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The main hall of Castle Brightblade was in a hushed
tumult. Only a few candles burned in the wall sconces, but
by their troubled light Sturm saw that the entire household
was astir. In recent days, many of the servants had fled,
taking tools and petty valuables with them. Sturm had only
the vaguest notion of how things were beyond the castle
walls.
Armed men stood at every door, pikes at the ready.
Sturm fell into a stream of rushing servants and was carried
with them to the door of the guardroom. His father was
there, with another large man who lifted his head when the
boy entered. Sturm recognized his father's good friend and
fellow knight, Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan.
"I'm packed, Father," Sturm said.
"Eh? Good, good. Go to your mother, boy. You'll find
her in the north corridor." He looked back to the map spread
on the table before him. Sturm bowed his head and
withdrew, his heart heavy. He leaned against the outside of
the guardroom door.
"He's only a boy, Angriff," he heard Lord Gunthar say.
"Not yet a man, much less a knight."
Lord Brightblade replied, "Sturm is the son and
grandson of Solamnic Knights. Our blood goes back to
Berthal the Swordsman. He must learn to cope with
hardship
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