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In The Mist Of The Erie Isles

By Mantrid Brizon

Episode Forty-Nine: By The Light Of The Moon

Standing on the main deck not long after sunrise, Irzain looks toward the horizon and smells the strong aroma of the encroaching shore. It's a pungent but pleasant and familiar smell, one that he's enjoyed for nearly forty-five years. In the distance is Ogrodin, the first of many mainland nations. Normally, the trip would've taken a sailing ship between two and three months, depending on the strength of the winds and the construction of the hull, but the Arona-Dahl has made it in only two weeks. Emerging from the lower deck, Lapira joins him, quickly followed by Kirsta and Mairlynn.

“So, are we finally there?" Mairlynn asks.

“Seems that way." Irzain replies.

“It won't be long now." Kirsta says with a delightful smile.

“Yes... The wait is over." Lapira murmurs before releasing a somber sigh.

Irzain turns to her, examining her with his emerald eyes, his brow raised.

“Is something wrong?" He asks in a soft tone.

“No..." She speaks in a near whisper.

“You don't sound excited." Kirsta remarks.

“Aren't you going to be glad to be off of this ship?! I know I will!" Mairlynn exclaims.

“That makes two of us..." Kirsta glares at the dainty Falmun, who's increasingly obnoxious behavior has thoroughly irritated her.

“It's not that, it's just... Well, we still have so much to do; delivering the documents to King Albrecht and revealing Vashalak's treachery won't be enough on its own. This will only add fuel to the growing political fire, and could very well lead to war. I'm sure it's already sparked civil unrest in the Isles, especially after the humiliation Salman dealt to Vashalak. He may not deserve it, but he's still the reigning King."

The others fall silent, as they look toward the Princess. In her eyes they see a fear, and a powerful melancholy. How are Salman, Naemen and Salasha fairing without them? They know that the Princess is correct, but none of them have truly prepared themselves for more. Even Irzain, who's pledged himself to the cause, appears reluctant to go further than the shores of Ogrodin. Just then, Lutala emerges from below deck. As she climbs out from the watertight hatch, Jarae pokes her head out. The wind blows her wild, pink hair and gently bends her tall ears as a smile graces her lips. She swiftly ducks back inside, while the Lahnyt priestess approaches the others.

“In any case, I thank you all for rescuing me, and for bringing both myself and the record of the royal genealogy to safety." Lapira remarks, her gaze fixated upon Lutala.

“Don't mention it." Irzain says with a smile.

“Yeah. We wouldn't want that shithead of a King to win." Steingar adds as he walks down the steps of the pilothouse, joining the others.

Mairlynn winces and leans against the central mast, resting a hand on her flat belly.

“Are you alright?" Lutala looks toward the Falmun.

“Ugh... I don't feel so well all of a sudden." Mairlynn grumbles.

“Are you sick?" Kirsta turns toward the little elf.

“I don't know. It comes and goes."

“Perhaps you have a growing illness? I could examine you, if you wish." Lutala offers.

“No, thanks. It must've been the breakfast. I think I ate too much." Mairlynn replies.

“But you hardly ate at all!" Steingar exclaims.

“Yes, I'd noticed that as well." Lutala says with growing concern.

“Look, it's probably nothing. I'll just be glad to lie down in a real bed for once." Mairlynn replies, swiftly changing the subject.

Once again, the group falls silent and turns toward the horizon. They watch as the shoreline creeps ever closer. Dashing down the steps, Jarae looks for her beloved, who's suddenly gone missing. Where has Valan run off to? They've all been warned of their impending arrival by Trellan's spirit, and the entire crew except for herself and her lover are already on the main deck. The shores of Ogrodin, lush jungles that shield their view of the vast deserts beyond, are drawing near.

She checks their room, but he isn't there. Their bed is still made, as neat as she'd left it after they awoke that morning. She checks the lounge, but he isn't having a drink. She then darts down the steps, her long, felinesque tail flailing behind her. Her lips curl around her short snout and her tall ears perk as she sees him. Emerging from his workshop and carrying a small box, he makes his way toward the boiler room.

“There you are!" She exclaims.

“Oh, hi, sweetheart." He says, flashing her a warm smile.

“I've been looking for you, love! We're almost there. What're you doing?"

Glancing down at the box, Valan opens the lid and reveals the contents to her. Inside are his harmonica pistol and three magazine bars, alongside critical parts for a few other projects. He closes the lid as he stands before the door to the boiler room, slipping the box beneath an arm.

“I thought I might hide this, just in case."

“You don't trust King Albrecht, do you?"

“I don't know him. Sal said he was a friend, but... I'd rather be safe than tortured to death for my advanced weaponry."

“Understandable. I'd never forgive you if you died on me." She giggles.

