The Blind raise a profound philosophical question about the nature of consciousness and experience. Like the Beast Kin after the second apocalypse or the insectile Brood in the far west, the Blind perceive reality through a lens utterly foreign to us. They have no eyes, yet they see—not colors, but what we must call souls, reading our powers, contracts, and experiences. To us, the Blind appear as short, hairless figures with ivory skin, sharp teeth, and smooth foreheads where eyes should be. But when they look at us, they see our strengths, vulnerabilities, classes, and skills. Could anything in the world be more alien?
– Forward to A Treatise on the Newest Race of the Empire by Thamus Naleg
Aslavain: Nineteen Days after the Summer Solstice
Ulthgavar, seventh of his name, had long since resolved to defy the curse that hung over his birth. To be seventh was to fail. Every child knew six was sacred—why else would they be born with six fingers and six toes? But seven? Seven was an aberration, an overreach, cursed by its ambition, yet lacking the blessings of nine or, for the truly fortunate, twelve. His only true duty as the seventh was to father a child and pass on his name. Eight was neither cursed nor blessed—a far kinder fate than what had been thrust upon him at birth.
Ulthgavar stood amidst the gathered crowd of students and mentors, the air thick with anticipation as they awaited the first necromantic display. Word had spread that one of the [Venerate] had organized the event for a student who had yet to join a triumvirate. Rumor had it she possessed remarkable skill but had yet to find a team worthy of her talents. If Ulthgavar could convince her to partner with him, it would be his first step toward shattering the curse that clung to him. He only needed to find the right moment—and make the right offer.
The crowd unconsciously parted around Ulthgavar, creating a bubble of space in the packed hall. His robes, freshly soaked in the blood pits of his home, exuded the pungent scent of iron, thick and suffocating. The pulsing aura of hunger clung to the robe, whispering at the edge of his senses, urging him to feed it. He knew the others felt it too, their unease evident in the way they kept their distance—and he welcomed the solitude.
Had he been one of the sighted, Ulthgavar would never have seen the stage, lost in the sea of bodies that towered over him. But for one of the Blind, sight was no concern. He perceived the world with an unsettling clarity, his soul sense revealing far more than mere vision ever could. When he faced the students, their souls unfolded before him like pages in a book, each one inscribed with the contracts they had signed during the solstice. It was all laid bare to him—their strengths, their flaws, their hidden potential.
The contracts, with their swirling lines, might look as tangled as string to the sighted, but to him, they unfolded into perfect order. Every new class and skill revealed itself with ease. He pitied the sighted, so sure of their superiority. Could they steal secrets with a mere glance?
The announcer stepped onto the stage, his voice droning on with empty pleasantries and thank-you’s no one cared to hear. Ulthgavar barely listened, pitying the man whose soul revealed only a handful of meager skills. Most of the crowd wasn’t much better—two or three skills at best, with only a handful possessing their first class. At least they had the luxury of anonymity. Bonehold was meant to draw out true talent, particularly with the second convergence of the moons approaching. Ulthgavar hoped the real contenders would soon make their presence known.
The first necromancer took the stage, but Ulthgavar barely needed a second to assess him. His soul was light, thin—empty of the depth required for true power. To Ulthgavar, souls did not glow with ethereal light. They had weight, like physical objects. He imagined lifting two baskets—one heavy with iron, the other light and slippery like fish. The difference was often subtle, but in this necromancer’s case, it was all too clear. He wasn’t worth watching.
Ulthgavar dismissed the conjured skeleton with a flicker of disdain. The bone carvings were crude, their Sulphen channels weak and sloppy. One by one, the next five students took their turns, and none fared better—a skeletal cat, two awkwardly flying birds, a trio of rats moving in sync, and a skeletal warrior whose clumsy swings lacked even the precision Ulthgavar himself possessed. He shook his head. Did they truly believe such feeble efforts would survive a contest in Aslavain? It was laughable.
