They say that when a city falls, chaos reigns, but that is not so. Only darkness reigned that night.
There was no blood, no clash and scrape of steel on steel, no fires blazing in the streets, no screams of mothers coddling babes. There was but one word. One word with the power to turn hope to ashes. One that turned dreams to dust.
Exodus.
It had not been the wings of ravens that brought the grim news. Indeed, the few remaining ravens that had once cawed their ceaseless complaints across the halls had long since met their fates at the spits and stewpots of the smallfolk, so for weeks only the morose creak of their cages had echoed their requiem.
But whose? It was a galling thought - one best pushed aside, she ventured, though she could not deny that it haunted her. From distant towers the cages creaked restlessly, but otherwise all was silent in the once bustling keep. Torches burnt low in their brackets, candles no more than waxen stubs, and the great hearth of the hall cheerless and grey, the last of Draco’s-- no, her people huddled together around it, sharing their cloaks to provide a little warmth, their faces gaunt and hungry.
Within hours many had fled. No leader, no hope. Draco was gone, and their loyalty with him. Horses had been taken, the stores looted. No boats remained in the harbours. Of the rest? Some were too old or too frail to run, others refused to leave children behind. Fewer still had stayed for honour. Family, bravery, loyalty. All that they had once stood for. Is this what becomes of men when faced with death? Sickened, the woman closed her eyes for a brief moment, and when she opened them she saw only her own pallor reflected in the darkness beyond the casement. She looked away. I made a promise.
No ravens, no letters, no warning. Cruel as the path was, it was only by some wicked twist of fortune that word had reached them at all. The news of travellers never did bode well, she supposed, but this... Bracing at the cold, she tightened her grip on the quill clutched in her hand, and stared down at the parchment before her, a window of white softly illuminated by the light of the candle beside it.
There had been no word from the crown. No letters from the South. No word from the Crown. No letters from the South. The flame of the candle flickered restlessly, but her eyes never left the paper. Tidings from travellers, travellers hurrying South. Tidings from travellers. The South, the South, the Crown... People they had fought against to protect.
Seconds trickled away, then minutes. Gradually, the candle sunk lower, the pool of light growing steadily smaller until the edges of the chamber were cast into darkness. In the mountains beyond the walls, a lone wolf called out his familiar lament.
Word from travellers hurrying South. Nothing of the Crown. Word from travellers. Nothing of the Crown. Word from travellers, word from travellers-- The woman threw down the quill abruptly, dark beads of ink scattering across the white. Outside, the rising winds heckled and scorned at the casement, and the distant creaking sounded again. With nary a second thought, she swept up the candlestick and turned on her heel, causing the flame to cower and quail.
The light wavered precariously as she guided it across the room, the hand that guarded it casting shifting black shapes among the rafters. There was another flicker as she set it down carefully, and knelt, sifting hurriedly through scriptures and tomes that littered the floor. A few stray papers fluttered in the draught. Almost toppling the candlestick in her haste, she stood once more and, upon reaching the desk, set down her quarry, spreading the scroll flat across the wood.
The map was old - almost as old as the realm itself, though despite its tattered edge and faded titles, it was likely worth more than anything else her father had owned. Inks, from the brightest of blues to the most verdant green snaked across the page like a vast and intricate spiderweb; towns and cities were emblazoned with arms, sigils and black letters of the most delicate design. Mountains capped with grey seemed to tower far above the rest, while moors and marshes dwelt in shades of dusky purple. Rivers and brooks, field and fen, hill and vale, all woven into finery richer than the most exquisite of lace.
Smoothing out the corners fretfully, she took in the mountains, the forest, the hills. Her eyes travelled the coast, measuring, calculating. Her gaze fell on the silvery line trailing down the right of the map.
Suddenly, she halted - for a moment besieged by doubt. This is madness... The candle burned lower, until barely an inch of wax remained.
“Be brave.”
