[40th Year of Foresai, Upper Fire Month, Day 16]

“What if we were to field a standing force? I could deploy five thousand.”

“Yes, but for how long?”

“I could afford to for six months, and if we reach into the coffers-”

“I don’t mean in wages, I mean the locals. While the presence of your men would bring a sense of safety at first, how long until that turns into a stifling feeling?”

“...A keen point Thenak. I hadn’t considered that.”

Gazef listened to his master’s words, judging them to be correct. Gazef, Ramposa, and Margrave Urovana were the only three in the room; one of the more homely spaces in the maze-like space that defined his master’s quarters. Its construction was made with defense in mind, and although Gazef could not see it, he knew the room was built sturdier and fitter than any other part of the palace.

It will never not fail to catch me when Urovana gets so casual with Ramposa; after all, he is the King. They go back, but that far? Picturing the two of them in their youth, quite the image.

“I do not wish to risk an atmosphere of oppression in territory that will fall under attack in six months time.”

“You speak of my forces as occupiers. That is not the case.”

Gazef looked up, looking at the portrait made of Ramposa III upon his ascension to the throne. It was simply a replica, smaller in size than the original make which hung in the largest of the three throne rooms. It was made only of pigment upon canvas stretched between a wooden frame, yet despite that, managed to be a portal directly into the past. Forty years of age stripped away from Ramposa, the youthful countenance of his face vibrant and lively. A cocky smile adorned his face, less of a man’s and more of a boy’s; that of someone appointed too young and too eagerly to the throne. Ramposa still bore a shadow of that smile, but no more than that. A count of wars exceedent of a dozen; routine suppressions of revolts, riots, rapes; and uncounted political crises that had each tested the soundness of the political system had taken much from him. The current turmoil was just another one to throw onto that pile, one that had thoroughly snuffed any flames of glory that could arise from his reign. Gazef could not understand why his master had decided to hang that portrait on his walls.

“Do they know that?”

“It depends on the populace’s-”

“No. Your men.”

“...Well that’s less a point, more a cut, but I understand your meaning.”

Urovana’s title was not hollow. If the eastern borderlands were named a calloused place, one toughened and steeled through the last decade of conflict, his domain at the very north of the Kingdom would be considered an open wound. The region had been a conquest of Ramposa’s father, the last major adjustment in the distribution of their lands for sixty years. It had drained him completely, dragging him down until the thread of his existence snagged and snapped, almost bringing the same fate upon his son.

“I do not know how they would fair encamped there for more than a month, much less six.”

“My men could make it, but I suppose you mean nearby farmers.”

Those who called it home - not by the language of the mass Re-Estize, but by their own tongue - found their new lords not as rulers but as invaders. Kinship twisted, their begrudging servitude flaking away little by little by the heat of the hearth, until what remained was white hot. The disliked became the scorned; the scorned became the enemy. Arms were taken up, and within a few weeks of the first deaths, a people’s siege was thrown against Re-Ulovale. It broke, but not before claiming the life of Urovana’s father.

“Exactly. I do not need to tell you what would occur in a month and a half’s time.”

“The harvest? I suppose so. Again Thenak, I find myself fearing your predictions as near certainties to the day to come.”

The war receded into the countryside, and there it found a longevity fulfilling the deepest nightmares secreted by the nobility, and the brightest dreams of who pined for liberation. Grayguard, so named for the seas of mist blown off from the north sea in which they lurked, found themselves vindicated in their struggle. They took their toll from those around them, some giving willingly to the cause, others less so. Their enemies did in kind, the land curdling. Boys were born, had their fathers spill their vitality onto the ground, age and spill their seed into a woman, and then themselves fall to a vivisection or any other numbers of ends. It did not matter who they fought for, they died all the same. The earth there was more fertile than any other in the Kingdom, blood a nourishing thing even when outside the body, each drop releasing the scent of a fouled petrichor.

“Besides - and I admit this to be the only important reason - we could not give those men over to anyone but Theiern, and Theiern cannot be allowed to do his work anywhere but that fringe.”

