*Book One of the Amor Fati Series*
Prince Calanthe Ámarent, once the child of a beloved queen regnant and now a disgraced prince, goes on a journey to re-discover his identity after experiencing tragedy, loss, and abuse at the hands of his Aunt, Qu...
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A few hours had passed since the Tarynians had made landfall in their homeland. The foothills of the mountain of Folki began the region of Taryn's kingdom. Hrafn had suggested Calanthe revert to calling him Hrafn in the presence of the people of Taryn. It was a formality or so he had played it off as.
Due to severity of Hrafn's injury, he had been taken into care at the village of Kollsvíake, a place that Calanthe had learned that Rein had grown up in.
Calanthe sat idly on a stool. He glanced around the wooden cabin, gazing over the antlers and bear skulls on the walls. Night fell early, and with it the chill came down from the mountains, spiking a chill through his spine. He shivered before he leaned into the hearth, letting the warmth flood through his aching bones. The fire crackled and sizzled and danced upwards through the chimney. The flames wavered from the lashing winds that bit through the walls.
The second Rein, Ta'lat, and Erlendr entered, Calanthe bolted from his stool. His eyes widened as he stared at the blood coating through clothes. Calanthe and Hrafn had fled together from the war between the free people of Othmar and the mercenaries of Taras, missing the worst of the battle, but with good measure.
"How is His Grace?" Ta'lat asked, ragged and out of breath.
Calanthe chewed his bottom lip, his gaze turning to the closed door on his right. "Nalmald said the poison wasn't as great as Hrafn had thought. She was able to cure him of it immediately and bandage it."
Erlendr dropped to the floor nearest to the door and rested his face in his hands, breathing unsteadily. Ta'lat passed him by and entered the room, to keep watch over their king. Rein forced a weak smile for Calanthe before he, too, dropped to the ground beside Erlendr. Calanthe's heart crumbled for them. He couldn't imagine battling every single day. It had to take a thousand tolls on a person's soul.
Calanthe cleared his throat, then glanced around for food or water. He spotted a pitcher on a table to his left before he walked over to it. He grabbed three tin cups, then began to pour a smelling liquid into them. It reeked, making him cough and want to pinch his nose.
"It's hard ale. It was crafted here in the mountains of Folki and the fields we own in Kollsvíake," Rein stated, his tone hoarse. "Nalmald is an ancient healer, all know her well. She began in the city walls of Taryn's greatest city that was before Sindri dismissed her presence. Afterwards, the city was renamed by Hrafn to Borinnblakkr. Borinn for born, and blakkr for darkness. The walls there are dark and tall and span onwards and upwards into the mountains."
"I've heard the tales. They often portray the Tarynians as brutish villains in need of no mercy," Calanthe replied, bringing two cups over to the warriors. He offered one to Erlendr, then to Rein. "I have come to see that not as the fact. Perhaps, everything I have been told is written wrong. The scholars..." he paused, then let a sigh fall from his lips. "The scholars of old were biased. Gharashians once were banded together as one before the great betrayal between Sindri, Ragna, and Aelfgar."
