Author's Note: The toils of a few years of work lie in this document. -- Yes, this thing is long and stupid, but... there are people who want to read it and I'll upload it (slowly, as I'm lazy and it takes me forever to type stuff) for them. ;) Thanks to everyone who ever edited any of this, or listened to me talk about it with no real idea as to the story itself. Yearrr. Other than that, this is a heavily rewritten version and is still subject to edits and revisions, so... mhm... without any further babbling...

The Brokenlands

Prologue

He ran.

Over the hot ground and past the fields of flame, he sprinted, stumbled, staggered—and not far behind, someone followed.

The black land spread out around him, wreathed in flame and fire to the horizon, where volcanoes vomited a veil of ash to the sky. Even with his speed he tread carefully—a simple misstep or falter would send him headlong off the rocky pathway and into the fire. His black hair stuck to his forehead with perspiration, stung his eyes, nearly blinded him.

But he could see the horizon, and the river.

The boy held his breath—the river—

In the moment he lost his concentration a burst of white-hot steam shot up from a gap in the earth beside him, and he threw up his arms, flailed, and balanced himself. Blinking, he saw that the fabric of his cloak had been seared and blackened.

But there was no time, the river was so close—clear blue water ran along the jagged end of Cronan's barren landscape, growing wider in his vision with every step he took, and beyond, the empty lands of western Andras.

For a moment the boy paused, staring ahead past his own kingdom and into unknown lands, forbidden lands—Andras, the Sky Kingdom.

Coward, you coward—something tugged at him inside, pulled him back into the jaws of Cronan, back to the fire and smoke, his home. He stood there a long while, caught at the threshold between two paths to death. Bitterly, he laughed.

Where to go?

He had traveled all night to get here, running most of the way—exhaustion weighed heavily upon his body and mind, and momentarily he considered lying down, falling asleep, waiting for someone to find the poor prince who'd fled to the border of his own kingdom in a fit of panic and return him to his throne. He could almost hear their laughter.

Coward.

A figure stood down the path the boy had come—tall, clothed in a thick, royal cloak and crowned. Smiling. The boy's red eyes widened, and he took a step back towards the river, expecting the figure to advance upon him. He did not.

The figure held out his hand: come to me, return to me.

But the boy snarled, turned, and ran to the river—he did not look back. He ran until the jagged hills, the volcanoes and the fire were all behind him and the cool water around him. Never before had he seen so much water, and he clawed in panic to the surface. The current carried him, but the boy's fingers found the riverbank and he pulled himself onto the bank, coughing, dripping, wiping black hair from his eyes.

Shivering, he looked back across the river. The man stood there, closer now—the boy realized with a shiver that he could have caught him if he'd wanted. Yet he simply stood there, still smiling.

“Falkon has fled, then,” the man called, and a tone of amusement leaked into his voice. “and to Andras!”

But the boy ignored him, pulling himself away from the black, muddy riverbank and to the sand above it. He let it sift through his fingers, and through the falling sand he saw the landscape of Andras—black here, like Cronan, but in the distance, he could make out the tiny shapes of trees, and beyond, the silver-white mountains of Andras rose high above the clouds. The Sky Kingdom, the City Above.

And with dread he came to fully realize what he'd done.

“I await your return.”

Back across the river, the man, still smiling and confident, turned and strode back into the flame.

---

The Riverguard of Andras snored, though no one was anywhere close enough to hear it. He had been sleeping until a voice jolted him to attention: it's Captain Shias, he thought in panic, I'm going to be scolded for sleeping on duty. He leaped to his feet, blurted an apology—yet the watchtower was empty.

The voice, he realized, had come from outside—across the river.

He tensed, and waited a moment, distrusting of his own senses. But the voice came again.

Throwing open the wooden window, the Riverguard leaned out and peered around. In the distance, the black hills of Cronan loomed, and even here he could taste the ash in the air, but he could not see the owner of the voice.

A dream, perhaps—I did have an ale earlier...

Something moved near the riverbank.

A small figure crawled up the slope, soaked and wearing nothing but a torn cloak and a pair of tattered pants. He struggled along the ground, shaking all over, and then collapsed in a heap. The Riverguard waited for him to move again, but the boy remained still, unconscious. Terrified and uncertain, the Riverguard looked away.

A Demon, he thought with throat-wrenching dread, a Demon has entered Andras.

He staggered down the stairs of the little tower—he would fetch the captain at the next tower, not far down the river.

But for a moment, he stopped a distance away from the riverside foreigner—the Riverguard could not tear his gaze from the boy's grotesque black wings.

---

End Note: mumbles This first part is meant to be a little odd. --; It'll make sense later. Really.