Chapter 23: Ocean of Fire
The early morning clouds drifted lazily with the gentle, tickling breeze; the golden sire of the skies had not yet risen. Shades of greys and blues dominated the entirety of the desert sky, dotted vaguely with shimmering silver stars in perfect constellations about the pallid morning moon. Whispers of the morning air rolled about the curves of the earth; a cosmic hymn of silent peace in a land of fire and death.
And thus dawned a new day.
Silence reigned supreme within the streets of Lut Gholein. The locals had not yet risen; for even the earliest of birds had not yet begun to crow.
It all spelt naught but desolation to the sorceress.
Her footsteps were soft upon the cobblestones, as were those of the man beside her. He was silent; he said naught, though every now and then, out of the corner of her eyes, she thought she saw his gaze upon her face. But she ignored him—pretended not to realise, for she had not the heart to converse at the particular moment.
At length, they came to the entrance of the palace; but it was not up the steps through the ivory marble columns into the royal hallways that he'd deigned to lead her. Instead, with a smile both rogue-ish and enigmatic, he took her hand, and, ignoring her gasp of surprise, tugged her through a small, narrow gate into the palace grounds.
Cordelia blinked—then flushed a ruddy pink as she tugged her hand gently from the prince's grasp, at the pretense of brushing her hair from her face. His hand felt foreign; his fingers were cold. She coughed softly, crooking a vague smile.
He hadn't noticed her aversion to his touch—and if he had, he did not show it. Prince Jerhyn was not so easily pushed into discomfort. He returned her smile. "This is my favourite place in all the city, Cordelia. I merely wished you to see where I had spent my days prior to our meeting."
Cordelia chuckled faintly under her breath, then nodded and slowed her pace to match his; he ambled, and she strode. Such differences in gaits made it difficult to converse, as he so obviously wished her to. "The gardens, Prince Jerhyn? I had not thought you a man of green tastes."
"I enjoy the blossoms. The scents, and gentle rustling of the trees about me. It brings a man to peace, as a man is hard-pressed to find these days." He paused, watching her in silence for several short minutes. Then, with rather an unassuming smile—"Perhaps, Cordelia, in light of our situation, you may call me Jerhyn."
"Forgive me. I had meant no offense." She murmured. "I had thought it perhaps insolent to address you so commonly."
He smiled. "We are to wed. You may call me that which you wish, my princess."
Cordelia inclined her head gently in his direction—then turned, and resumed her usual pace. Perhaps he sensed her discomfort, for he then became quiet; and thus preserved a dignified silence for several long moments. Yet, he quickened his pace, and in doing so, came, once more, to stride beside her. She could, again, sense his eyes upon her; but she did not acknowledge his silent glances—nor did she think it prudent to encourage such behaviour.
Such scrutiny often made the sorceress nervous.
"How is Atma?"
"Better than I had expected. She will heal in time." Cordelia exhaled quietly, and, with slender fingers, reached upwards to run her fingers gently through her hair. "It has been—" Here, she paused a moment. For some strange, unknown reason, word upon the tip of her tongue eluded the grasps of her conscious mind. "—difficult, to say the least, for her. I'm sure you'll understand."
"Aye. I understand. It has been but two days since the unfortunate accident." Jerhyn said, his tone a low, quiet baritone.
"Accident? It is no accident. It was a direct attack upon your citizens." Cordelia muttered dryly. "When was it that these raids began?"
The prince's tone was crisp—it was clearly a topic within which he found much discomfort. "A month or two ago."
"You chose to withhold this information." The sorceress found herself scowling, despite the inner chidings of her conscious mind. Ladies did not scowl as she did so, now—but she had little patience for the mannerisms of high society at present. "Where are your city's defensive forces? Your men should be preparing for battle, ere we speak. Yet, I see no such preparations; and what men I see seem in no greater hurry than to rush to the confinement of your palace!"
"There are matters of grave importance to be attended to within the palace." Jerhyn said, his voice clipped. "I have assigned mercernary guards to the protection of the city and it's inhabitants."
"Mercenary guards." Cordelia paused—then halted in her steps, turning in her stance to gaze, with an almost defiant passion, into the prince's eyes. "And where were they when a good husband, and father, needed them?"
