The Forgotten Legacies: Book 1: The Will of the Gods

By Lucas Stringer

About the Book
For a recorded five thousand years, the Seven Great Gods have aided Mankind, Elves, and Mages in the fight against the Dark God. For one hundred and twenty-five years, they have remained silent. Now, in an age when the Known World is divided by greed, mistrust, and existential dread, the threads of fate slowly bind the destinies of seven men and women together. For a war that has remained latent for generations hence is about to reach its zenith…

About the Author
Lucas Stringer has long been in love with epic tales of adventure and heroism. One day, he decided that he should add his voice to the wider chorus of bards and orators with this debut novel. He lives in the pride and glory of the Midwest, Michigan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RoseDog Books
• Release date: Aug 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889258636

Book preview

Prologue:

The Blood Dawn

Count the dead, thank the Gods, remember the living…count the dead, thank the Gods, remember the living…

The young prince Rycone Redvant repeated that litany over and over again in his head. The black-haired youth splashed through a field soaked through the soil with blood. Thousands of bodies splayed out before him, piled upon each other and fanned across the mired land. The grisly view sprawled for miles in every direction, broken bodies and mangled limbs reaching up to the summits of surrounding hillsides where it was known the carnage carried on still untold.

His golden armor was highly blemished, the chest plate marred with blade slashes and club swings, and his left shoulder pad and right arm guard missing. Phoenix Wing, the sword that belonged to his father, was dulled down and tarnished, jagged grooves forced into its blade.

Behind the prince were what remained of his army from Iashen, and the armies of the fierce and proud Nuul. Every man and woman was captive in the same state of melancholy bleakness. They followed Rycone in a line that led back to a hill to the west, looking across the red-soaked terrain in hopes that there was one soul who still lived. But amidst the still bodies of gold, silver, and red armor, there was no such fortune. Every fallen soldier’s body that merged in the deep red was accompanied only by an abundance of swords that leaned into battle axes, battle axes that fell next to spears, and spears that prodded helmets which had left the heads of their masters. Thousands had joined Rycone and his king-father on the battlefield; now he estimated that forty soldiers at most had survived. Of all the tragedy bestowed in the world, this was by far the most devastating and colossal.

Rycone and the mortal survivors were not the only one who traversed the red ocean. Healers strode through the mounds of bodies by the dozens. These Mages of White sought out the survivors of the great battle-turned-massacre. Threads of white and blue danced from their fingertips and caressed across the fallen warriors’ bodies, attempting to restore the will to live where they could. Few stirred to consciousness, creating ripple effects in the crimson sea; others did not move an inch. The Redvant Prince shared in the sorrow of the male and female Mages, whose faces twisted with grief before they moved on to the next body.

With every step that he and the survivors took, his stomach turned several times over. A poignant squelching noise sounded with every footstep, like the aftermath of a rainstorm that had soaked into raw meat instead of mud. He wanted to shout around him for everyone to stop moving, to spare their ears the reminder of the incessant butchery they had experienced, but he held his tongue and kept marching onward.

Gods above, he thought. How could fighting in only half of this war have prepared me for today...

Prince Rycone looked upwards and saw yet another reason for the morning’s grieving: a massive cloud formation sat in the center of the sky, parallel to the vibrant sunrise. It consisted of three curved, cone-shaped clouds, all of which moved towards each other to the points. There was a loud rumble emitting from this sight, yet could only be heard when gazed upon. He held a blank expression upon the sky, wondering what the Gods Themselves were thinking of this spectacle.

They won’t be coming back, you know.

Rycone snapped out of his trance, brought back to reality by the rich voice that belonged to Ivahal, the King of the Elves. He sat upon his gallant white stallion, whose legs were marred with crimson. His silver armor was relatively clean compared to the prince. Long, red hair fell straight across his shoulders, most of it pulled behind his ears by a thick, silver ring. Like all Elves, his features were extremely defined; his jaw was sharply angled with ears that came up to a blade-like point, and his cheekbones sat higher than even some of his kin. His eyes were the standout feature on his sculpted face, though; they were a bright and sharp green, bearing a constant look of judgment to what he saw. Within them that morning, the prince saw scorn over the battle that became a massacre, and the grisly sight left in its wake

Behind King Ivahal, the Elven army reached far back to the hillside, saddled on horses and standing proudly on foot. Atop the hill in the center of a long line of warriors was Queen Melva, wife of Ivahal and joint leader of the Elven Kingdom. Rycone could not discern her features from a distance, yet knew the silver-haired queen’s beauty expounded in spite of the blood-soaked nightmare.

What makes you say that, Your Majesty?

Rycone was almost ashamed at how hoarse his voice sounded. He had used his voice for over a week to shout commands in the heat of battle, and was unprepared to suddenly take on the tone of a diplomat. He did his best not to wilt in front of the immortal monarch.

King Ivahal did not appear to take notice. The Gods created our races to mirror the best They had to offer in this world. We were born in Their image and were instructed to care for the greater aspects of life. Why would they be interested in remaining present now that this desecration has transpired?

The young prince thought of the enemy that Men and Elves fought against the day before, the one who took upon the power of the darkest of all the Gods and carried the red spider banner upon his breast. Indeed, the man called Mortegon Caval was a living, breathing perversion of everything the Great Seven Gods stood for.

Our adversary, Your Majesty, what of him? Rycone asked. Where has the Red King fled to?

Mortegon? Ivahal responded. My scouts tell me he has returned to his fortress. Speculation suggests he plans on expanding his kingdom further north. It’s not surprising, really; since no true victory was proclaimed, why treat this as a defeat? Especially given that the Union is no more.

The prince’s heart sank further into his body. What do you mean, ‘no more?’

Ivahal threw himself off his horse and splashed towards the prince. Rycone winced hard at every step, the threads of despair coiling around his lungs. He felt almost nothing in his heart as the Elven king looked on him with finality.

