Leaning into cool, relentless winds, Loel’s long strides cary him up the steep and narrow path. Undaunted by the weight of what is sure to be unwelcome news, his unwavering reverence for the crest engraved into his breastplate spurs him onward. His eyes bloodshot and almost cried dry, Loel’s burdensome footsteps no longer wear the faint stains of irreversible loss. His pulse pounding rapidly beneath the collar of his filthy, sodden under armour, Loel’s weary gaze remains fixed upon a castle beyond the rising mist up ahead. The once bright skies now darkened by the silent clouds of forgotten prophecies, Loel evades his recent memory of the suffering he has left behind. Slowly succumbing to the deep wounds across his back, Loel’s legs weaken, trembling as he stops to catch his breath.
As night falls, Loel stumbles and collapses against the castle gates. His eyes all but closed, Loel watches the night sky disappear as he is carried into Arn castle. The Royal guards lie him down atop a large counter at the rear of the service kitchen. As the door clicks shut, muted footsteps approach him before a tall hooded, cloaked figure looms over his exhausted body.
“Which one are you?” asks Loel, unable to identify the figure’s face as it flickers in the torch light.
“I am Mellis. First Mardern and advisor to the king.”
“I…” splutters Loel, attempting to lick his dry lips.
“I know who you are,” says Mellis, reaching for a cup of water and gently pouring it into the corner of Loel’s mouth. “He who must never be seen,” says Mellis. “The king’s most loyal spy. Speak. While you still can.”
Loel swallows more water before taking a long deep breath. “I trust you know of the child.”
“Of course,” says Mellis, pacing around the counter. “The misbegotten bastard of Westhelm. Unbeknown to all who need not know. What of him?”
“Then you know of his keeper,” says Loel.
“I am First Mardern!” says Mellis. “And, well acquainted with my senior inferior counterparts.”
“Then…” says Loel, coughing and spitting blood from his mouth. “Then you should know he is dead!”
“Impossible!” says Mellis. “How? When?”
“The child demanded to see his mother,” says Loel. “Perteus declined. In time, he grew weary of the child’s intentions. And so, he arranged for the mother to be exiled. Somehow the child was able to find them.”
Mellis turns his wide eyed gaze toward the ground in horrified contemplation.
“None survived,” says Loel. “Countless residents died in their sleep.
“He killed her,” says Mellis. “He knows!”
“I rode immediately to warn our king,” says Loel. “And narrowly escaped his wrath.”
“How long?” asks Mellis.
“I’m not sure,” says Loel.
“How Long!?” growls Mellis.
“He… is but a few days behind me,” says Loel.
Mellis skids on the hard stone floor as he hurries towards the door.
“He is void of life!” cries Loel. “Death precedes him! He cannot be stopped!”
The echo of Loel’s voice is drowned by the loud thud as the door to the kitchen slams shut.
As the sun rises, Ewe-flower petals twirl across the rear gardens of Arn castle, caught in a gentle breeze as the mighty king Adoga exhales a long, deep breath. He sits on the lower steps of the outdoor mezzanine, watching as his sons collide before him. The two boys push and grapple, tumbling to the ground as they cling tightly to each other by their robes.
Adoga turns his ear towards queen Geraira as she hurries past, down the steps and through the neatly pruned foliage. She grasps each boy by their braided hair, holding them apart as they continue to lash out towards each other.
“That’s enough!” snaps Geraira, stepping between the boys. She turns to the eldest, letting go of their hair. “I trust you are finished!”
“He lies, he lies!” cries the youngest boy. “He goads me with merciless lies, mother!”
“And what exactly did he say?” asks Geraira, crouching before him.
“All I said was…”
The eldest boy’s words are cut short by his mother’s immediate and purposeful glare over her shoulder.
“He says; Yumaou will never return. He says; when he reaches the sea, the Grangor will devour them all.”
“Gadinn,” says Geraira, closing her eyes in frustration. “Do not pay respect to his word. Grangor do not cross the seas.” The queen stands and turns to her eldest son. “Grangor are wise! They scour only the land, for those who are brave enough to stand and look them in the eye. This way the strongest grow stronger, and temporarily weaken their prey.”
Gogann, the eldest son, hangs his head as his mother steps towards him.
“Need I clarify?” asks Geraira.
“No, mother. I’m sorry,” says Gogann
“School room, now!” says Geraira. As she walks through the gardens towards the steps, the two boys hurry towards the rear gates to the east wing.
The queen sits down on the steps between the kings feet. She wraps one arm around his back and places her other hand upon his knee. As Geraira looks up at her husband’s face, her mouth slowly peels open in anxious pause.
