Beneath it gleamed a face both human and not: skin stretched pale as parchment, lips thin and cracked, eyes jaundiced with feverish light.
"My sincerest regrets, noble lord," Harrod said, pacing the marble with eerie poise. "I would have sent word—but the times are perilous, and courtesy must sometimes yield to necessity."
Jarec's voice was level, proud. "Necessity? What matter presses the Scourge of the North to come unbidden to Naboth's gate? Bluud, perhaps? You've taken their lands, have you not?"
Harrod's smile widened—too thin, too still.
"Indeed, lord. Bluud betrayed our pact—meat for fur, blood for warmth. They turned upon us. I prevailed."
Luther's eyes narrowed. Jack looked between them, uneasy, curiosity gnawing his restraint.
Jarec's tone sharpened. "So you bring your grievance here, to trade lies for favors?"
"Not lies, fair King," Harrod whispered, spreading his arms. "Only peace. A formal alliance between the North and Naboth. I offer meat, safe trade routes, and wealth beyond your vineyards' dreams."
Silence filled the hall—heavy, suffocating.
Jack broke it. "Perhaps, Father… we hear him out?"
"Silence, boy," Jarec thundered, his hand raised.
Harrod's eyes flicked to Jack—lingering, studying. His smile returned.
"The young prince is wise," he murmured, "for he knows what his people hunger for. The finest meats, tender and pure… and protection, too."
Luther stepped forward, rage boiling. "Trade routes?" he barked. "You speak of bandit lands, soaked in our merchants' blood!"
"Luther!" Jarec's voice cracked like thunder. The hall stilled.
Harrod merely smiled. "Forgive him," he said softly, "for passion ill-suits diplomacy." His fingers glided over his jeweled rings. "We only seek a corner of your valley, to build our butcheries, our homes… our slaughterhouses."
A hush deeper than silence followed.
Then Jarec rose. "Noble Harrod," he said slowly, "I have considered your proposal—and I must decline."
Harrod's bow faltered. "Lord Jarec, reconsider. Refusal… breeds misfortune."
Jarec stepped down from the throne, eyes burning with steady fire. "You come with lies, masked as tribute. Bluud were craftsmen, not trappers. You insult my throne and my name. Naboth offers you no trade, Harrod—only the road back to your frozen wastes."
Harrod's composure cracked. "You make a poor choice, King Jarec," he hissed, the words trembling with rage.
"And you make a poorer guest," Jarec replied, his voice a blade. "Leave my city."
Guards advanced. Harrod bowed again, the gesture hollow. His sentries stirred, claws rasping against marble as they turned.
As the Northmen departed, Jack walked beside their pale king. Harrod leaned near, his whisper a serpent's breath.
"Young prince," he murmured, "you are not like your father. I see fire in you. Come to us tonight—beyond the vineyards. See the North's truth and claim your destiny."
Jack's pulse thundered. The air seemed alive, trembling with unseen promise. "I… I will come," he breathed, the words tasting of sin and triumph both.
Harrod's grin split his face. "Good boy. The Queen will be most… pleased. Her welcomes are most...warm."
Jack's eyes glimmered like stars in wine-dark sky. His tone now held the lush cadence of temptation—half-Stoker, half-his-own undoing:
"Then I shall see your kingdom, Harrod. And perhaps… my own future within it. I look forward to your queen's welcome."
The gates closed behind them. Naboth slept in peace, yet above its dreaming spires burned a star—green and wicked, herald of the Wendigo's feast.