That violence, waning and waxing for much of the runup too and the entirety of Ramposa’s rule finally seemed to mark its peak and slip away in the last several years. This had been the effort of Knight Marshall Theiern. He was nearly completely intractable, almost entirely unconversational, and possessed a terrifying dedication to the cause. Under his command were many experienced knights, not the valorant and heroic warriors of the battlefield like those who counted among the forces of Bolloupe or Raeven, but something closer to their enemy in how they fought.

“I cede the suggestion completely. What was it that he had said?”

“When?”

“At the general council, two years prior.”

“Denda, you must forgive me. I do not know when it happened, but I am now an old man.”

No, I think I remember this.

They fought in ways that no men of the Kingdom had done in living memory. They fought brutally and remorselessly; killed without giving quarry or qualm; razing, lureing, slaying all they marked. A true and utter bitterness gripped them. Maps had proven useless in tracking the conflict, his men moving so swiftly and scorching out so many villages that to remake them was to waste one’s effort. His campaign had all but ended the war, and none of the knowing in the Kingdom could ever see the Drell finding the fury to uprise again. They would not find the fury to raise their heads.

“Well, whatever his words were, that’s when I knew that war was over.”

“From here, you can almost see the high-water mark.” I think I agree with you, Urovana. That was the end.

“I hope your judgment holds fast. I fear we could not smother a reignition as we did in years prior, not with that boy knocking at our front door.”

“You think we would not win on two fronts?”

“We would stake our flag into the ground and in the same motion keel over. A false victory.”

The ringing of a bell cut through the conversation. Three pings, indicating a person internal to Valencia had some need for the king. Ramposa flicked his hand in the direction of Gazef. He genuflected and made his leave, navigating through the sitting space, a short corridor, broader reception space, and finally exited out into the corridor. He was greeted with Jelka, himself flanked by a man he did not recognize.

“Warrior-Captain, we have a problem.”

Jelka’s tone was flat, his eyes curling into an unfamiliar grimace. Gazef slunk slightly, realizing that his evening had been snatched from him. His response was equally curt.

“Do we inform his majesty?”

“I will, but you should depart with Eiger now. Do your best to look calm; we can’t risk adding to an ongoing incident.”

Ongoing incident?

Gazef clicked his tongue, then gave a quick nod. He turned to Eiger and looked him over.

Twenties. Bears a shortsword, but no crest or any identifiable mark. He’s professional, not a knight. In leathers too. City Guard, but an officer. If he’s bearing a sword, that means he’s a commissar.

“Let’s go. Explain this to me on the way.”

Eiger set off, Gazef trailing in his wake. His pace was quick, and although Gazef exceeded him physically in every aspect from built to height, the Warrior-Captain still had to put in effort to follow Eigen abreast.

He’s anxious, even if he’s not showing it on his face.

“An hour ago, we received reports of a panic somewhere along the thoroughfare in the Foresain district. A street patrol was dispatched to investigate, and when it became clear they were not returning, a unit was dispatched. Of ten men, two came back. The rest had met violent ends.”

“What from?”

Any number of things could have killed a city guard, but eight is not a small count.

“An explosion, most likely a ‘Fireball’.”

A caster. Of course it would have to be a caster. He seems to be knowledgeable of magic, more so than most.

“A rogue Pyromancer?”

“Perhaps. It’s the most palatable explanation.”

Odd thing to say, although, he’s probably right. A Fireball like that could have been the effect of an inscription on parchment, but I couldn’t see anyone wasting a spell-scroll for such mindless ends. No, it’s unwise to assume madness on the part of your enemy. What does he mean by that then? That an evoker is a better foe to face than other such weirders? Not true in my experience.

“Explain that, Commissar Eiger.”

“We’re better off facing a human.”

Ah, not untrue. Still, I doubt he would be thinking about that unless something else had cropped up.

“The report contained more, didn’t it?”

