It began with a question.

"Where has that little Valka run off to?"

A valka was a type of aerial raptor; a bird of prey that hunted by striking down from above at great speed. It was as good a placeholder name as any, when referring to a man who had given up his own long ago. But in this case, gendered in the feminine, because the questioner had the sense of humor of a small child.

The All-King eyed the speaker with wariness unbecoming of his position. She was a Seraptis, a demon of the desert. She was tall, easily meeting the eyes of any male in the room. Her skin was black as pitch, and her eyes glittered an unnatural gold. Slit pupils betrayed her serpentine ancestry, and two fangs peeked out beneath her lips.

She dressed vulgarly, with revealing silken underclothes barely covered by dozens of brightly colored, nearly-translucent sashes draped in layers around herself. Her hair was dyed bright red, and pulled into a high ponytail that fell down to her ankles. She carried an ostentatious number of piercings, gold and shimmering. Hoops through her ears, eyebrows, and the center of her lip, a jeweled stud in her left nostril and bellybutton, and two small, rounded pieces of gold set side by side in her tongue of all things.

Her appearance was an absurdity; a jester, not fit to exist in his presence. Every part of her appearance was crafted to draw the eye. To pull at the attention of his servants. She was a walking insult, one that he could not answer. She knew it, delighted in it.

She never failed to make him feel small.

At her side was a human. Small and lean. Unremarkable when placed beside his companion, with a thin face, thinner lips, and narrow eyes. His skin was fair, untouched by the sun. Most would think him royalty, if only because of his unblemished features. Even his hair, as black as the woman's skin, seemed soft and delicate. This one had seen little hardship, at least on the surface. His eyes were closed, with only the slightest hint of clouded silver peeking past his long, dark bangs. The man was blind.

Not a threat. That was the most common evaluation of the man. Right up until the eyes fell upon his clothing. He was draped in red, the dark color of blood. A cloak around his shoulders, trailing down past his knees, covering all else. Only one blind man wore such a color, and traveled with a Seraptis at his side. This was the Keeper of the Cradle, and Eurya, his bodyguard.

Neither of them had aged a day since the king had last seen them, almost a century ago. They stared at him with interest, now, both awaiting his response to the Lady Eurya's question.

They were gathered in his throne room, at the heart of Farathun. The center of his city, his place of power. All-King Drokken sat on his marble throne, burdened by the weight of long years and grim responsibilities, and contemplated how best to answer. The truth was needed here, but presented carefully. The pair had been as fond of the former Hero of Farathun as they were of any mortal, but apathy was an insurmountable enemy for such long-lived beings. The Hero was just another transitory existence; the king and his city were eternal. They should not act against him; not for such an insignificant offense.

He settled for simplicity. "He was killed shortly after the final skirmish in Alvasta."

"Skirmish?" the Keeper asked, his voice high and light. Drokken's skin crawled at its sound. "I heard tell of a different term."

"What kind of idiot decided to call a five-day battle a skirmish, anyway?" Eurya questioned.

"You speak to All-King Drokken!" the king's attendant barked, fury in his tone. "Mind your pl—" His jaw clicked shut as Drokken raised his hand.

"I know who I'm talking to," Eurya replied, with a look that broadcasted more befuddlement than insult. Her voice was as soft as the silks clinging to her frame, such a contrast to her crude manner of speaking. "Did you think I had just wandered in here on accident?" She turned to Drokken, jabbing a finger at his attendant. "Is this one touched in the head?

It was a warning. Eurya took a very dim view of disrespect, though only when it was pointed in her direction. Especially from those who should know better. The All King's attendant could be considered an extension of himself, and the All King certainly knew better. Implying the servant was mad was just an excuse to not kill the man out of hand. A warning to have him leave the room. It was almost certainly the only warning the woman would offer.

The king grimaced. His eyes flicked to his attendant, who stood to the side of the throne. The man was as loyal as they came, but there was only so much disrespect he could witness his king be subjected to. Especially from these strangers, whose legends did not feature in Farathun. The man's grip was taut around his spear, his face grim and teeth gritted. Though his subject's zealousness pleased Drokken, he dared not risk provoking the two beings before him.

That would end remarkably poorly.

"Leave us," Drokken ordered, waving a hand. His attendant obeyed, bowing stiffly at the hip. The man's eyes roamed over the Keeper and Eurya, lingering on the sword at the hip of the Seraptis woman, and the dagger tucked into the sash around her waist. But he was loyal, and he did as ordered.

