Wyrmhaven

Chapter One: Bad Dreams

Hungry flames ate at the stones, the walls, and the wood, attempting to devour everything like a raging, hungry monster.

“GIVE HIM TO ME, TAELIA!”

A growling, booming voice like thunder and rock yelled over the flames, which flared up at the sound of the voice.

“He is not here! You are too late!”

“LIES! I SENSE HIM!”

Putrid yellow and green orbs pierced through the flames. They were eyes, and their malice burned hotter than the fire surrounding them. A beautiful blonde woman stood defiant against those eyes. Her ears were pointed, but her skin was silver and white scales. She wore brilliant armor like a shining star within the darkness and flame.

In her right hand was a blade of radiant light, a silver-tongued beacon of power that the woman raised up against the eyes. A chuckle that sent shivers down the spine emanated from the surrounding darkness around the eyes.

A darkness that was not darkness but scales blacker than a starless, moonless night. Like a giant glacier, the darkness moved, and scarlet light built within the darkness before it rushed out like a tide. Blazing fire bathed the woman, but when the flame died, she still stood, unburnt.

“YOUR POWER HAS GROWN, TAELIA. IT WILL NOT BE ENOUGH. GIVE ME THE BABE AND YOUR DEATH WILL BE QUICK.”

In answer, Taelia raised her silver sword.

“Come, betrayer! We shall see who dies this day!”

Away from the fire, Taelia, and the malicious eyes, another woman was in a tunnel deep under the now-burning castle. She clutched a small form to her chest and sat astride a huge black horse. She spurred the horse onward, and it began to trot and then run before galloping as fast as it could.

It was some time before she emerged from the tunnel into a dark forest.

The great voice roared from behind her, but the woman ignored it. Instead, as if carried on the whispering wind, words stirred the form she clutched to her chest.

“Ash Lorcan,” the words that began as a whisper grew into a gale.

“ASH LORCAN!”

---

Ash opened his eyes, his hands snapping to his throat, certain his lungs were filled with smoke.

“Fore’s teeth, boy, you’re sweating like a pig. Calm yourself, and get ready. We have chores to get done.”

His rapid heart slowed at his uncle’s words, and he lowered his hands, forcing himself to take more measured breaths. The air was clean, and there was no smoke at all. He still felt hot all over, like a fire burned inside him. It’s the same every time, he thought.

Chores? He blinked. Nothing is burning. I’m still in Sarvhall, on the farm.

He sat up, rubbing his arms; his skin was sweaty and nearly burned at the touch.

Outside his window, it was still dark, but this had been his life since he was old enough to use his hands, and he knew dawn wasn’t too far off. He pushed himself out of bed, and his uncle’s nose wrinkled.

“I suggest a shower before you head out, lad.”

Ash opened his mouth, but his uncle raised one of his burly hands,

“I know, it’s better to take one after, but you reek, boy. Like ashes and rotting wood. Best you take two, eh? I think the scripts can handle it. Go on, now.”

His uncle stood up from the edge of his bed, and he was so big that he took up most of the room, especially with his dark clothes, wool cape, and shepherd staff. He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, a habit Ash knew he had picked up from the military.

“I’ll take care of gathering the feed, but it’s your turn to do the mucking out today.”

His uncle swept his brown eyes over the room, raising an eyebrow. He picked up the basket of rocks near his feet and moved them aside so they were less in the way. Then he picked up a discarded book, raising an eyebrow at his nephew as he held the book.

“And by Fore’s burly beard, boy, would it kill you to get rid of some of this stuff? Do you need all of those books, eh? Or these rocks?”

Ash rubbed the back of his neck, smiling and lowering his eyes.

His uncle shook his head,

“Some things never change. Get to it, boy. Your aunt will have breakfast waiting for us after we’re done. Then, we have the house to get ready for Remembrance Day.”

Ash nodded, and before his uncle left, he paused, muttering something to himself that Ash couldn’t hear. He went to his bathroom. All he had to do was touch the script on the wall under the spigot, and the script along the metal lit up red and blue as water poured out of it in a steady stream.

He adjusted the heat by running his fingers over the script to the right. The red light responded by glowing ever so brighter than the blue. For not the first time, he wondered how it worked. No one around could explain it to him.

