Is any creature a truer mirror of life than the moth? We all begin helpless—whether as egg or child—driven only by the hunger to grow. It is only when the child gathers empathy, experience, and the nourishment of wisdom that they are ready to shed their larval form and transform. For the children of the Sul Empire, is there any greater pupa than Alsavain? The great cocoon of empire, where larvae become majestic beings bound to serve, drawn toward greatness like moths to flame. To never enter Alsavain is to remain forever larval.
– Mustva Marsellius, Kiel Scholar
Sylva materialized back in the Room of Threefold Oaths, the echo of Nyxol’s voice still humming in her mind. The chamber was unchanged, save for two figures already seated at the central table. They flinched at her arrival, startled. Her gaze went first to the larger man, clearly one of the Bal. His shoulders were broad enough to strain the back of the granite throne he occupied, and a thick mane of brown hair fell around a face that looked more accustomed to wind than to walled rooms. He wore a rough fur cloak that marked him as an outsider, a piece of the wild brought into the heart of imperial ritual.
Her gaze shifted to the second man. He was Kiel, she surmised, with the pale skin and fine, golden hair common to the eastern peoples. His cool, watchful eyes were the color of polished steel, but it was his robe that commanded her attention. It was made of a gray silk that seemed to drink the light, shimmering with a strange, animate luster she had never seen before.
Sylva kept her posture perfect, her back a straight, disciplined line. Only a faint tremor in her fingertips betrayed the rapid beat of her heart. She would control this meeting. Her analysis continued: the Bal occupied the stone throne reluctantly, shifting as if the seat didn’t fit. He was tall, even seated. For a moment, she recalled Elder Valinsa’s lessons—whispers that the Bal were part beast.
Her attention returned to the Kiel. She almost dismissed him as unremarkable until her eyes caught again on the strange luster of his robe. The shade, the texture… it was a weave she did not recognize. The thought was so absurd it stopped her cold. A silk she didn’t recognize? Impossible. Her focus narrowed, tracing the almost-living shimmer of the fabric as the light played across it. Her breath hitched. No. It couldn’t be. All composure forgotten, she leaned forward, her voice a sharp, incredulous whisper. “Is that Fog Silk?”
“Yes,” the man replied, a flicker of hesitation in his voice. He averted his eyes from her intense gaze. “A gift from my village. From yesterday, before…” His voice trailed off.
“Freely given?” The question was sharp with disbelief and a note of envy she couldn’t conceal. “In my entire Sect, only the most reclusive elders might possess such a thing. That a mere village would relinquish one…” Her voice trailed off as the robe shimmered under the glowstones, the fabric seeming to breathe. It was more than a garment; it was a statement of power, of wealth so vast it was unimaginable. He must be from a First-Tier Sect, she concluded. Luminaries Grace? The Weavers Guild? Only they could afford such extravagance.
The Kiel was staring back at her, clearly taken aback by her intensity. Heat rose in her cheeks. This was not the controlled introduction she had planned. Clearing her throat to cover her embarrassment, she forced herself back to protocol. “Sylva Strenath, of the Sect of Silken Grace.” She inclined her head to each man in turn, hoping the formal gesture would mend her breach of decorum.
The Bal man grinned, a disarmingly friendly expression. “Silken Grace? An unexpected pleasure. I am Lotem Jarval of the Zherenkhan.” The name sparked a flicker of recognition in Sylva’s memory, though she couldn’t immediately place it. At least he was ThurBal, she thought with some relief—more civilized than their UlaanBal Greenskin cousins to the south. She filed the name away for later consideration.
The Kiel’s introduction was clipped, his jaw tight with annoyance. “I am Hadrian of Cutra.” He met her gaze with a clear challenge in his sharp, gray eyes. “Is it so impossible that my village would gift me this robe?”
