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Fendrick left the throne room and made his way out of the palace. The building was an intricate structure of wood surrounding the base of Pen-y-lyn’s largest tree, the original tree of the forest and lost child of the Goddess Herrinwald. Fenerra’s sense of style permeated every inch of its being. The halls were spattered with flickering blue torches and grandiose red velvet carpets whose colour had faded in the centuries since they’d been laid; portraits of Fenerra and her family littered the walls; and odd sculptures made of mangled wood climbed out of the floors at every corner. Stepping out into the palace gardens, Fendrick paused and looked up at the lightly overcast skies. The tree had been struggling to grow leaves ever since he joined Fenerra’s army – the Forgotten of Prestelwyn. A band of disfigured elves and fey creatures that had lived in the mountain forests of Pen-y-lyn for centuries. The Forgotten were, as far as Fendrick was concerned, addicts. Since any of Prestelwyn’s inhabitants can remember, their bodies have hungered for raw magic – their original forms barely a fragment of their memories.
Fendrick struggled to empathise with them. When he was a child, his adoptive parents told him that his birth parents abandoned him when he was a baby. With no memory of it, he took the word of his guardians. Sarah, Susan, and Sandra. His three mothers. Beautiful, in their own way, he supposed. He’d drawn the attention of Fenerra in his teens, after falling into a magic reservoir and surviving with barely a scratch and some light nausea. Susan was beside herself, but Sarah, the one responsible for his little ‘accident’, had said it all went according to plan and that there was no need to worry.
Fendrick continued out of the palace grounds and through the dilapidated remains of Prestelwyn’s capital – Coedda. Glancing around the open windows of the barely standing remains of the original architecture of the crown district, he could see the new Prestelwyn – the one he grew up in. Junkies fitting on the cold wood floors – others were passed out in groups, huddling together to keep the warmth from escaping their bodies as they went through heavy withdrawals. It disgusted him. That’s why he joined the army. To fulfil Fenerra’s aim of re-capturing the magic that had been locked away from the elves of Pen-y-lyn. After a few more minutes, he had arrived at the palace barracks. His home for the last four years. The members of the army were far better composed than the civilians – being a member of The Forgotten afforded you a steady supply of raw magic, which kept the edge off the cravings. You could still see the effects of withdrawal in the infantrymen – most of them were wiry, their bodies struggling to hold onto muscle, and almost all had an abnormality of some kind; a bulging eye, a missing nose, or a mangled stump for an arm to name a few.
Fendrick passed a couple of his elite team – a guerrilla force created by Fenerra to take over Vallenfall Well – the source of all magic on the eastern continent of Glynmawr. He was appointed leader by Fenerra, much to his confusion. His team members disliked being led by someone as ‘green’ as him. He could see sneers covering their faces, and one ‘accidentally’ splashed his soup on his shirt as he passed him in the mess hall. Grabbing his own meal, he sat at the far end of the table with his teammates, who all refused to acknowledge his presence.
Soon after tucking into his meagre excuse for a sandwich, a hulking figure sat beside Fendrick, his tray slamming into the table, drawing the attention of everyone nearby.
“You manage to talk Fenerra into stopping this suicide mission?” The man took his bread and ripped it with his blackened teeth.
“No such luck. She’s convinced that we’ll be fine; that we’ll have one whole day where Holiwier should have no idea we’re in the forest.” Fendrick placed his sandwich back down onto his plate and wiped his mouth of breadcrumbs.
“Regardless, what of when we get to the Well? You may be fine, but me and my men – your men – will struggle to deal with the magic. We’ll be driven crazy by its power.”
“Doesn’t seem like Fenerra is worried about that either. I’m sorry. I tried.” Fendrick avoided the scowls coming from the other end of the table, staring at the loose mess of bread and meat in front of him.
“Don’t worry yourself, boy. You’ll have me, and these men are some of the best in the Forgotten – we’ll be fine,” the man patted Fendrick on the back with his massive palm, “and don’t you worry about them not listenin’ to ya. I’ll keep ‘em in line.” Looking over his shoulder he smiled through crooked teeth at the others, who gave half-hearted jeers and smiles back, “They’ll have your back, when it matters”.
“Thanks, Tristan. It means a lot.”
“Not a problem, son. Now eat up,” Tristan addressed the entire group, “we’ve got a good week of travelling ahead of us and I want everyone fit as a fiddle.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The group waved their drinks in unison, some splashing on the split wood dining table, before returning to their meals.
