The Planars fare no better. Already have some abandoned me. I find it morbidly funny though, that they did not choose to go over to Legosia’s side. Would that had been the case, I might have still considered them loyal in a twisted form.

But instead, they’ve simply… left. Maybe they were tired, I know I am.

-From The Recently Deciphered Notes of King Arneshal, 1st Grouping

Dolish wondered how much longer he could bear to wait. His scholars sat in front of him, revising and reading notes that they’d written themselves.

“Is a fifth revision really necessary?” Dolish asked the head scholar, an old man hunched over the table. He wore a scarf around his neck, and had a wiry and long moustache.

“If you want it to be accurate, General, then yes.”

Dolish grunted, but let the man continue. He scanned each and every word of the text, referencing old documents and continuing to the next line.

“Done! These,” the scholar said, picking up the bunch of notes and tapping them altogether on the table, before placing them on a stack, “are all the collected and translated notes. You can have them now, General.”

Dolish grabbed the collection of parchments and gave them a cursory glance.

That the only thing I need fear with him and Lune by my side were the spears of our low brought enemies….

Even Dephoni is no longer safe…

…Maybe they were tired, I know I am.

He nodded to the scholar.

“You’ve done well. Get to your tent, and quickly. Don’t stop for anyone in the night, and do not speak to any soldiers you see. Do you understand?” Dolish ordered the scholar. He glared with such intensity that the man became uneasy, looking around the room.

“Yes, General, I understand.”

“Good. Safe travels,” Dolish told him, moving out of the room. He left the library soon after, giving only cursory greetings to Teruvi, the young clerk who had previously helped him. Dolish bunkered down in his tent, the dead of the night making him see shadows in every corner. Who knows what Yennel might do, given that Dolish now knew of his treachery.

Instead of worrying about retribution, Dolish brought a single bewllan lamp and placed it on his office desk. The cool blue light always made him feel colder, but he brushed the feeling aside. Instead, he placed the papers and began to read.

First, what is the weapon? He sifted the notes. Happening upon a single name. The Spear of Arneshal. What it was still eluded him, as every mention of the weapon was in hushed tones. But a spear?

A Phasgorian weapon. That and the Antir… was the late Kingdom of Elneshe really a precursor to them? By all rights, the Spear of Arneshal should then belong to them.

No… there has to be more to it…. He thought to himself, trying to find their claim to the weapon. Dolish didn’t want to know of the alternative, of what they were doing to the Phasgorians unknowingly.

All he could find, all he could understand, was that the Spear was a weapon that required Bladeborn to operate. Would it still work, now that all the Bladeborn of Elneshe had died? Or would it remain dormant underneath the city, useless to them.

“What did it do to the old King, that he felt himself losing his mind?” Dolish asked himself, placing the papers back down into the pile. There were theories brewing in his head, but none that could be proven without first investigation.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Dolish left his tent in a huff, and the camp spread out before him, deadly silent. Shadows extended from all corners, and only a few red stars populated the skies, flying around on their jets and keeping charge of the camp. Dolish didn’t bother to bring his honour guard with him, stomping his way to the prisons all by himself.

He stepped inside of the building, the weary guard there jolting back awake once he saw Dolish. Dolish calmed him down and entered inside, finding the cells filled with sleeping inmates.

He expanded his aura in an instant, blue light engulfing the entire room. The sudden change shook awake many of the prisoners, who complained and shouted at Dolish. Calm yourselves. I’m here only for questions.

Some of them spat at Dolish, while others turned around in their beds to avoid meeting the gaze of the Commander. Elann came forward, scratching his bald head and looking annoyed.

“What do you want?” he asked groggily.

“Answers, Elann.”

“Say-Re-Faas smite you for that. It’s the middle of the night, man,” Elann replied.

“It won’t be long.”

“And what do I get in return this time?” Elann asked. Dolish looked around in their rooms and saw how they shielded their eyes.

