After a long day’s journey across dusty roads, Prince Alaric and his weary escorts finally sought refuge for the night in a modest roadside inn.
Though the prince now bore the shame of exile, his bloodline still commanded a certain reverence; he was, after all, the eldest son of King Heimdal.
The royal guards, bound by duty to follow the crown prince’s order to make Alaric’s journey as arduous as possible, found themselves caught between loyalty and conscience. In their hearts, they believed the king had erred—banishing a noble heir who many still whispered was blameless in the tragic death of the first queen. They were all aware that King Heimdal did not favor Prince Alaric. He hated him because, in his mind, he caused the first queen’s early demise.
Yet they reminded themselves that exile, bitter as it was, spared the prince a darker fate.
That night, the captain of the guards granted Alaric a private room—small and sparse, but far better than the cold earth beneath the stars. The inn’s quiet hum of voices and the creak of wooden beams offered brief respite from the weight of treachery and regret that haunted them all.
Before the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, two shadowy figures slipped out of the inn, cloaked against the chill of morning. They guided their horses north, toward the towering walls of the capital.
The merchant and his assistant had arrived at the inn hours before Alaric’s company the night before. Their origins traced to the distant town of Cavinta. Just as the horses of the two merchants disappeared from view, the captain woke up and readied the group to continue their journey.
By early afternoon, the southern gate of the capital loomed before the two merchants. A soldier, sharp-eyed and vigilant, stepped forward, his gaze narrowing as he scrutinized their travel documents.
"Where are you from?" he demanded, his tone crisp with suspicion.
But when his eyes met the merchant’s—a pair of cold, obsidian eyes that seemed to pierce his soul—his voice faltered. A bead of sweat traced down his brow, and he shifted uncomfortably under the stranger’s unyielding stare.
"I come from Cavinta," the merchant answered, his voice as frigid as the steel gate barring entry. His hood cast deep shadows across his face, concealing all but the glint of those merciless eyes.
The soldier swallowed hard. "Your name... and—remove your hood."
With apparent reluctance, the merchant pushed the hood back, revealing a face marred by a jagged scar that stretched just above his eyes—a cruel reminder of some long-forgotten violence.
The soldier gasped, recoiling slightly at the sight, and hastily motioned for him to cover himself again.
"Your name and your business in the capital?" he pressed, striving to steady his voice.
"Kasmer," the merchant said, his tone flat as stone. "I come to purchase iron horses and sell them in Cavinta. Nothing more."
The soldier hesitated, then nodded, unable to shake the chill that lingered in the air between them. With a grunt, he stepped aside, allowing Kasmer and his companion to pass. The merchants urged their horses forward, their carriage creaking as it rolled toward the bustling workshop of Matthias, deep within the heart of the capital.
The southern gate closed behind Kasmer and his companion with a hollow clang, as if the city itself were sealing in its secrets. The streets beyond teemed with life—vendors hawking wares, urchins darting between carts, and guards in polished mail patrolling with wary eyes. But none dared meet Kasmer’s gaze for long.
Something about him, beyond the scar and cold demeanor, spoke of danger—coiled, waiting.
Their carriage rattled along the uneven cobbles, drawing closer to Matthias’ sprawling workshop, where smoke and flame painted the wall in shades of ash and ember. The iron horse—an invention that took Northem by storm was forged there.
Kasmer’s companion, almost as tall as he was, was cloaked in brown and leaned toward him. "Are we not drawing too much attention?"
Kasmer’s lip curled into something that might have been a smirk. "Let them look. It won’t matter soon."
They pulled into Matthias’s workshop, where the air shimmered with heat, and the roar of bellows drowned idle conversation. Kasmer dismounted, boots striking the ground with purpose, and approached a grimy apprentice.
"Tell Matthias that Kasmer of Cavinta is here to speak of business," he said, his voice smooth, but carrying an edge that made the boy flinch.
The apprentice hesitated only a heartbeat, then darted inside, casting a single fearful glance over his shoulder at the scarred stranger.
Inside the workshop, where molten iron hissed and sparked, the boy’s voice rang out in breathless haste. "Master Matthias! A merchant—Kasmer of Cavinta—he seeks you."
Moments later, Matthias emerged from the glow of the forge, wiping soot-stained hands on a leather apron. He was a giant of a man, broad-shouldered and bearded, with eyes as hard and weathered as the iron he shaped. As his gaze met Kasmer’s, something in those deep, scrutinizing eyes gave him pause. A flicker of memory—familiar yet impossible.
"Kasmer of Cavinta?" Matthias rumbled, voice like a landslide. His frown deepened as he studied the merchant’s face. Why do you remind me of someone long gone?
"Come," he said at last, uneasy. "Let’s speak inside."
Matthias led the way into his reception chamber, now feeling small and stifling in the presence of this imposing visitor. Though Matthias stood tall, Kasmer’s stature seemed to fill the room, his shadow stretching long across the floorboards.
"I was told you seek iron horses." Mattias started. "Unfortunately, we cannot produce a lot in a day, plus the crown prince has a list of whom to prioritize.
Kasmer took a step forward, close enough that the flickering light from the workshop revealed every cruel line of the scar that marred his brow and the glint of cold purpose in his dark eyes. Matthias stiffened. That voice—calm, controlled—that voice.
"Those are not what I want," Kasmer said, his voice quiet and calm. "I want your allegiance."
Mattias stiffened. That vioce... it was his voice.
Then he held the merchant’s gaze a little longer, his eyes widened in disbelief.
"It is you! How can it be you?" Matthias asked enthusiastically.
But before Matthias could utter another word, Kasmer raised a gloved hand, placing one finger over his lips, silencing him with a single, commanding gesture.
"We need a place to stay," Kasmer said, his voice now low and urgent. "See to it. And speak no more of this—not here."
Matthias, heart pounding, nodded mutely.