‘Anardes anardethameren, anda mitharanah nui eméredeth dro frìr.’

These were the words of King Ulmìr at his coronation, spoken in the Old Tongue to ease the suspicion of his detractors. To those wary of the Language of the Stars’ influence, these words would give assurance of continuity with the perceived greatness of ages past. Scholars and sages both sought to understand the meaning of Ulmìr’s cryptic utterance. In the common Anardaëan language this was translated, ‘The world will burn, unless we purge our enemies through fire.’

Perhaps the story of King Ulmìr’s ascendance may shed light on these mysterious words. But know this: whatever sense may be given to these senseless events, whatever understanding may be gleaned from unfathomable darkness, let the reader be warned at the outset that history does not comfort.

Here follows, then, an orderly account of the man who ruined the world.

Before Ulmìr, the land of Anardes had been a collection of disparate states ruled by local leaders. These states enjoyed relative prosperity and peace, under which localities traded goods and services without fear of persecution or invasion. While differences in culture between states occasionally erupted into disputes, the Anardaëan people continued to develop socially and economically.

However, the rise in power of two nearby nations—Kerena and Senhia—posed a threat to the flourishing states of Anardes. The Kerenani and Senhì are seafaring peoples who settled on the large island west of Anardes, having fled a disaster they would not speak of. After a time. the Kerenani became displeased with their southern share of the island, steeped as it was in a seemingly endless winter. The Senhì, in turn, grew tired of their rain-soaked lands and likewise desired the rich pastures, fertile plains, and sunny forests of Anardes. Skirmishes on the western shores of the country by invading Kerenani and Senhìan armies caused panics and disruptions in the livelihood of the Anardaëan people. What the Kerenani and Senhì lacked in diplomacy and sophistication, they made up for in might. Superior military tactics and weaponry posed a real problem to the simpler lifestyles of Anardes.

The growing threat pushed the diverse Anardaëan states to consider their commonalities. Survival (and the mutual interest in the business of coin) is a great deterrent to petty squabbles and internal strife. There was a push for uniformity in leadership and unity in military force. The clamour for leadership—perhaps a king might rally our nation and overthrow our enemies—outdid the attempt of the local landlords to hold on to their limited sovereignty.

It was at this time that the Nodirìm came. The ‘Elders,’ as they were to be called, appeared as if from nowhere. They walked in the splendour of starlight and spoke with the magic of moonlight. Their steps were beauty and creativity. Their words were wisdom and life.

Nobody knows for certain who the Elders are or where they came from. Some say the stars themselves—which many believe to be the source of life—took on human form and walked in Anardes to save the nation from its plight. Others claim they are long-forgotten heroes of old, who returned having transcended the limitations of the grave.

In any case, their mastery over the force of life was undeniable. Their songs could bind or heal. Their speech could convince and persuade with a force unlike any ordinary man or woman. When they fought, their weapons exuded the same aura and energy. It was as though the Elders held the secrets of the workings of life itself and could bend and shape that energy to their will. Some say the Elders are ageless and immortal, though they themselves would deny being unaffected by the agonising decay of time and creeping shadow of death. Understandably, direct answers must be deferred and are at any rate beyond the scope of this present work.

But it was not the Elders themselves who would deliver Anardes. They came in all their wisdom to propose a plan. The Elders would raise up, train, and support an Anardaëan king. They did not want the nation to unduly rely on them, but desired to find strength and potential in Anardes itself. The Elders would act as counsellors, advisors, mentors, commanders, and leaders but would only support the rule of the one to come and subordinate themselves to him.

Thus was formed the Council of Ten—for ten Elders appeared from beyond the starlit skies—and thus began the search for Anardes’ deliverer. The Council could not leave matters regarding the weakening western frontier of Anardes unresolved while this search was underway. A great fortress was built on the mighty cliffs overlooking the Western Bay. It was named Fara’ethar, the ‘Lion’s Mane,’ for it would prove to be a symbol of the nation’s nascent might and influence. It was decided also that when the king would be found, he would take up his throne in this fortress.

At this time, the Ten Elders also began to teach the people many things. The speculative schools of philosophy and logic, the artistic elements of music, poetry, and craft, the tactical arrangements of warfare, the practical workings of construction and manufacture, and the mystical workings of life and language; these were all taught to an eager people awaiting their king.

It was Hadar, the mightiest of the Ten, who discovered a young and orphaned Ulmìr. A man of twenty years, Ulmìr met the Elder Hadar on the streets of a town now lost. Their meeting, however, has passed into legend. A journal entry from Ulmìr’s own pen reveals the fateful encounter of the two. This author would apologise for the king’s style, but in the interest of chronicling events, relevant witnesses should be left unaltered. The entry proceeds thusly:

‘I was running. Running from Kerenani mercenaries that had overrun my home. As an orphan, I did not know nor care to know the business of the important folk. The wealthy did not concern themselves with outcasts and orphans. I lived out of sight and out of mind. Living independently with a small band of friends and fellow rejects, the wider town was only a source of food and shelter, clandestinely acquired, of course. It did not matter to me. I hated the outside world, hated its greedy, selfish people. They were my enemies. I was happy to live in hidden holes and secret shacks with those few I trusted.

Yet on this day, my independence paid a terrible price. For when the Kerenani attacked, the band of orphans was unaware. No one told us to run. No one cared to lead us to safety. And so, when I had emerged to restock our supply of food, I saw only the empty streets and ransacked houses. I saw only the cold, menacing eyes of Kerenani warriors staring back into my hungry, gaunt face as they rummaged through the town’s resources.

I screamed. Not out of fear for myself, but for my friends. I had unwittingly drawn the attention of the murderous Kerenani to the only people I had cared about in my life. Funny-faced Shem, confident Meloh, and the sickly Retela. All of them were in danger. Descending into our hidey-hole, I shouted at my friends to flee. Retela had to be carried, so I held her in my arms and ran.

