Planning is born from the illusion of order—a fragile faith that tomorrow will resemble today, that people will act as they ought, that systems will hold. It is a comfort to those who fear chaos, but comfort does not endure war, storms, or betrayal. When the world fractures, plans are the first to fail. Preparation, by contrast, is a discipline carved in uncertainty. It does not demand that the world behave. Instead, it sharpens the will against collapse, tempers the soul against surprise, and teaches the body to move when all else falls still. Where the planner waits for the expected, the prepared stand ready for the impossible. One breaks; the other survives.
– [General] Vahris Alkarin, The Cold Oath: Reflections on the Siege of Sevenfold Vale
Two days until the Revelry of Stone and Bone.
Lotem licked his lips, tongue greedily drawing in the meal’s remaining oils. Thalmeros had—if anything—understated the quality of the boar’s meat. Son of the Bal and proud Zherenkhan, Lotem had tasted flesh from nearly every species that roamed the empire’s heartlands, yet with each tender bite he became surer that nothing his tribe—or the Jarval family, at least—could match this.
During the meal Thalmeros spoke of the grand feasts his tribe once held for the Black Antlered God—entire moon-cycles of revelry as they waited for their elusive deity to appear. Lotem had never heard of that god, and Thalmeros hadn’t expected him to. How does a god simply vanish? It wasn’t as though Thalmeros pre-dated the Blood Wars—that might have explained the loss. Instead, the Sul Empire had endured, while its god had slipped away.
There was a lesson in that. No matter how powerful one grew or how many followers one gathered, time swallowed everything. Yet a few exceptions remembered: the [Paragons] locked in gilded cages, offering images of the past, and the [Venerate] who could teach but never truly show how things had been. Lotem hoped future candidates would view the Tul the same way—remnants of a long-dead era, monsters confined to stories rather than living traumas.
“Best boar you’ve ever had?” Thalmeros boomed, laughter filling the dining room on the Numen’s second floor.
Lotem leaned back in the high-backed wooden chair and felt like a child at the adults’ table, dwarfed by the extra seat depth and towering headrest. He wondered how long it would be before he grew tall enough to need furniture sized for him alone.
“—No need to answer,” Thalmeros went on. “I watched you devour that meat with a frenzy befitting a growing lad. Your bloodline may be newly enhanced, but that’s all the more reason to feed it—lavishly!”
Lotem sighed and shifted until his overly full stomach settled. He knew he had overeaten, yet felt no regret as he readied himself for what was coming. The Numen had refused to discuss anything substantial until after the meal, despite Lotem’s gentle attempts to steer the talk toward goals and the future. Now Thalmeros’s playful smile hardened into a mask of gravity that was equal parts thrilling and frightening. He didn’t want to leave this place—didn’t want to return to Aslavain and the troubles waiting there.
“Each [Paragon] holds three unique classes they may share with those who earn the honor of their presence,” Thalmeros said, leaning forward over the wooden table. “Two tie directly to their primary disciplines, and one serves as a grounding class. That was the ancient way, at least.”
“Grounding class?” Lotem tilted his head, unfamiliar with the term.
“Even the best warriors need something to keep them grounded. Sul tradition encourages a supplementary class rooted in a hobby or interest outside one’s primary powers. For instance, a [Hunter] might learn a cooking class to better prepare the game they bring down, while a [Shaman] could moonlight as a [Storyteller]. Even a [Laborer] might cultivate a taste for risk as a [Gambler]—or a [Drunk]. It serves as a reminder that, no matter how strong we grow, we remain mortal.”
The logic resonated with Lotem. How many of his tribe’s [Herdsmen] were also [Hunters] or [Cooks]—and how many [Seamstresses] doubled as [Gossips] or [Designers]? Krinka had mentioned something similar back in Tir Na Nog, though Lotem hadn’t given it much thought then. Now he nodded slowly at Thalmeros’s words and tapped a finger on the table between them, signaling his understanding.
“Was your grounding class [Cook]?”
“Oh, blackened snake tongues, no—though I understand the confusion. I was a [Wanderer]; it wasn’t until my final years in the Empire that a friend taught me to cook. They insisted it was an essential skill for any [Paragon]—nothing opens a heart quite like a good meal.”
“A wise friend. If [Wanderer] was your… grounding class, what were your primary ones?”
