Arc I: Land of the Human
Chapter 1. New Blood
Sixteen of Volinikus
Year of 1255 of the Sixteenth Cycle
Ravenwatch Keep.
It is, perhaps, both the most insane and the most humorous thing that the world has ever done. Reymond had received the news; that his son had been born. Sweat drips down his brow, and where there should be happiness there is only indignation.
The question rings in his head; why now? After all these years, why did the Gods decide to give him a child now. It should be bliss, triumph, glory and excitement… but it feels like punishment.
He’s sweating when he pushes open the thick wooden door to a deathly-quiet room. Only a single candle flickers, hopeless to illuminate the darkness. Tressan herbs fill the air; those designed to be a sword shoved deeply into the gut of birth-pain.
The midwives have left them, and his wife rocks her… their newborn in her arms.
Besides the bed, only a table and chair remain in the room. His footsteps creak the old wood, and where normally he would employ his normal method of silent walking, here he is far too tired. It was only a couple days past that he fought for his life.
He can barely raise his arms. He’s getting old. He’s getting tired. Careless mistakes on his part could lead to his death, but his opponents can revel in their failures. They are not of weak Houses.
Despite the dark room, unlit even by Lightlamps, and despite the nature of his tiredness and the despite the faded kinship of the women that stares deeply into his eyes, he is afflicted with happiness; for the boy she cradles is both a great omen of success… and a horrible, horrible torment.
He’s so silent, and upon his forehead lies a blue mark; the symbol of human noble birth — and a sign that he is born of the Bluefeather Ravens, House Daai, like his Father and his father before that.
He puts his meaty hand down towards the child, and the women offers him up. They don’t speak a word, a vast expanse between them had formed many years ago, and the void had only grown in the forty years of unfruitful marriage. This… thing, this child… It wasn’t meant to happen.
They’d tried anything, everything. He had hired the greatest doctors, had imbibed the post potent herbs of the Tressa, and even sought the Motari to sing their spellsongs through long nights. Even so far as to empty the last remains of the House Daai’s coffers to hire hunters, their mission to capture a live Atacchnai and use it to force a child to grow inside her.
None of it had worked.
It would be wholly wrong to say they had given up — but they had been resigned to the fate. That House Daai would continue to falter, childless and without future, until the day came that he got so old he could no longer fight, or until the day he died to a pimply boy he could not kill for fear of retribution. With him and her, the legacy of two Houses would die.
Now a dark future contains a spark of light, but it is a bad omen for the child to be born in the dark. The man raises his hand, removing the gloom from the bedroom with a outpouring of Light blazing from his hand, a beacon of hope. The women joins, and the boy squirms as though he could feel the warmth of the sun through their release.
The boy will be a Lightblade to surpass all others, he will be the next Champion of Humanity as the Sorcerer-King was before him. He will avenge all insults dealt, rebuild all structures crumbled.
The man’s face grows dark, his resolve deepening, feeding from his happiness even at the cost of it. His light goes out. There is work to be done.
It will be another twenty years before the boy will be ready. He does not know if he can survive that long.
The other Houses stake claim in the Das’en’uei, and they try to take whatever they wish. They make alliances and creep in the dark, cowards one and all; each making a claim — knowing that Reymond must concede something, for he cannot fight all of them. And so his House falters.
He looks at the boy… so innocent. So weak. It is a sign of the Gods Above that they have given them a child, but it is a chilling mockery for how late they have done it. He had begun to calm the fear in his heart; begun to full realise that his dream would not come true… and now they taunt him, ask him to rise to the challenge.
He slumps to the ground, placing his head on the bedside. The women doesn’t speak a word; she hasn’t for the duration of their marriage. Even today, of all days, it remains so.
The wind blows softly outside, for the first time in months.
“Kyallan.” He says.
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27 of Motarit
Year of 1264 of the Sixteenth Cycle
Ravenwatch Keep.