Defending herself would be counterproductive. Cursing her lack of composure, Sylva offered a practiced, diplomatic smile. “Forgive me. I spoke out of shock, not disbelief. I have simply never heard of an initiate entering Aslavain with such a treasure.” She met his eyes, her tone shifting to one of sincere respect. “Burning string, there are likely only a few dozen such robes in the entire empire. To be entrusted with one is a great honor, Hadrian. Your village must believe you are destined for greatness.” She worried the praise was too heavy, but the tension in Hadrian’s shoulders seemed to ease, his expression brightening.
Lotem, the peacemaker, interjected. “We can’t hold a Silkborn responsible for her fascination with silk, can we?”
“Right. Silkborn. Of course,” Hadrian said, a little too quickly. For a moment, Sylva wondered if he was unfamiliar with the term, but dismissed the idea as absurd. Any child of the empire, even one from a remote village like Cutra, would know of the great sects.
“You are both gracious,” she said, her voice regaining its formal cadence. With the initial awkwardness smoothed over, she could now direct them. “We have much to discuss. First, the matter of forming a Triumvirate.”
Hadrian’s brows furrowed. “Is there a reason we wouldn’t? I assumed that was the point. We’re not meant to go into Aslavain alone, are we?”
“I have no interest in going alone,” Lotem said with a shrug. “I vote we form the team. Sylva?”
“It is not that simple!” she insisted, gesturing at the walls covered in imperial script. “This is a binding pact. It demands review, discussion. Neither of you have even read the contract.” It isn’t just about formality, she thought, frustrated. It’s about commitment. How can I trust them if they don’t grasp the weight of the oath they agree to?
Hadrian and Lotem exchanged a look of shared confusion. Lotem cleared his throat. “Sylva, the Triumvirate contract is ancient. It predates the Beast Wars. Surely its terms are well-established and fairly enforced.”
“That is not the point!” she said, her voice rising with an intensity that surprised even herself. “Of course we will agree to it. But we must discuss it. The gravity of the pact demands it.” The very idea of signing something so vital unread was anathema to her.
She knew that she may be coming across a tad too intense for her first meeting, but the very idea of signing a contract without reading the terms first was just unacceptable.
“If it’s important to you, I am not opposed to hearing about the terms of the contract,” Hadrian offered in an attempt at a peace offering. “Are you willing to explain the terms of the contract to us? It would likely be faster than us trying to read the thing ourselves.”
“If it’s important to you, I’ll listen,” Hadrian offered. “Could you explain the terms? It would be faster than us trying to read it.”
“And we only have three hours,” Lotem added, his tone reasonable. “Three hours to decide if we team up and where we go. Planning our destination seems a better use of that time.”
Sylva pressed her lips together. He was right. The clock was ticking, and she had already memorized every clause of the contract herself. She could lecture them on it later. The principle of the matter would have to yield to pragmatism.
“A fair point,” she conceded, though she couldn’t resist a final jab. “If we are to proceed without the gravitas this decision deserves, then let us move on to more pressing matters.” Both men visibly relaxed. She filed away the observation: they valued efficiency. Good. “Second on the agenda: our destination.”
“What are our options?” Hadrian asked.
A genuine smile finally touched Sylva’s lips. “I’m so glad you asked.” She produced a quipu from her robes—an intricate bundle of knotted, colored strings—and spread it across the table. Her notes. Her lists. Finally, they were back on solid ground. “I have prepared a ranked list of twenty-four potential destinations. We will begin with a review of our individual skillsets to determine the optimal choice.”
Excitement had thrummed in Hadrian’s chest when he returned to the Room of Threefold Oaths. This is it, he’d thought. My chance to prove myself. But the feeling curdled as he watched the woman, Sylva, stare at his robe with unnerving intensity. It wasn’t admiration in her eyes; it was something sharper, more acquisitive. She looks at me like I’m a thief.
The Bal man, Lotem, was another matter entirely. He wore a cloak of thick, shaggy fur that carried a musky, animal scent even across the table, and Hadrian found himself captivated. What kind of beast yielded such a hide? Was it friendly? A thrill went through him at the thought of meeting it. He didn’t know much about the Bal, but if they were all built like Lotem, it was no wonder they kept to solid ground.
