The hall was vast, its cathedral-like immensity filled with darkness and silence. Neither that darkness nor that silence were things mortal: the first billowed, churned, raised and declined like the sea; the second smothered, crushed, subjugated and annihilated like an angry emperor.

The darkness billowed against a dais, upon which, like an island towering above stormy waves, a man sat upon a throne. The man had no eyes, unbroken skin covering where the sockets should have been. He sat tall but his flesh seemed to be failing; his bare chest gave way there and then, revealing cold light raging inside, like his body was nothing but a shell, barely managing to contain the power within. Wispy strands of white hair fell down the sides of his hair, glistening like fresh snow.

The man opened his mouth, light pouring out of his throat, but no word came out. Instead, his mind reached out, expanding beyond what mortals could.

“Servants,” he said. That single word, filled with royal confidence, echoed beyond walls and barriers, reached across unfathomable distances, unheeding of obstacles, crossing nations and borders like the wind. “Heed thy God.”

At once, as if a myriad of candles suddenly flaring in the night, thousands of minds made their attention known; throwing away any other concern to listen with undivided, absolute attention.

“Know this,” the eyeless man said. “The Mistake lives and breathes.”

A wave of dismay and surprise passed across the invisible audience; it turned quickly to rage and indignation.

The eyeless man didn’t show appreciation or rebuttal. He just sat on his throne, tall and still as a statue, cold light pouring out of his body.

“In Our brooding, a vision has come to Us,” he rumbled, making his audience turn to ecstatic attention. “In it, we saw that the Mistake is destined to play a great role in Our plans. And yet, We cannot see how.” The man’s forehead creased slightly.

“Our sight is clouded,” he said. “The Pretenders keep Us from seeing clearly, and the lingering dregs of the Enemy’s work burden Us.” A mote of anger rippled across the conscience of the eyeless man, like the spine ridge of a predator emerging from a pool of water. It lasted but for a split second, but its viciousness and depth was still enough to cause many of the listeners to quake. “We cannot fathom how the Mistake escaped from the prison We had fashioned for him, nor We can say where he hides. Even the role he is to play is outside Our sight.” He paused. “We felt his defiance, his obstinacy in standing against Us. We felt his pathetic hatred and hostility. For he thinks himself Our equal, like if his trivial existence could ever be more than a mote of dust before Our eyes.”

Even thousands of league away, the listeners scarcely dared to breathe. There was a tension, they felt, beneath the apparent calm of their Master, fury in a scale incomprehensible to mortal souls just lingering under the surface.

“He doesn’t matter,” the eyeless man affirmed. “And yet, he cannot be allowed to interfere with Our Great Work.” The man stood in thought for a moment. “First Servants, harken to Us.”

Answering that peremptory call, a group of intelligence made their attention known by briefly surging with power, while the rest allowed themselves to humbly fade in the background.

“This inefficiency deeply tires Us,” the eyeless man began, his tone expressionless despite his words. “We long for the day when our thoughts will run free of mortal impediments.” A strange sound emerged from his flaming throat, a mix between a wet cough and a chocked murmur.

Some of the listeners shrank back: mortal flesh couldn’t convey the height of their Master’s emotions.

“Tell Us,” The eyeless man brought his attention upon the group called the First Servants. “Which of our mortal tools can be spared against the Mistake? First of the First, we‘ll hear you before anyone else.”

“Our forces are spread thin, Exalted One,” replied the one called First of the First, his voice quivering with devotion. “The war against the Usurpers takes the greater part of our capability. I… i don’t think we’ll be able to spare resources to hunt down the Mistake.” The First of the First radiated the deepest shame.

The eyeless man hummed. “Mortalkind… so weak and easy to exhaust…” he commented with the barest hint of condescension. The First of the First slunk back in shame.

“What about you, Heir of Truth?” Disregarding his whimpering minion, the eyeless man turned his attention to another.

“The elves still oppose the bridles, Exalted One,” replied the Heir, his voice slithering and conniving. “In a few years at best they will be completely under our heel; right now i cannot advise strongly enough that our forces need to be kept focused on crushing the last opposition.”

