Alaric:
Moonlit shores defined the gleaming sandy beach.
The moon hung high and brilliant in the night sky, a serene witness to the unseen torment below. On the lonely stretch of gray sand, black, spiky doors jutted out, guarded by men in black helmets, their halberds, spears, and scimitars glinting coldly. Their skin, pale as snow, contrasted sharply with the tropical sea around them. Beyond the steel doors, guards patrolled the compound, but in the dimly lit heart of the fortress, a man hung suspended by chains from the ceiling.
His feet were bare, and a rough brown peasant’s tunic hung loosely on his frame, revealing a canvas of deep scars and raw, red welts beneath. The door creaked open, and a figure slithered in, shadows flickering around him. A sneer twisted his lips as he approached the chained man.
“My Prince, wake up. The time has come for your dinner.”
The prince’s eyes fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion. The guard advanced, holding a bowl of gruel, and with sadistic pleasure, smeared it across the prince’s face. The prince sputtered, but his eyes, fierce and defiant, locked onto the guard’s, who stepped back involuntarily, fear flickering in his eyes before he quickly masked it.
“You can’t even move, Alaric,” the guard spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “You will never escape this hellhole. But since I hold some twisted fondness for you,” he leaned closer, a malicious smirk playing on his lips, “they ordered more chains.”
The guard produced another set of shackles, snapping them over Alaric’s already bound wrists. A grating laugh escaped his lips, abrasive and cruel, only fueling Alaric’s growing annoyance.
“After this, I’ll pay a visit to your family and tell them how good of a boy you were.” The guard’s voice rasped.
Alaric seethed inwardly but forced himself to remember his training. Torture was a means to an end, and he had to remain calm to survive. Two long years of enduring torment had led to this moment. In three days, under the full moon, his scheduled execution would be his chance to escape. Alaric vowed to kill everyone involved in his family’s death, his resentment burning brightly within him. But for now, he had to wait, biding his time until the fortress would be consumed by preparations for his execution.
Veritas:
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In the heart of the wilderness, a vibrant red barn nestled amidst towering trees. Expansive fields stretched around it, bursting with tralberries and worncrop, local delicacies of the redwoods. The barn family’s generosity was renowned; children flocked to them, always met with a warm welcome and snacks.
“Pops! Pops!” Veritas, the scrawny barn’s son, called out.
His father rose from the hay, a single blade of grass nestled between his teeth, a gentle smile on his lips. “What is it, son?”
“Can I go to the market and get some food for dinner?” Veritas’s eyes sparkled with anticipation.
“We have enough here, son,” his father chuckled softly.
But the boy persisted, his pleas growing more fervent until his father relented. “All right, just be sure to give your momma a hug before you leave, even if it’s just a picture on the wall,” Pops reminded him affectionately. Veritas grinned widely, eagerly embracing his father before skipping towards the connecting house. As his father suggested, he hugged the photograph of his late mother, longing for her return.
Memories of her sudden disappearance plagued his thoughts, a mystery his father had guarded for years. Veritas stepped out of the room and prepared himself to walk to the city. He hadn’t had a horse since joining the Kingsmen, but an unfamiliar apprehension gripped him, casting a shadow over his excitement. Veritas waved to his father one last time, finding him engrossed in providing meals to the local peasants. Fear attempted to take hold of his mind, but he pushed it aside, setting off along the dirt path leading to the city.
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Veritas walked along paths winding through the sprawling redwood forest. The air was alive with birds’ melodies and the occasional rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. He marveled at the intricate dance of light filtering through the thick canopy, creating dappled patterns on the forest floor. Each step seemed to meld with nature’s rhythm, the forest embracing him like an old friend. Babbling brooks cascaded over smooth stones, offering a refreshing symphony to accompany his journey.
The path ahead was familiar, worn by the passage of many feet before him. His stride was steady, unhurried, as if time itself slowed in this tranquil realm. He paused occasionally, observing the blooming flowers or the graceful flight of a butterfly, losing himself in the wilderness’s beauty.
As the day progressed, marked by the changing hues of the sky, shadows elongated, casting playful patterns on the forest floor. Veritas walked on, humming a tune passed down from his mother, resonating through the serene woods. The air grew cooler as evening approached, a gentle reminder that he had been walking for hours.
