Chapter 73

Peace and Quie--

Walls decked out in precious decorations stretched out in a sharp curve, forming a winding, slightly upslope corridor illuminated by the embedded gems in the wall. Colors beyond count melded together in the canvas of unparalleled beauty, all a prelude to the exit which led into a garden—garden perched on top of a floating rock in the sky.

The garden wasn’t terribly large, nor was it terribly small—average in size, truly, but not beauty. The peninsula’s rarest flowers all were grown here, most of them either on the verge or already extinct in the outside world, but kept afloat and alive here, a historic imprint that can’t be forgotten. Beyond the garden, little else existed on top of the rock—except for a simple, wooden cabin situated by a small, crystal-clear pond of water.

Inside of the cabin reflected the simplicity of the exterior—past the fireplace, a bed, and a set of chairs near a round table, there was only a cauldron, and some books stacked against one of the walls, not even shelved.

The fire in the fireplace creaked and cried, the crackling wound beckoning out every so often. Its light cast feverish shadows onto the stone floor and the wooden walls, like puppets dancing by the invisible strings.

All of that, however, was in the background of the two figures currently seated around a table—two men, both appearing to be in their mid-fifties, dressed exceptionally differently. One of them wore simple, brown robes made of the cheapest linen, while the other was garbed in lavish, gold and silver-laden gown of sorts that seemed flamboyant even for flamboyance. He seemed impatient as the other man was pouring tea from a kettle for the both of them, all done in silence.

“Patience, Estwodar,” the man spoke in a soft, melodic, almost ethereal voice, one that seemed capable of dispelling even the harshest of hearts. “Had the decades of life taught you nothing?”

“… ugh, just pour the damn thing,” Estwodar grunted, rubbing his hand through the thick, bushy beard covering half his face. “Is it… emoyna?”

“Oh? This is thrice now you have guessed right,” the man said, finishing up and setting the kettle away. “Age indeed wizens a man. So, what brings you all the way here, old friend?”

“… I need advice, Tei,” Estwodar said, sighing lowly.

“An awful long way to trek for advice,” Tei who, in contrast, was clean-shaven and bald, replied with a faint smile. “Don’t you have plenty of men and women to turn to for advice in the palace?”

“That place… is changing,” the man said, sighing yet again. “Ever since… ever since young Val was killed… it was as though the world got turned upside down. It’s… it’s dark in there, Tei. Dark. Cold.”

“Yes, the young Prince’s fate is the most unfortunate thing,” Tei said.

“I am being asked to do things… things that don’t seem right, Tei,” Estwodar said. “Things I have never been asked in my life. I… I can’t neglect my duties, but my heart and my soul are telling me… I am not supposed to be doing those things.”

“… what things?” Tei asked.

“… burning records,” Estwodar said. “Locking up Ministers. Ordering… ordering executions of scholars. Exiling Templars and robbing the Temples. I… I don’t know what is happening, but there is something happening.”

“That sounds unlike the King I know,” Tei said.

“His Majesty is not the one ordering most of them,” Estwodar sighed. “He… He seems entirely reluctant to even leave the Palace. The last time he made a public appearance was during the Prince’s Valannur. And even then he stayed only for the Passing Rite, and not the Pyre. What… what should I do, old friend? Please… please advise me.”

“… do right by yourself,” Tei said after a momentary pause. “You know that I cannot make those choices for you, Estwodar. I can advise you, however, to drink your tea before it goes cold. And then we can play a round of ciciban, just like old times. Clear your mind, for a little while at least.”

“For a little while, at least…”

**

Sylas glanced out the window once more, his face paling yet again; the Cold Snap… had happened and the true winter had begun—blizzard blew perpetually, bearing with it fingernail-thick snow that pooled into foot after foot with each passing day. The fog covered virtually every inch of the world past the few feet, and the temperatures dropped to what Sylas considered to be ‘uninhabitable’ levels. After all, he’d literally seen a drop of water freeze within its trajectory—from the height of a grown man to the ground. It froze before it hit that very ground.

He'd left the castle just once, for fifteen seconds in total, and he got frostbitten—at least he thought so. The frost was everywhere, and the amount of firewood that the castle through burned daily just to maintain the lukewarm temperatures throughout seemed entirely unsustainable. However, upon Sylas' continued pestering, Valen led him into one of the castle's underground warehouses where he saw enough firewood stockpiles to last them likely for a whole year in this kind of weather, finally managing to calm himself down.

Beyond that, most of the days spent within the winter remained relatively inconsequential—he’d either practice talismans with Ryne, tinker with magic and seek either hers or Derrek’s advice, or pour through history alongside Valen, looking for any other inconsistencies. Things had finally seemed to calm down after a non-stop race prior, and Sylas was much happier for it. After all, he was finally free of the year and a half he spent reliving the same week over and over again, consistently losing his mind. He could continue forward.

