And Feren was born, Son of Battle, God of Valour.

To instruct their Children of competition

And the endless struggle to better oneself.

And Sent was born, Brother of Wealth, God of Generosity

To teach their Children of wealth in charity,

And that all wealth is from the gods and given to share.

And Zethor was born, the Crafting Son, God of Patience

To teach their Children that all good things come in time.

And that with hard work and patience, wonders can be forged.

-Book of the Dawn 1;37-45

As Vallerian wandered the Sherya noble district, lovingly called 'The Forest' by its inhabitants, he did his absolute best to avoid returning home. Even thinking about it gave him chills. So instead, he meandered the clean well-laid paths of the Forest with Charlotte atop his shoulder. He let his eyes roam.

The district had earned its name in part from its extensive public gardens, twisting clean water canals, and tame animal life that grazed throughout. But the real trees of The Forest were the towers stretching high into the sky, which housed the Sherya nobility. Each of the massive buildings reached up to anywhere from twelve to thirty storeys high, with rooms enough to accommodate a small village. The tallest of these structures stood out among the rest, looming over the other noble families. These colossal towers housed the various Ducal and Grand Ducal families. So massive they were that they required smaller towers buttressing them, inhabited by aptly titled “branch families.” Complex weaves of high bridges, both connected and supported the central tower of the main family, looking not unlike a thick tree canopy from below.

As a youth he had rarely visited this district, only for the occasional ball or feast held by one or another of his father's Sherya allies. Now, he held the distinct displeasure of calling this place home. Well, he thought while looking upon the glistening white towers around him, not this part of the district. He lived among the Theremya clan, and to say the Sherya were particular about their clans would be a dangerous understatement. Thankfully, the clans were easy to tell apart at a glance, and the city only bore three of them.

The area in which he found himself now belonged to the Arrahunya clan. Brilliant statuaries and crisp boxwood hedges marking it so. The Arrahunya tended to end up in positions of great political influence, and it was no surprise the Bishop Shelezan was of their blood. The towers here had the characteristically Arrahunya clean sharp silhouettes, detailed with precise repeating lines of filigree that wrapped every entrance and skirted every base. Wandering these streets though, sapphire eyes seemed to linger on him. The Arrahunya tended to not enjoy the presence of Fereni in their district. Calling it “tolerating” was kind. So, he continued on.

The statuaries were eventually traded for ornate apiaries, gentle bees buzzing about. Gardens shifting from precise, to wilder and more natural. Birds sang pretty songs here, and the trees that lined the streets all bore rich fruit, free for the taking. The home of the Shenyalya clan.

Vallerian mostly avoided the Shenyalya for different reasons than he did the Arrahunya. The Shenyalya's emerald eyes often lingered just a tad too long on Charlotte. The Shenyalya had a keen interest in all things grown and natural, which was fine enough when they produced the incredible foods and wines that they did. Not so much when it led to several requests to inspect or even acquire his uniquely plumaged companion.

Vallerian eventually found his traitorous feet carrying him to the neighbourhood of the third Sherya Clan that called the city home. The Theremya, newly joined to the Kingdom. Vallerian almost laughed, remembering the uproar that had arisen once the king announced the placement of the Theremya estates within the city. The King had eventually been forced to carve out a large section of Silvermarket to house them here, tearing down and building new walls in the process.

Even with all that work, it was a significantly smaller section of the Forest. Fewer than two dozen distinct noble houses. Though the Theremya had more than enough branch families to fill the towers. Unlike the other Sherya, the Theremya tended to have lots of children. Few, however, made it into adulthood. Rarely of natural causes.

The Theremya penchant for decorating with everything sharp, dark, and metal had ensured that neither the Arrahunya, nor the Shenyalya found their way here often. There where no perfumed bushes, or luscious flowering pear trees here. Instead, thick brambles of sharp vines crawled up forbidding iron gates. They seemed to have a fondness for any thorny flora; supposedly the Shaded Lands was full of them. Vallerian, at least, found the roses to be quite beautiful, various rich colours standing out among the dark grey metals and black marble of the neighbourhood. It wasn't just the plants that made the area unwelcoming though. The Theremya towers were intimidating things, with heavy iron gargoyles and peaked metal roofs. They preferred steel to gold for their ornamentation, it was stronger, his wife had explained. The Theremya valued strength over any of the Pantheon’s virtues. Vallerian though, found the whole place a tad bit too dramatic for his taste.

