2 Prologue - Calm before the storm

Farza, head of the Ashvan clan, ran a single, wrinkled finger across the blade of a sol-steel sword, inspecting the relic from a time long past. A sol-steel sword, one of the few left in the world. It had been a gift from the Lanzi clan, the Ashvan's most bitter rival, and soon enough, their most powerful ally.

"Clan Head? What is your verdict?" a gruff voice asked.

His concentration broken, Farza clicked his tongue. Kaza, his manservant of three decades, stood awkwardly before his desk. "Were my instructions not clear?" With a heavy sigh, he gently placed the sword down on his desk. "No matter, I suppose a stern hand is required for situations such as these."

Kaza merely bowed his head.

Farza rose to his feet slowly, draping a silk cloth over the sword. Soon, I will uncover all your secrets. Taking one last look at the sword, he brushed past his manservant and to the hallway outside his bedchamber. Farza didn't even have to glance behind to know Kaza was trailing behind subserviently. Colorful, eye-catching tapestries depicting legends of Ashvan forefathers covered the walls and exotic rugs from foreign lands lined the corridors of the clan estate. He passed ancient relics and unique objects of art placed on marble stands as he made his way to the main hall, where his children would be arguing over which family had the honor of marrying into the Lanzi and securing their much needed alliance.

Just a mere dozen strides away from the entrance to the main hall, Farza could hear the racket of heated arguments, even making out individual curses which were certainly not appropriate for men of their ages. The door to the hall was locked, sealed from within the room. Farza frowned.

Sensing his master's displeasure, Kaza quickly dashed ahead and banged on the large wooden doors. A frustrated groan sounded through the door, and it opened to reveal a young woman of moderate height. Contrary to Asvhan tradition, she wore her hair short. To add further insult, she was garbed in a scarlet-colored military jacket with knots of white cord hanging off her shoulders.

She glared at Kaza. "Did I not say we required more time?" Her gaze roving to Farza, the young woman's face turned to ice. "Father. . . we weren't expecting you." She bowed her head, her shoulders shuddering visibly.

Farza's frown deepened. "You will address me as the clan head."

She nodded eagerly and stepped aside. "Understood, Clan Head."

Fool girl, Farza thought. Too weak and easily cowed, Isira was hardly worthy of succeeding him. In fact, he considered her the weakest of his potential successors, if she could be called one at all. Farza stared at her for only the briefest of moments before walking right past his youngest daughter. It was unsightly for a member of the Ashvan to be wearing a lowly military uniform, but he would let her continue playing at soldiering.

Conversation abruptly came to a stop as Farza stepped into the orange-red light of the hearth. His children—the preservers as they were titled, sat in a circle around the hearth. He picked out an empty seat beside Iman, the eldest of the preservers.

"Clan Head," Iman had a deep, commanding voice. A trait he shared with his father. "I understand you've grown impatient with our progress."

He would make a fine leader, Farza thought. Firm when required of him, and soft when necessary, Iman was the strongest contender for succession. Unfortunately, his talent in varya-weaving was mediocre at best, but his swordmaster status almost made up for it.

"But rest assured," Iman continued. "We will reach a decision soon."

"Since when do you speak for us?" a sharp, nasal voice demanded. Farza sighed inwardly. Myra, the second eldest, took after her mother's genes. Pale, sickly skin and eyes of that like a predatory fox, her appearance was a reflection of her scheming nature. She had taken after her mother in more ways than one. It was no secret her costly way of living had drained her own personal finances dry. Farza was adamant that the clan assets were to remain under strict supervision, not even allowing the preservers to access it. A rule that everyone knew Myra despised with great prejudice.

Iman tossed her a withering glare. "We were just talking about how Noa would be the perfect candidate," he said, lifting his chin slightly and giving his chest an exaggerated puff. "The Lanzi would welcome that little brute with open arms."

Myra hissed softly. "Keep your hands off him, you battle-addled dolt."

Noa, the name sounded familiar to Farza. One of Myra's little hellspawn, he grimaced. They had taken well after their mother, and as a consequence were prone to fits of childish tantrums.

Drowning out the ongoing spat, Farza glanced around the room. Elyse, the middle child, had opted to do the same and had her nose buried in a heavy tome the size of her lap. An odd child, he thought. Never once had he ever seen her crack even the faintest of smiles, granted his presence in her life had been. . . lacking.

He finally turned to the mountainous man sitting by the hearth. Blond-haired and burly, the bulk of his muscles was apparent even under the thick layers of wool and leather clothing. Verda was his name and a virtual stranger to Farza despite the blood relation. The product of an illegitimate relationship formed in his youth, he had been ostracized by his siblings. A pity. Despite it all he was a hard worker and had proved his loyalty to the clan a number of times. However, it went without a saying, a bastard son could never be allowed to inherit the clan.

Farza cleared his throat. It was time to put an end to the farce. "Enough," he demanded, silence immediately descending over the room. "To think that even after all these years not a single sign of maturity among you."

Myra jumped to protest. "I-"

Raising a finger, he wagged it at Myra. "Do not overstep your bounds, child."

"I tried to stop them," Isira said from the side, her arms folded beneath her chest, she was glaring directly at her older sister. "But Myra never was good at listening."

Myra regarded her with a cool expression. Then the slightest hint of a sneer began to form at the corners of her thin, red lips. "Clan Head, might I inquire why, Isira, a childless spinster, is participating in this meeting? No disrespect intended of course."

From the corner of his eye, Farza noted his youngest daughter reaching at her hip, no doubt for a sword that was not there. A slight grin escaped his stony mask; she had a backbone after all.

Isira sniffed, a clenched fist falling back to her side.

"Are you two finished?" Iman snapped, bringing his hand up to his forehead, he sighed with a touch of exaggerated weariness. "I apologize for this mess of a meeting. I believe a recess to recoup our thoughts would be beneficial." He dropped his hand and stared at Farza with an expectant look.

Farza waved his hand, his non-verbal way of expressing agreement. Hopefully, a little rest and food would put some sense back into his children. He watched them pile out of the room with a heavy heart. How could the brats be expected to keep the clan together after his eventual passing. They were more liable to rip the clan apart before any foreign power even stepped foot on their lands.

"Master?" Kaza asked, a worried line forming between his brows.

"Bring dinner up to my chamber," Farza ordered, tugging at a strand of his long, white hair. A habit he never managed to completely shake off from his youth. "I'll return shortly, just give me a minute."

"Understood," Kaza said, bowing his head and scurrying from the room in a hurry.

Farza stared into the hearth, holding his hand over the burning coals. Too much to do and too little time, he mused. He had lived a long life, and now he could feel it coming to an end. A few years left at most, perhaps another decade if he was lucky.

War is coming, and are you prepared? He asked himself. It was hard to tell for sure but he always did have a knack for foretelling conflicts. The Sevaskarrans doubled their recruitment efforts the past month. Trevalya closed nearly half its ports, and recalled an entire fleet of merchant ships. Even Dorgan, a loose federation of perpetually warring city-states, had united under a single banner for the first time. He could see the signs as clear as day.

The Ashvan and it's preservers had to be ready for what was to come.

If securing an alliance with Lanzi savages was what it took to secure the clan's safety, then even they required his very soul, with the old gods as witness, he would hand it over to them with a smile.