The Archon

The path, strewn with translucent violet stones, shimmered faintly—it gave no light of its own, yet it was beautiful, especially amidst the dark, thick foliage, the vines streaked with black veins, and the carnivorous blossoms the color of clotted blood.

On a distant world, such stones had once adorned only the hidden courtyards of temples, scattered across altar floors—but one day, Lord Laetris had mused that his garden might benefit from such barbaric opulence. Especially since that world had long since fallen like overripe fruit into his grasp, surrendering beneath the blades of House Laetris’ warhost—and so his highest whim had been indulged without delay.

Now, a noble lady admired this extravagant whim of décor—strolling leisurely, accompanied only by her bodyguard, though not, it seemed, out of boredom. At least, that was the impression one might glean from observing her from the side, through the half-open gallery: stained glass and golden-translucent windows alternated with long, unglazed arches, while the gallery itself spiraled along the western wall of the palace, the emptiest part of the monumental structure. The palace was ancient, the garden was ancient, the name of Laetris predated much of what still stood in the city beyond—but all the living souls who had stepped onto the stage of this unfolding drama in the languid hour of post-noon torpor were, in contrast, young. Or at least, they would have been, had the Aeldari, to whom they all belonged, been more meticulous in counting their years.

"Hm. Were she any other woman, I might assume she simply enjoys the color of the path, or that she merely chose the most intricate corner of the palace gardens—nothing more," Lord Laetris mused, drumming his clawed gauntlet against the intricate window lattice.

The words themselves were self-contained, but the tone in which he spoke them suggested he would not mind discussing the whims of the lady currently indulging in such improper solitude.

The only reply was weighty silence. Behind him, with the faintest rustle of armor plates, his guardian—an Incubus, towering and magnificently built, clad in full war panoply—shifted his stance slightly. Silent and restrained, as was the way of his brotherhood.

"Speak, Kaed. I have never forbidden you from voicing your thoughts, so long as no foreign ears are present," Laetris reminded him irritably. "I know you have something to say."

Kaed inclined his head in the barest gesture of deference and, after a moment’s pause, spoke:

"Lady Riallain believes this corner to be the most secluded from idle eyes and ears. And rightly so, I might add. Few palace windows overlook it, and this gallery—" his hand swept in an unnaturally fluid gesture through the hall where they stood, "—is rarely frequented."

A pause. Then he added:

"Save by you, my Archon."

"And is this known to anyone besides you?" Lord Laetris—Archon Laetris, master of the Kabal of the Pierced Star—turned and fixed his gaze upon the golden eye-lenses of the Incubus’ helm. Kaed did not so much as twitch.

"I can only speculate, but I believe Lady Riallain remains unaware of your habits. Otherwise, she would not—"

"—have amused herself yesterday at this very hour by hurling throwing knives like a child," Laetris finished for him, turning back toward the gallery’s edge.

Kaed exhaled almost soundlessly—his lord had deliberately dismissed the act as childish play, as if daring contradiction, though in truth, it had been anything but. To the untrained eye, perhaps, it might have seemed so—but Archon Laetris was many things, and inattentive was not one of them.

Yesterday, Lady Riallain had slipped into the garden still clad in her battle regalia rather than more leisurely attire—but her amusement had been far more befitting her station than today’s. She had teased the snapping flowers, each time pulling her fingers back just in time, then ordered a captured servant to do the same. The wretch had failed—bitten not once, not twice. Riallain had laughed at first, then grown angry—or so it must have seemed to the servant, for she then commanded him to stand further away while her bodyguard arranged fruits upon his head, outstretched arms, and shoulders. Kaed could almost hear the unspoken threat: "Drop one, and I will kill you where you stand. And you will not enjoy the manner of it, believe me."

A target for her knives had been prepared—yes, sometimes the noblewoman had deliberately nicked the servant, laughing as he flinched in pain and terror, the venom from the carnivorous blooms already seeping through his veins. But mostly, she had honed her precision, her dexterity, ever complicating the challenge: Do not topple the unstable fruits. Wound the living stand just enough to make him shudder—but not enough to dislodge his burdens. Split the fruit cleanly or leave it untouched. Not so difficult for any well-trained Commorrite warrior—were it not for the fact that Lady Riallain performed these feats blindfolded, sometimes balancing on one leg like some exotic bird.

For such training, prying eyes were indeed an impediment. Kaed considered—should he mention to the Archon that some of the lady’s movements bore the unmistakable mark of her bodyguard’s tutelage? But the predatory, keenly glittering gaze of Laetris told him—better to remain silent. The Archon had likely deduced as much himself, and to distract a noble Drukhari from his amusement was an indulgence even the most favored guardian could ill afford.

***

Half-concealed behind the stained glass panel, Laetris watched the figure vanish around the bend of the path—today, Lady Riallain was clad in midnight blue and scarlet, and the colors suited her well. Yet despite her exquisite attire—the long, iridescent sleeves the hue of fresh blood, the deep velvet clinging to her waist, the smoky silk train gliding over the luminous stones, lending her steps an ethereal, drifting grace—she sought solitude, not idle admiration. Behind her strode her bodyguard, firm-footed—an Incubus-woman, a Klaivex named Nylia.

Kaed had first informed Laetris of the bodyguard’s high rank, but he would have uncovered the truth regardless. After all, the Archon had ordered intelligence gathered on every notable guest long before their arrival in his spires.

"Guests," however, was too generous a term. More accurately—petitioners begging for protection, though most bore the same proud lineage as the master of the Kabal of the Pierced Star.

"Laetris is a vast family, and many branches departed the Dark City even before the reign of your predecessor's predecessor, my Archon. They claimed distant worlds and sub-realms… such as Lady Gwairenven, widow of Lord Ranzar," the advisor murmured, weaving together spy reports, genealogies, and carefully sifted gossip—anything that might pique his lord’s interest. Selecting what would amuse the ruler was his primary duty, and he excelled at it.

"Ranzar was born a Laetris, but where he found his wife, no one truly knows," the Archon snorted, cutting him off. The advisor fell silent at once.

Even under the previous ruler, he had learned to hold his tongue in time. After all, he had ever feared only the direct wrath of his master—nothing more. But when, for reasons unknown, the new Archon had spared not only his life but his position, the advisor grew tenfold more cautious.

"You are right, my Archon," he exhaled in a tense, whistling whisper. "But Lord Ranzar granted her a new house name—he was within his rights… long ago."

"So Gwairenven is not merely an old crone, but a highborn crone, whatever her past may be?"

"Precisely."