“Are you with us?” she asks. Geraira closes her eyes as she rests her head against the kings chest, awaiting his delayed reply.
“Always,” says Adoga softly.
“You sleep with your eyes open,” says Geraira.
“I remember not what it feels like to sleep,” he replies.
“Yet you dream,” says Geraira. “And your dreams are devouring your light. My love. Please, please let them try once more.”
“The Mardern cannot change what is or what will be,” says Adoga. “And I can no longer douse the flames of the coming inferno. For it has come too close. It’s dark clouds alone have consumed every last breath of hope.”
A tear rolls down the queens cheek into the corner of her mouth. “We have time.”
“An illusion,” says Adoga.
“A fact,” says Geraira.
“Before beginnings, after the end, time has no meaning,” says Adoga.
“It pains me, to witness you so,” says Geraira.
The king looks down at his despondent wife. He lifts her chin softly with the tips of his fingers before leaning towards her and kissing her softly on the lips. “Geraira. Smile for me… always. Smile for me… forever.”
Geraira smiles, and as the deep wrinkles in her cheeks lift towards the corners of her eyes, more tears fall as Adoga turns his gaze back towards the mountains in the distance.
South of the castle gates, at the foot of the hill, beyond the river, the glow of torches rises from the heart of Vision City, as the last beams of sunlight escape the Arcan sky. The city streets are alive with the rush of final trade, as traders pack away their carts and close down their stalls. While many return home to their family, some revisit their favourite drinking block. They are greeted by the warm welcome of old friends, the sweet resonance of music and song, and the smell of burning torches and freshly poured beverages. Local families laugh and sing, while kitchens fill with the succulent aroma of boiled, baked, and braised meals of all kinds.
As the last of the traders haul their carts out of the streets, an elder rests on a bench between two nuvi trees. He breathes deeply, his head rested in his hands. Laid back on a small pile of crumpled blankets, the elder gazes up at the sky. Small clouds roll beneath the infinite darkness, decorated by the gentle glimmer of distant stars. The wrinkles on the elder’s face sit comfortably around a familiar smile as he listens to the music from a nearby drinking block.
A large, dark cloud rolls over the elder, silencing the whisper of the night. The old man’s smile begins to fade, before his brow begins to curl towards his sunken protruded eyes. He sits up slowly, and as he stands, the items rested upon his chest fall to the ground. The elder peers down the street, towards the eastern gates of the inner ring. Loud voices begin to rise through the murmur of song. As they become louder, an unsettling tone of dread and panic washes over the old man. He watches with wide eyes and open mouth as people race down the street towards him. He turns his head urgently from side to side as they race by, falling over each other as they cry out in fear. The cold crawls its way beneath the elders robes, causing his body to stiffen. His shoulders are knocked as people rush by, and the streets are flooded with desperation and terror. Among the residents, Kings guard push their way through the crowds with equal disregard. People are trampled and crushed as they spill out of the blocks either side of the street.
The elders eye is caught by the lone figure of a young boy at the edge of the crowd. The boy attempts to cry out, desperately searching for someone, his voice constricted by fear. The elder steps towards the boy and kneels before him.
“Young man, what is happening?” asks the elder, but the boy is all but paralysed, his expression held fast with despair.
The elder stands as he hears a single voice repeat a sound over and over. He lifts the boy into the air. “Here!” cries the elder, holding the boy aloft until a young man rushes towards them. The elder puts the boy down before the man takes the boy in his arms.
“Thank you,” says the man as he steps to one side.
“Please, wait,” says the elder, raising his hand. “Why do you run? And what from?”
“A plague,” says the man, “A deadly plague is headed this way.”
“A plague?” asks the elder, as the man carries the boy and joins the thinning crowd as they race towards the centre of the city.
The last few people leaving the blocks either side of the street, calmly approach the remaining residents who attempt to escape whatever it is that pursues them. One of them collapses before the elder. But, before the elder begins to approach her, the woman begins to vomit profusely. The elder steps back. He flexes and extends his stiffening fingers. As he looks down at his hands, the elder exhales sharply, barely able to catch his breath. His fingers wither, turning as black as the clouds above. The deathly black cold continues to creep towards his wrists, then up his forearms, climbing like a blossom vine.
