A strong elf stood before the gates of the Royal Palace of Arlon. His frame was broader than that of most elves, his honey-brown hair cut short and poorly combed, his thick eyebrows and hairy arms — uncommon traits for one of his kind — lending him a rugged aspect. His clothes were somewhat worn, as though they had seen many roads.
“Hmph,” he snorted. “The old dragon was right — I would not recognize Arlon when I saw it. The last time I was here, this was nothing but a small village.”
He adjusted the pack on his back and strode toward the gate. Just as he was about to cross it, two guards bearing great halberds barred his way.
“Halt, stranger! Who are you to enter without being announced?” one of them demanded.
“And must I truly be announced to enter the house of an old friend?”
“If that old friend happens to be our king, then yes, you must.”
“Very well, then. Tell your king that Urs, the Bear, Captain of the Knights of the Rose, loyal companion to the valiant King Genaro and Queen Alaria, has come to see him.”
Later, within one of the palace’s chambers, Lucca paced restlessly back and forth, his wife Ardriel and their daughter Galawel doing their best to calm him.
“I most certainly should be there in the hall.”
“Peace, my love,” said Ardriel. “My father and uncles can handle it. They’re the only living souls who knew him, aside from Grandma Alaria. Who better to judge the situation?”
“You’re right, of course, but you must admit—Urs reappearing alive after more than a millennium is quite the strange tale, is it not?”
“Yes, but no one ever saw his body. We only believed what Greener told us.”
“Greener? Hah! It seems that scaly rascal has been up to tricks longer than I thought…”
Lucca rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Did you speak to him, Father?” asked Galawel.
“I did. At first, he tried to brush me off, claiming he was busy—but I reminded him, gently, that he still ‘owes’ me a few dragon-hide satchels for that little mess he caused involving Your brothers. He quickly became quite eager to help and promised to come as soon as possible.”
“Eager, sure… I’ll bet,” muttered Galawel.
“Anyway, I’m tired of waiting. I’m going in there now.”
“Father, wait—you promised to enter with Grandma Alaria.”
“She’s right, dear,” said Ardriel. “You must agree, your resemblance to King Genaro could cause some confusion for him if our great-grandmother isn’t present.”
“I know, my love, but I’m tired of waiting.”
“If it is me you were waiting for, my grandson, then you need wait no longer,” said a familiar voice.
Alaria had entered the room unnoticed.
“Grandma! You always arrive at the perfect time,” smiled Galawel. “But—you’re not wearing your habit today?”
“If that man in there truly is Urs, I want him to see me as I was in the old days. Arriving dressed as a nun might confuse him, and—pardon my honesty—he was never the brightest of minds.”
Now joined by Alaria, the group entered the chamber where Urs was speaking not only with the kings of Arlon but also with the king of Erdan, who had teleported there upon hearing the news.
Urs was in the midst of an animated story when he saw Alaria enter, with Lucca to her right and Ardriel to her left. The gruff elf immediately rushed toward her, knelt at her feet, and kissed her hand.
“My queen! As ever, you remain a light to these coarse eyes of mine. And this one beside you, who is he? For a moment, I thought I beheld my king, though he has long since passed.”
“I am glad to see you alive and well, my old friend,” said Alaria. “And as for your question, the young man at my side is Lukhz Bianchi, great-grandson of my late husband, descendant of his first marriage, and son-in-law to King Tauron. This is Ardriel, my great-granddaughter and his wife.”
The elf rose, studying Lukhz and Ardriel from head to toe, as though inspecting a pair of fine weapons.
“Indeed, the young lady has inherited your beauty, my queen,” he said, “but the lad—well, he resembles my late king very little. My king had a nobler bearing, was not so tall and awkward, and bore a manlier air, not this smooth, beardless face that could belong to a babe—or a maiden.”
“Well,” Lucca replied, “to be called beardless and effeminate by an elf who looks like the unfortunate offspring of a dwarf and an orc—I’ll take that as a compliment.”
For a few tense seconds, Urs stared at him—then burst into hearty laughter.
“He may not have inherited my king’s looks,” he said, “but he’s certainly got his courage—and his sharp tongue.”
Lucca, Ardriel, and Galawel turned in mild astonishment toward Alaria.
“Well, my dear ones,” she laughed, “don’t believe every tale you hear. My husband was far from the flawless man the legends paint. He, too, had moments of wit and mischief like Lukhz. Believe me, my grandson, you resemble him in more ways than one.”
