Slowly, he lifted the last juicy piece of the lamb stew towards his mouth, his fanged teeth glinted in the light of the arkhana-stones embedded into the ceiling, washing his office in warn tinctures of white, green and red. The gamey meat released its juices as soon as the sharpened fangs closed in on them, a river splashed across his mouth, enveloping his broad and forked tongue wriggling in joy at the rich, seasoned taste and the pleasant warmth accompanying it. Albrion grabbed the last chunk of the pita and dipped it in the earthly dark sauce lingering on the smooth center of the plate decorated with choral animals–wolves, lambs, bulls and even sharks and salmons–all in gilded circles against the alabaster tainted by the smeared mush.

  Gently, he swirled the silken burgundy red wine within the bulbous round glass, holding its singular leg ending in a stretching undulating circle on the lower part, edged in rubinite–a crimson alloy native to the reddish gray mountains of Cordivil Province in the heart of Vhalleryon. As the light pierced through the thick wine, the alloy’s red strengthened in the shadows of his curling hands. Yet even the smooth feeling of the polished glass and the sweet, caustic taste of the wine washing down the lamb and the pita could not sweep away the doubts lingering about his heart.

  Many a times he ruminated on the notion to talk with Drussaev. As a great warrior, he would prove to be a great asset during the troubling times that shall follow, whilst presently would be another within the higher echelons of the Empire. Though the New Dawn already reached within the ranks of the First Legion.

  Albrion remained hopeful, and glad there was still time. Like him, Drussaev seen the world in a different light, believed not in the dream of their great-grandfather, Anessarion. Hence why he spent decades in the searing lands of the Far-South, where the shadows of the Black Pharaoh still lingered, atop the folks pursuing their sovereignty still.

  Thanks to the conquest and the following integration, policies invoked by Terrianis too, Drussaev proved quite a few times his tendency to choose the lesser races over his own. Though his methods still complicated the matter for Albrion, as he often chose diplomatic routes instead of bloodletting. He faulted him not for that, but it dissuaded him from approaching Drussaev with an offer. “There is no point mulling on it. Maybe after he witnesses our brother’s endeavor, I shall make my approach.” He stood up, swirled the wine whilst basking in the lit city.

  Instead, to pass some time, thought back of the adventures the two had in the south, in the ancient ruins guarded by augmented, hibernating warriors of old pharaohs. Then his mood soured, recalling the day parted from Drussaev’s company, feeling bored of the scarlet tinted dunes of the southeastern peninsula known as the Red Pearl of the World. The journey across Vhalleryon, the western waves, the words of his sister before she plummeted into the cadaverous depths of Charybdis’s maw, and the first time he experienced divine intervention. He should have perished on the waves, another corpse billowing with the waves.

  But instead he joined with Moirstyria and her group, followed them towards Vesgeriath, where he returned with Augermil, to join the Praetoreath. Though at the time, he regretted not staying with her once he received the news of her loss in the treacherous Veinways. Regret which faded, and now he knew not the word for this strange mixture of a feeling which annoyed and relieved him at the same time.

  Then his mind jaunted back the lane of memories, he thought back onto the horror he felt when he and a few of his friends from back then wandered into the decaying corpse of Khadrath. The city they heard many a haunting story about. How madness still lingered in the shadows, its sweet whispers beckoning fools and about the Umbral Vaults slithering beneath the sand. He recalled the wonder and terror he felt when he first gazed upon the cyclopean palace rising towards the infinite firmament tinted by the gloom of the Gray Monarch’s essence. The tales of his uncle often trimmed by his fatherly kindness towards them flown into his mind, and in the place of the ruined wonder, he saw the stalwart figure battling horrors defying the laws and desires of the Deossos when it came to the forms of the living.

  A slight shiver run down his serrated, ridged spine protruding forth his skin and even the jet-black shirt with a golden trimmed, octagonal neck. The black surface reminded him of the unnaturally thick shadows occupying the corners, the still somewhat intact rooms, antechambers, ritual chambers and what may have once been a dining area just as vast as theirs’ in their radiant nest.

