Silverblood: Made to Fall

New readers, Start here! This is the longform version of my chapter-by-chapter fantasy novel Silverblood. If you are new, this is a great place to catch up. This version is updated with the release of every chapter, and will eventually contain the entire Silverblood book one, working title Made to Fall. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Birdcage

As a bird, he flew above them all. Above the slinging fireballs, above the crumbling stones, above the cries of damned men slogging their way through a swamp of viscera. The stench of metallic blood and a century of decaying flesh hung thickly in the air like a fog. Acting only as a passenger in this strange body, he flew on. Over the high castle walls, their turrets launching a ceaseless volley of deadly spells and flaming arrows, over the sea which met the abhorrent quagmire, staining the shallows and sands with long branching limbs of red. Over the mountains, their summits long since hacked away by the tides of war. He flew above it all, climbing higher into the sky. The ground shrank away beneath him until only the vague shape of it remained. He knew somehow, his body working towards its own mysterious end, ascending into the dark clouds that blanketed the sky above him. Mighty javelins of light and energy rocketed past him, striking the battlefield far below. Higher still he flew, each beat of his wings defying gravity for a greater purpose, and end he could not see. He felt it, the call. The call of… something… unknowable and ancient, pulling him as if a force of nature; irresistible. The air was thin up there, high in the sky. His lungs ached, working desperately to deliver oxygen to his fatiguing body. His shoulders burned, wings beating now faster than ever before, yearning for him to stop, pleading with him to turn control back to earthly forces. And yet it was relentless, he felt the call; it pounded in his mind as the sheer whipping of the wind drowned out all other thoughts and sounds, the strange force holding his actions in a grip of iron.

Deafening thunder crashed, lightning cracked and spidered around him, lighting up the sky and leaving the smell of burning electricity in its wake. The lightning was growing bolder now; whereas before it was only as if decorative, now it was as if his ascent were an affront to the clouds. They targeted him with malicious intent, bolts of blue and white energy ripped through the air around him, threatening to put him out of the sky for good. Although fear gripped his mind at the prospect of hurtling back to the ground far below him, he could not turn back. He felt himself dodge and weaved through them, banking and rolling with expert precision, feeling the lingering static in the air tingle and prickle at him with every beat. It was up here, something, something calling out to his soul. Come, it whispered, come join me. Its sweet voice soothed his fear and redoubled his courage. Come and see; the road is hazardous, come, let me lead you through the darkness. It was then that he saw his deliverance. An area of parted clouds, a ray of golden sunlight struggling through them; a promise of a safe haven. The call grew only more fierce, hammering at his mind as if it were trying to break through him and into the real world. Erratically, his body flitted and flapped through the thinning atmosphere, sensing that the window of opportunity was fading fast. Though his muscles screamed out for respite, there was none to be found. Clenching his jaw until he felt his teeth might break apart from the strain, he brought his wings in tight and accelerated even further. He could feel the fading voltage and smell the dampness of the storms surrounding him. The warm, wet air clung to his body as he burst through cloud after cloud.

A crack of thunder, so loud he more felt it than heard it. Soundwaves reverberated through his body, shaking his bones and blurring his vision. Lightning spat violently all around him, arcing through the sky like a dance of great serpents. The lightning took shape around him as if controlled by its own intent. It formed the shape of a mounted knight, galloping across the clouds, collapsing and reforming in different elaborate strings of energy with every hoofbeat. It lowered its crackling lance and charged, striking his side in a radiant bolt. Castor was falling now, the holy parting of the clouds growing further and further away with each passing moment. His vision was fading, the light growing dimmer with every meter of descent. The knight turned back towards him, coming down at him at an unbelievable speed, threatening to skewer him and drive him down to the cold earth below.

He awoke with a jolt, suddenly sitting straight up in his bed. Cold sweat ran off his skin in runnels and soaked into his luscious bedsheets. He peeled the damp sheets off his body, letting them fall to the floor with a wet slap. He turned, one hand bracing against his knee, the other caressing his brow and pushing sweat-slicked hair from his eyes.

He took several breaths for composure, grasping at the strange dream as it flowed from his mind like water. In moments, a cloudy haze had fallen over the images and thoughts that he had experienced, slipping away from his desperate memory. He sat on the edge of his bed for several minutes, studying the tiles of his bedroom floor with his eyes, but his mind was elsewhere. A beam of sunlight peaked across his face and glared at him, pulling him back to reality. He blocked the sunlight with an outstretched hand, squinting through his large bedroom window at the clear blue sky that lay beyond its threshold. With a groan, he pushed himself up from his bed and into a stretch. Even from his room, high above the castle floor, he could smell his mother in the labor of making the family breakfast.

Perhaps castle is too strong a word. It is certain that the Drake family sky fortress fits the definition of being a castle, but it was quite a far way removed from the towering structures and long, ornate halls of the true castles; those residing in Aveamere, the greatest city of Rylaketh. He had seen it once, so long ago now that he could only barely remember the flag-topped turrets cresting just slightly above the thick cloud layers. The only indicator of the true scope of the city’s magnificence was the golden light that emanated from its gilded towers, luminous even amongst the clouds.

Castor’s home, on the other hand, was nothing of the sort. Compared to the sky castles of even the lowest-born nobility, the Drake household was small, decrepit, and for lack of a better term, unimpressive. After dressing in a light linen shirt and durable, worn leather pants, he began his descent down the home’s only remaining spiral staircase, the last standing indicator that this was indeed a noble house, if only once upon a time.

As he descended, he felt the familiar breeze of cold air coming through the cracks in one of the old towers’ numerous imperfections. He stopped a moment at the tower window, gazing out onto the sea of milky clouds below them. Looking out at the emptiness before him, he thought back on his strange dream, trying once more to bring any of it back from the void of forgetfulness. As far as he could remember, he had never been a bird before. A gruesome war, a sunless sky brimming with lightning… surely these could not be good omens. And that…pull. He studied the emptiness before him. Although it had been a comfort in his dream, he was unsettled by the mystery of it. He shook his head, pushing the intrusion from his mind. Even amongst the most crazed and conspiratorial mages, prophecy and omen reading had never been seen as legitimate or even valuable studies, and dreams are just that.

Taking one more solitary moment, he breathed in the cool morning air, filling his lungs, feeling the hairs on his arms brim with static, and stand up on end. He knew that the rest of the day was going to be a bit of a whirlwind already, and he didn’t want to add any more stress on top of everything else. Raving about nightmares and battlefields would hardly be a constructive way to start off this very important occasion. As he released his breath he felt the static flow out of him. He continued downward, towards the smell of frying bacon and eggs.

Chapter 2: Bacon and Legs

He heard his father’s bellowing voice greeting him before he even walked through the main entrance to the dining room. Although Castor (and indeed, anyone else who saw it) struggled to describe it as such, his mother and father had done everything they could to make their home feel as much like a castle as possible. The chandeliers, though only copper and iron, hung high in the room, each candle shining with unexpected luminosity. Portraits of the past heads of the Drake household hung proudly on the wall, with exception of one, which was so scorched and scarred that it was utterly unrecognizable; its frame only barely holding itself together.

The dining room was sparsely decorated. Along with the hanging chandeliers and portraits, eight windows completed the far wall, each with a plate of cut and colored glass that rattled just slightly in the heavy wind outside. A long table of dark wood scratched and pitted in several spots, adorned with flowers, place settings and velvet-wrapped chairs occupied the majority of the space in the dining room. His father sat at the head of the table, as is his right. His plate was piled high with his favorite: overcooked bacon, eggs, cheese, and a side of small fried fish, still with its bones and eyes of course. He drank from a heavy wooden tankard embossed with the Drake family crest, a wyvern wreathed in thorns and blooming red flowers, the only one remaining of its kind.

Next to his father sat his two siblings, one to each side. His brother, a young man now of 14, sat with a similarly sized plate of food, large enough to make Castor feel full without even having taken a bite. His sister, Cassandra, a tall and slender girl of 20 years, only poked at her breakfast with a fork, seemingly content with the study of it rather than its consumption.

As Castor approached the table, he watched their still sleepy eyes perk up just a bit. His brother, Gideon, who now stood the whole of five inches above Castor despite his seniority, spoke first.

“Castor, make sure you eat a big breakfast this morning! I would hate for you to blame another lost match on your empty stomach again!” He laughed to himself, and Cassandra met his taunt with a smirk.

“Come now Gideon’’ she said in a practiced tone, “now that you’re taller than Castor, I would hardly call it a fair fight, being able to see the top of your opponent’s head must render you some advantages!” She joined him in a light snicker. Castor smiled a wiry grin at her, feeling his dehydrated lips pull and crack slightly with the effort.

“Castor may have the losing record, but I’d like to see either of you wield a blade with the same amount of sleep,” laughed his father, the stocky and somewhat short man he was himself, “You’ll have plenty of time to practice your swordsmanship later. Need I remind you, the score still stands at 96 to 107, I would hardly call that an unbridgeable gap!” Gideon chuckled under his breath

“Yea, well I’ll believe that when I see it with my own eyes!”

“You know as well as anyone that if we were allowed to use the full range of our abilities, you would be a smoking corpse!” retorted Castor. He was growing tired of his brother’s quickly inflating ego.

“As if, bookworm. If we used real swords I’d hack you to pieces before you got one spell off. That’s why swordmages use a sword, spellcasting alone can never defeat sword skill.” Gideon crossed his arms smugly, his point thoroughly made. Castor opened his mouth to illustrate just how wrong his brother was, but was interrupted by his mother popping her head out of the kitchen to greet him.

“Castor,’’ She said with a warm smile, “good morning!” His mother was always cheerful in the morning; he got the impression that she would be just as happy in nobility as she was in cooking breakfast. She walked over to him, placing an appropriately sized portion of bacon and eggs in front of him, as well as his own mug of light ale. It was only at this point that he realized how hungry he was; he felt as though he had traveled a hundred miles overnight. His mother wrapped her arms around him in a warm embrace, kissing the top of his head. Castor picked up his knife and fork and began scarfing down his breakfast.

“Are you ok, Castor?” She asked, seemingly from nowhere. He realized he had been staring off at nothing for the last several moments, and turned towards her with a reassuring smile.

He struggled to swallow his mouthful of food before responding. “I am quite well mother, thank you, my dreams last night were…strange. If you can believe it, I dreamt I was a bird, soaring through the skies above a great war.” His mother clicked her tongue lightly at this information,

“Perhaps that is a good omen, my dear, soaring above a battlefield is far better than being entrenched in it.”

“Speak for yourself!” laughed his father, dropping his mug of ale hard onto the table, a sizeable amount of it sloshing out of the cup and onto the wood. “If it were up to me, I would dream of the battlefield every night, and I dare say I would be discontent as a far-off observer!” He grinned and pulled up his sleeve, flexing his muscles in an impressive yet obviously satirical manner.

As his mother withdrew herself from Castor, she turned to his father, who was now filling his third mug of ale and sheepishly mopping up the spilled liquid with his table napkin.

