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Chapter 4: The Secret City
"In between madness and apathy."
– Prince Artos Stark
N'ghai, according to legend, was once a vast kingdom spanning from the Plains of Jagos Nhai in the west to the forests of Mossovy to the east. As time wasted away however, so did the kingdom, a fading shadow of its former self with only the city of Nefer remaining along a river that fed the Shivering Sea. To the southeast was the Bleeding Sea and the Cannibal Sands, neither a hospitable place if the names weren't clue enough to their nature, ample horror stories existed to ward off the curious.
The Secret City of Nefer was cloaked to all outsiders, a place of dark magic and ill omens to all but those that knew its secrets.
And few were fortunate – or unfortunate as the case may be – to earn an invite past the shroud.
"I don't like this, lad," the man spoke plainly, stoic as stone, his dark brown eyes glaring at the fog before them.
"I don't either Lord Ryder," Prince Artos answered the lord's concern. "Regardless, we have a mission to accomplish and men to rescue."
"Aye," Lord Ryder kept his stiff gaze. "Regardless…"
The fog parted for them eerily as they entered the modest docks.
"Is the legendary Reaper afraid?" Artos asked, smirking; noting the greying lords scowl as the fogs parted at their approach – welcoming their ship to dock as a nod to their invitation – without which the secret city would never be found.
"It's a great fool that doesn't fear black magics…"
There was no honour in dying in such a way, certainly.
Ragnar Ryder's scowl turned sharp to a predatory grin.
"We'll teach these foul sorcerer's a thing or two Stark, don't fret. I may be old, but my axe speaks for itself!"
Louder than Words, as House Ryder was ever fond of boasting.
"Father," came a rather hollow-toned voice. "Bolvar sent me to-"
"Your brother's incapable of speaking for himself now, is he lad?!"
Bjorn Ryder offered little but a scowl, ignoring the man and opting instead to address the prince; who hadn't so much as turned to greet him.
"Admiral," he said. "We're closing in and await your orders..."
"Very good Bjorn," Artos answered, still eyeing the city as it came into view.
The docks of Nefer were modest, of dark stone and darker waters, but were ultimately a disappointing collection of damp wooden houses; rooting and neglected by time – so much so that it was a wonder anyone truly lived here at all by choice.
"Tell your brother his orders stand," Artos dismissed the Ryder brother.
Bjorn departed with a roll of his eyes, irked for having his time wholly wasted.
"Bolvar's throwing his weight around again it seems my Lord?"
Lord Ragnar scoffed at that notion, rolling his eyes dismissively. "Bjorn's too easily pushed this way or that, the boy doesn't stand up enough – his brothers have always seen and exploited that weakness; except for Qrow. That one is far too much like his damn mother…"
The youngest of four brothers, it was only a small wonder Qrow Ryder hadn't fled from his family yet like his brother Agnar had done years ago – stealing a ship and buggering off to gods know where. Bjorn meanwhile was twin to Bolvar and bitter in the heir's considerable shadow.
House Ryder were as strong as they were proud, if not an equally unruly bunch.
"He'll come into his own," Artos offered simply, disinterested; eyes cast out to the shore.
"Perhaps," Lord Ragnar sighed. "Can't do worse than bloody Agnar…"
Agnar the Angry, he'd been called; before his rather theatrical departure.
"What do you see lad?" Ragnar's voice echoed as cold winds blew past wings above.
He could see for miles around, flying above with a view that was known only to a few, looking down upon the once clouded secret city. He wasn't the only one in the skies, soaring with a few dozen, leaving no part of city uncovered; ensuring every detail was noticed, every man, every woman and every weakness was seen and accounted for. He soared higher than any of the others, uninterested in watching – yet eager to confirm his suspicions, vast and troubling as they were.
Prince Artos's eyes flickered open, sighing wearily as he turned to face the old scowling lord of Ryder.
"They're hiding," he decided quickly with a clear scowl of his own. "It seems the reports weren't exaggerations. The true horrors of Nefer lay below the surface – there's a great building of black stone up against the chalk cliffs, no doubt of some importance to them. I cannot say for certain…"
"But this run-down ruin isn't the stuff of legend," Lord Ragnar huffed, disappointed almost. "Obviously they're hiding something."
Artos gave a nod in agreement. The necromancers were hiding, underground by all reports – they spoke of great halls of marble and obsidian; chambers that shun in glowing fires as the halls echoed with chants to some dark long dead gods of shadow. All nonsense, most like, but it made for a good story.
