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Long ago, before the Great Forests crumbled into the Sea, all of Galar once was unified as a single Great Kingdom.
A Great King ruled the land fairly and justly, with nobility and honor. He had two sons and, throughout his rule, did his best to impart his wise teachings to both of them. He promised them that the son who showed that he could rule the kingdom with that same sense of fairness and justice, with that same sense of nobility and honor, would inherit the Galarian Kingdom.
The princes grew up strong and proud. The elder excelled in strategy and swordplay, twining around his opponents and finding their openings with his quick wit. The younger excelled in strength and defense, and he stood up for those weaker than himself and defended them with his own body. The two were thick as thieves, often working together as they studied battle and bureaucracy.
As the years bore down on him, the king grew old and frail. Eventually, he took to his bed, and as the king lay dying, he called his sons to him. He told them that they had both grown up to be strong, just, and noble princes, and as such he could not choose a single king between the two of them. Rather than leave his kingdom to just one of them, he said, he would divide the land in twain, leaving the northern half to the elder brother, and the southern half to the younger brother. Their strength as brothers, he said, would ensure that the kingdom could endure, and that strength would extend from the towers of their castles all the way down to the root vegetables their people grew.
The two brothers, stricken with grief, grew angry at one another. How, they asked, could they divide the land like this? How could they push the small villages to one side of the border or another? How could they take a Great Kingdom and diminish it so? The elder brother demanded that the younger relinquish his half to him, as the elder and smarter of the two. The younger brother laughed, and touted his mightier strength, and insisted that the elder brother should relinquish his half to the younger.
Thus, their father’s death drove a great distance between the two brothers, each insistent that they would be the one to lead the legacy of his Great Kingdom. The two kingdoms, North and South, fell into war, bringing great turmoil. The new Kings themselves met in battle many times. Each clash ended in a draw, for the two were a foil for one another, and each knew the other well.
Eventually, knowing that his brother had claimed control of several villages at the border between the two kingdoms, the Southern King sought a way to protect his people and push back his brother’s armies. He wandered the fields of the south and spoke to his people, who told him tales of creatures in the Slumbering Weald who were guardians. These guardians, the villagers told the King, would help him in his endeavors to protect his people.
He walked south through farms and past rumbling windmills, through sleepy hamlets and to the edges of the forest. Tendrils of fog swirled through the trees, and an eerie stillness settled over the air as the Southern King entered. No birds sang their songs, no creatures chittered in the brush, no wind rustled the leaves. The only sound was the crunch of foliage beneath the King’s boot as he strode forward, head turning this way and that as he searched for a guardian for his people.
A noise behind him made the King freeze; turning quickly, he found himself face-to-face with a giant bird. But this bird was unlike any he had seen before — its feathers were black as night, and sharper than the King’s own sword. It stared at him, meeting his eyes with a cold stare.
“Who are you?” the bird asked. “Why have you come to our forest?”
“I have come to seek the aid of the guardians who reside here,” the Southern King said. “You see, my father’s lands were divided betwixt my brother and I when he passed; my brother, however, has sent his armies to lay claim to villages beyond his borders. I seek a way to protect my people from his blade.”
“What care should we of the Weald have for human affairs?” the bird asked. “I, Corviknight, care not for your borders or your disputes thereof.”
“My peoples’ lives are at stake,” the King said. “Please, I beg of you! I ask only for the ability to protect them from harm’s way; I do not ask you to conquer, but to defend, and to prevent further loss of life.” He knelt before Corviknight and bowed his head.
There was a long pause, and the King despaired of ever finding a guardian for his people. Then, Corviknight spoke.
“Go deeper into the forest, O King, and you shall find one who may be able to help you, should your intentions be as true as you claim. Go now; I shall send word of your arrival.”
The Southern King wandered deeper into the foggy forests of the Weald, where he eventually came upon a clearing. The fog dissipated, allowing sunlight to filter in past the canopy of leaves above, and tiny mushrooms ringed the edges of the clearing where the grass turned to earth. In the center of it all stood a great Shield, a wolf whose mane shone like the sun.
“You are the King who dares come into my home? Why are you here?” the wolf, whose name was Zamazenta, asked. “Why should I devote my Shield to your cause?”
