SoulRend: Mors Ultima

The howl of endless winds wane over the edges of such a place.

A presence of mistake, born from desire.

The doctors of kingdoms—their most loyal fledglings performing tricks of blissful ignorance, across a sea of unknowing hands.

All reaching above the rest, jarred fingers reaching for the highest of fruits.

An elderly fellow leans against a doorstep of mossy brick. His skin the colour of his hair.

A penny for the old guy.

Dwindling are the nations buried beneath these winds.

Perhaps this is judgement.

Yet there is no one worthy of judging.

Humanity is god.

And yet.

Over the walls.

Outside of such places lined with depravity.

Far off in the hills, between trees of blues, greens, autumn oranges and bright fragrant yellows.

Here sits a place of hammers, hammers for walls.

The sun sits just short of an hour from apex.

Beneath it, a rat.

Hydrangea[1]

Laces of thin dew collect between the ridges of blue and green leaves. Beneath the gathering weight the plant takes its bow in reverence, returning its captured water to the waiting earth beneath.

Her eyes stare longingly at its motions, that which carry wishes—wishes born of a pure soul. Pupils quivering in a language not quite foreign to that of a broken heart.

Her delicate hand traces its way around the plant's roots, fingers wrapped in the fruitful vines of berry plants. The ends of those vines soon begin to peel back from their stakes, retracting from her most supple skin and delving beneath the thick layers of dirt.

The glorious midday light pours a cascade of golden rays through the glass hall above, bathing the freshly budded greenery encompassing her.

The rare metals that line the outer walls of the building shine beautifully this time of day, and as such, her dignity tends to this portion of the manor's garden just at this time.

Close behind her stands an odd boy of a very undutiful stature. He wears a well-pressed suit across him, buttoned with flowers very similar to that which encroach upon his majesty's skin.

His eyes sink halfway into his face, with darkened circles biting at their edges. And in great contrast, his hair rests in a magnificent violet shade.

"Lilac, would you be a dear and fetch me some water"

Her voice soft as caramel, accent sweet as wine. She whips the tailed ends of her dress to her side as she stands to face the boy, with the outer layer of velvet twisting itself upon the flowers that drape over her.

The boy still has not moved a muscle; In fact, it is unlikely he has even registered her words as he stares blankly at the sky above. In this light it is clear to see the fragility of his nature, his limbs are almost skeletal, and many a scar rests along his skin. Most notable is a wound resembling that of a bullet, positioned directly to the right of his Adam's apple.

Her Grace then lowers her chin, a smirk stretching across her rounded cheeks.

"Apologies, I was unaware that I had brought a gargoyle to my side"

It's only as she flashes such an uncharacteristic grin in his direction that he snaps free from wherever his mind was caged.

"Oh yes dear Flower, right—right away"

Shaking his head violently, he turns to scale up to the greenhouse's entrance, tracing the sides of the bricked garden beds in search of equipment.

Flower keeps her gaze on him as he walks to the hall's end—observing the way his hair falls down around his neck yet stays neat at the height of its edges, along with the way his body no longer sways as if unable to hold up its own weight.

She truly had enabled this one to grow.

Withdrawing her gaze for a moment, she turns to look up behind her instead.

Thick concrete walls run upwards at the end of the greenhouse, all the way up to stained windows, ornate tapestries of the empires rustling in the soft winds to the pane's sides.

Flower, Lilac, and her many knights had all been assigned quarters deep within the manor's grounds—In fact, they were the first to be addressed to such an event, if one excludes its internal staff and the old lord who once lived upon these grounds, that is.

They also happened to be the only other members given rights to tend to its premises.

"Here, mistress"

The cold press of an iron bucket shocks the back of her neck causing her to flinch before turning sheepishly to face the boy.

"Thank you, dear..."

Softly clasping its handle, she begins to shift the bucket back and forth, only allowing precise amounts of water to fall at a time.

Lilac himself watches on, absorbed in his teachers excellent prowess—her own unique art.

He often enjoys coming out to "survey the area"—only to have an excuse to look over her.

One may find him odd for such actions—but frankly he viewed the whole ordeal far closer to watching a natural wonder, than seeking out an individual.

Slowly one by one Flower moves herself down the rows of differing vegetation.

He wonders perhaps if this is how those who watched on at him felt. Bound to floors and forced to grovel, beaten over and over, perhaps the pleasure derived from a similar root.

Men of normal societies would never begin to grace their mind with such understandings. They can afford their own luxuries, at least those here can, with their expensive furnishing and their elaborate wastes of clothing.

"Lilac... the other empires have arrived by now..."

Lilac empties his mind, giving her his full attention.

"Yes, they have."

Her chin begins to falter.

"Have you seen the likes of Muanar Crees yet?"

Lilac takes a moment to think before replying,

"No, I have not."

"I see..."

She lets the last of the water fall.

"Lilac, I need you to gather the Petals and make your way to the meeting room."

"Yes, mistress. Of course"

"Do alert any others you may cross too."

He nods, turning to face the end of the greenhouse.

"And, Lilac—"

"If you see any member of Muanar, be sure not to lower your gaze."

His eyes fall to the floor.

"Uhm, yes, of course."

The soft chirping of birds drifts through the rustle of autumn leaves. Sunlight presses warmly against the gardeners' necks as they work in divided groups, carefully tending to the hedges.

A steady path of stone tiles winds around them, leading toward the head of the greenhouse, where it opens into a broad courtyard. At its centre stands a great iron fountain, its waters waning to a quiet trickle.

Lilac waltzes down from the greenhouse before motioning towards a pair of knights halted at the entrances side.

Their attire is rather unusual, with rose-gold plating being drowned by bouquets of flowers, a special gift from the grace of their master's soul.

Recognising the gesture given before them, the soldiers tighten their grips around their belts and fall into step behind him as Lilac hastens through the gardens.

"Oh, Lilac!"

One of the gardeners greets him with a fond wave, his sleeves rolled high, both hands muddied by the soil.

"Do grace Her Highness with a few sweet words on my behalf. Her work here has been beyond anything I've ever seen."

A soft, practised smile crosses Lilac's face.

"Of course. Thank you dearly for your efforts—I'll be certain she hears of them."

He turns away from the workers, his attention settling upon the fence line bordering the garden and the dense woodland enclosing the manor grounds.

His eyes pass slowly across the hedges and pathways, searching for the remainder of his men-at-arms, who should already be awaiting his orders.

He spots only two—one stationed at either end of the garden.

The slight narrowing of his gaze makes it clear that he had expected more, yet the absence appears to trouble him little. Without breaking stride, he sets off to gather the remainder of his cohort himself.

Before long, the assembled line of soldiers marches in the wake of their frail young master, departing the gardens through rose-lined pathways and advancing toward the manor's rear entrance.

The Manor is impossibly large from Lilacs outside perspective. He was used to the likes of rooms, cages, towering walls rather than towering buildings.

This end of the structure alone had 4 distinct levels, each furnished entirely—filled with lavish facilities and each fittingly staffed.

Despite the splendour ahead of him, the boy gathers himself; it is, of course, not his first time reveling in the beauties of this new life. And so the group heads to the thick brickwood door and attempt to push their way in.

The door handle turns, and the door does begin to yield; however, something on the other side seems to prevent it from completing a full swing.

Promptly one of the soldiers places a hand on Lilac's shoulder, stepping ahead of him to make an attempt of his own.

A few moments of bashing ensue, and with excessive force, the unseen obstruction finally breaks with the echo of a crash—or perhaps something closer to a wet slap.

The door peels slowly inward, revealing a broad chamber devoted almost entirely to the preservation of the manor's history.

Keepsakes from generations past have been arranged carefully throughout the room, each granted its own deliberate place among the furnishings. A blackwood piano rests beneath the eastern windows; framed paintings climb the walls around it—portraits of solemn nobles, distant landscapes, and battles all long since faded from common memory.

Glass cabinets occupy the corners, displaying tarnished medals, sealed letters, hunting instruments, and other relics whose significance is not immediately apparent. Even the rugs beneath their feet appear too finely woven to endure the mud carried in from the gardens.

At the far end stand two doors.

The first is set plainly into the rear wall, its frame narrow and undecorated. Beyond it, a descending passage leads toward the manor's lower kitchens and servants' quarters, from which the distant clatter of cookware can sometimes be heard.

The second rests high above a sweeping flight of marble stairs running along the western wall. The steps curve gently upward beneath a carved stone railing, passing portraits and hanging tapestries before reaching a pair of tall doors crowned with the manor's crest.

Beyond them lies the central opening of the estate—the great interior hall from which nearly every major wing of the manor can be reached.

Lilac pushes his way in, still insisting on leading his cohort. Yet where he would otherwise step, he is pulled to a stop by the sight before him.

They had not been fighting against a blockade, nor a faulty hinge, but against the weight of a single man, now sprawled across the floor in a state of dismay.

His face almost entirely encompassed by medical bandages, with only a single green eye revealed within. He stares upwards at Lilac with a palpable amount of shame, enough so that Lilac promptly averts his gaze as not to feel any more guilt.

