-2135 Military Hours
Ship of The Line Minen'Thra
The stars shone brightly, eternal flames burning amidst the cosmic heavens. They yawed ever slowly amidst turbulent waves as a lone priestess kneels by the ship's bow, her eyes closed in deep meditation. She held both hands together—her left engulfing the right, an ancient pose almost unchanged since the dawn of her people.
In the silence of night, her spirit traveled towards distant shores. The holy woman searches amidst the vagueness of tall mountains and smothered fires, of strange stone temples forged in squares and certainty, and through the bitter resentment of a meagre victory.
She searches through the haze, and fails to find that lingering spirit given form and memory. With each call, only silence answers. The tides end here, and so she returns, journeying across a dazzle of false wind and light until the aches of her body is imposed again.
Candles flickered within brass holders, casting her still form in gentle light. Her black robes flutter once more as the ancient tongue of her mainland ancestors rolls past her lips, voice parting as a mere whisper.
"Ishun lun'anth av vier, sens vellum av minth." The sermon flows gracefully, and again she feels the solemn weight of these archaic words. A hope for justice and vengeance, now rooted into that of a prophecy now realized.
Finally she opens her eyes, lips parting with a conclusion. "So, they know of our deceit," the Priestess murmurs, her verdant gaze lingering on the stars, they twinkle back in delightful ignorance—as they always have since the first night.
The salted air hung with each breath, but she pays no heed to it. She stands, legs trembling but holding firm on deck. The candles surrounding her all burn with a hollow glow, empty like her endeavors to commune with the spirit forged from that long dead human. His sacrifice, born of forbidden rituals and thirst for insight, held little sway over her heart.
She remembers his defiant screams—so bold and certain at first, only to ebb away with each strike of a hammer. Only whimpers remained as the acolytes sunk the remaining nails into his skull—his breaths fleeting and voice long vanished. This is the price to pay for clarity into the world her ancestors left behind.
That ghostly twin has served well. It has been three days since it last ferried its tidings, but what it revealed still fascinated the young priestess. Like the nights before, she muses over its many insights as she waited, leaning on the warship's front gunnel.
It was a friend, and so she mourns its demise with all her heart. Much of her days were spent in companionship with the spirit. He was a beacon of delight in an otherwise boring voyage. Now her only worth lies in map scribing, a skill she possesses that others in her church lacked. But until land is sighted, she could not truly embrace the role.
Her hands slowly trail across the coarse wood, feeling its roughness beneath her fingers. She imagines the little bumps as mountains and draws them with her mind, their size and height immaculate as her skills would often provide. The Minen'Thra sways as she pulls her gaze down over the horizon—to the north, so the fleet and ocean's subtle curve lay in her sights.
The larger caravels are most prominent, and are proud mantles of hope in oceans dark and foreign. Their square sails stand tall and mighty, while their hulls bristle ferociously with cannons, ballistae, and more.
Undoubtedly, any who would set eyes upon those imposing vessels would do so with fear. Even the Euralians must respect this power.
As her gaze wanders from warship to warship, footsteps patter behind. Slow, and heavy. She sighs, already prepared to heed the needless tirade that is sure to come from the Minen'Thra's Shipmaster.
"What have your sessions unveiled this time," the Shipmaster's voice holds a commending edge as he nears.
She keeps her gaze forward, voice firm. "Only that the spirit is no more. All that I'm privy to, I have shared. Unless, you desire another recount of the accursed Euralians and their sins through the eyes of that dear spirit."
Silence briefly holds, but it is soon swept aside with a melancholic sigh. "Many still think the people of Eru are no better than bloodthirsty miscreants, even now. I had hoped their fervor would die with time's regress."
She frowns as detestable images fill her mind. Strong hands intrude on her shoulders, dispelling her pity. "Repulsive as their deeds are now, it is still better than when they were an empire. That statement still holds depth, brother."
The Shipmaster emits a chuckle, speaking to her not as an underling, but a beloved sibling. "A change half realized, is no change at all. Still, the fleet is ready to reclaim the lost cities. If they dare trek further south, the soldiers stand ready to meet them."