"This could be a trap lad," Lord Ragnar offered as their ship docked while two others lowered anchor behind them – insurance in event of hostilities.
The missing envoy was, in all likelihood, long dead by now most like.
"My father disagrees," Artos replied with eyes skyward. The sky was theirs and that was often half the battle.
"Your father is a great man," Lord Ryder agreed without falsehoods, the hint of pride on his tongue. "And he's my friend – you know this lad – regardless the envoy is surely dead and we have our answer. We should leave this cursed place and inform the King."
Prince Artos smirked at that wisdom. He didn't entirely disagree, and yet…
What of the envoy wasn't dead? What if they'd be leaving men to die an ungodly death?
"It's unlike you to flee with a fight, my Lord Ryder," those words would spur the man onward.
"Not saying we run boy," the old lord had some bite. "I'm saying we come back with more men!"
"How many more would you say is enough, Ryder?"
"An army or three," Ryder scoffed at his own notion. "Stark."
They could bring ten armies and still not have enough men to seize this place.
The fogs would roll, their vision would be clouded; an enemy here could bleed them dry.
Artos's great eagle flew down above them. "What purpose would they have inviting us to parlay if it were merely a trap? What reason would they have? We've kept to our terms for generations, have we not?" Their terms with the Kings of N'ghai weren't the strongest, truth in told, and it earned Winterhold more than a few wary glances by mere association, but it had proven practical and held for generations. Why end that now?
"What man could ever truly know where the mind of a necromancer lays, Stark…"
"Madness and Apathy, my Lord." Prince Artos turned to walk away, muttering an old saying to himself as he stepped down from the helm of his ship and wrestled with the thoughts in his mind. Where did the mind of a necromancer rest? As the saying went, Artos mumbled, "In between madness and apathy..."
Two men and a woman in flowing black robes greeted them as Prince Artos stepped off the safety of his ship and onto the poor wooden dock, dressed in fine white-and-silver attire of plate and chainmail; alongside a long and short sword. He and his men were ready for a fight if the cause called for such a thing.
"Prince Artos Stark of Winterhold!" A herald cried out atop his lungs as a company of some fifty Greycloaks flanked their prince; followed closely by Lord Ryder and some twenty of his own guard. "Admiral of the Fleet. Anchor of Winter. Third born son of his grace King Brandon the Seventh of his Name and King of the Sunset Sea!"
By the gods, he hated how long winded all those titles sounded. And that wasn't even the half of them in truth…
"Prince Artos," the black robed woman stepped forward to address him, seeming unfazed by all his guardsmen. "We've been expecting you. If you'd come with us?"
He eyed the woman. Her silken black robes hugged her figure closely, revealing how beautiful she was; with eyes shrouded under a hood, flowing black hair and a large chest meant to distract him. That was no coincidence. It was said that necromancers assumed the form of whatever suited them; an illusion to mask ugly truths…
They'd sent this one of purpose, no doubt, a pretty face spun the sweetest lies.
"Where are our people being held? You will hand them over…"
The woman kept her unfazed smile on pretty lips, unwavering.
"Answer us Witch!" Lord Ryder demanded, stepping dangerously forward.
The woman simply gazed at Artos like nothing Ryder did or said mattered in the slightest. The guardsmen didn't matter. The steel, armour, wargs and all; none of it mattered to this woman in black. Something about her seemed almost inhuman.
"Answer me," Artos managed, realizing he'd gone silent. "My Lady."
"Now that is proper manners, My Prince, even here in the Upper City…"
She seemed pleased with herself, eyes darting to Lord Ryder mockingly.
"Your envoy was found guilty of crimes too grievous to be explained by my lips dear Prince," the woman licked said lips before turning as her two male companions remained still. "Come now, the master wishes to speak."
The master? Now didn't that sound eerie at all…
"My two brothers will remain behind," she didn't turn back acknowledge them.
"If this is a trap, your men…"
It was almost certainly a trap.
"You will kill them," She shrugged, uncaring. "We'd expect nothing less."
Prince Artos sighed, following the woman; his Greycloaks on edge as their party followed suit. Bolvar Ryder was left to guard their newest guests, much to his annoyance. It was a chore not to let his traitorous eyes wander over the strange woman as she walked away.
The words of his father echoed within the confines of Artos's mind.
