The last powers of the old Norlaren began to fade slowly, just like all his hopes of achieving victory in the war that had blindly drawn him in many years ago. His moments were numbered, and his heavy breathing tortured him more and more. He would have given anything to be young again for just one day, to throw away his cursed crutch, to lift his sword from its hook and to set off on the Emperor's trail, making him regret the harm he had caused to these peaceful lands.

He collapsed into bed, exhausted from the steps he had to take just to reach a glass of water. Disease and old age slowly but surely defeated him. He opened the journal he had found fifty years ago and began to read aloud from it. In the last year, he had read the journal five times because it was the only reading that still interested him, once a fearless and unstoppable warrior.

"The happiest day of my life was the day I held my son in my arms for the first time. I knew that he would be the one to bring change to this world. I knew he would be a great man, who would fight for the same noble causes that I fought for.

What I did not know was that the peace of a wandering knight does not last long, and pride carried me to places and events that were not meant for me. I tasted the blood of my victims as I savored my victory. I felt their fear in their eyes, but I continued to do what I was ordered, both as a Bringer and as a simple knight. I saw my death in the true sense of the word. I saw my son raise his sword against me. I watched helplessly as the Emperor killed him, how he cast into oblivion every enemy who dared to challenge him..."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Memories of Death, 3504 a. X.N

The wind began to blow fiercely against the window of the old man's house, giving him the impression that an emissary of the Emperor could burst in at any moment, just to ensure that he had become what he was now, a shell of his former self. He closed the journal and lit his pipe, from which he began to draw eagerly. He had never imagined that old age could be so hard. Admittedly, he had never even thought about old age, because it never crossed his mind that he would reach it.

From the journal fell a small map, which he unfolded, casting his blurred gaze over it. He knew those lands. From there everything had started: the war, the suffering, the thirst for power, the occult arts, and last but not least, there he had met him, the one who had been his friend, the one with whom he had fought side by side, and not least, the one for whom he would have given his life. If that hero had not perished at such a young age, the Emperor would not have gained such power at the present time.

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