The Prologue:
This tale begins in a world called Illmarin, a world similar yet different to that which we call earth. Silvàrador is a chief country, one of the largest in the world and is renowned to be the center of culture and richness through-out the world. Pala Givarin, its capital city has been called the gem of the kings and all inhabitants of the land had been in peace and prosperity for many an age—that is before in the south, the Shetyi people, led by the ruthless Morken Niron decided to begin a conquest of the land.
The Shetyi people are pale and sallow, with dark hair and pale hands. They rule by cruelty and no nothing of right or wrong. The golden
“So the time is ripe then?” It was the clear voice of a young man in the tone of one having long waited for something. An impatient tone with the air of forced civility. He groped his hood closer, trying to shield the rain but failing. The stone wall provided a small alcove, which offered some shelter. But not nearly enough.
He shifted, obviously uncomfortable.
“Yes. It is as ripe as ever. Now or all that we long planned will go to ruin.” A gruffer, but still young voice replied. This time the tone was almost defiant…daring. The rain seemed of no concern to him, he merely let it have his way with him.
“Fine.” was the short reply.
“It will be tonight. The castle will be occupied with…other matters. I have made sure of that. All will be well.”
“If it fails to so, I need not remind you I will be in a large predicament, to say the least.” Eyes flashed bright from under the dark hood. The other tried to speak, but the wind roared once more, silencing his attempts.
“I know, but it will.” He finally managed to say. “And if against all odds things do fail, it will be me that will pay. Do not worry so.”
“Worry?” the gruff voice sounded more than a bit harsh. “I am not worried. I merely know from long experience that plans will often go astray. Especially those planned by those with less experience than others.” The figure before him made a move to speak in defiance, but he waved his hand as if to silence an angry child.
“But enough, we have wasted too much time. I will signal then.”
Eyes burned from beneath the hood of the man opposing him.
“Very well,” he said in an iced voice. “I will be ready then. But take warning! Do not underestimate me as you so often seem to do. It might get you in a predicament some day.”
A laugh sounded, vaguely sinister. “Of course, my dear liege.” He bowed shortly in assumed politeness.
They made a move to part when apparently struck by a certain thought, the form with the clear voice suddenly halted.
“Wait! What about…her?” The wind blew his cloak about him and he groped at it with flailing hands.
“What about her?” Eyes flashed once more.
“She…you will have taken care of her, right?”
A hoarse laugh sounded.
“Of course, that was the plan, was it not? As you have said yourself, do not worry so.”
“Of course. But if you double cross me…”
He laughed. “Of course not.”
As the other turned to go, he stayed for a moment.
“But watch your back.” he whispered, eyes flashing again.
And then they were gone, merely whisps of shadows in the night.
The rain fell incessantly, hour upon hour as the night wore on. The wind continued its vicious arms tearing at the forest, the trees bending as it unleashed it’s force. Nothing sounded but the rain. It’s constant crash silenced all.
But then a scream.
A horrid scream. The scream of one who knew death had claimed him and that hope had only ever existed to taunt him.
It pierced the night air, as a sharp and glittering knife. But then it stopped, as quickly as it had first sounded.
The guards of the glorious city of Pala Givarin that had encamped in the woods about half a mile from the stone wall were suddenly awakened to find their watchman, dead, lying in his own blood as it meshed with the rain and seeped to the ground. His face was pale face in the mud and his eyes frozen with the look of death. They were glazed open, lost forever in perpetual agonizing terror. One man grasped his hand. It fell limp.
“He’s dead.”
A dagger with a piece of parchment lay buried in his back. It was a cruel knife, a gnarled metal hilt and a strange insignia partially visible from where it had claimed its victim. But above all, it was black. A dark, rich velvet black that seemed to shine of its own accord in the dark of the night.
The lieutenant Dornhal knelt down over the fallen figure, with careful hands extracting the dagger. He would have seemed calm were it not for the trembling of his fingers. Beckoning for a light to read the parchment, he stood there in the rain, shadows playing eerily across his young face and distorting his countenance. He read.
All was silent, all the men who had awakened watched them. A man darkly dressed and hooded stood to one side, watching with pursed lips. His eyes glittered under his hood.
And then, it fell. The parchment fluttered to the ground as the wind whipped at it. Dorhnall said nothing.
“My liege, what is the matter? What does-
“The Prince. They took Albin. And they will attack us.” His voice was dead. Emotionless. His eyes, glazed.
“Prepare to be attacked.”
But it was too late.
With another cry of pain leaving another corpse on the muddy ground, they came. Dark, ferocious soldiers wielding their black weapons. But with their appearance the hooded figure retreated into the shadows of the forest. None saw him go.
