Each species has a natural inclination—this is rarely contested within the halls of power.
Humans adapt. Numen grow. Silkborn perfect. These are not speculative claims or fringe academic theories. Rather, they are foundational truths, accepted across nations and cultures.
Humans exhibit unmatched flexibility, capable of adapting to whatever gifts or challenges they are given. Numen, by contrast, are defined by constant growth—physically and magically—whether within the structures of the Sul or beyond them. And the Silkborn? They were formed for perfection by the Weavers themselves; it is woven into their very being.
These are facts known the world over.
Thus, when newly ascended officials balk at classifications or resist expectations drawn from species, they reveal only their ignorance. The world was shaped with a natural order for a reason. To defy that order is, in the eyes of the Holy Church of the Three, heresy.
– On the Natural Order of Species, by the Cardinal of the Northern Chapel, during the Reign of Holy Piety
Two Days Until the Revelry of Stone and Bone Begins
“That is the thing about the first ascension, you see,” Krinka said with an excited grin. “It’s the second time that reveals the true power of the Sul Empire at work—the [Paragons].” He turned, gesturing to Nessa as she slapped, folded a piece of dough against the counter in a steady rhythm. “The first rise gives the shape; the second brings the flavor. Power without proof is raw dough—knead it, rest it, let it rise again, or it isn’t worth breaking bread over.”
“Second time?” Lotem asked, muffling a yawn. He’d only just rolled out of bed, head thick as if after a night in the cups—though he’d had no liquor, only frog-catching, Sabel-worry, and skill-talk till dawn. Warm yeast and roasting grain drifted from Nessa’s oven, taunting his eyelids closed. Casselia, of course, had other plans. Hadrian could greet sunrise; Lotem was still prying himself from sleep.
“Of course,” Krinka said, flicking flour off his fingers as he pulled and kneaded a small ball of dough from where he sat on a chair across from Lotem. “Sylvine chose your path on the Solstice. Did you think the Immortals were the only ones who could still meddle in the world?”
“Are they not unique?” Lotem’s brows climbed. The Dragon, Titan, and Weaver had founded the Sul Empire nearly three millennia ago—surely that made them special. Thinking anyone else held comparable power felt… improbable.
“Well…” Krinka tapped his chin. “Unique in plenty of ways, yes. But I mean the system that lets them appear, offer advice, grant skills. You know about the [Paragons], of course?”
“Only that they’re powerful. They’re spoken of in stories with even more fear and awe than the [Venerate]. When the [Shamans of the Old Ways] speak of the Flower Wars, it’s often in parables about standing against a [Paragon] or a [Venerate] who took to the field with their students.”
Krinka brushed a puff of flour from his sleeve as Nessa smacked dough behind him. “Half-understandings are nearly as bad as lies, so let me clear the air. When a soul climbs high enough, the path forks. One road leads to [Venerate]: a Crest ties them to the empire and revives them if they fall, provided they swear to protect, teach, and honor. The other road makes a [Paragon]—they sign Nyxol’s contract and fuse with a demiplane, like Sylvine’s throne room or Rovan’s endless plains.”
“They live alone… forever?” Lotem asked. Who would choose that fate over the relative freedom a [Venerate] enjoyed? “Why?”
“They aren’t truly alone,” Krinka continued, tapping the table in rhythm with Nessa’s kneading as he set his dough down. “Most rest in stasis until the empire calls. Take the [Paragon of Endless Footfalls]—once the finest cobbler alive. Whenever a rising talent in that craft nears ascension, the contract wakes him to give guidance no one else can match. In the meantime, he enjoys his workshop and can make as many shoes as he wishes. There are thousands of such Paragons now, and every new signee thickens the weave of imperial power.”
“So they’re asleep most of the time, then wake just to speak to someone like me before going back into slumber? And they choose that?”
Krinka threw up both hands. “There is no greater honor! Becoming a [Paragon] forges an entirely new branch of skills, stamping your deeds into the record forever. And they’re not lost—during true catastrophes, the empire can manifest them in physical form, given the right authorization and a willingness to pay the cost. If the [Venerate] are wartime generals, the [Paragons] are the weapons they wield.”
Lotem folded his arms. “Seems like a poor bargain. If that’s immortality, it might be the worst kind.”
