Hi! Sorry for inactivity, life has been hectic. Here is new chapter, from where plot officially, if slowly starts (remember, backbone of this fic are character exploration and worldbuilding). Hope you like it, thanks for reading, please comment.

Warning, contains animal torture at last section.

Palace was nothing like in his memories.

Of course, Miach admitted, it wasn't as if he had rather vivid memories of place. Aunt Weira was hospitable, charitable and loving woman who greatly trusted and valued her family- perhaps far, far too much, considering what eventually happened, and always ready to welcome them, but that didn't mean that they were hanging around palace all that often, even if it was big enough to house whole family-they had their own castles and estates, which were now probably razed and ruined beyond any recognition. And maybe it was better to have it destroyed than given over to some servant of tyrant, or Usurper himself, to see it desecrated and twisted as that disturbed bastard made aunt Weira's palace look, or so they heard at least.

(She was of course not Miach's aunt. Miach was great-grandson of queen Weira's aunt, queen Norbia, which if he remembered correctly made her his balakha. Meridian's language was wonderful and complex, and possessed words for every possible concept and relationship. There were separate terms for daughter-in-law of your aunt's niece and your great-grandmother's brother's mother-in-law. As this was far too much information for brain to remember, to consternation of older generations, most people abandoned them in favor of inaccurate but simpler terms. especially among Escanors, where some would last for centuries and still look like your younger cousins.)

Perhaps, muddled by years, and his own wishes, memory and fantasy grew together, until one bled in other, and royal palace, the jewel of Meridian, seat of queen's power grew beyond any reason and sense, turning what was magnificent but still mortal home in pinnacle of beauty, a paradise straight out of fairy tale, impossible, unreachable utopia, manifestation of every desire, place that would fulfill any need and sate every want. A foolish child's dream, he knew that, but still...

Perhaps tales of commoners truly infected him more then he suspected. he couldn't have truly believed that palace reached so high into Heavens that queen could grab Sun, overlook all of Meridian, forever removed from tiny, boring world beneath unless she wished otherwise. That floors were paved in gold tiles, doors carved from pearls and bones of ancient monsters, inlaid with gems and jewels so brilliant one could buy continent. That walls would be built out of stone impenetrable, out of rock giants crushed and molded by will of queens of past, painted with murals that moved and changed and lived, fueled by souls of artists who made them.

Doors to his room were old, and bit rotten, but they were big and clean. Walls were boring cream colour, and there were cracks in paint, but they were thick and nicely insulated. Glass was smoky, dirty and boring but strong and unlikely to break. Carpets were faded and torn at ends, but designs on them were of complex images, and fabric was of high quality. Bed wasn't ornately carved and made of gold, but of lacquered, polished wood and it was more comfortable then well, anything Miach slept on last ten years. Wardrobe couldn't hide legion but it was thrice bigger then it needed to be for everything he owned. All in all, he couldn't under any circumstances claim life at palace wasn't comfortable.

There was constantly some rumble at palace, he could see it even in short time he had been present. Constantly, something was changing, being carried of or brought. For thirteen years Usurper had been tormenting people of Meridian, taking away everything they had, seeking to bleed them dry, stealing every crumb and drop of water from lowest smugglers to greatest nobles. It was said that tyrant used magic to expand interior of royal treasury, and that it was as big as city itself, full of both impossible wealth and useless trash stolen from spite.

Miach heard queen Elyon started program of reparations for all who were hurt and cheated and robbed blind and naked during period of her absence. He wondered how many jewels there were in palace's treasury, stolen by usurper's soldiers, and unable to be returned to owners, because nobody marked graves.

His mother had small chest filled with jewels that shone like starlight and changed colours, from pale and cold lilac to smoky, sweet orange. Some were smoother than glass, carved by magic and tools of greatest craftsmen. Others were rough, chipped, unworked stones, seemingly torn out of ground by hand. Few were hers, others were his father's. Some shone when you said specific words, others sang, some floated, or played out images... His mother sold them all over years, to shady smugglers who were still honest enough to not deal with Phobos's regime, because they needed food, and money to fund their rebel cells, until all that was left was old, faded brooch with white rose and thyme of thin metal covered by chipped paint.

Phobos didn't take them, so queen Elyon couldn't return them, and still because of him it was lost. Few days after she sold off the box itself, his mother, the respected and feared Lady Deirdre, as great and terrible as army of dragons, had been caught and beheaded. And not even queen could return dead.

Hour ago.

There used to be manor in the woods.

It was estate once, small as royal estates went, but still great and beautiful. It was hidden, private place where Escanors retreated when they needed rest and healing, in times full of sunlight and greenery, when breeze was cool and easy, after trees finished flowering yet fruits weren't ripe yet, and harvest wouldn't come for months.