Ulthgavar’s attention sharpened as the seventh candidate stepped onto the stage. He doubted the Crimson Heart would favor him with such obvious luck, but he believed in the power of numbers. How could he not, after witnessing the [Numerologists] at work back home? The seventh necromancer for the seventh of his name—it was a poetry he couldn’t ignore.
A woman strode confidently onto the stage, and her soul cut through Ulthgavar’s idle thoughts like a sharpened blade. She was a blaze of energy framed by the intricate carvings on the bones that adorned her garb as ornamentation. The patterns, etched with an artisan’s precision, wove stories of power and heritage that whispered to his soul sense, revealing their purpose and enchantments with a clarity no sighted person could fathom. To him, her presence was a blend of raw power and the meticulous craftsmanship that signaled mastery.
He searched deeper and almost danced with excitement. Five skills already? Three were bound to the manipulation of bone, one that steadied her hand for carving, and another that conceptualized complex interlocking enchantments. This is the one, he thought, a predatory grin spreading across his lips.
A hulking figure lumbered behind her, and Ulthgavar’s grin grew sharper, his canines pressing into his lower lip. She had animated a Simian—an entire, four-armed monstrosity. And more than that, she had enhanced it. He could feel the power woven into the bones—strength in the arms, reinforced durability in the chest, speed in the legs. This thing was deadlier than any living Simian could hope to be.
Her introduction barely registered in his mind. Ulthgavar’s entire focus was locked on the swirling energy of her soul, watching intently as her class solidified before his eyes. The contract along her spine twisted and spun, binding itself into place. A legacy class: [Necromancer of the Carvers Blood]. He hadn’t known the Ancient Blood still held such powerful legacies—few humans knew. But to be one of the Carvers Blood was as close to necromantic royalty as one could get, and that came with its own distinct rewards.
When the exhibition concluded, Ulthgavar moved swiftly through the crowd, his senses sharp as he navigated the winding corridors. Rock, metal, and enchanted barriers blurred his soul sense like an eel slipping from his grasp, but Bonehold wasn’t made of stone, and it didn’t take him long to locate the Simian, towering above the crowd, and the woman who commanded it.
As he approached, Ulthgavar called out, “A Simian—a brilliant choice.” The woman turned, her stance shifting subtly, tension evident in the way she held herself.
“A compliment from one of the Blind? Noted,” she said, her tone cool and measured. “Who are you?”
“I’m Ulthgavar, and I intend to join your triumvirate.”
“Are you now?” Her tone was more curious than affronted. “And what makes you think I’d want you in my triumvirate?”
“I can see everything about your enemies’ powers,” Ulthgavar replied, a slight shrug accompanying his words. “I’d say that’s useful. And I can track the Sulphen along the bones of your constructs. We both know how much faster that makes them grow.”
“Should I recruit you just because you’re Blind and can see things others can’t? I can find others with your abilities. What makes you different?”
“I am Ulthgavar, seventh of my name, and I will become one of the [Venerate]—or more. I accept nothing less than greatness, and I believe you’re worthy of that path. If not…” He began to turn away, a smirk playing on his lips. “There are plenty of necromancers among the Dion. Plenty of Ancient Blood to choose from.”
“Ulthgavar, seventh of his name.” Valentine’s gaze sharpened, her voice cool but intrigued. “I am Valentine of the Carvers Blood. You won’t find another like me, but I’ll prove that when we travel together. I accept your offer—but first, your class and your best skill. I don’t partner with those the Sulphen doesn’t favor.”
He had hoped she would ask. This was a concession easily made—one he wanted her to know. “I am a [Soulwatcher], with [Measure Value: Secrets].”
“You,” Valentine’s voice sharpened with interest, “are perfect. Let’s formalize our oaths.”
