Wooden blades met with sharp clacks in the eastern training grounds of the Draennith Praetoreath’s headquarters. Albrion and Celsushar exchanged their hundred and seventieth blow right until the crack of dawn, when the blackness of the sky vanished, came the brilliance of day.

  The vernal shades of smaragd, amber billowed over the city. Perspiration poured forth in endless waves, converted into stamina by the black tunics clinging taut onto their honed forms, seamed of arkhaine imbued silky threads. Besides the unseen qualities, it endowed both tunics, breeches with the smoothness of steel, whilst its luster remained quite dull.

  Albrion changed his stance, stroke with velocity turning his wooden blade into a brown arcing streak, aimed at the open neck of his friend. One that would have decapitated any other, Celsushar blocked, maneuvering his own wooden blade in place. Though no riposte came, instead his stomach growled as the dawn heralded the thought of sweet breakfast.

  The warm food and rejuvenating coffee overhung only Celsushar’s mind, whilst darker thoughts ailed Albrion’s.

  So far, the plans moved as anticipated after the minor hitch that was The Harrowing. Terrianis seemed oblivious still to his true allegiance, nor any of his other siblings suspected anything, regarding their plans. Nor any push through came regarding the Prismatic Lord. Yet he could not hush away the thoughts, that if he delayed any longer, another hitch may come along. Albrion prayed He would do something about it, but knew it was time to act, now that Augermil wrote after years, now that the Chosen resided in Phyrgos.

  Whenever he neared towards the decision, the logical step, his blow upon his friend recoiled Celsushar who stumbled a few steps back, his body trembling from the shockwave. A few cracks now adorned the wooden blade, striding straight into a blunt point. Though only for a short moment. Both practice swords glowed ethereally, and the cracks closed, and both seemed good as new.

  Noticing the troubled gaze seeing past through him, Celsushar gathered his willpower. “You know, there is no point mulling over it. Order me, and I shall carry out what must be done, let me relieve you my friend of your rues and woes.”

  Albrion kept silent, instead metered out his next strike with bits of regret and doubt. A strike forceful enough to nearly shatter both blades that instant. A force so strong it sent Celsushar onto the edge, down onto his haunches, hissing and shaking the hand which held the practice blade.

  Albrion again, charged at him, led by his primal instincts drowning out the dark thoughts. Celsushar stretched out his free left arm. From the rack, one of the shields began to quiver, then flew off and into his hand. Fingers wrapped around the adhering strap, held it above his head. In a matter of seconds, he knelt on the cold, soft soil of the training ground, awaiting the strike to recoil across his body. He clenched his teeth tight, regretted voicing out the words when the shockwave of Albrion’s strike rippled across his tensed and burning muscles. Even his bones rattled under all the flesh.

  And he further regretted choosing this defensive position when he noticed Albrion’s blade aiming for his abdomen with another cleaving strike. “Shit.” He blurted out when the hand suddenly vanished, and in the same time it rippled his tunic, and nearly dented the joint betwixt his shoulder and neck. Nearly he fainted whilst collapsing before the feet of Albrion, but the latter caught him and he felt the pain leaving his body, in its place a warm and pleasant sensation made him feel lightweight akin to downing the third tankard of mead.

  “Forgive me brother.” Albrion apologized with the deepmost honesty in his heart. Celsushar offered a smile whilst letting himself be pulled back onto his feet. “But I have already made my choice months before. Years even, but doubt and caution shackled me into inaction. With the Elhyrissiar’s orders, I shall set out soon, taint my blade and hands, instead of choosing the coward’s way.”

  Recognizing the firmness glinting in Albrion’s eyes, Celsushar refrained from offering to be a sinner. He knew when even the best of reasons could not shake Albrion into reconsideration. Most importantly, knew that unlike many of the others initiated into the Blackened Circle, Albrion yet to have proven his resolution, by drawing the blood of one close to his heart.

  Celsushar thought, cooling his sore neck with a chilling, wet cloth coiled about it.

  The Illius blazed down from the endless heavens, boiled Albrion in his dark panoply, whilst the flapping wings of Colciorh hushed away all kinds of ravenous residents of the skies, ranging from wild wyverns to smaller ravens. A few foolish enough flittered close, in hopes Colciorh would not notice, each found themselves diving into the river flowing into the Haebrion Sea. One or two emanating smoke upon submerging, after the water triumphed over the flames of a dragon. “Seems they hold no respect for us.” Colciorh transmitted into his mind as they passed from the isle.

