The city of Cain was a small but powerful city-state that rested just off the coast of Jordan’s fall. It was a mixed-race city to a degree, but it favoured humanity; however, political pressure from the surrounding elf and dwarven nations put pressure on the city-state. Cain is where we find the father of Anna and Kalvan: the twins.

A fire was barely holding a flame, a small log rested in the stone fireplace, and the soft glow of red and orange cast out into the darkness of the room. Above the mantle of the finely worked stone hearth was a family painting of two small children, and behind them was a younger version of the old man sitting before the fire. The old man sat in a well-crafted, high-back, red velvet chair outlined in golden trim, and he bent forward looking deep into the flames. With a deep breath, he drank the rest of the whiskey in his crystal glass, and reached over to the side table, grabbing a letter from it. One he had read a dozen times over by now.

His little Anna was dead.

The only person he trusted in this world.

Taking the empty crystal glass in hand, he threw it against the family painting, and a loud crack as the glass hit the stone behind the artwork. As the result, the painting was ripped into ribbons.

He began to cry. His whole body shaking with tears, his large hands cupping his face, covering them in snot and fluids. Crying out, and cursing the gods, cursing himself, but most of all cursing his son.

It could have been five minutes, it could have been 5 hours, he did not know, but he finally got hold of himself. The fire had died, with a flick of his hand, and passing of energy from his ring, the hearth was refilled, and flames crackled again casting the room once more into the light. A shadow moved in the back of the room.

“What is it that you want?” The grieving father demanded. Reached out with his left hand and snapped two fingers together causing lights to come alive.

“I bring word from the front, my lord,” the shadow tried to speak respectfully but it was hard when an invisible hand was crushing your airways.

“I do not care to be disturbed until dawn,” the father’s voice stated but relaxed the spell closing off the scout’s airway.

“It is dawn, it is dawn in Calvary.”

“Fine, fine. Speak.” The old man sits down in his chair and investigates the flames, again. The scout shifted to the right-hand corner of the room, facing the chair.

“Our scouts report that the Orc forces have moved out of the village area, and seem to be moving into the mountains again, but when we try to follow no one comes back. Also, we came across a few dead villagers we have reason to believe were Iron Legion spies.”

There was a pause, but the lord waved his hand for the scout to continue. Taking another breath, he wished to have never entered into that agreement. When that stranger entered that cursed town, he should have acted. He began to rub his temples. He needed another drink.

“Yes, yes, my lord. As for your son, he joined with some locals and raced off into the mountains looking for the ones that sent that ogre-boar hybrid into the village.”

“With any luck, the gods will take away the broken child and give me back my angel,” he whispered to himself, finding a second crystal glass and filling it with more whiskey. “What of our allies?”

“They have made their way in force up the river valley in the east and should be in place as planned. To search for the Keep and this Red Queen.”

The shadow creature was a summon of the lord. The shadow knew that if he spoke out of turn, he would be crushed just as easily as the glass in his hand. However, the creature knew that his man had made a deal with the devil, so to speak, and it was going to destroy him. If the shadow could smile at the death of this overpowered, fat human, it would, but it could not and laughed to itself.

The lord stood up from his chair. His whiskey bottle was empty, and he was tired of sitting around here all day. "Time to make some plans."

If he was going to save his city from the dwarf and elf pond-filth, he needed to find this power in the north.

Not bothering to look at the shadow, “Tell my scouts to leave the village. Go, find my son. He is my only hope to salvage something.” The shadows of the room seemed to bow as one. Reaching out with his left hand, he shifted the ripped painting, looked at the golden switch behind, and gave it a little flick. Gears began to turn, the fireplace turned, and he was in a red room. The crack in the stone was still there from when his fist lashed out in rage.