Prologue - Fading Glory
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4 Years after Reawakening of Wings (4 YAP)
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In the quiet hours of dawn, Empyrea seemed to hold its breath as the first light of day crept through the curtains of Charles Alexander Worce's peaceful home. The room was a sanctuary of solitude, where time seemed to stand still amidst the hallowed memories of a lifetime spent in service to Empyrea. Lance Corporal Harvester and Grand Vizier Romanakov had entered with careful steps, their presence a silent testament to the reverence they held for the man who lay dead before them.
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As Harvester and Romanakov crossed into Worce's chamber, they were enveloped by a sense of solemnity that hung heavy in the air. The flickering flames of the candles cast a warm, golden glow upon the room, illuminating the ancient features of the fallen statesman and war hero who lay upon the bed. Worce's face was etched with the lines of age and wisdom, his expression serene in death as though he had found rest at last.
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Harvester's footsteps echoed softly on the polished floorboards as he approached Worce's bedside, his heart heavy with the weight of the moment. Beside him, the Grand Vizier moved with a cautious grace that gave away the sorrow in her heart, her gaze fixed upon the figure upon the bed with a mixture of pride and melancholy. Together, they stood in silent tribute, their thoughts filled with the injustice that he had been dealt.
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Worce had risen to lead the charge against the Earldoms opponents. His deeds had become the stuff of legend, his name whispered in awe and admiration by those who had witnessed his courage and resolve on the battlefield, or at least, it was.
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In Worce's outstretched hand lay a finished book. Harvester knew what it was, he had helped write it for the elderly man. He had heard recounts of the horrors of war that were being forgotten by his generation.
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"We owe it to him to ensure that the book is published" Harvester murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Narciss must never be allowed forgot those that bled."
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Anastasia Narca Romanakov nodded solemnly.
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The Lance Corporal gently took the book from Worce. The two left the legendary man alone.
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3 YAP
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Charles Alexander Worce sits alone in his study, the dim light of a single candle casting elongated shadows across the worn parchment before him. With a heavy sigh, he unfolds the letter that arrived earlier in the day, its crisp edges a stark contrast to the weathered desk beneath his fingertips.
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As he reads the words penned by Earl Preen, Worce feels a familiar surge of anger and resentment building within him. The Earl's letter informs Worce of being granted the title of Rector for his services to the Earldom. But to Worce, the title is a bitter pill to swallow. Earl Maximillian Bigot had promised him the title of Baron and the eternal respect of the Earldom. Bigot had been assassinated and Worce was forced to retire early. The title given for contributions not noteworthy enough to be considered for Baron status was a deliberate insult by the new Earl towards him.
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"Thirty-five years of service," Worce muttered under his breath, hunderedy voice tinged with bitterness. "Thirty-five years as High-Exarch, leading armies, shaping the course of history... reduced to a mere Rector by an up-jumped hooligan..."
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His hand trembles slightly as he holds the letter. The years have not been kind to Worce, and he is acutely aware that his time in Empyrea was running out. Worce had never noticed the aches and pains before his retirement. Now he had nothing to distract him from them. Worce had no children, no wife, he had often said with pride in his earlier years as exarch that he was married to the realm, now it was literal.
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And then he realised what day it was. It was the 43rd anniversary of the victory of Narciss in the Coalition, and he had heard nothing on the wireless, seen nothing. There was no curious children knocking at veterans' doors to hear the stories of the war. The youngest generation had practically forgotten the war, this greatly saddened Worce.
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Clutching the letter tightly in his fist, Worce feels the weight of his anger pressing down upon him, threatening to consume him whole. He longs to unleash his fury upon the world, to rail against the injustices he perceived. Worce hated the new Earl, but he hated the Countess more.
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Countess Calliope was much loved by the commons and by the younger aristocracy for reforming the Earldom and repairing its relations with other regions. She had made Rectess Anastasia Romanakov - a friend of Charles Worce - Grand Vizier for her skills as a diplomat and ambassador. The older generations, especially those that remembered and had fought in the Coalition War, detested her for making the Earldom of Narciss soft, the epithet "The Winged" had often been applied to her, this led to her being referred to by crude variations of the epithet by those that hated her.
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With a resigned sigh, Worce sets the letter aside, its words burning into his memory like a branding iron. He knows that he must find a way to channel his anger, to transform it into something meaningful - to remind the younger Narcissians what their elders went through while leaving something behind in his name.
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There was a knock at the door, Worce groaned as the pain in his knees flared up when he rose to his feet to answer it, the weight of age clung to his bones like a heavy suit of armour. Each movement was a laborious effort, a reminder of the toll that time had exacted upon his octogenarian frame.
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Slowly, he shuffled across the hallway, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight as he made his way to the entrance. With a trembling hand, he reached out to grasp the doorknob, the cool metal sending a shiver down his spine.