The eyeless man stood silent for a moment. “We see your thoughts as clear as water, Heir of Truth”, he eventually said. “You’re letting your thirst of vengeance stand in front of your obedience.”

Startleness spiked through the Heir’s presence. “My lord, i would never…”

“Be silent.” The voice of the eyeless one rumbled through the hall, making it tremble. Flakes of dust rained from the ceiling, disappearing among the dancing darkness.

The Heir obeyed immediately, falling in stunned silence.

“We shall forgive you, this once,” the eyeless man said after the vibrations had subsided. “In the account of the inherent flaws you carry as a mortal. But never forget this: We accept nothing but utter obedience. Let this be your first and last warning. We are the Truth you are Heir of, and it’s within Our power to disinherit you from it. Be gone from Our sight now.”

Still stunned, the Heir assented quickly and disappeared, his presence leaving the hall at once.

The eyeless man slowly let his attention pass across his invisible audience: a warning to all who would dare to lie to him. None dared to utter a word.

“What of you, Leafcutter?” The man asked after a while.

A presence between the First, this one small and sparkling, lit up in response.

“The Fey are chaotic, Exalted One, yes they are”, it said with a quick, thin voice that was both male and female at the same time. “We will bend them, yes, oh yes, twist them, make them serve, but control them? Difficult, o greatest of lords, very very difficult, oh yes.”

The eyeless man expired through his nose, sparks fizzling through the hot air released. Recognizing the sign of frustration, Leafcutter fell silent at once.

“Mortal constraints”, the man rumbled. “To be forced to scheme, deceive and manipulate, instead of stepping into the light, to crush these mortal ants under Our heel. But soon, soon We will be free from these loathsome burdens.” The man’s expression didn’t change as he tightened a closed fist against the throne’s armrest. Wisps of smoke started to emerge where his naked flesh touched the stone. “Soon the last dregs of the Enemy’s seal will be gone, and then Our power will overflow, washing over this world like a tide. And then, then even Aria will tremble.”

Fervor, just a shard of it, filled the man’s words; it spread like water, infecting his audience until they were frantic, an army barely holding themselves in check from howling and shouting.

The eyeless man noticed it.

“Enough,” he said, relaxing his hand once again. Like a hand swatting at a candle, the fervor disappeared, turning the listeners back into a humble, subdued audience.

The man stood silent for a few moments, as in thinking.

“Our Avatar cannot be distracted by Our work in the Kingdom of Light,” he rumbled. “This leaves us with little to spare in the search of the Mistake.” He paused. “You have something to say, Scion of Fire.” It wasn’t a question. “Speak.”

A presence stood aside from the First. This one shone with the light of a smoldering fire.

“Exalted One,” it said with a husky, female voice. “I think myself able to carry out the search for the Mistake.”

Murmurs passed across the audience and were instantly silenced when the eyeless man tilted his head.

“You have your duty already, Scion,” he stated. Still, there was a hint of curiosity in his voice.

“Yes, Exalted One, and i spare no effort in bringing it forward to your satisfaction”, the presence let her absolute devotion shine through. “And yet, i am ready to spare what little remains to search for the Mistake. I just need your word and i shall humbly offer it to you.”

More murmurs passed across the listeners, more than one tinted with hostility or envy.

The eyeless man let it go for a few moments, before silencing it.

“Very well,” he eventually agreed. “You shall lead the search in Avurran, Scion.”

The Scion’s presence brimmed with joy. “By your will, Exalted One,” she said, with the utmost respect.

The corner of the eyeless man’s lips quirked a little. “You all shall follow the example of the Scion,” he said, addressing the rest of the First. “Use what resources are left from your tasks to search for the Mistake in the zones assigned to you. But let this be clear. As much as he‘s destined to play a great role in Our play his time hasn‘t come yet, and We have Our war to mind. Mind that the search for him always remain secondary to your tasks.”

Absolute obedience rippled across the audience.

“Very well. And… Scion?” The Scion’s presence sparked with attention. “Find the Mistake for Us and We shall allow you to destroy him. Make that come to pass and maybe you shall not be the least of our First servitors anymore.”

The Scion brimmed with satisfaction, just as much as the rest of the First darkened.

“Leave Us now,” the eyeless man sank back in his throne. “Return to your duties. Work and obey as you wait for the Day of Awakening.”

