//------------------------------//
// To be Tercels 
// Story: A Song of Storms: Shattered Skies 
// by Sigur024 
//------------------------------//

I used to think the pegasi were the villains of our story. In my youth, I was told of how they enslaved and oppressed our people, that they wanted nothing more than to grind our kind into dust and revel in the ruins of our sacred places. Smaller than us, and weaker, but like insects they came in swarms. They claimed we were barbarians, or monsters, or demons.

Now we rule Dioda. History proved them right.

My time is nearly done, but I hope to put my story to paper before the end. I hope it can ease my conscience. But more than that, I hope some young griffon will read this some day and learn from our mistakes.

We crumbled. We slaughtered ourselves. We became monsters.

But we don't have to stay that way.

- From the memoirs of Theod


-        -        -


Legate Pruina squinted against the roaring wind, watching as yet another landmark drifted by far below him. The mountain ranges of the griffon lands were a nightmare to navigate in the pre-dawn gloom, and his duties were too important to allow for even the slightest failure.

Behind him, cloaked by cloud, a flight of veteran legionaries soared in full battle formation. Their segmented steel armour whistled as the wind probed gaps and dragged along edges. They had split from their comrades a few hours ago, seeking to reach their target with all possible haste.

The Legate rubbed a hoof along his breastplate, feeling the rolled parchment within press against his chest. He rarely felt apprehension before a mission, but the weight of his orders left him ill at ease.

He muttered a brief prayer to Ofnir, and steeled himself for the day to come.


-        -        -



The sun rose over the mountains of the griffon lands, bringing warmth to the mist-wreathed valleys between them. Most were unremarkable; small and narrow with a thin band of forest within. One stood out from the others.

It was broad and deep and long, the dense forest covering it unbroken save for a large clearing cut into its heart, and within that a thriving village. Some of its residents were already up and about, griffons moving between the wood, stone and thatch houses as they went about their business. There was much that needed to be done on this day in particular, and the inhabitants needed every daylight hour they could get.

The rising sun went entirely unnoticed by one resident, lying asleep in a large and grand house on a bed covered in soft and expensive furs. The young griffons coat was the colour of fresh clay over his body and up to his shoulders where the white plumage that covered his head and neck began.

The sun was halfway to its zenith when another, almost identical griffon crept up the stairs into the room, clutching a few small bundles of rags. The intruder stopped at a safe distance from the bed and took careful aim before tossing one of the bundles. It bounced off the exposed head of the sleeper, drawing a groan from his throat.

“Damnit Vig’, let me sleep.” he moaned.

The other hybrid laughed and threw another bundle.

“Get up Theod, you lazy waste of feathers! Today’s the day!”

Theod sat up, a bearskin falling from his shoulders as he swatted the bundle out of the air and scowled at his brother.

“I know what today is. The only day for the past two months where we didn’t have to be up at dawn!”

Vigild rolled his eyes.

“Today’s the day when we take our oaths! Aren’t you excited about that?”

Theod picked up one of the bundles and threw it back at his brother, who nimbly sidestepped it. “Of course I’m excited. We can do whatever we want today, and I want to sleep.”

Vigild shrugged and turned to go back down the stairs.

“Fine by me. Hope you don’t mind missing out on breakfast, ‘cos Helga just finished up making stew.”

Vigild retreated down the stairs, his talons clicking on the flagstones of the ground floor. Theod swore quietly to himself and rolled out of bed, hunger forcing him from the comfort of his covers. 

As he went downstairs, the rich smell of the maidservant’s cooking hit him, making his belly rumble. Theod picked up the pace, jogging through the rooms of the house and into the central hall.

The spacious room was almost empty, save for a long table in the centre where Vigild was already seated and a hearth where the grey form of Helga worked over a pot. Theod took his place at the table opposite Vigild as the servant placed bowls of steaming stew and rolls of soft bread in front of them.