“For many, immortality is less about living than legacy.” Krinka shrugged. “A [Paragon] becomes a by-word; the contract spawns skills and classes stamped with their name. When they wake, they mentor the brightest of the next generation—and to them that is reward enough. Others choose the freer life of a [Venerate], oaths and all.”
“And that’s what’s going to happen soon? I’ll meet one of these [Paragons], and they’ll advise me?”
“Exactly!” Krinka’s smile danced. “For most candidates, the first ascension determines their fate—but they have no control over the process. Once a candidate feels ready, an Eidolon or [Venerate] can initiate the ascension, and the imperial contract will pair them with the most appropriate [Paragon].”
“For most candidates?” Lotem echoed. He already suspected his path would differ.
“Why do you think I’m here?” Krinka said with an arrogant grin—one that felt more at home on Casselia than the scholar. Everyone says you can’t aim for a specific [Paragon]—too many exist. A cobbler may reliably meet Endless Footfalls, but candidates with broader skills have scant odds.” He paused theatrically, inviting Lotem to fill the silence.
“And you change that?” Lotem asked. He didn’t need to be Sylva to understand what the scholar was getting at.
“What else would a [Historian] and [Archivist] be good for? I know the stories of every [Paragon] in the empire—and I’ve found that stories have power. So, Lotem, my boy, today is a day of stories.”
A fresh loaf cracked in the oven, releasing a nutty scent as Krinka leaned closer and Nessa’s slapping silenced. “I’ll give you the real history of the Numen—none of the Dion sneers or Malan footnotes. We’ll talk about the true heroes—Numen [Paragons] who swore vengeance on the Tul and the other children of the Tul-Tul-Tar.”
Sleepiness fled. Lotem leaned in, hands tightening on his thighs. These were the stories he craved. Back in Tir Na Nog, Krinka had detailed Tul raids; Lotem had wondered who had driven the monsters back and whether those names had already been devoured by history or the Tul themselves.
“And these stories—they’ll make sure I meet the right [Paragon]? Who exactly?”
“Not one specific Paragon—I’m no [Fortune-Spinner]. But can I tilt the odds so you meet a Numen who shares your rage and will bless your war on the Tul? Absolutely.”
He tapped a finger, thinking. “With luck you might even draw a Paragon who fought in the first Ratling wars, though that would be rare indeed.”
“Numen fought the Ratlings?” He should have guessed, of course. The creatures were thought extinct—everyone believed that. How many in the empire even remembered those long-lost wars?
“Oh yes, the Numen played an outsized role in the Carrion Wars. But then, that’s always the way with your people. Entire legions were mobilized to the east and south to face the flood of creatures.”
“The Carrion Wars?” Lotem had never even heard the name. Everyone knew the Flower Wars, five centuries past—Bal could never forget. The Beast Wars, five centuries before that, still echoed in the threat of new Beast Kings. But earlier? Beyond the Breaking of Chains and the Blood Wars nearly three millennia ago but still as clear as crystal, history had blurred. How much had vanished in those lost two thousand years?
Krinka leaned back just as Nessa replaced the cooked loaf with the dough she had been resting. As it slid into the oven, a wave of dry heat puffing through the kitchen. Lotem blinked, warm air prickling his cheeks as the bread awakened his hunger.
“There were three Carrion Wars,” the scholar went on. “The first began when Ratlings and Bouda poured from their warrens. The second—later called the Seventh Crusade—drove the Bouda to extinction. The Ninth Crusade finished the Ratlings… or so the records claim.” He shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Extinction is a word historians should use carefully. It so rarely sticks.”
Questions tumbled through Lotem’s mind—Crusades? Which faith? Where did they fall on the timeline? And the Bouda—what were they, and had they come back as well? He bit down on the swirl; answers could wait.
“You think I could meet a [Paragon] from that era?” The notion felt impossible. Some days he barely felt worthy of being Krinka’s student, let alone of drawing a hero from millennia past.
“It’s possible, at least,” Krinka said, leaning forward to meet Lotem’s doubtful gaze. “Would you like that?”