’Edgehaven. Once a small town of modest riches, it became an extremely important port city — and eventual capital — under the Sorcerer-King’s reign. Whilst the lands of the Human were not known for their business acumen or particular skill in trade, nor for any advanced design on the behalf of water-bound vessels, the influx of slaves brought on by the myriad Wars of Domination created a great economic surplus, the result of which would need to be transferred almost exclusively by sea due to uncertainty of land routes.’
- History of the Human, Sixteenth Cycle; p. 67.
"And so it was that the Sorcerer-King's army marched onto the field, the ground shaking beneath the heavy boots of his soldiers. After a series of skirmishes, the Sorcerer-King's forces engaged the enemy. The air filled with the deafening roar of runic muskets, spitting small balls of iron in the thousands, mowing down the hordes of the disgusting Atacchnai. Their spidery forms crumbled like brittle twigs under the weight of the Sorcerer-King's wrath. The battle was won, and the Sorcerer-King emerged victorious. He banished the defeated Atacchnai back to their dark caves, sealing the entrance to the Underneath. From that day on, the vile creatures never dared to venture out into the light of day again!"
I am lying on a soft bed, with my mother seated beside me, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders. She clutches the book tightly, her fingers delicately turning the pages. Her other hand holds a single finger up in the air, and a dim ball of light illuminates the aged pages.
She glances over at me, and I shut my eyes as quick as I can. I’m meant to be trying to sleep, but the stories of the Sorcerer-King excite me so. The light glows dimmer until she releases it all together. Now the room is dark, but it allows the moonlight to flood the room. A good Lightblade always catches the full Light of the morning, for that is the most potent Light of them all.
Mother stands up from the bed, her long black hair falling loosely over her shoulders. I reach out and grab hold of her robe, not ready for the stories to end.
She smiles down at me and says, "Another one, Kyallan? Which one do you want to hear this time?" I look up at her with big, pleading eyes. "Please, Mother. Can you tell me the one about the gods? About how they chose the Sorcerer-King, just like they chose me?"
She considers for a moment, tapping her chin with her finger, briefly spilling light from her finger so I can see her face. "Well, my dear, I don't have much light left. I need a big, strong Lightblade to light up the pages for me. Do you think you can do that?"
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, focusing all my attention on the light in my hand. I visualise a mould, that of a small ball, and feel my Power crunch and spark against the Light, forcing the stubborn stuff to move.
Like a waterfall in reverse, it pushes upward out of my palm, filling the framework, and it jiggles like pudding. I can’t make it perfectly solid like Mother and Father can, at least not yet.
“Come on Kyallan - softlight isn’t good enough. Remember what your Father taught you. Imagine the shape you want to make - then carve it out of light. If you can’t do this, I can’t read.”
I focus on the image in my head. Father had given me a golden sphere, heavy and perfectly round. I try to imagine that as hard as I possibly can until I feel something click. The softlight slithers up the air itself, before connecting at the top, still dripping - but unmistakably a sphere.
It’s far too bright in the dark, but I can’t control that yet. Father can make weapons, shields, and armour from Hardlight, all in the blink of an eye! He can even make it look shiny, like a metal sword, if he wants to.
I’m not sure why you would use a metal sword if you could make one out of Hardlight. As Mother admires my softlight creation, I can't help but feel a surge of pride in my chest. The way it illuminates the room fills me with a sense of accomplishment, but I look to Mother.
Will I ever be able to create Hardlight like Father and Mother? Will I ever be a true Lightblade like them?
My gaze drifts to the book and the illustration of the Sorcerer-King. His heroic stance and the adoring looks of his allies surrounding him stir something inside me. I yearn to be like him, to have the power and influence to change the world.
One day, I vow to myself, I will be a hero too, a Lightblade of great renown, just like the Sorcerer-King.
I turn to Mother and ask, "Can you tell me more about the Sorcerer-King, Mother? I want to know everything about him, his battles, his victories, his triumphs."
