Dark Age Year 854
Sixteenth day of the eleventh month
It was a calm and cool autumn night in the Kingdom of Anathos, one of the many kingdoms in the populated land of Aria. This kingdom was once part of a greater whole, torn apart at the seams, with its remains fought over and carved out by the wayward children whose parents hailed from a far more civilised and enlightened age. Anathos is a small but prosperous kingdom tucked in the hills and mountains located in the central heartlands of Aria, close to and bordering the great northern mountains, unlike most kingdoms in Aria. The kingdom of Anathos and its people, known as the Anathonians, still remember some of the old ways—traditions that had long been forgotten, of a material and heroic past that few remember or even aspire to live up to. But the Anathonians remember, and so does the ruling family of these proud people, the Florianus family, who have ruled and governed these lands for untold centuries, ever since the early days of the Invicti empire.
The Florianus family is a noble family with a long and proud tradition of producing some of the greatest warriors and generals that the Invicti people have ever known. And being born at this very moment was perhaps one who would soon be regarded as the best and greatest among them, one who wouldn’t be surpassed by any other member of his family, past, present, or future. High above the night sky, the great curtain of night both terrified some and filled others with wonderment. It reflected the flickering of stars and the soft blue glow of moonlight, but was instead replaced with a reddish, crimson tinge. High up in the night sky was a full blood-red moon, so red it couldn’t even be called red; it was more like crimson, crimson red like blood.
A full moon lunar eclipse, such as this, was rare, maybe happening once or twice a year. It was often seen as a sign of doom and despair, as if the gods had turned their backs on you, and you would suffer their endless wrath. It was also believed that the powers of magic were at their height during such nights, with mages often conducting dark rituals and spells. Those born under a moon were often considered cursed; some were blessed with dark and forbidden magical powers, while others led lives of utter chaos and turmoil that not even the greatest tragedies ever put to pen could truly imagine or fathom. A few would lead lives that shift the balance and change the world around them forever, such as the possibilities of those born under such a blood-red moon.
Watching the view from the steps in front of the family temple dedicated to the family patron god, the Twin Gods of War, Bellifero and Bellisophia, was the head of this renowned family, Alexandros Florianus, also known as the Blade of Thorns. Inside the temple was his faithful and loyal wife Camilla Florianus and their soon-to-be-born child, under the watchful eyes of the gods and their mortal servants. As he gazed at the blood-red moon, he gripped the hilt of his sword, and his cape with a large flower embroidered on it fluttered in the cool breeze. Whether it was a boy or a girl, being possibly born under a moon like this wasn’t a good sign. In fact, it was one of the worst omens to be born under—a blood-red moon, a sign of upheaval and the disapproval of the gods.
He couldn’t quite decide if this bad omen was directed towards his house, himself, or the soon-to-be-born child. But one thing was certain: this child’s life wouldn’t be ordinary, and he would soon have to make a choice. Should he allow this child to be born and invite whatever disaster would befall him or his family, or should he do the unspeakable and kill his own child to hopefully spare the gods’ wrath? Was the safety of his line worth just one measly life, even if it was his own child? His family couldn’t bear any more misfortune; he had already lost a few children who died before they even left the womb. He was forever thankful that his dutiful wife understood the burdens of those of nobler blood and bore them gladly, regardless of what hardship it put them through. It pained him deeply that he inflicted this hardship upon her, but he had obligations and roles to fulfill, same as her, and in that mutual hardship, they were one and the same.
He needed heirs, for the wars that plagued the land of Aria had not been kind to his family. Many had fallen in glorious battle, the best kind of death he and many of his family could wish for, while others had died of disease, dying undignified deaths, cold and shivering in their beds, leaving him as the only one left to carry the line. He needed more children and fast, as the few children that had managed to survive past the cradle so far had shown some promise. Only time would tell if these seeds would fully bloom and make it to adulthood, and one day bear that majestic flower upon their chest. Who else but the Florianus family could preserve and save the honour that so many of his fellow people have forgotten or cast aside, in these trying times.
As he gazed at the moon, its light casting a glow on the fires beside him, he stroked his sword while maintaining guard. Suddenly, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind him. Instinctively, he grabbed the hilt of his sword and turned around sharply, only to stop when he realised who it was. Before him stood a stout and heavily armoured figure, clad head to toe in grey full plate armour. They carried a massive halberd slung over their shoulder and a short sword by their belt, contrasting with the more refined armour and weapons of his ancestors. There was something crude and utilitarian about the design, lacking the elegance or sophistication he was accustomed to. This armour and weaponry were purely functional, meant for protection and combat, devoid of any ornamental value. It wasn’t a symbol of status or wealth; they were simply tools of war. As the figure approached, the fading light flickered in the torchlight, and they removed their helm, revealing a bearded face with a large nose and a thick, well-groomed beard.
