The tides of eternity affect all things
Beneath the waning light of a dying sun stretched a vast expanse of untamed land, untouched by the hand of urbanization. The dim glow cast by the sun veiled the terrain in a somber haze, imbuing the landscape with an air of perpetual twilight as day gave way to the encroaching shadows of night.
Benedict stood amidst the open fields, his gaze fixed upon the humble remnants of a farmer's toil. Around him gathered a small company of middle-aged men and women, their presence a testament to both loyalty and vigilance. Some aided him in his task, their hands deftly inspecting the farmland's offerings, while others stood as silent sentinels, their watchful eyes scanning the horizon for signs of peril.
The older man shifted uneasily, his calloused hands gripping the brim of his worn hat. "M'lord," he began, his voice rough, carrying the cadence of a life spent in labor. "We done our best, we did. Just hopin' the farm's up to yer standards, an' that you'll see us treated fair fer the goods we brought." His eyes flickered upward for a moment to meet Benedict's gaze, only to drop quickly again, as though the weight of the young master's attention was too much to bear.
Benedict stood motionless, his hands clasped lightly behind his back, the faintest glimmer of the setting sun casting a golden outline upon his figure. His expression remained unreadable, his posture one of quiet authority. He let the farmer's words hang in the air for a moment, the silence heavy enough to draw the faint shuffling of his retainers into sharp focus. One among them shifted, her gaze sharp as she glanced toward the horizon, ever watchful for the faintest hint of danger.
At last, Benedict spoke, his voice measured and calm, yet carrying the unmistakable weight of command. "Thy goods are of fine quality," he said, his eyes flickering toward the crates before returning to the farmer. "Thy skill as a farmer is evident; it speaks not only of toil but of mastery honed over years. As the winds of time press onward, thy craft does not dwindle like a fragile spark extinguished by the breeze but burns brighter, akin to an eternal flame. Be assured, thou shalt receive an earnest and honest price for thy wares."
The older man's posture straightened as Benedict's words reached him, a flicker of pride mingling with disbelief. Though his eyes remained fixed on the ground, unwilling to meet those of the young master, the weight of the praise settled heavily upon him. He dared not presume himself worthy of such kind acknowledgment, yet the sincerity in Benedict's tone stirred something deep within.
For decades, the older man had known only lords of cruelty and greed—men who drained the land and its people without a thought, their lives consumed by excess and hedonism. To now stand before a master who spoke with fairness and regard for the common folk was a stark contrast, a revelation that shifted his perspective entirely.
His voice trembled as he responded, his words laden with both humility and newfound loyalty. "...M'lord, I—I am not worthy of such praise," he murmured, his hand tightening on the brim of his hat as though to steady himself. "But I thank ye, truly. Ye've my gratitude—and my support, now and always."
Benedict smiled warmly, a subtle yet genuine expression that seemed to ease the tension lingering in the air. To him, the loyalty of a humble peasant held as much weight as the allegiance of a noble. For while the noble class thrived on indulgence and the exploitation of others, it was the common folk—those who toiled honestly and lived by the sweat of their brow—who embodied true integrity. Their support was untainted, rooted not in politics or ambition but in genuine respect and trust.
Benedict's posture softened, his commanding presence easing as he spoke with measured warmth. "It brings me great delight to hear such words of support. Perhaps in time, I may lean upon that steadfastness. For now, you may return to your affairs; my colleagues and I shall soon conclude here and attend to other matters."
The older man stood still for a moment, his expression unreadable, as though struggling to find words that could properly convey his gratitude. Finally, he bowed his head, his voice steady but filled with earnest reverence. "M'lord, thank ye. I deeply appreciate your kindness and generosity. Truly, you're a dragon among men." The older man said as he turned and left to attend to his farm work.
The older man paused after speaking, his head still bowed in reverence, though he made no move to depart. Around them, the field stretched wide and desolate, the once fertile soil now marred by a harsh and unyielding landscape. The dying light of the sun painted the sky in muted shades of amber and gray, casting an oppressive gloom over the scene. In the distance, skeletal trees, stripped bare of life, stood like silent sentinels against the horizon.
A chilling wind whispered through the open expanse, carrying with it the faint scent of decay and the mournful creak of old, abandoned farm tools left to rust. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, as though the land itself bore the weight of centuries of toil and despair.