The Archon twitched his left hand, which had been resting idly on the armrest of his grotesque, massive throne. The advisor bowed deeply and retreated. His fleeting glance swept over the seven Incubi flanking the throne—statuesque, seemingly breathless. One stood at the very steps of the dais, where the ruler of House Laetris had sat for centuries, decreeing fates. The throne itself, carved from glossy obsidian-like stone, shimmered with an oily fire—and the eyes of the assembled courtiers clung to it.

To the throne—and the figure seated upon it.

"From the moment the nobility and subjects of Ilimnis set foot in the Dark City, your loyalty belongs solely to the supreme Archon of the Kabal of the Pierced Star," the advisor declared loudly for all present.

Archon Laetris surveyed the newcomers with a slow, almost lazy gaze—though the laziness was feigned, and any who dared meet his eyes directly quickly looked away. All save Lady Gwairenven.

She was a stately woman, her movements thickened by age yet still exuding an imperious grandeur—very old, though she fought fiercely to conceal it. Her hair, dark as tarnished silver, was coiled into an elaborate coiffure, and her attire flowed in smoky, layered silks—long trailing skirts, a mantle, a corset gleaming with steel plates, and even gauntlets studded with razor-edged blades, sheathing her arms to the shoulder. Her skin was pallid, chalk-white, etched with sharp, dark lines—furrowed brows, kohl-rimmed eyes, and narrow lips painted to match her ashen garb.

Gwairenven seemed encased in gray ice—yet the Archon’s gaze found cracks in her armor. He noted the tension in her lips, the way her ringed fingers clenched the hilt of her belt-hung sword… a gesture bordering on defiance, perhaps. Her perfume was overpowering, sharp and venomous, as if she sought to disorient, to distract from her fading gestures and time-worn face. Once, she might have been beautiful—but those days were long past.

Lord Laetris, without shifting his posture, gave the faintest nod and smiled—amiably, yet laced with ambiguity:

"Auntie, you’ve finally deigned to grace the Dark City and your kin with a visit?"

"I come to beg protection, my Archon," Lady Gwairenven slowed her steps.

"And you expected to find another in this seat," the Archon leaned back slightly, smiling wider. "But rivers shift, and so do thrones. Archon Esarten—whom you no doubt wished to speak with—will never sit here again."

"News travels slowly to our sub-realm," Gwairenven lifted her chin with dignity, gesturing for her retinue to halt. "But not that slowly."

With deliberate, almost puppet-like slowness, she stepped forward and knelt. Her followers followed suit. Then, ceremoniously, she intoned:

"Archon Laetris, Lord of the House of the Pierced Star."

Laetris studied her for a moment—she was, by marriage to the late Ranzar, his aunt, albeit several generations removed—then flicked his wrist, permitting her to rise. If the old widow had questions about the succession, she wisely held her tongue.

And rightly so—for the Archon knew well that Ranzar’s widow was never meant to inherit. The old lord of distant Ilimnis had intended to pass his domain to his ward, his sister’s daughter. Laetris also knew what had finally dragged the scheming crone before him: had it not been for a string of misfortunes, not even a daemon could have compelled her!

Yes, misfortunes. When Ranzar had departed—untimely, or perhaps all too timely, depending on perspective—Ilimnis had been attacked. The Archon knew it was the Kabal of the Crimson Claw, and he knew they had acted alone. Which meant nothing barred the Pierced Star from brutal retaliation… unless this was a trap. That required thought—but Laetris already knew his answer to the old widow.

As she prattled on about Ilimnis’ woes, her struggles to hold the sub-realm, and the trials of ruling such a backwater, the Archon scrutinized the assembly. There were many—likely all of Ilimnis’ nobility, driven here like skittish bats flushed from a cave with torch and shout. Their demeanors varied: some openly nervous, frightened, uneasy; others maintaining rigid composure. Many weren’t worth half a golden belt buckle—but a few demanded closer attention.

Like the young woman in battle garb—not courtly finery—lingering near the wall. When the Ilimnis delegation entered, she had followed just behind Gwairenven, shadowed by her Incubus bodyguard, but then deliberately hung back, adopting a posture of respectful calm. The Incubus remained at her side—her personal protector, not the widow’s.

Curious.

Was this the true heir?

No other Incubi accompanied the group—not even the ruling widow.

"Enough prattle. I grasp Ilimnis’ plight. Now I must decide if you’re worth raising a blade for," Laetris finally cut Gwairenven off mid-sentence. She fell silent, bowing her head—but the venomous glint in her dark eyes was no illusion. Smirking, the Archon addressed the assembly: "Raise your heads. Remove your helms—and face your fate."

A wave of gasps, hushed whispers—flashes of fear. A symphony of power, exquisite in its monotony, filled the hall.

The first to comply was the warrior-woman. As her helm lifted, dark locks spilled over her shoulders—jet-black at first glance, save for strands shimmering with a deep crimson sheen. The hair framed a porcelain face, sharp-chinned and fine-nosed, with large, startlingly bright eyes—silver, like polished steel. Her lips, a vivid cherry hue, were pressed tight, yet their perfect shape was undeniable. A violet amethyst glinted on her forehead, set in delicate silver. Her expression was weary—but it did nothing to diminish her cold, noble beauty. Hers was a dark, glacial radiance—impossible to mask with modest garb or a stern demeanor.

Archon Laetris lingered on her for a moment, struck by the precision of her features. Wondering how her existence had eluded him, he absently raised a hand—and the advisor materialized, pressing a prepared document into his palm. The Archon skimmed the terms, then returned his gaze to the assembly.

The Incubus behind the warrior stood motionless—the only one present, by the codes of her Order, still helmed. The warrior herself tilted her chin up just slightly—enough to avoid seeming weak, but not enough to be insolent.

"Trueborn Riallain Laetris. Daughter of Lord Ranzar’s sister, ruler of Ilimnis," the advisor murmured, interpreting his lord’s gaze. "The one accompanied by the Incubus."

"My cousin, I presume?"

"Sixth—or thirteenth, depending on the reckoning, my Archon."

But Laetris was no longer listening. After one final sweep over Gwairenven and her entourage, he rose and declared:

"Ilimnis will be reclaimed. As for its rulers—their efforts disappoint me. They were insufficient. I am not pleased."

Silence answered him—had there been murmurs, heads would have rolled. Instead, only Gwairenven exhaled sharply, as if struck. Riallain did not flinch. Did not lower her gaze. Her eyes were cold—only the keenest observer might spot the spark within that silver: hope, or fury, or both.

An intriguing combination, Laetris mused.

"You will have a chance to amend my opinion, you who once swore fealty to Lord Ranzar. In the liberation of Ilimnis."

A thin, unkind smile graced the Archon’s noble features before he turned and strode from the hall, his shimmering silk cloak flaring behind him. The weight of a gaze burned between his shoulder blades—he did not turn to confirm whose. He had his suspicions.

