Across the sprawling continent of Hayrah stood four mighty kingdoms, each distinct in its rule and realm. In the west lay Ferakus, governed by the wise and venerable Queen Lonandra. To the east rose Domfloor, under the iron fist of the fearsome and notoriously wicked Lord Mudrak. Nestled at the heart of the land was the Kingdom of Dymoria, where King Hocken strove to maintain a semblance of honour and dignity. Together, these three realms formed the great kingdoms of humankind. Yet in the north, amid the desolate, jagged wastelands, sprawled the fourth and largest domain: Thrakka. This bleak kingdom was ruled by King Frak, the goblin sovereign, an undisputed lord of decadence and malevolence.


    For years, Hayrah had basked in a fragile peace, but that tranquillity was now on the brink of collapse. Within the Kingdom of Dymoria, unrest simmered, fueled by the ominous gathering of Lord Mudrak’s armies in the east. King Hocken, increasingly anxious, sensed an invasion looming, though its timing remained shrouded in uncertainty. His son and heir, Prince Harrold—self-styled as "the Heroic"—had abandoned his duties at the Royal Court months earlier, leaving the capital with his fretful servant, Anthrak, to idle away the summer in the sun-drenched coastal cities of the south. But King Hocken, fearing the eastern threat, had summoned his wayward son back to the capital with urgency.


    Reluctantly, Prince Harrold turned northward, bound for the great capital city of Bangorod. And so, kind and gentle reader, it is here—on this weary march home through the dark forest of Flangor—that we join Harrold and Anthrak.


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    “I’m famished,” Harrold declared, reaching for his wine flask, his third-favored remedy for any inconvenience. “Why didn’t you pack more provisions?”


    “My apologies, Harrold,” said Anthrak, trudging beside the prince on foot. “I misjudged our needs for the journey. I’m hungry too.”


    “Always excuses with you.” Harrold reined in his horse and took a generous swig from the flask. His mount, Basilius, a towering black stallion snorted and pawed the ground restlessly before nipping at Anthrak’s shoulder.


    “Ow!” Anthrak yelped, stumbling back.


    “Don’t stand so close, then!” “You’re a fool sometimes.”


    “Sorry, Harrold. Basilius has a vicious bite.”


    “Good lad,” Harrold said with a grin, leaning forward to pat the horse’s muscled neck. Basilius, a magnificent beast bred from the renowned Miura war horses of Kemly Rock, had been a gift for Harrold’s sixteenth birthday. Originally named Maximus, the prince had rechristened him after the legendary Dymorian hero, Basilius the Great.


    Pausing, Harrold stowed his flask. “Did you hear that?” he asked, tilting his head. “Something’s up ahead in the trees.”


    “What? What do you hear?”


    “I think I heard laughter. Could be goblins.”


    “Goblins?” Anthrak whispered, paling. “You’re hearing goblins?”


    “Yes, goblins,” Harrold confirmed, a faint smirk playing on his lips.


    “Gods help us,” Anthrak whimpered. “If they catch us, we’re finished.”


    “Depends how many there are.”


    “But what would goblins be doing this far south? I thought your father wiped them out.” Indeed, King Hocken had waged a relentless campaign against Dymoria’s goblin tribes, reducing them to near extinction.


    “So I thought,” Harrold mused, “but I’ve heard whispers lately—rumors that a few tribes linger in the Flangor.”


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    “What rumors?” Anthrak pressed.


    “That goblins have crept back into our forests.”


    “You’re just trying to frighten me.”


    Harrold chuckled. “I’m not. And if there are goblins, then we’ll drive them off.”


    “I don’t want to fight,” Anthrak protested. “I’m terrified of goblins. They killed my father, you know—right before my eyes.”


    “Yes, I recall,” Harrold sighed, his tone softening briefly. “You’ve told me a hundred times how you and your mother fled your village in terror.”