Stepping closer, the lovers share a long embrace and a series of passionate kisses.

“Mmm... Your kisses are so sweet!" She chirps.

“Look who's talking." He winks.

“You're so adorable, Val. I love you." She coos, slipping her arms around his neck and nuzzling his nose with her own.

“And I love you, too. You're my one and only." He says, before slipping an arm around her slender waist and tenderly kissing her lips. “I'll join you in a minute, as soon as I stuff this box in there. Hopefully it fits."

“Ooohhh, I like how that sounds." She says as she nuzzles his cheek.

“Uh-oh." His smile grows wider.

“Is it going to be a tight fit? Can I watch you jam your big box into your hiding place?" She asks, nuzzling his neck and gently bumping him with her groin.

“Don't get me started, at least until tonight." He smirks.

“I look forward to it. I've never made love in a castle before."

“Aww, you called it 'making love'! You've never said that before."

She feels herself flushing beneath her fur, her smile contorting with mild embarrassment.

“... That's what it is, isn't it?" She sweetly asks, her shimmering, pink eyes turned up at him.

“What else would it be, sweetheart?" He replies before softly kissing her cheek.

Her smile grows and she rests a clawed hand against his chest.

“Come on, love. Hurry up and hide your things so we can join the others. We'll be there at any moment."

After concealing the box within the secret compartment, which only just fit, Valan holsters his original matching pistols, his single-shot models designed to test both grooved barrels and his ignition cap system. They race each other back to the main deck, where they find everyone already waiting for them. Only moments after docking in the harbor and lowering the gangplank, they're met by the Dock Master, a middle-aged human with leather-clad guards on either side of him.

“It costs twenty-five pintar per day to moor a ship of this size here, and I'll need a name for the ledger."

“Captain Steingar Zufahl."

“Zufahl?" Kirsta snickers.

“Pintar, huh? How about this vasarik..." He holds up a small, gold coin, valued at fifty.

The Dock Master's eyes grow wide. Due to the Erie Isles prosperity and wealth, their national currency is a staple of trade throughout the world. In Ogrodin, the exchange rate is three-hundred pintar to one vasarik. The Helngar is wielding many times the value of a day's rate between his fingers. The Dock Master cautiously collects the coin, clearly unnerved by how freely Steingar is willing to overpay. With his other hand, the towering Captain lifts a letter sealed with wax, one of several given to them by Salman before they left on their journey.

“Oh, and I need you to read this letter... You can read it, right?"

“Pfft. 'Can you read', he says! Who can't?!" The Dock Master chuckles as he snatches the letter.

Princess Lapira emerges from the main deck, having lagged behind the others, likely out of nervousness. While opening the letter, the Dock Master's eyes land upon the beautiful Vizheki woman. They grow wide as he spots an amulet dangling visibly around her neck and crowing her impressive bust, which peeks out of her elegant dress. It's very much like Salman's amulet, and the Dock Master immediately recognizes it. He immediately averts his eyes from her cleavage, out of a sign of respect and hastily returns the coin to Steingar, as well as the opened but unread letter.

“I'm so sorry, sir! I didn't know you were a diplomatic envoy! I'm sure King Albrecht would be delighted to meet you, Princess!" The Dock Master bows his head.

“You honor me, and you do a great service to your King." She nods.

“Th-thank you, your Highness. Right this way!"

“I think he meant 'your tallness'." Valan quips.

Following the Dock Master and his guards, they encounter a group of soldiers near the harbor. Upon seeing the letter that Steingar had given to the Dock Master, and the Princess' amulet, they swarm the crew; they guard them faithfully as they lead them directly toward the castle. They don't have far to walk, as the castle is constructed at the rear of a fortress built to guard the harbor. Sloping walls of red-orange stones, each as large as a peasant's hovel, form the barrier surrounding the massive, eight-pointed, star shaped compound. Towers guard the corners and are placed strategically throughout the walls.

The stem of each tower is octagonal in shape and formed with smaller red-orange blocks. Shuttered windows allow riflemen and archers to fire from the body, while the head of each tower is lined with cannons and bears deep machicolations. Their roofs are supported with curved arches of white bricks, an arch for each of the eight sides. Every tower is crowned with distinct domes of polished brass. The castle is even more ornate and refined, with blue glass windows to keep out rain and sand, and massive buttresses that seem to only serve an aesthetic purpose. Crowning a large, central dome is a spike of brass, easily as long as the Arona-Dahl herself.

The entire compound is awe-inspiring. They march the crew past a sea of guards, all bearing pikes and wearing plate armor that's painted a matte black. On their sides they wear sabers, slender, thin and curved blades that aren't like anything commonly seen in the Erie Isles. As they move through the castle, the palatial estate of King Albrecht himself, they find the structure to be increasingly opulent. Mosaics line the floors, depicting everything from floral and celestial patterns to epic battles, and documenting segments of Ogrodin's history in pictorial form.

