The two conversed late into the night. Reminisced on the good old days, when all they had to worry about the lessons, honing their skills in martial and arkhaine arts. Snickered a few times, recalling the pranks they pulled on their siblings, how their aunts and uncles yelled at them after noticing them scaling the walls. In a moment, they could even recall the wild winds breezing their locks, scraping their skin with unseen, cold talons.

  Two whole bottles of the fiery cinnamon liquor vanished into their stomach, its taste Albrion found surprisingly good. “How I envy you. Wish those two would deal in beverages too.” He chuckled, letting out a bit of his feeling to Kameithar, sitting across the curving desk.

  “Just ask them yourself. Mingle more in their balls, and I am sure, such fine beverages shall line your shelves.” Kameithar said with a slight slur. Then chuckled at nothing, gazing at the tapestries adorning the walls of his office.

  With his mood eased, Albrion arose from his chair, meandered swaying like a clock towards the window and sat upon its broad sill, gazing out just as the sprawling city of lakes blazed up gradually. From the windows, on the banks, and the high street lamps bathed the nigh clad city in drowsing warmth. Once again, he felt love towards the city, wished his place would have swapped with Kameithar’s. Especially when he gazed up at the starry sky painted black, and saw the underbelly of Nawfal’s dragon.

  The chilly, nightly air he inhaled into his lungs invigorated him, the grimness awaiting the end of this path, brought sobering melancholy. Their talk ceased, silent seconds passed as the waiting neared its end, and both heard the approaching steps of Nawfal, beyond the thick walls.

  Three knocks upon the door made him part with the sight, and his smile grew bitter and genial at the sight of Nawfal entering.

  “I have news.” Knowing not of Albrion’s arrival, Nawfal froze for a moment. Surprise manifested in his slit pupils, then as their arms slammed and shook thrice, he smiled a friend’s smile. Though that smile itself seemed short lived. As soon as they parted, a serious, almost grim look took its place, lit by the candles and the lofty chandelier above the elliptical table. Onto which he threw a rolled piece of paper. “Have things grown dire in the capital?” He asked, bracing a part of himself to return home, cease his efforts in continuing the investigation he buried himself deep. So deep, his focus shifted from finding the traitor. For the moment.

  “Shadows grow dimmer with every day, but nothing our Elhyrissiar could not handle. With our aide.” Albrion answered truthfully. To an extent. Nawfal furrowed his brows, but questioned not the presence of his superior, and friend. “I came on a different business. But before that, come and sit, have a drink and tell me, how is uncle faring. How are the Chosen themselves!”

  “He himself went through quite a lot these past few years. Grew quite fond of the young Chosen.” Nawfal said once he relaxed, took a glance and offered pouring for all three of them.

  “What about the others? Shouldn’t they have taken them already to Luth-Astaril?” Kameithar’s question brought a grim mood on Nawfal. Whilst Albrion was well aware of their fates.

  “Sadly, they perished on the night one of Vesgeriath’s Damned Lords attacked the settlement where the three lived. One or two dragons perished that night, another killed by the Arny or one of his companions during their journey to Drenai.” The three raised a toast for the fallen after he relapsed into silence.

  “What of the Arny? Has he been slain truly?” Albrion asked, though knew very well the answer. He himself contended with one, a nekromancer who walked, despite lacking organs and flesh. Though in their place, received an inky darkness betwixt his bones, and the Blessing of the Night itself.

  “The Chosen and as far as the northerners heard yes.” Nawfal said, looking out at the Lunarius. “But your uncle doesn’t think so.”

  “And the Chosen? Can we put our hopes in them?” Albrion asked, leaning onto the table, glass lifted close to his snout, the flaring slit holes.

  “Hard to say. The boy called Eadwald shows great promise, gathered fine companions already around himself. As I mentioned, Augermil seems in great spirits in his presence, advises and teaches him every night and at dawn. Besides him, he also managed to temper that prudish son of Quarrianis, and even counts famed Priernuss in their ranks.” Hearing the name, Albrion raised a brow, whilst Kameithar seemed to recognize the name.

  “Warrior-Painter, they called him. Can use any weapon as good as a brush.” Kameithar answered in Nawfal’s stead. “Even got commissioned by Quarrianis…maybe a hundred and fifty years ago. Maybe even more.”

  Once assured no more words would pour from Kameithar, Nawfal continued. “All in all, the boy has the makings of what I always imagined His chosen to be. The girl, Amiriniel, hard to say. She is diligent, clever for her youthful looks, but sheltered when danger reared its fangs. Now, don’t want to be disrespectful, but have you came to check on my progress?”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  A tiny bit he felt hurt at the words, but could not fault him. The proper way should have been to send a letter or transmit a psychic message through the Order. But all these passed his mind, as he wished to be done as soon as possible. Still, it hurt after the two fought, shed blood back-to-back, side-by-side since their first outing, their first hunt of a wild hydra that escaped from the collection of some sleazy merchant on the Isles. A task usually above the paygrade of neonates, but as both came experienced into the Order, Augermil saw both fit for the task. Hence presently, he had some doubts on His seeming disinterest in the Chosen.

