I’ll Be the Shadow, You’ll be the Light [Dæmon]

[Pharaoh]

I’ll Be the Shadow, You’ll be the Light
21 Ash, 122 Steel
Late Afternoon pursuant to the events of A Game of Confidence
Council Chambers of the Palatium Furiarum

► Show Spoiler

“Your Divine Radiance,” Low did Phocion bow, “Your Serene Highnesses.” He stood upright black-gloved hands clasped in front of his black Sentinel robes. Silvery white eyes scanned the assembled princes of the Regium Concilium, lingering for a moment upon his mother, before beginning his address.

“As the Vigilia Magna has doubtless already indicated, I have been able to identify the entity at Fortis Lacerta as none other than the avatar of blighted Arcas reborn.” There was a reflexive auditory response from several of the council, though notably the Solar Sovereign and the High Sentinel Cithæra were silent and stoic.

“Commendations are due to the stalwart Gens Danann-Sol’Aværys, who were thorough enough to examine this threat and to Vyxis Dux who alerted the council in haste so that our order might act efficiently to contain the threat to our sacred capital, lest it be further corrupted by his cursed presence.”

“Deus vult!” Called the Princeps Legatus, and her sentiment was echoed by several others, including Drævyn, who was Paterfamilias of the house being commended by the Sentinel.

“Indeed.” Phocion continued, “Without tipping my hand to much that isn’t common knowledge, I was able to ascertain his methodology, his intentions and to secure a binding agreement that he should not enter the sacred city but remain confined to the distant desert sentry village of Red Rock.

“In some regards, he was every bit the Arcas of myth. Misguided and self-righteous. A creature of potent power and no clear focus toward which to direct it, thus an unintentional agent of chaos. Death has not matured him toward considering the consequences of his actions, as proven by his reckless display in the arena during a period when he was attempting subterfuge.”

“To the point, Sentinel. Let’s not make a meal of the theological implications, hm?” It was the husky voice of the Sovereign delivering his chastisement.

“Of course, Divine Radiance…” A smirk painted his moon pale face, “This is all to say that I believe wholeheartedly that he is incapable of oath breaking. Of course we will observe the usual customs of the covenant, but I am confident that he will stand firm to our understandings…”

“Which are?” Thalya IV arched an eyebrow,

“In exchange for his compliance in staying outside the city, we will offer assistance in the execution of his goal here. This is where the Arcas of today differs from that of scripture… Arcas is bound in service to an unnamed master abroad.”

A clamour answered this revelation, and Phocion held up a gloved hand.

“I understand the implications, and already have certain suspicions as to who might hold the leash. But according to Dæmon, as he so artlessly self-identified, his aim here is to thwart a calamity of some kind. This is the edict of his master and it comes with a prophecy. It seems a simple thing to help him decode this bit of verse in exchange for the safety of our society and for circumventing the woeful drain on resources and lives that would be required to fell him.”

“And yet, Sentinel…” The other moonborn prince present rose from his seat at the table, “As Princeps Pontifex, I must remind you that our duty to the Founders who bless our blood, is in avenging them. As our lustrous Lord said in the Radiant Chronicle, ‘When we cannot countenance Justice, we must not shun its counterpart:"

“Revenge.” Vrædyn and Phocion spoke the word in tandem.

“Yes, I am familiar with scripture, Serene Highness. And yet, as Varvara said in that self-same tome, ‘Patience is as sister to Success. Let not thine ire cool, but churn volcanic toward eruption’s pyre. Strike not ere thine blade doth blaze.’” Phocion cocked an eyebrow up, “Our blades are yet sheathed, cousin, off at Kaladon. And what I have arranged, could see them drawn in righteous fury’s flame.”

For the first time, a crack showed upon the Sovereign’s stoic visage: concern.

“What means this, Vigil Phocion? Set purple poetry aside and speak as plain as a zenith in Searing.”

Phocion would oblige, though not without internally noting her own florid prose present in the command.

“If we will sever Talon’s tethers, he will sever those Arcas inflicted upon our Founders. He will release our gods.” This revelation, unlike the others, was met not with gasps or exclamations, but with stone cold silence. Slowly all eyes turned to the queen, who was staring intently as if through Phocion.

“I am loath to enter into any agreement with so vile a figure. I would spit at his name, but for the Vastian nomads who might mistake the gesture for a display of respect.” The Sovereign began, cool and soft. “Why should we trust this assessment? Are you so arrogant as to believe that a god in his own right, however wretched, has not the capacity to deceive you?”

“Alas, Divine Radiance, he is no god of deceit. Our Lady of Chains teaches us that nothing that lives is wholly unbound, and even gods are confined... by the lofty concepts they represent. He who claims dominion over Light cannot brook shadow with ease. He who claims to be Justice, must stand firm to an oath, or be himself unjust. This being said, I informed him that I would require the authority of the Crown to enter into such a covenant. The rest of the terms are settled, but this matter demanded due diligence.” He bowed in deference.

Thalya IV rose from her high-backed, golden seat and stalked away from the table, considering the implications.

“Arcas bound…” She muttered, “And you would have us set him free?” The weight of that was lost on no one in the room, and a deathly silence pursued the question. After a pregnant pause, it was Cithæra who spoke up.

“He is bound by another, Your Divine Radiance. One with no allegiance to the Crown of Solunarium. At best they are indifferent to our wellbeing, at worst their goals conflict with our own. I would warrant that Arcas is more dangerous as the weapon of an unknown force than he is as an independent agent. And what we would gain, Divine Radiance…” Passion began to swell in her voice, “Two gods unbound in exchange for one. We forfeit not the revenge of our Founders. We merely delay it so that we might confer with Them directly. Let us not guess at Their will, when we might know their minds from Their own tongues.”