He was still imagining the great beast the cloak came from when Sylva spoke again. He was less sure about her. Her emerald robes were a practical color for foliage, he granted. He had been about to ask about the word Lotem used, ‘Silkborn,’ but then he saw the look on her face as she stared at his own robe. It wasn’t just fascination; it was a raw, hungry envy. Her subsequent words, calling the gift ‘unimaginable,’ confirmed it. She wasn’t questioning the robe; she was questioning him. A cold resolve settled in his gut. He would not let this woman near the only thing he had left of home.
Despite his wariness, he was grateful Sylva at least seemed to know what was going on. His parents had taught him what mattered in Cutra—the sword, the bow, the hunt—but had left him clueless about the wider empire. It wasn’t entirely their fault. The empire itself forbade teaching its deepest secrets, calling such knowledge dangerous. “Knowledge may be power,” his Pa always said, “but so is the ability to perform great acts of violence.” The memory brought a familiar ache. This adventure was also an exile. He had sworn not to return until he was strong enough to forge their Shrine, a task that could take decades—or a lifetime.
He pushed the thought away, returning his focus to the meeting just as Sylva began her interrogation. Her fingers danced across a complex web of knotted strings on the table with a speed he couldn’t follow.
“You said you’re part of the ThurBal, Lotem. Which clan?”
“The Zherenkhan of the Brown Hoof Lake.”
“And your expertise?”
“I work with the herds,” Lotem shrugged, a simple statement that seemed to undersell the reality of it.
Hadrian couldn’t help himself. “What type of herds?”
“Bison, mostly. We keep a few ground sloths for protection.”
“Bison,” Hadrian repeated, savoring the new word. “Is that what your cloak is made of?”
Lotem gave him an odd look. “Yes. It is.”
“What do they look like?” Hadrian leaned forward, his earlier suspicion forgotten, replaced by pure curiosity.
“Um, well…”
Sylva coughed, a polite but firm interruption. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to learn about bison later, Hadrian. We are on a schedule.”
“Understood,” Hadrian said, though he shot Lotem an eager look.
Lotem smiled kindly. “Someday, I’ll introduce you to Wilson and Warma. They’ll like you.”
Before Hadrian could ask what a ‘Wilson’ was, Sylva pressed on. “So, Lotem, your skills are in the natural sciences? Herding, plants, the outdoors?”
“That’s fair to say.”
“And your boon and skill, Lotem?” Sylva asked, her fingers poised over her quipu.
“That’s personal. I’d prefer not to say.”
The refusal was interesting. Hadrian saw Sylva raise a single, unimpressed eyebrow, but she didn’t press. Maybe there were advantages to secrecy he hadn’t considered.
“Hadrian,” she said, turning to him. “Your skillset? Cutra is in the Bridgelands, correct?”
“Yes, and I’m a warrior,” Hadrian said with a confident grin. “I’ve fought Simians in the fog and shot Slinkai from the sky.”
The names clearly registered with Sylva, whose gaze became more appraising. “Slinkai?” Lotem asked.
“Nasty things,” Hadrian explained. “Never trust anything that wants to steal your teeth.”
Sylva steered the conversation back. “Your boon and skill, Hadrian? Are you willing to share?”
What harm could there be? “Rovan Khal named me the [Squire of Carven Bone]. I have the skills [Lesser Armory of Bone] and [Legacy of Luminaries Fire].”
Sylva stared, her composure momentarily lost. She glanced at Lotem, then back at Hadrian. “You’re the Squire? With a class and two skills already… that’s impressive.”
“And you, Sylva?” Lotem interjected, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Clearly a capable secretary, but I imagine the Sect of Silken Grace taught you more than rope work.”
“My training is in spellwork,” she said stiffly. “I intend to shape the Sulphen directly.”
“But you’ve never cast a spell?” Lotem asked.
“It is only a matter of time,” she replied in a huff. “We were forbidden from touching the Sulphen until citizenship.”
