As the first rays of dawn pierced the horizon, casting a golden glow over the temple grounds, the air was thick with the sweet scent of incense. The bayalanak, priests of the Falconkind, moved with solemn grace, their ceremonial robes billowing softly in the morning breeze as its feathers rustled in the winds, along with the fans made of feathers as well.

Ravaen, his features shrouded by the intricate headdress fashioned in the likeness of a falcon’s head, kneeled before them, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the distant silhouette of Ahktum Island.

The ritual for the departed, Qarelcos unfolded in a symphony of ancient chants and rhythmic movements. Each gesture carried weight, each intonation resonating with the spirits of the fallen. But beneath the facade of reverence, a tempest brewed within Ravaen, stirring his inner turmoil. His clenched fists betrayed the solemn stature he tried to present, the anger simmering beneath his stoic facade.

With each beat of the ceremonial drum, his resolve hardened, fueled by a desire for justice. Yet, outwardly, he remained composed, his features veiled by the imposing falcon headdress, decorated with the feathers of past kings, including the feathers from the wings of his late father.

As the bayalanak continued their sacred rites, their voices rising and falling in a hypnotic cadence, his mind churned with thoughts of vengeance. The falcon-shaped headdress seemed to mock him, its beady eyes mirroring the intensity of his anger.

But amidst the fervor of the ceremony, a glimmer of determination shone in his eyes. Though his anger threatened to consume him, he knew that he must bide his time, channeling his emotions into action. For now was the time for a solemn moment, for his people who gave their lives deserved all the respect he has.

His gaze fixated on the island afar, the Island of Ahktum. The bayalanak’s mournful chants for the departed, the Kuads, drifted towards him, carried on the wind. As the ritual marked the end of Qarelcos, his resolve solidified. Without hesitation, he rose to his feet and soared towards the island, its silhouette etched against the sky.

As he flew away from the sacred ceremony, the scent of incense enveloped him as it scattered across the sky, stirring memories of similar rites performed for his father. The lingering aroma, ingrained in the Great Tree where they had mourned, lingered in his mind long after their departure on the mission to confront Tamiron.

Mid-flight, a sudden unease gripped him, causing his heart to falter. Yet, he pushed forward, his determination overriding his apprehension. Upon reaching the island, he alighted at the temple’s sacred grounds, greeted by the solemn silence that hung heavy in the air.

Devastation clawed at his heart as he beheld the aftermath of the raiders’ brutality. His fists clenched, knuckles white with tension.

“Clear the area,” he commanded through choked breaths, his voice heavy with grief. As his men moved to obey, he halted them abruptly, his gaze fiery as he witnessed the lack of reverence shown towards their fallen kin. “Show them dignity,” he insisted, his words a sharp rebuke that jolted his men into action.

Amidst the solemnity, his eyes remained fixed on the temple, the echoes of his own heartbeat and ragged breaths filling the void. The sight of death, particularly of his own kind, in the sanctity of their most revered sanctuary, pierced him with a sense of failure that cut deeper than any battlefield defeat.

Standing at the threshold of the temple, he felt the chill of the air slicing through him, carrying with it an eerie melody that seemed to echo the anguish of his heart. With a heavy sigh, he drew in another breath, bracing himself for the grim scene that awaited him within.

More of his people lay lifeless before him—temple guards, and a young bayalanak, their once vibrant spirits now extinguished. The weight of their loss bore down on him, threatening to crush him beneath its unbearable burden. Unable to contain the torrent of grief that surged within him, he sank to his knees, his anguished sobs mingling with the mournful whispers of the wind.

The ache in his heart was palpable, a relentless torment that gnawed at his very being. In that moment of despair, amidst the wreckage of death and devastation, his mind harbored only one fervent desire: retribution upon the one responsible, meted out by his own hands.

“Search for any traces of the perpetrator,” he commanded his men, his voice strained with determination as they dispersed to scour the area for clues. With a weary effort, he attempted to compose himself, but his attention was drawn to a flickering light that danced before him.

