Winter arrived early and in force that year. A late fall storm that lasted over a week started with a deluge of rain but the colder temperatures that accompanied the storm quickly turned the rain to first ice and then snow. As the snow continued for days on end it piled higher and higher on the city of Falkaria and the castle nestled on the ridgeline. The cold originally brought by the storm settled in and the snow refused to melt for days after the storm had abated.

  Residents of the city were all but buried inside their homes and the situation in the castle was no different. Paths that were nearly tunnels had to be dug through the courtyard to reach the outbuildings like the stable, the castle fortifications, guardhouses and the forge.

  For Turgeon life went on much as it had before winter set in, and he settled deeper into his new quarters in the Swordmaster’s tower. Given the additional exposure to the elements this far above the ground level of the keep he had expected his new room to be colder than his servant’s cell, but he found the opposite to be true. As with the rest of the keep, the tower was well constructed and his room had no drafts, even the large window in his new room was set with a tight frame and panes of glass to prevent the cold from intruding.

  Certainly the thick rug in his room helped, as did the fireplace the valet, Staven, kept at a constant low burn in the common room next door.

  Though it pained him, Turgeon heeded Geoffry’s advice and had given up on seeing his friend for now.

  In exchange he grew closer to his new friend Daelrud, sharing stories of growing up on farms. The farm Turgeon and Aelfredd had run was on a smaller scale than the Ko valley estate Daelrud’s family ran, but they still found more in common to bond over. They were both the outcasts of the castle, shunned by the other residents – particularly those of their own cohort in the court.

  Suzette, the Princess, was of course at the top of the social pyramid. Brigitta, though a servant, was also her friend – or at least their relationship was more complicated than a simple master/servant paradigm. Turgeon hadn’t snooped, and he heard no further conversations between them of the sort he had overheard in the hallway that day, but he knew there was more to the two of them than met the eye.

  From a social perspective this manifested in an unusually powerful position in the hierarchy for Brigtta, who was otherwise just a servant. It was easy to ascertain this did not bode well for Turgeon.

  Y’grathen was one step down from the Princess, nearly an equal with Brigitta (who was only half a step below the Princess – or perhaps more accurately, she stood on the dias where the Princess sat). The proud son of the Duke of Fjaarlgard, Y’grathen was a prime specimen of the heroic nobleman: strong and martial, clever and cruel – Turgeon was pretty sure Y’grathen secretly fancied himself Bargrath returned. Y’grathen’s favorite pastime seemed to be embarrassing and abusing Dealrud and Turgeon, and he availed himself of it often.

  In the summer, when the court was in full swing, there would be a full complement of count’s daughters and baron’s sons to fawn over Suzette and moon at Y’grathen as they held balls and went on hunts beyond the city walls.

  A smaller clique was trapped inside the castle for the winter: in addition to Y’grathen and Daelrud, there were the Thoth twins and Hildagaar.

  The Thoth boys were from Innsurmer, a small barony in Ko. From what Turgeon had gathered from Daelrud the fishing village was not friendly to visitors, so little was known of the region and people. Ed and Ted, as they were known, seemed friendly to an extent but they always laughed along with Y’grathen when he mocked and embarrassed Daelrud and Turgeon.

  Ed and Ted had claimed to be leaving to return home for the winter ‘soon’ for days before the storm hit, but with the coming of the storm they had abandoned any pretense of leaving and settled in for winter in the castle.

  Hildagaar kept to herself, rarely even joining the court for dinner in the evening. Turgeon had only once glimpsed her when she had come to visit the library one afternoon, to exchange books. She had been accompanied by an intimidating soldier, a member of the King’s Own Guard. Master Jesphat had refused to discuss the girl, but Daelrud had supplied the truth that evening at dinner.

  “I saw a strange thing in the library today,” Turgeon had told his new friend, “A girl, not much older than we are, was escorted to the library by a member of the King’s Own Guard.”

  That captured Daelrud’s attention quickly, and he pressed Turgeon for more details, “What did she look like, can you describe her?”

  “Of course. She was tall and slender, almost severe. Pale gold hair in a single thick plait down to her back, pale skin to match. Her eyes were the lightest sky blue I’ve ever seen.”

  “How was she dressed?”

  “Her dress was simple but well tailored. Not cheap, but also not as rich and expensive as you would expect from a noble girl her age at court. The fabric was light blue, a match for her eyes.”

