Prologue

A Chapter by Kusariyaro

A test-pilot for feedback. The begining of the first story in a series.

Prologue

Seaquell squawking ceased abruptly when a west-bound wind struck the shore. The smell of salt hailing from the sea depths permeated the air. Habitually, the Burning Star shone its warming light upon a tiny village of Forggs. Out on the coastal waves, playful and fast, danced the small galleys. Their creaking was overcome by the shouts of tanned men unloading their precious cargo of the last sea catch. It was an open season, and the villagers' main trade were fishing and fish-mongering. Small towns and inland cities benefited from the local fishermen all across the kingdom of Fiona. They would often trade fish directly for farm animal meat, as the local cuisine would likely suffer otherwise.

Out of the working men, a remarkable one descended from a larger galleon. Wind-whipped and slightly rugged in the face, unmistakably a sea veteran, tried to hide his disdain at the sight of a merchant waving him down on the port’s plateau.

"Stormrad Regis! By my beard!" a local merchant said, tapping Regis on the shoulder he barely managed to reach.

Merchant, a Silrum noble, was short and somewhat pudgy, his yellow leather jacket tightening around his waist. A brown flat-cap on his head, pristine, with a long feather stuck in its right side and held by a house sigil-pin, round and golden. His suit was but a make-up to his personality. His reputation preceded him, a vulture hunting those in need. He would offer kind words and a heavy coinbag to help out, but then request a year’s due out of one’s earnings, as per contract. And once you put down whatever markings represented you, he had you in his claws.

"Aye, sir. Need you the company of Sea Breachers?" Regis said, acting not annoyed.

"I just came to survey the preparations, captain. Last year's investment," merchant eyed the mighty vessel behind the tall man, "won't pay itself by being roped to a small pier."

"Aye... Indeed. Well, me lads done the first part of the season's job, now we await the Orc convoy with the gold-pieces to turn the boxes over, and we will get going. If all ends well, we'll take the bendy road 'fore the dusk sets in" he assured the merchant, looking at the ongoing work around the crates.

"With Trickster's blessing, my sea conquering won't disturb the God of Depths", noble trader said, a gleeful hope welling up on his face, already seeing the profits before him.

"Aye... Ar'goner!" Regis thundered toward his ship, turning away from the merchant. "Fetch me Groen. I'll need that sneaky b*****d in two hours."

"Aye sir, captain! Get Groen!” Elven sailor responded, sun-burnt as the rest of the crew. Tall, he wore sailor scraps, a bare minimum for decency. A pair of black pants, and a white shirt.

"Wind-blasted birdfish!" Regis cussed at the cawing seagulls looking for a mouthful of unguarded succulent fish,“'Tis gonna be a long starspin…” he muttered, grazing his chin pensively, eyes afar.

Ar'comer crossed the galleon's board walkway and approached the captain.

"Sir Captain Regis! I quin... I inquir... I, uh iquirre... Sir, the crew wonders what is the standing order." He finally reached the end of the sentence, trying his best to muster some semblance of noble tongue. This young Elf shared aesthetics to the last one that Stormrad shouted at.

"Your brother went to fetch me that undestined scoundrel. I will need that hobby of his today, lest the Orc turn their snub noses away from the deal. You are to tell the crew to rest. In two starspins or so, we depart with those crates cleaned out. The nets were already given to the women for fixing." Regis rubbed his grimy left eye, trying to hide the toll he paid for the last hunt.
Two elven twins, Laen and Neal, knew the captain’s inability to memorize everyone’s name, so they accepted the new ones, awarded to them by their roles on the ship. Ar’goner, Laen, went to complete the tasks outside, and he was always gone. Ar’comer, Neal, always came to his captain in need of news or orders for the crew and similarly he always came around for it.

"Sir, I will be on the poop deck, I'll give the order to rest. Sir. You should see the local healer, that eye caught too much sea salt" exclaimed lean elf, his voice pitching like a wave from excited high to a conspiratorial low.