And he would indulge them later.

After all, Kaed, standing at the throne’s steps, had watched the crowd a half-second longer than his lord—and he missed nothing.

Incubi were trained to observe, to react—and Kaed was among the finest. Some were chosen for strength, others for speed—but he had drawn attention for his eye for detail.

And time had only honed it.

***

"One day, this will backfire on you, my Archon." Kaed barely tilted his head as he watched his lord rub his face wearily—no longer in the throne room, no longer performing for prying eyes, his exhaustion unfeigned. "Eventually, someone reckless and quick-handed enough will believe your game..."

"And what do I keep you for, then?" Laetris snapped, though without malice.

Kaed immediately dropped to one knee, bowing his head, but the Archon grimaced—enough of this charade. With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he gestured for the Incubus to rise, condescendingly clarifying:

"And good if they do believe it. Fewer fools in my orbit, and rash fools are the easiest to deal with. But right now, I’m more interested in what you saw. Tell me."

"Only two do not fear you. The ladies of Ilimnis—both the false and the true."

"So Gwairenven is the false one?"

"Yes."

Laetris burst into laughter at the blunt simplicity of the answer. What use were intricate schemes if even an Incubus, untrained in the finer arts of deception, could pierce through them with a single glance? Still chuckling, he shook his head and mused:

"So, they do not fear me. A mistake."

"One is furious. The other... also furious, though it’s unclear at whom or what. And Lady Gwairenven already despises you, make no mistake."

"Splendid," Laetris smirked. "Creatures like her are only useful on the shortest leash. I’ve no idea what bound her to Ranzar, but her hunger for power is written plain as day. And hatred tightens the noose around rebellious necks better than anything—I’ve seen it time and again."

He strode across the chamber, poured himself a goblet of wine, and took a slow, deliberate sip. His gaze lingered on the dark crimson liquid—exquisite, invigorating—yet the furrow between his sharp brows remained. His emerald eyes burned with the unmistakable urge to wring someone’s neck, preferably sooner rather than later.

"Do you wish to rest? Shall I summon slaves or courtesans? Or perhaps join the sybarites in the Crimson Hall?" Kaed ventured. "Light fatigue is best dispelled with something undemanding and—"

"Idle indulgence? No. Not now." Laetris drained the goblet in one swift motion and hurled it aside, venting his irritation. "I’ve devised better entertainment. A hunt—for spies. Too many winged vermin have been fluttering about the spire lately, and I can taste the Crimson Claw’s meddling in affairs that are mine. So listen closely, Kaed."

"I am listening."

"Prepare to interrogate my prey with your usual... thoroughness. You’ll have first claim—and if I’ve judged correctly, we won’t even need the Haemonculus’ expertise to extract the rest."

"I am not to accompany you?" A note of surprise crept into the Incubus’ voice.

"No." Laetris cut him off with a sharp gesture. "I’ll take a raiding party on grav-cycles, and a small cadre of reliable warriors. Two ‘Venoms’ will suffice. Maintain the illusion that I haven’t left these chambers. If any of the Ilimnis rabble seek an audience again, send them to the Ur-Ghuls. As far as they’re concerned, I am indisposed with pleasure."

"You believe Ilimnis fell due to a traitor?"

"Of course. How else? Did you see their faces? Every last one of them is hiding something! Not a single honest gaze—you could start torturing them at random and still uncover some fresh betrayal. So yes—there is a traitor. There must be. Only, this traitor got nothing from those they sought to serve. And I don’t care what was promised—I only want to know to whom."*

The Incubus stood motionless as the Archon methodically armed himself, then assisted him in donning heavier armor. Just before Laetris departed, Kaed murmured:

"If I may..."

"What now?"

"You said—not a single honest gaze. I disagree. There was one."

"Riallain?" Laetris turned sharply at the threshold.

Kaed nodded. Then added:

"But she, too, has secrets. Not out of malice—pride, more likely."

The Archon’s smirk turned feral, as if already scenting the blood of his prey. With a decisive nod, he sealed his helm and strode out. Kaed had only confirmed his suspicions—which meant he was on the right path.

***

The Battle for Ilimnis was swift and brutal. The Kabal of the Pierced Star struck with lethal precision—so fast, in fact, that later, in the spires of High Commorragh, it was said Archon Laetris had spent twice as long preparing for the assault as he did actually fighting it.

A swarm of Venoms, Raiders, and grav-cycles, backed by squads of warriors, reavers, and hellions, descended upon the outposts held by the Kabal of the Crimson Claw. The battle erupted in a whirlwind of death, painting the twilight with fire and blood. The warriors of the Pierced Star attacked just before dawn, in that dead hour of gray stillness. The air split with screams, the shriek of splinter fire, the roar of engines, and the resonant crackle of darklight discharges.

Like a steel broom sweeping away vermin, the kabalites of House Laetris scoured the sub-realm, reclaiming their dominion in less than a day. By the next sunrise, the banners of the Pierced Star once again flew over the spires, while the short-lived standards of the Crimson Claw were trampled into blood and mud.

The battle quickly devolved into a feast of suffering for the Pierced Star—and, it seemed, the Archon had expected nothing less. Drenched in enemy blood, his eyes alight with the euphoria of recent slaughter, he strode through the halls of Ilimnis' palace, kicked the corpse of some upstart who had dared claim its throne off the steps, and declared that Ilimnis would be placed under the rule of a new puppet—a minor lord with no ties to the old dynasty.

And so, the highborn gossips of Commorragh, equally versed in intrigue and warfare, murmured in feigned surprise at the sudden rise of this previously nameless Dracon, committing his new title to memory. Even if the Archon of the Pierced Star had no grand designs for him, the boldness of Lord Laetris' maneuver demanded attention. And, of course, those same gossips snickered at the failures of the Crimson Claw—failures that could be traced back to the Archon's daring hunt.

It had been a complete success, though it had taken hours—and, as Laetris predicted, Kaed's interrogation skills had been more than sufficient. Slaves cowered in the corners of the chamber, brought there by the Incubus to maintain the illusion of the Archon's presence. They trembled as they stared at what remained of the prisoner—a lithe, winged Scourge spy, now reduced to a pulped mess of shattered hollow bones, shredded flesh, and blood-matted feathers.

Laetris had gotten his answers—not all, but enough. Wiping flecks of gore from his face with grim satisfaction, he noted that only two pieces of the puzzle still eluded him. No matter, he thought. Time would yield the rest. But the next move could be made now.

Ilimnis was a magnificent, if remote, world—mountains and seas, a stern slate-gray sky, wind-scoured valleys. Its forests and waters teemed with game, though some of it lethally so, and its warmer regions bore exotic fruits. With proper effort, it could have been a source of wealth—or even a retreat for idle pleasure. The Crimson Claw had long seen it as a prize, waiting only for chaos to erupt among its ruling elite.