And so, she begins to recount the epic tales of the Sorcerer-King, and I listen with rapt attention, my mind already filled with the dreams of greatness that lie ahead. The wind blows harshly outside.
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11 of Humanera
Year of 1267 of the Sixteenth Cycle
Sparing Ring near the border to House Kaelis' territory
From the hill overlooking our keep, Mother watches over the field where Father and I spar. Wooden fences enclose a small plot of sand in the centre of a lush and vibrant landscape. The sky is dark and foreboding, a sign that rain will soon fall. Red flowers grow around the sparring area, their stems thickening and petals deepening in colour with every wound inflicted. Despite his sweat and dust-covered form, Father remains focused on me, his young opponent.
Though I am still a child, he never breaks his gaze, even as he pants heavily from the exertion. As we spar, our Hardlight creations clash and crack against each other, the ever-present sunlight streaming down to allow us to mend any damage done. Father is relentless, pushing me to my limits both physically and mentally. It's not just about wielding Power; I must also develop the endurance and stamina to last in prolonged battles.
No matter how strong my magic is, without the physical ability to move and fight for extended periods, I will never be able to emerge victorious. We must spar whenever the weather does not send large spikes of ice or paper-thin pieces of razor-sharp ice-glass.
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It has made me long for rainy days. Our keep, Ravenwatch, sucks in the light of the midday, the Dawnstone practically drinking the sun. Later, when the sun has been felled by the moon, it shall glow resplendent in a light invisible to the eye and fill us with Light as we eat and sleep. It will power the cascades, channels of blue light that run through the keep, ensuring we do not fumble in the dark corridors.
My Father snaps his fingers.
"Kyallan, release your guard. We'll take a break and drink some water," Father says, dissipating his blade. I hesitate, knowing that he has tested me before by feigning rest and then attacking when I drop my guard. But he turns his back and walks over to the nearby well, pulling up the bucket. I follow, sheathing my blade and removing my plate.
He hands me a wooden cup. As Father goes to bring the bucket over, he pauses, and my eyes instinctively narrow, watching his hips for any sudden movement.
He smiles as he sees. “Good. You’ve taken my words to heart. What were they, exactly?”“So long as we are on these sands, we are mortal enemies. I will not hesitate to strike a killing blow.” I repeat, verbatim what he told me the very first time I stood here and Conjured a blade. He nods. “I have a lesson to teach, so for the next minute or so, we have a truce. That, I swear.”
I nod, warily observing as he reaches for the bucket and pours water into our cups. It's a small gesture, but one that holds weight. Normally, he would pour his own cup first, then mine.
But this time, he presses our cups together, letting the water spill over onto the sand. As the cups fill up, droplets escape down the sides and drip onto the sandy ground below.
He places a reassuring hand on my shoulder, prompting me to crouch down with him. Then, he plunges his cup into the wet sand, showing that only half the cup has been filled -- the rest has been spilt.
“Do you see Kyallan? What happens when you try to share? There was enough water to fill both, but now it coats the ground instead. If you wish to drink, if you wish to eat or have clothes on your back. If you wish to find love, have children or own your own land - then you must always be willing to take.
There must never be a hesitation, only an impulse. When you have taken, you may then choose to be benevolent and give. You will always be the person you can trust most. Do not let others make decisions for you. Take the water, drink your fill and then; and only then, should you consider to share.”
I look down at my cup. “But Father, there is a well. Can we simply not draw more water?”
He laughs. “Yes, yes, we could. But what if a thousand people wished to draw from this well? A hundred thousand? What would happen then?”
I continue to listen intently as he speaks, trying to absorb every word. "There would be no more water," I surmise. He nods, confirming my understanding. "If there is no more water, then you will be unable to drink as well," he adds. "You have watered so many people, and for what? They will not remember you or repay the favour.
