XX—Maximilian Silvanus of Lucia

With the late evening hours upon them, Max said goodnight to Drenna and Hulio and headed for his chambers. Most of the Lucian nobility had already retired for the night, but Imperial mages still stalked the halls as they went about their activities.

The ballrooms were still somewhat occupied, if sparsely. Max passed Lord Zaan Blackwater who gave him a lingering look. But with that odd smirk across his face, it was impossible to know his thoughts.

His chambers were dark, so he uncovered a glow rock and set it in the hanging sconce, giving the room light to see by. He didn’t bother lighting any candles as he had the maids bring up heated water so he could take a bath.

It had been a long day and countless small talk, much of it repetition, had worn on him. That, with the added tensions of tomorrow where the Lucian and Florencian nobilities would intermingle, Max needed rest.

He was still unaware as to what was planned exactly, but both Empress Caelestinius and Emperor Justin of Florencia had said the events would be involving. Upon coming to the House of Gates, he had been warned by another courier that what was to take place could in fact require some time and that Max was to send word in order to take care of any immediate matters.

It begins tomorrow, he thought.

Hoping to the gods that nothing violent broke out, he was reminded of a small incident by a Lucian lord—he didn’t know who—that had thrown eggs on a Florencian from atop a balcony.

A small and juvenile prank, in these hot waters, could turn deadly. Many Lucians and Florencians had a seething hatred for one another. Having lost friends and family to the other side throughout the incessant conflict, why would they not?

Max got out of his hot bath, dried his body off with a towel and left the water to cool. The maids could empty it the next day.

It was time to get some sleep, to rest and to mentally prepare for what was to come. Something within Max told him that Empress Caelestinius and Emperor Justin had something planned that would be rather unexpected.

A thrill ran through Max as he put on his nightshirt and sat his sword on the other side of the bed where he wouldn’t be sleeping.

Covering the glow rock, the chamber darkened, but there was still some pale light that cut stark lines across the wall—first a pale white, and then intermingled with a subtle pink.

Ronoria was crescent, shining her pink-red light and was mostly intermingled and overtaken by the pale, bright light of Ionna, which was full.

Closing his eyes, he wondered if he would be forced to meet Lady Gabriela Farreli. Gods, she was smug and arrogant. In truth, she had bested Max in more than one engagement.

And she likes to rub it in my face.

They had never met before, knew each other only by name on the battlefield. Max knew that she was Florencian nobility of high rank, that she led her own forces in their conflict, but little else.

Something tapped the window.

Max opened his eyes and glanced over as his hand—instinctually—went for his sword hilt on the bed. Picking up the weapon, he got out of bed and went to the window.

Before opening it, he glanced about, moving from the right side to the left so as to get the best possible angle of view. He saw nothing.

Unsheathing his longsword with a crisp metallic hiss, he tossed the scabbard onto the bed and then unlatched the window.

It opened with barely an audible click. He was careful not to lean out too far so he wouldn’t present himself as a target as he held up his longsword.

It was an excellent weapon to fight through a window. Max could easily thrust the tapering blade at a grappling enemy and kill him.

Looking down, he saw nothing.

And there’s nothing above, either.

Perhaps the noise had been a bird, or a gust of wind that made the window shutter within the frame? Logically that had to be the case, but what he had remembered had been a sound that didn’t quite match those possible events.

I sense no magical auras.

It had to have been nothing.

Closing the window, he latched it, then drew the curtains and went back to bed, leaving his sword Harrower on the bed without its sheath.

The blade was black still, a terror in ages past, and yet the quality was as though the weapon had been freshly forged.

The night had a slight chill, but wasn’t cold. Not in the summer time. Still, he got under the covers and closed his eyes.

What Maximilian Silvanus of Lucia had not seen while leaning out his window, was the black-clad figure, wearing a terrible mask with holes for eyes. The frown was an angry one, the teeth of which jutted out like that of a troll’s and the mustache flared outwards thickly—all of which were impressions within the black-painted ceramic.

Behind that horrible and hideous mask was a man, silent, stealthy—except for his subtle knocking of the window while jumping about the House of Gates.