It was almost time. Malniza strode through Raven’s Hold, fully aware that it might be his last opportunity to enjoy the beautiful city. He tried to ignore his instincts and feelings of dread as he mentally reviewed flaws in the war proposal. Their forces would be scattered abroad in several places, a strategy he knew was dangerous. The thought of using the dragons for reinforcement settled his mind, since their support could make victory a possibility.
He was not overjoyed with his assignment, but he was content to have a role in the conflict. Odlig, the commander Malniza preferred to fight beside, was commissioned to stay and protect the home front. It did give Malniza some comfort to know that Odlig would keep watch over the city. If issues arose in the Dark Kingdom, Odlig would happily plunge his blade into the heart of treachery.
Before war was formally declared, the commanders were summoned to the throne room for one last meeting. Kírous had not been present during the last conference, so Malniza went to retrieve the eldest commander. Along the way to Kírous’s home, Malniza’s mind was troubled as he contemplated war and ruin.
Malniza tried to call for Kírous while the king was still away but the sole response he received from the sorcerer was a question, “Do these orders come from Ordelas?” to which Malniza had to deny at that time.
He knocked on Kírous’s door and waited for someone to answer. While Malniza was outside, he scanned the surrounding area. Kírous’s household sat on the eastern edge of the city, directly across from a set of gates. The local defense that guarded the entrance compensated for the obvious dangers of living so close to a likely siege site.
The house, strategically placed between two barricades to ward off intruders, was rather small to be the living quarters of such a powerful elf. The elves on guard were vigilant, keeping watch over the gates. Though the sentries patrolled the area constantly, they rarely caught sight of Kírous outside his home. Over the last decade, Kírous had become so reclusive that members of his own regiment were hard-pressed to gain audience with him.
The Purifiers did not recruit from the same pool as the Undying and the Shadow’s Legion. They were comprised of members of distinct cults that served the roles of companies and squads. The Purifiers did once have the same rights as the other regiments before and during the Great War but in Ordelas’s absence Ceronus feared they had grown too numerous and powerful. If the Purifiers were to take in as many members from the cults as they pleased then they had to forsake the right to claim recruits from the tithe.
Ordelas never reversed that edict. Most agreed that Ceronus’s demand was reasonable, not even Kírous argued against it.
The old elf had locked himself inside and only came out when Ordelas specifically called for him. The few times Kírous had been coerced into leaving, he voiced his displeasure and rushed home the moment he was finished with his duties. His windows were covered with shutters so no one could look inside. From the way the door felt beneath Malniza’s knuckles when he knocked, it was probably fortified from the inside and covered with locks. There were rumors that the servants who delivered food to him were never allowed to step inside.
A few moments later, Malniza heard a series of metal clicks. The locks were unlatched, and the door cracked open wide enough for a single eye to peer up at him. “Yes?” the elf behind the door asked with a strange mix of timidity and courage. Although the doorkeeper carefully hid himself, Malniza recognized his spirit. Malniza knew that one could not be brave unless he or she first understood the concept of danger.
“I am Malniza, the Right Hand of Ordelas.”
The door opened, revealing a young elf with shoulder-length, black hair. The elf was young, less than two decades old, yet he was remarkably tall, with broad shoulders. The boy was obviously not related to Kírous.
Kírous approached and gently pushed the youngster aside. “Thank you, Kharon. You can go now.” The boy’s wide back resembled a dwarf or an orc from the rear when he turned away to leave.
The name “Kharon” sounded familiar to Malniza. While he was not affluent in the occult, it would be the peak of negligence for him to not know the forbidden name of his king’s other after all those centuries serving him. The boy’s name was a corruption of one of Bleodsian’s. He was tempted to ask Kírous the meaning behind it but he doubted he would understand the answer.
If time had ever been unkind to an elf, it was to Kírous. He was thin, and gray streaks, possibly caused by the corrosive effects of some sorcerous delvings, ran through his black hair. He looked paler than Malniza had remembered and what might have once been honey colored eyes possessed a repulsive yellow tint.
