The city of Tathara teetered between revelry and ruin. Its massive stone walls, worn by time but still formidable, rose defiantly against the encroaching darkness, perhaps the last bastion of hope for the Kingdom of Elenior. As the hour of dread approached, the cacophony of merriment energized the air. Streets, usually quiet at night, now vibrated with the frenetic energy of those seeking solace from their fears.

Rykan wandered to a quiet spot alone where he could watch the crowds of people laughing and cheering from a distance. The water of the cool marble fountain behind him trickled calmly as his mind raged with worry and doubt. Faces blended together as people passed by, some familiar, others strange. Underneath the festivities, Rykan felt the pulse of Tathara’s fear. Some masked their fears with brave faces, while others seemed oblivious to the coming storm. Throughout the night, nobles raised their cups skyward with hollow cheers, soldiers clanked their swords against shields in feigned confidence, and minstrels played tunes that strayed dangerously close to the edges of despair.

Three of the brightest stars clustered together in the clear skies above. Rumors had circulated of a rare convergence, a celestial event that only occurred once every few centuries, warning of times of chaos. Legends spoke of heroes born from such moments, stories painted in broad strokes of courage, honor, and triumph over encroaching darkness.

Rykan often dreamed of times like these from books of history and myth, how he might face such trials. He wished to be someone who made a difference in the world, who others respected and revered. As a boy, he had longed to follow in the footsteps of his father and stand among the ranks of Tathara’s famed Crimson Shield, his deeds immortalized in the lore of the city. But now, with the shadow of the Iron Flood upon them, those dreams twisted into doubt.

The impending siege by the Iron Flood, led by their charismatic yet ruthless leader, Vatreus, had been proclaimed a tactical blunder. Tathara’s commanders boasted of a decisive victory, confident it would end Vatreus and his dreaded army. Though the walls of the city were often touted as unbreachable, Rykan sensed something beneath the boasts: a tangled thread of desperation. A fear that this night wasn’t a celebration of assured victory, but one that could be their last.

Footsteps sounded against cobblestones, louder and closer.

“Rykan! Come to the tavern with us! The captain’s splurged on ale!” Daveth’s voice broke through his contemplation, each word jolting Rykan further from his spiraling thoughts.

His friends Daveth and Brant appeared beside him, their hands clapping onto his shoulders, grounding him. Brant, with his golden hair and ivory skin, and Daveth, a Lith with white hair, sunlit skin, and pointed forked ears, guided him toward the tavern’s warmth.

As they pushed through the tavern’s heavy wooden door, a wave of laughter and the rich aroma of spiced ale and roasted meat greeted them. Anticipation and stories of old battles resonated in the thick air of the packed room. Daveth led the way, elbowing through the crowd, as Rykan and Brant followed, the weight of the night momentarily lifted by the promise of camaraderie.

Laughter and shouts filled the tavern as soldiers, some still donning pieces of armor, regaled each other with tales of valor and made bold predictions about the morrow’s battle. Waitresses in swirling skirts wove through the boisterous crowd with ease, balancing trays laden with drinks.

Rykan and his friends found a spot at one of the long wooden tables, its surface sticky with spilled ale. He took a deep breath, letting the sounds and scents of the tavern wash over him, if only for a moment. Here, among friends, the impending siege seemed a distant worry, replaced by brotherhood and the fleeting comfort of shared stories and laughter.

“Get one for Rykan too!” bellowed a nearby soldier, raising his mug in a hearty salute.

In the corner, a bard plucked at a lute, his notes weaving through the air, while a woman’s clear voice lifted in song above the din.

The crowded area around the musicians had transformed into dance, where young and old people spun and clapped, their movements as exuberant as the music. Their laughter mingled with the melodies, creating a sound that pulsed with life.

A waitress approached with a welcoming smile, her eyes crinkling at the edges. She handed him a frothing mug of ale, the foam kissing the brim. Rykan took a deep sip, the rich, earthy taste keeping his focus on their surroundings. His gaze wandered across the tavern, taking in the familiar faces of those he might never see again.

A loud horn blew, a piercing sound that cut through the noise of the tavern. Silence crept over the crowd as the captain rose from his seat. The woman stopped singing, but the lute player continued his tune. Dancers wound down their movements and shuffled back to their seats.

