And why is it that he finds it so alluring as to not reply to me. Lune assures me it’s nothing more than the stress of the campaign, but I know Legosia. And I know how well he can manage himself in those.

-From The Last King of Elneshe’s 9th Note.

Rozu had another chance. He knew how it sounded. He must look mad to anyone else. But as he snapped the neck of another fool Phasgorian, he knew he had to take it.

Far across from him, away from the gates of Latren, stood Dero. The old man stuck out in all the wrong ways, Rozu thought as he began to carve a way through to him. Soldiers blasted him with their fire lances, but he snapped their shafts in half and struck them with it. Those who tried to gang up on him, he swiftly disposed of. And just as fast, Dero took notice of him.

The old man had seemed to actually work up a sweat. His long white hair had strands sticking out and a part of his clothing was scorched. Rozu smiled as he approached the old warrior, feeling himself confident since the first time he fought Dero.

“You. Are a very committed sort, aren’t you?” Dero asked the boy as he approached. Bodies littered the ground around the aged Bladeborn, some dead, others still breathing.

“I’ll keep coming back until I kill you,” Rozu told him. “Even if you kill me, I’ll find a way to come back. Because you’ll never really win against me,” he told the old warrior, who scoffed.

“Sure you will, boy. Now, raise your hands.”

Rozu didn’t need any further talks. He popped a bit of iron into his mouth, Devouring it in an instant. Power rushed through his veins, changing his skin, his bones, every vein and every muscle, into iron.

He jumped, the dirt behind him exploding as he did. He took a swing at Dero, knowing it’d miss. The old man simply took a step back, kicking him lightly. But such a weak move barely made Rozu flinch.

He kept moving forward, punching, kicking and chopping with his hands. They set themselves into a pattern, moving, dodging, chasing, countering, all the while Rozu kept his expression steeled.

Then, he missed another punch. But instead of letting Dero react, Rozu stopped feeding bewl into his hallowmancy. Immediately, the effect wore off and Rozu grabbed the older warrior. Dero’s eyes widened as a smile crept onto Rozu’s face.

“I’ve got you!” he shouted to the Phasgorian. Rozu punched with his other hand, delighting in the hit as it landed on Dero’s face. Rozu let go inadvertently, the man’s clothes slipping out of his fingers. He was knocked back and fell to the ground, holding a hand to his face.

There it was. Blood, finally dripping down the warrior’s mouth. Dero spat to the side, teeth and blood coming out with it before he seemed to begin healing.

Rozu knew that wouldn’t last a moment longer, so he started running after him. If he could pin him down, he could do it. It was stupid to let him go after the first hit. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. This time when he got a hold of Dero, he’d choke the life out of the man slowly. Slow enough that he’d regret what he’d done. Who he’d fought with. This was his chance.

But when he lunged at Dero, the man seemed prepared. He twisted on the ground, digging into Rozu’s stomach with a kick and flipping him over himself. Rozu flew further than intended, landing on the side of a hill and rolling downwards.

He tried to stop the tumbling, but hit a body on the way down that sent him spinning again. He twisted until he reached the bottom of the hill, more annoyed than hurt. He looked above himself and there Dero stood, but all mirth was gone from the man’s face.

Fire lance shots rang in the air as Rozu stood up and wiped his face. Dero wiped his face with one hand, another one holding onto a fire lance he’d picked up. The red sun shined behind him, night following not far behind. But that didn’t scare Rozu. Why should it, when he was a blessed Bladeborn?

“I’ll give you this, young man. You’re talented,” Dero said.

“But you’re too undisciplined. Like an animal. If I’d put what you want in front of you, I bet you’d run over in a frenzy,” he added. Rozu grunted.

“If you offered me your head, then sure,” Rozu replied as he dug around in his pouch for something else to Devour. He landed on the same rocks that he usually took, Devouring them and coating his skin with the hard material.

Try to use the blast on me now, old man. Dero took one look at Rozu and snapped the fire lance on his knee, brandishing one end in each hand.

Rozu was the first to act, rushing back up the hill and over the bodies. He tried to tackle Dero, but the man sidestepped him easily. He must still be using paper, Rozu thought as he closed the distance.

