Dawn’s warm glow flooded the streets, sauntered into the dark alleys offering soothe and protection to Euthymius scurrying into their soft embrace from the light. Before his eyes, lingered not the acute angles of the corners, the white walls appearing bluish, but the sleazy merchant whose neck twisted sudden. And the dwarf from weeks before, who seemingly got torn by invisible hands and weight. Their last scream and grunt swirled about his mind, deafened him in the silent alley with their weird cacophony. And her smile, the ease with which she extinguished two lives. The same smile she assumed, entering their home.

  “For the greater good.” He whispered to himself, alone in the street. “The more capable die, the casualties lessen on our side.” He continued repeating the words of Luelia, yet they all felt empty and foolish, no matter how many times he repeated them.

  Utter silence draped over the lane as he meandered towards his home, yet he knew dreams wouldn’t come. Euthymius swallowed down the arising bile in his throat, and focused elsewhere his thoughts, pondering what use the scrolls shall serve the New Dawn. The power he sensed within them, despite not finding meaning in the few runes penned upon the perched skin-paper.

  With each caustic breath taken, the ominous thoughts filtered out whilst his gaze focused on the soothing cavalcade of colors as day approached. The flow of adrenalin waned at last and his thoughts wandered once more onto the warm embrace of his sheets and bed. He desired no more, than for the strain in his mind and muscles to fade.

  Pulled by the call of Rest, Euthymius nearly stumbled onto the white marble. But he rose back onto his feet grasping the corner of a small shop where the thick scent of flowers stirred his tired mind a little. Upon a closer inspection, he spotted marks of struggle upon the walls, scratches metered by the sharp edges, tips of blade, indentations created from the heavy strikes of maces, holes dug by long spears, and a faint arkhaine waft of faded spells. At first, he thought these were the remains of The Harrowing, but the stony wounds looked fresh. Though he could not be sure whether a fight unfolded betwixt the legionaries and the New Dawn, or the custodians and some bravely foolish thugs.

  “What does it matter?” He said in a low, tired voice then heard the clanking steps.

  For a moment, he hesitated noticing custodians and a few neonates of the Draennith Praetoreath jostle abreast towards the forming throng down at the square. He knew not what led him to follow them, but skulking from corner to corner, he watched from the soft shadows of the morning. In a matter of seconds, he knew the reason for the gathering, for the custodians and neonates.

  Euthymius instantly recognized the throng’s hymn of the wuthering harangue issued by the Mad Prophet of Luth-Astaril. Who towered on hastily made scaffoldings. Crates veiled by canvas sheets of faded reds, golds, and blue. And like before, clad scantily, in naught more than few wraps around his hip, a dangling loin cloth fluttering in disharmony with him.

  Euthymius sighed, coveted naturally to return home to rest after the long night, to abate the searing pain within his anima veins and body. But he couldn’t. He was drawn by the few words of the Mad Prophet stealing into his ears, into his mind, feeding the seeded suspicions in his heart. “For thousand times, you all heard the same promises from the shadows. A new dawn is upon us, and beyond it, we shall all be equal. Lies not too dissimilar from those above us.” His bony, grimy arm shot up in the air, forefinger stretched and tremulous gazing at the flying fortress. The lair of draconic aevhei.

  “Their lies are as sweet as those who parley with guidance and patience. They are of the same ilk.” Euthymius faltered entering the crowd when the maddened prophet whose eyes sunk as deep as his stomach; his cheeks protruded as hard as his ribcages over the elliptical crater born of hunger. It was no secret to him, only the last of his vitae kept him standing, kept his bloodshot eyes wide open.

  Swallowed by the growing throng, Euthymius seemed lost in the words of a man who was maddened by the Harrowing five years ago. And as he swam without care, impinged by the listeners’ multifarious frames–some robust, some withering as they approached the twilight of their years, some soft as pillows he still coveted–he merged deep into the throng, leashed by the words. “Believe not in their sly altruism my fellow doomed brothers and sisters. Like us, they are nothing more than pawns on the board. Their New Dawn shall bring nothing but the end of our lives, a dreamless sleep.”

