House of the Sun, pt. 3
In the heart of a forgotten ruin, the young mystic Tahir stands before ancient carvings that whisper of lost knowledge and secrets.
The young mystic, Tahir, pressed his palm against the sun-warmed stone, feeling the grooves beneath his fingers. The rock still held the memory of the day's heat, as if it had absorbed the sun’s light and refused to surrender it to the coming night. His breath slowed. The markings - etched into the cliffside like scars in flesh - glowed in the amber dusk, their meaning seemingly close, but just beyond his reach.
"Ha'say qutran," he whispered, barely aware he had spoken aloud. The stone remembers.
Tahir was the youngest of the mystics, barely past his shayih, his naming rites, and yet he had been drawn to the runes with a gravity he could not explain. He was lean from the journey, his skin darkened by the desert sun, his robes travel-worn but still marked with the blue-threaded sigils of his station. His hands, calloused from both ink and toil, hovered carefully over the stone as though he might draw something from it, some fragment of lost wisdom buried beneath its surface.
Behind him, the elders of the M’aktun knelt in hushed reverence, their hands pressed to their foreheads before touching the earth. Their robes, once pristine, were frayed by weeks of travel, their faces marked with sun-creased lines of wisdom and exhaustion alike.
Samat, the eldest among them, was as still as the rock itself. His once-black beard had turned silver over the years, but his back was straight, his presence firm as he regarded the runes with something bordering on longing. He had guided them here through faith alone, through the whispered prayers of his ancestors, and now he stood before their destination, unbowed.
Beside him knelt Yasira, ever the skeptic. Her sharp eyes - dark as storm-touched waters - studied the carvings not with wonder, but with measured scrutiny. She was younger than Samat but carried her own weight of years, and she had never believed in blind faith. The Hasna Sayifra had been a myth, a tale to quiet children before bed, until now. And even now, she did not yield to the impulse of awe.
But for Tahir, this was something else entirely. This was not merely history. It was awakening.
The words of his grandmother returned to him, whispered over the low embers of a brazier, her hands weaving unseen symbols in the air.
"Hasna Sayifra was the first to greet the morning and the last to see the dusk," she had told him. "Its walls knew the name of the stars, and its stones drank secrets from the sky."
He had been a boy then, staring up at her with wide eyes. "Where is it now?" he had asked, and she had only smiled, pressing her palm against his cheek.
"Lost," she had said, "but waiting."
Waiting.
And here it was.
His fingers traced one of the deeper etchings - a long, sweeping arc, different from the others. Older. Perhaps even older than the tongue of the M’aktun. The markings here were not merely words; they were a language of their own, a forgotten dialect of stone and shadow.
"The Hasna Sayifra," Samat intoned behind him. “House of the Sun.” His voice, hoarse from the dry air, carried the weight of a man who had spent a lifetime searching for something he had never truly expected to find. "A place of knowing."
“But what knowledge remains?” Yasira’s voice was measured, though even she could not mask the unease curling at its edges.
Tahir barely heard them. His attention was fixed on a particular set of carvings - symbols that seemed to shift with the light, transforming as the sun dipped lower. The wind picked up, threading through the ruins, curling through the stone hollows with a sound that was not quite a whisper, not quite a voice.
He swallowed, feeling his throat go dry.
"Rashan ah’taru," he murmured. "The sun has found its way home."
For the first time since they had arrived, Samat turned his gaze toward Tahir, studying him with something unreadable in his weathered features.
"What do you see?" the elder asked.
Tahir exhaled slowly, pressing both palms against the carved stone, feeling its heat, its history. The symbols beneath his touch seemed to pulse, as though the rock itself were breathing.
"I see a door that has been waiting to be opened."
The wind shifted again, a low howl threading through the ruins. A sound like breath through pursed lips.
For the first time, Yasira’s expression flickered - not with skepticism, but with something else entirely.
Something dangerously close to belief.
House of the Sun, pt. 2
Having traded the unending sea for the unrelenting desert, the M’aktun arrive on Yidarro, their fate uncertain beneath the weight of the sun.
Under noonday sun, the M’aktun set foot upon Yidarro’s red sands. The desert stretched before them like an endless sea, waves of heat rippling over dunes as far as the eye could see. The wind was dry, carrying the scent of salt, the last remnants of their journey across the Beholden Sea clinging to their skin.
Their camels balked at the strange ground, shifting uneasily as their handlers murmured soft reassurances. Barefoot children, too young to understand exile, raced from the ships to press their hands into the sunbaked earth, giggling at the way the heat stung their palms. Elders stood motionless, eyes closed, their lips moving in soundless prayers. Some scooped up handfuls of sand, letting it sift through their fingers, as if testing the weight of fate itself.
“Dead land,” one murmured. “No water, no shade.”
“No,” Samat corrected, kneeling down. “Not dead. Sleeping.”
The first scouts had already gone ahead, vanishing into the dunes like ghosts. Their orders were simple: find water, find shelter, find signs of life - or warnings of death. Shidun barr talur, the elders always said. The sand takes the lonely. The wind had a way of swallowing men whole, leaving only their footprints behind to mark their passing.
Elder Samat watched them go, standing at the edge of the gathered M’aktun with a heavy expression. His hands, though worn by age, were steady as he traced a symbol over his heart. A blessing for safe passage. A ward against the unseen.
"They are young," Yasira muttered beside him, her sharp eyes following the fading figures as they crested a dune. "Too young to know what to fear."
Samat exhaled through his nose, his gaze unwavering. "Then they will learn."
Around them, the M’aktun settled into the waiting. The caravans were being unloaded, camels relieved of their burdens and given what little feed they had left. Children tugged at their mothers’ robes, asking if this place would be home. The old women, ever practical, ignored the question and busied themselves with unpacking, passing waterskins between them, counting supplies with quiet concern.
"We have perhaps two days of water left," Murad, a stout man with a deep scar cutting through his brow, announced to the gathered elders. "If the scouts find nothing, we turn back."
A scoff came from one of the younger men. "Turn back? To what?" He gestured behind them, toward the vast and endless sea. "The Qurassi have burned our homes, sent their hounds after us. The Tamrissi Passage is behind us, and ahead lies only Yidarro. If we turn back, we drown."
"Better drowning than dying of thirst," Murad countered, his tone heavy with warning.
"Hasna bas tal-shay?" Yasira asked, her voice low. "Would you have us kneel at their feet once more?"
"Enough." Samat raised a hand, and silence followed. He let his gaze sweep over them all. "We wait. No one speaks of turning back." His voice was calm, yet firm, the voice of a man who had outlived two wars and carried the weight of generations on his shoulders. "The scouts will return before nightfall."
And if they do not? Yasira did not ask the question, but the thought lingered between them.
As the day stretched on, the M’aktun busied themselves with quiet tasks. The women laid out what food remained, portioning dates and dried meat with careful hands. Some of the younger men stretched their legs, kicking up dust as they argued over whether the desert could be hunted, whether the creatures here could be eaten. The children played in the sand, drawing shapes with their fingers, laughing when the wind erased their work in an instant.
But the elders sat still. They watched the dunes, waiting.
When the scouts returned, the sun was beginning its slow descent, washing the desert in gold and amber. They came running back, their faces streaked with sweat.
"Minara fi'jibal," one finally said, still short of breath. "The land. It is not empty,” he sputtered through heaving breaths. “Great bones. In the cliffs."
A murmur rippled through the gathered M’aktun. Some made the warding sign, pressing fingers to their foreheads and hearts. Others turned their gazes to the horizon, where the cliffs rose like jagged teeth against the bleeding sky.
It was not bones the scouts had found, not bodies long buried beneath the shifting sands. It was something older, something carved into the living rock itself.
The great stone structures loomed in the distance, worn by time yet defiant against the slow march of ruin. The M’aktun gathered at the edge of the dunes, staring across the stretch of open land. The sun had begun its descent, and as it dipped lower, the carvings upon the stone seemed to smolder, their symbols glowing as if lit from within.
"The Nakhir led us here," Samat murmured, and this time, none dared to argue.
Starfall, pt. 2
The Watcher contemplates what they've seen and the silence that follows, fearing the return of long-buried threats.Starfall
Part 1 | Part 2
The Watcher rose to clear skies.
Blinking away the last traces of sleep, they lifted their gaze to the brilliant blue expanse stretching endlessly above, its crisp edges brushing against the far-off ice fields on the horizon. Clear skies. A good omen. The kind the elders once said meant the gods had not yet turned their backs on the living.
Sitting up, they stretched their limbs, feeling the dull ache of age settle and shift like a slow-moving tide. Their joints protested, but no more than usual. It was the price of years spent keeping vigil, reading the language of sky and earth, weighing truths hidden between shadow and starlight.
A few embers still glowed in the soot-black brazier in the center of the room, buried deep beneath layers of spent ash, pulsing a quiet, steady orange. They had burned through the night. Another good omen. The fire had not died in the night, which meant neither had the Watcher’s task.
Yet beyond the threshold of the Watcher’s modest hovel, the world remained strangely hushed. No gulls wheeled and cried against the cliffs. No distant murmurs of the longhall’s morning stirrings. No bells chimed from the high ridge where the bone markers stood, the wind too still to make them sing. That ever-present sigh of the north wind, which had whispered through these valleys long before A-Dream-Forgotten had a name, had gone silent. Only the slow drip-drip-drip of melting ice betrayed the sun’s patient work.
The Watcher frowned. An ill omen? Or simply a quiet morning?
Too soon to say.
They stepped to the narrow opening in the rock, the carved archway leading out onto the ridge. From here, the village of A-Dream-Forgotten unfolded below, its weathered wooden roofs huddled between the jagged hills and the black cliffs that stretched to the north. A village that once bore a different name, before time and hardship stripped it away, leaving only this. A place more whispered about than spoken of beyond the Shroud’s misted borders.
Those who lived here did not belong anywhere else. The wanderers. The lost. The ones who had slipped between the cracks of the great kingdoms and empires beyond the mountains. They had built their homes in the hollow spaces of the world, clinging to the old ways, the old signs.
The Watchers had always served them. Not as rulers, nor as priests, but as interpreters.
That was the burden.
To read the stars, the sun, the sky, and to know what to tell those who listened. And what to withhold.
Last night, a star had fallen, and the heavens had shifted. The Fallow Wreath had frayed.
That, above all, gnawed at the Watcher’s thoughts.
The Wreath was not merely a constellation. It was a promise. A sign of return. A thread binding past and future. The old songs claimed it would only break in times of great change - when something long forgotten stirred once more.
But change did not come without consequence.
The last time the stars had moved, the last time the signs had whispered of something vast and unseen, A-Dream-Forgotten had nearly lived up to its name. Famine. War. Great storms wracked the earth and swallowed whole settlements along the cliffs, sweeping their histories into the void. The elders still spoke of it in hushed tones, as if speaking too loud might invite it back. Now, the Watcher was faced with the same choice that had weighed upon those before them.
But what did they truly know? A star had fallen. The sky had shifted. The air was still. Perhaps it meant nothing.
Yet, as the Watcher stood on the ridge, looking down on the slumbering village, a new thought entered the back of their mind.
What if someone else had seen it too?
And what if, even now, the star’s descent had already set something into motion - something that would not wait for the Watcher to make up their mind?
As Fates Foretold, pt. 2
As sickness tightens its grip on Ravensport, weary guardsman Bartholomew struggles to ignore the creeping dread all around him.As Fates Foretold
Part 1 | Part 2
Bartholomew pulled his cloak tighter as he walked through the winding streets of Ravensport, the cobbles slick from a light rain that had begun to fall in the afternoon. His shift was over, and the guardhouse had been as lively as ever. But now, as the city opened up before him in the fading light of day, there was no laughter, no banter. Only the quiet tension that had settled over the streets.
