I:I

Brandon

“Halt! In the name of King Daniel, third in his name, and protector of the realm of Westra!”

A lone figured strode up to the gates of Castle Dragonfell. In the dead of night, in one of the worse storms in memory, Brandon Stonewall’s cloaked figure, astride a magnificent steed, halted short of the steel portcullis and stared up at the gatekeeper.

He shouted his response over the rain. “My name is Ser Brandon Stonewall. Heir to my House, Knight and servant of Draenor, and friend to Daniel, our King! My company is expected!” He was alone that night and had no herald by his side to hold his family banner, as he would have liked. He had only hoped that this keeper had known of his company.

Moments passed as the keeper appeared to discuss something with another figure from above. Finally, Brandon had his answer:

“Your company is expected, and it will be well received, my lord! Welcome to the Dragonfell!”

Repeated calls of “open the gates!” echoed throughout the castle before a very sudden clang reverberated throughout the night, and the grating sound of metal against metal as the mighty steel gates opened before the young Lord.

***

Brandon was not long in the castle before he was greeted quietly and quickly.

Told to enter the chapel section, he opened the solitary doors and shut them softly against the mighty rain outside. He removed the hood of his cloak, his dark hair drenched and tangled, and walked down the humble aisle before him, deeply conscious of the weight of his drenched boots sopping the stone floor as he stepped. He approached the altar at the head of the chapel and knelt briefly, placing his gloved hand against his chest and closed his eyes, offering up a prayer to his gods.

“Your gods have not been terribly kind to us, good Ser.” Brandon opened up his eyes and looked up at the figure now before him.

Vladia of the White, they called her. She was a seer of renown, the only True Seer in the land it was said, and apprentice to the powerful wizard, Avatnor. True to the wizards of white, she wore but a simple white robe about her frame and kept a plain wooden staff to lean her weight upon. A blue tattoo of intricate design, whose mechanisms are not wholly understood, snaked down under her right eye. Had she removed her hood, Brandon would have been treated to a view of her gracefully lined face and elegant blonde hair. Instead, he could only see the cowl of her hood about her brow, and a cool look of disdain in her blue eyes.

“It is not the gods who are pitiless, my Lady,” the paladin responded. “Men visit their pains upon each other.”

“A quip reply, I say,” Vladia chided, “and one which I will argue for another day.” She bowed respectfully before Brandon, and Brandon returned the same.

“These are grave times, nevertheless, good Ser: gods or no,” she gestured for Brandon to follow her and they proceeded into an adjoining hall. “The King has asked me to take you to him straight away.”

They spoke softly as they walked; the castle was deathly quiet, and a hushed pallor seemed to cling about the walls they passed. It was a disquieting feeling, Brandon felt—one that he did not have upon his last visit to Dragonfell many years ago. Neither servant nor guardsman was passed as they proceeded to the northwest tower (arranged for his benefit, Brandon guess). The door to the tower was unguarded, which was unusual if the King did, indeed, lie beyond, but it had been latched securely from behind. But with a wave of Vladia’s hand, the sound of a latch being unhinged and a moving sliding bar echoed in the darkness of the hall way; the door creaked open ponderously.

“After you, Ser Paladin.”

***

The King

“My friend!” the king of Westra exclaimed. Daniel’s face lifted into joyful spirits at once upon seeing his old friend. He immediately crossed the length of the small tower room and clasped Brandon’s forearm (as Brandon did the same) in the traditional greeting of the knights.

Daniel’s face was much thinner than Brandon remembered. His once full and healthy face was now gaunt and filled with sorrow (though this placidness was now replaced with joy at the sight of his friend). His beard, once colored with a dark orange fire, now streaked itself with grey in his young twenty eight years of life. He wore the armor of kings, his own fashioned in the likeness of his ancestors’ design, similar in shape, form, and function of the Dragonguard—a noble look indeed, that Benarius himself would have borne proudly upon his shoulders, Brandon wagered. In the dying light of the old smolder of torches, it sheened of silver and white, a menagerie of dragons in combat across his breast, and the markings of protection and shielding blazoned across the whole of his suit. Complimenting his impressive metallic attire was a kingly cloak, colored in the fashion of purple royalty, with black inlays of his family symbols carefully sewn into its fabric.

