“Master Arthur, Sir Barmont, he lies beyond the passage,” said one of the many knights stationed beneath Logtown’s streets.

The gray stone walls were plagued with mold and bronzing yellow liquid that dripped from the cracks in the ceiling, which Arthur could only assume was the cause of the rancid odor in the air. That and the stench of rotting flesh from the piles of purblight corpses discarded in the old, deserted sewer canals. A smell so foul he had ordered the scholars of Lichtwerth to invent purifiers, a steel attachment for a knight’s visor, used to keep the knights and himself safe from poisonous fumes.

“Thank you . . .” Arthur said, unsure of which knight hid behind the helm. He spoke louder than usual to carry his voice through his doubled visor. “Make sure the purifiers are well stocked. I want all guards protected from this hellish air”.

The knight placed his fist over the Licht Order sigil and bowed as Arthur and Sir Barmont proceeded down the dark, narrow tunnel with a licht rod in hand, even the light had trouble penetrating the darkness around them. Their steel boots rang against the walls, echoing their sluggish feet. It had only been a mere day since the incident at the bell tower and the weight of the public’s outrage had stretched the Licht Order thin. Arthur had ordered a group of knights to quell the riots aimed at the refugees camped outside the church and another squadron to corral them into the prison towers, separating suspicious men from the group and dragging them into the Iron Burrow.

Off with the bastard’s head! When will the execution be? Hang the damn heathens!

These were common statements from Logtown’s people. While some took this event as an opportunity to see heads roll, others, namely those from the other realms, saw weakness in their House.

How could the Licht Order let this happen? Have the knights gone soft?

But, it was the one few dared speak aloud that spat in his face: This would not have happened under Lord Gabriel’s eye. Even in absence, Arthur could not escape his brother’s shadow, always compared to the ever great Gabriel the Holy Spear, beloved by everyone. Fellow squires from the academy had once joked that their shared title as the Twin Pillars was ill-named and their true moniker should have been Gabriel the Spear Tip and Arthur the Shaft. When he thought back on their jests, he could not deny their remarks. His brother was the pillar amongst pillars, the brightest of the bearers of light. He admired him for that but still, a small bitterness sullied his tongue when he had to shrug off the slights at his pride for it was unbecoming of a Pillar to succumb to their human instincts.

Blood-curdling cries of men and the slithering clank of steel rang louder as they traveled deeper into the depths. Any man would not dare press on when faced with what lurked behind such sounds of torment, but Arthur had been in the dungeons so often that he had become numb to the pleas of mercy. Two small twinkles of light beaconed the end of the passage and illuminated the large, iron doors leading to the Iron Burrow. As the doors creaked open, the harrowing cries blew past them like a gust of wind. The Iron Burrow flickered with light from dying flames along the rusted iron walkways overseeing each cell, the winding limestone stairs fashioned from the cave walls, and the high, center prison tower that wove the many footbridges stretched over the seemingly bottomless chasm.

When Arthur and Sir Barmont passed through the entrance, they were greeted with a unified clangor of metal, gauntlets crunched over breastplates. Sir Barmont switched off the licht rod and their vision took a minute to adjust to the sudden darkness.

“Master Arthur,” said a knight, running to meet them. “Apologizes for my late arrival to greet you at the door. Arrangements for the new inmates are taking longer than expected.”

By the wings flaring off the sides of his helm like horns, the fur wrapped around his shoulder plates, and the jingle of bells, Arthur knew it was the Warden of Iron Burrow. “Worry not, Reiner. It cannot be helped. Prince Gwyndel has bent over the entire order.”

“Those are the truest words I’ve heard all day. . . or is it night? Time feels frozen in this sunless pit,” Reiner said, laughing muffled behind his purifier. “Come, follow me to the Frost Chamber. I believe that’s the reason for your visit”.

There were three knights posted for each cell-lined wall on every level of the Iron Burrow, one on each end and the last watching the center. Each held torches as they strolled down the line with a barbed whip in hand, keeping their distance from the decaying iron bars. This was for their safety. Prisoners, who had yet to lose hope or perhaps had lost their sanity, would claw at unsuspecting guards and plead their innocence, gouge out their eyes with their fingers or squeeze the breath out their lungs by pinning them with their forearm against their cage. Some had ripped off a guard’s helm so that he would bathe in the same foul stench as the rest of them. But all of that ceased when the bells came ringing. Prisoners stumbled back to the darkest corner of their cell and sealed their lips, a hollow silence settling in until only a soothing chime sang.

