The grinding of his welted together gilded plates echoed through the winding street as Isocrates made his rounds in his home district. Each time the armor crafted from living metal wreathing onto itself tenderly annoyed him to no end as he was still in deep thought regarding the sprouting notion seeded during the morning. His eyes from behind his metallic mask focused on the white marble walls surrounding him, graced by the verdant green and dawn golden light of the Illius reaching its noon stage.
Each time he stopped, vibrant azure and emerald veins slithering about in the whites of his eyes with shadows cast over them from the mask resembling Maerhia’s magnificent visage, fear increased the pace of his heart. His mind turned blank in each of those moments, hammered in by the instructors as he searched for any little disturbance lingering in the shadows of the alleys. Each time, an empty satisfaction formed in him as he found nothing but the occasional scurrying rodents attracted by the faint stench of death and discord, and the few homeless who escaped the confines of the Metilian and Riverside district.
At this moment, he regretted joining the First Legion more than anything. He wanted nothing more than to move freely now his suspicion deepened towards the Order. In his mind, there were no doubt Hunra wasn’t the only one who burrowed their way into the Order of Maghia’s Truth, using it possibly to flock the poor and destitute with not just promises of power, but safety as the attacks’ seemed to move away from the lower districts towards the upper where the wealthier citizens resided.
“Or maybe that is an effect of Luelia and Mirayroth taking care of their faernalist.” As he passed by an old friend’s home seemingly abandoned with how tightly the windows and doors were shut. There was no doubt that the loss of the djinn faernalist in the pariah folk’s district resulted in a big blow in their reach – a fact that soothed his mind and heart. No more he found sleep hard in the headquarters, afraid of even just experiencing the harrowing vision of his family torn to pieces, staring into the distressed, vacant eyes of Euthymius and his newborn sister.
Instead for the past few months since his return from the lake of Tiaali, he had stranger, less harrowing dreams. Dreams he accredited towards Septurrion who he believed set him upon this path, easing his mind a little in regards to his true allegiance.
Glimpses of his near future he was most sure of them upon in the very first witnessing his own adult form staring back at him in mirror exquisitely framed in golden, graven with the symbols of the minor deos of Storms and Thunder, the eldest child of Septurrion and Selvinia. And the one he always felt a connection with since his discovering his affinity towards the element of lightning and thunder. And this first dream soothing his dreaming mind, he found himself in the company of golden eyed strangers.
Strangers he had a familiar, friendly connection with he questioned little even as he recalled the dream after waking. One a stalwart man of northern complexion with visage possessing mild aevhen accentuations like the contours of his eyes and the voluminous dark hair of silken texture naturally flowing on his honed Isocrates felt a strong kinship towards similar to brothers molded by decades of grave adversities. Adversities which revealed themselves first after facing the ancient nekros.
The same battle he fought this morning with a few exceptions including the Man’s attendance which boosted the morale of the legionariir; the golden blade wreathed in golden flames cutting down the cultists; armor of the royal shades of red, blue and gold adorning his form honed through rigorous training. An armor which evoked a sense of awe and terror in Isocrates as he glimpsed upon it. He could easily recount the details of it, the trims of sharp dragon scales, each reduced piece graven with runes of power; the smoothness of primary segments reflecting the events unfolding like a mirror; the avian dragon head looking downwards at the epicenter of the chest and the angular neck circling around while the shadow of the helmet’s curling lower trims hung above them. A panoply worthy of heroes eternalized in sagas, sculptures and paintings.
Then there was the exception of the surroundings. The sculpture of Anterhil and the dragon still bearing the vivid colors he remembered from his childhood. Alabaster edifices bereft of the grimness of years, devoid of the wornness of the conflict ravaging the capital and its populace. And in their shadows, stood a mesmerizing niuvhe who shielded the few citizens caught up in the battle; a peculiar man of the far-south with silver hair, long knitted beard and deep ebony complexion using earth maghia to reduce the number of the enemy including the dreaded daermunus.
“Isocrates, on the roof!” The deep, melancholic voice of the Man echoed still as he pointed his burning blade’s tip towards the roof, where the very same presence he felt in the morning stood. A warning which sprouted into the suspicion he held towards the Order. Born from this dream, yet it evaded him until this morning, until Hektrahd pointed out the corpse of his friend who was tainted by the cult.
In the dream itself, he held the awareness towards their members being brought forth the provinces of Vhalleryon. He could recall the moment he and the golden eyed Man raided a warehouse belonging to one of the wealthiest merchants of the Empire who sold his soul to the Beautiful. Even the moment when they confronted the man himself, an act that seemed foolish as the two of them rushed there alone, yet in the end with his arkhaine prowess and the blessing of the One and the Eight, they came away near unscathed.
