Prologue.1 - The Prisoner's Request

If you still have ears for the prayers of mortals...hear this one. Deity, demon, whatever you are...lend your power to this realm once again and punish the guilty, these oppressors, that understand only the persuasion of force.

On the day 321 of 366, 500 OV (after Blithe Haven’s legendary founder, Ovar Madven), a certain prisoner muttered this prayer, his posture still as he sat on his plank bed. His eyes closed in a moment of ponderous silence, which was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from outside. The footsteps died away like a ghost in the light of dawn, only to be replaced by a hammering noise and the sound of the building’s outer door bursting open, several floors below.

So, you visit me again at long last.

Outside, the oppressor in question and notorious tyrant of Blithe Haven, Mason Beech, marched through into Blithe Haven’s most hated prison: the Hall of Infamy. The prison stood on the western side of Public District, more commonly referred to as P-District, the city’s busiest area.

The prisoner cringed and knit his brows. But when he glanced up at the sky through his little window in the stone, his eyes brightened as he beheld a swath of pale light.

The silver-lined clouds split open, and the gentle light of the moon shone down upon the stone walls of Blithe Haven. Chiseled into each of the four stained black stone gates was the emblem of the Blithe Fruit, sacred for its miraculous fortification properties. The renderings were true to the actual fruit in the orchard; they showed a single piece, roughly circular, with spike-like valves near the top, which resembled a human heart.

This prisoner, Castor, had a special ability to sense things that most people couldn’t. Some called the ability spirit-awareness. It allowed him to soul-conjure certain dead, a singularly rare ability in the sphere of Blithe Haven’s citizenry. The ancient gift was more common during the Age of Heroes before ‘the lull,’ which had begun many centuries ago. In fact, it had been 2,700 years since the oracle had declared that the gods were finished interceding on behalf of humanity. The full moon heightened Castor’s unique ability. It also let him see more deeply into his surroundings. He wasn't ignorant to the maddening noise below, despite the thick stone floor beneath him.

Taking advantage of the moonlight that filtered into his cell, he prepared to perform his soul-conjuring ritual, footsteps or not.

On a small wooden stand beside his wretched plank bed stood a candle that had been burned down nearly to the base. He lit it by striking pieces of flint together. The light soon danced and gently warmed the contours of his face, which had been hardened by eighteen years of prison life. He was not old, barely entering middle-age, in fact. But white stubble clung to his cheeks like persistent snow, while frazzled locks of shoulder-length, matted hair shielded his eyes. Like all Blithe Haven prisoners, his face bore the mark of his crime. An ‘M’ for magician had been seared into his cheek many years ago by his oppressors when he had been denounced and arrested.

An unknown rancid smell melded strangely with aromas of burning wax and sweat. Flinging a fistful of sawdust into the air, Castor commenced the ritual. Moonlight from his window struck the frail candlelight, and in the play of dust and muttered incantations that only he could understand, he opened his eyes and saw the flickering figures of his ancestors. Some had lived 500 years ago or more. Weeping, cringing faces emerged in the light and dust and then faded away. Castor clenched his fists and grit his teeth when he saw them.

Your pain and suffering echo my own. They thought they had snuffed us out. They thought they could bury us and carry on without any repercussions.

The sawdust and candle smoke burst into a flurry of war and slaughter. He watched the genocide of his people as it occurred, courtesy of the founders of Blithe Haven. Castor sought to honor his ancestors’ unjust deaths through this ritual. It was the only way he knew how.

I’ll never forget. Revenge will come in one way or another. Man may turn a blind eye, but the gods are always watchful, and at least some of them have a sense of justice. Please, someone up there, witness this prayer.

He closed his eyes and let the dust permeate his lungs.

My people were conquered by Ovar Madven because they were peace-loving. If only they had known that peace and good intentions can only get one so far in this world.

He took a deep breath and dispersed the dust. It scattered and distorted the images of pain and slaughter.

If only they had been prepared.

Author's Note

Synopsis: For 500 years, the ruling nobles of Blithe Haven have preyed on the commoners. They used the mythical fruit in their Sacred Grove to assure dominance. Heeding the cries of the countless souls of the human sacrifices to their Sun Goddess, along with the prayers of a certain prisoner, supernatural powers are summoned that augury relief and vengeance. Strangely, this supernatural power is offered to an unlikely recipient: Sayra Beech, the daughter of Blithe Haven's most powerful tyrant and noble.

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