Not one of the watchers present could use Soul Arts, but it was apparent to any being gifted with Mana Sight that what they had witnessed was far more than an exchange of that simple power. Mason’s glamour flickered in his unconsciousness, and Torysen had to be held back by Treyjol every time his image began to mold back to his Darkest Night appearance.

She demanded answers of everyone around- Shaywise, Treyjol, Shayjol, the bird-people, and even her own band. Her demands went unmet though; nobody could explain with any confidence, or any satisfactory answer, why this boy, Mason, or Demon, could take on her brother’s mana signature and form even while unconscious and largely bereft of mana.

Shayjol was weak, drained from fighting the Kingsman as well as from the stress of the day, but still he stood in front of Mason, axe out, daring Tory to step forward.

“Dearie have you considered that this boy saved your life from that brute?” Bazy asked gently, standing off to the side of the cluster of people trying to sort out their next moves. “Seems awfully brotherly to me. Perhaps you should…”

“That is not my brother!” Tory shouted back, failing miserably at subduing her own anger. “He was gone so long. I knew that there was a chance he had died. I knew he might not be okay. But this…” She spat past Treyjol and watched the glob land near Shayjol. “This is wicked work. He’s a demon.”

“He’s something unknown, something new. But there will be more like him soon. He has told us this himself,” explained Treyjol. “Him and that staff ended this fight for us today. We should not make enemies where there could be peace.”

Tory locked her eyes onto Treyjol’s, flaring her nostrils and pursing her lips. “You saw the spell he cast. If that was not soul magic, then I know nothing about the holy mana.”

“Soul magic or not, he came back for me when I was captured. He could have escaped without consequence,” Shayjol added. “We are not on Marra, and this Demon does not know much. We cannot accuse him of our crimes when he has shown all intents of being a friend.”

“He has captured my brother’s soul! How is that the intent of a friend?” Tory screamed, wrenching herself from Treyjol’s grip.

Shayjol grabbed both of her arms, “Would you start a war? Look with your mana where we stand. This is the castle of a kingdom filled with mana. We could have a home if we can come to terms with these bird people, and you would start our new life at war with a race we know almost nothing about?”

Lany chimed in from the corner, “We’re called the Biord, actually. And last time some non-Biord moved in we had a new king that you guys kind of killed. I’m not really sure…”

Merek hit him to keep him quiet, but Bazy laughed at them all before adding, “Peace seems like the most palatable option, and as the representative of the Biord, I declare that I will not enter negotiations with any race that would do harm to a young Demon without hearing his side of the story first.”

Tory stared at her with fierce eyes, then looked between Treyjol and Shay. “This is damned. This Demon will change our people. Your Biord will change us too.”

Shaywise spoke up quietly from Mason’s side, “We can only hope so. The Trials have not been kind to our people.”

The two spirits eyed each other in contention, neither quite certain how to proceed, but nonetheless unwilling to back down. Mason could tell that this battle was for him, or over him, but there was nothing he could do. Even those few words he had managed earlier were a strain, and somehow he knew that his consciousness was never meant to be in this place.

“Mowrytal, what a ridiculous name.”

“I am the firstborn son of my father, Torytal, and my mother, Mowrysen. Our names remind us where we are from, and what makes us. Who is Geralt? Just a man.”

“I was the guardian of King Arlon, and I was to hold the greatest titles in the Trials. What use is a name given at birth? We are remembered by our lives afterwards, the ways we change and the ways we change the world. That is true strength. To win the Trials, the King and I were going to become a new form of life.”

Mowry studied the blank, flat faced man across from him. His spirit was strong, every bit as strong as his body had been. Were it not for that staff, or for how outnumbered Geralt had really been, there was no reason this man should have died like this.

“It is unfair that you are here, Geralt, but this is your new form of life. Your king is gone, his soul has fled. Your soul is now the Demon’s, as my soul is too. We may still have more to say in these trials, but it will not be our own mouths through which we speak.”

“I do the bidding of no man’s but my king,” Geralt’s tone was low. In a flurry of motion he was before Mowry, an energy filled blow thrust at his throat.

Mowry raised his hand and Geralt fell to the ground, inches from where Mason was bound. Mowry shook his head, crouching over the immobilized warrior, “Your power here is not your own. I helped shape this place through my mana and my soul, so until Mason grows stronger, I am the caretaker of his strength.”

Mowrytal left him then, moving in front of Mason and lifting his chin so that the two were making eye contact. “I can see your motives, and you meant me no harm. Tell my sister that I forgive you, and that to help you is to help me.”

The envoy from the Darkest Night- Tory’s Band and Shayjol’s family- were distributed among the residential rooms that had been maintained corpse-free throughout Geralt’s bloody tirade. These rooms were much nicer than the rot-filled servant’s quarters, with bedding made of unusual animal skins and even several different styles of cloth.