The Solar Sovereign placed her hand upon the back of her chair, still facing away from the council, her golden eyes cast toward the window that overlooked her great and ancient realm. She had ruled over it for just shy of a century, and in her hundredth year the boon of the ages might fall into her lap. Why had it not waited a generation? Why had she been allowed such potent power for so many decades, only to be asked to give it up and set aside their age-old pretenses of divinity in the face of the real thing. Thalya IV Imperatrix was not so sure they would look favourably upon her works. But, like the gods themselves, she was reined in.

“Very well, Sentinel.” She replied in a whisper so soft it would have been inaudible, if not for the anticipatory silence and stillness that such a lofty moment demanded. “Prince Vrædyn, as our Keeper of the Faith, will join you and make certain that we commit no heresy in creating this covenant. Vrædyn? Tarry a trice. The rest of you may quit our presence.” She waved a dismissive hand and stalked over to the window, where her moonborn grandson joined her.

Phocion watched the pair confer, unable to discern what they were saying over the general hubbub of the room. They were smart enough to turn at an angle where he couldn’t read their lips.

“Very well done, Phocion. How quickly our Waking Prayer has been answered.” Cithæra drew up to her son, smiling and placing a hand on his back, urging him toward the exit.

“All the more reason to offer formidible sacrifice for the Waning. What do you think they are discussing?” Phocion wondered aloud.

“Were I to guess,” The High Sentinel began, “I would imagine they are pondering the quandary of what becomes of a reigning queen, when the lords of old return to roost. Beware of sabotage, my son. There are those who revere the Founders for whom Their return is a woeful inconvenience.”

* * * Three Days Later at Red Rock Citadel * * *

A servus rapped upon the door to Dæmon’s suite at Red Rock.

“Your Highness!” The young human called from the other side of the door, “Representatives from the capital have arrived and await you in the conference room.” The slave would await a response from within and, whenever he was ready to depart, he would be led to the same room where he’d met with Phocion three days earlier. The table that had housed the refreshments then, was now being stacked with old tomes by figures in purple robes and near the window, the familiar figure of Phocion would be seen conversing with a taller Elf, less narrow of face but similar in complexion. Upon his arrival, they would pause their exchange and Phocion offered a cordial, if faint, smile.

“Ah, Your Highness of Kalzasi. Allow me to introduce His Serene Highness, Prince Vrædyn of Gens Vlahos-Sol’Aværys.” The taller elf would offer a nod of acknowledgement to the still significantly taller demigod.

“Let us start digging into this prophecy of yours, shall we?” Phocion suggested, moving to personally pull out a seat for his cousin of Vlahos. Who moved to claim it with a grunt of gratitude to Phocion.

“So tell us.” Prince Vrædyn sat straight-backed in his chair and tilted his head, “What have you gleaned thus far from the verse? How do you interpret it?”

Thalyus Vlahos-Sol’Aværys Vrædyn Princeps Pontifex

[Talon]

D A E M O N

He stood within the chambers that had been arranged for him, staring out the window at the afternoon sun. It was hard not to sigh at the turn of events that had unfolded. He did not regret his decisions as they had ultimately yielded a more straightforward outcome, even if the empire likely would not be pleased with the more direct route. The door opened behind him. He did not need to turn around to know who it was.

“I thought you might be hungry after…after all of that.” Mathias stepped into the room bearing a tray of warm foods that were more than mere appetizers. The smell of roasted meat and broth as well as bread reached his nose. He would not turn away from a hearty meal but there was something more pressing that needed to be addressed. He could feel Mathias staring at his back, he could practically hear the questions that hung in the air.

“I-I’ll go get unpacked.” The young man turned to go.

“Speak your mind, Mathias.” He turned so that he could look at Mathias directly. Quietly he stepped over to the tray that had been brought in. He sat down and began eating. After a bite, seeing that Mathias had still not spoken, he looked up. Daemon picked up the goblet on the tray. Upon the table sat a pitcher of water. He poured himself a bit and sipped at it as he stared at Mathias over the rim of the goblet.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It was a fair question. He knew that Mathias would not be satisfied with his answer.

“Would it have mattered?” Daemon picked up a bit of bread and dipped it into the broth of the stew that was still piping hot. He took a bite. Mathias looked at him incredulously.

“Would it--you’re a god? And you don’t think that matters?” The young man clearly felt that it did.

“I am a servant, Mathias. I am bound to the will of another. Whether I am a Prince, whether I am a Warrior, whether I am a God, it does not matter. My will is not my own. I am what my master requires me to be.” There was a bleak truth in his voice. He spoke the words flatly and without emotion. Mathias face looked disbelieving as he stared at him.

“Why not reach out to other gods? Why not get help? Why even do any of this? Even I know who Arcas was…is…your father--” Mathias moved closer, his voice filled with confusion. Daemon cut the young man off.

“My father has done nothing to protect me.” Within him, the memories of Arcas roiled. Years of suffering living in the Age of Wonders surfaced in his mind. The many years that followed the bloody separation of their small family. All that he had experienced, all that he had lost, every waking day that followed, it stung to recall even the small pieces of it that boiled to the surface.

“I am certain that the Dragon King is well aware of all that I have suffered. Has he lifted a finger to--to…” He realized that he was gripping the goblet in his hand so tightly that the metal had begun to bend. He released the goblet and set it down letting out a calming breath. “Eikaen will not help me.”

“He never helped me.” He said the last bit softly. The words were heavy, evoking more emotions than he could truly put words to. Distantly, the memory of a boy clinging to the broken corpse of his dead mother, sobbing in the snowfall, with neither father nor brother to comfort him, still wailed in biting grief that had never been soothed. Ever since that day, he had worked tirelessly to be a person of honor, of justice, and of light so that none would have to suffer the horrors he had faced. Even Talon had striven to be an example of goodness in the world. What had that gotten either of them?

“Telling you who I was, was meaningless. It is not who I am. Not anymore.” He resumed eating quietly, even if he did not truly have an appetite anymore. He needed his strength, of that he was certain. He shook the phantom of distant memories off, returning to the conversation. Mathias was looking at him blankly.

