In total, there were sixteen great houses of the Del'Mari kingdom, ruling over sixteen duchies of varying wealth, influence, and power. The events that would lead to the Del'Mari civil war were set in motion soon after my marriage.
Tragedy struck the realm when the old king, Gerald Du'Warru III died in his bed from illness, leaving the throne to his beloved heir, Gent Du'Warru II. The kingdom welcomed the popular heir to the throne, and all looked forward to the blessed reign of a beloved leader of men and women. However, it was not to be; just months into his reign, a devastating fire swept through the Royal Palace, claiming the lives of Gent, his wives, and all five of his children.
The people of the capital were shocked and horrified by the tremendous tragedy. More than sorrow was fear and uncertainty. As the next in line to the throne was not beloved but reviled and hated. With Gent's passing and leaving no direct heirs, the crown passed to his sister, Gida, a woman widely known for her bitterness and vengeful nature; many whispered that she had played a role in her brother's death, though no proof was ever found.
What followed were the years of the tyrant, Gida Du'Warru. She passed harsher laws, increased taxes, and implemented a draft, swelling the ranks of the Royal Guard. Many of the great houses resisted the new laws, especially the peacetime draft. For years, the discontent simmered, and many whispered that Gida needed to be replaced. She had not yet wed and was without an heir. Around the birth of my second son, Gida announced she would take Duke Orin Kath'Aris as her husband.
Duke Orin, was a cowardly weasel of a man who was as ambitious as he was devious. Besides the poor quality of the man chosen by the Queen, was his status as a Duke. Marriages were not permitted between ruling lords. In the few cases this occurred, the lesser land would go to an heir, and the marrying lord or lady would forsake their claim and lordship. Although love is a powerful force, no ruling lord or lady would ever consider giving up a Duchy even to marry the ruling monarch. What created even more tension I the real was the queen's decree that House Du'Warru would absorb the lands of House Kath'Aris as part of the marriage agreement.
Many saw this as a severe overreach by the Queen, and many more lords spoke of holding a Wi'Tan, a council of the great houses, to vote for a new monarch. A Wi'Tan was not called however, but instead came the darkest moment in the realm's long history.
Which would forever be remembered as the Black Wedding, marked the massacre of the remaining members of the Du'Warru household. Gida, the Black Queen, her moniker after this terrible event, orchestrated the slaughter of her remaining family members, their spouses, and their children. The details only became apparent years later, but apparently, it was right after the queen left the feasting hall when her Royal Guard and retinues of Duke Raven Du'Vaal entered the feast hall and murdered every member of House Du'Warru and any guest who tried to stop it.
The devastation extended beyond the royal family. Many of the great houses were intertwined with the crown through marriage, and nearly half of them lost sons, daughters, and grandchildren in the slaughter. High-ranking nobles who attended the wedding also met a tragic end. Duke Travian of Reapers Rock, Arla's father, was among them, struck down while trying to protect his daughter, who had been wed to the Queen's youngest brother only a few years prior. Others, such as Duke Lucias Du'Praal and Duchess Uthia Ku'Taal, were taken hostage, ensuring their houses' forced loyalty, as they controlled territories bordering the Crownlands.
The massacre sent shockwaves through the realm, shattering alliances and casting suspicion across noble families. Gida's unbridled cruelty not only claimed lives but also fractured the kingdom, sparking the first signs of rebellion as grief and fury spread through the surviving houses.
While open rebellion and civil war seemed almost unavoidable, some strong leadership sought to address the issue legally. Duke Grendal Ko'Era of Era'Token sent ravens to the southern houses, calling for a great council to discuss a southern response to the queen's madness.
Normally, such leadership would have fallen to Duke Travian, but his untimely death meant his son, Duke Lourell Tor'Ael, a young man of just twenty-five, now held the reins. Though capable, he did not yet command the same respect as his father. It was decided that the Earls of Tor'Ruk Valley would join the Duke and ride together to the council at Era'Token. Our house guard prepared, and we set out from Reapers Rock.
Upon our arrival, there was confusion over the absence of Earl Portshy Hur'Jaal, the lord of Val'Gordahl and master of Crisper Rock. Val'Gordahl, in stark contrast to Val'Loren's splendor, was a stain on the duchy--mismanaged into ruin by the Hur'Jaal family, whose inbred offspring were known for their lack of intelligence and honesty, though they often compensated with cruelty and greed. Lord Hur'Jaal had fallen ill and could not attend, sending his regrets and vowing to support any decisions made in his absence.
Our delegation included Lord Verry of Val'Toren from House Dir'Athon, Lady Cyrell of Val'Ethal from House Tyr'Shin, and Lord Morsden of Val'Orthal from House Di'Shar, as well as Duke Lourell and my father and me, representing House Tor'Riken. The group, consisting of over two hundred knights and men-at-arms, set off for the To'Ruk Mountains, traveling through the Gleaming Pass.
