“I’ll be back soon.” His brother’s words rang in his head, muffled by the reedy sound as if someone was scraping coins across the window stool. As Euthymius slowly rose from the woolen sheets, he tried to utter his brother’s name in vain, a dry cough came in its place. Aching assailed him, and as he sat up, his wiry arms trembled as he searched for something to grab onto. He nearly stumbled back into the warm embrace of his dry woolen pillows. Drenched in his own sweat, he struggled to remain in place whilst his dried throat cried out for the silken benediction of water.

  With what little power he had, Euthymius twisted himself towards the small table with a jug of water prepared and grabbed it. A long groan parted his lips, and the pain of his cracking throat ceased as the pristine water graced his insides and cascaded down into his belly, bringing a desired refreshment. Until he dropped the jug onto his lap and spilled it across the sheet. His cry echoed across the small room, and his fingers twisted and cracked as his insides were bitten by serpents made of lightning. He wanted to cry out his parent’s name, he wanted to call for Isocrates, but none answered his unintelligible words as he stumbled out from the bed and landed on the cold floor, bringing down the small wooden furnishment near his bed.

  Disgust aimed towards himself, recent strange memories flooded his mind when Euthymius’s eyes shot open as the crashing of the furniture exasperated the aching within his mind and body. Beyond the veil of time, he saw himself clutching his fist, uttering words seasoned in obsessive madness, led by a murderous rage one decrees out against the vilest of heretics. The only grace that kept his sanity was the fact it was a meager memory littering his mind, yet he lingered amidst the ruins of the furniture, chaos raging across his mind as the verdant light of the Illius slowly lined his youthful visage fit for one three and ten of age.

  Wheezing, his body now on the cusp of utter exhaustion, Euthymius stumbled towards the door. After a bit of struggling, he managed to open it and fallen nearly out the frame. As a soothing wind brushed against his face, the aching in his body subsided, the one in his soul continued its relentless wrenching. Making his way through the frugal hallway, his stumbling slowly turned into meandering, and after what felt like an agonizing hour, as he reached the small antechamber serving also as their kitchen and living area.

  There he and Isocrates listened to myriad heroic stories told by their father Myrtilos whilst Hedea prepared a meager banquet. Involuntarily he called out to each, and they stumbled out from their own little room furnished only by a broad bed and cupboard, bereft of windows.

  First, he spotted the once handsome face of olive tanned complexion, worn and haggard not just from the event, but from years of service in the 8th Legion and down in the mines. Scars ran along his firm, muscular arms sprouting from the broad shoulders and with one forefinger missing on the left. His dark brownish hair Isocrates inherited tumbled in chaotic waves upon his shoulders, framing his broad and sharply featured broad visage beset including the hazelnut doe eyes Euthymius himself inherited.

  Petite Hedea followed, her fair form draped in common red and blue layers of fabrics and the shadow of his beloved. Light brownish hair tumbled in tousled waves down onto her right shoulder, whilst her lean, tapering visage adorned with sky blue eyes and a small, aquiline nose with a subtle curve reflected her confusion and pain she experienced from the same recalling they all had upon awakening. Spotting him, a little relief appeared on them.

  Blood seeped their cuffs, tainted their tremulous hands. A strange calmness came over them as they locked eyes, and rushed towards Euthymius, tears cascading down their cheeks and his name recounted endlessly. His face buried into their bosoms, yet the aching remained in all three of them, and what would have been a serene experience – it was queer for all of them as they could not but ponder what was amiss in their existences.

  “Wait here.” Myrtilos broke away first, but the others heeded not his words, followed shortly behind him, trembling from fear.

  Outside, their eyes furtively scammed the desecrated streets, moved from the corpses to the delirious living aided by the few legionaries and custodians whose own blades were tainted by the blood of wicked creatures, and those they sworn to protect. Then like their fellow survivors, tightened around each other as a long, reptilian shadow of a dragon passed by, its roaring they first believed to be hostile, but calmed when it passed, heading up the district above and across the chasm betwixt, casting its shadow over theirs.

  In the coming days, weeks and months the queer aching gradually faded into nothingness, and once again they returned to their old lives. Euthymius and Myrtilos continued their days beforehand, working down in the quarries where the river flowed effervescently, its occupants diving above as they walked by the banks each day. Silent like their fellows for the first few months, their minds occupied with the forlorn son and brother who have not yet returned.

  Hedea herself accompanied them in their long and silent descent towards the Vale District, then parted to head to the Embroidery she worked on the Worker’s District adjacent and above the pits of the quarries.