Used to be there, always laughter and work present. A village of sorts grew inside and around it, generations after generations of servants, to whom land truly belonged lived there, taking care of lands and rooms, and living off it as well as queen, for she was kind woman, and maid could sleep in royal bed, for better for it to be used then cleaned a year long for no reason. There children played games in halls, and on solstice women wove wreaths of flowers for young men who caught their eye, and couples happily jumped over flames. And always, in that delicate place, there was singing.

Now silence reigns there. The estate is abandoned, inhabitants having left once land was sapped dry of life, leaving in hurry, chased out by soldiers who ransacked place then abandoned it. The homes crumble, moss replacing mortar and twisted roots cracking stone. Bones dwell in yellowed grass. Even animals have left this dry and hollowed out place, air poisoned with dust and numbness. All of homes have been torn down to foundations, broken in ash. Only somewhat does a tower of stone stand, it's roof gone, half of it shattered and falling, struck down by rage from above.

Inside, a Whisperer wakes up.

That, honestly, isn't good enough word. Whisperers were things of blood and sap, secrets and magic. They do not feed or sleep as people do, for that is impractical flaw of humanity. They are nourished by light and richness of earth and magic, and when those are lacking they turn slow and static, retreating beneath soil, in leaves and woods. Once starved of it, they stop listening, hardly move, disconnecting from world more and more until they meld in bark and flowers, and then finally lose consciousness, or what passes for it, and disperse.

There used to be few Whisperers at estate, created from gardens. In all of his keeps, over all of Meridian, Prince Phobos kept and placed Whisperers, who spied on his subjects, hidden in roots and grass, letting him see and hear news through them, extending his choking hold over Meridian better then any spy network, and seeing that his domains remained in proper condition.

(Rather generous term, as he cared not for people living there, or functionality of buildings. Let servants rot, let towers crumble, as long as he still held them, as long as roses grew undisturbed.)

There were few Whisperers stationed there, barely more than a dozen, as estate was small and not strategically important. In few years since Phobos's defeat, all of them withered and rotted away, until only one remained, having sunk in stems and pollen on hibiscus bush, halfway gone. Until...

A green wall, smooth and clear as mirror. Gaunt face, dark circles under desperate, angry eyes, teeth gnashing on long hair. Spite and malice reaching out as spit dries on bitten lips. Irises shrunk, scleras bloodied and maddened with hate and bitterness as man resists tearing gaze off his reflection, pushing pitiful morsels of magic through stone, through his bindings, through space.

It is a gamble. Gamble more likely to fail then accomplish anything, to waste almost three years of preparation and plotting and hoping and alert guards that they still need to watch him closely, but without risk there is no reward. He could work minor magic on himself, and divination always came naturally to Escanors ( fool would have thought spell was cast on walls, for it was through them he managed visions, lacking his sand, but walls, just like crystal balls and runes and entrails were but a medium, placebo more or less). Reaching out to Whisperers, who were his eyes and ears, dolls meant to serve as his vessels, created from flowers he planted and tended, from his blood and flesh. It is a stretch, but technically he is still doing magic on himself, and as Cedric taught him technicality is everything when it comes to magic ( that and blood, blood upon altar, blood upon stones, blood upon roses).

A mind that isn't properly sentient arises from it's stupor. It becomes-not aware, but recognizant of world around itself. It scans it's surroundings, analyzes and catalogues the strength of sunlight, the composition of soil, the network of roots tapping in waters below. It recalls secrets it keeps inside, finds holes and tries to determine which events it spied on have been lost. And it recognizes it's master, maker, owner, father, other-self's desire.

It takes days, but eventually it is fully active. From bushes it arises, forming from petals and nectar and wood. It isn't tall, it would barely reach shoulders of twelve year old, but that isn't bad thing- small spies can be worth more. It's waist is slim but strong, and instead of legs it has skirt of five petals, widening and spreading at bottom. Petite, branch-like arms, green like stalks and covered with leaves, too long and soft fingers like stems. Eyes as shiny as resin, long hair brown as wilted flowers, no ears and red stigmas for antennae, hair all over it's body, sweet red splotched with painfully bright yellow.

It seemingly floats above ground, taking in sunlight (for it was creature of bark and bone, not mismatched but perfectly joined together, and plants had far more superior method of nourishing themselves), recuperating it's strength as it drained tidbits of lifeforce from abandoned land, it's missing burning hot and bright as heated iron, running through it like sap and blood and confessions nobody should have heard, seeking animals to drain.

It would be a long way till the prison.

Three hours and eleven minutes.

Though he certainly deprived many of such things, Phobos never intentionally went after friends and family of his enemies. If occasion demanded so, like whole fiasco with salt mines and rebel leader's father, he would use people's pathetic attachments to his advantage, of course, but he never went out of his way to endanger families of Guardians, or took parents and friends of rebels as hostages.

Not out of kindness or nobility, of course. If somebody claimed so (as Rathor certainly did, once before), Phobos would certainly laugh at them. It was simply that thought rarely occurred to him, and when it did he failed wholly to grasp it. In theory, he understood how those things worked, but when it came to practice, he failed to grasp why somebody would be so invested in wellbeing of another. Empathy always seemed like hindrance to him. His enemies claimed it made him weaker, because he couldn't understand how far people would go for those they loved. He thought that sounded quite childish.

