He waited three days.

Nathaniel Vash slumped in his makeshift throne of rock, a consistent sneer chiseled onto his face without reprieve. Three whole days he sat, waiting for the hail to relent. The myriad chunks of ice continued to pummel him, but he disregarded them as irritants. Three nights passed without sleep. No food, little water, only the life-saving potion in his flask nourished him. He waited for the moment, the small window he needed.

Atop Aether Hill on the outskirts of Tyrule, he watched over his precious seals and the hired men protecting them. Poor local villagers a hundred in number, they stood together forming a wide circle seventy feet in diameter. Two giant magic seals drawn up in blood in the grass lay beneath their feet. Each man held a unique device: a thick rod attached to a slab of stone cut into a perfect square. They held the shields in such a way to seamlessly come together and create a canopy over the seals. Mounds of hail piled atop the awning, testing their strength.

And that strength waned as each new hour passed. Every so often, Vash cleared the piling ice away with a spell, providing a motivation-restoring respite, but he could tell from the weariness in their faces that his time was running out. But the ritual could only take place here, where the aether of Tyrule gathered. Every ounce of power he could obtain was necessary to achieve perfect control of those warriors of legend.

Then, as night slowly approached and Vash began considering giving up, the clouds quieted. His gaze snapped to the sky, eyes bulging as the hail relented. Bursting out of the chair, he raised his arms in triumph.

“It’s time!” he shouted. He pointed an Element Stone, and a furious wind blasted the piles of gathered hail from the canopy. He shooed the men away from the seals. “Get away, get away. We have little time. Unless you want to stand another three days.”

His exhausted helpers quickly retreated, gathering off to the side to watch. The seals consisted of hundreds of ancient runes Vash had gathered together after years of research. Perfectly constructed yet delicate, the seals couldn’t bear a single smudge. Vash swiftly pored over the seals, checking for any blotches and making sure not to drip on them, as he was now soaked. But he found nothing. The canopy did its job.

Breathing deep and shaking off his weariness, he stood before the two seals, holding four Life Stones. Then he began to chant a series of complex incantations. The blood runes ignited with a furious glow, shining brighter with each repetition. After the tenth, Vash stopped. He opened his eyes, heart pounding like a drum. After so much planning, the moment had finally come.

He lifted an arm, shouting: “Othello of the line of Orion! Zachary of the line of Orion!”

A shrieking bolt of lightning tore through the sky, crashing into one of the seals with an ear-splitting roar. The villagers shouted in fear, backing away and grouping closer together. But the bolt didn’t disappear – rather it streamed from the heavens in a continuous blinding torrent, pulsing with unending force. Then the second seal erupted, and a whirlwind of searing fire churned from the ground and reached to the sky. Fire and light, side by side, rushed and screamed, filling the whole valley with light, heat and resonance. The men shielded their eyes and cowered, but Vash spread out his hands, laughing maniacally.

In the throes of power, they appeared, cloaked in lightning and fire. Out of the ground, the two ancient Rinx Lords rose, resurrected by the power of their own names. Vash gazed back and forth between them in hunger.

From the dying flames, Lord Osiris emerged. Out of the receding light, Lord Zethos appeared.

Vash stretched out his hands, squeezing them into fists. “Venorous,” he shouted. The seals under the two sorcerers immediately collapsed, shrinking around them until merely inches wide. The shrunken seals raced up their bodies, reaching the middles of their chests. There they stopped, burning bright before disappearing. Vash exhaled, shuddering.

It’s done… I did it. I actually did it.

And it wasn’t until that final moment when Vash realized something was wrong. Lord Osiris on the left appeared as expected. Young and strong, he exuded the presence Vash read about in the ancient annals. Strips of thin cloth wound around his head, leaving a shock of fire-red hair to sprout from the top. Various charms and metal trinkets dangled from the ends of the strips. Three capes shrouded one side of his body, and a large sword in a red sheath hung from his belt. A rigid scar ran from his right eye across the side of his head. His clothes were practical and provincial rather than the extravagance Vash had expected – the kind of glorified appearance Osiris maintained in the stories. Yet, even without such things, he evoked all the imaginings of true power. Vash could… feel how strong this man was.

But the person resurrected from thunder was not what Vash expected. Where Lord Zethos, mythified in lore as a colossal muscular specimen, should have stood, an old man was hunched over in white robes instead, shaking and gasping. After a few seconds of a pathetic attempt to remaining standing, he collapsed. Vash blinked several times, unable to understand what went wrong.

Osiris’s eyes narrowed. “Where am I?” he asked. “What’s happening? Speak!”

Vash opened his mouth to reply, but the old man on the ground spoke first. “Osiris?” The voice was strong despite his struggle. “Is that really you?”

The younger man looked down at him. “Do I know you?”

He smiled weakly. “You don’t recognize your own brother?”

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For a moment, Osiris regarded him with suspicion. But his eyes widened upon realization, and he rushed to his side, gently propping his head.

“Zethos? Is… is that you?”

“Yes, Brother. I can’t believe I’m looking on you again. How I’ve missed you.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening. What is this?”

“It seems that young man there invoked the New Name Rite, and brought us back from the dead.” They glanced at Vash, and Zethos scowled. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, foolish boy.”

The sudden chiding surprised Vash. “I… uh… well, you see—”

“It doesn’t matter!” Zethos coughed violently, face scrunched in pain. “What’s done is done. But you clearly didn’t know what you were doing. Otherwise, you would have known you can’t resurrect a man who died of natural old age, regardless of the magic. Now I must suffer death’s sting a second time. I don’t know how you acquired our true names – I never told them to anyone. But you’re going to wish in the end that you had never uttered them.”

A cruel manner came over Osiris. “I will take care of him.”