Only adventurers knew about that sort of thing, and the very few that had passed through Al’Herder farm hadn’t been in the mood to answer a sixteen-year-old’s questions. As the hot water washed away the sweat and stink, he again yearned to travel the world.

Dominion was a vast continent that had not yet been fully explored, even by the four large kingdoms that covered it.

Most of all, he yearned to be an adventurer.

He scrubbed his hair under the water, rolling his neck. Swiping right over the script, the red light completely overpowered the blue now.

The heat had never bothered him. He had only ever felt hot when he had that dream.

After his shower, he dressed, not as heavy as his uncle, because the cold rarely bothered him. His shepherd's staff was a simple piece of wood but comfortable in his hands. Longingly, he looked at the large collection of rocks he had found in his walks on the farm and nearby forest.

They were all bright, and one of his favorite things was to polish them, placing them one by one into the basket they resided in. His books were unorganized, seemingly thrown on the shelves haphazardly, and many of their pages were bent at the ear.

I better head out before Uncle Derrick gives me an earful, he thought. Leaving the room, he headed for the sheep pens. The huge pitchfork he used waited for him by the pens. The sheep paid him no mind, not only used to him but used to the authority of the staff.

He moved them to one side of the pen with the staff, touching them gently with the hook at the end of his staff. If they didn’t listen, he’d get Bruce, the old sheepdog that had been in the family since he was an infant.

His flock was so well trained that he hardly ever had to worry about it. After moving the sheep, he started on the mucking. It took time, but he had done this job many times. So many times, in fact, he was hardly bothered by the smell anymore.

He was finished in less than two hours.

He wiped his brow, watching his breath turn white as it hit the air. Dawn’s light began to play across the farm, and a rooster crowed. He was about to help his uncle with the other chores, and a chilling howl split the air.

Ash whipped his head around. Wolves? That didn’t make sense. Wolves didn’t just attack out of nowhere.

But sure enough, he saw several gray forms emerge from the forest, fangs bared.

They were headed right for him and the sheep, a wild light in their eyes.

His hands tightened on his pitchfork, and his heart began to hammer on the anvil of his ribs.

Chapter Two: Lost Sheep

High-pitched fearful bleats cut through the air, mixing with the snarls of the oncoming wolves. The sheep were well trained, but no matter how well trained they might be, their fear overpowered it. They pressed against the wooden pen, and while his uncle had used good, strong wood to build the fence, there were more than twenty sheep in that pen, all struggling, pressing, to get out.

The wood cracked like lightning from the open sky, and the sheep fled, with wolves pursuing gray blurs and flashing fangs. Ash looked on, fingers tightening around his pitchfork; he rushed forward to defend the sheep.

His heart was attempting to claw its way out of his chest. He struck with the pitchfork, awkwardly catching a snarling wolf on the flank. It yelped, but Ash achieved little with his attack, not even piercing the skin.

“No!” He yelled as another wolf bit into the heels of a sheep, going for its throat when it stumbled.

Like a slashed tomato, liquid squirted from the animal’s throat, smearing its white fluff and the dirt beneath it. Ash tried again to attack the wolf, his vision narrowing and throat constricting as he felt everything heighten.

The wolf dodged the poor excuse for a weapon, its eyes gleaming with unmasked madness, and lashed out at him.

He tried to dodge, but he tripped, falling on his butt. He skidded back as the wolf went for the kill, bearing down on him. He tried to get the pitchfork between them, but it slipped out of his fingers, so instead, he crossed his arms over his face.

I’m going to die here; the thought made him cry out as he was unable to contain the fear.

He felt heat and sharp pain in his arm as the snarling wolf bit into his arm, drops of saliva coating his face. At that moment, all that existed was the blood running from his wound, the growling of the monster wolf trying to kill him, and the pain like a thousand needles plunging into his arm.

Then, suddenly, it was gone. The wolf was hefted off of him and thrown away. His uncle was there, looking far different than Ash had ever seen him.

He no longer held a shepherd's staff but a sword gleaming in the morning light. Uncle Derrick wielded it like a hero from the adventure novels Ash loved to read. His footing was sure, and his bearing was confident. He flowed like river water as the snarling wolf leaped at him, and the razor-sharp blade cut the wolf open from jaw to tail.

