Untitled Fantasy Story

Prelude

"In elder days, before the dawn,

the North chose her first King,

Lord Greyfin, of the Farthest Reach,

one day heard the Falcon sing.

"Travel to the Keep of Banes

to meet your right of hand,

Then to the Southern Mountains,

you may lay claim to your land.

Be wary and be wise with whom

You travel to your throne,

For those who wrong the North's first King

by day will turn to stone."

Then when Greyfin took his throne,

and Dreyer rose from the sea,

Wrengoth laid rest to his iron shield,

and Beyarde bent on his knee.

But Serefin, the wicked fiend,

Began to seethe with rage

To see her brother sit atop

The throne she'd always craved.

So late that night, out she crept

Weighed down with cold and fright.

She climbed across the mountaintops

To meet the Lord of Night.

"Oh, wicked sister, do not fret,

For I have a deal to make,

Should you wish to have the throne,

These three things you must take.

From Wrengoth you must take his axe,

That fills his bones with might,

From Beyarde you must take the flame

That fills his forge with light.

One thing left, one last request,

For your quest to last be done,

Listen close, for you must take

King Greyfin's first-born son."

"Mother, I've heard this story a thousand times," the young girl whined.

The woman smiled, stroking her daughter's brilliant silver hair, watching the smooth strands slip through her fingertips. "It's the most important story there is, my dear."

The girl huffed, turning away from her mother. "I don't need a bedtime story anymore. I'm going to bed."

She slipped from her mother's grasp, her little feet stomping across the dim cabin's floor.

"Goodnight, little Ashenborne," she purred, her smile falling from her lips.