The market square, known locally as Marrow’s Bend for the crooked shape of its outer streets, was less crowded than it had been just weeks ago. Stalls that once brimmed with skyfruit, coarse salt, and crates of Akethan grain now stood half-empty, their vendors casting wary glances at anyone who lingered too close. The sickness, or whatever it was, had tightened its grip on Ravensport, and Bartholomew could feel it in the air. People moved quickly, their faces hidden beneath hoods or scarves, their voices low and hurried. It wasn’t just fear of the sickness itself - it was the fear of what it meant. Of what it might bring.
He turned down a narrow alley that led toward the heart of the city, toward the Spiregate whose bells tolled the changing of the tides. The stone buildings loomed tall on either side, their eaves sagging like tired shoulders. The scent of salt and damp stone clung to the air, but beneath it, faint and sharp, was the smell he couldn’t shake: the faint rot of old fish mingled with something darker - something faintly sweet, cloying, and wrong.
“Bartholomew!”
The voice startled him, and he turned to see her - Isla, standing by the doorway of a small tavern. She was a wiry woman, younger than him by a few years, with auburn hair tucked beneath a woolen cap. Her face lit up as she approached, her hands tucked into the folds of her cloak to ward off the chill.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, her tone teasing but her eyes sharp, searching.
Bartholomew forced a smile, though it felt like it might crack under the strain. “Maybe I have,” he said, his voice gruff. “Or maybe it’s just this damned town getting under my skin.”
Isla raised an eyebrow. “You sound worse every time I see you. What is it this time? The rain? The captain? Or Harlan’s mouth?”
“All of it,” he muttered, though his hand instinctively brushed against his shin beneath the cloak. He changed the subject quickly. “What are you doing here? Thought you’d be holed up with your books by now.”
She shrugged, stepping closer. “Thought I’d see if you’d finally take me up on that drink. Or are you still too proud to let me buy?”
Bartholomew chuckled, a sound that felt almost foreign to him now. “I’ll take the drink. Just don’t expect me to stay long.”
The tavern was warm, a stark contrast to the damp chill outside. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the low hum of conversation filled the space. Bartholomew followed Isla to a table near the back, his eyes scanning the room out of habit. The tavern was plain but comfortable - wooden beams darkened by years of smoke and salt air, the walls adorned with carved plaques of fishing vessels and hand-painted sigils of the Old Guilds. Most of the patrons were locals, their faces worn and drawn, roughened by the winds of The Drown and the chill of the Brinemarsh that bordered the city’s east.
But in the corner, by the far window, he thought he saw them - the riders. Four cloaked figures, seated in shadow, heads bowed as though in silent communion.
He blinked, his chest tightening. But when he looked again, the figures were gone. The corner was empty, save for a stack of barrels marked with faded seals of trade from Aketh and a stray cat licking at the scraps of someone’s meal.
“You alright?” Isla’s voice cut through the haze, and he realized he’d been staring.
“Yeah,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Just tired. Long shift.”
Isla studied him for a moment, then leaned back in her chair. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately. Long shifts, tired eyes. You’re starting to sound like one of the old-timers.”
“Maybe I am,” he said, forcing a smirk. But the truth sat heavy in his chest. He couldn’t tell her about the mark. Couldn’t tell her about the fever creeping through his veins, the way it made his thoughts twist and blur. And he certainly couldn’t tell her about the riders - if that’s even what they were. She’d laugh, or worse, she’d worry. And he didn’t want her worrying about someone like him.
A commotion near the bar drew their attention. A man, pale and shaking, was arguing with the barkeep. “It’s not what you think!” the man insisted, his voice rising. “I swear it’s not!”
The barkeep, a burly man with a thick beard and a Guildmaster’s sigil burned into his wrist, crossed his arms. “Aye, that’s what they all say,” the barkeep sneered, his voice heavy with scorn. “Blight-ridden wretch like you will be hacking blood in a week and bringing it in here with you.”
“I just need food,” the man pleaded. “Please. My family…”
“Get out,” the barkeep growled, his tone final.
The man hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he might lash out, but then he slumped, defeated, and shuffled toward the door. The room fell silent as the door slammed shut behind him.
Isla frowned, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “It’s getting worse.”
Bartholomew nodded, his gaze fixed on the empty corner. “Yeah. It is.”
They sat in silence for a while after that, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Bartholomew’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the riders. To the stories his mother had told him, the ones he’d tried so hard to forget. The Fates are always watching, she’d said. Even when we think we’re alone.
He shivered, though the room was warm. The mark on his leg throbbed faintly, a reminder of the thing he couldn’t outrun. He didn’t know what the riders meant, or if they meant anything at all. But he knew one thing for certain: the fear in Ravensport wasn’t just in the streets, or in the sickness, or in the whispers of what might come.
It was in him.
And it wasn’t going away.
House of the Sun, pt. 1
Adrift in the windless expanse of the Beholden Sea, the exiled M’aktun teeter on the brink of despair.The wind had abandoned them.
The sea stretched vast and motionless, an expanse of polished bronze beneath the weight of an unmoving sun. The fleet - forty ships lashed together by fate and desperation - drifted in uneasy silence. Men and women crouched beneath fraying canvas sheets, shielding themselves from unrelenting heat that pressed upon them. Their water barrels grew lighter by the hour, their rations reduced to salted fish and the brittle crumbs of old flatbread. The youngest no longer cried, their bodies limp in their mothers’ arms, their lips cracked, dry, and bleeding.
At the prow of the lead vessel, a man knelt in quiet contemplation. The mystic’s robes, once fine were now stiff with salt, his already-dark complexion further deepened by the sun. His fingers traced the symbols carved into the wood, glyphs of passage and protection, though no shipwright had put them there. He had inked them in his own blood upon their departure, the night they stole away from the shores of the Qurassi Sultanate, the city of Aru-Shatra burning behind them.
They had been called apostates.
The M’aktun were never a people of the sword. In the two decades since the death of Amira IV, while the would-be rulers of the Sultanate carved each other apart, the M’aktun had sought only to endure. But no man, no tribe, could remain neutral forever. When the pretender, Khalid Rahman, declared his claim righteous under the law of the the Last Breath, the M’aktun refused him. When the warlord Bashir al-Hafix demanded their mystics divine his path to victory, the M’aktun denied him. When the armies of the western city-states burned their shrines and salted their wells, the M’aktun did not fight.
They fled.
The Beholden Sea had been their salvation, the Tamrissi Passage their only hope. But now, with the wind lost and the horizon a shimmering illusion, the sea felt more like a tomb. The mystic exhaled slowly and lifted his gaze to the sky. No clouds. No sign of change. The sun hung there, vast and golden, fixed in its dominion.
A woman approached, her steps soft but deliberate. She was lean from the hunger of travel, her brown skin drawn tight over high cheekbones. She did not bow, nor did he expect her to. “Samat… we cannot last like this,” Yasira murmured. “The water will barely hold another day. The people whisper of ill omens.”
The mystic did not look away from the sky. “The omens do not shape the winds, sister.”
Yasira crossed her arms, glancing toward the decks behind them, where sailors sat listless, their eyes hollow. “Perhaps not. But the people believe them.”
A pause. Then Samat rose, the stiffness in his bones a reminder of how far they had come. He stepped forward, pressing his palm against the scorched wood of the railing. Beneath his fingertips, the ship’s grain was rough with age, but something lingered there, a whisper of motion. He closed his eyes and let the breath slip from his lungs. When he spoke, it was not for Yasira beside him, nor for the frightened souls who waited in the shade. It was for the sea.
“Zihara kel vanir… Ha’shan, kel nir.”
Words from before the war, before the exile, before they had even been given a name. Winds of the Unseen, lay us our path.
The deck creaked beneath him. A gull, unseen for days, shrieked somewhere in the distance. Then came another, and another. He opened his eyes, following the sound.
On the horizon, dark shapes had begun to rise from the sea - monoliths of stone, jagged and vast, breaking through the endless ocean. At first, they seemed unreal, mirages conjured by the fevered minds of the desperate. But Samat knew better. These were not illusions.
The Tamrissi Passage had never been empty. It had only been waiting.
A shout rose from the mast as the first gust of wind struck the sail, filling it with sudden purpose. Voices called out, and the fleet stirred once more. The sea, so still for days, had begun to move again. Samat remained kneeling at the prow, staring ahead at the rising stones. He did not speak, not yet. He could feel it, a shift in the air, something deeper than mere wind and tide. This was no ordinary crossing.
This was a threshold. And something was waiting on the other side.
Starfall, pt. 1
A lone Watcher observes a falling star, only to discover that the heavens themselves have changed.Starfall
Part 1
The night cloaked the northern expanse in its usual thin pall of fog, a veiled quiet that blanketed The Shroud and encroached on the sparse clusters of pines clinging to the jagged hills. Above, the heavens were an unfamiliar canvas of muted light and void, the stars appearing more distant than usual. Yet the Watcher sat unmoved, perched atop the frost-slicked stones of a ridge overlooking the village below. The air bit at exposed skin, and the silence stretched, heavy and timeless.
Then it came.
A streak of light burned across the sky, brilliant and sharp, its path cutting through the slight haze. The Watcher’s breath caught, stolen by the sight. The star did not fade into the expanse. It fell. Downward, swift and certain, its glow diminishing until it vanished into the yawning blackness of the Far Lands.
For a moment, there was no sound, no thought - just the weight of the world suspended on the edge of something vast and unknowable.
The Watcher rose, leaning heavily on the gnarled stave and turned toward the faint glimmer of the distant longhall. There was no need to speak of what had been seen. Not yet. Words would come later, when the sky’s language had been translated, and the patterns discerned. For now, there was only the weight of purpose.
The Watcher stepped into the narrow sanctuary carved into the earth beneath the longhall. The chamber was cold and dim, lit only by a low brazier filled with moss and fatwood, its smoke curling in lazy ribbons. Charts and runes adorned the walls, etched into wood and stone, worn smooth by generations of hands. A single hide stretched taut across a frame bore the Star Chart, its inked constellations faded but unmistakable.
With precision, the Watcher traced the patterns, one hand brushing over the sigils, the other steadying the stave. The markings whispered their secrets, each line and point a story etched across the firmament. But something was missing.
The gap was small, subtle - a space where a star had once anchored the heavens. Its absence was silent but unmistakable. The Watcher drew back, lips pressed into a thin line.
The patterns were still there, of course. The Hunter’s Bow arched toward the west, its curved stars sharp and steady, and the Frost Bear loomed low on the horizon, claws outstretched as if raking the edge of the world. The Twin Flames, faint in this season, flickered faintly near the top of the chart, their alignment ever so slightly different than the Watcher had last seen. These were old friends, reliable in their constancy, yet there was a dissonance now - a fracture in the rhythm that had always been.
Tracing their fingertips across the hide, the Watcher paused at a cluster marked by tight, precise sigils. The Fallow Wreath. A constellation said to bloom fully only in the season of thaw, when the tundra surrendered its frost to fleeting fields of green. But even now, as the snow held firm, the Wreath should have been whole, its arcs and loops unbroken.
It wasn’t.
The Watcher tilted their head, studying the faint smudges where ink had once marked stars that no longer shone. No elder had spoken of this, no song had woven these absences into its verses. The Wreath had always been an oath, a promise of life returning to a land where it so often fled. Had a promise been broken?
The Watcher leaned closer, the brazier’s low glow casting flickering shadows over the stretched hide. The gaps were not random. They had an almost deliberate quality, as if the heavens themselves had carved out these stars with careful precision. The constellations still told their stories, but the words were fewer.