A double-edged blade, one that Rozu could exploit if he could land a hit. A single swipe of his hands nicked Dero, which seemed enough to cause bleeding. But all his other moves would be for naught. Dero would fold himself out of the way, moving in fashions no normal man could. And when he’d see an opening, he’d smack Rozu with the sticks.

They didn’t hurt enough to notice. But with every hit, every clip that he suffered, he grew more agitated. He felt like he was being toyed with! Dero surely wasn’t putting his full force behind those attacks. Which meant he was playing with him again.

This dance continued for a long while, Dero retreating and Rozu following. By the end of it, the sticks Dero held could barely be called weapons. Despite that, he either didn’t notice or cared little for it, because he kept hitting Rozu with them.

Rozu took another swipe at Dero and the man crouched. He kicked Rozu’s legs, sending him sliding across the grass. He then threw one of the sticks at Rozu’s face, enraging the boy even further.

Though before he could stand up, Rozu lunged at him again. Dero clenched his teeth and raised the other end, the one with the fire lance on it, just in time for Rozu to feel the stone in his hallowmancy running out.

A moment of fear, just enough for an opening. Dero unleashed the lance, a handful of hot stone exploding out of its cannister and biting into Rozu. The young man fell, but not on Dero, instead to the side.

Rocks littered his flesh, some embedded deep as Rozu tried to stand up. Beside him, Dero struggled to do the same, some of the blast having ended up hitting him instead. But rise up, the old man did, and far more easily than Rozu.

I… I need it… the pain bit at Rozu as he scrounged around for more bewl. He’d healed what he could with his current pool, but it was quickly diminishing. But when he felt around for it, he found the pouch missing, again.

No…. NO! I kept it close! He shouted in his mind as he clenched a shaking fist on the ground.

“Looking for your bewllan, are you?” Dero asked from behind him. Rozu turned around and laid flat on his back, staring daggers into the old warrior.

“I wonder. What is it that drives you to me every time we fight?”

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear any more of your philosophizing!” Rozu spat.

“If that were true, would you really be chasing after me every time, boy? I see you didn’t bring your Katar this time. Is there a reason for that? Were you… afraid that I’d use it against you?” Dero asked him and Rozu looked away.

Just let him keep talking. Heal your wounds, then take him by surprise. That’s all you have to do to end this nightmare.

“Yes…” Rozu said, though the words pained him to do so.

“What drives you to chase me, then? You seem so afraid, yet so committed. You come after me every chance you can spare, yet run when I seem to be getting the better of you?” Dero asked.

Stolen story; please report.

“I want you dead because you’re Phasgorian. That’s all there is to it,” Rozu said.

“And if I wasn’t? Would that sate your desire? Would you finally let me go? Frankly, I do not think so.”

“….No, it wouldn’t,” Rozu admitted, surprising himself.

“Then, perhaps you do it for love? Or admiration from your superiors? Is that what drives you to commit these acts?” Dero asked.

“No, not that either.”

Rozu found himself saying more than he meant, and his attention waned from his injuries. He really didn’t care what his officers thought of him. He didn’t care where Dero was from. He didn’t care in the slightest for anything happening around them. And yet, he still wanted Dero dead.

“Do you know why you want to fight me?” Dero asked. And that was one question that Rozu could answer. He remembered the embarrassment he felt, the fatigue, the anger every time the old man made one of his grating speeches.

“Because you stopped me,” Rozu answered. It didn’t need to be any more complex than that.

“Hmm…. I think I’ve taken somewhat of an interest in you, young Katar. But that doesn’t mean I can leave you alive.”

Dero pulled out something from his robes, a piece of metal that Rozu saw for only a fraction of a moment. His body began to take on a sheen, and he picked Rozu up by the shoulder.

His metal fingers dug into Rozu’s shoulders, who began to whimper.

“W-wait, wait, please…” Rozu began to beg despite himself. Dero’s eyes were glazed over, and he refused to look at him.

“I’m sorry for this. But… if you won’t, cannot stop, then you’re too much of a danger. You’ll hurt too many others who don’t deserve death,” Dero said. He slammed a fist right into Rozu’s stomach, flinging him back into the air.

