Two Princes

The Two Princes walked lightly among the fallen leaves of the Vale’s forests, leading their horses by the leather harnesses given to them in Nvijer. Noah wore a hood, ensuring that his vision would not be obscured by the sunlight poking through the canopy created by the remaining leaves. Lucian kept his gaze on the horizon, turning left or right occasionally to ensure there were no dangers ready to collapse on him and his friend. Humans were rarely welcome in the wood elves’ homeland, and the Princes were no exception.

The lush wildlife teemed from every border of the ancient country. The Vale was often said to be one singular tree, a forest of roots and sprouts all coming from one tree in the center of it all, Zandthu the Lifebringer. Lucian could actually believe it. Every tree, from the tallest towers to the saplings Noah and he brushed past with ease, seemed far more…. ancient than any tree back home.

The silver bastard sword clunked against his back, singing with the links in his chain mail, reminding him of the country he had left behind when Noah had approached him long ago. The wide open plains, the meadows in spring, the pine forests in the winter. But the happiness came with pain as well. The nights, the raging war that had lasted an eternity, the full moon with his brothers.

Lucian was a werewolf of the Blood Moon clan in the north of a continent far away from the one he currently explored with Noah; Tyrith. All he had ever known was war with the vampire clan set to the east of his ancestral home. He cringed in remembrance of his banishment at the hands of his father. The silver sword was a painful, quite literally, reminder of the fact that Lucian was no longer a Blood, simply a Grey wolf roaming without a pack. Noah was his pack now.

For nearly two years now Noah and Lucian had walked among the outcasts of the world, taking odd jobs for the occasional nobleman or farmer. Hunting griffins, expelling ghouls from haunted castles, assassinating political leaders. But they were no simple mercenaries. Lucian himself was the former heir to the Blood Moon clan his father ruled, before his banishment. Noah on the other hand, was rightful prince to half the known world before his father had been overthrown and slaughtered. He was, in some circles, Nhaonon Azorn the Second, Heir to the Wraith of the North and of the Throne of Tyrith. His was an ancient line of kings that dated back before living memory, or even recorded history.

Nhaonon the Wraith had been a glorious warmonger and conqueror, and all he ruled over either loved him with all their heart or feared him with every fiber of their being. Those who were afraid contracted an elf known only as Wraithkiller to slay this king in the name of justice and peace. The remains of Nhaonon’s family had scattered to the edges of the earth, with Noah being left among the elves of the Grove. And a decade and a half later, Lucian and Noah had met and built up their reputation as the Two Princes, death dealers and swords for hire.

But none of the jobs, small battles, land disputes, assassinations had struck such a chord with Noah. Lucian didn’t know what had possessed his companion, but he knew that this particular job was especially important to the Azorn exile. He knew not to ask questions of his friend until Noah was ready to answer them. Even after two years, he was unsure of which of the two of them was more dangerous, especially when provoked.