“Is that why you chose the name Daemon? I don’t think you chose it to stick it to a kingdom that practically nobody has heard of.” The question struck him more deeply than he would have expected. “The--”

He did not miss the near slip. Mathias cast a look around them. Daemon had not warded the room against listeners yet.

“They robbed you of who you were. So you’re choosing to be what they’ve decided to make you.” As Mathias finished the words, he took his seat. He was staring at him with something between sadness, empathy and pity. He let silence hang between them, neither confirming nor denying the young man’s words. The truth was that he did not know himself. He was not his complete self. He would soon be a person he likely would not recognize. Already it was getting hard to remember some details about his feelings toward the Imperium. It was a horrifying frustration to know that his mind was slowly being changed, to know that the thoughts and feelings being whispered to him were not completely his own and yet be powerless to stop it. It was all he could do to stay calm and sane most days.

“Why did you choose me that day? What am I to you?” Mathias asked the question earnestly. Daemon looked at him. His expression softened.

“A reminder.” Before Mathias could ask more, he shook his head. After another beat of silence, his squire spoke up.

“So, what now?” The young man looked at him curiously. Daemon raised a hand. He snapped his fingers producing anchors that he sent to the corners of the room. From them he built a shield that was tasked across multiple layers to act as a bulwark against outside eavesdroppers from seeing or hearing into the interior of the room through mundane means as well as magical. He was careful to task the wards to ensure that only those outside the boundaries of the ward could not look into it.

“Now, I watch and I listen.” Reaching into the wellspring of his divine portfolio, he touched upon the domain of Light that was his to govern. He followed it until he found the Sentinel entering the halls of a palatial building. He looked determined, his walk brisk and businesslike. For Mathias benefit, he bent the light in the room to create a projection of what he was seeing. It manifested as a translucent image that hovered just over the surface of the table. He could not pass the ability to hear onto this image but he could impart what he was seeing. Phocion was walking into a regal chamber and assembled within it were men and women all of whom bore a resemblance to each other in some way. They were conversing in Vastian softly. It did not take him much to figure out that these were likely the ruling members of the royal family. He allowed his gaze to linger on them, committing those faces that he could see to memory.

“Is it supposed to be silent?” He smirked.

“It is not silent for me. However, they are speaking Vastian.” Mathias quirked his head in confusion.

“Shouldn’t your earring translate it?” Daemon shook his head.

“I am casting my awareness through my divinity. For the earring to work, we must being hearing the words spoken with our physical ears.” He would not be able to understand the words that were spoken but he could still observe.

“I’ve got an idea.” Mathias jumped up from the table and ran to one of his packs. He dug through it and pulled out sheets of paper and some ink. Daemon quirked an eyebrow. “What if you speak out what you hear and I write it down? Then we can speak it back to one another.”

Daemon smiled at the young man. It was a brilliant idea.

“You do not know how to write Vastian.” Mathias shrugged.

“So? I can still spell out what it sounds like.” He had a point. Daemon knew that undoubtedly it would not be anything close to a perfect translation, but it would be worth a shot. He shifted his focus back to his observation. Phocion had already begun speaking. He began, to the best of his ability, repeating what he was hearing. When the exchange drew to a close, he shifted his attention to the woman who was clearly the queen and the individual she was speaking with. He watched. He listened. He repeated what he could hear. When it was over, he withdrew his watch and rubbed his eyes. The silent projection dissolved. After a moment to collect his thoughts, he looked at Mathias.

“Read it back to me.”
----

He followed the slave to the conference room. Over the past few days he had been spending a great deal of time extending his senses across the kingdom of Solunarium, observing for the faces of those people he recognized. Some places he was able to watch and listen. Other places he was not. The Umbrium was such a place where he could not cast his awareness with as much ease or clarity. The inherent darkness of the place made it so that there was very little in the way of light to serve as a medium for his observation. Whenever he entered this state, he appeared simply to be meditating. On occasion, he would invite Mathias to do as they did on that first afternoon, with him repeating aloud what he was hearing. It was not a perfect method but it was yielding results in terms of gathering information. When he entered the conference room, he was dressed in more conservative Solunarian fashions in colors of white and black.

“Your Serene Highness.” He inclined his head to the Solunarian prince and then to Phocion. “Sentinel.”

When Vraedyn was seated, Daemon took his seat across from him. To the man’s question, he shook his head.

“Very little. I lack information to give the prophecy proper context. At the moment, the prophecy itself remains mere conjecture absent information to give it meaning.” He nodded to Phocion. “As I explained to the Sentinel, Solunarium has been quite successful in maintaining its isolationist practices to a degree that makes any information received from outside its borders questionable at best.”

[Pharaoh]

Mathias did his best to sound out the Vastian being repeated as Talon eavesdropped upon the Regium Concilium. Though the scrawling would be completely illegible to a Vastian-speaker, Mathias might be able to read back his phonetic transcription to a native to glean greater details about the events of the meeting, but between his lack of comprehension and inaccurate pronunciation, the magicks infused in their jewelry were not enough to translate. It would require the assistance of another. What he was able to set down is as follows:

► Show Spoiler

Per-mah-nee-aht een Roo-peh Roo-brah ar-kees.
Ar-kas fah-boo-ley noh-nee-heel see-mee-lehm deh-scree-beet.
Ehr-oh-nee-oos et ar-oh-ganz.
Poh-tenz, sehd teh-mehr-ah-ree-oos,
Ehr-goh pehr ak-ee-denz kow-zaht een-or-dee-nah-tee-oh-nehm.
Nohn een mor-teh mah-too-room.
[Indecipherable]
Ee-oo-rah-men-toom peh-ree-oo-ah-reh non poo-toh.
[Indecipherable]
Eh-ee oh-beh-dee-reh kon-fee-doh… [Indecipherable]
Ar-kas hoh-dee-eh dee-fehrt… eeg-noh-to doh-mee-noh een sehr-wee-too-tehm teh-neh-toor.
Soo-spee-kee-oh-nes hah-beh-oh.
Dæ-mohn … kah-lah-mee-tah-tehm… proh-hee-beh-reh.
Pray-kep-toom doh-mee-nee koom proh-feh-tee-ah weh-neet.
Nos seem-pleks proh-bleh-mah sohl-weh…
Wee-tas oh-pes-kweh sahl-war-ee.