  By the time he reached the heart where the streets converged slightly deeper from whence, he came. Euthymius broke out from the mild trance when his shoulder met the furtively frail shoulders, met the warm, citrine golden eyes, first stern and bothered by his carelessness, then mellowed and genial upon recognition. Antineiwen’s smile proved as soothing as his pillows and blanket. If not more.

  A fine linen cowl tapered over her head, her black her beneath with sharp edges, and even tips highlighted by the bluish cloth and the golden embroidery near the edge. It grew forth the inner layer of her doublet, of a sleek aevhen style, made from soft, smooth textured leathery fabric tightly embracing her figure, dyed a deep black as her hair except for the wide, airy sleeves made from the same aged linen, and skirt like extension pouring from the round hemline, slitted back and front a little.

  “Believe not the pallid prophet who is hidden by the Shadows! He cares not of our woes and our needs, he fights not for our future, but for love to which he is willing to sacrifice the flock!”

  Their attention turned towards the mad prophet whose words were muffled by the cries of the crowd who began to turn on him. At the same time, the gilded protectors of the capital jostled their way across the crowd, their intent clear in taking away the spreader of discord and fear. “Do you believe in his words, Euthymius?”

  He felt a bit surprised–both at the sudden question and that the young aurhe remembered his name, even though they haven’t met in years. Though the latter mellowed a bit as he recalled Isocrates telling on the impeccable memory of the aevhei. Euthymius mulled a bit on his answer, unsure himself. A part of him thought him a fool, a pitiable fool whose loss he could not imagine, but deep down he felt those words he uttered were layered in truth. Some truth at least. “He is mad, no dispute over that, but I cannot refute the words, even if they are ludicrous and heretical.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Antineiwen expression soured, regret hastily marched on within Euthymius. “A pitiable man he is, a victim of otherworldly madness. You are right–I think–in truth and lies mingling in his mind, neither which he could ever discern from the other.”

  Euthymius looked at her, and began to ponder if she was of noble birth, whilst nodding as far as he heard. One thing solidified itself though. A growing headache.

  “Do you believe the New Dawn is supported by otherworldly powers?” As the question left his lips, he turned towards the Mad Prophet retreating back towards the building offering its shadow from the early rays of the Dawn.

  “It is a possibility. They would not be the first dissidents aided by greater beings.” As much as it left a sour taste, a headache in Euthymius, he could not refute it in his mind. People like them, needed an external force to force change, to even dream of upending the status quo. And he could not refute, thanks to his lack of historical studies. Besides what little the Order imparted onto the plebeian regarding the forces of Twilight, Dusk.

  Euthymius remained silent, gazed at the sky pondering on the coldness reflected in his comrades’ eyes. Then as he pondered what the new dawn may mean, wind wafted through his rustled hair, mana wafted through his being. Chaos swept away the trifling order over the throng. A cloaked figure leapt onto the scaffoldings; palpable darkness took the shape of spear in his left arm. In a breath’s moment, it tore through a custodian standing before the prophet with chains, ceased before it could penetrate the shrieking prophet.

  Though death came for him, when the wall he pressed against, parted open into a hideous maw of marble, crushed betwixt the pointed teeth. Euthymius watched in horror as blood, viscera spilled onto the ground, and noticed Antineiwen draw a saber from under the folds of her raiment. “Should have headed home.” A sigh parted from him, as he swallowed the terror, charged after her into the unfolding chaos.

  If the blade itself wasn’t damning evidence, her leaping high into the air proven his earlier suspicions regarding her. A faint thread of mana he sensed, followed her soles as invisible wings adjusted her trajectory towards the orkh. With a swipe, she decapitated the confounded orkh, hurled a fireball at the vampyr altering the spell which devoured the mad prophet. The stream of crimson flung her back over the scaffolding. Euthymius kept his eye on her, held his arm out as she crashed onto him.

