Chapter One Revised

Here is a revised version of chapter one. I decided to begin with the primary protagonist this time instead of the secondary one. The setting is different as well, but I feel that it is for the better, as the other version would have wasted time with eventually reaching the place where the story now begins.

CHAPTER ONE

Vincent Thar awoke that morning, unaware of what fate had in store for him that day. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Throwing back the sheets, he stood and moved to the window, pulling the curtains to the side. Weak sunlight poured in, giving a pink tinge to the room.

He looked down at the street below and beheld people wearing tattered clothing walking down the road, heading for the refugee center nearby. Vincent shook his head; even this early in the morning, refugees trickled into the city. They had nowhere else to go but Therin, hoping the crown would be able to protect them.

It had been six months since the death of King Dehan. Rumors had spread like wildfire across the nation. Some stories told of a legion of fiery demons that came in the middle of the night, killing hundreds of people. Other tales spoke of a single man, wielding a Crysblade, burning his way through the palace. The stories only served to build on the fear the general population felt.

Aldera had known peace for decades. Soon after Dehan’s death, though, his brother Tordain had vied for control of the throne with Gedric, Dehan’s son and rightful heir. Almost immediately, Tordain and a group of nobles retreated to the southern lands, and the kingdom was divided. Suddenly, in the midst of civil war, soldiers who were supposed to serve the crown returned to their homes, fearful of what their own countrymen would do.

It had all happened too fast, in Vincent’s opinion. No one wanted to believe that the king’s own brother had arranged for the assassination, but the hasty action taken by Tordain and his followers cast suspicion upon him.

There had been a time when the city gates would not have opened this early in the morning. In fact, the city guard itself had become nearly useless. According to even the eldest who lived in the city, no outside dangers had ever threatened Therin. Now, though, the amount of guards patrolling the city walls had doubled, and refugee centers had started up to provide a temporary home for those whose real homes had been swallowed by the advancing armies of the south.

Vincent did not understand. Soldiers were supposed to be loyal to their king, not a single lord or lady. How could men who had trained and lived together throughout their adult lives suddenly turn against their comrades? War had always seemed like something that could only happen in other lands.

He turned away from the window, trying to clear his thoughts. He had more pressing matters to attend to that morning. His father, one of the most talented blacksmiths in the city, needed Vincent to report to the shop earlier each day. The demand for more weaponry to be forged grew each day. Many of the men among the derelict travelers volunteered to join the army, swelling its ranks. With nearly half the military gone, the additions were welcomed. The new soldiers needed to be trained, and weapons and armor were essential supplies.

Vincent walked to the dresser sitting near his bed and opened a drawer. He pulled a pair of sturdy trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. Both articles were dappled greens and browns, remnants of the days he had spent living in the woodlands south of the city. He had moved to the city several years ago, as his father intended Vincent to carry on the blacksmith trade. Vincent had not been particularly thrilled with the prospect at first, but had soon come to appreciate the business that his father ran.

He dressed hurriedly, pulling on a pair of woolen socks and boots. He moved to the shelf underneath his window and slipped his knife onto his belt. The increasing number of residents in the city produced more desperate conditions. Even the capital of Aldera was not devoid of its more shady areas.

He exited his bedroom and came into the front room. His house was plain, consisting of only a few rooms. His habits had not changed due to his time in the city. His needs were small, and so he kept his life simple.

He pushed the door open and stepped out into the street, pulling the door shut behind him before locking it. Groups of refugees moved along the road, their eyes downcast. Vincent could not believe how many there were. Despite many of the regions of the south giving their support to Tordain, hundreds of refugees came in every week. The safety and security that Therin offered attracted many people in these dangerous times.

He headed north down the street. This section of the city was kept fairly clean, inhabited mostly by middle class workers. No city the size of Therin was free of its slums, though, and they had only grown since the divide. The newly crowned Gedric was forced to focus most of his attention on military matters. It was an unfortunate situation for any new ruler, as the people would soon come to believe that the king was ignoring their needs. Vincent was fortunate to work for his father, whose business was only increasing.

He moved quickly, politely dodging around groups of travelers. Small houses lined the street, and several of them had been converted into temporary homes just a block from Vincent’s house. Soon, residents in the city would be forced to take in guests as well.

Turning into a back alley, Vincent walked toward the next street over. His father’s shop sat directly across the street from the alley. Compared to the other road, this one was nearly devoid of travelers. There were fewer refugee centers here, as the nobles who organized the homes tried to keep the areas spread throughout the city.

The door to the shop was open, so Vincent stepped into the front room, moving past it into the forging area beyond. It was a wide room, with several open windows providing plenty of circulation.