"You'll find that beauty often hides the greatest and ugliest of hearts."
The building was of oily black stone, their white-and-silver armour with greys and Ryder reds acting as a stark contrast to the darkness that engulfed them now – with the red stallion of House Ryder standing out defiant against the shadow. All men stood on edge. This structure seemed smaller on the inside, the ceiling high as a starry sky; engraved with an ancient language unknown to Artos or his people. They entered the darkness, as the woman led them.
"Welcome to Nefer," She declared happily. "The last and first bastion of N'ghai."
"Where are my father's envoys?"
"Patience," the woman held her smile.
There was an audible click before the floor seemed to shift, as many of Ryder's men drew steel expecting an attack.
"To arms!" Bhelen Greystark commanded his men as they drew steel.
The woman laughed when Lord Ryder grabbed her by the neck.
He demanded "what is this madness witch! Answer Me!"
"Below," She spoke; her voice choked by the lord's hands.
"Lord Ryder!" Artos snapped at the man. "Release her!"
He did, after a moment pause and a glare meant to kill.
"My saviour," the woman chuckled, hands rubbing her neck.
The sound of grinding stone ceased, and in a flash, torches lit around the room to reveal a stairwell in the floor where none existed before – spiralling downwards and brightly lit. "This way," the woman said sweetly as she stepped down the stairwell.
More and more this whole effort seemed like a poor idea. Ryder it seemed, agreed.
"This is folly boy," the old lord of Ryder snarled. "We're walking into a bloody trap…"
"Have you ever read the reports we've gotten over the years, Ryder?" Artos eyed the man sharply, awaiting a response he knew the answer to already. "No, you haven't – yet I have. It's said that the true majesty of Nefer exists under the surface. Our envoys spoke of a stairway to the secret city."
This wasn't wholly unexpected. The Secret City was, after all, below them.
"And you think this," the young Bjorn Ryder stared at the dark decent. "Is that?"
Artos would've laughed if he weren't so uncertain. Grown men, scared of some stairs.
"You needn't follow," He decided; knowing it would spur Ryder onward.
"I'll take men ahead my Prince," Bhelen offered. "It'll be safer if-"
"Fuck you pup," Ragnar all but growled. "Ryder's don't cover behind guardsmen!"
House Ryder never ran from a challenge, even from the very Cadet families of Stark.
"I'll take that to mean you're with me then, Lord Ryder? Shan't be turning tail and running?"
The man pushed past his Prince, muttering curses, charging with his axe out down the stairs shouting "Louder than Words" to spur his more cautious men onward. Prince Artos watched with a smirk as the Ryder guardsmen followed their lord into the unknown shadows.
Nefer was their ally. Strange, true enough, but an ally none the less.
"Into the depths we go, my loyal wolves," he uttered into the darkness.
Bhelen Greystark and his Greycloaks followed without complaint, as they'd always done.
The dark was lit by undying fires burning bright, casting shadows against black oily halls of stone as they ventured down the endless stair – where the shrouded woman waited for them patiently. She was still smiling. If she'd held any doubts they'd follow, she kept them well hidden.
The sight before them was a vast endless stretch of hallways lit by fire.
"Take me to your King, my Lady."
She bowed gracefully at the Prince and walked onward.
Artos felt trapped as he walked, passing by other necromancers that eyed them with uncaring glances; followed by slaves and servants that dared not look at anything besides the oily black floors. "Dark stone, dark robes; dark everything," he muttered, walking ahead of his guards.
"Who built this place?" Bjorn Ryder asked aloud, growing curious in the firelit dark.
"The Old Ones bid N'ghai build these halls," the woman replied happily, seeming eager to teach the Ryder man all about her gods. "They were locked away, you see; long ago. Nefer is the once and future bastion of their majesty! It was and will be the greatest of the-"
"The boy didn't ask for a lecture on your false gods, witch!"
She halted in her tracks to stare at Lord Ryder, head tilted in question.
"Lead on my lady," Artos insisted politely.
The glare she replied with could only be called chilling.
"You shall see," she continued walking, now eerily silent.
All this talk of Old Ones and necromancer dark magic nonsense was putting everyone on edge, Artos could tell; his men all held to their pommels expecting demons to pounce out of every shadow that passed them. And perhaps they might yet pounce with time.
It reminded him all too closely of the old stories out of the Empire, of shadows and undying death.
