Months whisked by like charging horses and elks. Time Aurelithae spent studying the black tome, and on occasion, slipping down to the city. There she aided the New Dawn from the shadows, often teleported high up the imperial battlemages and let them dove to their death upon the roofs. From the black tome, she pried knowledge out with the aid of Typhaon and Dumath, both of whom understood the runes predating the elevated-kindred. Though the ideas, the spells and higher sorceries penned down brought little soothe as the inevitable confrontation with Terrianis approached.

  With time, her escapades down lessened in number, focused more on the tome and later even coming under proper studentship with Dumath, to better learn using the primordial authority she had been bestowed with. Her focus came more upon its aspect of planting an engineered love towards herself within others. Aurelithae quickly realized in the weeks and months marching by, that she feared not the confrontation itself, she dreaded facing Albrion, Calaviril and Drussaev–once again–on the last day of the year.

  So, she sought the teachings of both the black grimoire and Dumath, and in haste began her practice.

  At first, she filled and sheathed her lungs in the primordial aspect of Pride and Domination, passing small commands during the leisure hours she spent with her other siblings. Aurelithae’s gentle imploring turned into husky commands. They offered willing and with bright, love tainted smiles their teas, their sweets. Then they danced and showered her with shoddy poetries, whilst the guards looked on at first with suspicion, then with adoration at the tender moments in troubling times betwixt siblings.

  Months whisked by, and so came the wintry season of the Gray Monarch. A month which began with utter confidence brimming in her heart, knowing Dumath’s power – now her power – would aid her endeavor to save her favored, beloved siblings. Yet as Terrianis remained holed up in the throne room, neither Drussaev nor Albrion had time to visit her, whilst Calaviril spent more and more time down in the city or furthering her mastery over blade and sorcery.

  Drussaev and Albrion themselves naturally had little time to pay for her, both drafting up plans together to nip the brewing rebellion in its bud, capture Mirayroth themselves with the best of theirs spread around and above the city. None of which pleased Aurelithae, who at certain points feared for their lives, expecting both to perish if they ever found him. So, she relied on letters, trying to invite them with various excuses, last being her approaching day of birth.

  When Albrion replied to one of her letters, near the end of the Gray Monarch’s season, a sigh parted Aurelithae with the crippling unease at once. Quickly, she slipped on her favored arkhaine-cloth shirt she commissioned on her 86th

  birthday, quickly buttoned it up herself, folded down the crisp, long wings of the collar with their sharp points sliding on her chest line, the brims on the smooth shoulder where embroidered dragons slithered in golden against the crimson. Its surface held the smoothness of silk and liquid quicksilver combined into one, though the luster itself were measured with care. It hugged her in a cold and stiff embrace, aligned perfectly to the slender, toned silhouette of hers.

  Over it, she donned a thin leather surcoat draping across her torso like silken, whilst its smooth, lustrous matte surface shown no blemish, wrinkle nor crease as she moved around, as she tested its flexibility. Matching breeches of the same black shade and tenderly creaking leather followed, both embroidered by silk threads transmogrified into various chromatic threads of the same white-silver. Upon both surfaces, they formed a series of arkhaine glyphs along the trims, whilst on the back they resembled the sun of old realms, encompassing a six-winged dragon resting in its crumbled egg. She adjusted the surcoat’s face-framing elliptic collar, it stood stiffened, and with a slight adjustment, tilted in a mild angle.

  All this Akaerith and her handmaidens observed proudly–and with a masked hint of glumness for not allowing them to dress her up. In their company, she departed at last, mirthfully humming before they marched through the courtyard of the Draennith Praetoreath’s headquarters, where all eyes focused on the divine maiden Aurelithae appeared to the hungry gazes. Though they quickly evaporated when Albrion’s massive form appeared to greet her sister, his presence proving enough to dissuade any unworthy courtiers to even try their chances.

  “I see you came prepared sister.” He said, still peering around with menace whilst the two embraced each other in a familial embrace. Aurelithae’s arms around his waist, Albrion’s across her nape and shoulders.

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  “How do I look?” She asked with a wide, warming smile curved onto her snow-white lips.

  “Magnificent.” Albrion said. “Dangerously.” Then added in a whisper, once more surveying the surroundings, satisfied no desirous gaze focused on the handmaidens or his sister.

  Albrion quickly jostled between the handmaidens forming a circle around Aurelithae, and led her into the tower, his gauntleted hands firmly resting upon her shoulder. A tired sigh escaped Aurelithae, but she said nothing but let her brother lead them up the long set of stairs.