  But the memories came to an end with a resounding knock on the thick oaken door. “Enter.” Sensing his old friend, Nawfal standing behind it, seemingly eager, he raised his voice whilst his tone remained in a genial manner as he walked away from the window and towards the door to greet him.

  Slowly Nawfal’s broad-shouldered form revealed in the widening gap, his rich, dark brown complexion gleamed still from the water he washed off the day’s sweat, though not a single droplet formed and departed from the strong, softly angled jawline. He carried himself inside at first giving Albrion the expected respect betwixt their stations within the Praetoreath, but quickly their muscled, long arms produced the loud hymn of friendship.

  “It is a relief seeing you here again, old friend.” Nawfal spoke, his voice deep and commanding, which Albrion envied a little. Though he expected it after he received the blood of dragons. “Is Princeipstir Aurelithae in good health?”

  “Thank you for your thought! She is recuperating, a little starved from so long a sleep, but nothing worse. Thank the One and the Eight for their grace and mercy!” Albrion led him to the table in the center of his room, where he already prepared drinks for the talk. He dreaded it in equal measures to making the offer to Drussaev.

  After their glasses tinkled, Albrion’s loud snap followed, the walls around glowed ethereally, revealing arkhaine runes of silence etched by his predecessor himself. “Now tell me, have you learnt of anything which our brothers and sisters and my uncle haven’t already?” Albrion’s black eyes met with Nawfal’s sunken, smoldering golden.

  Albrion spotted the circles around his elongated eyes. For the past few years, Nawfal worked and slept little trying to solve the murder of their fellow praetor, and his family carried out by native and gilded goblins of the Caublorum Tribe.

  “It is no easy thing to say, as it is little and relating to you, in a morose way.” Albrion’s grip tightened little as Nawfal relapsed into silence, but held himself in place, reaching not for his blade or for his friend’s throat. “All I learned he aided your father, Our Elhyrissiar in cleansing up matters relating to your late-mother. Though found no exact answers what that entailed.” And he felt glad for not being hasty, though in truth weakness kept his hand from spilling the blood of a friend.

  “Do you believe the murder of the family must have something to do with the passing of my mother?” Albrion asked, furrowing his brows in his play to feign lack of knowledge. It took less effort then keeping his lips tight, not to curl into a smile when he received the news from Augermil.

  “Can’t say for certain.” Nawfal looked dejected. “Though in his notes he mentioned a group working in the shadows, calling themselves the Blackened Circle, the ones whom he believed may have infiltrated our sacred, ancient order. He believed they attacked the isle, abducted The Prismatic Lord. And as you know, by infiltrating our order.”

  Shadows raced over Albrion’s face as he listened. “I am still not quite sure, they could. Or do you doubt the skills of the Order’s Vhouromancers?”

  “I doubt not their skill. I think Flavian may have been on the right path regarding an outer intelligence aiding them.” Nawfal said, producing a piece of paper written by the deceased himself. “Though at the time of his murder, he believed it to be The Beautiful, but I doubt they would be capable of taking The Prismatic Lord even in his wounded state.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Do you believe it is the Nightscale?” Albrion questioned, as that would seem the clear answer. But Nawfal shook his head.

  “I believe not so. Unless the Prismatic Lord’s mortal vessel is slain in truth, but then the Dawnfather’s circle would have confirmed that.” Nawfal moistened his throat and complimented the fiery water of a drink before continuing. “No, I believe it is another Outer Intelligence, one from the furthest of realms who may have bid their time until now.”

  “What makes you believe that? Would not the Accord of the Six prevent them from acting in this capacity?” Though Albrion felt uneasy, a nostalgic wave strengthened his act of earnest interest in solving the matter. The two skipped many a sleep talking over the matters of higher beings ranging from the current divine Eight, The Almodo and the Outer Intelligences including the divine beasts of the Deossos.