“[Dread-Fen Exarch of the Black Peatlands] and [Slayer of the Seven-Skinned Lord] were the formal classes I bore before ascending to [Paragon]. I served as a Chieftain of the Black Antlered God for most of my life. Only after the first Carrion War—and the dire need to stand with the Sul Empire—did I become an [Exarch]. My [Paragon] title springs from my [Slayer] class, the ledger of my greatest deeds.”
Lotem knew of [Slayers]—specialists devoted to hunting the Tul and other Banes. Had Aslavain offered no grander path, he might have joined their ranks; the Tulunganar always needed more warriors for the war across the Diontel, and no fighter gained sharper skills than a [Tul Slayer]—to kill Tul at least.
“I suspect,” Thalmeros began slowly, almost reluctantly, “that heritage suits you best. [Guardian] overlaps with my [Exarch] abilities—but not enough, not when your goals are clear as ice. Rather than swimming in the wrong pond, let me first tell you how I earned my title.”
Lotem almost protested; he knew Krinka wanted him to deepen his [Guardian] class. The scholar had explained that while a candidate could adopt a new class, doing so was seldom the wiser choice. She had also cautioned him not to reject opportunities outright—sometimes planning faltered and chance would overtake it, and the goal was always to open, not close, doors. Lotem nodded sharply. Maybe the [Exarch] class would serve him better—yet he doubted it.
“It was a midsummer night on the plains outside Omenport—the City of Fortune—far south of the Sul Empire in those days. Blackened clouds twisted overhead while ash fell like snow, and the twin moons’ red light bathed the land in a haunting glow. My clans had fought for nine days and nine nights, rotating from the front in waves to snatch a few hours of sleep before returning to the line. For miles the grass smoldered as sparks ignited the last shreds of dry vegetation. Dragonfire is ever hungry for more, and it felt as though the air itself might burst into flame with every new gust of embers and ash.”
Thalmeros’s gaze drifted far away, as though he were reliving the memory in real time. Lotem, in the quiet that followed, held his tongue—determined not to interrupt the Numen’s recollection.
“The [Numerologists] the Sul sent estimated 300,000 rats in the swarm. Most were nothing more than beasts—that is always the way with Ratlings—a tide of hungry flesh and gnashing jaws. Then came the never-ending scream of rats: like a wire snapping inches from your ear, drawn taut with panic. It wasn’t a steady cry but a jagged, staccato burst, metal scraping glass beneath the shriek of something small and desperate trying to sound large. Above it all loomed the presence of their Horned Lord—High Skincaller Ratcha’kul.”
Lotem tried to imagine it and realized he had no desire ever to hear such a sound. They would end the threat before it reached that point. Thalmeros said they had ignored the creatures for decades; surely they hadn’t reached that stage yet. He sent a silent thanks to Empress Althara for recognizing the danger before it was too late and acting decisively.
“High Skincaller Ratcha’kul wielded a Terror that peeled flesh from everything nearby. Husks of empty skin rose from the corpses that littered the field—rat and man alike—dragging themselves across the ground. Some wrapped around Ratlings as living armor, tough enough to turn an enchanted blade, while others sought out soldiers and hurled themselves over them in the same horrific fashion. I watched thousands suffocate in those husks that day.”
Thalmeros shuddered, and Lotem couldn’t blame him. At last he understood the warnings about the Horned Lord—and why its power was called a Terror. Lotem felt sure that if anything similar appeared in Aslavain—Empress Althara or no—they would all die; candidates his age simply weren’t ready to face… that.
“We had support from the Draconic Throne, thank the gods. I would never have challenged Ratcha’kul if Vorthanyx the Ash-Eater and Sylqirath the Whisperer-of-Gold hadn’t burned away the layers of powerful flesh he wore like a cloak—dragonfire is a wonder. We learned only later that he strode onto the field with the flesh of two Titans and a dragon stitched to his body as armor, hidden beneath tatters of his kin. Only the Tul-Tul-Tar knows where such a boon came from—the Titans were long dead by then, and we never discovered which Titans’ flesh he bore.”
Thalmeros looked grim, his gaze far away and his jaw clenched tight. The feeling spread to Lotem as he pictured the carnage, his own fist tightening beneath the table. This… this was more than he had ever imagined. Were all the children of the Tul-Tul-Tar such monsters? How had anyone ever managed to exterminate the Ratlings at all?
“By the end of the ninth day we were on the verge of breaking. Nearly half our forces lay dead, and Ratcha’kul had personally slain Vorthanyx after a coven of his Ratling kin dragged the dragon from the sky with a binding ritual of the Blood Wars. Never before, and never since, have I witnessed such sorcery—I doubt it would have been possible without hundreds of thousands of corpses bleeding into the muddy soil.”