“I will,” she whispered to the night, and the flame died.
There was no blood, no clash and scrape of steel on steel, no fires blazing in the streets, no screams of mothers coddling babes. There was but one word. One word with the power to turn hope to ashes. One that turned dreams to dust.
Exodus.
It had not been the wings of ravens that brought the grim news. Indeed, the few remaining ravens that had once cawed their ceaseless complaints across the halls had long since met their fates at the spits and stewpots of the smallfolk, so for weeks only the morose creak of their cages had echoed their requiem.
But whose? It was a galling thought - one best pushed aside, she ventured, though she could not deny that it haunted her. From distant towers the cages creaked restlessly, but otherwise all was silent in the once bustling keep. Torches burnt low in their brackets, candles no more than waxen stubs, and the great hearth of the hall cheerless and grey, the last of Draco’s-- no, her people huddled together around it, sharing their cloaks to provide a little warmth, their faces gaunt and hungry.
Within hours many had fled. No leader, no hope. Draco was gone, and their loyalty with him. Horses had been taken, the stores looted. No boats remained in the harbours. Of the rest? Some were too old or too frail to run, others refused to leave children behind. Fewer still had stayed for honour. Family, bravery, loyalty. All that they had once stood for. Is this what becomes of men when faced with death? Sickened, the woman closed her eyes for a brief moment, and when she opened them she saw only her own pallor reflected in the darkness beyond the casement. She looked away. I made a promise.
No ravens, no letters, no warning. Cruel as the path was, it was only by some wicked twist of fortune that word had reached them at all. The news of travellers never did bode well, she supposed, but this... Bracing at the cold, she tightened her grip on the quill clutched in her hand, and stared down at the parchment before her, a window of white softly illuminated by the light of the candle beside it.
There had been no word from the crown. No letters from the South. No word from the Crown. No letters from the South. The flame of the candle flickered restlessly, but her eyes never left the paper. Tidings from travellers, travellers hurrying South. Tidings from travellers. The South, the South, the Crown... People they had fought against to protect.
Seconds trickled away, then minutes. Gradually, the candle sunk lower, the pool of light growing steadily smaller until the edges of the chamber were cast into darkness. In the mountains beyond the walls, a lone wolf called out his familiar lament.
Word from travellers hurrying South. Nothing of the Crown. Word from travellers. Nothing of the Crown. Word from travellers, word from travellers-- The woman threw down the quill abruptly, dark beads of ink scattering across the white. Outside, the rising winds heckled and scorned at the casement, and the distant creaking sounded again. With nary a second thought, she swept up the candlestick and turned on her heel, causing the flame to cower and quail.
The light wavered precariously as she guided it across the room, the hand that guarded it casting shifting black shapes among the rafters. There was another flicker as she set it down carefully, and knelt, sifting hurriedly through scriptures and tomes that littered the floor. A few stray papers fluttered in the draught. Almost toppling the candlestick in her haste, she stood once more and, upon reaching the desk, set down her quarry, spreading the scroll flat across the wood.
The map was old - almost as old as the realm itself, though despite its tattered edge and faded titles, it was likely worth more than anything else her father had owned. Inks, from the brightest of blues to the most verdant green snaked across the page like a vast and intricate spiderweb; towns and cities were emblazoned with arms, sigils and black letters of the most delicate design. Mountains capped with grey seemed to tower far above the rest, while moors and marshes dwelt in shades of dusky purple. Rivers and brooks, field and fen, hill and vale, all woven into finery richer than the most exquisite of lace.
Smoothing out the corners fretfully, she took in the mountains, the forest, the hills. Her eyes travelled the coast, measuring, calculating. Her gaze fell on the silvery line trailing down the right of the map.
Suddenly, she halted - for a moment besieged by doubt. This is madness... The candle burned lower, until barely an inch of wax remained.
“Be brave.”
“I will,” she whispered to the night, and the flame died.
Last edited:
