-In the Fourth Century, under the reign of Golluma II, when the Kingdom Reeta suffered a devastating plague of (translator confused) the Royal line of Ballaba ended but for a an eighth daughter, Corinina, who later wed (Ink faded) ...erat, of the House Hursha. It is by these twists of fate and the will of the Gods that Great houses fall, and lesser houses found Dynasties themselves.

King Rossig III, Book of Histories, First Empire

Standing on the gray and black stone of the parapet, Prince Myrl considered the singular, scarlet drop of his own blood as it shivered and undulated in the breeze he knew wasn’t only a natural force. He stared at the little red gem as he contemplated his plan. His intent. That pact that Myrl was about to seal with the most solemn of intent. It was a small thing. Literally, just bigger than the head of a dressing pin. Glistening, it wobbled on the edge of the small sgian, near the sharply angled tip he had just slowly pushed into the otherwise smooth skin on the outside of his left forearm. With great care, and a low murmuring of words not spoken aloud on this side of the Veil Mortia in at least a century, Myrl watched as the bead of his own royal blood shrank, shuddering and sizzling, as it slowly disappeared leaving only a small wisp of smoke, and a scent of clove and iron in the air, which was quickly swept away in the now merely natural breeze.

“Hrrrm…” Ashe, standing behind his Prince, at the thick wooden door to the tower's interior, made his usual noise denoting impatience. Or displeasure. (Or hunger…boredom…surprise…Ashe didn’t speak much beyond the realm of the classroom in which Myrl had been his only pupil for close to twelve?... thirteen?... FOURteen years now.)

The Prince, now irritated at being the target of this possible reprimand, concentrated, and allowed the magic to flow from him. A cloud of ether gathered slowly about Myrl, dimming the light that had shone from the sconces in the open door to the parapet where his tutor, Ashe, now stood behind him as the air thickened and a ruddy gloom now coalesced, wreathing the young man in an obscuring miasma.

The memory of what had been the droplet of blood suddenly loomed larger in his vision as he breathed in the cloud of power that he had called up through his will and sacrifice, aided by the ritual of the words. It had briefly throbbed on the end of the knife, but now, once it had been consumed, the world around Myrl throbbed slightly with the promised power that had been the intent of the summoning.

Obscenely throbbing in time with his own heartbeat, his own vision pulsed.

With a slow exhale, Myrl formed the words in his mind, and on his lips to send his message across the Veil Mortia, across Death’s realm, to the Lands that lay beyond. His offer of power, and a foothold in this world, to a Prince of another People, in another Land. A land, Ashe had assured him, needed the heat and life of this world as men needed food and water. A bargain to be struck, an injustice to correct.

Just as Ashe, his Manservant, guardian, and tutor had promised him, the pacts he needed to complete were now unknown to all but a very few living souls across the face of this world. His tutor, "The Honorable Lord Ashe," would talk often about "This World..." as if there were more than just the one on which Myrl lived. The young heir hadn't been inclined to believe, nor even truly understand, the meaning of this term until last Summer when under Ashe's observation Myrl had done a summoning, and seen for his own eyes the very air before him split open like a flimsy tent wall being sliced open by an unseen dagger, and a dapper little man with bright red skin had stepped through. And then a first bargain had been made.

Later, another. And still later, more, though most were with more mundane men from this world. Mercenaries of various stripe, contacted, paid, and set times agreed upon. Set seasons scheduled to move the fate of Myrl's kingdom.

In fact, Ashe had even known exactly how many wizards in this world knew the spell Myrl now used. He had promised there were no more than four. And of those, one wizard would never use it, one wizard didn’t yet know he was a wizard at the moment, and hadn’t for the last two centuries, and the other two could not summon the power needed to complete this ritual had they the bravery or the need to try. In matters of magic, Myrl would never question Ashe’s knowledge.

He had seen his dour, gray skinned tutor pull lightning from the clear blue sky, make flowers grow in moments from peppadill seeds just planted, and split the waters of the harbor into two towering stacks of quivering brine, so that a selection of hired haulers and a few men of his guard could walk across the muddy, flopping-fish strewn harbor bottom to retrieve material from an unfortunately sunken merchant vessel a few winters prior.

