Chapter 2

Vicus awaited his mistress in the dimly lit corridor, keenly aware that his life rested upon pleasing the volatile Lady Dianoia. As a spymaster, he knew well the cost of failure or incompetence. The clicking of Dianoia's heels on the stone floor signaled her approach. Vicus swept into his most fawning bow as she drew near, every muscle taut with tension.

"Rise, Vicus," she commanded imperiously. "What news have you?"

Vicus straightened, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "My lady, the first whispers of your impending marriage have begun circulating through the noble houses, as you instructed."

Dianoia nodded sharply. "And what has been their reaction to this news?"

Vicus chose his next words carefully, aware he trod on dangerous ground. "There is...uncertainty, my lady. Many question Lord Megon's worthiness as your betrothed."

Her lip curled in disdain. "Let those fools question. NO ONE WILL DARE OPPOSE MY WILL! When I am Megan's wife."

"Of course, mistress," Vicus soothed, though internally, he seethed at her arrogance. "But perhaps a reminder of your lineage's strength would silence the doubters."

"You advise me to demonstrate my power?" she asked sharply.

Vicus trembled, fearing he had overstepped. "F-forgive me, I only thought--"

"Enough," Dianoia snapped. "I know how to handle simpering nobles. Continue monitoring their whispers. And do not forget who rules here Vicus."

"Y-yes, my lady," he stammered, cowed by her harsh tone.

With a dramatic swirl of skirts, Dianoia stalked off down the corridor. Vicus sagged against the cold stone wall, skull pounding. He had to tread carefully with her volatile temper. One wrong word could mean his head. Surviving in her service required a delicate balance of groveling and whispered counsel. For now, he was still her spymaster. But failure could change that swiftly. Indeed, Vicus' life hung by the thinnest of threads. But the rewards of success were greater than the risks, and he reminded himself. He would continue playing this deadly game...for now.

Vicus sagged against the cold corridor wall after Lady Dianoia's departure, his rapid heartbeat beginning to slow. Her unpredictable rages always put him on edge, never knowing when a careless word might sign his death warrant. Yet he could not show fear or weakness before her. He must seem in control as a spymaster, wielding information as adroitly as a sword. Let her believe him unfazed by her outbursts.

In truth, Vicus often lay awake pondering paths to power that did not rely on Dianoia's volatile whims. But for now, their interests are aligned. He must bide his time, subtly guiding her ambition toward his own ends. Ah, but she made it difficult! Dianoia's hunger for the throne was blind, consuming all reason. She did not play the game as Vicus did, with meticulous care and patience. Her lust for power made her rashly deaf to counsel.

This business with Lord Megon proved it. Any fool could see he was ill-suited as a consort. Already, the nobles whispered against the match. Yet Dianoia charged ahead heedlessly, determined to take what she thought her due. Vicus must continue pacifying her even as he works to mitigate the damage of her reckless plots. With discreet whispers here and strategic half-truths there, perhaps he could steer her course to one of more cunning.

For if Dianoia continued on this mad path, she would drag it all down in her wake - Vicus included. And he had come too far and sacrificed too much to lose it all now. No, he must be patient, ready to seize an opportunity when it ripened. And if Dianoia proved more hindrance than help, accidents could be arranged.

***

Dianoia strode down the corridor, heels clicking sharply on the stone floors. The whimpering spymaster thought himself so clever, attempting to steer her with his veiled suggestions. But she saw through Vicus' pathetic ploys as easily as reading a scroll.

Did he really consider her a naive maiden, blind to his transparent ambition? She allowed him his little games to ferret out information, but make no mistake - the dog would be put down the instant it dared bite its master's hand.

For now, Dianoia found his counsel amusing, watching him scurry about to position himself advantageously. As though there was room in the gleaming future, she envisioned a grubbing turncoat! When her name was raised as queen, the halls of power would host only those with true nobility, not snakes who sought only to fill their own purses.

But she let Vicus believe she valued his whispered manipulations. His mistaken confidence made him all the easier to control. Dianoia plucked the strings, and he danced obediently, assured of his own importance.

