《The Cleric's Vow》 Series Preludes Amusing, is it not, what a simple disguise can do? Rolin all but ran down the hall. Buckets of willpower were required to maintain the semblance of composure he held. That and his amusement were all that separated him from killing each and every Aegimari affiliate on the island. No part of him wanted to break world order when he saved Namara from her cell. He would do it, though. Let it all rot if sparing them all meant a world without her. Mother would not appreciate that sentiment. She loved each and every one of her children; even those who had been chosen by the Spectrum or the Void. Life had equal value in her eyes. Rolin saw things differently, even as one of her direct children. A life without Namara was lesser; even more so was the life of one who wanted to take her away. Focus, Wintertide. Focus. All signs indicated that they would not be ready for him. They had suppressed her, likely with Indigo Hues, and he couldn¡¯t sense any high concentration of Nether in the area. He could feel her through their Fatethread. Forbidden, intimate, and most importantly at this time, unidentifiable. The Thread allowed him to feel her presence and location at the barest of minimums. One could send flares of emotions, memories, or even bits of thought to the other through the Thread. The Thread had shown them that others could think in different ways. Namara thought in sensations and pictures, associating them with words and events that she was portraying to herself. Rolin thought in words, an inner monologue of sorts. Her outburst at this discovery stuck with him to this day. I have to listen to you drone on and on when I¡¯m with you. Must I when we¡¯re apart as well? He felt himself smile from ear to ear. Yes, focusing on her was necessary. It kept Rolin in check. They had been Threaded more than twenty years now. That would not end today. The Thread was the reason he had found her. She had been abducted from her palace in Solrusia. The audacity of it all enraged him like little else could. Aegimar thought they had been quite secretive and, truthfully, they had. Without the Thread, Rolin might have eaten up the bait which would have set him, and Namara¡¯s kingdom, against the Maras of Mithrock. Without the Thread, he wouldn¡¯t have felt the worry and concepts of haste which had pulsed in his head whilst he was hundreds of miles away in the Autumn Isles. They had been too far apart for direct thoughts to come through, so he had waited. The familiar came for him from Theron, their steward in the Ebonhold, stating that Namara had been taken. Solrusia was doing well despite the fact that their queen had been kidnapped from under their nose by unknown forces. Rolin¡¯s response, in which he stated that he would get her back without issue, had supposedly done wonders to keep them calm. As calm as they could be, at least. There would still be the typical opportunist to deal with when they made it back home. Some criminals will have been emboldened. All were quaternary at most on his list of concerns. The news had forced Rolin¡¯s conferences with the Dwarven faction of the Autumn Isles to come to an abrupt end. Luckily, the dwarves were much more amenable to such slights. The elves would have scheduled a day and a half dedicated to letting him know how terribly insulted they were. Rolin was a king, he was a mortal god; Namara was a Disciple to another god. It would not do to explain what emergency had occurred. It would do to let them think on what could possibly require a god to step away as quickly as Rolin had without showing them how thoroughly he had been undermined. Rolin and his Lunemorians acquired a smaller boat. Theirs would not do. It would simply signal to Aegimar that they knew, that Rolin was coming, that he was angry enough to meet them on their own ground. That he was livid enough to kill them all. All of these rang true. Rolin didn¡¯t want them to know it, though. Whilst many of his people sailed back to Solrusia in his warship, The Mother¡¯s Ire, they had acquired a small sailboat. To most, a sailboat would be no good. To one whose divine jurisdiction covered the wind and the water, it mattered not. Two of his men, Turo and Ajak, had sailed with him across the Sea of Storms in order to follow the presence in his head. Like the breeze and the waves, a few storms outside of their regular season proved not to be an issue. Such was the power of an Icebinder. After a couple of stops to throw off any potential followers, the Aegimari eventually made their way toward Commonwealth. The island which had never, officially, been taken by an outside force. Other Wintertides begged to differ. Turo and Ajak were still waiting on their little boat. Rolin, who had been a hairy beast of a man for most of his life, had completely shaved his head and most of his beard, leaving a thick mustache atop his lips. So long as he kept his power suppressed to the point where the entirety of his eyes refrained from turning blue, he looked like any other Mithrocki. Whiter than Wintertide, he was, though he was Wintertide. Rolin continued walking down the long columns of white stone that made up this hallway. Doors lay equally spread out on each side, though none of them held Namara. He was getting closer. The presence in his head grew more thorough with each step he took. Soldiers passed him wearing the same uniform that he had recently acquired from an unlucky lad who had refused to give it up. Silvery dust, he was now. Frozen and shattered into shimmery, glimmering bits; though not before his uniform had been taken from him. A plain golden coat with a few star-shaped badges on the chest to reflect the minor rank of Officer, fine black breeches which had been well taken care of, and a white cotton shirt which seemed to serve the purpose of being too warm for no purpose. They gave a quick salute, left fist to the heart, and Rolin reciprocated the act with his right hand instead. They nodded and moved on. The Corporals had tried to give him the wrong salute, likely an attempt to see if they could either catch an undisciplined private, or an intruder, who was mentally checked out. The presence continued to coalesce in his mind, to become more real, the closer Rolin got. He was close. So close. He had to be careful to not send anything through the Thread. Any overwhelming emotion could cause a physical reaction that someone watching her might catch. They hadn¡¯t considered the Thread. That was his biggest advantage over them. He couldn¡¯t give it up. He reached the door. There were no wards or traps that he could feel out, but it was tough when it came to the Arcane. Sage magics could easily search out other sage magics, but that was not the same for the Void or the Arcane. They could only search themselves out. Despite the difficulty, Rolin still checked the door for signs of Ether. He sprinkled bits of Aether on to the white stone in order to search out any resistance that might be found in the door. Are you in there, Namara? He waited for her to return one of her sensations. He waited for feelings of affirmation, love, haste, those which made Namara herself. There was nothing. Her presence was still on the other side of the door, but she gave no signal. Something was wrong. Rolin opened the white painted door. Namara sat in the corner of the room. Her void-black skin was pale, sweat dripping all over her body like a river current. Her head was slumped over and her eyes closed, though her breathing seemed steady. The room itself was pure white, like the hallway, with no decorations on its walls or ceiling. No rug on the floor. Nothing. It was as cold in there as one could expect a room of stone to be. There was one torch which lay lit in its holster. The flame should have kept the room heated. Magics were being used to keep the room chilly; just enough to be uncomfortable. There were no guards. There was nothing here whatsoever. Nothing save his everything. Rolin ran over to her and cupped her beautiful face. Namara opened her silver eyes. She was awake, but she didn¡¯t move much. She did not really move at all. He could feel and hear her pulse, her wonderful heartbeat. Bards could not sing sweeter sounds. She didn¡¯t look at him though. She looked at nothing. Her eyes stared ahead, but they didn¡¯t seem to take him in. Namara sent no emotion through the thread. Namara uttered no words. Rolin mustered up some Aether and sent an Indication throughout her body. She was not sick. Her vitals were excellent. What had they done to her? What had they done?! A feminine laugh came from behind Rolin. He turned to see two Commanders of Aegimar. The strongest man and woman that the organization could provide. Jevil and Anara. Betrayal would have pierced his heart if not for the overwhelming fury that now possessed him. Light returned to Namara¡¯s eyes for a moment, but it fled just as quickly. It mattered not. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ¡°The High King has ridden out to join the battle! Remain calm! His eminence¡¯s presence will strike fear into the hearts of the rebels!¡± The High Crier Abner Fawn had been nigh-on screaming this message for an hour and then some. While words were supposedly motivational, they were more so a warning to those who would flee in the night. Despite this, it seemed that the High Crier truly believed in the king. The king who would not ride out into battle until the rebels had supposedly split; the king who had allowed the Maran rebels to isolate Bainarithe out of cowardice despite their man advantage. The queen, Terra Brineheart, sat beside her children. Arol, The Mother bless his heart, was so tense that he might truly believe his mother would let him attack anyone who breached the Great Hall. Little Svana didn¡¯t really grasp the severity of the situation outside of their walls. How could she? She had seen four brief winters and no more. The child was likely more aware of her dolls than the lives of their men being wasted outside of the walls. The baby Andrius, named out of spite and of love, was bundled up and cooing in her arms. There were others in the hall where the Mithrocki throne resided: servants, cooks, handmaidens, the three Wardens Regis had left behind, and more. None of them mattered as much to her as they had the day before. Her beloved servants were now fodder, bodies she would happily throw at the enemy to keep ehr children safe. Regis likely hadn¡¯t cared a lick for them either. Nevertheless, they seemed to be relieved each and every time the High Crier yelled out his words of motivation. They believed in the High King¡¯s chances of success. The High Queen did not. Regis will only strike fear into the hearts of any maidens or wenches who find themselves on the battlefield. Regis was no soldier; he was hardly a king. He had been something, once, before his heirs had been born. A king. A king above kings. She had seen him off, the duty of the High Queen, and watched him struggle to climb atop his horse. The High King Regis could hardly be regarded above his own mount. Nonetheless, the time to think pettily was at an end. Regis would likely die on the front lines. She was the High Queen of Mithrock and she was a mother. Strength was required of her; strength and patience. What happened with the Marans? There was one person in the entirety of the Maran faction she could depend on to show her a modicum of sympathy rather than the way to the butcher¡¯s block. If Alanna has fallen¡­ Shaking her head of such downcast thoughts, Terra looked to her children. She stretched her hand out to Arol. Her firstborn was still a boy, no matter what he thought, yet he was wound so tightly she thought he might pop. A quick survey of the room showed that the servants, even the High Crier, were watching her every move. Some had even flinched when her hand left her side. Tighter than a flies arse stretched over a barrel, indeed. ¡°My Prince, come here,¡± she lovingly beckoned. Calm, she had to sound so even if she could not be. The servants and guards knew what might happen if the rebels managed to break through either gate, North or West. Every one of them had likely experienced a nightmare or two in their lifetime about this exact ordeal. Pillage, rape, fire, a dozen different ways to die. She would not let her children feel that kind of fright. Not right now. That fear had reached her eldest, false bravery manifesting in response to an emotion the headstrong child had likely not understood. ¡°No,¡± he said far too coldly for a boy of seven, ¡°I have to be ready.¡± ¡°Ready for what, my child? A thump to the head?¡± Alyn Mara had promised no harm was to come to her children. Alanna Alden had promised the same, and Terra trusted her much more than she did the usurper. Her wand floated from the small latch on the hip of her dress and into her hand. ¡°I have my Weavings. Lord Maxon has his blade and Earthforged armor. Children will not die whilst we live.¡± Sighs of relief filled the throne room as she took the hand of her Arol and looked to the young Haydon Maxon. At fourteen years of age, Haydon was more skilled with the blade than any man she had ever known save Andrew. Even across the room, he seemed a statue of good Earthforged steel. He did not wear his helm; he was smart enough to know that wearing the full suit would do even more to worry the room¡¯s occupants. He was a handsome lad with a hard face and silver-blonde hair that he kept tied back in a neat braid. The guard¡¯s sad green eyes met hers as he nodded and placed his gauntleted hand on the grip of his sheathed blade. Haydon¡¯s eyes had not always been so morose. He knew far too much for a lad of his age; the fault lying with herself and his old Lord Captain. Nonetheless, he was wed to loyalty and she trusted him to help keep her children safe more than anyone else in the capital. With her children in her arms and the mood lifted a bit, Terra turned her thoughts to the battle raging outside the city gates. The battle that should have been raging. She listened closely for the destruction of siege machines; the battle cries of soldiers, Sages, the Reagans¡¯ colossi, the wyverns of House Declan. Anything. Never in her life had she wanted to hear the sounds of war more than she did now. Nothing. There was nothing. She would find more in the time-lost Void than her ears did now. The High Queen nearly jumped off of her husband¡¯s throne when the doors to the great hall were pushed open with incredible force. One standing guard had been thrown onto his rear as the strong alder wood slammed into him. His head whiplashed off of the floor, but the man entering gave not one care. Not at the moment, at least. Jerad Kingsor, the Lord Captain of the High King¡¯s Wardens, was the second-to-last person she wanted to see. The only man she wanted to see less was her husband; how would the men take it if he had gone to the front lines and promptly left? The presence of the Southlander could only mean that her husband was dead. Terra could mourn for the man he was later. There had been plenty of that over the past few years. She had to continue to be the High Queen now, and the High Queen had two contingency plans in the scenario where Regis died. There were a multitude of factors she needed clarity on before deciding which plan was the way to go. She needed to know how many men they had lost, how many Marans had fallen, what lords and ladies still stood, if any had defected to her husband, if any had gone over to the usurper, if anyone around them could be used as a hostage- ¡°We have won!¡± roared the Lord Captain. Oh. Wondrous, Terra thought to herself as thundering screams of joy filled the throne room. Servants latched onto one another, tears of relief streaming down their cheeks. The castle guards helped their fallen brother-in-arms up from the floor. Little Arol also had water welling up in his eyes, the first Terra had seen since he was a babe. Her eldest wrapped both siblings up in his arms. He held Andrius gently and Svana tightly. A good ruler. He will be a good ruler. Wait. Her thoughts turned to her husband. Giving her children each one kiss on the forehead, she stood calmly. It would not do to seem panicked. A queen could never be seen so. With a restrained effort, the queen glided over to Jerad as the doors he had come through were blown off its hinges; its great wooden parts exploding into so many little splinters. In an instant Terra had her wand in hand. She drew from her inner source of Aether. The stone before her jutted upwards, creating an imperfect wall of earth that stood nearly seven feet tall. Thuds and snaps of wood confirmed that the earth stopped the splinters from carving her and her children up. The servants were not so lucky. To both sides, cupbearers, handmaidens, cooks and servers were sliced up as the wood entered or passed through them. Some met quick deaths as larger shanks passed through their heads and necks. Others did not die immediately, though they surely would. The cries of men, women, and children filled the room as blood pooled onto the floor. Abner Fawn was no longer yelling. His whimpers were quiet, as though he didn¡¯t want his last cries to be heard. Guilt panged in Terra¡¯s heart for a moment. She could have created a wall large enough to protect most of them, but that would have taken up more of her Aether. Aether she might need to protect her children. She was a queen and a mother. She needed to be harder than steel. She tuned out the screams of pain and cries for help as she scanned the room. Her Wardens were flocking to her. Their Earthforged steel had stood strong in the face of the wooden explosion. Jerad had survived and was limping toward her. Haydon had donned his helm, blood streaming down his cheek. Smaller splinters had found his left eye. It would be useless now. Terra was not capable enough to remove those small bits with Weavings and the only physician in the room might have been dead. Without the same regard for himself, Haydon allowed Jerad to pull the largest splinter out. Not even a complaint escaped his lips. Only a grunt. This poor boy had lost his childhood, mentor, and now his eye because of her. Terra would spend her life making it up to him when this was all over, but she needed to have a life at the end of this in order to honor that thought. Her children huddled behind her, she dissipated the wall and allowed her two guards to stand at her front. The dust from the explosion began to clear, the makings of a hunched over body beginning to appear. Only a man in Earthforged steel could have survived such force, and even then he¡¯d be closer to dead than not. The dust finally let up and she saw Regis. The High King was gasping for air, his golden Earthforged plate blood soaked, a fervent look having taken a hold of his brown eyes. A blood curdling scream escaped his lips ¡°LAERNA! SHE IS HERE-¡° was all he could cry before a knife gently passed into his scalp, out from his chin, and into the floor. Shock took hold of Terra. Just a few moments prior she had almost dared thinking of coronation preparations for Arol. There would be no coronation if Laerna Brakos was here. The Pryde dynasty and its four-hundred year stint would die on a dark note, as most did. Dynasties ended when the sins of their leaders caught up to them. Regis¡¯s misdeeds and their culminations were right here in this throne room. My son might not ever rule a house, let alone an empire. ¡°You could¡¯ve stopped him, Terra. Had you been enough, you could have stopped him.