In hindsight, he'd have thought of something profound to say, yet in the moment words seemed lacking no matter the choice. Massive doors swung open, and his stomach churned in worry. "My brothers and sisters!" The woman cried out as they entered a hall greater than the others, vast; held up by black oily pillars that stretched impossibly high to the rock above. The woman quickened her pace towards a throne and knelt with haste. "I bring the wolves, Speaker!"
"I see," the figure known as Speaker muttered from his throne of blackened skulls.
"Have I done well?" The woman pleaded her question, eyes wide; hood lowered.
"Very well young indeed Silence," the Listener smiled, revealing rotten teeth.
Artos took a step forward to the stranger. "You are not King of Nefer…"
The Speaker smiled, as something in the shadows behind his throne growled menacingly.
"I am called Speaker," the Not-King of Nefer grinned his ugly smile. "I'm afraid the supposed King you treated with in the past has proven a blasphemer and is no longer polluting these sacred halls with his filth. It us we, the disciples who linger now…"
That was news. A usurper then, and a religious zealot perhaps?
"No matter," Artos dismissed; truly uncaring. "Return our people and-"
"The punishment for heresy is death..."
The Speaker said that as if it were a simple thing.
"Our people are not Nefer's to judge, Your Grace." They'd always turned a blind eye to the distasteful actions of Nefer in past dealings and in turn; they'd never dared involve themselves in the Islands beliefs. "Return what belong to us and we can continue to-"
"That is quite impossible, Prince of the Dawn."
Artos scowled at the odd title, his patience running thin.
"Return our people," Lord Ryder stepped forward. "Or we'll take them!"
"Your envoys sided with the blasphemer," Speaker explained, leading forward on his black throne of oily stone. "They have been cleansed."
"Rejoice," one of the roped men added all too gleefully. "They serve the masters now!"
"Dead?" Artos narrowed his eyes, hand on the pommel of his sword.
"The punishment for heresy is-"
"YOU DARE!" Lord Ryder growled, wielding his great axe.
His men followed in a heartbeat, as Bhelen's stepped into line behind them.
Artos held his hand up, halting the violence as whatever lurked behind the Speaker's throne bellowed a low growl – more beast than dog – more shade than flesh. "We're leaving this place, and you can answer to my father for your actions; not I…"
"You were invited for a great purpose, Artos Stark. You cannot leave before the hour is upon you."
He stopped as he turned, anger growing as blood began to boil. "You have broken guest rights once; so, you intend to again Speaker – whoever you are?"
The Speaker held his toothy grin. "Your false gods rights are meaningless; in time you will see this, Prince. This is the reason you were summoned."
"You're completely mad…"
"It's a great honour," the Speaker's smile ceased, disappointed.
"We have held true to our pact with your people for generations!"
"We should leave Art," Bhelen whispered, eyes warily on the shadows.
The Speaker only laughed, a hollow gurgling thing. "Yes!" He decreed madly. "Yes! Artos Stark, you are to be the Listener; such it is your role!"
Artos drew his swords, echoed by the sound of every Greycloak following their prince. Fear gripped the lot of them, but that was no matter now – they would die for their charge, if need be. "I am no puppet!" Artos growled his denials, staring down the madman on the stolen throne.
The growls grew louder. "You will serve Listener, and you will see; as I have seen – your path is destined. You cannot fight destiny..."
Artos swung one blade, feeling the balance, outnumbering the apparent foe and confident enough; despite it all – until the fires that lit the great hall died in a heartbeat, cloaking the world in darkness as black fog choked the air. Artos could see nothing beyond his own hands; eyes darting for threats.
They shouldn't have come…
Ryder had been right…
"You cannot fight…"
Knives in the dark cut throats.
"The masters see you, Listener…"
Men swung blindly, striking friend or foe.
"You cannot fight against your destiny…"
Artos felt his blades cut deep into one roped figure, then another in the dark.
"Louder than Words!" The below came, as Ragnar Ryder screamed towards the Speaker's taunting voice, his two-handed greataxe swinging through the darkness – runed with old words of power – it seeming to cut away the fog as if to clear the way.
"There!" Artos caught a glimpse of the Speaker, smirking at them through the fog.
"Arghhhh!" Lord Ryder screamed, cutting his way up to the throne. The growling answered his furious approach, low and hellish; as red eyes darted out of the fog and crashed into the old warrior ripping and gnawing at his arm; sending his axe to the black stone floor.