What we encountered there was nothing short of treachery--a carefully orchestrated ambush intended to slaughter the lords of Tor'Ruk. In the first moments of the battle, my life changed. Duke Lourell was the attacker's main target, who was struck by four crossbow bolts, he died before his body hit the ground. My father was struck by a bolt to the eye and fell in his saddle. His horse reportedly had charged off a cliff in the chaos. His body would later be found bloated and half-eaten.
After the initial volley of bolts and arrows was chaos and brutality, our forces were caught out of position to provide an adequate defensive line. Though the soldiers of the various houses fought valiantly, it became clear that retreat was our only option.
Lord Morsden, shouting for retreat, was silenced by a bolt through his throat. Blood erupted from his neck in a grotesque bloom. I commanded my guardsmen to fall back, as did the remaining Lord Verry and Lady Cyrell, but our attackers anticipated our retreat, cutting us off. Both Lord Verry and Lady Cyrell were knocked off their horses and I lost sight of them. My household captain and I, in a desperate attempt to survive, veered off onto a narrow goat path, leaving the ambush behind.
My Lion Born lineage made me stand out like a candle in a dark room, which made me an easy target. Several riders beset upon us, and I took a bolt to the side. The pain threatened my consciousness, but fear kept it at bay. Eventually, my luck ran out, and my captain and I were cornered in a close-off alcove. With the only hope of escape being on foot, I bit through the pain and directed my captain to the slope. He shook his head, "Run my Lord, I will keep them as long as possible."
There was no time to argue, I ran. All I could hear was the furious screams of men dying and the defiant shout of my captain before it was abruptly silenced. My pursuers were persistent, and I was finally cornered, exhausted, and bleeding out. The fools chose to engage me rather than let me bleed out, and I was able to strike four of the rogues down before the final rider blindsided me and crushed my knee with his mace. I roared in pain and collapsed, bloodied and broken, awaiting the final blow.
Instead of a quick end, the insufferable git wanted to insult me first, "The mighty Dorian, The Everlasting, The White Lion of fucking Vel'Loren. Look at you now. Dying and bleeding like a common git. Not so great now, are we, lordling?"
I looked at him, and to my surprise, I recognized the bastard, it was the bastard son of Lord Portshy. "Ah, if it isn't the bastard of the Sister Fucker? So, this treachery is your inbred father's doing?"
A scowl appeared on the man's face, "That's right, lordling, a bastard will strike down the "great" Dorian of Val'Loren. From now on, I will be great. Bratly, the Lion Slayer they'll call me."
I laughed at his hubris, "You? Great? A bastard from an inbred line of layabouts and thieves. What do you know of greatness? You strike me down, wounded as I am, while I slaughtered your companions like sheep--you lot, like filthy hyenas, weak and pathetic, attacking a wounded lion. No, you will never know greatness. Even after today, you will be known as either a coward or a liar. You know why?"
He snarled, "Why is that lordling?"
I spat blood onto the rocks, "Because everyone will know that a pathetic swine like yourself would never be able to beat me."
The toothless villain smirked, "Well...you will never know now." With that, he raised his mace. I closed my eyes, awaiting the blow that would crush my skull. My final thoughts went to my beautiful wife and the children she had given me. Instead, what followed was a thunderous roar and the cries of my attacker, "No, no, no."
Opening my eyes, I saw the man drop his mace and run, but it did not save him. Over my head flew a massive beast, cream-white in color, a blur. It was so fast. The creature chased down the fleeing man with ease and proceeded to maul the man to death mercilessly. It was not quick, and his screams finally ended with a sickening crunch. When the beast turned towards me, I finally saw what it was. It was a Tur'Rouk, a Silver Lion that gave the mountains their name.
They were thought to be extinct; they were deemed too dangerous and killed off centuries ago. Yet here one stood blood-faced and staring its cold stare right at me, the beast's most likely next pray. What happened after this, I am not certain, as the blood loss and pain finally made me lose consciousness. My memories of this moment are shrouded in pain, fear, and heavy blood loss. I only vaguely remembered several instances where I swore, I was being dragged somewhere by the beast. Something I could never prove.
What I remember vividly was the fever dream that overtook me. I perceived a grand white marble hall darkened and abandoned but for a figure on a throne at the very end of the hall. I recall moving towards the dias; my injuries were gone. Once I was several feet away from the raised platform, the figure became clear enough to make out. It was an Impossibly tall woman with alabaster skin, glorious in appearance, wearing a revealing white dress with silver hair flowing in waves down her back. Her golden eyes, those of a lion, stared at me for long moments before she spoke a simple phrase. One I will never forget.
"Aye far lethale, tor maya dal ortho, charto."
Although I did not understand the words then, I would much later discover that they were an ancient form of Ar'Kodean, the language of our ancient ancestors, the people who inhabited the valley so long ago that almost none of their history remained. A rough translation was eventually provided.