As Vigild tore into his breakfast, Theod looked across the hall to where a small needlepoint depicted them as newborns in the arms of their mother. They were not just brothers, they were twins. The two were indistinguishable apart from a few differing scars and marks on their hides. To have two fledglings at once was extremely unusual amongst griffons, and their father had been overjoyed.

Vigild had always been his father's favourite, groomed to rule from a young age. He was cunning, brave and vicious; the perfect traits for a warrior. Theod on the other hand was disappointingly academic. His knowledge of runes and fragmented Cirran may have given him an edge in a debate, but most griffons argued with torn flesh and spilled blood.

As he thought that, the imposing figure of his father silently stalked into the room. Eboric was a big griffon, a full head taller than the almost full-grown brothers. His dull red, scarred coat was stretched tight over the thick muscles of his body, a testament to a lifetime of fighting and training. Despite his great weight and size he had an unnerving ability to move almost silently across any ground. He seldom failed a hunt with this gift.

He sat down at the head of the table, his chair creaking under his weight as Helga served him his meal and swiftly excused herself to her other chores.

The tercel watched his sons eat, idly toying with a small gold chit on a cord around his neck. He did not show it, but Theod could sense his father’s sadness. Days like this were hard for him. Watching his sons grow into tercels without his beloved had taken a toll on his heart.

After the twins were born, Eboric challenged the chieftain of their tribe to a duel. He had disgraced the tribe by failing to win any glory against the Cirrans in the Dawn War, preferring instead to raid farmsteads and supply convoys. However rich it had made him, it was not an honourable way to wage war. Through bribes, violence and promises, Eboric had made the warriors of the tribe loyal to him and challenged the chieftain before the gods. 

It was a long and grueling fight, but in the end, Eboric butchered the tercel in a horrible and particularly messy way. He would occasionally recount the story during feasts much like tonight’s, much  to the delight of his warriors. 

Only a few days after he took the throne of the Darkwood tribe over the broken body of his predecessor, the Cirrans arrived. They demanded a hostage in return for allowing the new chieftain to rule. Unable to refuse them, Eboric was forced to send his beloved wife Senka into their clutches, and raise his sons alone. 

That was almost sixteen years ago.

Occasionally a message would arrive from her, penned in griffon runes and censored to prevent any attempt at rescue. But there had been no letters for almost half a year now, and Eboric could not hide how much this worried him.

The scarred tercel let the chit fall to his chest and assumed his normal grin. He leaned forwards in his chair and rapped the table with his knuckles. 

“Today is the day, lads. Do as you wish, but make sure that you reach the shrines by nightfall. Our guests are here to see you take your oaths, and we don't want to keep them waiting.”

The brothers nodded in unison. Both were to be declared tercels that evening in a solemn ceremony before the assembled guests and the shrines of the gods, beginning a feast that was expected to last for days.

Traditionally, a fledgeling was considered an adult at the age of sixteen years. When they reached that age, they could became a warrior by taking oaths to their tribe, their gods, and their chief. Warriors were the only tercels given the right to carry weapons, speak in conclaves, and marry the daughters of other warriors. 

It was always a large event, with even the poorest of families putting on a lavish celebration. With two noble fledglings passing the milestone, today would be the largest festival seen in the village for at least the next decade.

Eboric smiled broadly as he picked up his spoon. “Excellent.” 

As their father turned his attention to the business of enjoying the rabbit stew that Helga had prepared, Vigild kicked Theod under the table, his usual somewhat-stealthy signal to hurry up.

“We’ll be off then, Father.” Vigild said, answered by a grunt from Eboric.

The fledgeling got out of his chair and began making his way towards the finely-carved wooden doors that led to the outside world. Theod lifted the bowl to his beak and swiftly drained the remaining stew before following Vigild out of the grand doors of the hall.

The morning mist that usually clung to the village had burned away, creating a pleasant mid-summer day. The paths of packed earth that led between the stone and thatch buildings were crowded with griffons going back and forth on their business, and the scent of dozens of cooking fires filled the air.

Vigild waited until they were well clear of the house before speaking.