"Damn salt rocks... I might as well go, deckhand. I might as well..." Regis turned away from his vessel to look down the westward street, the only one in the village, and saw the rickety board building, painted white to signify it as a makeshift temple of healing. As a matter of fact, most all buildings in the village were very nearly about to crumble. Boards haphazardly nailed together shaping boxed rooms, all very basic in construction. It was a season ago he last anchored here. Such local "architecture" was in fact beneficial to the village. These people lived their lives in derelict windowed boxes, but should a tidal wave, or Zul forbid, a dragon or another such foe, level their homes, villagers had already dug into the sand ridden soft dirt and could hide underground.

"Ah, yes, the endurance of a hard life" Regis laughed to himself. He recalled when he was but a child how the Westoral storm blew half the old Forggs away. Houses succumbed easily to the raging sea-wind and the lightning swarm that came along, but it was all rebuilt as easy as it all went down. Such were the benefits of a simple design.

Refocusing his sights on the makeshift sick bay, veteran slowly dawdled trough the old street. His eyes sought the attention of the locals in hope he’d spot a friend or two, unburdened with daily work, to share an ale, or whatever was on the board for today. Parting two shabby, dusty curtains he entered the healer’s ward. A tall man as he is, he felt he would hit the ceiling if he walked unhunched. Looking around, he saw two elderly men and a woman, of similar age, sitting in line for the healer’s services. In a seat directly opposed to them was a strangely obese elf female, her hair braided in a top crown, a traditional summer style of the forest Ellaen.

“I am to seek a healer!” Regis exclaimed, trying his best to appear official.

“Take your seat, the practitioner is busy…” she answered, uninterested neither in his rank or urgency, and continued to scribble in her journal.

For a man of the sea, Regis is known to have immense durability and patience. Yet the relentless, annoying sting in his eye made him agitated. Yet, he could only sit around and loiter.
Time felt as if bound by an anomaly, slowly crawling around the minute mark, barely passing. Regis was getting jittery.

“I have coins, you know!” he spouted at the receptionist, uncertain whether he tried to threaten or inform.

“There is a waiting line, and two herbalists are doing the rounds, so you need to wait too.” The plump elven woman dismissed him as easy as before, giving no way to his attempts.

He shifted back, worn out wood creaking beneath his seat. With nothing to do, he scratched his chest. The linen shirt had a deep neck cut and was loose below the shoulders, to provide good aeration of armpits on the long journey. His sun-bleached arm hair glistened against the reddish, hardened skin. Checking the coinbag strapped to his belt, prime shelskin and deep blue in color, he finally came to a stop.

“I even personally know Ketas… and I have to wait…” he thought for himself.

The stability of the wooden house, unlike that of a fishing barge or any sea vessel at that, the last hunt and its duration, all sat on him like a tired Dulmahi giant.

He finally succumbed to the pull of sleep, eye burn drifting away like a distant memory.

In his dream, he recalls the vast ocean, his young body sinking, drifting into the Kranen’s embrace. Distant shouts signaling a stop for canon-fire. He gave up. Thirty years ago. His surrender to the sea god now bothered the dependable and able “Stormrad”. Knowledge of the news haunted him. News he had to share. And this ghastly haunt, drew out memories of his naval life. Scenes of the attack drills, the manning of the canons, the struggle against the storm, each and every one of them he weathered, were it a Flow induced mock-test, or those natural and more fierce. He recalled the scene when he was named Kornrad of the Storm, his peers gifting acceptance of the sea. But this time, his dream revealed an unassailable darkness. A storm he could not penetrate, let alone survive. He was sweating…

“Regis, wake up!” a pleasant voice reached out to the sleeping man.

“Regis, wake your bloody nostril up!” a swift palm met the captain cheek, startling Stormrad into consciousness.

“Is it my time now?” he zapped up, hitting the ceiling with the crown of his head.

“Calm down, Regis, you are making me hurt you!” said the same pleasant voice.
Clearing the gound from the corners of his eyes, he looked down at the man dressed in plain brown cotton shirt and loose breeches, a white, cotton overcoat signifying a practitioner of healing.

“Ketas!” he exploded, quickly forming a hook with his left arm, bending it at the elbow.

“Regis!” the two men hooked each others arms, a common tradition in the maldih fishermen villages.

“So you’ve come to me, a sea veteran with some salt in his eyes… Hez doomed your veterancy, if you allowed a few specks of rock to veer their way into your eye, Kornrad!” Ketas called him by birth name, pocking fun at captain’s ill luck.