Four apprentices stood near heavy anvils, beating hot metal with their hammers. In the center of the room stood his father, Alec Thar. He was a bear of a man, the soot streaking his face adding to the image of a wild animal. Despite Vincent’s misgivings about taking over his Alec’s business some day, he was always happy to see his father. The man projected an air of calmness. He was like a rock, a steadfast part of Vincent’s life that would never change.

Alec looked up and saw Vincent coming through the doorway. “Ah, you’re here. Just in time.” He threw Vincent a thick apron and a pair of leather gloves. “We have a long day ahead of us, son.”

Vincent tied the apron around his waist and neck and slipped on the gloves. His father was already pounding away at a bright piece of steel, turning it into yet another blade. Vincent moved to his own anvil, studying the note his father had stuck there with the day’s instructions. With an inward sigh, he picked up his hammer and began to work.



The sun was just starting to cast shadows across the buildings when Vincent stepped out of the shop. As autumn set in, the days were growing shorter, meaning less time to work while it was still light. He understood why his father was so rushed. There never seemed to be an end to the demands made by the king and his war council.

There were far more people out in the street now. Many different shops could be found up and down the road, and various merchants were always coming by to find new products to sell in other cities.

Vincent, however, was not interested in purchasing anything, nor was he ready to retire for the night. Instead, he turned north, moving with the flow of the masses. Eventually the road began to slope downward, and less people frequented this area. He followed the road as it curved, noticing the gradual change in well-kept houses to ragged, broken buildings. The road became filthier, as did the area’s inhabitants. Beggars sat in alleyways, making a point to act desperate.

Vincent knew he was fortunate and that others were not. Every three or four days, he traveled to one of the city’s slums to aid those running the community kitchens made available to the poor and disheartened. For some reason, Vincent felt obligated to help those in need, hoping that in some way he was bettering their lives. It was a naïve, idealistic notion, but he clung onto it nonetheless.

He proceeded down the street, when a strange feeling overcame him. It was like a slight itch on the back of his neck. He stopped and looked over his shoulder, trying to find the one who was watching him. No one so much as gave him a second glance.

Dismissing it as unimportant, he continued on. However, he could not shake the feeling that he was being observed and followed. He had nearly been mugged before when he first began volunteering at the kitchens, with a group of men following his every move. This time, though, the sensation was more intense, as if the unseen eyes were burning into his skin.

As he passed an alleyway, he heard a commotion from within. The alley was dark as he turned into it. He thought he saw the vague shape of a man wrapped in a worn cloak. It seemed as though he had fallen over, whether from malnutrition, lack of sleep, or alcohol. Carefully, Vincent approached the figure.

A foul stench assaulted his nostrils, causing him to nearly choke. He covered his nose with a sleeve and pressed on. As he drew nearer, a rat scurried away from the man, taking a piece of bread with it.

Vincent paused a few steps from the huddled figure. He did not seem to be moving at all. Cautiously, he reached out and tugged on the man’s cloak. When he did not respond, Vincent edged forward, crouching down. He grabbed the man’s shoulders firmly and rolled him onto his back.

Lifeless eyes stared up at him. Startled, Vincent let go of the cloak and backed up against the building behind him. How could this be possible? The city watch was supposed to prevent occurrences like this. If nothing else, immigrants from the same towns tended to look out for one another.

He looked the body up and down one last time, trying to determine the cause of death. He noticed a large red splotch staining the gray shirt underneath the cloak. Hesitantly, Vincent pulled the rolled the man’s shirt up to get a better look at the cut.

As if struck by a lightning bolt, Vincent’s back struck the brick behind him. He slid to the ground, eyes wide, running a hand through his hair. There, cut into the man’s chest, was a single word.

“Thar.”

Chapter One Draft

This is the first chapter of my new project. It's a lot slower than the Prologue, as this is just the beginning, so bear with me, it will pick up in the next few chapters. Also, it's a lot shorter than the Prologue.

CHAPTER ONE

In the years since her split with the Order of Protectors, Rain had never enjoyed her freedom more.

She walked down the dirt road, a lone traveler in the chilly autumn afternoon. The trees nearby did little to shield her from the wind’s embrace. Her cloak whipped around her legs, forcing her to put a hand to her side to keep the article in place. If she chose, she could simply ignore the cold, but she sometimes liked to appear to be a normal person, instead of the powerful magic user that she was.

She crested a hill and spotted her destination through the trees. Padau was a large town that sprawled across the fields bordering the eastern woodlands of Aldera. It was only midday, but she had not slept in a real bed for two weeks, and felt that she deserved the break. Her journey was only going to grow even more difficult as she traveled farther north.

Four months ago, King Dehan had been assassinated in his palace in Therin, the capital city of Aldera, in the northern region. Rumors had spread like wildfire across the nation. Some stories told of a legion of fiery demons that came in the middle of the night, killing hundreds of people. Other tales spoke of a single man, wielding a Crysblade, burning his way through the palace. Rain suspected that the latter may be true; after all, the news of Renker’s death had reached her as well. Like her, Renker had found his own path, away from the scheming of the elders.

