Dawn of Fire

1. Sparks-1

1 Sparks

Fire. It is the rawest of the four elements. Both beautiful in its form and deadly enough to scorch all that it touches. It may warm the hearts and bodies of those closest to us or quickly wither away a lifetime of accomplished darlings. Tonight, it chose the latter. A dense cloud of creeping smoke billowed into the sky, bringing with it the unmistakable smell of cinder. Hair-raising wails of the fire’s victims shattered the tranquil hum of the burning city’s nearby forest.

The scent of smoke lingered in the crisp night air, clinging to the foliage like a suffocating fog. A lone girl with hair as red as the fires behind her ran crying along the narrow path ahead of her, stumbling on protruding roots, trying to escape the reach of the angry blaze. The frequent screams of her once-revered friends and acquaintances sent sharp stings of fear pulsing through her, each more painful than the last, as if shedding her very soul. Fighting her mounting exhaustion, the terrified girl forced herself away from the fiery inferno engulfing her once peaceful city one reluctant step and pant at a time. With each wail from the smoldering husk, she cried harder, forcing herself to run faster.

“Find her! Find her now!” A woman’s voice carried in the distance. It was calculated in its tone, yet shaky somehow, at odds with itself. As if feigning strength yet yielding to madness.

The girl continued down the shadowed path until she had eluded her pursuers. The darkness of the twisted thicket had taken her, welcoming her deeper into its confounding, bending pathways. Her pursuers’ shouts were soon reduced to distant echoes, as were the screams. Only the solitary darkness of the forest remained. She was alone. The young woman stopped to catch her breath, pressing her right hand against the twisted wood of the tree beside her. She felt it…the wood. A pang of sudden guilt crippled her. She was alive, yet somehow ashamed. The screams began again, but these screams were different. These wails were inescapable. They echoed inside her head like a lingering aria, an illusion that couldn’t be shaken. The distraught young woman covered her face to shield her flowing tears, quietly cursing her weakness. She expelled a pained moan, nearly buckling under the painful realization of her loneliness, and the gravity of all she had lost.

“Find her!” The woman’s voice carried in the distance again. The young girl wiped her eyes and continued through the woods. The dark of the

wilderness retook her, and she vanished into the void.

That very night, many miles away, a boisterous tavern of rowdy regulars hoisted their glasses cheering, the result of yet another drunken night of excitement and tales. Two young men came stumbling through the doors, both sauced from a night of debauchery, with fixed grins that reached the entirety of their faces. They reeked of alcohol, and their stances were shaky at best. The Gulping Grotto was a favorite of theirs, often sneaking off after their adoptive father had retired early for the evening. One of the young men, Dorian, stood over six feet with a confident c**k to his shoulders, despite his drunken lean. His hair was brown, yet so dark it could nearly be mistaken for black in the right lighting. His face was youthful, eighteen at the most. A distant glare of drunken euphoria clouded his light brown eyes, shielding them behind a glossy gleam. Dorian’s best friend and brother, not by blood but by closeness, Dain, was shorter than he was, just under six feet. Dirty brown, almost blonde hair dangled from his head, unkempt and wild. Dain’s face carried a more comical aura, one that appreciated a sword for wit, as evident by his growing grin of self-satisfaction. At the same time, he formulated the latest of his terrible attempts at humor. His glossy blue gaze panned toward Dorian, accompanied by a snicker that Dorian knew all too well. “Hey, Dorian…what do you call a penguin’s head?” he murmured, chuckling again.

“Lay it on me,” Dorian slurred back.

“The tip of the icebird.” Dain burst into laughter, amused by his joke to the point of crying.

“I don’t get it. Don’t you mean iceberg?”

“Yeah…that’s the joke.”

“That’s not funny…that’s not funny at all,” Dorian said, stumbling.

“Come on! I’m giving you gold here. Whatever…comedy is subjective anyway. I bet the tavern girls would eat it up.”

“One, no, they wouldn’t. Two, you tried that already and failed miserably. Three, that was objectively stupid and finally, four, isn’t a tavern girl like a myth to you? Have you ever actually touched one, Dain? I hear they’re tough to approach in the wild. I hear they don’t like to be bothered in their natural habitat of work, and I hear that they can smell…desperation. But you’re a professional, so that shouldn’t be too hard for you,” Dorian replied, drifting into a playful whisper. Dain’s lack of s****l prowess was often a sore spot. As Dorian’s retort dawned on him, Dain’s smile gradually became a sarcastic scowl. “Oh…good one, Dorian. Make fun of the sexually handicapped.”

“That was called sarcasm, Dain. That’s comedy gold. I thought you’d appreciate that.”

“Hey! Which one of you assholes stole my gerbil?” The tavern owner Madsen said from inside.

“Uh, oh…” Dain whispered.

“What do you mean, uh-” before Dorian even finished his question, he spotted the tiniest of little eyes glaring up at him from Dain’s pocket,

wiggling his cheeks and squeaking. Dorian silently pointed to the gerbil.

“That’s not mine,” Dain whispered.

“No s**t…”

Dain nestled the gerbil in his hands. Its fur was so soft it was akin to a modern marvel in Dain’s drunken eyes. “Wow, he feels like a pile of feathers.

He’s so cute.” Dain rubbed the gerbil’s nose with his own as Dorian stood swaying.

“Don’t rub him like that. He probably eats his poop.”

“Look at those eyes, Dorian. Would those eyes eat poop?”

The gerbil turned toward Dorian, wiggling his nose and squeaking.

“Point taken little fellow. Give him a chance, he’s a little off.”

“What? Hey…you making fun of me again? And when did you learn to talk to gerbils? How many drinks does that take?”