Thalmeros’s jaw clenched, and he let out a sharp hiss before continuing. “Chains of blood rose from the battlefield—each ring as wide as a man—lashing skyward like a lasso to bind Vorthanyx and drag him into the enemy’s midst. By the time we could mount a response, the dragonfire had guttered out and the ash-choked clouds began to thin. We knew Vorthanyx was dead.”
Thalmeros’s eyes locked with Lotem’s, and the raw mix of grief and rising fury startled him. How many of his kin died that day? How many of mine will I lose on my quest? Lotem pushed the doubt aside and waited for Thalmeros to go on.
“When I heard Sylqirath’s mournful scream, I knew we were lost. She fled the battle, no longer willing to strafe the field with green flame or summon her grand magics. Dragons are cowards when faced with their own mortality. The mortal council understood that if we did not act, Ratcha’kul would claim the dragonhide of Vorthanyx, and all would surely be lost.”
Thalmeros’s gaze turned haunted, as though the memory of what came next still outweighed the knowledge that he would ultimately prevail. The contradiction unsettled Lotem—If the Numen was destined to win, why did he look as though defeat still clung to him? What kind of victory carves scars that ache even millennia later?
“We rallied a dozen chieftains, kings, and champions for a lightning-strike we hoped would end the war. In the shadow of Vorthanyx’s corpse, we prevailed. My spear—carved from a sacred oak of the Eternal Domicile of Wood and personally blessed by the Black Antlered God—was our best chance to pierce the Horned Lord’s defenses. That night it was anointed again by [Shamans], [Priests], and [Clerics] of eleven other gods. Their blessings proved enough, and a single fortunate thrust slipped past Ratcha’kul’s guard. Only three of the twelve of us walked off that field.”
Thalmeros shook his head, returning to the present. He met Lotem’s eyes with the gentle, almost fatherly gaze that had settled between them during the long afternoon.
“I share my tale with you for two reasons, Lotem. First—because it is necessary. Stories have power, and the contract of the Sul Empire rewards candidates not only for their deeds but also for their experiences. Hearing a [Paragon]’s tale carries weight in the eyes of Nyxol’s Weaving.”
“As for the second?” Lotem prompted, catching Thalmeros’s words as they trailed off.
“It will prepare you for the training that occupies what little time we have left. Now, come.”
Thalmeros rose, and Lotem fell in beside him as they stepped into a night lit only by twin moons and scattered stars. With a silent gesture, the Numen led him up a rolling hill, then motioned for him to wait before disappearing into the dark. Minutes later a terrified scream—like a trapped animal—split the quiet, and Thalmeros re-emerged, cradling a small deer in his arms.
The creature—a doe, he thought—was ink-black, its dark eyes ringed by silver-dotted markings that shimmered softly. Lotem had seen albino bison in his people’s herds; they were considered sacred, and Kathanka, the Balar’s own steed, was one of them. This doe felt like their mirror opposite. Each shaky, terrified breath drew his gaze to those glowing motes of silver, and an unexpected calm washed over him. He realized he rather liked this strange animal.
“An Ebony Dawnling,” Thalmeros said, “is the finest source of magical hide in these hills. With our remaining time, I’ll show you how to skin such a creature and draw power from its pelt. In time you may decide that skinning isn’t your style—you might pull a foe’s teeth; keep their bones; preserve their eyes; it matters not. My own cloak is stitched from the flesh of my greatest enemies, and it has served me well since Ratcha’kul’s fall. If you truly mean to slay Ratlings, I can think of no better legacy.”
Lotem had several objections to the idea. He’d skinned beasts before—he was Zherenkhan, after all—but the notion of wearing an enemy’s hide unsettled him; the Tul’s flesh looked far too much like a human’s to parade around proudly. He kept the concern to himself. Thalmeros had said he could develop his own style, and Lotem resolved to do exactly that—given time.
“You’ve steeled your resolve,” Thalmeros noted, catching the flicker of hesitation. “Good; this isn’t a glamorous path, and the Malan sects or Dion lords rarely deem it heroic. I know better. Being a hero isn’t about the means we employ to reach our ends—it’s about the ends themselves. Heroes fight the Tul, and they use whatever means are necessary.”
Lotem nodded sharply. Satisfied, Thalmeros lifted the Ebony Dawnling, which released a soft, terrified cry, and held the doe out, arms extended, clearly expecting Lotem to take it.