Had they merely waited? Or had they provoked it?

Perhaps they had bribed someone already vying for power after Ranzar's death. Two claimants—one false, one true. Who among them had the audacity, yet lacked the foresight, to accept an offer of "minor unrest" orchestrated by the Crimson Claw? After all, what greater temptation than to betray the betrayer? The Crimson Claw had never intended to aid either queen—they had planned to seize power for themselves from the start.

The remnants of Gwairenven's forces had marched with Laetris and his well-equipped warriors, while Riallain and the nobles who remained loyal to her were given a personal order from the Archon: to guard the halls of one of the Pierced Star's lesser outer spires.

Oh, how it must have galled the Gray Lady, Gwairenven, to see no fewer than ten of her retinue defect to her niece. Lady Riallain accepted the command with icy courtesy—but the fury in her gaze burned like a star. More than once, Laetris caught himself dwelling on the strange thought that the scorching anger in her eyes had been both deeply satisfying and unnervingly sharp—like a finely honed dart slipping beneath his armor.

She took it as an insult, he mused. A reminder of her weakness.

The faintest flush on her cheeks, the way her lips pressed together in displeasure—oh, how magnificent she was in her barely contained outrage. Letting his gaze linger on the elegant curve of her neck, the pale smoothness of her collarbones (she had not yet donned her preferred full armor), he added, too softly for others to hear:

"Nothing enters or leaves this spire. Everything—living or dead—stays where it is. And any intruders without my personal mark—not just my word, mind you—are to be killed."

Riallain had responded with nothing but a cold, measured nod. And she obeyed the order to the letter, whether she liked it or not.

The real intrigue began afterward.

***

"Yesterday, Lady Riallain cut off Lady Althea’s braid," the advisor reported with an air of boredom, as the Archon partook of his breakfast in the days following the Ilimnis campaign.

At these words, Laetris nearly dropped the morsel he had been lifting to his lips—then smirked, recovering from his surprise:
"Althea? Her beloved braid? Now that’s something! I hope they didn’t reduce the lower hall to splinters afterward?"

"Not at all. The duel was brief, though fierce. Your former favorite, the wych-cult fighter Althea Redbraid—or should I say Shortbraid now?—declared to Lady Riallain that being ordered to guard some worthless old spire was an insult, obvious to all. And then, if you’d care to hear—"

"I would, I would. Out with it," Laetris urged, shifting impatiently in his seat, forgetting his meal entirely, his body taut as if ready to spring up and pace.

"Then Althea suggested the attack on Ilimnis was staged. Because, and I quote, ‘a spoiled, useless doll like her would never be allowed in a real battle.’ Lady Riallain challenged her. They exchanged a few more barbs, and... well, either Althea had grown rusty from years of idle luxury under your protection, or the lack of low gravity—which many wyches favor—or simply Riallain’s fury played Redbraid a cruel trick. Riallain defeated her. Wrapped that famed braid around her arm and severed it in one stroke. Althea was left with a ragged crop barely a hand’s length long, while Riallain held a long, luxurious braid. And the onlookers cheered, I might add. It was a magnificent fight. A shame you missed it."

"What did she do with it? The braid?" The Archon’s eyes gleamed with genuine curiosity.

"Ah, that’s the most amusing part! She tossed it to one of the highborn sybarites who’d been pestering her with his attentions. Told him: ‘Sell it to an armsmith or a haemonculus. The first will pay better, the second will be grateful for the sample—and a haemonculus’ favor is always useful, you know.’"

"And then?"

"Oh, Althea acknowledged her defeat—after all, she’s no match for Lady Riallain in status. But that sybarite? She butchered him by evening. The poor fool didn’t get far. The wych took her vengeance on him with full creativity, I assure you. So Lady Riallain’s remark about the haemonculus’ favor was... prescient."

"She likely anticipated exactly how it would end," the Archon chuckled. "Any other news?"

"Nothing of note. Aside from a poisoned smoke grenade left in the reception hall, opened by a careless servant—"

"Another dull assassination attempt," Laetris grimaced. "If that’s all, get out."

The advisor bowed ceremoniously and withdrew.

The moment he was gone, Laetris threw his head back and laughed—deeply, genuinely. Kaed gave a quiet snort; the story was entertaining. When the Archon’s laughter subsided, the Incubus remarked:

"As I said—she’s bored. Those garden drills of hers were just one sign. Her mind itches from idleness, as far as I can tell."

"Then she should say so outright," Laetris spread his hands. "The rest of Ilimnis’ nobility didn’t hesitate to voice their displeasure when I stripped them of land and titles for their negligence. Gwairenven whined the loudest! Letting them choose between swearing fealty to the Pierced Star or fleeing into obscurity was mercy enough."

"The Gray Lady is cunning, but hardly elegant in her schemes. Appointing a new ruler baffled them all, yet only half a dozen executions followed—most saw it as a test of patience. Now your subjects expect exceptional cruelty for any misstep, my Archon."

"Nothing I haven’t heard before," Laetris huffed, returning to his meal, meticulously selecting among the dishes. "Give me something interesting, or be silent. Anything else?"

"Yes." Kaed’s tone turned sly. "I’ve learned why Klaivex Nylia guards Lady Riallain alone, without a squad."

"I thought Incubi didn’t gossip about their masters," Laetris fixed him with a piercing glare—but Kaed only smiled invisibly. The Archon wanted details. After years of service, the Incubus could read his moods perfectly.

"We don’t. But we might... exchange a few words with another follower of the Shrine of Arhra. A phrase or two. Meaningless, yet revealing."

"And what did she say?"

"Nylia has known Lady Riallain since childhood. She and her squad once served the girl’s mother. Then... the sister of Lord Ranzar made a mistake. Fatal. She, her retinue, and five Incubi died. Only Nylia survived—and a young noble girl, barely more than a child. Riallain. Nylia judged her contract unbroken: if one mistress lived, her oath held. She helped Riallain reach Ranzar—apparently, the girl knew exactly what she was doing. He took her in, gave what protection he could... though he never hired a new Incubi squad. Nylia doesn’t know why. Perhaps he couldn’t, or the local Hierarchs refused. So she remained a commander without a squad, bound to protect the heiress. Ranzar did intend to leave Ilimnis to his niece. But he died before formalizing it."

"And without a will, the widow inherits. Convenient, no?" the Archon smirked.

"Extremely."

"Yet the Crimson Claw agents you flayed all denied colluding with any highborn. They only named a few pawns—executed before I reclaimed the world." Laetris’ voice turned icy. "I feel played. A vile sensation."