Hot, stinking viscera fell to the ground in a steaming pile, the wolf’s corpse falling to the ground with a thud.

Ash clutched at his arm, blood coating his fingers.

“Uncle, watch out!”

But the warning was unnecessary; Uncle Derrick was already moving, ending the second wolf’s life as easily as the first.

Ash’s jaw fell in awe as his uncle moved as fast as a free-flowing stream, killing another wolf. That should have sent them running, Ash was sure. Wolves didn’t keep attacking over and over like this. But they normally didn’t attack in the open and in the light of day like this, either.

Two more attacked his uncle, but it did the predators no good. Uncle Derrick didn’t just move like water; he fully embodied the element, and the wolves could not touch him.

In his books, Ash had read about adventurers who could control water so precisely that they could use the element like a blade. This wasn’t one of his books, but his Uncle lashed out just like one of those storybook adventurers wielding water like a weapon.

No matter how many came at him, the wolves didn’t have a chance. When he was surrounded by six dead wolves, steaming piles of blood and guts, Uncle Derrick relaxed his stance.

He was barely breathing hard.

His brown eyes swept around, scanning for more threats. When he was satisfied, Uncle Derrick grunted. He turned to Ash, his eyes landing on the bloody gash in his arm.

“We need to get that looked at. Come on, boy, close your mouth and go see your aunt. Get that wound tended to.”

Ash gaped for a second or two before slowly closing his mouth and shaking his head.

“How? What?”

“No questions now, lad. Go on before you pass out from blood loss.”

Uncle Derrick looked into the forest, turning his lips downward into a frown, his eyes gaining a troubled shadow.

“Something’s not right here. Not right at all,” Ash barely caught the muttered words as he stood up.

“But, Uncle, what about the sheep?”

Derrick waved a hand,

“Go. I don’t want you in the forest just now. I’ll be retrieving them. If you really want to help, you can help your aunt around the house after your wound is seen to. Guests will be arriving in a few hours.”

With that, his Uncle turned, striding into the forest, fingers tightening around the hilt of the sword he held.

Ash watched him go, still bleeding and still in pain; he went inside to see his aunt.

---

“What happened, dear? Slip and fall?”

Ash shook his head,

“No, Auntie. Wolves attacked. The sheep got out of the pen and fled into the forest. Uncle Derrick killed some of the wolves; he had a sword! He used it like a real adventurer! Did you know he could do that?”

Aunt Dara furrowed her brows,

“Wolves? Speak plain, dear, start at the beginning.”

Ash laid out the story, and Aunt Dara tended to his wound as he did. First, she cleaned it, causing him to wince, and then she wrapped it in a clean bandage she pulled from a healing kit she kept in the kitchen above the cooling box.

When Ash finished recounting his tale, Aunt Dara merely looked troubled, her storm-gray eyes looking out the window. Almost absently, she tugged on her silver-white braid.

“Wolves don’t attack like that,” she stated.

Ash shrugged,

“But they did. Did you miss the part where Uncle Derrick had a sword? Did you know he had a sword, Auntie?”

She waved a hand before smoothing her brown apron,

“Never mind the sword, dear. We have a lot to be about. We can start with prepping the food to be cooked. Do you think you can handle a knife without cutting yourself again, hmm?”

Ash nodded before getting to work.

“Did Uncle Derrick always have a sword?”

Aunt Dara paused in peeling a potato.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Even as she asked the question, her eyes held a hint of amusement, her matronly features wry.

Ash rubbed the back of his neck,

“Come on, Auntie, please tell me?”

He gave her a pleading look. The same look he used when he was small.

Aunt Dara threw her head back, rich laughter pouring from her throat. Ash grinned, knowing he would be getting an explanation out of her now.

She shook her head before returning to peeling potatoes as she spoke.

“It’s no great mystery, dear. Your uncle served in the king’s army. All soldiers pick up some swordplay in their service.”

Ash’s jaw dropped for a second time that morning,

“How come no one told me?”

Aunt Dara sighed, laying down the peeler. Her voice hardened just a bit.

“You need to understand something, Ash, my dear. The world is not one of your fantasy novels. Soldiering is dangerous, and when it’s wartime…” Aunt Dara closed her eyes and breathed.

