CHAPTER ONE: The Golden Fields of Myrrenstead
Jasper’s Origins
The sun rose in a great golden arc over the fields of Myrrenstead, bathing the barley in its amber light. Each stalk shimmered in the warm breeze, the tips whispering ancient lullabies that only the land remembered. Spring had come in full, a welcome bloom after the long, dark hush of winter. In every direction, bundles of hay shaped like proud horse-headed effigies dotted the hills—a reverent tribute to the Horse King, the first and last crowned of the Equinari. His legend was still carried in the veins of every child born with hooves and wisdom in their gaze.
The villagers, for the most part, had retreated into their homes, not out of weariness, but in celebration. It was the Week of the Spring Harvest, when songs of rebirth filled the air and every Equinari offered thanks to the fallen king who had, according to ancient lore, given his life so that his kind might prosper. Outside the village, only a few old souls tended the borders of their land. They worked slowly, not out of sloth, but reverence.
In the eastern fields, beneath the boughs of a twisted elderwood tree and within sight of golden oceans of barley, a six-month-old foal named Jasper sat on a crooked wooden stool at a table just as roughly hewn. His oversized head was framed by a wild tangle of mane-fur and his eyes—wide and full of curiosity—gleamed in the sun. Opposite him sat his father, Tharvind, a towering Equinari whose hide bore the old grey scars of another life. Once a blade-bearing sentinel, now a farmer of the land he once bled for.
The two leaned over a simple board game fashioned from blackened wood and horn-inlaid pieces. Jasper stared at the set with intensity, chewing the inside of his cheek as his father calmly moved a horse-headed piece across the board. With a faint smile and the weight of memory behind his voice, Tharvind spoke.
“This one, son, represents the Horse King. Not just in name, but in virtue. Strength. Honor. Sacrifice.”
Jasper blinked, reverent. “We… we all come from him, right?”
“Aye. Every one of us, from the lowliest dung boy to the bravest warrior. Blood of kings. Blood of guardians. But that blood alone won’t make you noble. It’s how you carry it.”
He tapped the board again and made another move, dismantling Jasper’s already shaky defense. The foal frowned and narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the strategy. It was more than a game. It was a story, a lesson, and a history rolled into one.
He didn’t care that he was losing. Not today. The farm was at rest and his chores forgotten. Today was for dreams. And in his father’s presence, surrounded by the golden hush of barley and the laughter of distant families, Jasper’s world was one of sunlight and legacy.
A voice broke the stillness.
“Are you two done with your silly games?” his mother called from their cottage door, her tone half-annoyed, half-affectionate. “The food’s warm, but it won’t stay that way.”
With shared smiles, the two gathered the game, stood, and began the short walk back toward the house. As they crossed the edge of the field, Tharvind ruffled Jasper’s mane and said, “We’ll play again after. You’re improving.”
Jasper grinned. But as they walked, something caught his eye—a flicker, no more than a glint far to the east. A sparkle amidst the barley. He paused for a moment, squinting, but the wind brushed it away. He thought nothing of it.
But it was steel.
Beyond the village, hidden in the taller crops, weapons gleamed in the sun—curved and cruel, forged not by fire but by hunger and hate. Dozens of goblins crouched low in the golden seas, their eyes slit like predators and their mouths full of old teeth. Giblets, the runtish leader, licked his jagged lips and hissed to Garlof beside him.
“Mmm… horse meat. The stinkin’ beasts will taste our wrath this time.”
Their war party fanned outward, smashing the barley as they came. Cloaked in filth and armor of bone and scrap, they moved with eerie discipline. Myrrenstead had grown too fat, too warm. Now it would burn.
Inside their cottage, Jasper devoured his meal—a traditional stew of root vegetables, oats, and barley, thick and rich with broth—while his parents spoke softly over the table. Outside, the wind picked up, blowing in a dry gust. But it wasn’t the wind that followed.
Swish.
Thud.
An arrow punched through the shutter, splitting wood and striking the far wall. Another flew through the open window, embedding itself into the hearth.
“Down!” Tharvind roared, upending the table. He pulled Jasper to the floor and shoved him beneath the fallen furniture. His mother screamed, shielding her son as more arrows came.
In a single, practiced motion, Tharvind kicked aside the reed rug and lifted a hidden trap door in the floorboards. From within the darkness, he drew a blade—old, chipped, but still sharp with memory.
“In, Jasper. Now!” He thrust his son into the dark crawlspace below. Jasper fell into shadows, the wood closing above him.
“No! Wait—!”
Thunk.
Thunk.
Arrows thudded into his mother. She gasped, stumbling, blood streaking her linen.
Through a crack in the floorboards, Jasper saw everything. His father surged forward, sword swinging, a wall of fury and bone-clad muscle. He fought like a war god, hacking down the first goblins who burst through the door, then another, and another. Blood sprayed the walls. His blade sang.
Tharvind fell to his knees beside his wife, cradled her face. “Seyn…” he whispered.
More goblins came. Too many. Jasper watched helplessly as his father stood, raised his sword once more, and roared like the kings of old. He charged into them, blade flashing, hooves pounding, until he was swallowed whole by steel and flame.
The world above became screams, shouts, and laughter.
The goblins were merciless. Myrrenstead’s resistance had cost them, and their vengeance was cruel. The village burned. Men were cut down, children torn from mothers. The women and remaining young were corralled into the great barley barn, its walls thick and dry from winter. Doors slammed shut. Torches tossed.
