In a room filled with chairs hand carved from black wicker, there was a single seat that towered over the rest. The rest of the room waited as the duo approached. They pivoted. Their butts dropped into seats, as Lowanna would say, just like everyone else.

Lowanna’s bells jangled as she sat, adding a note of finality to the process. Instantly, the rest of the room busied itself with its own seats. Children, finally released from their guardians' care, whooped and dashed to get the best view from the pit at the front. Nether Warriors followed more sedately, mostly of the first and second tier, settling into a natural hierarchy that mimicked their society.

Although not considered an important holiday, the Spirit of Unity Day was a special event in Wyndaos. Which meant ceremony for the Nether people.

And all modern ceremonies required the most important individual.

Enmya pointedly did not look sideways at Lowanna as she squirmed in her chair, clearly already bored, but didn’t make a peep of noise. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how she managed to move so silently festooned with bells and then jangle them all at once with the act of taking a seat. However, the smug look she would get when he had to ask-

“May the darkness save us from children’s theatre,” Lowanna sagged in her chair, her face dramatically haggard. “I don’t suppose you thought to pack moonshine?”

“You know how some of these child rearers get around me. I did not bring moonshine because you would pry open my lips and then my defenses would be lowered.” Enmya’s lips twitched a calculated amount at their bantering. Too little of a response would make her feel like she needed to up her antics to earn a response, too much would encourage her too much. “Please, keep your voice even. I don’t wish to spread a panic.”

“Seriously, do you have a musk?” Lowanna spoke out of the corner of her mouth, then pivoted all at once to look at three child rearers who had been lingering as they passed, hands tugging at the waist of their dresses to pull the cloth tight for their long-legged stride. Instantly, the three lowered their glances and blushed. “You can have a consort, you know. You are not, thank the Shadows, married to me.”

“I’m married to my job,” Enmya replied goodnaturedly. And even he was somewhat surprised how much he meant it.

More and more people streamed into the wide hall, their movements causing slight fluttering from the long scrolls draped across the walls. Torches hung along the edges of the hall cast shadows inward, making the black wicker chairs almost invisible until you smashed your shin into them. As Enmya watched, hundreds of well-dressed Nether warriors did just that, stifling their curses and trying to seem dignified.

Many times, Enmya had tried to have the lighting changed in the room for Spirit of Unity Day, but the conservative faction amongst the Nether Heralds strongly resisted. And to his chagrin, Lowanna had agreed with them.

Only later, out of her ceremonial dress, had she giggled and admitted she did it because she found the chaos amusing.

The space they used for the holiday had been a cleared orb plucked out of the ground, the bottom filled to create a large, flat space and connected to the surface by a long tunnel, before Lowanna had decreed it undesirable to affect the orbs too much. She had never explained the sudden announcement as the Arbiter, but the area had proven too useful to replace easily. The few ceremonies of Wyndaos continued to occur within the bowels of the ground, with her stifling laughter at the stuttering, shuffling movements.

“Please, these people hardly need any assistance from me to become panicked.” Lowanna huffed. Enmya watched as she leaned sideways, likely to prop her leg up on top of one of the thick arms of her chair, realized how it would look, and turned the motion into a twitch before he could chide her.

Despite the fact that he hadn’t even needed to say anything, she shot him a pout and then mimed guzzling alcohol. He ignored it.

“Speaking of panic,” Enmya began slowly, his eyes moving to a recently arrived group of Nether Warriors, moving in tight formation. Even though his glance was mild, a Tier Four Nether Warrior jerked around, seeking the threat. Enmya averted his eyes. “You must be aware of the mutters amongst the Nether Kings. Nether King Hightower has remained here for a week. If five are willing to sit through this debacle, they must be concerned about recent developments. Leadership from the Arbiter-”

“There are so many parts wrong with what you have said, I don’t know where to begin,” Lowanna sighed. Her arms twitched as she tested the ceremonial black wicker bindings around her wrists. Before she continued, she somehow produced a flask from nowhere and took a long drag. She offered it to him and winked when he glared at her.

Then Lowanna continued speaking, her voice accumulating authority with every word. Just as quickly as it arrived, the flask vanished. “An Arbiter is not a position of leadership. Simply one of consideration. Second, it is not the worry of the idle and ambitious that should compel me to action. Third… there is no higher art than children parroting the stories told to them by their parents. Maybe pay close attention, you might learn something about our people.”

For the last phrase, Lowanna’s words flopped onto the ground in front of her, soaked in sarcasm, all authority discarded. Enmya leaned back in his own chair, not pressing the issue of the Nether Kings; he never had much hope anyway. It was simply the prelude to the conversation they did need to have later, about resuming production of Black Wicker Seeds.

At the back of the room, a specially chosen Nether Herald began to pound a bone drum. The seething crowd quickly rushed to their seats. The sound of the drum became the heartbeat, which would run through the entire place.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Along the sides of the room, deftly manipulated currents of Nether extinguished most of the torches. As attention gathered at the front, children began to swagger out onto the stage, wrapped in ornate leather armors. The play began, as it always did, on the eve of war, with a Nether Herald begging his King not to go through with his threat.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Lowanna clicked her tongue. She spoke low, so only Enmya could hear. “This is why I hate period pieces. So much forced melodrama, so much budget wasted on wardrobe.”

Enmya found his mind drifting to other matters very quickly. The story of the mad king of bone, the bickering circle, and the devout fellowship was a nifty piece of propaganda, that drew its roots from actual history, but it was the act of becoming a part of a play for the children that made it important. This was the history they told themselves about themselves. To sink into that current of memory was a certain sort of baptism for these youths.

