Many are the lands that I have crossed in my pursuit of forgotten truths. I walked beneath the silver trees of the Fey, I shared ale with the golden emperor of the Thergen and I crossed the cursed dunes south of Avaton where ghosts whisper beneath the sand. Yet no place left a mark upon my thoughts, quite like Porphyria. Even now, decades later, I find myself waking at night recalling the sound, the cheers, the screams and the slice of steel through flesh and bone. — Eolon of Oemon, Wanderer, Historian, Witness of Therasya
The Capital
Porphyria rises above the southern coast of Lydoria like a spear thrust toward the heavens. Unlike the marble grandeur of Avaton or the towering fortresses of Andor, the Lydorian capital possesses a savage beauty. The outer walls are timber palisades thicker than city towers elsewhere, although walls are built by those who intend to hide behind them. Lydorians preferred to ride out and kill whatever approached.
The kingdom had been born from Avaton female exiles, riders, hunters, raiders and warriors. Their armies measured strength not by stone but by speed. Every woman capable of carrying a spear could ride. Every settlement maintained vast herds. The horse was not merely an animal in Lydoria but an extension of the Lydorian spirit itself.
The horse was not merely an animal in Lydoria but an extension of the Lydorian spirit itself.
Therefore, the earthen embankments and watchtowers were strong enough to repel raiders and monsters yet never intended to withstand a true siege. In their eyes a siege was already a failure. Beyond those defenses spread the city itself. The streets followed no noble geometry as they climbed and descended hillsides in twisting layers, lined by long halls of wood and stone, adorned with crimson banners bearing the spear-and-sun symbol of Aloria. Their roofs were covered with crimson tiles and painted shields hung beneath the eaves. Everywhere stood horse paddocks, training grounds and riding tracks. The scent of pine, leather and stable hay mixed with the sea breeze. One could travel for hours through Porphyria without ever losing sight of mounted women. Squads of warrior women trotted through the streets carrying hunting spears, messenger riders crossed marketplaces at full gallop, while young girls, barely ten years old, raced one another through training circuits, while veteran shieldmaidens shouted corrections.
In Avaton spear was king, here true power lies in the horse.
Above them all stood the Acropole. The Queen’s fortress was made mainly of stone and granite, a scarce and expensive commodity in this region. Its wide terraces overlooked the entire city over a rocky plateau. Massive limestone foundations had been carved directly into the hill generations ago. Upon those ancient stones stood great wooden halls of cedar and dark pine, their beams thick as ship masts. Hundreds of spears gleamed from its balconies and armor-clad women guarded its halls. The structure possessed none of the strict beauty found in Avaton marble. It was severe, practical and built for war. Wide stairways climbed toward terraces lined with bronze statues of Lydorian heroines. Each depicted women mounted upon rearing stallions with spears pointed toward distant horizons. No walls enclosed the Acropole itself. Instead, broad riding ramps connected to every level. Their queen expected her warriors to arrive on horseback even within her own fortress.
The largest structure was the Hall of Aloria. Its roof towered above the city like an overturned turtle shell. Dozens of carved bone columns supported the immense interior. They were fashioned from the remains of long-forgotten Therions killed by Aloria and her maidens. Every pillar depicted scenes from the Night of Freedom: chains broken, women crossing rivers, the first raising of Lydorian banners beneath the blessing of their Eternal.
Not a single man walked there freely, apart from emissaries, merchants under queen’s permit and me. Even then my status as a foreign scholar granted no true protection. Three spear-maidens escorted me everywhere. Their iron armor exposed powerful shoulders and long legs hardened by endless training. Golden hair braided with crimson cords fell across sun-bronzed skin. They were beautiful and at the same time terrifying. I was amazed that these two were not mutually exclusive. And if I was human, I would have been more than that.
