Enjoy the second prologue.


Prologue - Vestige of a Memory

I - Däthedr

8011 AC - Eight Years Later

The candle flame flickered on the rough table, as clouds rumbled outside the small room. Spring rains were approaching, casting away the grim winter that came before it. For Däthedr that meant another season bereft of the life he once had. He watched the candle wax melt into the fine cracks of the wooden surface.

He then paced in the incommodious room, changing direction every four steps as he reached a flaking wall. A squared hole served as the only window, which overlooked Ilirea from the crown of a lofty, stone tower. From up here Däthedr saw an abundance of twinkling dots that marked roughly all the houses, and at the far-eastern end lay the citadel, resembling a finely chiselled rock with grand spires jutting above. It symbolised a magisterial throne carved into the skies of Alagaesia.

Däthedr turned around as he heard the sound of scuffling boots accompanied by something brushing against the dusty floor. Beneath the sill of the small door a large shadow appeared, and the scuffling silenced. Whoever that shadow belonged to tapped softly on the door, with slight pauses in-between. The tapping was the sound of someone afraid to enter, and Däthedr recognised who it was.

"Enter," Däthedr said, aware of how dry his throat was.

The hinges creaked as they slowly turned inwards. An old man in his sixties appeared, his head shadowed under his hood and bent low.

"For your sake," Däthedr said, "I hope you haven't come here empty-handed."

The old man trembled, knowing that Däthedr needed less than a second to end his life with just a mere thought. However, Däthedr only committed such an action when justified. An innocent old man hardly justified anything.

The old man drew his cloak back just enough to reveal a gangly arm trembling to support the weight of a small metal chest. "I found it," the old man said, his voice coming out in wheezes.

"Hand it over," Däthedr said.

The old man walked forth, his left side moving at an odd tilt. His knobbly fingers loosened around the chest and Däthedr gently removed it from the old man's burden.

Däthedr nodded with a smile. He placed the metal chest next to the candle and saw the flame bloom brighter. Whatever this may be, it is indeed powerful. He retrieved a pouch of gold resting against a table leg and threw it towards the old man. The old man's eyes gleaned with lust and he caught it. He then silently left the room.

Fool. If the old man knew the real worth of the chest, he would not have retrieved it for such a small price.

Däthedr gave himself a moment before slowly picking up the metal chest. His breathing came out in shudders and he felt his body invigorate with warmth. His hands traced over the metal embossing depicting various forms of dragons; some breathed fire, some glided high, some slept soundly, while others feasted on their prey. The tapestry and signature of the work was beyond the skill of even the finest dwarven hands.

His eyes flitted towards a small spiral in the centre. Carved atop the spiral arms was a familiar language, the same language which elves had used for thousands of years, the same language which mastered the very energy of the cosmos.

Curious, Däthedr read the ancient language. He only read a sentence before his palms began to sweat as the chest grew hotter. A lump grew in his throat but he read on. Even if he wanted to stop he could not do so. Something was forcing him.

The chest seared through the skin and sinews of his hands, but Däthedr kept chanting the language. Tears welled in his eyes, but he could not blink them away. Loud screeches filled the silent air, and Däthedr noticed the embossed dragons had made the sound. They took on life and danced harmoniously around the chest. When he finished reading he screamed.

"Stop!"

As if the chest had heard him, the dragons returned to their original forms. Everything was silent now, except for Däthedr's pained quivering. He looked down at his hands, shocked at the flesh dripping off. Then, a miracle occurred. His skin and flesh reformed as if his hands had never burned in the first place. Däthedr's eyes widened as no healer could possess such an ability.

What power is controlling this?

He flitted his eyes back towards the chest. A black, stainless key had fallen out. He reached down, his fingers wrapping around the key by their own will.

Suddenly, Däthedr rose into the air. His face cracked against the ceiling. The force arched his neck backwards. Däthedr lost the ability to scream, as his contorted body could not allow a gasp of air. Yet he felt the screams in his head.

He lay in darkness, the candle flame now extinguished. Then he saw another light, a bright blue one and it overwhelmed him. Visions flooded his mind.

A silent crowd gathered on a town street, watching wide-eyed at a young woman in chains being dragged forth. She screamed for help but the crowd was too afraid. Suddenly, bolts of blazing energy struck the earth, striking down the buildings along with the crowd. Everyone dropped dead, except for the tall figure that held the woman's chains.

The woman was thrown inside a dark cell deep underground. Her captor bolted her chains to the wall.

"I WILL KILL YOU FOR THIS GALBATORIX," the woman screamed.

Däthedr gasped for air and fell.