“Warriors of Tathara, citizens,” Captain Mirell began as he raised his mug in salute. “Tonight, we gather within the shadow of these walls that have guarded us since the dawn of Elenior. As the Crimson Shield of our forefathers gleams beneath the starlit sky, let us raise our cups to the eve of victory!”

The tavern erupted in shouts and applause. Rykan took another sip of ale as he watched the others’ expressions. Unlike those outside, he couldn’t find any hint of doubt or fear in their faces. How did they find such courage in times like these? How could they be so sure of themselves? He worried that they could read the doubt in him, the anxiety and fear. Would they think him a coward?

“Tomorrow, we will meet the Iron Flood,” continued the captain. “This enemy has only known victory in battle. They have seen others crumble at their feet, but they have not seen the strength of Tathara’s heart nor the depth of our resolve.”

More cheers rang out through the crowd. Even Daveth and Brant put down their mugs long enough to join in the shouts.

“Tonight, let your hearts be light, for more than any armor, it is the courage in your laughter and the bond in your songs that fortify our spirits.”

Rykan felt as though the captain was speaking to him directly, as if he knew the cloudy thoughts in his head.

“Let us toast to the valor that runs in our veins, to the ties that bind us to each other, and to this sacred ground that has protected us for years. May the shouts of victory resound through the mountains of Galanor, carried on the winds that whisper the blessings of our ancestors.”

As the captain’s voice climbed to a crescendo, everyone in the tavern rose in anticipation. “To the unbreakable spirit of Tathara!” he bellowed, his tankard thrust high.

A resonant cheer reverberated through the air, making the very stones of the tavern seem to thrum with energy. Even Rykan found himself drawn into the collective fervor, his voice blending with the chorus. It was as if an electrifying current of unity coursed through the crowd, binding every heart and soul in the room.

Rykan downed his ale as the chattering, dancing, and singing resumed. Another group of soldiers entered the already crowded tavern, men from another company. He began to feel a bit uncomfortable. All these experienced soldiers made him even less confident in his own skills.

He turned his attention to the citizens. It amazed him how the whole city had come together. People from every station had come to support them. They knew how important this night was to show appreciation to those defending Tathara and to help take their anxious minds off the coming battle. In turn, he and the other soldiers had to do whatever they could to defend and preserve this city. Rykan couldn’t imagine another like it in all of Galanor.

“See that girl over there?” Brant nodded toward a table where a pair of soldiers sat with a few women.

As Rykan’s eyes searched, one stood out among the others—a girl about their age with long brown hair. Their eyes met for a moment, and Rykan quickly turned away, afraid she would think he was staring.

“She keeps looking over here,” Brant said, a sly smile playing on his lips. “I think she’s looking at you.”

“No, she’s not,” Rykan replied, trying to sound indifferent.

“Go ask her to dance,” Daveth urged, leaning closer to make his point.

Rykan glanced at her again, noticing her eyes dart back toward their table. “She’s only looking over here because you guys are staring at her,” he muttered.

“You’re going into battle tomorrow and you aren’t even brave enough to ask a girl to dance?” Brant chuckled, his laughter light but teasing.

“You just want me to make a fool of myself by going over there,” Rykan said, shaking his head.

“If you don’t ask her, I will,” Daveth declared, pushing his chair back and starting to stand.

Rykan’s chest tightened as he watched Daveth rise. If this girl really was looking at him, the thought of Daveth intervening was unbearable. He didn’t want his friend to steal the moment that might have been meant for him alone.

Rising from his chair, he squared his shoulders. “She was looking at me. I’ll go ask her.”

The brown-haired girl bore a look of panic when she noticed Rykan walking toward her table. She seemed as though she wanted to hide. His newfound confidence faded, but something told him to keep going, stay the course, no matter what. He silently rehearsed what he should say when he got there, words echoing in his head. But planning never worked for him.

Rykan tried to clear his mind and allow the words to come when they were needed, fresh and spontaneous.

“Dance?” he asked.

Then he narrowed his eyes, wondering why that was the only thing to come out of his mouth. A brief look of confusion, followed by blankness, crossed the girl’s face, as if she were waiting for him to say more. He almost started over, in an attempt to turn his question into a full sentence, as people normally do. But he decided to let it stand. After all, it was simple and direct. The fewer words he used, the better.

