It was hot out, but a breeze blowing through the streets of Altdorf gave some relief from the heat. The smells and sounds of the morning market were everywhere. Fresh chickens plucked and ready for the cooking; a woman with cloth and silk of all colours; a man in the distance selling talismans and trinkets giving luck in love and money to the wearer, and even one (he claimed) that could be used to ward of Chaos daemons. As he walked through the streets with his father, Tiberian could not help but smile broadly. All around him, citizens of the Empire bustling about, surrounded in the splendour of one of the greatest cities in the world. “Tiberian, come along, son," called his father. “‘Tis impolite to be late for our meeting.” Sheepishly, Tiberian hurried back to his father’s side, as they continued to pick their way through the crowded streets.

They had spent the past few days speaking with merchants and advisors, those political elite that held sway in the Imperial court, or who had the ear of an important wizard or lawman. As the eldest son, it was Tiberian’s duty to accompany his father on these trips and learn all he could. The last stop of the day was to visit another nobleman, from whom his father had been trying to purchase some land. Tiberian's father was a noble of some minor standing, with a small parcel of land and few vassals. With some careful management and a bit of luck, those who lived on his lands had done well for themselves, and through their taxes, Tiberian’s family lived in comfort. There were tutors for Tiberian and his young brothers, Maxentius and Edmond, and his sister, Katrine, and servants in the kitchens. Those who lived under his father respected him, both for his honesty and his strength as a leader. It had been only a few months since they were troubled by bandits sneaking into town at night, but there was still talk from the villagers of how their lord rode down on horseback, sword in hand, shouting for his people to rally to him, and how they came, every man of them, pitchforks and daggers gleaming in the torchlight. The bandits had not returned to trouble them since...

They approached the noble’s home, a patchwork of construction much like any other in Altdorf. A loud rap at the door, and a servant quickly scrambled over and opened the door.

“Lord Berthold,” he bowed, “My Lord Hacin has been waiting for you.” He stopped, noticing Tiberian for the first time. “Ah, my Lord did not expect any other visitors. I believe he wanted to speak in private...” he trailed off.

“Tiberian, you’ll have to wait, I suppose," said his father. Then, quietly under his breath, “Lord Hacin is a little... odd, but it's best not to unsettle him when we're about to talk business.” He smiled broadly, and then nodded to the servant. “Lead the way.” They started up a long, spiralling set of stairs, disappearing into the darkness.

...

Tiberian was bored; it seemed like hours since they had first arrived, and there was still no sign of his father or any other servants. The oaken chair by the main door where he sat was hard, and there was little in the room to interest the young boy. Mostly faded paintings, and a carved bust of an old man with a crooked nose (Lord Hacin, he assumed). If he slipped out for a few minutes, just to look around, he’d hardly be missed, thought Tiberian.

Pushing open the heavy front door, he stepped back out onto the streets. The sun was well past its peak, and while there was still the sound of the crowds through the air. Walking back towards the sound, Tiberian stopped suddenly as a girl’s scream echoed down an alley. Quickly hurrying between the twisting buildings, he heard voices speaking, and a girl, sobbing. Peering around the corner, he saw two men, cornering a girl who looked only a few years older than Tiberian.

“C’mon, love,” muttered one of the men, leering menacingly. “Aye, fancy a tumble,” asked the other. The girl looked terrified, but managed to shout "Stay away from me, or else!" She backed away from the men into a corner, sobbing quietly, and the men advanced towards her.

Suddenly, a rock flew at one of the men, and hit him squarely in the head. He collapsed to the ground, blood streaming from his temple. The second man looked around, and spotted Tiberian, struggling to pull another cobblestone from the ground, where the mortar had worn away.

“You little brat,” he shouted, and darted towards Tiberian. Before he could move, the man had tackled him, and was swinging at his head with his fists. There was little Tiberian could do but raise his arms to try and protect himself. Then, without warning, the girl was there, a piece of firewood in hand, swinging with all her might at the man’s head. With a dull thud, the man collapsed to the ground, before rising again, fury in his eyes. Moving towards the girl, he shoved her roughly to the ground. Tiberian was in such pain that he could barely see, and he shouted at the man, “No!

