Three long days and night Albrion and Nawfal spent with scouting the Lakelands, despite knowing well the lair of the Nightscale’s cult lingered in a temple. Thrice Nawfal looked at the map, gazed and even employed scrying cantrips to see if there were any illusions woven into the paper or the ink itself, before they both realized the cult noticed him days before and employed wards to hide their hallowed abode. “There.” Nawfal exclaimed, feeling relief at last after days of thinking himself a fool.

  He pointed, and Albrion followed whilst enjoying the invigorating winds sweeping into the visor of his helmet. Before his dark eyes, arose the gargantuan ribcages of a dragon, a child of the Nightscale himself who fell in defense of retreating Atoning. A dragon who witnessed the clashing of titans, thousands of battles, skirmishes that unfolded during the eons long war of the siblings, that withered the old realms not long after it ended. Yet despite surviving all that, he fell to the blade of one of their uncles, a battle both heard a few times in taverns and in the headquarters of their Order. Though like the dragon, the songs faded with time, and only a few of the races living close to the waterless lake, graced with ceaseless lifespans remember.

  The two circled around the ribcages, almost as great as the mountains peeking from the far north, moss and lichen hung from the curving walls casting deep shadows upon the ground far beneath both. Albrion wondered, how Augermil would have fared against such a foe, wondered for a moment if he participated even in the battle. But after a short thinking, realized he marched already to north with Terrianis, where a greater force of undead, nekros terrorized the towns and cities, in the very first attempt to seize those lands rightfully their master’s.

  Flying between the gargantuan ribcages, to some extent they honored the fallen by short prayers whilst ruminating, imagining the battle between ants and the titanic dragon by glancing at the myriad scrapes and cuts on the milk white bones, still seemingly far away from the hour of crumbling into ethereal dust. Cuts releasing vibrating ethereal streaks gnawing through the dark flesh, stopping only at the bone, followed by a waterfall of blood blackening the soil beneath now adorned only by a meadow of bright violet orchids and pale chrysanthemums, red spider lilies and many flowers which bloom only in the presence of the Night and his Host.

  Beyond the meager cliffs, where once a lush forest ringed around the lake, housing the old temple, still remained the outline of a dragon’s skull, even if the gargantuan object furnished not the vista. An outline spanning a few kilometers in their rough estimations, whilst they spent half a day searching for a hidden entrance. Besides the skull, the tail and wings too vanished, not because of the gnawing of ravenous time, but taken by the devotees of Night. Even in death, dragons held power within their bones, coveted by mortals, clever beasts and monsters, worse and greater beings.

  The skull and tail Albrion knew were taken long ago, by a cabal of faithless nekromancers, seeking to construct their own golem of a dragon, one built from the parts of all the Houses. An effort thwarted by an elder sibling of his, which then resulted both gargantuan pieces being obliterated, so no one could ever use those for wicked rituals. The wings though, vanished recent. He had an inkling it was taken either by this cult, or the one operating in the north, to strengthen the Anathema, receive boons of the Night, so they can forge greater undead.

  Nawfal even toyed with the idea the recent Anathema was evoked using the stolen wing-bones, but Albrion knew otherwise. But he held his word and furthered this idea in his friend’s head whilst persisting in their search, despite the first black streaks whipping in the endless firmament. “How have your friend entered?” He asked, once violets and scarlets joined in with the dark streaks.

  “It was nestled within the forest.” Nawfal said, recalling the direction.

  “May have been a decoy.” Ismenierh supposed, and both agreed in silence, before they returned to the city.

  On the fourth day’s Eve, the two decided to wait instead of returning to rest, and at last their patience paid off. Around three hours past the midnight, the Lunarius bathed the flower ornated meadow between the ribs, their ethereal light gleaming through an illusion towards the twentieth rib northwards a small spot with a jagged, obsidian door.

  With near seamlessness, it blended into the blackened ground, and if not for Albrion, the two may have not noticed it from afar in the gloomy skies. The two landed concurrently with Albrion closest to the lid, his hungering sword already drawn, his blood boiling from a mixture of unease and thrill. And a little regretful, as he himself secretly prayed to the Night, and wished not to bring harm upon fellow brothers and sisters living under his merciful shroud.

  “We shall remain here; in case any attempts escape.” Colciorh and Ismenierh stood like guardian sphinxes on the field of Night’s flowers. Albrion looked into his winged brother’s eyes, and found confirmation within them. Eased a little, entered after Nawfal walking down the long steps until the inky darkness swallowed his massive form.

  One last time, they inhaled the fresh air fragranced by the flowers, and Albrion wished Nawfal too would join their sides. But as he inhaled the cavernous air, he knew it was too late. They stopped at the bottom, in utter darkness. Cold, damp air lingered in the hall where their steps echoed before they ceased.

  “Shall I?” Nawfal asked and Albrion answered with a snap of his fingers. After the metallic grating, a white sphere arose and clave into two, one remaining above his shoulder, the other flittered towards Nawfal and stopped over his left shoulder. Though both know this shall give them away to the enemy, they preferred direct confrontation over furtive tactics. Both sworn more thrill came from providing their adversaries with the honor of first strike. Rather than being fair to their adversaries.

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  Before them, the light extended only five steps ahead, revealing uneven ground with jagged waves arising about their toes level here and there. A thin viscous liquid–almost like grease–formed a layer, darkened the stark floor even deeper then the air. As they forayed further in the cavernous chamber, spotted to their right and left queer, portentous columns swirling out from the ground, plunged straight into the impenetrable darkness concealing the ceiling. From the darkness above, dark liquid dribbled down, sending echoes at intervals, both thought to be measured by some insidious will, to rile invaders. At least both felt some twinging in their minds, as if crooked, long fingers dug into their brains.