¡± It was a melodious voice that spoke. One which sounded simply pleasant to the ear. Laerna Brakos had been a pleasant woman once. Radiant, to be honest. Genius as well. Regis had ruined her, though it was difficult to not be impressed by the woman garbed in black. She even hid her face, though her eyes were visible through a horizontal slit. Mirth. Mirth and satisfaction filled those void-black eyes to the brim. ¡°I do not feel much better having killed him. He took two from me. It¡¯s not fair that I could only kill him once. Meaningfully, anyway.¡± The black eyed woman moved not an inch whilst she surveyed the room. Surveyed her dirty work. She grimaced. ¡°It was foul of you to put the servants in here. They didn¡¯t have anything to do with this. That¡¯s Regis for you. Pulling each and every person around into his awful fucking messes.¡± She let out a short hark of a laugh. ¡°I can already feel how much better the world is without him.¡± Lost in thought, Terra didn¡¯t realize Arol had slid the knife out from her belt. Her son was rushing toward the monster who had killed his father. It mattered not that she had been a monster of Regis¡¯s making. The child knew not of his father¡¯s transgressions. The crown prince of Mithrock screamed. Shrill notes of vengeance consumed the room, stomping out what had become a cacophony of dying whispers and promises from dying parents to their dying children that things would be okay. I have to stop him. Even if I have to hurt him, I have to. Terra had no time. The Queen of the Night had pulled out another blade, her pitch black eyes locked onto the boy before her. She would add Arol to the butcher¡¯s bill. She¡¯d tack on anyone named Pryde if she could. Terra drew on her Aether, motioned her wand and began to think of as many uses of her Weavings as she could. Her efforts wouldn¡¯t touch Laerna. She knew that. Alanna Alden once said that she herself was incapable of standing against the Dark Eyed Queen. Terra¡¯s Weavings had to stop Arol. She couldn¡¯t use Wind. It would send Arol right into the woman. She didn¡¯t have time to bring the ceiling down safely, and she could not find any spots to put a wall. He was too far away for Terra to be accurate. The gap had been closed too quickly. More ideas. She needed more. She needed one. She needed something. She could have someone shoot him with an arrow. If they aimed for his ankle or calf, he might live. She needed to be steel. She needed to save her son and heir. As she began to speak, Jerad¡¯s body flickered. It was a quick thing. Almost instantaneous. He dropped his knife on the ground and flickered again. He was gone. In his place was Arol, who was still screaming though he had stopped running. Terra had never seen Jerad do this but it mattered not. She needed to act quickly. She grabbed her eldest child and once again there was a flicker. It was the knife Jerad had left on the ground. Again, that which had flickered was now gone. The High Commander now stood where the knife had been. ¡°Your Grace!¡± the knight screamed out. ¡°Haydon! Huddle together right now! With the children!¡± There wasn¡¯t a moment to waste. Both Terra and Haydon reacted without question. High Queen and guard both wrapped their arms around the children. There was no sense or indication of what had occurred. One moment they had been in the throne room, the next they had been on a ship. Terra took it all in. They were in the cove underneath the castle. The moonlight did not show much. It looked as though they were in a pitch black cavern save a couple stalactites which poked down from the unseen ceiling of the cove. She swayed a bit though not of her own volition. They were on the deck of a ship. The ship meant to take them to Venroth should the need to flee arise. Whatever Jared had done in order to save Arol, he had done to bring them here in the span of a second. Terra looked to her knights. They were hers now, in truth. They had been the moment Regis was murdered. Their Oath would transfer to whomever the laws of Mithrock deemed its ruler. With Arol not being of his majority, she was the Queen Regent and the rightful ruler of Mithrock. ¡°Captain! It¡¯s time for you to be off! Straight to Venroth, just as we agreed!¡± Jerad shouted toward a man up some stairs and near the ship¡¯s wheel. His captain¡¯s coat was brown, woolen, and quite dirty. It had been recently cleaned yet still showed stains of drink and blood. His black beard was untrimmed and bald head shining even in the night. Despite his uncouth appearance, his dark green eyes seemed genuine. Jerad had been put in charge of this particular arrangement. If he felt a smuggler was their best chance of making it to Venroth alive, then so be it. The captain responded in a high mood, ¡°Aye, Lord Captain. Straight North to King Jarlam.¡± His jovial tones deemed him clearly ignorant of the dire situations above them, though he must have been aware. Why else would the Queen and her crying children be here? She looked around and saw that the crew was simply getting to work. No one wasted a hair of a movement. They had been told that their arrival might have been abrupt. How else could they not have been in awe when they appeared from thin air? ¡°My Queen.¡± Terra snapped out of reverie and looked to Jerad, a solemn glare planted upon his face. His eyes were resigned, lips thin. The Lord Captain was even trembling a bit. ¡°You surely do not mean to go back, Jerad?¡± She needed him to guide Arol. Haydon was of great quality, but he was fourteen. He deserved to experience a bit of his fleeting adolescence once they were in exile. She couldn¡¯t take more from the boy. ¡°I am the only one who can hold her off. She really is one of those Disciples.¡± His pause sat for a moment. Terra understood. Any pause he took was a moment longer that he lived. She intended to keep him alive either way. ¡°Come with us, Lord Captain. My children will need you. You have taught Arol since he could hold a small blade. Haydon needs his teacher. We cannot¡­ we cannot lose you too.¡± Tears welled up in her cheeks, but they did not fall. Steel. I am steel. Jerad looked to Arol. His screaming had subsided, though tears and sobs took its place. The boy would end up like Haydon; harder than a lad his age should ever be. Jerald placed his large, gauntleted hands on the boy''s shoulder and gave him a quick shake. ¡°You need to be ready. Our armies won the battle. We forced the Marans to retreat. They will come back when they learn that Brakos has forced you out of your home. They will rule your kingdom.¡± Never in Terra¡¯s life had she seen tears fall from a single Warden, let alone Jerad Kingsor. Some fell now though his voice stood strong. ¡°It will take many years. It will be hard. But that throne is yours! Mithrock is yours! You will need to be ready to take it back!¡± Arol¡¯s sobs subsided. He wiped his snot and tears onto his sleeve. ¡°I will be,¡± the crown prince replied. Anger, strength, and a coldness could be found in his demeanor. Terra was equal parts proud and furious. Pride for her son¡¯s strength; fury toward Laerna for murdering the child within him. Jerad flickered and was gone. Goodbyes would be redundant here. Arol looked upwards, likely thinking of the death that awaited his mentor. The crown prince turned around and grabbed at his mother¡¯s sleeve. ¡°Mother,¡± he said, ¡°let us have them show us our cabin.¡± No hint of his understandable distress could be heard now. Her son was steeled more so than she ever had been.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The captain, a smuggler who¡¯s name turned out to be Maron, showed them to their rooms and kindly tried to comfort the children. Arol ignored him. Svana, with Terra¡¯s permission, sat on the man¡¯s shoulders. Andrius had fallen asleep. As the former royal family went down the stairs and toward the cabins, Terra turned and looked once more at the empire they were leaving behind. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ¡°All hail the High King! Hail House Mara!¡± Jubilation filled the Great Hall of the Bainarathian Keep. Three days had passed since Alanna Alden¡¯s betrayal, and two since the absence of Alden forces had caused the Marans to retreat from the battle outside the realm¡¯s capital. Lord Harley, Alanna¡¯s heir, had not seemed to mind that only his sister was to blame for how the whole situation played out. No matter what anyone said, whether it be an oath of no hostilities or promises of retaliation should Harley leave, he had left, and with him went the entirety of their house¡¯s forces. That betrayal among other things made it difficult for Haryn to enjoy his father¡¯s victory. House Alden had been staunch allies to every royal house to rule the Mithrocki provinces. For each and every legend who managed to usurp the throne, there was a legendary Alden beside them. Samaryn Mara had Absolom Alden. Theodore Reagan had Yusuf Alden when he had claimed the throne and Mariana Alden when he crushed a Ranidorian rebellion. Even the leader of that rebellion, Bharnam Yhorn, had Temerius Alden as his most trusted adviser! Alyn Mara had Elias Stormrite, though Haryn was unsure whether or not bastards counted. They likely did. Three hundred years down the road, some historian would likely dub him Elias Alden and all would likely agree that had always been his name. The Crown Prince could hear the bastard talking; likely with individuals who had not known he existed until a few days ago. They were both seated on the high dais, Haryn to the right of his father and Elias to the left. Rows upon rows of feasting tables lined the hall in front of them. Smells of hams, beaten potatoes, ale, and wine permeated throughout the hall. Small orange orbs of Aether floated in the air above the tables, lighting and heating the celebration. The work of his father¡¯s Sages, they were truly a sight to behold. Having Vulcans and Lightsmiths available for such menial work was even more impressive. Servants walked by with great haste. They carried trays of pies, small glazed cakes, and lemon squares. For the second time in his seventeen years, the Crown Prince had no appetite. When he looked at these servants, he saw those they¡¯d found when they had taken the castle the night prior. Corpses upon corpses bundled together, nearly every inch of the hall covered in death and debris. Someone had destroyed the hall¡¯s great doors and, in doing so, killed everyone in the throne room. The doors had been promptly replaced as preparations for the feast were underway. Strong alder wood doors with metal hinges stood tall in what had momentarily been an empty frame. The fact that someone killed Regis and his servants bothered him as much if not more than the sheer number of dead they had found. It had to be a Sage. Only Weavings could turn a door into a weapon like that. Where was the murderer? Was it one of their own, or was there someone outside of their faction who also wanted Regis dead? Would that person stop at Regis, or did they have disdain for anyone who sat on the Mithrocki Throne? There were so many possibilities to ponder, each accentuating Haryn¡¯s paranoia more than the last. Paranoia had been the death of many dynasties all over the world. Haryn couldn¡¯t give in when he had only been the Crown Prince for half a day. Maybe eating would be a fine distraction, or listening to the folks around him. Anything but thinking, really. Haryn could hear the bastard boasting about how he had outmaneuvered the Great Phoenix. From what Haryn could gather, it sounded more so like a cowardly back stab than a great feat. Elias was managing to make Alanna Alden sound like beggar¡¯s change despite the fact she had taken on six enemies at once and killed five. Don Poe. Leann Poe. Miles Declan. Logan Reagan. Haleigh Faelor. Four heirs to great houses and one of their siblings. There had been no sign of Don. He had likely been disintegrated by Alanna¡¯s Lightning. Leann had been found with a scorched hole through her chest. Miles and Logan¡¯s necks had been burnt to crisps. Haleigh¡¯s head was found two hundred paces from her body, the remainder of her neck charred. No matter how Haryn felt about the mockery of a great warrior, he was glad Alanna was dead. There would not have been much his father could have been able to do if the woman lived to put Gabryan Mara on the throne. Besides, he could respect greatness, but he did not have to like her for it. Haryn had enjoyed Haleigh and Don. The others he had been indifferent toward, but they were his subjects and it angered him to see them taken from the world by the Would-Be-Queen. ¡°My Prince?¡± A soft voice roused him from his thoughts. Looking up, he noticed that the Lady Juniper Faelor stood before him. Elderly and plump, the High Lady of Ranidor seemed as silently angry with the world as she had when news of her daughter reached her. Haryn could not see her husband near. To look at him was even worse. Where Juniper had turned her daughter¡¯s death into anger and passion, Boras Ridelos-Faelor had been broken. Tears were never far from his cheeks and his words were hardly more than murmurs. Conversations with him were impossible to hold and he more oft than not excused himself once pleasantries were exchanged. Haryn could understand, though. House Ridelos were bannermen to House Alden. The man had likely made the journey to see Alanna born, blessed her as a baby and even kissed her forehead. There weren¡¯t enough thrones in the world worth going through what Boras was. Juniper, on the other hand, at least had a semblance of composure. Sure, her brown eyes had a tinge of anger to them. Her stark white hair, normally in an unnaturally neat bun, was a bit disheveled, but she was still there. The way she was meeting his eyes, the High Lady must have been talking and was likely expecting some sort of answer. Honesty would always go the longest way with subjects, or so Alyn Mara had always said. Well, men had fought and died to make the man the High King. Some of his advice had to be good. ¡°In all honesty, my High Lady, I was deep in thought and didn¡¯t hear a word you said. I am sorry.¡± ¡°Oh, tis not a worry in the slightest, my Prince. Might I ask what you were thinking on?¡± ¡°I was just thinking on the war.¡± ¡°The war is over, my Prince.¡± ¡°It was my first. I pray it is my only. I-¡° He cut himself off. There was no need to go in that direction. Not tonight, not during the eve which signaled the revival of the Maran dynasty. ¡°It¡¯s okay, Haryn. I can hear it.¡± Some might have minded being referred to so informally in this setting, but he did not. Haleigh had been his friend and her mother knew that. ¡°I am just, I am so sorry. I wish she was still here. I hate that our rise to power resulted in her death-¡° ¡°Child,¡± Juniper replied curtly. She reached for his left hand and cupped it in both of hers. Her grip was tough, much like the woman herself. ¡°Never was Haleigh¡¯s death your fault. Nor was it your father¡¯s. It wasn¡¯t your rise to power. It wasn¡¯t your rebellion. Alanna Alden killed my Haleigh and the bitch lies within the dirt, her ashes spread along the wind and away from the graves of her homeland.¡± She grew quiet so others would not hear, but her intensity rose while her words descended into a whisper. ¡°I know my daughter. She took on her duty for you. I¡¯ve no doubt she was thinking of her duty when she stuck her dagger into the Great Phoenix. I pray you won¡¯t take offense to this, my Prince, but I¡¯ll not have you treat my daughter as a victim. She died a hero. She died fighting for her prince, and I would rather hear you talk about her as such.¡± A hero. Aye, that she is. ¡°They will sing songs of her bravery, my Lady. From Nya Norr to Ranidor, I swear they will.¡± The High Lady of Ranidor strengthened her grip on his hands for a short moment and gave him a smile. She looked up to Haryn¡¯s father and gave a deep curtsy. ¡°Blessings upon you, my prince. May your father¡¯s reign last two dozen summers.¡± ¡°The Mother bless you, my Lady. Thank you for helping my son see the way of things.¡± Haryn flinched. Alyn Mara had a way of sneaking into a conversation that was uncanny for a man with so much to tend to. Haryn¡¯s father looked every bit a king. His blonde hair ran long and was worn down to his shoulders. His beard was thick, his eyes gray, and a few scars ran along his cheeks and forehead. Trophies from the war, he called them, as well as a reminder of what it took to earn back their throne. Haryn was often told he looked like his father, though he had no real beard to speak of. Only small patches could grow upon his cheeks and a bit on his chin. He¡¯d like to have one some day, though. Alyn Mara extended his hand out to his subject and she kissed the knuckle to his middle finger. With a dismissive nod, the High Lady Juniper went back into the throngs of tables and merriment. Haryn¡¯s father tapped him on the shoulder, bending down from his high seat to whisper. ¡°I was frightened you¡¯d make a scene for a moment, but I think you handled that well. Always listen to your subjects, even when it¡¯s hard to hear what they have to say. Especially when it¡¯s hard. I think House Faelor will fight for House Mara so long as Juniper¡¯s will is well remembered, thanks to you.¡± Rare praise that was. His father only handed it out when it was deserved. ¡°I did not really do much, father.¡± ¡°You are right. You only did a little, but tis easy to forget to even do just a little. A little can be all that someone needs. When the world is unfair or unkind, a small gesture can mean more to someone than the world at that time.¡± Haryn simply nodded. ¡°Thank you, father.¡± ¡°Of course, my son. I¡¯m proud of the man you¡¯re becoming. I don¡¯t want you to forget that, even though I forget to say it.¡± They both laughed for the first time in what seemed like ages. Haryn hoped there would be more laughs. More praise. More things to be proud of. If anyone could bring about a Mithrock with those things, it would be him and his father. ¡°ELIAS! COME AND DIE, YOU TRAITOROUS CUNT!¡± The jubilation subsided. Laughter faded. The only sound heard was the rustling of bodies as the feast¡¯s attendants looked to find the man who had said the words. Folks sat down at the tables in order to prevent being mistaken as the perpetrator. Those who could not find space on a bench found it on the floor. A few moments of silence passed before the man made his way to the center of the hall. Not a man, Haryn realized. A boy. One younger than himself. One with golden eyes. Haryn froze in his spot. This boy had the golden eyes of House Alden. Murmurs filled the hall as the subjects at the tables came to the same realization. The murmurs began to turn into shouts and the King raised his hand. Silence followed. Haryn looked to every corner of the hall. Each and every archer had their arrows aimed at the boy. The spheres of Aether had disappeared, a sign that the Sages were preparing to fight. The King spoke. ¡°Eustace Alden. Why are you here?¡± ¡°I want Elias,¡± he said quietly. ¡°I want him dead!¡± he yelled. ¡°HE BETRAYED MY SISTER, ALYN!¡± Limerick Reagan stood up. He had been sitting right next to where Eustace had begun screaming. His red hair could be recognized from leagues away. His face was equally scarlet with anger. ¡°Your cunt sister betrayed her king, killed my son! She deserves what she got!