![[Image: Zoradin01.jpeg?resize=674%2C1024&ssl=1]](https://i0.wp.com/thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/10/Zoradin01.jpeg?resize=674%2C1024&ssl=1)
Zoradin Fel
Zoradin dismounted his mare, a black horse with a white stripe on her nose he had name Daien. She was a beautiful creature. Zoradin left the horse with the stable master. His gait was slow. As always, he was exhausted, but not nearly as much as he usually was. Last night he succumbed to his exhaustion. He had slept a few hours before he had started screaming. It was never enough.
A message from the new M'Hael had sent him on this trip. He had been stationed in Arafel, and was planning on investigating a fortress there. The whole thing stank, but when the M'Hael got through to him, he was ordered to immediately head or Shienar. The situation was dire. 20,000 Andoran swords were on their way. That spoke of the dangers itself. He was probably here to help hold the line, perhaps heal some wounds - if they weren't too bad.
He headed to the officers to report in. "Zoradin Fel, Asha'man," he said.
The officer scoffed. "I need an army and I get a single Asha'man that can barely stand," he sighed. "You can fight can't you?"
The Asha'man nodded. "I can hold my own with the blade and one power."
He looked at Zoradin incredulously. "Well - we'll need it. Need to hold until reinforcements arrive. We should have time if you need to rest for your trip."
"I'll be fine, Sir," he said.
There was some more back and forth as Zoradin got more on the situation. He was led to a barracks so he could drop off his gear and he headed to the line. They had to hold until Andor arrived. That was his only goal.
![[Image: xavier.jpg]](https://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/xavier.jpg)
Lord Xavier Armendariz
Fal Sion boiled beneath its still surface, a fortress of quiet tension held firm by the will of its new lord. Xavier Armendariz had buried his father only a week past, and with the grave still fresh, he had taken the mantle of protector without ceremony or hesitation.
He was not a man prone to reflection. Action suited him better. So when report of an arrival of an Asha’man reached him, Xavier froze only a moment.
“Thank the Light,” he breathed. Then, motion. Movement. Orders.
He strode to the high balcony overlooking the outer lands, expecting a procession of steel and banners. Instead, the horizon stretched empty.
Xavier turned sharply, understanding dawning.
“One Asha’man is worth a thousand spears,” he proclaimed proudly to all who listened.
“Provide him anything he requires. Assign twenty of our best men to guard him when he goes afield. No.. twenty-nine.” He paused.
I will be the thirtieth.
There was no need to speak that last part aloud. It was obvious to any who knew him: Xavier would ensure that such a power was protected at all costs.
“And summon Lord Kenta.”
The servant bowed low and vanished.
Soon after, Kenta arrived. Young, straight-backed, jaw clenched with a solemnity beyond his ten years.
“Father,” he said, bowing low.
Xavier regarded his son for a breath.
“You have a new duty. An Asha’man named Fel has come. You are to be his personal host while he stays at Fal Sion. Do you accept this?”
Kenta blinked, and for a heartbeat the child showed through the stoic facade. But he recovered quickly, bowing again.
“I accept. How may I serve Asha’man Fel?”
“Ensure his comfort. Guide him through the Keep. Explain our customs, as I have taught you. He is a guest of honor. Treat him as such.”
Kenta hesitated, then asked,
“May I watch him in battle, Father?”
Xavier’s eyes narrowed, and he let out a low rumble, half sigh, half warning.
“You will defend this Keep long after my soul takes rest. You may observe the Asha’man and our warriors, but only from where I permit. Understand?”
Kenta nodded sharply, and without another word, turned and left to find the guest.
At the drawbridge to their inner Keep, the one that connected the Keep with the city beyond it, separated by two moats of spikes and poison, Kenta stood straight-backed between two armored house soldiers, the wind pulling at his long dark braids. He wore the formal blue and silver of House Armendariz, their sigil stitched proud over his chest. A knife hung at his belt, small but real. His boots were scuffed from training but sturdy, built for quick mounts and long rides. The sides of his head were still full with hair, the customary topknot not yet earned.