In truth, he was replaceable - all her servants were. If one proved an obstacle, they would be eliminated without hesitation. She had not clawed her way to power by being merciful. Servants, suitors, and rivals were stones to step across in ascending her deserved throne.

Father thought to control her through marriage. Instead, she will claim his forces as her own. Once his men marched under her banner, that spineless worm Rue would swiftly fall.

But Dianoia could not be seen as the aggressor, not yet. No, she must glide in as the reluctant savior, seizing control only when the people beg her to deliver them from incompetence. Her careful web drew tighter by the day. Soon, all would call her queen.

Let Vicus and the rest scurry about with their pathetic schemes. Ultimately, they were all just rats in her maze, running blind at her whim. And rats could be disposed of once they had served their purpose.

Dianoia continued down the corridor, her mind churning with plans. The time was fast approaching when she no longer needed to hide her true ambitions or suffer fools like Vicus. But she must be patient a while longer. Let her enemies believe her aims were merely a husband and household to rule. When she struck, it would be swift as a viper.

First, she must secure Megon's allegiance. That parchment-hearted coward would doubtless turn tail at the first sniff of real danger. She almost scoffed, thinking of her father's delusions that this was a worthy match. No matter - Megon's men would obey their mistress, not the pathetic excuse for a lord who simpered and sweated before her.

With the forces of Talheim under her command, she could finally move against the false monarch Rue. How long had she watched him prance about, believing he held true power and nobility? It was no more than a mummer's farce. When she deposed him, the realm would see what real strength looked like.

Even now, her loyal followers worked to foment mistrust of Rue in key strongholds. Common folk were so easily turned, their small minds fertile soil for seeds of discontent. A few manufactured crises, a few whispers in the right ears, and they would cry out for new leadership. Never realizing it had been the rage at her sowing.

Soon, serpents like Vicus would see how foolish they were ever to believe themselves her equal in cunning. She had known and used them for what they were - expendable and disposable distractions. In the bright future to come, there would be no place for those who thought themselves clever enough to manipulate events to their own advantage. Only complete and utter fealty would be tolerated.

When she took the throne, it would be with fire and iron. Let the schemes of pygmies like her father, and Vicus occupy them for these last paltry days. She had a kingdom to conquer.

***

Rurik paced anxiously, unable to dismiss the chilling prophecy etched into the dungeon walls. As a childhood friend of Lord Megon, Rurik made a point to monitor the happenings in the palace. But he had not expected such dire warnings of impending doom.

Though only a humble shopkeeper's son, Rurik had long served as the voice of reason for the lethargic Megon. Even as children, Megon avoided exertion and shirked his duties, preferring idle comforts. While the spirited Rurik scrambled over dusty cobblestones and got into boyish mischief, Megon constantly pleaded exhaustion or made excuses.

Little had changed over the years. Megon continued to evade hard work and challenges, his mellow temperament curdling into listlessness. Rurik remained a steadfast counselor, trying to spark motivation in his lackadaisical friend. But it was clear Megon cared only for ease and entitlements now, not good governance.

Rurik sighed, his merchant intuition telling him to prepare for the worst. Megon would likely dismiss this prophecy as an exaggeration, unwilling to take any troublesome precautions. And Rurik could no longer coddle his friend's lassitude. If Kante spoke truly, difficult days lay ahead requiring vigilance.

Perhaps he could still inspire Megon to prudent action. But if his lazy friend refused to protect Talheim, the people must know so that other steps could be taken. Leadership was needed to guide them through the prophesied storm.Rurik resolved to speak plainly, holding nothing back. If Megon would not fulfill his duties, wiser heads must prevail. Whatever the coming days held, Rurik would stand fast for the people of Talheim, as his friend would not.

Rurik approached the heavy doors to Megon's receiving chamber with growing unease. He could hear the muffled voice of his friend Petro, now captain of the palace guard, pleading urgently with the lord.

"We must prepare, my lord! Shore up defenses and stock provisions. To ignore a prophecy from the great Kante would spell disaster!"

"Enough," came Megon's irritated reply. "I'll not work our people into a panic over the ramblings of a drunkard."

