Deron suppressed a scowl at the presumptuous questions from Lord Megon. This insignificant provincial ruler had no idea he addressed an imperial noble, one of the elite few entrusted to govern the world's four continents.
Yet Deron could not publicly claim his true standing here. Revealing his noble lineage would endanger the secret recovery mission he led with Priestess Ceils and Protector Rimes.
So Deron endured Megon's entitled probing with forced humility. "My companions and I are simple wandering adventurers, my lord. By fortune's grace we arrived in time to aid against the fell beast."
Megon's eyes narrowed, unsatisfied. "Simple wanderers do not exhibit such skill. What interest have you in Talheim's affairs?"
Deron chose his next words carefully. "We seek only to assist the innocent when and where we can. Talheim's plight drew us, nothing more."
Inwardly, Deron rankled at having to placate this insignificant backwater lord. A single word from him could see Megon stripped of lands and titles. But for now, he needed cooperation, not conflict.
"If we might impose upon your town's hospitality, we would rest and resupply for further travels," Deron said evenly.
Megon continued studying him shrewdly. "Very well. We shall find accommodations for you and your companions. But I will have my eye on you, Master Adventurer."
Deron inclined his head in gracious acceptance. Let the fool watch all he liked. Deron's mission would proceed regardless. And when they finally departed this dusty town, its people would remember his coming as the day they met a living legend. For now, he could play the humble vagrant...but not forever.
Deron maintained his guise of humility until he was dismissed from Lord Megon's presence. The oafish provincial ruler was not wholly fooled, but Deron's circumspect answers had avoided outright suspicion for now.
Safe in their temporary quarters, Deron's manner shifted as he faced Priestess Ceils and Protector Rimes. Here he could confer openly, noble to subordinates.
"The local lord will be watching, but remains unaware of our true purpose," Deron informed them. "But discretion is still imperative."
Ceils nodded. "We shall take care not to betray our origins needlessly. Did you glean anything from Lord Megon regarding the child?"
Deron shook his head. "He seems ignorant of the recovery mission. We must investigate discreetly on our own."
"Then we should begin our search swiftly," Rimes said. "Every moment the unawakened one eludes us puts the realm at risk."
Deron considered their next steps. "I shall consult the astrological maps and seek auguries to discern the child's location. You two discretely question townsfolk for any leads. Take care not to stir undue interest."
The priestess and protector voiced their acknowledgement. Deron was satisfied that his followers understood the need for tact and secrecy. This ignorant backwater was but one minor stop in their global quest.
"For now, we are merely three humble adventurers," Deron warned them. With luck, they would locate the prophesied child and be gone from this place before their facade was pierced. Dealing with obtuse provincial rulers was beneath him.
***
Megon sat with Petro and Rurik, filling them in on the strange adventurers who had appeared and battled the dragon.
"I do not fully trust them," Megon said. "The mage Deron hides something beneath his humility, I'm certain of it."
Petro nodded thoughtfully. "Yet if they mean ill, why save the townsfolk from the wyrm?"
"A clever ploy to gain our confidence," Megon said. "I will not be so easily deceived."
"Perhaps," Rurik chimed in. "Or they might genuinely wish to help, odd as they seem. This crisis forces us to consider all aid, wherever it comes."
Megon pondered this. His friend made a fair point.
"You may be right, Rurik," he conceded. "In such times, we cannot lightly turn away strength offered in sincerity. Yet still, I feel Deron obscures his true purposes here."
"Then we will watch them closely," Petro said. "Test their words against their actions. If they prove false, we will respond accordingly."
Megon nodded, grateful as always for his friends' judicious counsel. Together they would determine the nature of these mysterious arrivals. Perhaps they were sent by Providence to turn the tide against the gathering dark. Or perhaps sinister intent lurked beneath the surface. Only time will tell.
"Come, my friends," Megon said, rising decisively. "Let us meet with this Kante and discuss how we may yet steer fate from its grim course. I would know what path you advise."
The two exchanged an encouraged look, bolstered by Megon's newfound initiative. United with his steadfast companions, Megon felt steeled for the challenges ahead.
Megon descended the dungeon steps with Petro and Rurik, feeling the weight of uncertainty and expectation upon him. He had clung to idle comforts and habitual lethargy for so long, stubbornly ignoring his responsibilities. But the dark tidings gathering now forced a reckoning.