The chase was a blur. The footfalls of the Kerenani drew closer. As I ran through the streets, I heard my friends’ screams. Meloh fell first. Three Kerenani marauders caught up to him and ended his life. Shem fared no better. As he looked back at his pursuers, a spearman caught him from the front.

I was running. My tears flowed freely and obscured my vision. With Retela in my arms, I knew they would catch me. But I would not let go. I hated the Kerenani, hated everyone and everything. Her alone did I love. As I collapsed from exhaustion, I looked at her again. She seemed to be sleeping. Her pale face showed no awareness of our impending death. In all the madness and chaos, she was the most beautiful thing in the entire world to me.

I set her down and then looked at the approaching mercenaries. An uncontrollable rage fell over me and I arose with a determination I had never experienced before. Yelling at the top of my lungs, I rushed at my attackers. I thought of Shem and Meloh. I thought of Retela above all.

The Kerenani soldiers hesitated for a second as they saw me charging, bloodlusted and angry. That was their fatal mistake. With speed and strength unknown to me, I disarmed the first Kerenani soldier and thrust him through with his own sword. Before the other four realised what was happening, the cold touch of steel met their warm flesh.

The street ran red with Kerenani blood. I collapsed, exhausted. Tears and blood clouded my sight. I looked over to where Retela was laid down and saw a blurry figure. This one was different. He seemed to be a man, yet he appeared to be covered in majestic light. This man was not dressed in the fur and leather of the Kerenani, and he did not have their foul gaze. I felt a strange peace emanating from the figure. Yet I knew, somehow, that this peace masked a terrifying authority and power.

Before I could process my thoughts, footsteps and voices behind me announced the arrival of more Kerenani troops. I looked at them in despair and helplessness. Breathless and cold, I could do nothing as they drew closer. I clutched to my hatred and bitterness. As their spears and swords approached me, I felt myself fall into the warm arms of unconsciousness. The last images I saw were of a flurry of weapons and a furious, gleaming blade of white that devoured the darkness.

When I came to, I found myself in a different place, with a warm fire and a meal prepared for me. The stranger was watching over me. I rose with a start and inquired about Retela. Was she safe? Until I found that out, no warmth of fire or pleasure of food could satisfy me. The stranger calmed me down and pointed over to a makeshift shelter where the girl was sleeping.

I sighed and sunk lower into my bedding. The relief of seeing Retela was overshadowed by the flood of painful memory. I remembered the screams of my friends and the frenzy of my assailants.

Then, the mysterious man stood up and spoke with a voice like starlight. Noticing a white blade carved with strange runes strapped to the man’s side, I realised that the storm of swords I had dreamily seen in my last moments of consciousness earlier had been real.

‘What is your name?’ the stranger asked me.

‘Ulmìr,’ I replied hesitantly.

‘Young cub, I have seen your rage. I have seen your courage. And I have seen your love. In you is the power to lead nations and overthrow armies. By your might, deliverance will be achieved and destruction dealt. Your affection will bring blessings to all people. But your strength could lead to the rending of the world. I ask that you allow me to train and teach you to be a leader to the Anardaëan people. You have lived a life of isolation and ignorance. You despise the world, and much there is to lament indeed. But there is much good also. There is beauty and love which is worth defending. I ask that you take your stand, lead a falling people, and protect what is threatened.’

‘Who are you?’ I asked at last.

‘I am Hadar of the Ten. I am here to bring the king to his people. I am to turn the wolf into a lion.’’

It is said that when Hadar and Ulmìr met, the force of life itself quaked in anticipation and trembled in delight. The uncounted years and immeasurable strength of the Elder met the boundless courage and unwavering love of Youth.

And so Hadar brought Ulmìr before the Council of Ten and presented him as the king-to-be. The other members of the Council unanimously praised Hadar’s decision and accepted Ulmìr. The people rejoiced and the preparations began.

For two years, Hadar trained Ulmìr in the arts of combat and leadership, in warfare and in diplomacy. Ulmìr matured in wisdom and in strength. His potential was immense and his growth unsurpassed. Ulmìr’s lifeforce seemed immeasurable as he excelled in every aspect of his training. Hadar himself was surprised at the young man’s development.

In all this, Ulmìr never forgot about Retela. Though he had trained alone with Hadar, he had asked that Retela join him in his new life. She would wait and prepare to be his Queen. The thought of her kept Ulmìr going during his training, and was the reason for sudden bursts of boldness and power, as had been the case long ago. She would wait for him to return as king.

At length, the day of the coronation approached. A great festival was held at Fara’ethar. The Hall of the Elders, the great central chamber in the castle, was decorated and prepared to host this monumental event. Artisans and artists littered the streets at the entrance to the castle and celebrated the arrival of Ulmìr. Dancers and musicians raised up song and incited joyous movements.

Ulmìr arrived astride a magnificent horse with Retela at his side, followed by the Ten Elders and a great company of soldiers who would become the palace guard. As they passed the Lion Gate and strode through the street, voices and instruments mingled and filled the air. The people welcomed their king.

In the Hall of the Elders, the Council presented Ulmìr and Retela before the people. They gave their blessing and sung a song celebrating the new era Anardes would enter into. Ulmìr comported himself with grace and wisdom, and his speech of accession alleviated any remaining doubts or wariness regarding his rule.

Finally, the Elders stepped forward and each in turn blessed the royal couple. Hadar brought out the Blood Crown, a circlet forged from the red dust of the earth and the blue light of the sky. It was to be a reminder that the king was a man. While the starlight was a memoir of the Elders’ help, it was man, made of flesh and blood, who reigned. It was a man who was responsible for the deliverance of Anardes. And indeed, it was a man who became the undoing of us all.

It is difficult, with hindsight, not to pass judgment and declare Ulmìr’s behaviour a veneer hiding an insidious reality. Perhaps the king’s petulant tone, inflated sense of grandeur, and the attempted eloquence exhibited by his personal entries, all betrayed symptoms of a darker truth. Ulmìr’s speech would prove terribly prophetic, and it would not simply be his enemies who bore the cost.

