Argrave grabbed a silver handle from a shelf, pulling free a black box. It was large, and he was unprepared for the weight—Anneliese put her hand beneath it to stop Argrave from dropping it. They lowered it to the ground together. It was a black cube chest with a silver locking mechanism.

The four of them stood in Argent’s treasury, entirely unopposed. The place was a fitting treasury for the Lord of Silver… but quite disappointing for Argrave. Fine art, silver statues, or sculptures of Lords past might indeed be quite expensive, but Argrave would have preferred enchanted items. In ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ you might be able to sell an expensive painting to a blacksmith—that wouldn’t fly, here.

Instead, Galamon wrenched free gemstones from statues and poured boxes of jewelry into their lockbox. Once the box was full, he moved on to the backpacks, haphazardly tossing valuables in alongside the books and supplies he held. The elven vampire still had a grim air to him—he was far paler than normal, and instead of dour, he seemed enraged. His arm had healed to the elbow already, yet it seemed to be taking much out of the vampire. He drank from his flasks very frequently, draining them one by one.

Argrave knelt down to the chest, lifting it open—Quarrus had not bothered to lock it. There was a silver medallion within atop a pillow of purple silk. It was a strange, primitive looking thing, with strange letters on it. In its center, a woman held a horn up, pouring water from it.

“The inheritance medallion,” Argrave raised his head to look at Anneliese. “With this gone… no more Lords of Silver. No one will ever hold this seat again.”

Anneliese looked at him seriously. “Is that… prudent, taking it?”

“Well… the ancient gods are a bit more vindictive than the others. At the same time, they don’t pay much attention to the mortal world. I think.” Argrave took the medallion. “Destroying it might be problematic. Merely taking it, though…” Argrave weighed the medallion in his hand, then stuffed it into his pocket. “Every bit helps.”

Argrave stood from the box, walking to a corner of the treasury where things remained more on the curio side of things. He opened a few boxes—most of them were worthless things, truly just oddities—but eventually, he saw what he’d been looking for within. He turned the box in question about.

A gray, slightly transparent model heart lay within the plain box. Argrave touched it. The thing was lifelike enough that Argrave would not have been surprised to feel heat, but it was dormant. In the wake of the grim battle not moments ago, he could not muster the excitement he’d been anticipating at obtaining the Wraith’s Heart, the final piece he needed to become Black Blooded.

“Time to go,” Argrave turned around. “Leave the rest of the treasure. Maybe the freed breeder slaves can take…” Argrave trailed off, feeling the words weren’t fitting with Galamon’s presence.

“We should assess things in Sethia, alter our plans accordingly,” Anneliese suggested.

“Getting out is more important than doing some people-watching. Quarrus made a big commotion, both by fighting and dying—might be some of his underlings are sauntering up those stairs. While it’s a fight we can win, I’d rather sidestep it altogether,” Argrave commentated, stepping towards the stairs.

“…what of the albinos?” Anneliese asked quietly. “They saw—"

“Leave them,” Galamon interrupted. “Please. I’ve done enough damage.”

Argrave stared at his vampire companion. He couldn’t recall him ever saying ‘please’ before.

“Galamon… you couldn’t—”

“Walk, Argrave,” he interrupted. He raised his severed arm up—the forearm was already taking shape. “I could’ve done something. I took responsibility for all the pain my hunger causes when I chose not to die all those years ago.”

Argrave could say nothing in response, and so he turned towards the stairs.

#####

Durran’s wyvern reared back its head, swinging its horns upwards into the Vessel’s body. The water resisted like taut rope, but eventually the wyvern’s strength prevailed, and water scattered. The Vessel’s heart pulled away, seeking safety. Durran cut the straps on his saddle, freeing his body from the wyvern’s back. He strode up his winged reptile’s head, jumping from its snout in pursuit of the infant form of the Vessel.

The distance between him and his target seemed too great, even with the reach of Durran’s long glaive. As he dropped, he readied a spell in one hand. He threw his glaive forward, and then sent out a burst of wind magic to propel his weapon. The glaive whistled through the air, striking the Vessel’s physical form cleanly.

Durran fell more than dozen feet, landing on solid stone. He grunted in pain, glancing down at his leg—blood dripped out of his wyvern scale boots, onto the paved streets. Something had broken, obviously, and badly. Water rained down on him from the dead Vessel. He laughed as it drenched him, teeth still clenched tight in pain.

He stood on one leg and hopped down the street, keeping a hand to the wall to support himself. He retrieved his glaive, then whistled. His wyvern craned its neck down to reach him, and Durran grabbed hold of its horns, maneuvering gracefully until he took a seat on the saddle. He pulled up on the reins, keeping a low profile to avoid being pulled from the back of his mount by fierce winds.

Durran’s wyvern was one of the few still remaining in the sky. Others had been injured and could not fly. Others were outright killed. Their attacking force had been devastated… yet the city of Sethia more so. At this point, ruined buildings had become more common than standing ones. Corpses lay everywhere. The streets were buried beneath black sand and rubble.