“Your boon?” Hadrian asked, trying to be helpful.
“I received [Sympathetic Intuition] and [Lesser Dexterity].”
Hadrian relaxed. “That’s so cool! Do you think you’ll get [Enhanced Dexterity] someday?”
His genuine enthusiasm seemed to disarm her. “Thanks,” she said, a small smile touching her lips before she turned back to business. “Lotem, if your skills are too personal, can you at least hint at their application? It will influence our choice of shrine.”
Lotem considered this for a long moment. “I do not believe they will be of great aid at the start of our journey. Make your decision without them.”
“Very well,” Sylva said, a new resolve in her voice as she addressed her notes. “First on the list is Kaelen, the City of Arrows…”
Two hours. After two hours of circular debate, Lotem sensed they were finally nearing an agreement. He’d argued for UlaanThur, hoping to meet others of his clan in the City of Crossroads, but Sylva had dismissed it as her eighteenth choice. The slight still stung.
It was an absurd ranking. UlaanThur was an Eternal City, the very heart of imperial trade. It should have been in the top ten, at least. He understood her reasoning—the long journey to the Dion lands for the Squire—but the logic felt secondary to the arrogance, especially since she hadn’t known about the Squire when she made the list.
Sylva had been insistent on a city near her precious Eisentor, or one like Darvoon that could serve as a stepping stone. Lotem had refused any destination too deep in the forests. Trees were bad luck; any plainsman knew that.
Hadrian, meanwhile, cared only about reaching the Cairn of Titans in a reasonable time, which put him on Lotem’s side of the argument. Since Sylva believed the Cairn was near Ylfenhold—her fourth choice—a compromise seemed obvious.
“So,” Lotem said, hoping to finally seal the decision. “Can we agree on Ylfenhold?”
“Before we decide,” Sylva said, holding up a hand, “I would like to propose an option not on my list.”
Lotem’s patience frayed. “Sylva, we just found a compromise. Do we really need another?”
“Those twenty-four options were prepared before my audience,” she explained, her tone unwavering. “I have new information. Nyxol herself has arranged a mentor for us—a [Venerate]—in Dornogor, the City of Beasts.”
The statement hung in the air. Lotem stared at her. “And you failed to mention this for two hours… why?”
“We hadn’t properly discussed the contract,” she said, as if that were a reasonable explanation. “It would be a tragedy to skip the process.”
Lotem took a slow, deep breath. He knew of the Malan reputation for bogging down choices with procedure. They had invented bureaucracy, and it seemed the Sects had perfected it into an art form. The deep breath disturbed Sabel, who shifted under his cloak. He pressed a hand to his chest to soothe her, the secret a familiar weight. He needed this team to accept him, especially with a [Venerate] involved. The thought made him regret not sharing his skills, but how could he? How could he admit the dragon had mocked him with a boon to fight rodents when the Tul were his true enemy? He needed their trust before they learned how useless he was.
“I vote Dornogor,” Hadrian said immediately, a clear note of excitement in his voice.
Lotem and Sylva exchanged a look of surprise. Lotem couldn’t fathom why feral beasts and animated skeletons would be a selling point, but Hadrian was practically vibrating with eagerness.
“Because of the mentor?” Sylva asked cautiously.
“Well… sure. The mentor is a great reason,” Hadrian said, suddenly finding the wall over Sylva’s shoulder fascinating.
“But not the only reason?” Sylva pressed.
“Not entirely,” he admitted. “My Pa always said the only way to get stronger is to fight things that are stronger than you. Feral beasts and skeletons sound like a good place to start.”
“But we don’t know the risks,” Sylva argued, her voice tight with reason. “We lack the knowledge to make this gamble. Wouldn’t it be safer to travel there from a nearby city?”
Lotem had to admit, she had a point. He’d heard tales of unstable zones swallowing travelers whole and forcing them into compromising trials or fights. His own people treated such places with immense respect. Even the Balar only allowed a few of the Eldar shrines in an area at a time, and those were mobile in a way a city was not. He was about to voice his agreement when Hadrian spoke again, his tone ringing with unshakeable certainty.
