The Forsaken Hero

I floated through the darkness of sleep for barely a second before my mana thrummed within my soul, a thousand scathing needles seeking escape. Given time, its relentless throb would erode my resistance and I would be swept away into a vision, but this time, instead of fighting it, I relaxed and allowed it to flow. The surge that followed nearly jolted me awake, bubbling up until it spilled out of my soul, filling my entire body with suffocating warmth.

Bright ribbons of light materialized around me, rapidly weaving together in a tapestry of color and sound. Within the space of a single breath, spacious walls rose around me, covered in banners and murals depicting great battles and stone-eyed generals. A heavy stone table dominated the center of the floor, stained dark and inlaid with gold and some sort of multi-faceted gems. The precious stones blazed with mana, projecting a life-like, topographical illusion of a wide swath of land across the surface of the table.

Armored men and women clustered around the map, staring intently at small icons representing various things–troops, resources, fortress, etc. Servants entered through several thick doors, carrying scrolls or refreshments to the assembled leaders. More faces in priest and mage robes mixed with the generals. Advisors, perhaps. The entire room was as tense as a drawn bowstring, the air crackling with sharp, frustrated voices.

I shrunk back, overwhelmed by the sudden immersion into such a charged atmosphere, feeling like I had just plunged into a lake of hot water. Nothing about the scene felt familiar, save a few faces, which teased at my memory.

Before I could fully adjust, or even make an attempt to recall any details, a smooth, silky voice slid through the clamor, bringing an abrupt silence to the room. The voice sent a violent shudder through me, freezing me in place. No. It couldn’t be. Reluctantly, I forced my trembling perspective to shift, turning toward the face of the speaker.

"That’s quite enough of this fruitless debate," Alverin’s words slithered over the room. He lounged on a throne gilded with gold, the metal gleaming like a serpent’s eye. "We cannot simply abandon the northern lands. If the demons are allowed to expand, their powers will only grow. What is the status of the church reinforcements? Are we able to open another portal soon?"

I stared with disbelief at the man seated above the table, previously out of my view. His appearance was so unlike the manner of our first meeting that I doubted it was him, but the cruel glint in his eye and condescending voice was unmistakable. He wore rich, purple robes thick with gold trim and embroidery, the garb appearing even more expensive than the crown upon his head. A gold scepter rested in his right hand, a jewel-encrusted sword at his side. There was no denying it. Alverin Truthsworn, the Lord of the Circle, and...King of Brithlite.

The revelation staggered my mind, absorbing so much of my attention I nearly missed the small child at his feet.

Sari! My voice echoed silently in my mind, a cry of desperation that would never reach her.