“Do you feel confident about this?” Drussaev asked, staring down at the lid engraved with a cluster of dragons circling towards the center. “Can we trust their words?”

  Three days passed, and as he expected, Drussaev and Nephyti gleamed no useful information from the diary. He himself conserved first with Ephraimur who confirmed one of Middias’s children contacted him, enlisted his aid. And though with some hesitation, pointed to where Mygdon and his sycophants hid in the sewers.

  Albrion nodded. “Though my man may not be as erudite in scrying and prying the minds of others, I am certain we shall reach their hideout from this point.” The three stood dressed lightly, only a few plates adorned their limbs and waist, battle and magus crowns set upon their heads, all hidden by Nephyti’s glamor.

  Without wasting further breath, Albrion lifted up the lid, climbed down first. At the last step, he unsheathed his vampiric blade, shot up a sphere to illuminate the thick darkness nestled within the sewers. Just a few steps from his position, the cleansed water eddied, in its own deepened lane, heading the valley’s side. Once Nephyti climbed down the ladder, she moved back the lid, shutting out the inflow of silvery rays.

  Albrion pulled out the map he drawn, then pointed the way. Behind him, Nephyti followed whilst Drussaev assumed the role of rearguard with his axe drawn. In silence they ambled on, measuring their steps upon the white marble, regulating their breaths, their echoing muffled by a trailing field conjured to dampen all sounds the three made on their journey across the labyrinthian sewage system of the capital. Beyond the sentries, they also expected company in the form of lesser beasts, critters, Dawn tinted goblins of the isle often skulking into the capital in hopes of scavenging their favored foot–the flesh of kindred.

  But no rats, insects crawled on the floor and walls, nor their kin half-bestowed a rudimentary form and mind, nor the caublorum tribe of goblins native to the isles. Only a pervading silence broken by the eddying river of cleansed water. It almost seemed like no life existed beneath the streets, beyond the three presently. In a way it made their journey quicker than they expected first, yet unease also joined in their little group until they reached the first chamber where sound other than their own reached their keen ears.

  Albrion stopped the two, peered out from beyond the turn, into a long chamber of rigid, quadrangular space, floor marble at the edges, the hollow space in the center filled with perforated metal, beneath which the water flown unabated. Upon the rectangular, welted together plates of thousand holes, stood a group of caublorum goblins, numbering at least twenty and a little more. All kitted in primal panoplies of fur, rugged hide of boars, deer and other beasts stalking the gold draped lands of the island. Though shrunken to fit the size of the small creatures, reaching only up to Nephyti and Drussaev’s waist, Albrion’s thighs when it came to the tallest of them.

  Before the group of goblins, stood four draped in fine garbs. A dwarf of hair and beard billowing smoke towered half a head above the shaman of the goblins; a djinn in flowing, robes and hardened leather neck guard towered on his right, skin pale as the marble; a youthful gobokh maiden in garbs of ragged, torn edges on the left, covered in autumn red fur, and rubbery skin kept her apish hands on her maces’ handle; and a human of exotic brass tone stood at the back, a halberd leaned against his shoulder whilst he himself reclined against the wall.

  The dwarf spoke in the primitive throaty tongue of the goblins, and as things seemed heated, the three saw their opportunity. First, Nephyti strengthened the field into one erasing their forms from the vision of others, whilst also draped a spell over the whole group. At once, the goblins turned rabid, and a fight ensued between the two groups. Though the goblins had the numerical advantage, the four proved themselves practiced in martial matters.

  Drussaev ambled ahead, the veins in his throat lit in the searing amber of flames, though Albrion wished to once more see the green flames. There was a strange beauty in how it devoured flesh, metal and stone all the same. Once two or three steps from the rearguard of the goblins, Drussaev opened his mouth and vomited the flames tinted blue at their swirling edges. It swept through the chaotic ranks, deluged across the perforated platform until it reached the gobokh bashing in the head of the shaman.