He inhaled, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. She saw him clench his fist; and for the briefest of moments, thought he would strike her. But several long moments passed, and he did naught, save to gaze in bitter silence upon her face. And then—"I see no importance in your desire to better acquaint yourself with the military positions of my city. It is quite clearly none of your business. There is, at any rate, no need for you to enter the frays of battle. It is too dangerous for one of your stature."
"My stature?" Against her better nature, Cordelia found herself rising to his challenge—she was shivering now, but not from fear.
She was furious.
"You are a woman, and soon, shall be a wife. Wars are no place for one such as yourself." Jerhyn concluded. Gone was the charming prince—and in its place, now, was an asp with a wicked tongue.
Beautiful. My future husband is a sexist bastard.
Cordelia bit, hard, upon her tongue, willing her temper to calm itself. She tasted blood—yet, she found herself trapped within the very borders of her patience.
Just then, at that moment in time, Cordelia Cyrix decided that she'd discovered yet another being that had managed, with apparently no difficulty whatsoever, to incur the wrath within her as the Rogue Captain had once done.
"If that is truly the way you think, my prince, then perhaps I should be in the house of my keeper. We are not chaperoned at present." She said, at last, with as neutral a tone as she was able to muster. "A mere woman should not be in the presence of so great a mind as yours."
She'd turned to leave—and had almost begun to step away; but he was the quicker of the two, and in half a moment, had her wrist in his hold.
She stiffened, but did not turn to meet his gaze. "What?"
"I'm sorry." His words were whispered. "Cordelia, I'm sorry."
She could feel the blood pounding within her skull—but his tone was genuinely contrite; penetrating even the harshest of sentiments she felt for him at present.
"I'm sorry. I—I let my emotions best me. My words were harsh, and… you have done nothing to deserve my behaviour towards you. I was… my words were nothing short of angered attacks that were spoken at the beck and call of an arrogant and incomprehensible ass." He murmured—and his grip of her wrist tightened ever so slightly.
Perhaps he was afraid to let go.
She did not meet his eyes as she cast her gaze from him—but her anger had not yet subsided enough. She didn't quite trust herself to speak just yet.
"Cordelia, I'm sorry." He repeated.
She could sense the impatience within him for her answer—that much was evident in the increasing strength with which he gripped at her; but she found she could not much blame his sentiments towards her. It had become quite obvious that she was, indeed, rather cold to him. She was, at present, the very quintessence of disdainful indifference. It was quite the combination to fear, if instilled within one such as herself. She knew it well.
She was furious. But that he'd only just called her one of the weaker sex had precious little to do with the raging tempest within her breast.
He, after all, was not the cause of her torment.
He had not arranged her marriage to him, at the very least.
She sighed quietly—then, slowly, twisted her body to face him, and, forcing the smallest of smiles, said, "Thank you for your concern, Jerhyn. It means a lot to me—and I am sure it means the world to Atma. I shall convey your best to her."
The prince blinked at the mention of his name, and at the apparent forgiveness with which he was granted, but almost immediately hid his surprise beneath a rather small smile of genuine happiness. "I thank you, my dear."
Cordelia nodded once in response, but could find no other remark to make. Instead, she withdrew her hand from his grasp, taking care to do so gently—then cleared her throat softly, and, having decided to simply focus upon placing one foot before the other, said naught. As was before, the silence was near unbearable; horribly uncomfortable.
It seemed half of forever later before the prince deigned to open his mouth once more. "So."
"So." The sorceress echoed.
He chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he lifted his dark, chocolate eyes to hers. "Have you heard from your family as of late?"
"Yes. We exchanged letters briefly on the way here." She murmured, careful to keep her tone as neutral as was possible. It would not do to reveal the internal strife of so happy a family in façade.
How she hated the mention of her family.
"Ah, yes. Misty as my memory is—" Jerhyn paused, smiling, as though attempting to make light of the conversation. Perhaps he had, after all, noticed the change in her cadences; and if so, even she, Cordelia, had to admit that he was, in all, a rather observent being. "—I could've sworn I remembered the sight of an exuberant court of nobles and royals in all a flutter as the messenger hawk swooped in upon them. I should've guessed it bore your letter."
Cordelia found herself agape in slight disbelief; and out of habit, tilted her head gently aside as her brows began to meet at the center of her creased forehead. "Was—was my family here?" She said, barely containing the shrill overtones of shock in her volume. "In Lut Gholein?"
Jerhyn chuckled softly, clearly amused at one such look upon her face. "Aye, princess. They were."
"What, by Horazon, were they doing here?"