“For the Day of Awakening!” The listeners intoned as one.

And just like that, the presences disappeared, leaving him alone.

For long moments, the eyeless man stood silent and still amidst the billowing sea of darkness.

“So you return to challenge me,” he murmured, cracked lips unmoving. “Where are you, hidden from Our sight? Are you scheming? Preparing for vengeance? Or are you cowering, running away like a scared rat? You will learn. You don’t matter. You are nothing but a Mistake, a tiny footnote in the great chronicle We are writing upon this world. What are you doing? Living among mortals? Raising a family? Loving? Or are you alone once again, in a new Tower, in a new land, working against us? You will learn. No matter what you do, no matter what you think you have built. It will all come to naught. The true stage is far from you, mortal, far from your capabilities, outside your understanding. And soon, every day sooner, you will learn.”

His words sank into the sea of darkness; it billowed, it danced, it waited, like the eyeless man on the throne.

After the extraordinary evening at the Theatre, the name of Lucius Cartus had been once more on the lips of all the inhabitants of the city. Who was this mysterious stranger, so rich that he could give out precious rings like they were candies?

Amidst this buzz, the news of the fight at Bone Ridge fell like a thunderbolt.

At first, Cartus had been the mysterious stranger, shifty and suspicious; then, he had become the guild master of the Gray Goblin, which low prices and good exploits had quickly endeavored it to the citizenry; then, he was the rich entrepreneur, whose money had saved many failing businesses and just as many workplaces; then the man whose wealth seemed fabulous enough to rival those of legends and fairytales. And now, he was the brave knight, ready to risk his life to save innocents.

As the taverns of Blackstone rang to the cheering of the knights that had felled the Hags and the Winterkin, none was more celebrated than the name of Cartus, Defier of Poison and Savior of Damsels.

Here it was a grim man, fabulously rich and more than willing to invest in the city, with a mysterious past and as brave as the knights of legend. The public loved it.

From the parlous of high society to the riverside taverns, there wasn’t someone that spoke about this strange man. Everybody talked, everybody asked questions. Who was he? Where had he come from? Was he really richer than the Kings of Old? Had he really killed a pack of Doomrats by himself?

As it always happens in these cases, truths were invented and passed from mouth to mouth, turning more outlandish and strange as they went. And so Cartus became a king of the mysterious East, escaped when his greedy son tried to overthrow him; a brave knight that had saved a fey queen and had been rewarded with untold riches; a tormented entrepreneur that had given away the jewels of his slain daughters to open himself the way into high society, seeking vengeance against the killers.

Some were suspicious of this man that had so quickly, so suddenly, made his way straight into the heart of their city. They were few: the people of Blackstone, born and bred upon tales of brave knights and stressed by the rising tension of the latest period, welcomed with eagerness the news of a hero.

Soon, some weren’t satisfied with voices alone anymore. Some, dreaming of untold riches huddled in dungeons, started looking at Cartus mansion, thinking for a way to infiltrate it. Many among these gave up quickly. The mansion had been transformed into a veritable fortress, with high walls, thick gates and a small army of guards always on duty. The boldest tried all the same, thinking the prize worth the risk. They were all caught; spotted while trying to climb the walls or clubbed to submission after having infiltrated the mansion’s grounds.

The sneakiest tried then another route. Mixing with the crowd of people that searched for work at the Gray Goblin, they tried to reach Cartus’ supposed wealth by mingling with his dependants. Working for the Guild was hard work, with a less than stellar pay and demanding taskmasters, and that sent some more packing. Only the most stubborn remained and even they all failed in the end: nobody among the newly hired knew anything remotely useful and the original workers that had arrived to the city with Cartus were as tight-lipped as one could be when it came to their master. You couldn’t even have one drunk and talking, since they never broke ranks, and seemed all able to drank alcohol by the buckets without ever getting loose.

They were a strange bunch, that was for sure; cheerful or dour as anyone else, yet hard-working without a complaint, tight-knit like a closed fist and seemingly sharing some kind of secret they only were privy to. People liked them, it was them doing the work of the Guild after all, and appreciated fantasizing about them just as much as with their master. Loyal knights following their beloved monarch in exile? Servants of a fallen house sworn to fealty by generations? The voices were a never-ending stream.