Lotem hesitated. Enjoyment hardly mattered—preferences hadn’t counted in Tir Na Nog, and likely wouldn’t here. After a pause broken only by Nessa’s resuming dough-slap, he gave a small shrug.
“Then listen. First—the emergence of the Ratlings from their warrens and the Bouda empire that swept the plains. You’ll hear of Numen who felled rats and hyenas twisted by the dread Tul-Tul-Tar, of chieftains who grew titanic over decades of war, able to challenge whole cities. You’ll see the Numen before Dion oppression, the warriors who forged new classes and skills that still echo today. The true [Paragons]—heroes most have forgotten.”
“And what then?”
And after the tales, I’ll guide you into your first ascension. By noon, your dough will be bread—though it may feel far longer.”
Lotem straightened, vowing to pledge his whole attention for the hours to come. He trusted that these stories had a purpose and was certain he needed every advantage he could get if he was to keep up with Hadrian and Sylva.
Hadrian leaped back with a sharp exhale as Casselia’s blade whispered past his ribs. Double your fog in sixty heartbeats, she had decreed at dawn—and she was counting. Perhaps her intensity bled from tomorrow’s duel with Meris, or from the looming Revelry of Stone and Bone. Whatever the cause, she drove him across the floor with an uncanny instinct for the single attack most likely to break his guard.
When their training began disappointment had gnawed at him. She glided like Pa and struck like Ma—yet fell short of the legend Sylva worshipped. Now he understood: Casselia smothered her own legend, paring each move to the precise dimensions of his need. She was teaching, and he was not yet ready for her full fury. The storm would stay at half-strength until he proved he could dance inside its gale.
Wood slapped steel with a teeth-rattling crack, the jolt shooting up his wrist. And that, he hissed to himself, is why I prefer arrows. He batted her blade aside, stabbed back, then sprang sideways before her riposte could carve a lesson—or trigger his shield again. Range and a bow felt safer; only the arena’s tight walls trapped him in this whirl of edges. Knives would have to do where bowstrings could not.
“Stop.” The single word cut as cleanly as her sword. “You’re sparring, not shaping. A full minute, and the fog isn’t past my knee. You did better against Drakar when he was actually trying to gut you. Again.”
He frowned, conceding her point, and trotted back to the starting mark. Casselia murmured to the arena’s control runes; a glyph flared overhead and the fog drained toward the rafters. In seconds the air cleared. She turned back and launched the next bout.
He drew up the fog, the robe expanding like a second set of lungs. The vapor was no limb or skin—more like hair: sensed, not steered. [Fogbound Perception] let him read every ripple, and [Lesser Affinity: Fog] should have made guiding it as natural as breath—should have, yet the knack still slipped his grasp.
Casselia pivoted, circling him in a slow, deliberate orbit. A mercy window—half a dozen breaths to tinker. Back in Tir Na Nog, anger had been the key: rage at bleeding friends, at his own stumbles, at death’s shadow. He had flung that fury outward and the fog had roared to life. Perhaps the lock had never changed.
He poured every jagged thought—Meris’s smirk, Althara’s ultimatum—into the robe, and fog spilled across the floorboards like ink. Riding the swell, he pressed forward. Casselia’s fractional nod granted approval—then she blurred. Air knifed ahead of her; the mist shivered. His senses caught her left heel planting, weight angling. Instinct seized the reins while he kept shovelling emotion into the thickening cloud.
Althara’s silk-soft threat to raze Cutra. The order to discard Rovan Khal like a broken toy. Politics beyond his depth, consequences he could not ignore. The thoughts tasted sour—yet the fog devoured them, swelling until cold vapour lapped at his calves.
Casselia’s lead foot drifted a hair left—a feint. He caught it and darted right, fog peeling aside as he flashed past her blade. Ma’s lessons on micro-tells meshed with the mist’s whispering map, and he felt every tiny shift in Casselia’s balance, everywhere at once within the ring.
It became a rope walk—one mistake and her steel would pierce the gap. Yet the longer he balanced, the thicker the mist grew and the earlier each twitch of Casselia’s muscles reached his senses. Twenty-two heartbeats. Twenty-three. On twenty-five she raised a palm and drifted back.
“Good. What changed?”
“I was focusing on my emotions—at least at first.”
“Your emotions?”