Jarae's wide eyes scan the wondrous sights. It's unlike the palace of King Vashalak, which is covered in gold, precious gems, and expensive tapestries of red, blue, purple and orange. The walls and floors of Vashalak's palace are of light marble, while wooden furnishings, trim and ceilings are made of ebony, cherry or rosewood. Every cup and utensil, that she'd seen, was made of gold, silver, or the highest quality crystal. For as ornate as this palace is, also lined with tapestries and bearing gold, silver and crystal, it has a warmth that makes it quite pleasant. Unlike the palace of the Vizheki Empire, its interior is not at all imposing or sterile in nature.

They soon enter a grand throne room. The walls are supported by octagonal pillars of red-orange blocks, polished to a glossy sheen and as smooth as glass. The ceiling is formed by the massive, central dome. The old King sits with his advisors by his side, in a throne of unpadded rosewood. It's only then that some of the crew notice something peculiar; there are only humans and Falmun here. Taking note of the strangers, King Albrecht sits with his cheek resting atop his boney knuckles. Brought before the elderly man, they finally see the ruler of Ogrodin for themselves.

His age is advanced, easily in his seventies. Long, white hair is thinning, and a scraggly beard dangles from his pointy chin, reaching barely to his breastbone. If he weren't on a throne, he'd look like anyone's grandfather. The old human stares with icy blue eyes, leaning forward in his chair. They can hear a creaking sound, but they aren't sure if it's the throne or the old King's bones.

“Well, now. Who have we here?" He asks in a jarringly deep voice.

“Emissaries from the Erie Isles, my King!" A soldier chirps, dropping to a knee before Albrecht.

“I can see that. Hello again, Lapira."

“Hello, Albrecht." Lapira bows her head to the old King.

“Is that Salman you've brought with you?!"

“No, my King." She replies, glancing toward Valan.

“Hello, King Albrecht. I'm Valan, Salman's twin brother."

“Valan?! I'd heard you were stolen!"

“For a time." Valan grins.

“Well, it's wonderful to know that you've been reunited. Just know that I consider your brother a dear friend, and the Princess, too! It's always pleasant to see truly friendly faces here. I typically only receive complaints or unsettling news from my Lords, and half-hearted gestures from those who'd rather steal my wealth and power."

“Such is that life of a King. It's been a long time, Albrecht." Lapira takes a step forward.

“Indeed, it has, Lapira. Why, I haven't seen you in almost ten years! You were always such a pleasant Vizhek, not at all the ball of arrogance that most of your kind seem to be. Ah, the good old days... My hair was thicker back then, and darker, too." Albrecht remarks, sliding a hand over his head.

“Well, you look good." She replies.

“Hah! I look like a lich! That's proved useful, though, as it helps scare the raiders who would dare threaten my subjects, and the merchants who pay me in taxes." Albrecht flashes a sly little grin. “How are you, my dear? Would it be improper if I asked you how Salman has been? I'm sure you've seen him recently!" The old man winks.

Lutala feels her face burning and heart stinging. Even King Albrecht seems aware of the Princess's affections for the humble Lord.

“Not at all, my King. In fact, that's why we're here. I've come to seek asylum. Please... This letter is from Salman. It's of grave importance."

Collecting a letter from a hidden pocket in her dress, an entirely different letter than the one Steingar offered the Dock Master and patrolling soldiers, the Princess is granted permission to approach. She personally hands the wax sealed letter to the old King, who carefully inspects the seal before opening it. As she steps back, he unfolds the letter and reads.

“Dear esteemed King. Heh, I like that. I write you this letter... Hmm... ... She requires asylum from... Oh... I would be honored and indebted if you showed her your benevolence and grace. Haha, that Salman knows how to grovel." He mumbles to himself. “... In trade I offer... ... Oh my... The Vizheki Empire's true heir?! I ask that you consider purchasing the knowledge for... By the Seraphs..."

Setting the letter aside, the King stares intently at Lapira for a moment. He lifts the letter, waving it back and forth through the air.

“Do you know what this says, my dear?"

“Yes. I was there when he wrote it." She nods.

“And you understand that if this is true, this would mean... A great many things..."

“I'm aware."

“First and foremost, it would mean war. Vashalak will never relinquish his throne willingly, and yet we cannot allow him to rule and taint the honor of the nobility. Might give the peasants ideas, don't you know! Also, since when did Salman become so ruthless?! Did you know he's extorting me in this letter?!"

“My King?!" An advisor gasps.

