A dark pall of clouds crept over the capital of Eastmarch, shrouding the world in shadow.

  Once, the city had been a marvel—its sky-piercing spires and cathedral domes proclaiming the glory of Kaedmon, the Allfather, in stone and gold. Colonnades lined the broad avenues, their marble steps worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims, and every square boasted statues of the great unblinking eyes of the Lord, watching from beneath halos of beaten bronze. But now, the grandeur loomed over streets choked with grime and shadow. The slums pressed tight against the old walls, their rotting timbers sagging like broken ribs, while narrow alleys reeked of smoke and stale water. Behind shuttered windows, the people kept to themselves, whispering in candlelit rooms, as if the city’s splendor had curdled into a tomb and the end of the world was not coming—but had already begun.

  It had been like this for the past three months.

  Ever since the Lightborn had fallen.

  …

  In a small corner of the Thirsty Faithful tavern, Cardinal Langley drank alone.

  It wasn’t that he hated conversation, but because a man in his profession knew that listening could often bring many more advantages than the flapping of one’s gums could.

  The Faithful was an ill-named establishment. It was full of a wealthy assortment of impoverished patrons and adorned with grisly trophies. Its walls were lined with the heads of slain boars, sliced lycanthropes, and even an imposing looking drake’s head behind the bar. Yet it was the humans that occupied this place with their haunting, dejected faces, that Langley was truly interested in. Keeping his cloak tightly wrapped around him, and shielding his face with a flea-bitten cowl, he blended in quite nicely whenever he came to this little brooding corner of the city. Rumors flowed from taverns in as much volume as alcohol did. And tonight was no different.

  One paunchy man wearing leather straps across his arms and a pair of rusted spectacles on his brow sidled up to the bark and sat himself near Langley.

  “Barkeep,” he said. “Any word from outside?”

  The barman – a balding old codger in his mid-fifties – spat into the tankard he was cleaning and sighed.

  “Nothin’.”

  “And the quarantine...?”

  “Quarantine ain’t gonna be lifted anytime soon, Lev. Not till they find where the Archon’s hidin.’”

  Langley spared a glance in the man’s direction. He knew him - A [Farmer] by the name of Levy Arshe who worked in one of the outlying fields just beyond the curtain wall’s perimeter. Since the city-wide quarantine had been called, men like Levy found themselves without purpose. Aimless and absent, they quickly found themselves in establishments like this one.

  Levy sat his heavy body down on a rickety stool. He ran his dirtied fingers through his tufts of auburn hair.

  “But…but they ain’t gonna find ‘im, are they?” Levy grunted. “Them Greycloaks have been lookin’ since the Lightborn’s passin’. The last detachment ain’t come back…”

  A few murmurs came from the patrons sitting by the fire. Langley noticed them grumbling and gesturing in Levy’s direction. The barman, meanwhile, shot the Farmer a harsh look.

  It was an open secret that the Lightborn was dead. Those who had run from Westerweald seeking refuge had all reported the same dream – that of the Archon, wearing the body of the Lightborn, casting down the Greycloaks of Westerweald and leading the Hybrids to the surface in droves. Many still had such dreams, waking up in the night and clutching their children close to them in denial. Even if the Council of Cardinal’s official position was that the Lightborn was simply MIA, everyone knew the truth.

  Still, in some corners, it did not do to say such things in the open. Or to be caught harboring someone who did.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “I don’t know how much more I can take,” Levy moaned into his glass, staring at his own filthy reflection floating there within the cheap liquor. “Me family’s starvin’, and this is supposed to be the safest place in the country –“

  “It’s the safest place in the world,” the barkeep corrected, eyes narrowed at Levy now. “We’ve got a barrier, or did you forget that? Best damn mages in Argwyll are all here, right now, holed up in Miss Cassandra’s tower keeping the barrier wall strong. Not even the Archon could creep up on us here.”

  Langley saw that he was trying to placate Levy, though the farmer looked less than convinced. Archmagi Cassandra had indeed been busy in her tower, whipping her acolytes into shape. She’d devoted their efforts entirely to honing their abilities in the School of Nullification – the school of magic under which defensive spells and charms were grouped.