"Undoubtedly. A bold conjecture: Lady Riallain had no stake in Ranzar’s swift death."

"Of course not. Had she joined the campaign, she’d have been ‘accidentally’ slain. KHAINE’S BLOOD! Such a tiny world, yet so many serpents nest in it!"

"Common, when a realm is left too long to its own devices."

"You should be an advisor," Laetris laughed. "What say you, Kaed?"

"No, my path suits me. You are a fearsome and generous lord. Your name terrifies enemies, makes them tremble with hate—and thus, guarding you is an honor. I am fulfilled in your service." The Incubus gave a slight bow.

"Flatterer," Laetris grumbled, though not displeased. "Now—tell me again of Althea’s disgrace. That noble fool left out details. I want every one."

And Kaed obeyed, recounting all he knew, adding: Yes, Nylia had trained her lady in techniques known only to the Shrines. Not forbidden—but rare. Few had the patience to drill as Incubi did.

Riallain was full of surprises.

And who could guess what others lay in wait?

***

Weary of the mysteries swirling around Riallain, Archon Laetris resolved to uncover her schemes directly. And so, on one of those evenings when the Trueborn and guests of the Kabal indulged in the customary amusements and idle discourse of Commorragh’s high society—sipping grotesque liquors and trading veiled barbs—he seized the perfect moment in the gathering’s conversation and intervened, his voice a silken command:

"Approach. Your discussion intrigues me, ladies. Tell me—how do you find the diversions within the Spire of the Pierced Star?"

Riallain’s companion, a dark-eyed succubus from among the guests, spilled forth a torrent of ornate flattery. But the Archon’s gaze remained fixed upon the niece of Ranzar:

"Ah, how I would relish such pretty words from you, peerless Riallain. And yet, if I am not mistaken, you find our entertainments… dull? Nor would I err in saying this is not the first time." His smile was a razor’s edge. "Well then. Allow me to remedy your boredom. Right now."

In one fluid motion, Laetris rose and swept the blade from his belt in a duelist’s challenge.

The Archon’s sharp, exquisite features lit with a dangerous grin. Riallain did not lower her eyes. She met his smoldering gaze head-on, though her lashes flickered—just slightly. How far had she pushed her thinly veiled insult?

Behind her, a step back was taken by certain guests and Kabalites who had, until now, eagerly sought her company. Dispossessed of her birthright though she was, Riallain remained a noble scion of House Laetris, still clinging to her diminished—yet undeniable—wealth and name.

To declare before the ruler of so ancient and mighty a House (Kabal, yes, Kabal—but those gathered in this hall knew the weight of names, old and new, better than any) that his court was tedious, its pleasures too tepid to quicken the blood? That was boldness few survived.

"Oh, fret not—I propose but a friendly duel. It is not my custom to slay guests and allies before they dare move against me." He spun the blade in his hand. The slender steel whispered through the air, its honed edge alive with ghostly blue sparks. "If your warrior’s spirit craves more refined sport than my court can offer, then let me provide it, Lady Riallain."

His stare was a challenge. His smile grew wider. Deadlier.

"What if I refuse?" Riallain’s hand dropped to her own blade’s hilt. "I won’t. I do not recant my words—nay, I will gladly prove my skill is fit for more than guarding empty halls in the furthest spire."

"Ah! So that’s it." Laetris laughed, stepping forward in a dancer’s glide, halving the distance between them. "I should have guessed. Or at least suspected your pride would make you scorn my orders, deem them beneath your talents… And yet, you executed them flawlessly, whatever your private thoughts." His voice dropped, intimate as a knife between ribs. "Know this—I value those who refuse to be slighted. Thus, I forgive your insolence. This once."

He twirled his blade again. "And since our duel is but a diversion, I set the terms: we fight until one yields. As for you… name your victor’s prize. But choose wisely."

"Apologies. Do you want them for my disrespect… or my audacity?" Riallain’s reply was ice and steel. A tilt of her head, a murmured word, and even Nilia—who had stood as still as a statue—withdrew. Duels among the nobility were ever thus, even those fought to the death. And this? This was mere sport.

Riallain smiled then—cold, sharp. Laetris noted with delight how much effort that coldness cost her. Her eyes burned. Her fingers trembled—whether in fury or belated fear, he could not say. But retreat was not in her. Magnificent.

A fire kindled in his own chest—the thrill of something exquisite. Such vivid sensation was intoxicating. And if the sight of Riallain’s defiantly set lips, the flawless cut of her high cheekbones, sent an unexpected heat through his veins? Well. That was merely… intriguing.

"Ah, but that seems far too modest—though your persistence is commendable. Let us add one more thing: the fulfillment of a single, moderately indulgent whim. For your peace of mind, of course," the Archon taunted.

And then, without warning, he struck.

A sudden lunge closed the remaining distance, his blade carving a wide, elegant arc through the air, aimed straight for Riallain’s exposed head.

Her own sword met his with viperish speed, the clash sending a shower of blue sparks skittering along both razor-edged steels. With a deft twist, she deflected his strike, then danced back, swiftly donning her helm—much to Laetris’ disappointment, who had hoped to watch every flicker of emotion on her face. Then she attacked.

A whirlwind of precision, not reckless speed but calculated strikes, probing for weaknesses in his guard. Thrust—parried. Thrust—he was no longer there. Thrust—counter. Laetris had deliberately ceded the initiative at first, allowing her the illusion of control, but he had no intention of prolonging the game.

Their duel was a dance, executed at impossible speed—blades blurred into silver-black trails, edged with crackling energy, their bodies moving in lethal harmony. The gathered spectators watched in rapt silence, and when the first droplets of blood flashed through the air, a collective sigh of admiration rippled through the crowd.

"Clever," Laetris remarked, deflecting the final strike of Riallain’s blistering assault, barely sparing a glance for the pauldron she had torn from his shoulder. Tiny rubies of blood dotted his face from the spray of her blade, and a long, shallow cut traced his exposed shoulder—the kind of wound that stoked the fire of battle rather than dulled it. His lips curled into a predator’s smile as he raised his sword again.

Riallain twisted away from his next strike—too late realizing it had been a feint—and momentum carried her exactly where Laetris wanted her. She couldn’t evade the follow-up. Her helm was ripped away, forcing her back another step—until the cold stone wall met her spine. In the same instant, the edge of Laetris’ blade pressed against her throat, the faint sting of its power field prickling through the dark fabric shielding her flesh.

"Clever," the Archon repeated, "but not quite clever enough. Time to yield, my lady."

His gaze pinned her, offering no escape. The sword tilted upward—forcing Riallain to rise onto her toes, putting precious inches between her skin and the merciless edge. Her hand twitched toward the dagger at her hip—now was the time to bury it in his exposed shoulder, deny him his advantage—but he caught her wrist, crushed her against the wall with his full weight, and repeated, voice low:

"Time. To. Yield." Then, with a strange inflection: "No more tricks up your sleeve, my lady. No more surprises."

