Prologue
"Long ago, the continent that would come to be known as Archanea was teeming with dragons. These ancient, powerful beasts lorded over the realm for centuries upon centuries, with their societies encompassing all of dragon kind. There were the Fire Dragons, feared for their furious flames, as well as Ice Dragons to the north, known for their control of deadly blizzards. Certain dragons became adept at controlling the forces of nature and bending them to their will: these were the Mage Dragons. The Earth Dragons ruled with tremendous force, and were often considered to be the most powerful of the draconic clans...with one exception. Above all others were the mighty Divine Dragons, whose power exceeded all others, human and dragon alike.
And of these Divine Dragons, one ruled above all: Naga. Her power was as vast as her mind was sharp, and as such she took on the title of the Divine Dragon King. The title was traditionally held by male dragons, but Naga saw no need to change the title when it was her time to take it. However, for as much as Naga was loved by her people, there would come a time when she would become a much more controversial figurehead, for it was that Naga foresaw the fate of all dragonkind: degeneration.
The dragon tribes, in addition to their power, also held the longest lifespans of all living creatures, with the Divine Dragons living tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of years. However, the same could not be said of their sanity. Perhaps it was a sign that all things were meant to come to an end, as over time the dragons would deteriorate and succumb to the madness brewing within them. Once a dragon had been overtaken by madness, they wrought only destruction upon the land, killing anything in their path, people or dragon, friend or stranger.
Naga, alongside the other Divine Dragons, came up with a solution, but it wasn't one that would go over well with the majority of the dragonkin. Using specially-created magic, they would be able to encapsulate their powers in the form of a stone. This stone would give its owner the power to transform back into their draconic form for a limited time, as to prevent the onset of degeneration. When the stone was not in use, however, the dragons would take on a more human-like form.
Many of the dragon tribes protested this. They were the dominant species of the land, and yet Naga had wanted them to throw it all away and live as humans, a species many of the dragon tribes looked down upon as nothing more than lesser beings. Scoffing at the thought of lowering themselves to such a degree, many dragons opted out of Naga's proposal. In particular, the Earth Dragons, prideful as they were, near unanimously ignored Naga's warning. Only one of them had opted to become a Manakete, a term used to describe these humanoid dragons. This was their prince, Medeus. He knew it was his duty to be a figurehead for this movement, and to secure a future for his people. Of course, he was reluctant, but Naga had managed to convince him in due time.
Over time, the dragons' degeneration began. Those who chose to stay in their dragon forms became infertile due to degeneration, until finally their minds went, sending them into a frenzy. The Earth Dragons had all seemingly degenerated at once, and due to their immense power, ravaged the land. The Divine Dragons fought them off in a skirmish that lasted decades, until finally Naga had used most of her power to seal them away at an altar known as the Dragon's Table. She had tasked Medeus with watching over his imprisoned subjects, which he agreed to. He knew it was his duty as their prince.
With Naga's power waning, she created two sacred treasures. The first was a shimmering golden shield, encrusted with five magnificent gems that each offered immense power to the wielder. Combined, the jewels and the shield would allow a mortal to tap into the same power Naga had used to imprison the Earth Dragons, should the need arise. This was to be known as the Binding Shield. The other treasure she gave was a wondrous blade, crafted from one of her fangs. She had previously given one of these to twin dragons, Mila and Duma, when they set off for lands to the west, but the purpose of this one was the same: to give the wielder the power to pierce a dragon's hide, no matter how strong, in case more degeneration transpired. Both of these gifts would give humanity a fighting chance.
After placing them inside the sacred ground of the Fane of Raman, Naga had one last thing to leave behind: her newly born daughter. Putting her into a thousand-year sleep in the remote Ice Dragon Temple in order to preserve her sanity, Naga left the world to her most trusted subordinate, and departed from the physical world. Humanity would come to thank Naga for her sacrifice and worship her as a guardian deity.
Medeus, however, would come to resent the Divine Dragon King, as well as humanity itself. Prince Medeus, forced to watch as his fellow Manaketes were persecuted by humanity and treated as lesser beings, seethed. The humans built countries and kingdoms one after the next now that the dragons were far less in control, all across the continent now christened as Archanea. Not only had he been brought down to the level of these insects, but said insects had the gall to think themselves above him. Above the mighty dragonkin that laid the foundation for humanity to build upon. Centuries later, tensions would rise to a fever pitch as Medeus crowned himself king of his newly-established Dohlr Empire and declared war on the Archanean capital.
