None of the Moths slept much, so when the Royal Guard showed up that morning, they were in a concerning state. Exhausted, bruised, and still slightly hungover was a sorry state to be in for anyone to be seen in, but to be that way in the presence of the Elven King himself? That was almost a crime.
Wryn Faelar bowed out of his carriage, his gaze passing over each of the Moths before settling on Astrid. A frown settled on his face as he walked towards her, his silver cloak somehow remaining undirtied despite the mud it was being dragged through. The cloth at a first glance was unremarkable, but the longer you stared at it the more details revealed themselves, like the ornate pattern woven into the hem or the ancient Elven poem inscribed in the gold buckle at the neck. Everything was carefully fitted and crafted to give a humble air without sacrificing a sense of superiority when he was around others who were like to judge him.
The six members of the King’s Guard followed closely behind him. Their armor was similar in fashion to the attire worn by the force designated to protecting Astrid - A sightless helmet with a plume and cloth draping down the back, spiked and curved pauldrons with similar spikes at the knuckles - but it wasn’t full plate, and the colors were different. The armor was a dark metal unfamiliar to Astrid, and the cloth and plume were silver in color. The parts of the armor left unplated were the joints at the knees and elbows, as well as the stomach. In its place sat gambeson covered by chainmail.
Everything about King Faelar, down to the long strides he took towards his daughter, seemed manufactured to emanate a suffocating presence of nobility. “Father? What are you doing here,” Astrid asked, her slouched posture immediately straightening. King Faelar’s eyes traveled over the ruins of Ashbourn before looking towards his daughter, brows furrowed in concern. “What happened here,” he asked, worry and anger leaking out of his voice in equal measure.
“My lord! We didn’t expect you to come all this way,” Lynn said as he approached the two, cutting off Astrid as she was about to speak. “If we had known, we would have prepared accordingly,” Lynn added with a bow. The king returned the gesture.
“It is quite alright. I had heard that Ashbourn had fallen under siege, but I never expected the damage to be this severe… You were here during the attack, yes?” King Faelar asked. Lynn nodded in the affirmative before he began recounting the events leading up to Ashbourn’s fall. “That’s right, sir. We had pursued a lead on the Prophet that led us to this city where we had arranged to meet two acquaintances of his.”
“Cultists?” King Faelar asked. “No sir. Mercenaries. He supposedly traveled with them before joining up with the Cult.” Lynn corrected.
“I see. Did you have them captured for further questioning?” King Faelar pried, eyes traveling over the buildings that still had Moths filing out of them. “No sir. It was unnecessary, as the Prophet himself arrived not soon after and confronted us directly,” Lynn said, his posture straightening.
“So he went to protect them? That should’ve given you even more reason to capture them. We could’ve used them as leverage for interrogations. Why didn’t you?” King Faelar raised a brow and leaned down slightly to face level with Lynn.
“Because one of them was a Windfel, sir,” Lynn said. The King’s eyes widened, and Astrid could see his jaw tighten in a mixture of rage and, most unfamiliar to Astrid, fear.
King Faelar nodded, straightening up and waving his hand for Lynn to continue. Lynn recounted how the Prophet and Woden had summoned Svarog and the fight that ensued, but the King stopped Lynn as he got to the Prophet’s capture. “Who exactly was responsible for beating the Prophet? You said you had been injured by the Pyromancer so I doubt it could’ve been you,” King Faelar said, stroking his clean-shaven chin. Lynn’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance at the comment.
“I did, father,” Astrid said. The King turned to her and a smile crept upon his face. “It seems I was wrong to worry about you, then,” King Faelar said, placing a hand on Astrid’s head. “We shall have a feast in your honor once we return home. Before that, however, I believe you said the Prophet and the Pyromancer summoned a ‘knight on fire’?” The King turned back to Lynn, his smile all but disappearing as he did. Lynn nodded.
“Assuming it is no longer a threat, who took it down?” King Faelar questioned. Astrid was the one to answer once more. “Woden did,” she said.
“Woden?” the King asked, turning back to his daughter. “The Pyromancer. That’s his name. Woden,” she explained. “He summoned the flaming knight to fight it. Just last night the fight ended. Woden and the knight should still be in the same spot they were. I can take you to see them if you’d like,” Astrid said. King Faelar gestured for her to lead him.
