The air reeked of smoke and ash, the wood blackened from the flames, patterns formed where Mirayroth’s lightning stroke. Walls blistered with soot and cracked resin, blood and gore cascaded down near the entrances, tainted the windows, the potted flowers savored blood for the first time. Bodies lied strewn like broken dolls, a stench of iron and cleaved flesh lingered still in the Sleeping Nereid in, as the last custodian’s throat was slit open just as the spell faded from the minds of the people.

  Mirayroth looked about all this chaos with a nostalgic gaze, turned to address the owner of the bar, their patron and ally, but the old dwarf rested behind the bar, an arrow stuck out from his forehead, blood trickled down his plump cheeks, mingled with the dark tresses of his beard. “Go out, check the streets.” He issued his commands to the demikin Brutius who returned soon.

  “Hope she is alright.” The bear-kin said under his breath, his fur thick from sweat and blood.

  “For the most part.” The two turned an instant, Brutius with a greater haste and alert than Mirayroth. Naghig stepped down the stairs, walked behind the counter, carefully navigated over the corpse. Dull, wooden booms echoed after he crouched down, followed by a pop. The sweet flowing sound of wine filled the place as he poured three kegs nearly to the brim, emptying the bottle of expensive wine. “Though except for her and Gnaeurian, we lost the others.”

  “As we expected.” Mirayroth murmured as he gripped the keg.

  “May their eternal dreams be pleasant.” Said Brutius. The three downed the wine like beer, then Brutius excused himself to aid the folk outside.

  “How she fared?” Mirayroth asked. Grimaced a little, realizing the bottle was filled with a cheap wine.

  Naghig shrugged. “What do you think my friend? It is and was still too early for her. If not for the gift, she would be dead like the boy.”

  Mirayroth sighed audible, looked up as the ceiling shook from the flapping wings of dragons passing towards the Cathedral. “Does it change anything?”

  Naghig chuckled, shook his head. “We’ll proceed. Though we should refill the ranks, keep to the shadows until she awakens.”

  “If she will at all.” Mirayroth doubted the sincerity of The Beautiful. She moved to soon, almost ruined decades of work, lessened their numbers greatly, he was sure of it.

  “She will.” Naghig said, his voice sounded hoarser as a shadow draped over his sunken eyes. Mirayroth could not help but shudder, watched as the orkh walked out towards the backdoor. “Gonna visit Laneas, you should lay low too for the foreseeable future.” Mirayroth nodded before Naghig vanished behind the door, then walked over to the window, watched the wailing folk, parents holding their own children, custodians and legionaries still confused, a few frozen as the Illius’s radiance bathed the capital.

  *****

  At first, he doubted the need for Ephraimur, believed not anyone would willingly serve the Empire’s interests in the shadows, after the Harrowing swept through the city, right under the watch of the supposed all-mighty Elhyrissiar. Yet with the aid of the Vhouromancer trained in the Umbral Vaults of Nephren-Ka, five of such fools kneeled on the dim floor of the damp cellar, within the mansion of Proclus. The cat demikin proved his worth in the same measures, his feline spies provided great volumes of information whilst he remained in hiding, revealed the existence of traitors within the New Dawn.

  Warm light seeped in from the door, braced his white and black, voluminous kimono, strengthened the shadows draping over his mask featuring naught but two eye holes. He remained fixated on the five mewling in their gags, pondered on their fates to soothe his boredom. “A visitor came, allegedly knows you from the North.”

  He turned at the words. “How she looks?” He asked, facing Proclus whose dark fur scintillated in the warm glow pouring down from the stairs.

  “Not quite sure. She wears dark robes, veiling her face in shadows dimmer, unnatural.” A troubled look appeared on the feline face, adorable, a trait which Proclus used numerous times to his advantage in expanding his mercantile empire.

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  The five ceased their thrashing, stone encrusted their forms, a swift cracking brought silence at last, whilst blood flown from the cavities. “Where is she waiting?”

  “At the front yard.” Proclus’s eyes gleamed ethereally, looked past the tall niuvhe when he answered. Quickly the two reached out, Proclus a bit uneasy at the fact his eyes were tricked, no spell could penetrate the veil over the cloaked messenger. Mirayroth remained calm, two years passed, almost three since the Harrowing came and went. It was time she made a report–good or bad, mattered not anymore.