As Fates Foretold, pt. 1
A jaded mercenary-turned-guard grapples with fear and superstition as a group of riders approach Ravensport, heralding an ominous change.As Fates Foretold
Part 1 | Part 2
“Fucking hells,” Bartholomew muttered to himself, picking at the rust-colored blotch that had crept up his shin. It was no bigger than a tin-coin yet, but it was spreading, darkening beneath his skin like the slow stain of spilled wine, as though some bruise long buried had begun to resurface. He tugged at the leather greaves the armorer had issued him - an ill-fitting pair that bit into his calves, already too tight for his broad frame. He hoped to hide the spot, even from himself.
It was the sort of thing no one wanted to see these days.
He leaned his elbows on the wall, gazing out across the city and trying to ignore the dull ache in his limbs, a familiar old pain from days on the road. His fellow guards clustered in knots behind him, muttering about their next drink or the noblewoman who’d visited the port last week. Hardly any of them knew his name - he’d only been stationed here a few weeks, and by the looks of things, he wouldn’t be here much longer. The work was enough to keep him fed, but even a city like Ravensport had its limits for hospitality. He knew they’d toss him soon, mark or no mark, when his wages dried up and his usefulness waned.
His hands idly traced the edge of the wall, feeling the chill in the stone as he scanned the port below. Ravensport was a fair place, he had to admit, nestled between stretching fields and the tumultuous waters of The Drown. Most of the folk here were used to the sights of the sea, the scent of salt and trade and the longshoremen’s endless clamor. But they weren’t used to this: the quiet dread that had settled over the city in recent days.
It had started a month ago, he’d heard, in some ass-end village north of here. The rumors varied, as rumors do - a fever that struck men like lightning, strange markings on the skin, rashes that turned black as rot. Bartholomew had overheard the whispers from travelers passing through, tales of families torn apart, of children buried before their parents had even known they were sick. He’d thought it was nonsense, just another tale to keep people indoors at night.
But then, just days ago, he’d seen it for himself: a merchant ship docked at the harbor, its crew stumbling ashore, pale and weak. They hadn’t said much, only gestured to the sores that blistered their skin, the hacking coughs that wracked their bodies. He’d looked away, feigned disinterest as the guard captain escorted them to some back alley shack to keep them out of the public’s view. But he’d felt the dread then, felt it worming under his skin, right down to his bones.
“Seen your share of bruises, haven’t you, Bart?” Harlan’s voice broke through the early morning quiet, a sneer dripping from every word. He leaned lazily against the stone wall, his teeth bared in a grin that made Bartholomew’s fists itch.
“More than you, you clouted bastard,” Bartholomew muttered, pulling his sleeve down and fixing Harlan with a dead stare. “And don’t call me that.”
“Oh, ‘don’t call me that,’” Harlan mocked, laughing loud enough for the other guards to glance over, grinning like jackals catching the scent of blood. “Hear that, lads? Bart the Brave doesn’t like his name. Well, let’s just call him what he is - some wandering half-wit looking for coin and thinking he’s worth his weight in silver.”
Bartholomew gritted his teeth, shrugging off the insult, though his fists clenched tighter. “Better a wandering half-wit than a man wasting his days watching over piss-soaked streets and farmers’ fields.”
That earned a bark of laughter from the other guards, one of them - Ralston, a wiry man with crooked teeth - chimed in, “That why you’re here, Bart? Can’t handle life outside the walls, so you think you’ll prance around in our keep?”
“Think this one’s got dreams of glory,” Harlan said, eyes glinting as he looked Bartholomew up and down. “Bart the Brave, bastard son of some whoring harpy, keeper of the piss pots, last scion of the gutter, come to save Ravensport from the terrors of sheep thieves and chicken chasers.”
Bartholomew’s lip curled, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Keep talking, Harlan. Maybe you’ll finally find something useful to say.”
Another guard snickered, and Harlan’s face darkened, his sneer turning to a scowl. “Outsider’s got a bit of lip on him, doesn’t he?” he said, his voice dropping low. “Tell you what, Bart - watch yourself. This town doesn’t look kindly on men who come poking their noses where they don’t belong.”
Bartholomew met his glare, cold and unflinching. “I’ll remember that. Just like I’ll remember how you lot stand around yapping while others do the real work.”
Harlan spat, the glob landing near Bartholomew’s boots. “You’re steel-thrift, Bart. Your work here is hardly but standin’ or dyin’. You’re cheap iron swung at the first sign of trouble, then left to rust when the blood dries.”
Bartholomew was about to retort when movement caught his eye. His attention shifted from the insults, his gaze fixing on the road below, where early morning travelers ambled toward the city gates, carts creaking under bales of hay, sacks of grain, and assorted earthen wares. But amidst the farmers and traders, four dark shapes approached - riders cloaked and hooded, moving in eerie unison.
He squinted, the sight sending a prickling sensation up his spine.
Bartholomew’s fingers tightened on the rough stone of the battlement as he watched the riders below. In truth, they were likely only travelers - four cloaked figures on horseback, making their way up the winding road. But the way they moved, silent and unhurried, in such perfect formation, sent a chill through him. He knew it was foolish, childish even, to let fear prick at him like this. But there was something about them.
He’d never been one to wear his superstitions openly. It wasn’t the sort of thing men like him admitted to. A soldier who clung to faith, signs, omens, and portents was a man who couldn’t be trusted when steel was drawn. And yet, like the ache of an old wound, his mother’s stories returned to him as he watched the cloaked figures drift closer.
The Fates are always watching, she’d whispered to him, her voice low, as if afraid they’d overhear. Even when we think we’re alone, each of them is there, waiting.
Bartholomew had thought himself hardened to those old fears and superstitions. In the years since he’d left his mother’s hearth, he’d heard the sermons repeated, worn smooth by the priests who recited them day after day. But the words had lost their edge, buried under the stink of incense and the droning voices of men whose faith felt thin, practiced, routine. It was easy to scoff then, to let his own belief settle into some shallow corner of his mind, never fully discarded but rarely given space to breathe.
But here, under the dawn sky, watching those riders - those dark, silent figures slipping through the early morning light - the old stories felt alive again. He could feel his heart pounding, a faint and restless drumbeat, as if some part of him knew, despite all reason, that he was seeing more than a band of travelers.
It’s only shadows, he told himself. It’s nothing but shadows and tired eyes. And yet he felt a strange pull toward them, a gnawing unease that seemed to twist in his gut.
His hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the sore mark on his leg. The spot felt rough and tender under his fingers, the skin red and raw, and he felt the slightest, irrational urge to hide it - an urge born of the old fear his mother had sown in him. Don’t let them see you weak, Bart, she’d said. The Fates watch closely. They’re never kind to the careless.
The wind shifted, carrying the distant murmur of the approaching riders’ hooves. Bartholomew’s heart thrummed. He shook his head, feeling foolish, afraid. The Fates, the riders - whatever they were, whatever they brought - it was best not to look too closely. Not when the stories were so close to his bones.
“Riders,” he murmured softly.
Harlan followed his gaze, squinting. “Riders? So what? A might early for ‘em, but I’m sure they’re nothing Bart the Brave has to worry about!”
Bartholomew barely heard the comment, his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was the fever talking, the fever he didn’t want to admit he had, or maybe it was just that damn spot on his leg, making his mind run wild. He let out a slow breath, feeling the familiar weight of his blade at his side, the only real comfort he had these days.
He turned away from the riders, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. He wouldn’t let them get to him. But as he walked back along the wall, a quiet part of him wondered what would come for him first - the sickness, the shadows, or something else entirely.
A New Order
Faith, doubt, and mercy weigh heavily on the minds of two men who stand at the edge of what's to come.A New Order
The Sacral Chamber was quiet, the air gone cold with the absence of prayers. Tallow smoke lingered, thick and cloying, clinging to the dark stone walls of Nyskar Hold. It dulled the edges of the candles’ light, their flames twitching in uneasy rhythm, as though the chamber itself held its breath.
Oswald stood by the doorway, a broad silhouette framed by the last light slipping through the narrow arch. His armor, unpolished and scarred, caught little of the candle glow - only shadows, draped heavy over the steel. Across the room, Rene leaned against the altar, his back to the door, fingers resting on the cold stone. It was the kind of silence that rang louder than prayers.
Oswald broke it first. “I thought I’d find you here.”
Rene said nothing. For a long moment, his fingers traced the grooves etched into the altar’s surface - faint lines, worn down to whispers of what they had been. Words of the Fates, old as time and twice as cruel.
Oswald took a step closer, his voice low. “A strange loyalty, turning your back on the very work that made you.”
Rene’s hand stilled. He turned just enough to cast a glance over his shoulder, shadows pooling under his brow. “It was the work that broke me.”
Oswald’s jaw tightened. “It broke us all. The difference is, the rest of us found a use for those pieces.”
The words hung there, sharp-edged and barbed, but Rene didn’t flinch. “And for what?” he said quietly, turning to face Oswald. His eyes, dark and heavy with exhaustion, reflected none of the fire that burned in the other man. “So we might claim righteousness while fields burn, while men scream beneath pyres you call justice? Mercy is no weakness, Oswald. It’s all that’s left for those of us who still wish to feel.”
Oswald took another step forward, his boots scraping against the stone, his presence swelling to fill the distance between them. “And what would you have us feel? Pity? Doubt?” His gauntlet clenched against the pommel of his sword. “You were there when villages fell, Rene. When the rot took root and spread like plague. Do you not remember the bodies? Children pulled from their homes, burned black as coal because of magic’s mercy?”
“I remember!” Rene snapped, the words sharp enough to cut the air between them. His gaze held Oswald’s now, unflinching. “I remember the smoke that choked the skies. I remember the screams. And you still think it was magic that brought all that? Not men like Veral? Not men like us?”
Oswald’s face darkened, but for a fleeting moment, the crack of something else crossed his mind… uncertainty? Regret? He buried it quickly, his voice colder when he spoke again. “Veral knows the Fates’ will.”
“Veral knows nothing.” Rene’s words were flat, as if spoken to no one in particular. He pushed himself away from the altar and paced slowly toward the center of the chamber, his boots echoing dully off the walls. “The Fates do not speak through men. Men speak through their own ambitions and call it divine. And only when the blood finally pools thick enough at their feet, they claim it as proof that they were right all along.”
The candlelight caught Oswald’s gauntlet as his hand lifted from the sword, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. He didn’t answer immediately, the silence stretching taut again. When he did speak, his voice was quieter, weighted. “Faith is not kind, Rene. It doesn’t make itself soft for those afraid of its edges. It demands.”
Rene’s let out a defeated laugh. “Demands what exactly? More fire? More graves?” He turned toward Oswald again, closer now. “Tell me, Oswald, how many men like me have you cast aside? How many like me were called weak before the pyre claimed them?”
Oswald stepped forward, his voice rising. “And what of the price if we falter? What of the sickness that spreads while men like you would have us sit idle, wringing our hands over the world’s sins?”
For the first time, Rene raised his voice, though it was still softer than Oswald’s. “If we’ve cut down everything - burned every root, salted every field - what remains for us to save? You call it a rot, a plague… but it’s us, Oswald. It’s been us since the first torch was lit.”
The words echoed in the chamber. Oswald looked at Rene as though seeing him for the first time, and for a fleeting moment, he looked smaller for it - less a knight of the Imperium, less a man of purpose, and more the boy he had been when they’d first taken their oaths.
When he finally turned to leave, his footsteps were heavy, each one dragging more of the silence with him. He paused at the doorway, glancing back only once. “Faith isn’t about feeling, Rene. It’s about what comes next.”
Rene watched him go, the door groaning closed behind him, its dull thud sealing him in the dark. He let out a breath, slow and hollow, his chest aching from something he couldn’t name. The chamber was empty again, save for the sputtering candles and the faint lines of the altar carved by hands long dead.
