CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Job Promotions

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“Sheathe your hostility, Child of the Forest,” Rowan ordered, “or I may consider shedding your blood on this hallowed ground.”

Blood flowed out of the hand that held onto Scarfang’s fist, wrapping around it like a shiny crimson glove. The sight of this strange sorcery caused the wearg’s eyes to widen.

“No…”

Scarfang sniffed in the air.

“This scent…old like Mother’s…”

Bram saw it then—the fear spreading across Scarfang’s face. One born of sudden recognition. It must have been quite strong to weaken the hold of the curse that had turned him savage.

“Blutmädchen…” the red-chested man’s voice was stained with doubt and surprise. “…So, you too have woken.”

“I never slept,” Rowan answered in an annoyed tone. “I recall every single moment of my imprisonment…and etched into memory the faces of all those who made it possible.”

She let Scarfang go, and he jumped back in a hurry. Then, to Bram’s surprise, the wearg went down on one knee in what the seventh prince assumed was a show of deference for the rebel trickster of legend.

Scarfang lowered his head. “We did not know…”

“How could you?” Rowan replied. “You are too young to know.”

“Which begs the question,” Bram thought aloud, “how can he know now?”

“The old tribes of Lotharin’s forests record their histories in oral traditions that could have survived the purge of my existence,” Rowan answered with a shrug. “Clearly, this child was taught the old ways by those who still remember… Tis how he can sense my nature.”

“Oral traditions…your nature,” Bram repeated.

Though he was curious to hear what the wearg knew of Rowan’s legend, or what sort of nature she might have that had turned him so docile, Bram didn’t press either of them for more details since he was sticking to his plan of waiting for Rowan to trust him enough with her origin story.

“My tribe…” Scarfang kept his head lowered. “…did any of them survive?”

“Four,” Rowan answered.

“You showed them mercy.”

“I gave them no such courtesy.”

Scarfang looked up bewildered. “Then how…?”

“My role was to protect the mortals in my charge.” Rowan crossed her arms over her chest. “Not to chase weargs who run away after having lost their nerve.”

“They must have recognized your nature as I now do,” Scarfang assumed.

“They didn’t run from me.” Rowan glanced over her shoulder to look at Bram. “Hajime, Chris, and Bridget played their roles well. You would be proud of their sudden growth.”

Hearing her words caused the tension in Bram to wash away, and he moved to stand at her side. They stared at each other for a long moment—both gazing favorably at the other—before they were interrupted by Scarfang’s growl.

“You fight with this…prince?” he asked in a tone of disbelief.

Rowan smiled impishly at the wearg. “Will you run with your tail between your legs now that you know what you face, Child of the Forest?”

Scarfang let loose a low growl.

“To show my respect to Blutmädchen,” he rose to his feet, “I will give way…for now.”

His gaze drifted toward Bram.

“To have Blutmädchen at your side…” He gave Bram the once-over. “…You’re different from those others who’ve come to our land.”

“There are others besides us in this part of the forest?”

“We attacked you because we thought you were with them…the hunger came after.”

Once again, Scarfang's gaze drifted to Rowan’s face.

“They are here for plunder…” As his gaze drifted back to Bram, irritation flashed in them. It was an emotion quickly replaced by skepticism. “You claim to be here for a different reason…”

“Yes,” Bram insisted.

“Mother is awake. Should your search take you deeper into her embrace, then not even Blutmädchen can protect you from her,” Scarfang warned.

“We search for the sorcerers who woke your mother.” Bram sheathed his sword. “We cannot help but continue onward.”

“Then we will meet again,” Scarfang promised, though it sounded like a threat to Bram’s ears.

The wearg stepped back past the fence of sacred pines and was swallowed by the shadows that grew with twilight’s coming.

Bram waited for his presence to vanish completely before he asked, “What do you know of this ‘Mother’ he speaks of?”

Rowan shrugged. “We magical beings don’t all gather in the same book club.”

“You’ve been learning Earth-speak again,” Bram noticed.

“They have such a relaxed way with words compared to us. Our speech can be so…tiring.” Rowan linked her arm around Bram’s. “Now, let’s summon the others over so we might meet this spirit for ourselves and complete Ravi’s quest. I’ve had enough of this forest.”

Bram glanced at the tree line beyond the fence of sacred pines. They looked eerier to him now. More sinister.

“Yes,” he agreed. “This quest has taken too much time already…”

Much later, after the spoils had been harvested from the dead, Bram’s party gathered inside the small clearing of white sage that was protected by the encirclement of blessed pines.

