The Dark Years, 415 years ago.
The Autumn Palace stood like a defiant beacon of light in the midst of the Dark Years, when shadows and demons had ravaged the land. It had escaped the advancing shadow, retaining its untouched sanctuary status for significant events. Its architecture was a harmonious blend of Feeric and human craftsmanship from a time before betrayal and conflict marred the relationship between mortals and immortals, echoed the unity that had once flourished in this world.
Within the palace, a magnificent event unfolded in a grand hall. Towering windows stretched from the marbled floor to the vaulted ceiling, allowing a cascade of moonlight to spill inside and bathe the hall in silver. Crystal chandeliers dangled like celestial stars, casting prismatic patterns of light that danced upon the floor below. Deep azure tapestries adorned the walls, embroidered with silver thread that shimmered like starlight, celebrating the joyous union of Princess Thalassia from the Moon Court with Prince Murtagh from Cithria.
Erohir, Rohan’s father, was a striking figure with his dark hair and stormy gray eyes. He was a pillar of strength and loyalty, a steadfast friend to Nordros for decades.
Iriendel, Rohan’s mother, possessed a gentle beauty, her chestnut curls cascading around her face, and her emerald-green eyes radiating grace and elegance.
Galomir, Rohan’s old brother, had inherited his mother’s features, presenting a warm and jovial countenance, his wife at his side, their twin children mirroring their father’s joy.
Nordros, High Lord of Cithria, appeared with his son Murtagh, their ebony hair and obsidian eyes setting them apart.
Nordros was accused of forging alliances with demons in exchange for promises of great power. He harbored ambitions of conquering all the fairy realms of Sylúria and becoming the supreme ruler. All the other High Lords believed that his plans also included the enslavement of elves and the complete annihilation of humans, all of which lacked concrete proof, and Nordros vehemently denied the allegations.
Rohan’s father’s faith in Nordros remained unwavering, even as the other High Lords deemed him a traitor.
Thalassia, Rohan’s sister, was the focus of the evening. With her midnight-black hair, like a starless night, and her hauntingly gray eyes, exuded an aura of ethereal beauty.
The guests in attendance also included the Court of Aramoor, with their High Lord, Elegil Torondir, and the Court of Thadria, represented by their High Lord, Helius Syllevel.
The prestigious gathering at the Autumn Palace featured not only the familiar faces of Silúrya but also dignitaries from distant lands, including High Lord Tavrin Morwyn, who ruled the Court of Aurylindor. High Lady Isolda Vyldera, from the faraway Court of Veridia. High Lord Vaelen Sanguith, from the Court of Drak’Morin.
All three were invited by Nordros.
Nordros and Erohir, their faces bathed in the soft glow of the chandeliers, exchanged words in a seemingly pleasant conversation. They discussed the engagement with a sense of camaraderie, as if it represented a glimmer of hope amidst the current darkness.
In a quieter corner of the grand hall, Murtagh and Thalassia shared a private moment. With a gentle smile, he caressed her hand in his, his voice low and laced with tenderness as he said, “Your younger brother, Rohan, may be gruff and seem distant at times, but I sense there’s more to him.”
Thalassia looked up at him, her gray eyes shining with love for her younger sibling. “He carries the weight of our people’s future on his shoulders, much like our older brother, Galomir. It has hardened both of them into steel and stone, but they have hearts that few have seen.”
While Iriendel and Galomir’s wife were talking animatedly, Nordros and Erohir were deep in conversation. The High Lord of Cithria asked about Erohir’s son, Rohan. “Where is your younger son, Erohir? I would have thought he’d be joining the celebrations.”
A shadow crossed Erohir’s face as he answered. “Rohan is leading our forces near the borders of Alandrys. Demons have been spotted and have been attacking small villages. It’s a dangerous duty, but he’s determined to protect our lands.”
The conversation between Nordros and Erohir resumed in a cheerful tone, both males seemingly overjoyed by the engagement of their children. The weight of hope hung in the air as they spoke, cloaked by friendship and shared dreams. However, the tranquility of their conversation would soon be disrupted by unexpected occurrences.
Elegil spotted something out of place from the corner of his eye. It was a glint of steel beneath layers of a guest’s attire, the hilt of a sword hidden in the shadows. He glanced around nervously, looking for an escape route. He caught Helius’s eye and nodded subtly. Helius frowned, not understanding what Elegil meant. He followed his gaze and saw the flash of metal among the crowd. His eyes widened in shock and he nodded back, acknowledging the danger. Elegil made a discreet gesture to Galomir, who noticed it immediately. The younger Prince , puzzled by the sudden tension, led his wife and their twin children towards the exit, fear and confusion written on his face.