¡± That was all it took. Silver erupted in all directions, every bit of it stemming from where Eustacw stood. Heat filled the room, and the silver licked upwards from wherever it landed. Flames. The man created silver flames just has his sister had silver lightning. He turned his eyes back to Eustace. Where bodies had surrounded him, not one remained. Only ash. Arrows were loosed. They burned away before they reached their target. Sages shot Light, Fire, and Air toward the boy. Walls of flames stopped them in their place before reaching Alanna Alden¡¯s youngest brother. Haryn¡¯s father screamed for the man to be seized. Men-at-arms and Sages readied themselves. All of the nobility in the room began to walk toward the doors to the hall. Before anyone could leave, a wide wall of sterling flame erupted from the ground just before the doors and grew until it reached the ceiling. Eustace said nothing. He merely looked at them as though they were foolish for thinking they would be allowed to leave. Pandemonium ensued. Flames zipped around the room, killing anyone Eustace could catch. He defended himself in one on one combat while simultaneously allowing the flames to roam in an almost random fashion. The scents of hams and desserts and ale were replaced by those of burning skin and ash. Heat continued to rise, smoke filled the hall, and Haryn could feel his sweat mixing with his tears. He hadn¡¯t realized he was crying. His father had put his hand on Haryn¡¯s shoulder. The King was looking to Elias as well. ¡°Stay up here. I¡¯ll see if I can talk to him.¡± ¡°Father, please. No!¡± ¡°My people are dying down there. I cannot stand by.¡± ¡°Father, no-¡° The King¡¯s eyes became fierce. ¡°Elias. Keep my son up here. If he leaves the dais, then you will die.¡± Elias¡¯s voice cracked as he responded, ¡°Yes, my King!¡± The bastard grabbed onto Haryn and held him with a much stronger grip than Haryn would have figured. Streaks of white floated across Elias¡¯s hands. Infusion Kova. Haryn had to break free. He had to stop his father. This was foolishness. - - - - Alyn heaved himself over the dais and onto the stairs. Never in his life had he ever wanted to kick himself for never furthering his training in Sageweavings. It mattered not. That was not a tool he had. This Alden boy was murdering his subjects. Those he had sworn to keep safe just this morning. Those who had placed a crown upon his head and called him sire. They had called him King. He could not let anger take over. It was difficult. The heat made it harder. But he stayed calm. Eustace Alden was a boy of twelve. He was grieving. The boy had lost his mother, father, and two eldest siblings in the span of a couple years. His mind would be delicate at best. Cries began to die down. The flames seemed to as well. Eustace was responding to Alyn¡¯s approach. ¡°EUSTACE!¡± he screamed. Not antagonistic, but loud enough to boom over the noise and catch the lad¡¯s attention. The flames calmed a tad. They receded, shrinking in size before returning to the boy. They settled along his arm, a lattice tattoo appearing in their place as they faded. Eustace¡¯s eyes were glazed over, but some sentience returned to them. He looked around the room, a bit of confusion appearing upon his face. Alyn did not look around. He could not. Ferocity was being forged in the depths of his soul. If he looked at the horrid amounts of ash that surely littered the room, the lives that had been taken, there would be no tempering it. He put his hands out. ¡°Lad. I have no weapons. None. I just want to talk with you.¡± ¡°I did not, I. I did not. I, Alyn. I. I. I only mean to hurt Limerick.¡± Eustace put his hands up to his head. He began to mutter. Sobs racked his body. He bent over and screamed into the ground, scratching his scalp and face as he roared in pain. This boy¡¯s soul had been so horribly tortured. Had Alanna known that his would happen? Did she realize her brother¡¯s mind would break and decided to give her their Mark anyway? It mattered not. Alanna was dead. He was not here to save his little brother. Alyn eventually made it to Eustace. He knelt down, his good silk breaches being dirtied by the ashes of his followers. I must temper it. I must. He is a child in grief. ¡°Eustace. You need to leave. Go home. Go back to Harley. Please, lad.¡± The sobbing ended. It was gone nearly as quick as it had come about. The lad looked up to him. His eyes glazed over again. Insanity had him. Alyn needed to tread carefully. ¡°I cannot, Alyn. I cannot.¡± ¡°Why not, lad? I am the High King. I will let you leave. You have killed enough. You don¡¯t have to hurt anymore. Just go.¡± ¡°Elias is there. I killed everyone in here, but I just came for him.¡± Horror reached in to the depths of Alyn¡¯s soul, replacing the ferocity that had nearly spilled over. ¡°They all died for nothing if Elias lives, Alyn.¡± Alyn finally looked around the room. No one. There was no one. The door had not been opened. The boy had not stopped the flames for him. There had simply been no one else to burn. Hundreds of guests had come to this evening feast. High Lords. Heirs. Merchants. The most powerful servants of his kingdom. None had survived. He had promised to protect them so long as he was their King. His promise had lasted less than twelve hours. Eustace stood up and walked toward the high dais. Only Haryn and Elias remained. They were the only two left in this throne room other than Eustace and himself. He had failed. He had united the entire kingdom just so he could fail them in less than a day. Alyn reached his hand out, grabbing Eustace¡¯s forearm. He had no more room to grieve for the child. No more room for empathy. Mourning and despair filled him to the brim. ¡°Let me go.¡± The boy¡¯s voice was cold, lacking any emotion. It would have chilled Alyn to the core if he¡¯d had any room for it. ¡°I will not.¡± ¡°I just want Elias.¡± ¡°You will not have him.¡± Flecks of silver began to coalesce around the two. They took longer to form than they had previously. Heat began to rise. Alyn had already decided to die here. No good King could live after allowing his subjects to die like that. He would do his best to end the boy. ¡°FATHER, STOP!¡± The flames disappeared before they could fully form. Eustace looked up to the high dais. Haryn stood at the top of the stairs, the Mithrocki Throne looming behind him. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he met Eustace¡¯s eyes. What was he doing? Surely he wasn¡¯t thinking of giving Elias up? ¡°If we give you Elias, will you leave us? Will you leave us be until the end of time?¡± Eustace thought for a moment longer than Alyn had expected he would. How could Haryn offer up the man who had helped them put down Alanna¡¯s betrayal? What kind of leaders would they be if they gave in to their enemies'' wishes like that? The same kind of men who can¡¯t maintain their oath for more than a day. Eustace replied, his tones much more jovial. ¡°Of course, Haryn. It¡¯s that easy.¡± It isn¡¯t about the kind of leader I can be anymore. ¡°Father. Let go of him.¡± It¡¯s about the kind of king Haryn can be. ¡°Father. Please.¡± He can still be great, even if I cannot. ¡°Alyn. Let me go.¡± I¡¯ll NOT let my son ruin himself just to save me! ¡°Eustace.¡± Alyn¡¯s word quivered. He was afraid, but there was no other choice to make. ¡°Eustace. I¡¯m the one who told Elias to kill your sister.¡± Sterling flames enveloped Alyn Mara immediately. He embraced death knowing that his son could no longer make a choice which he could not have lived with. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ¡°Bloody lords and their stupid, forging requests!¡± Curses and a tirade exploded from Terince. Marilyn nearly fell out of her horse as she winced. Very rarely did her mentor resort to such language, especially within earshot of other people. It wasn¡¯t very becoming of a Cleric. Not one bit. Marilyn¡¯s tan gelding, Ides, nearly stopped, but continued on when he realized that she had righted herself more quickly than one might expect. Such a good lad. If only Terince could compose himself so. That wasn¡¯t particularly fair. Terince had already ended his outburst and was on to brooding silently. The Cleric was a normally mild mannered, thoughtful, slow to yell, and quick to shame Marilyn when she exhibited the opposites of those qualities. She could recall a time where an oath she had picked up from Ben and his teacher had her sleeping in stables for a week, living off the land for her dinner. Mother forsaken men and their Mother forsaken words. She had known thirteen birthdays at the time. Four had passed since and small bits of anger still swelled within her when that week came to mind. Scents of hay and horse dung still caused an involuntary squinting of her eyes now and again. I will put you in the stables when I see you next, Ben. Just you wait. Ides snorted. She couldn¡¯t tell whether he thought she was being silly or if he was providing support to his rider. She decided to think it was the latter. Having finally taken total control of her gelding, Marilyn turned to her mentor. ¡°Are you going to talk about it?¡± Prodding was often necessary with this introverted man, even more so when his bald head was so red that it¡¯d give Prairie tomatoes a run for their money, or when his brown eyes could bore holes through bark. ¡°Soon. Ride tall and proud. Like a Cleric.¡± She could do that. Straightening her back, squaring her shoulders, and looking ahead, she rode on. Absolom¡¯s Hearth was not the standard for what most folks might consider a backwater village. It had every little characteristic one might think of when thinking of an isolated mountain town. One road ran through the Hearth and had homes on each side before it ended right in front of the Mayor¡¯s mansion. The mansion was only considered as such thanks to the other homes. Mayor Janus¡¯s home had the same pointed, thatch roof that was present in the rest of the village houses. On the other hand, within it were three bedrooms and a kitchen with a window so big that one could watch him have dinner if they so chose. There had been no need for a third bedroom. Janus¡¯s niece, Dorene, was his only living relative. Marilyn had only seen the girl once. A brief moment, that had been. The village Mystic, a tightly wound Solrusian woman named Natalia, had picked the child up for some tutelage in her profession. Marilyn had seen the Mystic instructing her student over the properties of turmeric. The roadside homes had a kitchen and a bedroom. That was it. It mattered not how many belonged to a family. Their kitchens served as dining rooms, living rooms, washrooms. Marilyn shuttered at the lack of privacy and suddenly felt quite thankful that Terince always spent coin on separate sleeping arrangements- save when she was sleeping in a stable. There were no fenced in backyards in the Hearth. The grasses behind both rows of homes held an army of clotheslines and wash buckets. Today was laundry day. Parents screamed at their children to go play anywhere else, as though that would work. Parents also yelled at one another for slacking off. Plenty of clothes needed to be laundered, for every one of age in the Hearth was a parent. Everyone! Marilyn had never seen anything like it! The kids were odd as well. Not because they were backwater dwellers, but there was a crop of ten or so who were all the same age. Not only had they all known twelve winters, but they had all been born within the same two month period. The children had excitedly told her this with very little prompt, as most children did, before being scurried off by their parents with forced apologies to the Clerics. Other than that, the kids were normal. That was what made them so odd. They were normal whereas their parents were a bunch of sad sacks. The adults seemed fine when around the children, but Marilyn could see it. Their movements, their apprehension when speaking, the constant lowering of their eyes, all of it. That might be normal in the slums of a rougher city where food, safety, and purpose might be scarce. It was not normal in a backwater village. Marilyn had expected pride, stubborn attitudes, even a bit of haggling when renting a room. She had found hushed and contrite responses, quick subservience, and bedding rates that were too fair. The Mystic seemed to have a bit of fire, but that was it. One adult out of nearly forty or so. Even the Mayor had a backbone of jelly. Janus and Terince had spoken with one another for not even three minutes. That left them enough time for Janus to make his request, Terince to deny it, Janus to plead for a moment or two, and Terince to deny it gain. Clerics protected the average person from monsters that they couldn¡¯t deal with on their own. If there was something in this area which Janus believed to be dangerous enough to warrant a Cleric, it would take a meek man to back down after two quick denials. Either that, or Janus¡¯s request had been so ridiculous that Terince hadn¡¯t gone through the proper procedure and had shut the mayor down quickly. She had only seen that happen once, when a lord down in the South had requested that they take down a bandit camp that had been terrorizing merchants and travelers along one of the main roads outside of the city. Clerics didn¡¯t take jobs to kill humans. Since the dawn of the order, those who took these jobs on were found and executed; their names struck from most records, only to be spoken around young trainees in order to scare them out of ever doing such a thing. Lords could do as they pleased. If they wanted to set bounties on whoever they perceived as a criminal, let them. It may be a barbarous method used by those who struggle to keep the peace by normal means, but it was their right. They would not use huntsmen for the act. Not even those assigned to their lands. Huntsmen served the people of the land, not a lord and definitely not a mayor. They rode through the warm, muggy morning silently. They kept their mouths shut after the homes on the side of the westbound road disappeared, as they reached the crossroad which took them either to the Wall or the shore; even as they turned toward the Wall and plenty of time had passed for Marilyn to make as many possible assumptions regarding the negotiations as she could. Hours later, once the Wall was in sight and Marilyn had thought through dozens of different scenarios, including one where she considered riding back to make sure the Mayor was alive, he spoke up. The All-Forsaken man spoke up. He did so quietly. ¡°He asked me to hunt down voidlings. Nightseers.¡± Mari sat on that for a bit. Maybe she should have waited a bit longer. ¡°Nightseers haven¡¯t been around for centuries,¡± she said, but even she could feel the uncertainty in her voice. Everyone knew what Laerna Brakos claimed she was. Nightseer. Dark Eyed Queen. She had left Mithrock alone for a decade and a half, but rumors involving her battles in the Frontier had made their way to the west. Dread fleets. Fjallborn subjugation. Whole ships of pirates murdered only to rise from the dead and join her side. Even the two remaining Chieftains had apparently been avoiding her. Others said she had killed Clarissa Le Noy and Gwondoya Akimba and that the entirety of their fleets had sworn fealty to her. ¡°Bah, of course they haven¡¯t. It matters not if they were. We do not kill humans as our job. Even if the Nightseers were here, even if every bloody rumor about Laerna Brakos was true, it wouldn¡¯t matter. Nightseers are human, lass. Just as the Sages are.¡± Marilyn understood. It was the principle of the matter. Even if Nightseers were running amok on the coast, it wasn¡¯t their job. That was under the scope of other Aegimary divisions. ¡°Will you send a message to Winthrop, then?¡± ¡°Aye. Maybe the Aegimari can get the right of this. I feel for the mayor, I do. The history of that All-forsaken village is downright dreadful and he¡¯s trying to break free of it, but someone out there is trying to pull them back into the dark times. The only thing stopping us from helping him is that it¡¯s obviously a someone and not a something.¡± Cold calmness made up his voice. Terince wanted to help, but there was nothing to do about human conflicts when you belonged to this particular order. ¡°I cannot let you send that message, I¡¯m afraid.¡± Cold and melodic. Frighteningly beautiful. Both Clerics turned their horses around, throwing knives ready in one hand. Marilyn¡¯s other hand went to her unstrung alder bow, Terince¡¯s to his Sosin long-knife. Goosebumps sprung up from their arms as the woman spoke again. ¡°I am thankful you came, though you are not who I was hoping for.¡± Marilyn felt herself shiver. The woman wore a black, hooded cloak from her head to her knees. Well worn black boots went up to the calves of fine black breeches. Noting her average height, Marilyn could see nothing else of her save her wand and stance. Sure, confident, not an inch of hesitation. This woman had been in many fights. The man to her side was even more frightening. He was garbed similarly, though his tree trunk arms wouldn¡¯t have been contained by any cloak. His sheer black doublet was visible through a part in the cloak. Like the woman, Marilyn could not see his face, but he did have a lengthy gray beard. There¡¯s no way- The cloaked woman spoke up again. ¡°Is a Cleric named Ben traveling with you? Bianca Rosamund? Perhaps a large, brusque commoner named Abraham?¡± Marilyn yelled back in surprise, ¡°What could you possibly-¡° ¡°Lass.¡± Terince sat atop his black gelding, ready to strike at either enemy in an instant. By the Mother, they felt like enemies. ¡°You¡¯ll not find any information about them from us. Now, turn around and walk away. There¡¯s no need for us to fight. You¡¯ll have the whole order on your backs if anything happens to us.¡± Clerics wouldn¡¯t take a job to kill a person. But if someone was directly attacking the order, that would be a different matter. ¡°Good,¡± was all the cloaked woman said as a thin fragment of purple energy shot through the air and cut through Terince¡¯s neck. He hadn¡¯t the time to throw his knife. Marilyn screamed. Fright, sadness, desperation, anger all flooded from her throat and into the world. She charged the woman and quickly fell from her horse and into the ground. She tried to stand, but her legs would not allow her to. Her chest felt warm and she could see her life-blood forming a pool upon the ground. The warm liquid ran across her cheek. How? The cloaked woman appeared before her, kneeling down, her black boots stained with Marilyn¡¯s blood. Wisps of purple were fading from the tip of her wand. ¡°You did nothing wrong, Cleric. ¡°I do what I must to protect my loved one. You were a bump in the road, but you did not deserve to die. ¡°Your one fault is that you were weaker than me; for when the lines of morals go gray, those with strength are those who get to choose what is right.¡± Regret lined the murderer¡¯s words. How dare she feel upset? How? How did this happen? Marilyn died more confused than afraid. - - - - Marilyn continued toward the coast. Her horse had taken a moment to get used to her again. It had been frightened, and understandably so. The air felt cold now. Warmth did not reach her. It mattered not. Nothing mattered, really. It¡¯s not like she had a say in how things could go. She could think her own thoughts, though she couldn¡¯t even do that privately. She mourned for Terince, wishing she could join him. Marilyn wanted to set a goal, anything. Anything to escape this cold, nihilistic existence she had been provided. A new life where she couldn¡¯t choose what she did. Not one bit. She would kill. She would lure. Her skill set would be used against those she wanted to protect. Something as will-driven as a goal was useless, as she had none left to her. She wished to weep for so many things. The life she had lost, the love she¡¯d never know, the parents and sisters she¡¯d never see again, the family Terince had left behind. All of it and more, but she couldn¡¯t weep. ¡°If you want to cry,¡± the keeper spoke up, her melodic chords warmer than when they¡¯d first met, ¡°all you have to do is ask.