Granak's Great Chieftain
Bessimer sat straddling his upturned shield in front of the campfire in the military camp.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Boss.”
“Heard someone came lookin’ for ya?”
“Kill me, would ya?”
Bessimer’s face was the picture of gloom as he said it. His cheekbone, bruised a deep purple, seemed almost tragic on such a massive frame. He stared into the flames with the eyes of a man who’d lost everything, rubbing his bald scalp with one meaty palm.
“What’s goin’ on?”
“As a great warrior of the Baitur, I’m a disgrace. I ain’t fit to go to Balaka.”
“Everyone loses sometimes. No big deal.”
“Nah, nah. I could lose to anyone else, but not to a Granak. This is about the tribe’s honor.”
Bessimer let out a heavy sigh.
“Granak?”
Isaac mulled the word over. There was bad blood between the Granak and the Baitur, ancient as the hills.
‘Round about now, that’d be thirteen, fourteen years ago.’
Engelbert von Goethe—Isaac’s grandfather, the previous Count Goethe—had died of a local plague and sepsis around then. The tribes beyond the frontier, worn down by years of strife with Goethe, had begun to see more voices calling for peace. The strongest among them was Granak.
Coincidentally, not long after Engelbert’s death, Granak’s great chieftain was on the brink himself, mortally wounded battling mana beasts. Worried for his tribe’s future, the chieftain proposed marriage to his daughter for the new Count Goethe, Helmut von Goethe. Isaac’s father accepted.
Most of the tribes made peace with Goethe. But a minority of hot-blooded holdouts in Binvelt rejected it outright—one of them being the Baitur. They insisted the blood of kin slain fighting Goethe must never be forgotten and opposed the truce fiercely. Bessimer’s tribe.
The hellhounds that ravaged Binvelt had been the result of the Baitur’s beastification. In the end, Granak’s great chieftain had made the right call. If the bulk of the tribes had still been at war with Goethe, Winterband would’ve fallen long ago, and rivers of tribal blood would’ve flowed.
But right or wrong, Bessimer’s identity was tied to the Baitur. He was their last great warrior—and their chieftain now, too. To him, losing to Granak, whether in a spar or a duel, was unthinkable.
“That damn old hag from Granak… I… I went and lost to her. Got my ass handed to me in front of everyone.”
“……Old hag?”
“That old hag said she had a message from the boss for ya.”
“Yeah?”
Granak was closely tied to Bessimer, but to Isaac, they were practically maternal kin. He had a vague inkling.
“She’s in the command tent, right?”
“……Yeah.”
Bessimer nodded.
“But seriously, you lost to some old lady?”
“……”
“Just curious, is all.”
“……”
Bessimer shot Isaac a pitiful look.
“Nah, sorry.”
“Boss.”
As Isaac turned to hurry to the command tent, Bessimer grabbed his shoulder.
“What?”
“Am I… weak or somethin’?”
Isaac couldn’t bring himself to meet the earnest gaze of this bald giant. His lower face was buried in a thick beard, but his voice carried the petulant whine of a child robbed of his favorite toy.
“Nah, you ain’t weak.”
“Then that old hag’s strong?”
“Probably. Carlson said even he’d have a tough time beatin’ her.”
“You think so too, boss?”
“Dunno. Never seen her fight.”
“……”
“……Cheer up. You’re a good guy.”
Isaac patted Bessimer’s arm lightly. Bessimer settled back onto his upturned shield and stared into the fire. He pulled his cloak tighter against the chill. Isaac lifted the leather flap of the command tent.
As Bessimer had said, an old woman sat inside. Though a slight correction was in order.
‘Not just any old woman.’
The crone had claimed the seat of honor as if by right, her sheer bulk evident even seated. Her sitting height rivaled Bessimer’s—perhaps even surpassed it. A bear pelt draped her shoulders, and her cloak below was woven with snow leopard fur, billy goat horns, and fangs. Not mere decorations, but talismans of sorcery, martial prowess, or heroic deeds. Beasts or mana beasts she’d slain herself, no doubt—ones that had terrorized many tribesmen or posed equal threats.
At least, that’s how it seemed from the Granak customs Isaac had read about.
‘Not just a messenger, then.’
The old woman sat motionless, eyes closed, like a boulder that had always been there. Even as Isaac made his presence known and sat before her, she didn’t stir.
“I heard you bring a message from Granak.”
