Bron Magnus and the Kingdom of Lilia Chapter 3

Bron would admit that the talk with his mother helped. He felt better now.

Now, he could appreciate the warmth of the fire, the smell of fish stew thick in the air, and the way everyone was smiling, their stomachs a bit fuller than they'd been yesterday.

The people cheering for him also helped.

As soon as he stepped back into the crowd, Wulfric—the broad-shouldered man who had saved his best radish for tonight—clapped a heavy arm around his shoulders, thrusting a steaming wooden bowl into one of his hands.

"To our conquering hero!" Wulfric bellowed, raising his other hand high.

The villagers fell silent for just a moment, turning toward them. Bron barely had time to register the words before Wulfric grinned and declared:

"The greatest fisherman that this village has ever seen! Three cheers for Bron!"

A resounding "HUZZAH! HUZZAH! HUZZAH!" rang through the night.

Bron startled, blinking as his ears burned—but he couldn't stop the happy little grin from creeping onto his face. Kaleb, sitting on Old Lady Isolde's lap, beamed at him, giving him a thumbs-up with one hand while shoveling stew into his mouth with the other.

For a moment, everything felt lighter. The hunger. The weariness. The frustration.

Just for a moment.

Then, a firm hand suddenly gripped his arm, and Bron turned to see Magnus, his father's expression troubled, his brows furrowed deeply.

"Bron, can I ask you something really quick?" Magnus said, his voice low but urgent.

The shift in tone made hisheart beat just a little faster: his father had never looked so distressed before.

"Uh… sure?" he replied hesitantly.

His father looked around, then pulled him slightly away from the crowd.

"Did you see Corrin do… anything to the fish?"

Bron blinked. That was… not what he expected.

"What? No. Why? Is there something wrong with it?"

Magnus rubbed his jaw, exhaling heavily.

"No, no, there's nothing wrong, I just…" He hesitated, glancing toward the fire where Corrin was happily chatting with Old Harlan. "Corrin told me something very concerning. I don't want to believe him, but… I needed to know if you saw anything strange."

Bron frowned.

"I sent Kaleb to check the basket alone. A few minutes later, I heard him scream, so I ran to him. When I got there, Corrin was standing over him. The basket was at his feet."

His father's frown deepened.

"Did Corrin say anything to you?"

Bron nodded, thinking back.

"He said he had been planning to take one fish and leave since he ran out of food last night. The fish were already in the basket when I got there. Kaleb didn't tell me anything different."

Magnus let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples.

"Alright." He sounded far from reassured.

Bron narrowed his eyes.

"Father… what's going on? What did he say to you?"

His father hesitated. Then, with a shake of his head, he muttered, "Nothing's… wrong, exactly, I just—"

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

The village bell rang out, sharp and urgent.

Bron's blood ran cold.

A second later, a voice cut through the laughter and warmth of the feast:

"GOBLINS!"

The entire atmosphere changed in an instant.

The singing and laughter died. The relaxed conversations ceased. Every man, woman, and child stiffened, instinctively looking toward the outskirts of the village.

Bron's heart pounded.

Not again.

The villagers sprang into motion, trained by years of survival: Mothers grabbed their children, pulling them inside the nearest houses. Men and older boys rushed toward the weapons they had on hand—rusty swords, sharpened sticks, old pitchforks, whatever could be used to fight. Dirt was thrown in to roaring fires to dim them. Goblins had worse eyesight than humans, and the darkness would only help.

Magnus cursed under his breath.

"Bron, get your mother. Now."

Bron was already moving, shoving through the panicked crowd, his legs pushing him toward the fire, toward his mother and Kaleb.

His stomach twisted as he caught a glimpse of his little brother—Kaleb's pale face, his wide, frightened eyes searching the chaos.

It's happening again.

"House, now, both of you," he commanded sternly, his voice low but firm.

Kaleb scrambled from Isolde's lap, but not before clutching at Bron's sleeve.

"Bron," Kaleb's voice wobbled, his lower lip trembling.

Bron didn't have time to comfort him.

He turned to his mother instead. "Maeve—where is she?"

