Ero, 504 years after the fall of the Seleucarian Empire. The Archons of
Ashtan gathered in the garden of Epicurus.

Not all of them were there; the meeting had been convened too quickly to
summon a full council. They were joined by a junior minister and some
aides, all looking nervously at the tall woman who stood with Epicurus.

The philosopher's smooth-voiced introduction broke the silence. "This is
Sarranda de Luiois, widow of a noble Ashtani family. She has requested
permission to address the council."

One of the archons nodded. They all turned to face the woman, who
stepped forth from beneath the shadow of the nearby elm. Sunlight fell
across her aristocratic features, highlighting the stern lines of her
high cheekbones and the glittering intensity of her green eyes. Though
dressed in humble clothing, she held herself with the bearing of a
duchess. No one doubted the truth of her status.

"Archons of Ashtan," her rich, resonant voice swelled through the
garden, full of passion and charisma, "I come to you with a dire
warning."

Her cloak billowed grandly as she raised a hand, commanding the
attention of all those present. "Mighty Ashtan rules the seas and the
lands. Ashtani ships scatter the tritonic legions, and Ashtani armies
daily march through the streets of feeble Shallam. The shrines of our
Gods pepper the countryside, and the names of our leaders are spoken in
tones of hushed awe and reverence. And yet..." she paused dramatically,
eyes flashing. "And yet... in the space of but a few short years, the
city will fall. The strength of the Ashura and the flames of the
Warlocks will be extinguished. A power has been gathering beneath our
very streets that will soon overwhelm us all. The doom of Ashtan hangs
like a black cloud over this mightiest of ancient cities, and it is a
doom that will find you all helpless as children when it comes forth."

The archons murmured. A few of the younger ministers looked anxious, but
the elders were appraising Sarranda with narrowed eyes and suspicious
faces. Skarash stepped forward: an ancient Ashuran, his face was lined
with centuries of experience in the deadly and vicious ways of Ashtani
politics. He fixed Sarranda with a stare such as a tiger might give to a
fieldmouse.

"What basis do you have to say such things, woman? Tread carefully. The
council of Ashtan will not tolerate grandstanding and fear-mongering. If
you waste our time, it will go hard with you."

Slightly cowed, Sarranda responded swiftly. "For centuries now, archons,
the Occultists of Ashtan have been gathering karmic power beneath the
city. They work relentlessly, focusing this Chaotic energy into a single
object: the Living Book of Eschaton. They hope to gather the forces that
will prove the undoing of ordered reality. I have seen it in my scryings
and rituals. It has been established as a certainty in the divinitory
spheres. We all know beyond doubt what Chaos is and what it intends. The
council must take action to protect the city."

The archons conferred amongst themselves, then informed Sarranda that
they would take her concerns into consideration. The final decision was
ultimately that of least resistance: the council did nothing.

Sarranda was not balked, however. Within a few short weeks, she was
spotted again, delivering a fierce speech to a group of interested
onlookers in the market. The content was much the same, but with one new
element; she declared that the council was corrupt, manipulated by
Occultists, and that it was the duty of every loyal Ashtani to rise up
against the archons.

Events culminated one night while the Warlock archon Erhon was lingering
in one of the city's shops with a small retinue. Someone outside shouted
a slogan against the council. A rock flew in, breaking a window. A
second followed, striking the archon bluntly on the temple.

It was a mistake. Erhon was among the eldest of Ashtan's councillors,
second in status and prestige only to Skarash. He had reigned as
Overseer for over a century, and he was a man accustomed to power. He
did not appreciate being struck in the head by a stone.

Erhon stalked out into the market to be confronted by an astonishing
scene. The stalls and byways were crowded with hundreds of Ashtani
citizens. They were all gathered around the figure of a lone woman
standing atop a pile of crates. It was Sarranda. For a long moment she
and Erhon exchanged cold, silent glares over the sea of Ashtani. Then,
with a defiant gesture, she lifted her arm and pointed dramatically at
the old Warlock.

"Behold, people of Ashtan, your deceiver! Behold, people of Ashtan, one
of the weak-minded archons who has been corrupted by the tainting
influence of the Occultists! Behold your enemy, people of Ashtan! Rise
up! Rise up!"

The crowd roared, angry passion surging through them in swelling waves.
Shouts rang out: "Down with the council!" and "Death to the Overseer!"
and "Restore the monarchy! Hail Queen Sarranda!"

Erhon was undeterred. He stalked through the crowd, none of whom were
yet ready to strike his intimidating figure. His harsh voice barked out
furiously over their roar, silencing them, as he moved toward Sarranda's
position.

"Silence, witch! Silence, traitor! Will Ashtan be undone by a penniless
scion of a lesser house? Will our great city be overthrown by a maddened
demagouge and her tricks? Not while I live! Cease with your lies and
your venom!"