It is equally hard not to bemoan how fallible even those of starlight proved to be and lament how late the Elders responded to what transpired.

How much could have been different?

No profit comes from such endless speculation, so we press on.

Ulmìr’s reign was prosperous. Under his and Retela’s leadership, Anardes grew into a vast, unified nation. With the support of the Council of Ten, Ulmìr developed means of extracting rich resources from the earth. The crafts of forging and masonry improved, and great articles of gold, silver, and precious stones were created, increasing the nation’s wealth.

It was not only Anardes’ riches that grew, however. Weapons and armour were developed as Ulmìr built up the military might of Anardes. The ongoing threat of the Kerenani and Senhìan forces was met with the conscription and training of soldiers. Under Ulmìr, warfare would become the lifeblood of Anardes.

In battle, King Ulmìr was unmatched. None could withstand his strength and influence. Ulmìr wore victory like a garment. He conquered surrounding territories and expanded Anardes’ borders. The Kerenani and Senhìan invaders were driven off the western coast forever. Not content with this, the king constructed great ships of precious wood and emblazoned their sails with the Lion of Anardes. His fleets traversed the divide and so Ulmìr brought the battle to the shores of Senhia and Kerena.

Much blood was shed in that conquest, but Ulmìr, unfazed, emerged victorious. Much more blood would have been shed, had not the Council advised Ulmìr that a diplomatic solution would be more beneficial to Anardes. Senhia and Kerena were annexed into the territory of Anardes and came under Ulmìr’s rule. Hadar, who had reluctantly agreed to teach him the art of sailing, saw a glimpse of the young, bloodlusted Ulmìr in those battles. The cub had grown into a lion indeed.

Ulmìr’s success and his apparent invincibility in battle grew his pride. Honour had become hubris, as Ulmìr’s armies continue to push the boundaries of the kingdom. The king delighted in conquest and relished in his strength. He was no longer the young man who could not keep his friends from dying. It seemed as if the Lion could truly control everything.

But Ulmìr was not only a warrior. He was a father and a husband also. He loved Queen Retela dearly. Three children were born to him. The firstborn, a daughter named Edériël. The second, a son called Elmìr. And later, the third, a daughter by the name of Ereden.

Edériël was a lover of books, music, and learning from her youth. Elmìr took after his father. He was a courageous boy who loved playing with swords. On his third birthday, his father had made him a beautiful wooden blade, light and swift. As for Ereden, Retela had hopes that she would grow into a wise woman who would manage the commercial dealings of Anardes.

Yes, and I am sure she would have...

For all his faults, in his family life Ulmìr proved that he could be pleasant and gentle. His kind demeanour toward his family and his subjects stood in marked contrast with the determined and forceful Ulmìr who fought on the battlefield. Even this writer cannot deny Anardes benefitted greatly from having a leader who could manage the harsh matters of warfare and the sensitive goings-on of running a kingdom.

The pleasant dream, however, shattered as quickly as it had come. Anardes’ golden age proved to be fleeting. Its splendour and majesty were evanescent, as Ulmìr drove the nation, and the world, to its knees.

In the seventeenth year of his reign, King Ulmìr was struck by tragedy. Whatever sickness ailed Retela in her youth returned. The Queen lay bedridden for five painful months. No medicine, no wisdom, no Eldersong could heal her. The inexorable power of death held sway over Retela and no force of life could stop the pull of the abyss.

No starlight was to be seen at her funeral. The skies themselves wept for Retela, as the forests sighed their song of mourning and the seas lamented in unison. A darkness came over Anardes that signalled a change in the times and a change in Ulmìr.

The king’s heart, blackened with pride in his absolute power, ran into the reality of death. His powerlessness in the face of death ate away at him like a poison. Something snapped inside Ulmìr as he realised there are enemies greater than his ability to conquer. He spiralled into grief and madness. He bemoaned his lack of power and his dogged refusal to accept the natural order led the world to the brink of destruction.

Hadar tried to comfort Ulmìr, but what before were soothing words of starlight now sounded harsh and shrill.

‘My king, you grieve the loss of your beloved because of death’s bitter truth. There are some forces over which even the Nodirìm have no control. Even kings stand powerless before the dark gates of death. But there is perhaps wisdom here to strengthen you. For we Nodirìm have greater sight into the workings of life, though we do not understand all its complexity. But there is a world beyond the abyss. We have caught glimpses of a land wherein the departed dwell. Hints and whispers from the stars tell of a great coming Day when what is here and what is lost shall be united once again.’

Ulmìr’s grief prevented him from accepting his friend’s condolences. Indeed, some dark design had brewed in the recesses of Ulmìr’s mind. Hadar’s words had sparked a pride yet greater than any act of arrogance before.

‘Then I will bring that Day by my own power,’ Ulmìr said.

Not much is known about Ulmìr’s activities in the few years following the death of Retela, for the king often spent time in solitude, poring over amassed scrolls of wisdom and books of knowledge. The king neglected his duties in order to devote time to research. A single entry in Ulmìr’s journal provides a glimpse of his quest at this time. This last entry is mercifully brief, even if no less presumptuous:

‘I search for that which cannot be found. I seek that which is beyond my reach. As far as the stars above are from the dust below, so the answer to this riddle is kept from me. But I will search the void and grasp the ungraspable. I will descend the depths of the abyss and bring up the unattainable.’

Reports speak of esoteric rituals and enchantments as Ulmìr left no stone unturned in his quest for control over the most basic forces of life and death. Ulmìr delved into the mysteries of lifeforce, seeking a power greater than that offered or possessed by the Elders. The Council attempted to halt this mad venture, but Ulmìr would not listen. His pride and desire for absolute power and control had consumed the remnants of the once noble man who ruled Anardes. Or is it that nobility had never truly been there, and now long-dormant vices had surfaced?

