The Black Citadel was alive with the droning multitude of working paws and claws, pounding in unison as one solitary heartbeat of progress unfettered, flowing through the Citadel's metal veins up to its jagged head. Rytlock felt each pulse reverberate through his frame as if the entire tower was aiding his defeat in the stare-off the charr wished he wasn't partaking in. He snorted in defiance of it all and the quick breath thereafter tasted of molten steel and ash. The power play backfired; the sour fumes welded to his tongue, a hair's breadth away from making him grimace. Rytlock never understood how Iron Legion could stand the shit their own forges belched out. Iron's Imperator watched on from behind his wide desk like a hawk, Smodur's title of The Unflinching as self-evident as ever.
Get this over with, you old hardass. We both know we've got better things to do. Just come out and say it... C'mon, spit it out. C'mon you-
"Whatever insult you've got rattling around in that thick skull of yours Brimstone, I suggest you squash it." Even at a disadvantage, Smodur's lone eye was more than a match for the Blood Legion tribune's glare. "I've got killin' work for you and that sword."
My sword. Rytlock thought. He'd accomplished far more than its previous wielder to claim that right. Sohothin reflected its flames off the Command Core's slick oil-stained floors as the charr shifted his weight from paw to paw, a low growl escaping past parted fangs, oscillating between annoyance and a warning. Somdur scoffed, his four massive horns tilting as he did so. "Don't like it? Too bad. Bangar sent me a soldier, Flame only knows why." Smodur's lips reversed into a telling grin. "Maybe he hates your guts more than mine. Maybe the bastard just likes to know he can still order you around despite your more recent… fame. I'm too up to my horns in ghosts to give a damn." The barb stung but not too much to warrant a response. Rytlock's hide was thicker than that, Somdur wouldn't goad him so easily. Regardless, this was one more duty to add to the ever-growing list since he'd been stationed here. Between making his rounds through the Blood Legion barracks for troop morale, parading around the training grounds to evaluate which warbands were excelling and which were not, and then hightailing it to cast his daily sweep over the Citadel's Fahrar, he apparently had to go send those blue bastards back to their waiting graves. For the time being, at least.
The steady rapping of claws atop steel signaled Smodur was awaiting the inevitable. Both knew Rytlock didn't have a choice in the matter.
"...Fine." He fucking hated Citadel bureaucracy.
"Good." Smodur rose to his full height, powerful shoulders rolling the massive pauldrons that sat upon them. In his mountainous gray armour the Imperator was an impressive structure of weight and metal, an embodiment of the obelisk the Charr had built upon the graves of the humans who'd stolen their land ages ago. Proud. Impregnable. Unyielding. The Black Citadel was his and Smodur made damn sure Rytlock knew it. "Dismissed Brimstone. Take your briefing and get out of my office."
With an angry slap of his tail and a hiss dying in his snout, Rytlock broke eye-contact first (a fact Smodur no doubt secretly relished in) and obeyed. The door to the Imperator's office slamming shut sent Smodur's two personal guards' postures to immediate attention and before Rytlock stormed off to the confines of his office he spun around, bucked his head back and drove it into the iron slab, horns and all. The resounding smash of skull and steel left the guards casting cautious glances between themselves, left Rytlock with a throbbing to distract from how much he really fucking hated Cit bureaucracy and left Smodur unimpressed. The headache was worth it to slight the old bastard, insubordination be damned.
Rytlock stalked off with a snarl, Sohothin's fire flicking hot embers off his black cuirass. When he was away from potential prying eyes he skimmed over the briefing clutched in his paw. Barradin's Tomb? Scouts report growing numbers for the past two weeks... The ghosts were threatening the nearby Smokestead settlement. Well shit, this was more serious than Smodur let on. Probably didn't want to risk his guards making it the latest Citadel gossip. Smart. Old bastards' still got his nuts and bolts between those horns. An attack so close to the capital would make the Legions uneasy. The Citadel couldn't afford an assault on their most accessible grain and meat supplier. Bad optics. Bad for morale. Most importantly, bad for the Cit's taverns. No ale or meat: a legionnaire's worst nightmare.