As the Asha’man approached, Kenta stepped forward and bowed, eyes roaming the pins of his uniform and their significance.
“I am Lord Kenta Armendariz. On behalf of my father and House Armendariz, I welcome you to Fal Sion Keep, Asha’man Fel.”
Zoradin Fel
Zoradin began to cross the drawbridge to the Keep of Fal Sion. His Asha’man uniform was immaculate. His coat was clean, pressed, and on its collar, the sword and dragon pins proclaiming his rank were polished. His face was clean shaven and his hair well groomed. He didn’t look the part of a man who had traveled to Shienar from Arafel on horseback. In fact the only sign of his travel were boots scuffed from rubbing against the stirrups of his saddle and the tired look in his eyes.
As Zoradin approached, he noticed two guards and a boy, about ten, at the gate to the keep. The young one denoted that this wasn’t a group to bar his approach. He wore what Zoradin assumed to be a house uniform, based on the sigil on its chest. He approached Zoradin, offering a bow and a name.
Zoradin hadn’t expected a child to greet him, but it wasn’t unusual enough for a scion of the house to greet honored arrivals. At least at this point he assumed he was an honored arrival. The lord of the keep hadn’t come himself, but he had sent his son. Truth be told, Zoradin hadn’t expected much of anyone to greet him in such a way.
Zoradin’s eyes inspected the troops out of habit, noting their posture and readiness. His gaze looked over Lord Kenta in the same way. He then returned the bow and spoke, recalling a Shienaran greeting.
”Lord Kenta Armendariz,” he said, one hand of his heart, the other resting on th pommel of his sword.
”Peace favor your sword. I am honored by your welcome.”
Zoradin wasn’t completely sure that it was culturally correct or not, but it was said honesty and sincerity. It was a better response than they would have seen from one of his more gruff Asha’man brothers. The Shienarans were his allies, however, and it paid to be more diplomatic.
He raised himself from his bow and spoke directly to Lord Kenta.
”I am Zoradin Fel, Asha’man of the Black Tower. The M’hael has sent me to assist with the defense of Fal Sion and this keep.”
![[Image: Kenta-Armendariz.jpg?ssl=1]](https://i0.wp.com/thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/Kenta-Armendariz.jpg?ssl=1)
Lord Kenta Armendariz
Kenta bowed low once more, his hand fisted over his chest in perfect form.
“Suravye ninto manshima taishite,” he said in the Old Tongue, his young voice crisp with practiced reverence.
“May peace favor your sword, honored Asha’man.”
He straightened, chin lifted with the weighty poise of a child born to duty. The guards beside him mirrored his movements, though less precisely.
“I am honored to receive you,” Kenta continued, shifting to the Common Tongue.
“On behalf of House Armendariz and Lord Xavier, I welcome you to Fal Sion Keep. Quarters have been prepared to receive you. If it please you, I will escort you inside.”
Without waiting for a reply, though not rudely, Kenta turned with a slight, ceremonial gesture, and began to walk. The guards fell into formation: two ahead, two behind, the practiced formation of trained house soldiers.
Stable hands met them at the inner gate, offering to take over stabling Zoradin’s horse. One of them, a freckled boy barely older than Kenta, gawked openly at the Asha’man’s coat and pins before remembering himself and bowing so deeply he nearly dropped the reins.
They passed under the high stone arch of the keep. There were no hint of shadows in or around the bridge. Not in the borderlands where Fades could enter their walls at will. The fortress was old Shienaran stone of squared angles, and built to endure not impress, but the banners of House Armendariz fluttered proudly from the battlements. Blue and silver, stitched with their crest in sharp relief.
Servants watched as they passed, whispering behind cupped hands. Many touched their hearts in cautious respect as the Asha’man walked by.
Kenta said nothing until they reached the men’s wing of the keep. A heavy door was opened for them by a steward, and Kenta led Zoradin through well-kept halls smelling faintly of pine and stone. At last, he stopped before a chamber door and gestured.