"For my sake I hope they find their battles," the priestess shakes her head. Sailors and warriors alike kept their distance, but a few simpletons were always daring enough to court her.
Such instances are sadly common, and always made her weary of venturing through crowds on the berthing and cargo decks.
"If they step out of tune, I will leave them to the ocean's mercy. To the underworld with the consequences," her brother declares, voice sharp as his words. She could tell that is a promise.
"Perfect," the woman turns around to offer a meek smile, "but they would not dare with you as Shipmaster."
"Of course they won't," he returns a grin as he glances at the broad sails of his ship. "The winds favour us, and should it continue to do so, you need only to suffer their insolence for two more fortnights."
"Two fortnights too many," she waves off his hands and leans away, obsidian cowl shrouding all but a huff. "Life at sea is not made for me. The waves have been restless as of late..."
He laughs and they soon delve into topics meagre and light, a simple happiness filling their hearts as the stars drift to their eternal wheel. This was a small solace for both in a venture that may be the most pivotal moment in all of post-fall Elven history.
"Shipmaster," a voice yells from high above the main mast, "Emberbeaks from the advance flotilla. Message from Scoutseeker Yora of the Corin'Tha."
"About time her damned raptors arrived," he murmurs and turns around, but spares her a parting glance. "Please, excuse me."
As she watches her brother pulled away by the tides of duty, a twinge of longing tugs at her heart. Their talk was one that may have lasted till dawn had it not been for those creatures. Resolving to shed her annoyance, she traces her steps through the heart of the ship. The wooden planks creak beneath her feet—something at least to muffle her ire.
She disregards the sailors going about their tasks, their weary expressions drifting by without offering whistles or lecherous glances. Only with those on nightshift can she expect such deference.
Once within the safe confines of her quarters, the Priestess shuts the door and sheds her cloak and veil. Her room—luxurious even compared to those of the officers' dwellings, did little to stem the surge of yearning she had of home.
The endearing flag of her birth island is pinned at the front of her bed—a bright sigil in the shape of a diamond against a black background, discernable only through the barest of light. Memoirs of a home now hundreds of nautical leagues away.
The moon's snowy gaze filters through a lone window, ever cold and distant. Bathed in celestial eminence, the sheets shimmered with a gentle glow, beckoning her to find comfort in their embrace. The moon's touch envelops her as she settles into bed, cradling her in a sanctuary of light amidst the darkness of her room.
She retrieves a worn journal from the desk and sinks back into the pristine comfort of furs and pillows. A pencil drops between the pages and she plucks it from the modest valley of her chest. Words flow into paper, neatly capturing her musings and what little findings she had on this day.
On the last page, her imparted thoughts are muddled and untidy. The gentle rocking of the ship slowly lulls her into a trance, and so she relents, her lids growing heavy and pencil cast aside.
'Twenty seven more nights,' her mind adds as sleep takes root.
======
-Eight days later
Euralian Fortress City, Drossal
"By the grace of our ancestors, and the light of our enduring civilization, let it be known that her Esteemed Majesty Queen Ayleth Ver'Nohria the seventh approaches," the audacious voice of a herald proclaims with two loud clanks of his scepter.
"Kneel!" The presiding Lord of the City decrees, and so I bend the knee—as did the others. We knelt in the hallowed gardens of the palace, our heads never to rise even in awe of her presence.
We offer only silence, but the women of the court sung their hymns. Their voices are honed, and so beautiful. Theirs is a clarion chime to remedy even the most troubled of minds. To me, they are if crystals were to be forged as sound.
For all their grandeur however, the voices are soft. They never sought to smother the garden with their allure, merely to ward off silence. They still thread in the shadow of her esteemed Majesty as she walks.
The steps are like clockwork, in tune with a rhythm set by the Queen herself. Each thud, an ardent spell to invoke an air of eminence pure as starlight. The Queen's regal presence sows humility, but also fear.
Her esteemed Majesty is here for a reason, and her presence belies the innocence of a simple visit to a war-stricken city of the Euralian fringe east. In due time, I would surely be put me under her ire. Fate has already woven that thread through my dealings with the human-folk.
