In the depths where the silent tides roam,
Through the echoes of darkness they comb,
Only shadows prevail,
In the ocean’s deep veil,
Where the spirits have made it their home.
Midnight currents weave tales left unsaid,
Stitching sorrow where memories bled,
Where the specters of old,
In the deep waters cold,
Tell of dreams in the dark they have wed.
Beneath waves where the sun’s light is still,
Haunting shadows their presence fulfill,
Through the void’s icy grip,
In the dark waters’ crypt,
Where the echoes of lifetimes lie chill.
– Excerpt from An Ode to Deep Water, Imperial Poem commissioned by Teralith, the City of Hidden Depth.
Aslavain: Seven Days After the Summer Solstice
Hadrian was starting to think he wasn’t meant to succeed at this challenge. They had been in the trial for the better part of a week, or so they guessed. The lack of sunlight, combined with no need to eat or drink, made keeping track of time nearly impossible.
After his eighth death at the hands of the Eidolons, Hadrian decided to track the number of attempts rather than guessing how long he had been awake. He told his team they could probably attempt about twenty-five challenges a day under these conditions. Lotem had called that “a rabbit running to the fox to get practice not being eaten,” which Hadrian was still trying to figure out.
He suspected they were falling behind his predicted daily attempts; they hadn’t even reached one hundred deaths yet. Lotem kept needing time to decompress after each fight, taking longer and longer to recover in his stone chamber. Hadrian couldn’t really blame him. He had to force himself out of that tub of water, the phantom pain fresh in his memory every time.
Gentle footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he knew Sylva was approaching. While Lotem needed constant encouragement to reenter the trial, Sylva had thrown herself into it ever since she earned her [Thaumaturge] class. Hadrian was beginning to understand why she was so insistent that the Sect of Silken Grace was dominant in the empire.
Sylva tackled the secrets of her magic with the ferocity of a warrior. Though, if Hadrian was being honest, he wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing. Fog below, he wasn’t even sure what she’d done on their third attempt. She had been rhyming, chanting, and making wild gestures with her hands—movements that felt out of place on a battlefield. He’d sensed a building tension in the air, like the feeling in the canopies before a lightning strike, and then he’d died, missing whatever triumph she might have achieved.
“Sylva, any more insights on our last attempt? And—how are you holding up? No sign of Lotem yet.”
He hoped she was in one of her more talkative moods. Sylva alternated between an unyielding focus and a subdued curiosity that tried to understand everything. He cherished the time they spent waiting for Lotem when she was willing to tell him stories about the empire and listen to his own in return.
There was something cathartic about talking of home with someone who understood the sense of exile. Sylva would never return to her sect either. They were both birds tossed from the nest, desperately trying to fly.
“Hadrian,” she said, sitting cross-legged next to him. These angled ceilings made it impossible to even rest their backs against the stone wall. “I’m really starting to miss the luxuries of home. Couches, chairs, even beds that are softer than stone. Towels to dry off after every reawakening. Lantern light that doesn’t bathe us in the colors of blood and fire. It’s like this place was designed to be miserable.”
“Maybe it was. I can’t imagine most trials are as miserable as this. Don’t get me wrong,” he added loudly, worried that whoever was running the trial might punish their complaints, “this is an excellent opportunity, better than we could have hoped for to improve. We just wish we had better accommodations.”
“They can’t change the trial now that we’re in it; you can complain as much as you want,” she said, not for the first time this week.
“Call it superstition, but we don’t need anything getting harder this time. It seemed like you were closer to finishing your incantation last time—any success?”
Sylva had said she was trying to invoke one of the Imperial Poems she had promised to recite for Hadrian in full eventually, though she hadn’t had much luck since the Eidolons changed tactics. Seraphis had shifted from a singular invocation that would turn their clothes into fire to a series of different, less crippling incantations. Instead of allowing Sylva to disrupt her ritual, she launched wisps of fire that sought them out or created rings of flame to trap them until Drakar’s club could end the fight.