When last Brandon looked upon his friend, nearly nine years passed. They trained together at the Temples of Delano, Daniel and he. Raised as paladins and taught in like manner as the ancient knights of legend had, their childhood was a constant labor of study and training—their own friendship was a boon that they both treasured in what precious few moments of respite they had in their arduous lives. Even so, Brandon remembered them as good years, classically filled with ideals of companionship in overcoming the trials they undertook together. Daniel was the stronger of the two, Brandon felt, whose resolve was only boosted when knowledge of his role as future sovereign of the most powerful country in the continent was revealed to him. When Daniel’s father, King Eric Dragonfell, died putting down a rebellion and was called to receive the crown before the ending of his training, determination and heart had stolen over his face; at their last meeting, he vowed before Brandon that he would dedicate his life to end the corruption that had stifled the spirit of his homeland and killed his father.

The years have been very toilsome, indeed, to have wracked the spirit of so mighty a man, thought Brandon. But as he looked upon his old friend, now his lord and liege, he felt that he had lost none of his resolve.

“Your grace,” Brandon said respectfully. “I have come as swiftly as the winds have carried me. I am at your service.”

“Now, now: none of that rubbish,” Daniel replied diffidently. “We are friends, and I would not have you treat me any more than that. Titles are for enemies, strangers, and leaders. Among true friends, there are no leaders. We are equals, you and I. Devotion need only be our charge.”

Brandon smiled. “Then may I say, my lord, that your old flare for melodramatic statments have lost none of its energy.”

Daniel laughed heartily at the remark. “Then I blame the haughty nobility of court, whom I must banter with daily and flatter nightly. My training with sword and shield make little enough protection against their viper tongues, old law ledgers, and shady influences. Little enough do my knowledge of tactics and stratagem protect me from their scheming and false devotion. In this arena, my friend, etiquette makes a far better weapon, for their words are their swords, and their banners are their shields; cunning and guile are my only recourse. Protocol, it would seem, is all that differentiates us from warring philistines.”

“It is the age-old convention,” Brandon observed, “the powerful are more base and vile than the common thief, only the shadows in which they hide are their cloaks of civility. Will story tellers and bards ever tire of such a tiresome theme I wonder? Its constant persistence only disillusions the people of any governor, such that simply being a ruler in title marks one as a tyrant and a schemer.”

“When educated men know that it is simply not true,” Daniel replied. “It would be foolish to believe that all those in power are corrupt absolutely, or that power absolutely corrupts. History is replete with rulers who are just and wise, even as it is also filled with the wicked and the contemptible. But such stories are classics for the very reason that we must yearly vigil ourselves against those in power, even as we must have faith in their intent, for it is human nature to tend to both good and evil actions, be it a good or evil person. Every person, every soul, is capable of acts of grace and of sin, lest we would not see such graceful and sinful acts in such color time and again. If such people hold power over us, then we should be very critical—and it is far easier to observe and remember the faults than it is to recall and cherish the virtues when we are so critical.”

Vladia cleared her throat. Daniel smiled slightly at the interruption and quickly turned to change the topic.

“A discussion, I suppose, that must wait, my friend.” Daniel turned back to the far end of the tower room. He was thoughtful for nearly a minute, and silent; when at last he came upon a tall-backed chair near a narrow window and sat upon it heavily. His gaze went outside to the lit windows of the other chambers in the castle, then to the city of Dragonfell just beyond the walls in the distance; Brandon became very mindful of the moment, for there was a great weight in the silence that permeated in the air; the crash of the thunder could not overpower the gravity of Daniel’s stillness.

“Let me be direct, then. We live now in such a story, my friend. The Court of Dragonfell is filled with the corrupted rulers of which we spoke. Considering the honor of our founders and the virtuous principles of our heritage, it is sad that I must take a throne that oversees such a state. I wish that your invitation was one of leisure instead of necessity, but events have turned our course to an occasion that I had hoped I would never see—an event that would have been unthinkable in my grandfather’s time. It would appear that a game has been set by invisible hands, and the pieces are now in motion; a game which will embroil our country in a civil war before the year is out.”