Following the conclusion of the Dark Ages, those from all the land's furthest reaches came to witness the rumored "land of God" known as Barachia. Dwarves from the valleys in the east, elves from the secluded forests in the north, and orcs indigenous to the hellish desert regions stood unified with mankind, forging an era of unprecedented peace. At the heart of Barachia stood its capital, Caladen, and every day an immense gathering would commence in the town square.
Sometimes they came to absorb the jubilant tune of an old man plucking his lyre, and other times they danced, drunk on a troubadour's lively rhymes. When a song wasn't enough to please their fancy, they partook in luxurious feasts and exchanged riveting tales. In this peaceful era, they buried their past prejudices deep within and forged precious bonds with one another, reveling in their precious kinship. They would drink together, they would laugh together, and they would cry together.
But in the grand scope of history, times of harmony are always transient.
On a day just like any other, before sunrise, all the town's inhabitants met in the square, situating themselves before the grand speaker's balcony. The balcony protruded from the wall of an extravagant cathedral and faced southward, overlooking the entire square. Anxious whispers and cries spread throughout the plaza. The air was laden with uncertainty, pervaded by the stench of death, and thick blood stained the ground. Pieces of rubble both large and small were strewn about the area, and in the very center stood the base of a marble statue that had been almost entirely demolished, leaving it nigh unrecognizable. Of the parts that remained, one could make out the figure of a one-winged child wrapped in cloth, with an outstretched arm and an upturned palm as if holding a glass or some spherical object. A series of jagged cracks spread from the side of the palm, down the forearm, and to the tip of the wing.
"They dare tread on our holy land… damn fanatics," one man scowled, clenching his fist tightly enough that a stream of blood ran from his palm to his elbow.
"They're devil spawn, born of pure sin."
"Faelyn prayed each morn' and night," a white-robed woman wept, each word delivered as a labored croak. "Why, o' Exalted One, was he taken?"
"Please… it pains me to say, but you must relinquish your mourning, dear. My heart could not bear another loss," a man with pointed ears and donning a matching white robe replied as he embraced the hooded woman and held her tightly. She wrapped her cloaked arms around him and closed her eyes as she buried her face in his chest. Slowly, carefully, and with a hint of uncertainty, he removed her hood and stroked her shimmering, alabaster hair, revealing frail strands of gray at its roots. A few of those standing nearby noticed the sprouting gray tendrils. A soldier standing next to the two bore a sorrowful expression and acknowledged them with a nod, then lifted his chin and held his palms towards the sky, a gesture of prayer. As time went on, the white-robed woman's face grew deathly pale, and the ominous branches of gray spread further and further. The man's embrace held firm as if he felt the slightest wind or breath would whisk her away into dust, never to be seen again. After a few more minutes, the well of her tears had seemingly dried up. As her eyes closed and her fevered emotions subsided, the white-robed man eased his embrace and laid her down gently on the concrete, then called for a servant of the Order to admit her to the cathedral where the injured were being taken care of. He rested his head upon her chest and smiled warmly, all of his sense absorbed by the faint yet steady rhythm of her breath, with a single pearly tear in the corner of his eye.
Suddenly, the rest of the crowd's murmuring arrived at a halt and brought about a long, piercing silence. A tall man with snow-white hair came forth to the balcony's edge. His tousled hair lay loosely on his shoulders and a short, thick beard lined his jaw, accentuating his rugged features. Upon his back rested a sheathed greatsword with a grip fashioned out of dragonskin; it vibrated madly within the sheath as if it shared the anxious troubles and trifles of its wielder. The white-haired man extended his arm to grab its hilt as if taking a defensive stance, but stopped himself in the middle of the gesture, releasing the tension in his arm a moment later. Apprehensively, he gazed upon the crowd, drew an extensive breath, and poised himself upright. As he looked out at the astonishingly vast crowd, he felt every shred of their acute sorrow and malice cleave deep cracks in his soul, like sharpened axes to a tree. The people remained in a state of anticipatory silence, and all he heard was the rapid beating of his heart and the trembling hum of his breath. Time seemed to slow down when he closed his eyes.
"A King mustn't allow emotion to cloud his judgment. Strike hard and without hesitation. Each moment of indecision is a life lost—an extinguished flame." These words danced throughout his mind, a heartfelt echo ingrained deeply within his heart. In times of despair, he would call upon them to bless his judgment with conviction and righteousness. A poignant melody of words resounded off the walls of his subconscious, swelling and surging until they permeated his entire inner world—a plane of pure white that he wished he could dwell in forever. Meanwhile, thousands of souls fervently yearned for his hopeful proclamations, and he resolved to give them a melody of their own. He knew that a world of timeless solitude was an object of pure fantasy, and time and time again he would be forced to confront this reality. Upon opening his eyes, he scanned the crowd once more, then parted his lips and delivered a booming declaration.