Oot Preen-keps Pohn-tee-feks, deh Foon-dah-toh-ree-boos ahd-mohn-eh-reh meh oh-por-teht.
See-koot dee-keet Doh-mee-noos spleen-deh-tes noster.
Ee-oos-tee-tee-ahm toh-leh-rah-reh nohn poh-soo-moos, ween-deek-tahm nohn deh-beh-moos soob-trah-heh-reh.

Noh-tah est skreep-too-rah, Seh-reh-nee-see-mah Kel-see-too-doh…
War-war-ah deek-seet:

Pah-tee-ehn-tee-ah soh-rohr est proh-speh-ree-tah-tees…
[Indecipherable]
Glah-dee-ee noh-stree ah-pood Kah-lah-dohn teh-neh-toor.
[Indecipherable]
Dee-keh-reh plah-neh.

See loh-room Tah-lohn-ees een-kee-dee-moos, lee-beh-rah-beet Deh-os noh-stros.

Doo-bee-toh hok neh-go-tee-oh … mee-zeh-rahm kreh-ah-too-rahm.
…spoo-toh…
…kweed kohn-fee-dees?

Heh-oo, Rah-dee-enz Dee-wee-nah, nohn est deh-oos men-dah-kee-yee.
Doh-mee-ney noh-strey kah-teh-nees doh-ket
…ohm-ness soont sehr-wee…
Dee-yees sehr-wee-oont kon-kep-tee-boos.
… looks … oombrah … ee-oos-tee-tee-ah,
Oh-beh-dee-reh yoo-rah-mehn-tees
Seen mee-noos
Ee-nee-kwoo-woos est.
…kon-soo-leh koh-roh-nam…

Ar-kas teh-neh-toor… et too ey-oom lee-beh-rah-stee?

Ser-woos est ahl-teh-ree, Rah-dee-enz Dee-wee-nah.
…non ee-oo-rah-roont een Mohn-ark-ahm Solunarium.

Ar-kas per-ee-koo-loh-see-or est noh-bees see-koot teh-loom ahl-teh-ree-oos.
Meh-lee-ohr est soo-ee ee-oo-rees.
Mool-tos kway-stoos hah-beh-moos,
Dey-os doo-wos proh oo-noh sol-wess.
Ween-deek-tahm kohn-dee-toh-room non ah-mee-tee-moos.
Tahn-toom moh-rah est.
Proh-tee-noos ahd eep-sos loh-kwa-moor.
Dee-wee-nah-reh non deh-beh-moos kwohd dee woh-loont,
Kwi-yah loh-kwee koom ee-lees poh-soo-moos.

Ah-sen-tee-ohr, Wee-geel.
Vray-dinn Preen-keps, see-koot Preen-keps Pohn-tee-feks,
wee-deh neh hay-reh-sees eks-pee-rat.
Vray-dinn, mah-neh hic. Om-nays ah-lee-yee keh-doont.

Vrædyn grimaced at the vague response. Though he'd been briefed that Dæmon was outfitted with accessories enabling him to speak Vastian, the Princeps Pontifex spoke Common. Unlike Phocion, who spoke in a contemporary Kalzasern dialect, Vrædyn's accent would be unfamiliar to Talon, though perhaps not to Arcas. It was not a simple Vastian accent applied to Common words. He spoke perfect Common, it was only that it was a very, very old dialect, likely dead elsewhere in the world. It displayed that he'd mastered the language academically, but that he rarely had cause to use it. There was pointed intention behind this.

"Fie! Be not coy. Surely a creature of thy potency hath greater wit than that. If thee and we are to align ourselves toward this common purpose, we must wax more candid. Surely thou hast found aught that doth resonate with thee within yond text. Speak thee first, and we would fain complement thine interpretation with Solunarian wisdom."

Phocion took a breath through his nose.

"Perhaps it would help to review the contents of the prophecy once more. I shall call for the transcription." Phocion sat upright and called toward the door leading out into the corridor.

"Subvigil!" A veiled, black-clad man broad of shoulder with pale features visible beneath the lace of his face covering entered. If Talon used his talents to look beyond the trappings, he would note the familiar figure of Finn the Minstrel.

"Bring forth the text, if you would?" Phocion extended a gloved hand toward the young human.

[Finn]

When Finn had asked Phocion about wyvern-riding and various other skills he would like to learn while playing the part of a cadet, he hadn't expected to be put to work. He didn't mind, in theory; he had assumed before he and Arvælyn left Kalzasi in search of his lover's history that he would likely be called to put his musical skills to work for the Sentinel. This was different. He only hoped he wasn't going to be pushed into doing anything he found immoral; he would either have to do something he considered immoral or, possibly, have a philosophical debate with Arvælyn's brother that got him into trouble.

But so far, he was merely cooling his heels the cool of a hallway while Phocion and his cousin, Vrædyn, interrogated someone. Or treated diplomatically with someone. He hadn't been given details. He had only been given a text to hold onto. It wasn't performance, but at least it wasn't feeding babies to a furnace for the glory of Deus Aværys or something similar.

Called by his function, he answered with all alacrity, but nearly stumbled at the celestial chorus that rang in the room, perhaps only to his "ears."

"Vigilia." He handed over the document, and then stared over his veil at Talon Shinsei. He looked different, of course, but Finn would know that symphony anywhere.

He didn't know what to do. He could open a portal to the villa in Tertium, push the prince through, and then—probably—open a portal to Auris, thence to Dalquor, and thence to Kalzasi. But Talon could more easily and skillfully do the same, or perhaps just slip through the hidden routes directly to his bath in the Palace of the First Wind. Either he didn't want to or he couldn't, and Finn didn't know what was worse.

He could vault through the room, killing or incapacitating everyone, and then help his friend escape, but not knowing the situation, that might lead to disaster for himself, for Talon, and, by proxy, for Arvælyn.

