A CITY’S CELEBRATION AMIDST A BREWING STORM
Despite the tension growing across Skjoltrheim, the capital city of Lumar found a reason to rejoice—Queen Eliziah was pregnant, and the news spread like wildfire through the realm. The streets of Lumar were draped in vibrant colors, filled with the sound of music, laughter, and the clamor of festivities. Festivals erupted to celebrate the unborn child, believed by many to be a blessing that would unify the fractured lands.
In preparation for the royal birth, merchants and travelers flocked to Lumar from every corner of Skjoltrheim and beyond. Stalls lined the streets, selling everything from exotic spices to enchanted trinkets, while performers danced and sang in honor of the queen's child. Priests and priestesses from every temple came to offer blessings, not only to the unborn heir but to the kingdom itself, praying for peace in the uncertain times ahead. Mages, both human wizards and elven elders, arrived to bestow magical blessings. Even the ancient Madremonte, the revered Mother of Dryads, emerged from her forest sanctuary to bless the royal child, an act that many saw as a sign of great significance.
----------------------------------------
RISING CONFLICT: THE STORMTARGE
But as the queen’s pregnancy progressed, so too did the fractures within the realm. In the shadows of this celebration, civil war simmered. The faction known as the Stormtarge, led by the ambitious Vargrath Broadhorn, cousin to Tribeking Thorigg Whitemane, rose in rebellion. Their mission was clear: to free Skjoltrheim from the growing influence of the elves and their gods. They sought to restore the worship of only human deities, believing that Skjoltrheim had strayed too far from its roots.
As Lumar celebrated, the Stormtarge gathered strength, their banners flying high in the winds of dissent. What was once a mere whisper of rebellion had now become a roar, and Vargrath’s followers believed the time had come to strike. Skjoltrheim was about to be torn apart, not only by blades and shields but by the very faith that once united its people.
The celebration in Lumar stands in stark contrast to the growing unrest, as the seeds of rebellion and divine conflict begin to take root, setting the stage for the storm to come.
ACT 2: THE BIRTH OF HOPE: A DAY OF CELEBRATION IN LUMAR
The day of Lumar’s grand festival had finally arrived, a celebration filled with joy and anticipation. As dawn broke, casting its golden light across the fertile lands, the long-awaited heir to the throne was born. The moon, still lingering in the sky, began to fade as the sun’s warmth embraced the earth. Despite the arrival of the new prince, no name was yet given, for King Thorigg Whitemane waited patiently for Queen Eliziah to regain her strength.
Within the royal chambers, the queen lay resting, her breaths deep and steady. King Thorigg remained by her side, cradling their newborn son in his arms. The soft glow of morning light filtered through the windows, bathing the room in a gentle warmth. It was not until the late afternoon that Eliziah finally stirred, her eyes fluttering open to see the face of her husband and their child. In that quiet moment, the three of them embodied a sense of perfect peace—a symbol of hope for the future of Skjoltrheim.
While Queen Eliziah rested, the celebrations continued throughout the palace. In the great hall, King Thorigg and his father, the esteemed Bjorn Whitemane, shared a moment of pride and joy. The two men, bound by blood and the weight of their shared legacy, raised their mugs of cold mead in a quiet toast. Around them sat the Inner Circle, a company of nine legendary warriors, each one a hero of Skjoltrheim in their own right. At the head of the table sat Bjorn Whitemane, the retired warlord whose name still commanded deep respect across the realm.
The sounds of laughter and clinking mugs filled the hall, mingling with the music of bards who strummed gentle tunes on their lutes. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and spiced wine, as servants moved gracefully through the room, attending to the royal guests. The celebration felt timeless, as if for one day, the worries of the world had been set aside, and all that remained was the joy of new life and the bonds of family.
As the day stretched into evening, the palace grounds came alive with color and light. Bonfires crackled in the courtyards, and dancers moved with the rhythm of drums and flutes. Merchants hawked their wares—bright silks, shimmering jewels, and enchanted trinkets—while children ran through the streets, laughing and playing under the watchful eyes of their parents. The city of Lumar was alive with celebration, united in its love for the royal family.