“My creator,” gasps the elder, his hands shaking. “Deliver me… to my creator!” he pleads. As the darkness bleeds into the elder’s chest, he collapses to a heap. Coughing and spluttering as he chokes on his own vomit, the elder watches as a small pair of bare feet step towards him. A final breath hisses and bubbles through the elder’s throat, his eyes wide, as the darkness washes over his face. All that remains in the cold black eyes of the elder is the reflection of a small boy as he ambles down the street towards the centre of the city.
“My lord!” cries one of the Kings Guard as she bursts through the doors into the kings chamber. She strides across the chamber, watched closely by sixteen Mardern. Draped in their black cloaks, the Mardern stand either side of the wide carpet that leads to the kings throne. The guard stops before the throne, kneels and places her dagger on the ground beside her. “The city is breached, the child makes his way to the centre!”
“He will come to the castle,” says Adoga.
“The kings guard and countless civilians are dying in the streets,” says the guard. “My lord, we cannot wait for him to arrive here.”
“I send the knights,” says Adoga, turning his gaze towards the Mardern.
The guard lifts her head slightly and watches as Mellis steps forward, approaches Adoga and leans towards him.
“Deploy the knights,” says Adoga. “Have them seal the city for as long as they can.”
“How many of the knights should we send, my lord?” asks Mellis.
“Send them all!” says Adoga, his wrinkled brow peppered with tiny beads of sweat.
A look of concern falls over the pale, wrinkled skin on Mellis’ narrow face. He stands upright, glancing at the guard who looks eagerly back at him. “My lord,” says Mellis, stepping back. “But, who will protect the castle?” he asks.
“A castle without a kingdom has no need for protection. Our people deserve hope. The kingdom knights will deliver them just that,” says Adoga, turning a stern eye to Mellis. A desperation glazes Adoga’s eyes. While Mellis is prepared to go along with him and maintain their show of strength, Adoga holds tightly to his belt, concealing his concern beneath a proud and defiant demeanour.
“My lord!” says Mellis before he turns and scurries down the steps and out of the chamber via the rear doors.
“Stand, Helleros,” says Adoga.
The guard stands up, her head still bowed. Helleros gazes wide eyed into the thick carpet, caught by her surprise that Adoga speaks her name.
“Look upon me,” says Adoga. “Our most loyal and humble protector.”
Helleros raises her head and looks into the kings glazed and weary eyes.
“You have served your kingdom well,” says Adoga. “For that, I bestow upon you the freedom, of choice.”
Helleros glances at the ground in confusion.
“You may remain here, and await your fate,” says Adoga. “You may return to the city, and fight along side your brothers. Or, without your dagger, you may flee, and live to see better days.”
Helleros does not hesitate, she kneels and picks up her dagger. The king bows his head respectfully, acknowledging her bravery. A quiver in her lip, Helleros nods at Adoga before turning and running across the chamber, pushing her way through the heavy doors.
In the shadows of the castle courtyard, torch lights flicker above four large gates nestled into the castle walls, either side of the huge stairway that leads to the main doors. A loud rumble echoes across the courtyard as the huge gates begin to rise. Before the gates are fully retracted, huge, armoured kyaphs leap through them and gallop across the courtyard. Atop the agile, feline, mammoth-like creatures ride the kingdom knights. Their golden armour glistens, while the white fur of the kyaph shines brightly in the torchlight. Without hesitation, they race through the open outer gates, charging towards the city.
As they near the centre, the kingdom knights ride past exhausted crowds who continue to clamber and trudge towards the castle. The knights ride on, ignoring desperate please and cries from scared, injured, and dying civilians of all ages.
Evina, one of the kingdom knights, looks over her shoulder as they pass Helleros, who rushes through the crowd towards the city. Evina turns to Dallio, the second master of the kingdom knights, her conscience pulled tight by guilt. “Will those who reach the castle be safe?” she shouts.
“It won’t matter,” shouts Dallio, “We stop him, or we die. Either way, the castle walls serve no-one.”
Evina looks towards the approaching city gates as they gallop across the bridge, over the Goyin river. She bites her teeth together and leans forward in her saddle. “You feel that?” she shouts.
Dallio curls his lip. The kyaphs begin to slow down until they come to a stop almost one hundred lengths from the city centre gates. Unable to urge them on, the knights climb down from their kyaph and continue on foot. Evina looks over her shoulder at the kyaphs as they begin to growl and back away from the city.
The knights glance at each other with concern as they collectively sense the increasing danger before them. Dallio turns his head to one side and spits out a mouthful of blood.
“We must concentrate!” says Lamoln, the first master of the knights. “We must burn brightly in the presence of such darkness.” Blood trickles from Lamoln’s nose as he clutches his scabbard.