It's through this motion that Lilac then notices why the soldiers behind him had not continued their march. At the very centre of the room is a large round table made of some fine mineral, and upon the seats surrounding, a group of rather concerned individuals—or, at least, individuals of great concern to Lilac himself. Their armour only matched by the stares of pure hatred coming from the two members sitting at its far side.

A woman fashioning short blonde hair, heavily plated armour fitted around her shoulders, wearing a sheer look of disgust.

Within arms reach of her sits another fellow, far older, in attire resembling that of a noble. A grey beard filtering out most of his expression, yet still visible are his stern eyes, along with a deep scar running from his cheek down through to his neck.

Lilac's gaze lingers for a moment before finally being able to break free. He turns towards the staircase against the wall and marches forwards.

Setting off with stiff shoulders, his eyes fixed where his feet land, not daring to let them drift.

He curves along the western wall, almost brushing shoulders with the royal knights stationed along the room's edges.

"Sir."

Stillness.

'the air of this building is awfully humid.

my neck itches.

my heels ache.

why am I still standing here.

move.

i want to move'

"Sir!"

The coarse voice of that noble, like claws on wood.

"Ye—how can I be of service?"

Practised. Calculated. Programmed. That smile.

Lilac performs his signature head tilt, his knights still halted in directionless stares behind him.

"You're one with the flowers, yes?"

His eyes that of a terful, his teeth bared like a starved dog.

"Why, of course sir, is there—"

"You try to oppose us here and we'll raze your forests."

He pushes those words out hard through gritted teeth.

Across from him, that commander-esque lady plants an open palm on her forehead, gazing down as she sighs in frustration. She shuffles slightly in her seat, but her stature remains stern.

"Understood, sir"

Lilac's throat swells as thin beads of sweat spill down to his collar.

Then he remembers something.

"The meeting is soon to start, you should all rise to the meeting hall no—"

"YOUR MORAL HIGH GROUND IS PILES OF DIRT, YA HERE!"

His barks echo across the walls like gunshots. Lilac instantly snaps his gaze back forward, pushing his body back to working order and taking the ascent out of the room, not daring to look back again.

The Petals behind him trace his footsteps, all subconsciously shifting their waistline, hilts at the ready.

The central corps de logis is still rather unoccupied. The middle floor onto which Lilac emerges mainly holds men-at-arms who have been left to wait

The room itself is filled with lush greenery hung around expensive ornaments. The middle of the room features a large railing, each piece decorated with a jewel and each subsequent piece matching the palette to create a vignette of sorts lining the room's centre.

Of course, beyond the railing the floor gives way, revealing the multi-leveled building going both up and down.

Lilac strolls his way past the opening, his body practically pressed up against the opposing wall, making his way around the mechanical elevator station at the back end of the room, and shifting further towards the manor's left wing.

The stress is evident in his eyes. A meeting of this magnitude was enough pressure alone, and now dealing with Muanar Crees...

The way Flower looked at him almost certainly disturbs him the most. A woman like her never diverts her gaze, let alone with eyes of longing.

Whatever they're threatening to propose has sent his mind into a spiral. And the way that man spoke—a nobleman no less yet so ill-mannered.

Those are likely the type who have never faced issue, the like who have never seen the walls that eventually stop them.

He shakes his head violently once more, forcing his eyes ahead as he narrowly avoids collision with a group of royal knights. Lavish gold... Vael, perhaps?

He was not too fashioned with the individual empires or their appearances, no more than what Flower had told him, that is.

Alas, that is all he truly cared about knowing.

Finally, with the Petals still tracing his every step, he swings through the last doorway, turning off into the west wing.

Everything at this end appears to be made of black marble, giving the hall a very dull tone, especially with the windows all shrouded in curtains.

Leading down to the halls end stands an archway.

Against either pillar stand two armed guards, wielding large metal blades and exuding a low aura of Anima from their bodies. Shortly ahead of them, two profoundly annoyed men, both dressed in dark blue gowns and possessing unusually coloured hair, stand barking at the unwavering security.

"So sire, if you will so kindly bend to my request, I do wish that you could still your tongue and inform me with-when-these-gates-will-open!"

He rushes to finish the end of his sentence as if to stress the importance of time. Alas, the guard does little to respond.

The other man, sighs unamused.

"If you would be so kind as to offer us some form of timeframe, our appreciation would overshadow my partner's impudence"

Even then, no response is found.

"Well, look how they stare, do tell me these men do not openly engage in tongue-lashing despite the stillness of their lips!"

"I would go so far as to drive a clenched fist across your mouth if you spoke to me that way, Axle."

The larger of the two, brandishing a thin curved blade, almost akin to an elongated cutlass, and with blue hair tied to a bun at the back of his head, presses his hand on the younger's—"Axles"—back.

Axle is a fairly young and frail fellow, not to the extent of Lilac, but not far off. He lets off a shy sigh, allowing the folds of his green hair to fall over his eyes.

"I would be led to believe we are not the only ones now waiting."

The elder now staring down the hall towards Lilac and company.

"Unfortunately, I don't bear any formal information with me."

Lilacs voice is tighter as he speaks, like a bird attempting to puff up its chest, an effort that has the clear effect of only making the conversation awkward.

"I suppose then one can use the wait to remind themselves we are on official business then."

Again, the elder takes a sly glance over his back at the unamused Axle.

"Waiting it is."

Waiting.

The sands of time shift as one tests worldly patience far too long.

A forgone prophecy stirs in the burden of such stillness.

Towards the head of the manor now, where fate begins to stir.

Between the trees a prophet of action.

The sun sits minutes from apex.

Beneath it, a compass.

Trillium[2]

Wailing trees—the wind pressing through their weighted branches, the sun scarcely scorching. Nothing like a desert at all.

Stone tiles, the kind wrapped in vines, pave a road stretching towards the opening ahead.

Through this veil, a building reveals itself, its ornate tiling running towards gutters lined in gold before tracing down to stained-glass windows resting gently above newly raised tapestries.

The banners of the empires flow like water within the open currents, whipping around to partially conceal the grand oak door at the entrance.

Still concealed beneath the trees, a group comes to a halt. Chainmail drags across armoured leggings, while most of their faces remain hidden behind iron visors.

The one standing at the head of the formation bows slightly, as though paying respect to the natural surroundings, before turning over his shoulder to address the regiment.

"Do you feel that?"

His voice is an art unto itself, softened by thin traces of a northern accent, each word breathy in nature.

"That wind you feel—the soft embrace of your surroundings. Please set its presence deep within you."

The scrape of plate against plate echoes along the pathway as they lower their gaze and bow.

"Indeed, the woes of desolation are forgotten here. The caws of blackbirds are but distant echoes."

The wind begins to rise, the rustling of leaves sharpening into a shrill screech. Long golden locks whip across the delicately sharp face of the leader as his words begin to rise in volume.

"And it is here that we stand—here that we stand to satiate the burning wishes of mothers, fathers, and children lost to the plague of human greed, our wrath, and our gluttony."

"My men-at-arms, today—today is when we save the living and the dead alike. Today, we make peace."

With a final gust, leaves rise from between the soldiers' legs, drifting upwards into the open sky as the armed men raise their heads in unison, their movement joining with the essence of his words.

As the formation slowly gathers itself once more, the snapping of twigs sounds through the shrubbery. Heads turn as the last of Vael's[3] men, who had been holding the flanks of the path, are permitted to pass through.

Between them, a certain figure shuffles, with four men positioned at each of his sides, to prevent anyone from reaching.

He carries with him a cloak the colour of sand which consumes most of his features, only exposing his black hair, pulled back over his head in thick rows, to define him.

To his right walks a man in a beautiful gown, white fur lining the coat-like edges, with the inner pieces being outlined with golden weave. His face is masked by an unusual piece, its expressionless surface extending into something resembling the beak of a crow.

On his left walks a man in similar attire, though far prettier, with delicate hands decorated in rings and a rather dainty stature.

"So, which of you is the commander?"

The cloaked voice is stern, but his words don't intentionally come off as hasty. After those around him exchange concerned looks, the daintier one answers.

"Isn't it obvious?"

He gives a subtle nod towards the man orchestrating the formation. Luscious strands of gold-blond hair rest upon the commander's shoulders, carefully designed drapes bearing images of the northern mountain ranges flicker against the ground as wind continues to pass overhead.

"Oh, and you are?"

The dainty man continues the conversation, while everyone else makes a clear effort to avoid staring.

"Tarik..."

The noble raises an eyebrow.

"So, you're a foreigner—not from the lands of Vael, then, I take it?"

Tarik shakes his head, eyes drifting along the skyline.

"I am. Just not from an occupied city."

"Then forgive me if this appears insolent, but how did you come to be invited to such an event?"

Tarik's neck remains stiff, his eyes following the leader as he presses forth from the cover of the trees and steps into the warm embrace of the sun, allowing its pale light to spill across the golden embroidery of his armour.

"I was summoned."

Although to Tarik the difference between the two words appears slight, it is enough to still the expression upon the nobleman's face. Even the masked figure to Tarik's right shifts his head, the long beak of his mask angling towards him.

"Summoned by whom?"

