Forte waved away the purple smoke, realization spreading through his mind. That was Vaun. Of all people, why did it have to be him?

He would let Vaun go for now—he had some questions for his old friend that would have to wait for later. Forte walked back through the decrepit tunnel until he emerged in the Beetley estate, where Mortimus Beetley sat at his desk, flanked by a troop of servants.

“You’re back. Did you find out who the assassin was?”

Forte massaged his damaged left shoulder, where the robe’s fabric was ripped apart by Vaun’s werewolf form. Mortimus’ servants moved a heavy decorative tapestry of a Beetley ancestor in front of the hole in the room, sealing the hole temporarily.

“I know exactly who he is. An old friend called Vaun… but I don’t know who he’s working for.”

Mortimus shifted uncomfortably. “Well, what are you waiting for? Find out who he’s working for. The carnival? The mayor?”

Forte snapped his finger, and a chair whizzed out from the side of the room, landing directly in front of Mortimus’ desk. He sat down. “Not so fast. First we talk business."

Forte glanced at the servants in the room. “Alone,” he demanded.

Mortimus shooed his servants out of the room, then pulled out a pen and a piece of parchment, scribbling as he continued his work.

The room was silent with the exception of the sound of pen on parchment. A moment passed. Then Forte began to speak. “You promised a thousand silver, and the name of who you sold the ring to. Pay up.”

Mortimus’ eyes narrowed dangerous. “Are you threatening me, boy? Do you know who I am?”

Forte stood up slowly, pulling aside his robe at his chest. The amulet around his neck glistened in the dim candlelight of the study.

“Do you know what this is?” Forte said in a dark voice. The amulet sitting beneath his robe began to glow faintly, radiating heat. Mortimus’ eyes widened in fear.

“It can’t be… It was lost centuries ago, during the war….. But that insignia… How can this be possible?” Mortimus said, fidgeting in his seat, his eyes darting around the room nervously as if he was looking for escape paths.

Forte palmed the amulet carefully in his hand, almost caressing it. “This is the Amulet of Darkness. One of the four lost seals. My heirloom.”

Mortimus audibly gasped upon hearing those last two words.

“Now do you know who I am?” Forte placed his hand on Mortimus’ table. The contents above the desk began to tremor and vibrate like an earthquake was taking place.

“I am the last Motley. I am Lord Motley now.”

The contents of the desk began vibrating even more violently, and the ink well splattered over the parchment on the desk.

“Now tell me, little pig, where is Sinclair’s ring?”

Mortimus nearly fainted, but he managed to piece together a few trembling words. “S-sold it. Long time ago. To the King.”

No sooner did Mortimus utter that last word than Forte vanish from his study, leaving only a slightly smoking handprint on Mortimus’ mahogany desk.

----

Forte scowled, pulling his hood lower as he walked down the streets of the capital. The King. Of course it was the King. Where else could it possibly be? Memories flooded back to him of his childhood, when the King visited his family’s estate. The King was wearing a silver ring on his left hand. He had thought nothing of it then, only that it was shiny and that it had a strange design. The bite wound on his should was beginning to fester, and he was starting to feel slightly delirious.

He was feeling anger tonight. Anger at his friend’s unknowing betrayal. Anger at Mortimus’ insolence. Anger upon finding out that of all people, Sinclair’s ring now lay with his family’s killer—the King.

He was passing through the gutter of the capital city now. Children ate food off the dirty streets, and street vendors peddled insects and strange baubles. Unshapely women covered in tattoos and bruises paced up and down the streets, flaunting their bodies. But worst was the smell—it was the smell of urine and vermin. He cut through an alleyway, attempting to escape the putrid air of the gutter. As he turned the corner and walked down the alley, a beggar child bumped into him.

“Mister, can you spare a coin, please? I’m starving.”

The beggar child was attempting to pickpocket him, rummaging through his robe pockets as he spoke.

