image [https://i.imgur.com/6ly8fEH.png]

CHAPTER XVIII:

The Hellflayer Returns

It was early morning, and wolen were out to fetch water, and clean their family's clothing. They moved with serenity and grace, adorned in satin robes of many colors, some veiling their faces. The narrow alleyways were russet and copper in color, with boxes and barrels lining the darkened sandstone streets. Besides a few bleating sheep and cuckooing roosters, the entire city felt hushed. The sultan's guard walked the streets, keeping a watchful eye over the errand-runners. In addition to this, the merchants and apothecaries were beginning to open their stalls and shops, but there was little speaking.

In the distance, there was a faint noise. Clank, clunk, clank, clunk, clunk. It was dull, and then became sharper and sharper... it was the sound of marching. Ceramics, metals, and other goods adorning the stalls and trading stands of the streets began to shake, louder, and louder. The hush became a great silence as tension began to grip the air, so much so, that it seemed to draw the breath out of everyone who happened to be awake in Nabirah on that fateful day.

Suddenly, the clinking and shifting of armor was eclipsed by the blast of the Fioran trumpeteers and drummers, as they began to play the fanfare. Children took to the roofs, climbing up rafters and gutters to get a glimpse outside of the city to see what the commotion was. Their eyes beheld a trail of shining black armor, like a slithering, freshly shed cobra, stretching down the crownroad, into the city.

A turbaned, bronze len quickly unlatched the palace door, and took to one of the several balcony. In his hand he carried a golden telescope, and quickly began to use it to expand his vision, scan beyond the city. He peered across the lagoon, Zyla's Cradle, which served as a moat around the Sultan's keep, as well as its source of life. The lagoon served as the respite of the otherwise impossible settlement, its water seemingly endlessly flowing from beneath the surface, giving vital life-blood to the Nur people.

The len adjusted the telescope further to behold the same sight that the children did... however, he, being a learned len, identified the vicious draconic crest adorning the crimson banners that this army traveled with. The fioran legions had finally arrived into the heart of the Sultanate.

The len lowered the scope as he felt the gentle caress of a wolen's hands slip between his fingers, clasping his. He felt the sequined triangle-cut of her immaculate silk dress, as he turned to lay eyes on his lover, the Sultan's daughter, Princess Kaida Al-Amin. He turned to her, leaning in to kiss her cheek, before handing her the telescope, which she took and began to peer through herself.

"...Yol save us... Yol save our people." She lamented. "...The barbarians arrive."

She embraced him and continued. He raised the scope back up, trying to resume his work.

"... Never, my love... even in the great wars that our ancestors waged, had the savages pressed so deep into our desert. This is... a sign. An omen of the end."

Kaida put her hand on the telescope and pushed it down, slowly, and turned to behold Zalman's face. She knew he was unnerved, but he was not shaken, not like she was.

"Will you fight them?"

"...Not today..." Said Zalman. He turned to look the forbidden wolen he so desired and stared deeply through the portcullis of her soul. "But you never know. One can only hope, my rose."

Kaida blushed, and placed her soft hand on his cheek, and kissed him.

Suddenly, a sound came from behind them, the sound of another glass door unlatching. The palm fronds were disturbed by the displacement of air as it swung open, and Zalman panicked, retracting from Kaida as fast as he could.

"Morning." He said in is squeaky, reserved voice.

The antiquated, red an white parlor tile beneath them slightly shook as the Sultan hobbled over, and leaned against the railing, with his own telescope, his more ornate, causing both Kaida and Zalman to double-take, as he pushed his way through what little neutral space they had left each other in the rush to appear "normal".

"My Sultan..." Zalman said, uncomfortably, desperately trying to shift the conversation, hoping to divert any suspicion his lord might have had over the jump-scare.

"...was this truly the best course of action," He asked, a bead of sweat barreling down his brow. "For the better part of the decade, the Fiorans have been pressing into the interior of our sands. You did not resist them, and now you invite them right into the capital..."

"Yes, I did, Zalman," Said Sultan Fazil Al-Amin, who was compacting his telescope, and tucking it into a pocket on his person. "I am surprised you find it so strange, a len of your intelligence,"

The Sultan looked around the balcony, admiring it for a moment.

"Oh, but you are young,"

Both Kaida and Zalman were noticeably unnerved, trying to conceal it.

"Blease." Fazil said, as he turned to the two. "Do not be alarmed."

"Baba, why would you willingly bring these damn savages inside our holy city!"

"Kaida!!" Fazil said loudly, reprimanding her. "Calm yourself."

His plain-faced daughter grit her teeth and clutched her fists. Fazil was unhappy, but the sight of her always disarmed him.

"...You mistrust trust me, Kaida." He said, grasping both of her hands with his, then turning to Zalman moments later.

"...Twelve, maybe fourteen." Said Zalman, who was once again examning the incoming cohort. "It is a remarkably large force to bring for... a summons."

"Zat is because ze Venrex's son is here."

"The Venrex's son?" Zalman said, flabbergasted, looking around toward Kaida who was equally disturbed, with her hand on her chin, pondering her father's words. Both could no longer hide their unease.

