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After a long voyage across the seas for two months, Deckard had finally reached his homeland. Praevor was a place of war and intrigue, wonders and terrors. Its history filled with moments of bloodshed, peace and prosperity, good and evil kings, legendary warriors and queens. The old records spoke of the great First King Gaiseric who united the warring tribes of Praevor after a long period of war to fight against the invasion of the Darach led by a man simply known as the King of Skulls. Deckard remembered how the old Masters would speak of Gaiseric in a manner that he is the savior of the land, how he brought the armies of the Thirteen Tribes against the Skulls. He admired the old king, a brave man who managed to convince the people to set aside their differences to face a common foe – something that he apparently must do in order to save a foreign land.

He stepped onto the port of the Hundred Shores. The scent of the ocean mixed with the smell of the trees is a breath of fresh air for him, coupled with the lingering fragrance of fruit and fish and spice and wine. The port was the busiest in all of the kingdom, the largest one as well and it has been said to be able to hold two large fleets of warships. He turned to Captain Aldous and paid him a handsome amount of gold for the trip before leaving.

The journey back to the Howling Stones weren’t as hard and long as it took the reach Praevor. He bought himself a horse and rode from the southern lands and up into the north. He passed through countless hills and finds out that not much has changed since the last few years he had left the country. Ever since Queen Varya defeated the previous ruler, King Myrone the Terrible in a civil war lasting for five years, Deckard had saw many changes since the end of the old king.
Part of him was glad to see the queen constructed many roads and reinforced the defenses of the cities. She put all her effort into rebuilding what was lost during the war for succession, to bring back the glory that was lost during the five years of bloodshed.

Deckard participated actively in the first months of the war as a knight of the Howling Griffins before he was transferred to the Scorching Mountains to fend off the invading Volirian Empire from the west. He and his sword brethren held the advance of the mighty empire singlehandedly while the kingdom plunged deeper into chaos. It was a dangerous time, a period where Praevor was forced to fight two wars at a time and it was named as the Age of Chaos by the Masters.

He stopped his horse by the time he sets his eyes upon the massive castle that was erected atop a great hill. Its walls were made of stone, its gates were of iron. Towers pierced the sky like spears and the main castle itself was majestic as the others. The banners of Ironshield flapped in the cold winds of the north. Deckard rode closer to the castle, his sword sheathed and hung from his belt. His coat of wolf’s fur on his back kept him warm for several days as he journeyed into the Northern Province.


“Lift the gates!” one of the soldiers shouted as soon as they saw Deckard approached. The iron gates were lifted and Deckard rode inside.

A statue of a king and a wolf stood in the middle of the courtyard. Carved out of stone by the best masons in the province, the statue of King Oryn Ironshield stood in the Howling Stones for thousands of years since the First Landing of the ancient of old Voliria. The first Praevorian king bear witness to the construction of the Stones, the first settlement of their kingdom after he and his people escaped from the clutches of the Empire. It was here that the kingdom was founded, it was here that the king fell years later in the Battle of the Great Mountains. His statue was built to commemorate his death and his sacrifice to bring freedom to the slaves of the Empire.

He began to smile as he saw the people carried out their daily routine. Some washed their clothes, others sharpening their weapons, the smiths and armorers crafted the best equipment for the soldiers and there they are, the four trueborn children of Lord Darwin Ironshield busy attending to their own matters. Darin acted as the new Lord of the Stone Mountains, overlooking his soldiers training while barking out orders to the trainers to keep the recruits ready and hardened for battle. Marius had his hands full as he discussed some important things with the Sentinel – the advisor to the family. Myra is playing with the children, her smiles were filled with glee and joy as she kept the youngsters entertained. He did not see Fayre anywhere however, perhaps she has more important affairs to attend to. After all, she is a maiden after all and would soon be married to a noble lord – if she wanted to.

“Brother Deckard!” Myra noticed him. Her lips curled into a smile as her auburn hair covered half of her face, her eyes were of the ocean’s blue, her skin as pale as snow. She wore a black choker around her neck with the sigil of Ironshield. She rushed towards him, wrapping her arms around Deckard tightly. “It’s been quite a while since I last saw you,”

Deckard chuckled and pat her head before embracing his trueborn sister in his arms. “2 years 6 months to be precise, sister.” He said, pulling away from her and grabbed Myra by the shoulders. “You haven’t changed much, do you?” he smiled.

“Nope,” she responded. “But I reckon that you have quite a few more scars on your body. Were you fighting in battles again?” she frowned. “If father was here, he would’ve stopped you from risking your precious soul in the dangerous life of a soldier.”

He sighed. “That’s who I am, Myra. Besides, I am alive as you can see. Have you seen Fayre? I can’t seem to find your sister.”

“Fayre was elected the Great Warden by the Queen a few months after you left the country.” Said the Maiden of Ironshield. “But she will be arriving here soon enough as she heard about your return. Fayre would want to speak to you about…things,”

“By the gods, I hope this isn’t about me leaving Praevor.” He said, chuckling. “But I’m very proud for her. Being the Great Warden is no great feat. I was supposed to be one if I do not sail across the seas,” he smiled. He never told them of the reason why he left Praevor after the war ended, never bothered to tell them that it was vengeance that drove him out of the land after Darwin’s apparent death. Part of him was guilty of that. It was a heavy burden to carry.

“Deckard!” another of the trueborn children called out. Darin left the soldiers under the command of his captain. He wore an armor of leather and a coat of wolf’s fur, his left eye is blue and the other is gold, both inherited from his parents. His hair were a coat of brown tied to his back like a horsetail, strands of hair fall onto his face. “How are you, brother?” Darin said as he pat Deckard’s shoulder. He stood as tall as him, towering over Myra’s shorter stature. At a distance, one could mistake them for twins.

“Fine as always, Darin. Or should I say, Lord Darin of the Stone Mountains instead?” he smirked.

“Cut the formalities, Deckard. You’re my brother, not a commoner to address me like the others.” Darin laughed. “The new land, how is it?”

“Well, I’d say it was…quite interesting while it is pretty same to our land before the war ended.” Deckard kept a hand on the pommel of his sword.

Darin looked at Deckard’s blade. It was different that what he saw before. He noticed its beauty even if it’s sheathed in its black scabbard. “Fancy yourself a new weapon?” he asked, nodding to the sword.

“This?” he took his belt off and pulled the sword out of its sheath. It gleamed in the sunlight, its dark blade rippled with patterns down from its tip to the hilt and ancient runes of Calradic origins were engraved upon it. “Someone gave it to me, he called it the Sword of Kings.” He said. Then the thoughts of becoming a king rushed back into his mind as he spoke of the sword’s name. He was never a king, nor he was ever a legitimate noble like Darin or the rest of the Ironshield trueborn. He learned quite a bit of how kings should manage their kingdoms but he too learned of how good men were soon blinded by its tempting power, turning into something that they have hated before – a tyrant. He hated power, he never really wanted all of this. To become king was never on his mind. He could only ask the gods for guidance.

He slid the sword back into its sheath.

“Let’s get into the castle shall we?” Myra spoke out.

“Ah sure, I’ll have the servants prepare you food and get your bed ready. You must have been tired after the journey from Calradia to Praevor.” Darin said.
“You’ll go ahead, I wanted to visit father first.”

They nodded and Deckard left them. He walked towards the Old Tomb where the members of the Ironshield family were kept. It was located outside the walls, hidden in the thick forests where only the most trusted allies and family members may enter the tomb.

The halls were dark and silent. There were only the distant sounds of rustling leaves were heard from outside the tomb and water dripping onto the ground. Deckard picked up a torch and its flames illuminated the dark interior of the tomb. Inside, he finds the many statues of those who have died. Each carved by a different skilled mason, with intricate details that make them feel alive even after death. Each statue had a cloak and were replaced each year at the Day of the Departed. The cloaks carried the sigil of Ironshield and behind them, lies the tomb where the remains of the family were kept.

He walked through the halls, bowing his head as a sign of respect to the dead. At times, he felt like he was being watched by the lifeless statues as if their eyes remained on him even if they faced a different direction. Beneath them there was a slab of stone with their names, their date of birth and death as well as their greatest accomplishments.

His torch flickered in the darkness. His eyes looked around and finds the tomb that belonged to Darwin. His statue towered over him and when he sets his eyes upon it, a sad smile crept onto his face as he remembered the memories he had with his father. He looked just the same as the day when he was young, with a coat of beard and a short hair. In his hand, he held a greatsword and he wore an armor similar to the one worn by Darin. A crown on his head, a ring with several swords pointed upwards.

“Father,” he called out. His voice weak, he felt like he was a child again, longing to see his father after a long day of work. “I wish you eternal happiness with Lady Ironshield. May the gods be ever on your side.” He paused, uncertain of what could be said. Deckard was never a man of words or to express out his deepest emotions. He never knew a lot of prayers, most of which were attributed to the god of war as he spent most of his youth as a soldier. But to the dead? He didn’t knew quite as much. “When I was in the new land, there are…a lot of things that happened. Things that would remind me of home. Kings fighting each other, lords bickering one another like little children over a piece of land. Then there were the lords who acted like fools. There were a few that I find honorable.” He finally said. Recalling the times he had in Calradia. “Father, grant me strength for the journey ahead. Grant me guidance so that I may not falter in my path. The Scholars of Calradia spoken of the end times, father and I’m a part of it.” He said with a heavy heart. The souls of the dead listened as silence surrounded him. “Dark times are coming they say. I do not know what to do, should I stay and fight like I always do? To face death in the eye?” he gripped the pommel of his sword. His hands shook, it was fear for the future that holds him now. Yes, he had fought in many battles but against an unknown force, to be entangled in the affairs of a foreign land seemed…overwhelming for him.

“You’ve changed quite a lot, Deckard,” a woman’s voice said, coming from the entrance to the tomb.

Deckard lifted his gaze and to the voice. The woman wore a heavy plate armor as dark as coal, the sigil of Ironshield emblazoned on her breastplate. A river of red ran down her back. Her hair was a coat of the sun’s colors with streaks of white and her eyes were that of a fierce feline’s eyes, “It’s been a while, Fayre,” he greeted the woman. A smile crept onto his face and memories rushed back into his mind as he remembered of the time when he was nothing more than just a child. “You don’t change much do you, Fayre?”

She crossed her arms and smirked. Fayre leaned against the wall, “But it is certain that after two years spending outside the nation, you’ve become…cowardly, I might say.”

“How so?”

“You came here to ask for father’s guidance is it not? I heard what you’ve said. You wanted to run away from the fight aren’t you? That isn’t the Deckard I knew before. The Ironshield that is willing to take up arms and fight against the oppressors. To stand against the might of the Empire while everybody else argued like children for the throne.” She said.

“I’m tired of fighting, Fayre. It’s what I do ever since I’ve joined the Howling Griffins. I’ve sent many to their deaths, to the hands of the Reaper and many of them would be holding their grudges against me in the afterlife.” He replied.

“Perhaps they were thanking you for releasing them from the world’s endless sufferings.” She said and stood straight. She stood as mighty as a queen, her shadow looms over Deckard as she stands tall at the entrance. Though she maybe a year younger than Deckard but she is a strong and fine woman, fit to be a warrior lady. “Come, Myra prepared us food for dinner in the Great Hall.” She said, gesturing over to her brother as she turned her back.

Deckard followed. Her footsteps echoed in the empty tombs and her armor rattled with every move she made. “Does Varya knows about my arrival?” he ask of the queen.

Fayre shook her head, “Only the Ironshields know of your return. Besides, she has other matters to attend to. If you’re going to ask me if she’s doing fine, well she is doing a great job restoring what was lost during the civil war.” Her lips curled into a smile as she kept on walking, “The nation would be lost without you and your Griffins, Deckard. Can’t believe you survived all that terrible hell,”

“I’m still standing here, Fayre. That’s enough proof that I have survived countless battles.” he extinguished the flames from the torch as he finally made it outside the tombs, closing the iron door behind him. “Well, I’m glad that Varya is doing quite fine on her own.”

“Well,” Fayre turned around to face her brother. Her cat eyes looked deep into Deckard’s own, “Do you want to give her a visit? It’d took you five days on horseback from here to the Scarlet City.”

“That sounds nice. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the Ashen Queen,”

“Bah, you and all your titles Deckard. She’ll give you an earful though,”
Deckard groaned. “Is it because that I – “

“You left the country? Obviously,” she finished his words before he could utter them. Fayre chuckled as she pats Deckard’s shoulder, “Don’t worry you’ll be fine. And I’m glad that you came back after all those years,”

“Yeah,”



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Hey! New chapter here! This time I wanted to bring the story away from Calradia and into Praevor and this'd allow me to expand on the world without the restrictions of an established lore. So you can already that happening in this chapter.

The castle was Vianden Castle to those who are unaware.

Grunwalder Castle, built upon the hills that reside near the borders of the Rhodoks and their Swadian neighbor. Ferocious battle have been fought over the centuries, its walls have always been said to be impregnable. It was no ordinary castle, its size may only be rivalled by Etrosq’s own ancestral seat. Fortified with dozens of turrets, watchtowers, catapults and a few thousand men to further reinforce its garrisons. All thanks to the efforts of Count Rimusk, the heir to the ancient noble house of Morne.

It was the place where Etrosq had gathered his trusted companions and allies. He marched from his own castle with the knights of his household accompanied him during the journey while the Legions were under the command of Decius. Three hundred of the Darcians were sent to the Eastern Wall with Victoria acting as their commander.

He marched with two hundred of his best men for five days. Down the mountainous terrains of his castle and into the flatlands of Veluca they marched. As soon as he arrived at Grunwalder castle, he sets his eyes upon the marvelous structure that stood vigilantly upon a hill. It was one of the few times when he was glad that the lord of Grunwalder was one of his trusted friends. No armies could ever penetrate its thick walls even with hundreds of catapults hurling stones and flames would not be able to break Grunwalder’s defenses. It was the site where the old armies of the kingdoms once fought against the entire might of Swadia during the Great Rebellion centuries ago under the command of Lord Grunwalder.

What makes the armies of the land hard to besiege the castle was its position high up on the hills. Etrosq knew this well, he finds it quite tiring to march up the steep hills. Walls surrounded him and his men, in an event of a siege, the archers would rain down a terrible torrent of arrows and bolts, javelins and throwing axes as the enemies would struggle to reach the castle. Battering rams would be set ablaze before they could reach the gates, siege towers proved to be useless and ladders would cause more harm to the enemy soldiers than good.

He reached the courtyards of Grunwalder Castle and was greeted by Rimusk. To his side, Leoden stood with pride as he donned an enameled scale armor with a green cape while his personal sigil emblazoned on his chest – a fist grabbing a blazing star. “Etrosq, my old friend,” Rimusk bowed as he approached the Gallant Lord, a hand reached out for him.

Etrosq shook hands with Rimusk, “Good to see you after a very long time. How are things at the castle? Still standing strong, I suppose.” He said.

“All is well, Gallant Lord. Have your knights get their well deserved rest, the maids will take care of them.”

Etrosq nodded. He turned to Leoden and bowed his head as a sign of respect for the battle hardened man, “Commander Leoden,” he greeted.

The old knight returned the respectful bow. His raven hair tied to his back with strands of white clearly visible from where Etrosq was standing. He was one of the only few foreigners who came to Calradia and rose to prominent status through years of service and accomplishments in participating countless battles for the past three decades. Back when he was a child, Etrosq would have heard the maids spoke of a foreign knight who had a fierce pair of eyes and hair as dark as the midnight skies gained renown as a formidable warrior, attending multiple tournaments and earned the respect of honorable men. At the time, he finds himself admiring this knight. Rumors spoke of Leoden was in love with Lady Olekseia of the Nords but Etrosq knew that the old knight had enough of stories of love. Yet, the Gallant Lord respected him for his fierce loyalty and chivalric ways.

Days has passed since Etrosq arrived. Only a small portion of the lords gathered in the castle, only those who are trusted by Etrosq and shared his thoughts upon the current state of the realm. They were lesser nobles, families who served under the banners of larger ones and possessed lands far smaller than those held by the more powerful ones. Yet, it was their military power that became the backbone of the Rhodoks forces.

They were in the war room where the lords could discuss with secrecy. Rimusk had a map of the Rhodoks territory displayed on the round table as Etrosq kept his eyes upon it. Jelkala, Veluca, Yalen, Maras Castle, Culmarr Castle and the rest of the settlements and fortifications were all upon the map. Etrosq observed.

“What have you heard about the realm?” Rimusk spoke out. “My spies in Yalen said that there would be a rebellion within the city. The arena fighters are said to be united and lead by someone named Osmarck. Time will tell whether the city shall fall to the rebels.”

“House Rycaster have been growing in power recently,” one of the minor nobles said. He had a pale brown hair with laughing green eyes, his necklace carried the symbol of three swords upon a field of gold and red – the noble family of Wyck. “Sources told me that the king had indicted several lords for treason, stripping away all their properties and those who are lucky enough finds themselves in service of a new liege while those who don’t, they met their ends at the end of the axe.” He said.

Etrosq sighed as he heard the name of the noble family. “Rycaster,” he mumbled. It was once the richest family in all of the kingdom, perhaps even throughout the land. At the height of their power, the wealth of the Rycasters have been said to be more than enough to buy armies worth several thousand men from outside Calradia. But they were ruthless in their methods just as they were wealthy. “The king granted them Maras Castle is it not?”

Lord Wyck nodded in response. “They’ve renamed the castle to its original name though, Callanach. It was once their ancestral seat before it was taken away from them by King Jorren II six decades ago during the Uprising.” He said.

“Then Crixus should have been our next problem. He’s the next best tactician after Leoden and James.” Rimusk noted. “But our main difficulty is to think what would happen after we took the throne. Who should be king and all that.” He continued.

A war against the king is something that they have planned for months. Etrosq saw how he soon grew mad and obsessed with power, ignoring the common folk for his efforts in defeating the Sultanate. The lords knew that well and it made the smallfolk suffered.

“We don’t have many allies powerful enough to become the next king should Graveth falls.” Lord Wyck stated.

Etrosq sighed, remembering all the deaths that had occurred to his allies. Graveth’s actions had robbed him of the powerful allies and friends that would help him seize the throne from the mad king. Lord Falsevor was a good friend of his, one who once held the great city of Veluca before he rose in retaliation after Graveth indicted him for treason. Falsevor mustered his army and sent the rest of his family out of Calradia should anything ever happened to him. Yet, he was defeated at the Battle at the Velucan Hills and slain in battle by Crixus Rycaster – a formidable knight in combat as well as strategizing.

If Falsevor had lived, Etrosq would have wanted him to be the king because of his honorable ways. But he knew that it won’t happen. “Veluca has been granted to another one of the minor noble families is it not? Was it House Ironrock that had it?” Etrosq said, turning to Rimusk.

“I believe so, but the Ironrocks decided not to involve in our fight. After all, they are now pacifists compared to their forefathers.” He said.