Ulmìr’s dabbling gave birth to the greatest calamity the world has ever known. In his search for strength, Ulmìr awoke something impossibly ancient, something infinitely powerful, and gave it shape. The Worldender had come. No soul can tell what dark covenant bound Ulmìr to the dragon beast brought forth from his search. It was as if death itself was embodied in the hideous form of a shadowed firedrake.

With this beast of blackened starlight under his control, the Dragonking had arrived. Ulmìr took for himself a new name: Drofulmìr. His madness was complete. No shred of conscience remained. No affection or love for the things of the world could be found in Drofulmìr. He retained only a lust for dominion and control over life. With a sword forged from the dragon’s teeth, Drofulmìr declared war on all life. All who did not bow were his enemies. All would come under his reign.

For no solace was to be found in death. Seizing control of the Worldender did not bring Retela back. This force of death did not preserve beauty or protect his people. Misery and ruin befell the world. Drofulmìr, a slave to his own mad desire, would have ended all life had the Council not intervened.

So great was the destruction wrought by Drofulmìr, so great was the devastation brought on by the Worldender, that the world itself sundered. Anardes quaked and cracked, the land becoming unstable and shifting irreparably. The westernmost portion of Anardes was rent from the mainland and flung into the sky, as the lifeforce of the world itself was thrown into turmoil. An endlessly deep scar in the sea was left in its place. Senhia and Kerena were driven even farther from Anardes. The lands to the north and east were forever cut off by immense fissures in the seas. The south collapsed entirely and was swallowed by raging oceans and the gaping abyss.

In this chaos, the Council of Ten took its stand against the Dragonking. Hadar, particularly, grieved deeply over Ulmìr’s descent into evil. But the friendship they had shared could not swerve him from carrying out the duty of protecting the world, protecting life itself. The Ten rallied the brave and willing and assembled a force to hold back those who had fallen to Drofulmìr’s influence. It was a dark day when the Elders were forced to oppose the very one they had nurtured.

I remember that day well.

On the fields before Fara’ethar, the Council made its assault. The Elders led the charge with all the strength they could muster. Many fell to Drofulmìr’s forces. Many more were taken by the Worldender. The Ten pushed through to the Hall of the Elders where Drofulmìr had presumed to take his throne over the entire world. With the Blood Crown upon his head, the red and blue now pierced with grey, the king looked down in arrogance at his former friends and mentors.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Hadar drew his white blade, gleaming with the force of a thousand stars now that his full lifeforce was committed to battle. A look of recognition passed Drofulmìr’s face, and he unsheathed his own shadowy sword. It looked alive, as it cut the air with a thousand shades of black. Life itself seemed to crumble and fade around it.

Drofulmìr fixed his onyx eyes on Hadar and spoke in a voice like deep shadows.

‘On this day I take my place as rightful ruler of all life and conqueror of death, Hadar. Stars and streams, skies and seas, all will bow down to me. But there yet remains to deal with the enemies who held me back. For I have found a shadow that burns brighter than all the starlight you can muster, a darkness that cuts deeper than the piercing light of the sun. Come, let this end here.’

For the final time, Elder met Youth, starlight against the void. Hadar himself led the Ten in combat against the Dragonking himself on that fateful day. It is said that each clash of their blades further scarred the lifeforce of the world. The land rocked and reeled as steel met bone and light faced darkness.

Then a roar like a halted song encompassed all. The Worldender had joined the fray. With Hadar occupied, the other Elders held the Worldender at bay as it swooped the castle weaving through spears of light and spewing black flame. At once, they shielded those who were still fighting in the castle grounds and attempted their own offensive against the winged beast.

But the battle was not to be won by crashing swords, for the combined effort of the Ten could not hinder the monster that Ulmìr had become. The wolf had become a dragon. His command over the forces of life and death and his mastery of weaponry could not be overcome. Ulmìr would win and have dominion over all things. His shadow would encompass and swallow the world. The Worldender would devour all life and leave a kingdom of death and decay in its wake.

So in this last, desperate hour, the Council of Ten put one final plan into motion. Since the Dragonking could not be destroyed, the Elders poured their lifeforce into a song of sealing. The Elders’ strength would diminish, but the energy of their song would bind the Dragonking and restrain the Worldender. What straining blades could not achieve their voices would attempt. And so the Nodirìm began to sing,

A king to whom all splendored nations turn—

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‘Are you still reading those old stories?’ called a voice like icy winter from somewhere on the deck of a boat. It came muffled at first, but then cut through the immersive embrace of the story with cold clarity.

Asphales set down the book. His friend’s call had snapped him back to reality, back to the gentle lapping of the waves and the rhythmic bobbing of the fishing vessel on the sea. The salty smell of seawater and the pungent odour of fish returned and dispelled the mirage of ancient tales and forgotten heroes.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting its golden light onto the surface of the Silent Sea. The light splintered into a thousand glistening shards on the water, and for a second Asphales recalled Hadar’s sword of pure white light.

Asphales ran his hands along the book’s cover, well-worn with use, and looked at his friend, whose piercing topaz gaze was still fixed on him. ‘These old stories are precious to me, Valinos,’ he said defensively, his voice like the summer breeze.

‘Well, I wish you’d stop filling your head with them and get back to work,’ replied Valinos. ‘Come on, fisherman. Help the crew with their catch. We’ll be back in Silnodìr by sunset.’ His eyes were stern. Expectant.

Complying with his friend’s request, Asphales placed the velvet-bound volume in his bag, stashed it near the cabin, and stood up to offer his help. Men moved laboriously about the boat, checking the rigging, working the nets, and setting the sails. Their movements were rough as nails, but efficient as clinking cogs. They heaved and spat and swore and lifted, the captain more than most.