“Oh, that’s a season long story, dear friend. We forgot that the strong currents break the salt rock sticks from seabed during this season. One of those got stuck on the rudder, probably breaking again. What little remained clung to our vessel like a child to its mother.” He scratched left cheek for a slight pause and then continued, “And considering all the bloody nostrils on the deck, as yer mentioned early, it has fallen to me to dismantle the situation… Or, well, the rudder.”

“So, you went under to free the ruder against the salt stick?”

“Ye. Broke it off quick… but can’t say it was clean. Before me managed to look away, the eye already stung from the salts. Thankfully, we were on the way to the port for due help, or else you would now call me “Blind Storm”, or something similar” he said jokingly.

“Come to me in the ward. We will apply a tincture against irritation. You won’t be blind after all!” elf guided him as he turned to the white willow doors.
“Aye,” responded the stalwart sailor.

Ketas Freani’aten. An elf with a history richer than the nobles of the Silrum kingdom. Now confined in a tiny, almost unimportant village of Forggs. His ward was that of a healer who dabbled in the Flow, as everyone called the powers of magic. However, he asked for guidance from the two local herb-druids, to study the benefactions of nature to employ for medicine. So he found his way of healing between the Flow and the Nature. His ward reflected this. Few scrips and a plethora of mineral compounds locked away in a wooden bookcase waiting to be used. Few of the medical guidebooks written by those before him, explaining the general ills and bads of a contemporary fishermen village. Everything from a vitamin-lack induced scurvy to symptoms of krane-dreads. A hard, enduring linen-paper was easy to come by, and it endangered the forests much less than a high-quality paper crafted from wood.

Only traders and healers needed linpaper, as the locals called it, for the sake of book keeping and patient records that were later compacted into larger books. Luckily for Ketas, Forggs had just several elderly people that were doing daily examinations, as the younger patients came seasonally.

“Open it up. It will feel cold and it might react, but it will clean up your eye. It’s a greenthorn cream, don’t worry.” Ketas said, lowering Kornrad’s chin for a better view.
After he applied it, sailor held the eye shut with two right hand fingers.

“Brought around fifteen thousand coins from Silrum, and today we will receive around twenty big wildebeest, and a handbag of coin for the fresh delivery. Orcs are strange people.” Captain started sharing thoughts and news.

“So - the nostrils proved themselves after all. That is great to hear. We measure time by the arrival of your fleet and local fishing boats. Not much else happens while you are away.”

“And it’s for the best, Ket. Me, lived a fragment of yer life, and with what me went through… One can only dream, out on the sea, what yer survived with the passing of ages.”

“What of it?” Ketas asked startled.

“Naught. Me and my crew are thankful to the sea and the sleeping Kranen, that peace finally reigns…”

“Peace? A truce or ceasefire is hardly peace. Yes, the great Orc War ended and the struggle of four kingdoms is over, but this alliance between four kingdoms is holding on to some divine strings to maintain itself. It’s not all sugarcane and goatsmilk.”

He reconsidered his tone and then continued, “Don’t know what they speak beyond the village, my task is about to go on a road I much dislike…” Ketas lined up his silver eyebrows to match the brow ridge.

“We went to fish in the warm waters of Ahktot shore, or what is left of it. Resembles more a shadow of itself now…”

“Carry on?” Elf nodded

“Wouldn’t call it carrion,” Kornrad disagreed with the elf’s guess.

“I meant, continue,” healer responded in a slightly colder voice.

“The winds heard, that some great misfortune is coming from the east. Got me worried. We are the “East”.” Veteran said, as his face betrayed uncertainty.

“They prophesize disasters every now and then. Sometimes a clash of armies may happen, sometimes it’s an old legend coming to finish its legacy or ruin it. Never did it reach the end-of-all-things levels of bad before…” Healer dismissed it casually.

“The whispers say that Zharyna the Seer clamored few circles before we reached Ahktot’s coast. This was at the beginning of the season, five circles before today. Blessed be our wind mage Win-dee lest we would have traveled for at least three seasons. At least…”

“Oh, you moved to the next step?” Ketas asked, sounding a bit happy.

