The forest whispered to him in a language only he could understand. The evening light of Luna bathed the trees in a soft, silvery glow, casting elongated shadows that danced on the forest floor.
Each step Sevidon took was a step back into a past he had long tried to forget. The nostalgia was thick in the air, mingled with a deep-seated regret that tightened his chest. He was heading towards a city he never thought he would see again—the Sulin Capital of Eiventolf.
Eiventolf emerged subtly from the lowlands, harmoniously entwined with the towering trees of the La’Sarien Forest. As night enveloped the sky, blue light orbs known as essercs began to illuminate the city.
They floated like will-o’-the-wisps, casting an ethereal glow over the magnificent gates carved with the likenesses of the Grand Sulin Kings of old. Each carving seemed to come alive in the luminescence, their eyes following him as he approached.
He entered the city, greeted by the splendor of a grand fountain dedicated to the Great Third Sulin King. Water sparkled as it danced in the air, catching the light from the floating essercs. In the darker, more intimate corners of the city, wooden lamps glowed softly, and essercs drifted lazily above the ground, casting gentle light on the cobblestone streets.
Branches, meticulously grown into sturdy bridges, connected the city’s various sections, while houses, intricately carved into the living trees, peeked out from their leafy canopies. A small stream meandered through the heart of Eiventolf, its surface reflecting the starry sky above and the twinkling lights of the city.
His horse trotted towards Eiventolf Palace, a marvel of architecture, and nature intertwined. The palace was built around a colossal tree, its trunk towering twice as high as the surrounding forest canopy, its bark ancient and wise. This tree, the oldest in La’Sarien, stood as a testament to the city’s enduring legacy.
Blue essercs hovered within the palace grounds, adding a mystical charm to the already enchanting scenery. The guards at the entrance snapped to attention, saluting him as he passed, their armor gleaming in the light.
He dismounted, handing the reins of his stallion to a waiting guard. The ancient, creaky doors of the palace groaned open, revealing a grand hall adorned with statues of past kings. A majestic fresco spanned the walls, narrating the rich history of Arumar and the lives of the first Hawis.
His eyes traced the mural, absorbing the vibrant scenes that depicted battles, coronations, and moments of peace. Banners of the Sulinhawis hung proudly, their colors vivid even in the dim light. Each step he took echoed with the stories of those who had walked these halls before him, a tapestry of lives woven into the very fabric of the palace.
As he walked through the halls, he felt the weight of history pressing down on him. This was not just a return to a city, but a confrontation with his own past, with memories as ancient and enduring as the tree at the heart of Eiventolf.
He finally reached the inner throne room, where two royal guards uncrossed their spears in a practiced motion, granting him passage. He stepped into the vast chamber, where the scent of damp earth and leaves filled the air. Moonlight streamed through the canopy, casting a dappled pattern across the leaf-littered floor. A gentle breeze rustled the banners of the King, making the leaves in the indoor garden flutter and dance.
He paused in the center of the room, standing on a large emblem of the Sulinhawi painted on the floor. As he turned, his eyes met those of the Sulin King, who approached silently from the shadows. The King’s appearance was unchanged, a living relic of the past, preserved through the ages.
Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself as he faced his father. The two stood motionless, a chasm of unspoken words between them. The Sulin King’s face softened into a gentle smile, one he could not bring himself to return in kind. Instead, he kneeled, showing the sliver of respect he still harbored.
“Rise,” commanded the King, moving towards his throne with a graceful authority.
“Your Highness,” he acknowledged, the title tasting bitter on his tongue. The King chuckled, a sound both familiar and unsettling.
“I never thought I would hear your voice again, my Son,” the King said, his tone a mixture of warmth and sadness.
“Don’t worry, I will make sure this is the only time. I promise that to you,” he replied, his words edged with a cold embrace.
The King cleared his throat, drawing his attention. “I have heard what happened in the forest,” he began. “I trust you know who is responsible?”
“I have a suspicion of who, but I need to confirm it for myself first, your Highness,” he answered. He knew his father’s deep connection to the La’Sarien Forest, a land the King considered entirely his, even the southern part where the Karinhawis resided.
The King gently tapped his fingers on the armrest of his throne, a rhythmic, thoughtful motion. “Would you mind telling me who? Was it one of the kingdoms in Unibeltrasia?” The King asked, his voice unnervingly soft.
“No,” he replied without hesitation. He felt a flicker of unease at his father’s calm demeanor. The King had once been a man of rash decisions and volatile emotions, his temper infamous and feared. The extermination of the Race of Men stood as a testament to his fury and resolve. Yet now, he seemed different, his anger tempered by an unfamiliar serenity.