“One of the survivors - the worst burned - said he saw not only the explosion that claimed the lot, but that some of them got back up.”

A lich. If his account is true, it’s all but certain. Access to magics that can be freely spent, and powers of reanimation. We’re near the coming of the new moon too, this night darker than most preceding it. An ideal time for a monstrosity like that to make its appearance.

Gazef understood now why Jelka had wanted to keep this under lips as tightly locked as possible. They passed into a more open space, a normally unused room that was currently filled with two tables of cards. A number of nobles were carousing over the results of a ‘maids-game’, a sort of wagering-by-proxy where enterprising men would coach and fund a collection of maids who would then themselves gamble. Win or lose, the event usually involved corpulent love of drink, and that table was no exception. The game had completely disintegrated into drunken debauchery. One could never be too cautious, no one could truly be sure who was a lush and who was merely acting as such; neither Gazef nor Eiger made the mistake of continuing their conversation through the room, suspending it until they reached a more secluded space. Passing through to the other side, both men diverged from the path of the main corridor, slipping into a side hall which immediately led to a door. Opening it, they found their egress into a short switchback staircase. Not quite a secret place, but certainly adjacent in its neglect.

“You need my presence then.”

“We don’t exactly keep mage-hunters on hand… Apologies, Warrior-Captain; my tongue escapes my grasp tonight.”

“I took no offense.”

He’s younger than he looks. It’s in the way he bears himself; straight and confident. His upright manner benefits him greatly. He’s older in spirit than most. Exactly the sort of man I would hope held that position.

Within a few seconds, they reached the staircase bottom, exiting into one of the minor foyers. A swift turn to the right and operation of a door brought them onto the palace lawn. The night was cooler than Gazef had anticipated, and he regretted not having the time to swap out gear. Even though the moon was dim, clouds could still be seen dragging upon its face. The sky brimmed with them. Eiger had been equally snagged by the briskness of the air. He found place to make comment on it.

“Seems the rains have come far too early this year.”

—

Between the celebrations, rapacions, and drunken lamentations of the high blooded, the world had strewn headlong into the nocturn without most in Valencia noticing. Teloran was one of the few exceptions. The light in the room was low, but the night was lower still, and he strained his eyes looking into the dark. Glare along the glass from candlelight compounded this task of dredging the lawn of the palace for any sign of departure.

There, two. Stronoff and his summoner.

“Spotted. He’s leaving now.”

“Good, it seems we have some luck tonight after-”

He halted. Shit!

“Wait, he’s stopping.”

Why? He should be making with haste.

“What? Dammit!”

Barbro hissed through clenched teeth.

“By the light of the Gods, what is he doing?”

“I can’t tell.”

He’s checking at his side. It's too dim to make out details. His bag maybe?

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it's too dark to see. Snuff that candle.”

Barbro twitched at his Adjutant's failure to use proper address, doubly so that he had given a command. Despite that, if they were not to secure Gazef’s leave, there would be no chance of the night resolving into anything good come morning. A quick push of his lungs and the flame extinguished. Illumination was ripped violently from the space, leaving no light but that of a slivered moon. The smell of candle smoke was no salve at all to the strain both men were ratcheted to.

“What about now?”

Teloran’s eyes were still reeling, but he felt his master’s impatience intimately. He held up a staying hand, and although the room had slunk into the black, it was still visible in silhouette against the fairer quiet of the umbra. The image began to resolve, but Teloran found no clarity in it. Gazef was almost certainly sifting through his stachle, but Teloran could not guess to what end.

What could he possibly be looking for?

The moment stretched and spread both men thin. Their opposed pair had given no clue as to their intent, and the longer things stayed at the parapet of decision, the more agony roiled in their hearts. Sweats broke on both their faces.

If we don’t get him out of here now, there’s no telling what would happen.

Barbro rested his forehead on his fist, articulating it again and again. Teloran gave a slow exhale, trying to ease tension. Despite himself, his chest pounded. Two flashes in the dark, cold metal catching the moon.

