SOUTHERN KINGDOM OF GREY-ROSES
The market square was chaos. Bloodied flags,
toppled market stalls and soldiers clashing in brutal melee.
The Elsemian army were less than one quarter of the Grey-rosen troops, but much much deadlier because today they fight alongside their king.
King Leonhart Whyteleafe wasn't any typical
monarch, he was the most powerful Runemaster alive – known more commonly as the Master of Conjuration. He stood firm at the center of the square, his faint
Rune strings commanded giant stone golems that towered over even some houses.
One golem charged ahead. Smashed enemy lines like nothing. Swatted Grey-rosen
soldiers like mere insects. The other golem remained close to Leonhart.
Across all the roaring and fighting, King
Jahseh of Grey-roses remained tied at the execution platform. Slumped, ears ringing
and still waiting for death that he didn't even realise that a whole war was
occurring just to save him. Suddenly someone appeared at his side, tugging at
his bindings. Jahseh recognized that blond pixie cut immediately even before
seeing Abigail's face. He finally realized the ongoing battle then looked back
to her in disbelief, "W—what are you doing? Why are you here? You should not be
here!" he protested.
Urgent and breathless, she said to him, "My
husband is out there fighting for you! Do not waste it!"
Jahseh looked to the ongoing battle, he
couldn't believe it. King Leonhart and the Elsemians who were his guests just
days ago were now saving him from his own people.
The Grey-rosen soldiers threw everything at
Leonhart's stone golems to no avail. One launched a spear towards Leonhart
himself: 'Slay the conjurer and end the familiars', he must have thought.
The closer golem reacted quickly, blocking the projectile from Leonhart. Then the golem reached for a broken market stall
nearby, launched it. That Grey-rosen soldier could do nothing but chuckle in defeat as it flew towards him with destructive force.
In a nearby alley removed from the chaos, a
plainly dressed man stepped into view. He belonged to neither army, composed so
calmly during a frenzy, his presence seemed wrong. He then traced a streak of
Runes along the air which weaved Rune strings into an arrow of energy.
The arrow flew – but not straight. It veered
and weaved around other men and obstacles, snaked past the golem and struck
Leonhart in the chest just below his heart.
Both golems faltered as their master stumbled. But Leonhart grit his teeth and forced himself to rise again. The strange man
had vanished – nowhere to be seen again.
NORTHERN KINGDOM OF ELSEM (10 YEARS AGO)
The streets stank of rot and
smoke.
A little boy — Brimmah — huddled in the gutter, ribs poking through rags.
Whistles blew.
Soldiers stormed the alleys,
rounding up stray kids.
Brimmah's round, brown eyes
widened as rough hands yanked him up and tossed him into a wagon.
The wheels creaked. The city
shrank behind him.
They were transfered into a ferry. Across the waters, the Rune Academy waited — up on Mt. Misoa scraping the clouds.
Inside, children traced symbols in the air.
Very few boys produce Rune
strings at their fingertips. Instructors praised those.
Most failed. They tasted the
sting of whips.
They drowned the weak first. Weights
chained to their feet, pushed underwater with one instruction: 'trace the Runes of the stones.'
Those who carved the Runes
broke free.
Those who couldn't… never came
back up.
Later, instructors dragged limp
bodies out like trash.
Some coughed back to life.
Most didn't.
Next came The Endless Climb up
the snowy mountain, backs bent under rune-etched stones.
Brimmah stumbled, gasping.
Kids collapsed beside him. No
one stopped.
Night after night, he studied Rune
after Rune alone.
Candlelight. Ink-stained
fingers.
His only friend watched from
the corner, worry in her eyes.
He tried the Drowning Test
again on his own.
Plunged himself in the water
with stone chained to his feet.
He panicked scratched runes
into the stone — desperate, wild.
His friend screamed from the shore
and dove in.
Then the climb. Alone again.
Weight crushing him.
He kept moving. One step. One
breath.
His friend followed behind,
urged him to stop over and over.
Exam day, after all his
madness, his fingers still failed to glow
Instructors looked through him
like glass.
"Worthless," they said – and
cast him out with others like him.
The "worthless" were left to
rot.
Hollow faces, fighting over
crumbs.
The Headmaster's sneer cut
deep: "Worthless beings don't deserve to be fed."
Days later, corpses began to
gather amongst them.
Among them — his friend.
Brimmah just stared, empty.
When the ferry finally
returned, all survivors rushed aboard.
Brimmah looked back at the
Academy once — crying in regret — then stepped on.
Back on the stinky streets, seasons
passed.
Rain. Snow. Sun.
Same boy. Same corner of the
street.
Hollow, broken. Until--
A sword clattered before him
during a brawl.
He stared at it.
Something flickered in his
eyes.
Later that night, he swung it
clumsily beneath the moon.
Each swing clumsy and reckless.
Each strike louder.
A spark of life, finally
awakened.