In the grand chamber of Cadan Castle, where the echoes of history danced along the gilded walls, King Ivane Valinski held court upon his imposing throne. Crafted from the finest marble and adorned with intricate carvings depicting the lineage of House Valinski, the throne stood as a symbol of authority and power. Its towering presence dominated the room, casting shadows that seemed to whisper tales of ancient glory.
Standing to the right of the king was Darthal Vermyr, his left loyal hand, trusted advisor and medical expertise. Clad in regal attire befitting his station, Darthal's presence exuded an aura of quiet strength and strategic prowess. His dark eyes, sharp and calculating, surveyed the chamber with unwavering focus, ever ready to serve his liege with unwavering loyalty.
Opposite Darthal, positioned with deliberate poise, stood the enigmatic figure of the Grand Maiden, Lady Merrill. Cloaked in a gown of midnight black, her silhouette seemed to merge seamlessly with the shadows that danced across the chamber. Strands of silver-beaded hair cascaded around her face like a veil, obscuring her features.
"I underestimated your level of cruelty, coupled with your indigenous righteousness." She began.
"Was this your doing?" Lady Merrill's voice pierced the silence, its icy tone cutting through the regal atmosphere like a sharpened blade. Her gaze, silver eyes gleaming with intensity, bore into the king with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.
King Ivane, forever a formidable figure with a physique honed by years of battle and leadership, met her gaze with unwavering resolve. His eyes, a blaze of fiery orange, held the weight of centuries-old lineage and the burdens of rulership.
"Specify?" Ivane's voice resonated through the chamber, its timbre commanding attention and respect.
"The boy. What have you done, Ivane?" Lady Merrill's words dripped with a potent blend of warning and scepticism. Her demeanour, cloaked in an aura of ancient wisdom, hinted at depths of knowledge beyond mortal comprehension. "Meddling with the darkest of powers to make yourself an abomination you would call a Herald."
"If what you say is as I suspect then he was right," Darthal interjected, his voice a low rumble that echoed off the chamber's grandeur. His stance, rigid and composed, betrayed none of the inner thoughts.
"Right as you are, you ordained your own herald. Power like his is dangerous, especially in the hands of the unknowing," Lady Merrill countered, her words laden with a sense of foreboding. Ivane regarded her with a measured gaze, his expression betraying little of his thoughts. "There is no set dictum on ordaining my own herald. Only the use of unholy magicks is forbidden," he replied, his voice steady and resolute.
A subtle smirk graced Lady Merrill's lips, a silent acknowledgment of the game being played between them. "Very well," she conceded after a moment, her voice carrying the weight of centuries-old wisdom. "Your audience with the Lothrans will be granted." "As for the boy, I pray for your sake, you know what you've done," she cautioned, her words hanging in the air like a dark omen.
With a graceful nod, Lady Merrill turned to leave, her silhouette blending seamlessly with the shadows as she disappeared from view. Darthal and Ivane watched her departure in silence, the weight of her words lingering like a heavy fog.
"Sire?" Darthal's voice broke the silence, his eyes seeking guidance from the king.
"Fetch me the boy," Ivane commanded, his voice cutting through the chamber with an air of authority.
With a respectful bow, Darthal turned and made his exit, leaving King Ivane alone with his thoughts and the weight of impending decisions.
In the grandeur of the throne room, where the echoes of past triumphs and the weight of future destinies mingled, Avel stepped into the chamber, his gaze drawn to the figure of his father standing by the towering window. King Ivane, a formidable presence in his crimson cloak, stood with an air of authority and contemplation, his eyes fixed on some unseen horizon.
"You called for me, father?"
A long lingering pause filled the air.
"Years ago," the king began, his voice a low rumble that filled the vast chamber, "you told me you wanted the power to make them fear our name." Avel's brow furrowed in confusion.
"And I have granted you that power," Ivane continued, his tone carrying a blend of benevolence and menace as he turned to face his son. Caught off guard, Avel's gaze followed his father's, and realization slowly dawned upon him.