  Albrion followed, cutting through the goblins with his blade, peered at the few withering away as the vampiric sword drained them of all their blood, whilst the flames eaten them into charred silhouettes. Strangely, their malodorous scent vanished, in their place came one tantalizing, as he found saliva overflowing and his stomach grumbling. Though he heard it not through the abrasive shrieks reverberating through the whole chamber and beyond. A few still flailed and ran like headless chickens, before they tumbled, their forms collapsing into chunks of charred flesh and bone or ash.

  The Djinn magus shielded the remaining two from the flames, though Drussaev’s axe slammed hard into his skull, before he could conjure forth a countering storm of frost and snow.

  The truscian of brass complexion thrusted the sharp tip towards Albrion. Quick, he stopped it from piercing his chest, blocking its way with the flat side of his blade, then pushed away, and plunged its sharp tip into the man who shriveled like a fruit suckered of all its juice. His horrific fate scared the dwarf who charged back after spraying a wall of suffocating black smoke towards the three, but found his legs obeying not his will.

  Albrion offered him life, for the mere information on the number of his comrades. But he relented not, chose death by activating the mark etched upon his bosom. His body at once crumbled into itself, a swirling aperture of utter darkness swirling the space and swallowing the floating shards of what once was his flesh into itself. He looked towards Nephyti, shaking her head, confirming wordless that stopping the dwarf was beyond her capabilities.

  “No need to mull upon it.” Albrion said with a mirthless smile, bending down to the corpse of the Truscian. From his neck, hidden under the tunic, pulled out what looked a medallion of a deep engraving of a spiral. Its center point embedded with a polished onyx reflecting and absorbing light simultaneously.

  “Is it?” Drussaev asked, Albrion shrugged staring at the stone.

  “Could be.” He held it close to his snout, sniffed it and sensed naught. As he expected. The sorcery of their strange master produced no residue their draconic smelling could pick up on. “Worth a try.” The three passed through the vaulting carved with runes of golden glow.

  Soundless, the door parted open, giving way into the hideout. Albrion laxed his arm; Drussaev tensed his legs, ready to sprint and dodge at a moment’s notice; Nephyti squinted her eyes, drawn her lush brows together, raised her arms as she gathered mana from the surroundings. Before them, an empty and round chamber awaited them solemn. Albrion made one step, held his hand, its palm turned mirror-like, reflecting the angled walls, their three corners on the right side.

  Tattered banners of the former owner still fluttered as wind swept in from behind them, fresh torched sputtered, let shadows dance on the walls and the flat ceiling just a few centimeters above his scalp. With weapons drawn, they forayed into the old hideout, kept glancing at their surroundings where shadows crept and retreated spasmodically. Across, they passed another vaulting, laden with darker marks, shrouding the whole place from prying eyes. A spell not of His, but made on the commission of a long-gone tenant.

  Beyond, the path narrowed a bit, forcing Drussaev to walk a bit behind his towering brother who already grew to hate the place. Torches and minerals imbued with a fine pale gleam lined the walls of neatly welted together marble, their steps needed little dampening sorcery, as the occupants laid numerous carpets upon the white lane, covering it almost completely, leaving only a little gap at the corners.

  Confusion adorned their gazes, looked at each other a few times passing by the empty chambers furnished lavishly, as if they were not in the sewer, but their own floating palace. Double-sided beds of polished dark oak, lighter timbers had their occupants lying sound asleep, wrapped in the finest of silks and velvets, pillows voluminous and small, myriad in rich and bold colors. Paintings hung upon the walls, fixated by magnetic sorcery, bearing masterworks of bright and contrasting vistas. Some of the snow-laden and rugged lands of Boreivil in the north, some Drussaev and Nephyti recognized depicted the colorful deserts, the lush emerald savannah of the far-south or its wine-red and purple mesas in the eastern parcels. Even the night-painted meadows of Cordivil they spotted before waking up the occupants of the room, who despite being plumper then taut with muscles, shown fearlessness upon stirring from sweet dreams.

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  An imprudent boldness as Albrion thought amidst a sigh and pommeling in his face with his fist. “Shit.” He cursed, seeing his second strike delivered him into the embrace of the Solemn Shepherd.

  “No need to mull upon it. They knew little, only that Mygdon promised them power beyond anything they could dream of if they followed him.” Nephyti said, towering over a kneeling and husky dwarf whose belly stretched the fastening of his silky night gown.