“That snake focused her wisps on me the entire fight. I can’t keep my focus with her fire burning me,” she shuddered, and Hadrian knew how much she hated fire. “What about you? You said you’ve been trying to figure out something with your armory skill, right?”
“It’s been fine. I’ve been trying to figure out if anything I can summon can deal with that club. I can dodge its swings most of the time, but Drakar has that skill that lets him call the club back after he throws it. He keeps releasing the club mid-swing, and I can’t avoid that.”
“I saw you use a shield last time. Did that work any better?”
“Unfortunately not.” Hadrian muttered, rubbing his shoulder as the memory of impact flared. “I’ve tried the shield almost a dozen times now and ended up with my arm broken and the shield shattered each time I tried to block. At least with a knife or sword, it feels like I have a chance to wound him in return. But he’s just too big, too strong, for me to have a fair shot. He’s almost three feet taller and magnitudes heavier. Fighting a Numen isn’t fair. What do I do against that? If we kept Seraphis focused on me, do you think you’d have better luck with your incantation?”
She shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt, but… I’m not convinced it would make much of a difference. Ever since I got the [Thaumaturge] class, my ability to disrupt spells has faltered. I don’t know if getting the class stopped whatever I was doing before from working, or if the naga just won’t give me the opportunity. It feels like something important has changed, but I don’t know what.”
“You said earlier that a [Thaumaturge] is a ‘master of miracles’; are miracles different from the incantations the naga is using?” Hadrian did pay attention when Sylva talked about magic, even if she sometimes acted like his lack of knowledge meant a lack of interest. He’d be the first to admit he didn’t understand the nuances of magic, but he hoped learning from Sylva might help him someday. After all, a hunter had to understand its prey, and he expected to hunt a mage eventually.
“The elders refused to go into too much detail—” She paused as they both let out frustrated sighs. How often had their conversations circled back to that. “—But we can safely deduce that there are some differences between the major disciplines. [Wizards], [Sorcerers], [Witches], [Thaumaturges], and who knows how many more spellcasting classes. There has to be a clear distinction in either their practice or their results, or we wouldn’t define them differently. Every label has meaning, every word a purpose.”
“We’ve gone over that. None of us have any idea what those differences are beyond the basics. [Wizards] use formal spellcasting theorems, [Sorcerers] use unguided releases of mana, [Witches] use hexes and rituals, and [Thaumaturges] create miracles. And unless I’m missing something, we don’t have any way to get more information.”
“Do you think we could ask the Eidolons?”
Hadrian considered the question. The Eidolons had been noticeably less talkative since whatever Sylva had done in their third attempt. The naga had ignored their attempts to converse, starting her incantations the moment she emerged from the golden sarcophagus. It was hard to justify casual conversation when the other party was trying to set you on fire. Still, they hadn’t seemed opposed to conversation before that.
“Do you know if we can enter the trial without the full triumvirate? I just assumed we had to go together. If we could talk to them now, we might find a clue. I’m sure Lotem wouldn’t hold it against us.”
Sylva’s lips turned down in a gentle frown, a look Hadrian had come to recognize as her not knowing the answer to one of his questions. The Silkborn knew more about the world than anyone Hadrian had ever met, but she acted like she was ashamed to be in the dark.
“I… should have thought of that. I’m actually not sure.”
“Want to give it a try?” Hadrian asked. “Lotem still isn’t here, and we might learn something.”
“Should we tell him we’re entering alone before we try it? I don’t want him to come out and not find us.”
“We’ve waited hours before; if we aren’t here, he can wait for us. It might be better for him. He hasn’t handled the trial well so far, and it would give him more time to recover.”
Lotem hadn’t directly complained about their circumstances. If anything, he seemed unwilling to disagree with them, not after they both swore to help him in his revenge against the Tul. Hadrian had grown closer to Sylva as they discussed the trials and she told him stories of the empire, but he hadn’t had the same opportunity with Lotem hiding in his room between every trial.