Unable to enjoy the festivities, a team of Nether Heralds hummed and plucked threads of history, aligning them with the small bodies everyone watched. The weight of the audience helped those threads of history stick, adding a particular shape to their lives.

“Ugh, what an overactor,” Lowanna’s mutters continued as the play continued, punctuated by long pulls from her flask. However, he did not chide her. Enmya knew the real reason for her unruliness is because she hated it, feeding such doomed threads of fate into the lives of children, while they all condoned the process with their gazes.

The children came out in their costumes and painted faces, dancing and singing the old songs. When their particular offspring moved to the forefront of the performance, several parents clapped enthusiastically.

Next to him, Lowanna yawned and began to list sideways. Apparently, she had drunk enough to begin to dose.

All the better, Enmya reflected. You need time to rest.

A thousand problems, large and small, plagued the Nether Territories, and by extension Wyndaos. And Enmya had taken it onto himself to iron out all the minor matters. In this case, there was the developing situation in the Aether lands, after Nether King Bleak Sky and a few chosen helpers had gone to Malloon and had been rebuffed with nothing to show for their efforts. Faelmac Westrisser’s wicked experiments continued, a horrible blight upon the universe.

The problems were two-fold: first, Nether Kings who were aware of Bleak Sky’s power were understandably shocked; not that he failed, as most likely assumed he had weakened during his long captivity. But the Aether Forces hadn’t suffered any damage, while two Nether Kings had died. There were also rumors about the untethered one siding with Malloon, muddying the waters.

Second, especially due to the actions of the untethered Nether King, the Arbiter’s influence weakened. Enmya did not want other Nether Kings to wonder why they provided Phaea to the Arbiter and restricted their growth. Nor was it a good look that the punitive expedition had failed to achieve its objective.

Enmya clenched his jaw. After a victory like that, Bleak Sky will run rampant through the countryside. I’ll need to go personally and-

Enmya paused, his mind blank as he struggled to understand the thought he just had. On the stage, the Mad Bone King continued her crusade, slaughtering and pillaging with a play-weapon. Several ‘slain’ children enacted dramatic scenes of staggering side to side, shaking their fists to the sky, reaching piteously for theri rearers in the audience, before finally succumbing to their wounds.

Along the far side of the stage, more and more individuals joined the Bickering Circle. Soon they had become a massive army moving in concert to encircle the deviant.

…why did I think that Bleak Sky had won? He was defeated. Enmya shrugged, shaking his head slightly. Perhaps I am more exhausted than I had thought. Still, I may indeed need to personally seek him out and drag him back. For a sprung criminal, he is certainly lingering around the zone of his failure for quite some time.

As per their moniker, the Bickering Circle bickered over how to use their large army. They had the Mad King of Bone completely isolated, her force taken by surprise, but they did not attack. The issue of settling the vanguard became a point of hot contention. For three days the leaders argue with one another, giving the Mad King of Bone time to prepare.

When the attack finally came, the King had prepared. On stage, about forty children whooped and rushed at each other, more than willing to play fight in brutal detail in front of their parents. The drum beat continued to accelerate. The children approached with cartwheels and flips, the youth demonstrating their capability. Then the bodies slammed together with an audible clap, blunt wicker clubs whipping back and forth with brutal efficiency.

“I hate it,” Lowanna squeezed her eyes shut, her lips barely moving as she said the words. “We remember this warped shape, yet somehow, we have come to glorify violence most of all. How can the memory of this horror do so little to prevent its revival?”

Enmya could not reply.

In short order, the children had so exhausted themselves that they all lay on the ground panting. Then the sad, tragic, heroic leader of the Devout Fellowship took measured steps out onto the battlefield. Here, significance stirred in huge quantities, more than Enmya had ever seen it before. His eyes widened as the vision on the stage changed. No longer was a child taking those steps, but an aggrieved adult, barely able to stand underneath the pressure of carnage.

“To the carrion goes the spoilers,” Lowanna said.

Just as soon as it had come, the vision vanished. Only a child, moving amongst children’s bodies, all trying their best to be completely still. After a short speech, the play ended with the eradication of all methods but Phaea and the creation of the Arbiter, the being who would hold the reins of power, lest some individuals bring ruin and death upon them all.

Lowanna straightened for the final scene of the performance. “Oh, this part. Always my favorite.”

The feet of all the attendees, except for two, began to thump along in time with the accelerated beat. Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.

“Behold!” Some chosen child, likely related to some of the more important Nether Heralds in Wyndaos, let loose his shrill line. With a broad gesture, the child took the ceremonial black cuffs from the gathered individuals and approached the leader of the Devout fellowship. “We have found Phaea, the truth we needed. And for our strife, now we possess an Arbiter!”

The click from the manacles closing echoed through the partially filled absence. Next to him, Lowanna sat very still, a forced smile on her face. She looked at him and mouthed a single word.

Possess.

Despite being in public, Enmya felt his temper rising. None of you understand all she has done for us, since becoming the second Arbiter to bear this weight. Unlike her predecessor, she has fled the suffering she bears into a coma, to more easily pass the time. Every day she walks around, exchanging small greetings, making you forget this entire society is built upon her back. We do not deserve her.

Enmya’s gaze shifted to the attending Nether Kings as the crowd burst into applause. Then he raised his gaze and looked even further into the middle distance, toward where he could feel the strangeness of the deviant Nether King.

He didn’t allow himself to smile. But the timing couldn’t be better; this unfortunate nail remained in Malloon, right with Faelmac Westrisser. So long as Enmya moved quickly, he could slaughter two fools with one strike.