“Artarian” she shot sternly at him, missing the note of sweetness she took on when speaking to her beloved children, instead opting to verbally cut her way to her husband’s ear. Her address caused some ale to dribble onto his chin from the fear of her coming criticism. “That’s your last mug of beer for this morning, O’ great lord Drake” she asserted, with a small but recognizably sly grin. She continued, “the Melanari family will be joining us tonight for dinner, I will trust in you to be sober when they arrive” Artarian laughed out loud at this,

“Of course my darling flower” he half shouted, forgetting the notion of an inside voice at all, “have you ever known me to disappoint your expectations?” Rose rolled her eyes.

“I’ve laid out your good clothes on our bed, just don’t spill anything on it!” He raised his mug to her in the promise that he would not. “The same goes for all you kids too, this is a big day for our family, and I daresay there are several culprits at this table who might make fools of themselves before it’s out.” She panned a dead look to all of them, Artarian included.

“Not to worry my flower” he exclaimed through a mouthful of food. “No matter how these kids behave, I’m sure to ravage the battlefield so thoroughly, Vestik will have no choice but to bring me back into the fold.”

“Please Father,” piped Cassandra, “just be careful, you are not quite as young as you once were…or as fit…” she added, glancing at him.

“Shut up Cassandra!” snapped Gideon, “Father’s manahart is just as strong as his arm! He is going to have slain many enemies by this time tomorrow!” He punctuated his point by standing abruptly, punching the air across the table with a closed fist.

“Yea Cassandra,” said Castor. Sensing that this was finally his time to get Gideon back for earlier, “Father’s strength is as vast as his appetite!” Cassandra belly laughed at that but was quickly overshadowed by their father, who laughed twice as earnestly.

“If that were the case,” he said, grinning as wide as a canyon, “then they would have crowned me king a century ago!” he chuckled heartily at himself, taking another deep swig of the alcohol. Cassandra and Castor both sniggered lightly alongside his jest. Breakfast was always this way, as was nearly any occasion where the Drake family found themselves all gathered in one place. Although there were no more foreign languages in Rylaketh, once it was often said one would need a translator to sit at Drake’s table, and you would be forgiven for thinking of them as adversaries.

“That’s enough out of you two.” Rose sighed, breathless at the ceaseless banter that their dining table was famous for. She walked behind Gideon, clapping both hands down on his shoulders. “Gideon is right. Your father-” She looked over at him with a smile, “-is a very brave, strong, and devilishly handsome swordmage. When he served with Lord Melanari, he was the commander of many men. No doubt he has come to ask him for his aid thanks to his sharp mind and broad muscles.” Artarian smiled back at her,

“My dear, should I ever say that you are not the greatest love of my life, kill me at once, for you speak to a man who is not your husband.” He rose from his seat, wrapping around her with a bear hug from behind, gyrating rather suggestively. She rolled her eyes.

“Should he ever become skinny, I trust the circumstance to be the same” said Cassandra under her breath. Castor laughed loudly at this, and Rose gave him a smack to the back of the head,

“I didn’t even say anything!” he protested as Cassandra laughed harder. “Cassandra you bitch, you did that on purpose” shooting her a glare for knowing his mother’s quick hand would never miss that opportunity. She just stuck out her tongue, letting thoroughly chewed eggs and bacon slide onto her plate with a slop.

“How ladylike of my eldest daughter,” said Rose, pushing her thumb and forefinger against her eyes with defeated frustration. Cassandra picked up her plate of untouched food and disengaged from the table with a theatrical spin.

“Yes mother,” she said dripping in sarcasm, strutting away from the table, holding the platter high in one hand. “Perhaps when Lord Melanari arrives, I shall greet his son with an equally ‘ladylike’ expression, I hear he is quite the good-looking young man.” She hiked her skirt to her thigh and placed her slender and toned leg on the table to illustrate her meaning. Her skin, a soft cream color, was decorated with ribbons of shifting silver, making her calf appear far more fit and delicate than it had ever been in reality.

“You’ll be lucky if he even notices you,” said Rose, deflating Cassandra’s ego in a single move. Begrudgingly she removed herself, not even hiding her sassy eye-roll.

“Whatever, I’m done eating. I’ll be getting ready in my room if you need me.” Her tone was wet with the desire to test her mother’s patience. She departed the dining room with a dramatic flick of her hair, disappearing into the doorway. He could hear her tapping her silver-coated fingers along the stones as she went, the sound of it echoing.

“Don’t scratch the stones, Cassandra!” Rose shouted after her. No reply came, but the tapping ceased.

Artarian spoke up again, “If you lads have had your fill, I suggest you go clean yourselves up as well. We have a few hours before Vestik and his family arrive, but for your sake, and mine, make sure you’re ready when they get here.” Castor nodded and began cleaning up his dining place, Gideon, still the younger brother, parroted him and began to clear his own.

Having finished his breakfast, Castor departed the main hall to return to his room. Although he looked forward to the dinner to come later, he had better things to do than sit around all day in his decorative clothes. As he reached the threshold of his solitary tower, he heard heavy footsteps clambering up from behind him.

“Castor! Hey, Castor!” Gideon pined after him.

He felt the prospects of any time to himself drift out of sight. He turned around on the ball of his foot to face his brother. “What is it, Gideon? I was hoping to get some casting practice in. The lightning ball I can sustain is getting bigger every day, it’s almost ready to be directed.” He held out his hands about a foot wide in front of him to illustrate his point. Gideon shook his head,

“Castor, it’s true that your mana manipulation skill is impressive for someone self-taught, but if you ever hope to be a swordmage, you are going to need to improve your swordsmanship considerably. One day, the time will come for us to restore the honor of our family. Father is already beginning the process, helping us form alliances. It’s clear that one day he expects us to take over the effort.”

Castor considered this point. It was true that he did wish to fight alongside his brother one day for the sake of their name. He did not want his children to grow up as ex-nobility, as he had. “All right Gideon, as dumb as you are, you make a compelling point. My sword skills have been lacking as of late. How many matches have I lost in a row?”

“Who’s the dumb one now? You’ve lost the last six matches to me, and two by knockout.” He did not try to hide the satisfaction he felt in explaining his victories over his elder brother.

“Shut up Gideon. I’ve beaten you before and I can do it again.”

“As I said before, I’ll believe it when I see it. You can try your best, but the gap will only get wider if you don’t focus on your form more”

“Yes yes, form this, form that; shall we get on with it? If mother catches us arguing instead of getting ready, we’ll both be getting an earful”

Gideon nodded his head in agreement, and they left the foot of the tower, a mutual understanding that although they were brothers, their competition would not be hampered by something as superficial as familial ties.

Silverblood Chapter 3: Rules are Rules

Once a barracks of their family military, the Drake sky fortress came equipped with some useful amenities, including a sand training area on the grounds outside the main building.

“Castor,” chimed Gideon, already moving past their icy exchange. “How long do you think it will be until we are ready to join in the War for the World? I feel like we still have so much to accomplish before we are ready for the battlefield, I mean, we don’t even have an army…”

“Well, a long time ago, our family was a big deal in Aveamere, it stands to reason that there must still be those who will support us when the time comes. If not for our bastard grandfather, we might be there right now.”

“Yes, yes I know that of course. Our murderous ancestor burns as we speak.” He spat on the ground at the mention of the man who had ruined the world. “But I can’t help but feel that the time is coming soon. Father joining with the Melanari is not going to sit well with the other families. They may see us as a bigger threat, and the world hates us enough as it is.” They entered the small barracks, a modest array of different weapons and armor awaiting them. Castor picked up his shoulder armor and placed it over his head.

“Obviously there must be a strategic opening that Lord Melanari believes they can exploit.” He fumbled with the leather fasteners on his shoulders, “he would never risk contact unless he had a good reason. They may be brothers in blood by their experiences in the Vasil Crusadus, but I hardly think he would ally with us for nothing.”

“You’re right, he is taking a big risk coming here. Whatever Melanari has up his sleeve, Father seems to be very excited about it. Perhaps their friendship runs deeper than we think.”

“He is excited. If Father can help Lord Melanari to reach his goals in the coming battle, he thinks we may be one step closer to being re-legitimized. I even heard him talking with Mother about acquiring some small military forces of our own if everything goes well.”

While this answer satisfied Gideon, he was less convinced. They were far from ready to re-enter the War for the World. They had no soldiers, dwindling finances, and potentially the world’s greatest chip on their shoulder. His blasted great-grandfather was regarded as a traitor and a failure, and it was he who set the whole world on this path in the first place. There had only been one manahart ignition in the Drake family for three generations now, and none save his Father were ready to face any real combat. The time of the great Drake household was over, their once prosperous lands had been assimilated by the remaining houses, their armies destroyed by those they once called friends. The people they once lorded either resented them now or praised them only in secrecy. It just didn’t make sense, Vestik was a brilliant strategist, he would never take a gamble like this lightly. He picked up a pair of leather and iron gloves that went all the way to his elbow and began working on the straps again, whereas Gideon had already moved on to selecting his helmet.

“If Father does a good job on the battlefield, they may help us to secure the resources we need.” Unlikely he thought to himself. “Of course, if we want to make any progress towards rebuilding our family, you are going to need to get over your fear of girls.” Gideon’s face turned red,

“let’s just focus on getting into the war for now, and anyway, you’re not exactly a lady’s man yourself, skinny.” Castor looked around in a mock search,

“You let me know the next time a fair maiden comes around. At least when we go into town, I can have a drink with her without spilling it all over her gown.”

“That was one time!” shouted Gideon, pushing Castor roughly.

“One time is more than enough.” Said Castor turning to take his sword from the table of arms. He watched Gideon’s selection inquisitively. There were several blades to choose from, they had made a habit of regularly acquiring “new” equipment from pawn shops and discount blacksmiths.

Castor’s sword was a simple weapon. Its wooden and brass handle lacked any semblance of pompadour or design. The blade pitted and chipped beyond any worthwhile repair was really only fit to serve as a novice-level training weapon. Gideon’s sword was similar, though slightly wider and heavier.

“Our father is going to lead the way to a new era for us Castor, I know he will. Aren’t you excited?” Castor didn’t know how to respond; he thought the stories of his glory days in the Vasil Crusadus. Even if they destroyed all their enemies, after what his great-grandfather had done, who would accept them? He kept this to himself and shrugged, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves Gideon, perhaps our immediate concern should be to help Father look good at tonight’s dinner.”

“Perhaps your immediate concern should be that I’m going to kick your ass yet again.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Castor, flexing his muscles, feeling the warmth in his chest as he allowed a small amount of lightning to arc and crackle across his sword blade. “I’m feeling good about this one!”

“Hey, you know the rules! There’s no magic allowed in the sparring matches! This is a test of swordsmanship skills only!” His chest heaved with the force of his protest. Castor laughed,

“Fine, but as soon as your manahart can build up a strong enough flow, you’re never gonna beat me again!” He triumphantly raised the blade over his head, stimulating a small rush of mana. Lightning spidered out of the blade, gently feathering across his metal padding, jumping to the ground.

“Stop it Castor, you’re going to electrocute me” huffed Gideon.

“Tsk tsk tsk little brother, I would hardly say that the match had started yet,” said Castor, cackling to himself slightly.