Eventually Vallerian had to accept his fate. The sun near gone over the horizon, he found himself standing in the shadow of the largest of the Theremya towers. One would think, from its complex net of lower towers and connected bridges, that it was the home of the Grand Duke, Protector of all the Shaded Lands. But no. This was the home of the Grand Duke's sister, the infamous Marchioness, true ruler of Clan Theremya. His mother-in-law. Crysilla Xestheran.

Vallerian took a deep breath as he stepped onto the property, the line marked by a low wall formed of black marble to the thigh and cast iron to the chest. The house guards marched out front, ruby eyes hidden beneath dark helms. The Theremya men.

Quite unique to the rest of the kingdom, the Theremya were traditionally a matriarchal people. Something that had shifted slightly upon their annexation into Terminia, with its strong patriarchal heritage. Vallerian found the whole thing silly, yet any male of even low noble status was still looked down upon in Theremya society. Those men were expected to only handle manual labour and the like. A man’s job, the Theremya would say.

Vallerian just nodded to the guards. Once he had cracked light jokes to these men, but they always stood stoic. Lesser men were not permitted to speak to their betters in Theremya society. Unless of course they were explicitly told to do so. It did make a rather boring life here for Vallerian. He found most Theremya women a tad bit too murderous for his taste. His wife even tended to carry that unfortunate trait.

Stepping past the guards, Charlotte alighted from his shoulder, showing her timely distaste for things that made her uncomfortable. She would likely fly up to their chambers high above, perhaps stopping for a snack in one of the Shenyalya menageries. At least the mice there were clean. Vallerian nearly cursed the cowardly bird, always abandoning him right when he could use a friend.

Manservants awaited to open the oak and iron doors for him in their deep plum-coloured livery. The dark clothing only accented their pale complexion. Highlighting the stark white hair, and deep ruby eyes of the Theremya. Once he had found the characteristics of the Theremya unnerving, but the past two years among them had shown him the beauty in it.

Entering through the doors, Vallerian found the main entry charming as ever. A tight, near cramped space, the Theremya always opened their towers with armouries. What seemed every imaginable cutting edge that existed hung from the black polished stone walls; some Vallerian would have rather not imagined. His valet stood to the side, among all the other serving men who awaited the return of their masters in crisp uniform. Without even a glance from Vallerian, the pale man strode forward and took his cloak from him. For a mere second the man stared at the ratty blanket Vallerian had used to replace his fine cloak earlier that morning.

“You make sure that gets clean alright?” Vallerian jested, but the butler simply bowed and handed it off to a washman. He wasn't sure these people had any humour at all. It unnerved him how much this man likely knew of him, yet Vallerian couldn't even recall the man's name.

With a loud yawn Vallerian began making his way through the hall towards the tall spiralling staircase that led up the tower. A tall Theremya woman in a stiff form fitting gown fell in step beside him. His wife Lyleria.

“You are late.” She said with her slow thick accent, matching his stride. The Theremya were unique among the Sherya clans, and for more than just their coloration. They somehow shared the physical prowess of a Fereni, along with the grace of any other Sherya. Vallerian figured that it came from seven thousand years in an inhospitable place like the Shaded Lands.

“I can’t imagine how. There was no planned meeting today.” He responded. Vallerian had a peculiar relationship with his wife to say the least. He didn’t meet her eyes, lest she see something he didn't wish her to. In case she saw how much he wanted to know her better.

“It’s been two years lord husband; assume she wants to speak with you and assume you’re late.” She remarked. Vallerian stopped, staring at her. Was that a joke? She just kept walking, her hips swaying as she stepped up the stairs, A motion which, in that tight silk dress, certainly caught his attention.

Damned woman. Two years being wedded to her, and he still couldn’t figure her out. Some days he felt like if they ever actually produced an heir then he would 'have an accident' like so many other Fereni noblemen who took Theremya brides. But other days she would make a joke or sneak into his chambers in the middle of the night, and he almost felt like he had a normal marriage. Whatever that was.

“Are you coming husband?” she crooned from ahead without even turning. He almost groaned audibly as he hustled up behind her.