It was an incredibly rare condition but an elf could appear to "age" after many years of malnutrition. Elves could still starve to death after all. Fortunately, it could be reversed. Malniza hoped the same applied to whatever it was that afflicted Kírous.
“Kírous,” Malniza said with a salute.
In return, Kírous made a fist and placed it on his heart, but he made the gesture without enthusiasm. Their relationship had not been the friendliest, and at times bordered on poisonous. Kírous seemed to have lost his perpetual sneer, for he regarded his comrade with an expression Malniza did not recognize from him.
“It is time then?” Kírous asked.
“Yes.”
Kírous frowned and turned away. “Give me a moment,” he said before he bolted the door. Malniza noticed a series of runes and glyphs carved on the sides of the door post before Kírous closed it shut. Malniza stepped off the porch and walked to a forge that was nearby.
He was on the impression he intruded upon a mender’s workplace, no organized stacks of prepared goods but a number of unconnected items. Among elves, there were many crafters that were entirely dedicated to mending rather than creating. Elves inevitably outlived their possessions but it was more prudent to repair rather than replace. Sometimes, the objects returned in better condition than when they were first made as with Malniza’s own scratched armor.
Malniza requested that at least the cracks on the center of his breastplate remain. They appeared to be a vulnerability but they were actually the most heavily reinforced area among his armor besides his heels.
He sat down on a wooden bench and watched Kírous’s front door from a safe distance. The commander took more time than expected, so Malniza’s mind started to wander.
Malniza had met plenty of young elves like the one who had answered the door. The boy must have been one of Vernigen’s sons. Malniza questioned why the boy served Kírous. Even if it most likely meant death, promising elves like him were expected to fight for the homeland. Malniza would be the first to admit that far too many elves full of potential died in battle.
Being a serf for a commander was by no measure a low position. Odlig set the standard in that all those that assisted his household were veterans he knew and trusted well before inviting them to reside nearby. It was something earned, something a child could never accomplish for their lack of years and certainly not a son of Vernigen who should have been training to be an elite warrior even at that tender age.
There were always exceptions like the particularly gifted such as one that bonded with wolves but as a whole Vernigen’s direct children were all expected to be active warriors to the point Ordelas dismissed them from his Honor Guard for how reactive rather than proactive the role of a bodyguard was.
In spite of their father’s disposition, a large number of his kin possessed pack instincts and gravitated towards each other. It was Vernigen’s own family that enforced seeing their kindred joining their ranks.
There were at least two factions of Vernigen’s brood Malniza was aware of, separated by who they recognized as kin and who they considered head of the family in Vernigen’s absence.
“One by one, you will fall,” a female voice whispered behind him.
He turned his head and was surprised to see an elf in a dark robe that was tailored to her shape. She was sitting idly, draped across the railing. She was beautiful beyond comprehension, and her voice matched her appearance. It carried a tone that sent slivers of pleasure and anxiety down Malniza’s spine. Her long, black hair flowed in a gentle breeze as her lips moved seductively to form words while her wondrous hazel eyes seemed to look into his soul.
The robe was a shade of blue so deep it could be mistaken for black but Malniza's sensitivity from the often monochrome armor of the Honor Guard made him distinguish the color as blue. It was like the hidden depths of a lake.
Abstract patterns of contrasting nature danced along it in azure so light it appeared white.
From a distance she would have appeared to be adorned in sacred colors but in truth bore the opposite. It rang of disrespect and blasphemy.
“That boy is a son of Vernigen. He is destined to die in battle just as this kingdom will fall and become the penance of many.” Her words were soaked in treason. Malniza was tempted to silence her by putting a sword through her heart, but he was not one to return words with weapons.
No one could disagree with the fact that she was a true beauty and her loveliness transcended nature. When compared to her ethereal countenance, the rest of the world was a dull illusion. Everything in her presence seemed to fade in contrast to her existence.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She smiled an impossibly beautiful smile. “We have met before.”
