“I truly missed the thrill of the hunt.” Drussaev said.

  He leaned against the door’s frame hewn in the shape of a crawling dragon with the head of a vicious feline. One of the many shops of the furtive demikin merchant, Proclus who tipped him off on a remnant of the Beautiful’s cult. According to the feline merchant, they bought alchemical solvents used for invisibility potions. He ceased quickly on the opportunity, to lift the mood of his brooding brother.

  Besides also giving Albrion time in his own woes regarding Nawfal whose investigation he regretted furthering, even if he had little options. If possible, he would have went with Nawfal himself, plunge into the investigation to derail him from the right path leading to the answers. The answer of him being the traitor, the one who opened the eyes of many of his brothers and sisters in the Praetoreath. That he gave the order to sabotage the great aegis erected over the cradle of the Heavenly Monarch, The Prismatic Lord. But as the head of the Praetoreath, he had little choice, but pray the time where the proverbial dagger plunging into his uncles and friends back is still afar from being palpable.

  A part of Albrion regretted giving the order to Acilia to weaken the Aegis. He cursed himself since relentlessly, knowing the needless nature of the order blossomed presently into a dire burden. Albrion’s sole excuse for the blunder, were not fully believing in the extent He could operate in the realm of Elhyrissian. Most other Outer Intelligences could not enter and exert their dominance, they either needed the endorsement of the Primordial Dragons or the Titans to enter, whom usually allowed only a meager essence to slip through the veil. Or they needed to find a breach through which they could leak themselves through, a process slow and often taking centuries as he learned from Augermil after his return home.

  “Mention it not, brother.” Albrion said as they mingled amongst the common folk. “I needed it nearly as much as you.” A mirthless smile he offered to his doleful brother.

  As they walked, a notion formed slowly in his mind, and Albrion entertained it. He hoped this opportunity could mend Drussaev disposition towards the New Dawn, The Blackened Circle to the point when the Hour comes, Albrion could convince him to change sides. Albrion hoped, satiating his lust for blood would lessen the need of brewing vengeance, one which Drussaev knew not would be against Aurelithae, whom grew greatly in his heart. Knowing he struggles even contemplating making the right choice regarding Nawfal, he dreaded the future where he and Drussaev would stand face to face as enemies, whilst sharing the same dream still in a sense.

  “Though tell me brother of the enemy? What are their numbers?” Drussaev broke the long silence which formed betwixt them as they neared their destination, the apothecary who bought his ingredients from Proclus.

  “Not many, but enough that we can share them equally.” Albrion answered.

  They stopped by the meager old wooden door not wholly encompassing the frame. Drussaev chuckled sensing the childish dishonesty in Albrion’s words. He said it many times before whilst they ventured in the far-south together, words meant to trap as they competed in mettle, who could slay the most. “Then may they tremble before us, and may the best of us triumph in the searing eyes of Mineirvia.”

  The two entered, pretending to be adventurers trying their fortune in the Isles, with Albrion buying a few potions to sharpen their senses, and a few to heal wounds possibly carved into their bodies.

  Bodies which were laden under the heavy illusions cast over them by the enigmatic mistress of Drussaev, Nephyti whose lapis lazuli eyes burned into Albrion’s mind. Though she was less keen on Drussaev mingling in the city, without his proper panoply, but relented at his insistence and at Albrion’s promise and explanation the cultists’ threat equaled to a pack of goblins who just lost their chieftain and hob. At least when it came to the two of them.

  Drussaev seemingly chose a form similar to hers, of a nomadic southerner of a dusky complexion, a faux scar ran through his voluptuous lips, his right ear chipped, and almost pompous style hair flown from his head, not quite like his own short hair which proved to be slow in its growth. His current garments, were of some desert bandits, scantily protecting the illusion created form, exposing the slight belly which would indicate little threat to many. And instead of his axe he looted from the carcass of some century old undead, a former disgraced champion of Nephren, The Black Pharaoh, he carried a curving blade with a faded golden guard and a sturdy, wooden handle and a flat, disk-shaped pommel.