“These are your quarters,” he said.
“If there is anything you require, you need only speak it.”
The room beyond was modest but comfortable. A hearth was already lit with clean linens folded at the foot of an elegant bed, a basin and pitcher of warm water was set out to wash away the road.
Kenta lingered a moment, uncertain whether to speak again. Then, remembering his father’s charge, he gave a crisp bow.
“When you are ready, Asha’man Fel, my father asks that you join him for supper in the Solar. A servant will escort you as soon as you are ready.”
Zoradin Fel
Zoradin followed the young Kenta into the keep proper, handing Daien over to the stable hands. Zoradin smiled a bit at the stable boys gawking and gave him a wink after returning his bow. He had spent quite a bit of time in Arafel, and was used to Borderlanders and their ways, even if the Shienarans had a different culture than the Arafellans. He noted the lack of shadows to keep the myrdraal away. The Shienarans were masters at keeping the Blight at bay. Many southerners had no idea how much this group of people did to keep them safe.
Walking through the keep he received a myriad of responses. Shock and awe were chief among them. Many people whispered as he passed. If he had desired to hear their words, Zoradin could have seized Saidin, but their comments weren't among his interests. It was the same everywhere. Even with Saidin being cleansed, many found it hard to hard to accept men who could channel. Even so, many men, including Zoradin, were still affected by their use of tainted Saidin. Most showed respect still though. He had a feeling many of them knew what Asha'man really were. They were living weapons.
They arrived in the men's wing. The building was well maintained and the scent of pine and stone mingling was a welcome one. He followed Lord Kenta to his accommodations. Even as modest as it was, it was a little too lavish for his tastes, but he was too polite to say that he would prefer a smaller room and bed. He had no desire to do anything to offend his hosts. The room was still small enough that he could weave a privacy screen to keep out the screams he would inevitably have after he fell asleep. At least that way he wouldn't wake the others in his area. He wondered if he had any neighbors.
"You have my gratitude, Lord Kenta," he said, with a bow. "With your permission, I will clean up a bit and present myself to your father in the Solar as soon as I am done."
After the official entourage had left, Zoradin entered his chamber, moving to the basin and water. He washed his face and hands, getting the grime of the road off. The journey had been long and solitary. It had allowed him more rest than he typically got in more settled areas. Not for the first time, Zoradin wondered if the damage he had sustained from the taint could be dealt with. He was a weapon. He knew that, but still, he wondered how it would feel to have a full nights rest again. At least it wasn't getting worse.
He left the room as he finished and turned to the servant that was near he entrance of his room, likely told to stay so he could escort Zoradin to his Lord. "Could you please escort me to the Solar. Lord Armendariz wishes to see me."
The servant bowed and led the way. The procession to the Solar was much the same as his walk to his quarters. People looked with surprise or awe, showing appropriate respect as they remembered. Some who had seen him before were quicker at this. All moved aside so he could pass. The servant opened the door to the Solar and announced him to those present. It was easy enough to recognize the man who would be Lord Xavier Armendariz. Zoradin approached keeping his posture strong and formal, left hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He had no idea if this broke custom or anything, but parting from his blade would be akin to removing his hand. It was a part of him.
"Lord Armendariz," he said, bowing, fist to heart. "Peace favor your sword. Asha'man Zoradin Fel, reporting for duty as ordered by the M'Hael." Zoradin wanted the Lord to know that not only was he here to defend, but he was under Lord Armendariz's command as well as his visit was sanctioned by the M'Hael himself.
The solar of Fal Sion was modest by Shienaran standards. Less a place of opulence than one of lineage and stone-bound honor. Light filtered in from tall narrow windows, casting amber patterns across the old oak floorboards and over the carved sigil of House Armendariz above the hearth: the gryphon, wings unfurled, claws extended in mid-flight framed in blue and silver of their colors.