Distracted, momentarily, the man came back and aimed a swift kick at Tiberian, square to the ribs. The girl screamed again, and rolling over in pain, Tiberian groaned. The man looked back at the girl, licking his lips, before noticing that there was another man in the alleyway. Moving quickly, the warrior priest of Sigmar strode forward, and swung his two-handed hammer at the thug. The hammer struck him in the head, he crumpled to the ground. The priest looked around, prayerbook dangling from his belt, and strode over to the girl, picking her up easily. She buried her face into his shoulder, still sobbing quietly. Tiberian had pushed himself up from his knees, and now leaned against the wall, his chest and face aching. “My father... Lord Hacin’s home... over here...”

The priest nodded, “Follow me, boy.” Walking quickly towards Lord Hacin’s home, Tiberian followed the man. Entering through the doors, he shouted “Come quickly to me. A priest of Sigmar requires your aid!” He then looked over at Tiberian, and said simply, “Well done, boy.”

The same servant who had seen them in came scrambling down the stairs, a look of confusion at the scene before him. Shouting for other servants to come, he started speaking with the priest. Tiberian collapsed into the same stiff chair he had been waiting in, and he remembered nothing further, save the sound of horses pulling a carriage along the road to his family’s home, and his father echoing the words of the warrior priest of Sigmar; “Well done, son. Well done.”

-------------------------

Thyrus stared out beyond the courtyard walls to survey the brilliant city and beautiful sky that lay before him. Though he had always done this, today was quite different for he had company with him. The aging Bright Wizard had called two of his finest pupils before him to discuss the future of The Empire and the roles they would play within it.

His students, though young boys, were on the threshold of adulthood, and not long from the trials and hardships that faced men of this world. Though both boys were well held in high esteem by their master, they could not have been any more different. Alaric Schaffer was the shorter as well as older of the two, showing the common black hair of most Imperial boys. Alaric was attentively waiting for Thyrus to begin his speech and scornfully looked out at his counterpart, who was sitting on the wall over-looking the College Garden. Daywin Zalhoen was nothing like Alaric, neither in appearance nor mind-set. He had hair as blonde and bright as any fire, and a peculiar love of nature. Unlike Alaric, Daywin was not born in the Empire but rather in the Western Kingdom of Bretonnia. It was only by a remarkable series of events that Daywin became a Bright Wizard and Imperial Citizen. At this very moment, he was engrossed in the birdsong that carried up to him from the trees below.

However, this morning was not one for idle thoughts of the past, but rather for planning the future. Thyrus began to speak loudly, “My sons, I have called the two of you here that I may give council to you, and to myself.” Thyrus walked over to his seat and sat down., “As you may know, my days of youth are long behind me and like my fathers before me, I must now begin to plan what course this Order will take when I am gone from this world.” At this time Alaric began to stand straight and listen as if almost under a spell. Daywin continued to stare out over the garden as if yearning to leave. Thyrus went on, “Although I thank Sigmar that our Order stands strong and that it has produced two fine pupils of incredible worth, I am also aware of the dangers that we may find upon us if we are not united behind one leader.” Upon these words Thyrus dismissed the guards and called for Daywin. “My boy, come and sit near your master and let him speak of what lies ahead.”

Daywin began walking towards his master. Before he reached him, Alaric stood up and spoke. “Perhaps master, Daywin is more concerned with the trees and birds than he is with your council?” Daywin starred at his classmate, confused, as Thyrus began again, “Children let us discuss what road lies ahead for the Empire. You must understand that an Empire divided can be most problematic in these times. We cannot afford any petty conflicts or divisions, else there may not be an Empire left to divide.

Thyrus looked at Daywin, asking what he thought of his classmate’s words. Daywin responded “Master, I know Alaric to be well-learned, like you. He would argue and debate on many an issue, and I have always wished for his knowledge and desire for greatness, but I, my Lord, cannot be bold in my ignorance.”

Thyrus starred at Daywin with a look of admiration and spoke, “This old man has met leaders and poets who have been idolized as the greatest minds by their peers, but this strength is also their curse. A man who dawns the robes of intellect may wield great power, yet for all their subtleties has not wisdom.”