Charisa squinted at the three bowls of powder laid before her, each a crucial key to unlocking a potent, mind-altering brew. The recipe, won at the Guild of Altered Fates’ first contest, promised Seer’s Sight—a rare glimpse into the Sulphen and, with luck, the coveted [Seer] class. But rare and powerful came with risks, and Charisa had spent hours weighing whether the rewards were worth the dangers that lay ahead.
The first powder gleamed a stark white, the color of distant, snow-capped peaks that reminded her of home. Harvested from the elusive Echo Moth’s pupa, it was said to contain the essence of recollection—able to pull fragments of the past into the present. Charisa had traded three rare reagents from the Flowerlands for just enough to complete the brew. Even now, she kept it tightly sealed, wary of its unpredictable effects. The slightest touch to bare skin could invoke memories not her own, and she wasn’t ready for that yet.
The second powder, a vivid neon green, shimmered unnaturally in the low light. It had been harvested from the rare Dreamweaver Frogs, creatures that matured deep within the Gondaran Marsh, among spiritually attuned flowers. If processed with precision, the powder could offer glimpses of futures yet to come—if Charisa got it right. She’d captured the frog herself only a week ago, enduring the threat of its venomous bite as she carefully extracted the vital fluid. She had three vials of the substance, but after today, she hoped she wouldn’t need more. The Nygmar would pay handsomely for the extras.
The final powder shimmered in a blend of yellow, orange, and red, flickering like the embers of a dying hearth. It had been ground from the skin of a Flickerfire Salamander, though Charisa wasn’t entirely sure of its role in the potion—a binding agent, perhaps? Something to meld the past and future into a coherent vision. Of all her ingredients, this one concerned her the least. Flickerfire Salamanders were common enough to be raised domestically, their skins cheap and readily available. But sometimes, it was the simplest reagents that caused the most unexpected reactions.
Charisa hesitated, her hand hovering over the first bowl. With a deep breath, she added the white powder to the vial of distilled water, stirring with practiced precision—twenty-four times clockwise, three counterclockwise. The liquid swirled, turning a pale, milky white, the perfect balance. She exhaled in relief, pouring the mixture into her cauldron and stirring gently as thin wisps of steam curled upward, dissipating into the air like memories lost to time.
Charisa added the shimmering Flickerfire Salamander skin, her voice steady as she began the incantation. She repeated the words six times, each repetition more certain, more assured. With the final utterance, the potion rippled, its color shifting into a deep sky blue. Charisa felt a jolt of excitement in her chest—only one more step. She could almost taste success.
Charisa triple-checked the recipe, her fingers tracing the carefully written instructions one last time. With painstaking care, she added the first of nine spoonfuls of the neon green Dreamweaver Frog powder and began the final incantation. For nearly an hour, her voice filled the room in a steady rhythm, each word matching the motion of her hand as she stirred. Slowly, the liquid shifted, its surface shimmering with a rainbow opalescence, like oil slicking over dark water.
For a moment, she had feared it would darken into black—an omen of failure—but the colors held. The recipe had warned that only one in three attempts by new alchemists succeeded, and it seemed fortune had favored her. Relief flooded her chest, knowing she’d have enough leftover reagents to sell. That was, of course, if this potion truly worked.
Charisa carefully poured the shimmering liquid into a glass decanter, her eyes caught by the way the swirling colors twisted and danced as the potion cooled. It was hypnotic. She knew the proper protocol—the guild insisted that all brews of this potency, especially those with mind-altering properties, should be administered under supervision. Observation was crucial, they’d said, especially with something like Seer’s Sight. But that idea unsettled her. Letting the guild record her first steps into the realm of prophecy? The thought alone left a bitter taste in her mouth.
With measured precision, Charisa poured a single dose from the decanter, carefully sealing the rest to keep it stable. The leftover potion would fetch a high price—alchemy was an expensive pursuit, and she had expenses to cover. But as she held the shimmering dose in her hands, the swirling rainbow hues reflected back at her, mirroring her uncertainty. Did she truly want the guild involved in this moment? Did she want her first prophetic vision reduced to a set of notes and clinical observations?
