For all our wonderful readers and to celebrate the crazy pre-order success of "Rise of the Storm Lord" and reaching #1 New Release on Amazon Day 1 of the pre-order, We have decided to give you a sneak peek at Chapter One!
Chapter One
Scribe
Harrison had always been a man of words, not of actions. Born into a family of scribes, he grew up surrounded by parchment and ink, his world confined to the quiet corners of libraries and study halls. His father, a renowned historian, had instilled in him a love for stories and a respect for the power of the written word. From an early age, Harrison learned that the pen could be mightier than the sword, that knowledge was a weapon as sharp as any blade.
In the kingdom of Aetura, scribes were highly valued, yet often overlooked. They were the silent observers, the recorders of history, their contributions hidden behind the names of kings and warriors. Harrison accepted this role with humility, finding solace in the anonymity of his craft. He preferred the company of books to people, the structured order of the written word to the chaos of the outside world.
One fateful evening, Harrison found himself in a bustling tavern, seeking warmth and shelter from a sudden downpour. The air was thick with the scent of ale and roasted meat, the chatter of patrons filling the room. As he settled into a corner with his meal, his attention was drawn to a traveling bard standing by the hearth, his voice rising above the din.
The bard began to weave a tale of the Conquering Storm, a figure whose name alone commanded respect and awe. Harrison listened intently as the bard spoke of Jerith Al'Sut, the Storm Lord, his exploits in battle, and his unyielding determination. The bard's words painted a vivid picture of a man forged in the fires of adversity, a leader whose strength was matched only by his ruthlessness.
As the bard's tale reached its climax, a group of Sutian soldiers, visibly inebriated, began to jeer and shout. They were loud and boisterous, their voices filled with a mix of pride and reverence. "He was one of us!" one of them proclaimed, slamming his tankard on the table. "Jerith Al'Sut wasn't always a king or a Storm Lord. He was like us! A true Sutian!"
Another soldier, his eyes glazed with drink, nodded fervently. "Al'Sut means 'of the people,' you know. He rose from nothing, from the mines and the hardship. He fought for us, for our freedom. He's no conqueror. He's a hero, a liberator!"
Harrison's curiosity was piqued. He listened as the soldiers, fueled by ale and nostalgia, recounted their own stories of Jerith. They spoke of his early days, of the sacrifices he made, and the battles he fought. Their words were laced with admiration and respect, painting a picture of a man who embodied the spirit of their people.
As the night wore on, Harrison gathered bits and pieces of Jerith's story from the inebriated soldiers. He scribbled notes on scraps of parchment, his mind racing with the possibilities. There was a story here, a tale of heroism and resilience that needed to be told. He realized that Jerith Al'Sut's legacy was more than just the exploits of a conqueror; it was the journey of a man who rose above his circumstances to become a beacon of hope for his people.
Driven by a newfound sense of purpose, Harrison made up his mind. He would seek out Jerith Al'Sut and record his story. It was a daunting task, one that would take him far from the familiar comfort of his library and into a world of warriors and battles. But Harrison knew that this was his calling. The Storm Lord's tale was one of courage and determination, and Harrison was determined to capture every detail, every emotion, and every sacrifice.
As the storm outside subsided, Harrison packed his satchel with quills and parchment, his heart pounding with excitement and trepidation. He set out on a journey to Terrenholdt Castle, where he hoped to find Jerith and convince him to share his story. Little did he know that his own story was about to intertwine with the Storm Lord's, leading him on a path of discovery and transformation. Harrison the scribe was about to become a part of the history he so diligently recorded, and his life would never be the same again.
Harrison made his way to Terrenholdt Castle, the imposing structure looming in the distance as he trudged along the muddy path. The journey had been long and arduous, but his determination had not wavered. He was driven by the stories he had overheard in the tavern, the tales of Jerith Al'Sut, the Storm Lord. Now, he stood before the castle gates, his heart pounding with anticipation and trepidation.
Two guards, their expressions stern and unyielding, blocked his path. Harrison took a deep breath and approached them, clutching his satchel of quills and parchment tightly. "I seek an audience with the Storm Lord," he declared, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest.
The guards exchanged glances before one of them spoke. "Wait here," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. The other guard disappeared into the castle, leaving Harrison standing in the chill of the evening air.