“My parents always said, ‘Knowledge may be power, but so is the ability to perform great acts of violence.’ Do we need to understand everything?” Hadrian’s gaze swept over them both. “An immortal set us on this path. Rovan named me his Squire. This is what Aslavain is for, isn’t it?”
What kind of village was Cutra? Lotem wondered. A combat sect disguised as a backwater?
“Your parents sound… charming,” Sylva said, her voice dripping with irony. “And what training, precisely, led to such a philosophy?”
“My village taught me to fight,” Hadrian said simply. “I’m an archer, mostly, though that’s not much help without a bow. I’ve trained with swords, knives… an axe. I almost made it through my tree trunk before the ceremony.” He looked wistful for a moment.
“A Folog tree?” Sylva asked, her voice sharp with disbelief. “A family could live inside a Folog trunk.”
Hadrian just looked confused. “What else would I chop? It’s all we have that grows tall enough. I’ve been working on that same tree since I can remember.”
Lotem held up a hand, and they both fell silent. “I also vote for Dornogor,” he said, surprising himself as much as them. “Maybe we’ll run into trouble, maybe the stories are true. But Hadrian is right. An immortal gave us this task.” He grinned at the boy. “I’ll put my faith in his ‘great acts of violence’.” He looked at them both. “We were chosen. How bad can it be?”
Hadrian beamed. Sylva opened her mouth to argue, then closed it, a flicker of decision crossing her face.
“Then I vote for Dornogor as well,” she said, her voice crisp with resignation. “We are in agreement.”
“So, we just announce it?” Hadrian asked.
Sylva waited for their confirming nods before her voice took on a formal, intentional tone. “Under the gaze of empire, we have chosen to form a triumvirate. We demand entrance to the demesne of Dornogor.”
At her words, three ivory needles rose from the table. Lotem watched, fascinated, as Sylva pricked her finger and a touch of color seemed to drain from her skin. He weathered the sting with a stoic face, then saw Hadrian flinch before doing the same. The needles withdrew.
[Triumvirate of the Sul Empire formed]
A tangible pressure compressed the air, squeezing Lotem’s lungs as the shift began. I hope we made the right choice, he thought, his hand instinctively covering the small, warm lump beneath his cloak. Sabel, stay close.
The journey stretched. Time slowed, thickening in the void between worlds. Lotem felt a prickle of unease. Something was wrong.
A pulse of crimson light tore through the gold, flooding his vision with the color of blood. The air grew sharp with the tang of iron. A war horn blared in his ears, and through the red mist, he saw them. Towering, tusked forms charging over a hill, a tide of swarming rats at their heels. The Tul.
The sight bypassed thought and struck a primal chord deep within him. A righteous fury, hot and clean, surged through his veins, demanding release. His muscles tensed, coiled to spring, to tear, to kill. He felt Sabel panicking against his ribs, her tiny claws digging into his skin, and the sharp, grounding pain was just enough to break the spell. He pushed towards the threat, heedless and he felt something shift. A moment of clarity arrived. This isn’t real, he forced himself to think, gasping for air. Calm down.
He steadied his breath, and as his manufactured rage subsided, the vision dissolved. The sounds of war faded to silence. He was no longer in the void. They had arrived.
All around them stood trees formed from bone, their branches a pale, interlocking canopy overhead. Through the gaps, a monolithic black obelisk loomed. Beneath his bare feet, the soil was as dark as ash.
This isn’t Dornogor, he thought, his heart pounding.
“This must be the demesne of Tir Na Nog. The City of Rage,” Sylva announced reluctantly. “Also known as the City of Revenge… we are not ready for this.”
Rage, Lotem thought, a cold dread washing over him as he remembered the vision that had consumed him moments before. He had pushed towards it, had embraced that fury. Now, they were here.
Well shit. Did I cause this?