“What’s her mood?” he asked, catching up to her along the winding staircase. Now she turned to him with a flat look. “That bad?” he continued.

“Worse.” Lyleria said. Vallerian felt a chill at that. He certainly did not want to see what ‘worse’ meant with Crysilla. “So of course, she wishes to see you immediately.”

“My fault?” He hoped not, as he glanced out a passing window to the far drop below.

“No, not you. Something about an old friend returning to town.” She responded.

“She has friends?” Vallerian asked.

“No.”

They made the rest of the climb up the stairs in silence. Following his wife, Vallerian couldn't help but notice her fantastic figure, a sight that had gotten him over his initial reluctance to marry her two years ago. He had learned to accept her ruby eyes and white hair. As silky as the hair was, it certainly didn’t look like the white hair of his grandmother. He tried to avoid staring at her though, that was a mistake he had long since learned to avoid. A dagger in the gut once was more than enough when it came from one’s own wife.

Distracting his eyes Vallerian scanned over the endless staircase’s decor. In small, inserted alcoves stood the candle-flame illuminated death masks of the Theremya. The Fereni of course had death masks, to remember the faces of their long departed loved ones. But the Theremya? The ones they kept were those of their most prized victims. It gave him the chills to look at the gold painted plaster, some of the only gold in the whole tower. Vallerian assumed it was used as an insult to the dead. Thankfully, those were not the only decorations here, and it was the weapons that Vallerian truly admired. The Theremya had an admiration for all things deadly, the Art of True Endings, they called it. As such they decorated with daggers and blades all over their homes. Beautiful things, but unlike a Fereni nobleman’s display arms, each of these blades were recently sharpened and ready to use.

Lyleria stopped, and Vallerian almost bumped into her. Still a few steps down from the Marchioness’s study, she turned to him with what for a moment seemed almost pity in her eyes.

“Don’t say anything stupid in there.” She warned him. “If you survive, expect a wifely visit tonight. You still need to supply me an heir.” They had certainly tried enough to produce an heir these past two years, but as of yet it had not taken. It was known that first generation Fershya were hard to produce. Not that he minded. That part of their marriage he actually enjoyed.

Vallerian just nodded and admired as she climbed out of view. Well past her mother’s study. So, this time he’d be alone with the Marchioness, how… exciting. With a timid step, Vallerian approached the study.

At a glance, the most notable thing in the small room was its window. It stretched from floor to the height of a full grown Sherya. It had no glass, and the frail beams of starlight it provided were consumed by the inky marble flooring. The space was lit solely by a lone candle atop an ebony desk, its flickering illumination swallowed by the looming shadows that lingered in the corners of the room. The candle sharply painted the desk’s intricately carved surface. The light barely illuminated dagger-like iron table legs, tapering into the cold shadowed marble below. The desk sat facing the window, barely a pace apart. An empty ebony stool sat across the desk, unstable legs teetering precariously close to the precipice of the open maw that was that window. A small ledger lay within the flickering glow of the candle. Slashing at the ledger’s pages with her pen, enthroned upon an obsidian-inlaid chair, sat the Marchioness Crysilla.

“You are late, my dear son-in-law.” The words dripped from Crysilla' mouth as venom from a spider. Fitting, as many called her 'The Spider of the Theremya'. And this tower was her web. Vallerian gave a deep bow to the Matriarch's back.

“Marchioness Xestheran, I beg your forgiveness.” Begging was certainly what he would do if it got him out of this alive. Knowing her, the shadowed edges of the room likely held more than a few assassins, waiting for him to make a single misplaced move.

“Dear Vallerian, why don't you come sit?” Her words were poisoned honey, a question without any doubt of the answer, but he moved into the room nonetheless. Rounding the desk carefully, Vallerian sat across from the woman. The stool wobbling slightly as he lowered himself into it. He found himself all too aware of the window at his back, a light breeze tickled his neck. He decided to focus instead on the woman in front of him.

Crysilla herself was still quite beautiful for an older Sherya. His wife had gotten her looks from her. It seemed the Shaded Lands was not just a title, Crysilla's milky smooth skin had seen little of the sun’s harshness. Everything about Crysilla was tight and sharp. Her hair was up in a twisting ornate bun, pierced by thin obsidian needles. A perfectly placed hairnet bedecked with jet beads held it all in precise suspension. She carried herself with perfect poise as she sat in her rich plum high neck gown, barely visible threads of silver running through it in looping patterns. It matched the silver nose ring that connected with a thin chain to her ears. All the thin silver chains seemed disturbingly like spider silk.

