The snake in the jeweler’s box slithers no more.
– Dion Proverb
Aslavain: Seven Days After the Summer Solstice
Emilia was jolted from sleep by a suffocating grip of fear, her skin slick with the remnants of a nightmare that clung to her like a shroud. Twisted specters writhed in the gloom of her subconscious, a nightly affliction since her arrival in this cursed city.
Tir Na Nog’s oppressive atmosphere had seeped into her very soul, warping her dreams. With a shuddering breath, she disentangled herself from the damp sheets, the last vestiges of sleep slipping away like shadows before dawn. She had to move, to train—anything to silence the lingering dread that threatened to root her in place.
Wrapping a cloak around her shoulders, she slipped out of her quarters and headed to the guildhall. The cool night air bit at her skin, a chilling counterpoint to the fevered intensity of her dreams. Every breath tasted of damp stone and something ancient, as if the city itself exhaled malevolence.
Why had she chosen this shrine, of all places in the empire? she wondered, her thoughts a tangle of regret and resolve as she strode through a city designed to unsettle the senses. Tir Na Nog’s twisted spires and shadowed alleys seemed to mock her principles, as though the city itself conspired to erode her will. Each step felt like a concession, a small surrender to the pervasive unease that thrummed beneath the surface of this accursed place.
The fractured, jagged obsidian road beneath her feet gleamed darkly in the faint moonlight, its sharp edges biting at her boots with every step—silent sentinels of a city designed to carve away at one’s resolve. Emilia recalled the scene with a grimace: the Kiel candidate crumpling to the ground, his foot nearly sliced in half by the treacherous obsidian. His desperate pleas for a healing potion had been met with cruel laughter from the shadowed Eidolons, their mirth echoing through the streets like a chorus of specters. The memory clung to her like a dark stain, a reminder of the city’s inherent cruelty. How could she not be haunted by nightmares in a place where suffering was a source of amusement?
Why did the dragon tell me to come here, of all places? She had approached Sylvine, begging for an opportunity to make the empire more just, and the dragon had sent her to this frightful city. Steadying her nerves as she passed a street corner shrouded in dense, unnatural fog, she sent a fervent prayer to the Three to aid her in her righteous quest.
The Dion culture was a creeping rot within the empire, a festering wound threatening to corrupt everything Emilia held sacred. The Holy Church of the Three had warned of the evils of necromancy, their sermons etched into her mind like divine scripture. Each word fed the fire within her, stoking a hatred that simmered just below the surface. The Dion were body snatchers, purveyors of death’s perversions, their craft a mockery of the natural order. Emilia clung to that anger, using it to sharpen her focus, to steel herself against the corruption she was destined to purge.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, wet sensation on her ear. Something—no, she realized with growing disgust, someone—had licked the inside of her ear. She screamed, recoiling as she swung a gauntleted fist toward the figure that had snuck up behind her. They laughed with savage glee, a sound that made her sick. This—this is everything that is wrong with the south.
“You Gloombound are a menace. I will kill all of you someday,” she spat, venom dripping from each word, a dagger clenched in one hand. The man vanished into the shadows of the darkened street, the fog echoing with his laughter. A week ago, she might have hesitated to threaten murder to a stranger, but after enduring the Gloombound’s torment, any civility her parents had taught her was long gone.
Who would choose to specialize in fear? Rot and ruin, this is training for him, she realized with a sick sense of horror. She knew the Sulphen took notice of extreme emotions; she had hoped it would notice her own piety. Now she cursed the Sulphen’s focus. Why do we reward this behavior? But she knew the answer. The Dion. It was always the Dion and their perversion of what was right.
As Emilia approached the guildhall, lingering threads of fear clung to her, coiling tightly around her heart. The structure stood resolute, a bastion of order amidst the chaos of Tir Na Nog, its sturdy gray stones absorbing the faint light like a fortress against the encroaching night. Pennants and banners, proudly bearing the crimson handprint of her order, fluttered in the cool breeze—a solemn reminder of the purpose that had brought her to this forsaken city. Here, at least, was a place that held firm against the surrounding darkness, a beacon of her commitment to justice.
She entered the building in a huff, fury simmering at the indignity of her encounter with the Gloombound. Striding past the reception booth staffed by an elderly Eidolon woman, she made her way into the training hall, where rings were demarcated on the floor with metal inlays. She was on the fourth of the five training golems and was determined to reach the fifth and final golem by the end of the night. She needed something to take her anger out on, at the very least.
She picked up the hammer the guild had given her when she joined. The promise of cold iron and a way to improve with it had been half of the reason she had joined the Crimson Hand at all. That, and its persistent hatred of the Dion.
