Cliffside Overlooking the Vale of Orin, Outer Narn
Year: 6999 NY | Late Afternoon | Wind: Westerly, sharp
The wind howled across the cliffside like a living thing, biting at Kon's skin and tugging at the corners of his cloak with an icy insistence. He sat with his legs folded beneath him, paw boots half-buried in frost, the jagged expanse of Narn stretching out before him like a vast canvas of grey and white. In the distance, mountains rose like ancient teeth, jagged and snow-swept, and beyond them, the world slipped quietly into mist.
Kon's eyes remained fixed on the horizon, but his thoughts wandered inward. His breath, shallow and slow, curled visibly into the air.
He had come here after the battle. After the training. After the silence that followed Talonir's final words.
He came to think.
The cold didn't bother him—at least, not as much as the ache that lived in his chest. His arms still bore the faint tremble of recent strain, and his hands—those hands that had finally gripped the twin blades of his birthright—now rested uselessly on his knees. The snow had begun to settle again, soft and light, like ash falling gently after a fire.
He didn't know how long he had been staring into the void. Long enough for his thoughts to tangle. Long enough for the ghosts to come creeping back.
And one ghost, in particular, refused to leave.
His father.
Kon could still see him. Not clearly—not like a dream—but in fragments, sharp and unyielding: the glint of his father's eyes before a battle… the sound of his laughter in the rare moments he allowed it… the smell of steel and pine that always clung to his cloak.
A memory stirred from deep within him. He had been small—six, maybe seven. His father had carried him on his shoulders through a forest trail, and the wind had been warm then, not cruel. The trees had danced, not shivered.
"One day, you'll be strong enough to walk this path on your own, Kon," his father had said. "But until then, I'll carry you."
Kon blinked, the memory crashing softly against the present like a wave against a stone.
"But you're not here to carry me now," Kon muttered aloud. His voice, rasped by the wind, was almost lost to the cliffs.
He didn't know whether it was a rebuke or a confession.
Perhaps both.
He clenched his fists, then opened them again. The sensation of the sword hilts still lingered in his palms—phantom echoes of the power he'd just begun to grasp. Power that had always seemed like something foreign.
But now, it was his.
A gift.
A burden.
The stillness of the cliffs was broken only by the soft crunch of boots in snow. The sound echoed faintly through the vast quiet, each step steady, deliberate—like the echo of something ancient returning. Kon didn't need to turn to know who it was.
Talonir.
Unmistakable.
There was a calm gravity to the man, a silence that was never empty but rather filled with presence—like standing in the shade of a mountain. When the older Tracient approached and lowered himself to sit beside Kon, he said nothing at first, only casting his gaze outward over the icy plains.
The silence stretched between them, not awkward but contemplative. They sat like that for a long moment, two warriors sharing a horizon that neither could command nor escape.
"Lost in thought?" Talonir said finally, his voice as level as the land itself, yet not without a quiet understanding.
Kon didn't answer immediately. He glanced downward at his open hands, at the faint white scars etched across the knuckles—gifts from long hours of training and harder lessons. Finally, he nodded, barely audible. "A day hasn't passed where I didn't think about him."
His voice cracked ever so slightly on the last word, and for a moment, he looked younger than his years—like the boy he once was, who had clung to shadows for warmth, who had learned to trace strength from ghosts.
Talonir's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted. "Your father, Orin," he said, the name reverent on his tongue, "was unlike any other."
Kon turned his head just slightly, eyes narrowing—not in skepticism, but longing. His voice was low when he spoke, almost cautious. "Because he was a Hazël?"
But Talonir shook his head. "No." He paused, letting the word settle. "It wasn't the rank. Or the Arcem. He never cared about titles." A small, rare smile touched his mouth, more a curve of memory than expression. "He never even carried himself like one. But we all followed him. Even the Narn Lords."
The wind curled around them like a cloak, whispering through the stones.
Kon exhaled slowly, heart beating a little harder in his chest. "Then what was it?" he asked, almost reluctantly—as if fearing that learning the true nature of Orin's strength would stretch the shadow he left behind.
Talonir didn't answer at once. His eyes remained on the horizon, but Kon saw something flicker across his face—grief, maybe. Or reverence. Or both.
"It was his will," Talonir said at last. "Your father had a drive I've never seen since. When Orin chose to protect someone—whether it was a friend, a stranger, or a world—he did it with everything in him. And he didn't hesitate."
Kon's throat tightened, and he looked away. 'I don't know if I'm capable of that,' he wanted to say—but the words caught, tangled somewhere between pride and doubt.
"There was a time," Talonir went on, voice quieter now, laced with recollection, "during the Camden Wars. A retreat had gone wrong. Your father's elder brother—Rokan—and thirty men were captured. It was an ambush. The rest of us were too wounded to go back. We thought they were gone."
He paused. The air seemed to still.
"But Orin walked into the night alone. Didn't say a word. Vanished into the snow."