  Albrion smiled, staring towards the distant shores of Vhalleryon, never looking down at the sea, in fear of doleful memories would float onto the surface. He kept staring through the slit visor, never took his eyes off the billowing clouds, the flock of birds retreating from the sky. “They sense the change and ruin approaching.” Colciorh nodded his massive head.

  “Yet know, safety lies only beyond the realms.” With a chuckle, Colciorh increased his pace. Days passed as they flew over villages where the simple folk stared up at the passing of a shadow; the Glass Fields, where the peculiar flora bloomed translucent and glass-like leaves, pleasantly soft to the touch. Forest of high trees, sweeping Colciorh’s colorful belly, whilst scaring the occupants of the branches and those lurking within the sterns. Rivers feeding the lone ocean, and ones flowing down from the frugal mountains, into lakes peopled with fishing villages of merkiin settled on dry land.

  Then after nearly two months of a journey, they reached the river sliced city, the capital of Lakuivul Province, Limniolos. A marvelous city sprawling its polychromatic splendor north-west of Cordiovil, the heartland province. A city gobbling up four lakes, each now part of a luxuriant arboretum.

  From up the flat lands marred by the deep river, down towards the steep cliff where the river nourished the sea in the form of a waterfall, Limniolos filled him still with wonder, more so than Luth-Astaril. High edifices nestled within the almost titanic walls of azure tinctured basalt, their roofs slanting and covered in terracotta of warm, vivid pinkish-red with amber golden accents like the corals on the shores, whilst their walls a deeply contrasting brown, almost like oaks forming a forest beyond the arable lands.

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  Octagonal towers arose at each corner of the encircling wall, upon their tops panoplied sorcerers and legionaries gathered, pointing at the underbelly passing over them as Albrion circled the city. His eyes searched the cityscape, for the tower amongst towers, where many of Colciorh’s distant kindred rested upon their terraces or within their vast stables.

  Whilst in Luth-Astaril and the Caesselis Isles, the predominant architectural style was chosen to be alabaster marble, Limniolos bore a varied and colorful style. Those below him, of the suburban districts where the hunters and farmers resided, bore the shades of nature. Those of the deeper residential districts, follow the colors, shades of the seas, the Ocean thanks in part for the early settlers. Merkiin who arrived from their crumbling realm of islands and an endless ocean, followed later by the others as the Empire laid claim for these lands and conquered them in the early wars of Elhyrissian.

  Bold reds changing between crimson, mahogany, burgundy and scarlet shifted, where the local legionaries and the custodians of the city quartered, and adventurers sought their business. A few taverns also dotted these districts, offering respite and haven for the tired, after weeks of travelling and service in dangerous lands.

  Yet the headquarters, the spire of the Draennith Praetoreath’s local chapter lingered not amongst them. Built upon a small islet, on the lake nearest to the sea, its steeple hung high towards the interminable firmament. And islet his eyes passed numerous times, first unintentionally, beyond the second, out of hesitancy born of doubt. The serenity he felt through the weeks spent traveling faded, the woes and rues of the world, of the task ahead of Albrion all returned once he noticed the islet and the high tower arising from its epicenter.

  The gripping feeling strengthened when fellow riders took to the skies, approached with greetings. His hands grasping onto the saddle shook with anxiety, felt his own heart beating, advising him against the deed that needed be done with an aching he haven’t felt in a long time. Not since the grim news from the North. Albrion inhaled the cold air wafting about wildly in the skies, then grasped tightly the leash and conveyed his thoughts towards Colciorh who changed his trajectory after a welcoming roar aimed at his kin.

  Nearing towards the broad tower, Albrion spotted the walled courtyard where the neonates trained upon the sandy grounds, surrounded by few buildings seemingly protruding from the walls themselves. Akin to the headquarter in Luth-Astaril, the spire consisted of fifty floors, a great terrace at each fifth for landing and takeoff, the rest housed libraries filled with tomes on the local history, fauna and flora, the dorms of the stationed praetors, and further training areas.

  Above the fiftieth a bowl of rich purple and deep blue marble stretched, offering sheltering shade beneath, a mosaiced floor making out the head of a dragon with azure scales, encircled in violet with a hint of gold at the further trims where crenellations should have been. From the edges, staring out at northwards, southwards, eastwards and westwards, four balcony like extensions protruded where winged sentinels and their riders stared into their respective vistas, whilst the southwards extension remained empty.

