Orion wandered for a long, long while, much of it aimless. As a prince—now crown prince, he reflected—of Vasquer, his lone outage was something largely intolerable. His presence was noted and reported everywhere he wandered. Though he could wander as he pleased, he could not do so alone… or so his father decreed.

But Orion ignored that. He ignored them, avoided his pursuers at every turn, and simply wandered. He drank water conjured by his blessings and ate animals raw in the snow-covered forests. He wished to be alone with his own thoughts. He did not have the same success at avoiding the voices of the gods. They hounded him every waking minute, intent and instructive. At the very least, Orion was growing better at shutting them out.

Yet this relentless escape made his introspection dubious in quality. Often, he thought more about avoiding people than the problems that plagued him. Eventually, he knew he would need to get to a place that Vasquer could not reach. This conclusion gave him a destination… and the infancy of an objective.

And so, wearing an ill-fitting ratty robe given to him by a mendicant priest, Orion chose his direction and walked it relentlessly. The environment changed from the wintry forests and sprawling hills of northern Vasquer to long plains of dead grass with mountains miles off watching like guardians.

Though the royal knights seeking to persuade him to allow their accompaniment briefly redoubled their efforts once his route was more predictable, eventually… their pursuit began to taper off. They had little reach in these lands. Their number was fewer and fewer, and then soon none at all.

Orion swam with the rivers, walked through the hibernating forests, crawled through the plains, only taking pause for food and rest. He hunted stags, eating his fill and donating the remnants to local villages. He slept sparingly, as the time needed to sleep forced him to hear the whispers of the gods clearly.

The prince stepped to a hill a fair distance away from a large city, one hand held up to block the light of the early morning suns. The settlement was flat and wide, and housed innumerable people. Even now, caravans came into and out of its walls. At the foot of the mountains, miners began their day, heading into the depths while followed by an overseer earth mage. Walking opposite them were others ending their day in the mines, hauling ore and debris.

Orion’s gaze fixed on something beyond that. At the point where two mountains ended, a miles-tall wall of taupe stone bridged the gap, two keeps wrought out of the stone of each mountainside. A gargantuan metal door rested at the bottom of this manmade wall, a great golden lion emblazoned on it. Just beyond a mountain cliff, one could see a lion statue, an orange sphere clutched in its jaws.

Seeing the wall, Orion took a deep breath and smiled. With certain steps, he walked towards the Lionsun Castle.

#####

“No matter how much wind magic we cast, the smoke returns. It’s being actively piped from ports in the ceiling, I believe. It would make sense, given how long they’ve been holding this place. This must be their last-measure fortification,” Elenore noted, standing behind a large gathering of black-armored men. They were wrapped up in Argrave’s ward to block sound from leaking. “Other means to combat the smoke would just result in heavy casualties. Getting proper gear for an assault will take time—time our foes might take to better prepare, or even try and escape.”

Argrave nodded along with Elenore’s words, staring beyond into a vast dark space from which a beige smoke steadily poured out, dissipating in the vast openness of the room meant to keep Vasquer. It was difficult to imagine how much smoke would be needed to fill this room, but it would certainly take a long while.

“How’s the situation in the rest of Dirracha?” Argrave questioned, staring ahead. “Plans for Vasquer, too? The snake, not the kingdom.”

“I gathered,” she said. Elenore remained silent for a minute, gathering her thoughts. “I think we’ll be fine to remain within this place. Worst case, we cave in the upper levels. Enemies might try and flood us out if they’re smart. Place is too big to flood, though. Doubt they realize that. Regarding moving Vasquer… it’ll take a long, long while to take off those bindings. They’re centuries-old, enchanted, and some of them are trapped. I have to be cautious. Vasquer has been through enough.”

Argrave nodded distantly, aware of this already. In ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ Vasquer was only liberated after the civil war ended. He pressed on, asking, “And the royal guard: any trouble on that front?”

“As I mentioned already, a royal messenger went to the greenhouse under the guise of permitting me to come to Induen’s funeral. There was no incident. Our foe remains well-hidden, annoyingly,” Elenore scratched her forehead with the bronze claw ring. “They aren’t capable of getting the royal guards to cause us trouble. At least, they haven’t tried it.”

“His funeral…” Argrave scratched at his chin. “I still have Induen’s signet ring. Do you want it?”

Elenore shook her head. “It’s not as useful as you might think, I’m afraid. I can sell it for a handsome sum if you wish. On that front… my appraisers came through. You can look at that gear from the Order of the Rose fortress and the Archduke’s Palace in the next few days, I suspect.”

Argrave rubbed his hands together, glad to change the subject. “That’s excellent. Could be some valuable stuff in there—Rose enchantments are quite varied from what we can make today, and Archduke Regene was rich. A shame I can’t get my hands on them before we enter this little poison zone.”

“You’re certain of doing this?” Elenore turned her head to Argrave. “You cannot be poisoned?”

Argrave nodded certainly. “Nor can he,” he looked to Galamon. “We’ll go first, put an end to the smoke. Once the flow ceases, we’ll return. Your people can press in and clean up.”