The city was restless during my visit. Queen Eryphili the Third had ruled for four years. She was strong like her great grandmother and popular among the warrior castes. But beneath the surface, loyalty cracks had begun to form. Three powerful factions competed for influence. The House of Theano favored constant expansion and raids against Andor. The House of Melanippe sought greater wealth through open trade and procreation with Avaton. Finally, the House of Lyssandra desired control of the arenas and slave markets. Each of them cheered the queen’s name in public, but each sharpened their knives in private. I learned quickly that politics in Lydoria differed little from warfare. Only the battlefield changed.
Just a Slave
The source of the latest dispute was a man. Not some privileged diplomat or Andorian duke the Amazons secretly wanted to procreate with, but from all things a slave. An absurd thing. In most kingdoms rulers kill one another over crowns. In Lydoria powerful women nearly started a civil conflict over a male. His name was of Andorian descent, or so he claimed. Few believed it, since slaves often invented glorious origins. Yet witnesses from Anemi confirmed the tale. Years earlier a caravan from Andor had crossed disputed borderlands near Demonia. The caravan carried relics intended for western temples. Among its guards served a Pacifier, one of the temple defenders under oath. A trained protector that mastered settling disputes and defending sacred places. His birth name was Onorond Tenerin. He was born in Riverwall of southern Andor, the son of a fisherman and a priestess of Ydor. He became a follower of the Eternal of flow and waters, a warrior and a devout monk. When Lydorians attacked the caravan, most guards fled or died, but he did neither. He stood and crushed half a dozen women riders, killing none.
The old slave master who recounted the story laughed as she told it. “He broke six spears before they took him.”
“How?” I asked.
The old woman grinned. “He used sticks. Metal like the ones we use for disciplining our young maidens. He taught them a lesson too that day.”
Pacifiers fought differently than soldiers. Onorond carried twin ironwood staffs, each shorter than a spear and reinforced with silver and cold iron bands. He shattered the spear shafts and crushed wrists. Jaws broke and feet fractured. Eventually sheer numbers overwhelmed him, but he was not killed. The riders dragged him in chains to Porphyria like every captured male worth of service. Most would have vanished into the mines. His deeds landed him in the arena.
By the time I arrived his fame had become almost legendary. Lydorians filled taverns arguing over his victories. Some claimed Aloria herself protected him. Rumors of his manhood exaggerated both size and endurance. Many wealthy Lydorians bedded him, purchasing the privilege at an exorbitant amount of gold. Strong seed was valued even more than horse. Others demanded his execution before the warrior slave began inspiring dangerous ideas. The Queen chose to remain watchful, which made matters worse.
Gladiators
The arena stood near the city center. It was a massive, semi-circular building constructed from dark timber reinforced by iron bands and stone bricks. Ten thousand could pack its stands in fifty-five rows and the queen sat on a marble pedestal on the right, overlooking the arena through a wall of spears. A deep moat twenty feet wide separated the scene from the seats, so that even beasts could not easily leap over.
The smell reached me before the sight. I closed my eyes and sensed sweat, the metal odor of clotted blood and dust mixed with wine. I have been in arenas of the northern aristocrats, where combat is sport and men rarely die. These smell the same, but here fear, death and cheers mingled. It was not for the faint of heart, and my entourage was constantly staring at me for any signs of repulsion or weakness. I did them the favor. My expression must have turned so abhorrently timid, that none of them ever gave me again a ratifying look. Their disdain was my small triumph. I was seated near the Queen. A dangerous honor. Eryphili the Third, watched the sands below with cold amusement. Her dark hair flowed over one bronze shoulder. An unnaturally sharp spear rested beside her throne. These women had no appetite for ceremonial trinkets; the blades were ready for a kill.
