Chapter 263 - Tyr I (2/2)

As the scene became clearer, it became more immersive until it became memory itself - .

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Tyr looked down at his hands. They were broad, brutish things with thick, calloused digits and knuckles filed down to flats from constant impact.

Hands meant for war. And with these hands, he had warred constantly for the better part of a month now, fending against the demons as they marched upon his home, his mountain, and most importantly, his beloved people.

And yet, he saw as his hands trembled. How they were lined with so very many scars of varying shapes and sizes. Most noticeably, there were the burns – great big patches of discolored and disfigured flesh that at this point made up more of his hand than unblemished flesh.

These were hands made for war, and for so long, Tyr had always felt insecure about them. As the third brother in line to a king that had been known for uplifting the kingdom through innovating mining and crafting, he had always felt himself unworthy of his royal blood. Little did he know of golemancy, nor did he have the right mind to take to artificing or even leading.

All he knew was to fight, and for years, that had not done much aside from landing him in occasional trouble and making him leader of a knightsguard that had done precious little for the past few centuries. He was always the failure of the family. One spoken about only in whispers, never able to do achieve more than the ordinary rabble that concerned themselves with the blade, not the gear.

For nobody dared to threaten the dwarves of the Triforge. Reaching the mountains from the Hinterlands was an immensely dangerous endeavor in of its own, and humans forming the six city states of the Alliance were all too focused squabbling among their own to ever pose a true threat.

Thus, the Triforge prospered untouched and seemingly invincible, only ever laid low once during the Second Darkening three hundred years prior, when the world was yet still forging balance after the First Darkening that began it all.

But what ever were the chances for another Darkening? After the second, the demons had thoroughly been routed, the dragons sending them reeling back in purging dragonflame and the last of the angels sacrificing themselves to seal the evil creatures in their far western lands of chaos, away from any mortal life.

Alas, fate proved to be a cruel and unpredictable mistress.

For the Lightseal had inexplicably shattered, and another Darkening, the third of its kind, had begun once more.

Now, for the better part of a half year, Tyr had fought. He fought and fought and fought, and then fought again. He saw his men come and go, burning away in hellfire or torn apart by claw or melted by poison.

He saw his father, the king, fall, then his brothers one by one, until now, it was he, the prodigal son, the useless prince who knew nothing but the fight, who ruled as king, and even now, all he could do was fight, for that was all that he had known. All that he was good at.

It was not enough.

Tyr clenched his fists.

He should not have been surprised. He was never enough. Never had been. But soon, for once he would be worthy. Worthy of being royalty, of wearing the heavy crown gracing his matted hair, of the sacrifices that so many of his people had made for him, of bearing hopes and dreams all his people had set upon him.

He would be worthy after this one single ritual that would change everything and grant him the promised might of the gods.