Twenty-sixth of Harvest (Five days after Ashelath's fall)

Year 1182 of Emancipation

For thousands of years the theologians and scholars had theorised about the Arcane planes. Everyone knew that the god-like beings existed in some sort of spiritual reality that connected to the physical, but there had been no agreement about the exact nature of their realm. Some pictured bright mountain peaks covered in jewelled structures, others spoke of open plains and placid lakes. Some claimed to follow ancient texts, others simply appealed to the tastes of their audience. Both approaches brought great wealth to the most eloquent debaters.

The truth was, the planes were as diverse as the Arcane themselves. Regardless of whether they had physical forms or not, they often created for themselves physical homes to pursue their own pleasures in private. There were no boundaries placed on them, except for those who had violated their own dominions. It amused many that the recently deceased Ashelath had built for himself a towering palace on an isolated cliffside. It was glorious enough to elicit praise, but there were rarely any visitors to gaze upon it. In fairness, he hadn't had much input into the placement. Following his attempted rebellion against the Arcane, he had been forced into isolation, barely having had time to leave behind the necessary artefacts to continue his influence in the outside world. Over the millennia, despite his isolation, he had extended his reach as he sought freedom from his bondage.

Some bondage, the visitor thought as he stepped through the open gate. A howling wind buffeted against him as he walked along the narrow pathway that led to the main entrance. Someone must have thought that pulling from human superstitions was funny – savage winds on a cliff face hardly seemed like a threat to him. He was dressed in a black cloak, fury burning in his eyes. His name was Falkar, and he had claimed for himself lordship over the lower beasts – the creatures that haunted nightmares and stalked the night. His name set fear in the hearts of mortals, but for the first time he felt it for himself as he wandered the torch-lit halls until he found a central chamber. He felt the cold stares of the two Arcane waiting for him inside. They stood around a central pit, surrounded by black iron walls.

"Where were you?" asked the blonde-haired Yulen, folding her arms across her rainbow-coloured dress.

Falkar waved his hand dismissively. "I had matters to attend to."

"Our charge is dead," Yulen spat, and Falkar had to smile at her anger. He had seen fairies that inspired more fear. "And you think that something else held a higher priority?"

"You forget your place, Falkar," the third Arcane growled. Falkar took Belamin far more seriously. He was a fire-wielder, known for his viciousness. Where Yulen was known as a peace-seeker, Belamin was always spoiling for a fight – and he rarely lost. "We were charged with keeping Ashelath in line."

"And for millennia, we did. And well enough, I must say," Falkar reminded them both. "This was his home, and he never stepped a foot outside until a few days ago."

Yulen laughed grimly and waved at the pit before them. "Tell me again how he was under our control?"

Falkar stepped forward carefully and glanced down at the rows of cages below them. He glanced at the others, then dropped down. He was met by an almost overpowering stench. He took a look into the first cage and stepped back, repulsed by the twisted creature that stood inside. Blood trickled from open sores, and the torch light glinted off sharpened teeth. It leapt at the bars, and Falkar stepped forward to seize it by the throat, snapping it in an instant. For a moment he studied the beast with a frown. I don't know you. Where did he find you? He dropped the corpse and floated back up to the main floor with the others.

"He summoned these?"

Belamin grunted. "He summoned them, he formed them, who knows? Does it matter? The point is, we should have known. At least, that's what Delorax will say."

Falkar's eyes narrowed at the name of the self-appointed 'god' of justice. "I have little to say to him."

"So what do you suggest, then?" Yulen asked, her exasperation clear in her voice.

"We know who killed him," Falkar pointed out. "Ashelath was obsessed with Narandir. He united himself with a physical body to seize it. His arrogance killed him; this Belkai was simply an instrument. She is nothing."

"That nothing killed an Arcane."