What worried him, however, was that… there was no new save point. And since, technically, he didn’t actually defeat the Thrall, he never got the system’s reward. As such, with each passing month and the lack of a save point, the next time he died, he’d have to live through a lot. He didn't mind, actually; at least the period he'd have to relive was entirely peaceful. He could confine himself in studies and practice, polishing his skillset even further. By now, he was actually fairly competent all around. One thing he wished he'd learned was archery, but in the current weather… that was impossible. And it wasn't as though the castle had inside facilities specifically designed for that—even finding spots to spar occasionally wasn't as easy of a task.

Shuddering one last time at the sight of the frosted weather, Sylas walked closer to the fireplace to warm up, even though he wasn’t cold. All the while, though, he felt eyes on him—eyes of a young boy by the name of Iun. As Valen was fairly busy in the past two weeks, the boy mostly hung in the room with Sylas. He never started a conversation, but would usually engage if Sylas started one. Though the boy still made him quite uncomfortable, Iun was also a way for Sylas to learn things he otherwise couldn’t, especially about the Well.

“The last time we chatted,” Sylas said, glancing at the boy. “You mentioned that the opening of the Well surprised you. Why?”

“There were no signs,” Iun replied.

“There are usually signs?”

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

“Energy,” Iun said. “Ash falling from the sky. Life dying all around.”

“There was plenty of dying, though,” Sylas said.

“Not the kind of dying that forespeaks of the Well,” Iun said, looking out the window. “Something… stirred the dead, I feel.”

“… did it stir you? Is that why you attacked the castle?”

“No,” Iun shook his head. “I was offered a thousand human souls in exchange for my services.”

“…” Sylas’ eyebrows began to dance. Wait, you can fucking buy the dead to fight for you?! What the shit is wrong with this world?!

“Do you think it is strange? The living and the dead cooperating?”

“No, not the cooperation part,” Sylas said. “Just that you sold yourself so cheaply.”

“You think a thousand souls are cheap?”

“… no, I suppose not,” Sylas sighed. “Numbers, though, past a certain point cease being human. Who truly can comprehend and visualize a thousand dead outside of those who’ve lived a war?”

“…”

“Who bought your services?” Sylas asked.

“I don’t know. All humans—”

“—are the same, yes, yes, I heard that one,” Sylas added with a sigh. “Well, nonetheless, thank you for not killing us, I suppose. Until the winter passes, there is very little we can offer you, however.”

“… when the winter passes, I shall die,” the boy said.

“H-huh?”

“I am of Frost—with the Cold Winds I awake, and with the Warm Springs, I die. It has been so since the time immemorial."

“Uh… so, like, the Thrall of Fire would die… during the winter?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“… right. Will you like, melt away? And wake up back in the north when the winter comes again?”

“I shall vanish, yes. But as for where I shall awaken… I do not know. It is always cold, harsh winter somewhere in the world.”

“… just… just how big is this world?” Sylas asked, somewhat excited. Though he was very much aware of the fact that the peninsula he was situated on was a part of something much larger, he could hardly ever afford to care for it.

“I cannot say,” Iun replied. “For I have seen little of it. Strange that a Prophet has such a narrow scope of the world to ask a Thrall about it.”

“You still seem really hung up on that word,” Sylas chuckled. “Fine, I’m not a Prophet. I’m… a visionary, let’s say. I decipher potentialities and predict realities. I, however, don’t just fall asleep and dream up the rest of the world. As sad as it makes me, I am not that magical—wait I missed something. If you knew you would die and be reborn and, I predict, that you can’t be saved from that cycle… why did you ‘surrender’ to Valen?”

“… I may be an undying,” Iun said. “But humans do not have a monopoly on emotions or thoughts. Though I do understand it is difficult to imagine that the dead woken from dirt could feel curious or expectant or hopeful… it doesn’t make it any less real. The boy had the eyes. The eyes.”

“Huh. So, it was kind of like pirates running into sirens. You know you probably shouldn’t, but damn, the song, the lead-laden ballsacks… they have an amazing gravitational pull.”

“… what?”

“Nothing, just musing aloud,” Sylas said. “Something to do—”

“Sylas, Sylas!” Valen suddenly stormed into the room, interrupting the two of them. The young Prince had a panicked and hurried expression, his eyes red with worry, causing Sylas’ gut to wring unto itself. Ah shit, here we go again…

“What’s… wrong?”

“Ryne… Ryne is sick!”

“…” Fuck, my heart wasn’t ready for that.