But now, he was gone as well. The thought made her uncomfortable. He had been an excellent swordsman, one of the few who used a perfect blend of might and magic to defeat his opponents. He had also been one of her closest friends.

Rain put a hand to the violet scarf she wore around her neck, the ends hanging down her back. Only a handful of Protectors ever fully mastered the ability to actually change a Crysblade into something else, so as to disguise it. Rain liked to be able to enter a room full of people without a sword looming over her shoulder at them.

Reassuring herself of the scarf’s existence was a habit she had developed recently. The world seemed unstable since the king’s and Renker’s deaths, as if everything she had known were coming undone.

Aldera had known peace for decades. Soon after Dehan’s death, though, his brother Tordain vied for control of the throne with Gedric, Dehan’s son and rightful heir. Almost immediately, Tordain and a group of nobles retreated to the southern lands, and the kingdom was divided. Suddenly, in the midst of civil war, soldiers who were supposed to serve the crown returned to their homes, fearful of what their own countrymen would do.

It had all happened too fast, in Rain’s opinion. That was part of the reason why she was heading north. Despite her departure from the Order, she still felt it was her duty to end conflicts and seek the truth whenever possible. She intended to see who had murdered one of the few friends she had in the world, and uncover the reasons behind Tordain’s secession.

She came to the top of another hill, trying to clear her head. The landscape in these parts was beautiful: green fields, ample for farming, extended for miles, bordered by the woodland she stood in. She spotted several farmhouses as she set off again. Most of the men in and around Padau were farmers. Some of these families had lived here for generations.

Judging the distance, Rain guessed that she was just under a mile away from the town proper. Hopefully, the people of this town would be accommodating. Despite the way folk tended to react toward Protectors these days, Rain tried to keep a positive attitude. She wanted to remind them that there was still some good to be seen in the Order.

Rain took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air. After having spent most of her life in a city, she found the openness of the countryside both inviting and soothing. Even with the chill in the air, she found the familiar presence of the trees comforting. They reminded of her of her childhood, though most of it had become foggy over the years.

One memory that she could always grasp was a time when she would explore the forests near her home with her father. He had been a woodsman, guiding travelers to the correct trails that would send them to their destination. He had taught her everything he knew, hoping that she could make a living following in his footsteps.

And then he had passed on, only days before Rain’s eleventh birthday. Even now, fourteen years later, she recognized it as the turning point in her life, which had eventually led to her desire to be a Protector.

Presently, she came to the edge of the woods, stopping on the tall hill that overlooked the town beyond. Finally free of the shade of the treetops, the world seemed to turn brighter as she moved on down the slope. The road widened as it extended toward the town.

Despite the reputation Protectors carried with them, Rain enjoyed being around other people. She had not seen another person in two weeks, choosing to camp in the wilderness. It made for faster traveling, but she missed the company that others offered.

At last, she stepped into the town, walking between the houses that lined the street. Most of the men were working in the fields, harvesting as much as they could during the day. Their children, those not old enough to help with household chores, were free to play through the streets. They gawked at the strange traveler that entered their town. Rain flashed them a smile, and they went about their games, unaware of the fear most people regarded her with. Their mothers, however, were not as welcoming, scowling at her as she passed by.

She found the sign she wanted, a painting of a shepherd’s crook above the door of a two-story building. A smaller sign hung from the first, depicting a mug. The signs marked the building as both an inn and a tavern. Many merchants passed through Padau to buy the produce grown in the region, as well as other travelers heading to the larger cities in the north.

Rain turned the handle and pushed open the door. The tables in the dining room faced toward a stage for entertainment for the patrons. The main counter was to her left, a door behind it leading to the kitchen. Only a few men were there, eating their midday meal. The inn would see more business later that night as the workers came in for the day.

A portly man stood behind the counter, idly wiping the pristine surface with a cloth. He looked up as Rain approached. His eyes lit up as he recognized what she was. Her unusual garb always made her stand out. While most women wore dresses, she wore tan shorts and a lightweight blue shirt, pulled snug by a sleeveless white vest that flared out at the bottom. The violet scarf and cloak completed the outfit.

“Welcome to Padau, traveler,” the innkeeper said, keeping a polite smile on his face.

“Hello,” Rain said, smiling pleasantly. “I’d like to rent a room for a few nights, please.”

He eyed her suspiciously, most likely wondering what a Protector would want in his town. “That’ll be one silver mark per night,” he stated, remaining stiffly formal.

