Chapter Text
I remember seeing Kartik, King of Akhtar, as a boy. He was already tall for his age, with brilliant flashing dark eyes, bold smile and laugh that filled the hollows of every room. It seemed that those characteristics followed him through the years and remained despite countless wars, battles and personal losses. I had only one hope when I first met him, I had hoped his fire would never burn out.
- The Writings of Parvaz, scholar and contemporary of King Kartik, dated 709 OA.
The day my cousin, King Aman of Mahan, came to the throne he was an eleven-year-old boy. It was a black day for everyone, we had just lost our King, my uncle, Shankar at the hands of the then fourteen-year-old boy King of Akhtar, Kartik. Aman was as solemn as ever, even eleven years old he understood the responsibility and the weight of the crown. He did not weep that day, though he had a heart of gold, he also possessed a spine of steel. Through the lamentations, watching his mother’s tears, Aman held his father’s sword and vowed before the whole kingdom that he would bring the King of Akhtar to his knees. We didn’t know the true meaning of his statement until many years later, I suspect he didn’t know either.
- Extract from the Journal of Keshav Tripathi, cousin and advisor to King Aman, dated 704 0A.
And so his yearning heart
thundered against the night sky
he will surely fall for they built
his pedestal narrow and high
- Extract from The Glass Mosaic (otherwise known as the Epic of Kartik and Aman), 700 OA.
Their tale, immortalised in the Glass Mosaic, has been told over and over again in legend and in song. It has become an essential part of our culture and how could it not? Two warring kingdoms brought together by love. In a way you could say their love shaped history like nothing ever could.
- The Writings of Serafinni, Queen of Dilaram (formerly the kingdoms of Akhtar and Mahan) 3081 OA.
The days when I was but a humble bard, traveling alongside Serafinni, The Glass Mosaic was requested, more often than any other song. One would expect you to be sick of it after a while. But there was something about their tale, about their love that inspired. Love it seems knows no repetition. Even though Serafinni initially pretended to hate it, trying to keep up an image of the cynical warrior, I remember on our wedding night, she asked me to sing some verses. She wept then.
- Extract, from the Book of Songs by Laila the Bard, Queen Consort to Serafinni Queen of Dilaram 3081 OA.