Could he rise to the occasion his people needed? Megon was honest enough to admit that leadership did not come naturally to him. Only through relying on wise counsel had he avoided catastrophe thus far.
Yet perhaps dormant strengths within him await this crucible to awaken and forge his still-malleable nature. Neither fate nor his father had granted him the luxury of choice in assuming lordship over Talheim. But what he made of that mantle rested solely with him.
Megon glanced at his two stalwart friends and knew at least Fortune had blessed him in them. Petro's courage and Rurik's intellect would guide him through the fog ahead. And perhaps this mad prophet Kante might light their way as well.
The wild-eyed seer still gnawed at Megon's composure, portending murky calamity. Yet if he could chart some course through the mist...Megon was wearily willing to attempt it now.
They arrived to find the prophet sunk in troubled reverie, only looking up as they entered his cell. Megon was struck by how ordinary Kante appeared, like any grandfather from Talheim's streets. This small, disheveled man had set events spinning with an unassuming utterance.
Clearing his throat, Megon met the seer's piercing gaze. "I come seeking the wisdom to steer us clear of ruin." He paused, humbly adding, "...if such a course exists."
Kante smiled cryptically. "The path appears only to those willing to walk it first."
Megon steeled himself. Whatever this journey held, it was time he took the first step.
***
Kante chuckled inwardly as the fretful lord Megon peppered him with questions, seeking easy escape from destiny’s snare. As if averting fate were as simple as adjusting a crooked picture on a wall! No, the path unfolding would require far more.
“You waste breath asking ‘how,’” Kante rasped. “The true question is ‘who.’ Whom will you become when tried in prophecy’s crucible?”
Megon’s brow furrowed. “You speak in riddles, old man! I must know what actions might turn aside this brewing catastrophe.”
“Must you?” Kante challenged. “Your predecessor kings thought themselves captains of fate through force of will. Yet here you stand in their stead, another leaf tossed about by the winds of fortune.”
Megon opened his mouth to protest, but Kante pressed on.
“No mortal hand may steer the river’s course, only ride the rapids with courage and skill. Such is the way of these matters.”
He leaned forward, eyes alight. “Your mettle is soon to be tested, Lord Megon. Will you rise to meet the trial or be swept away by the currents?”
Kante watched the anger fade from Megon’s face as his words struck home. Yes, this pampered lord had potential should he cease flailing against the tides of destiny. Wisdom lay not in resisting the inevitable but in flowing with apt timing and grace.
Megon met his gaze solemnly. “I understand. When the waters rise, we shall see if I can ride the flood.”
Kante smiled, satisfied. The wheels of prophecy turned on, heedless of whether this lord would sink or swim. But perhaps Megon would surprise him. Fate loved little more than an unexpected player.
Kante watched the departing figure of Lord Megon, lost in thought. The timid ruler's mettle would soon be tested against the coming tempest.
"You always did know how to spur them to action, old friend."
The voice seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere. Kante sighed.
"Come to prod the caged beast again, have you?" he said testily. "I wish you'd find other amusements besides taunting me."
The air shimmered around him as the Formless took shape, regarding him with curiosity.
"After all these centuries, I'd think you'd be used to my visits, Nan."
Kante bristled at the name. "I was Kante long before your kind saw fit to meddle in human affairs. And I'll be Kante still long after you've tired of your games."
The Formless smiled indulgently. "Come now, and you provide such interesting entertainment, Nan. Your little outbursts here and there liven things up."
With a scornful grunt, Kante turned away. "Yes, how thrilling to watch all my proclamations of doom come spectacularly true. Go find some other toy, a specter. I won't perform on command."
His unwelcome companion only laughed. "Ah, but we have so much ahead of us! I look forward to the coming chaos. Do try to play your part entertainingly."
Then the cell was empty again, leaving Kante alone with his bitter thoughts. He stared mournfully at the walls where long ago he had scrawled glowing words of doom, setting Talheim on its current tragic course. When would he finally be free of this endless curse?
***
Menadue knelt silently before the scrying pool, awaiting the next message to relay. Ever since she was a child, this had been her sole duty and purpose - receiving the king's encrypted spells and transmitting them across vast distances through arcane rituals.