“Salman requests a payment of no less than one-hundred thousand vasariks for Lapira, in exchange for the documents proving Vashalak's illegitimacy. With our exchange rate, that's thirty-million pintar!"

“I asked him not to make it so high, but he said you would try to talk it down 'like the cheapskate you are'." Lapira retorts.

The King's soldiers and advisors are aghast, and that crew fear for their safety as Albrecht narrows his icy eyes. He leans forward in his throne, glaring at her for a moment before a little smile graces his thin lips.

“Hahaha!" He suddenly laughs. “Oh, Salman! He's lucky I helped raise his father. I suppose he also knows how prosperous we've been since we've discovered the crystal caves and gold mines in the land of dunes. I mentioned that in my last letter to him about a year ago. I probably shouldn't have..."

“He merely wishes for me to have enough to support myself and... Any family I may have here." She bows her head.

“I see..." King Albrecht narrows his eyes once more. “Well, since it's you and Salman, I'm far more inclined to be agreeable. Also, I like the idea of having you around. You were always a very shrewd woman, even with your youth. If he wants you to receive thirty-million pintar, you'll receive it."

“My King, that's-"

Albrecht raises his boney hand, silencing the man who stands beside him.

“I make thirty-million every week, and you know it. While it certainly isn't a paltry sum, I believe it's more than worth it. This is Lapira, after all." The old King smiles warmly at the Vizheki Princess.

“Thank you, my King."

“So, now we just need to see those documents..."

As the old King holds out a hand, Irzain looks between the crew. Steingar and Kirsta are decidedly hesitant, mistrusting the old King. Lapira, however, nods her head and waves him forward with her fingers. Taking a deep breath, he retrieves the scroll and the tome from a satchel slung over his shoulder and hanging by his waist. Approaching the throne, Irzain bows before the King, kneeling and extending his arms.

“I present you the documents, my King."

Taking the scroll and the tome, Albrecht unrolls the parchment, using the tome as a table.

“I, uh... I don't see any useful information here... Or anything at all, for that matter!"

“It's enchanted ink, my King. It can only be read at a certain time." Irzain explains.

“Ah... I should've expected nothing less from the land of the tall elves. When are we able to read it?"

Glancing back, Irzain focuses his attention on Lapira.

“As soon as I've been granted legal asylum and have the funds to start my life here, as your subject, you will have all that you ask."

Albrecht grins, silently chuckling and resting his cheek against his boney knuckles.

“I taught Ivan too well... 'Caution is paramount for a Lord, and especially a King.' I see he's passed that lesson to his sons. Alright! We'll draft your papers and establish your credit with our bank. You'll be ready to find a home by tonight, or whenever you so choose. In the meantime, I invite you to stay at my palace for as long as you require."

“Thank you, my King." Lapira bows her head once more.

“As a noble and a Princess, you'll have quite a life here in Ogrodin; there's a lot of choice land here, just waiting for someone to rule it. That being said, I'd ask you to consider a position as a royal advisor. These horse's asses beside me aren't nearly as clever or entertaining as you, and your longevity would prove useful; my eldest son, Alaric, will need someone to keep him on his toes whenever I finally allow him to take over, as will his son after him. Besides, you'd get to live here, in the palace, or claim a manor in the city for your home!"

“I'd be honored, my King. Consider me your humble advisor."

King Albrecht's Chief Scribe drafts the agreement and Lapira's credit is eventually established. It takes quite a few hours, and they spend that time in the throne room. Once the Scribe has presented Lutala with her documents and line of credit, Albrecht clears his throat and turns toward Irzain.

“Well?"

“The ink glows under the light of a full moon, and only under the light of a full moon." He replies.

“A full moon, eh? The next full moon is tomorrow night. Seems like you made it just in time."

“We're lucky that way." Kirsta remarks.

“Luck is preparation meeting opportunity. You must've set sail knowing you had a limited margin of error. When did you leave the Erie Isles, anyway?"

“Two weeks ago, your highness." Lapira answers.

“Two weeks?!" Albrecht gasps.

“Our ship is... A very special, very fast craft." Steingar replies with a proud grin. “She's a match for the Seraphs themselves."

“Clearly... Well, since we've waited her until nearly dusk, why not join me for dinner?!" Albrecht cheerfully asks.

The crew eagerly accept and are soon treated to a grand feast. The King of Ogrodin introduces the crew as his honored guests, and word of their mission spreads swiftly amongst the soldiers, servants and the other nobles who've also come to speak to Albrecht. Not used to such a warm welcome, the crew allow themselves to enjoy the quality food and drink, and the company of men with power over countless lives. By the end of the feast, Lapira has already been made welcome by those nobles who're present; they've offered her parcels of developed land and castles.