Iriendel felt the unease in the air and gripped her husband’s arm in silent alarm. One by one, the high fey lords and ladies from the Moon Court began to notice the strange movement. Doors were being discreetly closed, blocking any escape routes. Hushed whispers and furtive glances filled the room, betraying the fear and suspicion that gripped everyone. In the shadows, strange figures lurked, their eyes gleaming with malice. The tension became almost palpable. As the atmosphere grew heavy with dread, Nordros casually slipped on a sleek leather glove, a sinister accessory that was copied by his invited lords and lady.
Before Erohir could react to the strange developments,Nordros made his move, retrieving an obsidian dagger that gleamed with malice. He stabbed Erohir without hesitation, driving the blade deep into the High Lord’s side. Iriendel’s cry of shock pierced the air as chaos erupted around them. Erohir’s expression shifted from surprise to one of deep disappointment as he looked at his longtime friend. With determination born from the sting of betrayal, Erohir unleashed a retaliatory storm of shadows. In the span of a heartbeat, these inky tendrils transformed into a multitude of lethal knives that assailed Nordros with ruthless precision.
Nordros quickly conjured a protective shield that shimmered briefly, warding off a flurry of the lethal blows. Though the barrier held for only a few heartbeats, it was enough to protect him from the brunt of the assault, allowing him a fleeting moment to counterattack.
Nordros swiftly retaliated, unleashing a powerful wave of magic that sent the High Lord soaring through the air before crashing down onto the marble floor.
Iriendel summoned her magic with trembling hands, a final, desperate attempt to shield her loved ones from the murderous onslaught. She hurled protective spells into the storm, offering momentary resistance to the ruthless attackers. But their savage fury proved to be more powerful than her protective magic.
Helius and Elegil joined the frantic fray, unleashing their formidable magic and wielding their swords.
Iriendel saw the enemies closing in. Like a pack of hungry wolves circling their prey, they sought to extinguish the light she held within. With every bit of strength she possessed, she fought back, her magic blazing like a star in the dark night. But the attack was relentless, and they chased her and harried her tirelessly.
Amidst the chaos, Iriendel’s eyes locked with Isolda Vyldera, the ruthless Veridian witch. In a terrifying display of magical prowess, Isolda’s dark incantations allowed her to bypass Iriendel’s safeguards, breaching her defenses. The wicked blade, wielded with a deadly grace, struck Iriendel’s form repeatedly, each vile thrust tearing through her. Pain, raw and agonizing, seared through Iriendel’s body as the relentless assault continued.Her blood sprayed in a macabre dance , staining the pristine marble floor with her life essence.
As her magic flickered and died, Iriendel’s defenses crumbled, leaving her defenseless and vulnerable. Her blood flowed in torrents, creating a gruesome painting of violence on the once-pristine marble floor. Her body, once filled with strength and vitality, now lay limp and broken. In her final moments, her bloody hand stretched out towards the family she had sworn to protect, but they were too far away, their faces etched with horror and grief. With a scream of pain, Iriendel succumbed to the cold embrace of death.
Galomir, though not as powerful in magic as his younger brother, proved himself a fierce warrior. However, outnumbered and surrounded by a horde of enemies, Galomir found himself gradually being overwhelmed, his valiant efforts unable to withstand the relentless assault. Tragically, despite his best efforts, Galomir and his family met a devastating fate at the hands of their assailants.
Thalassia was trapped, surrounded by bloodthirsty enemies. Their eyes glinted with malice as they closed in, their weapons thirsty for her blood. She could sense their murderous rage, like a biting frost cutting through her flesh. Holding a small knife, she spun and slashed, desperately trying to hold them off, but they were too many, too fast. Murtagh lurked behind her, a sadistic grin twisting his face. Without a hint of hesitation, he thrust his cruel blade savagely into her back, making her scream in agony. As if that wasn’t enough, he mercilessly stabbed her again and again, each strike inflicting more serious wounds. Thalassia gasped, pain engulfing her body, her vision blurring with each passing moment. Blood poured from the gashes, soaking her clothes and staining the hard stone. The world spun around her, and a hollow realization settled within her – she was dying, her life slipping away onto the cold marble floor. Yet, she refused to surrender. Summoning the last vestiges of her strength, she unleashed a final burst of magic, narrowly evading the fatal blow, before vanishing from the nightmarish scene.
Erohir’s wounds burned like fire, the venom of the obsidian blades seeping into his veins. But he would not yield, not while his family was in danger. He unleashed his magic, a surge of darkness that swallowed the grand hall. The light of the crystal chandeliers was snuffed out, leaving only a void of blackness. In the shadows, Erohir became a phantom, a wraith of vengeance and fury. He struck at the enemies who had betrayed him, his magic a blade of night that sliced through their flesh. He saw their fear, their panic, as they fell to his power. He showed them no mercy, no pity, only justice for the blood they had spilled. Some of his loyal warriors from his court , his friends and allies, followed his lead, fighting with courage and skill. They used their weapons and magic to fend off the attackers, standing by their High Lord’s side. The battle raged on, a storm of shadows and sparks of deadly magic.