  “You might have seen Hildagaar, the King’s hostage,” Daelrud sounded… impressed, maybe? Or perhaps incredulous, as if Turgeon was describing a unicorn sighting to him – something everyone knew hadn’t occurred in Falkaria in hundreds of years.

  “The King’s hostage? Why would the King have a hostage?”

  “It’s a bit of a long story…” Daelrud demurred, while at the same time glancing around to confirm nobody was paying attention to them. As usual, everyone in the hall that night was ignoring the two outcasts at their small table. Turgeon said nothing, but his flat glare made it clear to Daelrud he wasn’t accepting that excuse.

  With a sigh, Daelrud launched into Hildegaar’s story.

  “A little under a decade ago, there was an uprising in Fjaarlgard. The Count of Jarlheim gathered the majority of the nobles of Fjaarlgard to his banner in an attempt to unseat Duke Y’gurth of Fjaarlgard.

  “As you know, the Duke has a well deserved reputation for cruelty and many of the nobles of Fjaarlgard chafed under his vassalage. The Count and his rebellion presented them with an outlet to protest high taxes and the abuses of the Duke’s soldiers.

  “The conflict dragged out for months, with the Count’s forces taking to ancestral caves in the Fjaarlreach mountains and raiding villages and forts under the Duke’s control before returning to their mountain caves.

  “Unfortunately for the Count, the King and his allies eventually came to the aid of Duke Y’gurth. The two sides met in pitched battle on the field before Fjaarlton, and the Count and his companions were vastly outnumbered. Despite the Count putting up a valiant fight, in the end – and while sustaining heavy losses – the Duke and the King prevailed and crushed the rebellion.”

  Here, Daelrud paused and sat back in his seating, sipping his watered wine. His own eyes seemed to grow a bit watery and he stared into the distance of the hall for a time before continuing with the story.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “The Count’s son, Durgaar, who was only a boy at the time of the rebellion, was allowed to take his place, with oversight from a regent controlled by Duke Y’gurth. To ensure Durgaar’s obedience, his sister, Hildagaar was taken hostage by the Duke’s ally, the King.

  “That is why Hildagaar lives here, but is under constant guard.”

  This was not the first Turgeon had heard of Count Jarlheim’s Rebellion, of course. He and Master Jesphat had studied the events of the rebellion. Despite that particular history having occurred not even a decade ago, it had felt like the distant past before. Now, knowing he knew and lived in the same building as people still directly impacted by those events made it seem closer and more real.

  “She’s still here though?”

  “Now more than ever they need her here, Durgaar came of age this past year and had Y’gurth’s regent forcibly removed from his hold. Hildagaar’s presence here is perhaps the only thing keeping him in check.”

  That outright civil war was such a real and close possibility was a shocking thought to Turgeon, prompting many questions that he began to ask his friend, “Do you really think –”

  Just then Daelrud rudely kicked him under the table to silence his questions and hissed a name, “Y’grathen!” under his breath. Sure enough, the Duke’s son Y’grathen was approaching for his nightly round of tormenting the younger boys. He didn’t need to be told this wasn’t a topic of conversation to share with Y’grathen.

  *****

  Throughout the winter his training with the Swordmaster had progressed apace as well. They had moved on to learning the four guards of grappling: the graceful yet threatening flowing river, the dominant forcefulness of blowing wind, the brutal dominance of grasping flames and the confident steadiness of stone wall.

  The Swordmaster first taught Turgeon to employ the guards in fending off various attacks, flowing and redirecting his opponent’s force into a throw. At first, Turgeon ended up on the floor more often than the master when he attempted to execute the throws. Eventually he got the hang of the footwork and began properly using his leg muscles to drop his weight and move his entire body down instead of leaning over, which would break his stance and leave him off balance and more likely to fall himself than to throw his opponent.

  He learned how to push an attacker’s elbow to easily direct their attack offline, one day spending an entire morning deflecting punches thrown at him from all angles with this simple defense.

  Over the course of the winter his relationship with the Swordmaster improved, somewhat. While he by no means liked the man, and continued to avoid his company when at all possible, he had at least become cordial with him and managed to refrain from outright hostility.

  Despite their improved relationship, it still surprised Turgeon when one morning the Swordmaster beckoned the boy into his converted office space off of the common room. Prior to this the room had been expressly off limits and forbidden.

  “Take a seat,” the Swordmaster said as they entered the small room, gesturing at the open reading chair across the desk from what was obviously his own chair. He settled into that and made himself comfortable while Turgeon studiously took in his surroundings.

