The boy gazed at a castle on a hill. It didn’t look anything like the one he’d glimpsed past the gate. Grey stones, a single cylindrical tower, and far smaller than the sprawling castle he remembered. Then again, it was only a drawing on a book's cover.

Most of the day had been spent at the market square, but, like most afternoons, the boy meandered the streets, exploring the town he called home. He’d wandered onto the nicer side of town, near the wall that divided the world of Lord Groms from that of beggars.

He peered through the window of a small, one-story shop. The front door had a wooden sign with a faded blue book painted on it hanging overhead. It was filled to the brim with shelves and tables displaying books. Some were large leatherbound tomes, others smaller, and the one he stared at had a painting on the cover. It depicted a man in armor and wielding a sword wearily climbing a hill while strange creatures with sharp teeth and grey skin chased him. At the top of the hill was that glorious grey tower with a red flag waving in the wind.

The boy liked the picture. It gave him a sense of wonder and excitement. He wanted to know who the man was, what the creatures were, and what was in the tower. He wanted to live in that world, if only for a moment.

"That one caught your eye?"

He had been so enamored with the picture he hadn't realized the old man standing behind him. He turned to see a wrinkled-faced, hunchbacked, elderly man wearing circular spectacles. He wore an old brown coat with a fraying scarf and held three large books under one arm. His white hair was all but gone, leaving just a wisp on the top of his age-speckled head.

He smiled down at the boy and stepped toward the door to the shop, producing a key from under his coat with his free hand. "You may come in if you'd like to take a look."

"I don't have coin," the boy replied.

The old man laughed. "That's alright. I won't charge you for taking a look."

He paused, door half open. "Just don't run off with any of my books, okay."

The boy nodded and followed the old man into the shop. Inside smelled strongly of ink and parchment and gave the boy the same warm sensation as being wrapped up in a blanket. It was comfortable.—cozy even. 

"Is this your shop?" the boy asked, wandering the room and examining the vast collection of books.

The old man set down his books on a cluttered wooden desk behind the counter of the shop and began to light a lantern hanging from the ceiling. "Yes, it is. I have collected and sold books for over half a century."

"How long is that?"

The old man looked at the boy with a kind smile. "A century is one hundred years. Half of that would be fifty whole years."

The boy nodded, but still didn't fully understand how long that was.

The old man shuffled over to the table with the tower book and scooped it up before crouching down to the boy's height.

"You can call me Mr. Selars. What's your name?"

"Don't got one."

Selars smiled again. "If you haven't got one, you can always choose one for yourself, you know?"

"I can?"

"Sure you can. It's your name after all."

The boy glanced to the drawing on the book and pointed to the weary man. "What's his name then?"

Selars handed the book to the boy and peered at it over his spectacles. "That is Merrick Vale. A fine hero from a fine story."

The boy didn't think twice. "Then I'll be Merrick Vale too."

Selars let out a loud, hearty laugh and patted the boy's shoulder. "Alright then, Merrick—or should I say Lord Vale?"

It was strange, having a name. If he’d known it was so easy, he would have given himself one long ago. But it felt right. It felt good—like he finally existed.

"What's lord mean?"

"Hmm," Selars said, rising to his feet and stretching his back. "You seem like a boy keen to learn. If you'd like I could teach you."

Merrick furrowed his brow. "Teach me what lord means?"

"That and much, much more my boy."

Selars tapped an ink-stained finger on his chin, squinting at the boy. "Tell me, Merrick, do those little legs of yours work?"

Merrick responded by moving his legs up and down in an exaggerated fashion. "I think so."

"I see," Selars chuckled. "I've decided then—you will help an old man run his errands and make his deliveries. In exchange, I will teach you, young Merrick Vale, to read and write as well as about any other queries you may have. You will be a scholar in no time!"

"What about food?" Merrick asked.

"There will be snacks included with the lessons. I can't have my errand boy fainting on me now, can I?"

Merrick grinned wide. "Deal!"

He now had a name, a job, a teacher—if he wanted to reach the top of the hill, this was a step in the right direction. He wondered if he would even need to continuing his thieving now. Perhaps he could leave all the beggars behind him. 

No. 

He couldn't get ahead of himself. There was much to be done, and he needed to take advantage of every opportunity he came upon. Selars would teach him and feed him, he wouldn't let that go to waste. 

