Argrave opened the door to the abandoned house. He was greeted by a harsh smell. Galamon stood at the table, a fire heating up a large glass bottle that had been turned black by the flames.

“Jesus,” Argrave said, coughing. “I forgot how bad that stuff smells. You get used to it when you live next to it, but…”

“You’re back,” Galamon said. “Sleep well?”

“Better than usual.” Galamon nodded at Argrave’s answer, then picked up the glass bottle. He smothered the flames with a blanket.

“This was the last potion. Eight bottles of the calming brew, four stamina-restoring potions. I fixed the Ebonice arrow. It was bent.”

“I presume your leeching session went well?” He strode in, waving in front of his face to dispel the smell.

Galamon looked at Argrave coldly.

“Come on,” Argrave urged, tapping Galamon’s elbow. “Laughing at something is how you learn to live with it.”

The snow elf set the potion down and picked up a cloth to wipe his hands. “It is a curse. An affliction. An illness is no laughing matter.”

Argrave pursed his lips. “You don’t have to sleep, you don’t age, and the only price is a strange diet and heliophobia.”

“I will not rest with Veid when I die. Instead, I will be lost in the abyss.”

“So, don’t die,” Argrave said, then laughed. His laughter trailed to a stop as Galamon’s pure white eyes stared at him like he was a bug. “Well, whatever. If it’s so terrible, once we’ve killed the world-ending ancient calamity, we can cure you. Until then, keep those fangs sharp.”

“Vampirism cannot be cured,” Galamon said quickly.

“Not by you alone. Me? I have my ways.”

Galamon shook his head. “Erlebnis’ method would be costly.”

“Pfft, where'd that come from?” Argrave waved his hand dismissively, then looked around for his satchel. “Why involve an ancient god? There are plenty of ways.”

Galamon stared. “Supposing that is true… you assume I will not die in your fool’s quest.”

Argrave looked at him, pausing. “You won’t.”

“Looking at you now… that possibility had never entered your head before I mentioned it.”

“No one’s dying. Stop being a doomer,” Argrave held his hand up. “I’ll die centuries before you do. Stop with the morbidity. We’ve got to pack. You’ve got to pack. We’re heading to Barden.” Argrave grabbed the satchel and threw it over his shoulders. “Amendment; I am going to Barden. You are going beyond Barden, to a dingy little ruin called... I can’t pronounce it. Aethel-something.”

Galamon paused, but eventually moved and grabbed his bag, putting stoppers in the bottles and loading them in. “It’s the eve of war, and you’re sending me away? Imprudent.”

“As much as I’d like you to hold my hand through these stormy tides, these past few days of reviewing my plans mentally have led me to one conclusion; getting an audience with Patriarch Dras is going to be extremely difficult. I need a little something to turn his head. In the chaos of battle, no one is going to listen to me if I shout that an ancient calamity is waking up and I need to see their leader.”

“Get to the point,” Galamon said, waving his hands as though to hurry things up.

Argrave paused and stared at him. “No, I won’t get to the point. I refuse. Anyway, I was thinking of some ancient traditions the Veidimen have that I might be able to take advantage of. I remember that in case of a snowstorm, the Veidimen would signal each other, even if they were enemies, for shelter.”

Galamon raised a brow in surprise but nodded. “The Veelstron sign, yes. I am surprised you know of it. But it’s only accepted if there are extremely pressing circumstances that require cooperation or prevent conflict. Life comes before conflict.”

“Right,” Argrave nodded. He grabbed a few of the bottles off the table and put them in his satchel. “I’m glad you confirmed, because frankly, I wasn’t quite sure I got it right. I also don’t know how to make the signal. Simply put, you need to head to the ruins to create the circumstances for the… Veelstron sign,” Argrave pronounced each syllable, ensuring he said it properly.

Galamon frowned. “What exactly is in these ruins?”

“It’s a tomb,” Argrave said excitedly. He’d finished packing all of the potions and came to stand before Galamon. “It holds some ancient race of elves that—well, I could talk about that place for hours, but I’ll skip the details. When their warriors grew old, they’d cover their bodies in melted metal and trap their souls inside. They’d bury their possessions beside them. Therefore, they’d carry their wealth for all eternity.”

Galamon brushed his hair back. “I am not sure that I like—"

“You’ll have to go in there. There’s a seal on the door, but it broke recently—some stupid miners, you’ll find them dead just about everywhere. From the entryway, you’ll need to head to the end room.”

“You want me to fight against a tomb of guardians? You overestimate my capabilities.”

“They won’t fight unless you take something,” Argrave assured. “Just be sure not to kick anything around, you’ll be fine—I swear.”

“Why not send your illusionist friend? The yellow-haired, short woman. Surely she, with proven stealth capabilities, would be better at—”

“These things don’t have the normal five senses. They sense one's magic. Besides, it’s dark in there. You have vampire eyes.”

Galamon went mute, gaze growing distant.

“There’s a crown at the end of the tomb. It’s on top of their dead king’s head. You’ll have to take it and run. All of them will wake up, but they’re pretty slow-moving. As long as you’re quick, it should be fine. They hit pretty hard, though. Don’t get hit,” Argrave emphasized, pointing. “Might as well leave your weapons out front, barring that axe you've got. Hard to kill them without magic, anyhow.”

Galamon moved to the chair and sat down. He turned his head up at Argrave.