And though he stood there alone, Rene could not help but feel the weight of a thousand eyes - watching, waiting, judging - pressed into the stone, as if the chamber itself demanded an answer he could not give, torn as he was between the certainty of duty and the shadow of doubt.
Traitor’s Bay
A brutal naval battle in the dead of night turns the tide of war, as mageflame wreaks havoc on the empire’s fleet.Traitor’s Bay
Sun-kissed waves crashed along the shore of Durram’s southern coast, heaving over the white-sand beaches now stained with blood. Dark waters lapped against the land, indifferent to the battle’s aftermath. Timber planks, hewn from far-flung corners of the empire, drifted in the swells. These were all that remained of the proud ships that had once filled the bay. In the dim light of dawn, the remains of the battle floated listlessly - bodies, wood, and blood mixing in a slow churn.
Scattered amongst the waves, men clung to splintered wood or crawled through the surf, gasping for air and mercy. Little of either was to be found.
"Search them," Ser Aldric commanded in a low voice, motioning to the retinue of soldiers at his side. "Find any who yet draw breath. And kill those who don’t bear our colors."
Ser Aldric, the captain of the Emperor’s Guard, stood on the shoreline, his gaze fixed on the horizon where distant ships still smoldered. His armor, scratched and dulled from the fight, weighed heavy on his broad frame, but he ignored the discomfort. He always did. Behind him, the city of Abreus stirred with the rising sun, unaware of the bloodied tide creeping ever closer to its docks.
His men spread out across the shore, swords in hand, stepping over the fallen as they began their grim task. The sound of armor and leather scraping against the wet sand echoed through the bay as they moved, eyes scanning the faces of the dead and dying.
Aldric approached the water’s edge, his boots sinking into the sodden ground. The stench of brine and death clung to the air, thick and pungent, wrapping around him like a suffocating shroud. His eyes lingered on the twisted remnants of the empire’s ships bobbing in the surf. The battle had been fierce, fought beneath a cloudy night sky, where only the light of distant torches and the gleam of steel had illuminated the carnage.
The enemy had struck first. They came from the mist, swift and silent, their ships low in the water, their hulls reinforced with iron spiked prows designed for one purpose: to ram. They crept through the darkness, using the cover of night to hide their approach, until they were nearly upon the imperial fleet.
Aldric had stood at the helm of The Iron Tide, watching as the first enemy ship slammed into the Seastrike, one of the empire’s heavy galleys. The sound of splintering wood echoed across the bay, a deep, thunderous crack that reverberated in his bones. The spiked prow tore into the Seastrike’s side, carving through the wood with terrifying force. Men on deck were thrown off their feet as the ship lurched violently, the impact sending debris and bodies crashing across the deck.
"Fates help us," Aldric had muttered through gritted teeth. "They’ll try to board us in this chaos."
As if on cue, the enemy grappled the imperial ship, casting thick iron hooks over the rails to draw the two vessels together. With a shout, they boarded - pouring across the gap between the ships, shortswords drawn, their wild cries rising above the roar of the sea.
Aldric had known this tactic well. The enemy wanted to bring the fight close, to make the imperial fleet’s size and firepower irrelevant. And they had succeeded.
Aldric fought shoulder-to-shoulder with his men, cutting down enemies as they swarmed over the rails. The clash of steel rang out over the water as soldiers from both sides fought on the narrow decks, their footing slick with blood. The empire’s archers and ship-mounted ballistae were useless now - the fight was too close, too chaotic. It was down to swords and shields, to brute strength and survival.
But the enemy had another weapon at their disposal.
As Aldric cleaved through an attacker’s chest, he caught sight of an enemy crewmen preparing something on the far side of the deck. He watched as they dipped their arrows and torches into vials of thick, blue-black liquid - mageflame. In the chaos of battle, he barely had time to shout a warning before the first volley of flaming arrows arced through the air, trailing thick smoke and blue fire. They struck the empire’s ships, setting sails and rigging ablaze in an instant.
Mageflame clung to everything it touched, burning hotter and fiercer than any natural fire. The imperial crew scrambled to douse the flames, but the cursed fire resisted all attempts to extinguish it, feeding off the very air itself. The ships that had already been damaged by the ramming were now engulfed in flames, the fire spreading quickly across the decks and masts.
The enemy pressed their advantage, using the confusion to cut down more of the imperial crew. The night had turned into a frenzy of burning chaos, the air thick with smoke, the sky glowing an eerie, unnatural blue from the flames that consumed both wood and flesh alike.
He fought on, cutting down one enemy after another, but the tide of battle had shifted. The empire’s larger ships, once their greatest strength, had become a liability. The smaller, more maneuverable enemy vessels darted in and out of the burning wreckage, ramming and boarding at will, their sailors moving with terrifying speed. Every imperial ship that went up in flames added to the confusion, the once-coordinated defense collapsing into disorder.
In the darkest hours of the night, Aldric knew it was over.
The bay had become a graveyard. The water was filled with wreckage - splintered wood, burning sails, and the bodies of the fallen. The last of the empire’s ships were either burning or sinking beneath the waves, the screams of the dying carried on the wind.
As the sun began to rise, Aldric now stood on the shore, watching the remnants of the fleet drift aimlessly in the bay. The enemy had been ruthless, and the empire had paid dearly for their overconfidence. The battle had been lost, and with it, the empire’s hold on the southern seas.
A Day of Formalities, pt. 1
In the frostbitten Valley of Alnir, a fragile treaty weighs heavily on the mind of a prince.A Day of Formalities
Part 1
The rising middle-winter sun cast a pale straw-gold glow across the Valley of Alnir, where the frost clung stubbornly to the ground, defying the daylight’s feeble warmth. The snow-dusted peaks surrounding the valley stood watching over the day’s events with an air of unspoken judgment.
"A cold day," Prince Vasil muttered, his breath visible in the frigid air as he peered through the flap of his tent. His fingers twitched with the nervous energy of someone accustomed to front lines, not council rooms. "How can we possibly be good hosts on a day like today?"
Marika, ever sharp and quick to catch his tone, tilted her head with a teasing smile. "Oh, quiet. You'll say anything to get out of it." Her footfalls were light on the fur-lined carpets of the royal pavilion, a contrast to the heavy atmosphere outside. "It's just a signing ceremony. We'll exchange some pleasantries, review a few contracts, and then…" She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her body against his back as she whispered, "we can both attend the afternoon hunt!"
Vasil sighed, feeling her warmth against him, but his mind was far from this room. His gaze lingered on the procession gathering at the edges of the encampment - the banners of House Drevan and House Loranic fluttering in the cold wind. The Treaty of Alnir had been months in the making, brokered between families who had shared as many knife-edge smiles as blade-scarred battlefields.
"Pleasantries, sure," he muttered. "Do you think they’ll keep it that simple? Lord Drevan has been after the western hinterlands for decades. You know he’ll find some clever way to twist the wording."
Marika laughed softly, her lips brushing his ear. "Let them try. You’ve outwitted worse in your sleep. Besides, today isn’t about them. It’s about peace. For now." She spun him around, her sharp eyes catching his. "You’d best keep that in mind before you start sharpening your tongue."
He let out a breath, tension easing, if only a little. "It feels wrong. Signing a treaty with men like that."
"Every treaty feels wrong. That’s how you know it’s working," she said, her smile widening. "Now, will you be sulking all day, or can I count on you to charm the guests? It’s not every day you get to play peacemaker, after all."
Vasil allowed himself a small smile, though the unease still prickled at the back of his neck.
"Vasil." Marika’s voice broke through his thoughts, her fingers tightening on his arm. "One day of formalities, my love. And then we move on."
He turned to her, his eyes darkening. "It’s never just one day, Marika."
The Battle of Last Rites
A soldier pressed into service reflects on the war and the life he left behind.The Battle of Last Rites
The sun hung low behind a shroud of smoke and dust, casting a pall over the battlefield. Even in midmorning, there was no warmth to the light - just a grim, gray haze that seemed to linger over the blood-soaked earth. The battlefield stretched wide, scarred by the footprints of hundreds of soldiers and the dying remnants of last night’s skirmish.
For Leoric, a simple farmer turned foot-soldier, the world had narrowed to the weight of his spear in his calloused hands, the tightness in his chest, and the dry, metallic taste of fear in his throat. He shifted his weight, boots sinking into the churned mud beneath him. He hated these moments. The ones just before battle that let his mind wander too far.
The war was in its third year now, but it had started long ago. Rumors of mages appointed to religious posts in Treador had rippled across the empire, stirring unrest. The Emperor had denounced it as sacrilege, a blasphemous affront to the very foundations of their faith. Yet to Leoric, it had felt distant - like thunder from across a valley. He had neither cared nor known much of matters of court or distant kings. His life had been simple, spent in the fields of southern Durram, tending to his crops and livestock. That was, until the war swept him up in its wake.
He pushed those thoughts away and glanced to his right. Garran stood beside him, as usual, his broad frame towering over Leoric’s leaner build. Garran had been a woodsman, someone who took pride in cutting timber with precision. Now, he wore rusted chainmail and clutched a great-axe that had hacked at more limbs than branches. Garran caught Leoric's glance and offered a grim smile.
"Betcha thought we’d never end up here, eh, Leo…" Garran muttered, though his voice was tight.
Leoric shook his head slowly, knowing he didn't need to answer. The battle ahead was enough to make any man question how they had ended up on this Fate-forsaken field, fighting for a crown they had never seen and an emperor they barely knew.
The War of Heretics, they were calling it. It had sounded noble at first, with priests and lords speaking of purity and the need to cleanse Treador of apostasy. But now, after three years of blood and death, it felt like a hollow cause. Was it really about mages appointed to religious positions? Or was it just another excuse for kings to fight kings?
Leoric shifted again, trying to ignore those thoughts that brought on the awful empty, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. His fingers instinctively tightened around the haft of his spear, the wooden shaft worn smooth by months of hard use. He had fought in skirmishes before, had felt the jolt of terror when metal clashed against metal, when a blade found flesh. But today felt different.
Ahead of them, the Treadori forces were assembling with a worrying calm, their auburn-and-gold tabards catching fleeting shafts of light that broke through the midmorning mist. Shields lifted in practiced unison, forming a shimmering wall of iron and bronze, while their curved falchion swords jutted out like thorns on a duskwolf’s hide. Archers stood behind, their bows taut and at the ready. These were not desperate conscripts or fearful levies. These were men honed for war, their movements as precise as clockwork, their resolve hard as the steel they carried.
"FORM UP!" Captain Rendyl’s bark cut through the thick air. His shadow moved with grim purpose, his armor still streaked with the dried mud and blood of the previous day’s slaughter. "Shields tight! Arms forward! If you falter, we all die! AND I DON’T PLAN ON DYING TO THESE SHEEP-BITING WHELPS!"
Leoric stepped into position, the familiar weight of his buckler settling against his arm. The haft of his spear was cold and slick, the leather wrapping worn smooth by use. Around him, the line shuddered into place, gaps tightening as men pressed closer together. Beside him, Garran hefted his axe, the massive weapon glinting dully in the muted light. His face was set, the scars on his jawline pulling taut as he muttered a low curse.
"They’re too fecking clean," Garran said, spitting on the ground in front of him. "Look at them. Like blades fresh from the forge."
Leoric didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on the Treadori advance, on the rhythm of their movement. Shields rose and fell in time with their steps, swords angled forward, the tips gleaming like a warning. He had seen their kind before. He had seen what happened when a line like theirs met one like his - a patchwork of farmers, smiths, and spent veterans. He gripped his spear tighter.
