Arte com IA: Chapter One The banners of Kallendor hung heavy in the throne room, deep crimson cloth stitched with golden lions, their manes ablaze as if to remind all who entered that this kingdom would not bend. The vaulted chamber echoed with every step of the guards in their steel greaves, the flicker of torchlight gleaming off polished marble columns that stretched toward the vaulted ceiling. At the center of it all sat King Sareth, a broad-shouldered man with a crown that seemed almost too small for the weight of the burdens he carried. His black hair was streaked with grey at the temples, and his eyes bore the hard edge of a man who had fought his way to the throne and had never stopped fighting since. At the king’s side stood advisors in plain robes and armor, but the focus of the day was not them. The heavy oaken doors creaked open, spilling the chill autumn air of the capital into the throne room, and four figures were escorted forward by a herald whose voice boomed: “By command of King Sareth of Kallendor, Master-at-Arms Andrew, Wizard Burrito, Necromancer Chronic, and Assassin CJ are summoned before the crown!” The four were no strangers to renown, though each had earned it in vastly different ways. They came forward, boots and sandals clapping against the marble floor, until they stood in a loose line before the throne. Andrew stood foremost, as protocol demanded of the kingdom’s Master-at-Arms. The man was built like the anvil he once worked upon—thick-shouldered, bald-headed, his greying beard framing a face weathered by war. His weapon, a massive two-handed warhammer, rested upright at his side, its steel head scarred and pitted with use, the haft worn smooth where his calloused hands had gripped it through countless battles. He inclined his head but did not kneel; in Kallendor, the Master-at-Arms was a soldier’s champion, and even kings respected the steel he carried. To his left shuffled Burrito, the elder wizard. His fur, a mottled brown and grey, marked him unmistakably as one of the Kijani—an old humanoid monkey race whose wisdom stretched back before written history. Burrito’s eyes, bright amber and full of fire both literal and figurative, surveyed the room with calm patience. His robes bore the scorch-marks of experiments past, and at his belt dangled a pouch from which faint heat seemed always to emanate. Of all his spells, fire was his favored, and more than one battlefield had been turned by his well-placed fireballs. Next came Chronic, tall and thin, a man who looked more like a distracted scholar than a wielder of dark magics. His robes were ill-kept, his hair perpetually in disarray, and his ink-stained fingers twitched as if chasing after thoughts faster than he could hold them. Chronic had an air about him of accidental brilliance—he might drop a bone talisman and somehow summon a skeletal warrior that turned the tide of battle. He was unreliable in the best of ways, and dangerous in the worst, though the king tolerated him because his results—however chaotic—could not be denied. Lastly, silent but sharp-eyed, was CJ. She carried herself with the poise of a predator, tall and lean, her longbow slung easily across her back. A dark cloak fell to her knees, concealing the metallic sheen of her left arm, though when she flexed her fingers the polished steel caught the torchlight. Her gaze scanned the room with deadly calm, every corner, every shadow noted. Where Andrew was raw strength, Burrito measured wisdom, and Chronic scatterbrained chaos, CJ was precision—a weapon aimed always at the farthest target. King Sareth’s voice carried over the hall. “You know why I have called you. The kingdom of Draemir grows restless at our borders. For years we have sat in this cold war, blades sheathed but sharpened. Now, my scouts bring word of movements—villages gone silent, banners seen where none should fly. I will not sit idle while Draemir stirs.” He leaned forward, the weight of his words pressing on the chamber. “You four will travel east. You will see what transpires on our border. If Draemir plots against us, I want the truth carried back here by your hands. Do not fail me.” The silence that followed was heavy. Andrew broke it first, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Majesty, if Draemir raises banners, we will need more than four. You send us as scouts, or as champions?” King Sareth’s eyes narrowed. “As both. You, Andrew, shall lead this party. The Master-at-Arms commands in my name.” Andrew nodded, gripping his warhammer. He did not relish