The first match began. Two men entered wearing chain shirts and clasping shields and long swords. I could taste the fear in their trembling hands. The crowd booed, food and cups of wine flew like rain of arrows. The men staggered back. Metal bars opened and a beastly roar silenced the crowd for a second. As the tiger exited, spearheads were visible, forcing the beast to the scene. Female voices rose like a galloping squad, demanding death. The hungry animal roared and one of the men dropped his blade pissing himself. I closed my eyes and realized that cowards were short lived here. The tiger must have leaped because the next sound was terrible. Metal was torn and a shriek ended as the beast devoured half the man’s torso. I opened my eyes as the second made a futile attempt. His blade barely pierced the beast. The tiger turned and clawed his face off. Lines of blood marked the sand and the audience cheered. This was longer than I wished, but fast enough for these poor souls. The queen looked at my face, her eyes spoke the truth she wished not to utter.
“Master Eolon, these men committed a terrible crime. They were paid to open a waterway. A sealed waterway by Ydor’s priests. Demons could have entered our shore cities.” The queen spoke and then I understood.
The tiger feasted on the bodies and finally arena guards moved the animal back to its cage. Blood and remains still marked the floor when Onorond entered. The crowd erupted, some cheered, while others cursed. Many watched the queen’s reaction before moving. She calculated the crowd around, marking factions, whispering to her counselor an old woman in layers of cloaks and pausing for a dramatic second raising her hand.
“Onorond! may the Eternals decide your fate.” As she lowered her hand, her soft posture shift was received as approval driving the crowd in a frenzy of cheers and clapping. Certain heads nodded in disapproval, again the queen calculated the responses. She was making notes about who cheered the most, who did it while standing up from their seat and who was foolish enough to challenge her.
The man wore no armor. Only loose fighting trousers, boots and a leather tunic. Years of combat had carved his body into a statue. Scars crossed his chest, his hair had grown long and his beard trimmed close. His muscles were oiled glimmering in the morning sun. I could understand the frenzy around me. This warrior represented what Lydorians valued more in their mates, a lean, trained fighting machine. Twin staffs rested casually in his hands.
His opponents entered next. Two condemned warriors from the Black Gulf. Large men with sharp axes and sturdy shields. No one was doing any favors to Onorond. These moved like trained veterans, fully armored, smiling beneath their open helmets. Neither would keep smiling for long.
The horn sounded. One axeman charged immediately. Onorond slipped sideways, like a snake closing the distance while fangs were getting the venom ready. The first staff struck the warrior’s wrist. A sharp crack echoed through the arena. The hand opened involuntarily and the axe fell. A guard below screamed as she pulled her chain shirt upwards offering the sight of her breasts. The second strike landed beneath the man’s chin. Teeth exploded into the air along with a line of blood painting the chest of another guard, fueling her insane reaction. The axe warrior collapsed unconsciously. He was not moving but I could see him breathing. The man in the center clearly would not kill just for sport. A healer waited behind a barred door on my right, staring at the Queen’s hand for command.
“These men were caught near Goldam.” the Queen whispered, her eyes never leaving the arena floor. “After murdering everyone in a homestead they forced themselves on a girl.” As she spoke, she casually gestured toward one of the noble galleries. A silver-haired Amazon matron sat there among her retainers. One of the faction leaders, no doubt. “They fled Andor into our lands. We are not so forgiving.” The queen fully turned to me looking straight into my eyes.
“Crime begets crime? Is that what you mean my queen?” I asked as insolently as possible.
“We owe you a great service Eolon.” I noticed that “master” had vanished from her words. “Beware how you address the queen. I am amused so long as no one hears that tone but me.” She left the threat lingering in her tone. She did not have to speak it. The look in her pale mesmerizing eyes sufficed.
“Apologies my queen.” I tried to quench the little voice in me screaming to destroy this façade.