Ahead, the commander raises a hand, his fingers quickly curling into a clenched fist. The greater formation comes to a halt at the edge of the courtyard, the clattering of armour dying in uneven waves until only the sounds of wilderness remain. Far below them, birds cry through the mouth of a vast ravine, their calls swallowed by stone as the chasm stretches across the manor's front.

A narrow bridge awaits the procession. Its weathered stones far older than the estate beyond, their edges softened by age and threaded with pale veins of moss. No railing guards either edge. Only a row of worn pillars marks the passage across.

Tarik, gazing even further forward, notices two members beside either door.

An elderly man stands dressed in a finely pressed suit, soft lines of mirth carved deeply into the flesh of his face. Beside him waits a far more unruly boy, unkempt hair matching his bent posture.

They stare upon the arriving host in undisguised awe.

The commander, ever the charmer, meets their astonishment with a gracious smile.

"Please, do not allow our arrival to disturb you."

His voice seems to release them from some enchantment.

The elderly attendant bows at once, dragging the younger man down with a hurried hand upon his sleeve. After a brief exchange of gestures, they step aside and motion towards the bridge.

The commander inclines his head.

"You have my thanks."

He says it with such sincerity that the elder appears uncertain whether he has been greeted by a military commander or blessed by some wandering saint.

At another motion of the commander's hand, the formation once more begins to move.

Tarik moves among them, still enclosed by his four guards.

"You neglected to answer me."

The dainty noble has drawn close enough for his words to brush against Tarik's ear.

"Forgive me, but is there any reason of weight as to why I should even answer?"

A miserable little frown spreads across the nobleman's face, so dramatically wounded that Tarik cannot tell whether it is mockery or not.

Alas, Tarik attempts to ignore the man. He has no concern for the desires of empires—or, rather, for much of anything.

And yet, from the way he catches his eyes trace the back of their leader, the way he moves with such purpose—perhaps he hopes that man might be capable of granting him some of that.

"I don't know."

Tarik's face falls as the words escape him, and the nobleman's expression does much the same.

"You do not know who summoned you?"

"I know where the message came from, and a guide sought me out to deliver me here..."

"Who signed off on the message, then?"

"What do you mean?"

The nobleman's expression sharpens with interest.

"The bottom of the seal should've featured a small slip with a signature—of the letter I mean."

"No, it was nothing like that. I suppose it was more of a special invitation."

His focus wanes.

"A letter addressing you but unsigned..."

Ahead of them, the commander reaches the far side of the bridge. 

The nobleman follows Tarik's gaze.

"Well,"

he murmurs,

"if you were indeed summoned by the Imperium, then I can think of only one man with the authority to leave a note unsigned, if that were truly the intention."

Tarik studies the commander's back.

"Quite the man he must be."

The nobleman adjusts one of the rings upon his delicate fingers, eyes gazing down with sorrow.

"Well for many, a signature is proof of their achievements—they fear the world may otherwise forget them."

"Right."

The nobleman forces a thin smile.

"He fears many things. Being forgotten is not among them."

Tarik laughs internally. For another man to speak so fondly of your abilities. He begins to question whether this illustrious northern world is perhaps just a herd of bored sheep.

At the head of the procession, the commander passes beneath the banners hanging over the entrance. Their embroidered emblems ripple above him, each empire briefly folding into the colours of another before the wind tears them apart again.

"I still don't see why he didn't approach me himself?"

"He lacks the time."

He scoffs at Tarik's earlier remark, finally processing it, before continuing.

"That is Dandrilar of Vael, second only to the Emperors final guard.[4]"

Tarik nods as if following the lead of the nobleman, but his focus wanes as he attempts to revel in the grander expanses of this world.

The great oak doors are pressed open by the weight of the commander. Cool air spills from within, carrying the scents of old timber, extinguished candles and something faintly floral. One by one, the soldiers pass from the warmth of the morning into the dim interior.

A grand hall unfolds around them beneath a half-cylindrical ceiling. Ornate scenes stretch across its curved surface: pale Kaisers reaching down through painted clouds, emperors kneeling beneath flowering crowns, and armies vanishing into storms of silver leaf.

Tall stained-glass windows divide the early light into shades of violet and green. Their colours drift across the advancing soldiers, staining their armour as they move—as though each man is passing beneath the gaze of some unseen cathedral.

The leader has stopped beneath the final painted arch, where the coloured light fails to reach. His golden hair appears duller there, his silhouette swallowed almost entirely by the shadows of the deeper manor.

In one corner, soldiers lie in wait, huddled against the walls of the room. Amongst them stands a rather stressed-looking man — or perhaps a woman, their features too soft for Tarik to discern the difference. Their eyes meet Tarik's for a moment as he looks for something to occupy his attention.

Their pupils dilate, as though attempting to offer him some silent warning. Perhaps he should be stressed. There is certainly a severity to the matters at hand, and yet none of it concerns him at all. He only wishes to obey whatever this commanding figure orders him to do. Is that really how he should live, though? How does he even want to live?

"Tarik, the soldiers are going to pay their respects to the manor's lords. You're welcome to wait farther ahead or acquaint yourself with the manor's services."

The manor's services... Tarik's thoughts wander as he imagines what they might entail. More particularly is the question of staying, the manor is quite secluded and obviously large enough to house many a member, so would there be bedding here for him? It has been quite a long journey on the road, and the soft embrace of cushioning would certainly be a most welcome luxury.

With a nod, he separates himself from the group, making his way to the back end of the entrance hall where thin rows of metal steps rise up to meet an even larger staircase, fitted with all manner of pretentious luxuries, likely to flaunt the manor's importance to all those new arrivals.

Tarik can't help but flinch as he fixates on its design. There's something awfully familiar about it, something that digs right to his very core.

"Do you wish to converse more about this now, or shall we leave it for public address?"

A man with thinning hair, dressed in a fashionable gown, stashes several jewels hanging from his neck beneath the underlayer of his garments.

"As if someone like you would determine this to be public"

The response comes from a ginger-haired man at the opposite side of the stairwell. His garments are far less fashionable, as is his stance leans against the railing, propping his shoulders in a laid back slouch.

"Right though you are, it is still a more open format than I am accustomed to..."

The proper man trails off. The scruffy ginger-haired man, clearly accustomed to such antics, swings his head back towards a group of men at the top of the stairs.

"Men, have you checked the time yet?"

"Ten minutes, sir!"

Tarik, feeling awfully misplaced, begins to turn back towards the greater expanse of the hall, boots slipping against the edges of the steps.

"Oh, there's more. How lovely."

The ginger man's cadence lacks any trace of amusement.

Tarik swallows his pride, removing himself from earshot of the men. So improper is their language that he wonders whether they are evil imperial men. Their attire was certainly rich, but then their pride, nobility, perhaps.

Then again what was the relevance of either to himself, Tarik may have roots in both, perhaps such distinctions of respect and status fade within more modern societies.

The rest of the hall remains mostly empty, aside from that lost group of delicate men in the corner. The men of Vael gather beneath a great mural painted across the curved ceiling of the hall.

It depicts an ancient mountain split through its centre, its two halves drawn apart by enormous golden hands. Between them rises a pale sun, surrounded by countless figures whose bodies disappear gradually into its light. Their faces bear neither joy nor anguish. Only submission.

At its highest point stands a man depicted as knowledge itself.

For an instant, the marble beneath Tarik becomes warm sand.

He remembers the prayer circles of Al-Mahdar, the sun-kissed sandstone crumbling against the waves, a bazaar's worth of people gathering in singular chant. Was he there?

It pains him — that absence of memory, that absence of truth, or whatever else he chooses to call it.

"Tarik?"

"Hm?"

Dandrilar's figure towers over Tarik, so much so that the shine of his armour is the only light within his peripheral.

"I am so grateful for your attendance, dear boy."

Dandrilar's hand slowly caresses Tarik's shoulder.

"You bear such a striking resemblance to your father. Please, if you would indulge me, I would very much like to speak with you formally after the event."

Practically drowning in his presence, Tarik chokes out his words.

"Uh, yes, of course. I would be grateful for the opportunity."

A soft smile crosses the man's face, the kind that nearly makes Tarik's knees buckle.

"Very well, men. Do not forget my words. Our purpose here is cut clearly into the stones of our history. Let us make ourselves known."

And with that, the group falls into line, the guards once again gathering around Tarik as they walk. A sense of great importance settles over him. Perhaps his father had possessed more secrets than he ever let on. Those words...

A purpose. A mission. Something old—Tarik can feel it in the history behind that man's smile, in the strange familiarity binding them together. He stands upon the precipice of whatever all his travels have finally been leading towards.

Leading.

The manors purpose leads yet another.

He who hoists a burden.

The sun sits half an hour from apex.

Beneath it, a weapon.

Selaginella[5]

Figures of great nobility, carved into grandiose monuments of stone and marble. The blending of sediments required to create such materials is an art rarely practised outside northern Vualatin. Hence, even within a manor nestled between grand forests and mountain beds, the art of northern Vualatin remains proudly displayed.

They stand shoulder to shoulder, some draped in cloth, others marked with plaques of even richer metals, yet all neatly tucked, isolated within the manors gallery.

The sly smirk of a salesman rests upon the face of one of the butlers. The way he flings his hands around in such obscene gestures, Sean can only wonder whether it is to any avail at all.

