Of That Which is Lost

  Welcome to the Obsidian Order. Stand tall, for you are chosen. You are the Emperor’s own shield. Over the next six months, I will break you. You’ll wish you weren’t the magnificent bastards that you are. Now fall out. Training begins immediately!

  — Obsidian Order Drill Sergeant Niles Boumont, prepared welcome speech for new recruits

  Emperor Melchan Ozewrath was startled awake by a sharp rapping at his door—for the second time that night.

  He rose swiftly, donning a vibrant red robe emblazoned with the imperial sigil of the stag across the back. After placing a gentle kiss on his sleeping wife’s forehead, he moved to the door, his royal cat, Stripes, prowling moodily at his side.

  Outside stood a soldier of the Obsidian Order, expression unreadable in the lamplight.

  “Your Grace, Captain Ogrebane urgently requests a meeting in your study, sir.” The man’s expression was unreadable—unyielding. Only duty mattered.

  “I trust this cannot wait until morning,” Melchan muttered, already stepping into the corridor.

  Before he’d taken two strides, his honor guard emerged almost from thin air, encircling him in a tight ring of protection. Stripes paced calmly beside him, his muscled shoulders reaching nearly to the emperor’s chest.

  The formation escorted him to his study door, where they halted. Another full squad of silent guards already occupied the room beyond, stationed at key points like statues.

  It was still difficult to grow accustomed to such vigilance, but the Order took his protection seriously. Melchan scanned the room and spotted Captain Ean Ogrebane perched on the edge of a velvet chair.

  Ean was the only man Melchan knew who did not always stand upon his emperor’s entrance—something the emperor secretly appreciated. Somehow, Ean struck a balance between respectful and relaxed, managing to be informal and formal at once.

  Beside the grizzled captain sat a figure even more rigid: Biaun Greyblood. The knight's posture was textbook—shoulders squared, back straight. As Melchan approached, Biaun rose and bowed crisply.

  “Your Grace,” he said, his voice like gravel and iron. “We bring news of the utmost urgency. Forgive the hour, Your Highness, but this could not wait.”

  The aged monarch studied the two men before him and frowned. Both bore wounds, clumsily dressed, suggesting they had tended themselves in haste.

  Ean had a deep gash above his right brow, the skin split and puckered, while a crimson-stained cloth wrapped his left forearm. Biaun stood more solidly, though a similar red wrap circled his right calf, and a clean white bandage was cinched around his waist.

  Melchan gestured sharply to one of his guards.

  “I want a healer in this room—yesterday if possible. And send for Eros.”

  No explanation was needed. The guard was already moving.

  Stripes, unimpressed by the scene, curled lazily before the hearth, his muscles rippling beneath his striped fur as he shifted into a comfortable coil.

  Turning back with narrowed eyes, Melchan faced the two warriors.

  “You’ve been busy,” he said grimly. “You’re the second set of visitors I’ve had tonight.”

  When neither man responded, the emperor’s gaze hardened.

  “What happened?” he demanded. “Or should I start guessing until I get it right?”

  The captain broke the silence with a subtle clearing of his throat, glancing toward his old friend.

  “Carrigan, Biaun’s servant, is dead, sir. We were attacked by assassins—at least, somethin’ like assassins—inside Biaun’s manor.”

  He shifted uncomfortably and cursed under his breath before pressing on.

  “I’d just finished dinin’ with Master Greyblood and was on me way out when I got this odd feelin’—like I was bein’ watched. I shook it off at first, but it clung to me all the way toward the green sector. So I turned ‘round and went back to check things out.”

  “I was passin’ the kitchen when I heard a cry. Rushed in, found one of the bastards toyin’ with Carrigan like a child with a scrap o’ meat.”

  His jaw clenched.

  “I distracted it. The old man stabbed it with a fork. It slashed him across the chest before turnin’ on me—the bigger threat.”

  Ean paused, brow furrowed, voice quieter now.

  “After I killed it… well, I guess this is where the knight’s story begins.”

  The emperor shifted his gaze to the knight as the door opened and a priest entered, the sergeant close behind.

  The healer wasted no time with words. He moved straight to Biaun, who waved him off and pointed toward the captain. Ean accepted the treatment silently, though he listened closely as Biaun began recounting the expedition to the Iron Stone Mountains—for the second time that night.

  Shortly into the tale, the emperor’s royal wizard and most trusted advisor, Eros, entered the room. He said nothing, settling himself near the fire and absently stroking Stripes.

  The emperor listened intently, occasionally interrupting to clarify certain details or ask Biaun to repeat a section. By the time the knight finished, the healer had turned his attention to his leg. The pain in Biaun’s waist had dulled considerably, and only faint pink scars marked where the blade had struck. Ean, too, looked nearly restored.

  The knight remained silent as the emperor raised a hand to his temple, massaging it with slow, deliberate pressure.

  He summoned the sergeant with a subtle gesture, then leaned in to murmur a few quiet words. The man gave a sharp nod and withdrew from the chamber.

  “I fear I know little more than the two of you regarding these creatures,” Melchan said, voice low but firm. “But let me be clear—they are not limiting their incursions to the Empire alone.

  Not long before your arrival, a delegation of elves from the Crystal-Mist Forest came seeking counsel. Their news carried the same bitter stench: their lands, too, are being overrun by these reptilian aberrations.”

  He exhaled through his nose and motioned for the healer to address the pounding in his temples.