“It’s one thing to fight monsters. That’s horrifying, but it’s a whole new level when you’re killing other men. We don’t talk about it because your uncle doesn’t like to remember that time.”

Ash nodded, but the explanation didn’t quite kill his excitement.

“Do you think he’d teach me, Uncle, I mean?”

“You’d have to ask him; I might have said he would be against the idea…but you might need to know how to defend yourself now.”

Ash lapsed into his work as he allowed his mind to wander, imagining the epic training sessions he would have with his uncle and all the wolves he’d fend off with a shining blade.

They worked several hours prepping food, cleaning, and decorating the large farmhouse. Furniture was pushed aside, and even with his wounded arm, Ash whistled as he worked.

“Someone’s excited,” Aunt Dara observed.

“Well, it’s Remembrance Day!”

“Mm. Which means the story, of course.”

“Am I that predictable?”

Aunt Dara laughed again,

“Dear, you’re sixteen. Of course, you’re predictable. I think you’d be tired of hearing the story by now. But come now, there’s another reason for your joyful mood, isn’t there? Rosalia will be here. ”

He was about to reply, his face heating up, when he heard the trotting of horses and voices outside.

Guests had finally arrived, and Remembrance Day was just about to start.

Chapter Three: Remembrance Day

Ash greeted the guests at the door with a smile on his face. Aunt Dara would give him a thorough tongue-lashing if he didn’t act like a proper host. The first to enter was, in fact, Rosalia. She was

Ash’s age, and his heart quickened when he looked at her.

Her ears poked through her wavy hair, reminding him of a sunset’s dying light. Her ears and lovely, near-perfect heart-shaped features made her an elf. He only thought her features were near perfect because she had a smattering of freckles across her nose.

He liked that most about her; it grounded her beauty and made her more real. Her blue eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky, lighting up when they landed on him.

“Ash!” She hugged him in a tight embrace that he hoped would never end. She was wearing forest green riding clothes, and they fit rather well, Ash thought, his face heating up yet again.

“Rosalia, it’s good to see you. Here, sir, let me help you with your bags!”

Rosalia’s father, a huge human man with chestnut hair and an impressive beard across his chest, had come in behind his daughter, setting down a few bags.

He grunted, allowing Ash to pick them up and take them to the guest rooms. Rosalia followed him as he did.

“Your Aunt Dara did an excellent job on the decorations! These are beautiful!”

She stopped by a pot of white campion flowers dominating a small table. Reaching out a hand, she caressed the flower with an adoring smile.

“Yeah, we had to go Deharra for them. There’s a script on the pot that preserves them. But, you know how we need white flowers on Remembrance Day, and not many are around the farm.” Rosalia nodded, looking at the other decorations.

The whole room was decorated in white, with tablecloths, paintings, and even scripted lamps burning like white flames. It was just enough not to be too much. The next room was the dining room, and the massive table was also decorated with white, down to the silverware. Beyond this room was the living room, and the story would be told there by the fireplace.

“Are you looking forward to the story?” Ash asked as they walked up the stairs to the guest room.

Rosalia shrugged,

“It’s nothing new. It’s the same old boring story. I would much rather hear about the Nythum or the Ir’Aegra.”

Ash pushed open the door, setting the bags down by the closet. He turned to Rosalia,

“But Amalia tells it so well!”

He had to admit that she did have a point. It would be nice to hear something else every once in a while. But it was Remembrance Day, and the story was a part of it. Not hearing it or changing the story that was told seemed…wrong somehow.

Rosalia raised a hand,

“She does, but it’s still the same story, no matter how well it is told.”

They left the room, and she asked,

“Do you still have that rock collection?”

Ash shifted his eyes,

“Umm…”

She giggled,

“It’s okay to have a hobby, you know!”

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as she laughed.

“Oh no, what happened?”

He turned to see what she meant and found her looking at the white campion, shock writ on her features. He saw why right away.

The flowers were dead. Every single one had wilted and turned black

“How?”

He shook his head, bending down to look at the pot base. The script still seemed to be working, and he could not do anything if it were broken. Adventurers knew scripts, not ordinary shepherds like him.

But the faint blue light was still there, so as near as he could tell, it was doing what it should be.

“Let’s go tell my aunt Dara. She’ll want to replace these.”