It was then that a hero would rise up, a farmer of the countryside named Anri. Through his tremendous strength of mind, heart, and body, he wielded the Binding Shield and the divine sword Falchion and slew the Earth Dragon King, ensuring that his people would be safe from harm and bringing an end to what history would remember as the War of Liberation."
The young Prince Marth had long since fallen asleep, but his older sister Elice had gotten far too into the tale to stop reading aloud. To think, she thought, that they were the descendants of that great hero. That the Falchion had become the sacred treasure of the country of Altea. It was almost surreal.
Elice was broken from her daydreaming by Marth's snoring, finally realizing it was time she returned to her own room. Blowing out the candle and tucking the Book of Archanean Revelations back onto the shelf, she left her younger brother's room and returned to her own.
Elsewhere on the continent, however, embers continued to illuminate the pitch-black night. A man hunched over an altar, a stream of blood flowing to it from the freshly-killed maidens he'd kidnapped. The man removed his hood as he casted a bolt of magic at the altar, allowing his corpse-colored and wrinkled gray skin to bathe in the shadows. At long last, the ritual was complete and a robed Manakete stood on the altar.
"My lord Medeus," said Gharnef, bowing, "I believe you might have some unfinished business in this world, and I'd like to help you see it through."
Medeus looked down at the cackling madman before him. It was clear to him that he'd revived him, though he felt he should keep his distance in case of an usurpation attempt. The mongrel was seemingly human, after all.
"That magic," he said, spying the dark mage's tome. "I believe I know how you can assist me."
Under the cover of the night, the two began to lay the foundations for yet another war, one that Archanea would not soon forget.
Chapter One: Encroaching Shadows
The young prince naturally had a fortunate upbringing. A family that loved him, servants who assisted him in his daily activities, guardsmen who would lay down their lives for him if he should ever need them to...at only fourteen years of age, Marth couldn't be happier. The boy, while affluent, was far from spoiled or pompous. His parents, mentors, and older sister had all instilled within him a caring demeanor. Though they were servants by occupation, Marth looked to his retainers almost as family. His relationships with his instructors, Sir Jagen and Sir Frey, were nigh-avuncular. Truly the boy had not a mean-spirited bone in his body.
"Watch your form, Marth!" yelled Sir Jagen as he lunged forward with a practice sword. Marth recoiled, flying a good two feet backwards, gripping his arm. His sister Elice stood up from the sidelines, walking over to her brother with a healing staff in hand.
"My apologies, Sir Jagen. That was...ill-done," Marth said through gritted teeth. "I should have evaded the blow."
"Should you have done so, you'd have twisted your ankle. Your footwork was all wrong." The paladin tucked his sword into his sheath and helped Marth off the ground.
"Hold still, Marth," said Elice as her healing staff began to give off a soft glow. She placed it onto the area of impact and slowly it began to heal, its magic speeding up the target's natural rate of repairing itself.
"Sir Jagen, please. If we were to have another bout..."
"You'd likely inflict irreparable damage upon your body," Jagen said. "You mustn't overextend. In battle, it could be the deciding factor in whether or not you'll live to see the next sunrise."
"Sir Jagen is right, Marth. You've been training all day," said Elice. "The exhaustion would explain your lack of focus in the last bout."
"I suppose you're right. Thank you again, Sir Jagen," said Marth, bowing before the paladin.
"The pleasure is all mine," he replied, bowing before the prince.
Sir Jagen had served the royal family of Altea for over forty years. Many turn to him in times of need, calling him the country's most accomplished paladin due to his skill in mounted swordplay and lanceplay. Though his hair is as silver as the lance he wields in battle, he still serves as the captain of the Royal Guard despite being in his sixties.
"Come, Marth. You're late for your penmanship lessons," said Elice, ushering him away.
Sir Jagen waved the prince and princess goodbye as a young man, red of both hair and armor, approached him.
"Sir Jagen," the man said.
"Ah, Cain. It's good to see you."
"Likewise, sir. I'm afraid, though, that I don't come bringing good news. King Cornelius has ordered a mandatory war council. He had wished for me to come fetch you."
Sir Jagen sighed. "I had heard the rumors, but I see that now the time has finally come. Let us be off, Sir Cain."
Off in another part of the castle, Marth once again returned to practicing his penmanship under the guidance of Sir Frey. Sir Frey was both a seasoned cavalier, rivaling Jagen in skill and experience, and Marth's instructor in the written arts. He also served as a personal guard to Princess Elice.