She’d heard the stories—how the guild meticulously recorded every word spoken under the influence of Seer’s Sight, dissecting the ravings of those lost in their visions. Was that how she wanted her first experience as a [Seer] to unfold? The Sulphen required a witness to grant the class, yes, but did it have to be a stranger, coldly jotting down her every word? The idea of trusting her fate, her first true glimpse into the Sulphen, to someone with no stake in her future made her stomach churn.
If she was with the tribes, well, that decision would be simple. But the Gondaran Marsh was home mainly to the Sunborn and the Penitent; she was still uncomfortable around both. The burned skin and fervent gazes of the Penitent made her wary. She knew that the crisscrossing burn scars, melted flesh, and intentional deformities were simply considered par for the course in the Province of the Sun. The deformities were, after all, holy to the Penitent and close enough for the Sunborn.
She yearned for the comfort of home to guide her through this moment, to witness. Where were her fellow Bal? She would even settle for some of the Malan with their arrogance and insistence on making everything into a competition. Anything but to rely on the Penitent or the Sunborn and their false god.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sharp knocks jolted Charisa from her thoughts. She slipped the vial into her pocket and moved cautiously to the door. She wasn’t expecting anyone—visitors were rare, even when she invited other candidates to study. When she opened the door, her breath caught—two figures stood outside, and they were far from ordinary visitors.
The first was a Bal woman, her dark, sun-worn skin speaking of years spent under the unforgiving sky. Her hair was braided tightly, like a crown atop her head, and though her leathers were caked in dust, Charisa could see the quality beneath the grime. This woman was ThurBal—no question. And not a candidate, either. Her age and presence suggested something far more significant.
Behind her stood a younger man, shifting uneasily on his feet. His pale, freckled skin and light hair stood in contrast to the woman, but his leathers bore similar markings—the distinct insignia of the Tulunganar. A candidate, surely. Charisa’s pulse quickened as realization struck. The [Venerate]? Here? And for me?
“Hello?” Charisa asked, her voice uncertain, her gaze flicking between the two figures, hoping she had guessed correctly.
“Charisa of the PetaAltan?” the woman asked, a warm smile spreading across her sun-worn face.
“I am,” Charisa replied, though a hint of uncertainty crept into her voice. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Who are you?”
“I am Shansa Six-Step, and this is my mentee, Kirian.” Her smile widened. “Word has it you’re one of the more promising Bal candidates in the area. We thought you might be interested in joining a Triumvirate.”
Charisa froze. They came for me? How did they know? The timing couldn’t be a coincidence. Her mind raced. Shansa Six-Step… The name hit her like a bolt of lightning. A [Venerate]—a Courier, no less. The realization settled in, heavy as stone. She stood face to face with one of the most influential Bal figures in the Empire, this region certainly at least.
After a moment’s hesitation, Charisa stepped aside. “Shansa Six-Step, Kirian, you’re welcome in my abode.” She forced a smile. “Apologies for the lingering smells—I’ve just finished brewing, and the fumes tend to hang around.” She gestured for them to enter, silently cursing the sparse state of her space, even if it was temporary.
The two stepped into her cramped, single-room hut. Charisa quickly grabbed a stool from her cluttered research desk for Kirian and a chair from her alchemy station for Shansa. She remained standing, unsure of the proper protocol when dealing with a [Venerate]—and because, truthfully, there weren’t enough chairs to go around.
“You’ve finished the Seer’s Sight potion, then?” Shansa asked casually, her eyes scanning the room. Charisa’s heart skipped a beat. How does she know that?
“I have,” Charisa answered slowly, her eyes narrowing. “I was just deciding… how best to take it.”
“I’d be happy to observe,” Shansa offered, her smile never fading. “Kirian too. Two sets of eyes should satisfy the Sulphen.”