Standing before the prince, Ivahal met Rycone’s striking blue-purple eyes, a shared trademark of the ancestors that had come before. He clasped his right hand on the prince’s unprotected shoulder and gave him a sincere but somber look.

Your father was an honorable man, Rycone. The elves were proud to ride into the heat of battle with King Meldain—and I can see his honor is reflected in you—but Men have become far too careless, and reckless to the point of perversion. A look of genuine sympathy crossed his angular face. We can no longer affiliate our swords with yours, not when one of your own kin has brought about the worst of thousands of dark years. He squeezed Rycone’s shoulder and finished emphatically, "I am truly sorry."

King Ivahal sloshed back to his horse and swung onto his saddle. The right to Iashen’s throne has passed to you, King Rycone. He emphasized the Redvant’s new title with a somber tone. I have no doubt the lands of Mortals will find a great path to peace through you. Let us hope that men like the Red King will never again quench his thirst. Farewell, Your Grace; may fate guide you with its careful hands.

Pulling on his reins, King Ivahal turned his horse away from the dumbstruck Redvant. One by one the Elven army mirrored their leader, turning away from the surviving humans and climbing up in a near silent procession. Hours seemed to pass as the Elves slowly departed from sight, their soaked footsteps driving daggers into Rycone’s ears as they departed for Mideria. When the last gleam of their silver armor had disappeared from the hilltop, a weighted silence had once again fallen.

Rycone stood speechless before the plains painted in blood and flesh. Looking to the sky and seeing the cloud formation had vanished, his thoughts flooded with terrible anxiety. The death of countless soldiers, the severance of the Gods from the world, and the breaking of the great Union of Sworn Steel? The grief of the morning had now reached its peak, leaving any hope of merriment drifting away, like the blood of one soldier in the sea of many men’s lives.

With a crushing pang of sorrow and reverence, King Rycone fell down to one knee, the blood beneath him once again spattering his armor. The survivors looked on to him with concern, but left him in his beginning state of prayer. Whether or not the Gods truly listened anymore, Rycone offered up a more heartfelt prayer than he ever had in his life. He prayed that the souls of the dead would find peace in the Infinite Sky; he prayed that his reign would bring prosperity and good will to the Kingdoms of Men; and he prayed that people may be steered away from the influence of the Red King, so that they might avoid the events of another Blood Dawn.

P

Part 1

---

Interwoven Fates

I do not believe these days can truly be called a Fifth Age. Like every age’s passing before now, the Fourth Age closed out with death and steel. For one hundred and twenty-five years, we have contented ourselves with believing the Fallen and the Blood Plague have no further interest in the Kingdoms of Men.

But he lives, to this day. Death has not taken him, so I cannot believe the age that birthed him is yet to conclude. We pretend that he is but a foul dream—that this one man, this tainted monster, who walks with Nachterian at his back, and an army that perhaps still grows to this day, is nothing to fear.

Arrogance. Deluded, comforting arrogance.

The Red King and his Spider Queen are alive.

Their forces are waiting to raze our lands.

The Great Gods no longer speak to us, but the Dark God is waiting.

The Southern Foe never sleeps.

-Scribe Andalla Anett,

from her essays to the Wise Council

Chapter 1:

Iashen

---

As it is Willed

Though his hands were not as skilled as that of his father, Luceo Albator knew that within him was the ability to achieve great artistic skill; there might even come a day where he could match his father’s eye for beauty. Since his father departed earlier in the day, Luceo had spent the past three hours trying to perfect the stained-glass piece he labored greatly on. Time had always been precious to him, and he intended to utilize that which he had.

His father’s workshop was barely touched by the sunlight, a stool-sized window bringing in the daylight that it could, and a small crystal chandelier that hung above the wide wooden table from which he worked. A tall wooden cabinet reached almost halfway to the ceiling across from the table and contained every utensil the two men’s creative desires demanded. Whereas Luceo’s bed lay close to the entrance door, his father kept his space private, curtained off by a wool drape. It was nowhere near as luxurious as the rooms of the royal family, which were comprised of white stone and delicately polished wood. Their room was dull in color and usually cold, especially when nightfall came.

Neither father nor son minded the nature of their conditions, though. They were, after all, living in a castle, and there was no more glorious a castle in the world than Iashen’s White Citadel. From the day the king had allowed them the living quarters that came with the position of Master of Glass, Luceo marveled at all of the majesty and might the Citadel and most of its occupants encompassed. Never had a boy of ten expected such an honor, and the young man of twenty-two was still as awestruck.

Since that day, living with the king and his family was something neither of them took for granted. In truth, the pair lived well enough to feel like they were part of the Redvant family, even going so far as to have their voices welcome within their inner circle. The king was a kind man, his court colorful and diverse, and his children wonderful; one of his daughters, Princess Wilfa, had even managed to catch Luceo’s eye.

But such thoughts were unneeded distractions; it was half past the third hour of his labor and he needed to conclude his work. He had drawn an outline of the intended final product, cut the required pieces of glass to their proper shape, painted them the colors he needed, and now had them laid out in preparation to take them to the local blacksmith’s kiln. Even as followed each necessary step, though, he was unsure what the final product’s quality would be. At the very least, he prayed to the Gods that his father would like it. And when he stepped back from the table and gazed at the nearly finished product, his pride swelled with assured promise of his father’s approval.

Luceo ran his damp hands through his already sweat-damped hair, slicking down his raven-colored locks on the sides. He stood tall over the work table, his firm and broad physique earned from over a decade of weapons training with the king’s son and first daughter. His clear, crystal blue eyes scrutinized his work a few times more than needed, just to make absolutely sure it was perfect. The young man was not built like an artist, but the Gods be damned if he would not be the finest in the Kingdom of Men.

Carefully wrapping his work in thick cloth, he lifted it up from the table and set the wide frame on top of the wooden cabinet. He breathed a sigh of relief and nodded in satisfaction just as he heard the door open behind him, which was accompanied by a familiar set of heavy footsteps.

