Wild winds blown in the skies, carried the sulfurous scent of Luth-Astaril’s slow death. From the lowest districts in the valley, up to the highest where the nobilos dwelt, flames spread amongst the cluster of buildings. Smoke blackened in the starless night, swiveled towards the firmament void of stars. By the last day of Mhaors, the seeds of uprising blossomed into the sprawling tree of war, heralding the great change they all worked towards. Silence surrounded Albrion, as he sat and gazed down from the saddled spine of Colciorh.

  Not a single bird remained in the isles. All fled towards Vhalleryon, sensing the coming upheaval. Heavy shadows crawled over his black eyes, and to his own surprise, he felt calm. His heart beaten in a gentle rhythm, not unlike on the day of the Harrowing. Where it beaten wild, fearing for Aurelithae. Fearing that all the work would be undone by The Beautiful in her bottomless pride. The more he gazed down, the more this peace shifted into excitement. Clad in his full, dark panoply chased with gold and ruby at its trims, the fine cloth beneath, he pondered and waited, feeling a cold touch through them as Her hands wrapped around his waist, his ethereal whisper full of motherly pride.

  “Worry not mother, but for yourself.” Albrion whispered to the air, looking over his shoulder expecting that beautiful face he awakened to hundreds of times in his youth. But there was nothing there, but the angular plate and the carven golden dragon sitting on either top prominent, crisp plate of his pauldron, bathed in silver and deep, imperial violet.

  “The Hour is nigh!

  “Tell me friend. Are you thrilled, stirred or afraid?” Albrion asked. The question lingered in his mind, though he felt the answer himself.

  “A little of either.Though I must warn you. After midnight, when the new age shall begin, Order and Light shall cease.

  “Thank you for your warning. Any concrete way to shield myself and my sister?” He asked, straightening his torso.

  “None. Be just prepared for the loss of perception, for utter chaos and the uncertainty that we may end up in the far-south or may even strand in the corpse of an old realm.

  “He should have mentioned that.” Albrion commented in a whisper, whilst looking down as the bridge of The Magnificent Weaver collapsed, arriving with a loud crash into the river below in the valley.

  “Maybe it is my naivety, but he may cloak us from some of the consequences to come.” Both rider and dragon turned towards the sound of approaching, forceful flaps.

  “What are your orders my lord?” Celsushar asked after saluting after they all felt the shockwave spreading over the city. A wind of utter emptiness swept over the city, without disturbing the colonnades of smoke, the hungering and sprawling flames. And carried away the unseen presence that sat behind him, down below where she took command of the Talos Legion at last. Their metallic forms turned against those in golden, and the tides of bewitched citizens swept away the cohorts on the lowest districts.

  “Make sure the skies remain ours, and engage only when the pendulum swings against our brothers and sisters.” Celsushar nodded and tightened his grip around the horns, though he and his winged sister remained still, waiting for the personal command. “And when you are assured, leaved towards the sea, as quick as you can!”

  For a little he remained in the sky, watching as Draennith Praefectoreath of his wing and many other revealed their allegiance, burning the golden legionaries below, a few falling to spells and arrows. Albrion inhaled a mouthful of the cold air then leaned over the saddle’s front, grasping the horns tightly. “Time to return home one last time!” Colciorh grunted with a reptilian smile, then soared towards the Radiant Keep, whilst Albrion remained calm, prepared to die to protect Aurelithae from Terrianis when the hour came.

  Thrice, Colciorh circled around the Radiant Keep’s dorm tower, before he landed on the small, elevated platform, sending strong breezes through the open hallways. Albrion’s grip remained on the handle of his sheathed blade, leapt and landed loudly, muffling the whispery screaming of his blade drawn out from its hardened leather sheet. Yet the surrounding scenery informed him the needlessness to be so alarmed. On the groomed grass, the Impirith Praetoreath laid prone, their angular cuirasses visibly dented. Clean cuts along the strong metal, their vibrant red blood overpowering the other shades whilst trickling along the smooth, enameled surface. A few others withered into dried husks within their panoplies, and he even noticed a few of the servitors dead amongst them in similar manners.

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  Near the entrance to the open corridors, he spotted the first of the Blackened Circles, comrades in shadows rested prone, slumped amongst his kin. A few hat their chest burned, black cloth gnawed through to expose the smoldering wounds. One laid headless, still leaking blood from his swan neck, three laid with their chest cloven, and several sprawled with their chest either caved in by a hammer or mace’s strike or penetrated by a sharp point of a sword.

