The wind pressed the Tyrean sails toward the anvil-shaped headland, and the surf broke white against its dark stone. After a week upon uncertain waters, the Tyrean fleet found a shore that offered both harbor and high ground.
The farthest reaches of their voyage ended upon the southeastern horn of Kapitola Mairus, where the coastline curved in a great sweep toward the Byring Sea. Low cliffs guarded the shore in places, yet before them lay a deep crescent of sand, wide enough to receive all their remaining ships. Beyond the strand, the land rose in gentle slopes toward green hills, and further still, the first shoulders of the Diluvium Mountains caught the sun. Inland, the air was rich with the scent of earth, and the calls of unseen birds rang from groves of oak and laurel.
Here, the weary keels grounded one by one, timbers shuddering as they struck the sand. The groan of hulls and the creak of ropes filled the bay as oars were drawn in and sails fell.
Sailors leapt into the shallows, bracing their craft against the surf, while others waded ashore bearing the wounded upon their shoulders. Twenty-five thousand two hundred and seventeen souls—what remained of Tyrus—set foot upon that foreign strand. Salt clung to their hair, their faces were drawn with hunger, and the shadow of their city’s burning lingered in every gaze. Yet beneath the weight of loss, the ground itself seemed firm beneath them, and the hills beyond shone with the promise of life.
Now King, Octavus walked among them, steady in step, his gaze measuring the shore, the sky, and the faces of his people. He climbed a great stone that stood above the landing and turned to the crowd. The sea wind caught his cloak as he raised his voice over the crash of the waves.
“Citizens of Tyrus, we have counted our number, and the count wounds the soul. Fourteen thousand, two hundred, ten, and seven—this is all that remains of our beloved city.
This has been wrought unto us by a vengeful tyrant who could not abide your defiance; Your defiance for which you have lost so much, each and every one. Your homes and holy places have been burnt to cinder. Your fathers and mothers, your sons and your daughters have been stripped from you. And those little of you that remain have been driven to a land that is foreign to you.
Yet we endure.
By the mercy of the Mother, breath remains in your lungs and strength in your limbs. My father, your King, fell in the defense of our walls, and in his last breath, he spoke of you. ‘Tyrus is not a city but a people,’ he said. ‘So long as they live, there is a future.’
We stand here because they laid down their lives in our place. Let us honor them with our own.
Though I am not yet a shadow of the great man my father was, I swear to you upon his life that I shall protect and serve the people of Tyrus unto my dying breath. I ask only that, for each other, you hold to the same oath. And so I propose this: here on this ground we shall build a city, a great city. And this city shall be a New Tyrus, a beacon of hope and defiance!
Verily, I say that, although this place is not much similar to our home, in many ways this landing is fortuitous. This land to which we have come is good. Fertile is its earth and bountiful is its game. It is a peninsula and thus open to the sea, yet easily defended by land. Nay, we do not yet know of what kingdoms and principalities lie near us, so we must be vigilant and speedy in the assembly of our defenses. Hard days do lie ahead of us, but I have faith that, united as one in all that we strive for, Kapitola must bow to our shared will!
If not in our generation, then in those to come shall they proclaim Tyrus as mighty once more!
Shall we build a city then?”
The answer came in a shout that rolled across the shore—an oath carried in many voices, fierce and unbroken. Octavus stepped down from the stone with the sound still in his ears, and upon that rock which still lies in the old city square, there is inscribed these words:
25, 217
Vireth Malûra ethal
Tyrûs valathan!
Malum’s bane still draws breath
LONG LIVE TYRUS!
Thus, the work of the new city began upon that Stone of First Declaration, the Petranē Prodiara.
Land of Diuorûm
The first days on Kapitola Mairus were spent in the labors of survival.
Octavus sent forth the strongest among the remnant with the last of their horses to seek water, game, and ground fit for planting. They returned with news that steadied every heart. A lake lay inland, clear as polished glass, fed by streams that sang through the hills. The forests teemed with deer and boar, and the air itself seemed rich, as though the breath of the land carried strength into the body.
Beneath the dark loam lay the deep red earth that the Kapiian tongue called bludhland—soil so fertile that seed thrust up in half the time of any mainland field, and the grain it bore was full in body and richer in taste than any grown in Scissalan’s other realms.
The peninsula rose like a mailed fist from the sea, its crown broad enough to cradle a city and its narrow neck a natural gate against all who might come by land. The shore curved in bays fit for harbor, and the cliffs on the seaward side gave watch over the Byring tides. To the east and west, the water lay open and deep, promising trade for those with the ships to seize it.
The Tyreans, gazing upon this place, saw in it the bones of their salvation.
Those of a devout mind spoke quietly of Holmnuh’s hand in their deliverance, for all the records of mariners and scholars agreed that Kapitola Mairus was unlike any other isle. Every age had found it rich beyond measure in timber, quarry, and game, its meadows heavy with fruit and flower, its seas thick with fish. The Kapiians themselves claimed that the island was blessed from the birth of the world, though they could not tell the manner of it.