command, but neither would he shirk it. Burrito inclined his head respectfully. “The borderlands are treacherous, King Sareth. Draemir’s cold winds sap not only flesh but spirit. But fire burns bright even in the frost. If we meet trouble, we will answer it with flame.” Chronic waved a distracted hand, nearly knocking a skull-shaped charm from his belt. “Cold war, warm war, fire war, bone war—it’s all the same when the corpses start piling up. I’ll keep them talking if they don’t fall apart first. Or was it the other way around?” CJ’s metallic hand clenched, a soft creak of enchanted steel. Her voice was low, level. “If Draemir sends spies or assassins, they won’t leave the shadows alive. I’ll see them before they see us.” King Sareth regarded each in turn, then leaned back upon his throne. “Good. You may squabble, but you are the best this kingdom can spare without rousing suspicion. Draemir watches us as keenly as we watch them. Four travelers may slip where an army would draw alarm. Go east. Discover what they plan. Return.” His gaze lingered on Andrew. “And should the truth be war… return swiftly. For Kallendor will be ready.” The meeting adjourned. As the group departed the throne room, their footsteps echoed down the grand hallway lined with statues of kings past. Only when the massive doors closed behind them did Chronic speak again. “So, Andrew leads. Fine, fine, just don’t expect me to march in a straight line. Skeletons don’t much care for formations.” Andrew snorted. “Skeletons don’t care for much at all, from what I’ve seen. Just don’t summon them in camp. Spooks the horses.” Burrito chuckled, his voice smooth and wise. “The horses, or the soldiers? I’ve seen grown men soil themselves at the rattle of bones.” CJ said nothing, only adjusting the strap of her bow. Her eyes lingered on Andrew, measuring, perhaps weighing how his command would balance with her independence. At last, she muttered, “Just don’t slow us down with speeches. If we need answers, I’ll take them from Draemir’s spies one arrow at a time.” Andrew grinned through his beard. “And I’ll smash what’s left when you’re done.” They gathered their supplies in the capital city below the castle walls. The streets of Kallendor’s capital, Highcrown, bustled with life—merchants hawking wares, children running through alleys, smiths hammering steel in forges. Yet a tension hung in the air, a subtle unease that mirrored the king’s warning. Draemir’s shadow stretched long, and even common folk felt its chill. At the stables, their mounts awaited: sturdy warhorses for Andrew and CJ, a long-legged mule for Burrito (who muttered something about “sensitive hindquarters and the indignity of saddles”), and a bony, skeletal steed Chronic had conjured despite Andrew’s protests. The beast’s eyes glowed faint green, and its hooves clattered like drumbeats on stone. “For the love of Kallendor,” Andrew groaned, “you’re riding that thing east? You’ll spook every farmer from here to the border.” Chronic looked genuinely perplexed. “What? He’s quiet, doesn’t eat, doesn’t shit, doesn’t complain. Best horse in the kingdom.” Burrito patted the mule’s flank, whispering, “Don’t listen, friend. Some of us still appreciate the living.” CJ swung onto her horse without comment, but her faint smirk betrayed her amusement. By midday, the party had passed through Highcrown’s eastern gate. The road stretched wide before them, rolling plains giving way to forests that marked the borderlands beyond. The wind was sharp with the coming winter, tugging at cloaks and banners alike. Behind them, the capital shrank into the horizon; before them, the uncertainty of Draemir’s designs. Andrew rode at the front, warhammer slung across his back. He cast a glance at his companions, then toward the eastern hills. “Orders are clear. We find what Draemir stirs. But listen—” His voice grew rough, personal. “The king trusts us. That means the kingdom does too. We may not like each other’s ways, but we stand together, or we fall apart. Remember that.” Burrito gave a solemn nod. “United, fire burns brighter.” Chronic grinned, already fiddling with a bone charm. “United, corpses pile higher.” CJ’s eyes narrowed at the horizon. “United, our enemies die quicker.” Andrew smirked grimly. “Good enough.” With that, the four companions spurred their mounts eastward, leaving the safety of Kallendor’s heartland for the uncertain cold of the border. The road awaited, and with it, the first whispers of war. End of Chapter One
