It was over. Fenris was going to die No matter how much he struggled, no matter how much he wished otherwise, this was it. His feet kicked uselessly in the snow as Darendel stalked closer towards him, sword dripping with his blood.

"You've grown soft," His once and only lover said. "A single cut across the thigh and you went down mewling like a wounded puppy. It really is quite sad."

"Fark yourself," Fenris snarled back as he desperately fought back tears. ""Quit prattling on and kill me already!" He gasped as a jolt of pain ran up his body, the taste of blood pooling in his mouth.

"And miss watching the King's pet die in pathetic agony? I wouldn't miss that for the world." Darendel stepped playfully around Fenris, carving a perfect circle in the ground with the tip of his sword. "I never understood his fascination in you. You've barely ascended in the ranks, and yet he personally summons you to the throne room to meet him? None of it makes any sense!"

"I never saw you as the jealous type," Fenris said, happily paying the price to see Darendel squirm one final time as the pain in his side flared into near blinding agony.

Darendel's eyes went wide. He lifted his boot up, and for a moment Fenris feared he would stomp down on the spear tip and end his life for good. Then he relaxed and stood back up, a look of superiority growing on his face again.

"Corvere was right about you," Darendel said. "Your mouth does have a nasty habit of getting you into trouble. I mean, just look at where you are now. Bleeding out in the cold like a wild animal. You really are a dog."

Fenris forced out a grin. "Guess that makes you a dog farker then, considering my mouth was the last thing around your fruits, far as I recall."

Darendel did kick Fenris this time, and even had the courtesy to aim for his own fruits instead of the spear tip. Despite the kindly gesture, however, it was still very much a hard kick in the fruits.

The air whooshed out of Fenris in an instant as unfathomable pain erupted from his groin. He howled as it roiled in his side and up into his twisted guts. Sour spit burned in the back of his throat as he turned, wretched, green bile spattering the powder dusted ground.

"You've no respect for the dead," Fenris coughed out.

"The only thing I care from the dead is that they stay silent." Darendel lifted up his sword, hovering it over Fenris' throat. "But it looks like I'll have to cut yours out if I want any peace and quiet around here."

Fenris smiled, pink teeth reflecting off the glassy surface of the blade. "Stubborn till the bitter end." He closed his eyes and sank his head into the soft, downy snow. His entire body was one giant pain now, the tips of his extremities already numb with blood loss. It seemed Loken's prediction had been wrong after all. He was going to die. His farking prophecy hadn't been worth a damn.

The air thrummed over Fenris before a loud crack snapped his eyes open. Darendel was gone, his scream cut short as he smashed into a nearby tree. There was a single, ear grating crunch and then silence once more.

Fenris tried to breathe, tried to look up, but his body was so weak now. He felt liquid sloshing in his lungs, the taste of iron thick on his tongue. The corners of his vision were starting to go fuzzy, his eyes unable to focus on anything.

"Loken," he wheezed. "Loken, help me."

A figure loomed over him. A man bigger and broader than anyone Fenris had ever seen before. He was old, well past his prime, dressed in strange metal armor darker than the clouded sky and flecked with bits of white shaped like candle flames. His hair was tarnished gold, his beard a silver wheat field running clear past his neckline. He held a massive warhammer in one hand, forged of the same material as his armor.

"Who?" Was all Fenris had left in him to say. It was getting harder and harder to breathe now. Every gulp of air was a victory unto itself.

The man just stared at him, searching him for answers. They snapped up as another figure appeared, one Fenris was glad to see.

"Fenris," Loken bent down, blue robe shifting back to reveal one bare shoulder. He placed a hand pm his cheek, the other around the edges of the wound, fingertips already wet with his blood.

"I thought," Fenris croaked out.

"Quiet. We need to get this out of you. You over there," Loken jabbed a finger at the old man staring dumbfounded at the two of them, the witch boy's voice surprisingly commanding. "I need you to pull this out. Can you do this for me?"

"I can," the old man said, his voice strange and garbled in Fenris' ears. It was almost Northern, but there was something else glazed over it, like grease shimmering on the water's surface.

"Then get to it!" Loken turned back to Fenris, cupping his face with his hands, smearing blood on his cheek. "Fenris, this is going to hurt. This is going to hurt a lot. I need you to look at me and bite down on this when he pulls it out."

Fenris nearly gagged as a wedge of leather was shoved in his mouth, forcing him to breathe through his nose. He couldn't see the spear tip sticking from his guts anymore, but he could see the old man getting closer, dropping to one knee.

Panic began to set in, no matter how much Fenris denied it otherwise. His breath came out in short, frantic little snorts, the thumping of his heart growing into his ears. He instinctively lashed out, but Loken was shockingly powerful, pinning him to the ground.

The old man as well had his legs pinned, well corded muscles peeking through his armor. "On your mark."

"One," Loken said. Fenris bit down on the leather bit, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Two." The world grew fuzzier, hard edges melting away into colors and shapes. Fenris couldn't hear past the pounding in his head, the rasping in his chest. He looked up, and saw Loken staring down at him, pale face gleaming like the sun kissed moon from his memories. Back when the world had been made right.

"Three!" Agony tore through Fenris like a burning knife as the spear tip was ripped out of him. The world went red, Loken's beautiful, twinkling eyes lost in the bright, unyielding pain.

*

Regis didn't know why he'd helped the Forsworn. Whether by sickening curiosity or morbid fascination, he couldn't tell. Only that his legs started moving on their own as he started charging, sore arms lifting up the hammer once more. The other Forsworn barely had time to react before he was sent hurtling into a tree, head breaking open on a thick branch before tumbling bonelessly to the ground.