“Like in Tir Na Nog—frustration, anger. I opened the valve and let them pour.”
“Interesting. Show me.” She squinted at the robe.
Hadrian obeyed, steering his mind down those too-familiar tracks. Uncertainty and fear became fury at anyone who might threaten Cutra or his friends. He shoved the emotion into the cloth and felt—more than saw—the fog burst outward, licking Casselia’s boots before racing across the floorboards.
“I would need Krinka to confirm in Haffarah, but I suspect your Triumvirate Skill is interacting in odd ways with the rest of your abilities. [Bound in Fury’s Triumph] is esoteric enough to influence how other skills work, though we haven’t had reason to explore exactly how yet. My suspicion is that you will find your ability to guide the Sulphen more easily when you leverage a bit of the fury you keep hidden.”
Hadrian bristled at the notion he was hoarding rage. He wasn’t constantly furiuos; he worked at kindness. Even the Zelvarn duel had run on discipline, not wrath. Yes, some things deserved fury, but anger was merely a tool for directing frustration. He flexed shaking fingers. Emotions are tools, not chains, Brother Kenvalen used to say. The Luminaries would have approved. He wished they were here.
“Don’t glare,” Casselia chided, one brow arched. “I didn’t choose the skill—or its shape.” She spread her hands. “But it fits. Sylva unlocked [Thaumaturge] in righteous blaze, Lotem gathers anger skills like a Slinkai after teeth, and you spent hours meditating inside frustration’s fire. Triumvirate abilities bloom from shared victories; yours sprouted in Tir Na Nog.”
“So what, should I just be angry all the time?”
“Hardly,” she scoffed. “Only when someone’s swinging steel at you. If you can’t kindle fury then, you’re not ready to trade blows.”
“And if I can’t muster anger in every fight?”
“Then you’re not ready for the fight in the first place.” She sighed and glanced at the ceiling rune, which flared and siphoned the fog away. “Let me explain.”
Casselia folded herself cross-legged on the floor and motioned him down. “[Bound in Fury’s Triumph] is what Krinka calls a Cornerstone Skill—the slab everything else stands on. Most Triumvirates don’t earn a joint skill until after their first contest; some not until they spar in an Eternal Domicile months from now. It requires real accomplishment, and most such skills are far narrower.”
“So our skills are just stuck on a ‘be angrier’ track forever? Maybe it’s better not to have the skill at all.”
“Forever? No—though it will steer you for the foreseeable future.” A playful smile ghosted across her lips. “You should be grateful for the skill; it is helpful enough, and anger is an easy fuel to tap. It’s certainly better than grief or anxiety. I have trained people attuned to both, and let me tell you, neither appreciated their newfound talents.”
It still felt wrong. Fog and fire, the Fogflare Moth—none of that seemed linked to anger.
“Not at all? Have you never felt a furious flame’s bite—never sensed fog swallow the emotions you pour in until the very air drips with feeling?”
Hadrian flashed back to his Ceremony of Loss—the crimson flame demanding retribution for what he was about to surrender. He had turned away, chosen the emerald blaze, chosen freedom. Yet the anger had lingered; he had felt its pull. A pang of grief tightened his chest. I will see my parents again.
“So what—do I just embrace that feeling until it owns me? At my Ceremony of Loss I turned away from retribution and rage. I chose freedom. Am I supposed to undo that now?”
Casselia nodded slowly, letting the moment breathe while she weighed his words. He admired that: she handled his doubts with care, taking time to understand rather than bulldozing ahead. For all her firmness with other Eidolons, [Venerate], or even the Empress, she never overpowered his objections. She made him feel heard.
“The Malan [Sages] say there’s no greater freedom than mastery over one’s fate, no greater power than control of our thoughts, and no greater harmony than command of our emotions. They speak as though control is something you find rather than do. But control is born of use and action. Want to rule your fate? Act. Want to steer your thoughts? Seize your focus and bend it. Want to master your emotions? Turn them to your purpose; never let them turn you to theirs. Control isn’t a trophy for the gifted; it’s a continual, never-ending series of actions.”