Rozu’s world whitened, the pain so immeasurable he couldn’t feel his stomach anymore. His back hit a tree with a snap, and he fell to the ground moaning. Rozu looked down, terrified of finding a hole where his stomach used to be. But it was still there, intact, albeit throbbing with pain. A trickle of bewl was the only reason he was alive yet.

He looked up whimpering, saliva dripping out of his mouth at Dero. The old man was approaching solemnly, footfalls like an executioner’s blade. Rozu felt something in his hand, a cloth, and looked towards it.

Why is that… oh, right… Before he’d been hit, he’d grabbed for anything. And bless his Form that he did. In his hand was a pouch which clinked. Without wasting a moment, he dipped his hand into the pouch, grateful that Dero didn’t approach any further. The puddle of bewl in his body turned to a lake, and Rozu pushed it towards his stomach.

The pain began to subside quickly, but not fast enough. Dero came for him again, and Rozu had to duck. Above him, Dero’s fist hit the wood and felled the tree in a single motion. Dero scoffed, trying to wrench his hand out of the bark, but it stuck.

When Dero tried stomping on him, Rozu rolled away. Thankfully, the metal had made him slow, or Rozu’s head would be cracked open like an egg. He stood up and began to sprint, holding his stomach.

Bones mended, cuts closed and Rozu grew faster with every stride. Yet he still didn’t look back. For all he knew Dero could be right behind him, running at a mild jog. If that were true, he was afraid he’d freeze up.

Death had come too close this time. Separated by only an arm’s length of solid wood, Rozu had survived. Soldiers around him fought without care for the Devourer running between them. They killed and maimed each other, stuck in between fights that required all their attention.

And they never even noticed the hallowed Bladeborn, strongest among them, who ran like a coward. Who admitted to himself once again, that he’d lost horribly.

****

Dolish Venastian stood among the rubble and weeds of Sanasira, and found it unimpressive. He’d been walking for a while now, flanked by his honour guard and Yennel’s men as they made their way deeper into the city. And though they’d covered quite a distance, nothing truly dangerous had shown up.

Borne had scouted ahead of them the entire way, flying past the tattered buildings and overgrown plants. A few times, spears would fly over his head, but they’d only leave glancing wounds. Dolish had ordered Borne to search out the attackers, but his investigations would turn nothing up.

“It’s like they work by themselves, the city itself trying to weed us out,” Borne remarked as he came down.

“Might as well open it’s gaping maw and swallow us whole, if that were true,” Raisha replied.

“This place don’t sit right with me. Feels like eyes in my back,” Borne said.

That didn’t sit right with Dolish. He knew it was called The City of a Thousand Histories, but that couldn’t mean the thing was very well alive. Despite the colourful buildings, the spires that still somehow stood atop some of the houses. Despite the marvel of architecture, it was still just as dead as any other abandoned settlement.

Still, Dolish tested Borne’s theory, expanding his Commander field and trying to suss out the presence of a spirit. He thought for a moment, that he felt a blip underground, but it was just some worm or other, as it vanished from his senses soon after.

A few squirrels, a bird or two, flew out of his field as well. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. If there had been a living city here before, it certainly wasn’t alive any more.

“Let’s continue onwards. The palace is our destination,” Dolish said. As they stomped onwards, more and more corpses kept popping up. Stripped of flesh, only skeletons in rusted armour, the number of which grew bigger the closer they got to the palace itself.

Dolish clenched his hands, thinking back to what Vartel told him. Leading is a hard task. Doubly so when you can’t show how terrified you really are to other people. But it’s a weight we bear willingly, lest someone else crash under it.

He stepped forward of the expedition, the streets opening up as the top of the palace came into view. Behind it, a mountain rose up into the sky, curving around the entire city and shielding it.

For anyone except a Planar or Afterburner, those mountains would prevent entry into Sanasira. Thankfully, there had been a single path left preserved into the city, that now served as its only entrance.

Dolish looked at the palace, once a symbol of extravagance carved out of marble and other materials, now looking disfigured and unkempt. Weeds grew between the tiles on its curtilage, cracks appeared in the walls, and glass lay shattered in windows and light gleamed into the dark rooms of the building.