He turned to his side, his eyes locking with the ethereal form of Uriel, the being that had become an unexpected presence in his life. Avel's heart clenched with a mixture of awe and trepidation, realizing that his father could see the celestial being beside him. "You know?" Avel's voice trembled slightly with disbelief, his eyes searching his father's face for answers. "Why do you think I sent you to Garcinia in the first place?" Ivane's words hung heavy in the air as he began to approach his son, his movements deliberate and purposeful.
"You knew all along," Avel whispered, the weight of his father's revelation settling upon him like a heavy shroud.
Ivane paused, his gaze holding a mixture of regret and determination. "My father showed them to me, ages ago," he confessed, his voice tinged with bitterness. "These creatures were his obsession, his devotion."
Avel's mind reeled with the implications of his father's words. The revelation that, what he thought to be, his destiny had been manipulated from the start filled him with a deep distasteful sense of disgust, yet he remained outwardly composed, his mask of stoicism firmly in place, betraying none of the inner turmoil that churned within him. "You knew I would gain this?" Avel's voice was laced with a hint of incredulity, his eyes searching his father's for any sign of deception.
"I did not know," Ivane admitted, his gaze unwavering as he met his son's eyes. "But I believed. I believed in you. Ever since you told me that this was the kind of power you wanted, I knew that you were the one."
A surge of conflicting emotions washed over Avel, his father's words stirring a mixture of pride and uncertainty within him. He listened in silence as Ivane spoke of his unwavering faith in Avel's potential, his voice filled with conviction and fervour.
"Your future is so much greater than you could possibly imagine," Ivane declared, his hands revealing a dark leather book bound by golden strings. Avel's eyes widened in surprise as he beheld the ancient tome.
"For years, my father studied these beasts, and he believed our salvation lied with them," Ivane murmured, his voice heavy with the weight of memory as he stared down at the ancient text in his hands. "Through their presence, he saw a way out, a light in this world plagued by unnamable dangers."
"Demons so rightfully called and banned by the demiurge." Avel listened intently, his mind racing to comprehend the magnitude of his father's revelation. The knowledge that his ancestors had sought solace in beings beyond mortal understanding filled him with a sense of awe and trepidation and disgust. They were always set on disobeying the Lumerians. On meddling with forces greater than their own understanding.
It dawned on the boy that this was his intended fate from the beginning. To become one who would be granted gifts that would frighten the demiurge to the point they would want him dead.
Would these beings truly be enough to save him and his people from the demons and wrath of the gods?
Forget emotions, such was his appointed duty to fulfil by the King, his Father.
"What are they?" Avel's voice broke through the silence, his eyes searching his father's for answers.
Ivane's expression softened as he met his son's gaze. "My part in all this is nearly done," he stated plainly. "It's up to you to figure out the rest."
With a solemn nod, Ivane extended the ancient tome towards Avel, the weight of responsibility settling upon the young prince's shoulders. Avel hesitated for a moment, his fingers trembling slightly as they reached out to accept the book, his sceptre held firmly in his other hand.
"Dad?" Avel's voice wavered with uncertainty as he struggled to put his feelings into words. "I don't know what to believe," he confessed, his gaze shifting to the intricate patterns adorning the cover of the tome. "All I can do is keep learning and growing. That's all I know how to do."
Ivane studied his son with a mixture of pride and understanding, his eyes reflecting the wisdom of years past. "There comes a point in everyone's life where they won't always know what to do," he began, his voice gentle yet firm. "It's crucial in those moments to set your doubts aside and believe in yourself."
As their eyes met in a moment of shared understanding, Ivane closed the distance between them, resting a reassuring hand on Avel's shoulder and squeezing it gently. "In your moments of doubt, if you can't believe in yourself, then know that I believe in you," he affirmed, his voice filled with unwavering conviction. "Our people are scared, confused, and frightened," Ivane continued, emphasizing the gravity of their situation. "In place of the gods, they have us. I have faith in you. Now let them believe. Let them see that there is a light greater than even that of a king." Avel absorbed his father's words, his resolve strengthening with each passing moment. With a solemn nod, he acknowledged his father's command, his heart heavy with the weight of responsibility. "Protect them," Ivane pleaded, his voice a whisper carried on the winds of fate. "In ways that I never could."
Silence befell them briefly.