  Albrion himself appeared to the alchemist as a fellow dwarf with lush and tousled hair flowing down the broad and muscular shoulders, about a quarter of his nearly three meters, though his limbs packed more sturdy meat then in reality, and his face cleanly shaven, or to be precise devoid of any hair, and smooth as an aevhe’s. His bust and shoulders exposed, revealing the elemental tattoos carven into the golden-brown skin, whilst abdomen and below he was wrapped in dull and thick linen of red, blue and yellow with jointed steel plates with ribbed edges fastened to them. And like his brother, he left behind his thirsting blade, carried instead a long maul with a roundish head with rocky ridges starting from the top center, going down towards the fully chromatic shaft. A weapon he always wanted to try, but opportunity came seldom.

  “Where?” Albrion recognized the focused look on Drussaev’s face. Whilst he was making the purchase, Drussaev eyes peered beyond the natural Fold of space and even time. Though there were myriads of etheric marks left in the shop, frequented by many a poor folk, including the miners of the Quarries near a level below. But he could not mistake the filth of Taerebus lingering on those dabbling with the forces calling it their home. It led towards the opposite they came.

  Drussaev closed his eyes for a second as he led Albrion to the alley, then focused and expanded his consciousness for a mere second. “Down, near the river. And they seem to follow us.”

  Two cloaked figures appeared; their hands hidden under the haggard folds of their dull robes. They offered no word, and the two needed not them as they evaded the strikes aimed at their throats, then struck in unison. Albrion made a great aperture on the head of the Sylvan-Kin cultist, letting the fruity bits of his flesh spill in the shadows, whilst Drussaev sliced the meaty thigh of the human, though before he could cry, shattered his windpipe with his elbow.

  “Shit.” Drussaev said coldly, watching as the body fell limp.

  “Worry not over spilled milk. There is plenty more in their lair I bet.” Albrion patted his shoulder before the two continued onwards, equal in their contest. Though as they walked out, he peered back for a short moment, sensing not the mark of the Blackened Circle, and pondered whether those were cultists or just foolish ruffians of the city. Though it mattered little, as he thanked them silently for their sacrifice in lifting their moods a little.

  *****

  “Well, at least is we can confirm your whisperer was correct about his assumptions regarding those two.” After following the trail leading down to the Glade-District, they at last arrived to the den of the cultists. An old warehouse left unattended after The Harrowing. Outwardly, still appeared impeccable, towering over its meager walls. Hinged windows swung back and forth, the wide wooden panes slowly eroded by the passage of time and the salty air of the river freighting the waters of the sea.

  “Anything interesting you sensed?” Albrion asked, noticing the grimace on Drussaev’s countenance.

  “Seems our friends inside tried their hands at summoning. The place reeks of Taerebus’s stench.” He answered peering inside the dark confines of the old warehouse, once the home of a small fisher family. Now wicked energies lingered along the cultists, forming into an immaterial whip lashing out against him.

  Invisible claws sharp as the finest of blades crafted by the blessed hands of aevhei or dwarfs cleaved at his soul, cutting the tether to the spell revealing the trail of the cultists. “Though there may be a great Vhouromancer amongst them, or Dumath still favors them I know not. But this is certainly the place.”

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  Albrion chuckled out heartily in the faux deep voice of a southern dwarf. “Pray they put up a good fight then.” He added pushing open the gate, ambling towards the door. A soft woody moan emanated from it as his palms pressured against it.

  Drussaev stopped behind him, ruminated in the pale light of day. “Wonder if the Beautiful still has a lingering presence in our realm. Or your whisperer was wrong and we have another cult hiding in the shadows of our beloved city.”

  Slowly, they entered with their hands on their weapons resting in their sheaths, thirsting for blood. “If that would be the case, Father or at least Angura would have noticed.” Albrion said in whispers, nearly drowned by the moaning door. Before him, the darkness stretched onwards, a musky air lingered along with that of decay. Motes of dust lingered, revealed by the light seeping from behind them.

