Thirty-Three Tales of War: The Chroma Books

Copyright © 2024 by Emory Glass. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

The story and all names, characters, locations, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, living or deceased, locations, buildings, and/or products are intended or should be inferred.

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Please be advised that this book contains

violence, death, and other potentially

disturbing content which may be upsetting to some readers. Personal discretion is advised.

A full list of content warnings is available at the back of the story.

Contents

Map of Kandrisev

1.The Scholar

2.The Bride

3.Concerning the Bride

4.The Prostitute

5.Concerning the Prostitute

6.The Thief

7.Concerning the Thief

8.The Priestess

9.Concerning the Priestess

10.The Husband

11.Concerning the Husband

12.The Steward

13.Concerning the Steward

14.The Son

15.Concerning the Son

16.The Apothecarist

17.Concerning the Apothecarist

18.The Tax Collector

19.Concerning the Tax Collector

20.The Bard

21.Concerning the Bard

22.The Smuggler

23.Concerning the Smuggler

24.The Farmer

25.Concerning the Farmer

26.The Pedlar

27.Concerning the Pedlar

28.The Minstrel

29.Concerning the Minstrel

30.The Healer

31.Concerning the Healer

32.The Essenceweaver

33.Concerning the Essenceweaver

34.The Miner

35.Concerning the Miner

36.The Bounty Huntress

37.Concerning the Bounty Huntress

38.The Dyer

39.Concerning the Dyer

40.The Armourer

41.Concerning the Armourer

42.The Warrior

43.Concerning the Warrior

44.The Cobbler

45.Concerning the Cobbler

46.The Mercenary

47.Concerning the Mercenary

48.The Seamstress

49.Concerning the Seamstress

50.The Courier

51.Concerning the Courier

52.The Herald

53.Concerning the Herald

54.The Spy

55.Concerning the Spy

56.The Upperbirth

57.Concerning the Upperbirth

58.The Ropemaker

59.Concerning the Ropemaker

60.The Jailer

61.Concerning the Jailer

62.The Executioner

63.Concerning the Executioner

64.The Daughter

65.Concerning the Daughter

66.Afterword

67.Concerning My Friends & Family

68.Content Warnings

Foreword

The Scholar

The Candrish Civil War, known also as the Diarchal Collapse, began in the month of First Light during the 213th year of the Second Age by Candrish reckoning. The war ended in Second Root of the 230th year when Rirtsriya Sofezhka Ïnna Ranov of Sosna Chonok was captured and executed by the Chobortsriya Elgana Rusalya Yolkerev of Chariv and Magya Dvorina Odov of Zoldonmesk. Unsurprisingly, Yolkerev and Odov were the war's primary belligerents. After Ranov's execution, Yolkerev and Odov's alliance disintegrated over a period of thirteen years and the two ignited an ongoing conflict dubbed the Nine Queens' War.

In Sun's Pale of the 207th year of the Second Age, Ranov assumed the title Rirtsriya following the unexpected deaths of her elder sisters—the dynasty's natural heirs. Due to Ranov's nezhdoya status and the lack of another living Ranov woman of legitimate descent to fill the role of Ayrtsriya—thus making the diarchy a monarchy—Ranov's accession was met with extreme controversy. Compounding this dubious stew of claims to the Rirtsriya title was Ranov's simultaneous role as the Oracle of Yav Vsevnyi, the principal office of Orthodox Quintinity, a widespread northern faith. Candrish nobility have been prohibited from holding religious titles or positions while participating in government since the Yolkerev dynasty held the diarchy starting in the 486th year of the First Age.

Outraged by the lack of general opposition to Ranov's accession except by Chariv, Odov seceded and renamed Zoldonmesk region Zoldoni Chovrekozh, though this decision was met with no shortage of its own controversies. The name hearkened back to a time when Zoldoni folk were widely intolerant of and aggressive toward those they viewed as outlanders, even their supposed allies. Hoping the loss of Kandrisev's largest and most productive region would encourage further dissension, Odov urged the other seven Chobortsriya to assert independence.

Despite encouragement from the northern alliance to force Zoldonmesk's hand, Ranov continually declined to declare war. Igna, Zoldonmesk's capital, had at the time a higher population than that of each major northern settlement combined. Direct war with Odov meant almost certain defeat. Instead, Ranov chose to embargo Zoldonmesk and followed with embargoes of Chraiv and Ochetsk after their respective Chobortsriya came out in support of Odov and likewise declared secession.

By year 210 of the Second Age, Kandrisev had fractured into three main states: Zoldoni Chovrekozh, Southern Kandrisev (Ochetsk and Chariv, with the latter taking primacy), and Northern Kandrisev (comprised of Chovrek, Morozhelo, Shliïshlota, and, from year 218 of the Second Age, Rahvesk, with Sosna Chonok at the helm). Nezhlovyad, the easternmost region to the north, remained generally neutral and declined partnership with Odov or Yolkerev while simultaneously refusing to claim independence or support Ranov.