Her lips thinned, and she met his gaze with an intensity that almost made him flinch. “You’ve been dealt a rough hand lately—Meris ambushing you, Althara commanding you, now this Revelry.” Her voice stayed soft. “Everything feels outside your grasp. Own that frustration. Channel it—turn it into fury. You’ll feel more in control afterward, not less.”
Hadrian weighed her words, nodded once, then stood and offered his hand. She took it, and he pulled her upright. He didn’t know what the coming days would bring, but he vowed to seize every scrap of control he could. Casselia was right: whatever the Sulphen, the Empress, or the Ratlings intended, his emotions—and his future—answered to him.
“Repeat after me,” Krinka said, excitement bright in his voice. Lotem settled into the chair, the taste of Nessa’s bread-and-butter still lingering in his mouth. Krinka had insisted on a full second breakfast before ascension, and Lotem had offered no resistance. He nodded to the scholar across the room while Sabel purred in his lap. He was ready.
“I seek an audience with a [Paragon] to guide my way as I advance in the name of the Sul Empire. Under the authority of the [Archivist], I declare my intention to ascend.”
He repeated the words in a steady, almost ritual cadence. Lotem had never dwelt on the empire’s grand history before the Flower Wars. He knew of the Beast Wars—of course—but earlier than that? No one in his tribe had spoken of it, if they even knew. Ancestors above, he hadn’t heard of the Imperial Numen clans, wholly separate from the Bal, with histories of their own.
He felt a sudden desperation to meet one of those [Paragons]—to question, to see a Numen predating the Flower Wars. What was it like, facing the Tul-Tul-Tar’s monsters before the empires truly stabilized? If Krinka was right, the first Numen clans simply entered the Sul Empire and received land and citizenship—no decades-long war required. No realm back then would spurn fresh warriors, not after carrion breeds first crawled out of whatever pits the Tul-Tul-Tar left behind, nor with Tul raids and Bloodmarked threats to the east. In many ways, Lotem thought, little had changed.
For the first time, Lotem sensed a heritage in the Sul Empire beyond his Bal roots—an entire lineage of Numen heroes calling to him. He vowed to wring more stories from Krinka; ignorance would no longer suffice. Bal or no, he was Numen now. He fixed on that conviction as golden light whisked him out of Aslavain to wherever the Paragons waited.
Lotem blinked away the glare and found himself amid rolling grass-covered hills. In the distance, a thick white plume of smoke curled from an oversized, two-story house of dark-gray stone trimmed with darker wood. The style reminded him of the homes in Galsharok—the City of Copper.
Excitement spiked in his chest. Krinka had been right—what other [Paragon] would build a house in pure Khanate style? The building’s sheer scale sealed the hint; each floor was far taller than any human dwelling. He only hoped the familiar architecture didn’t mean he’d meet a modern Numen instead of an ancient hero.
Krinka’s antique legends had carried a grandeur the present lacked. Perhaps the memory of Morvan and Drakar colored his feelings, but he yearned for the heroes of dream—not the petty giants who had once chained him.
He strode toward the house, long legs devouring ground. A breeze carrying the scent of roasting meat—burning fat, elusive floral spices—rippled the grass. What herbs are those? He wasn’t hungry after Krinka’s breakfast, yet his mouth watered all the same.
He crested the hill and took in a well-tended garden encircling the home. Towering trellises formed living walls; vines seemed to reach for him as he followed a narrow cobbled track of dark-gray stones toward a door of rich red wood.
Lotem slowed, eyes narrowing. Every inch of the frame bore swirling carvings that seized his attention; he found it hard to look anywhere else. He’d never seen a door like this. Wooden doors were anathema to Bal tradition—no one invited the misfortune of building with tree-bones. The taboo even extended to Khanate Numen. A proper door should be stone, hide, even bone—never wood.
A thrill coursed through him—perhaps this was an ancient Numen Paragon. He raised his fist and knocked: once—twice—thrice. In the silence that followed the sharp raps, he let instinct guide his words.
“My name is Lotem Jarval, and I approach seeking the power to defend our empire from the monsters of the Tul-Tul-Tar.”
He took one slow breath, then a second. Just as worry stirred—what if the [Paragon] refused?—the door swung inward of its own accord.