“I seek a way to protect my people,” the Southern King repeated his plea. “Their villages have been claimed by my brother’s armies; I must push back his forces to ensure their prosperity. Will you help me to defend my people, to reclaim their villages, that they might live in peace?”
The Shield stared deep into the Southern King’s eyes, and, seeing that his cause was noble and just, Zamazenta agreed.
With Zamazenta’s aid, the tides of war turned in the Southern Kingdom’s favor. Eventually, the two Kings faced each other in battle again, and the Southern King stood strong against his brother’s sword. When the Northern King tried to strike him with his sword, Zamazenta leapt between them with a mournful howl, and the Northern King’s sword broke against Zamazenta’s Shield.
The Northern King saw that the battle was lost and fled. His sword broken, he wandered his kingdom in search of a new sword, one that would be able to stand up to so great a Shield as Zamazenta. In one village near his castle, he heard tell of a Sword that his father had struck into stone long ago, in the hopes that it might never be needed for war again. The Northern King decided to seek out this sword, that he could claim it to fight for the sake of his people and protect them from the coming battles.
The Sword was sealed in the Glimwood, an enchanted forest, and so that is where the Northern King went. He found the Sword in a sunlit clearing, its blade encased in a giant stone boulder. He strode forward and gripped it by the handle, ready to pull it from the stone, and was surprised by how warm the handle was — it was not the soft warmth that sunlight grants to metal, but the underlying warmth of the living. The sword itself, he realized, was alive.
“Sword,” the Northern King cried, “forgive me, I did not realize the enchantment that lies upon you!” He looked the sword over and saw a great many chips and scratches along the length of its blade. Matching marks were carved into the rock it was sealed in, and he realized that men had attacked the blade and rock in their prior attempts to remove it.
“I see the scars left by others,” he said. “Are you harmed, Sword? Were you placed here to protect you from harm?”
The Sword stirred, and opened its lone eye. “You ask such kind questions,” it said, and it looked up at the Northern King’s crown and the crest that was stamped into it. “You bear the crest of my former master,” the Sword said. “You must be his son. Tell me, what has happened to the Great King?”
“I am indeed his son,” the Northern King said. “The Great King of Galar was my father. When he died, the kingdom was divided in twain, and now I rule the northern half of his once-Great Kingdom. My younger brother rules the southern half, and we have been at war for many years. I seek a way to protect my people, for my brother attacks us with a Great Shield to try and lay claim to my crown.”
“Brothers should not fight,” the Sword said, “for it leads only to suffering. People are hurt when they clash — it is not honorable. It is not just.”
“My people shall be harmed if I do not clash with him,” the Northern King said. “He seeks to take their lands for his own; if I do not fight him, my people will suffer.”
“I see,” said the Sword. “You fight to protect those who cannot protect themselves. I would take up arms with you — I, Honedge, was forged to honor such battles. Alas, I am too battered to help; within this stone, I am already broken. As you thought, your father encased me in this stone to protect me. However, I know where you can find a Sword that can match the Shield your brother bears. Draw me from this stone, O King, and I shall lead you to her!”
The Northern King gripped Honedge’s handle and drew it from the stone, and with a crack like thunder, the stone fell into pieces. The King scooped up the broken blade from within the rubble, and wrapped it with care in his cloak.
Honedge led the King to a lake far to the north, one said to be guarded by dragons. The Northern King snuck past nests and lairs, and dodged gleaming claws and fire-hot teeth, and finally stood upon the lake’s foggy shores.
“Take me into the water,” Honedge said, and the King waded into the lake.
“O, Lady of the Lake,” Honedge called out, “I have found a human whose cause is just, whose need of the Sword is great. Please, will you not help us? Will you not help this King?”
The water stirred, and with a mighty crash, a shimmering form appeared before the King. Long white hair wrapped around her body like a gown, and a peaked hat with a wide brim gleamed like a crown upon her head. She towered over the King, and bent towards him.
“I am Hatterene, the Lady of the Lake,” she said. “Tell me, human, of your plight. What need have you of my beloved Sword?”