¡± Prologue 1 - Harps and Bread Gods, all of you, I wish I had never been adopted. Alex stood beside the Crown Prince as he haggled over the price of a new harp. It apparently did not matter that they had agreed upon the price weeks ago when Edwyn had the instrument commissioned, nor did it matter that the prince had access to nearly as many funds as the Rosamunds of the Hallows. Actually, the prince was an acquaintance to a son of House Rosamund and likely had access to some of that money as well. All in all, the prince was arguing for the sake of argument whilst making the two young noblemen late for a joust. Luckily, the shopkeep did not know Edwyn was the prince nor that Alex was his sworn sword. The glorified bodyguard could speak as he wished here. ¡°Stop being a shitter, Ed. Give the luthier his coin and be on with it. Cheating good folk out of their earnings is despicable.¡± Edwyn¡¯s eyes flashed toward him in an instant. Surprisingly, so did the shopkeeper¡¯s. Both spoke up. ¡°I¡¯m not a luthier-¡° ¡°He¡¯s not a luthier-¡° ¡°- and you will watch your tongue in my shop!¡± Alex just put his hands up and took a step back. There were some children in the shop. Two boys stared at Alex in awe, wondering if they had properly heard the swears. Their mother gave him a glare of disgust, scooting the boys out of the shop and smacking one on the head as he said ¡°Stop being a shitter, mother!¡± Let the elderly shopkeeper lose some coin, then. Not that he cared. The man could pay Edwyn to take the harp if that¡¯s how he was going to act, but Alexander wouldn¡¯t let these two get him in trouble for the sake of their nonsense. Edwyn knew that he had agreed to a higher price. The man knew that he was going to lose some gold. They argued anyway. All the while, it was Alex Brightwing who would be dressed down by the High King and Gabryan for not keeping the prince on track. On track, like he was a horse rather than a whole person. The Sagistry said there were eight gods, and two supreme beings above the eight. Why, of all the people on this All-forsaken world, had they chosen Alex for this job? That brought Alex back to his prior thought. If he had not been adopted by Eustace Alden, then he would not have to watch over Ed. He¡¯d have been up north in Venroth, a ward of King Jarlmund, and- And likely the sworn sword to his son, the Prince of Venroth, he thought with a grimace. I was born for this. The idea set his ire upon the gods again, but there was not much one could do about them. Even Edwyn, for all of his audacity, would have to take a knee if the long gone Null or Wintertide walked into the room. ¡°Ed,¡± he said, voice carrying firmness rather than the annoyance he felt, ¡°we¡¯re needed.¡± The prince nodded, a slight frown touching the edges of his mouth. He had been looking forward to haggling with someone who did not know him. So very rarely did the prince get to experience genuine interactions with others. Alex felt for him, he did. For all the boy was spoiled and frustrating, he was a good person. He treated Alex as a brother throughout the entirety of their childhood. As much as Alex inwardly complained, Edwyn would not let him get in too much trouble. The prince agreed to pay for one Bainarithian silver cheaper than was initially agreed. Something about the principle of the matter. The shopkeep nodded quickly, almost greedily, and accepted the coin as Edwyn handed it over. Both would think they had gotten out ahead, and both would go on to play the haggling game again when the time came. Edwyn took the harp in hand, a simple work of solid craftsmanship as far as Alex knew, and they left the shop. They stepped out into Bainarithe, the Juggling City, and the seat of House Mara- the royal family of Mithrock. The road they stood upon, Stonehearth avenue, ran from the western end of the city to the eastern. Though there weren¡¯t so many people out shopping, due to the nature of the holiday, this road was generally the busiest the city had to offer due to its centralized location and it being the only one which stretched the town. The two headed east toward the palace grounds, white stone buildings with flat roofs raised on either side of them. The lower levels of each building were generally occupied by shops or other places of service. Three to four stories of apartments could be found above the shops, the only hint of their existence being the balcony openings which protruded from the rock and out toward the street. Some areas of the city would paint their stone structures different colors for a multitude of reasons: to help visitors understand where they are, to stand out, to be a bit more aesthetically pleasing. Others preferred to keep the pale white the dwarves had left them thousands of years prior. The sun shone high today, reflecting off of the stone enough to blind a man. A sensitive man, anyway, and one who probably whined too much. All the sun told Alex was that they were further behind in their schedule than they thought. ¡°You should not call someone a luthier when they aren¡¯t one.¡± ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°You insulted the shopkeeper when you called him that. You got him off balance for me, which I appreciate, but you should not call him what he is not. It can hurt a man¡¯s pride.¡± Edwyn would know, but why make a point of it? It was important to him though. His emerald eyes gleamed as he spoke. ¡°What should I have called him then?¡± ¡°If you don¡¯t know, calling them a shopkeeper is safe. Woodworker might be appropriate, because he does make more than harps, but he does not make lutes. People take pride in what they do, even more so when customers are aware of what they do. To give him a name which shows ignorance of his craft whilst you are in his shop- while swearing, at that!- is enough to anger even a gentle man.¡± Edwyn harrumphed and looked ahead. There would be no more talk on the situation. ¡°Consider me dressed down, Your Grace.¡± Alex said it with sincerity, looking to the side to catch Edwyn¡¯s nod. He had not wanted to offend the shopkeeper. These kinds of things often eluded him; enough to the point where a seventeen year old had to explain it to him. Alex was eighteen himself, but differences in their demeanors were enough to make him feel odd, if not a bit immature, at times. Alexander took in the scents of the city to clear his mind. The western side of the town always smelled so pleasant. Bakeries, taverns, and restaurants were preparing their midday treats and meals. Scents of blackberry pie and cooked potatoes flooded his nostrils. If Edwyn hadn¡¯t taken so much time with the woodworker, they might have been able to stop for a quick bite. There would likely be something good on the jousting grounds, but there he would be expected to guard Edwyn until the festivities were all but over. It would be a long while before he could eat. His stomach growled, somehow sounding both angry and hopeful. Edwyn stopped, contemplated for a moment, and walked straight to the bakery on their left. Idara¡¯s. Alexander had been here many times on his few days to himself. He frequently craved their blueberry quick bread. ¡°Ed, we don¡¯t have the time-¡° The prince put his hand up though he kept walking. ¡°You can¡¯t guard me on an empty stomach. Getting to the joust on time doesn¡¯t matter if I¡¯m attacked and you can¡¯t perform to your utmost best.¡± The little bell atop the door rang as they entered. Idara looked to them from a stone counter, white like the walls outside of the establishment. She had the matronly feel to her that you¡¯d want to find in any baker. She was a skinny thing. Her hair ran in long black curls and her eyes seemed to have a bit more age to them than the rest of her. Everyone loved to be fed by a mother; even more so if you never had one. The kitchen was hidden by the wall behind Idara and Alexander could only see one serving girl. There were no patrons. Most everyone would be at the ceremony grounds that the two should have been attending hours prior. Idara smiled. She knew Alexander and she knew he tipped well, even though he did look the serving girls up and down a bit. She likely had ascertained Edwyn¡¯s identity though she said nothing.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. ¡°Alex. Bard. I don¡¯t have much today. Michael took a cart and hauled most of the makings toward the ceremony.¡± Her voice was kind though there was a hardness there. Every shopkeep had to have it, else how would they let an unruly guest know they were acting out of line? ¡°Not a lord, Idara, and I do not have much time. Do you have the quick bread?¡± ¡°¡¯Course I do, son. It¡¯s fresh as can be. Ten Nickys per piece.¡± He gawked. ¡°You normally take three Nickys per!¡± She showed him a sly grin. ¡°Your attitude is shit today, son. Only folk I know with shit attitudes are nobility and people looking for fights. Both pay more for my wares.¡± Alexander felt his face growing red. She knew that it was Edwyn beside him. No doubt she was likely relishing the idea of dressing him down before the boy his sword was sworn to. Edwyn had a light in his eyes; one slightly different than his gleam. He was getting a kick out of it too. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, ma¡¯am. We were supposed to be at the ceremony grounds ages ago and I need some food. I really didn¡¯t mean any disrespect.¡± Was everyone to give him a hard time today? Had someone changed the meaning of the holiday? Idara laughed and fetched him some quick bread. Five pieces, steam still rising from the crust. Alexander readied his coins. She quickly put the bread in a small paper bag and handed them over. ¡°You¡¯re one of my best customers, son. You¡¯ve likely paid for these a hundred times over. Get going so you can protect our Prince.¡± She smiled and pushed them both out the door before he could even thank her properly. Women. The two continued down the road. ¡°You let her talk to you as such? You are the Prince¡¯s sworn sword.¡± Edwyn seemed more curious than angry, though one could not always tell with him. ¡°I do. She¡¯s a good woman.¡± ¡°Benevolence doesn¡¯t take away from the blatant disrespect of it all.¡± ¡°No, but it changes how I perceive it.¡± ¡°Good enough. I would like to go there more often, then.¡± ¡°As you wish, Your Grace.¡± Edwyn gave another nod that was so natural you¡¯d think he¡¯d inherited it with his titles. Authoritative, as though he was stating all was well in the world because all was well with him. The wind could tell him it was going to blow and he¡¯d give it that permissive nod. They were off, and Alexander ate his bread. It tasted even better than usual. - - - - Three bastards were born to the last generation of House Alden. One betrays them and becomes the King¡¯s Right Hand. One was not even born to them though we act like it anyway. The last cannot even make it to simple functions where his attendance is required. Ivalee Brineheart wanted nothing more than to throttle Prince Edwyn. His sworn sword being Alexander only amplified that feeling; she would love to give him a thrashing as well. Normally she would not mind. Sure, she was hungry, but one could make it through one of these functions without eating if need be. The hunger was not what annoyed her. It was how they dirtied the image of Mithrock, no matter how slightly, by being late. It had only been ten minutes or so since the ceremonies were supposed to start, but every minute was a blight on high society. Maybe she would let the hunger get the better of her. Properly utilized anger could be as helpful as serenity at times. It would also help her give the boys a more thorough talking to later on. Especially Alexander. It was his job to keep the prince on track. The fact that Eldric had been pulled into their nonsense was the cherry on top. She felt like a balloon that was being inflated ever so slowly toward a needle. Eldric, for whatever reason, spent plenty of time with those boys. She had been lucky enough to be sat next to him during this event. The High King, wisely and infuriatingly, had decided that Eldric should be sent to go find the two when they failed to be an hour early. Ivalee had fawned over him as he left. He was a Half-Elf, though his skin was light brown. The sun had reflected off his perfect, shoulder length white hair and ice blue eyes as he muttered something about a harp and the western side of the city. A perfect match for a fling. Nothing more. Attachments would only impede one destined to be Arch-Mage. Edwyn and his All-forsaken music. Oh well. If they were to be late, then she would have more time to mingle. Mingling could lead to scheming, and scheming could lead to the betterment of her position. One did not finish a harvest if she cried over every spoiled crop. Not that she¡¯d ever worked a farm. Or been to one, really. It was something her father had said. Had he ever been to a farm? There weren¡¯t many in the Lakes, though her father had traveled a great deal before grandfather the rebellion had taken his left leg. Ivalee stood up and left her House¡¯s table. Every House whose blood was worth anything had their own. Her father was likely avoiding social interaction, or he had found it with some of his old war buddies. Men who had gone to war often struggled to relate to those who had not. Ivalee only understood that too well. She struggled to relate with her father even the slightest bit. There wasn¡¯t much nobility left from that time. Many had died, and those who had not been fighting were raised in their place. Those who had not known that conflict firsthand would likely speak with an animate plague rather than her father. It was up to her, as always, to give socializing her best shot. Mother is always so good at this. I miss her dearly. Ivalee found herself starting where she would be most comfortable. The table of House Rosamund. Almost all of their members were present and seated. The Lord Whelin Rosamund had the same elven characteristics of his children. Hair white as snow, blue eyes whose hues were more intense than ice. His ears were a bit longer and more heavily pointed on the account that he was fully elven and his children were half. His skin was a pale white where the children were all light brown. His eyes met hers with a kindness. Ivalee wanted it to be genuine, but one could never know when it came to a man who brought his house to prominence through means of money and capital. Lavender and Yurel, the young twins of the bunch, met her with smiles. They were young, hardly eight, and were the sweetest kids she had ever met. One of two women at the table met Ivalee¡¯s smile with a mixture of friendship and inquisition. Her look said ¡°How did you get a hand in the seating choices?¡± while also relenting that she would rather it be Ivalee than some other woman. Melara Rosamund was as beautiful as she was tall; and she was tall. Ivalee ignored the last woman. Joanna Poe was the stepmother to Lord Whelin¡¯s children, and she was nastier than unwashed nails when she wanted to be. Ivalee could feel Joanna¡¯s gaze practically boring into her side. All of them wore fine silks of purple and white, their sigils planted on the breasts of their dresses and doublets. The rose of House Rosamund consisted of purple petals, a silver stem, and silver thorns. Their sigil seemed so lively compared to the golden bird on a red field of House Alden, but newly raised houses had the convenience of building upon the areas of nobility where older houses had faltered. Ivalee¡¯s golden familiar, an eagle made of Light, flew in from the sky and perched herself on her master¡¯s shoulder. The elven twins gasped in awe, looked at one another, and pointed at the bird. Excited words fluttered from their mouths. They loved simple magic like this. Please play with the children. Kindly. The bird spread its wings for a moment as it jumped off of her shoulder and onto the table. The children shrieked in jubilation as they began to pet the bird. Ivalee walked over to Melara and grabbed her hands. It had been ages since she¡¯d seen her friend. ¡°Your beauty grows each day, Melara.¡± The woman accepted the compliment with a graceful smile. ¡°And you, Ivalee. My brother seems to agree, seeing as he was seated with you rather than his family.¡± ¡°It is odd, is it not? Men work in mysterious ways, my friend. You know that as well as I.¡± When would that man come to his senses? The more connections House Rosamund had with the Sagistry, the better off all of them would be. ¡°I might know that even better than you, my friend,¡± Melara said with a sigh. They both let out an exasperated laugh. Men. Lord Whelin called to her from across the table, a smile still plastered on his face. A future friend, or a future investor? Both? I cannot tell and that bothers me. ¡°You take my son from me at a feast such as this. Soon it will be from my hands!¡± ¡°That, My Lord, is a conversation you and my lord father will have to have. Eldric and I are not growing any younger.¡± She gave her best smile, and he let out another laugh. It sounded genuine enough. ¡°You children near the end of your noble education and think yourselves old. There might be two old souls among the children your age, and one of them isn¡¯t even here!¡± As though she had not been reminded enough, she was once again being told that an incredible resource was just walking the world freely, ignoring any and all aspects of political life. Wait, who is the other? She did not need to wait for the answer. The first had walked away from nobility. The second was in the process of doing so, to an extent. The second was also walking past Ivalee, golden eyes seemingly afire with a sort of jaded hatred. The woman snapped her head straight, her thick blonde braid floating to the left with it. Ah, Alisia Alden. Ivalee looked back to Whelin, his eyes still seeming to weigh the value of everything he saw. I wonder what he sees in them. In me? She wondered if she would ever know. Prologue 2 - The Subtleties of Nobility Melara really, really wanted to like Ivalee Brineheart. Life would be much easier if she liked Ivalee Brineheart. Melara really, really struggled to like Ivalee Brineheart. She could act kind when Ivy was holding her hands and speaking of boys. That was more so courtesy and not really being a friend. Ivy hardly noticed the difference which was likely due to the fact that she never left her studies save for necessary situations. You learned things about people by spending time with people. Not just servants and family and books, but people on your level who might offer perspectives different than your own. Melara felt guilty about the relief she felt when Ivy walked away to mingle with others. She prayed to the Allfather and each of his children that she found a way to be less insufferable. It was unlikely. The way that Ivy looked at each and every person she spoke with as though they were potential leverage for the Sagistry made Melara feel¡­used? Disgusting? It mattered not. It was over with for now. In her state of spiked anxiety, she had forgotten to ask Ivy about Eldric! Had the woman calculated that? Melara hated politics. Why did it seem that everyone had primary, secondary, tertiary, and quaternary objectives under every interaction? Could they not just enjoy a nice dinner with a bit of music? Must everything lead to progress in some personal agenda or another? ¡°Trouble, daughter?