A most unpleasant warm vernal season approached, one which mistress weighted myriad challenges upon the mortals during this month. Amongst them, the unrelenting heat associated with the far-south and its manifold-colored arid lands. Heat which already found its way down to the cells where Mirayroth brooded in the dimness, longing for the cold winds, the crisp and spicy air of Dhaugruz. There he waited, mulling still on the assassination of Ephialtes whilst waiting for the arrival of Ephraimur.

  Weeks passed since the corpses were discovered, five seemingly choked as the Square Criers reported, one burned from within. A needless cruelty stirring his old doubts, blamed himself for the needless cruelty Aurelithae delivered upon all five. Wondered if Dumath’s essence infected her with the cruelty of the Infaerni, but shook the thoughts away, recalling even Moirstyria shown tendency for such acts. Like the time, she rotted the organs of a certain bandit lord trafficking kindred. His screams still echoed in his ears, after the Night knows how many decades.

  What worried him more though pertained to Drussaev’s continuous visits to the place, the shadow gathered over his eyes. The one she burned, clearly was another dear to his heart, as Albrion mentioned after his return from the continent. Though he focused more on the possibility of Ephialtes hiding something in his abode, hidden there. And his lack of knowledge on how much the old men knew about their plans, His plans. Certainly, he would know if Ephialtes left behind a clue.

  “Maybe Ephraimur knows.” He murmured under his breath, arising from the chair to fetch a bottle of wine. He poured, reasoning he would have mentioned it too. From what he remembered, Ephialtes knew little of their plans, beyond the taking of the Prismatic Lord to an Unseen Fold of Elhyrissian, and that Proclus and his guild would provide weapons for the fights ahead.

  Sipping his wine, Mirayroth turned at the howl of shifting bricks, at the warm light seeping in, bringing more of the repulsive heat already present on the closing 32nd day of Septupruo. A lanky dark silhouette glided across, bowed his head in greetings. “Hope you needed not to wait too long.” Came the muffled voice from behind the mask, eyes dyed in the regal blue of lapis lazuli listless, calm.

  “Arrived not that long ago.” He said with the wine’s pleasant taste still upon his tongue, his own mask in his hand. “Before we leave, how much did Ephialtes knew?” Mirayroth could not help himself, but ask. Wished not to meet with them, whilst assailed by uncertainty.

  “Knew about the attack, but not where we took The Bright Lord. He was high in our echelons, but not high to know.” Ephraimur shook his head when Mirayroth offered the wine. “Knew Proclus came to aid both Dumath’s followers… and ours. But knew not about His interest in Aurelithae, nor about the Scrolls and their purpose in heralding the New Dawn.”

  “I see.” Mirayroth felt relief, pushed away the thoughts of eliminating Drussaev. Knew it would bring more harm than good, considering Albrion’s affection for his brother. How he wished to turn him to their side. “Thank you. Shall we go?”

  Mirayroth lifted his left hand, let the voluminous sleeves slide back, revealing the dark veins pulsate violet through the pallid. velvety skin. All the shadows within the cellar marched off the western, southern and eastern walls, the ceiling and floor, gathered onto the northern wall. There they swirled, and swirled until in the blackness another room appeared once the tunnel soared through the Folds of Space, tore a hole in the basement of the arena. Both stepped through fearless, and whilst it was late noon, both arrived on the onset of night.

  There Proclus awaited them with three of his feline agents resting atop crates lining the walls. Mirayroth and Proclus shook hands, whilst Ephraimur patted the white-furred cat who leapt down after seeing the masked vhouromancer. “Thank you.” Mirayroth nodded, noticing only faint traces of sorrow in the eyes gleaming in the dim storage chamber.

  “Any problems arose on your end?” He asked, sensing a bit more in the feline demikin’s gaze.

  “Nothing to worry too much about, but there has been a change in the guards.” Proclus began, keeping his voice low. “Instead of custodians, it seems Terrianis replaced them with Drussaev’s militia. At least where they keep them.”

  Mirayroth glanced towards Ephraimur, who shook his head assuring him no problem shall arise from this minor shift. Mirayroth walked in the middle, Proclus behind him as they approached the thick oak door with gilded rims hewn in the likeness of dragons descending towards the sill, where their barbed tails met in the center of the curving lintel. Beyond, the damp grayish marble continued into the vast corridor, its ceiling frescoed even down here with a stretching battle, its bright colors spreading the light of sconces all across the subtly winding section. At its end, two auxiliaries stood in the mismatched golden panoplies of Drussaev’s militia, their helmets resting on the table they sat at playing cards. Until they heard the soft steps of the approaching triad.