"Y-you... invited Daryusz Gormacar...?" Kaida jumped in, stepping toward her father.

"...He goes by Venzicar now." Zalman interjected, in a teaching tone. "Their Emperor adopted him as his son, after the prince surrendered his true father's crown and throne to that accursed ven-lord."

Kaida grew restless and somewhat rageful.

"...His own father. Do you not see, baba?!" She bellowed. "These... barbarians. They relish the chance to cut a throat."

"Kaida..." The Sultan said, trying to tame her. "You do not know ze len at all, but I do,"

"Do you." Said Kaida.

"You are too young to remember ze King of Fiora's funeral. You were just a little lenning holding my hand when we last saw him,"

Suddenly, the faintest memory of the funeral, where Daryusz coming down the stairs of the great white castle, flooded Kaida's mind. She remembered the music, and the smell of incense... and the young len, stone-faced, bearing his father's casket. It was the first funeral she could remember.

"What is ze broblem anyway?" Said Fazil. "He is a fine young len, and he will be fair to sbeak with,"

"Fair?" Said Kaida in fiery protest. "Zis is fair? Zis is intimidation, baba!"

"Oh blease." Said the Sultan in quick reply, walking over to the railing and placing his hands on it. "You worry too much, too much my child."

"...You two, like the dance, no?"

Zalman immediately froze and tried to avert his eyes, appearing normal. Kaida turned flush.

"W-what do you mean?" Kaida responded. "Of course, I-I... love to dance, I've been doing it since I was a little girl baba."

"No, I meant..." The Sultan continued. "You both like to dance, I've seen you on zis very balcony."

Zalman was petrified, frozen with fear, it felt like a flurry of arrows had all pierced his stomach, causing his heart to sink. Beads of sweat began to form. He nervously, but quietly cleared his throat,

The Sultan began to grin.

"Well," He said. "Bolitics... is like a dance. Sometimes you lead and sometimes you will follow. Other times, we watch others dance, to observe their... techniques,"

Zalman was still in shock and disarray. The Sultan turned his sly eye toward his servant.

"Today, we observe,"

The Sultan made his leave back into the palace, with his white silk robe trailing behind him.

As the Sultan receded into the palace, his words lingering in the air, the balcony fell into a momentary hush. Zalman, still reeling from his master's veiled comments, tried to regain his composure. Kaida, her face a mix of relief and lingering concern, watched her father's retreating figure. They both knew that the day ahead would be one of significant change and potentially grave consequences. They knew for almost certain now that Fazil knew about their forbidden romance. Zalman believed in his heart that he may not live to wake to see the next day... his dancing with Kaida violated several sacred commandments from the Nur-Yidi, for the dancing required him to touch the princess. They spent the rest of the day in terror.

As the hours past, the city of Nabirah, no longer wrapped in the morning tranquility, was awakened. The narrow streets, lined with darkened sandstone and vibrant stalls, were filled with the daily bustle of merchants and townspeople. The air, once filled with the hushed sounds of morning routines, now resonated with the increasing clatter of activity.

As the Flamestar climbed higher, casting longer shadows through the alleyways, the distant sound of marching grew louder. The clank and clunk of armor became a rhythmic drumbeat. The citizens of Nabirah, curious and apprehensive, gathered along the streets and peered from windows and rooftops, their eyes drawn to the spectacle unfolding before them. Daryusz and his legions marched and marched with no break in pace, hauling the red banner, which made an eerie and unnerving sound as its heavy material flapped in the wind.

As they made it toward the edge, they trailed themselves around the crescent-shaped lagoon. Daryusz looked up to see the city's own great spires. They bore a cultural integrity that Daryusz couldn't articulate, but missed. It reminded him of course of the port city of Bizrya, where their cultures had clashed and melded for a millenia. It most importantly reminded him of the charm that Fioranz used to bear, with its trade mark red tiled roofs accenting each towering building. While it still possessed some of these, in the last decade, those spires gave way to new edifices, which were often black, or slate. A symbol of the grip of the city now being the epicenter of Venganzi culture and influence in the world. In a split moment, Daryusz' eyes were as if they were his own as a child once more. One of the spires appeared to him like one of the white-marble towers of his youth, with seagulls circling it. He shook the memory off quickly, and with a determined pace, kept marching.

As they had finally reached the other side of the Cradle, the palace stood before them, and its gates were already opened on the Sultan's orders. As their formations began to pour inside the Palace's keep, Daryusz made a hand signal, which left all but the first legion behind him to hold their position inside the Palace walls. Daryusz then removed his helmet and handed it to his adjutant. It was an ornate helmet forged in a blackened metal, accented with gold.

Stepping inside the palace, Daryusz was immediately enveloped by an blend of scents. The air was rank with the rich scent of incense, which faintly trailed through the grand halls, evoking a sense of ancient rituals and time-honored traditions. Mingling with this were the tantalizing aromas of delectable foods being prepared in the royal kitchens. The scents of exotic spices and herbs, slowly simmered meats, and freshly baked breads filled the air, igniting the sense of feasting fit for royalty. His legionnaires, normally despondent, couldn't help but break their expressions with the promise of a fine meal for them that evening. Daryusz was impressed. It was not like the cobwebbed, vacant, marbled halls of Castle Fiora, which Daryusz had only known for the latter part of his adolescence. This place, was brimming with life, he thought to himself. It welcomed him and his len. After several days of hard marching, where Daryusz felt nothing but contempt for the country, he finally felt like he was amidst a place he was rightfully entitled to.