Sylva glanced at the door, then back at him, a mischievous smirk on her lips. “We shouldn’t be gone long. It’s not like the fights last more than a minute.” He returned her smile as they stood and approached the door. They paused, speaking quietly as they came up with a plan to get the Eidolons to give them some of the information they needed.
Sylva swung the door open, and they approached the pedestal with the crystal filled with roiling fog. She touched the orb; the doors behind them slammed shut, and two of the sarcophagi swung open, revealing Drakar and Seraphis. The naga’s eyes locked on Sylva as she began her intricate hand gestures, accompanied by a hissing chant Hadrian had yet to decipher.
“Wait!” he called, hoping to prevent an immediate conflict. He knew Drakar and Seraphis were going to kill them eventually, but he hoped to get what he could from the Eidolons first. Drakar lowered his club and held up one hand to stop the naga.
“Only two this time? We wondered how long it would take for the Bal to drop out. Speak, lad, and pray to the clouds above that it doesn’t upset Seraphis more than she already is.”
The naga halted her incantation, transferring her ire to the Numen as he spoke. Sylva kept her head down, avoiding eye contact with the naga as Hadrian began to speak.
“Help us understand! We’ve sworn an oath of vengeance, channeled our rage into combat with you, and it seems to have only made things worse. Sylva tried to harness powers she didn’t fully understand, and now you act like we need to be slain on sight. Isn’t your role in this trial to aid the empire’s most promising youth?”
They still weren’t sure if that was the real purpose of the Eidolons in this challenge, but he hoped it might force them to share a detail they otherwise wouldn’t.
“Didn’t understand what she was doing?” The naga let out a sharp hiss that split the air, making Hadrian flinch. He still hadn’t gotten used to her snake-like demeanor. “You mean to tell me that that untrained pile of string managed to weaken my connection to the Radiant Flame by accident?”
“I swear it on my Lifethread,” Sylva said somberly, bowing her head as Seraphis focused on her. “I received the skill [Sympathetic Intuition] from Nyxol the Scribe and have allowed it to guide me through this trial.”
Seraphis perked up, her hood flaring outwards, drawing his attention to the golden scales that shimmered as if in sunlight rather than the orange glow of the flickering mage lights. “You entered the trial with no prior knowledge?”
“I entered with the full training of an initiate of the Sect of Silken Grace. However… our elders held to the ancient principles. I have no formal training in matters regarding ‘true citizens’ and haven’t had the opportunity to cultivate informal training to bridge the gap. Was it different in your time? Were the great sects not honorable enough to respect the restrictions on knowledge?”
“Seraphis,” Drakar’s deep voice filled the chamber as he turned to his companion, “you know as well as I do that Silken Grace wouldn’t have violated the great taboo. This never quite added up anyway.”
“What class did you earn?” Seraphis asked, crossing her scaled arms over her chest.
“[Thaumaturge], though I don’t fully understand what that means.”
The naga let out a snort, a sound Hadrian thought was entirely out of the acceptable range for a snake of any size. Drakar’s brows rose, and the man let out a cough that Hadrian suspected was to cover up a laugh.
“A miracle worker?” The Numen shook his head. “Seraphis, no wonder the girl was able to undercut your magics. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of such a… disciplined [Thaumaturge].”
“Disciplined?” Sylva asked, an undercurrent of excitement in her voice. “What do you mean by that?”
“Lass, you approached your incantation like you were attempting High Arcana. You used physical gestures and a sympathetic chant. The few [Thaumaturges] I’ve fought in the past were closer to [Hedge Sorcerers], calling on the Sulphen to solve their ills without the methodology of a true master. More prayer to the Sulphen than true art.”
“She was closer to a [Hedge Wizard], though—no true style, just pure wishful thinking,” Seraphis said to Drakar before turning an angry gaze on Sylva. “You attacked my connection to the Radiant Flame, and I can’t just wave that away, accident or no. But I’ll take this new information into account when deciding how best to burn the strings from your body one at a time.”
