When the Ishgrian soldiers returned to Castle Arstella: they were given a hero's welcome. The faces of the Ishgrian people seemed to brighten at the sight of their returning men and women. Queen Phaedra had invited those who lived surrounding Castle Arstella to enter the fortress to celebrate. Before long, the sound of cheers and applause echoed through the snow-covered courtyard, as banners bearing the Ishgrian Falcon snapped in the brisk wind.
As the soldiers dismounted from their horses, Queen Phaedra herself emerged from the castle doors to greet them. Dressed in fine furs and silks, she looked every inch the powerful ruler of Ishgria. She embraced each of her commanders first: Sir Falkner, Commander Olmus, and Commander Irina, thanking them for their bravery and leadership, and then turned to thank the soldiers themselves.
Her voice rang out clear and strong, “Our valiant warriors have returned victorious, let us celebrate in their honor!” she exclaimed, praising the soldiers for their courage and victory over Lord Agramond’s forces.
Inside the castle walls, a grand feast had been prepared, the smell of roasted meats filled the air. Soldiers ate and drank heartily, their spirits high thanks to the knowledge that they had been victorious. Sir Falkner regaled them with tales of the battles they had fought, while Commander Irina spoke of the strategy and tactics that had led them to victory.
Commander Olmus, meanwhile, stood apart from the festivities. His mind was focused on their mission and the challenges that still lay ahead. In a dimly lit room deep in the castle, he stood huddled with his soldiers around a large table, studying maps and discussing tactics. The old veteran always had a habit of skipping post battle festivities, to the chagrin of the men and women who served with him.
Still, as the day wore on and the wine flowed freely, most of the soldiers were able to sing and dance. Queen Phaedra herself joined in, laughing and twirling with her subjects. For a few brief hours, the realities of war and winter were forgotten, and the Ishgrian soldiers celebrated their triumph with all the joy and enthusiasm they could muster.
By night time, Queen Phaedra was jubilant, but exhausted. Her constitution had never been the best, even before the break of the civil war. In her private chamber, the queen commenced her bedtime preparations. She changed to her night gown: woven with threads of fine silk, adorned with intricate embroidery in shades reminiscent of traditional Ishgrian heraldry.
As she approached an ornate vanity table, Queen Phaedra caught her reflection in the mirror. Her face bore the signs of fatigue, with faint lines etched upon her regal visage. With a serene determination, she slowly removed her intricately braided crown, placing it gently upon a velvet cushion, allowing her aching brow to experience a long-awaited respite.
The queen then moved towards her grand four-poster bed, with a soft sigh of relief, Queen Phaedra nestled herself amidst the plush pillows and soft blankets, the burdens of life momentarily lifted from her shoulders. As she closed her eyes, the flickering candlelight and the soft silence of Castle Arstella, provided a gentle lullaby to accompany her sleep. Or at least, that was her plan.
In reality, the queen tossed and turned on her bed for hours. Paranoia was a close friend of the queen, though it was not a relationship born out of thin air. Ever since her marriage to King Hadaron, the queen became a target to many: from those who sought her approval and endorsement to those who sought to blackmail and threaten her. She has narrowly escaped several assassination plots in her lifetime, both from outsiders and from Ishgrian nobles. Queen Phaedra knew that if she were to let her guard down, the power which she desperately clung onto could evaporate in seconds. Now, that threat came from her relatives and their allies who sought to capture and likely execute her. A dreadful possibility which left the queen sleepless on most nights since the start of the civil war.
***
A few days passed without incident. All appeared well, until Queen Phaedra received the news she had been dreading to hear: Lord Agramond was bringing a new wave of soldiers to the forefront, and this time he was to be joined by Lord Gyrus: another prominent noble and second cousin to the queen. What’s worse, the queen had heard rumors that Lord Gyrus had managed to acquire several combat mages to join his ranks.
Fortunately for the queen, she had managed to rescue some of her personal retinue of mages when she escaped from the capital, although, none of them could use combat magic, for Queen Phaedra was always paranoid of having someone with such lethal capabilities close to her. Yet, the queen’s mages were all still knowledgeable about the arcane arts and of mystical rituals to beseech the gods for aid. In a state of escalating urgency, Queen Phaedra rallied her mages to an emergency meeting within the war room.
“Are you all aware of why I have called each of you here?”
The three mages which gathered in the room looked at each other for a brief moment. Then, one of them spoke, “Yes, your majesty, and we are still unsure if it would be wise to execute your plan.”
Queen Phaedra let out a loud sigh, “Ishgria is at stake here, I was hoping all of you could see that.”
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“Forgive us for questioning your wisdom, your majesty,” one of the mages voiced, “but conducting the ritual you have in mind with only three mages is highly dangerous.”
“And? If you wish to sit here and wait until Castle Arstella is under siege, you are welcome to do so.” Queen Phaedra chastised in an annoyed tone, “but if you still wish to live and see Ishgria restored once more, then you will listen to what I ask of you all.” she warned, glaring daggers at the mages before her.