She treads the marble path, and her shoes briefly linger in my vision—purple heels etched with gems. Of course, even the feet are not spared from such royal decorum.
The thuds continue, trailing away as time lingers. As the silence returns, I seize this moment to bask in the newfound serenity. Echoes of pain and worry crept through the peace, always there in the shadows. Even in the light, they haunt me still.
The herald taps his scepter twice against the floor, pulling me away from the dark muse. "Her esteemed Majesty Queen Ayleth Ver'Nohria the seventh has extended her greetings and wishes to retire to her chambers. Rise!"
As the Herald's voice resonates through the hallowed gardens, commending all to rise, I follow suit. The prolonged kneeling has left my neck and joints aching. Armor and weapons clanked as we all rise in unison, the growing murmurs seeking to fill the air with incessant prattles as the singers relinquish their hymns now that the Queen has departed.
Finally, the farce is over.
Once the courtiers and Lord Captains depart, so did I. Much of the fortress city has since returned to normalcy. The abundance of warriors have become a part of life in the fringe east.
For now, while there is still time, I will at least indulge in the city's public archives. There is so much still to discover within its seemingly boundless records—knowledge kept from ignorant eyes, but simply open to those who seek them. The collective wisdom of cultures past and present converged within those halls, its books and tomes written in a myriad of languages. Nul'Fiethka scripture is most prominent, but there are others. Yelfira, Shun'Shaya, and many more.
Perhaps within the trove of languages, there is a mention—a vague reference to an elusive portal amongst the legends of these diverse cultures. It may have happened in the past.
Just as the palace gates open and my thirst for wisdom reaches a fervent peak, a guard hastily steps through the tide of soldiers, his gaze centered on me.
I return his regards with arms folded, annoyance mingling with impatience. What business might a guard have with someone of my stature?
"Inora. Highlander of the 21st Royal Cohort," he proclaims, steps imbued with a purpose.
The guard stops and I linger briefly on the emblem on his chest, compelled by its familiar weave of green and white in the shape of a half moon. A grin forms and I unfold both arms, shedding all hints of suspicion.
"A fellow Naviri," I point to his emblem, and he nods.
"Born yes," the guard smiles and shrugs, "though my home now is here. But that is not why I stopped you."
"To what I owe the honour then?"
"Lord General Thellius has requested your presence at once. He will be found in the warring chambers on the west wing, its balcony overlooks the very garden you knelt in during her Majesty's arrival."
"Thank you, off I go then. May the old gods Yul and Rye kindle your flame." I bid him farewell, raising my left hand, fingertips gently touching the forehead.
"And may they, kindle yours," the guard gestures in kind, but with his right—as is customary for Naviri men and shows his roots are still cemented with our culture and beliefs, even as he threads upon new shores.
I part ways with the guard and went on to heed the summon. It did not take a scholar to discern the Lord General's hidden intent. Perhaps with the Queen's untimely arrival, he wishes to set us off at once... though I could be mistaken. The intricate web of royal politics leaves that assumption fickle at best.
Through twisting corridors and marching palace guards, the familiar stairwell lies before me. Its marble steps, worn with age and use, coiled their way up like a great serpent of stone, ascending to the upper reaches of the west wing.
Ancient murals adorned its walls, now a common sight with my dealings with the Lord General. Still, the artistic depictions of Nul'man soldiers beside gears and pistons would always draw forth fascination. The masterful strokes echoed of a time steeped in mystery, a brief mirage into a world now lost forever.
Retainers flowed by like clockwork, hurrying to their stations as I reach the second floor. Past a few turns, the warring chambers stood ahead, its great doors flanked by members of the Aegis Cohorts.
The armoured Knights stamp their poleaxes as I approach, craning their heads to deliver silent gazes. All but one would continue their oaths to silence. "State your business or be on your way," the bellowing voice of a knight decrees as two poleaxes form a cross over the doors.
