Nadrak walked silently down the path of the garden, her moccasins whispering as she moved across the clay tiles. The young woman was dressed in fur and leather, comfortable clothing to her otherworldly senses. Her skin was brown, her eyes white as bone, her body lean and muscular, her hair flowing free down her back. Her steps were sure and guided by her senses, her eyes seeing beyond what others saw.

She had felt the thrumming of power, felt the rippling plucking at her very soul, even within her meditation circle. Felt the barely contained rage pulsing at the entrance to the manor, felt Elshon's fear of the enraged one and her concern for her uncle. Felt Bashette's struggle that took place beyond the senses of most. She had politely ended her conversations with various spirits, disengaged from her meditations, and gave in to the pull of destiny.

By the time she was ready, the rage had been bound again but the disturbance to her world was still rippling. Nadrak had followed her senses, followed her instincts, to where the disturbance was emanating from. Her blind eyes saw Daln sitting on the bench, in front of the fountain, staring at the burbling water and the frolicking sparkling lives of the garden faeries and quickened her footsteps.

When she reached him, she put her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward slightly, putting her weight on Daln's shoulders.

"You are discomfited," Nadrak said softly.

Daln sighed, reaching up and putting his right hand on the small hand resting on his left shoulder.

"Your burden is lying heavier upon you," Nadrak said. She bent down and kissed the top of Daln's head. "Even now I can feel it struggle within you, fighting against the bonds laid upon it."

"I can handle it," Daln said softly.

Nadrak made a soft noise in her throat, squeezing his shoulders gently in a steady rhythm, working on the tension in the muscles. She could feel the warfire surging through his viens, feel the titanfire inside of him struggle against Daln's will.

"I am here, Daln," Nadrak said softly. "How can I assist you? What might I do to succor you as you have so often done for me?"

"I'm fine, little one," he said. Daln leaned back slightly, resting against Nadrak's bare legs. He sighed again, watching a peeper climb up the stonework of the fountain so that it could jump from the highest dish and into the pool at the base of the fountain. He swallowed thickly, fighting nausea and heartburn, his hands trembling slightly. He could feel the struggle inside of him, feel the desire of the power within him to be free.

Nadrak moved her hands, passing her hand over Daln's eyes to close them before shifting her hands so that she could rub Daln's temples. She noticed that the grey in his hair had thickened, the lines in his face more graven, and she saw the trembling in his fingers. Nadrak's blind eyes could see the massive figure bound by chains of loyalty and duty within Daln.

Daln sighed again, trying to relax, feeling his emotions whipsaw for a moment before he could get them under control. For a split second he wanted to grab Nadrak's hands, pull her over his shoulder, and drown her in the fountain.

Daln cleared him mind, pushing away the emotions, the urges. He knew they were not his own but rather the urges of his enraged captive.

He slowly recited the most basic of mantras he had learned as a child. Slowly the rage ebbed and cooled but still he could feel the struggle within him.

"Bashette approaches," Nadrak said, her voice quiet and soft.

Daln just nodded, resisting the urge to lash out at the young woman, to tell her that he knew. That he could feel her. That he was aware of every step she made on the carpet, of her surface emotions, could taste the thick cloying taste of her arcane burn, and feel the sticky cold of the melancholy that often pulled the young woman down.

"Thank you," Daln said. Nadrak merely murmured, continuing to rub Daln's temples, bending down to kiss the top of the seated man's head.

The click of Bashette's heels heralded the woman's arrival and Daln sat perfectly still as Bashette moved to sit on the stone bench next to him. Her dress was scorched and damaged but she smoothed it over her legs as if she was dressed for royal court once she set the platter she had been carrying onto the stone bench next to her.

"Uncle," Bashette said, a slight questioning tone in her voice.

"Yes, Bashette. It's just me," Daln said.

Smiling and nodding, Bashette held out a crystal flute of glass grape wine. Daln took it, sipping at it gratefully, still staring at the sunlight sparkling on the water.

The peeper gave a loud whistle at it jumped from the top of the fountain, somersaulted through the air, and plunged into the cool water. Peeping cheers came from the surrounding rosebushes.

"How are you?" Bashette asked, her tone carefully neutral.

"I'm content," Daln said.

Bashette snorted, able to taste the lie in her uncle's words.

"Elshon would do well to be more careful with her words and should learn to bend to the demands of the house," Nadrak said.

Bashette nodded, crossing her legs primly and smiling at the peeper that was splashing around and basking in the admiration of its fellows trilling their approval from the rose bushes. It's bronze scales were shining in the sun as it surfaced to squirt water from its mouth.

"Can you feel them, Uncle?" Bashette asked.

Daln nodded slowly.

"Can you bear their weight when they set foot on the manor grounds? Can you bear their weight when they enter the house?" Bashette asked gravely.

"Yes," Daln said, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "I've been able to feel them for several days, feel them draw closer, feel them struggle to accept their burdens."

"But can you bear their weight?" Bashette asked.

Daln sighed again, sipping at the wine. "Yes."

Bashette nodded, looking at her uncle. He looked older, more tired, more worn down than even when he had been revealed to her eyes for the first time. His shoulders were beginning to bow beneath the weight of the onerous duty placed upon him by the House and the Red Queen.

"I worry about you, uncle," Bashette said, reaching out and rubbing his leg. "The burden you carry," she started to say.

"Is heavy. I get it. Everyone keeps reminding me," Daln said. Warfire flickered across his neck and along the underside of his jaw. Nadrak shifted her hands to rub Daln's chest. "All everyone can do is remind me of how heavy this burden is, how important it is. Even the Red Queen asked me, every single morning, how I am bearing up under the weight of this duty."

Nadrak could see the war-fire starting to ripple beneath Daln's skin and shifted her hands to rub Daln's shoulders again, and just by happenstance keep Daln sitting down.