Kon leaned forward slightly, his breath shallow. "He went by himself?"
Talonir nodded slowly. "There was an entire battalion stationed in the canyon. Some were Özels. It should've been suicide." He shook his head. "But the next morning, we found them—every one of them—alive. He carried two of the wounded back himself. And when we asked how… all he said was, 'They needed me.'"
A stunned silence followed. Kon's heart was beating fast, loud in his ears.
"He never talked about it again," Talonir added. "Didn't ask for honor. Didn't even stay to celebrate. He just… moved on. Like it wasn't extraordinary."
Kon's hands curled into fists on his knees. A slow, quiet ache bloomed in his chest—of admiration, of loss, of a legacy so vast it felt impossible to fill.
"He was more than just a warrior," Talonir said finally. "He was a shield. And not because he had to be. But because he chose to be."
Kon's eyes stayed low, fixed on the ground where snow met scarred earth, as though he might find some fragment of his father's footprints frozen there in time. But he saw nothing. Only the fading glow of memory and the heaviness that legacy always brings.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, reverent. "How strong was he?"
The question carried no bitterness, no resentment—only a quiet longing. The need to know, to measure the man not by stories or myth, but by truth.
Talonir's expression changed slightly, sharpened by the responsibility of the answer. He didn't soften it. He knew better than to deny a young warrior the truth—especially when it concerned the shadow he walked in.
"Orin was ranked twelfth," Talonir said, "among the Hazël."
Kon blinked.
At first, the words sounded distant, like numbers etched into stone. But then the weight of them began to settle. Twelfth. Out of how many? And more importantly—what did that number truly mean?
"Twelfth…" Kon repeated, barely above a whisper. The syllables turned over in his mouth like foreign metal. Not cold, but heavy. "You said... there's a hierarchy?"
Talonir nodded, his voice slipping into the measured rhythm of a teacher imparting sacred truths.
"Yes. Among the Hazël, there is a ranking system. Twelve is not just a number—it's a title. A placement. It reflects their strength relative to one another."
Kon's brows drew together, thoughts spiraling. So his father—so revered, so feared in his stories—was the twelfth. And that meant there were eleven more powerful than him.
He swallowed the realization.
"Then…" he began slowly, lifting his gaze to meet Talonir's. "That would make Lord Darius the strongest?"
There was no hesitation in Talonir's answer. Just a faint smirk, as if Kon had asked something childishly obvious but nonetheless correct.
"Indeed. Darius is the First Lord. He is the strongest of them all. " He gave a side glance at Kon, "For now."
Kon let the truth settle like snow in his chest. Strangely, it didn't shake him. It clarified something. Darius—calm, poised, devastatingly skilled—had already shown him glimpses of that strength. Now it was named, and it felt… right. Like a pillar placed beneath an already-standing roof.
"But if Darius is the strongest," Kon asked, brows furrowing with thought, "then who is second?"
The question carried no edge, only an honest curiosity, though something in it made Talonir still slightly, as if the air itself hesitated.
"Lord Jeth," Talonir said simply.
At once, Kon blinked. "Jeth?" he echoed, incredulous. He couldn't help it—the image of the twisted tounged, often stooped figure with eyes that seemed always half-closed didn't align with the title of Second Lord. "I guess… I'm just surprised. Jeth doesn't look… well, that strong."
Talonir's eyes narrowed, the feathers on his shoulders bristling faintly in the cold breeze. His voice was cool but firm. "If there's one thing you need to learn, Kon, it's this: strength is not defined by appearance. Nor is it measured by noise or flair. Power often hides in silence—and those who wield it best rarely need to show it."
Kon lowered his gaze slightly, chastened but thoughtful. There had been times in his life—plenty, in truth—where he had been underestimated. Where his smaller frame, his young face, or his quiet demeanor had earned him derision rather than fear. And yet… here he was. His father's son. A warrior in the making.
Talonir's tone lightened a touch. "To give you perspective… the Third Lord is Thrax."
Kon's jaw nearly dropped.
Thrax—the old turtle-lord who always walked with his cane, speaking slowly, smiling even slower. Not a figure that conjured visions of war or devastation. And yet…
Kon stared ahead, mind racing. "Then… all this time…"
"Yes," Talonir said, reading his thoughts. "Even Thrax. Do not mistake age or gentleness for weakness. Power rests beneath the shell. Deep currents are often the strongest."
The snow crunched softly as Talonir shifted his weight and added, "And I myself… am Fourth among the Hazël."
This time, Kon didn't react aloud. He only looked at Talonir fully, and with new eyes. That position—fourth—meant there were few in the world above him. And he had trained Kon, fought him, guided him.
'A name like a mountain,' Kon thought. 'Talonir, the Fourth Lord.'
"But then…" Kon's thoughts stretched further, "What of the others?"