Without warning, the older man's head twisted sharply to one side with an audible snap, though his body remained unnervingly still. His eyes darkened, the whites vanishing into an inky black void as though some malevolent force had seized him. His body began to contort unnaturally, joints bending in ways no mortal frame should endure. Cracks, snaps, and grotesque wet crunches filled the air as his form convulsed violently, limbs folding inward with a horrific precision.
The man's body rose from the ground, floating grotesquely as the sound of his transformation grew louder, each noise more gut-wrenching than the last. His shape diminished, folding and compacting with impossible force until, at last, his entire body condensed into a minuscule sphere, no larger than a fingernail. The sphere hung suspended for a fleeting moment before dropping soundlessly into a crimson pool of blood now staining the soil. The earth drank greedily, the viscous liquid seeping into the dirt as though the land itself hungered for it.
Benedict and his retinue stood frozen, their faces pale as the gruesome spectacle burned itself into their minds. Two of his companions doubled over, retching violently as the horror overwhelmed them. The young master himself staggered back a step, his breath quick and uneven, his composed demeanor shattered.
"What... what in God's name just happened?!" Benedict's voice broke the silence, filled with shock and rising fury. "What is this madness?!" His eyes darted around the field as though searching for an explanation, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, the warmth of moments prior now replaced by a cold dread.
Before Benedict or his companions could muster any response to the supernatural spectacle, the sphere absorbed the pools of blood with a disturbing fluidity, its surface darkening to a deep crimson hue. The macabre light it cast illuminated the desolate expanse around them, bathing the landscape in an unsettling glow. The air grew heavier still, oppressive and thick with an unnatural energy that seemed to suffocate all hope.
The sphere pulsated rhythmically, as though alive, before shifting into a crystalline form. Its crimson brilliance intensified to an almost blinding degree before it suddenly dimmed, the glow fading into obscurity. The crystal ascended into the air, suspended for a moment as if defying reason itself. Then, without warning, it vanished entirely—leaving no trace of its existence, as though the horrific event had never transpired. The darkness reclaimed the land, its chilling embrace as silent as death.
"What the blazes..." Benedict bellowed, his voice carrying a mix of rage and confusion. His usual composure shattered as his eyes darted wildly across the field. "What sorcery is this? This cannot be explained by any natural means! What manner of threat are we dealing with here?" His words faltered as his hands began to tremble uncontrollably, betraying his inner turmoil. The young master, so often resolute, found his knees buckling beneath him. He collapsed, his trembling form now kneeling upon the unforgiving ground, unable to rise.
"Young master, are you well?" One of his companions, a woman with a solemn demeanor, stepped closer, her voice tinged with genuine concern. Her gaze flicked nervously between Benedict and the shadows that surrounded them, her unease palpable. The others stood on edge, scanning the darkness with guarded expressions, their hands gripping the hilts of their weapons tightly. Despite the terror etched upon their faces, they held their positions, their bravery a testament to their loyalty and resolve.
"It's okay, Evelyn," Benedict said, his voice wavering as he remained on his knees. "I believe I was just over-shocked by the even-" His words faltered as a figure materialized from thin air before them.
The man was tall and powerfully built, his broad frame exuding an aura of strength even in his dire condition. His ragged appearance betrayed the severity of his injuries; his body was riddled with wounds, many of them deep and bleeding profusely. Grey hair framed his face, and in his hand, he gripped a sword that bore the scars of countless battles-its surface marred by cracks and scorch marks. The man's state teetered on the edge of death, yet his presence was overwhelming. His eyes remained unfocused for a moment, as though he hadn't yet registered where he was.
Benedict's companions reacted swiftly, unsheathing their weapons in unison and encircling the stranger. Their stances were rigid with tension, their eyes locked onto the intruder. "Young master," one of the men said sharply, his voice laced with urgency. "Give us the word, and we'll strike him down without hesitation."
"NO! DON'T BE RASH!" Benedict's voice rang out, commanding and desperate. He rose to his feet unsteadily, his arms raised to halt their advance. "This man could be the key to understanding what just occurred. He might hold the answers we need-"
Benedict's plea was cut short as the stranger's eyes snapped open, sharp and alert. The sudden awareness in his gaze was chilling, like a predator sizing up its prey. Before anyone could react, he moved. His sword swung faster than the eye could follow, the blade slicing cleanly through one of Benedict's companions. The unfortunate man collapsed in two halves, blood pooling rapidly as gasps of horror filled the air.