Malniza felt something crawling around in the back of his mind while he tried to recall who she was. Such an elf should have been unforgettable. Indeed, it seemed they had met before at some point, but he was not able to recall exactly where. The sinister presence that crept into his thoughts sifted through his memories, distracting him with misty scenes that he had forgotten. It tried to confuse him and alter the memory of something that was far more important.
He would not let her roam freely through his thoughts. “I have encountered such enchantments before,” he retaliated, pushing the intruder out of his mind with sheer exertion of will. It was not difficult for him to push others out, Kírous once commented that people should be complicated, if ordinary people were puzzles, Malniza was a single block with few cracks to exploit and latch onto.
The sorceress drew back in shock. For a moment, the only expression on her face was disbelief, but then it turned into a knowing smile as intrigue lit her hazel eyes. She was not accustomed to resistance and enjoyed Malniza’s unexpected reaction. “I will not forgive you if you try to cast a spell on me a second time. Do you know who you face?”
She looked at him, and her lips turned upward into a sultry leer. In that moment, Malniza saw the infinite cruelty that hid behind her smile. She pointed at Kírous’s home and answered, “Yes, I do. But more importantly, I know who he is.”
Malniza turned his back on her and saw Kírous walking out the doorway. He was wearing a black robe, and red plates of armor covered his chest, shins, and forearms. When a small, slender child ran outside and grabbed him by the leg, it was hard to believe that Kírous was counted among the most dangerous Dark Elves in history.
At first, Malniza thought it was the boy from earlier, but he could see the boy peeking outside from behind the door. He focused on the other child, but Kírous was standing between them, so Malniza could not see the child’s face.
Malniza noted that the child that refused to let go of Kírous possessed pure white hair. When the child began to wail, Malniza knew from its voice that it was a girl. Kírous bowed down and embraced her.
When they broke away from each other, Kírous remained where he was while the girl ran back into the house. A short time passed but she returned with a book and crimson sash which she then passed to the sorcerer.
“Forever away. Away the tide draws us all,” the sorceress began to almost sing. The words bore the gravity of a prophetic vision but the malice of a curse. “Every step takes us away. Onto foreign soil we go, to never meet again.”
Kírous waved his hand, giving instructions to the boy who was still in the house. Kharon ran outside, took the weeping child by the hand, and coaxed her back inside.
“Surely, as the heart of flame melts the heart of ice, and the heart of ice smothers the heart of flames, our destinies wait on fields of death. One by one we are driven away,” she continued. “In our search for solutions, we err and make one wrong choice after another. I look forward to seeing which path your decisions will lead you to.”
Malniza could not bear her taunting any longer, so he turned around to face her. He scowled in disappointment, for where the stunning elf had been, there was only an empty rail. She had simply vanished into thin air.
“You saw her, did you not?” asked the voice behind Malniza. The commander looked in disbelief at Kírous, who was standing right beside him. The book rested in one of his hands while the sash was already wrapped around his waist, the sash was so long it touched the ground. The way sorcerers could move from place to place aggravated Malniza and mystified his senses.
Malniza had no compatibility for sorcery so such mysteries were beyond him. He lacked the imagination for spellcraft and the commander seemed to force out any external influence. The king once placed his other within his bodyguard to hasten his recovery but Malniza proved incompatible even with his lord’s magic.
“Do you know her?”
Kírous’s face twisted into something similar to his familiar sneer as the elder refused to meet his gaze but it belayed more discomfort than hostility. “Yes.”
“Who is she?”
“It is best that you do not think about her. Her words only have meaning if you seek out purpose in the woven design,” he answered. “No need to worry, though, you will forget about her soon enough.”
“How?” inquired Malniza as he tried to recall how brilliant she seemed. “She said words that are not easily forgotten.”
“It is only natural to forget a dream,” replied Kírous as if he was lecturing a child.
Malniza rubbed his head. His memories of the encounter were already foggy despite his attempts to remember. “So I was dreaming?”
Kírous took a deep breath and paused, considering the question. He nodded to himself and agreed. “You could say that.” Malniza could have asked for a better explanation, but he was not inclined to delve into the affairs of sorcery.
