It was night. Dark as pitch and endless in the shimmering veil.

The sky was wild up above, where stars shone like burning eyes, peering across the Valley of the Somber Green. The moon was at third-quarter, a limbo between full and new. It carried a heavy presence in the sky. Not as thick and vibrant as the week prior -during the heist against the Freemans - but it still shone greater than any stars. The constellations were at war, dueling for the night. Streaks from shooting stars lingered in the cosmos, the strikes thrown across pantheons. They were foes, even in the sky.

The wind whipped at Ander’s cloak, gripping the hem of his veil, threatening to tear it off. His bear pelt mantle had been washed to rid it of blood, but even after multiple rinses through Komer's Run, it still carried deep red patches. Pelts were supposed to be resistant to stains, but not this cloak. No amount of soap or lye would free it from its past.

The boy was mounted on horseback, his arms wrapped around his master, who urged his horse Gūllen deeper into the night. Around them stood the mighty oaks of Vern’s forest, with the occasional Pine and Beech growth passing by. Beyond the walls of green, the shine of watchful eyes stared them down. They were red, glistening with the light of the stars and the moon. They all seemed… connected. Like they all belonged to a single mind, where one line of sight was broken, another would be forged. It was an eerie feeling, and the glows did nothing to calm Ander’s nerves.

For tonight was his Mission of Solitude. His final test to enter the rest of his life.

“How are you feeling?”

Leon’s voice carried poorly in the wind, but it reached his ears nonetheless. He was torn at the question. In honesty, he did feel nervous. But did he want his master to know that? He mulled over his response, crafting it perfectly to not raise any flags.

“Nervous, but ready,” he replied in a strong, certain voice. It was the truth after all. His nerves did not concern his safety; passing was a guarantee. Rather, he had a dread of what was buried in him. His heart held a plague inside it, cloaked in black and shadow. It was a rage of his making, formed by suppressed fear. Formed by hate, and sorrow. It had reared its grim expression against the bear he wore on his back, and the fake man made by Sylas, and most recently, against the Freemans. He was fortunate that, with the Freemans, he did what was right. But that fortune was not absolute.

“I’m sorry, Ander,” Leon began to apologize, again. His head was as clouded as the night of the raid. “I truly am. I-”

“Don’t apologize for doing what is right, Leon,” Ander stopped him before he could go on. He knew well his mentor’s struggles. Ander mouthed words of assurance. “You taught me to be a swordsman, just as you had promised. It’s not your fault that the honor of a swordsman and the life of a thief are at odds. I would rather toil over a rightful killing, than be ignorant in the slaughter of an innocent.”

“You sound… certain. That’s good, certainty in this world is a blissful thing. But if so, then why are you nervous?”

“Just because I know what I should do, does not mean I will do it,” he confessed. “Anything can happen in an instant. Anything can happen when control slips our grips… But I have faith, just as I have faith in you.”

“I couldn’t have asked for a better student.” Although Ander didn’t see it, he knew a smile was held on Leon’s veiled lips. The compliment brought him warmth. It was the first month of Autumn. The air during the day stayed warm, but beneath the moon, it threatened chills.

“We’re not too far out now,” Leon called, the reins of his horse held tight in his hands. Ander could feel the man’s stress channeled through the draw of his horse.“Run it all by me again. Show me you know your mission.”

“My Mission of Solitude is to infiltrate and steal from The Summer Trance. It is a seasonal home of house Vaughstock of Fimbull, and at this time, it should be completely empty. There is a chance there will be a dormant guard, but I will evade them. I am to enter the mansion, and source only coins and valuable metals.” His voice rang mechanical. The lines had been well rehearsed by the boy during the past few days.

“Why only coins and rare metals?” Leon asked, testing his student’s reasoning. “Why no books? Books can fetch a high price.”

“Any artworks held inside, no matter how valuable they are, could be used to trace the theft back to us. Coins and gold are not distinct, and can be bartered anywhere without question.”

“Good, very good!” Excitement bled from Leon’s words. “Now, how will you enter?”

“I will scale the west chimney of the estate. I will enter through the northern rose wall, and then make it to the west chimney and climb it. I will go through the chimney into the kitchen, and stealthily make my way into the main hall, where I will search for a study or cache room.”

“It will be dark, will it not?” The man asked. “Have you anything to help you see?”

“When I approach the rose wall, I will take the nactus- no, noctis vector, and it will grant me sight in the dark for two hours.”

Their mount went from a trot to a canter, dashing through the winding forest at the will of its master. It seemed the excitement brewing within Leon had spread to his horse, goading it to dash faster through the wood. If this was the pride Thaddeus gained from Damien, it was an enigma as to why that man was so dour.

Through the cracks in the foliage, the outline of a roof appeared. Its black clay shingles formed a void in the distance, a sharp contrast from the red brick of its walls. It was an obtuse building, with spiraling towers and sharp roofs and whatnot. The path became thinner as they approached it, morphing into a seldom-trod upon jaunt through the trees. They came about a long hill before the mansion, where they stopped to take in its wonder.

Where the stronghold had a dozen or so rooms, this building easily had fifty. It rose three stories grand, with tall perches built in all of its corners. The mansion was made in a cross shape, with a main hall and branching chambers. It fit in well with the night, dark and foreboding. Arched windows of dark stained glass coveted the structure, perched with sills and balconies. Not a single light shone from behind the glasses, as dark and as empty as the rough grounds surrounding it. As the home had been abandoned when Autumn came, the grass had grown unkempt, and wilder to the eye. The bushes were untrimmed, and course. Their roses were long receded into the green and brown brush.

For a place named The Summer Trance, it was not at all dreamy.