She reached into one of the pouches on her belt and produced a single gold mark, worth ten silver marks. “I believe this will cover the expense.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” he replied quickly, taking the coin from her. He bent down and pulled a box from beneath the counter. He unlocked it and deposited the coin within. “If you’ll follow me, I will show you to your room.”

He came out from behind the counter and led her through the dining room to the staircase in the back. They ascended to the second floor, and he led her to the second door on the right side of the hallway. He reached into the pocket on his shirt and grabbed a key. He unlocked the door and handed the key to Rain.

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” he asked. His initial mistrust seemed to have faded now that she had paid for the room.

“I would like a meal brought up, please,” she answered, handing him a silver mark.

“Right away, ma’am,” he said, heading back down the staircase. Rain entered the room and observed her surroundings. A bed sat in the far left corner, a nightstand with a candle standing next to it, and a wooden trunk resting at the foot of the frame. A brass tub and a washbasin were located against the wall to her right. She grinned; after two weeks on the road, a real bath would be welcome.

Light shone through the window above the bed. Rain crossed the room, throwing her cloak down onto the bed. She removed the four pouches from her belt, setting them on top of the cloak. They were filled with an assortment of items, including two extra sets of clothing, carefully rolled up so as to fit inside the belt pouches.

A soft knock on the doorframe made her turn, noticing the serving woman. Nervously, she handed a platter with a large dome covering to Rain. She opened her mouth to thank the woman, but she hastily retreated down the stairs.

Rain sighed. It was always the same. Paying it no heed, she closed the door and locked it. She placed the platter on the nightstand; she would open it in a few minutes.

Carefully, she unwrapped the scarf from around her neck and held it straight. It stiffened and began folding in upon itself, transforming into an elegant, single-edged blade. Like her gloves, the crystal housed in the blade was a pale violet.

Violet suited her nature. As a mixture of red and blue, she was able to help others or destroy them. The dichotomy made the color difficult to wield; few other Protectors chose to use it, instead staying with the primary colors.

Holding the blade in her hand made her feel secure. The uncertainty she had been facing since Renker’s death faded, leaving behind steely resolve. She would find his murderer, and make the criminal pay for his crimes.

Finally, her routine complete, she sat down on the edge of the bed. She removed the covering of the platter and was assaulted by the scent of cooked meat, potatoes, and steamed vegetables. She intended to enjoy this meal.

Prologue Part 2

PROLOGUE CONTINUED

Lloyd stepped forward, wiping blood from his sword on the furniture he passed. This room was only the first in a set of a group of chambers, depending on the lavishness of the king. He stalked to the end of the room, pushing open another set of gilded doors. The room beyond was basically a smaller version of the room he had just come through. The larger sitting room was for guests, while this one was for the king and his family.

Lloyd frowned. The room was deserted. Surely those swordsmen were not the only resistance the king was sending forth. No one, especially a king, would choose to die willingly on the night of a celebration.

Wasting no time, he pushed through to the next room. As he had suspected, it was the bedchamber. The room was surprisingly humble in appearance. It was rather large, true, but there were very little furnishings compared to the sitting rooms before it. A large bed sat against the far wall, with two doors on either side leading out to a balcony overlooking the sea. The doors were open, the light from the full moon shining in.

The royal family was nowhere to be seen. Instead, standing before the bed was a man in silver-blue armor. The figure held an oversized broadsword in his hands, the point resting on the ground.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Lloyd said. He caught the gleam of a crystal in the base of the blade, and inwardly sighed. It was a Crysblade. He studied the man’s armor, noticing how tiny interlocking plates covered the usual areas made vulnerable by typical armor. A large, clear crystal was set into the middle of the breastplate.

Lloyd wondered where Dehan had acquired not only a Crysblade, but also a full set of Crysarmor. Crysarmor was much harder to make, and so it was much rarer than Crysblades. As far as Lloyd knew, the Protectors no longer employed the armor. The clear crystal was beneficial yet harmful at the same time. Due to its size, it gave the one wearing the armor the speed and maneuverability one would have normally. Unfortunately, the crystal’s lack of color strictly limited its abilities, and its size sapped the wearer’s energy faster. While useful in certain situations, it was not practical for long-term battles.

The armored figure raised its sword. The weapon was a good six feet in length. Under normal circumstances, it would have been unusable, but the enhanced power the armor’s crystal granted made the size necessary. While Lloyd’s sword was just as durable as the larger one, its extended length gave the figure a slight advantage.

“If you don’t mind, I have a king to kill,” Lloyd said. “So, I don’t suppose you could simply step out of the way.”

The man did not answer. Lloyd had not expected him to. “Have it your way,” he sighed.

He leapt forward, channeling energy through his body to make him faster and stronger. He swept his sword in an arc, aiming for the man’s stomach. A Crysblade could slice through normal armor. Unfortunately, it only left a large dent on Crysarmor. Eventually, a Blade could break through, but it would wear down the user.

