Rivel gazed out from the castle tower, amused by the mob protesting below.

Riots were a delicate thing for the Tenebri , as even a little spark was enough to make their innate predatorial violence surge in full-blown, and the late King's blood was more than a little spark for the lower castes. Fear plagued their souls, prompting them to demand answers from the impassive guards who stood as motionless sentinels, wishing to have any answers to give. A wry smile spread across Rivel's face. He then chuckled, sipping a cian, bubbling liquid from a silver chalice. He turned, sighing at the sight of his opulent apartments, adorned with mystical tomes and forbidden items. He caressed the book spines, musing:

"Farewell, 'Mysteries of the Arcana', 'Summoning Circles for the Daring', 'Secrets of the Demonic Energies', 'Recipes for the Unknown', and 'Essays on What Lies Beyond'. Goodbye, my dears."

A faint, unknown emotion, even to himself, crossed his eyes as he saw his first incantation, framed on the stone wall:

"I call upon thee,

Oh, great void, I call upon thy name

Fill the crevices of reality

And banish doubt's dark flame

Only certainty lies ahead

Precise, surgical acknowledgment

That thou shalt consume us all, utterly"

He sighed once more at what had to be done. He was saddened, thinking not of family nor friends which he had none, but of the connections he'd lose, the networking he'd built. A short-lived emotion, for in his mind this was but a temporary setback, he'd regain it all now that the clock was set in motion. He donned more comfortable clothing, tied his long hair, and prepared to depart...

...

On the other side of the castle, Lord Malcolm also made preparations. But his were a bit less nostalgic. "Booze! Bring more booze!" He called to the castle's stewardess. The veiled being that barely resembled a woman at all served him with more alcohol without uttering a word. The fierce-looking half-beast looked at where he assumed her eyes were. "You got something to say?"

The figure simply retreated, without turning her back on him, and bowed before exiting the room. Malcolm, seeing himself alone, sniffled and allowed his feelings to come forth. And forth they came; he cried for the late king while still trying hard to stifle his feelings with his hand or drown his wail with more alcohol. But none of it worked, because the guilt was stronger. He got up, slapped himself sober, and walked to his chambers.

A smile broke his stone-like face, though it looked more like a sadistic smirk than anything else due to his ferocious features. The gift can also be a curse when it comes to poisoning oneself. He looked around his room, a warm and cozy little thing. He could've asked for a bigger, more luxurious place, but he didn't want to be far from the barracks. He knew his strength lay with his men; a general without an army is nothing but a buffoon. He lay on his bed and observed his trophies of war, the great axe he took from the chief of an underground mundane tribe that dug a bit too deep for their own sake, and he recalled how he had to break the chief's little fragile fingers to get them off the dead grip that clutched the axe.

He closed his eyes, but all that came was war, suffering, and fire. The screams of mundane women crying for their husbands, and hordes of Tenebri smirking at the enemy's regiment while eating the limbs of their dead brothers-in-arms. He saw how, ages ago, when he was only a plain soldier, he had snuck past the walls of a well-defended city (well-defended against attackers lacking intellect, that is) after threatening a citizen with his kidnapped daughter. They got inside the city and slaughtered them all, the kid first. Tonight's another sleepless night.

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He opened his eyes. Sometimes he wondered if they were monsters, corrupted beings. Sometimes he thought that the only way this would end was when the last of the mundanes fell flat on his blood, with a towering figure shrouded in a purplish aura of hatred holding the sword— Himself.

He stood up and opened a secret compartment in his bed frame, then in a desperate gesture, he sacked all the jewelry he had stashed with both hands, stuffing it beneath the folds of his gambeson, trying to conceal them. He could not lose; the Tenebri could not afford him to give up. Entire families destroyed, no. The fate of his entire race rested on his shoulders. Another sleepless night. He walked towards the door...

Inside the meeting room, a secret reunion was being held. Unofficial and secretive, like their dark and mysterious city. The mist that always enveloped the Underground's capital leaked inside the room and fell upon the shoulders of the attendees. The real rulers of the capital, the secret factions that decided the fate of the entire race, were standing shoulder to shoulder. The abyssal maid was also there, but the man who had pointed a finger at her was nowhere to be seen, nor would he be ever seen again...

At the center of the room was a magical circle, its blue glow the only light in the room, and inside it were both Rivel and Malcolm. A hooded robe hid the grotesque shape of the Tenebri who was in the room, but the voice that came was easily distinguishable. The royal steward addressed them:

"It has been decided by your factions that only one path can be taken and that only the strongest and sagacious of the Tenebri may choose that path. The late king was not such. You might not be either. Now, you'll be sent onto a path where only one might return. You will be sent, unarmed and unarmored, with no precious items other than your own experience."

He looked at Malcolm intently. He was not wearing any armor now, and he looked at his feet, embarrassed by his poor attempt to cheat. Rivel laughed deeply at the General's blushed face. "To the unknown continent. No Tenebri has ever touched that part of the world, for the Gods themselves have forbidden it. A place where the threads of fate become unwound and fragile, and no magic can foretell or spy the events that happen there. You have both been given half the required coordinates to return here safely. I would advise you, more for the here present who have not been trained in the arts of teleportation than for you, not to end your life short in a petty attempt to crack the coordinates without the other trial participant's sigil. You will be exposed to unnumerable dangers, tribes of mundanes unbound by the treaty's rules, poor children who've been driven mad by the Gift, and even nature might show her bare teeth at you in your struggle for survival."

Both champions nodded, they knew what they were facing. Whatever little there was to know, anyway. They couldn't assume that those Tenebri on the unknown country would side with them, even if they'd retained their sapience. The circle's patterns started swirling and humming. The Abyssal maid shot Malcolm a stern glance and said:

"Lord Malcolm. We placed all our trust in you. Lead our people to glory eternal. Do not fail us. May Kramathor be your guide."

The glow started to intensify as the patterns swirled faster. Rivel raised his eyebrows and looked towards the crowd expectantly. The high priest stepped forward, his bird-like beak and eyes too small for a human-sized head made him quite conspicuous.

"Rivel, my friend. I don't need to emphasize how much we'll miss you, nor do I need to do overly long salutations because I know you'll be back. Zardoz will make sure of it!" He smiled to himself. "Besides, who's going to tend the temple in my absence if you disappear in the unknown country, eh?"

Before Rivel could give a piece of his mind to the old priest, and before he even noticed Malcolm's jealousy at this much warmer exchange, they both vanished into the unknown. Little did they know that the royal steward had lots of plans set in motion, plans that did not include them, and only the joyous glitter in his eye betrayed: "Be on your merry way, and take as long as you want. I'll take the utmost care of Erebus in your absence, for how could this humble servant take time off when the young Lords are doing so much?"