Leading the caravan means turning your eyes away from the market crowds.
– Proverb common in the Province of Trade
Charisa looked upward, her gaze flitting among the massive stalks of Razor-Grass towering over her. Light filtered through the high canopy of interlocking blades, casting shifting, hypnotic patterns on the forest floor. A constant, chitinous rustle filled the air as the wind scraped across a million sharp edges. Shansa had called this place an imitation. Nothing but a copy of the Sharpened Lands created by the trial in Dornogor. But standing here now, only days after they’d stepped from the Room of Threefold Oath, Charisa struggled to believe anything so vibrant could be less than real.
The Sharpened Lands spanned the empire’s entire southern border—from Erzfeld, the City of Rangers, to the Valourwash River in the east. It was a grand achievement, a living, razor-edged wall born of generations of civilian engineers, druids, and rangers who patrolled the fraught region. Some Tulunganar bitterly criticized the centuries‑long investment since the Treaty of Swallows Grace; Charisa understood their animus, for while the Tulunganar waged eternal war against the Tul, the empire poured resources into a massive barrier to prevent another Flower War.
Towering stalks of Razor-Grass filled the region, each nearly a dozen feet tall—larger than any tree Charisa had seen. A surge of urgent danger pulsed through her, a cold prickle against her skin that warned of a predator’s gaze. She turned, instincts guiding her deeper into the grass forest as the feeling slowly faded. She hadn’t expected her [Omen‑Witch] class to prove so useful in the field. Since learning its first skills, she’d discovered she could often avoid trouble simply by trusting her instincts. She didn’t know exactly what the danger was, but the warning always arrived early enough to steer clear.
Her caution had been earned. Early in their journey, she’d mistaken the land’s vibrant beauty for peace, confident that any danger could be met by Kirian’s bow or Shansa’s presence. The Sharpened Lands had patiently corrected her arrogance. She’d learned that even the herbivores fought back when a Shard-Scale Grazer, startled by their approach, had tumbled from a high stalk. It landed in a crash of pangolin-like armor, shedding a dozen razor-sharp scales that scattered like shrapnel. One had whistled past Kirian’s cheek, leaving a bloody track just shy of his eye.
After that, she learned to distrust the landscape itself. She’d reached out to brace herself on what looked like a withered brown stalk, a streak of dead fiber amidst the green. Her fingers had barely brushed the surface when her omen-sense screamed. She threw herself back as the stalk unfolded into the horrifying, spindly limbs of a Glass-Blade Stalker. The air hissed where her throat had been. Shansa had moved like lightning, her blade a blur that drove the perfectly camouflaged predator back into the rustling depths, but the image of those grass-like limbs was seared into Charisa’s mind.
But it was the Emerald Whispcoil that had taught her the final lesson: that some things in this forest were not simply dangers to be avoided, but masters of their domain. It took the apex predator of this vertical jungle to teach her that some threats couldn’t be sidestepped or deflected. The snake emerged from behind a stalk, its body protected by interlocking, enamel-hard scales that slid silently against the razor edges. It reared up, jaws parting to reveal dripping green venom that sizzled through stalks as it fell from the creature’s fangs, leaving blackened, melting gashes in the tough silica.
Shansa intervened, the [Venerate] uncoiling her aura around Charisa and Kirian for the first time. Charisa swore she heard thousands of marching feet and furious hooves pounding the earth—Shansa felt like a warlord, not a courier. She wondered whether Shansa had intentionally projected that terror or if it was truly her aura’s nature. If the latter, Charisa’s respect for the [Venerate] who’d taken her under her wing only deepened. The empire needed warlords.
“Charisa!” Kirian’s voice called from her left. She turned but couldn’t spot him through the dense grass. Navigating the razor‑edged stalks, threading the narrow channels between them, she scanned upward—perhaps he’d already found the elusive owl.
“Here,” she called back as she moved forward and spotted Kirian through the stalks.