Once the others at the table realized that was the extent of his proposition, they turned to the girl, waiting for her answer.

She blinked, her initial panic giving way to a tentative smile.

“Sure,” she said, her voice steady but soft. She stood up, smoothing her dress with a quick motion, and extended her hand toward him. “Let’s dance.”

The others at the table exchanged amused glances before she took Rykan’s hand, leading him toward the open floor. Her light touch contrasted with her firm grip, and her eyes met his with a mix of curiosity and something else he couldn’t quite place.

As they reached the center of the room, the music shifted to a slower, more melodic tune. Rykan placed his hand on her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the fabric of her dress. She rested her hand on his shoulder, and they began to sway to the rhythm, their movements tentative at first, then gradually more fluid.

The room around them faded, the sounds of talking and laughter dimming to a distant murmur. The girl’s eyes softened. She appeared calmer now, making him feel more at ease. He realized he didn’t even know her name.

“I’m Rykan,” he said, trying to keep the awkward silence at bay.

“Isara,” she replied with a small smile. “Nice to meet you, Rykan.”

Rykan’s earlier nerves began to melt away, replaced by a sense of unexpected peace. He could feel the eyes of his friends on him, but for once, he didn’t care. This moment was his.

“I can’t believe you’re all going to battle tomorrow,” she said, breaking the silence. Her voice trembled slightly, betraying her fear. “This whole thing scares me. I never thought anything like this would happen. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you.”

“I can’t believe it either,” Rykan admitted, his eyes scanning the room before returning to her face. “But I’ve seen these men fight. They’re the best in all of Galanor. And we’ll be defending the greatest city. There’s no better motivation than that.”

Isara looked down briefly, her grip on his shoulder tightening slightly. “I hope you’re right,” she said. She lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes earnest. “I know we just met, but ... I’d hate to see something happen to you. I’ll be praying for all of you.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, touched by her concern. “That means a lot.”

She hesitated, then asked, “What do you plan to do? Once this is over with?”

Rykan took a deep breath, glancing at the ceiling as if searching for answers there.

“I once wanted to be one of the Crimson Shield,” he said. “But I don’t think I’m cut out for that. I’ve always wanted to be part of something that will last in Tathara long past my lifetime. Like helping to build something like the Archive of Ages.”

Isara’s eyes lit up with interest. “Yes, your name would be recorded in history,” she said. She paused, then added with a touch of self-deprecation, “I just work at Windham Bakery, my father’s business. My name won’t be remembered by anyone.”

Rykan shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It will if you make your bakery the best Galanor has ever seen,” he said with a lighthearted, encouraging tone.

She chuckled, the sound light and musical. “I suppose that is something to strive for.”

The song ended, and they stopped dancing, but stayed standing close to each other. Around them, the tavern’s lively atmosphere bustled, but Rykan felt a connection between them. At the very least, he had found a new friend, someone who understood the weight of the times they were living through.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said.

“Thank you,” Rykan replied, his heart beating a little faster. “Maybe we’ll see each other again, after ... everything.”

Isara nodded, her eyes hopeful. “I’d like that.”

They parted, and Rykan made his way back to his friends. He couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope amid the looming darkness. For the first time in a while, the future didn’t seem entirely bleak.

“He’s smiling,” said Brant as Rykan returned to the table. “I guess that went well.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Rykan said, dropping into his seat.

Daveth got up from the table. “I’m going to find someone to dance with.”

“Me too,” said Brant. “If I die tomorrow, I need to make this a night to remember.”

Leaning back in his chair, Rykan watched them step through the crowd. Dancing with Isara had opened his eyes to the many people in Tathara he had never met, people he might connect with if he only took the time. It wasn’t the only thing missing in his life, but it was definitely something. A connection with someone who understood him, who supported him through the highs and lows. Someone he could encourage and uplift, who found happiness just in his presence. They could share each other’s victories and bolster each other after their defeats.

“There he is!” shouted a familiar voice from across the tavern, startling him out of his thoughts.

Rykan glanced up to find his parents entering the room. His father had a commanding presence Rykan wished he shared, drawing nods of respect from the other patrons. His mother smiled warmly as she made her way through the crowd.