With a muttered command, Emilia summoned the bone construct, its skeletal frame materializing with a disconcerting clatter. She set upon it with practiced precision, each strike a blend of duty and distaste. The use of bone for training constructs repelled her—an echo of the necromancy she despised—but necessity outweighed her revulsion. The Crimson Hand had left her no choice: to forgo the training dummies was to forfeit any hope of finding a mentor. So she swung her war hammer, again and again, each blow both a lesson in endurance and a rehearsal for the battles she would one day wage against necromancers.
Emilia quickly came around to the notion. In the end, it would give her training in fighting necromancers, and that was something she couldn’t refuse. The Crimson Hand would aid her holy crusade, and if this was what it took, who was she to disagree?
A deep croaking sound filled the chamber, and Emilia whirled in surprise. One of the Nygmar, the amphibious people from the empire’s southeastern underground caverns, stood watching her with an impassive gaze. Its throat pouch inflated, and Emilia looked away, unnerved by the light blue flesh stretching almost to transparency. She had met her first Nygmar when she arrived in Tir Na Nog, but she still wasn’t used to the sight of the frog-like people.
“You,” it croaked, its voice a rasping echo that reverberated in the dimly lit hall. “You will do.” Those bulbous, amphibian eyes locked onto her with unsettling intensity, and Emilia felt a twinge of unease curl in her stomach. The Nygmar were an enigma, their influence negligible in the broader empire, relegated to the isolated depths of the Earthen Few or the shadowed mines of the north. Rarely did they surface, and even more rarely did they take an interest in the affairs of others. She prayed silently that she hadn’t inadvertently offended this one, knowing too little of their ways to gauge the consequences.
She had seen at least a dozen of these creatures since her arrival, and, more worryingly, the other Eidolons seemed to tread carefully around them. She didn’t know why the frogs terrified the Eidolons so much, and she decided it wasn’t her duty to find out.
“Excuse me?” She asked, unsure of what else to say.
“You. I have a task for you. Do you accept?” It tilted its head to the side, as though already expecting an answer.
“Doing what?” she retorted. “And why should I help you at all?” She blamed the Gloombound for her barely suppressed hostility. It was hard to trust anyone here when half the population seemed to delight in terrifying her.
“You investigate trial. I provide skill for you. Powerful. Make enemies quiver in fear.”
“If I investigate some trial, you’ll teach me a powerful skill?” She paused, the heat in her tone draining away as she realized the Nygmar was serious. She already had the one skill granted by the Sulphen after her conversation with Sylvine. Gaining a second skill only a week into the trial would be… fortuitous. With a second skill, she could find a mentor, maybe even persuade two other candidates to form a triumvirate. At least they wouldn’t reject her like those damned Dion pricks. “What do you need to know about the trial?”
“You investigate interference. Wards are being examined. I want to know why.” The Nygmar croaked, and she almost flinched at the sudden noise and expansion of its throat. “Go north. Follow the old road. Find the obelisk. Investigate for outsiders. Enter the trial if you must. Find who is tampering with the wards. Then you’ll get your skill.”
“I accept. When I have the information–”
“Talk to the receptionist. Say Gruffanak sent you. She’ll give you instructions for the trial. Understand?”
“Fine.”
The Nygmar hopped away, its thick legs tensing before releasing to carry its form a dozen feet at a time. She still wasn’t used to the sight and hurried to the woman on night duty. After a rushed conversation about the Nygmar’s request, Emilia had verbal instructions to begin her journey to the trial. She thought she might need it.
She navigated the dark, foggy streets on high alert, her eyes scanning the ground for hazards while she regularly checked behind for lurking strangers. The Gloombound, from what she could tell, only accosted her when she let her concentration lapse. She was sure the bright lantern she held didn’t hurt either.
Leaving the twisted streets of Tir Na Nog behind, Emilia stepped onto the barren black soil stretching before her, a wasteland devoid of life and hope. The ground beneath her feet was harsh and unyielding, as if the very earth had been scorched by some ancient curse. The night air carried a whisper of something ancient, something that stirred uneasily at the edges of her awareness. As she began her solitary trek northward, her destination was obscured by the dense, oppressive darkness that clung to the horizon like a shroud.
Hours passed in a relentless march northward, the cobbled road beneath her feet whispering promises of safety that Emilia found increasingly difficult to believe. When she finally glimpsed the first skeletal silhouettes of the bone forest, a chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the night air. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their trunks and branches bleached to a stark, ghostly white, adorned with vicious thorns that gleamed like daggers in the moonlight. What could twist the very essence of nature into such a grotesque mockery? The answer was both inevitable and loathsome: the Dion. Only they would take something pure and corrupt it so thoroughly, draping thorns over living wood as though nature itself were a thing to be violated.
As she approached the forest, the cobbled road began to lose its stones, entire chunks missing with deep holes where they had been. It was as though a giant had taken a shovel to the road, digging holes seemingly at random, more than deep enough to trap or injure. She assumed the Dion were responsible for that too.
