The office of the Lord-Commander was many things to Chulán Summerson. His sanctuary, his workspace and a trophy room of his accomplishments as Lord-Commander of Amalur were chief among them. He didn't view it as a throne room. The last thing Chulán ever sought was a crown. The array of weapons on display could be mistaken for the walls of an armory, the various martial tools that Chulán has wielded and collected over the past century. His pride piece was Morning, the ornate warhammer that had claimed the lives of dozens of those who'd attempt to claim or destroy the Summer Court. Its golden head was inlaid with the signature glyphs and markings of Lady Elmenore the Unforgiving, High Warqueen of the Burning Vale. The ivory handle was wrapped in ornate golden vines and images of the summer season as a reminder of what the weapon was wielded to protect. Chulán loved the weapon dearly but it had a lot of.. baggage. He saw the face of its final victim every time he closed his eyes to sleep at night. The Traitor's face, eyes unrecognizable in how much hatred they radiated, was decimated as Chulán swung the hammer into Thanquel's jaw with his one good hand. He hated that memory.
Chulán was out of his armor, sitting at his desk in a simple cloth vest and leather trousers. He didn't struggle with the weight of plate and chain, his body was more than capable of holding that even if he occasionally missed the smiths of the Courts and their mithril works of art, as light as they were durable. His mind, however…
Chulán was capable of leadership. He had earned his position as Lord-Commander time and time again in battle and at the wartable. Before that, he had earned Brightlord and before that, General and Captain and years before that, a young eladrin soldier saved a Prince of the Seelie Court from a conspiracy by his own attendants and slew a half-dozen Unseelie assassins before the personal guard arrived and helped clear the rest. His experience on countless battlefields against Fey and Fiend, Unliving and Should-Not-Be and the countless great clashes of mortal men in Faerun, his centuries at the front of shining shields and under the shadow of golden arrows leading with conviction and passion. He saw more bloodshed than some of the oldest Lords of the Court and enough death to rival the Raven Queen, he-
He rubbed his temples. His head had pained him many times, usually in moments of stress. In situations where he needed his faculties at 100%, a simple healing spell would tide him over until he could rest. The past few years, though, had led to that method losing its effectiveness. He knew why. He struggled to face the reasons.
Chulán looked at his papers. Reports from all corners of Fiáin Nua with news of Talon attacks, demonic incursions, potential Root Minds. New threats now plagued them too. Word of undead pirates off the coast of Coiscuisce and other terrors from the sea, creatures not recognized by any of his scouts and now the arrival of the Baldur's Gate Expedition. Not to mention to criminal elements of the city becoming more organized, the general maintenance of a city thrown through the planes, villages calling for aid-
His head was struck by a hot bolt of pain that forced him to look away from his table and towards the window. The rain beat down on the city hard. He imagined families rushing for shelter at home
Flame rained from the sky, bodies charred and scorching as Chulán dashed the head of an illithid against the road and brought his boot down to finish it. He roared for his men to rally and push the Spire, rage filling his heart
Chulán blinked. He remembered that day. The Far Realm invasion and the Uprooting of Amalur. That feeling was strong, though. He was angry, sure but he was clear on his purpose. He didn't-
Chulán flung open the doors of the High Table chamber, Alyn at his side as Radiant Host and Shaded Shield poured in and surrounded Thanquel Sorrowsblade and his Talons. Thanquel went to draw his blade but Chulán was on him within a blink, gauntleted fist crushing the mans wrist. He saw Thanquel's head between his hands, squeezing as he gave the order for the executions to begin
No, that's not right. Thanquel's attempted coup, the Talon's Fall. He was at the head of the forces sent to the Spire and he had grabbed Thanquel, yes. But he pleaded for peace, as former- as generals. He hadn't ordered a massacre, there was no such-
The High Table chamber was in disarray. The room was ruined, half of the walls sundered. The city below was aflame, the sky was blood red and Chulán stood over Alyn Shir, her bow arm disintegrated and her mind shattered. His own arm was broken and his left eye ripped from its socket by the lunatic that stood before them. Thanquel laughed, pulling another spell from the tome he now bore as a weapon. Chulán charged, channeling all his rage and fury into a single, decisive blow. He saw Thanquel, his eyes filled with hatred and-
Chulán was yelling. He was standing in front of the window, now bearing a new crack. His hand hurt.
He was breathing heavy. His head pounded.
He looked at his reflection.
There it stood. The gleaming yellow eyes. The wings. The hulking form that history believed Shieldstar stood before and slew at the Silver Shroud.
Balor lived. It lived within Chulán. And it would see him searing the land in yellow flame, a tyrant in amber atop a spire decorated in the corpses of those who stood against him.
What Chulán didn't see that night, through a combination of magic and pure luck, was the small fairy spying on him through the slightest crack in the door. Perhaps the only other being in Amalur who could see that inner demon staring back at the Lord-Commander. Neither of them slept much that night.
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