The World Shall Kneel : The Dark Lord's Rebirth

Nowastra - The Ducal Palace

In the dim, marble halls of Nowastra Palace, the atmosphere was thick with apprehension. The runemaster from the capital, Mesthal, came in a heavy grey cloak, decorated with symbols from long before. His gloved fingers traced the strange etchings across Raveera's burned flesh as he clucked his lips in silent reverence.

"This..." Mesthal said. He squinted under the monocle he used to enhance the details of the runes embedded in Raveera's skin, "...is not the work of a novice. This is layered. One rune feeds into the next rune; a recursive curse."

Duke Liles Siegfried sat stiffly beside the bed while swirling a goblet of red wine and looking coldly contemptuous. "You are not here to admire the artwork. You are here to fix it."

Mesthal did not flinch. "Of course, Your Grace. But I would be derelict if I did not observe... that this is the work of a master. They were, possibly, from the old rune sects... curse related runology. They don't teach this kind of work in the academies anymore."

Liles grinded his teeth. "You will be compensated handsomely to forget you ever laid eyes on it."

Mesthal counted his fingers, bowed deeply, and could not restrain the flicker of curiosity in his eyes. He began mumbling ancient incantations over the symbols and prepared his tools.

Grand Knight Nags stampeded through the halls like a demon released from his bounds. His crimson cloak clung to him like wet tissue paper, his boars soaked, and puddles formed behind him on the polished stone. 

Servants froze where they stood, and guards stepped reflexively aside. No one dared speak, as he stomped forward, the furious look in his eyes too raw and too human. 

"She's dying!" he growled, flinging open a set of gilded doors with enough force that one of the hinges cracked. "And you kept it from me?!"

The roar filled the vaulted main hall, silencing every sound. 

There seated upon the dais, like a sculpted statue, was Duke Liles Siegfried. He slowly sipped from his goblet of deep red wine, calmly—as if he hadn't heard. The room held its breath.

A frail, elderly steward—Master Halver—quickly walked toward him, his white hair coming loose from a very neat bun. "My lord, please," he said softly, trembling hand outstretched. "Lady Raveera is not alone. A runemaster was called from the capital. She is stable—weak, yes—but fighting. With all that I am, I ask you to trust that we did what we could."

Nags did not slow. "Get out of my way."

"My lord—"

"I said move."

Lowering his head, the steward separated from him silently.

Nags strode to the feet of the dais, expression contorted with grief that thought it could pass as anger. "You should have told me the moment it happened!" he shouted, slamming his fist into the carved oak table beside Liles so hard that the wood cracked and splintered. "You let me sit in the dark while my sister was alone, screaming?! While she bled from her eyes and choked on her breath?!"

Around them knights began to stir. Hands moved toward sword hilts. The air thickened with tension.

Duke Liles did not rise. His voice cut into the storm like a razor. "You should sit."

Nags's shoulders heaved, his breath sped.

"You're a weapon, Nags. Not a healer." Liles continued, his wine still calmly held in his hand, as if the world around him were still within a normal routine. "You showing up with blood in your eyes would have turned Raveera's chamber into a battle ground. We needed silence. We needed control."

"You needed control?" Nags spat, shaking now. "You think this is about politics? About optics? That poison nearly shredded her soul!"

"If you had went after Hunter Gardan in the state you believed was justified, the King would have known and sent the royal guard after you. And when they found you they track your rage back to me. And then? The King ends us both."

Nags's eyes caught fire. "I don't care about the King."

"I do." Liles snapped and finally rose. He dropped his voice almost into a whisper. "Because I do care about the duchy. About our people. She will live -- but if you charge off half mad, none of us will."

Silence hung. The fire crackled. Nags's jaw clenched as he turned and drove his fist into one of the marble pillars. Stone cracked. Dust fell.

"I will kill Hunter," he whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I will."

Liles stared at him, wine untouched in his hand. "You'll have your chance. When it's time."

Nags turned, storming out without another word. His shadow stretched long behind him, heavy with purpose.

Liles finally sat again. He lifted the goblet and drank.

"No," he muttered to himself. "This isn't over."

_____

Rain fell in sheets over Carrowhelm, the ancient and proud city, drumming against the tiles of the many roofs that made up the forge district. Underneath the big bell tower, the great forge crackled and steamed, its fires burning against the gloomy weather like it was a moth to a flame. 