He scrutinized his father, searching for the man he once knew. The King’s eyes, though calm, held a depth of understanding that unnerved him. This was a man who had lived through eons, his rage now replaced with a contemplative wisdom. The transformation was unsettling, leaving him to wonder what had caused such a profound change.
As the silence stretched between them, he felt the weight of their history pressing down on him, a burden of expectations and past grievances. The throne room, with its moonlit grandeur and quiet whispers of the forest, became a stage for their silent struggle. Father and son, bound by blood and separated by time, stood at the brink of a new chapter, their destinies once again intertwined.
The King stood up and walked towards the lush plants thriving in the throne room. He tended to them with a gentle touch, his fingers brushing the leaves as if they were delicate treasures. He sighed, following the King reluctantly, his footsteps echoing softly in the expansive room.
“I am here to make use of the Grand Sulin Library, your Highness,” he asked, his tone clipped and efficient. He wanted to expedite his visit, focusing on the task that brought him to Eiventolf.
“I know,” the King replied, moving to another plant and caressing its leaves lightly. “But as of now, the library is not yet prepared for you, my Son.”
“There is no need for preparations, your Grace,” he protested, impatience creeping into his voice.
“I want to know the reason why you chose our library. Doesn’t the Trasidar Empire have a larger one in Tamara? The Orderians also possess a grand collection. Have you come to learn more about the throne of Arek-Andun?” the King inquired, his curiosity piqued.
“I don’t want to raise any suspicions about what I’m doing here in Arumar. Because of the war, my presence could be easily misunderstood,” he explained. “And please, let that part of our history go. The throne is safe. No one knows of its existence but us.”
“Ah, but if they ever discovered it, I wonder what the Mystic Falcons would do. After all, it was meant to be ours,” the King mused, his voice tinged with lingering bitterness.
“The olden days will never be restored, Sulin King. Let us move past this,” he insisted, his voice firm.
The King merely looked at him, then moved to yet another plant, his hands busy but his mind clearly elsewhere. “Nonetheless, the servants are preparing the library for you. Be patient,” the King said, then chuckled softly. “I see you still lack that trait. Out of the two of you, you always lacked patience. I remember it as though it were yesterday.”
“I need to finish my trip here swiftly so I can deal with the matter more effectively,” he replied, his frustration barely concealed.
“Is that true? Or are you simply avoiding me?” the King asked, his voice calm and gentle, piercing through his defenses.
He had no answer. The truth in his father’s words silenced him, and he looked away, his heart still harboring old resentments.
“Sevidon, I understand why you feel this way. I cannot blame you, but let me at least treat you as a father would treat his long-lost son,” the King pleaded, his voice heavy with regret.
He bowed his head, his gaze fixed on the floor. He spoke softly, struggling to keep his emotions in check. “King Orelnoer, please remember who banished your son.”
The King’s hands stilled on the plant he was tending. He turned to face him, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and longing. “I remember, Sevidon. Every day, I remember.”
Silence fell between them, thick with the weight of unspoken words and unresolved pain. The moonlight continued to bathe the throne room, casting a serene glow over the scene, as father and son stood amidst the plants, their past and present colliding in the quiet of the night.
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He finally looked his father straight in the face, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. “Remember who killed him, many, many years ago?”
The King met his piercing gaze, the weight of time etched into his features. Despite the shimmering clothing and crown of branches that adorned him, time had finally shown its hand.
He could sense the toll that centuries had taken on his father. Though not apparent in his physical appearance, the Animoses of Time had softened his heart. This was evident in the way he had been able to walk into Sulin lands unimpeded, with no resistance whatsoever. Time had worked its magic on his father, but he could never forgive him for the wrongs inflicted upon him.
“You know I had no choice. They are a race of fools, a destructive race. I needed to make a decision. I gave them a chance,” the King said, his voice strained as he tried to defend himself.
“You had a choice, and your choice cost thousands of lives from the Race of Men,” Sevidon replied, his voice rising as his hands clenched into fists. “And the loss of my child, whom I will never meet in my lifetime.” His father’s face was a mask of pride mixed with regret. “I will not have this discussion with you,” He declared, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion.
“Very well,” the King agreed softly, retreating to his throne and sitting down heavily.
“Next time, you don’t have to send word that you are coming. You will always be welcome here,” the King told him, trying to bridge the chasm between them.
“I disagree. You banished me,” he countered.
“And I have already lifted it,” the King quickly responded.