“Look at this,” Kirian said, kneeling as he rolled a compact pellet of fur and bone between his fingers. Charisa knelt too quickly, nearly losing her balance in her hurry to inspect it. He glanced at her, then back at the pellet, as if seeking confirmation. “It’s large enough for the breed we’re tracking, don’t you think?”
“Shansa said the pellets would be about the size of my clenched fist,” Charisa said, holding her fist next to the mass of compacted grey fur and tiny, needle-like bones.
“That’s close enough. How many breeds of magical owl live in this ancestor‑forsaken land?”
Charisa gave him an amused look. “There are dozens of magical owl varieties that call the Sharpened Lands home. Most are far too small for something like this. Only a Ghostfeather could take down a full-grown Shard-Skitterer. See the teeth?”
“I’m convinced,” he said, standing and brushing a thick, loamy mud off his leggings. Kirian’s gaze drifted upward through the endless blades of grass. Charisa glimpsed patches of blue sky, though most remained hidden by the towering stalks. Somewhere above, a Ghostfeather Owl made its home—and she was determined to find it.
“Where’s Shansa?” Charisa asked. “This is the best lead we’ve found.”
“She said she’d range farther ahead for now. I suspect she wants us to find the creature ourselves,” Kirian said with a frustrated sigh. “You know how she is.” His voice grew lecturing. “You have to solve your own problems—how else will the Sulphen see your growth?”
“She’s right, you know,” Charisa said as she threaded through the stalks, eyes drifting skyward. “If we don’t work for our achievements, are they truly ours?” She lowered her gaze to Kirian with steady determination. “Just because a [Venerate] chooses us doesn’t mean our journey will be easy. If anything, the powerful’s attention brings more work, not less. You know that.”
“I know,” Kirian muttered, eyes fixed upward. He moved slowly, careful to avoid the razor edges. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t benefit from the hero who’s taken us under her wing. Ancestors, Charisa—Shansa Six‑Step chose us. That counts for something.”
“It does,” she acknowledged. Having a Venerate mentor was an incredible advantage—few of the Bal rose so quickly without imperial backing. How many of her people, the PetaAltan, ever received such opportunity? And yet, she hesitated to accept any imperial gift at face value. Shansa was Bal like them, but now sworn to the Sul Empire—and that changed one’s priorities.
“I’m going to drink one of my potions,” she announced, drawing a rainbow‑hued vial from her belt pouch. “I’d appreciate silence while I adjust to the sensation.”
“No problem there,” Kirian said, retreating as she unstoppered the vial. “Not after last time I failed to honor your instructions, oh great [Omen‑Witch].” She glowered at him, one potion made her vomit and suddenly it was a constant threat. Kirian raised his hands as he continued backing away. “You said it yourself, you never know how the potions will impact you, not the omen ones at least.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered with a final look of mock disapproval, then drank. Brewed over a campfire cauldron with local Sharpened Lands ingredients, she’d hoped this batch would taste better than the last. The potions worked—but their rancid flavor stole any pleasure from drinking them.
As the potion slid down her throat, her gorge rose and saliva pooled in her mouth. The silvery-white mushrooms tasted clean and crisp—like air after a lightning storm—and she wished that flavor were stronger to mask the bitter, acidic bite of crushed beetle carapaces and the sticky pungency of ghostgrass resin. Instead, the rancid brew clung to her tongue despite her desperate swallows.
“I’m fine,” she gasped, eyes fixed on a patch of blue sky as a lone cloud drifted past.
“You sure?” Kirian asked, his voice stretched and thrumming, echoing from impossible distances as if spoken through bone and root instead of air. His form shimmered at the edges of her vision, his words dissolving into a low, resonant hum that vibrated in her teeth. The patch of blue sky above warped and fractured, colors bleeding into one another like a spilled painter’s palette, the lone cloud morphing into the shape of a colossal, silent owl. Everything pulsed with a bioluminescent inner light, the sharp edges of the grass blurring and softening as if viewed through water, each beat of her heart sending ripples through the landscape. The world was breathing with her.
