"It happened just five years ago, but it's already been deified, The Scourge. The greatest genocide committed—a bloody massacre through which every Saint was murdered. The Scourge not only vanquished the Saints' hold on the kingdom, but it also put the Sinners in control, and they have dominated, since then, with the fear they imposed on the populace. The Scourge remains the scariest point in history to date. The day iniquity filled the world-"
"And the Battle of the Two Sons?"
The whole tavern turned to face the source of the question, a lone stranger seated by one of the only two windows in the small pub. He was dressed in a shin-length coat of dark brown leather over a white inner shirt and dark breeches; black boots completed the ensemble.
The storyteller, a bearded, burly fellow seated at one corner of the counter, scoffed at the man who'd rudely interrupted his dramatic silence and sneered,
"That's just a story to put naughty kids to bed, yer fool. It's nothing but a myth. It always was."
"Seems like it sent you to bed real fast." The stranger replied, sipping from his jug of ale.
The tavern roared in laughter; the man burned scarlet red, jumped off the counter, and walked over to the stranger.
"You calling me a scaredy-cat, yer fool?"
The stranger completely ignored him.
"I'm talking to you!" He yelled, slamming one massive hand on the table. The jug of ale shook, and the stranger glanced at him,
"Now, just back away before things get scarier than your bedtime story."
The whole tavern roared once more. The man was left seeing red on his own. He turned as if to go and suddenly struck out in a straight jab aiming for the fellow's face.
The stranger moved back, tilting his chair on its back legs, reached for the storyteller's forearm with one of his, and pulled, swinging his jug of ale with the other.
It connected with the man's left cheek, sloshing ale around, and as his seat balanced on all fours, he raised the jug and brought it down at the apex of the man's neck.
He hit the table face-first and collapsed with it. The stranger let the almost empty jug drop onto the man and dropped a small bag of coins on the counter on his way out, apparently unconcerned about the attention on him.
He closed the door and stepped out into the sun. To his right, the kingdom of Rothgard stood in its majesty beyond a small forest where some other small towns lay dotted about. To his left, the straight road stretched over a small hill, disappearing beyond.
He walked along the main road that ran through the middle of the small town, on the outskirts of the kingdom, ignoring the commoners busy with their activities, and into the inn where he'd lodged along with his company.
Fairchild, the eldest among them, a senior, plump 'sorcerer' as he claimed. However, he had proved himself as a master alchemist.
Mycroft, the youngest, was a free-spirited man, good with a good bow. He also had this peculiar sense that let him wield other weapons quite formidably in combat.
Medea, the only female among them, was the crown princess of the kingdom of Riven Brande. Her specialty lay in daggers and anything else she could throw.
He completed his journey up the only flight of stairs and went down the short hallway to his room. They were all there as he entered, but Medea spied him first.
"I hope you kept a low profile; we don't want the reputation ruined before it's even built, Rafael."
He shrugged, walking over to the only table in the room and pulling the chair out; he sat astride it, forearms crossed on its backrest.
"I hope we've all gotten into our roles. Cousin, uncle, and wife." He said, looking at each of them. To Fairchild, he asked, "And the weapons?"
"All taken care of." He replied. "Not a single trace of their origin left. And you? Your sin?"
Rafael opened his palm, and black energy twirled at a point above it.
"Everything's set for tomorrow's journey into the kingdom, then." He said, looking at each of their faces. He clenched his fist, and it was gone.
Late that night, Rafael stood at the window, watching his moonlit reflection. His hair was long and dark, falling back in waves that stopped just short of his shoulder. His steel-gray eyes looked determined, and he had a class about him.
He heard the door open and cocked his head sideways. Medea walked in, wearing a silk nightdress. Her raven hair looked tousled, and she walked to him, rubbing her folded arms.
"Couldn't sleep?" She asked, and he sighed, looking back at the window. He was coming back to his homeland after five years. What was it going to be like? What would have changed since then? The prospective felt overwhelming, and he sighed deeply.
He didn't even know how close she'd come till he felt her arms around his waist. She leaned against his back, and underneath the filmy nightshirt, he could feel her breath. "You know you can trust me with whatever." She said, her hands sliding lower. Rafael swallowed.
"What are you doing?" It came out more like a coarse whisper, and he felt her chuckle against his back.
"What better way to slip into my role as the lady of Lord Forsythe?"
*******************************
The next day, they rode on—Mycroft in the lead, on a stallion the color of murky water. Behind him, Rafael's black gelding and Medea's blond mare pulled a reasonably large carriage, being driven by Fairchild and connected by a wooden axle to an even larger one behind. Rafael and Medea occupied the first, while all their belongings did the second.
The entourage did garner a lot of interest, where it was to be found, as they traveled into the kingdom. The news of their arrival got there before them. The rumors of a Sinner being among them too. The guards confirmed that.
They were allowed to use the royal stables and given royal quarters, and the member of the royal court that had attended to them, a prim-looking lady with pursed lips, told them in her high-pitched voice that there was to be a welcome ball thrown that night in Rafael's honor. That was when they would meet The Roth, the ruler of Rothgard. Till then, however, they had the day to themselves. Medea and Fairchild left, the former to the bath hall and the latter to the marketplace to acquire some resources.
"You're wearing off my floors. Go pace somewhere else." Mycroft enunciated since previous attempts at calming Rafael's anxiety hadn't done the job. Rafael stopped at the foot of the four-poster bed where Mycroft lay, peeling an apple.
"I just need something to keep my mind occupied, and there's nothing to do around here."
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"What you need," He moved the apple and the knife apart so he could see Rafael clearly, "Is to cool off. Take a stroll or something. There's bound to be a lot of changes from the last time you were here."
"I guess so." Rafael went over to the big window and looked out. He'd seen a bit of the kingdom as they proceeded to the castle, but this view was amazing. Beyond the castle grounds, he could see a surrounding field before the rest of the kingdom sprawled out of sight. There seemed to be a flurry of activities down there, probably preparations for the ball.
Rafael noticed that to the east of the city, and there was a large expanse of scorched land where the Saints used to dwell. He looked away, tears coming to his eyes as he bit back the anger and hate boiling within. He gripped the stone pavement so hard his knuckles turned white—the only thing on his mind was revenge.
That night, at the ball. Rafael and co. were given positions of high class, but he noticed two more places behind. Both were thrones. The Roth arrived with a great deal of merriment, and Rafael sized him up.
He was the son of the Roth of five years ago, but Rafael could already tell that he was nothing like his father. He looked round, his potbelly making him seem pregnant. He talked in this raucous tone that just made Rafael feel irritable.
However, he was surprised when The Roth took the lower throne and wondered who would take the highest place when they came in. The party came to a standstill as they progressed, the line of five.
Each of them was in dark, long, flowing garments. The last one seemed a hulk of a man, with a face, ashen and eyes, lifeless. The rest, though, looked normal. These were the real power players in the kingdom, the top tier of the sinners, and the one in the rear was their leader. The Son Of Iniquity. The one solely responsible for The Scourge.
It took severe willpower and Medea's reassuring hand to hold Rafael together when the one who'd destroyed everything that meant anything to him was so close.