It would not, of course, make any difference to him, Who cares for the men of old? History and whatnot — such things could not concern him less.

His gaze shifts to follow the man once again as he moves under the stained-glass skylight above the party, twirling aside a length of cloth to reveal yet another ornate king.

"And this here is our most famous piece: Sir Frederick of Carstana. They say—"

"Yes, yes, indeed. That is quite curious — unfathomably interesting, perhaps. Just a query however, when does this fine meeting start, good sir?"

Marx — his voice a hoarse mixture of exhaustion and disinterest. He seats himself in the corner of the room, upon the pedestal of yet another art piece, resting his head in his hands. A fairly old fellow he is, dressed in layered cloth of red, yellow, and blue.

He turns to face the butler after deliberately murmuring remarks of his boredom several decibels too loud, meeting the twitching eyes of a sincerely frustrated little man.

Through gritted teeth, the man musters a short reply:

"I'm not sure, sir. Perhaps ask someone outside."

Marx refuses to take his gaze from the boy, his tired eyes filling with amusement as the guide only grows more infuriated.

"Hushh, it'll be all right, boy. Yes, deep breaths.**"

At his side stands another figure dressed in a coat very similar to Marx's. His words would normally warrant a fist to the face, yet here they seem all too effective at soothing the man's anger.

Although Sean has accompanied Marx for almost a year now and tended to nearly all his personal duties, he was not acquainted with this Varz individual until their party departed from the outskirts of Winterstein on what became a nearly twelve-day cart ride.

"Lesser mutts be dogs, I suppose."

Marx mutters in disappointment.

"Sean, if you would, see whether you can find me an answer."

His grey hair falls forward from its slicked-back arrangement as he leans towards Sean, who currently rests spaced out against his incredibly dented silver Greatshield.

"Right away, sir."

Sean finally peels himself away from his makeshift seat, situated not far from Marx himself —not that he ever had a say in the matter. The contract between the two stipulates that Sean can at no point stray more than forty feet away from Marx unless directly ordered to do so.

In earlier times Sean imagined most would likely pass on an offer so aggressive, but the punishment was only removal of pay, something Sean does not need anyway. After all, he would have to live with Marx to uphold such a rule in any case.

Alas, he breaks free of his thoughts, trudges to the room's end, and turns the handle. The door opens into the greater western hall of the manor, along its third floor.

"Where are we going now?"

The smooth chirp of a girl, no older than 10.

"We won't go far. Just going to ask some questions, is all."

Sean doesn't move to look at her as he replies, only continuing to scan the space ahead.

The small girl crosses her arms and plants a frown across her face in response.

"Hmph.""

Across from the door, massive open windows overlook the rear garden. Farther down the hall to the left stands the archway leading to the meeting room, so perhaps that would be a sensible place to start. Or maybe down to the right, Sean seems to remember seeing other people waiting there as the butler guided them in.

"Can I at least sit on your shoulder?"

"No point. I'm not going anywhere-"

That sound — footsteps approaching from the right. Now is his chance to get that information.

He rushes out of the room and towards the side of the wing.

"HEY! I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU WEREN'T GOING ANYWHERE!"

Her voice screeching in a tantrum-esque manner.

Sean continues to ignore her, simply turning at the end of the hall towards the footsteps, As he does, his wide frame almost body-slams a much meeker noble making his way out from the centre of the manor.

"Are you alright sir?"

The gravelly voice of a veteran stirs from the figure ahead of him, its as if he almost lashes his tongue to speak, giving a cruel rolling accent. Long black hair and soul-piercing eyes are the only features Sean registers before breaking his gaze.

"Uh, yes. Sorry, sir."

Sean recalls his place and begins backing away from the obvious figure of authority. Slowly sliding his feet in the direction of the gallery.

"Uh — you wouldn't happen to know when the meeting might start, would you?"

The man takes several steps towards Sean, in response, he begins to retreat even further back, almost up against the wall now, still in great effort trying to hide his fear.

"Hmm, yes. I believe I overheard someone say roughly twenty minutes from now."

He nods to himself as if agreeing to his own words.

"I see. Thank — thank you, sir.**"

The man gives a slight smile before walking past Sean up to the other end of the hall.

"He seemed nice."

"You think so?"

Emily now standing at his side looks up at her protectors towering figure and nods.

"Yes, yes I do."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right"

Emily stands roughly three feet tall, and hasn't aged a day since Sean first... envisioned her.

Sean struggles to recall what it was like before she was real, but ever since, she was irrefutably bound to him. Most people who surrounded Sean acknowledged her existence, shy glances or the rare question towards Sean, but never did they respond to her.

Come to think of it, Sean cant recall a time where they registered her out of or react to her inappropriately timed observations either, but perhaps they simply had thick spines.

He had thought about asking someone about her, but his relationship with Marx was not one suited to such questions, and anyone else seems equally unsuitable.

Despite that, he had vowed to protect this girl, and so protect her is what he wills to do. Greatshield in hand to the day his armour rests upon cold flesh.

"SEAN!"

His head snapping towards the call, he dashes back into the gallery.

"So! Did you get an answer?"

Marx now appears profoundly irritated. Sean quickly regurgitates the answer:

"Twenty minutes sir."

Before he then begins to look around at what could have possibly annoyed him to this level.

Varz gives a rather telling shrug, as the butler continues on with his tour.

"Very well. You can sit down, Sean."

Now Marx sounds only defeated.

"Do not concern yourself with the wines of pigs, I for one am quite fond of your teachings boy."

Varz slyly utters with his legs kicked up onto the side of a wooden stool, tongue ringing between his gnarled teeth.

Sean simply seats himself and watches on.

He does not act.

Act.

There is an actor within these walls.

An actor like you or I.

A man pretending to conform.

The sun sits an hour from apex.

Beneath it, a fragment.

Narcissus[6]

The endless churning of engines, powered by the weight of humanity. Wheels turning. Coals burning. Houses upon houses — boxes stacked upon boxes, each one filled with people.

Saint's fingers interlace in a cold, tense grasp. His brow furrows beneath the shadow of two heavy strands of black hair falling along either side of his face.

His teeth grind slowly, like the mechanisms of a factory engine, while his polished leather boots scrape against the floor—as though he were some inept member of the lower residences.

The room in which he sits lies towards the rear of the manor. He has become rather proud, in truth, of his newfound ability to trace his location within the estate.

After establishing their quarters on the morning of their arrival, every member of Muanar Crees began surveying the grounds. Of course, the cretins accompanying him likely did so for the sake of security. Saint, however, prefers to think that his own wandering was a matter of sightseeing.

Aside from its lavish furnishings—including elaborate lighting and a glossy piano resting against a decorated wall—the room contains a broad table surrounded by numerous chairs. The open layout and clear view of everything from such a seat are likely why they settled here.

Across from Saint sits a profoundly stern woman, Commander Sylvie.

Her jaw clenches in a similar manner to Saint's.

Sylvie is a woman of imposing stature, with broad shoulders and short blonde hair that places her well outside certain empires' "traditional standards". In fact, even now, she carries far less muscle than Saint recalls from their first encounter; however, due to her specialties, physical strength has long since become unnecessary.

"It's worse than we thought. The convoys will be stranded if we proceed with our original demands..."

Across the way, another commander-looking figure sits at the table in a deliberately sprawled position, as though trying to occupy as much space as possible.

Yet unlike Saint and Sylvie, this one's appearance is far more disheveled.

Heavy dark circles hang around his eyelids and a layer of grease coats his hair.

The way he sits and shuffles awkwardly whenever he looks around the room gives the impression that he does not want to be here.

Nor should he be—the pathetic, ill-faced man is no more noble than he is a man of his people.

"If they push against our claims, then we can say goodbye to Vael's agreements..."

His voice as gravely as the roads between the tree lines.

Commander Sylvie pushes herself upwards a tad as she sets her arms against the table.

"Indeed, yet if we leave now, the agreement will go up in flames. Not to mention that almost the entirety of Vualatin may begin to question our authority..."

Her words trail off to some place within her own mind. These two have been conversing about some shadowed topic—one concealed, at least, from Saint's own knowledge—for the past hour.

"Then what choice do we have against it?"

This sorry man—Duke Fendler, as he wishes to be titled—has spent his time failing to convince Sylvie to fall back upon their previous terms.

The treaty Muanar Crees prepared long before they left from Karnimun, is now being endangered by this man's cold feet.

"A compromise is the only way we could possibly push forth."

Sylvie, however, is not weak-willed, and she will cast the man aside if doing so means profit for her nation.

"And how do you intend to reach one?"

...

Both of their gazes begin to settle on Saint who still sits away from both of them. His hand resting on his chin, his gaze washed as if in deep thought.

"Saint."

Sylvie coughs.

"Ambassador, are you aware of the weight their presence holds?"

Saint's head flicks to face her as his gaze widens, his focus being ripped back to the current moment.

"Sorry—forgive me, Commander. Whose presence?"

Her gaze washes over the table, breaking away from the boy for a moment.

"On our approach, there were men already waiting in the grand hall. They wore armour adorned with golden silk, carried spears, and were led by a dainty woman with long, sandy hair..."