So Phobos raided and hoarded. Attachments to items, to places and things, that made sense. Boy sobbing because his sister died was something Phobos couldn't comprehend and didn't want to. Child angry and screaming because somebody broke his favourite doll, now that was reasonable. Homes, toys, tools, inheritances, he could see why people cared so much for stuff like that. He himself would subject whoever destroyed his paintings or roses to unspeakable tortures. So his servants raided and stole, filling chambers and halls of palace with useless items left to rot, while his people wailed after all they lost.

Five hours.

In Phobos's dreams there is no Sun. Sun is the providence and symbol of queens, the greatest gift of Leryn, the First Queen, Leryn the Founder, Leryn the Uniter. The old Sun died, so Leryn replaced it, for she was Light's best beloved vessel, and it was first thing she brought forth when she claimed Heart's power, even before she drove out Kahedrins. It has no love for the usurper, the kinslayer, the traitor to his duty as ruler, nor does he care for it. There is way to teach trees and flowers to grow even in darkness, and he had always been more partial to moons.

In Phobos's dreams there is no release, only screaming. Cells after cells line in infinity, each stretching through ages, almost as old as smooth stone they have been shaped out of. Cell after cell, twisting together like braids, like ivy growing over trunks, and inside is the past, the shadows, those who died before any human walked over meridian. They scream, for there is no penitence, no freedom, no key, only unrest and screaming, memory itched in stone and metal, that they have been free and now they are denied, water and stone and light baring them.

In Phobos's dreams a tower of bones rises in middle of wasteland. Nothing grows in that gray land, where smoke covers the sky, where great boulders of rock spill thick and dirty blood, where only sound is creaking of maddened crows. The tower rises from bedrock, seemingly growing from ground (for all earth and rock is made of dust, and what is now dust have once been giants), spikes all over it impaling those who would try to get near. It had no door and only single tiny window at very top. Inside, a grey willow twists and chants as he traces his hands over her knotted bark. One eyed crow stares down at him, and in distance owl hooks.

He doesn't remember his dreams. He fears nothing. He doesn't wake up sweating and shaking.

Seven hours.

The meals are still awful. They are not poisoned, which is more then he would have expected, which is probably what he deserves ( not that any of those fools could whip up proper sadistic, effective and untraceable poison, but one doesn't become most experienced widower without experience). Though, he should probably count it his luck that he hadn't been executed in city square, or beaten to death by guards, or left to starve...

Elyon was truly too big fool. It was insulting, really. Did she not consider him important enough foe to get rid of him? She would pay for that slight once he got up.

But for now he only continued to eat miserable excuse for meal. He was certain his captors would have loved to hear him whining and complaining and begging, which was understandable. It really was pleasurable experience. So Phobos, who had eaten feasts from richest tables and fruits from most magnificent gardens (his own, of course), ate without protest, remembering first time he smelled rotting flesh and tasted poison, letting memories and spite carry him on.

He ate bread, which was stale and crumbled under his fingers, rough and dry crumbs littering his robes. He ate something that he supposed was meant to be salad ( he really should make death sentence viable punishment for incompetent gardeners), tearing pale green leaves in pieces and eating them one by one to pass time. After some deliberation he ate half of stew, sipping soup and abominations that didn't deserve to call themselves carrots, leaving chewy meat inside, letting fat cool and solidify in yellowish plates covering surface.

At least they brought water this time, instead of that disgusting slime he guessed was probably some sort of yoghurt.

Five hours and sixteen minutes.

He counts.

It is only thing keeping him sane and focused, letting him remain Prince Phobos, the tyrant, the usurper, the kinslayer, instead of some pathetic, lost prisoner, who will waste away in dust, whom history will remember as complete failure. And he can't allow that. If he dies, if he loses, then his death will be in battle, or he will take his own life, if he must.

(He won't, he believes, knows this. He will win, he will crush Guardians, he will tear out Light of Meridian from Elyon's body, throwing it in Abyss of Shadows, for now he understood it was only appropriate place for such act, and then he will reign for centuries unchallenged, tormenting people until every spark of rebellion, every glimmer of hope is crushed, until their hearts are as dark and empty as sky of his world. He will know everything, he will govern everybody, they will take no choice he doesn't approve of. And when he tires, he will choose no heir, appoint no new ruler, leave behind no system for government after he is done, after he relinquishes Heart and goes into woods, when he gives himself over to green and roses.)

So he counts.

Seconds.

Hours.

Days.

Weeks.

He tries to recall, as much as he can, importance of each day, of each day. Historical events that happened in distant past, births and deaths of relatives (especially those of later that were his doing), phases of moon and alignments of stars (so important for some rituals, though Phobos never quite got grasp of such magics), dates he cherished for they brought pleasant memories (most of them coincided with funerals of relatives as well), the holy days...