He could wait, and he could listen. Even if Phocion sent him back out into the hall, he could open himself more fully to his Rune and at least follow emotionally what was going on in the room, perhaps even influence it. Perhaps this was a test.

His eyes sought Phocion's.

[Talon]

D A E M O N

Daemon regarded the prince across from him with an impassive expression. He knew the dialect well enough to be able to decipher the archaic wording without much difficulty. It was beginning to dawn on him just how unaccustomed Solunarian’s were with dealing with world views that were not their own. It was also abundantly clear that they expected others to simply fall in line with their established hierarchy without question. It was not surprising given their religious and cultural views.

“I am curious as to what manner of candidness His Serene Highness is searching for.” He arched an eyebrow. He left the statement hanging and pressed on.

“In the lands of realms divide, a conflict kick’s the dragon’s tail.” He brought his hands together, lacing his fingers together so that he could think. “The land of realms divide is an allusion to Solunarium. The Luxium and the Umbrium being the divide that it is likely referencing. More than that however, there is a divide between Solunarium, the Ecithian Commonwealth, and the unexplored regions of the southern jungles. This, however, could be immaterial or it could be a crux of interest to consider.”

He looked over to a pitcher of water and a cup. With little more than an extension of his thoughts he lifted the pitcher with a flex of his kinetics and poured himself a cup of water. As the cup slid across the table toward him, he extended a hand for it. Once it was in his grasp he looked down into the water. The pitcher returned to its place.

“A conflict kick’s the dragon’s tail? Ecith is a continent filled with dragons. More so than the northern realms. They live and fly here far more openly than they do in the north. However, if memory serves, dragons are of key importance to Solunarium. My studies revealed little in the weeks leading up to my tasking here. I was able to ascertain that there is a deep link between a certain flight of dragons and the Solunarian royal family, however. There is room to suggest that a conflict born of internal upheaval is at risk of exacerbating something in relation to them.” He shrugged his shoulders. He knew nothing of the internal politics of Solunarium. Dragons were known to be fiercely independent and rather intolerant of being paid proper respect. If there were still dragons of great renown and import to the royals, then perhaps a conflict between them would spark a conflict with the dragons themselves.

“The sun’s light dips toward the horizon as silver chains drag it from the heavens toward a cage of stone.” He thought carefully on this one. When he had first heard the line, he had thought it might have been a reference to himself. He was the God of Light and across the cultures that worshiped him or paid homage to him, he was a Sun God. He had been imprisoned by the Imperium using silver chains. There was more to consider however, given some of the cultural knowledge he had been able to pick up thus far. He nodded toward the vestments of the Sentinel.

“Silver chains that drag a sun from the sky and imprison it beneath the earth in a cage of stone. The Vigilants garb themselves in silver chains, I believe in honor of the goddess Varvara. The Sun’s Light could be a reference to the Solar Sovereign of Solunarium. In what context? I do not know. However, Solunarium’s penchant for ascribing its sovereign as being eponymous to the sun and the source of all light in the kingdom, is something to consider.” He watched the faces of the men before him, opening his senses up to the flow of their auras in order to better gauge their reactions. When Phocion summoned someone, Daemon initially paid them little mind. When the flicker of their aura drifted across his senses however, he had to physically resist the urge to snap his head in Finn’s direction. He knew the man’s aura. He would know it anywhere. Immediately he plunged into the aura and searched for signs of distress but other than a considerable amount of shock and confusion, he found no underlying current of distress. Calmly he looked from Vraedyn to Finn. Seeing him dressed in the vestments of a Vigil of Solunarium made something in his chest twist.

Was this a taunt from Solunarium? Was this a test of his patience? It was one thing to be reviled as a demon by a culture he knew little of and cared even less about. It was quite another thing to see someone he once considered a friend to be dressed in the religious attire of a faith that utterly despised him. Was this yet another sign that he had failed so miserably in his duties that someone he cared for would turn themselves to a path devoted to hating him?

His silver eyes settled upon Finn. He kept his emotions tightly controlled, knowing well Finn’s powers and ability to delve into the minds of others. Into his thoughts he projected something that would be very clear to the minstrel, a firm but gentle note of warning to not probe deeper. He recalled very well what had happened to both the Sembler and Mesmer in the arena.

“Purity is lost when the marks of the divine are stolen by the mixing tides of change.” He moved on from the arrival of Finn, though not without an effort. The man was yet another reminder of his predicament. “I admit that even the possibilities of what this portion of the prophecy means, eludes me.”

[Pharaoh]

Vrædyn and two of the veiled Sentinels standing sentry in the corners of the room, took sudden, sharp interest in Finn. Phocion’s attention was a milder thing and, though his gaze danced between Dæmon and Finn, there was nothing severe behind his pale gaze. Vrædyn narrowed his eyes at the subsentinel, as if in warning, before casting the same glare toward his cousin. He had not been warned about this apparent ploy, nor did he understand the purpose of the endeavour. That would be something they would need to discuss in private at a later time. For the nonce, the prince would focus upon the task at hand.

Vrædyn considered the recitation of the prophecy as Dæmon gave it voice. His eyes trailed down to the pitcher, as the demigod plied his Craft of Kinetics. Smiling to himself, as the pitcher slid back into place, his pale gaze darted to a slave. Suddenly, the young woman sprung forward under the compulsion of Vrædyn’s Will and reached across the table to pour a cup of water for the prince.

“Indeed.” He nodded, “This is the sort of candour I sought and it seems thou hast come to many of the same conclusions as we withal.” He extended his hand and the cup of water was placed into his grasp. He paused to take a sip, then placed it down as the serva returned to stand by the wall.

“Thou speakst of the Zalkyrian Dynasty. Offspring of the Atraxian Crownwyrm, Zalkyrion, Æternal Burneth His Flame…” His expression darkened, “With whom thou wast in antiquity acquainted.”