Voices filtered through the entryway as Rosalia and Ash neared.

“Brought all the sheep back, but there’s somethin’ wrong in that forest. All the animals…they’ve gone wild. Even the sheep didn’t want to mind.”

Uncle Derrick turned to regard Ash and Rosalia as they appeared.

Uncle Derrick grunted,

“See, your Aunt Dara patched you up. That’s good, boy.”

Rosalia looked over, brow furrowing, then her eyes widened,

“You’re hurt! I’m so sorry, Ash, I didn’t even notice.”

He rubbed his face, hoping she wouldn’t see his skin turn red,

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

Uncle Derrick winked at him, shaking Rosalia’s father’s hand.

“Always a pleasure to see ya, Court. I need to get cleaned up for tonight if you’ll excuse me. Oh, and you’re looking lovely as ever, young lady.”

Uncle Derrick walked past them as the tips of Rosalia’s ears went pink, and she shifted her right boot.

As the day passed, more people began to arrive, many of whom were families from nearby farms and the village of Dahara, a few hours' ride away.

Children began to skip, play, and sing a rhyme outside.

“Oh, twelve dark lords on dragons ride, With purple smoke and spooky pride. Their dragons twist, their hearts gone bad, They make the flowers droop and sad. Where wild light flashes and skies turn gray, They laugh and chase the sun away. Dead flowers fall, and trees don’t play, The Ir’Aegra’s near—don’t stay! They hum a tune, a creeping sound, Their shadow crawls along the ground. So run, run fast, don’t stay too long, Or you’ll join their scary song! So sing and skip, but watch the night, The Ir’Aegra hide from lantern light. When purple smoke begins to swirl, Stay inside, good girl or boy!”

He had heard the rhyme before, long ago. Something about it nagged at him, and he stared for a few long moments at the children as they skipped and sang it again.

“Always found that light-cursed rhyme to be creepy.”

The baritone was deep, with an accent he never could place.

He turned, finding exactly who he expected to find to have come up beside him. Nicholas Al’Smith was a short, stocky dwarf with skin like polished ebony and hair as dark as painted twilight. Despite his mother's prodding to dress appropriately on Remembrance Day, he always wore the same clothing, no matter the occasion.

A dark shirt tucked into dark jeans and a white smith’s smock over it. At his side was a large hammer he never left home without. His father always liked to say that his boy was born with a hammer in his hand.

With how Nicholas treated the tool, Ash didn’t doubt the story's validity.

“Good to see you, Nick.”

Nick waved a hand,

“If Pa didn’t give me so much Hero-cursed work, I’d visit more often.”

Ash winced slightly,

“Far be it for me to judge, Nick, but do you have to blaspheme?”

Nick laughed, looking up and spreading his hands.

“Why? Do you think the Light will smite me? Come on then, smite me down, o’great Light!”

Ash’s mouth fell open halfway, expecting the Light to do just that. No bolt of lightning struck his friend.

“It’s a bad idea to mock the Light, Nick.”

“Bah! What has the Light ever done for us, eh Ash?”

“The Bore…”

“Ha! The Bore! Who even knows if the Light made that eyesore, hmm?”

Ash flicked his gaze to the north. Hanging there, as it always did, and Light willing, always would, was what looked like a giant black line in the sky. He had always thought it was like a cosmic zipper.

Nick sighed,

“Never mind. I’m sorry I argued. We don’t see each other much, and the first thing I do is argue with you. I’m a Lighting fool.”

Ash put a hand on his friend’s shoulder,

“No, you aren’t. I’m the one who made a big deal out of it. Hey, let’s go inside; Amalia should be here soon.”

Nick grunted, and they went inside.

When Amalia Vane arrived, everyone knew it.

She was the storyteller and lived just outside the village of Dahara. Dressed in fine black and violet robes, her face was as pale as moonlight, and her eyes shone like amethysts on a clear day. She was slender but walked with the confidence and strength of an adventurer. Her hood was pulled up, but the one time he had seen her with it down, her hair was like dark ocean waves.

She always had eyes for Ash when she visited, as if her violet eyes could read every thought that popped into his mind. When he was younger, he had tested the theory once, looking at her and thinking she was beautiful.

She had smiled at him!