He tries his hardest to recall the entrance, but in truth, he had been rather distracted by the illustrious murals sprawled across those gorgeous ceilings.

He was allowing himself to slip now. Perhaps having personal security had been a mistake. It made carelessness far too easy, and one did not wish to grow careless—not here, at least.

"Young Saint?"

He flinches again.

"No, I cannot recall."

The commander sighs and addresses the young ambassador.

"They are known as the Rulers of Ziuala, and they will likely be the only other empire here from Louanas."

"Oh, yes, I'm familiar. The seafarers and leviathans, yes?"

She nods.

"Indeed. More than that, however, the land-and-sea treaty established by the combined forces of Ghafas grants them full control over all maritime trade in the waters north-east of Louanas's coast."

"And if they reject our proposition, then we have no way of sending the resources to Higher Vualatin?"

"Exactly. Since they also represent Louanas, they will likely use that position as a power play to seek more favour, especially if the treaty presented here bears any relation to the combined arms."

Saint goes back to resting his head on his hands.

"Listen, Ermis, you don't possess the kind of respect needed to perform a task like this."

The retired noble grunts. The faint flavour of insult lining his words is pitiful.

Saint snarls through his fingers.

"Duke, if you intend to ramble on like this at the meeting, then I would humbly suggest that you remain in your quarters."

Saint pushes his chair back and rises, taking hold of the Muanar Crees coat draped across its back. He peels it free before sweeping it over his shoulders.

"Speaking of which, I will be returning to my quarters as well. Commander, I will review the treaty we intend to present and see whether I can sweeten the deal for our neighbours."

Commander Sylvie sighs in short relief, leaning against the back of her chair with added weight.

"Oh, Young Saint, one more thing."

Her eyes lock onto his.

"No matter how you shape it, there will be opposition."

Her figure shifts as she glances over her shoulder towards the massive door at the room's far end, beyond which waits the garden.

"There is a group tending to the manor known as the Flowers. They represent a neutral third party, with their primary purpose being to preserve the peace. Their authority here extends mainly to protecting the surrounding ecosystems from any damage caused by the empires' ambitions."

"I see."

"So as you can imagine they will naturally object no matter how you shape your plan."

"But they aren't an empire, so they lack any power of enforcement?"

"Indeed, but politics is pack hunting."

Saint nods to her before moving towards the west wall where a marble staircase trails up to the room's exit.

"And, Ermis, remember: you may be an ambassador now, but you still possess no political authority—not within Muanar Crees or Vael. Keep yourself on a leash."

The swine harps on like a drunken man. These callous, unprompted statements have persisted for so long that one would think they are all he's good for.

Saint's face twists into a foul look of utter disgust, the corner of his brow curling into a furrow as he peers directly into the Duke's soul.

"Question my authority again and I will promptly inform the Emperor of your pastimes. And it's Young Saint to you."

Saint finally begins to make his way upwards before the Duke's fist slams upon the surface of the table, splintering it.

"I HAD YOU UNDER MY FOOT, BOY! DON'T FORGET WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR—"

"FENDLER"

Commander Sylvie's voice explodes through the room like a gunshot in a cave.

The rejected king's voice goes mute as he falls back into his chair.

Saint's gaze never once leads back to the man as he finally reaches the second floor, exiting without another word.

It has been quite some time since Saint found solid ground upon which to stand. They have been travelling for far too long, slowly setting the pieces of this plan in motion.

At the first word of the meeting, they had already plotted their dealings with Vael. Once those dealings went through, it would only be a matter of time before his eccentric charm and allure swayed the other parties.

He has to be good at it. He has to be, for he has no other choice. There is no other way to rebuild unless he possesses power—power over people.

Saint reaches the midsection of the manor: a massive, multi-levelled room with an elevator towards its centre. He surveys the area for a moment, seeing only the likes of waiting knights before he continues along.

He had hoped to find more members of the other empires wandering about. If he had, he might have struck up some form of sweet talk.

Alas, he has had no such luck, either then or now. The remainder of his journey back towards the chamber is brisk, carrying him out towards the furthest wing of the building.

Yet now all that plagues his mind is the Duke's creeping voice—or, rather, the unfinished end of his threat. Truly, every notion concerning the treaty had captured his mind's attention, and, as such, he had almost let slip the true purpose of his visit.

Duke Fendler, the dead king of Veloria.

Of course, he had claimed the title of king long ago, but the title of "dead" would soon become far more prominent within history's writings. By now, after spending so much time hidden among Muanar Crees's security, Jetson should have exposed some open wound within that man's habits.

Of course, there is always the chance that Jetson is not nearly as skilled as his words made him seem. Still, the fool appears no wiser to Saint's plot, so the risk diminishes to a waste of time rather than anything truly costly.

Then again, perhaps it is even easier than Saint previously suspected. Over the course of their travels, Sylvie has grown increasingly aggravated by Fendlers ramblings and his ego, and while it is obvious that her attitude towards Saint is a facade intended to conceal her growing suspicions of him, maybe the sudden disappearance of Fendler wouldn't be too much of a concern.

Saint exhales sharply, exhausted by his own internal ramblings.

The door ahead of him now should lead to the west wing, just bellow where the bedroom halls are located.

He turns and enters through the doorway, eyes dragging along the ground. And yet slowly—no rather quick indeed—a shadow peeling its way towards him.

Saint screeches to a halt as the chestplate of a hulking figure lurches directly into his path. Coming so close it almost slams into his face.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Saint speaks in clear annoyance—biting his tongue to avoid snapping out the sort of words he normally reserves for nobles in private.

"Uh, yes. Sorry, sir."

The sheepish voice of a child—a young boy, perhaps—emerges from the mouth of the unlikely giant before him.

His large frame slowly stumbling back. From what Saint can determine—from the way the man's eyes shake and the shyness within his voice—he is most likely afraid of Saint's status.

"Uh—you wouldn't happen to know when the meeting might start, would you?"

Amusement begins to spike within Saint as he begins taking steps towards the boy, the boy's feet sliding backwards in perfect sync with Saint's advances.

"Hmm, yes. I believe I overheard someone say roughly twenty minutes from now."

An utter lie.

The meek boy nods towards him.

"I see. Thank—thank you, sir."

He retreats back into the frame of the door he likely exited from, a proud smirk now upon Saints face, forcing him to look away and walk on, not wanting to give off any wrong impressions.

Curiously, Saint catches a glimpse of what appeared to be a child, a little girl perhaps, behind the boys towering figure. Someone so young at a place like this... odd.

He continues onwards, entering the stairwell leading to the manor's final floor, where the hall to his quarters lies.

Large glass panes overlook the side of the manor. The garden is certainly beautiful.

He takes quick strides now towards his door, bringing out the key provided by the manor's receptionists, quickly entering and shutting the door within one swift motion.

Beyond his awfully lavish, velvet-draped bed, the rest of the room is crowded to its walls with his belongings. Many are scaled models of proposed factories and construction plans, complete with the trade routes intended to connect a series of future industrial hubs back to Karnimun.

Such hubs would need to be constructed either at sea or along the outer edges of Louanas.

Of course, that now presents more of an issue than Saint had previously thought.

Sure, the original effort required to funnel resources towards such locations would have been immense and would have covered a great expanse of time, but with his charm and Vael's backing, the project would have found almost instantaneous success.

But now, with these treaties. These higher orders. These people of status and their rules, rights and powers.

Resistance has thrown him off his rails—and of course it has emerged now, with so little time left.

It feels just the same as those iron gates being shut behind him and his men, all that time ago...

He pushes himself to a map of the region, tracing his finger over the planned sea routes.

Of course, if these "rulers" choose to obstruct convoys travelling through those waters, the ships could head northwards from the eastern shores and pass around the top of Ghafas rather than sailing through the strait beneath it.

No, no good. It's too long, a trip like that would take months, and no empire would be willing to put such resources into a project that could take decades to build at that rate.

"DAMN IT!"

Saint kicks the wall, screaming. Throwing his hands up as he sinks into the cushioning of his bedsheets, hitting its surface with a woosh of air.

It's no use. At the last minute, yet again, his grand plan for power has been foiled.

Even so.

He can still try.

Maybe—just maybe—someone else will stand beside them against the Rulers' power.

'When have we ever had a good chance at something?'

Those words form the thinnest of lifelines.

It doesn't matter. He cannot afford to become distracted by the future, even if that future is what all of this is for.

They still have to dispose of the Duke. So long as they accomplish that, none of this will have been for nothing.

...

A resounding knock comes from the room's main door.

...

Saint slowly shuffles across the floor, making a great effort not to produce any noise.

"Y-young master?"

His eyes widen as he reaches for the door handle and swings it open to face a man with the appearance of a burn victim.

Several layers of bandages wrap all the way around his head, covering everything except one green eye.

Saint grabs the back of his armour and throws him into the room before quickly slamming the door shut.

"T-the meeting is beginning soon. I thought I should make you aware."

Jetson gets his words out whilst stumbling to a stop.

Saint paces past him back to his desk.

"Yes, yes. you've finished your examinations of everything, then?"