“Follow me, I’ve an idea.”

The brothers made their way through the unusually crowded streets, slipping between groups of noble warriors from distant tribes and performers dressed in bright and garish colours. A few acknowledged the pair, bowing or shouting well-wishes over the hubbub of the town.

The inn and tavern were packed to the rafters with visiting guests and performers from distant tribes. Every cellar was overflowing with ale and meat in anticipation of days of joy and debauchery rarely seen in the griffon lands. At least, not since the beginning of the Dawn War.

The upcoming festival had a more practical use as well. Other noble clans had sent emissaries to the village hoping to form alliances with Eboric, or perhaps cement a dynasty by marrying a suitable hen to one of the twins. There was much that an alliance with the chief of the Darkwood tribe could offer. Their home valley was long and broad and lined with rich seams of iron. The idea of marriage to a strange hen from a distant land did not thrill Theod, but as a tercel he would have a duty to his father and clan.

Eventually, Vigild led them to the edge of the village, where the stone houses of the wealthier warriors gave way to the dense forest which gave their tribe its name. Vigild turned and looked around, to make certain that no one was nearby. He then stood close to Theod, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

“You know how father has forbidden the hunters from leaving the village for a few days?”

Theod nodded. “Because of the manticore that moved into the forest north of here.”

Vigild grinned. “You know what would really impress our guests?”

The fledgeling pushed an arm into the bush and pulled out a pair of long spears, tipped with broad steel heads.

Theod blanched. “You can’t be serious! We can't take on a manticore! Father’s tercels barely survived their first attempt to kill it!”

His brother winced and looked around to see if anyone had heard the outburst.

“By the seven hells, keep it down!” he hissed. “The warriors wounded it. Badly from what I heard. We could track it down and finish it off easily!” 

Theod shook his head. “No way. I am not dying today on some fools errand.”

Vigild rolled his eyes and turned towards the forest, slinging the spears across his shoulder.

“I suppose I’ll just have to do it myself. Claim all the glory, impress all the hens. See you at the shrines, brother. I’ll be wearing a manticore hide coat.”

The fledgeling moved off into the forest, disappearing into the gloom beneath the trees almost immediately.

Theod cursed under his breath. If his brother found the manticore by himself he was as good as dead. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Wait up, you gods-damned fool!”


-        -        -


The air was still beneath the dense canopy of the forest. Weak rays of sunlight struggled through the leaves and twisted branches, illuminating patches of the leaf-covered ground. Small creatures hid beneath rotting logs and in moss-filled hollows, and the occasional cry of songbirds hung in the air.

The brothers had been walking for almost an hour, picking up the trail of the manticore near a small pond where the warriors of the village had clashed with it. It was a big creature, and wounded. It was easy to track.

Vigild could tell the confines of the woods made Theod uneasy. The trees were too dense for either of them to fly, and there was no way they could outrun the manticore if it turned out to be healthier than expected.

He was not worried though. The dense forest was likely more of a problem for the manticore, being at least twice as large as the average tercel. If things went poorly, they could lose the beast in the undergrowth and twisted roots.

“This is stupid Vig’. We should turn back,” Theod whispered, obviously afraid that the manticore was nearby.

Vigild laughed. “Come on. Afraid of a half-dead monster? We aren’t far off. We’ll find it, kill it, and make a name for ourselves.”

“Our names will end up on a pyre-stone if the manticore gets its way!”

Vigild rolled his eyes and went back to tracking. The blood trail was getting weaker as the beast’s wounds scabbed over, leaving only the scattered patches of disturbed leaves to mark the manticore’s passing.

They were getting close. He could feel it.

There was another whimper from behind him. Vigild scowled and turned to face his brother.

“I swear to the gods Theod, if you dont shut up-” 

He stopped. Something had changed.

Theod was clutching his spear low, bracing it against the ground in anticipation of an attack. His talons were shaking and his eyes were wide with fear.

“Vigild… behind you.”