Asphales was not a fisherman by nature, but his love of the sea often drew him to seek passage on fishing trips and expeditions. It was a love instilled in him by his father, who many years ago taught him the ways of the sea and the managing of ships before disappearing while on a voyage. There was a storm. A wreck. A pained memory.

Where do you go, father? When are you coming back to me?

But today was not a day for remembering. It was not a dark day. It was a day for work and labour. It was a day for dreaming. For even that tragedy did not deter Asphales, and now a man of twenty-three, he knew the northern coast of Anardes as well as any fisherman or sailor worth his salt. But not owning a vessel of his own meant he had to content himself with the travels of others, offering his help and expertise in exchange for the chance to kindle his love of the sea. The seas uncharted by the seamen of Silnodìr were a distant, unattainable dream.

Asphales would have loved nothing more than to acquire his own vessel and sail beyond the Dragon’s Horn in the west, where the Silent Sea met the unknown expanse of oceans unmapped. Tales said those waters were cursed with unnatural tempests and sea monsters. He dreamt of travelling south as well, past the forests and mountains and into the seas that surely laid there, waters travelled by Kerenani and Senhìan invaders in an age long gone. Asphales wanted to see if the world was truly fragmented because of Ulmìr’s madness. He wanted to know if the stories were true.

But the reality was Asphales simply could not afford his fantasies. For though the docks of Silnodìr were lucrative enough, trading not merely in fish and stock but also in ships, Asphales did not earn enough coin on his ventures but to pay for necessities. His dreams were confined within the covers of a book.

Losing his father to the sea was painful, but when his mother, too, mysteriously vanished not long after, it made living very difficult. The generosity and hospitality of the village had depleted by the time Asphales had come of age and so he tried to drown that pain in the necessary work paying for his food and shelter.

But Asphales could not sever dream from memory. Even as he worked, even as he went about the mindless task of minding the nets, they came. Even as he dreamt nebulously of a day when he would sail on his own, they came. Like the endless tide, the memories returned. They always did. Sometimes they came as a gentle surf that slipped beneath his feet and swept him out before he was even aware he treaded water. Other times they rushed as crashing waves and dashed him against jagged cliffs, cruel and callous.

No. He reminded himself it was not a day for remembering. He gazed across the vessel to his friend. Valinos was assisting a burly fellow to secure the rigging. Asphales smiled. The toned arms of a smithy were a great boon for the manual tasks.

Valinos was Asphales’ only companion, who was alike to him only in the shared tragedy of having lost his parents. But whereas for Asphales that was a childhood wound, a pain felt since the confusion and questioning of his early years, Valinos had never known his father and mother. The residents of Silnodìr remembered only that an infant suddenly appeared in the village, apparently left by travellers or nomads.

Disillusioned with idealistic stories and fantasies, Valinos grew up without the guidance of parents and the warmth of family. Asphales knew his own cheerful optimism and infatuation with heroism irked him. He knew Valinos had no love for his love of tales. He deemed his dreams foolish. But the two had nonetheless forged a friendship that more resembled a brotherhood. For all their differences, that is what Asphales held on to.

Valinos walked over, seeming not entirely pleased. ‘Fallen asleep on the job again, friend?’ he asked.

Asphales realised he had left the nets hanging for some time.

‘Can’t even leave a fisherman to a fisherman’s task,’ Valinos quipped with a sly smile. He added his hands to the nets.

As Asphales and Valinos finished managing the large catch of fish and the vessel sailed south, the docks of Silnodìr came into view. Hemmed by the rocky wastes culminating in the Dragon’s Horn to the west and the beginning of the snow-capped Undorn Range to the east, Silnodìr was a bustling, lively town in the midst of inhospitable barrenness at the end of the Imperial Road.

Its folk were peaceful and hardworking, preferring the practical trades of the hand rather than the speculative exercises of the mind. But whereas one would not go to Silnodìr to ask esoteric questions regarding the nature of dust and starlight, its abundance in skilled craftsmen of all kinds, fishermen, miners, traders, builders, and armourers was second only to the capital itself. That is what Asphales had always heard, anyway.

As Asphales and Valinos returned home, a familiar sight greeted them. Sunset announced the end of day with its array of orange flames. The stalls and stands of the dock markets bustled with activity, every seller and trader hurrying to make business while the light lasted. The accustomed cacophony of business railed against the oncoming mellowness of night. The gentle breeze brought the usual aroma of baked goods, dried meats, fresh oil and spices, and the less appetising odours of newly hewn stone, cut wood, tanned leather, and tempered steel, and mixed them with the ever-present smell of fish.

Other fishing ships had already returned from their voyages, swaying tenderly in the docks by the dozens, their masts casting long finger-shadows in the dying light. The newly returned vessel settled at an empty dock and cast its anchor, as the sailors and fishermen exited with their catch, eager to join the hustle and bustle of the markets. The captain waved angrily at the departing workers as Asphales stepped onto the planks and walked out onto the docks. The captain was always angry, Asphales realised. He could not imagine why. He smiled.

Asphales and Valinos carried their share of the load and joined the commotion, passing through hordes of people in the waning light. The net on their shoulders sagged with the weight of fish. The stares and smiles of the market-goers indicated that it was a good catch indeed. But Asphales caught something else in their gazes as well, barely detectable behind their good-natured faces. Something he knew too well. He lowered his eyes. A particularly eager, bright-faced fisherman came forward and complimented the pair. Attired in a simple tunic colourless with use, he comfortably suited the ragged thing like only a seaman could.

‘Ah, mighty fine catch tha’ is,’ he said. ‘Heavens know we nee’ it at a time like this.’

Asphales turned to him and smiled, fixing his jasper eyes on the fisherman with delight.

‘We’re glad to do our part in feeding the town, Turos.’

‘Aye, an’ a good thing too. With the farms in the south goin’ the way they are, it’s fishin’ that will put food on the table, mark me words,’ Turos said dramatically. ‘Don’t listen to what my brother Turon says, ye better get use’ to the taste o’ fish.’