Though the day had been long, neither King Thorigg nor Bjorn showed any signs of fatigue. As the stars began to twinkle in the twilight sky, they continued to share stories of past battles, old victories, and the legacy they hoped to pass down to the next generation. For today was not just about the birth of a prince—it was about the endurance of their bloodline, the continuation of the Whitemane legacy that had protected Skjoltrheim for generations.
In the soft glow of the evening, Queen Eliziah, now fully awake, sat by the window with her son resting in her arms. The child’s tiny hand wrapped around her finger, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to stand still. In the warmth of the palace, surrounded by love, the royal family reveled in the joy of their new beginning.
The Red Night
That night, a loud crash echoed across the city, followed by flames lighting up the sky. Confusion spread like wildfire as guards turned on one another, brother fighting brother. Civilians caught in the chaos were mercilessly targeted if found carrying any token of elven gods. Only those who worshipped the human gods were spared.
Cries of "No elf-worshipers shall live!" rang through the streets as the Stormtarge launched their attack. Emerging from the flames was Vargrath Broadhorn, his blade slick with blood. By his side, Merodach, the feared mage, moved with unsettling silence. His spells, sharp as arrows, left devastation in their wake. His mastery of dark magic had earned him a reputation as the deadliest mage in the land.
Inside the palace, King Thorigg Whitemane felt the ground tremble with the advancing chaos. His mind raced as he looked at the newborn son in his arms, then at his wife, Queen Eliziah, still weak from childbirth.
"Carry my son and my wife out of the palace!" the king commanded, his voice thick with urgency. "Take them through the kitchen storage, to the warehouse. Open the secret passage underground—follow the waterway, out of Lumar!"
Bjorn Whitemane, his father, placed a reassuring hand on Thorigg's shoulder. “Come with us, my son. You must save the kingdom another day.”
Thorigg shook his head. His eyes were resolute. “No, father. I swore never to abandon my people.”
Chornuts the Chopper, one of the Inner Circle, stepped forward, raising his shield. Towering and battle-hardened, he led the queen and her child into the secret passage, guiding them with steady, deliberate movements as they navigated the narrow, dimly lit corridors. With the Phalanx guarding their every step, they pressed on slowly.
Meanwhile, Thorigg donned his armor in the armory, gripping his sword with fierce determination. In the great hall of the palace, he roared to his soldiers, “Arm yourselves and gather the horses! These savages are no longer our brothers—they have spilled innocent blood. To the city! Ride with me!”
With 200 soldiers at his back, the king charged into the city square, the sound of clashing steel already thick in the air. At the heart of the chaos stood Vargrath Broadhorn, silhouetted against the flaming buildings, a figure of ominous power. His presence radiated darkness, his aura almost demonic, reminiscent of an apocalyptic herald.
King Thorigg’s forces were outnumbered—many soldiers had been caught off-guard, still reveling in the joy of the festival. Worse, treachery from comrades had turned the tide against them. The clang of steel and crackling fire filled the night as Thorigg’s soldiers fought fiercely. Beside him, mages summoned lightning and ice, their magic cutting through the dark with raw power.
But Merodach was ready. With a simple gesture, he conjured a shimmering ward, deflecting their magic—turning ice to mist and lightning to harmless sparks. His eyes gleamed with malevolent intent. A swift motion of his hand, and a blade of air shot forward, knocking Thorigg’s soldiers into the walls, scattering them like leaves in a storm.
“Hold your ground! Stand with me!” Thorigg’s voice boomed, rallying his men. Raising his hand, he unleashed a bolt of lightning that streaked toward Vargrath. The rebel leader met the attack with his own dark magic, deflecting the lightning with his blade as shadows swirled around him.
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Merodach was far from done. He raised both hands, gathering power in the swirling winds around him. With a forceful push, he sent out a shockwave that blasted through the battlefield, lifting men from their feet and slamming them into the ground and nearby buildings. Even the stone walls cracked under the force.
Thorigg’s soldiers fought valiantly. An ice mage conjured jagged spears of ice, hurling them toward the enemy, but Merodach's dark magic cut through them effortlessly. Another mage hurled lightning, only for it to be twisted and redirected by a vortex of wind conjured by Merodach.
Amidst the chaos, Thorigg charged Vargrath, his sword crackling with energy. Their blades clashed in a flurry of sparks, the ground beneath them trembling as their magic collided—lightning against the forbidden, dark magic coursing through Vargrath’s veins.