“Snap its neck—then we can get to work.”
“Snap its neck?” Lotem echoed, horror twisting his voice as he stared at the majestic creature—and he hesitated.
“Would you rather stab it? I have a knife somewhere; but you really should start trusting your strength. It shouldn’t be harder than snapping a twig.”
Lotem slowly extended his hand, grasping the Ebony Dawnling. The doe panicked, thrashing to escape, so he set his grip on its neck with both hands and twisted—pulling apart with steady force. The creature loosed a desperate, heaving wail that wrenched something deep inside him, and then came the sharp snap… followed by silence.
“Good,” Thalmeros said as he knelt and drew a knife from the sheath at his back, passing it to Lotem. “We have several hours for me to show you how to do this properly.”
As Lotem prepared for the lesson, he realized that the cloak of flesh Thalmeros wore no longer seemed grotesque—it felt inevitable.
Lotem blinked; the soft warmth of Sabel curled in his lap hauled him back to reality. Across from him, Nessa and Krinka leaned forward, clearly waiting for this very moment. With a start he bolted upright, and Sabel jolted awake, projecting a frantic burst of thought.
“Are you okay?” Sabel asked, worried.
“I am, little one,” he replied, glancing at his hands as though expecting blood—but they were clean, of course. The [Paragon] meeting had been little more than a dream, yet it had left its mark. Sabel settled back into his lap, drifting back to sleep.
“And?” Krinka prompted, eyes alight with anticipation.
“I met Thalmeros—[Paragon of the Seven-Skinned Lord].”
“The Slayer of Ratcha’kul and champion of the Black Antlered God?” Krinka’s brows rose, curiosity sharpening his features.
“The same.”
“And?” Krinka pressed, raising his eyebrows. “Nessa has been guessing what you’d return with for the past half-hour, and I’m sure she can’t wait to hear the answer.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with curiosity,” Nessa muttered, folding her arms.
“I received a new class: [Scion of Ratcha’kul’s Bane], along with the skill [I Wear Their Sins].”
Nessa leaned back in her chair with a low whistle. “Well, ain’t that lovely. I didn’t have anything like that on my list.”
“A rare class, then.” Krinka’s gaze drifted, as if rifling through some long-buried memory. “A [Slayer] class variant?”
“It should be,” Lotem confirmed. “Thalmeros nearly trained me in his [Exarch] class and skills, but he decided against it—said [Slayer] suited my goals and abilities far better.”
“And how right he was!” Krinka grinned. “[I Wear Their Sins] is an advanced skill—one I’d expect only after a class evolves—so as a first skill it’s incredibly potent. Naturally, that power has drawbacks: foremost, you’ll need a steady supply of raw materials.” He rubbed his palms together, eyes gleaming. “The coming Revelry of Stone and Bone is the perfect place to find them.”
“What does it do?” Lotem asked, unsure whether [I Wear Their Sins] might become a skill he would one day regret.
“I’m fairly certain it’s a terror skill—one that drives your enemies into a frenzy the moment they sense you. I once trained a woman obsessed with purging the snakes from her bog; she despised them. She possessed a similar ability, and as long as she wore the hides of the powerful serpents she’d slain, every other snake fled before her. Her scale armor was the finest I’ve seen, and Als swore he could feel the terror and memories woven into it whenever she drew too close—though I suspect he was exaggerating, Naga that he is.”
Why, Lotem thought, do I always get skills that come with drawbacks? [Quick to Anger] was bad enough, now I am intended to wear my enemies as well? Soon everyone will be afraid of me, terror skill or no.
“I’ll go fetch Casselia and Hadrian,” Nessa said, eyes softening as she took him in. She stood, looking to Krinka. “Casselia asked me to bring them once Lotem’s Ascension was complete.”
Krinka offered Lotem a gentle smile. “Not the most glamorous power, and certainly not an easy one to wield—your worries seem clear enough. But it is a true skill and a powerful class, Lotem, one that almost guarantees Thalmeros will guide you again at a future ascension. Scions are all but assured of it.”
The assurance calmed Lotem’s uncertainty, and he realized he had truly enjoyed his time with Thalmeros—reveling in those casual glimpses of ages past. The giant Numen embodied everything he aspired to become, the mentor he had always wanted. If earning another audience simply meant harvesting and wearing the hides of his enemies, so be it; that, he could manage. He had no intention of skinning more does or other creatures he respected—only the true monsters would earn that fate.