The walk was short, however, it wasn’t uneventful, as a boom that shook the earth resounded across the ruined city. The King’s Guard flocked to his side, weapons raised and ready to defend Wryn with their lives. “What in God’s name was that?!” the King barked, bewildered at the minimal reactions from Astrid and Lynn.
“That is what kept us up all night,” Lynn explained, exhaustion evident in his tone. “Despite the Pyromancer's victory over the flaming knight, he refused to move from his position atop it. We couldn't figure out why, but as the night progressed, it became obvious that Woden wasn't sure the beast had been put down properly. And he was right. Even in its unconscious state, it continues to move every so often. When it does, Woden hits it. That’s the sound you heard there.” The three cut through an alleyway to the other side of the city, stopping at the edge of a large crater in the earth.
It was at least sixty feet wide and more than twenty feet deep at its center, where a figure easily mistakable as a shadow from the soot and char coating his body stood. Beneath him lay a knight, any fire that once poured from it reduced to embers, deep and twisting dents littering its armor. Lynn waved for the King to follow as he walked down the wall of the crater. The King's Guard were reluctant, however, the King himself was eager to get a closer look.
“Woden!” Astrid called out, waving as the trio approached. The Pyromancer’s gaze flickered to the Elf, and he nodded before turning his attention back to Svarog. The King’s Guard moved up and surrounded Woden, half pointing spears at him while the other half pointed theirs at Svarog. Woden looked between the King’s Guard, recognition flashing in his eyes.
His eyes traveled upwards, meeting the King’s who stood a few paces behind Astrid and Lynn. Woden stepped away from the downed knight and bowed, stunning Astrid somewhat. She didn’t take him for the type to conform to formalities. The King’s Guard kept their spears trained on Woden, but with a wave of Wryn’s hand, they turned their attention to Svarog.
“I understand that you’re the Pyromancer, correct?” King Faelar asked. Woden nodded. “And this… ‘Flaming Knight’, what is your attachment to it?” the King questioned. Woden pointed towards Svarog, brow raised. This time the King nodded in response.
“Svarog,” Woden said, speaking for the first time since the fight had started. The King scoffed. “Svarog? Is this a joke? You mean to tell me this is the thing that the cult worships?” Woden nodded, eliciting a dry laugh from King Faelar. “Then maybe we misjudged how much of a threat they are if an old man like you beat it,” the King said. Woden shook his head, making the King look at him questioningly.
“He was weakened,” Woden said. His voice was hoarse and gravelly, and after every short, curt sentence he would break into a muffled fit of coughs. Woden pointed to a festering gash across Svarog’s chest. “Not me,” he said. The King stepped forward and crouched next to Svarog, inspecting the wound when the God suddenly lurched up, coming to his feet in an unnatural and contorted manner. Svarog didn’t move after, instead just standing there, back hunched and arms limp at his sides. He was still unconscious. His body was moving on instinct, forcing him to keep going even if he could no longer fight. Woden stepped towards the god, preparing to attack, but stopped as the King raised his hand.
“You’ve done enough, Pyromancer,” King Faelar said. “I’m willing to forgive your act of violence against Commander Vancrest because of your victory over ‘Svarog’. Now go and wash yourself, we have a long journey ahead of us and I would rather you not smell of death.” Woden nodded to the King, then looked to Astrid. Astrid nodded as well, eliciting a grunt from Woden as he started up the edge of the crater.
The King’s gaze traveled past the knight to the buildings surrounding the crater, when he suddenly tensed. “Follow after him. I don’t trust him alone,” King Faelar said to Astrid, his right hand twitching at his side. Astrid looked where her father’s gaze had settled. She could see a figure’s silhouette there, sitting lackadaisically on a crumbled wall. Although she could only faintly sense it, their flame was familiar. It was then that Astrid understood that the King sending her away was less out of worry for Woden, and more so worry for her.
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“Seren,” Astrid mumbled, stepping forward. This was the second time she had ever seen the leader of the Cultists, but even from this distance, he struck an ominous and imposing figure. “Astrid. Now,” King Faelar said through grit teeth, his tone dark. Astrid opened her mouth to protest, but was stopped as Lynn put a hand on her shoulder, shaking his head.
“I don’t know what he has planned, but Seren isn’t reckless enough to try and attack your father, much less with the King’s Guard around. I’ll be here, too. It’ll be fine, trust me,” Lynn said, his tone kind but face stern, telling Astrid this wasn’t a negotiation. She wanted to protest but knew it was useless. She turned, throwing one last concerned look at the now-approaching cultist before following after Woden.