  “I think neither could.” Drussaev said without hesitation, then stopped speaking to listen. “Angura is too preoccupied with his… profane endeavor, and father ailed I am sure by the enemy.” In a low tone he continued, though not quite a whisper. Just enough so that their enemy lurking nearby could hear it. A nostalgic grin spread across Albrion’s countenance.

  Then as he turned suddenly, with a grim expression he last saw on his face during the funeral of Moirstyria, Albrion halted feeling perturbed by the sight as the word registered in his mind. “Tell me brother–honest to the One and the Eight–what you make of his Talos Endeavor?” The question came sudden, though he often wondered what Drussaev himself regarded their brother’s project.

  Looking at his expression, Albrion knew the answer to his question. An answer which brought a sense of relief, and filled him with guilt regarding his doubts towards Drussaev. He still possessed the same dream as Albrion and Moirstyria once did, believing in a world of equality amongst the people of the Empire. The price the Endeavour costed disgusted Drussaev clearly. Besides he was a warrior at heart, one who wished to fight and lead those willing to sweat and bleed regardless of what form their ancestors possessed before the Elevation.

  “Do I have to tell you brother?” Drussaev asked, believing Albrion shared the same qualities of his. “Though I see the benefits of it in regards of the future. A war between Dawn and Dusk is inevitable and the enemy most certainly building their own horrors, so I can see what led father and Angura to this horrid endeavor.”

  “But I could not help but fear the weakness they both seem to miss. How they could be turned against, and instead of bleeding our enemies, I dread their hollow gazes and cold blades shall turn against our own.” Albrion listened, drank in each word. And noticed Drussaev’s gaze go past him, past time and space as if he recalled something that shook him to the core.

  He did assume a gaze reflecting his old beliefs, to assure and soothe Drussaev. A great effort, to veil the unease how his brother’s suspicions lay close to the truth waiting to manifest. To stir from her prison of metal.

  “If that day comes, we shall bring relief upon them.” Albrion said. Feeling satisfied, calmed at seeing Drussaev regain his old self, he missed the worry aimed at him.

  “We shall drink to that, once we are done here.” He said with a mirthless smile whilst Albrion walked past him.

  Albrion’s skin hardened, became as sturdy as mithril covering his right arm. With a tightly closed fist, he punched through the thick wall, through the flesh and bone of the cultist hiding on the other side, believing he was yet to be discovered by the brothers. Upon entering the flesh, his fingers unfurled, then grasped the spine, tautened quick again. The avian cultist shrieked from its beaked muzzle, then upon release he crumbled with a shattered spine onto the dust laden floor.

  “Hope they heard it.” Drussaev added amidst cracking his neck in preparation, revitalized by the grim passing of the cultist.

  Another followed, a blast forming in her palm, aimed at Albrion’s nether region, though in her perception, his head. With a downward swing of the mace, the blast bounced back to its owner, hastened by a reflecting addition.

  “Seems I should pay attention now.” Drussaev said as silence settled back after the thud of the corpse arriving, the chest of the stunning truscian turned into a heavy, pervading layer of diamond translucently revealing the ribcage and the organs which all turned into the coveted treasure of Cordivil’s mountains.

  They continued onwards finding most of the ground floor empty bereft for the furniture slowly eaten away by time, ornated by dust and cobwebs, bones of small critters. At the twisting stairs, a childish clash erupted betwixt the brothers, to decide which goes where. Knowing time may have been not on their side, Albrion fetched an old table, prayed it would hold the weight of their arms. They elbowed down onto its dusty, dim surface and locked hands. Arms strained, minutes passed until Albrion triumphed, gained the honor of descending whilst Drussaev headed up a bit dejected, knowing more awaited below.

  Albrion whispered on the way down, joyous at the prospect of a little bloodletting. Since the Harrowing he had few opportunities to be in fray once again. Before that, he even had less of a chance, since Augermil passed the shaft into his hands.

  Down in the shadowy cellars, his black eyes spotted the Beautiful’s cultists. Each wore a wicked grin on their striking faces, believing they outnumbered the lone, arrogant dwarf, but in the next second their countenance shifted that of terror. Naught they seen beyond a colorful streak traversing through their unruly ranks, tinged here and there by the crimson of their fellows. His mace stroke true, obliterated their handsome, comely visages.