Above them, the first volley of arrows came down, their dark shapes cutting through the pale sky. The hiss of their descent grew louder, sharper, before breaking into a storm of dull thuds as arrowheads gained purchase in both shield and flesh alike. A man two rows down let out a piercing scream, the arrow embedded deep in his thigh. Another man stumbled backward, clutching at his throat as blood gushed between his fingers.
Meanwhile, the Treadori moved under the cover of their archers, their shields interlocked like the scales of some great beast. Their war cries rolled across the field, not wild or frenzied but low and guttural, the sound of men who knew they were already winning. The ground trembled with their approach, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and steel.
Leoric braced, his breath shallow, the cold tang of iron filling his nose. The space between the two forces narrowed, shrinking with every step, until it was only the distance of a heartbeat.
The clash was deafening.
The Treadori smashed into the imperial line with brutal force, the collision sending a shudder through Leoric’s entire body. Shields splintered, men screamed, and the air filled with the clang of steel on steel. Leoric’s spear shot forward, the point driving into the chest of the first man who reached him. The resistance was brief, a sickening give of flesh and bone before the shaft was pulled back, slick with blood.
Another Treadori soldier surged forward, his sword aimed at Leoric’s throat. Leoric twisted his buckler just in time, deflecting the blow and lunging forward with his spear. The tip caught the man in the shoulder, a shallow strike, but enough to stagger him. Leoric’s muscles burned as he pulled back and struck again, the rhythm of the fight overtaking his thoughts.
Beside him, Garran fought like an animal unleashed. His axe rose and fell in brutal arcs, each swing accompanied by a wet, crunching sound that turned Leoric’s stomach. The big man grunted with each blow, his breath coming in harsh bursts, his boots slick with blood and mud. For a moment, it seemed as though they might hold.
But the Treadori were relentless, their shield wall an unyielding tide. For every man that fell, another stepped forward, their swords piercing forward in precise, almost mechanical unison. Leoric’s line wavered, its patchwork defense creaking under the strain.
Leoric’s arm ached as he thrust his spear again, the weapon slipping from his grip for a moment before he caught it. The ground beneath him felt alive, shifting with the weight of bodies, the churn of mud and blood. His shield bucked as another sword glanced off its edge, the force sending a jolt through his shoulder.
And then he saw it: the center of his line buckling, the men faltering. Rendyl’s shouts cut through the chaos, but even his commanding voice couldn’t hold them together. The Treadori pressed harder, their formation a hammer driving the imperials toward the jagged cliffs of the ravine at the western edge of the field.
The imperial line was breaking.
Leoric stumbled back, his boots catching on something soft - a body, facedown in the muck. He didn’t look down. He couldn’t. Around him, men were retreating, falling over one another in their haste to escape the onslaught. Garran was still fighting, his axe swinging wildly, his roars echoing like thunder.
But even Garran couldn’t hold forever.
A Treadori spear pierced Garran’s side, driving deep into his flesh. He let out a horrible cry, dropping to his knees as blood poured from the wound. Leoric’s heart lurched in his chest as he watched his friend slump to the ground, his axe slipping from his grasp.
"Nooo!" Leoric shouted, rage and despair surging through him in equal measure. He lunged forward, his spear driving into the man who had killed Garran. The Treadori soldier staggered back, the spearhead buried in his chest, but Leoric barely noticed. His vision was red, his thoughts a tempest of fury and grief.
But even as he killed the man, he knew it was futile.
The Treadori were everywhere now, their shields battering against Durram’s lines, their swords cutting through the remaining defenders with grim precision. Leoric fought on, his body moving on instinct, each motion more desperate than the last. His spear - his only real advantage against the onslaught - was still stuck in the dead man’s chest, the haft slick with blood and impossible to wrench free. A surge of panic shot through him as another Treadori soldier closed in, shield raised and blade poised to strike. Leoric fumbled for the shortsword at his hip. His hands were trembling, sweat-slick and filthy, but he managed to unsheathe the blade just as the enemy lunged. The Treadori’s falchion glanced off Leoric’s buckler, the force of the strike knocking him off balance. He staggered, his boots slipping in the mud, but as the soldier stepped in to press the attack, Leoric slashed upward with every ounce of strength he could muster.
The blade found flesh, cutting deep into the man’s exposed side. The Treadori soldier gasped, his shield arm faltering, and Leoric didn’t hesitate. With a guttural cry, he drove the shortsword into the man’s gut, twisting the blade before yanking it free. The soldier crumpled to the ground, clutching at the gushing wound, his breath gurgling and wet.
Leoric had no time to think. Another shadow loomed in his periphery - this one faster, more precise. The soldier’s curved blade sliced through the air at an angle, forcing Leoric to parry awkwardly. The impact sent a shockwave up his arm, numbing his grip. The enemy pressed in, relentless, strikes coming in sharp, calculated arcs that pushed Leoric closer to the ravine’s edge.
And then it came.
Another blade flashed in the corner of his vision, and Leoric barely had time to react before it sliced deep into his left thigh, stopping at the bone. He gasped, the pain blinding, his leg buckling beneath him. He staggered, dropping to one knee, his sword slipping from his grasp. His vision blurred, the sounds of battle fading into a distant roar.
He tried to stand, tried to fight, but his body refused to obey. Blood poured from the wound in his leg, mixing with the mud beneath him. He could feel his strength slipping away, could feel the cold fingers of Neyara reaching for him.
As Leoric fell to the ground, his world went out of focus. The clang of steel and the roar of voices faded, as if the battle itself were retreating into some distant memory.
He blinked, trying to ground himself, but his thoughts drifted far from the carnage around him. He did not see blood. He did not hear war. Instead, he saw the old stone wall that lined his fields - his father’s hands rough against the rock, showing him how to lay it properly, stone upon stone, so that it would last longer than any war ever could. That wall, the only thing standing between the wild forest and the fields they had worked for generations, had been a fortress to him. More than any castle wall built by kings.
He remembered the smell of his small house, the damp wood that never quite dried out in the spring, the way the fire always crackled no matter how much he stoked it. His hands had been good hands, built for farming, for coaxing the earth into yielding its fruit, not for holding a sword. He could still feel the weight of the plow harness in his palms, the steady rhythm of oxen hooves breaking the soil, cutting straight, deep furrows into the land. There was a rhythm to that life, a simple honesty in the way things grew when you gave them time.
Time. His mind wandered to those days spent watching the light stretch across the horizon, the sky so big it made the world seem endless. He had never thought about how much he loved those hours spent in silence, with only a gentle wind moving the wheat, the way it whispered like a secret being told just to him. He had lived his whole life on that land, among the low hills, where peace was a steady thing, as reliable as the turning of the seasons.
And then there had been her - Annelise. He could see her now, her hair a mess from the fields, the way she tied it up but always let it fall loose by the end of the day. She would stand in the doorway of their home, arms crossed with that half-smile she wore when she pretended to be stern.
Leoric had never wanted to leave, but he was pressed into duty like so many of his neighbors. The war itself had been a distant thing at first, something spoken about by men with more power than he would ever have. He had gone because they needed bodies, not because he believed in the cause. What did it matter who wore the crown or which Fate men prayed to? He was no heretic, but he was no zealot either. He just wanted to live in peace.
But peace had been stolen from him the day he left home, traded for the clamor of swords and the hollow promises of dukes and earls who never saw the fields nor the faces of the men they forced into service.
The weight of his shortsword fell from his grip, heavy and forgotten in the mud. As he lay there, staring up at the hazy sky, he felt none of the fear that should have come with dying. Instead, there was a strange calm that washed over him, like the quiet that came after a long day’s work. The sun would set, the fields would cool, and the earth would still be there tomorrow, waiting to be tilled once more.
The world he had known was far away now, but the memory of it held him. In these last moments, he didn’t see the war or the bloodshed. He saw Annelise, standing in the doorway, wearing that wonderful half-smile, soft golden fields stretching out behind her.
The battle was over for Leoric, and for so many men just like him.
But there would be no words spoken on his behalf. His war ended without prayer, without ceremony, just as quietly as the fields he had left behind.
Sunder, pt. 3
Two cloaked figures slip unseen into Kiras, knowing that the coming danger may already be too late to escape.Sunder
Under cover of the approaching storm, two cloaked figures slipped past the weary Kirassi city-watch, silent as the fog that clung to the waterways. The grand expanse of the Keshari Temple loomed before them, its massive painted stone walls bearing the weight of centuries. To the untrained eye, it might appear as any other temple or ceremonial hall, but the two figures knew its secrets well enough.
Their footfalls echoed faintly, swallowed by the yawning silence that filled the cavernous space. Though they made careful measure of their surroundings, their hearts beat in time with the relentless, unspoken dread between them- each breath weighed, each movement deliberate.
The first figure, taller and broader in the shoulders, finally broke the silence with a voice as sharp as broken glass.
"Sir, the-"
"Yes, I know," came the immediate reply, tense and clipped, as if any more words might crack under their own weight.
"But we-"
"I said I KNOW..." The second figure’s tone cut the air like a dagger, soft but unmistakably edged. His gloved hand tightened on the hilt of the blade hidden beneath his cloak, the leather creaking under the pressure. He stood rigid, a coiled tension in his stance, the dim light catching the gleam of his eyes beneath his hood.
"There’s no time to debate this," he continued, barely above a whisper. "They’ve already made their move." His words carried the chill of inevitability, as though the events set in motion could no longer be stopped, only survived.
A brief silence lingered between them, thick and heavy as the night air outside. The distant howl of the wind rattled against the ancient walls, sending a tremor through the building, as though even the stone itself quivered in response.
The first figure hesitated, his breath shallow. He dropped his voice further, so low it was almost swallowed by the dark. "Do you think... do you think they know we're here?"
A soft, humorless chuckle escaped the second man, colder than the night itself. "If they did," he said, voice laced with bitter certainty, "we’d be dead already."
The words hung between them, but neither flinched.
With a final glance at the darkened corridors ahead, the two pressed forward, disappearing deeper into the bowels of the temple, each step drawing them further into the labyrinthine depths. The murals on the walls seemed to watch them, the painted eyes of forgotten heroes and spirits trailing their passage like silent sentinels. Somewhere in the distance, a faint sound - a drip, or perhaps a footfall - echoed, but neither man paused.
They moved with purpose, but the building's ancient corridors, so familiar and yet so treacherous, seemed to twist and turn on them, as though the structure itself sought to slow their progress. Every corner they turned led them further from the pale light of the outside world, further into a place of shadows and secrets.
At last, they reached a doorway, its edges worn and cracked with age, but the symbols etched into the stone remained intact - a reminder of some old power. The second figure’s hand hovered over the door's surface, hesitating just a moment before tracing the lines of the carvings with practiced familiarity. His companion watched in silence, the tension in his frame still unbroken, waiting for the final barrier to fall.
"Do you think it will work?" the first man whispered, though he already knew the answer. His hand hovered near the blade at his side, ready for whatever came next.
The second figure exhaled, a sound of resignation, and then pressed his palm against the door. "It has to."
A Guest in the Summer Kingdom, pt. 2
Garrick walks a fine line between belief and restraint, wondering if the evil that he hunts has already begun to seep into the city’s cracks.A Guest in the Summer Kingdom
The deal was done. Garrick said little during the exchange, letting Asir handle the subtleties of negotiation. That was what the fixer was for, after all. Garrick had no patience for the endless back-and-forth, the unspoken barbs, and the veiled threats that passed between men in these lands. His world was simpler. More direct.
Now, as he wandered the narrow streets of R'asha alone, his thoughts drifted to the task that had brought him here. The evening sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the sandstone buildings. The crowds in the market had begun to thin, but the heat still clung to the air, like it had forgotten how to leave.