Afternoon, Luceo, a lighthearted voice said.

`Smiling as he pulled his arms down from his hidden work, Luceo said. Afternoon, father. How did the market turn out?

Kainan Albator looked eye-level at his son as he set down his gathering of food and supplies. His gray-sprinkled beard could not hide the warmth that his face possessed. Like Luceo, he stood tall and strong, but bore a more reserved sturdiness to his stance. Hair as long and black as his son’s touched the edge of his broad shoulders, laced with streaks of coarse silver. Scars spread across his arms and, Luceo knew, his chest, reminding of questions too-long unanswered. His face, worn tan from long days in the sun, contrasted with Luceo’s own pale white skin. If there were one man known to embody the exemplary nature of fatherhood, it was Kainan.

With a twinkle look in his dark blue eyes, he said, Booming as usual. Although the winery in the western quarter was completely dry of my favorite brew.

What a shame, considering the scarcity of your drinking habits, Luceo teased, gathering up the small utensil near the table’s edge. He swung open the cabinet and laid them on the middle shelf. But the haul looks overall hearty.

That it is. Kainan chuckled as he stretched his fingers and took the supplies into his arms. He swooped them over to the table and laid them down with gentle ease. Though perhaps we have a little more food than is necessary.

Luceo chuckled as he crossed his arms. Don’t tell me. Kira’s generosity?

Kira’s generosity. Kainan affirmed with a wry look. I insisted as always that you and I need no more than what I usually purchase. He brushed his hands together. Which, in turn, only made her add more to this trove of ours.

She does know that only one of us is a growing boy, correct? Luceo’s mouth nevertheless whet when he saw the savory cuts and fresh fruits that were no doubt added to his stockpile. Indeed, their longtime companion in Iashen knew nothing of the phrase going hungry.

You know it makes little difference to her, Kainan laughed. Though I think the term ‘boy’ is something of a stretch. All the same, we’ll always look too thin for her liking.

Luceo gestured to the table. Not if she keeps having her way like this.

At once, the two men heard five knocks at their door, a pattern that gave immediate indication as to whose hand had done so.

Come in, Your Grace! Kainan said, he and Luceo dropping to one knee.

The door was pushed open and the king entered. Rycone IV was tall and slim, his royal golden robes looking almost too big for his body. His broad, blue eyes were sprinkled with streaks of violet, the physical trademark of the Redvant bloodline. Like his slicked-back hair, his shirt and pants were a deep black, stitched neatly together by golden thread. Any indication of his smaller stature was overshadowed by the brightness of his entire outfit. He looked down at the kneeling father and son, his smile not reaching his eyes.

Arise, Albator men, he said. I do hope I’m not intruding.

Not at all, Your Grace, Kainan answered. We were just finishing our separate business affairs.

Really now? Rycone raised his brow. And does said business include what young Luceo said he was working on at my request?

Luceo shrugged with a bashful smile. It’s still coming along, Your Grace, but I’m more or less in the final stretch of my labors with it. Within the next few days, I don’t doubt its completion.

Which you, too, plan on sharing with me, correct? Kainan asked.

Who else? Luceo smiled wider. I would never let anything get past the master’s eye.

King Rycone stood and admired the identical beaming faces of Luceo and Kainan. There were no fathers and sons in the kingdom that looked as identical as these two; even his son, Wildren, did not share the uncanny resemblance these two did. It appeared talent ran as strong as looks in the Albator bloodline.

Rycone’s features then gradually slacked to a frown. I do apologize for intruding, but there are important matters that must be attended to. An execution is being prepared for in the King’s Square.

The two men were genuinely shocked. Executions were not terribly common nowadays.

What for, Your Grace? Kainan asked. What crime has this person committed?

Indiscriminate murder, the king paused, a tightness forming in his brow, and the Forbidden Words. The man in question was caught attempting to recite it in front of the House of Coin’s guards today. Shortly after he was apprehended, three citizens were found butchered in his home. A grim look crossed Rycone’s face. He’s been under constant watch since then. As is the custom, I will be overseeing the process. And I would appreciate it if you two would join us, upon the twilight hour.

The shock from the king’s quickly recited words gave them a long pause, but Luceo answered for the both of them.

We would be honored to join you, Your Grace. We will see you upon the twilight hour. He shrugged sheepishly. Though if I may say, Your Grace, it still puzzles me why we two, of all the Citadel, are allowed to sit by your side.

The king smiled tightly. I think we could all use the comforts of the Albator men in the coming hours. There’s no need to abide by the formalities of court etiquette today.

Luceo received a knowing look from both King Rycone and his father, and he looked down with a heavy blush on his grinning face.

The twilight hour, my friends, Rycone concluded, and not a moment later. Acknowledging their bows to him, the King of Iashen turned to the door and opened it for a brisk exit from the Master of Glass’ chamber.

Now alone, the two Albators sat in the chairs at the work table and attempted to comprehend what the King had said.

The Forbidden Words and murder, Luceo said softly. Why, though? Why would anyone want to bring the Dark Gods’ presence back into this world?

Who can say? Kainan answered, almost blankly. I’m sure people wondered that about the Red King, that long century ago: why would any man want to bring such a malevolent power into the world, knowing the thousands of souls that would be lost in doing so?

Luceo was quite familiar with the history of the War of Unmaking. Not a soul alive was unaware of the terrible war that was instigated by a curious scholar called Mortegon Caval, and how his curiosity led to him reciting the Forbidden Words with some of the world’s most secretive documents. By his actions did he become the next Prophet of the Fallen, a mouthpiece for the Dark God Himself. The war he instigated would lead to hundreds of thousands dead, the vanishing of the Gods’ presence from the world, and an end to the Union of Sworn Steel between Men and Elves.

So why, then? Why would such a revolting tragedy be ignored and be sought after by any soul among the living? Had people, after all this time, still learned nothing from war and death? Would the past ever stop repeating itself?

