A shattered keep. Smoke leaking into the sky from broken towers. The scent of burning flesh. Broken bodies. The hollow, dead faces of friends and family.

 

A single pair of glassy eyes surveyed the carnage. Their bearer was a tall, muscular youth, standing before his home with a pack llama beside him, its fleece matted and filthy. He ran a dirty hand through his long, brown hair. In better times, the young man's family had called him Titus.

 

Something inside the boy broke. He would never know which part of him was broken, but it would never be fixed, no matter how long he lived. There would be pain lurking within his heart until the day he died. Even in the sweetest of moments - the throes of passionate love, the headrush of glorious victory, the ecstasy of drug-fueled relief - he would always know that he was broken.

 

He stumbled through the village he had once called home, heavily booted feet stained with ash and soot. A central road wended through the little village, leading to the parapet walls of a once-impenetrable fortress that had guarded their clan for uncounted generations. Few roofs remained, burned away by some all-consuming flame. Narrow alleyways peaked shyly from between broken buildings, ashamed of their failure to prevent the fire's spread. Titus tramped between scorched stone and brick wall, eyes raking over corpse and ash with equal resignation.

 

Broken bodies lined the street, empty eyes staring out from dead faces. There was Hanno, the baker. He had made the best flat-bread in a hundred miles. How many times had Titus tasted that bread, fresh from the oven? How many times had he hauled flour for Hanno, his only payment the taste of a fresh batch of Baklawa? And there was beautiful Beatrice, Palaestrio's widow. The woman's face was torn in a rictus of agony, her tunic in tatters about her body.

 

Titus shuddered as he trudged onward, trying to erase the image of her bloody body from his mind, praying that her death had been swifter than he feared. Names flashed through his mind, faces that would never smile again. There was Apidicus, the thatcher. Elder Adonis, eyes torn from their sockets. Cousin Sulla's head, lying upon the ground with lips stretched into a hideous grin.

 

Titus latched his eyes onto the ground in front of him. His stomach surged. His eyes burned. His stride shrank into a shuffle, each step an effort. His mind was blank, his heart empty. He felt it was an eternity before he at least reached the broken gates leading into the main Keep.

 

There would have been over two dozen men on watch, even if this had been a surprise attack. Gore soaked the dirt before the gate, though most of the bodies had been cleared away. What few bodies remaining had been stripped of their armour and left to rot.

 

Titus's eyes locked onto the keep, its once proud stone walls now rent into pieces. Stone bricks were strewn across the courtyard as though cast aside by the hand of a giant. Billows of smoke drifted lazily from the heart of the keep, but Titus knew that no fire could harm the Keep's true treasure.

 

As the boy entered the courtyard, the dirty llama beside him started to pull on her lead, gurgling sadly. He turned toward her, looking at her travel-worn fleece for a moment before softly stroking her neck and whispering into her ear,” it's okay, Pulkra. You don't have to go any farther.” At the sound of his voice, the distressed animal stopped pulling at him, allowing him to tie her lead off on a nearby fencepost. Titus leaned his head against her cheek. He found solace in her. She was his last and only companion.

Inhaling the scent of death, the young warrior steadied himself.

 

Heavy boots scraped against firm stone as Titus stepped into the broken keep. A steely resolve smoldered beneath his grey eyes as he strode purposefully into the keep. At the center of the great hall sat a terrifying skeleton, a large pile of rotting flesh at its feet. Flies buzzed about the mound of rotted meat. The smell was indescribably horrible. Only once in the boy's life had he smelt something so wretched, in circumstances only less horrible because they had happened to someone else.

 

The huge skeleton sat rigidly, its back straight and hands laying regally on each arm-rest. Bits of gristle clung to its mighty frame, though its features were indistinguishable.

Titus didn't need to recognize a face to know who this was. It could only be Scypio, the largest man in the whole of the Branch. Weathered war leader. Skilled hunter. Victor of a thousand battles. Slayer of monsters. Savior of countless men, women, and children over the course of decades. Dead.

 

Scypio had been the only Blooded warrior at home when the attack came. How many times had Titus been taught by this legend of a man? How many lessons had the boy learned? How many times had Scypio knocked him on his ass, only to help him back up? Memories played across the screen of Titus's mind. Behind his eyes, he saw Scypio's toothy grin. His ears heard Scypio's rasping voice. Titus felt nothing.

 

The massive skeleton sat upon a mighty throne - a coal-black seat crafted from the scales of hundreds of slain Var'shun. It was the symbol of the Clan's countless victories, emblazoned upon their armor and stitched into the banners that flew overhead. But now the armor had been stolen, looted by whatever unnamed wretch had orchestrated this attack. The banners had been burned. The symbols destroyed. All that remained was the throne itself - a sad reminder of victories long past.

 

Titus strode past Scypio, eyeing his path carefully. Ashen bootprints covered the whole of the great hall. He knew in his heart that whoever had attacked them couldn't have found it - only a Blooded warrior would know where it was, and Scypio would die a thousand times before betraying the Tribe's secrets.

 

There were few corpses inside the Keep, most of the Branch's militia having fallen in the courtyard. Nonetheless, the young warrior was deliberate with each step, careful not to further desecrate his fallen people.

 

He made his way into the back of the great hall, down a steep flight of winding stairs. Soon, sunlight no longer penetrated the holes in the wall, and he was forced to light a fire of his own. Titus bent his elbow and raised an index finger, conjuring a thimble of harsh flame mere inches from his finger. Weak light battled against the darkness, casting the whole staircase in shades of grey.

