Galgador, Southern Citadel Undis, Maximus’ Supreme Court

The profound exclusivity of Maxis Supreme Court was only exceeded by the presence of those who had attended it, bringing with them an unmatched sense of solemn emanation. Sunlight seeped in through the massively tall stained-glass windows, and the arches of the tall brick walls overhead housed lines of chandeliers which glittered in the sunlight. Two main congregations of seats sat in the massive hall, spanning the left and right sectors, whilst higher balconies situated elders of various notorious sects, who stared downwards with dismissal in their eyes. The wives of influential lords were much too busy sipping exquisite wine to notice or care of the congregation down below.

This massive courtyard, accompanied by the various rooms of apostles, was all funded by the Ddru noble family. As if by transcendence, the entire room suddenly alit itself with dignified and unruly exorbitance, with the slight tinge of blood. It was no secret, behind those wide, red banners, where the main assemblage of Ddru members sat, that slavery and insubordination prospered. But when a family such as the Ddru situated themselves in land owned by their very own forefathers, no one would challenge their inconsistency.

Various members of other less-known families had positioned themselves at the sides, like hungry vultures, whilst the more prominent figures had inclined towards the centre, nearer to the Altair and its surrounding pedestals. Andris Deus had sat in his own allocated areas, along with other governors; several high-ranking generals had filtered in, their promiscuous behaviour instigated by alcohol. The seats for the Uung family, leaders of the Galgorian northern Citadel Isral, were absent, most likely feuding in the times of an apparent usurp from an uncle who had grown too brave in the forthcoming days of the twin brother’s father’s death.

By the Altair, four separate divisions had entertained the presence of the Spine, Dagger, Spine and empty Fang. At the apex of these minor divisions, by the Altair, Elite Judge Maximus sat, wearing close-fitting black tunics, white undergarments, littered with golden etchings. Fur dangled upon his crooked neck, and leather gloves accentuated the spiny appearance of his twiddling fingers. Despite all inferences or accusations, Maximus was a man of uncanny countenance- somewhat detestable in appearance, but calm in his blatant mannerisms. His ideologies reflected his dysfunctional presence, as often his vicious eyes would beam down with cynical rage, and would sentence people, beings, to utter-doom or content utopia. His entourage of advisors who surrounded him, too, sat in accompanied sombre silence, their eyes distant and gazing, but their posture rigid in front of Maximus.

Maximus spoke as he saw fit; and of any situation that was like this, he would certainly speak out. However, the disparity of the three houses in front had enough influence to cast a foul mood amidst Maximus’ audience. Yet, this strange mood prevented Maximus from speaking- his vigilant eyes discreetly scanned the room, and quickly acknowledged the looks of disgust towards the empty house of Fang. Receiving information on preliminary thesis, Maximus quickly learned the case was strange- he knew the disgruntled act of the Fang familia, and their cold relations with the other houses, but he had not expected the King himself to allow the ransack and destruction of their grounds, and then the imprisonment of all key members. This case was different, and under the eyes of the church and the Gods themselves, he was determined to bring justice to this indiscriminate court, even if the accused was deplorable.

He had been issued the ‘word of King’ to be in the presence of the process, the overthrow as that dreadful man Kal Morphis. Yet, Maximus had expected troops of the red banner to storm inwards, seizing heretics and eliminating threats. Instead it was men of their own Fang households, their own guardsmen who had suddenly turned. Maximus was with two Knightshood when it happened, Lord Fang getting from his seat, and then the two guards closet to him receiving arrows through their chests. It quickly arrived at chaos, as the ambiguous difference between friend or foe became more and more warped, the cold eyes of the betrayers slaying quickly and almost silently. They swept through the rest of the manor and surrounding area quickly, cutting down all men and any women or children which attempted to fight back, murdered. He had never seen such bountiful murder be committed so easily. Familia treachery is second only to royal treason, and yet Kal Morphis was not signed with this, and in fact permitted by the signia of the King himself, which was handed in a small letter with royal sealing and tight, sprawled handwriting- the King’s. Helten Dagger was outside the Manor waiting, atop a stallion, with him his wife, Lydia and Del Spine.

Maximus’ lips curled downwards, his nose wrinkling at Helten, who caught him watching and smirked. He was too brave.

Suddenly, the doors of the court opened, and through them Imperial Gal soldiers marched, red capes bellowing behind, their golden armour gleaming, but their walks mechanical. In the midst of the soldiers, shackled and dirtied was former Lord of the Fang household, Howard Fang. Slowly, he was escorted through the lines of silent people, and eventually brought to a podium, and was forced to kneel, his head dropping down, hair obscuring his face.