He should have found some way to record it. Even mind like his couldn't hold it all inside. He heard stories of prisoners scratching and carving numbers in walls, but that was humiliating and in rare show of sense, he didn't have access to anything sharp enough for task (and if he kept it up, soon whole cell would be defaced with his counting).

He would just have to hope he guessed correctly.

Five hours and forty three minutes.

Ragnar died in morning.

His wardens didn't mourn for him, but they weren't glad either. Ragnar had simply been one of thousands of soldiers working for Phobos, remaining loyal out of cowardice or greed, though so many defected. He caused no trouble, but surely pillaged countless homes and murdered hordes of innocents. He had no relatives they knew of, so his ashes were put in small, unremarkable urn in mass tomb that was unvisited and untended, where they put criminals nobody would honor but who wouldn't be remembered and reviled for ages to come.

He was Galhot, barely decade ago. An old, bitter man, a farmer from small village. Child of single children, widower for decades, which always got him pitying looks even from people who hated him, for being left without wife was greatest tragedy that could befall man. Their marriage wasn't blessed with daughters, who could inherit and run small estate they owned (which was to say, a cottage and slightly bigger garden), onyl two sons who arrived late in life, and died when they joined army of lady Primrose Escanor. He had no friends and no prospects, and sat awaiting his death in tiny cottage of unimportant village.

Then war arrived at his doorstep.

Her majesty, Weira Escanor and her consort Zaiden had mysteriously perished, and their heir, the newborn princess was lost. Which was tragic, he supposed, if you could spare empathy for people you never met, but didn't really impact Ragnar's life until relatives started fighting for title. Weira's sisters, the great duchesses Primrose and Natalya went to war, alongside dozens of cousins. They quartered up Meridian in neat pieces, and drew forth armies, by oaths of fealty they called upon, by fact that their vassals and serfs had no choice, by sword and spear, and by mighty magics they possessed. Lands Ragnar lived in belonged to eldest of three sisters, Primrose the Undying, whom no blade could put to rest, for she had skin of steel and blood of flame, or so stories went. She called forth draft, and all young women and men went to war, and didn't come back. That was normal.

But then one day a legion of soldiers came to village, bearing her banner, a wreath of flowers, black roses and ones that were her namesake, pierced by sword, on gray fabric. Village played host for them, for it was their army, and they hoped to hear news of their children, and because bunch of elderly folk and children couldn't afford to deny their queen's soldiers. So they fed them, and bathed them, and gave them all wine and cheese they had, which was almost nothing. But soldiers weren't satisfied.

Ragnar never learnt how exactly it happened, what slight caused fight that turned in rampage that left village dead and them all dead. He didn't care anymore, to be honest. Then he was angry and disappointed and hurt, but now he understood very well how great it felt, to have helpless civilian men kneeling before his feet, to rob homes of haughty headwomen, now he knew what wealth could be amassed from spoils of war, and pleasures of bloodlust. He didn't remember what happened exactly anymore to be honest.

What he remembered was that he crawled off to place where there was rubble, and dead bodies, and that he hid under corpses and rubbed blood over himself, and waited for soldiers to pass.

Waited, as limp bodies piled above him. Waited, as blood started to dry and turn brown on his clothes and face. Waited, as hot and humid air was filled with stench of corpses. Waited, as bodies turned soft and cold. Waited, as flies surrounded him. Waited, as decay set in, and pieces of flesh and skin fell on him ( or so it seemed to him, for he knew he couldn't have been waiting for more then day, yet he remembered blackened flesh and bare skulls). Waited, until soldiers left laughing and drinking their ale...

Soon, another legion passed with their own banner. Blooming black roses and thorns stood on blue background, carried by small legion of what were probably former criminals, mercenaries and confused villagers. Ragnar heard about them, army of Prince Phobos. Son of Weira, thirteen years ago, who dared claim throne (as if man could rule) and keep palace for himself. He wanted to make himself ruler, proclaiming himself his sister's regent, going to war against his aunt and rest of family. His army was small, built up from drafted citizens, and criminals released if they pledged loyalty to Phobos, and random commoners they came across and claimed. It was laughable. Armed, trained legions of his aunts would crush them, take back the capitol in matter of weeks.

But prince had magic.

He had magic, and he made hedge of thorns from up around city, warded it against rifts and portals and teletransporting, and with his spells he enhanced his soldiers, and created beasts from sand and stone to serve him. This twisted army spread across Meridian, at first using cunning, underhanded tactics, ambushing, sabotaging and raiding enemy camps, relying on their mobility, stealth, strange amount of information they received from prince himself, who seemed to have ears and eyes everywhere, and on forests, in which they hid, in which trees seemed to aid them, for they always heard enemy approaching while they themselves were never noticed.

Ragnar found three choices before himself. First, hide and die in woods. Second, let prince's armies kill him as subject of Primrose. Third, join, and over time amass influence and wealth ( get revenge). Choice was easy. He walked up and said he would like to join. They didn't deny him, for they needed men, and he was old enough he couldn't be threat. So he trained and spied and waited, and when time came, he became Lurden.

