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  “If you shall indulge me for just this one moment. Let me tell you a story. Allow me to do more than paint a picture. I would like to tell you a story, child.

  This is not another story of myths and legends from olden times. This is a story of no other that tells of the heroes of tomorrow and the legends whose journeys start today, young child.

  We often live in a realm where the voices of harmony and reason are scattered throughout our world's tiniest parts of the burrows. They are often shallowed out and castrated by the glaring evil forces that grow weary of their ascension. Many men cherish a time of peaceful contentment. And with those many men, they often praise for those days to be everlasting. As so is life. May I be the one to say, it would be easier to live in a world of simple peace. It would, but it isn’t impossible. But that is what makes our heroes of tomorrow, little one.

  In any world or story, there is a contractual point that begins our tale, so be this very one…”

  A wise elderly man dressed in ancient white robes continued in his heavenly monotoned speech. He wasn’t a very frail nor bulky man. The man had lived a long life already and had seen the good and the ugly. His smile never showed that. Instead, it showed a man who was still looking towards the future for a newfound hope that was yet to come. He leaned back in his chair with a pipe rested between his lips.

  Amid a rose garden, the light of deities shined the brightest. This magical place was where the endless days of happiness mentioned in the tales that men spoke of were found. The elder stood in a small garden with healthy grass sprouting out from the grounds, next to a stone trail. The man looked to the water foundation in the center of the garden, just where a child sat crisscrossed listening to the story.

  “No one is perfect. Not even the gods,” the elder man muttered to the child. The child lapsed in panic and disbelief.

  “Not even the gods are perfect?!” he anxiously asked.

  “No, no, no! Gods are meant to simply protect the people they see over. We are to love them past exhaustion. We guide them. That is who we are. And this is when our story of the Lotus Wars began.”

  The child cried out, “The Lotus Wars?”

  “Ah, yes. A trivial time of the present. Here, let me paint the picture.” The elderly man scooted over to make room for the child to sit down. The young boy sat and watched as the elderly man used his free hand to sparkle up blue magic. This magic conjured within the water fountain like a puppet show. The child's eyes shot up, as the man's voice cleared.

  “A time ago, the gods of the realms wanted to create peace, peace for humanity, where no violence was needed, no trivial battles. Instead, it would be a world of love. People would love this world. Thus, the Lotus Blade was created. It was a powerful weapon of harmony that would ensure the prosperity of peace in all realms.

  At the beginning of time, the Lotus Blade took the shape of the Lotus Crystal in the sky, becoming our sun, a beacon of hope. For the first five hundred years, the world was peaceful, truly. People lived amongst themselves in harmony. Nations were built by helping hands and races multiplied to endure the new realm. This is what the Lotus Blade created. Its soul blessed the world.

  But it failed to bless the entire world. The shining crystal of hope was decimated and tainted by the embers of hatred. The Night Empress Altira and her followers, gods of their own, wanted to manipulate the soul of the blade for their power. To usurp the gods of the realm.”

  “And did they?” The child asked.

  The elderly man looked into the eyes of the boy and smiled brightly. “So far, yes.”

  “The Lotus Blade lost its soul to the Night Empress's revolution and the fallen Lotus Crystals’ beacon was no more. Darkness now had risen from the ashes. Reapers, wraiths, goblins, and monsters of all kinds arose from the ashes and tried to destroy the realms. The time for peace was over. The balance of peace was out of order. And it finally came time for the Lotus Blade to become its true power, a much darker one. It was one that yearned for a true soul to replace its lost one.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  For years, the blade has searched for a vessel to manipulate and take as a host. But it could only take a certain soul: a vessel tainted by the shards of the crystal. A soul turned into darkness, where the absence of a true soul wasn’t theirs but the Lotus Blades. This forebearer would be called Diborn, the sons and daughters of the blade, the ones who could decide the fate of the world. Seen much like monsters, they choose to stay in balance of all things.”

  The fountain painted a picture of a strong warrior holding a longsword with mythical powers resonating from its blade. Warriors behind the leader began to form into a large tower of dark liquid standing tall behind the warrior.

  “The Diborn were the balance of all things. And only they can destroy this world or save it from the blade alone,” the elderly man said to the young boy. The child sat confused and unsure of what to say.

  “So, Diborn are heroes and monsters?”