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Chapter One The banners of Kallendor hung heavy in the throne room, deep crimson cloth stitched with golden lions, their manes ablaze as if to remind all who entered that this kingdom would not bend. The vaulted chamber echoed with every step of the guards in their steel greaves, the flicker of torchlight gleaming off polished marble columns that stretched toward the vaulted ceiling. At the center of it all sat King Sareth, a broad-shouldered man with a crown that seemed almost too small for the weight of the burdens he carried. His black hair was streaked with grey at the temples, and his eyes bore the hard edge of a man who had fought his way to the throne and had never stopped fighting since. At the king’s side stood advisors in plain robes and armor, but the focus of the day was not them. The heavy oaken doors creaked open, spilling the chill autumn air of the capital into the throne room, and four figures were escorted forward by a herald whose voice boomed: “By command of King Sareth of Kallendor, Master-at-Arms Andrew, Wizard Burrito, Necromancer Chronic, and Assassin CJ are summoned before the crown!” The four were no strangers to renown, though each had earned it in vastly different ways. They came forward, boots and sandals clapping against the marble floor, until they stood in a loose line before the throne. Andrew stood foremost, as protocol demanded of the kingdom’s Master-at-Arms. The man was built like the anvil he once worked upon—thick-shouldered, bald-headed, his greying beard framing a face weathered by war. His weapon, a massive two-handed warhammer, rested upright at his side, its steel head scarred and pitted with use, the haft worn smooth where his calloused hands had gripped it through countless battles. He inclined his head but did not kneel; in Kallendor, the Master-at-Arms was a soldier’s champion, and even kings respected the steel he carried. To his left shuffled Burrito, the elder wizard. His fur, a mottled brown and grey, marked him unmistakably as one of the Kijani—an old humanoid monkey race whose wisdom stretched back before written history. Burrito’s eyes, bright amber and full of fire both literal and figurative, surveyed the room with calm patience. His robes bore the scorch-marks of experiments past, and at his belt dangled a pouch from which faint heat seemed always to emanate. Of all his spells, fire was his favored, and more than one battlefield had been turned by his well-placed fireballs. Next came Chronic, tall and thin, a man who looked more like a distracted scholar than a wielder of dark magics. His robes were ill-kept, his hair perpetually in disarray, and his ink-stained fingers twitched as if chasing after thoughts faster than he could hold them. Chronic had an air about him of accidental brilliance—he might drop a bone talisman and somehow summon a skeletal warrior that turned the tide of battle. He was unreliable in the best of ways, and dangerous in the worst, though the king tolerated him because his results—however chaotic—could not be denied. Lastly, silent but sharp-eyed, was CJ. She carried herself with the poise of a predator, tall and lean, her longbow slung easily across her back. A dark cloak fell to her knees, concealing the metallic sheen of her left arm, though when she flexed her fingers the polished steel caught the torchlight. Her gaze scanned the room with deadly calm, every corner, every shadow noted. Where Andrew was raw strength, Burrito measured wisdom, and Chronic scatterbrained chaos, CJ was precision—a weapon aimed always at the farthest target. King Sareth’s voice carried over the hall. “You know why I have called you. The kingdom of Draemir grows restless at our borders. For years we have sat in this cold war, blades sheathed but sharpened. Now, my scouts bring word of movements—villages gone silent, banners seen where none should fly. I will not sit idle while Draemir stirs.” He leaned forward, the weight of his words pressing on the chamber. “You four will travel east. You will see what transpires on our border. If Draemir plots against us, I want the truth carried back here by your hands. Do not fail me.” The silence that followed was heavy. Andrew broke it first, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Majesty, if Draemir raises banners, we will need more than four. You send us as scouts, or as champions?” King Sareth’s eyes narrowed. “As both. You, Andrew, shall lead this party. The Master-at-Arms commands in my name.” Andrew nodded, gripping his warhammer. He did not relish