"You are a worthy opponent, Archon Laetris. I concede." Riallain opened her hands, and her blade clattered to the floor. She fought to keep her voice icy, but the thrill of battle still thrummed beneath it—her lips burned, her eyes gleamed like a stalking lhamean’s, and a faint rasp roughened her words. "I suppose now is when I apologize?"

"Not quite. Apologies can be made privately—out of respect for our shared bloodline, if nothing else. But as for the second part of our bargain..."

"Your whim?" she challenged.

"Precisely." Slowly, Laetris lowered his blade. For a moment, his gaze flickered, as if weighing his options. He had intended to demand the truth—to force her to confess whatever schemes she had been weaving behind his back.

But then, inexplicably, a different urge seized him.

After all, he could always drag the truth out of her later.

With a flick of his wrist, he sent his sword skittering across the floor. Then he seized her face in both hands and crushed his mouth to hers in a kiss that was more bite than caress. She jerked in protest, her hand flying up—only to dig sharp fingers into his wounded shoulder, deliberately reopening the cut, making him bleed anew.

And then, unexpectedly, she kissed him back—just as fiercely as she had fought. The salt of blood on their lips only sharpened the taste.

"That will suffice," Laetris finally murmured, pulling away. "You may deliver your apologies, my lady, at your leisure. But do not delay your explanations—I have other questions for you yet."

With an utterly unreadable smile, he turned and strode away, leaving her to the whispers of the crowd—some awed, some envious.

***

The measured footfalls of the Incubi reverberated off the corridor walls—though the temple-trained warriors of Arhra could move in utter silence even through the hollow vaults of ancient structures, today, they saw no need for such stealth.

Riallain matched the long strides ahead—Kaed led the way, while Nilia shadowed her from behind. Nilia’s presence was a comfort, but Kaed’s cold silence gnawed at Riallain’s nerves. She knew full well this Incubus was but an extension of Laetris’ will, yet something about him radiated an unspoken threat. Constantly. A magnificent guard, Riallain admitted grudgingly. Far more striking than the serpentine Sslyth mercenaries favored by other Archons—Laetris, it seemed, disdained scalded hirelings. And while Incubi were hardly a novelty, the best among them stood out unmistakably.

When she asked where they were taking her, Kaed only replied curtly: "The Archon has designated a meeting place. You wished to speak with him—so walk."

"One of the oldest galleries in House Laetris’ palace," a voice ahead remarked, smooth and quiet. "Ancient. Nearly forgotten. Few bother to walk these halls." A pause. "Save for me."

The corridor opened into a gallery running along the palace’s outer wall. Laetris stood at its edge, framed by the arched openings and stained-glass insets that formed a bizarre, rhythmic pattern. Ahead stretched a colonnade, and beyond—the garden’s most secluded corners, visible through the gallery’s open arcades.

Riallain stepped forward, joining him. Below, winding paths of faintly luminescent violet stones contrasted starkly with the dark greenery of rare plants and the predatory crimson of bloodblooms.

"A marvelous place for solitude," the Archon mused, nodding toward the view. "Here or there. Don’t you agree, my lady?"

"You were watching me?" Riallain’s temper flared like living flame—hot and impatient. "When I thought myself unseen, down there in that garden?!"

Oh, how Laetris savored the storm of emotions playing across her face! She caught the predatory glint in his eyes before she could rein in her outrage. The Archon smirked, unrepentant, holding her gaze. Silence stretched between them—until, unexpectedly, Riallain laughed.

A rich, velvety sound, deep and utterly unfeigned.

"And I would have been disappointed in you, my Archon, had it been otherwise."

Then, just as suddenly, she sobered.

"And since I lost our duel, honor demands I explain myself." She inclined her head in a slow, deliberate bow. "I swear I never intended to challenge—"

Laetris cut her off with an impatient wave, shedding all pretense of formality.

"Spare me the courtly platitudes, Riallain." His voice turned sharp, commanding. "What I want—no, what I demand—is an explanation. Your blatant dissatisfaction with my orders, your theatrically defiant stance toward my court, this entire… besieged fortress demeanor of yours—it raises questions. Many questions."

He stepped closer, his presence oppressive, his voice dropping to a lethal murmur.

"So. Speak plainly. What game are you playing?"

Riallain remained silent, as if waiting for him to continue.

"You're filled with secrets and surprises like a shardcarbine loaded with poison, Riallain Laetris," the Archon spoke slowly. "I couldn't understand what drives you from the moment you set foot on the docks of the Dark City. The docks of my spire. And what surprises to expect from you - you never seemed like one who would quietly accept a secondary role forced upon you by everything surrounding Ilimnis. And I was - and remain - certain: there is a traitor among the Ilimnisi. Still is - only the pawns went to the scaffold, but someone who commanded them remains."

"Lord Vaelyth - a pawn?" Riallain feigned a scoff. "He commanded the main defensive forces under Lady Gwairven when the invasion began..."

"Who else! That oaf wouldn't have had the wit to outsmart his own courtesan had she tried to poison him," Laetris smirked unpleasantly. "So far I see only two Ilimnisi who would have enough wit and audacity for such things."

Riallain nodded silently. Her eyes burned brighter, yet for some reason she was in no hurry to justify herself.

The Archon hesitated just a moment longer - and just like in their recent duel, with one precise step he delivered a crushing blow that left no room for retreat:

"No more tricks up your sleeve. So answer me: what's in that hidden cache among the predator-flower vines?"

Riallain flinched slightly and looked straight into the Archon's eyes:

"So I was right after all - you don't trust me, not one bit. I'll answer about the casket, I'll answer - I have no other choice. But that staged attack on the spire..."

"What? Staged?" Laetris shook his head in confusion.

Riallain seemed momentarily taken aback, but raised her chin defiantly:

"That group that attacked... they had your seal of passage. You ordered me to admit anyone who presented it, but they refused to show anything - and attacked immediately."

"And you took out all your anger on them?"

"Yes. Afterwards, when my fighters captured two out of seven. The rest were killed, and when we searched these two, we found the seal and... I was furious. I felt mocked! You were mocking me, Archon."

"That wasn't a staged attack, Riallain. Those you killed were saboteurs and spies of the Crimson Talon," said Laetris, instantly losing all his air of superiority and smugness. "In disguise. Now I understand what happened to my informant, and... May the Dark Prince rend the souls of those wretches, if only we could have interrogated them!"

