A Thousand-Year Bond
The fifteenth day of the eighth month of Pholus 204, more than a thousand years before the present day
A flick of his wrist sent ten heads rolling; a swing of his arm sent one hundred heads flying. One word from his lips could ruin a nation; one flash of his fangs could topple a hundred. Unbelievable though it may sound, such was the might of Leon Welt Artheus von Grantz, the Lionheart, beloved of the Spirit King—and the man who would be known in the world to come as Zertheus, the First God.
The air was muggy with humidity as Artheus arrived at the retreat.
“Curse this heat a thousand times! From whence does it spring?!”
Complaining like a boy half his age, the golden-haired, golden-eyed youth sprang down from his carriage. That was no figure of speech—he leapt straight out of the moving vehicle, landed gracefully, and tossed aside his luxurious, gold-threaded cloak. Heedless of dirtying his clothes, he stripped his muscular torso bare. His fine-featured face contorted as he glared up at the sun.
“Come, then!” he yelled. “Face me! I’ll drag you down to earth and teach you a lesson!”
For all that he was king of his nation and powerful enough to make those around him bend the knee, the heat seemed to have addled his wits.
As Artheus yelled his anti-sun tirade to the sky, his carriage raised a cloud of dust as it screeched to a stop nearby. A black-haired boy disembarked and watched his comrade’s antics with a slightly pained expression.
“You do realize that would burn the planet up, don’t you?” he called out.
He was Held Rey Schwartz von Grantz, the renowned Hero King of Twinned Black. It had been his singular tactical acumen that had saved Artheus’s kingdom from destruction, and it had been he who had freed humankind from the yoke of the zlosta. In the world to come, he would be known as the War God and beloved by soldiers and peasants alike—but for now, he had accomplished no deeds worthy of that honor, and the world did not yet know his name.
“How can you be so composed?! Are you not hot? Surely you must be! A retreat, they called this place, and to my face! A retreat from what?! The heat is as bad here as anywhere else!”
“It is,” Schwartz said, “but I can put up with it.”
“Now there’s the brother I know. When the women all squeal about the frosty Lord Schwartz every time you walk the streets, I assume that’s what they mean.” Artheus’s eyes were cold, and there was a hint of jealousy in his voice.
Schwartz gave a forced laugh and shrugged. “You always make such weird assumptions. I promise you, no one’s squealing over me.”
“You lie, brother. I have watched with my own eyes as commoner girls forced love letters into your hands.”
“Well...okay, maybe that happens sometimes.”
“I, the king himself, receive only endless proposals for political unions, while my brother dallies with the townsfolk and leaves me all the paperwork. It hardly seems fair.”
“If you don’t like the arrangement, I’d be happy to swap places.”
Although Schwartz had spoken in jest, Artheus’s eyes narrowed sharply, like a hawk that had caught sight of its prey. What gleamed within them was neither anger nor scorn, but earnest hope. Perhaps the heat had confused his judgment, but he seemed to have taken the offer seriously.
“If you wished it,” he said, “I would yield the kingship in an instant.”
“No, that’s not what I...” Taken aback, Schwartz struggled for words.
“My country would be a smoking ruin if not for you, and I would lie dead. My crown is a trifle next to the debt I owe. I would give it gladly.”
Schwartz suddenly felt certain that if he said yes, Artheus would yield the kingship the very next day. He would bully any opponents into silence, convince the people through strength of will—whatever was necessary, he would see it done.
“I appreciate the offer, but...”
Artheus snorted. A grin spread across his face as he wrapped an arm around Schwartz’s shoulders. “A jest, brother. Forgive my tasteless humor.”
“I should be the one to apologize,” Schwartz said. “I shouldn’t have joked about that.”
“Think nothing of it. More to the point...” With a white grin, Artheus flung his weight onto Schwartz’s back. “I am exhausted. You must carry me to the mansion!”
“What are you talking about?! Walk there yourself!”
“I refuse! Carry me! Your king commands it!”
“Stop that! Get off me, idiot!”
Blood runs thicker than water, they said, and so the difference between blood relatives and others was like heaven and earth. If so, the bond between Schwartz and Artheus surely ran thicker than any blood.
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