She found the old Pyromancer accosting one of the Moths, demanding water. The Moth looked at him with a slack-jawed expression, a mixture of fear and awe on his face while Woden looked tired and annoyed. There was a water flask hanging from the soldierś hip, and Woden seemed to have noticed it at the same time as Astrid because he immediately snatched it from them. He poured it over his head and hands before wiping the grime off. He couldn’t manage to get all of it off, but at the very least he looked less monstrous. He drank the little bit of water that remained in the flask, coughing once more before tossing it back to the Moth.
Woden turned to Astrid, his eyes meeting hers for a moment before they traveled past her. She turned, seeing her father and Lynn walking towards them, both wearing expressions of annoyance. “Prepare to depart,” King Faelar commanded, his tone stern and urgent. Something was bothering him.
“What was the Cultist here for?” Astrid asked, curious as to what could’ve made the usually collected King so uneasy. “Empty threats,” the King said, venom dripping from the words. Astrid spotted the King’s guard making their way up the crater wall slowly, spears trained on Svarog as they pushed him along. The flaming knight was still standing, but there was something different about him. Astrid couldn’t place it, but it seemed as though Woden had noticed as well.
Astrid, Woden, and Lynn followed the King and his Guard back to the carriages that would take them from the ruined city. There were eight in total: one at the very front for the King as well as Lynn, who insisted they share a carriage to discuss what had happened in the city; one directly behind that for Astrid and Woden, because she was the only one who volunteered to keep an eye on him; five behind that for the Moths that had been brought to Ashbourn; and one at the very end that, unlike the others, had no roof or walls and was instead surrounded by sturdy steel beams for transporting captives. The beams had all been inlaid with runes that would render anyone inside the cage incapable of performing magics.
Currently loaded onto it was the Prophet, an unreadable expression on his face. Woden rapped his knuckles on the bar behind the Prophet’s head, startling him. “You have company.” The Pyromancer pointed towards Svarog. The Prophet’s eyes widened in what Astrid initially assumed was reverence, but it quickly became apparent that wasn’t the case.
“What?! N-no, I thought you-” the Prophet was cut off with a wave of Woden’s hand. “We’ll talk later. For now, rest. Just don’t let your guard down; he may be unconscious, but he’s still dangerous,” Woden said, keeping his voice low enough that the King wouldn’t hear. The Prophet nodded, his eyes still wide and locked onto the burning knight. The rest of the Moths had begun filing out of houses and into carriages, wearing expressions of relief and exhaustion in equal measure.
A small commotion garnered the attention of Astrid and Woden. An unfamiliar human woman pushed through the small gathering of Moths who had yet made it to a carriage, sprinting towards Svarog. Her long black hair whipped around her wildly as she ran, and her pale face was frantic. She wore a strange gown made of a silver-ish material that was trimmed with gold. Other than the materials used to make it, it was unremarkable, plain even. To add to that, it looked wrong. If it was supposed to give an effect similar to her father’s cloak, then it failed; it was too even and fitted to be seen as humble, yet too basic to be anything but that. It looked almost as if a luxurious perfectionist had tried to design a peasant’s garb.
There was something off about the way she moved as well, almost as if she wasn’t used to her own body despite appearing to be in her late twenties. Woden’s face was contorted in an expression of curiosity and confusion as he looked at the woman. Before Astrid could ask why, her attention was brought back to the woman as she tripped over her own feet, flying forwards and landing face-first in the mud a few feet away from the King.
King Faelar looked down at her in confusion as a small group of Moths apologetically helped her to her feet. “And who might this be?” he asked, taking a step back. The woman shook the Moths off and with a snap of her fingers the mud that had coated her disappeared. The King’s eyes widened. “An Elemental? Interesting! Lynn, why didn’t you tell me you had stumbled upon one?” King Faelar pried, turning to the Elven commander, not noticing the woman’s face filling with dread.
Lynn looked just as intrigued as the King. “We didn’t know. We found her wandering dangerously close to the fight between Woden and Svarog. She was moving strangely, so we figured she might be concussed or something and took her in. Doesn’t speak a word but understands people just fine,” Lynn said. Astrid noticed Lynn’s hand had fallen to grip his rapier. Astrid doubted that he even noticed what he was doing, but it made sense. No matter how clumsy this woman seemed, Elementals were unpredictable.