The knights glance down as they step over the countless dead civilians scattered all-over the streets. Their blackened bodies provide a haunting canvas to the desperate and agonising expressions left upon their inanimate faces. Lamoln stops, holding his left arm out to one side before the knights stop behind him. They peer down the street at, what appears to be, a young boy, no more than four and a half feet tall. His scrawny, near-naked body is covered in dried mud and dust. His long black hair hangs over a faint red glow in his deep, darkened eyes. Evina steps forward, her mouth hung open at the sight of such a weak looking little boy.
“How can this be?” she asks quietly.
“Do not be deceived,” says Dallio as he steps beside her. “Your own eyes cannot see what stands before you.”
“Do not forget,” says Lamoln, “This boy alone destroyed the entire city of Midhelm. Whatever happens, we must keep him here. He cannot reach the castle!” The knights nod in agreement. “Positions! Arc!”
They quickly move into position, surrounding the boy with two circles, one inside the other. On the inside, the Durin knights, their daggers drawn. On the outside, the Vicori knights, their hands poised over the handles of their long Kiju swords.
“Kill him!” says Lamoln, before the Durin knights burst towards the boy, approaching at a unique speeds and angles. Each knight move swiftly with murderous intent, clearly demonstrating their individual techniques.
Evina’s hand twitches over her Kiju, as the first of the Durin’s attacks is effortlessly deflected by a swift wave of the child’s hand. The boy continues to parry each attack without moving his feet, or so much as turning his head. The Durin skid back and prepare for their next attack.
“Wait!” says Lamoln. “You need show him no respect. You are approaching him as if he’s a defenceless child. I suggest you demonstrate your full huido. When he is finished playing, he will take your life, without hesitation.”
Yadfa, one of the Durin, removes his dagger from his armour and tosses it to the ground. He unclips his armour and slides it off his shoulders. The heavy, metal panels hit the ground with a thud that echoes across the street. The boy turns his head, peering over his shoulder at Yadfa. Stepping back, away from the child, Evina spits out a ball of blood, attempting to conceal her difficulty drawing breath. Suddenly, Yadfa leaps into the air and disappears into the clouds. The boy slowly turns his head towards Makai, one of the other Durin, who claps his hands together before his chest. Growling as he presses them together, an orange hue begins to emanate from Makai’s eyes before his armour begins to crack. The armour bursts from Makai’s body and falls to the ground. His sash rises and undulates in the warm air that ripples and swirls around him. “Yetsin!” cries, Makai.
Yetsin, another of the Durin, steps towards the boy. He holds out his empty hand towards Yadfa’s dagger which immediately propels itself through the air, snapping tightly into Yetsin’s grip. The boy turns to face Yetsin who stops a few lengths from him, raising both daggers. Yetsin holds his breath and hurls them towards the boy. The daggers spin through the air at incredible speed, but, the boy thrusts his hands forward. The daggers spin over his head, missing him by a fingers width. Yetsin inhales sharply, closing his eyes and pushing his hands together before his chest. The serrated blades spin back towards the boy like boomerangs. Unable to see them coming, the boy raises his open hands and thrusts them towards the ground. Suddenly, the daggers smash into the heavy arn-stone street. Again he thrusts his hands. The ground around the daggers shatters, and the daggers burst into small pieces.
In a moment of silence, Yadfa bursts through the clouds, feet first. Seemingly unaware, the boy quickly lifts his arms above his head. As Yadfa crashes into him, they sink into the ground that explodes around them. Makai continues to growl, his lips pursed around his teeth, as the Vicori glance at each other in hope.
The other side of the city gates, Helleros attempts to catch her breath as she watches the Kingdom knights peer into the cloud of dust as it settles. She leans against the wall, briefly hanging her head before spitting out a ball of phlegm. Startled by the metallic taste in her mouth, she touches her lip. Helleros cannot help but doubt what she sees as she rubs blood between her thumb and forefinger.
“Yadfa!” says Evina softly, as she watches the boy climb out of the crater, dragging Yadfa’s body by his hair. As the boy lets go, Yadfa’s limp body folds against the ground, his skull snapping against the cracked stone. The boy lifts his head and looks at Evina before half a small smile begins to rise out of the corner of his mouth.
Suddenly, two huge arms wrap around the boy and lift him off his feet.
“Now’s our chance,” says Dallio.
“But, Makai!” says Evina.
“He knows,” says Dallio.