  His pupils rolled back, his lips widened into an O, from which his warped whimpers came forth, before Drussaev summarily beheaded him. Blood cascaded from the gaping neck, matting the fine mulberry carpet of gilded tassels.

  Albrion nodded, and led by this, lumbered towards the corridor, cheeks puffing, throat swelling with flames as he heard the echoes of charging steps. He welcomed the five charging and foolish youth with arms and legs spread wide. Before they could turn to rout, the flames swirled and sprawled from wall to wall, ceiling to floor. Their shrieks awakened the rest, and their charred corpses emanating sulfurous smoke, lined with gleaming amber of fading sparks, paved the way for the three.

  forced Drussaev behind his towering brother who began to hate this place. Shadows vanished, and not long in, the two picked up on faint voices, the echoes of steps getting nearer, louder. Once he smelled their fine perfumes, Albrion’s cheeks puffed out, his throat swell with flames alighting it. Flames which swirled and spread from wall-to-wall, ceiling to floor. Their shrieks echoed through the whole complex, and once the flames vanished, the three proceeded over the five charred corpses.

  Beyond those slain in their beds, or half-dressed and bisected along with their dividers. A strange experience it was for all three, who contended with numerous cults, none like this group. Albrion’s estimation of the Blackened Circle tumbled, though faltered in its fall when they reached the second larger chamber, where the last of Mygdon’s sycophants proved their mettle, or at least that the lectures of handling swords, axes and maces paid off. Even a few who looked not much like warriors, dressed in robes and coats of silk, leather or velvet hurled a few spells that may have left a mark on Albrion.

  But in the end, they lacked severely in battle experience of the three. Albrion severed the head of the bravest, a handsome lad of three decades, whose head rolled upon the grating. Another, a young maiden of well-groomed hair, a humble eyeliner giving her a bit of menace, cried her last as his vampiric blade siphoned her vitae out in a matter of seconds after it pierced through her waist. Her beauty withered, and her husk stumbled and blown into dust, just as Albrion parried a strike coming from his left, blocked a ball of flame with his other erecting a meager ward.

  The fellow aevhe’s face he broke in with the pommel, before shattering his neck under his armpit, whilst hurling his sword into the chest of the bewitching merchant-daughter of a gilded mer-kin. He feared naught letting his sword leave his hand, as Drussaev finished three more, whilst Nephyti proved she knew sorceries of elemental aspect. Her two victims laid consumed by flames, their foul smell joining the others in permeating the once heavily fragranced chamber.

  In the eastern corner another vaulted door blocked their path. Its arching frame incised with deep runic marks, emanating no power unlike the entrance into the hideout. Upon the door itself, recognized the tendril of broken segments aligned into a spiral. A craterous dent in the middle, filled to the brim with hardened and polished black stone of an oily luster, that like the previous medallion’s, absorbed the little light in the chamber.

  Albrion pondered while searching the corpses for another medallion, a key. Unlike before, they found none on the corpses. Tracking back, sweeping the chambers they passed and cleansed they deemed unwise. Mygdon surely knew of their presence, time was no longer on their side. With a sigh, Drussaev let Nephyti survey the runes. Through the channels, recognized a faux ego inscribed into the door, keeping those unrecognized by it from entering.

  Nephyti hearing Drussaev’s approach, raised her hand, stopped him. But he continued on, the moment she fell onto her knees, clutching her head growling and groaning. Tears trickled as he embraced her, Albrion charged past the two, thrusting his sword into the black ornamentations, hoping He senses his efforts and won’t be subjected to the harrowing effects agonizing Nephyti. An assumption na?ve and quickly proven wrong. As his blade submerged into the stone, as if dipped into water, Albrion found himself standing in the throne room.