Suddenly, the network of roots beneath her feet wasn’t just felt, but seen in her mind’s eye—a colossal, pulsating network of silver-white threads interwoven with the dark, rich earth, each node a tiny spark of emerald light. And woven through it all, she saw a second network of fungus, glowing with a soft, violet bioluminescence. She felt the silent, symbiotic exchange: the grass feeding the fungus, and the fungus breaking down ancient rock to feed the grass vital minerals. It was a partnership, an alliance of life thriving in a world of razors.
She tasted the slow, grinding work of the Razor-Mites, a mineral tang on her tongue like licking wet stone, the scent of decay and renewal a heady perfume filling her lungs. The wind wasn’t just heard, but seen as shimmering currents of emerald and gold, each gust carrying the sharp, metallic tang of silica and the faint, desperate musk of a fleeing Weeping Hare.
The hissing choir of the grass resolved into a complex symphony of scraping, sighing, and clicking, each stalk a vibrating string in a colossal, living instrument. Charisa spun slowly, no longer an observer, but a nerve ending in the vast body of the Sharpened Lands, every sensation immediate, overwhelming, and profoundly interconnected.
Kirian’s face swam in front of her, a distorted mask of concern, his garbled sounds like the chirping of unseen insects within the grass. His flinch wasn’t just seen but felt as a ripple of fear in the interconnected web of life around her. Separate, the feeling echoed, alien and jarring. The thought flickered and died as the overwhelming presence of the Sharpened Lands reasserted itself. She knelt before the owl pellet, not as Charisa but as a tendril of awareness reaching out into the history of this place.
Time stretched and folded as her hand moved towards the pellet. She didn’t just touch it; she experienced its creation. The frantic heartbeat of the Shard-Skitterer, a tiny drum against the vast silence of the hunt. The shadow of enormous wings falling across its terrified eyes. The agonizing, swift descent of the talons, each barb a universe of pain. The tearing beak, a brutal sundering of flesh and bone, a necessary violence woven into the fabric of existence. The owl was not just felt in a distant hollow, but known—its hunger, its focus, the cold, efficient perfection of its predatory instinct, a vital force maintaining the delicate balance of the grass sea.
She unfurled like a new leaf, her legs no longer hers but extensions of the earth, guiding her with intuitive certainty toward the resonant hum of the owl’s presence. Kirian’s movements were a distracting flicker at the edge of her awareness, his drawn bow a meaningless gesture in this realm of pure sensation.
She was the Sharpened Lands; the slithering intent of the Emerald Whispcoils was a familiar hunger in her own belly, the frantic thrumming of Weeping Hares a tremor in her own nerves. She felt the slow, deliberate scrape of a Razor-Maw Turtle’s armored carapace against a fallen stalk, its powerful beak methodically slicing through the tough fibers. The patient stillness of the Sable Mantis was a mirror to her own focused intent. The cool, yielding embrace of the mud was not just felt but known as the lifeblood of the grasses. Above it all, the resonant call of her Ghostfeather Owl echoed in her very bones, a homing beacon in the symphony of the wild. She moved not through choice, but through an intrinsic understanding of the land’s desire.
Charisa wasn’t sure how long they traversed the sharpened stalks; her senses had blended with the landscape. Time no longer mattered—to the land or to her. Step by step, her vision and senses pulsed in rhythm with her heart until at last they entered a clearing. It was a rare hollow where a mature stalk had fallen decades ago, its decaying, silica-rich form slowly being reclaimed by the earth.
All around the clearing’s edge, Charisa noticed something new: dozens of smaller, younger stalks of Razor-Grass, no taller than she was. Kirian saw only new growth, but in her heightened state, Charisa could feel the land holding its breath. She sensed the deep, ancient memory within the underground network—a slow, gathering energy, a countdown to a ‘Great Flowering’ that would one day paint the sky with pollen and litter the ground with seeds before a whole generation of the grass giants withered to dust. There, perched on a grass stalk, the owl watched her with large, unwavering eyes.
