Heralas glared down at the whimpering string bean of an Elf, hands twitching, fingers itching to wring the life out of this spoiled little pillock. That voice! By the gods, it scraped at his patience, a grating blend of a child’s tantrum and some posh berk’s hissy fit.

And what was he supposed to do with it, exactly? Was Cerith actually punishing him by foisting this whingeing waste of space upon him? That twisted sod was probably having a good chuckle back in his study. On second thought, Cerith wasn’t exactly the chuckling type; more of a glacial sneer if anything.

The immediate problem was squawking right in front of him. Eryndor Faenlith, heir to House Faenlith—well, technically—though Selene knows how far the house had tumbled with this perfumed prat as kin. There he stood, draped in pristine white robes, his face a feeble echo of his father’s, who’d once stood alone against a monster horde in Silvethorne Glades. Heralas was willing to bet this prissy twig had never even seen a monster up close. Halfway through another whinge about lack of "basic comforts" and his order’s supposed ineptitude, Heralas forced a nod, cursing himself for not nicking a stronger drink before this misery began.

“…And you expect me to recline upon the earth itself? The earth, mind you! Teeming with creatures—right here, within the camp’s bounds. One of them had the audacity to slither up from the soil beneath me! Scandalous. Imagine what mon père would say, knowing I am subjected to such… barbarie!” The noble’s delicate lip curled as he gave the camp a sniff, as though he might catch a whiff of “common” off it.

Oh, his father would keel over from shock, no doubt, if he knew what a feckless wimp his precious whelp had become. Heralas just wondered if they’d sent him any guidance for what in blazes he was supposed to do with him.

Instead, he kept his voice level, feigned a shred of sympathy, and by Selene, it stung to keep it polite. “The ground is, indeed, somewhat… unsuited, my lord,” he managed. “However, we are conducting this ritual at quite a clip, and there’s little time to arrange accommodations. Apologies, truly. Soon, you shall receive Lord Styn Lor’s blessing. You’ll then need to ‘cultivate’ within the dungeon. Perhaps a bit of experience with monsters would not go… amiss.”

That last bit got his lordship’s attention all right, and in exactly the wrong way.

“Cultiver?” Eryndor’s voice shot up a note or two, eyes bugging. “Pray, what madness do you speak of? You would have me confront beasts? I’ve already ensured my father’s most élite guards are at our service for precisely such brutish tasks!”

He spun to the nearest guard, a silver-armored Valerian, with two more in tow. Elite guards, Heralas’ backside. He’d seen them “fight,” if one could call it that. House Faenlith must be lowering their standards if these lads were at the top.

“Of course, my lord,” the guard intoned, clearly used to this palaver. “We’ll provide you with whatever you require once you have the blessings.”

“Beast-chasing? Moi? As if I’d lower myself to such antics, like your band of ruffians! This talk of ‘experience’ is absurd; I’ve no need for such trivialities.” The young whingebag spat back, and Heralas fought the urge to throttle the brat right there and then.

He cast one pleading look at Arbiter Enlor, standing beside him in sleek black armour. Enlor, a figure of actual power, matched Heralas’s own low-red core level but offered nothing more than a weary head shake.

Just as fed up as him, it seemed, but equally hand-tied when it came to dealing with these Noble whingers.

“My lord, terribly sorry that you felt so... vulnerable,” Heralas said, bowing, all the while entertaining one deliciously intrusive thought: snapping every last one of these prats' necks. But no, he dismissed it—Cerith, that twisted wench, would make sure he regretted it worse than death. Instead, he plastered on a placating smile. “We’re speeding up the ritual as fast as we can. The blessing and power are almost yours, my lord. Though, just my personal view—could still be useful to test against a few creatures. Just an idea.”

The noble’s sneer could’ve killed a weaker man. “Keep your fanciful ideas to yourself, Arcaniste Heralas. In fact, see to it that the guard is doubled until the ritual begins. What, pray tell, is the purpose of your wages if not to ensure my safety?”

Heralas barely held back an eye roll. If the brat knew a thing about his father’s coin, well, maybe he’d understand that his safety wasn’t the actual priority here—but that’d all change once the prat gained power. How it pained Heralas to see this whelp ascend to low-gold.

Selene save them all, was this the grand future of their once-proud order?

Still, he gave another deferential nod, smooth as ever. “Of course, my lord. I’ll see to it the guard’s ‘fortified,’ and you’ll be... utterly secure.” Even though Heralas would bet his right bollock the brat wouldn’t last a morning with his own damn whining.

The little lordling sniffed, looking like he’d smelled something rank as he gestured toward the supplies. “And the provisions—this… potage is a disgrace, unworthy of even a vermin’s palate. An Elf of my standing requires fare that is fresh, not whatever abomination this might be.”

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Fresh. Heralas almost smirked, the urge to shove him into the muck prickling at his palms. “Yes, my lord, I’ll... see about arranging something more ‘suitable.’”

The brat raised a brow, voice as sweet as a poisoned quill. “Excellent. And, Arcaniste Heralas, it would grieve me deeply to mention this to Oncle Cerith. Surely, you wouldn’t wish your dévouement to duty called into question.”

Selene above, he was making it really difficult not to flay him on the spot. Heralas gave a tight nod, swallowing the bile in his throat. “Of course, my lord.”

And just like that, the wench waltzed off, leaving Heralas stewing in his own bloody rage.

At last, he turned to size up the three remaining guests. Ah, the delvers—the lot hunting down that pesky creature mucking up their rituals. As if Heralas needed another reminder that some sodding nuisance was hell-bent on putting a spanner in their works.