Minutes felt like hours as Harrison waited, his mind racing with thoughts of the story he hoped to uncover. The rain began to fall again, softly at first, but steadily increasing. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, the dampness seeping into his bones. Just as he was beginning to doubt his decision, the guard returned, accompanied by a tall, imposing figure with silver-white hair.
"Sutori Rian," the guard announced, stepping aside to let the man pass.
Rian descended the steps, his eyes fixed on Harrison with an intensity that made the scribe's heart skip a beat. "What is your business here?" Rian demanded, his voice cold and commanding.
Harrison swallowed hard and straightened his posture. "I heard tales of the Storm Lord in a tavern," he began, choosing his words carefully. "The soldiers who spoke of him were inebriated, and I fear that some details may have been obscured. I wish to record the true story of Jerith Al'Sut, to preserve his legacy accurately."
Rian's eyes narrowed, studying Harrison with a look of disdain. "Wait right where you are," he ordered. "Do not move from this spot if you want this opportunity."
As they spoke, the rain intensified, soaking through Harrison's cloak and chilling him to the bone. Rian's lips curled into a malevolent grin. "If I return and you are not still standing in that spot, not only will you not have your story, but if you record one word that is untrue from those soldiers, you will be brought up on charges of slander."
Harrison's eyes widened as he realized the gravity of his situation. This may have been a mistake, he thought, as Rian turned and disappeared back into the castle. The rain fell harder, the wind whipping through the courtyard, but Harrison remained rooted to the spot, determined to see this through. He knew that the truth of Jerith Al'Sut's story was worth any hardship he might endure.
Harrison stood there as the rain pelted him, soaking him to the bone. His only solace was that his satchel had been conditioned and oiled until it was waterproof. His precious words were not getting wet. Inside the castle, Valeria, Commander of the Sutori, walked through winding corridors toward the throne room. Entering the room, she saw Jerith sitting on the throne with Marek standing at his side. He was speaking to one of his infantry commanders and a vizier set to take stock of Terrenholdt's resources. While most rulers left these tasks to assessors and administrators, Jerith possessed a keen intellect and oversaw everything from the military to finance himself.
As she entered, Rian and Lysa were leaned against a close wall in their perpetual state of petting and attempting to seduce one another when Rian spoke up. "Oh, Commander, I've been waiting for you. There is a scribe standing outside in the bloody rain asking to record the Storm Lord's story."
"Why is he standing in the rain instead of the entry, Rian?" Valeria asked, exasperation creeping into her voice.
Smiling broadly, he answered his commander. "Because it's funnier that way, of course."
Lysa burst out laughing. Valeria just shook her head. "I will bring Jerith the request. Go get him out of the rain."
"Come on, Commander, just a few more minutes. It's really coming down out there!" Rian protested, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
Valeria, tired of Rian's game, snapped at him. "Now, Rian, I am not in the mood to repeat myself."
"Oooooo, you're in trouble," Lysa giggled, her eyes dancing with amusement.
Rian cut his eyes toward Lysa and then snapped to attention. With a mock salute, he replied, "Yes, Commander." As he turned to walk out of the throne room, Valeria heard a "smack" and Rian yelp as Lysa slapped him on the ass.
"Gods save me from those two! They will be the death of me," Valeria muttered under her breath, then turned and walked toward the throne to deliver her report to Jerith.
Jerith looked up as Valeria approached, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "What is it, Valeria?"
"There's a scribe outside, standing in the rain, asking to record your story," Valeria explained, her tone serious. "He claims to have heard tales of you in a tavern and wants to ensure the truth is told."
Jerith leaned back in his throne, considering her words. "And why is he standing in the rain?" he asked, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Rian thought it would be amusing," Valeria replied, a note of irritation in her voice.
Jerith chuckled softly. "Very well. Bring him inside. This should be interesting."
Jerith turned to the guards and instructed them to retrieve a writing desk, quill, ink and parchment and to set it up a short distance in front of the throne. Once the desk was set up, he motined for Valeria to sit down just as the large doors to the throne room began to open.
Valeria took her seat on the Queen's throne at Jerith's side, but not before casting a stern glance at Rian, who was just re-entering the room with a thoroughly drenched Harrison in tow. The scribe shivered, water dripping from his cloak, but his eyes were filled with determination.
"Lord Jerith," Valeria announced, "this is the scribe who wishes to record your story."