I turned to the stage. The second attacker roared and swung. Onorond ducked. The axe passed inches above his skull. One staff hit the arm slightly just to deflect the hit away while the other staff smashed into the warrior’s knee. The joint bent sideways. The scream was heard throughout the arena. Before the man hit the ground the twin staff descended on the body in circling moves. Bones shattered, the ribcage turned to a heap as the man spat blood in the air. That was the rapist and it was the last time he drew breath. As the man fell on the sands the crowd rose as one. Hundreds screamed approval as blood ran like streams down the chest. The kill was calculated, I looked at the queen, but even now I am not certain what I saw. I think I got a faint glimpse of finger movement towards Onorond, code perhaps or I was just disturbed from the sighting. I still cannot decide if it was the violence that stirred those women, the satisfaction of blood or just the relic of an old bickering towards men. Perhaps it was just hatred towards what those two men did to a young girl.
But I admit it was efficient. No judge and jury, the offenders paid and the message on trespassers was renewed. I discovered later that Lydorians often send back the remains of such individuals with the written death verdict, just as a reminder that crossing a line here has consequences. Looking at the champion, there was no rage or satisfaction of the actual death, only the certainty of a craftsman performing his trade.
The Queen smiled. For the first time that day, that frightened me more than the combat.
Intermission
The corpse was dragged away by chained slaves. Attendants entered the arena carrying rakes and buckets of sand. Fresh earth was scattered over the bloodstains while musicians struck bronze drums to keep the crowd entertained. An old woman presented two young warriors before the champion. He looked at them much like his dead adversaries. Another obligation to strengthen the bloodline of Lydoria. Men in other kingdoms would kill to bed with such vibrant creatures. His eyes were fixed on the queen.
Around us, nobles resumed their conversations. Deals were being struck, favors were exchanged and some smiles hid threats. The arena floor below was merely an extension of the political battlefield above.
“Your champion grows popular, my queen.” I remarked.
“Our champion,” Eryphili corrected. “He belongs to Lydoria.” Her answer came swiftly and deliberately loud enough for others to hear. It was a practiced comment towards her opposition.
I followed her gaze toward the noble’s galleries. The silver-haired matron she had pointed out earlier was now arguing quietly with another noblewoman dressed in crimson riding leathers.
“House Theano?” I asked.
“You have been listening.” The queen said with a faint grin, softer than a morning breeze.
“It is difficult not to. Your nobles argue louder than Avaton senators.” That earned the faintest amusement.
“Theano wishes the slave dead.” She replied.
I pointed to the other.
“Melanippe.” The Queen’s expression hardened. “She wishes him freed.”
“Then surely she is losing.” I laughed.
The queen turned at me, trying to elaborate my thoughts. “Why?” she asked.
“Because no ruler willingly releases something useful.” The words left my mouth although I knew I took a dangerous path.
“You understand power better than most scholars gnome. I imagine you have met many rulers in your travels over Therasya”. She said that with the regality of a butcher knowing his craft above all. “Power is usually a version of greed. But after the decimation we endured during the Rise of the Fey, I have no resources for games.” She looked at the empty arena. “We either grow building on our traditions, or we fade away like the ones who built the obelisks.”
Her smile was cold, calculated, wearing the burden of a woman with vast responsibility, heavier perhaps than what her shoulders alone could hold.
More guards entered the sands. Far more than necessary. Heavy chains were dragged toward the central gate. The force seemed excessive and the thickness of the chain marked something unnaturally big was advancing.
The Queen leaned slightly toward me. “The next fight is the reason they filled every seat. The queen will show that no man possesses her heart or her will.” Several maidens nearby overheard. They grinned like wolves and cheered the queen’s name. One spat onto the arena floor while another whispered a prayer to Aloria. Expectations grew in the seats.
The curtains behind the throne opened and Onorond entered chained and guarded by two spear maidens. On his side followed the heads of two factions, Theano and Lyssandra, both they looked at the male like a merchant going over precious wares in his plaza stand. They both bowed, the latter just barely not to offend the queen. I wondered why the third was not included. The queen later revealed to me that it served a dual purpose. It was both a show of power and to spread discord among the three. If they allied in their effort to overthrow her, they would succeed. But if one felt the other two might gain the queen’s favor, that could feed strife among her rivals.
