Guardians Of The Arcane Chronicles

Prologue: In The Beginning, There Was Darkness

It was hopeless.

They were utterly, irrevocably outmatched. Outclassed by the demons they once called brother, father, daughter. Outgunned by their enemies they once called fellow humans. It would take more than a miracle to turn the tide of the war, and not even the gods could convince those bloodthirsty warmongers to show them mercy.

Yet they chose to fight on, determined to throw their lives on the line in the hope that another might live to see the light again. They fought on stubbornly, against nature's intentions.

Against his intentions.

General Theodore stood pensively over the ledge, gripping onto the railings. His olive knuckles turned white as a muffled blast accompanied by screaming men shook the floor from beneath. He closed his eyes painfully. Guilt wracked his body with an intensity that never seemed to diminish, no matter how many times he was forced to send his men to their deaths.

"For mankind!" They would yell, charging towards soldiers who could breathe searing flames onto their carriages and cannons.

"Weep not, leader." They would lie in his arms, their ribs shattered by a single stomp from an enemy that grew to twice their size. "Smile, for this is but a glorious death."

The general sought comfort in the ephialtes that haunted his sleep, for nothing he dreamt of could even come close to the nightmare he woke up to everyday. But dawn was just beginning to break.

"Theodore," a voice called him from behind.

Theodore turned around, his tattered cloak sweeping in the charred wind. His boots creaked against the wooden floorboards heavily as he approached the man waiting by the door. His weary eyes stared at the singular horn atop his head for an uncomfortably long time.

Arcani.

Pockets of instability within reality itself that condensed themselves into a form of natural energy. An accursed energy that coursed through every living being. A magical energy that had one day decided to attune itself with half of humanity, granting them a variety of supernatural abilities. Abilities that they immediately used to enslave all that they deemed inferior.

'Metas', they called themselves. Born with the unstable parts of reality within them, the metas were imbued with a buffet of superpowers ranging from minor physical alterations to a god's ability to manipulate the elements. They banded together almost immediately, believing themselves higher beings and turned on their less gifted bloodkin.

The weaker metas were the exception, having chosen to ally themselves with the non-metas instead. Power was a universal law, so they knew better than to stay with their stronger brothers and amount to nothing more than bottom class slaves.

"Theodore?" the meta repeated himself. "Keep it together, my friend. Our soldiers fought valiantly, and they have done their part. It is our turn to launch the surprise attack now. And once we reclaim the capital of S-"

"Philemon," Theodore interrupted him. "There will be no more need for that."

"Have you come up with a new strategy?" Philemon's eyes brightened with hope.

"Indeed, I have." Theodore turned away to wipe away the tears brimming in his eyes. "And for all its worth, you really were a good friend. I'm sorry."

The general spun around without warning and plunged a dagger into his friend's heart.

Philemon screamed silently as his body slowly sank to the ground. His eyes darted around, looking for any sort of explanation for his friend's betrayal, but found none. Instead, they only met his grim expression as Theodore lowered him down gently.