It had gone completely silent when they arrived at the lowest floor, dangling over the black gorge; Reiner had stuffed his bells into his pocket since there were no prisoners to keep at bay. Crossing the footbridge, the cavern glazed, icy and cold. Icicles hung from the cave vault like raining thorns. The smell of death was gone and frozen along with the air. A knight sat by the Frost Chamber doors and jabbed at the bonfire with a dry oak branch before sacrificing it to the flame. When the knight heard the crunch of their greaves against the ice, she stood up and saluted in the Licht Order manner, clumsily at that. Her brunette hair cut short to her shoulders and her skin spotless and young.

“M-master Arthur, it is a pleasure.”

“Yes, it would be if it weren’t so cold down here,” Arthur said, breath steaming from his lips.

Reiner made his way to the fire and warmed his hand over the flame. “It must be this way, less you wish the rotting to fester. Best warm up now. There’ll be no fire waiting for you inside”.

“Pardon me, then,” Sir Barmont said, joining the gathering. “I’m afraid these old bones become more brittle in the cold.”

“You mean to tell me the Sir Barmont Strongarm, the one who is said to be a descendant of a hero from the age of old, is fearful of a biting breeze?” Reiner laughed.

“Those times are long past now. I am but a lowly secretary to Master Arthur. Titles such as those are merely words in the realm of lords”

Reiner shrugged. “Old men . . . always speaking in riddles.”

Arthur noticed the female knight fidgeting in the low of conversation. “Is something troubling you . . . Excuse me, I forgot to ask your name.”

The female knight shook her head low. “No need to spare me kindness, my Lord. I am no one to keep note of. Just a guard on duty.”

“Surely you can’t be just a guard. The sole young and beautiful woman working as a guard in a dungeon? It is unheard of.”

“Diana, answer the lord,” Reiner commanded, tired of watching her fiddle with hair that was no longer swaying by her breasts.

“R-right. . . My name is Diana, my lord. I dreamt of being a knight to serve Lord Gwyn but I lacked the skill . . . Apprenticeship at the Iron Burrow was the only choice I was given.” Diana paused for a moment as if her tongue was cut from her mouth. “The concern you sensed from me, my lord, was the body inside the Frost Chamber.”

“Brave girl.” Sir Barmont raised a brow. “And what of the body?”

Diana took a deep breath, her voice softened to an exhausted whisper. “We’ve done as you said, my lord. Leave the body covered, sealed inside, and no one is to enter the chamber until you arrive — but last night, as I stood guard outside this very door, I heard voices coming from inside. They were too faint to hear, but I assure you I heard them. I dared not to investigate without permission. . . but what was there to seek? This is the only entrance and I watched it. Watched it until my eyes were drier than a dessert and not a soul went in or left.”

The three men glanced at one another and waited for a response. They looked at her like she had gone mad from the fumes.

“Girl, what nonsense are you spouting to the lord?” Reiner said, stern and apologetic to Arthur. “The dead can’t speak. It must have been the wind you heard.”

“Maybe. . .” Diana furrowed her brows at their disbelief. “Are you sure he’s . . . dead? Have you checked, Warden?”

When Reiner fumbled his words, Arthur chuckled. “And a smart girl. Fret not, Diana. I assure you I have confirmed his death.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “It must be your lack of sleep. I can see it in your eyes. Take better care of yourself.”

Sir Barmont coughed up a furious storm when he tired of young women falling for the same old tactic. “Master Arthur, I believe it is time to see the corpse. Prince Gwyndel is waiting to hear from us.”

With a firm pull on the spinwheel, the latches clunked and the steel door scraped open along its iced hinges, stopping with a thunderous thud that echoed within the pitch black room. Arthur and Sir Barmont waited for the door to close behind them before turning on the licht rod. An everfrost glacier protruded from the ceiling like a snow-cap mountain falling from the heavens, exhaling a cold mist over the steel tables. As they made their way to the covered corpse, Diana’s words of voices rang in Arthur’s head. Was he starting to hear them too?

