CHAPTER 1

– LOCATION –

NESTLED WITHIN THE KHORDURAK MOUNTAINS, surrounded by

vast plains and lush forests lies the Central Kingdom – a walled,
impenetrable fortress that stood proud; its mighty presence revered across
the realm. Mountain passes cradled the flourishing city, a boundless
expanse of fields and rolling hills pouring from its roots. Though this thriving
capital overflowed with great power and fortune, a catastrophe has struck
the heart of the monarchy, for Queen Alaina, wife and King Jericho’s
beloved, has fallen ill; a sickness far from the science or knowledge of the
wise men of the kingdom, unknown to these wise men was the nature of
this deadly disease.
Their subjects were filled with dread; panic surged amongst the
townsfolk and their courts, flooding every heart whereas it had already
drowned the king’s. He ordered his men to search the realm; any and every
sage, wise man, scholar, anyone with as much as an inkling for a cure were
summoned to his courts. These great healers flocked the walled city from
every possible location; from jagged mountain passes in the northwest –
who specialized in medicine obtained from powdered jewels, to the south
beyond the Void, where shamans are capable of transforming the most
fatal poisons into ground-breaking remedies. Herbs were ingested and
gnashed, spells were cast and woven. Multitudes of coin were spent to
procure the ingredients each healer needed and battalions of knights were
sent to collect such materials in their stead. Despite all these remarkable
individuals, their collective effort proved all for naught; a cure was never
found, nor did development progress by a hair. As days passed and weeks
flew by, the king grew ever more desperate to save his beloved. He grew
weary, aggravated yet calm; a storm that brewed into a tempest raged
within him with every step a shaman took from his royal grounds. Another
sage was presented, then a wise man, so on and so forth. His heart was an
anchor, sinking to the deepest depths, and hope seemed to wither away as
each healer in the realm departed from him in failure. Another step, then
another, and once more.
Night has fallen in the Central Kingdom, the crescent moon radiated a
soft luminescent light from the heavens above, stars glowing and twinkling
ever so faintly over the city. In the royal hall, the last wise man bowed
before the king, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration, eyes straining to
prevent these aggravations in the presence of his Highness. Light bounced
from the torches and unto smooth marble, casting shadows unto the faces
of its guests.
“Many thanks for your endeavors,” Jericho declared, resting his hand
on his chest before bowing in return. “Your efforts shall not be buried in a
loss. The Central Kingdom is grateful for your service to the Queen.”
The wise man rose, eyes sharp.
“My king,” he replied, words failing to fall from his lips. He wrestled
with any and every way to apologize for his failure but nothing came forth
save silence, a tight lip, and clenched fists.
 “Your sentiments are honorable. Our hearts share the grief that
disturbs your peace, but it shall pass Wise One. Go with pride,” he smiled,
voice soft and sincere. “And with honor.”
Both nodded to each other as the wise man turned to take his leave. The
king watched as the final attempt walked from his royal hall, the heavy oak
doors slowly creaked in torment before shutting with a resounding boom, its
echo reverberating within the now-empty court.
Jericho slumped into his throne, grasping the corners of its arms. His
fingers clung and slipped on its golden knob, lips trembling, blood seeping
forth as he bit into its flesh. The flames from torches licked at their sconces,
casting shadows that seemed to play and dance across the room. The hall
was around forty arms wide and sixty-five arms long, a lilac rug running
along its length; gold embroidery lined its edges, curling and leaping at the
fringe before twirling into its center. Pillars lined each side and another set
some feet before its companion, their peaks rising into the darkness above.
Tapestries of the kingdom’s insignia hung from them, still as the night. Arcs
rose and lined the ceiling, a rib-like structure where darkness sat within its
curves, encasing the space below. The expanse of the hall further
swallowed the king into his misery, the darkness seemed almost
comforting. Balling his hand into a fist, he slammed it on the throne’s arm,
burying his face into the other. He couldn’t bear to see his wife once more,
wasting away upon her deathbed, her smile nothing but a cheap attempt of
hope; both of them knew that. They danced in these halls, no music nor
bard; just the rhythmic beat of their steps and the wind against the banners.
Though his eyes were overlaid by his hand, he could still see her before
him now; the way her gown would float as he spun her around, the yelps
and laughter whenever he would step on her feet. He never was a great
dancer, that much they agree upon, for he always followed his queen’s
lead. He wept silently, hushed cries softly echoing throughout his court.
Time passed and Central’s king has not moved from his place, tears
now streaming from his strong jaws in silent anguish. Little did he know, the
grand oak doors before him creaked open, a knight slipping into the space.
