Prologue

Gåntham's doom, began by a man

An immortal man, a dangerous hand

Forged in iron of secrets and lies

Through fated magic, chaos will rise.

So spoke a divine oracle of Nauthos, God of Gods, these dreaded, true words, to proud King Tristan and young Queen Maewynn on the night of their nuptial. Once having heard these words, harsh precautions were made. Those already rare magic-users were corralled and slaughtered like lambs, and even the mere whisper of the word 'magic' was outlawed. The King believed Gåntham to be safe, for this 'fated magic' the Prophecy had mentioned had been swept from the land.

But Fate is not something to be stopped.

Eight years passed, and there was peace. Prosperity in Gåntham and its three states; northern Olior which held the capital, farming Keethra of the west, and east Zånthah's barbarism.

But then, the world shifted. Something-someone- was rising, something terrible and dark and dangerous. Villages of people began to disappear at night, men gone altogether, raped women crying over their dead children's bodies, unable to speak, unable to live any longer, for they always would end up killing themselves. Always.

The King was puzzled. What had days before been a prosperous land had turned black before him. And, in less than a year, the source revealed itself.

It wasn't human, it couldn't be human. It was an army, a massive army. The soldiers weren't men, but instead beasts of men. They carried no sword or spear, instead, sharpened nails and teeth.

One could scarcely recognize them as the men who had gone missing, but indeed they were.

At their head was the most terrifying thing of all. It stood seven feet tall, with the figure of a man, but covered in charcoal grey armor. The breastplate was designed with black engravings, swirls that shaped themselves into terrible images and seemed to move with him. The helmet was angular and sharp, with spikes set around the ears and chin. The shoes were pointed like claws down to the earth. But even in this thick suit of metal, it still moved with inhumane grace and speed.

It called itself Kaethurios, the man of Night.

The King gathered together his armies and tried to fight this hellish force, but he was loosing. Loss over loss over loss, nothing he did could slow Kaethurios and his army.

Then the Queen fell pregnant with her first child. At the news of this, the King doubled his efforts, called together every single man above the age of ten to fight. They began, not to win, but neither were they loosing. They were holding their own ground.

The Queen gave birth to the child in the late months of Summer, and the King felt as if they might finally have that flicker of hope they needed to drive out the enemy.

But, the night following the child's birth, the baby was gone. The poor Queen came to it's cradle in the early morning, and fell into a dead faint, because all that was left were blood soaked sheets. No body, nothing but dark, red blood.

Even stranger was that, the same day, the whole of Kaethurios' army vanished, along with him. No sign but burnt land and memories of the lost remained of the war.

Still, the land did not return to its former glory, instead, fell to ruin. The King and Queen lost themselves in a pit of utter sadness over the death of their daughter, leaving the kingdom to the Council, a group of corrupted nobles who only wanted power, money, and their own safety.

Twenty years passed, and the chaos spoken of in the Prophecy seemed to have come true.

But, in fact, it had only just begun.

Author's Note

Info dump, I know. If anyone has any suggestions to fix this or make it better, greatly appreciated.

Reviews

[MindIsAnOcean]

True, a bit of an info dump, but intriguing.