Forte grabbed the beggar child’s hand, and threw it out of his pocket. As the child tried to run, he grabbed the beggar child by the neck and pinned him against the wall in the air, as the child swung his feet in protest. “I’m… sorry…. sir…. please…. let me go….” the child said.

Forte was feeling many things tonight, but merciful was not one of those feelings. In fact, he felt quite the opposite. His blood was boiling. A word suddenly appeared in his mind, as if it was tempting him to say it. He tightened his grip around the beggar child’s neck, and the child began to choke. The veins on Forte's forearm began to bulge and become dark colored. He continued to tighten his vice-like grip.

“Seiza.”

The beggar child convulsed violently, blood pouring out of his mouth, his eyes rolling back in a disturbing fashion. Forte's amulet glowed as the blood price of using dark magic took its toll. A wave of blood loss hit Forte, as his grip loosened and the beggar child slumped to the ground with his back against the dark alleyway, lifeless.

“Seiza…” Forte whispered, limping further into the alleyway, clutching his badly damaged left shoulder. He was feeling something he had never felt so strongly before. An overpowering, insatiable lust for blood swept across his tremoring body. And though he did not notice, the Amulet of Darkness was hot to touch, and his eyes had started to glow ice cold blue.

-----

Thoroughly drained, Forte slept at an inn until evening of the next day. He was unable to sleep anymore, and so he read A History of the Arcane during the night. His bloodlust had subsided somewhat. The next day, he rode for the Academy, and arrived during the evening.

“Did you hear the news?” Seamus asked him hastily. Forte was lounging on his bed, having just unpacked his belongings

“What news?” Forte asked sleepily.

“Of the recent vampire attack, in the gutters. They found a boy dead in an alley, drained of all his blood,” Seamus said in his spookiest voice. “Can you believe that? What do you think did it?”

Forte grimaced. He would need to take care of the body better next time. But he was in no shape to do anything that night. Even today, his shoulder still hurt like hell to move. Vaun had really caught him by surprise, and it seemed that the bite of a werewolf was not easy to heal.

“Probably just some monster,” he said, before slipping into his sheets.

The next week and a half was uneventful. He attended classes, aced the combat lessons, and spent his free time digging through the Academy’s musty library, where there were countless scrolls regarding obscure magics and the history of the realm.

On Thursday afternoon, there was a knock at their door, and a package was slipped underneath. It was a letter.

“Oh sweet, a letter? For me? Please tell me it’s a pretty girl confessing her love,” Seamus said enthusiastically as he ran to the door and snatched up the letter.

“To… Forte Minot,” Seamus’ expression sank. “Oh, it’s for you. Here, catch.”

He threw the thin envelope to Forte, who caught it and ignited the seal on fire, opening the letter. He was thankful that whoever sent this letter used his fake last name, Minot, instead of his family name Mott. He didn’t want the King to have any idea that one of the Mott family had survived, especially now that he was starting to piece together why his family was targeted. It made sense that the owner of the Sinclair ring would want to stamp out the last remaining descendants of house Motley.

Mr. Mott,

I hope this letter finds you soon. Avalon is under siege by orcs. They are bloodthirsty creatures. Your dragon has been wounded, we are heavily outnumbered and heavily outarmed, and we are losing men by the day. Send help.

Frank Strongarm

Forte folded the letter in half neatly.

Infernus.

The letter began smoldering, before burning into a crisp.

“Seamus… what would happen if I take an extended leave for a week or two?” Forte asked.

“Oh, that’s fine. Just let your professors know, and they will let you know what you will miss and how to make it up when you come back. This Academy is especially flexible with schedules because most of the students are noble children, meaning they have obligations that come up every so often. Just make sure you don’t miss the first trimester exam period.”

“I see,” Forte said softly. “I will let them know. I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

He wrote letters of temporary leave to all of his professors and began packing his bags once more. He was worried about the state of Avalon, and even more worried about his dragon Nightmare.

The next morning, he was on a carriage headed south to the town closest to the southmost edge of human civilization. From there, he would be close enough to contact Nightmare telepathically.