He walked slowly, careful to not startle the already suffering monarch as he
lifted his visor and removed his helm. His chainmail softly sang with every
step he took, the iron colliding from his tasset and cuisse began a metallic
percussion that ceased as the knight did before his king. Stepping forward,
he waited a few moments more before making his presence known. He
took a knee by the throne’s platform, resting his arm upon it and cradling
his helm in the other.
“Your Highness,” he began, facing the steps leading up to the throne.
He set his eyes downward, not daring to cast as much as a glimpse of his
liege.
Minutes passed and all was silent. His skin began to ache and warm with
prolonged contact with the alloys that protect him yet he bared no such
noise. The only sound that softly echoed throughout the hall was the
monarch’s faint chokes and shallow breaths. Soon he heard the sound of
velvet grazing against the mahogany seat, a deep voice began to clear his
throat.
“Rise, Gaillard,” the king said, still sniffling and clearing his voice. The
knight stood, leaning to and from his legs. “I apologize. I did not mean to
have you stay in such discomfort for so long.” he continued, an exhausted
smile upon his face.
“Please, your Highness,” Gaillard began, voice embarrassed yet
concerned. “It is I who must ask for your forgiveness. Your subjects should
never see their leader in his weakest, or in any state of such grief.”
Jericho chuckled, rising from the throne and sitting by the platform’s steps
as Gaillard remained stoic, following his ruler’s movements. His liege
removed the crown from his raven waves, Jericho’s emerald eyes following
suit. He weighed the headpiece in his hands, thumbs brushing over the
jewels that lined its circumference.
“The wise man from Seudbeinn was unsuccessful as well, I would
presume,” Gaillard said, his low and somber tone earning a silent shake of
the head from the monarch. Moments passed once more before he spoke,
softly this time. It was as if he would turn once more into the sadness he
wallowed in minutes prior, yet his voice held.
“He used Smaragdus powder infused with Elhorn extract,” Jericho
began, thumbing over the aforementioned stones on his crown. “Imagine
how incredible it would have been if the cure was but a composition of
powdered jewels from the crown and nectar extracted from the flowers in
Alaina’s personal garden.” He chuckled. Shaking his head, he raised the
crown and turned it in his hand, light bouncing from the torches and into the
jewels, ricocheting gold and emerald hues around the dim hall.
“Imagine that,” he whispered, trailing off as he let his hand fall.
Silence fell between the two once more, a moment of hesitation before
Gaillard realized he must bring forth interesting material from the kingdom’s
informants.
“My liege,” the knight began, straightening himself. “There may be
another possible way–” he was cut off by the Jerichos abrupt grunt; he
stood tall and turned to face the throne. Light shone unto him, casting a
long shadow upon Gaillard.
“That man,” Jericho began, voice trembling in frustration. “He who
departed from this hall hours prior was the last fiber of hope we had!”
He whipped back around, his cloak casting off to his left. Gaillard threw his
vision downward, in shame, fear, respect, or maybe all infused into this
engulfing sense of dread in the pits of his stomach. He swallowed hard, the
armor and chainmail grew heavy and warm on his person.
“If there should be another way, it would have arisen when these
sorcerers wound the heavens together to cast a singular enchantment,” the
king continued, exasperation dripping from his tone. “or if a herb were to be
extracted further yet it withered within the herbalist’s means.” He bit his lip,
voice cracking.
The words were firm and full of weeks’ worth of frustration. Jericho
knew that these talented individuals were attempting everything and
anything within their capabilities. One could not argue that they had not
done all they could or should, provided the skills and decades of mastery
required for their profession. Gaillard was well aware of this, the fear and
respect he had for his liege held him by the throat yet, he had no choice.
This would be but a fool’s errand, misuse of gold their subjects would say,
but anything could be better than the suffering their queen endures in
optimism for a cure, an optimism that fades along with her.
“Your Highness,” Gaillard began, his tone firm. He rested his hand by
his sword’s hilt as he took another breath before speaking. “Word has come
from our informants, sire. The bandit brotherhood has, in its possession, a
mirror once owned by renowned rulers such as yourself.” Jericho snorted,
unsure whether to be amused or irked by what he had just heard.
“The route the bandits shall take would lead them through the Vallake
forest. From there, they would proceed towards Belcrest in the east. They
shall concourse by the harbor, sire. A merchant from a distant realm seeks
to purchase this mirror.” Gaillard said, watching the king slump into the
steps once more. Jericho was lost in thought. Was there a possibility?
“No.” He thought to himself, shaking his head.
“Sire,” the knight continued, adjusting the helm by his arm. “We may
plan an ambush to collect this – artifact.” He stepped forward, taking his
chances. “The scouts shall station themselves by the shrubs that line the
path hours prior, and the archers shall be perched within the trunk’s
hollows. The dense foliage shall provide them the concealment they
require. The hills before Belcrest are lithic; any impact that would lead the
bandits to fall would prove fatal. The infantry shall lay siege to them by the
foothills; any other archer from our battalions shall be stationed alongside
them to secure the mirror.”