  A small guild within the capital, often commissioned by the Order of Maghia’s truth to produce their ceremonial robes. Like them, Hedea worked silent in the following weeks and months, nor her surviving coworkers whose adroit fingers and will focused on creating sumptuous robes and garment with elaborate decorations, high collars, upright and flaring shoulders, symmetrical frames and sometimes voluminous folds in rich, deep and bold colors. Silence permeated the once lively, sprawling city on the sides of Draumons Mountains.

  Months passed until they managed finding their vitality to speak like before, still silence reigned as they pondered where Isocrates have been since the events, neither wishing to entertain the worst. Euthymius rose from his bed, stared each day for half an hour at the wall searching for what was torn from him that elicited such an agony compelling silence, not just within him but within all the citizens. Was it ever something tangible? Or an elusive thing, fleeting like his love towards the neighboring feline demikin girl whose lifeless golden eyes still haunted him along with his own hands metering violence onto his own beloved brother. A stare he continued whilst they sat in gloomy silence at their table each morning and night, waiting, hoping Isocrates’s name won’t be hewn onto the great marble piece the officials worked on at the great square before the Cathedral, a Monument to The Harrowing–as the Criers and the city’s new mad prophet declared the Event.

  “He must be harried with the other legionariir. I heard today that Legatius Tiberiluth was amongst the victims of The Harrowing.” Myrtilos said.

  Nearly a year passed by when he uttered words which felt like hope, in truth were poison which strengthened the grief yet to come.

  “When Legatius Sestia perished of old age, departure became a distant possibility for us until her funeral was held, her obituary finished and erected and her successor present and chosen. I am sure Iso is fine yonder at the barracks, studiously following orders whilst cursed by the very same unease of ours.” He added with a smile and a weak, mirthless chuckle forced out from his lips surrounded by disheveled hair.

  For months, Euthymius chose to believe his father words, though left not the matter at that simply. Whilst his parents ceased their efforts, asking friends, strangers alike if they have seen their son, Euthymius continued and altered his course through the expansive, branching lanes heading towards the towering small quarters of the Custodians and the First Legion, hoping he would glance Isocrates in one of them, slightly annoyed at being torn from friends and family. Though annoyed by also being limited in place to aid the New Dawn.

  “Have you heard? They are saying the Order was behind the attack.” One searing hot day down in the pits when the Radiant Keep above hovered southwards, during their break, his avian demikin friend mentioned the rumor he himself heard from a hundred other mouths–including his parents.

  “Why would they do something so foolish?” Euthymius asked as the question now bothered him, as they still stared at the door each night before bed.

  “Well, I heard one of their higher ups gone mad with power or something.” The sylvan-kin miner his father called friend joined in. His arms covered wholly in bark and budding branches. The loud thud of the crate holding the scintillating minerals they dug up in their section scared both youths.

  “And this sole magus could cast an enchantment over the whole city?” Euthymius asked mordantly.

  “Yes… or well they say he was aided by one of those wicked spirits that occupy Taerebus. Allegedly this spirit promised him divinity greater than the Deossos.” Euthymius nearly laughed out for the first time since The Harrowing, but smothered it as he remembered Isocrates and Luelia talking in soft whispers not long before the event. They mentioned something of the kind, regarding someone called Rhenathorhia but he remained silent.

  Though the Order shot down these allegations and credited them as nothing more than a vain attempt by the New Dawn to profit on the chaos left behind by the event.

  “Listen not to their words, their once pristine Order now is tainted by the filth of the ancient beasts who awakened from the First Darkness.” Then one day, to counteract their efforts–Euthymius even entertained the idea it was divine justice or something of the kind–the so-called Mad Prophet of Luth-Astaril showed up near the long steps of the quarry’s benches, spouting his heretical madness. The withered man, who clearly was the second greatest victim of The Harrowing was promptly taken away by the stationed Custodians. Yet his madness laced words left a profound mark within Euthymius, awaiting to be bloomed.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  He continued focusing on searching for Isocrates in the quarters, and when that failed as he neared the fifth and tenth year of his life, Euthymius decided to try his luck finding the Pallid Orkh who often met with Isocrates, the one he deduced must have given him his tasks. A task Euthymius quivered a little for as the image of how he took down those shady figures, cultists still lingered infrequently in his dreams and thoughts.

  Not long after–a week or two later–the Order and the First Legion led by the dashing golden draevhei announced the construction of the grand memorial nearing its conclusion. “What took them so long? Can’t the Elhyrissiar just take one gaze and know who is dead and who isn’t?” A fellow orkh asked, his words barely audible as it mingled with the shattering of the rock and earth, followed by the loud ringing they all got used to, to some extent. “I doubt he has the time.” His father answered as he sat down, taking deep breaths and sweating in the sweltering heat of the tunnels.

