These Forms bear the mark of the perfect creation

With an end, comes beauty

But this one, why is It plain?

It shall hold The Will unlike any other

Above all will it be marred

And you shall keep The Will, and care for it

Lest it be destroyed, so will the life

It refuses to yield.

ANATHEMA

In the summer heat, planted between the rolling hills of the sprawl of Sylrel, was a well. Built of stone and wood, it was near as elderly as the town it serviced. There were many like it; there was nothing of great importance about this well. A slanted roof made of cut Norsjin wood and a base made of plaster and heavy stone bricks were all that comprised it. Two legs held a roof above the stone base, and on one leg was stationed a crank, which creaked with rust and the cries of iron too old for use. Yet, despite the wear the years had imposed upon it, it was still in use, being patronized by the lower homes of Sylrel as a source of fresh and bountiful water.

The crank let out a long creak as it sprang into action, winding up the taught cord to retrieve a saturated bucket from the depths of the well. The motion was not spontaneous or brought about by some cloaked Magii or spirit. Rather, it was spurred by a young man, who, fighting against the rust and deposits of the water-fetching mechanism, continued to reel in the water bucket. As the bucket reached the summit of the well, it swung back and forth, a harmonic motion that was created due to the inconsistent operation of the crank. The young man reached out to steady the bucket, stopping it in its tracks as he spun it around to make its spout face him. With his free hand, he reached around to the bag on his back and plucked free a hanging glass bottle. The container was swiftly uncorked, and soon water began to flow from the bucket into the glass.

Ander, having exhausted the contents of the bucket into his glass, placed the glass on the rim of the well, sealed it, and then released the bucket. The young man - only a few moons older than fifteen - bore the responsibility of fetching water for his household, a daily task he would tackle every morning. He was born from the Idris lineage, a very modest and small family of no great importance. He was a member of the lower houses of Sylrel, ranking below the merchantmen and the high houses. Being born of common stature meant his home had no recurring supply of water, and thus his journey was needed to sustain his family's activities and ventures. It bore nothing on his mind; in fact, he quite liked it. It was the first of the daily trips he would make throughout the southern sect of Sylrel. Such was the place common folk would congregate, trade, and talk, albeit often with rude affectation.

Before lowering the bucket back down, he took a respite to wipe away the sweat from his brow. Carrying his pack was no easy feat, no matter how many times he had done it before. He was still a young man after all, one couldn't expect him to carry a day's worth of water for four people without some level of strain. Such was why he refused to lower his pack, even during the lengthy time it took to fill his bottles.

Down went the bucket, and back up it came. He repeated the process until he had half a dozen sealed bottles bursting with water. The water would still have to be treated with heat before use or consumption, which was another lengthy process. Nevertheless, he had what he needed from the old well, and with a few thankful pats, he departed from it. 

The well itself was a small walk away from the edge of Sylrel. Around it, besides the dirt and gravel paths often walked by folks of his class, were endless stretches of farmland. As far as the eye could see were fields of budding seed and hearty roots. Planted mostly in spring, the crops were being guarded and tended to by the local Feylings, those simple little creatures who worked the land in servitude to local lords or farmers. On occasion, men could be seen in the fields, noting the growth of their harvest, but more often than not were the Feylings the guardians of the lot. 

Even though the solstice had passed, the heat of the sun that day was particularly heavy. Fearing for his skin, Ander progressed through the farmland paths with some cloth over his head and neck, so as not to be burned by the sun. He wiped his brow again, fighting the temptation to sneak a sip of his family's water supply, regardless if it was treated or not. But he didn’t, his resolve forbade it. It was a special day, after all, one coveted for celebration. Today was the birthday of his sister, Elara Idris, now a grand thirteen years of age, although, to Ander, it seemed entirely too short. Words couldn't fathom the adornment he held for his sister, moreover his family for that matter. They had very little, and so their hearts had to fill in for the material they had been denied.

Continuing on the winding paths of Sylrel's farmland, civilization began to appear around Ander. Carts of fertilizer and feed flowed around him, as did manic men with goods for sale and merchants geared to hop to other villages. The staggered herds turned to crowds of people, and then to stalls and shops as Ander crossed the threshold of the south-east Sylrel. His venture wasn't for water alone, and his eyes remained vigilant for the sign of his second stop.