She did not know the contents of the communique nor the full identities of those receiving them. Her world was confined to this chamber and its shimmering waters. But she had heard enough over the years to recognize the names of nobles and sovereignties and knew her role was one of political significance.
Yet Menadue dared not speculate too openly. Her only companions were the guards beyond the doors and Nabon, the messenger who came and went like a shadow. She was a tool, not a player, in whatever great events her powers facilitated.
Still, in quiet moments she dreamed of lives beyond her cloistered existence. What lay outside these walls? Did she have a family somewhere, missing her? What was freedom like?
Such fruitless fancies were dangerous, she knew. And so Menadue passed her days in silent waiting, sending encrypted spells at the king's command. He had given her this gift, which she must use to meet his needs.
Scratching at the door signaled the messenger's return. Menadue straightened, ready to receive whatever arcane duty was required of her now. She was raindrops falling wherever the clouds willed, waves directionless until the wind's whim. Such was the lot fate had cast her, and she would not fight its tides.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The message's recipient could be an ally or enemy, near or far. It did not matter. Menadue merely spoke the words and sent them soaring into destiny's hands. She was but a conduit through which passed mysterious communique, her own role never to know their true purpose.
Menadue was idly rippling the scrying pool waters when the heavy oak door creaked open. In shuffled her robed handler, old Nabon, with his wrinkled face and pink beard. Stern but caring, he had watched over her since she was a child.
"Daydreaming again, little Menadue?" he chided gently in his gravelly voice. "You know it does no good to idle with what-ifs."
Menadue sighed. "I know, teacher. It's just hard waiting here alone all day."
Nabon's face softened. He had practically raised the girl. "I understand, child. But we all have our duties. Yours is a heavy burden, but no heavier than you can bear."
He placed a weathered hand on her shoulder. "Now come, the king's message awaits. We must not keep him waiting."
Comforted by his wisdom, Menadue nodded, turning her focus back to the task at hand. Nabon's presence was a balm to her lonely days. She would honor his tireless guidance and serve the king faithfully.
With a deep breath, Menadue prepared to receive the day's message. Nabon's quiet strength would help see her through this duty, as it had since she was young. She thanked the gods for granting her such a patient mentor to light her way.
Menadue completed the mystical transmission and leaned back with a weary sigh. Manipulating such concentrated magics always exhausted her.
"Splendidly done as always, little one," Nabon said, patting her shoulder. "I shall inform the kitchens to send up your favorite honey cakes to restore strength."
Menadue perked up at that. "And baked apples, too?" she implored, giving him her most winsome smile.
Nabon chuckled. "Very well-baked apples too. Though you'll spoil your supper with so many sweets."
"It's necessary for replenishing mystical energies," Menadue replied airily. "Why, the king himself would recommend it if he knew how completely I've drained myself in service to the realm."
"Oh, he would, would he?" Nabon raised a bushy eyebrow. "And since when did you become an authority on the king's dietary recommendations, little one?"
Menadue tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Well, I don't actually know for certain, of course. But I'm quite sure he'd agree if we asked him."
Nabon laughed heartily at that. "Indeed, no doubt he would defer entirely to your wisdom in the matter!"
His eyes twinkled with mirth, and Menadue grinned back gleefully. She delighted in making her serious old teacher laugh. The sound always lifted her spirits after the day's toils.
"Go on now, I'll see about those cakes and apples," Nabon said, still chuckling as he headed for the door. "Rest yourself, child. You've earned some sweetness today."
Menadue's smile lingered long after he departed. She was blessed to have Nabon's gentle humor brightening her restricted but purposeful days. Truly, she needed little else.`
***
Shamsul waits anxiously in the guest chambers after his audience with Archduke Glendon. Though the ruler heard him out gravely, Glendon's noncommittal response troubles Shamsul. Time is running short for Talheim, yet the Archduke seems in no hurry to send troops.
Lady Dianoia's open scorn at the prophecy does not help matters. She clearly sees Talheim's plight as beneath her notice or concern. Shamsul fears her influence on Glendon, who relies heavily on his cunning daughter.
Pacing the room, Shamsul feels the weight of his failure pressing upon him. He rode desperately to bring back aid, only to face indecision and apathy. Glendon confers privately with advisers while Talheim remains defenseless against its prophesied doom.
