Forces clashed across the world of Rythe, and pulled apart again, seeking weakness, openings, that elusive chink in an enemy’s armour.
On Lianthre, Roth’s race, the mighty rahkens, stood against the Protectorate. They did not seek to openly attack their might, but held their ground, holding the underground lairs of their kind, allowing magically gifted human dissidents sanctuary, actively seeking out those with vestiges of magical power and training them in the ways of the magi.
They would need allies in the final battle, and the humans were not yet aware of their own potential. The rahken nation let it be known that their homes were sanctuary for the hunted. The numbers of humans with fey eyes were growing.
They had promised Tirielle A’m Dralorn an army should she return. It was not an idle promise — the rahken nation saw far into the future, but more importantly, saw further into the past than even the scrolls of the Island Archive.
They could afford to be patient. They knew of the return, but they would fight for honour, and promises. Their time would come soon enough.
Other continents carried on their petty struggles, unaware of the scythe hanging over their heads. To them, each battle was life and death — the fate of the world bears little importance when you are fighting for your life. Rythe itself was born of strife. Wars were commonplace on each and every continent but Lianthre, and even now that was changing.
But some wars are fought because of pride, and some necessity.
Some, though, are fought because of fate.