  The man laughed, this time embracing the youth of the boy. “And within every monster lies a child who once dreamed of many things. There is hope for even the scariest of beings in this world. But that is for another time. Because your story is now. So, let me set the stage for you…”

  “In the first Lotus Wars, the Diborn were neither monsters nor heroes, they were the equivalents, the ones who would change the world. And that is what the Lotus Wars are, a war for change. Whether good or evil is yet to behold. However–”

  The scribe paused for a moment as his eyes averted to the corner of the rose garden, where a tall male sat between a lion statue, with his arms folded over each other. The scribe's face brightened at the man who now stood firm as they made eye contact. The elder scribe rose up silently from the bench, patting the young boy’s shoulders. “Look who it is, little one,” the scribe said as he walked over to the man by the statue.

  “Darius… my old friend.” The elder scribe chuckled. “Bless Altira, I figured this urchin be of Hera’s.” The scribe wrapped his arms around the man who answered back with a glimmering grin.

  The man known as Darius Marshall responded, “Parcalynx. It has been all too long. I see you still bore the youth with your chronicles.” Darius stepped away to examine the elder. “You seem well. All to it, Eura isn’t as eerie and exhausting as it seems for one of your age.”

  “Dad!” the child shouted, hugging Darius at his hips. “There you are. I lost you.”

  Compared to his son, Darius was overly dressed. His tunic and leather pants were made of the finest golden silk to match the tar color of his clothes. The child clumsily stepped over his newly fashioned black slippers, as the man laughed hugging his son. He and the child wore their braids the same, cushioned behind their necks all be it.

  Darius stroked his beard before responding. “Twas you who was lost, Omar. Not I,” Darius explained. His fingers snapped for a servant. “Do not lose yourself again. Stay with the servant. I will be back soon,” he ordered his child.

  The servant took the boy away, leaving the two men in the garden alone. Both Darius and Parcalynx began lapping the corridor leading to the garden. The air breathed of new life, as the torches on the wall lit as they walked by them. Darius paced at Parcalynx’s slower speed with his hands behind his back.

  “How are the children and Hera…?” Parcalynx questioned in a low tone. “It seems to be ages since I was to sit in front of her beauty. A magnificent woman you chose to wed.”

  Darius cackled, dropping his head to the floor in embarrassment. “We’re all fine. Although, Hera and I have separated for a little time. Still, till death do us part. It’s temporary.”

  Parcalynx pondered for a moment before responding to Darius, who focused more on the garden than the topic. “I see… I take Malakai’s leave is what caused this? Smuggling as a Buccaneer is a dangerous and rebellious lifestyle.”

  Darius’s lip trembled, losing his words. The roses in the garden transformed from their blood red to a sorrowful blue, hanging down on their bushes as the men passed by. Darius shut his eyes for a moment, while Parcalynx turned concerned.

  “I apologize, my friend…” Parcalynx muttered. “Forgive me.”

  Darius clenched his jaw, letting out a painful breath, “No.” He waved his hand in front of him. “It is all but the past. Malakai acts as if he is not a Marshall. He was given everything and turned it away. Maeve stays with her mother during the semesters of Belkos. Omar and Jai came with me. To be fair, it has been years since our nest faltered, and I am all but unsure what comes now with our family.”

  Parcalynx awkwardly nodded his head. “That it has. That it has.”

  “So, what of you?” Darius asked. Both men returned to the garden bench. The young boy, Omar, joined back up with Parcalynx with two servants following behind with a plate holding two teacups. The servants cautiously poured drinks for the men.

  “I am retiring,” Parcalynx whispered, shrugging his shoulders. Darius nearly spat out his drink.

  “Come again?” Almost in disbelief, Darius waited for the old scribe to repeat his statement once more.

  “I have lived since the beginning of time, Darius. I am nearly eleven hundred years old. My time has long passed. Which is why you are here.” Parcalynx looked deeply into Darius’s eyes. “The gods of Eura have requested it. They ask you to be the Chronicler of Eurafalia now. Eurafalia, Edindale, Sakaria, Rokia, Glamis, Grand Bay, Eura. They would be all yours, too, to account.”

  Omar remained behind both men, his eyes dangling like little light bulbs flickering. Parcalynx held his hand out and Darius held it, shaking his head. “If the gods demand it, so be it.” He turned smiling at Omar. “We are Marshalls. Living to serve the rightful order of the world. Never forget that, my son.”