"But my lord--"

"My decision is final," Megon snapped. "Back to your post, captain."

Rurik shook his head sadly. Just as he'd feared, Megon dismissed the prophecy, putting them all at risk. He could not let this stand.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the doors and strode into the chamber. Megon looked up in surprise from his lavish couch.

"Rurik, my friend! I've already reassured Captain Petro. No need for you to worry either."

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

Rurik met Petro's eyes, where he lingered anxiously. The captain gave him a subtle nod.

"I believe there is cause for worry, my lord," Rurik said. "Please, we must make preparations without delay."

"You as well?" Megon exclaimed. "Kante is a raving lunatic!"

"Petro is right," Rurik insisted. "We must shore up defenses and stockpile goods. To do nothing could doom us all if the prophecy proves true."

Megon's eyes narrowed angrily. "You two will breed panic and unrest with your overreacting! I'll hear no more of this."

Rurik took a bold step forward. "My friend, see reason. If you do not act, you leave us no choice but to--"

"To what?" Megon challenged. "I alone rule Talheim! Now leave me be, or you will both regret questioning your lord!"

Rurik stepped back, jaw clenched. Megon had made his stance painfully clear. Rurik and Petro exchanged a grave look. Nothing was left but to take matters into their own hands for the people's sake. Without their lord's aid, darker days loomed ahead...

***

Petro paced the guard barracks, brow furrowed in frustration. Lord Megon's stubborn refusal to act had forced his hand. As captain of the guard, Petro had a duty to protect Talheim and its people, with or without the lord's approval.

Fortunately, he did not stand alone in this. Rurik stood with him, wise and loyal as ever. Together they hastily laid plans to prepare for the prophesied doom.

"We must establish patrols to monitor the surrounding lands," Petro said. "If an army marches for Talheim, we will have warning."

Rurik nodded. "I'll implore the merchants to reduce exports and stockpile grain. We should ration food now before a siege occurs."

"Good idea. I'll order the guard to make ready our defenses and begin training any able-bodied volunteers."

A knock interrupted their planning. It was Shamsul, one of Petro's best guardsmen.

"Captain, I've brought what you requested." Behind him were a half dozen hardened adventurers, armed and ready.

"Excellent work, Shamsul," Petro said. " Archduke Glendon must be warned if our lord refuses to request aid. Ride swift as you can and return with whatever forces the king sends."

"It will be done, captain," Shamsul vowed, departing quickly with the adventurers.

Rurik watched them go. "I hope help arrives in time. We'll need all the swords we can muster."

Petro gripped his shoulder. "Have faith, my friend. Talheim's people are hardy and brave. United, we can weather this storm."

They returned to their planning with renewed resolve. The darkness was coming, but they would not face it unprepared. Talheim would stand strong.

Petro descended the dingy stone steps to the dungeon, steeling himself to confront the mysterious prisoner Kante. He needed to know more about this prophesied doom on Talheim.

Two guards stood watch outside Kante's cell. Petro dismissed them with a wave before entering the dimly lit chamber. In the corner, sitting calmly amidst strewn hay, was an elderly man with wild grey hair and piercing eyes. This was Kante? Petro had expected someone more ominous.

"You must be the captain come to question old Kante," the prisoner said, regarding him amusedly. "Go ahead then, ask your questions. But take heed, you may not like the answers."

Petro squared his shoulders. "Your prophecy spoke of Talheim's fall. I would know more of what you claim to have foreseen."

Kante chuckled. "My prophecy does not claim, it knows. Knows the choice your slothful lord has made will bring darkness crashing down upon you all."

Petro frowned. "Choice? You mean Lord Megon refusing to heed your warning?"

"His defiance of fate's design will yield only ruin." Kante fixed Petro with an intense stare. "But ruin need not be unavoidable."

Unease prickled Petro's neck. "Can we yet change this course you have foretold?"

Kante leaned forward with interest. "Your preparations show wisdom beyond your lord. Loyalty to the people over obedience to a fool. There may be hope for Talheim still."

Petro felt himself teetering on a precipice. Did this strange man truly know Talheim's salvation?

