The image before him shifted and changed. The chalk altar was now covered in a thick layer of dust. Two men and a woman were standing around the altar once more.
One of them was an older man, wearing a dark blue velvet tunic, and a similarly dark hose, with an overcoat boasting the coat of arms of his noble lineage – a spear, fashioned into a torch.
Midhir drew a sharp breath as his gaze shifted to the man’s face. He had brown eyes and greying blonde hair. His sharp features were recognisable immediately, just like his coat of arms.
Lord Andor Orlein stood by the altar, his hands resting on the haft of his spear as he watched his two companions approach. “Are you sure about this, your Highness?” His voice echoed in the darkness. “It was the Old Faith that took the city from our grasp, should we really trust it to give it back to us?”
Emperor Tristan the Second, a young man with blonde hair and green eyes, stepped forward and pressed his hand against the smooth surface of the altar. “We have tried the conventional methods, Lord Orlein. We lost – no army can stand against endless hordes of undead. We can’t match their endurance, and morale is at an all-time low.” He raised his gaze to meet Lord Andor’s gaze. “What would you have me do, instead of this?”
Lord Andor scowled. The wrinkles on his forehead deepened as he sought an answer.
“Anything but risking making the threat even stronger,” he finally replied with a grim tone. “I will follow you till the end, Your Highness, but this…” he gestured towards the altar, and the seemingly endless fine sand beyond it. “This is wrong. The lake is upside down, and an ancient creature slumbers here. We don’t belong here, and if we use it to take Bareon back, I fear we won’t belong there either.”
Their third companion, who had been silent so far, stepped forward.
“I understand your concerns, Lord Orlein. But it is not the Old Faith that is wrong. It is the tear in the Veil, and what came to our world from beyond it. Do not blame a way of life and belief for no one’s mistake.” Her sharp words cut through the silence like a hot knife through butter. The crimson hair that cascaded behind her glimmered under the golden light floating above them.
An almost comically large, pointed hat covered her head, its shadow obscuring her face.
“I mean no offense, witch from the north, but I do not put my trust in you either,” Lord Orlein curtly replied. “Do what you will, your highness – I only needed to speak my mind.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Emperor Tristan nodded softly. “Always speak your mind.” He replied with a sigh. “Some things I cannot share with you, old friend. If only I could, you would know to trust her.” A faint, almost sad smile flashed across his lips before he raised his chin. “Do any of you have anything else to say?”
His gaze lingered on the woman first, who shook her head with a soft chuckle. He then looked at Lord Andor, who simply shrugged.
Midhir flinched as the Emperor’s gaze seemingly turned to him. For a split second, he didn’t feel like a spectator of the past anymore – he felt like he was there, with the power to change history itself.
That moment passed near instantly as the Emperor’s gaze turned back to the altar. “Very well then. Since all of us are in agreement – as much as we can be – I will begin.”
He reached for his pocket, and took out a glowing flower, its petals dyed red and blue. Placing it on the altar, he closed his eyes.
A hand touched Midhir’s shoulder just as the scene faded.
“It’s rude to intrude on memories, you know.” A voice whispered into his ear.
Startled, he tried to turn back, but his body refused to obey him. His heart raced, alarm bells rang in his ears, yet he couldn’t do anything.
“But I suppose it wasn’t by choice.” The owner of the voice chuckled softly. It was a woman’s voice, vaguely familiar, yet as it was just a whisper, he couldn’t figure out why he recognised it. “It’s quite funny how history repeats itself, isn’t it?” She asked, her hand brushing against his cheek as he felt his left eye ache.
“Who are you?” Words finally escaped his lips. If only he could regain control of his limbs too.
“I was going to ask you the same.” The woman circled around him. Her face was covered by a veil, though her crimson eyes were visible above it. Similarly coloured hair cascaded behind her as she tilted her head ever so slightly. “I see no Ardagh bloodline here. Not really. But I suppose you’ll do just as fine.”
“Who are you?!” He hissed, breaking free of whatever had him paralysed. His hand went to his earring, but only caught the air as the holding gem refused to do his bidding.
The woman rolled her eyes. “And what exactly will you do with that information?” She mockingly asked. “How will that help you now? Will it stop the overgrowth from destroying the city? No, my name holds no such power. Will it help you return to your friends? No,” she chuckled. “Giving my name doesn’t give you any power over me. Why don’t you focus on what can help you instead of meaningless questions?”
Midhir clenched his fists. “It does matter,” he hissed. “You look identical to the woman who was with Emperor Morgan, and with Emperor Tristan. You veil, or your big hat isn’t making you unrecognisable.” He tried to remember. What had Morgan the Radiant call her? “Circe?” He asked, his gaze watching her every more. “That’s your name, isn’t it? But how-“
“Does it matter?” She asked once more, ripping off her veil, then folding her arms. “How does that help you now?”
Midhir gritted his teeth. “You helped them.”
“So you think I will help you?” She laughed. “You’re cute, but such naiveté isn’t good for survival.” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “What makes you think I will let you live, now that you know who I am?” She leaned closer, forcing him to take a step back. “Why shouldn’t I snuff you out, just to keep my little secret?”