“I’m not sure I understand. How did you fall in with this… Pardon, rabble?” My mother is of noble birth, and was married to a nobleman of high standing himself, in service to Emperor Daurellian. As noble as a human can be in Il Allad, anyways.

“Samir, my son. It has been months.” She doesn’t address my question. She just ignores it.

“This is an illusion!” I step away from her as she steps towards me. “I don’t trust this! How would--”

“Hush, child. Your father does what he does in the search for power, not to spare his own family. A miserable wretch, he is.” She still has not told me how she stumbled upon these individuals.

“Your mother came to us weeks ago. She had received word from your father that a great discovery was made at the ruins in which he was stationed, and that he would be receiving a promotion soon. She understood what he had found, as he had talked about Daurellian’s ambitions so often, and Daurellian had made such ambitions clear as of late.” Wulfhard is speaking the most that I have seen thus far. “She sought us out to have him killed, to protect your family from the aftershock.”

“Emperor Daurellian, the Prince of Eleven…” Mirra says, almost to herself. “They discovered descendants of Mirminae, the Twelfth Bloodline. Members of the Ring, at the same research site as your own father.” She looks out of a window behind my head, the light catching the features of her face in a stark contrast. Sullen, tired.

“It isn’t hopeless, Samir.” My mother begins again. “You’ve read the stories. The union of the Twelve Bloodlines and the coming of an Ascension and Golden Child. Supposedly Elvenkind would be restored to godhood.” She pauses, but Granth quickly picks up where she stops.

“It simply ain’t true. It’s falsehood, perpetuated by the Divine Proctors. There ain’t any prophecies that come from the Old Texts. In fact, they say the union of the Twelve’s gonna lead the world down a dark path.” Old Texts?

“Hang on, a moment. Is this a religious group?” Things seem to be coming together as to why some Elves would willingly work against an Elven ascension to godhood.

“No, it isn’t.” Deora quietly says. “The Ring was initially founded as a group of mercenaries, about 40 years ago. We used to be called the Goldhawks.”

“She says ‘we,’ but none of us were members when they were fighters working for pay. Under Daurellian.” Mirra states.

“Indeed. The history of the Ring is short, but we have shifted allegiance a few times, initially based on whoever paid the most, and now based on preventing disaster.” Her eyes wander to my shoes, then up to my face. “When working under the Emperor, we were assigned to work at one of the numerous Old Elven ruins which scatter these lands. The Battle of Red Field, it was.” The Ring members murmur in disdain and slowly nod their heads, as if they were there. “That field was painted red once more, under Daurellian’s rule. He had members of the Ring cut down four-hundred eighty Lotorine pilgrims and researchers, and seize their assets. Including old texts which they had found buried. Texts detailing the truth of Ascendancy.”

“I’m not sure I’m following. So this cloak and dagger act comes from a mercenary group turned secret society?” If so…

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“In a way, yes. Daurellian himself, when he was but a Prince, ordered the entirety of the Goldhawks be cut down by royal forces when he realized the texts in his possession. He decided that nobody except for the royal guard could know about them.” But, if that were the case…

“The founder of the Ring escaped.” Mirra says. “Alec Gardan. You’ll meet him some day, should you join us.”

“If this is all true, why has Daurellian not hunted the Ring down?” I ask, as I look around. I’m no friend to the crown, certainly, but simply even being here seems dangerous, now.

“He’s tried. And, many times, succeeded. Unfortunately for Daurellian, a lot of people want to prevent the world from being encompassed in void.” Deora says, now moving closer to me. “You can choose to believe us. You can choose not to. However, you’re human. No matter which version of events you choose to believe, Daurellian’s Ascension would result in your ruin. You can bend the knee, like your spineless father, or you can fight.” She pulls a dagger from beneath her armor as though she’s going to kill me, but, instead of gutting me, palms it into my hand. “Ilban, I hope, for your own sake, you make the right decision.” She makes sharp eye contact with me, her hand still in my own, her one eye focused on my two.

“I… I have to think about this, certainly. It’s a big commitment, and…” No, there’s nothing to think about. It’s clear that Daurellian is the bad guy, and I would rather be the good guy. It’s quite cut and dry, in fact. And…

“You’ve already made up your mind. Let’s hear it.” Wulfhard says, from the corner.

“I’ll join you. Where do we start?”

“We start by killing your father, as we said we were going to.” Deora finally takes her hand away from my own, only leaving the dagger. “You’re a member of the Ring, now. No vows, no rituals. We’re Ilban. You’ll be joining me for this one.” Wulfhard and Mirra nod, and both turn and exit the room. My mother, who I have not seen in months, is already gone before I have any chance to truly catch up with her. The only other remnant of the Ring in the room is Granth.

“I ought to head upstairs, for the time being. Keep an eye on the streets, watch for other members coming back here before we scorch.”

“Scorch?” Are they going to burn this building down?

“Burn the building down, y’know? Keep a clean trail.” They’re going to burn the building down.

“Ilban, you are to wear green, and meet your father as you had planned to before the revelation of his discovery upended your visit. Take the dagger, keep it sheathed. It’s poisoned. I will follow you closely.” The half-elf says, quietly. Being called Ilban must be a carryover from mercenary work. The tone in her voice earlier, while talking about the Ring… While she wasn’t involved when the Ring were mercenaries, it sounds as though she’s fond of working as a mercenary.

“Poisoned?” I look down at the blade, after the word registers in my mind.

“Whiptail extract. Burning sensations, acute paralysis, typically where the blood settles, such as the legs, and blindness. Takes roughly three minutes to become active.” She plants two fingers on my forehead for a quick moment, as though checking my temperature. “Blessings of the gods on you.” She pauses again. “If you don’t do your job, I will. You can simply dip the blade into wine you share with him, or you can stab him and quickly end the charade. Whatever the case, this will be your last time seeing him. We have arranged for a carriage to take you to the envoy’s palace. I’ll see you shortly, Ilban.” Ilban. Ilban…

“My name is Samir. You can call me Sam.” I look her in the eye.

“Then call me Deora, Sam.”

“I’ll ensure the job is done properly, Deora.”

Two men suddenly enter the room from the back room where other members had headed moments ago. Both of them are wearing the outfit of the royal guard. Their faces are covered, but based on stature, one of them is Wulfhard, though the other is not Granth.

“My name is Mikhail, sir. We will be escorting you to the envoy’s palace.”