Marport—the only Merrow–Human settlement within the kingdom—lay in ruins.
The past decade had not been kind to it. From what Ventren could gather, the town had been put to the torch by the Royal Guard and the king's retinue. A dead soldier, still clutching a shield emblazoned with a two-headed golden eagle upon a yellow field, told him all he needed to know. The sigil of Maershal the Cruel who was the only one to use an eagle in place of the traditional wyvern.
His mother was long dead.
At least she had been spared the soldiers' hand. Her grave lay untouched, the tombstone simple and there were flowers laid atop. She had died of either old age or disease and the townsfolk—those who survived—had raised the stone in her honour.
Ventren had never known his father.
A half-merrow bastard, born of a union despised by both sides.
He kept his heritage hidden beneath armour and cloth. In most of the world, merrows were viewed as abominations. Once wholly sea-dwelling, their kind had evolved bipedal legs to live along the coast and in Marport they had done so openly. Outcast by humans and rejected by pure-blooded merrows alike, half-merrows had made this town their refuge.
They thrived.
Merrows were expert fishermen, sailors, traders—masters of all labour tied to the ocean. Through trade and skill, Marport grew prosperous and prosperity bred envy. Perhaps the royal coffers had run dry. Perhaps Maershal had overextended his wars and his gold. Whatever the reason, Marport had paid the price.
Now, rebuilding efforts stirred nearby. A makeshift inn stood among the ruins, its beams newly raised. Green-gold wyvern banners of the Prince Regent hung proudly along its foundations.
"Why do we fly royal colours," he demanded aloud, "when it was the Crown that did this?"
"The Prince Regent granted the new lord capital to rebuild," a townsman replied. "We should be thankful. He is nothing like his father." The man spat. "May the old king's soul rot."
Another voice snapped, harsher. "Everyone lost something here. What is it to you, outsider?"
Ventren removed his rusted helmet.
Golden eyes caught the light, skin faintly blue unmistakably merrow-blooded.
A murmur passed through the crowd.
"Oh… is that you, Ventren?" an old voice called from afar. "You were just a boy when you left with that nasty bastard Baron Stavross' group. Look at you now."
Old Man Copper.
Once a toymaker, carving wooden figurines for the town's children. Ventren had been sixteen when he left—drawn away by Stavross Cross, Irina, and Richard when their caravan passed through. He had already been strong then, handy with an axe, helping the lumberjacks—work few chose when the sea beckoned louder.
Even then, he had been large for his age. Six foot one and still growing.
Now he stood nearly seven feet tall.
His armour told another story. A closed bascinet and full plate once concealed his fish-like features, lending him an imposing presence. He had earned the coin for it through hard labour—hunting, hauling, trading—and through the Freehold, whose wages for dangerous contracts were hefty. Every quest his party undertook had been ranked A to S class.
But time had not been kind.
The steel was rusted, straps were torn. His plates dented and dulled and whatever intimidation he once had with this armor faded with the wear and time he spent blacked out. Ventren nodded and walked past the old man. He was too exhausted to engage in conversation. The old man gave him a look but ultimately decided to leave it be.
Well, it seems the Prince Regent isn't a bad man… Wait, did he say 'Baron' Stavross?
Ventren entered the inn and listened to the low murmur of voices around him. Talk drifted between tables—women, ale, loss, rebuilding. Then something else surfaced.
A tournament.
"…heard the king's holding one. Royal Guard selection or whatever."
"A waste of time, if you ask me. No one here's getting far."
"They even holding it nearby? This town's barely standing."
"Well, Ironhold isn't far. Still, I doubt I'd pass the qualifiers."
A snort. "You can't even lift a sword. Besides, money's no issue this time. Equipment's standardised—no rich brat advantage. The Prince wants real fighters. A damned sight better than the old king's way."
"It's mostly held for former Freehold members to prove their worth anyways. Many of those adventurers have nothing to do now that the local militias are strengthened against threats and stuff…"
"Oh yes, heard if you perfom well you may be offered an instructor position within the royal retinues!"
Another voice, lower and with more grit stated; "Heard that filthy Baron Stavross is entering."
Silence followed.
"Fuck me… the old king really gave that scum an aristocratic title."
"Heard it from the last lord. He pointed the Crown at our town and used the few Merrows protesting against the king as an excuse." The speaker spat. "We all know he just wanted our coin."
Ventren's attention sharpened and he approached their table.
"Did you say Stavross Cross?" he asked evenly. "Leader of the Freehold party Blind Stars?"
The men glanced up.
"Aye. Except there is no more Blind Stars nor such things as Freeholds"
Another man continued, "Used to be a hero. Still is—to everyone but us. If I ever got my hands on him…" The speaker clenched a fist. "…shame I'm weak."
"Only his second ever stood a chance against him, we heard." another added. "Ventren was his name. A local half-Merrow who lived here." He shook his head. "Haven't seen him in years. Unless he's still breathing, no one's taking that Royal Guard spot from Stavross. We're fucked."
Ventren inclined his head slightly. "Thank you for the information."
He left the inn at once, passing by Old Man Copper. Ventren gave him a smile but walked right past him. Ventren heard an audible snort.
Moments later, he was mounted, visored down, spurring his horse hard towards Ironhold. He had to register for the tournament as soon as possible.
The Great Tournament is where I'd find Stavross Cross. I'll kill Stavross during the tournament and make it look like an accident.
Not for glory nor for the Crown but for what he had done to him and for what he had done to Marport.