It's bright. The sun is shining down on the harbor, making it appear as though it were filled with liquid silver. My eyes blink shut, but adjust as another roving cloud obscures the light. Once more, I can take in the sight before me without discomfort and I feel my lips turn upwards. The view before me is too beautiful to not smile; my city, my home, Helia.
The peaks and spires of the city's many monuments to knowledge, the academies, libraries, and vaults, glint brilliantly with their gilding. In the streets below, banners flap in the breeze and people travel with excited steps. All around the city, the verdant countryside seems to stretch forever, interrupted by the occasional farmstead, and if I were to stand on my toes, I know I could the first few trees of the Ancient One's grove.
If there were a day for the city to shine like the jewel it was, today would be that day. My eyes turn towards the harbor where the foreign ships are docked. Today we will be greeting noble guests from afar.
"And not just any nobility," I think to myself, "but a king! We've been hosts to scholars and artisans before, but never a ruling monarch, and I, the First Apprentice to the Lord Chronicler, am being entrusted to record his sojourn."
I feel my heart flutter at the thought and a deep sense of pride fills me, just as wind fills the sails of a ship. I glance over my shoulder to the Lord Chronicler, one of the curator lords and my father, sits. His six pointed circlet, the symbol of his station, sits high on his head and keeps his graying hair from falling in his face as he works. Behind his grand desk he works diligently, reviewing assignments, signing off on documents to be archived, and preparing a tome to chronicle the Isles' first contact with the people of Camavor, starting with the visitation of the Grander General. As if he senses my eyes upon him, he turns his head to look at me. At once, I turn my attention back to the window.
"I must remain focused," I scold myself, "I have a task to complete. I must make sure that this day is properly recorded."
Once more, I check the lectern I had brought to the window. My tome lays open upon it, ready to be written on, my bottle of ink is freshly filled, and my quill (and back up quill) rests beside it.
"Everything is in its place."
With my lectern prepared, I open a small box resting on it and remove its contents, a pair of simple white gloves. No embroidery, no ceremony, just enough to protect things from the oils on my skin. Though I never enjoyed wearing these things, I put them on without complaint. If I desire to become the next Lord Chronicler, duty must come before comfort.
"Scrivener Tel," I call out as I give the gloves a final tug down, "the spyglass, please."
Tel fetches a small wooden box and brings it to me. Nestled within is a spyglass. Made with enchanted glass, this device truly is a treasure and will allow me to observe our guests with such clarity as though I were on a building by the docks rather than the tallest tower of a library. Tel places the spyglass in my hands and I thank him. My fingers run the decorative carvings of the device as I turn my attention towards the harbor. At last, I bring it up to my eye.
It does not take even a minute to spot the Camavoran ships. They are massive and with their wooden hulls painted a dark color, they look like imposing shadows against the lye washed docks of the harbor. The grandness of these vessels does not surprise me. They are far larger than any ship on the Isles, but we rarely venture far beyond our archipelago, but these have come from across the ocean. Of course they would be large. What does surprise me though is that there is more than one of them.
"I have read of monarchs traveling with great retinues, but this seems excessive."
My gaze turns to the docked boat and the Camavoran lining up beside it.
"Look at them all. All those spears. It's almost like a military parade. Don't be nervous. Remember what the general had said during her meeting with the Masters. The king was recently attacked by an assassin. This is a precaution, an overblown one, but a precaution and nothing more. I hope."
I look along the procession of soldiers. Most carry spears, but some have swords strapped to their sides and others carry banners proudly displaying their homeland's colors of blue and gold. Though most try and keep themselves at attention, I notice that the eyes of many dart around, looking at the city with a mixture of wonder and something else.
"Fear? Trepidation? Envy? What do you think of this place?"
Towards the front of the procession, the infantry gives way to knights mounted on mighty destriers. Both horse and rider are clad in dark armor and, unlike those lined up behind them, their attention is like iron, hard and unwavering. Their sights are set only forward.
A shiver runs down my spine, their intensity unnerving. It is not difficult to image that anyone unfortunate enough to be facing down a charge from this cavalry would desire nothing more than to flee rather than face such an onslaught. I look away from the knights and search for General Kalista among the soldiers. I spot her standing by the gangplank of the ship.
"General Kalista, what happened to you?"