¡± her father asked. It took every ounce of Melara¡¯s will power to stifle her groan. Her father was the worst offender when it came to politics; only because he had not always been that way. The combination of mother¡¯s passing and Joanna¡¯s immediate pouncing had changed Lord Whelin Rosamund for the worse. The man who had loved and married a Solrusian woman, who had brought half Solrusian children into the world, and had celebrated Solrusian culture. Now he looked at any association with Solrusians as political suicide. His beloved¡¯s own culture. Political suicide. ¡°Daughter?¡± ¡°I am fine, father. I think I am in need of fresh air, is all.¡± ¡°Fresh air is all around us, love.¡± Those eyes. Blue rather than Ivy¡¯s green, though they looked at her in the same way. Weighing her worth as an asset rather than a person. He was not entirely wrong. Celebration for the Day of Welcome was underway on the eastern palace grounds with bards, thespians, soothsayers, and other such performers sprouting up in every direction. Despite the Maran Palace hanging over them in its grim, blackstone glory, they were provided with views of the ocean. Scents of fish and fresh salt could be picked out. The air was refreshing. The people were not. ¡°You are right, father. Excuse me for a moment.¡± ¡°You might miss the festivities.¡± Her stepmother had spoken up for the first time in what seemed like hours. ¡°I am heading to the overlook, is all. It is quite warm today. The summer has not lessened its grip upon Bainarithe yet.¡± With that, she left her family to themselves. Her father and Joanna could trip on their webs whilst the children played with a bird. She passed many lords and ladies on her way to the overlook. The Lady Alisia had joined her lord father at their respective table. The Lord Alden was reputably the hardest man in Mithrock. Warlord, general, a master of tactics and Kova, an expert at losing family. She had heard mixed opinions of Alisia. Those who worked with her provided rave reviews. Others, including a source she trusted greatly, had seen a side of her that left much to be desired. Melara gave both a courteous nod before moving on. House Alden was best avoided. Another nod was sent in the direction of the young Lord Charles Declan. Alisia¡¯s only maternal cousin was better left alone. There was always an aura of mystery around Charles and his younger brother due to their nature as wyvern riders. Like the Reagans of Duneward, they were the only families to rule over beasts of power. One might count the Aldens and their birds, though their fowl could not raze entire cities like the others. Melara stopped for just a moment and spoke with the Lady Trinity Faelor and her three daughters: Maria, Leanne, and Hinara. House Faelor was an anomaly among nobility. They were considered outcasts among higher circles, much like the Houses Alden and Rosamund, though they seemed to relish in it. Their sigil was that of a fruit. Guava, to be exact. An open guava fruit with its pink and white on a green background. Their land thrived on the fruit industry which, while very successful, was not generally high on the list of things for the Kingdom to monitor. Lord Whelin had taught her that the Faelors were likely the most financially intelligent house in the realm. They allowed the fruit market to thrive without much regulation and received a fair amount of coin from fruit merchants to keep it that way. Due to their lack of presence in the largest market, the many merchants of Ranidor, the seat of House Faelor, allowed them to regulate and rule in most other areas. So long as neither the merchants or Faelors grew too greedy, there could be financial stability between nobility, merchants, and the common folk. From what Melara had learned of people in her eighteen summers, that system would inevitably fail. The Faelors provided good conversation. Hinara was seventeen and of marrying age. They spoke of potentially tying themselves to the royal house despite their history of enjoyed independence. It seemed the Lady Trinity had ambitions outside the preservation of her house and people. That was the problem with people. Even when something had been proven to work for extended periods of time, it was not good enough because it was not new. Even then, who would she marry Hinara to? The High King was thirty-four years of age and, in some circles, was said to prefer the company of men. That left three options: Harley Alden, Alexander, and Edwyn Mara. Lord Harley was older than the High King. Alexander was the adopted son of Eustace Alden and sworn sword to the Prince, meaning he was both irrevocably linked to a terrorist and likely to swear an oath which forbade him to wed. Edwyn himself was to be High King and was the most sought after bachelor in the realm, even if he was holding up one of the most important celebrations of the year. Eventually she made it to the overpass, a bridge between the palace grounds and the barracks. She looked out to the ocean as gulls flew on the horizon. No clouds cluttered the sky. The sounds and smells of the ocean breeze enveloped her. Nature would not lie to her. Nature could not lie to her. A bell sounded, a signal that the wayward prince had arrived. Melara inhaled one last time and turned around, heading back to the people who forced her to be something she wished she was not. - - - - Go and find the Prince, they said. We would be thankful, they said. We will not dress you down along the two of them, they implied. All Mithrocki nobility were absolute shite. The only thing worse than Mithrocki nobility was becoming Mithrocki nobility.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. What had been the point? Why had his father worked so hard to lessen their quality of life? They were not any richer than they had been. In fact, they had likely been better off in their finances when they were simply bankers. Now they paid taxes as bannermen to the Poes and the High King alongside those they were already paying from their bank. Probably. Not that he knew, as his father had stopped allowing him to work with the bank and Hyanth had a prick up her arse. Eldric was the eldest son, which in this land meant he was to inherit all of his father¡¯s noble holdings. It mattered not that Hyanth belonged with these people. It mattered not that Mel was more thoughtful and introspective than anyone at this celebration. It mattered not that Lavender and Yurel had more joy for life by themselves than the ten folks nearest to them combined. The Thornkeep and all surrounding lands were to be Eldric¡¯s. Women watched him everywhere he went. Before House Rosamund had been recognized by the High King, women could not have cared less about Eldric. A dark skinned, half-solrusian, half-elf would normally be a perfect butt to some horribly racist jest in these social circles. Ivalee Brineheart had given him no mind. Understandable. He was not of nobility and her family was not one which had the room to shoot anymore arrows into their own feet. Now, Ivalee noticed him. It had been three years since his family¡¯s ascendence and the two of them had taken plenty of time to steal a kiss or two when folks were not looking. Never more than that, because Mithrocki customs were, once again, shite. Not that it mattered. She likely saw him as nothing more than a fling anyway. A future connection to be called upon by the Sagistry when she ruled it. Ivalee noticed him. That was great. Every other fucking noblewoman with a presumably working reproductive system had noticed him as well. Being rich, handsome, and funny had not been enough for them. Nope. One had to be a little less rich, still handsome, and wear a silk doublet with his father¡¯s sigil on it. It did not even matter if he was funny! Finally- well, not finally. The list was ever growing and he was nowhere near the end. Finally, for the moment, was that no one with a fucking sigil on their coat was able to separate the individual from their allegiances when it came to actions which upset them. Therefore, despite going and fetching Prince Edwyn and Alex, and despite the fact that he had quite literally been present at the ceremony at the time he was supposed to, he was lumped in with the two when blame was dispersed. All three had been verbally reprimanded by the High King in front of everyone! What was he to do? Argue with the High King? Tell him that he was wrong to yell at him before all of his subjects as he, at the request of the Prince¡¯s father, had gone to find them? No. It would not do to make the High King look like a fool. He would not mind if an outburst knocked his father and horrid stepmother down a peg or two, but anything that hurt those two would trickle down onto his siblings. Other than Hyanth, his siblings were the only genuine folk he remained close with. Ivy as well, but she was as much a noblewoman as a knife was, well, a knife. The ceremony finished. The High King said some flowery words. The Prince followed the High King¡¯s example. The First Years of Court were welcomed. All nobility who were currently either thirteen or fourteen were forcefully admitted. How it was different from a hostage situation, Eldric did not know. Some commoners would be admitted as well, though this was entirely on merit of either the physical or scholarly type. All admits would be allowed to study a field of their choice whilst the young nobility would be forced to learn the subtleties of politics. Commoners might learn the Sage Arts. Some might aspire to become a part of the King¡¯s Service. Others might become doctors. Eldric did not have to worry about this education. His house had been granted ascendancy after he¡¯d known fifteen winters. He had been exempted from Bainarithe alongside Hyanth and Mel. So many subtleties. Worrying about them was as productive as debating with a horse or his stepmother. Before him now was a joust. Watching a joust was simple. To his left was Ivalee. She was chatting about something he would likely be interested in were his brain not smoldering in frustration. Melara sat to her left, looking out toward the oceanic horizon rather than the sport. To his right were Edwyn and Alexander. Both were watching with intent. They all sat in the High King¡¯s booth, though King Haryn had not stayed for the festivities. An odd man, he was. Maybe he¡¯d loosen up when he met a proper woman. The booth was an over-sized palanquin. More akin to a platform, though it had seats and was transported by the hands of many men who held it up in the air. The High King wanted to call it a palanquin and a booth rather than a platform, so it was referred to as such. The booth had three levels to it. The first two made up the entire platform and acted as stairs. These levels were covered with rugs of emerald green and gold; the colors of the imperial House Mara. The seats had no such decoration. They had cushions. Cushions! Jousting was a sport where men and women put their lives on the line for sport. Eldric would not watch someone die while he sat on a pillow! Hours had passed since the tourney began. Tuning back into reality, Eldric was able to discern that this was the final bout. Finals, by their very nature, were supposed to be excellent match ups. This one was phenomenal. The young Charlie Declan, the cousin to the Prince¡¯s cousin, had only seen sixteen winters yet was the tournament favorite. Danforth Reagan had known eighteen and rode a war horse as impressive as any that Eldric had ever seen. The beast looked like something a Cleric would be asked to kill. Bulky, gargantuan, and porcelain white, the horse looked more like a bull. It made Charlie¡¯s horse seem a foal in comparison. Danforth¡¯s full suit of spell-forged plate armor with the blood-red tower painted on the breast only emphasized the difference. Despite his plain suit of plate and average seeming charger, Charlie sat lance up and ready to joust. I think I would like to get to know him a bit. He might be genuine. The castle horse-master sat atop his seated tower, an emerald flag embroidered with the golden wand of House Mara in his grasp. He raised the flag above his head and the jousters lowered their visors. He raised it an inch higher. They readied lance and shield. The flag fell. Two horses exploded toward one another. Silence save the beating of hooves filled the field. The first bout came and went. Both lances bounced off of the other¡¯s shield. Reaching the opposite end of the fence, they both raised their visors and prepped for the next charge. They¡¯d work on a silent count now. One they¡¯d practiced since they could ride a horse, most likely. They¡¯d both count to three once their visors dropped. Both men nodded. Visors dropped. The second bout began. The speed of the horses was otherworldly. Though they felt much longer, the bouts lasted seconds. Like the first, this one came and went with two deflections. Another lift. Another nod. Another drop. So came the third bout. As the horses neared one another, Charlie lost a bit of balance in his seat. His lance swung wildly and struck Danforth¡¯s warhorse in the thigh. No skin was punctured, but the blow was strong. Harming the horse was illegal in this sport, but Charlie seemed to have done it by accident. Never mind. There is not a genuine bone in his body. Danforth¡¯s horse recovered. The beast had not fallen and neither had Danforth, so the horse master ruled in favor of continuing. If Danforth was angry, he did not show it. A nod, a drop, a silent count. The fourth bout ended it all. The riders neared one another again, though it was obvious that the porcelain warhorse was in far too much pain to continue. With momentum on his side, Charlie¡¯s lance struck Danforth square in the chest. The heir of Duneward was grounded. A thunderous applause broke through the silence on the field. These idiots had all fallen for it. Charlie Declan did not make mistakes. Anyone who had truly lost balance on a horse going that fast would have fallen off the moment the lance hit any part of the enemy, rider or mount. The child had cheated. Though, like earlier, who was Eldric to say otherwise? Call the winner a cheater in front of this crowd of fools? Idiots. He was dismayed to see Alexander and Edwyn standing and clapping. Ivy was doing the same! Surely she was better than that. Pride was able to subdue a bit of his irritation when he saw that Mel looked disgusted with the whole ordeal. The booth was closest to the riders. No more than a dozen or so paces. Eldric heard something loud. Someone loud. A yell? A roar. Danforth Reagan had taken off most of his armor and held a blade in his hands. He was sprinting full force, white Aether from his Infusion Kova flying off him like sweat. Charlie had no clue. He was drowning in the euphoria of his false glory. A small, shining silver and a beam of Wind exploded from the booth. A thrown dagger cut one of Danforth¡¯s hands and the spell knocked him off his feet and through the fence. Eldric looked to his right. He saw Alexander, another dagger in his hand and ready to throw. He saw Eldric, his wand unlatched and pointed toward Danforth. Both had worry plastered on their faces. All Eldric could do was place his head in his hands and groan. I¡¯m going to get blamed for this too! Chapter 1 - Onus of the Strong The Vulcans are prototypical soldiers, noble of mind and heart; ready to protect at a moment¡¯s notice. -Bianca Rosamund¡¯s Sagistry Compendium, Ch. 2. ------------------------------------------------------------------- ¡°Ben?¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°You ever wish the dead would just leave us be? I think I¡¯d prefer it.¡± ¡°We¡¯d be out of a job, Abe. Dealing with the dead is half of what we do. I think it¡¯s the preferable half, honestly.¡± ¡°More than fighting beasts? Really?¡± ¡°Really. Least you can help a ghost pass without fighting it. Don¡¯t have to kill. It¡¯s already dead.¡± ¡°Fair enough. I just can¡¯t stand the tinglies.¡± ¡°The resonance?¡± ¡°Aye. The tinglies. Don¡¯t get those from wolves, nor from harpies. No possession. No deteriorating state of mind. Just you and nature, battling it out with fire and claw.¡± ¡°Fair enough, though I would argue that the dead are just as natural as the living.¡± A chill ran through Ben as they walked, though that was just the wind. They listened to the babbling of water flowing over stone as they followed a wide creek. Hardwood trees towered over them, leaves and branches entwining to create sporadic patches of sunlight and shade, hiding most of the sky and the Massifian Wall from the Clerics. Tree limbs rustled as the winds passed through. Leaves of blue and red fell, dead and changed by the coming of autumn. The leaf-littered grass before them rolled and rose alongside the creek, making for uneven traversal as the boys looked for tracks and hints. Abe, despite the peaceful quiet of the woods, decided to elaborate. ¡°You can eat the beasts after. Sell ¡®em. Don¡¯t have folks trying to break a contract due to a lack of proof. I think that¡¯s a point in my favor.¡± ¡°Yeah. Smoked harpy leg is a point in your favor,¡± Ben replied. ¡°Rich traders don¡¯t know it¡¯s shite. Won¡¯t admit it once they do, either, since it¡¯s exotic. Makes them seem refined.¡± ¡°Until they learn that harpies are the result of horrific splice testing by Soventrists who were way too far out of their league.¡± ¡°You telling them?¡± ¡°I am not.¡± ¡°A point in my favor then.¡± Other than clues, they knew not what they looked for. Of late, animals avoided this stretch of the woods and the miles of land around it. Folks who came this way disappeared, not a trace of them to be found. Lord Heret¡¯s constables had not taken long to come to the Clerics¡¯ Office once they¡¯d been made aware. If humans were behind the disappearances, Ben and Abe could leave the issue to the police. Better to send in a cleric first than a constable. A cleric could get away from human assailants. Magistrates were not trained to survive encounters with the dead or horrific beasts. ¡°Look,¡± Abe said as they made it to the top of a hill. ¡°A house.¡± House was putting it lightly. This was a lodge, and a massive one at that. The wooden home sat two stories high, the roof rising above the hill it was built into. While it may have been a great show of craftsmanship back in its day, the building was now a shell of its former self. It sagged to the left a bit, a sign of what was to come should it not be fixed. The white wood was beginning to deteriorate around the structure, some planks throughout having already rotted through. Even from the top of the hill Ben could note clumps of some bugs, either termites or carpenter ants, who had made the dying home their own. A lookout sat next to the house, a wooden platform built into some trees. No railing or armholds or anything of the sort. Just two stools and a ladder. Nothing and nobody were up there. That was not the oddest part to Ben. ¡°No guards,¡± Ben whispered. ¡°No windows on the building either. Just the door.¡± ¡°Aye,¡± Abe replied, equally quiet. ¡°Only one way in. Looks haunted, eh?¡± he asked as he nudged Ben¡¯s shoulder, pushing Ben over a bit. He had to catch his balance. Abe was a head taller and half a person wider. ¡°Sorry,¡± he said. Ben chuckled. ¡°I agree. I¡¯d bet Da¡¯s bottom Nicky there¡¯s a spirit here.¡± ¡°Just need to find out if it¡¯s our culprit.¡± They began to slowly walk down the hill. They could not rule out the potential presence of people, though Ben heavily doubted it. Surely a criminal who was, at the very least, abducting people would have some way to keep watch? A friend? An accomplice? A grunt? Ben Infused his senses with Kova. The simple sounds of rustling plantlife and running water exploded in his ears for a moment, the sounds of so many things both living and not competing for his attention. The chill of the wind was amplified, the brightness of the little sunlight that snuck through the canopy, the smells of the woods. The smell of death forced him to stop in place. He controlled the Infusion, bringing his senses down to manageable levels so that he could filter through whatever stimuli were important and whichever were not. ¡°You smell that, Abe?