Helleros steps into the open gateway, her mouth hung open in awe as the Vicori leap into battle, their Kiju drawn. The flash of Vicori steel cuts through the air as a flurry of vicious attacks sparkle in her eyes. Gradually her shoulders droop. Helleros falls to her knees, as one by one, the Vicori are cut down and bludgeoned to death. Distracted by the immense power of the small boy, fighting the armed Vicori, deflecting their sharpened blades with his bare hands, Helleros fails to notice the blood running out of her nose and trickling into her mouth.
Calm and still, the boy’s shoulders rise and fall with each slow, shallow breath. Behind him, Evina adjusts her grip, raising her sword before her. The stones beneath Evina’s feet begin to crack under the rising gravity of her resolve. Blood runs quickly down the inside of Evina’s arm, dripping from her elbow to the ground.
The king peers into his own eyes, stood before the huge dressing room mirror. Numbed by the absence of adequate vindication for his sins. He inhales deeply as two young men lower his armour onto his broad shoulders, fastening it behind his back. The men step aside, as a tall Mardern steps out of the shadows, carrying a long, decoratively engraved staff in his hand. He turns to face Adoga, presenting the staff as he bows his head. The king waits for a few seconds before taking hold of the staff and lifting it from the Mardern’s hands.
“Thank you, Mellis,” says Adoga.
“For the first time, I serve you with regret,” says Mellis.
“It is I… who is with regret,” says Adoga. “It is suffocating… and deservedly so.”
“I speak as your advisor and your friend,” says Mellis as Gogann turns to face him. “You have given everything, risked everything… for your kingdom… for your people. You have successfully maintained peace for almost one hundred years. The sacrifices you have made were necessary. You have done… what had to be done. This power is just cause!”
The king strides through the wide castle corridors followed by all sixteen of the Mardern. As they reach the main reception hall, Geraira hurries across the polished stone floor and steps in front of Adoga, taking hold of the edges of his breast plate.
“Don’t!” pleads Geraira, her eyes flooded with fatal expectation, “Don’t! Please! If you leave us…”
The king stops. Softly taking hold of Geraira by her wrists, he removes her hands from his armour. Holding her firmly, he looks down into Geraira’s eyes with heavy, surrendered regret. The king presses his lips together, inhaling deeply.
“What would you have me do?” he asks.
“Send the kingdom knights,” says Geraira. “We have sons to protect!”
“The knights ride ahead,” says Adoga. “And I must join them. If I am to protect my family, I must do so on the battlefield, not by your side.”
Geraira sighs, lost for words as Adoga’s steely gaze douses her riposte. Clutching to his waining composure, Adoga steps aside and continues to stride by her, still followed by the cold stoic faces of the Senior Mardern.
As they reach the courtyard, a kings guard stands beside a huge kyaph. As Adoga approaches, the guard extends his chest, lifts his chin and nods. The king nods back before leaping into the air and landing with grace upon the saddle atop the kyaph. Geraira scurries down the steps and races across the courtyard. She stops beside the kyaph which turns to look her in the eyes. Geraira gazes desperately at Adoga, taking hold of the girth around the kyaph’s massive chest. Geraira’s lip quivers. She licks the warm, salty tears from her mouth.
“Do not ask me to make promises I cannot keep,” says Adoga, avoiding his wife’s persuasive gaze.
“I am asking you to keep the promise you have already made,” says Geraira.
Suddenly Adoga turns a startled gaze towards the main gates. All heads turn toward the gates as a kyaph gallops across the courtyard and Helleros leaps down, rushing to the kings side.
“My king, forgive me,” says Helleros as she kneels. “You cannot leave… The city is lost… The knights are defeated!”
The king climbs out of his saddle and jumps down beside Helleros. He reaches down and takes Helleros by the arm, helping her to stand up before him.
“Are you certain?” asks Adoga.
“I saw with my own eyes,” says Helleros. “He fought the Vicori with his bare hands, and defeated all but one of the knights with ease.”
The kyaph begins to growl.
“Easy boy,” says Adoga, placing his hand on the kyaph before glancing over at the gates. “He’s almost here,” he says, looking apologetically into Helleros’ eyes. “Please take your mother to the rest, secure your brothers and seal the doors.”
Helleros nods quickly before wrapping her arms around Adoga. The kings hand slides off the kyaph and rest softly in the middle of Helleros’ back.
“Be careful, father,” says Helleros, turning and taking hold of her mother by the wrist.
As Helleros urges a reluctant Geraira up the steps, Mellis approaches Adoga.
“Have you changed your mind?” asks Mellis.
“We’re too late,” says Adoga. “He’s already here.”
Mellis and Adoga look towards the castle gates, as a lookout falls from the wall-walk and thuds against the ground. The kyaph growls once more and begins to back away towards the open gate beside the steps.