Being nezhdoya herself, Ranov was frequently and fervently petitioned to divorce her Brisian husband, Patriarch Edgandris Maj Paltra, as well as renounce and disinherit their three mixed-blood children so she could marry a Candrish, blackblooded man by whom she would bear Candrish, blackblooded heiresses, thereby improving her legitimacy. Every region except Morozhelo pressured her to meet these terms. Her staunch refusal to acquiesce worsened relations with Southern Kandrisev and soured Nezhlovyad's diplomatic relations with the north, though they did not change their fencesitting stance.

In Harvest's End of the 212th year of the Second Age, Ranov unilaterally banned the nezhdoya trade and ordered all current nezhdoya to be given the opportunity to permanently leave their spouse or host family or, if they chose to stay, be given full civil and legal rights as any natural child of the family would enjoy. In retaliation, Yolkerev sent three cohorts to raze Yav Vsevnyi, the holiest site in Orthodox Quintinity. Trading nezhdoya between regions and other nations was a long-standing economic crutch within Chariv, deeply ingrained in regional culture as an honourable and righteous use of one's life. Families of children selected as nezhdoya were often given yearly stipends or property deeds by the Upperbirth family who purchased their child, a practice that began in Chariv and swiftly spread elsewhere. It is estimated that two-fifths of Candrish folk living in foreign lands were nezhdoya specifically of Charivi stock during the same year the practice was banned.

Already embroiled in a century-long blood feud, the Yolkerev and Ranov dynasties' mutual embitterment boiled over following Yav Vsevnyi’s destruction. Unable to continue her policy of peaceful resistance when the holy site fell, Ranov was finally forced to declare war.

Considering the gravity of the events that followed, Emestesi Yarina of Ranovi Hoshal endeavoured to provide the perspectives of lowerbirths—and some Upperbirths—as told to her during and after the war.

It is with great pleasure that her persistence and dedication have allowed the Ghinnish Academy of Higher Learning to offer the reader these Thirty-Three Tales of War.

Serkun Maloyzas Aimaj Qoda

Distinguished Professor of History

Ghinnish Academy of Higher Learning

II

The Bride

Brass mirrors told no lies. Yet, as the Bride beheld her visage, she struggled to believe her own reflection. Two perfect plaits of snow-white hair. A crown of flowers, heavy on her head. Upon her gently-sloping shoulders, a golden shawl embroidered with deep blue threads. A matching black-and-gold gown handmade by the finest weavers in Chariv, fitted to the waist but not too tight. Half her face was painted white, as was custom. All the attendees would tell her she was beautiful, and they would be right. Mirrors told the truth, but inside she felt uglier than a pig-herder’s wife.

She had jewels. She had coin. A ritual blade was buried safely in her sleeves within a pocket sewn to house it. Her husband—soon-to-be—waited in his own dressing room in another part of the temple. Now, there was no need for her to fight in a war. She was doing her duty. Against her own heart, she heeded the Chobortsriya’s call and remained nezhdoya, not her own, for the good of Chariv and all Kandrisev. The Chobortsriya was right, anyway. She knew she had no business fighting a war. This was her duty. This she could survive. It would be uncomfortable at first, surely, and take some getting used to once she arrived in her new home in Cazra, but she was no warrior. Besides, what she was here to do was perfectly brave and commendable. Those like her bore a courageous burden, willingly marrying into families of other hemotones, never having met their future spouse. It was for the good of the country.

Still, her heart pounded.

Drawing away from the mirror, she went to the maidservant standing near the door and let her lead her into the temple’s main hall. Half the interior was painted night-blue; silver ornaments and mirrors dotted the walls and hung from the ceiling. The other half from which her betrothed would soon appear was yellow as sunlight with golden baubles to match. Six rows of benches rested in two columns down the middle of the temple: in the dark half, filled with her husband’s family and friends, and hers in the light.

As the maidservant brought her to the head of the main aisle, her parents arose from their place on the sixth bench and took her arm-in-arm, leading her to the head altar. Every step she took reverberated against the walls, the ceiling, her heart. The husband they chose for her—Bancak, a whiteblooded man—was a minor Cazran king. That was all she knew. Wasn’t she supposed to be happy to be made a queen, no matter how insignificant? Her stomach turned, gaze locked firmly on the stone altar.

A priest and priestess—male in gold, female in blue—came out of the wings to stand behind the altar, a pot of facepaint in hand. One white, one black. Her parents withdrew to her right. The minstrels played dignified songs as her betrothed began his procession. Everyone turned to look. She knew it was right, it was expected, but no matter how clearly she heard her mother’s whispers urging her to do the same, she could not move a muscle. Not even when he arrived and the music faded did she dare to look. The pot of black paint in the priestess’ hand was too real. Too close. Too soon.

Let us begin, the priestess said, placing the pot on the altar and raising her hands as the priest did the same. Who is the Sun, herald of life?