“Oh, there’s really no need,” Charisa said quickly, her voice rising just slightly. She wasn’t sure she trusted these strangers—not with the potential ramblings that might spill from her lips, or worse, with her safety if things went wrong. “I wouldn’t want to trouble a [Venerate] with something so… minor.”
“Come now, Charisa,” Shansa said, her warm smile unchanged. “We both know the Seer’s Sight potion is safe. A few prophetic ramblings—nothing more. And besides, we’re all Bal here.”
Prophetic ramblings were precisely what Charisa didn’t want to share. But how could she say that to a [Venerate], especially one who hadn’t sworn an oath to her? She trusted the Bal more than others, but her parents had always warned her—never take unnecessary risks around the powerful. Power always came with a price, and it was never clear who would end up paying.
“Why are you really here?” Charisa asked, her voice low and laced with reluctance.
“The Balar ordered it,” Shansa replied smoothly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Kirian flinched, his head snapping toward his mentor.
“The Balar?” Kirian echoed, his tone sharp, eyes wide.
“Yes, Kirian,” Shansa said, unruffled. “The Balar has tasked me with forming a Triumvirate, and both your names were on the list. I chose you. You both have potential, and I intend to see it fully realized.”
Shansa turned her attention back to Charisa, her smile widening ever so slightly. “As a Courier, I’ve traveled the breadth of the empire, delivering to the most remote and treacherous places. A seer who could predict the dangers ahead would be invaluable. And you, Charisa, are closer than anyone in the City of a Thousand Flowers to gaining that sight. I also have access to alchemical reagents most could only dream of. Join our Triumvirate, and I can ensure you receive what you need to reach your full potential—in Aslavain, and far beyond. With even half the ambition I’ve heard about, this decision should be an easy one.”
When Shansa laid it out like that, it sounded almost too simple. But Charisa’s ambitions flared, and despite her lingering unease, the words left her lips before she could second-guess them. “I accept.”
“Good.” Shansa’s smile never wavered. “Sit on the bed, take the Seer’s Sight potion, and when you’ve glimpsed the Sulphen, we’ll discuss the upcoming contest in Dornogor.”
Dornogor. The City of Beasts. Charisa’s thoughts drifted absently as she considered it—rare ingredients, exotic creatures. She wasn’t opposed to going. Her gaze shifted to the vial in her hand. Taking a steadying breath, she uncorked it and downed the Seer’s Sight in one swift gulp. The bitter, acrid taste hit immediately, the mix of ground scales, moths, and powdered frog sweat more repulsive than she’d imagined. She choked, coughing, but any discomfort was short-lived as the effects surged through her. Blood pounded in her ears, and the world around her dissolved, collapsing into a sea of swirling, oily rainbows.
[Class Obtained: Omen-Witch]
[Skill Obtained: Basic Interpretation of Omens]
[Skill Obtained: Precise Measurement]
Creation: Twenty Days after the Summer Solstice
Twenty-one long years had passed since Dulvar of Essal first left Aslavain, a fresh recruit patrolling the windswept southern Grass Belt with the Imperial Rangers. Nine years since his Triumvirate—he, Poluma, and Charant—had dared to venture beyond the empire’s borders, into the wilds of the Beastlands, chasing the forgotten echoes of an abandoned Domicile. And three years since they had emerged from the ruins of the Domicile of Twin Moons, crowned as heroes in the Sul Empire—though Dulvar knew better than most the darkness those ruins concealed.
Every child of the Sul Empire grew up learning the difference between a shrine and an Eternal Domicile. Shrines were fleeting—a demesne that shaped the land, bound to its chosen affinity, a fragile bridge to Aslavain. When a shrine fell, its power bled back into the earth, its influence fading into legend. But an Eternal Domicile? That was something altogether different—everlasting, a realm within a realm, where the land itself pulsed with magic.