"Uh yes, Young Master. Of course"

Jetson stands timidly amid Saint's sudden movements as he rushes from corner to corner, gathering and stashing papers, folders, and the like.

"I've been analyzing the routes and such. That commander from Vael whom we spoke to beforehand—is he here? Have you seen him?"

He speaks whilst running back towards one of the tables, hurriedly swinging a drawer open and grabbing thin scrolls.

"No, it doesn't appear so—at least, not yet. I believe Vale has only just arrived."

"How could they have showed up so late? Are they aware of their own stakes?"

Saint moves back with the scrolls and stashes them in a bag before rolling a map and placing it alongside them.

"Uh—"

"No matter. You've been surveying the Duke as we planned, yes?"

"Yes, Young Master."

"Okay, the verdict is?"

Saint runs back towards the treaty papers, shuffling through them rapidly before swinging to grab more of the drawn diagrams of possible trade routes.

"When we take the cart ride back, that will be the best time for us to strike."

"Whilst Sylvie is travelling with us?"

"Yes, sir. I have thought of a way around that."

"Okay good, just—"

Saint pauses against a wall, practically hyperventilating, while deep gasps slowly bring his heart rate back down.

"Young master, are you alright?"

"I'm fine—just—I'm fine."

He finally walks over, stashes the papers and documents inside the same bag, and swings it behind him.

"Can you take this down to the meeting with you? I'll call for you when I need it."

"Of course, Young Master."

Jetson looks at the bag before allowing his gaze to trace the floor back towards Saint.

"So, Young Master. Do you have a plan to deal with your opposition?"

"I have a vision."

A vision.

Some men have had too many of those.

Some men have seen the end of these tunnels.

A man approaches, a man with visions that balance blades against necks.

The sun is an hour from apex.

Beneath it, a Disciple.

Altissima[7]

The crunch accompanying the death of leaves has been roaring beneath the carriage since it first entered the thinly woven tree line.

Beneath a canopy of burgundy cloth, arranged across several velvet-cushioned seats, rests a small gathering of figures. One might assume them to be men, though the manner in which they are dressed and kept could easily inspire some uncertainty.

At the far-right end of the carriage's back seat sits a man dressed unlike the others. Rather than wearing a long, elaborate cloak or carefully patterned noblewear, he is dressed in a simple coat, with a white button-up shirt and tie beneath it.

A pair of reading glasses rests upon his nose, catching the morning sunlight streaming through the window. Every few moments, the uneven terrain knocks them slightly out of place, forcing him to push them back up with his right index finger.

"So, Victor, tell me: what is it that you plan to address when this meeting begins?"

A man towards the center of the carriage, baring many medallions across the chest of his blazer, speaks up.

"Hm?"

Victor, who had been staring through the window in a mind-numbing trance, leans forward whilst once again pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Apologies. I was under the impression that you would be representing Kkartua internationally."

The man chuckles at Victor's expression.

"Of course not. I can do little more than carry a blade. You, however, I have heard many words of your achievements. It would have been foolish for the Emperor not to appoint you to represent us."

"I suppose. It's not exactly as though there is much left to represent..."

"Perhaps, but your knowledge of the Kaizers may prove relevant. Manipulation should, at the very least, be addressed—especially after Aeternis. Whatever you may think of it, your expertise will be necessary once this meeting begins."

"My expertise could not possibly be relevant, but I suppose you would need to understand it before you could know that."

The blade carrier leans back, tilting his head towards the carriage roof.

"Whatever the case, the Emperor gave strict orders and appointed you himself. The mantle is yours to pick up, whether you believe yourself worthy of it or not."

The carriage continues to drag along the gravelly path, the sound of hooves kicking dust into the air filling the awkward silence until somebody finally speaks again.

The sliding compartment of the cabin releases a sharp screech as the driver pulls it open.

"You're here!"

Victor glances towards the window.

Four minutes and seventeen seconds.

Two minutes later than suspected.

Either the driver had misjudged the distance from the bend, or the final stretch of road had forced him to reduce his speed. Judging from the deeper impressions left by the wheels and the increased frequency of jolts during the final minute, Victor determines the latter to be more likely.

A heavy thud, the carriage rocks forwards before settling into stillness.

Outside, boots disturb the dirt surrounding the carriage. The driver soon appears at the door, pulling it open before gesturing for the travelers to disembark.

"So, blades-man, what may I refer to you as?"

Still stepping down from the carriage, the white-haired man appears almost surprised by Victor's sudden willingness to converse.

"You may call me by my name. Arlyn—Arlyn of Kkartua Mino. Though I would assume such a title is of little value to our ambassador."

"Ambassador..." Victor repeats. "Is that what I am?"

Arlyn shrugs as he directs the soldiers into two orderly lines behind them.

"Honestly, you are whatever you wish to be. All that matters is that you are our representative."

"A parting gift from the Emperor, then."

"Were you close?"

Victor shakes his head.

"Not especially. We maintained certain connections."

"Do not fear. I am not one to pry."

Victor studies him for a moment.

Arlyn's smile remains relaxed, though the muscles around his eyes do not move with it. Whether this indicates restraint, dishonesty, or simple habit, Victor cannot yet determine.

The soldiers move from the dirt road onto a narrow path of stone tiles, following it out from the tree line and towards a bridge lying not far ahead.

It crosses what appears to be a naturally formed ravine encircling the elevated ground upon which the manor rests.

Victor's gaze falls briefly to the exposed rock beneath the bridge. The walls of the ravine bear irregular layers of sediment, with roots piercing through the upper strata. Natural erosion, certainly, though portions of the stone appear too smooth to have been shaped by water alone.

Victor reasons its age to be roughly six hundred BA, assuming no manipulation was put into shaping the land around of which it stands on.

The bridge itself is older than the manor. That much is obvious from the differences in masonry. Its stones are darker, more porous, and fitted without the golden engravings visible throughout the newer lengths of the estate.

"Quite the beauty,"

Arlyn murmurs.

His eyes remain fixed upon the sprawling structure ahead.

Victor considers the description imprecise, though not entirely incorrect.

The manor's front rises in a collection of great wings and arching supports. Stained-glass panes divide the morning sunlight into coloured bands, while old brickwork, reinforced with narrow veins of gold, stretches beneath tapestries evidently prepared for the gathering.

"A student of architecture, perhaps?" Victor asks.

His voice carries a flicker of newfound curiosity.

"No, not me. But it doesn't take a master of the craft to respect something like this."

Arlyn chuckles, flashing him another brief smile.

Victor notices that it is nearly identical to the one offered to the driver.

A rehearsed social response, then.

The group continues towards the entrance, where two members of the manor's staff wait beside the doors—an older attendant and a younger man, the two don't look related but the difference in age is certainly curious.

Both nod towards the approaching delegation.

Arlyn answers with yet another familiar smile.

Habit, Victor concludes.

Not necessarily false kindness, but practised kindness: a gesture repeated so many times that whatever emotion first inspired it has long since ceased to be necessary.

After a brief exchange, the attendants motion them inside.

The entrance hall opens beneath a ceiling of stained glass. Its arrangement casts violet, amber, and green light across the polished floor, each colour shifting as the clouds pass above.

The glass is not merely decorative. Several panes have been angled deliberately, causing the light to converge upon specific statues and paintings at different points throughout the room.

Paintings line the walls, depicting ancient saints and emperors belonging to regions of Vualatin that no longer exist.

Victor recognizes several immediately, all of which arising from the collection of books granted to him by the kings passage back when he worked alongside the professor.

The Kaiser of early sentience theory.

The northern ruler who attempted artificial Veritas, although that tale may be less concrete than the others here.

A saint whose followers claimed he could separate the memory frequency from the soul without damaging either.

He had encountered most of them while researching the history of the Kaizers. Nearly every influential figure in the collection had, at some stage, attempted to elevate the soul beyond its original limitations.

"Perhaps you are a student of the arts yourself?"

Arlyn questions after noticing Victors rather fixed gaze.

Victor breaks free and turns one shoulder towards him.

"Not particularly the art."

He looks back towards the nearest portrait.

"The subjects are of some interest."

"I see. History?"

"History is most recorded science."

Arlyn sighs, a usual response, the notion of further academic research usually spears out interest before one has even tempted to reason with the studies. That is to say most people reacted like so in response to Victors ramblings.

Arlyn turns back towards the group then back towards Victor once more.

"Well, the meeting likely hasn't begun. Unless you order otherwise, my men and I will remain here. We will be able to observe whoever arrives after us, and such."

He gestures towards a corner of the hall.

"We shall wait over there."

"I see. Then you would not object to me looking around?"

"Why, of course not, good sir."

He adds a theatrical tone to his words.

Victor then turns to begin his survey of the hall.

Slowly he begins to delve into the back of this grand entrance section, twisting his way down the side of one of its many spanning corridors.

The hallway chosen continues on for quite some time, with large limestones pillars rising up at either side of its cusps. He continues to delve deeper.

The protrusions lining the corridor's western wall eventually give way at its midsection, folding into a shallow alcove reached by a small set of marble steps. At its deepest point stands a thick oak door, left slightly ajar.

A glance through the opening reveals a brightly lit room where the stone flooring gives way to finely polished hardwood and the walls gradually disappear behind towering bookshelves.