After navigating around her third hole in the road, she heard footsteps coming from behind. Moving off the road, she tried to cover her lantern, dimming the light to avoid drawing unwanted attention. She saw two flames, likely lanterns of their own, rapidly approaching, and frowned.
The lights were moving much faster than someone on foot could manage. Were they mounted? If so, they weren’t from Tir Na Nog. The City of Rage had an… undue effect on beasts within its radius, and she hadn’t seen many creatures since her arrival a week ago. As the forms of two large, landbound birds came into view, she couldn’t help but stare.
Who would dare to ride an Axebeak? The thought gnawed at her as she crouched in the shadows, eyes wide with a mix of awe and dread. The creatures were formidable, their light brown plumage ruffling with each powerful stride, while their beaks—massive, curved blades of bone—gleamed wickedly in the moonlight. She had heard tales of these birds, how their beaks could shear through even the steel armor of the Khanate, leaving devastation in their wake. It took a special kind of fearlessness—or madness—to command such a beast.
As the pair approached her hiding place, she squinted, trying to make out the riders’ forms through the gloom. Two humans, she thought, though it was never a sure guess with the Numen and Silkborn around. An older woman and a man who looked to be her age. An initiate and a mentor? She considered calling out to stop the pair before suppressing the idea. What if they were the group she had been sent to investigate?
As the thumping steps of the Axebeaks faded into the distance, she stood and continued her trek onward, thoughts racing about what she would find when she reached the obelisk looming in the distant night.
Whatever it takes. I need the skill the Nygmar promised. I will compete in Ylfenhold in three months and show the empire the justice of my cause.
Valentine of the Carver’s Blood stared down at the humanoid leg bone before her, its pristine white surface almost indistinguishable from the pallor of her own skin. The bone was an echo of her identity, a blank canvas waiting to be inscribed with the power of the Ancient Blood. With practiced hands, she adjusted the carving knife, its blade keen and unforgiving, and traced three whirling lines into the bone’s surface. The delicate script, transferred with painstaking precision from the tome her mentor, Chanvar of the Warrior’s Blood, had bestowed upon her, was more than mere decoration—it was a promise, an invocation of power that would bind her to her destiny.
Chanvar’s acceptance of her as a mentee had not come easily, nor cheaply. Bribing a [Venerate] was not a matter of gold or silver—no sum of coin could sway one of the Dion’s champions. Yet her parents had means far beyond mere wealth, their influence rooted in secrets and alliances that spanned generations. Valentine often pondered the nature of the leverage they had used, the hidden truths exchanged in darkened rooms to secure her place under Chanvar’s tutelage. But such knowledge was not yet hers to claim. The deepest secrets of the Carver’s Blood remained locked away, withheld even from her, their rightful heir—for now.
Valentine’s gaze lingered on the bone, her eyes following the intricate script that spiraled around its length, each sentence meticulously carved in precise, unbroken rings. It was an art both ancient and exacting, a discipline honed over countless hours in her workshop. Satisfied with her work, she lifted the bone and approached the half-formed skeleton hanging suspended in the center of the room. The bone horror was her first creation, and as she carefully integrated the new piece into its structure, she wondered what her parents would think of it. Would they see the promise of greatness? Or would they find it lacking, an imperfect reflection of the legacy she was destined to uphold?
The Immortals held a tight grip on the flow of magical knowledge, doling out secrets to non-citizens with a miserly hand. Until her arrival in Aslavain, Valentine had never been allowed to experiment openly with necromancy. Even the clandestine lessons from her personal tutors had been constrained, limited to the theoretical foundations of the craft. Yet those lessons had been invaluable, teaching her the ancient art of inscribing incantations directly into bone—a practice as old as the Dion themselves, a rite passed down through generations of the Ancient Blood. Now, here in Aslavain, she finally had the freedom to put that knowledge to the test, to breathe life—or something like it—into her creations.
Valentine was keenly aware that her parents would have gladly flouted the imperial taboo against teaching youths before their citizenship ritual, if not for the omniscient eyes of the Immortals and the swift retribution they would bring. The memory of a generation of Dion nobles, barred from Aslavain a century ago for transgressing these unwritten rules, still lingered like a shadow over the Clans of the Blood. That political debacle had been a harsh lesson in compliance, forcing even the proudest families to bow to the empire’s will. Now, the Clans tread carefully, ensuring their heirs faced the trials of Aslavain with minds untainted by forbidden knowledge—at least, in theory.
She hadn’t known of her parents’ intention to bribe one of the [Venerate] to be her tutor until after Chanvar approached her on the first day. Her parents had told her when she was young that when she provided her essence in the Room of Threefold Oaths at her citizenship ritual, the Immortals would review her entire memory. They hadn’t wanted to keep her from the clan’s business and secrets, but they couldn’t afford their political rivals in the north or east to learn those secrets, and the Dion suspected the Immortals were sharing their pillaged knowledge as they saw fit. Until she was free of the endless trials of Aslavain, she would be content with coming to her own conclusions and amassing her own secrets.
