Rejoice, for the Lord of Laughter walks among us, his voice carried in every chorus of gaiety and song. Vanir, the God of Mirth, teaches that joy is not a mere indulgence but a sacred duty, a balm for weary souls and a light against the dark. To dance is to honor him, to jest is to invoke his favor, and to weave tales that stir the heart is to walk his path.
Beware the weight of a joyless heart, for sorrow left to fester is a gateway to ruin. A kingdom without revelry is a land in decay, and a warrior who forgets to laugh is already lost to despair. Vanir does not shun hardship, nor does he dismiss sorrow, but he reminds us that even in the bleakest nights, a single spark of laughter can keep the shadows at bay.
It is said that when kings grow too solemn and rulers too grim, Vanir sends his tricksters to stir the court, lest the land fall into lifeless silence. When the common folk forget to sing, his whispers find their way into taverns and homes, urging bards and fools alike to lift their voices. For delight is not the privilege of the wealthy nor the luxury of the idle—it is the right of all who draw breath, a gift as vital as food and rest.
So let the halls ring with merriment, the streets hum with melody, and the weary find solace in the warmth of shared joy. For where there is mirth, there is Vanir, and where there is Vanir, there is life.
Siegfried trudged along at the rear of the caravan, boots kicking up dust with every step. Even from here, he could hear the fool—laughing away the day from inside the center wagon while the guards and wardens were forced to march on foot. It wasn't the journey that bothered him, but they had barely left Aldinia, and that liegeling was already grating on his nerves.
He cast a glance at his fellow guardians—five in total, three other aspirants and the lieutenant assigned to mentor them.
His gaze drifted to the front of the caravan, where Lieutenant Archibald led with an easy stride. The man had been a Warden longer than Siegfried had been alive, yet he carried himself without the stiffness of rank. Friendly, patient, the kind of leader who spoke to recruits as if they were already comrades rather than burdens to be molded. He never raised his voice, never barked orders. Yet, somehow, everyone listened when he spoke.
What Siegfried couldn't figure out was what kind of Warden he had been before taking on recruits. Archibald never spoke of his past, and had yet to use a single Arte. The lieutenant didn't even carry a weapon. Either he didn't need one, or he preferred to let the aspirants handle threats as part of their training. If it was the latter, Siegfried wasn't sure if it was faith or laziness.
He looked the part of an ordinary traveler more than a soldier—green tunic, plain trousers, not a scrap of armor in sight. His features were surprisingly scarce of scarring when compared to the other high-rank wardens he had met. However, the man's brown hair had begun its retreat, leaving a noticeably hairless forehead and partial scalp.
Siegfried exhaled through his nose. A month under the man's guidance, and he still hadn't unraveled the mystery that was Archibald. However, after his fight in the colosseum, he had developed a healthy respect for First Class Wardens. If Archibald asked him to do something, he would do it.
He looked towards the other three aspirants, his attention settling on Anna first. She was an odd one—quiet, almost timid, yet carrying an air of quiet resolve. He suspected she was of noble blood, though she refused to confirm it, offering only Northgate as her surname. A contradiction in itself. If she were a commoner from Northgate, she would have a northern accent, thick and unmistakable. But a noble of Northgate? They buried their dialect, speaking with the artiiculation of proper aristocracy.
Stripped of her name. Sent to the Wardens. That was his best guess.
Then there was her domain—Conjurer. If she truly was nobility, she likely hailed from the Stahlberg line, a family renowned for their skill in summoning. Yet in the month he had known her, he had never once seen her with a familiar. If she had one, it remained hidden.
She was an enigma wrapped in peculiar habits. Short brown hair, though much of it remained obscured beneath the fox mask she always wore atop her head. Siegfried didn't know the meaning behind it, but he had noticed one thing—sometimes, without a word, she would lower the mask over her face, cutting herself off from the world. She would continue whatever she was doing, hands steady, feet sure, but she would not speak until the mask was lifted again. Sometimes it stayed down for minutes. Other times, for hours.
She was strange, but he didn't mind her presence. She rarely spoke and was easy to work with—traits he had come to appreciate.
Siegfried's gaze fell to the last two—Terry and Blanca. A pair, inseparable, both a few years older than him and both equally insufferable. They talked too much, filling the silence with idle chatter about their backwater village, a place he had long since decided wasn't worth remembering.