I take a deep breath to stifle any doubt. "Inora Ver'Riyah of the 21st Royal Cohort. I am summoned by order of the esteemed Lord General Thellius. By his demand, I hereby request entry to these chambers."
"Let us not keep him waiting then," the knight flicks his wrist, signaling the others to relent. The twin poleaxes part from the doors, as did their wielders. One of the knights turn around, hefting a large lever with a grunt. The floor trembles beneath, resonating with the power of ancient mechanisms.
The gears at the hinges turn with deep clinks and clanks, their metal teeth whispering the intricate secrets of Nul'man-style craftwork as they toiled continuously to open the colossal doors. Shards of light glimmer from the warring chambers, as if the very essence of time itself sought to capture this moment.
Once the doors are wide enough, I step through the still parting doors and into the chamber. Gilded banners hung from the ceiling, bearing standards of the different provinces of Euralia. There were more than I remembered.
In the center, seated around a large roundtable, sat the Lord General. "Highlander," he begins, weaving through the needless pleasantries of high talk. "I trust that you are ready to partake in the endeavor"
I straighten my posture, accepting the great heft of his glare. Perhaps the regret would be sown later. "I am, your esteemed grace. The food and water have been delivered by the courtiers, we stand ready to carry out your institutions. But if I may, I still believe our slight against them can never truly be mended."
The Lord General offers a faint nod, perhaps a ghost of an agreement. Only then do I spare a glance at the numbered few already presiding with the Lord General. A handful of palace courtiers whose names I have yet to ask, Aegis Knights, and even a lone Lerusean Captain Minor—red cowl beautifully intertwined with his helmet.
"The Queen, for all her grace fails to see that her hasty decree has only motivated the surviving humans into stubborn secrecy. Most of their artifacts are still shrouded in mystery," the Lord General glowers, hands molding into fists, "but alas her word is law, flawed as that may be. Are the drakes ready?"
The Lerusean flaunts a nod. "Her esteemed Majesty's welcoming affair is done. The Flightwing is ready to soar, we need only the last shipments to be secured—luxuries like Elysian Moon delights don't fare well without frost. They are for our guests, surely those lot can enjoy a good drink," he frowns, nursing his chin with a hand as he circles the roundtable with heavy steps.
"There is still time for redemption. So with your blessings Lord General, let us be on our way," he stops and gestures at the small gathering, including me. This is an affair to take me from the fore of war, for that I am grateful.
"Leave you may," the Lord General affirms, ever strict in pose and voice, "these Knights shall escort you to the Palace landings."
We soon make haste towards the palace landings, traversing past the royal eastern wings—thankfully it seemed the Queen did indeed retire to her chambers. The bustling corridors full of guardsmen and courtiers slowly subsides, giving way to a shred of tranquility as the tapestries and murals whispered of myths and legends in our passing.
Flickering lanterns cast their gaze through the now empty halls, adding a seemingly ominous veil to an otherwise mundane passage. Ascending the spiral stairs once again, each step leads us closer to the upper reaches of the palace. The air grows thinner, and colder with each great bound.
The Knights lead on without pause, venturing up even with the prominent burdens of their armour. Their steps echoed off the walls with sharp thuds, the only sounds to ever breach the expanse of silence.
The air now is crisp, and the last floor is within sight. Light shimmers in from the small opening, as though a window into an ethereal realm beyond Nirin'Thia. Two guards stand by the entrance, but they relent upon sighting the Aegis Knights. There, the palace landings awaited as did the howls and grunts of Silverwings.
A gentle breeze wafts through the air as I step into the sundering light. Silverwings and other Highlanders toil beneath the sun, perched on the precipice of the palace's highest tower. Beyond the landings lay the open expanse, revealing the vastness of the fortress city and wilderness that loomed beyond its famed walls—an ocean of endless green stretching to the horizon.
The Knights leave having done their part. Most of the supplies are secured, barring a few crates of what seems to be cold ale—perhaps of Elysian Moon delights. Even the mere thought has me longing for a sip of its tantalizing sweetness. The crates are a lovely sight to behold given our destination.
"There you are," Oswin appears from the back of a Silverwing, "I feared we would have to leave without you."