"People of Barachia! Since the dawn of time, every living being has fought an endless war against the ruthless tides of destiny—a struggle of will, faith, and desire. It is our duty to clash with the torrential current; to claw at the cage that we call reality and deny the chain that binds.
"Every being possesses an innate desire to live. For many of you, it is but a dying flame, a symbol of the bitter despair that ravages your mind, body, and spirit. Yet, no matter how great the losses you may suffer, the indomitable flame remains in each of your hearts.
"The river of fate will try to extinguish the Ember of Life bestowed upon you by the Exalted One, but you mustn't allow your faith to falter. We must find solace in spirit but take heed that nourishment of the soul cannot be born of solitude. Thus, through this Communion of Embers, we will rekindle the withering flames and honor the lost souls.
A powerful gust of wind passed over the balcony, breathing life into his snowy hair and enchanting him with a dignified, sovereign air. The wind carried the rest of his words true to the people's ears and imbued their spirits with fortitude.
"By the divine doctrine of Elikya the Exalted One, I, Morgan Felvara, beckon you all! Stand together and triumph! For those honest people who inhabit this land Blessed by God, a plentiful future awaits you! You must never belittle the resilience of the flame you've been granted. Dispose of the fear in your hearts and shape the forward path for the precious sons and daughters of the ages to come!
A jubilant roar erupted from the crowd, their heads held high. The white-haired man wrought from his lips an even louder roar, raising his fist high.
"Fight to defend your Ember! Rage against the unrelenting current and you will live to witness the gracious dawn once more!"
A cascade of unbridled emotion washed over the congregation of citizens. It was a divine cacophony of gratitude and mourning. Some cheered, and some wept, while others prayed.
To any witnesses on the outside of the spectacle, it would appear to be a world severed from reality. By night, a battlefield; by dawn, a tender, harmonious scene. Those from every caste, from peasants to noblemen, relished in each other's company. In this solemn moment, no instance of rank or title existed. The grip of mankind's constructs grew brittle and bore no hold on them, returning to ash and freeing their minds of any imminent doubts. Hand-in-hand, as brothers and sisters, they offered up their prayers and looked to the heavens.
On the south end of the plaza, opposite the grand speaker's podium, there was a throng of peasants forming in front of a merchant's abode. The stained-glass window on the first floor was completely shattered, littering the area around the front step with innumerable glass fragments of various hues. Aside from the damage on the first floor, the building was in otherwise favorable condition. Like most buildings in the town square, red brick and rich cedar constituted the bulk of its construction.
Above the front step protruded a semicircular balcony supported by two broad, cedar pillars. Below the balcony, within the heart of the glass ocean, stood a squat older man sporting an opulent ox-fur robe. He could be seen brazenly tossing pouches of coin into the bustling crowd.
"Meaningless! To hell with it all!" the man cried, his ashen beard sodden with tears.
Noticing the commotion, a young woman who was seated atop the balcony descended a spiral staircase inside one of the castle's towers. She was garbed in a coral-hued linen gown, a pair of goat leather heels, and a pale silk veil that delicately fluttered as she approached the scene, lending her stride a sense of profound refinement. Outside the crowd, she peered over the peasants' heads and spotted the man, her tall stature allowing her a clear view.
Her advance paved a broad path through the heart of the gathering, and their clamoring swiftly diminished. By the time she reached him, he'd sunken to the ground, silent. He interlaced his fingers and held his head low as if in prayer. Furthermore, he appeared to pay no heed to the glass fragments ripping into his forearms. Earnestly, the veiled woman knelt and spoke.
"From whence do your tears come, o' pitiable brother? Your soul appears burdened, yet your acts were brimming with such ardor just moments ago. Tell me, what is it that afflicts you so?" The man appeared unfazed by the sudden inquiry, seemingly fixated on the ground below. Through labored breaths, he responded dejectedly.
"I witnessed it all, wide-eyed and without a moment's respite. The slaughter of men by the dozens, women and children torn from hearth and home, hell on earth. Within the security of my walls, I watched as the land that I dearly love was trampled and defaced." He unlaced his fingers and slammed the side of his fist into the ground.
"Amidst the havoc, I was consumed by the abominable figure of my cowardice. Had I taken up the art of the blade in my youth, I could've saved someone, anyone. If I'd contributed provisions to those brave souls who made the ultimate sacrifice, perhaps they could've fought for just a moment longer. Yet I remained within the security of my dwelling, and to what end? So that I can continue to clutch my coins, endlessly drowning in liquor and affluence?"
He lifted his right arm, revealing a giant glass shard embedded within it. His breathing had become further strained, and each word was hot iron in his throat.
"Nay, I fear my cowardice was too suffocating to allow me a proper fate, one befitting of swine such as myself." As he uttered the last of these words, he grimaced, shut his eyes, and ripped the glass from his forearm, causing blood to spew forth. The splatter landed just short of the hem of the veiled woman's dress as if she possessed an aura of impervious purity.