  “One could say so.” He took a deep breath to sober himself. “What I mean, I came on the orders of the Elhyrissiar himself. I forwarded the letter you sent, and he seen truth in the words. He wished me to hasten your efforts in this matter.” Then he looked out the window, incapable of staring him in the eye. “But I also came, as you know, I am no man of administrative work. I long for the days beyond the jail we call office.” For a moment he went silent, looked knowing Kameithar knew how he felt. “There I wither with each issuing of an order, taking of the reports, reading and copying them. Reports I once counted in hopes it may pass time quicker, but with each stroke and each stamp, I felt my soul chipped away. I desire to let my blade satiate its thirst for blood, and so on.” He waved his hand then chugged down the drink. Quite unfitting for his posture. But he cared not, wished that once he blinked, he would waken in the world of the New Dawn already. In the cold lands nestled within Dhaugruz.

  The two listeners chuckled, with Kameithar’s being as bitter as Albrion’s feelings on administrative work. “I envy you not for that position. And I am glad, you came. Forgive me for doubting, but these past years were trying. Things I learned, things I witnessed took their toll on me, even if I’d like to believe otherwise.”

  “Worry not.” Albrion patted his shoulder, then leaned back his massive form. “How grave it is?”

  “If I sum up the whole thing, the vast network they operate across not just the north, but the south and even possibly the east, as much as we should have expected when they abducted the Prismatic Lord.” Nawfal mixed his bitterness into his tone, after the fourth glass. “Though I have no damning evidence, I did learn they call themselves the Blackened Circle, worshippers of the first Umvraoth whose name is hidden–as I wrote in my report. A massive cult that unlike many others, works almost symbiotically with the cults of the Nightscale here in the northern provinces, spreading that damned anathema, supplying bandits and even loyalists of the old religions, those who wish to be independent from the Empire with weapons, grimoires, concoctions and strange beasts that may have been created by the savages in the forests.”

  The two siblings looked at each other, feigned unease upon receiving the words. Both bore the mark of the Blackened Circle. Both noticed Nawfal avoiding their gazes as he regaled what would have been the contents of his next report. “I have no damning evidence, just mere suspicions from some recent encounters, but I am sure, beyond the other cults, prominent merchants aid all these operations across the continent.”

  “What about this cult? Found anything on them, beyond your suspicion on certain merchant families?” Albrion asked before Kameithar himself could. Both siblings were on the same length whilst listening. Both were on edge, when Nawfal sighed, ruminated on something. Though only one was ready to spill blood if necessary.

  “Not much. According to a few of my contacts heard they primarily operate in the province capitals, each city having their own leader who sworn undying loyalty to their… deity. But another mentioned, they are actually led by a triumvirate of sorcerers, warlocks or nekromancers. And another mentioned, they have no leaders, follow the commands coming through some hymn from beyond, they hear whilst dreaming.” Both eased at once, though looked ponderous.

  “Wouldn’t be the first one, who rely merely on their higher being. That way, if cutting off the head is more challenging.” Albrion nodded at his brother’s words, despite well aware of at least half of the Blackened Circle’s leadership.

  “And what brought you here?” Albrion asked after a longer silence, where they downed each a glass of wine.

  Nawfal poured another before answering, “I wanted to wait with this, until absolute certainty, but whilst in Gyrios’s House of Scribes, searching for evidence on a merchant whose son attacked me and my friend, I stumbled on the name of your mother, Lady Oyotarimel. At first I ascribed nothing to it, merely thought she passed through the city, though at a second, sharper look noticed the date being just a few years before your birth, then another before yours my lord Kameithar.”

  “Get to the point Nawfal.” Kameithar said, calmly.

  “Yes. Pardon me. Just let me preface, I held no suspicion towards Lady Oyotarimel, merely she had dealing with those I hold suspicion towards. And seemed to be was in their company whilst making various purchases, including some to ease her state of carrying a growing life.” Then he grabbed the scroll he brought. “And that’s how I came upon a possible lair of theirs. Not afar from the city, that I spent the past few weeks surveying. A ruin that came up even a few months ago, as it was visited by a certain Haddeag, a member of the Blackened Circle I had the fortune to see perish.”

  “So, you believe this ruin holds answers?” Nawfal nodded.

  “Spent a few nights there, hiding amongst the clouds. Witnessed a few cloaked figures marching down, in what once was a temple in honor of the Nightscale. One built by the Teneavhei, before they all migrated to Dhaugruz. Now, I believe either them or a smaller cult of Dusk took up residence down there. Some villages even reported seeing shambling undead in the dead of night, though so far, no harm came upon them.”

  Albrion stroked his chin, assumed a smile. “Then, shall we have an adventure like in the olden days?” He asked, looking at both, hoping support from his brother.

  “I am afraid, I shall have to sit out. Whilst you have the blessing of father to skip out on administrative work, I am less fortunate. Merely, I can offer my best wishes.”

  “Then another time.” Kameithar smiled at Nawfal’s words, repeated them in a near murmur.