Power commands and compels; authority speaks and is followed by right. Where power imposes, authority persuades, yet neither is complete without the other. Power without rightful claim becomes the weight of tyranny, while authority without strength is but a hollow voice. The Scaled Dominion’s Dual Crown resolves this paradox: a queen to wield power, a king to embody authority. Duality in all things.
– Meditations on the Dual Crown by Liora Vayshen, High Scholar of Haffarah
Althara Vandros, the Tempest, one of the reigning empresses of the Sul Empire, sat on a throne of pale white wood, her fingers tracing the delicate carvings along its armrests. As their advisor’s voice droned on about the state of the realm, she felt a weight settle in her chest—a heaviness that had grown over twenty-eight years of rule. Together with her two companions, they had shaped the empire’s fate as the Imperial Triumvirate, steering it through countless storms. But now, nearly three decades later, she wondered how much longer they could endure the strain, as if the throne itself was pressing down upon her shoulders
To her left sat Rhaethan Blackblade, encased in enchanted steel that gleamed like storm-tossed waves. His sun-bronzed skin, visible between the armor’s seams, bore a lattice of scars—reminders of his brutal years in the Rahabian arenas. He had trimmed his black beard for the council, though strands of gray hinted at his age. Across his lap lay a sheathed wooden blade, eager to be unsheathed. Althara suspected that the weapon, hard-won in the Domicile of Wood, longed for battle—such was the trouble with artifacts too clever for their own good.
To Althara’s right, Eseldra Ironbloom sat in a sleeveless tunic the deep green of moss after a rainstorm, its silver and gold embroidery glimmering softly in the torchlight. Her earthen-brown skin was traced with veins of pulsing green, as if life itself flowed visibly beneath the surface. She was unmistakably one of the Bal. She held herself with a quiet authority, the kind that grew from deep roots, unmoved by the shifting winds of court. Even seated, Eseldra exuded the effortless grace of nature—confident and timeless, like an ancient oak in the heart of a wild forest.
The grand throne room of the Sul Empire was a vast expanse of marble and light, its vaulted ceiling upheld by columns of white stone threaded with veins of gold, like ancient roots reaching skyward. Beneath the rulers’ feet, polished marble mosaics wove together the empire’s storied past, tracing lines of victory and defeat in deep crimson, gold, and cobalt. Along the walls, tapestries told tales of glory and grief, while stained glass windows high above fractured sunlight into a shifting kaleidoscope, casting scenes of the Beast and Flower Wars onto the floor. The light’s dance seemed almost restless, as if the chamber itself held its breath, awaiting the next chapter of history.
“Empresses, Emperor, I greet you with the gravitas that befits your station. By the Imperial Provisions of—” The advisor’s voice droned on, a familiar litany of pomp and circumstance. Althara’s mind wandered, the words blurring together as the man indulged in grandiose formalities. Finally, after what felt like an age of empty phrases, he reached his point. “I come bearing news from the West—possible expansion beyond the imperial borders.”
At last, something worthy of their attention. Althara felt a faint prickle of electricity in the air and Rhaethan stirred from his marble throne, the sharpness returning to his gaze. He leaned forward, a flicker of eagerness breaking through the mask of imperial decorum.
“Expansion by whom?” Rhaethan’s voice was smooth, the excitement carefully controlled behind his imperial facade. Althara exchanged a brief glance with Eseldra; after nearly five decades, they both recognized that familiar spark in his eyes. The warrior in him still chafed at the endless rituals and bureaucracy, hungering for a challenge he could meet head on.
The advisor coughed, a nervous tremor that quickly escalated to near-panic, as if he feared a mere sound could offend the Triumvirate’s majesty. Althara’s gaze narrowed slightly. What was it, she wondered, that transformed rulers into something more than human in the eyes of those they governed? Yes, Rhaethan wielded a blade with a mastery that bordered on myth, she could call down storms at will, and Eseldra commanded the living earth. Yet, beneath the gilded trappings, they still ate, drank, and shit like everyone else.
