Upon a morn burdened with brooding clouds, the sun hung low above the vales of Tharnoth, as though an ember ensnared within the wrinkled veils of gray. The air itself moved with languor, drifting in somber eddies across the stonebound streets, while the fragrance of rain-soaked earth, lingering from the autumn nights now spent, clung obstinately to the narrow ways and the wind-swept fields beyond.
Tharnoth—so the common tongue shaped it, with softened edge and gentler cadence. Yet in its elder form, uttered in the speech of the Eldarim, it bore a deeper resonance. Thar—the boundary, the edge; Noth—the shadow drawn long across the earth. Thus it was once named, and thus it endured in the chronicles of kings and on the iron seals of their dominion, unyielding as stone against the corrosion of time.
This land was no mere soil nor continent, but one of the Great Pillars of Uris—a vast stage upon which moved beings beyond measure, creatures whose very breath altered the fates of ages, though they themselves scarce perceived the immensity of their own design. Beyond the furthest god, sterner than any demon—such were men. Yet blind they walked, most of them, across the hidden fabric, never knowing they were its very fibers. Only a chosen few beheld the truth, discerning how mankind's essence had seeped into every filament of the grand tapestry of Uris.
Tharnoth bowed to seven houses of ancient blood, whose standards unfurled as proclamations wrought in flame and iron, while their shadows—grim companions of dread repute—marched beside them from age unto age.
House Volkheart, whose emerald field bore the argent wolf, and with them ever moved their shadow, Calais.
House Draemor, whose coiled serpent clasped the crimson moon, and beside them kept vigil the elder Castor.
House Blackmont, whose crimson hawk crowned the gray summit, never without the keen sight of Lynceus.
House Rosenvier, whose azure shield flowered with the golden rose, guarded still by Lagryta.
House Stormeric, whose thunderbolt of gold rent asunder the sable cloud, with Zetis in eternal attendance.
House Goldenheim, whose radiant sun rose upon a citadel of white, accompanied by Polydeuces.
Yet of all, the last was the sternest: House Eisenhart, scions of the Iron Heart, whence Simon was born. Their banner was divided: sable above, wherein a flaming iron heart was set; argent below, where three golden nails were strewn. At its center perched a raven clutching a hammer, and above it was hung a chain-wrought collar of gears. Their shadow was Ancaues, elder brother to Simon, whose loyalty, firm as forged steel, never faltered from Eisenhart's cause. When Jason, captain of the Shadows, fell into silence, the mantle of command passed to Ancaues unopposed—even the eldest and most cunning, such as Castor, bent to his rule.
The Seven Shadows were no common wardens, but the mightiest magicians of the world—veiled hands that executed the decrees of the Sacred Magicians, and stretched their dominion across the whole of Uris.
Thus Tharnoth lay vast and unmeasured, from the eastern Sea of Elvar unto the western heights of Morgraine, while rivers girded her frame as gleaming serpents: the broad Siron, cleaving the realm from north unto south, and the swifter Dalmer, whose waters, keen as tempered steel, carved their passage through the black and jagged stone.
The fog crept across the cemetery of House Eisenhart, grazing the slanted headstones and veiling their weathered inscriptions beneath a suffocating pall of gray. The sky lay choked with swollen clouds—no sun, no moon, only a pallid dimness that pressed heavily upon the air. From within the silence there rose the faint drone of a solitary fly, circling a leaning cross before vanishing behind a damp and lichen-stained marker.
Through the narrow passage between graves, a band of guards moved in their weighty armor. Plates rasped against one another with a grating clang, each sound followed by the labored breath of men stifled beneath their helms. Their steps shook the sodden earth, yet their advance seemed sluggish, faltering, as though they were thralls to the iron encasing their flesh rather than living men.
But in the shadows, a single form slipped by with a grace unknown to any of them. He wound himself through the fog as though he knew its every fold, sliding past even the blink of a weary sentry's eye, crossing before them without so much as an echo of footfall. He was unlike them in all respects. No cuirass clad his shoulders, no sword weighed his hand. He wore instead a long mantle of silvery cloth, its veil descending past his knees, curling about him in careful folds, as night might curl about a secret unwilling to be spoken.