I was there when she had first come to the Isles and met with Helia's masters. She had stood tall and proud that day, defiant of all the exhaustion of her long, desperate journey. But today, that is not the case. Her shoulders slump and her face carries the expression of mournful concern.
Beside her stands a man clad in heavy armor with a mighty shield upon his back. He wears a helmet, decorated with spines that mimic the shape of a crown, that obscures most of his face, but judging by his posture, I imagine that he too wears one of concern. They speak for a moment and then the armored champion places one of his hands on Kalista's shoulder. She reaches up and places her hand over his. Her fingers curl in a gentle squeeze and then she pushes him from her.
Suddenly, their attention is pulled up as another soldier approaches. His armor is dark in color, but gilded with bright streams of gold and silver. Under his arm he carries his helm which, like those of the others, is ornamented to designate a higher rank. A single protrusion, like the horn of the mythic lightcharger, curls upwards from the center of the brow. With such an equine inspiration for the helm and armor of the same dark color, I infer that this man is the Captain of the knights.
"Such a horn would be an easy thing for an enemy to grab to. Is this piece ornamental, or are you so confident in your skill that no one would have the chance to pull you from your mount?"
Judging by the man's expression, I assume it's the second reason. The captain walks with a self-assured step and, unlike his peers, shows no sign of worry. Instead, a small grin rests on his face as he looks up at Helia and I even see him smirk as he speaks to Kalista. Unfortunately, his words appear to have no effect on her and her expression remains dour.
The three converse for a moment before each goes their own way; the shield bearer towards the infantry, the captain up towards his knights, and Kalista below the ship's deck. As I watch the captain walk along the column of soldiers, I cannot help but feel disquieted by him. His face is pleasant to look at, rugged and handsome, he inspires confidence in those he passes by, and he moves with the strength and dexterity of a warrior in his prime. He is every bit the archetype from fairy tales, the knight in shining armor, and yet, he makes me fearful rather than hopeful.
"It's the way he looks at everything. His eyes, they hold the glint of avarice."
I take a break in my observations to record what I've witnessed, stopping every few moments to glance back at the procession and check if anything has changed. After a few minutes, I notice movement in the ranks of soldiers. Without wasting a heartbeat, I take up the spyglass and turn my attention to them once more.
The soldiers straighten their postures, rigidly holding their spears up at attention. Kalista has returned above deck with another beside her. She steps aside, allowing him to walk before her. As the man walks forward, the sun's rays fall upon his face and the golden crown upon his brow shines brilliantly.
"The king! When Kalista had mentioned that her uncle was the king, I had not imagined him to be so young. Stars, he is handsome."
I feel my cheeks flush with warmth and I shake my head.
"No! No, cease! I must remain objective. Focus."
Once more I go to observe the king, trying my best to remain objective, and find that, the longer I look at him, the more haggard he appears. His unkempt hair tumbles around his face, framing his sorrow touched features, his cheeks are drained of color, as though affected by a malady, and his eyes are sunken in and bear the color of sleepless nights.
"Poor man, he looks so unwell. Ah, with luck, your seasickness should wear off soon."
Turning from his face, I begin to take in his style of dress. It is odd, as though he had begun the process of donning his armor, but was interrupted.
He wears a doublet of black trimmed with gold, its soft shine standing out more brilliantly against the backdrop of dark fabric. Pauldrons of a similarly dark metal cover his shoulders. They are matched by the sabatons and gauntlets he wears. A white cape is draped over his shoulders, and, as it flutters in the breeze I think I can make out the thinnest beginnings of embroidery, little more than a single graceful line, along its bottom.
The glint of silver and steel catches my eye. Across the king's back, a great sword is worn. The ornate weapon has no sheath, allowing all to see that it is plated richly in gold and silver and adorned with crystals the size of a man's eye.
"What a beautiful sword, though it looks quite unwieldy. Surely such an ornate weapon is purely ceremonial."
I look back over my shoulder towards my father. On the wall behind him, a sword is mounted. Weapons like this are given to all the curator lords as symbols of their vow to be defenders of knowledge. But that is all they are; symbols. That sword has never been used. But that is not the blade I must be paying attention to now, so I return to the king once more.
I had become so engrossed by my observations of the king, that I had failed to notice that others had gathered on the deck until he turns to address them. Four guards, clad in black rather than the blues of their homeland, support a litter between them. With extreme care, they carry it down the gangplank. The second the litter reaches the bottom, the king is at its side, and by its side he remains as it is brought towards the head of the procession.