“Then, we have no choice,” says Mellis.
“We will fight together!” says Adoga.
“No,” says Mellis.
“What?” snaps Adoga, “But, each of you are stronger than I, stronger than my knights! You must fight!” he says, clenching his fist in desperate confusion.
“We are strong, but we are no knights,” says Mellis. “The circumstances call for effective action, and only one course… remains.”
“Enough talk!” says Adoga. “We are running out of time!”
“Of course,” says Mellis before he turns to the remaining Mardern. Mellis hangs his head, despondent, yet resigned to a foreseen fate he has grown to accept. “I live to serve my king,” he utters.
“I die to serve my kingdom,” say the other Mardern in unison. Adoga turns to look upon the Mardern as they quickly approach. He folds his brow over the perplexed look in his eyes, as the Mardern closely surround him.
“What is this?” he asks, turning to look upon them.
“All that remain, must stand as one,” says Mellis.
“Spare me your riddles, old man!” says Adoga.
“The time has come,” says Mellis. “You must fight alone!”
The king narrows his gaze. “We don’t truly know what that means…. What it will cost!”
“It is the only way,” says Mellis.
“Do you need my permission?” asks Adoga.
“Honestly… No,” says Mellis. “But…”
The king lets out a short sharp breath, caught by a still moment of realisation. “Boshio… solio!” says Adoga, through tightened voice. He turns his head to look upon each Mardern as they kneel, before each of them reaches inside their robes to draw their small Ransu daggers. As they raise their daggers into the air, Adoga turns to face Mellis once more, his eyes widening in disbelief.
“Wait!” cries Adoga, “What if there are others? What if I’m not strong enough? What if I fail?” he asks. But his words are not enough to interrupt the Mardern. Adoga can do nothing but watch as the Mardern lift their daggers, turning the tips of the blades towards them.
“There will always be one,” says Mellis before each Mardern plunges their dagger firmly into their chest.
The rain hisses as it pounds against the ground. The king stands perfectly still as the first of the Mardern falls. Bright white light suddenly engulfs Adoga. He steps back, turning his head and lifting his arm, wrapping it around his face. Even with his eyes tightly shut, the kings eyes remain flooded with light. He thrashes his head from left to right in an attempt to escape it, but the light will not fade. As the Mardern collapse around him, desperate cries ring out from the castle walls. The king opens his eyes and the light immediately fades, revealing the ring of fallen Mardern. The king rushes towards the castle, he races through the halls and corridors until he reaches the large double doors of the royal suite. He kicks the doors open and leaps inside.
With their youngest son, Gadinn, writhing in agony in her arms, Geraira lifts her desperate gaze to see Adoga stood across the room. The kings eyes widen at the sight of his son thrashing and flailing in distress, his eyes tightly shut.
“What’s happening?” cries Geraira before she turns to look across the room.
Unable to blink nor catch his breath, the king looks over at their eldest son, Gogann. Knelt down with his hands on the floor, the boy pants heavily, his eyes tightly shut. Behind him stands Helleros, holding her limp left arm, with blood covering one side of her swollen face.
The king rushes to his eldest son’s side, sliding across the floor and wrapping his arm around his back. He looks over his shoulder at Helleros. “What happened?”
“I’m okay, he knows not what he does,” says Helleros.
“Gogann… did this to you?” asks Adoga.
Helleros nods as she side steps around the boy, towards the balcony doors. Gogann growls through his teeth, digging his fingers into the ground as he arches his back in pain.
“What’s happening to them?” asks Helleros.
The king glances over his shoulder at Geraira. “The Mardern…” says Adoga despondently.
“Should I go to them?” asks Helleros.
The king shakes his head, turning his attention to Gogann who collapses onto his side. “They’re gone,” he says with stilted breath.
Helleros steps forward as she loses her balance. She coughs unexpectedly before her mouth fills with saliva. Helleros turns around and pulls open the balcony doors. Stumbling out into the cold, she doubles over as vomit bursts through her lips.
As the cold air swirls into the room and over the back of the kings neck, he turns towards the door, a dreaded realisation in his eyes. “Helleros!” he cries.
But, the kings warning arrives too late.
His daughter’s lifeless body thuds against the hard stone.
“Helleros!” cries Geraira, as she tries to take hold of her son’s flailing arms.
Adoga leaps over to the doors and begins to push them closed. As the heavy doors click together, the silhouette of a small boy appears before him.