One by one, the lights emerged from the ether, coalescing into paneloseis—ethereal beings that drifted gracefully through the air. Mesmerized by their spectral beauty, he watched in awe as they shimmered and swirled, casting a haunting glow upon the somber scene.

As he rose to his feet, his gaze shifted beyond the temple walls, where he beheld an elder bayalanak performing a ritualistic dance known as “Kjoiyr.” With each fluid movement of the old priest’s feathered fans, a sense of reverence filled the air, suffusing the space with a solemn reverence.

Drawn towards the sacred dance, he approached the bayalanak, his heart heavy with sorrow yet touched by the poignant beauty of the ritual. For in the midst of tragedy, amidst the echoes of loss and despair, there remained a glimmer of hope—a belief in the guiding spirits of the departed, guiding them towards their final journey to the mirror realm.

Moments passed before the bayalanak completed his solemn dance, his movements imbued with a sacred grace that seemed to transcend the earthly realm. As he turned to face Ravaen, a sense of reverence shrouded his weathered features, and he bowed deeply in deference to the king.

“Rise, bayalanak,” he urged, his voice carrying a note of compassion as the old man straightened himself. An air of curiosity hung between them, prompting Ravaen to inquire about the elder’s presence, considering his advanced age.

“You should be retired by now,” he said, his gaze lingering on the aged feathered fans and falcon headdress that adorned the bayalanak’s form—a familiar sight that stirred memories of his father’s reign, the colors of jaded gray a poignant reminder of times long past.

The bayalanak’s response was tinged with sorrow, his voice heavy with the weight of his loss. “He was my last apprentice,” he confessed, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I brought him here, and now it falls upon me to guide him on his final journey, along with the temple guards.”

Moved by the old man’s dedication to his duty, he could only offer his silent support, embracing the bayalanak in a shared moment of mourning. With a gentle squeeze of reassurance, he sought to impart a sense of solace amidst the grief that enveloped them both.

“I’m certain you’ve guided them well,” he reassured the elder, his words a balm to the old man’s wounded spirit. Though the pain of loss still lingered, there was a glimmer of hope in their shared embrace—a testament to the enduring strength of their bond.

With a grateful smile, the bayalanak’s burden seemed to lighten, if only for a fleeting moment. And as they turned towards the temple together, he remained by the old man’s side, a silent guardian amidst the shadows of grief and remembrance.

“Now, I will have to do my part to bring justice for them here, in the living realm. I just need to figure out why someone dared raid our holiest site.” He pondered. He noticed the old man was looking at him.

“I’m sure your father didn’t mention this to you, but the temple is not just a temple.” The old man suddenly said. He looked at him as his eyebrows arched. “It was also a tomb, my Liege.”

His mind buzzed with a flurry of thoughts as the old bayalanak’s revelation hung in the air like a dense fog. A tomb within their holiest temple? The notion seemed unfathomable, yet the earnest gaze of the elder conveyed a truth that could not be denied.

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“Wait—a tomb?” he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief as he struggled to process the revelation. The bayalanak’s words carried a weighty significance, hinting at secrets buried within the sacred halls of their temple.

“The Mystic King and the Bayalanak are the only ones privy to this knowledge,” the old man continued, his tone solemn yet resolute. “Your father’s untimely demise left the secret vulnerable, passed on now only to me and the spirits of those who came before us.”

His brow furrowed in confusion as he absorbed the gravity of the situation. The burial of someone known as The Hawk within their most sacred site raised more questions than answers. Who was this enigmatic figure, and what significance did they hold in the annals of Falconkind history?

Before he could voice his inquiries, a call from his men broke through the haze of uncertainty, “Sire, we found something. But it’s not right.” One of his guards said. He turned towards the awaiting guards, his mind brimming with a newfound determination to unravel the mysteries concealed within the temple’s hallowed halls.

“What is it? Tell me,” he said. Then the guards took him to various places in the island and temple. And pointed at the scratch marks on the ground and inside the tomb.

As he went from place to place, he slowly realized what they were pointing at.