“They’ve drawn.”

Teloran and Barbro shot up. Teloran shook slightly, the energy of the moment filling him. His body pulled all stops, blood rushing and finding its way to all parts of him faster and more completely than before. He roiled the ephemeral inside of him, shock-fronts of his aura pulsing and reflecting inside of his skin. Barbro’s sweat turned torrential.

“Have they turned?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Your Highness, we should-”

More flicks of luster scattered among the depths. At first, in the appearance of a ray, but it morphed into stranger shapes. It flowed and shaped itself to the angles of the weapon it fell on. It took Teloran a few seconds to recognize it.

“They’re silvering their weapons.”

They’re just silvering them…

With that, the fear of the moment did not resolve, but simply vanished. Lathering weapons in alchemical-quicksilvers was standard practice when hunting that which was loosed from its sepulcher. Such a threat would never originate inside Valencia, a danger that could be nothing but foriegn to its walls. Barbro and Teloran were released from their fear, but were not relieved of its mark. The flavor of it lingered, a bitter taste.

“Blast. Worried so much over nothing.”

I’m such a fool! To think-

Teloran’s concentration slipped at exactly the wrong moment. He felt his body crash against itself, his energies winding down by torsioning his flesh. Focus and concentration were what allowed a person to so guide these forces, and when that control lost its grip on them - especially in a person like Teloran who could cultivate them so strongly - their inertia took them through the membranes of the body and made havoc in their wake. Blood vessels burst in his palms, his shins, and his pectorals - areas of common concern to a fighter such as he. The feeling was disjointing, and he shivered as sensations of iced warmth and slothed seizes of his muscles raged across his perception. This took a rapid toll on his constitution; standing became an arduous task, and he slipped back into his chair faster than he would have prefered. The impact rattled his jaw; his teeth hurt.

“You alright?”

“Aura crash.”

Barbro huffed at his servant’s mistake, and after a moment himself withdrew a vial from a drawer to his flank. Its hue was unreadable in the dark, but Teloran could guess at its contents. Barbro made to relight the candle. This was an oddity, normally a task he was foriegn to, and even in the haze of his suffering Teloran found it unusual. When the flame came back into the world, he saw a grin adorning his master’s face, boyish and confident. The luminance caught the crystal, casting a blue shadow on the surface of the low table upon which it sat.

“If I am to be a generous King, I ought to start now.”

A moment of self reflection for him, but I suppose he’s right. His rule will be coming soon. Tonight, if we can make it happen.

He reached out and brought it into his hands. A swift motion of his thumb was all that stood between him and its contents, and he downed a sip quickly. This was all he needed, and he felt his body warm as it knit itself back together. He filled his chest with air. His master sat down and looked back towards him.

“Now go. No time to doddle.”

Teloran stood, his legs growing steadier even in the act. He headed to the door, a few steps was all he needed to feel entirely restored. He did not bother announcing his exit, simply taking it without comment. In the hall now, he strode exactly sixty paces to the right, matching the length of that unit almost exactly. At sixty, he pivoted directly to his left, turning in place without shifting in any direction abreast. He stared in detail at an elegantly engraved panel, a piece of woodwork in the pattern of the flowing leaves of a tree. Sweeping his head back and forth the length of the hallway, looking back to a specific swept leaf on the panel, and then checking the hall one more time for security, he reached forth and pressed it. It gave with little force, and with a quiet click, the whole panel folded inward.

He entered swiftly, closing the hidden door behind him. The seal was so tight as to completely shield the space from light, and he took careful steps in the dark. He found a ledge with his foot, and began to descend a tightly wound spiral stair. He stepped again and again into the gloom, doing so until he found no change in depth. Walking forward now, he felt the wall with his hands, barely his width across. He felt the latch he was searching for and swung it ajar. The sickly sweet smell of wet grass filled his nostrils. Many men were arrayed in front of the exit to the secret escape, and although dressed in the armors of palace guards, were not men that Teloran recognized. He bid them in.