“This is the northern bush. I mean, I think it is,” Leon glanced up at the moon, making sure they were seated north of the property. “I’m not as great a navigator as I ought to be, but we made it. The Corps promised this would be the easiest side to enter through.”

“Thank you, Leon,” Ander let go of his master to slip off the horse’s saddle, falling with grace upon the ground. His feet were light, and there came not a sound from his dismount.

The cloak of his mantle was long, but with light, his face would be visible. He fixed this by pulling up a small cloth from below his chin, but only after finding the Noctis Vector on his belt. He downed the small vile, and then masked his face with the black coth. He raised a hand to steady himself on Gūllen, who did not reel from the touch. Out of all the horses, Gūllen and Cross were his favorites. His vision spun, but only for a moment. When he blinked the dizziness from his eyes, everything became illuminated. Not quite like in daylight, but certainly better than the dark.

“Why hadn’t we used this last week?”

“We did. Well, the insurgents did, but not you and Dame,” he began. “Because you were outside and there was a full moon, it was plenty light enough” Leon replied

“It’s not easy to make, either. Bella only has so much.”

“So be it,” he began to loosen up his muscles. They were already warm from the ride, and with a few stretches, he was raring to go.

“If you don’t return by daylight, we’ll know to come look for you,” Leon said, his voice colder than before. “Please, please don’t test my heart by returning late. Oh, and do you see that small building to the south, south east of the place?”

“Yes, I see it,” Ander nodded in response. The structure in question was a long and flat one, too far away to see most of its details. “Are those the stables?”

“That’s what we’ve been told,” came Leon. “When you’re finished, find a horse that suits you. The stable boys only come thrice a day to check on them, and by now they should all be sound in their beds in the guard estate up the main road. Oh, and make sure it's a friendly one. Horses can be as aggressive as wolves if given the chance. I wouldn’t want Gūllen to have a hard time with your choice.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t. Isn’t that right, Gūllen?” Ander paced forward to rub the horse’s neck, who whinnied in response. Strong, yet warm. Just like Leon.

Perhaps my horse will be as awful as I am…

“Stay alert, stay quick, stay silent,” his master sent the words off in a flurry. “And most of all, stay safe. If you must abandon the haul to life, do it without a second thought.”

With the little he could see through his master’s cloak, he noticed fear growing in his visage. He reassured him. “I will. You have my word.”

“A man’s word is strong, Ander,” Leon began. “... And so are you.”

“Salvre nou vontourr.” The farewell words of The High Tongue were exchanged between master and apprentice. With the pull of his reins, Leon bid him adieu, and dashed off into the black forest.

For the first time in seven months, he was truly alone. And for the first time since Sylrel, he was fine with it.

“It’s just me and you now,” he patted the sword at his side. His shield was stowed on the back of his belt. He was accustomed to wearing it, but no matter his comfort, it limited his left hand. And when climbing, dexterity is what separates life from a free-fall death. There were a number of other tools hung from his waist, most notably his knife, and a small leather bag. It was his take cache. When the leather bag was full, and it struggled to close, he would know his job was done.

With such a quiet scene, he took a respite before moving on The Summer Trance. It was peaceful upon the mound. He was being serenaded by a chorus of chirping bugs, but beyond them, he still felt the eyes of the forest upon him. So what if I am being watched, he mused to himself, is there any problem with having another watch my back?

His knuckles cracked in his grip, and with a bit lip, he began down the hill. The Corps gang had delivered information about the estate prior to his arrival. The northern hedge was by far the easiest point of insurgence. The other sides were guarded by heavy brick walls, crowned with spiked metal and steel thorns. Compared to that, a woodland barrier was much to his liking. Yet, as he approached the looming barricade, it became apparent that it was no better option than the others.

From top to bottom, it was easily three times his height. He knew not how wide it was, but it mattered not. It was too thick for him to simply slide through, and while he could use his blade to hack away and open it, it was out of the question. Even a small hole at the bottom of the hedge might go noticed. There had been much dictum drilled into his head over the past months of his stay, and chief among them was ‘Leave no mark’. A hole in the bush was liable to be seen by the stable boys, or even by the guards who would pass through every midday. One could pass it off as the mark of some animal, but it was a rose bush. Rose bushes are guarded by thorns, and the animals of the forest are not as dull as some think. The evidence would warrant a full sweep of the estate, and so would begin the search for the thieves who robbed it.

No matter what, a search would be held, but it was much preferable for it to happen nine months from now, rather than tomorrow. And so, after a short moment, Ander shook his head at the large bush. He would still enter from the north, but not by forging a hole.

Ingenuity was the trademark of the lawless, and so he began to search around for auxiliary ingresses. He found one looming above him, adorned with green foliage and thick branches. The Summer Trance belonged to an old growth of Vern’s forest, particularly an oak growth. The trees rooted here were mighty, and made a great canopy above. The tree in question was rooted to his right, just before the thorned wall.

He marched to the tree, and began to scale it. The cliff of the stronghold had taught him well in how to climb, in addition to teaching him what a bruised tailbone felt like. He was among the green of its top swiftly to make his way down one of its greater branches. It thinned out just far enough for him to be beyond the wall, and with a small leap, he was on the unkept ground.

The mansion was as dead as ever. His eyes told him all was bright and lively, but he knew well it was cloaked in shadow. He hoped he would be able to discern actual light while the vector coursed in his blood, but that was to be seen. Until then, he swallowed any fear he had, and progressed across the lawn.

He thought himself a fool not to try pulling at one of the ground doors, but when the closest one gave him a stubborn reply, he started to seek out the chimney. There was hope in him that the smokestack would be clean of soot, cleansed by the staff before the Vaughstock’s departure. Either way, he was to enter into the kitchen through its furnace, and when he snuck his way before the chimney, he realized how tall of an order that was.

