"In the arcane era before the Long War, when even Death had not joined us from the dark, Noble Humanity lived upon Terra Invicta. It is passed down through the line of our fathers that our human ancestors mastered this world through their unity and shared compassion. Yet, distant from Melentale''s light, no dominance of spirit or willful constitution allowed them to resist the corruption of the Lord of Murder when he came to them. He brought Death, strife, and hatred, as was his soul''s design.


    Noble Humanity degenerated into what we call the demonicka.


    In such tragedy, Melentale descended upon this demon-kin to war with the accused Lord of Murder. In her unseen light, some did not flee and- like steel under the blacksmith''s arm- were cleansed and shaped to appear as Noble Humanity once again.


    Arthur Eld and his thousand knights— may their bones be crushed.


    Otto Eisenfaust, Father of the Forges and the Roads- the builder of our Fatherland and first martyr of us all.


    Sanguine Maid Agnes and her dire wolves, heralds of the Lightsworn to our concord.


    Silvered Pyre Lucius, first to wield Her metal in the dire days ahead.


    Malthusia the Aonaran Magi, sagely dragoman of Her voice.


    Skulleater Anri, the first necromancer and mother and father of hexes.


    All-Mother Chiara, whose eyes shined with gold and mercy.


    Know that when seven appear, one will be a traitor. This is the lesson of this red age.


    These seven united the furtive souls of the world and brought them to Melentale''s light. In this reforging, we created the Concord of Melentale and were bestowed the name Lightborne. By Her mandate, Arthur Eld led us. We armed for a crusade against our rallied enemies- demonicka still enthralled and rejecting their human nature. On Terra Invicta, the Long War began. When our home did shatter, by the sacrifice of six of our seven progenitors, the Lightborne escaped- with the wretched demonicka following us. "


    Excerpt from The Culling of Terra


    2258 A.H.


    Removed unwarranted praise of Arthur Eld. Added appropriate condemnation.


    Archivist Thori proposes that this passage was edited beyond my current note. His memory is that of a dog that can no longer bark. There have been no such edits.


    -May we purge all demon-kind. Everything for the Fatherland-


    Note by Sonne von Liden, Historian of the Lightborne K?nigreich


    Cracks in the Concord


    Early Spring 3806 A.H.


    ******


    Gerald von Eisenfaust, Second Son of the Kaiser


    The prince paused momentarily, standing beneath a gaslight''s pulsing, sunny radiance. The streetlight''s filigreed metal bore a dull shine where he saw only the runny reflections of the sword brothers in his guard. His eyes drifted back up to what caught his sight. Sturdy chain links held fast against the soft winter winds clinging to his brass city of Havenrise. Gerald unbuttoned and pulled down the leather collar of his greatcoat, revealing his scowl and shaken eyes.


    He removed the wide-brim hat, baring his princely visage to a fellow countryman.


    The stink of rot struck him. In the bars of the giblet before him, hanging from the crook of the towering gaslight, was the body of a Lightborne. A faded sign was still bound to the corpse in chains, coated in black and brown stains of decay and undignified rotting. The limbs were missing, with not but a head still attached by dangling strings of viscera still binding the vertebrae together. The mouth was agape.


    He saw screaming in that skull''s expression when his mind knew it was just the result of decay.


    He stared deeper. He saw the clothes his kinsman died in[CM1], those of the fool archetype in plays. Garish and pompous, they were meant to exude arrogance and unearned grace. The colors were black and red, as he had seen before when he ordered this never to be done again. His right hand trembled, and he moved it to his pistol hilt to hide it.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    A figure stepped beside him. Gerald did not turn his gaze from this crime. "Bring this down. See to it this person is buried before the suns rise."


    "It is the will of the Kaiser," a woman answered him. "Any who break the concord are to be white bones before it is deemed they can be emptied into a river."


    Gerald turned to the woman. She was a young knight, as noted by her Ritterdrache rune, a golden dragon inlaid into the flesh of her right cheek as a permanent ornament. Ice-blue eyes stared back at him like a leveled lance attached to a disarming maiden''s face that displayed not a twist of malice. Her silver blonde hair was slashed short, going no further than her jaw with fringed bangs and harsh edges, befitting an Agnesian woman and sword-maiden.


    "It is the will of his son to show mercy," Gerald answered, returning his embroidered hat over his brown curls. "That is a Lightborne to me and deserving of the entombment of one."


    "Your command will lead to the retinue being questioned," she replied, showing an unmoved stare as if his emotion was more chilled air blowing through the street. "What shall I say?" She spoke, even-keeled in her tone.


    Gerald looked over to his other guardsmen. Their helmet visors were down, even though they were watching him. He assumed they were judging as well. Some were perhaps burning in rage at his mere suggestion to give mercy. He believed most would stand beside what he would say. He raised a hand, drifting it in a motion as he spoke, "That I said this, Ser Melena: Forgiveness can be granted in times of reflection. When we see humans but no humanity, mercy should be given."


