Symbaroum

The shimmering virgin white snow that had fallen during the night lay like a covering blanket over Yndaros’ filth, but guardsman Elgalo knew what hid underneath. Neither the snow nor all who toiled at scrubbing and decorating the streets in honor of the Duchess’ wedding could erase the true rot, no more than they could wash away the shadows.

“My shilling is on the barbarians,” his newly recruited colleague Arala muttered.

Elgalo nodded agreement without really agreeing at all. That someone would try to transform the upcoming celebrations into a bloodbath was inevitable, but the candidates were so many he had a hard time picking a favorite – the elves, the refugees and the fallen templars were all equally close to hand.

It felt as if the kingdom held its breath, as if all Ambrians believed that the alliance with the High Chieftain would smother the many fires that flared hotter and hotter among them. He was of a different opinion…

“Or the Dark Lords,” Arala continued, “if the rumors are true.”

Elgalo made an effort to snort at the idiocy; what came out sounded more like a painful groan. He looked up at the Queen’s palace, cleared his throat and forced a scornful smile.

But the good guardsman did not get to express his contempt; he had not even the time to utter a single word, before his world ruptured and all was fire.