"Sire," Avel acknowledged as he took his leave, Ivane stood in the silent grandeur of the throne room, watching his son's retreating figure with a mixture of pride and apprehension. As the heavy doors closed behind Avel, sealing his fate as the chosen champion of their people, Ivane felt the weight of his fatherly duties settle heavily upon his shoulders. Moments after Avel had departed, Ivane's stoic facade crumbled, and he was overcome by a violent fit of coughing. Each cough wracked his body with pain, his chest burning with an intensity that felt like fire coursing through his veins. With trembling hands, he hurriedly covered his mouth, hoping to stifle the blood that threatened to spill forth.
As he peeled his hand away from his mouth, his eyes widened in horror at the sight before him. His palm was stained crimson with his lifeblood, a stark reminder of his mortality and the fragility of his existence. With a ragged breath, he wiped the blood from his mouth, his heart heavy with the knowledge that his time was running short.
Ivane stared down at his trembling hands, his thoughts consumed by the uncertainty of the future and the burden of the past. In that moment of solitude, he recalled the true cost of his ambitions and the sacrifices he had made along the way.
With a heavy heart, Ivane gathered his strength and straightened his posture, steeling himself for the trials that lay ahead. Though his body may falter, his spirit remained unbroken, and he vowed to fight for his people until his dying breath.
As he turned to leave the throne room, his footsteps echoing through the empty chamber, Ivane carried with him the weight of his father's legacy and the hope of a brighter future for his kingdom. And though the road ahead was fraught with peril, he knew that he would face it head-on, for the sake of his children and all those who looked to him for guidance.
As Avel strode forward, Uriel trailed silently beside him, his ethereal presence a stark contrast to the mortal world around them. The being's voice, when it spoke, resonated with a chilling otherworldly quality.
"Your father seems like a clever man," Uriel began, his tone devoid of any human emotion, his words echoing through the air like whispers from the abyss. "An important trait in greatness." Avel glanced at Uriel, his violet eyes reflecting the turmoil within his soul. "He is a great king," Avel acknowledged, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him.
Uriel nodded, his luminous eyes fixed upon Avel. "He is your sire as you are mine," Uriel continued, his words carrying a weight of ancient wisdom. "His greatness was unquestionable to me." Avel considered Uriel's words, the weight of his father's legacy pressing down upon him like a heavy burden. "I suppose you have him to thank for me waking you up," Avel remarked, his tone tinged with bitterness.
"You undervalue yourself, father," Uriel countered, his voice echoing with a resonance that seemed to reverberate through the very fabric of reality. "The man may have planned for it to happen, but he did not make it happen. In your being lies the power that brought my life back unto me."
Avel's heart clenched at Uriel's words, the realization of his own potential sending a surge of both fear and determination coursing through his veins. "Might I say more, father?" Uriel asked, his voice like the distant echo of a forgotten dream.
"Speak," Avel urged, his voice barely above a whisper as he struggled to contain the emotions swirling within him.
"Your sire is stricken with madness," Uriel stated plainly, his words cutting through the silence like a blade through the darkness. "As you are aware, father, all who have beheld me have been ensnared by insanity. Your sire is ridden with it, and I suspect I may be the cause of it." Avel's breath caught in his throat at Uriel's revelation, his mind reeling with the implications of his father's deteriorating mental state. "He didn't say anything," Avel murmured, his voice barely audible above the rush of blood in his ears.
"To spare you of any unhelpful emotions, I'm sure," Uriel replied, his voice devoid of sympathy or compassion. "To instill hope, ensuring you always look to the future so you may fulfil your duties unperturbed or distracted by his condition."
Avel's gaze drifted back in the direction of the king, his heart heavy with the weight of his newfound knowledge. "We've got work to do," he later declared, his voice filled with resolve as he forged ahead into an uncertain future, guided by duty and the promise of redemption.
Lumeria (Homeland of Lumerian Gods)
As the darkness of the abyss swallowed the spheric vessel whole, a sense of foreboding permeated the air, suffusing the atmosphere with an eerie tension. The vessel, sleek and menacing in its design, descended with an ominous grace, its surface reflecting the dim light that filtered through the murky depths of Lumeria. At the heart of the vessel, the Soothsayer stood, her form shrouded in a billowing cloak of midnight black. Her eyes, pools of silver in the dim light, bore the weight of centuries of knowledge and foresight, their gaze unwavering as they scanned the flowing landscape below.