“Me finally have all the rights and ownerships over the Forggs’ vessels. We enter the age of prospect, respected friend. Good business has to grow. ‘Tis a next step indeed, for me to test the waters.” He looked proud.

“So, you managed to catch a load of crates from the Small Worm Lake too?” his friend wondered.

“Aye. No. We caught a load of fish, not crates.” Kornrad confusedly responded.

The difference between the Silrum language of humans, and those from the kingdom of Fiona, always posed a problem for Kornrad. He grew in a taken over Silrum, former kingdom of elves, its new ruler demanding a noble-tongue. Yet, he mused in the simpler lives, and language of fionian maldih. However, he finally picked up an ugliest combination of the two, sea-tongue. Be it pirates, navy or fishermen, the sea had its marking on the language of all who fared it. The winds and the storms required less complexity to that of the noble-tongue, but even more on-point and shorter information conveyance than that of common-speak. This social phenomenon entertained them both.

“Your visits never cease to entertain, Regis,” Ketas laughed timidly.

“Aye, and yer company is always uplifting, Ket,” he grinned in appreciation.

“But herein lays the problem, mate… Few circles ago, we reached the lake Small Worm. As the noble-tongue is hard to comprehend, we had a stroke of luck! An escapee joined my crew on a fishing boat. Of the House Domvel.” Kornrad shook his head worrily.

“Domvel? The right hand family to the king of Silrum? Right hand to Noble Tyrant? The Auren Libsean III-King of Silrum?” Fear stole the elf’s breath.

“Ye. Little crow brought me Dunhalt Domvel. Youngest son in-line. Seventeen rockspins. Or years as you call it. He told me what the streets of Maldos whisper about. For a nobleborn and a first timer, he does a hez of a job to spy on his former officials. Comes in handy…” Stormrad admired at boy’s genius.

“I must check the state of your mind too, seems you lost a few rocks of your own when few fell into your eye. A right hand to a king, a noble-born child is in the best crew of rag-tag, up-in-the-making “Sea Breachers” company? And you moored here! In a creator-forsaken village of Forggs!” Healer’s eyes widened, as if recounting indictments held against him by the Silrum King, unknown to others.

“Calm your waves, Ket! Dunhalt died publically that day… A needed sacrifice.” He leaned back in his seat.

“No more. I will drink this special concoction and I will fall asleep like you did. I won’t remember a word you said and we can have a laugh about our different dialects, goodb-“he was interrupted.

“Ket, let me finish. The kid is dead for the public. I mentioned Win-dee earlier. He blew up a look-alike, a make-belief illusion of wind and light. What remained of Domvel’s youngest was but a bloody sigil-ring. When we “found out” who Dunhalt was, the unwitty locals confirmed - a member of the royal-nobles. Went to personally apologize for not knowing who handled our black powder, and returned the ring with a bonus of finest fish we could muster. The head of the family, Rhon Doren, thanked me for apt telling of the situation and for fish they will use for sure. He said youngling never showed interest in either power or profits, so the news came as a godsend. They rescinded the reward to whoever brings him alive, and went on to pretend mourning,” Regis smirked for a moment, full of himself.

“Vile is the way of the noble. But a cruel world breeds cruel leaders...” Ketas voiced his opinion.

“Me digress. Important fact- Dunhalt said that Alun-The Great Seer of Maldih went jittery at the same time as Zharyna did, too. Something about the light of our world being snuffed out, skies blackened, and whoever is the mediator of this doom is now on the move.”

“The Great Alun said that? Gods curse me; I knew you would deliver this! And it’s a moment too soon...” Ketas darted around the ward office, as if he was saying farewells on a short notice.

“That was all the voices whisper of till this very starspin, friend”, Regis massaged his pained eye, “I need Groen for the upcoming deal. Lest orcs forget the coin bag…”

“And it seems, we may all need him soon…”, ellaen’s mood darkened as he spoke, worry weighting him down, he steeled himself for the future.

***

“Azhot! Bu’tarhi! Bahkelva!” shouts of shopkeepers in the main square, the trading city of Kemkasu comprised a noise its visitors and denizens got used to hearing. The heat of the barren desert outside the orange-ochre walls of Kemkasu only made the trading more straining and energetic. Time spent on the sun meant sweat. Sweat is water. And water here, is gold coins. The open stalls provided various goods for sale.