As he flew higher, his gaze went to Argent. Water poured from one of its top floors. The Lord of Silver had been fighting there… and judging by the waterfalls coming out of the windows and freshly made holes, he had lost utterly. Durran couldn’t picture what had gone down there. He had seen the Lord of Gold—he had been seconds from dying to her. He could not picture a way to end her.

But more presently, he saw the Lord of Copper.

The copper mass of liquid seemed indomitable as it writhed about the city, dispatching opponents indiscriminately. Brium had not yet betrayed them, but Durran could see it coming as clear as day. This well-executed betrayal on Brium’s end showed his true nature… and more simply, Titus had confirmed it.

The men underneath Titus were much of the reason the city had become as it was. Though Durran did not know how, they brought a great trove of weapons to the field—southron elf war relics. Titus’ people destroyed many Vessels, yet their victories came at a great loss of life.

Durran held his hand to his leg, casting low rank healing magic he knew in some desperate attempt to heal his wound. As he soared above, he saw the last of Brium’s guardsmen storm the final holdout of the forces beneath Argent still standing in Sethia. An overwhelming feeling of dread came over Durran as he realized that things were coming to a close and the truth would come to light in seconds.

#####

Brium took form atop one of the highest buildings in Sethia—the belltower. The bell had fallen down and crashed amidst rubble, but the top of the building was largely intact. Brium, human form reassumed, sat on the edge, observing the battlefield.

He was furious. Things had gone very well—his forces had defeated all of those within Sethia with ease. Though he was worried about the confrontation with Quarrus, his worries were unfounded. The mercenary, who he initially thought had disappointed him, proved to be far greater than what he promised, single-handedly eliminating the Lord of Silver.

Yet Titus had ensured that his conquest earned him not a verdant paradise, but a war-torn ruin. The southern tribals and the citizens both died in numbers far too great. Brium had wanted Sethia—he seemed likely to obtain a shadow of its glory now, now.

And even as he watched, the southern tribals moved away from his men, moved away from the heart of the city. Their movements made it obvious—they knew of what Brium intended to do. Another machination of Titus, to be sure.

As Brium sat, far removed from the conflict, his vision twisted. He was drawn to the sight at once, for his vision was typically flawless. In the far distance, two balls attached by a rope twirled through the air—they stayed suspended in midair, unmoving, purple light twirling around them. Brium squinted. They seemed to be growing, far in the distance. Brium felt curiosity, but no danger.

Brium’s head reeled back and he grunted in pain. The balls hadn’t been growing larger—they’d been growing closer. Magic must have affected his sight. He stood, climbing further up the roof. His vision was dyed red and distorted, and he was near certain his cheekbone had been cracked.

As he turned, he saw a glaive swinging for his chest. Brium raised a hand, but the glaive soared over and struck his neck. No blood came, though—his flesh had already liquified.

“Damn,” cursed a warrior whose words sounded muddled—his voice sounded like something was wrong with his nose. “Should have gone for the neck first.”

Brium’s flesh morphed into liquid, and his copper body spread out. The southron elves swarmed near him like pests. The Lord of Copper could not distinguish where they were—they seemed to be twenty and five simultaneously, blinking in and out of existence.

“Think we need the biggest prize, boys!” Corentin shouted, voice distorted and echoed by the strange illusion magic of his people. “Well, the biggest left unclaimed. It’s third place, but it’s on the rankings. Only way the people won’t forget our generous contribution, am I right?”

“We can’t make a trophy out of it,” Florimund noted, voice similarly garbled. “Turns to water, after all. At least we can drink him. Wonder if he tastes like copper.”

Brium took in the waters vested in him by Fellhorn, letting their nature calm his rage before he blindly attacked the new foe.

Crislia and Quarrus both died because of arrogance. I will not meet the same fate.

The Lord of Copper surged down the belltower, striking its base. The thing cracked incredibly loudly, then began to crumble. The bell near the top fell once more, ringing once before being smothered and muted by rubble. His vision was affected by the blow to his eye, but he still had sight sufficient to get to a place of safety.

Brium took flesh once more. “We go on the defensive! Follow my lead!” he shouted. “Heed my words, as the new Lord of Sethia!”

Leaving this directive, Brium once again assumed his liquid form. The people under his command obeyed his command quickly and relayed his command just as fast. In not a minute, the quieting battlefield once again became consumed by conflict.

“It runs well,” complimented a voice from behind Brium. A mighty slash followed it, meeting the Lord of Copper’s form. It was ineffective, but Brium reeled away due to the fact that he was entirely ignorant of his foe’s approach.

“This’ll be troublesome,” noted Florimund, standing atop a high building. Brium fired a copper jet, yet it seemed to pass through his chest as though the elf wasn’t present at all.

“We have to hit its heart, don’t we?” Morvan said, standing atop Sethia’s walls. “A bit hard to see… but as long as we keep at it, we’re bound to hit something. Or… I guess we’ll die.”

“Told you not to throw that damned sling,” Yann rebuked. “Could’ve chopped his head off.”

“Don’t give him a hard time. That big pale bastard, Galamon, said he axed one on the head—it lived. Wouldn’t have been that easy,” Morvan returned defensively.

The southron elves stood before the Lord of Copper, isolated amidst enemies. Yet the Lord of Copper stayed still, cautious of his incomprehensible foes.