Sir Barmont was unfazed by her tales and peeled back the covers. The frosted air had made the cloth frigid and cold as steel. Just as death had frozen the fallen knight. His skin looked as if snow had grown beneath it. The knight’s face was less broken and bruised thanks to the healing waters. When they were transporting him to the Frost Chamber, his face was unrecognizable, beaten red to a pulp as if smashed with a warhammer.

“Do you recognize him?” Arthur said, noticing Sir Barmont’s face sinking with fear when he gazed upon the knight’s face.

“Aye, I do,” Sir Barmont started, before swallowing hard. “A some thirty years ago. Sir Morgan Edris, a knight who had gone missing in one of the early expeditions into the Haze. I was but a boy when I saw his legion off. How strange. . . Sir Morgan looks as if he hadn’t aged one bit. I wager I could pass as the elder.”

“Thirty years of leave . . . to forsake his duties?”

“No. . . From what I can remember, Sir Morgan wasn’t that kind of man. A headstrong fool but loyal to the order.”

“Then why return now?”

“That I cannot say for certain, my lord,” Sir Barmont said, regretfully. “Questions are not what we should be seeking but answers. Prince Gwyndel is expecting your report.”

“Yes, yes. I shall head to him once we are done here.” Arthur examined the body; there was little damage to it. He expected there to be more scarring from such a journey in the haze. How did he survive? What happened to his unit? “Sir Barmont, what do you think of yesterday, the incident at the tower?”

“A tragedy. Such a young girl losing her life over such a thing. . . I pity Lord Alden. I hear he raised that girl like his own.”

Arthur nodded. “Indeed, I would’ve liked to have known her, but only Lord Ludwig can decide her fate now. But I was speaking of the purblight, the man who wielded Storm’s Decree.”

“It is quite the queer predicament,” Sir Barmont said while stroking his greying beard. “A purblight in possession of a lord’s relic, the king’s no less —”

“The Aracni. It must be. The bastard confessed his collusion before the prince himself. Only a traitor to the lords would say something so foolish.”

“Or perhaps he was just a fool. The boy cradled the girl’s lifeless body like a lover. He could’ve spoken without reason,” Sir Barmont reminded him.

This was true. Arthur thought back on the events and nothing seemed to make any sense; a long-lost knight suddenly found, a purblight in love with a priestess, the Storm’s Decree granting its power to a condemned man. The Aracni must be behind these strange events. They must.

Prince Gwyndel’s housing pavilion was grander than any inn in Logtown, custom-built in a day to meet the royal son’s needs. Not to mention it was constructed atop the hill overlooking the man-made lake in the middle of Tridon Park. The princess’s solar was built in tandem to her brother’s and it was equally magnificent: polished timber frames, smoothed and reinforced with steel, covered by hand-woven drapes tattooed with the gold rays of their house, shielding the royal siblings from summer beams. During their stay, the Licht Order denied the public access to the park, another strain on what little forces Arthur had left. The knights held back the furious crowd, shielding themselves from raining tomatoes and pebbles while their ears were berated with insults of incompetence.

When he entered the prince’s solar, the smell of mint and herbs rushed to his nose. Rubies and gold furniture greeted him with a blinding shine equal to the light outside. Fresh berries and bread, and a bottle of lightberry wine decorated the table by the prince. A painting of Lord Gwyn mounted behind where Gwyndel sat erect in his glossy oak and metal throne as if it weren’t made for sitting. He donned his golden armor with their house sigil branded on his chest and a white cloak draped over his shoulder. Arthur knelt before his lord alone — Sir Barmont had not been granted audience with the prince — and explained his findings. A silence hung in the air. He peeked up at the prince in his chair, high and mighty, and saw his glower now a subdued grin. Lord Gwyn’s stitching weighed his still sapphire eyes onto Arthur.

“You are sure of this?” Gwyndel said at last. The standing lamps lining the throne’s steps flickered. “The dead man is truly Morgan Edris?”