First, Arion goes and does whatever unholy bollocks he did, ending up dead and unleashing a bloody NetherBeast to boot. Seriously, what in the actual hell happened there?

Investigations were still underway, and it looked like the outcome would be exactly what he feared. Heralas suspected it was tangled up in more of that noble nonsense, since Arion himself was one—there always was some shady shite when it came to them, wasn’t there? But no, this time he was the one at the helm, and he’d be damned if he’d let this whole circus go tits-up on his watch.

Putting on a strained smile, he addressed the delver in front of him.

He could stomach this lot far better than those prissy nobles with their airs and graces. At least the delvers had earned their keep by grit alone, chasing down monsters and honing their craft.

Pity they didn’t see why rations had been tight—serving some sodding noble and his entourage of twenty guards. His own order was left scraping by just as much as the delvers, all thanks to this hasty circus.

They’d been given precious little time to prepare for the so-called “blessing,” and Arion’s spectacular cock-up—not to mention getting a noble killed in the process—had left a bloody stain on their reputation, plain as day. Now, Heralas was tasked with salvaging it all with yet another rushed ritual, just so they didn’t miss this “oh-so-rare” opportunity.

Did he personally give a toss? Not particularly. But with noble pressure on one side and his order's neck on the chopping block, he had no choice but to dive in himself. Still, he’d have preferred a proper buildup of dungeon energy, but that ship had sailed. All because of some bastard intent on causing mayhem, and there he was, hands tied, raging helplessly.

Heralas shook his head, his gaze falling on the delver—Carel, was it? Right, he’d had a word with him and his team earlier; Carel was the poor sod that got walloped by that creature.

“We can come back later if timing’s a problem,” Carel said, shifting his weight with that weathered look of someone who’d rather be hunting monsters than dealing with all this pomp.

Heralas shook his head, muttering, “Time’s a luxury we don’t have. Just give me the rundown—what’ve we got this time?” He sighed, already bracing for the worst. “Did the Divinator manage to scrape anything useful off your mate’s butchered corpses?”

The delver's face tightened at ‘mate’—perhaps not so close a friend after all, but the look said enough. “He’s giving it another go now, told us to check in after. Whatever this beast is, it’s masking itself from divination. Or whoever’s pulling the strings is doing it for it. Divinator’s drawing blanks all over the place, which is strange; last time, we dug up quite a bit.”

As usual, nothing but a pile of shite for Heralas to wade through. He glanced over at Arbiter Elnor, who, stony as ever, was starting to show signs of wear himself. After a few probing questions, the delvers recounted the recent events. The creature had been captured, and under strict orders to be kept in pristine condition, ripe for a bit of good old-fashioned divining to sniff out its master. But the beast had broken loose at the last minute and shredded all four poor sods to bits.

Aside from its unsettling shape-shifting, the creature wielded potent lightning magic, a touch of ghostly trickery, and brute strength to boot. Beyond that? Zilch. Heralas was leaning towards it being undead; whoever was pulling its strings had to be damn powerful. Red core, at least.

And cautious, too—a detail he might be able to twist to his advantage. After dismissing the delvers, he took a rare moment of quiet, just him and Elnor in the camp.

“Well, if this isn’t a right twist-up,” he muttered dryly, not bothering to hold back on his language anymore. “Once again, it’s all on me. Part of me just wants to fuck off and live a nice, quiet life brewing potions in some forest. But, nooo, I’m in too deep, ain’t I? Nobility would have me head before I could even say ‘bollocks to this.’ Oh, Selene, why are you giving me such grief?” He sighed, glancing up at Elnor’s stony expression. “But, whatever—whoever’s pulling the strings on this creature is already making a right arse of our plans. Might as well get ahead of them, eh?”

Elnor’s gaze sharpened, one dark brow arching, deadpan as a gravestone. “Oh, fantastic. Because rushing rituals has never gone tits-up for anyone, has it?”

Heralas scowled. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you; it’s dreadful, truly. But I’m serious. What exactly are we waiting for? More mangled bodies and half-baked visions from that fat, excuse-for-a-divinator sack we dragged along? I’d be well pleased if the beast went for him next.”

Elnor huffed, his rigid mask slipping just enough to glint with humor. Now, that was terrifying—him acting out of character, all for Heralas’s benefit. “Just so I’m clear, you’d rather we dive into some… half-baked ritual and hope it’s close enough to the ‘real deal’? Have you heard yourself?”

“Not exactly my standard approach, no. I don’t do ‘close enough,’ Elnor. But this time, we’re out of time. We botch this, and we can say goodbye to the order. I mean, these bloody rituals? Spent enough time with ‘em to know they’re no ordinary summoning games.” Heralas threw up his hands and started pacing. “Just makes me wonder what these bloody nobles are up to. But whatever it is, it doesn’t change that we’ve got to go through with it. Something’s out there, organizing, and it’s sharp as a knife in our arses. No more perfect relics and offerings. Whatever I’ve gathered, my years as a ritualist tell me we’ve got enough for a go, even if it’ll be on me to fix every damn nuance once it starts.”

Elnor shook his head slowly, his usual stone face snapping back into place. “So, your brilliant idea is to just… trust that we’ve got enough juice to hold this thing?”

“Oh, not just ‘trust.’” Heralas chuckled. “You’ve gone awfully cynical of my expertise lately, Elnor. I know we can pull it off. But we need zero interruptions. If that creature shows up for round two, I want you out there yourself with those so-called ‘elite’ guards that pompous cow dragged in.” With a last pinched finger raised, Heralas started off. “And we’re starting right bloody now!”