The room beyond sprawled wide, its railings and walls crowded with preserved beasts of every kind. Whole birds perched along the second-story balustrade, glassy eyes catching torch-glare. Familiar trophies—bison, antelope, even an Axebeak—stared back. Had the collection stopped there, Lotem might have dismissed it as mere sport.
Then rarer horrors claimed his gaze—monsters no modern hunter could fell. A wyvern skull, black-horned and gold-scaled, whispered of wars with the Scaled Dominion. Beside it hung an emerald mantis head, mandibles tinted with an eerie azure sheen. He’d never encountered the Brood’s mantis faction, yet he knew this had been one of their warriors. He quickly surveyed the room but it was the only trophy from an intelligent species. Relief flickered—no human visage adorned the wall.
“You can step inside, boy.”
The deep voice rolled down from a landing atop a wooden staircase. A towering Numen waited there, wrapped in a patchwork cloak of many hues. His dark-brown hair was knotted with a bone pin capped by a glinting sapphire. Beneath the cloak, plain black robes outlined heavy muscle rather than hiding it. He stood a full dozen handspans taller than Lotem—larger than any Numen he had met, save perhaps a distant Balar on the Nomads’ March.
“Still at peace with the Brood and Draconic factions?” he asked, following Lotem’s horrified gaze. “Rovan Khal always claimed those treaties would outlive us both—and I keep expecting him to be wrong. Yet every visitor gawks just like you: shocked—or fascinated—by those heads.”
He nodded toward the brilliant red bird whose feathers shimmered in the torchlight. “Mount a phoenix on your wall and it’s still the mantis that steals the show.”
Lotem stepped carefully into the room, the scent of roasting fat welcoming him in with a familiarity that put Lotem at peace. His mother had always insisted that someone cooking a warm meal was someone with peace in their heart—and that at the very least normal folks would respect the laws of hospitality. Lotem wasn’t sure if it was the smell of the food, or the mans greeting, but he found himself at ease as he took in the space around him.
“Never seen a phoenix before—I wouldn’t have guessed its name or significance,” Lotem admitted. Staring at the specimen, he was sure the very air warmed. He blinked and looked away; the heat made him flinch. A booming laugh echoed as the Numen descended the stairs.
“Don’t let the soul if the beasts remnants bask in the attention,” the giant chuckled. “Once it stirs the Sulphen, it takes hours to cool the hall.”
“Soul of the beast?” Lotem echoed, turning aside from the peacock-like bird. The specimen called to him; he forced his eyes back to the Numen. He knew little of such creatures, but whatever influence a long-dead phoenix still exerted was far from normal.
“What do you call it these days?” The Numen ticked off possibilities on his fingers. “Connection to the aether? Breath of the First Flame? God’s Grace? Bio-spiritual residue? Animic density? Old instinct?”
He laughed dryly while Lotem’s eyes widened at each term. Reaching the last step, the giant beckoned him toward an open doorway Lotem guessed led to the kitchen.
“In my time, we called it the spirit’s tether. But even that was just a name layered over ignorance. Every culture creates its own names and mythologies for the magic of the world. Some use religion. Some use science. Some use mysticism. They all grasp for fragments of a truth deeper than they are.”
“We call it the Sulphen,” Lotem answered, prompting a grunt from the man.
“The Soul of the World, in the old tongue then. It never has gone out of style.”
The giant crossed the hall with the same deliberate care Warma had shown when they once coaxed her indoors during a winter storm. That memory steadied Lotem: size did not excuse carelessness and if Warma knew that it was only proper for this giant.
“It’s just a word regardless,” the [Paragon] said. “All of it points to one thing—the force that lets man, beast, or spirit become more than they are. Magic. Must we really slice it thinner?”
Lotem nodded, though he knew Krinka—or Sylva—would bristle at the oversimplification. The irreverence made him grin.
“I’ve never craved that much specificity,” Lotem confessed as the giant stooped through a doorway. He followed—several heads beneath the frame—and only then grasped how tall the Paragon truly was.
The kitchen glowed with firelight. A whole boar turned on a spit, fat dripping into a pot of herbs and vegetables that hissed with each splash. Two smaller spits rotated by unseen mechanism.
“Ever eaten truffleback boar?” the Paragon asked, kneeling—still nearly Lotem’s height—to inspect the browning meat.