  Antineiwen thanked him, and as they arose, both noticed the four more figures draped and masked by ragged cloths of manifold dull shades. A strange aura radiated from each, as if they were ravenous holes sucking in warmth and cold. Their exposed eyes listless, empty besides the dark, expanded pupils. Across their anima veins, mana channeled, and a faint inclination told both youth of the coming danger.

  Quickly he looked over the back, where the crowd retreated up the stairs, there the custodians engaged with a dozen more. They proved themselves equal of the trained protectors in gold. Euthymius grabbed Antineiwen ready to leap away, arced his arm over them. Thick stone wall domed over them, dampened the hit of the four spells unleashed in tandem. “Now what?” To her question, he looked confused.

  Frantically he looked around, noticed a lone mother weeping, her son limp in her arms. A few other folk laid prone, trampled under the soles of the frightened folk. Anger flooded Euthymius, mingled with the ecstatic feeling of spellcasting.

  Euthymius himself pressed his own against the marble ground, closing his eyes as he attuned his will to the earths, shifting the plates, ridding the four from their balance. Then he screamed at the sudden riposte of the Acheryoth’s Rage. Small, almost miniscule pebbles numbering in the dozen formed within his veins, tore his flesh within, scraped his bones the more he refused to cease his spell.

  Amidst the increasing pain, he focused his intent, forming earthly bindings reaching up and about their ankles whilst the few of the guards whom triumphed over their surreptitious adversaries rushed with their blades swung at the stifled agents of chaos. “Euthymius!” Thanks to the lessening screams of the people, he heard his name being called by the soft voice of Antineiwen who noticed his toiling. Her face lovely still even blemished by the translucent, pale red blood of a dead vampyr whose sightless visage looked at him. Regret shimmered in her enchanting eyes, its brightness pulling him towards the precipice of death.

  “You should worry more about yourself.” He said a bit bitterly from the pain, his fists clenched so hard his nails dug into his hardened palms. “Foolish words. Now cease the spell, you have done more than enough.” She said with care ladened imperativeness. One he could not refuse even whilst his gaze wandered around mayhem reigned surroundings, wandering whether he done right or wrong. Whether the attackers were of the New Dawn or remnants of the Beautiful’s cult.

  His only reasoning against this fact simply remained in his waning faith towards Luelia.

  As he stared at the vacant eyes of an elderly dwarf who reminded him of Mamerkhed, he excused the rash execution of Khaetomhian who even when defeated, on the brink of exhaustion, reached for his weapon.

  Calaviril’s sweet, vernal fragrance pulled him back, and for a moment his body gave in to the exhaustion and placed his forehead upon her shoulders–feeling gently stiff as his pillows. “Euthymius? Are you alright?” She asked a bit flustered, but with a deep breath collected herself for a bit.

  “Sorry, I…I had a long day.” He said, soothed by the silky touch of her skin. It nearly made him forget about the pain denying him of his rest.

  “Is it over?” He asked feebly. Euthymius gazed around them, where the Custodians cleansed their own blades, escorted the mother and his child in hurry. A few folks returned, assured the fight ceased at last.

  Then as he felt wind wafting through his hair, rustling his wavy tresses, Euthymius stared up at the colorful–but primarily alabaster–underbelly of a dragon. It carefully maneuvered towards the flat roof of an edifice and sat down like a judging feline whilst its rider cladded in lustrous armor leapt off from the hefty and armored saddle. “Brother!” Antineiwen yelled out to the draevhe whose scales were as black and lustrous as his armor, his visage handsome but also menacing as he drawn closer with a stern, tired expression.

  When he reached near them, Antineiwen’s expression changed as she realized she blew her own cover. Possibly the chance of future endeavors to slip down into the city.

  “Tell me truthfully, what are you doing here, in the arms of plebeian dear Sister?” Albrion’s voice was laced with a loathing born from the equivocal scenery that amplified her bewilderment. “What is your name boy, resting upon the shoulder of my dear sister?” Euthymius looked at her, one brow raised as high as it could stretch. His mouth opened, but no words came as it suddenly perched, whilst his heart beaten madly in fear and confusion.