"Even in this hour of sacred peace, I am tormented. Whilst my rotten lifeblood intertwines with that of the brave ones, it actively soils their honor, impeding their passage to the heavens." He covered the gash with his other hand, tightly gripping his forearm.
The woman in the silk veil offered her hand and spoke.
"Your wounds and words are most agonizing, and your immense burden weighs heavily upon my soul. I wish to bestow a blessing upon you, but I first require your name. From whose line were you born, and what is the name they gave to you?"
The man's breathing had begun to relax in response to her soothing words. At last, he lifted his gaze toward the veiled woman and noticed her outstretched hand.
"My utmost apologies, but a wretch such as myself is unworthy of your gracious hand. The wound I bear is deep, and it would do naught but stain your fine dress with tainted blood." He gripped his wound even tighter, and his nails dug deep into his skin. "I am Reginald Bauwens, son of Demetrius Bauwens, and former owner of Bauwens' Gems and Jewels."
"Former?" she inquired, cocking her head.
He sighed deeply; the ever-slightest trace of a smile could be seen on his face.
"This business, this farce, no longer holds any meaning to me. That which I held most dear has already been lost, and I've run out of tears to shed."
He went into a coughing fit and attempted to stand, but quickly lost his footing and stumbled forward. If it weren't for the courteous woman before him, his face would've met the cold, hard concrete. Upon being absorbed by her sweet, ethereal embrace, the tension in his body and mind was expelled, and his eyelids were softly drawn to a close.
She held him in her arms and uttered a blessing. Those in the crowd stood in complete silence as though they had been called to witness a miracle from the Exalted One herself. The sun had begun to peek out above the rooftops and the gentle dawn illuminated the square. To those in the crowd, it felt as if an angel had descended from the heavens, a divine figure untainted by the boundless sin of the world. For an endless moment, all was still, and the people felt that no misfortune could befall them.
"Lady Aurora!"
A resounding voice pierced the silence, and time began to move forward once more. The crowd spread out and opened a path to the source of the call. It was an ironclad man wielding a hefty mace, with his features concealed by a finely-slit visor. He bore a polished insignia upon his right pauldron, depicting the sun peeking out above the horizon. As he approached the root of the calamity, the onlookers knelt and bowed their heads toward the walkway.
"Arise, brothers and sisters! This is a time of kinship and unity!" the ironclad man announced. They quickly raised their heads and directed their attention to the woman called Aurora. She paid no heed and continued to hold the sleeping man, caressing his wounds while whispering a soft incantation. With great precision, her angelic words mended the lacerations on his forearm, just as a master seamstress would embroider her finest gown.
"Aurora!" the man thundered. He discarded his mace and stormed towards the woman he called Aurora. Standing behind her, he hesitated for a moment, then gestured to put his hand on her shoulder.
Silence.
A resounding boom.
The clattering of iron.
As soon as the man's hand was about to come into contact with the veiled woman, he was propelled backward by some unseen force, landing about twenty paces away from her. For a moment, he lay petrified, facing the sky with an empty gaze.
Once the woman finished her incantation, she scowled for a moment, as if sensing a disturbance.
"That fool…"
Without a word, the shards of glass around her and the ashen-bearded man rose into the air. As for those embedded within his appendages, the veiled woman's spell dislodged them with great precision. The crowd watched in silent awe as the shards returned to their rightful positions inside of the window frame, restoring it to its former glory.
Within the frame shone an intricate, chromatic portrayal of a stout man, a golden-haired lady, and a crib in between them. Though they lacked distinguishable features, it seemed as if they carried radiant smiles upon their lips.
An elven lady in the crowd came forth and presented a thick, woolen blanket to the veiled woman. Acknowledging the offering, the veiled woman looked at the elf and replied, "I offer you my deepest gratitude, fair missus. This gift will surely instill this poor soul with sufficient strength to move forward. May Elikya bless you with good health and utmost contentment."
The hefty blanket was lifted from the elderly lady's hands and unfurled itself below the unconscious man. With exhaustive care, the veiled woman laid him atop the woolen refuge. One last time, she gazed upon his face overcome by sweet sleep. As she stood and turned to leave, luminescent dawn shimmered upon her silk veil, revealing a cordial expression.
Motionless, the ironclad man yet emptily faced the sky. Several members of the crowd attempted to assist him, but they were unable to comprehend the nature of his predicament. His ears were taunted by the rhythmic tapping of footsteps, which became louder and louder until they came to a sudden halt. Beside him stood the woman he called Aurora. She sighed and spoke as if scolding a small child.
"You know not to disrupt my incantations, Octavian."
There was no response. She continued.
"Deep down you wish to blame me for your situation, despite being aware that my powers are… precarious. This is merely a result of your transgressions. Once you've regained your bearings, I ask that you deliver the ashen-bearded merchant to an unoccupied chamber on the topmost floor of Felvara Manor."
Still no response.