Near Hark's crossing, which marked the center point for the lower class, was an old bakery. This was the subsequent destination for the young man, who upon arrival placed his bag down beside the entrance to the door, as he had done so many times before. While some would fear it being stolen, Ander knew otherwise. The people of the lower houses may not have wealth, but they did have humility and honor. 

Above the door to the bakery hung the sign ‘Alchov’s Bakehouse and Meats’, and below it the rune of Sylrel's patron god, Valor. Inside the shop, the muffled roars of baking ovens and the scraping of kitchenware were cast about the foyer. The shopfront consisted of a counter, behind which was an assortment of goods and orders, and besides that, a small seating area. The sweet aroma of confections and other culinary delights hit the young man, rousing the untamed hunger of his stomach. Ander, from the corner of his vision, noticed a group of manservants speaking up a storm at the side of the storm. He tuned their conversation out as he approached the front, where an old man was busy organizing tags.

“Good morning, Mr. Alchov,” Ander spoke with a smile, removing the cloth from his head.

The old man threw on a grin as he looked up at the young fellow. “Good morning, young Idris. Here for your order, are you?”

“Yessir. You'll have to forgive me for coming so soon, Mr. Alchov. I just got back from fetching some water, I was hoping I could hit both of my stops in one go.” Ander brushed his hair back with his palm, the darker roots of his blonde mane showing.

“Oh, it’s none the worry, young man. Let me put these tags away, and I'll be quick with your order.”

With a nod and a grin, Mr. Alchov disappeared through a small door frame to the right of the counter. Left to his own devices, Ander's ears began to wander about the cabin, landing on the conversation between the manservants from behind. Being the caretakers of the elite of Sylrel, they were often loose with their tongues, speaking aloud topics not quite meant for commoner’s ears.

“I tell you, be honest!” Called a large servant, slicing a piece of his bread off with a knife.

“I am honest. From Lady Vellera herself, things are changing in Sylrel. The Front's gotten so close to Sylvee's borders. Things are a'changing. It be true!” A thing one replied.

“If so, then what of the triumph tonight? If Sylrel's so keen on dishonoring Valor, what would come about a showing like that?” Came another voice, this one rough and craggy.

“Oh, I wouldn't make an assumption like that, no sir. There's no way a city of Sylvee would ever reject Valor, let alone Sylrel! But there's talk, I tell you, and there's much of it. Sylrel may not love The Astari, but The Astari are getting much too close for comfort. If I were a betting man, and let me tell you, I ain't, I'd bet my wealth that Sylrel is soon to make a ruckus!”

“That's a load of rubbish. Just you wait for tonight, tonight I tell you. Every soul of this poor town will watch the grandiose of Valor, and remember what this town stands for.”

“Really? We held the same triumph last year, and the year before, and still there’s talk of succession from Aeon. Ahh, why even bother speaking to a loathsome soul like yourself!”

“Oh, Ander, good morning!”

The young Idris’ attention, once held captive by the rambunctious manservants, was torn away as an address was made to him by a worker behind the counter. Looking up, he felt his nerves tense as the image of his old schoolmate, Layla, filled his vision. Being the niece of Mr. Alchov, she was often the old man’s right hand when it came to tending to the shop. She sported long brunette hair, which flowed down behind her shoulders, hidden behind her company apron. Being the young man he was, when faced with a beautiful woman, Ander couldn’t help but feel strung up around the younger Alchov. 

“Morning, Layla,” he managed out, trying to put up a stoic visage for the girl. Even though they had chatted on multiple occasions, both inside the classroom and in the street, he couldn’t ditch his trepidation of speaking with her.

“Up here early, are we? It’s not all that often I have the pleasure of seeing you in the shop,” the girl tilted her head with a smile. On her hands were protective gloves, used to carry bakes that had yet to fully cool, such as the ones behind the counter. 

“Yeah, yeah. Your uncle said the same thing. I actually came here on my own accord, I’ve been planning it for quite a while.” He scratched at the back of his head, looking down.