“Fine!” Gideon spat, “let’s start now!” Before Castor could process this declaration, Gideon was upon him with a full-body tackle. Castor did his best to catch the tackle, lowering his shoulder. He took the brunt of his brother’s large body, exhaling hard as the air was knocked out of his lungs. For a moment, Castor stood strong; then came his brother’s real strength. Immediately, he was on the back foot. Even with all his might, he took one backward step after another until he was sent tumbling out of the equipment room, rolling head over heels into the sand sparring pit.

Castor quickly jumped to his feet in an attempt to take up a defensive position. Facing his brother now, he raised his dull blade, turning slightly and holding the sword diagonally across his body with a strong two-handed grip. Seeing that Castor had sufficiently composed himself, Gideon started his advance in earnest, entering the sand pit with his sword held high near his eyeliner. Locked at the eyes, the two took one sidestep after another. Synchronized, both of them waiting for the other to misstep; waiting for the perfect striking opportunity.

By sheer luck of the draw, the opening presented itself to Castor first. As Gideon took another step to his left, Castor saw him sink ever so slightly. Gideon had stepped into a drag in the sand, created by Castor’s original tumble into the arena. Flipping his blade over his chest, he feinted a strike diagonally from the right. Seeing this change of form, Gideon shifted his posture, twirling his blade to strike upwards for a parry. Castor felt the smallest of grins creep onto his face as he deftly slid his left hand to the bottom of the hilt. With this new wide hand position, he snapped the blade inwards, now bringing it raking across his younger brother’s chest plate as the attempted block went wide. He laughed and sneered slightly, feeling the taunt rising in his chest.

“I’ve seen blind men who could have read that attack better than you Gideon! You’re slow today!” . Gideon snarled, annoyed to have taken a clean hit so early into the sparring session. He stepped forward, aiming his blow to strike the top Castor’s helmet. Castor only had an instant to thrust his own blade upwards to catch the crushing hit. He felt his elbows buckle from the force of it. He had always been the quicker of the two, but his brother’s strength should never be underestimated.

Despite the fact that Castor had blocked the attack, Gideon continued to leverage his superior form, pushing downwards with the edge of his sword. He slid his hand across the flat side of the blade above him, allowing it to rest three-quarters down its length. He bent his knees, and with all he could muster, exploded upwards, pushing with both his lower and upper body as one. Gideon took a step back and Castor took this opportunity to launch his counterblow. The two brothers whirled their swords around them, as they had done so many times before. They knew each others swordplay as well as they knew their own. Blows clashed in perfect unbroken chains of attack and defense as the two slipped into an almost trance-like stalemate, utterly locked in terrific swordsmanship. The sound of metal on metal rang out around them as they both pressed each other, probing for any sign of weakness.

The match was going into the five minute mark when at last Castor saw his opening. Gideon had overswung and left his abdomen fully exposed. Castor lunged forward, striking with a straight piercing shot.

“You fool,” said Gideon breathlessly as he narrowly dodged the strike. Castor stabbed into the air, his sword hanging extended in front of him. Now it was Gideon’s turn to smile, and much less subtly than Castor had. Gideon brought his sword down from as high as he could, crashing it down onto Castor completely horizontal blade.

Castor grit his teeth as the vibrations from the impact shot through his arms. The tip of his sword was cast down into the sand, his arms snapping outwards and down. He felt the skin on his hands tear slightly from the effort to keep a tight grip on his Sword.

Gideon wasn’t done yet though. He dragged his own blade up Castor’s, swinging it like a bat into his fully exposed chest. The force of the blow was immense, it knocked the wind out of his lungs in an instant and sent him onto his back.

Then, he saw it, right in front of him, as clear as day; a ball of fire so large it consumed his entire field of view. As it fell towards him he could feel the heat of the inferno, he felt his skin singe and the hair on his arms burn away. He felt nauseous, and wanted to vomit. Dazed and gasping for air, he weakly held out his hand just to put something, anything between him and this force of nature. He watched as his skin darkened and his hand burned as he made contact. He felt its immense, crushing weight as he weakly made an attempt to push against it. He felt a surge of fear and pain as it fell, hungry to engulf him. Here at the edge of collapse, he summoned all the willpower in his body and pushed with all of his strength. He felt warmth course from his chest and through his arms to his feebly outstretched fingertips as he released his remaining energy.

As abruptly as it had arrived, it was gone. The force of his mental strain made the veins on his forehead swell and pulsate, reddening his face. As his breathing slowly returned to normal he amassed enough strength to lift his heavy head. He craned his neck over his breastplate, only to see Gideon, thrown back fifteen feet, his sword gone from his hand, flung over the side of the castle yard. It had all happened mere seconds, despite his mind telling him otherwise.

The dizziness that swarmed his brain was bearable now as he gulped in huge breaths of cold high-altitude air… He saw Gideon recovering slowly, pulling himself up onto one knee, breathing heavily. He watched his body spasm and contract involuntarily, his hands and stomach clenching as ribbons of lightening crawling over his body. After a few seconds, the bolts dissipated and flickered away. Weakly, Gideon hoisted himself out of the sand, knees shaking, trying to shrug off the intense shock. A spout of blood ran from his nose, the blood vessels in his eyes had burst and the whites of them had become a deep maroon. As a man possessed, he stiffly crossed the arena, sending sand and small rocks flying in his wake.

Castor winched himself up off the ground, stammering in a nervous panic at seeing his brother. “Wait,” he said breathlessly “Gideon, there was a-” Gideon could either not hear him, or did not care to listen. He grabbed Castor by his tunic and pulled him off the ground with his left hand, and with his right, he cocked his arm back and slammed his fist into Castor’s dented chest plate.

All at once, he was lifted, and then slammed on both sides. His neck ratcheted forewords with the punch, coming crashing down as he made contact with the hard ground. His head was reeling, and he once again felt the strange sensation overcome him. He could smell blood in the air, crisp and metallic, he could almost taste it around him. He could hear them now, distant and otherworldly, shrieking voices, cries for aid and shouts of war. His vision began to blur and swim together into one massive colorless blob. It expanded over his field of view until the numbness in his skull had become his only reality, and a vibrant ringing in his ears beckoned him into unconsciousness.

Gideon was startled to hear his Father’s booming voice behind him. He turned quickly, snapping to attention.

“What’s all this then?” he half shouted as he emerged from the entrance to the main hall. He stammered halfheartedly, attempting to offer some explanation for this scene.

“Father, Castor used a spell against me, and you know that’s against the-”

“Zip it, oh master swordsman,” Said his Fathers with a disapproving look towards the pair of them. “So you knocked ‘im out did you? Why? ’Cause he used a bit of fancy magic against you?” Gideon felt his face getting red.

“Yes, but you know he’s not-”

“He’s not what,” Aratrian said, interrupting Gideon’s explanation yet again. “He’s not allowed to use magic? Well it’s high time that he did, you know if you are ever in a real fight, your enemies aren’t going to care that you’re a late bloomer Gideon.” Gideon’s face turned the color of a red rose

“Mother said that you couldn’t even cast a spell until you were 16, old man!” he retorted, now so desperate for a comeback that he threw caution to the wind.

“That may be true, but I was still three times the swordsman as you.” He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Or do we need to do a bit more training today?” Gideon paused before he offered a comeback. He decided that this was not the most opportune time to engage is father in a friendly bought. He did his best to shrink away from his armor where it met his burned flesh.

“Anyway” Artarian continued, “your mother isn’t going to be happy about this one bit. How many times do I have to tell you we have very important company attending us. Look at your brother” he nudged the toe of Castor’s boot with his foot, “He’s going to have quite a few bruises from this.” Sheepishly, Gideon bowed his head.

“I’m sorry Father, I lost my temper. He was asking for it though, he knows the rules.”

“Yes, yes rules are rules of course, but your timing is most inopportune. You may be strong Gideon, but you could certainly learn a thing or two from this lump.” He nudged Castor again. “Looks like he’s out cold. Pick him up, go put him in bed, and then go get ready. You look filthy.” He wiped a clean line of sand off of Gideon’s sweating arm. “I’ll have Cassandra look after him, hopefully, he will come to by the time they arrive.” He bent down and put a hand on Castor’s forehead,

“My god, he must have hit you with one hell of a spell, his reserves are almost completely empty.” He closed his eyes and allowed some of his own mana to flow into him. He put a hand on Castor’s unmoving shoulder and patted him sarcastically, “you almost had him that time my boy, better luck next time.” He stood, and turned his gaze to Gideon. “Well? Get on with it then! You’ll be a full-blown swordmage by the time he wakes up if you take any longer!”

Gently, he lifted Castor’s unconscious body off the ground and began to carry him back to the fortress.

“Sorry about the one brother, but you started it,” he said to no one at all.

Silverblood Chapter 4: Gold and Bone

Although Gideon was an undoubtedly strong young man, carrying the dead weight of his brother in armor up eighty-eight stairs was a difficult task. This is what I get for going overboard he thought to himself. He knew he deserved this penance, it was true that he had gone too far. It was difficult for him to gauge his own strength sometimes, even if his brother deserved it. His spell was completely uncalled for, it was a cheap shot, and it was at a deadly level of strength. Father said himself that he almost emptied his mana reserve, and it was the first spell Gideon saw him cast that day. He hoped that Castor would forgive him when he awoke, but deep down he wasn’t worried about it. It was hardly the first time that either of them had been knocked out in one of their matches, and Castor had been the instigator.

I wonder what he was going to tell me. He looked at him, the red flush only now beginning to fade. In his anger he ignored it, but clearly, there was something not right about what had happened between them. Castor would never do that on purpose.

Breaching the top of the stairs, sweating and breathing heavily, Gideon shouldered open the door, sending it swinging open with a slam. He winced at the noise, and secretly hoped that nothing had been broken. He took a few heavy steps across the carpeted stone floor and tossed his brother unceremoniously onto the bed where he bounced into a rather uncomfortable-looking position. Well, serves you right. Shouldn’t have broken the rules, jerk he thought to himself. He took a look around the room. It was not rare for Gideon to venture up to Castor’s chambers, but with his brother unconscious it felt somehow like he was here when he was not invited. It shed an exciting light on his brother’s things. He walked around, taking note of the small trinkets and knickknacks that Castor kept around his room. A telescope peered out over the edge of his open window, the white drapes billowing around it as the high atmosphere air flowed into the room. A small knife laid on the edge of his desk, black and decorative, made of cheap metal. There were stacks of notebooks, broken quills, and an empty ink bottle laying on its side, cemented to the wood with dry ink. He picked up a notebook and began to thumb through it lazily. It was a progress diary, from several months ago. It accounted for his discovery that if he brought his hands together, he could produce a large ball of magic in one place. He closed the notebook, tossing it jealously. Always the caster, Castor he thought to himself, laughing slightly at the coincidence. There were several other effects strewn around the room; a pair of metal spinning tops, a small model of a castle, floating above a chunk of Latherite, the repelling stone that allowed all castles to fly. The castle was labeled “Pillar of Tremitus.” It was modeled after the famous Stelanor war-castle. Supposedly, it had crashed into the sea during the War of Betrayal, along with the majority of the Drake fleet. There was virtually no space in the room that was not occupied by one thing or another, even the walls were overly decorated with random bits of amateur artwork, designs for swords and helms, and a rather inappropriate painting of a horned, nude woman. He remembered the day he bought it, only a few months earlier. He also remembered that his mother vowed that it would be hurled from the top of the tower if it was the last thing she ever did. He chuckled at the memory and remarked to himself that despite all her vowing, here the painting was. “Oh brother mine you do have a way,” Gideon said to the emptiness. “I may not understand it, there might be none who do, but it is certainly yours.” With that, he turned and began to walk out of the room. As he was about to leave the threshold and venture back down the towers winding stairs, he stopped. Turning to his brother on the bed, He sighed and went to go place his limbs into a more favorable arrangement.