  “Seems their promised peace is meandering towards its doom.” Another, a short dwarf with skin cracked like the earth spoke up, his arm stretched towards the youth with a keg of water cold as the northern winds he often dreamt of seeing. With the exception of Myrtilos, everyone looked at him inquisitively. “Heard from my cousin the nights are growing longer in the north. Dead stir from before they are buried, and revenants and other horrors stalk beyond that haunting woodland of Vesgeriath.” Continued the dwarf with a grim tone.

  “I heard; an anathema ails settlements close to it too.” The treekin friend of his father joined in, whilst wiped off sweat from his flesh torso from which his oaken arms grew “And a white wurm brings terror from the skies.”

  The more he listened to the foreboding rumors brought by the merchants and adventurers of the far north, the less Euthymius blessed the One and the Eight allowing him to be a child of the golden isles. Though like before the gloomy mood lingered no more as the long day came to an end. Walking along the paved banks, Euthymius spotted a small merchant vessel with a beautiful women hewn onto its prow, motioning before she grew stiff like a statue as she was. From its sides, came down the planks with loud bangs, scaring him into sobriety from his mild trance.

  A grand throng gathered before the vessel as its small crew comprising a merkiin and a Illius-kissed man carried down crates upon crates, a few they opened for the onlookers. Whilst his father and their fellow miners focused on some of the peculiar baubles brought from Drenai as the captain boomed his voice from the aft, Eutyhmius focused on another figure, draped wholly in long robes of fluttering layers in the deepest of blacks and indigo accentuation near the edges, whilst his olive toned, withering hands were adorned with star golden rings numbering seven, each adorned by stones worth more than Euthymius’s life as his hazelnut eyes drawn onto them.

  He followed the forefinger lifted before the masked visage of polished, silver and black mask hewn in the likeness of an eerie, handsome man, adorned with mother-of-pearl forced into the forehead, brimming in purples and blues whilst sinuous accentuated filigree slithered about the rims. It stopped at the subtly curved lips, and felt the cold gaze from within focused on him. His body trembled, cold waves rippled across his spine and shadows crawled at the corners until they completely enveloped Euthymius’s world.

  He rose upright in his bed, the woolen blanket rolled down from his lean, lightly muscular body as he stared at the wall. A sigh escaped him as another long day began.

  *****

  Nearly two years passed until the Monument for the lost stood in its full marble splendor atop the widespread stairs leading up to the square in the shadow of the Cathedral. Its consecration came on a gloomy day of Dhaekenia’s season, with gloomy white rays tinted with faint black shone through the dim clouds. Rain rinsed upon the polished and alabaster white marble, etched with thousands upon thousands of names on its long four-sided rigid form and thousands upon thousands thronged before it stretching onto the bridge of The Almodo striding across the valley, weeping in unison as they gazed and searched and found grief-stricken confirmation.

  Including Euthymius who stood drenched and frozen in the middle, moving only when the ones frontmost stepped away weeping. Their tears lost in the rain. With each step closer, Euthymius felt a cold weight press upon his limbs, numbing them whilst an unpleasant warmth seared his chest. He drew shallow breaths, and struggled holding back tears as he envisioned reading his brother’s name upon the opulent white marble. Neither Myrtilos nor Hedea accompanied him, they decided upon trailing a path of blissful lies regarding their son.

  “Who are you looking for?” A soft voice addressed him from his right. Turning his woes lessened a bit, as he glanced the pretty thing.

  An aevhen girl of the same age offered her an assuring, strengthening warm smile. She was lean, slightly taller than him wearing a black velvety cloak with pale violet trims. Her skin smooth, unblemished and lustrous whilst borne with a mingling of fair tan and hints of amber golden, a delicate, short draconic snout in the center of her pretty face, sharp cheekbones right below her almond frame eyes of bright citrine yellow and her neck enveloped in rich, earthly brown velvet collars slicked against her tapering jawline, small winged points folded out horizontally beneath her chin. Lush and voluminous hair fall over her narrow forehead, with face framing sidelocks gathered and held by bronze beads, reaching not beyond her jawline. And a pleasant, calming cedary scent lingered about her.

  “My brother. He served in the First Legion.” Euthymius uttered with difficulty still, turning as their row moved forward. “You?” He asked trying to hush away doleful thoughts gathering in his mind.

  “Likewise. Though my brother was from the Order, serving in the Cathedral when chaos erupted.” She answered in a near whisper drowned out by the thundering sky.

  “Then let us pray they are simply occupied. Nothing more, nothing less.” He forced positivity upon himself as he said in a low-voice, trying to mimic his father.

  She smiled at him. “Antineiwen.” Then introduced herself.