He was embarrassed to admit that he had quickly retreated to his room after that. Now, as she had every Remembrance Day past, she was here again. In her hands was a staff of purest light, with strange engravings etched into the wood.

At one point, he had asked her what the engravings were, as they didn’t look like any script he had ever seen.

All she would say was that they were,

“A gift.”

Amalia talked for a while, and then everyone sat down for the evening's meal, filling the table to bursting with foods of all kinds. Aunt Dara had cooked it all; however, everyone helped set it on the table.

After the meal, everyone packed into the living room, some having to stand at the farthest edges. Amalia stood before the fire, reaching up and slowly pulling down her hood, her black hair spilling.

The firelight made her silken hair shine like polished obsidian, a rock he had read about in one of his books and hoped to see in person one day.

She lifted her white staff, and the fire dimmed, dark shadows engulfed the room. It was time for her to deliver the story of Remembrance.

**Chapter Four: The Story

“In the beginning, there was Light and Shadow.”

Amalia’s voice was a soft caress that carried to the ears of everyone on unseen and unfelt winds. As she spoke, a white ball of Light bloomed in the darkness, bathing the room in brilliance. But the shadows were not banished. Instead, they seemed to intensify, becoming almost tangible.

“It is in the Light’s nature to create, and so it did. Dominion was born.”

There was a pulse from the ball of white that floated in the middle of the darkness. From it flowed land, a transparent, brilliant image of white blanketing most of the room. Some of the children, their eyes wide with wonder, reached up tiny hands to clutch at the image, their wonderment growing as their hands passed through it.

Amalia’s voice grew even softer, the sliding whisper of a blade on cloth.

“It is in the Shadow’s nature to slowly corrupt and consume all. So it did, spreading across the land.”

The shadows began encroaching on the land, causing thick veins of shadow to bulge within it, eventually shattering the image into shards of white.

“Desiring to protect its creation, the Light formed guardians from its substance. Tasked with beating back the Shadow.”

Splitting off from it, smaller orbs of light rushed forward, causing the shadows to recoil from them.

“Thus free to create, the Light formed the waters and the skies. It made the sun and the moon. So it was that night and day was created.”

A brilliant orange, pink, and red ball blazed over the land. After some time, it faded, replaced by a pale orb, full and soft, pulling and calling to the waters below.

“The Light desired to create something more like itself, beings who could appreciate his creations. It made the dragons.”

A roar filled the air, and many jerked or cried out. Large creatures sprawled over the land, with brilliant scales of every shade and broad wings that beat at the air. They breathed fire into the air.

“Still, the Light was not satisfied. Something was missing. It created the first people, eternal and beyond mortal beauty.”

Some males and other females began to pop up on the land. They raised their hands, swaying.

“Much to the Light’s delight and shock, its creation created something of itself—the first songs. So the Light named them the Lyrlalae, or the Singers. It gifted their music with a power to create, to shape all its own.”

Pushing their hands forward, the figures began to weave, motes of light puffing from their mouths. Trees, grass, rocks, mountains, and more began to sprout from the land. Raising their heads to the sky, stars began to dot the night sky.

Amalia’s voice turned soft and sharp once more.

“But the Shadow was not yet done. It was an insidious thing, and it began to seep into the Lights guardians, twisting their substance into something darker.”

Twisted, dark, monstrous things that defied explanation began crawling over the Light’s creation. Children cried out, clutching at their parents.

Off to the side, Ash saw Nick roll his eyes.

“These dark creatures ate away at the land, consuming all they came across, their once pure purpose distorted into a perverted thing.”

A dragon cried out, consumed by the dark creatures.

The Singers looked worried.

“The Light went to the Singers and tasked them with creating a prison. Using their powerful voices, they created a world separate from Dominion. The Nevervare.”

A world of utter black formed opposite of the vast land.

“Working with the Singers, the Light imprisoned the creatures within. But now he lacked guardians to defend what he had made, so the Light kept the Shadow at bay itself, in tandem with the remaining guardians.”

The great orb floated into the darkness, surrounded by the other small orbs; the Shadow could not overcome them.

“For a time, there was peace, and a strange thing happened. From the waters came lifeforms. Those lifeforms evolved over the eons, and the mortal races began to walk the earth. Men, elves, dwarves, and Visenium. They began to roam across the land, building, growing, and changing as time marched on.”

