At Lyria, the land that had come to be known as the country of pirates, Alexious the King of Pirates sat heavily upon his throne. The room was dim, lit by the glow of torches that sputtered against the stone walls, and the salty air of the sea drifted in through high windows. In his hand he held a bunch of grapes, rolling them slowly between his fingers before plucking one and pressing it between his teeth. The sweetness was sharp, yet he hardly tasted it. His mind was far from the fruit.
How long had it been since his Ancestors stood shoulder to shoulder with the First king of Farmonia? How many years had passed since the Battle of Snow and Darkness, when together they had fought against the armies of Rafia? Alexious’s chest rose and fell with a bitter laugh. Back then, his Ancestors had been a men with purpose, a men whose sword had struck with pride at the side of a king who promised loyalty and recognition. Now here he was, sitting idle, his hair streaked with gray, his bones heavier with age, waiting like some old fool for death to claim him.
The memory of his father Tell him about His Great Grandfather Portos burnedin His memory. He had fought, he had bled, he had given his men to that cause, and yet Farmonia had denied him land, denied him honor, denied him the right he believed he had earned. That denial was the seed that had grown into everything that Lyria now was. He clenched his hand around the stem of the grape and let it fall to the floor.
He rose suddenly from the throne, his cloak sweeping behind him, and his voice thundered through the hall. “Listen to me, you fools!” His words echoed off the stone. Men seated at the long tables looked up, their cups of wine pausing midair, their dice games forgotten. “We are pirates. Sitting idle is not in our blood. If the king of Farmonia does not give us land, then we will take another path. We will go to the witches. We have a common enemy with them, and it is there, in that alliance, that our glory will be made again!
The hall erupted in sound. Pirates, outlaws, deserters, men with scars on their faces and hatred in their hearts, all shouted as one. “Witches!” Witches! Witches!” Their fists slammed against the tables, their boots stomped against the floor, until the hall shook with the force of their anger.
Alexious raised his hand and their cries grew louder. “Tomorrow,” he declared, his voice cutting through the noise, “Tomorrow we head to the land of shadows. Tomorrow we will make the pirates of Lyria remembered for generations to come!
The response was like thunder. The pirates leaped to their feet, some waving their daggers in the air, others slamming their cups against the tables so hard that the wine spilled across the floor. “Witches!” they screamed. “Witches, or death to the king!”
The chanting rolled out of the hall, carried into the night, until the streets of Lyria echoed with the same cry.
But Lyria had not always been this.
Once, long ago, Lyria was a city of wonder. It stood proud upon the great sea, its port a jewel where ships came from every corner of the continent of Somaria. Merchants had filled its docks with goods: silks from the east, spices from the south, ores from the mountains. Its taverns were alive with songs in many tongues, and its streets filled with the bustle of trade.
That was before Portos’s Casted Away by the First King, before the city had become a nest of pirates.
When his alliance with the king of Farmonia had fallen apart, when his promises of land had been broken, Portos had turned his anger toward Lyria. The city had been poorly guarded, for it had been a place of trade, not war. Its walls had been built for beauty, not defense, and its governor had lived comfortably, never imagining the danger that grew just beyond his sight.
Portos had used that blindness. He gathered his armies, but not openly. He instructed them to dress as merchants, as simple civilians, blending with the honest traffic of the port. One by one, his men entered the city, carrying crates that held not only goods but weapons. By day, they walked as traders, blending with the crowd, smiling, bargaining, learning the city’s rhythm. By night, they whispered their orders, sharpening their blades in silence.
Then came the night of blood.
Portos had planned it with care. While his disguised men slipped through the streets, others crept into the guardhouses. One by one, the guards were slain in silence, their throats cut before they could cry for help. No messengers were sent, no warning given. Lyria’s watch was extinguished before the city even stirred.
At the same time, Portos and two hundred of his men approached the governor’s castle. They came with carts piled high with treasures and chests filled with golden coins. Portos himself dressed as a merchant, cloaked in finery, his men carrying gifts behind him. They requested an audience with the governor, pretending to be traders who promised wealth beyond imagining.
The governor, greedy and unwary, welcomed them in. He saw only the gold, not the daggers hidden in the sleeves. He saw only the promise of riches, not the murder waiting at his door.
Once inside, Portos gave the signal. In an instant, swords were drawn, and blood painted the halls. The governor and his household were cut down without mercy. The castle rang with screams, but they were quickly silenced as Portos’s men killed every living soul within.
Meanwhile, the rest of his army struck at the bridges, setting explosives, tearing apart the routes that could have brought reinforcements from Farmonia. By dawn, the city of Lyria had fallen. It was no longer a jewel of trade; it was a kingdom of pirates, claimed by Portos in one night of fire and steel.
For years after, the king of Farmonia waged wars of aggression to try to rein in Portos, but the efforts were never complete. The king turned much of his attention to the west, to the growing activity of the witches, reinforcing the borders there to ensure that their darkness did not spread further. Portos remained in control of Lyria and Passed Down to His Family, his pirates holding fast, their ships cutting across the sea like blades.
And now, Many years later, Alexious not satisfied with what he had.
The hall of pirates still roared with chanting, their cries of “Witches!” rattling the rafters. Alexious looked out over them, his jaw set, his eyes burning with fury and ambition. The grapes lay crushed at his feet, forgotten.
He lifted his arms to quiet them, though the noise still thundered. “for Many years we have held Lyria,” he shouted. “for many years of raids, of blood, of standing apart from Farmonia. But it is not enough. I do not want their scraps. I do not want their pity. I want the king of Farmonia’s head, and nothing less will satisfy me!
The pirates roared again, stamping their feet, their voices blending into one great cry that shook the hall. The sound spilled into the streets, into the night air, echoing over the waves that struck the shore.
Tomorrow, they would march to the land of shadows. Tomorrow, they would seek the witches as allies, and tomorrow, the course of Lyria would turn once more.