Meanwhile, Erhon's supporters rallied. More shouts were exchanged, the
crowd became more agitated, and a haze of bloodlust descended. At last
violence broke out, and chaos erupted in the markets. It didn't last
long; the city guards came swiftly, and the crowd scattered. When the
dust had settled, Sarranda was gone.

She had not gone far, however, and the horror of the night had only just
begun. Just as Erhon and his party were catching their breath, her voice
rang out through the streets and allies of Ashtan. Filled with force and
strength, it resonated with a lilting cadence that struck a chord of
terrifying familiarity in the hearts of the city's scholars. It would
never be proven that Sarranda augmented her orations with mind-bending
magics, but the dreams of those who heard her on that night would be
troubled for years thereafter.

"People of Ashtan!" She intoned. "The council has now turned against you
with violence! Now the archons will murder you for denouncing them! Now
they will shed your blood and rend your flesh for challenging the
Occultists! Rise, Ashtan! Rise! Do to the council as you did to the
kings and queens of old! Do to the council as you did to the disgraced
knights of the Iron Citadel!"

Throngs of enraged citizens surged through the city, smashing windows
and roaring in a wild frenzy. Erhon's attempts to calm them had no
effect, and he retreated to the city's conclave. After a brief
conference with his advisors, his voice rang out on the city's
telepathic channel: "I am declaring martial law. This uprising ends
here. Quell the mob and bring that witch to me."

The Knights of the Illuminati entered the streets, the heavy sound of
their marching boots filling the air. The crowds retreated before them,
cowed by the sight of the armoured warriors. An uneasy peace descended
on the city.

Erhon stood tall and stern in the great hall of the city's conclave,
surrounded by ministers and aides. A loud creak accompanied the opening
of the conclave's doors, and a group of knights marched in, their armour
spattered with blood. Between them walked a slender figure, her hands
bound behind her back. It was Sarranda. The knights marched her across
the room, forcing her down to kneel before Erhon. She stare cold, silent
defiance at him, her will unbroken despite her defeat.

"She will have a trial. This is Ashtan, and she is a citizen. Let us
convene a court and decide her fate."

The words were hardly out of Erhon's mouth when a scream of rage filled
the chamber. One of the younger ministers present, a man named Fauscht,
stepped forward, his face flushed with rage. "She has brought bloodshed
and division to our city! She does not deserve a trial! She must die!"

Fauscht launched himself at the bound figure, weapons flashing. Before
the knights had a chance to react, she was dead.

Cold fury blazed in Erhon's eyes. "Fauscht, you fool! You have made a
martyr of her! You are stripped of all office and cast out from this
city." He waved to the knights. "Kill him. I declare him an enemy of
Ashtan."

Within seconds, Fauscht's corpse lay next to that of Sarranda. But it
was too late. The news of Sarranda's death spread through the city like
wildfire, shouted from one rooftop to the next: "The council has
executed Sarranda! Sarranda has been slain for speaking against the
Occultists! Ashtan is in the hands of tyrants!"

A half hour of eerie silence followed, but the air hung charged with the
sort of tension that only precedes the most devastating of storms.
Novice aides flew into action, evacuating all of the young and
inexperienced from the city. The resolute Knights of the Illuminati
assembled in stern formation under the watchful eye of Erhon, and, from
the lowest slum to the highest palace, the city braced itself.

The storm, when it came, was more awesome and terrible than anything in
living memory. Throngs of enraged Ashtani swarmed into the streets and
roads of the city bearing torches and crude weapons, spreading violence
and mayhem wherever they went. Anyone caught outside alone was butchered
instantly. Homes were destroyed, shops were looted, and screams of rage
mingled with screams of anguish. It wasn't long before fires broke out,
great orange flames dancing up from the city's skyline to lick at the
underbellies of the dark clouds that hung overhead.

Erhon and the present members of the city's government remained
fortified in the conclave, barring the doors. The Captain of the
Illuminati requested orders, saying: "The knights stand ready to crush
the mob with force at your order, archon."

Erhon's voice was full of iron.

"Do it."

And it was done. The armoured knights closed ranks and pressed into the
city, accompanied by a powerful cohort from the city's army. Screams
rang out, followed by loud crashes, and the sounds of heavily one-sided
combat filled the streets. The fighting continued for hours, but the end
was not in question. When it was over, hundreds of bodies littered the
streets, and the mob was gone, fled back into their homes to lick their
wounds and consider their losses.

The next day, beneath the trees of a far-away forest, the slim figure of
Sarranda emerged from the cave of Maya, restored to life by the power of
the Great Mother.

One of the servants who awaited her approached to speak: "You have been
exiled from the city, m'lady, and your property has been seized by the
council. The Dowager Montagenet has placed a curse on your soul to
prevent you from rising should you die a second time."

Sarranda nodded. She had expected no less. "Very well. Our work in
Ashtan can progress no further."

"Where to, mistress?"

Sarranda smiled.

"Petra."

Penned by My hand on the 18th of Ero, in the year 511 AF.