“Curtains. You’ll have some kind of privacy,” Dolish offered. He turned his Commander field off, leaving only the bare lighting of bewllan hung on the walls.

“Good a reward as any. What do you want to know this time?”

“That saying you keep repeating. Say-Rah-Faas. Who is it for?” Dolish asked.

“God of knowledge, Father of Afteburners. He’s the one you pray to when you want the wind to go your way.”

“Are there others? Gods of other domains that you pray to?” Dolish asked him. Elann scoffed.

“Five of them. One for each hallowmancer, and another besides for common folk. They’re descended from ‘em, made of godstuff. You’d be too, if you weren’t a heathen,” Elann spat.

“Why do you only call this…. This Say-Rah-Faas’ name,” Dolish intoned, sounding it out for himself, but it felt foreign. Didn’t follow any of the schemes that Ravenishtani tongue did.

“Because he’s mine. My God. Other folks got theirs, but I chose to pray to Him.”

“And you make this choice when?” Dolish asked.

“Whenever you want. I did it when I was barely a man, and I know these chuckling nuts in here did the same.”

But if he said there were five and he named only four for Bladeborn, then…

“Which one of them?” Dolish asked.

“What?”

“Which one of your Bladeborn has no sect? no God to pray to?” Dolish asked. Elann wanted to stay quiet, it seemed, as he shuffled back slightly. He looked around himself, through the bars of his prison and the tiny window at the back of his cell.

“…They’re not hallowmancers, Venastian. They shouldn’t be called it. What they do with the souls of men, it’s not right. No sane man would give them a God to worship,” Elann said quietly. The look in his eyes sparked fear in Dolish. Necromancers? Whatever could he be referring to? The only thing that came to mind, the only kind of Bladeborn he knew, were Soulweavers.

“You mean the Weavers, don’t you?” but then Elann grabbed Dolish by his vest. The metal bars of the cell rattled, and Elann’s eyes widened.

“Too kind a name for them. I’ll tell you now, do not keep them, Venastian. They’ll bring ruin to you. Bring your children from the grave and haunt you with their faces sewn onto their disgusting automatons,” Elann told him, his voice going mad as he did. But then he stopped, and his breathing slowed down before he finally let the General go.

“It’s a dark night, Elann, and you need rest. I’ll be sending someone over tomorrow for your requests. Just gather all you want and tell it to them, and I’ll grant whatever is possible,” Dolish told the poor prisoner. He began to walk away from the room, only turning back one final time.

“And good night to you. I hope the new beds are enough.”

Dolish was left with more questions when he left. Elann had told them whatever he knew, but information still didn’t add up for him…. Or maybe, he just hadn’t wanted it too.

He followed the path of the Weapon, held the form of a Talwar. That was his religion, his calling in life. But was that just not polytheism? What separated him from a worshipper of any Phasgorian God. Five sects, five Paths for a Ravenishtani to follow. Five distinct ways for a man to develop. Even the time of their choosing, of their sect or Form, was the same.

An armour of a Ravenishtani ruler, written in the tongue of Phasgorians. Melded together, there was only one answer.

“We’re the same…” Dolish realized, dropping to his knees. His feet hit stone, and the sky cracked with thunder.

“We’ve been killing our own lost brothers and sisters…”

The city of Sanasira, cradled between both Phasgoria and Ravenishtan. Their lack of Soulweavers on both sides. They’d abolished nobles in their own founding, but even that was shared with Phasgoia’s caste system.

How had it not been obvious? Had the centuries since Elneshe’s founding torn them away from their roots so easily? He had to tell his honour guard, no, the other generals, no, the Armon himself! But what proof did he have? His own words? A testimony with nothing to back it?

Dolish got up off of the ground. He’d do what he’d always done. He’d make an argument, to the Armon himself. Not an outburst like last time, but a proper argument. Then they’ll see, and they won’t be able to hide behind arguments any longer. There was a path forward, Dolish knew now, one that didn’t involve the bloodshed of distant relatives.

Maybe it was a vain hope, but he would do it anyways.