The balcony doors explode into the room, torn from their twisted hinges. Geraira watches in horror as Adoga is sent spinning through the air. Landing on all fours, Adoga slides to a stop, lifting his head and glancing at Geraira reassuringly. The sharp, heavy rain hurtles through the wide, open doorway, the king’s eyes firmly fixed upon it. Anxiously awaiting their uninvited guest, Adoga’s skin tightens as his heart pauses, and breath escapes his chest. Geraira gasps. The king turns, just in time to see his wife’s vacant body collapse to the ground. Behind her, the boy stands perfectly still, his shoulders slumped. Blood drips heavily from the boy’s open hand, onto the rain soaked carpet. In his left hand, he holds the king’s youngest son, Gadinn, tightly grasping the back of his neck.
The kings body shudders as he can barely endure the rising pressure of his conflicted intent. He knows a sudden move will likely result in the immediate death of his child, but hesitation brings them ever closer to the very same conclusion. A thick, moist crunch echoes around the room. The king closes his eyes, holding them shut, the agony in his face causing blood to seep from his gums. Gadinn’s body quivers and convulses before it wilts and hangs heavily in the boy’s tight grip.
The king inhales deeply before hissing with fury through gritted teeth. His eyes flooded with tears, Adoga lifts his head to look upon the boy, who remains completely still. As Gogann continues to cry out in pain, Adoga turns towards him. He looks over at the boy once more before climbing to his feet. The king walks over to Gogann, drawing a Ransu dagger from behind his back. The boy turns his head slowly as he watches Adoga approach his eldest son. The king kneels beside Gogann, placing his hand on the side of his head.
“My son,” says Adoga, as he watches Gogann convulse in agony, holding his eyes tightly shut. The kings tears fall heavily onto Gogann’s chest. “You would not have made my mistakes,” he says, gritting his teeth. “You are braver than I.” The king looks over at the boy, Gadinn’s lifeless body still hanging from his grasp. “You would have been a true king.”
“Is this not what you had in mind?…” asks the boy, a youthful innocence in his sinister voice, “when you discarded and abandoned my mother!”
Adoga opens his mouth to speak, but he can find no words to deliver his unspoken guilt.
“What a disappointing family,” says the boy, glancing down at Gadinn. “Had you have taken us in, given me a name, or, at the very least, had looked upon my face, I might have spared one of you.”
Adoga hangs his head.
“Alas, I am neither son, nor assassin,” says the boy. “I am merely a free spirit, gladly delivering those who have wronged me to the gates of Haddah. Even the mighty king himself.”
Adoga slides his hand off Gogann’s face and wraps it around the handle of his dagger. He lifts the dagger and carefully places the tip against Gogann’s chest. Adoga holds his gaze into the eyes of the boy who begins to smile slightly on one side of his face. Adoga narrows his eyes in defeated determination, sliding one hand over the other. He looks down at his son’s contorted face.
“Spare no guilt. Your forgiveness is more than I deserve.” Adoga’s lip quivers as he tightens his fingers around the dagger. “There will always be one.”
The wind and rain thrash over Adoga’s hands as he leans forward. A deafening silence fills the room as it begins to spin. Gadinn’s body crumples against the ground. The kings head thuds against the soft, wet carpet and rolls away from his body that collapses over Gogann. The boy grasps Adoga’s headless body by the neck of his armour and hurls it over to the side of the room. “Stay out of this… father,” he says with a scornful curl in his lip.
Still writhing in agony Gogann is suddenly pinned down as the boy sits heavily on his stomach, as if it were a cushioned stool. The kings dagger in one hand, the boy takes hold of Gogann’s clenched jaw with the other, smearing his mother’s blood all over his face.
“Look at me… brother,” says the boy. “Do we not look alike?”
Gogann’s short, heavy breaths continue to quicken as the boy forces the orphaned prince to face him. The boy’s mouth peels open in foul excitement as he presses the blade of the dagger beneath Gogann’s chin. “Nobody needs a king,” he says, gritting his teeth. “And I have no need for a brother!”
Blood trickles down Gogann’s neck as the boy twists the dagger, leaning towards him, his eyes closing slightly, opening his mouth even wider. He runs the tip of the dagger down Gogann’s throat until he holds it over the middle of his chest. The boy leans back, placing both hands on the dagger. He closes his eyes as he lifts his head towards the sky.
As the rain crashes against the side of his face, Gogann lets out a final breath. Gogann’s body lies perfectly still, promoting the boy to look down at him with urgency. The boys eyes narrow in curious disappointment, until, suddenly, Gogann inhales sharply, his eyes snap open, and the room is engulfed by a blinding white light.
