A rapturous applause erupted throughout the room.
“Settle down, settle down,” Therin said, gently pushing his hands in a downward motion, a wry smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “Tonight, my friends, is special. Tonight, I tell you the story of how the ancient city of Ilnaen was obliterated from existence. Bands of fire and destruction spread from the centre of Epheria to the foothills of Mar Dorul and the Lodhar Mountains, forming what is known to us elves as the Svidar’Cia – The Burnt Lands.” Therin surveyed the room, his gaze greeted only by awe and wonderment. “Tonight, I shall tell you the story of the fall of The Order and the birth of the Lorian Empire – the true story.”
Growing up, it was a special thing for Calen to hear Therin’s stories of a time when all the races roamed the lands freely. The beautiful ornate elven cities, the mighty giants, and the heroes of old. But most of all, he adored hearing of The Order and the noble Draleid who protected Epheria, fighting fearlessly astride massive dragons – some as big as houses. The stories told by some of the other bards were decidedly different.
“Fane Mortem…” Therin allowed the name to sink in. “The Emperor of Loria was once but a young mage, rapidly rising through the ranks of The Order. Born to a noble family inside the city walls of Al’Nasla, it was not long before his Spark was noticed. By the age of six, he was sent to the city of Ilnaen to train with the legendary mages of The Order. There was no greater honour among magic wielders in the kingdom of Loria. To be chosen to practice your craft alongside the ancient mages of the elves and giant clans was a rare thing indeed, and it was no mistake they chose Fane, for his Spark was both raw and powerful.”
Therin paused, taking a long, deep drink of mead from his tankard.
“However,” he said, as he dragged his sleeve across his mouth, wiping the leftover droplets from his lips, “he did not take kindly to the company of others. He preferred solitary study. Fane confined himself to the darkest corners of the illustrious Ilnaen Library, where he researched the histories of all magic, from the archaic magics of the Blodvar and the mythical human druids to the twisted ways of the Urak shamans. By the time he was only twenty summers old, Fane was considered one of the most powerful human mages in The Order – and the most ruthless.”
Therin cast his gaze over the crowd. His voice adopted a deeper tone.
“Fane slowly became enamoured with power, as most in his position do. He was driven by his need to test his abilities and to prove his strength. He challenged other mages to duels, binding them by honour to accept. But Fane did not simply want to beat them; he wanted to break them.”
Therin crouched down at the edge of the stage. He went silent for a few moments, his eyes closed, locked in concentration.
“Fane was not content with just reading of the archaic magics of the past. He wanted to feel them, to wield them. He delved into the minds of his opponents, warping and twisting them to his will, pushing at the boundaries of convention. He wanted to prove that he was without equal. Although most in The Order did not approve of his methods, there were those who stood in awe of him. In every task he was set, Fane returned successful. In every battle, he was victorious. And with every victory, his following grew.”
Opening his eyes and rising to his full height, Therin glared into the onlooking crowd. His all-knowing eyes glowed an incandescent orange as the candlelight shimmered across his face. His sequin-silver hair sent light dancing across the room, illuminating the faces of the awe-struck villagers who packed the inn like grains of rice in a sack.
“However,” Therin’s voice boomed, “there was one who openly challenged him at every turn, unyielding: the Archon of the Draleid, Alvira Serris.” It was as if a gust of wind had somehow entered the room at the mention of her name. The candles flickered, and every hair on Calen’s body stood up. He glanced at Dann and Rist to his right, then at his father to his left, all of whom were entranced, their eyes fixed on the elf.
Therin placed his tankard on the stool to his right.
“She was strong!” He gracefully swept across the stage, curling his arm and tensing his bicep towards the crowd. “And quick-witted.” He tapped his index finger sharply against his right temple. “She could wield a blade like a gust of wind sweeping leaves off the forest floor, such was her skill and grace.” Therin swung his arms from left to right, as if slicing a sword through the torso of an unseen enemy. A lash of air seemed to follow the arc of his arms. Calen’s hair was blown off his face, and with it, he thought he heard the shrieking wail of a blade as it cut through the air.
What is in this mead? Calen stared into the mellow liquid, his mind seemingly playing tricks on him.
Therin took a deep, longing breath. Calen saw a sense of pride on his face as he described Alvira. It was as if she were his closest friend or a long-lost lover. “But even she, in all her wisdom, could not imagine the depths of Fane’s ambition.”
Suddenly, the light in the room seemed to dim, as if swallowed by the shadows. The only thing that Calen could see clearly was Therin, now perched on the stool that had previously held his tankard. “Through his unwavering dedication to the pursuit of knowledge and his raw magical Spark, Fane’s