Shamsul knows Lord Megon is no stalwart leader, but abandoning Talheim completely cannot be justified. Each minute brings the town closer to catastrophe. Memories of the glowing prophecy haunt Shamsul. Its fulfillment seems near.
When the guards fetch him back to the throne room, Shamsul braces himself as Glendon regards him solemnly.
"I have decided not to send troops to Talheim at this time," Glendon pronounces. "Lord Megon must look first to his own wisdom and resources."
Shamsul's heart sinks even as he protests. "My lord, please! Talheim is in peril. Time is running out!"
But Glendon only holds up a hand. "My judgment in this matter is final. You may rest here tonight and return to Talheim on the morrow."
Numb with dismay, Shamsul exits the throne room in defeat. All his desperate riding has won no tangible aid for his endangered home. As he sinks exhausted onto the bed, Shamsul bows his head. He has failed Talheim utterly.
***
Dianoia smiles slyly to herself as the despairing Shamsul departs after his fruitless appeal to her soft-headed father. The fool rode himself half-dead seeking aid for pathetic little Talheim, never realizing he played right into her hands.
Indeed, his earnest entreaties on Megon's behalf have provided Dianoia the perfect opening to set her true schemes in motion. She cares nothing for Talheim's supposed prophesied doom - her sights are set much higher.
With Rue’s armies occupied by the brewing Mardoc succession crisis, Dianoia saw her chance to quietly strip her father's forces under the guise of aiding vulnerable Megon. Once secured, those troops would march under her command instead, ready to spearhead her long-simmering plans to seize the crown itself.
And now this convenient Shamsul will serve as the perfect pawn to unwittingly deliver Megon's armies into her clutches. She will send him back bearing promises of aid, further winning the naive lord's trust. Then once Dianoia's pieces are positioned inside Talheim, she will swiftly claim them for herself.
Oh yes, she thinks, watching the sullen Shamsul from the shadows, everything is aligning perfectly. Let Glendon deny aid - it only drives Megon more readily under her wing, oblivious lamb. Soon both lords and all their lands will be hers.
Dianoia's blood quickens as she envisions the coming chaos. All her cunning layers of deception so carefully crafted over the years now stand poised to reap their due rewards. The time to strike is nearly at hand. And none shall be left standing to oppose her might when she moves to seize the crown.
She withdraws silently back to her chambers, already composing the false missive of hope she will send back with Shamsul. The poor dullard has no inkling. He has placed the weapons of his own town's destruction right into the hands of its new deadly mistress. When Dianoia rules, she will not forget who paved her path.
***
Mardoc paced his study, scowling as he turned over the latest tidings. King Rue still refused to name Mardoc's wife, Princess Elise, as his heir. The doddering old fool remained fixated on having his half-brother Clades Andeans succeed him as if that spineless weakling could hold the kingdom together!
No, it was time a stronger hand guided the realm's destiny. Elise had the true blood of rulers in her veins. With Mardoc at her side to direct things, their reign would usher in a golden age. The nobles would flock to their banner once the simpering Clades were removed as heir.
Mardoc moved to the window overlooking the castle grounds. Out there, his loyal men stood ready to act at his command. The pieces were nearly in place to force the succession crisis and depose Clades. Mardoc had quietly cultivated allies, waiting for the opportune moment.
Now, with King Rue's health rapidly declining, it was time to make his move. Clades must meet with an "accident" before the king's final breath. Then Elise could rightfully claim her birthright, the crown. None would dare oppose the bereaved daughter.
Of course, producing an heir of their own would further cement their rule. Mardoc snorted in derision, thinking of Clades' lack of spouse or children. The man practically handed them justification to seize power. Weakness invited wolves.
Mardoc turned from the window, resolve hardened. "Send for my captain of the guard," he told the hovering servant. Events must be set in motion at once. The throne was within his grasp, needing only the courage to take it.
When Elise was queen, the minstrels would praise Mardoc as the champion who rescued the realm from mediocrity. A student of history, he would learn from past rulers' mistakes and lead them to new glory. Let feeble minds like Clades and Rue hold power in name only. True rulers dared deeds. Their timid hearts shrank from contemplating. And Mardoc would not flinch from any action that advanced his interests. The future belonged to the bold.
