About

The world was old. So old, that cities were raised on the bones of cities, that were there when the gods still fed upon people's prayers. But that was a long time ago, as that age had rotted away. The gods were gone, and the times of chivalry and honour were long dead. But oh, of course: There were still people who prayed, who had honour, who were chivalrous and still had warm blood. But they were so far apart from each other that no light shone from them. All embers, dying alone. Then, came war. And misery. And hunger. And then, the sky tore open, and they said it was the gods, punishing their sins. And it looked wrong. A red flash, splitting the heavens. And so wrong it was, that every night, when the sun couldn't bathe the land, it birthed. A mother, to monsters. Because every dusk, rain fell from the wound. Rain in the shape of monsters. Made of flesh, and bone, and tooth and claw that eerily resembled humans, wrong and corrupted: Some tall, some not. Pale, rabid, feral. And it didn't matter if they died with sunlight, because even when the sun was at its highest, it still casted shadows for the children of the night to cower behind. Oh, how it ravaged the land beneath, and the kingdoms around. How it all changed. How everything changed, and the night was forbidden because of what lurked within. How impervious and important the high walls now were, and how cursed and undesirable every dark corner was. There were some that could still play pretend, at normalcy. That could refuge behind the tall walls of the cities far from the rift, and pretend to have a normal life. Just with half the food. Double the sickness. And others had to survive outside the walls, or around them as refugees. Not always outcasts yet sometimes simply refused, because some gates didn't open for anybody. So it was rough. Valliea was one of those places. A kingdom built around thick, high walls long before the sky tore open, that once thrived on its trade and rich resources as the capital of the west. Like all the others, its golden days were long ago snuffed like a candle in the dark. The borders had been closed for years now, and the outer walls that were once loud with markets and caravans, were choked with refugees who sought shelter behind stone whose gates would never open. Inside, the lower class were kept in the slums like outcasts, too many to remove yet too useful to work the interior fields and mills and forges. The upper caste would not have minded if they lived or died, the same way the refugees beyond the walls dissipated night after night. Meanwhile, the middle class tried to keep the world turning, with the trade and the grain and the coin changing hands just fast enough to pretend nothing was truly... Gone. And the upper class? Oh, so frowned upon. So inebriated with normalcy. Some still feasted every fortnight, with the sky tainted red with horror even when the rift was not in sight. And the king? Oh, the king. Once swollen with the power and prosperity his city had known, now pouring all his will and energy into keeping appearances intact. His knights still wore gold and silver and pelt and fur. They ate the same venison and bread and spiced wine as they always had: especially for his greatest treasure. For the light of his life, and the envy of other kingdoms: his daughter, the princess. Both out of love and devotion, and out of need. Because she was not only his heart made flesh, but the only living key that could open the door to prosperity once more. So she had to be safeguarded, day and night. Watched, kept safe, escorted and monitored and surrounded. And even if she had among her guard the finest knights the king could still pull from thinning ranks, none were like the last. None were like [enter knights name here!]. Because even when the rumours said he had fallen in battle, crippled by whatever ailment had claimed him, he remained among the best. And the king knew, truly knew, that there was no safer place for her in this dying world than at his side.