His countenance was composed, the brow knotted, the jaw set, and the eyes narrowed as though swallowing a wrath that would not be uttered. He was not aged, nor was he young—his visage bore the strength of a man in his mid-thirties, and yet those who knew him well understood he had long since passed his fiftieth year. Time had not withered his features, but honed them like a blade, until his presence weighed heavier than any scar.
Upon the little finger of his left hand glimmered a pale white ring, proclaiming his name more surely than any herald's cry.
Ignis.
The Archmage of House Eisenhart—one of the few who stood but a single step shy of the rank of Grand Adept. That step, however, was as a bridge stretched across an abyss. His renown was not spun of legend nor woven by scribes' ornamented tales, but sealed in blood. Continents he had scoured into nothingness, ground them to dust until they lay in his palm as no more than a cube of ash—never out of desire, but because his lord had willed it. In his work there was no mercy, no indulgence of sentiment.
And now… work awaited him still. Yet this task bore not the shape of conquest nor of massacre, but of calamity—the like of which his house had not faced in four centuries. He, who had stripped whole cities of breath, stood before it with steps grown heavy.
Before him rose the singular mausoleum, a vast structure cleft with ancient carvings, standing like a monolith that dared defy eternity. Its façade gaped open, a mouth of shadow swallowing the stone stair that plunged downward into a darkness without end.
Ignis did not avert his gaze. The eyes that had borne witness to the fall of continents fixed themselves upon that abyssal threshold. With a slight adjustment of his silver mantle upon his shoulder, he stepped forward. The air about the tomb was heavier than elsewhere, steeped in the scent of cold soil and rusted iron, the breath of a vault unopened for countless ages.
His fingers lingered upon the white ring upon his hand—a silent reminder of loyalty, or perhaps of a shackle that could never be broken.
The stone steps quaked beneath the weight of their tread, each strike carving its rhythm into the marrow of the earth. Metal-shod boots rasped against the chill marble, breath drawn in sharp, measured gasps echoing into the hollow air. From the shrouded dark, three living phantoms emerged in sequence, as though conjured by the fog itself, clinging to the graveyard like extensions of its very being.
At the fore, Ancaues took shape—a figure forged as though from wrought iron, rising in the gray haze like a living statue. The pallid gleam of his mask caught the wan light, while his eyes pierced the gloom as if every stone, every grain of dust beneath, was counted by his sight. To his left moved a taller, leaner shadow—Castor—his gait marked by a precision so deliberate it seemed each step had been measured to avoid the smallest fissure of the ground. On the other side, faint radiance seeped forth—the countenance of Lagryta, her eyes luminous in the thickening dark, as if a secret light breathed beneath their lenses.
Together they ascended the steps, slowly, each motion drawn as though from the heart of the earth itself. The groan of stone beneath their boots, the mingled scent of ancient dampness and rusted metal, the faint pulse rising from within the walls—these wove a sepulchral symphony heralding the moment to come.
They halted before Ignis, who stood immovable, his silver mantle curled about his shoulder, catching the dim glow of distant lanterns and scattering it across the folds of his robe. His eyes—tempered by decades of labor and centuries of burden—searched every detail: the edges of the tomb, the tangled lines of its carvings, the descending stair, even the threads of spider-silk that shimmered faintly in the murky light, sharp as a hidden blade.
Ignis shattered the silence, his voice gravelled, balanced between command and composure:
"Tell me, then… did you find, in the depths of this darkness, aught that merits our concern?"
Ancaues stepped forward, his tone a steel more rigid than his form:
"Patience, sir Ignis. I found little to stir joy. The passage stretched unbroken, its inscriptions more intricate than we foresaw, unraveling like braids of enigma without end. At last, we reached a chamber of utter blackness, barren of adornment, save for its cold paving. And there, at the center, a white sarcophagus open, and empty. Whoever pried it wide has already taken what lay within."