P

Roughly two miles beyond the White Citadel was Meldain’s Run, the prosperous and constantly active town square that sat in the near middle of Iashen itself, taking its name from Meldain Redvant, the great-great grandfather of Rycone IV. Like the reign of the king of old, the city never stopped progressing, or even moving, for that matter. The very center of the complex was a large grouping of wide stone buildings, acting as a center point for those in charge of maintaining order, both through business and security.

From there, the buildings fanned out into smaller structures, buildings becoming storehouses, reducing to stone booths, down all the way to tents. The tents were mainly from travelers all across the lands; at one spot you would find a fearsome looking soldier from the military Kingdom of Nuul, trying to sell great swords and spears to other aspiring warriors and collectors alike. Elsewhere, a representative from Bakor, the political and intellectual stronghold by the Green Sea, would come to the city, telling all within ear range about how the Wise Council had sanctioned the next sea-bound voyage for jewel hunting.

There was a saying about Meldain’s Run that, though unofficial, perfectly described it on the daily: Always booming, never boring.

Around twilight, the main attraction of activity was in the King’s Square, where usually Rycone IV would address the public on matters of importance upon an elevated stone slab. The well-dressed and rag-covered men and women were crowding into the square to the edges of the streets, creating a thrumming current of curious voices that hung above the building tops. On the raised platform before them were the king and his royal court.

Luceo sat in the back row with the royal children, while his father sat next to the king. In front of him, covered in an exaggerated golden cloak was Qwen Catam, the king’s ward. He was a fair looking man with long, golden hair that was braided past his shoulders. While his appearance was fair, though, his character was not. Few men spoke their mind as biased and bluntly as Qwen did, and if it were not for his standing with the king, his sharp tongue would have earned him several months in a holding cell. The ward leaned back in his seat with his legs crossed, looking uninterested in heeding to business with the common folk.

To the far right of him was Andalla Anett, the Sage of Iashen, vigorously writing down every detail displayed before her. Beneath fluffy blue robes was a small woman with black eyes, which hid beneath her shiny, black hair. It was the Sage’s job, among numerous others, to record all she witnessed at important events. Unbeknownst to most, though, she enjoyed writing everything she saw, the shapes of clouds, which way the leaves were blowing, the clothing of a group of people on one end of a street and how it compared to those on the opposite end. For having such small eyes, there was nothing they did not see. Luceo had come to learn this when he aided her in sorting her mountains of journals as a younger child.

Close to the king was Captain Vorn Stonewall, the Redvant’s personal guard. There was nothing about that man considered to be small. He stood on tall legs that carried an even taller torso, with arms that could knock down at least a dozen men at once. His thick muscles made the ground shake wherever he went, and could not be easily hidden, even under the dense, phosphorescent blue armor he wore. His sword was nearly as tall as him, so he always stood it up next to him. Despite being familiar with the captain outside the line of duty, he could not help but be put off by the hard scrutiny emitted from the captain’s burning jade eyes.

Luceo was thankful he was not sitting among giants or smug men or watchful writers; he felt more at home with those closer to his age. Prince Wildren was twenty-one years of age, black-haired and blue-violet-eyed, like his father. He was close in height and resemblance to the king, but bore twice the muscle. His blue shirt and black trousers showed off the muscle accumulation of many dedicated hours. The prince sat up straight, waiting stoically with the look of a future king.

To Wildren’s right sat Yalge, the eldest Redvant daughter. Like her brother, she was well built. Due to her aspirations to serve in battle, she had trained her body in combat from a young age. Her toned and cut muscles mixed perfectly with her feminine curves, constantly reminding others that she was as beautiful as she was strong. With luck, she could one day become a captain in Iashen’s great armies. Today, she sat erect, like Wildren, wearing a black dress with golden stitches, fitted firm around her waist, arms, and bust.

Sitting next to Luceo with her arms resting in her lap was the youngest Redvant, Princess Wilfa. In both stature and mind, she was a princess—kind of heart and strong of will. At nineteen years of age, she was built with wide hips, a curved back, and a bountiful chest. Unlike her sister, all of the clothes were fitted to her body, bright colored and vibrant. Her hair was a lighter black, streaked with strands of a chestnut brown. Her Redvant-family eyes were, more often than naught, glued on Luceo—much to his secret pleasure. Around her neck rested a long simple silver chain, which had been gifted to her by Luceo the day they became paramours.

Luceo’s attention was diverted ahead when he witnessed four of Iashenian soldiers marching the accused in front of the king. The time had finally come. The prisoner’s appearance left Luceo unprepared. He looked like death, covered in fresh blade wounds, most of which showed on his arms and legs. His hair was sparse, random patches of thinned-out gray looking like they were stuck on his head with no purpose. His lips were cracked and dry, while his skin was sallow and baggy, void of any signs of previous youth. Over his body was a formless sack fit for carrying potatoes, blood-stained from the wounds concealed beneath it.

Luceo could not help but be morbidly fascinated with the prisoner, for he had never seen a deader looking soul in his life. The man clearly took notice, too, as he flashed his eyes to both him and Wilfa. The princess quietly gasped in fear, and Luceo could not blame her; his eyes were glazed over, nearly transparent, but there was something hidden behind the glass, even behind the brown they faintly showed. It was as though they held a great and terrible knowledge, and an unprecedented loathing for life itself. His mouth twitched to fight back a grin as he looked to the king. Rycone IV stood up, put his hands behind his back, and projected his voice.

Hemend Jeel, son of Raan Jeel, father to Corna and Fulna, Master of Coin to Meldain’s Run, you stand accused of indiscriminate murder and attempting to recite the Forbidden Words. These are heinous crimes, and have forever stained the lives of those you have affected directly and indirectly. By Iashenian law, such a crime is punishable by death. The crowd’s whispering overtook the king’s voice, forcing him to remain silent until the noise dissipated. But as our laws dictate, you are allowed to speak any last words, if you so choose.

