In the 31st year of His Majesty, King Oxlinge XIV’s reign
Mani’s Temple of Eriu: The streets of Mani lay deserted, the humid air clinging between empty buildings like the held breath before a storm. Lord Mor glided through the shadows, his dark cloak billowing behind him like a living void, its folds seeming to draw the very light out of the air. His features remained shrouded in an unnatural darkness, as if the night itself had taken on a life of its own to conceal him.
With spires like daggers piercing the gray sky, the temple loomed ahead, their very edge sharpened against the muted, melancholic blanket. Lord Mor's boots crunched over the uneven cobblestones as his shadow became swallowed by the temple’s austere silhouette. But then, a faint whimper cut through the muffled hum of the breeze. His steps faltered, the sound pulling his eyes to a narrow side street.
There, in the guttered shadows, a child huddled against the unforgiving stone, eyes wide and glassy, reflecting the faint glimmer of a distant lantern. The boy's bony hands clutched a shawl so worn it was more thread than fabric, trembling as though the cold air had found its way into his core. Lord Mor crossed the street without hesitation, his cloak billowing behind him like a phantom in the gathering gloom.
“Are... are you a demon?” he stammered.
Lord Mor hesitated. Silently, he reached into his cloak with leather-gloved hands and retrieved a small, crusted loaf. Kneeling, he placed it gently into the child’s trembling palms.
“No,” his voice emerged from the hood, distorted into a low, resonant timbre—another unnerving feature of the cloak’s design that hinted at the power he wielded. “Just a man with too much left to do.”
The child cradled the bread against his chest like a precious gem. Lord Mor rose, the moment of compassion falling away like shed armor. He mounted the ancient temple steps, each footfall echoing with purpose. There must be no hesitation. They must not refuse me.
Lord Mor burst into the Temple of Eriu, his heart racing like a hunted animal. Each heartbeat was a countdown, time unraveling faster than he could grasp. He'd spared no coin, pushed his mount to exhaustion—all to reach this sacred place before it was too late.
He couldn’t let the world slip into the claws of gods that sought only to watch it burn. Not again. Visions haunted him, a frigid, nagging voice deep in his mind. They cannot win—not this time.
The grand hall towered around him, its ancient columns seeming almost to judge his desperate mission. His steps reverberated through the temple, every footfall a gasp of desperation. Incense hazed the air, threatening to choke him with its cloying sweetness.
The pressure of innumerable stone eyes fell upon him. These abominable sculptures, he thought to himself, their eyes follow me. He averted his gaze, but still, each accusatory expression cried, Intruder. Heretic. He half-expected a bolt of divine judgment to strike him down, to cast him out before he could reach his quarry. If only they knew the ruin that looms on the horizon. The world’s teetering fulcrum hinged on this moment.
He reminded himself that it was a necessary deception. I cannot afford to be discovered now.
They'll never understand, he thought, his resolve hardened with every step. These lands are too blinded by fear and hatred to grasp the truth. Cracks had already begun to snake through the terra firma, and if it came to it, he might have to mend the rift with his own essence—even if it meant letting the shadows entwine with his very soul.
Lord Mor’s gaze shifted from face to face. Where is he? The man he sought had to be here. The coming storm wouldn’t wait, and neither could he. His fingers twitched under his wide sleeves, clenched into tight fists. Damn the turn of the hourglass.
He moved abruptly, urgency warring with the need for control. He couldn't hesitate. The devotees shrank back, fear rising as his desperation radiated off him like heat from a forge. Their whispers grew urgent, laced with fear.
Lord Mor paid them no heed. Let them whisper, let them fear—it only made them easier to bend. But beneath his resolve, doubt gnawed at him, fangs at his neck. Could I already be too late? What if, despite everything, I might not be enough to stop the calamity from sweeping us all away?
As he neared the central altar, a young deacon stepped forward, his face a mask of stern duty. Lord Mor braced himself, knowing he needed to appear in control, even as every nerve in his body screamed with tension. With a swift crack of his neck, he reassured himself, You are Lord Mor—a man of primacy, a force they dare not cross. He had mastered this many times before—projecting an aura of dominance, using intimidation as his tool to bend others to his will. It had served him well, and he relied on it now, channeling his stress into a calculated display of power.
“Can we help you?” the deacon asked.