"What more can be done?" he asked urgently. "Tell me, and I will act."

Kante smiled cryptically. "The seeds are already sown, captain. You have only to nurture them."

Petro left the dungeon even more troubled than before. Hope and ruin balanced on a knife's edge, but which path led to which, he could not yet see.

***

Shamsul urged his horse onwards through the rain, the half dozen adventurers following close behind. Their urgent mission kept them riding hard for the Archduke's castle. Captain Petro was relying on them to secure aid for Talheim.

A scream from above made Shamsul jerk his head upwards. Bursting through the clouds was an emerald dragon, golden eyes blazing with fury as it roared and gave chase to a lone cloaked figure galloping for his life along the road ahead.

"Ready yourselves!" Shamsul shouted, drawing his sword as the adventurers nocked arrows. If they could help bring down the beast, the Archduke would surely reward them.

But as the dragon swooped low, the panicked mage turned and unleashed a barrage of fiery magic at his pursuer. "Stay back, cursed wyrm!" he yelled.

Chaos erupted. The dragon spewed flame over the road to consume the mage, careless of Shamsul's company beneath it. Searing heat exploded around them. Three adventures fell, bodies aflame.

Shamsul tumbled from his stricken horse, scrambling for cover as the dragon thundered past in rage. Cries rang out along with the shriek of the wyrm. When at last Shamsul staggered to his feet, only two bloodied and shaken adventures remained with him. The dragon circled back around for another pass at the desperate mage.

Shamsul knew they were outmatched against the enraged dragon. But they could not abandon the mission. "To the horses!" he yelled to the surviving adventures. "Ride on before it returns!"

As they galloped away, Shamsul risked one glance back at the embattled mage now fleeing again with the fiery dragon pursuing. There would be no reward this day. Only the hope they could outrun disaster to carry their warning to the Archduke in time.

Rain-drenched and weary, Shamsul arrived at the soaring archways of the Archduke's castle. Time was of the essence; he had to interrupt the lord's council session with his dire news.

Flanked by the two surviving adventures, Shamsul strode past startled guards into a lavish hall. There he found Archduke Glendon seated beside a beautiful but stern-looking woman Shamsul guessed to be Lady Dianoia. An elderly man with pink hair and wrinkled skin stood silhouetted in a window alcove.

"My lord Archduke!" Shamsul called out with hasty bows. "Urgent word from Talheim."

Glendon's gaze sharpened. "What word have you?"

"Talheim faces doom, foretold by the seer Kante etched into our very walls," Shamsul said gravely. "Lord Megon does nothing. Our captain sent me to beseech your aid."

Glendon nodded slowly as Lady Dianoia watched Shamsul like a hawk, eyes glittering.

The old man in the windows turned to them with sudden intensity. "Dark tidings indeed," he rasped. "But aid must be prudent, not rash. Offer counsel first to Lord Megon, seek to illuminate folly before abandoning loyalty."

Glendon looked thoughtful but Dianoia cut in angrily. "Let fools reap as they sow! You cannot save those who spurn wisdom. Recall our armies instead."

Shamsul's heart sank at her words even as Glendon raised a hand. "Peace, daughter. I shall consider carefully and render judgment soon." Back to Shamsul he said, "Rest and recover here. You shall have my answer on the morrow."

Relief washed over Shamsul. The Archduke would not ignore their plight. But Dianoia's venom concerned him as he departed the hall. Much depended on Glendon's final decision.

***

Megon paced furiously as Petro stood rigidly at attention.

"How dare you go begging to the Archduke like a whimpering dog! Have you no faith in your own lord to handle matters here?"

Petro held his tongue, jaw tight.

Megon jabbed an accusatory finger. "Don't pretend you sought aid on my behalf. You and that damned Rurik think me a simpleton, an idle fool!"

"My lord, we only wish to protect Talheim," Petro said carefully.

"Ha!" Megon barked. "You mean protect it from me, from your rightful ruler!"

Megon stepped close, glaring up at the tall captain. "Need I remind you that your duty is here in my service? Not galavanting about behind my back?"

