A slow falling mist drifted over the crackling husk of the once humble town of Aranthal, drizzling rain slowly putting out the embers that remained days after its assault. The stone streets had been kicked up, muddy walkways were adorned with Lowhill steeds hoof marks, timber houses were broken, splintered and scorched. The people of Aranthal met no better end. Most had been slaughtered in their homes, some defending the streets, many were shot down with crossbow bolts or trampled attempting to escape across the flattened plains that surround. Life, as Aranthal had known it, was gone. Inside the dark, stone confines of a smith's workshop a boy wearily stumbled. Dark skinned, tired eyed and afraid, he made his way south. The boy had a steel training sword, blade about the length of his forearm, sheathed away in his own handcrafted scabbard. A small coin pouch hung from the front of his belt, however he would look around what was left of his town to loot what he could in an attempt to fatten it up. As he trod out of the main square of Aranthal toward the close outskirts leading into the plains, he anxiously scouted the area for bandits. That's who the attack must have come from, bandits. Cutpurses, thieves, rogues, he understood why they would want to, riches and possessions. Why they would burn the town as they were raiding was another mystery. The boy neared the outskirts of the town's land and passed by a lumber mill, one he had passed many times before although in better condition. On the deck of the open mill was damp sawdust, timber, lumber, assorted daggers and sprayed blood darkening the floorboards. Curiously there was a piece of fabric, seemingly cloth, that had clung to the edge of a workbench. The cloth was red with a golden trim design, unlike the boy had witnessed before as red dye was uncommon to the Lakeholdt region, and their own kingdom's colours consisted of lake blue and wheat yellow. The piece was in quite good condition, unbloodied, mostly intact and large enough to warrant use of some sort. Quickly scanning around him, as if someone were to catch him otherwise, the boy took the cloth and tied it around his chest as a makeshift scarf. Travelling at night and during the early mornings in Lakeholdt was cold and the winds were commonly harsh due to the flatness of the plains surrounding the area. The boy took his leave from the lumber mill, taking extra care to try and ignore the numerous mangled bodies surrounding the worksite, and continued southbound and downhill. The capital of Lakeholdt was Olyris, the city of sages, whatever that meant. The boy knew of a couple small townships a day or two travel on foot, he would aim to reach them before setting out for Olyris better-equipped. The mist sprayed on his dirtied face lightly, the trek was long, lonely and dangerous for a child, but with nowhere else to go he unthinkingly continued.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.