Somewhere over the rough ocean waves, across the burned and blackened landscape of Atrata. Through the peachy pink and orange forests of the hinterlands. At the foot of the Farcaster peaks sits a small farmstead on a spring evening.
Inside the farmstead a human farmer by the name of Morgan is putting his children Sindy and Aaron to bed.
“Pa,” asks Sindy, “is it true the king has a brother now? Folk say he’s marching an army at him.”
Morgan sighs. “Aye, that’s what folk are calling him. The king’s brother. But that’s not the truth of it. Have I ever told you the tale of the two princes of Godmere?”
The children shake their heads.
“You know King Harlon has ruled Westvale for two and a half lifetimes. His hair has never greyed, his back has never bent.
That’s because of his Chalice — a golden cup that holds his life inside it like a lantern holds a flame. So long as it stays near, he does not age. He simply endures.
Long ago, the king and his lady had a son named Edwin. He grew tall and strong and clever, and waited his turn, like good princes do.
But his father did not grow old.
By the time Edwin had grey at his temples, his father still stood straight as a spear. Travellers would mistake them — which is the king, which the elder brother? It became a joke, then a habit, then the truth of it. The king and his brother.”
“Edwin went to his father one evening and knelt — not as a son, but as a subject. ‘Set down the Chalice,’ he said. ‘Let me have my turn before my own hair is white.’
The king looked at his son who was no longer young. ‘I cannot. The realm would crack.’
But Edwin did not believe him. So he rode north, to the sister city — Suncrest. There his power and his frustration gathered.
Years passed, and the king grew paranoid of what his son might attempt. Or so the folk say. Until one night just 4 years ago — poof — Suncrest was gone in a flash. Some say the king’s paladins raided it in the dark. Some say the sun fell from the sky and swallowed the city whole. Some say the city walls melted and the river boiled for three days and three nights.
What is sure: the prince escaped. Alive, but not unscathed.
They call the place Firefall now. The old maps still say Suncrest. Those are the ones worth keeping.”
“What happened to the prince?” Sindy whispers.
“He lived. He’s gone east, gathering banners at a small fort called Undercross. The war is only just beginning.”
Morgan tucks them in.
“But here in our small sleepy farmstead, we’re safe and snug. Nothing bad ever comes wandering around these parts. So sleep easy, my loves.”