As he thought deeper about this memory born in the land of Oneiron, he recalled a soft, yet regal voice preaching to them, chastising their rushed decision to confront the enemy without the proper investigation, without calling on the aid of the Draennith Praetoriir, her uncle Augermil. A voice which seemed familiar, one that sounded pleasant, mesmerizing even when it hurled wounding words laced with a caring anger towards him. Just like when Luelia chastised him after he returned to the capital with his arm decayed away.
And just as he was about to step on the threshold of complete recognition, his gaze fallen upon the aevhen girl’s form standing at his family’s home, talking with his little brother whose shoulder was occupied by his sister who was quite mesmerized by Luelia’s beauty herself. “And here he is. Just as the topic reached you brother.” The two greeted each other with a firm hug thanks to Luelia lifting off Elodi.
“Come Elodi, let’s leave the two birds alone.” Quickly he took his sister from Luelia and went inside. The two stood in silence, Isocrates still feeling a bit of unneeded remorse. “Still making rounds?” Luelia broke the silence and he nodded.
The two began to walk, Luelia matching her pace to his. “Heard there was another clash in the morning.” As the sentence left her lips, Isocrates felt glad for the mask veiling his anxious expression gazing forward. “Just a minor one. Though it seems like their numbers haven’t budged yet.”
He heaved a sigh focusing his mind, pushing his desires in the deep recesses of his consciousness. “Have they found a clue who may be behind the cult?” Luelia shook his head. “I’ll be heading there later. Naghig is still skulking around the port, trying to find a clue who may supply them.” Isocrates stopped for a moment, focusing on the memory within the dream – in vain. “What?”
“Can I indulge you in something?” He asked meekly in his deep voice. Luelia’s azure eyes pierced into his. “Do you really need to ask? I am all long ears.” Her soft palms pushed against her slender, sharp ears protruding from her deep hazel hair as she cheekily added. Beneath his mask, he smiled a little as they made a sharp turn. For a moment he spotted the same feline stalker of his once more.
A soft, hollow clang emanated from beneath his metallic mask as he heaved a sigh. “You’re right. For the past few months, I have these strange, warning dreams.”
“Warning?” Luelia interjected with a more serious look in her gleaming eyes. Isocrates nodded stopping a few blocks away from where the cat following him sneaked into one of the alleys. “Dreams of the future I am sure, but also the present, a present different from ours I guess.”
“In what way?” Isocrates pondered, rubbed the feminine, softly sculpted chin of his mask. “I dreamt of the battle today. But it was mildly different. There was this man clad in armor I am sure must have been crafted for the Elhyrissiar’s bodyguards or one of the Draennith Praetoriir’s wings. And his eyes were golden and brilliant like the Illius in the hours of afternoon, and he oozed with the presence of a hero, a chosen I have no doubt about that.”
Luelia remained silent, calm on the outside but a little anxious as she listened. “There were two others with a similar presence, including a tall niuvhen sorceress and a far-southern man with silver hair and beard utilizing earth maghia.” For a moment, he relapsed into silence, sensing the same waft of mana lingering in the alley. Then the small creature with inquisitive eyes appeared, its small silver furred form meandered towards them and brushed its delicate form against Luelia who yelped at the sudden gesture.
“What made it feel like it was a warning.” She asked while lifting the cat back up, her hands sweeping through its back while mana leaked from her palms, forming into a veiled spell. “I knew all of them – though I could not recount their names – but I had firm memories of them. Including a time when me and the golden eyed man faced against a merchant.” She tilted her head like the cat staring at him with an undecipherable look. Yet remained silent, expecting the answer to came after the pause.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“A merchant in bed with the cult.” Luelia let the cat down as it began to scrape against her coat’s sleeves. “Do you remember which merchant it was?” Isocrates nodded lightly.
“When will you finish?” After a bit of pondering, Luelia looked up at him and asked in a low voice even though no one skulked around in the street. Isocrates looked up and stared at the Illius which still shone brightly upon the Capital, vanquishing the shadows creeping into the safety of the alleys and edifices. “I believe two or three more hours.”
**
A pop rang through the dimly lit, loftily furnished room. Mewing turned into hissing as the cork hit against the ceiling and bounced off to the polished wooden floor contributing to the dimness of the vast room. Then came the pleasant sound of bubbly wine flowing out from the glass encasement of a bottle into the glass. And the sonnet of thirst quenching came with the conclusion of claws scraping against the glass, followed by the silence as Proclus’s silken fur covered paw like hand wrapped around the elliptical top framed in shimmering silver, graven with illius golden runes of the far-southern provinces.