“……”
The old woman said nothing for a long while. It gave Isaac time to study her closely. She was thoroughly aged—perhaps even older than Isaac had been at death in his previous life. Yet there was no frailty about her.
Probably due to the mana radiating from her. Each slow breath of her massive frame felt like a snowcapped mountain inhaling and exhaling. Similar to Bessimer’s yet different; utterly alien to that of mages or knights.
‘How does one accumulate mana like that?’
Mana was typically explained through vessels, rings, and circuits—artificial constructs born of learning, embodiment, and training. But this was something else.
‘What is it? Just… a mountain.’
Mana flowed like rivers down its slopes, moisture seeping from the earth, rivers evaporating into clouds, rain falling, cycling back into streams and soil. It was mana Isaac had theorized countless times in his head. Since mana and humanity were both part of nature, surely someone, somewhere, wielded it as naturally as breathing, as rivers flowing, as rain falling.
And here that imagination stood incarnate before him, in human form.
“Had enough gawking at this old body?”
The old woman opened her eyes. Despite being Granak, her command of the common tongue was impeccable. No mere envoy, then.
“My apologies.”
“……”
Her pale gray eyes fixed on Isaac quietly, probing, searching.
“You take after her so neatly. You Helmut’s son?”
“Yes. Isaac von Binvelt Goethe, lord of these lands. You know my father?”
“Not well. But we’ve met a few times.”
Her voice was low and cracked. She seemed to have transcended gender, age—everything. Like a snowfield spirit cloaked in human flesh. Each word she spoke filled Isaac’s lungs with the sensation of snow: cold, biting, burdensome to breathe, yet strangely soft.
“That hair, those eyes, the color. A perfect blend of Helmut and Adel.”
“I am their child, after all.”
Isaac met her gaze. Landscapes filled her eyes—or rather, the visions her mana conjured. Low-hanging clouds over a snowy plain, suffocating yet vast and desolate. Sunlight piercing the clouds shattered on the snowfield, scattering countless glints. A blinding sparkle, neither hot nor lingering, but carrying just enough warmth for one at the edge of endless ages.
That was the emotion in her eyes as she regarded Isaac.
“Stubborn pair, both of them.”
“What’s the message?”
“Gonna pretend you don’t know right to the end?”
“I know you’re my grandmother, someone I’ve never met.”
“Then…”
“But right now, I stand before Granak’s great chieftain not as a grandson, but as Binvelt’s lord. And that chieftain has gone and broken the spirit of a warrior dear to me.”
“That venomous wolf pup was snarling, so I taught it its place. If that whelp is truly Baitur’s last great warrior, he’s not broken—he’s being tempered.”
“Maybe. Still—what brings the great chieftain here in person?”
“You know.”
“Tell me, and I will.”
“Hmph. They said you were clever. Disappointing.”
The old woman chuckled. Her first sight of her grandson in over a decade clearly pleased her.
“I came because of Helmut.”
“……Father?”
“Ten days he stood frozen on icy ground, stubborn as ever. Still the brute. Hard to believe he’s a mage.”
“He asked for your help?”
“Aye. ‘What if Goethe falls into a tyrant’s hands?’ he threatened. But the elders opposed aiding Goethe. The north’s master has changed hands countless times, and Granak endured. No need to spill warriors’ blood for it.”
“Then why come yourself?”
“That’s when Helmut’s real stubbornness kicked in. Said if he came to Binvelt, he’d see Granak’s future.”
“……What?”
“Made me curious. What does that oafish mage trust so much to speak so boldly of Granak’s future? Thought I’d hear him out. He talked big, but it was less impressive up close.”
“Goethe’s future with Granak lies with Yonas, not me. Wrong address.”
The old woman narrowed her eyes.
“Think me blind with age?”
“……”
“That boy holds fire, but no vessel yet. You’re already spreading flames—across the whole north.”
“……”
Isaac stared silently. Her voice carried a weight that defied rebuttal.
“Impressive, though. Venomous wolves catching their breath in your shadow, cursed Baitur wolves tilling soil and playing with children, displaced tribesmen and the king’s slaves living as one. Slight as it is, no chieftain has achieved this. Made me think our warriors’ blood might be worth something after all.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch. I just…”
Isaac tried to respond, but she cut him off.
“So, no need to help Goethe, then?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Thus, Granak’s great chieftain, Asra Baldroon, offers you a chance.”
“What?”
“Call me Grandmother first. Grandson.”
Asra Baldroon. The great chieftain bared her teeth in a grin. One front tooth was missing.