AURÉNTAL: Saeculum Dolore, Saeculum Natum
CHAPTER 1. Escape in the Night
Nighttime silence shrouded the lands of Aurental, but there was no peace in that silence. War between the noble houses ravaged the country like a plague, claiming dozens of lives each day. Peasants trembled at every rustle in the forest—for any sound could hide marauders, a punitive squad, or yet another band of mercenaries.
Even the sky seemed to have turned away from these accursed lands. The king, once the formidable protector of his domain, now either could not or would not intervene in feuds that did not touch him personally. Rumors multiplied like mushrooms after rain, and faith in the crown crumbled more each day.
Late autumn was surrendering to a brutal winter. An icy wind lashed their faces, leaving crimson streaks on skin. But for two young women from the kingdom's most powerful families, there was no road back anymore.
Vivien Burnside and Pauline Lenz trudged through the snow-laden forest, leaving behind everything they once called home. Their decision was reckless—defying fate, tradition, and the fear of the unknown. But what awaited them at home? Torture, a public execution for the nobles' entertainment?
"Torture, execution for the amusement of the entire nobility… Shall I go on?" Vivien broke twigs nervously as she pushed through the thicket. Her voice trembled with fatigue and despair.
Pauline didn't even turn. Her steps remained confident, though her hands betrayed a slight shake.
"Who forced you to follow me?" she flung coldly over her shoulder. "If you want to go back—turn around before it's too late. Either we'll reach the city and secure an audience with the king, or we remain pawns in others' games. And I'm not about to let myself be used."
The conversation ran dry. It was hard to believe that only yesterday they had been childhood friends. Now each thought only of her own survival.
The Lenz and Burnside houses were intertwined by centuries of alliances and betrayals. In wartime, their positions as matriarchies had become especially precarious—ancient traditions interested few when power itself was at stake.
House Lenz embodied light and order. Their banner—golden, woven with the rays of the morning sun and trimmed with silver thread—bore the symbol of an undying flame. That flame burned not only on cloth, but in the hearts of their warriors, granting them strength and righteousness. Its glow was a beacon for those lost in darkness, a reminder that truth always illuminates the path.
House Burnside was renowned for deadly allure and political cunning. Their green banner, a deep emerald hue like a drop of poison on velvet, repelled and attracted at once. On it writhed a serpentine emblem—elusive, dangerous, beautiful. For some it was a warning, for others—a temptation. Their house wove intrigues as deftly as a weaver crafts an exquisite tapestry: subtly, elegantly, and with deadly precision.
House Rainild prided itself on its natural bond with the land. Their banner shimmered in shades of blue and ochre, depicting rivers and fields cloaked in morning mist. It evoked a breath of fresh air amid the dust of war. At its center—a stylized whirlpool, symbolizing the endless flow of life, fertility, and rebirth. This house was respected for its generosity and endurance—yet underestimated for its humility.