The owl tilted its head, meeting her gaze with cold, dispassionate eyes. Its feathers, barred in shades of ghost-white and grey, had edges that seemed uniquely stiff, designed to slice through the air between blades without tearing. For a brief moment, she wondered if the owl would see her and find her lacking. Her sense of self faded as the barrier between them thinned. Her lips curved into a brilliant smile as the owl understood and accepted her request.
“Vesper,” she breathed, a rush of acceptance flooding her as the owl acknowledged its name. “By feather and shadow, I offer partnership to you, Vesper—binding our spirits in trust and purpose. Share your wings with my eyes, your whispers with my ears, your wisdom with my heart. Accept this bond, and together let us walk the omen‑paths unseen.”
She waited a heartbeat before the owl flapped its wings and descended onto her shoulder. A thrill surged through her, and she swayed unsteadily. Kirian caught her as weakness overcame her, collapsing gently into his arms. Vesper alighted on the ground, watchful as Kirian laid her down. Sleep overtook her as the Sulphen’s voice spoke.
[Skill Obtained: Familiar’s Bond – Vesper]
[Skill Obtained: Basic Augury]
[Skill Obtained: Familiar’s Gaze]
Krinka left Sylva sitting in the arena in a hurry as he bustled through the growing crowd that had arrived—presumably—to watch the match between Hadrian and Zelvarn. He ignored the assembled throng, slipping between Eidolons and candidates with hurried ease. While Alsarana had been forced to completely contain his aura to avoid detection—even a hint was enough to spook everything nearby—Krinka found that a moderate application of his own aura allowed him to blend in best.
Krinka bumped into an Eidolon clad in full plate armor, with a brown and white ferret wrapped around his neck like a scarf. The ferret hissed, and the man spun on Krinka. Undeterred, Krinka kept moving, confident the man wouldn’t cause further trouble as he flexed his aura, just in case. The man’s angry gaze passed over him before resuming his conversation with a candidate in garishly yellow robes. Krinka wasn’t surprised he’d been ignored once he focused on his aura. If Alsarana’s aura evoked the panic of moments before one’s death, Krinka’s was that of an elderly librarian content to spend his days among his tomes. Had he not met Casselia, that likely would have been his fate—perhaps he would have been happier, spending far less time waiting for her return.
Krinka banished his intrusive thoughts as the fresh air of the city greeted him. He absently muttered a long-forgotten nursery rhyme from Lirthea, the Free City of Sleeping Roots, focusing on each syllable and projecting its meaning ahead of him as he walked. Every bird within hundreds of yards, risen from its perch, fell silent as he strode past. How quickly they forgot the danger lurking around him. He recalled days when no city in the Sul Empire would have allowed such a flock to establish itself.
He let the gentle words of the rhyme fade as he stopped in front of an unassuming building on the outskirts of the city. Had it not been for the building’s warding scheme that had resonated with his senses since he finished the ritual the night before, he was confident he would never have given the run-down abode a second thought. The building’s exterior was crafted from light brown wood, lacking even basic carvings to denote ownership. The only indication that the building was claimed was the subtle pressure exerted by the wards to keep strangers away.
Krinka did not judge the structure harshly; if anything, he was impressed that the warding scheme was advanced enough for such a modest building. He wondered what the Cloudpiercers had used as the source of the wards’ power in the absence of an active guardian like Nessa. Even if it had been merely a gemstone from Barzamin—far from the most exotic source available—it would have cost far too much for a tertiary sect like the Cloudpiercers to invest lightly. He resolved to query the guild once they were out of Aslavain.
Krinka strode forward, and with a display of his authority and a muttered password, the door swung open to reveal a sparse room centered around a single pedestal. On the pedestal sat a large tome—hundreds, if not thousands, of pages of parchment bound together. Krinka smiled. It was exactly what he had hoped for.
