The mountains were brightly lit with the red light of the firework, a signal that shone miles into the night's sky. It had been a device designed by Castermere's greatest chemists, created to shine bright enough to warn both Cannor and the Capital; so long as the Capital was looking. The only sounds in the mountain at that present moment was howling agony and the ringing of eardrums. Soon however, it would echo with the sound of thundering hooves, riders from their keep and their home. Gilly had finally come to his senses and scrambled over to Roran. His hands were bloodied and his the thrashing of their dying brother had sent strays of red over their clothes and face. The two men struggled, each trying to keep the man still in order to stop the bleeding. 

Howan, the man who'd set off their signal and the only thing that may save their brother's life, held his hands against his ears. The ringing was intense. He could hear the muffled sounds of screams, the pained shouts of Gilly and Roran, each shouting at each other. The man opened his eyes slowly, briefly watching Ysabel dash off down the mountain pass. He blinked and watched her figure sway left and right, double up and split into three. He blinked again and turned to Roran and Gilly, their figures staggering over the injured. Sounds returned and grew louder as his hearing returned. He struggled and pushed a hand in the snow to help himself stand. The whole mountain was twisting and turning in his vision. He wasn't injured, not like the others, instead, he suffered what had simply been known as the Red Flash. A non lethal and noncontagious illness that came with lighting the flare. He dropped back onto his knees and heaved into the snow, watching the ground twist beneath him. 

 ***

Away from the snow and the chill stood the walled city of Castermere. A strong fortress built by the last dynasty of God's Kings, before their downfall seven hundred years ago. Andor prized its city and had built some of the continent's greatest architecture there. Huge great temples, one to each of the eight gods. Colours dashed amongst the vivid white painted walls. Today, the streets were a startling red, flecks of purples and pinks, flying high above houses and thrown over various homes within the city. Brothels were decorated with intricate drawings of lovers and woman, detailed to show the beauty of the God of Love and Women. 

Along the streets, stairs rose towards the middle of the city. A tall, shining structure rose from the streets, flying colours of yellow and blue. A tree painted on it's banners at it's base, a crown. The adopted banners of House Dullahan, after their marriage and complete ruling of the Crown; a conquest that had taken a hundred years, yet now the crown was utterly their own. Always a Dullahan sat on the throne, son's passed to son's, never would a Dullahan female take the throne. Inside the castle, a room that stretched tall was filled with the sounds of pleasure and godly love. To the east sat the Throne, high above was a painted window, depicting Mirelda and her crown. It shone spectacular colours during the sun rise, raining it down on the throne. The window never shone in recent years. Mirelda never sent her son's light through the window. Instead, the sun shone instead, never catching the glass inside. 

The King sat quietly, ignoring his court as they seemed to avoid his gaze. After all, a man sat with two whores pouring over him was hard to take seriously. The King was married. Yet it was common knowledge his wife was barren. Dullahan's were taken to ignoring barren wives, eventually staging their deaths some years down the line. They would always marry again. All members of court were unaware of the vividly bright light shining from the mountains, a light they should have spotted soon after it's flight. Yet for two hundred years, the light had not shone. King's had removed the watch from the walls. Castermere would survive a siege until it's enemy died. 

 ****

Two men sat upon the walls of Cannor, nibbling on two halves of stale bread. One had closed his eyes to enjoy the silence of a sleeping keep. The other seemed to spring with life as the sky light red between the peaks. 
"Darryl, wake up!" He yelled, pushing the man off the chair. The second man opened his eyes quickly, catching himself as he fell. The first man had leapt to his feet and darted along the cobblestone to a brass bell, hanging on the walls. That light meant one of three things: Injury, Trader Injury, or invasion. He scrambled over to the bell and began to ring. It was designed with a shrill sounding metal. One high enough to disturb any sleeping Orphan. 

The fort slowly began to spring to life. Elder men, each a skilled swordsman and a skilled man of the mountains. Some were over fifty, giving at least three hundred years on the hills between them. They spoke few words and pulled horses from the stables, each a stocky animal built for the world beyond. Then with loud shouts, they charged through the gates and towards the mountains, men running to windows and walls to watch. It was a sight no one had seen in many years.