Vargrath’s eyes glowed with a sinister light. Dark tendrils snaked up from the ground, seeking to ensnare Thorigg’s legs, but the king struck downward, releasing a shockwave of lightning that blasted the tendrils apart. The two warriors circled, eyes locked, a battle of wills as much as strength.
Above, Merodach unleashed another devastating spell. The air itself seemed to scream as a pulse of magic flattened everything in its path, sending Thorigg’s soldiers flying like ragdolls. The sonic wave ripped through the stonework, leaving cracks and destruction in its wake.
“You fight like a coward, hiding behind your mage’s tricks!” Thorigg roared, lunging at Vargrath. Their swords met in a deadly dance, sparks flying with every strike. For a brief moment, it seemed as though Thorigg might overpower his enemy. But Vargrath, having tapped into forbidden magic, was no ordinary foe. With a guttural cry, he unleashed a blast of dark energy from his chest, hurling Thorigg back.
Wiping blood from a fresh wound on his cheek, Vargrath sneered. “This land will be ours, for humans alone!” He raised his sword, now glowing with a sickly red light. Dark magic surged from the blade, aimed directly at the king.
Thorigg barely raised his shield in time, but the force shattered it. A second blow came, and the king was forced to parry, but the power behind Vargrath’s strike was overwhelming. A spear-like bolt of energy shot from Vargrath, driving Thorigg to his knees.
Vargrath stood over the fallen king, his victory certain. “Your reign is over, Thorigg.”
The Queen's Escape
King Thorigg lay motionless in the city square, his once mighty figure now a lifeless testament to Vargrath’s brutal victory. The few surviving soldiers, 42 of the original 200, were left with grave wounds. Vargrath, in a show of cruelty, spared them to spread the tale of his dominance. Standing over the fallen king, Vargrath's lips curled into a sneer. "Horse!" he roared. "They won't get far." His eyes narrowed, staring coldly into the distance, already plotting his next move.
As dawn broke, reinforcements from Norvick Hold finally arrived, but their advance had been slowed by the treacherous terrain. What awaited them was a nightmarish sight—the once-beautiful capital city of Lumar reduced to a smoldering ruin, its streets filled with the bodies of its defenders, the echoes of the joyous festival now replaced by the stench of blood and fire.
Meanwhile, the queen and the Phalanx, although far from safe, had managed to escape the immediate carnage. Yet Vargrath's forces were relentless, pursuing them with a vengeance. Despite the Phalanx's deadly efficiency in cutting down their attackers, they could not outrun the sheer numbers against them. Every moment they pressed on, their path was blocked, their pace slowed by the unyielding pursuit of Vargrath’s army.
The group sought refuge at Vyrhall Hold, a small but fiercely defiant city. Its hunters, seasoned and skilled, stood in solidarity with the queen. However, they were no match for the might of Vargrath’s forces. Vyrhall’s walls soon crumbled under the assault, the city burning to ashes. The queen, seeing no other option, realized they could no longer flee.
With heavy sorrow, she made a desperate decision—one born of love and sacrifice. She could not let Vargrath discover that her son had just been born. Quietly, she took her infant son and hid him within the sacred shrine of Aetherion, Tyralla, and Valdran, the gods of protection and honor. She placed him gently on the pedestal dedicated to Valdran, covering him with her own royal cloak. Whispering a final prayer to the gods, she pleaded for their protection over her child.
As flames began to lick at the edges of the sacred shrine, the queen fled, hoping to draw Vargrath's attention away from her helpless son. But as she feared, the shrine itself became engulfed in the firestorm, its structure collapsing around the hidden infant. Whether the gods had answered her prayers remained uncertain, but she had no time to look back.
At the edge of the burning ruins, Vargrath confronted the queen, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with victory. She grabbed a fallen hunter's sword, bracing herself for a final stand, knowing well that her strength alone was no match for him. Yet, before Vargrath could land his blow, the smoke and shadows parted, revealing the towering figures of the Phalanx, the nine elite warriors known for their terrifying presence and unparalleled might. They stood behind the queen, their faces impassive, yet their very presence was enough to send a chill through Vargrath's spine. Even Merodach, ever fearless, felt a tremor of unease as goosebumps crawled over his skin in the presence of the Phalanx, the nine legends of battle.