I look up with a smile, though it was burdened with melancholy. "I would not leave you to do this alone. There is only two of us left now. We have to stick together."
"That we must," he offers a hand and pulls me up. Once on the drake, I quickly secure the flight straps on my legs and torso as I knelt on the saddle.
"Tighten just enough for comfort and at the right places," the lancer turns around, tapping my calf and thigh, "and do not dangle your legs, keep them clear of the wings."
"Of course," I briefly look up, sparing the Lancer my regards before continuing.
Normally, I would be slighted by any man daring to intrude in such a manner. But his hand is honest, and does not linger. This is an exception I will allow, only once.
"Your pack," Oswin scoots from his saddle and offers my field satchel, "and no I did not peer inside. Though I do wonder what's within."
"Flasks, linens, and all the ointments Sephra would have wanted," I wrap the satchel over my chest, nursing dark thoughts concerning the ultimate fate of our dear companion.
Across the eons, women have always been at greater risk of... cruelty should they be captured by the enemy. The public archives holds many examples of these atrocities, it will always be our burden to bare—an open secret few would dare discuss.
"Oh—I see."
"Be ready to depart with all due haste. Remember to tighten your harnesses lest you fall and die," the Lerusean Captain Minor declares, pacing across the landings on his Silverwing mount, "we should arrive in Yerune around duskfall."
I nod, though it proves to be fruitless as the Flight Captain promptly takes to the skies.
Soon the Lancer follows, kicking both legs to spur his mount to take flight. The wind surges forth and billows across my face, cold and relentless. Below, the cityscape recedes and becomes little more than distant fixtures of stone and marble—even the palace is little more than a pearl at these heights. Drossal's grandeur is now a thing of the past, and so I turn my gaze back ahead, so all that lies before me is the blue vastness of the open sky.
This venture westward would bring me closer to the Euralian heartlands, and also home—Navir has never been closer. But it is still so far away.
Evening soon approaches, and the blue hues begin to deepen and mingle with soft blends of golds and reds. Twilight envelops the land and the sun begins to sink over the horizon, its bright rays now on a slow decline.
The sprawling hinterlands give way to signs of civilization. Suburbs and roads appear far beneath us, scattered and diminutive at first, but growing more frequent as the Flightwing glides past those first few settlements. A sudden flare erupts from the Flightwing captain's raised scepter, garnering the attention of all Lancers. The distant orb soars and glimmers, mirroring the stars adorning the now darkened eastern sky.
The whole Flightwing descends, and the winds gather once again, howling against me as the world steeps forward. Finally, the journey is at an end. The city of Yerune stood in the foreground, raised atop a great hill, its streets flowing with life and vigor. Just like the rumours, there are no walls encircling its outskirts, it simply was too big for such an endeavor to be thought feasible.
The Captain veers away from the sprawling metropolis, descending far into the wilderness where a large villa stood alone, nestled from prying eyes amidst the verdant richness. So this is where they are kept. The notion is equally assuring and saddening.
"Prepare for landfall," the Lancer yells and turns around, pointing towards the clearing, "we ought to quickly offload the supplies."
With a great thud, the Silverwing settles over the Villa's grounds, roaring triumphantly at the journey's end. I quickly remove the straps binding my legs as the dragon's wings furl on the sides, and jump off the beast. The soft soil accepts my weight with a thud. The other drakes land, and Highlanders and palace courtiers alike move to offload the many crates from their mounts.
The guards and retainers of the Villa soon gather around the drakes and assist in our endeavors. Precious goods are ferried into the Villa's many underground vaults, and through its forking passages, I see the trinkets and weapons of those chained under our care. The walls fogged with webs and grime, as though unkempt since its foundations.
At least the keepers are kind enough to not house the humans in these conditions. Even with sconces that burn equally at three paces apart, this was a place wreathed in eternal shadow.
With the affair settled, all are quick to indulge in the Villa's comforts. Some would immediately seek solace in empty chambers, while others gather in the communal lobby, eventually sharing tales and downing bottles of Elysian Moon delights afterwards.