Vrædyn arched a dark eyebrow as Dæmon projected a notion intended for the subvigil whose arrival had surged something in both the human and the demideity. Vrædyn had been briefed on the incident at the arena, and was already exercising the caution Dæmon bade of Finn. It brought to mind a question he’d been pondering these past few days. The Princeps Pontifex was no reluctant servant of the Faith. He was a curious student of theology for whom this uncomfortable meeting presented unique opportunities. Arcas may not have been a god with whom he’d ever hoped to treat, but a god he was.

“I do wonder…” Vrædyn began, “Hast thou, who claimeth justice and light as his demesne, any concern for the Sentinels whose minds thou didst rend for naught but serving their function? I understand thou hast not deigned to inquire after their well-being. They were assessors, not aggressors and did serve the Crown in hopes of protecting our people from unknown threats. Does it seem just to you that their minds should be hobbled for working to defend our innocent citizens, or are these dedicated servants beneath thine high-sighted regard?” With that question posed, the prince returned his focus to the task for which they’d actually gathered.

“As for the ‘Marks of the Divine’…” The prince regarded Phocion coolly. “I suspect it refereth to the Talismans of Yore. Recovered long ago from Kaladon, the Crown keepeth the Eye of Aværys, and the other amulet, that of Varvara, is in the Keeping of Phædryn’s line.” A snarl curled his lip as he glared at his cousin.

“I fear me that this prophecy doth betoken Immaculist treachery. They have hidden the relic away for untold years and do defy the command of Her Divine Radiance to produce it.”

“It is ours by right.” Phocion protested. “A gift bequeathed us for sacrificing our right to stand in the line of succession.”

“A sacrifice your grandfather did seek to forswear. For that alone is thy right to this ‘gift’ forfeit.”

“My grandfather paid for that choice with his life and our reputation. We would be passing foolish to yield it up now, when you and yours seem to hold us in such contempt.” Vrædyn parted his lips to speak, but to his shock and chagrin, Phocion held up a halting hand to silence him. “Let us not rehash this dispute in front of our esteemed guest. I know that yours is a zealous heart and faster to fire than your Umbrian complexion might suggest. It is a great boon for your role as Keeper of the Faith. I am ever your lesser at Radiant Mass, but I hope you will defer to me in this subtle craft of diplomacy.”

“Very well, Sentinel.” Vrædyn replied, forcing a flatness to his tone though he was clearly seething behind his stoic expression. “But what if these hallowed, holy relics are truly at the heart of the prophecy? We can delay the argument, but long is it overdue. The talismans belong together and should adorn the bosom of our Solar Sovereign, rather than having half of the twain locked away in whatever shadowy vault thy matriarch doth keep to house it..”

[Finn]

When Finn was given no further orders, he put his back to the wall. He was here for a purpose; of that, he was certain. Unless Talon was a more subtle man than anyone expected, then this was by Phocion's design. The Silver Sentinels put the diplomats and spies of Ailizane to shame; even his placement among the subvigilia for training was a move made to tie him to this place, as if he wasn't bound here by love for their bastard prince.

For what purpose am I here? he wondered. Most likely, as they knew he had dedicated a symphony to Talon Shinsei, they assumed his presence would throw the Avialae prince off his game. The Princeps Pontifex and the other sentinels regared him sharply, Phocion mildly. But their regard passed into familial bickering.

Of course, he could sense Phocion's symphony, but the elf was nearly as capable as his mother at maintaining its steady rhythm. Vrædyn's swept majestically with zeal, but his was complicated and would take time to pick apart.

Talon wasn't supposed to be here. Finn didn't know who was prophesying, but if Talon was no longer imprisoned, then he ought to be in Kalzasi. His people needed their Shokaze; even Finn knew that Sahfri on the throne wasn't sustainable. It was said Zaichaer had fallen, but that didn't make their homeland safe. Now they were in the land of Arcas' enemies. This was not right. Finn was here for Arvælyn, to keep him safe.

He couldn't hear Aoren, but then there were rumors he had returned to Kalzasi. Talon's husband was the lever they had to move him, so if that was removed... He was supposed to go home.

While the cousins sparred, Finn reached out with his aether. His touch was light now, masterful, one might even say. He didn't need his voice or his lute to play music in the demigod's soul.

He sent the song of Aoren, the song of Savien. Rickter. Hyoga. He knew the symphonies of many people who cared for Talon, for whom Talon cared.

Finn reminded him without words why the streets and skies of Kalzasi called him back, where his Dawnmartyrs gathered, where everything threatened to burst at the seams without their next Shokaze. Even before Finn had followed Arvælyn south, he had sensed the shifting tides of public sentiment, of political power. Perhaps he ought to have stayed. Perhaps he could have accomplished something. But he was just a minstrel. Talon had a responsibility to his people and his home.

He urged him to quit Solunarium, to take up the mantle of Shokaze. Solunarium was not the place for him. And it was taking all of Finn to keep an eye on Arvælyn; he couldn't keep Talon safe as well.

[Talon]

D A E M O N

He remained vigilant of the weave and weft of powers that were in motion around him. The men in front of him were mages of heightened skill from what he could tell. He watched as Vraedyn sent a thread of command to a nearby slave who was immediately ensnared by his compulsion. Daemon observed the flow of aether as it moved, studying the simple command and the ease with which it was given. He watched as the slave’s will was overshadowed by the command given to her by the Solunarian prince. Having grown up around Mesmers his entire life, he was cognizant enough to know that the person shaped the magic they wielded. His brother used it to perpetuate feelings of excitement, of comfort, joy and welcome within the rooms of his tavern. Rien used it to uplift, protect and even assist others who suffered. His mother used her powers for information. While she rarely ployed it in the use of domination, he knew that she was capable of it. Her use of the Mesmeric symphonies was one put toward persuasion, revelations, and the more subtle craft of statesmanship.

To see Vraedyn so thoroughly command another person to obey him without a word, reminded him sharply of his own circumstances. He could respect the use of mind magic when it was put toward more subtle and benevolent ends but he was coming to hate its use as a means to enslave. Vraedyn drew him from his brief thought by speaking a name that captured his attention like a moth to flame.