A single tapestry hung behind Lord Xavier’s high-backed chair, a depiction of the Battle of Garen’s Wall, where an earlier Armendariz had held the line against a thousand Trollocs with no more than fifty men.
Xavier sat now in that same chair, a goblet untouched beside him. He did not look like a man burdened by power, yet neither did he wear it lightly. He wore it the way he wore his dark, richly layered coat, fit for war or peace, but made to last through storms. Kenta stood before him, hands clasped behind his back in imitation of his father, a flicker of boyhood still in his eyes but none in his posture.
“He is not borderlander, I’m sure of it,” Kenta said. “His accent is soft, but… not Shienaran. Not Kandori. Not arafellian, I believe, though I have not heard many Arafellian men speak in person. Only in Council or passing patrol. The rest I know from my studies, as you required, Father.”
Xavier inclined his head once. Silent encouragement. Kenta pressed on.
“I do not know his House. ‘Fel’ is not a name I recognize, and he wore no House colors. But he was respectful—to me, to our guards. More respectful than I expected, considering what I’ve heard of the Black Tower. He bowed. He used the Old Tongue. I believe he is an honorable man.”
Xavier’s eyes softened just enough to be seen, and he stood, crossing to rest a hand briefly on his son’s shoulder.
“Well judged. You read more than his words. That is the duty of a lord. You did well, Kenta.”
Kenta’s chest rose a little. Not prideful, but steady. Grounded. “Thank you, Father.”
A knock sounded at the door.
The steward entered first, Zarem, a gaunt man with a limp from a wound taken years ago in the Blight. He bowed once. “Asha’man Zoradin Fel, my Lord.”
There was a shift in the air when Zoradin entered, not from One Power, but from presence. He moved like a soldier, but stood like something more. His coat was deep black, too fine to be ordinary, with the sword pin of a dedicated and the crimson-and-gold dragon marking him as Asha’man. His boots bore the wear of travel, but the man himself was sharply kept. His hair neat, his eyes alert despite the long road.
Lord Xavier met his gaze directly. No warmth, not yet, but no distrust either. Only the weight of a judgment not yet rendered. The Asha'man's greeting words hung in the room like steel left on stone.
For a moment, there was only the crackle of the fire and the faint clink of Kenta’s ceremonial boots as he shifted his stance.
Xavier rose from his seat and stepped forward. “Suravye ninto manshima taishite, And may peace guard your path, Asha’man Fel.” His voice was measured and deep. “You are most welcome in Fal Sion, and in House Armendariz, as both guest and blade.”
He turned slightly, motioning toward the other occupants of the room.
“You will find here those who know our walls best. Captain Vilo Moren, who commands our inner guard.”
A dark-haired man with a blunt scar across his chin gave a single nod, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
“High Steward Zarem, who sees to the needs of our Keep.” Zarem bowed again, wordlessly.
“Aelin, Voice of the Light within Fal Sion.” A slender woman in simple robes with a braided gray belt at her waist folded her hands. Her eyes lingered on Zoradin with cautious interest. Voice of the Light was not a common term. He suspected there might be questions about Aelin's role here, for she was clearly not Aes Sedai.
“And Master of Horse Teven, whose business it is to see you are well-stabled, and that your mount fares no worse than you.”A wide-shouldered man with windburned cheeks chuckled softly, dipping his head.
Then Xavier gestured last to Kenta. “My son and heir, Lord Kenta Armendariz, who welcomed you in my stead, as is his right and duty.” There was something proud and unspeakably sad in Xavier’s tone. The weight of duty, perhaps. Or of what was absent: wife, daughter, mother, their names left unspoken in the silence that followed.
“I would speak with you, Asha’man Fel,” Xavier said, turning his full attention back to Zoradin. “Of the Black Tower, and of your mission here. But also of what you have seen on the road, and what you know of the other borderlands. Word from the east has grown thin. You come with the M’Hael’s sanction, and that alone is a banner we direly heed.”
