The girl bows before the large pool of water. Her golden eyes and crimson hair shine on her brown skin. Two guards stood outside the room, protecting the girl from all things that would do her harm. As she waits before the pond, from the shadows, an old man appears from nowhere. His pink hair shows his age, along with the wrinkles on his face.
“Little Menadue, the king has need of services.” The shadow spoke from the darkness.
“Teacher, what is my need?”
“His Majesty seeks to send a message to the lord Andeans” He pulls out a letter from his cloak.
“As his majesty wishes.”
The old man smiles and tosses the letter to Menadue. She tries to catch the letter without falling into the pond and halfway succeeds. While she didn’t fall into the pond, she fell backward. She lands in the grass behind the pond with the letter in hand. Menadue swears she can hear giggling coming from behind her. She gets angry at the old man for always doing that. At least she didn’t fall into the pond this time. She pats her head for a moment before sitting up. She then opens the letter, reads the contents, and says one word.
“Fira.”
Then the letter burns away in a blue flame. She then looks at the pond and then turns towards the doors outside the room. She knocks on it twice, and the guards open the doors. She says, “Lord Andeans spells number” The guards nod and then close the doors.
The girl continues her lone vigilance over the pond.
A half-hour later, the door opens again. This time, a young boy opens the door with features almost the same as the girl's but lacking her accursed golden eyes. As he walks in, he keeps his head down and heads towards Menadue and the pond. He quickly speaks rows of long numbers before rushing out the door. Menadue then looks at the pond again before speaking.
“I’ll heed de need.
To call those far away
Let’s say my words may bleed
Across time and space to a new day.”
Then the pond begins to glow bright blue. The girl spoke,
“Spell number: 5116531548851317
465516147563249351
789856233121455262
Letter from King Rue Neal Monkland:
Dear Clades; …”
***
Shamsul hates his job. If It weren’t for his little girls and his beloved wife, he long would have quitted it. The former adventurer and current prison guard stand and watches over prisoners of Talheim. The grim expression on his face and his long annoyance was evidence to all that saw him. Today he especially hates it. For today he heard the words of the Formless, and they weren’t kind words. The words were great, magnificent, and terrifying, but they were far from comfortable. He found himself in the office of his superior, explaining what happened.
“Shit,” says his supervisor. “The drunkard is the Foreseer Kante, are you sure?”
“Yes, Sir.” He says. That bastard knows what he was saying is true. He has already spoken to three men on patrol with him. And saw the damn glowing walls with those terrible words that he couldn’t get out of his head.
Shamsul sighed as he recalled the events of earlier that day. He had been making his normal rounds past the drunk tanks when that crazy old man started shrieking. At first, Shamsul thought it was just the ramblings of a drunkard, but then an eerie glow began emanating from the walls as the man spoke.
The words he uttered sent a chill down Shamsul's spine. They spoke of impending doom and the fall of Talheim. Shamsul didn't want to believe them, but the glowing words etched into the stone walls made it hard to deny the man's prophecy.
After the guards finally got the man to stop talking, Shamsul couldn't erase the words from his mind. He kept mulling over their meaning and terrible implications. Who was this man? He could make stone walls glow with just his speech.
"Are you absolutely certain it was Kante?" the supervisor asked again, brow furrowed.
Shamsul nodded. "The words he spoke glowed on the walls as he said them. It was no normal drunkard's ramblings, sir, I swear it."
The supervisor sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Then this is grave news indeed. If Kante speaks of Talheim's doom, we'd be fools not to heed his warning."
"But what can we do?" Shamsul asked. "How can we stop what's been foretold?"
"I know not," the supervisor admitted. "But we must inform Lord Megon at once. He must increase the city's defenses and preparations. Stockpile food and fortify the walls. Talheim must be ready for whatever comes."
Shamsul shuddered. He had not thought of the city actually falling until now.
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"Do you really think Talheim could be destroyed?" he voices his fear aloud.
The supervisor's expression was grim. "If the seer's words are true, then yes. But perhaps with a warning, we can change fate. Either way, we must do our duty and notify Lord Megon. Go now, and urge haste. The prophecy allows no time to waste."
Shamsul rose hastily, the gravity of his role now pressing upon him. The fate of Talheim rested on his shoulders, getting this message to the lord in time. He prayed to the Formless that it would be enough to divert disaster as he rushed out the door.
***
Lord Megon slouched in his study, more annoyed than stunned by Shamsul's news about the drunkard Kante. True prophecies or not, preparing Talheim's defenses sounded like an awful lot of work.
Megon only half-listened as Shamsul described the glowing words and dire visions. Stockpiling and fortifying and training new troops - who had time for all that? Surely someone else could handle these boring details.
Megon stifled a yawn, already tired of thinking about prophecies and pending attacks. He was sure it was all exaggerated anyway. And even if disaster did come, he could always flee somewhere safer. No need to waste energy fretting over the common folk.
In fact, the more Megon pondered it, the more he thought doing nothing might be best. Let people forget Kante's ramblings and go on with their lives. No point disrupting everything over the delusional words of a drunk.
Yes, Megon decided, ignoring the matter was the most prudent course of action. Let others worry and prepare. He had more important things to attend to, like his afternoon nap.
Megon dismissed the anxious Shamsul and pushed the chilling prophecies from his mind. As a good leader, he knew when action was required and when wisdom lies in relaxation. Yes, a nice long nap was just what he needed after all this tiresome talk of doom. The future could wait.
A sharp rap at the door jolted Megon from his nap. Before he could respond, it swung open, and in strode the imposing figure of Dianoia Glendon. Megon jerked upright, smoothing his rumpled tunic.