Victor presses his weight against the handle, swinging the door fully open.

Directly ahead sits an old wooden reception desk. Upon it, a small lamp using some form of magnet to attract illusion manipulation, brightens the yellowed pages of an ancient text.

A receptionist sits calmly behind the desk, turning through its pages. Her braided hair, which had rested neatly across one shoulder, slips from its place as she straightens to face Victor, now standing at the desk's edge.

"How may I be of service, sir?"

Before answering, Victor glances quickly beyond the desk. Through a stone arch rising behind the receptionist sprawls an elaborate, multi-levelled library, stretching across what appears to be the entire remaining length of the manor's wing.

"Is the library available for public use?"

The receptionist laughs softly.

"No. Members of the public are prohibited from entering the premises entirely, good sir."

Victor remains confused for a moment. He silently retraces the conversation before recognising his mistake.

"Of course. Then I presume that I would be permitted entry?"

She nods, closes the book before her, and reaches towards a cabinet at her side.

"You may borrow up to three books during your stay. We ask that you return them before your departure. Though I suppose the knowledge that they remain the property of the Second Great Library should provide enough encouragement."

The Second Great Library...

Of course a place such as this would maintain connections with an institution of that scale.

"Other than that, please respect all equipment within the library and take care not to damage the books."

She reaches across the desk and hands Victor a small pendant.

"It is imbued with a tuner connected to the basic frequency used throughout the library. You may use it to retrieve books from any shelves that you cannot reach."

Victor offers a slight smile and a shallow bow as he extends one hand to accept the device.

"Thank you, madam."

The library somehow appears even larger once he passes through its formal entrance. Its walls stretch so far into the distance that Victor finds himself momentarily unable to determine where—or whether—they truly end.

At every crossroad of shelves he comes by, his head slowly drifts down the proceeding aisle, as he notices what appear to be towers of books sorting the shelves. At first he almost stumbles believing himself to be hallucinating, before coming to find his footing and recognising the nature of the manor.

Sentinels, likely created by the librarian, the use of form 2 Sentience manipulation allowing users to harness the latent frequency of post living things and transform them into mindless husks to perform biddings.

These stacks of odd books acting independently to any form of mechanism are just as so. Thank goodness for science.

He delves deeper before finally reaching his intended section, slowly creeping down to the K aisle, scanning vigorously for anything immediately eye catching.

Of course most of this content he had already come by before, he was of course, an expert on the manner.

Yet eventually, with his fingers tracing along the many spines, he eventually comes to a pause.

Several thick books lay ahead of him, but one just to his right—slightly above where his shin stands—sits a book with no cover, and a hide entirely comprised of steel.

Victor lowers himself carefully, one knee pressing into the polished floor as he examines the object more closely.

Dust gathers heavily upon the surrounding volumes, collecting in grey ridges along their upper edges. Yet the steel hide remains almost entirely clean, save for a thin crescent where countless fingers must have attempted to pull it free.

Frequently handled, then.

He presses a pair of fingers against the cold back.

Victor pauses, allowing the sensation to settle through his fingertips. The metal does not merely lack warmth; it seems to draw it from him, feeding upon the contact in small, measured increments.

He withdraws his hand. No frost nor visible reaction, only a slight numbness forming beneath the skin.

The pendant given to him by the receptionist shifts against his chest as he straightens. He presses one thumb against its centre and directs his attention towards the book.

A faint pulse travels through the device.

The volumes surrounding it tremble at once, several sliding forward beneath the influence of the latent Anima within the air. The shelves clearly using some form of conduit as the book is forced outwards from the shelf.

The book is no larger than an ordinary historical ledger, yet it weighs nearly as much as a full suit of plated armour. He raises it then slowly lowers it back down to a small desk between the shelves, its legs groaning as the steel settles upon it.

Victor then slowly begins to recite its pages, its lines running thick with the ink of an ancient text. The characters require much deciphering for minutes he attempts to heighten his focus, being put on the spot like this serves as a good way to test his abilities. And yet still he begins to drift in thought, his mind too frustrated in its inabilities to reason with words on a page.

It brings back memories—memories of his time curled up in the corner of that lab, high above that castle, with the view of that...

Best not to distract himself with such thoughts—or perhaps he should. Permanent thoughts that plague you serve much importance to the human psyche. He deserves to be plagued then? No not quite, forgiven. But forgiveness is of course something to seek.

He rests himself against the table, letting out a long winded sigh.

The earlier words of Arlyn slowly creep back to him now. If he is representing Kkartua, what will he present?

He should feel more responsibility then ever at this point to put something forward, after all that he has seen and all that his professor taught him.

No he does feel that responsibility. He knows that he does. But what do empires of power care for science? When has expansion ever heeded a warning?

Not even that, but these are leaders of nations that tower of lands, disrespecting the fragility of life simply by how high they grow. And here he sits as the captain of a sinking ship. How would the people of Hunshata feel? What would they want said after the system of day to day life ended for them the way it did.

They would likely blame it on the King. A figure like that's purpose is to soak in such responsibilities no?

Or perhaps—no, a certainty. He should forgive the actions these leaders took in the past. Now, it is for him to put forward change. True change. He has the knowledge, his being here is proof enough of that

For her sake.

Do it for—

The chime of a bell rings out through the labyrinth of shelves.

The kind-faced librarian, having left her desk to search for Victor, now stands over his table.

"Sir, I do dearly apologise, but the meeting is soon to begin."

Victor mumbles something unintelligible as he pushes himself upright, abandoning the steel-bound book where it lies.

"I'll return to this later, if that is all right."

"Yes, of course, sir."

He emerges once more into the grand entrance hall, where Arlyn and his men remain seated in wait.

Arlyn's head flicks up as he recognises the approaching footsteps, slowly rising alongside the men around him.

"Were you satisfied with your search?"

"Not particularly."

Victor turns towards the entrance.

"Anybody of note enter?"

"Yes, the Imperium of Vael has—at last—arrived, meaning the meeting is likely soon to start."

"I was notified of such. Are we to leave now, then?

"At your word."

"Then let us."

A man who knows what he wants, a man who will not reject his path again.

A path.

Here may lie a man with no path at all. Or perhaps—too many to count.

The sun is almost at its apex.

Beneath it, a dice.

Hydrangea[8]

The young master slowly rises from his chair, leaning back to retrieve his coat.

Once again, the group squabbles, their jaws swinging loosely in motions as ugly as their wines. That Commander raises her voice once more, yet from the way she stares at the Duke, she appears neither annoyed nor fiercely loyal.

The Duke is at least somewhat tolerable. His words are lined with permanent malice, but he never appears to doubt a single one. Nor does he attempt to hide how he feels. He is poorly suited for any form of political stance, which at the very least, Jetson can find comfort in.

Perhaps it's simply the title of Duke that Jetson weighs on most. It reminds him of a past life.

The young master finally takes his exit and with his presence, all form of talk fizzles out.

Its not preferable but its not like he has a choice, although he can't help but bask in the thought that studying is so much easier in conversation.

Focusing on their features, their micro-movements, the way they perform tasks and the diversion of their eyes upon certain repeated phrases, that required extreme attention to detail.

It's a lot less weird when your meant to be looking at them.

The rattling sound of footsteps begins to creak-in behind his right ear. Jetson turns to face past the rows of Muanar Crees Royal Guard situated around the rooms edges, facing his attention towards the exit to the back garden.

A group of soldiers, but their blades are dull, their hands are soft and their limbs lack proper muscle, and they are being led by no leader at all.

Slowly Jetson begins to drag himself towards the door.

Something about them is off, they cant be meant for this place, their hands so soft, they remind him of—

He cant place it—why can he not place it.

At this point all of Jetsons weight has been stacked up against the door, his hand gripped tighter than he realises around the handle.

Soft hands.

The door rattles against him, he attempts to bolster down against it.

The door rattles harder, something desperately trying to break through. At this point he imagines the whole rooms focus is now on him but those voices of concern have long since faded to forgotten shadows of his memory.

A final pound sends a shockwave through his hand.

The door gives way, or rather he does—stumbling back over his own leg.

He hits the ground hard, with a quick wince his eyes lock to whatever has just entered, the light from the midday sky pouring around its silhouette.

A boy.

Purple hair falling over his head.

He looks so...

So frail.

His eyes and Jetsons singular meet for a moment before the boy looks away.

His head remains poised towards the rest of the room, yet Jetson remains stuck against the floor.

Against the floor.

Familiar yet again.

This goes on for quite some time, as the rest of those knights continue to move behind their guide.

He does wear butler attire...

Perhaps he's simply the manors staff.

No...

Jetsons eyes roll back.

The Duke is absolutely fixated on that boy as he makes his way around. He recognises him, and the opinion is not one of good faith.

"Sir."

The Duke speaks up, calling out to the kid now. Jetson braces prepared for what he suspects. And he receives exactly that.

The dukes yelling soon ensues and the boy is forced out of the room.

Yet in all that, in all that rambling, in everything that he just sat through. Why...

They only gave Jetson a singular daring glance, and that was it. They did not even check to see if he was alright, why—why did they just ignore him.

He wasn't trying to be much of a person right now, sure. He was trying to be a watchful eye, yes.