The armored warrior reacted instantly, sweeping his sword around at head level. Lloyd ducked out of the way and pressed forward again. The man, ready this time, countered Lloyd’s attacks. He was not slowed down by the bulky armor, as one would expect, and his extended reach kept Lloyd just out of range.

Time to try something else, he thought. Opening himself up to the crystals, Lloyd leaped toward the western wall, spinning in midair so that his feet connected with it. He fed energy into the wall, allowing it to hold him in place. A soft red light shone wherever his feet touched.

The figure swung at Lloyd, making full use of his Blade’s length. Lloyd ran along the wall, dodging out of the way as the other’s Crysblade sheared through stone. Lloyd sprung away from the wall, hitting the ceiling, and then struck downward. His sword connected squarely with the man’s helmet, leaving a large furrow across the right side of the plate covering his face.

The man staggered backward, knocking into a support for the canopy above the bed. Even with the added protection of Crysarmor, a powerful blow to the head could send anyone reeling. Pressing his advantage, Lloyd struck at the dent he had made on the lower part of the breastplate, and was rewarded as the metal gave way, tearing slightly.

Suddenly, stars exploded in Lloyd’s eyes as he flew away from the warrior and out the door, back into the small sitting room. He landed in a plush chair, tipping it over backward. He grunted as he came up to his feet. Blood was trickling down the side of his head; the man’s armored fist had made a slim gash just above his left ear. He put a hand to the side of the head and performed a quick self-healing spell. Thankfully, the cut was small enough to drain very little of his energy.

As he regained his bearings, the armored warrior came through the doorway. Lloyd looked down, noticing that the long red carpet extended into this room as well. He smiled, draining as much power as he could from the rug, turning it into a soft pink color. He held out his left hand, palm open, and let out a blast of air. The invisible force struck the man, sending him crashing into the bed frame and bringing the canopy down on top of him.

Cautiously, Lloyd stepped into the bedroom, preparing to unleash another burst of air if necessary. The man rolled out of the wreckage of the bed, sword still in his hands. Not wasting any time, Lloyd pressed the attack, using quick, darting strikes to hit different points on the armor. The man was able to counter most of these, but he was visibly slowing. With the wounds he had received, the crystal in the breastplate was wasting too much power keeping the man and armor moving.

Lloyd pushed forward again with his hand. An invisible force drove the armored figure out the balcony doors, and Lloyd immediately closed in. The balcony was rather large, and the full moon above provided ample light.

The warrior was growing more desperate, taking larger swings. His brutish tactics were not only ineffective, but also wore him out that much faster. Lloyd ducked beneath the attacks, popping up to strike at the open spot on the man’s stomach. A steady stream of blood began to drain out of the tear.

Reinforcing his blade with more power from his crystals, Lloyd struck the man on the side of the head. He dropped to his knees, sword clattering to the floor. Seeing him kneeling, Lloyd realized just how big the armor had made him seem. It did not matter now. The fight was over. Lloyd turned away, needing to move onward.

“Why?” the man called out. “Why are you doing this, Lloyd?”

Lloyd froze in mid-step. He returned to the kneeling, dying man. The man put his hands to his head and removed the helmet, throwing it to the side. The right side of his head was bruised and swollen, the eye closed.

“Renker,” Lloyd said. “Playing a bodyguard, I see.”

The big man drew in a pained breath. “The Order is fracturing,” he replied.

“I know,” Lloyd said, smiling. “That’s partly my doing.”

“So it was you,” Renker hissed. “The elders have been frantic these past few months trying to catch you.”

“They did, actually,” Lloyd said. “I escaped just this morning.”

Confusion crept across Renker’s face. “Then how are you here?” he inquired. “Unless….” His eyes widened as realization set in. “You took one of the transport crystals, didn’t you?”

Lloyd grinned wickedly. “Indeed I did.”

“So the Order really is dividing,” Renker said. Lloyd could see the sadness in his eyes. “I suppose some of the Order is now loyal to you.”

“Yes,” Lloyd answered. He crouched, putting himself at eye level with Renker. “So tell me, what are you doing here?”

“I was not pleased with the direction the Order has been taking these days,” Renker said. He turned his head and spit blood out of his mouth. “I decided to return to my homeland and serve my king.”

“Ever the patriot, Renker,” Lloyd said, shaking his head. “Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a king to kill.” He stood up, keeping his sword at his side. With surprising speed, Renker grabbed his arm.

“What are you planning, Lloyd?” he demanded. “How can killing the king benefit you?”

“I’ve indulged you enough, Renker,” Lloyd said, hardness creeping into his voice. “It’s time I was on my way.”

He brushed off Renker’s hand and brought his sword up. There was no fear in Renker’s eyes, only hatred. Lloyd was used to seeing that. He set the blade against Renker’s neck. He would give Renker an honorable death; it was the least he could do.