The first signs of civilization emerged—a horse approached on the dusty road. Veritas strained his eyes and recognized it as one he knew well. He smiled, hurrying ahead. The stallion carried his old friend, but instead of a beaming grin, a grimace marred his face.
“Brother, what happened?” Veritas inquired with concern.
His friend dismounted gracefully, as they had practiced countless times before.
“The old crew, Veritas. Riders are coming from the direction you’re heading. I was galloping to warn your family. Get on, and let’s evacuate everyone from that cursed forest immediately.”
Veritas cursed, shock flitting across his face. He started making plans but noticed his friend wasn’t budging.
“Brixton, why aren’t you getting back on the horse? We need to hurry. And why are your hands…”
Brixton cut him off. “I need to check your pockets.”
Veritas narrowed his eyes. “Are the Riders behind you?”
Brixton stepped forward, revealing a gleaming knife, a hunting blade gifted to him by Pops.
“These are dangerous times. They’ve already burned down your little beloved barn. You’re the only loose end, and I never wanted it to come to this. I thought you’d perish there. It seems you’ve reached your end. Goodbye.”
Before Veritas could comprehend, Brixton lunged. The startled horse bolted, leaving Veritas vulnerable. But Veritas knew his every move. Instinctively, he dodged to the right, narrowly avoiding the blade.
Veritas knew he couldn’t overpower Brixton. He bolted, sprinting toward the city, assuming the riders had already reached the barn. He ran, refusing to glance back. Only when the familiar trees of Bridgemond came into view did he take an alternate route, different from the shortcut he and his classmates used. Veritas found himself overwhelmed by worry and thoughts of his family.
Tears streamed down his face as he replayed Brixton’s words. The betrayal and the possibility of his father’s death were unbearable. The fact that Brixton was now a Rider, a town burner, filled him with anger and grief. Veritas made sure to remain hidden, hoping he wouldn’t be discovered.
Katherine:
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A man in resplendent golden attire stood regally on the balcony of a castle perched high upon the towering mountains of Everpeak. A crown adorned his head, and numerous titles were at his disposal. He ruled as the Arbitrator, a master of the occult void, a wizard of unparalleled power. Despite his grand position, the kingdom remained oblivious to his true identity. His men spread false rumors, labeling the mountain as unholy and forbidden. The lower classes accepted these baseless beliefs, reinforcing the facade.
Footsteps echoed across the ornately decorated balcony. The Arbitrator turned swiftly, ready to unleash his displeasure upon the intruder. But his demeanor softened upon recognizing the person. He turned back to gaze at the ethereal mist veiling the mountains.
“Katherine, what brings you here? I distinctly recall instructing you to prepare for the ritual,” he inquired.
“Father, I… I am filled with worry. What if I fail to manifest any powers?”
The Arbitrator turned away from the captivating vista and placed his adorned hands gently upon her shoulders, locking eyes with her.
“I have nurtured your talents since you were but a child. You will not falter. No member of our lineage has ever failed. You possess more skill than me and my predecessors. I have complete faith in you.”
Katherine met his gaze with a steely determination. “But what if I do fail?”
She quickly covered her mouth, realizing her unintended rudeness. The Arbitrator’s eyes narrowed, and he raised a hand to silence her. Katherine’s countenance contorted with a mix of emotions. She abruptly left the room, uncaring of what the Arbitrator had to say.
Sighing heavily, the King followed in her footsteps, not to make amends for his words, but to summon his seer for the impending ritual.
Katherine’s footfalls echoed through the castle corridors, each heavy stomp mirroring her mounting frustration. After slamming her chamber door shut, she leaned against it, seeking solace.
Years of rigorous training in shadow sorcery had prepared her for the imminent threat she faced as the inheritor of the Arbitrator role. Her father, wary of her safety, had appointed a male successor and concealed vital information about the upcoming trial. The weight of countless obstacles loomed before her, and Katherine’s readiness wavered. This would be the only way she could prove herself to the world.
A held breath escaped her lips as she grasped her polearm and began moving through her practiced forms.