Terry was an Enchanter, the kind that could swell his muscles with spira, thickening his frame like a man twice his size. A useful ability—if he had the finesse to match. But from what Siegfried had seen, Terry relied too much on brute strength, charging in headfirst and flailing through fights like a man who thought power alone was enough. If he could heal, maybe he would be more useful. But no, Terry only knew how to get big.
Blanca, at least, had some practical utility. A Blitzer, fast enough to weave through rough terrain, darting in and out of reach before most opponents could react. But speed alone wasn't enough. She fought with a short spear, light and quick, yet lacking the reach and force of something more substantial. With her wiry frame, she didn't have the muscle to wield anything heavier, which left her relying purely on her agility. That might work against undisciplined foes, but Siegfried doubted it would be enough when it truly mattered.
They weren't useless, but they weren't impressive either. Just two villagers who had gotten it in their heads to become wardens, clinging to each other like it meant something.
Siegfried sighed. They were what they were. As long as they did their jobs, he wouldn't complain, but they better not hold him back.
A bell tolled from the heart of the caravan, its chime cutting through the steady rhythm of marching feet. The wagons rolled to a halt as the accompanying guards moved swiftly, fanning out to form a protective perimeter as the noble they escorted stepped out from his carriage and onto the road.
His eyes narrowed as he watched his charge for this assignment, Everett Erbach, step forward. The man was around the same age as himself, with black hair that framed his face and bright green eyes that gleamed in the sunlight. It was easy to see why he was well-liked, with his natural charisma and friendly smile that won over nearly everyone he met.
Siegfried, however, knew more than the average person about the heir of House Erbach. It was a nobleman's duty to keep track of the other houses of nobility. The gossip was hard to ignore. Everett was infamous for being a constant reveler, a man whose appetite for excess bordered on the absurd. Alcohol flowed through his veins as much as blood did, and he chased entertainment to the point where it became a reckless pursuit. Some said he was more at home in the taverns of Aldinia than in the halls of his own keep, flitting from one indulgence to the next as though nothing else mattered.
Despite his flippancy, his charms made him popular with the common folk and the nobility alike. He could talk circles around anyone, his pointed wit drawing laughter even when irritation was the more fitting response. A master of the social game, he wielded charm like a shield, deflecting attention from his more questionable habits.
But Siegfried wasn't deceived. Beneath the grin and honeyed words, Everett was a man driven by the need for his next vice, his next fleeting thrill. He lived not for duty or legacy, but for the constant pursuit of amusement. To Siegfried, Everett Erbach was nothing more than a fool masquerading as a lord.
This monster hunt was a waste of time. They weren't protecting a town or repelling a rampaging beast. No, this was just another excuse to feed Everett's insatiable thirst for excitement. A story he'd be retelling for years to come, even though he had a Warden attaché and a troop of his family's private guard at his disposal. Hardly an impressive feat to be bragging about.
It was an unlucky draw. All the hunters stationed in Aldinia were spread thin, handling more pressing matters. So, the task of babysitting the liegeling fell to the Guardian division—specifically, to their group.
"This will do nicely. We'll make camp here," Everett announced to the caravan, spreading his arms wide as if laying claim to the land itself.
Siegfried scanned the terrain, his lips pressing into a thin line. This was hardly an ideal campsite. The thick redwood trunks left little room for tents, save for the road itself—a road that other travelers might need to use. And beyond that, daylight still filtered through the canopy. They could have easily pushed forward for another hour with light to spare.
The night had settled in, draping the forest in a hush broken only by the crackling of campfires and the occasional murmur of conversation. A mild breeze wove through the towering redwoods and silverfurs, rustling the branches high above, their silhouettes swaying against the inky sky.
Across the length of the road, two separate encampments had formed. Closer to the noble's wagon, golden firelight danced against polished armor as Everett's guards lounged in relative ease. Laughter and the clinking of cups drifted from their side of the road, their voices carrying the carefree revels of men allowed to carouse on duty.
Further down, at the edge of the fire's glow, the wardens' site was a quieter affair. Their flame burned lower, casting shadows against bedrolls laid out on packed dirt. Siegfried sat near the flames, idly running a whetstone along the edge of his blade, his gaze flicking toward the guard's camp. The contrast was stark—one group indulging in luxury, the other left to their own devices.