“What’s the difference?” Hadrian asked quickly, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground. “Between a [Wizard], [Sorcerer], and [Thaumaturge], I mean?” He looked to Drakar and added, “For fighting purposes, of course.”
“In a fight? No reason not to share.” Seraphis glared at the Numen as he pointedly ignored her, focusing on Hadrian. “A [Sorcerer] invokes the power of bloodlines to channel the Sulphen. They rely almost entirely on active skills, making them inflexible but dangerous if they have the right skill. You either hit them fast and hard enough to never give them the chance, or you exhaust their skills, since they’re limited in how many spells they can cast daily. Following?”
Hadrian nodded, his full attention on the Numen’s words.
“A [Wizard] relies on understanding to channel their will. They can achieve incredible feats in any field, but their emphasis on passive skills and abilities from the Sulphen makes them slow to act and vulnerable at the start of a fight. A [Thaumaturge] is somewhere in the middle. They don’t rely on innate talent or ability to persuade action from the Sulphen, but on strength of conviction. Seraphis here,” he gestured at the Sunborn, “is a variant of the [Thaumaturge] class; she draws her power from the Radiant Flame.”
“May it never extinguish,” Seraphis hissed reverently.
“And how do you fight a [Thaumaturge]?”
“Why, you smash them, stab them, or cut them in half. They die just like the rest of us.” Drakar let out a booming laugh at his own comment, while Seraphis looked ready to target him with her next spell.
“So my spellcasting relies on strength of conviction?” Sylva asked hesitantly, her eyes on the Sunborn. The naga straightened, her body rising with the gesture, and reluctantly replied.
“If it’s as you claim, then yes. The core of Thaumaturgy is conviction. I believe in the divinity of the Radiant Flame. The Church of the Three believes in the divinity of the threefold aspect. The Nygmar and Blind believe in the divinity of the Crimson Heart. We all have Thaumaturgic methodologies that differ, but conviction is at the core of our belief. What do you believe, Silkborn?”
Sylva looked unnerved by the question, though Hadrian wasn’t sure why finding conviction was so hard. He didn’t worship any divinity; he didn’t need one to tell him his purpose. He would form a shrine in Cutra and bring his village into the empire—he believed that with the same conviction the naga likely held for her Radiant Flame. After a long hesitation, Sylva spoke.
“I… I don’t know. I worship nothing divine. I have no tenets of faith. I was taught the religious teachings of all the major religions of the empire, but conviction in any of them…” She suddenly looked lost, the confidence Hadrian respected in her gone. She needs time to think, he realized, a chance to be alone.
“Thank you.” He bowed deeply to the Eidolons. “We’ll have much to consider after our recovery.” He nodded to Sylva, summoned a simple woodcutter’s axe that reminded him of home, and launched himself at Drakar. Maybe this time would be different.
Lotem lay on the stone bed, a sudden panic gripping his chest as the stone walls closed in around him. He took a deep, shuddering breath and exhaled slowly. He was in the trial in Tir Na Nog, having just awoken from his most recent brutal death—a blow to his chest that made breathing agony until the Eidolons ended his suffering. The memory did nothing to calm the panic still gripping him.
He felt a shift on his chest and looked down to see the orange form curled on top of him, still light enough to go unnoticed if he wasn’t paying attention. Despite the time spent in the chamber, Sabel seemed healthy. He had run out of meat days ago, but the kitten didn’t even seem to notice the lack of food.
He wondered who had designed this trial. Forced to live in barren chambers, in cramped hallways, or fight to the death against enemies far stronger than they had any chance of beating. The three of them might be able to defeat one of the Eidolons at a time, but all three? Madness. He had forced himself out of his chamber dozens of times, hoping for something, anything, to change their situation. Nothing had.
