Suraiya sat astride her courser in the large square facing the southern main gate of Stormharrow with as much poise and grace as she could muster, her expression fixed to a regal smile despite the excitement and anxiety churning away inside of her. She was near the head of a full Lance of Knights, with a large cadre of Adventurers and support personnel clustered near the rear of what was shaping up to be a proper convoy.

Ser Gilbert had taken his duty of care for her seriously, and with only a cursory use of her Analysis ability, she’d been able to discern that every single one of the armoured men and women around her were in the Adept-level—or Second Temper, as the Ascendancy insisted they refer to the categories of power.

The Adventurers were more diverse, but that was part of the parcel for their kind.

Ser Gilbert remained the strongest member of their excursion force given he was making solid progress toward his Expert Tier—Fourth Temper—and was only held back by his lack of Spirit and Mind Infusions. She might have been eager for adventure, but she was no fool; the presence of the Knights and the auxiliaries from the Stormharrow branch of the Adventurers’ Guild definitely improved her confidence, and her sense of safety.

“Get that cart loaded up!” she heard Ser Gilbert roar. “We’re leaving in three turns!”

Three turns of a minute glass!

She suppressed the giddy grin that wanted to paint her features, and instead turned to face the consistent murmurs of the milling crowd as they watched with a mix of awe, interest, and scepticism. She understood the last, even if it rankled slightly. It wasn’t the Knights they doubted, she knew, nor was it the adventurers. It was the untried, untested, locked-in-a-tower princess that fancied herself a warrior.

In spite of the implied dampening of her spirits it should have heralded, Suraiya only felt even more determined. She waved to them in the manner of royalty, twirling her right hand in a descending circle of three rotations, before raising her hand and repeating the gesture again from the same point of origin: a space roughly just parallel to her head. It was a formality, but one that she saw light up the eyes and smiles of the children and many of even the grumpier-looking adults.

“Princess! Princess! Are ya gon’ kill monsters?” a child shouted out.

All talking trailed off as the crowd’s attention turned from the waiting convoy to the child, and then to Suraiya. She watched it happen in a wave, as heads shifted to look towards her and watch her with mass scrutiny. Her mother’s words echoed back to her as it happened.

A Crown means nothing without its people, and its monarch is powerless absent their respect.

Suraiya didn’t hesitate in following her instincts and dismounted smoothly with a jingle of her armour and chainmail. Despite apprehensive looks and sudden tension among her knights, she walked towards the child with a smile—noting it was a boy as she approached, and passed a reassuring nod to the concerned face of his mother before kneeling down before him.

“Is that what you think we should do?” she asked in a carrying voice. “Kill the monsters?”

“Mama says that’s why we stay here. ‘Cuz the Karelians keep us safe from the bad stuff in the bad land.”

She struggled not to giggle at his annunciation, and instead nodded seriously to his words.

His mother attempted to interject with an apology, but Suraiya glanced at the woman and held up a hand placatingly, paired with a smile, before refocusing on the boy. “Your mama is very smart, little one. That is exactly what we Karelians do: we kill the monsters, and we keep brave little boys like you safe until you’re strong enough to keep your mama safe.”

The boy seemed to think on that for a little bit, biting his lip as he looked out at the convoy. When he spoke, it was in the quiet and timid manner of a child wondering if he was saying the wrong thing. “Mama says I should focus on becoming a crofter like my papa, but… um… do you think I could kill monsters too, one day?”

This time Suraiya couldn’t suppress the warm and empathetic grin that spread across her features. “I think you could be the best monster killer in the land, one day.” she reached out to boop his nose with her armoured right forefinger, and he giggled as she continued. “But for now, you need to focus on being a good boy, listening to your mama, and helping her around the house. Take that as a royal decree.”

At her words she saw the woman’s hands relax where they rested on the boy’s shoulders, and the child gave her an absolutely adorable fist-to-heart salute. “Yes, ya highness!”