“Hey, are you alright, Alexandros?” the figure asked, ignoring all sense of formality or etiquette. This behaviour would get most people into serious trouble, but he wasn’t that type of man, especially to a friend like the man standing before him. Although “man” wouldn’t accurately describe his friend, as this friend of his was a member of the dwarven race. They were long-lived, short, and stout people, and despite their small size and stature, they were capable of great strength and toughness. In fact, he had once seen a dwarf carry an a small carriage on their shoulders or drink several barrels of beer and still be sober enough to carry a conversation. They even had wonders of technology which they rarely shared with outsiders, such as floating ships and weapons that spewed forth fire or bits of melted metal. Some of these weapons were capable of melting a man or punching through the toughest shield or plate; even mighty stone walls were nothing to the wonders they crafted and hoarded in their hill forts and mountain holds.
His family had a special relationship with dwarves. Generations ago, the founder of their family saved the leader of a ruling dwarven clan that lived in the hills and mountains. What began as a life debt evolved into a lasting friendship and bond. Volcan Stoneaxe, as he was known in the language of men, was the eldest son of the current leader of Clan Stoneaxe, Mortel Stoneaxe. He had been a friend and guardian to him since he was a baby, as well as to his father and grandfather. Now, he would be the guardian, companion, and protector of his newborn child. It was simply a continuation of this special relationship. Despite dwarven people often being known as greedy and selfish creatures by nature, and caring little for their own gods to the point that it would be considered utter blasphemy for some, including himself, however they had a sense of honour and duty that he couldn’t help but respect, and they almost always repaid their debts.
“I’m fine, Volcan,” he said firmly.
“Are you?” Volcan pressed. “I’ve known you since you were a wee boy, and you’re not acting like yourself.” He looked up at the crimson sky. “The omens are not good this night.”
Volcan scratched his beard, standing beside him and gazing at the moon. “You humans put too much faith in blind superstitions,” Volcan said, his tone turning more serious as he spoke. “Would you act on a hunch and harm an innocent child?”
He shook his head. “No, I won’t, unless I’m absolutely certain.” Volcan smiled.
“That’s good. You don’t need to stain your blade any further, my friend.” He nodded in acknowledgment as they both stood there, gazing at the majestic beauty of the moon. Suddenly, they heard rushing footsteps behind them. They turned to see a servant quickly descending the steps towards them, breathing heavily. The servant stopped a few paces away, dropped to one knee, and waited to be addressed. Alexandros turned to face the servant completely.
“Yes, what is it?” he said firmly, directing his full gaze on the servant.
“My lord,” the servant said, his head still downcast. “The head priest is requesting your presence, my lord. Your child has just been born.”
“When?” he sharply asked.
“Just a few moments ago, my lord.”
“Very well, take me to him, with haste.”
“Understood, my lord,” the servant replied as he stood up and walked alongside him. Normally, he would be by his wife’s side during the labor process, tended to by servants, healers, and perhaps the family priest. However, due to the omens surrounding the birth, it had to take place at the temple, under the stars and possibly a blood-red moon. This kind of birth required the assistance of the temple in case of the worst-case scenario. As they ascended the steps and passed the twin statues of Bellifero and Bellisophia flanking the entrance of the temple, He caught a glimpse of the statues. For a moment, he thought he saw their eyes move, as if the gods had briefly animated the statues to observe and judge him. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.
As he entered the temple, the strong smell of incense and oil enveloped him as he passed through the main hall where a ritual to ward off evil and bring good fortune was being conducted. It cost him a fortune, but he couldn’t be too careful. Walking past, he observed several scantily clad women dancing together in a circle of flames, with a choir of people on their left and right starting to chant and sing. The women were so scantily clad that it left little to the imagination, and the choir was singing in rhythm and harmony with the dance itself, every movement perfectly synchronised with the hum of the voices. If he wasn’t a faithful and honourable man, he would have been tempted to take one or even a few of these women right here and now as his own, regardless of the present circumstances.
Next, he was led down a hallway to a large, lavishly decorated room at the side of the temple. Flanking the large door in front of him were his own house guards and the temple’s attendants. As he approached, the guards tapped their spears on the cold marble ground and let him through. The door creaked and shook open as the servant pushed it aside. What greeted his sight was his wife, Camilla, Who surrounded and attended to by various house servants and temple helpers. She was covered from head to toe in sweat, and by her waist, there was a large pool of blood, soaking into the cotton of the sheets and blankets that covered her modesty. The sheets and blankets were quickly replaced as the servants gave her ice and fanned her to keep her cool.
However, even in such a state, she was still beautiful. In his wife’s arms, wrapped in cloth, was a baby—a rather large baby with a small tuft of dark hair already forming on his head. The newborn child was surrounded by love, and his wife, now bathed in a motherly glow, was attended to by his most dutiful servants. As he took in this sight, the high priest walked up to him and spoke, “Lord Florianus, I wish to congratulate you. Your wife has given birth to a healthy baby boy.”