The two faction heads stood in front of the throne and then the maidens pushed the champion to his knees.
“Well, Onorond, do you plan on dying today? At least one of us would gain a fortune if you would.” She looked at Lyssandra. “But I guess some are content by becoming the arena masters feeding the dogs.”
Lyssandra took the insult without hiding her contempt. “You are right my queen. Power is such a futile thing.”
Theano turned to the champion. “You have all these women at your feet. How does it make you feel chaining even our queen?” Her innuendo was clear as a thrust spear.
Onorond turned his gaze to the sun, eyes half closed. “I am the one forced on his knees. Still Zoodotis blessing is upon me. If only Aloria was too.”
Theano replied sharply. “So you fight for your freedom? Is that what you seek?”
Onorond smiled, the old woman had fallen in his net. “I fight for the queen and Ydor. I bleed only those who deserve it. And if my Eternal wills it, I teach humility.”
The reply was not received well but the champion did not stop there. He knew they could not touch him before the main event. “I ask only one thing of the queen. To kiss her hand.” The women were left speechless by such a demand, a clear display in favor of the queen.
Eryphili took a step forward and raised her hand. Onorond took it at his fingertips and lowered his head. “May your reign be long and prosperous queen of the spear-maidens.” That would be probably the only time they touched. She pulled her hand emotionless, but her eyes spoke words only his could fathom.
Beasts on the Sands
The Queen noticed my concern. “You fear for him.”
My eyes were fixed on the staffs on his belt. “I fear for anyone standing alone in an arena.”
“Do not! If he survives what comes next, Eolon, songs will be written about it.”
The champion exited on the sands again, rolled his shoulders and twirled the twin staffs once. Then he looked directly toward the great gate waiting in preparation. He locked a glimpse at the royal pedestal, like a promise to do something in another life.
A deep metallic boom shook the stadium. The chained gate began to rise. The crowd stood as one. And from the darkness beneath Porphyria something enormous roared.
Chains rattled and the beast emerged, a forest Girallon, one of the dark breeds from the eastern borders. It was over two times the height of a man, covered in black fur. It had small, curved horns, four arms the size of Thergen legs and the shape of an ape. The creature dragged broken chains behind it. It roared mad with pain. The Lydorians grew quiet in their seats. Many that dreamed the slave’s touch along with the ones that hoped for his death were struck speechless. He was a menace to their way of life. Their charms did not weaken his will, prison did not break his spirit, and he craved nothing they owned. Rumors of the queen bedding him soared; he could not be tolerated.
Onorond spun his staffs thrice, warming his wrists and then advanced jumping on the sides of a straight line, his eyes fixed on the terrible beast. The Girallon leaped and charged, the impact shook the floor of the arena. Onorond rolled beneath the swing of the two upper hands. One staff slammed into a knee and the other rotated barely blocking a strike from the lower left arm that would have crippled a horse. The beast barely noticed the strikes. It raised two sets of arms and backhanded him with its full might. The champion flew several paces. Blood erupted from his mouth. The crowd cheered, for certain it was his time. A guard prayed aloud to Aloria begging for the beast to crush him.
I remember what happened next clearly, because no one else could have seen it. Only from the Queen’s pedestal was the angle fully possible. Onorond rose smiling. There was no arrogance in his stance. This man wanted to make a point, but now probably was his time to die. The beast charged again. This time it leapt almost two stories high. If it wanted it could have easily landed on the front row seats. The champion waited like a spider fixed on its prey and jumped. One foot landed upon the girallon’s thigh, the second upon the beast’s belly as the four hands pounded the ground, breaking the stage in half. Sand and rocks flew as he momentarily lost his grip on the beast fur. He climbed the charging monster up to the shoulder. He rotated pulling the full strength of muscle, body and torque. Both staffs descended together straight on the beast’s back skull. A thunderous bone cracking froze the stadium. The Girallon screamed once and the voice choked. The beast stared at the clouds overlooking the distant forests. It knew it would never lay an eye on them again. Its body hit the stage like thunder and the Lydorians broke into an applause like a storm blocking the sky.