Still, Rytlock grinned. The insatiable itch for battle prickled between his shoulder blades, outweighing any anxiety of lost booze, and danced along his spine in that way only a coming battle could, tickling down to his tail. It twitched along the floor in anticipation to revel amongst the heat and carnage. Rtlock's paw found its familiar place around Sohothin's hilt, his grin turning almost feral. He was going to get to kill today, as much as one could kill undying ghosts. It almost made all the Citadel bullshit bearable. Almost.
Rytlock bent over his desk for a better look at the briefing. The wild bushel of copper fur that hung from his chin obscured the Ash scout's findings. He swiped it away. Nearly three-hundred strong in under five days… No civilians. All soldiers. Not good. Damn Ascalonians were gathering a small army. Well, he was used to the odds being stacked against him. The thought ushered forth a memory that was impossible to stop, burning his throat like the bittersweet taste of Smokestead grog, except it wasn't booze to numb the mind and relax sore muscles after a hard-fought battle. It was a snapshot in time: himself, pistol smoke curling around his horns in the aftermath of an enemy he'd gunned down, while Sohothin was deep in the belly of some dragonspawn. A human, shorter and lighter than he, with chestnut locks and cerulean fire at his command, brandished a sword bathed in holy light. Both back to back fighting for their lives, both grinning stupid toothy grins— Rytlock spat out the memory with a bare-fanged growl. Blood boiled beneath his hide, that familiar anger rapidly approaching a fever-pitch. It was just like Logan to piss all over any semblance of his good mood. His desk looked more and more in need of a… permanent redecoration.
Idiot… Don't give the bastard room in your skull. Sharp claws became still once more and Rytlock let the forge's fumes sting his nostrils, the acrid scent burning away the past. When the hot ash had seared clean the last pesky thought of his former guildmates Rytlock shook himself straight, the charr's armor clinking in the pregnant solitude of his office, ebony plates smacking off one another as he popped his spine in all the right places. The distant ring of steel against steel had Rytlock craning his neck out the hole that was his office window to peer down through the Citadel's signature smog. It wasn't long before he caught the sparks of swordplay of the legionnaires training. The other duties would have to wait, he'd need to start gathering troops right away. Forces from all Legions would be needed, preferably those with experience in fighting from a disadvantage. Any soldier who didn't would just have to learn.
Or die trying.
Although it was still morning, Caithe had already begun preparations for her hunt at twilight's reign. Under night's guidance she planned to slip away from the Grove, unseen to all but the stars above and, of course, Mother (Mother is always watching, dearheart. It's suffocating.) to pursue her prey through the thick vegetation and dense forests beyond, past the putrid swamps and sticky black marshes infesting Caledon's western edge. Her destination lay at the heart of the Nightmare Court: Twilight Arbor. Foalain's madness would end by a dagger in the dark. Destiny will be by my side tonight. Only, it wouldn't. Where were her guildmates? Her friends? Gone. Scattered on the bitter winds of worse words… Before her thoughts could spiral into the black pit her mind was teetering ever closer to, a voice penetrated the deep silence of her home Caithe had long grown accustomed to.
"Sister." A silhouette called out from behind the dark leaves isolating her abode from the rest of the Grove. Caithe recovered from her surprise with grace, instantly recognizing the shadow. Strange. Malomedies had come to see her. Her brother was not one to come unannounced or uninvited.
"Malomedies." Caithe hid her morose with practiced prose. "To what do I owe the pleasure to hear from you so early?" He was a child of night the same as her, creatures more content with their own private affairs beneath cold moonlight than frolicking with newborn saplings under rays of morning gold. To see him here was…odd.
"May I come in?" There was urgency intertwined in those words; razor and quick. Caithe would've chuckled at the question, but intuition told her such a thing would be unwise. "Of course," Something is wrong. "You know you are always welcome."
Her fellow firstborn emerged from behind the leafy folds of her doorway and into the dim blue glow of bioluminescence her home produced. In the sun's absence the thin strands that passed for Malomedies's hair hung forlorn, swaying in a somber waltz about his head as he neared. Withered limbs carried him forward, black bark creaking with each measured step. Caithe's smile eased into a genuine curl despite her brother's appearance; a hollowed shell of the colorful sylvari that once was before he'd been picked apart by the cruel curiosity that pervaded asuran minds.
Malomedies stopped just outside arm's length. A tenseness had pulled the bark of his brow into knots. "Mother has called for you."