“Out with it,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the chamber like a whip. It was sharper than she intended, but she was past caring. The courtiers would whisper about her temper, about the so-called dignity an empress should uphold, but after twenty-eight years, such trivialities had become little more than background noise. The court, with its rituals and niceties, had always seemed like a gilded cage—a place of endless words that meant nothing.
“The Luminaries, Majesty.”
“Explain.” Eseldra’s voice was as calm as a still pond, untouched by Althara’s rising temper. To many, she appeared the embodiment of composure, but Althara knew better; Eseldra loathed court politics just as much, if not more. Perhaps it was a Bal trait, this knack for masking true feelings, or perhaps it was simply Eseldra’s own way of weathering the endless cycles of bureaucracy.
“We’ve received reports of several small enclaves forming beyond the Spine in the West—positions that skirt dangerously close to the Kumutara and Tisserandian hives of the Brood. Any misstep there could awaken a war we are unprepared to fight.”
Rhaethan leaned back, his earlier spark of interest already dimming. Althara felt the urge to mirror his posture, but she remained upright. The Luminaries had clamored for expansion beyond the Spine for centuries, ever since the end of the Flower Wars. In their first briefings as the Imperial Triumvirate, they had debated these same enclaves, these same risks. Nearly thirty years had passed, and still, the settlements had brought no real trouble to the empire—so why now, of all times, did it suddenly warrant concern?
“Do any of these enclaves truly possess the means to form a shrine?” Eseldra asked, her tone edged with her own skepticism as she absently traced a finger along the armrest of her throne.
“No, your majesty… not as far as I know,” the advisor replied, a slight tremor in his voice betraying his uncertainty.
“Then why are we even discussing this?” Eseldra asked, a note of impatience creeping into her voice.
“The newest [Squire of Carven Bone] hails from Cutra, one of the enclaves southwest of Misalvar and Trugdorn,” the advisor said, his voice wavering slightly. He adjusted his spectacles with a trembling hand, as though bracing himself for the weight of what he was about to reveal.
“Out with it,” Althara growled, her voice rumbling like distant thunder. The advisor flinched, his spectacles slipping down the bridge of his nose. How did Eseldra always manage to keep them calm? Althara’s interruptions seemed to catch them off guard every time, no matter how predictable her impatience had become.
“One candidate joining the empire through the citizenship ritual wouldn’t normally merit your attention,” the advisor stammered, his words faltering. “But… the Guild of Fallen Heroes and the Sect of Eight Strands report that the [Squire] has a rather… storied Triumvirate guiding him—an arrangement far from ordinary.”
The mention of a storied Triumvirate snapped Rhaethan’s attention back to the present. He leaned forward, the wooden blade on his lap shifting ever so slightly, as if it too had caught the scent of something worth pursuing. His fingers drummed against the hilt, an unconscious sign of his mounting curiosity.
“Explain.”
“The [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] has reawakened after more than two centuries of dormancy,” the advisor continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The Crownless, the Archivist, and the Harbinger are all in Aslavain. If our diviners’ readings are accurate, they have taken the [Squire of Carven Bone] under their wing.” Althara’s pulse quickened at the mention. The Broken Crown was no ordinary group—it was a legend, a relic of an era steeped in blood and ambition.
Rhaethan’s focus seemed to drift again, his stone-gray eyes scanning the chamber as if searching for something more tangible to grasp. Althara knew he seldom concerned himself with matters of history unless they involved a fight. A recovering group of [Venerate] did not appear to offer one. But Eseldra’s expression tightened, the significance of the advisor’s words not lost on her. She turned to Rhaethan, a frown deepening the lines around her eyes.
“The Mandate of Empire’s greatest champions. The ones who brought down Gransa Suneater and turned the tide of the war at the Battle of Kaelum’s Refuge,” Eseldra said, her voice laced with a hint of exasperation. “Do you ever bother to learn the history of the empire you’re supposed to rule, Rhaethan?” She tilted her head slightly, one eyebrow arching in disbelief.
The advisor seemed to shrink, trembling like a sapling caught in a storm, as one of his empresses openly challenged the emperor. Rhaethan’s expression shifted in a heartbeat—confusion giving way to a spark of excitement, as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes.
