Zephyros: The Kingdom of Light
The Day of the Grand Conference
The capital city of Verenthia, the heart of the Kingdom of Light, pulsed with renewed vigor despite the shadow of recent tragedy. Just ten days prior, the city had faced an unprecedented catastrophe: the next generation of leaders, nobles, and promising minds had been swept away in a mysterious event, replaced by tier-one and tier-two monsters from the cursed Northern Lands. The chaos that ensued left Verenthia scarred, its grand streets stained with destruction and loss.
Yet, the resilience of Zephyros shone through. Reconstruction was swift, spearheaded by General Orin and the united noble houses. They rallied together to subjugate the invading beasts, protect the people, and restore order. Today, the scars of the past were nearly invisible. Merchants reopened their shops, children played in the streets, and the aroma of fresh bread wafted from bustling bakeries. Verenthia was alive again, and its people, though bruised, carried an unshakable spirit of hope.
The city brimmed with energy, as delegates from various races arrived for the long-awaited Grand Conference. Elves, dwarves, orcs, and humans of noble and diplomatic standing moved through the streets, their presence a reminder of the fragile alliances binding the realms.
In a corner of the bustling city, a tavern bore witness to a less diplomatic affair.
A group of orcs stood nose-to-nose with two burly dwarves, their voices raised in heated argument. A dispute had erupted over a drinking contest—a staple of dwarven pride—but the orcs refused to concede their loss. What began as grumbled insults quickly escalated into a full-scale brawl. Mugs flew, chairs shattered, and tables overturned as fists and fury took center stage.
The tavern guards arrived, but their efforts to contain the chaos were futile. Though small in stature, the dwarves fought like cornered badgers, their drunken rage matched only by the orcs' stubborn might. The orcs, in turn, bellowed challenges for a proper duel with weapons, which the dwarves drunkenly dismissed as beneath them.
The real casualty of the fight was the tavern itself, its interior resembling a battlefield. That was until the door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside.
He was a tall man with a weathered, battle-worn face that commanded immediate respect. Clad in a long, dark cloak draped over his military uniform, his mere presence silenced the room. All eyes turned to him—General Orin, one of the most decorated warriors of the human kingdom and a figure whose reputation instilled equal parts admiration and fear.
Orin's gaze swept over the room, settling on the dwarves and orcs who now stood frozen, their earlier bravado evaporating. He didn't raise his voice or even draw his weapon. Instead, he walked toward them, each step deliberate, his boots echoing against the broken wooden floor.
The room held its collective breath.
The orcs and dwarves, understanding the gravity of the situation, immediately bowed their heads in apology. "We were wrong," one of the orcs stammered, while the dwarves muttered their own apologies, retreating to opposite corners of the room.
Orin turned to a soldier who had followed him inside. "Clean this up," he said curtly, his voice a rumble that left no room for argument.
The soldier bowed. "Yes, sir."
As Orin turned to leave, the soldier hesitated. "General, with respect, His Highness requested that you oversee the peace in the city during the conference. He believes your presence ensures order."
Orin halted, casting a glance over his shoulder. "I've done my part. Maintaining peace in a city isn't my calling. I'm a soldier, not a babysitter. This city's stable enough."
"But, sir—"
"No buts," Orin interrupted, his voice carrying a finality that silenced the soldier. "You handle it from here. I have somewhere more important to be."
With that, he strode out of the tavern, leaving the soldier grumbling under his breath. But no one dared question Orin's decision—not when even a room full of brawling orcs and dwarves cowered in his presence.
Orin made his way toward the palace, its towering spires visible even from the outskirts of the city. The Grand Conference was about to begin, and Orin's mind churned with unease.
The conference wasn't just a gathering of leaders—it was a crucible of alliances, grievances, and negotiations that would shape the future of the world. After the disaster that brought the cursed monsters into their midst and the mysterious disappearance of the next generation, tensions were high. Some factions whispered of betrayal, suspecting that rival kingdoms had orchestrated the catastrophe. Others called for unity, fearing that fragmented relations would leave them vulnerable to greater threats.