  “Euthymius. But you can call me Euthy, the shorter, the easier.” The row moved forward, and the two neared towards the stairs, where a knot tautened within his stomach. Though whether it was a reflexive thing or not, Euthymius began to wonder how he could spot a lone name amongst thousands.

  A thought which alleviated his ascent towards the Monument, knowing he shall have months before the lugubrious confirmation. It was a blissful journey of sorts, until he reached the destination, and as his eyes set on the grand obituary, Euthymius wept amongst the hundreds alongside him as a faint and etheric trickle swept across him on the polished marble. And with it came the dreaded knowledge freezing his legs in place until Antineiwen helped him along.

  “Thank you.” The two stopped at the bridge’s ornated golden highlighted rail, when the rain ceased at last, the clouds parted to reveal the portentous Illius shimmering in whites, golden and black.

  “Feel better?” She asked whilst wiping off her own tears.

  “A little. It still hurts, but I feel relieved, knowing at last.” Euthymius said, a few tears still flowing down his cheeks. Then it ceased at last as he stared at the whitened firmament.

  They sat in mourning silence for a little more, then Antineiwen bid farewell. Euthymius watched as she disappeared in the crowd, then as he leapt down, spotted the pallid orkh mingling amongst the crowd. He rushed then slowed his steps when he was only a few people away from him, where he trailed Naghig to the Sleeping Nereid inn Isocrates spoke of a few times. “No, not right now.” He stopped himself, murmuring deciding to head back home.

  *****

  Three days he waited, gathered his strength and will to skirt about the building, hide in its alley not knowing where the New Dawn gathered. At least he concluded that it either had to be at the back or the cellar of the establishment of merry hours. Hours into the long night, Euthymius waited and watched people flock in and out, usually sober upon arrival, lively and unstable when leaving. Most of them were miners or neighbors who came to lessen their pains, but ever since consecration of the Monument, he saw not Naghig nor Luelia enter nor leave.

  His spirit died down, hoping he could somehow leverage his blood relation to Isocrates to either the orkh or Luelia to let him join the New Dawn. He now knew Isocrates was no more in the mortal realm, and that brought him a bit of relief, still he wanted to know how he perished, hoping true and full relief from it. And the only way he knew he could gain knowledge of it, was through meeting Luelia who herself hasn’t been seen since The Harrowing.

  On the third night, Euthymius confident enough, slipped through the back in the alley, and to his own surprise, navigated masterfully through the corridor, evading the few servitors of the establishment. He carefully searched through the ground floor’s office where orders were penned on paper, awaiting delivery to the Laneas household of merchants and one named Proclus. The former felt familiar as he saw their shops around the middle districts, the latter he heard not about.

  “Are you sure it was them?” Then he heard the muffled voice of Naghig, deep and gravelly on the other side, along with two sets of steps.

  “It is certain. They struck whilst my disciples undug the grave.” Another voice, unfamiliar, monotone and low voice muffled not just by the wall, accompanied by the hushes of fine linen or woolen.

  Naghig sighed audibly, then a bump signaled to Euthymius when he leaned forcefully against the wall. “Should have taken care of that one earlier.”

  “I planned to do so.” The other replied calmly. “I can still do so, and retrieve the scroll.”

  “Nah, it can wait. This whole Harrowing brought us time.” Euthymius’s heart beaten wildly when the doorknob turned, the door moaned as Naghig spoke. “And it seems we have a young guest invited not even.” Behind him stood a tall lean figure draped in black and indigo, a silver and black ornated mask upon his visage, hood drawn and casting its soft shadows upon it.

  “I wished not to mention that. I shall take care of the boy.” He slowly approached Euthymius who backed towards the wall, fear upon his countenance. But Naghig lifted his left arm, stopped the tall and masked figure.

  “Won’t be necessary my friend. I shall take care of this one myself.” Euthymius trembled at the words, then when the two were left alone, Naghig grabbed the two chairs within the room and placed them facing each other before the desk. “Sit boy. Brother of Isocrates.”

  “How do you…” Naghig silenced him with a quick gesture.

  “These old eyes saw and see a lot of things.” He answered unsatisfyingly. “You came for answers don’t you.”

  “Partially I did so. But I also came to offer my services in whatever possibility as a payment of sorts.” Naghig chuckled. Then looked at him as if knowing more about Euthymius than he knew himself.

  “We can arrange that. But you are looking for her too don’t you.” At that he looked excited and Naghig offered him a ghastly grin. “You shall meet her, but things are more complicated as they look. For now, you’ll have to be content with my truth of what I witnessed on that fateful day.” Euthymius sat at last, though facing the orkh not knowing what to expect.

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