"FATHER!" It was Bjorn to the old lord's rescue, picking up his father's axe and driving it down into the red-eyed creature, causing it to go limp and release Lord Ryders mangled arm. The creature's death stirred more growls from the darkness, as the fog seemed to lessen.
"Ryder!" Artos shouted at the young man, knelt over his bleeding father muttering curses.
In a flash, Bjorn Ryder was flung across the floor; two or three of the demonic shades ripping apart his body with no effort at all.
"Enough!" Artos decreed, wide-eyed. "SPEAKER! STOP THIS!"
The madman only chuckled as the fog faded as if by his command.
"I-" Artos looked around, seeing half his men dead and the others with knives to their throats. There were pools of blood everywhere, but the prince's eyes lingered on the beasts feasting on Bjorn's flesh. "W- What in the name of the gods is this madness?!"
Speaker smiled at the beasts that looked akin to hounds – only large and hellish, with rows of razor teeth and blood red eyes.
Artos rushed to Lord Ryders side, ignoring the demon hounds that ripped and tore with frenzy nearby. "Ragnar?" He ripped away at his blood-stained cloak, wrapping it around the mangled bloody remains of the old lord's arm. "Hold in there, old man! Do you hear me!?"
"Accept your path," the Speaker sat back on his throne, quite pleased.
Artos looked up and growled at the man. "My people go free?"
The Speaker smiled, nodding again and again in gleeful answer.
"Silence," he called for the woman that had guided them. "Give the Listener his charge, will you?"
The woman from before stepped to Artos, her black robes red and bloody.
"You bitch," Artos snarled at her, getting up to his feet.
"How rude," she pouted innocently. "I thought us so very close..."
Artos had half a mind to pick up Ryder's axe and cut down as many of them as he could before he fell, and gladly would have, if not for the lives of his people being the price. "Tell me what you'd have me do, witch… before I think better of it…"
She smiled before she kissed him, a wholly wicked thing, as vapour invaded his throat.
It tasted of ash and coal – the world growing dark as he pushed her away, stumbling backwards.
In the darkness he heard many voices, reaching out to him.
"To have waited so long... for this moment..."
He saw the hounds of void drooling blood, stalking at the edge of his vision.
"What are a few passing centuries to a timeless being, I ask…"
"Face me!" Artos stumbled, a dark vapour choking his lungs; ash on his tongue.
"Give in to your fear," the voices whispered. "Hope is an illusion, Prince of Bones..."
He drew steel, swinging and waving it wildly against the dark; only for the blades to fade.
"I've always seen No as a challenge," the shadows mocked him. "Truth my sweet…"
"Sk'shgn eqnizz hoq," the whispers now spoke a tongue he'd never heard. "Sk'uuyat guulphg hoq!"
Artos felt himself forced to his knees, feeling his hands on cold sand; looking out at a vast sea red with blood and countless sails along the horizon, bright with green flames as men and women screamed. "Sk'yahf agth huqth K'Dath's qornaus!" The voices screamed at him, unrelenting.
He saw a room half flooded and filled with bones, as dead men rose up from the water to clutch and claw at a black wolf.
"Ull vera skine!" He saw himself seating a great throne, with a wolfs skull resting under his hand; the floor covered in the skulls of men as lords and ladies alike knelt before him in terror and dread, as if to a king, as if to an emperor, as if to a god…
"Never," he growled in pain, shaking the illusion away. "That is not my place!"
"Mg'uulwi, eth'razzqi wades zand oodies!" The words twisted in his mind, seeming less foreign; however broken. The sands turned scolding hot as mighty white walls cracked and crumbled before him, and tides of men riding basilisks crashed into a glowing city of light; bringing death and darkness to its people.
"To the stars Yui," a new voice whispered from the ruins, full of sorrow.
Artos closed his eyes and screamed, his mind threatening to burst.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?"
"Ga'aze into the heartov K'Dath!"
He saw a vast city of oily black spires rising out of the sand, seeming to swallow the very sun as winged creatures flew out from its confines and vast endless hordes of black mass seeped out into the sands to consume everything it touched. Corrupting everything.
The whispers seemed excited. In place of their harsh tone, now came silk and honey.
"I shall await you Listener," it promised sickeningly sweet, calling from the sand. "In the dark..."
