Prologue: The King’s Finest

It was the kind of day in the City of Arkensk that would have required no artistic liberties from the painters commissioned to immortalize it. The sun rippled with golden specs on the river and also reflected brilliantly off the water trickling down the sheer rock face of the mountain against which the capital city was nestled, making the white palace with its blue-capped towers look like it was drawn against a curtain of pure light. Even the most incompetent of apprentices on the verge of being sent back to the obscurity of their home village, let alone the greatest artists in the Kingdom, would be able to depict the day in all its glory. And a most glorious day it had been, for not even a year after King Ganryh II had survived a most heinous attempt on his life, the whole of the land was celebrating its victory over the northern rebels that had sent the assassins.

The King himself, looking to be in good health and excellent spirits, stood at the bottom of the palace steps before a cheering crowd. Beside him stood Iverni, his Queen, and the older two of their three children, surrounded by a retinue of fussing advisors, including the Archmage and the Prime Minister. Sprinkled among them was a multitude of guards that stood sharp-eyed and ready, having learned from their last mistake through the rolling heads of some of their colleagues.

Lined up next in this semicircle at the head of the square, in a higher position of honour than the assemblage of various lords and ladies, was the small band of heroes that were the primary cause for the celebration. For months, the six known as the “King’s Finest” had been adventuring in the northlands, bringing the rebellion to heel and restoring peace to the Kingdom. With the last rebel holdout smashed, and stability restored to the northern regions, the King’s Finest returned to the capital triumphant yet battle-worn, ready to receive the kind of grandiose accolades that could be expected to be bestowed by a centuries-old dynasty.

Though far from being the leader of this band, Jalvyn Kaldoun was undoubtedly their most prominent member. The first known true magus in a Kingdom filled to the brim with middling mages, it had scarcely been two years since the Prime Minister’s scouts discovered Jalvyn in his small village on the shores of the Boundless Sea and escorted him to Arkensk to begin his training in service to his Kingdom at the Akademiya of the Magi. He could hardly believe that now he was at the dead centre of the most important events that had transpired here in the last half-century, though, in all fairness, it had been a fairly non-eventful fifty years.

If Jalvyn was being honest, he would have said that he was not feeling well at all about the entire affair, but he would not be able to explain the reasons. It was two weeks since he had returned, reuniting with his wife and meeting for the first time the son who had been born while he was performing his duty. They were there with him, Nelith standing just behind him, the babe in her arms sleeping peacefully to the sounds of the jubilant crowd. Their presence provided Jalvyn with a certain measure of calm, but despite the fact that he felt that his life was perhaps regaining some normalcy, when he had arrived at the palace steps, he was overwhelmed by a sense of anxiety. Whether it was the dignity of the occasion or the proximity of King Ganryh or the size of the crowd, Jalvyn no longer felt comfortable in his skin and a cold line of sweat appeared under his hairline.

Nydra Heliks, the member of their group that they all would have agreed was their true leader, if for the sole reason that in the direst of situations it was her voice that was the rule, sensed that something was amiss and leaned her head in towards Jalvyn.

“Are you alright, lad?” She had always insisted on calling him ‘lad’ though she was only five years his senior.

“I’m fine,” he answered, and the words caught slightly in his throat. “Just feeling queasy.”

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“That’s no surprise. I’ve never been a fan of these things myself.”

“These things?” Jalvyn was once more reminded that even though Nydra enjoyed a lively conversation more than any of the others, the one topic she seemed to steer clear of was herself. “How many of ‘these things’ have you been to exactly?”

“Figure at least one more than you have.” She gave him an impish smile and returned to standing at attention as the King regaled his subjects with a speech that Jalvyn could not concentrate on. Peteri Gahn, who had been standing on the other side of Nydra and watched their exchange, bent his head slightly forward and gave Jalvyn an inquisitive look. Jalvyn shook his head assuredly in return, which seemed to satisfy the old archer.

The King’s voice had blended fully with the ringing in Jalvyn’s ears and the young magus directed all his focus towards not passing out. What a sight that would be, for one of the King’s Finest to drop dead to the gasps and screams of an adoring crowd, only for them to find out that he had merely fainted. Jalvyn mused about what the sound of ten thousand people laughing could do to a man’s dignity.

He took three deep breaths, which lifted some of the weight off his chest and restored clarity to his vision. He glanced over his shoulder and finding Nelith keeping an intent eye on her husband, turned fully to face her and hoped he was not committing some unforgivable faux pas by turning his back towards his sovereign. The move to the capital had been hardest on Nelith. Jalvyn had no roots around the Boundless Sea, but it is where his wife’s family had called home for generations. Uprooted and nearly halfway across the Kingdom, Nelith never warmed to Arkensk and its ways, particularly troubled by some of the darker aspects of Jalvyn’s training. Yet she had stuck by him just the same, and now it was his turn to give all of himself to her and the babe.

He slipped his hand through a fold in Nelith’s shawl, and found the little hand of his sleeping child. So tender and fragile those fingers were, each a priceless trinket he promised would never come to any harm. Jalvyn would shepherd the boy through this world like his own parents never could, and would steer him away from the mistakes that he himself had made. But then King Ganryh announced Jalvyn’s name and the roar of the crowd rose in response. It would all be over soon anyway, Jalvyn thought, and let the little soft fingers slip away through his, as he turned and faced the King once more.

Away from Nelith’s kind and thoughtful eyes, the terrible feeling returned. As Jalvyn made his way past the dignitaries, including the shrewd watch of the Prime Minister, the mastermind behind their whiole mission, Jalvyn felt his feet grow heavy, his breath become increasingly shallow, and a hot pressure grow in his solar plexus. Finding himself in King Ganryh II’s regal presence did not help matters. He had never been so close to the monarch and was surprised to see he had an understanding paternal smile despite the severity of his features. The King spoke a few words of gratitude which Jalvyn could not make out through the cotton stuffing his ears.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Jalvyn said anyway when the King was finished and graced Jalvyn with another smile, and then Jalvyn bowed his head to receive the medal that would hang around his neck with the weight of the sacrifices that took to earn it.

Jalvyn had done it. Whatever had been ailing him, he did not embarrass himself in front of the King, and now that he took a few steps back to where he had been standing, he relaxed, and the pressure and heat that had been building inside of him was released in a great hot detonation that left a crater where Jalvyn had stood and smashed the glass in the highest windows of the palace towers.

The sound of the explosion reverberated from the sheer rockface looming above the city and once the initial shock wore off, the full gravity of what had occurred pierced through those gathered. As the crowds fled in horror, and desperate attempts were made to help the killed and wounded through the clouds of hot dust and raining rubble, one voice was lost in the chaos. Amidst the cries of “The King! The King!” and the shrieks of those discovering that they had lost parts of themselves, no one heard the wailing song of an infant boy. Still pressed against his mother’s motionless chest, he kicked his feet and feebly swung his fists at the layers of the shawl that covered him, clinging to the world that had just been broken for him.

MIRO KALDOUN

Level 1 Mage

Strength: 1

Dexterity: 1

Vitality: 1

Intelligence: 1

Charisma: 1

Spells: none

Maximum Mana: zero

Mana regen: not available

Debuff: Mother’s Blood