“They trained the Marquis of Bone?” Rhaethan asked, his gaze snapping to Eseldra. Althara found it curious—of all the figures he could have remembered, it was a Dion necromancer. Still, at least he was paying some attention for once. The Marquis’s reputation was as dark as the spells he had worked, in some circles at least.
“They did,” Eseldra replied, her gaze unyielding as she locked eyes with Rhaethan. She turned back to the advisor, a subtle tension in her posture suggesting that some matters were best left for private discussion. “Which of the Eternal Cities is the Triumvirate’s team expected to compete in during the autumnal equinox?”
“We have reports that they arrived in Dornogor, formed a flying construct, and headed south. Ylfenhold or Calcara seem the most likely destinations.”
Dornogor. This year’s cycle kept circling back to Dornogor.
“That will be sufficient for our deliberations. We will call for you if we require further information,” Eseldra said, her voice steady and unyielding. The advisor bowed hurriedly and retreated, his footsteps echoing across the marble floor as he left the chamber. As the heavy doors shut behind him, Eseldra rose from her throne and began to pace, each step measured and deliberate, as though trying to unravel a tangled thread in her mind.
“I don’t like this at all,” Eseldra murmured, her brow furrowing as she paced. “The Mandate of Empire is unpredictable at best, dangerous at worst. Even if they’ve never directly opposed us, their certainty in their cause defies imperial oversight. If they’re in Dornogor, it can only mean one thing—they’re after one of the Wyverns.”
“We’ve been over the eggs already, Sel,” Althara sighed, cutting off the argument before it could begin. “We decided the benefits outweighed the risks when we authorized the purchase from the Vorith. A single Wyvern bred for war is a rare enough advantage… but with three, the possibilities could reshape the empire.”
“We’ve invested far too much to let those lizards sit idle,” Rhaethan grumbled, crossing his arms as though to punctuate his point. “They’re meant for war, not decoration.”
“Don’t even start,” Eseldra snapped, spinning to face him with a fierce glare. “The only reason you pushed for those eggs was to provoke the Dominion—and you know it.”
Rhaethan shrugged. “And? It’s not like they can do much about it—at least, not openly.”
“Just because the ancient treaties have held for nearly three millennia doesn’t mean they’re unbreakable,” Eseldra said, her voice sharpening with urgency. “These accords are older than the empire itself, and we cannot be remembered as the Triumvirate that let them unravel.”
“If the treaties endured through the Breaking of the Dion, the Beast Wars, and the Flower Wars, they’ll weather a few Wyvern eggs we acquired legally,” Rhaethan said, his graying eyebrow arching as his hand casually settled on the hilt of his sword. “And if the Dominion is foolish enough to break the treaties, I’d gladly put our legions to the test.” His words hung in the air, challenging anyone to doubt the empire’s strength.
“Enough, the both of you,” Althara said, rolling her eyes with a sigh. “We’ve argued this in circles. The purchase was authorized, and our agents are prepared to deal with any objections from the Dominion. The Wyvern eggs aren’t the real issue here.” When neither Eseldra nor Rhaethan met her gaze, she leaned back in her throne, letting the silence stretch a moment longer before she spoke again, her voice quieter but no less commanding.
“Can’t you feel it?” Althara’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, yet it carried an undeniable urgency. “The seers are seeing omens they haven’t witnessed in centuries—shadows gathering on the horizon. Even that advisor,” she gestured sharply toward the door, “brought us news of Luminary enclaves provoking the Brood. And now, the Dominion will almost certainly retaliate when they discover where the eggs are.” Her gaze swept over them, her eyes glinting like storm clouds ready to break.
“Can’t you sense it?” Althara repeated, her voice almost drowned by the growing crackle of energy in the air. “The storm is building, and we’re standing at its heart.” She fixed her gaze on Rhaethan, her fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of her throne. “We could take the Dominion in a fair fight—I know it, and you know it. But we both understand it would force us to mobilize resources we need elsewhere.”
