Dull shadows grow with evening’s fading light,

Longer, darker, grey fingers beckoning an endless night.

Men cannot quell the darkness, nor hide ‘til dawn’s release,

Whence shadows fall, not fade; twilight shall not cease.

A sole beacon, a blade may pierce the veil,

Tempered, blazing forge, the steel that must prevail.

            -Translated from Jylian into Western Common

Prologue

            The banquet hall was a storm of colors. The music was pounding like thunder, crashing against the ornate high arched ceilings. The ladies’ dresses exploded on the dance floor, blossoms of blue and gold, booming reds and yellows. The energy in the air was electric. Every person was buzzing with excitement. The flames cast light in flashes against the windows and walls, projecting the celebratory crowd's shadows like giants in the sky; gods playing like jubilant children in the clouds. And jubilant they should be.

            Brindon sipped casually at a creamy ale. Foam tipped his mustache as he wiped it away casually. He leaned on a pillar, watching the celebration before him with deep brown eyes that matched his modest brown coat. Brindon was taller than most, so he could see easily into the crowd where his brother Bruden sloshed around, a brutish attempt at dancing. His brother was nearly identical to Brindon except for his lack of grace this night and the giant, splitting grin that Bruden wore as he wavered about. The smile on his face was infectious. Women gathered around Bruden with giddy smiles. The young ladies eyed Bruden with impish looks while carefully shuffling to avoid his tripping, bumbling serenade. Brindon grinned, it was hard not to on such an occasion.

            “Smiling suits you. You might try it more often.” A hard, feminine voice called from behind. Brindon didn’t need to see her to recognize the voice.

“Maybe. Tell me, what does an orc’s smile look like Talla?” he replied mockingly. Brindon turned to see a remarkably tall figure. The woman's skin was olive green. She was tanned and rugged from long hours in the sun. Her wild, jet-black hair clashed with the delicate hint of a feminine figure hiding behind an intricate leather bodice.

“An orcish smile is too terrifying for humans. If I smiled, it would drain the blood from your face and reduce you to weeping.” The muscled green woman smirked.

“Hah,” Brindon snorted. “Do you really think so little of me after all that we have faced together?”

"If you recall, you never had to face any orcs, my friend.” Talla raised a playful eyebrow and grunted a garbled chuckle. She stood a head taller than Brindon and outweighed him by two or three stone. As she began walking towards the crowd, men quickly made way, partially because of her imposing presence, but also in reverence. Talla glanced back at Brindon, “I think your King is preparing his declaration, let us sit.”

"Aye, and where is Leomund?” Brindon asked.

“That old wingbat wouldn't suffer all this buffoonery," Talla replied.

Brindon shrugged thoughtfully. Leomund wasn’t much for crowds. Well, none of them except Bruden were genuinely comfortable in a crowd. But Leomund was … special. The old codger was probably off sipping on some home-brewed concoction of wine, or at least his attempt at wine. Brindon chuckled at the summoned thought of Leomund. The older man had a wispy unkempt beard always wore his tattered tan hat. Brindon could imagine Lemound slowly sipping one of his concoctions. He could also picture the wizened man spitting it out as he ruined yet another mix. Leomund was far more content in a dark room, full of books and vials than a banquet hall with drunken lords and lively music.

The room quieted as the sound of a utensil clanged against a copper chalice. Everyone turned and complied, bowing as the King of Marlathon stood from his chair. “Please, be seated, my friends." King Caprica’s voice was confident and pleasing. His demeanor was that of a man who was comfortable addressing the masses, no matter the gravity of the issue. Blue and gold coalesced in a brilliant leather coat, accented by the purest of white furs draped effortlessly across his shoulders. His oak brown beard neatly framed a chiseled face with affable blue eyes. "Tonight, we celebrate. We celebrate the victories. We celebrate our courageous dead. Most of all, we celebrate peace amid our land. Now let us eat and drink while the festivities begin!"

A round of cheers and hollers erupted through the hall. Guests began to slosh down pints and pick contentedly at a myriad of foods. Brindon gladly ate his share; it truly was a celebration for the ages. Brindon turned to his left, spotting orcs in studded leathers. They were ravaging the remains of an elegantly roasted duck, slapping shoulders, and exchanging mostly grunts from what he could tell. Beside them was a small group of dwarves, beards covered in festive carnage ranging from ale to venison. Deep, hearty laughter echoed off the walls as they smashed precariously full mugs together. Across from them, a lithe group of elves at a table sang melodious toons to a swooning group of women. Golden hair weaved to waist length made the elves appear taller than the old tales. The elves outbid all of the most lavish ladies for style and length. Brindon had seen thirty years in this world. Never did he imagine there would be such an amicable meeting between these various kingdoms.

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Brindon was surprised to look up and find his King, Caprica, sitting across from him. Brindon shot to his feet, arms rigid at his sides out of instinct. "Damn you, Brindon. Sit down and don't make such a fuss, aye?” the King snorted as he set the chalice down.

“Thank you, my King.” Brindon sat down stiffly as if being maneuvered by iron rods.

"Come now, Brindon. You could at least pretend for a moment that I’m still a person. Maybe even a decent person. Perhaps someone you used to be friends with?” the King pleaded.

“Aye, my King. Decent at what again? Certainly not at a sword fight.” Brindon let slip a grin.