He pulled his arms back, and then stepped into the swing, cleaving Renker’s head off cleanly. The body fell to the side. Wordlessly, Lloyd turned and entered the bedchamber.

He doubted that the king had fled the palace. Instead, there was probably a secret passage in the bedchamber that would take the king and queen to a safe room. Unfortunately, nowhere was truly safe where Lloyd was concerned. He began checking the walls for any hidden entrances, moving aside dressers and shelves. The walls were bare, though. He turned to the bed and knocked it to the side with a push of air. As he had thought, a trapdoor was set into the floor. He hooked a finger through the handle and pulled. It did not budge, meaning it was locked from the inside. With two quick stabs, he broke the hinges and kicked the door in.

He dropped down into the hallway. It was painted in the same red and gold pattern as the rest of the palace. Lloyd thought it awfully shortsighted of the king to trap himself like this. Then again, Dehan was no coward; he would rather die than flee. Lloyd was ready to fulfill that wish.

He walked down the passage, noting the torches on the walls. He pulled several of the flames to him, using the crystal in his sword to bind them to the blade. The metal in Crysblades did not burn or rust with age; they were, for the most part, impregnable.

He continued down the hallway, at last finding a thick wooden door. The king and the rest of his personal guard waited inside. Unconcerned, Lloyd slashed through the door, the fire on the blade burning through instantaneously. He kicked the wreckage down and crossed the threshold.

Four men rushed him immediately. Lloyd swung once, sending the flames into the guards’ faces. They screamed in agony as they fell. Lloyd walked forward, watching the only person remaining in the room: King Dehan himself. The queen was not with him. Lloyd did not care; he only needed to kill the king.

For a man who was about to die, the king stood proud, as if he were the one in control. Lloyd admired the man’s courage, as foolish as it was.

“You could have fled, you know,” Lloyd said. “Survived for another day.”

“I know you would have come after me,” Dehan answered. “I saw you in the feast hall and beheld you for what you are.”

“I’m honored,” Lloyd said, grinning. He walked toward the king, stopping a few steps away.

“Well then, get on with it,” Dehan said. “I only hope you are ready for what you are about to start.”

The king knew what Lloyd’s plan was. There was no more use for words. Lloyd set the tip of his Blade against the king’s heart.

“As you wish,” he said, driving the sword through Dehan’s chest. He let the body slide to the floor, wiping the blood off his sword on the king’s robes. With a flick of his wrist, the sword began to change, widening, extending, until at last a red sash hung limply in his hands. He tied it around his waist, and then pulled a spherical silver crystal from his pocket. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the place he wanted to go. He vanished from the room, off to play the next piece of his puzzle.

He hoped the world was ready for his next move.

Prologue Part 1

All right, so here is my latest project. I must say that I liked this writing more than any other I've written, so I hope people get the same amount of satisfaction from it. It's about seven and a half pages on MS Word, so I split it up into two parts here.

Also, I'd like to point out that the main story itself does not revolve around Lloyd, the focus of the prologue. This mainly serves as a description of the main aspects of magic in the story.

PROLOGUE

On the day he was supposed to die, Lloyd Tremblar wore black. All black, to mark him as a criminal and an enemy of the Protectors. Black, to symbolize the supposed evil that he had committed, and planned to continue.

He smiled. It was almost an honor to be held in such high esteem by the elders of the Order. It had taken them long enough. Lloyd had set his plans in motion years ago, and only now had the other Protectors realized what he was doing. Those Protectors who were still loyal to the elders, of course.

He sat on a sturdy wooden bench at one of the long tables in the feasting hall, idly watching the people dancing in the area that had been cleared in the center of the large stone room. The feast itself was over, but the real celebration was just beginning. The time had come for the drunken nobles to make fools of themselves on the dance floor. Very few had any real talent at the art. It seemed as though only the high nobles, the king, and the queen, seated on their raised dais at the far end of the room, kept a hold on their emotions. Nearly everyone else in the hall, if they were not dancing, were clapping and tapping their feet along to the rhythm.

They made Lloyd sick. True, he had once been like them, completely carefree. His role as a Protector had been an easy one. Like his fellows in the Order, he served the law, ending disputes as fairly as possible, and also keeping a handle on those that were lucky enough to possess any Spectrum Crystals. His station in Aldera was rather boring, actually; the Alderan people were generally peaceful.

After tonight, he hoped that would change.

A man detached himself from a group of onlookers and made his way toward Lloyd. Nonchalantly, he plopped down on the bench, facing the crowd. Lloyd glanced at him briefly, before returning his focus to the plate he had barely touched.

“Well?” he asked.

“There’s not much to say,” the man replied. “As expected, the king’s chamber is on the third story, pretty much right above where he is sitting now.”