"Loken," the wounded Forsworn wheezed. "Loken, help me."

A cold chill washed over Regis. The man's voice felt eerily familiar, echoing off in the vaulted confines of the past. He took a step towards him, eyes widening over the grisly wound. The broken shaft of a spear tip jutted out from one side, blood steadily pouring into the ever thirsty ground. He was a dead man for sure, and with it any hope Regis had on figuring out his identity. Another lost soul taken by the mad lands of Danic. What the seven hells was he even still doing here?

"Who?" The dead man whispered, desperately trying to remain focused. He was going into shock now, the loss of blood too great for a warrior as mighty as him could hope to bear. Regis prayed his death would be swift and painless.

A flutter of blue cloth caught his eye. It snapped past him in a blur, faster than he'd realized, and a man materialized from within it. The air grew sharp around him, nipping Regis at the nose

The bitter tang of magick.

"Fenris," the mysterious man said, presumably this Loken the Forsworn had called out for. They exchanged words, one soft and gentle, the other a desperate, wheezing snarl.

"You!" Loken jabbed a finger up at Regis. "I need you to pull this out. Can you do this for me?"

"I can," he muttered back, mind working to put all the pieces together. There was always trouble whenever magick was involved, but this man Fenris was important somehow. Important to Loken, at least. If he wanted answers, he'd need to play the part.

"Then get to it!" Loken turned back to Fenris, muttering a few words of encouragement.

Regis bent down to one knee, eyeing the spear tip warily. He swallowed as he wrapped both hands around the splintered wood, making sure to find a good grip. There would be no second chances for this.

"On your mark."

"One."

"Two."

"Three!" Regis grit his teeth as he pulled the spear tip with all his might. It came out with a sickening wet pop, blood spurting out in a great gush before Loken clapped a hand over it.

Fenris would have let out a howl worthy enough to wake the dead had he not chomped down on the leather bit. Regis tossed the splintered wood away as he grabbed the Forsworn around the ankles to keep him from squirming.

Loken was surprisingly strong despite his lean, tender frame, straddling Fenris as he dug his fingers into the wound, his other hand clamped tight around the Forsworn's neck. For a terrifying instant Regis wondered if the Wyrdling was trying to kill him, but then he smelled the familiar greasy bite of magick being channeled.

Light coalesced around Loken's fingertips, growing in brightness till Regis was forced to look away. Fenris' panicked breathing slowly began to calm, color returning to his cheeks as the wound in his side stitched itself closed before everyone's eyes.

Regis would have been amazed as a younger man, but time had taken away any wonder he had left for this world. Watching a man brought back from death's door was sadly nothing new to him.

"He will still need rest. We will need to get out of here before anyone else finds us," Loken said as the light around his hands began to fade. He lifted them up, a long, jagged scar all that was left of the once terrifying wound in Fenris' side. He stared up at Regis, soft eyes surprisingly tense beneath their hooded lids. "Will you help us? His survival could mean a difference between life and death for everyone in Danic."

Regis swallowed, feeling a familiar prickle along the back of his neck. The one reminding him whenever trouble came about. It was Olaf all over again. It was the Empress all over again. It was his brother standing at the door, spear in hand, all over again.

"I will."

"Good," Loken said. "We'll need to move. Can you carry him?"

"I can." Regis sheathed his hammer, scooping Fenris up in his arms, the man surprisingly light despite all his armor. He was all lean muscle, not an ounce of fat on him, his golden curls reduced to twisted, bloody lanks around his temples.

"Good. Follow me." Loken bounded off towards the tree line, Regis pounding his heels into the dirt to keep up. They tore down the valley, moving westward, cutting along the hillside. By now the other Forsworn had caught up to the rebels, pushing them north towards the city. A few dead lay scattered about, but luck it seemed was on their side as nothing of the King's own appeared to spot them.

By the time Loken stopped running, Regis was damn near ready to collapse. Youth these days had no respect for the elderly. To expect him to run for so long while fully armored and hauling a near useless corpse. The absolute gall.

"You could have warned me about the distance," Regis said, huffing each word out through every labored breath. He placed Fenris down on a soft looking patch of soil, eyeing the wound once more and marveling at the results. Such a clean fix for such a terrible wound. This Loken was a powerful wyrdling, to say the least.

"You could have left us both for dead, but you didn't," Loken said, sounding entirely sincere.

Regis frowned and looked away. "I had my reasons."

"You did, and you still do. You want to know who he is?"

"How did you know?" Regis shot a hard glare towards Loken, wondering if his thoughts were at the mercy of this Sorcerer."

"Because knowing him is a part of your path. Because he is the most important person there is in Danic." Loken bent down, gently brushing one finger across Fenris' cheek. "That's why I need to stay by his side, guiding him across his own path. That's why I need your help."

Regis felt his frown deepen, the prickle along his neck turning into hard, icy jabs. He was used to the subtle manipulations by those endowed with magick. The Empress had trained him well over the last twenty five years to notice such things.

Whatever magickal arts Loken was using to win him over was something else entirely. There was no claustrophobic pressure pressing against his temples, no radiating pain in the back of his eyes. Only a cold, calm assurance in the back of his mind telling him this Sorcerer could be trusted. That everything would fall into place if he simply obeyed.

"Why?" Regis demanded, his voice a snarling rasp in his ears.

Loken stared back at him, chin held high as he swept a hand over Fenris. "Because he is the one who will kill King Erik."

End of ACT 1

***