He's meant to be taking in information not wishing to be given it.

Remember your place Jetson; are the few words that he fills his own head with as he gets back to his feet.

In doing exactly his job he had also been met with new information, the meeting is soon to start, considering that boys status he is best to be believed.

And so it becomes Jetsons priority to seek out and relay such matters to the Young Master. Yes, that is his duty.

That is his purpose.

Purpose.

What is their purpose.

Why are they here.

The sun sits at its apex.

Beneath it, the crowd gathers.

Garden[9]

Two distinct crowds stand at either end of the Meeting halls entrance.

It's split to a fork to avoid all entering from one distinct point.

The original purpose for such designs came from early nations fears of assassination attempts. But in modern day it is more to respect tradition.

Now these waiting rooms are filled with the silent murmurs of groups, most in huddles, last minute discussions, presentations and the like. Those more confident—or attempting to appear so, sit in silence—simply awaiting further instruction.

The great island of Louanas being represented by the opposing groups of Muanar Crees, the empire of progression, and the Rulers Of Ziuala, the empire of the sea.

The rest serve to represent the distinct sections of Vualatins remaining land. Those being: Urzekt Ormoid, Krowls Of Tragödier, Kkartua Mino, Warriors Of Funseshiz and of course, The Imperium Of Vael.

Many had received invites, few came. Such is the way many post Aeternis assemblies have devolved.

In practice synchrony, both meeting areas are graced by the presence of staff.

Within Flowers side;

"Please forgive the wait, I Himothen and the rest of the humble staff of this manor, welcome you all to our estate, you may now enter"

With a courtesy bow and gentle gesture, groups of these officials enter the room, approaching a singular oval Blackstone table and seating themselves around it.

In their wake approach the knights and other military personnel—who stand shortly behind whichever seats their representee's have chosen.

And so they wait, each party delicately glancing at the others, all sitting in an awkward silence preparing for this prospect of a new world to be Broached.

A new world.

To rid of the last?

The sun just past its apex.

Beneath it, a final son.

Amborella[10]

The world seems so shaken lately, or perhaps its just his head. Fredo's head aches more than anything these days.

In all its honesty, the massive wound across his forehead, and the twin pair of bandages barely keeping it shut, are likely to blame.

The crunch of rotting wood, dead leaves and the remains of prey blend as he walks with heavy steps and bated breath.

Fredo, now beginning to doubt that the man so many towns back really pointed in this direction, has become alarmingly lost.

Despite his best efforts to focus on the travels ahead, he cant stop his mind from drifting every few minutes leading back to the same thoughts—that house up on the hill, body in his arms.

Snapping ever more twig as he moves deeper, he begins to push his mind into reciting memories that may still concern his situation.

A good trick he picked up in his searches.

"Antonio.."

"What's his name..."

Clicking his fingers in hopes to provoke a memory.

"Daravent!"

"Antonio Daravent."

"And I'm with the Imperium of Vael"

"My cart crashed some ways ago and I had to journey on foot..."

He runs these things through his head over and over in attempts to discern whether this disguise will be of any use at all.

He sighs realising how muddy his worn clothes have gotten from his travels and how absolutely filthy he is and how exhausted his legs are and...

His body, admittedly, has started to run itself on auto pilot. Admittedly being used only due to the reluctant admittance of his admittance.

Reluctantly afraid that recognising that he is, in fact—reluctant at all, will slowly creep up on him.

At some point—at some point his mind will realise that it has no guide anymore.

His guide is dead.

He scrunches his face up trying to force tears to the corner of his eyes. But of course none come. Because he does not want to cry.

He keeps pushing forward through the tree line.

Those people are still at large, and if there is any chance at all of them being here, or even information regarding them...

Fredo has only one goal now, disregarding that of what he told Jamie.

Perhaps he shouldn't think that way, disregarding that mans words was certainly not the moral thing to do. But when has Fredo ever been one to care about those morals.

The overlapping of branch and bush seals the light above briefly, plunging the area entirely into darkness. The only exception being the beams of light pouring in just over the nearest hill, between two far off trees.

Squinting his eyes Fredo is able to make out a small dirt path stretching on from that point, and thus begins to pursue the location.

Slowly sludging through pools of unseen mud before pulling himself across to the other side.

Beyond the crude and wild mix of thick bristles and long overhanging vine—the path ahead quickly begins to form itself. The dirt here has been kept in a slightly burrowed state and the lines of flora appear maintained in a hedge like state.

Fredo with his creeping suspicions, subconsciously begins to drift his hand towards the interior lining of his torn coat, where still lies the old reliable.

Now fully through the thick of it, something around the tree ahead slowly starts to come into view. Torn planks hang loosely off a collapsing foundation. Rickety steps, torn and bent, run directly around the structures frontside, rising up to a small balcony sitting roughly two meters above the path.

Peering closer, Fredo is able to make out the roof of a house constructed atop.

Such is enough to peak his interest.

Slowly he withdraws the high powered handgun, 6 shells chambered, and rests it by his side. 

If there were people out here they would be aware of his presence. Every step he takes against the wood lets off either a loud groan or some form of creak. 

The house at the top is more of a cabin, with a small canopy set up at its side to shield a table and some other outdoor furniture from the elements. No lights appear to be on, and the doors are all sealed shut. 

The only evidence Fredo can discern of other people being here is what appears to be a map laid out on that singular table.

Walking over to read it he then notices the strange amount of markings sprawled all over its page. So much that it makes it rather difficult to view the original image.

However, using much deliberation he is able to discern that it is almost certainly of this forest, some parts of it line up almost exactly with his own map, trailing off to past the far corner. 

Better yet this map seems to contain markings of actual locations within the forest's reach.

Circled dead centre before him being exactly what he was looking for:

Within a bold red outline it reads; "Bigsas Ravine". Shortly inside of that initial outline is another, smaller one. "Manor".

Now realising the importance of this map Fredo becomes set on directing himself, finding a wind compass atop the cabin's roof, discerning north and then orientating himself from there.

And yet, if whoever was here was aware of the manor…

Fredo then turns his attention to the cabin itself.

Sure enough as he approaches the door, he finds at least his first hint. Tearing off a thin slip of paper and going over it. 

"Take 1 each, clean ones, if none are left, console back house."

He reads it over a few more times, looking around the balcony in between each instance.

What could that possibly mean.

Fredo wanders to the side of the cabin, staring through one of its many windows, blankly scanning for any signs of movement. Alas it is far too dark.

He checks his surroundings once more before falling back onto old habits, wandering to the side and collecting a thin sheet of cloth that lay on the floor.

Quickly wrapping it around his fist, before flying his cushioned knuckles straight through the glass.

"Hello?"

No reply.

He pads the edges of the window before laying the cloth to hang on the bottom, then with a large step he makes his way inside.

The room is so very dark. The air is filled with a thick must, the type that presses against your skin, sticks to you, your sweat slows as it tenses against such things.

The creaks of the floorboards slowly begin to cease, as if sound itself was being eaten by the darkness.

Its cold, not the type of cold that comes naturally, the type that feels like the heat is being taken, absorbed, eaten away by something.

His skin begins to crawl, his legs wane, knees buckle.

The walls are everywhere. The darkness itself is a wall.

And yet the darkness is not the lack of light.

The wind blows a small stained curtain at the cabins far end, the small tears in its cloth leaking rays of light deep within the abyss.

It illuminates the ground towards the back of the room.

And yet the closer he grows—the darker his vision.

The smell is pungent.

Vomit inducing.

It feels like he's being choked as his nose is attacked.

Daggers of scent, if shit could smell sharp.

He can see now. He can see all of it.

Mounds.

The cracks within the floorboards have already stained his shoes.

As the thick lines of viscous liquid gently flow down.

The mounds leak it like fountains.

Slowly vomiting more of it from their bumps, trickling it down to the floor.

The bodies bleed.

So much blood.

Piles and piles of these bodies.

Some lay scattered, those ones are naked.

Stripped of everything but their cold, pale skin.

Yet the mounds remain.

They all bare fashionable suits, long pants and shined shoes.

Butlers, workers, caretakers.

Staff.

Given everything.

One would assume them to be staff of the manor.

What has happened.

Was he too late? Did they already get there? He was too late again? Led astray by yet another man of filth? More lives, endless lives lost to their actions. Jamie was wrong. Men like this cannot be—

He pushes himself further into the vile land.

Peering down now, just above the bodies still clothed. If they had already been culled, then he could at least provide it some worth.

He sorts through one of the stacks of the cleanest body he can find. Exchanging their uniforms with a permanently scrunched face.

And with that he takes off.

He cant have much time left.

He pushes on.

He cant let another chance slip through.

[1] The ease of access, a gardeners favorite.

[2] Distinct fragments. Ancestors would recognise the fragments between a family.

[3] Imperium Of Vael

[4] Tarik vaguely recalls such things being mentioned during his travels.

[5] A plant with some noteworthy properties.

[6] A gardener tending to these tells much of their character.

[7] Refers to the tree of course.

[8] Rather unfitting, perhaps that's why it fits.

[9] A cultivated place, this one hosts quite the variety.

[10] Lonely...