Prince came, smelling of roses, with hair longer then any woman Ragnar had ever met, and he raised his hands while whispering words none could make out. His eyes glowed, and they were remade, magic bursting through them, cold and cruel as gardener's shear, tearing them apart and remaking them. One moment, Ragnar had been screaming, and then he was younger, and stronger, and taller. He was great and fearsome, and he could pull wagons by himself, and peasants screamed when they saw him, and he towered over rebels, and it was worth it all, even if his skin always itched and he had frequent migraines, and he could never quite look at his face in mirror or water.

He had no illusions or loyalty towards what sort of man he served, like poor, self-righteous Raythor (who eventually turned traitor, and maybe it was irony, or maybe he had finally come to sense), babbling about honor and watching prince with obsessed, lovesick eyes.

Prince Phobos was vile, cruel man, and Ragnar served him because he was strongest and scariest thing out there, and because he never believed princess would return and that Sun would shine once more, and Rebellion was led by children and laid their hopes unto girls from another world, and then it was too late to defect, for none would trust him and Prince would execute him. And then he got out time and time again and it seemed he might have actually won, then he failed again, and Ragnar was back in prison. He refused to heed Tynar's words, and twice he assisted escaped prince. If he believed in justice, he would have agreed he got what he deserved.

But he didn't. He didn't believe in justice or regret, for those were useless ideals in world where violence and wealth reigned. And so he died in cell without a coin to his name, and he would not have proper grave, and no place to call home anymore. Souls have been known to persist on this world for less. Grudges and pettiness bound them to mortal plane, creating phantoms that haunted and ruined living. Shadows born of shame and resentment, attaching themselves to others and driving them mad, leaching off their life-force in order to sate their revenge.

Wardens. rebels. His fellow soldiers. Wicked prince. He could make them all pay, sneak in their dreams, torment them until they wasted away. And so he did, fluttering towards darkest dreams, towards greatest source of power. He wasn't whole, not anymore. Spirits never were, for bits of them always went on, went Behind, to await rebirth, and only darkest and vilest parts remained, ones full of desire and curses.

Those shades wandered world, losing themselves, growing thin and pale, until they were but shallow reflections of themselves, spirits filled only with regret and wanting. They slipped through world, with none to see or hear them, none to remember or venerate them, for they had no descendants to care for their graves, no daughters to carry on their names and legacy, and none who would remember them fondly, make offerings for their souls. They had no choice but to rise from graves and feast on blood, or to haunt dreams (for dreams were last border between mortal and spiritual planes), slipping in minds like worms, slowly eating their victims from inside out.

''Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise. I suppose you are here to haunt me.'' It was cold voice, tired voice, voice that was once nice and silvery but now had fallen out of use. Ragnar stood in darkness, and he shivered, for it was cold, cold unlike any winter he had ever experienced, and great and horrible shapes lurked in distance, and everything smelled of roses, smell so strong he was surprised he wasn't choking on petals, that there weren't brambles tying him.

''You are quite weak and boring spirit, you know. Whatever is tying you to this world must be neither strong nor petty enough.'' That was what strongest ghosts were made of. Either glorious missions that would change the world, tasks so important that death couldn't stop one meant to perform them, or something incredibly meaningless, so personal and tiny and stubborn that it mattered only to deceased, that it devoured them whole.

''What pathetic idea, what gall, to think you could feed on me. Still, I have to thank you- such wonderful opportunity you provide.'' And then there was cold, tight grip on Ragnar's whole being, as if somebody took him and squished him in ball, and pain like thorns dug in him, and then there was song, and light, and he felt as if he was crumbling, and darkness grew deeper as he heard wail and white hair wrapped around him and he was leaving this world and...

And magic returned to where it belonged.

Kaethe couldn't sleep, no matter how comfortable her chambers were.

Some days she still refused to see her insomnia as bad thing, no matter how much Miach badgered and pestered her about it. Her easily broken sleep had saved them from more than one ambush, and besides there were much more productive things to do rather than waste time on sleeping. She could practice her sword-fighting or her spellcraft, she could pour over battle strategies ( less common these days, but every once in while they heard news of Lurden bandits preying on people on forgotten roads), she could make new plans for infrastructure and taxes, she could continue trying to find lost relatives of her soldiers, she could help so much more by being awake.

(She could be free of dreams, of filth and blood and battle, and mother's head falling after ax swung.)

That monster, may his victims drive him mad and draw forth last drop of blood from his wretched body as their ancestors spat at him, was gone, but scars he left on land were far too deep. There were still places where crops couldn't grow, where trees were twisted and cursed, where brambles of roses challenged both swords and spells. There were entire towns that had to be rebuilt, and just thinking about figuring out water supply problems was giving her such headache that she wanted to split her own skull.