Behind him, others of the Fang were dragged in, taken to the sides, made to kneel surrounded by guards.

A couple seconds of silence.

“The~”

Maximus was cut off by an Apostle.

“We wait for the other one.”

*

Raphael awoke in his chambers in the sort of speed that half the country couldn’t muster; the sort of speed rich men could only dream of learning to avoid cutthroats. And that was a similar sense which startled Raphael out his slumber; a particular good one after spending the night wooing noble men’s daughters, especially the twins, the ones whom he had particular fond memories of.

Sordid must curdled in the air, seeping through his thick oak doors, and proliferating close to the floorboard, clinging to the fur carpet and blanket that was strewn roughly across his body. Still topless, he sprung out of bed, tapping into the magical web which he had sprawled across and around his room, stretching out the upper corridors of his mother’s manor, entrapping the air with ludicrous amounts of sensory phantoms, designed to set off in the presence of an intruder. Yet nothing was triggered: no immediate danger, no nothing.

Eyes squinting, he threw on the first clothes he saw, not bothering for leather armour garments, and pacing towards the door, eyeing the gladius on the table, but leaving it on its own lonesome. Opening the door, a large shape hovered there, like a monster, a beast, but a beast with ashen hair and a sword longer than Raphael’s entire chest and arm together.

“Who the fuck are you?” Raphael grunted, looking past the huge man’s side, to the free hallway.

The man looked disgusted at that, something flashing across his dark face, thick caterpillar eyebrows arching.

No armour, no chainmail, nothing covering his neck, antecubital space on his elbow’s underside open too. His Greatsword, sitting lazily by its side would tear through Raphael and the doorframe, through the walls, if the man was fast enough.

“My mother hire you?” Raphael asked.

“I work under Captain Vorr, and I’ve been instructed to ensure you stay in your bedroom until further notice.”

“You keepin’ me safe?”

He nodded slowly, eyeing him even sharper now.

“So why’s your hand over your sword’s hilt?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it, stepping forward slightly, staring down at Raphael.

Raphael shuffled back slightly, a flat expression spreading across his face, slowly lurching forwards, all except his eyes which stood still, perpetually in turmoil.

“You got a family, big guy?”

The guard adjusted his belt, and scoffed, “No.”

Raphael smiled, “Good.”

His entire body lurched forward, far too fast in the small amount of space, but he managed. His right hand shot forwards, and instinctively, the guard reached down to pull up the sword, but his left hand had already sprung from underneath, palming the hilt back into its sheathe, causing the guard to stumble backwards. His right hand had arrived at the man’s face, clamping round it and pushing it with all his weight.

Squeezing with his index finger, he felt an explosion of energy ripple from his elbow, pulsating downwards to his hand before springing from his fingers, an immense shockwave of invisible air violently smashing his face, whiplash sending his huge body over and onto the ground.

Gazing upon the crippled body below him, something shuddered over Raphael; a dreaded sense of unknowing, the sorts that was malicious down to it’s icy, damned core. Who was he? Part of Vorr’s guard? The outfit he wore, like a raider’s outfit but blacker, with obsidian robes draped across his right shoulder and his back, a balaclava of some sorts round his neck. A quick glance warranted no identification of a glyph or some signia, so Raphael moved on as he adjusted his collar, a rough look across his chiselled face.

He came across others in similar outfitting, this time in the dining room, a pair standing in the grand archway, separating the room filled with food, and the stretch of corridor that would lead rightways to another spiralled staircase, where his mother’s chambers was located.

The two were talking in some foreign tongue, thickly accented, certain syllables sounding like harsh clicks, some absence of gaps between each string of words.

Where the fuck was Vorr’s guardsmen? And Vorr for that matter. His mind raced, calculating, running through itself, even faster than the speech of the robed men from beyond the wall’s corner which he watched from.

Both held black spears, one leaning with it, the other spear held behind his neck, arms hooked over it, supporting it on his shoulders.

“Mirak. Broloh kalah ma ka lorpos de’morphah,” was the last sentence the one on the left said before something invisible grabbed him by the head and smashed him face down into the ground, the spear spinning out of his hands. The other, startled, turned with a gasp, spinning the spear into his hand, and scanning the room before his eyes snapped to Raphael who returned an equally vicious glare.

“Who the fuck are you?” Raphael hissed before swinging a right fist towards the robed man.

He silently retorted, swivelling leftwards, head snapping back, a fist flying past his face. Knee bent he shot back up, attempting to slam the butt of his spear into Raphael’s neck but the boy had already brought up his left palm, a purple flash filling the air round his fingers and the spear’s length bouncing off with a metallic clang. The robed guard had already followed up with a swipe of his right foot, a roundhouse kick aimed at Raphael’s side which successfully connected.