  Along the way, she focused on the decorated panoplies donned upon the polished, oaken mannequins with their faces hewn in remembrance of the lost distinguished members. A few familiar faces looked down in their perpetual austere or mirthful expressions, and became a little lugubrious when they arrived at the last turn, where Nawfal’s mannequin stood in his gilded panoply, his blade pointed down, leaning onto the dragon head pommel as he used it as a cane.

  “When did he pass?” Aurelithae asked in a low whisper, guiding the words into Albrion’s ears.

  “Not long ago. Perished as we hunted a group of nekromancers in the northern regions of Vhalleryon.” Albrion answered. Aurelithae touched his palm and gently caressed the smooth plate after she picked up on the doleful hints in his deep voice.

  The rest of the way to his office, they made in silence, then before entering Aurelithae ordered Akaerith and the other handmaidens to mingle in the tower until her return. “Say brother, why we came here?” Aurelithae asked. During their climb of the tower’s steps, Aurelithae found her heart wished not to tame her brother like some pet. She needed time to think fully through what the spell shall entail, and when to cast it upon Albrion who as she learned not long after the Harrowing, resisted the pull of Dumath. For now, she walked around, surveyed the new paintings hanged upon the walls whilst Albrion walked over his table and crouched down.

  “I know it is a bit late, but wished not to depart before giving it to you.” Aurelithae heard the whispering of the marble part itself, revealing a small compartment in the floor itself. Albrion heaved a long, broad box upon his table, nearly pushing down a glass. A pale and black streak caught them, placed them back into their place, and a bottle of saccharine cherry wine appeared in his right hand. “Happy birthday, sister. May you have ten thousand more.”

  Her fingers gently drawn across the polished top, then slid and popped open the latch. Albrion watched while pouring. A wide, mirthful grin stretched slow across her lips, her eyes shimmered in the brightest, warmest mélange of shades as she gazed upon the blade resting on a cushioned bed. Its black scabbard fitted around the slender, long blade, upon its black surface a gilded serpentine dragon slithered about its fringes, its broad and tapering head resting near the hilt, ornamented with four long unevenly long horns sprouting from the flowing mane. The pommel shaped after the crescent moon of the old realms, beset with a translucent, colorless gem. Its lean grip felt soft, leathery yet upon a look emanated a regally dull patina, its color as red as her hair bound into a high ponytail.

  “Thank you, brother.” She nearly yelled in joy, but kept her cool, her attention focusing on the blade after she pulled it out and held up towards the window. Albrion grinned proudly whilst pouring the wine to her and himself.

  Its blade shimmered brilliantly, hurting not the eye, instead bringing sooth upon them. Its fuller deepened, inlaid with the same gem adorning the pommel and forming accents along the sharp edges, the central ridge stretching towards the pointed tip, and on the silvery cross guard sculpted in the unfolding, segmented wings of dragons, swallowing in the light. Looking at it, Aurelithae felt a faint stirring within the gem lines running through the onyx black adamantine blade. “Crafted by the best dwarven and aevhen smiths in Vhoragos and the Hogstol Mountain. The whole piece has been lightened as I wasn’t sure how much strength the Eight and practice would given you at the time.”

  “When did you order it?” Aurelithae asked, lowering the blade. Her gaze searchingly focused upon his face, brimming with a brotherly pride at the gift.

  “When you were only thirty. Though even back then, you could easily lift up the heavy tomes of the library.” Albrion chuckled as he recalled her small, innocent form. And the peaceful times they enjoyed back then. “Also, conjure a little, golden spark of yours.” Upon doing so, her eyes bulged even more in excitement, as she watched the inlaid gem lines match the warm, golden shade of the spark brimming on the top of her index finger. Aurelithae took a few steps backwards, sensing the spark growing more intense with each passing second, she maintained it.

  “Have it gotten a name yet?” She asked, placing it back into the scabbard, fitted upon the waist band holding her breeches tautly.

  “It is waiting for one, from its mistress.” Albrion shook his head, offered the ornated cup to his sister.

  Her mind raced through names, first thinking naming it after the Albrion who gifted it to her, but felt too embarrassed about it. Then she peered out and the two words flown into her mind at an instant. “Teneaorel.” At once, the words seemed appropriate in the tongue of the Empire as she recalled the black blade glimmer in golden highlights.

  “A fitting name.” Albrion complimented her, as their glasses tinkled.