Prologue: Another Bedtime Story

“A child must die to tell this story,” the golden narrator began. “On the sixteenth day of Gustin, the eighth month by the reckoning of Empyrelia, in the year 3244 of the Fifth Age of the Sphere of Malthreare. The second year of what would become known as the War of the Lost Royals.”

“You always begin with the boring history stuff,” the child groused.

“I thought the listener might wish to understand that this prologue does not start where the last story ended. And that Tildy Silverleaf, as Princess Amethestra became known, is not in it.”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“How very generous of you.”

“Though you could have just said,” the child began before changing to a convincing imitation of the golden narrator, “Thirteen years before Tildy’s story, I shall tell the tale of Prince Whatshisname.”

The golden narrator inhaled a patience-fortifying breath. “Should I still mention details such as: this took place in the fortress of Evereign at the edge of the Whispering Prairie?”

“You just did!” the child said, delighted with their jest.

Another deep inhalation. “I fear this retelling will take forever if we cannot get through the prologue.”

“You should get on with it.”

“Within a large storage room, fifty or more armored people silently pressed against each other. In the space, each tiny clink of shifting metal was like a clanging bell announcing their forthcoming doom.

“Before the twilight ending of the day, nearly everyone in the room would be dead.”

“Don’t spoil the story!” the child exclaimed.

“If you were diligent reading your histories, you would already know.”

“That’s not the same thing,” the child grumbled.

“You are correct,” the golden narrator conceded. “I apologize.”

“Good! Now tell me about Prince Adamantin.”

“And so I shall.” The golden narrator’s woven words creating a tapestry that materialized around the child until the world of old became more real and the bedroom disappeared.

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