‘Right. Well, the town will do well with you in charge of the fishing, Turos,’ said Asphales. ‘We need all the experience we can muster these days. Pity we didn’t sail together today.’

‘Right you are, boy,’ Turos said proudly. ‘We gon’ nee’ to look out fer ourselves here. The south ain’t safe no more. There’s talk o’ bandits and robbers, there is. I know there’s no king an’ all, but it’d be nice if the Empire paid attention to our lands way out here.’ For a moment Turos looked his age, each wrinkle telling a story of worry and perseverance, his eyes speaking of hardship and persistence. ‘It’s probably nothin’ big, but if it were Kerenani—’

‘We’d best be on our way, Turos,’ interrupted Valinos. ‘Thank you for the news.’ He turned coldly and dragged the net, signalling for Asphales to come.

‘Have a good evening, Turos,’ said Asphales, surprised at first but compliant with Valinos’ desire to leave. It did not take him long to understand. Valinos was afraid the mention of the Kerenani would spark his imagination once more. He probably did not fancy another hour-long conversation about the legendary sea-raiders. The Kerenani should be left to proverbs and children’s stories. To foolish tales and histories.

‘Oh, alrigh’ then,’ Turos said. ‘See you, lads. Turon will be just ahead, awaitin’ your catch. May the sea keep watch…’ he droned, beginning a traditional fisherman’s benediction.

‘…and the fish taste sweet as the winds find your sail,’ finished Asphales, knowing the correct response.

Turos began to hum a fisherman’s tune with his usual cheeriness and disappeared in the crowd as Asphales and Valinos turned to drop off the fish and receive their pay. Going further near town, they found Turon’s stall. Unlike the open-aired stalls of the markets, Turon housed his place of business in a shack; closed from the outside, save for a small wooden door on the side.

As Asphales and Valinos stepped inside, the sounds of the marketplace died and were replaced by a silence punctured only by the quiet crackling of flame. The several torches on the wall were the only source of light inside, but they proved brighter than the dying day outside. The place had the stiffness of formality and business about it, a trait shared by the owner who sat buried in ledgers and papers behind a mahogany counter.

Turon, alike to Turos only in looks, was a man of few words and fewer smiles. A baker by nature, but with skill in the arts of commerce and trade, Turon handled the business side of Turos’ fishing ventures in Silnodìr. On this fine Kingsdell evening Turon wore his most business-like expression. No hint of flour or yeast adorned the man, and instead of the harsh baker’s apron Turon sported a silken doublet of black and silver.

Asphales and Valinos placed the fishnet down onto some rags with a satisfying thump. The man behind the counter took no notice, but shuffled a few papers around and reached for a quill pen. The sudden sound of the net only heightened the growing quiet. Turon continued scribbling in a ledger before bringing out a leather bag.

‘Any news, Turon?’ asked Asphales, hoping to break the awkward silence with conversation. He rubbed his shoulders vacantly, relieved at the lightness which sunk in.

Turon did not halt or even look up while counting out their coin. ‘I hear talk of a brigade of Imperial guards nearing Silnodìr. Their torches and banners have been spotted coming up the Imperial Road not one hour past.’

‘The Imperial Guard?’ asked Asphales, almost squealing.

‘Yes. Perhaps they have finally come to take you two undesirables away,’ said Turon with unfeigned scorn.

‘What do you—’ began Asphales but was interrupted by Turon. The businessman finally looked up and settled disdainful eyes on him.

‘Look, I may pay you a fair wage for fair work, but it does not mean I enjoy your company or endorse your… condition. Silnodìr is a town built on noble trades run by reputable families,’ said Turon, accenting the last word painfully. ‘It is no place for vagabonds and the sons of deserters.’

A deep shadow fell over Asphales’ face. Valinos, who had stood silent and composed, now lowered his head and began breathing audibly. The sting of Turon’s words was obvious and deep.

‘Especially him,’ the businessman began.

‘That’s enough, Turon,’ said Asphales. ‘We get it.’ Turon sniffed and returned to his ledger.

‘Thank you for the pay.’ Asphales snatched the money off the counter. Six iron dens and two silver shelehi. Enough coin to purchase necessities for at least a tide. But there came no comfort from the weighty feeling the sum garnered in his purse.

He and Valinos quickly left the silence of Turon’s lodging and its deceptively warm light, exiting into the cool breeze of evening and the sounds of life. The commotion of the markets had died down, and with stores and stall closing up for the night, the chatter and noise of the crowd had moved toward the residential part of Silnodìr. The great path connecting the marketplace to the housing estates was now swarmed by people eager to return to their homes, coins in pocket and goods in hand.

Most of the marketplace regulars and vendors themselves lived on the outskirts of the residential district, so as to minimise travel between home and work. Asphales and Valinos, however, stayed at the far south end of the village, near the Imperial Road itself and the Main Gate. A long walk awaited them, so as the two made off solemnly toward their home, faces downcast, Asphales attempted to revitalise conversation.

‘Valinos, you worked well today,’ he began. ‘But I am confused. You hate fishing. You don’t even like the sea. Why did you come along?’

Valinos lifted his face, his drooping black hair parting to reveal eyes shot with a pain Asphales knew was often felt. He looked up. The sky had darkened. Stars were beginning to dot the deepening expanse. Valinos eyed a great eagle circling the village in the twilight distance.

‘You’re right, I am not fond of the sea,’ Valinos said. ‘I prefer the freedom of the sky. But work is work and pay is pay. At least one of us has to earn the coin to maintain our home,’ he added coolly, but with a subtle smile.

Asphales was pleased to see the change in his friend’s mood. Genuinely interested to find out more about Valinos’ hitherto unknown love, he pressed further.

‘What is it about the sky that draws you so?’ he inquired.