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Worce swung the door open, his eyes met those of a young enlisted soldier standing tall outside his door. The young soldier's face was tanned, his frame was muscular, his eyes were intelligent however. Worce decided he was from the agricultural and medical subregion: Valerium.
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Worce greeted him, his reedy voice still had authority in it, "To whom do I owe the pleasure of an exceedingly rare visit?"
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The soldier saluted him, a sight Charles thought he would never see again.
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"Lance Corporal Harvester, sir," the young soldier announced, his voice crisp and respectful. "I beg your pardon for the interruption, Grand-General."
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Worce's brow furrowed in curiosity at the unexpected visitor, his mind racing to place the face before him. "Harvester," he murmured, a flicker of recognition stirring in the recesses of his memory. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."
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Harvester nodded, his expression solemn. "No, sir," he replied. "But my father did, and I am honoured to be in your presence nonetheless, sir. High-Exarch Quill has assigned me to assist thou."
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His thoughts drifted to the now High-Exarch Quill, the Stratocrat had been like a son to him. Memories of their work came flooding back, Worce had taught Stratocrats Quill and Inkwell all he knew, hoping to ensure that a worthy successor would replace him.
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With a sense of nostalgia, Worce opened the door wider, inviting Lance Corporal Harvester into his home. As Harvester stepped inside, Worce's gaze lingered on the young soldier, a flicker of curiosity dancing in his tired eyes.
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Harvester stood at attention, his posture rigid with respect. "Grand-General Worce," he began, his tone reverent. "I have brought thou a gift, sir."
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Worce's brow furrowed in surprise at the unexpected gesture, his mind racing to comprehend the significance of the offering. With a sense of anticipation, he accepted the thick, empty book from Harvester's outstretched hands, his fingers tracing the embossed cover with a sense of wonder.
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"A gift?" Worce echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. "What is this, Lance Corporal?"
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Harvester's expression softened, a hint of pride shining in his eyes. "It is a journal, sir," he explained, his voice steady. "A blank canvas upon which you may record thy experiences in the Coalition War, I worry that it will be forgotten and Narciss will be doomed to repeat it."
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The idea struck him like a thunderbolt. He would write a book as his legacy.
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Worce realised that he lacked the energy to write it by himself.
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The Lance Corporal came to the rescue as soon as the thought crossed his mind, "I had hoped to help, my father died in the War, I know very little about it thanks to its removal from the curriculum when I began my secondary education."
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The statement knocked the breath out of the elderly former Exarch. He managed to stammer, "P-Pherhaps I misheard thou mention something about the Coalition War being removed from the curriculum?"
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Lance Corporal Harvester met the old hero's tired eyes with sincerity. "Thou heard me correctly. I was deeply disappointed to discover the removal of the Coalition War from Military History-the very subject that fuelled my passion for understanding our nation's past."
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Worce's expression did not change upon hearing Harvester's words, his mind grappling with the implications of such a significant omission from the curriculum. "And what did they replace it with?" he inquired, his voice barely concealed his rage at this revelation.
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Harvester hesitated for a moment before answering, a shadow passing over his features. "They replaced it with the History of the Estrin Dominion's conquest of the East in 589-557 YBP."
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His gaze hardened as he turned to face Harvester, a fire burning in his eyes. "Who is responsible for this travestry?" he demanded, his voice laced with a seething rage. "Who dared to replace the memory of the Coalition War with the vile deeds of the Dominion?"
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Harvester's expression tightened with a palpable sense of unease as he weighed his response. "High-Exarch Onyx of Xyrolith wished to highlight the history of the Dominion to avoid a power like it from being allowed to rise again, she also apparently thought that Narciss needed to stop rubbing salt into old wounds if it wanted to repair relations with other regions. Countess Calliope agreed, as did Earl Preen."
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Without knowing it, Harvester had said the three names that Worce utterly despised in one statement. his jaw clenched in righteous indignation. "Calliope, Onyx, and Preen," he spat, the words dripping with contempt. "Three traitors to Narcissian legacy, seeking to cover up the bloody history of the Coalition Wars to repair relations with other regions, while rubbing the sacrifices of hundreds of thousands into the mud."
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Worce's hands trembled with barely contained rage as he contemplated the magnitude of the betrayal. "And they have the audacity to downplay my accomplishments with a title below what i did," he seethed, his voice laced with bitterness. "Rector instead of Baron-another insult added to the long list of grievances against them."
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Charles Alexander Worce, former High-Exarch of Worcestershire, and Grand-General before that, growled out a question, "Thou may help me write an account my experiences in the Coalition War, where dost thou wish me to start from?"
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"The beginning would be best, sir," Harvester replied, eager to hear the tales of the Coalition War.
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Worce gave him inkwells, pens, ink remover. Both of them sat down. The Lance Corporal was poised to begin writing.
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"It was a beautiful day in 50 YBP that the Coalition War started..." Began the legendary war hero and statesman.
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