He moved toward the tome as the door closed behind him with a faint click, plunging the room into darkness. Krinka muttered a brief incantation, and the torches mounted along the walls burst into a white mage-light that illuminated the room in stark hues. Reverently, he opened the tome and began reviewing the table of contents for the entry he sought. Once he found it, he turned to the appropriate page and began reading the summoning ritual.
Krinka allowed his thoughts to drift to the Cloudpiercers—a guild that, despite its modest means, had earned a reputation as the empire’s specialist in handling airborne threats. Unlike the opulent institutions of the Ink and Quill Consortium or the Stonewright’s League, the Cloudpiercers thrived in the shadows. They traded in all matters of flight and forged discreet alliances with local hunting guilds and security forces. Their understated reputation, Krinka mused, was their greatest strength—it allowed his secrets to remain hidden.
Few outside the inner circle of the guild knew that he was one of three Guildmasters guiding the Cloudpiercers. He didn’t think even Casselia or Alsarana were aware of his influence in the guild. In the long, bitter days after Casselia and Alsarana were lost following the Beast Wars, he had secretly birthed the guild in the fledgling Province of Trade, channeling both grief and resolve into its creation. Over the eight centuries since, he had carefully rewritten its history, ensuring that his own influence remained little more than a whisper—a necessary concealment that kept his true involvement safely in the background.
As he continued the retrieval chant he had written centuries before, the air in the room grew thick with the Sulphen he was drawing into the building. The Sulphen swirled in his vision like crisscrossing lines of light forming a written incantation. The spellwork would have been beyond his abilities had he not designed the incantation himself and been a Guildmaster—Krinka had never been a spellcaster; his expertise lay in the theory of magic rather than its practical application.
He trembled under the strain of the spell as the lines of light grew thicker and wound together into complex, three-dimensional shapes that twisted and shook throughout the room. He finished the building incantation and nearly collapsed as the spell sapped all his energy and vitality, culminating in a thunderclap of sound followed by a gentle thud as the item he had summoned from the Cloudpiercers’ vault landed on the floor before him.
He took a few moments to catch his breath, gasping for air before bending down to retrieve the small implement. Its round handle was made of soft leather dyed the shade of a blue sky. From the handle dangled six dozen strings, each woven from a different magical substance. Most were crafted from familiar materials—silk, cotton, or wool—though each strand gave Krinka a distinct impression as he focused on it in turn. He had known the spellstring would still be in the vault after all these years. His mind drifted to the sound of Veska’s laughter, the warmth of her presence in that very room, and the way her eyes sparkled with mischief—a vivid reminder of all that he had lost. Krinka knelt, bowed his head, and spoke gently to the empty room.
“Veska of Veinbruk. Student, friend, inspiration to all who knew you. I speak to honor you today, centuries after you left this mortal coil. I didn’t understand, all those years ago, why you would leave your wealth, your belongings, even your personal spellstring to me of all people. I didn’t understand why you entrusted me, a mere [Historian] and [Archivist], with your legacy.” He paused, a weary smile crossing his lips as he gently sighed before continuing, his voice soft.
“I spent decades trying to figure out how to properly honor you. I tried using your wealth to improve Veinbruk, but the citizens refused my aid, claiming it wasn’t how you wished to be honored. In the end, I stored your belongings in the Cloudpiercer archive, waiting for the moment they could be properly used. I believe that today is that day.”
Krinka smiled as he looked at the spellstring. He had been there with Veska when she selected some of the strands, helping her curate the strings and add new ones whenever she returned from her adventures—flush with coin or new materials. For a brief moment, Krinka considered returning the implement to the vaults. Sylva would use it properly; she would honor both the implement and Veska. He knew that, yet the thought did little to ease the pang of sadness and melancholy he felt as he gazed upon it.
“Veska, I think we are approaching a turning point. I don’t have the evidence yet—I have no proof—but everything within me suggests that things are about to turn for the worst. Are we facing a third apocalypse after all this time? Is a new tenant stirring? If so, why now? I have so many questions and no answers in sight.” Krinka bowed his head, his eyes closing as he concealed the memories the spellstring had invoked.