“Ever since you mentioned you were fighting Gerechtigkeit, I had considered returning the 3000 gold that you paid me. You were fighting against the world-ending calamity. It is my duty to help, I thought.” He pointed to Argrave. “That’s changed. I’m sending it to my family in Veiden, like normal. It’s the last bit of gold they might receive.”

Argrave smiled. “Listen, I know your capabilities. These guys are slow and clumsy. Being heavy is their only virtue. Once the fighting breaks out, you’ll be off to fetch them in short order. It’s my duty to hold out until then. We’ll parley with the Veidimen, kill the tomb guardians, and then I’ll use this silver tongue of mine to get a meeting with Dras.”

Galamon shook his head and sighed. Argrave had rarely seen such an expression on the big man’s face. He stood, and Argrave looked up to meet his eyes.

“Your plan makes me question your sanity. You possess the same sort of boldness Dras did, I think. He united all of Veiden; you challenge He Who Would Judge the Gods. Both are monumental tasks beyond my ambition. I was proud to serve under Dras; let us see if things are as you suggest, and I will live long enough to take pride in working under you.”

“Like I said, you’ll be fine,” Argrave hesitantly reached out and touched his shoulder. “I’m more worried about myself. I have to hold out against a tide of Veidimen while you get the cavalry.”

The atmosphere became harmonious for a moment. Argrave remembered something.

“The only dangerous guardians are the archers. Those… well, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Depression washed back over Galamon’s face once again.

#####

A humble carriage drove down a poorly made road. It was wooden, and though it looked well-crafted, it was unadorned with fanciful things. Its most notable feature was a set of statues atop it. It depicted various human figures in saint-like poses. Each seemed to represent something. The modest carriage was contrasted fiercely by an array of gold-armored knights on horseback. They were royal knights, and they guarded the carriage diligently.

As the carriage continued along the road, the carriage driver brought the horses to a slow, seeing something ahead in the road. It looked like a heap of black cloth, but it was large enough that the carriage would not be able to drive over it unimpeded. The royal knights moved ahead, well used to dealing with such a thing by this point.

One of the knights dismounted and reached over to the heap of cloth to pick it up and throw it aside, but he paused. His back straightened, and then he kicked the cloth. It rolled over, revealing that that pile was actually a body.

The carriage door opened. A very large man dismounted. He wore a set of white robes, and they concealed a set of black plate armor. His black hair was bound into one large braid, dropping behind him to his knees. His eyes were gray and his brows were thick and bushy, giving his gaze a fierce quality.

“Prince Orion,” one of the royal knights greeted, bowing from atop a horse. “There is a block ahead in the road. This will be only a moment.”

Orion said nothing, walking out into the road in long, somewhat dainty strides. His clean white robe dragged along the ground, but he did not seem to care. Ahead, the knight had kneeled over the body on the road, examining it. When he heard footsteps, he turned his head. Seeing Orion, he moved to block him quickly.

“My Prince. I believe this man is diseased. You should keep your distance.” The knight tried to stop Orion with a hand.

“The gods protect me from harm, loyal knight.” Orion pushed past the knight, coming to stand before the body. He kneeled down and removed his gauntlet.

The body’s gender was indistinguishable beneath the cloth, even with the face exposed. The flesh was waxy and badly malformed—it was very similar to severe leprosy in some respects. Orion held his hands over the face.

“I feel heat.” He lowered his hand, nearly touching the skin.

“Be careful, my Prince. I have never seen anything like this disease.”

Orion paused, then stood. He grabbed the knight’s helmet, lifted it up, and grabbed the man’s neck.

“I told you the gods protect me. Do you doubt their vows?! Do you think they will allow harm to come to their favorite child?”

The knight only sputtered. Orion released him, and then stepped forward, hugging the knight as the man coughed and tried to breathe properly.

“Forgive me. The wrath of Gael consumed me. You are a loyal knight, and kind besides. I love you. We are all the gods’ children on this realm.” He squeezed tightly, and a single tear fell from his eye.

Orion released his embrace and turned away, leaving the knight gasping for air. One of the other knights watched this scene but stayed deathly still. One could veritably see the uneasiness beneath his armor. Eventually, the knight stepped forward and said, “There’s a village ahead that the road passes through. What do you… wish to do, my Prince?”

“I love them all,” Orion said, as though in answer. “All of them. They’re my people. The gods gave me a crook with which to herd men; the gift of their voice, the power of their presence.”

The knight elected to stay silent, waiting for Orion to continue.

“They’ve spoken to me these past few days. Warning me of an enemy—a worm crawling in the skin, around corners trajection of deadly touch tarantula spiders. I kept my eyes open. Now I see it; the gods did not tell me of a man seeking to do me harm. They spoke of this fell disease.”

“…Prince?” the knight prompted.

“I must help them.” Orion walked forward along the road. “This war my brother wrote to me of—it does not matter. The people are the gods’ creation, and I must keep them safe.”

“But, my Prince…” the knight followed. “How? We have no healers, no food, no water, no medicine…”

“I will find a way. No matter if I need to sell my clothes, my body, they must be helped. This is my enemy; one of my many great tribulations before I, too, ascend to godhood and meet my friends that whisper in my ear the truths wrested from the clenched hand of the heavens.”

Orion walked, step after step, down the road. He’d left his gauntlet beside the body of the man who had fallen. The royal knights could only cast uneasy glances at each other before following onwards.