“It began long ago, child,” recanted Langbard the One-Eyed, spear resting comfortably at his side, back propped against an oak as old and parched as he was, and the girl—such a remarkable young girl as she was—with her head on his thigh, looking into the crackling flame of the campfire as Langbard told the tale.  “Long before you, or even this old warrior, was brought into the light of the sun of Rilynnis…”

…longer, even, than the five kingdoms.  Before the Temples of the World Ash were erected, their priestesses singing their songs of what were and what will be to the Ash and she who knows what is.  This was the time when Rudryos and Artam walked the mortal plains.

Artam, known as the silver witch, held her throne in a glistening, spiraling tower of pearl amid a vast chain of islands obscured by mists that was her empire, Kalaan, a center of unimaginable power in the time before the five kingdoms we know now.  Some say she gained a pact with the very seas, and that it blanketed her empire from watchful eyes.  Others say that Artam’s power was so terrifying that her very presence upset the seas into the churning haze that shadowed her territory.

Rudryos’ empire, obsidian walls sprawling and wretched, was set high upon the impenetrable ranges, his palace reaching up to the sun, which those who followed the gilded beast of an emperor coveted more than life itself.  There are those who claim that Rudryos’ engineers—for Tyrvang, as it was known, was a technological marvel—attempted to harness the power of the sun to forge something great and horrible at the same time.

None know how they came to power, but neither empire ever considered raising arms against the other.  A tenuous and unspoken pact remained between them, and only those savvy enough to learn of the route to Kalaan or brave enough to reach Tyrvang profited from the oft-dangerous course between both.  But it would not be long before the jealousy of Kalaan’s witch queen would be invoked through an act of vanity by Rudryos.

Kalaan and Tyrvang, despite the strained peace between them, employed spies in the other’s empire.  Neither made much effort to flush them out; to Artam and Rudryos, the reports back to the other’s ear was a bit of a game.  Do better, the rule seemed to be.  Neither crossed into the realm of knowledge that the other excelled in:  Artam stood by her people’s ability to draw from the well of energy provided by old Rilynnis and the moon above them.  Rudryos and his people basked in all they could see that the world provided, and reveled in the power of the fire in the sky.

But a spy of Kalaan sent word that the engineers of Rudryos were more than successful in their endeavors.  So much, in fact, that it became an issue of threat and envy to Artam.

It was several days before word reached Artam’s throne that Pheston, Engineer High of the Empire of Tyrvang (a title that made the grin in his block-chiseled face gleam like the lights of his fireless lamps), held a public display in the imperial courtyard.  All the people of Tyrvang, lords and farmers, merchants and apothecaries, were called to witness the marvel of Pheston’s newest creation.

Pheston himself was not a small man, and his presence on the makeshift platform that served as his stage of exhibition was enough to keep the attention of the audience.  Behind him, several times larger than him, was his great marvel, covered in cloth and tethered to keep it obscured from view until he himself could unveil it.

“Tyrvang,” he began with a voice as deep as the rolling seas and as soothing as the waves upon the shores, and the audience was more attentive than ever (for Pheston, a man large enough to be a great warrior and possessing a mind sharper than the obsidian blade of Rudryos himself, was also an eloquent and charming speaker).  “I am grateful for your attention this day.  As always, I am astounded at how many of you have turned here to witness this exceptional occasion.”

A grin played over his hard, but still charming, countenance.  These were the moments he lived for: The unveiling of his successes.  Already, the people had bore witness to the fireless lamps that lined the streets, carriages that ran solely on the light of the sun itself, and even the beacon of light that fired into the night sky, a symbol of the power that Tyrvang—and Rudryos himself—had been able to accomplish for all to enjoy.  Things that even your kingdom now enjoys, young one.

All but Artam, whose spy was also sitting in the audience.  And whose eye fell on the covered beast of a device looming behind Pheston.  He feared that the rumors were true.  That Rudryos has achieved a terrible weapon that harnessed the power of the sun to destroy.

“I do ask, however, to not be alarmed at my presence,” Pheston continued.  “Especially the beautiful ladies of the empire.  If you feel yourself swooning at the sight of me, I ask that you remove yourselves immediately.  Preferrably to my chambers, if you do not mind.”