As the vessel neared its destination, the Soothsayer felt a shiver of anticipation ripple through her, a primal instinct urging her onwards towards the impending confrontation with the demiurge, Rygor. She knew the stakes were high, the fate of Lumeria hanging in the balance as she prepared to convene with the all-powerful ruler of this realm.
As the vessel touched down upon the barren ethereal surface of Lumeria, a sense of unease settled over the Soothsayer, the weight of her responsibility pressing down upon her like a leaden cloak. With a steady hand, she stepped out onto the desolate landscape, her senses keenly attuned to the subtle shifts in the air.
Before her, the grand castle of Lumeria loomed, its towering spires reaching towards the darkened sky like twisted fingers clawing at the heavens. The air was thick with the scent of ancient magic, a palpable aura of power that crackled and hummed with latent energy.
As she made her way towards the castle, the Grand Maiden felt a chill run down her spine, a premonition of the trials that lay ahead. But she held her head high, her resolve unwavering in the face of adversity.
At the gates of the castle, she was met by a retinue of Lumerian guards, their eyes ablaze with an otherworldly intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. With a silent nod, she allowed them to escort her inside, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
Within the grand hall of the castle, she found herself face to face with Rygor himself, his form towering and imposing as he gazed down upon her with eyes that burned with an otherworldly fire. She felt a surge of power emanating from him, a raw and primal force that threatened to overwhelm her senses.
But she stood her ground, her gaze steady as she addressed the god before her. "Rygor," she said, her voice calm and measured despite the tumultuous emotions raging within her. "I have come to seek your counsel, to unravel the mysteries that plague our realm and threaten to tear it apart."
He regarded her with a gaze that pierced through her very soul, his expression inscrutable as he considered her words. And then, with a voice that rumbled like thunder in the stillness of the hall, he spoke. "Speak, Soothsayer," he commanded, his tone reverberating with the weight of untold millennia. "And I shall listen."
The air grew heavy with tension as Lady Merrill delivered her unsettling revelation. "The Aratheans have a herald," she declared, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. Rygor's brow furrowed in confusion, his golden eyes narrowing as he processed her words. "What?" he questioned, his voice a low rumble that reverberated through the chamber.
"The first prince," Merrill continued, her tone grave. "He holds the power over madness. I've seen it with my own eyes." Rygor's expression hardened, his features etched with a mixture of concern and disbelief. "We did not ordain him," he stated firmly, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration.
"Yet he was ordained," Merrill countered, her gaze unwavering as she met his gaze. "Ivane may be a fool, but he managed to do it, somehow." Rygor's jaw clenched as he absorbed her words, his mind racing with the implications of this revelation.
"Then they must suspect," he concluded, his voice cold and calculated. Rising from his throne with a regal grace, he paced the length of the chamber, his arms folded behind his back in a display of authority. "I doubt Ivane suspects any of it," Merrill assured him, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
Rygor fell into a contemplative silence, his azure eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent a shiver down Merrill's spine. "Tell me more of this boy," he demanded, his voice commanding and authoritative.
"He sees too much," Merrill admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "A truth of sorts." She recounted her encounter with Avel, detailing his plea for the gods to protect his people, even at the expense of his own well-being.
As Merrill spoke, Rygor's expression grew increasingly grave, his mind grappling with the weight of her words. "May I ask?" Merrill began tentatively, "If the power the boy wields is not from the gods then could it be of...' she theorizes, but before she could finish her thought, Rygor cut her off with a warning glare. "Never utter such blasphemy in my sight again," he warned, his voice laced with dangerous intent. Merrill recoiled, her heart pounding in her chest as she realized the gravity of her words. With a silent nod, she bowed her head in deference to the god before her, her mind racing.
As Lady Merrill's words echoed in the chamber, Rygor's mind sprung into action, his thoughts racing with the urgency of a strategist on the brink of battle. With each passing moment, he sifted through the information she had presented, analyzing every detail for clues that might shed light on the Aratheans' intentions.
