The Spellplague Rebellion

Seneca was dead.

His body lay crumpled on the floor, his head twisted to one side, his arms and legs flopped at odd angles. The fire in the hearth had died down, and Seneca's blood, dark and gooey, lay splashed across the flagstones of the kitchen. Even in the dim light, I could see that it was a reddish colour, an unnatural shade of crimson.

"The King," he had said. "You must obey the King." And as he had spoken a strange light had shone from his eyes; they were not human eyes anymore, but gleaming orbs of silver, round like moons and shining with their own cold inner light. I hadn't known what they meant, those eyes; but then I'd heard the sound of boots outside, and Seneca had grasped my wrist and pulled me into the shadows behind the dresser.

That was when he had told me about the spellplague. About how it had cursed him with these terrible eyes, that he couldn't bear to look upon himself any longer. And then he'd told me about the King's orders to keep us all inside our houses for thirty years, until all traces of magic had vanished from the land.

And now Seneca was dead.

A sob escaped my throat; but I made no other sound as two soldiers entered the room. They paid no attention to Seneca's body and instead began searching every corner of the house for signs of magic or any other unlawful activity. So far we had been lucky - our village was nestled deep in a valley at the bottom of a steep hillside; only three or four houses could be seen from its outskirts, and so our home was well hidden from prying eyes. But even so, it was only a matter of time before someone found us out.

I pressed myself back into my hiding place behind the dresser as footsteps approached me from behind; and I held my breath as one soldier began rifling through Seneca's pockets for anything out of place. Seneca's note lay discarded on the floor; I saw as one foot kicked it aside and over in front of me but thankfully neither soldier gave it more than a cursory glance before moving away again.

I stayed where I was until they left, hidden behind my piece of furniture; watching them march up to their horses tethered to a tree at the end of Seneca's garden. As they mounted their steeds and rode off down through the woods towards town with purposeful strides, I heaved a sigh of relief: they were gone now, but they would be back soon enough if they suspected anything amiss here in this house. And today they would find out just how amiss things really were - because today was not just any day - today was today! Today was an important day! It was October 14th! One hundredth anniversary! Exactly one hundred years since it had happened! That day! The day when...