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.”