“Pardon me my dears for this minor blunder.” His deep, lisp voice reverberated through his office after he licked his face, moistening his translucent, thin whiskers emanating a mild iridescent glow as the little light seeped through the curtained windows. Two felines hissed and leapt from the large chair onto his wide, ornated desk as he sat down sipping the wine while massaging his temples before hearing the soft swooshing of his silken robes of a vibrant purple and silver, pairing well with his dark fur.
“Good, I was about to contact you, my friend.” Not far from him, a tall aetherkiin draped in a shapeless, dark robe appeared, sitting down in one of his sofas of felled wild wyvern hide. His hood heaved over his etheric visage emanating a vicious darkness swallowing the light, lashing out with miniscule tendrils. “What ails your mind my friend?” Came the voice of a young man, with tone laced in deceitful innocence triumphing over the whispers of thousands.
Proclus heaved a sigh. “I know there is a point to all this, and you know I have no habit to complain, but how long shall we support their fruitless endeavor.” He relapsed into silence while taking another sip. “There are already suspicions cast over my agents over at the continent. And even within the city, those lizard riders began to question around my shops.”
The Black Aetherkin lifted his ghastly dark hand, a wound in reality into the fold of his hood mimicking the great thinkers of Septurrion’s flock. Though before he could answer their attention was drawn towards the window to the right of Proclus where the silver furred feline creature appeared out of nowhere, purring satisfied with the knowledge.
It leapt into Proclus’s lap and stretched its neck and head towards his owners, his masters’ head who reached his index finger towards its forehead. Slowly the dark fur covered finger lit up in a bluish glow as the claw touched the forehead, right at the center. “I see. Didn’t you vow not showing what could have been to anyone outside our circle?” He asked amidst heaving a tired sigh.
“I did not.” A raspy, guttural voice answered accompanied by shadows darkening the room further, suffocating the words that may have flowed out from Proclus’s thin lip.
He rose from his seething and like a vicious specter, glided menacingly towards Proclus. “And I only showed him visions necessary to keep her on the right path. Our path.” Before his desk, He suddenly halted and leaned closer. The warm air lingering within the room faded into nothingness, his anxiety faded just as when the two first met, when Proclus faced the tip of his former owner’s blade aimed to take his neck, his life in the lightless recesses of his former home, back in the colonial town of Saithar.
Occasionally, the grim scenery of his owner’s corpses peacefully lying in their bed lingered before his eyes. Cats starving for the flesh of the dead sitting around them, licking their whiskers, their muzzles while also frozen by fear. Fear brought forth by the void presence of the dark aetherkin who without lifting a finger, brought demise upon the ones who bought him off from a group of slavers, former legionariir.
“But do not fear my friend. You are under my protection.” As he leaned over the table, the crimson stola brushed against the desk, going through logbooks brought to him by his clerk. “They shall come for you, no doubt about that. But no hasty decisions shall be made, no she shall be the solution to your woes, present and future.” Before Proclus could ask further, he found himself alone, standing before his desk with the uncorked bottle in his hand. This time he carefully freed it from the tightening grasp of the bottle, just as three knocks reverberated through the room.
“Come in.” He said calmly.
**
Naghig slowly lifted up the meticulously butchered remains of a tarandrus stag native to the western woodlands of Vhalleryon, near the shores gazing upon the Caesselis Archipelago. Its seasoned smell lingered through the dimly lit recess of the butcher’s shop, aided by the cold air keeping it fresh amongst its fellow who shared the same fate. “Do you stand by your supplier? Did they truly bring forth the best?” He asked staring up at the plant-folk owner.
As he nodded, Naghig’s ears listened to every small noise, including the foliage like hair rustling against the haggard robes covered in patches of dried or drying blood. He let out a sigh and looked down at the piece of meat with a grim expression. “Good. I’ll buy this one… and that too.” Then he put the meat on the counter where two large slices rested on top of each other alongside placing a hefty sack of coins the plant-kin took with a wide smile on his clean face.
“Things may have gotten out of hand.” Naghig murmured to himself in the shadow of the terrace roof held by four once pristine columns. Once adorned by golden scale decorations fastened to the marble, now only a shadow of them remained as he leaned against one in the near empty street. “Well, better keep it to myself for now.” He threw the enchanted sack holding the meat over his shoulder and began slowly walking eastwards. His small, sunken eyes focused on the colorful, tiled rooftops while in their stretched edges noticed the three figures barely attempting to mask their presences.