A sprawling mass of pain shocked Raphael, not a normal kick, one which mustered a clinging fire of shuddering claw strokes on his abdomen’s side. He exhaled heavily, left hand grasping the phantom pain.

“W-what the fuck…?” He whispered, and the robed man had already sprung forward, once again not with the sharp spearhead, but with the blunt side. He jabbed, the entire length springing forward, just a flash of shadow. Raphael managed to slide right, but the spear followed him, immediately changing courses into a wide swipe aimed to sweep him off his feet.

He lept over it, and jumped back a foot, staring at the vicious attacker, who immediately cancelled his weapon’s momentum and shot it back to his side.

“Fuckin….Speak!” He snarled, something starting to broil within him. Gazing at the calmness in which had consumed his enemy irritated him, not able to judge, not being able to estimate what he would do a next. A spiralling mist of ambiguity rolled around his entire body, just a pair of eyes which stared blankly back at him.

Raphael cracked a knot in his neck, “Fine.”

Suddenly, the spear shot forwards again, but Raphael’s shape had contorted, a sudden blur, and his right foot-tip had placed itself onto the spear’s end, propping himself up quick, quicker than a lightning bolt. This time shock filled the man’s eyes, but by then, Raphael had already took a step up the length of the spear, still held by the man, and leapt off, Raphael’s finger brushing past the robed man’s forehead as he passed by onto the floor. A few seconds passed, and Raphael looked behind him, a small fire erupting across the man’s face.

Screaming, like some tortured animal. Raphael cursed under his breadth, anger shuddering through him. He clicked his fingers and the fires extinguished, the man’s balaclava completely burnt away, but his face completely fine. Raphael didn’t let him recover, and with both his massive hands he picked up the man pushing him against the wall, fingers clasping across his neck. Gasping in response, eyes bulging, he gasped for air but nothing came.

“Huh? What’s that?” A wicked smile spread across Raphael’s face, and eyes sharpened, his blood boiling.

The man coughed some more.

“Answer my fucking questions or am I gonna have to kill you?” He asked, under grit teeth.

A pause of silence, and seeing the man’s face; a plain one, lit up with a meek smile, and flashing, brown eyes.

Raphael’s eye twitched, and his smile turned into a wrathful snarl, and he bashed the man’s head against the wall.

Once.

The wall shuddered; the painting to his upper right shook.

Twice.

This time the wall creaked, paint specks cascading down.

A third time.

The man’s screams became subdued now, and he heard the clambering of footsteps somewhere down the hallway.

“Tell me!” Raphael roared, his teeth bared, “Where are they? Where’s my fucking sister, huh? Where’s that damned Vorr?”

Blood soaked his hands, the man’s face was bloodied and smashed to a pulp. Anger, like a filthy, sundering flame deep within his stomach, burned, an increasing pressure across his body. He had snapped. Eyes crazy, hair messy. He turned to the shapes which came around the corner, from behind the staircase.

More of them. More of the stubborn, silent ones.

Stretching out his hand towards the floor, the fallen spear started to vibrate.

“Come,” Raphael whispered with fury.

The spear whipped to his hand, a metal ring filling the air.

*

By the time Raphael came to face with Vorr, his entire body was submerged in blood. Normally the boy preferred to swipe his blade away from his body, splattering blood on the floor or something. But he had snapped, he couldn’t control it, something bubbled viciously within him, and consistently seemed to fade away. Just kill. Kill, kill.

“Who…,” he managed between breaths, wiping blood from his eyes, “who the fuck are you?”

“He is,” Captain Vorr started, looking towards the man who leant across a bookshelf, “he is the leader of the mercenaries, the ones you…” Vorr’s eyes looked him up and down, like some damned mutt.

“What the fucks going on?” He asked.

The robed man, robed in white, not black, chuckled, a nice, sharp face on him, “You are a good fighter. How many did you take down?”

He chuckled in response, fingers brushing his wrist, as fingers curled. Vorr noticed, and stepped forward a little bit.

“Next time, one of you motherfuckers avoid my question Ill bash your head across my mother’s desk.” Raphael had lost patience, his anger starting to rise again. Like some damned, starving pit viper.

The white-sheathed man chuckled again, accent-rich and beautiful, “He is an angry one, no?”

Vorr shrugged, walking to the window behind them, viewing the forest’s edge, which sat on the hill, over watching the manor.

“Your mother told us to look after you,” Vorr said, his voice somewhat dark.

“I don’t need to be looked after.”