Hemend Jeel turned around and seemed to float towards the execution block, gazing at the hundredfold faces with that hidden malice. When the frightened looks on everyone’s faces seemed to satisfy him, he spoke his last words.

Blasphemy and murder. His voice was low and coarse. I am guilty of blasphemy and murder, His sneer passed over the crowd. What do you all think that means? That I’m condemned for being curious? The Dark God, the Red King, the Shadow Priests—don’t act like you all haven’t wished to know the same.

The air in the square grew cold. "Haven’t any of you desired to learn about what you aren’t allowed to? To act upon it? Mortegon Caval wanted to learn, so why shouldn’t any of you have the right to as well? Rycone Redvant takes all of you for sheep to ensure a reign free of inconvenience, a reign he merely glances upon because he must. He makes you deny evil in all forms, and thus makes you ignorant to the shadows cast beyond our horizon and into the dark of the night! You’re all children, I tell you, children!"

The stage rumbled when Captain Stonewall slammed his foot down, quickly silencing Hemend. He turned to the giant and saw raw anger in his face. He smiled and knelt down, placing his head down on the execution block.

The sun sets, he said, grinning, Night falls…and the true nature of Nachterian is always waiting, always watching.

That grin never left his face; not when the king nodded in confirmation to the Captain, not when Vorn threw up his sword and lopped his head from his shoulders, and not when his head landed in a bloody mess before the mortified crowd.

He never stopped grinning.

Beside Luceo, the princess’ breath hitched, firm fingers now gripping the fabric of his sleeve. Wildren, Yalge, and the king showed their shock only in their eyes, while Ward Qwen covered his mouth in analytical horror. Kainan’s face remained strangely passive.

Rycone IV slowly stood up and said to the crowd, All is as it is willed.

All is as it is willed, the crowd somberly responded, their many voices blending to one.

It was a few moments before the crowd began to disperse back to their homes and huts, silence never once being broken. Footsteps dragged across the streets against the sounds of children crying. The guards within the square were quick to clear away the body and head of Hemend Jeel; even with his crimes considered, he would still be given a proper burial in the burial yards several miles to the east.

When the royal family all stood, Princess Wilfa left Luceo’s side and slowly strode down the steps. The crowd of Meldain’s Run was thinning completely while Luceo watched her lower her head down towards the stain of blood on the dirt, her auburn hair swept up in the evening breeze. The setting sun blended their cast shadows into one another, and suddenly Luceo felt cold.

What do I do? Luceo thought. Should I go over and comfort her? Does she want company of any kind?

As the young Albator mulled over his decision, he felt a hand lay on his left shoulder. He looked over and saw Princess Yalge’s sharp face giving him a gentle look. To his right, Prince Wildren looked across to him in a way that mirrored his king-father.

Go, Luceo, Yalge encouraged as she removed her hand. Her long black hair moved in a similar manner as her sister’s. She’ll want you with her.

Are you certain? Luceo asked. She doesn’t appear to want anyone near her.

Quite certain, she responded, tucking her long hair behind her ears. She’ll need you now, even if she doesn’t realize it.

I would take Yalge’s words to heart, Wildren affirmed as he nudged Luceo’s soldier. I’m sure she knows what she’s talking about. And don’t worry about us, we’ll see you both back at the Citadel.

Turning around, Luceo met the eyes of the king, who smiled tightly with his own nod of affirmation. Luceo chuckled; there always seemed to be things going on around him without him being aware of their existence. He touched both of the siblings on the arms and strode down to meet Wilfa. Rycone and his children departed from the stone platform with the rest of his court, leaving the young pair standing alone in the square, save one attentive individual.

Luceo looked to his side and saw his father watching him, arms crossed and that familiar encouraging smile on his bearded face. For a moment, Luceo saw something cross his expression. It looked like grief—what for, though, he could not tell.

When he reached Wilfa, he gently intertwined his left hand with her right. Why? the princess muttered. Why do people care so little for the life they are given? Has the Dark God not given us enough reason to fear for our lives? The Gods gift us with the sky and the land and the waters, and people like this…like the Red King…

She sucked in a breath through gritted teeth, several tears dripping from her eyelashes and soaking into Hemend’s drying blood. In response, Luceo took her other hand and drew her to look directly up at him. The sea-blue eyes she met were warm and reassuring, like an aquatic sanctuary only she was allowed to swim in. He spoke to her with precise words and a soothing voice.

Darkness is a reality, Wilfa; that is an unfortunate truth. The shadows of this world are always lurking, watching those who are pure and radiant, seeking to cause nothing but pain and hatefulness.

He gently squeezed his fingers. But there are good things aplenty, precious things that dampen the Darkness. He looked down at their intertwined fingers. So many little things that keep the light within our reach.

She closed her eyes as he planted a soft kiss on her forehead. She grinned softly as he raised her hands and kissed her knuckles. Go on, now. I will be along soon.

Wilfa curtsied low before she turned away from him. She stopped short and spun around to give him a tender kiss on his lips. When she pulled away, she giggled again and skipped off back towards the castle. His grin faded away after a few moments, looking once again as he did when the fountain of blood sprayed forth. Kainan decided to approach Luceo.

Luceo? Are you alright?

That man…so much…hatred… Luceo narrowed his eyes with a quiet voice, gazing down at the dirt still stained with Hemend’s blood.

I know. The influence of the Dark God can be a terrible stain on the souls of the living. The way he spoke those words sounded too personal, making Luceo again wonder about Kainan’s past. But this needed to happen. Death should never be so quickly doled out, but sometimes it is better to cauterize a wound than let it fester.

He put his hand on Luceo’s shoulder and smiled at him.

Don’t worry, my boy. This was just, and it was what the Gods willed.

Twilight was now becoming dusk, and the guards of Meldain’s Run began to light the street torches.

That’s just it, father, Luceo said, turning to Kainan. Gods are created, Gods battle Gods, Gods turn Men, and Men slaughter each other. Why?

