"There is only one story, and one story only."

- Robert Graves

image [https://i.imgur.com/uZQtwpV.png]

KINGDOM OF ETERNAL MOONLIGHT

by K.G. Rankin

image [https://i.imgur.com/qdF7awH.png]

PRELUDE:

The Merchant Prince

12, Flamestar 1011,

The Age of Night

40 Days until the Night of the Moon

Once, the world was shrouded in thick shadow. It was pitch black, conquered, and ruled by the few, those who thrive on the darkness. Yet, there were some who danced and bathed in light. Small pockets of light, scattered and flickering in the basin of a valley.

The Nur believe they were first to have the light, or so the legend goes. It was unclear how they came to possess it, but with it, they lit the gardens and meadows of the sacred valley, and filled it with villages and the laughter of children. There the Nur thrived for a great deal of unknown time. The age of total darkness was challenged. Their neighbors thought they had stolen the light, and had angered the primordial gods by doing so. Some tried to replicate the light of Alnoor, but they could not.

And so it came to pass that envy arose among the other Lyban tribes, bringing war upon them. No longer did they solely contend with their vile overlords, who hunted them from ebon towers. Now they were pressed on all sides to give up their land, and give up the light. Over time, this persecution pushed the tribes of the ancient Nur, the first people, to become pilgrims, and were scattered throughout the globe. Some of those hailing from that tribe still wander to this day.

With a weakened populace, in just a few hundred years, their lush Nabi plains were scorched in a cataclysm, and it became a badland, and shortly thereafter, the foul winds of the adversary, whom the Nur call Alsufur swept through, leaving it nothing but a cruel desert. And now, buried in this desert are many whispers, and many secrets.

Of the three stars which graced the world of Etria, the aptly named Flamestar was far the hottest, and least hospitable. At this time, it was still blazing overhead, but it was slowly creeping downward, and downward… and the night would soon sing its song in the howls of wolves and coyotes which prowled timeless the sea of sand. Standing anomalous in this desert, was an aged city of red brick, which lay by a small patchy area of greens, alongside a lonesome pool.

The Sultanate of Nur, by Yol's graces still intact, ruled this holy desert, a proud kingdom of mostly shepherds and goat-herders, yet it was known foremostly for its magicians and alchemists, who were unmatched in their understanding of the ancient arts. And, of course, it was known for being the epicenter of ancient religion and culture.

Theirs was the Madrasa of Magic, as it was called. It was the pinnacle of all arcane learning, and it has stood triumphant in Nur for three millennia. It comes as no surprise that when the First Empire reigned, the various Venrex turned their sights to these sands and invaded the northern coasts through the strait of Fiora, seeking the halls of the Viziers and the wisemen. The seers of stones and the scryers of light.

It was the year 1011 of the Age of Night, the stars had long since set on the first great Venganzi Empire, which had fractured millennia ago, and again on the independent kingdoms of the Northern League, giving way to the era of the Fioran Empire, who reign supreme. Some historians have called it the “Second Venganzi Empire”, but that interpretation is disputed, for it bears many key differences.

In the heart of the Great Nabi Desert, a sprawling expanse of nothingness that stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction, there stood a walled city. At its center lay a small patchy brick crossroad, the result of the First Empire's annexation of the northern Nabi coast and the paving of roads for trade. The crownroads, spanning thousands of miles from the strait of Fiora in the north to the Sultanate’s capital of Nabirah in the south, led eastward to the Mystal Crossing and the Madrasa, the great campus that towers far above the rocky, mountainous wastes of the Qamadi range.

Heat waves rose from the surface in the distance. In this region, mystics, soothsayers, and magicians all claimed to have visions in those vapors. Since the Nur people believed they were the true "first" civilization in the world, they also believed they had a special connection with the god of Etria, Yol. This is why many pilgrims were drawn here. The northerners, who were more indifferent in their view of things, believed these visions were mostly superstition or illicit use of dark alchemy. The common-folk northerners would often scoff. “Only fools go to that desert to die, chasing mirages and digging up trinkets.” But it was for this reason that the faithful and earnest all frequented this province for millennia. In 1011, it was a spiritual place again, but it was becoming a bustling jewel for all the wrong reasons.

Rays from the Flamestar began to poke into a prison cell. It was old. The red brick was crumbling but still impenetrable. There, two lay apart from one another in hay beds. A well-armored guard stood by the barred gate. One was snoring while the other shoved more hay over his head to try and dull the sound and the light, which always seemed to lance him. It was because he, like his cellmate, was a Lyban.

The Lyban are the species that came to dominate the world. The Lyban were upright bipeds whose males were from five to six feet tall. They had skin and hair of diverse colors and were hairy compared to the Venganzi. Over time, the Lyban skin became smoother, and some of their males and nearly all of their females began the practice of shaving as closely as possible in an attempt to imitate the pristine Venganzi. These two races are the most prominent sentient beings that fill the world, known as the “Children of Yol,” a name passed down according to their creation myth "The Lyric of Yol". Though the Northern scholars could not ascertain how much of the myth was rooted in fact.