“Did I hear correctly that Lotem received a Scion class?” Casselia asked as she stepped into the room, Nessa beside her and Hadrian trailing just behind.
“A rather strong one.” Krinka gestured for Casselia to sit.
She ignored the invitation, strolled toward the counter, and snapped off a hunk of fresh bread. After a satisfied bite—and a quick toss of another piece to Hadrian—she nodded.
Krinka continued at a gesture from Casselia, “[Scion of Ratcha’kul’s Bane].”
“Ratcha’kul?” Casselia echoed—much to Lotem’s surprise, for Krinka had recognized the name at once.
Krinka supplied the answer: “One of the Horned Lords, slain during the Siege of Omenpath.”
“The battle that slew the Ash-Eater?” Casselia blinked, tore off a small bite of bread, and chewed in quiet thought. “He slew the Horned Lord himself?”
“He did,” Lotem answered before Krinka had the chance—after all, he was the one who had spoken with Thalmeros.
“Krinka, how many Horned Lords are known to have existed?”
“Four.”
Four? Lotem leaned back, shock rippling through him.
“Four?” Casselia repeated, her brows lifting. “Lotem, that makes your new class priceless—congratulations.”
“Four seems… low,” Lotem murmured, catching the same doubt mirrored in Casselia’s eyes.
“Oh, it certainly is,” Krinka replied. “The historical record is littered with hunts for ‘missing’ Lords—few scholars believed only four existed. The Tul-Tul-Tar favored the number three, so four has always felt out of place.”
“The number matters that much?” Hadrian asked in a choked voice, swallowing a bite of bread before coughing. “Sounds like superstition to me.”
“The [Numerologists] would call those fighting words,” Krinka said, swiveling to face the Kiel man. “Their system reduces the entire world to numbers. Three and four are foundational, of course—though twelve is the crown jewel, being three fours and all that.”
“Four seems to fit that logic rather well, doesn’t it?” Lotem asked.
“It would—if we weren’t dealing with the Tul-Tul-Tar,” Krinka answered, shaking his head. “They always dealt in threes; that pattern was well understood during their reign and proved true even after the Blood Wars. Four is a more—neutral—number, unaffiliated with those horrors.”
Casselia snagged another piece of bread. “Krinka—cut to the chase. We’re on a time limit. What are the competing theories?”
“The great mystery with the Ratlings—Bouda as well—has always been their origin: they surfaced centuries after the Blood War, raising a host of unanswered questions. The leading theory holds that they were stored in stasis as a failsafe should the Tul-Tul-Tar fall—and were eventually released to plague the world.”
“Is that what we’re facing now?” Lotem asked. If the Ratlings were extinct, maybe another sleeper-group had simply awakened.
Krinka shrugged. “Perhaps—but if that were true, their emergence inside Aslavain is suspect; the Realm should be shielded against such intrusions.”
“And the other theories?” Casselia asked, flicking another chunk of bread to Hadrian—who snatched it out of the air with a grin.
“The simplest theory is this: four was pure coincidence. Rats can evolve independently into Ratlings. By the same logic, a rare or powerful Ratling might ascend into a Horned Lord. We exterminated those Lords so swiftly they never managed to crown a fifth or sixth.”
“I’m sure we could debate it all day, but we have places to be. Thank you, Krinka.”
Lotem was disappointed by the sudden cut to the conversation but he had grown used to it. Casselia rarely let Krinka dive fully into a topic before hurrying the man. Casselia clapped her hands once—conversation over—and turned to Lotem.
“So the question remains, Lotem: will you relinquish either class to become [Squire of Carven Bone]?”
Lotem froze. He had nearly forgotten the looming duel with Meris and Althara’s polite “request” to Hadrian. Better to speak plainly than bend to expectations he barely understood.
“I will not.”
Casselia nodded, accepting the answer without argument. “If you’d already evolved your [Guardian] class, the decision might be trickier, but as it is, this seems an easy choice.”
Relief surged through Lotem—he’d half-expected Casselia to argue and pressure him into seizing Hadrian’s class. He met Hadrian’s gaze and found the same gratitude mirrored there. They finally had a reason to refuse the Empress’s demand, and it felt liberating.
“Hadrian—” Casselia turned to him—“since Lotem refuses, you’ll face Meris tomorrow afternoon. Are you ready to continue your training?”
Hadrian rose, rolling his shoulders, and causing a thin wave of fog to ripple down his robe. “I am. Shall we go?”