  The slender figure stood; refined folds appeared along the silken cloak draping her head to toe. The fabric black as midnight, the trims gleamed in a silver like his skin, seamed with runes penned by the greatest of the higher beings, to cloak the wearer from the sight of not just mortals, but their enemies. She bowed deeply; a smile appeared on the lips painted violet. “It is good to see you, old friend.” She spoke in the harsh tongue of the Host.

  “You too my friend, but speak, do you bring good…” he relapsed into a dramatic smile, “or ill from the Keep?” He asked, fearing how the passing of Aurelithae would complicate things.

  “She has awakened at last.” She spoke, a maternal joy clearly affecting her tone. Mirayroth too sighed of relief. “Though there were some complications, but nothing Lord Albrion couldn’t have handled himself.”

  Mirayroth perched his eyebrow. “What complications?”

  “An assassin came to take her life. One from the Court of the Red Dusk.” He remained silent, sensing more. “Though in truth the assassin got away, only to be cornered by the Elhyrissiar himself, who wiped her mind, bar her recent memories.” Suspicion lingered in her tone as her cloaked head stared not at Mirayroth, but Proclus who raised his hands calm and assuring. Both knew the feline demikin employed the services of the secretive order of assassins.

  “The commission came not from me.” Proclus said calmly. “But I heard whispers in our blackened circle, that some nobilos hired them in Pyrghos.”

  “Do you know where they took her?” Mirayroth turned back at her, cupping his chin under the mask.

  Her hood rustled; a red streak ran across the folds. “Took her down to the Cathedral. That is all I managed to overhear from the other servants.” Then bowed before vanishing.

  “Want me to take a look?” Proclus questioned.

  “No, it can w…” He went suddenly silent, the gentle caress of the wind slipping through the folds of his robes ceased, the faint rustling of the leaves as Proclus’s carnivorous plant slithered about went silent. Chiming echoed within his mind, parting details of a small island further west. “It can wait.” He murmured as the two entered the mansion.

  *****

  The main island distant, still remained brilliant from the shores Mirayroth gazed at them. Viscous sands tickled his soles when he arrived, watched the undulating foamy waves contend, occasionally fishes leapt over to disappear in the white and azure waters. Far away from the shores of the small island, silent and ominous even for his tastes.

  Willows lined the small hill, their branches hung low, their eerie black foliage dangled, swept by some unseen force as even the winds seemed to avoid the island. His robes fluttered only when he made steps towards the decrepit road leading into the thickness where the undergrowth reigned unabated. As soon as he stepped into, he stopped feeling a hand touch his shoulders through the soft, light absorbing fabric, but calmed when he noticed it be of a branch from a willow looming over him. “Just like in the Garden of Lophai.” He reminisced amidst a shudder.

  Upon close inspection, it appeared fleshy, fungoid with iridescent veins of shifting shades. Mirayroth could not help, but touch the leaves, held it between the smooth pads of his fingers before it dissipated into dusty motes, floated away into the shrouded skies. Then continued onwards, feeling the viscous sand turn dry, coarse, particles devoid of colors floated up before him. He hissed as he passed through it, lifting his hand up, noticed small cuts appearing where the particles drifted across.

  He caught a few, bit down on his tongue as they cleaved tender at his flesh. When he unfurled his taloned fingers, the particles flittered away, yet the sensation of holding sharpened crystals lingered on his bloodied palms. With locked arms, he continued onwards, a many-angled translucent ward erected around him as the particles thickened the air near towards the ruins surrounded by thick undergrowth.

  Hidden amongst the vegetation of unearthly qualities, thick walls of oily black stone arose, taking strange angles and twists. Walls unclaimed by nature, unravaged by the passing of eons. Mirayroth squinted his eyes, raked his memories of ancient ruins, temples erected to honor the stranger intelligences lurking beyond Elhyrissian’s veil. Thousands he visited alone, with Moirstyria and their brothers and sisters in sweat, yet none possessed such qualities, not even the ones blessed by a higher being. One way or another, the great elementals claimed back what once was taken from them.

  But with Him, he no longer was surprised. Mirayroth sensed his Authority over the ruined temple, felt the empty winds howl in the slanted aperture serving as the sole entrance. On its shadowy precipice, he inhaled one last, the air of this strange and small world, then stepped through the threshold. Afterall, no longer he had the chance to walk a peaceful road, since he bent the knee and drank black fluid provided by the pale hands…