Jericho thought to himself, his eyes darting as Gaillard laid out the
proposed strategy. A wave of anger resurfaced within him, the weeks of
frustration now spouting from his lips.
 “And why would I care about some mirror,” Jericho spat as he stood.
“What would it show me? Nothing but a failure of a king, he who cannot
even save his queen, let alone drive his kingdom into near-ruin in an
attempt to do so.” He was seething with fury, and Gaillard was well aware
of such risk.
“It was once in the possession of the rulers of old, Your Majesty. The
first monarch had kept it and he was bestowed a great power. It is capable
of bearing you witness of whatever you desire.” he replied, his voice softer
now. “This may show us the cure for the queen.”
Gaillard was well aware of the king’s desperation, their entire court was. He
tired of meeting new healers and sending them away in failure come a
fortnight. He returns from the queen’s chambers night and day growing
ever more pallid and distressed from every exit. This was an opportunity
that should not pass; it may be foolish to pursue, but what alternative would
be present if there were any?
“Are you certain? How definitive is this intelligence?” Jericho inquired,
stopping his back and forth pace. There was a spark, the dawning of but a
glimmer of hope for the king once more. His aura lit up ever so slightly as
he turned to face the knight.
“I have conferred with your advisor. He has agreed and confirmed its
authenticity.” Gaillard nodded. Jericho was ecstatic, well above the stars.
“This could be it, could it?” he thought to himself. He had to take it.
Hell, every healer within the realm was summoned for his queen; he could
sacrifice an exposition in pursuit of this mirror. In the event it was nothing
but a band of bandits scurrying suspicious goods across his land, they
would be punished accordingly. There would be no loss in this attempt. He
stood straight, his chin rising.
“Send word to Bergoo! Use the swiftest stallion in our stables, the
quickest raven we have. We must speak at once.” he declared, his
authority booming, and a sense of hope echoing in his voice. “Go now!”
“As you command, your Highness!” Gaillard struck his chest with his
fist in salute, before turning and quickly walking away. The door opened
before him, his commands ricocheting from the castle walls. The sound of
footsteps and colliding metal clanged and ran back and forth until silence
fell upon the halls again. Jericho’s breath hitched. This could be it. Could it?
 CHAPTER 2
– ACQUISITION –

THE MOON WAS AT ITS PEAK, stars settling into their respective
places in the blanketed sky. Their collective light settled into the woodlands
below, the lush overgrowth denying any light to probe through its leaves.
Darkness has fallen on the forest floor, roots as thick as a man’s arm
protruded and dove into the earth. Their trunks stood proud, each wide
enough for three to four men to embrace, the gaping mouths within their
trunks were spacious enough to accommodate a man. Shrubs of thorns
and wild berries lined tracks traversed by the beasts that roamed its locus.
Leaves and fallen branches crackled below the boots of a traveling group
of men.
They were dressed in dark, earthen colors; some covered their faces
with masks, the others had strips of cloth wound around their foreheads.
Their tunics were ripped at the sleeves or had none at all, their shabby
boots doing nothing to ease their trek; it's as if they were walking barefoot
with only a sorry strip of leather separating their flesh from the earth. A
single file formation was followed, two men in front carried torches, four
followed wielding their blades. Behind them were two men who carried
what looked like a makeshift palanquin made of timber and bundles of
cloth. An item of considerable weight bounced and clattered with every step
they took, and every sound was met with faces that withdrew in fear. They
were followed by four other men who carried crossbows before finally two
torch-bearers lit the tail of their group. They trudged along, tripping over
roots and cursing at thorny bushes clung and ripped at their trousers. Their
sources of light did nothing to illuminate the considerable void before them;
the occasional raven or owl swooping before them, sending a quick jolt of
panic within the group.
“For fuck’s sake! It’s just another bird!” the biggest amongst them
exclaimed, picking up a rock from the forest floor and flinging it at the
feathered inhabitant that flew past. They all shuffled uncomfortably, the duo
in the center readjusting their baggage. “The hills beyond this forest are
petrous, and if one of you imbeciles fall, I am leaving you for dead.”
He stamped on a root before him, smashing it clean in half. His men froze,
the two torchbearers at the tail waved their light into the forest to get an
attempt at whatever sense of direction. They were quite grateful to not be
at the front of the file getting chewed out by their leader. They had been
marching for some time now, but it's as if the overgrowth stretched on for
miles, or they were just moving around in circles. A merchant awaited them
by the coast of Belcrest to the east, but they had to find their way through
this predicament first.