"I trust that you'll take these words to heart. It would do you good to honor them."
With that, she was on her way. She exited the scene just as gracefully as she came, with an elegant gait and dawn upon her veil.
***
After the crowd had dispersed and the sun began its departure, a tranquil lull engulfed the square. Both the man called Octavian and the man called Reginald laid dormant, with the former yet awake, gazing at the twilight sky. Despite having regained control over most of his body, he continued to lie there in nigh silence. All that remained was the hum of the wind and the echo of the woman's honest words.
A gentle breeze.
Honest words.
That's all there was.
Upon noticing the setting sun, the ironclad man steeled his resolve and stood up to fulfill his duty. His back, which had absorbed the majority of the impact, ached as if someone had set fire to it. Grimacing, he hobbled over to where the former merchant lay, making sure to first check the man's wounds. To his astonishment, the lacerations across all the man's extremities had almost fully healed.
"Well, I'll be damned… you truly have grown, Aurora…" he muttered with a faint grin.
After a more thorough examination of the man's wounds, he deemed him healthy and hoisted him upon his back. He placed the man's arms on his breastplate and wrapped his own around the man's legs, leaning forward to ensure his safety. Facing north, in the direction of Felvara Manor, he drew a hefty breath and began his strenuous journey. As he trekked onward into the night, he turned to the wind and the woman's words for strength.
A gentle breeze.
Honest words.
That's all there was to guide him.
***
Morgan paced wearily within his bed chamber, tepidly swirling a glass of jet-black wine. Beside him, at waist level, stood a towering Gothic window with an arch at its head. A set of pale blinds hung down and parted at their center, displaying a towering, enchanting view of Caladen. Rather than basking in the view, however, he cast an aimless gaze toward the stone floor in front of him. Aside from his intermittent muttering and the echoing cadence of his footsteps on marble, complete silence blanketed the room. Faintly lit torches lined the polished concrete walls, their flames struggling to survive the night's whispers.
In the corner to the left of the window stood a wide bed frame made of fine cedar, completed by a cotton mattress and silk sheets. A woman with pointed ears lay under the sheets and bore an anxious expression. Two braids of lustrous white hair went below her ears, and soft twilight shone on her pale skin. She wore an elegant velvet nightgown that spanned from the base of her shoulders to her ankles, modestly concealing her form. Her emerald eyes traced Morgan's path as he paced.
"I've called for an emergency assembly," Morgan announced, "to discuss our plans moving forward. This is not the first time we've seen an attack of this nature, and I fear that it won't be the last." His footsteps slowed in pace, developing an uneasy rhythm. "You've made it quite clear to me what it is they yearn for, yet their identities remain shrouded in darkness… and therefore I cannot act. Such incompetence is unbecoming of a king."
"Morgan, you've done all you can for now," the white-haired woman urged. "You mustn't overexert yourself. Rest and allow me to shoulder your burdens, even if only for a moment."
The echo of Morgan's footsteps came to a halt.
"Yes, yes… I shall." His face contorted into a concerned grimace. "Once I've spoken to our… capricious daughter."
"I see…" After contemplating her next words, she continued, "You shouldn't be too hard on her. She only yearns to assist the Order in any way she can. Her affinity for magic has grown exponentially, and she is quite aware of the value she can provide us."
"Valeri!" he cried. "She's not an asset, nor is she a weapon. She's our daughter, our only child! We cannot grant her the freedom to flaunt her powers so recklessly." Morgan's footsteps picked up where they left off. Shifting his gaze to the world beyond the window, he exhaled and furrowed his brow. He cleared his throat and poised himself upright. "Did you know? She's earned herself a bit of a reputation with the townspeople. 'The Lady of Miracles' is what they call her, as reported by Nero, who saw it all."
"Morgan, she's no longer a child," Valeri declared. "You can't coddle her until she grows frail. At the very least, you must allow her to dream."
Morgan stopped yet again. He placed his hands on the windowsill as he took in a deep breath. Gentle moonlight illuminated his face, highlighting the dark bags under his eyes. "Reality often detests dreams, especially righteous ones," he exhaled. "Honor seems to be but a dying art. Within the realm of memory, I've convened time and time again with the Kings of the past, and not a single one would challenge me on this."
"Your weary mind plays tricks on you," Valeri pleaded as she gestured toward the empty spot beside her. "Please, dear, come to rest."
"Once I've spoken to Aurora."
"You can scold her in the morning," she urged, "but for now, you must rest. I'll cast a sleeping incantation on you if I must."
He forcefully shut his eyes, inhaled shakily, and whispered in a breaking voice. "Enough, Valeri. My patience has its limits."
"Yes, and it's due time you acknowledge that your mind and body have theirs as well, and if you won't, I'll force you to. I can't allow myself to sit idly while the man I love heads down this twisted path of self-destruction."
Morgan winced and hung his head, staring at his calloused hands bathed in moonlight.