Once at the front, I am able to get a better look at the litter now that my view is no longer obscured by soldiers. A white sheet is covering what lies upon it. Small flowers, their petals the color of the mid-morning sky and their centers a cheerful yellow, are strewn across it. The king is speaking, his head turned down towards the covered thing, and no member of the guard, nor Kalista respond to him. Gently, he runs his fingers down a length of the object before slipping them below the sheet to hold something.
"Oh no,"
That awful feeling of dread blooms in my stomach. The shape of what is below the sheet, it looks human, and I feel as though I now know what malady it is that the king is suffering from.
"Kalista, if that is what I believe it to be, there is nothing we can do. You were told of the limits. You have brought sorrow to our city, and all we can offer him is shallow compassion."
The king steps away from the litter and goes to the edge of the dock. He stares downwards, lost in thought, as the blue green of the waters are reflected in his crown.
"I wish we could do more for you, but as it is, all we could offer would be the services of the Brethren of Dusk. I am sorry."
Behind him, I see Kalista standing silently. Sorrow has also left its mark on her. Her body droops for a moment with a sigh, then, she rights herself and approaches her uncle. She reaches out to him, but before her hand can touch him, the Knight Captain is there. He pushes her hand down and says something to her with a shake of his head. I cannot tell what it is he and Kalista whisper to each other, but I see the result. Kalista withdraws her hand.
The Captain gives a quick nods and returns to his knights. As he walks past her, he gives her a firm clap on the upper arm, as if to comfort her. She makes no response. For several more heartbeats, she remains, watching her uncle before turning and leaving as well. And finally, the king himself leaves. He looks up towards Helia. He appears to have composed himself, and though his ocean deep eyes still glisten with sorrow, I can see a new spark of vitality, desperate with hope, shining form within. And with that, the king goes to the head of his procession and leads them into the city.
Reluctantly, I pull my eyes away from the window and back to my tome. My quill flies across the pages as I write. Though my script is not as beautiful as my father's is, I do pride myself on speed and accuracy. My recordings can always be rewritten later with a more elegant hand anyways. All that matters now is that it is recorded. This day cannot be forgotten.
"It looks as though they are coming this way," Scrivener Auda comments as she peers out the window, "that shall make your task easier, First, assuming the crowds do not obscure your view."
I hasten my writing, eager to return to the window. In one motion, I cross a "t," place a period, and return my quill back to its well. I peer down at the streets below and curse inwardly as I pull the spyglass back up to my eye.
"I understand your curiosity, I truly do, but if you were all to kindly step away, so that I may observe without hindrance, you may all read the chronicle later."
The crowd, predictably, does not hear my thoughts and so they continue to gather and watch the somber procession. Finding the crowd too irritating to continue to peek through, I turn my attention further down the path and blink in surprise.
"Masters? What are you all doing here?"
Helia's Masters stand in the street, having chosen to meet with their guest in the open rather than their usual audience chamber. Such a choice is unusual but not unheard of. What is unheard of though is that all the Masters have agreed to do so.
"So rarely do they agree on anything unanimously."
It is likely that they know what has befallen the queen and the sad state of matters at hand. There is no cure we can offer. They can only confirm the mournful news.
"But surely you can do this with a more empathetic expression on your face."
The expression on each of Helia's leaders is stern and unflinching. Master Abijah, one of the city's eldest and most respected leaders, steps forward and raises her hand, commanding the procession to stop. I see her speak and know what it is that she is explaining; death is the end. The other Masters behind her nod and repeat her statements. I turn to observe the king's response.
His expression is extraordinary. In a matter of seconds, it changes from manic hope to shock to disbelief, then grief, confusion, and anger, then pain once more, and finally, rage. It is like watching a turbulent sea, roiling in the grips of a terrible storm.
He shouts something back and points a figure accusingly at the Masters. I do not need to hear him to know he is cursing them. It is written all over his body language, the terrified expressions on the gathered Helians, and the wave of unease that move through the procession.
My own heart begins to race.
Suddenly, his head whips around. From the ranks of soldiers Kalista and the shield bearer step forward. Her companion remains at the head of the infantry, but Kalista takes several move steps forward alone. Any fatigue or despair she carried with her before is gone. Now somber resignation reigns. Her steps are once more graceful and filled with purpose as she approaches her king.