The Northern King repeated his plea to her: “My father’s kingdom was divided in twain when he died, and my brother and I each rule half of his once-Great Kingdom. My brother seeks to claim my lands for his own — if I do not meet him in battle, and overcome his Great Shield, my people shall suffer. Will you help me to defend my people, to reclaim their villages, that they might live in peace?”
Hatterene stared deep into the Northern King’s eyes, and, seeing that his cause was noble and just, she agreed.
“O, Sword,” she called. “One who has need of your blade is here. I shall back his claim; Zacian, will you help him?”
The mists over the lake swirled and parted as the Great Sword stepped forward: a wolf, holding a steel sword that gleamed like the moon in her teeth.
“You seek to use my blade to protect others?” the wolf, whose name was Zacian, asked.
“I do,” the Northern King said. “My brother has a Great Shield he has used to break my sword in battle; will you help me to stand against him? Will you help me to defend my people?”
The Sword stared deep into the Northern King’s eyes, and, seeing that his cause was noble and just, Zacian agreed.
With the Northern King now bearing a Great Sword to match the Southern King’s Great Shield, the two Kings met one final time on the battlefield. Zacian stood at the right hand of the Northern King, and Zamazenta stood at the left hand of the Southern King.
On the kings’ commands, Sword struck Shield, and Shield blocked Sword. Before a third strike could hit, however, the wolves stopped their fight.
Zacian and Zamazenta turned to one another, and regarded the injuries they had caused one another.
“Dearest Sister,” Zamazenta said, “I shall not strike you again! I cannot bear to leave such bruises on your hide, I am so sorry for causing you pain.”
“My greatest apologies for these cuts, Beloved Brother! Nothing could be worth causing you such harm,” said Zacian. “I shall never lift my blade upon you again.”
The Northern King and the Southern King looked on in awe as the wolves embraced one another and tended to each other’s wounds. They stepped towards each other, and met without weapons. Each regarded the other quietly, thoughtfully, setting aside their longstanding anger. And for the first time in many years, they spoke to one another, as brothers and comrades.
The elder brother, the Northern King, held aloft the broken Honedge, both handle and blade. “Father’s sword told me,” he said, “before I drew it from the stone Father had encased it in for protection, that brothers should not fight. It is not honorable, it told me, and it is not just.”
“Father taught us as much,” the younger brother, the Southern King, said. “And yet we have let our arguments over legacy come between us, and come between our people.”
“Our kingdoms are much like Father’s broken blade,” the elder brother said. “Divided in twain, and not as strong independently. Yet we match one another just as the blade matches the handle, and can still draw blood from how sharp our battles are.”
“We once balanced one another like that,” the younger brother replied. He looked to the two wolves. “If Sword and Shield can find peace together, can we not also find peace together?”
The brothers embraced, and swore an oath to put the years of battle behind them. They would unite their kingdoms in brotherly alliance henceforth — one brother to stand strong as a shield, and one brother to draw a blade upon their enemies. Both would work together to protect their people, and to help their people recover from their great feud.
As the brothers reconciled, Honedge began to glow. First, the sword grew, the two pieces each sharpening and lengthening, the blade regaining a cross-guard while the hilt grew a fearsome blade. The glow began to fade, and two identical swords hovered in the air before the two Kings.
Then, the swords crossed over one another, and a great light shone forth. As the light faded, a shining silver shield laid over them, and the late Great King’s banner remained, linking the sword to the shield. The newly evolved Aegislash danced between the brothers, celebrating their reconciliation.
The kingdoms thus united, the people celebrated, their borders no longer marks of hostility, but a place to meet friend and ally. At the forest’s edge, where the two kingdoms met, they built a great stronghold, a port city. In the cliffs overlooking the port, the people erected great statues of the two brothers, with their Sword and Shield before them.
That port is now gone, crumbled into the sea with the forests. New towns have sprung up on the bones of the ancient city, remarking on Galar’s history whilst simultaneously obscuring it. The statues have disappeared, only echoed in the memories of stories and songs through the ancient cliffs. But some say the Sword and Shield still lay in wait in the forests, waiting for the ones who, like the Kings of North and South, will stand tall and protect Galar’s people from any threat towards them.
