A bell tolled.

Dawn was pierced by the metallic cacophony emanating from atop the tower. Broad shouldered attendants gripped the chain in their gloved hands to make the iron behemoth wail its message into the silent morning.

A bell tolled.

People sleepily left their abodes, eyes groggy from the commotion. However, they were quickly sobered by the news that the sound carried with it. Many sported grim faces, resigned to whatever would come next.

It was not something that shocked the people stirred by the noise. This was something that had been cycles in the making. Smoldering coals constantly crackled beneath the surface, below the cobbles and the foundations, to erupt into a glorious blaze as soon as it was required. They brandished their makeshift daggers and donned straw-stuffed tunics to even feel safe going about the city.

Whispers traveled down the stirring alleys to the alcoves where scholars had been tirelessly waiting throughout the night for the signal that their teacher had foretold. They eagerly awaited to view the carnage that would justify the foundations of their Path of Struggle, eyes sparkling with the enlightenment that was promised.

A bell tolled.

The thin threads of life that were so desperately clung onto had finally slipped the grasp of mortals and were brought to the graces of the Great Spirit. It was an act of unrivaled tenacity to grip to life in such a withered and decrepit body. When gray, milky eyes finally lost the tiny spark that kept them lit, the body that hosted it already seemed to have decayed.

Yet one person’s desire to live just one more day had only been a detriment to the people which they presided over. A protracted political conflict caused by the carrion birds that nibbled at the corpse’s bloated extremities had permeated the streets of the city. Conflict poisoned the air and coated the lungs of all.

Those that witnessed the passing of the stubborn corpse cursed over how long it had taken. The purpose for this aggressive hold on existence was purely for selfish reasons. They simply did not want to die. When his precious son asked him to go in peace, the corpse cackled in his face.

“Why should I die for your convenience?”

If only someone dared slip him a poison. If only there was someone brave enough to cover the feeble face with a pillow. If the son did not love his father so much, perhaps he could have avoided this horrific scenario.

He had long since been robbed of the initiative that he wished. His enemies had seen through his intentions and entrenched themselves within their respective neighborhoods. Recruiting wars cropped up throughout the slums and within the temples. Now, the clamoring of the bell heralded to all that their icy standoff had progressed to the next stage.

The Great Hall was in rapid preparation for the arrival of the mourners that would pay their respects today. His enemies would surely be among those that joined. Tomorrow, they will fight. They would have the decency to allow the man to cry for his father for a day before they tore at each other’s throats like wild dogs. These were adversaries of noble dispositions, of a higher moral fiber.

However, that did not mean he would not display his strength. Like prey making itself appear dangerous and unappetizing, warriors assembled before the great hall in great numbers. Only the best equipped and most imposing soldiers were allowed to occupy this crucial space, this was the only deterrent available while they tried to amass support elsewhere.

A bell tolled.

It was deafeningly loud to the warriors that stood beneath the tower. For those that held their spears tightly in their hands, this was no simple show of force. They saw what malice brewed off of the main roads. Combat had already started, it started cycles ago. It was only now that those that made the decisions began to agree with that mindset. In their eyes, the Great Hall flooding with blood was more likely than a peaceful encounter. They steeled themselves, waiting for the order to strike when necessary.

A bell tolled.

Carriages followed by warriors departed their respective estates. It had been too long since they had left their fortified portions of the city to visit the illustrious quarter that had threatened their titles and possessions. The occupants sported pensive faces now that the dreaded day had reached them. The results of the conflict would determine the fate of their clans for generations.

After several cycles of preparations, they would have to accept what they accumulated so far. This was the final formality that they could offer each other. They would enter the Great Hall, offer the grieving son heartfelt condolences, and return to their estates to draft their opening battle strategies for the coming days.

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A bell tolled.

Before the leaders and architects of this conflict met. Before the warriors had their tense stare down in the square. Before the bell had finished ringing its announcement. The first casualty of the conflict occurred.

It wasn’t the first death born from the chilled hostilities between nobilities. Deaths motivated by factionalism had been cropping up frequently during the cycles that were the prelude to the official war. This was the first death after the bell officially declared war.

A knife into the neck of a neighbor.