He demands something of her, pointing between her and the Masters. Kalista refuses him with a shake of her head. The king's rage is renewed. Insults and curses are hurled at her, but she remains undaunted, taking his abuses with a calm air of nobility. The plume on her grand helm is the only part of her that moves as it is stirred by the breeze. Not even her expression changes as she allows his wrath to crash over her until at last, his chest heaving from breathlessness, his shouting ceases. Only then does Kalista turn her back on him.
She is addressing the soldiers. I wish with all my heart that I could be there in the crowd, hearing her speak to those under her command, but as it is, I can only watch her, though I can tell that her words are impassioned.
The soldiers begin to look uneasy as they shift on their feet and take quick glances at each other and the crowd of Helians. The knights however, remain unmoved by Kalista's words. They look only towards their Captain for his response. From atop the back of his great destrier, a stallion with an ebony coat that shines like polished metal, the Knight Captain watches Kalista. A smile crosses his face and he appears to nod his head in agreement with her statement. He urges his mount forward a few steps so that he may go stand alongside her.
Relief washes over Kalista's face. Once more she turns to beseech her sovereign to see reason. She holds her arm outstretched to him and begins to speak. Then I see movement. The Captain suddenly bids his mount to charge. He raises his spear.
"No!"
My scream echoes through the chamber. At once, the Scriveners rush to window and look down at the scene below. Behind me, I can hear my father's voice. It is the last thing that is calm in my world.
"What happened?"
"The knight," I stammer, "he, he, he killed her."
I know people around me are speaking. I can hear them but I cannot comprehend their words. I cannot comprehend anything.
"He's murdered General Kalista."
Without thinking, I look through the spyglass again.
Kalista falls to her knees. The Knight Captain relinquishes his hold on his weapon, leaving her so that he may go stand beside his king. The spear has been run through her and protrudes from her chest. She looks down at the weapon, her expression frozen in painless shock, then back up to her king. Her hand rests on the shaft of the spear, but she never even tries to pull the weapon from herself. She collapses, her other arm still outstretched towards her uncle.
There is a single second of stunned disbelief as everyone, Helian, Camavoran, Master, soldier, watches her fall. Even the king's eyes widen for a moment as the last of his family dies before him. His lips twitch and it looks as though he is about to say something, but before he can, all chaos breaks loose.
The Knight Captain shouts something, his eyes wild and his cruelty unbridled, and raises his hand in a command. His knights charge forward with blinding speed towards the Masters. They are run down. I am powerless as I watch iron hooves crush Master Abijah's body.
I can hear the Scriveners around me scream and cry and pound their fists on the glass. Beside me, someone vomits. I cannot look away.
As his men cut down our elders like animals, the Captain moves before his king and gives a low bow. He smiles without a trace of kindness and points towards the litter and then up the bloody path towards the vaults.
If the king feels any remorse at the death of his niece, he does not show it. That momentary light of shock is gone from his eyes. Now they are as harsh and cold as the dark armor he wears. With more energy than he has shown yet today, he rushes to the litter, seizes the white sheet, and throws it aside to grasp what is below it.
At the sight of what is under the sheet, I feel my stomach lurch. Bile stings my throat and I quickly cover my mouth. I retch.
"She's dead! How, how can anyone think someone can recover from that? Do they not see the rot?"
If he acknowledges it or not, the king cradles the woeful body of his queen close to him. His expression softens and he whispers something to her unhearing ears before placing a kiss on her brow. He pulls back from her, and as his gaze turns from her face, his eyes turn hard once more. Now with his attention fixated exclusively towards the vaults, he goes.
Violence erupts in the ranks of the Camavorans. Another of the knights charges forwards and plunges his spear into Kalista's back, then another does the same, and then a third. A fourth prepares his charge but before his mount can gallop more than a few paces, there is a flash of metal and a spray of blood. The shield bearer is standing there, his face contorted in grief and rage.
In one motioned he had pulled his long sword from its sheath and chopped it into the mount. The horse, already dead, topples forward, its neck splitting open and pouring blood onto the pavement. The knight is thrown from his mount and before he has time to react, the shield bearer is over him and plunges his sword into his where the armor is the weakest. Without sparing a moment to watch the knight's death throes, the shield bearer rips the spear from the dying man's hands and hurls it at his foes. The weapon flies true and skewers the knight beside the treacherous Captain through his throat. He is dead before he hits the pavement.