For a critical moment, Malniza was tempted to allow the sorceress to slip into the hidden recesses of his mind. However, duty compelled him to remain vigilant.
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He reached for the lingering traces of memory just before they could disappear. His constant exposure to Ordelas’s sorcery and the powerful presence it summoned made her influence on his thoughts practically invisible in comparison.
Subtle as her enchantments were, they were still there. They conspired with his own desires to conceal their effects.
The force of Malniza’s will tore such spells asunder, his dutiful obsession crashing upon them like a hammer and he pulled the memories she hid to the surface of his mind. He remembered her prophetic words but more importantly he remembered who she was. The events followed one after another as if chained together.
To Malniza’s relief, she was one of Kírous’s apprentices, perhaps his greatest. Malniza had seen her several times in the palace and met with her during the Great War when she was accompanying Kírous.
He did not forgive her for her insolence but he allowed her some liberty as one that served one of his fellow commanders. He could let the subject rest now that he knew her to be affiliated with Kírous.
Malniza and Kírous walked side by side, heading for the heart of Raven’s Hold. Elves stopped their tasks, moved out of their way, and gave reverential salutes when they passed by. Malniza acknowledged their respect with a nod, but the sorcerer, staring up into the darkened sky, ignored them.
It did not take long for Kírous to notice how his new girdle dragged against the ground. It had been made to far too great a length, an amateur’s mistake or rather a child’s mistake as Malniza could guess from his memories of Elda’s weaving. Kírous did not curse though he glared at the ground for a moment as if it was his worst enemy before untying the sash and wrapping it several times around his neck where it came to serve as a long scarf flowing behind his shoulders. He could have concealed the lower half of his face for the number of times it made its way around his throat.
Kírous’s health had declined, and he looked ill, which was very uncommon for an elf. His shoulders slumped forward like one who carried a heavy burden. Malniza, troubled by Kírous’s lack of wellbeing, glanced to his side. He was curious, wondering what had happened to Kírous and if it was connected to his recent absences.
The elf beside him wore the ring that marked his station, a black gem inset in a silver band with a serpent engraved within. At the very least, this was no illusion as Malniza could not have misidentified that piece of jewelry. In a way, Malniza preferred the Kírous he had known before. The Kírous he was acquainted with was cruel and cursed constantly. At least when Kírous was at his worst, Malniza knew the sorcerer was not unraveling beside him.
Kírous turned to him. “Why do you stare at me so?”
“Are you truly Kírous?” Malniza asked his index finger twitched as he considered readying his weapon if matters turned hostile. He sensed no danger. “Or are you another using his body?”
“I suppose time and unfamiliarity makes me seem a stranger to the extent you would believe me to be an imposter,” Kírous acknowledged. “No, you speak to me the one whose name is Kírous. Ask me a question to which the answer might satisfy you to my identity.”
“I know not the scope of your knowledge and what would be shared with or concealed from those that would nestle with your soul.”
“And if I was a spirit, I could lie as to what I would and would not know. Wiser then to not ask a question for which you can not trust the answer. If you abstain from asking then at least listen. Hear a tale from me or else I will resent you for calling me from my home only to provide quiet escort.”
"If you wish for me to listen, you need only speak," Malinza assented. "If you want me to speak, you will need to be the one to ask questions. Even if I am unsure as to who you are, we can be certain that you know who I am."
Kírous looked straight ahead and asked Malniza, “Do you remember what happened to Vernigen when he lost his wife?”
“No, my parents merely told me that he went mad,” replied Malniza, unable to recall exact details.
Kírous tilted his head enough. “You mean, you were not there?”
“I was just a child when the dwarves raided the camp. I do not remember anything except what I was told. I am afraid that I only have secondhand experience on the subject.”
Kírous made a circle with both hands before he brought them to his lips. “Oh, yes, I forgot you are barely any older than Scéadu,” he remembered aloud. “It happened so early into the war that his wife never gave birth to a single child. If I recall correctly, she was pregnant when it happened... They were expecting a strong boy or girl.”