When a shrine achieved this transformation, it formed an inner world, its demesne expanding, rooted deep in the Sulphen of its region. Magic thrived there, but so did history, monsters, and dangers that lingered long after their creators had faded. As long as the population remained strong, the Domicile’s effects were a boon. Saralainn, the City of Growth, could feed the empire on its own with crops that bloomed at unnatural speeds, yet it was far from the most powerful of the eight active Domiciles within the Sul Empire.
The City of Twin Moons had once stood proud, its Domicile shining bright long before the Blood Wars reduced it to a haunted ruin. Even after nearly six years spent within its broken halls, Dulvar couldn’t shake the sense of lost grandeur—of something beautiful, now twisted. Whatever the city had once been, the Blood Wars had left it a shell of itself, its former glory buried beneath layers of shadow.
An ancient Eidolon, half-forgotten and worn by the ages, had whispered to Dulvar in the depths of the Domicile. It spoke of lost utopias, civilizations crafted for the three dominant peoples—Humans, Drakes, and Aranea—children of Titans, Dragons, and Weavers. But behind its words was a thinly veiled contempt for the lesser beings of the world. Dulvar had never forgotten the unease that crawled beneath his skin during that encounter, a reminder that power had always come at the expense of others.
The Silkborn had been no more than tools—mindless golems shaped to serve. The Numen, hunted like beasts or enslaved. Goblins and Orcs hunted like monsters. Even the Gnolls and Centaurs, once proud, had been corralled like cattle in the southern plains. Dulvar had been grateful, then, that the civilization the Eidolon spoke of was long dead. Whatever the Sul Empire’s flaws—primarily the Dion—it at least granted dignity to the races that remained. But even that thought unsettled him. Civilizations rose and fell, and power rarely came without a price.
Dulvar didn’t have much patience when it came to the question of sentience. The Simians? Monsters, plain and simple. The Brood? He could accept the Weavers and Monarchs as people, perhaps even the Aranea, if forced to. But the rest of the sentient insects? That was a step too far. Some lines, Dulvar believed, weren’t meant to be crossed, no matter how blurred the definition of ‘people’ had become over the centuries.
The eastern borders troubled Dulvar. The Brood still laid claim to the forests west and south of the Spine, the towering range that carved through the heart of the Fologian Forest. Not that the Brood ever recognized such divisions. Before their hives fractured during the Beast Wars, they had considered the entire forest their sovereign domain. Even now, the oldest and most conservative hives clung to the belief that the Bridgelands, Foglands, and Silklands belonged to them by right.
Dulvar had long believed it was time for those outdated beliefs to be swept aside. The Sul Empire’s future lay in expanding westward, and if the Kiel were to finally surpass the Dion, the Brood would need to find new lands to occupy. Sentimentality wasn’t in their nature, after all. Dulvar was certain the Sul could make far better use of the Fologian Forest than any insect could.
A grin tugged at Dulvar’s lips as he gazed out over the vast, unbroken expanse of the Fologian Forest from his watchpost. The mighty folog trees wept endless streams of white fog, their ghostly tendrils drifting down to the forest floor far below. After twenty-one long years, he was finally on the cusp of completing the task that had haunted him since leaving his village. His family, his community, had placed their hopes on him. Now, the moment was almost here.
Memories stirred—pulsing emerald, crimson, and sapphire flames, flickering on a suspended platform lit by the Luminaries. The cool fog on his skin, the rhythmic pounding of drums, the mournful wail of flutes. It all felt as real as it had that night. Dulvar had sworn, under those lights, that he would return when he was strong enough, that he would make Essal a shrined city, and be the first to expand the Sul Empire’s borders in centuries. Now, he stood on the edge of that dream. So close.
Dulvar’s eyes narrowed as something stirred in the fog—just a flicker of movement, but enough to draw his attention. A slinkai, its translucent body almost invisible, floated lazily in the distance, its tentacles hanging like ghostly threads. Its single eye, a swirling orb of gray, blended seamlessly with the mist that bled from the Fologian trees. Without a sound, Dulvar drew his bow, Moonfall, and tracked the creature as it drifted closer.