“And how many guards are posted there?” Lloyd inquired.

“Half a dozen,” the man said. “But you can expect more to join them once the king and queen retire for the evening.”

Lloyd frowned. He had hoped the night’s activities would provide some entertainment, but it seemed that was not going to happen. He sighed inwardly and turned to face the man.

“Good work, Dren,” he said. “No one saw you, right?”

“Of course not,” Dren snorted. “I’m better than that.”

“That, and you blend in much more easily than I do,” Lloyd continued. It was true; Dren was of average height, with a strong build, brown eyes and hair, and a rather unassuming posture. He was an expert at blending into a crowd, and was easily forgotten by those who saw him.

Lloyd, on the other hand, cut quite the striking figure. He was tall, a few inches over six feet, and had an air of greatness about him. His bright green eyes and silver hair marked him as someone different, as did the unusual garb he typically wore: loose pants, a red sash around his waist, and a light sleeveless shirt. His outfit was no different today, except for the color change.

He looked toward the royal table, and smiled. Finally, the king and queen were taking their leave from the hall, as were several of the high nobles. Dehan’s son, Prince Gedric, remained behind. Conveniently, the king’s brother, Tordain, was not in attendance tonight. That would only further his plans.

The family did not announce themselves, so as to not draw attention to their departure. King Dehan was a shrewd man; he knew assassins like Lloyd were always watching. Despite the outward appearance of peace, Lloyd knew the power of the Alderan military. It was probably the reason they enjoyed so much tranquility.

Despite himself, Lloyd nearly laughed. He found the situation highly amusing. Here he sat, unwatched, in the feasting hall of a powerful king. A king that he was going to kill tonight. Lloyd had escaped his execution earlier that day. It was unfortunate for the Order that they had not been able to contain him, for Dehan’s death was one of the key points of his plan.

“Well, Dren, you should be off,” Lloyd said, turning back to his companion. “You know where you need to be.”

“Yes sir,” Dren answered. He drifted off, joining the crowd again, blending in perfectly. Lloyd knew that he would depart soon; it was foolish to leave immediately after the king, though.

He waited a full ten minutes before rising from the bench. A servant came and began to clean the place he had just occupied. Lloyd ignored the woman and walked slowly to the entrance of the hall. The large, oaken doors had been thrown wide open and held in place by blocks, showing that people were free to come and go as they pleased.

He stepped through the doors and into the wide hallway beyond. The cool air was a reprieve the heavy scent of bodies clustered together. Lloyd headed toward the nearest staircase. As he walked, he pulled a pair of black fingerless gloves from his pockets, slipping them on. A red crystal, about an inch in diameter, was set into the back of both gloves, and they seemed to glow from within.

Delicately, he untied the sash from around his waist, taking it in one hand. With a flick of the wrist, the sash straightened and began to change. The edges curled in, the ends shortening, taking on the shape of a weapon. At last, where the sash had been, Lloyd now held a long, single-edged sword. A small circular guard marked where the hilt met the blade. Like his gloves, a red crystal was set into the base of the blade, visible from both sides.

It was a Crysblade, the weapon of a Protector. The weapon was deadly, yet beautiful. All Protectors carried a blade like his, though they varied in length and crystals. Typically, Protectors chose crystals for their blades that matched the crystals in their gloves.

The Spectrum Crystals were the source of power for Protectors and other magic users. Lloyd believed there had been a time when people could wield magic through their own bodies, but that time was long past. Now, people were only born with only a tiny spark of magic, feeble remnant of a time long gone. Everyone had the latent ability to learn how to use their power; unfortunately, that power had to be channeled through a Spectrum Crystal.

Lloyd liked red. It was a color of power. Technically, he could perform any spell he knew, but the farther away he strayed from his color, the weaker the spell would become. It was part of the reason Lloyd liked to destroy rather than heal; healing was for the blue users.

The manifestation of the sword completed, Lloyd ascended to the third floor of the palace, taking note of the large quantities of torches that burned in rungs on the wall. They could be useful. Creating fire drained much more of his energy than simply controlling fire that already existed.

The hallway he entered was much like the one on the first floor: wide and devoid of people. It was almost a shame to not let people see him. After all, what was the satisfaction in doing something if no one saw him do the deed? At least the ones who mattered would know it was he who had killed King Dehan.

He turned down a side passage, heading north through the palace. Dren had said the king’s chambers were roughly above the feasting hall, which meant the royal bedroom overlooked the Alder Sea, the vast body of water that bordered Aldera to the north, and made Therin, its capital, a prosperous shipping city.

The hallways in the palace did not lead straight to the king’s chambers, of course. Lloyd was forced to take several more turns, often having to backtrack. It was designed to make those unfamiliar with the palace become lost, if they were foolish enough to travel around unescorted. Fortunately, Lloyd had a keen sense of direction, especially with the heightened senses the crystals afforded him.