"I never… wanted this." he croaked. "Not this throne, this honor, nor thousands of lives in the palm of my hand. A nation rides on my shoulders and with it an overwhelming abundance of faith and dreams. This morning, the people… they smiled. They rejoiced. They bore losses the likes of which I cannot even fathom, yet they smiled, and all it took was my word. In that moment I realized just how dreadful this power truly is." A teardrop landed on his hand, then another, and another. The twilit drops glimmered like translucent pearls. He wiped his eyes with the velvety fabric of his white robe. "O' Elikya, Exalted One, divine spirit of Hope, you are the cruelest of all," he chuckled dryly. "Father… do you think he'd be proud of me? Of what I've become?"
Frowning, Valeri lifted the covers and set them at the foot of the mattress, then walked over to Morgan and placed her hand on the side of his shoulder.
"You are the most resilient and kind man I've ever known. So long as blood courses through my veins, I will stand by your side and ensure that no despair can befall you. And frankly, dwelling on what Sebastiaan would think is a trivial pursuit. The dead cannot speak. All we can do is conjure up crude imitations and hope they affirm what we think to be right. Unless…" She furrowed her brow, averted her gaze, and mumbled, "No, forget it."
His eyes faintly lit up.
"Valeri? Look at me."
"Forgive me, dear. It's nothing to fret over, I misspoke."
"Please, tell me. If it's of even the slightest relevance it might prove helpful."
Valeri shut her eyes and laughed wistfully, forming light dimples on her cheeks.
"Even now, you're too stubborn for your own good, always sticking your nose in places you know not to. Your boundless ambition is second to none."
Immediately after she had spoken, a deafening crash filled the air. Startled, she clasped her hands over her ears and winced. As she turned toward her beloved, the sight of his face sent a surge of biting cold through her entire body. Enraptured phosphorescent eyes, and within them a whirlpool of emotions and memories, both bitter and sweet. Memories that were foreign to her, yet strangely familiar through the lens of her beloved's visage. They appeared to her like a mirage, hazy and incomprehensible; each sequence illustrated ghostly figures against a backdrop of luminous white, an empty canvas, a world devoid of color.
A woman with flowing hair and fiery eyes.
A man with pointed ears hanging above a roaring fire.
Innumerable corpses rotting on blood-stained earth.
The shrill sound of children's cries.
A rusted portcullis drowning in thorny overgrowth.
Then nothingness.
Morgan stood placid, casting an aimless gaze upon the town as a jet-black pool filled with shards of glass formed around his feet. The skin on his face had grown deathly pale, and his cracked lips quivered violently.
"Dear! Morgan!" Valeri yelled after escaping the bewitching daze, clasping his shoulders firmly. Aside from his quivering lips, he stood paralyzed with empty, iced-over eyes. Fervently, she shook him back and forth, calling his name over and over, but to no avail. It was an act comparable to yelling and wailing in the face of a corpse, and despite the face being that of her beloved, she refused to give in to the sudden plight. The void consumed her words and regurgitated them as crashing torrential waves.
Suddenly, her pointed ears perked up, and she eased her grip.
"Spell traces…" she scoffed. "Powerful, at that."
Wearing a puzzled expression upon her brow, she shut her eyes as if deep in thought, then placed her hand on Morgan's forehead. The torches' flames gradually fizzled out until all that remained was smoldering coals. A brisk atmosphere engulfed the chamber and the night's whispers clawed at Valeri's neck and shoulders. Incandescent light flooded the ground around them and refracted off the broken glass.
Valeri stood motionless, her hand relaxing on Morgan's forehead. Then she separated her hand and leaned her head against his. In the poignant stillness, the only sounds were the soft pulse of their breaths and the night's whispers. The rhythm of their breathing attained perfect sync, and an invisible thread linked their subconscious. No matter the disturbance, they would remain suspended in the serene world of their creation. If war was on their doorstep and the heavens rained from above, they would pay no heed.
Broken glass and a lone flame under the moonlight. An eternity in a fleeting moment. A poem expressed to no one and everyone. Valeri parted her lips and whispered in a sing-song tone, with a glint of refracted light in her emerald eyes.
Welkin blessing upon our skin,
O' gentle night, grant me strength,
For raging dawn lies in wait.
Secure me, exalted morning star.
Breathe life into my soul,
and I will return it tenfold.
Thus, she laid Morgan flat on his back and silently watched over him, humming a hopeful tune. She sat next to him and reminisced, tracing his features with her gaze. Within each facet laid fond memories only perceptible to her. Although peaceful thoughts flitted behind her eyes, a sense of foreboding gnawed at her bosom. Before her was an urgent responsibility—an obligation of her heart—that only she was fit to fulfill.