''That is why we came here, no? At least in part.'' She thought , swallowing shame that made it hard to breathe right. They needed help, and they needed supplies and money, they needed builders and architects, they needed actual soldiers and clear system of government ( as things still run on word of mouth and deferring to accomplished members of rebellion, who while brave and great soldiers, didn't know much about taxes and sewers), as well as teachers for all girls that needed education, and Sisterhood of Concord needed to reestablish their temples in cities that have been besieged by usurper, and none of them had good enough method of communication with other regions...

And so Miach and Kaethe Durathar, children of Machioness Deirdre, leaders of southern provinces and swamplands rebellion, came to their cousin to beg. Cousin who likely didn't know of their existence, cousin who had been betrayed and lied by closest family (Kaethe couldn't imagine how it felt, how she could have reacted if Miach plotted against her-she would sooner end her own life), who was raised on another world, who was forced to assume such responsibility at such young age, and now two actual, adult cousins showed up after so many years, without even letter sent, and then they would dare to demand help from her? Queen Elyon would have every right to have them all dishonored and banished.

Still, Kaethe got feeling her young cousin (who was raised happily, thank the stars, for there was hardly better person to find than Miriadel to be princess's mother, even if she wasn't allowed to provide appropriate education) would never do that. She was surprised when they met- she didn't know aunt Weira well, her family had always been closer with Natalya, and she only remembered that queen had authoritative presence, yet remained gentle. Elyon didn't care herself with pride and dignity that was more appropriate for marble statue, she didn't hide her feelings between mask of unflappable calm, nor did she trail through space like something otherworldly, made of starlight and dreams. She was much like Kaethe at that age ( if you ignored considerable size difference)-young, green thing, awkward and unsure, still growing.

And yet... Kaethe wondered if Elyon was aware of effects she had on them. Anybody with smallest gift for magic could feel it, and those with Escanor blood were especially weak to call of power that resided inside the queen. She was Light of Meridian, and sky and earth bowed before her, were part of her, belonged to her. Moment queen arrived Kaethe was lit up from inside, feeling warm and safe like never before. The air and walls vibrated with need to reach out and bow to her, and Kaethe was sure that if she tried she could hear a song, song that thrummed through every creature and every thing on Meridian. The Light inside her recognized them as blood of Escanors and reached out in greeting, in voice of all queens of past.

But there was more to her cousin than just magic, she knew that. She saw flame in her eyes, heard conviction in her voice. No matter how young and unsure, Elyon was queen true and through, the real heir of her mother. No matter the power and magic bestowed upon individual, she needed will and strong spirit to survive Phobos and fallen Guardian, to bring back the Sun, to start rebuilding Meridian in so many ways.

And to forgive. Kaethe heard rumors, but until they came to capitol, until she saw Lurdens working alongside former rebels, laughing with children, cleaning streets, cooking... Kaethe was unsure that she would ever be able to look at one of them without sneering. Perhaps, if she was willing to accept them, she would be ready to help Kaethe and her people.

A knocking interrupted her thoughts, soft and dull sound, and so she opened doors, halfways expecting guards to tell her queen changed

''Good night, Marchioness Durathar. I hope I haven't interrupted your sleep.'' And there was man Kaethe spent years dreaming of, how she would strangle him with her bare hands. Raythor, the leader of usurper's guards, stalwart supporter of Phobos, Knight of Vengeance- who in the end changed side, and plotted with Guardians to see his leader imprisoned.

''You haven't, but thank you for worry. And that title isn't appropriate- I haven't visited, much less overlooked my lands since I was a girl. If they are still standing.'' Kaethe didn't intend to let her words come out so acidic, but she couldn't help herself. Even if Raythor never led raids or armies himself, he supported Phobos. He was responsible for why half of assassination attempts didn't succeed, and he was still complicit in many wrongdoings-Great Circle that now towered above palace, made to open Portal to Kandrakar, wasn't built by free people, and Raythor was their overseer.

''I am sorry, my lady. I had no intention of insulting you. I can say that queen is working on that problem, and that you will likely see your ancestral lands back in your possession soon.'' That was surprisingly optimistic thought, which was why Kaethe didn't hold onto it. And thought there was no malevolence in Raythor's speech, and thought he raised no warnings in her mind, Kaethe calculated how long it would take her to jump to her sword, and where to blast him with magic. Just in case.

''That would be wonderful. Tell me, is that reason why you came here in this hour of night?'' He wasn't tenth as cruel looking or great as she imagined him. Perhaps his strength laid in tactics and getting people to obey him, not his own physical prowess.

''Well, not really. That is just general state, one of things queen is working on. I came here to tell you that queen had invited you, your brother, and whoever accompanied you, to share breakfast with her tomorrow, at eleven in morning, if it would please you. It isn't mandatory for any of you.'' Raythor stressed, and Kaethe remembered that Elyon was raised as commoner, and was still a girl- when ruler's messenger said something wasn't mandatory, every noble with grain of sense would schedule next three years around that one occasion if necessary.