Slowly, the fledgeling turned around.

Something moved in the shadows, easily twice as large as their father. The manticore  slowly stalked out of the undergrowth, the dust-filled light swirling around its huge frame. Each paw, large as a tercels head, made barely a sound as it touched the ground. It snarled, teeth like daggers gleaming in the gloom, and the spines in its mane standing on end.

Vigild scrambled back to stand alongside his brother, bracing his spear in the same manner against the monster.

The manticore began to circle around the pair, flaring its vast wings as its heavy scorpion tail curved up over its back. The wounds of the warriors’ attempt on the life of this creature showed plainly as dull red marks on a pelt already thick with scars.

This monster had faced griffons before. Many times. The fact that it lived was testament to its strength and ferocity.

And Vigild had lead them straight to it.

With a roar, the manticore leapt at the brothers, swatting aside their spears and crashing into them. Vigild found himself pinned beneath it, looking up at the underside of its chest. He let out a strangled battle-cry and raked his talons along the monsters armpit. The edges bit deep into the leathery flesh, and he was rewarded with a spurt of blood and an enraged howl from the manticore.

The beast suddenly leaped off of Vigild, backing away from Theod’s wild spear thrusts.  Vigild wasted no time in grabbing his spear and joining the attack. The only way that they could live would be to kill the beast. No turning back now.

He circled around to the right, trying to force the monster to fight on two fronts. The manticore seemed to fall for it until its tail suddenly whipped around. Vigild ducked behind a tree, the impact sending shards of wood and bark flying off into the gloom.

The manticore spun around and threw itself at Vigild as he moved from cover, stopping short of the tip of his spear with a flap of its mighty wings. The fledgeling lunged, the edge of his spear scraping along the monsters face. It reared up on its hindlegs and roared, the volume alone almost forcing Vigild to drop his spear and clutch at his ears. Then, like the wrath of the gods, it brought its paw down upon him.

Vigild was slammed against the ground, feeling the breath escape his lungs as at least two of his ribs broke. He could not look up, but he felt its hot breath on his back.

Through the spots that obscured his vision, he saw Theod charge with a yell and plant his spear deep into the manticore’s rump.

The beast rounded on Theod and struck him with one heavy paw, slamming the fledgling into the ground and pinning him in place. The manticore’s tail arched over its back, holding the pose for an instant before driving the tip into the griffon’s chest.

Theod screamed.

Vigild tore his eyes away and struggled to his paws, grabbing his spear once more as his opponent slowly turned to face him again. There was a malign intelligence in its eyes, a promise of great pain for attacking it so.

The fledgeling gulped and glanced behind the beast. Theod was convulsing in the leaf litter, a puddle of his vomit befouling his feathers as the manticore’s venom did its agonising work.

Vigild put his back against a tree to try and stay on his hind legs, and held his spear out defiantly. Like a bee’s sting against a bear.

Theod was right. He had killed them both with this stupid plan.

A high pitched shriek echoed through the woods, pulling the manticore’s attention away from the helpless fledgling.

A griffon swathed in black cloth and steel scales dropped through the canopy, wings folded against its sides and a barbed spear tucked beneath one of its arms. It crashed into the manticore’s back with the full force of its dive, the spear bursting through the monster's belly and pinning it to the ground.

The lion-esque creature howled in agony, its struggles forcing its entrails out of the broad wound in its gut as the armoured griffon pulled itself to its paws on the manticore’s back. It drew its sword and swung with a triumphant yell, the silvered blade whipped through its victims neck and dropped its massive head to the ground with a meaty thud.

The griffon hopped off the monster’s back as the body began to spasm and shake uncontrollably, deprived of the source of its instruction. After a few moments it lay still, save for insect-like twitching in its tail.

The griffon sighed and removed his cowl, revealing the raven-coated head of the tercel beneath.

He glanced over at Vigild, who still stood locked in place, before turning and moving towards Theod.

Coming to his senses, Vigild dropped his spear and limped painfully over towards his saviour, the tercel sitting over his brother.