Placing her hand on her chest, she closed her eyes and inhaled the brisk autumn air, invigorating her senses. The night's whispers no longer hindered her but acted as a wind in her sails. She sat perpendicular to Morgan's face in a prayer-like position, with her knees in front of her, and leaned over him; only a hair's breadth separated them. Her throat and face tightened in apprehension, and something sacred and dear welled up within her, lingering beneath her eyelids.
Smiling softly, she whispered, "This is my lifeblood… poured out for you." She took one last look into his eyes before closing hers, then shed a single, pearly tear. As soon as it met his lips, the phosphorescence faded from his eyes, restoring them to their former oceanic blue. The dampening of the torches' flames subsided, warming the chamber and assuaging their ears with hearty crackling.
Valeri opened her eyes and sat upright. She looked around at the concrete walls and the shimmering torches, then let out a hefty sigh and lay on her back. The marble was like an ocean of sand as sweet sleep absorbed her.
***
Through the center of the vast dining hall ran a polished wooden table topped with unlit iron candelabras, each decorated with a uniquely intricate design. On each side sat six men dressed in gray woolen tunics, and at the head sat Morgan wearing a black robe. His hair had been tied into a ponytail and fell onto his back just below his shoulders. Valeri, donning a similarly fashioned dress and a hood that concealed her eyes stood to his right, holding onto the hilt of his ruby-tinted blade. A round, stone-chiseled depiction of the rising sun protruded from a niche in the wall behind them, with text below it that read: Order of the New Dawn. Various cracks, discolorations, and other signs of wear could be seen all over it, displaying its incomprehensible age.
"We are extremely fortunate to be granted this time of respite," Morgan announced with a stern gaze. "Therefore, we cannot afford to squander a moment of it. These oppressors move in the shadows, and they could be lurking anywhere at any time. We don't know when they'll strike next, nor where. Until we learn more about who they are, we will have to take considerable precautions."
"Get to the point, Morgan," a burly man jeered, his arms crossed and a terse look on his face. A deep scar ran from the corner of his left eye, through his lips, and to the base of his chin. He made a sweeping gesture with his arm to indicate everyone in the room. "You tell us to dress in peasant rags and meet in this dark, dungeon-like hall before sunup, only to belittle us. Spare us the formalities and tell us how we plan to eradicate those damned bastards."
Morgan softly clenched his fist.
"Don't let your pride overwhelm your sense, Atreus. I can tell you yearn for a fight, but wars are fought with an enemy in mind. As it stands, we do not know who our enemies are, yet we do know they possess power that is not to be underestimated. For now, we must bide our time and focus on conserving resources."
The burly man slammed his fist on the table and cried out hysterically.
"And to what end? Suppose they mount another attack, then what are we to do? What if the bastards are even more powerful than they are letting on?" A twisted grin appeared on his lips. "Or maybe, just maybe, it's that you have no idea whatsoever. You run around like a chicken with its head chopped off, meanwhile, vicious murderers walk free, planning their next attack." He leaned back and crossed his arms once again, seeming to calm down a little bit, then remarked snidely. "Might as well be pissing on Sebastiaan's grave."
Morgan cursed under his breath, subtly enough that Atreus didn't notice.
"It's futile to dwell on the hypothetical. The undeniable reality is that we are faced with a mighty foe who is keen on anonymity, therefore we must do all that is within our abilities to prevent further bloodshed. We've already taken appropriate measures to safely house the citizens and treat the wounded, and after detecting spell traces across the square, Valeri conjured up an emergency barrier to prevent entry via portals. A defensive approach is most crucial for the time being, whether you like it or not."
Seemingly dissatisfied, the burly man replied in a more civilized tone.
"Alongside Sebastiaan, all those years ago, I partook in a sacred oath to protect this nation and its people. Over a bed of hot coals, we each took a blade to our palms, offering our blood as fuel to the fires of creation." He held out his hand to present the trace of a scar. "We swore that no matter the circumstances, despite any hardship, we would do all that is within our power to serve the divine land of Barachia. This state of lethargy is a violation of my oath, and I could not live with the burden of that sin."
Vigorously, he stood up and wiped the sweat from his brow, then reached into a satchel attached to his belt, pulled out a flask, and threw his head back to take a generous swig. After unleashing a colossal belch, he gave a booming testimony. Morgan listened patiently.
"All of you," he addressed the congregation with a sweeping gesture of his arm, "have a choice to make. You can sit idly, cowardly, following this joke of a king, but I will take no part in it. For the few of you who want nothing else but to rain justice on those monstrous whoresons, you can follow in my stead. You'll find me down by Crevil's Root at sunset. Bring your mightiest steed, your sharpest blades, and don your most dependable mail." He stared directly at Morgan, who sat calmly and returned his gaze. "We ride at midnight."
Taking another great swig, he turned to face the archway at the foot of the hall, and exited with a proud march, leaving nothing but the heavy echo of his boots. A bald elderly man with round wire-frame glasses hastily chimed in, breaking the silence.
"Your Highness, shall one of us go after him?"