  At his feet, the cadaver of Aurelithae laid, her eyes staring wide and lifeless at the ceiling, where a dark storm raged. He stood there frozen, hands trembling as he exerted all his strength to reach for her prone form. Hours the effort lasted, until he could slip his hand under her silky crown of red. Touching her amplified the burning loathing, he felt towards himself, the regret of not being by her side when the hour came. He should have been her shield; he should have taken the spell which tore a hole into her bosom. Yet he never took his eyes off her face frozen in a peaceful expression, a part of him knew it wasn’t real. Yet. Knew anger and hatred towards her killer may ruin the work of a century.

  At last, the vision broke. A gleam of verdant green, the heat of the wild flames caressed his face as the form before him fleeted into his own constructed oblivion. “It wasn’t real brother.” Drussaev’s hand he felt upon his shoulder, taut in a caring volume of strength.

  “I know. Next time though, stop me before I act in haste.” Albrion turned, noticing Nephyti herself shook still. As did he. He turned towards the gate of nightmares, observed its stone burn, sizzle, melt like skin at the gnawing green flames which heat felt more unpleasant than any other.

  Drussaev nodded, returned to care for his love, before they continued on, expecting Mygdon to be gone. Although he was gone from his grand chamber of queer fetishes sculpted into amorphous silhouettes, lofty carpets on covering either the floor or hanging from the walls, tall sconces of enameled blue tinted steel, a roofed bed fit more in the chamber of a consul or a noble, the two brothers still felt his perfumed trail snaking towards a tall and broad wardrobe.

  Albrion wasted no breath, tumbled it over. Its bellow of arrival muffled upon the layers of thick carpets. Behind, the clear outline of a door rested, where he froze for a second, but sensed no mark, no touch of His. He pushed open revealing narrow path of descending stairs, and led the way.

  After egressing from the escape route, the three found themselves at a junction point. One wide vaulting of a channel led towards the city, the other where the water continued flowing towards the outfall of the capital’s sewage. And to their frustration, the aromatic trail ceased in the middle platform. On quick deliberation, they broke their little party. Drussaev and Nephyti heading towards the inwards, Albrion towards the outfall where the mountainous air swept his hair and face.

  He ventured not far, stopping in his track. Midway, he felt the waft of maghia coming from behind, heart the last echoes of two cries or shouts. One clearly from his brother. He sprang all the way, clutching the handle as the shouting he recognized as wailed pleadings of Mygdon, then a cry from his own brother, a concerned yell from Nephyti faint but recognizable. And a more potent waft of sorcerous nature.

  When he reached back, a strange scenery welcomed him. Drussaev laid near the edge, bleeding profusely from his side after dislodging a dagger. Nephity’s mesmeric eyes focused on the wound, pressing her hands darkened by the blood of Drussaev ceasing not to bleed. “I’ll…be…fin…” The same anger, the same horror he caged in his own oblivion returned threefold and he wished to exercise the anger upon Mygdon.

  But with bitter realization glanced at the mindless youth on the edge. Clean saliva drooled on his luscious lips, dribbled down onto the pristine white stone. Light faded from rich blue and gold eyes, his body sprawled and slid slow, until picked up pace and tumbled at last into the tides of sewage river. He felt content enough with watching the short process, gazing at it until it vanished on its way towards the outfall, where the city shall excrete him out.

  For now, he returned, carrying his brother slurping words, trying to reverse the wound, close it. But it wouldn’t. He recognized the blade, sheathed in that essence void of warmth and cold, an essence he could not resent, not be reviled off as it gobbled them voracious. He could do naught but frown, focus hard upon the mark left by Him, pray He shall hear and answer the pleas uttered into the void of his own mind.

  On the third repeat, the blood forming a pond beneath them, matting their raiment, started flowing back, and then the wound closed. They sighed in unison, their relief warm and soothing.

  Before Nephyti could apologize for the hasty action, ridding them of one who could be a key piece in the puzzle, Albrion shushed her. His expression told her he would have done the same, if not worse. He heaved Drussaev onto his shoulder, after pocketing the dagger, and carried him all the way out until he wakened and proved as obdurate against their words, their advices to rest. Still, he accepted their shoulders when he nearly tumbled like a quivering elder.

  Once they reached the streets, silent as the grave midday, Albrion looked at the Illius. He wished for nothing more, then to see Aurelithae. A little sparring seemed a good enough reason to tear her out from her room.