Chapter 1: Adventures of the Mind

Fifteen Years Later

A springtime breeze sifted through the veil of trees which comprised the boarder belt of The Forest of Dean. Consisting of a large woodland band of evergreen firs, woody ficus and towering oak trees; the forest had survived long before the four founders had come to Erin. It had grown tall, lush, and during the changing seasons one would be met with its many differing shades of colour as it provided one of the most tranquil, and important, locations in all of the Holding state.

The tiny village of Dean was but one of the many towns, dwellings and even cities which relied on the constant replenishment of the forest. Comprised of stout, hearty, building the village was a place where their log huts were renowned a stalwart in the art of construction. Many possessed shingled rooves, the slate mined from the Kyhs Hills to the far east of Slytherin Empire. It was said that Goblin's mined those hills, though the lack of any actual acknowledgement of such fanciful tales had relegated this rumour to the unfortunate place known as Hearsay.

However, one person in Dean did enjoy the discussion of Goblin's, Dwarves and even of the hellish Orcs which were said to now comprise a whole third of the Sovereign Kings army. Hermione Granger sat on her haunches beneath the leaves of her favourite oak tree, absently clouting a bedside quilt. Comprised of coarse wool and very little cotton the quilt was far from patchwork or rushed. In fact, ever thread she stitched was placed with a adept grace, her needlework good enough alone that it would have brought a true Highborn lady to tears. However, it was not only for the quality of her skills that had her name whispered in hushed voices throughout Dean. No. For while her thread was even and her crosses were centred, it was of the second pastime she partook in whilst preforming this dated and womanly task that found her expressed and branded as a misfit in regular society.

For Hermione Granger was reading.

A small, leather bound, book of pealing age, sat propped open beside her right side. Her eyes danced along the small, intricately weaved, tale as they had seemingly a thousand times before. It was seen as a mockery of tradition throughout the empire for any woman to be learned. The Sovereign King had decreed that throughout all the realms he may hold, no woman, girl or infant may be educated or perform tasks other than those assigned by law from his own court.

Girls were not permitted to read. Ladies had no place conducting themselves in the affairs of men. Women were not to permitted to think of themselves with the same esteem and position as the Men of Erin. Or so had deemed The King. It was with an air of prideful defiance that Hermione took her pleasure in reading and in spouting her education around town by carrying with her the books she loves so much at every opportunity she could.

Of all the three books Hermione possessed this one was by far her favourite, a tale of the valour and might of the warrior Tristen Devar, as he fought against the might of the State of Slytherin, ten years before the Fall of Gryffindor.

Karlea knelt in lengths of towering reed grass, parting the growth to offer sight to the forces who slowly marched on the Kingdom of Gryffindor. Concealed by nature Karlea felt her heart clench as she watched the many men, wagons and beasts who began to enter the only roadway which connected Gryffindor to the Realm of Slytherin.

There slave drivers cracked their whips with such ferocity that it's sound could heard even high atop the mountainous outcropping Karlea and her friend observed from. Her body began to tremble. There were so many, a force of over thirty thousand men, and amongst them the vile Shades of Slytherin. Folk who had abandoned the true teachings of arcane law to corrupt the natural order with their own twisted depravity.

"At ease," Tristen said, placing a comforting hand upon Karlea's own. Her eyes caught his, saw the light of conflict and fire there that had always served to make Tristen Devar one of the most feared and renowned warriors in all of Erin. Karlea gripped his hand desperately, feeling his course glove caress her own smooth palm.

They had been friends for so long, yet even now Karlea could not suppress the air of longing she was sure Tristen felt resonating from her. However, Tristen was a Magi, a warrior of the Order and Karlea was of common blood. There could be no room for love or passion between them. Though many a night Karlea longed to know the reasons why.

"There are so many of them." Karlea whispered gently, feeling her eyes sting at the rising plumes of smoke lifting from the many fires, torches or plague beds that littered this convoy. Tristen actually chuckled at the awe in her words.

"This is not so many, it would take more than fifty thousand men to break down the walls of Gryffindor. Little more than an exhort for myself."

Tristen drew his bejewelled longsword from its place beside his waist. It was a glorious sight, forged from Uranian steel. It was said to possess an edge sharper than any razor in all of Erin, and its length would never blemish or erode. Magic had been used to create this sword, and as Karlea observed the shimmering gold and ruby light which danced across the body of the blade, it was clear to see why this sword was feared throughout all of the Slytherin Kingdom and was a hope to all of Erin.

Tristan began to stand.

"What are you doing?" Karlea hissed, beckoning franticly for Tristen to return to the growth, but the warrior merely smiled and held out a hand for her to join him. Trust filled the heart of the common companion and she allowed her friend to draw her to her feet before placing the sword upon her shoulder.

"You are a fine woman, Karlea. Brave, wise and noble. It only pains me that my next act may see us parted for eternity."

"What do you mean?"