He breathed carefully for a count of ten, and worked to loosen the tight muscles of his shoulders. Ashe would have scolded the Prince had he seen the hunched stance the young man had assumed while using the spell. Myrl knew it was his own anxiety that made him tighten up his lanky frame like a fist whenever he used blood magic. He shuddered, and slowly unfolded his body, giving himself a small shake as he withdrew a cloth from his belt to pat at the welling blood on his arm, then from his little knife, cleaning it thoroughly before replacing the pretty little sgian into its sheath on the inner lining of his belt where it ringed the base of his lower back.

Myrl loathed blood magic. He knew it was just another tool to use, like another arrow in his quiver. Something to call upon when needed. Drawing his own blood was not pleasant, certainly. But, there was more to his misgivings than that; he could feel the pull upon his soul as the magic was pushed through the sanguine little droplet, taking something from him. It was…unsettling. As a child, Myrl had once fallen, stumbling into a fence post outside of the keep's stables. His pants had ripped on the splintered wood, and a long sliver of wood had been peeled from the post, impaling his thigh. While the pain of that stabbing had been like all pain to a small child, immediate and horrible, the removal of the slender length of wood from his thigh had been the memory that dogged his thoughts in moments like these. That memory of the slowly withdrawn, splintered, raspy wood… unlike blood magic, however, when the removal of the splinter had been completed, there was a moment of bliss in the release of the object having been removed. With blood magic, there was loss, and that loss was followed by a hollow feeling. Ashe had told him that those bits lost would grow back, refilling like a properly dug and stone lined well. Remove a bucket of water, and it would be replenished. In time.

Myrl didn't like the analogy. It was missing something. Not knowing exactly what it was that was missing from the lesson had worried him, and kept him quiet on the subject until he could more correctly voice what it was he thought was amiss.

In the final analysis, Myrl knew his needs required these methods; but, it wasn’t pleasant for him. All magic had a cost. The Prince knew that. Ashe had taught him this from the first.

Most magic required effort. Readily given, if you knew the how of it. Telling a man to hoist a basket and carry it to the table for dinner was easy enough, but in the case of magic, most men couldn’t see the basket. Nor, in all honesty, knew there was such a thing as baskets. Nor even tables. Possibly even dinner may have been a stretch, as concepts go, when talking of things magical, at least. But, the cost was there, regardless, and a drop of blood a guarantee to make contract, to keep the options open for the near future. But, a negligible cost still wasn't "free."

He had spent a year learning to use a forge. Even dismissing the Royal Blacksmith from the Keep, who had disapproved of a Prince learning the set of skills involved. A stern letter from his Uncle came a month later, telling Myrl, in very plain terms, that the garrison at the Keep needed a Royal Blacksmith, and as an appointed post, he could only be discharged of his duty by the King. His Uncle. Myrl's uncle... The King.

Not the king. NEVER the king. Myrl thought.

The blacksmith had been reinstated into his forge. Myrl had had another forge purpose built for his use off the library of his chambers.

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It had been galling. Myrl had nearly thrown a tantrum after Ashe had read him the letter. The NERVE of the man…

But, the skill had been learned. And a small, intricate knife, a proper sgian, had been forged. The fire had been imbued with as much magic as Myrl could muster. The final blade had been a work of High Art. A Contract of Alliance written into the blade’s very being. Blood drawn with his dagger, when accompanied by ritual, would call across the chasm between the worlds, and offer a limited agreement to the beings who were meant to hear that dulcet and bloody song.

The handle had been carved from an ebon wood. He didn’t know much about wood, nor its workings. But, Ashe had taught him enough to make the handle comfortable in the hand. And stain it a darker black, with a glossy sheen. Ashe had been leery of bothering with the making of a handle. But, Myrl had insisted. “What knife doesn’t have a handle?” he had asked. Myrl had been shocked to see a tight smile crawl across Ashe’s lips. Possibly the first smile Myrl had ever seen on the pale gray man. But, smile he did, and then teach his young charge how to make a handle for a magic dagger that would, with luck, only ever be used once.