“Never,” Lotem said, not even familiar with the variety.
“Our tribe kept a stock of the beasts around to find mushrooms. The [Shamans] were always bitching about a lack of proper mushrooms, not that the boars increased our stock much, not when they ate half of what they found. If they didn’t taste so cursed-good, I might have culled the lot.”
“Some Bal tribes use pigs the same way—more common with the UlaanBal than the ThurBal.”
The [Paragon] looked up from the boar, eyes alight with interest. “UlaanBal and ThurBal? The empire accepted a new batch of immigrants then. Where from?”
Lotem straightened his brows. Krinka had warned him: the older the [Paragon], the further they drifted from the present. Centuries of stasis dulled their connection to the contract and made for longer and longer slumbers. The trophies, the Sulphen question, the ignorance of the Bal—it all confirmed to him that this one was ancient. A thrill ran through him: Krinka’s plan had worked. He cleared his throat, unsure how best to offer a lesson.
“The Bal tribes—a coalition of southern nomads near today’s Maw of Vorithan—joined the empire about five centuries ago.” Lotem saw no need to dredge up the Flower Wars. The Paragon merely nodded, drawing his own conclusions.
“The empire would accept any with the courage to stand against the children of a Beast King,” Thalmeros said before getting a distant look. “The Beast Wars created alliances I never would have foreseen. I am glad to hear the empire accepted southern refugees.”
Lotem employed his favorite rhetorical tactic when he wasn’t sure what to say—remaining silent. Thalmeros continued, his gaze distant.
“I was mobilized against Transalas in the Beast Wars, that was as bad a war as I have ever seen. Reminded me of the Carrion Wars, but worse.” A flash of, was that grief, flashed across the [Paragon’s] face as he stood, meeting Lotem’s gaze. “At least by the time we were dealing with the Ratlings and Bouda the Tul-Tul-Tar was long dead, Transalas, Apalarakan, Gransa—they lead their people with a raw power the Ratlings never could, much as their Horned Lords tried.”
He shook his head as though clearing it in the way Lotem had grown used to as veterans spoke around the campfire about their time across the Diontel. “Enough old history from an old relic. The boar has hours yet to roast, and we should speak of you and your future.”
“Of course.” Lotem followed him through a rear door into bright sunlight. The Numen glided across a sprawling garden. A dark-stone path led down a gentle hill toward a quiet lake. The Paragon left the path and settled in a patch of grass, gesturing Lotem down beside him.
“I am Thalmeros—[Paragon of the Seven-Skinned Lord], Champion of the Black-Antlered God, Chieftain of the Clans of Horn and Havoc. I walked in the footsteps of Titans, and they honored me in their image. Who are you?”
The ritual tone jarred against Thalmeros’s earlier ease. Lotem weighed his answer. The classic three-part boast? Did he even have three worthy claims—without embellishing? Staring over the crystalline lake, he decided boldness was the only path. Krinka had insisted first impressions mattered. Trusting the scholar’s advice, he drew himself tall and spoke with all the authority he could muster, channeling the proud cadence Casselia wore so easily.
“I am Lotem Jarval. [Guardian] of the [Squire of Carven Bone]. Avowed enemy of the Tul. First witness to the return of the Ratlings.”
Thalmeros flinched as though struck, fury igniting in his eyes as they met Lotem’s. For a heartbeat, Lotem feared he had blundered.
“The Ratlings have returned? No… you lie.” His gaze hardened. “A child meets a Ratling inside the Sul Empire? Impossible. I was there for their extinction—I heard the Ebon Herald declare the world cleansed. I fought the Ninth Crusade, boy—the Seventh as well.” His voice thundered, startling birds from the distant reeds. Then it dropped to a low, iron promise. “Do not lie to me.”
“I speak truth. Sylvine granted me a natural-enemy skill against rodents. Since then I’ve fought rats from the warrens beneath Tir Na Nog. I watched the Tempest perform the First Breaking of Ysaril and proclaim the first Revelry of Stone and Bone in Aslavain. I prepare for that event even now.”
