Dioryl was flying through the dark skies of the north of the Velitasian peninsula. He was riding Fuscus, the most majestic dragon of his fleet, his greatest masterpiece, sitting on its gargantuan back. His three hostages were secured to the beast's spinal processes with bonds, and the Grand Master was keeping a mocking eye on them. Only he himself could be aware of that provocative look, as his face was still covered by the helmet of his white ethereal armor.

If it had been up to him, he would have taken all three of them to their destination, and then made good use of their bodies. But unfortunately, due to force majeure, one of his guests had to abandon him early.

Dioryl stood up and peered into the shapeless void beneath the reptile’s rib cage. He wasn’t sure where they were at the moment, but they were probably flying over a crevasse or snowy slope deep in the Varanaches mountain range. It was more than adequate for his purpose.

The Grand Master walked on the beast's scaly back, braving the gusts of wind, stood in front of Viryl and looked him over, tilting his head slightly. The fallen knight still looked tense and hard as a piece of wood. Better that way.

"I bid you farewell, Viryl of the White Gale, and once and for all, be sure to die," Dioryl hissed, gnashing his teeth, then he summoned one of the two ethereal spears and with a quick slash cut the string that held the prisoner tied to Fuscus. Finally he grabbed him by the shoulder, and violently threw him down. "See you never again!" he howled ferociously, as his opponent fell like a sack of potatoes.

Satisfied, Dioryl sat back down in his seat, on a long bony protrusion on the dragon's left shoulder blade, similar in size to a bench.

With that act, Dioryl finally felt free.

At least for now.

Because that was not a peace that could last long. He knew it very well. He was an asset for them. A large and long-term investment, which had just begun to bear fruit, and they certainly expected a profitable and lasting harvest. Instead, and there was little to laugh about this, the whole thing had started to fall apart at the first jolt. And the Leapolitans, especially those of noble blood, were certainly not known for their magnanimity and understanding. After all, he himself was the first one who did not possess those qualities.

Dioryl bent his torso onto his knees, and resting his elbows on them, he supported his chin.

Perhaps he should have looked at the matter from a completely different angle. After all, what he had agreed was that the fruit of his research would be useful in the creation of an army. The branches of his organization dedicated to clandestine operations were instead to be aimed at self-sustaining, according to the original plan. The fact that they had wanted to force him to take care of that damned recovery mission, had been a whim on their part .

And so they had no right to complain if the mechanism jammed in the process. When using a cleaver to split stones, it would be normal for it to lose its edge and no longer cut the meat.

Dioryl's head sank between his wrists, and his hands clutched the back of his neck.

Bullshit. Those were not the rules of the game he chose to play. They had promised to pay, he had promised to spend the money and prove it was well invested. Excuses were not part of the equation.

And now Dioryl could only hope that, in the eyes of those who would judge him, the profits had compensated for the losses.

*****

The paralyzing bullet's effect on Viryl had long since worn off, but the fallen knight had been careful not to reveal it. Although he had no idea where Dioryl was taking him or what he had in store for him, he could only let it go and wait for a window of opportunity to attack.

But the window hadn’t opened. The bastard had searched him and removed every single item from his equipment that could increase his chances of survival. The potions, the explosives, the cutlass, Anker’s belt. He had also found Darlah’s diary. He had weighed it and squeaked, “You’re so cute! It’s a shame I can’t leave it in your hands,” and then he had thrown it into the dirt of the destroyed greenhouse. Luckily Viryl had some Fuligine Stone well hidden under the gambison, and Dioryl hadn’t been able to find that.

Then Dioryl had loaded him onto that fucking dragon, took off and flown for hours, then, out of the blue, he had thrown him down.

And now Viryl was there, a few yards off the ground, about to splatter on it.

It wasn't the first time he fell, but this time it happened from a truly considerable height and without his ethereal armor.

As usual he cast the hardening spell on his bodily tissues and braced for impact, hoping for the best.

He fell on a blanket of snow, but it still hurt a lot. At the very least, he had cracked a few ribs.

Viryl rose into the gathering darkness, the first pink lights of dawn shimmering on the horizon. He had no idea where the fuck he was, but one thing was for sure: no matter where he looked, there was not a single trace of human handiwork.