Drokken would never admit it out loud, but there was little that the man could have accomplished, should Eurya draw either blade. And what he was about to admit could not reach his subject's ears.

"The war ended without a clear victor," the king stated, keeping his internal aggravation far away from his tone. An entire season, wasted. No glory was won, no accolades to add to his name. The All-King Drokken knew only victory in war, and so history needed to be rewritten. His Memory would remain untainted by the disastrous campaign.

"I heard you got fucked," Eurya said, her voice a sibilant hiss. "Lost damn near a third of that dung-heap you call an army."

"We took casualties," Drokken ground out through clenched teeth.

The Keeper cocked his head, eyes opening a touch. A flash of silver bled through his dark lashes. "Our Valka among them, I suppose?"

"A shame that," Eurya added in. She crossed her arms, drumming a finger on her elbow. "Who finally brought him down? I've only ever seen trash in Alvasta."

The king avoided eye contact. "He was killed by a man bearing the title of Dimios."

The Seraptis nodded in clear interest, but the Keeper frowned.

"Dimios?" he asked. "That's just executioner in the old tongue."

"An accurate title!" Eurya barked in laughter.

"No, my dear," the Keeper chided, placing his hand on her elbow. "I mean that Drokken had your little Valka executed."

"Executed?" The most dangerous woman that Drokken had ever heard of turned her gaze to rest upon him. Her voice held no anger, only mild curiosity. "What for?"

Drokken did not hesitate. The All-King never hesitated. He simply paused in reminiscence. In memory of the fallen Hero. He remembered the man charging through enemy lines, reaping men like grain. He remembered that unstoppable sword as it cut a path through the heart of the enemy, slaughtering their commander and throwing them into disarray.

He remembered the Hero turning a crushing loss into a narrow draw.

He remembered the Hero stealing Drokken's glory, burning himself into the Memory of his enemies, and the All-King spoke with cold conviction.

"He forgot his place."

"Overshadowed you, did he?" the man in red asked, his unseeing eyes peering keenly at the king. "Time was, when that was a good thing."

The king's response was stoic. "Times change."

Bright silver pierced him, evaluating the measure of his existence. There was emotion there, for the briefest of moments. A flash of... anger, perhaps? And disappointment. Then, it faded. Dulled and clouded. The Keeper's interest seemed to drain away, perforated by the long march of time, and his eyes gently closed.

"So they do," he stated, with neither sadness nor resignation. "So they do."

That should have been an end of it. Their business concluded shortly after, and the pair left those high halls and that marble throne. Night fell, as the Lonely Goddess took her place in the sky. The city fell silent, and the guard took their places upon the walls. Merchant caravans, who had lined themselves along the Red Road leading out of the city, packed up their goods and returned to safety. Two souls made their way out of the city, unburdened by danger. The great gates of Farathun slammed shut, and the pair turned east, towards their next destination.

They should have left the mercenary fortress of Farathun behind. They should have thought no more on the Memory of the Hero they had called Valka. A man died, as they often do. The Hero's story had come to a close, and few would take notice of his passing. Another had already been anointed, his elevation celebrated across the city, even now. That should have been the final word on the subject.

But the Hero had a son. He had spoken of him, once, not so long ago. It had been a chance encounter with the two traveling companions, in a distant war, too far and too trivial for the king to have participated in. Such pride and happiness, the Hero had in that child. Such hope for the boy's future. And in that moment, despite millennia of practiced apathy and reserved disinterest, the Keeper of the Cradle remembered his dead friend's words.

His gaze shifted, leaving the east, and falling upon a distant plateau. There, barely visible from the ground, was a house beside a meadow. Eurya took notice of the motion, her keen senses quickly finding what held his interest.

"His home?" she asked. No words were spoken between them, but she understood anyway. "Ah, his child." She paused. "Are you only just remembering him?"

"Don't give me that," the Keeper protested. "It's not like you remembered the boy before now, either."

Eurya clicked her tongue. "My memory is perfect, much like the rest of me."

"Modest too," the Keeper added.

Eurya preened at his words.

The Keeper shook his head with fond exasperation. "We could check in on him," he said, indicating the plateau.

Eurya's gaze fixed itself on the plateau. After a moment, a glimmer of interest danced across her features. She smiled. "Why not?"

Fate's great wheel spun its thread, and with those simple words, shifted course.