What wicked crime had Lance committed that he deserved this?
Silverlight flooded his room, hitting him right in the face. His head flared as if a Qa'an had struck him, ripping him off Illaxia's back. He pushed his hair out of his face, cursing.
"Ah, you are awake,"
Lance looked up. The host's daughter had put on her dress, coiling her long hair into a bun. Harras, she was young. Barely old enough to marry.
She watched him. Lance had forgotten her name, a secret lost in the haze of last night. He recalled her smile, the spark in her eyes. She had admired him, thinking him the man the Empire claimed him to be. All had dimmed. She saw him for the drunkard he was. If his snorting, smell, or lack of decorum hadn't eradicated her adoration for him, his poor performance must have done it. Her look told him all. He had made her feel like an object he had used, discarding all her desires and wants. He had yet to meet a woman that would describe him as a generous lover.
Well, there was one exception.
Lance scratched his eyebrows, war raging behind. "Say… did I pull out?"
The girl was Lors like him. A blessing, as he hated speaking Nord or Latius when suffering the consequences of his actions. She pressed her lips into a line, shaking her head. "No, you didn't."
Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. Should you… end up expecting, contact Military. They will take care of it."
She just stared at him. The surrounding air seemed to vibrate, scorched by the silent rage kept at bay. "What will they take care of?"
"Well… this. Listen, if you don't want the child, Military will send Alchemists to you, and they will get rid of it for you. If you want to keep it, they will provide you… with the funds to raise it."
She said nothing, aghast at his audacity.
"I would prefer that you do not have the child. I can't have another bastard."
As any woman in a military outpost, no matter the age, she had learned to suppress her emotions. She had heard the stories of what had happened to girls her age when they insulted a high-ranking highborn like him. Lance would never do something like this, but the fear proved itself to be a boon in such situations.
Her eyes were spears, impaling him. He had felt shame once. But going through enough girls like her, their looks lost their impact. She said no other word, storming out of his room. Lance exhaled, making it to the window of his room. He needed fresh air.
Streets broiling with hectic motions, thousands of people trading, transporting, or marching. Tabr was a harbor city, lying at the Sannarian coast. The Lorraines were responsible for most of the transport of goods, but they couldn't handle the army's needs alone. Dozens of ships sailed towards Tabr, Great Machinas fueling them. The city was nothing but a ruin the Empire inhabited. It had fallen when the Qilesh attacked, killing most Sannarians. Tabr was a ghost, speaking of the people who once lived here.
Sandstorms swept through the streets often, cutting scars into the buildings. After three centuries of inhabiting Tabr, the Empire had learned to adjust to the harsh conditions of the desert, flowing with it instead of fighting against it. Alchemists trained for the desert kept watch over it, predicting when the next sandstorm should hit them. The next few days, there would be peace. They took advantage of it, working diligently like Janloons. Tabr and all occupied outposts were free of the Empire's lavish decorum and propaganda. There was no need for it here. They had convinced every poor soul here to throw away their lives.
Lance played with his hair, his head aching. After days of constant fighting, Gram had allowed him a break. He couldn't afford the people to see the Promised Dawn crack under exhaustion. The Resistance had worked wonders in rallying up the Qilesh. Several Qa'ans attacked all at the same time, pushing deep into the Empire's territory. They had slowed them down, but it would take weeks more before they would stop their assault.
Military had lost dearly, tens of thousands of soldiers gone, turned into mass for the Qilesh. No one cried a tear for them. At the end of the day, they had served their purpose. The Empire had no master. Each member, from poor pleb to the Emperor himself, had a role to play. They all served the greater purpose. Harras' Great Design, the death of all Xenrus, and the liberation of the sun. The Empire worked as it was intended, burning through its citizens to fight the war. Lance's role was a good one. He had to fight often, but they drowned him in luxury, alcohol, and women. What else could a man want?
He touched his face, feeling his flawless skin. The Alchemist had worked wonders on him, transforming him into a beauty worth admiring. What would he be without this war? What would the Military, the Inquisition, the Sacred Houses, or the Emperor do without the Qilesh? The Empire worked as intended, yes, but it relied on the continuation of the war. It could only exist through fighting the Fleshdancer. Despite its grandeur, it was no natural law, no aspect to existence itself. The Empire existed through its citizens, plebeians and highborn alike, coming to be through their daily actions. Should they cease to think about the Empire, change their behavior, or change how they perceived their surroundings, the Empire would cease, too.
The war needed to continue. Without it, the highborns, as well as the Emperor, and the Sacred Houses, as well as Lance, would lose their purpose and justification to hold the position they claimed. Why did they deserve the power and wealth while others struggled to earn enough to eat? But they would find a new war, but this time, they would battle and kill their fellow man. A risk not worth taking.
Lance grumbled, his head hurting more with thoughts this heavy. Illaxia, Lance called out in his mind.
Yes, she replied. Her voice was as calm as the sky after a storm and rich as the ocean, centuries of wisdom lying underneath. She hadn't eavesdropped on his thoughts, but her voice oozed with concern like a grandmother watching her grandson heading onto the wrong path.