Malniza could not help but feel unease at Kírous's behavior. He seemed too lucid, too considerate. For anyone else it would have been acceptable but for the master of the arcane, it was strange how he did not seem otherworldly. He was not being malicious or cruel and did not belittle Vernigen’s loss in any way. He just stated facts.
The Kírous he knew had moments of awareness but it seemed as though he was no fully aware of his surroundings or dwelling in the past or as he would discover after years after a statement, the distant future. The only time he acted his rationally for prolonged periods was with the king as if their madnesses negated each other rather than aggravated them.
Malniza did not know Vernigen well before the day he was recruited and died. He should have held a grudge against Vernigen but the champion had been his commander once.
To become a Chosen One, one had to battle Vernigen to the champion's satisfaction. The match had been the type Vernigen preferred, to submission. Malniza failed to submit so Vernigen resorted to beating him to unconsciousness.
In the fever of it all, Vernigen repeatedly slammed Malniza's head into the ground. The second time made the young elf black out. The third time killed him.
He was dead for only a brief time. Short enough for Vernigen to continue his onslaught against his opponent's unmoving form without considering that his enemy stopped breathing. By some miracle or accident, one of those very blows either reminded Malniza's heart how it should beat or forced life's breath back into his lungs.
Malniza's body had a tendency to move on it's own ever since he first died. Malniza suspected sometimes that his soul was never fully reattached.
Malniza's mind turned to others as he gathered what he knew. Malniza remembered Odlig’s statements about the dreaded day and was relieved that he could not recall the incident. “Odlig told me the same thing.”
“That was a terrible day for every one of us. Vernigen was broken, and after a stage of denial, he went mad for a short time. That potential was always within him, even back in the homeland he resorted to violence. That event alone did not cause him to be like he is now, but it sculpted his mind, his heart, and his very soul into a warrior, driven by the desire for vengeance and deliverance from misery.”
Malniza knew the rest of the story. Vernigen began to hunt and kill every dwarf he saw. He was responsible for the death of hundreds, if not thousands, of dwarves during the time of that war. So grand was the scale of his slaughter, that among the dwarves his name was synonymous with the word “annihilation.”
“Kírous, I do not wish to be intrusive,” began Malniza. “I would just like to know why you mentioned Vernigen’s tragedy.”
Kírous turned toward him for the first time since the recollection started and looked at him disapprovingly. “You are a commander. Surely you see the significance.”
“There is a certain worth in the words we say, but the interpretation may differ from one listener to another,” countered Malniza. “I would like to hear your analysis.”
“One event,” breathed Kírous as he faced ahead. He said the words as if they carried the weight of the entire world. “One event,” he repeated with such a tone that it seemed to carry more significance than any order he could shout in the heart of battle. The sorcerer swept his hand from left to right as if to wipe away all other thoughts. “One event. One life. That is all that is required to set one’s destiny on an entirely different path for the rest of eternity. As a commander, you know this. Sacrifice one life, save thousands; save one life, condemn yourself. One life is all we have, and one life is all that is needed to save or condemn. Vernigen was broken, yet—”
Kírous lurched forward, fell to his knees, and grabbed his chest. His frantic eyes were full of pain.
“Kírous! What is wrong?” pleaded Malniza. He had never seen another elf suffer such sudden illness. He stepped toward the sorcerer, prepared to take the frail elf into his arms and rush him to one trained in sorcerous matters.
Kírous lifted a hand, warding Malniza away. “I am well,” he gagged. “Those within me are not an honorable sort and forget their pact when it is convenient for them.”
“Kírous, you are not well.”
“No, this is...natural," Kirpus insisted as he labored back to his feet. There was still activity behind his eyes but whatever mental battle Kírous was fighting, he was winning. "Consequences for knowing too much and doing too little. A burdened mind and a weak heart together can undo anything…"
The sorcer looked around himself as if his surroundings were new to him. Was he still the same person he was a moment ago? "What was I saying before I was interupted?"
"You were reminding me the value of one life," Malniza informed him.