“I worry that this time, I will be too weak for what needs to be done. Casselia and Alsarana would destroy one of the Eternal Cities—condemning hundreds of thousands of civilians to their deaths—if it meant preventing the third apocalypse. I’m not sure I could do that. Not again.” Krinka felt a single tear roll down his cheek, which he slowly wiped away.
“The betrayal by Gransa broke something in me, Veska. The death of my friends, and the ensuing decades of solitude, were nearly unbearable. I think you saw that broken piece of me—it was why you always visited with scones, tea, and a smile as wide as your curiosity. You pulled me from despair.” Krinka let the tears stream down his face, one by one, no longer bothering to wipe them away as he stifled the tightness in his chest, refusing to let the sob break free.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he let out a gentle laugh that seemed at odds with his tears, “maybe it’s that you always made sharing my burdens easier. Maybe it’s that I know your spellstring—your most prized possession—could be lost. Maybe it’s that the spellstring is the only thing I have left of you.” Krinka hiccupped, followed by a thin smile.
“I know it’s silly, but I worry that if the spellstring is lost or destroyed, your memories will vanish with it. I know this fear isn’t based in reality—I have a perfect memory and can recall every day we spent discussing morality and our forced actions during the Beast Wars. Nothing but my death could rob me of those memories; after all, I am a [Historian]. Yet, the worry remains.” Krinka took a deep breath before turning his gaze back to the spellstring.
“I think you would have liked Sylva, my dear Veska. You would have bristled at her arrogance and unyielding certainty. You might have complained privately about how easily she mastered the principles you spent months deciphering. You would have smiled and felt the same warmth I do as you watch her grow closer to her Triumvirate. I believe you would bless me in passing your implement down to someone with her potential.” Krinka paused, as though waiting for words of affirmation from beyond the grave, though he knew better than to expect a response.
Krinka felt the minutes slip by as he knelt silently on the floor of that empty room. Eventually, he raised his head and spoke, “Even now, after all these centuries, you have made a positive difference in the empire. Your spellstring will be used for great things. I swear under the gaze of the Sulphen itself that I shall make it so.” He felt the oath take hold, twisting his soul in a wrenching sensation that assured him the Sulphen had witnessed and bound him to his word.
Krinka rose, closed the tome gently, and left the Cloudpiercers guild. He looked to the sky with a sense of sudden foreboding. Every cloud in sight was pulled into thick strands that spiraled through the sky, drawn toward a single point directly above the tree around which Dornogor was built.
Krinka wasn’t sure what had caused the localized effect on the region, but he had his suspicions. He knew firsthand how difficult that type of weather control was; he knew of fewer than a handful of living mages with the ability—and even fewer who could be in Aslavain this cycle. He only hoped it wasn’t the Empress. The Tempest was known for being unpredictable, and she was the last thing they needed to deal with right now.
Althara strode through the portal and entered Dornogor, the City of Beasts, with an imperious stride. She was flanked by nine members of the Order of the Black Seal. Each Sealbearer—the best protectors the empire had to offer—wore armor as black as tar, gleaming with lines of gold and silver that imbued the armor with its famed traits. Despite her protests, the Sealkeeper had refused to send her to Dornogor with anything less than three full Triumvirates of Sealbearers, insisting that it was outside her purview to define how they carried out their sworn duty.
She had argued with the Sealkeeper until his refusal caused her growing fury to send the stacks of paperwork in his office whirling into a chaotic storm of paper and ink. She almost regretted the petulant display. She knew the man was merely doing his job, knew that he had sworn oaths to the protection of the Imperial Triumvirate that he was unable to break—oaths older than the empire itself. In more than three thousand years, not one sworn member of the Order of the Black Seal had betrayed the empire. That only made them more insufferable, certain as they were of their own glory.