He looked down at the book in his hands. "Mr. Selars, what's this book called?"

Selars had plopped himself down behind the counter and now dipped a feather quill into an inkwell. 

"I'll teach you, so that you may read the title yourself. For now, come over here. I have your first task."

———

Days turned into weeks and then to months as Merrick began his journey upon the path of education. He'd settled into a routine as the time passed. The mornings were spent at the market square. He continued to steal, but he brought down the frequency. He'd only attempt a theft if he was certain he could escape unnoticed. With food provided by Selars now, he had no need to risk getting caught for larger items. By noon, he'd make his way to Selars' shop where he would be given a small meal, usually bread and some fruit.

After lunch, Merrick would be given tasks to help the old man. They would range from tidying up the shop to making deliveries to the rich folk beyond the gate. Selars had a small, bronze pin in the shape of a bird. When it was time for Merrick to make a delivery, he would take the pin and the guards at the portcullis would let him through. The most commonly sold items were ink and parchment that Selars kept a large supply of in the back room of the shop. Most of the customers were kind, but some would shoot him disgusted looks and wonder aloud about what Selars was thinking employing rats off the street. Merrick enjoyed delivering books the most even though it was rare to do so. He found that most people ordering books to their estate were kindly and old. Sometimes he would even be given a treat or an extra copper for his troubles. There was much walking to be done, and he had to carry a heavy bag of the deliverables, but Merrick enjoyed the work far more than spending time in the chaotic scrum of the market square. 

After his duties were done for the day, Selars would teach him. They'd started off reading and writing individual letters, but quickly moved on to full words and sentences. Selars often remarked on how quickly Merrick picked things up, claiming that he was a "bright young boy with a brilliant teacher!" Merrick could read and write short sentences now, but regularly grew impatient with his own capabilities. He wanted nothing more than to begin his own life, but he was still only a child. He knew what he wanted to do, even if he didn't yet know how. Books held the answers and the knowledge and Selars held the key to unlock them. He just had to be patient.  Never once, however, did he consider giving up. He'd found a foothold into society and refused to surrender it.

Some days, if the work was slow or if Selars was feeling particularly bored, Merrick would get to hear stories about the world. Selars was well traveled and knew "the long and short of the world" as he put it. Merrick learned that Croden was the largest trade hub in the southern region of the Kingdom of Eransholt and that the capital was a city called Uldrath to the north. Eransholt was one of three major realms making up the continent of Olstand. There was the Empire of Xel'ak to the far south across the Xeros Desert, Eransholt making up the majority of the mainland, and the savage Islands of Gor to the far north. Across The Sea Between was the continent of Kharnyr, a lawless wasteland of pagans, violent tribes, and kingdoms who changed kings and names so often that there was no point to learning them. Selars claimed to have been there, but only a single time on a trade vessel. 

Today Selars was telling Merrick of the noble houses of Eransholt.

"Each house adopts a sigil and a motto."

"A motto?" Merrick asked, looking up from his parchment. He'd been copying the words from a story book, practicing his lettering.

The old man rubbed his chin. "Hmmm... it's like a phrase—a few words or a sentence—but an important one. It's meant to encapsulate all that the house is. What they stand for and who they are—or at least who they claim to be."

"Like 'We are the best there is'?"

Selars laughed. "No. Most of the houses aren't arrogant enough to outright say that—though they almost all believe it. They try to be unique and clever—to tell you that they are the best without saying it outright."

"What about King Halas? What's House Greer's motto?"

Selars stood and browsed a shelf of books, running his finger along their spines until he'd found what he was looking for. "I'll have you read it yourself, my boy. This book has the names, sigils, and mottos of most of the houses in Eransholt."

"Only most?"

"There are times when houses are removed or elevated to noble status. Usually if a house commits treason or aids the kingdom in a time of great need—the king takes notice."

Selars opened the large leatherbound tome and set it in front of Merrick. "Here, see if you can read this."

Merrick looked at the page. The script was clean but fancy and slightly hard to read. 'House Greer' was written in large letters at the top and beneath it was a drawing of a double-sided golden battle-axe with a gem-filled crown hovering over it. 

He attempted to read the line that Selars pointed out for him. "St-rike...or be... struck?"

Selars gave a gentle clap and nodded his head. "Very good my young scholar. 'Strike or be struck'—the words of our past six ruling kings in House Greer."