Lord Wyck leaned forward against the table. His eyes remained on Jelkala. “What about the capital?”

“With our current forces, we won’t be able to penetrate its walls. It’s the most heavily fortified city with thousands of soldier stand ready at their gates. If we wish to besiege it, then its garrison must be weakened.” Rimusk said.

“Then a rebellion from within shall weaken the forces.” Etrosq spoke out. His arms crossed as he looked over at the other lords, six of them he counted, three were minor nobles with Lord Wyck one of them. Rimusk and Tribidan stood there, silently waiting to hear what the Gallant Lord had to say. “The people will rise in time. Once they do, it will decide the fate of the kingdom.”

The lords nodded in agreement. “Does your brother knows about this, Lord Rimusk?” Wyck asked. “Having the Knight of the Sun would be great for our cause.” He continued.

Rimusk shook his head, “My brother wishes not to involve in political matters since he have other things to attend to at the Wall. Besides, his loyalty remained to the Order of the Immortal Sun. Persuading Duncan to join our cause would be all for naught,”

He remembered the name quite well. Etrosq heard of the Commander’s numerous deeds at the Eastern Wall and recently called for aid from him. Knight of the Sun, they’d call him. He wielded the two-handed sword named Red Flame, the heirloom of House Morne. He recalled how Duncan was recognized as one of the best fighters in the land, a great knight with skills that could only be matched by the likes of Crixus and perhaps even the well-known Ordun the White. He wished he had met the latter. In the future, perhaps.

The lords talked for an hour, preparing themselves for a war that would decide the path that the kingdom would take. A path that would begin with chaos. They talk of reinforcing their castles and armies, plans to rally the people for their cause and others. Etrosq, Rimusk and Tribidan shall play an important role in the coming rebellion against their former liege, the rest of the minor lords will too. It was oppression that caused the first people of the Rhodoks to rise against their Swadian overlords, to take up arms and rally behind a noble cause to free themselves of their iron grip and tyranny. It shall be the same reason why these lords would rebel against their liege. But they all know, that a war amongst themselves would plunge the kingdom into a path that no one ever knows how it would end.



The night was silent and the moon watches over him solemnly without a star to accompany its vigilant watch. At times, Etrosq would hear the distant howl of wolves in the forests that surrounds the mighty castle. He could hear the crickets creak and the leaves rustle in the wind, as if there were ghosts whispering the tales when they were living. Etrosq stood at the top of the tower on the walls, the cold breeze of the night touches his skin like a a mother’s gentle hand. His green cape would flutter in the wind, his hands clasps as his finger touches the silver ring given to him by his wife.

His thoughts remained on the Queen of Ice, his love. It has been days since he last saw her, perhaps Victoria had arrived safely at the Wall. If so, he is glad and thanked the gods for it as he did not want her to involve in the inevitable civil war that would soon erupt between the loyal forces of the king and theirs. He missed her. He missed her golden hair tied to a braid which hangs from her back, he missed her seeing wearing a wolf pelt and thick clothes whenever winter came. The way she talks, the way she asserted her authority to the soldiers at the castle and the way she treated the children like her own. He missed all of things that made Victoria what she is. To him, she was his serenity.

There are no events of great significance for the next few days. Etrosq returned to the castle with his great knights and prepares himself for a large feast to be held in the capital for the new year. Of course, the kingdom would want to celebrate another year of Graveth’s rule. The great and minor lords would be gathered there, rich and powerful men from across the country shall feast and drink and sleep with whoever they went until it quenched their earthly desires. The corrupt and the honest, the famous and the hated, all shall be gathered in the halls of Jelkala.

Etrosq was in his chambers, warmed by the crackling fires that heated up the interior castle. He searched through his closet and pulled out a nobleman’s attire, a dark blue tunic and a black robe to complement it. He hangs a silver necklace carrying the sigil of Victoria’s family in Darcia – a fist grabbing three arrows on a field of crimson. Before he went out for the feast, he took his time and wrote a letter to his wife.

He hired a courier to deliver it, a boy not older than his mid-twenties. He rode for the Wall with haste upon a white horse.

Etrosq left the castle on the next day, bringing only seven of his knights with him, all wore an enameled scale armor with cloaks of white as snow, their armors were of pale gold and the sigil of Etrosq’s family was emblazoned on their breastplates. James was there as well, riding beside him on a black steed. For days they rode and Etrosq remained silent, his mind filled with the thoughts on his wife and the rebellion.

James noticed that he was bothered with the current affairs that his lord has to deal with. He approached him. “Are you okay, milord?”

Etrosq snapped into focus and nodded. “I’m fine, James.”

“Worrying about your wife, I assume?” James asked.

“That and the war that is to come.” He responded. “I’m just glad that she’s not here with us. If the war begins, at least she’ll find refuge there at the Wall. I’m sure that Duncan would provide her safety as well.”

“Do not worry about the war, Etrosq. There are people who’d stand with you and fight by your side. You have us,” James said, referring to himself and the knights who accompanied him. “The Knights of Eitryd shall stand vigilantly with you,”
A sad smile crept on Etrosq’s face. His thoughts for Victoria still lingered in his mind. Yet, he was more than glad to have people who stood with him through thick and thin. “Thank you,” he replied.

He grabbed the pommel of his sword that hangs on his belt. He represents the Eitryds, the heir to the seat of Etrosq Castle. A heavy burden rests upon his shoulders like mountains. He sighed, knowing that the line of Gaiseric the Wanderer may end in a war for Rhodoks. Part of him felt relieved knowing that if he should perish, it would be in the fields of battle fighting for a cause that he deemed noble.

The large silhouette of the capital emerges from a distance. It was surrounded by mountains and thick oceans of forests. His seven knights and their commander accompanied him for days after they have departed from the castle, all watched their surroundings with vigilant eyes and their hands kept on their swords. At times, Etrosq would have wanted them to let their guard down and enjoy the trip for once. He finds it amusing.

Jelkala’s walls greeted them as its stone foundations tower over them with the height of giants. It was fortified by catapults on the walls and an iron gate to complement the city’s defenses. Etrosq recalled how the Sergeants of Jelkala are well trained and provisioned, with weapons made from the best castle forged steel. Coupled with the king’s massive wealth, the capital would have easily reinforce the garrison with soldiers and mercenaries hired from across Calradia or from the lands beyond.

“It’s gold that turn people mad. Gold and power,” his father told him when Etrosq was a youth. Well, before he had his head on a pike after being indicted for treason and for speaking against the king. It was at Jelkala where the heir of Eitryd witnessed his father’s execution by the large greatsword wielded by one of the Knights of the King. He remembered vividly how it happened. His father knelt in front of the crowd, his head lowered in defeat and his hands chained to his back.

The knight pulled out a large greatsword. Its blade gleamed in the sun’s rays and the crowd roared louder and louder. Etrosq was there, attempting to save his father but was held back by two of the knights. He remembered that too, how he wanted to push aside the king’s own bodyguards and took the sword of the knight’s hand to save his father. But yet, their grip on his arms were strong and Etrosq could not move a single inch.

The greatsword was raised and the crowd roared. The execution square was densely packed with the commoners, standing shoulder to shoulder, spitting out endless insults and hurling small stones towards him. It was the knights that stopped them from rushing to the stage and ended his father’s life with their own hands. A small wall of shields and spears halted them in their tracks, but not the insults.

Etrosq tried to push the knights aside but to no avail. He was younger at the time, a brash and reckless lord, the thoughts of attaining glory and fame were robbed from him at that day. Tears rolled down his cheeks, of anger and sadness and grief. The executioner knight swung the greatsword down and the crowd was silenced for a moment before erupting to cheer for his father’s death. In their eyes, it was the death of a traitor. To them, he deserved it.

The banners of different lords were hung above the streets and some were easily identifiable once Etrosq laid his eyes upon them. There were the banners of Morne – a mountain with a bright star shining on its peak while on a field of lavender, the sigils of Ironrock – a skull wearing a crown on a black field, Rycaster – a sword with bolts of lightning to its side on a field of green and Royne – a black horse’s head on a green field. Some were rivals, others formed an alliance through friendship or marriage. Dozens of noble houses, both large and small shall be gathered in the city for the Feast of the New Year. Thousands of caravan streamed into the city and there would be more for the next days.
As he ventured through the streets, there were smiles and laughter. Hardworking people to keep a simple life. But then his eyes peered through the dark alleyways where the beggars, the poor and the wretched – the cursed as some would say – made their refuge in the underground tunnels and others. Among them were the oppressed as well, citizens who had kept a grudge towards the current king.

If Etrosq would want to seize the throne, he needed the trust of the people. In time, he will.

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Symphony of Time
The Doom of Maarn and the Rise of the Nords by Senior Scholar Devius

Maarn was labeled as the ancestral home to the Kingdom of the Nords, while some said it was Jumne instead. The thing is,
Jumne was where most of the ancient Nords settled upon after the destruction of Maarn.

The land of Maarn was much like Calradia. Mountains, green lands and beautiful islands. Split apart by warring tribes and kingdoms for centuries endlessly as warlords rise and fall every century. It has been said that the destruction of Maarn came without warning, its lands cracked and vomitted molten fire, unleashing deadly and poisonous gas into the air, killing thousands and millions. Cities were burned to the ground in a matter of hours.

Earthquakes shattered entire cities and splintered the land into smaller islands.
Some great settlements were claimed by the sea, the mountains spit fire and ash, darkness descends upon the old lands of Maarn for fourteen days. There were little survivors to the destruction sent to them by their gods. Scholars around Calradia have been trying to investigate what caused this event, some believed it was the eruption of a massive volcano that caused a chain reaction which in turn, destroyed all of Maarn. Others suggested that magic was involved while the Nords themselves firmly believed that it was the gods themselves have shown their fury upon them, punishing their ancestors for destroying the land with endless wars.


And so, the last of the people set sailed for a new home. Some have settled in the lands of Praevor, others further into the kingdoms of Tyrus but most have built a new civilization upon the land of Jumne, a land located in the North Sea. For centuries they prospered in peace, boasting a powerful army comprised of deadly huscarls to which the old sailors claimed to be the best infantrymen that hailed from the North. In time, the Old Empire of Calradia have invited the Nords to crew their galleys, some even hired into becoming a part of the Imperial Army. As a token of appreciation, the Emperor at the time granted the Nords a small area along the coastline to be settled by the Nords.

But after the death of the Last Emperor, the Empire splintered into several smaller kingdoms. The Nordic tribes were then united by a man known as Gundig Hairy-Breeks who raised an army from Jumne and landed upon the shores before marching further inland to attack the Rock of Rivacheg until he and his sons were killed during the Siege of the Rock. There have been songs dedicated to this man, some sang of his deeds as a Nord to claim their ancestral birthright (which has no evidence recorded in old Imperial books which are mere fabrication of bards and troubadours to romanticise the Nordic people), some speak of him being the hero of the Nords. But one thing is for certain that Gundig's death sparked the Five Year War between the Northern Calradic Empire and the newly established Kingdom of the Nords in Sargoth.

King Ivar the Great. A great king indeed, the First King of the Nords and the Northern Protector. He lead the people in the Five Year War, gaining many victories under his leadership and established a strong monarchy in the Great City of Sargoth. It was then when the famous Sargoth Steel was invented but unfortunately, secrets in making these weapons are lost to the ages. Legends claimed that its cold steel may be able to shatter a sword crafted from normal steel with ease. The elders claimed that King Ivar died alongside the secrets of making Sargoth Steel weapons, that he only invented those weapons for the Five Year War and nothing else.

During his leadership, King Ivar established the Order of the Snow. A brotherhood of elite warriors sworn to protect the Nords from threats of the supernatural. According to sources, it was Ivar's brother - Thorinn the Iron Fist -  was the first Grandmaster of the brotherhood. Its headquarters, the Frozen Fortress cannot be found on the map and its location can only be known by the king of the Nords, the Grandmaster and its members. For centuries, they have protected the Nords from evil and the darkness that lurked behind every tree.

Some of mine although edited:

It was when he had his eyes closed and rested in a room rented at a tavern when he heard voices. The whispers seemed to haunt him through the journey since Deckard sent him to spread the word about his apparent role as king as the significance it would bring upon the land. It has been months since then, yet the whispers never end.

Their voices grow louder and louder by each passing day. They speak of death and ruin to those who sang the song of Calradia. Luther never acknowledged them, he ignored them and pushed them back into the depths of his mind as he continued on his perilous journey to prepare the New Emperor for his return. Yet, the voices came back. Much more aggressive than before.

It was at the dead of night when he sleeps and wakes up only to find himself in a place he’d never been to before. There were no trees that carried the melancholic sadness of the Watcher’s realm nor the birds that flock over his head and the lake that surrounds the forests. He woke up on a wide field, his back against the ground. His nose caught the smell of rotting flesh and burning wood, his ears heard the sound of men screaming and roaring as well as the sound of metal clashing.

He stands up and grabbed the nearest weapon he could find, it was a bastard sword with unique patterns etched onto its blade. This would do nice. He thought as he makes his way up a nearby hill.


The unpleasant smell lingers in the air, his eyes saw soldiers fighting against one another. The lands were covered by a thick mist, he could only see men slaughtering one another with their weapons. He heard their screams as some fell lifeless upon the ground. He then saw the soldiers charged up the hill, all eyes looked towards the top of the hill where the fighting was the heaviest.

He heard the song of a sword clashing into metal, he heard their bodies thud as his eyes saw the sword glow in the thick mist and executes its foes with a quick swing. Luther approached and a soldier ran past him, axe in his hands as he charged towards the shadowy figure who waits at the top of the hill. The man screamed, letting out a roar of war and a silent cry for death. But then he was silenced as his head dropped from the body and onto the ground, his warm and thick blood sprayed over the figure.

Luther then heard an unsettling sound, growls and snarls that were not of a normal beast’s was heard from behind. Hisses and faint roars can be heard as the human soldiers died from the initial conflict. From thick mist, a bright red flame appeared followed by a deafening roar of a demon. The beast pulled out its swords, each glow like it was pulled out from a burning furnace. The Seeker realized that it was one of the Exiled.

He ran up the hill and the stood beside the shadowy figure. It was then that Luther realized that the man was not fighting alone atop the lonely hill. He was surrounded by a few others, one who wears an armor of brass as if it was crafted by the gods themselves, wielding an axe of gold in the shape of an eagle’s head. Another was a young sorcerer, whose skills with magic allows her to conjure flames and thunderbolts and spells that were thought to be the lost knowledge of Calradia. As Luther turned to the man who stood beside him, he only saw Deckard. Bloodied and exhausted, breathing heavily as his face covered in blood and sweat. His fiery eyes burn in the thick mist, the ancient Calradic runes on his sword glows blue as the demon approached.

“Through the darkest days and the brightest nights.” Deckard uttered as he lifts his sword close to his face. His eyes looked sharp into the demon’s own as it glows with crimson red, bright enough to be seen through the mist.

The demon roared as it raised the sword. He swung the large blade and clashed with Excalibur’s steel, a loud echo followed. Luther than saw the man with the brass armor charged forth with his axe, jumping into the air and struck his weapon deep into the beast’s skull with godlike strength before ripping it off from its shoulders. As the man roared after slaying the foul creature, a spear pierced through his heart and fell onto his knees.

“Kinggggggg……” a voice called out. It sends chill down Luther’s spine. It was not a human’s nor does it sounded like one of the beasts that growled and snarled. The Watcher’s own had a sense of elegance, beauty and fragility – as if her voice were born out of the winds of summer and spring – of life itself. But this? It was cold, harsh and it reeks of death, torment, suffering and pain.

“Sssssorcerer……” there it is again. This time, it called out for the woman who had the gift of the gods. Both she and Deckard had their eyes widened, the King’s hands trembled as he held the sword in his hand after hearing the voice. It sends fear to them.

Luther looked around for the one who called out. But his eyes sees nothing but the scattered corpses of men carrying different banners, lifeless bodies of humans, the pointy eared people, the horselords and the demons were littered on the fields below them. Luther saw nothing but death.

“Championnnn……" it called out once more. This time a dark figure emerged from the shadows as it grabs the man with the brass armor by the head with his hand. A figure shrouded in nothing but darkness and metal, emanating an aura of fear and malice and the intent to end all life. The one he called ‘Champion’ choked on his saliva as the figure lifted him from the ground. As it pulled the spear out from the Champion’s body, he laid his eyes upon Luther.

He saw the same flames in the demon’s eyes, one that is in Deckard’s own. But instead of the determination and vengeance and hope that burned as in the King’s eyes, it was an eternal wrath, torment, the violent storm of flames that was in the demon’s sight. Its face covered by a helm with only a narrow eye slit, if it could smile as he laid his eyes upon Luther, it would not be one out of joy nor happiness, rather but one out of an evil desire to reap out one’s life.

“Ssssseeker……”

Luther stumbled to the back and his grip on the cleaver trembled. The demon roared and charged forth towards him, his spear aimed for Luther’s heart. The Seeker attempted to block it but it was shattered the moment they clash, the spear pierced through him.



He woke up, gasping for air as his eyes widened. His hand reached for his chest and finds it dry, without blood or the wound sustained by the demon. It was just a nightmare. A terrible nightmare.

He looked around and finds himself at the Watcher’s realm. He breathes a sigh of relief as he laid his eyes upon the same trees that welcomed him the first time months ago. He heard the sound of birds flapping their wings and flew to the sky, the distant sound of water splashing against the rocks and faint whispers of ghosts that filled the realm. He sat up and looked at the massive body of water that spreads as far as the eye could see.

“I saw everything,” the Watcher said, looking at the distance. She sat on the ground, her hands on her laps as her gold hair sways with the wind. “That wasn’t your first time having it, right?”

Luther shook his head. “No. Every time it happened, the whispers grew louder by each day. By the gods, it could drive me mad if it persists,” he replied.

She smiled as she turned to look at him. “It’s a miracle that you didn’t turn mad after weeks it happened. That’s why the land hasn’t united for a long time, its Seekers turned mad from the endless whispers,”

“So there are others before me.”

She nodded in response. “The previous Seekers succumbed to the whispers that plagued their nights. Some died, others still roamed the land yet for other purposes known only to them.” She said, her eyes sad eyes looking over at the distant mountains that lies beyond the lake. Its great shadows looms over them, like massive walls made by nature itself. “A terrible war is coming, Luther Ambrose. Dark times are coming,” she said, her voice trembled as she turned her eyes to him.

“The demons, I know.” He replied, standing up and sat beside the wraith-like woman.

“No, there’s something else. The war with the Exiled would inevitably come but…there is the War for the Throne,” the Watcher gabbed his hands, her eyes looked at him – full of concern. “Remember how there are previous Seekers?” She asked.

Luther nodded.

“They would have chosen a king of their own. Thinking that the person they have deemed to be the New Emperor is the one that would lead the armies of the realm against the Exiled. A war would broke out between the chosen kings. If this happens,” she grabbed his hands tight. “All of Calradia would be destroyed. The demons would attack at the moment when the kingdoms are the weakest. The war must not happen!”

