“I must admit, your name is a most unusual one.”

“My father wanted to name me something strong,” my father replied to the marshal. “As well as unique, it seems.”

I watched the two anxiously from my crib as they conversed at our small table. I could see him much clearer now up close, the marshal with the falcon crest. It was difficult to discern his age. His hair was trimmed short, but I couldn’t tell if the color was blonde or white. His clean shaven jaw helped to further conceal his age, but the faded scars worn on his brow and lip gave him away. His coat was a fine leather, dyed dark with a high collar, worn over a gorget of black iron, protecting his throat. What other armor is he hiding?

The marshal smiled, “And what did he do?”

“He was a bricklayer.”

“Which would make you, Krig…?” The marshal trailed off, prompting my father to fill in the blank. 

“Just Krig.”

My mother took the whistling kettle from over the fire and walked to the table, filling the cups before each man. The marshal smiled at her, though his eyes had a strange nature to them that did not match the friendliness his lips portrayed. My mother returned a smile, avoiding his gaze.

His eyes followed her as she walked back toward the kitchen. “And Gwen, was it?” The marshal asked, though he clearly knew her name. “What was your father’s profession?”

“Are we to believe your visit is purely to learn the histories of our families?” my father said, his patience wearing thin.

The marshal’s head snapped to my father. “You forget your place, peasant. Interrupt me again, and I will free the tongue from your mouth, is that clear?” I began to cry. Father was speechless, staring back into the cold eyes of the marshal. My mother had spun to face the two, but stood frozen in place. I didn’t want to cry, but I couldn’t control myself. Fear gripped me, and my infantile wails were the only sound within the cottage.

Then, the marshal just laughed. It was a hearty, full laugh, like someone had said a joke and we all missed it. Mother, the marshal’s amusement seeming to release her from paralysis, rushed over to me and picked me up from my crib, rocking and shushing me.

“I have a fascination for familial origins,” the marshal explained, “but I admit, I do tend to get carried away.” He was still laughing.

My father sighed out a chuckle of his own, though it didn’t seem to offer him any relief.

The marshal straightened his posture and took a sip of tea from the cup in front of him before sighing exaggeratedly. He licked his lips as he set the cup down, comfortable in the silence. 

“Your guildmaster informed me that you were the one to slay the Fire Wolf--I believe that is what he called it--and alone, no less.” The marshal cocked his head. “How did you manage to pull that off?”

My father took his time responding, not out of leisure as the marshal did, but out of necessity. It was clear he was choosing his words carefully to avoid spurring the marshal’s wrath again. “Got lucky, I suppose.”

The marshal smiled with a nod, like he anticipated my father would reply that way. “A lupine beast outsizing a horse, infused with pyromantic qualities, brought down single-handedly, and you attribute your success to luck? Krig. You are either far too humble or you are simply untruthful.” His smile was disappearing. Come on, Father, just kick his ass! He’s not half as scary as that wolf!

Father took a sip from his own cup. “Perhaps I am being too modest. You see, I’ve spent some years with the guild, honing my skills as a hunter. That coupled with my family being in harm’s way, and I suppose… instinct took over.”

“Hm.” The marshal seemed less expectant of this explanation. “Instinct.”

The marshal took a deep inhale, his eyes fluttering to a close. As he exhaled, his head tilted toward my parents’ bed, his eyes reopening and falling upon it. He stood up. “Marshals are familiar with allowing our instincts to drive us.” 

He stepped toward the bed, Mother and Father flashing each other worried looks behind his back. “You see, all marshals have the ability to sense magic, but it comes to us differently. Flickers of color in our sight, a static we can feel.” 

He turned over his shoulder. “Scent.” 

His foot creaked atop the loose floorboard.

The marshal smelled the air again, trying to catch an odor that eluded him, but brought his eyes downward to the floor. I knew what I had to do.

The marshal’s nostrils flared, and his face contorted with disgust. He turned his eyes to me sharply as he refrained from gagging. I couldn’t help but let out a giggle.

“Oh, Crow! I just changed you,” my mother half scolded between laughs, plugging her nose. 

The marshal brought a kerchief to his face and stepped quickly toward the door. “You wielded two swords when you slayed the wolf, yes? I’ll wish to examine them.”

“Oh yes, of course. They’re around here somewhere. If you don’t mind waiting, I can dig them up for you?”

The marshal didn’t call my father’s bluff. “No. Just… bring them to my tent.” He flashed me a final look before exiting. “Disgusting.”