The palace itself was a marvel of ancient Noor ingenuity. It was designed to harness the gentle kiss of the breeze from Zyla's Cradle. The refreshing breeze meandered through the open archways and spacious courtyards, bringing with it the subtle freshness of the lagoon. It was a natural air current, soft and cooling, a welcome respite from the desert heat. This breeze carried with it a faint, almost ethereal moisture, imbuing the palace with a life-affirming essence that contrasted with the arid landscape outside its walls.

Every element within the palace, from the flowing draperies that danced lightly in the breeze to the ornately decorated chambers that resonated with the quiet hum of conversation and clinking of fine dinnerware, was a testament to the grandeur and sophistication of the Sultanate. It was a place where the rugged beauty of the desert met the refined elegance of the court, creating an ambiance of exotic luxury and serene opulence.

The great gates of the Sultan's court, massive and ornate, stood closed – a barrier between the city's heart and the approaching force. Daryusz Gormacar, now known as Venzicar, stood outside them, finally reaching the apex of the great sandstone steps. His towering figure, clad in shining black armor, was a stark contrast against the ancient Nur gates. The morning light glinted off his armor, casting reflections that danced across the surrounding walls. His braided hair had undone itself somewhere along on the journey, and now was a long mess of greasy black locks.

As he stood before the door, five guards instinctually approached the door as to help him. His adjutant waved them off, smirking. With a deep breath, Daryusz stepped forward, his hands reaching for the heavy gates. His legions stood at the ready, with the murmuring crowds of courtiers, viziers, and other nobles taking notice. Their faces were almost lifeless, grizzled, in unquestioning loyalty and reflected an indifference to life and death, let alone the indifference to the history that was being made. In a display of raw strength, Daryusz pushed against the gates. The antiquated wood and metal gears shifted and clanked along as he groaned under the duress. His muscles tensed, his face set in a grimace of exertion. He grunted as he single-handedly forced the gates open. The murmuring intensifed after he had accomplished this feat of strength, which usually required at least three len to open.

The sound of the gates swinging open echoed through the streets, a clear signal of the imperial presence and their power. Daryusz stepped through, his expression one of determination, yet the effort had taken its toll, betraying a hint of vulnerability beneath his formidable exterior. He was huffing and puffing, but did not skip a beat in demonstrating his vigor.

Inside the court, the Sultan's advisors and guards tensed, their eyes fixed on the imposing figure now standing within their domain. He began to take small, measured steps, clinking his black greaves as he did. Suddenly, a mob of them stood in front of him, clamoring to themselves a bit, pointing and speaking in their native tongue. Daryusz obliviously tried to keep walking, but the shouting got louder, and they pointed to the sheathed sword on his hip.

"They want you to disarm, my lord." His adjutant said.

"Oh," Daryusz said. He slowly began to undo his sheath belt, and took off the great black casing, and handed it also to his adjutant. It was a black hilt, with a ruby at its center, with another in the pommel. It was just a bit wider and larger compared to the standard issue Fioran sabres, even sheathed. The guards marveled at it as he tossed it, intrigued by it. The adjutant's eyes seemed to light up with concern for its care as he took it, and began to handle it delicately. He then raised his hands to show he was unarmed, and kept walking.

The court was immaculate. The small windows that sat in the highest part of the great towering walls reflacted hues of light blue and white throughout the court. There were dancers, waving sash, and skilled musicians playing their instruments. It was lively and pleasing to the eyes.

The meeting was set – a convergence of politics, power, and agenda. In this arena, every gesture, every word would carry weight and meaning, shaping the delicate balance of power between the Sultanate of Nur and the Fioran Empire. No northern banner had ever reached the heart of the Nabi desert since ages forgotten, let alone Nabirah.

"His majesty, Sultan Fazil Al-Amin, the second of his name." The herald bellowed, causing the music to slowly fade.

Daryusz stood, inhaling and exhaling hard through his nostrils. Finally, he gave a small nod, not a full bow. Many of the courtiers took notice and the murmuring continued.

"Welcome, Brince Daryusz Venzicar of Fiora," Said the herald loudly, which caused the murmuring of the crowd around the throne to continue. "He is the-"

"I will introduce myself," Said Daryusz clearing his throat.

The Sultan shifted in his seat, intrigued, as he scanned the mighty len who stood before him.

"Blease."

"I am Lord Daryusz Venzicar" He said, with increasing bass in his voice. "I am the heir to the Fioran throne. I am an accomplished gladiator, and Alpha of the Hellfangs.... and"

Daryusz took up his canteen and doused his head with water, and shook his long black hair to get the excess out. He then scanned the crowd, looking to see if they were paying him any mind.

"I am... the Hellflayer."

The murmuring continued, but Daryusz was somewhat disturbed as to why it didn't alarm them as much as it had elsewhere when he had used the title.