She turned her fierce gaze to Eseldra, her expression hardening. “I understand you want to divert more forces against the Tul. But unless we commit the [Paragons] and [Venerate] in full, it won’t be enough. The Tul would tear our legions to shreds and only grow stronger with every victory.” She hesitated for a heartbeat, then continued, “If we confront the Dominion now, we have a fighting chance. But if we wait until the Tul have had their way with us, even that chance will slip through our fingers.”
“The Tul—” Rhaethan began, but his words faltered as Althara spun toward him. A sudden gust surged through the chamber, whipping the tapestries into a frenzy, their embroidered scenes of war and peace rippling like waves caught in a storm. The air crackled with the promise of lightning, as if the Tempest herself had stirred.
“If you dare claim the Tul are in decline, I’ll see to it that lightning finds you the next time you step outside,” Althara snapped, her hand curling into a fist as the air around her seemed to hum. “The Tul haven’t had a chief unify the clans in… what, sixty years?”
“Seventy-three,” Eseldra corrected softly, a hint of caution in her voice. She and Rhaethan knew all too well that Althara’s threats were never empty. Even before she ascended to the throne, Althara’s wrath had been as formidable as the storms she summoned.
“And remind me, Sel, what came of that last consolidation?”
“The Battle of the Blue Fort,” Eseldra replied, her voice tinged with a somber note, “and the raids that swept across the Diontel left tens of thousands dead—at least, as far as we can estimate. With the Tul, the true numbers are always elusive.”
“What’s the current interval between Tul consolidations?” Althara asked, her voice dropping to a low murmur. For nearly three millennia, the empire had grappled with the Tul’s relentless cycles of conflict, with scholars desperately seeking patterns to stave off the next wave of destruction. But Althara already knew the answer—as did they all. It was a grim fact, etched into the empire’s history and into their own memories.
“Fifty-seven years is the historical average,” Eseldra answered, her tone sharpening. “But that’s exactly the problem, Thara. If a consolidation is happening now—or has already begun—we’re blind to it. That [Venerate] who lost her team five years ago, Astalia, might be the only one with answers, and she’s still recovering. Her entire group was wiped out just miles from the Diontel, and we pulled back our scouts afterward. Now, we’re left in the dark. The Tul could be amassing for a raid as we speak, and we’d have no way of knowing.”
“Have the divination guilds detected any signs of an impending Tul raid?” Rhaethan asked, though the skepticism in his voice made it clear he wasn’t expecting a different answer. Althara watched him closely, certain that he already knew the response—they all did. The seers’ visions had grown murky, unreliable.
“No, there haven’t been any warnings of Tul raids,” Eseldra admitted, her reluctance evident in the hesitation that crept into her voice. “But the seers have seen troubling omens centered around Dornogor. The East Warden even issued an Imperial Writ to one of the local [Venerate] teams, granting them authority to act if the situation escalates.”
“False alarms, all of them,” Rhaethan scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “The Dominion’s saber-rattling over the Wyverns is stirring up all kinds of false omens, and the diviners are simply catching echoes of that noise. If the Tul were truly planning a raid strong enough to cross the Diontel, we’d have seen clearer signs by now. As for those enclaves in the West, we’ll know well in advance if anyone gets close to forming a Shrine in Brood territory. There’s no reason to alienate our Kiel allies over something that hasn’t reached the boiling point.” Althara’s jaw tightened at his words—such easy confidence had been dangerous before.
“And what about the reports of rats?” Eseldra pressed, her tone firm as she refused to let the matter drop. “We can’t just dismiss the sightings, especially when they’re coming from multiple sources.” She held Rhaethan’s gaze, challenging his tendency to dismiss concerns too quickly.
“Large rats in Tul territory, east of the Diontel? What of it?” Rhaethan retorted, his voice dripping with skepticism. “The Tul probably hunt the things for sport, and the creatures are just scattering from the threat. The Eidolons at the Shrines and the legions at the forts can deal with a few oversized vermin. Unless there’ve been sightings west of the Diontel, I don’t see the problem.” Eseldra’s expression hardened—Rhaethan’s dismissiveness was exactly why she wouldn’t let this go.