Lord Mor squared his shoulders, increasing his silhouette. “I seek an audience with the Priest.”
“You’ll have to remove that ‘thing’ you wear,” the deacon said, his voice laced with the disgust such corrupt items stir in holy places.
“You’re mistaken, deacon. This remains on me at all times.”
“Then I’m afraid the Priest has no time for uninvited plebeians.”
Lord Mor allowed the silence to writhe, to constrict around them. Patience, he told himself, steady hands control the strings. “Again, you are mistaken.” His calm reply carried an undeniable edge. “I am here on behalf of a significant benefactor to the Eriu cause.”
The deacon’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “And who might that be?” he demanded.
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Lord Mor inched nearer, just enough for the deacon to detect the cold intensity within his hushed voice. “My name is Lord Mor.”
The deacon’s face blanched, the color draining from his skin as realization settled in. He stepped back, his stance shifting from defiant to hurriedly respectful. “Lord Mor,” he stammered, bending into a deep, awkward bow. “Forgive me, lord. I did not know it was you. Please, wait here. I will fetch the Priest at once.”
As the deacon hastened down the marble hall, his sandals slapping against the stone, Lord Mor’s mouth curved into a faint, unseen smile. It never fails, he mused, though the thought stayed unspoken. When the churches grow too large and start begging lords for coin, they wrap their own wrists in chains.
Moments later, the deacon returned, leading the Priest—a young man whose smooth face gave little away. Yet in his ice-blue eyes, a depth of intensity simmered, betraying the wisdom that belied his years. His long, flowing robes whispered across the polished marble floor as he approached, the steady rhythm of his steps punctuating the silence. His features, serene but sharp, sat above broad shoulders, framed by a soft halo of auburn hair that caught the light like burnished copper.
“Lord Mor,” the Priest said with a mild yet resonant voice. “From whose hell did you pluck that wicked garment?”
Lord Mor remained still. “I mean no offense.”
“Wearing that in here ‘is’ an offense, my lord.”
“Those with great wealth must remain anonymous, seeing to their own safety,” he replied, his tone laced with guarded caution. He shifted slightly, his cloak rustling, revealing the faint glint of hidden weapons below its folds.
The Priest’s eyes moved to the hidden armaments and then back to Lord Mor’s obscured face. The moment between them lingered, pregnant with unspoken understanding.
“Safety, you say,” the Priest murmured, his gaze steadfast. “Our halls are safe. But I suppose in these turbulent times, safety is a fleeting notion, even for those as powerful as you.”
“Powerful, perhaps,” Lord Mor conceded. “But power attracts danger, as you well know, Priest. Since the dawn of memory, the shadows themselves have borne teeth.”
The Priest nodded slowly. “Indeed, they have. And yet, you come here, risking exposure. What is it you seek, Lord Mor?”
Lord Mor drew a slow breath, barely perceptible beneath his thick chocolate leather chestplate. “I want to know where Eriu stands in the coming storm.”
“And of what storm do you speak?” the Priest inquired.
Irritated, Lord Mor’s posture stiffened. Pious cur, he thought, he knows exactly what I mean. “My informants span the entire Realm. For a full month, Islunneians have seen shooting stars filling the sky—signs of divine favor bestowed upon chosen mortals. Meanwhile, tremors in Wakan shook the land, heralding the gods’ awakening and the stirring of ancient powers. And across the Realm, nervous whispers speak of haunting auroras dancing across the heavens. Does this not sound familiar to you, Priest?”
“Indeed, Lord Mor,” the Priest inclined his head slowly. “The colors of the auroras reflect the hues of the converging celestial bodies.” His gaze grew more intense, as if the mere utterance of celestial events conjured omens.
“The Convergence of the Trines is upon us,” Lord Mor said, a tinge of concern coloring his words. He recalled the ancient omen in vivid detail—a rare alignment of the three sacred moons, occurring only when the gods have declared war. “The Wakan shamans sensed the divine discord, their visions definitive. They know which gods have come into conflict.”
The Priest’s stare narrowed. “As do we. To answer your question, Eriu will bless the warrior who bears their rune. And as for who shall bear it, my companion has never failed in a prediction.”