Kainan had never seen a more earnest look in his son’s eyes until that moment.

Father, he whispered, is this really what They will?

P

Like everyone who had witnessed the execution an hour before, Rycone IV contemplated the last words of Hemend Jeel, long after he uttered them.

The king was standing with his back against the long gray wall of the Citadel’s throne room. The torches around him emitted a dim, orange glow that, mixed with the monotone color of the halls, allowed him to think clearly. When the accused had attacked him personally, the bite of such truths had settled uncomfortably within his skull.

His racing thoughts compelled his legs to move, bringing him to the walkway between the gray pillars and before the Golden Throne. Looking at it, Rycone imagined what it must have looked like when his ancestors ruled. The old kings and queens understood the symbolic importance of Iashen, and felt that everything about the kingdom needed to be bright, representing the beacon he wanted to be to the world, including its seat of power. It was said that at high noon, on cloudless days, the carved golden seat ignited the room with such a fire, the torches themselves would be extinguished and the king looked like the God of Light himself. No matter who came, whether Elves or the Mages of the East, people could not help but bow in respect for its radiance.

It had been over one hundred and twenty-five years since King Meldain Redvant was killed during the Battle of Unmaking, and much like the grandeur of his lineage, the Golden Throne’s luminescence was mired down by decades of an uneasy silence. It looked more bronze than gold, bordering on dark brown. Perhaps it was mirroring Rycone IV’s own gilded reign, as Hemend had described.

Behind him, the king heard a familiar set of light but determined footsteps. Such footsteps Rycone had come to connect with one bearing tidings that would bring self-benefit. That was one trait he disliked about his ward: whether he had good news or bad news, there was always some kind of scheme he had at play.

Is the blasphemer still troubling you, Your Grace?

Rycone clenched his teeth. Unfortunately, yes. I don’t remember the last time I was this troubled.

Qwen twirled his braid around his shoulders. I understand. Not even his severed head could outmatch his last words. A most gruesome sight, indeed.

The king turned around. What is it you want, Qwen?

The ward smirked and courteously bowed, his thin narrow face full of latent mischief. Nothing more than to offer my sound council, as my position demands. An infuriatingly familiar glint passed across his eyes. It concerns Luceo Albator.

Rycone sighed irritably. "By the Gods, this nonsense again?"

Qwen’s tone shifted from conversational to serious as his thin figure became erect. It isn’t nonsense, Your Grace, these are pertinent matters we must discuss.

Pertinent matters, you say? Rycone’s indulgence was slipping. He flourished his hands and lay them on his hips. Or repetitions of your favorite prejudices?

He was born in the streets, Your Grace. Qwen allowed for a deliberately extended pause.

Rycone clenched his fists. Your point?

The ward gave him a dry look, the restraint from letting his triangular jaw fall apparent. My point? You know what my point is: commoners can never be trusted to meddle in the affairs of the esteemed.

"Oh yes, quite right, especially those who meddled at the age of ten."

Qwen held his tongue as the king continued. Luceo may not have been born in these halls, Ward Catam, but you cannot blame him for that, nor will I allow you to taint his name for the sake of your purist ideals. This is a song you’ve been singing for twelve years, and my ears have had more than their fill. I expect you to change your tune sooner rather than later.

The king began to walk away when Qwen tried to throw in his last word.

I implore you, Your Grace, listen to my—

Rycone broke off his speech and spun towards him with an intense stare. Qwen’s stride became staggered as he stumbled back into a straight attentive stance.

"Silence, Qwen, and heed your ears now to my council: if you keep up this pattern of attempting to undermine my decisions, I will have you thrown in the stockades. Do I make myself clear?"

Shock was stapled on the ward’s face. His eyes narrowed, as though Rycone’s retort came as a genuine shock.

Am I clear?! the king bellowed.

Yes, Your Grace, the ward responded weakly, and slowly gave a docile bow.

The king left the throne room with a brisk pace, leaving the silent ward to his own devices. He rounded the right corner out of the throne room and down the short hallway that led to the Citadel’s third floor commons. He was irritated, and the fact that he was walking seemed to irritate him more, escalating his irritation to anger. This was an anger that needed to be exerted from his body, and he knew just where to exert it.

Emerging from the low-ceiling hallway, he entered the spacious commons with a single-minded determination. Four guards adorned in golden armor lined the perimeter of the commons, stoically concentrated and almost unaware of the king’s echoing footfalls. The walls were so grand and the ceiling was so high that his footsteps hit the walls and echoed right back to him. His shoulder knocked against one of the cream-colored pillars, adding layers to his anger.

Above him, the gentle light of the moon shone through the dome shaped window of the commons, casting his shadow across the glimmering stone floor; the light was bolder tonight, looking like an eye for the Gods. Were the Gods judging him for his anger, for what he was about to do? Did They even understand his rage? How could They? Clearly, They didn’t understand what it meant to be human, so emotions were as foreign as Magecraft to a riding horse. They could never understand what it meant to be a king like he was.

As he neared the opposing side of the commons, he saw three archways that lead on to various parts of the castle. To the right were the royal chambers; the rooms on the right were that of the king, Prince Wildren, and Ward Catam, while the rooms on the left belonged to Princess Yalge and Wilfa, Sage Andalla, and Luceo and his father. Captain Stonewall placed himself at the end of the hallway, as to make sure he could easily reach everyone in the court and family. The hall on the left led to several study chambers and the library where the prince and princesses spent their time studying the world they lived in and the world before.

Rycone did not care for either of these hallways, though, for the center hallway was his destination. To an outsider, it would seem peculiar that the king would be going towards the armory and archery range—but Rycone knew the truth. Nearly twenty feet into the hall was a tiny crack in the stone of the right wall. His mind still fuming, he reached into his plain black jacket and pulled out a small needle from its linings. With a delicate hand, he placed the needle in the wall’s crack and pushed it forward. It almost immediately protruded back out upon its insertion, and a designated portion of the wall moved soundlessly forward. The portion that moved forth was five feet in width, giving him plenty of room to walk through. He pulled the wall in and crept into the dim hallway, his entrance sealing back on its own. Like each prior night, everything had transpired without the nearby guards heard not a single sound.