Luther felt the grip of her hands, her frail yet soft fingers curled around his hand. Her eyes gleamed in the light of dawn, her hair seemed like it glows as it was touched by the rays of the sun. She was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful person he’d ever see. “Alright, so what do I need to do?” he asked, pulling away from her hands.

“Find the Sorceress and the Champion. If Calradia is to be saved, they shall play a vital role. I shall speak to them in their dreams and tell them of your arrival.” She said. “You won’t find them here. But in time, you will,” she continued as she laid her hand on Luther’s cheek.

Devoid of warmth, he felt the coldness of her hands on his cheek. It felt like it spreads throughout his body, as if ice formed in his veins. Then his eyes felt heavy, he struggled to keep them open as he kept his gaze on the Watcher. But they closed as his body fell to the ground.



He woke up once more. He finds himself staring at the wooden ceiling of his room rented in Khudan and a soft mattress underneath his body. He stands up and looked to his sides, finding his longsword and satchel. Vane and Myra rented a room of their own each separated from one another.

Luther walked to window and opened it, a gush of the cold winds of the north greeted him as it rushed inside his room. Down the streets he saw the townsfolk up early in the morning, working and carrying out their daily routine. Luther had spread the word about the New Emperor to the people and now he hoped that they would trust in him, just as Luther himself did the same.

He listened closely. He heard the distant sound of cows mooing in the distance, horses neigh and chickens cluck. The voices of men, women and children filled the streets, the scent of spices, fishes, grain and others lingered in the air as the day begins. He sigh in relief, taking in the peaceful life that the people of Khudan had enjoyed since the last decade. To them, Yaroglek was a good king – one that was not greedy and had his mind set to seize the Eternal Throne. The king had averted many wars during his reign, even civil wars as he kept the people believing in his capabilities to rule as a sovereign monarch. Luther then saw the banners of a flaming sword upon a red field hanged over the city walls, it reminded him that the city was under the protection of Boyar Bulba, one of the many reputable vassals of the Vaegirs.

At noon, Luther and his companions embarked on a journey into the Nordic lands. It took them a few days to reach the city of Sargoth. He kept silent about the possibility of previous Seekers appointed their own kings to Myra and Vane, not wanting to pressure them much further with the impending war between the Chosen Kings. He shudder at the thought of another terrible war, one that would crush the current nations that holds the land.

As they reached the city of Sargoth at noon, its massive walls greeted them. It was larger than any cities they’ve been to but it was not a surprise for the capital of the Nords to be heavily fortified with a thick wall and hundreds of archers ready at the top. When they entered the city, the townsfolk flock the streets like sheep. He heard the voices of many sellers calling out to the crowds to sell their goods. He heard the sound of a hammer slamming onto an anvil, the pillars of smoke rising into the skies in different locations of the city. “Goodness,” Myra remarked. They saw a statue of a king standing with a large great sword held in his hands and a pack of wolves at his feet, it was carved from marble. “That is the King of the Great Wolves, the first Nordic ruler, King Ivar the Great. The Scholars always said that the wolves of the old king never left his side, it was the king’s fierce protectors.” She said.

“Aren’t those wolves are little bit too big?” Vane said, looking at how the wolves were standing at the height of Ivar’s chest.

“Ah, those are the Fenmar, ancient wolves who are larger than its descendants. They are extinct, sadly. But if they do exist, it’s large enough for a skilled warrior to mount it.” Myra explained.

Then they rest for the entire day before heading out to obtain information about the kingdom’s political standings. Luther had heard of the civil war that brought Swadia onto its knees and silently prayed to the gods that the New Emperor didn’t lose his life in the conflict. On the morning of the next day, the three began to gain as much information they could get, asking the townsfolk for rumors and the Guild Master for Ragnar’s current standing in the land. They do it with discreet as to not attract too much attention to themselves.

Luther entered to the blacksmith’s forge, it was much more warmer than it was outside. Its walls were heated by the burning furnaces inside, the sound of hammer hitting against a red hot steel echoed, sending out a burst of sparks with each strike. Luther intended to buy a new weapon and the locals pointed that this is the place to get the finest weapons in Nordic lands. He looked around, seeing the many weapons hanged from the ceiling, there were several other armors as well.

He observed the metal used to craft these weapons and touched them in his hands. They were unusually cold but lighter than regular steel, it soon hit him that these were made out of the rare Sargoth Steel, one that is far more durable and lighter than weapons made out of the toughest metals yet. Some said it carried the coldness of the North in its blades as opposed to how the Scholars claimed that Darranic Steel possesses the warmth of a dragon’s fire. Yet, he knew that Darranic and Sargoth Steel are very valuable, the rarest and finest weapons are made from them.

“Is there anything you want?” a voice of a man spoke out, followed by the sizzling sound of hot metal dipped into cold water.

Luther looked around and saw him, a man of average height, flashy blue eyes and dirty golden hair tied to his back in braids. He could estimate that the man was in his middle ages, but he too saw the scars on his body, arms and down his neck. An old soldier perhaps. “I was looking to find a new weapon.” He said. He looked around, “These are made from Sargoth Steel isn’t it?”

“They were remade from older weapons. The secrets of making equipment out of Sargoth Steel is lost to the ages and it can only be remade into different weapons.” The blacksmith said. “Darranic Steel however, can never be melted down and craft a new weapon out of it.”

Luther nodded. “I heard that when it clashed against normal steel, it would shatter because of its coldness. Is that true?”

The man shrugged, “I only heard of those in legends, sir. But I can assure you that these weapons are better than the ones you carried,” he said, pointing to the weapons Luther carried, a sword hanging from his belt. “However, weapons of regular steel would shatter quite easily against Sargoth’s with only a few strikes. Darranic weapons are the only few ones known to be able to withstand its abilities,”

“You knew quite a lot about Sargoth Steel,”

“My old father was once a blacksmith like me. Mother was a Scholar. So I knew things about it.” He said. “My name’s Aelrond,” he introduced himself.

“Luther,” the Seeker said. “There’s quite a lot of weapons from Sargoth Steel hanging in your forge, mister. Are these too expensive for the mercenaries to buy?”

Aelrond shook his head. “Most of these are made for the Grandmaster who paid a handsome price. Lad’s a fellow of the Order of the Snow, his boys have been salvaging Sargoth weapons from the Mountainmen and delivered them all to me for remaking them all into better weapons.”

“Wait, you said earlier that Sargoth weapons cannot be forged but only be remade. How did the Mountainmen had so much of these weapons?”

The blacksmith shrugged. “I guess they knew how but they didn’t want to share its secrets to us. Greedy bastards only lived in the northern mountains and were protected by ice wraiths and some said, Giants. Sungetche Castle had the nastiest encounters against these people considering it was built on the mountains.”

“Ah, I understand.” Luther pulled a rolled paper tied with a thick thread from his satchel. “I was thinking if you could forge this for me,” he said as he untied the thread and spreads the paper on a table. It shows the design of a sword that Luther saw in his nightmare against the demons. “I hope it won’t be too demanding of your time,”

Aelrond observed it. He saw its blade were broad and long, almost as long as Luther’s arm. Its hilt were designed quite differently, shaped like a dragon’s tail. “Sure,” the man said. “I’ll have 20,000 denarii as the payment. Don’t worry, your weapon will be finished in time.”

His eyes widened at the price. He took out a few small bags of denarii and puts it on the table. He thought that it would cost just around 10,000 but it caught him off guard to have it doubled. “Thank you, I’ll be expecting it in a few days if that’s fine.”

As he walked out of the blacksmith’s workplace, his eyes caught the sight of a few men on their horses wearing an armor of black steel and swords hanging down from their belts. Their steeds were white, pale as the snow and their manes were of silver. One of them had a cape of red, almost the same as blood. The man’s skin were white, left eye of blue and right eye carried the color of the grass. A visible scar can be seen on the man’s eye. In an instant, Luther immediately knew that the man was the Grandmaster. He felt a deadly cold emanating from him, it’s as if the spirits of winter have come and clenched his heart in their fists. The man’s face was as cold as ice, stiff as stone. His eyes peered over the streets as the townsfolk kept themselves silent, passing through him like he was a ghost.

Luther moved away from the blacksmith’s forge just moments before the Grandmaster entered. His mind told him to get away as soon as possible, his instincts told him to hide and listen to their conversation. The whispers themselves urged him to run, as if they were afraid of confronting the Grandmaster himself. Treating him like a deadly god who’d rain down terror to their enemies.

He cursed himself and hid behind a crate. He kept himself close to the walls and listened closely.



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Hey! Chapter 33's out! Sorry if the update took a little bit longer than usual because of health problems and college examinations and whatnot. But I managed to get this update done within the week.

In this chapter, I wanted to focus on the Nordic kingdom. Expanding on its very vague history and such. So, I introduced a central figure to its history - King Ivar, the First Northern King and the legendary Fenmar wolves which are basically giant wolves. Also, Book 2 is closing very much soon and Book 3 would begin in just a few chapters.

I planned this initially to be a three part story, ending with Book 3 but with all the things that's been happening, it'll be quite longer than that.

All the best weapons have their own name. A blacksmith once told him. Those words echoed in his mind as he looked outside, gazing upon the starless sky in his room. The lantern flickered and the lights dim, his helmet lies on the table as if it watches Ordun. You are swift and sharp like a sword. You are not just Ordun the White but the Sword of the East, its fierce protector.

Indeed, he was the protector of the Eastern lands. For years, he devoted to no one but to himself. The Sultanate hired him for their petty war against the Rhodoks and the Khergits. Ordun can only see kings act like children, bickering over one piece of land to the other – all while ignoring the actual threat that lies beyond the Walls. He had seen them, the image of those beasts lingered in his mind since the first time he encountered them, their skin were of steel, molten steel as blood and flames for eyes. Grotesque horns grew out of their heads, twisted in all the directions.

He looked down at the courtyard, the recruits trained and observed by the High Commander. He remembered how he first began his life as a member of the brotherhood, naïve and full of hope. Eager to face the demons as if they’d falter at the sight of humans. He knew he was wrong back then and at the moment he laid his eyes upon the Exiled, it was him that faltered. It was during the Massacre at Drom where he’d face them, where he had seen the monsters slaughtered his sworn brothers with their own hands. He was just a recruit, his eyes could not comprehend what he saw. He can only do what he was capable of doing back then, to run. Ordun saw no hope to survive and ran for his life.

A knock bursts through the door just as Ordun was indulged in his solemn meditation at the night. “Ordun?” Master Orwell called out with his old man’s voice. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

He sighed and closed the windows, “Come in, Master Orwell.”

The old man entered, a book in his hand just like he always do. One could not see him without it except when there is a Gundarian attack outside the walls. Ordun pulled out a wooden chair for Orwell to sit down. “It’s been quite a while since I last saw you, Ordun. How are you, old friend?” he said, putting the book on his lap.

“Just the same always, Orwell. Except I’m out there fighting humans instead of beasts like I used to. I’ve forgotten how frail they are compared to the Exiled.” Ordun sat down on his bed, his hafted blade in hand.

“Speaking of the Exiled,” Orwell leaned forward. “The prisoner said about the demon army being gathered at the Spire. The Northman already told this to Duncan but the High Commander didn’t want to believe him.”

“Duncan is always an idiot. Ever since he replaced High Commander Grayson, all he ever did was to keep the knights within the walls and fend off against the Gundarians.” He said. “What happened then?”

“Well, Duncan sent him to go beyond the wall to see if this is true. Taking the Gundarian with him.”

Ordun looked at him with his ashen eyes, his fingers curled tightly around the shaft of his weapon. “I have to go out with him.” Says the pale man.

“For Afya, isn’t it?” the old man leaned against his chair. “I knew that. Your daughter’s a part of the Symphony, Ordun. We need her to – “

“I don’t care about the damned prophesy, Orwell. Even if she is the Sorceress, how are we supposed to know who is the King, the Seeker and the Champion? Right now, I only care about my daughter.” Ordun stood up from the bed, looking down at the old man. His eyes full of grief and guilt, Afya was missing since the day the Sultan hired him to fight in his wars. Weeks after he left the walls, news of her kidnapping reached his ears. He told himself that it was his mistake that he fell into Gundarian hands, that he shouldn’t have left the walls and to protect his daughter. “I haven’t met her for years, Orwell. Only the gods know how much I love her. She’s the only family I have left. So, I have to go.”

Orwell stared into the pale man’s eyes and sees the sadness within him. He sees the flames of his anger through it, mixed with guilt and despair. He sighed as he finds himself unable to stop him, “Fine,” says the old man, “I’ll tell Duncan about this.”

“Thank you,” he says with thoughts of his daughter still lingered in his mind. The image of her playing with the children, his wife looking at him with love as her auburn hair falls onto her face. He remembered the day Afya was born, the nursemaids told him that she had a bit of her mother. Yet, Ordun sees it quite clearly. To the gods he prayed endlessly, during nights, even during the heat of battle when there is a brief moment of peace amidst the carnage. Look at the stars, Afya. Remember that your mother will always be there, watching from the heavens as she always do. He told her.

“Remember the Symphony, old friend.” Orwell uttered before he left Ordun’s room. The Order’s words. A motto of sorts. A way to remind the members to not falter and hope that evil shall not triumph the weak.

It wasn’t the first time he heard those words. Ordun uttered the same thing when he took the vow to become a knight for the brotherhood. I shall serve no king but he who wields the Sword. I shall be the light for those who are weak, I shall be the wall that guards that land, I shall serve the Order until I meet my end. Remember the Symphony. He remembered the vows quite clearly as if he took them a few days earlier.



TWO DAYS LATER

It was at dawn when Ordun was in the armory, looking at a set of armor that stood quite and stared blankly into him. It was black and made of steel. Ripples were seen on its charred surface – a Darranic armor. It was dusty, left in the armory for years without anyone wearing it. A long horsetail of black with strands of silver flows down from the helmet with narrow eye slits. To the side, there was a massive sword with a long hilt, almost as long as a polearm while its blade was as tall as Ordun himself. The Guillotine, he’d call it.

The armor and weapon was his, during his time serving the order as a decorated knight. He not only fight against the Exiled but against the Gundarians. With the massive sword, he’d slay many of the horselords of the deserts, earning the nickname the Horse Slayer. He remembered how he swung the weapon for the first time, he felt its weight and power in his arms and how its sharp blade cleave through armor and flesh like it was nothing. He’d cut off a horse’s head quite easily and tore a bloody path through the Gundarians if he wanted to. ‘All the best weapons have their own names,’ and the order called him the Sword of the East as a sign of respect.

He took off his hardened lamellar armor to the ground, taking off his gauntlets and greaves. His body was muscular not from endless days of training but was built from countless battles against the enemy. He had scars across his body, one that he never bothered to count. Too many of them.

Ordun wore the armor that made him a knight, one of the best in the brotherhood. His long horsetail flows down his back and the Guillotine in his hand. As he steps out of the armory, he saw the recruits and the knights saluted in unison. Boots snapped, backs straightened and clenched fists raised to their hearts as they looked upon Ordun.

“Your horse is ready, Captain Ordun.” A young recruit said as he approached him.

The pale man nodded and claps his shoulder as a sign of gratitude, moving towards the stables without a single word to utter. He rode on a white horse, befitting his own nickname given to him by his enemies. As he went past the gates that faced to the east, he finds the Northman already waiting on the other side with the Gundarian strapped onto the horse’s back. It was dusk as they finished preparing themselves for the journey ahead. Ordun knows what terrifying foes they would be facing but he wanted to reclaim his daughter from Gundarian hands. Father’s coming, Afya. He thought to himself before turning to Bjorn, nodding at him before beginning their long ride through the deserts.


They rode for eight days and eight nights. Ordun was tired and his legs felt numb after days of riding across the deserts. They stopped at the ninth day because of an impending sandstorm and set up camp before leaving on the dawn of the tenth day. The Gundarian showed them the way, leading Ordun and Bjorn from a location to another. “Pale Knight!” the Gundarian called to him.

He ignored him, pulling out a small book from his satchel and a charcoal, writing his findings onto it as he kept himself concentrated.

“Your daughter, is in safe hands Ordun.” The man said. “She helped us. Quite a lot,” he turned to the Pale Knight.

Ordun closed the book as soon as he finished writing an puts it back into his satchel. “Why did you kidnapped her? Why do you took her away from me?”

The man lowered his head and sighed. “The Gundarians are desperate to keep themselves alive. Ever since the Great Horde was destroyed, the remaining tribes scattered across the deserts without a way to return back to our home in the Eastern Islands.” He said. “Since then, we encountered those d-demons.” He stuttered before shaking his head. It’s as if terrible memories surged through his mind and struck fear into the man’s heart. “For years we have tried to survive, we went from a place to the other, without a home. Until we heard of a gifted girl on the Wall,”

“Afya,” Ordun mumbled. “What did you do with her?!” he raised his voice and rode closer to Bjorn’s horse as the Northman carried him on his steed. The Pale Knight grabbed the man by his shirt and pulled him up. His face close to his own.

“Nothing!” the Gundarian said. “We done nothing to her but to create a barrier to stop the demons!”

Bjorn turned to the man. “Wait, did you just said ‘create’?”

The Gundarian nodded in response.

Ordun and the Northman exchanged glances. They both know the capabilities of magic, even if it is a lost art. A knowledge lost to the past, hidden away in myths and legends. They know that magic had its costs, it requires an equal value in order to achieve something even if it’s great or small. The old Scholars wrote that not all can possess the gift of the gods, it’d take years or even decades to learn the arts. Some grew mad because of it.

In an instant, the two rode like the wind. Their horses gallop as fast as they could, leaving behind a cloud of dust and sand in their wake. They rode through the day and into the night, to stop for another rest is not on their minds.

It was on the twelfth day when they reached the city of Irongaunt, a small walled settlement far from the wall. Irongaunt was built upon the ruins of an ancient city, with much of its foundations was repaired decades ago. A majestic city in the time before the First War, it stood vigilantly for centuries as it watched at the fields that lies between it and the White Sanctuary of Man – the Spire. Eons after the war ended, Irongaunt sat at the edge of an evil realm and a land of the living. Black clouds and mountains over the old great Spire, with occasional strikes of red lightning. The Spire was located far from the city but the people of Irongaunt may sometimes hear the growls and snarls and roars of the demons beyond.


Ordun and Bjorn stood at the walls of the city. “Lift the gates! These are men are to help us,” the Gundarian said to the men on the walls. The gates were lifted and they soon enter.

The townsfolk roamed the streets, the city was bustling with activity despite being in a close proximity with the lands touched by the Exiled. Some were stricken with disease, a clear sign of Irongaunt’s poverty. These were not a rare sight for both Bjorn and Ordun as they have seen this happened in the lands inside the walls. But it’s a miracle that these people are able to survive even in the midst of a war that they do not know.