The scribe, soaked to the bone and shivering from both the chill and fear, was unceremoniously brought before the thrones. His clothes clung to his frame, making him look more like a drowned rat than a man of letters. Marek, the massive Sutori warrior, stood behind the thrones, his intimidating presence adding to the scribe's palpable terror.
In the center of the hall, a small writing desk had been set up, looking out of place amidst the grandeur of the throne room. It was clear that it had been arranged specifically for this occasion.
Jerith's piercing gaze settled on the scribe, who was visibly trembling. "You wished to speak with me," Jerith said, his voice echoing through the hall like thunder. "Now you have your audience. Sit."
The scribe, taken aback by the forcefulness of Jerith's command, nervously did his best to wring as much of the storm from his person as possible before moving toward the desk. He sat down, his hands shaking as he arranged his quill and parchment.
Jerith leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Now, scribe, tell me about your request. Why do you seek to document my story?"
The scribe struggled to find his voice, his teeth chattering from the cold. "M-my Lord Storm, I am here to c-capture your story, to let the world know the true journey of Jerith Al'Sut. I... I promise to write only what you tell me without any embellishment or distortion."
Jerith studied him intently, his eyes probing for any hint of deceit. "And why should I trust you to tell it accurately, scribe? I've seen too many tales twisted by those who write them."
Swallowing hard, the scribe straightened up, trying to muster confidence. "I... I understand your concern, my Lord. But I assure you, my only aim is to document your story as faithfully and truthfully as possible. Your journey is a beacon of hope for those who still suffer under tyranny. They need to see that even the most powerful have walked a path of hardship and emerged stronger."
Jerith's expression softened slightly, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "Very well. You may stay. But know this—if I find even a hint of falsehood in your writing, you will wish you had never set foot in Terrenholdt."
The scribe nodded vigorously, his fear momentarily overshadowed by a flicker of determination. "I understand, my Lord. I will write exactly as you say, without alteration."
Valeria watched the scribe with a mix of curiosity and amusement. "He does seem determined, doesn't he, Jerith?"
Jerith glanced at her and then back at the scribe. "Then let us begin. Scribe, write this down carefully. You want to know how I rose from subjugation to power? How I became a threat to all of Eodarrin and took on the title of Storm Lord? It's a long story, but you shall hear it from me, straight from me."
The scribe readied his quill and parchment, his fear giving way to a sense of purpose as he prepared to capture the tale of Jerith Al'Sut, the Storm Lord.
Jerith leaned back, his gaze distant as he began to recount his story. "I was born into a world where power was a distant dream, something that belonged to others. My family and I were nothing more than pawns in a game played by those who ruled over us. We toiled day and night, scraping by, barely surviving. The weight of oppression hung heavy on our shoulders, and for a long time, I believed there was no escape."
He paused, his eyes darkening with the memory. "But fate has a funny way of intervening when you least expect it. One day, I stumbled upon an artifact unlike any other. It was an ancient relic, hidden away for centuries, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. I could feel its power coursing through my veins the moment I touched it. It was as if the relic chose me, and in that instant, my life changed forever."
The scribe scribbled furiously, his curiosity piqued. "An artifact, my Lord? What kind of artifact?"
Jerith's eyes narrowed as he recalled the memory. "The artifact granted me abilities beyond my wildest dreams. I could command the very elements, summoning storms and wielding lightning as if they were mere extensions of my will. With this newfound power, I knew I had the means to change my fate, to break free from the chains that bound me and my people."
He leaned forward, his eyes blazing with determination. "But there is more, scribe. There is an evil long forgotten by the world that is returning. Only by gathering all of the relics will I have the power to stop it. What I do may seem ruthless, but to save everyone—all of Aetura, not just Eodarrin—there can be no half measures. There can be no line that I cannot cross. I cannot, will not, stop until I have secured a future for all of us. A future that I know I will not be a part of because that is not my fate."
The scribe's hand trembled as he wrote, captivated by Jerith's intensity.
Jerith continued, his voice low and resolute. "The world can think of me as they will. They can brand me a monster, a villain. It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is gaining enough power to stop what is coming. So write this down, scribe. Let the world know that Jerith Al'Sut, the Storm Lord, was chosen by fate to save them from an ancient evil. Let them remember that even in the midst of the tempest, there is a man who fights for a future he will never see."
The scribe scribbled the final words with a determined hand. "Yes, my Lord. The world will know your true story."
