Seven figures sat within seven thrones, each polished silver of the highest purity, trimmed in gold, and adorned in gems of every hue; save for red. The chamber they resided in was of the same quality, its rising columns reaching up to a domed ceiling, one that depicted the sky, the only piece of art in the kingdom graced with such a sight.

None, save for The Seven, knew of the sky, which made the piece all the more satisfying to glance at, a treasure no one else had. But it also served as a reminder of what had been lost, and the surface taken by the endless storm.

“You’re a coward Harth,” Fullan said, his voice heated, and what Vails would say, touched by Rage. Fullan, holder of the fourth throne, smashed his fist down on the elegantly carved table, one that depicted the placement of Sanctuary, and all the surrounding Sanctums near it. “Always hiding behind your walls, even during a mock game, show some spine.”

Harth sneered: “You just want to see what I’ve gathered this time, don’t think you can fool me again, Rage taken,” spat the holder of the fifth throne.

“It was embarrassing,” Namcor voiced, claimant of the third. “That you had fallen for that Harth.” The latter hissed, but kept his head lowered. Some disrespect could be shown, given a slight had been offered, but not much. Else, Namcor might be moved to help Fullan, and the two could easily put the holder of the fifth throne into a dangerous position. Maybe lose his place, become the sixth, or worse the seventh.

The two current holders of those seats—Vorn the former, Unnith the latter—were both quiet. By appearances the two had all their focus locked on the atlas, the lowest scheming ways to rise. But the truth was they weren’t, none of them were, the whole scene was a distraction for the annoying Sovereign watching them.

Arnloe, holder of the first throne, wanted to laugh and lecture the being. Show, that while it could not be seen, it could be felt.

A gifted sense for the seven of them, they the only Instigators in this realm. A shame it came with limitations, such as not knowing how many Sovereigns were watching. That had cost them. But, by the grace of the Conductors, they weren’t completely blind. The realm fed them warnings, such as when a Sovereign began meddling in ways too extreme, began going over its allowed limit of interference, or, which happened recently, blatantly began ignoring rules.

Mavron was its chosen name, and apparently, it was a very bold Sovereign. It had erased their greatest work, over a thousand Cycles of effort gone in an instant. Their Crown placed onto the realm, a seal to keep wanton destruction in check, removed. Mavron was going to regret that, too blatant an act, a Disciplinarian would be sent to punish such disrespectful behavior.

That didn’t help them though, said enforcer wouldn’t undo the damage, not for a realm so filled with the unwanted. Attention couldn’t be brought here, Sovereigns remembering, or becoming interested in their worst Shards. It left Arnloe, and his compatriots, in a bit of a bind. He wouldn’t say the system they had in place, had been perfect, but it was as close as it could have been. Vails were mostly safe from their own genocidal antics, and their desire for conquest had been contained to a degree. It had also been turned into a useful tool to maintain the status quo. The Nightmare—that last mad weaving of flesh—had also been checked, and turned into an instrument to maintain their system.

He could admit inwardly, that he was having trouble letting go of what had been lost. He needed to move on, and focus his full mind on planning the Vails survival. It was just, they had such a good arrangement in place, one that would never come again, or not to the degree they’d reached before.

However, there was still a chance to salvage their system, make it function again, though at a much smaller scale than before. While outwardly the other six droned on about their mock battle. Arnloe had, and still was, watching reports from Visionstones.

The Giver—even lessened from the loss of her Senses—was sending him a constant stream of those. The full might of their Purifiers, millions, were providing her a broad picture of their realm.

From what he saw, it wouldn’t be much longer, an Arc or two, before most of the Depths was filled with Lifeforce. The Nightmare unmanageable, and that old war weapon finally in a place to fulfill its purpose.

Arnloe suppressed a laugh, for his position never stopped offering amusement.

‘Me an Instigator, forced to be that of a Preserver.’

Instead of scheming, and planning the end of kingdoms, he was constantly being forced to protect, and defend what was left of a mad race of despots.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

He wasn’t sure how many they would be able to save this time, those within Sanctuary, and maybe some of the nearby Sanctums. But even that was being optimistic. The flesh engine had never been fed to such an extent before, so there were no past examples for him to gauge, and use to make plans that would guaranty success.

If Arnloe had been an average Shard, with his memories locked away. Panic would have ensued, or some form of desperate dilution that all would work out, and this disturbance, a passing annoyance.

