Ark sat attentively listening to the elderly man beside him. Since Ark’s birth, the man had been his fatherly-figure and guidance. Peering around him at the dull, worn stone walls, Ark’s eyes came to rest on the old man, whose ends were highlighted by the small fire heating the cauldron in front of him. An arched back crept up to a weary face, which was covered by a short gray beard and matching mustache. Thick eyebrows of gray also hovered over the man’s deep, experienced eyes. His clothes appeared to have seen as much experience, and the dull brown robe that he wore almost matched the condition of Ark’s own pants and shirt, as well as his dark brown hair.
“As goes without saying, Ark,” the elderly man said, his breath pushing aside his fluffy gray mustache, “I expect you to use that weapon wisely. That means no acting out scenes from Foirthix the Warlord with your friends.” he never did realize that Ark truly had no friends aside from him. It was fulfilling enough, though, and Ark would have had it no other way.
“You needn’t worry yourself, Frold. I can handle myself well enough.”
“Oh, if only I had been told that thirteen years ago when your parents asked me to watch over you,” joked Frold in his comforting mentor way. “Ark,” Frold changed to a tone of absolute seriousness, transforming the entire atmosphere of the room, “concerning your parents…”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Ark broke in harshly. “You know I told you never to speak of them again.”
“And I can understand why, but you should not judge them as swiftly as you do. There were reasons they left you. The men of Ni…”
“Shut up!” Ark cut in. “Just shut up!” With that Ark yanked opened the door to his rear and moved quickly through it. As he steamed across the pathway and to the left, toward the smithy, Ark could hear his heart beating blood into his burning face, which was only greatened by the steady rainfall. The thunder crashing in the distance was muffled by the sound of the rain puttering against the ground and nearby buildings, though it was hard to tell if the loud crashes came from lightning or the raging Insoluble War.
How dare Frold so celebrate Ark’s “coming-of-age”, Ark thought, only to destroy the occasion by bringing up the subject he hated most? Frold could not have known what it was like to have grown without his parents’ guidance; without the secure feeling that despite the circumstances, your own flesh-and-blood would be there to see you through. And Ark had suffered this every day because his parents were too selfish to raise him. Was it because he was worthless; could they foresee that he would never amount to anything more than a common city dweller?
The hatred building up in Ark’s gut clouded his mind, leading him to barely notice a movement from the side of his right eye. As soon as Ark turned enough to comprehend the presence of two running men – dressed much like he was - with swords in hand, a tacit feeling entered the air. As the fleeing men sprinted toward Frold and Ark’s abandoned shop, a gigantic red blur whizzed forward from whence the men had come. Ark instantly recognized the blur: a spherical blazing flame nearly a quarter of the size of the shop itself sped at an unnatural rate toward the men and the shop.
The next moment was almost surreal. The two horrified men were entirely enveloped in flame instantaneously. This led into a prolonged silence in which the world seemed nearly to freeze; a byproduct of Ark’s imagination and subconscious state. The fireball maintained itself mid-flight about two houses away from Ark; its heat across his side and turned face produced a charred, sickening feeling in his stomach. Standing only feet from the side of the shop, the flame was inevitably aimed for it.
Before Ark could fully comprehend the situation, he recovered from his frozen time daze, snapping back into reality, and the ball instantly slammed into the side of the building. The force of the explosion launched Ark backwards several feet, where he landed in a patch of dying grass across the road. The immense sound of the collision created a frantic whining resonance in his ears, which soon steadied into a single note. Charred stones flew in every direction, many landing solidly with a thud in the muddy grass only feet from Ark’s fallen body. Ark’s vision blurred; he could hear the crackling sound of fire around him against the raging waves of rain.
As Ark lay limp on the soft patch of soil and grass, now covered in soot and mud, he could just see a lone figure appear from the direction that the fire sphere had come. Walking calmly toward the damage, he carried with him a thick, tall sword. The point of the weapon rose straight up above its bearer by nearly three heads. A dull red across the entire height of the two-edged claymore made it appear to have just been removed from the smith’s forge. The few raindrops that spattered onto the sword caused a display of small sparks before they sizzled into nothing.
Upon the man’s body was a mixed-and-matched suit of armor. A single gauntlet of rough iron was set upon the man’s right hand, though his left hand was bear. An iron cuirass offered little protection to the man’s torso, as holes and dents had left it in poor condition. Much of the soaked warrior was covered in ashes and mud. He wore iron greaves and boots also, but no helmet, allowing his long, red hair – now drenched in sweat – to come down over his shoulders. This also revealed a face that Ark would never forget: a brawny beard of dark red led into thick sideburns. The skin on the face seemed rough and rigid, as if exposed to harsh conditions for much of its existence. A wide nose was centered under hateful eyes, which were buried beneath thick eyebrows. Catching Ark’s eye, though, was the man’s cape. The charred and torn cape flowed coolly behind the man. On it a symbol of a thin, blue, illuminating diamond was encircled by an intricate ring of old markings in gold print – the symbol of the Knights of the Royal Shard. The rest of the man’s cape was a dull yellow, signifying his lofty rank.