"Mother?" Caithe's smile fell away. She shifted her weight on her backfoot, turning and angling herself over her assortment of alchemical ingredients and poisonous vials. Back where it was familiar. Comfortable. Mother needed her? The thought twisted an old thorn in her center. Milky irises traced the twin edges of her daggers for the umpteenth time this morning, calculating the right amount of poison for just a slice to leave a fatal wound. Mother didn't need her unless things were…unwell. Faolain, what madness have you and your Court wrought now? Caithe turned back beneath Malomedies's shrewd stare. The thorn twisted painfully again. "What has happened?"
Her brother took the final step forward and placed a firm hand upon her shoulder, concern shining past Inquest scars. "First, answer me true. Are you well?"
Caithe was gentle as she pried his fingers from the flexible, interlocking vines of her armor. "You are kind to ask, but there is no need to worry yourself so. I am fine." She kept her head low and traced the crumbled leaves that outlined Malomedies's palm, shying away from those knowing eyes. She didn't want him to see her indecision. Her cowardice.
"Of all the wonderful and strange things you are sister, at the moment 'fine' is not one of them."
Of course he saw through her feeble attempts to hide, tone clear in disapproval of her lie. And as always, Malomedies had come out and said exactly what he was thinking. Caithe afforded herself a private grin; she'd missed his eloquent honesty. As blunt as a stick, yet more brilliant than all the stars shining under night's yoke. Another brother's words, Tarhearne's (ever the poet), echoed from a bittersweet memory of when they were fresh and young and unencumbered by the world. When she and Falioan conquered with each new step and discovery beyond the Grove. When damp grass and the wind still carried the touch and whisperings of sweet dearhearts.
Caithe laughed, but for both firstborn it rang transient and hollow. "I never could hide much from you could I, dear brother?"
"No…yet you still do." Caithe stiffened. She'd made the mistake of wading into waters neither wished to go. "But let us not speak about such things," Malomedies curled his open palm, gnarled black fingers closing down around her own smooth green. "Come, Mother beckons. I will explain on the way."
There weren't many things Logan hated. In fact, Logan was fairly certain he could count them on one hand: the Elder Dragons and their spawn, though he held a special hatred for Kralkatorrik. Centaurs. Caudecus. Those tiny hors d'oeuvres Lord Faren's servants dolled out at those awful parties for the nobility he was forced to attend. Far too spicy for his palette. He believed he still hated Rytlock, although, admittedly, the last few days of barely any rest made musing over Destiny's Edge an arduous task that took far more energy than he possessed. Was that more than five? Logan thought it hardly mattered and stifled the overpowering urge to yawn through sheer will. Gods , he was exhausted.
Although the thoughts sludged through his mind like mud, Logan did know he disliked a great many things; chief among them were the Ministry's Guard and the gaggle of ministers who'd cloistered themselves off to the fringes of the palace's courtyard. Logan recognized most as the Prime Minister's loyalists. Lapdogs. He shook his head. Caudecus sending out his hounds to sniff out weakness was an old dance Jennah and Anise knew the steps to well, and one Logan could barely stomach. Thankfully, the ministers seemed none too eager to start their daily demands for an audience again and Logan didn't have to look far to see why. Everyone who could was keeping their distance from the small bundle of fury hurling his impressive arsenal of insults.
Logan, having arrived a brief time ago after overhearing his men talk of the Priory's presence, had hidden himself within the shadowed nook of a stone pillar on the courtyard's opposite rim. It was plain to see that the Priory leader was not happy, and neither was the Shining Blade barring the asura's way. The poor man was failing spectacularly to not shift uncomfortably under (above?) Gixx's glare. His gaze darted here and there in a nervous jitter, never catching the Steward's own. The guard muttered something under his breath that Logan couldn't hear. Gixx's retort was less than kind.
"You blithering buffoon! Have your meager facilities rotted from standing at your post for hours on end? Has the tiny thing in the hollow space between your ears become so woefully deficient that you can no longer comprehend speech?! I will not capitulate to your attempts to deflect my inquiries," The asura came up to a comfortable three feet but if Logan wasn't witnessing the Steward himself, he would've mistaken the bellowing for a twelve-foot tall ettin. "Need I remind you how long you've kept me, and by extension the Durmand Priory, waiting?!"