"We could always consult the Haemonculi..." Riallain began, but Laetris cut her off with a snarl:

"Time! Time we don't have! It's slipping through our fingers even now, playing into hands far from ours," and the Archon clenched his fist so hard the spike-plates creaked. Whether he misspoke or said it deliberately - "ours" - Riallain couldn't tell. But she finally decided to take the risk, exhaled sharply and began:

"I..." - at first she meant to justify herself, but then cast aside the facade she'd been hiding behind: the mask of a well-bred, restrained highborn lady, cold as stone and just as unyielding. Her eyes shone brighter than diamonds: "In the casket I hid from you, and especially from my dear kin from Ilimnis - is proof that Gwairven the Gray Lady is in league with the Archon of the Crimson Talon. Has been for a long time. Even before Uncle Ranzar's death. There are records there, text and voice logs, intercepted reports and items that can't be explained away. She's behind the attack on Ilimnis - but something went wrong in their agreements. It seems now she can't extricate herself from this alliance, and only the lure of power keeps her going. And now Gwairven is ready to follow the Crimson Talon's orders, until they finally throw her a substantial bone."

"Why did you hide this? Why didn't you come to me immediately?"

"The only reason I didn't bring this to you," Riallain stated firmly, "is because I believed you wanted to be rid of me just as quickly as the Gray Lady. As quickly as all of Lord Ranzar's bloodline." Her eyes burned with defiant clarity. "Otherwise, why appoint a new ruler to Ilimnis?"

Laetris had no chance to respond—

Because at that moment, Kaed suddenly pressed two fingers to his helm's temple, touched a sensor—then turned smoothly toward them.

"Forgive my interruption, Archon, and I accept any punishment for it—but I must report: the hidden passage in the lesser spire is being breached. And I know by whom. I can still intercept them if I move now—"

"Go," Laetris snapped.

The Incubus was already moving, barking orders into his comm-bead—as if he had long anticipated this very moment. One could only hope the cunning warrior had prepared for every contingency. After barely a heartbeat’s hesitation, Nilia requested permission to follow—and Riallain granted it with a sharp nod.

"We won’t waste time either." Without explanation, Laetris seized Riallain’s wrist and pulled her after him. "My personal Venom is docked on the balcony across the gallery. We’ll arrive just in time for the finale."

***

The warm waters of the bath embraced Laetris' body, weightless and soothing. Aromatic incense curled through the air, tempting him to close his eyes and surrender to sweet oblivion. But the Archon of the Pierced Star rarely indulged in such weakness—even in complete solitude. Still, he exhaled deeply, tilting his head back, letting his eyelids flutter shut.

The alchemical solutions dissolved in the water stung his fresh wounds—accelerating their healing. The pain was faint, almost pleasant, a tingling whisper along the edge of sensation. The perfect state to reconsider the events of the past day.

Yes, as he had predicted, they had arrived just in time for the climax of the battle at the lesser spire. The mystery of Ilimnis' betrayal had unraveled—he and Riallain had caught Gwairenven's envoys, the Gray Lady herself, and a handful of her Crimson Claw patrons locked in a desperate struggle against Kaed and his warriors. Naturally, the Archon and his companion had joined the fray.

Though the traitors were few, they fought like cornered beasts, and the skirmish had not been effortless—saboteurs always prepared their exits. But the advantage of skill—and sheer force—had been on Laetris' side.

Oh, if he were offered such a battle again, he would never refuse—if only for the pleasure of fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with Riallain. She was a magnificent warrior, and though he had glimpsed her prowess during their duel, as an ally, she was even more lethal.

And they had won.

Laetris had taken particular delight in dragging the two highest-ranking traitors by their hair to his Venom, hanging them like carcasses on its exterior hooks, their curses ringing in his ears all the way back to the main spire. He had even indulged in explaining the secret passage to Riallain—All old palaces and spires have their catacombs. Commorragh is riddled with them, and the ancient Houses guard their hidden paths as their most sacred secrets.

Well, he had joked, now you know one of House Laetris' secrets. Guard it well—lest you disappoint me.

Riallain had answered with a long, inscrutable look and an exaggeratedly respectful nod—though the fire in her eyes had betrayed nothing resembling deference. A riddle for another time.

She had also handed over the proof of Gwairenven’s conspiracy, granting him undeniable leverage. A victory—clean and intoxicating as the finest wine in this fleeting kabal war.

Soon would come the public trial of the conspirators, the spectacle of their torture, and an exquisitely cruel execution—details he still needed to refine. Once more, Archon Laetris would reaffirm his epithet: The Bloodied Hand. A title the foolish dared only whisper, while the wise and bold spoke it aloud—reverent, as part of his name.

Yet his thoughts were far from the triumphant musings of a victorious ruler.

Laetris absently touched his recently bitten lower lip, feeling liquid fire coil in his veins—different from the sting of his healing wounds. Behind closed eyelids, his mind conjured images far removed from battle.

Riallain.

Her furious beauty, her burning eyes, the sharp cut of her collarbones. Her porcelain skin, which he longed to trace with delicate crimson lines, weaving intricate patterns of cuts and scratches. Heat spread through him, a relentless, intoxicating ache—exquisite as the finest pain.

These thoughts had plagued him increasingly of late. He had long pretended they were inconsequential, but the truth was undeniable: he was enthralled by the young schemer. And the events of recent days had only fanned the flames—she was not merely beautiful, but brilliant. A devastating combination.

Her beauty could eclipse any celebrated courtesan of Commorragh—if she wished. Yet she seemed to value something beyond mere physical perfection. And that only made her more desirable.

It was time to admit: Archon Laetris had no idea how to claim this woman—but he knew he would not retreat. He could, of course, simply order her to his chambers. But he didn’t want to.

And more crucially—he knew one night would never be enough.

Khaine’s teeth, was this what they called love? That ruthless, inescapable hunger—the certainty that no matter what you surrounded yourself with, the world would always feel hollow without one person in it?

"Time to prepare for a long siege," he murmured to himself.

Lost in contemplation, he drifted into a shallow doze. True rest had become a rare luxury lately. Perhaps later, he would indulge in more active diversions. But for now—

A commotion at the door shattered his peace. The clatter of weapons, raised voices—Kaed’s low growl, a woman’s sharp retort. Then—a firm knock.

With a snarl, Laetris hauled himself from the water, hastily draping a smoky silk robe over his bare skin. No time for armor—if this was another assassination attempt, he had his blade, and the shadow-field generator woven into the robe’s clasp would suffice.

"What now?" he demanded, voice cutting through the steam. "Report!"

The door swung open.

Two Incubi—Kaed and Nylia—stood locked in a silent struggle, and between them, slipping past with effortless grace—

Riallain.

Laetris’ fingers stilled on the shadow-field’s activation rune. He lowered his hand.