In truth, deep beneath the hills lay the veins of Diuorûm, the Godstone, whose presence awakened the soil and steeped the land in abundance. The Tyreans did not yet know its name, yet they felt its gift in every taste of water, every breath of wind, every seedling quickened in the ground.
Within a month, the camp’s wounds began to close.
Faces once hollow filled with flesh and color, and voices that had fallen to a whisper found strength again. Their spirits were further bolstered when they erected a crude earth and wooden wall around their encampment, keeping them safe from wild beasts unknown to them.
Yet even in their renewal, they felt the weight of unseen eyes.
The hunters spoke of figures at the edge of the wood, watching from the shadows, swift to vanish when approached. These watchers came from a village that lay at the narrow neck of the peninsula, and though they did not draw blade, their gaze was steady and their presence unbroken.
Kapii Tolanii
It was in the third month after their landing that the watchers revealed themselves. On a bright morning, two figures walked from the neck of the peninsula into the Tyrean camp. They wore fine linen bound with colored thread, and their bronze brooches caught the sun. In their bearing was the ease of those who speak for kings. They named themselves messengers of Iarbus, sovereign of the Kapiian people, whose realm encompassed the land upon which the Tyreans had come ashore.
Their errand was plain: they sought the leader of these strangers from the sea.
Octavus received them in his great tent. Though its canvas was patched from the voyage, its frame was fashioned from the carved timbers of a Tyrean trireme, and its floor was laid with woven mats from the royal stores—remnants of his former court. He gave his guests water drawn from the lake, bread from the camp’s first baking, and salt to seal the peace of the moment. The messengers saw the order of his household, the tempered manner of his voice, and the weight of command upon his brow, and they judged him a man born to the mantle he wore.
For many hours, they spoke.
Octavus told of Tyrus as it had been—its high walls, its bustling harbors, its temples crowned with gold. He told of the war that had torn it down, of the siege, the slaughter, and the flight that had driven them to these shores. He spoke as one who bore the grief of his people in his own flesh, and the messengers listened without interruption. When the day drew long, they took their leave, bearing his words back to the court of Iarbus.
In the weeks that followed, the Tyreans learned the name the Kapiians had given them—Tolanii, the people of the anvil—taken from the shape of the headland where they had landed. In time, the white ship upon a golden anvil set against the blue of the Byring would become their emblem, borne on their sails and carved into their gates.
When Iarbus heard the full account, he resolved to see Octavus for himself.
He sent his messengers once more, bearing an invitation for the young King and a chosen company to come to Kapua and dine at his table. Many among the Tyreans counseled caution, for they feared that the foreign ruler sought his death. Yet Octavus knew the insult that would be given by a refusal, and he placed his life in the Mother’s hands. He gathered his escort and set out for the Kapiian capital, the road carrying him inland through orchards heavy with fruit, fields bright with grain, and streets alive with the clamor of markets.
Kapua rose upon the southern bank beneath the Diluvium Mountains, where the river broadened before meeting the Byring Sea. Her walls, hewn from pale stone drawn from the highlands, gleamed in the light, and her towers stood watch over both water and plain. Octavus passed beneath her western gate, the smell of salt mingling with the warm scent of grain borne from the inland fields.
The streets spread outward in ordered lines, their stonework worn smooth by centuries of footfall, their colonnades shaded by groves of laurel and fig. Incense from the temple of the Mother drifted upon the air, mingled with the cries of merchants calling figs from the high orchards and shells from the northern shoals.
At the great square, priests poured wine into bronze bowls before an altar of white stone said to have been drawn from the Cradle—the very heart of the world where, in the Battle of the Gods, the earth was riven and the continents cast adrift. Children crowned with reeds danced in the square, singing the ancient verses that told of that sundering, their voices weaving through the market’s clamor like a bright thread through the loom.
To the Kapiians, Kapua stood in sight of that sacred center, and all her streets seemed to flow toward it, as rivers return to the sea.
He was brought to the hall of Iarbus, set upon the highest rise within the city, and crowned with a roof of red tile. The hall’s cedar pillars, darkened with age, bore the carvings of Kapiian victories—long ships of war, kings in procession, and the bounty of the sea laid before their gods. Iarbus, seated upon the high chair of Kapua, was a man in his later sols, his hair streaked with silver, yet his bearing unbowed. His welcome was spoken with measured dignity, and he placed Octavus at his right hand before calling for a feast in his honor.
In the warmth of that table, where lamb seasoned with mountain herbs lay beside olives from the groves and wine drawn from the terraced slopes of the hills, Octavus recounted the tale of Tyrus. He spoke of the city’s greatness, of its final siege, and of the long voyage across the Byring to reach the southern horn of the island.
Iarbus listened with curiosity, as he was encouraged by the naval might of this young prince.
For ten days, Octavus remained in Kapua.