The three turned at the deep, bass voice that sounded from the doorway. Falkar cursed quietly, and bowed slightly. The others did the same as Delorax came into the room. He wore a grey cloak, but the jewelled handle of a sword poked through the fabric. Its presence was no subtle threat. Falkar had seen the weapon in use, and he had cause to fear it.

"She killed an Arcane," Delorax repeated. "And now reports from your own spies say that she will march against Svaleta's enemies. Narandir will march to war under the leadership of the Defiler."

"She rid us of a pestilence that was better off in oblivion," Belamin shot back, hiding his fear in insolence. "You could almost reward her. Give her Narandir as her prize."

Delorax fixed his unyielding gaze on the Arcane. "And if she turned her sights on you, Belamin? Should we allow your death as well? Would that be an adequate payment for the one piece of that world that we cannot attain?"

He shook his head in disgust. "The point is, I gave you a command. Keep Ashelath under control. Yulen, you could have taught him peace and calmed his rage. Falkar, you know how to compromise; you could have found a solution. And Belamin, you could have put him down when he proved uncontainable. And every one of you failed.

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"You don't think I know what is in that pit? Whether because of your incompetence or your corruption, he built up creatures and extended his power. He almost seized Narandir. Of all the Arcane, the only one who almost grasped its power was the one who was meant to be sealed away."

Yulen was the first to respond, just as Delorax had expected. She was the weakest of the three, even with her gifts of persuasion. Too prone to passion, not alert enough to rationality. Still, she had served her purposes in the past. "What would you have us do?"

Delorax laughed, and Falkar shifted nervously at the mockery contained in the sound. "Your chance has come and gone. Now is the time for vengeance. Belkai will pay for her arrogance."

"We cannot breach Narandir," Falkar said. "If she remains in the Forest, we could burn the whole world down and she would survive."

"So we turn to the old ways of dealing with such problems." Delorax folded his arms across his chest and gave a sadistic smile. "We turn to the Sons of Retribution. You know them well, don't you, Falkar?"

Falkar's face went pale as a purple cloud engulfed the three of them. When it dissipated, two more figures stood among them. Between Falkar and Belamin was a man in his early twenties, his olive skin radiant in its youth. Blue eyes filled with life were locked on Delorax, and his hands rested by his side. He wore a sleeveless leather jerkin, and his skin rippled with muscles. As always, he radiated pure masculinity. Yulen stared wide eyed, transfixed by the view. Falkar rolled his eyes. He had seen this a thousand times and Yulen's passion was well known. Had she known the man's true nature, her desire would have only increased. For all her love of peace, she had always felt the draw towards the darkness.

Beyond him, standing beside Yulen, was a young woman of the same age. Her blonde hair was done up in a single plat that fell between her bare shoulder blades. Her silver dress clung tightly to her hourglass figure, and a plunging neckline left little of her attraction to the imagination. Many men had fallen to her temptation, but Falkar knew better than to be taken in by her allure. Few survived the encounter.

Delorax's smile widened as he watched Falkar's discomfort. "Lord of the Lower Beasts, you know these two well, don't you? The latest in a long line of executioners of divine wrath. Why don't you enlighten the others?"

Falkar swallowed nervously before speaking. "They are Kane and Adrianna. They served the Palian Empire until we declared the kingdom forfeit. Then they fought for us with great vigour. I rewarded them...with new life."

"More than that," Delorax said. "Suffice to say that they are not fond of mercy. So they are my chosen instruments to deliver justice to this rebel mage. They brought down an empire; they can deal with a wayward woman."

"We have no need of two Palians," Belamin spat. "Let us deal with this and we shall redeem ourselves."

"We have the power of gods," Yulen agreed as she feasted her eyes on Kane's form. "Let us eliminate that wretch and pursue other pleasures."

Kane nodded at her and in her lust she missed the darkness in his eyes.