“Chief, this place goes on for ages,” another man said as he stepped
forward, sheathing his blade. “Hell, we’re stuck the moment we went past
the first tree.” This one seemed second in command, his tone as
demanding as the man before him. He looked around him, the others were
exhausted, especially those set to handle the mirror. Chief looked at him a
moment, and with a grunt, he shoved his sword into the ground.
 “Five minutes,” he grumbled. “I gotta take a piss.” He strode a few
feet away before the party heaved a collective sigh. They all set down for a
moment, two men were assigned on watch around the palanquin.
The second in command settled by the foot of an aged oak as he
watched the other bandits settle. The torches were dug into the ground,
doing nothing to give comfort in this void of foliage they found themselves
in. A water skin was passed around just as the Chief converged with the
crew.
“Get up you lazy sons of–” he was cut off by an arrow that whizzed
past his cheek, blood trickling from his flesh. It struck the oak behind
Second mere inches from his eyes.
“Archers!” he cried, scrambling to stand up. More arrows began to
find themselves into the group, striking the two front torchbearers in a
gruntled cry. They all formed around the palanquin and began to run.
“Where the hell are we going?” one of them yelled, barely dodging a
bolt sent flying in his direction. They tripped on roots that weren’t on that
track just moments prior, sending three more men to the ground and up.
They were caught in a net lined with thorns from the shrubbery around
them. From behind some foliage, the Chief could spot a man in a cloak; he
was camouflaged by the dark and an array of twigs and leaves sewn onto
the cloth.
“Myrin!” the chief called out, the second in command turning. He
threw a knife at the spot where the man once was, but now it seemed he
was gone. Myrin looked up to see the other bandits now hung in the net
dead, studded with arrows and bolts.
 They ran endlessly, the mirror bouncing and clanging in its makeshift
container. One of the sword bearers was caught on a root, his face meeting
the ground in a harsh thud. Just as he was about to stand, he now found
himself upside down. He called for the bandits but as he opened his mouth,
an arrow shot through him, leaving his corpse hanging from a tree. The
chief, Myrin, two torchbearers, one swordsman, and one crossbowman
remained. Soon they could see the moonlight from behind the trunks of
some trees, rocky hills seemed to be behind them as well. The chief could
see an arrow hiding behind a hollowed portion within a tree.
“They’re in the trees!” he yelled, pulling the battle-ax from his back.
As he charged forward, the archer launched two more arrows at the
torchbearers before the group, both meeting the mark on their heads. Chief
grabbed the torch and the other swordsman grabbed its partner. They
raced towards the end of the forest, the onslaught of arrows aimed at them
was merciless, missing their swordsman by a hair yet managing to kill their
last crossbowman before they bounded through the last thicket of leaves.
Before the bandits were mounds and mounds of petrous hills, each
tall enough to clamber to at least have a view of Belcrest. To the northeast
lay mountain ridges, their peaks piercing the evening sky. Rocky foothills
lay at their feet, spilling before them and their set location. To the south
were vast plains, a faint view of the other mountain passes lie on the
horizon. The faint light of far towns glowed in the night. Chief nodded at
Myrin, the latter wielding his sword as he clambered up the hill. He peered
over its crest and spotted Belcrest in the distance, the coastal town
dimming its lights. Soon, he spotted a tuft of blonde hair just by a hill’s peak
before another arrow struck his shoulder, sending him barreling back down
to the group. Grunting, he snapped the projectile in half, turning to see
more archers positioned by the foothills. The men carrying the palanquin
unsheathed their blades, ready for a fight. If they went around the hills, it
would take longer to arrive at Belcrest and they would be fired upon easily
by more arrows. If they went through the hills, rocks could be used to trap
them and kill them. Chief and Myrin nodded as they all grasped unto the
palanquin.
“And, up!” Chief declared, all of them carrying the makeshift
container.
They darted to their right, running by the hillsides before turning in,
just as the arrows missed their mark. They wove through the hills, scouts
sending rocks down upon their heads. Their last swordsman took three
knives and threw them at the scouts ahead, barely missing them as they
dove into the hills adjacent to their positions. Turning right, they ran out into
the plains before heading into the hills once more. Just as they were about
to, a soldier clad in a padded tunic jumped from behind one of the hills, his
halberd catching unto one of the bandits that held the palanquin. He fell
with a resounding cry, blood pooling at his side where he lay. Myrin turned
after him but was met by another foot soldier, their blades meeting with a
resounding clang. The bandits encircled themselves whilst they found that
they were surrounded. Upon the hilltops, archers had their bows strung and
ready, all aimed at each of them.