And now its time had come, and the thirsty little thing had taken some of his blood. And he now faced the inordinately large, pulsing, red smear on the face of reality, and crawling about the edge of his nerves, readying himself to force his magic through the rusty mass, like a trumpeter blowing his horn. It wasn't calling his army to battle, but it was an order, an offer of battle, a promise of glory to be had by those otherworldly beings who could hear and heed the call upon the winds.

Prince Myrl, son of a King now dead, grandson of a King, and scion of a House of Kings leading back to the founding of the Kingdom of Rhiada, stood before winds that billowed his dark clothing away from his body. Winds that never touched another in this Land, not even disturbing the robes of the sturdily built, composed, silent man who stood behind him in the door to the tower.

Myrl inhaled deeply through his nose, the swirling magics eddying about his nostrils in rippled currents. He began to chant. Slowly, and whisper low at first. Gradually he raised his voice, and sped his words, never missing a syllable. Hours of daily training hauling his stumbling tongue forward with elegant, and precise practice.

A mumbling at the edge of his hearing almost made him stumble on the complex phrases he now sang in an unselfconscious tenor. Further and further he pushed himself, every exhaled word wringing with the power his lungs pulled in from the magic around him, then pushed out, twisting and twining as his words were swallowed into the air before him that was now charged when the droplet of his blood had been accepted. The pulsing currents of air moving about the tower now looked more real to him than the stones of the structure on which he stood.

Darker now than his lone droplet of blood had been, the thing began to undulate and sway to Myrl’s voice, and draw in as much of his soul as it did his magic.

The mumbling murmuration came from behind him again.

He sang on. He sang to the night, his anger and frustration at everything he had lost. All he had been denied. The evils of those at the Royal Court in Ghlow, laughing at the exile of their true Prince. The death of his father, their true King. The ruinous rule of his bumbling uncle.

It was the crashing, clattering noise that finally broke his concentration. As with any effort of deep scrutiny, sudden loud noises coming from behind shatter all sincerity of effort.

He hadn’t jumped, he was thankful to note. He had wanted to, but, his efforts had pulled all the available energy from his muscles. Myrl could not have jumped, even if he had wanted to do so.

Gradually, he brought his thoughts to order, and smoothed his clothing from the now absent ethereal winds’ efforts. Noting as he did, the blood droplet, now returned to its original, tiny, insignificant state where it had hung at the end of the ornate dagger, now without the sgian to hold it, had returned and dried to a speck of a rusty scab that now circled in a dying eddy of ethereal air, before it fell to the stones at his feet. The natural evening breezes and updrafts that usually assaulted this tower had just begun to reassert themselves, even as those previously dominant ethereal breezes died down to nothing, making the tower top uncommonly calm.

A slow inhale, Myrl turned.

Lord Ashe was standing in the door, his back to Myrl, holding a heavy, florid man up in the doorway by his jacket front. A small table in the room beyond had been overturned and an elderly man, and an ancient woman, stood near to the small mess, trying to not look directly at the distasteful acts in which the Honorable Lord, Royal Tutor, and Master of the Jibiril Keep was engaged.

“Tutor Ashe…” Myrl began, then stopped as Ashe turned his head, viper quick, his eyes red rimmed and his gray skin tear streaked.

“My Prince.” He said, shaking with rage. “I asked these visitors to not interrupt you while you engaged in your Evensong lessons.” He shook the much heavier man, quickly bouncing his head into the heavy, ironbound parapet door. “They were quite insistent.”

“Sire…!” The chubby man began, only to be given another firm shake. Another unfortunate bouncing of the back of his balding head on the thick wooden door.

Something was incredibly wrong.

Myrl knew his “Evensong practice” was how Ashe referred to his magic, both practice and practical applications, it was a safe way to talk about these things around people who would otherwise be horrified. "Wizards and sorcerers" were not to be trusted nor abided, but a member of the royal line practicing the quaint, archaic traditions of the Evensong was just something that was odd enough to be noted, uncommon enough to not be understood by the common people, and so made the perfect blind in which to hide his practice and lessons.

