The Children of Starlight

Prologue

A single panoramic window overlooked the ruined city of Terra below. The land was scorched, the very earth left smoldering, and the beauty of creation was marred by decades of violent war. Most of the land’s flora and fauna had been driven to extinction—erased by the flames of the apocalypse. Two religions, two forms of magic, two goddesses, and two men diametrically opposed in both ideals and beliefs locked in a brutal war of attrition. The room around them was still, isolated high atop the tallest spire of the only palace left standing—the final bastion of humanity.

The Arbiter slid two golden chalices across the small wooden table, one for each of the weary men situated across from each other. These were no ordinary men. They were the last two living vessels of incredible power—abilities bestowed upon them by deities. They were the last two sorcerers left to walk the realm of Iorth.

The powers these men held were once a blessing to humankind, but such power in the hands of mortals proved to be a dangerous prospect, one with terrible consequences. For such power tends to create a hunger, an unending lust for more. Eventually, the gifts which had been intended to better the world were turned to weapons, their true purpose twisted and corrupted by the weak minds of zealous men, minds filled with fiery ambition and an unquenchable thirst for power.

After decades of strife and bloodshed, the end of the world was now upon them. The war had gone too far, taken too many lives, and destroyed nearly everything once held dear to them. The only solution, a chalice decorated with rubies and other precious gems, rested on the table in front of the two men.

“It could have been different,” said one of the men as he received his chalice with shaky hands. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, his face dirty and aged. His white beard was overgrown like a dense briar, and his once-immaculate white robes were stained and tattered. “It should never have come to this.”

“Some things are inevitable. You of all people should know this.” The other man situated across the table turned his golden cup around in his hands, inspecting the jewels adorning its sides.

This man’s choice of outfit was intentional—symbolic. He wore long, jet-black robes in contrast to his opponent. It was a subtle but powerful sentiment. Unlike his counterpart, he had taken the time to bathe prior to their meeting; his robes were freshly laundered and his short beard trimmed to perfection, yet another statement. Around his neck hung astone pendant, the color of deep ocean water with a faint glow emanating from its core.

“My lords,” the Arbiter interrupted, standing over the table, watching each of the sorcerers closely;  he wastasked with making sure the pact was fulfilled and that no deception was at play. “You both agreed to the terms and all matters have already been settled. It is time. Shall we proceed?”

“Of course, Arbiter. I am more than ready. Are you?” the man in black replied, directing his question to his counterpart across the table.

“To think it would come to this,” the white-robed man spoke as he pulled his chalice closer, shooting a disapproving glance across the table. “Look at us, old friend…what we have become. If our fathers were here, they would be ashamed.”

“Those days have long passed, old friend.”

“All because of your incessant hunger for power, Umbross.”

“My lords!” the Arbiter spoke sternly, his patience waning.

“You are deluded, Zenithis!” the man in black, called Lord Umbross, shouted. “You think of you and your family as some altruistic protectors of Iorth.”

“Enough!” the Arbiter shouted, slamming his fists down on the table.

The bickering ceased, leaving a silent tension hanging in the air between the two men as they stared at each other with hatred burning in their eyes.

“This is the only way,” Lord Zenithis broke the silence after a long moment. “It will never end unless we stop it now.”

“If we must, then we must,” Lord Umbross replied.

The men hesitated, both waiting for the Arbiter to continue with his assigned duties. It had all come to this: the only resolution remaining. There would be no clear winner of this war, no prize and no glory to be gained. Once close friends, these two men had become mortal enemies. Now they were situated across from one another, contempt and anger flowing openly between them. Both of their armies had been destroyed, all of their fellow sorcerers had fallen, and both of their homes lay devastated. The realm of Iorth had been wrecked by their hatred and a deeply rooted conflict of ideals. The small wooden table between them now represented a permanent scar upon their friendship—a schism between them that would ultimately become their own demise. Differing ideals, differing morals, differing beliefs—incompatible and destructive differences. There remained only one way to end the war and preserve the last signs of life on their world.

The Arbiter leaned forward over the table quietly announcing that the time had at last come. The sorcerers lifted the chalices, watching each other meticulously with great distrust.

“So long, my old friend.” Lord Zenithis spoke as he tipped his cup into the air.

“If only just for now.” Lord Umbross smiled, raising his cup in response.

Together, they drank the contents of the cups then placed them on the table. They each leaned back in turn, waiting in silence, studying each other’s reactions. While Lord Zenithis struggled to hide his obvious fear by squeezing the arms of his chair, Lord Umbross displayed an unsettlingly jovial smile as the poison coursed through their veins.

Lord Zenithis closed his eyes; a warm sensation crept up the back of his neck. A numbness flowed outward from his chest, into his arms, down his legs and to his feet, and eventually across his face. Then came a tingling sensation that was neither painful nor pleasant. His breathing slowed as a wave of calm washed over him, like falling into a pool of warm water. His eyelids became heavy, as if invisible strings tied to rocks were attached to them, and the world started to fade away.

The war came to an end when the two men died; both sorcerers slouched over lifelessly across from one another at the small wooden table. The Arbiter, feeling their necks for a heartbeat, confirmed their deaths. He would then announce to the world that resolution had at long last come. Half-hearted celebrations would be had among the few remaining survivors as the horrors of the great war had finally come to end, and with the passing of the last two sorcerers, magic left the world.

More to come!

-EVS