Theod was breathing shallowly, every muscle in his body tensed and rigid. He lay in a horrid, twisted pose amongst the broken branches and trampled mud that now filled the clearing.

The griffon took a vial from a bag concealed in his wrappings and poured the contents into the wound on Theod’s chest. The foul-smelling concoction hissed as it mixed with the venom coursing through the fledgling’s body. Theod took a deep, ragged breath, slowly beginning to relax. The griffon, apparently satisfied, stuffed the vial back into his clothes.

“Who are you?” Vigild whispered, not wanting to disturb the silence that had gathered after the noise of battle.

The tercel looked up and turned to face him.

“I, heir of Eboric, am a servant of the great warlord Magnus,” he said with a low bow and a smile. “Your brother will survive his envenomation, but will need rest before he can walk.”

Vigild relaxed slightly. “We owe you our lives…”

“I am but the hand of my master. You do not owe me a debt, you owe Magnus,” he purred. “Remember that debt when you sit upon your father’s throne.”

Vigild put his fist on his heart and winced as he put pressure on his broken ribs. “I shall, I swear it.”

The dark griffon smiled. “Good. I shall not speak of this to your father, but I must return to the village. I feel that my absence would be noted…”

With that the tercel turned and moved off into the forest, leaving the fledgeling to watch over his brother.



-        -        -



Theod stumbled back towards the village, half-leaning on his brother. The manticore’s paralyzing poison had largely worn off, but it had left him weak.

Vigild had refused to speak since his brother had woken drenched in sweat and lying in a puddle of his own vomit on the forest floor. Vigild had wanted for him to rest longer before attempting to make it home, but the sun was setting and they did not have much time for the return trip.

It seemed unlikely to Theod that Vigild had managed to decapitate the manticore, especially given his lack of boasting. He didn’t want to push the question, though. Not yet, anyway.

A swift dunking in a pond took the worst of the puke, blood, and dirt off of their feathers. As they stumbled towards the smoke from the innumerous bonfires lit for the night’s events, Theod hoped that the scents of the feast would cover up the smell. They had cut through a dried-up creek bed to get back to the village faster, and now the lights gathered at the shrines were visible through the swiftly fading daylight.

Vigild stopped Theod before they got near the sacred grove.

“We will not speak of what we did today. If anyone asks how we became injured, tell them that we decided to do some sparring and it got a touch rough. Hopefully your feathers will hide the mark from the manticore.”

Theod nodded, trying to hide how dizzy the movement made him.

Satisfied, Vigild led the way through the last few lines of trees and into the sacred grove that housed the shrines of the gods. The entire space was packed with long feasting tables, each groaning under the weight of dozens of dishes, clusters of tall candles, and barrels of ale. Griffons of every colour, size, and tribe crowded around these tables, or pranced through the aisles wearing garish silks. The wonderful scent of roasted pork, pheasant, and mutton filled the air and made Theod’s mouth water.

Around the edges of the clearing stood statues to the gods of their tribe, each with offerings piled high in the name of the brothers. One stood separate from the carved wood and stone of the others: the mighty bronze pegasus, Ofnir. His statue had been erected by the Cirrans after the Dawn War. The griffon god of war had failed them, and now a pegasus demanded their fealty.

A cheer went up as the brothers were noticed by the congregated griffons, each lifting a tankard or fist in salute. With a deep breath, they moved through the crowds towards the obelisk at the head of the clearing. The crowd kept a respectful distance as the fledglings approached the rock, carved with deep spiralling patterns and covered in the stains of bloody talon-marks. Eboric stood by the stone, smiling proudly and holding a pair of silk-swathed bundles. Opposite him stood the ancient and hunched form of the Seer, his grey hide and robes wreathed in sweet-smelling smoke.

The gathering fell silent as the brothers went through the carefully rehearsed ceremony. They moved up before the rock and prostrated themselves, holding the pose for a moment before turning towards the crowd and sitting with heads bowed.