"Tell them yourself," his own voice echoed, quietly, from lips not his own. "You don't want to rule…"
"The words are broken," more voices whispered in the dark; too many and too mumbled to count. "Come the Dawn" and "I always come back" before the voices came so fast that he could no longer make sense of them. High pitched and screaming, they were a blur of noise that made his ears bleed.
The waking world burnt like red-hot steel as sweet silence washed over him, blissfully welcome. Men surrounded him, panicked and exhausted.
"Artos?" Bhelen knelt at his side with clear concern, pulling his Prince up from the floor and grasping his arm.
His men were alive, it seemed… with a look of dread to them that pleaded for answers, as if he'd have such a thing for any of them. "W- What happened?" Artos looked around, the dark hall was empty; void of the Speaker and his creatures. The blood and any sign of battle had vanished.
"Gone," came the strained voice of Lord Ryder, his eyes burning with fury.
"My Lord?" Artos asked, his confusion clean. "Gone? All of them?"
Lord Ryder gave a nod, flexing his bloodied arm with a grunt of pain.
"Bjorn?" Artos glanced around for the remains of the young Ryder, as doubtless the man was dead – soon to be covered in a cloak of his house to hide the bloody crimson. He couldn't see the body, but perhaps they'd moved it already…
"We need to leave," the old lord muttered, his tone strangely void.
"I'm sorry," Artos offered, frowning; mentally kicking himself for ever leading them into this hell. "He was a brave man. We'll carry his body and see him properly-"
"His body is Fucking Gone!" Lord Ryder roared, his voice echoing off the empty hall.
Gone? What possible reason would the necro's have for… good gods…
An ill fate to suffer, that…
"How many did they take?"
"Over half dead," Lord Ryder growled low. "Nearly all my own men, none wounded; they only left the live one's – the godless bastards! This is YOUR fault, Stark! You led us into this forsaken place!" What remained of his Greycloak's all drew steel, as Lord Ryder yelled and cursed.
"Not godless," he didn't mean to mutter that aloud…
"Are you fucking listening to me boy!?"
He wasn't. This had been a disaster. Why had they done-
"Answer me," Ryder demanded aloud. "You son of a Whor-"
Artos swung his steel up to Ryder's throat in a heartbeat for that.
"If I didn't blame myself for this, then I would separate your head from your shoulders, My Lord."
"Do it boy!" Ragnar spat out in his anger, ever defiant. "See what my death earns you!"
Some part of him wanted to, but what would that achieve? War? More grief?
"Prince Artos," Bhelen offered warily from the side. "We need to leave..."
"Aye," he withdrew his blade. "We have lost enough good men today…"
Lord Ryder scowled, then stormed off with what little men he had left to him.
"Greystark?" Artos asked the man, who boasted some fresh scars and held firm to a blank mournful expression. "What are our losses? Where is the enemy?"
Bhelen did a once over glace of his men. "Over half My Prince; as the Lord Ryder suggested before his… outburst… the bastards took many of us by surprise in the dark."
An enemy they'd not had reason to suspect. Nefer was a shadow, strange in its customs by all account; but an ally none the less.
Although, one supposed this Listener wasn't ever their ally…
Those who'd once been their partners had been discarded.
"And the enemy Greystark? Can we fight our way out of here?"
"No need, my Prince." Bhelen seemed concerned, as if he weren't sure his information was correct – no doubt leaning on the side of paranoia. "We woke before you – the halls are empty..." Empty? That was madness. Then again, what wasn't of late?
"This is a city, Bhelen; not a ghost town…"
"It's empty, My Prince, on my honour I vow it."
Somehow, he knew the Speaker wanted it this way.
"I shall accept full responsibility for this and suffer the consequences…"
"No," Artos dismissed the notion. "The fault lays with me and the necromancers…"
Bhelen accepted that with a nod, never arguing, for in truth he didn't disagree. Artos blamed himself for not foreseeing the outcome, however unpredictable the outcome was. How was he to know Nefer had fallen to a madman? "We're going home," he announced quietly. "Let us leave this gods forsaken place…"
Leaving was a simple thing as nobody stood between them, the stairs to the secret city sealing up behind them once they'd left – the fogs rolling in behind them as they fled to the ships. The necromancer guests left behind as hostages had vanished and Lord Ryder had already departed ahead of them on his own ship.
Prince Artos retired to his cabin, praying for peaceful dreams. The gods didn't answer.
Shadows plagued him in the dark every time he closed his eyes, and the quiet voices wept.