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“Speak,” he directed his subordinate.

“The king, sir… His Majesty…” the knight looked at the king.

Most of them had jumped at the opportunity to guard the man who would be king of all Vasquer. Beyond the personal glory and prestige of the post, they all personally had a great measure of respect for Argrave and his deeds. Their unit had a tight cohesion because of this shared respect. And yet, of late…

“How did things come to this?” the knight asked. “I mean… how did His Majesty know of this place? How did His Majesty know what would be within?”

Galamon turned around and stepped towards the knight. “That’s like asking your gods what came before or after life. For your sanity… don’t ask.” The elf turned his head towards Argrave. “I’ve been travelling with His Majesty for a long while—nearing a year after a little while longer. He is seldom wrong about what he knows. But how he knows it… that is a question you must content yourself with leaving unanswered, unless he deems it something worth sharing.”

The knight stared blankly, his commander’s answer only leaving him more confused.

“Right!” Argrave clapped, the sound and his voice echoing against the tunnel. “This tunnel is going to be sealed off for the time being to avoid any… unnecessary accidents. It’s a nice grave, but I don’t want to be buried here… so, let’s go. Galamon, you can inspect the garrison and whatnot, and then we’ll be on our way.”

Their knight-commander turned and dipped his head. “At once.”

#####

A large and burly tattooed man struggled with the cork on the wine bottle. His thick arms and brawny shoulders made the bottle in his hand look small. He unsuccessfully used his knife to attempt and pry the cork free, succeeding only in cutting away some of the brown matter. He sighed, a low growl behind it, then pinched the neck of the bottle between two fingers until it broke off quietly. He poured the wine into a nearby glass, then stepped out to the balcony where he sat at a chair.

“Duke Rovostar,” a voice rang from the room behind just as he raised the glass to his lips.

Rovostar turned his head. The duke was a bald man and had a formidable size to him. Scars lined his face, some from burns while most from wicked cuts. He looked more a strongman or a thug than a duke, and his jutting brows cast a harsh shadow over his black eyes that made him seem further ignoble.

“The bastard has manned that gargantuan fortress he’d been constructing,” the new arrival said. “Reports from local fortifications suggest their force is a thousand strong. Positionally, it’s a nightmare. If they march in force, we cannot hold many places for long at all.”

Rovostar downed all of the wine in one go, then set the glass down, twisting it about with his hand. “Weak stuff,” he muttered, then focused on this new arrival. “Your information is appreciated.”

The person stepped out onto the balcony. He was a middle-aged man whose elaborate facial hair only gave him dignity because of the rich clothes he wore. “I think it’s best I speak frankly.”

“Go ahead, count,” Rovostar said with mock enthusiasm as he looked off into the distance.

“King Felipe is captured. Despite this, you firmly herald him. Is this best for the kingdom?” he insisted carefully.

“Is fighting for the king… best for the kingdom. What an insightful question,” Rovostar laughed and poured some more wine into his glass.

The count looked somewhat taken aback. “I didn’t mean…” the man sighed, running his hand across his moustache. He decided to change his approach. “The situation is hopeless for us. Outnumbered both in terms of sword and spells, assailed from two fronts—not to mention, with Dirracha lost to us… there are other ways to end wars than by the blade. And from our position, they seem rather appealing.”

“My king is not dead. He won’t be anytime soon. The situation is fine,” Rovostar shook his head.

The count could not help but stare mouth agape. “If the roots are pulled from the earth, the tree will wither!” the count insisted. “How can you be so unfailingly faithful to a dying tree?”

“King Felipe…” Rovostar took another long drink. “He is a little more than most men.”

The count looked perplexed.

“You’re alone in your doubts, Count Agnil,” Rovostar declared. “These lands, the fertile fields of central Vasquer… at one time, they were all crown lands, managed by crown administrators—our king’s lands, in essence. His Majesty gave them to us. And he gave them to us because we did as we were bid, and because we were talented enough to do more. Myself and all the men beneath—we are King Felipe’s men.

“I was a war orphan in the far northern kingdoms in that region of Atrus that existed before Felipe’s conquests. I scavenged the battlefields for years, collecting and selling weapons and armor for paltry scraps of food. But then… King Felipe came, putting the land and its overlords to the sword. I saw it plainly—those that submitted were treated well, and those that resisted died most brutally. Hanged, drawn, and quartered.” Rovostar let out light laughs through his nose as though he was recalling something. “I decided I’d rather do that from now on than watch it happen again.”

“Just that? But… he is beaten, duke. The king has been torn from his seat by his son. And despite his meager force, we cannot take Dirracha.”

“Nor will I try again,” Rovostar shook his head. “You don’t seem to understand, Agnil. The reason why you stand here, gritting your teeth at me yet unable to say what you really want to, is because of His Majesty. The men around you—tanners, butchers, farmhands. We were all lowly, yet he evaluated us by talent alone, raised us to take our place by his side. He put me through the Order of the Gray Owl with his own funds, named me Duke of Whitefields.”