“Pratel,” Lord Mor murmured, his voice barely a whisper. The name alone filled him with reverence and fear. Pratel, the legendary soothsayer, shrouded in secrecy and awe. Some said he was a spirit, others a sorcerer of unimaginable power. But I know the truth, he assured himself. I know the Eriu Rune grants Pratel his extraordinary abilities, a secret whispered among only the highest circles.
“Yes,” the Priest confirmed. “It begins in the thirty-fourth year, on the twenty-first day, at the thirteenth hour of His Majesty’s reign, when a small child will be abducted by a coven of the aggrieved. This moment will mark the arrival of a Saggarin in Mani. After eight years and five months, at the third hour past midday, this Saggarin will face a one-in-two chance of death. If he dies, a Scorsorai will claim the rune. If he survives, beyond one year’s time, the rune will come into his possession.”
Lord Mor leaned closer, the hem of his cloak sweeping the marble floor like the wings of a vulture. His voice soured as he spoke of the Scorsorai people. “Savages,” he grumbled with venom. A growl, almost instinctual, rumbled deep within him, his thoughts seething: I’d endure an afterlife in Scorsor’s hell before I see his children lord these lands. “And Pratel believes this Saggarin to be the Genieavesin’s chosen warrior?”
A ghost of a smile played upon the Priest’s thin lips. “It matters not. Pratel has resolved to keep the rune for himself.”
“He would deny the Genieavesin’s warrior? Lord Mor’s voice resounded through the cavernous hall, crashing against the obscurity that grasped onto the dimly lit passageways. “What madness is this?” The thought burrowed under his skin, relentless and festering—had Pratel’s judgment truly given way to delusion? Would he dare challenge the Dinehin’s chosen warrior alone? Such recklessness could doom him—and these lands with him.
“There is reason behind it,” the Priest replied, his tone maddeningly calm. “This Saggarin... he will spurn the Genieavesin’s call.”
“What warrior would reject his destiny?”
“When matters of the heart are at stake, my lord, even destiny must yield.”
“Matters of the heart?” A brief doubt clouded Lord Mor’s thoughts. Could a heart truly weigh more than fate? His tone darkened. “If Pratel sincerely believes he can stand against a Scorsorai, marred by the Dinehin...” He let the words linger. How can he be so blind to the risks?
The Dinehin’s name alone appeared to cause the temple stones to quiver. The Priest beckoned Lord Mor nearer with a ringed finger. As they drew close, their scents mingled—the Priest’s breath sour with cheap wine, Lord Mor’s robe carrying the earthy stench of the road.
The Priest’s eyes darted to the holy shrine, as if seeking absolution for the words he was about to utter. “We cannot allow such folly,” the Priest whispered. “Not when the alternative is so... desperate.”
A scant light gleamed in Lord Mor’s thoughts. Desperate times indeed. “Then there is still time. I shall leave Pratel to your... tender ministrations. Tell me, Priest, what name does this Saggarin bear?”
The Priest’s smile faded, replaced by a stern, knowing gaze. “Before I provide you with that information, I must confront a matter of allegiance.”
A low rumble stirred in his chest. “You dare question me?” The gall of this man is insufferable, he thought, his irritation barely contained.
“It is whispered that you are not all you claim to be, Lord Mor.”
“Then we share commonalities, Priest.”
“Now it is you who dares to question,” the Priest said. His brow remained firm, yet below the surface, a waver flashed across his posture, so subtle that only eyes as keen as Lord Mor’s could catch. Is he doubting himself or merely playing another angle? Lord Mor wondered, his mind whirring with calculations.
“I came upon the truth without aid from a soothsayer. So, now, Priest, you know the reach of my resources. Know that I serve no one but myself. My allegiance is to my own power and survival. Any other associations are solely a means to an end. We desire the same ends.”
The Priest’s eyes examined Lord Mor for any sign of deceit. After a long moment, he accepted the answer, albeit warily. “Your reach is impressive. But know this, Lord Mor: betrayal will not be tolerated.”
Lord Mor reached into the folds of his cloak, producing a heavy pouch that clinked with the unmistakable sound of gold. “Consider this a tithing,” he said, his voice smooth as the gold was handed over. The Priest accepted the pouch, his fingers curling around it with practiced ease.
“Very well,” the Priest said, eyeing Lord Mor one final time as if measuring him against some unseen scale. “The name of the Saggarin is...