Laughter erupted about.  The men of Tyrvang laughed at the ridiculous thought of their wives and daughters falling at his feet.  Their wives and daughters giggled nervously at the thought of wanting to wake up at his side.  Some, even, from the knowledge of already doing so.  Few still that would again.

As the humor faded slowly through the audience, Pheston motioned for a few young men from the crowd to assist him in untying the tethers that held the tarp in place.  As each one worked feverishly to untie the knots, some better than others at it, Artam’s spy watched intently.  His heart drummed.  His stomach tightened as each knot loosened.  The beads of sweat on his brow dripped into his eye, stinging him and obscuring his vision.

“People of Tyrvang…I bring to you my greatest marvel.  That which will bring us far more splendor and prosperity than any other empire, now or ever.”

At his motion, the cloth dropped.  Artam’s spy wiped the sweat out of his eyes just fast enough to watch the tarp fall away from the most gut-wrenching sight he’d ever witnessed.

The device, standing nearly ten times taller than the average man—and more than eight times the stature of Pheston himself—was beautiful and ominous at the same time.  A carved ball of obsidian stood in the middle of a blossom of thin, silvery scimitar-shaped petals, which formed a three-ring layer under the obsidian orb and focused the sunlight toward it.  As the breeze picked up, the petals moved, spinning under the orb in a whirling dance.

But was it a weapon?  Was there more to it than this?  The spy of Kalaan did not know what to make of this, but it did not seem as horrible and at threatening as he’d imagined.

“Tyrvang, this device is far more capable of collecting the power of the sun than our older, much larger collectors.  As well,” Pheston continued, walking around it and motioning to the collector petals, now spinning like a field dervish, “as drawing power from the motion of the wind.”

It was, however, at the moment the spy was about to leave—for this was nothing more than a sun collector, in his opinion—that the truth of the device, and its intended purpose was revealed.

“By day,” Pheston explained, his grin widening, “it will collect more power from the sun than we have ever imagined, filling our stores of energy for days and far faster than we can now.  But…by night…”

Almost as if by his word, and his word alone, the obsidian ball split along fine seams, opening out into a blossom all its own, revealing a hollow inside.

And inside the blossomed orb of obsidian sat a gigantic ball of pearl.  And once again, the heart in the chest of Kalaan’s watcher drummed in his chest.

“…it will be the energies of the moon that we shall draw.  Day and night, the city will be powered by both that which we have always been able to gain from and, now, that which had eluded us for so long.”

Pheston spread his hands wide, his fully blossomed idea still spinning behind him, and the final words of Pheston before the inevitable awe and applause echoed in the ears of the stealthy spy of Artam as he made his way through the crowd, intent on sending word of Rudryos’ symbolic breaking of the pact to Kalaan:

“Behold, the Skybloom, the symbol of our great Emperor Rudryos and all that he has dominion over!”

When word reached Artam’s throne…

Langbard looked down at the face of Kei.  At some point during his recounting, she’d fallen asleep.  He smiled.  It’d been a long time since he’d smiled, and it felt so alien to his lips to do so.

“Rest, then, child.  I shall tell you of the strife between the empires another day.”

He looked up into the firelight, now dwindling into nothing, and then looked off into the sky at the distant beacon of light that was now a part of the kingdom of New Tyr, the old empire lost to time and history.

“Yes, child.  Of the war.  And the chaos.  I shall tell you tales of Rudryos, and of Artam.  Tales of Ifranir, the Devourer.  And of the World Ash.  I just ask that you survive this ordeal, young one.  Survive this, and all the tales that these old ears have heard and this single eye have witnessed shall be yours.”

Kei slept soundly on his thigh and he dared not disturb her, only allowing himself to stroke her wavy, bark-brown hair with calloused fingertips.  He, however, did not sleep.  The Woodcursed half of his face burned, the eye of ash socketed in place of his missing eye showing the auras of all that lived around him, flora and fauna both.  His single human eye remained open, watching, wary.  And he kept vigilant, spinning the tales of war in his mind and imagining the terrible sounds of clashing swords and marching feet.

Sounds he knew all too well.