Ordun turned to the Gundarian, “Take me to her,”

The three dismounted and walked on foot as the Gundarian led the way. There stands a great tower in the heart of the city, with a flaming beacon at the top. There is a sculpture of a dragon that swirled up from the bottom to the top, the Dragon Tower the Gundarians called it and it houses the greatest warriors that Irongaunt has to offer. With the absence of a Malagar, these warriors known as the Lancers were used as the first line of defense against the demons. The once mighty Horde now reduced into a militaristic nation, with only a commander to lead his people.

As they walked through the streets, the people bowed to the Gundarian and some uttered his name. “Commander Baheshtur!” one of the soldiers called out to him. “Scouts have returned. They’ve spotted a small demon party marching on Irongaunt,” the soldier said, breathing heavily as he ran from the walls to him.

Bjorn looked at him with interest. Ordun however, seemed to have recognize the name. “Get the Lancers ready. Archers on the walls and spare none of them. How many of those beasts did you see?”

“Four, sir. Crimson skin and eyes were flames of wrath. They smell like iron, weapons glow as if it were pulled out from a scorching furnace.” He said.

“Molgu’uds.” Ordun said as his eyes widened. “Your Lancers won’t be enough to stop them. A Molgu’ud can tear through an entire legion! Four of those? It would spell the destruction of your people!”

“How much longer until they arrive?” Baheshtur turned to the young man.

“A week at most,”

“By the gods, there’s not enough time to call for reinforcements,” Bjorn realized. He turned to Ordun, “What are we going to do?”

“Afya,” he uttered. “Afya, where’s she?” Ordun grabbed Baheshtur by the collar.
The soldier raised his spear and aimed for Ordun’s neck. Baheshtur shook his head and gestured to the man to put away his weapon. The Gundarian looked at the Pale Knight, “She’s up that tower. Just tell the guards I sent you,”

Ordun rushed to the Dragon Tower. He cared for nothing at the moment but to reunited with his daughter. He went up to the stairs and reached the top where the door was guarded with two Lancers, each holding a hafted blade in their hands. Their faces obscured by a mask, shaped like a demon’s own with its fangs shown. Ordun told them that Baheshtur sent him and they let him inside.

The Pale Knight went in through the door. His eyes saw a beautifully decorated room with small statues and a rack of books. Colored windows surrounded the room, some were painted with depictions of a king fighting against a number of the Exiled. In the middle of the room itself, a young woman sat on a chair. Her hair is a stream of gold with braids, her skin was almost the same as Ordun, pale as snow. Her slender fingers held a book in her hand as the woman read it, succumbing herself into her thoughts.

He took a step closer and took off his helm, putting it onto a table beside the door. He gulped as his eyes became wet with tears. “Afya?” he called out to her.

She turned at the voice, her blue eyes looked at him. It was just like how he remembered her, a sense of elegance and beauty inherited from her mother. She was just as beautiful as the day he laid his eyes upon his daughter for the first time. “Father? Is that really you?”



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well chapter 32's out! Finally. Been wanting to take the story into a more...supernatural focused this time. Also, Baheshtur's here! Although he's quite different than the one we know from the game. Don't worry, I'll explain why.

We'd still be following his backstory provided in the game. Except this time, he joined a mercenary group in hopes to find military aid for his tribe against the Humyans but was exiled for reasons unknown. He left the land to find the remnants of the Great Horde in order to help his tribe and finds himself entangled in a conflict for the fate of Calradia.

Also, Afya made an appearance! Well, only briefly this time. That's it for now, I guess. Hope you enjoy!

“Bloody hell,” Bjorn uttered.

Over the hills of sand, his eyes saw a large number of man clad in scale armor on horseback. They stood with their weapons in hand, their banners flutter against the hot winds of the desert. The knights formed an impenetrable wall with their shields to the front and lowered their spears as they faced the army of horsemen. Bjorn never saw an army as large as the one that stood before them. Their steeds are heavily armored, their spears are long and sharp, ready to strike down at any moment.

Ordun stood at the front of the line, holding a hafted blade in his hand with a red braid attached to it. He watched them army that stood over the hills, his movements show no fear like a fresh blood do. The knights kept a calm composure, despite facing against an army much larger than their own.


Without a warning, the horsemen charged. A horde of an unstoppable army raced down the sands with their lances couched. Their thunderous hooves were heard quite clearly, leaving a cloud of sand and dust behind them.

The archers on the wall let their arrows loose, sending a terrible hail of whistling terrors upon the charging horsemen. Some of them fell off their horses, only to be trampled by their own comrades as they keep moving forward.

He had been on the walls of Wercheg for uncountable years. He fought against hundreds and thousands of enemies that attacked the walls of his city. Raining down arrows and fighting them on the walls. But never in his life had he ever seen an army so vast. Not even the Vaegirs nor the Swadians managed to muster a force as large as this. He watched the battle unfold at one of the towers with Orwell standing at his side.

The enormous cavalry force soon clashed at the shield wall of knights. But the men of the loyal brotherhood do not waver at the sight of carnage, their spears pierced through the enemies’ armor like butter, their shields were thick enough to last a whole battle. They were specially forged and crafted against the likes of demons. Ordun the White cleaved through the enemy forces with just his long bladed spear. His armor stained with the crimson blood of his enemies as he charged forth, using his strength and skill against them. One by one they fall to the ground, lifeless as Ordun killed them with no difficulties.

“Looks like the Exiled are no match for the Order,” Bjorn noted.

Orwell shook his head. “No. These aren’t the Exiled. The demons aren’t the only ones that are trying to break through the walls and wreak havoc upon our lands. These are the fearsome Gundars of the Eastern Sands. Remember how the Khergits were formed?” he asked, turning his head to face Bjorn.

“They are running from the Great Horde aren’t they?” Bjorn answered.

Orwell nodded. “The Gundars are what remained of the Great Horde. Some said that they are descendants of the mighty horselords that helped Adamar in his war against the Exiled. But one thing’s certain, that they carry the will of the old Malagar – the leader of the Great Horde – to establish a powerful empire in Calradia,”

He had heard of the terrifying power of the Great Horde. An enormous army of horsemen who came from the Far East, known to have decimated many empires and kingdoms in a fortnight. Millions have fell to their iron fisted rule and the Khergits almost suffered the same fate. They were led by a Lord of the Horses or in their tongue, the Malagar. To those who had the role, he had the force of thousands of horsemen ready to wreak havoc in favor of women, wine and ale, gold and sword. They answer to no one but to their Malagar.

Bjorn could not believe Orwell’s words. He thought that the Great Horde has been defeated by Emperor Lucius Vyrn, who had given the Khergits a place to rule. He had given the Great Steppes to make a new home and lived independently from Calradic rule. To see even a small fraction of their power displayed before them is more than necessary to show Bjorn how terrifying their powers are.

The Gundar had many times their number. Yet, they find themselves in a difficult battle against the smaller forces of the brotherhood. Ordun cut a bloody path through Gundarian forces with his hafted blade, no arrows could stop him, no swords nor spears can do the same. If a horse charged at him with full force, Ordun would just slay it and kill the one who rode it.

The battle was chaotic. One by one the knights fell fighting against the Gundarians, yet they managed to slay a lot of the enemy. They were eager, their spirits lifted by Ordun’s presence in the unit while exhaustion began to take them over. As some of the horsemen fled from the scene of battle, they were happy to see them flee like cowards but were disgusted at the sight of their true virtue. The Gundarians however felt terrified at their power, wavering at the sight of taking many casualties at the end of the order’s cold steel and the wrath of Ordun the White unleashed upon them.

Ordun saw their leader, riding upon his heavily armored steed and wearing scale armor. His face obscured by a mask with a purple horsetail dangling from an upright spike of his helm. He swings his sword, killing a lot of the knights that were unlucky enough to meet the Gundarian Commander. Ordun lifted his hafted blade and aimed at the him. He took a deep breath and felt the warm winds touched him, he heard the sound of clashing metal around him, the voices of men crying out for death and glory. It seemed that time had slowed down for him even for just a fraction of a second. He throws his weapon like a javelin to the Commander.

It cuts through the air and struck the Gundarian at the right side of his chest, penetrating the man’s armor. His grip of his reins loosened and fell off his horse as the hafted blade impaled him. Ordun lets out a roar, one that is long and full of anger and glory. It wasn’t long before the rest of the Gundarian Horde retreated after they saw their commander fallen in battle. To the gods the knights praised, they have filled the hearts of their enemies with fear as they saw their enemies rout from the battlefield. Some wanted to pursue them but Ordun stopped the knights. “There is glory in slaughtering ones who fled. Glory to those who fought bravely.” He said to the knights. He went over to the Gundarian who fell and pulled his hafted blade from his body, “And today is a glorious day for the Order!” he raised his weapon and the knights cheered at the victory.

Bjorn looked at the men, cheering as the Gundarian horsemen flee from the battlefield. The gods have blessed them today but they could only hope that they continue to shower them with victories in the future.

Ordun gestured to Orwell to send the new recruits to dispose of the corpses that were littered across the field. The old Master nudged Bjorn to follow him along with the rest of the fresh bloods. The knights marched inside and head towards the infirmary for their wounds to be treated while the field is disposed of the dead bodies from the earlier conflict.

The stench of corpses lingers in the air, mixed with the smell of sand, blood and metal. Flies swarm over their lifeless bodies as dozens of recruits dragged the bodies of knights into a safe place while the Gundarians were arranged into different groups, piled upon one another to be burned to ash. He felt like he was a recruit once more, ordered to carry out menial tasks before he could climb the ranks and become a renowned leader like he did during his service for the Nords. He had used to the sound of swords and shields bashing against one another, the voices of death that filled the atmosphere and the terrifying whistling terror of the arrows. He had gotten used to them. But the unpleasant smell of dead men would made him vomit.

“You’d have to get used to this,” one of the recruits said. A slender boy, young and perhaps older than his twenties. He dragged a dead Gundarian by the legs, passing by Bjorn. “If there’s another battle in the next few weeks, our job is to dispose these dead bodies. ‘Bury the knights’, they’d told us. ‘Burn the Gundarians’” he said.

“Yeah,” the Northman nodded in response as he walked over the corpses. He finds the body of the fallen Gundarian commander. He finds himself admiring the craft of the man’s armor, intricately detailed and skillfully crafted by its smiths. The mask on the man’s helm were almost lifelike as if it was attached to the man’s face. It was emotionless, cold as stone one would say. A good way to hide one’s dying face with a mask. Bjorn pulled him up by the chest plate to carry him on his back.

The Gundarian suddenly gasped for air and his eyes opened beneath the mask. He grabbed Bjorn by the collar of his shirt, taking deep breaths as he gazed into the Northman’s eyes.

“By the gods!” shouted Bjorn. “This one’s still alive!”



The Gundarian’s wounds were treated at Duncan’s order and at the request of Master Orwell before being hurled into the dungeons. If there’s a chance to gain information, then this would be a great opportunity to do so. The Gundarians must have encountered the Exiled a few times, they must have known how the beasts of nightmares fought since they have lived outside the protection of the walls for centuries.

“We should have just killed the man,” Khiran said, his arms crossed as he was gathered with the Master, Ordun, Duncan and apparently, Bjorn as well. “Those Gundarians are untrustworthy. Why should we ever believe their words if we are about to ask the bastard questions? All they know are lies.”

“There could be things that we don’t know.” Bjorn said.

“Shut it you – “

“The Northman is correct. All we know of the land that lies beyond the Wall of the East is that it is an endless wasteland with the exception of a large island that is just off the coast of the desert. Even then, there must have times that they have fought against the demons.” Orwell interrupted. “We can’t expect our enemy to do the same mistakes. We can’t expect them to have the same flaws. Information is crucial,”

In any war, information is crucial. To know the enemy’s weaknesses, to know their next move, to know who fights for them or the state of their kingdom. Bjorn knows this well. He was after all, a former spy sent by the Grandmaster to Sarranid lands to weaken the enemy and to gather intel. Information is power, the Scholars said. Knowledge is priceless.

The cell was cold in the middle of the night with only a torch on the walls to bring light to its dark surroundings. The dungeons are empty, there were no sounds of men groaning in pain, of men uttering words one would not understand, to hear their cries or to hear their thoughts is something that the prison lacks. Any crime done within the Order’s walls are punishable by death and even that is considered mercy. If one wishes to conduct an act so treacherous, the Order shall send them for the Pilgrimage – to walk across the deserts without food, water nor weapons. That, Bjorn knew. It was worse than being dragged along with chains as a captive of war, at least he was given food to survive another day. The Pilgrimage? May the gods have mercy on them to those who took the walk.

The flames on the torches flickered, Ordun, Khiran, Orwell, Duncan and Bjorn surrounded the Gundarian. He was stripped of his armor, leaving only an injured man struck by Ordun’s hafted blade. Strands of hair fall onto the man’s face, there were scars on his body – one that have survived many battles.

“Ordun the White…” the Gundarian speaks weakly. The battle robbed him of his strength, there was no bit of it left in him.

Ordun’s eyes widened at the moment the man mentioned his name. He took off his helm and gazed down at the man, his hair were of silver and his skin was as pale as the snow. His eyes carry the color of ash – a sad pair of eyes, one might say. “You have heard of me?”

The Gundarian raised his head, leaning against the cold wall with his bare skin. He laughed weakly at the sight of the pale man, “We all heard of you, Half-breed. The deadliest warrior in the land, the Sword of the East which no one can lay their swords upon you. You look just as pale as your dead mother,”

He moved like a flash as he grabbed the man’s head, slamming into the wall. “You shall not talk about my mother, you damned Gundarian.”

The man felt nothing. He felt no pain nor there were signs of it. Instead, he smirked as if he was playing a game. “Or would you rather have me talk about her?”

Ordun’s fingers curled around the man’s hair as he drove his knee to his face. Bjorn could only watch as he grimaced at the sight of brutality shown by him. He could hear an unsettling crack but what’s more disturbing is those who stood beside him didn’t make a move to stop Ordun. The Gundarian’s nose was broken, blood trickled down his lips as Ordun pulled the man up by the hair. “What do you know about her?!” his voice echoed through the stone walls, anger radiates from his every word. “Where is she?” says Ordun with a cold voice. His face as stiff as stone as he gazed into the Gundarian’s eyes.

“Ah, if you could hear how she moaned every night – “

Ordun twisted the man’s arm until the sound of a snap was heard. Even if the Gundarian had increased his tolerance towards pain, it must have its limits. The moment his arm was broken, he screamed until his voice reached the courtyard. “I asked for a different question, Gundarian. I asked you, where is she?”

The man spat on Ordun’s face. “Go to hell,”

“In a way, I already did.” He curled his fingers into a fist, driving it into the man’s face. With every punch, he lets all of his anger in his strikes. His gauntlet now stained with the red of blood, but he’s not stopping.

Bjorn averted his eyes. He had never seen such brutal acts done upon a prisoner. Yet, he remembered that the order had no laws that stood against this. The only law is to survive in the harshness of the deserts, to survive the coming war. “Ordun,” the Northman called out to him. But he didn’t stop. “Ordun!”

He turned to Bjorn, his eyes radiating with anger. The Gundarian bleeds but quite surprisingly, he survived despite all the rage filled blows he received to his face. “What do you want?”

The Northman took a deep breath, “Let me handle this.” He says. Their eyes turned to him, some surprised, some were intrigued by his decision. Bjorn looked down at the Gundarian, “I’ll make him talk.”

At times, he’d remember how the Grandmaster would interrogate his captives. He was there with him, ordered by the leader of the Order of the Snow himself. He was cruel in his methods, he’d pull off the nails of those who wouldn’t let a single word slip out of his mouth, or to break their hands with the strike of a hammer – red hot hammers. Other times, he’d carve the shape of an animal on their backs, all while asking questions. If the Grandmaster is satisfied with the answer he received, he’d throw them into Jakhal’s Pit – a gladiatorial arena built in Tihr, only to the worst kind of criminals. Or he’d feed them to the wolves.

He shudder at the image of the Grandmaster taking pleasure in torturing his victims. The cold face on the man’s face would linger on his mind for days on end. He was more than glad to have not face the Grandmaster’s wrath. To the gods he praised for that.

Ordun threw the man to the ground, looking at Bjorn’s ice cold eyes with his ashen ones. He clenched his jaw and walked past him, “Make sure you do.” He says flatly.

Duncan watched as Ordun left the cell before Khiran followed his comrade out. The High Commander pat Orwell’s back, “Write everything down.” He whispered to the Master’s ear. As he left the cell, there was silence between them. There was only the sound of the flames flickering in the dark and the cold desert winds howling through the night. The skies were empty, devoid of any stars but the moon.

The Gundarian spat blood to the floor, his nose was crooked and his lips bled. His eyes swollen and his leg broken. “You think you can make me talk?” he scoffed.

“What he did is nothing compared to what comes next.” Bjorn said, crossing his arms as he looked down at him. His large build and height towered over the Gundarian like a monster.

The man looked at the Northman before he bursts out into laughter. “Un-ra uldi’ik kha’af basa’at,” he spoke out in his native tongue. The ancient language of the Gundarians – the words of the Great Horde and eventually, evolved into the Khergit’s own.

“Un-ka’al um-basa’at,” Bjorn replied. His lips curled into a confident smile. “Don’t you’re the only who knows ancient Horde language, basa’at,”

The Gundarian looked up at him in surprise, his jaw dropped as his eyes widened. “How?”

“Years living with the Scholars do you wonders. A shame that the Nords pushed them aside for being ‘book-lovers’” the Northman replied. “Now I ask you, who is the girl you are referring to?” he asked.

The Gundarian stared into his eyes before he spat once again to the floor. Orwell waits with a small book in his hand and a piece of charcoal. The light flickers and the winds howl once again. “Fine,” the man said. “I’ll tell you.” He leaned against the cold wall. “The girl was Afya Ar-Zu’ul. An Easterner just like the rest of the damned Sarranids who lived in the safety of the walls. The order speak of her with high regard. Some said she knew about the secrets to making Darranic Steel.” He told Bjorn as the Northman listened. “But that’s not all. Some said that she had…magic,”

Bjorn raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his words. He knew that the powers of the gods are real, manifested in many shamans as they conjure beings out of nothingness. But it required decades to master the arts of the supernatural. One could conjure flames, hurl thunderbolts like the gods of old, control beasts to their will, powers that only the gods have access to. For a woman to possess such talent is a slight possibility. Or at least, that’s what Bjorn was thought.

“I thought your people despised magic.” Orwell asked. “The Gundarians would burn those who possess its power. Your people would not believe that magic exists and only the gods themselves may wield it.” He said.

“Dark times are coming old man.” The man said. “The Spire in the deserts is one of humanity’s greatest fort during the First War yes? Yet, it fell during the war and your old king built a wall after they’ve achieved victory. The Spire now becomes a sanctuary for the beasts of nightmares,” he continued. “Day and night, the Gundarians would send scouts to look at the Spire. Day and night, they saw the armies of the dead gathered there. Day and night, they’d hear the sound of the terrifying armies chant in unison, ‘Death! Death! Death!’. That place is where darkness looms and soon, the entire land would know it as well.”

