In the early days of the Middle Ages, before the shadow of the Great War stretched its claw across Udoris, the realm lived by the spoken word. Knowledge was a thing of breath and memory, passed from lips to ears, not inked on parchment or carved in stone. The rise of the Band of the Six changed all of that, heralding an age where Morgar—both its truths and its lore—was written, shared, and sung across seven of the twelve kingdoms. Monasteries stood as citadels of wisdom, their halls resonating with the chant of prayers and the scratch of quills, nurturing minds as well as souls. Often, these holy places served as schools, sanctuaries of learning within sanctuaries of faith.

  With the coming of the High Middle Ages, when the Band of the Six wielded unrivaled influence, fresh fonts of learning sprang forth. Song schools taught the art of melody, and grammar schools instilled the intricacies of Morgan language, preparing priests for their sacred duties. By the 1300s, these schools flourished, spreading across Udoris like spring blooms. No great burgh, and even few hamlets, were without a grammar school. They served the Church above all else, a training ground for its servants, but their influence reached beyond ecclesiastical walls.

  Yet as swiftly as they rose, many were swept away in the storms that followed the Band's fall from grace. War and upheaval razed monasteries, reducing sacred halls of learning to ash. Rural education dwindled to a pale shadow of its former self. Where once grammar schools had thrived, now only humble reading schools remained, teaching little more than the bare bones of letters and numbers. For the wealthier, private tutors sustained a semblance of learning, their lessons whispered behind the gates of grand estates. These "household schools" became a quiet refuge for the pursuit of knowledge. Records speak of dozens of such institutions before the Reformation wrought by war cast them into shadow.

  In 1396, the Grand Lotelinus sought to stanch the bleeding of wisdom with the Education Act, decreeing that sons of barons and substantial freeholders must attend grammar schools to master the Morgan tongue in all its purity. His efforts bore fruit: by the end of the era, two-thirds of the nobility could read and write, and even a fifth of the peasantry had tasted the fruits of literacy.

  But the age of enlightenment ended with the Band's fall. Sovereigns, wary of the Church's reach and resenting its sway, dismantled the very pillars that upheld it. Song schools and grammar schools, long bastions of the creed, were shuttered or burned. Ancient tomes were fed to the flames, and monasteries—those sanctuaries of knowledge—were reduced to rubble. The wisdom of centuries teetered on the edge of annihilation.

  In that dark time, a fellowship arose: sages and scholars who risked life and limb to preserve the embers of learning. These brave souls spirited away what fragments of wisdom they could, hiding manuscripts and relics from the grasp of fire and sword. Their efforts gave birth to the Sanctuary of Scrolls, a hidden refuge where the legacy of Morgar—and the light of knowledge—might endure.

  …

  Excerpt from Jonas Diane's book on Udorian History- 'Our Origins'?

  ???

  Helsbury, Verum

  The darkness was heavy, oppressive, and absolute.

  Alina’s voice echoed into the void, trembling as she called for help, but no answer came. Only the sound of her ragged breaths and the wild hammering of her heart broke the silence. The emptiness seemed to close in, suffocating her, pressing against her mind like an unseen weight. Fear clawed at her thoughts, unraveling her focus, gnawing away at her sanity.

  Time lost all meaning. Minutes bled into hours, hours into days, days into an eternity. The oppressive stillness threatened to consume her entirely, and she could feel herself slipping—her grip on reality fraying as the desolation burrowed deeper into her mind. She trembled, every muscle tense, every fiber of her being screaming to flee, but there was nowhere to go. She was trapped in this endless moment, frozen and powerless.

  Then she awoke.

  Alina bolted upright with a start, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes snapped open. The heavy fur quilt slipped from the bed, landing on the floor with a muffled thud. Her skin was slick with sweat, and her pulse thudded in her ears. For a moment, she stared at the unfamiliar shapes of her chambers, fear gripping her still, until the soft morning light streaming through the open windows grounded her.

  The room was luxurious, the trappings of wealth clear in every detail. Copper mirrors reflected the sunlight into the shadowed corners, banishing the darkness that had consumed her dreams. Slowly, she exhaled, pressing a trembling hand to her forehead.

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  “Another nightmare, Your Highness?” came a voice, soft yet steady, from the doorway.

  Molly, her handmaiden, stepped inside, balancing an empty laundry basket against her hip. Alina ignored the question, swinging her legs over the side of the bed with a weary sigh. “Is my bath ready?” she asked, already reaching for the knot of her nightgown.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Molly replied, stooping to retrieve the discarded garment as Alina let it fall from her shoulders. The princess moved toward the adjoining chamber, slipping into the large copper tub that awaited her. Behind her, Molly tugged the bell-pull, summoning the scullery maids before departing with the basket, now filled with sweat-dampened sheets.

