The master is almost here madame ," said Mateo, his voice quivering slightly as he looked over his sleeping mistress, whose eyes had grown dark and almost lifeless.
"The riders came at twilight bearing news of Bretadon, and the masters well..."
"Did we. Ohhhh," she groaned her voice laced with pain at her weak attempt to speak."
Mother," the young boy who sat by her side whimpered at the sound of his mother's croaky voice, his eyes filled with unshed tears.
"It's alright Athias,"
She whispered lovingly, gently caressing his cheeks his her pale frail hand. Young Athias who understood what was happening around him, could only be hurt even more by his mother's affection, because he knew that she was leaving him.
"Mateo," she croaked, turning her head with much effort, to aged butler who stood at her side.
"Yes madame?" He answered, his old voice far more vibrant than that of his young mistress.
"Aberta...did we win, did we claim victory in Aberta?"
She asked, wishing...no, desperately hoping for a positive answer, one that could assure her of the future of those she loved even after her passing.
However, that was not to be.
With a heavy heart the butler said.
"Bretadon has fallen Mistress, Aberta and the western kingdoms are lost."
At his words, a throbbing ache clutched at her chest, squeezing the life out of her weak beating heart.
"Ack...koooff, koff,"
The sound of her weak cough echoed in the large gilded room, and the worried servants could only fuss about her, unable to do anything other than make her comfortable and whisper words of comfort, despite holding back their own tears.
As the fit of cough ended, the madame was laid back gently on the bed, and watching her beautiful son, tears ran down her sunken eyes, tears of agony, not for herself but rather for those she would leave behind in the war torn world.
She wept with all the strength left in her dying body.
Sniffles and whimpers resounded in the chamber, as the handmaid's she had known since youth, and the servants that had deligently served her for years, also shed their own tears.
The future was unknown and it now held a myraid of possibilities, the western gates had finally fallen to the forces of chaos, and the west was lost to them
Soon these same forces would come riding upon the empire with their banners of darkness, leaving blood and death in their wake.
And this uncertainty frightened the mistress of Orlan far more than her looming death.
" LILITH! "
A booming voice thundered in the distant hall, and all heads turned to the oaken double doors that led to the madame's chambers.
"The master has returned."
Announced Arissa, the closest handmaid to the misstress. She dabbed at her tearstreaked eyes with a handkerchief, then prompted all the other servants to their positions. While the old butler and two retainers opened the doors for the master who instantly rushed in.
"LILITH... Lilith..." He thundered.
Still clad in armor, covered in grim filth and blood, he barged into the madame's chambers startling everyone inside of it.
But his furious crimson eyes calmed as they settled on the frail woman that laid silently, behind the drawn silk canopy of a wool soft bed.
"LILITH,"
He said, this time in the passing of a breath, with no trace of anger or bitterness left in his hoarse voice.
"Father,"
Young Athias choked, wiping at his wet eyes with the back of his left hand, and turning to face the towering figure of his father, in all of his war torn glory.
But Rowan could care less about his frightened son, or the servants that were scattered about the room.
In that moment, the lost war didn't matter to him, neither did the demons that crawled into the continent through the western rifts.
All that mattered then, was his wife.
His beautiful, dying wife.
"Lilith."
Rushing to her side, he fell on his knees with a loud thud, the sound of his heavy armour hitting the ground, resounded through the room, and even the pain that tore through his body was nothing compared to the pain of seeing his love in such a state.
No it was nothing at all.
"Rowan...," She whispered, the ghost of a smile gracing her pale thin face, her chapped lips parted slowly as she spoke with what little strength was left in her body.
"My wife... forgive me,"
Old Mateo who had served the house of Vanderleir for over two generations, let his own tears fall as his master spoke, for since his birth, he had never once seen the master so moved, so vulnerable.
"Forgive me,"
Rowan cried, his head downcast, and his body visibly shaking as he held unto the madame's frail hand.
"Rowan, "
She called a second time, slowly moving her hand from hers husband's, then reaching to caress his stubbled cheek. She could feel her strength wanning, and her last breath she whispered.
"Protect our son. Protect him for m-me..."
Then her hand fell.
And the masters heart shattered into a million peices.
"Mother please don't go, mother, mother wake up... you have to!"
Young Athias cried, hugging his mother's unmoving chest.
"You have to wake up... waaaaaaaaaaah...mother p p-please!"
Deaf to the cries of his weeping child, or the wails of the mourning handmaid's. Rowan stood, etched the scene into his memory, then turned away and left the castle as swiftly as he had arrived.
All he had in mind was one thing, one intent alone,
And that was to resurrect his dead wife.
What he needed was a dark Elven mage, and the heart of a dragon.
And by the gods he would get them.