Whatever the case, they were the lock at Cartus’ apparently unassailable security. And it didn’t help would-be robbers that many poor people came to rely for their livelihood on the Guild or its master’s wellbeing. After a particularly brazen thief named Gustaf of Kirkwell went too far with his questioning and ended clubbed in an alley for his trouble, the string of people searching for Cartus’ wealth reduced sensibly. Not so for the voices. With that level of security in place, people’s fantasy only ran wilder and wilder.

While this happened, the nobles wondered instead about the party Cartus had invited them all to. Aside from the novel way the inviting had been done, a double party, hosting the entire cream of the city? Lords talked during cavalcades and ladies wondered over tea. How such a thing could ever be done? Sir Cartus couldn’t surely double himself to attend both parties. And even so, the expenditure for so many guests!

Excitation ran high; that event promised to be one to talk about for years!

With that kind of attention, it wasn’t surprising that the news that two old mansions in the countryside were being repaired were picked up right away.

There were many like that in the outskirts of the city, old villas left to rot and shrubs or to become nests of unwholesome beasts. Back in the day of the Old Kingdom, what was to become Blackstone was a hotspot for nobles to come and relax, away from the bustle of the great cities of the East. The traces of that leisure lifestyle were still there, in the many mansions and, more visibly, in the great palace of the Lord-Mayor, something, they said, built by the Kings of old for their own pleasure. That the wealthy of old could travel so far just to relax was just another testament to the wonders of the bygones.

Seeing those two old mansions swarmed with workers, resounding to the sounds of hammers and saws, brought a tear to a few of the oldest lords, the ones old enough to remember a time when the family lines living in them were still unbroken. For most nobles, though, the feeling was one of awe. The invitation marked the date for the party in two months. How reckless to invite someone to a mansion that was still a ruin!

And yet, as time passed, the work on the mansions progressed with stunning speed. Before the initially stupefied and then increasingly excited eyes of the nobles, the two dilapidated villas regained each day a bit of their splendor, and then some more.

By the time the party started to near, where two ruins had been, now two marvelous mansions, the rivals of the most beautiful in the city, stood close by.

And so, the nobles started to prepare; mothers chose dresses and young ladies fussed over laces and frills; old gentlemen had their best clothes taken out wardrobes, while young nobles handed out orders to servants about modifications to be made; Knights had their ceremonial armors polished to a sheen and Merchants cluttered boutiques with requests about the latest fashions. There was a general feeling of excitation: that party, everybody felt, promised to be an occasion to remember.

And so, between excitation and expectations, doubts and questions, time passed, until the day of the party finally arrived.

The coach pulled up in the middle of the road, right at the start of a carpeted path that led the way to the mansion.

Opening the door, Edward climbed down quickly, then turned to help his wife.

Aurora, swathed in a cream-colored dress, rich with silver laces, put a delicate hand in the larger one of the Duke and descended the few steps to stand beside her husband.

“My words, my lady,” the Duke said with a smile, gathering her hand between his. “You become more and more beautiful every day. Can i have your solemn promise that you aren’t a nymph in disguise?”

A touch of pink appeared on the Duchess’ pale cheeks, and she lowered her eyes, a small smile gracing her features. “My Lord is too good to me by far.”

The Duke placed a kiss on his wife’s hand. “Never enough, my lady. Never enough.”

The two gazed into each other’s eyes, smiling fondly.

The moment was interrupted by the arrival of the rest of their family.

Edward, still holding his wife’s hand, turned to them. “So, are we ready?”

Claire and Lucelle dressed as richly as their mother, coats over their dresses to repair them from the chill. The youngest wore a smile as brilliant as her golden hair, excitation sparkling in her eyes; the eldest, instead, wore a scowl, fine eyebrows scrunched up.

Edward frowned at that, but, before he had any chance for a rebuke, his wife let go of his hand to gather both the daughters at her, to murmur something that only they could hear.

The Duke sighed. He really was an open book for his wife. Still, it probably was better like that: he and Claire had never seen eye to eye, and he wasn’t very qualified to deal with a rebellious young lady.

