The Shattered Girl

 

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Prologue

It was an autumn evening, the leafs of the young forest turning red and golden in the last warm lights of the passing summer. The breeze carried the scent of campfires, rice and rainwater, and the sound of laughter and music. The blue sun was setting, turning the sky into an electric shade of purple and silver and the distant, dark blue of a falling night. The first stars were appearing and pink veils of clouds were dancing in the atmosphere. The first lights of the city had been lit, blue crystals in the shadows of the trees. It was a beautiful evening.

The King of the Woodlands sat in the beautiful gardens outside the palace on a wooden, cushioned chair, a crystal chalice and carafe with clear water on a small table next to him. He watched children play in the distance and listened for the sounds of the city – the clangour of hammers forging blades or jewellery, the humming of the weaving mill, the sound of horns from the temple, birds singing in the trees, the soft waves of the lake splashing lightly and ever so faint. Voices were there, people talking loudly, laughing or singing. The familiar sounds of Human words, mixed with the rough, loud and happy tones of the Dwarven tongue, and the melodic, pleasant hum of Elvar voices.

The King had a smile on his lips when he took a sip of water. A blanket was covering his knees, he wasn’t wearing shoes and had put down the heavy crown. His hair underneath – once thick and black – was beginning to turn grey. He had taken off the heavy royal robes, was just wearing a simple suit of white linen with light blue and silver embroidery. His clear, green eyes were no longer those of a young man and his features, once the hard lines of a warrior, were now drawn soft with the laughter of an ageing man who had spent many good years with his family in peace.

The war was over.

“Your Majesty.”

The King looked up at the sound of the most familiar voice of his chancellor. A grin spread on the monarch’s face and he raised his chalice in a salute to greet the other man.

“Good evening Andrew. Is the gathering over?” he inquired calmly. The chancellor nodded as he left the palace and approached the king. His long, blue and white robes swaying with every step, his soft shoes made no sound on the grass.

“Yes, your Majesty. The Queen sends her love, she’ll be retiring to her chambers, she is exhausted.”

“I can believe that. I will join her soon. It’s been a long day for everyone. Nice… but long… Can I win you for a glass of water before you leave, Andrew?”

“Thank you for the invitation, your Majesty, but I must decline. I want to be home earlier today. Or my wife’s wrath might actually make the Beyond freeze over,” the chancellor commented with worry in his voice. The King laughed.

“Oh Andrew, is your memory failing you? The Beyond is already a terribly cold place.”

“Terribly cold indeed,” the chancellor confirmed with a smile. And eventually, both men laughed. Honest, heartfelt laughter. The King leaned back in his armchair and took a sip of the cool, fresh water in his chalice. His gaze wandered to the eight gigantic statues of white marble and gold, depicting the Gods watching over their city. The Rule Of Eight, their new pantheon. Dear friends.

“Will the Alliance stay for breakfast tomorrow?” he then asked.

“King David of Udmark, Lord Aryos of Deist, and possibly the Elvar Regent. The Empire and her family will return north tonight.”

“What? Why didn’t you say so?!” the King put down his chalice and looked every bit like he wanted to jump up from his chair. “I wish to say my farewell. Gods know when I’ll see them again.”

“I’d never leave without saying goodbye to you, uncle.”

Both King and chancellor turned towards the gates of the palace. The boyish grin on the Kings face made way for a much softer, warmer smile when he watched the young woman approach. She stood out among the green, white and blue of this city: her precious robes were of deep red brocade with golden embroidery, her long, dark curls fell almost to her hip and she was wearing a simple golden crown on her head, resembling dancing flames with small drops of rubies. Her noble, hard features were oh so familiar to the King – she was the spitting image of her parents. The high cheekbones and full lips of her mother, the prominent nose and light, amber glowing eyes of her father. Her smile was a beautiful one when she bowed down to hug her uncle in his chair. She gently pressed her warm lips on his forehead, then turned towards the chancellor to greet him with a nod.