¡± Ben whispered, looking toward his friend. He spoke quietly as the Infusion allowed them to easily hear one another. Abe¡¯s nose was scrunched, tears conjured by the awful scent forcing his eyes shut. ¡°Yeah. Don¡¯t like it one bit.¡± They had smelled death. Decay. The pungent odor of decomposition, of a life taken or ended, of maggots and rotten meat and voided bowels. Ben put most of his Kova into his eyes, taking in every detail he could, watching for a surprise, a bandit, a beast. They continued walking on toward the lodge, its wooden door slightly ajar. As they approached, the scent became invasive. They easily would have caught it even without Infusion. He heard nothing new, no one, no movement or voices. All signs were leading toward a spirit of some sort. They walked in, the hinges making no noise as they carefully opened and shut the door. Darkness enveloped the home. Ben could only make out a few feet of a red carpet before them. The Infusion only made the dark seem more¡­ dark. Some said you could hallucinate if you Infused your eyes in the darkness for long enough. Ben had never cared to try, and now would not be the first time. ¡°You got this?¡± he whispered to Abe. Abe nodded, putting his fist up to his chest and sticking his pointer finger out. Wisps of light floated above his fingertip, rotating for a moment before coalescing into a small orb of incredibly bright flame. Ben could now see they were in a hallway. The hall was wooden, bare save for a red carpet that ran down its length. Small entrances into separate rooms lined the walls. Dust filled the voids between wood. Webs infested the ceiling as well as the corners where it met the wall. The scent did not come from the surrounding rooms. The clerics continued on their way. As they passed, Ben made note of what seemed to be beds, toys, and dishes. All were beyond disrepair. The blankets on the beds seemed to be recently rustled, the fabric not having settled from disuse. Likely rats or other small creatures. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. But there are no animals around. None at all. Ben stopped, pointed to a bedroom, and walked in. Abe followed. He approached the bed. No wooden frame, mattress torn with flattened cotton spilling out. Someone had been putting it back in. He focused on his smell. Under the stench of death was sweat, body odor, spittle from a mouth with rotten teeth. Ben Infused his hand, coating it in forest-green Aether, his palm glowing with a soft light. He met no resistance. No Nether. No spirits. ¡°People,¡± he whispered, allowing the Aether to dissipate. Abe nodded, allowing the orb of fire to float a few feet in front of him, concealing the boys in darkness while still helping them see ahead. They turned and walked toward the rot, following the fire. They explored the remaining rooms and the rest of the lower level. The stink was strongest near a latched door which led downstairs. Before heading down, they decided to clear out the upper level of the home. Ben had decided this was a home, or a commune, of a sort. Every room upstairs also hosted multiple beds and messes, though the folks whom they belonged to were nowhere to be seen. Multiple hallways, plenty of rooms, and each opening led to empty bedrooms. Satisfied they would not be ambushed from someone on the upper level, they went back down to the latched door in the ground. Ben bent down to undo the latch. His hand began to glow with green Aether. As he grabbed the latch, the Aether slowly began to diffuse from his hand into the mechanism. Infusing the latch allowed it to work beyond its peak efficiency, as though it were new, making it much less likely to creak. He unlatched the trap door, pulling it up a tad and signalling for Abe to hold onto it. As the Aether faded from the latch, Ben moved to the other side of the door and began to Infuse the hinges. Abe lifted the door without a sound, revealing a steep staircase. Warmth rushed through the opening. Torches, held by brackets, lined the walls along the stairs. Morwood torches. Explains why there¡¯s no smoke. Is there a God¡¯s Grove nearby? They began to descend, small creaks and thuds coming through with every step. Try as they might, neither Ben nor Abe could Infuse an entire staircase and still have enough energy to flee. There was no point anyway. Even the best stairs made noise when used. Ben had hoped for stone steps, but that would have been too good to be true. The boys now had to hope they could make minimal noise or that they were mistaken for one of the commune¡¯s own. Pain ignited in Ben¡¯s head, goosebumps popping up all around his skin as a true chill ran through him. He stumbled for a moment, grabbing on to the railing so he would not fall. Spirits. In the ground. In the home. In the walls. Weak, though, and non-malevolent so far as he could tell. It was easy to feel the disposition of a spirit based on their netheric resonance, the energy left behind when they made contact with the physical world, and the ones here seemed more frightened than vindictive. Abe looked to Ben, worry showing in his arched eyebrows. Abe was not as sensitive to the dead as Ben was. ¡°The dead are here. They do not rest.¡± Whatever was here scared the ghosts, likely made them ghosts in the first place. The stench worsened as they reached the bottom of the stairs. ¡°If we see anyone,¡± Ben whispered, ¡°we leave. Get the constables.¡± ¡°Depends,¡± Abe whispered back. ¡°On?¡± ¡°What they¡¯ve done.¡± ¡°We¡¯re clerics. We don¡¯t kill-¡± ¡°I¡¯m not saying we kill.¡± Ben nodded. Clerics would not kill humans outside of self defence situations, but instigating violence against them was not against their code. ¡°If we can run, we run. Got it?¡± ¡°Who put you in charge?¡± ¡°You. You did.¡± ¡°Right.¡± The boys unbuttoned their black, woolen long coats, dropping them onto the wooden stairs. Abe wore the same outfit, the garb of their order. Gray buttoned vest over a white dress shirt, gray trousers, gray tie, black belt, and black boots. All flecked with dirt, mud, and tears, of course, as they¡¯d spent the last couple of days sleeping in trees and roaming woodlands. Very rarely was an active cleric¡¯s garb kept clean. Ben felt at his belt, unlatching the hammer he kept at his side, holding the familiar weight of his chosen weapon. A black, morwood hilt rose into a brick of smooth, white sagestone. The weapon ran longer than his forearm, giving a solid reach alongside the force it could produce. Ben preferred to use this over the long sosin knife and kovlock pistols all clerics were outfitted with. His blade sat in its leather scabbard, his pistol in its leather holster, both on his belt. Abe¡¯s blade was out, the flames of the torch and Abe¡¯s orb glinting off the well oiled steel. His wooden wand was still latched. Torches lit the hall as they did the stairs. The walls and floor were of dirt rather than wood. No bedroom entrances could be made out. The boys continued, the dirt softly crunching under their boots as they went. They stepped slowly, carefully, placing their feet in tracks left by those who lived here. They kept their eyes Infused, looking for any potential traps, any change in the area. Dread crept into Ben¡¯s mind, his heartbeat quickening, driblets of sweat forming on his forehead. The heat was worse in the hall than anywhere else in the house. Despite dropping their coats, Ben was uncomfortably warm. A cacophonous hum of voices met them as they neared the corner. People were here. He inhaled, smelling nothing but death and body odor and¡­ Is that blood? They quickened their pace, turning the corner and coming upon a massive chamber. Four pillars of white sagestone sat in the middle of the room, reaching from the dirt floor to the wooden ceiling. Four sets of stairs led up to a square platform between the pillars, a perfect spot for a speaker to stand, preach, educate. A man stood there now. Tall, robed, and taking no note of the boys as they entered. He focused on the attendants before him, all sat in rows of pews built in the fashion of most churches. A cult? It must have been. He¡¯d read of some, such as Ronny Knoxes and his Massifian Reforgers. They¡¯d all ingested nightshade believing the Allsmith had been captured, that dying with the intent of saving him would inevitably lead their spirits toward his prison. Not a sinister group, just misguided, easily fooled, and unfortunate. Scholars agreed that membership had been voluntary, and only adults were welcomed to join their ranks. This felt sinister. Ben and Abe watched as the man atop the platform prepared to preach. As he organized some texts and candles on a flat stone podium, two robed figures, with a child in hand, walked up the front-facing set of stairs. Stairs stained black with old blood, previous attempts to clean it having been obviously unsuccessful. Ben could not tell, but the child seemed to be a young girl. Shaved head, clothed in a black dress, irrevocably dirty. Solrusian too, for her skin was as dark as the void. She was gagged, the cloth stained with salt and tears and snot and spit. She groaned, though the tensing of her neck led Ben to believe she was trying to scream. The preacher held a knife to her neck, long and of impeccable quality. The child had not noticed them either. Ben and Abe had already started creeping forward, crouched a tad, weapons in hand. ¡°Solrusian, young, of a moldable soul. These qualities are best beloved by Soventre, the master we serve, the master for whom we must find a home! ¡°For eons, throughout the turning of eras, our Lord has been besmirched by the Sagistry, partially blamed for the Darkness over Commonwealth, his name muttered as a curse instead of a blessing. ¡°He must come home. Come home to us. Those we have eaten for sustenance will have died for nothing should we fail, we-,¡± he paused as he slit the girl¡¯s throat, smiling as the blood flowed down her dress, ¡°-cannot displease him.¡± A crack. All looked back as air ignited into flame. A thin, blazing line of green sagefire erupted from Abe¡¯s wand, traversing the room and drilling through the preacher¡¯s forehead; his rapturous smile fading as the spell exploded from the back of his head. Clumps of hair and chunks of skin disintegrating before hitting the ground, sagefire making ash of all it touched. Ben screamed, for the girl, for the preacher, his voice melding with those of the cultists. The cultists, their leader dead, all stood as they yelled. They held knives, mallets, hammers; small weapons for small people. There were twenty-two in total, all armed, none confident in their abilities. The kinds of folks who were fine with the abuse and death of a child because that was the only power they would ever hold over another person. Ben, anger surging, stepped forward, hammer in hand. The screams faded though the cultists¡¯ mouths stayed open. Ben¡¯s temples thundered, blood pumping to the rhythm of his furious heart. The hammer head began to glow forest green as Ben Infused it. Abe¡¯s sosin knife gleamed as he Infused it with sagefire, giving the blade properties of flame. Frustration and despair made Ben¡¯s mind run hot. He would deal with Abe¡¯s actions later. Ben would not kill, but he would not let these crimes go unpunished. The clerics of Aegimar and the cultists ran at one another, battlecries erupting from their throats save for Ben. Ben reached for the Inner Eye, the emotional state where feelings would not overrule his sense of logic. He thought of Da, getting home to him safely, leaving him without a son. He thought of these cultists who had been misguided, who had been led to commit such horrid crimes. Their choices were their own, but weaklings were oft at the mercy of those who were strong. They might have turned out differently if the preacher had not led them unto barbarism. He thought of Raina, the girl who might be out of a job should they die. He thought of the families of these cultists, children and wives and husbands who had no say over the actions of their loved one, whose lives would be upended due to their weakness. He had to see both sides, those who were hurt most, those who had no power over the situation. Those who were forgotten. I have a home to return to. Someone might be waiting for them too. His goosebumps abated alongside the thumping in his chest. His breathing stabilized, the adrenaline shakes subsided. The Inner Eye came over him, shielding his mind from thoughts of fury and sadness. He moved, hammer in hand, ready to subdue rather than kill. Too bad it¡¯s not ghosts, Ben thought as his hammer shattered the teeth and jaw of some young man who did not know better. Chapter 2 - Hard Truths Even those who did not take to the field of battle would often attach themselves to those who required a protector of some sort. -Bianca Rosamund¡¯s Sagistry Compendium, Ch. 2. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ¡°You lads did well. Not often we get all but one on a big bust like this.¡± Jamison Lander, the Head Constable of Theralyn and its surrounding lands, nodded in approval and walked off as Abe finished his report. One dead, twenty-two captured for processing, and nearly thirty captives who had been chained to walls in the basement church. Constables brought them out in groups. Women and children, some crying while others held a thousand yard stare; no doubt unable to process their freedom nor the atrocities committed against them. Black, link shaped bruises sat on their necks while their wrists ran red and raw. Crusts of dirt, shit, and other excrements lined their clothes, their skin, their nails. All were Solrusian, their skin dark as the void, eyes varying shades of purple. As Ben watched them be escorted out, he felt his anger toward Abe fizzling a bit. Just a bit, though. A dreary gray clothed the entirety of the sky, threatening rain and blocking out any sunlight. A stiff breeze ran through the trees, the people, the land, causing all to sniffle and sneeze. Heavy dread sat upon their shoulders. Dread for Ben and Abe for what they had seen, for the Soventrists due to their impending fates, for the captives and what they had endured. Others were brought out of the home too, though not as gently. Cultists. Soventrists, to be exact. They hadn¡¯t even worshiped a deity. Just a man who claimed to be one. Ben watched each Soventrist as they were escorted by, the dirty metal cuffs from the church now binding their hands. Most snarled as they passed the clerics. One tried, but he was the man whose jaw and teeth had been shattered by Ben¡¯s hammer. Abe laughed as spittle and a groan were all the ruined mouth could produce. Burns, wounds, and bruises littered their bodies. A few had lost an arm, a leg, or a foot to amputation. The field medics who came with the constables would not heal most of the cultists¡¯ wounds, but they would administer life saving healing if need be. As far as Ben was aware, no Icebinders or Woodsingers had come with, so there was no chance of any healing sageweaves being applied. None of the cultists had healed themselves either. They did not know how to Rejuvenate, and none of them were Sages. Good. Let them live with their choices. Ben and Abe had both Rejuvenated just fine. A few cuts, a stab to the kidney, and a mallet to the forehead all would have ruined the next few weeks had he been unable to heal. ¡°Better thank Bianca for teaching us what she could, eh?¡± Abe asked, seeming to read Ben¡¯s mind. ¡°Took a stab to the belly and a rock to the back of the head. Almost couldn¡¯t get my senses straight enough to use any Kova.¡± Abe¡¯s jovial smile and flippant attitude would normally rub off on Ben, but this time it did not. ¡°She didn¡¯t teach us to kill when we lose our temper.¡± Abe¡¯s smile dropped, his eyebrows furrowing before he blanked his expression. ¡°You gonna tell?¡± ¡°Course not. The Mother knows I¡¯ve done stuff I¡¯m not proud of. It¡¯s just¡­ we have a code. One we gotta follow. Else we¡¯re no better than them.¡± ¡°Who gives a ghost¡¯s ethereal arse if we stand on the moral high ground, Ben? Is that not the nature of our job? Punish the immoral, do more good than bad?¡± ¡°Are our actions morally sound just because of the organization we represent, my friend? Just because we wear cleric¡¯s suits and have writs granting us the right to act with Aegimari authority, we can dispense justice on our own terms? Because two boys of seventeen years know what the answer is?¡± Ben felt his neck tightening as he fought for restraint, his whispers nearly becoming angry yells. Abe had never killed anyone on the job. He hit folks a little harder than Ben thought necessary, and he often spoke with vitriol about the people they dealt with, but he¡¯d never struck a killing blow like that. Even in self defense. And sure, one was nothing compared to two-hundred fifty-seven, but¡­ ¡°We have come too far. We have been doing too well,¡± Ben whispered. Abe continued in a hushed tone. ¡°Maybe you have bub, but I did not have that far to go. You have been doing well. Much better than any of us could ever have expected given your situation. The fact you have a conscience is a testament to Ilya and Bianca¡¯s efforts. But I am not you, and our journeys have been much, much different despite the fact we¡¯ve worked together five years now. The Aegimari standard doesn¡¯t mean much to me. I do not hold myself to your standards either. Would you like to know my point of view? You¡¯ve expressed yours plenty, bub. May I speak mine?¡± Ben did not care to hear it, but he knew he had ranted plenty of times and Abe had listened despite likely wanting to do anything else. ¡°Aye. I¡¯ll listen.¡± ¡°Wonderful. The way I saw it, we had a guy who had just killed a child in front of us. He smiled. You saw his smile. You heard his words. Soventrists. Cultists. Confirmation, if the robes and pews and haunted basement weren¡¯t enough clues for you. If he lived, he was going to go to court like the rest of these miserable followers. He was going to be convicted and sentenced to hanging thanks to our testimony. So, our words would be the sword that ended his life.¡± ¡°Aye. That¡¯s how court and the legal system works. We would have been key witnesses. The trial would have ensured he died.¡± ¡°Exactly. You think he needed a fair trial because that is what we¡¯re taught. For whatever reason, no matter how degenerate, we¡¯re instructed that all criminals deserve a fair trial. It¡¯s the code we¡¯re supposed to follow.¡± ¡°But you didn¡¯t. You went directly against that.¡± ¡°Aye. Because a trial would ensure his part is heard. He convinced all of these folks to do horrible things on behalf of his god. Why would we want to give that man a pedestal so that he can speak to fresh ears, to a judge, to a jury? To the constables of the court? Why give him the chance to spread his filth? Because it is filth. Anything that ends in the murder of a child is filth, no matter how sound the ideology seems. If a kid has to die, then it is evil. Why should we give that fucker a chance if he is going to hang anyway?¡± ¡°Would you not want a chance? If you committed some great offense, but you thought your reasoning was sound, would you not want to be given a shot?¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t murder a kid,¡± he said with a blunt finality, his words terse. ¡°Fair enough.¡± ¡°You still aren¡¯t on my side about this?