  From the rain-beaten windows of the bar one could see the faint sheen of translucent blue that shimmered just outside the grey-black curtain walls of the capital, keeping worldly threats out, and the terrified populace in.

  Of course, there were some things that the barrier couldn’t keep out. Incorporeal threats were far more difficult to police.

  “I’ve…I’ve seen ‘im,” Levy stuttered, completely ignoring the barkeep’s glare and the grumbles of the men behind him. “In me dreams – I see him. He comes to me, full of hate, eyes glaring at me, smiling at me, mumbling somethin’ I can’t hear…But I can still see him. Even now when I close my eyes, I see him…”

  Langley set down his drink, focusing on the man’s trembling body. He looked as though he was about to implode from the terror welling up inside him.

  “…the Dark Angel,” he croaked. “Wearin’ the body of the dead Lightborn. He – he calls to me. He tells me his name. ‘Ethan,’ he says – ‘Ethan – ‘“

  “Don’t say that name!” the barkeep shouted, dropping his glass and letting it smash against the wooden floorboards, reaching for Levy across the bar to close shut his throat.

  But the terrified farmer was not to be deterred in his raving. His eyes widened, blood red and watering, while his mouth gaped open, and he let out a banshee squeal.

  “ETHAN! ETHAN!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “HE’S COMIN’ FOR US! SOON THERE’LL BE NOWHERE TO HIDE!”

  By this point the men from behind had thrown down their drinks and joined the barkeep in grappling Levy, gripping him from behind and hoisting him up while he kicked and screamed about the end of the world.

  “Get him out of here!” the barkeep ordered. He was barely audible over Levy’s continued exhortations:

  “ALL OF US. ALL OF US!” the farmer screamed as they dragged him towards the door. “HE’S COMING FOR US ALL! HIS HYBRIDS’LL WEAR OUR SKIN, TOO!”

  By this point the whole tavern was practically screaming for Levy’s blood, and it took the combined effort of five patrons to finally lift him up and toss him outside, face-first, into the pouring rain. They spat at him as he lay there blubbering on about the end times before shutting the door tight and telling him he was no longer welcome at the Faithful.

  And yet, for a while, Langley could hear him outside, proclaiming the end of all things:

  “THE AGE OF AGONIES…IS HERE!”

  The Age of Agonies…that was what they were calling this period of history. Little did they know that the history books might just call it something else, something that signaled a time of transition, not destruction.

  But then, there was no such thing as a peaceful revolution, was there?

  The fact that even uttering the Archon’s name was considered a mortal sin told you everything you needed to know about the state of Eastmarch’s citizenry. When devotion was in short supply, the Council of Cardinals relied on fear. But that could only take them so far.

  “Sorry about that, Father,” the barkeep said, wiping his brow and dusting off his shirt like nothing had even happened. “We sometimes get doomsayers like him in here. We normally take care of ‘em pretty quick round these parts of town. Gotta know when ta flush out the naysayers, am I right?”

  Langley downed the remainder of his drink and spoke without looking the barman in the eye.

  “He who strays from his Path will always walk in the dark.”

  “Eh – right…so, anyway, another drink? On the house, of co-“

  Langley rose, threw a couple of coppers on the table, and took his leave.

  “That will be all.”

  Outside, he spared a look at the expelled farmer. He knelt beside him, watching Levy’s terrified face slowly turn from fear to confusion as he inched closer and pressed five silver pieces into the farmer’s hand.

  “Charter a carriage from the city tonight,” he said. “Take your family with you.”

  Levy felt the money, looked into Langley’s eyes, but couldn’t grasp the gift he was being given.

  “Where do…we go?”

  “Far. Anywhere but here.”

  The farmer shook his head, “there’s nowhere safe, M’lord. Nowhere…soon he’ll come for us all. Even you!”

  He batted the silvers away, rocking back in the dirt and wailing silently now, so that all the cloaked passers-by simply ignored him, taking him for just another madman in the mud.

  “He’s coming…” he mewled. “He’s…he’s coming for us now!”

  Langley sighed as he rose and simply took his leave. There was little he could do for a man who’d already made up his mind that the world was doomed. And he didn’t have the time to spare to convince him of what he knew. What he saw in his dreams.

  Because, in a way, Levy was right.

  Tonight was going to be an important night for this city.

  It would be a night they would never forget.