From there, Rycone walked down a brief hall to the room that no one knew about, not even his own children. The only light he had was from small candles that rested on small perches close to the ceiling. Soon he was in front of a dark, wooden door that only had a handle on the outside. The thought of what waited on the other side sent his anger to a pitch, and he promptly gripped the doorknob and threw it open.

The chamber before him was wide and long, a sprawling row of brown wooden shelves lined next to a polished desk. A pile of multicolored clothes was stacked next to a brown stand with a wash basin. There was a large, indigo bed with four postings against the wall, and an untouched plate of food resting against the lower sheets.

On the bed was a woman with her side facing the king. She had bright, copper-colored hair that fell down to her lower back, her slender and curved body covered in a soft pink robe. She was where his anger was to be exerted.

The king cleared his throat. You didn’t eat your food. I had that made fresh this morning, you know. The woman did not respond. Bringing it myself is the most logical thing to do. But that doesn’t mean you need to starve yourself.

She turned her head slightly, speaking with a voice as delicate as glass. What do you want, Rycone?

The king’s eyes grew wide. What do I want? Are you really asking that, Reccia?

The woman turned her slim torso and pulled her legs onto the bed. Queen Reccia Peldron looked at him with icy green eyes, her smooth narrow face pale and almost sickly in appearance from years with little sunlight. She placed her hands on her knees and straightened her back. As she had been countless nights before, Reccia was in no mood for the king’s bad temperament.

Yes, Rycone, she said sternly. "I am asking you that. Does that displease His Royal Ass-ness?"

Rycone dug his nails into his palms. "Don’t you dare call me—"

Reccia interrupted him with an impatient tone, For the Gods’ sake, are you here to beat me, lecture me, or both? I’m tired and would rather not waste this night feeding into your damned taunts.

With his hands shaking Rycone walked around the bed and looked down at Reccia, who turned back to look at him. The queen knew how to keep her composure, even against the volatility that her husband protruded. She crossed her arms and cocked her head; no matter how intimidating he tried to be, Reccia was never shaken. Her resolve had remained the same for two decades.

He heaved a great sigh. It’s been twenty years since you came back from Bakor, twenty years since you did the courtesy of allowing women to take seats in the political sphere. He pressed his lips together, careful not to let the tightness in his throat crack his voice. Twenty years…since I learned of your infidelity to our marriage.

She left him unanswered. Her eyes turned down for a breath, shame forming a grimace on her lips. Her eyes squeezed shut when she looked back up, and at once they became unreadable.

Rycone continued. You’re lucky I never learned of that man’s identity, and you’re even luckier that I still gave you quarters in the castle. I could have cast you out of the kingdom, or even sold you as a slave to the Red King.

I’m surprised you didn’t. Her voice began to harden as her lips curled into a sneer. He may have actually given the royal treatment and not, she raised her arms, gesturing to the space between them, whatever you call this.

How dare you make such a comparison! He would have turned you into a slave, Reccia! Rycone took in a shudder breath, vainly trying to conceal his outburst. He would have—

Reccia scoffed and gave a humorless smile. A slave? You mean like what you’ve done?

Have I no justifications? Am I somehow in the greater of two wrongs? He forced his hands at his side from raising to a helpless gesture. Nothing which I’ve done to you has been of my own accord. This was wrought upon you, by you. I’ve given you asylum when I could have banished you!

You’ve confused asylum with imprisonment. Her voice was cooler now, the jade warmth of her eyes freezing to a sharp chill.

Gritting his teeth, Rycone fought to regain control of the situation. Reccia had never given him what he wanted, rarely before her infidelity and nearly never after he shut her away from the world. Were she not so insufferable, he might have even respected her iron will.

I am the king, and you were unfaithful to me, he said threateningly. I gave you a kingdom and you gave yourself to another man. You were supposed to give me a bloodline, that was all I asked! What more could you want that I could not give you? What did he give you that I could not?! The struggle to control his emotions was great, amplified by the gaze that Reccia had locked with him. "You’ve earned your keep here, Reccia. And you will rot in here until the Red King’s reckoning because you were a faithless, Gods-forsaken whore!"

You’re right! Reccia sprung upwards, her fiery aura making her ten feet tall. The king stepped backwards, her venomous gaze striking fear into his weak heart.

"Yes, Rycone, I was unfaithful to you. I lay with another man, I’ll admit it, as I always have. The Gods may look down on me, just like you do from your haughty throne, and I will always live with that. But I did what I did, and in the twenty years since you threw me into this pathetic excuse of a bed chamber, I have never regretted that decision. The man I met was one I loved dearly, and believe me when I say this: if I had not been the queen, I would have married him."

Her words struck to the essence of Rycone’s soul. Even as he fought back the tears, he attempted to understand who it was that Reccia saw, who it was that gave her reason to strike back at him with such ire and contempt. It terrified Rycone to think that who she beheld and who Hemend beheld could be one in the same.

How much does that hurt you, Rycone? Reccia continued to lash her tongue. Does it hurt you greatly? I hope it does. I hope it hurts to know that no matter how charismatic and charming Prince Rycone IV was, my heart belonged to another. It belonged to a man more honorable and loving than any of the Redvant bloodline.

She took a step towards him and squared her shoulders. "Speaking of that bloodline, when are you going to tell your children? When will they know of their true royal standing? I have no doubt that it will greatly harm them to learn they are nothing more than bastard children of path-side prosti— "

"Shut your mouth!" The king threw his right hand across her face, throwing her head against her shoulder. He could no longer bear the embarrassment that was aroused by her cruel words. A bruise formed quickly and blood from his nail-marks was streaked across her cheeks. He had hoped that that would teach her some kind of lesson. But the queen stood still and moved her head forward.