"A visit." The prince blinked once, and then twice. His amusement had long since departed into the realms of the unknown, and the look upon his face, now, was one of surprised bewilderment at her reaction. He'd clearly not expected such an ourburst—particularly not from his bride-to-be. "Such a visit is not uncommon, you know—especially if we are to wed. It would, however, be uncommon if I had little relation to you, and the royal family of the Medjai." He paused, arching a slender brow as he crooked a smile. "I had thought you would be glad for news of them."
"I didn't say I wasn't glad." Cordelia mumbled quietly. For a moment or two, she watched him, as he watched her—then she turned aside, lifting a hand to shield her mouth as she cleared her throat gently.
"Your face says it all." The prince supplied gently; and before she could protest, reached out towards her with his hand, cupping her cheek to lift her eyes to his. "What troubles you?"
"Nothing." She lied, hating the hasty undertones in her voice. "Nothing's wrong."
His eyes were dark and thoughtful as he drew his hand from her face. "I don't believe you."
Cordelia found herself frowning in slight exasperation. She released a low, quiet sigh, but before she could speak, he'd raised a hand to silence her.
"I don't believe that nothing is wrong. I would be a fool to believe so." The prince continued, his tone steady and even. "But you may keep the reasons to yourself, if sharing makes you uncomfortable. I am not one to submit to force."
The words were upon the tip of her tongue—yet the prince shook his head, willing her with his eyes to remain silent.
"I do wish, though, that you may, one day, share with me as you so obviously do with—" He paused, the faintest of scowls appearing upon his face, as though the words in his mouth were bitter. "—the druid."
"He's just a friend." She mumbled quietly. Yet she found she could not meet the prince's gaze—could not bear to look him in the eye.
"Aye." Jerhyn's tone was her own; quiet, with solemnity beyond his years. "Just a friend."
And, with half a glance upon her visage and the faintest of smiles upon his chapped lips, he turned his back to her, and strode away into the deeps of the gardens.
"Where are we?"
"Be quiet."
Saul scowled, releasing a somewhat impatient grunt as he flicked his hair back. "I will, as soon as you tell me where we're headed."
The amazon made a low, irritable noise, rather like a cat.
Rather like Cordelia, when she was annoyed.
"By God, Saul, you're ten times as annoying as a middle-aged woman. And you're a man, no less, too." Araeya grumbled, drawing an arrow from her quiver and notching it to her bow. "We are in the region of the Dry Hills. Be on your guard." She paused—then turned towards him. "And what are you smiling about?"
He blinked; and, shaking the sorceress from his thoughts, rolled his shoulders back into a placid shrug. "Nothing. The Dry Hills, you say? What are we looking for in here?"
She narrowed her eyes against the desert winds as she took aim with her bow. "I'm not sure, exactly. But the demons we'd encountered thus far have got to be coming from somewhere. We're going to find that source. And we're going to destroy it."
"We are, are we?" Saul wrinkled his nose as he cast his gaze in the direction of her prey.
A low, whizzing hum arose within the air as she released her arrow to the winds. Half a second later, a shriek of terror rang clear through the the desert terrain; the arrow had found its mark.
Araeya gave her bow a quick, reflexive twirl about her hands—then turned to face the druid. "You needn't say it as if it were something nasty. We're doing a good deed for the world. You ought to be more gracious about it."
"That's your master plan? Do you think, that if we slay enough demons—that if we save a hundred cities, and even more children, that we will be accepted into paradise without further question?" He replied, through gritted teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he could see a gaggle of feathers and rising sand, amidst squawks of avian descent. "That's all very nice and well, Araeya. But that is the afterlife. You slay demons and demonkin, as do I. But the visions of their passing stay in my memory—mine, and I am not one to forget easily. Yours, too, shall haunt you in years to come."
"You're only a year older than I am." The amazon observed mildly, plucking yet another arrow from her quiver. "Stop speaking as if you were twenty years and more my senior. It does not become of you."
"You don't even know me that well. Perhaps I speak like this all the time." Saul countered—then lifted his staff in preparation, brows arching, as his eyes confirmed his earlier suspicion; their enemies were marching upon them.
She spared a second to catch his eye—then scowled, so he could see. "If all this does not gain us paradise, why do you do it?"
"As of now? Because you forced me into it."
The amazon released a low snort as she let fly her second arrow, and then, almost immediately after, drew a third. "I meant before you came upon this hell-hole."