  “Do you think these are enchanted?” Nawfal asked when they reached the walls, embedded with skulls.

  From within the sockets, Albrion felt a presence watching them from afar. He walked towards and touched one near the elevation of his bosom. “I can say yes with utmost certainty. It seems this place stretches far northwards.” Feeling the cold bone through the wraps of fabric beneath the clawed black and golden trimmed gauntlet, he trembled a little but regained his presence in a second when his mind was thrown across space. Far ahead, beyond the darkness, he sensed a strong presence filling him with anticipation.

  “Good. Surprise may have dulled another of our adventures.” Nawfal said with a smile. Right as the words parted from his lips, footsteps of awkwardly dashing graced his ears.

  From the thick blackness, a macabre troupe shambled forwards. led by a half-decayed merkiin, followed by what may once have been humans, aevhei, demikin of quite the variety, and other elevated-kindred. All their eyes hollow, lightless, whilst their agape mouths bayed with warped and monstrous, bestial tones, reverberating across the whole antechamber. All pale as the Lunarius on cold winter nights, skin withered and almost translucent like a tautened white veil draped over the muscles painted dark by Dusk, exposed here and there on each. All once honest citizens, adventurers claimed by Night.

  Blades raised, Nawfal leapt first into the fray. The gleam of red-hot flames enveloped his sword’s long, tapering blade before it cleaved across the sunken abdomen of the merkin. A searing streak he drawn across it, from it spark turned into wild flames, leaving nothing but smoldering ash upon the dark floor. In the same breath, thrusted forward, into the sinewy leg of a northern, still fresh and in the early stages of decay. From its tip plunging into the rancid black flesh, white and golden spark flittered into the mass, sent a ripple and the distorted form collapsed whilst Nawfal took a few steps back.

  Albrion wasted no time either, dashed towards the enemy and through the Torrents of Time, turning him into a hazy phantom of black, golden and crimson. In the same breath, same momentum, his vampiric blade swept across the feeble, withered necks of three undead, standing far apart from each. The rest gave out a queer, warped wail whilst flinched in their march. Though their fear faded quick, clenched through the nekrotic link. Unlike Nawfal’s blade, his gleamed in scarlet and amber, though emanated the same heat setting five more ablaze in a matter of five seconds where the mortals enjoyed a steadier stream of Time.

  As more and more burned and collapsed, the two’s visibility increased almost exponentially. They saw the enclosing walls of a wide hallway, angled ever so furtively to lead further into the belly of earth. They also noticed hundreds more skulls fitted within the walls almost as grim decorations, though both sensed the silent-inscriptions lurking within the hollow eyes, allowing distant scryers to survey the two cleaving their way further and further into the vast complex.

  Within seconds, the last of the welcoming party lived their second deaths, remaining motionless or piles of ash. Nawfal and Albrion grinned like children by the end. Both from the ecstatic flow of mana, the manifestation of meagre spells, and the thrill of the battle both missed in their lives for the past few decades. The Harrowing neither counted, despite the present Daemurnus and their cultists. Forced to slay some whom they sworn to protect soured the event.

  “I missed this.” Nawfal said. Gradually, the searing cloak around his blade faded, whilst the light flittered betwixt the two, enjoying the scenery behind them.

  Albrion turned towards him, curling ethereal streaks of indigo and gray devoured by the encroaching blackness. His left brow raised slightly. “Believed you prefer peace and idleness after a century of service.” Albrion commented half jestingly. He pointed his blade’s sharp end to the ground, leaned onto its pommel whilst downing half of a potion, then offering it to his friend. With the passing of the mild euphoria, his mood worsened a bit.

  “I do prefer peace and order. But mistake me not, I can’t help when my blood stirs and boils helping poor souls to find respite once more.” Nawfal looked down at the faces which appeared tortured when they still walked like puppets, now peaceful as they returned to their long sleep.

  For a moment, he wanted to refute the last part, but seen it better, seen it as last act of kindness not to tell him how nekromancy truly works.

  Looking at him, Albrion measured up his chances–to bring a swift end upon his friend. But a doleful sensation ceased the train of thought, killed his desire, the plans to bereave Nawfal’s body from his head. The quickest way besides piercing his chest, his heart filled with kindness he shied not away from fueling his choices in life. Nawfal remained one of the few praetors in the Order, who reached high, but remained humble and if it fell within their reach, offered aid to their lesser. Something, many amongst his kindred and family lacked. Even Celsushar lacked when the first two met as neonates.

  He thought bitterly, though never fully believed in.

  Nawfal was the first not blessed by near eternity, whom he could call a friend, whilst Terrianis and his other siblings as lesser. Who alongside Moirstyria and Drussaev showed him the faults in their ways, in their principles. In a sad way, he realized Nawfal himself was a guiding torch himself, in finding his current path. Though not as Her who met his mettle in Dhaugruz, eased his heart when he found Moirstyria down in the treacherous, dark tunnels where greater beings than him still dwell.

  He wanted to meet with her in that moment, feel her cold hands on his cheeks again, and to see how his darker, distant siblings’ rule and behave. To see whether they are cursed by a hunger to dominate or are they different. But for that, he knew he had to shatter the coils binding him to the present, as Nawfal would never be willing to pay the price for a world not marching to its destruction.

  That was his resolution, and his last gift to Nawfal whom he considered a brother as true as Drussaev. “Come, brother. Long is the Night, and the way down.” Said Nawfal with an oblivious smile.