"Sir, I-"
"Three hours, seven minutes, and eleven seconds!" Silence smothered the courtyard as if to extenuate Gixx's point. "Now twelve! Twelve!" He shrieked. "I could have sorted, cataloged and archived all of Kyrtan history, including your entire order in less time! What in the Eternal Alchemy is taking your queen so long?" Ire bubbled in Logan's chest, almost instinctively coming to Jennah's defense but he held his tongue, wishing not for Gixx's rage to bear down upon him. He didn't think his deprived psyche could take it. Though he trusted Jennah—even if Logan's recent counsel wasn't heeded as much as he liked—the Steward's words were mildly convincing. He wondered why she hadn't allowed them entry.
Logan searched the sky for the sun's respite to his anxieties, but instead found an angry brew of clouds crawling its way up from the south with their long black fingers.
A storm was coming.
A sudden desire to lay his eyes upon his queen, to ensure Jennah was safe and well and alive came over him. It made his limbs itch, his pulse quicken, and threatened to banish every last rational thought from his head. Logan took a breath to steady his nerves. If Jennah was in any danger you'd know. The bond between them would alert him, and after Kralkatorrik and Ebonhawke Logan hoped he'd never have to experience it again. Still, if the Priory were here then it meant the man from the Underworld was finally coming into play and Logan had no intention of being left out of that conversation.
A beaming smile materialized when Sieran popped into Logan's field of view. Her greeting was met with dismay that she either didn't or couldn't recognize. How had she found him here when he had avoided every other eye? "There's never a dull moment in this city of yours, is there?" It was a question but it didn't sound like one. Logan was beginning to believe it was a habit of hers.
Bright eyes probed his own tired ones and before Logan could correct her of such a ridiculous notion as his city, the magister was already two steps too close than he was comfortable with. "And don't think I've forgotten about you-know-who . What have you discovered? You at least have a name, don't you?" She was speaking far too loud. Logan glanced past her shoulder and paled upon seeing she'd drawn the attention of a few ministers. He retreated deeper beneath the pillar's shadow, gauntlets raised in a hasty defense. "I don't-"
"Wait!" Sieran outpaced him with ease, her smile cutting ear to ear. "Don't tell me, I want to guess. We'll make a game of it, it'll be cherry!" She giggled with all the excitement of a child on their first Wintersday and Logan grimaced under the weight of her babbling. How does the Steward put up with this? Perhaps finally noticing his dour look Sieran's own wilted, albeit barely. She went quiet then, and Logan was wary of the way those squinted eyes studied him. The air between the two was thick with nothing but Gixx's colorful complaints, until the sylvari invaded closer still, poking his breastplate, her gleeful expression returning that promised mischief or mayhem. "Where is the valiant Logan Thackeray I witnessed in the swamps? You're all droopy now...like one of Gixx's forehead wrinkles."
"D-Droopy?" Logan sputtered. He squared his stiff shoulders and stood as tall as he could, but the magister already claimed victory with another round of giggling. Logan deflated with a sigh, praying to whichever of the Six that were listening for a swift end to the waiting.
"Sieran. Sieran! What did I tell you about leaving- There you are, you leaf-addled reprobate!" Gixx hollered in their direction. "Cease your insipid chatter and come here immediately. It seems the old fossil is finally done, we're going."
For Logan everything seemed to happen at once. Sieran's hand found his own and she yanked him forward with more strength than her thin frame suggested. His feet fumbled for a just step and then the two were running as the flock of ministers swooped in towards the doors to the palace, their shouts clamoring over one another to be heard first.
"Her highness cannot ignore the Ministry!"
"I demand we be given an audience at once!"
"The people of Kryta need answers, not silence!
Logan knew that the last one was a lie. They only wanted more pieces to play their games with. Without the pillar to shield them, the pair managed to get halfway to the throne's entrance before he was spotted.
"Captain Thackeray!" One squawked and all eyes shot to him. "The Seraph have thrown the whole kingdom into chaos! Explain yourself this instant!"
To Torment with politics.
"Stop them!" The words flew out before Logan's mind caught up with his tongue. Thankfully, Sieran understood the message.
The elementalist flung her free hand towards the oncoming mob. A cold gust erupted across the courtyard, turning stone underfoot to ice. The first minister whose feet met the frost nearly kissed it. He was saved by a ministry's guards' quick reflexes. Another wasn't so lucky. The nobleman slipped, expensive peacoat flapping as his feet flew skyward and his ass fell earthbound. Two more followed suit. A woman's shrill scream came from somewhere near the rear as they all tried to halt their momentum at once.