Though Rykan had grown up in Tathara, he had been born in the Candasara Isles. His parents often reminisced about the warm welcome they had received from the Tatharans. Others had found themselves here for one reason or another. Though a human city, Tathara was also home to some Kren with their ridged foreheads, Liths with their forked ears, and Anvir with their sharp horns. They all lived together harmoniously, and Rykan never felt out of place as an islander.

Captain Mirell greeted his parents. Rykan could see their mouths moving but couldn’t hear anything they said. After a few moments, the three of them made their way over to where Rykan was sitting.

“How are you feeling, soldier?” asked the captain.

“Good, sir,” Rykan replied.

“You have a good look about you, lad. Your father here is one of the best swordsmen I know.” The captain turned to his father and smiled. “If you’re half as capable as him, you have nothing to fear.” Captain Mirell eyed Rykan with an amused grin. “Before my first battle, I was so nervous I couldn’t stop shaking. You’ve already surpassed me in that regard.” Captain Mirell clapped Rykan on the shoulder. “Even though you’ll be on the front lines with the other swordsmen, you won’t be in front of the main gate. That’s where the attack will come. But we’ve prepared a bit of a trap. The most you’ll have to do is cut off their escape once they attempt to retreat. We’re going to make certain this is the last anyone hears of the Iron Flood.”

“I can do that, sir,” said Rykan, trying to sound brave.

“A battle like this will make a man out of you,” his father added, pride evident in his voice. “You’ll have no problem making your own fortune around here after this.”

“Where will you be, Father? During the battle, I mean?” Rykan asked.

“My company will cover the eastern gate,” his father said. “With the river there, it’s unlikely the Iron Flood will come that way, but we’ll be ready for anything.”

“So you won’t be in any danger?” Rykan asked with a hint of relief.

“I’ll likely miss out on most of the battle,” his father said with a reassuring smile. “But remember, son, the true challenge of any warrior isn’t just in how he wields his sword, but in how he holds his ground when the tides of battle turn. Like a tree in a storm, you must stand firm, absorb the shock, and adapt.”

“And when you see the enemy, don’t hesitate,” the captain interjected. “Show them no mercy, because you will get none from them.”

His father wrapped his arms around Rykan, bringing him into a tight hug. “If you think all this revelry is something, wait till you see the celebration tomorrow.”

It had been a while since his father had hugged him like that. With the dangers that loomed ahead, it felt comforting and terrifying all at once.

“This storm will be over soon, Rykan.” His mother leaned up, kissed his cheek, and gave him a warm embrace. “We’ll all be back home before you know it, just like nothing ever happened.”

As they left, the captain moved to the center of the tavern. “Down your drinks, men. We’re marching back to the barracks. Get some rest for tomorrow. We’ll celebrate all night after the battle.”

Rykan finished the rest of his ale and found a place at the back of the line where the soldiers were forming up. He spotted Daveth and Brant as they joined the group and moved out of his place to go with them.

“Don’t do anything foolish once the fighting starts, lads,” Daveth said to Rykan and Brant. “Make sure we’re still alive so we can meet back here tomorrow.”

“What about the Dreadstorm?” Brant asked. “Some of the refugees say just one of them has the strength of ten men.”

“Stories often grow in the telling, Brant,” Daveth said. “Especially after a defeat. People need a way to explain why they lost.”

Rykan smirked, nudging Brant playfully with an elbow. “If you see any, let Daveth deal with them.”

When they made it to the barracks, Rykan, Brant, and Daveth entered and were directed to their assigned beds by a stern-faced quartermaster. Rows of sturdy, wooden beds, each with a straw-stuffed mattress and covered in thick, woollen blankets, filled the barracks. At the foot of each bed sat a small cedar chest for personal belongings. Rough, woven rugs lay beside the beds to ward off the chill of the stone floor.

Rykan approached the bed temporarily marked with his name on a small parchment tag tied to the bedpost with twine. On the chest at the foot of the bed lay a sheathed sword. He picked it up and drew the blade from the sheath, admiring the gleam of the pristine metal. This was his own sword, brand new and untested. With a flick of his wrist, he twirled the hilt, spinning the blade into an upright defensive position. The sword caught the dim light of the barracks, reflecting a sharp, almost hopeful glint. This sword would soon bear nicks and scratches, the marks of its first stories to tell.