Delorax grunted. Without a word, he unsheathed his sword and tossed it through the air. Adrianna didn't hesitate. In one rapid movement, the Palian beauty snatched the blade out of the air and with a backhanded grip smashed it through Yulen's chin and out through the back of her head. The rainbow-clad Arcane gave a single gasp, then melted into nothingness. Belamin took a step back as Adrianna threw the sword back to Delorax and clasped her hands behind her back. Falkar knew he was pale but fought to stay motionless as Kane shifted slightly. He knew the twins well enough to see the signs of bloodlust in the brother. He silently hoped that Belamin would draw Delorax's wrath. Anything to save his own soul.

"What is our commission?" Kane asked quietly, and Falkar hid his relief.

"Falkar was right about one thing. There is no penetrating Narandir," Delorax said. "The Arcane and their...children...have no power there. But if you draw the Defiler out, then you can have your fun. Make her suffer, and then have your way with her."

Adrianna's soft lips parted in a soul-chilling smile. "What do we have at our disposal?"

Delorax waved at the pit below them. "Any and all of Ashelath's monstrosities are yours. She killed him, she will suffer with his instruments. Anything else you require, you ask me. I'm sure Falkar has other useful tools."

"It shall be done," Adrianna promised. "Is there anything else, my lord?"

"Show no mercy," Delorax told them. He turned to Falkar. "Come with me. We need to speak."

Falkar glanced at the twins as he followed him out of the room. Their eyes shone amber, and as the door swung shut he heard deep animalistic growls before Belamin started screaming. Delorax led Falkar through the corridors for a full ten minutes before they opened a portal and left.

Belamin was still screaming.

***

The towers of Narandir still stood. The former Lord of the Forest had built them a millennium ago, preferring them to the symbiotic homes that the elves had formed in ages past. He was dead now, and Narandir's future was uncertain. As dawn broke in the eastern sky, its first dim rays woke Davos from what had been the deepest sleep that he'd had in weeks. His eyes opened slowly, not willing to face the reality of what lay ahead that day. The view before him made it worthwhile. Belkai lay face down beside him, the blanket gathered across her lower back. Her wavy auburn hair was spread over her bare skin, and he stretched out his hand to brush some of it off her face. His bride of thirteen hours smiled softly and whispered,

"Good morning, husband."

Davos lay against her, wrapping one leg over her thighs. His lips brushed her neck. "Morning, wife."

Her smile widened, and she opened her eyes to see his face beside her on the pillow. "Is it the morning already?"

"I'm afraid so," Davos said as he stroked her back. "No night lasts forever."

"It's a shame," Belkai whispered, and let her eyes drift over his body. Her husband was what the Kingdom of Svaleta rather callously called 'Lowborn', the child of an elven mother and human father. Not that you could tell at first glance. His skin was as dark as any Svaletan's, and his thick muscles testified of a hard life befitting that of the chief scout of one of the kingdom's largest cities. It was only his eyes that gave him away, which were just a shade greyer than most. The love in them was real, too, which still shocked her. It had only been a little under two weeks since they had met, the scout pursuing a mysterious killer through the backroads of Svaleta. Yet, they had been through more in those two weeks than most would experience in a lifetime. Facing death and combat together had brought them close, and he had seen her overcome the bonds of her master to bring freedom not just to herself, but also to the elves of Narandir.

"Today you ride to war," Davos whispered, recognising the uncertainty in her eyes. She forced a smile and ran her hand along his thigh. Their wedding the day before had been beautiful, their lovemaking even more so. Curse this world, that it never allows joy to last, Belkai thought.

"I have to end this," Belkai told him. "This war is because of me, whether I knew about it or not. This is my responsibility."

"I know." Davos stroked her cheek. "When do you ride?"

Belkai glanced out the window and shrugged. "Near to midday. It will take time for Lithmae to organise his men."

Strong hands rolled her onto her back as Davos swept his body onto hers. His skin felt like fire on hers, and his eyes burned as he brought his lips to hers.

"Then we have time, my love."