Logan didn't watch the rest, quick to finish his way to the entrance, now the one dragging the magister in tow. He'd pay dearly for that stunt. Just not now…and that's all that matters.
The Steward was frozen in a concoction of shock and horror at the scene's finale. Logan overheard him mumble about 'a disaster' and 'paperwork' as he moved past to enter the palace.
To the guard's credit, the Shining Blade recovered swiftly as he made an attempt to bar the way. "W-With all due respect Captain, you're not authorized to enter. The Master Exemplar-"
"I'll be sure to take it up with the Countess directly." Logan interrupted, shouldering right past the man. The whole situation had frayed the last of his patience. None of them understood the danger Kryta was in. They didn't know the many hours Logan had spent awake, deserting his dreams where the Behemoth still stalked him. A storm is coming. He would not be denied his answers, not when they were so close.
Jennah was alone, standing with a straightness befitting a monarch. Logan noted the distinct lack of security; not even Anise was present. The Steward was yelling after Sieran, likely a reprimand, but the words failed to reach him over the concern curdling his stomach.
After they'd traversed the red tongue of carpet Logan bowed with equal formality and affection. "Your Grace."
"Captain, I was not expecting you'd be escorting our guests." A pause lingered that suggested more but never came. Logan rose, following Jennah's stare; it led right to his hand still clasped in Sieran's. He tore it away as if it had been in a viper's nest. "Well, your Highness… It was in the spur of the moment and-" Whatever excuse he was going to supply died when Sieran snickered. He gave the sylvari the darkest look his exhaustion allowed. Naturally, it failed to dent her mood. Logan swore she was glowing a faint cherry-red.
"Your Regency, if I may be so bold, please enlighten me as to why the Priory was recalled for this meeting." Eager to get right down to the matter at hand, Gixx pulled the monarchy's letter from an unseen pocket. "Both these summons, and my subordinate-" He waved an admonished claw in Serian's direction, "-failed to illuminate a possible reason as to why I am required." Frowning, the asura inspected every corner he could see and added, "I was made to believe you wished to see Magister Stonehealer in private. Unless he has assimilated into the very stonework of your palace, there isn't even a pebble of him here."
"While I can only speak for the bravery of those within your Order Steward, the letter was purposefully left vague. As you've no doubt seen, Divinity's Reach has become rife with suspicion and unrest. If the letter had the unfortunate fate of falling into the wrong hands…" Jennah let the rest hang in the air unsaid: it was understood. "As for the whereabouts of the esteemed Ogden Stonehealer, we required his expertise. Rest assured that he will be returned to you promptly."
Ogden? Expertise? The mired gears in Logan's head lurched into motion. Why is the ancient dwarf here? Trepidation coiled down his spine when the understanding came. Something must have gone wrong.
" Returned? The magister is not a stone to be passed around like some paperweight!" The captain barely heard Gixx stammer. "Your Majesty," Logan tried to keep his voice steady, but his throat felt drier with each passing word. "I don't understand. What has happened?"
Jennah relayed her sympathies with the tiniest of smiles. "What you found in the swamps was no mere man. He is…a living relic of sorts."
"I knew it!" Sieran, who'd remained puzzlingly quiet thus far, clapped her hands together, enthusiasm practically sprouting from every twig and leaf. "See Gixx? I just knew we'd uncovered something special!"
Jennah's revelation perplexed Logan even more. "...What do you mean?"
"I believe proper introductions will do more than second-hand accounts, Captain." Anise's cool voice propelled across the hall, the Countess revealing herself in the company of two others. The old dwarf Ogden, and-
" You! " Logan and Sieran shouted in unison, each with opposite degrees of emotion.
Wrapped in a plain tunic that all but swallowed him from the neck down, was the one responsible for all Logan's grief and paranoia. For his failure and the Seraph's sorrow. The one who'd plucked his mind from own head and replaced it with a stranger's. How else could he explain the heat racing through his veins? The foreign hate blinding everything before him until all Logan saw was that scarred face? How every thought bent towards drawing his sword and running the man through?