    “I was lucky to survive,”


    “Anyway, enough of this. Let’s press on to Tandor. We’ll rest there for the night.”


    “Yes, Tandor,” Anthrak agreed, brightening slightly. “A warm bed sounds heavenly.”


    “Just keep your eyes sharp for goblins,” Harrold warned. “They could be lurking anywhere.”


    The pair continued through the shadowed forest. After a time, Anthrak spotted a solitary rider approaching. “Who’s that?” he whispered, tugging at Harrold’s boot. “A bandit, perhaps?”


    “How should I know? Just stay back and let me handle it.”


    They halted, watching as the hooded figure drew near and stopped before them. “Good sirs,” the rider began gravely, “I bear dire tidings from Tandor. A grim night has descended.”


    “What news?” Harrold demanded.


    “This very evening,” the rider said, “Tandor was overrun by a horde of bracken goblins. They breached the gates, pillaged the town, and left countless innocents dead in their wake.”


    “Goblins?” Anthrak whimpered. “Why would they attack?”


    “We’re headed to Tandor now,” Harrold said, undeterred. “How many did you see?”


    “A legion,” the rider replied. “Hundreds—ghoul upon ghoul. They descended at dusk and set the town ablaze.”


    “So the rumors hold truth,” Harrold murmured.


    “Rumors?” the rider inquired.


    “I’ve heard tales of goblins returning to the kingdom,” Harrold explained. “Thought nothing concrete.”


    “I’ve heard the same,” the rider admitted, “but this was no mere tribe. It was a calculated assault by an organised army.”


    “Calculated?” Anthrak echoed, glancing up at Harrold. “We should turn back—now.”


    “No one’s turning back,” Harrold snapped, nudging Anthrak with his boot. To the rider, he asked, “What of Tandor’s defenses?”


    “They were overwhelmed. I’d wager four hundred goblins at least. Maybe five hundred.”


    “Five hundred?” Anthrak gasped, panic rising.


    “Regrettable indeed,” the rider said. “I urge you both to flee while you can. The hour of the goblin is upon us.”


    “I’m no coward,” Harrold declared. ‘We are moving to Tandor. Goblins or no.”


    “I don’t doubt your courage, sir,” the rider replied, “but wisdom might counsel retreat.”


    “I am Prince Harrold, heir to Dymoria’s throne,” Harrold proclaimed, throwing back his hood. “I’ll not flee from any filthy goblins.”


    “Prince Harrold?” The rider’s tone shifted to reverence. “Forgive my familiarity, Your Highness. Had I known, I’d have knelt at once.”


    “Why have you fled Tandor? Are you a deserter?”


    “No deserter, Your Highness,” the rider assured him. “I’m a humble merchant, traveling south to Saint-Marlo. I crossed the White Fang River at dusk and saw the attack from the Burrough Hill.”


    “Very well,” Harrold said. “Won’t you join us?”


    “I’m an old man, more burden than aid. I wish you luck.” With that, he rode past and vanished into the night.


    “Coward,” Harrold muttered as he took a generous swig from his wine bottle.


    “So what now?” Anthrak asked. “Do we turn back?”


    “Turn back? We press on to Tandor. If it’s fallen, I’ll raise an army and reclaim it. This kingdom will one day be mine.”


    “As you say,” Anthrak replied, voice quaking.


    They journeyed on, eventually reaching a crossroads. Turning northeast, they left the forest and ascended Burrough Hill. From its crest, Tandor came into view—a blazing inferno against the night sky, thick plumes of smoke curling upward.


    “It’s burning fiercely,” Harrold said, sipping from his flask. “We’d best hurry.”


    “Is that wise?” Anthrak ventured. “Perhaps we should steer clear.”


    “We’re not avoiding anything,” Harrold retorted, delivering a firm kick. “I’ll cut down any goblin we meet. You’ll see.”


    With resolve set, the prince and his servant descended the hill, pressing onward toward the embattled town of Tandor.