He turned to him, “Any signs of…” before he could complete the sentence, the high priest interjected, “He has no markings upon him, nor does he display any magical abilities. So far, he is a normal and healthy baby.” He felt relief at this. If his newborn son had been a mage or marked, that would have sealed his fate. He couldn’t risk it, not with the omens surrounding his birth.
As he approached his wife, she smiled at him with a tired, almost exhausted expression. “Look at our son,” she said, holding him up to him. “He’s much bigger than I expected.” He noticed that the baby was larger than most newborns and surprisingly quiet. While his other children had come out crying and screaming as if their lungs were on fire, his new son was peaceful, seemingly unaware or uncaring about the sword of Damocles that was hanging over his head. As he cradled the baby in his arms, he couldn’t help but imagine him growing up to be a strong warrior. Even as a baby, he seemed solid of body and strong-limbed. “What should we name him?” she asked. Holding him up under the soft yellow glow of the temple fires, he declared, “Quintus. Your name will be Quintus.” The crowd started clapping slowly and congratulating him on the choice of name. As the applause died down, he saw his newborn son open his eyes for the first time, revealing a striking steel gray colour, like the blade of a sword. It was as if his son’s eyes were made of swords.
“Look at our son’s eyes, they’re grey like steel,” he said as he handed back Quintus to her.
“So beautiful, this must be a good sign. We must be blessed by the gods.”
“Yes, my dear,” he replied. Maybe those bad omens were not meant for him, his family, or his child, but for someone else, some unlucky fool who had angered the gods. The stars that Quintus was under did not paint a great picture for his future son, but so far, there seemed to be nothing to worry about. Being born with grey eyes was a good sign, favoured by the gods, and that was the best news he could have heard. But only time would tell if this child would be a blessing or a curse.
“Perhaps Bellifero and Bellisophia have blessed us and our family this day.” Some of the greatest individuals that his family had ever produced were often born with gray eyes; it was a sign that they favoured it, a sign that their patron gods had not forsaken him.
“Let me hold the wee fella,” Volcan asked excitedly. Camilla nodded in agreement before looking at him and giving a quick nod. “Now, Quintus, this is Volcan. He will be a protector and guardian, much like he was for me, my father before me, and his father before him,” he spoke as Camilla passed Quintus to the heavily armoured dwarf. As the dwarf carried him in his arms, he saw Quintus’ little hands start to move and grab onto one of Volcan’s armoured fingers as if he was trying to crush the finger with his tiny baby hands.
“Oh, this one is going to grow up to be a strong warrior. Got a grip like a mighty ox,” Volcan almost jokingly remarked. He chuckled at that. After that, the tension he felt about his newborn child almost faded away like wispy clouds in the sky. Both he and Camilla held Quintus in their arms together for several long moments until the reddish glow that bathed the temple disappeared as if it had only existed for these mere few moments to foretell Quintus’ birth. But he didn’t let it bother him, for in his arms were his wife and child, happy and safe. Only time would tell if Quintus was a blessing or a curse. At the start, the young Quintus, the newborn who had taken his first breaths out of the womb, was just a normal, healthy boy.
However, as Quintus grew, it became clear to him and his wife that he was no ordinary child. In fact, they weren’t even sure if he could be called fully human, for there was something about him that was more than human. It was as if his human form was a mere shell made to contain his raw power. Even at a young age, while fierce and wild of spirit, he displayed an intellect and wisdom that far surpassed his peers; only the greatest of the wise men or scholars in the kingdom were his equal. As he grew into manhood, he became a handsome youth with a rugged and bold face, hair as dark as the night sky, a voice that captivated all who heard it, and a body as strong as a mountain. His limbs were agile and limber like those of a tiger, and even before reaching manhood, he towered over most fully grown men. Only the men in many tribes of wilders or perhaps orcs to the north high up in the great northern mountains were his equal in stature and height. His steel-gray eyes, the colour of swords, seemed to penetrate anyone who met his gaze. Strong and brave men would kneel before him, while women would open up their hearts and reveal their greatest secrets to him without struggle or hesitation. Some even whispered that at night, he would emit a faint silvery glow like moonlight. When he was of age to fight in his family’s many wars, he was a terror on the battlefield, a grim reaper, a demon of death, a dark bright star that would shine upon his most dreaded of battlefields. Clad from head to toe in armour as black as night, his form drenched in crimson red like the moon upon his birth, for his bravery, courage, and death-defying luck was second to none and won him great battles and victories, many of which were thought lost.
Even his own father and siblings, impressive people in their own right, paled in comparison to him. The difference between them and him was like the difference between the earth below and the heavens above. The man known as Quintus Florianus acquired many names throughout his life: Flower of Midnight, The Moon Child, and The Tiger of Anathos. However, the name that resonated throughout the ages and centuries after his death, the one he is most remembered for, was The Prince of Black.
For on the night of that crimson moon, a legend was born.