Zalkyrion.

In the distant halls of his memory, the name stirred an echo of a time long gone.

Arcas stood upon the hilltop as dragon fire rained down upon the army below. He beheld a mighty dragon of silver and gold scales that shimmered like living platinum. . It was a resplendent beast and upon its back was saddled an even more resplendent man. The splendor of this man and his dragon was different than his own. While he sought to inspire those around him in the light of his nimbus, this one sought to dominate them. It sought to subjugate them with the force of its Majesty. It was no less glorious, it was simply different.

The man and the dragon both reared back emitting a mighty war cry and even he was given pause for thought.

“I remember Zalkyrion.” The words were a soft whisper and spoken with reverence. Dimly he remembered the battle that had ensued. It had not been an easy struggle. “He is a mighty dragon.”

Further reminiscing on the memories of his first life was put aside as Vraedyn posed a question to him. He considered the question for what it was and recognized that Vraedyn was likely not asking out of a place of sincerity. The framing of the statement was such that the underlying accusation was more than clear.

“You seek to make a hypocrite of me.” He gave Vraedyn a wry smile. “To which I ask, does the soldier curse the sword upon which he dies or does he recognize that every battle could be his last?”

He inclined his head to the very slave whom Vraedyn so imperiously commanded with but a flexion of his willpower.

“Does not Goddess Varvara teach that all mortals are slaves to be dominated by the whims of their betters? They ignored my warnings and barreled past my attempts to shield them from being burned. Regardless, the presence of such potent masters of their craft tells me two things. Firstly, that before even meeting me you knew that you were not entreating with an ordinary man but an extraordinary one. Secondly, that my arrival, to some degree, was anticipated. Given the show of force that followed my discovery and the mad screaming of “Immortalis”.”

He leaned forward, the silver of his eyes growing cold as he stared at Vraedyn.

“Two mortal mages sought to intrude upon the thoughts and aura of a god and were cast down for their hubris. I might be a chained god, but a god I am, whether you revere me or not. So, no. I do not feel it unjust that they met their earned fate.” He let the matter rest after that as the prince moved on to the rest of the prophecy. The topic of these Talismans of Yore was immediately of interest to him. He listened attentively as the two went back and forth. When Phocion bade that the matter be quieted, he spoke up.

“On the contrary, Sentinel. I must agree with His Serene Highness. At its heart, this is a prophecy about Solunarium. It is a foretelling of disaster and calamity. Unless your kingdom has some great external enemy that I am unaware of, then we must look internally. My master was clear that this omen involves the royal family. If such is true, then this very dispute may yet be at the heart of the matter.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, allowing the two of them a moment to consider his words. It was as he was waiting for them to speak that he felt the soft touch of Finn’s magic. He felt the symphonies of the people he loved, as played to him by the minstrel. In his heart he felt a discordant wailing of grief as the need to return home was reinforced to him.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to be with his people. He wanted to live with his family. He wanted to do many things but even as he wanted to do those things, a different symphony was sung to him. It quickly overpowered the music that Finn played, springing up from the bracers around his wrists. It flattened the melodies that Finn wove into his symphony and reasserted his subservience to the Imperium. Daemon flinched, his jaw flexing as he felt the yank of the armor’s influence pull his thoughts back into alignment. Before the suit’s power could snatch Finn’s mind and break it, Daemon sent out a pulse of kinetic influence into the aether flux around him. He dissolved the aetheric pathways immediately around his mind and body so that magic external to him would suddenly be met with a deadspace. The result would see all Mesmer, Semblance and any magic not physically touching Daemon’s body suddenly go completely quiet or would present as the space he occupied as utterly blank, a void with no aetheric presence. Continued observation would show that the aether flux was slowly knitting itself back into place, along with his impression within it, but it was a slow process.

Daemon did not look at Finn. Emotions roiled within him. His jaw flexed as he struggled against the more forceful power of the suit. He said nothing, merely looked back to Vraedyn and Phocion after that tense beat of silence.

[Pharaoh]

"...Birthed of Fury and Flame." Prince Vrædyn replied in answer to Dæmon's utterance of the name 'Zalkyrion'.

"...Risen in Vengeance and Vindication." Phocion added, a moment later.

"He liveth on in the potent progeny of His blessed blood." The Princeps Pontifex noted, casting a glance down toward the table. His gaze lifted as Dæmon began his reply.

"Thou mistakest me, Highness. I am a theologian. The preeminent cleric in our Holy Faith, with the arguable exception of Her Divine Radiance. E'en so, it is not oft that I confer with deities of... other domains. My interest is genuine. Though, yes, apparent contradictions are of particular interest to me, I am not seeking to paint you as a hypocrite. My cousin seems to believe your ilk are incapable of hypocrisy and, if he is correct, then thine elucidation might pave a means for we of Solunarium to better serve our own Gods." With that, he sat back and allowed Dæmon to explain, thoughtfully.

"An intriguing question, Highness." Vrædyn tapped his chin, and repeated it as he pondered his reply, "'Does the soldier curse the sword upon which he dies, or does he recognise that every battle could be his last?'" He pursed his lips, "I would say in most cases, both. The sword upon which he dies is likely that of an enemy to his cause, and thus he would curse having failed the cause for which he now gives his life. But, I wonder... Doth this question imply that a soldier, in knowingly putting his life at risk for a greater cause, deserveth no justice?" He arched an eyebrow, and drew his hand from his chin as the foreigner spoke on.

"Mmm." It was Phocion who now interjected, "With apologies for the pedantry, Highness, the Sentinels had already embarked upon their work before you... sort of half-uttered a warning that was too late for them to possibly heed. As for your other suppositions, a bit of clarity there- To your first point: Anyone who attended your gladiatorial bouts knew that you were no ordinary man but an extraordinary one. The purpose of the meeting our cousin arranged was to assess whether you were safe enough to present as a contestant in an exhibition fight for Her Divine Radiance's jubilee. To your second point... Well. His Serene Highness the Princeps Pontifex can speak to that better than I..."