  “I believed so, but I am no longer sure. Whilst we have some understanding how the Infaernius and the Aydvroeghus operate in the grand cosmic way, we have little to no palpable knowledge of the Umvraothus. Only beliefs presented as certainties.” Nawfal said, rejuvenated from the talk after many a sleepless night he had from the investigation. But he reigned his feelings in, knowing Albrion has to still attend to other matters of the Praetoreath than just his.

  “But back on the matter, I reached out to an old friend, one erudite in matters of the realms beyond and their occupants and he mentioned of whispers in the alleys of the provinces, of a cult permeating from the lowly plebeians up to bored, wealthy merchants, consulias, nobilos and even the Legions.”

  “Mostly rumors of the plebeian, or are they more?” Albrion asked.

  “They are rumors.” Nawfal said dejected. “But rumors often contain snippets of the truth. Which is why I ask for your permission to depart, find if anything has been missed on the isle’s investigation.”

  Albrion mulled on the matter truly. And he regretted the answer, but seen no other way, but to consent with an addition. “You have my blessing, though it may take some time, as I at least want Celsushar to go with you and act as messenger between us.” Nawfal, complied excited to take off to the skies.

  *****

  A sigh issued forth Albrion, standing once more by the window. A sigh full of his mental exhaustion, full of the worries where the investigation may lead Nawfal. And then what he shall need to do, to keep things cloaked until His plan bears its fruit. He ruminated on trying to sway Drussaev, but Nawfal he saw no chance of him turning on the Empire. He owed everything to it, and though Albrion considered him one of his true friends, Nawfal’s loyalty towards Augermil towered over their friendship.

  “No matter. It was inevitable. It is.” Albrion murmured to himself before once more he yelled, a bit more solemnly when he sensed the fragrant aroma of his friend and subordinate Celsushar passing through the door. He smiled noticing the two bottles the aevhe held in both hands. One a refined wine of nearly as old as him, the other dwarven whisky from the far-south. Likewise, they aged it for two centuries at least in thick beech caskets larger than an ogroidh. A little cinnamon gave it a sweeter, exotic taste compared to his fiery water of a drink resting on his desk.

  “Tell my friend, what the long face for?” Immediately, he noticed Albrion’s reflecting gaze aimed towards him.

  With soft thuds, the two bottles arrived onto the table betwixt them, and Albrion’s gaze turned towards the bottle of whisky. In a short moment, his craving drawn him towards the whisky he swiftly opened and smelled the arising captivating aroma. As soon as the caustic, invisible fume stole into his nostrils, the worries of the near future evaporated in a bibulous amour. By just one short sniff a pleasant drowsiness blanketed his mind smothering the worrisome thoughts.

  “Let me enjoy this one sip. Then I shall tell you, my friend.” He said, enjoying each passing second filled by the silken lullabies of the amber liquid flowing and dancing within the confines of the heptagonal glass in brass, flowery casing.

  Then it rested peacefully like a moonlit pond, where silence reigned supreme. Albrion disturbed the sereneness, stirred and watched as the smoothness turned into effervescence, then lifted the cold, translucent glass painted by the whisky towards his lips and let the fiery beverage slither onto his tongue and gnaw at his tongue like myriads of playful pixies. As the searing rivulet passed his throat, down it went warming his belly and then his body. A lone, languid sigh parted his from his lips when he rested his head upon the oaken frame of his sofa.

  “Nawfal continues his investigation, though hopefully fruitless. Though I doubt that will stoke the flames of his suspicion.” Albrion said, sprawling and sinking into the oblong seating of silken and leather. The worries returned as soon as the words flown out from him.

  “Is there anything to be worried of? We just had our yearly examination and the Vhouromancers found no speckles of treachery or disloyalty in any of our ranks.” Celsushar spoke after he swallowed a mouthful of wine.