He gestured to a chair opposite his own. “Sit, if it please you until the dinner is prepared. We are not so grand as Fal Dara, but our welcome is no less true."
Zoradin Fel
Zoradin's greeting was met with the common silence that normally greeted an Asha'man's greeting. Sometimes it was fear. Sometimes it was respect. He doubted the man in front of him feared Zoradin, but at the same time, Zoradin knew he didn't have the respect of Lord Xavier Armendariz. For the Lord of Fal Sion, the silence was a measuring. The lord's eyes had not yet left and Zoradin returned the gaze - not in disrespect or distrust. Zoradin too needed a measure of the man in front of him even if his position as a lord of a keep on the edge of the Blight already had garnered a significant amount of respect.
Lord Armendariz began to introduce his inner circle, bowing to each one in turn, although his gaze lingered longer over the woman - the "Voice of the Light." It was a title he was unfamiliar with, but it was one that made him think the woman a channeler. She was clearly no Aes Sedai though, and Zoradin wondered what her purpose here was.
The last one named was his son, and the young man who had welcomed him to the Keep. Zoradin gave a slightly deeper bow. "I thank you for your kind welcome, Lord Kenta," he said with a slight smirk. He had often worked with the young men at the Tower on their swordplay. He had also noticed the look of pride in Lord Xavier's eyes, and wanted to show that his son had done his job well and within protocol. He had no doubt that Lord Xavier had been told all that his son had noticed. He then turned back to Lord Xavier. [color=#lightgreen]"And you as well, Lord Armendariz and all those under your banner. This has been a most gracious welcome."[/color]
Zoradin didn't move until he was given the permission to do so, noting that Lord Armendariz hadn't introduced his wife or any other children. That likely meant that they were absent from the keep itself. Zoradin had no idea why, and from what he knew of Borderlanders, they wouldn't have left due to attacks on the blightborder, but then again he could be wrong.
Zoradin took the seat pointed out to him, his movement graceful, but deadly. He was a soldier and a weapon and he moved like one. Even seated, his posture was immaculate, honed by years of training. "I will answer any questions you ask that I have the ability to answer," he said in response. He would do it truthfully too. There were things he wouldn't be able to answer - because he didn't know the answer or because it wasn't something he could share. That was the life of a soldier. He was here as an ally though. "What is it you would like to know, my Lord?"
Xavier waited until the Asha’man had taken the offered seat before settling fully into his own. He rested his hands on the carved arms of the chair, fingers still, posture composed. Silence followed—intentional. In his experience, men revealed much in how they bore it. The man across from him was clearly not Borderlander. That much was plain from accent alone. Southern. How far south, Xavier could not say, nor would he guess. Guessing had no place in command. The Blight punished guesswork harshly.
Kenta sat straight-backed to Xavier’s right, watching with the careful intensity of one who knew this moment mattered. Captain Moren and Master Teven had taken seats farther down the table. High Steward Marek stood near the wall, hands folded. Sister Aelin remained near the hearth, silent and observant, her eyes resting openly on the Asha’man. She wore no ring, no sigil of rank, yet her presence carried its own quiet authority.
“I would ask first of your experience,” he said evenly. “Have you fought at the Blight?”
He left the question to stand on its own, neither softening nor sharpening it. The fire crackled. Shadows shifted against the shapes carved above the hearth.
After the moment passed, Xavier inclined his head slightly, acknowledging whatever had been offered in return without comment. “You should know that Fal Sion has never had the honor of fighting beside an Asha’man. We have held our walls with steel, with blood, and with the Light. This is new ground for us.”
He paused, weighing his next words carefully. Pride was a luxury he could not afford, not with lives at stake.
“I would not misuse what I do not fully understand,” Xavier said. “Nor place my people in danger through ignorance.”
He leaned forward just enough to show intent, not pressure. “I ask you, then: how would you advise we conduct ourselves in battle to best accommodate your presence? How should my commanders plan our lines, our spacing, our engagements, so that we fight with you, not merely alongside you?”