A ripple of laughter and clapping spread through the crowd, and Suraiya stood up to salute right back. “That’s the spirit.” she said with a smile, before turning to look at the crowd. “And his words, spoken with the innocence of youth, are wholly correct! We ride to the Desolation, and though we seek a prize, let it be known that House Karelian does not—and will not!—forget its charge, obligation, and sacred privilege to protect the people of Stormharrow!”

No cheers came. No applause. Instead, there was just quiet, contemplative silence.

That, Suraiya knew, was nothing to be ashamed of. She had made them think. She had made them remember. She turned to walk back to her Courser and couldn’t help but glance at Sir Gilbert. Her protector was watching her quietly, and only when she neared her horse did he grant her a single shallow nod of approval.

She suppressed a grin and pulled herself up into the saddle, muscles tensing under her armour, chainmail, and leathers beneath as she settled onto the massive white beast’s polished saddle.

“Alright you slack jawed layabouts—” Ser Gilbert bellowed across the convoy in his best instructor’s growl “—move out!”

Suraiya clicked her tongue lightly and flicked the reins. “Let’s go, Valour.”

The horse snorted as if to say, ‘I know, damn it’ and trotted forward.

“Give ‘em hell, Princess!”

The shout rang across the square and Suraiya turned as she rode, looking at the crowd as they turned to stare at one man holding a fist into the air, before looking back at each other with uncertainty.

Then a second voice rang out.

“Put some Undead into the dirt! Glory to House Karelian!”

Then a third.

“Bring us back a Wyvern’s horns, your highness!”

Then a fourth. A fifth. And then there was a cacophony of noise, and adulation, and stamping feet and roaring applause as the convoy trotted towards the open gates.

“We believe in you, Princess Suraiya!”

“Give those beasties the what for, your highness!”

“Marry me, Ser Gilbert!”

“Stormharrow forever! Long live the Princess!”

Suraiya felt tears blooming in her eyes at their encouragement and lifted her own fist into the air to return the ocean of those raised in farewell. She allowed the laugh bubbling up within her to have free rein as she basked in the crowd’s support, unable to help but revel in the moment. Ser Gilbert’s herald trumpeted the convoy to a canter, Suraiya dug in her heels to speed up Valour, and the people of Stormharrow sent them away on a tidal wave of screaming approval.

* * * * *

A nondescript man stepped out of the dispersing crowd, and towards a nearby alley as the Princess and her convoy departed, a frown of thought on his average features. He moved with serpentine grace, through the narrow passages between buildings, across the breadth of Stormharrow while avoiding the wandering eyes of guards. What he had seen was… thought inducing, if nothing else. The Karelian heiress appeared to have none of her worthless Father’s sense of faded apathy and appeared far more in the spirit of her departed mother.

That was definitely for the better.

Upon arriving at a predetermined location, he bent his knees and mustered his strength before launching himself upward from a standing start. The subsequent leap easily cleared six metres, and landed him lightly on the roof of a building beneath one of the overhangs from the city’s upper level.

Moving quickly, he transitioned across the slats and towards a small door, latched and hidden, beneath a faded banner proclaiming the glory of the Grand Ascendancy. A quick shift of the material and the use of the right tool, and the hidden door opened inward to permit him entry.

Stepping inside without preamble, and replacing the banner behind him, he latched the door back into position and lowered himself down from the wooden platform into the expansive stone hallway hidden behind the second-hand goods store. He smiled at the familiar, ancient runic language spiralling across the stonework, and moved more freely within the space; striding with a quiet hum down the hallway and stopping before what seemed to the naked eye to be just another section of wall.

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A small dagger was produced from under his tunic, and he cut his palm before placing it upon a rune—one which he only knew how to find, truthfully, after being taught how to identify the chorus.

When he placed his bloodied hand on the marked location, a web of gold spread out as hidden sigils lit up, and the section of wall silently parted down the middle; opening inward to admit him entry to a markedly different view.