"Oh," Kírous acknowledged. "Did you understand what I was trying to convey?"
"I hope I did," Malniza replied.
Kírous then noticed he got dust on his book from his fall and gritted his teeth in agitation before gently wiping it clean with his hand.
"I think I am starting to remember," Kírous mused. "You did not want to ask me anything so I spoke of the past. That is what was. It is what was already decided but I want to speak to you of what could have been, for your sake."
"What do you wish to tell?"
"Of the day you were not there."
Dread weighed upon Malniza's heart. "You mean when Ordelas was taken from the palace?"
Many Dark Elves acknowledged their long lives to be a curse, some punishment for their failure to not stop the folly of humanity. They do not have the promise of release, of there one day being peace, just the uncertainty that came with an endless future. Malniza did not have such a view, not yet, though he once feared he might. In the end of the Great War and once before, the commander was stricken with the terror that his purpose might have been robbed from him, that his king could have died.
"It is good that you are asking me questions now. However, I mean before that. The beginning of all this."
Malniza remained silent as regret gripped his throat. He never spoke of when the king was attacked, when Malniza’s speed was needed most. Malniza was not there. While Malniza was well regarded among the Honor Guard, he was not yet their leader. They had no leader at the time.
And Ordelas refused to bring his bodyguards into the empire based on merit. What would it say if he brought his greatest bodyguards? What would it say if he brought his least? His retinue had been chosen by fate and chance.
"If you had been there, nothing for Ordelas would have changed," Kírous declared. "Perhaps he might never have been wounded but he would still hate. It might have been you that would be dead, saving him in the same manner you would later or making the same decision she did if you failed to accomplish that."
Kírous gestured to the palace as he continued their journey to it. "The world would still have a darklord but the king might not have you to protect him."
"How do you know?"
The idea that Ordelas would still be darklord would be both a relief and a condemnation. That his absence changed little yet he at least back then lacked the prowess to steer his lord's destiny in a brighter direction. Did he have skill now to make a difference after failing his lord twice?
"Fate does not exist but some things are inevitable," Kírous declared.
"If there is no fate," Malniza began. "What inevitability lies ahead of us?"
Kírous closed his eyes for a moment. "I see a future where Ordelas's wish is granted. But he will also die."
Those words struck Malniza’s core like a dagger. He almost bowed over as a shiver of panic ran down his spine. He then clinched his fist as if to strike down that future. "I will not let Ordelas die!"
Kírous smiled. "That is the only certainty."
***
Ordelas watched the doors to his throneroom slowly open partially. Kírous was ushered in by Malniza but the commander of the Honorbound remained outside as the doors closed to leave the king and elder the room's only occupants, not even the king's pet was there to interrupt them.
For a moment Ordelas had a vision of the last time the commanders fought together as one before Malniza’s silhouette was swallowed. The king noticed the scarf was a new addition and his condition seemed worse than before. The image predated even the Great War, the commanders divided during that conflict. A world of smoke, embers, and ash. Black, red, and white.
Ordelas’s eyes no longer ached as much. The time when the king lost consciousness gave him some much needed rest. He could dare to sleep again though he had nightmares. Perhaps his reunion with Flameheart settled his spirit.
Ordelas held out a hand and reached out to the elder as he tried to sense with his soul attuned to other spirits. He counted fifteen presences, Kírous and fourteen others, no different than before.
“Answer me,” the king demanded with a gesture ready to banish whatever might displease him. “Is it Kírous that stands before me?”
“It is I, my lord,” Kírous acknowledged. “And I know it is you I speak to.”
Ordelas lowered his hand and glared. “Then please tell me, was it you that disregarded my prior summons?”
Kírous gave a snide smile as the more common image of him showed itself. “Do you wish for me to apologize?” he asked sardonically.
“I ask for you to explain yourself,” Ordelas tried to remain calm as the sides of his mouth began to stretch, he could feel his lips trying to curl.
“Because anyone claiming to have a modicum of intelligence could have guessed this day was to come,” Kírous replied. “I would rather enjoy the days I had before it in peace.”
