It's odd, the way it started. An entire nation reduced to glass and grey mist in mere moments. To see all that we had worked for, all that we had wrought, burned into what we call eyes, into this strange new land.

I'm not even quite sure how we survived. I know there were at least 3 of us, patrolling what is now known as the Growing Chasm, northwest of Metrol. A boring duty, yes, but quite lucky on our part.

I remember us walking tireless miles across plains and highlands, mostly enamored with the local wildlife, only taking up arms at phantom sounds and hostile critters. It was probably the most peaceful assignment we had been given since we were forged.

I remember how emotionally stunted we were back then.

I remember our leader, a juggernaut named Solus. During training, he was a narcissistic bastard, one of those 'lone wolf' types that couldn't be asked to interact with a squad, let alone appreciate the House of Cannith that built him.

I remember being angry that he wasn't decommissioned. I remember being angrier that he was assigned as our CO. Solus. He earned that name. And we hated him for taking pride in it.

I digress, we were trekking up a large hill when it happened. Solus, as always, leading up ahead 10 to 20 feet. Our artificer, a timid 'forged we nicknamed Fortis doing all he could to keep up. And finally, me, silently fuming at the tail end of the group.

I remember light.

At first, we thought something was wrong with the sun. It was descending too quickly. We knew something was wrong when thousands of tiny lights appeared to the south and east.

I remember...light. Blinding. Erupting. We climbed as quickly as we could, Solus screaming something about moving faster, Fortis screaming something about dying quickly, and me...trying to decide whether to climb or to stare in awe at something that was erasing all we knew.

I chose the former. When we made it to the top, we watched ash pour into the sky. We watched fire warp the land around us. But mostly, mostly we watched death descend upon Cyre.

I remember us on that hill for days, not speaking, not thinking. If Fortis could shed tears, I'd bet my forehead sigil that he would have. I probably would have too.

I remember Solus being the first to speak. And from his words, I realized why he had adopted such a persona.

"Cannith, Making, Metrol. Houses and cities burned to the ground. The land of Cyre itself reduced to cinders. But it's time had come. I knew it. You knew it. And yet we performed our duties without hesitation, without the clarity to inform our creators that it was a fruitless endeavor. But now, now we are free. Free from the constraints of war, of politics and intrigue."

He stared at me, eyes alight, much like the flames around us.

"But I know. And you know. We know this freedom will not last. The inevitable peace that blooms from this holocaust will not last. We are warforged, and we will be called to our bitter work when swords are raised once again. I will not allow this. This is OUR beginning, OUR well earned rest. Those living, breathing, and writhing will forever try to tether us to their petty vendettas. They will exchange the whole of our existence for a few years of life lived in cowardice."

I remember being surprised at his eloquence. I remember being more surprised that it was Solus speaking of such things.

"But I will not allow this. And you will not allow this. From these ashes, we will forge a new nation, one brighter than all of Khorvaire."

I remember the birth of the Lord of Blades.