He smirked, rolling his eyes as he waved his staff about the ground, once, and then twice; and the sand parted. And as though it were a crack in glass, the ground opened up before the two, revealing a river of boiling lava in shades of brilliant reds and oranges. The steam arose in red-hot clouds of white and grey, enshrouding the two within a shield of hot, sandy mist. All across the half-league between the druid, the amazon, and their enemies, the landscape twisted and shifted, exposing more of the lava river; and those unfortunate enough to be upon the path of destruction were, in mere instants, buried in blistering hot ash.
Few of the undead scavengers survived; and those that had sense enough to take flight were immediately shot down by the archer amazon.
It seemed half of forever later before the last of the lava crumbled away into dust and ash; and the mountainheaps of sand, which had, at the earth's bidding, piled themselves at the sides of the sunken river of fire, began to shift, the effects of the druid's spell now lost to them—and the golden grains returned, once more, to the deeps of the desert grounds.
Satisfied, Saul brushed his robes off—then turned to face the amazon. "To answer your question. I do this, not because I wish to secure my place in paradise. I do this because I wish to have a good life before I make that final journey into the realm of the unknown." He paused, having caught her attention; then smirked. "My reasons are somewhat cliché, I'm afraid, for one of my path. Nature calls out to me for aid. In order for me to live in joy amidst her sunny shades, I must help her cleanse the Sanctuary."
"Spoken like a true tree-hugger." The amazon tossed her hair over her shoulder; she seemed mildly amused. "So you don't care what becomes of your soul when your body burns." It was not a question.
Saul chuckled grimly, and, with a humourless smile—"I do care. But, to put it simply—I quite prefer to think of what is to become of me now, as opposed to what becomes of me when I die. Life, in itself, is definite; it is merely the length to which I live that is indefinite. But whilst I live, I wish a good life—and the spawns of Hell, are, as of now, standing in the way of that dream. When I die, I shall, at the whim of our God, either be saved, or be spared; and that is as indefinite as the sky is blue. I fight now, to ensure my happiness for the life that is definite." He paused, his eyes upon the silent amazon. "You, Araeya, fight because you wish a life in Paradise, beyond the borders of the Sanctuary. You believe that, by simply purging the realms of all that is dark and evil, that God shall smile upon your soul when you die. Perhaps you are right. But I think—"
She arched a slender brow, as though awaiting the remains of his speech.
"—I think, you'd do better, Araeya, by being less hard on yourself when it comes to this. The walls of this Sanctuary won't collapse if you choose to exempt yourself from battle every once in a while." He finished.
The amazon blinked once, and then twice, in rather a placid manner. Then, in quiet, wistful undertones—"It seems you have me pegged, Scosglen Wolf."
"Have I now?" Saul lifted a casual brow—then chuckled quietly. Yet, the laugh died in his throat; for, next, the element of surprise came upon him as a wave upon sand.
The amazon leaned close to him, eyes slightly narrowed, the smile upon her face unfaded; and in a low, husky burr, whispered—"It seems you have me pegged—"
He stiffened; and at her silence, found himself further aggravated. Her breath was warm upon his ear—she made no effort at keeping an appropriate distance.
"—all wrong."
"All wrong?" Saul crooked a vague smile; then chuckled as she drew away, the renmants of a somewhat smug smirk upon her face. Relief flooded his veins; and it was quite enough to keep his indignance at her obvious lie at bay. His mind had quite, quite begun to run away at the nearness of her being—and in retrospect, he wished he'd had the use of his muscles in order to push her away on his terms. "Ah, well. I tried, at the very least."
It could have been worse. She might have kissed you. Then you'd be in a whole lot of trouble.
Araeya released a low, amused snort, tossing platinum locks over her shoulder as she narrowed her eyes, then leaned her head back to gaze into the cloudless desert skies. Several short moments passed in silence, in which the druid was content to merely stand, and to observe. Then a shadow swooped overhead, and, just as quickly as it came, disappeared, it's source landing with a ruffled squawk upon the druid's shoulder.
I haven't met your pretty little amazonian friend. I wonder what Cordelia would say about this new arrangement of yours, if she knew.
Saul scowled slightly towards the bright-eyed hawk upon his shoulder. "How long does it take to send a letter or two?"
Ceres clicked her beak mildly. It takes time, you know. A bird can only fly so far, so fast.