¡± ¡°Just sounds like a hell of an excuse.¡± ¡°It is,¡± Abe said, his smile returning. ¡°Bit of an excuse with a bit of logic built in. Oh well. I think I was in the right. If he was to die, it doesn¡¯t really matter how it happened. He deserved it, and neither bureaucratic codices nor my best friend could convince me otherwise. You aren¡¯t gonna tell?¡± ¡°Nah,¡± Ben groaned. ¡°Just gonna be mad for a bit. I don¡¯t think you¡¯re totally wrong. Just don¡¯t want you to get used to killing, is all. Not a fun hole to dig yourself out of. We can follow the law. We can be better. We just have to choose that. I want to choose that. I don¡¯t want to be an animal.¡± They watched as the rest of the cultists and captives were brought out from the lodge. Head Constable Jamison faced the building, lining up with seven other constables, all wearing the navy blue long coats with stitched, golden herons ordaining the cuffs; the standard uniform of a Theralyn constable. The police pulled out their kovlock pistols, large, green hand cannons meant to intake Kova and spit out a great deal of force. Much more efficient than powder-based firearms, and more adaptable to boot. One could produce small pockets of force, similar to that of a bullet. Or they, as they did in this case, could produce monstrosities of significant power. Green glowed from their hands, slowly dissipating as it Infused the pistols, causing the firearms to glow with that same leaf-like hue. They worked quickly. Nine great green lances of Kova erupted from the weapons, quickly traversing the yard and slamming into the lodge. Rotted wood exploded, splinters, dirt, and debris flew in all directions. Dust erupted in semicircles behind the constables. Each strike into the wood reverberated in the dirt and grass, making the ground vibrate at their feet. Trees shook, blue-changed leaves fell, and the house changed with each jet of light. Ben Infused the front of his body as well as his eardrums to prevent the detritus and booming noise from causing him any harm. The Kova hummed softly on his skin as shot after shot tore the lodge apart. Ben sat silently, thinking on what Abe had argued, as he watched the destruction of such an unholy spot took place. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Ben would¡¯ve helped if he could. He¡¯d have loved to work off some frustration, enjoy a bit of demolition, shoot down a building that had no business standing. To be truthful though, he was wiped. They were at the end of their most recent tour. They¡¯d dealt with seven geists, two possessions, a lamia, three banshees, a den of harpies, and a forging wendigo that had worn four different skins. All in the last three months. They had not been home, had any of Da¡¯s home cooked meals, gone to their favorite tavern, in too long. His heart ached for home, his bed, a hug from his pops, the smell of books stacked on shelves in their home library. Pops would know how to help him sort through his feelings. He¡¯d be able to reference some book from some author who had either experienced what Ben was feeling now or knew someone who did. Da¡¯s book recommendations had a way of articulating complex emotions Ben used to erroneously assume no one experienced but himself. Not to mention that Da was a fountain of knowledge himself. Raina had kept them updated. Da was doing fine. Life in Theralyn was much the same aside from the looming absence of Lord Heret. The Lord of Theralyn had gone to Welcoming Day at Bainarithe to enjoy the festivities, pay respects to the High King, and all of that garbage. Ben had never even spoken to the Lord Heret, and neither had Abe, but the man never really left town. His absence was an oddity that might affect the protections afforded to Ben¡¯s father, but did not concern him much further so long as Raina said Da was unperturbed. Jamison rejoined them, dust now covering his navy long coat and leather boots. He took long, measured breaths as he stood before them, his pistol now holstered. Sweat dripped from his light brown chin onto the dirt below, his brown irises surrounded by red, strained sclera. Using Kova took a great deal of energy. Not as much as it would normally require to decimate an entire building by hand, but still a fair amount. ¡°You boys going with us then? We¡¯ve got carts. I know your horses are gone.¡± Possessed and mangled beyond recognition, but yeah. Gone. Ben felt a small pang in his heart thinking about their horses. He used to name them. He no longer did. He hadn¡¯t after his first full year as a cleric. He had been thirteen then, and had been helpless to save too many named horses from meeting some gruesome fate. ¡°Any carts without stinking Soventrists or stinking captives?¡± Abe asked. ¡°Plenty, actually. Captives ain¡¯t coming with.¡± Jamison replied. ¡°Where are they going?¡± Ben asked, more sadness spreading through his chest. He figured he knew the answer, but he hadn¡¯t thought they¡¯d do this. Jamison was mixed himself. Jamison looked away from them and toward the prisoners, his eyes looking to do anything but meet theirs. ¡°You know how it is. Can¡¯t use state supplies or transportation on Solrusians.¡± Ben nodded. He didn¡¯t agree. His father had taught him not to. You¡¯d turn your own mother away, Jamison? ¡°You¡¯ve a steward with you, Jamison?¡± Ben asked. ¡°Aye. Want me to call her?¡± ¡°That¡¯d be great.¡± ¡°You know I won¡¯t be able to requisition more. You¡¯ll have to find your own water. Your own food.¡± Abe put his hand on Ben¡¯s shoulder. ¡°My servings too. We can hunt.¡± Jamison nodded, his features softening for a moment before they steeled again. He was hardly five years older than them, but at twenty-two he looked weathered, tired, like he had seen too much. Such was his line of work. Not to mention that Solrusian men, even the mixed ones, aged quicker. A life of discrimination was not conducive to a youthful appearance. ¡°I reckon I can hunt too. Soon as we get out of this stretch of the woods.¡± He started toward the trees to where, Ben assumed, the carts would be. ¡°C¡¯mon then, lads. Can¡¯t hand it all out myself.¡± ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ¡°So, you lads can¡¯t purify the area? Use some sage, read from the Heimsinef, spread salt around? You¡¯re saying none of that works?¡± Fohrs, a constable and their cart driver, squinted, clearly not believing Abe as he refuted each and every method they laid out. It was all the stuff of stories, of wive¡¯s tales, of folks who required the existence of methods to deal with what scared them; even if those methods did nothing. A part of safety was truly feeling safe. Doesn¡¯t matter how safe you are if you don¡¯t feel you are, and doesn¡¯t matter if you aren¡¯t so long as you can pretend you are. Ben took a long draft from his wineskin as the argument continued. ¡°Putting spirits to rest takes a long while, and that¡¯s after they¡¯ve manifested. We can¡¯t preemptively destroy what hasn¡¯t coalesced. Especially not when it comes from a plot of land with a history like that. Gotta wait till it''s a geist or something of the sort.¡± Abe took a long drink, swished the wine around, and let it slowly flow down his throat. He preferred to savor the drink whereas Ben did not care much for the process; just the destination. ¡°Seems awful convenient, is all. If you can¡¯t do anything about it beforehand, you¡¯ll always have a job to do.¡± Fohrs said. ¡°Aye, because our job¡¯s all sunshine and fat arses.¡± Abe replied. ¡°You kill every person who breaks the law?¡± ¡°Course not.¡± ¡°So, must be your fault when someone you locked up goes out and commits another crime once they¡¯re free.¡± ¡°Of course not!¡± ¡°That train of thought is awful convenient.¡± Fohrs guided the horses to the right as a bend in the road approached. Ben could hardly see past the driver or his equine helpers, though the Wall was still visible to their right, its wintry peaks reaching toward gray clouds like a child would for his father. The cart groaned and creaked as they traversed the Claw¡¯s Road, each rock and bump seeming to cause it pain. Rain pittered and pattered atop the covered, wooden roof. Some droplets still got in through cracks despite the cloth, but Ben figured it was much better than riding in the rain. ¡°Ben,¡± Abe said, ¡°could you fill my skin?¡± ¡°Course.¡± Ben took the empty, leathery wineskin from his friend, placing it under the cask across from him and filling it up to full. The cask, sitting atop a wooden cart of dried meats, water flasks, flint, steel, and medical supplies, was tied to the cart¡¯s wooden wall to prevent rolling. Swaying lanterns lined the wall beside, their lighting oil in the other supply cart. Ben handed the wine back to Abe. It was all he could smell. All he cared to, really. The rain made for difficult hunting, even with Infused senses, and the scent of jerky would only compound his hunger. Wine would make him forget, and the lack of food would make it harder to throw up, meaning he could drink more, allowing him to forget even more. ¡°Where¡¯s that Solrusian lot going then, Ben? You and the Head outfitted them plenty good, according to your rumbling belly and my lightened cart. Surely you told ¡®em where to go?¡± Fohrs asked, not looking back from the horses. His wide brimmed rain hat was soaked, the rim starting to sag a bit as water slowly dripped off of the fabric. ¡°North. The Winter Woods,¡± he replied. ¡°Ilya Artos can always use the help.¡± Fohrs stiffened a moment, just enough for Ben to note his surprise. He spoke no more. Few folk wanted to speak of Ilya; the Lady of the Damned, as the ignorant dubbed her. Should they ever become Hemorians or Lunamorians, their thoughts on her would change. ¡°Ah come on,¡± Abe groaned. ¡°She ain¡¯t that bad.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure she¡¯s not, lads. Don¡¯t mean no offense. Just don¡¯t care to talk about a woman who keeps the company of man-beasts, is all. It¡¯s bad luck.¡± Fohrs kept his eyes forward, never looking away from the road. He wouldn¡¯t look at us if he could. Ben turned his mind away from their conversation. No point in arguing. He wasn¡¯t going to help this man gain a sense of empathy toward man-beasts. That kind of fear was deep rooted, grown and nurtured from birth. Nothing but exposure therapy would help with that. The less you knew about something, the more frightening it was. Especially when the little you did know involved drinking blood or growing fur and fangs and claws. Hemorians didn¡¯t really drink blood outside of their high society, but the rumors had done generational damage to the minds of the general public. Ben thought of home, of Da and their retriever dog Buckle, of quick bread and beer at Bironel¡¯s, of a momentary peace. They¡¯d been on the road too long. Kova could heal one¡¯s wounds and fight sickness, but exhaustion was a different beast altogether. Fatigue nested in his bones while homesickness clouded his mind, flooded his chest. He and Abe had been forced into their profession at a young age, so motivation was sometimes hard to come by, but the idea of helping those who could not help themselves was usually inspiring enough to keep him going. As of late, that idea had not spurred him on much at all. Helping others was great, but so was spending time with your loved ones. Not that Ben had much of a choice. He had a right to complain though, and that couldn¡¯t be taken away from him no matter how often he exercised it. ¡°Abe?¡± Ben asked, sounding much sleepier than he had figured. A yawn escaped him as he realized just how depleted he felt. The warmth of the wine and his cloak heated him to comfort despite the rain, and the physical toll of their earlier battle was slowly catching up to him. ¡°Yeah?¡± Abe responded, sounding equally tired. He yawned too, and not just because they were contagious. ¡°I dunno, I just¡­ I wish we could do something else. Back at home. Cut wood. Build homes. Teach. I dunno. Something else.¡± ¡°Grass is always greener, bub. But yeah, would be nice. Don¡¯t think it¡¯s for me though. Gotta keep moving. Gotta keep the mind racing. Too many things to think about I¡¯d rather not, and this job helps that even if we don¡¯t have a choice.¡± ¡°I wish I had one.¡± ¡°Should¡¯ve thought about that before you murdered all those prisoners, bub. Hard to go back after that.¡± Ben¡¯s heart panged at the thought. So many dead to one boy. One boy who didn¡¯t know better, who thought he was doing the right thing. Men and women, some hardly older than children, all who might have learned to do better. Gone. Dead. ¡°Yeah. Should¡¯ve thought about that, I reckon.¡± He took a long draft of his wineskin, emptied it, filled it, and finished it again. Better to forget than to think on that mistake. A few blurry moments of forgetful reprieve passed before sleep found him. Luckily, he dreamt well. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Abe wrapped a woolen blanket around his snoring friend. Despite his capabilities, Ben seemed childishly fragile as his chest rose and fell with each breath. Abe silently swore to himself for being so crass. He really didn¡¯t mean to be. He was as blunt as a fist, especially when drunk, oft to his own regret. ¡°Sorry bout the harsh words, bub,¡± he whispered, wiping the tears from Ben¡¯s cheeks. ¡°I¡¯m tired too. Tired of everything. Doesn¡¯t mean I should have said it.¡± He snuggled into his own cloak. He wished the cart had a window of some sort. The night sky above their mountains was something to behold. He longed to watch the stars twinkle, dancing to the rhythm of songs only the gods knew. Two blue moons cradled in the sky, their phases slightly uneven with one another like two twins who desperately needed to show everyone how different they were from one another. A deep, indigo expanse hiding behind branches and treetops that swayed as if they craved your attention, as if they wanted to tell you they were beautiful too. He¡¯d stargazed with Val. So many perfect evenings. So many jokes, stolen kisses, promises sworn under the cosmos. None had been kept. Now, instead of the gorgeous night sky, he stared at some wood, dreaming of the girl who¡¯d been his light. Dreaming of the girl who¡¯d left without a word, without a trace, without an apology. What¡¯s the point of a choice when it can hurt you this bad, huh? His dreams were wondrous, and for that, they hurt. Chapter 3 - Arbarn Though they were the least problematic of the Sage Guilds, a distinction which belonged neither to the Icebinders nor the Lightsmiths at any given time, there was room for moral interpretations as to what was noble and what was not. Stepping between two Vulcans with this sort of disagreement is¡­ inadvisable. -Bianca Rosamund¡¯s Sagistry Compendium, Ch. 2 -------------------------------------------------------------------- Ben could appreciate the sun. Most researchers agreed that, combined with the gods, the sun provided the conditions necessary for life on their world. It mattered not. At that moment, the sun was a cruel, cruel bastard. Despite a great deal of rest, lethargy muddled his mind and body. His minor headache seemed to explode any time the swaying trees in the woodland canopy made way for sunlight. Each stumbling step seemed to jostle his very soul. He was incredibly tempted to Rejuvenate, but that would just kick the can down the road. Effort exerted for comfort in the moment would lead to exhaustion later on in the day. Not that riding in a cart all day required much effort, but he preferred to keep his wits about him. They had camped in a clearing off the side of the Claw¡¯s Road. The usual hardwood trees made way for a meadow of blue autumn-changed grass and leaves. Shoreapples, acorns, and columbines met the group as they began to sit down for breakfast. The rain had let up, though the ground still sloshed and muddied their boots as they moved about. A pot of stew began to roar to life, the scents of rabbit and vegetables filtering into the air as constables took down tents and wrapped up their sleeping bags. Ben walked around, each step requiring more effort than he¡¯d like, helping whoever needed it. A woman who¡¯d drank more than him was fumbling with her bootlaces, a younger guy with longer hair who needed it pulled back whilst he hurled his guts to the grass, an older man who needed a hand as he sat on the ground. The prisoners were placed in two, closed carts. All twenty-two crammed between them. Ben could hear groans and whines and for the begging of food or wound care. They sounded pitiful, and he might have felt sorry had he not seen the child killed. Had he not spoken to her father and seen the mixture of haunt and irreparable pain in his eyes. They could all rot once they made it to Theralyn. If the courts called for their execution, then all the better. Ben¡¯s stomach grumbled, roaring and tossing as it decided whether it should succumb to the hangover or the hunger, whether it should expel all its bile or turn autophagic. He found Abe sitting on a patch of grass that was drier than the rest, a bit of evaporative steam showing it had been heated by Abe¡¯s sagefire. He hadn¡¯t lit anything aflame, just emitted some heat from his body, increasing the temperature around him until the grass was dry. Ben reached into a small pouch on his cleric¡¯s belt and pulled out his remaining rations; dry biscuits and cheese with a slight funk to it. He looked around. Abe had sat apart from the constables, closer to the treeline at the clearing¡¯s perimeter. He held the food out to Abe who was already allowing sagefire to coalesce at a fingertip. ¡°Care to help?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t mind a bit,¡± he replied. Abe warmed the food, softening the bread and giving a melty drip to the cheese. He rubbed the cheese over his biscuit, leaving it with a yellow, scrumptious glaze. ¡°Best use for a Vulcan,¡± Ben said with a chuckle. ¡°Nothing quite like a portable oven.¡± ¡°Least I¡¯ve got my fundaments, arse.¡± Abe replied, no joviality to his tone. ¡°Sleep rough?¡± ¡°Drank rough, slept worse. Sorry bout last night.¡± ¡°You say anything? Do anything?¡± Ben was not sure. Like most folks he knew, they crossed lines more frequently when drunk, leaving them unsure if the other remembered. ¡°Said. Guess you don¡¯t remember?¡± ¡°I do not,¡± he replied truthfully. He remembered mumbling about choice, thinking on where things went wrong. The rest was a blur. ¡°Sorry if I said anything,¡± he added, hoping he hadn¡¯t. ¡°You didn¡¯t. All is good?¡± ¡°Yeah. All is good.¡± Ben smiled and began ripping into his biscuit. Few seconds had passed before it was nothing more than crumbs on his mouth, chest, and the grass below him. He popped the rest of the cheese in his mouth too, licking his fingers free of the melted ooze. He imagined old bread and cheese had never tasted better to anyone. ¡°Less than a day till we¡¯re home,¡± Ben pointed out. ¡°What are you going to do when we get back? A whole week to ourselves unless something urgent comes along.¡± ¡°Gonna sleep, probably,¡± Abe replied, a smile lighting up his face. ¡°Yeah?¡± Ben laughed. ¡°Where?¡± ¡°My favorite bench at Bironel¡¯s!¡± Abe yelled out with a chuckle, slapping his knee. ¡°I bet Lysandra has gone to begging without my tips.¡± Ben could only return his smile. There would be plenty of song and drink and jokes once they made it home. There were a few things he wanted to do before making their way to the tavern, though. He wanted to see Buckle¡¯s golden tail wag once the pup realized he was back. He wanted to hug his Da and spend some time catching up in their library. He also wanted to rest. Truly rest, in his bed, with the curtains closing off any and all light. A good meal would be nice, too, with something to drink other than shit roadwine. ¡°Gonna go see your Ma at all?