Althara was greeted by the cacophony of hoots, caws, and braying that she expected from the City of Beasts. The wide chamber was filled with lines of traders leading beasts in harnesses slowly toward the portals that interconnected the shrined cities of the empire. The branches of the great tree above were heavy with birds of every color, roosting near the blood-red flowers that filled the chamber with a floral scent that warred with the ever-present odors of manure and musk. Althara felt a rush as her presence failed to halt the bustling motion all around her. How long had it been since she’d had the opportunity to watch the people of her empire go about their days, unaware they were in the presence of their empress?
Her sense of elation faded as the Sealbearers moved in front of her, forming a wide ring, their gazes sweeping in an eternal hunt for threats—not that any of them should have reason to believe anyone or anything in a shrined city like Dornogor could threaten her. She could tell the moment the traders and herders began to notice her guards and understand what their presence meant. The nearby civilians began to kneel, frantic as they threw themselves to the ground, as though worried her guards were ready to punish them for their insolence. Within a handful of breaths, the chamber had fallen still as hundreds of her subjects knelt in supplication.
“Rise and continue your work,” she said, a touch of exasperation creeping into her voice. She could sense the auras of the Sealbearers shifting uncomfortably with her words—they always hated when she acted anything less than imperious around common civilians. She felt the air shift slightly as one Sealbearer’s gauntleted hand twitched briefly at her tone before instantly correcting as he noticed his own shifting. Althara pretended not to notice as her gaze moved imperiously through the crowd in front of her.
A herder’s daughter peeked from behind her mother’s robes, eyes wide not with fear, but curiosity. Althara felt something stir inside her—an ache of longing for such innocence. Maybe the Sealbearers were right—she was more than just a person now, she had become a symbol. She raised one palm until it hovered before her lips and blew, feeling the rush of air slide over her open palm. “May the breath of my lungs empower you and the skies never darken over your ventures. So long as you honor the empire, the empire will honor you. Now, rise.”
A sudden gust carried her words into the ears of every citizen within hundreds of yards. Every citizen she could see was suddenly on their feet, moving toward their destination. If not for the utter silence still filling the chamber, Althara could almost have believed that things were back to normal. She spoke into the silence, confident the guards would ensure her words were properly shielded from listening ears.
“How do we reach the portal to Aslavain? I do not want to spend a second longer than necessary in the true city. I have things to accomplish.”
“Empress Vandros,” the captain of her traveling guard began in a crisp, authoritative tone, “the portal is located in a different, more secure part of the facility. We can lead the way, though—” He hesitated for a heartbeat before continuing, sounding resigned. “It is standard imperial practice to greet the powers that be in any shrined city you visit—the representatives of the House of Lords and—”
“No,” Althara intoned firmly as a heavy wind whipped through the chamber, causing the nearby birds to take off in a sudden panic. “We do not have the time, nor the interest, to flatter the egos of some backwater Eidolons. Send my formal apologies or whatever propriety demands, but we will be on our way.”
“Your will be done,” the man said before one of his companions split from the group, moving swiftly through the crowd toward the exit.
“Now, shall we?” Althara asked as her guard led the way through the public—and then the restricted—areas of the shrine. They were stopped, however briefly, at several checkpoints before the guards confirmed the validity of the Order of the Black Seal’s auras and armor. No guard of the empire would forbid true members of the Order from gaining access—not when they spoke with the empress’s voice.
Only minutes after arriving in Dornogor, Althara traveled through the portal to reach Aslavain with her nine guards in tow. They had moved fast enough, she was pleased to see, that word of their arrival had not yet reached the Eidolons in Aslavain. The room ahead of them stood empty, the large wooden doors that served as the entrance to the waiting room closed. None but the sitting Imperial Triumvirate and the Order of the Black Seal had the ability to enter Aslavain in the middle of the cycle. Even the [Venerate], for all that they were the exception to the empire’s rules, were barred from entrance into Aslavain once the ritual on the summer solstice ended.
Her guards moved ahead and began the process of unbarring and then opening the great doors to the chamber. Althara strode forward, reaching the door only moments before they swung open in front of her. She took in the bright sunlight as the doors opened, the sound of cawing and whirling birds filling the chamber. She spoke casually, confident that the Sealbearers would see her will done.