Maria's hands trembled as she clutched at her tunic. "She—she's resting, in our bed. She got tired from all the excitement, I put her down to sleep."

Bron let out a sharp breath. "Good, that's good. Go home, bar the door, and don't open it until you hear our voices."

Then, crouching slightly, he grasped Kaleb's shoulders, locking eyes with him.

"Listen to me. If you hear knocking, wait for us to reply first. If you don't hear any human voices—don't open the door."

Kaleb swallowed hard, nodding furiously.

Bron pulled them both into a quick, crushing hug.

"I love you."

Then he turned and ran, feet pounding against the dirt, heart hammering in his chest. He had to get to his father.

But then he saw Corrin.

Unlike the terrified villagers, who were either fleeing or grabbing weapons, Corrin… was still sitting at the fire.

Eating.

Bron almost stumbled in disbelief.

The man was calmly sipping his stew, watching the chaos unfold like it was a mild inconvenience. His gaze wandered curiously, as if he were merely observing some odd festival tradition rather than the very real threat of a goblin raid.

He was still eating his damn stew.

Bron clenched his jaw.

Leave him.

It wasn't his problem. Corrin was an outsider, a clueless noble. If he didn't have the sense to run, that was on him.

But then another thought, sharp and guilt-laden, cut through his resolve.

Corrin was here because of him.

Bron could have just given the man his fish and sent him on his way. Instead, he'd invited him into their home, into their village. Corrin was under his protection now.

And Bron knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he left him to die.

With a frustrated growl, he pivoted sharply and ran toward him.

"Listen, you need to go with my mother and Kaleb. Just hole up in the house until it's all over."

Corrin blinked at him, chewing thoughtfully.

"Isn't this just a goblin attack?" he asked casually, raising his spoon to his lips. "You guys seem to be overreacting."

Bron almost lost his mind right then and there.

His temper flared.

"Look, I don't know how it works in Lilia, with your perfect life and wonderful king, but out here—goblins are a death sentence!" he spat. "Now get in the damn house."

Corrin tilted his head. "Why?"

Bron was flabbergasted.

"Why?! So you don't die!"

Corrin sighed, shaking his head. "No, no, you misunderstand me." He took another slow bite of stew, as if they weren't moments away from battle. "Oh, this is surprisingly good."

Bron was about two seconds away from grabbing the bowl and hurling it into the fire.

Corrin, however, continued smoothly, "What I meant was—why did you come back for me?"

Bron stared.

What?

"So. That. You. Don't. Die!" he repeated, his voice rising with each word. He was starting to hear snarls in the distance, which meant the goblins were closing in. And he was still here, wasting time, talking to this idiot.

Corrin simply smiled.

"So, in a situation like this—where everyone else has left me to fend for myself—you cared enough to come back?"

Bron threw up his hands. "It's an emergency! If it weren't, everyone would have helped you—"

"No, they wouldn't," Corrin cut in, still cheerful, as if they were discussing the weather. "I'm an outsider. A fancy noble playing with peasants. Or at least, that's what your village thinks of me." He took another bite, chewing leisurely. "They're not very discreet about it. But you cared. You came back for me—a stranger."

Then, his expression changed.

The playfulness disappeared.

His sharp, evaluating stare pinned Bron in place.

"Do you know how rare that makes you? How special?"

"…What?"

Corrin set his bowl down gently and dusted his hands off.

"Bron, I came here for you."

Bron felt something cold and strange settle in his stomach

"What do you mean, you came here for me?" His voice was slow, wary. "You said you didn't even know who you were looking for."

Corrin smiled, tapping his temple. "That's because my compass confused me. I thought it was pointing toward your brother, at first: younger children often have the qualities we're looking for in spades. But you were next to him—all day. That's why it kept leading me to him. Because it was actually pointing to you."

Bron's head spun. "Me? What are you talking about?"

"You're the one my king wants to see." Corrin's grin widened. "The one he wants me to bring back."

Bron's heart hammered.

This was insane. This man—this Lilian noble, with his strange robes and even stranger words—was here for him?