Zethos reached a hand up to his face. “No, Othello. Don’t harm him. Show him mercy.”

Fire filled Osiris’s eyes. “How can you be my brother? Zethos didn’t show mercy.”

“Zethos didn’t? Or the demon controlling his body didn’t, after he was lost to Scepter’s curse?”

“What are you saying? Are you telling me you’re my little brother back from the dead? The small boy…” He bowed his head, squeezing Zethos’s hand. “…the small boy we lost so long ago?”

“Yes, Osiris. After your death, I was saved. A miracle beyond our comprehension. That demon you called Zethos was long ago banished, and I returned to my own body.”

“After my…” Osiris closed his eyes, lids fluttering. “Now I remember… I died.” He smirked. “Mobius got me. But how did you come back? We looked for a way for so long without success. Who was able to do this?”

Zethos’s eyes became weak as he began to fade, but he gave a small chuckle. “Who do you think? That girl… such a miserable thorn in our side. She defeated me… and then she saved me.”

“Princess Aurora? She…?” Osiris shook his head in disbelief. “She was indeed a thorn.”

“Queen Aurora,” Zethos corrected. “The grandest the world ever saw.”

Vash couldn’t believe his ears. They were talking about the Drifting Queen! Two warriors of legend were talking of two others from over seven hundred years ago. Common bedtime stories shared over and over again throughout Carnel’s history were being discussed by the main characters right before him. Even though he had imagined what this would be like, the surreal nature of it overwhelmed him.

“Osiris, listen to me,” Zethos said. His body no longer shook, and his face grew pale. “Listen to these last blessed words God has granted me to tell you. Remember them the rest of your renewed days: Give up your hatred. Let go of your revenge.”

A dark cloud came over Osiris’s face. “You know I can’t.”

“Yes… yes, you can. As I did, so can you. You’re my big brother. I always believed you could do anything.”

“Mobius was the hero.”

Zethos’s lips found strength enough for a feeble smile. “Not mine. Osiris… I want you there with us. Please… let it go. What do you have left?”

Osiris watched with wide eyes as the old man’s slowly closed, a smile still on his face. For the second time in his life, his little brother died in his arms. He softly laid the old man’s head back down and got up, backing away from the body. The earth around Zethos shifted of its own accord, rising up around him. Forming large hands, the earth pulled him underground in a gentle burial. Vash and the hired men toed closer to watch in wonder.

“The spirit contract of the Avalon!” Vash whispered. “It wasn’t just a myth.”

Osiris turned to Vash, eyes narrowed into vicious slits. “For forcing me to watch this again, you die today.”

Vash pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think so.”

The red-haired Rinx Lord regarded his reply for a moment, eyes searching with intelligent consideration. “That’s interesting,” he replied. “I am suddenly compelled not only to spare your life, but to heed your commands. What magic have you tied me to?”

Vash’s jaw dropped. He already understands? In but a breadth of time? It took several moments for him to recover. He took a long swig from his flask, gasping when he finally ripped his lips away.

“Your intellect was legend, my lord,” he said, clutching to his chest. “But I severely underestimated it all the same.”

“I asked you a question.”

“It’s called the Venorous Seal. Weaved by blood, you are bound to serve me as long as I live.”

“Venorous? As in Edith Venorous, the Rypsy Mage?”

“No, my lord. Judith Venorous, her great granddaughter. Building on Edith’s theories, Judith discovered the magic.”

“Marvelous.” He rubbed his chin. “How long has it been since my death?”

“Seven hundred years.”

For the first time, a hollow look came over Osiris, one Vash thought might be sadness, but it quickly disappeared.

“And where am I?”

“Tyrule, a city once located in a country you called North Carnel. Long ago, Carnel united into one country. Since then it has remained stable under Tanaerum’s line, but much has been lost. I am a searcher of the old ways. Nathanial Vash is my name.”

“And you regard yourself as a man of knowledge?”

“Y-yes.” Vash suddenly felt uncertain. So many questions flooded his mind at once, but he gathered himself, remembering exactly what he wanted to see first. He pointed to his hired villagers, who still stood watching them in a stupor. “And now I give you my first command: kill these men. I want to witness the full power of a Rinx Lord.”

Sudden cries of fear went up through the throng, and they turned, fleeing down the hill as fast as they could.

Osiris regarded Vash with another piercing gaze. “I am now compelled to warn that you might die if I were to unleash my full power,” he said.

“Then use as much power as possible without putting me in harm’s way.”

Osiris sniffed, lifting his hand to rest on the handle of his sword. “Very well.”

He turned to look down the hill, watching as the hundred men scattered across the grassy countryside. A black dread came over Vash in that moment, like poison. The stillness harbored a deep wake, broad with the power he had wished to see, but now bombarded him with apprehension. It was a thick pain, like suffocation, and it filled him to the brim, making his body ache and eyesight blur.

In a swift strike, Osiris drew the sword called Vulcan. A deafening shriek tore through the air, and the earth rumbled, shaking both land and sky. Fire spewed from chasms, roaring with the force of a thousand cannons, and the wind seared with sudden, immense heat. Bloody rain cascaded from now crimson skies. Vash backed away, filled with awe, filled with terror.

Lord Osiris stood, red sword raised across the land, and the inferno surrounded him, obeying every unheard command. Red death stretched in every visible direction, reshaping the whole horizon.

It took but a few minutes for him to finish the massacre, but as Vash watched each man slaughtered under Osiris’s blade, a hunger filled him. Devastating, ruthless, immeasurable – the flames of Vulcan engulfed the helpless victims at his whim, roiling skin and bone to ash and scattering them to nether. Despite his choking fear, Vash raised arms of triumph.

Such power he had only ever dreamed of, and now everything was under his control.