But, the man Ashe was shaking like a rag at the midden heaps was not a commoner. While easily in his fifties, or his well preserved sixties, the pudgy man was dressed as a Royal Page. Green and bright yellow silk over fine cotton, no linen, small black silk crows stitched onto his shoulders in the heavily wrinkled fabric above where Ashe’s fists, white knuckled rather than their usual gray, held him aloft. Hose clad legs, more gold and green, listlessly kicking in the air.

Taking a moment to breathe and reflect, Myrl could now see the older man in the room beyond…his necklace. Dressed in the finest of brown hunting leathers. A gold pendant, the size of a small dinner dish, and shaped like a shield. It had the Royal Arms of the Kingdom…of Rhiada but quartered with a white field, bedecked with sapphire discs. There was a special term for “blue discs” …there was a special heraldry term for every damned thing…he just couldn’t remember it at present… The elderly woman beside him wore layers of golden silk, interspersed with white, and along the length of each white slash on her jacket and dress, more blue discs.

The courtier straightened as he faced Myrl, then carved a graceful bow through the still air.

“Your Grace. To what do I owe the honor of a visit here at the outer edges of the Kingdom? Jibiril Keep is on no ones’ road to nor from any other place, and certainly not near enough to the Dutchy at South Wall for a social visit.” Myrl asked in a quiet voice. The blue disks on their clothing marked the couple as being from South Wall.

It had been years since his last visit from any Kingdom nobility. His exile in Jibiril Keep was, quite literally, on no person’s path to nor from anywhere. It was at the farthest, bleakest edge of the Kingdom of Rhiada, and aside from deliveries of food, supplies, and the occasional letter to the garrison at the Keep, and its soldiers and staff, there was no reason for travel to this location. The coast couldn’t even be fished, due to the steep, black stone cliffs that were edged with jagged pillars of black basalt that marched from the cliffs out into the sea, making their one harbor only accessible to smaller craft. Larger ships needed to anker an hour's sale out from the difficult to access harbor and steep cliffs. Inhospitable was the word most used to describe the region.

“Sire, if I may?”

“…sire..?” Myrl whispered, and quirked an eyebrow at the older man.

Ashe noted the change in the atmosphere of the room, promptly dropped the portly page, and turned upon the older man. “His Highness is pleased to have visitors, even those that have come unannounced and at this hour. Dinner has already come and gone, but the Prince will be happy to host you for a later meal if you care to follow us to the dining room.”

Myrl held up his right hand, and Ashe stopped speaking, even though he could not have seen the gesture from his Prince.

The Duke looked awkwardly to the page on the floor, who was now struggling to get to his knees, and gestured at the man. “Sire, we came with the Royal Court’s own Records Page, both to announce us, and to...”

“Highness. Not Sire.” Ashe barked each word, and the elderly Duke, Duke Vorner…?, and his even more elderly Mother, the Duchess Kalenia both flinched almost, but not quite, imperceptibly at each word.

“Call off your dog, Sire. Therefore, we have come.” The Duchess had a cultured, and oddly strong voice for her age. “Your Uncle, King Filian, Your Aunt, Queen Lurgetha, and Your Cousins, the Prince, Hyrel, and the Princesses Meolina, Caolia, and Unshedhni, have all... passed.”

The pause was very noticeable, and Myrl wondered at it. Duchess Kalenia was known to be outspoken, well-spoken, and one of the foremost sticklers for formal court procedure and precedent. Her eyes were the same rich blue as those blue discs that be-speckled her clothing. Parchment skin, white as marble, with hints of pink, clear of any blemish Myrl could find, yet with as many folds and sagging twists as found in the bark of any sweetleaf tree. Her age didn’t stoop her posture, nor did it palsy her arms that he could see. She stood straight and calm as one of the basalt stone in the waves.

A rough clearing of the throat, and Duke Vorner began. “Sire, My mother and I have come from Ghlow. We left the city the morning after your family were found. You have my deepest sympathies, Sire. It is time for you to come home.”