The pillar stretched higher than any other part of the estate. Its bricks were as red as the rest, if not even darker in hue. Scaling brick and mortar was far harder than brush and wood, but he had faith in his skills. In truth, he had no choice but to have faith. A wrong step would set him falling a good distance, all to his certain death. Before setting upon the stack, he passed a hand down a part of its length. The bricks were rough, and not well cut. Good for climbing.

He began the perilous journey, one step at a time. It began slowly, but with every inch gained in elevation, so did he feel bolder in his assent. Soon enough, he hung in the treeline, and not much longer was he sat upon the top of the chimney. His muscles were already sore, and his breath was quick. But he wasn’t tired, his training thus far forbade it.

Swallowing down some water from his side, he slid his legs into the stack, and pressed them to either side. To his elation, it was clean. There clung no loose soot on the walls, but they were still black as the sky above. They were slick, but still had enough grip for him to slide down the stack at a slow pace. When his journey ended, he slipped into the furnace of the kitchen. It was grander than any hearth he had ever laid eyes on, and it stood taller than him, and as wide as three of his beds. The metal door to the furnace was small, just barely larger than his waist. But it was left ajar, and through it he climbed into the sprawl of the kitchen.

For the kitchen of the noble elite, it was surprisingly untidy. Ceramics were strewn about every surface, cluttered and lacking order. But nothing was unclean, or soiled. It was about as slovenly as the stronghold kitchen, which despite being cramped, was never dirty. To his right there were planted several wooden tables, bolted to the floor beside cauldrons for storing water. Their surfaces were stacked with bowls and plates, and beyond them was a rack. It was hung with cleavers and knives, graters and pots, skewers and hooks, ladles and large forks. It would take a good dozen men to operate the place to its fullest, that was for certain.

Without much knowledge of the home, his only choice was to wander until he came about a place of interest. Ander made his way out of the kitchen through a pair of grand wooden doors. They were ashwood, and heavy to move, and when they did they creaked with years of frequent service. The doors led - much to Ander’s appreciation - to the main hall. The concourse stretched high, level with all three stories. Staircases, both straight and winding, were rooted all along its length, as were many doors. They ranged from larger than the kitchen pair, to shorter than a child's height. The smaller ones were certainly for the Feyling servants. The boy’s heart went to the indentured race of half-men. Such a poor existence they were born into, that much was certain.

Even with the vector in play, the hall was dark.

Near the far end, toward his left, there loomed two doors, even grander than the ones he stood before. Even from a distance, he could see engravings upon its wood, intricate and winding all throughout its length. He made his way to it, not letting a sound come from his marching soles. When he came to rest, he placed both of his hands on the dark wooden surface. It was ashwood, much the same as all the rest. The rivers and mountains inscribed in the wood told a story, one that he had no knowledge of. The entrance was shaped in an arch, and at its peak there stood an old man, split in two by the divide of the doors. He was a balding figure, dressed in flowing clothes and propped up by a walking stick that split in two above his head. The man looked wise, and strangely familiar.

There was no telling what lay behind the doors, but based on the size of them, it was surely important. With all the might his muscles could conjure, he pushed one of the doors open. There came no creak from its hinges, and it gave the boy little resistance.

Beyond the mask of the ashwood doors was a massive room. Its ceiling rose even higher than the hall’s. From front to back, it was at least fifty yards, and on either side there were curved staircases leading to all three of its floors. Every wall was lined with rows of bookshelves and racks, bearing old tomes and trophies. At the far end, arching windows of stained dark glass stood tall and proud. Pale moonlight shone through their artistry, painting a mirage of colors on the floor.

Before the windows, there was a desk, solemn and stoic in all of the splendor of the study. It was backed by an ornate textured seat, with cushions of the finest purple silk, and a frame of bronze and silver. Upon the wooden surface there were piles of papers, books, and unfurled scrolls spanning its entire length. Compared to the rest of the neat room, it looked a mess.

Either way, he had found his place of interest. Aside from a lord’s room, or a cache or coffer, studies were liable to have their fair share of wealth. With that in mind, he took a step forward, and shut the large doors behind him.

As he came to the middle of the chamber, he noticed a hearth to his right. It was placed just beside the main entrance, and was at first beyond his line of sight. It was cold, as expected. Clean of any ash or soot. Before it, there laid an intricate rug, strung with golden tassels and vibrant colors that seemed to gleam even in the low light. It held up a leather sofa, which sprawled around a small wooden table, carved with inscriptions and the like. That table is where he found something rather peculiar.

On its thin surface, resting atop a circular cork coaster, was a steaming cup of tea. Wafts of steam floated over it, like clouds strung in the sky. From such a distance they were hard to pick up on, and without the vector, they were certain to have passed his eye. But they hadn’t, and when he saw them, the hairs on the back of his neck shot up in distress.

He wasn’t alone.

In an instant, all was dark. His vision flickered between a lit study, and a dark void. The shift did nothing to calm his nerves. He was cast into sudden blackness, and his balance was, for a moment, lost to him. When he came back to reality, he was quick to draw his sword, as did his shield find use on his forearm.

He looked over the whole study, pivoting constantly to keep an eye on every which way. Sweat formed beneath his cloak, and quick breaths were exchanged by his lungs. He was ordered not to harm a hair of the nobility, but if it was a fight that sought him, he was cleared to respond in kind. A presence filled the void, like a dozen men circled around him.

And then, there came a call.

“Is that a visitor I hear? Creeping in my halls…”

A voice echoed about the walls of the study, bouncing off the books and trophies to form a choir of calls. It sounded from up high. Like a call from the world beyond his own.