She returned to her work station and began her work on the next bone for her creation. She slipped into a routine that lasted hours as she carved bone after bone, the construct becoming a little more real with each addition. This was the first of her creations and the lynchpin to her eventual victory in the contest in Ylfenhold in three months, she was sure of it.
She knew that the [Squire of Carven Bone] always competed in Ylfenhold at the first of the major contests three months into their time in Aslavain. They needed access to the Cairn of Titans and only victory at Ylfenhold could provide that opportunity. She was preparing to exploit that vulnerability.
If she could defeat the [Squire] at Ylfenhold, she would not only usurp his class but finally become Rovan’s chosen, as she had always known she was destined to be. The memory of her meeting with Rovan Khal gnawed at her, and in a moment of distraction, her knife slipped, scoring a jagged line across the bone. A curse escaped her lips as she realized she had ruined the piece. Rovan’s dismissal still stung, a wound deeper than she had anticipated, though he had granted her a boon along with the standard skill every new citizen received. But the sting of his indifference lingered, a bitter reminder that she had yet to prove herself in his eyes.
Valentine was rummaging through the closet for a replacement bone when she heard the workshop door creak open. She turned, her heart sinking as she saw Chanvar standing in the doorway, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Of course, he would arrive just as she made her only mistake of the night. The bitter thought flickered through her mind as she faced her mentor, her frustration barely concealed. There was no escaping his scrutiny now, no hiding the slip of her knife that had marred her work.
“Ruin one of the bones, did you?” Chanvar’s smirk was a knife-edge of condescension. Tall and thin, he exuded an aura of practiced control, yet Valentine felt no trust for the man. Trusting a [Venerate] of the Dion Blood was always a perilous endeavor, especially one from a rival clan. The Warrior’s Blood were not known for their subtlety, but Valentine knew better than to mistake that for honesty. Just because a snake hadn’t bitten you yet didn’t mean it wouldn’t strike when the opportunity arose.
Chanvar’s skin was as pale as her own, but there the similarities ended. Valentine’s curves and soft form spoke of a life of privilege, where labor was left to others—skeleton constructs, mainly—while she focused on the finer arts of her craft. Chanvar, by contrast, appeared as if he had deliberately starved himself, whittling his body down to nothing but sinew and bone, as if seeking to bring his own skeletal structure closer to the surface. Yet Valentine knew his gaunt appearance belied a dangerous power. No [Venerate] capable of forming a Crest could be dismissed lightly. As his cold eyes watched her, she gave the expected bow, careful to hide her unease.
“Master, I discovered an impurity in the bone as I was carving and decided it would be prudent to replace it before proceeding further.” The imperfection was, of course, her own doing, but her words were not entirely false. In this game of half-truths, precision mattered. “As you know, a construct is only as strong as its weakest bone.” A deflection, an attempt to shift his focus away from her slip, though she could feel his gaze weighing her words, searching for the lie beneath the surface.
“Ah, how… vigilant of you,” Chanvar replied, his tone laced with mockery. “But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to examine this supposed impurity myself. It would be remiss of me to allow a faulty product into your workshop. After all, a master who provides their student with substandard materials would be utterly unacceptable. I must rectify this at once.” His words were a thinly veiled challenge, an invitation for her to admit her mistake—or perhaps to catch her in a lie. The game was clear, and Valentine knew she was on dangerous ground.
This, Valentine realized, was what she despised most about dealing with other members of the Blood. They all understood the game too well. Chanvar could have let the matter slide, sparing her the humiliation of acknowledging her error. But no—he had chosen to twist the knife, forcing her into a corner where she was twice damned: first for her initial mistake, and again for being caught in her lie. Among the Blood, every misstep was an opportunity for another to assert dominance, and Chanvar was playing the role with relish.
“Of course.” She picked a random bone from the closet and brought it to the gaunt man as he stood before her bone horror, taking in the sight of its looming form. She had decided to surprise the [Squire] with a creature they would never have seen before, one of the Simians, the four-armed gorillas native to the Fog Lands. Rovan would never choose one of the tree dwellers, and she knew a bone horror modeled after the beasts would give her an edge.
She handed him the uncarved bone and said, “This is the bone I was looking to replace. See here,” she pointed to an unmarred stretch of bone, “my skill, [Lesser Affinity – Bone], tells me this won’t be an ideal fit for what I need.”
His eyes narrowed, and his gaze flitted to the mostly carved bone on her workspace before settling back on her. “A diligent approach. Have you had any other realizations with your affinity skill?” She had, of course, solved several larger issues in the design with the guidance the skill provided. Not that she felt the need to explain her work to Chanvar. The man may be a [Venerate], but he was of the Warrior’s Blood, and she was of the Carver’s Blood. That meant something.