Elenore nodded along slowly, then said, “…I don’t like it.”

“We have that in common,” Anneliese agreed, looking quite dissatisfied. Durran didn’t seem to mind, though. He seemed happy he was about to see a good show.

“Well, I’m not too fond either. But it’ll work. I’ve fought vampires before—these were spellcasters, too, not piddly thieves with blood diluted over centuries.” Argrave popped his fingers.

“You nearly died,” Galamon looked to him.

Argrave pushed his tongue against his cheek. “That’s beside the point.”

Galamon looked back to the entrance, unaffected. Argrave scratched his cheek and said, “Anneliese is a more-than-suitable replacement for me while we’re busy with this. Please, talk to her. She knows all of my plans, and I trust her to make any adjustments. She can catch you up to speed on what I wanted to do—shortly put, we’re going to try and erode the north from within, then stage a devastating strike comprised of forces in Relize to further sow discord.”

Elenore gave slow, steady nods, digesting his words. “I don’t think I’ll be able to focus well while you’re assaulting this place alone. I’ll wait for your return.”

“I see,” Argrave nodded. “Well, still, feel free. After all, it’ll be good to know your future sister-in-law.”

Argrave patted Elenore on the shoulder and walked away, dispelling his ward in a fluid motion.

“Be careful,” Anneliese called out. “Be safe.”

“What she said,” Durran called. “Have fun, too.”

Galamon joined at his side, matching his stride perfectly. As he walked, Argrave brought a Humorless Mask to his face. They had used these solemn white masks to combat the plague, yet now it sufficed as something of an oxygen mask. It wouldn’t prevent poison from entering, but its air-generating enchantments would supply sufficient oxygen in places where it was otherwise absent.

“It’s like the good old days,” Argrave mused once they stepped past all of Elenore’s men, walking alone to the dark and foreboding entrance. “You and me, overwhelming odds…”

“They were terrible days,” Galamon disagreed.

“Suppose you’re right,” Argrave reflected, reminded of illness and deadly fights and approaching armies. “I guess… right now is the good old days. You never know what the best time was before it’s passed.”

“Stop talking,” Galamon informed him curtly. “Need to hear.”

Argrave grew silent, and they came to the great curtain of rippling beige smoke. Galamon knelt, reaching into a satchel at his side and pulling free a potion. He hefted it carefully. Argrave retrieved his own brew—a foamy substance locked in a bottle. The liquid had stained the entire bottle orange.

“You’re sure this affects vampires?” he asked Argrave uncertainly. “When brewing it, I felt nothing when it touched my skin.”

Argrave nodded, swishing his bottle about. “Only poison that does. Stops regeneration when it meets their blood, and only that. Used some high-end ingredients Durran picked up… but considering our newfound wealthy patron, don’t be afraid to use it all.”

Galamon lowered the substance, peering ahead. “Don’t notice anyone. Confined area…” Galamon pulled free one of the blue daggers at his side—the Giantkillers. He opened the bottle and poured it generously on the blade, emptying half of it. After, the elven vampire rose to his feet, looking to Argrave.

Argrave raised his bottle of orange liquid to eye level, grimacing, then passed it to Galamon. Neither potions nor poisons would affect him. The elven vampire popped the cork free and downed the liquid. It smelled like drain cleaner in the brief second it was exposed to the air, but Galamon didn’t even grimace. He was practically drinking pure gold, that potion was so expensive… but it enhanced the senses and reflexes, and Argrave would sorely need his protector to be beyond able.

“Let’s go,” Galamon took the first step forward. “Slow, steady. When we encounter enemies, pounce on them and end them. Big groups—you’ll handle them.”

Argrave nodded, growing serious at Galamon’s methodical approach to things. Vampires were no simple foes—intelligent, and monstrously strong, and often with years of fighting experience. Argrave felt good about having one of them on his side, doubly so when that vampire wore armor made for Vasquer’s royal guards and bore a crown of elven enchantments.

Galamon paused just before the smoke. “These vampires…”

“Yeah?” Argrave stopped.

“What are their origins?”

Argrave rubbed his hands together. “They’re betrayers of a betrayer. Vasquer’s second son started a war, killed his older brother, killed his father and stole his possessions, imprisoned Vasquer, declared himself king, became a vampire…” Argrave shook his head, reflecting how terrible this guy really was when his deeds were lined up one after the other. “But he was betrayed by the very vampires that turned him. The kingdom was assumed by the third son, and the second brother’s ‘legacy’ is… Rancor. One of the oldest groups of vampires in all of Vasquer, kept alive by their ancestor’s deeds.”

“…you meant what you said. About a cure,” Galamon looked to Argrave.

“No, I made it up,” Argrave said drolly. “You’re asking that as a joke, I hope. Of course. It’s one piece of a larger whole, but it is a piece.” Argrave waved him ahead. “Look at that potion drip off the blade. Let’s go.”

Galamon turned wordlessly and walked. Argrave couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Times like this, he was reminded how much he relied on Anneliese for things. Yet as he stepped into the poisonous chamber, Argrave was glad she would be far away from this place.