Petro paled but remained silent.

"Did you think I wouldn't discover your treacherous appeal for outside forces?" Megon said. "That I would just sit obliviously while you and Rurik sought to undermine me?"

He leaned in, voice dropping. "I was willing to humor Rurik's fussy fretting and your pretentious preparations. But make no mistake, captain - Talheim answers to me alone."

Megon turned away. "Consider this your one warning. Rely on my leadership, or suffer the consequences. Now get out!"

Petro departed hastily. Alone again, Megon fumed. How dare they circumvent his authority! Well, he would soon put those arrogant underlings in their place once and for all. Talheim belonged to him. Megon paced his chambers, simmering with hurt and frustration. Why couldn't Petro and Rurik simply trust in his leadership? For all his bluster, their betrayal stung deeply.

They'd been friends since childhood, the only ones Megon felt truly saw him for more than his title. Petro knew Megon's hatred of exertion, yet still loved him as a brother. And, perceptive and wise, Rurik was the voice of reason Megon desperately needed.

Losing their faith grieved Megon more than any prophecy. But he understood their motivations, even if he despised their methods. They acted out of love for Talheim. Could he fault them for that, however misguided?

And much as Megon dreaded action, he could not ignore the dark tidings closing in. Between Kante's dire prophecy and the serpent-hearted Dianoia's ominous marriage contract with him, Megon felt tatsächlich surrounded.

Perhaps it was time he stopped sulking and took real stock of threats to his people, his friends...and himself.

Megon descended the dank dungeon steps to Kante's cell, torch flickering. The wild-eyed prisoner seemed to stare through him.

"Have you come seeking escape from the cage you've built for yourself, my lord?" Kante rasped.

Megon hesitated. "I wish to understand what you claim to have foreseen."

Kante smiled knowingly. "The crossroads fast approaches. Will you step up or shrink away? On your choice, fates pivot."

Cryptic words, but they echoed Megon's own thoughts. He could ignore coming chaos no longer.

Emerging from the dungeon, Megon felt the unfamiliar steel of resolution. He would apologize to Petro and Rurik, then meet with them and Kante. Prophecy or not, they would prepare Talheim to weather this storm.

For the first time in years, Megon felt the flutter of hope. If those three friends stood united, they just might see their home safely through the darkness ahead.

***

Macron stood at the temple's pulpit, intoning the Holy Scripture to his gathered faithful. But his mind kept wandering to the strange visitors he'd helped three nights prior - the priestess, mage, and knight on some urgent quest. He wondered what had become of them and the child they sought.

"...and so the Formless judged, saying to the false king: relinquish thy corrupted throne, lest thou be smote by divine fury..."

As Macron droned through the familiar verse, the temple doors suddenly crashed open. Striding up the aisle came Lord Megon himself, dusty from hard riding and looking uncharacteristically intense. Murmurs swept the congregation.

"Good priest, I must speak with you urgently," Megon called out, halting before the pulpit.

Flustered at this interruption, Macron nonetheless descended to speak quietly with the agitated lord.

"My apologies for disrupting the holy rite, but dire matters are afoot," Megon said, voice low. "The seer Kante has prophesied doom upon Talheim. I would have your guidance."

Macron's eyes widened. Not three nights past, he had heard similar warnings from priestess Ceils' companions. Could these events be connected?

"Your urgency is understood, Lord Megon," Macron replied. "Let us adjourn to my quarters to discuss this further."

Megon nodded, turning to address the confused congregation. "Good people, remain here in prayer. The priest and I have much to discuss regarding your safety and Talheim's future."

As Megon strode out, Macron spared a quick blessing before following hastily. It seemed their quiet town was being drawn into chaotic events beyond his imagining. He could only trust that faith would guide them through the coming darkness.

***

Astraroth dove and swerved through the night sky, the enraged dragon hot on her trail. She had to lose the furious beast before it could incinerate her for her theft.

Risking a glance back, she saw the emerald wyrm sweep around, maw opening to spew another blistering jet of flames. Astraroth quickly channeled power to her hands, crafting a shimmering shield. The blast buffeted her, but her ward held.