The Lyban shifted in his hay bed again but couldn’t sleep anymore. The town bell was being rung, and the call to prayer had begun. The guard smacked the bars with his spear, prompting a reverberation that caused both of them to wake up. One groaned in annoyance, while the other responded devoutly. They began to assume the position of prayer. They bowed, nearly prostrate, and began to chant. You could hear the chorus throughout the town.

The two len, the short form for male Lyban, sat up in their cell, folding their legs over. One of the len, sporting a greying beard, stood up.

“Oi! You!” he barked, adding a whistle.

“Wa-ter!” he said crudely, in Fioran tongue. The somewhat fat guard nodded, and hobbled over, grabbing a skin of water and promptly tossing it to the blonde len, who popped it's cork and lapped it up quickly, letting out a sigh of relief.

“Drink some. It should ease the headache.” The bearded len said, nudging the other.

"...A daily reminder of my sins." said the younger, who took the skin and sipped it, staring into space as he did.

One of the len was noticeably larger than the other. He was oily, greasy even; he was scarred and quite rugged. He had dirty blonde hair and a long scar from a bladed object from his eye, all the way down to his chin. He was getting on in years, and his cheeks were hollowing. The other had olive skin and dark brown hair and was chiseled but not quite rugged. His hair was in a ponytail, and he had grown his sideburns down his cheek, but no more hair touched his face. He was fair, but his face… his face was covered in scars. It was disfigured and caused unease to anyone who laid eyes on him. Despite his youth, he bore more scars than his companion, and his striking eyes made him terrifying to behold for too long. He was substantially younger, not quite middle-aged.

The grey-haired len sat across from the other, waited until the guard wasn’t looking, and began whispering to him in the Fioran tongue.

“Alright, we have to find a way to get out of this damned place and get back-.”

The younger len stared at him, almost blankly, unperturbed.

“Dathan. No,” he said. “It’s over. Stop it. This is our fate.”

Dathan shook his head, raised his hand, and pointed it at the young len.

“Íbolín, can you hear yourself? We'll get out of here, and then... we will regroup,”

“It’s over,” said Íbolín sharply.

Dathan stopped speaking, dead in his tracks.

“This was always... a fool’s errand.” Said Íbolín, remorsefully. “...And… after what happened-”

Dathan looked concerned.

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“We were... so close” said Íbolín, staring out the cell window. "We were inside the gates... I could almost see it... but..

He blinked, dejected.

"It's over."

His fingers brushed against the hay as he reached out, causing it to shift and reveal his wrist. The sight of it made him wince - the skin was a deep shade of scarlet, and the fresh scarring was intense. The wrist was wrapped in linen, which only highlighted the injury's severity. Despite the pain, he couldn't help but grip it from time to time, as if he was trying to soothe the ache in futility.

Dathan looked over at the guard to ensure he wasn’t paying attention.

“You... don't remember?” Dathan asked.

“No.”

“But it's hard to forget.... this.” Said Íbolín, stretching his wounded, chained hand, wincing.

Dathan gathered himself, glancing at the guard again before he’d pleaded.

“...You mean to tell me we trekked thousands of miles to come here just to give up? This was your dream, and it's a noble cause! That's what you told me you wanted when we first met. That's why I left my brother and came here with you.”

Íbolín exhaled.

“...It’s… just….”

Dathan stood, wiping the sweat from his brow, peering out of the barred window, scanning what he could of the town below.

“...You know it’s here… and you’ve already tapped into… the gift…” he said. “There’s still a chance….”

“...I didn’t think… it would be….” Íbolín said, staring at the cold cobblestone floor.

“Didn’t think, what?” Dathan said, arms folded.

“I didn’t think we’d get captured, damn it.”Íbolín said, in a matter of fact tone. "I thought we were through."

Íbolín sucked his teeth, and his countenance was defeated.

“Three tries, three tries to retrieve it. First, we wandered for a month in circles. The second, we were led completely astray, and now, when we were inside the very gates protecting it... even with your guidance and wisdom with... the gift… it’s a… a lost cause.”

“Trust the gift. Few succeed in accomplishing a great goal the first time, even the second or the third. And as for the gift… very few have control. That doesn’t matter, my lord. You keep going. You keep trying.”

“Dathan… No one can control it. That's clear to me now.” Said Íbolín, still in a dejected tone. "Do you really think you have control of the gift? Who are you to tell me-"

“No!” Dathan barked. The guard turned to him. Dathan smiled fakely. When he noticed the guard had returned to sentry, Dathan lowered his voice.

“No…” He said, putting his hands on Íbolín’s shoulders and staring into his green eyes.

“One mastered it. We will follow in His righteous footsteps. Trust the sacred words of the Lyric”

Íbolín scoffed, breaking eye contact.

"Or... die here. Faithless, and alone. Because I'm not interested in following a coward. Who would.”

Íbolín stared, dejected.

“Dathan, look... I just... I don't... believe you anymore. About all that extra stuff.”

Dathan slapped Íbolín upside the head.

“Ow!” he cried.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Dathan said, wagging his finger in his face.

“It’s our religion, Íbolín. The faith of our ancestors. Of your ancestors. It's the Truth!”