He could feel the weight of the city pressing in on him - the clamor of voices, the scent of spices, sweat, and smoke. But more than that, something else lingered here, something unseen. A disturbance in the very air itself. Garrick’s hand brushed the hilt of his sword beneath his robe, a familiar weight he hadn’t had to use since entering the Summer Kingdom.
Magic, he thought. The word alone curdled his blood. The mere idea that it had returned to this place - the very kingdom that had once prided itself on being "cleansed" - was an insult to everything the Second Order stood for. Magic was a plague. A stain that had nearly destroyed the world once. And the Second Order was the cure.
Garrick was a believer. He had no doubts about the righteousness of his mission, about the sanctity of his cause. But belief alone didn’t cloud his judgment. No, he was a man of careful, measured actions. He tempered his fervor with pragmatism, always knowing that restraint was often more powerful than blind force. He would not burn the city down just to root out a single mage. Not yet, at least.
As he walked, his mind drifted back to the meeting. The contact had been nervous, darting eyes, jittery hands. The type who knew too much but said too little. But what he had whispered in that dark alley was enough to confirm Garrick’s suspicions: magic had returned to R’asha. Not a whisper, not a rumor - no. It was here, festering beneath the surface.
But magic was patient. It seeped into the cracks of society, biding its time. It waited, like the heat that clung to the air, until the moment was right to strike.
Garrick stopped in front of a crumbling stone wall, its surface covered in the faded remnants of old murals. He pressed his back to the wall, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the city wash over him. Asir had done his part, for now. But Garrick knew that the man’s loyalty was only as good as his payment. He couldn’t trust the fixer, not entirely. Men driven by gold always had their price. But for now, their goals aligned.
His thoughts turned inward once more, to the nature of what he hunted. Magic. It wasn’t as obvious as a sword in the hand or a rebellion in the streets. It was insidious, creeping into places where it wasn’t meant to be. The Second Order had taught him to look for the signs: the strange coincidences, the unnatural occurrences, the whispers of the impossible. It was subtle, like a disease that spread through a body before the symptoms showed.
But here, in the Summer Kingdom, the unseen plague had already infested the land. He had seen it in the eyes of the merchants, in the nervous twitch of the innkeeper who had served them earlier that day. They knew something. They were afraid of something. And fear, Garrick knew, was often a sign that something far greater was at play.
There was no time for doubt, no time for hesitation. Magic was here, and it was his duty to snuff it out before it could spread. He had heard what it could do, the way it twisted minds and bent wills to its power. He would not let that happen here. Not in R’asha. Not while he still drew breath.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and he turned, walking purposefully down the street, the weight of his mission heavy on his shoulders. The hunt had begun.
Under the Crown’s Shadow, pt. 2
Fighting for every inch, a few brave knights carve a path through the chaos.Under the Crown’s Shadow
The battlefield stretched out beneath the shadow of Rosamund’s Wall, the northern outpost that had held for so long, its stone walls now pocked and scorched by months of siege. The air was thick with the clash of swords, the bellow of commands, and the screams of the dying. Dirt and blood mingled in the churned earth as the Essarian forces dug in, each man and woman fighting not just for survival, but for the final breath of a revolution that had lasted far too long.
Lady Rosamund stood amidst it all, her once-polished armor now a ruin of dents and dried blood. She watched as the battle surged, her mind a whirl of tactics and desperation. To the north, the combined Andar-Ushani forces pressed hard, their spearmen forming tight phalanxes with their shields raised, a fortress of metal and flesh grinding slowly forward.
Her Essarian forces had the high ground, the Wall looming behind them, but their numbers had thinned drastically. These outposts had been their salvation, but they were not enough. Not alone. Fort Redfall had held for days before crumbling, its defenses battered beneath the relentless siege of Ushani forces. Fort Delfan, though sturdier, had been cut off, its soldiers outnumbered and surrounded. Only Cadar’s Demise, the bleak northern bastion named for the hero who fell defending it years before, still stood firm. But it was the Wall - Rosamund’s Wall - that bore the brunt of the enemy’s assault this day, its stone scarred by countless arrows and bolts.
"Hold the line!" she bellowed, her voice hoarse from hours of battle. "Don’t let them break through!"
Her captains relayed the order, but the lines were buckling. The Ushani warriors were fierce, their battle cries rising above the din, each strike of their spears as calculated as they were brutal. From the eastern flank, she could see the crimson banners of House Valen - Andar’s vanguard - sweeping forward with cold efficiency, their knights armored in plate, their swords cutting through Essarian defenders like a scythe through wheat.
And then, in the center, where the fighting was thickest, she saw them - the Nine Knights.
They were a sight to behold, even now, their emerald-green Essarian armor battered but still gleaming with the blood of their enemies. The Nine were not noble-born. They were not bound by familial ties to any lord or house. They were men and women who had risen from the ashes of Essaria’s rebellion, each a symbol of the people’s defiance. Veterans of countless skirmishes, they moved as one, a single force against the chaos.
Ser Coran, the eldest among them, led the charge. His greatsword sliced through shields and armor with terrifying ease, the old knight’s strength unyielding even after hours of relentless combat. At his side, Dara, the youngest of the Nine, danced between enemies with a grace that defied the bloodied mud underfoot, her twin blades flashing in the dim light as she cut down any who dared approach.
But the enemy pressed hard, and even the Nine could not be everywhere at once.
Rosamund’s focus turned to the Ushani phalanx still advancing from the north. Their shields were thick, their spears long, designed to break the cavalry charges of her knights. But here, on this uneven terrain, the phalanx moved too slowly. The Ushani were relying on their unbreakable wall of spears, but Rosamund saw the gap - a small weakness in their ranks where the ground sloped downward.
She turned to Ser Elric, her lieutenant, blood streaming from a gash across his left cheek. "They’re exposed at the ridge," she said, her voice urgent. "Get the Nine to flank them. We can break their formation."
Elric nodded, already moving, barking orders to the remaining Essarian forces. "Archers, on the ridge! Knights, with me!"
The archers scrambled to the high ground, loosing volleys of arrows down onto the Ushani lines. The air was filled with the sharp hiss of fletching, followed by the dull thud of arrows embedding into shields and flesh. The Ushani phalanx slowed, their shields raised in unison, blocking the worst of the storm, but the momentum of their advance was broken. For just a moment, the tight line of warriors faltered, and it was all the Nine needed.
With Elric at their head, the Nine cut through the battlefield like a dagger aimed at the heart of the enemy forces. They moved with deadly purpose, a blur of steel and blood as they carved their way through the enemy ranks.
Coran was the first to reach the ridge, his sword a monstrous, two-handed weapon that cleaved through armor and bone with brutal efficiency. His swing was wide, cutting through the gap in the Ushani phalanx, the force of his strike sending shields splintering. Blood sprayed across the mud-soaked ground as Ushani warriors fell back in disarray.
The enemy line wavered, and then the Nine pressed the attack.
Dara moved like a shadow, her twin blades flashing in the dull, rain-soaked light. She danced between shields, her strikes precise and lethal, slashing at tendons and hamstrings, crippling the enemy with every step. Her blades found flesh easily, blood splattering her as she slipped between the cracks in the Ushani line. A young warrior lunged at her, his spear tip aimed for her heart, but she ducked beneath the strike, spinning behind him and cutting deep into his side. He fell with a gurgled scream.
Nearby, Hollis, a mountain of a man, charged into the fray, his shield held high. He barreled into an Ushani captain, the impact sending the man sprawling into the mud, his helm cracking against the ground. Hollis wasted no time, his sword plunging into the captain’s exposed throat, cutting off his scream before it could form. The battlefield was chaos, but in that moment, the Nine had the upper hand.
The other Essarian knights followed, their horses crashing into the exposed flank of the Ushani forces, turning the once-impenetrable phalanx into a chaotic scramble for survival. The Ushani shield wall broke apart, their once-disciplined advance collapsing under the weight of the sudden assault. Spears dropped into the mud, shields discarded as the warriors tried to fend off the onslaught.
But for every step the Nine took forward, they paid for it in blood.
Hollis fell first. A spear - thrust with brutal precision - pierced through the gap in his armor and deep into his chest. He gasped, blood spilling from his lips as he crumpled to the ground, his massive form shaking the earth around him.
"HOLLIS!" Kessa screamed, her voice hoarse as she saw her comrade fall.
Kessa, eldest sister of Dara, roared in fury, cutting down the enemies around her as she fought her way to Hollis’ side. Her blade flashed like lightning, each strike driven by rage, but it wasn’t enough. She reached Hollis’ body, kneeling beside him for barely a heartbeat before a heavy blow struck her from behind. She staggered, a cry of pain escaping her lips as her legs gave way beneath her. Her sword fell from her grasp, and she collapsed beside Hollis in the mud, the light in her eyes dimming as her blood poured into the ground.
The muddy earth was slick with the bodies of the fallen, their lifeless forms trampled underfoot by the relentless tide of warriors. Blood mixed with soft rain, turning the field into a grotesque mire of flesh and steel. Ushani and Essarian soldiers alike fell in waves, their screams rising into the air before being swallowed by the cries of battle.
Rosamund watched from the ridge, her hands gripping the hilt of her sword tightly, her breath catching in her throat as she saw the Nine cut down, one by one.
Yet, they did not falter. Even as Hollis and Kessa fell, Coran, Dara, and the others pressed forward, their swords cutting through the enemy with the same relentless determination that had brought them this far.
It was then that the Ushani line suddenly began to crumble, their warriors breaking rank as panic set in. The remaining Essarian forces, emboldened by the Nine’s charge, surged forward with renewed vigor, their swords hacking through what remained of the enemy’s defenses. The once-mighty Ushani phalanx was reduced to a scattered rabble, the warriors fleeing in every direction, desperate to escape the slaughter.
Rosamund’s heart pounded in her chest as the enemy’s center collapsed, their formation disintegrating under the weight of the Essarian assault. The Andar forces, too, were in disarray, their lines buckling as their allies were routed. The tide of battle had turned, but the cost had been high.
Regrouping with her lieutenant, Rosamund glanced once more at the bodies of Hollis and Kessa, lying broken in the mud, their blood mingling with that of the Ushani they had cut down. The Nine had held the line, but the price of their bravery weighed heavy on her soul.
"They’ll remember this day," she said softly, more to herself than to Elric. "But they won’t remember the price we paid."
Elric, still breathing hard, looked out over the battlefield. "No. But they’ll remember the Nine."
Sunder, pt. 2
A seasoned watchman senses the calm breaking in Kiras. But will he be too late to stop what's coming?Sunder
The rain began to fall in soft, rhythmic drizzles, barely more than a whisper as it kissed the vast canopy above Kiras. The droplets slipped through the layers of leaves, falling in streaks that glistened in the dim light cast by the amberfish below. The waterways reflected the glow like molten gold, winding through the stone pyramids and narrow streets of the city. But the air felt wrong tonight - too still, too calm.
From his perch atop a narrow, moss-covered outcrop overlooking the city, Salar, a seasoned Kirassi watchman, narrowed his eyes against the rising fog. He was an old man, long in the tooth, his bronze skin weathered by decades of wind, rain, and the relentless humidity of the Cradle. Yet something in the air tonight unsettled him - something beyond the usual hum of the jungle, beyond the familiar croak of the creatures that called the trees home. His senses, honed by years of guarding the city-state’s borders, prickled with the telltale signs of a disturbance.
Below, the waterways were unusually quiet, the only sound the occasional ripple as an amberfish breached the surface. He scanned the dark city streets below, his sharp eyes following the soft shadows cast by the towering ziggurats and the slender rope bridges that connected the water-bound districts. He knew these shadows like the back of his hand. Every street, every bridge, every quiet corner of Kiras. But something shifted in the corner of his vision - a cloaked figure slipping from the darkness of an alley.