"Good day, Prince Marth," said Frey. "In lieu of a traditional lesson today, we'll be having good another correspondence day. Your most recent letter has been answered."
The Kingdom of Altea had a staunch ally in the island nation of Talys. Talys' king, King Mostyn, was a dear friend of King Cornelius. Mostyn had a daughter right around Prince Marth's age, so both kings had thought it would be beneficial to have the young heirs deliver correspondence to one another, instilling good diplomatic habits and furthering the bond between the two kingdoms. At first Marth wasn't fond of the process, but in time he grew to appreciate it, largely due to Frey's teaching style.
"Pardon my asking, Prince Marth, but you seem rather tired. Is something ailing you?"
"Oh, there's no need to worry, Sir Frey. I simply got a bit ahead of myself while sparring with Sir Jagen."
Frey let out a laugh under his breath. "That sounds like old Jagen, alright."
Reading over the letter, Marth smirked. "I don't think Sir Jagen would appreciate being called old."
"Heh, we've called each other worse things, I imagine. Oh, and sire, it should be 'who,' not 'whom,'" Frey said quietly, correcting Marth as he wrote.
"Thank you," said Marth. "You and Jagen certainly share your desire to help me become a worthy prince, but your methods are quite different," he added with a small chuckle.
"Jagen always tells me I've gone soft, if you can keep that between us," Frey said. "I say better soft than stale." He gave a self-congratulatory smirk. "We have different ways of seeing the world, that much is certain. I've seen my fair share of combat, but Jagen...he's seen enough to last a few lifetimes."
"I have heard the tales," said Marth, dipping his quill in the ink before signing his name on the letter. He crossed the T with a flourish. "But I respect you to the same degree, Sir Frey." He stammered, not wanting to offend the knight.
"It's all well and good, your majesty. I like to see the both of us as two halves of a whole. I take the approach of teaching you about life, while he teaches survival. At their core, those are very different things, related as they may be."
"I suppose that makes sense."
"Diplomacy is an interesting area of work, your majesty. Writing to far off nations, establishing trade negotiations and what have you...it all serves as a reminder of just how much there is to see in this world. But at the same time, I want to ensure that you're prepared."
"I understand, Sir Frey." Marth wasn't the type to play favorites among his instructors, but he definitely appreciated Frey's more open, earnest approach. He was firm, but not as stern as Sir Jagen.
"I'll see to it that Abel sends the message off to the courier," said Frey, taking Marth's letter in hand. "Now where were we...ah, yes. You've also received word from Khadein."
As Marth continued his correspondence, Sir Jagen and Cain had arrived at the war council as demanded. Knights of Altea and her closest ally, Gra, were seated before King Cornelius.
"Everyone," called out the king, "it has become increasingly apparent that the war is spreading at a breakneck pace. Medeus shall no longer be allowed to ravage our continent as he sees fit. I know not how he walks among the living again, but with the aid of the divine blade Falchion," he said as he drew the shining sword from its sheath, "I will return him to the hell from which he spawned. Tonight we march. With the combined might of Altea and Gra, the Dohlr-Grust alliance stands no chance of winning. To arms, men!"
An uproar broke out as the King returned to his seat.
"Sir Jagen, Sir Cain," he said as the room quieted. "Please permit me to speak with you. All other soldiers, head to the armory to prepare."
Jagen and Cain rose and approached the king, kneeling before him.
"Please rise, good sirs." The knights did as ordered. "Sir Jagen, this is surely to be our most arduous and deadly campaign yet. Medeus' forces are great, but we must go forward. I know you've seen the dealings war's bloody hand in the past...which is why I'm asking you to stay behind."
"Sire..." said Jagen, taken aback.
"Allow me to explain. This mission is dangerous, which is why I would rather you stay here. The way you've instructed Marth thus far is beyond commendable, and I'd hate for him to be unprepared should you fall in combat. That is why I wish to ask you a question."
"I...will answer it to the best of my ability, your majesty."
"In that case...is Cain ready?"
Cain's eyes grew wide with the suddenness of the question. He hadn't considered being split up from Sir Jagen.
"I've taught Cain in the art of combat since he was my squire, a young lad all those years ago. There isn't a knight in our garrison I'd consider better prepared."
"Sir Jagen," said Cain. "I won't fail you. Likewise, your majesty, I'm honored to be of service."
"Very good," said Cornelius. "You'd best get prepared then, Sir Cain. We've a war to fight."