It was not a meticulously planned killing, but it was premeditated. Allegiances to nobles were long since declared. These future enemies cohabited the same street for cycles. The assailant did not attack then, even when so many other scuffles and skirmishes already gripped the city. It was not time yet. They were not an animal that would attack without proper cause. They believed in the honor depicted by the heroes of the spoken stories from the theater square and the druidic preaching.

Now that the declaration clanged out loud and true, the blade stuck into the neck of their neighbor without hesitation. They had envisioned this moment too long to feel reservations about the act. It was not ill will that drove them forwards. The victim had never wronged them. Even their arguments over the direction of the city rarely devolved into personal attacks. They knew each other’s children and would occasionally exchange meals during holidays.

That person that the overzealous attacker had known for many cycles spurted blood from their neck. They clamped their hands over their wound and stared with eyes full of shock. Questions formed on their lips but never left their mouth. The blood had spilled from their body too rapidly and in too great of volume. Their body went rigid and they fell to the ground, blood still flowing from the hole in their neck.

It was that easy to end their life.

The assailant was surprised. They had envisioned a greater struggle than this, a battle between opposing factions with their lives on the line. Instead, it was stabbing a person that was looking the other way.

It felt like a murder. Sickness recoiled momentarily in their body at the brief realization of what they had done. Bile crept up their throat at the gruesome scene before them.

No. No. This was not a murder. They were a warrior. This was a war. Enemies kill enemies, everyone knows that. This was but the first of many bloody battles that they would have to involve themselves in to create a better city, a better realm. The speakers that toured the streets said so. The lives of all would improve if they swore loyalty. The victim heard the same words and chose against it, it was their fault.

A powerful force hit the assailant in the back of the skull, turning their world to black and killing them instantly. They would never know who did it. It didn’t particularly matter, they were an enemy. Enemies kill enemies.

What they didn’t see was how their action had ravaged the street that they called home. How they, more than the bells or the warriors in the streets or the speakers calling for support of their clans, had announced to everyone nearby that the war had begun. If you did not strike first, you were to be struck. There would be no trust in a neighbor that hung the wrong banner and sported the wrong colors. Tolerance of them was a foolish task that opened you to a cruel and inevitable betrayal.

When word would spread, the name of the assailant and the victim would not be spoken. Their affiliations would not be revealed. Those that witnessed it were already dead or wounded. There would be no immortalization of this brazen act. All that mattered was that someone struck first and there was no evidence which faction had done so. To those that spread the news, the victim was of their faction and the assailant was of the rest. They were all victims with enough reason to invoke their wrath upon all others.

Robed scholars watched the violence gleefully. Something great was promised to be forged within the blood-fueled fires. Something that would teach them the true nature of the world. They silently egged on the fighting. Kill more, die more, so that they may witness the true message of the Great Spirit.

The nobles whose names were on the lips of those that spilled blood were blissfully unaware of the violence that occurred outside. They exchanged pleasantries with their future enemies and felt empathy for their positions. Power was all that divided them that were more similar than different. However, intentions were already made clear and they would no longer show kindness to one another starting tomorrow.

A bell tolled.

They left the Great Hall to see their city boiling with violence. Screams and clanging echoed into the square. The dispatched warriors pointed their weapons at each other in anticipation of the moment that would spring them forth to take the lives of their counterparts.

The decision of when to begin war had long since been taken from the hands of the nobles. War would not be tomorrow after a nice meal and a good rest. It would be today, it would be now.

There were no goodbyes. There was only a mad dash to their armies, to protection, before a hastened retreat back to their strongholds. Quickly, quickly, over cobbles and around corpses. To be caught here would be to risk death without accomplishing anything. Only in the protection of their fortresses and fortified estates could they breathe again.

Shock crossed the faces of the commanders. When had they been robbed of the initiative? When had they lost vision of what occurred beneath them?

The sound of the bell was gone, replaced by the blaring of horns and the thunder of boots on cobbles. Order would be brought to the streets by indiscriminate force. Bodies were dragged from the thin side streets and alleys and piled unceremoniously wherever there was room to stack them. Fires releasing the spirits of the first victims would choke them all with smoke and grief.

Riders carrying correspondence spilled from all the gates of the city. External friend and foe would receive the same message.

The Tiarna was dead, the war had begun.