There are no laws or regulations that will always save you. They can be used to your advantage, you could imprison or execute all those that drank, but that will not make the water come back. It is smarter to ensure that it never comes to pass. Safeguard what you have and ensure nobody else can take it unless you deem it." I contemplate his words, realising their weight and importance. "How?" I ask eagerly. "How do I safeguard it?"
“By never, ever letting down your guard.” He says, then Conjures a dagger in the blink of an eye, putting the tip to my throat. I feel a surge of fear and adrenaline as he holds the dagger to my throat, but I force myself to remain calm and composed. As he drinks from my cup, I can't help but feel a twinge of unease.
Is he trying to make a point? Or is he simply testing me?
I take a deep breath and try to focus on his words. "But what if someone stronger comes along?" I ask. "What if they try to take what's mine?"
He lowers the dagger and looks at me intently. "Then you fight," he says simply. "You fight with everything you have, and you don't give up until you've won. You protect what's yours, and you don't let anyone take it from you." I nod, feeling a renewed sense of determination. I will protect what's mine, no matter what. And I will fight with everything I have to keep it. He takes the dagger away. “Now, we will drink.”
I stand up, and walk over to the well, ready to pull up the water bucket. He plants a kick into my side, making me let out a growl of pain as my ribs rake against the stone as I fall. “I said you needed to be strong enough. You are not.”
My hands grip the wall, and I get my feet under me, watching as he pulls up the bucket. He scoops up his cup, pours his own drink and then takes a deep sip. My mouth is dry. I am thirsty. He takes his time, savouring the water gliding down his throat. I get goosebumps. I begin to fear that he will not give me any. So I take action. I Conjure a blade in my left hand and shove it deep into his ribs. Then the bravado disappears, replaced with cold dread... He is paused like he is frozen in time, the cup halfway down to the well. Slowly, he turns to me, and I come to discover I am staring up at a giant. He looms over me; his face staring down not at a son but at an enemy. But his face breaks into a small smile.
He reaches down and pulls the dagger free from his side, a coating of blood clinging to it and a small stream of life flowing out. He begins to laugh, each breath he takes pushing more blood out of his wound. When he stops, he looks at me without a hint of expression on his face.
“I should have told you what would happen should you fail to take what is yours.” He says, calm as ever. I feel my blood run cold and my head screams at me to run.
A blade forms so quickly I can barely even see it happen, and it swings so fast my eyes lag behind. A sharp pain bites into me and then transforms into a horrific agony. I’m launched to the side, my spine impacting onto the stone well. I push off and scramble backwards, my legs kicking up sand and enshrouding my father. Blood streams from my arm, and I can see the white of bone within. Tears well up in my eyes as blood runs down my arm, onto my hand and makes the sand stick to me.
I turn around, hanging my useless arm and using the stones to bring myself up before I fall over again - I can’t see. The sand I kicked up clogs in my eyes. I look back through the cloud only to hear his voice and freeze in fear.
“This is the price of failure, Kyallan. Pain, suffering, humiliation.”
Something shoots out of the sand cloud and brings itself to heel at my neck, a splinter of wood away from piercing my jugular. His voice comes again as he walks out of the cloud of sand. He stares for a second, his eyes distant. “Death.”
He throws away the Hardlight spear and crouches down beside me. “Now, I have yet to teach you how to Repair, so you must listen closely and watch even closer.” He drops his knees forward so that he is kneeling in the sand, then puts his hand over his wound. I can barely pay attention, the pain in my arm grows worse by the second… but then that is forgotten as I see tendrils of light close around his wound. They stitch and sow, connecting ever more until the blood stops and his wound is closed.
It is… beautiful. He watches me, his face neutral. I put my arm across my chest, hovering it above the wound he inflicted. I close my eyes, feel my light. I imagine the tendrils pulling from my hand and touching my wound. Feel the muscle and sinew connect together as I- as I scream out in pain, ripping my arm away.
Quickly, the tendrils disappear and the work they had done pulls apart. I begin to cry, sobbing like a child. I watch Father, expecting him to be staring down at me with hatred or annoyance or disappointment - but instead, there is a knowing expression on his face.