Jerith leaned back, his gaze distant as he began to recount his tale. "I was born into a world where power was a distant dream, something that belonged to others. My family and I were nothing more than pawns in a game played by those who ruled over us. We toiled day and night, scraping by, barely surviving. The weight of oppression hung heavy on our shoulders, and for a long time, I believed there was no escape."
The scribe's quill scratched across the parchment, capturing each word with meticulous care. The grand hall seemed to fade away as Jerith's voice drew everyone into his past.
"I remember the biting cold of the morning air as I emerged from our humble dwelling, the frost clinging to the ground like a blanket of despair. The ancient castle of Ver'Sut loomed over us, its dark stone walls a constant reminder of our subjugation. The overlords, draped in the furs of extinct beasts, reveled in their wealth and power, while we, the Sutian people, labored beneath their oppressive gaze.
"Life in Ver'Sut was a brutal hierarchy of subjugation, divided into four main classes. The Braves were the strongest among us, young men and women who had the most freedom. They roamed the forests and ice fields, hunting deer, elk, bear, and seal. They were also the whalers and fishermen, braving the perilous seas to bring back food. But this freedom came at a high price. Each Brave had a daily quota to meet, not only to sustain our villages but also to feed the wealthy nobles and foreign dignitaries drawn to Ver'Sut's capital by its rich mineral trade.
"The Serfs were the tradesmen and crafters, the backbone of the capital's domestic life. Women and young boys, too frail for harder labor, became cooks, tailors, wet nurses, and housekeepers. Their lives were a constant cycle of servitude, often traded and sold like livestock. Tales of their mistreatment were common, with many young Serfs falling victim to the whims of so-called nobles or foreign dignitaries. Yet, even this existence was preferable to that of the Thralls and Debtors.
"Thralls were the most feared class among us, for to be a Thrall was to embrace death. They were nothing more than fodder for the arena, a source of grotesque entertainment for the King and his aristocrats. Friends and brothers were forced to fight each other to the death. Husbands were chained to walls, made to watch as their wives were handed swords and told to protect them from starving bears. Mothers watched in horror as their children were trapped in cages with angry wolves, frantically trying to solve impossible puzzles to escape. The ultimate horror was facing the King's Champion, a behemoth of a man so savage and fierce that even wild beasts fled from his gaze. No one ever survived a battle against the King's Champion.
Jerith continued, his voice steady and reflective. "Debtors lived in perpetual fear, knowing that missing a quota or failing to please a master meant falling into debt—a burden that compounded daily. Each missed quota added to the balance, an unyielding chain that dragged them closer to the Serpent's Maw. The Maw, the dreaded Orichalcum mines, was the final sentence for those whose debts had grown too large. It was a place of despair and punishment, where the chance of escape was as distant as a dream.
"Outside, the vastness of Ver'Sut stretched endlessly, a landscape both hauntingly beautiful and unyielding in its severity. The rising sun, a mere specter in the vast sky, struggled to impart its warmth upon the frozen earth, its efforts as futile as the whispers of rebellion that sometimes stirred in hushed tones among the Sutians. The land, blanketed in perpetual frost, mirrored the cold indifference of our rulers, a stark reminder of the life we were consigned to.
"Each morning in Ver'Sut saw me merging with the multitude of laborers bound for the Serpent's Maw. These mines, the cornerstone of the overlords’ opulence, were a network of shadowed, frigid passageways burrowing deep into the heart of the mountains. Within their somber depths lay Orichalcum, the kernel of Ver'Sut’s grudging wealth, a substance cloaked in both value and controversy.
"Orichalcum was a paradox of strength and lightness, its surface shimmering with an otherworldly sheen. It was this very allure that bolstered the overlords’ coffers, traded at exorbitant prices to amass fortunes and cement alliances that stretched far beyond the icy confines of Ver'Sut. Yet for us Sutians, Orichalcum bore a much darker significance.
"Embedded in the cold, unyielding rock, Orichalcum was more than a mere mineral; it was a symbol of our bondage. We, the Sutians, bound by the dictates of our rulers, toiled tirelessly to extract this precious resource. Each vein of Orichalcum we unearthed was a testament to our resilience, yet also a reminder of our servitude. Forbidden to harness its potential for ourselves, we were resigned to watch the fruits of our labor enrich those who denied us freedom.