The Knight appeared not to have noticed Ark as the boy slid himself back against a wall to prop himself up. His ribs felt sore beyond relief, and Ark feared that any further movement might push him into shock. Risking the consequences, Ark struggled to rise to his feet, but a sudden pulse pushed him harshly back to his seated position with a groan. A thin purple line, misty and inconsistent, stung toward the back of the burly man from the buildings across from him. The noise produced by the line seemed just as thin, with an obnoxious high pitch. Just before the line could reach its target, the sword of the Knight sliced the air through a 180 degree turn. The man himself, slightly behind the speed of his sword, had turned to face the purple line as the two forces impacted each other.
An array of purple sparks scattered through the massive bulge of flame that emerged from the Knight’s burning sword. The purple streaks and flame now rested in a mass against the Knight’s quivering sword, opposite the Knight. After a moment of struggle between the purple embers and the Knight, the warrior shoved his weapon to the right. The large mass of flame and purple mist slid off the front of the sword, smashing into a nearby building wall. The resulting collision created an explosion of stone, wood, and fire that flew haphazardly through the air. Before all of the debris could reach its destination, the unfazed Knight pulled his sword up above and behind his head. In its risen position, the sword slowly grew red, as if being infused with heat. Then with a fuming yell, the Knight shoved downward his heavy sword. This time a splattered stream of fire, like that which would proceed from a dragon’s mouth, rushed forward to the area behind the houses; in the direction of the unseen enemy.
Ark could hear a burst as the stream hit something out of sight. Then without warning, a thinner man with a purple glowing katana, which was nearly taller than the Knight’s massive claymore, entered Ark’s view. Weapon positioned as if to strike, the new arrival sprinted from the direction of the Knight’s attacks toward the Knight. A rough patch with two intersecting lines, making the shape of a slanted X, was on the man’s right arm near the shoulder. Each section created by the tilted X contained a color: the bottom left black; the top left red; the top right gold; and the bottom right white. With the addition of some ancient lettering across the bronze intersecting lines - and the poor, peasant-like clothing - Ark knew that this was a Carnian.
Before Ark could examine the patch closer, the sprinting Carnian met with the braced Knight. Both swords collided with a small burst of flame and purple vapor, which was just weak enough to keep from hitting either man. After ramming their massive swords together a few more times, both launched themselves backwards. Ark was surprised to see that both men almost flew as they lifted nearly five feet from the ground in a backward motion. In mid-air, each man swung his weapon fiercely, launching a line of flame from the Knight’s claymore and a line of purple from the Carnian’s katana. The lines collided with each other, and as both men landed they kept their swords directly in front of them, as if struggling against an immense weight. Both lines flowed from their maker’s sword to a spot directly between the struggling men, where they pushed against each other in a large ball of the mixed beams.
The line began creeping slowly toward the Carnian. Seeing this, the Carnian broke off his line. Quickly converting his energy, he launched himself back and up, hoping to avoid the fire beam raging toward him. Ark never knew the man’s fate, as he was concealed behind the buildings to the left of the road. Either way, the Knight launched himself forward toward his attack and the Carnian, leaving behind him only the destruction the fight had caused. Others appeared soon after the men, but only low-ranking foot soldiers. Their weapons were plain iron or steel, only causing damage to the combatants.
As soon as Ark had regained enough energy to struggle to his feet, he looked over at his home and remembered Frold. A surge of panic stung Ark’s heart, and he rushed as quickly as his weak legs would allow him toward the rubble of the old shop.
“Frold!” he screamed hopelessly, “Frold!” It was no use; the prior shop and home had been reduced to a large pile of concentrated rubble. Only bits of the eastern- and northern-most walls remained in tact. Leaping onto the pile, Ark shoved away bits of the rubble in a rush of horrid adrenaline. Hours passed, and the rain beat even harder, as if to signal that one of the last good men of Myleis had died. Exhausted, Ark staggered back onto the dilapidated stone path. He turned to face the rubble, dirty tears mixing with sweat and rainwater that smudged mud and soot across his face. A sense of utter hopelessness and powerlessness surged through Ark’s body, causing him to tremble uncontrollably, “FROLDDD!”
