Prologue:

Twenty-Five Years Ago...

The stench of death was pungent. Across the muddied battlefield, littered with the corpses of those brave soldiers who rushed into battle to serve their country, two men stood back to back facing insurmountable odds. The first – a regal man sporting a chain-link chest plate – watched on with sorrow as another pour soul was felled before him.

King Mephiles wished not for this war, and tried his best to prevent it for as long as he could. It had been brewing for years, but he would have remained blind to the intent of his neighbours had it not been for the man standing beside him; his best friend and the kingdom's finest general. Jet. He'd lived and fought alongside the new king not more than five short years, but in that time his insight and battle skills proved the turning point in the six-month war.

Several battles had been waged since the Frelian army began its march towards Deyfros' capital. The battle at Pacifilog Village, a peaceful seafaring town at the far edges of Deyfros, had proved the first spark. Mephiles had heard of the bloody massacre and knew the thing he fretted most had started: War.

Sending his troops to defend, Mephiles and Jet managed to hold back the initial onslaught at the foot of Mount Firedrake, the long dormant volcano, but the battles at Malrick and Frosben had proved costly defeats for the new king. Finally, as Frelia's army, heralded by King Razor, trudged further west to Deyfros castle, Mephiles called for one final stand in the moors dividing the coast and castle from the mountains.

The battle had waged long into the day, and the salmon hues of the setting sun blanketed the bloodshed in a ghastly orange light. It had rained long through the week, and the usually green pasture had grown black with mud. It was like fighting in a swamp. And, again, as the sun set, the heavens opened and the foreboding clouds drowned the earth below in nature's futile attempt to wash away the stain of the battle. The swamp was drenched by the red tide. Mephiles knew he had to finish the fighting quickly before nightfall, and he knew the only way to do it was to finish Razor once and for all.

Like a river mouth parting around land in fork, the Frelian soldiers made room as Razor pushed through to the front. Dismounting his steed, he called Mephiles directly, and demanded retributions. But the time for talking was long over, as both rulers knew too well, and with resignment Mephiles raised his sword and rushed into their final fight.

As a clash thundered across the field when steel met steel, Jet sprung to the scene, fighting back several of Razor's knights by just himself and a small group to let the kings battle for their kingdom's futures in private.

Razor was a keen swordsman, trained by the very best, but the long trek west, coupled with the consistent downpour and poor conditions, only aided Mephiles. Exhaustion saved him from a quick demise. Without it, Mephiles feared he would be no match. He wasn't nearly the swordsman, nor the tactician, that Jet was. He was a talker, not a fighter.

"We could have settled this diplomatically," Mephiles said as he dug his left boot into the ground to steady himself and pushed with all his might against Razor's silver blade.

"The time for talk has long since ended," Razor pushed back. "Fiona saw to that."

"Don't blame my wife for what befell your country," Mephiles defended his queen, ducking beneath a swipe and delivering the soul of his boot into Razor's chest. Razor stumbled backwards, but steadied himself swiftly and stabbed with his sword, blade sheened with fresh Deyfros blood. Mephiles barely jumped out of the way, the tip clinking against his chainmail.

"She was my wife before she was yours, don't forget," Razor grunted as he easily brushed off another one of Mephiles's strikes. "The day you stole her from Frelia was the day it lost its queen, and its hope."

"I didn't steal her to cripple you. She left to follow her heart, something I wish you could have understood. This didn't need to end with the deaths of thousands," Mephiles preached, although the hardened look in the depths of Razor's pupils told Mephiles that nothing could change his mind.

"Enough talk. This only ends with death. Put your pride, and your country, on the line. Let's settle this like men, nay, like kings," Razor demanded as, again, he raised his blade and brought it down over Mephiles's head.

Mephiles raised his sword just in time to block the attack, but the impact sent shockwaves down his arm that rattled his nerves and waned his bones. He was in pain, and almost at his limit, but he knew he couldn't give in. His people needed him. His country needed him. Most importantly, his queen needed him.

With newfound determination, Mephiles gripped the hilt of his sword with white knuckles and rushed his opponent. His first swipe was blocked easily, but he quickly spun and slammed his blade against Razor's other side. The king blocked just in time, but was off guard as Mephiles again kicked Razor backwards. Taking his opportunity while his opponent was off balance, Mephiles delivered a barrage of strikes that Razor struggled to block. Finally, after his fifth blow when Razor was at his weakest, he caught the hilt of Razor's sword with his own blade and heaved. Without much resistance, Razor's weapon was wrenched from his hand and plunged into the mud below.

Eyes wide with fear, Razor knew he was beat and raised his hands, begging for his life. Mephiles hesitated for the briefest of moments, but knew his country couldn't afford Razor to be let go and rebuild. As king, Mephiles wasn't afforded luxuries such as morals.

Glancing to the side, Mephiles noticed his general dispatch the last of Razor's bodyguards, and his friend looked to him with a glance that gave Mephiles the strength that he needed. With one final swing he slice the metal of his blade through Razor's neck, decapitating him on the spot and bringing an end to this brutal, bloody war.

With a final cry, King Razor of Frelia was vanquished, and an eerie silence fell upon the battlefield as remaining soldiers laid down their arms and surrendered. The bog lay quiet thereafter, as the graveyard of the unburied finally stilled. The sludge washed from the grass that crunched underfoot, stained red with blood. Finally, it was over.

"You fought well, your majesty," General Jet bowed, acknowledging the skill and substantial growth of his king's abilities.

"Only with your help, old friend," the king humbled. "If I had just listened to you earlier, maybe all of this could have been avoided."

"It does us little good pondering on that which we cannot change, your majesty. Frelia made their choice, as did we. Such is war."

"An unfortunate truth, to be sure. You know death better than most."

"What will you do now?" Jet asked, ignoring Mephiles' statement as he cleaned the drying blood off his blade and shouted orders for the remainder of his men to bind the surrendering soldiers' wrists with rope.

"Send these soldiers back to their families and draft up peace talks with Frelia's incumbent."

"Do you not strive for annexation, my king?" A soldier inquired.

"I've seen my father fight in several wars, and already in my short reign I've needed to fight one myself. I wish not to solve my problems in the same bloodthirsty way. Hopefully this will mark the end of the unnecessary fighting, for both nations," Mephiles remarked wistfully.

"I wish you luck with that, your majesty," Jet nodded through a thin-lipped smile.

"And what of you, then, old friend?" Mephiles already knew of Jet's answer before it left his mouth, but he asked in the hopes that it might not be true.

"I must leave. I've stayed here too long. I've repaid the debt that I owed you those years ago," Jet said with a bow.

"I feared that would be your answer. Will you return to them?"

"That I do not know. My path forward is unclear, but I must walk it anew regardless. I'll miss you, and this place. The kindness you've shown me knows no bounds. If need ever arises, beckon and I shall come riding on the winds," Jet promised.

"Understood, old friend. And know that you will always have a home in the castle if you ever wish to return."

"Thank you," Jet said as he shook firm his king's hand for one final time. "Give Fiona my goodbyes, too. Farewell, Mephiles." With a final look, Jet turned and faded into the field of soldiers, abandoning him like day's light to leave Mephiles alone to clean up the festering wound this war had left on the land and its kingdoms. Jet left with the knowledge that he was no longer needed, and that Deyfros was in good hands, and he smiled.

Mephiles sighed, expelling the last of his adrenaline as he gazed over the swamplands covered in brown and red. It was there, taking in the horrors of war, that Mephiles decided he would change how Deyfros would operate. No longer would war be the norm. He would put an end to violence, and usher in a new era of peace. One that would outlast him.

And he did.