Could you… help with my headaches?
No.
Illaxia, please. They are killing me. Let me summon an aspect of…
Lance, this cannot continue.
Lance lowered his head, his golden locks falling over his face. Illaxia, please, don't…
You need to go back to them. I have watched you for far too long. You are not your father or grandfather. Your children need you. Your wife needs you.
Lance scoffed, pushing his hair backwards. I will break the cycle, Illaxia. These thoughts will die with me. They will have a better life. More than I had.
Illaxia sighed, nestling herself against Lance like a cat. Oh, my poor boy. This is not how you give them a better life. This is how you give them scars. You are not alone. There is a way. But you need to walk it. I cannot force you. Your dark thoughts…
They are mine to bear.
Lance…
Did you find Everon?
Illaxia hesitated, refusing to change the subject, but she yielded. Like a good grandmother, she struggled to stand against her grandson's wishes. No. He has vanished.
Lance clicked his tongue, slamming his fist into the window's frame. Dragons were by their nature spirits. Only bound to a rider could they take a physical shape. Without a connection, they inhabited the sphere of thoughts and prayers. Lance never understood it, and no dragon could explain their homeworld to a human as Lance could not explain colors to the blind. Bound dragons could reach out to the ones without a rider. But once they had chosen a human and attached themselves to them, they resided in their heads. If Illaxia couldn't find Everon, he was with the boy after all.
Blackbone is bound to him. Their worst fear.
Why? Lance asked her. Why would Everon stay with him after… everything? He helped build the Empire. Why betray it?
Illaxia hummed, a habit of hers when she was thinking. Everon… wasn't the same since Peran died. Like many before him, the death of our chosen... leaves its mark on us. It's a wound we all must carry, but the deeper the bond, the more it bleeds. I had thought him lost. Him and Malador. Their hearts were broken. Whatever Everon saw in the boy, it seemed worth abandoning all he created. Perhaps… he saw love in him. A love he had thought he could never have again.
Hm, Lance replied. He didn't want to admit it, but this he could understand. Holding his sons in his arms for the first time, he learned it. The kind of love that would allow him to leave all behind. Even his sons. Malador has said nothing on the matter?
No. He ignores us all. He has no interest in Ekon without Lanrion in it.
Another great hero of the Empire, turning his back on them. Can he strengthen his bond to Everon without the Society's help? Without Casar's Summit?
Illaxia fell silent again, buzzing. I am… unsure. He will have to pass the rites and cannot access Everon fully without climbing Casar's Summit. But their connection has been formed. Their bond should grow even without our help. It will be slower, but over time, he will gain Everon's wisdom and his aspects.
"Fuck!" Lance hissed.
Everon and a Knight Dracon on the Resistance's side was fatal enough. Blackbone would cause havoc in Sannara and their armies. Even the Ministry of Public would struggle to spin this story. Their own propaganda came to haunt them. They were better off trying to suppress this, but how could you suppress such a betrayal?
But Drom's Profane Design knew no limit. Based on the few reports Military had received, the boy had become a Wizard, too. Lance had never thought about the possibility of a Knight Dracon wielding Magic as well. No part of the Empire would have allowed the Society to try. Military, the Magistrate of Magic, and the Sacred Houses would rather face extinction. A Draconist possessing the power of an Archmage would make them unstoppable. As all institutions of the Empire, Military and the Society stood in direct competition with one another, their performance dictating the resources they would get from the Empire. This Knight Dracon would ensure the castration of Military. Worse. The end of the war.
It kept them all in check, but the tension between all branches of the Empire ensured ample targets for the Resistance. If they had stood unified, the rebels wouldn't have disrupted them, creating the opportunity for the boy to flee.
What was Lance supposed to think of him?
His dreams nagged him worse than his conscience. The way the boy looked at him, eyes filled with hope, stung deeper than any before. He believed in his persona stronger than the rest. Lance could play the jester for people he did not care for. For men and women he did not know. But watching the boy, Lance wanted to hope, too.
Well, he had begun to glimpse the real Lance. Not the figure of light the Empire sold the public. Each night he feared seeing the spark in his eyes dim further. It was easy if there was distance, but the closer someone came, the more difficult Lance's duties became. It was just a job. He only did his part, playing for the masses. He steered the lambs towards the butcher, making them believe they would be the ones to escape the cleaver. How could he do it with the boy, though?
Lance turned around, finding his answer in empty bottles. He looked through them, finding one filled with some liquor.
Lance, Illaxia spoke to him. Please.
Everon's betrayal might cause another Dragonfall. How many Knight Dracon and their dragons will consider joining the enemy because Blackbone did? We can't have another civil war. The Society barely survived the first one.
There will be no second one.
I hope so, but aside from Malador, Everon was the strongest dragon standing on Casar's side. If he chooses the Resistance, some might consider it, too. Blackbone's opinion matters more than other dragons's. We need to talk to Gram about this. But first…
Lance grabbed the bottle, staring at it. His reflection was twisted, void of all that made him human. Nothing but a husk that had perfected the act.
This.