Albrion’s muscles still throbbed across his body from the day before. The thirst for blood still perched his being, the jaws of his draconic nature gnawed at the recesses of his mind.

  His black eyes gleamed taking in the capital flooded by the silvery grace of the Lunarius. Chilling breeze caressed his face, lifted his dark tresses drinking in the light. Those words whispered by Moirstyria echoed in his ears. Albrion closed his eyes, recalled the silver plates adorning her lithe form peppered in blood. Upon the second gust, he opened his eyes, listened, but heard naught, but the silence of the night as a great shift proceeded onwards.

  A change which began upon his return from the frigid north, bearing His mark upon after taking the same vow as Mirayroth, Proclus and Laneas taken before.

  In the past few years, it was quite unremarkable in its intensity, but ever since Aurelithae slipped out from the Radiant Keep, took the same vow blind after nearly dying, Albrion grew even more aware of the secrets carried by the silence. Albrion felt His fingers around his being, knew of his conundrum, the long contemplation He awaited eager, knowing well what decision shall he made, even if he himself knew not of his own limits.

  “It is for the greater good. All of their sacrifices shall be paving the way for the future’s generations and their endless possibilities free from our viscid hold.” The air felt salty, damp a little from the rain, but still pleasant as it soothed the throbbing just as he watched the two dragons appear in the dark distance. Both he recognized. A pureblooded dragon of Dawn, and another with distinct feline looks, yet the thin skin upon its two large, segmented wings appeared translucent, azure with a tinge of emerald, a dragon of the Lustrous Empress and of The Breath of Life whose fire burned still in Augermil’s heart. He needed not to stretch his perception, knew it was his dear friend and right hand Celsushar returning not with Nawfal, but another of their comrade. And knew they wore stern expression framed by the angled cheek guards of their crested helmets.

  A taciturn merkiin of the Haebrion’s waters, wearing the azure and amethyst panoply of the Dream Lord’s Wing. “Silia.” Albrion uttered in a whisper the name, his brows furrowing as he expected Nawfal. His absence laced the throbbing with a feeling he once felt upon being bitten by a large, venomous serpent. An acidic searing within his veins, quite unpleasant and foreboding in regards of his fate. The absence of his friend had a clear meaning, though what he sought in Limniolos watched over by Kameithar, did not soothe Albrion a bit.

  With a bit of adjusting of his opulent crimson and jet garments, he turned whilst the marble beneath moaned whilst revealing the path into his office.

  Though before he assumed his expectant position on the wide divan with an oaken frame hewn to resemble an aloof dragon and an enigmatic, faceless sphinx sprouting each from the center, Albrion marched hastily towards the lofty cupboard and retrieved the bottle of whisky and three deep glasses with gilded and crimson trimmings. His palm hovered above the cork, which seemingly freed itself, flew out from the glass’s bondage. He poured it in the nearest glass, near its gilded trims, and chugged it down. Smooth liquid snaked down his throat, burned along the way and deep in his stomach, smothered the cavalcade of thoughts.

  Then poured twice before sitting laid back, unease gnawing at the peace of his mind brought by the night.

  *****

  The three sat in silence, sipping their drinks, declining Albrion’s hundred offers for a feast. He asked of their journey, how those on the isle fared since the incident. And each time the talk came to Nawfal, Albrion changed the topic, not prepared yet. Not until the fifth or sixth glass of fiery water. In the end, he reached not the fifth when Celsushar proved himself the better player, kept Silia silent knowing well his friend would capitalize on the merkiin not knowing his ways when it came to grim business.

  Thus, Albrion cursed his name internally and at the same time felt glad. Whilst he wished to delay hearing the news, how the investigation proceeded as of now, deep down he knew it would serve him better to hear things early, rather than later. Time was of the essence. Time he could spend dealing with this meager problem. Though staring down at his reflection, he pondered why the others don’t made their moves, to earn the favor of His. Nor why he didn’t shackled him too, like so many of his fellow brothers and sisters, like Silia who not in a hundred years would have betrayed the Empire.