  From the center, a spear of rich purplish marble arose a bit higher, its golden foundation six-sided, etched with a variety of dragons roaring, bellowing flames. A marvelous work his eyes lingered on before shifting down at the swirling storm of ethereal mist, taking on the shape of a dragon.

  One of at least twenty meters long, whilst narrow in width. Four wings of great width and length sprouted above each of its sinewy limbs, furled above forming warding canopies, creating dim shadows upon the floor thanks to their opaque and inky membrane. A large, slit pupils of purple haze focused on Albrion, then bowed in greeting to Colciorh, an old friend.

  Beneath, basking in its soothing shadow, Albrion spotted his dear little brother Kameithar draped in a lightweight yukata of a scintillating purple, its lapels and edges a creamy white like his complexion, embroidered with golden threads, serpentine dragons slithering along the silken smooth surface. Seeing him, Albrion felt jovial, happy and could not help himself, but smile back at his younger brother as they slowly descended towards the ornated platform.

  Albrion leapt with as much elegance he could muster with his hulking form whilst getting down from the large saddle. Upon his landing, a heavy metallic thud joined in with the serene melodies of the current sweeping through the landing platform, which further diminished the order of his bound hair when he took of his helmet.

  Before him, his brother’s assigned praetors lined on both sides with their own winged brothers, all with heads hunched down in respect. It made him a little uncomfortable, he preferred simpler greetings but refrained from voicing it, after both Augermil and Terrianis chided him on the importance of living up to once’s stature. Though once only a few steps remained betwixt the brothers, Albrion dropped the haughty fa?ade.

  Near the entrance Kameithar awaited him, a genial smile on his face adorned by well-groomed, lush beard running along his angled jawline, lips framed on both sides, above their natural bow smoothly sheared. His hair combed back rigidly, a small tail dangling just above his nape whilst the rest scrapes the indigo silken outer layer of his kimono robe. His arms locked in the eastern greeting fashion, and slowly parted with each step Albrion made towards him with his helmet now resting beneath his armpit. A brotherly smile drawn upon his own lips framed by his unruly beard.

  Behind Kameithar his dragon stood in the fashion of haughty feline beast, casting its ethereal shadow over his brother and then him. His long head, tapering towards the small, slit snouts held down, its onyx black, indigo and wisteria tinted tiny scales and lustrous, thick hide emanated an ethereal mist of crimson, jet black and a sickly yellow. Eyes, deep-set and stretching like an almond, languid and undecipherable as he looked past him, staring at Colciorh who assumed a similar position on the far end. He had no doubt the two adult dragons were deep in their conversation, as the Dragons of the House of Dreams and Fates preferred conversing within the confines of other’s minds.

  A part of him expected, braced itself for the invasive voice. “It has been so long brother!” But it never came. Only his brother’s that graced his ears, once both dropped their acts and embraced each other in a firm, brotherly hug. With forceful pats, they released, and Albrion wondered if Kameithar practiced, feeling his strikes through the heavy plates.

  “It has been. How have you been faring?” Though the rest of the Praetoreath remained, their postures eased and watched as the two disappeared within the door.

  “Have seen better days. With the flocking of the refugees, the raids of the cultists and their undead, I developed quite the headache.” Kameithar fondled his temples, a sigh escaped him. “But tell me, how is our dearest sister?”

  “She is coming along nice.” Albrion said with a sour smile.

  “It is nice to hear. I’d have regretted if she chose to stay loyal to this crumbling Empire of ours.” Kameithar chuckled as they entered the long, winding steps lined with the statues of the fallen praetors of the Order. “Still, what ails your heart, what lead you here on this fine day?”

  “A business better left for our ears. And one that will require that fiery water from the north.” Albrion stopped, pondering on its sweet taste lingering in the mouth long after it cascaded down into the belly. “The one with the cinnamon flavor.”

  Kameithar chuckled, clearly trying to lighten the mood, noticing the signs of brooding on Albrion. “I sure do, though I am afraid to report, not much remains in the bottle after Nawfal returned from meeting an old friend.”

  “What happened?” Albrion asked in a whisper, as they passed in the great hallway.

  “It is a long story. One I shall regale whilst introducing you another drink, I am sure shall win your heart, warm your stomach brother.”