Orwell’s eyes widened at the words of the Gundarian and started to write what he heard in the book he carried. Bjorn looked at him in shock, the man’s description of an ever growing army terrifies him. If they would march to the main lands, who would stop them when the lands are not united just like they were centuries before? “Where is she?”

“Why do you care, Northman? The girl has nothing to do with you. If you are Ordun, I’d understand why.”

“Well then, why does Ordun wanted to know where she is?” The Gundarian remained silent. His lips sealed tight as he stares into Bjorn’s eyes. There was an eerie silence between them for a while, Bjorn waited for an answer and so does Orwell. The Northman turned to the old Master, he turned away. “Why?” he asked Orwell. Bjorn knew that the old man was hiding something.

Orwell lets out a sigh and looked around. “Afya is…Ordun’s daughter. The man had been searching for years for her after the death of his wife.” Says the old man. His lowered his wrinkled face, his eyes were sad and melancholic, full of grief and despair. “If you’re asking me why he hasn’t ride alone into the deserts to find Afya, it’s because he knows it is dangerous. Even if he is Ordun the White, death lurks at every corner.”

Bjorn nods. The loss of a family member haunts the minds of those who are affected. Grief, pain, sadness swallows the soul and replaced everything with nothing but hopelessness. Yet, Bjorn knew that vengeance would blossom in one’s soul if they do not move on and let the past go. “We’ll talk for another time, Gundarian.” He said as he left the cell, followed by the old Master.

They disappeared into the dark hallways of the dungeon, leaving the prisoner behind with nothing but the sound of the crackling fire and the cold winds to accompany him. The distant sounds of men trained until the night reached the cells. Bjorn finds this quite unusual but he remembered that one must always be prepared for war. One must not seek war but must always be ready to face it. An old Scholar told him once.

“Northman!” the High Commander called out. He was watching the recruits train at night, fighting with wooden swords and shields. Their movements are quite rough, unpolished, brash and reckless. That, Bjorn knows all too well.

Bjorn turned to Duncan who approached him, still in his brass armor. The Commander exchanged glances with the Northman and Orwell, before fixing his eyes to Bjorn. “What is it?”

“What did you learn from the Gundarian?” he asked.

“Not much, High Commander.” Orwell said. “He only mentioned of the Spire. He said an army of the Exiled are gathering there.”

“The Obsidian Spire, Master Orwell. That place has been ruined during the First War and no one dared to enter it.”

“With all due respect, High Commander, the Exiled are not human just like us. It’s true that the Spire has been destroyed since the end of the First War, but there’s no stopping them from rebuilding it and use as their own impregnable fortress. If this is true, we must be prepared for the war that is to come,” Orwell said, holding the book in his hand and close to him.

“If that is true.” Duncan turned to Bjorn. “Send the Northman up to the Far East and have this confirmed by his own eyes.” He said.

“But sir,” Bjorn objects. “I know nothing of the lands beyond the walls. It’s best for you to send someone who knew it better than I do.”

“Then bring the damned Gundarian with you.” The High Commander turned around, his hands behind his back as he observed the recruits. “When you return, I have questions to ask. Until then, I shall attend to the matters of the Order,”

Bjorn cursed. He doesn’t know the deserts quite well as the Gundarians or the knights of the Order do. He was just a Northman who hailed from mainland Calradia. However, he felt that the Gundarian’s words were true and eager to find out the truth. He too sensed that darkness shall soon descend upon them and must be prepared for it. To the gods he prayed that the land would be saved.

Calradia needed a savior.



AUTHOR'S NOTES: New chapter! Finally, been wanting to do this chapter for a long time. Sorry if there's a lack of screenshots lately, but I'll try to get more whenever I can. In time, maybe I'll use a few scenes from Rome Total War as well. In the mean time, enjoy.

Just wanted to set up future stuff and explore a bit on Ordun's backstory. How's the new update? Hope you like it!

Symphony of Time
"The Might of Darcia" an excerpt from the Journals of King Odyssar the Protector of Darcia


My people, the Darcians were favored by the gods.
We were a proud people, but our hearts remained to our country. We served Darcia, led her armies into war, we bled to keep enemies away from our lands.
It's for the greatness of Darcia. All for Darcia. We lost many, the god of death had taken their souls away from us despite the love of the gods rain down upon us.

Our soldiers die at the Fields of Maran, dying to defend the lands from the damned Carthians who dared to march upon our sacred lands. The dead buried in the ground, put to rest by Carthian swords, even a few Darranic ones as well.
Man's hatred shall grow and so does their thirst for conquest. It will not stop until the last of the mighty empires fell and crushed under their heels. So, I shall tell them, tell them to raise an army so vast that earth quakes beneath your feet. That oceans won't be enough to quench the thirst of your men, that the skies darkened at the sight of your arrows. I shall them that the sons and daughters of Darcia won't back down. The gods were always there for us! To the gods we praise when our enemies cower in fear at the sight of our blades, to the gods we praise when Darcia stands another day.

The gods will grant us vengeance - that we know. Those who dared to raise their swords against our people, they day of reckoning comes for them. Our Legions know no fear, they embody the very nature of war. They are the instrument of Darcian will and those who finds themselves in the midst of a battle against them - know this, that the gods have sent our hatred to them.


From birth, a Darcian legion is given a great purpose.
It is their sacred purpose, given to them by the god of war to embody the very nature of war and bloodshed. To those who say that nations do not rise through bloodshed, I tell you this: that war is the very reason why mighty nations lived and prosper, crumble and perish. They will know the true might of Darcia.

The Carthadacian War

Those filthy Carthians. By the gods, I hate them. Even my father, my brother hated them with a vengeance. The oaths were broken, the alliance our two nations forged decades ago were shattered at the moment they stopped into our sacred lands and pillaged the lands. I hated them for that, our people hated them for that. I would never find the reason why their Carthian Emperor Ara'an decided to march his forces. No. I believe it was to quench his thirst for conquest. But one must not forget the Fool of Gaeric who became the reason why the war between our peoples began. That foolish bastard, what is he thinking? Marching his army into Carthian lands? Plundering one of their villages! He was the one who started this whole mess. Yet, I must not speak his name for it brings dishonor and shame to our people.

I've sent envoys to the Emperor but they were killed as they reached the palace. They do not want my apology for the Fool's mess nor do they want to hear the name of the true perpetrator of the war itself. Yet, he mocked me. He mocked the people for having **** for honor. And to them I say, damn them all to hell. Damn them and the Fool. I tried to solve peacefully but it was them who started this war. May the gods have mercy on the Fool's soul. Well, I hope that they don't.

I remembered how our first battle against the Carthians played out. It was at the shores of the Great Fist. They disembarked their ships after months at sea and before those filthy bastards could get their hands on their weapons. We attacked at dawn when the heavy rain muffled the sound of our footsteps. It was a mad strategy. One that we never thought would work quite well to our advantage. We did the unthinkable but the moment we took our first step charging down the hills is the moment when we cannot turn back from. The die is cast. It's as if the gods themselves took a coin and flip it, waiting to see which side landed to face them.

Alas, they granted us victory against the Carthians. Thousands fell on the beaches of the Great Fist, hundreds of them our own. There were no thoughts of glory - only for Darcia.

The next few years remained the same. Carthia would gain victories but Darcia would win more. It was at the Battle of the Narrow Pass where we fought the largest army they have ever sent against us. Thirty thousand men against only a few thousand of ours. Darcians of Sparatus, Argyn, Macadius and Navion have united against a common enemy. Only the gods knew how terrifying it was to face against the might of Carthia. But only they knew how eager are we to meet death in the eye, all for the sake of Darcia.

It lasted for days. In the end, only 10,000 of their men remained and only a few hundreds of us left standing. Those Carthians routed and to the gods we praised at the day, to see them cower at the sight of the power of us Darcians is a sight to behold. The Legions have fought with us, and they will fight for centuries more. The Battle of the Crimson Plain were the last one we fought against the Carthians. Emperor Ara'an had fled, leaving his army behind. Coward. Such a bloody coward. The throne and the crown should not be on his head. To leave one's men behind is the most dishonorable act one can do. To them I say, "Who had **** for honor now, Emperor?"



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Have a very brief history of the Darcians. They were mentioned in the recent chapters with Etrosq as the POV character for those chapters. Heavily inspired by Ancient Greek, the Darcians are a formidable force known to have fought against two of the largest empires known to the world at the time - the Darranic Empire and the Carthian Empire.

I'll put up a lore chapters for the two factions later on. Especially Darranic Empire because of the famous Darranic Steel mentioned time and time again in previous chapters.

Here's a couple of mine while playing on a previous version of the mod although they were heavily edited.


Been using the mod the get screenshots for my AAR (go click on the link in my signature if you want to). But there are other screenshots in my storage too, I'll pose them whenever I can find them.

The city of Yalen is the economic heart of the Rhodoks and the richest city of Calradia. This is evident as the port of the city were filled with merchant ships that came from all parts of the world. Spices, dye, marble, steel were traded for a good amount of gold on a daily basis. Some would say that the port is large enough to house an entire fleet.

Count Etrosq heads over to the city with High Commander James at his side. The warm ocean winds touched his face like a mother and he smelled the scent of the ocean. He took a deep breath and looked upon the horizon, “This is where we would meet them right?” he turned to his commander.

The brown haired man nodded, “The envoy sent me a message that they are arriving here. We can expect that the Legion will be here by noon,”

“What else do you know about them?” Etrosq said as he kept his eyes upon the horizon. He had sent a diplomat years earlier to gain the favor of the leaders of the States of Darcia. For years he have been working to gain their favor, to strengthen their diplomatic relationship. He gained their trust and was able to purchase a large number of their most famous soldiers – the Darcian Legions with a large amount of gold. The Gallant Lord only knew as much as their accomplishments on the fields of war.

James turned. “The Legions would obey your orders without question. They were trained since their childhood to be soldiers – to embody the very nature of war itself has always been their purpose. Without a doubt your Legions can face against the might of the Three Thousand Sons with ease.” He said. “Some claimed that they are strong enough to rip someone’s head from their shoulders. Enough to shatter shields with single swing of their swords. You are lucky to have the Darcian leaders’ trust and able to hand over them…even if it costs a lot of gold,”

“It took me years to gain their trust, James.” He crossed his arms, “You know that they won’t trust foreigners quite easily. I have to spend quite a lot of my own time to forge an alliance between us.”

“Ah, yes. The Rhodoks shall gain a lot from their Darcian allies,”

“No,” he reassured. “House Eitryd has their trust. We will command them to save this land. Mad kings don’t deserve to be on the throne,” he said, lowering his voice as to not be heard by the people nearby.

“True enough. But the war between the Rhodoks and the Sarranids have been dragging for quite a long time. Do you think that the king would pursue for a chance of peace?” James turned to him. He too saw how the war has affected the people and especially the king. The losses he suffered have damaged his own mind, slowly driving him to the point of madness.

“Let’s just pray to the gods for a chance at peace.” Etrosq replied.

James nodded in response, keeping his hand on the hilt of his sword that hangs on his hip. “Pray to the gods to give us peace.”

The famous legions of Darcia proved themselves time and time again that each of their skilled soldiers worth a hundred men each. Their shields and spears and swords are trained to become an extension of themselves, these are the backbone of Darcia’s military strength. They worship the Twelve Gods and they believe that there is no greater glory than to die on the battlefield and enter the Hall of Champions, the domain of Era’as, the Darcian god of war. To have them in one’s army can be considered as a blessing from the war god himself as the monks claimed that they carried his blood. And Etrosq is more than happy to have them in his ranks, he is proud of commanding them.

It was when the sun sits high above their heads and the calm seas blew a warm breeze. As both Etrosq and James waited for hours, their eyes remained at the horizon. Then one ship emerged, then two, three, four and a dozen more followed. Their sails carried the red scorpion of one of Darcia’s most influential and militarily powerful state – Sparatus. They saw dozens of other ships sailed towards the port as the people laid their eyes upon them, each surprised to see an entire fleet of Darcian craft.

At the moment, Etrosq smirked as he saw them arriving. He kept his hand on the pommel of his sword, his eyes looking at the ships in awe.


The ships soon docked at the port, the soldiers of the Darcian Legion stepped onto Calradic ground for the first after months of sailing at the violent oceans. Three thousand soldiers set their foots upon foreign grounds, yet they do not object to it. Their shields were rectangular, large enough to protect the one who wields it. Their spears were long and sharp and a silver ribbon is tied upon their weapons. Their armor were as dark as the night sky and their helms had crests upon them drenched in the color of red. They marched as Etrosq led them to the front of Yalen’s gates, watchful eyes set upon them as they passed through the streets. Some were surprised and watched with awe, others with fear as they are afraid to know what horrors that these men might unleash upon them. Their boots thundered as they marched in unison, their eyes cold and they kept a stoic expression upon their faces even if it is obscured by their helms.

One of the legion wore a helm with a black and red crest. His armor were black with patterns of silver. The man approached Etrosq with his shield in his left hand and spear at the right, his sword remained in its scabbard. “Greetings, Legion-Lord.” He saluted the noble, striking his chest with a clenched fist. “I am Captain-General Decius.” He introduced himself.

Etrosq nodded in response and saluted accordingly. “Lord Etrosq of House Eitryd. Tell me commander, how many men do you have under your command?”
“Nothing more than three thousand, milord.” He said flatly. His voice is almost absent of any emotion except he was ready to receive an order. “The soldiers are ready for our first orders.”

“We march for my castle. From there, we would prepare ourselves for what comes next. The journey would take us not more than three days if the weather is on our side.” Etrosq ordered.

“Aye, sir!” Decius stomped his foot and back straightened before leaving Etrosq’s side to his man.

The Gallant Lord stood there as he watched them with surprise. “Never expected them to be like that.” He said under his breath.

“Darcians. Always following orders. Heard of them once, their spearmen are a terrible foe to fight against. One must not forget that their best spearmen hailed from Sparatus, their archers from Argyn, their best fleets from Navion and cavalry from Macadius. That’s what made the nation strong, but the Legions are better than most.” James noted.

Three thousand men ready and eager for battle. Three thousand believed that there is glory on the battlefield. Men who worshipped death as their salvation. Who are eager to find their souls reach the sacred Hall of Champions. They are now, under Etrosq’s command. The Gallant Lord himself knew that with the right commander, a small army may even triumph over a larger force. He had heard of them, heard of stories that they fought against the unrelenting force of Carth at the Battle of the Narrow Pass where only a few thousand Darcian men – a third of those were legions – left to their fates by their gods against the sheer might of the Carthian army of 100,000 strong. The battle lasted for a week, with a third of the Darcians were left standing and only 10,000 of the Carthians remained.
It was one of the few battles that lifted the Darcian name into a legendary status. Etrosq himself planned to command these armies to battles that are even more glorious than before, all for a noble cause to save the dying kingdom of Rhodoks. They only lived for battle and die for the sake of it. Etrosq would give it to them.

As they marched through the hills, the envoy that brought the Darcians rode beside High Commander James and Lord Etrosq. He wore a brown robe a green scarf around his neck. his face wrinkled and his hair were of the colors of autumn leaves. “Are you happy with the legions so far, milord?”

“I’m far more than happy, Herfast. These men are going to be a part of the Rhodoks’ salvation.” He said, patting the pack of his friend. “Besides, how do you managed to convince the Darcian leaders to hand over three thousand of their best troops? Those people never give things so easily.”

“They initially refused,” said Herfast. “After the Fool of Gaeric’s stupid attempts to annex Carthia on his own and started the war between the two nations, Darcia feared that same thing would happen again.”

“Ah, the beginning of the decade-long Carthadacian War. There is always some fool who wants to rule the world and at the end, many people suffered its consequences.” The lord replied, his mind remembered of Graveth’s actions which led to the terrible losses that the kingdom had suffered recently.

“Yes, the Fool. But I told the Lords of Darcia that you would bring them glorious battles that they never faced before. Against an enemy far greater than the Carthians, far greater than the Volirian Empire. I told them that you would bring them glory more than the they ever could,” the man replied. He looked around, his eyes gazing upon the might of the three thousand men of Darcia. All marching at their side. “One must never seek war. But must always be prepared for it for war is inevitable. A cycle of life and death.” He said, stroking his beard with his fingers.

Etrosq smirked, “Who said that? Was it Harlaus III? The one the old Scholars called as Harlaus the Benevolent?”

Herfast nodded and smiled at Etrosq’s words. “Indeed. He was one of the greatest kings of Swadia. It’s a shame that their current king could not achieve the same greatness as his ancestor did. I heard that there’s a rebellion during my time away from the land?”

“Yes. King Esterich’s daughter have come to reclaim her throne. She even had a foreigner as one of her nobles. The people called him Deckard of Praevor if I’m not mistaken. But we shouldn’t worry about the state of others at the moment. Our mind should be on our kingdom.” He took out his bottle and drank from it.

“Of course, my lord.”

The silver stag of House Eitryd was displayed gloriously as its banners hung down from the walls of Etrosq castle. Its knights wore in silver armor, their eyes watched the army of three thousand battle hardened men marched behind their leaders. The gates were lifted, yet the soldiers kept their sights upon them and their grip around their weapons for any unexpected moves by the foreign men that stepped into their walls. Etrosq noticed them being cautious and who could blame them? He just brought a large army of men from a distant land and war has his soldiers on quite an edge. James raised his hand to signal to the rest of the knights and soldiers to stand down. They do as their told and lowered their weapons.

Etrosq went up the stairs of the castle to get a better view of the legions. He leaned against the railing as his eyes looked down. He saw thousands of spears pointed towards the skies, thousands of men in black armor standing in the large courtyard and it wasn’t even enough to hold its massive numbers as some of the soldiers stood outside the walls. Herfast and James went up with him, standing by his side as they gazed upon the legions. “Magnificent isn’t it?” Herfast asked, crossing his arms.

“Yeah,” Etrosq said. Then his saw one of the knights walked over to the legions. The man observed him, his arms crossed and didn’t look too amused by their presence. Etrosq observed him, somehow waiting for the man’s response.

“These are the Legions?” the man said with pride and arrogance radiating from his words. His long gold hair and flashy green eyes looked at them as he scoffed. “They look like the damned Mountainmen with better armor and such.”

“Shut your insolent mouth, Crixus.” James voice boomed through the courtyard as he faced down. “You know nothing of these men,”

“Is that true High Commander?” he crossed his arms and lifted his eyes to face his superior. “Aren’t we the greatest in the land? We surely won’t need a foreigner’s help to win our bloody wars.”

“Etrosq, my lord.” Herfast called out as the man approached him. “I believe some of the knights haven’t heard of these legions. This is a good time to show them how terrifying they are in combat.” He suggested.

The Gallant Lord nodded at his idea. Some of his own knights who swore fealty to House Eitryd never heard of the famed Darcian Legion even if their legends bave been spread across the known world. Etrosq leaned forward against the wooden railing, “Captain-General Decius!” he called. His voice is as loud as a lion, heard throughout the courtyards of his castle.