"I greatly appreciate it, Felix, but no worries. He'll return once he's had time to clear his mind."
"Understood."
"Let us continue. Nero, please stand and administer your report on the casualties and the state of affairs at the cathedral."
A brawny man with sharp features and long blonde hair responded to the summons. His elegant stature existed in stark contrast to his drab woolen garb.
"With pleasure, Your Highness. The counts are as follows: one-hundred and forty-three confirmed dead, two-hundred and fifteen injured, and forty-six missing. Of the deceased, seventy were human warriors, ten were dwarven warriors, twenty-five were elven warriors, eighteen were dwarven citizens, and the remaining twenty were elven citizens. I've tasked my men with the organization of the funeral rites. They're diligent and able-bodied, so you can expect the ceremony to commence in a few days at the latest."
"And where is this to be held?"
"After assessing a handful of classified records, courtesy of Felix, I came across the existence of a lost ancient garden on the southern shore of Lake Traxus. It's completely secluded, and based on what I gathered from the records it cannot be perceived externally due to a powerful cloaking spell." Slightly perplexed, Morgan scratched his beard.
"There's a hint of unease in your tone… what's the drawback?"
"Well, it's a matter of passage. There's only a single entrance, and a rather morbid one at that—the catacombs."
Morgan raised his eyebrows slightly, seemingly more intrigued than upset. After a long pause, he replied firmly.
"Well, if Nero says it's the safest option, then it seems we have no other choice. The dead require a proper burial ceremony for their souls to be granted safe passage into the next life, and it's our sacred duty to see it through. Nero, if there is anything that I can do to assist you, do let me know." A faint smile flashed across Morgan's face.
"Thank you, Your Highness," Nero said with a bow.
"With that said, I have one more question for you," Morgan added, closing his eyes and sighing apprehensively. "During the battle, something felt… off. It seemed as if the attackers were deliberately avoiding fatal encounters with humans and dwarves. They were aiming to injure, not to kill. I may just be paranoid, but please do confirm or deny my suspicions. Of those confirmed missing, how many are elves?"
Nero frowned and placed his right hand over his heart, taking a moment to frame his response with care and elegance, but naturally, the present situation allowed little room for decorated tongues and hopeful pleasantries.
"Unfortunately, it is just as you fear. As I looked over the list of casualties dozens of times, I shared the same suspicion. Of the forty-six missing persons, all of them are indeed elves. Forty citizens and six warriors." Everyone remained silent as a profound sadness swelled within their hearts. As the impromptu moment of silence went on, Morgan took Valeri's hand in his. His hands trembled furiously and his grip alternated uneasily, repeatedly shifting between a state of tension and one of relaxation. Uncertainty and fear pervaded every fiber of his being like a disease, coursing throughout his veins and frantically swirling within his mind. As a murky haze fell upon his consciousness, he felt a sudden numbing of his capacity for reason and will. Valeri squeezed his hand tighter than ever before, and at once a sense of infallible unity overwhelmed them. Pleasant sentiments bombarded his consciousness like artillery, threatening to compromise the foundation of his sense, calling for him to surrender. They called him to surrender his will and allow fond memories to color the landscape of his thoughts—memories of times long past; of simpler times. Yet he inevitably recalled the sacred teachings of Sebastiaan carved into his heart and could not allow his will to falter any further. He opened his eyes and shook his head, then cleared his throat to signal the end of the moment of silence.
"Praise be to the Exalted One, giver of life," they all said in unison. Morgan gingerly bowed his head toward Nero in a silent expression of gratitude and told him to take his seat. After Nero had seated himself, Morgan continued.
"I've been burdened by a looming suspicion, and judging by the looks on your faces, it seems I wasn't the only one. For better or worse, it tells us one of their motives. It doesn't seem feasible that they are committing these crimes for sport, they must have a goal, and to target elves can only mean one thing. What they yearn for is blood."
Confused murmurs spread throughout the assembly, further piling on to the sense of unease. Morgan turned to look up toward Valeri and gave a faintly encouraging trace of a smile. She returned the gesture and removed her hood. The murmuring ceased when an unfamiliar yet royally authoritative voice touched their ears.
"Honored men of the Order, allow me to lend credence to what Morgan has proclaimed. As an elf who was born and raised in Valortia, I am well-versed in the history and culture of my people. When I first arrived in the land of Barachia, I brimmed with sheer amazement at how kind and accepting the people were. I expected to be met with ridicule, jests, or even fear. Such were the ways of the past. Yet while the majority of this nation's people have overcome prejudice, many of other lands have not. They think us cold, conniving, and spiteful creatures; that we are incapable of compassion. And—" She paused as if something caught in her throat, then hastily continued.