He shrugged—then turned towards the amazon, who stood with her arms crossed, a slender brow crooked to show slight impatience, if not amusement. "Araeya, Ceres. Ceres, Araeya."
"Charmed."
Likewise. Not that she can hear me, of course. But at the very least, it is polite.
They stood in silence for several long moments—the druid, the hawk, and the amazon. At length, the latter stretched; and, in a tone gently tinged with mild amusement said—"Well. Are we going to stand here the whole day, or are we to continue in our search for the source we discussed?"
Saul wrinkled his nose, narrowing his eyes as he turned to study their surroundings. The desert winds had begun to pick up; and all around them were clouds of dust and sand. "We can't keep searching on foot like this. It'd take forever, and we'd be buried alive before we found the source."
Araeya made a face. "Well, what would you suggest, then?"
"We need to send out a scout to study our surroundings. The deserts are too vast—we cannot track the demons by foot." Saul muttered; but knew the amazon would not hear him. The ringing of the winds were harsh, and loud within the depths of his ears. He repeated his sentence, speaking up—and found her understanding in a single, yet slightly annoyed nod. She said no more in response, choosing, merely, to cross her arms over her robust chest, eyes narrowed against the rising sands.
I know what's on your mind, and I hate you. Ceres rustled her tail feathers several times, shifting her footing upon his shoulder somewhat indignantly.
The druid sighed—then reached sideways to poke at the bird's wing. "There's no other way, Ceres. If I'd had wings, I'd fly off in a heartbeat."
I have no doubt of that. The bird clicked her beak impatiently—then leaned forward, and nipped him hard upon the ear. But you owe me. Again.
"Do you take seeds as a form of payment?" Saul smirked—then scowled as she nipped him again. "Ach!"
Sunflower. The finest of Lut Gholein. At least two bags worth of them.
"You're quite the bargaining master."
But of course. And, with a last, somewhat more affectionate nip, the hawk flapped her wings once—then again, before soaring away into the golden skies.
"An ale, an ale, missy!"
"Coming!"
Cordelia took a deep breath, steadying herself—then reached forward to lift the heavy wooden tray upon the bartop. The mugs slid gently aside; and the golden-brown ale within them sloshed messily about for several short seconds. She held her breath, halting all forms of movement—then exhaled in relief, when she was sure that nothing was, at the moment, likely to spill over onto the ground.
The nights of Lut Gholein often saw the desert locals within the walls of Atma's establishment. The men, in general, were hard workers; and their nightly drinking parties were but a pittance of merriment and good cheer in contrast with the darkness and death of that which they endured on a daily basis. They needed their time together—the togetherness of a community in which men were brothers, and women were sisters.
Atma had refused the closing of the tavern, even if it were to last but a single night—she, as well as any, knew how important the social workings of the citizens were.
She'd refuse to neglect them this one pleasure—this one comfort.
Cordelia pursed her lips, wrinkling her nose as a stray lock of crimson hair fell from it's braid into her eyes. She scowled—then blew at it out of the corner of her mouth; her hands were tied up about the handles of the tray. The common room of the inn was crowded full of men; young and old, of various heights and builds—many unaware that their hostess for the evening was entirely new to such a profession. With difficulty, she wove through the crowds; then exhaled in relief as she'd found her way, at long last, to the table to which the drinks in her tray belonged.
She smiled—then slowly, with trembling hands, set the tray onto the shiny wooden surface. The men were soldiers and mercenaries, jovial, racuous, and friendly, each offering thanks in manners most profound at the appearance of their new hostess.
"What is so pretty, a lady doing, serving us nobodies ale?" One spoke, his deep brown eyes twinkling in amusement. "Come, grace our table with your glowing presence! Have a drink with us!"
Cordelia chuckled quietly, shaking her head as she wiped her hands off upon the skirt of her apron. "Oh, that's right. I'll just do that, and leave the rest of the men in here in wait for their drinks."
"That sounds just about right!"
"Maybe next time." The sorceress grinned, leaning forwards to place the round of foaming ale tankards at the center of the table. "When I'm not quite so swamped with work."
The dark-eyed one laughed, tossing a wave of deep-brown curls over his eyes as he offered a wide, somewhat brazen grin towards her. "I'll hold you to your word, beautiful."
"I should hope not, Garuthan."