While the allure did cater to my parched lips, I did not come here to simply partake in the frivolities of idle talk. A few humans lounged about, but they all shy away at the slightest sign of our presence—my presence. Their fear casts an aching shadow in my heart, and only serves as a bitter sign that we would have to move mountains to find redemption with them.
A few human faces, all are familiar. Amidst the gathering, the lead matriarch of their stronghold, Meagan Pierce—there she lay, draped in simple Euralian-wear of green and gold. She casts a hateful scowl upon me, her eyes burning with the heat of a thousand flames, holding me in bitter contempt. This bridge, sundered as it is, must be rebuilt.
And so, it will.
======
His ire burns brightly, evident with a sneer, a lash of insults, and a fist almost raised against a young retainer. His features soured at every turn—just like the rest of his warrior ilk. He sends another tempered gaze at the lore master, though his wrinkled face stood equally impassive.
His gentle, yet incessant prying fails to break the warrior's defiant shell, even with promises of ale and luxuries for his betterment. He remains stoic, fists cemented with unwavering resentment, unwilling to part with even the slightest bit of trivia as he sat.
Fresh lashes mar his arms, a fitting punishment for the crime of violence against a woman. But it seemed the pain only serves to hone his resentment. The sun is at zenith and I still have yet to add something of note onto my codex—a welcome handout from yesterday's venture to the Villa's study chamber.
Its pages are fresh, but inked with unfinished lines. A certain tension fills the chamber as retainers and guards alike gazed at his defiance, an audience of vultures preying upon his beleaguered mind.
I yearn to reach out, to quell his wounded pride and rest a gentle hand on his shoulder. The loss of his fellow kin, I feel as though it is my own—a dark fervent poison that bled into every moment. Our sorrow is born of those in the seat of power. This is a tide we both are swept in.
Finally, the wizened sage strokes his beard with a sigh—forsaking his subtle tirade of inquiries. "I will save what is left of my sanity and give you this, young one, " he glowers, pointing an accusing finger at the human.
"Your secret holding was at risk of being scoured by Yhunian soldiers. Our armies are peerless, but slow. We could not hope to match the enemy on every front, " he pauses, his hand venturing to the enchanted pendant, "you would have fallen to their might. We could not risk such weapons falling into their clutches. Your matriarch made the mistake of refusing our offer."
The human soldier spat back, "Meagan made the right choice. We would have done fine without any of you."
The Lore Master nods, waving his hand dismissively. "Perhaps you might, those weapons are indeed worthy instruments of battle. What is your name?"
"Benitez... Cabeza de pija," the human spat out, stifling a chuckle. That, is surely an insult. The Lore Master as well deduces this, and sneers in light of the man's affront, his frown evident through the thickness of his wispy beard.
"Have this ungrateful creature out of my sight." With his decree cemented, the guards take over and usher the man out. Their hands are rough, but never beyond reason.
I step aside, watching as they lead him astray. His gaze briefly links with mine, though it soon vanishes. Yet another soldier ferried away without new insights to glean. Without forceful mind prying, this would be an arduous venture.
"Perhaps you should try their magistrates again, they are pliable and willing to accept our kindness," a palace courtier raises, parting the silence with her proposal and entry. She held a tray and offers the lore master a steaming cup.
"Blue vineer tea, honeyed as you requested," she gently blows on the rim and sets the refreshment down on the table, hands folded demurely at her front.
"Much appreciated," the sage expresses, weathered gaze slowly turning to me. His eyes barreled through the chambers and shone with a draconic glint, "perhaps... we would stand to gain more if they are questioned by someone who once lived, and fought against them. I will relent my pride, what say you?"
A flush of confusion pervades through me. I lack neither the right nor command of the human language. The Lore Master may be of age, but he is far from senile. Perhaps it is a joke.
"Surely you jest, they would sooner spit on me than talk. And we lack a Jewel Meister at hand to enchant another pendant with the Seal of Understanding," I frown and shut the codex, cradling it to my chest.
