Valadel

Valadel Rising / Prologue

TYREN LEVELL

The final days of the Elven Age, many, many years ago...

AND SO IT WAS, that this was to be the end of the world.

Tyren Levell always thought the world would end with the Gods above descending from the heavens, splitting open the skies, and proclaiming this world was over, for it was time to make way for the next. He'd imagine flying through the cosmos on the back of some celestial being traveling to different worlds, closer to Gods than to mortals, but no, Tyren Levell was wrong. The Gods didn't herald the end of the world. It was men who did, and they turned the world around them to ash.

They were a crude and primitive race, created long before Tyren, his father, or even his grandfather were born. Their birth was made possible only by the ancient magic, dark and twisted in its ways, courted only by the most vile of villains. They were brutish in their appearance, short and stocky and hairy, waving around their steel in the air like animals fueled only by their bloodlust and hubris. Once the elves ruled over them and there was peace, but peace is a fragile thing and easily shattered. When Jorik Freemane, the champion of the Revolution of Man, crafted the first sword and killed his elven master, the rest of mankind followed suit, and soon, the elven people found themselves diminished in every way a people could.

The sun was low in the sky, but nightfall was quite some time away. Tyren walked along the castle walls and placed his hands along the stone railing, casting his gaze upon his home, the corpse of a kingdom his family had ruled for thousands of years. The image before him nearly shattered his heart. Since the days the Gods walked the earth, his family had known the names of kings and queens. From Zennel himself his family claimed lineage, and his ancestral home was a wondrous place. Smoke filled the skies from fires below, raging wildly in the streets. Screams and wails filled his ears. It weighed upon him like a great stone that they couldn't save everyone, but it gave him some small relief they were able to save who they could. Still, it was a poor king who couldn't protect his people, but Tyren would never say such a thing to his brother. Not even a king was above destiny, and for reasons Tyren would never know, the Gods decided this as the fate of elvenkind. At times, when Tyren would go up to the castle ramparts at night, when all was quiet, life seemed as it was before. Peaceful, a time of enlightenment and serenity. But the men had sought to destroy that long ago.

Buildings crumbled and withered away from the winds of war, and the city once filled with life and stories was swept away with it. The siege had lasted long, but they broke through the walls days ago. It was only a matter of time before the men would descend upon them.

Tyren felt a hand on his shoulder, and his firecaster grew warm beneath his palm, the crystal glowing orange within the golden band that encircled his wrist. The face of his brother came into view, handsome, brave, stoic as ever. His hand was cool on Tyren's shoulder, and eased away Tyren's startelement.

"You startled me, Baylen," Tyren said, the heat fading from his palm.

Baylen smiled softly, with half a heart. "Forgive me, brother, I didn't mean to. I came here to seek clarity in solitude, but it seems the idea wasn't mine alone. What are you doing up here?"

Tyren sighed. "We are of like minds, brother. This is the only place left of our home untouched by war. I came here to...clear my mind."

Baylen nodded. "I have too in recent days, though Ellawyn demands me by her side."

"Where you should be, brother. These may very well be our final days. You should spend them with your Queen."

"You're starting to sound like mother."