And it didn't look good at all. He was injured and couldn't get any treatment. It was freezing cold and he couldn't get warm. Dioryl's idea was probably to freeze him to death in that white, barren wasteland.

Viryl tried to start walking right away. His boots sank into the soft snow, and with every step he took, numerous pangs of pain assailed him.

The bare white field sloped slightly, so he headed down, leaving a lonely peak behind him. He had no idea where the fuck he was going, but the only rational thing to do in this situation was to try to get down. After about a half mile, when the sun disk red as blood had already appeared on the horizon, he found himself on the edge of a cliff. Beyond it stretched sharp peaks and glaciers as far as the eye could see, arranged roughly like the tips of a crown. There was practically no vegetation.

Viryl steeled himself, determined to begin the descent into the ravine. He cast the basic “adhesive surface” spell and, carefully studying every single movement, lowered himself down the crevasse about two hundred yards high. The tips of his fingers almost immediately lost sensation on the cold rock, but trusting in the adhesive properties the magic had given his fingertips, Viryl stubbornly continued his descent.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

By the time he reached the base of the wall, it was almost nine in the morning, and Viryl was starting to get hungry. He tried not to think about it, and headed down the valley. He was walking on uneven terrain, dotted with boulders and rocks covered in a pristine white blanket, and the risk of a sprain was always around the corner. No tracks, no droppings, no feathers, not even a blade of grass.

Anguish began to creep into the heart of the fallen knight. In this situation, fighting for survival began to seem futile. Miles and miles seemed to separate him not from a safe haven, but from any form of life at all.

If he found a bear, a wolf, a Ferenkelt to fight, he would have made do. He would have planted a spike of ice in the brain of any beast that stood in his way, and then he would devour its flesh. With a clump of pines he would have had enough wood to build a shelter and light a fire. But there was none of that here. Only desolation.

The uneven path Viryl was trying to follow, after a downhill stretch, began to climb again, then down again, then up again. Walls and rock pens surrounded him, gripping him in a claustrophobic grip.

As much as Viryl tried to find a gorge or a new precipice that would allow him to descend even further, his search led him nowhere. After wandering for four or five hours, he realized that he had been going in circles. He was back at the foot of the crevasse from which he had originally descended.

The fallen knight guessed that he must be in a natural concavity, a sort of crater surrounded by numerous rock formations that had initially given him the impression of being distinct peaks separated by walkable passes.

But even if that depression seemed to have no way out, during the thaw the water must have had some way of flowing back from there. There must have been at least a cave, or a fault, carved out over hundreds of thousands of summers. And if there wasn't one, then it was necessary to choose a new rock face to climb, and then attempt a new descent on the other side of its slopes.

Viryl began a second round of scouting along the walls of the basin, and about a third of the way through, he identified a cave that nestled between two ridges of rock in a sloping area. He summoned a glowing orb and went in to explore, but his hopes were once again dashed. Soon the passage became so narrow that the risk of getting stuck could not be ignored.

Emerging from the dark cave, Viryl decided to attempt a climb up the ridges of rock that surrounded it. The hunger was becoming unbearable, to the point of clouding his mind, but he had to try immediately, because with every hour that passed the situation could only get worse.

The first attempt failed quickly. He had ascended a little less than twenty yards, when the wall gave way beneath his hands and sent him sliding to the ground.

The second attempt didn’t go any better. He was almost there, less than thirty feet to go, but at one point he had to grab a ledge with both arms and pull himself up. The rock couldn’t handle the pull, and it cracked. Viryl managed to protect himself from the fall again with his hardening spell, but by then the Fuligine Stone was running low. By all accounts, there was only enough for one last try.

His estimate was wrong. After about thirty yards of climbing, he ran out of fuel. Seeing that he was doomed anyway, he forced himself to continue. At least if he fell, this time he would die instantly and never think about it again.