The Seer took the bundles from their father and unwrapped them, revealing a pair of broad hand-and-half swords in carved wooden scabbards. He then moved up to the brothers and held out the swords’ handles, croaking an incantation that he had spoken hundreds of times before.

“May all assembled bear witness to this, the swearing of oaths before the gods and our kin. May these fledglings be considered henceforth tercels, and respected as brothers among the tribe.”

The Seer thumbed the hilts of the swords, pushing them slightly from their scabbards as the brothers grasped the handles. As one, they drew their swords and turned to face the rock again.

“I shall serve my chieftain in times of peace and war,” they said together, each word falling like a stone in the silence of the shrines. “To be true and just in the service of my tribe. To bear arms and the weight of all responsibility placed upon me. To hold my vows and accept no insult to my honour.” 

The brothers ran their left palm along the edge of their swords, Theod wincing as blood flowed freely from the wound. With solemn ceremony they reached out and touched the base of the obelisk, leaving a bloody talon-print on the stone.

“I swear.”

For a moment more, there was silence as the Seer turned back towards the gathering with his talons raised high.

“Brothers and Sisters. Kin and Kind. Let it now be known wherever your travels may take you, that the brothers Theod and Vigild are now warriors of Darkwood.”

The crowd exploded with uproarious cheering, crying out blessings in a dozen dialects and accents. Theod smiled at his brother and wiped his blood from the blade before returning his new sword to its scabbard. Vigild smiled back as he did the same.

Eboric ran over and embraced his sons.

“It is done, finally it is done!” he laughed. 

He raised a talon to the congregation and shouted.

“Let the feast begin!”

The noise redoubled as griffons began to enjoy the festivities, bards breaking into song with a sound that made Theod’s head ring.  Eboric lead the brothers to a high table before the shrine of the god of hearth, home, and hospitality, and sat them at either of his sides. As servants brought the choicest cuts of meat to the high table, various dignitaries approached and introduced themselves, or made diplomatic overtures. Theod devoted most of his attention to filling his aching belly with food, pausing to acknowledge griffons as they spoke to him.

However, one group caught his eye. A beautiful pure white hen escorted by a similarly coloured tercel, both wearing Cirran-style fashions. The long feathers of her crest were carefully draped over the left side of her head, framing the blue-grey feathers that surrounded her eyes. Their eyes met for a moment, and Theod hurriedly looked down at his food, cursing himself for staring.

He winced as they moved to the front of the line and bowed.

“My noble host, my name is Anser,” the escort began. “May I introduce Aella, firstborn daughter of Primario Armis of the Canii.”

Canii. Of course.

The Canii lived close to the Cirran lands and were not well liked by the other tribes. They were one of the few that did not rise against the empire in the Dawn War, and the pegasi renamed them in recognition of their loyalty. The name was as much a mockery as an honour, comparing them to the lapdogs of the Cirran emperor.

Because they did not fight the pegasi, their lands remained safe and unmolested through the war. When the capital, Angenholt, finally capitulated to the Cirran legions, this  left them one of the most numerous and powerful tribes in the griffon lands. It was rumoured that their “Primario” was influential enough to be permitted a Cirran-style cloudstone villa as his home. When they did appear outside of their own lands, they went about in Cirran-esque armour and garments. Most griffons would die before wearing anything like that.

Theod glanced up again as the tercel finished off his speech.

“...and he wishes to offer you the possibility of marriage between our great houses, to combine our strengths into something greater than we apart.” he said with a deep bow, mirrored by the hen beside him.

Eboric nodded, scratching his chin. “We shall speak more of this on the morrow. For now, go and enjoy the pleasures of the feast.”

As the pair turned away from the high table, the hen met Theod’s eyes again and smiled.

The tercel didn’t feel like eating anymore. His stomach was doing things stranger than what it had done under the influence of manticore venom. Instead, he looked past his father at Vigild. His brother sat perfectly still, seemingly searching the crowd for someone, but unable to find them. The tercel shook his head and took a deep draught of ale. He would need to talk to Vigild again before the night was through.