"What's it mean?"

"It refers to the idea that if we do not act, others will act upon us first," Selars said before rolling his eyes in irritation. "Which is why our kingdom had been at war off and on for my entire life. I believe that a man who acts first will always gain the advantage, but may create for himself more trouble than there ever would have been in the first place."

Sometimes it seemed to Merrick that Selars had an answer for everything. Always a story or a nugget of wisdom to share, no matter the situation. 

"How did they become rulers of Eransholt?" Merrick asked. "House Greer, I mean."

Selars let out a sigh as he returned to his chair behind the counter. "Well, that is a difficult question. The short answer is: sometimes kings make mistakes."

"What about the long answer?"

"You do like your stories don't you, boy?" Selars smiled. "A little over a century ago—"

"One-hundred years," Merrick interrupted. 

"Right you are. Over one-hundred years ago there was a king by the name of Olivar Dalis. House Dalis ruled Eransholt for many years and Olivar was but one man in a long line of kings both great and terrible. He was anointed young, his father died of illness rather than old age and the crown was forced upon a boy who still had much learning to do. He was married to a beautiful noblewoman and held court with the wisest and most trustworthy advisors he could ask for. And for a while, things went well. The kingdom thrived, there was a time of peace and the people had no issue with young King Olivar. But as is the way with people given too much power before they are ready, the boy made a mistake. Everyone has their vices and Olivar's was women. Perhaps he never truly cared for the queen, or perhaps his father had simply never been able to teach him of the respect and duty required of a king. He spent nights with escorts and brought women into the very bed he shared with the queen. And what, do you think, the queen made of it?"

"She probably wasn't very happy," Merrick replied.

"No. She was not."

"But why did Olivar do it? Sounds like he had everything you could ever want? You even said the queen was beautiful?"

Selars shook his head slowly. "I think it's because he never felt like he got to choose anything in his life. So he finally made a choice—albeit a foolish one as you'll see when the story continues. For whatever reason, people always want something different than what they are given. A poor man wishes in his heart to meet and marry a rich woman. I have seen dozens of nobles fall for the lowly peasant. They seek to rebel against their status, regardless of what it is. No one wants to be confined—be it a jail, an occupation, or even a castle. Everyone wants to venture out, to see if there is something better. No man can truly have everything. No man ever reaches total satisfaction. So we must simply take what we can get and enjoy the little things along the way. Don't you agree, my boy?"

Merrick nodded but he wasn't sure he truly agreed. It seemed to him like Olivar had everything but never worked for any of it and thus he felt guilty—eventually running from it.

"Keep going," he said. "We still haven't gotten to the Greers."

Selars peeked out of a window, the sun was beginning to set. "I'll finish this story, but then I must close the shop for the day. Did you finish your lettering?"

Merrick nodded enthusiastically, holding up the scratch of parchment he'd been working on. Then he dragged his chair over to the counter, eagerly awaiting the rest of the tale.

"Where were we now?" Selars began. "Oh yes, the queen. Angry isn't quite the word to describe how she felt. Spiteful—vengeful, perhaps—is a more accurate term. One night when the king and his ladies of the night had drunk themselves into a stupor, she crept into his bedroom. The guards let her go, for she was the queen after all. Surely, she was no danger. As the story goes she slit his throat that night."

"She killed the king?"

Selars nodded. "A king with no true heir. The line of succession was broken. And so—chaos. The realm was fractured. Some of the noble houses allied with the queen's family. Others saw fit to name themselves as the next ruling family of Eransholt. Violence and war ravaged the land. Eventually two main factions were all that was left. One side was the queen, the other—House Greer. Malleus Greer, a ruthless and capable general of war led the attack on Uldrath and for the only time in its history—the city fell. Malleus had launched a sneak attack during the Night of Respite, a traditional day of rest once per year here in Eransholt."

"Strike or be struck," Merrick muttered.

"The people recognized Malleus as their king, be it out fear, respect, or both. And so, House Greer took the throne. There was a word for that. Do you remember it?"

Merrick remembered the word well.

"Usurped?"

Selars patted Merrick's head. "It seems like my lessons are taking hold in that little mind."

"Well that's enough storytelling for today, young Merrick Vale," Selars said, standing and stretching his back. "I'm going home to rest, you should do the same. Tomorrow you're going to help me with a little construction project."