The Sultan leaned toward Zalman.

"The... who?" He said.

"Alflayir." Zalman said, without hesitation. "Alflayir, lord."

Zalman turned to other servants and the whisper transferred through the crowd like an electric current.

When it was clarified, the mention of "Alflayir" did stun the court.

Sultan Fazil, maintaining his composure, regarded Daryusz with a measured gaze. He then began to speak in broken Old Fioran, the ancient language of the Fioran court."...Very good... Alflayir, we have heard much of thee. Thy works are known across many kingdoms. Prince Daryusz Venzicar. I appreciate that thou come to Nabirah on this day."

Zalman looked to Fazil who gave him a look of approval. He stepped down from his chair and began to pace, stroking his beard. Then he opened his mouth and spoke in perfect Fioran, with not even the slightest tinge of accent, speaking to his experience and education.

"The Sultan's court must say, however... that we did not expect so many legions to accompany thee?"

Daryusz, standing tall in his imposing armor, glanced around the court, his eyes briefly meeting those of the Sultan. "They are... em... my personal guard. As you asked me to, I have come with the blessing of the Venrex."

Daryusz pulled out a letter from his breastplate, and tried to hand it to the Sultan, when several guards rapidly drew their scimitars, blocking his ascent. The aggression seemed to delight Daryusz for a moment.

"Uh," Said Daryusz. "I just wanted to give you the letter back,"

The Sultan waved off the guards, and beckoned Daryusz up to the throne. He then took the parchment and waved Daryusz back down the carpeted steps.

"Yes, our apologies..." Zalman said, waving them to lower their swords. He began to pace again. "There is the first order of business, Lord Venzicar."

A murmur of interest swept through the court. Zalman leaned forward slightly. "Again, your assistance in these matters is much appreciated, and your presence is welcome here..."

Daryusz bowed again.

"But we must be foward then. Among several regrettable grievances between our nations, we are concerned about the influx of your coins flooding our markets. Our own are losing their value, as your merchants rarely accept them, and when they do, they instead melt them down for reuse, drying up our own supply against what our mints can reproduce."

Daryusz, not known for his acumen, reached into his person again and produced another neatly folded parchment, he opened it, and began to read it as fast as he could. Murmuring filled the court and the silence became palpably awkward. Then, he replied rather bluntly, "The uh... coins are a sign of our commitment to peace and prosperity in the region, and... until our... peacekeeping forces... uh, created a presence? here? You had problems with... with... ma... raowd..."

Daryusz reduced his volume to a mouse's whisper, trying not to

"Marauders?" Zalman injected.

"Yeah, Mowradders." Daryusz replied. "That's what I meant. Mowradders."

Zalman, observing from a discreet distance, noted the shaky sophistication in Daryusz's response. It was well thought out, and was clearly not written of his own hand. Both he and the Sultan were illuminated that he read a pre-written response. They now were quite sure a game was afoot.

"Forgive me," Zalman said, looking at his fine, jewel-encrusted, pointed shoes. "...But are these Daryusz Venzicar's words? Or... the Venrex's?"

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Daryusz felt a tinge of resentment fill him as the prewritten answer was clearly not good enough for the Nur officer.

"No, this sounds like..." Zalman said. "The hand of your Governor... Grazzli, is it?"

Daryusz scanned the parchment again for a minute, having to bring it close to his eyes with both hands.

"...Everywhere Fiora touches... uh... prosperity increases, law and order follows, and... the peace is kept."

He looked up at Zalman, satisfied at what he had just read aloud.

"Pardon," The officer said, looking to the Sultan, who gave him another nod as to proceed. "The Sultan's court does not agree with this statement."

The silence was awkward again.

"Uh," Daryusz said, nervously coughing a bit. "...until our legions came in to protect trade, you were losing a lot to those..."

"Marauders." Zalman said again, concealing an air of arrogance.

Daryusz ignored the comment and kept speaking. "You had problems with-"

"Marauders." Zalman said again, this time grinning with a fake courtesy, thinking he had checked Daryusz already.

"I was going to say pirates." Said Daryusz, who was now smirking himself. "Actually,"

Zalman and he shared a strange moment of joined humor.

"But now, they fear our lances," Said Daryusz. "Our falconet."

Zalman's demeanor changed to a more serious tone at the mention of that horrible weapon.

"Yes, and that is precisely part of the problem." He said. "Indeed, you have put fear into many here. Including wolen and children. The Sultan's people."

Daryusz didn't know what to say. The comment didn't unnerve or even concern him. A byproduct of the many years he had been hardened by constant violence.

"In addition to this, your... economic treaties with us have not loosened up the barriers of trade between our two nations. You, of course, in keeping with your... tradition... still treat our people poorly in our city of shared heritage, Bizrya. You have instead loosed thieves, pilferers, and tomb robbers into our sands, instead of paying tribute."

Daryusz still knew not what to say.

The Sultan, picking up on Daryusz's discomfort with carrying out court politics, decided to steer the conversation toward the pressing issue and expanded upon it. "Yes, I summon thee because of zis matter... There have been trouble by robbery and desecration. Madrasa has been robbed, and many troubles come shortly after this... The Den of Glory and Excellence, another of our... sacred space, was desecrate. This is of great concern."