He had watched one of the contests at the Spring Gathering of the Tribes the year his brother had entered Aslavain and had been amazed by the powers displayed by the candidates. The contest in UlaanThur that year had involved a great battle recreated between two coalitions of tribes before the Bal had joined the empire. He had watched the images projected across the heavens and wondered what it took for the youth to become capable enough to change the course of a battle in less than a year. But he hadn’t imagined a trial like this.
He had imagined training a beast of war he had bonded with, like the famed Screamers, a cavalry formed exclusively from riders of Axebeaks, or the Gatecrashers, the legion who rode war bison in the tribal style. He had imagined bonding with a creature that was unique and powerful, a creature only available within Aslavain. He had even imagined training in the sword, prior experience or not. But he hadn’t imagined this kind of torture.
Hadrian could summon weapons and moved with the grace of someone who had dedicated their life to violence. Sylva had been trained in one of the greatest sects of the Malan and was now seemingly teaching herself how magic worked using pure guesswork. Lotem would have called that crazy if it hadn’t worked on her third attempt. And what did he have? A kitten to leave in this stone chamber while he died, and a lifetime spent in nature wasted while within this lifeless stone. A lifetime wasted.
He knew he should get up from the uncomfortable stone bed, open his door, and join his team in preparing for their next deaths. But he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to do it.
How was this fair?
He had been promised a chance at greatness. One of the Immortals had assigned him to the triumvirate of Rovan’s Squire. They had chosen a city specializing in beasts to enter, a place that should have helped him close the knowledge gap between himself and his companions. But they had been rerouted to this nightmare, and he still wasn’t sure it wasn’t his own fault.
He felt the embers of anger flare, and he let it grip him as he lay there, unable to shift his thoughts away from the question that wouldn’t let him be.
How was this fair?
Aslavain was supposed to be the empire’s training realm. Each of the shrined cities invested enough resources into their annual trials and contests to bankrupt the Zherenkhan, rich as their herds were. Rumor had it that the empire spent more resources annually in Aslavain than they did in the war against the Tul. He had thought that meant Aslavain would help him. Now he wondered if he should have just joined the Legions. At least he would be trained before being sent to the front to fight the Tul.
Sure, those who survived Aslavain were guaranteed positions of rank in the military or government service. Sure, Aslavain gifted relics to candidates that they could never acquire anywhere else. Sure, the true contests in the Eternal Cities allowed Triumvirates to gain fame and recognition beyond anything achievable in the standard legions. But had he seen any of those benefits yet? Would they ever see any of them? They needed to beat not only these Eidolons but two other challenges to leave this trial as champions, and Lotem wasn’t sure Tir Na Nog even allowed for that as a possibility.
The question lingered. Although his chamber was lit by a normal torch, he could almost swear he saw the dancing red of the hallway’s light. The crimson hue forced the question into his every thought.
How was this fair?
Lotem rested his head back against the bed, fingers running along Sabel’s spine in a gentle rhythm. He let the anger guide his thoughts, unwilling to muster the effort to push them away. He had to control his thoughts when he was with the others. He wouldn’t let his doubts embarrass him, not when Hadrian and Sylva seemed content with the status quo. Skies above, Hadrian seemed to thrive in the constant fighting. Lotem wished he had a tenth of the man’s budding optimism, but even in that, the world was not fair.
Soon, he promised himself, he would find the courage to try again.
The [Archivist of Hidden Truth] sighed in frustration as he finished reviewing his memory of yet another tome. His [Perfect Recall of the Written Word] allowed him to read entire texts as though they were in front of him, a skill worthy of one of the empire’s foremost [Archivists], or so he had always thought. Krinka had spent decades examining the heritage of the empire, and though the Archives of Haffarah were his favorite, he had ranged as far as the grand archives of Nysarix, the largest repository of knowledge outside the Sul Empire that he knew of. If anyone could find the knowledge they needed, it would be him, and yet…
“If you glare at that wall any harder, it might break.” Casselia’s gentle words jolted him back into awareness. “No luck?”