Archibald sat with his back against a tree, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded but watchful. Anna sat a short distance away, mask lowered over her face, silent as always. Blanca and Terry whispered to each other, their conversation hushed, their faces cast in half-light.
The wind shifted, carrying with it the sound of Everett's chortling—loud, unbothered, the mirth of a man with no real concerns. Siegfried scoffed under his breath. A noble shouldn't be carousing with commoners, least of all his own guards.
A stir of movement in the other camp caught his eye. Everett had risen unsteadily to his feet, swaying before he took a few unsteady steps forward. He weaved across the road, his gait clumsy, clearly hindered by inebriation. Each step sent him lurching slightly to the side before he corrected, pressing forward with the confidence only a drunk man could muster.
"Welcome to our humble camp, heir Erbach," Archibald declared as Everett stepped into the light.
Everett, however, paid the Lieutenant no mind, flopping down beside Siegfried with the confidence of someone who had no concerns beyond his cup. The strong smell of wine radiated from him.
"Care to share a drink with me, my good sir?" Everett asked, offering Siegfried a wineskin with drink in an unsteady sway.
"Wardens are forbidden from indulging whilst on duty," Siegfried replied, voice flat and measured.
"How dreadfully dull..." Everett sighed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I suppose I could simply command you to drink with me, couldn't I?"
Siegfried shot a glance toward Archibald for some guidance, but the Lieutenant only shrugged, a gesture that spoke volumes of his indifference.
"I abstain from alcohol," Siegfried said coolly, turning back to Everett. "Return to your camp and trouble someone else."
"I refuse," Everett declared with a theatrical flourish, suddenly rising to his feet. He wobbled for a moment, then regained his balance with a grin. "All of you need to embrace the spirit of the hunt! Vanir won't bless us if you don't make merry!"
A silence fell over the site, the wardens exchanging glances as they observed the drunken noble, his words drifting into the stillness of the night. Eventually, his gaze shifted from Siegfried to the others sitting around the fire. He surveyed them briefly, before his eyes lingered on the two women.
"Well now, what have we here?" Everett's voice carried, a bit more playfully than it had been before. He leaned forward slightly, his attention clearly caught by the pair. "Woman one and woman two," he mused, voice dripping with casual interest. He eyed Blanca for a moment, tilting his head as though he were studying her like a puzzle, then quickly moved on to Anna. His gaze softened, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Now you—you're much more interesting, aren't you?"
He chuckled to himself, "Either one of you would find the night much more... entertaining if you left this dreary place and joined me for some proper fun," he offered, as if he were granting them a favor. The words were light, teasing, but it was clear he didn't expect refusal—not when he had this much charm to wield.
"They're not interested," Siegfried interjected before anyone else could speak. "It would be wise for you to return and rest in preparation for tomorrow."
Everett shot him a scowl, but it was fleeting, quickly replaced by the smile he wore so well. "Is that so? I suppose I'll have to wait until I return to Aldinia for some proper company... You have a sister, don't you?"
"By all means, my sister could certainly benefit from a husband," Siegfried sneered. "You'll first need to best her in a duel, of course."
"What are you—?" Everett began, but then a spark of recognition sparked behind his intoxicated haze. "How silly of me, I forgot for a moment I was speaking to an Albrecht. A family of psychopaths who think the only way to converse is through swordplay."
They all fell silent, the tension thick in the air. Terry and Blanca exchanged uneasy glances, but Archibald remained unfazed, lounging against a tree as relaxed as if he were taking an afternoon nap. Anna stared from behind her mask.
"Is that all?" Siegfried inquired, his tone betraying no sign of the insult.
The remark only served to provoke Everett further, his face reddening with rage, the wine unable to contain his growing fury.
Everett's gaze narrowed with condescension, studying Siegfried, as he moved to lean against the wagon. "Tell me, Siegfried," he started, his tone shifting to one of ridicule, "What possesses a man of your lineage to cast aside his noble heritage? To throw it all away for what? A meaningless title among the Wardens? You trade your birthright for the illusion of valor—how charming."
Siegfried remained silent, the faintest twitch of his jaw the only indication of his frustration. Everett stepped closer, savoring the discomfort, his words sharp as daggers. "Do you really think you'll achieve anything more than fleeting glory? You're nothing but a puppet, pretending to wield power while dancing to someone else's strings."