Tristan took her free hand in hers, caressed the crown of her hand with his thumb before all resolve abandoned him. Pulling her tight against his frame Tristain slammed his lips against hers in a kiss not of friendship, not of jest of companionship, but of pure, passionate love.

Karlea was shocked at first, overwhelmed by the sheer fervent nature of this kiss. But her eyes slowly closed and she allowed herself to full utterly, and completely into this exhibition of affection.

Their kiss ended in a time to quickly for Karlea.

Her breath was quickened, her heart rapidly pounding beneath her breasts and she was pleased to see Tristan too had felt the same.

Amiya, Tristan's swift steed whinned in protest of the encroaching army and the two friends were forced to accept that this could be their final moment together.

"Go… Karly." Tristan ordered turning now towards the goat path they had followed to observe the marching army. "Warn the King. At the narrowest point of this pass there is little room for even three of these wretches to walk abreast. Ride. The swifter you ride the sooner you'll be able to bring aid to relieve me. Fly. And be safe."

"You…" Karlea caught her protest before she spoke it. Tristan was right. Someone needed to inform the King of the impending threat to their nation, and Tristan was the only warrior, the only Magi powerful enough to even make a stand against such overwhelming odds, let alone do it in single combat.

"Tristan…? Gods guide your blade and their wills protect you." Tristian acknowledged the blessing, watched the woman he loved rush to his steed and sling herself into the saddle. Amiya wheeled about, Karlea ready to race back to the kingdom, ready to rally the troops, ready to bring help for her dearly beloved Tristan Devar."

"Hermione?!" A woman's voice suddenly resounded across the depths of Hermione's imaginings, drawing a start of fright from the teenage girl and causing her book to go awry. She cursed, her stitching suddenly wild and unruly as she turned to see her mother slowly wandering up from the forest depths towards her.

Belena Granger was a fine and fair woman, blessed with short, pixie like, hair and a face not yet so beaten down by life that she could not place herself in the same esteem as those of a younger generation. Hermione loved her deeply, and she smiled graciously as she set down her sowing and offered her mother a formal greeting.

"Blessings Mamma, I am sorry for taking so long." Hermione tried to sound strong, to sound in a tone her mother would be proud of. Belena smiled gently, eyes traveling from her dishevelled child to the fine quilt and finally to her book. She sighed and shook her head in exasperation.

"Reading again, Hermione? Honestly you must have read that book a thousand times."

"Two hundred and forty-three times, actually." Hermione beamed with pride as she held out her book and presented it to her mother. It had been a gift to her mother from the man she had once called husband. Only he was now long departed, cast away from their family for his crimes of infidelity. It was a crime Hermione often wondered the reasoning behind, why he had committed such a terrible act of betrayal? However, any such sin was not without its benefits, and it had helped forge a bond between mother and daughter unrivalled in all of Dean.

Belena took the book from her child and began to peruse through the pages. She, unlike the laws of the land dictated, was also a learned and educated woman, something that helped prevent fraud or deceit from traders as they marketed in the coming trade seasons.

"Oh… such a grand imagination you have Hermione. You are a treasure to all of us."

Hermione blushed crimson at her mother's unexpected praise.

"Really…?"

Belena nodded at her daughter before offering her back the book she loved so much.

"I see big things in store for you, my little seedling. Just keep dreaming big and do not buckle beneath the weight the world will put on you." Hermione frowned, confused.

"I don't…"

"Not yet," Belena said, leaning down to kiss her daughter affectionately at the brow. "But you will. Now come, supper is nearly ready and we have to prepare for the spring trade."

"Can I bring my quilt?"

"Of course." Hermione's mother raised her brows towards her. "What else will you be selling in your first trade venture?"

"Really!?" Hermione squealed in excitement, rushed to gather up her work. She began to follow her mother out of the forest and towards their awaiting homestead, pleased that her mother had seen such an improvement in her craft that she would be willing to sell it in her next trade venture. What could she possibly get for this quilt? Half a cent? Maybe a penny? The thought of such riches began to run rampant through her mind and the prospect of fresh, new books to read. She could almost smell the parchment paper, a scent long removed from her own collection, but it was soon replaced by the smell of freshly brewed tea, hot stew and the scent of cooking fires, as she and her mother exited the Forest of Dean and came onto the settling of their home.

That night, after Hermione had eaten her fill of her mother's rich vegetable braise, she sat up reading through the final pages of her tale, but her mind was filled with thoughts of the city. Of Gaela, and her fine, fair streets.

Hermione had only heard tales of the city from travels, which many said was little more than a glorified town in comparison to true cities like Attor, High Seat of the Sovereign King. However, even Hermione could not even dream of seeing Attor. So Gaela would be her first true taste of a city, and of city life.

Hermione blew out her candle when the final page of her book was turned. She observed the crest that had been embossed into the leather, a single lions head opened in a roar. She had no idea what it meant, but she felt courage every time gazed upon this image.

The young girl set down her beloved book, observed her seat where her quilt resided, and tucked her arm under her pillow and drifted off into gentle sleep.