“Ahh, is Ander Idris here to receive an order he plans to give to his sister? What a thoughtful young man.” Layla’s sly smile beamed at Ander, who became embarrassed over his secretive goal. “Is that what my uncle had ordered from the capital? I’ll say, I didn’t snoop too much, but I couldn’t find the will to ignore the price tag.”

“Well, your lot certainly doesn’t make it easy. It took me two months to come up with the money after working labor for the Adrisaals. Two months! After everything I’ve put up for it, I have half a mind to expect it to revive the dead.”

“It just might, you never know,” Layla shrugged as she turned her back to him, skimming over the wall of inventory behind her. She began humming a gentle tune while in search of her target, finding it in the third row of the order wall. “There you are!”

“Have you begun preparing for class again? You aren’t ditching it, no?”

“Of course not, I would never,” she turned to face him, “my uncle would lose his mind if I did, not to mention my father. And to be quite frankly honest, I may have an interest in something smart beyond just baking bread.”

“I am invited to the party tonight, yes?” She eyed him up, waiting for a response.

“O-Of course, why wouldn’t you be? If Mr. Alchov’s coming, I guess I could let you tag along as well…”

“Hah, oh I won’t be a burden, I swear it,” she flashed him another smile as she began pacing towards the door. “You take care, Ander. Ela’s going to love the crisps, I know it!”

And with that, she rushed out of the room, carrying with her the lightly steaming loaf of bread. The conversation left Ander in a cheery mood. He knew a grand amount of people who were a pain to speak with, but whenever he had the chance to chat with Layla, he always found her upbeat and sometimes sneaky remarks to be a pleasant experience. Half-lost in the thought of the young woman, his ears returned to the possession of the manservants, who were still in the midst of speaking the town’s politics.

“Hmm, I have doubts about all this ‘front’ talk. A thousand years of war and not much has changed, not much at all. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose. I swear it, all this war’s good for is being a meat grinder. All those young lads, sent off to die, over and over,” came the big one.

“Here.”

“Here, it’s true.” The sounds of mugs being raised and lowered rang out.

“I agree, the war’s no good, but things are getting quite dicey in the east. If it weren’t for Thornfeld up in Fimbull, Sylrel would be long gone to the Astari.”

“Hmm, here’s to Valor that never happens. Here lived my father, and his father, and every father thereafter. Honest, I may fancy a spear myself to keep my city safe.”

The manservants’ talk began to digress from the political, and into the personal as they chatted loudly about their master's doings. Ander, for one, had little interest in The Pact, or more generally any outside of the workings of Sylrel. He had more important things to mull over than forever wars, and one such thing was obtaining the confections he had ordered.

“You'll have to forgive me for the wait, Ander,” Mr. Alchov rushed into the room, armed with a square box. Wrapped in brown paper and fitted with string, he placed it on the counter with delicate hands. “They just arrived from the capital, I had them in the supply cellar by accident.”

“No worries, Mr. Alchov,” the boy said with a smile, looking down at the box. Those two months of carrying lumber for the Adrisaals were long and arduous, but for a person so beloved to him such as his sister, it seemed to be no cost to him at all.

“You're quite the good brother for buying little Ela these,” Mr. Alchov said with earnest, “finding authentic stuff like this is no easy task.”

“It was nothing. I can’t thank you enough for having it delivered for me, you're a lifesaver,” spoke Ander.

“Nonsense, boy. It was no trouble; none at all,” Mr. Alchov dismissed Ander's thanks with a wave. “Now you best get going. I don't want all of my loyal patrons held up because of some fancy chocolates!”

A quick look around the empty storefront was all that was needed to punch holes in Mr. Alchov's argument, but Ander held his tongue. Having never been given the chance to meet his own grandparents, nor any living elder besides his parents for that matter, there was a part of the young Idris who saw the old baker as a grandfather, if at least a caring uncle. Had it not been for him, his gift for Elara would have been impossible, setting aside the copious amount of teasing the old man threw at him.

“You have yourself a fine day, Mr. Alchov,” Ander called as he reached for the old wooden door.

“You best have one too,” he replied. “And the lass's party better be no letdown, ya hear?”