“It still doesn’t feel right,” Eseldra said, her voice tinged with concern.
“Fine,” Althara said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll go from Rahabia to Dornogor myself and ensure everything is in order.” She rose from her throne, the subtle crackle of energy in the air echoing her decision.
“But—” Rhaethan began, only to be silenced by a sharp glance from Althara. “Enough,” she said, her voice brooking no argument. Rhaethan clenched his jaw, his hand twitching toward his sword, though he let the objection die on his lips.
“If the Tul launch a raid, neither of you would escape fast enough. The Imperial Triumvirate cannot risk one of its members being captured—or worse, Sulphen forbid, devoured by those savages.” She met their eyes, a hint of grim determination hardening her voice. “I’m the only one who can move swiftly enough to ensure that doesn’t happen.”
She could see the displeasure in their eyes. Rhaethan had no doubt hoped to justify a trip east himself, eager for any chance to escape the stifling confines of the palace. They had both supported the purchase of the Wyvern eggs, each of them driven by the same unspoken longing. It had been far too long since any of them had been called to defend the empire directly, and Althara could feel the gilded cage closing in around her.
She was the Tempest, the embodiment of the storm’s fury, and she could feel the air crackling with the promise of chaos. A storm was coming—one that she would face on her own terms.
The [Procurator] sat behind a wide, ivory desk strewn with parchment still wet from ink and bones etched with the flowing lines of the Dion script. Each document he handled with methodical precision, sorting them into piles for delegation, his movements almost ritualistic in their care. When the last paper was in its place, he leaned back, brushing a strand of golden hair from his brow. His gaze drifted to the window, where Calcara—the City of Bone—stretched beyond, shrouded in the gray mist that clung to the ancient necropolis. One page lay askew on the desk, its words casting shadows in the dim light.
His office faced northward over the Plains of Decay, perched high enough within the fortress that no ivory wall could obscure the view. Below him lay a sea of gravestones, mausoleums, and crypts stretching outward like jagged teeth, the monuments rising in defiance against time’s erosion. The necropolis surrounded Calcara on all sides, a reminder of the city’s ancient legacy and its promise that even in death, the Dion would guard their home. Beyond the furthest crypts, the land dissolved into a haze of bone-white fog, as though the world itself were fading away.
In Dion tradition, the dead did not simply rest; they encircled the city in a watchful vigil, a final line of defense. Should an invader dare approach, the spirits would rise from their tombs, followed by skeletal warriors and shambling corpses eager to protect their ancient home. Every citizen of Calcara eventually became its defender. Yet no enemy had breached the Plains of Decay in his lifetime. The wards that bound the spirits had grown old, their power steeped in generations of blood and bone, but their watch remained unbroken and their masses only swelled with every year.
The [Procurator] was no king, emperor, or lord of the Sul Empire. His power lay in the shadows, where no crown could touch. He found the notion of public debate laughable—mere theater for the living and the Eidolons who haunted the House of Lords. Why waste words when a handful of well-placed bribes and whispered threats could bend policy just as easily? The [Procurator] had seen to it that most of those deliberative voices sang his tune, without ever needing to set foot in that hall of pretense.
No, the [Procurator] preferred to remain a ghost in the empire’s mind. His title, shrouded in obscurity, was known to few outside the circles of power, and his true name had been relinquished centuries ago—a sacrifice to the ancient wards carved into his very bones that shielded him from curses and hexes. Among the Dion, names held power, and to sever oneself from such a tether was to become untouchable to some magics. More than that? It suited him. For what use was a name when whispers could carry his will as far as any proclamation?
His gaze drifted back to the page before him, its ink seeming to pulse like a heartbeat. The return of the Crownless had unsettled more than just the political balance; it had rekindled old fears, buried ambitions. After two centuries of silence, she had reappeared. Her Triumvirate reestablished in a matter of months, and now she moved through Aslavain with a purpose as clear as bone. A Wyvern was her aim. Everyone important in the empire knew this secret, but few understood the true cost.