"And that could not be further from the truth. I can attest that most Valortian elves are quite reserved, but for very… complicated reasons that, if they were common knowledge, would jeopardize the lives of many. One of these reasons is that our blood possesses great destructive properties. From a purely physical standpoint, the only difference between the blood of elves and that of humans is that elves' is much thicker, but in the hands of someone acquainted with ancient elven arts, it can become a dreadful weapon. While I do not know how our enemies could have acquired knowledge of this sort, I can think of no other reason as to why they would be targeting our elven citizens. Unless they're acting purely on enmity, this must be their goal."
"Thank you, Valeri," Morgan said. "Now, I have devised a plan as to how we will move forward acting on this information. Firstly, I have a quest for Octavian."
A slim young man with short black hair stood up and bowed slightly. His youthful appearance sharply contrasted with his rich, eloquent speech.
"At your service, Your Highness," he said eagerly.
"Tomorrow, you will be deployed to Valortia as an envoy to request an audience with Queen Ysolde. The trek should take anywhere from one to two weeks depending on the conditions, so you will be provided ample food reserves and a sturdy horse. Lest you end up in a dangerous situation, I've arranged for five knights to ride alongside you. Valeri assures you that should you show no signs of hostility, they will at the least allow temporary passage. The route is fairly simple. It's outlined here." Morgan reached into a pocket inside his robe and held up a map scroll that detailed everything from directional monuments to unsafe regions. "Your party will depart from Cathylda's Tavern at sunrise."
"With pleasure, Your Highness."
Morgan gave him an encouraging smile.
"Octavian, thank you, truly. I'm placing a great deal of trust in you with this. Your return will be met with ostentatious gifts and the most supreme honors. Ah, I have yet one more request. Promise me that when this is all said and done, you'll share a drink with me. I'll procure a cask of our finest mead, imported straight from Edron. Atreus is welcome too, of course, so do inform him of my offer once he's regained his bearings."
Octavian bore a wide grin and wiped a tear from his eye.
"It's a promise, Your Highness. When uncertainty strikes and despair arises within, I will turn to our promise for strength."
A sliver of sunlight peered in through the front door's window, and Morgan's smile faded in an instant.
"Nevertheless, we've squandered too much time. Valeri will cast a spell of vitality upon you and then you shall be on your way. Go down to the cathedral and select five knights to accompany you on your journey, then gather your gear and prepare to set out."
Octavian stood up as soon as Morgan gestured for him to come to the head of the table. He approached Valeri and knelt before her, bowing thoroughly. She held out her free hand just a few inches away from his head and closed her eyes. A moment later, he felt a profoundly calming sensation, as if a gentle ocean wave washed over him.
"Arise, and relish in your newfound strength." Morgan declared.
Octavian stood tall and gasped in amazement. His muscles felt more supple than ever before and his reflexes felt like that of a cat.
"Now be off," Valeri said, "and bring glory to Barachia."
"I will." Grinning proudly, he turned and began his departure. When he opened the door, the flood of sunlight instilled him with confidence. Without looking back, he gave a slight wave of the hand and set out. Upon being closed, the door made a loud thud, signaling the recommencement of the meeting. A ray of dawn still gleamed through the window, which illuminated Morgan's ocean-blue eyes.
"With a Valortian alliance, victory will be within our grasp," Morgan announced.
"And if we aren't able to garner Queen Ysolde's support?" A black-haired man with a broad jawline yelled from the opposite end of the table.
"We will, and we must, no matter the cost. I will do everything in my power to secure her support."
"Pardon my skepticism, Your Highness, but what if your power turns out to be insufficient?"
Taken aback, Morgan fiercely bit his cheek. Warm blood trickled down the side of his mouth and into his throat, giving him a taste of bitter iron.
"If it comes to it, Valeri and I do have an… emergency measure, but I—" He paused for a moment then sighed. A slight film of moisture started to form in front of his eyes causing them to glisten delicately like gemstones. "You'll just have to trust me." In the blink of an eye, the film dissipated.
The black-haired man seemed yet unconvinced but knew not to press further, so he remained silent.
"The rest of you are in charge of assisting with border security. Head to the outpost just south of Kerrholm for further instruction. All entry into Caladen is prohibited, with no exceptions. Understood?"
Everyone nodded in assent.
"Then that is all. This meeting is hereby adjourned. I advise you to depart and gather your necessary equipment as soon as possible."
The men all stood up at once and swiftly filed out of the hall, leaving Morgan and Valeri by themselves.
Morgan brushed aside a loose strand of hair that hung in front of his eye, then held out his open hand toward Valeri. Effortlessly elegant, she lifted his sword and rested the dragonskin hilt in his palm, and then he firmly fastened his fingers around it. As he unsheathed the blade it produced a melodious hum akin to a finely tuned instrument; the polished blood-red metal shone alluringly under the dawn's splendor. He pointed it upward and twirled it around a few times, admiring the captivating shine.
"Yval di A'velour. Blade of the Righteous. For far too long have you been laid to rest. Serve me well, just as you did Sebastiaan." He meticulously twirled the blade around once more, and it seemed to shine even brighter as if smiling back at him.