Onorond landed on the sand and knelt. He closed his eyes and stretched his weapons towards the queen letting them fall. He raised both hands to the sky and whispered Ydor’s name. I could only decipher a thank you as guards struggled to keep the crowd from jumping on the stage. The beast had collapsed, but its death would shake more than the sands. Then the city exploded. Thousands chanted his name. Even amazons who hated men rose to salute him, women were offering him, their blades and bodies. Finally, the Queen stood looking grim and nodding for the crowd to silence.
“You are free to go as you please Onorond.” The cheers reached the sky, the queen calculated the response and measured her friends. The champion had given her a unique gift.
A Free Man
That evening I secured permission to meet the champion. A privilege rarely granted. The slave quarters beneath the arena resembled a fortress prison. Iron doors led to torchlit corridors filled with the smell of old blood. A female guard looking like a thick watch dog opened the final chamber. I expected to find the warrior. Instead, a woman emerged. Or what I first believed was a woman. She wore little beyond a linen wrap around her hips. Bronzed skin glistened with sweat. Waist long dark hair cascaded over one shoulder. The muscles of her abdomen and thighs revealed a lifetime of combat. A scar crossed one breast. Beautiful, dangerous and entirely comfortable with both facts.
“Scholar.” Her voice sounded amused. “He is dressing.”
I later learned her name.
Thaleia. The first Spearmaiden. Queen Eryphili’s personal guard and commander of the Acropole. These women, it seemed they knew how to share. Rumors linked her to the House of Lyssandra. Other rumors claimed she served only the Queen. In Porphyria those distinctions mattered.
“You came to see the slave?” she asked.
“I came to see the man.” I replied
She laughed. A short sharp sound. “In Lydoria those are usually the same thing.”
“I thought you were ordained to chastity while serving in the palace.” My tone had nothing challenging, just stating a fact. The maiden sliced the gap between us with an icy look but left silence work on me like a careful thrown dagger. She had committed an act under penalty of death. Only under queen’s orders would she dare something like that, risking status, title and life. And then I remembered the look exchanged between the champion and the queen. What boiled between them was impossible to happen. So, the commander acted like the bridge between two bodies that could never touch. Strange customs in this land, yet I must confess there were cracks in the cold exterior.
Then Onorond emerged. He was heavily bruised. His face was swollen, his left leg was bandaged and he could barely walk, but he was alive.
The conversation alas lasted a few minutes, shorter than I needed, but long enough to discover truths. The champion had become more than a gladiator. Factions fought over him, Theano wanted him executed, she was convinced his popularity among slaves threatened stability. Melanippe wanted him freed and sent abroad as proof of Lydorian mercy. Lyssandra wanted him kept alive forever inside the arena as a profitable legend. And the Queen? She had offered freedom, waiting patiently as every faction maneuvered, lied and plotted. It was either that or open civil war and the queen preferred the cloak and dagger while their kingdom was still recuperating.
“You look battered. Will you survive this?”. He looked truly horrendous; from the seats’ distance it was not visible what the girallon strikes had done to this man’s flesh.
“I have survived worse. The mind wills and the body follows.” He firmly uttered the words trying to convince himself. I was not certain that a man in this state could make the night.
“And the commander? I mean she did….in your state?” I asked.
“The perfect seed cannot be spilled, especially if I die, Queen’s orders.” He replied with a faint sadness that even I struggled to catch. Perhaps longing for another’s touch.
“The queen ordered you free. Leave.” I urged him like I would be an old friend. It was inconceivable to me that someone would undergo the trial he did and be so calm.