The sage strokes his white beard, groaning as he stands. "Worry not, one is enough. I am in dire need of a break regardless. That, and you may think of this as a decree. We are here to uncover all that they know. It would be a pity if we have to resort to breaking apart their minds."
His words brewed with a sliver of malice, though that might just be the sage's deep voice—now intoned and weary. He grabs hold of the pendant, its fine gold chains glinting in the light, and takes it off. It dangles precariously by his fingers—urging me to a dilemma. Here stands a choice, though it hardly seemed like one. I will not force such a fate to befall them.
The others watch as I take the pendant, quickly guiding the gold chains to settle around my neck. "I accept."
"Good, I shall be off now." With his parting words delivered, the sage departs, leaving me in the company of the palace retainer and a small gathering of vigilant guards. Their watchful eyes hovered over me, awaiting my first ruling. The human soldiers are out of the question, and perhaps the palace retainer's words harboured merit.
If I am to query them, it will be done with respect—and as equals. Compassion is a gift, and not just a mercy to the defeated. They might be willing to speak, if the sword is not at their throats.
"All but the courtier, may depart," I gesture at the door, my first decree cemented.
"Are you sure?" one of the guards questions, folding his arms. "I see no reason to leave you unguarded. It would stain our merit should they attack you."
"I shall take her counsel," I pause, offering an open hand towards the young courtier, "and bring only their Magistrates instead, so you need not worry. And should the need arise, I can still safeguard myself."
He holds a frown, but relents with a weak nod. "Very well." As he leaves, so did the rest of his silent kin.
"How tiresome," I relish the freedom born of their absence. The courtier settles beside me, her back arching against the wall—name yet to be instilled in memory. She had the forethought of preparing a surplus of writing parchments for this sojourn, perhaps now would an apt time to ask.
"What is your name," I pass her a glance, noting the ornate silks of her robes—a certain envy flowing through me. She turns, her soft bangs swaying gently, violet eyes bright and ignorant of my muse.
"Anja," she offers a smile, though it seemed to belie a certain sadness. Her inner turmoils linger in her eyes, speaking on her behalf. "And I know yours. Inora, she who has seen their fortress and battled them in their secret home within a vale."
My heart sours at the reminder. "That, was needless bloodshed. More so with the Black Hand's involvement."
"Theirs is a cult of war in the guise of an army. Not my words, but a passing bard I happened to chance upon in an Inn," she laughs, eyes caught in reflection, "I remember only because of his northern accent, and absurd turban hat—a Yelfiran most certainly."
She continues after a lengthy pause, her brows now twisted. "What ever happened to their darkened elites, the ones with helms to blot their faces?"
"You know of them?" I cradle the shock with widened eyes.
"I was there to recieve them when they first came to Drossal in that great buzzing sky-ship. Why else would I be selected for this endeavor, surely it is not my charm."
The silence deepens as I think back to that lost battle. Our numbers and defences so easily gave way to their weapons and cunning. "They... came a few days later and reclaimed their home. The outcome was cemented with their arrival."
"I can see then why the Queen ordered that decree, and sent for the Vanguards," Anja muses, nursing a frown after she spoke. "But enough of those masked buffoons, let us begin our queries shall we?"
I nod, lips parting with a soft acceptance. "Yes, let's begin. Please bring the matriarch here, and since lunch is almost upon us, have your fellow retainers prepare a lavish meal for two—including a bottle of Elysian Moon."
"I shall see it done," she affirms with a bow and departs, her movements ever graceful.
The chamber's vastness encroaches on me as I sat, my legs poised on the left. A weak glow, not unlike a candle, radiates from the pendant—beautiful if not for its purpose. Footsteps milled beyond the entrance, each sparking trepidation as they grew, only to diminish. There is still time to refuse, but I will not.
Regret certainly whispered its musings from the shadows, but I have grown to ignore its call.
Soon, the scent of steak wafts into the chambers. Two retainers enter shortly after, each hefting a large tray filled with delectables. Indeed it was steak—sunboar steak with a healthy mix of white grain. The meat still sizzled as it lay covered with an assortment of rich spices. My mouth watered at the wonderful sight.