On his way down the stairs, he saw Cassandra ascending, muttering something to herself about always having to be the clean-up crew. He less saw her and more ran straight into her.

“Hey!” She shrieked. “Watch where you’re going, dumbass.” She was fuming, obviously frustrated that her oh-so-precious alone time was being whittled away by the second, her face and arms were covered almost completely in shifting silver. “Always sticking me with babysitting huh? You morons couldn’t go one day without knocking each other’s brains out, could you? No, that would be far too much to ask for.” Huffing again, she pushed past him with more effort than she would ever care to admit.

“Have fun” he whispered after her, grinning to himself. Meanwhile, Castor’s body lay in bed, his unconscious eyes darting around in his skull.

The wind whistled around him as he flew. The tops of trees nearly kissed his stomach as he dove down and glided over them, floating on the air. In the distance, he could see a town. He was moving towards it, he knew it. He flew onward, relaxed, enjoying the cool woodland air. The town was growing closer with every beat of his powerful wings. He dove down, skating against the surface of a darkly colored pond. He looked down and saw himself in the black mirror of the water. He was a relatively small bird, he estimated a three-foot wingspan, but ornately decorated. Feathers of alternating gold and bone white, and a crest of smaller golden feathers. The bird had strange eyes; they were bright purple with a black center. He dipped his talon into the water, disrupting the mirror and watching his reflection ripple away. He tilted his wings and took off back into the sky, the town was very close now. He could see people, clothed in simple wear, walking through the roads and in and out of stores. He could smell the smoke of a wood-burning fire, and see it rising from the crude chimney. He swooped down, now just over the small village. He landed, perched on the top of a thatched roof. Several figures were walking down below him, going about their business, paying no mind to the bird perched on the rooftop. Then one man, a very, very old-looking man in a green shawl and walking with a bronze metal cane stopped, turned, and looked up at him. He held up his hand, almost as if it were a greeting. Castor felt his body, this bird’s body, drop off the roof and glide down landing on the man’s outstretched hand. He felt the pull to him, he couldn’t resist, couldn’t fly away, even if he wanted to. It felt familiar, almost nostalgic.

Castor opened his eyes. He was staring up at his familiar ceiling, as he had done only just this morning. His head was pounding, and he felt as though he had been thrown off the castle tower. He threw the sheets, his entire body ached with every move. He looked around his room and almost didn’t recognize it. Strewn all around his floor and on top of his bed were dresses, dozens and dozens of them. On his desk in front of his mirror were pallets of shaded ash and powder, and several different ornate crystal bottles filled with different colored liquids were lined up along his nightstand. It was then that Cassandra burst back into his room, shouting down the spiral staircase.

“You wouldn’t know beauty if it came up to you and introduced itself!” she slammed the door, her face was flushed and she was clearly angry. Her cheeks and the space around her eyes had turned to shiny silver, but as she calmed herself, it slowly receded back below her skin. She turned towards Castor and jumped slightly to see him getting out of bed.

“Yes! Finally!” She shouted, throwing her hands over her head exasperatedly, “I thought I was going to be stuck in here all day! Can’t you and Gideon take it easy for once? I mean my god, do you know how hard it is to get ready for a dinner party when your idiot brother could wake up and see you changing at any moment?”

Castor shrugged, sending his hand to his chest as pain shot through his upper body. Wincing, he threw her a weak half-smile, “Well I’m awake now, thanks for caring Cassandra,” he said in a half sarcastic, half genuine tone; it was clear she had stayed at his side for most of the day, and he guessed it was her who had put him into the bed. Cassandra blew a strand of hair out of her face, bending down repeatedly and collecting all of her clothes from the floor and bed.

“Yea well, whatever, you’re welcome. Don’t get used to it.” She gathered a few more of her effects, and quickly leaned forward and flicked his forehead with a silver finger. He grabbed his head and reeled back, hearing the metal ping off his head, any semblance of sibling affection evaporating in an instant.

“What the hell! You bitch Cassandra, can’t you see I’m injured enough already!” He held his hand to his head, rubbing the impact point furiously.

“Yes well, Gideon certainly got you good this time, but he looked rather crisp himself. He’s a tough bastard though, I’m sure he’ll nap it off. The Melanari are going to arrive in less than an hour. I hope your bones aren’t broken this time, because you are going to need them all if you plan to be ready when they get here. Go take a bath, you smell repulsive.” She flicked her hair and left.

“Thanks again!” he shouted after her, this time only sarcastically, still rubbing his forehead. Slowly, and not without a degree of pain, he pulled himself out of bed and stood in front of his mirror. His chest was bruised, it’s color a deep blue and maroon. The bruise spread over his pectorals and down slightly over his abdomen. He poked it and winced as the pain sprouted from the point like a flower. Rather than go to get ready, he sat down at his desk and pulled out one of his many notebooks. He began sketching the bird, its form was already beginning to drop out of his mind. He tried to isolate his arm movement to just the flick of his wrist, but even that was uncomfortable and sore. He knew he had to do it anyway. His experience had to have been a dream, there was no other explanation that made sense. He had never seen the old man before, and yet the pull he felt to fly, to land in his outstretched hand; he recognized it. It was the same feeling he had felt once before, compelled to act towards a force he could not ascertain. He tilted his head back, his gaze fixed on the skylight above him. What does it mean? Does it mean anything at all? Is this…madness? He looked down at his right arm, it looked fine. He had felt it, the fireball, he had touched it and smelled the burning of his flesh. The weight of it crushing him, the heat as it pressed against his body. He shook his head, his thoughts felt jumbled around, and he couldn’t make any sense of it all. It was beyond comprehension, he had never heard of a spell that could control someone’s dreams, and earlier that day, he had been awake… He sighed, pushing his chair away from his desk with a screech. He closed the notebook and pushed it away. Standing up, he began to undress to wash and prepare for the evening ahead. I can think about all this later. He thought to himself, right now, I’m running out of time. I’m sure everyone else is ready by now.

A floor below him, Gideon awoke from his nap and began to scramble in a panic to be ready in the next thirty minutes.

Silverblood Chapter 5: Honored Guests

Despite his injuries, Castor had managed to ready himself in record time. He washed and brushed out his somewhat unmanaged brown hair, and dressed in his best clothes. He stood in front of the mirror to admire his handiwork, wincing slightly as he turned to view different angles of his appearance. He wore a shirt of maroon fabric that was nearly reflective, decorated with fine black fur and silk. The colors had been his family’s trademark since their inception over two-thousand years ago. Generations of Drake’s had worn a similar dress to mark auspicious occasions of all kinds, including weddings and banquets. To accompany it, he wore black and gold pants that cuffed over the tops of his slightly heeled boots. A flexible plate of polished steel and brass was draped over his chest, a piece that he had commissioned in an attempt to replicate similar attire of his ancient heritage. On his fingers, he wore three rings, two silver, and the other gold. The gold held the original signet of the Drake house, a very rare artifact passed down to him by his late grandmother. He pushed his hair over to one side of his head in an attempt to style it into something other than a curtain and straightened the metal plate to sit more flatly on his chest. Although he felt sore with each breath, he had to admit that he was feeling good. Mother always said that the clothes made the man.

Once he was done admiring himself, he made for the docking port of the castle yard. His parents and sister were already there, sitting on outdoor furniture, enjoying glasses of red wine and awaiting the arrival of their guests. His mother noticed him first,

“You look handsome Castor, our family colors suit you well. I expect that the Melanari girl will be looking to sit next to you at the dinner table. ”

“Thanks, Mom, you also look nice.”

“Thank you” and she did a small mock curtsy. She wore the same colors as Castor, in the form of a dress that went down to the ankle. She wore black shoes with a pointed tip, and a small decorative tiara spotted with black gemstones adorned her plaited hair. His sister wore a similar outfit, although her dress was far shorter and cut off around the knee. She wore a silver necklace around her neck, with a small red gem in the middle. His father looked as regal as he ever had. He donned a tunic made from black velvet, decorated with shining red buttons and golden thread down the arm and around the cuff. On his chest he wore a light golden sash that was tied around his waist into a belt. A short cape hung over his shoulders resting at his mid-back. On his hands, he wore several rings with large gems encrusted into them and completed his outfit with a gilded sword which hung tightly at his hip fastened by a leather brace. Although it was clear that several of the articles were no longer a perfect fit, he wore it well regardless.

“Where is Gideon?” Castor asked, knowing that to expect his brother to be on time for anything was entirely a fool’s predisposition. As he asked the question, he heard a door slam behind him. They all turned, seeing his brother running from the castle and across the yard, attempting to tie his own sash in the same fashion as his father’s, the loose fabric trailing in the wind behind him like a snake.

“Nice of you to join us,” remarked Castor coldly as his brother approached them, somewhat out of breath.

“Great to be here,” said Gideon, ignoring the intonation, still fiddling with the sash. His eyes were still red, although the white color was slowly beginning to return as the blood drained out of them. His face was burned a light reddish in some spots and his eyebrows had clearly been singed at their ends. Castor felt a pang of guilt shoot through him at the sight of his disheveled appearance, knowing he was the one responsible for his brother’s malady.

“You look fine,” he said, dropping the coldness in an attempt to pay a genuine compliment.

“Shut it, wizard. Even if I look like this, the Marchesa of Melanari is still going to gam with me instead of you. You can barely stand after the thrashing I handed out!” Castor winced as he took another breath. Gideon gave up on the sash and walked over to Rose who began to work on it for him.

“Yes well, I couldn’t possibly have made you any uglier, so I suppose you should be thanking-”

“Oh shut up! The both of you, they’re here” hissed their father out of the corner of his mouth. They all stood and walked to the edge of the castle dock to await their arrival. Sure enough, through the sea of clouds beneath them poked out the thin tip of a tall spire, and then a second, and then a third. Within seconds, the forms of large towers began growing from the cloud layer, adorned with stained glass windows, fluttering flags, and large half-structures jutting out of the stonework. The castle continued to rise, and the towers only got taller. Eventually, they lost the tops of them in the upward-facing horizon. The Melanari castle was massive, at least fifteen times larger than the Drake sky-fortress. It had several large buildings on its grounds, the purpose of which Castor could only speculate. After a few more long minutes, the castle yard came into view, and Castor put on his hospitable face, knowing it would be mere moments before they would greet their guests. Large hooks mounted atop steel pillars hinged to the castle base like the legs of an insect fell, the hooks digging into centuries-old grooves in the body of the Drake fortress; moss and dirt that had built up from decades of disuse scrapped away and fell to the ocean below them, revealing the steel linking mechanisms which snapped into place and tied the two buildings to one another.

