Clouds soared the great and infinite heavens looming over Proclus’s villa, placidly eloping towards Vhalleryon. Golden rays tinctured subtly with reds and violets shone down upon his terrace where Mirayroth leaned onto the balustrade, and the garden where the hedge winded across towards the walled off promontory. He watched the grotesque play of the hideous, infernal plant with its flowery maw latched onto the head of a fair aevhen maiden, whilst a new bud tore out the left eye of a gilded merkiin, both emboldened spies. No scream left the fishy mouth, as smaller roots snaked betwixt the thin lips, crawled down its shaft where they expanded violently, with a few breaking out, twisting down like stitches. Both their stomachs bulged, as the plant devoured their insides, whilst using its toxins to keep them alive for Ephraimur to mine their memories.

  Mirayroth thanked the domed aegis around the villa keeping the wild winds from carrying up the putrid stench. In the past, he would have been used to it, but too long he spent hiding in the shadows, where the only fetid scent came mostly from rotten food. Most of the grim work of disposing corpses came upon others, including Naghig, strangely the most adroit in the arts of eradicating traces.

  “Seems more and more find their way into our court.” Proclus carefully placed down the tray onto the nearest oaken table.

  Whilst he poured, Mirayroth noticed the strain Proclus put to pour calmly the steaming beverage into each of the three cups prepared. He raked his brain through the eidetic library he got gifted with upon his transition, but could not remember any report coming from the feline demikin. Everyone focused on the fast-approaching gladiatorial games, with their two mercantile members focusing on briberies. He pondered, taking the cup. He looked at Ephraimur who remained completely lost in deciphering Vermius’s scroll. The only time he broke his focus was to use the metallic claw attached to his index finger, to engrave the black basalt tablet with small, arkhane runes naked to the eye.

  “Then you should be more thankful for Ephraimur and his contribution.” Mirayroth retreated further in the terrace, hearing the wild and abundant growling of the plant, the shifting of bone and flesh.

  Turning about, he noticed at least fifteen more roots slither out from under the hedge, the soil gathered towards each of the spies nearing their ends. The roots inside each paling forms broke through rib and flesh, spraying chunks of marrow and tendon across the clearing within the maze. Each of its buds bloomed, revealing the same hideous maws snapping the flying chunks, grinded the marrow and bone with the same ease as flesh. Then greenish tendrils slithered from the verdant shadows, dragged away both once they noticed Proclus sipping by the edge of the terrace.

  “Found anything out from them?” Proclus asked, turning towards Ephraimur. Mirayroth followed his gaze, noticing the prodigious vhouromancer turned away from the scrolls.

  Another of Proclus’s feline agents egressed from the villa, sauntered with all the pride of their race onto the table, where its fluffy tail shot out diagonally, whilst its claws tapped onto beseechingly the black sleeves folding onto the lean arm of the southerner. A long, mellowing purr emanated once Ephraimur caressed its head, scraped gently the roots of its crisp ears of a bright pink gleaming from the ear wax. “Ah, tea!” The cat walked over the jug, standing on two, before lifting it up with his paws, and poured one for Ephraimur who thanked him, offering a place in the warm lap.

  “Nothing worthy of note. Acted in haste, not on the behest of their masters.” Then answered after a short while.

  “Well at least, I won’t have to worry about Seliviun getting hungry for a few more days.” He stared towards the heart of the garden.

  A shiver ran through Mirayroth’s ridged spine, recalling their encounter with a certain carnivorous plant deep in Dhaugruz. His gaze lingered on the trembling hedges, hushed notes and the gnawing of flesh mingled with that of purring coming from behind them.

  “Also took care of the boy. Seems he wasn’t working with the Elhyrissiars, he simply began to harbor doubts.” Ephraimur added, once the cat leapt off from his lap.

  Mirayroth continued staring pensively down, whilst sipping his bitter tea, with a slight meaty taste. A quite pleasant addition contrary to his expectations. “Told anything to that princeipstir? Calaviril was her name?” Proclus nodded to the latter whilst his sharp, long ears flittered in joy at the soothing tea’s taste.

  “Told her nothing of importance. Still, they did run into one of Falerius’s disciple, who gathered a small army of rat-kin to aid us after the gladiatorial games.” Stepped beside the two, just as Proclus turned away.

  From the table’s center, Proclus lifted up a porcelain vessel, cylindrical in shape and quite broad in expanse. Its blunt bulk painted black, decorated with cats leaping around towards the sky and the nether. A cookie jar he lifted invitingly. “Made by myself.” He added as if awaiting praise when Mirayroth took one.

  To the touch they felt soft, yet not a single crumble fell, its texture smooth, on the saccharine disk jam dark as blackened blood sat placidly, in a whirly shape. “Didn’t know you enjoyed baking.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  A wide grin adorned Proclus, noticing the momentary serenity as Mirayroth gnashed the cookie into smithereens betwixt his pointed teeth. “An old habit I kept to the present.” He too grabbed one and munched on it before placing it back. His feline servant grabbed one for itself, and another for Ephraimur who once more thanked the cat with a few pats, lowering himself to its level.

  “Do the three carry on as told?” Ephraimur simply nodded to his question.