  Shelves lined the rooms walls, obviously intended to hold books, but mostly holding other items: memorabilia, trophies and even a few small and obscure weapons occupied most of the shelf space.

  “It is time we discuss an important decision that must be made before we can progress much farther in your training,” and Turgeon knew this discussion would be about his choice of ideals.

  If he was honest with himself, he had to admit he hadn’t really considered the choice since his discussion over a month ago with the Royal Librarian on the subject. He had begun to consider alternatives to the well known High Five Ideals but had been overwhelmed by the nearly infinite scope of possibilities and allowed himself to be distracted with other tasks and thoughts.

  Much like the overwhelming scope of strange items in the Swordmaster’s office was now distracting him as he tried to focus and participate in the discussion. What was that skull on the third shelf behind the desk? It vaguely resembled a wolf skull, but the snout was short and it was overall much too large.

  Meanwhile, the Swordmaster was rambling on and on about the High Five, it sounded like he had made his way to Wisdom, the Second High Ideal. At this rate it could take all morning just to hear the Swordmaster explain what he already knew from reading the Manual and discussions with Master Jesphat.

  “… of course, that brings us to the Third High Ideal, that of Peace. The path of peace is daunting for a soldier to undertake, and one who fights for the ideal of peace will find themselves forever at war with their own choices. Peace can be both a means to an end, and the end itself. One view of the path of peace, that of Peace as an end goal to be achieved, has led to possibly more bloodshed than any other single ideal in the history of Atenla …”

  As his wandering gaze continued to rove around the shelves it happened on an object that nearly made his jaw drop: on the shelf above the Swordmaster was a small wooden box that at first glance was identical to the box hidden in his own trunk.

  “… in my personal opinion, there is real joy to be found in following the ideal of Truth,” the timing of this revelation was fortunate, as the Swordmaster clearly interpreted Turgeon’s shocked expression as a reaction to his revealing his own personal ideal and not to the object on the shelf. He chuckled and continued, “Don’t look so surprised. Yes, it is uncommon for Atenlans to share their ideals with others, but it is not so unusual for a master to share with his apprentice to help guide his own path. I have followed the ideal of Truth as my path.”

  To his credit, Turgeon saw the opening to avoid discussion of his distraction by the mysterious wooden box and grabbed on, asking his master about following the ideal of Truth, “So many people lie all the time, how do you know what is truly true?”

  This was all a cover to keep his master talking distractedly about a subject he obviously held dear, while Turgeon was half paying attention and trying to avoid becoming completely absorbed with his study of the wooden box on the shelf above the master’s head. At first glance, he had originally thought this was his own wooden box, purloined from his possessions to add to his master’s trophies. As he looked closer though, it occurred to him that while exactly the same size and shape as his version, this box was covered in a different style of carving. Where his box was carved in a pattern of delicate and organic curves and whirls, this box was carved with sharp and rigid lines and boxes.

  “Ah, yes, that is one of the more challenging aspects of following the path of Truth. With many things, everyone’s individual version of the Truth is unique. I have come to learn that the truth is relative in most cases, and that universal truths are in fact quite rare.”

  It would be dangerous, but Turgeon concluded then and there that he would have to somehow break into this office when his master wasn’t around and investigate this enigmatic sibling to his own mysterious wooden box. Perhaps he could find a solution to opening his by analyzing this one.

  “… which brings us to the Fifth and final Ideal, that of Love. Of all the ideals, this one is the worst suited for a soldier. I won’t forbid you from following it, but I have little to say about the path of this ideal beyond a warning: it leads to naught but wasted years and wasted effort.

  “So, now that you have heard more about the ideals, have you decided which you would like to follow? The time has arrived for you to choose a path before I will teach you any more of the Fiorian art.”

  Crap. Turgeon wasn’t ready to choose, and instead of paying attention and using this time to make up his mind, he’d been distracted by that damn wooden box. He said the first word that came to his mind, and it wasn’t one of the Five High Ideals.

  “Freedom.”

  Double crap. What had he done? He was now committed to this forever.

  Both of the Swordmaster’s eyebrows rose to almost unbelievable heights. “A very interesting choice. I see that you have taken Battlemaster Klaaverius’ full teachings on the Ideals to heart. Have you discussed this choice with Master Jesphat?”

  “We’ve discussed the idea of not choosing one of the High Five to follow, but no, I haven’t discussed this particular… ideal with him.”

  “Well then, I would suggest that you do so as soon as possible. Apprentice, your Ideal has been accepted by your master. You now walk the path of Freedom. May it lead you to glory and honor.”