Vargrath glared at the queen, rage barely contained. "I’ll spare you—for now," he spat, his voice thick with venom. "But this isn’t over. Your power will soon be mine, you shameful queen. You’ve mixed our honor with these other races. It’s disgusting!"
The queen remained silent, but in her heart, she knew what his words meant. If Vargrath stood before her now, it meant that her beloved Thorigg was no more.
With a smirk, Vargrath turned to his soldiers, raising his sword high. "We return to Stromhavn!" he shouted. "Rejoice in this victory!" His men erupted into cheers, their voices echoing in triumph. As they departed, leaving the ruined city behind, the queen fell to her knees, silent tears streaming down her face as the weight of her loss fully sank in.
Yet even as the flames consumed the world around her, there was still a glimmer of hope—the Phalanx, standing as a silent, unshakable force, remained by her side.
Mother and Father
The queen rushed toward the remains of the sacred shrine, her heart pounding with dread. Flames still licked at the edges of the charred wood, but amidst the ruin, the Nine moved with quiet strength. One by one, they lifted the smoldering embers as if they weighed nothing, revealing a sight that stole the queen’s breath: her son, peacefully sleeping, untouched by the fire that had consumed the shrine around him. Not a single scratch marred his delicate skin; it was as if the gods themselves had shielded him from harm.
The queen fell to her knees, reaching for her child, cradling him gently in her arms. Tears streamed down her face, tears of both relief and sorrow. She held him close, her lips brushing his forehead, her voice soft as a summer breeze.
"Be still, my son. You're home.
I tuck you in beneath the blue,
Beneath the pain, beneath the ray of morning light.
Goodnight kiss for a child in time,
Swaying love, my lullaby.
On the meadow we sat and hoped,
Under the same pale sunlight,
Whose guiding light chose you,
Chose you all.
Oh, when did you become so cold?
The blade will keep by your side,
All you need is to feel my love.
Search for beauty, find your meadow,
Try to save them all, bleed no more.
You have such land and oceans within,
In the end,
I will always love you."
Her voice, though quiet, carried through the smoky air, bringing a moment of peace in the midst of the devastation. The song, a lullaby of love and sorrow, was both a farewell and a blessing. As she finished, her heart broke, knowing the choice she now had to make.
The queen kissed her son one last time, her lips trembling against his soft skin. Her decision, though agonizing, was made out of the deepest love. To protect him from Vargrath’s cruelty, she would let the world believe he had died in the invasion. Only the Nine and her father-in-law, Bjorn, would know the truth. She wrapped her royal cloak around the child, a silent promise that one day he might rise as a king—or perhaps live a peaceful life, far from the bloodshed that had consumed their land.
With her voice heavy with emotion, she whispered to Bjorn, "My lord father, I entrust him to you. My son, Aethyrvald Whitemane—I name him as proof of love from the gods."
Bjorn, his battle-worn hands trembling with rare tenderness, stepped forward and reached for the child. The old warrior, scarred from countless battles, looked down at the frail but beautiful baby in his arms. His expression softened, though his eyes remained fierce with purpose.
"His destiny is his own," Bjorn said solemnly, his voice steady. "He will walk the path he chooses. I will raise him with honor, with wisdom, and with all the strength I have left. And the Nine shall guide him in the ways of respect and pride."
The queen nodded, her tears flowing freely now. This was the last time she would hold her son, the last time she would gaze upon his innocent face. She knew it was necessary, but the pain in her heart was unbearable. She stepped back, allowing Bjorn to take Aethyrvald into the shadows, where he would be hidden and kept safe. The queen, standing in the embers of a broken city, could only hope that her sacrifice would one day be understood.
As she and Bjorn parted ways, the Nine remained a silent, steadfast shield around her. They would see her safely back to the capital, while a handful of hunters—those who had survived the battle—followed at a distance. The queen walked with a heavy heart, each step taking her farther from her child, but closer to the fate she had sealed with this decision.
Her silent tears were not for her loss alone, but for the uncertain future that awaited her son. Yet within her sorrow was a flicker of hope—the hope that, one day, Aethyrvald Whitemane would rise, not as a weapon of war, but as a symbol of the peace she so desperately longed for.
And as the flames of Vyrhall dwindled behind them, the queen allowed herself one last prayer—that her son, cradled in the arms of his grandfather, would be guided by the gods, free to choose his own destiny.