Nezarre looked down into the abyss.
The ancient waterfalls were no more. A stone dam had been laid across the Henabron River a half mile above, a thing of necessary evil in the dark times ahead. This had been the King’s wish, a way of halting the main water supply to Festborough’s southern lands.
‘What have the people of Dornaday done to deserve such unprovoked attacks?’ the old monarch had cried out from his gilded throne.
History was not kind. Nezarre feared similar past acts – suppressed knowledge about the Old Kingdom – had ruined the land, destroying Nature’s balance. The bemoaning cries of the spirits, both water and wood, still haunted his people; Festborough’s subjects suffered naught, more in tune with the roaming, sprawling wilds.
‘But violence begets violence, or so the seers say.’ He sighed and stretched out a hand, caressing a memory. The sensation was bitter indeed.