  He recoiled remembering those within the Order, who tried scrying the minds of the captured cultists, how His tendrils latched onto their souls and minds. Yet unlike Ephraimur, no enchantment planted the seeds of betrayal. He simple made all of them be His agents, since the day of their birth. A shiver ran through his ridged spine, hands he felt touching his soul. None cold nor warm. Just there, unseen.

  The thought parted, realizing there were a few within their Order who came upon the recommendation of the wealthiest of the Blackened Circle. Merchants of war and death, whose avarice he prayed upon, and which he detested them for. They were useful tools, so he uttered no curse at them, just shook their hands and smiled like a friend. “Speak, I wasted enough time fearing what I may hear.”

  Celsushar spoke, first began the talk like a regular report, to trick any ear listening, any eye watching from afar. He began with the day their winged mounts lifted them high up into the bosom of the firmament, in the early noon of Miirthea. When warm breezes blew over the sea, and when all its monstrous inhabitants flocked below. “Thanks to Mineirvia’s kindness, we arrived unabated on the 20th of her season, though it seemed our arrival was quite the surprise for them.”

  This much he expected from the vigilant Nawfal, and received even word from the isle itself of their arrival. Then from that point on the true praetors began by questioning the few who survived the night of the attack, repeating the same questions they heard a decade before. As before repeated the same old tale as before. About the enemies who appeared sudden, out of nowhere. Clad in robes sewn and fit for the darkness of that night, they attacked with vicious spells their armor could not shield against. Amongst them, they spotted a tall, queer figure whom they believed now to be their leader.

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  Though the mystery of how he passed through the hallway laden with the wards erected by Terrianis and later empowered by the Prismatic Lord, the Heavenly Monarch himself, none could tell. Neither could expand on how the elder vanished, none sensed the thronging of particles, the forming mana, the will puzzling together the spatial spell. All they remembered was the empty cradle, with no sign of a struggle, a burnt remainder upon the floor that would be the foolish cultist they all expected upon intruding themselves.

  A few admitted–now years after–how they sensed strange winds blowing, riling their arkhaine points, filling them with power they always thought only those worthy of the Deossos and the Almodo’s attention could hold. Yet their enemies also enjoyed this queer boon that on the other hand, drained them of their emotions. No fear, love, hate, bravery they have felt that night, their weapons, spells, limbs all moved according to their duty on that night. “Without them, I felt like an undead called forth beyond the grave. One told poetically.” Celsushar allowed a smile repeating the words. “Many believed at first the Prismatic Lord granted boon upon the defenders, but when they saw, felt their adversaries enjoying the same boons, doubts sprouted in their hearts.”

  “Which brought us some time.” Albrion murmured.

  Celsushar ceased the flow of words, felt his throat parched from the already long report. He reached for his glass, lifted close to his lips, fiery water brought a little relief.

  All three knew the feeling their brothers and sisters mentioned, the exalting void feeling left a deep impression in their souls. Seldom they relied upon the gifts lurking within their hidden, spiraling mark. Great power Albrion relied on the day of the Harrowing, where he battled a great daemur of the Beautiful upon the bridge of Maerhia. A daemur that nearly took his life, yet when the gift stirred, his blade never missed, sliced where the daemur proved weakest, sent him howling back to Taerebus. Whilst awaiting the continuation of the report, he pondered dreadful, what the price of stirring the mark be?

  “” He stared deep, mind wandering as the two looked through their reports.

  His mind went through the previous thoughts. The Blackened Circle, the Beautiful and her wickedly magnificent servant sprawling chaos in the city. “” Many a times, he questioned it. Albrion knew what the end goal of the Nightscale be, but what was His? Chaos. Not truly, as it would make Him an Infaerni, who sought the upend of Order in all things. Chaos was merely a tool for him, there had to be something beyond it.