“Only minor adjustments like this one.” She moved to change the topic to something more productive. “I’m hoping to secure the [Necromancer] class within the fortnight, but I know the bone horror has to be fully operational before the Sulphen can award me the class. Is there anything I should do to impress the Sulphen with my first work?”
“Earning a class is always a momentous occasion,” Chanvar began, his tone slipping into the familiar monotone of a lecture she had heard many times before. “Your first class is foundational, crucial to your future path. As you know, the Sulphen bestows three primary types of abilities. Skills, the most common, grant knowledge or capabilities that extend beyond one’s natural limits. Classes, however, are the core of your identity—they define the skills you can acquire and, more importantly, the actions you must undertake to gain further power. Once you claim the [Necromancer] class, the more you embody that role, the more the world itself will recognize you as such. Your skills will grow in proportion to how fully you embrace the mantle of a [Necromancer].”
“But before I have the class, what can I do to improve its eventual strength?” She knew her class would serve as the guide for how to advance, but she had never gotten a satisfactory answer on how to stack the odds in her favor.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He gave her a look that suggested she should already know the answer. “Excel. The Sulphen rewards those who exceed their own capacities. It bridges the gap between the possible and the potential. If you’re not pushing yourself, you’re not growing.”
“Of course I knew that,” she said, frustrated by the lack of a helpful response. “But no system is so simplistic as to be impossible to influence. My question should be restated.” She paused, collecting her thoughts before continuing. If he was going to be pedantic, she would get it right the second time. “What can I do to showcase my work in such a way that the Sulphen’s rewards are satisfactory to my capacity?”
“A much better question.” Chanvar’s smile was sly, almost pleased, as if she had finally done something worthy of his approval. The bastard. “Since you’ve asked, I will arrange an unveiling ceremony where you can present your work to your peers in the field. The Eidolons of Bonehold are masters of our craft, and their critique will ensure that the Sulphen’s gaze falls upon you. With their attention, you’ll have the audience necessary to secure the rewards you seek.” His tone carried a hint of condescension, but beneath it, Valentine detected a subtle challenge—a reminder that in this game, success was never guaranteed.
“Thank you, Master. You said earlier there were three forms of rewards from the Sulphen, but you never mentioned what the third was.”
“I did not.” He said, face returning to an impassive mask.
“Will you?”
“When you are ready,” Chanvar replied, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken judgment. “You are so far removed from it that fixating on the idea would only be a distraction you can ill afford.” Valentine clenched her teeth, frustration simmering beneath her composed exterior. Perhaps one of the Eidolons would be more forthcoming with information. But as if reading her thoughts, Chanvar’s gaze sharpened, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Before you even think of asking an Eidolon, understand this—I will know, and I will be greatly displeased. Valentine, heed my words. You will learn when it is time. No sooner.”
“When do I need to complete the bone horror?” she asked, fuming as she returned the conversation to a topic he would actually discuss.
Chanvar’s eyes moved over the partially built bone horror, his expression inscrutable as he assessed her work. “I will schedule the unveiling for midnight, twelve days hence,” he declared, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Ensure that you are ready by then. The event will not be postponed, and a failure at that juncture would not only tarnish your name but bring great shame upon the Carver’s Blood.” His words were a cold, hard reminder of the stakes she faced. This was not merely a test of skill; it was a trial by fire, one that could either elevate her status or cast her down into obscurity.
“I will get back to work, then,” Valentine said, her voice steady with a resolve that belied the storm of emotions churning within her. She turned away from Chanvar, returning to the closet where she selected a new bone to replace the one she had damaged. She could feel his gaze on her back, a silent pressure that weighed heavily on her, but she knew he would leave her to her own devices. The moment the door closed behind him, she allowed herself a single breath, then refocused her mind. The deadline loomed, and failure was not an option. She had work to do—work that had to be flawless, perfect in every detail, for anything less would mean more than just personal defeat; it would mean the end of everything she had worked for.
Kirian still found himself uneasy at the prospect of riding a beast of war, especially one as temperamental as the Axebeak. The custom leather saddle perched atop the bird’s back offered a semblance of familiarity, reminiscent of those used on horses or bison. Yet, in practice, the Axebeak was an entirely different creature—mean-spirited and unforgiving, a mount as likely to kill him as to carry him through the treacherous terrain of Tir Na Nog.
Kirian hailed from the Tulunganar, the relentless tribe of the ThurBal sworn to confront the eastern menace of the Tul. The Tulunganar roamed the central plains of the Sul Empire, gathering strength and support from the tribes they visited, their cause a rallying cry against the encroaching darkness. Citizenship in the Sul Empire granted him the right to ride such beasts, to access the Sulphen’s power, but he was still adapting to the grim reality of a mount that might just as easily end his life as deliver him to his destination.
