An inarticulate groan escaped Euthymius as he took a slow turn rightwards, pulling the sheets wrapped around himself as the first rays of the Illius shone through his window, accompanied by a light, cold morning breeze. He tried his best not to be evicted from the lands of Oneiron, a sudden jolt of phantom pain thrusted him into an upright position whilst a mild layer of perspiration coated his honed form.

  “It has passed already you fool.” He said to himself, running his right hand across his lush, greasy hair whilst taking deep breaths to soothe his beating heart.

  Instinctively, Euthymius thought of the lovely warm face of Calaviril, a daft expression adorned his youthful, oval face with hardened features before he swept it off abruptly, prompted by the tide of shame towards his thoughts.

  “Dream on, Euthymius. Dream on.” He whispered bitterly as her pleasant vernal scent wafted in his mind, the softness of her skin and silken tresses tickling his face, soothing the indescribably pain of being torn inside. With the second deep breath of the day, he shifted his gaze and watched as children played outside just as the colorful light of the day lengthened across the dented marble.

  They played a similar game he and Isocrates played with their former friends. The Game of Dawn and Dusk where one group represents the Empire’s brave legions and the House of Dawn and their mighty monarch who rests in his marble cradle. The other side represents the Host of Dusk and their malevolent master. They too formed spells of the lowest magnitudes, cantrips, hurled them against each. Upon impact, overly dramatic cries and groans followed, or in a few cases almost hysterical denial. No one liked being the loser, not even those who reluctantly took the antagonist’s role, including the young dwarf with a strawy blonde crown wreathed in soft shadows.

  “” He yelled the same words as Isocrates whose dark brownish strands on his left temple were grazed almost the same by a harmless firebolt.

  “” Isocrates retorted when the remaining four agreed in unison.

  Unlike him through, the dwarf’s friends showed more patience and allowed him to continue until the next hit came upon him, whilst Isocrates stubbornly continued until he reached the meager limit the Rage of Acheryoth allows for children. Though at the time, they all thought it was just for pity, now he felt regretful for his hesitation, for his innocent laughter for what he believed to be the play of a lifetime. Instead of calling for their parents who charged out at his growing shrieks.

  Like them, Euthymius picked up on the sounds coming from the front, somewhat muffled by the walls. First a soft moan of their aging wooden door, then Hedea and Myrtilos’s greetings of their guest. A bit hesitant, which led to his heart skip a beat as he envisioned Albrion or some other official asking for him. Instead, he recognized the deep, gravelly voice of the orkh Naghig. Neither which brought relief, but unease of near equal measure. He could not remember if he ever visited, it seemed all too sudden. He feared the reason for the unannounced visitation.

  These thoughts circled in his mind whilst perspiration began to coat his frame once more.

  Slowly, he freed his quivering legs from the sheets and placed them upon the icy floor, then stumbled a little towards the cupboard made by Norbanus–a stocky truscian and a friend of the family working also in the Quarries–to dress up before presenting himself. With a slowed effort, he pondered before the small selection of matching clothes Hedea brought from the Embroidery, and two or three pieces he inherited from Isocrates before his passing. Amidst dressing, he took a few more deep breaths, reaching ten in the early hours of the day. When he felt the trembling ease, he reached for the knob and stepped outside into the narrow, short and presently oppressing corridor.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Morning dear! A friend came with some gifts!” Hedea hearing the door moan, turned immediately towards her son whose face appeared bereft from the tell-tale signs of stirring from a deep sleep. Thanks to the shock of the visit.

  A large and oval wicker basket rested atop their long table’s center, from their slanting, open lids various bakeries protruded including fresh, disk shaped bread with bulbous top, which tantalizing scent permeated the small front section and the corridor. Even a few sweet ones he noticed amongst the flock of goods, long, cylindrical sweet breads filled with various jams, rolls coiling like the ivory golden shells of the Auroriol Snails native in the city’s damp alleys coated in viscid, melted cocoa or vanilla. And many others which tried their best to ease Euthymius who still stood a bit frozen as he stared at the holder of the basket.