"Lady Dianoia! I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."
"Surprise visits are the virtue, that keeps you on your toes," she replied curtly, taking a seat opposite him. Her piercing green eyes gave him a disdainful once-over.
Megon straightened up, trying to look stately despite just being roused. "To what do I owe the honor?"
Dianoia held up a scroll bound in black ribbon. "I've come with the marriage contract as promised." She unfurled it with a snap and slid it across the desk to Megon. "Read it over and sign if you find the terms acceptable."
Megon's stomach dropped as he scanned the elaborate contract full of obligations and concessions. This would not just be a marriage in name only.
"I must say, Lady Dianoia, some of these terms are quite...onerous."
She gave him a sharp look. "And yet you agreed to my father's proposal. Are you withdrawing your acceptance?"
Megon's palms sweated. "No, no, of course not! I just need time to look over everything thoroughly."
"See that you do," Dianoia said, rising abruptly. "I'll return in one week for your signature and seal. Do not disappoint me, Lord Megon."
The door slammed behind her. Megon slumped down, the marriage contract blurring before his eyes. What had he gotten himself into?
***
Dianoia swept down the corridor, lips pursed in displeasure. The oafish Lord Megon was not her ideal match, but he would have to do. His lands and fortress would serve her purposes well enough. Still, she had hoped for someone with more courage and fortitude. Not a lazy dullard who quailed at a simple marriage contract. She would have to take him firmly in hand as his wife. No matter. The union would provide her the forces needed to pursue her ultimate ambition - the downfall of King Rue and his pathetic whelp of an heir, Clades.
For too long, she had coveted the throne that foolish Rue claimed. Once she had rallied troops under the banner of the spurned daughter of Archduke Glendon, she could overthrow that arrogant fool. Megan's men would bolster her own, making victory assured. And with the right whispers in the right ears, Clades could meet an unfortunate "accident" before ever posing a threat. Yes, she mused; it was all coming together perfectly. Rue's line would end, and she would take her rightful place as ruler of one of the four-continent kingdoms. The Kingdom of Monk will be hers. None who opposed her would live long to regret it.
Her musings were interrupted by the approach of her most trusted servant, Vicus. "News, my lady?"
"The contract is delivered to Lord Megon. He will sign it."
Vicus nodded. "And if he proves...uncooperative?"
Dianoia's eyes glinted dangerously. "Then we will have to eliminate the reluctant groom. I will not be denied what is meant to be mine."
No one would stand in the way of her destiny. She would see to that.
***
Aeron stifled another yawn as the droning voice of Master Brummond filled the small schoolhouse. The aging teacher-paced at the front, extolling the virtues of the ancient emperor who had conquered their lands centuries ago.
"And so, with the fierce dragons defeated, Emperor Daired at last unified the fractured territories under the glorious banner of Imperdom," Brummond declared. "Thus began the lineage that continues to this day with our Emperor eternal."
Aeron fought to keep his eyes open. Who cared about dead emperors and dragons? He wanted to be outside in the sun, not stuck here listening to boring histories he could recite in his sleep.
Master Brummond carried on, oblivious to Aeron's disinterest. "It was only through the wisdom and strength of Emperor Daired that the age of chaos and war was ended. We owe our prosperity and peace to him."
Suppressing a sigh, Aeron let his gaze drift to the window. He could see fluffy clouds drifting across the blue sky. What he wouldn't give to be free to run and play instead of rotting in this stuffy old classroom.
Not that Master Brummond noticed Aeron's inattention. The portly teacher was focused on extolling Daired's many martial victories against the dragons. How he drove them from the capital and forced their submission through the might of arms.
None of it penetrated Aeron's daydreams. Emperors, dragons, battles - who cared? He was just a simple farm boy. All he wanted was to play with his friends. The rest of it was useless history.
Master Brummond droned on and on, recounting every detail of ancient battles and imperial glories. Aeron's eyelids grew heavier, his head nodding. Try as he might, he could not stifle the yawns escaping him.
As Brummond delved into the minutiae of troop formations and dragon claw weaponry, Aeron found it impossible to focus. The tedious recitation became background noise, lulling him toward slumber.
Before he even realized what was happening, Aeron's head sank down onto his desk, eyes closed in deep sleep. Master Brummond's voice faded away as the young farm boy drifted into pleasant dreams of adventures far more exciting than anything in his history lessons.
In Aeron's dream, he was the fabled Emperor Daired astride a mighty warhorse, leading armies against an emerald dragon. The beast's fire engulfed legions of his men, but Aeron felt no fear. He was Daired - unstoppable and immortal.
Roaring oaths, Aeron urged his forces onward, cutting down foes with sweeps of his glowing greatsword. He felt the blade smash through armor and bone, slaying man and monstrosity alike. His was the courage of a hundred men and the skill of a thousand.
Boldly Aeron fought on through mud and blood, determined to pierce the dragon's heart. His shield arm ached from endless blows, but still he pressed the attack. Arrows and spells assailed the great wyrm, enraging it further. With each slash of Aeron's sword, victory drew nearer.
At last the dread beast collapsed, Aeron's assembled legions hacking it to pieces. He raised his gore-slicked sword and bellowed his triumph to the heavens. The air rang with chants of "Daired! Daired!" Aeron swelled with pride. This was his destiny.
" Aeron! You disrespectful oaf, wake up!" Suddenly Aeron's exhilaration dissolved as Master Brummond's sharp voice pierced his ears. He was just Aeron again, peering blearily up at his furious, red-faced teacher from his desk. The glory of the dream faded swiftly away, leaving only tedium in its wake.