From fine silken see-through hajibs and similar headscarves, to various tinctures, medicine, intricate Ball’en wool carpets, to those made out of common sheep wool, cotton and linen.

Rarely, a solitary mumificar stood high, scaring the passengers of the trader’s city with its lithe body wrapped in yellowish gauze to protect its burnt skin, and two sard colored eyes searching for potential buyers. His wares were, however, enchanted in nature. From sand-shifters to various animal species that survive in the desert. Mumificars were natives of Akhtot kingdom with a great potential for Flow manipulation. The rest was pretty mundane. Preserved food and mana-bread stalls were maintained daily, with occasional thief or two picking up goods and running away. This would prompt an angered merchant to scream for the zon’muldari, official law-maintaining military, pointing fingers at the scoundrel’s direction. In a strange way, the city resisted the drought and heat of the Kemkhat’u dessert that enveloped the whole kingdom. Namesake of the trader’s town that resisted the deadly desert that creeps beyond was a mockery. And this resistance came in the form of everyday display of unyielding and hectic life.

As the market neared the peak hours, around the mid-day, citizens and travelers alike streamed through the main square looking for wares. Beggars hid against the troves of late customers that in sun-induced craze summoned a short-lived curtain of dust. Docile lizard hanging from the nearby house edge monitored the movements.

A hooded lean man, swift-footed, danced trough the masses, dodging the contact with each individual trying to enter the square. This man now pinpointed the location of the promised kafhena, an inconspicuous, two-tiered house acting as a tavern, where he would seek out his contact. On the portal of it, two guards stood scouting the possible approach.

Tightly erected buildings provided narrow streets beyond the extended and main square. This architectural planning denied the town’s economy to survive on sold goods alone. Mixed with the living quarters were trade buildings that sold service instead. From trade caravan protection mercenaries, a seeker for missing, or wanted people, a high-note hashish spa for the richest of visitors, to the small, downtrodden “taverns” like this one.

The stranger looked up at the two guards, Akhtot special, a spearman and a sand mage. Both of them wearing the same type of leather armor covering the forearms, calves and chest, the light red and yellow cloth layered upon each other provided protection against the sun for the head, legs, shoulders and abdomen. Any more leather on the local muldaren guards and they would need more water than a pack of rabid merchants straining their vocal cords on the sun. He opened his cloth cape from the neck to show the guards two short khopesh swords with a slightly deeper outward curvature, also resembling sabers by such a design. When the guards nodded, he was in.

Tables were several, around ten, eleven at most. Few were vacant, at some sat a solitary visitor, while other few were overcrowded. Some drank, some ate, and quite a few smoked tobacco in a water pipe, shisha. At the far right corner, a bare-chested, middle aged musician hummed with the somber sound of his sitar-like instrument, while his helper gave in to much livelier, tangy, springy sound, its tempo faster than the background. Sand-stone walls were dull brown, washed out. Elements including tables, bar and chairs all very lacking in color, freshness or life.

Smoke rose up to the second floor of the house, now reconstructed to look like a high gallery for the important individuals. It was open on the side, overlooking the ground floor. On the upper gallery, majority drank the Neksebek beer, as the water was well preserved in this form, rather than being tossed around in its natural state. Those with different tastes opted for imported dwarven beer or the fionian mulled vine that was the most expensive drink on the board. As the stranger passed the several round tables, where the local traders recouped and recounted on their daily earnings, plotting their next move, he noticed that there is nothing to be alarmed for. Even his mysterious presence did not agitate any calculating merchant or a tired caravan crew. He proceeded to the barkeep.

“Heka’ankh, usulir!” said the khan’sammah, a house-master, wishing a magical life upon a strange visitor.

“Baan’ankh, sammah!” stranger reciprocated, as was a custom, wishing eternal life to the one offering kind words.

They continued in the east-akhtotian dialect, more traditional with the few words seeping in from the newer, modern version used further on the west side of the kingdom.

“I seek a man, more appealing than me,” he scratched his left cheek, sliding over a wide scar connecting forehead and chin, nearly missing his eye but denting the nose.

“Oh, yes, everyone seeks something. I seek water for the daily needs…” answered the impoverished keeper.