Marquess Maxim Mellon stumbled down the stone stairs, pausing often to toss some damp from his vivid red cloak. Stumbling behind him was a lanky thin figure in a pristine blue coat with an umbrella tucked neatly under their arm, Inspector Van Deril of the Royal Office of Internal Affairs. 

Van Deril sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. "Still using dwarves I see," he remarked, eyeing the soot-covered artisans who were rhythmically pounding steel into life. "Mechanisation would be much more efficient. The capital figured that out decades ago."

Mellon pretended to ignore him. "Efficiency is for men who no longer know what a real sword feels like."

The inspector clicked his tongue. "I've read the situation reports, mind you. Skirmishes to the south of here. Explosions - mostly unreported spellcraft. You mobilised your entire retinue for what is, at best, a single cult incident."

"Incident?" Mellon scoffed stopping by the central forge. "You call a cursed summoning circle in the heart of my city an 'incident'?"

"We have procedures," the inspector said. "You overstepped."

"We sent every report," the marquess growled. "If the capital chose to ignore every report, that is not my failing."

The inspector smiled, but it was cold. "That will depend on what my report says."

Mellon looked at him. He spoke calmly—though his thoughts were sharp as steel.

"If your report means this forge becomes directly overseen, I can assure you there will be consequences."

"Is the Crown threatened?"

"I'm reminding you," Mellon said, turning back to the anvil, "that not every fortress is an easy pill to swallow." 

The inspector began scribbling down reports and the marquess turned his attention inward, making a decision.

Luenor had to be warned. The capital was no longer simply looking.

------

A slate grey sky still hung over Echlion, silent with its threat of rain, but as yet none had fallen. On a broad porch that extended out over the hills, Luenor lay stretched out in a rocking chair, cradling a lukewarm cup of tea. The faint scent of mint perfumed the breeze, mixed with the not-so-distant perfume of the estate's blooming flame-lilies. 

To his side, Lyssari tapped her foot nervously, legs crossed and arms wrapped tight around herself. At a tidy distance from them, Hera stood with arms crossed, frowning. 

"All I'm saying," Luenor lazily leaned toward the unopened bottle of wine, "is I'm not trying to tell you I'm just going to drink the night away. Just a sip to help me focus."

Smack.

The back of a hand connected with his head. It was a slap, sure, but sharp and practiced enough that there was no bruise, only an angry sting. 

"Ouch! What the hell was that?!"

"You are fifteen," Hera said. "And you already have assassins trying to stab you in your sleep. You don't need a drunken stupor clouding your thinking." 

Rubbing the back of his head Luenor asked, "But you drink." 

"I am not heir to a broken noble house, with enemies in every direction."

Lyssari giggled. Luenor glared at her.

"You could at least pretend to support me."

"I like having all my limbs," she said sweetly.

"Traitor."

"I heard that," Hera said.

Luenor leaned back and groaned. "I can't even read a book without some throwing a dagger through the window. Or chasing me through the woods. Or poisoning our stew."

"That was only once," Lyssari muttered. 

"Twice." Luenor said. "Remember the sick chicken night?

Hera rolled her eyes. "You could just try to take a break without wine."

Arwin wandered in from the hallway, smiling. "Or you could try a brothel. Worked wonders for me." 

Hera swung around with a look of ice. "You say that again and I'll test my new throwing knife between your ribs."

Arwin raised his hands. "Was just joking. Just joking. Love abstinence. Gonna... go polish a sword."

He disappeared as quickly as he'd come.

"Coward." Luenor said under his breath.

Lyssari covered her mouth again to suppress a laugh. The breeze picked up a little.

Then Luenor's voice fell quiet. He seemed to think about something.

"Hera."

She looked at him.

"Um, you're turning seventeen soon. That's a... well, a big deal. What do you want to do?"

She blinked. "What?"

"For your birthday. A ball? Fireworks? A duel tournament?"

She stared at him for a moment, and felt touched even though she didn't want to. "Since when have you cared about birthdays?"

"I've known too many people who haven't gotten to live to see theirs," Luenor said softly. "If we're alive, we celebrate. Simple as that."

Hera blinked, then smiled. "Alright. A ball. With music and cake. But I'm picking the musicians."

Luenor nodded. "Deal."

He leaned back again and stared at the rolling clouds.

"One day," he said, "when this is all over—when the duke is gone, and the kingdom is at peace—I want for all of us to drink together. Politely. No daggers. No curses. Just peace."

"Maybe," Hera said.

"No wine for you," Lyssari added quickly.

Luenor groaned and dropped his head back. "You're both terrible."

But he smiled anyway.