From one of the hillsides, a blonde-haired knight rode to present
himself, reigning in his stallion as he saw his mission; a man of raven hair
rode beside him, his steed of the same hue. Behind him, more soldiers
handled another man. Chief tsked, his eyebrows furrowed as he saw the
merchant they were supposed to deal with within an hour or two. Gaillard
and his companion dismounted, drawing his longsword from its scabbard
as more soldiers showed themselves from the hills and from behind him as
well. He lifted his chin and his men charged forward, raising their weapons
at the bandits. Chief lunged forward towards the group, his battle-ax
cleaving a path for his crew. The infantry dodged his attacks, all encircling
him. He swung his weapon to the right, catching into a shield before hefting
the soldier away. Myrin lunged to his leader’s side, colliding his weapon
with another. They locked blades before he retreated, defending the mirror.
Gaillard strode forward, the tip of his blade drawing a line into the grass. He
then drove forward, his sword meeting Myrin’s. They stood off from each
other, his grip readjusting as they circled one another. Myrin swung to the
left, the blade singing as it met Gaillard’s again, locking into place. His
companion drove his blade into Chief but was caught. He swiped to his
right, twisting as he caught blood into his shoulder. The large man grunted,
yelling as he charged with his weapon raised.
Back in the castle, King Jericho paced the floor anxiously. Gaillard
and his men have been gone for hours to retrieve this mirror. Were the
arrows enough? Maybe he should send another force just in case. He
rubbed his chin, walking back and forth much to the nauseating discomfort
of the other monarch before him.
“Not long now brother,” he said, looking down on a map of Central.
“Everything is going accordingly to plan.” He cast his arm across the table
before resting it on the table’s edge. Berghoo watched as Jericho paced
before the fireplace of the war room, the flames casting a warm glaze
throughout the room. The map was spread out, covering the entire table. Its
edges were ripped and torn, age prevalent at its browning fringes.
Figurines lay upon the print, a good number set by the forest. They seemed
to be set in a formation that would draw the bandits to its exit, right into the
desired position by the foothills and the rocky hills before the coastal town.
“Patience was never my strong suit,” Jericho replied, ceasing his
pacing and meeting Berghoo by the table. He gathered the figures in the
forest and set them by the tree line, moving others to surround the hills and
the last few by the towns.
He found confidence in their alliance; Berghoo’s Stealth force was
formidable in such locations such as the Vallake forest, where even Jericho
dare not tread at night due to the thick overgrowth it had. Central’s infantry
and cavalry were feared across the realm, the rolling hills, and vast plains
offering a further advantage to his military and his kingdom. The cragged
hills by the base of the mountain pass were where his men trained
regularly, or mock battled various sorts of games that simulated war and
helped hone their defense. His rangers made use of the stones and
pebbles to test their line of fire with slings, and others wrestled and shoved
each other down their slopes. It was an ideal location for the attack.
Berghoo arranged his figures as well, setting them in their planned spots.
“I can’t help but suspect that Virgo would not cooperate accordingly.”
Berghoo began, lifting his eyes across to Jericho, the latter already balling
his fists.
 “Time runs swiftly for my wife. Every second wasted is another breath
she loses.” he spat, lifting his own eyes to meet Berghoo’s. “I must have a
remedy as soon as possible.” He resumed his focus to the map, nudging a
small group by the edge of the hills.
“I understand your concerns,” he continued, heaving a heavy sigh.
“The paradise king holds no strong obligation in our endeavors apart from
his word, however, he is a man who keeps his,” he nodded, taking one last
look at the figures below him. Gaillard must have clashed with the bandits
by now.
Across from him, Berghoo nodded in agreement. He turned away for
a moment before returning with another piece of parchment in his hands.
Jericho rounded the table to meet the Assassin King on the other end. He
unfurled the parchment to reveal a blueprint for the southernmost border of
Central. A trench stretched across the southern border, encompassing the
northern borders of Berghoo’s kingdom. It was about half a mile across and
around thirty to fifty miles deep. Towers were to be constructed on either
side facing the maze that lay entrenched deep within the mountains. Siege
catapults would lay within its vicinity alongside huge ballistae. Dug into its
sides would be large poles sharpened at the end, piercing any hapless soul
that would fall in.
“It should be completed by the fifth moon,” Jericho mentioned,
Berghoo nodding in agreement beside him.
Soon the war room’s heavy oak doors swung open, Gaillard strode in
alongside Berghoo’s general. The duo kneeled before their kings and rose
as commanded.
 “We’ve acquired it, sire,” Gaillard said, rousing a smile from his liege.
“Excellent,” Jericho said. Berghoo turned to his general, the man
stood proud and his chin high.
“And the bandits?” he asked.