"Calmly, Daln," Nadrak said.

Daln gave a low growl then shuddered.

"They'll be here soon," Daln said. He stood up slowly, rolling his shoulders beneath his suit. "The Phaelan Matrons are speaking with Elshon at this very moment. I should be present."

Both Nadrak and Bashette glanced at one another as they heard the groaning of thick metal plates rubbing against each other. When Daln ran one hand through his hair his shadow shifted and warped, looking as if massive chains bound his wrist and the clatter of iron chains could faintly be heard.

"You do not have to go to the throne room," Bashette said. "Elshon is seated, the Patron will suffice for what must come next."

Daln shook his head. "You know their names, Bashette, but I can feel them."

His shadow shifted and returned to normal.

Nadrak nodded. "The wind whispers their names and the spirits shiver before their power."

"Titans, all three of them," Bashette said. "Each different but steeped in power."

"Power untrained, unrestrained, is dangerous to all," Nadrak said primly.

Daln shook his head, turning slowly and moving toward the stained glass double-doors. A servant pulled them open, bowing as he did so.

"My thanks," Daln said. He recognized the servant, a loyal man who was reknown for precision and attention to detail. Born in the House, trained and educated by the House. His wife was a laborer's daughter who had born right in Ralvden and had born him six children, four boys, two girls, one of which was mage-blooded. Three of his sons had died in war, and he himself had been wounded by an arrow in service to Elshon.

Daln swallowed thickly and pushed the knowledge away as even smaller details attempted to flood his mind. That the man preferred two grapes to three within his evening white wine, that his lady-wife preferred sharp cheese with her morning gruel which she preferred above all other things as it reminded her of her deceased mother's singing in the morning in her youth.

No hint of the struggle within him was visible as he moved down the hallway, keeping tight rein on his thoughts, emotions, and movements. A sword mounted on the wall called out to him, pleading to be picked up and wielded in honor and bravery. A shield murmured its discontent that the house had no heirs. A suit of armor called out for a wearer that had not been born.

Nadrak's small hand gripped his and the laments of destiny lightened, receding from his senses.

"Can the House bear their weight, brother?" Nadrak asked softly.

Daln nodded slowly. "Yes. It will be a struggle though."

"And Alben itself?" Nadrak could faintly smell burnt wheat.

"The Duchy duRalvden is as far as I can sense," Daln answered. He tried not to look at the maid they passed by, tried to ignore the faint dreams coming from within her rounded belly. The child would grow to manhood within the house, eventually becoming a blacksmith in the city surrounding the manor, marrying...

Then they were past, and Daln's knowledge of the child waned and was forgotten.

The door to the throne room opened smoothly, Daln ignoring the sudden knowledge of the two footmen who opened the door.

The Phaelan Matron had moved from her travelling chair to a chaise with one arm. Daln could taste her concern, feel the tickle of her canny instincts, hear the whisper of her worry for her Consortium.

We are a small people trapped between destiny and the rage of humans, Daln heard whispered from somewhere within the memories that were and were not his own.

"Uncle, welcome," Elshon said from where she was sitting in the throne, her blade in her lap.

"Patron," Daln said. For a moment he paused, torn between standing slightly behind her in the House Champion's position and moving to the throne for the Patron in Recline.

Dimly the clanking of chains echoed from the shadows at the edges of the throne room.

Daln moved past all of that, to a comfortable chair at the side of the throne room. He saw Matron and her three Phaelani companions all look at him and then give each other pointed looks.

A mage, an experienced infighter, and a representative of their House of Blood and Steel, Daln thought, the knowledge coming unbidden to his mind. Not an armor-witch, but witch-blooded. Less so than Nadrak, but still useful to the armor-witches of their Consortium.

Daln accepted the glass of wine from a servant, pushing away the intimate details of the woman's life. He sipped it lightly, returning Elshon's stare in equal measure.

"This is Matron Plevan of the Restlafut Consortium," Elshon told her uncle, motioning toward the plump Phaelani relaxing on the chaise. The Phaelani smiled before turning her attention back to the small cubes of cheese on the tray held by a servant.

Daln nodded. "Matron."

"Her Matron of the Arcane, Mistress Stelancia," Elshon pointed at a younger Phaelani.

"Matron."

"Mistress Oldami, her advisor," Elshon continued.

Daln nodded. "Mistress."

"And Alvena, voice of the House of Blood and Steel," Elshon finished.

"I see and recognize you, Daln Ralvden," The small woman said. "Through my dreams and fevers you have stalked, terrible one. I shiver in recognition."

"Please, Alvena, save the courtesy of the House of Blood and Steel for another time," Matron Plevan said, waving her hand as if to dismiss the customary pleasantries between the cloaked witch and the large human.

"As you wish, Matron," the witch said. She gratefully turned away from Daln, resisting the urge to run over and prostrate herself before the human. To hold her hair out and beg him to war-braid it before melding it to a ring on his armor. To swear her flesh, blood, magic, and will to his.

She pushed down the arousal at the thought of such actions being accepted, willing her blood to cool. Alvena had decades before her power came to the forefront, before the razored wire was woven into her hair, but she could still feel the pull of obedience and submission. She could taste his triumphs and victories, his defeats and agonies.

And she could feel what was bound within him, struggling against chains of loyalty, duty, and fidelity. Feel the rage and wrath of a house titan that had been driven mad by the violence and hatred of the Lich King War and the Alben Civil War, poisoned by the rage of the war-souled Patron, and was no bound and chained within the seated lord.

Daln leaned back against the wall, feeling the cool stone of the manor's inner wall, the original fortress that the luxury had been wrapped around over the centuries, and took strength from it.

And simply watched as Elshon held court.