Music played, and people laughed, as they were served drinks by a fully stocked barkeep. Long-forgotten banners, some dating back more than five thousand years, adorned walls bedecked with tapestries far too expensive for an underground hideaway. The entire space would have been approximately one hundred metres square, and supported several large recreational and personal residence areas above the ground level, each one only available through carefully hidden stairwells across the room’s entirety.

The man descended the stairs leading up to the hidden door jovially, only glancing back to make sure the door had sealed itself up behind him before continuing on.

“Ho!” a voice called out as he descended. “Merikh has returned! Let’s hear what our brother has to say.”

Merikh, smiling at the greeting, headed towards the table it came from without hesitation.

Several figures parted from the small crowd chatting near the bar, and meandered their way over to where Merikh was being enthusiastically greeted by a bear of a man, adorned in simple white clothes with a disproportionately expensive golden ‘A’ stitched over his heart. He towered where he stood, with muscles and natural size that made even the mightiest of Stormharrow’s Knights seem almost laughable by comparison.

“So,” the bear of a man said while taking a seat, and two more men and three women joined their large table. “Regale us, Merikh.”

Merikh accepted a drink from one of the new arrivals and took his own seat, waiting until the rest were similarly situated, and then taking a long drink of cool, refreshing ale before speaking. “The Princess left with Ser Gilbert, the Knights of the Order of the Storm, and a full convoy of Adventurers from the guild.”

“Were our people among them?” one of the women, a beauty with a scar across her tanned nose and jet-black hair tied up into a tail behind her, asked.

“Yes, Liria.” Merikh confirmed, while looking over to meet her discerning green eyes calmly. “A full dozen of our best, including six members of Bjorn’s Aegii—” he nodded to the massive, bearded man next to him, and Bjorn grinned in appreciation “—as well as two Magisterii, two Veneratii, and a pair of Seraii.”

A collective sigh of relief seemed to come from around the table, and one of the other two men spoke next. “They will have to be cautious. If the whispers about the Hierarch’s orders are true…” his words came out as a rasp, owing to the scar marring his throat where it had once been slit. His blue eyes, however, remained calm—and very nearly unblinking.

“I don’t doubt they are, Edward,” Bjorn responded with his powerful boom. “But they’re also irrelevant. All that matters is the Reclaimer.”

“I still can’t believe it…” another of the women muttered, her blonde hair twined into a pair of thick braids, and her grey eyes marked by flecks of gold within the irises. “It’s been five thousand years. Why did the Quest appear now? Why here?”

Merikh brought up the quest in question with a flick of his mind, reading the hidden text quickly.

QUEST ISSUED: The Fallen Star

Summoned by the power of the last Imperatrix of Elysea, a Nephilim has been brought to the Realms in fulfilment of your people’s oldest prophecies. They alone hold the key to the future, or final destruction, of all that you and your people have worked towards in the Ages that have come and gone. Find this Reclaimer and see if they might be convinced to aid you. Be warned, however: Yours is not the only faction that seeks to claim the Nephilim. Make haste, lest your great legacy be forever lost to those that would see it ended!

Success Parameters:

Find the Nephilim

Convince them to continue Reclamation

Help them survive the Desolation

Failure Parameters:

The Nephilim dies

The Nephilim turns against you

The Nephilim is captured by your enemies

Rewards:

1 x Gold Chest

Huge Experience Gain

Reclamation of Elysea

Merikh refocused on the conversation after reading, and dismissed the quest.

“All this argument is pointless. You know why, Talennia.” the last of the women interjected firmly, cutting off the others. She was the oldest looking among them, and her grey hair was tied into a matron’s bun while her brown eyes were lined in dark kohl. “The Calling was never meant to occur in a time when it could be easily handled. The Nephilim needed time to grow away from the attentions of the Grand Ascendancy.”

“It isn’t as if they’ve forgotten, though.” the last man at their table said, his sombre features drawn into a dire frown. “When I was at the Seminary in Bordèaux, they had entire sections dedicated to the ‘walking calamities.’ Talennia’s question of why it was here is easily answered; it was where the Calling was made, and it was the seat of Elysean power. The question of why now, however…” he shook his head. “Your reasoning is sound, Agatha, but I can’t accept it as decisive. There has to be a reason it took this long.”