“Our archers picked them off in Vallake, sire. They rounded the hills
but we met them by the plains,” he replied, resting a hand on his sword’s
hilt. “We engaged and the group was dealt with quickly.”
Gaillard motioned for the men by the door to fetch the mirror, and
soon a dilapidated palanquin was presented to the two kings. Inside, it was
cleaved through by what appeared to be an ax – quite the weight by the
measured damage. Arrows punctured its sides, and one of the poles
snapped as it was set down. He began to rip at the palanquin’s door as the
other general continued to speak.
“They used it as cover when we rained arrows upon them, but
Gaillard’s men rounded around quickly and finished them off,” he replied,
earning a nod from Berghoo.
Jericho returned the same sentiments before his attention shifted as
his knight succeeded in breaking the door open. Scraps of cloth were used
to cover their prize as he ran a knife to clear it away. Berghoo’s commander
quickly turned and helped the blonde roll the mirror from its container.
Its metal frame surrounded a crystal clear rounded piece of glass, twisting
and turning like metal snakes. It was old and rusted, yet somehow its aura
overpowered the two monarchs that stood before it. Ancient glyphs were
carved into its sides, twirling and diving into each alloy’s curls. At the top of
the frame was a small indent of some sort, the two men lowered the mirror
for the kings to see. The indent would hold a certain item in it. An orb?
Maybe a crystal. By its edge lay dials with the same ancient glyphs
inscribed upon it. Jericho smiled, a genuine one after nights upon nights
with Berghoo looking equally pleased.
 CHAPTER 3
– PARADISE –

AN EVERLASTING AZURE STRETCHED OVER THE HORIZON and

into the waters below, seagulls cried and rode on warm air currents to lift
themselves higher above the waves. Cirrus clouds feathered the skies
above, brushing over the endless canvas that lay above an enclave off the
coast of the mainland. Within the Eastern sea lies an island where fables
and stories old were narrated, an isle created by the gods collectively,
settled gently into the ocean’s mellow waves. The cape gently curved by
the shore, gorgeous white sand beaches swept across the coastline.
Luscious forests each end of the isle, mountains lining the other side and
stretched further, trailing back into its divine abode. Birds chirped and
falcons soared above, piercing through the clouds that line the mountain
peaks in the distance. Near the coast, a galleon furled its sails at its anchor
struck the water below, men filing from the deck above. They were met by
scouts of the island’s leader by the docks, a small company of soldiers
dressed in dark jade stood in attention. Their company leader strode
forward, saluting their visitors. He addressed a man in their group, his
demeanor that of greater authority than his own.
“Welcome, Vasilios the Great. King of the North East!” his voice rang
across the waves, the men following his salute. Vasilios returned the
gesture, his smile but a sliver under his thick beard. Stallions awaited their
company and soon they rode off to meet their King.
 The shamrock meadows were vibrant in the morning sun as they
trotted by a river that separated the land into two, bridges made of large
timber connecting the two pieces of land. Across them was a small town
with woodlands on either side, arching into the waters it lays beside. In
between was a path that led to a small beach behind the town, villagers
trudging in with fruits and lumber. Reigning to the south, they cantered
through another small village that inhabited the main road, fields of golden
wheat planted in patched by the rising slopes; children slid unto the earth,
sprinting back up to repeat it once more. Further up was a forest that
encompassed the remainder of the island, so thick was the foliage that
townsfolk hacked off its branches and shrubbery with curved blades. Some
recognized the king and flocked to the pathway to greet him. Others offered
him produce fresh from their harvests. He thanked them endlessly as they
rode away, biting into one of their gifts.
After galloping past extensive pastures and soft meadows, they came
upon a fork road splitting their direction into three. To the west was another
small settlement, this time the docks were full of fishing vessels. In the
rightmost pier was a galleon, construction was underway as men
hammered massive oak planks into place whilst another man guided his
companions on the other jetty in lifting the mast. They tugged at the rope,
eight sets of arms straining to wring it into position. The rest of the men
laughed and cheered on, their straining companions shouting curses before
biting back smiles of their own.
“You haven’t come to select the season’s fruits yourself now, have
you?” a voice called out behind Vasilios, the Great King turning to face a tall
man with tanned skin and lean physique, his long hair tied into a bun as his
strong jaws curved into a smile. Virgo rode up to the company, reigning in
his stallion before the Great King. “Welcome friend!”
Turning into the main road, they passed a small path to the south. Beyond
the grove was a small lake, the peaceful body of water disturbed by the
thunderous roar of waterfalls by the mountain face. The vaporized water
crashed and bounced unto the water face below, prismatic light shining in
every direction.
