The engines of war growled in the distance. The last remnants of a battle that had just taken place were echoing throughout the valley where a great forest once stood. Nothing remained now but a field of devastation littered with lifeless bodies, burnt ash, and a once mighty castle.

Joran watched as the clockwork machines, piloted by his own men, tore down wall after wall. His spirits should have been high now that this war was over, happy that good had once again triumphed over evil. Now families could sleep in peace, with less fear of the night. For this, he should be smiling.

Yet as he looked upon this battlefield, he felt empty. It had been a hollow victory for him, so many good men and women having given up their lives. So many families were no longer whole, so many hearts broken.

The darkest of days had passed, and with it the death of the Obsidian King, who had brought a blight upon the world with his dark army. It was he, Joran reminded himself, who twisted and corrupted so many good souls to fill the ranks of that very army. Regardless, Joran felt nothing. Yes, evil had been vanquished, but for how long?

Joran closed his eyes, his fingers tracing the grooves in the hilt of his sword. He could hear the last troops of his regiment around him, hauling bodies away to either be burned or buried, depending on who they fought for. The stench of the burning pyres filled his senses, and Joran questioned if he would ever forget it.

I wish for no one to witness this horror again. I know what I must do, but will I have?

His thoughts were interrupted by a jingling, much like the sounds of a chain being dropped. It was eerie, sounding so far away and right next to his ears at the same time. He opened his eyes and looked upon the battlefield again.

"Are you sure of what you wish, Joran?" a soft voice asked from beside him.

Am I? He realized what it would do to the world. It meant so much change at once, to suddenly lose something you had built an entire kingdom upon. But as he watched a castle tower crash down, crushing one of the clockwork machines, he had decided. Would it not be worth the sacrifice if this horror could be avoided? "Yes I am, Ronimus."

The jingle came again. "You are the bearer of this burden, Joran. You realize that you are casting away that which is neither good nor evil."

"But..." Joran faltered. He stepped forward, waving his gloved hand in front of him, "Not even the good it can do can repair this. Can it bring back the young men who had so much to look forward to in life?" Joran brought his hand to his side slowly, casting his gaze downward. He blinked away tears that began to well up, "Can it bring back my son?"

Three more times Joran heard the jingling, a long pause between each one. Finally, the soft voice responded, "No, it cannot. But you know better than any that it cannot be sealed it away forever. You know in your heart that it will eventually come back."

Joran turned to look at the old man that stood next to him. Ronimus wore the green robes of his Order, bound by a code of honor to their king, much like Joran was. His gaze was cast skyward with a sad look in his eyes, a frown wrinkling his brow. "I know, but will they be ready?" Joran sighed, looking to the old man for an answer

A long, silver staff was at Ronimus's side, the top adorned with small rings. He tapped the staff against the ground, the jingling sound echoing across the valley. "No, they will not. But there will be those that will control the power better than we could."

Joran lifted his eyes from Ronimus, watching as the last colors of the sunset slowly began to fade away. "Will it corrupt them?"

Ronimus, whose gaze had never left the twilight sky, brought his staff against the ground again. "This power...this magic...can corrupt souls easily. I foresee that only those who understand it will be able to unlock its true power. Regardless, it will change their world forever."

"Is that your final prophecy, Ronimus?"

For the first time, Ronimus looked over at Joran. "That it is."