Bridget, who was standing close to the fence, brushed her fingers against the thick, knotted silver cord tied around the trunk of the young pine nearest her. “My grandad’s farm outside of Dublin had a tree just like this one…”

“Did it have red needles too?” Hajime asked.

“Now that you mention it, no…but we still called them red pines,” Bridget answered.

“Why would y’all add a ‘red’ modifier to a pine with green needles?” Chris asked.

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask the Irish.” Bridget had a pensive expression on her face when she glanced over her shoulder. “But Grandad used to tie a colorful rope around his pine tree too. Said it would protect us from evil spirits.”

“Your ‘seanathair’ was a wise man,” Rowan nodded approvingly. “Pines are indeed a symbol of nature’s power of renewal…Tis a blessed tree made even more blessed when cherished properly.”

“Blessed by one of your gods?” Bridget asked.

“The blessings of the gods are fragile and limited compared to the miracle of Mother Nature,” Rowan answered in her usual impish tone. “Her gift is stronger, purer, and not distorted by a god’s arrogance.”

“I wouldn’t call the gods’ blessings fragile, but I do agree that there’s a strength in this grove strong enough to repel bloodthirsty beasts or denizens of the nether realms.” Ravi sniffed at the sage he’d plucked from the ground. “Assuming your wearg doesn’t return, we should be able to rest here until we’re ready to use the waypoint.”

“He won’t,” Rowan smiled wryly. “Our prince frightened him away.”

Bram sighed, though he didn’t refute her claim. It was better that Ravi wasn’t aware of Rowan’s true strength until they were certain he would join their cause. Because of this misdirection, Ravi gazed at Bram with newfound respect, and the seventh prince didn’t dislike it.

“If we’re staying here for a while…” Bridget pulled up her status. “…I should check my—”

She let out a squeal of delight.

“I’ve leveled up again, gang!” she happily reported.

It wasn’t just the dev team’s Lead Narrative Designer who’d gotten stronger either. Both the Lead Game Designer and Co-Executive Producer also managed to raise their level to three.

“Sweet Christmas,” Chris grinned, “according to this here Loom, we’re only two levels away from a job promotion.”

“That means another week of risking our lives here…” Hajime cast a nervous glance at the canopy of trees above him. “This forest’s difficulty is too high, Rowan-San…”

“And it’ll climb much higher when we meet the weargs’ mother,” she reminded him.

“Don’t worry, Boss, we’ll bring our A-game,” Chris assured her just before he elbowed Hajime lightly on the shoulder. “What’d you get for level three?”

Hajime began reading through his status notifications.

“My magic power’s grown…I think I can learn a new spell.” His brow creased the more he read his notifications. “Rowan-San, the Loom says I can choose a ‘Sorcery Tradition’…”

The three Aarders' ears pricked up.

“That is excellent news.” Rowan gave Hajime an approving smile. “With a proper Sorcery Tradition to focus your training, you would receive special boons and gain proficiency with the sorcerous art you specialize in.”

“Sugoi…but…” Hajime’s brow creased some more. “I only know Elemental Arts…is that my only option then?”

“You needn’t worry. As your teacher, tis my job to guide you,” Rowan assured him. “Whether it’s to learn the Necromantic, Enchanting, or Transmutation Arts, together we shall find the sorcery that suits you best.”

To be offered a chance to learn such rare sorcery, Bram thought Hajime was fortunate Rowan agreed to mentor him when the otherworlder had asked.

Ravi cleared his throat. “There are also the Divination and Summoning Arts. Those are excellent branches of sorcery as well.”

Rowan giggled.

“Worry not, Vice Master…you’ll have plenty of chances to recruit novices for your coven once we’ve properly established our…?” A quizzical look flashed on her face.

“Immigration center,” Bridget offered.

“Yes,” Rowan smiled, “that.”

“That would be lovely.” Ravi laughed too. With it came the hope flitting across his face. “When exactly will this center be completed?”

“Once we’re done here,” Bram assured the Shamvalan.

Hajime, Bridget, and Chris had heightened Ravi’s interest in the potential otherworlders brought to Aarde, something Bram hoped would happen when he thought to bring his ‘proof of concept’ along for this adventure.

“Will Hajime be unable to learn spells from other arts once he picks a Sorcery Tradition?” Bridget asked.

“There are no limitations in magic. Spells you learn will depend on your aptitude, and only the boons change with your specialty,” Rowan explained.

“Though, ideally, one must have a Sorcery Tradition to earn true mastery in any field of sorcery,” Ravi weighed in.

“Is that the same with squires?” Chris asked.

This time, it was Bram’s turn to explain. “Each of the sorcerous arts possesses sorcery tailored specifically for the combat-oriented or exploration-focused jobs.”