Which annoyed him a little, the lack of disrespect towards him, and not aimed at the three stalkers, would be assassins sent by the Beautiful who recently began to aggressively expand her sphere of influence. She annoyed him to no end, but what could he do, it was all part of the plan and revealing himself would have been more foolish than lifting the veil. “Just a little bit more.” He increased his pace while still focusing more on the roofs, the edifices surrounding them in the street devoid of honest folk.
Neither did the legionariir patrolled these levels in great numbers since the death of Balasi in the Melitian District. With his death the cult focused its attacks on the higher levels, slowly creeping towards the patricii and the wealthier echelons of the Capital in revenge. Initially it seemed like a fine trade to Naghig as it allowed easier passing of their branches’ agents, though now the Beautiful decided to alter the plan and were keen on the elimination of rivals. A headache, but a useful one as he agreed with Mirayorth and Middias on the matter.
“This should do it.” Naghig’s gaze swept through the narrow alley as he placed down the sack of meat. From his leg water poured out and carried it into a safe distance before he faced the three stalkers draped in dark, shapeless robes slowly approaching, cutting off the single escape route. His fist curled, his fingers cracked in preparation as they revealed themselves, pulling down their cloaks.
“For a new dawn!” The plant-folk said in a mocking tone as she approached ahead of her companions. Her face barely visible as her withered foliage of a long hair hung over half of it. Her bark like epidermis bearing the ravage of ages and deep scars inflicted upon her form by sharpened tools of torment. Beneath her cloak, a colorful set of garments adorned her slender, dried form oozing with lower grade enchantments. Rings imbued with rubies and amethysts glowing in a sinister light stretched a spell across the alley, preventing sound from entering and leaving – the basic spell of assassins.
Behind her, a skaeze whose half a body bore the marks of Taerebosian flames lifted a long dagger of an obsidian blade out from under his robe, revealing his own set of colorful, rich garments. The few remaining locks of hair decorating his head rustled against his prominent cheeks revealing parts of his marrow grown over by the last layers of his skin. His greenish eyes burned with a zeal, with a hunger for gifts promised for delivering Naghig into the embrace of the Solemn Shepherd.
The last, a fellow orkh of his reached out his tremulous hand, leaking mana incessantly molded into a binding spell. Naghig remained calm even as he lost the capability of moving his limbs, his whole body when the invisible legion of threads wrapped and tightened unrelentingly around his pale form. Only for a moment, as he swiftly grabbed the skaeze’s hand as it swung sideways to slit open his throat.
“Still should have sent someone better.” He heaved a sigh then broken the arm of the skaeze. Pointing the shattered end of the bone towards the skaeze’s face, a spear of marrow protruded out with the velocity of a propelled javelin entering through the mushy eyes, piercing his brain and left through the back of his head. The sudden demise of their fellow propelled the two towards escaping instead of foolishly facing Naghig beyond their expertise.
Slowly, his skin moistened as if pulled in and out from water as he lifted it up, aiming at the back of his own kin. A tendril lashed out and grappled onto the ankle of the sullen orkh, slowly creeping onto him whilst dragging him back, towards Naghig. The Plant-Folk on the other hand slammed into the wall when a sudden and strong gust charged against her, conjured forth of nowhere. “Please…we…had…no…choice….” she pleaded with Naghig who stared at her coldly, eyes devoid of any and all emotions.
“There is always a choice. And you picked poorly.” Suddenly her blossom expanded beyond its natural limits as a whirlwind slithered betwixt her lips, charging down at her lungs, expanding even her frail throat between the pressed out high collars of her tunic. Then her floral flesh and bark like bone exploded upon, towards Naghig who simply sidestepped from its way, letting most of it fall onto the orkh slowly suffocating within the watery coffin.
When he gurgled his lasts, Naghig’s arm dried up to its previous state and he leaned down, closing the eyes frozen in a state of utter terror. When he looked up, young Euthymius frozen in fear, holding a basket of bread cloaked in thick layers of linen keeping them fresh and warm. “Fear not kid. Just be on your way home.” He said with a listless expression, knowing well a smile would have just worsened the situation. The adolescent boy gulped then nodded as he forced his legs to relapse into walking.
“Shit, almost forgot.” Naghig watching him turned back towards the alley, walked through the corpses and grabbed the sack of meat. By the time he walked out, Euthymius was far away, whistling an old tune taught by Isocrates to draw away the horrid images of corpses – and the pale orkh surrounded by thick shadows.