"Would someone care to explain?"

"I never finished my apology," Riallain declared, twisting free of Kaed’s restraining grip. The Incubus hesitated, then relented at his lord’s sharp glance.

"She was armed," Kaed stated flatly, stepping forward to present a dagger to Laetris. "And brought a retinue of… decorated slaves."

For the first time in Laetris’ memory, Kaed sounded uncertain.

"Let her pass," the Archon commanded automatically. His gaze swept over Riallain, then added, "And get out. Guard the door—as you should have been doing."

"You ordered no disturbances," Kaed began.

"Yet here she is. Persistent, isn’t she?" Laetris smirked, examining the dagger—a slender, exquisite blade etched with intricate patterns—then its owner.

Riallain was dressed not for a private audience, but for a high court gala—clad in wine-red and smoky-purple silks, fastened by a web of silver chains. Her dark hair cascaded over pale shoulders, exposed by artful slits in the fabric. A faint smile played on her lips. Behind her, a cluster of slaves lingered by the far wall—adorned with intricate body paint, their presence unexplained.

Kaed bowed and withdrew, the door’s lock clicking shut behind him.

"A dagger," Laetris mused.

"A gift," Riallain said, tilting her head. "Like the slaves. I did say my apologies were incomplete. What worth do I have if I don’t honor my word?"

"None at all," Laetris echoed. He tested the dagger’s edge—a bead of blood welled on his fingertip, the wound flaring with sudden heat. Not poisoned, then. Infused with stimulants. Not a weapon—a toy.

Riallain stepped closer—slowly, extending a hand as if testing for a shield-field. Finding none, she closed the distance. Taking his hand, she brought it to her lips, her tongue flicking out to catch the blood.

"I apologize," she murmured, "for disregarding the word and authority of the Archon of the Pierced Star."

"You have an unusual fascination with my blood, Riallain Laetris," he remarked, amused.

"Perhaps because we share the same House’s blood?" Her smile was razor-edged. "I don’t wish to be separate from it. My place is here. I will be a loyal blade to the Kabal, and gladly devote all my talents to our House. But know this—" Her voice dropped. "I will never belong to you as a thing, Archon. You are brilliant, intoxicating—I understand why others seethe with envy at your triumphs. And I understand even more why so many swear fealty to you. I will stand among them, I swear it. But I am no possession. I cannot be owned—it is my nature. I will never be obedient, never submissive. But I can remain at your side—for as long as you desire. Or—as long as I do. What comes of that, I cannot say."

"Intriguing," Laetris admitted, surprised by her bluntness.

"But consider this," she continued, placing her palms against his chest, her sharp metal-clawed rings scoring faint red lines into his skin. "We will forever provoke one another, striving to outmaneuver, to impress—your wits against mine. Rivalry or partnership? Who can say? Perhaps my cunning will bore you one day—who knows?"

"Bore me?" Laetris laughed softly, pulling her flush against him. "You’re mad. This is the most enticing offer I’ve had in years. Let’s test it."

With that, he stepped backward—dragging her with him into the bath.

Water erupted around them in a glittering arc, but the Archon paid it no mind. Riallain might have had more to say—but for now, words had lost all meaning.

"We will walk this path forever, challenging one another, striving to surpass and astonish."

Laetris savored the thought. He would never refuse such a game—not in this lifetime.

Never peace. Never boredom.

To carry their House’s name across the stars, until their enemies trembled and their allies exulted.

To never tire of this endless, exhilarating contest—one that promised to be both long and thrilling.

He could imagine no greater gift.

***

The last page of the play was left unfinished—deliberately, it seemed.

Master Rintil of the Troupe turned the infoslate back to the previous passage, reread the lines, and sighed. No, it was no accident. The ending was missing. He glanced at his companion—one of the Harlequins of his own troupe. Both were unmasked, for there was no need for disguises when no performance was underway, and only fellow players could see them.

Rintil rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then flicked the edge of the slate with a slender finger.

"So where’s the ending? How does it conclude?"

"He killed her."

"What?" Rintil threw up his hands in dismay. "Don’t tell me you’re ruining such a fine play with something as banal as a jealous rage! What kind of trick is this, Artalion?"

"I’m not." Artalion leaned back in his chair, his green eyes glinting in the dim light. A faint, humorless smile touched his ageless features—sharp yet noble. "And no cheap betrayal either. Nothing so crude ever passed between them—though they quarreled fiercely at times... and made up just as passionately, it must be said."

"But still—he killed her?"

"Yes. He had no other choice."

Rintil studied the actor’s face, searching for an answer to an unspoken question. Then he set the slate between them, steepled his fingers, and murmured:

"It’s brilliantly written. The plot... well, not entirely original, but compelling. Pride against pride—a desperate young warrior and a noble, arrogant ruler..."

"Also reckless, vain, and lucky. And cunning—to a point." Artalion’s smile faded entirely. "And for a time, utterly, blindingly happy about it. That’s what doomed him in the end."

"Politics and love entwined in such chaos... at the very least, it’s far from dull." Rintil tapped the slate. "We could stage this beautifully. Perhaps not in full, but... select scenes could be woven into a larger performance, like Ursillas’ The Fall—to heighten the drama. But we can’t perform it without knowing the true ending!"

"You already do, Aitar." Artalion tilted his head slightly. "We all weave fragments of our own stories into the Dance—a scene here, a monologue there, a battle, a vision... Isn’t that how it always is?"

"Yes. Until they blur into something new, no longer tied to those who lived them." Rintil nodded slowly. He understood now. This was Artalion’s story—for the lord of House Laetris had borne that very name, and all others in the tale remained unchanged.

This play could never be spoiled by something as trite as jealousy or betrayal—because those things had never existed between them.

Artalion inclined his head again, as if to say: Yes, I wish to weave this thread into the greater tapestry. To let this fragment of fate join the eternal Dance—the endless performance of Cegorach’s Children. To dissolve it into the kaleidoscope of the Harlequin’s domino, then gather the shards anew and set them free.

To write such a story, one must burn brighter than any warlock’s gem—and only the Harlequins know that fire. For the wound in the soul that leads an Aeldari to the Infinite Dance never truly heals. Time does not dull it; memory does not bury it. The spilled blood burns eternal, and the heart torn living from the chest shines brighter than any spirit stone.

That is why no Harlequin wears the Tears of Isha—they have no need of them.

And it is this silent, burning heart-fire that the Laughing God sees.

For the ghost of His smile, the Dance goes on—forever.

For that is the path of the Great Fool’s servants.

One day, this radiance will light a new way for all their people.

This faith drives the Dancers onward.

What more could one ask, when life itself has become the unseen wind?

Perhaps nothing at all.

05.01.2025 ©Eirik Godvirdson