“Beyond doubt, I carry the gold of Akhtot with me, master.” Stranger weaved a sign, whispering a dismissal. A duffel bag, of fine cotton-weave appeared on his back. He placed it on the wooden counter in front of the barkeep, opening it to reveal a large earthen jug, slushing sound broke through from inside. Around it scattered the fist-sized mana-breads, rich with the desert bdehlium raisin, crumbling crust here and there against the black cotton. The soft, sweet smell fought off the pungency of the lower floor.

“Usulir, I need only the water!” said the keeper dismissively, hiding his smile, feasting his emerald eyes on the jug, his sunken face features rejuvenating from joy. At last, a singular gilded tooth glints for a second, a joy he couldn’t hide.

“Mana is for my travels. A gift to your house is the jug.” said the stranger, fighting the light trying to peer into his hood’s darkness, his body language revealing this weakness.

“The humble tavern-house of Armel, accepts the kind gift. Come, let us share a cup of water!” he took out two small glasses on the counter. He picked up a jug, uncorked it, and a waft of cold air visibly seeped out. Barman’s eyes locked on to it, as he noticed the chill emanating from the jug.

“A frost-maw jug!” tears started racing across the man’s cheeks, held onto his sun cap, an obvious struggle in his thoughts, finally bowing down to the visitor.

Wordless, he stormed out, stirring the people’s attention. On the edge of the entrance, the barkeep signaled the lancer in and bent to scrape the sand between the sandstone slabs of the street.

Spear-guard moved past the counter to the left of which were the hidden stairs to the upper gallery.
House-master returned, holding the sand tightly in three fingers.
He then threw it on the stranger’s feet, protected by the thin goatskin stretched across the sandals.

“May your travels return you to this house again, stranger. May the winds be calm and dunes welcoming for you!” he said bowing and cleaning his teary eyes, “Come with me to the gallery! Another stranger, gilded and more appealing than you, waiting for a war-scarred visitor, came twenty minutes ago. It must be the one you seek, no offence meant.” He pointed toward the stairs.

“None taken. I already see you understand the importance of privacy. I hope not to disturb the order here, not to disrupt your humble business…” Stranger looked around the tavern slowly as he spoke.

“Usulir, this jug will bring new worry lines on my face, but it will also bring recuperation and prosperity. You have done an unimaginable thing for me, so much so I can never repay you. I am forever in your debt” he said leading him on to the stairs, at the top waited the front guard.

“Sammah?” said the guard as they reached him, eye sharp on the wealthy patrons, voice befit of someone much younger,.

“Fay-roseth, elakh!” he gestured in dismissal to his guard, drawing a circle and attention of the opulent guests, that conversed in the light smoke coming from the traders below, dimming the striking red drapes on the light orange walls and window frames. The arrangements were much detailed and richer, but also revealed the sign of age.

The gallery was once an impeccable show of rich quality and ornamental culture of Kemkasu, but it fell beyond the grace of the shifty economy that seemed to mimic the sands underneath the kingdom.

The guard raised his lance and pointed in the customer’s general direction crying out a threatening call for patrons to remove their presence from the gallery.

“Calm your humps, Baher!” barkeep cut him off; He neared the alabaster-like railing overlooking the ground floor with the bar, now tended by two women, young in age, skin as the coconut shell. Welcome sight of beauty for any weary traveler, more so when compared against old Armel.

“Patrons, commoners and new visitors, to all ordering anything from the ground floor, we are offering sixty percent off on any purchase. Pay in water or gold, price on beer, wine and goat milk is all reduced for this special happy-hour! Meat is at half price!” he announced, gritting his teeth at the idea of such an hour.

“As for you, my most loyal patrons, I am in need of the whole gallery, and you are well to use the happy-hour to spend less for more! Silah’kelem!” Sammah tried to hide his discontent, faking a smile as well as an apology.

Begrudgingly, the fattened bedorins dressed in most exquisite materials like the pearlescent Ball’en light-wool, occasional priests in sand colored cloth and young traders, started making noise, some carrying their glasses over, while others even carried earthen plates with unfinished meals. Silken robes shimmered on the women that followed their companions, and the cloth wrinkled in their small exodus.

