Fate of an Empire (Book One)

Prologue - The Grand Scheme

His opponent's body fell to the ground, sealing his victory.

All went silent, save for the hammer of a heartbeat ringing in his ears.

Valen jerked his blade free.

Wind pushed past him, cooling the sweat that dotted his skin.

He faced the headmaster, who sat perched high above the arena. Warlords of the region fanned out to either side of him.

They always seem to be on the prowl for new fighting blood.

Valen crossed his sword over his chest and bowed deeply in salute. Blood dripped off his armor, dotting the dusty floor of the battleground. Dark brown hair hung past his face as he waited for the official sounding of his triumph.

"Valen of Gralcor, you have ascended to the top of your class." The proclamation boomed through the air. The officiator entered the arena, gripping his forearm and lifting it overhead. "You have claimed the title of Champion!"

With those words, the teenage warrior raised his eyes back to his superiors, nodded to each member of the panel, and retreated into the arena tunnel. The same he had entered through only moments before.

The stadium erupted with noise.

Surrounding students took to their feet and cheered, banging their swords and spears against their bucklers, shouting loyalty to their new leader. Valen held no emotion on his face. A true warrior did not gloat, did not delight in his fame. He humbly took measured steps past the line of clan flags fluttering in the coastal breeze.

As he made his way through the tunnels that formed the underbelly of the academy, students and faculty members greeted and congratulated him.

All he returned was a mere nod to each.

He reached his destination, a benefit of his victory—a gold-veined door of polished wood and carved artwork from generations before him. A sign marked the entrance to the Champion's Suite. Valen entered and latched the door shut, smudging the knob with a bloodied hand.

He let out a long sigh and rested his back against the revered doorway, relishing in his first moment away from the public. His mind swirled with the sound of swords echoing through the arena and the reverberating cheers as he claimed his title. He threw his leather chestplate down and scattered caked dirt across the floor.

His lips started to curl and he clapped his hands together. His sea blue eyes lit up as he scanned the luxurious living quarters.

A real bed...A couch...Beautiful linens and draperies...

A full smile broke through the stoic warrior facade. He threw his fists into the air and opened his mouth for a muted cheer. I've made it. Champion!

"Your enthusiasm is palpable." A sudden voice declared from a shadowed corner of the room.

Reacting to ingrained discipline, Valen jumped behind the nearest chair as cover and drew his sword, keeping the tip leveled in the direction of the intruder. "Identify yourself!"

"So ready for action." A figure moved into the center of the room, light now fully focusing on him.

"Master Orin?" Valen cocked his head to the side, his brow pinched, staring at the school's only non-combat teacher. He looked over the elder's ornate robes—far from Academy regulation. "What are you doing here?"

"We don't have much time." Orin swung a satchel off his back and placed it on the floor, before proceeding to move all the furniture to the perimeter of the room. "Two or three days, at most."

Valen stayed quiet, watching the aged teacher survey his newly staked territory.

"That should do." Orin ran his fingers through his ruffled gray hair and then tugged at his wiry beard. He plopped on the ground, wrapping his legs around each other, and patted the rug next to him. "Come, come, boy."

Valen, realizing he still held his weapon at the ready, sheepishly tucked it away and took a spot next to Master Orin.

"Are you alright? How did you slip in here so quickly after the fight?"

Orin pulled his bag over and started to dig through its contents, at one point his arm looked deeper than the bag should have allowed. "Ah! Here they are." He pulled out a second small pouch and emptied a pile of stones onto the floor, moving each into a pattern. "I've been here all morning—an exquisite sitting area, I must say."

Valen frowned. "And if I had not won the tournament?"

"I knew you would," Orin responded confidently. "Now, to the point! We are on a limited timetable before this city lies in rubble. We need to get you prepared!"

"What?" Valen's eyes went wide. "Sir, you are not making any sense."

"I am; you just don't know the full story."

"Here we go..." Valen shook his head, finally getting a typical response from the senile history teacher. "I'm sure you have a grand story to paint for me, full of doom and gloom and destruction." Valen waved his hands in the air, pantomiming a soothsayer from the capital.

"Boy, I will do more than paint it." Orin pulled up on his sleeves, revealing thick, twisted tattoos running across his forearms.

"I didn't take you for a cultist." Valen laughed.

Orin ignored the comment and closed his eyes.

"Not a painting. For does a painting have a taste? Smell? No, no. We will live it. Breathe it. Feel it." Orin pounded his fist against his chest.

A moment later all the sound in the room dropped out, and the candles blinked into darkness. As quickly as the blackness came, glimmering strands of energy ignited within the tattoos that Valen had just criticized.

"By the gods..." Valen's hand slid to the grip of his blade.

Orin started a chant—not in any language that he had ever heard. The energy poured into his hands and illuminated the stone pattern on the floor. Right when the stones looked to explode from their sheer magnificence of light, they expelled the pent up magic and projected out a dome around the two.

The floor seemed to drop away, as swirling colors birthed around their seats. Valen jumped to his feet.

Orin threw out his hand and held the boy in place, giving only a stern look to solidify his physical halt.

The room faded from Valen's vision and soon he realized they were floating down upon a battleground. He looked down to see tiny dots of men charging a fortress; fiery lines marked siege weapons' trajectories; smoke labeled beaten outer defenses.

"Be my guest in this vision, boy. A viewing of thepast—a past that is going to come crashing down around you all too soon." Oringrimaced as the two touched down on the dry dirt. "Welcome to the war..."    

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