***
Nabon materialized out of shadow into the hidden chamber deep within Castle Monkland. Only he and King Rue knew of this secret room where they could confer safely away from prying eyes and ears.
As spymaster, Nabon bore the immense burden of protecting the increasingly frail Rue from the circling vipers who smelled weakness and plotted openly now to seize power. He would give his life before allowing harm to befall the wise ruler he had served devotedly for decades.
But Nabon was only one man, able to be in one place at a time, even with his gift of instantaneous transport across the realm. Everywhere he turned, new fires of unrest and betrayal ignited.
Princess Elise and her arrogant husband Mardoc pressed Rue daily to name her as heir, seeking to displace the rightful successor Clades. They curried favor with scheming nobles to support their attempted coup.
In the east, the warlord Gothreg gathered forces and refused summons to the capital, instead making demands of the king. To the south, crop failures fanned unrest and rebellion among the peasantry.
Most alarmingly, Nabon had intercepted coded messages between Mardoc and the vengeful sorceress Astraroth, though he had not yet divined their full intent. But an alliance between political discontent and magical might could spell catastrophe.
For the first time in his tenure, the sheer magnitude of threats overwhelmed even Nabon's substantial capabilities. He could no longer shore up all fronts at once, and worried Rue did not have years left to weather the coming storm.
Appearing before the king, Nabon kneeled in homage, before rising to convey the grim tidings he bore. Rue listened solemnly, brow furrowed but still emanating wisdom and continuity even as chaos swirled around the throne.
"Loyal Nabon, you have long been a pillar in tempestuous days," Rue said. "I would be lost without your shrewd counsel, and cannot ask more of you than what you already give so freely."
The king gripped Nabon's shoulder with surprising strength. "Stay the course, unbowed by the troubles which rise. Stand stalwart at my side, as you have done for so long, and we shall face the darkness together."
Comforted by Rue's resolute trust, Nabon nodded. There was no question of abandoning his king, whatever perils loomed ahead. He would fight without hesitation to defend Rue's reign against all who threatened it. For monarch and kingdom, Nabon stood ready.
Nabon stood quietly as King Rue absorbed the latest tidings, brow lined with worry. Gothreg's brazen demand to marry the princess and gain a claim to the throne could not be ignored. Yet refusal could mean open war.
"This upstart warlord presumes much, thinking he can dictate terms to his rightful king," Rue said at last. "I have indulged his ambitions too long already."
"He has become drunk on power and sees only weakness in conciliation," Nabon agreed. "But his forces grow stronger daily. An open conflict now would be costly."
Rue sighed. "You speak wisdom as always, my friend. What, then, is your counsel in responding?"
Nabon considered carefully. "Grant him nothing, but provoke no direct confrontation. We must hold him at bay while securing our internal weaknesses."
Nabon hesitated before adding, "There is another matter that may provide an opportunity."
Rue raised an eyebrow. "Speak freely, Nabon."
"Word from your daughter Elena, the imperial noble's wife," Nabon said. "There are whispers that after 13 years of searching, the 47th incarnation of the Imperdex has finally been recovered, the current reincarnation of the first eternal emperor."
Rue's eyes widened. "Can it be true? After 13 fruitless years, the prophesied ruler has been found?"
"Perhaps," Nabon said. "If real, the 47th Imperdex would have uncontested authority over all four kingdoms. Securing alliance could greatly solidify your position."
Rue nodded slowly. "Yes, such an alliance could indeed halt much unrest." He placed a hand on Nabon's shoulder. "Discreetly investigate these whispers. Any substance to them could profoundly change matters."
Bowing deeply, Nabon replied, "None shall learn of this mission but us, my king. Your will shall be done."
He vanished into shadow again, emerging onto a secluded balcony to contemplate this monumental new information. If the prophesied reincarnated ruler had finally been recovered after 13 years of searching, it could reshape the very foundations of power and authority. Much depended on what Nabon discovered next.
***
Rurik paced anxiously in the small side chamber, awaiting the arrival of the king's spymaster. He still hardly believed it when the mysterious Nabon materialized from shadow in the corner, despite Petro's warnings.