The gallery was now empty of all but one, at the far end of it, last table in the corner. A man, adorned in golden strips across his chest connected at the solar plexus, gilded, metal plated skirt and intricate sand-colored sandals, sat there. His black hair was sprinkled with sand and gold specks and thrown backwards, pressed against his head completely. Dark ochre skin was tipped with golden text on his chest and back, a captivating scripture both a tool of his trade and a decoration. His round, owl-like brown eyes, rolled toward the stranger, nodding him over.

“This is him, master Armel, you are free to manage the lower floor.” Stranger placed an arm on his chest and bowed slightly.

“Baher, let’s go!” Armel lashed out at the spearman, voice devoid of respect,
“Be safe, stranger!” instead of thorns, honeyed words were given to stranger.
Armel respected all in his house. And he dosed that respect as well as the drinks he served.

“Orten Xorhafi is my name, master Armel!” stranger finally uttered his name.

“My sand will always welcome your feet, friend, regardless of the name you take!” Spearman and barkeep descended from the gallery.

Orten approached his contact.

“Sit. “The gilded priest said resolutely.

“You don’t order me, hekator!” Orten sat as he removed the hood on his head, completely revealing a large scar, a glistening pink against the dark brown of his skin. His short black hair didn’t hide smaller cuts on the back of his head. Apparently, he lived through many skirmishes, each carved a mark in his life, way too many for his age, just shy of twenty-four.

His sharp features of the nose tip and jaw pointed to a strong bloodline, yet his aesthetics suffered under countless battles.

“It’s all a play, Orten” sand mage reassured that his insubordination was for the privacy’s sake.

Orten responded in silence, unamused by the mage’s new game.
Priest was visibly older than Orten, but his features were almost perfect. Slick black hair, lean, strong-bodied, emanated an aura of power common to sand mages. It was subtle and soft, like the finest grains of sand, trickling away from him, barely visible, mixing with the smoke.

“Why, the summons? Is everything fine up there?” said Orten, relaxing himself in spite of looming tension.

“It is starting, the third Joining of the four kingdoms. It is serious…” Ahele’annar responded, bird-like eyes blinking, awaiting a response.

“What is actually going on, hekator? I need answers. You are my direct link, and subordinate. Sadly, you are my Station. Act. Like. One!” Orten stood at the precipice of his patience.

“Oh, you will see when you get back. If you get back…” Annar smiled, showing his teeth, almost defiantly.

This, however, pushed the scarred man over, into a gorge of anger.

“Give me information, cursed be your sands, mage! Now! This is an order!” Orten shouted loud enough, overtaking the atmosphere in the tavern, attention now on the gallery.

“Go, dance!”Armel ordered the two women that helped serve drinks, in order to shift the attention away from the upper floor.

“Be silent! This isn’t a game, boy!” Annar squeezed a harsh warning through his teeth.

“And it’s neither a play, Station! I am not your puppet, made for your entertainment. More of this and you will be reduced to a head for all your friends in Isops, wanting to be the next Station, so they can ponder about their life choices in the desert. Adhere, Station!” The two swords now leaned against the table’s edge cutting it with their own.

“Zharyna is scared. Whole Isops shivers. King Karim Al’Akkar isn’t really fit for this. He needs you.” Annar massaged below his paint-framed right eye, his games denied to him.

“What message did the Seeres deliver?” Orten asked, setting away his swords.

“She recalled a vision. But the new message is this:

Ancient prophecy is upon us. The he who will bring crepuscule upon the world is in motion, his path unbeknownst to all and oneself. He rises to power, to bring unto us the eternal night.

Thus, the radiance of our world will be no more.”

“Is the King safe?” Orten almost whispered, downplaying his early irritation.

“For now. But the hourglass seeps time, ever closer.” Annar noded slowly.

“Warn the Mumificars. We must prepare. Seer Zharyna never failed - her words always true. For her to be scared… I will go back with the morning caravan via the main road. I need to rest. No more games, Station. At least, wait until after the Joining for them.”

He got up and put the gray cloth hood back on. Annar moved the curtain, only to see dark clouds slowly spreading their wings, covering the sky in the distance.

At this very moment, the news reached the Six, and One, plain-looking old man. They all uttered the same words, as if spoken by one:

“So, it begins.”