A good Lord is never above common bribery; many are eager to have the elven Princess grace their territory with her elegance, a move that would also increase their own standing. Lapira, however, knows better than to accept any offers. She politely refuses each and every one, always conceding to the King's offer. It's a wise move. When the revelry has diminished and the servants are clearing the banquet hall, King Albrecht offers his guests several rooms in the expansive castle. They do not refuse, and are shown their quarters. None raise a brow at Valan and Jarae requesting to share a bed with each other, as if their relationship wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

Perhaps that's a prejudice that only exists in the Erie Isles? Taking a room at the far end of a long corridor, Irzain thanks the servant for her service. Standing at the doorway, he looks to his right, struck by the sight of Lutala standing partially in the room granted to her. Her tail hangs limp, the pointed tip resting on the floor bearing a celestially patterned mosaic. The servant approaches the Lahnyt and pauses, asking her if there's anything wrong with her room. Lutala's soft, even melancholy voice merely tells her that “everything is fine." After stepping inside and closing her door, Irzain finally retreats to his own room.

“Poor Lutala..." He murmurs to himself. “I wonder if she's missing Salman?"

Irzain's mind wanders for a moment before settling on thoughts of his lost love. Feeling a sharp pain in his heart, he shakes his head and sits upon the edge of the supremely comfortable bed. Perhaps a good night's sleep will ease him? Stripping off his clothing and setting it aside, he returns to the bed and climbs in. Lying down to rest, it doesn't take him long before he drifts off to sleep.

“No!"

Bolting up in bed, Irzain pants for air. He runs his fingers through his bedraggled hair, noting the glimmer of light on the silken sheets. He glances toward a window, which faces the morning sun. The arch shaped door with symmetrical blue glass panes allows a considerable amount of light to enter, and the red hue of his room positively glows in the soft rays. As he catches his breath, he's thankful that he's at least slept through the night. It's not every day that he can make that claim. Rising from his bed, he heads for his bundled clothes, placed atop a nearby vanity. After dressing himself, he walks toward the balcony and opens the doors, admiring the view of the sunrise as the pinkish-orange rays glint on the ocean's surface.

“What a view. If only you were here to see it with me. Oh, Naoma... How I miss you." He says with a sigh.

A growl catches his attention and the Scribe leans over the balcony. Glancing at the courtyard below, he sees a man he'd only briefly encountered the night before, Alaric, King Albrecht's eldest son and heir to the throne of Ogrodin. The Prince throws a francisca, which whirls through the air and strikes a target painted on a large, suspended log, which is cut into a sheet. After throwing his axe, the Prince dashes toward a pair of straw dummies, using a shield to bash the dummy to his left and a hastily drawn saber to decapitated the dummy to his right, before running the remaining dummy through the gut.

After this exercise, he sheaths his sword, collects his francisca, reattaches the severed head to the straw man and repeats the process. The Prince is all alone in the courtyard, and the Scribe becomes curious. Slipping on his boots, he makes his way from his room and wanders the halls. Only a handful of servants seem to be awake at such an hour. Descending a long and wide spiral staircase, built from stones that match the castle's aesthetic, he swiftly reaches the courtyard below. Emerging into the warm air, the sun has yet to rise fully over the horizon, let alone peek over the top of the high walls. Ogrodin is a warm land.

“Raaagghh!" The Prince roars as he throws his axe.

After yet another decapitation, the straw man's neck is too pulverized to use again. The Prince struggles to keep his head in place for yet another round. It tips from side to side, now nearly sitting on the dummy's shoulders.

“Oh, come on, damn you! Just one more!" Alaric exclaims to the effigy.

“I think that one is dead." Irzain quips.

“Oh, hello!" The Prince glances over his shoulder. “I didn't realize you awoke so early. I hope that wasn't my fault."

“No." Irzain replies as he takes a seat on a nearby bench. “I didn't notice you until I stepped outside. To be honest, I'm surprised I slept so late."

“So late?! It's hardly dawn!" Alaric chuckles.

“That's often late for me..." Irzain murmurs.

“Bad dreams, eh?"

“I'm sorry?!" Irzain raises his brow in surprise.

“Women have a funny way of calming a man's nerves; you didn't take a consort to your room. You could have, though! We made them available during the feast, in our subtle way."

“Yes, I'd noticed." Irzain murmurs.

“I doubt you were uncomfortable during the night, as the castle holds the warmth and the beds are of exquisite quality. I've only struggled to sleep when my past comes to haunt me." Alaric calmly explains.

The thirty-five-year-old Prince turns to face the middle-aged Scribe, a hint of sorrow in his eyes. Irzain now realizes that this particular Prince isn't like the nobles he's used to meeting in the Erie Isles; he has actual life experience beyond the castle walls.