“You’ll have to pardon me, young man. I wasn’t expecting a visitor at this hour.”

“Who are you!” Called the thief, trying to source where the voice came from. The echoes sounded from all around, further stirring his concern.

“Who am I?”

There came a light in the blackness, faint and yellow and hung from a chain. It was housed in a silver capsule, held up by an ancient arm. It sourced from the curved stairway to his left, and when it caught Ander’s eye, the boy spun around to face it, his sword levied to point toward the old man before him.

“I am… That I am.”

“You’re what?”

“I am the lord of this house!” Boomed the elder, his feet gentle with every step he descended. The closer he came, the more Ander saw of his gray face. Much was told in the wrinkles of his visage, decades past with graceful aging. He smiled through them. “I am the lord of this study.”

“Then you best run!” He aimed his falchion at the man, his knuckles white with grip. “I’m here to take from you, old man! You better find yourself off, or you’ll find yourself dead!”

“I take your threats in honest, young man,” the lord dismounted the final step, holding his silver lantern before him. Its light was eaten by Ander’s black garbs. “You are a thief, I take it? Pardon me, that was a foolish question. What is your name, young thief?”

Ander dashed forward, pressing his blade against the lord’s neck. The old man didn’t shutter, but his lantern hand did fall to his side.

“I said leave. Or your head will leave your neck.”

“You’re here for gold, yes?” The man’s words were spoken leisurely, and with composure. “My kin have taken most of it back to Norsjin, but I guess there’s still some left for plunder.”

“Then point it out, and leave!”

“I would be glad to aid you, young thief,” the man said through his endearing grin. When the elder crested the guard of the stairs, a wooden cane followed his heels. It was an ornate piece. A wooden shaft engrained with silver details of flowers and leaves, sprawled around its surface like a summer glade. “I'm sure there's some hidden in my desk. I always keep a bit of pocket change, I think. AlthoughMy mind isn't as sharp as it always was, I'm afraid. I'm about as dull as this thing stick, hah!”

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

“Speak!”

“I will, I will,” the man raised his lantern hand, his fingers holding the glistening chain with delicate care. The falchion stayed at his throat. “I'll see to you leaving her-I'll see you leave here with all you need… But I do have but one request, young thief, if you would be so kind as to muse me.”

Ander spoke nothing. His grimace said enough.

“A little thing is all I ask, just a small favor for an old man. See, with my mind being as dull as it is, I wish to learn all that I can. You will have your fill of gold, and all else that pleases you, but all I ask to know… is your name.”

“You will learn nothing of me!”

“There’s no need to take up hostility. I pose no threat to you,” The man raised both of his hands in surrender. “An old man such as I could do nothing against someone like yourself, I am of no danger to you. I understand your, how may I phrase this, apprehension surrounding yielding to me your name, but upon what little life I have left, I swear to you my silence.”

“Gold! Now!”

“Young man, if you will not humor me, I will show you no gold,” the elder scowled. “Now, I have welcomed you into my chamber - into my study - and I believe in return for my hospitality, I deserve a token of gratitude. If you are uncomfortable with giving me your name, then I’m certain there is something else you may provide me with in its stead.”

“I am not a miscreant.”

“A secret,” the old man said in a slow tone. “If you will not tell me your name, then a secret would be acceptable in its place. Even a small secret will do, I am not a picky gaffer. I have little connection to this physical world I am soon to depart, but knowledge never fails to entertain me… Let this be our deal: you will lend me a secret of yours, over a cup of tea if you wish, and in return I will send you out of here with enough wealth to last you winter.”

No matter how calm the man presented himself, or how smooth he talked, Ander maintained his guard. He had a witness on his hands, and a noble one at that. What would Sylas do, he confided in himself. There were a great many rules to being a thief, and chief amongst them was never give a witness your name, nor a trace of your identity. The choice was clear, he knew what his leader would do with a witness… But this old man was no normal witness.

“Why do you care to know about me?”

“I care to know about everyone, young man. As a burglar, it would indeed be foolish to hand out your name at a moment’s notice, but a secret will do you no harm. So long as it is a secret, and not a wide known fact about you. That may lead to trouble, I’m afraid. Not from me, I am quite the confidant.”

“...”

“How about I fetch us some tea-”

“No!” Ander pressed his blade back up against the man’s throat, stopping him from moving forward. “You don’t leave the room!”

“The tea is in the room, young man.” The wooden can tapped the floor, as did the silver lantern hang beside the old man’s knee. The old man was more composed than ever. “It is right there on my desk, see it? You will not lose sight of me, I assure you. May I fetch us the tea?”

“You will bring me gold with it,” Ander commanded. His ingenuity finished crafting a plan. “You will bring me gold now, and then I will tell you… You will get one secret, only one, and after which I will leave with the rest of the gold. Are we clear!”

“You are very clear, young man,” the elder nodded his head. When the falchion edged away from his jugular, the lord cleared his throat, and began pacing toward the desk. He walked with grace, but in no way with haste.

“What a wonder it is you found me here, young man. Have you become privy with the rest of my estate?”

Ander paid the question no mind. He was playing a dangerous enough game to begin with.

“Why do you hold your tongue so tightly, young man? Are you so weary of an old bag of bones, are you?” A scoff came from the man. “Answer me this. If you were to tell me a secret, would it not lose its value if I went and told it to some authority? I can assure you, I am surpassed by no one in my confidentiality, honest.”

“I hold no faith in you.”

“Why? It should be I who holds no faith in the man who entered my house unbeknownst to me with malicious thoughts. What reason do you have not to trust me?”

“I am robbing you. That is the reason.”