The Captain is unmoved by the deaths of his warriors. Instead, he gestures to his surviving men. They obey his order without hesitation. They turn on the infantry and begin demanding obedience. They begin to order them to turn on the Helians. Those who refuse, those loyal to Kalista, fight back and are slain. All the others, turn their blades towards the people I have known all my life.
"Bilha, Dinis, Jyoti, Arne, Themar, Ortrun. Dead. All of them dead. Stars, what is happening?"
I don't want to see anymore, but I need to know. I need to know. I need to know why this is happening. I force myself to keep watching.
A group of knights does not turn towards the infantry and instead move to confront the lone warrior. By now, the shield bearer has removed his towering shield from his back and stands ready to face the knights' charge. He meets it with one of his own. The horse before him rears up and the warrior crashes his shield into its chest. It hooves paw at the sturdy metal, but the shield bearer seems to possess inhuman strength. He shoves the beast off and as it staggers to regain its balance, he slashes up at the rider. His blade cuts through the rider's mail, and though the arm is not completely severed, it is obvious from the way the limb hangs that it is the armor that keeps the limb attached, not muscle.
Carrying the momentum from that swing, the warrior pivots and raises his shield just in time to block an attack from another knight, the spear bouncing harmlessly off his shield. He drops into a low stance and with his shield raised high, he begins to advance on his attacker. The knight urges his mount backwards as he tries again and again to spear warrior before him. But even if his attacks are ineffective, those of his fellow knight are not.
Unable to defend himself from behind, a knight rides up behind the warrior and stabs at him. The blade of the spear sinks into his thigh, but the wound is shallow. Roaring with rage, the shield bearer bashes his weapon into the head of the horse before him, stunning it. Using this opening, he then turns with greater speed than his size would imply, and smashes the edge of his shield into the knees of the horse behind him. The animal crashes to the ground, whinnying in agony as its irreparable limb flails pitifully and its rider is pinned beneath its bulk.
With a swift swing of his sword, the warrior decapitates the downed knight. He does not have time though to visit the same mercy on the suffering animal. With his shield he blocks an attack, from one direction, while his sword deflects a blow from another. He is unable to stop a third attack.
This time, the spear sinks deeply into him, piercing at least a finger's length into his shoulder. The warrior's blade arm slumps as his strength begin to falter, but after turning to look at the body of Kalista, a new wave of wrath surges through him. He steps towards the attacker he had parried, uncaring of how the weapon embedded in his shoulder is jostled with motion as he moves in too closely for his foe's weapon to be effective, and he swings up at the rider. But he is also too close for his large weapon to be used to full effect, and the blow does not cut into his foes armor. Unrelenting though, he strikes again and again until the knight is thrown from his mount.
Another roar of pain is ripped from him as the knight who had stabbed him tears the spear out. He pulls back for another attack, his horse rearing up to add its momentum to the blow. The shield bearer turns to intercept the blow, but he is growing slow from exhaustion. With the knight's vantage, he is able to stab downwards, and find his spear's way past the shield and into the stomach of the warrior.
The knight's face curls with a grimace, not from triumph, but pain. The shield bearer had raised his sword as the knight came crashing down, the extra momentum from his horse causing him to become impaled. The sword has pierced him clean through the chest and heavy plate, ripping right out of the man's back. The warrior goes to pull his weapon back, but is unable to. It is stuck in the body.
Moving to capitalize on his weakness, the dismounted knight pulls himself to his feet with practiced efficiency. He leaves his spear where it fell and draws his sword from its sheath. He raises his weapon, aiming to run it through the shield bearer where the armor is the weakest.
As if sensing the murderous intent behind him, the shield bearer responds. With strength I did not think possible for a man, he twists his blade stuck in the body of the knight and snaps it, choosing to fight with a broken weapon rather than none. The power behind his wild swing terrifying. The shield bearer slashes his broken weapon across the helmet of the knight. The weapon is furthered shattered as blood and shining fragments of the swordn rain down upon the pavement. The knight stumbles back, clutching his ruined face. I cannot see the damage that was done, but I can see the streams of blood flowing down his front.
The shield bearer begins to tremble. For all his might, his body is starting to falter and now with a broken weapon, his chances of survival are almost gone. I think he realizes this. He turns and locks eyes with Kalista's murderer. He raises his shield and charges forward with labored steps.