    Melena stepped forward, her words but a whisper. "I shall tell them, only, that it was your will. Words can birth horrid thoughts when pondered on."


    She turned to the retinue. "Old beards, the path is envisioned; procure tools and build it."


    All of them saluted back with a fist over their heart, but only some gave it the thunder the prince expected. They dispersed in groups, wordlessly breaking up the task. Gerald eyed them briefly, his mind searching his prior words for fault. Melena tapped his shoulder.


    "I will need to be present for the burial," she said. "To answer any inquiring minds from the garrison troops. I''ll see you to the keep."


    Gerald nodded, detaching his thoughts from darker places and toward this cold homecoming.


    ********


    Banners fluttered from iron chains that whipped against brass-woven masonry, tolling like bells. It evoked memories in him of better days and actual, celebrated returns. Not this farce of a dressed-down royal party using the night as some cloak. Melena followed at his side, her armor hidden by swaths of dusty, white cloths.


    He was dressed like a diplomat on a mission in a stately, weatherproof green greatcoat and white, wide-brim felt hat. Not a speck of purple or Fatherland red in his regalia. Such were the times that pride had been traded for subterfuge. It was wrong to hide from his people like this.


    The pair walked on Gwenieve Avenue, where the crushed bones of elves were inlaid in the concrete. Gerald knew they were there at least, for they had been covered with spot jobs a decade ago. That was after elven diplomats had finally come here. They were the first he ever saw of the people from the Goldenlands. Their eyes shined with a radiant dawn''s light, their words empty of humanity.


    The new terms they dictated included covering the bones. "This will be a cemetery; it should be treated as such," said one of the Enclave''s diplomats then.


    The words stabbed at Gerald''s heart even now. He looked at the unlit buildings of the upper districts. Even five years ago, some windows would''ve been glowing with lantern lights even after the witch''s hour. Now, he saw more doors than ever marked with auction sales or abandonment bills. Little by little, that statement was becoming a prophecy.


    One building his eyes passed over had been washed with quicklime, freshly done as the weathered states of others revealed. There, at the center of the strokes from a thick masonry brush, was a spotted resistance of dark colors of red and black barely rising through the pristine white of the limewash.


    Gerald stopped for a moment to ponder that sight. His breath came as a thick fog, further clouding what he saw. He knew this symbol would''ve been the black and red flag for those of colonial birth. Now, it was a pair of obscure colors rarely referenced by the lords of the Fatherland—his father and all who carried his dream. In times before his authority, a man had been burned for waving these colors in rebellion—a crime now and forevermore.


    "It''s not right," he said to Ser Melena.


    She stopped and turned to it, though he was sure she had already seen it. "Inadequate job by the guild masons. It will be corrected," she stated.


    "I speak of how we treat such outbursts. They have a point. Those that say the Fatherland ignores the knives in the dark," he spoke the dangerous words tied to those waving the colors of red and black as a symbol. He knew he could say them- have the right others were wrongly denied. Even among his father, he could tell them without consequence.


    "You hear the words of dead men and assume the living still speak the same mantra with the same symbols," She stated. "You are the closest to those watching the dark. They see the knife ears there."


    "We should state that to the people. They should know we see the elves as the threat."


    "It was stated… and yet," she motioned to the limewash. Those who feel wronged have not been forgiven," she explained. We should go, ''ere you miss your obligations to your ancestor-uncle.'' She started to turn.


    "It is not wrong to heed people who don''t see the necessary actions that must be done," he snapped at her.


    For a moment, only the clanking, hissing sounds of the nearby gaslights echoed between them.


    Melena turned. "An action? War with elves is a mere action?"


    "It is inevitable," her choice of words prodded him. "You are not in my… meetings with my father. He sees this, too."


    Melena''s voice sang a bit harsher than before. "Inevitability requires no encouragement, my prince. It will come, and by you or your father''s judgment, it will come when we are ready." The woman turned back to the path ahead. "Come, Good Prince."


    The woman started off without him. "Then what would you tell them?" Gerald called back. "The people who have daughters and sons enslaved by elves. When we''re ready, we will return husks to them, right? What have we seen on our worldly journey in the colonies, but that story repeated into never-ending heartbreak?"


    Melena kept walking.


    Gerald thought of the body. "Are you telling me Melena von Falke agrees to that?"


    The woman stopped. He saw her sword hand clench. He did not fear her- he feared no friend.


    "The Fatherland is misled," he said. "Tell me what you really think. I know I am not alone."


    Melena turned her head back, a lancing eye staring back at him. "Everything for the Fatherland, my prince," she said with no hint of passion or drive. "Consider all that you see; you are amongst company… Learn to fear it as much as you seem to adore it." With that, she turned her head forward and proceeded on.