As his Axebeak raced down the decaying road, he couldn’t help but feel on high alert. The dark, sandy soil, the trees formed from bone in the distance, and the wisps of fog rising from the ground, obscuring hazards, all put his mind on edge. Tir Na Nog was just as much of a nightmare as he had imagined.
For the umpteenth time that night, Kirian questioned his decision to enter into a mentorship contract with Shansa Six-Step, one of the [Venerate] present in Darvoon, The City of Couriers, upon his arrival in Aslavain. Shansa was a living legend on the central plains, her name synonymous with the swiftest deliveries and the most perilous missions. For centuries, she had carried messages across vast expanses, her reputation as one of the greatest ambassadors of the Bal to the empire’s other peoples firmly established. He hadn’t exactly realized what being her mentee, well, meant.
Shansa had been one of his childhood heroes, a figure of mythic proportions whose deeds had inspired him to pursue the life of a courier. When her dark-skinned, brown-haired form had emerged from the shadows of the Couriers Hall and called his name, he had frozen in disbelief. The contract had been finalized with a swiftness that left him reeling, and Shansa revealed she had been sent to find him—a directive from the Tulunganar six months prior. Kirian still marveled at who could have possibly pulled such strings—such a favor was not lightly given.
His mount leaped over a hole in the road that Kirian hadn’t seen, the fog’s ghostly tendrils obscuring the danger until it was nearly too late. He jerked in the saddle, almost toppling before he caught hold of the leather horn, using every ounce of strength to regain his balance. Had he been on a horse, he could have leaned forward, wrapped his arms around the animal’s neck, or gripped with his knees for stability. But Shansa had been adamant—any attempt to show what an Axebeak might perceive as disrespect was an invitation to a swift and painful end.
“Did you see that?” Shansa’s voice cut through the night as she reined in her Axebeak, slowing the beast until they were riding side by side.
“The hole in the road? No, I missed it,” Kirian replied, his eyes still locked on the treacherous path ahead, bracing himself for the reprimand he was certain would follow.
“No, not the hole. Let Cleaver handle obstacles like that—this bird would never submit to the indignity of falling down a hole.” Kirian still struggled to believe the pair of Axebeaks were named Cleaver and Butcher. Shansa had owned the beasts long before he arrived a week ago, and she would hear nothing of changing their names to something less violent.
“If not the hole, then what?” he asked, puzzled.
“There was a woman back there,” Shansa continued, her voice casual, as if discussing the weather. “She stepped off the road to let us pass. I thought I caught a glimpse of the Crimson Hand’s iconography on her, though I could be mistaken.” Her tone remained indifferent, almost dismissive, as if a lone traveler wandering the roads of Tir Na Nog at night was of no consequence.
“The Crimson Hand?” he asked, unfamiliar with the organization.
“One of the northern guilds dedicated to the worship of the Three,” Shansa said with an indifferent shrug. “Though they’ve expanded their southern presence in recent decades, from what I understand. I’m not surprised they’d have a guildhall in Tir Na Nog. The Crimson Hand has always pursued a strong anti-Dion stance, and this is one of the best locations to send champions into Aslavain to challenge the Dion’s contests.”
Kirian had never grasped the allure of organized religion, particularly the Holy Church of the Three. The Sulphen’s presence in the world was tangible, its power undeniable, and that alone commanded his respect. But the so-called ‘aspects’ of the Sulphen, those the Church endlessly preached about, seemed more like relics of a bygone era, irrelevant to the world’s current state. The true gods were dead, that much was certain, yet these institutions persisted in the northern reaches, clinging to their ancient rituals. What could a lone woman possibly be doing out here in the dead of night?
“Should we turn around and check on her?” He didn’t want to, but it felt like the decent thing to ask.
“No. We’re almost to our destination, and it’s too high a priority to delay.” He had assumed she would say that; they had only stopped to tend to their mounts and get a few hours of sleep before returning to the saddle. By now, he was certain Shansa had a skill granting the creatures unnatural endurance.
“You still haven’t told me where we’re headed.” Shansa shifted in the saddle and turned to face him. She had been dodging the question for days, but to his relief, she finally seemed to be considering an answer.
“Are you familiar with the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown]?” Shansa’s voice grew measured, as if she were weighing each word before speaking.
“Weren’t they heroes of the Beast Wars?” Kirian replied, his voice uncertain, as if testing the waters of a deeper, darker truth. He only knew the name from the [Bards] who had performed in front of the tribe and even then, he wasn’t sure if his memory was accurate.
Shansa’s laugh was dry and brittle, echoing like distant thunder. “Ah, the Beast Wars—the chapter they’re best remembered for, but not the one that haunts my memories.” Her gaze pierced the darkness ahead, as if staring through time itself.
