The Norzcarpe, that mighty wall of jagged granite spires, sheathed in grinding ice of furlong’s depth, hath shielded the Norlands from southern invasion ere Ed? was thawed from frozen ruin. By Sol’s warmth, the great ice withdrew, receding into the high mountain valleys and surrendering the wide Norland plain to beast and branch. And just as the tides of sea, soon too returned the tribes of men, guided northward by the silent monuments of ancient giant builders.

  In time, the Norland kingdoms were born anew. Among these was Methundor, a country of sylvan plenty, unrolling northward unto the Kingdom of Lochlund and her gray and sandy shores. Westward it did stretch as well, for many dozens of leagues, until it reached the treeless Blackmoors and the stony hills of Canac, where at last the earth doth meet its end, cleaving asunder into the swirling, wine-dark tides. Eastward too, it ran, unto the River Lunde, famed for the bogs and mire it doth fashion in springtide; and many leagues beyond her meanders lay the untamed lands of Ankenlund— wild and desolate— where lonely roads and windswept heaths were trod by few save wolves and wooly beasts of monstrous nature.

  The Norland snows of winter were harsh beyond measure; yet in their season they melted into rivulets and waterfalls and swift bright streams, weaving through her shadowed forests, and quenching the pastures that nourished the herds and flocks that were the bounty of Norland men.

  This country of Methundor was the hearthstone of Norland’s dominion; yet for all its breadth, the strength of Methundor was nearly one city, Gruen, where all roads did meet. With her bustling markets and bursting granaries, her ancient walls of stone had withstood the countless batterings and sieges of warring reiks and hostile thegns.

  When Clendyne Feldric, the elder Reik of Gruen, at last succumbed to a long and wasting malady of sores and fits and madness, he left no lawful heir to bear the sceptre of dominion; for each of his three noble sons had perished in childhood— some whispering not by nature’s hand. And while many named it a curse and others a mercy, Cleon, bastard-born and long scorned as an outlaw of ill repute, rose forth from exile. And by bloody force and foul deed he began to lay his claim as reik against all who dared contest him.

  To prove his worth before the doubtful lords of Gruen, Cleon first rode against the brigands and highwaymen that had long plagued the merchant road to neighboring Fywold. And because he had once led their very pack, he knew their haunts and cunning ways. Thus, by guile and ruthless hand, he smote them without mercy and returned to Gruen bearing their severed heads, knotted together by their braids. The people hailed Cleon as deliverer and champion of justice, forgetting in haste that he himself had been the wolf among them…

  Such is the nature of men that they so soon forget.

  Those who ventured to stand against the bastard realized no justice. Some were found broken upon the cobbles, having fallen from parapets on windless nights; others vanished from their chambers to be later drawn from the river, their eyes wide but their tongues torn out. Fear spread through Gruen’s resistance like a pestilence borne upon bad air, and though Cleon’s name was heralded in public squares, it was cursed in secret whispers. For though none dared accuse the renowned vanquisher of bandits, all knew whose shadow fell longest across the city walls.

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  Rumors multiplied like flies upon a carcass, saying that Cleon’s ascent was wrought by dark sorcery. And some even swore he had truck with the immortal Azarius himself— who, it was held, roamed the moonlit groves beneath the guise of an antlered faun.

  Yet Cleon did take counsel— with a company called The Aeonites, who wert long wanderers out of the far southern climes, hunted refugees of unending war. Strange of visage and close of heart, they moved through Methundor like living shadows, shunning the lamp of notice and speaking in tongues few men could name. And though Aeonite arts and long endurance stirred unease among the common folk, the wise and high-born prized their counsel; for by their craft were their fields enriched, their ramparts strengthened, and their fortunes multiplied.

  The late Clendyne, sire of Cleon, had long shielded these Aeonites from the superstitious scorn of Norland serfs, granting them protection within Gruen’s walls. Among their number was one whom Clendyne had held dearest, a counselor and confidant passed from father to son, and from the father’s father before him. In fact, none in Gruen could recall a day bereft of his presence. Indeed, the oldest records speak of his service stretching back two centuries. Aeonites, being not wholly True Men, but shaped of man and dragon essence, outlived many Norlander generations.

  This venerable Aeonite was named Kethu the Immigrant, and he came to Gruen in the elder days, by way of Vallis, when Clendyne’s savage forebears still ruled as chieftains over forest and fen. It was Kethu who first perceived the shadow of Clendyne’s doom and whispered his portents into courtier ears:

  “Only the bastard son hath the will to kindle Gruen’s glowing coals and fan the sovereign flame of Methundor! Defend him, and drive out the vultures that circle this house, lest carrion strip this carcass clean!”

  And long ere the elder reik’s passing, Kethu journeyed alone into the shadowed forest to seek Cleon, bidding him return from his manhunts, and come for the throne’s table that was being set before him.

  Yet Kethu’s counsel sprang not from love nor loyalty to the bastard Cleon, but from his own cunning calculation. For if the Aeonites should be found ill-aligned with whosoever triumphed, their race might be cast into chains or worse. Thus did Kethu weigh the hearts of all contenders and deem Cleon the strongest of will, and therefore the most perilous to oppose. The survival of his kin hung upon that thread, and so he wove it fast about Cleon’s crown.

  One by one, Kethu lured the rivals into snares of their own making— fanning their greed, then exposing them to the guard. Many a noble who had walked boldly through the garden at dawn found his wrists shackled by noon, their charges treason; their sentence swift. At Kethu’s word, all the Aeonites conspired in Cleon’s favor, revealing each secret move his foes devised. Yet this they did not from devotion to the bastard prince, but to safeguard their own refuge from southern bondage and murder. For they knew they were but guests within the perilous Norland keep.

  And while reiks and thegns gnawed and devoured one another over a crown, the ice, ever-warmed by Sol’s radiance, continued to evanesce, releasing at last the immortal who had been bound for eons within its frozen vault.