“So, was it a battle you've seen? Perhaps a man you ran through with a blade or an arrow? Was it dark magic? I've heard the tales; the Erie Isles are known for being a haven for magicians. Or maybe it was someone you failed to save?" Alaric asks as he dismantles the broken dummy.

“It was... Something I'd rather not speak of." Irzain replies.

“Heh... I can certainly understand that. For me, it's hearing a man crying for his mother as he lay in the sand, bleeding out... Some things never leave you... You should find a good woman to comfort you. That's what I did. My wife helps me most nights. I hate to imagine the sheer hell I'd have to live in without her."

“What if losing a good woman is why I'm having nightmares?" Irzain retorts.

“That's all the more reason to move on! Wallowing in misery is bad for the heart."

“Indeed..." The Scribe speaks in a near whisper.

“So, is what I'm hearing about Vashalak true? Is he not the rightful heir to the throne?"

“He's not."

“Hah! What a scheming bastard, eh?! He had to know that he could never get away with such a crime; stealing the throne from the rightful owner is unthinkable. Still, he has some stones on him to try something so foolish." Alaric remarks as he constructs a replacement dummy from a stash of parts.

“Clearly. They've served him well, as he nearly succeeded."

“True... I can only imagine what I would do if I were in that position. He's already had a taste of power, sitting on that throne for some months now. If my eldest son was cheated out of his throne, I'd wish for someone to see his right restored. That's especially true if that other rumor is to be believed!"

“And what's that?"

“That Euralian was murdered... That's not true, is it?!"

“I don't know. I hope not..." Irzain murmurs, staring at the ground beneath his feet. “How old is your eldest?"

“Seven. I'd have started much earlier if I could, but my training took priority over finding a bride and fathering my heir."

With the new dummy in place, Alaric continues to practice swinging his francisca, bashing one dummy and decapitating the other. After a time, he seems to tire of using the blade and approaches a table, which bears a longbow and a quiver of high-quality arrows.

“I've never known a noble to be so proficient with weapons. Most just rely on their soldiers." Irzain remarks.

“We do things a little differently here." Alaric says with a grin.

“But aren't you worried about falling in battle?"

“Who isn't?! Just because it's dangerous, though, doesn't mean I should shy away from it. Maybe on those elven isles the leaders cower from danger, but we don't. I may have men before me, but I need to be strong and capable in order to lead them and earn their respect. I cannot hide behind them; they're not walls made of meat for my protection. They're men, with families and friends. Each soldier accepts the risk of death, but as their future King, I cannot do them a disservice by treating them as disposable. It gives them courage to see me among them, and faith in me as I take the same risks. I cannot ask them to do anything that I would not do myself."

“If only more leaders thought that way." Irzain sighs.

“Maybe they do, and you've just lived in a land of cowardice?" Alaric coolly retorts.

“I suppose that's possible... But what about the corruption of power? Self-preservation is a powerful thing, but it's even stronger when you have something to lose, like wealth, lands and castles."

“I think only the weak succumb to such things. I heard the rumors amongst the nobles at yesterday's feast. Murdering your King to claim the throne isn't just murder, but theft of the highest order. Not only is he stealing an Empire from the one who truly deserves it, but he's taking away what could be a much better and more just ruler from the people." Alaric replies.

“We don't know if that's what happened, though. Maybe those nobles suggested it because they'd consider it themselves?" Irzain proposes.

“Maybe, but I doubt it." Alaric chuckles, before taking a swing at a dummy.

“Do you really think that doesn't happen here?" Irzain snickers and raises a brow.

“I didn't say it never happens here, just that it isn't the norm..." Alaric pauses, sheathing his sword as he turns toward Irzain. “Take Vashalak, for instance. Euralian was his Uncle, and he took Vashalak in at what is considered a young age for his race. If the rumors are true, then Vashalak murdered his own Uncle for the throne! Even if we accept that power has corrupted him, just imagine the evil in his heart to do that! I could never fathom harming my father for any amount of wealth and power. He raised me; he taught me all that I know!"

“But don't you love the concept of ruling?" Irzain poses.

“Yes, but I love my father more... Family is more important than anything you can have in this world. Anyone who cannot understand that shouldn't be allowed to have one..."

Seeing the passion in Alaric's eyes and the intensity of his voice, Irzain thinks back on Salman. Much like his father, Ivan, Salman's uncommon behavior, as compared to the other nobles of the Erie Isles, begins to make sense. Ivan was partially raised by King Albrecht, and he taught his son well. The Scribe lets out a little chuckle.

“What's so funny?" Alaric raises a brow.