“Find me the Crowless and this student of hers—the one from the Foglands who brought her to my attention.” She waited as three of her guards slipped away without a word, moving into the city with a silent grace that she appreciated. She knew it wouldn’t be long before someone recognized their distinctive armor and looked into why they were here, but for now, Althara would treasure the moments of anonymity.
Once, she had complained to Eseldra about the stench of the Bal herds that filled Dornogor, both in Creation and Aslavain. Eseldra had only laughed and asked how the embodiment of the storm, the Tempest herself, could be so coddled as to forget the true scent of the empire. Back then, Althara hadn’t understood the wisdom in those words. Now she did. Power had sheltered her from the ugly truths of the world—but it had done nothing to make life better for those born beneath her shadow. She shook her head, and a column of wind rushed past, carrying the scent away as it lifted her upward.
She focused on the sensation of lightness, her skills activating one after another as she took to the skies and rose toward the canopy of the great tree above. She rose slowly, taking in the columns of smoke rising from various buildings surrounding the tree and the massive herds of beasts that filled the plains around the city. She settled onto a branch high in the canopy and waited as three of her Sealbearers began to climb the tree, rapidly ascending until they could position themselves to protect her.
How many arguments had she had with the Sealkeeper in the early years of her reign over her love of the skies? The Order was concerned for her safety—and even more concerned for their honor. Flight was a rare skill in the empire, one that required either incredible levels of power, resources, or a unique class like hers. In her lifetime, she had met fewer than a dozen others with a comparable affinity for flight, and only one other with the ability who had yet to become a [Paragon] or [Venerate].
Eventually, after years of disagreement and petty slights on both sides, she had come to a compromise with the Sealkeeper. She would fly as she willed, but she would take the time to ensure her guards had a reasonable opportunity to follow. She still chafed under the restrictions, light as they may be, but she reminded herself that every compromise came with concessions—even for an empress. She soared upward, savoring the brief illusion of freedom, knowing even here she wore invisible chains.
Once her guards were positioned and obscured in the tree around her, she began to sing softly. At first, the wind stilled and grew calm as the air for miles around her sensed her growing intent. She could see the heads of beasts on the plains turning to the sky as though confused. She could sense every bird in the sky noticing the subtle change before turning and flying away from the great tree she stood within.
Her voice rose as she began the next verse of the Imperial Poem made into song, a poem nearly as old as the empire. Her song climbed with each rising note, the cadence of the words beginning to stir something in her, as they always had. The poem spoke of traveling across the sea—of long journeys across endless water and storms that filled every inch of the horizon with the threat of death and destruction. The song predated the Beast Wars, as did all oceanic trade. No ship had successfully crossed the ocean in nearly a millennium, not since the true monsters of the depths had woken.
As the song continued with verse after verse and the moments stretched beneath her unwinding authority, she felt the clouds stir and begin to shift. With the slow obedience of great systems shocked into motion, all of the clouds within her sight were drawn toward her in a spiral that filled every inch of the horizon with wispy white strands that swirled inward. As the clouds spiraled tighter, Althara’s throat tightened, her voice cracking briefly under the strain of channeling so much power. She had forgotten how hard this was.
Althara regretted that it had been years since she had left Rahabia and been allowed to sing of the First Breaking of Ysaril. She regretted that it had been years since she could take true control over the local clouds like she had before their ascension to the halls of power. As the clouds spun every closer, she felt her senses begin to unravel, filling the clouds with her authority. A rush of sensation filled her, and her skills began to categorize and catalog everything her expanded senses now covered. Nothing could hide from her now.
“Now I am ready for the Crownless and her student. Tell them to climb themselves or haul them up here if you must. I will not be kept waiting.”
Soon, she would begin to find the answers she sought. Althara the Tempest had returned to the mundane workings of the empire and soon things in Dornogor would begin to change.