His breath fell heavy, and he cast a look back into the descending dark. Then Castor spoke, finishing his thought:
"The passage itself—if such it may be called—behaves as though it were no place at all. The instant we pressed deeper into the black, we were severed from all knowledge, all communion with Uris itself."
Ignis frowned.
"I do not believe I understand your meaning."
The three shadows fell silent, until at last Castor, the elder, replied:
"Nor do we, sir Ignis."
The air quivered with the subterranean pulse, the fall of water from some unseen fissure above, and the coarse whisper of their cloaks stirred by a passing breath of wind. Ancaues turned toward Ignis, his gaze heavy with both dread and resignation. His voice dropped, low yet weightier than before:
"And you… what did you uncover? Was there aught to turn the course of this day?"
Ignis smiled, a narrow curve devoid of mirth or wrath. Perhaps it was satisfaction—perhaps triumph—that even the greatest magicians of the earth did not share what he knew. He lifted his left hand, the white ring upon his little finger glinting faintly, and moved it as though marking time. Then, with a voice drawn from the marrow of wisdom and dread, he spoke:
"Beyond all that… my lord, I have found the hand that wrought this."
The mist shuddered once more, as if stirred by the resonance of those final words. A breath of air carried the stench of ancient stone—damp decay, freshly hewn rock, and the faint metallic tang of something cold, something that belonged less to the living than to the silence of a tomb awaiting its end.
The four moved through the choking haze, their steps muffled against the sodden earth. At their head strode Ignis, eyes glinting with a flicker of mockery, while the others exchanged wary, searching glances.
Ancaues's voice cut through the fog, sharp with the impatience of an inquest:
"So, Ignis… will you at last grant us the name of the culprit?"
Ignis did not answer at once. A faint, cryptic smile crossed his lips. Then Lagryta spoke, her eyes veiled with sorrow:
"I too wish to know… especially after the death of Athecalis. My brother was no pillar of House Rosenveir, yet I cannot bear to see his name erased from the family tree as if it were nothing."
Ignis arched his brows, as though her words had sparked some darker thought. His tone, when it came, was edged with something unsettling:
"Of course, my lady… but allow me first a single question: when you entered this place… did you come through the main gate?"
Lagryta faltered before replying:
"In truth, no. We went straight to the tomb the moment the tidings reached us."
His smile turned glacial.
"That was a grave mistake… for you overlooked something of consequence at the threshold."
Castor's aged laugh rasped out, rough with derision:
"Overlooked? Do not mock us, boy. We watch all things—what was, what is, and what is yet to come in Uris. Even the subatomic grains of creation escape us not."
Ignis frowned, voice steeped in sardonic weight:
"I understand, Lord Castor… though of late, evidence has shown otherwise."
The elder's face hardened, but Ignis silenced further protest with a gesture toward the open golden gate. His tone shed all irony, settling into grim precision:
"I cannot say why, nor how. Only this: I did not open it. When I came, it was already unbarred."
Lagryta's whisper trembled in the air:
"If the murderer could unseal a tomb that even we could not breach… then no gate would have hindered him."
Ignis's reply grew darker still:
"Perhaps. Yet know this—the gate was opened with the key of the House."
It was as though a thunderbolt struck the graves around them. Ancaues's eyes widened in stunned disbelief, his voice a hoarse whisper:
"The family key? You mean to say… one of House Eisenhart?"
The three drew closer to the gate, their breaths heavy, dread thickening with every step. And as they approached, the fog parted, unveiling a sight that froze the very blood in their veins.
An old man stood before them, clad in the garb of a coachman, his face pale as though wrenched from the grave itself. Before him lay a shattered carriage, its frame splintered, its monstrous steeds sprawled lifeless in the mire, as if death had devoured them all at once.
The vision was no stranger to them. They knew that carriage. They knew those steeds. They knew the master, though none had ever met him face to face. They knew for whom that coachman had always driven.
There could be no doubt.
It was him.
Simon—Simon Eisenhart.