“I hope your journey was pleasant as the winds that bless our little
wonderland.” Virgo smiled, trotting by the Great king. They were riding up
the hill leading into the castle, the company trailing behind them. Lush
forests lined either side of the path, the sound of the ocean was but a
whisper now.
“Of course,” Vasilios replied, a flock of vibrant birds gliding through
the trees. They sang wonderful songs as he closed his eyes, his lips
curving into a peaceful expression.
“It’s always nice traveling to your island. I welcome any excuse for me
to visit as it clears my thoughts whilst I’m here.” He turned to Virgo, a laugh
bellowing from his robust chest. “I am cured of my demons for a short
while.” Virgo chuckled in agreement as their party arrived at the fortress’
gates.
Chains rumbled within the castle walls as the portcullis was lifted
before them. The company strode into the courtyard as it was locked into
the arch, Virgo’s stable hands awaited by the steps. The lush grass
seemed to continue further into the fortress. Tendrils clambered up from the
bailey, its fingers stretching for the ramparts above. Dirt and gravel lined
pathways that snaked around the space, quite enough for a battalion to
converge. The kings slid from their steeds, the latter guided into stables by
the walls as the former strode into the keep.
The great hall is an architectural marvel but nothing more than an
accentuation of the island’s beauty; smoothed by weather and time were
the limestone walls, intricacies of nature and mythology were etched unto
its canvas. Up above, the ceilings arched and curved gently into pillars;
depictions of the sky as the sun set and rose stretched across its expanse.
Virgo’s throne lay at the end, etched by marble and amber accents in its
cracks and crevices. The paradise king led Vasilios across the hall, his
servants opening massive doors before the duo. The ocean lay before their
eyes, a horizon of blue stretching far beyond their comprehension. They
stepped unto the terrace, welcomed with a table for two. The early
afternoon sun was just right as they began their small feast. Troubadours
sang for them and the servants returned endlessly with wine and endless
cuisine native to the island. The waves crashed into the rock face by the
fortress while it gently caressed the shore below where they ate.
After all the pleasantries, Virgo asked for privacy. His servants hurried
away, save for one that the king held; he asked she leave the tallest jug of
wine they had, and thanked her with a wink. She hurried away redfaced
and returned, earning a smile from her king and a laugh from Vasilios.
Silenced fell upon them, the great body of water demanding their attention
with its waves and whispers.
 “I hear you are offering your services to the Void brothers,” Vasilios
began, his eyes remained fixated. He waited for a reply, and when none
came he continued.
“Have you considered what it means for the balance of the realm if
they obtain the crystal?” he turned to face Virgo, the man had not moved.
His voice bubbled with anger, but he kept his tone low. His words were firm
now, emphasizing every word from his lips. “Their Union threatens the
future of the realm. Virgo merely brought the goblet to his lips, his eyes
remained unchanged.
“What’s changed the past year?” He cocked his head and raised his
eyebrows. “You’ve always ridiculed the mere notion of it,” he shrugged,
sipping some wine.
“Well,” Vasilios faced him now, drumming the table. “I understand
they found the mirror. I’ve consulted with scholars and I’ve read the ancient
texts. They all speak of the curse that befalls upon the crystal’s power.”
Virgo laughed, the monarch across from him indecisive if he should feel
angered or flustered.
“You believe in it!” his laughter now fits of chuckles. “And now you
know more than I do,” He shook his head, a grin plastered across his face
as he swirled the wine in his cup, the waves calling for his attention once
more. It soon faded as his tone changed, the charisma shifting into a
deadpanned stare.
“I am a skeptic as well. My curiosity ought to see if the old tales were
real,” Virgo stated, shrugging his shoulders. He turned to face Vasilios
whose eyes looked him over. He was deciphering Paradise’s monarch,
layer by layer trying to discover any vested interest he may have. Virgo
leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“The man only wants a cure for his dying queen.”
“As any man would,” Vasilios muttered, leaning back. Virgo nodded in
reply.
“That’s good enough of a reason to chase after wild dreams and
fantasies.” He planted the goblet on the table, eyes fixated on the king in
front of him. “I have given them my word, and I have no intention of
breaking it. Berghoo would be forever grateful for my help.”
Vasilios slammed his fist, knocking his goblet off the table. Virgo remained
stoic, eyeing the spilled liquids and back to the king before him. His face
was flushed, chest heaving in fury. He gnashed his teeth and trembled,
veins protruding from his thick face. Yes, he was Vasilios the Great; his
knowledge and concerns with equipment and weapons of war were
unprecedented. It manifested into his temper, as violent and as erratic as
his temper would allow its body to muster. The amber accents that lined his
breastplate refracted crimson light, further emphasizing this point. Virgo
poured himself another drink allowing Vasilios’ temper to mellow, somehow.