Her resolve held firm.

Your ancestors would be ashamed, Rycone. What kind of king resorts to striking his queen to save his pride?

Shut your mouth! He shouted again, his voice cracking with the dormant tears this time. Reccia now looked upon a pitiful sight, one that had a hint of sorrow to it. The king’s face was filled with anguish. No matter what persona he displayed to the kingdom, the queen knew that, at heart, he was a weak man. The shame in admitting so finally pushed the tears from his eyes.

"You’ve made your point tonight, but as I’ve said from day one, I will never, ever tell you who he was. That is a promise, Your Grace." Her voice dripped with contention in speaking his title.

She stood still and strong, and Rycone knew that if he tried to continue his abuse it would only damage him more. With a quivering lip and runny nose, he turned around and closed the open door behind him.

Even while he shut away the sight of her, Rycone could feel Reccia’s burning gaze through the door. Before he reached his exit, he staggered against the wall and slammed his fist on the stone. Rycone closed his eyes and choked back the sobs. In spite of his self-righteousness, he knew exactly what he was. Reccia be damned; there were plenty of other women he could demand the company of at the House of Pleasure tonight. He didn’t need his unfaithful queen, nor her scathing words of truth; he could direct his anger towards any women he wanted to. After all, what could Iashen’s prostitutes say to hurt him when they relied upon the charity of his coin?

P

For several years now, Luceo had made walking outside the Citadel a daily routine. The scenery to the north gave him solace like few places could in Iashen. A great field of grass and lilies extended roughly a quarter of a mile past the marble walls, mostly untouched by modern workings. There was a quiet composure to it, and Luceo almost felt that this one simple, small field was a tiny piece of divinity that the Gods left for Men to look at. When the wind was just right, the bending grass and fluttering flowers sounded like whispers, each one telling a different story about those who walked near them. It was a music that told all of history, through wind-song and green-whispers.

It was near noon on a crisp, clear day, and Luceo sat among the taller blades of grass, his chin tickled by the caress of greenery. His arms were wrapped around his knees and his eyes were lost to the great field beyond. At the horizon lay the Blasted Mountains, which history told was the area where the race of Mages was born. He had always wanted to explore them, to leave early one day and wander into their grandeur. Most of them were so tall they could reach the clouds themselves, their shadow-colored peaks looking like a stairway to the Infinite Sky, the home of the Gods. Would that Luceo could stand in the place where Magecraft was born, or reach a heavenly summit into another state of being; it was a notion he would never be able to comprehend.

He sighed sanguinely, letting it be lost to the wind. What am I meant to do? Am I meant to climb those mountains? Or explore the lands that most boys only dream of? Why am I really here?

Tapping his fingers on his leg, he understood that no mortal man or woman could give him a conclusive answer, but there might be someone who could at least give him perspective. She was in Meldain’s Run every day, and Luceo knew just where she placed her business.

Luceo stretched as he stood up from the tall grass, raising his arms above his head and turning south towards the White Citadel. The great castle stood on one of the highest hills of green in Iashen, carved of a radiant, white marble in the shape of a two-bladed sword. The walls stood one hundred and fifty feet high, intricate patterns of brick stacked on one another. Either end slanted inwards on each side to come to a perfect point. A single pillar rose in the fortress’ center, displaying a large and proud flag that beat against the wind. On the white fabric was a silver sword pointed upwards, behind it a bright yellow sun. The Sword of Dawn was an age-old insignia that had long inspired hope across the world.

Luceo spent half an hour making his way to the city, a swift pace carrying him around the eastern tip of the White Citadel. He let the downward slope quicken his pace as he watched the untamed grass change to stone paths and dirt roads. A large array of huts and wool tents sprawled across the city’s eastern edge, the voices of the young and old alike ringing in his ears. He smiled as small children scampered past his legs, laughing and shouting as they chased one another and played their games. He raised his hands to many of the folk, waving to and greeting the people he had grown up and still interacted with.

Good day, Luceo! he heard Harmet Fraxby call out to his left. The long-faced, brown-haired father of four had one of the larger huts in the slums, wearing a brown cloak over his lean figure. He emerged from his home’s threshold and waved his arm high. Did you happen to make that request I told you of?

Luceo stopped and turned to the brown-haired man. All fulfilled, Master Fraxby! Your meat and wine will be here on the morrow, with a little extra for the homes surrounding yours.

Thank you, young man, thank you! Harmet’s eyes twinkled as he bowed to Luceo. You’re most gracious to us, after all these years.

You can thank the king, too, Luceo insisted as he tilted his head in response. But I wouldn’t dare dream of forgetting you or your own.

Harmet raised himself back up. You and your father still doing well, I hope?

Luceo nodded as a gust of wind kicked dirt up near his chin. Very much so. He sends his regards, as always.

Send ours back! The voice from behind belonged to Helgra, an unwed woman who still bore a particular fondness for Kainan. I need some more of his paintings to decorate my tarps!

I’ll let him know as soon as possible. Luceo waved farewell to Harmet and smiled as he saw his four small children crowd by his legs. Master Fraxby and Helgra and countless others that lived outside the city were constants throughout his early life. Whether they bade him good morning, shared a meal with him and his father, or spent extended time offering him advice on life, there was seldom a soul in the slums that Luceo did not consider important in some capacity. He was blessed to be able to still see them, even having lived in the Citadel for over a decade.

Continuing to exchange brief greetings from the many people of his past, he made his way into the thicket of Meldain’s Run, where the soil and grass receded into near flat terrain.

Like every day in the old city, the crowds of busy Iashenians were almost as clustered as the stone buildings themselves. Luceo moved steadily along through the thicket of mothers and fathers, who also wove by the wooden stands and stones steps to wherever their daily routines took them. So packed and bustling was today’s throng, it took him several minutes to clear the needed fifty feet of walking. Through the mass of merchants and anglers, all of whom tried to sell him fish and fine jewels, he turned to his left