Putting the matter aside, he turned to the last of his children.

Edgard, his firstborn, was a tall and robust young man, with his same black hair. He hadn’t earned the right to wear the armor at those parties, being not battle-tested yet, so he wore a doublet under his jacket instead, the cloth a rich burgundy and trimmed with golden lace. His cloak, the same sanguine color, was longer than one would actually need, and richly embroidered. His apparel was a bit too sophisticated for Edward’s tastes, but he was willing to let it slide. After all, as his wife always said, “Boys will be boys“. The young man had more than enough his share of austerity and danger when they sojourned in the family’s castles, and would have soon more, if the goings in the city didn’t change. Let him have what fun he could while he could.

“Do we know how this is going to work, father?” The young man asked with some expectation.

Edward frowned. “Another bet with your friends, i suppose.”

Edgard averted his eyes with an embarrassed smile. “Yeah, father. It’s kinda the rage these days…”

The Duke sighed. The young men of the city had taken this bad habit of betting if Cartus would have been able to conduct a double party, and, if yes, how. Just another excuse to indulge in that damn gambling bit.

“Boys will be boys,” Edward recited resignedly in his mind.

“No, son,” he said. “I am no more privy to Cartus’ mind than you.”

The young man’s expression deflated. Clearly, he had hoped for his father to know something.

Edward was about to ask how much exactly he had bet when Edgard’s face lit up.

“Ah! Here comes sir Corwell!” He said. “Maybe he knows more!”

The lawyer joined them a moment later. Despite the somewhat chilly evening, Joseph’s forehead shone with sweat already.

The little man hurriedly greeted on turn every member of the Crofford family, his courtesy a bit ruined by the fact that he continued to dab at his sweaty face with a handkerchief. His small eyes turned left and right like scared mice.

Edward was just about to jokingly ask if he had an escaped convict on his heels, but his son spoke first.

“Sir Joseph! Do you know anything about how sir Cartus intends to hold the evening?”

The lawyer started at the question.

“How…” He began, only to swallow his words. “No no, i don’t… how Cartus intends to direct… no, i don’t know anything!”

Edward shared a surprised look with his son. The lawyer was acting really strangely, wasn’t he?

The chance for more questions was lost, since Aurora made him realize, with a small touch on his arm, that they were standing in the way of other guests.

“Well, no point in waiting, isn’t it?” Edward said. “Shall we go and unravel this mystery?” The Duke offered his arm to her wife and together they proceeded on the carpeted path, while the coaches rattled away, the footman at the helm led to the parking lot by a valet.

The path led the way across the small hill on the side of which the mansion was built, a scarf of vibrant red thrown on the green of lawns. Rows of wooden poles had been planted on both sides of it. Garlands of leaves and pine needles and badges adorned them, the latter meticulously worked to resemble heads of wolves and other fearsome beasts, weapons or the Pierced Goblin that had come to be known as the emblem of Lucius Cartus. Long strips of red silk formed the path’s sides, their color vibrant in the evening air. A golden glow enveloped the scene, coming from crystals that had been suspended from the poles and set upon the lawns, to shed light on perfectly manicured grass.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Aurora breathed as they walked the carpet.

“Indeed.” Despite agreeing, Edward felt his gaze stray more gladly to his wife’s features than to the crystals.

The Duchess noticed it and blushed slightly, a pleased smile on her lips as she turned slightly away.

“Sun crystals,” Claire explained, eyebrows lowered in a frown. “Never seen so many in one place, though…”

Lucelle had no comments to make: she was far too busy admiring the scene with an ecstatic expression.

“Yes…” Joseph walked beside the ducal couple, looking only a smidge less agitated than before. “I heard that Cartus handed out large sums to all the Temples.” The lawyer nervously dabbed at his forehead. “This is supposed to come from the House of the Sun.”

Aurora watched his husband with a pleasantly surprised expression, and Edward felt a surge of vindication. His wife had nurtured some doubts about his admiration for Cartus; feminine intuition, she had called it, the old man had something to him that simply didn‘t feel right. But she was very fond of church charity as well, far too much not to be deeply touched by Cartus’ generosity.

The Duke smiled with satisfaction. It was nice for her to come around.