The captain of the legion marched forward and planted his spear onto the ground. “Aye!” he shouted in response. The captain’s eyes glanced at Crixus.
“Send your best warrior to the front! Have him fight Crixus on – “

“Wait, no milord.” Herfast interrupted. He put his hand on Etrosq’s shoulder as he looked down. “I have a better suggestion.” He says. “Crixus, Robert and Edwin! Step to the front, with your armor and weapons!”

“Three against one?” James asked, surprised and curious. But a smile crept onto his lips. “Now this would be quite interesting to see,”

“Good idea, Chancellor.” Etrosq pat the back of his trusted advisor. “Have your warrior fight against three of our own, Captain Decius!” says the Gallant Lord.
The captain turned to his men and took a deep breath. He looked around, his eyes scanned over the three thousand men that stood in front of him. “Androkles!” Decius shouted.

There was silence for a brief moment. Then the sight of a man clad in black armor and his helm had a long overflowing red crest that flows down his back. His shield was round unlike the others and carried a crimson lion upon it. His spear had a silver tail attached. Androkles stepped forward and he held his head high, waiting for orders.

The theee knights called by Herfast reached the courtyard. Crixus stood in front of Androkles with while the other two stood at the Darcian’s sides. The Chancellor and the rest watched with interest. Robert had two hammers held in each of his hand, his armor had a boar emblazoned upon his chest plate. His long raven hair tied to his back like a tail and his eyes looked sharp into the Darcian. Edwin had a large two handed sword held in his hand, its hilt were coated with gold and its blade is as pale as the clouds of the sky. Crixus had a bastard sword unsheathed, he named it the Sorrowful Song. Its blade were as long as his forearm and black as coal. A shield in shape of a diamond in his hand and the sigil of a bull’s head was etched upon it.

Androkles saw them with their weapons and his shield raised to his front and spear towards the three knights. He kept his eyes on them, constantly switching between Crixus, Robert and Edwin as they began to circle the Darcian with their weapons in hand. Etrosq can only watch as they surrounded him like predators to kill a helpless prey. Yet, he knew that Androkles kept a calm composure as he faced them. His breaths steady and his grip on his spear is firm.

Edwin charged forth, Androkles jumped backwards to dodge the knight’s attack and swung his spear with full force as it hits his head. Edwin stumbled. Robert moved forward with both of his hammers in hand, he raised his weapons and attacked only to be blocked by Androkles’ massive shields. The Darcian saw Crixus ran with his bastard sword and shield in front.

Androkles threw his spear, the force of the throw made Crixus stumbled as he blocked it with his shield. Edwin regained his balance and made a flat arc with his sword, missing the Darcian by inches as he jumped away. The foreign warrior pulled out his sword from its sheath, its pommel had a sharp spike made of gold. Androkles’ blade soon met with Edwin’s own, sending a large burst of sparks as they clashed. The soldier pulled his sword and bashed the knight’s head with his shield before quickly turning to Robert.

Etrosq knew the three knights who fought the Darcian quite well. Their families serves House Eitryd with unwavering loyalty for decades. Crixus was known as the Lion of Eitryd, prideful and arrogant in some ways but retained his honor in the worst of times. Etrosq declared him to be the best swordsman he ever knew besides the commander himself. His skill is almost unmatched by anyone in the realm of the Rhodoks and he took pride in it. Robert Minos was named as the Minotaur of Eitryd, his strength is unparalleled in the kingdom and some said that even Grainwad the Giant would have difficulties facing him. Two hammers, each were made in the shape of a bull’s head. Edwin Stormnight was the Wind of Eitryd. His speed and swiftness is said to be a gift from the god of the winds – Calador. It was a natural talent for him, able to dodge most attacks with ease is like a hobby for him.

Yet, they faced difficulties when facing a lone warrior from a faraway land. Androkles exchanged blow after blow against the three, he possessed the swiftness that made Edwin renowned across the land. The strength that was said to be a blessing from the gods to rival Robert’s own and the terrifying skills that stood a chance against Crixus’ swordsmanship.

The legion cheered for Androkles and so does the inhabitants of the castle for the three knights. Their voices filled the air, growing louder and louder by the second. They chant their names in unison as the combatants fought against one another.

The three knights swung their weapons down with their strength. Androkles raised his shield over his head and a loud metallic bang echoed across the courtyard as Robert’s hammers, Edwin’s longsword and Crixus’ bastard sword clashed with Androxus’ steel shield. The Darcian swung his sword in an arc and the knights jumped away, barely scratching their armor as they did.

“That’s enough,” a female voice echoed through the courtyard. Her voice was cold and flat. Her eyes looked at the legions and the three knights as her gold hair tied to a braid. She wore a brown coat with a wolf pelt. In an instant, the three knights stopped their fighting and Androkles did as well.

“Ah, Lady Victoria.” Herfast noted as Etrosq went down the stairs. “What do you think about the Legion milady?”

“They are magnificent.” She said. “But this is unnecessary. To see an army’s true worth is to witness them harden their mind and soul upon the fields of war. You’re just tiring them out, Chancellor.”

“Forgive me, my lady.” The Chancellor lowered his head.

The Gallant Lord stood at her side and ordered Androkles as well as the rest of the knights to return to their post. He turned to her, looking into her eyes that possessed the color of ice. “I know you’re impressed with the legion, my love.” He said. “These men shall be a part of our army for a while.”

“I can see that quite clearly.” She said. Lady Victoria was the daughter of a Darcian Lord, known quite well as the Queen of Ice. She was cold and calculating when discussing the matters of the realm, but as warm as fire when not. They complement each other well, Victoria provided her husband with suitable advises to reinforce their battle plans and to secure themselves a powerful seat within the ranks of the kingdom.

One thing’s for sure that they loved each other. For years they’ve endured many sufferings through many wars. Victoria was born a Darcian, one that lived over in the warring lands of Darcia. Everytime a war broke out between their kingdoms, there hasn’t been a single day when she thought of her husband returning safely. At times, her worries increased a hundredfold whenever Etrosq was fallen in battle or captured by the enemy. Only the gods knew what the enemy have done to him. For him, he prayed day and night that he would return home. To embrace his wife in his arms. It was war that strengthen their relationship, and death won’t be the one who would break them apart.

“Obviously.” He said with a smile. “Always the same Victoria ever since the first time I met you.”

“Shut it, Gallant Lord.” She said, giggling. She pulled out a paper and handed it over to her husband. “Word came in just for you. A messenger arrived yesterday when you were at Yalen.”

Etrosq took it and unrolled it. His eyes read through the words that were contained inside. “By the gods…” he uttered in a whisper. His eyes widened as he crumpled the paper in his hand.

“Why? Is something wrong?” she asked.

“The Wall of the East requests for aid from us.” He replied. “The Order of the Immortal Sun needs our help.”



AUTHOR'S NOTES: Alright so the Darcian Legions are inspired by the ancient Greek hoplites as well as the Roman legionaires, in appearance and tactics. The rectangular shields are a nod to the Roman scutum and their training mirrored those of the Spartan hoplites. I wanted to have a disciplined foreign army, one that separated themselves from the rest of Calradia while having a legendary status among its people.

The Fool of Gaeric was inspired by the real life Crassus who is known as the Fool of Carrhae who finds himself defeated in the Battle of Carrhae against the might of Parthia. Other than that, the States of Darcia are also inspired by the Greek City-States which every city acts as its own state (will be explored in a later chapter or through a lore chapter).

Welp, I guess that's it. Hope you enjoy. There's not much happening besides introducing what the Darcian Legions are.

EDIT: Edited Lady Olekseia to Lady Victoria. Victoria was one of my Mount and Blade Warband characters in the past who also married to Etrosq.

The words of the Watcher lingered in his mind. He was born a Dragonstorm, he was raised as an Ironshield bastard and he was chosen by the gods to become the one who’d unite the warring kingdoms of Calradia. A thousand mountains weighed upon his shoulders – his burdens increased by the day, his goals changed from vengeance to uniting a whole land. Damn it all, he’d curse. As a child he wanted to be more than just a bastard and yet, he’d never thought everything would become like this.

His father died in the Battle for the Keep, his mother escaped in the midst of chaos while Andreus fought to the end to keep her safe. Because of the civil war that damned the Sovereignty of Tyrus, the mighty nation split amongst themselves but there were still those who served his family’s noble house and Deckard would have to rely on them – if they choose to believe his words.

To him, the meeting was nothing more than just a brief discussion of the kingdom’s affairs mixed with the occasional arguing of the lords bickering like children. At times, he’d feel sorry for them for not being able to see better alternatives to solve their problems. Yet, Deckard himself took the opportunity to learn how to run a kingdom. He was going to unite them all, after all – if he survived the wars.

It was a short walk to the room he rented in one of the local taverns. Quite unusual for a lord like him where nobles of his status would rather sleep in the chambers prepared by the servants of the palace, yet he didn’t. He walked inside his room and laid his sword next to the door and closed it. It was a small place with only a bed and a window with light blue curtains. A mirror was there as well, accompanied by a small vase with a few red roses.

On his bed, papers were scattered upon it. They were letters from his brother in Praevor, each asking of his days in Calradia to which he gladly reply. I’m fine here dear brother. He’d tell them, It bears the similarities back home. Lords bickering like children and the smell of iron lingers in the air. He’d wrote. He read the letters and grinned like an idiot. Deckard would remember how they sound like, Myra had a soft voice but she reminded her of Deckard’s blood mother. A sweet girl, one might say and the men would flock for her hand in marriage. Darin was strong, handsome and sometimes Deckard himself would have wished for his half brother’s charm. Fayre herself was much the same as Myra, yet older than Deckard himself. She possessed her father’s strong will, one that the Praevorian admired till this day. Marius was the youngest, gold and slender but full of enthusiasm. He was the brightest, the smartest of the four trueborn of the Ironshield family.

He was glad to have known them. They loved him like he was a trueborn himself and he felt the same for them.

Deckard pulled out a blank paper from his satchel and a charcoal to write. He puts it on an empty table with the flickering lights of the lantern brightens the room with the little oil it had left. He began writing.

It took quite a while to write the words he had in his mind onto the paper. The lantern dimmed as he rolled the letter and tied it with a thread before drawing a small circle and a wolf’s head upon a sword – the Ironshield’s sigil.

A knock bursts through his door and startled Deckard. He hoped whoever it was knocking to cease their doing. But it didn’t. He hated being disturbed while he was carrying out a task of his own lest it was urgent. “L-Lord Deckard?” the voice asked, he determined it was a young man perhaps no older than his twenties. “The Lady wishes to see you,” he spoke.

Deckard sighed, knowing that the one the man referred to is Isolla herself. He stood up and approached the door, opening it as he looked at the messenger. He was much shorter than him, “Where?” he asked.

Immediately, the envoy saluted with a clenched fist to his heart. “At the Ivory Garden in the palace, milord.”

“Tell her I’ll be there in a moment.” He said to the messenger and quickly left to send the words to his queen. Deckard looked around and picked up his sword from the floor. He left the tavern and head towards the courier, delivering the letter to his brother in Praevor as he paid with a few gold coins.

The city of Dhirim is like a maze, filled with stalls and people instead of beasts and monsters like one of the legends he heard during his childhood. At night, the streets are empty but once morning came, the city would become a busy place with villagers and merchants trading and earning money for themselves. The golden lion of Isolla’s banner hung over his head as he made his way towards the palace and into the Ivory Garden.


There were twelve statues in the middle of the garden but instead of the knights he saw in the war room, they were the great kings of old Swadia. Each raised their swords and pointed towards the sky as they stood in a circle, facing a different direction. They were carefully made with ivory as if the masons knew them quite well. They look like the living as they tower over Deckard. Twelve great kings stood, twelve swords pointed to the stars – twelve times that the Swadians had a peaceful and mighty rule.

Isolla watched at the lifeless statues. A coat of red flow down her back like a river of blood and her brown hair tied to a braid. “Starting to think that you’d defy your queen’s orders,”

Deckard stopped in his tracks, “With all due respect, I do not fight for you because of your ideals. I only held my sword against Harlaus because of the things he did.” He said. The villagers of Yaragar told him things about the old king, for years he reigned, the people have suffered. Harlaus neglected the poor people that lived far from the cities and favored the nobles for gold. “I only fight for you because I hope that you’d end the people’s suffering.”

She smirked. “You are an interesting fellow, Praevorian.” She turned as she kept one of her hand to the sheath of her black sword. Her eyes caught the sight of Deckard’s blade on his hip, “I see you brought your sword,”

“There’s no telling that death wouldn’t come in the form of assassin’s,” he said, smirking as he too saw Isolla’s weapon. “I could say the same thing to you. Where’s your lovely boyfriend? The one you call Richard,”

Isolla laughed, “He was never my lover, Praevorian. I choose who I loved. He was just my second-in-command. Don’t ever mistake that,” then the sound of the blade rasping from its scabbard reached Deckard’s ear as she pulled the Dragon’s Fury. Its blade was dark as if the light do not dare to touch it. “Shall we?”

Deckard smirked in response and pulled Excalibur out of its sheath. It glowed in the pale moonlight of the night, his blazing eyes locked onto her as he dropped the sheath onto the ground and held the bastard sword with both his hands. “Gladly,” he said.

In an instant, the swords meet, sending bursts of sparks across the garden. They danced in a way that only the Reaper itself can do. He kept his eyes on her every move, she fought with calculated strikes unlike his own. She moved like a ferocious lion, each of her attacks mirrors the way how the predator would lunge at its prey.

Yet Deckard didn’t back down – he didn’t want to. He finds her a formidable opponent, one that he never encountered since his final days serving in the Howling Griffins. He moved like a dragon, graceful yet emanating with a deadly aura. His eyes never left the sight of Isolla’s sword did his fingers around his blade.

As the swords clashed, the metal sang and scream. Its songs were heard in the empty garden, their fight witnessed by none but the twelve kings in stone. Their dead, soulless eyes watched the Dragon and the Lion dancing for death.

Thirty times she swing, thirty times Deckard dodged or blocked. They stand un an equal footing, their skills matched only by themselves. Her dark blade cuts through the air but barely grazed him as Deckard dodged the incoming swing. He retaliated with a punch to her side, fighting more aggressively and throwing aside the norms of ‘honorable’ combat. There is no honor in combat. He told himself since the day he entered the Griffins. No honor in war.[/i]

Isolla stumbled and winced in pain as he landed a blow. Deckard lunged and threw his sword like a javelin towards her. Her eyes widened at the unorthodox way he fights and lifted Dragon’s Fury just time to parry the incoming strike. Yet, he kept moving and grabbed her sword arm, throwing her to the ground. Air rushed out of her lungs as she fell, gasping for air and she lost her grip upon her sword.

Deckard’s grasp at her arms remained, his fiery eyes looking down at her and strands of hair as black as a raven fall onto his face. “Yield,” he said to her, echoing the words she spoke to him when they first met on the field. “I won,”

She winced in pain, “Alright!” she said, finally meeting her gaze with Deckard. “I yield,”

He lets her go and took a few steps back, pulling her up. “No more allies to save you.” He said, picking up Dragon’s Fury and handed it over to the queen, “You’re a good fighter, queen. The people needs that,” he admitted. He had heard of legendary warrior queens in the past, admiring their deeds to their people. He too remembered how Swadia was led by queens in the past and perhaps she would become a part of their legend.

She took deep breaths and looked into his eyes, her hair covered half her face and her eyes gleamed in the light of the lonely moon. She smirked, “You too, Deckard of Praevor.” She said. “You are going to leave the land right?”
He nodded. “You needed more men.” He picked up his sword and its sheath before he slid the blade into its scabbard.

“You don’t have to do it,”

“But I have other reasons.” He remembered of the threats told to him by the Watcher in his visions during the night. Terrifying creatures, they were nightmares and evil made flesh. The Exiled she called them. He wanted to tell her of that but he wouldn’t want to burden the queen with the thoughts of facing an army of demons and the undead, hell bent on destroying life on this land.

She tilted her head, her fingers ran through the coat of her brown hair. “Like what?”

“It’s best that you don’t know, Isolla.”

“I am your queen, Deckard Winters. I deserve to know why.” She said, approaching him.

He saw how short she was standing in front of him, a head shorter to be exact. His eyes looked down at her as she lifted her head to gaze upon him. “With all due respect, my name is not Deckard Winters. It was Deckard Dragonstorm, heir to the Keep of Scales and the Iron Mountains. Son of Sir Andreus Stallys and Lady Anastasia of Dragonstorm.” He said. He never wanted to tell anyone of his true parentage after the revelation by the Watcher herself. Yet, he wanted everyone to believe that he’s a bastard of Darwin Ironshield. But to him, in time people would know the truth soon enough.

She looked at him, surprised. “Y-you’re a Dragonstorm?” she asked and Deckard nodded. “That’s one of the few powerful noble families. Their soldiers were deadly, some even noted that they could match the Darcian Legions. But…I thought that the Dragonstorms were all gone?”

“My father Andreus was there when the Keep of Scales fell into the treacherous hands of the Stormfalls. Someone told me that he fought to the end, sacrificing himself to get my mother out from the city along with other refugees.” He explained. He told her what the Watcher has revealed to him. The Fall of the Dragon, where the Stormfalls besieged the city for almost an entire week. How the Dragons of Tyrus fought to the end defending the Keep at their lord’s command. Andreus fought valiantly and bravely, sacrificing himself to save his beloved wife and child.

She saw the grief in his eyes. Talking about the death of his parent struck a deadly spear into his heart. He never knew them yet, he was certain of one thing – that Andreus loved Anastasia even more than his own life. He died saving her out of love and it was one of the things that he could admire from his father. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She said.

“It’s all in the past now. Besides, I only knew this quite recently. I used to believe that I was a bastard of Ironshield,” he said with a melancholic smile upon his face. The mention of his foster father’s family name made the memories of his childhood surged into his mind. “I wonder how the others are at home in Praevor.”

“I’m sure they’re fine.” She laid a hand on Deckard’s shoulder. It has been months since they first met – with the clash of their swords. Months since the defeat of Harlaus’ army at the gates of Dhirim. Yet, it’s like they have known each other for quite a while.

“Obviously,” he giggled. “My brothers and sisters are tougher than they look. Smarter than what people perceived them to be. Ever since the death of my father, Darin has been working hard day and night to ensure the survival of the family. He was their leader. A brave man and I wish I was the man like him,” He told her. “Myra and Fayre helped the children and the women of the old fort. They sew, they cook and does what a woman can do. Hah, even at times men came to the fort to ask for a hand in marriage.”

Isolla looked up at him with interest, listening to his every word about the Ironshields. “And what they’d do?”

“They rejected them.” He laughed. “They aren’t your typical ladies and Marius? By the gods, he was the smartest of us all. He had their mother’s intelligence – perhaps even smarter than Lady Ironshield. He helped the engineers in their works, taught the children things they should’ve learn. Boy’s a grown man now,” he said, picturing the image of his foster siblings in his mind.

