A pillar of tender smoke rose from the furnace while the dwarven smith of the 1st Legion Isocrates got assigned to waved his short, bulky arms engulfed in bluish white energies. The conjured wind breezed against his face, sweeping into his lush dark beard while he looked quite amazed as the last of the smoke escaped out the aperture in the center of the domed ceiling.

“Bring in the next batch.” The dwarf said as he turned his haggard face garnished with a massive, potato shaped nose in its center. Though initially he had doubts whether to take the offer of Augermil, on the orders of Naghig he took the opportunity and joined the 1st Legion a few months ago.

One of his reasons initially was that he would be sent away on larger tasks to accompany small regiments of legionaries around the main island as he often heard it from the veterans who worked in the mines. Instead of that, he was given the rank of Servuothii, a non-combat oriented rank usually tasked with simple jobs around the headquarters like cleaning the hallways, the residences of the stationed legionariir.

Or like in his current case, aid the Forge-Master in replenishing, fixing the weapons or even to carry the lunch to the dwarf who was too occupied with his work to head to the dining hall.

“So what is he like?” And he was not the sole servuoth assigned to the forge-master – or to any of his other tasks. Shigesaith, a lithe niuvhe no older than 120 with a milk smooth epidermis of a vibrant silver shade and a tinge of azure like his almond framed eyes aligned in perfect symmetry who like Luelia came from the colonies, in this case from the far east like Mirayroth. His hair cropped short, reaching only his shoulders while part of it were bundled in a small bun erected above his head.

“Calm. And tall, like really tall.” Isocrates said jokingly. A part of him knew that he was not welcome in the 1st Legion as most of its members were of patricii blood or at least came from families who served in the other exalted legions for centuries or more.

Which was another reason for his hesitation a few weeks ago as he knew many would resent him and even question how a bumfuck son of a miner would manage to get in the graces of the proud blade of the Empire who fought against the Twilight Host of the Grimm Sovereign so many eons ago that even amongst the aevhen kindred were those who weren’t even thoughts.

Yet contrary to his beliefs, there were two camps who received or seen him in different ways. There were those of the above, who resented him. And there were those who either did not care on how he met or gained the recommendation of Augermil, though some of the like Shigesaith bombarded him with questions about Augermil, some in the realm of normalcy, others less so like questions about the curves of his muscles, whether his hair is silken or not and so on.

He thanked the One and the Eight for Shigesaith falling into the first group. “Is it through he can conjure the flames of Promethean?”

“Promethean flames?” Isocrates asked as the two carried heavy crates filled to the brim with silverish ingots. “Ah, my bad it is not something they teach at the commoners’ academy.” Niuvhe apologized with an awkward look on his mesmerizing visage.

“You see back in the age of dawn while the war raged on between the Seven Siblings, Augermil set out to gain the aid of Promethean, the House of Life and when he reached the home of the gargantuan elder dragon who constructed the planes our ancestors came to be by the Will of the Almodo. As Promethean vowed to not aid either side, it took Augermil decades to convince Promethean to at least gave him a way to learn how to master, to conjure the strongest flames in existence which can burn even the soul of living and non-living.”

Isocrates listening intently halted his fellow servuoth and blurted out a surfacing question. “How did manage to convince Promethean?”

“Well, in the end being who he is, he resorted to a simple duel in which he fought against the first born of Promethean, though it was a costly victory as it said that half his body was charred, scorched to the bone. Seeing his resolve, Promethean simply gifted him the knowledge, the will to conjure his flames which he then used to mow down hundreds of thousands of nekrossus, undead and pariah folk. And even passed this knowledge onto his father who used it against the Grimm Sovereign.”

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“I see. Also no, I haven’t seen him using it. He mostly just cleaved through cultists and daemurnus when I met him and lord Nawfal.” Isocrates asked as he felt a bit motivated hearing the story and the resolve of Augermil. For a moment, he pondered whether to aim to become a Draennith Praetoriar instead of a veneficiar of the 1st Legion.