“I see that the Pierced Goblin has all the makes of a true coat of arms now,” he noticed, gesturing for one of the decorations.

On top of one of the poles, a banner showed a Grey Goblin on a checkerboard background, being pierced by a spear while enclosed by a tower. A plume of flame jetted out of the tower’s crown, while two crossed weapons, an axe and a mace, graced the space beneath.

“Indeed,” Joseph agreed with a nervous smile. “You’ve probably already heard, but Cartus has bought a noble title.”

“Ah, i had heard voices about it. Sir Knight, isn’t?”

“Yes, from the Vulbrack.”

Edward smiled. The Vulbrack were a minor house, impoverished both in money and in honor from dallying with the city’s criminal underground. Their title had long become just an affectation, if not a shame upon them all. It was nothing but good that a man like Cartus had relieved them of it. It was a stain transmuted into a badge of honor.

“Sir Knight Cartus… don’t you like the sound of it, my lady?” He asked Aurora.

“You, my lord, get far too excited when sir Cartus is nominated.” His wife gave him a gentle touch on the arm as a way of rebuke. Still, he could see that she was pleased with the new nominee just as him.

The carpet traced a gentle path across the roiling hill, making for a comfortable little walk, made even more so by the presence, at regular intervals, of statues of the Gods. They were marvelous models all, catching the divinities in their traditional gestures with exquisite details.

The Crofford weren’t the only ones going to the party. Many families and couples walked ahead of them or were just getting out of their couches. They met and greeted many, some of which had stopped to give the statues their respects.

“The work of Akturian master craftsmen, no doubt.” Joseph peered at a statue of Eratul, God of roads, cities and architects, with admiration. The bearded God had been depicted in its aspect as the Judge, with the gavel in one hand and the balance in the other. “The House of Hammer and Chisel doesn’t let its fame down.”

“Indeed.” Aurora shared a slightly concerned gaze with his husband. “Is there something that worries you, sir Corwell?” She delicately asked. “You look… concerned.”

The question startled Joseph, that started to dab at his neck nervously.

“I-it’s nothing,” he said quickly. “It’s just…” Nervously, he looked back, as to make sure that nobody else was listening. “I just had news… somewhat concerning.” He swallowed. “The Lord-Mayor has crossed into the Wasteland.”

Aurora covered her mouth with a hand, a small breath escaping her. Edward became instantly attentive.

“The land of the orcs?” He asked. “Why?”

Still dabbing at his neck, Joseph shrugged helplessly. “I heard from certain sources. There can’t be no mistake.”

Silence fell on the small group. Their so-called Lord-Mayor, after having practically run away from her responsibilities, had crossed into the land of the orcs… what motives could she have?

Edward met his wife’s gaze, reading in it what he already knew. Eliza was no traveler nor warrior. No matter what crazy reason could have pushed her to go into the Wasteland, in that savage land, she…

“Let’s hope she brought a strong escort with her…” Edward grumbled, more for his wife’s sake than anything else, really. Aurora had been friends with that disgraced woman since childhood. For his part, he couldn’t care less for someone so carelessly leaving her duties behind.

Aurora’s hand gentle grip on his arm told him that she understood, and appreciated.

“Well, matters for another day, don’t you think?” The Duchess smiled brilliantly, her expression saying nothing of her thoughts on the matter. “This evening is for a party, after all.”

While Joseph nodded nervously, Edward smiled gratefully. Her wife was one of a kind, not letting her discomfort weigh over the other guests or even their own family in that moment of celebration.

Without thinking, he brought her hand up and brushed it with his lips.

Aurora blushed and lowered her gaze, a small smile on her lips, while Joseph discreetly turned away.

They were at the end of the path now. The mansion, tall and majestic, towered over them, a veritable castle made joyous by light, decorations and the voices of people.

Aurora turned to regard her children: Lucelle observed everything like a child, eyes sparkling with wonder; Claire wore an annoyed expression, a little mask that didn’t fool her mother: the girl had been listening to everything they had been saying until then. Edgard was busy admiring the mansion, the young man having eavesdropped until it was clear they weren’t going to discuss Cartus’ intentions.

The duchess’s expression softened as she gave them a small nod.

Then, they reached the mansion’s entrance.