''Thank you. I will spread message to my brother and our entourage myself. Good night.'' She shut door with bit more force than necessary, while considering what she just heard. Some of nobles she knew before everything went to hell would be aghast at thought of servants attending royal meal, but Kaethe had no such prejudices. War quickly taught you how senseless they were. Some queens in history were very strict on protocol. Others were accepting of fact that commoners were people, same as all of them, queen Weira going so far to actually marry one.

Yes, it seemed to Kaethe, if she had right to judge such things, that queen Elyon was going in supreme direction.

Phobos was five, and he already knew his aunt Natalya lacked common sense.

Natalya held great love for animals, breeding and keeping hundreds, which Phobos supposed was bit strange but then people said same about him and his gardening. Still, it got to point that Natalya and her servants couldn't keep care of them all, but didn't have heart to toss them all in river, leading to various complicated schemes how to get rid of them all without resorting to anything cruel.

Therefore, aunt Natalya decided to go for classic solution-hoist of all new arrivals at children, who are by nature unable to resist anything cute offered to them, especially when they have servants to actually care for little pests instead of them. So it happened that Natalya tried that particular tactic when Phobos and some distant cousin on his grandfather's side were visiting, with her newest litter of kittens.

Phobos was more fond of plants, which required more delicate care but were also far quieter (though they did speak, if you knew how to listen). Still, he had to admit that there was one kitten that was particularly cute, tiny calico cat with cutest tiny nose and golden green eyes. It seemed to like him, for it wobbled over to him and tried to sit in his lap, and cried when he tried to move it.

But of course, nothing could ever be easy. No, some random cousin had to start fuss and claim kitten for herself. Tynaria, barely year older then him but so far behind. Stupid, annoying child who thought crypt statues were creepy and who panicked when dog threw bone in her lap, as if she wasn't made up of them. She, who Phobos was pretty sure couldn't even read yet, and who was always so loud and wore awful bright colours, and bragged about her magical abilities, even though most she could do was produce some annoying sparkle.

So they got in argument, which boiled down to Tynaria screaming how she wanted kitten because it was cute and that was why she should get it, while Phobos, though understanding reasoning and sharing her motives, wrote down fifteen pages of nicely articulated reasons for why he should have been given pet. And because they were children who counted their ages in single digits, they started fighting. He didn't remember who threw first punch, only that he made some disgusting grimace and she said some rude words, and then she was tearing out his hair as he was throwing mud at her, and he bit her arm when she cast light into his eyes.

Adults arrived, Tynaria's parents fussing and worrying, his own mother apologizing while everybody juggled contradictory feelings that apology was accepted, that it wasn't enough, smug pride they got to experience queen saying sorry to them and that queen doesn't have ever to apologize for anything, while aunt Natalya tried to calm them down.

It was eventually decided that Tynaria, being older, girl and perfectly behaved while Phobos had hair below the waist, and willing to speak at length how she would care for and tend to kitten's needs forever should be one to get kitten. Phobos kept his face calm as Natalya offered him others, as Tynaria run in circles while throwing panicked cat in air, as she spent week rambling and bragging about how it was most perfect pet ever and that she wouldn't give it up for Crown of Light itself (she changed her tune years later).

So Phobos did reasonable thing, the only course of action that he could have taken. When Tynaria abandoned kitten, which warmed up to her though it was still scared, he stole it away, tied it's legs with rope (he was sure Tynaria knew nothing about tying proper knots) and started poking nad hitting it with stick. He didn't hit it as hard as he could, as he did to some other pets, because he didn't really want it to suffer much, or to make Tynaria distraught. He simply wanted to make sure she couldn't have it either. It meowed pitifully, but it didn't scream and wail, as would others, when he was older.

''And you are supposed to be prince? Tormenting a tiny animal like that, are you even aware how pathetic that is?'' The unfamiliar voice called out, raw and rough, almost a whisper, and it startled Phobos and silenced cat, and had that sort of tone that made it clear mouth it came out from was smirking . He didn't turn, not yet, trying to think up way to stop this newcomer from telling his mother what was happening., and how to show that he wasn't scared (which he would accomplish by focusing on fact he was being insulted).

''Didn't you want to have that kitten for pet, or I heard wrongly? Claimed you would care for it, be responsible and tender. And yet here you are now, torturing poor helpless thing like that. How horribly petty.'' He turned towards newcomer, holding stick as if she would be meeting same fate as kitten. Later on, when he grew, he would realize she wasn't so tall, but then and there she seemed like giant, like something out of darkest fairytales. She may have been handsome in unorthodox way, once, but now her face was pale and yellowish like old cheese, covered in wrinkles, and it was turned awkward and strange with age, cheeks hollow, jaw thin and chin too prominent, her forehead wide and covered by few stray locks of steely hair.

''It could be rather risky too, but I doubt you thought of that. If it was larger animal, or more aggressive, or you didn't tie it properly, what would happen? Have you ever seen somebody be torn apart by dogs? No, you haven't. Royal children are ridiculously pampered, and Weira was always a soft heart.'' Her robes were dark grey, wide and unflattering shape that showed nothing, with sleeves that almost dragged to floor. She tightly gripped her staff, and looked at him with eyes that were bored and questioning. He got feeling that if whim took her, she would cut him apart to see what was inside, and nobody would ever know what happened.