  “He doubts not their skills. I am just sure; uncle’s words still linger in his mind. He trusts me and you, but others not so much. Which is why I want you to accompany him to the isle.” Albrion chuckled a little as the drink tickled him. And silently accursed Nawfal not being like the others, who are occupied with nothing more than glory and showing off their meager skills in the arts of blades and maghia.

  “Should I notify Acilia?” Celsushar asked, a shadow spread over his eyes. Albrion shook his head, wanting to be patient about the matter.

  “I shall speak with Naghig or Mirayroth regarding her matter. She already moved to Vhalleryon already, she is under the wing of my brother.” Albrion felt the warmth spread by the drink and the room slowly creep out from his body. The lights flooding the ceiling wavered following the cessation of warmth and the gentle cold. He was coming, and the trailing nothingness shivered him. “What about Drussaev? He would be a great asset.” He said, staring into the hollow eyes staring at him from Celsushar’s almond-frames.

  Celsushar froze with his mouth slightly ajar, his body stiffened and stilled to a complete halt, as if a lifelike statue of his friend sat across him. Colors faded from the walls, from the stone bathing the room in a warm mélange of shades, a luminous grayness, whiteness of the Plateau of Leng born in their place mingling with the primordial darkness outside, blacker than the Night’s itself. Shadows glided across and down the walls, stole onto the floor and the sofa until they wrapped around Celsushar who once more gained motion–but not of his own, but His. “Excuse the abruptness. These are tumultuous days even for me.” A thousand whispering voices mingled with the honeyed, deep voice of Celsushar though another was chief of them, raspy and calm, velvety as it was ever more pleasant to Albrion’s ears.

  First an urge came over him to ask, what constitutes tumultuous to Him but smothered out the spark before it lit the fuse. Albrion poured and drank the whisky, knowing well its warmth existed not in this distant and higher space. “How things are faring in the north? Are the Chosen dead?” Albrion questioned, looking straight into the eyes taken over by another. He expected not an answer regarding the matter of swaying Drussaev. Albrion hoped He would aid him, would make things much simpler.

  “No.” He replied simply, looking at the nails before shooting a short glance at Albrion. “Sigiwaer–whom your sister dreams with–was taken as we planned, though there were a few hiccups along the journey, but now things are smoothened. The other two are with Augermil, occupied in Vhoragos. That lad has quite the spirit.” The frigid burning within his heart born anew by those last words, and the groan of glass broke the oppressing silence of the liminal space when it gave in to the pressure of his tightening fingers.

  “Should have killed them. Just in case.” Albrion said with a cold tone and gaze.

  “And you should have killed Nawfal when the opportunity was presented by Dumath. But now you have an eager boy ready to please his masters just to satisfy his own pride and waning hope.” Albrion knew he was right, even though he wished to retort that anyone could have seen them during The Harrowing, or the breaking of Dumath’s Spell could have led to someone remembering him plunging his blade through his heart. Though at least silencing those whispers would have been easier.

  “Now you have to contend with a dear friend and a dear brother.” He continued, and for a moment a haughty child’s voice gained dominance in the legions of whispery voices. “But if you wish not to taint your thirsting blade with the blood of a brother, Ephraimur is the greatest vhouromancer in our service. Give word, and Nawfal shall heed every word you utter, step of the path of his own doom.”

  Albrion entertained the idea, it would solve greatly his problem, but it left a sour taste in his mind. Nawfal was dear to him, a brother of not blood but sweat and effort. “It is a tantalizing offer. But I do it myself. Make sure he fails and if nothing else, solve the problem permanently myself.”

  “Then I shall pray fortune favors your efforts.” He said. Celsushar’s visage parted wide open, a grin filled with the emptiness aimed at Albrion before He took the wine and poured it in to taste it. “You look determined brother.”

  Albrion sighed as the warmth of the room, and the whiskey properly returned. “I wish I truly was.”