"Indeed..." Vrædyn scowled, "There was... something of an... enigmatic warning." The prince seemed to find this subject difficult to impart for some reason. There was a discomfort- as if his skin was crawling with revulsion. He glanced about the room to the attending Sentinels, before leaning in to whisper-hiss the words: "...from the Orkhan." The word, which already rather sounded like an onomatopoetic descriptor for vomit, sounded particularly grotesque on Vrædyn's tongue.

Phocion seemed amused by the other elf's discomfort, but concealed it somewhat as he gathered æther to pour himself a cup of water across the able, and draw the drink close enough to grasp.

"I see." Vrædyn pursed his lips at Talon-Arcas' icy summation of the incident at the arena. "Then perhaps you will be disappointed to learn that both agents have recovered."

"Somewhat." Phocion added over the rim of his water glass, just before tipping a sip between his lips.

At the end of the prior exchange between the cousins, Prince Vrædyn, still staring down his Sentinel cousin, suddenly shifted his white-blue gaze. Though his face remained still, his eyes darted to look at the human subvigil, clearly known to both Phocion and Talon-Arcas. His cousin was vexing, haughty, condescending and any number of other things Vrædyn regarded as faults, but he was no fool. He would not have brought his creature in to pass middling, cryptic messages under the nose of the Princeps Pontifex, knowing Vrædyn's capital discipline. Was this some sort of distraction? Was this boy some sort of sacrificial lamb to dare play at practising his Craft upon princes, as if he would brook no reprimand? Were it not for the presence of he who represented a remote and foreign notion of 'Justice', the Sovereign's grandson might have executed the Solularian counterpart upon this presumptuous human peregrinus.

Looking back to Phocion, he caught a glint of a wry smirk in an even paler eye than his own. Even with his potent, princely puissance, Vrædyn knew he could not glean an accurate reading of Phocion's Symphony, while his cousin donned the obscuring, enchanted garb all princes and most Silver Sentinels did, but still, there was something there. Even after their conflict, Phocion was trying to communicate something. The Prince looked from the Vigil to the Subvigil to their guest, and it clicked. Phocion had brought in a Mesmer who was familiar to Talon, knowing the two would likely endeavour to communicate via that medium. Vrædyn had learnt the lesson of the other Grandmaster Mesmer who had suffered for their efforts to delve into the Symphony of Talon-Arcas without permission, so he would not venture anything so perilous as that. To piggyback via the Symphony of a lesser Mesmer for whom the dæmon had a soft spot, however... He would not smile in approval of his cousin, lest he give up the game, but instead would ætherically eavesdrop, and likely glean more specificity from the exchange than either the Subsentinel or the demideity.

"Very well." Phocion turned his attentions back to Dæmon, "But I am not being coy in confessing that this will likely soon overperch my frame of knowledge. The Phædryn amulet is not in my keeping, nor ever has it been. That is the jurisdiction of a higher power."

"He meaneth his mother." Vrædyn noted, dryly. Then his Runic sense were perked to an ætheric protuberance. The subvigil was attempting to broadcast something into the Symphony of Talon-Arcas, and Vrædyn would play subtle stowaway in hopes of gleaning privileged intelligence. Such a sweet, light Symphony this human had. That alone spoke volumes of his foreignness, but perhaps it was why he was able to make incursions into Talon's Symphony that had driven others mad. Whatever the reason, it afforded Vrædyn access to Talon's response, or rather... No. Not Talon's. Vrædyn's eyes danced down to the bracers, and he leaned close to Phocion's pointed ear.

"Recte vos." He whispered in Vastian, "Is ab Imperio Geleriano possidetur." All at once, Vrædyn and several of the attending sentinels jolted- a shiver coursing through their bodies. Two guards rushed to the prince's side, as he glared at Talon-Arcas. They helped him to his feet, and rushed him from the room as Phocion scowled after him.

"Mm. It seems we needs must recess for a moment." He held his hand up as if to wave farewell to Vrædyn, but it just froze there for a few seconds. After a few more beats, Phocion muttered, "Fæx." And leaned forward bodily to reach for the apple he'd been trying to draw forth with his Kinetics. "You'll find most of my cousins mislike being severed from their magicks. I'm certain he shall return shortly." He took a bite, and gestured to a slave and then tapped at his cape. The servant rushed over to remove it. "Afferte mihi aliam." He instructed, calmly.

[Finn]

For a little while, though Talon seemed to ignore him, he knew that he had reached him, that his silent song resonated with the godling's desire to return to home, friends, and family. Then he felt a predatory song arise—strangely enough—from the bracers on his thick forearms. A shiver ran through him as his song was made silent in a manner he couldn't quite understand. Blue eyes widened in surprise, though his face gave nothing away behind his uniform veil.

Imperio Geleriano possidetur... That stung. When they had quit Kalzasi to follow Arvælyn's history, Zaichaer had been the enemy who had toppled the royal throne of the Shokaze, stolen Shinsei and his husband. Perhaps they had been in cahoots with the Imperium, or a puppet of the Imperium. The handsome Commander Dornkirk had seemed too civilized for a surprise attack, a surgical strike against Great House Novalys—or perhaps Finn couldn't always see past a pretty seeming.

Finn got the sense that Prince Vrædyn was also a Mesmer, though he couldn't say for certain. Arvælyn's cousins all seemed so strong in their magical power, perhaps fabled grandmasters for all he knew.

Talon would not—could not—go home. Phocion had brought him here for a purpose; perhaps he had already enacted it, unknowing. He could at least bear witness to the Shinsei's predicament, silently support his friend as well as his lover's brother. If things had seemed complicated enough with Arvælyn's family, now they were even more so and—more—set on fire. But if he was not the player his lover was, he was treading boards now, and he could play the part of silent subvigil for the nonce.

He awaited Phocion's pleasure, Vrædyn's return, or anything from Talon Shinsei.