The skybridge fell with a loud crash, and Castor could hear the steady clicking of a winch lifting the massive steel gate to the main entrance of their castle. Gigantic letters were affixed to the side edge of the castle yard, reading Megafexus, the text so large that even someone on the ground could see it with ease. As the gate lifted, their awaited guests were revealed. Castor had never met any of the Melanari family, he had never seen so much as a painting of them. All he knew of the mysterious group was what his father had felt was appropriate to share about their days in the war. He had heard stories of the great Vestik Melanari, wielding a golden sword laced with green miasmic energy. The way his father described it, the man strode across the battlefield as if he were as tall and powerful as a mythic demigod. By his father’s own admission, the man had saved his life countless times on the blood-soaked fields of battle, and Castor felt an inkling of a debt to him. Had it not been for Vestik, he may never have been born at all. His father had said many times while recounting the war stories that when the War of Betrayal started, he had been the only general who did not arrive to destroy the Drake fleet. Incredibly, here he was today, approaching these enemies of the people as old friends once again.

The Melanari family was nothing if not elegant. As they strode over the skybridge, they did not waver even for a moment. Though there was the heavily high-altitude wind blowing across the plain, not one among them reached for the railing or missed a step. Clad in beautiful deep green and gray, they were magnificent. Castor met the eye of the lord, and he smiled at him as if they had already been acquainted for a decade. His skin was white as pearl, and his hair, trimmed short and finely quaffed, was like the edge of a black mountain. His features were finely chiseled into him as if by the hand of a benevolent creator, and his body was built; strong, standing over six and a half feet tall. His company was cut from a similar breed, all wearing the striking colors of their family, he had with him a tall woman with silvery white hair, and two young men, one older and taller, and the other a bit shorter with a younger frame. They shared his fierce aura and had his sharp jawline and aquiline nose. Castor could practically feel the heat coming off Cassandra from no less than five feet away, the thought of it made his stomach turn over.

When at last they were standing face to face, Artarian stepped forward. He held his hands behind his back and tried to look taller. The Melanari family stopped and allowed Vestik to walk the last few steps on his own. He stopped in front of Artarian and looked him up and down, then swept over his surroundings.

“Are the Drake vaults finally running dry then?” He asked, with a voice like a powerful river. His father appeared stunned by the question briefly, and then a bit sheepish,

“Yes well…It has been a while since I paid them a visit.”

“I see. Spent it all on beer I suppose?” said Vestik.

“Actually,” started Artarian, “our biggest expense is… bacon.” Vestik raised an eyebrow at him.

“Bacon?” He let the silence hang in the air briefly. Castor’s breath caught in his throat, Father you fool, how could you reveal that to him, now of all times? After another brief moment, his straight lips cracked into a small smile, and then a rye chuckle. He heard his father begin to laugh as well, and in moments they were cackling to one another wholeheartedly. Vestik held out his arm, and Artarian grasped it near the elbow, pulling him into a warrior’s embrace.

“The famous Drake vaults, so well stocked and hidden that no outsider had ever seen them! Emptied! For Bacon!,” Vestik shouted through his laughter, wiping a small tear from his cheek. “It must be the best goddamn bacon in Rylaketh!”

“Well why don’t you come inside, I believe there will be some adorning our table this evening! You can tell me yourself!” shouted Artarian back at him, swinging his arm around Vestiks body and practically pushing him towards the castle. Castor was dumbstruck at this interaction. He had always known his father to be a rather content man, but never in his life had he seen him with a friend, their present situation practically forbid any relationship of the sort. His father always stood stoically in the face of their circumstance, now could see now what he had been like before.

Vestik attempted to slow Artarian’s escort, digging his heels into the grass and carving a rut through it,

“Hold my friend, hold for but a single moment. I must make the acquaintance of your family.” He turned to Castor’s mother and reached out to take her hand, “Rose, as beautiful as your namesake, as always. Although it has been a century since I have laid my eyes upon you, I could have drawn your face from memory.” He kissed her hand and grasped it tightly. Rose blushed, the red tint showing through her makeup.

“Thank you, my Lord,” She said, rather breathlessly.

“Please, Vestik is fine. That is what I am to you, I feel no lordship here.” She smiled at him,

“it is good to see you again Vestik. You’ve not aged a day since I saw you last.”

“Nor you, my dear,” he said, bowing his head slightly. He turned his gaze to Cassandra next. “My my, you are quite lucky that you take after your mother. Pray tell, what is your name?” Cassandra seemed uncharacteristically shy, and Castor thought that she may have forgotten how to speak altogether for a moment. In a small voice, she introduced herself. Vestik took her hand as well and kissed it lightly, whereafter polished steel bloomed in its place and up her arm.

“Metal skin!” He said, his interest seemingly peaked. He leaned slightly and took a closer look, studying the transformation.

“Incredible…you are a rare breed indeed, though you may not know it. Your gift is among the least common in all Rylaketh.” Cassandra looked shy again, almost embarrassed.

“Th-Thank you my Lord” She stammered. He nodded to her,

“If you are feeling fit for it, perhaps later we might see a showing of your true capabilities?” He asked her, leaning in inquisitively.

“Perhaps my lord, though I shall need a drink or two first.” She said back to him, her confidence slowly returning. Vestik Chuckled,

“Ha! You are indeed your father’s daughter I see.” He turned next to Castor and his steely eyes locked on his. “And who might this strapping young man be then, surely not your son Artarian?”

He was stunned for a moment, being addressed so suddenly was disarming. He swallowed,

“My name is Castor, my lord.”

“Ah! Named for your ancient relative Tethan Castor Drake no doubt?” Castor had never heard the name before. He panned his eyes slightly over to his father, who was nodding.

“Uh, yes sir, I suppose so,”

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, my lord,” he said with a stiff bow. He winced again, drawing in air harder than he intended. As small an error as it was, it did not go unnoticed. Vestik leaned in just slightly, inspecting Castor with a mere glance. He did not address it.

“And what kind of mancy do you carry?” Asked Vestik inquisitively. This was his moment to be a little impressive.

“I am a caster class mage sir”

“I see. What is your academy.”

He held up his hand and focused. He could not lose control again. He had no doubt that Vestik would be able to withstand even his most powerful spell but to appear to attack him would be a costly error. He allowed a small amount of mana to flow through his wrist and into his fingertips. At once, a small blue spark began jumping between his fingers, and then a second, and a third, bouncing around, never touching one another but unceasing. The sparks traveled down his fingers and to the palm of his hand and started to engorge slightly. He grew the ball of lightning to the size of a small apple before dispelling it.

“How peculiar. You are a rare class as well, in all my years I have only known one other lightning wielder. You remember, don’t you Artarian?” He said, turning to him over his shoulder.

His father snorted “Of course. We fought beside him every day for decades, and he tried to kill me, you git.” Castor knew of who they spoke, he was one of the major generals in the war, like his father, one who had turned on them in the War of Betrayal.

“Yes well, it’s impossible to know what information you are actually retaining.”

“Enough to beat you, that’s for sure” Vestik looked him up in down.

“Maybe in your wildest dream, Lord of Bacon,” he shot back. Castor grinned slightly, he suddenly understood where he and his siblings had acquired their biting tongue. Vestik turned quickly to Gideon, breaking off the banter swiftly. Stepping towards him, Castor noticed him analyze again with a slight nod of his head. Well, he is a strategic genius, skills like that come easily to a man like him he thought.

“Now this one, he is definitely your son. What is your name lad?”

“Gideon, sir,” said Gideon, puffing his chest out.

“Hmm, how old are you Gideon?”

“Fourteen, sir.”

“Fourteen!” Repeated Vestik, seemingly amazed. “My god, if ever a man took after his father then it is you, my boy. You are the spitting image of him on the day we met, he was in a fight as well. Though he was a bit worse off than you, to say the least.” Gideon beamed with pride at this compliment and shot Castor a look of satisfaction. Vestik tracked his eye, and also gave a side-eyed glance at Castor. Despite the invisible daggers the two brothers aimed at each other, all the Drake children seemed to be glowing. It was not often that they received compliments of this nature, in fact, this was the first time that anyone had ever been so welcoming.

As Artarian led Vestik to the fortress, the rest of the Melanari stood behind for a few moments. The oldest boy, a man of twenty-five, introduced himself as Astolfus. He was tall as well, though not quite as tall as his father. He was cool, much more reserved than Vestik. As they walked, Cassandra practically gravitated toward him. Astolfus, ever the charmer, snapped his fingers, and a small purple flower seemed to pop into existence in his hand. He offered it to Cassandra, who took it as delicately as if it were made of gold.

“How did you do that?” asked Gideon “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Astolfus snapped his fingers again, and suddenly he was utterly gone. Gideon gasped, and then spun around as he felt a tapping on his shoulder.

“It is my signature ability,” Astolfos said, looking rather pleased with himself. “I am a member of the Academy of Transmission. I can rip objects from my sight, and make them appear in my hand. I also can move instantly to any point which I can see.” He turned his head and looked to Castor’s tower. He snapped his fingers again, and suddenly he materialized out of the thin air, holding onto the tower’s flag spire. He vanished again and appeared next to Cassandra once more. Cassandra clapped excitedly,

“What a wonderful skill!” she was practically squealing the compliment. Castor lightly applauded as well, fancying himself a student of mana, he was impressed to see someone so skilled in wielding their abilities. The younger Melanari boy, Regulus, was a lad of sixteen. He was a similar height to Castor, though was quite a bit larger. When Castor inquired as to what his own magic was, he jumped straight up, over 10 feet into the air.

He landed hard on the ground but didn’t flinch and composed himself curtly.

“I am a body enhancer mage, like your sister.” He punched his fist into the air, directing it at one of the few trees. A current of force rippled away from him in a wave, shaking even the studies of the branches and blowing away bunches of its leaves. Incredible he thought, this is what it looks like when someone has had proper training in their abilities.

“I’ve never seen Cassandra do that,” he exclaimed, a bit dumbstruck.

“If you thought that was good, you should see me do it with a sword,” Regulus said, with a small grin. Cassandra interjected before they could start discussing swords,

“Excuse me but, will the Marchesa not be joining us today?” Astolfus frowned,

“It is unfortunate, but our sister has fallen ill at this time. We were previously moored in Seforo City, the journey took nine days by the Megafexus, and she seems to have contracted a foreign illness. No idea where it came from, I blame the soldiers who returned to the city recently, they are rather dirty fellows.”

“How dreadful,” said Cassandra, placing a light hand over her lips. “What a shame, I know my dear brother was positively eager to meet her.” This time it was Gideon’s turn to glare.

“Yes well, I can’t say you are missing out on much, Regulus and I are definitively more exciting.” Astolfus winked at Cassandra, causing small steely splotches to bloom over her face. Regulus laughed,

“Yes, though I do loathe doing her chore work while she lies comfortably in bed.” They continued on to the foot of the fortress, quickly coming upon his father and their party. Artarian gestured grandly to the fortress, pointing to various aspects of it that he had clearly improved by his own hand over the years, while Vestik looked on and complimented his handiwork, even though it was not all that impressive.