He allowed himself a fleeting hope that the Crownless’ students had been ensnared within Tir Na Nog’s labyrinthine trials. If fate favored him, the city’s trial would delay them long enough to miss the first contest for a Wyvern. Perhaps Chanvar would succeed this cycle; the skeletal master had trained a promising candidate, one of the Carvers Blood, who was more than capable of competing. If the Crownless’ pawns faltered, even for a moment, it would be enough to tip the scales.
He briefly considered reaching out to his Nygmar contacts in Tir Na Nog, but quickly dismissed the notion. For nearly a century, the Nygmar had grown increasingly hesitant, their resentment simmering over the empire’s refusal to sanction the kind of brutal conquests demanded by the Crimson Heart. That bloodthirsty relic of theirs stirred dark passions even he found unsettling, a hunger for war and sacrifice that made alliances precarious. To ask for aid now would risk reigniting old grievances. Better to let the Nygmar simmer in their discontent for a while longer.
He made a mental note to adjust the tariffs on Nygmar goods and dispatch envoys to the Province of the Earthen Few bearing offerings of fresh blood for the Crimson Heart. His models indicated that such gestures would be enough to placate any budding discontent, at least for a time. The envoys would also collect the bones of long-dead Nygmar from the underground depths, relics that could prove valuable in the hands of the Dion. It was a calculated move—one that balanced appeasement with profit—but even the most careful plans carried risks, especially when dealing with those who thirsted for blood and conquest.
He drew a thumb bone from a drawer, its length nearly matching that of his hand. The Numen specimen gleamed with an otherworldly sheen, its marrow a testament to purity unmatched by any other species he had encountered. Even after centuries of working with bones from across the continent, the Numen remained unique. He understood why his predecessors had established the ‘reservation’ policy, preserving the Numen in carefully controlled regions before the civil wars fractured Dion control. If circumstances had allowed, he would have restored those reserves, reclaiming what had once been the Dions most coveted secret.
He sighed, a rare gesture for one so accustomed to restraint. What must it have been like to lead the Administrators Blood when their dominion stretched unchallenged from the Gondaran Marsh to the hills west of the Valourwash River? In those days, Ylfenhold had answered to the Blood’s authority, not the meddling Justicars with their naive ideals of equality and liberty. And what had become of it all, since the arrival of the Sunborn with their new religion, which blasphemed the sacredness of bone and decried the touch of sunlight upon bone? He could almost feel the weight of those lost centuries pressing against him, reminding him of what had been taken—and what could yet be reclaimed.
He reached for his carving tool, its handle polished smooth by years of use, and began etching his message onto the thumb bone with deft, precise strokes. As the blade met the surface, faint sparks of necromantic energy danced along the grooves, binding his intent to the bone. Chanvar would understand; he had proven his loyalty time and again, as reliable as the [Procurator]’s own skeletal servants. The [Procurator] made a mental note to summon the girl’s parents. What was her name? He paused, allowing the whispers of ancient wards to fill the gaps in his memory. Valentine. The name rose from his thoughts as though called forth by some unseen force. Yes, Valentine of the Carvers Blood.
Valentine of the Carvers Blood—a promising candidate, though perhaps lacking the unpredictability that made for greatness. Her parents had used the full weight of their lineage to secure Chanvar’s mentorship, and the [Procurator] had sanctioned the arrangement, following from a distance as the girl began her training. He seldom missed the movements of the Ancient Blood, and even fewer proceeded without his explicit approval. Valentine had potential, yes, but potential was fragile. It would take more than blood and ambition to meet the demands he might one day place upon her.
If the Crownless’ proteges had avoided the Demesne of Tir Na Nog, then Chanvar’s failure would be forgivable—this time. The man was every bit as capable as his ancestors, a warrior who had mastered not only the arts of combat but also the perilous currents of Dion politics. Yet the question remained: could he prepare his students to rival Casselia’s prodigies?
The [Procurator] focused intently on the left thumb bone, channeling a sliver of his will as he transferred the etchings onto its twin—an identical bone that Chanvar possessed. The carvings flared briefly with a cold, spectral light before vanishing. Valentine was to devote her every effort to thwarting the Crownless’ students, whatever the cost. If it stunted her own growth, so be it. The [Procurator] had little concern for the prospects of a promising pupil from a lesser bloodline if sacrificing her ambition could delay his rival’s rise, even if only for a few precious months.