“Not anymore, I’m afraid.” The man arrived at his desk. His cane was placed against its side, and with his open hand the man pulled out a drawer to retrieve a small pouch. The pouch was placed in the pocket of his sash he wore around his waist, and his hand found business in carrying a small pot. His clothes were flowing garments of white and yellow, more akin to a set of robes than ordinary ware. “You see, we just made a deal. I receive what I want, and you receive what you want. You are no longer my aggressor, rather, you are my business partner, indeed.”

The man strode back to the hearth wearing a grand smile, one a father would yield to his son. He’s… not wrong, a part of his mind called to him. He silenced the notion.

“You may sit if it pleases you, young man,” the elder placed his silver lantern on the surface of the table before the hearth. Beside it landed the tea pot. When Ander looked, he noticed the table was home to not only the man’s cup, but an empty one as well, placed before a cushioned chair. It looked wholly intentional. “I will get a fire going, it’s much too chilly to stay here without moving-”

“I will light it,” Ander touted, his eyes staring daggers into the kind lord. He crouched before the hearth, and took from his belt a shard of flint. His knife was drawn, and with it he scraped some carvings off of the wood already within the fireplace. How they were sat there, untarnished, was beyond the young lad. The tinder was placed upon some smaller sticks, and when his knife was struck against the flint, a wave of sparks were born. The fire caught, and with ease it spread to the whole hearth.

“It usually takes me a few strikes to get it going,” the old man chuckled, sitting down in a cushioned chair of his own. “You’re a skilled young man, aren’t you. Here, I have your tea.”

As Ander rose to his feet, his steps were made with caution. It would be foolish to take the man as he seems. The study held an atmosphere of treachery, and his eyes might be lying to him. When he found his seat, he placed his falchion on the table, letting it drop with a detached *thud*. If he was to be in control, his blade was to be his deliverance.

The old man took a glance at the sword, only to shake his head at it with a grin. The lord’s cup rose to his lips, and then he spoke. “Now for our business. Oh, and in case you forgot.”

*Plop*

A small pouch of gold was thrown to Ander, who caught it in a sudden movement.

…I had forgot…

“Well, whenever you’re ready,” The man relaxed in his chair.

“Before I speak,” Ander began, sitting up as tall as he could. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

“I already told you, I am the lord of this house,” the man drew from his tea. “But to go further in detail, I am the reigning lord of house Vaughstock. I am the one who began my lineage, starting as a humble council to the hand of the high crown of Fimbull. I was a deft tongue, and so I rose in stature with every favor made… But time never fails to catch a man, and when I grew old, I found my work lacking the excitement it once held. I retired from my mantle, and found care in being a scholar, yes, a scholar indeed.”

“As to why I am here: this is my home.”

“Your kin have departed, why do you remain?”

“I remain in the place that entices me the most,” replied the lord. “I love my house and my kin with all my heart, but noble-born folk can be so tiring, I’m afraid. I remained here to catch a small respite, and to be frank there’s still so much knowledge in these halls that I have yet to consume. For a man as old as I, who knows when I will have another chance to glance through these tomes.”

When the man’s monologue closed, there was a brief moment of quiet. He sent the boy a knowing glare, and so Ander sent him a query.

“What is a secret?”

Ander’s voice was stern, and monotone. The lord took in the question, mulling it over until he returned a reply.

“I suppose a secret is but a word of value that is not known to all… It’s quite subjective, really. Hand me something that matches that definition, and I will find you the rest of your loot.”

With his cloak over his head, and his cloth veiling his face, Ander took no interest in his tea. His mind was occupied with the task at hand. The threat posed by the man was absolute, there was no doubt about it. Even a small description could have their clan found out by the city guard, or other gangs of the Corps at that. If his kin were to see him now, they would certainly be shuns without end. With that being said, the man’s reply brewed a dastardly idea. With a smile beneath his veil, he gave the old man his secret.

“My secret is… I am not dead.”

The lord’s grin was quick to falter into a frown. To be fair, it matched the old man’s description. A sigh escaped his lips.

“*Sigh* I suppose to the blind, or to the stranger, that is a secret. And I would say life is quite valuable… But is that really it? I have given you gold, I have offered you tea, and above all I have given you my promise of silence! Are you so cold as to deny me my own reward?”

The man spoke with genuine dismay, wounded by Ander’s trick. It was enough to crack the thief’s shell. Was he feeling… sympathy?

“...”

“Tell me, what danger is a secret to you if only I know it?” The man leaned forward. “If only you and I know a secret, even if I tell some authority, how will it endanger you? Have you such little faith in a nobleman? They say a lord’s greatest strength is his word, and with its breaking, there comes no greater shame. I am no shamed man, I am but a man who loves secrets… Please, would you care to give me another?”

The air swelled with silence, except for the sharp cracks and jaunts of the fire beside them. Ander’s larcenous front was failing him, and the human beneath his mantle was coming out. Beneath my mantle, he thought. If it was a secret the lord wished to have, a secret is what he would be given. He was certain never to see the lord scholar again. He was the perfect man to see him plain.

Ander pushed back his mantle, and grabbed the hem of his shirt’s right sleeve. With held breath, he drew his hand back, and showed the man his scars.

“Is this a worthy secret?”

The lord’s eyes shot open, filled with intrigue and wonder. He placed his cup hurriedly on the table, and leaned further forward.

“By Tallon’s eyes, is that… You wear the crest of Sylrel…”

The spiraling black, cursed lines of his burns were a tapestry of interest to the scholar. His tongue moved in step with his thoughts.

“You wear the crest of Syrel, by the gods… The cursed city, you were there when it fell, were you not?”