'' And it is inefficient. Just what do you hope to accomplish, tickling and scratching it with that twig?'' he knew who she was, even if he had never met her. His mother never spoke about this woman , out of shame and hurt, and so Phobos knew exactly who she was, this hag nobody in meridian or other worlds wanted to discuss. Secrets kept in silence were deafening, ready to reveal themselves to whoever might be ready to listen. And adults always forgot how good children were at listening, at making themselves unseen, at picking up whispers and rumors others tried to desperately hide from them. She knew it well, though she supposed she couldn't claim she had much experience with motherhood beyond childbirth and those first few years, with her beautiful, strong but simple husband.

He wasn't afraid of her. He wasn't. She was just an old, bitter hag, with memories of sorrow and darkness in her wake.

''And worst of all, it is boring.'' Phobos barely had time to jump at side when hag raised her hand, muttered some words he couldn't make out, and shot a stream of lighting at kitten, electricity crackling and dancing around her fingers. Kitten screamed, screamed as stench of sizzling fur rose in air, and then hag jerked her hand and it flew up. She moved her fingers, and it flew higher, then she lowered it , not quite on ground, and then she brought it up again, and let it levitate and spin in air.

''Now, don't you agree this is more preferable way to spend time and energy?'' Her voice turned sleek and low, hissing as if they were conspirators, as she waved her hands, and by force kitten was shut up, and then it fell on ground and started hopping, twisting, dancing like puppet, and then she made it smile and then she squeezed her fingers in fist and...

''Why are you staring like that? Are you really so sheltered?'' She asked, for Phobos's irises had shrunk and he dropped stick, staring instead at fur died red thrown around, at small broken bones rolling in grass, at blood painting branches and leaves. A second, that is all it took, and now kitten was in pieces, and she barely moved her hands. Could she do that to people as well? To boars and bears? What was range of her abilities? how long did it take them to develop? How great was she at peak of her strength? How powerful would she be with Mystic Heart at her side?

''You have got something stuck in your hair.'' Snapped out of his thinking, Phobos glanced at her, confused, before he trailed hand through his locks and found piece of flesh, splattered against his pale hairs, like ruby upon petals of white rose. He examined it for several moments, it felt slightly charred but cold, before he threw it away.

''Hmmm. Well, better than your cousins at least. I swear I don't understand how those brats can be so disgusted by bones, as if they aren't made of them. But then, what right I have to complain?'' She came near Phobos, who stopped instinct to run, and she plucked out blood and offal from his hair, then she examined his face, her fingers grasping his face, metal of gauntlets cold and sharp at his cheeks which still hadn't lost their baby fat.

''You are as useless as all of them, of course. No vision, no skill, no spirit. But you possess potential, to not be wholly incompetent. And don't expect to hear something this nice from me ever again.'' Then she let him go, abruptly, and he fell on ground as remains disappeared in flash of light. Woman walked away, some sort of glamour making it hard to notice her, and Phobos had to fight fuzz in his head as he followed after her.

'' I should turn you into a toad for this. I could have left you alone with that mess, to explain what happened, but instead I got rid of it. And now you are trailing after me like helpless puppy. Don't you think I have better things to do.''Phobos had sincere doubts she got rid of entrails out of some sense of altruism, if half of things he heard about her were true. That was probably why when hadn't chased him away yet, aware of what would happen if he told anybody he saw her. Even if nobody believed him, even if mother wanted to know how he learnt of her, they would all be wary.

''I know you were sneaking in library to read about magic. Do you know what I will be using all these ingredients for, or have they gotten rid of everything worthwhile in that hoard of theirs?'' Phobos shrugged his shoulders, and hag sighed. People were always so paranoid and restrictive about dark magic. Which made sense, as it brought power, and thus it was knowledge that had to be limited, which was just another proof that she was right in her claim that whole system was wrong and needed to be torn down.

''Of course. Well, come on, unless you want to loiter here, which will be much preferable alternative for me. You cannot play around with spells without knowing basics. And you will hardly find something more basic than blood magic.'' She waved her staff, and fold opened in front of them. For moment she glanced at him, as if she was looking at some particularly annoying rat, as if she didn't believe he would follow. That look, challenge and arrogance in it was what made Phobos forget to ask how long she had been spying on him and instead propelled him to go forward.

She didn't look back at him anymore, and they walked into fold with her ignoring him, but letting him hold ends of her sleeves, not that he was afraid of fold or wherever they were going, of course.

And that is how his apprenticeship began.

Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, please comment!
So, in next chapter we will have breakfast and talk between cousins, from which we will sneak in worldbuilding. What would you like to hear about, meridian nobility, exact family history and relations between Escanors and Durathars, or how dead are venerated? or all?