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  “Huh?” The bulky Elephantidae-Demikin heard them first thanks to its large, almost rectangular ears. He rose his muscle mound of a body, reached for the halberd with its large hands adorned with lean and muscular fingers covered in thick, fair grayish skin. Then it stopped, froze like his comrade, a much smaller gobokh of golden-blonde fur and an ape-like tapering visage.

  “Calm, my friend.” At once, Ephraimur seized their minds, and their demeanor quickly swapped from a hostile to a genial, greeting the two and letting them pass, holding the massive door to the pens for them.

  “Thought you were a generous patron my friend.” Mirayroth commented as they slowly descended on the steps. The ceiling curved in sharp arches; the space broad enough the three of them could walk side by side.

  “I am, but money has little sway against the imperative words of the Elhyrissiar” Proclus said, missing the jest of Mirayroth.

  “Could have persuaded him.” Ephraimur joined in the little talk just as he stepped onto the soft sand stretching straight ahead on the lane. On the sides framed by the long, dim blue metallic bars holding the six gladiators doomed to die for the entertainment of the capital.

  “Problem comes not from his willingness to turn a blind eye. But how it would jeopardize the plan greatly.” Proclus surveyed the cells, noticing their occupants held not by chains of mundane materials, but of arkhaine etched onto their flesh and soul. A little he scowled, reminded of his old days, but masked it following in the trail of steps left by the two ahead.

  Far ahead, they stopped before a cell where even in the utter dimness, they could all see the massive silhouette sitting at the far end. Its face was clearly that of an orkh’s; a broad head of gaunt, brutish features ranging from the sharp chin framed by the sharply tapering jawline, long and batlike ears, a broad snout with sharp curves, cheekbones protruded and cast shadows upon the cheeks, eyes deeply sunken and small with a strange pale icy glow. His skin parched and pale white with tinged faintly by the blue shade of ice, from its broad lips, two dewy tusks arose and curved subtly. His frame was quite broad with defined muscles, and as he rose, he had to hunch down not smack his black maned head against the ceiling, several meters above the three of them.

  “Welcome brothers and sisters. I wish we could have this meeting in a much cozier place.” Mirayroth spoke in the harsh and highly phonetic tongue of the Host, greeting all six of the champions.

  Each grain of sand shook as the khimmerian orkh approached the bars, its long and massive fingers wrapped about and tightened as his cold eyes peeked at the three. “So, you are the one Vinraugh spoke of. Became quite curtsy whilst lingering amongst those walking in the wicked Bright.” A cavernous chuckle emanated the pen.

  “I am afraid so.” Mirayroth entertained the orkh. “Though I long for our home, to be under His veil.”

  “It is too warm, aye.” The orkh said misunderstanding him. “But enough of these words, or you may bloom the seeds of regret in our own heart.”

  Mirayroth nodded in silence, then stepped back to the center of the lane, followed by Ephraimur. Through the soft fabric of his hood, Mirayroth felt the hand followed by a tendril aiding in the expanding of his mind across the pen, connecting with all six of them whilst peering into his own soul. There he stood upon a solemn island of jagged obsidian, surrounded by tumultuous waves of utter blackness and rich violet misty foam. At the center, a black tree grew, touched its fleshy bark with veins of a strange, dim hue.

  Along its elliptical boundary, apertures grew and six silhouettes appeared about him. From the apertures feelers slithered out like serpents, encroached the six at once. He heard their moans, felt the tremble of the ground as the giant orkh staggered and fell onto his knees, clutching his chest, drawing shallow breaths. “How magnificent…” Through the tendrils, the gift to the Elhyrissiar travelled in the shape of orbs, planted within the six of them.

  When he finished passing on the gift, Mirayroth himself drew deep breaths, felt a chill creep across his whole being as he shivered in the cold and dry pens. “Cheers to you, Brauvehr Mirayroth.”

  “I should be the one to thank you all. I shall not forget your sacrifices.” He bowed before each of them.

  “Weep not for us brauvehr.” Said the vampyr approaching the cell, noticing the veiled somber tones in Mirayroth’s voice.

  “Spread the tale of our sacrifice, pass it through the ages until we reborn in His shadow once more.” He turned and a pale scaled merkiin called out to him this time, a fearless smile curled his thin mouth.

  “I shall and pray we may fight together in another life my brauvehrek and systvehr!” Joy and pride surged across Mirayroth, as he stood in the center, looked each of them in the eye. He almost forgot where he stood, and the desire to be at home strengthened ever more. And a little envy seeped in, but drowned it in knowing the eventual fate of all mortals, and hoped he shall have such a glorious death as the six of them shall.