Orin didn't trust politics. Diplomacy, to him, was a game of lies cloaked in smiles. He preferred the battlefield, where intentions were clear, and outcomes were decided by skill and strength. Yet, he knew the importance of this day.
As he approached the palace gates, flanked by armored guards and shimmering banners of Zephyros, he straightened his cloak and steeled his resolve. The future of the realm hung in the balance, and whether he liked it or not, he had a part to play.
Outside the palace, the courtyard buzzed with activity, filled with dignitaries and nobles from every corner of the allied realms. Their conversations carried a heated intensity, each voice rising and falling as they debated with fervor. The air was thick with tension, the weight of their words pressing against the ornate palace walls adorned with the sigils of unity and strength.
General Orin stood at the edge of the crowd, his sharp eyes scanning the throng. He took note of familiar faces—some allies, others enemies cloaked in diplomatic niceties. These were individuals who held power not just in their words but in their actions, and Orin was no stranger to reading both.
With a deliberate stride, he moved through the sea of dignitaries, his presence commanding attention. Whispers trailed in his wake, voices muffled but unmistakable in their awe and wariness. He was a man of action, not words, and even here, amidst the kingdom's finest, his reputation preceded him.
Making his way toward the palace, Orin passed through the grand entrance. The intricate carvings of light motifs on the archway above reminded all who entered of the kingdom's legacy as a beacon of hope and strength. His heavy boots echoed through the polished marble corridors as he advanced deeper into the palace, his rugged features unflinching amidst the grandeur.
Finally, he approached the grand conference hall. At the towering doors, two guards stood resolutely, clad in pristine white armor that shimmered faintly in the light. Their spears crossed in a silent warning, barring entry. The guards, though imposing, couldn't hide the flicker of nervousness in their eyes as they recognized the man before them.
Orin halted, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "Step aside,"
The guards stood firm, their eyes betraying no fear. One of them spoke, his voice steady despite the sweat forming on his brow. "General Orin, the king's orders are clear. No one is to enter until the conference is over."
Orin placed a heavy hand on the guard's chest plate. "You know what happens if you stand in my way, right?"
The guard swallowed hard but didn't falter. "Even if it costs my life, sir, I can't disobey."
"Tch." Orin clicked his tongue in frustration and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he waited. An hour passed before the doors swung open, and dignitaries from across the realms began pouring out. Orin ignored most of them, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd until it landed on a tall, elven woman with long, flowing brown hair and an ethereal presence. Airien Sunweaver, the renowned elven general and Orin's sworn nemesis, stepped into view.
Her smirk widened as their eyes met. She approached him with calculated grace, bowing mockingly. "General Orin."
Orin's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. His bloodshot eyes betrayed the hatred he harbored. The air around him seemed to crackle as he struggled to control his emotions.
Airien's smirk deepened. "Still holding a grudge, I see. You should learn to let go."
Mana began to ripple around Orin's form, his restraint slipping. "You're the most selfish trash I've ever met. What do you care about treaties? Or alliances?"
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, Orin, such harsh words. But for once, our goals align. My successor was among those swapped in the northern lands. I will see the demons eradicated before he returns."
Orin let out a bitter laugh. "You? Caring for a successor? Do you expect me to believe that nonsense?"
Airien feigned offense, placing a hand over her chest. "Why not? Perhaps one day, when you have a student of your own, you'll understand."
Orin's grip on his sword tightened further. The mere thought of working alongside her was infuriating.
Airien turned on her heel, her voice light but with an undercurrent of menace. "Take care of yourself, General. We wouldn't want you losing control before the real fight begins."
As she walked away, Orin spat on the ground, his scorn evident. "Teaming up with her... what a joke."
The last thing Orin wanted was to team up with someone like Airien, because the moment he had an opening, he wouldn't think twice about plunging his sword through her heart.