“...Truth? Hah. What is truth...”

This time, Dathan scoffed.

“Then why did we come here?”

“Who wouldn't?” Íbolín jabbed. "It was worth chasing. but I don't think it's everything you believe it to be."

Dathan rolled his eyes.

“You've seen incredible things. And yet, you doubt. What a strange one you are. Had you been raised right, in Mystalbion, where you belong...”

He turned, looking at Íbolín, who was looking back, with respect, though he disagreed.

“Then, how do you explain all of the arcana you've seen? How do you explain the Gift?” Said Dathan.

“There's plenty of mystery in the world, there is.” Ibolin retorted. "And I've certainly seen a lot -- but, when it comes to everything your religion teaches... I can't say I'm convinced."

Dathan rolled his eyes again.

“Fine.” Said Dathan, who threw his hands up quite literally. “There’s no point arguing with someone who’s decided. If you do not listen to the voice of Yol, you won’t listen to me.”

The two len didn’t say another word to one another for several hours. Their meals came: dried dates, broken up and watered down, and then put back together in a pasty, spongy cake. Eventually, the Flamestar began to set, and the braziers and torches inside the prison block of the fortress were flickering in the natural dimming light.

Dathan had dozed in and out of sleep several times after his meals. He was all but indisposed. Suddenly, a Nur in a dark silk robe, trimmed with silver lining and sequins, and a black turban with a beautiful jewel approached the cell.

“Blease escuse, are joo Íbolín Ithandacar?” The len said. It caught Dathan’s attention, who yawned and started to lift himself from his sleep but lay in recline.

Íbolín was still sitting, legs crossed, on the cobblestone floor cell; he didn’t say a word.

“Blease excuse, are joo Íbolín Ithandacar?” The len said again. “Are my words not correct?”

The two len stared at each other momentarily, and the turbaned one walked away, his pointed slippers clacking on the cobblestone. He was just out of earshot when he heard muffled chattering in Nur.

Suddenly, the servant returned with a companion. It was a young len. He had a magnificent silk robe, blood red with gold and purple trim and accents. His turban was expensive, and he wore gold chains and bracelets. His turban sported a feather, and a bright red ruby fixed in its center. He was Lyban, but he clearly had significant Venganzi blood. He was thin, almost frail. His skin was almost a pale yellow. He had dark eyes and blonde, but almost reddish hair when exposed to a ray of light. He was no older than nineteen.

“Hello.” He said, scanning the two prisoners who lay before him.

“Are you Íbolín Ithandacar?” he said, in perfect Fioran.

“Who’s asking?” Dathan interjected. The young len turned to him, looking inquisitively.

“My name is Nedraj,” he said. Dathan’s eyes widened.

“Nedraj… a highborn Rajhi name. Nedraj as in… Prince…?”

“Nedraj Jorne, of Rajar, the one and only.” He said, somewhat tickled.

Íbolín was unphased.

“So, are you?” The prince asked again.

“So what if I am?" He replied.

“Uhh... and who is he?” Nedraj said, pointing to Dathan.

“I am Sir Dathan Alemar, crown knight of Mystalbion.”

“Hmm.” Said Nedraj, raising his eyebrows only briefly. “Crown knight of Mystalbion... Crown knight of Mystalbion you say...?”

Nedraj let out the slightest chuckle, then yawned slightly.

“Well.” He said. smacking his gums. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“...Pardon?” said Íbolín. Dathan looked up inquisitively.

“Look, these days, the Nur salivate over the chance to hand over foreigners to the Hamyir for execution. It’s like sport to them, now. Helps them get out all that humiliated rage you helped them bottle up.” Said Nedraj. "And... considering you are not just foreigners, but high-value fugitives."

The two entered a bit of a stare-off.

“Fine then. Suit yourself. As for me, I’m going to the Den of Glory and Excellence.” Said Nedraj. “I’d appreciate your expertise, but fine. Sure! That's okay. I thought we could make a deal, but... heh-heh. I guess not. More for me! On my way!”

Íbolín and Dathan looked at each other with shock at the words... The Den of Glory and Excellence. How did he know, so soon?

“Oh…. now I’ve got your attention, have I?” Said Nedraj, who scoffed, turning his eyes sharply... “Here I am, THE merchant prince of the finest house of the Rajar, and it’s avarice that commands your respect. You'd think you were Rajari, not gullible, filthy, barbarian, numb-skulled Fiorans!”

“Avarice is not quite the word I would use... prince.” Said Íbolín, with a sarcastic bite, ignoring the insult.

“Perhaps not.” Said Nedraj, approaching the bars, as his ring-encrusted hand gripped one of the bars. He annoyingly tapped another with a glinting gold dagger.

“How about destiny and the fact that you are looking at it? Not to mention, a chance to... Try again, eh... Hellflayer?”

Íbolín raised his eyebrow slowly, annoyed, but his ears perked up.

“Oh… now I certainly have your attention.” He said, smiling. "Yes... I know who you really are. These oafs may not... but I do. Let's... make a deal then, shall we?"

Nedraj pulled a heavy black velvet bag from his sleeve and handed it to the guard. It clinked as he took it.