“What if this day did not come or it came centuries from now?” Ordelas shouted as he approached the sorcerer. He drew close and stood over his elder. “Would you have ignored me until then?”
Kírous did not flinch. He did not bow his head or avert his gaze. “You would not have needed me but I would like to believe I would have been satisfied with my isolation after centuries as you say. I would have come if you truly needed me.”
“The last time we spoke a decade ago,” Ordelas reminded, it may have been less than ten years but Ordelas’s anger inflated the time. “I trusted your judgement. I took you at your word and let you-” The king’s breathing grew heavy as if the very thought was a labor for him. “take one of his sons into your care. I shielded you from scrutiny and you reward that favor with negligence?”
“If we are counting favors, my lord,” Kírous remained unfazed. “I need not remind you that it was I that gave you a chance at life.”
Before Ordelas was born, while he was still in his mother’s womb, his father, Alfar, was killed by a dwarf. If not for Kírous’s wisdom and swift butchery, Ordelas never would have been born. For that matter, the king owed his commander an insurmountable debt.
Narcissa, Ordelas’s mother, had died of heartbreak and had swiftly joined her husband in the grave, leaving her infant behind. She was dead before ever going into labor so Kírous cut the unborn from her womb.
“And I need not remind you that I forgave you for that misjudgment,” Ordelas hissed out of spite but what grievances he claimed meant little to him compared to that undeniable fact. The king stepped to the side and gestured for his commander to follow as they made their way to the center of the room.
Kírous looked out to the city through the opening to the lord’s balcony. “If you still count that as a sin against you then let my presence here today be my thanks to you. I came when Malniza came in your name though I know I know we will not march today.”
“I should not have to send Malniza to make you come to me,” Ordelas stated grudgingly.
“There was a time when you would visit me,” Kírous mused.
Ordelas inhaled and forced what sparks of rage he felt back into his heart. “That is why I am not as angry as I should be. I remember those days, but you were not the only commander I have yet Scéadu and Odlig comply when I demand their presence and they are both my elders as well.”
If Ordelas mentioned Scéadu had convinced him multiple times to come to the artist’s estate, it would only prove the elder correct. He was certain the sorcerer knew of such occurrences but they both let that remain unspoken.
Ordelas lowered his head. “Still I should have come to you if I needed your wisdom. That I called you time and again and let you be means that I did not require you.”
“If I may offer you a defense,” the elder mended the bridge between them. “I never extended you an invitation to my home in all the years we knew each other while you have only chosen to be distant after you returned from that prison. Perhaps I should have become more welcoming when you dained to grow colder.”
“That would have been against your nature. That is not your fault,” Ordelas declared as he stepped towards his throne, it had been shaped into an instrument but as he came closer it returned to its form as his seat as he came to rest upon it.
The instrument was modeled after an ancient relic buried beneath the city. It was incomplete when found but was estimated to have been larger than the city itself before it was disassembled to form the underground network. Such artifacts were unfathomably rare. Whatever civilizations that came before had all clues of their existence stripped from the surface of the world.
“But you said you would come if I needed you,” Ordelas assessed as he rested his chin on his hand. “You know that we are not yet to march. What do you believe I need you for at this moment then?”
Kírous finally bowed. “I believe you need me to warn you.”
“Of what.”
“If you continue, all paths lead to your death,” the elder declared
Ordelas’s heart skipped a beat then he smiled. “Good.”
Of course all paths led to death. If he failed, he would certainly be executed. If he succeeded, he would finally be able to rest. If he went too far, he would be stopped. That news came to him as a gentle promise rather than a warning most severe.
If he ceased to care for those that once stood with him, if he ceased to justly hate, then there would be no meaning behind his vengeance. He would just be a motiveless monster with no greater reason than any other to have my wishes granted. That would be why he would ask to be put down.
Ordelas then frowned. “If you knew-” he began. “If you knew what I would become and this was to be my end would you have still saved me?
“I knew my lord,” Kírous stated. “So did your mother but we trusted you then as we trust you now with the future.”