Roughly 10 steps down, Titus began singing. His voice quavered slightly with each step, a gradually strengthening tenor that bounced off the cold, grey walls.

 

The words came to him easily enough, for he had sung this song a thousand times. It was The Guardian's Song. Every Guardian's Song was unique - it spoke of The Tribe's victories and defeats. It spoke of heroes long dead. It spoke of fathers and grandfathers, of mothers and grandmothers. It spoke of the Architect, and the sacred charge he had given to The Tribe.

 

The final verse was his own. It was the tale of his Clan and his Keep, his family and his teachers. It ended with his own victory, the slaying of the Var'shun Lion; he had made himself a Blooded warrior that day, one of only a handful in the Clan. That was the day he became a Guardian like his father, a protector of the people against the monsters that lurked in the night. That was the day he had earned his armour.

 

As the final words left Titus's lips, he paused on the staircase. Turning toward a wall on his left, Titus raised both hands and pressed his palms against the wall. Closing his eyes, he breathed deep, focussing his mind on each palm. With a sharp grunt, Titus sent a blast of flame from each palm into the wall. Instead of rebounding off the wall, though, the flame sank into the seams between each stone brick. A dull rumble reverberated through the air as a narrow passageway revealed itself in the stone, unlocked by The Guardian's Song and The Guardian's Flame.

 

The last time Titus had come here, that sight had torn a giddy laugh from his throat. This time, however, his heart was empty and his face was blank. With nary a moment to breathe, he stepped into the passageway, and marched firmly onward. It wended along for ten metres or so, twisting several times.

 

After several seconds of walking, the youthful warrior trudged out into a massive chamber. Walking into the chamber felt like walking into an oven, hot air striking his face like a physical blow, but he knew that its inhabitant reveled in the heat.

 

Titus's dead eyes raked across the room, taking in the sight of the Song Forge, the Keep's greatest treasure. The scent of sweat and oil and hot steel coloured the air. The forge and bellows dominated the center of the room, though the forge was dead - in all likelihood, this was the first time the forge had gone out in a hundred years. Various racks held tools, freshly forged by the Keep's Steel-singer. A half-forged lump of steel lay on an anvil, its surface looking rumpled as though it had been kneaded by a baker. On the opposite end of where Titus stood, a doorway led deeper underground. A great trove of iron, bronze, and various other metals was carefully sorted in one corner of the chamber, a store of metal greater than most royal smiths could boast of

.

Incredible wealth was arrayed across this chamber, if one had eyes to see it, but Titus's eyes were drawn invariably to a pair of wooden mannequins pushed against the back wall. One wore the traditional scale cuirass of a Custos militia-man, a masterwork of armor that outstripped what many Noble Lords could boast. And there - right there, on the right!

 

Titus reached out, his hairy hands tracing the edges of the armour. A ghost of a smile slid across his face before disappearing into the pit of nothing that was Titus's heart. This was the armour he had earned when he slew the Var'shun Lion. He was to receive it upon returning from his last hunt.

 

It was a complete suit of steel plate, a marvel of craftsmanship that none but a Custos Steelsinger could hope to forge. Its value was greater than a horde of jewels. It had been tailored to his precise measurements, built specifically to fit his body like a glove. Each joint was coated with plates, intricately interwoven so as not to impede movement. The breastplate curved gracefully, projecting just far enough forward to deflect stabbing spears and arrows. A slanted script danced along the edge of each gauntlet, recounting in classical calligraphy the tale of Titus's battle with the Var'shun Lion. For a blooded warrior, his armour was his life. His greatest victories were inscribed upon it by a Steel-singer, imbuing the Armour with a life of its own. This was Titus's inheritance.

 

The young Guardian pulled his hand back in a moment's hesitation. If the Song Forge was unlooted, then that meant...

 

“Clopay!” the dead-eyed Guardian shouted,” are you here? Did you survive?”

 

There was a crash and a yelp from behind a door on the far end of the chamber. A latch clicked. The door slammed open.

 

Standing in the doorway was a squat, swarthy man - barely taller than five feet - clad in naught but an apron and a thick pair of boots. Curly, black hair coated a powerful body, and a heavy set of eyebrows weighed down a wrinkled face. Clopay squinted at Titus, piercing black eyes peering into the boy's soul. There was little warmth in those eyes.

 

“So,” Clopay grunted,” you're the first Guardian to come home.” Sorrow weighed Clopay's shoulders down as he stepped into the room. “And tell me, was it you who brought them? Did you sell us out for a fistful of silver?” Heavily callused hands clenched at Clopay's sides for a moment, then relaxed. “No, no... yours wouldn't be the first face I saw if we had been betrayed. No, I'd already be dead.”

 

“Everyone is dead,” Titus's voice was monotone and hollow. A tinge of sympathy coloured Clopay's gaze.

 

“Aye, boy. I'd have joined the fighting, but duty bade me stay. We didn't know they were coming until they were already upon the Keep. Didn't want to risk opening the passageway. You know why.”

 

Titus nodded,” aye,” he murmured. He knew he should have been angry. Or sad. Perhaps he should have hunted for his parents in the vain hope that they had survived. Perhaps he should have asked Clopay if anyone had hidden here with him. But the young man knew better. Hope is for fools.

 

Titus's dead, grey eyes met Clopay's. “I don't know what to do.”