His fingers were frozen stiff now, and they lost their grip immediately. The wall was slightly overhanging, however, and despite his preliminary intentions to accept his fate whatever it was, Viryl tried ferociously to cling. His gloves and fingers were reduced to a torn and bleeding pulp, his knees were bruised, and he hit his head a couple of times, but he finally managed to break his fall. He had gone down about twenty yards, and he just couldn't bring himself to try to climb up again. So he slid down the side, and once on the ground he lay exhausted on the bed of stones.

The amber light of late afternoon that radiated across the sky allowed him to regain a shred of serenity.

Hunger was joined by thirst, the cold was penetrating his bones, and all his wounds burned intensely, making even breathing an agony.

By now it was clear that it was in that deserted valley that he would find death. The fallen knight formulated that thought with a clear mind, and internalized it with detachment.

Imagining his ideal death, Viryl had always hoped it would happen on a peaceful and silent mountain. He had been partially granted his wish, even if it was not the mountain he had expected.

A bizarre sequence of events had brought him here, to a distant and unknown land, and now his remains would rest miles and miles away from those of his beloved and the unborn fruit of her womb.

It was sad, but his only choice was to accept it. After all, he had it coming.

The moment he had allowed himself to be consumed by the obsession for those ancient inscriptions in the temple of Ghorou, he had also accepted that such a fate could befall him.

It was more than plausible that sooner or later some nuisance would come along. He wasn't the only knight of Ferlonia to have studied at the Knightly Academy of the Spheres of Lazul, and there were members of the clergy and scholars who had far more detailed knowledge than he did about pre-Zephyrian religions. It was only a matter of time before some powerful lord with virtually unlimited economic resources would become interested in the mystery of the Ancestral Titans and try to find a way to break the seals of the ancient hypogea. And he had even hoped for it in a sense. His days as a knight had ended in bitter disappointment, and he still felt the need to find a worthy conclusion to his personal story. Maybe he just wanted to engage a strong and fierce enemy in one last, epic battle, in which he could declare himself the defender of high ideals, like the one he had fought in front of the bulwarks of Surelekem.

Could that be considered a worthy conclusion?

No.

Actually, thinking about it, it had all been vanity. Viryl felt like laughing, but had to hold back, because the pain was unbearable.

First of all, he had no idea what was in the tombs of the Ancestral Titans. He didn't even know what the Ancestral Titans were, exactly. Maybe they were just the corpses of colossal Fekoro, which the ancients, victims of their own ignorance, had called Titans. Maybe those corpses had liquefied over time, leaving behind large deposits of Black Blood, ready to be extracted. Maybe what he had fought against was just the trivial economic interest of some shady man of power, and the world was far from being at risk of an apocalypse.

And then, as far as he was concerned, the world could burn and he wouldn't care. Everyone he'd ever loved was dead. He had no heirs with a future to defend.

For a moment Viryl thought about Anker. He felt a little sorry for the kid.

He had stubbornly followed him on that senseless and hopeless march, and now his fate was sealed.

But there was nothing he could do. Helping him was now beyond his power. It had been almost half a day since they had separated, and for all he knew Dioryl could have dragged him to the other side of the world.

Soon it would be night. Probably the last.

Viryl tried to push himself to his feet, pushing on his scratched knuckles, and when he succeeded, he slowly crawled to the cave entrance at the base of the rocky ridges. He had chosen the grotto as his burial place.

Having reached the dim light of the cave, he sat down against the wall and closed his eyes.

The faces of all those who had been dear to him in his existence appeared behind his eyelids to accompany him on his final journey. His father Yustass, his mother Lurtinia, Tolomer and Radios, Darlah, Lyndabel, Anker, Melazam. Her hazel eyes were as beautiful as when he had first seen them in the harem of the palace of the Herosk of the Potentate of Elkaroth. Faced with those loving eyes, Viryl was happy to die, to join her.

Time condensed, and many hours came together in an instant.

Then a warmth, burning but soothing, enveloped his body and, carried away by his memories, Viryl of the White Gale, fallen knight of the Royal Order of Ferlonia, abandoned himself to it.

GLOSSARY:

Potentate: a political and military entity within the Ashalmazite State, ruled by a Herosk.

“Adhesive surface”: a basic spell that can be used to climb steep surfaces. It can be casted on the user’s limbs.