  Naghig cast a long shadow over it and the table, yet his sunken and veiled eyes held no contempt for the possible fumble he committed. “Come son, don’t be rude to a guest!” Myrtilos called out to him as he stood near the orkh, his countenance still showing his desire to rest and sleep in the form of dark half circles beneath his eyes. Euthymius assumed a genial smile as he approached and greeted Naghig with their forearms interlocked over the table and the basket. In such close proximity of it and its beckoning contents, the shadows over his heart and mind diffused and now he desired to taste the goods.

  As he sat down at the motherly command of Hedea, Naghig looked a bit grim as he towered over all within the room with his pallid frame. For a moment Euthymius empathized with the brave heroes of the Annals facing the Grim Sovereign. Though he could go only by the few depictions he seen in the Cathedral unveiled during ceremonies, retellings of the Sibling’s War. All pale as the snow conjured by the Elhyrissiar during the winter seasons.

  Or like who Naghig who turned from looking at him, and addressed his parents–the words which followed brought back his unease. “I wish not to be rude, but there is something I came on a private matter to discuss with your prodigious son.”

  Hedea looked a bit worried at the words, but Naghig affirmed it was no dire matter, simply he just wished to inquire on matters of the quarries citing he came on behalf of his employer, the well-known aider of the plebeian Midias Laneas. With that name uttered, the two looked proud and hopeful as they heeded his plea and left the two. “I shall tell the foreman you shall be late a bit.” Myrtilos turned and spoke before he left. Feeling somewhat calmer at the faint lie, Euthymius loosened his posture and sunk into the robust chair.

  When the door closed at last, silence followed for minutes which felt like an eternity as a streak of sweat trickled down from his forehead whilst meeting Naghig’s listless gaze. Nearly, Euthymius blurted out apologies regarding the day before, but maintained his silence, watching Naghig reach into the basket. One of the disk-shaped breads he heaved out, clutched steady, broke it in two perfectly at its center.

  He offered one half to Euthymius. “You know I never believed in hearsays–but after hearing about yesterday’s events, I must conclude siblings tend to share their tastes.” Though he wasn’t sure, Euthymius could sense a hint of mockery in the orkh’s words. And genuine surprise.

  “Tell me, what it felt like holding onto one who soars above you?” Naghig asked as shadows passed over his face as he munched on the bread. “It was nice.” Euthymius instinctively answered in a whisper, avoiding Naghig’s teasing gaze.

  “But enough teasing. Tell me if I fumbled.” At those words, Naghig raised his left brow with a sudden confusion, then understanding written onto his partially veiled face. “They were eager neophytes thinking ahead without consulting me. You’ve done the closest to what was right.” He looked surprised and somewhat eased at the words, as if he evaded the blade of an executioner–for the moment. But the latter part made him quiver a bit. Euthymius held no illusions drawing blood will be avoidable in the coming conflict no more. Change sometimes beget force.

  “Now, on more important matters.” Broken from his ruminations, Euthymius gaze moved onto the small sack Naghig pulled off from his sash and placed betwixt them. “What is that?” He asked naturally after swallowing down the torn piece of bread grinded to a mushy pulp in his mouth.

  From the unlaced maw of the sack, Naghig pulled out a small wooden sculpture. A draevhen maiden, hair almost the same luxuriant as Calaviril’s holding a saber. He looked up at him wide-eyed. “If she ever comes down, be a friend to her. But be a better friend to us.” He nodded, digging his fingers into the bread.

  And another one. With this, the second arc concludes. Kinda.

  Originally, wanted to have two more chapters, including one more for Albrion that would have involved a series of poisonings in the noble district. Then it changed to the poison mutating them into horrors, but on further thoughts it seemed like a bad idea. At this point, still wanted to keep the conflict...lukewarm for a lack of a better word.

  Regarding the rebellion, and without too much spoiling of what's to come, I want something different compared to other fictional revolutions, rebellions, uprisings. Those usually have the good guys behind them, but here because of Mirayroth's secrecy, the previous attempts in the centuries since the Empire taken most of Vhalleryon, the people are reluctant. Like in real life, they need a fuse, a leader who seems genuinely capable of bringing forth change.

  Anyhow, the Interlude remains from this arc. One focusing on Terrianis for a short bit, and then on Angura. Some foreshadowings that will reach beyond this first trilogy, but also into the third volume, namely Eadwald's side of the story.

  Thank you for reading this, hope you all enjoyed the story so far. And until tomorrow, take care and have a pleasant evening or day, folks!

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