Kirian held his breath, sensing that pressing her would be futile. He had learned early on that Shansa only revealed what she chose to, and pushing her led only to silence. Yet as she continued, a thrill of anticipation coursed through him, mingling with unease.
“I first met the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] during the height of the Flower Wars, at the Battle of Kaelum’s Refuge.” She paused, recalling a day nearly five centuries past. “The UlaanBal Balar was desperate for a courier to deliver supplies to one of the Eldar trapped by imperial forces on the plateau, and I saw it as my chance to prove myself. War is the breeding ground for battle couriers, and I was more willing than most to risk my life for the cause.”
Shansa had yet to speak to him about her past, let alone her involvement in the Flower Wars. The Bal had a complicated relationship with that history. Popular reasoning held that it was better for everyone if the Bal let the empire forget their invasion and subsequent demands. The Bal had won their place in the empire by the sword, and the oldest factions still remembered the conquest.
“The shamans foretold a night of easy passage,” Shansa began, her voice now tinged with bitterness. “The [Weather Callers] assured me of clear skies—no rain, no winds—nothing to impede my mission. I was to slip past the imperial blockade like a shadow, unseen and unchallenged.” Kirian gripped the saddle horn as Butcher vaulted over another unseen pit. Shansa’s voice drew him deeper into the tale, even as her calm masked the turmoil beneath.
“When the storm broke, I knew the [Shamans] had been deceived. To this day, I’ve never seen clouds so black, as if the heavens themselves were shrouded in mourning. The twin moons dimmed, their light swallowed by the encroaching darkness. And then the red lightning—forking through the sky like the claws of some ancient beast, casting a bloody hue over the land.” Her eyes were fixed on the road, but Kirian knew she was seeing something far more distant, far more harrowing.
“Only much later did I piece together the truth of that night,” Shansa continued, her voice now tinged with regret. “At the time, I thought the barrier that materialized around the Eldar—those I was sent to reach—was the work of our own [Shamans], perhaps a final, desperate act by one of the Matriarchs of the goblin clans. I never imagined the lengths the empire would go, the horrors they would unleash to claim victory.” Kirian shuddered involuntarily. The Battle of Kaelum’s Refuge was a name he had never heard, and now he understood why—it was a story buried, a truth too terrible to remember.
“The [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] spent months crafting a ritual array that spanned dozens of miles, alongside their student, a man history now remembers as the Marquis of Bone. They used countless bones to form a trap that the Eldar and two tribes guarding the walking shrine unwittingly walked into. They activated the array, sealing the Eldar and the tribes within.”
“What did the array do?” He almost held back the question, afraid to disturb his mentor’s recollection, but he suddenly needed to know. This was the history of his people, and he was on the edge of his saddle as she recounted the tale.
“The imperials called it Osteocalcification,” Shansa spat the word like a curse, her disdain palpable. “A twisted form of sympathetic magic, designed to turn every bone within the barrier into limestone. Two entire tribes—tens of thousands of Bal—dead in the blink of an eye. When the barrier finally collapsed, what greeted me was a wasteland of shattered bodies—man, woman, child, and beast alike—scattered like forgotten relics across a ravaged landscape. The Shrine was destroyed, its sanctity violated, and the Eldar… nothing but a memory.”
Kirian felt sick. He had never heard of anything like that. This was approaching genocide. “And these people, this Triumvirate—they’re still alive?”
“I don’t share this information lightly, Kirian.” She turned to meet his gaze, and he saw the familiar fire burning in her eyes. “There’s a reason we don’t tell the youth about the Battle of Kaelum’s Refuge. Some histories are better left forgotten. When we meet the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown], I expect your absolute best behavior. These are not people to be taken lightly.”
“They were never punished?” he asked, his tone sharp. “And you accepted a job to deliver to these monsters?”
“It was war, Kirian.” She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “We were no saints either, and it serves no one for the empire to dredge up past grievances, especially not against ancient monsters.”
An uneasy silence settled between them, the rhythmic thudding of the Axebeaks’ talons against the stone the only sound breaking the stillness. The night seemed to close in around them, heavy and oppressive. Kirian’s thoughts churned, the horrors Shansa had recounted lingering like a bitter taste in his mouth. Eventually, he found his voice, though it was subdued, almost a whisper. “Have you forgiven them?”
“Forgiven the empire? Yes,” Shansa replied, her voice tinged with resignation. “But the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown]? I’m not sure I can.” She paused, the weight of her words hanging in the air. “Yet in these times, they are our allies, Kirian. When the monster is at the gate, they’re the ones you want standing in its path. But beware the Crownless, the Archivist, and the Harbinger—there are no lines they won’t cross, no moral boundaries they won’t shatter to achieve their ends. What I saw at Kaelum’s Refuge was just the beginning. The rumors from the Beast Wars… they speak of horrors far worse.”