But Erohir’s strength was fading, his body weakening from the poison and the exhaustion. He staggered and stumbled in the dark, barely holding on to consciousness. Erohir collapsed on the cold floor, his breath ragged and shallow. He had fought hard, but he was near his limit. He clung to his will, refusing to let go, but he knew he could not last much longer.
His vision blurred, but he could still make out the shapes of his fallen comrades and enemies. He had failed them, failed his family, failed his court. He felt a tear slide down his cheek, mingling with the blood that stained his face.
A deafening explosion split the air as the grand hall’s imposing doors were violently blown open. A wave of raw magic crashed through the room, a storm of wrath that swept their enemies off their feet, tossing them around like ragdolls in the grip of a giant.
Screams of pain and terror echoed in the chamber as they were hurled out of the hall, their bodies crashing through the windows and their bones breaking on the hard ground below. A cold silence followed, only disturbed by the fading sounds of their agony.
Amid the lingering chaos, an older figure stepped through the havocs, his bald head and white beard contrasting with his dark robes. His eyes were ancient and powerful, taking in the bloodshed.
Elegil, bloodied and weary, managed a wistful smile as he recognized him. “Beltharion!”
Helius, who had just pulled his sword out of an enemy’s chest, couldn’t resist a joke.”I thought wizards were never late.”
Beltharion chuckled, amused by his remark. “There’s a first time for everything. I must say, this was not what I expected.” He gestured with his arms, indicating the chaos that surrounded them.
This night at the Autumn Palace, initially meant to celebrate love and unity, transformed into a night of tragedy, bloodshed, and betrayal.
***
Erohir heard footsteps approaching, slow… And then, he saw him. Nordros, the traitor, the usurper, the snake. He had a gash on his forehead, and blood dripped from his arm. He held an obsidian dagger in his hand. He smiled, a cruel and twisted grin.
“Well, well, well,” Nordros said, stopping a few feet away from Erohir. “Look at you, High Lord. You’re nothing but a broken shadow of your former self. How does it feel to know that you’ve lost everything? Your throne, your power, your people, your family…and your mate.”
Erohir felt a surge of rage at the mention of his mate, Iriendel. She was the reason he had fought so hard, his family was the reason he had not given up. And Nordros had taken them from him, along with everything else.
He tried to speak, to curse Nordros, to tell him to go to hell. But all that came out was a weak groan. He felt the venom spreading through his body.
Nordros laughed, a harsh and mocking sound that echoed in the hall. “What’s that? You have something to say? Too bad you can’t speak. You know what they say: silence is golden. And you’re about to be very golden indeed.”
He raised the dagger above his head, ready to plunge it into Erohir’s heart. Erohir felt a flicker of fear, but also a glimmer of hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was his chance to escape this nightmare, to join his mate in the afterlife.
He closed his eyes again, waiting for the final blow.
But it never came.
The treacherous High Lord, frozen mid-motion. A sudden strangled cry echoed through the air. Erohir’s eyes fluttered open, and to his astonishment, he saw Nordros had sank to his knees beside him, finally within the grasp of retribution. Nordros’s eyes widened with disbelief and pain as a sword protruded from his chest, blood dripping from its blade. And there, standing tall over the fallen High Lord, was Elegil. His face was pale and sweaty, yet his eyes burned with a fierce and resolute determination.
It was then that Erohir, summoning the last dregs of his strength, reached for a dagger concealed at his belt. He buried it into Nordros’s neck, twisting the blade within the flesh. He held his adversary firmly, his voice a strained whisper, his words intended only for Nordros’s ears.
“Nordros,” he hissed, determination gleaming in his eyes. “You failed to obliterate my court, and my son yet lives. He will erase every trace of Cithria, not even a shadow left to haunt our world.”
Nordros gurgled, a frantic desperation seeping through his blood-soaked mouth. As the life swiftly drained from Nordros’s malefic form, he fell to the ground, his cruel and twisted smile extinguished forever.
Murtagh, frantic and anguished, rushed towards his father’s fallen form, but before he could reach them, Beltharion’s magic intervened. Murtagh was sent hurtling through the air, colliding with a stone column before falling unconscious to the ground.
The towering windows, once illuminating the hall in silver, now bore witness to a macabre dance of crimson. The crystal chandeliers, which once cast prismatic patterns, shattered into shards of reflective doom. Deep azure tapestries, once embroidered with silver thread that shimmered like starlight, now mirrored the bloodbath that had overtaken the celebration.
The Autumn Palace, which had borne witness to joy and celebration, was now a maelstrom of horror and chaos. A legacy that was meant to represent unity had instead been transformed into a night of unforgettable brutality and treachery.