"Madrasa?" Daryusz asked.

"A word you could use is, school." Zalman said. "Not much unlike your Fioran Academy."

Daryusz nodded, his expression hardening. "Okay. Yes. I am here to help,"

"Splendid" Said Fazil. "Tonight, thou will enjoy all of ze delights of my kingdom. Tomorrow, you and trusted Zalman here, will go to Alnujum."

"Alnujum?" Daryusz asked again.

"...It is a valley sacred to us." Zalman said in his teaching tone. "The Cradle Valley, The Valley of the Stars. It is a secret place. Hard to find, across the endless desert. It is... a graveyard for our ancestors and, a resting place for the many precious artifacts of our people. It is where Yol's tears ran down the sacred tree and created lybankind, where our Priestess, Hal. Zyla, was blessed of Yol to guide us through the Hazz Al-Lail Al-Azali... The walk through the long night, our most sacred holy day."

After a few moments, the Sultan raised his hands and clapped, and the exotic music picked up.

"We will speak further... after we eat." Zalman said, leaning in towards Daryusz, raising his voice over the music.

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The palace dining hall was filled the cacophony of dining sounds. The clinking of glass and silverware filled the ears of every guest. Servants, adept in their tasks, glided effortlessly between the tables, their movements almost choreographic in nature. They carried platters heaped with an array of sumptuous dishes, each a masterpiece of Nur cuisine, from delicately spiced meats to an assortment of exotic fruits and vegetables, and of course, dates, all arranged in an enticing display.

At the heart of the hall was the long, ornate dining table, around which sat the officers of the Fioran legions. They had removed their armor and sat with their sleeves rolled up in their fine tunics. They presented a striking contrast to the more traditionally attired members of the Sultan's court. The officers, had abandoned their normally disciplined posture and sharp, calculated movements, which commanded an air of authority and respect. Their presence was undone by the accoutrements of the fine dinner. They ate as hearty as lions.

Above the the hall, the officers engaged in conversations, their voices a blend of revelries and camaraderie. The juxtaposition of the Sultan's own advisors and dignitaries, seated at adjacent tables, provided a vivid clash of the cultural and political differences present within the room. The Sultan's advisors, dressed in rich fabrics, turbans, and adorned with intricate jewelry, conversed among themselves, their eyes occasionally drifting towards the Fioran officers, assessing and analyzing their foreign guests.

The great hall itself was a spectacle of opulence and history. The high vaulted ceilings were adorned with intricate mosaics depicting scenes from the Sultanate's storied past. Braziers hung from the walls, casting a warm, golden light that bathed the hall in an inviting glow. Tapestries and banners lined the walls, each telling a tale of conquest, peace, or prosperity.

Daryusz sat at the center of the table. Zalman sat across from him, chewing slowly, observing his counterpart. Daryusz spoke to no one, and was focusing only on his meal. Suddenly, the dining len of the Sultanate, lead by Zalman, wiped his mouth with the fine napkin and threw it in his lap. They then rose to their feet, abruptly. The Fioran officers followed.

"Excuse ze interruption, ze Princess, Kaida Al-Amin, has come to dine," A palace guard spoke. The Sultanate's len bowed and waited for her to sit. She wore a fine purple garb of satin, with her belly exposed. It was sequined and encrusted with jewels. The Fioran officers took a look at her and it didn't take long for them to shift their attention back to their own affairs, uninterested in her, many sitting and returning to their meals before she had sat down. Daryusz didn't even notice. He just kept eating.

Noticing she was eyeing his place, the guard who sat next to Zalman stood up and vacated the spot at the table, quickly gathering his plate and silverware. He shouted something to one of the servants, who was serving more food to the table. He grabbed his attention, ostensibly telling that servant to bring fresh plates and bowls.

Zalman and Kaida nervously looked at one another for a moment, but turned away as if they didn't know each other. The dinner was loud. After a moment, Zalman raised his voice.

"Lord Venzicar, this is the Sultan's daughter."

Daryusz looked up at her, nodded, chewing. He waved and then returned to focus on the meal.

Zalman and Kaida looked at each other once again. Kaida blinked as she thought of what to say. Servants were already placing her tablesetting in front of her.

"So, how do you find our food?" Kaida asked determinedly.

Daryusz looked up at her. He nodded and raised his hand, giving a thumbs-up.

In the bustling atmosphere of the dining hall, Princess Kaida Al-Amin, seizing the opportunity, leaned forward slightly, her gaze fixed on Daryusz. "It's a pleasure to have you dine with us, Lord Venzicar. Your journey must have been arduous. How do you find our city compared to those in your country?"

Daryusz, still focusing on his meal, paused briefly. He looked up, his eyes meeting Kaida's for a fleeting moment. "It's different," he said, his voice betraying a hint of nostalgia mixed with indifference. "But I like it, I guess."

Kaida, sensing the brevity in his response, pressed on, her voice laced with a mix of curiosity and subtle interrogation. She feigned pleasantries as she reached for the bottle of wine, putting on her finest mask of royalty and cosmopolitan charm. "I love Fioranz... that is, what I can remember of it."

