Kogaea: Traitors and Tyrants [BOOK 2 - ROUGH DRAFT]

CHAPTER 3: THE DISSOLUTION

Amidst the hallowed halls of honor and valor, a devastating darkness cast its suffocating shadow. Highlord Gandic Morthain, a beacon of righteous leadership, stood before the assembled Knights of the White Order, his eyes heavy with sorrow. Squire Kormed Wolfheart, his heart pounding with trepidation, watched with disbelief as the Order, which he had revered, crumbled before his very eyes.

Gandic's voice echoed through the chamber, his words heavy with the weight of an agonizing decision. The Order of the White Knights, once a bastion of chivalry and noble purpose, was disbanded. The loss reverberated through Kormed's soul, leaving him feeling adrift in a sea of uncertainty. The tears welled in his eyes as he witnessed the dissolution of a lifelong dream.

But within the depths of Kormed's shattered hopes, a glimmer of resolve flickered. Highlord Gandic's suspension was not without reason, for he had dared to challenge the orders of Prince Menethil himself. The City of Stratholme, a place plagued by a terrifying affliction, stood as a haunting testament to the impending doom that threatened the land.

A heavy burden settled upon Kormed's shoulders as he comprehended the gravity of the situation. The city's fate hung in the balance, teetering between salvation and damnation. The choice was clear, even if it tore at his soul. Kormed, driven by duty and a desperate desire to prove himself, knew that he had to act, no matter the cost.

Unbeknownst to him, the path he had chosen would lead him into the heart of darkness itself. Stratholme, once a vibrant city, now lay in the grip of a merciless plague. The stench of decay hung in the air, intertwining with the acrid tang of smoke and desperation. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows upon the desolate streets, as if the very essence of hope had been extinguished.

In the realm of Kogaea, the land once flourished under the radiant light of the Effulgence, and the Order of the White Mountain stood as bastions of virtue and honor. Among them was Grand Master Valarian, a revered holy paladin of Lyare. His name was whispered with reverence, a beacon of hope for the masses. Yet, darkness cast its shroud upon the realm in the form of the dreaded Wyrmplague.

As the plague's sinister grip tightened around the city of Eldoria, despair settled over its citizens like a fog. The once bustling streets were now eerie and empty, the air choked with the stench of sickness and death. Valarian, his armor gleaming with the symbols of Lyare, stood before the city gates, the emblem of the Knights of the White Mountain hanging heavy around his neck.

Guided by his unwavering faith, Valarian resolved to do the unthinkable—a purging of the plagued city. The decision weighed heavily on his heart, but he believed it was the only way to prevent the spread of the deadly malady. The city, already quarantined, would soon become a tomb, but to him, it was a necessary sacrifice to protect the realm.

As the city's clock tower struck noon, Valarian and his renegade knights stormed the once-vibrant streets. Their steps were resolute, yet their eyes betrayed their turmoil. They met resistance from those who still clung to life, the infected who had transformed into grotesque, reptilian monstrosities due to the plague's venomous touch.

Amid the chaos, former friends and allies became twisted fiends, their once-honorable intentions corrupted by the Wyrmplague. As the battle raged on, Valarian's heart ached at the sight of familiar faces succumbing to the plague's vile transformation. Even the radiant light of the Effulgence seemed to wane in the face of this unfathomable darkness.

Valarian and his knights fought valiantly, but the toll was immeasurable. Some of his own comrades fell victim to the plague, their wills shattered, transformed into mindless beasts. Even the once-pious priests and devout followers of Sanctarius became tainted by the plague's corruption, their holy magic twisted into something abhorrent.