¡± Ben asked with a bit of caution. Abe paused a moment. He looked to the left as though the answer would be floating in the air beside him. ¡°I might,¡± he finally said. ¡°Guess it just depends. She quit drinkin¡¯, but it¡¯s her sixth time quitting, and that¡¯s a holy number. Maybe it worked out. Maybe not. I should probably check, but if she¡¯s good then she¡¯ll check on me, y¡¯know? So maybe it¡¯s better I don¡¯t.¡± He nodded to himself. ¡°Yeah, probably better I don¡¯t.¡± They sat in silence for a moment, looking at the bright blue patch of grass before them. If one focused hard enough, they could see paltry amounts of green, ethereal Aether humming around the blades like a heat¡¯s haze. Same with the air, where miniscule orbs of forest-green would appear out of nowhere, conjured when it was more heavily concentrated in a particular space. Aether was in all things, in all places. The gift of the Mother, the goddess of their world, everywhere to be seen, felt, used. Ben had always found comfort in that. ¡°They had morwood torches. At that compound. Did you notice?¡± Ben asked. ¡°Aye. Hard not to. Would¡¯ve been smoked out the moment we opened the basement door if it hadn¡¯t been morwood. Whatcha thinkin¡¯, bub?¡± ¡°I was thinking the same thing,¡± said a voice of a higher, nasally pitch. They looked over to see Fohrs approaching, three clay bowls of stew in hand, his navy long coat flowing backwards with each quick step he took. Ben had worried the cart driver might catch a cold thanks to the rain, but the young man¡¯s pale skin seemed perfectly healthy alongside his lively blue eyes. Red hair, previously kept up in the hat, most of it running down his shoulders. The rest was streaking behind him much like his coat. He¡¯s entitled to three bowls. Is he sharing them with us? That¡¯s¡­ that¡¯s awful kind. Both clerics sprung up and walked to the constable. They both took a bowl, the scent of rabbit helping Ben realize he was still quite hungry despite his provisions. Still, the man¡¯s comment led to questions whose answers made food worth waiting for. ¡°Thank you, Fohrs. What do you mean?¡± Ben asked. ¡°Well,¡± he said after swallowing a mouthful of broth and meat. ¡°Morwood torches just seem like an interesting accommodation for these decrepit folk. They¡¯re likely relatively new, considering that the area has been safe until recently.¡± ¡°And if they¡¯re new, you gotta wonder where the torches came from, especially when you consider the quality of their other supplies.¡± Abe said. ¡°Exactly,¡± Ben replied. ¡°They keep the nasty beds, don¡¯t buy new clothes, and don¡¯t spend any money on cleaning the place up or making it more livable. But they have money for morwood, for pews? For a stone podium?¡± ¡°Aye,¡± said Fohrs. ¡°Doesn¡¯t make much sense. Could just say that they¡¯re fanatics, that they¡¯re insane, so they likely wouldn¡¯t have a solid sense of financial literacy. That, since they¡¯re cultists, of course they would spend money on objects of worship rather than basic necessities.¡± ¡°But you don¡¯t buy that,¡± said Ben. ¡°Not quite. Jamo sent some scouts to look around for a God¡¯s Grove, because that was our first thought. They came back last night. Nothing at all. You¡¯ve seen ¡®em. They can be felt a league away or so. Gave ¡®em fast horses and they came up with nothing.¡± ¡°Odd,¡± said Abe. ¡°That was our first thought too. So, that means they have to have had some funding, yeah?¡± ¡°Exactly,¡± Fohrs replied. ¡°A benefactor of some sort, unless the leader had a boat load of cash lying around to get them started. There¡¯s no way to know since he was burned to death. His head practically melted away and there was nothing in the little living space he had in that awful worship basement to give us any indication.¡± Ben looked to Abe, his mood souring a bit. The whole thing had been so rash. Too rash. ¡°Nothing has come up from the cultists then?¡± asked Abe. ¡°Don¡¯t have enough energy to question them at the moment,¡± said Fohrs. ¡°Waiting till Theralyn, but I¡¯d assume they know very little. Cults are generally top heavy when it comes to information. Bottom feeders generally know very little, and all the folks we caught seem to be at the bottom of the pyramid. We¡¯ll investigate, but I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if all of our leads died with him. The Solrusians might have known something, but I seriously doubt it.¡± Ben kept nodding on, but Fohrs said nothing more. ¡°You think we should have held on to them?¡± Ben asked. ¡°I¡¯m not sure. I didn¡¯t like it at first, but I think what you did was a good thing. Don¡¯t like where they¡¯re being sent, but who else would take ¡®em? They¡¯re out of everyone¡¯s hair and they¡¯re like to go somewhere with food and shelter and an opportunity to work. Everyone deserves that, I reckon.¡± That¡¯s really good to hear. There¡¯s hope for him yet. Ben stood up, already sore from the way he was sitting thanks to his sedentary time in the cart. He turned and stretched, looking toward the sky as he put one arm over the other and twisted. The light didn¡¯t hurt as much as earlier. Good food helped with that. Water would do even more. He made a plan to find some before heading out. ¡°Hey Fohrs,¡± Ben said, turning back around, ¡°do you wanna go with us to-¡± If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. It was not Fohrs he saw, but the stump where his head had been attached to his neck. A geyser of blood erupted from the cavity, showering Ben¡¯s trousers and boots as it toppled forward. The head was only a few paces away. Three zips, like the sound bugs make when they quickly fly by an ear but much louder. The signal for trouble, for death, for a coming battle. Abe¡¯s kovlock was out, green bullets of Kova shooting toward the sky. Men startled and jumped from their sitting positions, quickly rushing to get their weapons out of their sheaths or holsters or wherever they had been stored the night prior. Screams and shouts ensued as others made note of Fohrs¡¯s decapitated body. Ben found the Inner Eye immediately before the incoming waves of fury and fear overwhelmed him. Without shakes or unnecessary movement, he unlatched his hammer from his belt and unholstered his kovlock. His shield was across the clearing in the supply cart.. No time. Work with what I¡¯ve got. He Infused his entire body, quickly filtering out the cacophonous roar of unnecessary stimuli. His senses exploded with life. He saw clearer, processed the field more easily, and searched for the sounds and scents of a foe. He spun his hammer in his hand, readying for close combat. He aimed his pistol where he looked, allowing his iron-sight to sway as he surveyed the space around him. The metal hand cannon¡¯s chamber and the hammer¡¯s head both emitted a soft green light, their surfaces humming as Ben Infused them. Nothing and no one unusual could be seen in the camp. Scared, alarmed, disturbed constables, screaming horses, and nothing else. He looked to the treeline. A flicker between some trees to the north, a disturbance of leaf and branch. Another, this time more violent as foliage flew in all directions. Ben led his shot, further Infusing his hand-eye coordination. Abe had seen the anomalous movement and thought to do the same. They both unleashed green lances of light from their pistols, both shooting toward the exact same spot. Dirt, leaves, and splinters exploded from the collision of Kova and target. All fell still. The clerics made eye contact, both nodding as they prepared to check out their prey. They kept themselves completely Infused. Abe tossed his kovlock to Ben as he latched his hammer, dual wielding the pistols while Abe conjured up an orb of sagefire to the at the tip of his wand. Their prey had not fallen. A roar began to shake the forest. Ben filtered it out while constables around them fell, blood spurting from their ears before they understood their folly. How could they? Constables weren¡¯t trained to reinforce their ears at the drop of a pin. Some, including Jamison, still stood, their instincts saving them from the attack. More wood and vegetation flew in all directions from the roar¡¯s source. Abe unleashed a thin, twisting blast of sagefire toward the destruction. The green flames hissed as they streaked across the air. An explosion erupted as it made contact, the blast¡¯s remnants starting to creep up the surrounding trees, bark coming alive with dancing flames. Leaves and wood crackled as the fire began to spread, smoke quickly permeating throughout the clearing. Just as the blaze was beginning to lose control, it slipped off like a man on slick ice, though it stopped midair before hitting the ground. The sageflame dissipated amid its aerial suspension, slowly fading away into the air above until nothing remained. Smoke flowed throughout the camp like a frustrating child trying to get into anything and everything. Constables coughed and hacked, the skylight darkened. The sporadically set campfires blew about, the coals and embers falling to the grass. Orange fire spawned, spreading erratically and with great haste. ¡°Ben!¡± Abe yelled. ¡°I gotta deal with this, bub! You got it?¡± Ben just nodded. Of course he would handle it. He had to. Anything that could kill Fohrs that quickly could do the same to the rest of the constables. He turned his eyes to the gap in the trees Abe had set afire. The smoke began to dissipate, although slowly, as Abe began to control the flames. Ben put more Infusion into his sight. His visibility heightened, his ability to tune out and focus on specific things enhancing to a superhuman level. The fire had indeed made contact with the beast. And it was a beast. It stood tall, small marks of residual char sitting upon its chest. Humanoid, tall, athletic. It seemed to have skin made from gray stone, though its entire body was bare of any markings or parts typical to the human body. Another roar sprang forth from its wide mouth, baring its sharp, stone teeth to the world. Its three gray eyes circled wildly, searching for something, though Ben was unsure of what. He focused on the near tip of its head. A small, silver gem, no bigger than a carat, protruded from its scalp. Energy swirled around like two competing storms. An arbarn? Fuck. There would be no time to make any other assessments. He had to move. This was a beast with a motive, one that would be decided by whichever souls had influenced its manifestation. Ben had an idea, considering it had likely followed them from the commune, but it didn¡¯t really matter. This thing was here to kill. Fohrs was proof of that. He would not let that happen. Ben charged, his Infusion allowing him to move at a superhuman speed. The sound of passing wind swallowed all other noise as he blasted toward the arbarn with twin pistols in hand. The arbarn¡¯s eyes stilled, their maddening rotation coming to an end. All three pupils settled on Ben, the monster¡¯s rocky yet somehow flexible tongue slipping through its lips and down past its chin, slobbery drool slipping to the ground. Not fully evolved yet. Good. Ben aimed one kovlock at the silver jewel, his pistol¡¯s chamber glowing a soft green. He pulled the trigger, loosing a jet of green Projection Kova. The arbarn put its hand out, tanking the green shot as it made contact. No cracks. No burns. Only a bit of steam rising from its stone skin as the Kova dissipated. . Fucker is tougher than nails. Fast, too. He dropped Abe¡¯s pistol. Dual wielding would have been a fine idea for a monster without such a tough exterior, but the combination of an arbarn¡¯s speed and durability made ranged battle much more unpredictable. With a multitude of unconscious constables, and likely all of the prisoners too, he could fight with a disregard for safety. Close quarters would have to do. He unlatched his hammer again as he ran toward the beast. ¡°Not quite, boy.¡± The arbarn appeared before him, its speed far outpacing Ben¡¯s own. The beast¡¯s arm had widened nearly to the size of a tree trunk. Ben could hardly get his Infused hammer up to block as the massive limb slammed into him, tossing him across the clearing like a child¡¯s toy. Ben fell to the ground, slamming his hammer into the dirt to stop his momentum so that a tree would not. Dirt exploded in all directions as he slid through the grass and leaves, his weapon raking it all up as he slowed. ¡°The Cultists, boy. Need them,¡± it croaked, its voice sounding like the rubbing together of rocks. ¡°Killed us. Kill them. Need. Please. I¡¯d love to. I need to. You understand?¡± Ben stood as he finished sliding. Nothing out of order. No awkward movements, no worrying pains, no bones sticking out of his legs. Nothing to Rejuvenate. A manifestation of souls. Likely the dead Solrusians. The victims. Come for retribution. The arbarn rushed him, a maelstrom of dirt following each step it took. I do not blame them. But they killed Fohrs, and they aren¡¯t evolved enough to distinguish between foe and others. The arbarn moved to hit him with a downward strike, but this time Ben was ready. Its wide arm had thinned out while the tip had sharpened, reforging the stone arm into a makeshift lance. That little girl is probably somewhere in there, her spirit stuck and adhering to this murderous rage. Ben heavily Infused his legs and left arm. He raised his forearm into a defensive position. The stone spear struck his arm, sparks flying as an insane weight pressed down on Ben, nearly numbing his Infused arm and straining his elbow. Fucking cultists. These poor people. Fuck, man. Fuck. The Kova held strong. He threw his arm to the side, deflecting the blow and widening the arbarn¡¯s stance. In a moment Ben directed more Kova into his other arm, heavily Infusing it and the hammer it held. He wound his arm back, throwing it upwards, releasing the hammer from his grip. It¡¯s not fair. Not for the Solrusians. Not for me. A thunk rang across the meadow as the sagestone hammer smashed into the arbarn¡¯s chin, throwing the monster ten feet into the air. Silt fell onto Ben¡¯s coat as parts of its chin and tongue disintegrated, a grunt and more gravel escaping its throat as it began to fall back to the ground. Ben yanked on the length of leather attached to his hammer¡¯s hilt, bringing his weapon back toward him. He released the leather, caught the hilt, and attacked, doing his best to not think of the pain the unpassed dead felt. Each second was a blow against the Inner Eye, his inner peace, his ability to remain calm. While the arbarn fell, Ben thoroughly Infused the hammer again. He tossed it, throwing it toward the monster¡¯s stomach. The beast wriggled, flailed its arms, kicked its legs. None of it mattered. It was of the stones, not the sky, and it moved as such. The hammer made contact midair, denting the navel and throwing the beast backwards before it hit the ground. Sparks and silt were flung about as the beast¡¯s stomach slowly caved. Another roar from the arbarn, though not as strong. The netheric soundwaves did not test his Infused eardrums as much as the previous ones. It won¡¯t be enough. He unholstered his kovlock and aimed for the hammer¡¯s hilt. A perfectly circular target. The gun¡¯s chamber radiated with forest green Kova as he waited. The hammer would be leaking Kova the moment it left his hands, but the shot would just bounce away if too much Infusion remained. He watched, trying to catch green motes of energy amidst the sparks as the beast flew further away. A few specks. The hammer began to slow, its maximum force having been obtained. A couple more motes dissipated. He continued to Infuse, filling the kovlock to its maximum capacity. Sweat dripped down his brow. Holding his breath grew more difficult. The tiniest bit. Just a bit longer. Now. I¡¯m sorry. He shot, his hand cannon letting loose a thick javelin of Kova. Luminescent green shot across the clearing, making contact with the hammer¡¯s hilt just before the beast fell downward. Shadestone shattered. The arbarn¡¯s torso exploded in all directions, pebbles and detritus bestrewing throughout the clearing. Some flew further, scraping against the trees and destroying thin, autumn-changed branches. Ben¡¯s hammer travelled further yet as it soared past the treeline and into the woods. Not over yet. Have to move. Give them peace. Give me peace. The fight had been short, but Ben had struck hard. A great deal of Kova had gone into that shot, and that was not to speak of the full body Infusion he¡¯d maintained. I am running out of time to finish this. Have to move. Give them peace. And so he did. He maintained his Infusion, equalizing the spread throughout his body rather than concentrating it into one spot. He ran for the head, his entire focus on its gem. The gem was unfortunately facing away from him, and he doubted he had enough Kova left in him to destroy the head and then the gem in quick succession. While the arbarn limbs flew in all directions, the stone head fell right to the ground. The nether gem tended to weigh more than the rest of an arbarn by a large margin. It landed and rolled, its three eyes rotating wildly once again, its wrecked tongue wagging in all directions. A bounce and a bobble. The gem faced Ben. Only for a moment though. Not long enough. Another roar, though not so all encompassing like the others. The arbarn concentrated the soundwaves in one direction, creating an airwave as it screamed. It flew in one direction, stopped roaring, resumed, and did so until it was flying in a multiple directions like a mouse in a room full of traps. Ben stepped away from the approaching soundwaves, the ground beside him torn to bits as they made contact. He screamed as the waves connected with an unconscious constable. The policeman was blown apart, chunks of flesh, bone, and blood painting where he had lain. Not an identifiable trace of him remained. Ben continued to Infuse his kovlock, but his time was running thin. His breath ran heavy and sweat dripped from every pore. Keeping track of such a mobile target was impossible, but if he did nothing, more constables would die. Another one nearly did. Not unconscious, but the concentrated soundwave blew both her legs off as she mistimed her dodge. Another¡¯s arm was blown clear off at the shoulder as he attempted to deflect with an Infused arm. The man¡¯s Kova had not been up to snuff and he¡¯d paid the price. Ben¡¯s anxiety filled his mind to the brim, his panting nearing hyperventilation, his aim more unsure with each moment that passed. The Inner Eye shattered. They¡¯re all going to die. Tears joined with sweat, blurring his vision entirely now, instinct the only friend he had left. He shot, setting forth yet another lance of green force. He missed. He missed terribly. Ben fell to his knees, the force of his shot blowing his hair back. Tears spilled from his eyes as his shot was engulfed him flames. An explosion and a screech. Ben¡¯s Kova shielded his ears. A blanket of residual heat covered him. The char of burnt nose hairs filled his nostrils as a pillar of green engulfed much of the clearing, burning branch and leaf and dirt and beast alike. The shockwave blew Ben backwards. He attempted to fully Infuse himself, but the Kova would not come. Months of exhaustion, battle, and eating poorly had finally caught up. He landed on his back, white light flashing in his skull as his head whipped the dirt. He did his best to Rejuvenate the concussion before he passed out. As it healed, he felt himself succumb to the exhaustion, the lives of Fohrs and the others heavy on his heart.