Assassination was, unfortunately, out of the question. Any attempt on their lives while in Aslavain risked consequences for the Dion—ones that even he faltered at. But if they emerged from the imperial training grounds weakened or, with a stroke of fortune, earlier than expected, his agents would be poised to strike. Should the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] secure months or years to prepare unopposed, they might become an unstoppable force. And to oppose them then would mean bleeding his faction dry.
The assassination of the Marquis of Bone had been a necessary evil, one that he had executed with ruthless precision. Yet the cost had been staggering—decades spent reclaiming lost secrets, mending reputational wounds, and replenishing the funds that bled away to silence witnesses and secure alliances. If this new Triumvirate possessed even a fraction of that potential, the price would be steeper still. Better, then, to strike preemptively, to unravel the threat before it had the chance to grow fangs.
The thumb bone trembled in his hand, its surface warping as new carvings etched themselves into the surface, the letters appearing as though summoned by a silent voice. Chanvar’s response. The [Procurator] read the message with a discerning eye, each word reinforcing his plan. Satisfied, he traced a final sigil over the bone, sealing the exchange, before returning it to its place within the drawer—marked with precision among the other relics of his dealings. The weight of the centuries-old bone pressed lightly against his palm, a reminder of the burdens he carried and the power that still lay at his fingertips.
Valentine had added one of the Blind to her Triumvirate—a fortunate development. The Blind, with their unique ability to perceive the soul’s depths, were rare and often invaluable assets. It was the best news he had received all day. The pair was currently training within the labyrinthine halls of Bonehold, searching for the final member of their team. The [Procurator] made a mental note to have his contacts within the city steer promising candidates toward them. This was no mere contest of wills; the return of the Crownless threatened the very stability of the Dion. This time, she would not come quietly—of that, he was certain.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. It had been too long since he had felt the thrill of a genuine challenge—too long since the weight of history had pressed upon him with such urgency. For all the uncertainty that lay ahead, he could not deny the quiet exhilaration that stirred within him. The game was set, and the pieces were finally in motion.
Thar Nol Grak, king among lords, largest of the Tul, and leader of the twelve clans, loomed over the trembling figure before him. The dim torchlight flickered across his hulking form, casting shadows that reached like clawed hands across the chamber’s rough-hewn stone walls. His cold, unblinking eyes bore down on the hunched creature—a pitiful wretch with mottled, patchy black fur clinging to its emaciated frame like mildew to rotting wood.
Disgust welled up in him, but he held his anger in check, a rare exercise of patience. Thar Nol Grak had not united the clans through destruction alone; it took discipline to know when to crush and when to let live. Still, no one insulted him without consequence. A thousand of these vermin would be eaten by the clans in honor of his restraint.
Beneath tattered, grimy rags, the creature cowered, its frail body trembling with each ragged breath. The rise and fall of its chest revealed sinewy muscles pulled tight over disease-ridden skin, a grotesque blend of decay and stubborn vitality. Its nose twitched constantly, as if tasting the corruption thick in the air, while its bristled whiskers quivered in time with the torch’s flicker. Small, feral eyes glinted crimson, darting nervously—always searching, always wary—fueled by a desperate mix of hunger, paranoia, and a spark of cunning that even this wretched being could not entirely suppress.
Pitiful, Thar Nol Grak thought, his lip curling in distaste.
“Oh, great king of the Tul, the Unending Hunger, Slayer of Zul Karn Drel, Sul Bane,” the creature rasped, its voice trembling like dry leaves in the wind. Each word stumbled over the next, tripping in its haste to placate. “I bring fair tidings from my lord.” Thar Nol Grak noticed the hesitation, the twitch in its eyes as it gauged his reaction. Smart, he mused. But not smart enough.
“The swarm has reached the warren,” the creature continued, its voice gaining a touch of confidence. “The tunnel is nearly complete. We… are ready.” It hesitated, its gaze flicking to the ground before quickly darting back up. “My lord humbly requests… if it pleases you, how your preparations to cross the Diontel have fared.”