"Curse you, foul human!" the dragon roared. "Return what you have stolen from my hoard!"

"Never!" Astraroth shouted back. "The power within this talisman is wasted on your kind!"

She clutched tightly the glittering amulet pulled from the sleeping dragon's treasure pile. Entrapped within was magic enough to increase her own power tenfold. She would die before surrendering such an artifact!

Pouring on speed, Astarrath wove between mountain peaks, seeking escape. But the enraged dragon matched her maneuvers, hellbent on retrieving its treasure. Spying a narrow ravine ahead, the desperate mage took a risky gamble. Darting into the sheer-walled gap, she twisted down sharp turns, using the cover to block searing flames. The furious roars echoed deafeningly between the confining rock walls. Bursting out the ravine's far end, Astraroth had gained precious seconds. The dragon would struggle to turn its bulky frame within the tight canyon. It was the chance she needed.

Spotting a village ahead, the cunning mage got an idea. She would use the naive townsfolk to throw her pursuer off the trail. Their deaths would matter little if it secured her escape.A cruel smile curved Astraroth's lips as she flew toward the unsuspecting village, the dragon's enraged bellows hounding her from behind.

***

Aeron fidgeted in the temple pew as Father Macron droned on. Then suddenly, the doors crashed open and soldiers escorted a man in fine robes down the aisle, interrupting the ceremony. Aeron instantly recognized the lord of Talheim himself!

As Macron and Lord Megon exited to the yard, excited whispers rippled through the congregation. What was happening? Aeron craned his neck but couldn't make out their conversation.

Just then, a blood-curdling screech pierced the air. The stained glass windows shattered as an enormous emerald dragon swooped into the temple!

Chaos erupted. Aeron froze, paralyzed by the beast filling the sanctuary. People screamed and fled the snapping jaws. Aeron's mother shoved him under their pew, shielding his body with hers.

The dragon's hot breath washed over them as it bellowed, spraying the stones with liquid flame. Aeron screwed his eyes shut, certain they would die.

Suddenly the door crashed open once more. "To arms, defenders of Talheim!" a commanding voice rang out. Through the smoke, three figures strode forth, weapons drawn. It was the priestess, mage, and knight from three nights past!

With amazing courage, they charged the dragon without fear. The mage hurled spells to distract the beast while the knight slashed at its thick legs. The priestess slipped through the fray to help Aeron and his mother stand. "Hurry, flee to safety!" she urged.

Trusting his saviors, Aeron took his mother's hand and raced with the other survivors from the burning temple. Daring to look back, he saw the trio driving the frenzied dragon away with their combined might. Who were these strange heroes? Aeron was awed by their bravery.

Somehow, they had appeared in Talheim's hour of need. As the terrified boy hurried on, he felt hope buoy his heart. Perhaps they were a sign his home could weather this storm after all.

Aeron hurried through chaotic streets, keeping a firm grip on his mother's hand as they fled the attacked temple. People screamed and sobbed all around them, overwhelmed by the dragon's sudden fury.

But Aeron's thoughts returned to the three mysterious warriors who had saved him. The priestess's voice had been so calm and reassuring even in the face of such peril. And the mage and knight had battled the beast without an ounce of fear between them.

Who were these strangers to come to their aid? Aeron had so many questions but now was not the time. Getting his mother to safety was his priority. Still, he burned with curiosity about their identities and purpose here.

The knight had carried himself with a noble's confidence and bearing. And the mage wielded powerful arts unknown in their small town. As for the priestess, Aeron wondered how she could battle so fiercely while blindfolded. Truly, they seemed more myth than mortal.

As Aeron guided his mother down rubble-strewn alleys, he prayed the trio could continue protecting Talheim from the dragon's wrath. Aeron had never dreamed such adventure might come to his sleepy hometown. To think, he had almost dozed off during what became the most exciting day of his young life!

No one would believe his tale without seeing those heroes with their own eyes. Aeron hoped to meet them again someday to thank them for his life properly. For now, he was simply grateful the Formless had sent such remarkable champions when Talheim needed them most.