“The abode of the last king of Elneshe,” Dolish muttered to himself. He stood in awe of the creation, the house seeming to exude an aura of power.

“Sir, are we going to search the place?” Borne asked him.

“Yes… that’s what we’re here for, after all,” Dolish replied, taking the first step towards the large doors of the palace. He placed both hands on the large double doors, pushing roughly on them. He flushed a bit of his bewl to his body, empowering them and wrenching them open.

Dolish grunted a bit, years of accumulated dust puffing into the air. By the time his eyes adjusted to the dark, he realized why the entrance had been blocked.

In front of him lay two bodies, black splotches on the ground near them. Dried blood. Dried for centuries. Dolish carefully stepped over the bodies, expecting to smell something horrible through it all. But the bodies must’ve lost their scent after a while, because all he could discern was the smell of dust and minerals.

“How long have these been here…” Jerre asked, staring into the hollow skulls of one of the corpses. He quickly glanced away, moving past the others and into the front. Before he could move too far, Dolish put a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait. The palace might be trapped as well,” Dolish told him. Jerre nodded an apology and moved back.

“The palace is massive. We want to be quick and thorough, so split yourself into two teams. Borne, Jerre, you two come with me. Bark and Raisha, you’ll lead the other team and report back to me when you find something of note. Understood?” Dolish barked out the orders and the others acquiesced, splitting off into two groups and exploring the reaches of the palace.

Dolish went left, finding the rooms growing larger and more spacious. He entered into a large hall, Borne flying into the air to scout it out.

“All’s clear, here!” he shouted back, Dolish stepping forward himself. Though it was still as musty as the other rooms, there was a window letting the dwindling sun in. There, under the reddish glow of the sun, he saw a rack of weapons laid about near the windows.

Some of the weapons were broken, others rusted and some having fallen off of broken hooks. But all of them, all of them, were beautiful. Dolish walked up to one of them, a sword that vaguely reminded him of a talwar, and took a look at it.

“These should be much worse for wear. How?” He took a few swings of the blade, but it felt just the same as any other sword. There was nothing special with the metal he could see, so the question stuck in his mind. Perhaps they had better forging techniques?

Dolish considered taking the weapon along with him, when he heard a clicking sound. He looked around, and something swung down from outside. He jumped out of the way just in time for the window to smash open and a log to come swinging towards him. The trunk of the tree almost hit him, but Dolish was glad that it didn’t.

It was tied with ropes outside, and came to a stop after swinging around a few more times. Dolish looked outside to search for whoever had triggered it, but found no one there. Squinting, he activated his hallowmancy and searched around for the spirits. But nothing, just more birds and animals, and his own companions.

“That thing’s cursed, Dolish, I’m telling you,” Borne said, pointing at the blade Dolish had in his hand. He took a look at it once more. And in such good condition too. Maybe… they don’t want me taking it.

Dolish sighed, holding the weapon by its handle before placing it on the rack once more, taking care not to disturb the other weapons. He would’ve liked to bring back something for the Armon, but it seemed this would not be it.

“Let’s move on, we’ve more to see,” Dolish said as they restarted their search. While Borne looked ahead, Dolish would hear the whispers from Yennel’s soldiers, some of them muttering prayers as they went past more bodies.

They ended up in another hallway, multiple rooms spread about it. Dolish took the closest one while his soldiers searched the other. The room looked like an office, shelves being carved into the walls and a table set in the middle. Though, surprisingly, there was another fixture near the right wall. An armour stand, holding something extravagant. The armour was made of metal, with cloth underneath for padding. A helmet made of cloth and chainmail rested atop the stand, with dust covering the front.

Dolish held his hand out towards the helmet, wiping his fingers on it to reveal text underneath. The words should’ve been unintelligible, but strangely Dolish knew them. They were crude and written almost wrong, but he recognized it… as Antir.

Why is it written in the Phasgorian tongue? Dolish wondered. And even more than that, the words themselves, they struck out as weird to him. They read Remont. Or if one were to read it another way, a more modern way, Armon.