PROLOGUE — HORACE THE PIG OF SOLMARETH
Kingdom come, kingdom go,
through hidden worlds my footsteps flow,
I carry whispers none yet know-
the shape of fate, the seeds we sow.
Everyone in the town square fell silent when Horace appeared.
No one knew if it was out of respect of caution.
As if speaking too loudly might disturb the strange stories always drifting behind his drunken tongue.
Here he came now—wispy, greasy hair hanging around his sun-browned face, dry lips muttering to no one and everyone at once. His arms moved as he walked, circling the air as though he were stirring an enormous invisible cauldron.
And in truth, he was stirring something.
The people.
Their curiosity.
Their hunger for the tales only he seemed to know.
Horace stopped beside a cluster of children playing in the dirt and dropped himself heavily among them. With practiced motions he pulled out his flask… then his pipe.
“Alright, little ones,” he rasped, eyes half-lidded.
“Your new task… is to fill my flask.
And in return—
a story, you ask?”
The children were used to the Pigman’s rituals. They gathered eagerly around him as he blinked slowly, pulled his coat tighter over his belly, and—without apology—snatched a piece of bread from one child’s hand.
He chewed thoughtfully, then washed it down with a generous swallow from his flask.
“Are you going to tell us a story or not?” one of the older boys demanded.
Horace paused.
Right.
That was why he had sat down.
He lit his pipe while licking his bottom lip, then squinted toward the sun.
The memories came to him in flashes—not truly his memories, not of this land or this time, but visions that drifted into his mind unbidden.
Dreams, perhaps.
Or something stranger.
But they made for good stories.
He exhaled a slow cloud of smoke and began.
“The Luminarians were the first to notice it…”
“The stars in their galaxy began shimmering strangely,” he said, his voice deepening into something that did not sound entirely like Horace.
“Vibrating in a way they never had before.
At first it was subtle… a quiet tremor.
Then a restless pulsing—
a plea felt through light itself.”
The children leaned closer.
“The Luminarians gathered and asked the stars:
‘What troubles you? Why do you stir?’
And the infant stars answered:
‘We burn with energy but have no form.
We see the children of your realm—laughing, learning, feeling—
yet we cannot join them.
We wish to be born.’”
Horace’s voice softened.
“The Luminarians were moved.
They consulted one another.
What did the stars ask of them?
What did this awakening require?”
He lifted a hand, shaping the air as though molding something unseen.
“And then the universe itself spoke:
‘Let them be born.
Give them breath.’”
A hush fell over the children.
“So the Luminarians searched for a world capable of holding newborn souls.
A world where spirit could take shape.
A world where the stars could become children.
They found it—
a barren, silent land.
Untouched.
Waiting.
A place where soul would meet mother.
Solmareth.”
He tapped ash from his pipe.
“To prepare this world, they sought the counsel of the Dragon Clan—the ancient masters who once walked the earth.
No beings were more revered.
The dragons agreed.
They conceived four children—
one from each elemental realm:
Centura — Earth
Eogli — Water
Forani — Air
Lunari — Moon and Spirit
“These four would guide the beings of Solmareth, protect them, and shape prophecy.”
Horace’s eyes glimmered as though seeing something far away.
“When their eggs were ready, the Luminarians entrusted them to the Great Mother—
the ancient one who wove earth and spirit into a single tapestry.
She descended to Solmareth, which at that time was nothing but cracked crust and silent desert.
But she did not worry.
Where she walked, life followed.
Where she breathed, the soil awakened.
And soon enough—
the winged, the four-legged, and the two-legged would arrive.
Solmareth would no longer be barren.”
Horace leaned back, blinking slowly as if the story had drained him.
“It would become home.”
One of the boys scoffed.
“That’s not real. That’s just myth, Pigman!”
The children burst into laughter.
“Pigman! Pigman! Pigman!”
They scattered back into their games as if nothing had happened.
Horace didn’t seem bothered.
He simply drifted away.
The town of Lazere always carried a gentle hum—a quiet rhythm of contentment.
People moved through the markets and stone corridors with easy purpose. The Northlands produced calm folk. Practical people. Intelligent. Pleasantly optimistic.
They did not dig too deeply into matters of the heart.
Nor into the matter of Horace the Pig.
Why should they? They were not descendants of the Avanti – the first people of Solmareth.
Their books gave them answers.
Their scholars gave them structure.
Their routines gave them peace.
And Horace… well, Horace was simply the exception no one bothered to examine.
No one knew where he came from.
No one knew how he carried myths older than the kingdom itself.
They assumed he was a wanderer who had paused too long and accidentally become part of the town.
No one questioned why his stories sometimes felt like prophecy.
Or how he knew things no man should know.
But when someone in Lazere was plagued with doubt—
a troubling dream,
a strange omen,
a feeling they could not name—
they sought Horace.
Because his murmured tales always cut to the truth they feared to speak.
And for the price of a full flask or a warm meal, he would tell them exactly what they needed to hear.
Horace lived at the castle, though “lived” was a generous term.
He drifted between the royal stables and the servants’ quarters, passing out wherever exhaustion or drink overtook him.
King Lucien had taken a liking to him—perhaps for his wisdom, perhaps simply for his company—and they made excellent drinking companions when Horace wasn’t sprawled across a hay bale in blissful unconsciousness.
But lately Horace had begun to feel something waking.
Something heavy.
Something that would wound his good friend Lucien deeply.
Horace knew what it was.
He had known for twenty-one years.
Ever since the moment he saw her.
Because Horace did not merely tell stories.
Horace spoke prophecy.
And the prophecy of Solmareth had already begun.