001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS
In your life, have you ever looked at something -- an object, a person, a sort of movement, or even a word -- which you felt you will be looking at for the rest of your life? Not in the literal sense, of course. Rather, in the sense that every time you look at that one particular thing, you feel something locking in place. The hinges catch, the air rushes out, and there is no space in between for influence or contention. The past is, the future is, life is. No words and without a name.
This is mine. The floating obsidian spires of Montt. For almost half a millennia, since emerging as a fledgling Dark Elf from the craters of lava at the northern tip of Sinner's Inheritance in Ignis, Montt has been a fount of strength, a crest of pride. From the towers thrust deep into the volcanic earth to the floating spires of the Grand Castle of the Lyonans, the indestructible obsidian are as bones and veins to Ignis as my bones and veins are to me. And in both, the Sacred Flames of Flox, the God of Fire, flow into infinity.
And yet, despite this abundance, this pride, this strength, a nameless ache has been persistent. No one in Ignis can say they haven't felt it. There have been signs over the past couple of centuries -- the way the air lifts black smoke when in the past there were none but white and silvery-grey, lava ports storing precious mana mysteriously breaking down, ancient ghosts rising in the Academy of Blue Flames. And just recently, the Luzark and the Marvas at the Last Warzone have been stirring. Whispers among the aristocracy that the nomadic Order of Female Paladins have begun to move once again. Worse yet, monstrosities called Worms and Amethyst Golems have been rising in number at the Scorching Canyon.
In the other parts of the continent of Roha, things have been no different. In Via Marea, where the Light Elves reside, numerous uprisings from the rebellious Ekzine Tribe and the Amazon Savages are being suppressed. The normally peaceful Light Elves have even allied themselves with the barbaric Humans from Einhoren to strengthen their forces against the Dhan assassins from the northern continents, who have been rumored to engage into a secret pact with the mysterious Dekans -- the descendants of the One Last Dragon.
The Half-Elves, although quite numerous and visible across the continents, remain neutral and have not allied themselves with anyone... yet. His Grand Majesty George Lyonan has been thinking of reaching out to the Lord Commander of the Half Elves, but action remains to be seen. Perhaps His Grand Majesty is waiting for what the other races might do as various events unfold.
Of the eight races, two have remained silent. First, the Giants from the frozen mountains of Draht. Their silence comes as no surprise to anyone in Roha. As the mountains surrounding their territory have stood in silent vigil for centuries, the Giants have also been known to share the same discipline. Despite their inaction, however, no one can think them indifferent. At World's Birth, Gail, one of the Lessers, created the Giants as First Guardians. This earned them respect throughout the continents and across all the races. What the races fear is when the Giants begin to move, since this can only mean one thing. Bless Flox it hasn't happened yet.
Second, the Halflings from the Eskar Isles and the Geizan. Deep within their underground shelters, one can only surmise how they thrive all these centuries without interacting with the rest of the continent. The Light Elves and the Humans did say that the Halflings are part of their current alliance, but their lack of numbers belie this. Still, at times like these, one cannot take anything at face value. Halflings have been known to be cunning, and have proven themselves brave during times past. They should not be underestimated.
Still, the world remains quiet. Expectant, yes -- air humming with rumors of war, rebellion, and uprising -- but still quiet. Evenings in Montt are the most beautiful. There is a small cradle of shadow within the city which I have claimed as my own, near where Chryme sets up his shop, away from the bustle and rattle of the aristocrats' gaudy carriages. Here I can perfectly see the towering spires of the Grand Castle, black on black on black sky, walls thinly lined with yellow-red lavalight, and corners glowing with the shifting hues of ghostly mana-blue, marking the locations of portals.
There is a nameless ache inside my chest. At four hundred and fifty years, I am still young, and perhaps I do not understand what this ache -- this persistent throbbing -- means. Perhaps it is the thread, binding me to this place. Perhaps it is the fear that someday, that thread will be somehow severed. During my travels outside of Ignis, I remember a Human bard singing the words, "we are the sum of the memories that we have." If that is so, then nights like this, the beautiful pulsing darkness of Montt, the slow-moving flame in my veins, and the nameless ache in my chest, are a prelude to who I shall become.
I, who the spirits of flame and dark and shadow have named Zohariel.