Though Tory had originally demanded that the Darkest Night leave this place to commune with their people, Shaywise had interjected a less-emotional response. “Why waste our time returning to our people without any idea of what possibilities we’re bringing back? I would rather discuss with the lovely Miss Bazy, as the representative of her people, what options we have for peace.”

Bazy had agreed, and called upon Lany, Merek, and Shovel to help show the envoy to some rooms, while the Biord returned to put away the mess from the battle. Thanks to the cover from the Roving Band archers, the only true casualties had been the guards, Geralt, and Mason if he failed to wake from his coma.

The Roving Band, all but Tory and the small cook, had insisted on helping clean up the fight as well, as Treyjol carried away Mason and Shaywise helped her son limp away from the fight.

And so the evening had been spent. A small meal that was unsatisfactory for everyone was prepared once the work was mostly done, and then everyone had retired to their quarters for rest.

In the morning, a small council was drawn together- Torysen, Shaywise, and Bazy- to discuss terms. Tory’s violet eyes were swollen, but her expression spoke more of anger than mourning, and for similar reasons Shaywise’s face looked worn, as if she had not slept while trying to care for the unconscious Mason.

In stark contrast, Bazy’s feathers looked pruned, her scales shined, and her rag of a dress had been replaced with an attractive robe which only made her look shorter next to the much taller Darkest Night women. Bazy considered both of them carefully, then put on a kind expression and noted, “You both need a drink.”

Reaching behind her, she grabbed three steaming beverages from atop a counter at the far end of the meeting room, and placed them about the table. The women took tentative sips, but after mere moments, both of them seemed to have a little bit more perk to their faces.

“What… is this delectable beverage?” Shaywise hazarded, taking another sip.

“It’s distilled and boiled from a mushroom that we Biord cultivate. The Trials indicate that it actually raises most regeneration rates by a small degree, but its biggest benefit is that it provides a sort of energetic joy. It’s really mild though, don’t worry. I have no plans to impair either of your judgments,” Bazy spoke with the air of a dignitary- a far cry more intelligent than any of her race appeared to be so far.

“I appreciate your sharing this with us, Bazy. It’s been a trying day or so. When my son disappeared…” Shaywise began.

Bazy put up a hand and nodded curtly, “I can’t even begin to list how many we have lost. I am not sure how much was explained to you by the other Biord, but let me give a brief summary of what has happened to us since entering the Trials.”

Bazy sat now, and her robe flowed down around her chair, “Before the Trials, we Biord were the simple remnants of what legend claims was a powerful species. In our history we flew through and conquered the skies. Another leg of our ancestry even dominated the land through sheer size and force. We evolved though- smaller, weaker, and more foolish. It seemed to be a defense against the number of enemies that tried to subjugate us.

“When we found this kingdom, it had been empty for ages. We were still a formidable race back then, but we took comfort in these pre-carved homes, and eventually we became more comfortable in our mana-infused caves than in the skies, or over the land. When the Trials came, we were not ready for them at all.

“But one man was. The man Geralt calls King Arlon. He wielded a powerful staff, and performed magic we could not dream of. He began to train guards, and took over the castle, and there was hardly any resistance, because the only people strong enough to fight him were Geralt- his sworn man- and his guards, who owed their everything to him.

“He was not a good king. He cared nothing for our lives, and demanded much of us. But when the monsters began breaking into our caves, he taught us to fight them.

“I was chosen as one of his servants, and for whatever reason, he took a liking to me. He taught me about the Trials, about other planes, about ruling. I guess this was enough to provide skills to me, and the Trials gave me challenges, which gave me focus points, which gave me vastly improved intelligence and willpower than almost anyone among the Biord.

“When the Demon came, I was not unhappy to see Arlon dead. But what came next was much worse. If Arlon was not a good king, Geralt was a villainous one. He was always stronger than Arlon, but for some reason could only ever view himself as a servant to him, and he went into a rage at his loss. He ordered almost all of our servants killed, and ended the lives of many guards himself.

“Worst though, was that he sealed the castle. Only that staff, the one your friend Mason now carries, can unlock those seals. There may only be a few dozen alive in the castle now, but in the caves beyond, there may still be hundreds of my people if the monsters have not taken them all by now. This is why I hope for peace,” Bazy finished her explanation with a calm and serious expression, certain she had impressed the reality of her people’s situation.

The two Darkest Night both understood clearly the bits of her story she had left out; If her people were strong, and intelligent, and self-sufficient, she could likely have taken the staff from Mason, undone the seals, and rallied the Biord to push out these strangers. But plagued by monsters and weak as they were, an alliance would be worth almost any cost.