“Does your lord question my resolve?” Thar Nol Grak thundered, his voice shaking the chamber’s very stones. The creature recoiled, stumbling back with a startled yelp. With the speed of a striking serpent, Thar Nol Grak’s hand lashed out, seizing the wretch in an iron grip. He lifted it to his face, breath hot and fetid, teeth gleaming like jagged stones in the dim light. He squeezed just enough for its bones to creak under the pressure. Negotiations were most effective when the other party fully understood the consequences of failure.
“N-no, of course not,” it gasped, the words barely escaping its crushed lungs. “I am—th-third highest in the swarm. If… if I die, it will weaken the attack. I… I am among the last who can speak to our lord. He… needs me.” Thar Nol Grak’s expression did not change, though inside, he sneered. Pathetic, he thought. They still don’t understand.
“Go.” Thar Nol Grak released his grip, letting the creature drop like refuse to the floor. A sickening snap echoed as its leg twisted beneath it, and it writhed in pain before struggling upright, dragging its shattered limb toward the exit. “Tell your master,” Thar Nol Grak growled, “the deal stands. When the eyes of the world open fully in the darkness, we shall strike as one.”
“The City of—” the creature croaked, desperation edging its voice.
“Enough!” Thar Nol Grak’s roar shook dust from the ceiling. “Leave before I make you an example.” At least the Horned Lord, unlike his wretched underlings, possessed the dignity and strength of a true subordinate.
“Next?” Thar Nol Grak growled, impatience edging his voice. One of his Stewards, a sinewy Tul draped in ritualistic bone adornments, stepped forward to usher in the next petitioner. Thar Nol Grak allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. Capturing or killing an Imperial was a rarity, but his new alliances had yielded unforeseen benefits. Properly feeding a Tul to become a Steward was unthinkable a decade ago—now, they handled the tedious work, leaving him to savor the spoils of conquest.
“One of the frogs, my King,” the [Steward] murmured.
Thar Nol Grak’s grin spread wide, revealing rows of sharp, glistening teeth as saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth. The last time he had devoured one of these bright-skinned frogs, the taste had lingered for days—a mingling of sweetness and poison.
“Let it come forward,” he growled. Moments later, the creature entered—a small Nygmar with glistening azure skin and a ridged back. It stood motionless, its bulbous black eyes locked on him in an unnerving stare. Thar Nol Grak cared little for what the Nygmar called themselves; to him, they were just frogs, their bright colors no different from the gaudy hues of poisonous insects.
“Great king of the Tul,” the frog croaked, its voice harsh and unsteady in the guttural language of the Tul. “The Council sent me to confirm… the target remains as expected. The Empire… knows nothing of your rise. The Nygmar… are ready for payment.”
Thar Nol Grak’s hand twitched, the impulse to seize and devour the frog nearly overwhelming him. It had offered mere confirmation—nothing of real value. He doubted it even understood the words it spoke, merely repeating what its masters had drilled into its memory.
He recalled the last time he tasted one of these brightly colored creatures—the tingle on his tongue, the numbing sensation spreading through his limbs. His Steward had explained it was natural, a trait of the Nygmar’s skin secretions to ward off predators. Thar Nol Grak had devoured a dozen to prove that nothing, not even poison, could deter his hunger. The memory stirred his appetite as he gazed down at the trembling wretch.
The arrogance of these lesser beings, to think they could bargain with him as equals. He had promised them everything they could want and sworn oaths they claimed would bind him. Foolishness, utter foolishness, to think anything could bind Thar Nol Grak. Yet change was coming. The world would see a new age of conquest, and if the Nygmar lived long enough, they would learn the true meaning of power.
With a swift motion, he snatched the frog from the ground, its frantic croaks spilling out in the harsh tongue of the Sul. Thar Nol Grak’s jaws opened wide, and with a single, decisive bite, he tore into the creature’s flesh. The familiar taste—sweet and poisonous—filled his mouth, and he savored it. There was truly nothing like the taste of frog.