“You quibble over irrelevant matters, Darian,” the older woman said with a snort.

“And what of the Princess?” Liria interjected before they could bicker. “What was her mood?”

“Buoyant,” Merikh replied succinctly, after having happily indulged in his drink while his superiors talked. “She was almost floating on the crowd’s adulation, and I sensed no antipathy or duplicity from her when she spoke to Marisa’s son.”

“How did the boy do?” Edward rasped.

“He did well.” Merikh said with genuine approval. “He actually managed to engage her in a proper conversation. The Princess is a Karelian to the core, in terms of her understanding of their legacy, but she has not inherited her worthless father’s manner. She is her mother all over.”

Smiles spread across the table at his words. “The King marrying a true-blooded descendent of House Tollarius was quite the coup,” Agatha said with a satisfied smirk. “I couldn’t have planned for a better outcome if I’d tried.”

“Agatha, you were the one who arranged for them to meet,” Darian accused.

Agatha lifted her drink in a toast, looking like a cat with cream. “I stand by my words.”

“At least she has Ser Gilbert with her,” Liria said with a quiet smile. “He will guide her well.”

“The same way you’d like him to guide you to his bed, I’d imagine,” Agatha chortled.

“A—Agatha!” Liria sputtered in embarrassment, her dark cheeks flushing red.

“We’re forgetting something,” Talennia said loudly, and with a worried look around the table.

Merikh turned to her curiously when she spoke, and sipped his drink.

“All of our efforts for the last fives Ages have been dedicated towards this day. We’ve gathered relics, tapestries, and all manner of skills and arms and people. We’ve positioned politicians, ministers, crafters, soldiers, even some Knights—”

“Get to the point, dear,” Agatha said with a raised eyebrow.

“—but we have no way of knowing how this Nephilim will react. We don’t know if it’s a man or a woman, if they’ll be kind or cruel, or even if they’ll care about our cause at all. We know that the Calling was manipulated to be specific to a Reclaimer, but…” she bit her lip and looked at them all, though Merikh noticed she especially looked at Bjorn.

They all did.

“What if we make contact, and the Nephilim tells us all to go to the Pits?”

All eyes across the table moved from Talennia to Bjorn, and even Merikh felt himself drawn to hear the big man’s answer. He was officially the first among equals of the Six Elders, but that was a formality. Bjorn Victus Adamantus had been their leader for the better part of two centuries. He was their protector, their guide, and their rock.

Without his power, and the power of those that came before, the entire Reclamation would have already died five times over—and that was just in Bjorn’s lifetime.

“We can know nothing until we make contact with the Reclaimer,” the big man said without any hint of his usually jovial veneer. Instead, there was only the intensity of the powerful Master Tier that he was.

The room seemed to tremble under his presence, like he could snap it all in half on a whim.

With how powerful he was, Merikh knew he very well could.

A Master-level warrior, especially one as martially focused as Bjorn, was a one-man army when they desired to be. Merikh could feel the Bjorn’s Soulforce through it all, like a blanket soothing and allaying their fears of the unknown—and, in turn, dampening the effects the big man’s own leaking aura. “And if they do indeed prove to be a foe, then we shall simply have to show them the error of their ways.”

“How?” Edward rasped.

“Oh, don’t you worry, my friend,” Bjorn said with a reassuring smile. “I have my ways.”

“That’s not ominous at all, you big oaf,” Agatha muttered.

Bjorn laughed, and the pressure of his aura vanished. “All that I do is for the Inheritors—” he gestured around them “—and the Mantle, Agatha.”

The woman leered at him, but she nodded grudgingly. “For the Mantle,” she agreed.

“For the Mantle,” the rest of them echoed.

For the Mantle, Merikh agreed silently. And an end to this hidden existence.