“You must have missed them, do you?”

“By the gods, I do.”

“Well,” she puts her hair behind her back. Her face in full view, her pale skin glistened in the moonlight. Sweat trickled down her forehead to her cheeks after all that fighting. Eyes sparkled like sapphire, “Hope you’d meet them.” She said with a smile.

The smile itself bring warmth to him. For months she maintained a cold and stoic personality. Someone who rarely smiled and worked hard to establish her authority in the kingdom. His curled and smiled, “Thank you,”

She brings her cold, icy eyes to meet Deckard’s. It wasn’t long before they noticed that they are staring at one another and pulled their gaze away. “Hey,” she called out, taking a deep breath before clenching her fist and delivered a light punch to his chest. “Don’t you dare die on they way back home.” She pulled her hand away, smiling as she does.

“Of course.” He responded. He then pulled a rolled parchment from his satchel and handed it over to her. “If you ever need help, send this to a man known as the Seeker. He’ll come to your aid while I’m not here,”




It has been days since the meeting ended and the night he fought Isolla in the Ivory Garden. He had been making preparations to set sail to Praevor – his home. He head towards the port of Sargoth, the capital of the Nords and current ally to the Principality of Esterich, named after Isolla’s own father. The Nords were widely known as the best in hand to hand combat, axes and shields were their choice of arms – and they wielded with a terrifying deadliness, accompanied by roars of glory and blood.

Yet, there was one other thing that they were quite known for. For years, the Nords sailed across the seas in search of a land to call home. They endured storms sent to them by their raging gods. Some said that they hailed from the land of Maarn, a distant place where its people constantly waging war upon one another for reasons only known to the old warriors of the past. Then at one fateful day, it is said that their endless bloodshed have enraged the Maarnic gods and unleash the pits of hell onto the land. Rivers of flame and ash burned every village and town, the skies turned red and ground cracks. Large pillars of smoke rises into the sky and blot out the sun – this was called the End of Maarn by the Nords. Before the last of the cities fell victim to the gods’ wrath, the Maarnic people built ships out of a strong wood and sailed away from their dying land.

It was the legends that made the Nords as strong as the gods they worshipped and as the storms they endured. This became the reason why Deckard chose to set sail upon a Nordic ship for he knew that the journey home through the seas are far more treacherous and deadly than the ones he embarked on land. He went to the harbor and hired Captain Aldous for the ship. The man was widely known to be one of the best captains of the seas, his reputation spreads across the world as he commandeered the ship known as the Silver Nessie and its crew.

As he made his way towards the ship, his eyes widened at its marvelous structure. It was large, perhaps twice larger than the average merchant ships. The banners of a white stag upon a blue field flutter in the wind as the crew prepared their vessel for the journey ahead. “Is this it?” he asked the Captain who stood beside him.

Aldous was a man who stood at the same height as him. He had a fairly muscular build and his skin was as pale as snow and his eyes of silver – a Marinn, no doubt. “Yes,” the captain said. “I’ll have the boys carry your stuff to your chambers.”

“Thank you,” Deckard replied and gave his luggage to the crew to be carried away. He stepped onto the ramp and made into the ship. He felt the warm winds of the sea touched his skin, the smell of the ocean lingered in the air and the sound of the busy crew preparing themselves for the long sail ahead.

The captain barked out orders to his crew. They lowered their sails and the colors of their flags were proudly displayed at it. Slowly the winds blew and the ship with it. The Silver Nessie sails for Praevor.




AUTHOR'S NOTES: Alright for the next few chapters in Deckard's story, we'll be heading away from Calradia for a few chapters. Aside from that, there's not much in this chapter except fleshing out Deckard's foster family and the tiny bit of lore for the Nords.

Anyways, that's it. Hope you enjoy.

Goodness, it's been a while since I've downloaded this. Keep it up! I am looking forward to its final release! . This was one of the first big mods I've downloaded for Warband and it's great to see it grow

Hope you're having fun with Atilla so far! I am currently downloading Rome Total War because my PC can't handle the new ones.

Anyway, time for the Symphony of Time



Symphony of Time
Adamar, the First King of Men written by Scholar Silus Grandt


His name was Adamar, the First King of Men, the Savior of Calradia, the Smith of Excalibur, the Lord of Crimson and the Prince of Fire. The one who united the kingdoms of old Calradia against a common threat that plagued the lands for centuries. Not much is known about him but the old texts suggests that he descended from a line of great kings hailed from the Kingdom of Andar - a place from a distant land - which itself is currently believed to be Praevor itself.

He came to the land when he was of twenty years of age when the kingdoms of Calradia had began to suffer terrible blows from the Exiled - demons of the deserts. He travelled for years and gaining much renown for himself as he continuously fought against the demonic threat with an army he mustered on his own during his time on Calradia. But that was also the time where heretics began to slaughter the innocents, all in the name of the 'Ashen King'.

The old texts also speak of his appearance. His hair and beard had the blazing colors of the flames, he tower over the common folk like a dwarf giant and some even claimed that Adamar possessed the strength of a god. Some even said he is a god in human flesh but the people seemed to believe that he was just a mere human.

By the time the First War For Calradia began, he lead an army of thousands against the treacherous enemies of the south. It was then he realized that he wasn't just fighting beasts that were basically nightmare and evil made flesh, but those who shared the same race as him - humans. Heretics who dared to serve the Exiled all for the sake of being spared by the demon's wrath. Yet, Adamar was furious and struck with grief whenever he is forced to confront the heretics on the field. Nevertheless, he continued to march forward.

He forged an alliance with the horselords of the steppes and the pointy eared men of the west. Together, they mustered an army large enough to be able to confront the might of the Exiled. It was in the sixth year of the war when the gods of the land bestowed upon him a gift in the form of a set of armor - the Brass Armor which granted him near invulnerability to attacks. He wielded a specially forged sickle sword and a poleaxe in his years against the Exiled. It was at the Battle of the Green Plains where he was commonly known as the Lord of Crimson.

In the seventh year of the war, he forged a blade made of Darranic Steel which is a special kind of material that hailed from the Darran Empire. It was folded a thousand times over and some Scholars suggested that it was forged with the burning flames of a dragon's breath. Religious texts also describe of a sword made from the union of steel and the dragon's fire as well as the gods themselves aided Adamar during the making. They blessed the sword and deemed that only those who are worthy may wield its power when Calradia is in dire need of a savior. The sword itself became a treasured heirloom to the future kings of Calradia. Yet, it was lost during the fall of the Calradic Empire.

During the war, it was been said that Adamar was granted the gift of magic.
He hurled the flames of his wrath towards the Exiled, burning their flesh and skin. Turning their bones into ash as his men fought. His army too comprised of skilled sorcerers, hurling thunderbolts and fire, summoning hard light weapons and such. This has been described many times not only in the ancient texts but also echoed in the words spread by the legends. Yet, with all this gifts he was slain in a battle against the undead. His son, Aragar succeeded him but that was for another day.

Adamar became a central figure in ancient Calradic history and was often credited for the creation of the massive fortification known as the Wall of the East but many Scholars have gathered enough information that it was Adamar's grandson that built it in honor of the old king. The Order of the Immortal Sun was founded as well, to act as shields that guards the land of Calradia and as swords to strike the enemy with a terrifying blow.



Now this is the first of hopefully, many lore chapters that would serve as interludes between the main story chapters. I won't do this after every story update but I'll try to post them as often as I can.

This was written more in the style of a written report rather than a narrative style. So you'd find who is the author of said entry after the title of the Symphony of Time update. For instance, this was written by Scholar Silus Grandt. These would serve as a way for me to flesh out characters and important locations other than through the main story itself.

Hope you liked it!

Well, that already sounded great with the central theme. Wish you had the time to write about it!

Ooh, magic and fantasy. I guess you don't have much time to write it?

Back in the walls of Wercheg, Bjorn was merely called by his own name by the his fellow guardsmen. He was their captain for quite a long time, yet there are things that took him away from his duty in the city. Grandmaster’s plans he’d tell himself. His plans that brought him to where he is. In the land of the Rhodoks he was called the Executioner, the right hand man of the king, the man who would carry out his will on the battlefield. Yet, his defeat at the hands of the Men of Iron or the Forlorn Hope had brought shame to the Rhodoks. Now shackled and chained, Bjorn was named the Northman by the guards and the soldiers.

He finds himself surviving day after day in the dungeons of Ahmerrad. He didn’t know what kept him alive for many weeks after the Fall of the Guards. At times, he felt like he wanted to end his own life – but he didn’t. The damnable heat made his throat dry and the endless tortures and beatings took away his strength. He was strong, yes. But he wasn’t strong enough.

Visible wounds and scars ran down from his back and to his limbs. Some more grotesque than others. A testament of a soldier’s life after years of serving in the way of war. Bjorn never fought for his own glory, never. He only fought to save the Nords from Ragnar’s iron fisted grip.

His ear caught the voices of the guards talking at the end of the hallway. Their voices were too far for him to be able to get a clear sense of what they spoke about. Scale armor covered their bodies and a helmet with a mask that covered their face. A long horsetail flow down their backs – one of red and the other of white and strands of silver – and a spear held in their hand with a sword carried on their hips.

Bjorn kept listening, he laid his body on the cold ground and his eyes peering at the end of the hallway. His wrists bleed because of the shackles and chains that binds him to his cell.

“ – they have taken Shariz isn’t it?” one of the guard speaks, looking at his friend as he asked.

The other nodded, “Never knew that they are able to do it. The Pearl is heavily fortified and guarded by those damned greens. Yet, they did it. Have you heard anything about the Prince?”

“Ah, Prince Darius was in the infirmary for a few days. He was stabbed by the Pale Moon and the wounds were severe until the best apothecaries needed a few additional days to treat his Majesty’s wounds.” He said. “Darranic Steel is terrifying.” He shuddered.

“Yet we know so little of it. Some of the stories even said that weapons crafted from the steel were forged with the flames of dragons.”

“Bah, dragons, demons, beasts, the undead. Leave those mythical imaginations to the Men-on-the-Walls. They took an oath to serve no king but the king that seats upon the All-Seeing Throne. To raise their swords to guard the lands that sits within the walls is it not?” the guard with the red horsetail said. “Surely you heard about them,”

“Yes, yes,” the other replied. “Speaking of them. Isn’t the Northman supposed to be brought to the walls?”

He shrugged. “I guess. But we were supposed to wait on – “

The conversation stopped with a loud sound of boots snapped. Bjorn saw them, straightening their backs and held their heads high. The two guards saluted to a man that approached them, wearing a coat of white and a cloak of gold and yellow. He raised an eyebrow but kept himself silent as he looked.

The two guards listened to whatever the man spoke to them. They nodded and turned to enter the dungeons with their spears held in their hands. Their horsetail flow from their backs like a river, one of blood and other of molten silver. Their footsteps thudded loudly with every step they made, it echoed throughout the halls of the dungeons and the inmates kept a close eye upon them. The man kept his own gaze to his guards, then to Bjorn with his hands behind him.

The doors to his cell were opened and the guard with the red tail yanked Bjorn up to his feet with the chains. The Northman could not do anything with the strength of a dying man. He had been eating on mere bread and water, sometimes even leftovers. At days, he was tortured for information. They asked him things that he do not have the answer to like, “Where do they plan to strike next?”. But the most shocking question of all still lingered in his mind, they asked him once, “What do Graveth planned with the demons?” those words shocked him the most.

Demons. He had heard of wraiths and Giants who lived up far into the Northern Mountains. They were in a constant war with the tribes of the mountains. Some were as cold as ice and some were vicious to their methods of killing.

Bjorn looked up and the entrance and before he could take a clear look at the man, the rigid jawline, the coat of brown hair and his fearsome eyes of yellow that glistened in the sun made it looked like a pair of golden coins – it was the Prince.

“It’s time,” the Prince’s voice reached his ears. He could feel the guard’s tight grip on his arms, “Bring him to the walls,”



Hours turned to days, days turned to weeks. The sun hasn’t been merciful during the trip either. Water supplies ran low in a quick rate and so does the food. For what it seemed to have been a journey for a few days turned into a two-weeks long trek across the scorching deserts of Sarran. An endless ocean of sands lies between the cities of the Sultanate and the walls. It stretched as far as the eye could see, there were no one sighted for days with exception of daring bandits, looters and occasional deserters who proudly called themselves the ‘free brotherhood’. Even Bjorn find them disgusting in leaving their post but yet again, he already did the same thing.

What impressed him the most is the two guards the accompanied him. For days the two fought against countless band of criminals all by themselves. He started to wonder about who they actually are. It wasn’t long until his saw the emergence of a large fortification from the dunes, then as they approach, its massive shadow loomed over them over a dozen meters high. Sixty meters of an wall that stood valiantly and with absolute vigilance now revealed itself on Bjorn – the Wall of the East.

They were at one of the castles that were built to house its knights. The sigil – a golden sun pierced by a sword that looked quite the same as the Sword of Kings upon a white field – was painted on the massive gates. The two guards that escorted him looked up and gestured to the knights upon the walls.

In just a few seconds, the gates were lifted and they entered the courtyard. As they dismounted from their horses and took Bjorn with them, the Northman lifted his head and looked around. His eyes saw dozens of knights donning a white armor trimmed with gold. The sigil of the order itself emblazoned upon its breastplate and their helmets covered their faces. Some of them wore an armor of black and trims of red with gauntlets to match their color. They wore helms with a red overflowing tail made of horse hair, carrying a shield as dark as the night and they carry weapons much like the others. They are the fearsome Black Guards. Few in numbers with members fewer than a thousand, but they made themselves worth a thousand men for single Guard.

“Bloody hell,” Bjorn mumbled as he looked at them, admiring as it seems. He then saw a man in brass armor, the order’s sun etched upon his breastplate and a cape of black flows down his back. He had a long face and a black hair, his flashy blue eyes looked at the two that stood with Bjorn.

“Khiran the Red Tail and Ordun the White, how may I help you both?” the man addressed the two escorts flanking Bjorn’s sides before lowering his eyes and looked at Bjorn, sighing. “Is this about the prince again?”

Khiran nodded, pulling his helmet off. He was tall and had a coat of gold for hair. His eyes were as green as the gems of Zhou. “Apparently yes, the prince wanted to send this prisoner to the walls. As a punishment of sorts,”

“I can’t just take prisoners into the brotherhood Khiran. Tell that to your prince,” the man said.

“And you know that the prince won’t tolerate that, isn’t that correct Commander Duncan?” Khiran frowned, looking at the man who is the leader of the Order of the Immortal Sun.

“The knights do not serve your prince or his father or the rest of the kings of Calradia. We only answer to the one who held the Sword of Kings in his hand,” Duncan said, his eyes pierced through Khiran’s green.

“He wasn’t just a prisoner, Commander.” The other voice spoke, Ordun the White. “The former Executioner of the Rhodoks and the captain of the guardsman of Wercheg,”

Bjorn lifted his head, his eyes widened and looked at the one named Ordun. He was shocked to see that the man knew who he was despite he never told it to anyone in the Sultanate. “How – “

Duncan raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed as he looked at Ordun with disbelief. “And a Nord by the looks of it. Why do you think that every word you say would convince me to take this man into my brotherhood?”

“He knows the Grandmaster,”

Khiran and Duncan fixed their eyes on Bjorn as if looking at a criminal who had committed an act that brings shame to his family. Khiran’s eyes remained cold while Duncan looked at him with interest. “Is this true?” Duncan asked the Northman.

Bjorn’s face is painted with shock and confusion. He would never told anyone of the Grandmaster of the Order of the Snow, especially to his enemies. To him, only his comrades knew about this and nothing else. A mere prison guard knowing this meant that the Nordic Order has been infiltrated, at least that’s what Bjorn assumed.

“His face says it all, Commander Duncan,” Ordun said, yanking Bjorn closer to him by the chains. “I’ll bring him to the apothecaries and have him treated and prepared for whatever hell you’ve decided to unleash upon this man. Khiran will be with you to finish the arrangements,” he said.

The Commander nodded and Khiran left with him to his office. Ordun dragged Bjorn from the courtyard and made his way to the infirmary. It was a small building made of wood, unlike of stone like the rest of the castle’s area. As they entered, the smell of medicine and herbs filled the air, replacing the scent of sand and metal from outside. Bjorn looked around and saw it is almost empty, with only a few knights and recruits were sent here, most of which were injured during their training.

“You must be asking yourself about how did I know about you. About how you know the Grandmaster,” Ordun speaks with a flat tone. He kept his face forward and the white horsetail of the helm flowed down his back. Bjorn opened his mouth but Ordun interrupted, “You’ll have to answer that question on your own, Northman.”

He frowned, hoping to know how he knew everything. Ordun then shoved him to his front, “Treat him well, Master Orwell.” The guard said, as an old man with a wrinkled face stood in front of him.

“Nice to see you Ordun the White. Aren’t you supposed to be on the front lines where the sweet songs of battle can be heard quite clearly? Yet, you are here bringing this man to our walls.” Master Orwell said. His fingers are frail and a burnt scar covered half his face. The knights of the order would call him Orwell the Burnt because of it. “Ordun the warrior now a mere escort?” he lets out a laugh. “My, times have changed.”


Ordun shrugged. “The Sultan needed me and Khiran somewhere else. Ahmerrad is the home to the worst criminals of the Sultanate and its prison guards dwindled drastically. Fix the damned Northman, Master Orwell. You’ll have my gratitude,”

Orwell’s frail fingers lifted Bjorn’s jaw as his eyes examined him. “Hmm. Why is he here? Duncan wouldn’t want to accept the man into the brotherhood lest he is…quite valuable,”

“The Grandmaster of the Snow knows of him,” Ordun handed Bjorn over. “Duncan had suspicion that the damned Bastard of the North is planning something.”

Orwell posed a wrinkled smile, “Splendid work as always, Ordun. Duncan isn’t the only who suspects of that. Me and everyone in the order thinks the same.” The old man shuddered, “If the Grandmaster really is planning something, he could be in league with Graveth.”

“Poor ****er’s going to bring his own kingdom into chaos. I heard that its lords are going to defect anytime soon and the threat of a nationwide rebellion loomed at their doors.”

Orwell nodded before fixing his eyes upon Bjorn. “Does the Northman knows about this?”

“The interrogators asked him questions that he doesn’t the answer to. Graveth’s been keeping secrets. Even he didn’t have the guts to tell his Executioner. Now that he’s in our custody and knows nothing about the king’s plan, it’s safe to say that the damned bastard told his plans to the Council of Three.” Ordun explained. The Council of Three comprised of the three most trusted men in Graveth’s eyes. Each to govern a certain aspect of his country in terms of finance, military and social affairs. The Constable acts as the king’s military advisor, the Chancellor for the things regarding the people and his lords and the Chamberlain holds power over the kingdom’s wealth.