“Sire, we’ve seen this before, back in the Shardon Continent. This pinkish residue, this is a sign of orderian magic.” The soldier said in hush tone.

With each scratch mark and trace of pinkish residue, his fury simmered beneath the surface, restrained only by the weight of his responsibilities as king. The guards’ whispered revelation ignited a fire within him, confirming his worst fears.

As he stood amidst the hallowed grounds of the temple, his mind raced with the implications of the evidence before him. Orderian magic—the very same arcane energies that had wreaked havoc upon the Shardon Continent—now tainted their sacred site. The connection was undeniable, a damning revelation that left him grappling with a potent mix of rage and disbelief.

Though his heart burned with righteous indignation, he knew he could not succumb to the tempest brewing within him. Not here, not now. With practiced restraint, he composed himself before the bayalanak and his men, masking his turmoil behind a facade of stoic resolve.

Turning to his soldiers, he issued a command in a voice laced with steel. “Send a message to the Owl Handler back at the Great Tree. Inform the Queen Empress that we request an urgent audience. Tell her it’s about Everess and the Orderians.”

As he soared through the skies, the wind whipped around him, carrying the weight of his anger like a tempestuous current. Each beat of his wings propelled him closer to the Great Tree, his mind consumed by thoughts of retribution and justice.

As he flew, the landscape blurred beneath him, the lush greenery of the forest passing by in a blur of motion. But he paid little heed to the natural beauty surrounding him, his focus fixed solely on the urgent task at hand.

With each passing moment, his fury grew, fueled by the betrayal that had desecrated their sacred temple. The memory of the scratch marks and traces of Orderian magic lingered in his mind, a grim reminder of the atrocity that was committed against his people.

As he neared the Great Tree, his heart pounded in his chest, the urgency of his mission driving him forward with unrelenting determination. He could feel the eyes of his falconkind subjects upon him, their whispers of concern echoing in his ears.

But he paid them no mind, his thoughts consumed by the need to confront the Queen Empress and demand justice for their fallen kin. With each passing moment, his anger burned brighter, a blazing inferno that threatened to consume him whole.

Finally, as the Great Tree came into view, his wings beat with renewed vigor, carrying him ever closer to his destination. With a final burst of speed, he landed gracefully at the base of the tree, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to contain his simmering rage.

With the message dispatched, his gaze hardened as he prepared himself for the confrontation that lay ahead. The time for reckoning had come, and he would not rest until justice was served.

As he descended upon Juntoreigh’s towering citadel, perched atop the majestic Great Tree, he felt the weight of urgency pressing upon him like a heavy burden. With determined strides, he made his way through the bustling corridors of the citadel, his gaze fixed upon the throne room where the Owl Handler awaited his arrival.

Upon entering the throne room, he was met not only by the projection of the Queen Empress but also by the unexpected presence of the Regent, Tamiron. His heart quickened with a mix of apprehension and resolve as he addressed them.

“My apologies for the sudden call, Queen Empress, but urgent matters compel us to convene,” he began, his voice steady despite the turmoil brewing within him. His eyes then shifted to Tamiron, whose expression remained stoic and unreadable, much like the last time they had crossed paths.

Tamara’s image flickered before him, her brow furrowing in confusion. “No need for apologies, Mystic King,” she replied, her voice tinged with curiosity. “But I must confess, I am confused as to the nature of this request of audience regarding the Grand Sage and the Orderians.”

His gaze hardened as he met Tamara’s inquisitive stare. “I’m guessing the Regent has not mentioned to you yet what she did to a town in the Shardon Territory?” he explained, his tone laced with a sense of urgency and mockery towards Tamiron.

Tamiron’s silence spoke volumes, and he seized the opportunity to reveal the truth. With measured words, he recounted the devastation he had witnessed in the town wiped out by Orderian, by Everess specifically, sparing no detail of the chaos and suffering that had ensued in the wake of his departure.

“And now, our own sacred Island of Ahktum has fallen victim to a similar fate,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s interesting really, as I found something there that I only saw at the town she wiped out.”