“Have you not thought of what happens after his wife is healed?” he
inquired, his voice settling. You’re here on this Island because I allow it so.
Vasilios continued.
“Would they not turn their concerns upon the rest of the realm? The
world as we know it could change forevermore.” Virgo turned his eyes away
deep in thought. The Great King ought to persuade Paradise’s ruler, to
sway him from pursuing this mysterious power. It could threaten their life as
they know it. An ounce of consideration is more than enough. He pressed
him further.
“If anything, I urge you to bear the crystal. Suppose that they harness
its power in War, you might be bound to the crystal! You would remain
unharmed.” Vasilios leaned back, hoping it sufficed. Virgo interlaced his
fingers and thought to himself. If he did bear its power, maybe he could
harness it beforehand prior to imparting it to the Void brothers. On the other
hand, Vasilios might have some other vested interests cloaked under his
suggestion. The waves lapping against the shore were the only noises
between them. Virgo gazed at Vasilios, his countenance softening,
somewhat.
“I see your anger is as raw and the day it had been birthed,” he
noted, leaning back. “Alright. I will consider it.” He gave his thanks, relief
washing over the Great King.
The sun had begun its descent as Virgo escorted Vasilios to the pier
where a galleon awaited him. They bid farewell and soon the latter found
himself gazing at the island as it shrunk before it slowly disappeared over
the horizon. The wind whipped at his cloak, the ocean breeze pummeling at
his stiff frame. He was sure now; the contempt within him brewed. It wasn’t
enough.
“Sire,” a voice called. He turned his attention to his general who stood
ready for command. Turning back to the sea, Vasilios took a breath.
“Ready our men. If our sources are correct, then the beast would be
coming to the island for his crystal.”
“Understood.”
 The once vibrant castle was now deathly silent, the howling winds of
the night filling its empty halls. They muted the echoes of Virgo’s footsteps
as he stepped unto the balcony they had dined at prior. He vaulted over the
balustrade and skidded down the shrubs that grew on the rock face.
Slowing to a stop, he lowered himself onto a small clearing before leaping
unto the sand below. Sheltered meters underneath the terrace was an
enclave that led deep into the limestone below. He wedged through the
opening; his bare chest grazed the rugged stone until he stepped through a
hollow cavern. Stalagmites pierced the earth, ancient glyphs etched into
their facades. Others have been carved into small statues and idols of
ancient and pagan gods. Stalactites jutted from the cavern walls above,
spring water dripping from each peak. An exceptionally large one around a
meter or two in diameter shot from the center, its tip was but a few feet
above a stone altar. The same idols were carved into its granite surface
along with ancient runes; spilled potions dripped from their gaping mouths
and flowed to the shattered glass by its feet. Virgo strode forward, eyes
fixed on his sorcerer before the altar.

An amaranthine mist swirled about his presence and the paradise

king took no step further. He mumbled incantations to himself, his body
twitching here and there. Suddenly, a vicious convulsion dragged itself
across the sorcerer’s back, shooting his head upward in an anguished cry.
He remained frozen, the occasional twitch upon his limbs. His eyes swirled
into a dark void, glassy, and shone in the dull light. Grunts and snarls spat
from his lips whilst Virgo remained impassive. He must be at the maze now.
A resounding cry wretched itself from the sorcerer; a soft prismatic glow
procuring from his chest. The sorcerer wrought his hands together, clawing
and groping at the light before it shone brighter and brighter. It filled the
cavern in a sudden burst, gusts of wind settling around the cavern’s
inhabitants. Virgo remained stoic, his arms crossed and the sorcerer
hunched over. He slowly stood and straightened himself. Taking a deep
breath, he organized himself before speaking. “It is acquired my liege.”

Virgo strode towards him, his breath held in anticipation. The sorcerer
turned to his king, his palm glowing ever so bright in the cavern’s darkness.
In his hand was a small stone, akin to the pearlescent pebbles on
Paradise’s shores. It was a meager five centimeters long oval, maybe even
smaller. The king gingerly clasped his fingers around its modest frame.
Looking closer, an iridescent swirl of colors flowed upon its surface; had
you not taken more moments to consider its facade, you would assume its
but an ordinary stone. By the altar was a small chest wherein they
proceeded to secure it. Virgo grinned, his eyes wrought with ideas and
possibilities of toying, no, mastering its power and capabilities.

“I’m curious as to what those men intend to accomplish with its power,” he
smiled. They made their way back to the shore, the crescent moon casting
a pale light upon the midnight waters. They crashed wilder now, the breeze
clawing at Virgo’s cloak. He was ecstatic, a sense of power filling him. It
exhilarated him as his lips burst into a cackle that echoed through the night.