Chapter 6: War Stories

Artarian spent the next hour and a half providing a grand tour of the fortress which no one had asked for and was entirely too long for the size of the house. Still, the Melenari family listened, seeming eager to hang onto his words, paying close attention as he went over the ancestors who had portraits in the dining room. To Castor’s surprise, among them was Tethan Drake, the man he had been named for. His plaque was the second from the original, and Castor could only wonder how he had never taken the time to examine these early portraits, feeling foolish at his earlier moment. He felt Vestik’s elbow lightly push into his ribs as the name was spoken, and he grinned sarcastically at Castor as they made eye contact. While Artarian led the tour, Rose prepared the meal that they would be enjoying that night. The smell of roasting meat and vegetables, and frying bacon with fresh bread wafted through the entire fortress, tickling their senses and setting mouths to watering. When at last the time came to eat, they all made their way to the dining room in a mad rush, though they all tried to put on their best impression of control. The dining room had been set beautifully, the good plates, made from ceramic and gold, had been set out as well as the fine silver utensils. Artarian took this opportunity to pull the chair of the lady Melenari, whose name was Centella. She sat and thanked him.

“Not going to pull out my chair? Watch out for him honey, this man has always been a silver-tongued devil,” pronounced Vestik, grinning through his jest.

“Yes well, if you were half as beautiful as either of our wives, you would have worked in a brothel instead of the warfront” responded Artarian.

“Thank god then, otherwise we may have met under very different circumstances” retorted Vestik. They laughed together, and the sight of his father having someone who could finally match his upbeat energy was touching to Castor. As they sat, Vestik reached towards Centella, who produced a dark, square-shaped bottle from her bag. He took it, and popped the cork out, pouring a blue glass for himself and Artarian, and then passed it to his sons, who also poured out the liquid and passed the bottle along. Artarian looked a the glass curiously, then a wide grin spread over his face. He took a deep sip, and Castor watched as his expression went from delighted to alarmed.

“Good lord,” he said, “I thought it might be, but it’s impossible. Is this truly the Fernetic vintage?”

“You have a good pallet, my friend. Indeed it is, I have saved it for over a hundred years in that bottle. In truth, there were five bottles at the beginning, but you know me…” he trailed off.

“Amazing that you still have the one though.” Artarian exasperated. He gestured for everyone to partake in the wine. He spoke as he poured himself another, “you might be able to tell it already, but this is one of the grandest wines ever bottled.”
Their eyes lit up as they sipped, and they savored the flavor for a moment before having another. Castor looked at his glass of wine, it was a deep blue, like liquid sapphire. He picked up his glass and swirled it; the liquid shined and shimmered, reflecting every morsel of light that touched its surface. He could hardly believe that it was made of something so simple as grapes. He took a sip, and as the liquid washed over his tongue he couldn’t help but smile. He had tasted many wines in his life, but this was by far the best, warmth and hints of blueberry and vanilla spread like wildfire down his throat. The flavor of it exploded across his mouth and saturated into his taste-buds in the same way one might enjoy rich chocolate.

“Father, I do believe that there is a hint of blueberry to this, it’s very peculiar.”

“Indeed there is, Castor,” said Vestik. “The wine grapes are grown year-round surrounded by blueberries for miles and miles around. It’s what the Isles of Fernet were most famous for, practically all of their uninhabited wilds are overgrown with jungles of blueberry bushes, practically trees! Or they were, a long time ago…”

As he trailed off, his mother and brother arrived carrying the trays of food for the night’s meal. The trays were stacked brilliantly high, adorned with roasted ducks, a plate of finely sliced raw meats, fresh and roasted vegetables, and a brilliant cornucopia of colored fruits. Of course, there was also a silver tray of bacon piled near as high as the four whole-roasted ducks. Castor guessed this is why his mother had been gone so long the last time they had made it to town and even though they had been worried sick at the time, it was clearly worth it. As she set the trays down, the smell of the roasted duck spread to his nose; it was heavenly. Artarian cleared his throat and rose from the table, lifting his glass.

“Firstly, thank you to my darling wife, this meal is truly fit for the occasion. I’ll keep this one short, I know how you detest long speeches when we could use our mouths for drinking.” He passed, raising his glass a bit higher in a toast; “to a long-awaited reunion.” He pronounced, and took a deep sip of the wine, draining the glass for the second time.

“Well said,” stated Vestik, “now, I for one would like to get on with the food,” his mouth practically watered looking at the display.

“Indeed, please all of you, help yourselves.” Aratrian clapped his hands together and the dinner was on.

They ate, drank, talked, and laughed together. The Drake family tongue was present as always, but everyone was taking special care to keep the most uncouth comments to themselves. Castor took a hefty drink of his wine and raised a question to the lord.

“Lord Melenari,” he started, “I have never heard of this land you mentioned, Fernet I think you called it? Surely they must be a wealthy nation, I imagine this must be a chief export of theirs?” Vestik looked at Artarian before responding.

“Yes, a long time ago, they were very wealthy. All the nobility would partake in their delicacies, and wine was indeed the chiefest among them. Unfortunately for the Ferneti, Fernet is now only a memory, though I’ve heard tell that the blueberries have finally recovered. It seems burned land is actually the best place for them to grow.”

“Were they one of the nation’s destroyed in the war? What happened to them?”

“Well, your father and I happened of course. You see, Fernet is not owned by Rylaketh like the production colonies. It was an independent nation, over a century ago. When the Vasil Crusadus commenced, they refused to be assimilated into our union, and as a result, the Ferragrific armies stormed across their lands like an ocean. Their once great nation now lies in ruin. Your father and I torched the land ourselves, but it seems blueberries are a difficult thing to cull. All the better for it though, perhaps once the War for the World ends, we can repopulate it and bring back their stupendous wines.” He punched Artarian on the shoulder, “your father is quite good with fire, always the pyromaniac this one.” Artarian raised his hands in surrender and tried to look innocent, but ignited them above his head and smiled widely. The two laughed and drank deeply from their cups. Cassandra raised her voice,

“It seems a shame to have destroyed them though, wouldn’t it have been better to simply tax their product to encourage them to join us?” All at once, the clatter of silverware stopped. Aratarian spoke first,

“Cassandra, you have a well-meaning heart, but the people of Fernet were lower-mortals. Their lifespans are laughably short; they don’t even possess the ability to use mana. On the battlefield, we used to call them the ‘Hartless.’ Honestly, we did them a favor, it is more a shame to live so short a life and accomplish so little than it is to be destroyed in honorable battle.” He took another sip of his wine, savoring it and looking at the glass. “We can be thankful that they made such a fantastic vintage, but what use are people who don’t even have mana? For god’s sake, their greatest foe was a blasted blueberry bush! Their cities were taken in 2 months!” The Melenari family and Gideon laughed at this. Cassandra pursed her lips, it seemed like she had more to say, but thought better of it. Castor raised an eyebrow at her and she gave a small shrug in his direction. He knew how she felt though; inside, he felt a twinge of sadness to have lost the knowledge that produced such a lovely wine. He removed the melancholic thought from his mind and came up with another question to keep the stories coming.

“Was my father as good a soldier as he claims?” asked Castor.

“Oh yes, of course, I’m sure whatever he has told you is at least mostly true. Your father had some rough edges when it came to intelligence when we were generals in the war, but as a warrior, he always performed admirably.” He stuffed his face with a mouthful of roast duck and took a sip of his wine before continuing,

“I’ve seen him fight fifty hartless at a time. How many men do you think you slayed in the war for Varia?” Artarian pondered a moment, rolling his wine against the walls of the glass,

“At least seventeen-hundred, but I lost count after the third year of the conflict.” Vestik let out a long whistle, although it was clear he already knew the extent of Artarian’s slaughter in Varia.

“Yes, I recall at least two thousand of my own. That was a glorious place, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, there was glory to go around for all of us. But never forget Vestik, that the crown’s glory was greatest of all.” For all of but a s split second, Vestik’s face took on a slightly soured expression as if he had just tasted something bitter.

“Yes of course. The great kingdom of Rylaketh crushed our unworthy enemies. Even with all their technology and mastery of craftsmanship, they were no match for true, god-given strength.” Castor caught a brief intonation at the word “technology, “ which piqued his interest.

“What do you mean by that, my Lord?” Vestik turned his attention to Castor,

“mean by what my boy?” he asked, seemingly interested in entertaining the question.

“That word you used, ‘technology,’ I find it hard to believe that any, ‘hartless’ nation could possibly build the weapons and armor of war that we can with our mana and intellect. Are we not the most developed country in the world?”

“Well, of course, we are now, but it was not always that way. We have always been the strongest nation in the world, but the Varian were the great craftsmen of their time. But that was a long time ago, without the original plans and literature of their people, it is likely impossible that any others will ever unlock the ability to use their runic witchcraft.”

Castor paused, he didn’t know at all what he was talking about. “Runic? I don’t think I have ever heard that turn of phrase before my lord, I must trouble you for further elaboration.” Vestik laughed,

“Yes, I see that thankfully you’ve acquired your brains from your mother.” He gestured to her with his glass, sloshing the wine nearly out of the cup. He continued, “Your father never asked questions, with him, it was fight fight fight, win win win. Always with your dad here, I’ve seen him breach a hundred cities but I can count his inquisitions on one hand.” He held up his spread fingers to further his point. He took a long sip from his wine, nearly draining the glass.

“The people of Varia were brilliant craftsmen and believed heavily in their so-called ‘sciences.’ Their people, miraculously I might add, discovered a way to wield mana without having a Manhart of their own.” Castor coughed into his wine, splashing some onto his face.

“My lord, you must be making a joke surely? Such a thing is outrageous, how could it be possible for one to wield the power of mana without being born as we are?” Vestik gave him a serious look.

“I assure you,” he said, suddenly turning quite serious, “I do not offer any jest. As your father can attest, the Varains did wield spellcraft against us, despite their lower mortal blood. They discovered runes, they had been using them in their society for generations before we arrived to make war upon them. I lack the knowledge of their precise means of function, but by inscribing objects with these strange symbols, they were able to draw mana from somewhere and direct it against us.” Castor tried hard to picture what these “runes” might look like. Vestik continued, “they created things that we today cannot conceive of. They created tools that could dig a trench for a hundred miles, and change the weather to suit their needs, and they could inscribe it on their weapons and armor. It was not nearly as powerful as we higher mortals, mind you. Their ability is only a cheap recreation of what we are capable of.” Castor did not know how to respond. How could this be possible? He thought to himself. The very notion that someone without a manahart could wield magic was…obscene; unnatural even. The idea of it made his skin prickle.

“That is incredible. I have never heard of such a thing.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. We were asked not to talk about it when we returned, and it was not recorded. All for the best though, imagine if our own people knew of this, they would be dabbling into a heretical study that they would not understand. While we were there, everything was destroyed. Anything touched by runic witchcraft was gathered up and dropped into the deepest part of the sea, and their texts and relics have been destroyed. We saw too it ourselves.” He bumped Artarian with his elbow. He put down his glass,

“good thing too, those bastards gave us a run for our money. That was a difficult war, no matter what Vestik says. Cheap rip off maybe, but when there are 300,000 thousand warriors using that stuff, it gets a bit dicey. We lost a lot of good men in Varia.” Castor felt his enthusiasm for the subject wane upon discovering that the technology was gone.

