2 Days after David’s imprisonment. 1 day before the events of Hag's Hatch.

A peculiar black haze shrouded the walls of the Count’s dining room, like a bubble of shadow. The dark miasma’s source was a hooded figure in layered black robes, standing hunched next to the grand blue crystal dining table. The warm light of the room’s matching crystal chandelier illuminated the only visible details of the creature’s body, a gray face smooth as river stone, with no features but a large ear in the center, from which the black haze continuously flowed.

A creature made of gray flower petals sat beside the black-robed figure. It seemed bored as it gently drummed its petal fingers on the floor to the tune of “Bone-Sea Captain”, a common flute song played in the taverns. Giza had never seen a Petalman behave in such a way before.

She returned to her scrutiny of Verdugo. It had been long since she had last seen the human, 6, perhaps 7 rings ago. In the last 2 rings, she had put to rest the conflict with Solun, and formed an alliance with Balisk, its new count. That alliance had slowly, yet assuredly, led to her ruination. After 200 rings on Arbia’s Land, her desire for peace had made her a fool. She had trusted Balisk, and in turn, lost the trust of her people. With an old woman’s certainty, she knew her time as Caliwa was coming to an end.

Still, she would claw and scrape and burn before she met Arbia’s embrace with a smile.

Unlikely as it seemed, Verdugo had offered to help her. In the past, she had infrequent contact with Dracon; the town was not so close as Solun to the Black Forest and its gluttonous Counts were usually preoccupied with fattening their bellies by sucking the marrow from their own people. When she dined with Verdugo 6 rings ago, he had appeared no different, devouring everything on the table and blathering on about things so unimportant she no longer remembered them.

The human at the end of the table who now measuredly cut his roasted pheasant into even pieces had, in no exaggeration, transformed. His pudgy cheeks were flattened, his jawline sharp, as if a butcher had carved off all of the fat. Pupils that used to dart around the room restlessly now concentrated with singularity on her. He had yet to even speak, besides a greeting. She would have to begin the conversation.

“Your fat,” she said. “Where did it all go?”

A tight smile creaked onto his face like an old oak door being opened.

“I have found that purpose and focus, change not just the mind, but also the flesh.” His voice was at war with his words—strangely empty—as if drained from a withering sickness.

Giza grew tired of idle talk. “And what is your purpose, now, Verdugo? What kind of help do you offer?”

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Rows of white teeth beamed at her, this time in a disturbingly genuine smile. “Why Giza, I offer you everything you have ever wanted. I offer you the death of Count Balisk, and the razing of Solun. Or, perhaps you would like the city for yourself. I leave the decision in your capable hands.”

His evasion of the question of purpose was not unnoticed by the old woman. “You offer me these things? After 200 rings on this Land, my belief has been…tempered. Now, I adhere to the cold practicalities of knowledge. How will you accomplish what you have offered?”

“What an admirable thought-path. My own is quite similar. It has led me to a simple, yet effective plan. Balisk will order a small contingent of his most elite troops to attack Dracon. I know not exactly where they will attack—the dungeon seems a likely target, an attempt to free some of the abilitied individuals down there to sow chaos in the city—it matters not. My Petalman will track them wherever they come, and they will be slaughtered. From his own Petalman, Balisk will hear of their deaths and he will come running, a futile attempt to save or avenge them. You and your warriors will wait outside Solun’s walls. The soldiers left to defend the city will be weaklings, easily dealt with, and thus the Solun is yours: to raze, or subordinate.”

Verdugo savored his wine before speaking again. “A perfect way to regain your people’s trust, is it not?”

Giza had dranken none of her own wine. She found the drink disgustingly sweet.

“Yes, delusions do often claim perfection. Tell me, why in this plan of yours, does Balisk seek to make you his enemy? And how do you hope to kill him, when he holds a shadebringer’s…abilities, as your kind refers to them?”

“Excellent questions. Balisk believes that I am going to war with Solun, or he will soon enough. Currently, he has an uninvited guest in our walls listening to this conversation. Thanks to my large-eared friend here, the scampering rat will only hear what I want him to: that I am preparing for war. Eventually, the rat will hear my soldiers speaking of the war too, and so Balisk will know with certainty that Solun is my target. As for how I will kill him…you will just have to find your belief once more. You see that I command a unique Petalman and a creature far more ancient than your Niven. They would not follow me, if I was not quite powerful.”

“His power is his cunning. Balisk will fall.” The Petalman’s voice touched their ears with the lightness of a leaf floating to the forest floor.

The plan was cunning, the human undoubtedly so, yet for that reason, doubts were sprawled like corpses in her mind.

“Through deviousness, you may kill Balisk. I could believe such a thing. For my cooperation, though, you will tell me your purpose. Why do you wish to do this? If you lie, we will not speak again.”

His smile faded to dust, and his features remained frozen in a calm rage. “I hate him. I have never hated a man, creature, or thing of this land more than I hate him. The last thing he will ever feel is my dagger thrust through his heart. That is why, Giza.”

Her eyes scoured him down to the bones—looking for one of the many physical minutiae that humans exhibit from lying—but finding none. A truth. Not near enough to all of it, but still, a truth. Verdugo would kill Balisk.

“Let us discuss this plan in more detail.”

“Petalman, fetch us a map.”

Giza found herself parched. She sipped the sickly sweet wine.

Confirmation of the details of the plan finished quickly enough, and Giza left the meeting with a feeling almost as dangerous as trust, hope.

After reprimanding the Petalman for his unnecessary comment, Count Verdugo left the dining room with a feeling of deep satisfaction, the kind that can only come from the telling of a beautifully intricate half-truth.

It had become hard to breathe in the dusty space inside of the wall, so Jwi fled the dining room, running as fast as his tiny legs would take him to the horse he left outside Dracon’s walls. He heard something important, and he had to relay it back to Count Balisk as quickly as possible. He felt afraid. War was bad.