"The mines themselves were a reflection of our plight—a labyrinthine world of eternal twilight, where the chill of the stone seeped into our bones. The air within these tunnels was thick with the dust of shattered dreams, each strike of the pickaxe echoing the silent cries of a people yearning for liberation. The miners, shrouded in darkness and despair, worked with a stoic resolve, our spirits as hardened as the rock we cleaved.
"When I was still a boy, perhaps only eight or nine, I was stricken with an illness that sapped the strength from my body and left me frail. Until I was nearly seventeen, I was bedridden, my world confined to the walls of our humble home. My parents, Elara and Emaric, refused to let their only child die. They did everything within their power to ensure I survived. My father, a tribal chieftain and leader of the Braves, and my mother, an educated woman from the lands east of Ver'Sut, beyond the Serpent's Spine, were determined that if my body couldn't be strong, my mind would be.
"My mother, Elara, provided me with knowledge. Unlike many of our people, she could read and write, skills she had brought from her homeland. She often tutored others, believing that to free ourselves from the reign of Ulthean, we needed to wield knowledge as sharp as any blade. She not only taught me how to read and write, but she also occupied my mind with riddles and puzzles, games intended to make one think. I devoured every book I could get my hands on. By the time I was fourteen, I spoke every tribal dialect of Sutian and three other languages. By fifteen, my father had given up trying to win a game of chess against me. By sixteen, I had decided that I had been frail long enough and began learning everything I could about the body and medicine, determined to find a cure for my own frailty."
Jerith continued, his voice steady and reflective. "During those long years of illness, our small home became my sanctuary and my prison. The walls were lined with shelves, each one sagging under the weight of books my mother had painstakingly collected over the years. The room smelled of parchment and ink, a comforting reminder of the knowledge contained within those pages.
"Mother would sit by my bedside, her gentle voice weaving tales of far-off lands and ancient wisdom. She was a patient teacher, guiding me through the intricacies of language and the subtleties of logic. Her lessons were my lifeline, each one a thread that kept me tethered to the hope of a future beyond my frailty.
"My father, Emaric, was a towering figure, both in stature and in spirit. He would come to my room after long days of leading the Braves, his presence filling the space with a quiet strength. He never spoke of his struggles, but I could see the weight of his responsibilities in the lines etched into his face. Despite his exhaustion, he always found time to sit with me, playing games of strategy and teaching me the ways of our people.
"One evening, as the fire crackled in the hearth and the shadows danced on the walls, my father placed a small, intricately carved wooden box on my lap. Inside was a beautifully crafted chess set, each piece a work of art. 'This is yours now,' he said, his voice filled with pride. 'Use it well, my son. Let your mind be your strength.'
"As I grew older, my desire to overcome my physical limitations became a burning obsession. I spent countless hours poring over medical texts, absorbing every detail about the human body and its ailments. I experimented with herbs and potions, meticulously documenting the effects of each. My room became a laboratory, a place where I could test my theories and push the boundaries of my knowledge.
"By my sixteenth year, I had grown weary of my confinement. The walls that had once been a source of comfort now felt like a cage. I knew that to truly understand the human body, I needed to see it in motion, to feel the strain of physical exertion. I began a rigorous regimen of exercises, slowly building my strength and endurance. Each day, I pushed myself a little harder, determined to reclaim the vitality that illness had stolen from me.
"My parents watched with a mixture of hope and trepidation. They had fought so hard to keep me alive, and now they feared losing me to my own ambition. But they never wavered in their support. My mother continued to feed my insatiable curiosity with new books and puzzles, while my father guided me through the physical training, his eyes shining with pride at each small victory.
"One day, as I stood before my father, my muscles trembling from exertion, he placed a hand on my shoulder and said, 'You have the heart of a warrior, Jerith. Remember that strength comes in many forms. Your mind and your body are but two facets of the same power. Use them wisely.'
"But my hunger for knowledge and strength was often overshadowed by a burning anger at our oppression. My father and I would argue fiercely about the Sutian people's failure to fight back against Ulthean. I couldn't understand why we didn't rise up, why we accepted our chains so meekly."
Jerith paused, his eyes meeting the scribe's. The hall was silent, every ear turned towards the story being woven before them. He continued, his voice tinged with sorrow.
"Out of anger and defiance, I decided to join one of the hunting parties of the Braves without my father's permission. I wanted to prove myself, to show that I could be as strong as any of them. But my body, still frail from years of illness, betrayed me. During the hunt, my stamina waned, and I fell, scaring off the small herd of elk we were hunting. The entire party had to return to the village empty-handed.