“I have done as you have asked,” Ander stood up, his stoicism faltering beneath his veil. “I will take my gold and le-”

“-Do you know what happened that night, young man? Do you know what happened to your village?”

His heart failed to beat, his breath became stuck in his throat. A sensation of a thousand daggers tore into him. The moment seemed to fade away from him, and in its place there came a mirage of night and flame. He was back in Sylrel, in the courtyard behind his home. Blood streaked down his arm, and tears burned down his cheeks. The visage of the crater of his village, the fields of ash and towers of spiraling fires all flashed before him. It was so silent that night. Nothing but the roar of the flames found his ears. There were no screams, there were no cries.

Just echoes.

Do you know what happened that night?

After all he had lost…

Do you know what happened?

After all he had sacrificed…

Do you know?

He knew not.

Unknown to him, his hands began to clench, the leather of his gloves threatening to tear. His brow twitched while his teeth bit hard against themselves. The fires of his heart raged in his eyes, like a storm of red and white. The feel of the grate door returned, the molten iron searing deeper into his skin. When his breath became loose, he looked down and growled a pained reply.

“I… Do… Not.”

“Ahh,” a look of wonder stole the scholar’s face. “So you do not….”

“What happened,” the thief raged through gritted teeth.

“A question? A question was not part of our deal, my partner,” the lord reclined in his seat, his cup of tea hung in his grip. “If you wish to have bread from a baker, you must pay. Fish from a mongerer? You must pay. Knowledge from a lord? Well, there always comes a price.”

Ander had no patience for games. But he had no choice. He had to know what happened.

“What price?”

“Sit, sit and I will tell you.” The lord motioned back to Ander’s chair, crossing his legs as he did. The thief followed his host’s command, and seated himself on the silk cushion of the chair. He sat leaning forward, hands clasped together, ready to exact the price.

“Out of all the secrets you hold, you chose to show me your darkest one, or at least I assume it to be. More importantly, you showed me something that could easily identify you among others. You weren’t thinking like a sneak thief, so why should you know?”

The lord scholar was right. At that moment, it was a mistake to show his scars. But he felt no regret now. He had to know what happened that night.

“I will tell you all I know, if you allow me to know you. What, young man, is your name?

There grew silence in the study. Beneath his cloak, Ander’s face was twisted with uncertainty. He had already come so far, his business here was beyond larceny. Acting on will, sans reason, he drew a hand over his cloak, and pulled it back over his head, letting his blonde mane taste the lukewarm air. His cloth mask was drawn back as well. His secrecy was null and void.

“Now that’s interesting,” the old man eyed the corner of his forehead, the side imbued with scars. “You’re quite lucky you made it out with your looks, young man. If I weren’t so vicious with my gaze, I may not have even noticed the burns up there.”

“I am not weak for flattery.”

“Nor am I a muse of it,” the lord swatted the air with his hand. “But that is not what I asked for. What. Is. Your. Name.”

Ander heaved a breath, and then replied. “My name is Ander. Of the peasant house Idris.”

“What reason have you to call yourself a ‘peasant’?” The scholar shook his head, his eyes shut for a moment. “Hold yourself to dignity. If you do not, so will no one else.”

Ander sharpened his gaze. “You have my name, you have my secret, and you have my face. May I now have my reward?”

“Certainly,” the lord scholar replied. The man drew his tea to his lips, but found the cup empty. He took a pause to refill the fine porcelain, and after he had his small fill of refreshment, he posed Ander a question. “Now, Ander Idris. What do you know of this world? Or, more aptly, what do you know of this world’s gods.”

The mention of his immortal tormentors struck a nerve in the boy. “I know little of the gods, and even less do I care for them.”

“You need not care for something to know of it,” the man mused. “But either way, what happened to the cursed city is deeply rooted in the dance of the gods. In their great war. Do you know about the great war?”

“As I said, I know little, almost nothing.”

“Do you know of how this world came to be?”

“What importance is that?”

“It is of great importance, Ander,” the lord clapped his hands on the garbs draped over his legs. “The Great War is the result of the Wicked War, which is the result of the High Strife, and so on and so forth. Listen, much of what I say will not make sense if you know none of the context.”

“So, what must I do?”

“Nothing, you must do nothing,” the lord flashed him a smile. “If you have gaps in your knowledge, I shall fill them. For you to know the story of Sylrel’s destruction, you must first learn the story of the immortals, and of the men they rule.”

Ander let himself fall against the back of his chair, readying himself for the man’s monologue. For the first time, he took the cup of tea before him, and began to drink while he listened.

“Before there were gods, and before there was a world, there was only a void, and in that void there stood two powers. The great light, Tal, and the great dark, Sha. They are neither alive, nor dead. Think of them as… the ocean, yes, that’s a good comparison. They are as mighty, and as powerful, and as simple as the ocean. And where these two seas of power met, there were borne shades of light and dark. The light spun around the dark, and fused with its kin to form matter: rock, air, water, clouds, and flames. In these shades, The Material Plane came to be.”

“But The Material could not stand alone. There was nothing to bind it together, there was no organization, no order. And so in The Material, buried behind the eyes of reality, there formed a second plane - The Ethereal plane. The Ethereal plane houses what we call strings, the webs of our world that bind together everything we see. And so our world, and the worlds beyond our own, were made. Now, the worlds started out simple and plain, very plain, but not for long did they stay lame. There coalesced stars, and earths, and moons and skies, and in these masses, reality became growingly complex. This twisted the strings of The Ethereal, making a maze of logic. When I say logic, I mean the-the idea where a certain input would produce an expected output. Logic is where it all started, and it didn’t end there. On the worlds, there grew mountains, and primordial oceans, and the moons grew craters and the suns burned with flames. More complex, more twisted, until finally The Ethereal snapped, and out of its logic there was born consciousness.”