Valinos paused in thought. Asphales remembered the rare times of idleness when they would simply lie down and stare into the open sky or climb the rocks of the Dragon’s Horn in order to somehow get closer to the heavens. Freedom. Had those moments begotten an unexpressed affection in Valinos?

‘The sky is so mysterious, so unknown,’ he began. ‘The land has been explored. Its pathways are well known. Men have even made great ships to sail the seas. But who can claim to have soared to the heavens and delved into the deep storehouses of the expanse above?’

The great eagle above shrieked cheerfully, as if in response to Valinos’ question.

Asphales, surprised at his friend’s sudden melancholic and poetic outburst, could not help but chuckle. ‘I had not known you to have an affection for daydreams and fantasies, Valinos.’

‘If only I could reach it,’ Valinos muttered, ignoring Asphales’ comment. ‘I could be far, far away from here.’

Asphales quietly gaped at his friend, awaiting elaboration. The two walked onward for some time before Valinos continued. Their path winded between wooden houses of indistinct shape and colour in the approaching night.

Away from the chatter of the markets and with all other residents now returned to their homes, the path was empty. Their footfalls were the only sounds piercing the silence. Soon a symphony of crickets and other night insects joined the droning drumbeat of their footsteps.

‘Asphales,’ he said, ‘I’m sure you sense it as well. We don’t belong here. You lost your family. I never knew mine. This town of Silnodìr, with its structures of family and kin, doesn’t welcome us. You can feel it behind their eyes, however openly they accept our labour.’

‘Valinos, don’t let the bitter words of a baker cloud your judgment,’ said Asphales. ‘Silnodìr is a well-meaning town, and I, for one, am grateful for it. We grew up here, we live here—’

‘It’s not just the baker!’ snapped Valinos.

Asphales squirmed uneasily. The sounds of the night died, as if in sudden fear of Valinos’ outburst.

‘It’s not just the baker,’ Valinos repeated, ‘and you know it. You feel it too. You find your solace in the sea and in your books, while I… Well, truth be told, I don’t know what there is for me…’

‘Well, you’re right about the book, Valinos,’ said Asphales. ‘The story does comfort me. Perhaps there is more to the world than fishing and smithing. More to be found than ships and swords and marketplaces. I know you don’t like it, but maybe this book that I’ve treasured all my life… maybe it really tells of a great narrative in which we could find our place.’

‘Don’t be foolish, Asphales,’ Valinos retorted. ‘The story is just that. A story. I grant you that it contains historical references. Everyone knows that Anardes was founded by King Ulmìr over four hundred years ago.’ He shrugged. ‘Ulmìr delivered the kingdom from the Kerenani and Senhìan invaders. But all this talk of dragons, and lifeforce… and Elders! It’s a fable. What reputable author would so shamelessly mix history and myth?’

Asphales fell quiet. He felt the sting of his friend’s words, mocking what was precious to him. He would never forget the day he found the book in his home. Heavy rain fell and the clouds obscured all light above Silnodìr. The close and stifled air drowned even his heart in grey and black. Lightning alone occasioned evanescent rays of white. They lit through the melancholy and quickly disappeared. Raindrops covered the town in a gloomy shower of noise, permeated by the deep rumble of thunder.

It had been the day that he had lost his mother, not long after the disappearance of his father at sea. Asphales, eleven years old at the time, woke one morning to her absence. No darkness that day could overshadow the blackness that had fallen on him; no heavenly downpour could overwhelm his tears; no deafening rain could drown out his calls. But it was on that day that he found the book in his room, lying in an open chest he had never seen before. In the dark and cold of his chamber, through tear-filled eyes and a lamp’s weak light, he began to read.

Asphales became aware of the book’s weight in his bag. His thoughts wandered to the title, On the Reign of King Ulmìr, and its enigmatic author, signalled only by the initials ‘E.E.’ All his life, Asphales could not shake the feeling that his parents had entrusted this volume to him, perhaps to relay a message that could not be delivered safely in the open. He could not help but feel the reason his father taught him the letters was to read this book.

Beyond that, he could not remember much of his parents. His father’s gleaming smile had all but faded, his name lost to the forgetfulness of time and the vagaries of Silnodìr. His mother Thalassia was more vivid in his mind. Her voice wheeled like the stars above on the canvas of his memory, warm yet remote, radiant yet distant. But the only words she ever spoke now were the ones written neatly on the first page of the book. Her lovely cursive handwriting. Her final note. Her voice.

Be brave, my little hero.

The waves broke through. Asphales was struck by the weight of loneliness and the crushing pangs of loss. He clutched at his chest in a desperate attempt to alleviate the distance. It was not a day for remembering. It was not…

The silence became heavy. Valinos, noticing the pain, regretted his words. ‘I am sorry, my friend,’ he apologised. ‘I didn’t mean to offend, but it is for your good that I say this. You don’t belong there.’

‘Whatever you say,’ Asphales offered weakly. ‘But I will find the meaning of this book and the truth behind its story… one day.’

The two friends walked the rest of the way without speaking, each deep in thought. Torches had sprung into life around them, the guiding flames indicating that night had truly fallen on Silnodìr and the people prepared to rest before another day of busyness.

Asphales and Valinos approached their lodgings, the Main Gate looming ominously in the evening darkness on their right. A turn into an alley near the gate would bring them to their home, but as they drew near they became aware of a commotion. Excited voices filled the air and the clanging of sticks sounded out. As the two turned the corner, the source of the surprising clamour revealed itself. Four children were busy at play near Asphales’ home, looking to be rehearsing for a momentous battle. They were quite unaware of the settling lull and mellow of the night.

Asphales announced his presence with a loud clear of his throat. The children turned, and when they saw who had arrived, their eyes lit up, and they ran towards Asphales. Clearly, they had been waiting for this moment. The sight of the children melted the gloominess Asphales had felt during the trip home.

‘Asphales! Asphales!’ they shouted, running cheerfully. ‘We’ve been waiting for you!’