“Still” said Castor, feeling his melancholic twinge returning, “it seems a shame that we cannot use this technology to our own benefit, I have heard of mages controlling the weather, but our capabilities are largely reliant on…well randomness…” he trailed off from his comment, suddenly aware that Vestik was looking directly at him now. He offered a soft expression as their gazes met,

“A shame indeed. I understand how you feel. Being a lover of such arts myself, I too was quite interested in their findings.” He took another sip of his wine and sighed. “But, alas, they were a monstrously prideful people, and such so without cause. They were quite weak, without their stolen gimmicks, they would never have held out against us. They were an affront to us, nothing of their memory could have been allowed to survive”

He leaned back crossing his hands, “that is the way of Ferragrific war.”

They continued their meal for some time longer, the roasted ducks were cut and cut again as they began to be eaten away. The sounds of eating, drinking, and riveting conversation echoes through the halls of the ancient building. After two or three small barrels of ale and wine had stacked up, Cassandra rose from her seat. She turned to Vestik,

“My lord, if you are still interested, I think now would be a good time for a demonstrated of some of my skills.”

Vestik smiled an excited grin, “please do, it is always a treat to see something as rare as you. I was so looking forward to this.”

“Watch it git,” said Artarian quietly through his teeth.

Cassandra took a few large steps away from the table into the open area beside them and curtsied low. She held out her arms slightly and breathed out. At once, steely splotches blossomed over her entire body, growing and flowing into one another until they covered her entire body. Vestik, Centella, and Astolfus all clapped. She curtsied again, before taking a large step back and spinning on her toes in place. Her dress flowed around her and her shiny skin reflected off of the bright candle-lights. She dragged her foot across the floor, creating a line of large sparks which cracked from the stone floor, and leaped forward, landing on the ground with the tip of her toe, which cracked the stone ground slightly. He heard his father huff at her under his breath and say that she knows she’s not allowed to do this in the house. She spun again, this time with her leg extended and tilting her body backward. The lights in the room bounced all around, bathing her body in a golden glow. She continued her dance, even making the silver skin appear to ripple on her body. When she had finished, she sat down, breathing heavily, her face highlighted by a red hue. This time the entire table clapped, even Gideon. It was always a marvel to see their sister dance. Although they teased her about having only non-combative skills, she did excel in her area of ability.

By the time the dinner was over, it was growing late into the night. Vestik had hounded Cassandra with questions about her skills before he and his father continued their back-and-forth banter. Cassandra spoke playfully with Astolfus who exclaimed how impressed he was, and Gideon and Regulus started to chat again about types of swords, stances, and forms of combat. Castor continued to indulge his curious nature, dropping in and out of the various conversations, offering his insights, and listening closely to his father as he reminisced about the times of the war. Although he had heard most of the stories that he recounted already, there were a few new ones that popped up now and again, which was always quite the treat, especially with the Lord here to offer his alternative (and sometimes less favorable) point of view. The dinner concluded with a decadent chocolate and strawberry cake that the Melenari had brought from their home city of Sephoro. After the dessert, Centella revealed a beautiful dress that she had made especially for Rose as a gift. It was in the Melenari colors, dark green and black, and shimmered as it caught the candlelight. They had also brought a silver ring, spotted with tiny green gems for Cassandra. All in all, Castor had felt the night had been a rousing success, everything had gone quite well. There was no arguing between siblings, no chewed-up food slopping onto plates, not even so much as a spilled glass of wine or an out-of-place swear. Even so, he couldn’t help but notice that Vestik had not actually brought up the reason he had traveled across Rylaketh in the first place. He had not even offered an excuse for why he might have come. Castor guessed that whatever he had to say to his father, it was best said in private. He could accept this, though his curiosity was beginning to feel like it was burning a hole in his brain.

After the table was cleared and they had sadly finished the bottle of Fernetic wine, the Melenari began to collect themselves. One and all, they said their goodbyes. Gideon and Regulus clasped hands with a soldier’s grasp. This caused castor to roll his eyes, off to war then are we lads? Astolfus bowed his head and kissed Cassandra lightly on the hand.

“I will see you in the morning, my dear, we shall not depart until mid-day tomorrow. I do look forward to continuing our conversation from the dinner table, I am thrilled by the notion of seeing more of your…impressive capabilities.” He cleared his throat as he spoke the last words. Cassandra nodded,

“Yes, I think I should quite like to show off a bit more. I am capable of many things.” Her face turned to beat red; even though she always talked a big game about her abilities to flirtatiously seduce, she was all in all a novice at it. Astolfus turned to him next and offered out his hand. castor took it, and they briefly shook.

“We are well met, Drake. If all goes well with my father’s aspirations, perhaps we will be seeing more of each other.” Castor’s brain practically jumped at the mention of it. He used the shake as an excuse to pull himself in closer, and spoke is a much more hushed tone.

“Astolfus, do you know what his plan is? The reason he came here to speak with my father?” Astolfus responded to him, matching his speaking volume.

“Well, I think it is impossible that I have all of the details, but I am aware of what his next immediate action is going to be.”

“Can you share it with me?” Castor suddenly felt foolish, he had blurted it out without thinking. He continued, “Well I don’t mean to share it with me, but can you tell me what he needs my father for?” Astolfus smirked at him.

“I can do you one better than that. In ten minutes, be ready, and place yourself in the window of your tower. We will speak again there.” He broke the handshake with Castor, and pulled away, smirking slightly. He moved on to say his goodbyes to Gideon, who gave him a strange glance.

After the goodbyes had been concluded, the Melenari returned to their castle to get a night’s rest, and the drakes had mostly retired for the evening. Only two people remained on the lower floor of the Drake Fortress; Artarian and Vestik. After everyone had all headed away to bed, they fell back into the study.

Castor headed up to his tower room and began stripping off his light armor and decadent effects. He remained in his nice clothes though, since he was now expecting a visitor. He didn’t know what Astolfus had meant when he said that they would speak again in 10 minutes, but he doubted that he would just say that without a real reason. He placed say himself on his windowsill and looked out on the Melenari castle. Its immensity still filled him with awe. It was sprawling. Although before he had only really seen the tops of buildings and towers, from his own tower he could see a more clear image of the city. It was docked lower than they were, so he had a bit of a view over the walls from the top of his tower. He saw a few people walking around, some armored and armed soldiers standing together around a fire, and so many buildings that he lost track when he tried to count them all. As he looked out over them, he thought about the dinner they had shared. He was delighted by the stories of battle and conquest that he heard, but something inside him was troubled. I know that they had to be destroyed. The Varians had created an obscenity to nature. All those nations opposed us directly. They chose to be erased. They could have joined with us and lived on, but they were too damn proud. Even as he thought the words to himself, he felt another thought creep into his brain. But think of all that was lost. All of the knowledge, the lives, and the things that they brought to this world. I will never taste the Fernetic vintage again, how much else was destroyed? He shook his head, unable to clear his thoughts. His father had only ever told him stories of the glory of war; he had never considered how much knowledge and advancement had been lost. He pondered on this for another moment, before being very suddenly ripped from space entirely.

Chapter 7: Plan of Action

The sensation was entirely unique to Castor; he had never been teleported before. He felt like his body had been frozen solid and boiled in an instant that was made of no time at all. It was like a negative blink; all at once, he felt neither the burning nor the freezing but also both together, making him feel strangely balanced, but not. He could no longer tell if he had always felt this way or if it was simply the new normal. He was standing when he arrived, but the ground appeared to be coming at him very fast. He was falling forward as if his feet were attached to some invisible axis; he felt as stiff as a board and could not so much as twitch. He realized his lungs were entirely empty. He gasped, pulling air into his lungs, his open mouth tasted the grass and dirt and his face impacted the ground without any buffer. He felt his bruised ribs and chest erupt in localized agony and he swore loudly.

Astolfus stood beside him, crouching down closer to Castor’s horizontal form, and chuckled at him. “Yes, unfortunately, living things are much more difficult to teleport than inanimate objects. I’m thankful all of your blood appears to have arrived with you.” Castor sat up a bit, rubbing his torso with both hands in an attempt to quell the sore pain he felt moving through his body.

“A bit of warning next time perhaps?” he practically shouted it through his clenched teeth. Astolfus just laughed again.

“Well, you did ask for it,” he said.

“Hardly! If you had told me what was going to happen, I could have simply found a way to meet you here!”

“Yes well, it’s done now. And don’t mention it, it was my pleasure.” He offered Castor his outstretched hand. Castor took it and felt pulled to his feet, causing him to wince a bit more as more pain went down the side of his body. He looked at Astolfus and nodded his thanks, electing to move past his annoyance in favor of getting on with this situation.

“So,” he said, “now are you going to tell me about what we spoke of earlier? I should think this spot is secret enough.” Astolfus shook his head,

“I’m not going to tell you anything at all. They are.” He pointed to the low stained window to their left looking into the study. As Castor peered through it, he saw the small room that was the pseudo-library of their home. It was a bit difficult to see through the heavy red tint of the stained glass; it gave the entire room a dark red hue. Several bookshelves, not so tall that they were a spectacle, but tall enough so that no person could reach the top of them lined the walls of the room. Two worn leather chairs, a desk, and a small ladder on a rail decorated the room, as well as several candles, both hanging from the ceiling and placed intermittently around the room. They illuminated the space but left several ominous shadowy places in the corners and high up by the ceiling.

As he peered through the window, he could feel Astolfus’ breath on his skin. His face was perched right next to Castors, and he appeared to be looking into the room with even more intensity than he had been; studying its every nook and cranny. Just as Castor was about to remark that there was nothing to see inside, the door to the study swung open. His father and lord Vestik walked in, discussing the difference between a mulled wine and mead. Artarian was holding a bottle of some kind, Castor couldn’t make out quite what it was through the dark glass. Artarian swung his leg over the leather armrest and dropped into his seat with the full weight of his body, and gestured to Vestik to do the same. Vestik collapsed into his chair with an exaggerated sigh. Castor was surprised at this, though he seemed like a cheerful man, in this moment it was as if he had dropped his nobility at the door. Artarian pulled the cork out of the bottle and poured a bit of the liquid into a pair of glasses and handed one to Vestik. He accepted it and raised it slightly, a gesture that Artarian reciprocated. They both drank the entire contents of the glass in one pull, and then Artarian poured another. Artarian drained his glass again, while Vestik seemed to ponder its contents for a moment, before putting the glass down on the small table that sat between them.

“About that time then, is it?” asked Artarian.

“Well, you didn’t think I came all this way just to eat and drink with you, did you?” Responded Vestik.

“Well, no,” admitted his father, “but don’t deny that it’s at least half the reason.”

“I would put it closer to two-thirds. But yes my friend, I must request something of you. Just know that you are within your right to reject me, and I swear on our friendship that I shall not molest you if you should deny me.”

“Come off it Vestik, whatever it is, do you have any idea how long I have been itching for a fight? It’s been ages since I held a sword in a proper grip!” He drank from his glass and poured another. Castor felt his breath catch in his throat. He felt something else that he could not quite identify, guilt perhaps? He did feel uncomfortable, and a bit ashamed to be spying on his father, but he was here now and there wasn’t much reason not to proceed at this point. He sharpened his ears and paid close attention. Vestik shot back the liquid in his glass for the second time.