“I was just thinking about Salman. You share that unbridled passion, that familial loyalty. You should've seen him when he and Valan were reunited. He welcomed him with open arms, as if they'd never been apart. I wish there was more of that where I come from."

“Well, perhaps you should teach it when you return?"

“And how would I do that?"

“You know how... All it takes is one child to hear your words and spread them to others as they grow into adulthood. If you raise good offspring, they'll spread what they've learned. Kindness and charity are even more infectious than evil, but the problem with people is that they're unwilling to stop evil, because the goodness within them doesn't want to oppress those who subscribe to cruelty. By the time they decide to act, it's often too late." Alaric poses.

Irzain remains silent, merely staring at the Prince in shock.

“There you are!" Kirsta exclaims.

Turning back, Irzain glances at the buxom, blonde-haired warrior as she approaches the two men. Her sapphire eyes are locked on the middle-aged Scribe and a strange smile graces her beautiful features, an uncharacteristic warmth radiating from her.

“I've been looking for you!" She exclaims.

“Hello, Kirsta."

“Hello, M'lady." Alaric bows his head respectfully.

“The others are going into the city; Lutala is searching for her family, Mairlynn is seeking out an apothecary for whatever's been troubling her, and Steingar's probably drinking and whoring."

“Ahh, the good old days." Alaric quips.

“What about Val and Jarae?"

“They had the room next to mine; believe me when I say that they thoroughly wore themselves out... What would you like to do while we wait for the full moon?"

Irzain shrugs his shoulders.

“I'm taking my family to the theater today to see a series of plays. They're quite good! If you'd like, you could join us as my guests. It would keep you busy until dinner, at least." Alaric suddenly offers.

“Yeah, alright."

“That sounds nice."

“Alright then! We'll make a day of it!" Alaric chirps.

Returning to the castle, Kirsta and Irzain join Alaric and his family for a surprisingly humble breakfast. Afterward, they walk through the courtyard and toward Paberezh, the sprawling harbor city which is the capital of Ogrodin. A modest detachment of soldiers joins the group at the courtyard gates, each man clad in black plate armor covered in ornate gold patterns. They're obviously very experienced. Both are surprised by the level of reverence that the citizens show Alaric, his wife and their young children as they walk through the mudbrick streets. Looking around at the soldiers who guard them, Kirsta notes the pride in their eyes. These are not feared rulers, but beloved leaders.

The pair sit with the Prince and his family in a large balcony, a private seating area for the elites that are quite close to the stage. It's an enjoyable show and the time passes by with startling speed. After the plays have finished, the Prince and his family show the pair around the city. Alaric's young children, his eldest son, a middle daughter and a five-year-old son are very eager to explain everything in their childish and amusing ways. That's when Irzain notices something. Kirsta speaks so gently to the children, with a warmth he'd never heard from her before, and yet a part of her seems sad.

He doesn't press the matter; he knows better than to confront Kirsta about anything that might be bothering her. Still, though, he can see her struggle and feels a sense of guilt. Perhaps he should swallow his fear and question her on this later? Eventually, they make their way back to the castle, joining the others in the dinning hall where they all share a meal with King Albrecht, his family, and their entourage. After a tense wait, night finally befalls them. The moon rises slowly into the sky, and King Albrecht, Prince Alaric, and many Scribes and wise men from Ogrodin stand around a pedestal.

Taken from the castle's private temple to the Seraphs, the pedestal holds the scroll, which is weighed down at the corners as they stand atop one of the castle's towers. Waiting for the blue rays to shine directly upon the parchment, Irzain struggles to recall just what he'd written there. He can feel a powerful headache beginning as what's left of his trapped memories fight to resurface. Lutala turns to him, seeing the pain on his face. She's ready to treat him with her powerful Halcyon magic, should another seizure overcome him. Time passes and the moon's light illuminates the parchment. They wait with eager anticipation, staring intently at the blank page.

“I... Still don't see anything." King Albrecht says with a growing frustration.

“What?! That's not right!" Irzain exclaims.

Approaching the pedestal, he removes the weights and lifts the scroll. No words glow on the parchment. He recalls using the enchanted ink in the past, and how the letters should be a bright, icy blue. How can this be?! Has he taken the wrong scroll?! His heart sinks and his hands begin to tremor, though he manages to subdue it. As he examines the scroll, he turns the parchment over and just then he sees a faint glimmer.

“Oops! I must've rolled it in the daylight." He nervously chuckles.

After setting the scroll atop the pedestal and returning the weights, he steps back and rejoins the others. The moonlight activates the enchanted ink, and just as he remembered, the letters glow a bright, icy blue. His headache grows worse, though he doesn't lose balance or fall into unconsciousness. He struggles with his pain.

“Oh! It's in ancient Vizheki!" King Albrecht exclaims.