Lotem matched Thalmeros’ firm certainty word for word. Perhaps he gilded a detail or two, but he had not lied. As far as he was aware, he had fought the first Ratlings in Aslavain—or Hadrian had at least. He had been present for the Empresses ritual—though not as present as Sylva or Hadrian who had spoken with the Empress. He pressed stray misgivings down and let sincerity carry his words.
Thalmeros studied him so hard Lotem wondered if injury was possible in this…place. At last the giant nodded. “I believe you, boy—though the news bodes ill. The Ratlings’ extinction was a miracle; their return serves no one.”
“Why?” Lotem asked into the quiet that followed Thalmeros’s words. He hurried on, fearing offense. “I don’t doubt you—I just don’t grasp the danger. Krinka says Ratlings’ endless hunger lets them grow strong enough to rival the empire, but…I can’t see it. How could they truly threaten us?”
“Rats—that’s what I thought at first as well.” Thalmeros leaned back, eyes fixed on a lone cloud. “For much of their life cycle they are just oversized rats, no worse than any pack-beast. It took decades to spot the trap. The Tul-Tul-Tar wouldn’t breed failures. When a rat turns sentient, warping into the two-legged form its masters intended, it has already hoarded enough power to matter.”
Thalmeros’s burning gaze nearly made Lotem flinch. It wasn’t a rash anger but the deep, abiding fury Lotem felt toward the Tul. If the empire summoned this Paragon, the gentle cook would vanish, replaced by a weapon. Lotem found he rather liked the contrast.
“The two-legged forms wield magic to horrifying effect—imagine the Tul, but competent at more than brute force. They inherit power, skills, hungers from everything they consume. A lone Ratling is bad; an entire warren in the midst of a ritual is slaughter.” Thalmeros spat aside. “Never enter a warren mid-ritual, Lotem Jarval. Someone you love will die.”
Thalmeros’s loss was plain enough; if Ratlings could fell giants like him, Lotem would keep to high ground when the day came.
“The two-legged bastards aren’t even the worst of it. It’s the Horned Lords—mockeries of our gods. Their spiraling horns inspired the later Beast-King crowns—or so I’ve heard. I’ve seen Horned Lords challenge Dragons—and win. Each wields a different Terror, and none are weak. If you spot a Ratling larger than life, horns spiraling, cloven feet stomping—run. You’re not ready. Not yet. Not for years.”
“Do they… also have a king?” Lotem ventured. Everyone knew a beast that evolved into a Lord sprouted horns; when the crown completed, a new Beast King was born. Surely the Ratlings followed the same rule?
“If they do, we never saw it.” Thalmeros traced an intricate gesture Lotem guessed warded evil—similar to a sign some used when naming the Tul-Tul-Tar. “Horned Lords are bad enough. If Ratlings truly walk again, you must be ready. Now—let us talk of you.”
So they talked. Lotem told of his childhood—parents who taught herd and land, his love for Warma and Wilson, the shadow of a brother he barely remembered. Thalmeros listened, asking only when clarity was needed.
When Lotem spoke of his oath against the Tul, Thalmeros didn’t scoff—he nodded, understanding. He shared stories of comrades erased by Tul appetite and the hollow ache that followed. Lotem had braced for mockery; instead he found camaraderie. His parents had mourned his brother but never grasped the need for vengeance. Thalmeros did.
By the time Lotem finished describing their arrival in Aslavain and the start of the Tir Na Nog trial, Thalmeros looked furious. He calmed only when Lotem reached the entrance of the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] and their escape.
“I have heard of this Crownless of yours. She is a force to be reckoned with. During the Beast Wars, while I was on the southern front, word reached us of her duel with Gransa Suneater—we could scarcely believe it. She turned the tide in the north, and the pressure rippled southward. She may have changed the war’s course. Treasure her counsel, Lotem.”
Lotem realized he wasn’t truly surprised Thalmeros knew Casselia. Sylva had warned how important she was—an Imperial Poem to her name, bold enough to spar words with the Empress. Still, the Paragon knew her but not the Bal—his entire culture. It was an observation that pricked Lotem’s pride—before he forced his mind back to the rest of the Dornogor tale.
“An interesting journey, Lotem Jarval,” Thalmeros said once he was done, rising and rolling his shoulders. He glanced toward the distant house. “Come—our boar should be ready. Then it will be time for our decision.”