“Enough of this. We shall talk about it on a later date,” Orwell says as he gripped onto the chains around Bjorn’s wrist. He took a few steps away from Ordun before he turned for a moment, “You still have your Northman father’s cold attitude do you? You never changed,” the old smiled before taking the key from Ordun and disappearing into a room.

Ordun left the infirmary and returned to the courtyard where the new recruits would train themselves for the coming days. Inside Orwell’s room, the old man freed Bjorn of his chains around his wrists. The old man noticed his scars but kept silent about it. He pulled a wooden chair and looked at the Northman, “Sit. Or I wouldn’t be able to treat your wounds.”

Bjorn does as told, he felt his wrists lighter after a long journey from Ahmerrad’s dungeons to the Wall of the East. Even if he is escorted by two highly skilled guards, he is not invincible to survive without any injuries from their occasional encounters with criminals.

Orwell took a few herbs and vials from the closet before mixing it in a wooden bowl. Bjorn looked at him, noticing the slight hunch on his back as the master apothecary mixes. The old man then took a few leaves and puts it close to Bjorn’s mouth, “Eat this. You needed energy after travelling across the deserts. Its harsh winds must have sipped away your remaining strength,” he said.
Bjorn took it started chewing. He almost vomited because of its bitter taste that bursts out from its leaves as he chew. His face twisted as it tastes more unpleasant even after swallowing it down his throat.

The master smiled and giggled at him, “It’s godsweed.” He said. “Normally found in your territories, Northman. Despite its unpleasant taste it gives you a boost of energy for the whole day.” He then brings the bowl in his hand and examined the wounds he sustained during the journey. It was nothing too serious nor it was life threatening but the old man knew that if it was left untreated for another week, infections may occur. He dipped his finger into the thick mixture of herbs into the bowl and applied it onto an open wound on Bjorn’s back.

A sharp pain jolts through the Northman’s body as the old man’s fingers rubbed the ailment onto his wound. It was there when one of the bandits they have encountered grazed his back with the tip of its blade. It had been days since it happened and without proper treatment, it worsened by the time they arrived at the walls. Bjorn kept himself steady and grits his teeth, wincing at the pain.
“Northman.” Orwell called out. His eyes fixed to Bjorn’s wounds, “What is your name?”

He remained silent. He felt like it was unnecessary for him to reveal his name. His failures weighing upon his shoulders like the mountains of the North. He was a captain of the guardsmen of Wercheg yet he failed his comrades by leaving his post, abandoning his men in fear of the Grandmaster. He was the spy for the Grandmaster’s plans, and he never returned. He was the Rhodoks’ Executioner, the king’s second in command but he failed to uphold his duty.
Orwell shrugged, “Well, I guess you’d prefer me and the rest of the order to call you ‘Northman’”

“It’s – It’s Bjorn,” he introduced himself.

The old master smirked and he stood up. He took a few bandages from the shelf before returning to the Nord, lifting his arm and wrapped it around. “Well, Bjorn. Welcome to the Wall, I suppose,”

Bjorn looked around and his eyes peered outside the Master’s room. He saw the apothecaries worked endlessly even if there’s less injured people to be treated. He saw the knights, the Black Guards and the Commander himself. He finds himself wondering what lies beyond the walls even if he had heard of the legends – the Exiled, otherwise known as the demons. But surely, there are other things out there isn’t it?

He turned to Orwell, “I heard of the legends surrounding the order itself. But, there’s not much known to the people other than they only serve the true king of the land.”

The Master walked towards his rack as it holds a collection of books. Bjorn’s could not get the exact number of it but he is certain that there are more than a dozen of them in Orwell’s collection. The old man pulled a stool and sat down, lifting the book close to him and blew the dust off its cover. “It is true that the we only serve the king who brings the fabled sword. But our war against the Exiled had existed long before the old empire.” He says.

“When the first nations rose in the land of Calradia, it was a place brought to life by chaos. There were no humans but only beings that existed in our nightmares. The Horde, the Exiled, the demons are just a few of the names we have given them.” He continued. “The Exiled caused terror upon the first kingdoms of the land for thousands of years. Until a king of the Old Age united all of them under a single banner against a common enemy, the humans, the pointy eared, the horselords – they put aside their differences and forged an alliance,”

“Some even said that the gods themselves descended from their thrones and aided the alliance. But yet again, the Exiled were strong. Their leaders possessed the strength that could match a god’s power with ease. Thus, the First War of Calradia began. Some said that dragons aided them in the war, breathing flames that melted their flesh. Some even said that the king that united them – Adamar was given the Brass Armor by the gods and it made him quite invincible,” Orwell continued as he flipped between the pages of the book in his hand, keeping his old eyes on Bjorn. “Others said that Adamar was a god. But just like the Scholars said – rumors remained rumors without proof.”


“Anyway, it was Adamar the First King of Men, who forged the Sword of Kings with dragon fire, its steel folded not ten, not a hundred, but a thousand times with countless blows of his hammer upon the anvil. The old gods helped him in his craft, giving the blade a mystical ability that only a worthy king may wield it when the time is right.” He remarked. His fingers stopped at a page of the book and lifted it to show Bjorn a crude sketch of the sword, “And so, Adamar fought with the weapon he made. But he was slain defending his beloved city by the undead. His son Aragar took up his mantle and fought with a deadly ferociousness against the deathly terror,”

Bjorn listened closely to the tale the old man tells. He had heard of the many stories that bring upon the creation of the mighty sword. Some said that it was the gods that created the blade, others speak of the Exiled attacked the humans because it was theirs. He never knew which version of its creation was true. Yet, the Scholars of his old home speak of Adamar and his Aragar as the first kings of the land – one that the monarchs of the old empire were descended from – or at least, that is what they believe.

“Aragar had an armor as dark as the night with a cape that matches the color of blood. He held his father’s blade in his hand and ended the war by driving the Exiled back to where they came from,”


“The Deserts of Sarran,” Bjorn said.

“Indeed,” Orwell said. “But the war had its consequences. The pointy eared men left the land after their people suffered a near extinction. The horselords retreated into the Great Plains and the mightiest kingdoms fell as the conflict ravaged their homes. Even Aragar was said to have left the lands for reasons unknown to their people and the throne is empty just like it did for our current times.” The old man sighed as he closes the book. “War has been the blood of our land, it existed for so long that it almost became a daily routine.”

Bjorn tilted his head, “What about the wall?”

“Ah, that.” The Master said. “It was Vyrn the Keeper, Aragar’s son who built it. The Order of the Immortal Sun is the shield that guards the land and the sword that struck the heart of darkness. We were founded on that belief.” He stood up from his stool and slid the book back into the rack. Then the sound a horn bursts through the walls, loud like a lion’s roar. He looked out the window, looking at the knights rushing towards the gates. “Come now, Bjorn the Northman. Story time’s over, it’s time to bring you to the smiths to get you ready,”

“Ready for what?” he asks, looking around as he notice the people moved in haste.

“For your first encounter,”



AUTHOR'S NOTE: Alright, been wanting to delve into the history of the Order of the Immortal and started to focus on the more supernatural aspects of Calradia. Also, there's a few more characters introduced and hope you guys like them .

There's still a lot more to discover in the story and big plans coming up. Wish you enjoyed the new chapter!

Mods used for the screenshots: Phantasy Calradia and Nova Aetas.

Gah, I wanted to play one of the newer Total War games but my PC won't be able to handle its graphics. It sucks to have a potato PC. Have you tried the Medieval Kingdoms mod for Atilla yet?

The image of the prince standing before her at the battle stuck in her mind like glue. It haunts her even for a slight moment. To face the one man she cherished since childhood as a friend turned enemy is something she had feared for a long time. To hold the Dragon’s Fury and face Prince Edward. Isolla knew that he was another obstacle to face when she enact her plans to seize the throne.

She stands in her chambers, looking out the windows with her eyes gazing at the night skies of the city. It has been a few weeks since the battle and the people have been working with all their effort to rebuild the city. Stonemasons, engineers, soldiers and the common folk all worked together to restore life in Dhirim. She dressed herself with a simple dress, wanting to be a normal person just for a day.

A sudden knock bursts at the door and Isolla turned around, frowning. “Milady,” Richard called out. His voice can be heard from outside the chambers. “It’s time for the meeting,”

“Ah, yes.” She said. She went over her closet and pulled her noble’s clothes out of it. It was a dress of gold and red, trimmed with golden patterns. She changed her clothes and puts on a cloak made out of a lion’s fur.

As she went out from her room, Richard stood beside the door wearing his own armor – a black brigandine with iron gauntlets and greaves. He kept his black helmet close to his side and carries a bastard sword hanging from his side. “Is everything alright, milady?” he asked with concern.

Isolla nodded with no words to speak. She kept herself silent as she walked through the halls and finds a way to the war room. She remembered how the castle halls used to look like – beautiful, with paintings hanging on each side of the walls, busts of old kings were arranged at the throne room and their deeds were written in stone. Now her eyes could only see the halls without any of the paintings nor of the faces of the old monarchs of Swadia.

The war room was different. It was large enough to fit 12 lords of Swadia and a large round table made out of stone, with the map of the land itself was carved into it. There were also twelve statues of knights surrounding the table, they were all carved with masterful hands. One could see the wrinkles on their faces, the intricate details of the carvers shone through every bit of the statues as if they were alive. These were the 12 Guardian Lords of Swadia.

Isolla stepped inside and saw the few lords that pledged their undying fidelity to her. Rochabath, Haringoth, Devlian and Deckard of Praevor himself. All 4 of them took their places in one of the twelve seats arranged around the large table and as she walked in, there were seven empty seats.

Her eyes peered to her lords and to the seven which would be filled with a noble trustworthy enough to become Swadia’s new protectors. Her father told her of how the Twelve Guardians stood with the King in its most dire times. She vaguely remembered who were the knights and lords who served her father when she was little. Yet she knew how important they were in safeguarding Swadian lands.

As she sat down, the rest of the vassals did the same. All eyes looked at her, waiting for their queen to speak. “Our war with the loyalists won’t end with our decisive victory here. We must make our moves as soon as possible. Harlaus has many allies, he could outnumber us quite easily. His wealth would bolster the numbers of their armies by hiring mercenaries from across the land or even from far away.”

“Then we must strike the heart of the Swadians first.” Rochabath speaks out. He pointed at the capital, Praven. “It’s the heart of the kingdom. We can either sack it or simply take it for our own benefits.”

Haringoth crossed his arms and leaned against his chair, keeping his eyes on the table. “But you have forgotten that Praven is the home to thousands of soldiers. Even if we managed to claim the city for ourselves, we would a suffer a devastating loss at their hands.”

Deckard sat there in silence, his eyes fixed upon the stone table. With all the voices that echoed around him, he ignored them as it seems. Yet, he listened closely to their words all while succumbing himself to the questions he had in his mind. “Solidify your rule here, your Grace. Trying to conquer a land far from the city would be difficult to keep it in our hands. Scattered territories would make our lives a hundred times more difficult than bringing a herd of sheep to a town. I say that we take the lands surrounding the city,”

She listened closely, keeping her eyes upon Deckard as he speaks of his suggestion. She finds this to be true, the kings of old tend to conquer whatever city they want even if it is on the farthest side of the land. That’s why the Sultanate lost their grip on Jelkala a few months ago, the reason was simple – it was too far from them. She lifted her head and looked at Richard, who stood right next to her while he hears of the conversation. Her eyes meets his.

Richard gave her a nod. A simple gesture of approval. The Queen’s Hand knew about this as well and he knew that managing a kingdom should be a priority in the minds of monarchs more than conquest itself.

Isolla turned to the lords, “Very well. We will conquer the Jewel of Swadia for another time. But it won’t be enough is it not? We needed more men, more soldiers, more warriors to fight for our cause.” She said turning to Haringoth, “Do you have any suggestions?”

“I’d suggest that you should hire a band of mercenaries to your aid. Considering that the numbers of our soldiers are lower than those mustered by the loyalists, hiring them would be a wise choice.” Haringoth replied. “However, our pockets aren’t deep enough to buy a full company of Darcian Legions or the famous Silver Swords of Geroia. But it would be enough to hire a smaller, less professional mercenaries to come to our aid.”

Rochabath raised his hand and Isolla turned to him. “Might I suggest that we hire the Valorous Shields?” he suggested.

The look of shock began to paint themselves upon their faces, save for Deckard himself. The Praevorian looked the rest of the lords, with an eyebrow raised.

“No, we can’t pay them to help. Those men love nothing but swords and gold and women.” Haringoth shook his head. “The name they carry is nothing more than an insult to their former glory. They shouldn’t carrying that to show their pride. They only have **** for pride and honor. Nothing else,” he voiced his distrust.

Isolla noticed the confusion on Deckard’s expression. Naturally. He is a foreigner after all, one that fights countless armies and survived endless battles. Yet, she too knows the value of knowledge in wars – Deckard needs it. “The Valorous Shields are…a group of exiled men, deserters, people who have fallen from disgrace and find themselves kissing the dirt.” She said to him. “They would stab the backs of those who hired them for a fat amount of gold and silver. Sometimes in exchange for…women,” saying the last part disgusted her. She finds herself hating them more than the lords ever could.

Deckard nods. “We can hire them,”

They looked at him in shock. Their eyes widened and their jaws dropped. “I expect that you’re the one who’d object to this in an instant. They have no honor, no pride and have little obedience to their – “

“Wolves are nothing more than just wild dogs that feasts on flesh and dogs can be tamed.” Deckard uttered. His fiery eyes looked at every one of the lords, his words full of authority as if he faced a situation like this before. “The words of my father, once said when the lords of Praevor decided to hire a mercenary company just as notorious as the Shields. Perhaps even worse.” He said. “How do the lords did it? By making an example of them,”

Isolla looked at him with interest almost smirking as he speaks. “I’d expect you to resort to violence only when it’s necessary,”

“Knights fight for glory and honor. Mercenaries fight for gold and the sweet taste of ale. Perhaps women as well. Give them what they want, but at the first sight of treason,” Deckard leaned against his chair and crossed his arms, “Make an example of them. Cut off their balls, their hands or their heads or whatever. Crimes should not go unpunished one say, and betrayal is the worst of all.” He remarked. “That’s how the Sovereignty of Tyrus fell. How it plunged itself into a pit of turmoil.”

Everyone heard how the mighty kingdom fell. All for the throne of Tyrus. A fate that Calradia itself might suffer in the future. Chaos. Isolla heard of the Battle at the Seven Stones, the Siege of Keep of Scales, the Massacre at the Black Gates and the Fallen Crowns – battles that changed the history of Tyrus itself. Now it’s a place splintered among the nobles, it was no longer a single unified nation.

“It’s too great of a risk,” Haringoth noted.

“But it’s something worth trying for.” The queen pointed out.

“I may have an alternate solution to this problem.” Richard spoke out. His voice is flat and cold yet his eyes remained burning with ferocious flames. He shifted his gaze to Deckard, “You are a foreigner isn’t that right? Do you have any allies in your homeland? Those that are more than willing to help you?”

He sighed. “I’m just a bastard in Praevor.” The word pierced through him like a cold lance. “As if someone there would ne willing to hand over thousands of their soldiers to fight in a war far away from their homes.”

“What about your family?” the man asked. “Surely you have them. They can – “
“Richard. That’s enough,” Isolla interrupted. The thought of bringing the help of outsiders into her war is something that Isolla wouldn’t want. They already have Deckard – an outsider himself.

“You said you needed help,”

“I said we needed help. You think that I started this war for myself? That I intend to take the throne because I am its rightful heir? I do this for Swadia. Just look at the people who suffered under Harlaus’ rule!” she raised her voice. “If Deckard thinks he can’t get his family’s help then it’s fine. We’ll find another – “

“I’ll try,” the Praevorian interrupted. His voice silenced the two as they speak, “Maybe there’s a slight chance of them helping us. But it would take me a lot of time. Months at least,”

Isolla looked at him, her eyes gleamed at the torches of the room. Her eyes flickered with the colors of the flames and her lips curled into a smile. But inside her she hoped that she wouldn’t need the help of outsiders. Mercenaries are one thing but nobles? She hoped that it wouldn’t come to this but yet again, she needed help as many as she could find. She felt relief in her heart as heard those words from Deckard’s mouth, “How much time would it take? Two or three months?”

“Six months at least. But most likely, much more longer than that. If things did turn for the worse, I’ll return in 2 years.”  The Praevorian replied. “After all, I still received news that the kingdom itself is still at war with the Volirian Empire.”

Isolla nodded, “Alright. Take your time. Even if it took you a few years to muster a force strong enough to help us, we’ll wait.” She said. “When will you depart?”

“Next week, hopefully.”

“We’ll be counting on you, Deckard,”



The meeting ends in just a few more hours. Her lords disappeared from sight but she remained in the war room. Her hands covered her face. The lifelike statues of the twelve watched her as if they were alive and breathing. She had seen grand statues across the land, but none brought her a sense of unease like the twelve did when she was just a mere child.

Yet, as time passed by she had grown used to them. Even learning of what they are and what they represent. The Twelve Guardian Lords, the Vanguards, the Knights of the Twelve Swords, the Twelve Companions are some of the names she heard that were used to call these legendary figures.

She stood from her seat and walked out through the door. She heads to one of the balconies of the palace, looking over at the streets below and it was illuminated by hundreds of dazzling lights hanging over their heads. Colorful, too. Purple, red, yellow, blue, green. It was night by the time the meeting ends and the skies were scattered with thousands of sparkling lights – the stars watched over them. She lifted her head to look upon the sky and saw the moon reigned over the blanket of darkness accompanied by the stars. “Guide me, father.” She said under breath.

Down at the streets, she saw Deckard walking from the castle. At that instance she remembered how she saw his eyes in the dungeons beneath Dhirim. From her prisoner to a lord of her newfound kingdom. “The Champion of Swadia, huh?” she said to herself. Isolla remembered of the words that spread about the one the people called as their ‘champion’. A fierce protector who rose from a simple mercenary company to a lord of the kingdom. She smirked as her eyes locked onto him. She never thought that it was him who had the people’s trust.

Then her mind returned to the time at the Battle of Dhirim, to the time when Deckard had defeated Grainwad the Giant. He was a terrifying foe, one that she wouldn’t want to face even with a dozen men standing at her side. She knew that the Giant would easily overwhelm her forces with sheer strength alone. But Deckard? He’s different.

She saw how he fought. His ferocity mixed with a deadly grace, the way he holds his sword is different – as if he survived countless hells to be able to achieve such lethal efficiency with the sword. It took her a while to realize that.



AUTHOR'S NOTES: There's not much happening once again in this chapter, sorry for that but I wanted to set up the future plot points for the next few chapters so stay tuned.

Also, been playing Nova Aetas for quite a while now. It's a fun mod, especially with the new features that made it a unique mod. It had a few good scenes which is ideal for me to use it for the AAR.

Anyways, hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Heading for the Renaissance era? Is that what you suggested? If so, I'd like to keep the story at a medieval theme that's based before the Renaissance.