She poured the wine into the goblet and looked up at Zalman, who nodded and reached his out for a refill.

She then turned to Daryusz, who looked at it and shook his head before taking another heaping spoonful of the soup before him.

"I was only zere once, as a little girl. What about you, Zalman?" She asked.

"Well," He said, licking his lips, savoring the wine's flavor, swirling the goblet. "...That's where I studied the language. I earned a scholarship as a youth, after word of my... academic prowess reached the Sultan's ears as a youth."

Daryusz, putting down his utensils, wiped his mouth with a napkin. He glanced at Zalman before replying, "You sound like us. You really do."

Zalman turned to Kaida, seeking to spin the gears of their conversational gambit.

"And, where did you learn Fioran?" He asked, wiping his hands like a gentlelen.

"Of course I am tutored here." She said, sipping her drink with her delicate bronzed hands. "I like it."

Kaida's eyes narrowed slightly, trying to read between the lines of his succinct answers. She decided to probe further. "So, Lord Venzicar, you are in our country to help us find your... lost... dogs?"

Daryusz's expression hardened. "Sure," he responded, his voice low and steady. He then picked up his utensils and resumed eating, clearly indicating his reluctance to delve into deeper conversation. "We'll stop that. Don't worry. But, uh, I think the word you were looking for was puppies. Yeah. Lost puppies. Ran off the uh, cord... you know."

Daryusz sat with a face and words desperately trying to command their respect from his boldness.

"...Indeed," Zalman's eyes widened in disbelief for Daryusz' lack of loquaciousness. He turned to Kaida with a glance of disbelief which they both shared at his bumbling manners. "Right off the leash."

"Yeah, the leash," Said Daryusz. "That's what I meant."

Zalman and Kaida enjoyed a faint smile.

"Princess, please forgive me, but we should not burden our meal with heavy talk such as this."

They both rose to their feet, and Zalman wiped his hands again, reaching out to shake Daryusz' own. After a moment, he obliged.

"Lord Venzicar, the Sultan hopes your stay here will be comfortable and enlightening. Everything that is within his power to share, he will. You need ask and we shall try and fulfill your requests. Your len are free to supp and stay in the palace, we have vacated a barracks for them. And you... will sleep in a guest suite that has already been prepared for you."

Daryusz looked up at Zalman, still eating, and nodded again.

"Please, though, I must insist you do not retire to your bed until we have spoken. We must discuss the plans, for tomorrow."

Daryusz waved and waved again, still eating. He was clearly becoming somewhat annoyed at the conversation.

Zalman took a hint, and left with the princess.

Kaida, lamenting that Daryusz was not going to divulge more, sighed inwardly. She turned her attention to Zalman, her mind racing with thoughts and unanswered questions. The dinner behind them continued amidst the clatter of cutlery and the low hum of conversations, but Kaida's mind was elsewhere, pondering the true intentions behind the Fioran legions' presence in their lands.

As the evening wore on, the diners gradually dispersed. The palace was now dark, and quiet. In one dimly lit cooridor Zalman, and Kaida were alone, embracing.

"...I don't want to say it, my love." Kaida said, resting her head in his chest.

"Say what?" Zalman inquired.

"...But I will," She continued. "Baba... he's... he's not well,"

"Well, he did let me question the savages rather firmly," Zalman continued. "He gave me his blessing to press them. And you saw. I did."

"Yes but..." She continued, somewhat tearing up. "It's so strange. He's acting so strange."

"...I have to agree, I do not see through his ruse, if this is one," Zalman continued, releasing Kaida, and looking at her in the eyes.

"I think... it's time." He said, slowly, averting his eyes.

She looked at him dreamily, in disbelief. They both said nothing.

"...But you have orders now," She expressed.

"Yes, I do." Zalman replied. "And, when I return from this, we will leave."

She looked deeply in his eyes, shifting between one and the other.

"...You mean it?" She asked, swiftly becoming fiery. "Don't play with me, Zalman."

"I mean it, my rose." He said, embracing her once more. "I have made the arrangements."

Zalman sighed deeply.

"...We both know this cohort will be staying." He continued. "Long term. The good news is... that... Camel-brain will probably go home,"

Kaida said nothing.

"...Where will we go?" She asked, her mind racing with possibilities.

"...I hear that the Ihitan islands are breathtaking under the Havenstar. The white sands cascading off of the blue and purple hues of the star's light. It's considered to be very... romantic."

She looked at him with glossed eyes and smiled, she then leaned into his chest.

----------------------------------------

Upstairs, in a luxuriously appointed suite at the top of the palace, Daryusz sat hunched over in a plush velvet chair. The room was bathed in warm light from ornate chandeliers that hung from the high ceiling, casting soft glows on the opulent décor. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of historical grandeur, while the floor was covered with thick, intricately woven rugs. An expansive window offered a breathtaking view of the palace grounds, the starlight adding a serene touch to the lush lagoon below. The room was furnished with a mix of elegance and comfort, featuring a large, ornate desk laden with scrolls and ink, a comfortable sitting area with luxurious sofas and chairs. He sat at the desk, and in his hands was the letter from his betrothed, Síbela. He continued to read it over and over, tracing her handwriting, imagining her flawless hands and breathtaking beauty while penning it.