  “Do you think we can trust those three?” Proclus himself maintained a healthy dose of suspicion towards the three Septarch-Magisthratoroses of the Order.

  “We can trust Verecunira and Falerius–despite the disorder which rules his mind, his feelings.” All three were experienced in dealing with the erratic followers of spirits of Disorder, knew the risks well and counted upon them, believed in their master keeping the chains upon their ally. Pontidius himself though, Mirayroth distrusted the most out of the three, strangely. Still, he offered in disposing of corpses, and made his oath to Dusk in secret, along with many of his disciples erudite in the arts of nekromancy.

  Besides, like the other two, maintained the secret portals granting them full access to the deepest levels of the Cathedral. Including the sealed section where Dumath lost against Aurelithae nearly a decade ago. Also provided Ephraimur with ample materials for the ritual, ingredients he wasn’t sure whether Laneas or Proclus could have provided in due time. Also maintained the distrust betwixt the plebeian and the Order, leaking out information to the Square Criers about the less savory rituals carried out by them, and the other Circles. Even crumbs about the Talos Endeavour of Angura, how in the past decades, they started designating undesirables, a larger endeavor to create a stronger cohesion in the Empire for the coming war, by slowly focusing worship upon Dawn and Magnificence. Achieved by lumping the other Deossos amongst the old religion in the coming two centuries, starting with those of Dusk.

  “Pontidius, whilst harbors doubt regarding the Master, his loyalties towards Dusk, including the Nightscale are true. He shall not betray us.” Ephraimur said, gazing at the golden vistas stretching into the distance. “He knows his time is limited, knows that whilst the Elhyrissiar is blind to the nature of the two, shall label them as the Grim Children of Twilight once he ‘triumphed’.”

  “So, desperation keeps him loyal to our cause.” Mirayroth murmured.

  “Unlike your dear old friend Ephialtes, who plans betraying us out of desperation, now that their agents are ceasing his assets.” Proclus frowned, reminded on the matter Mirayroth truly came to discuss.

  Ephialtes, an elderly truscian reaching the twilight of his life was an old benefactor to Proclus, aiding in the rise of his business after he tore the shackles off his body–and replaced them with infernal ones. For decades, the old man guided him, given him advice even how to outmaneuver the minds of Outer Intelligences, on top of the mortal ones and offered him a place within the Blackened Circle, where he rose slowly towards its higher echelons. Which was the reason he could not believe one of them got compromised and became a turncoat to their cause, to their ambitions after long decades of constructing the Path of the New Dawn.

  “Before you make a decision, let me talk with him once more.” Mirayroth knitted his brows into a silent question aimed at the pleading Proclus. “I am sure it is but a ploy to buy time. He knows the price of betrayal; betraying Him.”

  Mirayroth maintained his silence, turned towards Ephraimur who shook his head. “He should have fled or slit his own throat or wrists. Talk with him if you want, but if you do so, end him then and there.”

  Proclus chuckled a little as he looked over the expansive vista bathed in the golden glow of the Illius. Though he believed himself not to be sentimental, before he joined the Blackened Circle, all he saw were the ‘good’ folk who looked down upon his kindred because they fought under the Oath of Twilight. The words of his grandfather reverberated in his mind, the last of his relatives shielding him from the sharp stones, from the mocking laughter of the ‘victors’. It was the mantra which soothed him, weeping besides his corpse after he ended his suffering.

  Mirayroth watched as Proclus struggled, tried believing his own words, his beliefs in Ephialtes. He stared at his own hands covered in black fur, drawn out his claws, tinctured in ethereal ripples sharpening them. And knew the loss reflected in the feline eyes, knew he could not kill the one who brought him into the dark fold of the Blackened Circle. He lacked what drove Albrion to fly to Vhalleryon, to kill his own friend.

  “I politely refuse.” Proclus spoke with the sour tunes of the defeated. “Just end him quick and painless. Before He carries out the deed.”

  “I promise. His death shall be quick as the wind.” Mirayroth said, pondering already who to send. “For the meantime, I would advise you leave the city. He is close to you, no matter how he perishes, no doubt they may come for you in the instant they discover him missing from his abode.”

  “I say, let them come. They shall nourish Seliviun with their cadavers.” Proclus sneered down, towards the heart of his hedge maze. Complete silence reigned over the winding green walls.

  “Unless they send their best. That, we cannot afford, Laneas himself alone is a whisper against the roar of demand when it comes to supplies for the day the New Dawn brightens over the zenith of Elhyrissian. You know it, I know it and most important of all of us, He knows it. Hence he called you to the city.” The words sobered Proclus from the cavalcade of emotions, recalled the hollow, chilling anger he felt in his whole being nearly a decade ago. Once more, it wafted through him.

  “Fine. I shall leave the city.” Proclus took deep breaths. “Shall make some preparations.” He mumbled sitting down, feeling more tired than ever.

  Mirayroth nodded, looked over the rail to the peaceful appearing hedge maze. For a moment, he ruminated on the matter, playing with the idea to test out the given gift further, but then looked over at Ephraimur. Light returned into his eyes as he met his cold gaze. “Let the boy taste blood.” Ephraimur nodded once more without words, and returned his focus onto the text whispering into his mind, as he at last broke through the arkhaine shackles placed on it.