Theod let the noise wash over him, relaxing in the joviality of the party and the taste of good food and drink. More than a hundred griffons were crowded into the clearing, shouting over each other laughing and feasting. The flickering light of candles and cooking fires made the shadows dance, and it seemed that the stones and statues in the clearing were shifting in place, ready to join the celebration. Some danced at the feet of the idols, singing praises and prayers for the brothers.

Suddenly the party fell silent, the bards cutting off mid-song. Eboric stood, a look of confusion briefly crossing his face. Then it settled on one of pure dread. Concerned, Theod turned to see a large group of pegasi marching from the forest towards the gathering.

There were almost three-dozen of them, the firelight glinting off the blades on their extended wings and their hard-edged glares. Among them was a blue stallion standing a half-head shorter than his guards, the plumed helmet carried in the crook of his foreleg denoting his rank.

As they approached the long table, the officer moved forwards past his legionaries and regarded Eboric with a steady gaze. Several warriors muttered amongst themselves and fingered the weapons at their sides. This was no way to respect a chieftain. 

Eboric walked out to meet him, and Theod strained to hear them as they spoke.

“Chief Eboric, I presume?” the pegasus asked in heavily accented Gryphic, looking up at the tercel without any sign of fear or apprehension.

“Aye,” Theod’s father growled.

The stallion dipped his head a fraction and looked the chief dead in the eye. “I am Legate Pruina, and am here to bring news and dictates on the behalf of the Emperor of Cirra and the Prefect of this province.”

The legate retrieved a scroll from beneath his breastplate and glanced at it briefly before continuing.

“The 7th Legion is stationed less than a days flight from here. Any breach of treaty or the laws of the Empire will result in the annihilation of this settlement and the execution of all who oppose the Emperor.”

The pony paused for a moment.

“I am sorry to report that your wife, and hostage of the Emperor, died last spring of fever.”

The legionaries shifted nervously as Eboric’s expression changed, his talon moving to the pendant he wore around his neck.

“Senka…”

Theod felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. It seemed almost foolish that news of his mother’s death would shock him like this. He had barely known her, only communicating by letters.  He cast a nervous glance at Vigild, who only remained cold and inscrutable.

The Legate cleared his throat and continued.

“In accordance with the treaties and agreements you have signed as a subject of the Emperor, you are henceforth required to give up a new hostage from your family...” Pruina rolled up his scroll and returned it to his breastplate, then donned his helmet again.

“Effective immediately.”

There was a rumbling from the crowd as tercels reached for weapons, ready to kill the interlopers.

Eboric stopped them with a harsh barked order. 

He turned away from the stallion and looked over at Theod and Vigild. Theod could see the thoughts going on behind his father's harsh facade. He would have to send one of his sons away into the clutches of the Cirrans. Both brothers knew who it would be.

“Theod. Come here.” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument or hesitation.

The young tercel stood from his seat at the table and walked, the crowd parting around him. It was the longest walk of his life, seconds seeming to stretch into days as he approached his father and the pegasi.

He stopped before Eboric, looking up at him. Theod could see the hurt in his father’s eyes. The pain of being separated from his son and learning of his wife's death in the same hour showing plainly now that the Legate could not see his face.

“My son Theod will accompany you as a hostage… as agreed,” Eboric said slowly.

The Legate looked him up and down, his gaze seeming to peel back hide and flesh to stare straight into Theod’s soul. He nodded curtly and turned back to his soldiers, looking back over his shoulder at his prize.

“Theod, Obsidem. Do not leave my side until ordered.”

He did as he was ordered, feeling numb as he brushed past his father and moved up beside the pegasus. Vigild and Eboric watched him, silent, speechless, and hurting.

There was no tearful goodbye, no last embrace.

The Legate began walking and Theod followed, the legionaries forming up around them as they moved off into the forest and away from all that the young tercel knew.