  Albrion moved without clear intent, just let the pent-up emotions guide his arms, fuel the power of his strikes. Deep down, he still felt frustrated towards the Beautiful for her failure of following “It is nothing personal.” He whispered. The mace’s head found itself stuck in the caved in face of a fellow aevhe. The last three fell in unison, their heads crushed to smithereens by a wild, horizontal arc.

  Two stood frozen as blood spattered their ragged, black robes. One whose ribcage gained a new hole, slammed into his comrade whose spine broke as they flew into the wall. The beams and pillars shook from their arrival, a spell hurled towards the blurry phantom that was Albrion moving towards the next. On is right, another exploded into burning chunks of flesh, and the caster followed not long after with her head flattened, obliterated by a downswing.

  Once the last tenantless body fell, he drew deep breaths, quickened by the raging arkhaine euphoria. His eyes fixated upon the mace, painted red, dribbling pieces of bone and sinew down. Slowly, a pond of crimson formed as he returned to the mortals’ Stream of Time. The smell of the corpses hit him hard upon return, but by pinching his nose for a second, he endured the vile odor.

  Albrion contemplated whether to await or not, but proceeded onwards recalling the warning Proclus hastily passed onto him. The reason he told him at all about the existence of these remnants. He stepped through the aperture after crashing the meager illusion. Once more he stopped, look back and listened. As before, Drussaev drawn out his fight, to enjoy each moment a strike or spell came to claim his life.

  A narrow passage stretched westwards, evading the mines of the western banks of the Flaurdrenn River. At the end, he sensed only one presence, the one carrying the mark of the Blackened Circle, Albrion loosened not his muscles nor his grip around the handle of his bloodied mace. There were still elementals who may prove bold enough to approach this hidden tunnel invading their territories, now that the master of the cult was no more in this realm. There was even anticipation in his eyes, fighting one of earth given intelligence. But as the jagged walls slowly revealed themselves in sputtering torch light, his black eyes shone with mild disappointment.

  “How…” In the small chamber furnished with fetishes of The Beautiful stood a lesser brother of his. Another collared, shackled to the Beautiful like Rhenathorhia originally. Somewhere between him and Aurelithae in age, with a chiseled, oblong face of acute angles, verdant green eyes and a refined half-snout, half-nose melded with his forehead, scales extending down from above his ears, almost like sideburns possessing a rich earthly shade. Terror in his eyes gazing at Albrion’s mace covered in blood.

  Just three steps in, he tumbled onto his knees sobbing. His soft, feminine voice reverberated through the tunnel. “Please, spare my life! I have seen the light of Dawn again, I promise!” Albrion sighed. His brother whimpered aloud when he swung his mace sideways before his face. A wave rippled through the weapon, swept off the blood before he sheathed it.

  He calmed as the illusion fell in the next moment, revealing Albrion’s towering form instead of a dwarf’s. Albrion grabbed him by his collar, yanked him hard onto his feet. With a snap, the tears evaporated. “Calm down brother. I am not alone, but with one still blinded by the light.” He spoke, assumed a caring guise of a kindly brother.

  “Are there any more remnants of you here, in the city?” Whimpering, he shook his head to Albrion’s question.

  “We were the last in the city, wanting to summon back the Beautiful.” He answered truthfully.

  “I see.” Albrion muttered and seeing no more worth and sensing Drussaev’s approach, twisted his brother’s neck, and pushed his corpse onto the circular dais of a serpent coiling into itself, shattered like ceramic or glass.

  “What have you done to him?” Drussaev asked horrified.

  He knew Albrion tainted his soul by extinguishing one of their own kindred. And for the first time, spotted a cold, dark glint in his black eyes as he faced him. “I spared him brother.” It satisfied him not, but Drussaev knew what he meant. Wherever his soul went, was a fate better than what would have awaited him in the hands of Angura. “Come let’s call the Custodians.” Looking at Albrion’s back, Drussaev could not dread the coming days ahead.