“It hurts. It’s horrible. I know this, a thousand times I have known this. But it will cause you more pain to lose the arm. More pain to keep bleeding until you die.” He grabs my unhurt arm and forces it over the wound. “Do it. Fix yourself or you will die, right here and now.”
I try again. The tendrils descend, and this time I watch. I watch as they pull the skin together, and even through my own screaming, I watch. I try to focus on that and only that but the pain mounts and mounts until the tendrils stop. I drop to the ground, unable to control my own body. I feel the blood leave my arm and I feel only pain. “Then you will die, Kyallan? Is that the choice you make now?”
I can’t answer, I can only look at the grains of sand and sob. My Father puts my hand over again, but this time I don’t even try. What’s the point. It hurts too much. I’d rather lose the arm than go through that pain.
I’d rather die.
Suddenly, he is on top of me, his weight pinning me down. He grabs my unhurt arm and this time locks it under his armpit. “When you control things, you get to make choices, Kyallan.” He says, putting his hand over the wound, tendrils slithering down to touch my flesh.
“Choices that will cause a great deal of pain for others, even if it’s better for them in the long run. Always be the person that chooses, not the person who submits.”
I shift my weight, kick my legs, try anything and everything to get out from under him, run away into the forest and never return. Then the pain begins and the only thing I can think of is agony and the growing of the red flowers around us.
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3 of Ataccha
Year of 1265 of the Sixteenth Cycle
Ravenwatch Keep.
“Eudaimon, born into the House of the Iridescent Lion, House Daraas, was destined for greatness. At the young age of twenty, he took the seat of Patriarch and surveyed the failing Republic with a keen eye. He realized that drastic action was necessary and that the old ways had to be left behind. With an unwavering determination, he forged alliances with the powerful Houses Daai, Kaelis, Thorne, Ashen and Stormchaser, convincing them that the nation needed to change for the better, that it had to become stronger to survive!” my Mother softly speaks, her voice rising and falling in tune with the words.
My light glows softly now. I have gotten much better at controlling it, and now I always create the light so my mother can read. “Mother, why was the republic weak? I thought humans were strong?”
She taps her fingers on her chin, pondering. “I believe it was their inability to make tough decisions. Republics are essentially popularity contests, where the most likeable person wins. But sometimes, the most popular person is not necessarily the best for the nation or the world. They lacked the intelligence and prowess in combat that Eudaimon possessed, and they had no lineage of blood passed down for generations nor had they mastered the art of Lightblading as Eudaimon did. That, and the republic had shown themselves as failures. They had lost a war, Kyallan, a war that the Sorcerer-King would have won.”
“Oh,” I say. She tries to return to the story, but another question forces its way from my mouth before she can. “Why would they lose a war? Why not win it?”
She smiles. “Because some people aren’t as strong as the Sorcerer-King was. They aren’t chosen by the gods like him or you, and they aren’t strong like your Father - and that means that sometimes they fail. It’s not their fault, but it means they shouldn’t be in that position to begin with. Their failure shouldn’t affect others. It’s not fair.”
I look up at the top of my bed, seeing the cracks in the wooden frame. “Which will I be, Mother?”
“Whatever do you mean?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. I ask with a hint of uncertainty, "Am I destined to be as strong as the Sorcerer-King or will I be weak?" I desperately hope that I will possess the same strength as the legendary ruler. My mother chuckles at my question before reassuring me, "You are fated to be strong, my child. But strength by fate alone is not true strength. It must be earned through training and hard work. Your father knows this, which is why he trains you."
As my light glows brighter, I declare with determination, "I will be strong, Mother. I will become as strong, smart, and powerful as the Sorcerer-King." Her smile widens, and she responds with encouragement, "Yes, my sweet child. That's what you should strive for! You must work hard and earn your strength, just like your Father did."
Feeling proud and inspired, my smile mirrors hers.