Behind the seemingly impassable walls of Aninstadt, Hundberg’s last city, Gideon and Ezekiel draw their longswords. Gideon, a Border Collie, wavers between stances—plow guard, fool’s guard, tail guard—then raises his sword high, pointing it at Ezekiel, a Great Dane. WHOOSH. He swings from top to bottom, then back; each time, his blade meets with Ezekiel’s.

  Gideon lunges, and Ezekiel parries, shoving the hilt of his sword into the Border Collie’s back. Winded, Gideon stumbles forward. He faces Ezekiel in time to block his swing. With one hand on his hilt and the other on his blade, Gideon fends off the Great Dane’s weight.

  CHOP. Gideon pulls at his sword, which is stuck in a fencepost. Meanwhile, Ezekiel swings for his head. Freeing his weapon, Gideon ducks from his opponent’s attack by a hair’s breadth. He swings at Ezekiel’s toes—but misses. Then at his chin, and he locks blades with him.

  This time, the Great Dane’s strength is overwhelming for Gideon, and he knows that. The Border Collie drops his sword, catching it as the tip of Ezekiel’s hits the sand. Gideon takes a swing at Ezekiel’s neck; an inch further and he would have cut it.

  Gideon sheathes his sword. “It looks like the student has become …well, you.”

  Ezekiel pokes his student’s tail. ARF. “The day you best me with your left hand is the day I call you Master.”

  Past the sand and wood of their sparring ring, King Salem stands atop a grassy hill, watching. Gideon is less than pleased to see his father, as his armored silhouette often comes with bad tidings.

  ***

  King Salem’s suit of armor clinks as he sits. He and Prince Gideon are in a sword-, axe-, and bow-furnished tent beside the sparring ring. Gideon offers his father a drink of cane mead, which Salem raises a hand to in refusal.

  Gideon takes the drink for himself. “And what brings you here, Father? It’s not my sword fighting, is it?”

  The son laughs; his father doesn’t. “Tonight, Hundberg will sign a peace treaty with Dachheim.”

  Gideon chokes on his mead… “Their bloodstained progression knows no end.”

  “It is our ancestors’ tradition to—”

  “I forget, was that before or after Wulfholm fell?”

  Behind Salem’s stoic fa?ade lie undertones of regret and despair. “W-will I see you at the temple?”

  “I need a drink, first.” TRICKLE. Gideon empties the remnants of his cane mead onto the tent’s earthen floor.

  ***

  Shadows arise, and come nightfall, Gideon is at an alehouse—not a tavern—with his friends Jericho and Naomi. Jericho, a Saint Bernard, and Naomi, an Akita Inu, are sober; Gideon is not.

  “‘It’s tradition! It’s tradition!’” he slurs, mounting the bar table to make a drunken speech.

  “I forfeited my birthright to fight for our traditions—to die for them. And now… they’ll die with me.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  As the drunkards cheer, Gideon sinks into his stool, muttering. “Tradition be damned.”

  Naomi rolls her eyes, then darts them between the drunken prince and Jericho, who rummages in the sack at his waist for a corked vial. POP. He pours its contents down Gideon’s neck, sobering him more than a full day’s rest.

  “And that was…?” he asks, eyes wide and blinking.

  “One of many teas Brother Shem taught me to brew.”

  Gideon nods and shrugs, then waves at the barkeeper. “Another drink, please.”

  THWACK. Naomi’s gauntlet meets with the back of his head. “The signing is in ten moments.”

  “Oh, whatever happened to you two? Back then, I was the least drunk of us three, and barely so.”

  “Brother, I am a monk. I’m with you for moral support.”

  Gideon turns to Naomi. “And you?”

  “What Mistress Esther said has kept me from drinking: that with Canaan at our temple, he can and may bring down our walls from within.”

  The name “Canaan” fills the vessels of his heart with fear. Inky-black fur, bloodshot eyes, and lengthy, jagged fangs are burnt into his mind. He’s met Canaan once before, when the Pit Bull’s meaty claws choked Gideon’s mother to death.

  Rousing Gideon from his thoughts, Hundberg peasants scream past the alehouse’s windows. Behind them, the torch-lit silhouettes of Dachheim warriors.

  KNOCK-KNOCK. A knock at the door. Gideon rises to his feet, his sword drawn. He holds it away from himself, pointed at whoever has the misfortune of crossing this threshold. Naomi sidles the wall, drawing her longbow. The door creaks wide…

  It’s the old, small innkeeper, shivering and sniveling. Gideon and Naomi pause, then SNIFF—Gideon smells the enemy. He pulls the old dog inside, along with a Dachheim warrior hiding behind him. Said warrior, big and tall, draws back his spear at Gideon. THUNK. Jericho lodges one of two shields into his Dachheim-crested helmet.

  Gideon looks at the fallen warrior—he’ll live—then at Jericho, nods his thanks, and walks out the door.

  Past the streets of panic and chaos, he sees it: the temple, aflame.

  “Father…”

  Gauntlets off; sabatons off. The Border Collie stands on all fours. Gravel crunches with each paw back—then he gallops toward the fire, Jericho and Naomi calling his name.

  ***

  Gideon comes to the temple; it’s boarded shut, and Dachheim warriors draw near. Wedging his sword between planks, he levers it against the door. As he struggles, footsteps swell behind him. He feels a hand on his shoulder—this is it.

  “Allow me.” Gideon turns to find Ezekiel looming over him.

  CRACK. Ezekiel kicks not in, but through the wooden boards. He pushes Gideon into the temple, then—CLICK—he locks himself out. The last Gideon sees of him is the Great Dane standing before a horde of Dachheim mutts.

  Moonlight shines through stained glass windows onto a corpse-strewn floor. Among the dead, laid upon a candlelit altar with a hole in his chest, is King Salem, Gideon’s father. Overshadowing his dead body: Canaan. He wields a hand cannon, which Gideon is unfamiliar with.

  Twice, he has lost a parent to Canaan’s villainy. He will not let his father’s death be in vain—not like he did with his mother’s.

  Gideon wants to speak—to tell Canaan he will cut him down—but grief wells in his mouth, and it is too much to talk through.

  Canaan looks past his shoulder—he remembers the Prince. “Didn’t I kill your mother?”

  SHING. With teary eyes and a drooling mouth, Gideon draws his sword. His anguished cry sounds throughout the temple, as do his footsteps. Heading towards the Pit Bull, he thinks, “This is for my father, my mother, Hundberg, and for—”

  BANG. Gideon takes a bullet to the head.