Talonir's gaze drifted across the snow-blown ridge. "The Merman Lord and the Panther Lord come after me. Though truthfully, their ranks have slipped due to their prolonged absence from Narnian and world affairs. They have not fought among us in decades."
Kon nodded, digesting the names. There was a reverence to each title, a legend wrapped in flesh and memory.
"And what about… us?" he asked, the hesitation in his voice betraying his hope.
"You—the newly recognized Grand Lords—Adam, Trevor, and yourself…" Talonir's eyes found his again, piercing but honest, "You are to be placed before us all, in theory. In name."
He let the words hang for a moment before finishing, "But name alone means nothing without strength. And right now, the three of you are too weak to uphold those positions."
Kon didn't flinch. He took the words as stone—heavy, but necessary. He clenched his fists slowly, the cold forgotten as heat began to rise within him.
It wasn't shame he felt. It was fire.
"I'll grow stronger," he said firmly, not to impress Talonir, but because he needed to say it aloud. "Stronger than any other. So I can protect my comrades… my family. The people I care about."
His voice steadied, low and fierce. "I'll rebuild my clan. My people. And I'll make sure no one—no one—will ever hurt them again."
The wind swept his words into the sky. They rang not as a boy's wish, but as a warrior's vow.
Talonir said nothing for a moment, letting the silence honor the oath. Then, with a gaze that seemed to carry the weight of two lifetimes, he looked at Kon.
"You have your father's heart," he said quietly. Not for praise. Not for comfort.
But because it was true.
And Kon, with his fists still clenched and his heart burning, said nothing in return—because in his silence, the promise had already been made.
For a land that had long forgotten what light looked like, the change came gently—too gently to be real, and yet, unmistakably real all the same.
A streak of golden light—no broader than a finger's width—broke across the icy horizon, threading its way between the clouds like a needle through heavy cloth. It touched the peaks with trembling brilliance. It traced along the snow-blasted ridges, softening their cruel edges. It bathed the pale landscape in a hue that had not visited this place in years—warmth.
Kon rose slowly to his feet.
His breath caught in his throat. His heart, bruised and heavy from all it had carried, skipped once in wonder. "It can't be…" he whispered, the words barely leaving his lips. He took a step forward, as if moving closer might dispel the illusion—but it didn't.
The light grew. It thickened like gold pouring from a cracked heaven, and for one brief, impossible moment, Narn wasn't dead. It breathed again.
The jagged cliffs lost their menace. The broken land softened under a wash of golden memory. A faint breeze stirred, warmer now, curling through Kon's hair like the distant touch of a mother's hand. And then—unmistakable—he felt it: sunlight, warm on his cheek.
Kon closed his eyes. For a breath, just one, he let go of everything. He was no longer a soldier. No longer a son grieving in silence. No longer a boy learning how to carry the weight of a fallen name.
He was just a child again, walking beside a man whose shadow once fell across these same cliffs like a protective wing.
And then it came.
A voice—not loud, not whispered, but spoken. It bypassed the wind and the ears and went straight to the marrow of him. Gentle, yet unyielding. Familiar. Powerful. It rang with the weight of thrones and old blood and older truth.
"Be careful, my son. You must distinguish those who are truly family from those who are not. For those you trust as family… may one day betray you."
The words chilled him to the bone. Kon's eyes shot open, the light still aglow around them—but already dimming.
He turned sharply. "Did you… say something?" he asked, barely able to keep the tremor from his voice.
Talonir stood motionless beside him, watching the horizon with a peculiar stillness. When he spoke, his tone was even, but it carried a trace of something heavier. "No," he said. "I didn't say a word."
But something about his eyes betrayed that answer—something in the stillness of them, the oldness of them. He knew. Or he had heard something too.
"Perhaps it was your imagination?" he added, though even as he spoke, the doubt laced the edge of his words.
Kon didn't respond. He didn't need to. The voice still echoed in him—not in his ears, but behind them, in that deep place where promises were born and warnings were buried. It wasn't the voice of a man. Nor of a beast. It was… older. The kind of voice that only spoke when something eternal leaned just a little closer than usual.
The light dimmed. The golden flare faded behind the returning veil of cloud, and with it, warmth slipped quietly away.
And all at once, the land was cold again. And dark. But Kon did not feel small.
Talonir placed a hand on his shoulder—not heavy, not demanding, simply there. Steady. Like stone beneath rushing water. "The wheels of time are shifting," he said, his voice low, unreadable. "Things have been set in motion that cannot be undone."
Kon met his gaze—and in that moment, he didn't feel like a boy anymore.
Turning back to the wind-blasted plains, Talonir's voice found its resolve again. "But now is the time, Kon. The time to take back what is ours. To reclaim this land. And restore Narn to its rightful glory."
And Kon said nothing. He simply stood there, the light of the vanished sun still burning behind his eyes, and let the words carve themselves into the bedrock of his soul.
Together, they looked out upon the frozen vastness. And though the world was cold, a fire had started within them—quiet, slow, and utterly unquenchable.