"Master Rurik, I presume?" the imposing man greeted. "Captain Petro indicated you have urgent information for the king's ears."
Rurik gathered himself. "Yes, sir. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
He lowered his voice. "Strange events are unfolding in Talheim. I fear Lord Megon cannot handle this alone."
Nabon's gaze sharpened. "What events?"
"A seer's prophecy of doom, mysterious arrivals battling a dragon, political tensions with Lady Dianoia," Rurik listed hurriedly. "Megon struggles to respond adequately."
Nabon stroked his beard thoughtfully. "And you wish the king's intervention?"
"If not that, at least counsel," Rurik implored. "Megon is overwhelmed. For Talheim's sake, we need greater aid or guidance."
Nabon considered him silently as Rurik fidgeted. At last he said, "I will bring this matter to the king's attention. But know that many competing pressures vie for his focus currently."
Rurik's shoulders slumped in relief. "I understand, but thank you. We feel quite adrift from the capital here."
Nabon nodded. "Hold fast. I shall return with any guidance the king can spare."
With that, the spymaster melted back into the shadows, leaving Rurik to hope he had acted wisely in making this appeal. Perhaps they were not wholly alone and forgotten in Talheim after all.
Rurik paced his chambers anxiously as he awaited Nabon's and the king's words. Days had passed since his secret meeting with the spymaster, who had vanished as suddenly as he appeared.
Talheim's plight seemed only to worsen in the meantime. Strange maladies afflicted crops and livestock, stoking superstitious fears among the people. Lord Megon withdrew further into ineffective isolation, leaving Captain Petro and Rurik to manage mounting tensions alone.
Rurik ran a weary hand through his hair. Petro had his hands full training and motivating the demoralized town guard. And Lady Dianoia's cryptic missives to Lord Megon hinted at inserting her own forces into the region soon. Her true motives remained shadowed, but Rurik feared the worst.
A knock interrupted his brooding, and a courier presented an unmarked letter sealed with an intricate sigil. Rurik broke it open hastily and saw it contained coded instructions in Nabon's decisive hand.
The message directed Rurik to discretely investigate an abandoned mountain temple to the northeast under the veil of a spiritual pilgrimage. Rurik puzzled over the mysterious errand but knew better than to question the spymaster's command. The king's interests were not for him to parse.
Burning the letter, Rurik swiftly packed for the journey, leaving word with Petro of his spiritual quest. Whatever answers Nabon sought, Rurik would trust that it could somehow aid Talheim's plight. He prayed that this mission might illuminate a path through their darkening days. The people needed succor, and Rurik would seek it wherever it could be found.
With a last look back at the troubled town, Rurik rode purposefully for the mountains and the abandoned temple. Unforeseen purpose awaited him there.
***
Petro stood atop Talheim's outer wall, scanning the horizon anxiously. Despite all their preparations, the town remained on edge. With Lord Megon withdrawn and Rurik suddenly departed on a spiritual pilgrimage, holding morale steady was proving difficult.
Shouts from the gate guard below interrupted his brooding. Peering down, he saw a decorated carriage arriving under banner of House Glendon. Dread filled Petro as he hastened to the courtyard. Nothing good could come of this visit.
A pale man with a serpentine smile alighted from the carriage and introduced himself as Vicus, envoy of Lady Dianoia. "I come bearing glad tidings," he announced with false warmth. "Additional forces approach in two days time to bolster Talheim's defenses against your prophesied scourge under personal mandate of your lord's betrothed, the Lady Dianoia."
Petro's stomach turned. "Betrothed? Lord Megon has agreed to this?"
"But of course," Vicus said smoothly, producing a contract. "In light of your plight, the lady seeks only to aid the man soon to be her noble husband. Review the terms and rejoice - salvation is nigh."
Numbly accepting the document, Petro searched for some protest. But Vicus and his escort had already departed to establish themselves within the keep. Dread cooling his heart, Petro examined the cunningly worded contract binding Megon to Dianoia irrevocably. And in two days' time, Talheim would be flooded with her forces, not their salvation but subjugation under the guise of security. There was scarce time to act.
Mind racing, Petro hurried to intercept a guard patrol. He must get word to Rurik immediately and hope his friend can obtain outside help before they are all ensnared in Dianoia's web. The wolf was at their door.