"Hold thy blade, thou reckless wretch!" cried another of Benedict's companions, his voice rising in fury as he drew forth his weapon, his hand trembling with wrath. "Dost thou not know thy own vile deeds? Thou hast slain him! An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth! By my soul, I shall see thee undone!" The words barely escaped his lips before he advanced, poised to strike, his gaze fixed upon the stranger.
"STOP! STAND DOWN, ALL OF YOU!" Benedict's voice cracked as he cried out, his visage pale as death. "WE MEAN THEE NO HARM! WE SEEK NOT CONFLICT! We only require knowledge of the horrors that have transpired here!" His hands trembled, his tone fraught with desperation as he sought to forestall further bloodshed.
To everyone's astonishment, the swordsman halted his advance. His blade, still dripping with fresh blood, hung by his side as he stood motionless. His breathing was labored, his chest rising and falling with each strained inhale. The air around him felt electric with danger, yet he made no further moves.
Benedict's companions wavered, their blades yet raised, though uncertainty shadowed their countenances. The young master's command rang clear, and though fear pressed heavily upon their spirits, they dared not defy him. A tense silence settled upon the field, broken only by the keening of the wind and the distant cries of circling crows. The dying sun's crimson light fell in jagged streaks across the land, painting the world in hues of despair.
Summoning his resolve, Benedict rose to his feet, his breaths measured yet strained. Fixing his gaze upon the stranger, he spoke with caution. "Pray, sir, grant me the grace of thy name and purpose. We stand amidst mysteries that defy all reason, and thy presence here doth add further to the enigma."
The stranger turned his piercing eyes to Benedict, his countenance grave yet calm. "Thou hast no cause to fear me, young master," he replied, his voice steady and measured. "I bear thee and thine no malice. For the death of thy man, I offer my sincerest regret, for I mistook thee for foes. My judgment, alas, was hastily made."
Benedict held his tongue, his gaze steady yet cautious. The man continued. "My name is Lucius Goldsmith, a swordsman of renown in a time now lost. Yet that age crumbled beneath calamity, for the descent of the Venerables did usher in chaos upon this earth. These were not invaders, nor emissaries of conquest, but beings wrenched from their realm by a great and inexplicable upheaval. A disaster unseen and unknown, even by their mighty lord, cast them from their plane into ours."
Lucius's expression darkened, his voice lowering. "What caused this sundering, none can say—not even the Draconian Lord Himself, for He is as baffled by its origin as any mortal. The weaker Venerables, unprepared for such a crossing, came to our world not as conquerors, but as stranded and wrathful beings, their very nature wreaking havoc upon all they touched. Many of us rose to oppose them, myself among them, and we succeeded in felling many of their kind."
A shadow passed over Lucius's face, his voice gaining a tremor. "But our defiance was not without cost. We drew the gaze of Him who reigns supreme—the Draconian Lord. He who is no mere monarch, but a god amongst gods. His wrath was swift and terrible. His Royal Venerables came first, sowing destruction and death, but when we held our ground against them, He descended upon us."
Lucius paused, his hand trembling faintly as he spoke. "For nine long years, we were His playthings. Death was no release, for He would bind our souls, only to raise us again. Time after time, He slew us—raised us—and slew us once more. An endless cycle of torment that knew no respite. Nine years felt as an eternity, and I despaired of ever escaping."
He turned his gaze away, the weight of memory clear upon his face. "I stand here now only by the sacrifice of a great mage—Alterius. For years he labored, crafting a spell to fracture the very void betwixt realms. When the moment came, he rent the barrier asunder and cast me through. Yet the effort cost him dearly, and I know not his fate."
One of Benedict's companions, her voice trembling, dared to speak. "But, sir, if such a spell can be wrought, could not these... Venerables follow thee? Might they not descend upon us again?"
Lucius's gaze fell upon her, his tone measured but solemn. "It is possible, aye, but not likely in haste. Alterius labored for many years to devise and perfect his spell, and even the weaker Venerables lack the means to recreate it without great effort and time. Yet there is one exception—the Draconian Lord. He alone possesses the strength to traverse the void at will. But even He doth not take such action lightly. The toll upon His divine essence is immense, and the risk to His soul dire. He treadeth cautiously, even as a god."
The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, none dared to speak.