The fire’s crackling became a low roar as the scholar went on. He had Ander’s whole attention.

“The Ethereal was alive - the first creation - and all of the world was its mind. It lacked knowledge at birth, but with eons passed it grew to know all, both fact and wisdom. It held hopes, and wills, and loves and toils, and most grand of all, it held dreams. Dreams for a realm teaming with joy and beauty, split from its own power to bring the inanimate to life. The first experiments were at hand, the ones that would eventually bear the gods. And when it came to pass, The Ethereal took to The Material, and molded bodies out of the earth. He split from himself the shards of consciousness, and blew them into the bodies. The first beings were lame, and lethargic. They clung to the earth, and knew not death, for they would go on to become the trees and greens we know today. The first experiments were all made immortal, but when wickedness came, that was proven false - but we’ll get there eventually.”

“Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, the trees and whatnot. The Ethereal was happy with the first life, but it lacked the vigor it sought to see. After the flora, The Ethereal sank into the sea, and took from the floor sand and dust, and rock and kelp, and crafted the Hydra-Serpentines. These vessels were the first of the Koppensargí, or the Ancient Ones, the ones before the gods. The Ethereal gave the Hydra-Serpentines a shard of life, and when they were alive, he saw they had knowledge. Now there are three kinds of cognisance: knowledge, reason, and wisdom. Knowledge is to know right and wrong, reason is to know right from wrong, and wisdom is to know why right isn’t wrong. Taking what he learned, The Ethereal took to the caves and mountains and made the Titans, and they were made with reason.”

“They’re the ancients of the undergrounds,” Ander added, recalling what little he knew. “They shift the mountains, and shape the oceans.”

“They do. Very good!” The lord scholar spoke with a grin. “Do you know what creation followed the titans?”

“It was… the dragons?”

“Precisely,” the man nodded his head. “The dragons were made of the wind and rain and fire of Agniverg. They had wisdom, and were the final of the Koppensargí. When The Ethereal returned to his watch above the worlds, he took his work in pride, but he saw it as… unfinished. He descended to the earth a second time, and using all he had learned, he formed several vessels, simple and small. But in their smallness, there was bundled power surpassing the Koppensargí. With shards unlike any other, he blew life into the Luminaar, the immortals we so piously call gods.”

“The gods were a creation unmatched and took to the world with pleasure. But even after all he had learned, and all he had implemented, the Luminaar were still missing something. A vital component was lacking in them that made true beauty, and that is when The Ethereal realized that beauty can only be held in something finite. An immortal would go through time in its entirety, and would know everything ever made. Nothing could be special to the infinite, only the eyes of the finite could see beauty. That became the predicate for the final creations: the mortals.”

“To show his vision to the Luminaar, The Ethereal made many lesser mortal creatures. The fish, the farm animals, the predators and prey, the greatest birds and even the smallest worms. The gods knew quickly what their creator yearned for, and asked the Ethereal if they could have leave to craft the greater mortals. The grand one approved, and so the Luminaar took to the soils to make their vessels. And before he departed, he promised the Luminaar that a grand power would be placed in these vessels, and they would have potential unlike all others. The gods were boundless with curiosity.”

“First came the Álffs, the beings most like the Luminaar. Their lives would be no longer than two millennia, and their strength no greater than an ox. But with their grandier, their forms were elegant. They were crafted to be beautiful in their elevation above the natural world, and they were very beautiful, both the light Álffs - the Svartálffa - and the dark ones - Ljósálffa. Made in the image of Tal and Sha, respectively. They were cast to thrive in east Elyon. About the same time, the Arbora were crafted. Where the Álffs were beautiful in their elegance above nature, the Arbora were beautiful in their acceptance and connection to nature. They were made to live in Arkkon. And where the Álffs were above nature, and the Arbora were among it, the third creation was to dominate it. The Jotems were given form, and were gifted to the mountains to stand taller and broader than all others. They were made as one kind, but farther down the road, they would split. Not in light, but in morality, yes.”

Without realizing it, Ander found his cup of tea drained of essence. The lord scholar saw this, and continued to speak as he drew him some from the kettle. It was beginning to cool.

“Now, among the Luminaar, there was one who did not touch the vessels. His name was Ryonn. Ryonn marveled in the strengths and beauty of all the mortals, but saw a vision no other did. He thought up a fourth blood of mortal. He came upon a bog, and took the mud to make the shape of a simple thing. It had no claws, no sharp ears, no swift legs and no grand stature. It was plain, and would live for no more than one-hundred and twenty years, I believe that was it, yes, one-hundred and twenty years. And he called these simple things ‘Man’.”

“So when all the work was done, the Luminaar lined up their vessels for The Ethereal to see. And when the grand one came down, he saw that scrap had been made. The Luminaar had carved the mortals from mud, and had shaved off imprecations. In curiosity, The Ethereal asked the gods to form a vessel from the scrap, and so were born the Feylings. They are, frankly, of no importance, and are really quite sad. But I digress. The Ethereal was overcome with joy when faced with his children’s creations, and saw them all fit for life. But then, he came before Ryonn, and saw something even grander. He saith to Ryonn -

“These Forms bear the mark of the perfect creation; but this one, why is It plain?”

And Ryonn replied -

“For its beauty comes not from its gain, but from its lack. It is bare, and simple.”

Ryonn saw beauty in Man, and presented it with pride. The Ethereal saw this beauty, and even more than Ryonn had planned. He saw beauty in the thought of such a plain being not only living amongst the others, but living above them. This is where the grand one revealed the great new power, a power he called ‘The Will’. And so, The Ethereal said -

“It shall hold The Will unlike any other, above all will it be marred.”