He scoffed, his lips curling into a mocking smirk. "And for what? To play at heroism in the mud and blood, abandoning your station for the promise of a life that's nothing more than a shadow of what you could have had."
Siegfried's eyes locked onto Everett's, a piercing glare. "I had heard tales of your boisterous drunkenness," he remarked candidly, "but I must confess, I did not expect you to be the sort to throw a tantrum so readily. Hardly becoming of a nobleman of your stature."
Terry accidentally let out a chuckle, which in turn made Blanca snicker as well. Everett whipped around to face the two aspirants, rage flashing across his face. The two quickly fell silent, hoping to avoid the noble's ire.
But to their surprise, Everett started laughing—a loud, unabashed burst that echoed into the night. "Ah, now that's more like it!" he exclaimed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "Some life, finally. You two—keep it up, I'll see you're properly rewarded." His voice was playful, clearly enjoying the shift in the atmosphere.
Even Siegfried was taken aback by the sudden swing in Everett's attitude. He was accustomed to the two-faced nature of the gentry, but this—this was something else entirely. He watched as the nobleman, now chatting with Terry and Blanca as if they were old friends, wore a smile that was all warmth and camaraderie. The anger had burned away as quickly as it came. The flush on his face had faded too—not just the blood of anger, but the one that came with too much drink as well. Was he only pretending to be drunk?
"What are we hunting, anyway?" Terry asked, his voice cutting through the air. Siegfried's attention snapped back to the conversation, curiosity piqued as he, too, wondered why they had ventured so deep into the Veldt Reach.
"I'm so glad you asked!" Everett exclaimed, stepping boldly in front of the embers, his form casting a long, imposing shadow across the brush. Siegfried watched as he walked right up to the flames, no sign of stumbling or befuddled steps. The nobleman was sober as could be.
Everett stood tall, his voice rich with enthusiasm while he began weaving the tale of the creature they were to face. He paced slowly, eyes flicking between the wardens as if measuring their reactions, his tone swapping from casual to captivating.
"Picture this: a creature, sleek and powerful, seven. No!—eight feet tall at the shoulders. Its body is built for speed, like a predator on the hunt. Thick fur, the kind you'd expect from a wolf, but beneath it—something tougher. Armor-like scales, dark and iridescent, running down its back, its tail, its limbs. When the light catches it just right, it gives off this eerie glow, like something pulled straight from your worst nightmares."
He paused for effect, catching their eyes, his smile widening at the sight of their intrigue.
"Now, the head," he continued, dragging out each word, "that's where it gets interesting. Feline, sleek—but the nose? It's more like a serpent's, capable of expanding just enough to sniff out a man's warmth. This beast doesn't hunt just with its eyes, but with its senses, its instincts."
Everett's hand swept through the air, as if conducting some grand performance. "Its ears are always swiveling, never missing a sound. And then—the frills, oh, the frills. These jagged, rock-like spines that run from the back of its head down its spine, pointy, more pronounced. Makes it look like it's wearing a crown of terror."
He let his gaze flick to the firelight, the shadows dancing across his face as he let the tension build.
"Its tail, too, is an instrument of death, deadly and precise. Long and whip-like, covered in small scales that end in a bony, serrated club. It uses it for balance, for quick turns, but don't let that fool you—it's a weapon in its own right. It'll slice you open, smash you, and it can even rattle to announce its presence, like some kind of warning."
His eyes sparkled with excitement now as he approached the final piece, voice lowering for the reveal.
"But the real danger?" He paused for effect, leaning in as if revealing a secret. "The real danger is its speed. It doesn't hunt like any beast you've ever faced. It strikes fast, then vanishes even faster. One moment, it's there, and the next—gone, leaving nothing but confusion and fear behind. It moves like the wind, disorienting its prey before they even realize what's happening."
Everett's smile stretched wider, his tone dropping lower, more serious.
"A thing that hunts in the shadows, outpaces even the swiftest horse. A creature of the night. A monster called the Rhyrax."
Terry and Blanca clapped with exaggerated enthusiasm, their applause ringing through the air as Everett bowed deeply, his grin widening with the praise. Siegfried, however, remained silent, his brow furrowed as he processed the description. He'd heard rumors of such a creature before, but the details were scarce, tucked away in obscure whispers and old tavern tales. The monster manuals he had read hardly mentioned it—perhaps a passing note, nothing more. It was clear now that the Erbach library was far better stocked than the Albrecht keep when it came to such things. Assuming that Everett wasn't making it all up.