“I really thought the Heist of Skalith’s Imperium at the start of the Sixth Age might suffice.” He shook his head ruefully, knowing Casselia would understand the difficulty of the task she’d given him. “A group of three new citizens to the Scaled Dominion entered the Imperium unexpectedly through a novel skill that used talismans the ward scheme hadn’t anticipated, but the substance is too far from our reality. There were no mentors who needed to form contact, and the group was experienced, not the novices we’re working with. They had a full complement of four classes and the skills to back the achievement up.”
“And,” Casselia said with a sigh of her own, “the Imperium is too distant from a trial like this one. That makes sense. What other leads are you pursuing?”
“The Emergence of Lapida following the conclusion of the Beast Wars is next on my list. Lapida is localized at least, and the [Triumvirate of—” Krinka hesitated as the name rose through his consciousness, courtesy of his [Mnemonic Retention] skill. “—Deep Caverns] located the first of the shrines of the Earthen Few.”
“You think the Nygmar are analogous? They always had some influence here in Tir Na Nog, and the later stages of the trial are likely to have Nygmar influence.”
“That’s what I thought too. The Triumvirate were at least at Master proficiency, but they were encountering something completely new and darker than expected.”
“That would help make up for the discrepancy in native power levels; I see that. But why is that event so far down your list? We’ve been at this for almost a full week now, Krinka.”
“It’s not the easiest comparison; for one, the records of the Emergence of Lapida are historically suspect. I’ve never been able to prove it exactly, but I’ve always found the rapid acceptance of the Nygmar unlikely to have happened the way the stories indicate. Some triumvirate of never-before-heard-of nobodies found an entirely new civilization, convinced that civilization to join the empire, and within a year, the Nygmar’s three shrines were formally welcomed to the empire alongside the holdings of the Blind?”
Krinka huffed, bothered by the very idea. Casselia watched him patiently, unwilling to interrupt as his mind pieced together ideas. He squinted at her, then leaned back in his chair.
“You knew all of that already, didn’t you?”
“The Nygmar are of… particular interest to me, though we’ve never been sent to engage with them. I suspect Alsarana has something to do with that.” Krinka coughed out a laugh. You don’t send the wolf to negotiate with sheep. “Nevertheless, I asked around about them at the start of the 7th age, after you were killed in the incident with the vultures.”
“I thought we agreed never to bring up the vultures, Cass.” She raised her hands in surrender as he glared.
“After you were killed in the mountains unexpectedly, I should say. My apologies.” Her eyes gleamed with faint humor, and Krinka rushed to change the topic before Als had a chance to hear. He did not want the snake bringing up those damned vultures—ever.
“So you investigated the Nygmar while I was in recovery; anything of use?”
“The [Procurator] had his fingers all over that affair. I tracked down an influx of gold, silver, and novel alchemical ingredients in the years following the Nygmar’s entrance into the empire, but nothing directly linked the Dion administrator to the frogs. All that wealth was filtered into the coffers of the Administrators Blood, I’m sure, but I could never confirm it with enough satisfaction to approach the Justicars.”
Not everything returns to the [Procurator]. How many times have we been down that road, Cass? Krinka had spent centuries chasing Casselia’s leads in her shadow war with the man. Dead tomes, he had been killed at least three times on the bastard’s orders. But still, not everything that went wrong could be his fault.
“Any ties between the [Triumvirate of Deep Caverns] and the Administrators Blood?” Krinka asked, suddenly curious. If the Administrators had orchestrated the Triumvirate’s expedition to the Nygmar, they might have slipped past a ward scheme to deliver a message. That could actually do it, Krinka thought, a rush of excitement building.
“None that I could find. Two of the members were associated with Malan sects, Conclave Earth and Rivers Remorse, and the last was from Hirion, one of the first to be truly raised in the City of Conquest, if my memory serves.” Krinka knew it would; Casselia never spoke unless she was certain.