" Logan! " Purple fog danced across his vision and a dreamy calm settled over him like a second skin. Logan nearly collapsed as his eyelids fluttered, threatening to slam shut only to snap wide open. He froze; Jennah's magic had torn him from the bloodlust that'd seized his mind. Logan blinked twice, finding he'd drawn his sword half unsheathed. He'd advanced three paces towards his target.
"I…" He didn't have to look to know he'd drawn the room's attention, he could feel their gazes burrowing into him. "I don't know what came over me."
"I'm beginning to see why Kralkatorrik is still around. No discipline." Logan heard Gixx mutter not too quietly. He physically flinched at the old wound being stabbed at.
"You look half in the grave, boy." The dwarf said before the Priory leader could get another barb in, appraising Logan with a stare of stone. "And don't try to tell me otherwise, I should know. I just finished pulling him out of his." Ogden jabbed a thumb towards the robed stranger.
"I don't understand…" Logan repeated. He was beginning to feel like one of Zojja's broken holo-disks. "He should be in chains, not being paraded around like some dignitary!"
"Yes, he's lit the proverbial powder keg we've all found ourselves a little too close to." Anise made herself known again with dramatic flair, blinking to take her place at Jennah's side. She looked down her nose from the ivory throne. "A dilemma he's vowed to amend, I assure you."
"And you took him at his word?!" Logan abandoned his sword in its sheath for an accusatory finger, the fire returning in his voice. "Tell me, how will he amend for the dead? The families he's torn apart?" The Countess's lips tightened into a hard line but did not offer up a retort.
"None of your gum-flapping is making sense!" Gixx yelled, ardent to remain the loudest authority present. "Why go to all this trouble?" He reeled on the stranger, and now that he'd made his way closer for the Stewart to regard him fully, Gixx recoiled at the man's disfigured appearance, yet still managed to size him up with asuran displeasure. "...Who-or rather- what are you?"
"An old friend," Ogden replied, taking even the stranger aback. Below his messy mop of emerald hair, those orbs were wide. The last dwarf does not have friends. A memory crested above the murky waters behind Logan's eyes. It was something Glint told Destiny's Edge when Snaff had inquired if the dragon oracle held ties to Ogden. Can you blame him? He has watched life crumble like wet sand through clasped fingers. Hearts often harden in the hands of misery.
And now Glint is dead. A familiar voice hounded. Snaff too. All because of you. Logan wrestled his guilt back to its blackened corner with a grimace. He was thankful when Ogden continued, "An old friend who's been brought back by unforeseen circumstances even I am not privy to." Annoyance singed his tone and then disappeared just as quick as it had come. "If you can't believe his word, hear mine. I trust him. None of us would be standing here arguing without him."
"Fascinating." Sieran piped up from beside the captain. She cocked her head on its side, brow digging low in thought. "But that's light on details, you know. I think we deserve a better explanation." Logan felt a slender hand pat him on the back. Sieran granted him a reassuring grin. "After all, our heroic captain here almost got an ugly hole in his chest for his troubles."
"Yes, well…for once I'm inclined to agree with our resident firecracker." Gixx concured. "Ogden, what aren't you telling us?"
Ogden glanced back at the stranger with what might've been sympathy. Something unspoken passed between the two and after a gulf of collective baited breath, a private accord must've been reached because the man looked around the throne room helplessly before his posture slumped, resigning to his fate.
"There is no deception. No grand conspiracy nor lie." He began, turning the captain's way. "I am here under no name other than my own. Whatever dangers you faced while I was...indisposed will threaten you no more." He spoke in a peculiar strained way coupled with his scars and ghost-white skin, prickled the hairs on Logan's neck and rose gooseflesh along his forearms. "Words are brittle when our actions show otherwise but know this; bringing death to your doorsteps was never my intent." Logan narrowed his glare. The man's words brought no reassurance but Logan couldn't root out any hint of falsehood weaved within. I cannot blindly trust him no matter what the dwarf says. And yet, If he could finally give the answers Logan needed... Heed your instincts. Logan reminded himself. Stay vigilant for any lies. Logan crossed his arms over his chest and said nothing.
The stranger took Logan's silence for acquiescence. He passed over the rest present, meeting the sylvari's beam with a puzzled look, but made no remark on her apparent strangeness. At last, he settled on the Krytan queen and took a step into the prismed glow falling through the castle's windows. A storm is coming. Logan tensed, hand dancing above his sword hilt, but then the stranger sank to a knee.