Oblivious to the travellers’ tiredness and the stench of fish, the children gathered around them. Asphales bent down on one knee to greet them. ‘Indeed. I’m sorry, I had quite forgotten.’

Valinos stood by and looked taken aback. ‘Forgot about what?’ he asked.

Asphales winced. Valinos would surely not be pleased with what came next. Before he could offer an excuse, a voice spoke up.

‘Asphales is going to play with us,’ said Demin, a young boy of nine years. ‘He’s going to help us in the battle of the Ten Elders against the evil Ulmìr.’

The other three children shouted in agreement. Valinos was flabbergasted. ‘So, your foolish tales have found an audience, have they?’ he asked his friend, annoyance barely hidden.

‘They sure has,’ came the eager reply from Aman, a boy of seven years, Demin’s brother. ‘Told us all about the Dragonking and his kingdom, about the Ten Elders and their powers.’

Asphales laughed. ‘But I don’t see ten of you,’ he commented, pointing out the obvious shortcoming in actors.

‘The others went home,’ informed Renehos, the oldest child among them, a boy of eleven. ‘We’ll have to make do with who we have.’

‘That’s why we will need all the help we can get,’ offered Neansa, a girl ten years old. She turned gingerly to Valinos, whose disinterest would hopefully be dismantled by this loyal following. ‘Will you join us?’ she asked. ‘Will you be Ulmìr?’

‘Yeah, you’ll be great!’ cried Aman. ‘You’re scary like him, and Asphales said Ulmìr had black hair too!’

Asphales turned to Valinos, afraid that he would take Aman’s childish excitement as an insult and perhaps declare the whole affair foolish, but Valinos made no appearance of contempt. Instead, he knelt down beside them and with his usual cold smile said, ‘Fine. I will be your Ulmìr.’

Shouts of excitement arose from the four children. Asphales sighed quietly. A quick glance into Valinos’ eyes—keen yet distant blue—confirmed his suspicion. This was Valinos’ way of apologising for the harsh words earlier. Asphales nodded and smiled, then turned his attention back to the children.

‘Well, there yet remain a few roles to be decided. Who will play Hadar the Mighty?’ he asked, expecting a quarrel to break out over this most popular role.

The answer was surprisingly unanimous. ‘You will,’ the four said in unison.’ But Demin added, ‘Only if you teach us the song tonight, like you promised.’

‘It will be my pleasure to be Hadar,’ Asphales said proudly. ‘And to teach you the song,’ he added, noting their dissatisfaction.

They laughed and cheered. Valinos shook his head and smiled. Asphales was glad to see the excitement at the prospect of playing heroes wear away at his hard edges. Even if he thought them forgotten and mythical, the children’s energy was irresistible.

Asphales stood up. ‘What about you four?’ he questioned.

‘I want to play Seginus the Gallant,’ said Renehos.

‘I will take Deneb the Bold,’ affirmed Demin.

‘Beìd the Cunning for me,’ declared Aman.

‘I want to be Izara the Fair,’ Neansa said last of all.

‘Fine choices, all of you,’ said Asphales approvingly. ‘Their starlight burned brightly in the fight against Ulmìr.’ Turning to Valinos, Asphales said, ‘I hope you’ve prepared yourself, Vali—I mean, Ulmìr. We shall not relent.’

With a shout, Asphales routed the children, who ran to where they had left branches and sticks in order to pick up instruments of war. Renehos, Demin, Aman, and Neansa took up their well-rehearsed positions. Asphales directed Valinos and instructed him as to where to stand and what to say. Valinos was lacking somewhat in enthusiasm for this charade but complied nonetheless. Asphales, too, positioned himself and gave the order for battle.

Their shouts and cheers rose to break the night’s silence. Asphales played a perfect Hadar, valiant and heroic. Valinos had trouble remembering Ulmìr’s lines but he pulled off the menacing voice well. The children carried out their roles with all the energy and captivated imagination of youth.

Laughter filled the air. There was no chill, no evening stillness, only bliss and joy. For a moment, everything was perfect. Asphales and Valinos forgot the suspicious stares of the townspeople; they forgot Turon’s jeers and the sinking feeling of despair. The fear of being aimlessly lost and not belonging were displaced by the happiness of the moment. Immersed in a world long gone, in the shoes of heroes now unknown, Asphales, Valinos, and the children escaped all the troubles and distress of Silnodìr, with only the stars above as a silent audience.

But just as Hadar and Ulmìr were to clash their blades one last time, just as Seginus, Deneb, Beìd, and Izara surrounded the Dragonking as the battle drew to a close, the illusion ended. Loud, rhythmical footfalls and the brightness of a dozen torches broke the spell. The story closed abruptly and the actors found themselves in their small seaside town again.

Asphales turned to see a group of the Imperial Guard approaching, their unified march drumming against the quiet of the night. Starlight and torch flame glistened on their silver armour adorned with lion motifs. Their capes were ornamented with the Lion of Anardes, defiant roar captured in the smoothest scarlet silk.

They entered the site where a dramatic battle had been enacted moments earlier, but the company’s intimidating approach ended all playfulness. Their weapons of silver and steel, sharpened and glinting with moonlight, dwarfed the rough, brown wooden sticks carried by the children.

An important-looking fellow broke rank and stepped forward. He was clad in identical armour as the rest save for a golden sash on his left shoulder-plate indicating his rank. Underneath his silver helmet, his deep-set eyes and firm nose could be seen. His broad, straight shoulders carried the air of officiality and seriousness.

‘Hail, citizen,’ he spoke gruffly. ‘Ledner, a captain of the Imperial Guard, greets you in the name of Amaleron, Steward of the Blood Throne of Anardes.’

Asphales motioned for the children to scurry behind him. They dropped their makeshift weapons and hurried away.

Asphales turned to the man who introduced himself as Ledner. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked apprehensively. ‘Who are you looking for?’

‘Asphales Esélinor,’ came the sharp reply.