With a whispered command, Moonfall’s bowstring materialized—a shimmering strand of moon-aspected spider silk. Dulvar drew it back, the motion smooth and practiced, his breath steady as he released. The arrow, a shaft of pure moonlight, shot forward, striking the slinkai. For a heartbeat, the creature hung frozen in the air, its form bathed in pale light before it dissolved into steam, illuminating the surrounding fog in a ghostly glow.
Dulvar dismissed the bowstring, stowing Moonfall carefully in its case as he glanced up through a break in the canopy. The twin moons hung high above, their cold light spilling through the fog. He wondered if the bowyer who had crafted Moonfall had once gazed up at these same moons, seeking their silent guidance. What was the passage of millennia to those celestial orbs, after all? Time seemed meaningless to them.
“Hunting poor Slinkai, are we?” A teasing voice shattered the silence. “Surely the great Dulvar, the Dirge of Demons, has more pressing matters.”
Dulvar turned, feeling the familiar tug of irritation, even though it was only Poluma. He’d told her and Charant time and again that they didn’t need to follow him back home—this was his duty, his burden to bear. But they’d only laughed, insisting that after two decades, his quest had become theirs as well.
“Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft on the teeth-snatchers.”
“Not the Slinkai, but poor Moonfall. Wasting its gifts on forest vermin seems beneath it, don’t you think?”
“Moonfall’s more than up to the task. We’re forging a moon-aspected demesne, remember? Once it’s complete, Moonfall will guard Essal for the next millennium, whether against vermin or worse.”
“Charant’s close to forming the foundation, but without a shift in the empire’s balance—unless one of the shrines falls—it could still take years for Essal to gain the moon affinity needed to pierce through the empire’s interference.”
“Any word from the East?” Dulvar’s voice dropped, his gaze hardening. “If the Tul crossed the Diontel and a shrine fell…” He didn’t need to finish. Poluma understood the odds. The empire’s border along the Diontel River was fortified with three Eternal Cities—Ylfenhold, Calcara, and Sabahar—along with four shrined cities and the imposing Colored Forts. For the Tul to breach such defenses, the legions would need to suffer a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions.
“No, nothing major from the Tul. The eastern Malan factions and the Dion keep pushing for more funds to counter vague threats, as usual.”
“When don’t they?” Dulvar snorted. “That gold would be better spent pushing back the Brood or guarding against the southern barbarians. But no—the Tul are one of the ‘Banes of Civilization,’ so naturally, they hog the empire’s attention.”
“We fought Bloodmarked in the Domicile, Dulvar,” Poluma reminded him, her tone turning serious. “Don’t dismiss the Banes as fairy tales meant to scare children.”
“Aye, the Bloodmarked are real enough,” Dulvar conceded with a grim nod. “But the Tul? They’re not half as cunning or a third as deadly as the blood drinkers. So they devour memory—what of it? Dead is dead, whether or not you remember it.”
“If no disaster strikes elsewhere, Charant thinks our preparations will start drawing the Brood’s attention within six months—maybe sooner. We’ll be fighting off Mantis skirmishes, maybe even the Aranea of the Brood, within the year. And the West Warden won’t waste time kicking up a fuss once that starts.”
“Then we’d best hope the empire faces some disaster—because if not, what’s coming for us might be far worse.”
Poluma settled against the gnarled tree, her eyes drifting over the fog-choked forest. “It feels strange,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Coming back here after all these years. I almost forgot the smell of the Foglands.”
Dulvar chuckled softly. “Damp and decay? Who could ever forget that?”
Poluma’s smile barely touched her lips. “Maybe. But there’s something different now. It feels like the Foglands have been waiting… for something. Maybe for us. Maybe for the shrine.”