Salar’s grip on his spear tightened.
He stood slowly, his old bones groaning in protest. His instincts were rarely wrong. He could almost taste it now, that electric pulse in the air, a harbinger of something coming. Something dangerous.
The cloaked figure wasn’t alone. He counted another shadow, then two more slipping from the deeper shadows of the waterways. His heart quickened as he realized they weren’t moving with the carelessness and comfort of locals. These were outsiders - men who knew how to walk unseen.
But why here? Why now? he wondered. The amberfish had returned far earlier than expected, but even the priests urged temple-goers not to worry beyond the usual superstitions. But something isn’t right.
The raindrops fell harder now, streaking down his face as he watched the figures move with purpose toward the Keshari Temple, the largest and oldest pyramid in the city. Its towering steps reached high into the night, sacred carvings on its surface barely visible beneath the creeping vines. The temple had stood for centuries, a testament to the might of Kiras. A place of worship, yes, but also a place of power, where the ancient magi of the city once ruled.
Salar frowned, his unease deepening. He had guarded the temple for years in his youth. No one entered it after dark. No one dared. It was more than a law - it was tradition. Yet the cloaked figures moved as if drawn to its gates, their intent clear.
Without hesitation, he descended the narrow path down from his watchpoint, his footsteps sure despite his age. He had to reach the city-watch, had to warn them. But before he reached the bottom, another sound reached him first - soft, almost imperceptible beneath the rain. Footsteps. Behind him.
Salar spun, shortspear raised, but it was too late.
A cold hand clasped over his mouth, and a voice whispered hoarsely in his ear, "We’ve come too far for you to interfere, old man."
Pain exploded across his vision as the cold steel of a dagger slid between his ribs, the strike swift and practiced. Salar gasped, the world spinning as blood poured from the wound, staining his tunic. The blade twisted, and his legs buckled beneath him. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision. As his body crumpled to the wet stone, his last breath caught in his throat, the taste of copper filling his mouth.
Far below, in the glowing waters of Kiras, the amberfish swirled in unusual patterns, their pale light flickering like dying embers beneath the surface. The calm night had broken, and the ancient city stirred with an unease that rippled through the Cradle itself.
The Half-King
A newly-crowned king grapples with the weight of his throne and title.The Half-King
The dying fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the longhall. Outside, a bitter late-winter wind howled through the valley, sweeping down from the barren, desolate peaks of the Grimwall.
Those gathered tonight sat close, dining on roasted hare and carrots, washed down with warm spiced wine. The quiet clink of silver cutlery against pewter plates filled the hall, broken only by the occasional fit of laughter or the low murmur of conversation. Many of these men were accustomed to simple luxuries - a warm hearth, a full belly, a strong drink. Though they bore titles and had taken up arms for Falreach, most had been shielded by their lineage, serving far from the heat of battle. They were posted in cushioned keeps, kept safe by name as much as by steel, their conflicts fought from behind well-fortified walls.
But while the others feasted, one man sat silent.
King Derrick’s brow furrowed in quiet contemplation, his eyes distant. Perhaps pondering some weighty matter of state, or perhaps he was simply adjusting to the heavy iron circlet that now rested on his head.
The crown was new to him that night, and it sat uncomfortably.
Where other kings wore crowns of gold, studded with jewels and crystals that caught the light, his was plain wrought iron - a symbol not of wealth or grandeur, but of the hard, unyielding land he ruled. A single sharp point at the front hinted at the coronet’s only decoration, while a worn strip of leather inside offered scant relief to the one burdened by its weight.
A slender, gaunt man - though not without a certain rugged appeal - Derrick sat quietly, his brow furrowed in thought. His years, nearing fifty, were etched into the fine lines around his eyes and mouth, but they hadn’t stripped him of the quiet strength he still carried. His plate remained untouched, the spiced wine cooling at his side, forgotten. There was a heaviness to him tonight, as if the weight of his new title had settled not only on his shoulders but deep into his bones.
“Do you know what they call me?” Derrick said suddenly, his voice sharp, cutting through the soft murmur of the longhall.
The nobles around him quieted. Lord Amric, ever the cautious one, glanced up from his drink, his pale eyes darting between Derrick and the other men, always ready to play the diplomat. “Sire, I’m sure-”
“They think it jest,” Derrick interrupted, voice low but trembling with barely contained frustration. “But it’s not.”
Lord Hobb, stout and unflappable, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He and Derrick had trained together as young squires, his heavy fists known to break bone and spirit alike. “They’re commoners, my lord. What do they know of crowns and kingdoms?”
Derrick’s fingers clenched around the stem of his cup, his knuckles whitening. “More than they should,” he muttered, the firelight casting harsh shadows across his furrowed brow. “I hear it whispered in every tavern in every village. Even in the halls of MY OWN BLEEDING CASTLE!” his voice raising in anger. “Do you think I’m deaf to it?!” His gaze swept the table, daring any of them to speak.
Amric cleared his throat cautiously, “Sire, they’re just words. Idle gossip from-”
“JUST WORDS?!” Derrick’s fist slammed onto the table, rattling plates and silencing the room. “Is that all it takes to bring a king low? Words? Do you not see what they do? They mock me! They mock US! ALL OF US! FOOLS! That’s all we are to them!”
Lord Gelfrey, younger than the rest, tall and lean like a blade, opened his mouth to speak but quickly thought better of it. The others, sensing the gathering storm in Derrick’s tone, averted their eyes.
“They call me less,” Derrick continued, rising abruptly from his seat, his chair scraping against the stone floor with a shrill screech. His sudden movements sent a jolt through the room. “They think I don’t belong on this throne. They look at me and see a man who wasn’t born to rule.”
He began to pace, his right leg dragging behind him as he strode the length of the hall, wincing with every step. “They say I’m no true king, as if I haven’t fought for this realm, bled for it. As if wearing this-” he reached up, touching the rough iron circlet on his brow “-somehow makes me less.”
The room was quiet. None dared meet his gaze, not when his temper flared like this.
Lord Hobb, ever blunt, ventured a response. “Sire, what does it matter what they say? You sit the throne now. Let them whisper their petty nonsense.”
“It matters,” Derrick growled, turning on his heel to face him. “It matters because it’s not nonsense, is it?” His voice rose, trembling with anger. “They say it because they believe it. They call me...” He hesitated, his face twisting with frustration, the words choking out of him. “They call me...half a king.”
The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of those words finally spoken hanging in the air like a curse. Derrick’s chest heaved with anger, his breath sharp and ragged.
Finally, Derrick spoke again, his voice low and trembling. “They think I’m some unfinished thing. Some...unworthy pretender.” His hands clenched at his sides, the iron circlet on his brow feeling heavier with each word.
He stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing at the men sitting before him. “Get out.”
A pause.
Lord Gelfrey blinked, as if not sure he’d heard correctly. “Sire?”
“I said, fucking get out!” Derrick roared, his voice echoing through the hall. “All of you! Go!”
One by one, they filed out, their footsteps a muffled shuffle in the silence. The heavy wooden door groaned as it swung shut, and the hall was left empty save for Derrick - and one other.
Brenar, Derrick’s oldest and most trusted advisor, remained seated, watching the king with calm, steady eyes. He had weathered Derrick’s tempers before, and he knew when to speak, and when to wait.
After a long, heavy silence, Derrick sank back into his chair with a pained groan, the firelight catching on the worn edges of his iron crown. He exhaled, the anger seeming to drain from him, leaving only weariness behind.
Brenar stood slowly, walking toward him with measured steps. He didn’t speak immediately, but when he did, his voice was calm and steady. “Do you really think you’re half a king, my lord?”
Derrick laughed bitterly. “Isn’t that what they say?”
“They say many things,” Brenar replied, pulling a chair close and sitting beside his king. “But they also say you weren’t born to rule, and yet here you are. They say you don’t belong, and yet you lead them. And now they call you...that.”
Derrick glanced sideways at his advisor. “Go on, say it. Half-King.”
Brenar met his gaze, unflinching. “You know why they call you that, don’t you? They fear what you’ve become. You weren’t given this title, Derrick. You took it. You carved it out of a realm full of men who thought they were kings. And now they say you’re half because you’ve done more with half of what they had.”
Derrick stared at him, the bitter taste of those words still heavy in his mouth. “It’s still a mockery.”
“Not for long,” Brenar said quietly. “The day will come when they’ll whisper it in reverence. Because you didn’t have to be born to this - you made yourself into it.”
Derrick’s brow furrowed, the firelight flickering against the iron circlet on his head. The weight of his title still sat heavy on his shoulders, but Brenar’s words found their mark, settling deep within.
“Let them call me Half-King,” Derrick muttered, his voice low but steady. “I’ll make sure they remember the other half.”
Brenar smiled faintly. “Now you sound like a king.”
A Guest in the Summer Kingdom, pt. 1
In the sweltering heart of R'asha’s bustling market, Garrick follows his fixer into the shadows.A Guest in the Summer Kingdom
The smell of onion, herbs, and warmspice filled the crowded market hall, mingling with the scent of roasting meats and the sweet tang of ripe fruit. Traders from far-flung corners of the kingdom displayed their wares with colorful fabrics and gilded trinkets, enticed buyers with promises of exotic spices, or bartered over a cart full of ripe, golden melons. The crowd shifted and flowed like a living thing, a river of bodies and noise, moving beneath the hot midday sun.
One traveler, however, stood apart. His close-cropped lightning-white hair, startlingly bright against the sea of darker hues, drew curious glances from the locals who cast suspicious eyes in his direction. The people of R’asha were known for their hospitality, but strangers - especially those as conspicuous as Garrick - were often met with equal parts curiosity and wariness.
Garrick tugged at the collar of his soft linen robe, the only comfort he could find in the heavy, oppressive air. The humidity seemed to cling to his skin like a wet, irritating film he couldn't rub off.
"I thought this was a desert kingdom," he muttered under his breath, his fingers twitching at the fabric as if he could peel away the heat.
Beside him, Asir - his fixer and self-proclaimed guide - let a smile tug at the corner of his lips. "Well, it was. And then it wasn’t," he replied, his voice calm, with a dryness that mirrored the land’s shifting fortunes.
Garrick shot him a glance. "Your knowledge is truly astounding. I can see why Warden Thomas recommended you."
Asir’s eyes twinkled with mischief, though he kept his expression composed. "The Summer Kingdom, my friend, is no longer just sand and dust. We have rivers, you know. Wells that don’t run dry, and heat that no longer comes from the sky but from the air itself." He gestured broadly to the bustling market hall, the towering buildings of R’asha casting long shadows over the traders and their goods. "A land reborn. A land of abundance, if you know where to look."
Garrick grunted, less than convinced, as he stepped aside to avoid a laden cart being pushed through the narrow space between market stalls. "Abundance of heat and people, I’ll give you that."
Asir’s smile grew, though he didn’t respond immediately. He led Garrick through the market, weaving between traders shouting in a dozen different tongues, their voices rising above the din. The air was thick with it all - the smell of spices, the press of bodies, and the weight of unspoken deals made in every corner.
As they walked, Asir’s voice dropped lower, slipping into a more cautious tone. "What you’re really asking, though, is if you’ll find what you came here for."
Garrick slowed his steps, his hand instinctively brushing against the pouch hidden beneath his robe. He glanced at Asir, then back at the crowd. "And will I?"
Asir’s eyes flickered toward the distant edge of the market, where the bright colors of the stalls seemed to dull into shadow. "That depends. Some treasures can’t be bought with coin alone."
Garrick stopped. "I’ve already paid your price, Asir."
The fixer met his gaze, his expression unreadable for the first time since they’d met. "True enough. But here in R’asha, the real deals are always made in the shade. Come," he said, nodding toward a narrow alley between two sandstone buildings. "We’re not quite done yet."
