November 5th 1440

  “There is no more war, Syria. I only wish you, of all people, could see reason to rejoice in this peace.” King Yurvik of Obsark, third of his name and descendant of Olick, had long held that daughters had no place in the matters of kings. He had ensured none of his female children learned to read or speak beyond what was necessary. Yet, his eldest daughter, Syria, seemed to live only to disturb his mornings.

  “Father…” Syria spoke, calm and steady, ignoring the storm of impatience brewing in his eyes. “I only wish to prepare you for what is to come. Our enemies are countless, rising from earth and sea. They leave nothing under the sun to draw breath. Father, they are not creatures that mortal swords can defeat. You must call a grand council and…”

  “Enough!” Yurvik’s voice cracked with unrestrained fury. “Syria, enough.”

  The silence was shattered by the clang of a spoon as a maid, startled by the tension, dropped her tray. “Apologies, Your Grace.” She bowed quickly and disappeared from the room.

  Yurvik refocused on his daughter, his voice a dangerous calm. “I’ve heard enough of your visions and dreams. I know for certain they are real…” He paused, watching Syria’s face flicker with hope. “…but only in your mind.” Her forced smile faded into dismay.

  “Father—” she began, desperate.

  He raised a hand, silencing her. “As king, I dismiss your ‘guidance,’ if it can be called such. And as your father, I beg you to end this pretense. Or do you not understand that already I am seen as a weak ruler? A king who awaits visions from his daughter instead of forging the future for his people. I wonder what god sends you these dreams and how you’ve twisted them into such absurdity. This is not why I allowed you to remain unmarried these twenty-five years.”

  Syria bowed stiffly. “Thank you, my king. I will speak no more of my… dreams.” She dipped her head and retreated from his presence, his council’s stony faces watching her exit.

  With a sigh, Yurvik sank into his chair. “Apologies, gentlemen, for the… interruption. My daughter, she is…”

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  Clifford, his right hand, leaned forward immediately. “Women today speak as if they were meant for anything more than bearing heirs. And while she is the princess, certain… rules must be observed for the sake of your lineage and house. If she remains unchecked, who knows what ‘warnings’ she might give—and to whom.”

  Yurvik glanced sharply at him. “Choose your words carefully, Clifford. Your foolishness hasn’t caught up to you… yet.”

  Tymotee sneered. “And your snake’s tongue will be the death of you.”

  “Silence,” the king commanded. “I pray none of you have gathered here to add to my vexations.”

  The table quieted, tension simmering between Clifford and Tymotee. Matters of far greater importance loomed, and Yurvik knew his people would soon demand his head if he faltered. He straightened. “Now, the war… how did it truly end?”

  John, seated at the far end of the table, replied with eerie clarity. “It was… peculiar, Your Grace. Three hundred men against three thousand. They fought… alongside a warlock.”

  “A warlock?” Clifford asked, unease flickering in his eyes.

  Tymotee scoffed. “Perhaps the princess is not the only mad, after all.”

  “Strange things are coming…” Hunita muttered.

  The king leaned toward John. “Are you certain?”

  John nodded slowly, his gaze distant. “Not even the thickest clouds were as white as his hair.”

  Silence fell over the room. None dared to question further, wishing they hadn’t heard it at all.

  Finally, Hunita broke the silence. “Death comes for us all. Perhaps it is fitting it comes in the form of a deranged warlock.”

  Clifford wiped his brow, leaning forward. “Your Majesty, perhaps it’s time to begin training. Boys and girls from twelve onward could be prepared to fight…”

  “Your aging soldiers are unfit for war, yet you’d send children?” Tymotee said.

  Clifford’s smirk revealed a glint of gold. “God Himself provides these answers. Elementals live among us, powers as holy as they are hidden. In desperate times, the strong reveal themselves.”

  Tymotee snapped. “You are mad. You speak of rituals outlawed for centuries. They have brought only ruin.”

  The king’s pensive expression pleased Clifford. Seeds of doubt had taken root.

  “My king…” Tymotee interjected, voice urgent. “We cannot risk our people on superstition. Such… witchcraft is madness! We are not even certain we face an attack.”

  “Which is all the more reason to be ready,It will not be the first time we slept peacefully only to wake up to the enemy at our gates, all in search of our wealth and resources.” Clifford said. “We cannot wait for the enemy to strike. If I begin the training now, we will separate the chaff from the seeds. This season alone is ripe for such powers to emerge.”

  The king rose, fingertips tapping the chestnut table. His heart was heavy. A warlock could bring ruin to all.

  His mind flashed to tales of a young warlock, betrayed by his clan and offered as a sacrifice to an ancient cult. The boy had escaped, drenched in the blood of his kin, sparing none. His powers were so fearsome that even the mightiest elders fell to him, their lives ending slowly as he fed on their agony.

  It was said his body had grown immune to sickness, to hunger, to injury and weakness. His muscles woven with threads of diamonds were impregnable to swords and fire.

  If truly they were up against such a foe…

  The silence pressed upon them as Yurvik spoke. “Let them say their goodbyes. I want a thousand boys.”

  He left no room for debate, striding from the hall and leaving the council in his wake.

  Clifford’s smirk widened as Tymotee fumed. Tomorrow, children as young as four would be taken from their mothers, destined for the barracks where they would serve as vessels of the Lord. Day and night, they would pray until their bodies were worn and their souls awakened to powers few could comprehend.