“She’ll have to travel in the carriage with the knight and the Prophet,” King Faelar announced, eliciting a surprised reaction from some of the Moths. Some of them moved to protest, essentially putting their lives on the line by arguing with the King himself, but before anyone could get another word out, the woman had clambered into the carriage, sitting uncomfortably close to the Prophet. She looked at him with wonder in her eyes, and he looked at her with confusion and a silent plea for her to back away.
Svarog was moved into the carriage as well, immediately stealing the woman’s attention. She stood over him, leaning down and inspecting every inch of the knight like a mother doting over an injured child. After a minute, she nodded contentedly and turned. She held her arm out in front of her with her first two fingers extended, then swiped downwards. A sense of vertigo rolled over the Moths, but other than that, nothing happened.
The woman’s eyes widened and she looked down at her hand, repeating the same motion over and over. She looked around before noticing the runes carved into the bars. A beat of silence passed as she stared blankly at the runes, then tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She slumped down next to the Prophet with a huff, an angry frown on her face.
The Moths began filling the carriages not soon after the woman had sat down, the feeling of vertigo lifted. King Faelar stayed rooted to his spot, seemingly transfixed by the woman. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” Woden said, having walked up behind the ruler without making a sound. The King jumped slightly. “Excuse me?” King Faelar asked, straightening his robe.
“Enough power to sway the balance of all these people with a single wave of her hand, even while her magic is being suppressed. It seems some abilities can’t be forced down no matter what you do,” Woden said, sending a knowing glare toward the King. “Like Pyromancy, for example.” The King’s gaze narrowed, a scowl settling upon his face.
“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” King Faelar spat, pushing past Woden and making for his carriage. A grim smile settled upon the Pyromancer’s face. “Be careful when playing with fire, Elf. It’d be a shame to see you burnt.”
° ° °
The ride back to Yenneth was long, but would’ve at least been scenic if not for the heavy rain that had begun to fall. Astrid sighed, her breath fogging the glass of the window before she slumped back into her seat. The wooden carriage wasn’t overly ornate, but still reeked of enough nobility to make Woden feel ill. The two benches that faced each other inside were padded to the point it felt like you were sitting on a cloud, making the already difficult task of staying awake even harder for the Pyromancer.
Woden wrung his hands anxiously, back hunched with his elbows on his knees as he gazed at the ground. Astrid took notice, but before she could question his behavior, he gave an answer. “He’s waking up. Slowly. It has something to do with that woman, I’m sure of it.”
“How do you know? That Svarog is waking up, I mean,” Astrid asked. Woden pointed to the window. “The weather. Svarog’s presence confuses its surroundings. Causes disturbances,” Woden mumbled. The Pyromancer’s head suddenly shot up, his eyes locking with Astrid’s. “You noticed it too, didn’t you? Something wrong with the woman,” he said, his voice tinged with an unfamiliar sense of wonder. Astrid hesitated, but shook her head. She had felt there was something different about her, but not particularly wrong.
“Her flame was… impossible. It looked as if there were billions of them, all contained in one person. She isn’t human, but I couldn’t tell you what she is even if I wanted to.” Woden stood and made for the door, but Astrid stopped him before he could reach it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Astrid asked, holding the door shut with one hand. It was less holding the door shut and more an action meant to show that she wasn’t going to let Woden out without a good reason. Woden looked at the handle, then to the Elf with a scoff.
“I’m going to make sure Svarog stays ‘asleep’. Don’t tell me you actually think you can prevent me from leaving,” Woden snapped. His hand went for the door, making Astrid’s grip tighten until her knuckles whitened. “No, what you’re going to do is rest. You’ve been overexerting yourself for almost a full week,” Astrid said in a matter-of-fact tone. Woden barked out a harsh laugh.
“I don’t care what you think I’ve-” the Pyromancer cut himself off as he saw the expression of hurt on Astrid’s face. Her flame flickered in concern and worry, and Woden relented. He pulled his blindfold from Ambient flame and tied it around his head, muting the power of the Rune and dulling his vision until he could only see vague outlines and flames. “Fine.”
Woden sat back down, crossing his arms as he eased into the bench. Astrid smiled a smile Woden couldn’t see, but her flame’s dancing was telling enough. Woden scoffed. “You worry too much,” he said. Astrid shrugged. “One of us has to,” she replied, but her words fell on deaf ears. Woden had already fallen asleep, arms still crossed in front of himself in a stubborn gesture, almost as if he was trying to spite sleep itself.
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