As they stepped into the alley, the noise of the market faded behind them, replaced by the muffled whispers of a different world - one Garrick wasn’t sure he was ready to face.
Under the Crown’s Shadow, pt. 1
Storm clouds gather over Greengood, and Lady Rosamund steels herself for an inevitable clash.Under the Crown’s Shadow
The air in Greengood carried the scent of rain clinging to the wind as it swept across the ramparts. Lady Rosamund stood at the edge of the stone wall, her hands pressed into the cold surface, eyes fixed on the distant ridge where the Andar banners still flew. They had been there for weeks now, fluttering in defiance, a reminder that this land - her land - was still contested. The storm loomed on the horizon, clouds swollen and dark, but her thoughts were elsewhere, drawn to the weight of the decision that had been made.
Behind her, Ser Elric approached, the sound of his armor muted by the wind. He waited a moment before speaking, as if testing the air. "You sent for me?"
Rosamund didn’t turn. "How many left yesterday?" Her voice was steady, though she already knew the answer.
"A few dozen. More will likely desert by nightfall, I suspect," Elric replied, his tone even. "They fear what’s coming."
Rosamund’s grip on the stone tightened, her knuckles white against the grey of the wall. "They think they’ll be safe outside the city? They think they’ll escape this?"
"They don’t think, my lady. They react. They hear rumors of Andar’s forces, of King Arvin’s plans, and they run." He moved beside her, gazing out over the valley. "They don’t know what’s coming, not truly."
Rosamund’s gaze turned toward the edge of the distant ridge, where the banners of the Andar stirred restlessly in the growing wind. She could just make out the sigils of the noble houses under King Arvin’s rule, each more familiar than she cared to admit. Closest to the ridge stood the black serpent of House Daresh, a symbol of unyielding ambition. They were the king’s oldest allies, their loyalty earned through blood and gold. Further down, she spotted the crimson sunburst of House Valen, their arrogance as blinding as their crest. She had crossed paths with them once, and the memory still left a sour taste. Beyond that, banners of lesser houses fluttered - House Mirren, with their winged boar, a symbol of unearned pride; House Alden, whose black wolf-pup snarled in defiance of a past long forgotten.
These were not just banners. They were reminders - each one a herald of the forces arrayed against her. Old families with old grievances, drawn together under the shadow of King Arvin’s crown.
"No one does," she muttered.
She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the damp air pressing against her skin. Elric was right. They didn’t know. Neither did she, not entirely. But she knew enough. Arvin’s hunger for expansion had never been subtle, and he would not rest until all Essarian cities were under his rule. The weight of that realization had settled on her like the storm clouds above - gradually at first, and then all at once.
"What of the Ushani?" she asked, shifting her gaze to the north. "Any word?"
Elric’s expression darkened. "Two of the tribes have pledged to Arvin’s cause. The third remains silent, but they’ve been offered a share of the land."
"And the Chezāhrani?"
"Nothing yet. They claim neutrality."
"Neutrality." Rosamund let the word hang in the air, her lips twisting in a faint sneer. "It won’t last."
She pushed off the wall, turning to face the captain of her guard. The Andar banners were a distant concern now. What mattered were the cities to the north, the fortifications being hastily rebuilt along the border. They had time, but not much. Arvin’s patience was never long, and his reach extended far beyond what it had in years past. Now, he had allies.
"They’ve begun work on upgrading the outposts, but we’ll need more time," Elric said, his voice lowering. "The people are rallying, but if Arvin brings his full force, we’ll need every able body we can muster. We need them to believe in this."
Rosamund met his gaze, her expression unreadable, her eyes flickering with something deeper than mere resolve. "Belief doesn’t stop a blade."
"No," Elric conceded, glancing down at his gauntleted hands. "But it keeps a sword in hand when it’s needed."
The sky rumbled, a low growl from the storm building on the horizon. Rosamund’s thoughts drifted back to the Essarian cities - the places that were supposed to be hers by right, now slipping away with each passing day, each banner planted in foreign soil. The fortifications wouldn’t be enough, she knew that. But they were all they had. And it would be enough, for now.
"King Arvin will come," she said, her voice quieter now, almost lost to the wind. "When he does, we’ll be ready. Not for long. But long enough."
Elric said nothing, the weight of her words settling between them. The rain had begun to fall, soft at first, spattering against the stone and the cold iron of their armor. The banners in the distance blurred, fading into the mist of the coming storm.
"We’ll be ready," Rosamund repeated, though the words felt heavier this time, as if they carried with them the full force of what lay ahead. She turned from the ramparts, pulling her cloak tight against the rain.
She walked toward the keep, the storm closing in behind her. They would hold, as long as they could. As long as it took.
Sunder, pt. 1
In the mist-covered canals of Kiras, the early return of the amberfish stirs unease.Sunder
As the summer fog settled atop the waters of Kiras, the city’s labyrinth of canals and bridges flickered with the pale orange glow of the amberfish, their shimmering scales casting rippling light onto the stone buildings above. The people of Kiras called this time of year the Sahmtide, a night when the waters seemed to hum with unseen voices, and the amberfish returned in great numbers, lighting the waterways as if the city floated atop a glowing sea.
In the narrow streets and market squares, the sound of life carried through the mist - merchants closing their stalls, the distant din of evening prayers from the Keshari Temple, and the muffled laughter of children playing along the canal banks. Their legs dangled into the body-warm water, toes flicking the surface, sending the amberfish scattering in every direction. Their parents, standing nearby, exchanged knowing looks, the same ones passed down through generations.
"Don’t scare them off!" one mother called gently. "They bring fortune if they linger."
The amberfish, long adored by the locals, had always been more than just simple creatures of the water. Their glowing forms were seen as a sign from the Fates, their arrival marking the start of a season of plenty. In years past, the return of the amberfish had heralded fruitful broadleaf harvests, safe and bountiful hunts, or even noble births. The fishermen of Kiras revered them, offering small devotions to Shaelas, the Veiled Flame, whose influence they believed stirred the creatures from their hidden depths.
But this year was different. They had come too early - weeks before the usual start of Sahmtide. Their presence now felt out of place. Although outwardly grateful for the prosperity the amberfish might bring, the people of Kiras exchanged whispers behind closed doors, casting cautious glances at the waterways that threaded throughout the city.
"This is not their time," one elder muttered to another as they passed by the canals, eyes drawn to the glowing shapes beneath the surface. "The Fates don’t shift without reason."
Nearby, a group of fishermen stood in quiet discussion, their hands resting on the worn handles of their nets. They too had noticed the early return, and the unspoken fear lingered between them - that something had disturbed the natural order. The waters of Kiras had always been a lifeline, feeding both the body and spirit of its people. But the amberfish, once a blessing, now felt like a curse.
Overhead, the sky darkened, and the distant drum of thunder echoed through the mist. The children continued to play by the canals, unaware of the subtle shift in the air, their laughter ringing out against the gathering storm. In the city’s heart, priests of the Drowned Echoes murmured in low voices, their prayers growing more urgent, their eyes glancing to the glowing waters below.
Some whispered that the Fates were sending a sign, while others wondered if the people had somehow angered the spirits that dwelled in the Cradle, the dense and near-impenetrable rainforest that surrounded the small kingdom. In Kiras, where waterways crisscrossed with ancient footpaths and the temples stood tall above the rising mist, the boundary between the natural and the spiritual worlds had always felt fragile.
And now, with the amberfish swimming too soon and the wind picking up with a strange chill, that fragility felt all too real.
Blood in the Water
Caught in the howling winds of the Sea of Storms, Captain Torkil leads his crew on a deadly pursuit.Blood in the Water
"HOLD THIS LINE, CAPTAIN!" Helmsman Indrik shouted from the bow, his voice barely rising above the howling winds and the crashing waves. His hands gripped the wet wood of the helm, knuckles white as he fought to keep the Everroam steady amidst the chaos of the Sea of Storms. "We’re nearly on them!"
A flurry of activity erupted on the rain-soaked deck. The ship, squat and sturdy with its forty oars, seemed to fly atop the cresting waves, heaving and dipping like a wild beast unshackled. The air was cold, sharp as a blade, stinging the faces of the crew as they moved with hurried precision. Every man aboard knew that the sea held no mercy for hesitation.
"Steady now!" Captain Torkil barked from the stern, his voice gravelly from years spent braving the northern winds. His drenched furs clung heavily to his frame, but the cold didn’t bother him - it never had. "I said hold her steady, Indrik!"
The sea roared in response, the dark water churning in a fury beneath the hull. The relentless storm clouds loomed above, heavy and swollen, the horizon swallowed in mist and rain. The wind howled like some foul cry, and for a moment, the ship seemed like a small, fragile thing - caught between the wrath of the sky and the rage of the sea.
Five men clambered up from the hold, their feet slipping against the slick wood as they struggled against the storm. They carried with them long, maple-hewn rods - heavy, darkened poles tipped with ironwork, the edges gleaming despite the gloom. Polespars, every one of them, hardened by years of harsh seas and harsher winters, their hands calloused from wielding the tools of their trade over countless voyages.
"Polespars!" Torkil roared, his voice cutting through the tempest. "Stay lashed to the windward side and ready arms!" His eyes narrowed as he stared out into the distance, where the waves rose and fell in towering swells. "The whale-road is ours today."
The crew moved with purpose, strapping themselves to the windward side of the ship, securing their lines as they readied their weapons. Every breath came out as mist, mixing with the cold spray of the sea. Tension crackled in the air, every man watching the dark waters, waiting for the moment. The moment when the storm would break, when the waves would part, and their quarry would appear.
"Do you see them?" Indrik called from the bow, his voice tight with anticipation, eyes straining through the mist and rain.
Torkil’s gaze was locked ahead, unblinking, hand tightening on the hilt of his belt knife. "Not yet," he muttered, his breath misting in the air. "But they’re here. I can feel it in the wind."
The Sea of Storms had always been a cruel mistress - its waters frigid, its weather unpredictable, its depths hiding terrors unknown to most men. But for the Norrin, the sea was not something to be feared. It was a companion, an adversary, a partner in a dance for survival. They did not come to the sea lightly.
A gust of wind tore across the deck, the ship lurching as a wave crashed against the hull, sending cold seawater cascading over the side. But the men held firm, poles ready, eyes sharp.
And then it happened.
"THERE!" Indrik’s voice rang out, his arm thrust forward into the storm. The waves swelled and parted, revealing a massive, dark shadow beneath the surface. For an instant, time seemed to slow - the breath of the men caught in their throats, the wind howling in their ears. The shape moved, enormous and slow, gliding beneath the surface like some ancient leviathan.
"Aye, there they are," Torkil growled, his eyes gleaming with fierce determination. "Polespars - prepare!"
The dark shape grew larger, closer, the water around it churning as if the sea itself was being pulled into its wake. The Everroam heaved on the waves, drawing nearer, every man bracing for what was to come. And then, in one breathtaking moment, the sea exploded upward - a great wall of water surging as the enormous bulk of a whale broke the surface. Its black skin glistened in the storm, water pouring off its back as it let out a deep, reverberating groan, its massive tail slicing through the waves.
"TO ARMS!" Torkil bellowed, raising his knife high, the iron glinting in the stormlight. The men moved in unison, thrusting their spears forward, their arms trembling as the iron-tipped rods met flesh and bone.
The whale let out a deafening bellow, thrashing against the ship’s side as blood bloomed in the dark water. The whale moved listlessly beneath the storm-wracked waves like some ancient dying giant, its mournful cries lost to the wind.
Torkil, breath heavy, eyes wild, shouted through the storm. "By the blood of the deep, we’ve earned our share!"