“If you say so, Grandmother, I shan’t doubt you—but it’s hard to picture,” smiled Ardriel.
Urs spoke with the kings and with Queen Alaria for a while longer before showing signs of fatigue. He was led to a chamber to bathe and rest.
The next morning, Alaria was speaking with Galawel and Ardriel in one of the palace’s many studies.
“My dear, has your husband discovered the truth behind Sir Urs’s return?”
“Yes,” said Ardriel. “Greener contacted him and told him everything. Lukhz even released him from the need to come here.”
“All right, Mother,” said Galawel, “but what did he tell Father?”
“According to him,” Ardriel explained, “Urs was declared dead while in the lands of the Green Dragons, helping to fight a wicked sorcerer. The sorcerer cast a strange spell at Greener, and Urs tried to deflect it with his sword. The spell—shaped like a lead-gray sphere—engulfed him completely, and he vanished. Greener thought he had been disintegrated, for the villain mocked them, saying they’d never see him again. In truth, the sphere imprisoned Urs in deep slumber within a compact dimension — a perfect magical prison. Weeks ago, he awoke and began pounding at the walls of that realm. A young dragon sensed the magical disturbance and summoned Greener, who freed Urs from his confinement”.
“He tried to block a spell with his sword? Grandma Alaria was right — thinking was never his strongest suit. But Grandma, that’s not the only reason you called us here, is it?”
“No, my dear,” Alaria replied. “It was to show you this.”
The elder elf opened a long cylindrical case she carried and withdrew what seemed to be a rolled tapestry. Unfurling it upon the desk, it revealed itself as a painting depicting fourteen figures standing in a line.
“Are those who I think they are, Grandma?” asked Galawel.
“Yes, my child,” said Alaria softly. “This is the only painting that shows all the original members of the Order of the Rose.”
Foreseeing their curiosity, Alaria pointed to each figure in turn, naming them and recounting a little of their tale:
“The first of them all,” Alaria continued, “was Sir Ferdinan, the Courageous—a brave young man from the coast of what is now Erdan. He let that ridiculous little mustache grow—one I always found absurd—because the other boys of the group joked that, clean-shaven, he looked too much like his twin sister.
His sister, Prisca, stands beside him. She was even braver than her brother, unfazed when called ‘short’ and unmoved by taunts about her small chest. She always said, ‘Big breasts are nothing but a hindrance in battle.’
Next to them is their cousin, Gastón, a handsome, dark-skinned man who inherited his color from his father—a courageous sailor who had emigrated from the far south of the central continent and married Ferdinan and Prisca’s aunt. Gastón considered himself a divine gift to women and could never see one without trying to charm her.
Curiously, though all three were human and therefore destined to live shorter lives than the rest of us, they all died of old age—and had the misfortune of burying several of their elven friends and comrades of the Order.
To Ferdinan’s left, wearing that curious wolf-hood, is Baldric, self-styled Baldric the Brave—a half-elf who claimed to come from a northern tribe of wolf hunters and to be cousin to Svarog, though Svarog denied both the kinship and the tribe’s existence. He was the youngest of us all — even younger than the humans — and we treated him like a younger brother. He was the first of us to fall. My Genaro, who loved him as a son, was devastated, yet royal duty bound him to stay. It was left to Svarog, Cenric, and Urs to scour the continent to find the killer—who met his end at the edge of Svarog’s heavy axe.
After Baldric comes Tanith the Silent, a half-elf whose scar from an orcish duel made speech difficult. But she needed no words in battle. She was our scout and spy, ever ahead of us, discovering trails and gathering the knowledge we needed.
Sir Jarek, a brave half-elf known as the Strong, came next. To borrow a term I learned from my grandson Lukhz—he was the ‘tank’ of our group, our living shield, ever willing to stand between danger and his comrades. Perhaps only Urs equaled him in strength. He served as captain of the royal guard of Sudher and as my personal bodyguard for many years. In time, he married Tanith, and both died of old age—only a week apart.
As for me and my Genaro—well, we need no explanation, do we?”
She smiled wistfully before moving her finger to the next figure.
“This half-elf with white hair and a sullen face beside Genaro is Svarog the Wise, from the northern lands—a man much like my grandson Sieg in some ways. He was our strategist, our ‘older brother,’ and a master craftsman responsible for much of our equipment. He fell in battle, defending a merchant caravan from a horde of goblins.