He didn't have time to process it. Not now.

With a sharp shake of his head, he pushed the thoughts aside. "I don't understand what's going on right now, but we need to help my father."

Corrin sighed as if this was an inconvenience. "Oh yes, you're right."

Finishing the last of his stew, Corrin set the bowl gently near the fire, stood up, and stretched like he had all the time in the world.

"Well then, let's go."

Bron froze. "Go? Go where? My house is right behind you."

Corrin looked at him like he'd grown two heads.

"Oh, be serious, Bron. You think I'm going to take shelter when your village is about to be raided by goblins? How heartless do you think I am?"

Bron was at a loss.

"You—you have no weapon—"

"I helped with the fish, didn't I?" Corrin cut in smoothly, flashing him a playful grin. "Just let me do the same here. I'm very sure I'll surprise you."

Bron's instinct screamed at him to drag this fool back to safety.

And yet…

Corrin had already made one miracle happen.

Maybe—just maybe—he could make another.

Bron let out a long, frustrated breath.

"Fine. But if you die, I'm not responsible."

Corrin laughed, clapping him on the back.

"King Oberon is going to love you!"

__________________________________________________________________________

The road leading to Greywick was long and winding, snaking its way through the hills and woods before finally spilling into the heart of the village. Bron had walked this path countless times before, but tonight, with the howls and snarls of goblins growing louder, it felt shorter than ever.

The men of Greywick had gathered at the entrance, their meager weapons clutched tightly in their hands. A pitiful sight—Bron clenched his jaw as he realized that, in his rush to get here, he hadn't grabbed anything to fight with.

No matter. Goblins were small, brittle things. A strong enough fist could break their bones, same as a blade. He would fight with whatever he had.

And yet, as he took his place beside his father, he couldn't shake the sinking feeling in his gut.

The goblins were advancing fast, crude bone blades and jagged clubs swinging in the air as they jeered and shrieked. Their yellow eyes glowed eerily beneath the two cracked moons, their twisted forms silhouetted against the night.

Bron's heart pounded as he counted them as best as he could. He could only count to ten, but he could see at least one-two-three-four-five groups of ten goblins each in the dim moonlight.

That was… a lot more than the village of Greywick.

This wasn't just a pack of stragglers.

This was an army. An actual, proper, army.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it," Alric muttered, his breath coming fast and shallow. "What do we do? There's too many! Should we run?"

Wulfric, standing beside him with a rusty sword in hand, had an almost serene expression. "We do our duty," he said solemnly. "We lay down our lives for our village, and when we die, the God of Death will look upon us and see that we were good men in life. Brave men. And we will take our place in the Hall of Warriors, side by side with kings and soldiers, and share stories of our glorious ends. What greater death could we ask for?"

Alric turned on him, his voice near hysteria. "Easy for you to say! You're as old as your damn sword! Some of us actually want to see the next sunrise!"

"Enough!" Magnus barked, gripping his pitchfork like a general brandishing his banner. Despite their grim situation, he didn't waver. "We will make it through this. No matter their numbers, remember this—they don't think like us. They don't act like us. They don't know what courage means.

"They don't know what it means to be men.

"So we will slaughter them. We'll kill the ones in the front, the ones that think this will be easy, and break them in front of the others. They'll run after that. Goblins are stupid and are easily scared. Once we thin their numbers, the rest will flee."

He turned to look at each of them, his eyes burning with unshaken resolve.

"Stand tall, men of Greywick. We will live to see the Sun God rise in the sky once more."

The tension shifted. The men, who had looked disheartened by the mob running towards them, stood proud. Even Alric, who had been shaking moments ago, now looked determined.

His father had that effect on people. To bring them together. To rally them in times of hardship.

Magnus Farkin truly could have been someone great, had he not been stuck in Greywick.

Still, Bron couldn't shake the unease in his chest.

Something about this horde felt different.

Goblin packs rarely grew this large. Their kind fought among themselves more often than not.

But this—this was organized.

The larger goblins stood in the front, wielding clubs and crude knives, while the smaller ones followed behind with spears and stones. It was almost like—

Like they had planned this. Like they had actually sat down and talked about the best way to attack.