First and foremost, Rygor considered the implications of the Arathean prince possessing the power over madness. It was a development he had not anticipated, and one that raised a myriad of questions. How had Ivane managed to bestow such a gift upon the prince? Was it a deliberate act, or merely a stroke of chance? And most importantly, what did it mean for the balance of power between Lumeria and the Aratheans?
As he pondered these questions, Rygor's keen intellect sought out patterns and connections, searching for any telltale signs that might reveal the Aratheans' true motives. He considered the possibility that the prince's newfound power was a deliberate ploy, a weapon wielded by the Aratheans to use against Lumeria. If so, what other schemes might they be plotting behind the scenes?
But Rygor knew better than to jump to conclusions. He understood the dangers of underestimating one's adversaries, especially when faced with such an unpredictable foe as the Aratheans. He needed more information, more insight into their motives and intentions. Turning his thoughts inward, Rygor delved into the depths of his own mind, drawing upon his vast knowledge and experience to guide him. He sifted through the memories of past encounters with the Aratheans, searching for any hints or clues that might offer a glimpse into their true nature.
And then, amidst the swirling currents of thought, it came to him—a revelation so profound, it seemed to illuminate the darkness like a beacon in the night. The Aratheans' actions were not the haphazard machinations of a desperate foe; they were the calculated maneuvers of a cunning adversary, orchestrating a campaign of subterfuge and deceit to undermine Lumeria from within.
As Rygor contemplated the intricacies of the Aratheans' plan, he identified several key fault lines within Lumerian society that could be exploited to sow discord and undermine the stability of the realm.
First and foremost, he recognized the inherent tension between the Lumerians and the other races. The Aratheans' manipulation of the prince's power over madness threatened to exacerbate this divide, pitting the privileged few against the disenfranchised many. By instigating chaos and unrest among the populace, the Aratheans could weaken the authority of the Lumerian throne and incite rebellion against the established order.
Furthermore, he understood the delicate balance of power within the Lumerian court. The presence of a powerful herald, ordained by forces beyond their control, would undoubtedly challenge the authority of the king and his advisors. This could lead to internal strife and power struggles as factions vied for control of the throne, leaving Lumeria vulnerable to external threats. Additionally, he recognized the potential for religious discord within Lumerian society. The revelation of the prince's divine connection and his plea for divine intervention could spark theological debates and questioning of established beliefs. This could fracture the unity of the Lumerian people, as differing interpretations of divine will clashed and divided loyalties.
As Rygor analyzed these fault lines, he saw the potential for the Aratheans to exploit them with deadly precision. By targeting these vulnerabilities, they could weaken Lumeria from within, sowing doubt, mistrust, and division among its people. And in doing so, they could pave the way for their own ascension to power, usurping the throne and plunging Lumeria into chaos and despair.
Armed with this insight, he understood the gravity of the threat posed by the Aratheans.
As Lady Merrill stood before the Lumerian, the weight of her revelation hung heavy in the air. She had anticipated his reaction, knowing full well the gravity of the situation at hand. And now, as Rygor spoke of the boy with a tone of unmistakable concern, she couldn't help but feel a sense of vindication.
"The boy is a problem," Rygor declared, his voice devoid of emotion but brimming with authority.
"I thought you might say that," Lady Merrill responded calmly, her eyes meeting Rygor's without a hint of fear.
"That is why I told them you would allow them an audience with the Lothrans," she continued, her words carefully chosen to convey her understanding of the situation.
The Lumerians golden eyes flashed with a hungered brilliance that sent shivers down Lady Merrill's spine.
"Good. Very good," Rygor murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "We need to understand more of this power the boy possesses, and once we do, we offer a decree: divine punishment for meddling with forces so dangerous."
Lady Merrill nodded in agreement, her mind already racing with the possibilities of what this decree might entail. She knew that Rygor's wrath was not to be taken lightly, and the consequences of defying his will were dire indeed.
"Tell Valrath to welcome them with open arms, at once," Rygor commanded, his tone brooking no argument.
With a bow of her head, Lady Merrill turned to make her exit, her thoughts consumed by the weight of the task ahead. She knew that the fate of the Aratheans rested in her hands, and she would do whatever it took to ensure that Rygor's will was carried out to the letter.