“As you seem to have guessed, I have come here to ask you to be my second in the coming battle.” Artarian lept from his chair and threw his arms up over his head,

“Brilliant!” he shouted. “I have heard many good and bloody stories of the glory of the Bloodloch, and yet I have never fought in it myself, this has been a long time coming. When do we depart?”

“Settle yourself Artarian,” asserted Vestik coolly. Artarian composed himself a bit and slumped back into his seat, only this time he sted his posture and tried to look serious. Vestik continued, “ I have come here to ask you to be my second in the upcoming battle, but we will not be making war in the Bloodloch. I have a much greater proposition for you, with much, much greater rewards.” Artarian looked at him, he did not seem to understand what Vestik meant, and Castor felt his father’s emotions as his own. Where else in Rylaketh was the war if not in the Bloodloch? he thought. After a moment, he spoke.

“…So then, where are we going to be fighting?” Vestik took a long pause and reached out his empty glass. His father tipped the bottle to it and filled it again. He took the glass and ran his finger around the top of the rim,

“I am going to lay siege to Omendora.” Artarian dropped the glass from his hand. It clattered to the ground and spilled its contents, rolling away into one of the room’s shaded corners. Castor gasped and quickly covered his mouth.

“You can’t be serious Ves,” Artarian murmured, his eyes wide and directed towards the spot on the floor where he dropped his glass. He looked up at Vestik, hoping against hope that he would see his smiling face looking back at him, eager to explain his joke.

“I am deadly serious, Artarian. My scouts have been watching Omendora for some time now. This is the time.” Artarian waved the comment away, suddenly angered,

“You know now what you are saying Vestik! I think it is time for us both to retire, we had far too much to drink surely?” Artarian meant it as a request but stated it like a question. When Vestik’s stony features did not relax, Artarian made a face of a mixture of anger and great sadness. “Surely the Council will not allow this. This is… is madness. It’s unheard of, even the suggestion of such a thing…” Vestik took a step towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder, consoling him, but also asserting his intent.

“Fuck the council, Art. This is the moment. We can crush Richter’s force once and for all. Once we take Omendora, the entire Luctus pentafecture can be ours in a year. Omendora is his most precious supply line, we cut off that head and the snake will die!” He tightened his grip on Artarian’s shoulder. Artarian placed his closed hand around Vestik’s wrist before turning his head up and looking him in the eyes again. His face contorted in rage, and he threw Vestik’s hand away,

“And what of Richter?” he bellowed, “He will never forgive you for this transgression, none of them will! You know the rules, you were there to write them! Your name is signed next to all the rest, will you truly betray them?” Vestik said nothing, but slowly, he nodded.

“It is the only way, Artarian. How long must the killing continue? How many more have to die before the end? We are no closer to ending this war today than we were fifty years ago. I swear that we shall not kill him. We will take him. If he cooperates with us, we can assimilate his force and territory into our own without the need for further bloodshed. Richter is a smart man, he will take the deal. Something has to give Artarian, it can’t go on like this forever.”

“And his people?” questioned Artarian, shaking his head and taking another aggressive step toward Vestik. “What about them? Who will rule them when the pentafecture is yours? Will you cast them out, leave them to die? How many millions will suffer thanks to your ambition?”

“None, at least no more than is necessary,” shot back Vestik coldly. He walked up to Artarian again, standing face-to-face with him. He placed his hand on his chest.

“I know how you feel about this my friend and I promise you that I too am deeply saddened by its necessity. But if we continue to war only in the Bloodloch as agreed, we will get nowhere. The war has been stagnant for fifty years. The only thing fresh about it is the bodies that pile ceaselessly. We can take Richter out of the fight, and remove one of the biggest players. This is the first step to finally putting a new royal arse on the throne. This is the first step to the re-unification of Rylaketh, can’t you see that?” He leaned in closer to his father. Castor froze his breath in his lungs and urged his heartbeat to be quieter.

“It will be yours. I don’t want The Luctus, I will give it to you, to reward you for your support. Omendora, Jakress, Limera, they will all be yours. When I win this war, I will need you to advise me, as the Drakes have done for untold millennia.” Castor felt his head go numb. Although it was plain the see Artarian’s imagination start to run wild at the idea, he was not totally convinced. Castor couldn’t believe the conflict his father felt, it practically radiated off of him. Vestik continued,

“He tried to kill you, Art. He tried to kill you, and Rose, and your father and your mother. He helped the rest of them to sink your castles, kill your armies and burn your banners. I understand the way you feel, he was once my friend too, but the time for such things is long past. You worry about his forgiveness of us? Are you mad? It is he who should be here, on his knees, begging you for his life and-”

“I won’t have him killed, Vestik,” he growled. “I am not a butcher of old friends, you must give me your word that by the end of the siege, he will live. I have no bloodlust for him, or for his people. It’s not his fault his father was an arsehole, and it’s not my fault that my grandfather was a madman.”

“I swear that Richter will live. Will you lend me your aid, Artarian, master wallbreaker?” Artarian paused for a minute, mulling over his options. Castor could practically see the gears turning in his head.

“We can never come back from this Vestik, you know that, don’t you? Once the first stone is cast, the others will not adhere. Their armies will leave the Bloodloch. They will march into Tridentus, The Luctus, Montet…we will be fighting a war on four fronts.” He took a deep breath and took Vestik’s glass, swigging the gulp of liquor down in one go. Vestik looked at him eagerly, waiting for his answer.

“I will help you, Vestik. For our friendship, and to give my children a better life, I will destroy the great walls of Omendora.”

Castor fell backward away from the window but before he could fall into the cold, wet grass, he felt himself pulled in a thousand directions at once. His vision flashed black, and he was back in his tower room. He fell to the ground off the windowsill with a thud, gasping for air and clenching his fists together. Now he knew how his brother felt. He took a few deep breaths, not even trying to lift his face from the cold cobblestone floor, working to compose himself.

“It’s always easier the second time” Astolfus exclaimed, not even looking at Castor but rather at his wall decor.

“Please,” wheezed Castor through his dried-out mouth and throat, “why-” he coughed, “why Omendora?”

Astolfus did not acknowledge the question, he just continued strutting around in Castor’s work area. He paused a moment when he saw the painting of the demon woman and studied it. He turned to Castor with a rye smile as he pushed himself to one knee,

“You are a man of quality taste, I see.”

“Don’t… say that to me… after you spent all night… making eyes… at my sister,” coughed Castor, now on his feet. Astolfus shrugged and turned back to the painting,

“I dare say she was the one making eyes,” he said quietly, but loudly enough certainly for Castor to hear him. He looked away from the painting and continued to study the room’s effects. Castor composed himself and felt the pain from the short fall set in. His body was still bruised horribly. He moved his dry tongue in his mouth; it was like a lump of sand. Astolfus turned back to him.

“Did you really ask ‘why Omendora?’ I thought you were the man of intellect in this family, Castor,” Said Astolfus, with a hint of satisfaction. For a moment, felt a strange undertone to his voice, but said nothing. Astolfus continued,

“Omendora is the greatest standing walled city. Built over 4,000 years ago! And still, despite the teeth of time, it stands. It is a masterpiece. It is also the economic and military hub for the entire Luctus.”

Castor took a moment to process this answer before speaking again.

“But…the war cannot leave the Bloodloch. Everyone knows that. That’s the agreement, they all signed it.” Astolfus turned to him and frowned harshly.

“I thought you better than that Castor. It’s true, but that is our greatest advantage. The others, they will never expect it. It’s unthinkable. It’s the best place to strike. They have very few defenses other than their walls. The Vulket may have the largest force, but they cower. They cry, and shit and live their lives in a cage.”

Castor swallowed hard, moisture starting to return to his mouth,

“If what you say is true, their army will surely-”

“It matters not.” Astolfus turned sharply away from Castor. “They may command the largest army, but the Melenari holds the fiercer.” He turned again and walked very close to Castor’s face, “now, with your father, their wall will not stand a chance. That which has stood for four thousand years as a symbol of cowardice will crumble to the ground, and their hopes for accession will come down with them. Do you not approve?” Astolfus looked deeply into his eyes, studying even the muscle movements of his cornea for some kind of reaction.

“I-” Castor thought for a moment.

“You stand to gain from this too you know,” Astolfus whispered under his breath. “The Drake Family, once sundered, twice risen.” Castor swallowed hard again. He could feel the heat from Astolfus’ breath.”

“Of course, of course, I approve. But, what will happen to the citizens? There will be…immense casualties.” Astolfus smiled at his answer and pulled away from him, shaking his hand in a shooing motion.

“You heard my father,” he exclaimed, “they will keep the bloodshed to a minimum. The wall comes down, the soldiers go in, Richtor will surrender in the face of our ambush, and you get a new castle. Everybody wins.” he held his hands out to his sides with his palms to the ceiling.

“I suppose…” said Castor, still not sure he had convinced himself, “still, I don’t know how I feel about the covenant being broken.”

“They will all move quickly to break it themselves,” spat Astolfus, “you will see, the covenant means nothing to them. They eagerly await its invalidity.” Castor pictured war spreading across the land. The burning of cities and fields alike.

“It will be chaos,” he said at last.

“It will be war. War is chaos. Everything is chaos already, and we are fools to think we can control it. It is the natural state of all things.” He grabbed Castor’s wrist and wrenched up his hand. Castor cursed as he winced in pain.

“You are chaos too, Castor. I am. Your sister is. Your Father, your mother, and your brother. We are all chaos. A storm rages inside every fullharted human, and we must set it free, or it will eat us from the inside. We will wage the greatest war, and when my father sits on the throne, we will enjoy millennia of peace.” He released Castor’s wrist. Astolfus turned and walked towards the door before stopping and lightly hitting his forehead.

“Silly me.” He walked back over to the windowsill before snapping his fingers. Castor expected him to disappear, but instead, he was holding something. Brown and wrinkled, it was a page of his notebook. Astolfus examined it before turning it around to show Castor.

“Do you know what type of bird this is?” Castor stammered and grabbed for the page. Astolfus was quicker though and moved it out of his reach.

“No,” he said, after accepting it was out of his hands.

“Then how did you draw it?” He questioned curiously, bringing his thumb and forefinger to his chin.

“I-” Should I tell him? He asked himself. No. He will think I am mad for sure.

“I saw it, I thought it was a rather nice-looking creature, though I must say my art does not do it justice.” Astolfus stared at him for a second, and then another.
“You are very lucky,” He said finally. “I have never seen one, myself,” he cleared his throat. “This is a very, very rare type of bird. It is called a ferragrif, so named for its claws, harder than the strongest rolled steel. It has stood as a symbol of the Silver Bloodline for many years.”

“A royal bird?” asked Castor, nearly forgetting the conversation he had just eavesdropped on.

“Yes, quite regal indeed. They used to say that the Ferragrifs were the guardians of the underworld. Ridiculous stories of course, but it is why the peasants believed the kings and queens of old could live for so many centuries. They would say that the Ferragrifs would preserve their souls. The immortals, they used to be called. They weren’t really, obviously. But still, even we higher mortals live paltry short lives, in their eyes.”

Astolfus looked at Castor. His eyes were hard, like stones. He held the stare for another moment.

“See you in the morning.” Astolfus fell backward out of the window. Castor ran to the sill and leaned his body out to look down the stone face of the tower. He was gone.