The castle explodes in a huge flash of light that illuminates the night sky for miles around. The glare of white light reaches so high into the clouds, it is seen by Usaka, the senior disciple of a sea master. Perched on the bow of a trade ship, a few miles off the western coast of Greater Arn, Usaka peels his eyes back in amazement as the sky begins to glow above the horizon. His master, Lomiff, stands at the edge of the quarterdeck. The short, stocky sea master turns to look upon the very same view, his eyes glimmering in the light. Usaka glances over his shoulder, to see if his master has noticed.
“What is it?” he cries, projecting his voice over the crashing waves of the sea of eads. Four other crew members stand on deck, peering out to sea, their mouths hung open at the sight of the glowing sky.
Lomiff holds his gaze, his eyes beginning to narrow beneath a calculative frown. He steps back, reaching out to take hold of the railings that run around the edge of the quarterdeck.
“Get below,” he bellows as he races to the back of the deck and leaps down the stairs. The crew hurry towards the nearest hatch. Lomiff holds the rear hatch open as two of the crew hurry past and leap into the ship. He looks across the deck and watches the other hatch in the middle of the ship slam shut. Lomiff turns to take a last look at the horizon before he closes the hatch above his head. As he rushes through the narrow passageway towards the master cabin, he passes a small crew cabin, the door slightly ajar. Behind the door a young Mardern sits alone. He turns his head to one side as hurried footsteps rush up and down the passageway and the crew begin to urgently bark instructions at each other. As the sea master’s apprentices rush by, the Mardern remains unmoved as the cabin door swings open. Usaka steps inside, pushing the door back against the wall. He leans through the doorway, his hands pressed either side.
“Usaka,” says the Mardern, “What’s wrong?”
But before Usaka can say anything, the ship sways and rises as huge waves swell across the water.
“Usaka!” cries Lomiff as he strides down the passageway towards him. “Cargo hold, now!” Lomiff stops at the doorway and steps inside the cabin. “Master Yumaou,” says Lomiff, bowing his head slightly.
Yumaou lifts his head and removes his hood, revealing his clean shaven skin and his dark red eyes. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks.
“No,” says Lomiff, “It is only strong winds. We will journey through.”
Yumaou smiles at Lomiff before turning his eyes to the ground. “I think you know only too well it was neither wind nor tide that caused these sudden waves.”
“Forgive me,” says Lomiff, “I forget your powers of perception. I have no idea what caused these waves.” Lomiff sways in the doorway as the ship thrashes around, his eyes locked on Yumaou’s vacant gaze. “You know something… don’t you.”
Yumaou turns to look at Lomiff who steps in front of the door, fighting to keep his balance as he shuts it behind him.
“The kingdom of the light… is gone,” says Yumaou.
Lomiff’s eyes widen beneath his wrinkled brow. “What?”
“A shockwave has rocked the sea,” says Yumaou. “Whatever caused it has taken the lives of all but few.”
“How can you be sure?” asks Lomiff.
Yumaou looks down at his fists, turning them over and opening his hands to reveal his palms. Lomiff watches in eager anticipation of explanation as Yumaou places his left hand on the wooden bench beside him. He looks Lomiff in the eyes as smoke begins to rise between his fingers. Yumaou lifts his hand to reveal a charred print.
“Imposible!” says Lomiff. “How?”
“It is the result of sacrifice. Boshio-solio,” says Yumaou.
“What in all haddah does that even mean?” asks Lomiff.
“It means; the power of many is now shared by few,” says Yumaou, closing his fist.
“What about the king?” asks Lomiff.
Yumaou glances at Lomiff before hanging his head over his hands once more. “Kings rise,” says Yumaou, “And kings fall. It is kingdoms that must survive.”
Many years have past since the death of the king. Cities have risen from the remnants left behind by the unstoppable wave of darkness which rests in the memories of those old enough to tell the tale. While the people of Greater Arn have recovered, the kingdom of the light remains buried beneath the hills of Vision. Legends of the darkness, and the child, known to many as the beast, have whispered their way to the farthest corners of Arca. Without one kingdom to rule them all, many territories have adopted their own social customs, laws and philosophies. But while the wide variety of villages, towns and cities blossom like colourful flowers in a wild meadow. The ice atop the Elca mountains continues to loom over the lands below.
Nestled in the bosom of the mountainside, high above the northern most lands of Greater Arn, lies a hidden city. Within the city lies a temple, and within the temple, the head of a child makes its way into the blinding light, as its mother looks into the loving eyes of the father.