The King looked past her to the gates where her Champion waited, in respectable distance. He had their young son on his arm. Looking at them reminded the King of how they would still be young and beautiful even when he, his city, everything they saw around them now, would be long turned to dust. They would remain. Their people had been here for as long as time and they would still be here when all else had faded. Such was the burden of the immortals.

“As much as I would have loved to join your Harvest celebrations, we must return North,”

He took the young woman’s hand. He knew she was just being polite. The Empire cared little for what she called their humany shagayatra’. Shenanigans, when she felt like using commoners tongue. But he appreciated her good will – it was something her father had often lacked when it came to understanding Human customs.

And she had to return North, that much was true. Many things had changed in the Great North since she had claimed the throne but one thing remained: The North needed a Drakyrioth.

“Have a safe journey home, my Lelya. I hope Sophia didn’t bore you to death with her diplomacy?”

“Never,” the young woman replied with a smile. A smirk really, that resembled the one her father used to wear on his face. So similar it was almost frightening. She had not known him, he had died just before she had been born, but everyone told her how much she resembled him. The King raised a hand to her cheek and nodded. She understood the gesture, understood that in this moment she reminded him so much of her parents. She nodded back, then turned towards the chancellor, placing a hand on his arm.

“Farewell, Andrew. Until our paths shall cross again. Vadya.”

Vadya,” the chancellor returned the greeting with a deep bow towards the Empire, the grandest of all rulers of Arcadia.

With these words of farewell spoken in the ancient, melodic tongue of the Great North, the family retreated to prepare their journey home.

Silence fell over the garden. After a while, the chancellor wordlessly bowed and left as well, returning to his own family, leaving the King alone with his thoughts. He closed his eyes, enjoying the peaceful evening. But the approaching laughter of children tore him back out of an almost slumber. He blinked and saw a group of children come closer, the youngest barely even four years old, the eldest – his granddaughter – just over ten years. A happy smile appeared on his face.

“Well, what brings all of you to me?” he inquired happily, as the children got comfortable on cushions on the grass before him – looking every bit like they wanted to stay a while.

“We want to hear a story!!” young Shayne Drakyrioth demanded.

“Please,” his shy little sister Lynnda added. Both were slender, dark haired children with the green eyes of their father and grandmother.

“Yeah! Please!” Shayne confirmed, like he had just remembered the magic word.

“A story you say?” the King asked and ran a hand over his beard.

“Yes! With monster and knights!”  

“A really scary one!” the fearless Rosalee of Finn added, a tiny blonde with big, brown eyes and freckles on her nose.

“B-but with a happy ending…” Lynnda whispered, clutching her brother’s arm. Shayne dramatically rolled his eyes at her and the King laughed, because he remembered the boy’s grandmother to roll her eyes just like that.

All my stories have happy endings, Lynnda dear,” he reminded her. She sighed relieved and nodded. The King turned towards his granddaughter. Princess Tabrett was tall for her age, lean like her mother, with long, light blonde hair and the odd eyes of her grandmother – the left one a dark, mossy green, the right one bluish-grey like the sky just before a storm. “Tabrett, would you mind fetching my pipe and herbs?”

“Of course, grandfather,” the girl confirmed. She gathered her white linen skirts and curtsied, practicing her manners like a young Princess should in her opinion. Even though the Queen herself could not care less about etiquette. The blonde girl hurried away in graceful movements like a young fawn, disappearing within the halls of the palace.

The King turned towards the remaining children and leaned close, his voice intriguing.

“Oh do I have a story for you. A story of monsters and knights. A story of evil witches and malevolent warlocks, cruel gods, and the destiny of an entire world. Of course, a story about Dragons. A story of brave warriors and beautiful princesses – and those that are a bit of both. Proud Elvar, grim Dwarves, and Humans, with all our virtues and flaws. A story of conquerors and the conquered, of magical kingdoms beyond your wildest dreams! Of friendship and loneliness, loyalty and treason, love outlasting death and hate devouring the soul – and everything in between. The story I have for you can only be told once, so listen carefully, for it is the story of life itself. And it begins many, many years ago in a tiny village by the harsh white coast. A village known by the strange name of Prof…

 

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