“Six, I think, but we need to give the gerbil back to Madsen before we get chased out of here again.”

“Oh, come on. The last time was an accident. We just knocked over some barrels. No big deal.”

“Whenever an action costs someone money, Dain, it’s always a big deal.”

Madsen poked his head through the door, searching for his missing pet and spotted the animal in Dain’s hands. The gerbil squeaked, happy to see his owner. “Hey! Is that my gerbil? You little shits.” Dain glanced in Dorian’s direction and realized that Dorian was already ten paces away, sprinting. “Good luck, Dain. I’ll remember you,” he yelled. Dorian was so off-balance that he weaved across the path like a rogue kite taken by the

wind. He clipped a stack of barrels, sending him crashing to the ground. The barrels wobbled and fell over, scattering around Dorian in a calamity of noise. “Dain…I think I fell!” Dorian yelled back after a long, sullen groan. Dain chuckled and handed Madsen his gerbil. “I have no idea how that got in my pocket.”

“Dain…”

“Yeah, I know.”

Dorian examined one of the fallen barrels and chuckled. “Hey…is this White Gully Spirit! Can I have some!” Dorian slurred.

“I think you’ve had enough. With all this ruckus, it’s a wonder Julius hasn’t nailed you too yet for reckless endangerment.”

“Sorry. I honestly don’t remember how the gerbil got in my pocket.”

“I don’t care. Just get yourselves home safely. I don’t want to have to come to fetch you out of the chicken coop again.”

“You got it, Madsen. We’ll be home in no time. Dorian and I have cat blood. We always land on our feet.” Dain took a wrong step off the first step and immediately collided with the dirt groaning. Madsen shook his head. “Cat blood, huh? Those two are doomed,” he murmured and stepped back inside.

“Dorian!” Dain slurred.

“Yeah?”

“I think I fell…”

“Yeah…”

The two young men stumbled to their feet and shuffled home together, laughing. It was a regular occurrence, one that would soon change when life was thrust upon them in a way they could have never predicted.

The next morning, Dain awoke to the sounds of birds chirping. Leaves fell from the limbs above him, gracefully fluttering to the ground and into the nearby stream with the aid of the fall breeze. Echoes of laughing children and morning ramblings from the village people carried through the air. The ground was hard, and periodic clucks shook Dain from his morning haze. Dain realized he was outside, instead of in the warm bed he thought he had fallen asleep in. A flock of roaming chickens pranced around Dain clucking, some confused and others curious about his presence. “Oh…damn it…not again…” Dain clutched his pounding head as he stood. After a quick dusting, he shuffled back toward the small home he shared with Dorian and his adoptive father, Julius. The sun had yet to rise as Dain crawled through his open window. “So, this is how I got out,” He mumbled. Dain crawled back into bed and wrapped himself in his sheets. Just as he had begun to get comfortable, the first rays of the morning sun crept through the window.

Dain raised his hand against the blinding intruder.

“Every time!” He moaned. No matter how many times he had moved his bed, the sun always seemed to find him, awakening him every morning like a playful brother. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, sighing, contemplating the days’ coming hardships. A glance toward the bed across the room confirmed that Dorian was still asleep. Half of Dorian’s body dangled from the bed, while the other half remained tangled in a complex network of sheets. The light from the window lurched deeper inside, partially lighting the humble living space. Despite its lack of elegance, the room held a lighthearted charm. It was cozy and familiar. The room itself was decorated with little more than a few wall lamps, an old oak table, a dresser, armor racks, an old red rug frayed around the edges, and their beds, but to them, it was enough. Dain ducked beneath the sheets groaning to escape the growing light.

“Boys…are you awake?” A familiar voice called, entering the room with heavy footsteps.

“Yeah, Julius. I’m awake. Dorian’s still out though,” Dain replied, agitated by Julius’ sudden intrusion.

“He can rest a while longer, and then I want you to wake him. We have a lot of training ahead of us today.”

Dain groaned. He ruffled his hair and buried his face back underneath his sheets. “Okay…we ’ll be there soon,” he replied, his voice muffled against the sheets.

The kindly gentleman always seemed to carry an aura of calm that often helped him through decidedly hairy situations of negotiation. His half greyed brown goatee and beard covered a fair face of an experienced man familiar with hardship.

Julius was a man of average height. Despite his age, he looked younger than he was, often taking offense to any mention of the contrary. Julius had taken the boys into his home twelve years prior, following the deaths of their parents when they were six. He prided himself as a man of his word and never shirked a chance to help a friend in need, especially one long gone.

He welcomed the boys into his home with open arms, even trained them in combat from the moment they could hold swords. Julius wanted them to be strong so that they could survive the bandit infested countryside. The continent of Zannondale was once a place of splendor, stability, and peace. However, such ideals only linger for so long. A splintering race war, two hundred years prior, shattered the harmony throughout the continent. In the years following the war, kingdoms were formed, and new leaders were appointed to quell the chaos born of the Great War.

Despite the appointed rulers’ best efforts to mend the rifts between the people, Zannondale became a home for thieves, mercenaries, and depraved souls with a craving for malicious intents. Throughout the last two millennia, many wars and conflicts left the continent ravaged and scarred by battle. Many cities were burned to the ground, and countless lives were lost after bloody centuries of conflict between the kingdoms.

In the wake of the destruction, a vicious baron named Chronus rose to power. At first, he was as charismatic as any great man, just as many terrible souls are before showing their true selves. He seemed as if he were two different people at times, sometimes fair, yet sometimes so cruel it terrified even his subordinates. There were rumors that he would often murmur to himself in moments of quiet as if carrying on a conversation with some unseen phantasm. The kingdoms of Zannondale feared him, and stories of his cruelty horrified many throughout the continent.