"Queen Jennah, descendent of the stalwart Salma, heir of Doric the Savior; rightful ruler of Kryta and all her realms. I am relieved the royal line remains strong." Ogden scoffed and muttered under his breath. Anise's smile was practically triumphant. "It is good that Kryta is still in measured hands. I will see to it that it remains so."
" Please," Jennah exuded surprise as she wrung her hands, doe-eyed at the man not too unlike a shy maiden. "There is no need for such formalities." She was nervous. The queen who'd stared down an army of ogres and branded and fooled them with a glamour. The woman who'd glimpsed into the nexus of the Crystal Dragon and braved madness and torment to come out the other side shaken but alive? Nervous? "What is this?" Logan asked, more to himself than anyone else. Reality was slipping away faster than he could grasp it. "What is all this?" Anger was the first to work its way through him then. Logan turned it on the man. "Who are you?"
"I was there." The man rose, his massive robe following in his wake like a small mountain. Somehow, he seemed taller and more imposing than before. "I was there when your people gave refuge to the Ascalonians fleeing from a war their king refused to admit was lost. I was there when the White Mantle betrayed your ancestors for their false gods, and I saw the Flameseeker Prophecies to its end when the Mursaat host was crushed under the might of the Titans. I answered the call when your sister nations across the seas cried out for relief, and I returned to Kryta's shores when earthquakes and Destroyers threatened to swallow your lands whole." The deepest silence Krytan's venerable seat of power had ever known since the rising of Orr seeped into every nook and corner until Gixx's hushed " By the cogs of creation… " sundered it apart; even Sieran's own gasp held back no reservations. Logan had no love for dusty tomes and cramped libraries but even he knew the stories of yore; the Thackery name was woven in the tapestry of past heroism and legendry after all. As was another, but not by name but by title. An old friend. Ogden's words echoed as the world turned on obtuse angles. The Hero of Tyria . Logan shook his head at the inane thought. Denial came for him next. "Do you intend to make your lies so outlandish I fool myself into believing them?!"
"These are no lies. If you do not wish to hear the truth of it-"
" Truth? The only truth I know is that you murdered Kryta's defenders!"
A great banging thundered from beyond the throne's sealed doors, snapping all to attention. Muffled shouts soon grew with greater and greater intensity, until the crimson steel relented to the cacophony, groaning on its great hinges as a flood of people spilled in and over each other.
"Your Majesty- Ack! "
"The Ministry demands- Oof! "
"How dare the Priory- Ugh! "
Logan spotted a familiar suit of silver amour barreling out of the crowd. Lieutenant Gorban shambled toward them, more worse for wear for a man on the wrong side of forty and Logan crossed the remaining way to meet him. Last Logan knew Gorban had been out doing supply-line checks in Northen Queensdale. He lent his fellow Seraph a supportive hand while his lieutenant bent over, clasping his knees, face beet-red from exertion. The older man's thick mustache quivered as he caught his wind.
"Captian…Thackeray, s-sir... It's S-Shaemoor…" Gorban stuttered the words between sharp wheezing. There was blood caked in streaks on his back and side, but the lieutenant wasn't sporting a wound. The blood wasn't his own. A fresh wave of dread gripped Logan. Shaemoor was the last bulwark before the Reach's gates. Who could've gotten past every outpost and patrol?
"...Thackeray?" The whisper crept over his shoulder and Logan peered back to see the 'hero' wearing the strangest look Logan had ever seen. Misty eyes pierced through him into some long unknown beyond.
"The village... is under siege. A storm...has come."
Logan's head snapped forward. "What did you just say?"
"Centaurs!" Gorban yelled, the word trailing up to the very top of the palace. He grasped Logan by the shoulders with a desperate zeal. "Not just scouts but warriors, archers, and one that commands the very earth and sky! At least two...two hundred strong! The centaurs hid their approach with the thunder and rain. They came upon the garrison's walls so quickly! We were overwhelmed before we could sound the horns or man the fires for reinforcements. I-I fought my way out and sent a few troops back for help..." Gorban's voice almost gave out as he hunched over in a coughing fit. "But we need you, Captain." He managed to finish meekly.
Logan turned and looked past the blood-red doors and the Upper City, beyond the high pale walls that encircled Divinity's Reach, and saw the knuckled fists of black clouds against the horizon. Logan's hands itched for his weapons.
The storm was here.