Petro burst into the lord's chamber, finding Megon seated gloomily before the fire.
"My lord, Dianoia's envoy has arrived with a contingent of troops and a marriage contract bearing your apparent seal and consent!" Petro exclaimed without preamble.
Megon blinked. "What are you going on about?"
Petro slammed the contract down before him. "This! Vicus claims you agreed to wed Lady Dianoia and allow her forces within our walls!"
Megon's eyes widened as he looked over the documents. "This...this cannot be right. I never agreed..."
"Yet your seal and signature sit plainly here," Petro said. "Did you affix them in your cups perhaps?"
Megon shook his head angrily. "Certainly not! This is outright forgery!"
Petro paced in agitation. "It matters not how they were obtained if Vicus presents them as binding. In two days' time, Dianoia's men will hold Talheim. We must act now!"
But Megon only sank back, resignation across his features. "Act how? I've scarcely left these rooms in weeks. My authority here already fails."
Petro slammed a fist down. "So you would surrender us utterly to her twisted schemes? There must be something!"
Megon turned away. "The matter is out of my hands now. Not even a king's intervention could sway it."
Petro's gut churned with frustration. "My lord, will you not fight for your people if not yourself?"
But Megon had retreated back into dismal silence. Petro departed the chambers bitterly, knowing he alone could not turn this tide. Their fate now rested with Rurik to secure outside salvation before Dianoia's serpents completely closed their coils around Talheim. He only hoped his friend succeeded in time.
***
Aeron trailed after his older brother Tomas through the busy market, dodging townfolk going about their day. Then a raspy voice called out, "You there, boy!"
Aeron turned to see an elderly, disheveled man beckoning him over with a smile. He recognized the wild-eyed prisoner from the dungeons called Kante. Aeron glanced uncertainly at Tomas, who shook his head warily. But Aeron's curiosity won out and he approached the old man.
"No need for fear, I won't bite," Kante chuckled. "What's your name, lad?"
"Aeron, sir. And this is my brother Tomas," he offered when Tom reluctantly drew nearer.
"Honored to make your acquaintance, lads. I'm Kante, as you seem to know already." The old man grinned.
Tomas shifted uncomfortably. "We shouldn't bother the gentleman, Aeron. Let's be going."
But Aeron lingered. "If you're really a great seer, what do you see for Talheim?" he blurted out.
Kante's expression turned solemn. "I see hardship ahead, but also hope, should the right hearts prevail." He looked meaningfully at the boys.
Tomas frowned skeptically. Aeron's eyes shone with awe. "Do you see anything about me in our future?" he asked eagerly.
But Tom gripped his shoulder. "Come away now, Aeron." To Kante he said only, "Good day to you, sir."
Aeron reluctantly allowed himself to be led off, glancing back at the enigmatic Kante. He seemed a kindly soul, not the deranged prisoner Aeron expected. He hoped they might speak again. Kante's words stirred something within him, though he did not yet understand what.
Aeron trailed after his brother through the busy streets, his mind still lingering on the strange encounter with the peculiar man named Kante.
"Why were you so wary of him?" Aeron asked Tomas curiously. "He seemed nice to me."
Tomas shook his head. "Looks can be deceiving, little brother. That was the drunk prophet whose ramblings caused all this unrest to begin with. Who knows what other trouble he might stir up with his cryptic talk?"
Aeron frowned. "But he was locked up this whole time. Maybe he just wanted someone to talk to."
"Or maybe he's searching for impressionable ears to plant more seeds of fear," Tomas countered. "You'd do well not to take him seriously, Aeron."
But Aeron found he could not fully dismiss Kante's words. Hope and hardship ahead...could the old man truly foresee what was to come? And why had he seemed so interested in Aeron specifically?
Aeron decided not to press the issue further with Tomas. His practical brother scoffed at prophecy and portents. But Aeron felt Kante's visions held truth if one could unravel their mystical meanings.
He held the stranger's cryptic statements close, trusting that their significance would reveal itself in due time. Kante had stirred something in Aeron - a flickering sense of destiny he did not fully comprehend yet. But the old prophet's words stayed with him, glimmers of light pointing toward some unknown future. Aeron sensed his path was turning, leading where he could not say. But he would follow where it led.