Daryusz slumped in the chair, his gaze unfocused, drifting towards the letter on the desk. Once a source of joy and determination, it now seemed to cast a shadow over his features. His fingers tapped restlessly on the velvet armrest. The mention of Íbolín in the letter gnawed at him for days, stirring a sea of confusion. Why bring up a name they had both agreed to leave in the past? His brows furrowed, as a storm of doubts and suspicions flooded him, that he could not articulate. He couldn't think much beyond this, but his follow up thoughts also tormented him. Wasn't she the one who always told him to put the past behind them? To forget Íbolín once and for all?

Daryusz couldn't help but feel the sinking feeling like something was wrong with his wife to-be.

Then, a knock came on the door.

"Lord Venzicar, may I have a word with you in private?" Zalman asked.

Daryusz, turned to look at the door. "Sure," he said, tossing the letter on the pile of his effects on the bed as he stood up.

He opened the door and beheld the captain, who was remarkably already dressed in most of his armor. Zalman looked past his shoulder and raised his open palm, nonverbally requesting to enter. Daryusz obliged, and moved over.

"Forgive me for coming this late... I was held up." He said.

"Why are you in your armor already?" Daryusz probed.

"We have a tough journey ahead. No matter what, we are running toward problems, Lord Venzicar. I prepare early, and I prepare thoroughly. I will not sleep much tonight."

"You can call me Daryusz." He replied, interrupting him.

Zalman was taken off guard, but smiled pleasantly at the gesture.

"...Sure. Well then, Daryusz," He proceeded. "I must discuss something with you. I wanted to ask you at court, but I didn't think it was appropriate. I didn't want the Sultan nor any of the audience to feel unnerved."

Daryusz simply stared at Zalman.

"...You're not the Hellflayer, are you."

Daryusz suddenly flickered with emotion.

"I AM the Hellflayer." He said, commanding more bass in his voice, flexing his muscles and raising his great stature over the far more humbly sized Zalman.

"I see, I see..." Zalman said, unperturbed at the attempt at bravado. "You see... I just thought that... the Hellflayer was someone else."

Daryusz's eyes were becoming black and beady, ever so slightly. He clenched his fist.

"You know, the Hellflayer's identity has long been a mystery." He said. "When we heard of Alflayir, this whirlwind of death who blew through your country ten years ago... we thought it was just propaganda."

Daryusz still could do nothing but stare down Zalman, doubling down on his claim.

"...But I am here to say, I have seen with my own eyes, Alflayir."

Daryusz turned to his things which were cast upon the bed, and began shuffling them around, until under his cloak and other things, was the black, sheathed sword with the rubied hilt and pommel.

He took the sheathed blade and offered it to Zalman.

"Oh," Daryusz responded firmly. "Then you have seen the Hellflayer's sword, then."

Zalman took the sword, intrigued. His eyes widened as he examined it. His mind was whisked away to the Hall of the Seeing Stones, and the vision he beheld of the masked Hellflayer, carving through scores of soldiers during the wars of revolution. The pommel bore the strange ruby which held the viscous fluid within. When he beheld it closely, he couldn't help but feel as if he saw the visages of... len inside. It startled him, as he stumbled backward, just slightly. Daryusz smiled as he did.

"Draw it," Daryusz beckoned.

Zalman drew the sword, and lifted it. The blade was old. It appeared as if it were obsidian glass, as it did in the vision, but upon close inspection, he realized that it was in fact a steel of some kind, and the serration was caused from chipping, from constant combat. The hilt had strange perforations, where slightly protruding spikes were placed in the abcesses. It struck Zalman as odd, and impractical, as gripping the sword would undoubtedly cause bleeding from the vibrations upon metal-to-metal contact.

"This is the sword of Alflayir," Remarked Zalman.

"Héspet." Daryusz said, grinning with a devilish confidence. "As you can see, there is no other Hellflayer but me,"

Zalman sheathed the blade, and offered it back to Daryusz, who took it and and held it from the sheathed blade at his side.

"...I see," Zalman mused. "You must forgive me, Alflayir."

Daryusz' face could not conceal his joy at his admission.

"It's just that..." Zalman continued. "...the Hellflayer that I beheld was... far shorter... than you. Closer to my height."

The great burly len swelled his height again, and took a step toward Zalman, towering over him. He got close to his face and whispered.

"I am the Hellflayer." He said. "You got that?"

Zalman nodded.

"...The Hellflayer I knew of," Zalman said, still not allowing himself to be disturbed at Daryusz's abrasion. "...was named Ithandacar."

Daryusz' eyes grew red hot. He began to pace and flicker a grimace, showing his teeth. He reached over and gripped Zalman by the neck.

"HOW-DO-YOU-KNOW-THAT-NAME." He yelled. Zalman raised his hands in surrender, and he protested, his voice breaking.

"T-ther-e ar-e g-g-uards, every-where... they- know I'm h-here."