The three mages began to whisper amongst themselves, contemplating their next response. All of them owed their livelihoods to the queen’s patronage long before the Ishgrian Civil War, even until the present day. It was thanks to her that they could continue to conduct their research without having to be drafted to the Ishgrian military. After a few brief minutes, where Queen Phaedra’s contemptful gaze watched over them: one of the mages spoke, “We will do as you wish, your majesty.”
The queen smiled, pulling at a book from a nearby shelf. A loud rumbling echoed throughout the war room, as bedrock split apart: revealing a set of iron doors where there was once only a rocky wall.
“Excellent, now follow me, then do what you must.” Queen Phaedra invited, a smile tugging at her lips.
The queen guided her personal retinue of mages past the iron doors. The grand chamber that unfolded before their eyes bore testament to its purpose: a sanctuary intricately crafted to honor the arcane arts. Expansive rows of sturdy shelves stretched across the vast expanse, hosting countless tomes and codices, repositories of wisdom carefully amassed over generations of Ishgrian mages. Glass vials, shimmering with strange substances, lay scattered carelessly amidst an array of alchemical instruments, the aftermath of fervent experimentation that had once transpired in times long past.
At the heart of the chamber, an ornate altar stood as a focal point of their intricate ritual. Its surface, painstakingly carved with intricate sigils and glyphs, pulsed with latent power. Arrayed around the altar were meticulously arranged artifacts: crystals pulsating with ancient energy, rare herbs and potions collected from distant lands, and vials of strange shimmering liquids.
The mages rushed to make preparations for the ritual, dusty parchments bearing ancient incantations were carefully unfurled, materials were meticulously arranged, and the ritual site consecrated for good fortune. With each step taken, every component delicately placed, the mages intensified their focus. Their hands traced patterns through the air, weaving invisible threads of power. Methodical chants spilt from their lips, beseeching the gods for aid. They wished that the gaze of the gods would fall upon them, that the gods would take pity upon them, and give them strength.
The ritual was a complicated one, for it was created for the sole purpose of allowing a person to commune directly with the gods, if only briefly. Very rarely had such a ritual been done in Ishgria’s history, for scholars have warned of the risks that come with attempting to breach into the realm of the gods, even if it was simply to ask for aid. Yet, Queen Phaedra’s fears meant that the mages under her command were willing to go against the warnings they were taught since youth. They were prepared to oblige the whims of their liege, no matter the result.
Soon, the mages began to chant, to mark the start of the ritual. They did so for an entire hour, their voice increasing in zeal and devotion as they hoped for the gods to answer their call. Yet, despite the fact that every element of the ritual had been painstakingly prepared, as the ritual progressed, a sense of unease began to creep over all who were within the chamber.
Even the queen, who had no experience with the arcane herself, could feel that a strange presence was lurking close to her and the mages under her service. It was something that felt so close yet so far. An entity both material and immaterial in nature. Though Queen Phaedra did not understand what she was experiencing, a part of her knew that danger was imminent.
The queen stood helplessly, her gaze fixated on the alarming sight unfolding before her, insidious black tendrils slithered out from the shadows, entwining themselves around the legs of her mages. Ethereal sparks of pale lightning began to dance erratically, momentarily illuminating the ritual site before fading back into darkness. Then, with an anguished gasp, one of her mages collapsed, crumpling to the ground, their strength and vitality abruptly snuffed out.
As the ritual faltered, a strange, eldritch energy filled the air, causing the queen and her mages to choke in its presence. They were all brought to their knees, unable to bear the ominous weight of the strange, dark power. The queen's heart pounded in her chest, a rhythm echoing in her ears as panic seized her. Desperation etched deep lines upon her face, and her once steady hands trembled uncontrollably. She tried to speak, to utter words of command or plea, but her voice was caught in her throat.
And then came the black mist, which filled the room until it was almost entirely swallowed in darkness. Queen Phaedra could not feel, see, or even smell anything. All she knew was that she was somehow swallowed into the abyss, unable to escape, unable to make it out. She cursed the weakness of her mages. How dare they fail me? She convinced herself that she did nothing wrong, that everyone else around her were fools who should have adhered to her vision sooner. None of this would have happened if those imbeciles listened to me the first time. She thought to herself, never once did the thought of taking any semblance of personal responsibility for her actions crossed her mind. No, she is a queen, someone exalted amongst all other men and women save for the king. But now the king was dead, and only she remained.
As Queen Phaedra drifted aimlessly through the inky black which surrounder her. She managed to pick up the trace whispers of a voice, one that seemed eager to call out to her. Do you wish for power, mortal? The voice spoke softly, in a tone which brought great pleasure to the queen’s ears. Though she could not speak, deep in her mind, she wished for the voice to speak louder. So you do wish for power, very well, I shall grant you your heart’s desire.