He tried to coax more stories from Shansa, hoping to distract himself from the haunting image of thousands dead that now lingered in his mind’s eye. Those were different times, he reassured himself as they entered the bone forest, the road beneath them slowly dissolving into the shadows of the encroaching night.
Eventually, they approached an obelisk that loomed against one of the twin moons, casting a long shadow over the landscape. Shansa slowed her mount, and Kirian followed suit, pulling on the reins until his own beast came to a stop. She dismounted with practiced ease, tying her mount to a nearby tree and gesturing for him to do the same. As she held her lantern high, the light flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced across the skeletal trees, deepening the sense of foreboding.
They walked through the bone forest for a dozen paces before emerging into an open clearing. The ground was covered in ghostly white grass, and at the center stood a single, square structure formed from pale bone, positioned just a dozen feet from the looming obelisk. The stark contrast between the white grass and the dark sky made the scene feel otherworldly, as if they had stepped into a place untouched by time.
“Do I spot two spies slithering through our domain in the dead of night?” A hissing voice sliced through the darkness, and Kirian spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Emerging from the shadowy grasses was a towering serpent, its scales as black as midnight, eyes glinting with malevolent curiosity. Its humanoid face twisted into a sinister grin, revealing fangs that glistened with venom under the pale moonlight. A surge of primal fear shot through Kirian—this creature looked ready to devour him whole. He stumbled back, every instinct screaming that Shansa had led him into a deadly trap.
“Shansa Six-Step, Courier with an urgent delivery for the Crownless,” Shansa announced, her voice far calmer than Kirian thought reasonable given the circumstances. As she stepped closer to the snake, her tone was steady, almost diplomatic. “Is she nearby?”
The snake—no, naga, Kirian realized with a start—moved almost too fast for his eyes to follow in the gloom. “A delivery for us? I can accept it on her behalf.” The naga’s tail rose, hovering in front of Shansa, expectantly waiting for her to place the delivery in its grasp.
“I am under strict orders to deliver this only to the Crownless, personally. Couriers’ code and all that. Are you able to fetch her?” Shansa’s tone was firm, leaving no room for negotiation, as though the weight of her task bore down on every word.
The naga raised its tail to its brow in a mocking salute before sinking into the grasses, vanishing with a faint rustle. After several heartbeats, Shansa let out a quiet sigh, the tension momentarily easing.
“The Harbinger is almost as bad as the Gloombound. I hate classes that feed on fear.” Feed on fear? Kirian could believe it after encountering the Harbinger. An almost primal part of him had recoiled at the sight of the looming snake, and he was grateful he had managed to control his reaction. “The Crownless and the Archivist shouldn’t be nearly as bad. Still, avoid drawing undue attention to yourself.” Not a problem, Kirian thought, certain he wanted nothing more than to stay unnoticed.
After a few minutes of silence, a human woman with dark brown skin stepped into their lantern light and said, “You have a delivery for me?” Kirian was taken aback by how… normal the woman appeared. She wore pale robes that wouldn’t have stood out on any of the empire’s streets and had no distinguishing features. If Kirian wasn’t standing in the open within the demesne of Tir Na Nog, he might have mistaken her for just another random citizen. But that only made Shansa’s hasty bow and stumbling words all the more unsettling.
“Uhh, Lady Crownless,” Shansa stammered, her voice trembling. How could she be more composed around the naga than this woman? Kirian wondered, a faint unease creeping over him. For the first time since Shansa had approached him in Aslavain, Kirian felt truly out of his depth. “Shansa Six-Step of the Couriers. I come bearing a scroll marked for your eyes only.” With a trembling hand, she reached into her bag and presented the plain-looking woman with the scroll.
Casselia thanked her and tucked the scroll into a pouch at her waist. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Shansa Six-Step of the Couriers?” Her tone was polite, almost formal, as if this were just another routine exchange.
“No, no, M’lady.” Shansa glanced at the courier’s chip that had guided them to the woman, and seeing that the delivery had been registered, she gave another bow. “My apprentice and I will be going.” Her voice held a note of relief, eager to conclude the exchange.
The woman nodded, a simple gesture that belied the weight of the encounter before she turned and melted back into the shadows. As Kirian and Shansa made their way back to their waiting mounts, a sense of unease settled over him, heavier than before. His thoughts churned with questions—chief among them, what secrets that letter might hold, and why such a seemingly mundane exchange had left him feeling as though the ground beneath his feet had shifted.
“Where to next, Master?” Kirian asked, once they were well on their way out of the forest, the weight of the recent encounter still lingering but curiosity driving him forward.
“Gondara first, then Dornogor. Word in the Couriers Guild is that there will be a convergence of talent in the City of Beasts for a true prize, and that is not something you should miss,” Shansa replied, her voice tinged with urgency. “Let’s hope they,” she inclined her head toward where they had come from, “don’t have a candidate of their own, let alone a full triumvirate, to compete.”