“You did. You even sent a special envoy to Radenheim for me. To me, it means nothing. After what you have done to me, I will never forgive you. Remember that. I will never return here after this,” he said bitterly.
A servant entered the room and kneeled with one hand on his chest. “Your Highness, the library is ready,” the servant announced.
“Let’s go. I’m the one who will be using the library,” he said abruptly, causing the servant to look momentarily confused before quickly recovering and following him.
“It feels lovely talking to you again, my Son. I will be waiting,” King Orelnoer uttered suddenly.
He paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Without a word, he left the room, leaving his father behind.
The Grand Sulin Library was well lit by both candles and essercs contained within delicate lamps. The warm glow illuminated the vast space, highlighting the intricate carvings on the wooden bookcases that stretched to the ceiling. Servants busied themselves, lining up books from the immense collection as he walked towards a specific shelf.
“These are the ones donated by the old Orderians, correct?” he asked one of the servants, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous library.
“Yes, my Prince,” the servant replied, bowing slightly.
He scanned the titles, his fingers brushing the spines of the ancient tomes. The familiar scent of old paper and ink filled his nose, a comforting aroma amidst the turmoil of his emotions. As he pulled a particularly worn book from the shelf, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia for simpler times, before the weight of betrayal had burdened his heart.
He opened the book, its pages yellowed with age, and began to read. The words on the page offered no immediate solace, but they provided a distraction from the storm of feelings that raged within him. As he immersed himself in the text, the grandeur of the library and the hum of quiet activity around him faded into the background, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the knowledge he sought.
He grabbed several books that seemed familiar and carried them to a nearby table. “Your prince is dead. Do not call me that,” he said curtly as he sat down.
He gently ran his finger across the dusty maroon leather cover of one book, wiping it clean before opening it. A cloud of dust rose, and he blew it away, the particles dancing in the dim light. It had been eons since these books were last opened. He continued, searching for a specific page, his familiarity with these books evident. He had taken an interest in them during his youth with the Orderians. Their knowledge had been foreign to him then, a curiosity that had grown over time.
By the time he could read, the Orderians had already gained special privileges from the young Trasidar kingdoms and were granted a piece of land to rule. From then on, they expanded their knowledge by sending out missions for books, which the Sulin King had exchanged with them.
His eyes flicked across the pages until he found what he was looking for.
The Grand Sage is the strongest of the Orderians. He or she can manifest all three branches of magic, but with much greater command and control. He or She also has the ability to access the source of their magic, the Void.
He paused, his mind racing, and continued reading.
Any simple magic wielded and used by a Grand Sage is amplified a thousand-fold. Because of such strength, the magic itself leaves physical traces on anything it was cast upon.
He was right. The residue he had found at the tomb was indeed of Orderian magic, and a powerful one at that. He closed the book with a decisive snap and grabbed the next one.
Once found, the Grand Sage is given the ring of the Orderian. In ancient times, it was merely a raw crystal wedged into a ring. Over time, it was carved to bear the symbol of the Grand Sage, which originated from the marks their eyes took shape. The more detailed the eye pattern, the more powerful and realized the power of the Grand Sage.
He thought quickly, remembering that Everess had indeed worn a ring. During their last days in Tamara, at the celebration of Tamiron’s return, and in their various meetings at Termosad, she had always worn a ring.
Then he recalled Graveloth’s words. The raider’s eyes had been weirdly patterned and glowed maroon.
He tried to remember his encounters with Everess, recalling the distinctiveness of her eyes. They had glowed maroon during their talk about the residue he found. As he thought harder, he remembered the circular shape pierced below her eyes like a ring, matching the description in the book.
The Grand Sage will only appear in times of great need. In times where their presence will influence the course of history of any people the Orderians will encounter. We, the Orderians, are the great caretaker of a world. With the Grand Sage’s appearance, he or she is tasked with being its herald, its guardian.
The realization hit him with the force of a tidal wave. Everess was not just powerful; she is the Grand Sage not just because of her sheer power. She was born with it and with a purpose that confused him. Her eyes, her ring, the residue—all pieces of a puzzle now fitting together perfectly. This newfound knowledge could change everything.
He sat back in his chair, the weight of the revelation pressing down on him. The implications of Everess’ true power were immense, and he needed to proceed carefully. His thoughts churned, planning his next steps with the gravity and caution the situation demanded.
The moment they left for Termosad.
Their fight in Termosad.
Their meetings and how she looked at him every single time.
It finally dawned on him. The eyes, the pattern—it was the same. Her eyes and the description in the book matched perfectly. He was onto something, but he knew it wasn’t enough. He needed more evidence.