A soft chuckle caught Bron's attention. He turned, his eyes widening as Corrin strode forward, passing the line of villagers until he stood at the very front, facing the horde alone.

"You know, Magnus," Corrin mused, his voice almost lazy, "with a heart like that, I wonder why the compass didn't choose you instead." He reached into his sleeve. "I suppose there's something in your son that surpasses even you. That's a good thing, though. Children should always strive to become greater than their parents."

From the folds of his robe, Corrin pulled something—a long, golden stick, barely the length of Bron's forearm, thin as his pinky finger. The shaft was carved intricately, roses twisting around a faint, scale-like pattern, a single rune glowing near the tip.

Bron barely had time to process the sight before his father lunged forward, his voice sharp with urgency.

"You—you need to go! Go back to the village! Now! You'll die out here!"

"No one will die tonight, Magnus," Corrin said, oddly calm. The goblins were nearly upon them.

Too close. Bron could see the dirty scabbed wounds on their skin, their long, thin noses, their yellow, broken teeth-

Magnus snarled. "Idiot! If you die here, then you can't take Bron back with you!"

Bron froze.

"You—you knew?" he breathed, staring at his father. "You knew he was here to take me away?"

Magnus winced, but his gaze didn't waver. "Bron, there's no time to explain. You and Corrin need to get back to the village. Now."

But Bron couldn't move.

He wasn't a child anymore. He was a man. His father's equal.

And yet Magnus was still making decisions about his life behind his back.

"Run and hide? That's what you want me to do? Just like a child?" Bron clenched his fists. "I'm fighting! Whether you want me to or not!"

The goblins were nearly on them now.

"Bron, please—" Magnus began.

Too late. He could see the scars on their flesh, the jagged edges of their weapons, the gleam of their yellow eyes—

And then—

Corrin flicked his golden stick, his voice as calm as a passing breeze.

"Umbreiskr."

The tip of the stick glowed.

A sound like grinding glass split the air.

And all at once, silver spikes erupted from the ground. Massive, needle-like pillars shot up beneath the goblins, impaling them all in an instant.

Shrieks of agony tore through the night as black blood sprayed across the dirt. The goblins thrashed and writhed, their bodies jerking with panic, until finally, they hung limp on the gleaming silver spears.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Corrin exhaled, flicking his stick once more.

The silver pillars sank into the ground quietly, leaving only goblin corpses, black blood and silence.

Bron stared.

He barely heard Wulfric's sword clatter to the ground, barely noticed the way the men around him stumbled back, whispering prayers.

All he could do was look at Corrin.

"You… how did you do that?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Corrin tucked his wand back into his sleeve. "Magic."

A sharp intake of breath came from behind them.

Wulfric's face had gone pale.

"That's not possible," the old knight whispered. "I…I thought you were just some noble. But…to wield magic…you must be of the royal line. You're a prince." His voice trembled.

"You're royalty."

Magic—true magic—was only gifted to the monarchs of the four great kingdoms. It was a sign of divine favor, a power given only to those deemed worthy by the gods themselves.

That was why the four great kingdoms had survived hundreds of years of war, famine and monsters. Because the gods decreed it so. And Corrin must have been one of them; those people blessed by the gods, given holy power to do as he wished.

But Corrin shook his head.

"No," he said, looking each of them in the eye. "I was born a peasant. Just like you."

The silence was thick.

Corrin took a step closer to Bron, his expression warm.

"There isn't a drop of magical blood in my veins. I never knew my father; he died when I was young. But my grandfather was a hunter, same as his father before him, and my mother was a cobbler. No one in her family was a royal either. I was not born to magic; I was given it. King Oberon saw that I had a good and incorruptible heart, a heart that made a good man and an even greater Wizard."

Corrin smiled down at Bron.

"The same kind of heart that Bron has."

What?

"My name is Corrin, a Court Wizard of Lilia, and my king—King Oberon—has extended an invitation to you." His eyes gleamed.

"Bron Magnus. You are considered worthy to learn magic."