“I cannot be free while she is in jeopardy.” He voiced it with a hint of affection. And then it hit me. I laughed louder than I should. A man and a woman, the foundational duality. Even in this place, under these conditions. They cannot escape their fate. They collided like stars.
They cannot escape their fate. They collided like stars.
“So, you can see. The factions are circling the queen like vultures. But you must understand that you give them reason to.” I was trying to discover a way out, a way to convince this man determined to die.
Onorond smiled. “Master Eolon, you must have learned this following the dream-walker’s lead. One shifts the scale with the blood of his friends. She cannot do it alone.”
I departed before dawn. My last image of the champion was him closing his cell door with his own hands. Onorond stood beside the bars of his chamber, fearless. He was looking north, towards Andor, a homeland he might never see again. He stood beside the open door of his chamber. No more chains bound him, and no guards blocked his path. Freedom lay only a few steps away, yet he remained there.
“You are free now,” I reminded him.
“No,” he replied quietly.
“Now I finally have a choice.” Then he pulled the cell door himself. The last thing he told me: “A servant of the Eternals can only do their bidding.”
Epilogue
Years later I learned the choice he made. Heroes rarely die of old age, and champions least of all, especially in Lydoria, where queens and Spear-maidens wager kingdoms upon the fate of a single man. No challenge stood against him for long, and few were found worthy of his staffs. Onorond was the first male ever granted passage back to the borders as a free man. He refused to leave.
The Lydorian maidens expected gratitude, while his and the Queen’s enemies expected ambition. His admirers urged him to claim the riches and privileges earned through blood. Instead, he accepted none, remaining exactly where fate had placed him. A cell door opened while he remained inside. But it was no longer a prison to keep him in.
Queen Eryphili the Third named him Champion of Lydoria and granted him a place among her cavalry. Many opposed the decision. Some called it weakness, but no longer openly. None dared after what happened to Theano who met her doom on the sands. Others whispered that the Queen had allowed her judgment to be clouded by affection. Yet when the Years of Blight descended upon the north and demons crawled from forgotten places, it was Onorond who rode into battle along the maidens. He was a man among Lydorians and excellence was merely the price of remaining accepted. Time and again he returned carrying wounds that should have slain lesser men. Time and again he stood beside the Spear-maidens while others broke and fled.
Songs claim he slew fiends beneath the crimson skies of Demonia. Riders swore he crossed the Ruby River alone to rescue an entire patrol from the grasp of abyssal horrors. Others insist he battled a sea-spawned Margan for three days upon the cliffs of Amphipi. Such stories grow with each telling and I shall leave their truth for future historians to debate. What remains beyond dispute is that wherever the fighting was fiercest, the Champion and the Queen were found.
His influence spread far beyond the battlefield. The people saw that a man could serve Lydoria with undeniable loyalty. They saw that strength did not diminish when freely given. The old certainties began to crack. Customs that had endured since the Night of Freedom were questioned for the first time in centuries.
In later years his children, strong women, founded a new settlement upon the Lydorian shore. What began as a fishing village grew into a thriving city, a living monument to a choice made in a prison cell beneath Porphyria. Many reforms that followed traced their roots back to that moment, though few recognized it at the time.
That is the way of Ydor. Rivers do not shatter mountains in a single day. And when meeting the defiant independence of Aloria, they carve stone through patience, persistence and purpose. So, the Eternals shape the world. Not always through kings and armies, but through single souls standing at crossroads.
Together they became the spark of a great transformation, the kind that occurs only when destiny and conviction walk the same path. And from all my travels, from all the rulers, prophets, monsters and immortals I have encountered, it was this former slave and his queen who taught me my greatest lesson. Freedom is not the absence of chains. Freedom is choosing which burden is worth carrying. I spent decades searching for it in distant lands and I finally found it in a prison beneath Porphyria.
— From The Travels of Eolon of Oemon — Chapter XVII