Buildings, villages, and society began to spread across the land.

“Through this time, Shadow had become dimmer and dimmer, but something strange happened. As Shadow dimmed, so too did the Light. It was with this that the Light understood. Neither force could exist without the other. For Light to exist, there must be Shadow, with the reverse also being true.”

We all watched Shadow and Light dimmed, with the Light’s creations beginning to warp as the Light slowly faded.

“Knowing that Shadow would corrupt and consume all if it stopped, it proposed Shadow. They would work through proxies. Should Shadow win, Light would leave all it had created to Shadow. Should Light win, Shadow would recede and cease its consumption of Light’s creations. Shadow agreed. It was with this pact that the conflict began.”

Light pulled away from Shadow, its guardians vanishing.

“The Light returned to its creation, finding that its newly born people had warred with the dragons, and the Singers had vanished. Dismayed, it went to the mortals and explained the coming conflict. It brought peace to the war through a pact between mortals and dragons. So, the Dragon Lords were formed. They flew the skies, slaying monsters and maintaining peace through Dominion. From among them, the Light chose an avatar to dwell within.”

“The Hero of Light!” A child cried out in excitement.

Amalia smiled slightly at the young girl,

“Indeed. The Hero of Light united the mortal world. But the Shadow was not to be outdone. It tempted and corrupted mortals, turning them to its purposes. One of these was a great wild dragon. Shadow dwelled within it, corrupted creatures of the land, giving birth to kobolds and other fearsome creatures.”

Lizard-like monsters sprouted up, and a massive dragon, black, twisted, and cold like Shadow, rose, a colossal army before it.

“The mortal world prepared. Building siege engines, advancing their magicks, shoring up defenses.”

A dark, visible wind, colder than a winter storm, passed through the land, settling over it like a chilling weight of unseen monsters.

“A war was coming. A war unlike any this world has ever seen since.”

That colossal army began to march across the land, razing everything it could and killing all it found. The image before them undulated, fear and despair radiating over them all.

Fear was writ on every face.

But the armies of Light rode out to meet the coming tide of Shadow.

The Hero of Light was flying on a great white dragon, blade raised high.

“The Hero of Light brought forth his armies, and the clash of these epic forces was so great the world shuddered.”

At her words, the image vibrated, threatening to tear itself apart.

“No one knows how long the war lasted; it is said to have been eons. Others claim it was hours. But no one disputes how it ended. The great dragon, the Evil One, had been defeated. The Light had won.”

On the battlefield, the armies of Light cheered, raising weapons high. The Hero of Light stood proud, his great white dragon raising its head, sending a burst of brilliant white flame from its maw into the sky.

“But the Shadow would not relent, for it was a sore loser. It refused to honor the agreement.”

A mass of Shadow erupted from the fallen dragon, gathering itself into a massive ball, ready to consume all.

On the field, the Hero of Light shook his head.

“The Hero of Light had known this was possible, so it had prepared for this. Raising his hand, he cast a great magick.”

The gathered ball of Shadow and the dragon it had resided in rose into the air and shoved through space and time with a mighty push and a burst of light. It was pushed so hard that it was shoved outside of it.

“The Light had created this place outside of creation, and in the Shadow weakened defeated state, the Hero could seal the Shadow there. But it had a cost.”

Stumbling, the Hero of Light fell to his knees, the great dragon slumping beside him. His armies gathered around him, looking horrified. The Hero of Light held out a hand.

“Without Shadow, there can be no Light. This remains true of great magic such as this. Such a thing requires sacrifice. One the Hero was glad to pay, for so he had come to love his people and the world the Light had made, he gave his life and the life of his dragon for it.”

The Hero of Light collapsed.

He was dead.

Sobs could be heard throughout the room.

Amalia’s voice turned soft, reverent,

“From that day on, the armies carried this story. They have passed it down through their families, carrying it from generation to generation. We have come to know it by one name.”

Here, the storyteller paused, and then the fire roared in the fireplace, lighting up like a beacon that bathed the room in a jubilant glow.

“Remembrance Day.”

No one spoke for several moments.

Slowly, someone began to clap, and others followed; the whole room erupted in applause.

At precisely that moment, the door burst open, shattering into splinters.

That’s when the screaming began.