A sly smile crept across his lips as he observed the dawning realization in Tamiron’s eyes. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, revealing a sinister truth that could no longer be ignored.

As the gravity of his revelation sank in, a tense silence enveloped the throne room, broken only by the faint hum of the projection spell. With each passing moment, the weight of their shared knowledge hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over their once-unshakeable confidence.

Tamara’s piercing gaze bore into him, her expression a mix of disbelief and resignation. “What are you implying, Mystic King?” she inquired, though her tone betrayed her knowledge of the truth.

“An Orderian orchestrated the siege,” he stated matter-of-factly, his voice tinged with frustration.

“Don’t start with this. Not again, Ravaen” Tamiron spoke up as he cuts him off. “Accusing the Orderians of an attack against your land is going too far.”

“I have evidence, Tamiron. I’ve seen it firsthand—the same pinkish substance that marked the devastation in the town Everess razed to the ground.”

Tamiron’s silence spoke volumes, his initial skepticism giving way to a begrudging acknowledgment of his claims. “Queen Empress Tamara,” Ravaen continued, turning to address her directly, “I confronted Everess about her actions, and she admitted to them without hesitation.”

Tamara’s expression darkened, her grip tightening around her goblet as she absorbed the weight of his accusations. “So you’re suggesting that not only did an Orderian perpetrate this attack, but it was done by Everess herself?” she questioned, her voice heavy with disbelief.

He nodded solemnly. “Everess has been acting erratically for years, but her recent actions have crossed a line,” he explained, his frustration mounting as Tamiron remained silent, his gaze averted.

Before he could press the issue further, Tamiron approached Tamara and murmured something in her ear, his words shrouded in secrecy. As Tamiron withdrew from the projection, Tamara’s demeanor shifted, her tone softening as she addressed Ravaen.

“We will handle Everess,” she assured him, though her words offered little comfort. “For now, keep this to yourself, if possible.”

His jaw clenched at Tamara’s request, his frustration boiling over at the notion of withholding the truth. “Is that an order or a request?” he challenged, his tone sharp with irritation.

Tamara met his gaze with a serene smile, her words veiled in diplomacy. “Consider it a request, Mystic King. One fellow ruler to another” she replied calmly. “After all, it concerns one of my subjects. Trust that I will address this matter with the gravity it deserves.”

With a heavy sigh, he reluctantly yielded with a heavy heart, his fists tightening at his sides as he watched Tamara’s holographic image flicker. “Then please think of the dead Falconkind that resulted in her attack. And if I don’t hear anything favorable, consider our participation withdrawn from the war effort,” he said, a sort of ultimatum.

Tamara only took a deep breath and said, “If that is what you wish. Good day, Mystic King,” then the hologram ended.

As the hologram of Queen Empress Tamara faded away, leaving him alone in the dimly lit chamber, a surge of frustration and anger coursed through him like wildfire. His jaw clenched, muscles tensing with each passing moment. How could she dismiss the severity of the situation so easily? Didn’t she understand the gravity of Everess’ actions?

With a swift, forceful motion, he cleared the table out of anger, the sound of crashing objects echoing through the chamber. The weight of responsibility bore down on him, a burden too heavy to bear alone.

Tamara’s calm demeanor during the conversation gnawed at him, her nonchalance a stark contrast to the urgency he felt. Just like what her twin brother did. Did she not grasp the imminent danger posed by Everess’ erratic behavior? Did she not see the lives at stake, the chaos threatening to consume them all?

His hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms as he fought to contain the tempest of emotions raging within him. How could he trust Tamiron’s assurance that they would handle Everess when he knew the stakes were too high to risk delay?

With a deep, seething breath, he stormed out of the chamber, his mind consumed by thoughts of retribution and justice. The fate of the Mystic Realms' relationship with the Trasidar Empire, along with the United Forces hung in the balance, and he would not rest until justice has been served. But now, his loyalties are split. Should it remain towards the Empire or to his people?

End of Chapter XVII