Kneeling in unison, her voice and Bancak’s melded together. Sila, in whose light we bask as we commit our souls to his brilliance.

The priest asked, Who is the Moon, herald of death?

Yusri, beneath whose glow we commit ourselves until the shattering of our souls.

The voice was hers, but seemed wrong. Her breath caught in her lungs as the priestess took the pot of white face-paint, came around the altar, and handed it to her. The priest did the same for Bancak. Her knees dug into the rough stone floor. She ached for it to swallow her. The rap of the pots as they set them on the floor rang in her ears like the sound of a sword drawn from its sheath.

Long have you searched for one another, the priestess said.

Since we were forged in his brilliance, She and Bancak replied, her own voice barely above a whisper as she took the paintbrush in her shaking hand and swirled it in the paint, eyes on the floor until the last moment when she had to look and coat the unpainted half of his face in white. He was attractive, but she hoped for more than attractive. Locks of hair dark as pitch framed his angular face, and his deep sea-blue skin was flawless. It could be worse, she told herself. It could be much worse.

When her work was done, she lowered her arm, too weak-willed to place it back in the pot.

And long might you wait when night drives you apart, the priest said.

I bid you rest til we are united again, they said, and Bancak placed the brush against her face.

The paint was cold and thick. She flinched. He took great care with his brushwork; gentle hand and calming gaze.

When he returned the brush, the priest and priestess said, Your hearts are united in the Sun’s white light, your union forged in the brilliance of his gaze. Under moonlight will your bodies come together and seal you in each other’s souls. Let the Cyclical Mysteries bring harmony to you and your children, and do not depart from their teachings or else be lost in Void.

She swallowed. Now the bloody part, though it was less bloody than the battlefield would be. Still trembling, she removed the ritual blade from its slit and placed it in Bancak’s outstretched hands.

Will you follow this woman’s soul as it journeys home to Mother Moon? the priest asked.

I will, Bancak said, taking her hand in his.

She gave him a panic look as he placed the tip of the knife in her palm. He cast back reassurance as if to say, Trust me.

Trust. That’s what made relationships work. He must be a good man, or her parents wouldn’t have chosen him. She trusted their judgement. They had been good to her all her life. The stories she heard of other nezhdoya were far-fetched—she didn’t trust them. They never treated her as anything less than their natural-born daughter. She didn’t need a saviour to free her. She wasn’t in chains.

She sucked air through her teeth at the sting as he gently dragged it from the hell of her hand to the tip of her middle finger. Drops of black blood beaded on her grey skin. He handed back the knife, blade pointed at himself.

Will you follow this man’s soul as it ventures out from Father Sun? asked the priestess.

I will, she eked out, knowing it was better to bear children than a blade. Her feet begged her to stand and run.

She cut his hand as he had hers, and white poured out. They pressed their bloody palms together,

The priest and priestess said, Rise now with Sun and Moon as witnesses.

Not breaking their touch, they stood together to jovial cheers and applause. When they were steady, they laid their palms on each other’s faces.

There. The hard part was over. Now it was just her and him, man and wife, til the Moon reclaimed their souls. She floated through the whoops and congratulations, the greetings and Bless-yous as they made their way outside together. The attendees flooded out around them, though she barely registered anyone’s faces or words, even those of her own family. Yet, after everyone else had left for the wedding feast, four women lingered behind them.

Sister, the tallest of the women said. Congratulations. My name is Judit.

She gave a hasty smile in return, glancing at the rest of them.

I am Ozbekar, the most beautiful of them said.

Florkos, said the youngest.

Naqar, said the woman with scars.

The Bride nodded as each introduced themselves. You have very pretty sisters, she told Bancak.

The women laughed as Bancak grimaced.

She’s like you, Florkos, so innocent, Ozbekar said. We aren’t his sisters, sweet girl. We’re his other wives.

Concerning

The Bride

In the spring of 1241 A.F. (2A242 C.R.), I had the pleasure of visiting a Nezhlovyadi teahouse for my breakfast. The shop was owned by the very woman who lived through this experience.

Her shop, which was a small but cosy little hole-in-the-wall, offered a relatively enormous catalogue of beverages to choose from, including a number of tisane blends and several liquor-infused brews. I had been enjoying a pot of spiced barley tisane when I noticed the sigil tattoo on the back of the shop owner's neck denoting her nezhdoya status. Not wishing to be impolite by asking her directly, I mentioned a friend who admired the region's continued resistance in allowing the tradition to be put back into practice following the conclusion of the war.

Given her positive response to this yarn, I prodded further, which elicited this tale. Her willingness to relay her story is likely due in no small part to the fact that, though I have condensed it here for clarity, she took long enough in telling it that I bought two more pots of spiced barley tisane. When asked how she found herself back in Kandrisev after being shipped across the continent, the Bride admitted it was a hard-won return. While she managed to ride out the first year of the war in Cazra with her new husband, court life with multiple other wives to contend with—saying nothing of the concubines—weighed too heavily on her romantic view of married life.

In the few friends she found