  The sounds of battles echoed within the halls, traversed between the gigantic columns. A trail of corpses led him inwards, where he threaded with a sour taste in his mouth. More so for being late. On the spiraling steps where he ambled over further corpses of handmaidens and comrades, this sourness gave way for dread, but he inhaled the death seasoned air, and believed He shall not abandon Aurelithae. Not now.

  “Lord Albrion, we need your aid!” Two of the Impirith Praetoreath appeared, taking deep breaths, one biting his tongue whilst pulling out an arrow which tip and frontal shaft phased through his surcoat beneath.

  He paid no words to them, just swung his drawn blade, bereaving them of their heads before they could have sensed his temporal spell hurling, shifting him into a swifter stream. Colciorh waited not, took to the skies then his own, deep-set eyes glowed ethereally as he surveyed the floating fortress. “She is heading towards the throne room. Aided by Mirayroth, Proclus and our fellow enlightened.

  “Fear not for her Albrion.” Then he stopped with a few cloaked and armored in black plates, arriving into one of the junction points where he and Drussaev spent hours pondering on how to refine their swordplay. There Naghig stood amongst the fetid, blackened corpses of many of his siblings, the lesser wives of Terrianis and their protectors.

  “Why are you not by her side?” Albrion asked, calm anger seasoning his low cadence.

  “I have my own chore.” Naghig answered, staring at the small, domed structure waiting ahead, half crumbled by wildly flung spells. “And I know she shall succeed. You need not to dread!” Before Albrion could issue his own words, Naghig disappeared at the nearby turn. From behind came metallic steps, the shrieking of blades drawn.

  Albrion tightened his grasp about Fang’s long handle, surrounded by his comrades within the Blackened Circle. He nodded at each of them, then greeted Kaerhil. “Uncle, it has been a long time.” Even beneath the helmet, wreathed in shadows, Albrion could make out the sour look on his uncle’s visage as he too prepared for battle. Kaerhil graced him with no words, merely a bellow.

  Their blades met first, the others stood still as if the two held a right to clash before them. Both threw their shields off their backs, stepping over the cadavers of their kin, their sharp gazes met as they gripped their swords with both hands. Kaerhil initiated, swinging down at Albrion’s leg, then changed the trajectory, aiming at the gap at his arm joints, but staggered back as Albrion parried the strike. He kicked his uncle who nearly tumbled in the small and frail corpse of a distant niece.

  Albrion gained the proverbial chalice for drawing the first blood, when Fang cut at the left shoulder of Kaerhil who hissed as a long whip of blood drawn out from the meager wound, attached to the sharp tip of the vampiric sword. Albrion pulled Fang towards himself, positioned perfectly horizontal in the same elevation as his shoulders whilst slightly hunched forward. As he pulled, Kaerhil floundered towards him, his own blade pointed his nephew, who quickly shuffled about, but instead of striking Kaerhil severed the nausea inducing crimson thread.

  Kaerhil clicked his tongue, his movements hazy still. Nearly he slipped on the slithering streak of his own blood. Albrion noticed his frown as he avoided a decapitating strike. He felt the ripple out from his uncle, prepared himself when he leapt as if all the plate on his body weighted about as much as paper. Then he closed his eyes when the condensed light of Illius sheathed Kaerhil. Albrion shuffled away blind, blocked the sword coming for his own neck.

  Led by instincts and smell, Albrion swung Densfaeng at an upward angle, aiming for Kaerhil’s neck or shoulder. He hoped for the latter, but neither came to his disappointment. He shuffled away, feeling the mild breeze of the force carrying the next swing.

  Albrion ducked, then adjusted his blade, its point staring at the side of his glowing uncle, then leapt into a hastier stream of time before jabbing Densfaeng through metal, flesh and bone. A slow bellow broke the silence, and the others charged at each other, their movement sluggish to his eyes. Densfaeng slurped voraciously out all the blood from Kaerhil, who issued a few moans and groans before his hands weakened, and his sword clattered onto the marble floor. When he returned to the Stream in which all mortals exist, Kaerhil was a pale husk, of compressed cheeks, sockets and eyes struggling to remain open.

  When the last of his blood left his body, he whimpered one last, then fell. Albrion joined the fray, drunken by his draconic nature, the need for more bloodshed.