Rovostar rose to his feet. “When we marched into the valley of Quadreign, His Majesty was the first to set his foot upon the warpath. He engaged whoever came side-by-side with his soldiers. Whenever that man made a promise, he delivered it shortly after: soldier’s pay, rewards, land, or titles, it mattered not. He’s earned our loyalty, our trust. So long as we obeyed, we were always given what we wanted. The nobility of your blood mattered none; all were beneath Vasquer.”

Rovostar stepped up to the count until he towered over him. “Things are very simple: if you do as His Majesty wishes, you are rewarded. If you fail to do so… your punishment will be far crueler than you can ever imagine. Time and time I saw it happen—the king on the verge of defeat, the guillotine hanging over his head. He’s been poisoned, buried beneath a mountain, and hurled into the North Sea wearing plate armor, yet still he lives. Call him a cockroach if you will, but he’s a gilded one,” Rovostar said amusedly. “And yet you ask why I remain faithful? Because something can happen only so many times before it becomes a predictable outcome.”

“I’ll say it plainly, Count Agnil—things are fine,” the duke prodded the count with one thick, meaty finger. “The north will not soon forget the message taught in His Majesty’s conquests. That promising new herald of the crown is there, completing His Majesty’s project for Atrus. As for the south… I have designs of my own. The Margrave lives on borrowed time.”

#####

The shadowy Traugott stood before the gray-green stone disc that held dark secrets. He held a bottle in one hand—it had been the bottle that Master Castro had brought to this meeting chamber. The dragon blood within activated this disc and convinced all of the Magisters of the existence of Gerechtigkeit. The Tower Master needed their unity for the battle ahead.

Traugott tipped the bottle onto his finger to get some liquid, then put the dragon blood in the center of the disc. The eye became animate once again. Traugott stared at it with his dark eyes, his shadow dancing behind him like a twisted tail of some sort that betrayed his anticipation. The eye locked onto him, and he convulsed. His shadow became frantic and inhuman, morphing into twisted spikes and unnatural shapes. Then… it solidified once more, a patch of darkness across the ground.

The Magister stared up at the gray-green disc, then closed his eyes. His breathing was irregular. After a time, he opened his eyes once more. He tipped the bottle onto the palm of his hand, and the black blood came dripping out noiselessly, creating a puddle of inky liquid on the man’s hand that stained his already dark skin.

Then, he held the bottle upright, staring at the puddle of black liquid. Traugott knelt ever so slowly, setting the bottle upon that ground as he watched to ensure that none of the delicately balanced liquid spilled. His shadow wrapped around the bottle, shrouding it, and then it disappeared.

Magister Traugott straightened his knees, then took a deep breath and slapped his hand against the disc. It splattered against it. He rubbed his hand onto the disc, spreading out the liquid. Slowly, ever so slowly, the black blood seeped into the surface of the stone. It consumed the eye, and they beyond into the eyelid. The abominations depicted received some of the blood.

The eye came to life once again… yet to call it only an eye, now, was insufficient. It was but the eye of a giant body peering into this world. And this body… its eye moved about the room, seeking. Then, it met gazes with the awaiting Traugott.

The Magister spasmed soundlessly and then crashed onto the ground, his inky, long hair splaying out across the floor. His black eyes shifted and twisted until they were the same gray green as the disc before him. He clutched at his eyes, fingers not daring to gouge them out. Even still, his nails dug into his cheeks.

Then whatever force that seized him had gone, and Traugott collapsed against the ground. His breathing heavy, he slowly rose up, supporting himself with his elbow. The silence of the room was disturbed only by his breathing. The disc had gone silent once again, whatever message it intended to convey gone.

“Hah…” Traugott laughed slightly. “There is something… beyond the curtain.”

Sound disturbed the room that was not his own. Traugott looked up towards the central elevator. In less than half a second, his shadow mirrored his own shape. The Magister tilted his body back into it. He fell through his shadow as though he’d just fallen off a cliff. Then, the darkness crystallized, shattering into air. Not a single hint remained of the Magister.

Master Castro stepped off the elevator and into the council room. He looked around intensely and saw nothing. A few others entered behind him.

“Get that, bring it to my room, please,” Castro commanded. “I’ll need… hah,” the Tower Master sighed.

Castro stepped around as his men got to work in wrapping up the stone disc. He spotted something on the table, then stepped up to it. It was a bottle with a dropper atop it. He picked it up. He expected it to be fuller, heavier—he used undue force and it flew up quickly.

“Someone’s…” Castro started but trailed off. He furrowed his old bushy brows, looking towards the disc. He reached into his pocket to retrieve Argrave’s booklet, then flipped to a bookmarked page. He read all that was written about the disc.

Isn’t harmful… just a means of conveying information, Castro read in his head. He looked around the room, looking for any incongruities, anything or anyone out of place.

“Tower Master?” the movers hauling the disc asked. “Should we go without you?”

Castro bit his lip, then shook his head. “No, I’ll lead the way.”

He watched the disc as his movers carried it across the room. Shaking his head, he stashed away the booklet and followed.