  Death neither. Albrion hoped so at least, He was not as mad as the Grim Sovereign. Seemed foolish as he delved deeper on this route, realizing Death too he used, to remove Elhyrissiar and lead the world to Chaos. The key lied in Dawn, but in what way he knew not. To his reasoning, it would have made him and the Nightscale rivals if not adversaries. And would make him an ally of the Empire, not one aiming its cessation. As the notion trailed onwards, he even began to entertain the idea that Nawfal may have been correct along with his deductive friend.

  Upon Celsushar coughing, he returned from the chaotic mess of his thoughts, took a sip and nodded for him to continue on.

  “He remained adamant that answers lied somewhere on the island. After a few days, he recommended our separation, though not out of suspicion I believe so.” Albrion raised his brow, but interjected not. “Impatience led him to this decision, and I believe so a spark. Once again, he questioned our brothers and sisters, until one who patrolled the shores remembered seeing the space twists unto itself, form a vortex of nothingness. He pointed out on the map where he was on the night, then we both headed there.”

  “What about the warding stones?” Albrion asked.

  “I did find speckles of Acilia’s effort, but erased them before Nawfal could found out.” He continued with their entering of the cradle chamber, where the wounded elder waited for the black wounds to vanish. “I am not quite sure how, but he sensed something amiss. Residue, unseen tears whatever they were, a keen hound he proved himself.”

  Celsushar went silent, holding his drink with mild fear. “Do you mean, He made a mistake, leaving a trail?”

  “Not in the way you mean.” Celsushar spoke up. Loud and in a sudden panicky burst he soothed quick. Though fear remained in his eyes focusing on the shifting shadows upon the walls, and on the face of oval face of Silia framed by her tumbling hair, pinkish red as the corals towards the southern shores and islets, flowing in mild waves. “It seems another of our brothers, belonging to Silia’s Wing, were in league with Him too. Though to what role he had, I can’t say with certainty.”

  “Why have you came, and can I deduce, Nawfal headed towards my brother?” Both nodded in unison. Albrion sighed as he sunk back into his soft, padded seating. “Do you know which of your brother was tasked… with whatever he be needed for?”

  “Not at all my lord. Only Kameithar was informed as far as I am aware myself.” She said, her voice trembling as Albrion oozed with anger. Though he calmed and chuckled a little, at how arrogant he felt himself. He did have an idea as all members of the Blackened Circle’s higher echelons had to prove themselves loyal to the cause. Middias killed his dearest friend and partner who aided him through his rise of wealth and station; Proclus similarly killed a benefactor close to his own heart; and Mirayroth too had made a great sacrifice he was keenly aware of, thanks to his visit and stay in Dhaugruz. He nearly killed him for it then and there.

  “Fear me not, you both did well enough with what you know and possess.” Albrion noticing their looks, even Celsushar looked a bit uneasy, thinking he failed his order when he gave in to Nawfal’s push to fly alone.

  He gulped down the last of the fine, fiery water and poured another which whole went after it. “Shall we depart to Limnilos?” Celsushar asked.

  Albrion pondered long before the window as he watched the silent city. A few birds began to flock away, they flew two abreast towards Vhalleryon as they sensed the chilling winds, but realized as him, that was nothing more than an illusion, a lie forced upon their keen minds.

  He sighed, knowing the choice risky. But he needed time to find his resolve for what must be done, in the worst case that be. “No, leave him to follow the trail.” The two looked surprised, but Celsushar gestured Silia to remain still and silent. “It is a gamble I won’t lie.”

  “What about Acilia?” She asked, a shadow cast over her eyes.

  “We shall know, and I am sure He shall act before Nawfal could reach her. Regarding him, I shall take matters into my own hands when the time comes. Until then, return to my brother.” Albrion gazed at his hungering sword, listened to its murmurs. He beseeched its patience.