“They sent two Malan and a Kiel to investigate? Why? That’s Dion territory by treaty as old as the empire. Even the Valourwash had been considered Dion territory for centuries by then.”
“I was never able to get a straight answer about that. The East Warden at the time personally asked me to drop the matter after I made some less than discreet inquiries. She claimed it was disrupting the fragile trust they were building with their newest neighbors to the empire. At the time I—” Casselia’s head whipped to the doorway just before the door swung open to reveal Alsarana.
“Als, did something happen to the children?” Casselia asked, a slight edge to her tone.
“No, nothing so extreme. A courier has arrived with a delivery, for your hands only.” Casselia visibly relaxed at the news, as though expecting it. Krinka wondered why she hadn’t told him she was expecting a delivery.
She thanked Alsarana and strode from the room, vanishing into the darkness outside. “Krinka, Krinka, Krinka, what do you think our great leader is receiving? Delivered by Shansa Six-Step, no less, though dear old Shansa still hasn’t seemed to forgive us quite yet.”
Shansa Six-Step? Krinka let the name sit with him for a moment before his notes on the woman came back to him. Ah, yes, the Battle of Kaelums Refuge. She hasn’t forgiven us? Not that I can blame her. The Battle of Kaelums Refuge was contentious in the empire’s history, even now, almost five centuries later. Krinka stood by their actions that night; they had saved far more lives than they had taken. That hadn’t stopped him from refusing to use that ritual again on humanoid life. It had been the Marquis of Bone’s choice, after all, not his own. Though Alsarana hadn’t discouraged the Marquis.
“If Shansa was willing to take the job, it has to be important. Likely ordered by one of the Wardens, maybe as high as the Imperial Triumvirate,” Krinka reasoned. “Shansa would’ve refused a normal missive if she could, especially if she had to meet Casselia personally. She tried to get us blacklisted from the Couriers Guild four centuries back—not exactly the actions of someone willing to take a delivery without outside pressure.”
Alsarana prepared to respond but turned to the door instead. Moments later, Casselia reentered the room, an imperial scroll in her hands. From the Imperial Triumvirate indeed, Krinka thought. Casselia sat down and unrolled the scroll, her eyes darting back and forth across the page as her frown deepened.
“So, Cass, you going to share the big news?” Alsarana asked sweetly.
“We’ve been ordered to be on high alert. The Diviners Guild, the Sect of Eight Strands, and the Bonecasters have all warned of coming turmoil, though interestingly, none of them can share any more details than that.”
That three of the most prestigious divination guilds had not only agreed on a premonition but petitioned for imperial intervention is worrisome, Krinka thought. But what would cause them to lack any type of real narrative about the risk?
The Diviners Guild employed experts in all forms of divination; it wasn’t unexpected that they might lack a complete picture of events. But the Bonecasters and the Sect of Eight Strands as well? No. That makes no sense. The Bonecasters and the Sect of Eight Strands were respected institutions of the empire, the primary groups responsible for intelligence gathering for the Dion and Kiel factions, respectively. They don’t offer warnings lightly; Krinka knew that for certain.
“Can’t share more details or won’t share more details?” Alsarana asked.
“That’s less clear. Our instructions are simple enough: we’re to watch and document anything out of the ordinary and, if necessary, take whatever actions we deem necessary in defense of the empire. We are to present to the House of Lords our findings upon their summons.” The room fell silent as they processed her words.
“An Imperial Writ?” Krinka asked hesitantly, breaking the silence.
“An Imperial Writ.” Casselia confirmed with a nod and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“We haven’t had an Imperial Writ since… well, the Flower Wars.” Krinka leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t know they offered them outside of an active conflict, not to the likes of us, not nowadays.”
“Those warnings from the guilds are more dire than they first appear.” Alsarana looked thoughtful, never a good sign in Krinka’s experience. “Why us?”
“Why us indeed.”