Vorr looked down at him with dismissal, “Obviously. It was more of a preventative to be honest.”

Raphael’s eyebrow arched, “Prevent what?”

His heartrate increased for some reason; that same feeling when he woke up, as if his magical defence had been triggered again. A horrid feeling.

The white-sheathed man spoke again, “I’m the commander of the Koros mercenaries. We are to stop you. Your mother is one of the key components in the reckoning.”

“That’s what she called it,” Vorr turned round.

“R-reckoning,” he trailed.

“You know of the four families of Galgador well, do you not?” Vorr started.

“What of them?”

“We’re a nation fuelled by strength and prosperity; especially in the face of war with the other nations of Luthadel. Strength; purity, breeds on the grounds of fortitude. But how can we survive; how can we thrive on weakness? That is what your mother has involved herself in, my dear Raphael.”

Dread filled Raphael’s face. His lip twitched, “What?”

“You know well of him, surely? The Fang Lord’s brother? Kal Morphis? He’s been valuable, according to Madame Ekma. Him and Del Spine.”

“No…” Raphael stepped back, his lips parting, eyes bulging.

“Morphis has helped. The bastard!” Vorr chuckled. “The bastard uncle has helped with the house’s fall! All for profit; his loyalty was bought, along with Helten’s. It’s begun, Raphael, the rebirth of our great Galgorian Empire.”

“What did you fuckers do to him? What the fuck did you to Damien?” Raphael stepped forward, arms shaking.

“Me?” A ludicrous look upon the mercenary’s face. “Nothing. My brothers were the ones who caught him. Who cut him. I heard that the princess helped too,” a soft smile across his lips.

“Do not tell me… you were friends of his?”

“The father put up a good fight; a lot of them did really. But a lot ran too, I heard Raph…” Vorr trailed off, eyes distant.

“I heard some horrid things.”

Raphael’s hand turned to a fist.

His teeth grit hard, his eyes burning into Vorr’s, who stared back at him, “You… My mother, knew I would stop them. Knew what I would do… So she put the mercenaries here, to stop me…?”

Vorr’s face looked somewhat grim.

“Your sister was helpful in the ordeal. She watched over you vigilantly last night, making sure you’d come back here to your bed. You’re dangerous you’re~”

Raphael muttered a spell, and a metal spike, longer than his forearm, flew forwards, straight for Vorr’s right shoulder. However, before it even hit, it evaporated, a dust of metallic dust floating away. The mercenary’s extended palm’s glow slowly faded, the lit hieroglyphics across his arm darkening.

Vorr sighed, and reached for his sword.

“I’m not to kill you or handicap you, Raphael; you’re mother still loves you, believe it or not.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Raphael muttered, fury filling his eyes.

“Your rage says that, but you care,” Vorr stated a sad look across his face.

“I’m going to break your legs, Vorr, and then I’m gonna wipe out these shithead mercs. Then I’m going to get my friend.”

“You’ll die first, child,” the mercenary stated with a quiet voice, the tattoos across his arms starting to light again, eyes softly glowing.

Close your eyes and jump head first through.

Raphael barely had time to recognise the voice before a horrific flash in the room, like a sizzling explosion had stained itself on the inside of his eyelids. His feet were stuck for a few moments, and then he pushed forwards, roughly leaping over the desk in blindness, and then forwards, to the massive, sprawling window.

“Khaos,” he whispered, not able to hear his own voice.

The window in front of him smashed into thousands of fragments and he flung his body out, the air hitting his face first.

You’re a dumbass for following, the voice sniggered.

He couldn’t see shit, all he did was fire a powerful cone of air from his palms, uttering a simple spell. The jettison temporarily ceased his movement, and then he smacked into the ground; a shudder of pain electrifying his body, but only a meagre amount to what could’ve been.

His vision only barely managed to return, and he was already up and running, way too tired to make use of any speed magic, but fast enough. He made for the treeline where the vision of the boy in front slowly made himself obvious.

He skidded to a halt, in the trees now, “Kaladin?”

“The one and only,” Kaladin muttered, reloading a one-handed crossbow between his elbow and body. He spat out the bolt from his mouth, and chambered it in with only two fingers. The bolt was loaded with an odd looking shape.

He took it out, extending arm and inhaling, “They’re gonna follow us.”

He pulled the trigger and it shot out, speeding towards the window Raphael had just jumped out. It smashed into the glass, before an explosion blossomed out, shaking the earth, ringing Raphael’s ears.

“Explosion magic isn’t easy,” Raphael muttered, staring at Kaladin who threw the crossbow on the floor.

“Isn’t magic,” he said glumly, sharp and quick, like the normal Kaladin he knew.