"The news reached Ulthean's assessor, and they decided to assign a debt to the entire hunting party. My defiance flared once again, and I stood against Ulthean's men. For my insolence, the guards beat me severely. When Emaric arrived, two guards held me suspended by my arms, and another was just preparing to lash me.
"The whip fell, but before it could strike, my father caught it mid-air and pulled it away from the guard. His act of courage was a moment of defiance I will never forget. The corner of my mouth curled slightly at the memory, but my eyes soon darkened with the weight of regret.
"Emaric took on the debt of the entire party. From that day forth, my father, once a proud Brave and tribal chieftain, became a Debtor, condemned to work for the rest of his life in the Serpent's Maw."
Jerith paused, the weight of the memory pressing heavily upon him. His voice, steady but filled with sorrow, resonated through the hall. "It is in the struggle and the suffering that the seeds of power were sown. And it was through that power, born of sacrifice and regret, that I found my destiny."
The scribe's hand trembled as he wrote, capturing the profound moment with care and reverence.
Jerith paused, his eyes clouding with memories. The grand hall remained silent, every ear turned towards the story being woven before them. He began again, his voice tinged with sorrow.
"In the light of my father's sacrifice, our relationship grew more strained. Each evening, I watched my proud father, Emaric, once a tribal chieftain of the Sutian people, return home from the Maw. His hands were calloused and covered in filth, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The sight filled me with rage and anger. I couldn't understand how such a strong and fierce warrior could be laid so low."
Jerith's gaze grew distant as he continued. "Emaric understood that my anger was false bravado. He knew I was angry because I was the cause. My arrogance and pride, my stubbornness, had led to his fate. I couldn't see it then, but he saw through me. He knew I blamed myself, and that guilt festered within me like a poison."
The scribe's quill scratched furiously against the parchment, capturing each word with meticulous care. Jerith's voice grew more resolute as he recounted the pivotal moments of his transformation.
"It was this anger that set me on the path to becoming the man I am today. I doubled my efforts to strengthen my body and mind. I was determined to become stronger, strong enough to protect my family, strong enough to one day free my people."
Jerith leaned forward, his eyes blazing with intensity. "I trained relentlessly, pushing myself to the brink of exhaustion every day. I studied every text on strategy, warfare, and leadership I could find. My mother, Elara, continued to feed my insatiable curiosity, providing me with books and puzzles that sharpened my mind. My father, despite his own suffering, guided me through rigorous physical training, his eyes shining with pride at each small victory."
He paused, his voice softening as he recalled the bond he shared with his parents. "My parents never wavered in their support. They believed in me, even when I doubted myself. Their sacrifices fueled my determination, their love and guidance shaped my resolve. I vowed to repay them by freeing our people from the yoke of oppression."
Jerith's expression grew stern as he continued. "I knew that to achieve this, I needed more than just strength and knowledge. I needed power—true power. The artifact I discovered was only the beginning. I set out on a quest to gather the other relics, knowing that only by harnessing their combined power could I hope to defeat the ancient evil that threatened our world."
The scribe's hand trembled as he wrote, captivated by Jerith's intensity. "What drove you to continue, my Lord, even when the odds seemed insurmountable?"
Jerith's eyes met the scribe's, filled with unwavering determination. "The memory of my father's sacrifice, the love of my mother, and the suffering of my people. These were the flames that fueled my resolve. I knew that I could not fail, that I would not fail. For their sake, and for the sake of all who suffered under tyranny, I would become the Storm Lord—a beacon of hope in the darkest of times."
The scribe nodded, his fear momentarily overshadowed by a flicker of admiration. "Your story will be told, my Lord. The world will know of your strength, your sacrifice, and your unwavering resolve."
Jerith leaned back, his gaze distant once more. "Write this down carefully, scribe. Let the world remember that Jerith Al'Sut, the Storm Lord, was forged in the fires of suffering and determination. Let them know that even in the face of insurmountable odds, I stood firm, driven by the love of my family and the hope of a brighter future for all of Aetura." The scribe's quill moved swiftly across the parchment, capturing the essence of Jerith's journey. The grand hall seemed to fade away as Jerith's voice drew everyone into his past, weaving a tale of sacrifice, determination, and the relentless pursuit of power.