Cordelia blinked once, her arms falling limp to her sides as the tavern fell into an orb of silence. Garuthan and his colleagues had been, in mere seconds, silenced; and they sat, now, in an almost docile fashion, sipping their drinks in an almost obscenely quiet manner.
Their expressions were mirrors of her own. An unpleasantly surprised air to the eyebrows, mildly tinged with discomfort about the edges of the lips.
She took a deep breath—then turned, offering a small smile that she knew to look false. "Hello, Jerhyn. What brings you here tonight?"
The prince's smile was deep as he took her hand. "You, dearest." He paused, leaning forwards to press his lips to the back of her hand. "Now, come with me."
"Wha—Jerhyn! I can't leave the shop!" Cordelia protested, even as he began to tug her towards the door. The thud of wood upon wood hit her ears as she realised that her tray had lost it's balance; and she thanked the stars that, at the very least, there had been no ale upon it to spill away. "Jerhyn!"
He pressed a finger to her lips as he, with something of an enigmatic smile, pushed the door open to lead her away into the darkness of the night.
Cordelia was only vaguely aware of the various landmarks they passed as he pulled her along. Few roamed the streets at such late hours; and the corners of the city seemed darker than ever. Yet, the prince pressed forwards, singularly determined, despite the challenge of darkness.
He, at least, knew the city as home.
At length, they came upon the steps into the palace, where several ranks of military men stood guard. Cordelia wrinkled her brow ever so slightly, leaning back to gaze upon the pale marble-and-gold threshold above the heavily lacquered double doors. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she could see the guards hissing amongst themselves; but a quiet look of reprimanding from their prince brought silence to their throats. He squeezed her hand gently—then drew her through the wooden doors into the dimly-lit foyer.
"What's this? Where are we going?" She leaned into the prince's ear, her voice low. There was something odd about the palace—an aura of lingering fear and darkness. It didn't help much, that Jerhyn's guards were more than unusually hostile at present; she could feel their eyes upon the small of her back.
Jerhyn chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he planted yet another kiss upon her hand—then pulled her aside, and, ducking beneath a crimson crepe curtain, resurfaced by her side in a cool, side balcony overlooking the gardens.
The glimmering stars in the heavens above were but minute dots of light within a blanket of darkest midnight, meticulously arranged by the heavenly beings in intertwined constellations. The pale, silvery moonlight shone down upon the balcony, providing what little light it could in the relative darkness. For several short moments, Cordelia found herself gazing in wide-eyed wonder towards the heavens above.
Within the palace of Lut Gholein, the stars seemed to shine with a different kind of fire.
And, despite herself, the sorceress began to smile.
"Cordelia—?"
She blinked—then turned towards the prince. "Hrm?"
His smile was deep and true as he knelt upon the ground before her, her hand clasped within his. Her pallid blue orbs were reflected within his chocolate browns as, from within a pocket of his rich purple tunic, he withdrew a glimmering golden band set with a large, square-cut diamond. "Marry me."
It was not a question.
Arranged marriages were never questions.
And it was in a moment of somewhat shocked silence that the sorceress stood her ground, her hand clasped within that of the prince's, as he, a smile upon his face, slid the slender band onto her ring finger, then stood, and, disregarding the standard etiquette as was required of the royal family, leaned towards her and pressed his lips against hers.
And at that precise moment, the light of the stars seemed to dim; and the world, as the sorceress knew it, was engulfed within the shadowed troubles of anxiety and frustration.
Author's Note: I know, I know. I'm late again. The truth of the matter is that writing this chapter has been like pulling teeth for me. I joined Zutara Week on dA, where I had to submit an art piece every day, for a whole week. That, I suppose, took up a lot of my time.
…and yes, I've been busy, too. I'm sorry, guys! Here's hoping I get the next chapter done sooner, mmkay?
Oh, and also, also, also! They've finally announced Diablo III! Which means there will definitely be a sequel to this fic! Squeal and spazz, guys, it's good news!
Thanks go out to Ophelion, as usual, for helping me out when I was losing my groove and writing mojo!
Thanks, also to skopde, Fallen Dragonfly, Luna, and FantasyFreak4Life for the reviews.
And thanks to Encouragingyouth, Tel Loiryn and DiLlUsIoNaL-SpEcTeR for the favourites and alerts.
Keep reading, guys, and sorry, once again, for the long wait! Look out for the next chapter, entitled, "The Tavernkeeper's Son", which shall be coming out soon, I promise!
Until then, it's Emmy out for now. Ciao!