"Do you have a way to track this Rhyrax?" Archibald's question surprised everyone as he joined the conversation.
"There's a cave at the base of a plateau, not too far from here," Everett said, gesturing vaguely into the forest. "Supposedly, there's a nest there."
"Supposedly?" Siegfried's annoyance was evident.
"Don't worry." Everett waved him off. "The information's solid. And even better—we're the only ones who know about it."
"Any information pertaining to a dangerous monster must be relayed to the Wardens," Archibald stated, his tone firm. "Withholding information could cost someone their life."
"Yes, yes," Everett replied dismissively, a trace of impatience in his voice. "This nest was just discovered yesterday, which is why my request was so urgent. We'll deal with the Rhyrax before it causes trouble for any travelers or villagers."
"And you seek to claim the glory before anyone else can," Siegfried remarked flatly. "You lecture me on the folly of glory-seeking, only to pursue it yourself."
"Come now," Everett chuckled, unfazed. "That was all in jest. I didn't mean anything by it."
"Excuse me... but... what if someone has already been harmed?" Anna's voice broke in, soft but clear. Siegfried hadn't even noticed she'd removed her mask until now.
"You act like the Wardens would've taken care of the monster right away, but we both know the Hunters are stretched thin as it is. Think of this as me doing you all a favor," Everett explained, his tone edged with frustration.
A silence settled once again. The crackling fire and the rustling trees were the only sounds that filled the space.
"You should return and rest," Siegfried muttered, his voice cold. "We depart early to handle it swiftly."
"Ugh, you people are too boring," Everett groaned, turning back toward his encampment. "So rigid with your silly rules and regulations."
"I look forward to hearing the bards sing of your valor tomorrow," Siegfried mocked, sarcasm dripping from every word. Archibald shot him a look, but he pressed on. "I'm certain they won't bother mentioning the loyal guards and dull Wardens who actually do the hunting."
Everett didn't respond as he disappeared into the night.
"Don't goad the man who hired us," Archibald scolded. "You'll only make the assignment more complicated."
Siegfried sighed, giving a resigned nod to his superior. The lieutenant was right—he probably shouldn't have said that.
The burning wood popped as his gaze lingered on the shadows flickering before the flames, his thoughts turning inward. The noble had struck a nerve, intentionally or not. The mention of Siegfried's family was a sore spot, but it was not the first time he'd been reminded of what they were.
Viktor's disappearance still haunted the Albrecht name, though it had happened long before Siegfried's time with the Wardens. It was a constant topic of discussion amongst the nobility of Aldinia with all kinds of outlandish tales and whispers thrown about.
Then there was Sieglinde, his sister. A noble lady, who had vowed not to marry until someone could best her in a duel. She wasn't just speaking of any duel, either. She meant a duel with sword in hand, no tricks, no magic. Just the pure artistry of swordplay. She rarely entertained suitors anymore.
And then there was Markus, his older brother. The Colosseum's grand champion, a man whose victories had become legends, though in Siegfried's mind, they were little more than brutal spectacles. Every conversation with Markus was more about who he had beaten than why. Not that they conversated often, he was more of a stranger than the servants back home.
Finally, there was Siegmar, his father. The man who ended the Great War with a single, decisive strike—a masterful display of ruthless efficiency that secured his place in history. To Siegfried, it was a reminder of what his family had built its reputation on: power, not diplomacy; strength, not tact.
Perhaps it was true. The Albrechts reveled in violence. Not in the way Everett reveled in drunken celebration, but in a darker fashion. Their world was one of warriors, of bloodlines carved by blades, and Siegfried was a product of that—whether he liked it or not.
He shook his head, forcing the thoughts away. Ruminating on his family was a waste of time. They were a twisted web he had no desire to unravel, a legacy he wished he could sever himself from. In truth, he despised them—though he rarely allowed himself to admit it. How many times had he wished for a different upbringing, a life untouched by the weight of their name? But wishing for something that could never be was as useless as trying to unmake the past.
What he could do—what he would do—was find the truth about Viktor, the one member of his family he had truly adored. And he would fulfill his duty as a Warden, with or without the burden of his bloodline.
That was his path now, and he would not falter.