"THEN I WILL CUT THEM DOWN," Daryusz yelled further. "I WILL SHOW YOU THE HELLFLAYER."

"L-list-en," He said, his voice breaking. "Y-you ne-ed t-to list-en, Alflayir... Alflayir... Hellflayer! I believe you."

Daryusz put Zalman down and was still brimming with rage, huffing and puffing, pacing around the room. He raised his fist and dropped it like a hammer on the desk, causing the wood to crack, then he hit it again, and again, until it had cleanly split. His hand bled as he continued to huff and puff.

Zalman gripped his throat and adjusted the cloth around his breastplate. Rubbing his neck.

"...Íbolín Ithandacar... he is one of the tomb robbers the Sultan has sent us to pursue."

Daryusz' seething rage continued momentarily... but it then suddenly it gave way to a strange, unnerving laughter.

He turned to the window, laid his hands down on the sill, and laughed again, heartily, out the window.

"ITHANDACAR!!" He shouted, over and over again.

Daryusz, huffing and puffing, turned to Zalman, and brushed past him. He then began to tie Héspet onto his belt, and began packing his things, and donning his gauntlets, throwing over the leather straps and sinching them.

"...I see I have offended you." Zalman said. "I apologize..."

"I am not upset," Daryusz said, grinning. "I couldn't be more pleased... Ithandacar is a fugitive from justice in our country,"

"That is most intriguing... well, as you know, em... Daryusz. I am the head of the Sultan's intelligence... So please forgive me if I am remiss, but... what else can you tell me about Ithandacar? Did you know him?"

Daryusz slowed down for a moment, becoming lost in a memory. He was whisked back to his youth. There they were, spending countless days together in the Fioran Academy... in Daryusz' own Castle Fiora. Then years of fighting shoulder to shoulder, and back to back with him on the battlefields of the Northern continent.

"...Yeah, I knew the bastard," Daryusz said, before returning to his labors, ensuring everything was in working order.

"How well?" Zalman prodded.

"...He was... my close friend." He continued. "For a time."

"Please, Daryusz, if we are hunting Alf-" Zalman self-corrected, in mid sentence. "Please, em... Lord Hellflayer... if we are hunting someone dangerous, I want to know what we are marching toward."

Daryusz turned to Zalman.

"Dangerous," He remarked. "Yeah, he is... decent."

Zalman hid his disbelief under a face of curiousity. "...Decent? Decent... how?"

"Yeah, I said, he's decent." Daryusz continued. "With a sword."

Zalman had an incredulous look upon his bearded face.

"Strange...The Ithandacar I am aware of... was more than decent."

"Maybe," Daryusz said, smirking. "But if he was, he's not anymore. He was always well second to me. Always. But he got overconfident, cocky. He always punched above his weight. Didn't cut his teeth the way I did... in the Arena."

Daryusz turned and stuck his gauntleted finger in Zalman's face.

"What you need to know about Ithandacar is... he's a fame whore, nothing more," He said, passionately. "And most importantly a fool. Demands the spotlight, entitled. Overestimates himself. He's a loser,"

Zalman nodded along as Daryusz divulged him. After a few moments, Daryusz turned back to the Nur officer.

"Now... You're gonna tell me what you know about Ithandacar."

Zalman stood stone-faced, but eventually spoke.

"I know that he was a student at the Fioran academy, for a time. Probably when he was... how did you say it, your friend for a time, hmm?"

Daryusz stood, licking his lips, feeling the tinge of rage again.

"Yeah? What else."

"...I know that he disappeared and did not graduate. He was considered delinquent and was formally processed out, after some sort of attack on Fioranz... in... 983, was it?" Zalman continued.

"Yeah, that's right." Daryusz remarked. "We thought he was dead for years... but no. He was training... with... someone. The whole time."

If Ithandacar is the Hellflayer... whoever trained him must be incredibly skilled. Zalman thought to himself. Venzicar is an asset. I need to work him and learn as much as I can about Ithandacar.

"Interesting." Zalman said. "Any idea who it was?"

"No. Been wondering that for years."

Zalman inhaled deeply, he carefully measured his word.

"Well, all I will tell you this evening... is that Ithandacar is suspected to have been the one who breached The Den of Glory and Excellence, several weeks ago. He has accomplices, one of whom is believed to be our Madrasa thief, as the Sultan had mentioned. Whatever they are scheming... we believe based upon their... pedigree, and what they are supposedly in possession of... they have the means to successfully enter the den. This we can not allow under any circumstances. The fugitives must be brought to justice. Dead or alive."

Daryusz interest was steeping. He began to pace, feeling the adrenaline begin to course through his veins. For years he had hunted Ithandacar... and now he was within his grasp.

"Okay, when do we leave,"

"First light," Said Zalman.

"And, how long until we reach Ithandacar?" Daryusz asked, with a voice of command.

"The Alnujum? Well, in my experience, well... we should reach there in three, four days ride."

"If we left tonight, would we get there faster?" Daryusz said, eagerly.

Zalman looked at Daryusz and slowly shifted to a grin.

"...Yes, obviously,"

Zalman groomed himself slightly and bowed, brushing past Daryusz.

"I will ready the horses,"