From behind, one of the few remaining knights charges with his spear lowered. The attack connects. The spear sinks through the shield bearer's armor, but still, he keeps moving forward. Another knight directs his mount to charge and again, the attack lands, this time into the damned man's sword arm. His weapon clatters to the ground. Even unarmed, he pushes onward with his shield alone, single minded in his purpose. A third knight charges forward. The shield bearer does not notice him and he is skewered through the side. The weapon had stuck under his shield arm and plunges deeply into the body of the warrior. Speared from three different directions, he at last stops moving.
Radiating an air of contemptuous cruelty, the Knight Captain orders his mount forward until he is little more than an arm's length away from the shield bearer. He leans forward, lowering himself so that he can look more directly into the dying man's eyes, and speaks a single sentence. Then, he rights his posture and gives a command to his soldiers. At once, the knights rip their spears from the shield bearer. Blood begins to pool beneath him and then, he too falls.
I can watch no more.
Around me, the other scriveners are in just a wretched state as I am. Crying and screaming, hushed prayers to entities and snarled curses fill the chamber with a discordant cacophony. My companions, never before have I seen them in this state, never before have I felt so powerless, never before have I been at such a complete loss of what to do. My heart feels as though it has been run through.
"It may be before the day is done."
Despair squeezes my insides and I can feel bile rising in my throat again. I swallow it. I look down at the soiled white glove on my hand. My face curls in a scowl as I tear off the glove and throw it on the ground.
"What does it matter if my oils stain the pages?"
Then, I hear my father's voice above the chaos.
"Everyone, listen!"
For the first time in my life, I hear fear in his voice. But still, he sounds so strong. He needs to. He's the Lord Chronicler. He must be strong for us.
"Hear me," he says, "today we face a crisis the likes of which we have never known before. We are in danger, I will not deny this, but we must not allow ourselves to fall to despair. The Isles need us."
"But we are not warriors!" Scrivener Tel cries out, "We do not know how to fight!"
"We do not need to fight," the Lord Chronicler responds, "We need to endure. We need to record. Whatever happens here today will be felt all over the world, I know it. We are scribes of the Blessed Isles, the most talented collection of historians, librarians, curators, and archivists the world has ever known. It is your sacred duty to preserve knowledge, so that is what you shall do."
He goes and pulls the sword from the wall.
"Father, what are you doing? That blade is ceremonial. It has no edge. You know this."
"And as a member of the curator lords, it is my sacred duty to be a defender of knowledge. I will uphold the promise I made to this city. When I leave this room, you are to bar the door behind me and you are to write. Even if they should break through and slay you at your desks, you are to write. This day cannot be forgotten!"
He walks towards us all gathered by the window. No, he walks towards me.
"First Apprentice," he says as she stands before me, "beloved daughter."
"Yes, Father." I respond, unable to bring my voice above a whisper.
He leans over and kisses my forehead. His lips are warm and trembling. He then takes off his circlet and places it on my head.
"Should anything befall me," he says, "you are the new Lord Chronicler. This is my final order."
He steps back.
"Father."
I try to tell him that I love him. My mouth makes the motions, but no sound comes out. Still, he sees and understands, and through my tear blurred vision, I watch as he nods to me, bows to the room, and leaves.
The door to the chamber closes with a bang. All eyes turn to me. The circlet is heavier than I could have known.
"What are your orders, Lord Chronicler?" Scrivener Auda asks me.
"I," I begin.
"I don't know," is what I want to say, but I do not. My father was, is, strong for us. I must be strong for us.
"I," I continue, "will perform my duty to record history, be I the First Apprentice or the Lord Chronicler, as should you all. We shall observe, we shall record, we shall preserve!"
It takes all my willpower to return to the window, pick up the spyglass once more, and bear witness to Helia's ravaging. I know I may see my father cut down, but if his name is to be among those of the slain, I shall record it and adorn it with all the honors a man as great as him deserves.
I witness terror. Violence I never imagined could come to these Isles unfolds on the street below me. I absorb every detail of it I can, allowing the screams of the dying and crimson flashes of blood to be permanently etched onto my soul. I will record each and every agonizing detail.
"If I am damned to chronicle ruin, then I shall do so with my head held high. This day cannot be forgotten!"
A boom like thunder shakes the world. I turn towards the vaults at the heart of the Isles. It's bright.