Fire rose like a crimson tide, consuming Myrrenstead in a funeral pyre.
Below, Jasper trembled in the earth, the scent of smoke and death filling his lungs. The cries of the villagers clawed at his ears. Then silence. And he saw her—his mother, lifeless. Face down. The light gone from her eyes.
He couldn’t stay.
Jasper burst up from beneath the trapdoor, tears streaking his soot-covered face. He ran. Around the corner of the cottage—
Crack!
A goblin’s club met his skull. Stars exploded in his vision. He hit the dirt hard. Shackles closed around his legs. Rough hands dragged him, unconscious, away from the ashes, the ruin, and the golden fields of Myrrenstead—his home.
Behind him, the Horse King’s effigies burned.
And so ended his spring.
And so began the forging of a ronin.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
CHAPTER TWO: The Forge of Chains
Jasper’s Trial in the Goblin Lands
They took him under night, through black hills and winding gulches that swallowed sound. Shackled to a slave chain, dragged behind a rusted cart full of spoils, Jasper passed through the broken edges of the known world. The further they traveled, the more the land twisted—rolling hills became scabbed stone, forests turned to ash-rooted thickets, and the sun seemed to fade even at noon.
They brought him to Grubkhar—the Wallowing Pit, the festering heart of goblin kind. A city not built, but dug: its towers not rising, but falling into the earth. Tunnels snaked like veins through rock and rot, and the air stank of mold, tallow smoke, and old blood. Above it all, perched on bone-plated terraces, loomed the citadel of the Rune Masters—goblin sorcerers who branded flesh with glyphs that bound will and silenced souls.
Jasper was thrown into the mud with the others. Foals. Women. Elder Equinari. None would survive long.
The first whip split his shoulder open. His voice cracked, but he did not cry out. It was not out of bravery, but something harder—instinct. Something ancient in his bones knew the whip was not meant to hurt. It was meant to own. He swore then he would never let it.
Years passed.
The fields outside Grubkhar stretched wide and cursed, fed by tainted rivers and ash soil. Jasper was made to plough them by hand—strapped to crude wooden harnesses, dragging metal teeth through earth that bit back. Day after day, sun or sleet, he heaved forward. His once-small frame—once soft, coltish, innocent—hardened under sunburnt skin and crusted blood. The whip tore stripes across his back, but the muscle beneath only grew denser, tougher.
He outlived them all. The other slaves. The foals. The mares. Even the older stallions who once pitied him. They starved, they bled, they crumbled. But Jasper endured.
His limbs became pillars of raw strength. Veins corded like braided rope beneath skin that shone with sweat and dust. His shoulders widened until the harness cracked. His chest swelled with the lungs of a storm-hardened warhorse. He was no longer a foal. He was a stallion. A beast of burden turned weapon-in-waiting.
He was fed little—a bowl of worm-soaked mash, sometimes less. But he devoured anger in great mouthfuls, and it nourished him. His mind remained clear, intelligent, calculating, unbroken. At night, in the dark of the slave pits, he stared at the moons through the bars, whispering the names his father had once taught him—names of kings, of ancestors, of hope.
Every day, he milled their grain—by hand. A massive circular stone, thick as a dwarf’s tomb, was pushed around and around a pit. It was meant for a team of two, but Jasper did it alone. Shackled, rune-bound, bones aching—but he pushed. Each revolution built him. Each step forward turned his limbs into engines, forged from repetition and rage.
And within him… a fire kindled.
At eighteen, he stood over eight feet tall, towering even above the goblin overseers who once mocked him. His hide had turned iron-dark with dust and sweat. His mane hung in ropes, heavy and thick. And in his chest, the burden of the past burned hotter with each passing day.
Then came the breaking.
It was in the down field, under the black-scorched sky, while pulling the harrow plough. One of the overseers, Thangrit the Hook, struck him with a spiked flail not once, but three times—not for failure, but for boredom. The rune on Jasper’s neck flared, searing with heat, binding his will. His knees buckled. Pain flashed white across his vision.
But something had changed.
In that moment—through pain, dust, blood—Jasper remembered. The Horse King’s effigy. His father’s voice. The board game in the field. His mother’s laughter.
Something broke. Not in him—but around him.
The rune shattered.
Not in sparks. But in silence. A pop of air like a bubble bursting. The brand on his neck cracked, its magic undone by sheer, unshakable will.
His chains dropped. His body rose.
Thangrit screamed, raising the flail again—but Jasper caught it mid-swing. His massive hand crushed the wood. Then he drove it through Thangrit’s gullet. Blood sprayed. Another goblin charged. Jasper grabbed the rusted sword from his fallen foe and brought it down—once—cleaving the overseer from shoulder to hip.
The goblin fields went quiet.
Somewhere in the high terraces, bells began to ring.
But Jasper didn’t wait. He turned toward the jagged mountains beyond the fields—beyond the reach of goblin eyes. He ran. He ran with the speed of a war-steed, blood still dripping from the blade in his hand. Behind him, the cries rose, alarms flared, torches ignited.
But he was gone.
Not just from the fields, or the pit, or the lash—but from the chains that had held him since Myrrenstead.
The foal had died long ago.
Now rode the stallion.
Now rose the ronin.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