command, but neither would he shirk it. Burrito inclined his head respectfully. “The borderlands are treacherous, King Sareth. Draemir’s cold winds sap not only flesh but spirit. But fire burns bright even in the frost. If we meet trouble, we will answer it with flame.” Chronic waved a distracted hand, nearly knocking a skull-shaped charm from his belt. “Cold war, warm war, fire war, bone war—it’s all the same when the corpses start piling up. I’ll keep them talking if they don’t fall apart first. Or was it the other way around?” CJ’s metallic hand clenched, a soft creak of enchanted steel. Her voice was low, level. “If Draemir sends spies or assassins, they won’t leave the shadows alive. I’ll see them before they see us.” King Sareth regarded each in turn, then leaned back upon his throne. “Good. You may squabble, but you are the best this kingdom can spare without rousing suspicion. Draemir watches us as keenly as we watch them. Four travelers may slip where an army would draw alarm. Go east. Discover what they plan. Return.” His gaze lingered on Andrew. “And should the truth be war… return swiftly. For Kallendor will be ready.” The meeting adjourned. As the group departed the throne room, their footsteps echoed down the grand hallway lined with statues of kings past. Only when the massive doors closed behind them did Chronic speak again. “So, Andrew leads. Fine, fine, just don’t expect me to march in a straight line. Skeletons don’t much care for formations.” Andrew snorted. “Skeletons don’t care for much at all, from what I’ve seen. Just don’t summon them in camp. Spooks the horses.” Burrito chuckled, his voice smooth and wise. “The horses, or the soldiers? I’ve seen grown men soil themselves at the rattle of bones.” CJ said nothing, only adjusting the strap of her bow. Her eyes lingered on Andrew, measuring, perhaps weighing how his command would balance with her independence. At last, she muttered, “Just don’t slow us down with speeches. If we need answers, I’ll take them from Draemir’s spies one arrow at a time.” Andrew grinned through his beard. “And I’ll smash what’s left when you’re done.” They gathered their supplies in the capital city below the castle walls. The streets of Kallendor’s capital, Highcrown, bustled with life—merchants hawking wares, children running through alleys, smiths hammering steel in forges. Yet a tension hung in the air, a subtle unease that mirrored the king’s warning. Draemir’s shadow stretched long, and even common folk felt its chill. At the stables, their mounts awaited: sturdy warhorses for Andrew and CJ, a long-legged mule for Burrito (who muttered something about “sensitive hindquarters and the indignity of saddles”), and a bony, skeletal steed Chronic had conjured despite Andrew’s protests. The beast’s eyes glowed faint green, and its hooves clattered like drumbeats on stone. “For the love of Kallendor,” Andrew groaned, “you’re riding that thing east? You’ll spook every farmer from here to the border.” Chronic looked genuinely perplexed. “What? He’s quiet, doesn’t eat, doesn’t shit, doesn’t complain. Best horse in the kingdom.” Burrito patted the mule’s flank, whispering, “Don’t listen, friend. Some of us still appreciate the living.” CJ swung onto her horse without comment, but her faint smirk betrayed her amusement. By midday, the party had passed through Highcrown’s eastern gate. The road stretched wide before them, rolling plains giving way to forests that marked the borderlands beyond. The wind was sharp with the coming winter, tugging at cloaks and banners alike. Behind them, the capital shrank into the horizon; before them, the uncertainty of Draemir’s designs. Andrew rode at the front, warhammer slung across his back. He cast a glance at his companions, then toward the eastern hills. “Orders are clear. We find what Draemir stirs. But listen—” His voice grew rough, personal. “The king trusts us. That means the kingdom does too. We may not like each other’s ways, but we stand together, or we fall apart. Remember that.” Burrito gave a solemn nod. “United, fire burns brighter.” Chronic grinned, already fiddling with a bone charm. “United, corpses pile higher.” CJ’s eyes narrowed at the horizon. “United, our enemies die quicker.” Andrew smirked grimly. “Good enough.” With that, the four companions spurred their mounts eastward, leaving the safety of Kallendor’s heartland for the uncertain cold of the border. The road awaited, and with it, the first whispers of war. End of Chapter One
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