  Soon, the maids arrived with buckets of warm, scented water. They worked silently, rinsing Alina’s hair and scrubbing her skin clean of the night’s terrors. The princess sat still, her thoughts heavy, her body limp beneath their soft hands. By the time she emerged, her skin was fresh, her hair combed and tied, and her frame draped in a modest, long-sleeved gown that covered her wrists.

  Breakfast was laid before her—a platter of fruit and a pitcher of water—but she barely touched it. Molly worked behind her, brushing and braiding her hair in delicate silence. For a fleeting moment, the room was calm, a fragile peace settling over them.

  That peace shattered when the door swung open with a sharp creak. Alina’s head snapped up, and her heart sank as her half-brother strode into the room, his auburn hair catching the sunlight, his light grey eyes fixed on her with a mocking glint.

  “Who let you in?” Alina demanded, her voice sharp as she rose from her chair. “Ser John! Ser Aaron!” she called, but no answering steps came from the hall.

  Brandon smirked as he approached. “Don’t bother,” he drawled. “Your knights are... occupied. They won’t disturb us.”

  “Leave,” Alina snapped, her eyes flashing. “You know I cannot abide your presence. Why must you insist on forcing it upon me?”

  “Leave us,” Brandon said, his tone dismissive as his gaze flicked to Molly.

  “Molly, stay,” Alina hissed, moving closer to her maid.

  But Brandon had already signaled to the knight stationed outside. Ser Lauren stepped into the room, his expression impassive as he grasped Molly’s arm. The maid squirmed, glancing at Alina with frightened eyes.

  “Escort her out,” Brandon commanded.

  “Your Highness—” Molly began, but her protest was cut short as the knight dragged her toward the door. Despite Alina’s furious shouts, the door slammed shut, leaving her alone with Brandon.

  Alina glared at her half-brother as he sauntered closer, his smirk curling wider. “I had thought that knowing you’re to be wed to that buffoon might temper your tongue,” he said, leaning casually against the bedpost. “But it seems I was mistaken.”

  “Leave,” she spat. “Now.”

  He ignored her command, his gaze darkening as it lingered on her. “Why do you scorn me so, sister?” he murmured, his voice low. “Even now, when you’re to be sent away, you look at me as though I’m naught but dirt beneath your feet.”

  Alina’s hands clenched into fists. “Get out, Brandon. I owe you no explanations.”

  “Oh, but you do!” he snarled suddenly, his calm mask shattering. He stepped closer, his eyes wild. “I loved you, Alina! I still do! Yet you cast me aside as though I’m nothing. Why? What did I do to deserve this?”

  Alina watched, aghast, as the prince reached for her; she slapped the offending appendage away in disgust. “...You disgust me,” she said coldly, stepping back as he advanced. “Do not touch me.”

  The prince's gaze remained fixed on her, confused. "It's been nearly two years since you last embraced me," he said, his gaze hurting. "I have tried everything, Alina. I have begged. I have grovelled. I have killed men for you … Has it all been for nought? Every night I dream of you. Every time I see you my heart lurches in longing! You've changed. You stopped loving me. Why? What happened to you? What happened to you, Alina? What happened to my Alina!"

  The princess glared at her brother. Seeing he had no intention of leaving, she picked up her dress by the helm and made for the door. The prince once again reached for her, this time succeeding in grabbing her arm.

  "Alina!" Brandon pleaded. "Please! I will do anything! Just please, don't leave me!"

  "I said, let go of me, Brandon!"

  "Please―"

  *SMACK*

  The prince froze as he reached for his smarting cheek with his free hand; his features stiff with cold anger. Alina watched in mounting horror as rage slowly bubbled onto his countenance. Rabid. The room descended into an ominous silence.

  "...You are mine, Alina," the prince declared in a whisper, his voice cold and hard as he tugged her towards him. “You are mine,” he growled, seizing her waist. “Do you hear me? Mine! Not the realm’s, not Father’s, not even your own. Mine!”

  Alina struggled, slamming her fists against him, but his grip was iron. Desperation seized her as his hand tore at her dress, ripping open her corselette underneath to greedily fondle her exposed cleavage.

  “Brandon, stop!”

  “You are mine!”

  Desperation flooded her veins then, and in a stroke of luck, her fingers found the cool handle of a pitcher on the table. It happened before she could fully process the thought. The vessel, driven by what meagre strength she could muster, crashed against his head. Brandon staggered back, blood streaming from a jagged wound as he slipped on the wet floor. He hit the edge of the bed with a sickening crack and crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

  Moments later, the door burst open, Ser Lauren storming in with Molly close behind. The knight’s gaze darted between Alina’s torn gown and Brandon’s motionless form, blood pooling beneath his head.

  “Murder!” he cried, his voice echoing through the room. Behind him, Molly fainted, falling to the ground in a boneless heap.

  “Murder!