He turns toward Irzain, who winces from the intensity of his anguish. The Scribe approaches the scroll he'd drafted many years ago as one of Albrecht's Scribes does the same. With a wooden board, a blank scroll, a quill and an inkwell filled with conventional, black ink, Albrecht's Scribe transcribes the information. Meanwhile, Irzain reads it aloud, for all to hear.

“King Euralian has entrusted in me, Hebron Grimzlay, this secret... Seven days before the harvest in the four-hundred-and-seventh year of the Empire, Gabrella, a Vizheki noble of low standing, gave birth to a son, spawned by the seed of King Euralian..."

Irzain turns back to the others, who look utterly enthralled by his words. He clears his throat and turns back, continuing to read aloud.

“He's been named, Harokian, as he's the firstborn son of our Great King. As agreed upon by Natan, the father of Gabrella, their family will be well compensated for each child she births for King Euralian. I'm thankful to report that she only required one pregnancy before gifting the Great King his son. I cannot help but wonder if she feels demeaned in any way for having her womanhood sold in such a manner."

“Wow..." Prince Alaric murmurs.

“Is this a personal log of yours?!" Albrecht's startled Scribe turns to Irzain.

“I suppose because I didn't believe anyone but me would ever read it, I was less than formal..." He says with an embarrassed wince.

“Clearly." King Albrecht lets out a little chuckle.

“Go on! Keep reading!" Steingar chirps.

“What's it say?!" Mairlynn asks.

“Ahem... Harokian has been taken from her. He'll be placed with a family sworn to secrecy. King Euralian has chosen Cydren and Okolana, a childless Vizheki couple loyal to the Empire and the Great King. I had other suitable families but King Euralian refused; he claims to know Cydren and Okolana personally, though they have no standing and are merely artisans. Gabrella and her father have been paid and sent away, to prevent Harokian's lineage from being discovered. They're ship was chartered for the mainland nation of Travana, though I'm unaware of their current whereabouts."

“Travana?! The homeland of the humans and Falmun?!" Steingar asks in shock.

“That seems like an odd place to send a Vizheki noble and his daughter." Lutala interjects.

“I could understand Ledagora, the Helngar's homeland, but Travana?" Mairlynn remarks.

“They'd certainly stand out... I can't help but wonder if Euralian ever intended for them to reach Travana..." Alaric thinks aloud.

An invisible darkness hangs over the crowd as they begin to realize the potentially sinister implications in King Euralian's plan. Once again, Irzain returns his attention to the scroll.

“Their meager lands have been claimed by the Empire and redistributed to other nobles. According to King Euralian, their subjects haven't spoken out about this, nor have the nobles questioned the sudden gift; it's been several years and even I had no idea that this had occurred. Everything appears to have gone precisely as King Euralian hoped. He's requested that I inform the royal guards and have Harokian collected from Cydren and Okolana upon his thirtieth birthday or immediately upon the King's death so that his lineage may be revealed to him."

“And how old would Harokian be today?" Valan asks.

“Twenty-five..."

“That's hardly an adult by Vizheki standards. Lapira was still considered an 'adolescent' in her thirties, when I last saw her." King Albrecht turns to the Princess.

“Twenty-five seems pretty grown-up to me." Mairlynn remarks.

“Our bodies may grow into adulthood as fast as yours, and a teenage Vizhek can become a mother or a father, but our lifespan is such that our maturity can often lag behind our biology... If you could find him tomorrow, Harokian might not yet be ready, in mind or in spirit, to sit upon the throne."

“Vashalak certainly isn't." Jarae remarks.

Irzain holds up a hand, silencing the chatter as he prepares to read the final line of the scroll.

“Here it is. 'Cydren and Okolana have been relocated to the Isle of Bural'."

“Bural?!" Lutala gasps.

“You're familiar with that place?" Jarae turns to the Lahnyt priestess.

“Yes. It's quite the hovel. I traveled there with my order when I was still studying at the college. We gave free medical care and sought out converts for Yashuva. I cannot fathom a true artisan ever living there." The priestess explains.

“Perhaps I was being overly kind in my description? That's just what Euralian told me of them. I've never met Harokian's foster parents; I was still training to be a Scribe when Harokian was born. This was all recorded years later." Irzain reveals to the group.

“Well, that's it, then..." King Albrecht says with a sigh. “You said you came here from the Erie Isles in only two weeks?"

“Yes." Kirsta replies.

“That wasn't an exaggeration? I know how you sailors can be..."

“It was the truth." Lutala nods.

“The Arona-Dahl isn't like other ships. There's none faster on the seas." Steingar proudly exclaims.

“Alright then... Would you be open to some mercenary work?" King Albrecht asks with a sinister smile.