“Bah! You haven’t fought me in years, not since Avery Hall! You’re practically an old man now.” Caprica flashed a genuine smile. "Hah. It feels good to have the semblance of a real conversation. I have grown tired already of the charade. Every person performs for me, like it's a damn drama troupe, always bowing and scraping. It frustrates me, Brin." The King's expression wavered. "I need council. Honest council." A sly grin crept into one corner of the King's face.

"Surely, you have dozens of reliable lords on your retinue.” Brindon offered.

“Aye.” The King snorted. “I can rely on them to kiss my royal bottom and drain the royal coffers.”

The two men shared a laugh. Brindon had seen his friend Caprica nearly a month ago, as Marlathon’s youngest prince. Caprica had been wearing the crown for less than a fortnight now. So much had changed since then. The kingdom had waged war against the Filus, winning by the narrowest margins and suffering the deepest of losses. The Filus was a reclusive state, notorious for their blasphemous worship of fire deities. For decades, Marlathon and Filus sat idly across a shared border, avoiding conflict. Marlathon was twice the size of Filus. It was filled with sprawling farmlands and towering stretches of mountains. The coastlines were dotted with bustling city-ports, beckoning other continents to trade. Marlathon was among the first to slowly open its borders and begin trading with foreign nations and peoples. Meanwhile, Filus dug in deeper, preferring isolation.

The Filians despised their neighbors, but they abhorred non-humans more. The xenophobic people captured elves, orcs, and many more – bonding them to slavery and branding them for a lifetime of servitude. Their worship of the fire deities was fanatical. Orders of Filian cardinals and heretics sacrificed the willing and unwilling alike, they sought the one who would be reborn from the flames. Filus began reaching outward, seeking this prodigal sacrifice in other realms. Marlathon men and women were kidnapped for sacrifices as the Filus relentlessly sought their prophetic sacrifice. Eventually, as Marlathon reinforced its borders, the persistence of Filus forays escalated. The Filian High Order commanded a force to take Sheargarde, a Marlathon stronghold on the border, spilling blood and razing the garrison.

Marlathon would suffer aggression no more. And so, the banners were called to protect the kingdom, squelching the Filian hostilities. The Filus state had built a considerable army of zealots and employed slaves among their ranks. Full-scale war was underway, sending tens of thousands to their graves and plaguing the countryside with famine. Marlathon reached out to its newest trade partners, seeking help in the protracted fight. No nation wanted to send its people to die for foreign disputes. Nobody wanted to combat the wicked, fire worshipping Filians.

King Corsus’s son, Prince Caprica, forged a scheme to end the fighting. The kingdom would send five brave souls to assault the Filus capitol. This small band would eliminate the High Order and steal the Ember Stone, a holy idol of the Filian people. Prince Caprica, King Corsus, and a massive army would march to the border, distracting the Filus hordes and drawing the mass of their forces. The covert band would leave days earlier, landing a small boat on the Filus shores and making their way into the heart of the kingdom. All went as planned, and the band infiltrated the capital, beheading the Filian command. The Filians retreated, proffering a surrender and terms of peace. King Corsus lost his life in the frontline battle, leaving the throne to his son Caprica.

Now, King Caprica sat across from Brindon. Brindon was one of the five who penetrated the Filian capital and ended the Great War. Brindon and his twin brother, Bruden, led the party. Talla, the hearty orc managed to keep the absent wizard, Leomund, alive. Lastly, Falin, a kind-hearted dwarf had fallen, trying to rescue a slave from a collapsing tower. The five of them were now heroes of Marlathon. Brindon’s friend, Caprica, now led the kingdom only weeks after the conclusion of the fighting.

The young King leaned back; arm slung over the back of the chair. “Brindon, you have done your kingdom a most worthy deed, one that will surely be written about for ages. Marlathon is in your debt, and so I offer you a seat at my council. With it, you will be granted an estate with more than earnest holdings, and all shall look to your candid advice, especially me". 

The King leaned forward, expectant, as he sipped from a copper mug of ale. Brindon furrowed his brow, breathing deeply. "Quite an honor, my liege, a grand thank you to be sure. However, I cannot accept. I have to … make amends first”.

King Caprica sat back in his chair. “Hah, Brindon!". He slapped the table in jest, chuckling. "I expected as much from you. Think on it, my friend. Drink tonight and enjoy your time as a free man, for on the 'morrow we shall talk about it at length". Caprica rose abruptly, mug in hand, looking around for a refill. Brindon stood sharply again, tipping a bow to the King. Caprica wandered off, still jubilant and swaying a bit as he rejoined the head table.

Brindon slowly and deliberately descended to his chair. He sighed under his breath, gaze slowly panning to his brother, Bruden. The brutish man was still parading around the floor, his hearty laugh bellowing amongst the celebratory cheers. Women were clutching his arms and giggling. Ladies clung to Bruden’s every word. Around them, crowds cheered and saluted the bumbling man. In the background, elves were singing his praises in flawless melodies.

Brindon sat alone at the table. No crowds gathered around him--no song recounted his glorious combat. He looked once more upon his brother. Brindon’s eyes closed, and his head sunk as he pressed his fingers to his forehead, vigorously smoothing the wrinkle of his brow. He exhaled a ragged breath as a tear slid down his cheek.