He walked the shaded gardens where the river’s waters were drawn into still pools, sat in the council chamber to hear the concerns of the Kapiian lords, and learned the measure of the King’s strength and the temper of his people. Iarbus, who had buried his only son the sol before in a war against King Nezra of Veilla, found in Octavus a son, and Octavus found in him a father.
A kinship took root—unspoken yet certain.
Long unto the nights did they speak together, discussing how continued friendship might benefit them both. Iarbus had not long since suffered a crushing defeat of his small navy at the hands of the Veillanii, who had free rein to harass the Kapiian coast with impunity and were expected to return in great force at the onset of the next season of war.
Octavus, wishing to ingratiate himself with Iarbus and the Kapii, offered his ships and his peoples’ aid in exchange for an alliance and the right to build a new city where they had landed. The Tyreans, while small in number compared to their original strength, had brought with them strong warships that could break the bow of any ship in the Byring. Octavus, knowing the Veillanii would not know about the Tyrean fleet, proposed that they lay in wait and set an ambush for them.
Iarbus accepted this offer of friendship and allegiance and permitted the Tyreans to begin building a proper walled encampment with the added promise that he would supply them with stone and timber if their plan succeeded.
In those days, Octavus also beheld Valira, second daughter of Iarbus, whose presence in the palace was as constant as the river wind through its open courts. Her gaze was clear, her bearing noble, and the young King’s eyes followed her as though drawn by a tide. And some in the court, seeing his look, whispered of Holmnuh and Divenaeh—how the god of Man beheld the mortal maid in the light of the Mother’s garden and loved her beyond all reason. So it seemed to them now that a prince of the sea had come to Kapua not only with warships, but with a heart already captured.
So clearly perceivable was his transfixion that Iarbus knew within a day of Octavus’ desire. As he had taken a liking to this prince who came from the sea, he gave him both a promise and a command. If the Tolanii would swear fealty to the Kapii, they would keep their own kingly line, gain the shield of the Kapiian crown, and dwell as citizens of the island’s heartland. To bind the accord in blood, Valira would be given to Octavus in marriage.
There was unrest among the Tyreans when word of the pledge reached them in the encampment at Tolan, yet Octavus stilled their doubts with the weight of Iarbus’ promise and the vision of what this bond could bring. Thus was the oath sworn, and thus began the weaving of a shared destiny between Kapaia and the Tolanii.
War With the Veillanii
When the season of war returned, the sails of Veilla crossed the Byring once more, as Iarbus had foretold. Their prows cut southward along the coast from the waters near Catulai, seeking the harbors of Kapaia, for the memory of their triumph over the King’s fleet burned in them like a brand.
Yet the sea gave no omen of the trap laid in their path.
Octavus had walked the southern shores of the Canus Bay in the waning days of winter, marking its hidden inlets and narrow spits of land where the tide ran deep as his father had taught him. There he found a cove veiled by high bluffs and clothed in the green of evergreen oaks, its waters deep enough to shelter the whole of the allied fleet. In the weeks before the enemy’s return, earthworks were raised above the cliff, and branches were set to mask the masts from sight.
When the Veillanii warships rounded the headland, the bay lay open before them as though unguarded. Their keels scraped upon the shingle, and their warriors leapt ashore to plant the standards of Nezra.
In that moment, Octavus loosed his fleet from the cove’s shadow. Row upon row of oars struck the water in unison, the hulls driving forward to pin the invaders between the surf and the sea wall of Kapiian bronze. And it was said by the priests who beheld that day that Holmnuh’s passion burned upon the prow of every Tyrean ship, as once he had burned for Divenaeh, striking down her foes in the first wars of Man. For the love of what is precious will make the arm strong, and the sea itself seemed to rise in defense of Kapaia and the Tolanii.
At the same breath, Eudorus—nephew of Iarbus who shared in command—brought his soldiers down from the high ground, spears leveled, striking the enemy’s half-built shorehold.
The clash was brief and merciless.
Veillanii captains, hemmed in by the press of Tyrean rams and the spears of Kapaia, cast down their arms before the tide of slaughter overtook them. Twelve thousand of Nezra’s warriors fell, and ten thousand more were taken captive, with near a hundred vessels drawn into Kapiian hands.
King Narsus, hearing of this ruin, would give no ransom for the captives, for many were not his kin but men bound to him in conquest.
Eudorus, seeing no worth in their lives, called for their death.
Yet Octavus spoke in council, urging that mercy would cut deeper than the sword. Released, these men would carry word of Kapaia’s might and Tyrean honor, and the allies of Veilla would weigh the worth of their oaths anew.
Iarbus, persuaded, commanded their freedom, though each was made to pass beneath the yoke as a mark of defeat. The native Veillanii were kept as slaves, and their officers ransomed or slain according to the custom of war.
From that day, the pattern of their bond was set—the Tolanii to guard the sea, and the Kapii to bear the spear upon the land. Victory at Canus Bay became the cornerstone of their shared strength, and the oath between Octavus and Iarbus deepened into a fellowship that would endure for a generation.