They sat there for a long moment, the cool night air pressing at his back, reminding him of how high a fall lay behind him. That compounded with the fact that he had seen Theremya butlers far below this window, washing cobblestone painted crimson from on high. Those foolish enough to anger Crysilla. He would not be among them.

“So. What happened today Vallerian?” She asked. Vallerian breathed heavily before answering.

“I was scouting my target, as you requested, and she was...”

“I know what I requested.” She interrupted, and Vallerian quieted. He could feel his chair creak, the back legs ever so slightly shorter than the front. “My question,” she continued with a smooth voice once more. “Is why did you let yourself get involved?”

Vallerian swallowed hard, do or die. “I don't wait, Lady Xestheran, I act. I believed the girl worth more to Your Ladyship alive than dead, and I was willing to put myself on the line for it.” Vallerian waited with a tight throat. He swore in the darkness behind her he saw the faint glimmer of a blade.

“So, she is the lost heir?” Crysilla asked. That really was the question wasn’t it? It had been on the minds and tongues of many a noble for the past ten years since that girl was first announced. If she was the lost heir, the missing daughter of the dead princess from all those years ago, then she had a claim to the throne. She had the claim to the throne, after only the King of course.

“She certainly looks like an Enyenweld, and the princess, as well as I remember her. She does have the eyes, which alone is telling.” Vallerian shook his head. “But with the king not acknowledging her, it might be trouble to prove.” There lay the main problem. There had been rumours that the Bishop Shelezan had gotten into an explosive argument with the king when he first brought Celeste forward. After that, the Bishop built the temple in Southshore. Presumably because the king wouldn't allow her to enter into city walls.

Crysilla cleaned her pen nib, then rose without a word. It unnerved him as she circled the table, like a spider entombing a trapped fly. Reaching his side, one by one she led her long nails along his neck, crawling up with slow sharp motions.

“Vallerian.” she purred. “From what my little ears have picked up, you have already gained the Prophetess's interest, is that so?” Her sharp nails dug into his skin, a small droplet of blood sliding down his collar. “There are many routes to power in a city like this. But this girl. She could change everything.” She moved her fingers now, dragging the blood along to just under his chin. “You will get close to her, gain her trust.” Crysilla lowered her lips so they almost touched his ear. “Then, if we do decide to do something about the king, we will be the ones who pull her strings. Not the Bishop.” From anyone else, that would have been foolish treasonous talk, from Crysilla though? Just another web to spin.

She slid her nail out from under his chin and slipped away from him. Returning to her chair with that unnatural grace. Wrapping those long fingers around the neck of her pen once more, she continued her work. Vallerian simply sat, awaiting her permission to leave.

“The girl was attacked in her temple again, just an hour ago now.” Crysilla stated as if it were common knowledge. “She will be leaving in a procession tonight.” Vallerian almost gawked, how did she always have so much information before anyone else? “Do you not think you should get some rest for your long journey to follow tomorrow?” Crysilla continued. “Though this time, you will come to me immediately upon your return, will you not?” Vallerian nodded, that was a dismissal if Vallerian had ever heard one. And not one he would waste. Rising he quickly moved to leave the room. “And Vallerian,” Crysilla spoke once more, stopping him in his tracks. “Nigh two years now, a mother grows tired of awaiting grandchildren. Do fix that won't you?” Her tongue dripped with the words she left out: Or else. Vallerian escaped with haste.

He entered his own chambers moments later, and with a bark he banished his valet and chambermen from his room. As the last of them exited, Vallerian locked his door and strode to grab a bottle of wine from one of the ebony cabinets. A nice vintage in hand he collapsed into a cushioned velvet chair in the corner of the room, taking a swig straight from the bottle. Back against the wall was the safest here. Charlotte flew in through the window, perching atop a small statue of Feren on his side table.

“If she kicked me out of the damned window, would you have caught me?” he asked the bird. She squawked back a response. “Yeah, I thought as much. Maybe if I grew some fur and bigger ears to look like a mouse?” The sound Charlotte made at that very nearly sounded like a laugh. Bloody bird.