Thank the Conductors he was not, for it allowed him to enjoy the changing scenario, marvel at the outlandishness that was coming, a realm drowning in Lifeforce. Oh, how he wanted to laugh, and openly joke with his brothers. But alas, the annoying Sovereigns were watching. So, his face remained sullen, and ears bending down.

“Highest throne, the worthiest of us all. Is something Cursed?” Asked Owlcar, holder of the second throne.

Arnloe gave a short-wave, indicating annoyance. “Our pet keeps nagging me,” he said.

‘The Giver is not going to be able to keep the Nightmare back for long, we must hurry brothers, or all will be lost.’ He said to them through their shared link.

“She is a simple thing,” Owlcar added. “Shall I take on the burden?”

The deeper meaning, was for him to sift through the streams of sights, so Arnloe could focus his mind on finding them a solution.

“A Blessed offer,” he said. “And one that is accepted.” His words had the holders of the third and lower thrones, form the equivalence of frowns, as their furs and ears shifted abruptly. Another act to trick the watching Sovereigns, letting them think that his brothers were not pleased with him returning to the game of Conquest, and ruining their chance of gaining some ground over him. Plus the illusion, that all that matter to the seven of them, was their fun.

‘The Usurper has provided us the means to save our Vails.’ He sent to them, along with the mental sights of the Wanderer, such a marvel, and an impossibility.

There wasn’t a speck of lore within the Depths that would have allowed the creation of the Wanderer. Even when they had lived on the surface, at the height of Vail might and understanding, such knowledge had been reserved for the worthy.

Knowledge that had been lost.

Besides, even if somehow the Usurper had discovered such wisdom, there should not have been the means to make a Wanderer.

Nor so perfectly.

The floating Sanctum was a glaring light, that showed the Usurper had received outside help, and the only being to account for that was Mavron, meaning the Usurper was its personal Shard.

Mentally Arnloe sighed, it meant the Sovereign was not only bold, but also overbearing, and cared very deeply for its lesser self.

‘How many secrets did you give?’ He half wondered, but looking at the visions of the Wanderer, its surface covered in perfectly shaped and woven Sigils, the answer was plainly writ.

Lifeforce had done the work.

The Usurper had been taught the true method of how to use it. Which meant, the Shard was capable of almost anything, so long as he had the creativity to ponder desires he wished the Lifeforce to bring about. With the making of the Wanderer, and his other constructs, it showed that he had some imagination. Enough, that the Nightmare wouldn’t get him any time soon. But with the Crown gone, the seal broken, that same Lifeforce was going to get them all killed.

Well…not all of them, Arnloe had the pieces he needed now. It would be easier if he could also use Lifeforce the correct way, will to it, and have the work be done instantly. But that was too far of a leap in logic and learning. The Sovereigns would notice something was off with him, his brothers, and the story they were trying to paint. So, slowness had to be maintained, the work done the long way.

The Sovereigns knew his history, and skill at studying Sigils from others. There would be no deeper glances when he gained the means to make his own Wanderer. He had the perfect reference, all he had to do was make the struggle convincing enough.

That would be the difficult part, too quick, and he still might gain notice, but too slow…Then, they wouldn’t have enough time to see the work done.

Inwardly smiling, and laughing softly, Arnloe charted his course, and rose from his throne. With their heads partially bowed, six turned their attention to him.

“Highest?” Owlcar spoke, tone marked as one touched by Worry.

“I have lost interest in this,” he said, and strode away. Purifiers—clad in Enforcers—followed him, and parted Gates.

He sent them his plan, the work that needed done, and the fact that he would be in his private study for a time. They sent back their understandings, and began acting deeply troubled, sharing concerned glances.

Behind his back—Arnloe no longer in sight—they began the show of scheming to topple him. As for himself, he hurried down halls that were empty of all other Shards. Passed the visages of silver, gold, gems, arts, and sculptures made to claim the eye, Arnloe ran.

“Bring me everything pertaining to the Wanderer,” he said to the following Purifiers. “And be quick about it, I will not have all that is mine be taken from me,” he added with a snarl.

Another play on his part, for he wasn’t irritated in the slightest. However, past actions with others, and at times to garner needed reactions. Had caused a history that when something was amiss, or threatening to Arnloe’s survival, he would start to lose his temper. He had to continue that now, ensure everything was in place, so when he delivered a miracle from his studies. The Sovereigns would be none the wiser that they were watching a performance.