To his left is Lady Zahra the Precise, a half-elf who never missed a single arrow in her centuries of life. She was a born huntress, raised in the forests of the eastern plains, who came to the lands that would become Erdan seeking new beasts and new challenges.
Next stands Cenric the Fearless, the one-eyed half-elf with the scar across his face. He had been a slave forced to fight as a gladiator in a desert city at the edge of the Great Southern Sands—until my husband and I freed him. He swore eternal loyalty to us and kept his oath to the end. He died defending my aged husband from the blade of a disgruntled nobleman.
Hendrik the Good comes next—the elf with blood-red hair and a master swordsman. He was the last of us to die; when he fell, I became the sole survivor of the Order. He was slain by your uncle, my granddaughter, — the one history remembers as the ‘Cursed King’ of Sudher—whom Hendrik had trained since boyhood. He believed, to his final breath, that he could bring his pupil back from darkness. But he died by the hand of the young man he loved as a son. It was then we knew there was no saving my grandson.
As for Urs, well—you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting him. And finally, the last figure in the painting is Einar the Fair, the only mage among us—an elf who fancied himself a ‘lover of beauty.’ If Gastón could not resist a woman, Einar made no such distinctions—flirting with men, women, dwarves, and even winged folk. He met his end at the hands of a jealous dwarven bard who had been his lover.”
Alaria rolled the scroll with care.
“And those,” she said softly, “were the fourteen brave souls who formed the original Order of the Rose.”
Before anyone could comment, a breathless cadet burst into the study, calling for Galawel.
“Captain! Captain, you must come to the training yard at once!”
“Calm yourself, cadet. What is happening?”
“There’s little time for calm, ma’am. As you know, the vice-captain was overseeing morning drills when that strange elf visiting the kings began interfering. Your father, who happened to be nearby, took offense at his remarks, and they started arguing. Your uncle, Duke Siegfried, tried to intervene, but I doubt he’ll have much success.”
The three women dashed after the cadet. When they reached the courtyard, they found Lucca and Urs locked in an arm-wrestling match, with Sieg serving as referee.
“Before you ask,” Sieg said dryly, “this was the most peaceful solution I could think of.”
“Well,” said Galawel, “it seems Urs isn’t all talk—he’s actually making Father sweat.”
“Yes, my dear,” said Alaria, “but you’re only looking at your father. Observe Urs more closely.”
Galawel did as she was told—and indeed, there was quite a difference between the two contestants. Lucca had begun to sweat lightly at the brow, but Urs was already drenched, his face red as flame, the veins on his neck and forehead bulging.
“Indeed, Grandma,” Galawel murmured, “if one of my brothers were here, he’d say Urs looks like he’s trying to evacuate a brick instead of winning a competition…”
Before Alaria could scold her granddaughter, a loud crack echoed through the yard—Lucca had finally slammed Urs’s arm onto the table, shattering it in the process.
For a moment, silence reigned. All eyes turned to Urs, uncertain what he would do. But then, unexpectedly, he roared with laughter.
“Boy, you are no mere braggart! As agreed, I take back all I said and beg your pardon for my rudeness.”
Urs left the yard, followed shortly by Alaria, who thought it best to speak with the old warrior privately.
That night, after dinner in the castle, they stood together on one of the balconies overlooking the sleeping city.
“You are truly leaving tomorrow?” Alaria asked. “Can nothing convince you to stay?”
“My queen,” Urs said gently, “you know I was never one to linger long in one place. I stayed as long as I did only because of our companions of the Order—but they are gone now. Arlon has no need of me; that much is clear. Sudher, as we knew it, is gone. But I am certain there are still people in this vast world who need the aid of an old soldier such as I. Do not worry—your grandson advised me to register with this ‘Adventurers’ Guild’ so I might keep in touch, and I shall do so. And who knows? Perhaps, on my travels, I shall find new companions worthy of our legacy. You already have a new ‘White Knight’ and a new ‘Red Lady,’ and perhaps even a new ‘Svarog’ in that bearded grandson of yours. Who can say there aren’t eleven others out there, waiting for the right hand to guide them?”
“If that is your final decision, my friend,” said Alaria, her voice trembling, “I shall respect it—and pray for you every day.”
“Please do, my lady,” Urs replied softly.
He bowed low and withdrew to his chamber.
At dawn, quietly, avoiding further emotional farewells, the elf known as Urs the Bear set forth once more—toward new roads, and new adventures.
—-
Translator’s Note: This text was translated with the help of AI, so please let us know if you find any grammatical errors.