“Thought so. Wait isn’t that Septarch Rhenathorhia?” As they walked through the courtyard, the two stopped and Shigesaith noticed Rhenathorhia and his dusky companion whose divinely graceful form drew both their attentions. The more Isocrates stared at them, mesmerized by their chiseled beauty, he felt a creeping terror slithering onto his being, one that felt familiar yet he could not remember from when.

**

Celsushar stood over the edge overlooking the alabaster city fractured into numerous district plateaus grew forth the jagged walls, bathed in the soothing cold light of the Illius. Just as he began to descend into deep thoughts, strong winds swept into his dark mane sheared to the skin on the sides, exposing his recent addition, a magical tattoo of a dragon of the House of Heavens resting in a feline position with its long neck coiled like a serpent.

When he looked up, his mouth surrounded by his finely trimmed silken beard curved at its corners as he stared at the colorful belly of large, overlapping scales of Colchiorh. “Welcome back brother.” The two’s forearms locked together in a firm embrace the moment Albron’s massive form leapt down from the center of his winged comrade’s spine.

“It was. Here take it down to the magistratoriar.” After he handed the malodorous sack to Celsushar he hurried towards the tower. “Just a moment brother. I do not wish to worsen your mood, but your Uncle is waiting for you at your office.”

Hearing those words felt like a cold shower against his warm body, knowing Augermil usually do not show up unannounced. “Is it related to Flavian?” He turned and asked.

“Yes. I feel he holds suspicion towards the order.” Albron gazed up to the peculiar tower of their order then sighed deeply. “I see. Leave it to me.” With that he headed for his office while soothing himself.

**

The Draconos Erviniire was a collection of grown, basalt and marble, spires erected from the serrated top of the Draemons Mountain’s western peak overlooking the valley, the surrounding Lowland and even the shores were visible on clearer days.

Each hexagonal spire housed their respective Wing of the Draennith Praetoriir, their smooth walls shaded after the color associated with the House their founders once swore their friendship to several millennia ago. In Albron’s case he started out in the Wing of his uncle, the Wing of Heavens, though as he rose through the ranks, he became the head of the Wing of Dusk and then the whole order itself after Augermil stepped down after a string of tragedies which ailed his elderly mind.

“I hope you did not need to wait for too long Uncle.” The two locked their forearms together, then their massive frames stuck together into a familial embrace. Augermil shook his head with a tired expression thinly masked with an affable smile.

“Anything to drink?” As soon as they entered, Albron commenced towards the shelf housing the exotic collection of alcoholic beverages from all over the Empire. His hand reached for one encased in golden and obsidian and poured it out instantly for himself. “Just a little.” Augermil said sensing the sweet scent of the beverage.

“So what is the reason for your sudden visit?” As the two sunk into the soft cushioned divans, clad in their contrasting armor, Albron spoke up first noticing the uncertainty on his uncle’s visage.

“It is not something I’m light on to mention, but after all these years of evading certainty, I’m sure that someone in our exalted order turned to the side of the enemy.”

Albron furrowed his dim brows lightly as he lightly gulped down his drink listening. “What makes you believe that?”

“The thought took its roots in my mind almost immediately the attack on the Sanctum of the Heavenly Monarch. At the time I pushed the thought away, certainly after brother told of the Oracles foreboding divination of the dim future ahead. But what reason would the death of Flavian, head of Wing of Life serve besides weakening our forces.”

Albron felt a cold breeze sweep into the edifices of his armor. “Flavian had many enemies, even amongst the patricii.”

“That is certainly true. He was not an easy man to exist with I’m willing to concede on. But recently someone gave me this.” Augermil’s left arm disappeared, swallowed by an aperture of blur in reality then came back holding a neatly folded and bound parcel which he gave to Albron.

As soon as he undid the slim bindings of crimson, and placed his clawed thumb onto the seal, his heart increased its pace and he began to curse many names which surfaced in the bowels of his mind. “I see. What a sly man you were my old friend.”