He turned into another hallway, noticing how a rich red carpet extended down the middle of the floor. At last, he was drawing nearer to his destination. The twisting hallways made the palace appear larger than it really was, and he had wasted more time traversing them than he would have liked.

Torches lined the walls, allowing Lloyd to spot the two guards armed with spears standing just before the intersection of yet another tedious hallway. He strode confidently toward them, sword held facing downward by his side. When he was halfway to them, the man on the left turned his head, finally noticing Lloyd.

“You there,” the man called. “Stop!”

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Lloyd said cheerily, rapidly closing the distance between them.

“I said stop,” the guard said. They faced him, spears held level. Lloyd held up his free hand toward them. The crystal glowed as it channeled power through him. The sensation caused his whole body to tingle, giving him pain and ecstasy simultaneously. To channel with a Spectrum Crystal was to feel truly alive.

Before the guards could react, flames from a dozen different torches leaped from their brackets and assaulted the men. They screamed as the fire spread on their bodies, their armor only serving to cook them faster. Lloyd passed between them, dispatching both with a quick thrust, ending their torment. Normally, he would have enjoyed the show, but not tonight. He had other business to attend to.

He sent the fire whirling back down the hallway, spreading them among the torches they had come from. The sensation brought on by channeling faded, leaving him feeling numb in a way. The Spectrum Crystals did grant their wearers enhanced abilities, but channeling made those enhancements pale in comparison.

As he rounded the corner into the next hallway, four more guards came charging down the hallway at him, their spears poised to strike him before his sword could reach them. Again, Lloyd pulled on the power of his crystals, allowing it to feed on his spark, amplifying it a thousand-fold. Most of the torches in the hallways went dark as he drew the flames to him. A massive ball of fire appeared in front of him, and he sent it speeding down the hallway. It consumed the oncoming guards instantly. Lloyd allowed it to dissipate, stepping over the charred bodies.

He approached a set of richly gilded doors. These were the king’s chambers. He pushed the doors open and stepped into a large sitting room. Couches, chairs, and tables filled up most of the space, and bookshelves and busts of past kings lined the walls.

Ten soldiers stood in a semicircle, swords drawn, watching Lloyd carefully. Unlike the men in the hallway, these men were the king’s elite guard. They would have been trained to deal with any sort of intruder, whether he used Spectrum Crystals or not.

Lloyd looked around the room. It was lit by closed lanterns. He ground his teeth in annoyance; it was much harder to break through all the shutters to access the flames inside. Clearly, Dehan was prepared for such an eventuality. After all, most assassins tended to wield red crystals.

Lloyd stepped toward the waiting guards, raising his sword before him. As well-trained as they were, Lloyd was no ordinary assassin. He was a Protector. He had been trained in all forms of combat, from fighting with fists to fighting with blades. He doubted that these men would be much of a challenge, even if he did not use his crystals.

“Greetings,” Lloyd said, smiling. He was always happy when events went his way. People always seemed to find his cheery manner in the midst of death to be frightening. The guards, however, were not fazed.

“Well then,” Lloyd sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

The red carpet beneath his feet was helpful. Spectrum Crystals could also draw small amounts of power from objects of the same color. Lloyd used this to his advantage, allowing some of the added energy to spread through his body.

He stepped forward, sword flashing through the air. To the soldiers, he seemed to blur across the room, his sword slicing cleanly through the neck of the man directly in front of him. Like people, objects could also be reinforced by the power of the crystals. Unlike regular swords, the blades used by Protectors were forged with the help of crystals, making them far shaper and sturdier. The added benefit of a personal crystal made the Protector blades nearly indestructible.

The men moved away from him as the first body fell. Lloyd had to give them credit; they reacted faster than he thought they would have. Unfortunately, they were only giving him easier targets. He had seen a team of swordsmen fight in a single, cohesive unit before; that tactic would have been much more useful in battling a Protector.

He turned to his left and made a slashing motion with his left hand. The color of the rug he stood on paled, sapped by his crystal. A red line appeared across one of the men’s chest. He screamed as it burned through him, separating his body in two.

As he had hoped, the men decided it was better to attack him together. Lloyd spun, blade moving to deflect the strikes that descended upon him. He moved like smoke, slipping among their attacks. He made wide, sweeping strokes that incapacitated two men at a time. He sliced through their feeble chain mail, spilling blood and guts onto the floor. He severed limbs as wounded men continued to fight.

He rammed his sword into a kneeling man’s throat and pushed the body off the blade. The body toppled to the side. The men lay in a circle around him. Most were already dead. Three were still alive, but their lifeblood was seeping into the plush carpeting, their vitality slowly ebbing away.