"Set them on the rug," I gesture at the extravagant rug before me, my glare a soft demand of obedience.
"As you wish," they answer in unison and place their trays neatly on the floor, departing without another word.
Another bout of footsteps murmured past the entry, and soon Anja returns. Behind her, is the cause of my doubt—she whose trust I violently shattered.
I hide the fears behind a smile. "Please, sit." The Matriarch slowly paces forward, eying the food, her bewilderment clear as day.
"If you're looking to question me about our weapons, forget it," she intones as she sat, her skirt modestly tucked as she folds her legs.
"I hold no such ambitions," I lower my gaze, "I know such a request is beyond me."
She scoffs. "Of course it is, you know what you and your team did. Our perimeter sensors and defences didn't go offline by accident. And that's not even mentioning your active participation in the fight."
I raise my head, retaining a dignified look. Anja looks from the side, deciding against intervening as she stood. "No amount of words can hope to quell my sins, but I will say I am... sorry."
The English word rolls off with an odd thrill. It, and a scarce few others embodies my entire knowledge of their language. Those peaceful days living amongst them, I yearned for those times, if only to revel in the mystery of their language and culture.
Meagan sighs, defeated in tone. "It doesn't matter, not anymore."
"It was either I follow the emblem of my Kingdom, or be branded a traitor and suffer the punishment of acting against the Lord General's will. I had no choice in this matter," I shake my head, nails biting into my palms as I let loose a scowl.
"You have been shown only the darkest and most decadent quirks of our culture. Let me be the first to show you the kindness we may offer. Even stars will shine in the darkest of nights, I will be that glimmer that guides you and your kin through this murk, should you allow me."
I motion to the food between us, its aroma still wafting through the air and enticing our senses. Offering a quick glance to Anja, I silently convey my convictions with a sharp look. She nods, her smile understanding, before gracefully exiting the chambers with quiet steps.
"Nothing to lose at this point," the Matriarch relinquishes her suspicions, picking up the cutlery. She deftly shears the steak with her spoon and knife, tentative at first. Her furrowed eyes flicker to me—as though seeking approval or fearing of reproach. I would do neither.
"Sunboar steak, a staple of Euralian cuisine," I begin, savouring her growing interest, "it is enjoyed as far west as my home of Navir, a place of sprawling fields and coursing rivers."
"Tell me... more," she inquires after a bite, "there's still much we don't know about your nation."
I relish the newfound understanding between us. There were no insults to stain our continued discussions as we ate. With each passing moment, that once burnt bridge begins to heal. As we delve ever deeper, the lingering shadows of distrust fades and gives way to an orchestra of shared experiences.
Our differences are now a source of fascination. She spoke of nations beyond the Rift, whose feats reached even the heavens themselves, of a distant red world where automatons scoured a lifeless desert of sands and dust. I listen to all she said with awe, captivated by the world of her birth.
In turn, I revealed legends of the ancient empire of Nul'ma, whose legacy began at the very dawn of civilization itself. I spoke of their great feats of engineering, of towering spires dedicated to pantheons now forgotten, of magnificent bridges to cross the great Nul'Feya canyon that still stands even today.
Our words carried weight, forging a sense of kinship between us. Her walls crumbled, and at times she even smiled, as did I. The bowls have long since been finished, as did the ale, still we continued to enjoy each other's company.
By duskfall, it would only be fair to call her an acquaintance, and I hers. There is so much for me to fill into the codex, and fill I did until the sun's last rays vanished.
Tomorrow now is a hope, not just another day.
===end===
The Fall of Nul'ma was tragic not because of their lost grandeur but because of the divides that followed as their borders shrunk.
Cultures who once rallied under their banner rose, and fought bitter wars against their former allies.
Nations were born in the Empire's ashes, and with it, the tragic ending of an Era.
======
A special shoutout to Lesoiki for making a fanfic of Into The Rift
Here is his story for those who are interested, he's a first time writer so go easy XD.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/343523797-into-the-rift-dark-emissaries
Here's a complimenting fanart for his story as well, featuring an Euralian OC named Erune.