In one instance, in the time of the Orderians, twins were born that were gifted by the powers of the Grand Sage. The other, who called himself The Grand Warlock, was as powerful as the Grand Sage and bore the same features, such as eyes—
Suddenly, a bright pink glow appeared above him, expanding into a large sphere. As it vanished, it revealed a cloaked figure hovering above the bookshelves. The figure extended its right hand, an unstable sphere humming ominously before it. He would have moved, but he saw a ring on the figure’s hand.
He looked at the figure’s face, but its hood shrouded it in darkness. “Everess,” he called out, and the figure turned towards him. He gasped. “What are you doing here?!”
The figure’s eyes glowed just as Graveloth had described. Now, he could see the eyes clearly—they matched the pattern from the book exactly. He held his left hand to the side, summoning a sword to him with a swift motion.
“Everess, I know that’s you! What are you doing? What are you going to do with that thing in your hand?” he demanded, trying to reach her. His words were met with silence.
“I will let the others know what you did! I know it was you! Surrender now and we can still talk about this!” he took a defensive stance as more guards quickly appeared, their weapons drawn and ready.
Everess—or the figure he believed to be her—hovered silently, the unstable sphere of magic pulsing with dangerous energy. The tension in the air was palpable, the library’s serene atmosphere shattered by the impending conflict.
His heart raced as he faced the figure. “Everess, listen to me! There’s still a way to resolve this without violence!” he pleaded, his voice steady but urgent.
For a moment, the figure seemed to hesitate. Then, without warning, the sphere of magic surged forward. He barely managed to deflect the attack with his sword, the force of the impact sending him stumbling backward.
“Seize her!” he commanded the guards, who moved in swiftly to surround the cloaked figure.
The figure moved with a fluid grace, evading the guards’ attempts to capture her. He watched, frustration and determination burning in his eyes. He had to stop her, to uncover the truth, and to prevent whatever catastrophe she might be planning.
In a flurry of motion, the figure conjured another sphere of magic, this one a swirling vortex of energy. He knew he had to act quickly. With a swift, decisive movement, he lunged forward, aiming to disarm her and bring an end to the chaos.
The figure’s eyes met his for a brief, intense moment. In that instant, He saw a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps regret—but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Their clash sent sparks flying, the sound of metal against magic reverberating through the library. As they fought, His resolve hardened. He had to uncover the truth, no matter the cost. The fate of their world might depend on it.
“Stay back! She’s dangerous!” he shouted, but with foolish bravery, the guards ignored his warnings and charged all at once. Everess suddenly dropped the unstable sphere, engulfing herself in another shimmering orb. Before anyone could react, she disappeared.
His eyes widened as the unstable sphere fell towards the unknowing guards. It grew more frantic, pulsing with volatile energy. “Get away from there! Get out now!” he screamed.
But it was too late.
The sphere touched the table, and the library exploded in a blinding flash of light and a deafening boom. He was thrown across the room, crashing through bookcases. The light vanished, dragging his consciousness with it.
He awoke to chaos. The once grandiose library of the Sulinhawis was now engulfed in flames. He struggled to push the beam pinning him down, but he was too weak.
In seconds, help arrived. Two Sulinhawis lifted the beam and rushed him outside. “Are you alright, Sire?” a guard asked, concerned.
“Where are the rest?” he coughed through the smoke. The guard shook his head, and his heart fell. He was certain now—it was Everess. There was no doubt about it. He sat on the ground, helpless, waving the guards away to help put out the fire.
His hand clenched into a fist, his eyes burning with rage. It was Everess. “Did anyone survive, other than me?” he asked one of the guards.
The guard closest to him hesitated, then looked away. He punched the ground in frustration. He hadn’t been able to stop Everess in time to save those inside. It is all my fault, he thought bitterly.
A sword was handed to him, and he used it to stand. She will pay for this.
“Prepare my horse,” he commanded, his voice firm despite his shaking knees.
“But, Sire, you need to rest,” a guard pleaded.
“I said prepare my horse! This is an emergency! I need to head to Tamara now!” He shouted, his determination overriding his weakness.
I need to warn the others. I need to warn them of Everess. I need to warn Queen Empress Tamara and Tamiron; he thought as he limped toward the stables.
Each step was a struggle, his legs feeling like they were made of lead, but his resolve was unbreakable. Pain lanced through his body with every movement, yet he pushed on, driven by a fierce determination. The vision of the burning library and the faces of those he had failed to save haunted him, propelling him forward with a grim sense of purpose. He would stop at nothing to prevent further catastrophe and bring Everess to justice.
End of Chapter XXVI