Arthur lowered his gaze by Gwyndel’s feet. “Yes, my lord. Sir Barmont confirmed it with his own eyes. You can trust his word.”

Gwyndel rose from his seat, descended the stoned steps, and placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, signaling him to rise. “Stand, Arthur. You’ve done good work for the order. There may be hope left after all.”

“My lord?”

Gwyndel sighed as if annoyed by his confusion. He strode along to his desk filled with various books and papers Arthur dared not look at, and fingered the stack of books so they lined up perfectly with the corner of the furniture. “Failure is not a creed we of the Licht Order live by. We are the sons of light, pure and unchanging, the thing those lost in the dark seek. My father had made sure of that when he claimed the throne of light.” He spun around, facing Arthur with a dull crystal shard in hand. After giving it a squeeze, the shard gleamed with brilliance. Gwyndel lifted the closest dimming lampshade and placed the shard in the socket, filling the room with a bright new light, while the old shard cracked and turned to dust. “His own blood must hold the same standard, less I’d be shaming him. Sending your brother and the other pillars may have been my greatest shortcoming in the eyes of my father, but with Sir Morgan’s arrival, there is hope.”

Arthur did not like the sound of that, the assumption his brother and the others were missing or worse. . . dead. Did the prince always think so little of them? But he dared not say that aloud. He had to bite his tongue and let the lord finish — just as always. Soon, he wagered that the prince would complain about his sister. When he first took the mantle of a Pillar, Arthur had been greeted with echoing cheers for his brother and left alone during their inauguration. Only the prince had come up to him. His first words to him were “Just like the old bitch”.

“And my sister, that damned bitch, always refuting my actions in front of the people.” He slammed his fist against the table and the books fell. Arthur sighed silently and returned them to their synced position. “If it weren’t for her, I’d have that damned purblight’s head on a pike in the townsquare as a warning sign to all who stand in defiance to the order. But now, the other houses laugh at our incompetence.”

“It cannot be helped, my lord. Your sister speaks the truth. Your father would be keen on meeting that man. Not many can wield a lord’s relic.” Arthur noticed Gwyndel’s face scowling at his words and added, “Perhaps if you were to claim you were the one who found him, Lord Gwyn would look at you favorably”.

“. . . Yes, you have a point,” Gwyndel said, stroking his chin and grinning. “Then, that is what I shall do. My father’s gathering is in three more days. See to it that the purblight comes willingly. An injured dog bares its fangs and I refuse to let a deranged animal speak out of place in my father’s presence.” The prince peeked through the opening of his canopy. “But before that, we need to quiet these protests.”

Arthur’s stomach twisted; he knew what was coming but had to ask anyway. “How do you plan on doing so, my lord?”

“Not me, you, Arthur. I had some knights gather traitors. Show them the might of our house.”

“. . . Right away, my lord,” Arthur whispered, clenching his fist as he knelt.

The stage was set in front of the park during sundown. The prince gave his speech, detailing the events of yesterday and the consequences of treachery. Arthur heard it too many times to listen again. Instead, he watched the audience’s gleeful excitement as if they were children watching The Birth of Syvernia for the first time. His eyes drifted to the kneeling prisoners whose pleas were muffled by the ragged cloth tied around their mouths. Their faces uncovered to shame them and their bloodline in their final moments.

“. . . Now, Master Arthur, lay judgment on these lost souls,” shouted the prince.

The crowd cheered and lashed out their final insults to the deadmen . . . and a young girl, no older than the priestess or Diana, kneeling with her head lowered in silence. She offered no tears or screams, just a heavy head of shame. Arthur made his way to the girl with a face as stern as his labored steps. He would not allow anyone to see his distaste for the execution of a woman. His shadow cast over her. Arthur raised his hand; light emitted from his palms, taking the shape of a greatsword from base to tip. When their eyes met, Arthur saw the look on her face was as hollow as his own. Her skin was beaten and bruised and lashed from whippings. The areas of her clothes that covered her breasts and groin were a rip away from being nude. The shackles around his chest loosened a bit for he knew his actions were a favor. I shall relieve you of your misery. He roared for the people, “For Lord Gwyn, I cleanse the purblights.”

His sword swept the base of her slender neck. The crowd gasped at their granted wish.