The Ethereal took from the flame of The Will, and blew it into man in great amount. He did the same with the rest, but with less flame. Yet, The Ethereal was not finished. He turned to the Luminaar, and blew the flame into them as well. Where the mortals would use their will to survive and thrive, the Luminaar would have their will given to bear passion for the mortals. Then the grand one turned to Ryonn, and gave him the flame, saying -

“And you shall keep the will, and care for it. Lest it be destroyed, so will the life it refuses to yield.”

Ryonn took the flame as his keep, and was crowned the lord of the Luminaar, the god of gods. The mortals were given leave to roam the land, and the Ethereal returned to his watch above the worlds. And when he looked down, he saw beauty.”

Ander found himself entranced in the story. His mission of being a thief was all but gone now. Yet the yearn to learn of his home was as strong as ever. He listened with sharp ears.

“But where there is beauty, there always festers corruption to balance. A mortal life was special, in that it could be born of the world, live in it with peace, and succumb to it, surrounded by love. But not all mortals sought this. Evil found home in man’s heart, and across the continent of Elyon, wickedness began to spread. Mortals would claim the lives of other mortals. Men would fall to men, women would be torn of their dignity, and children would go hungry. It was such a vile plague, that all the mortals became infected. Wickedness took its share from them all. The Svartálffa lost their ability to be content, and the Ljósálffa lost their powers of charity. The Arbora.. I dare say they lost the most, for no longer could they grieve, a terrible fate to befall. And lastly, the Jotems split into the righteous Giants, who pioneered peace, and the Golems, who alway seek blood. And up high, on his forever pearch, even The Ethereal became corrupted, and in a turn that shook The Ethereal plane, the grand one split. It split into The Righteous, and The Wicked. Two sides of the same coin, but nothing alike.”

“The Wicked led the corruption, and when it grew more prevalent, it came down to the earth and took men from their homes. The Wicked twisted them, and violated their wills into a bastard kind of life, a race of evil things and false men. The Ifrití. Men weren’t the only ones to fall to corruption, all mortals had their kind twisted into some form of Ifrití. In fact, the Koppensargí fell just the same. The Hydra-Serpentines became the Sea Monsters, the Titans were twisted into the Brimráll, and the dragons… The dragons were corrupted into a sickly beast of immense strength, rivaling the gods. They became the Leviathans. Not all of the ancient ones were taken, but all who survived were forced into isolation, to protect the world from themselves. And so, the army of the corrupted began their assault on all life, and waged a terrible war. It was only by the hand of the Luminaar, were the Ifrití banished to Ifrion, and the Sea of Sorrow. The Luminaar and the mortals made union against the threat, and banished The Wicked. But evil stayed in the hearts of the mortals, never could a force of nature be banished.”

“It was then The Wicked saw a new target before it. The Luminaar had hearts like the rest of the beings of the material, and so it spread its corruption there. It took millenia to foster hate in the gods, but it did happen. Lord Ryonn was the first to notice his corruption, and saw the Great Will at risk. In an act of sheer selflessness, Ryonn took the will and fled the wicked world to retire in exile in the north, in the isles of Tundron. In his stead, he anointed his mate, Syonn, to lead the Luminaar until Ryonn found a cure for the wickedness. Most of the Luminaar found this a just change of power, but not all.”

“Ryonn’s right hand, Aldrr the All-Knowing, saw Syonn unfit for the throne of the gods. He saw it his duty to fill Ryonn’s place until the true lord returned, and so he came upon Syonn’s court, and asked her to abdicate. Aldrr knew the material world better than anyone, even better than lord Tallon, the god of light. One could make an argument for either god to rule, and so the Luminaar, after countless millennials of rule, split. They split into two pantheons, the Aeon of the west, and the Asterì of the east. Aldrr lead the west on the peaks of Aeon, and Syonn stayed upon the mountains of Asterì. The two leagues waged war against one another, and the mortals, being the pious fools they are, took up sides with either pantheon. They were separate wars - the immortal and mortal ones - but they fought in unison… The battles began a thousand years ago, and so far no victor has emerged.”

“That’s the great war, yes?” Ander leaned in close.

“Indeed,” the lord scholar spoke with a sorrowful look. “So much hate, so much anger. How I wish they could only see things clearly…This war, Ander, is what brought about the fall of Sylrel.”

“...” Silence came in the stead of the scholar, and with great strength from Ander, it was banished. “I must know. I have to know what happened.”

“If you must, young man,” the lord sent him pity through his eyes. “One year, and one month ago, there was a battle between the gods… It was held in the rolling hills of northern Sylvee. Just outside of Sylrel. It has been said that with but one false strike, an inferno was thrown upon the city, ripping apart earth like twigs in a rockslide. There was little left, and the growing fires made sure it was all consumed.”

“The gods...Who were the gods that fought?”

Who were the gods! His words were spoken with temper, but his mind began to rage. Hate was crawling back up his heart.

“There were only two combatants, as far as I am aware,” the lord scholar drew the final drop from the kettle, and drank it down. “The first was lord Valor, god of the wind and weather, and patron lord and protector of Sylrel.”

The name was far beyond familiar for the boy. The image of the god’s rune was as clear to him as the image of the scholar before him. His hands tightened into clumps of tension. Who… Was the other… God.

“And the other god,” the lord spoke in a low tone. “Oh, the other god…”

Stillness. The air was perfectly still. The fire dared not crack, and the critters outside dared not croak. All the world held its breath for the lord.

“...Who?”

The lord scholar looked down, his face cloaked in a shadow veil cast by the fire.

“It was the lord… of the flames…”

“It was Lord Aranos.”

…

…

Aranos.