“Though it will take such professions more growth before you can choose a Sorcery Tradition,” Rowan finished Bram’s thought.

“How many job promotions are there?” Bridget asked—to which Hajime added, “The players will want variety.”

For an answer, Bram pulled up the Loom’s promotion system so that everyone—including Ravi—could see a few of the divergent paths a beginner could take once they’d achieved a certain amount of growth.

 

 

“These are the 1^st tier job promotions we’ve managed to input into the Loom through the copying of abilities from members of my household,” Bram began to explain. “And these…”

 

“…Are the 2^nd and…”

 

 

“…3^rd tier job promotions the Loom has inherited thanks to Sir Anthony and the soldiers he’s personally trained,” Bram explained further, “although 2^nd and 3^rd promotions will have more requirements beyond rising in job levels.”

After he finished his explanation, the seventh prince recalled his shameful task of asking his seneschal to allow the Loom to clone the skills Sir Anthony had worked all his life to achieve, something most masters of their respective jobs would have loathed to do. The memory of that encounter was still freshly etched into Bram’s brain and easily brought back to the forefront of his mind.

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“To ask me to share my skills with people who have no relation to me or my house…” Sir Anthony shook his head. “You’ve grown bolder since becoming governor, Your Highness.”

“Is it an impossible proposition?” Bram pressed.

He didn’t bother offering Sir Anthony money or a promotion for his knowledge. His seneschal had served as a member of the Sovereign-Guard before Bram was born, and as a former ‘Knight Champion’ of the Sovereign, wealth, prestige, and position were his already. Indeed, Sir Anthony could have done anything in his later years, but it was his loyalty to Bram’s mother that made him choose to become the protector of a prince whose ill fate no one else would touch.

So, instead of plying him with sweet words or false promises, Bram could only ask his companion of many years—the only loyal retainer he’s ever had—for this great favor while knowing he could offer Sir Anthony nothing in return.

“Despite my ambitions…I cannot achieve greatness alone. I’m too weak…” Bram’s hands balled into fists. “I need the strength of others to help me with the great undertaking…to raise Lotharin…to finally become a prince worthy of my bloodline…”

Apart from Rowan, Sir Anthony was the only member of Bram’s household who knew of his schemes to wield the knowledge of the other world for Lotharin’s sake. His seneschal didn’t have a full understanding of Bram’s plans, but it was a sign of Sir Anthony’s loyalty that he hadn’t tried to stop the seventh prince from enacting a stratagem that any right-minded sorcerer might assume was a dangerous and foolhardy endeavor.

Indeed, today might be the first time Sir Anthony had ever expressed his discontent. “In truth, what you ask of me isn’t an impossible proposition, Your Highness.”

His seneschal walked over to the center of the training hall he and Bram had met in.

“As you know, my time as a champion of the imperium left me with no opportunity to start a family,” he said in a wistful tone. “Officially, my only heir is my younger brother Axel, who, like me, chose the path of the sword rather than become a lord.”

House Holmes was the hereditary ruler of Dunhallow, a shire in the Highland Kingdom of Tara, a land separated from Bram’s kingdom by the ‘Gaullian Channel’ to its northwest. By rights, Sir Anthony was an eorl like Bram, though he’d relinquished his title at a young age when he chose to serve in the Sovereign Guard whose members weren’t allowed to be landed lords.

“I have no child who will inherit what I have to pass on…” When he said this, Sir Anthony gazed at Bram with great fondness. “At least not one who carries my blood.”

Emotion filled Bram’s chest. “Sir Anthony…”

His seneschal had indeed treated a young Bram more like a family member than a knight who served his liege. As the seventh prince grew older, that dynamic between them didn’t change, and Bram didn’t want it to. For him, Sir Anthony was like his favorite uncle who’d showered Bram with the affection no one else would give him. Sir Anthony was his protector, his teacher, his one true friend.

Bram lowered his gaze.

Though he felt great affection for his seneschal, it was also true that Bram was suffocating from the weight of Sir Anthony’s expectant gaze. For only he of all Bram’s retainers believed the seventh prince could still achieve greatness. Yet despite his efforts, Bram had failed to meet those expectations time and time again.

“But if I am to share my talents with those unrelated to me…”

Sir Anthony’s choice of words caused Bram to look up.

“Shouldn’t the heir I’ve chosen be first to inherit the art of the ‘Peerless Heart Sword’ that I’ve mastered?”

“S-sir Anthony…?”

With a smile, Bastille’s seneschal drew his longsword from its sheath. “I believe a new lesson is overdue.”