As the Patriarch paused to draw breath, Alaric interrupted, “But my master, does wisdom not come from experience and one’s knowledge of that which is before him?” Thyrus addressed his pupil, speaking softly. “Child, wisdom cannot be gained. Experience can aid a man in understanding his past but it does not stop the man from repeating his mistakes.”

As Thyrus continued, his gaze began to settle on Daywin, “True wisdom requires humility, Alaric. The wise must be honest with themselves and with others. A pupil may always teach a master. Purity of both heart and mind may always grace the wise.”

Thyrus turned back to Alaric, with a hard look in his eye. “Wise men do not boast of their greatness, nor do they speak of how they are beyond man’s censure.” Alaric raising his voice countered, “Does Daywin know the ways of our Order, Master? Perhaps of our People? He knows nothing of our cause; he could read all the books in the scriptorium, but a true son of the Empire he is not!”

Thyrus cleared his throat and spoke softly, “We are all Sons of the Empire, Alaric. For we all call these lands home. A child of the Empire is not a person whose birthplace lies within our lands, but rather one who fights to protect them. Whether you are from Bretonnia or from Reikland matters not. A true citizen of the Empire is one who’s heart and mind are one in the defense of our lands, and of its people.” Upon this Thyrus stood up and walked towards the entrance to the Grand Scriptorium of the College, “Remember, The Empire is not these walls, but rather those who dwell in them.” Thyrus then walked out of the room, leaving Alaric muttering quietly under his breath.

-------------------------

Several years had passed since that day, when Tiberian had been saved by the warrior priest of Sigmar. Tiberian shook his head to clear the memory. That day, Tiberian had found his calling in life. Within a year, he had left home and joined the Church. Working diligently, he had quickly found his place serving with his fellows in the name of Sigmar, espousing justice and honour to the citizens of the Empire.

He was still of low standing in the order, but he was well liked by his peers and superiors. Today was a relatively simple task; delivering some documents to a priest who was at council with many of the Emperor’s advisors.

Marching purposefully, Tiberian stepped into the room. Several men were deep in discussion; the hordes of Chaos were marching southward again, and it seemed that things were not going well in the war effort. The men were bickering and arguing amongst themselves. One man wanted to conscript the population and send them to attack Chaos head on. Tiberian scoffed quietly at the idea of sending fresh conscripts to face the might of the Chaos armies. Another spoke of withdrawing most of the Empire’s armies, and leaving the northern towns for Chaos to claim. Tiberian was shocked; surely men of wisdom such as those advising the Emperor would not be so cowardly. Without thinking, he spoke out. “Excuse me, but wouldn’t a withdrawal like that lead to the deaths of many? Would we really abandon them?” The men looked up at him in astonishment. One snapped back, “How dare you, insolent boy! Serfs do not concern us!” Another turned to the first speaker, shouting “Serfs not matter? Remember who works for your food and drink!” A third spoke, yelling “You always sympathize with the weak! We should’ve withdrawn our armies weeks ago, and those helping those Dwarves as well. We must look after ourselves!” Quickly, the meeting devolved into men yelling and bickering with each other. They were divided, men more focused on political schemes than on the lives of those they were leading. No one seemed to notice Tiberian stepping out of the room. His stride swift, he knew what he needed to do. An army, formed to serve the Empire itself, and the Emperor. One free from political interference, of schemes for power, of backstabbing and foolish leaders promoted due to bloodline and not merit. In the Empire’s darkest hour, it needed to call upon its greatest strength: its people.

Tiberian had made up his mind. He would call for aid, and form an army. Loyal, honourable men and women, committed to fighting for justice, protecting the weak, and defending the Empire and its people. Military drill and training, to teach those who would volunteer how to march and fight. Officers who would earn the trust and respect of their men, and who would never waver on the field of battle. Colours gold and crimson, a golden eagle on the banner, heralding troops marching swiftly to protect those in need. He would call them the Prætorian Guard.

"Come, sons and daughters of Sigmar! Rise up, in the name of your Emperor, for your families, your homes! Take courage from these words, and know that you stand alongside your brothers and sisters, united, fighting for an end to evil, to corruption, to fear! To stand as one, the Empire's last hope, to drive out this unholy beast of Chaos! For the Empire, and for Sigmar, charge!