  For a time, no one spoke. The weight of his words seemed to thicken the air.

  At last, Ean broke the silence.

  “Did the elves speak of anything beyond these forest assassins?” Ean asked. “Any clue that might help us name this threat?”

  At that moment, the door to the study slid open, and an aged elf entered, accompanied by a younger, battle-hardened companion. The sergeant followed closely behind, completing the escort.

  The elder elf inclined his head with quiet dignity before speaking.

  “To answer your question, Captain Ogrebane—we did not. The creatures we encountered were all of the reptilian breed, and I assure you, there were more than enough to make up for the absence of any others.”

  The old elf was curt, his pride clearly strained by the admission that evil had taken root in the Crystal-Mist.

  Still, he stepped forward with purpose until he stood directly before the large captain.

  With a stiff motion, he extended his hand—awkwardly attempting the human custom of greeting with a firm handshake.

  He failed rather spectacularly.

  His slender fingers lay limp in the captain’s massive grip, as lifeless as a withered fern. But the druid pressed on, undaunted.

  “I am Grimus of the Crystal-Mist,” he said, voice light and musical despite a peculiar accent. “This is Portean.”

  He gestured for the ranger to step forward. Portean did so with ease, clasping Ean’s hand in a practiced, confident shake. Clearly, he had dealt with humans far more often than his father.

  Emperor Ozewrath bade them sit with a gracious nod, then turned to make the introductions.

  “Grimus,” he began, “it is my honor to present Lord Biaun Greyblood—Master Bladesmaster and a knight of the Empire, renowned for an unblemished record of service and valor.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Biaun, standing behind Captain Ogrebane, inclined his head stiffly. Melchan noted he was holding himself more rigidly than usual—no small feat for a man already made of iron.

  The emperor continued, his tone warm yet measured.

  “Tomorrow marks the beginning of our annual gladiatorial contest,” the emperor continued, “and for the first time in years, Lord Greyblood will enter the lists. Of course, our Captain-of-Arms will also be participating. It would please me greatly to have you seated at my side for the occasion.”

  His gaze shifted to Portean, eyes narrowing with a keen, appraising interest.

  “Perhaps,” he added, “your son would wish to compete—should he feel himself equal to the challenge.”

  This time, the druid took Biaun’s hand with greater success. His grip was firmer, more assured, though his brow lifted slightly at the emperor’s final remark.

  “It is an honor to meet you, Master Bladesmaster,” Grimus said, his tone sincere. “Your reputation has reached even the quiet groves of the Crystal-Mist. I’m pleased to see you hale and whole.”

  He stepped back, allowing Portean to come forward. The younger elf extended his hand with confidence.

  “As much as it pleases me to make your acquaintance, Bladesmaster,” Portean said with a respectful nod, “I would feel undeserving to enter your contest. I’ve no doubt there are many fine lads competing tomorrow whose victory would mean far more than mine.”

  He offered a small smile. “And please—call me Wild One.”

  The knight’s posture tightened slightly as he returned the shake, the cords of his forearm flexing beneath weathered skin. As their hands parted, he gave a nod of approval.

  “I would have it no other way, Wild One. And do feel free to compete, should the mood strike you.”

  A flicker of wry amusement danced in his steel-hued eyes. “Surely, you’ve nothing to fear from a mere human such as myself.”

  Before the scene could ignite, Emperor Ozewrath raised a hand—calm, deliberate. He gestured for the elves to take their seats opposite him, which, not coincidentally, placed them as far from the knight as possible.

  Grimus was the first to speak, politely clearing his throat.

  “Thank you for your invitation, Your Majesty.”

  When the emperor gave a slight nod, the druid cleared his throat again—this time more pointedly, and clearly in Portean’s direction, whose gaze had not strayed from Biaun.

  “It seems, Captain Ogrebane, Lord Greyblood,” he continued, “that our accounts are too alike to be dismissed as mere coincidence. These assassins—or whatever they truly are—have appeared in both the Crystal-Mist and the heart of the Empire. If they’ve reached two of our realms, then they are either already in the rest, or soon will be.”

  His tone darkened. The druid began wringing his hands, eyes drifting toward some shadow in recent memory.

  “We’ve learned that they are organized. Calculated. Coordinated when it suits their ends. That alone makes me doubt this is the beginning of yet another of your so-called Dark Wars. Ogre and their ilk have never moved with such precision. And, by the Mother of the Forest, I pray they never will.”

  He looked up, voice edged with quiet fear.

  “No, my friends. We are witnessing the first signs of something greater. And a recent turn of events may offer us a clue as to what.”

  At a nod from the emperor, Grimus launched into a hurried but solemn account of the desecration of the Mother Tree.

  When he finished, Melchan leaned back, troubled. A deep crease formed between his brows.

  “But why destroy the Mother Tree?” he asked, clearly baffled. “I understand it was a sacred shrine to the Avonmora… but such an act only exposes their presence. And more dangerously”—his voice rose, colored with royal indignation—“it risks uniting your people around a martyr as never before. It makes no tactical sense.”

  Grimus did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked the emperor squarely in the eye.

  “What do you know,” he asked softly, “of the legend of Glarra Darkspear?”

  The emperor shrugged, clearly unmoved by the question.

  “It’s a tale told by mothers to frighten their children,” he said dismissively. “A cautionary myth about excess. Greed brings down the wrath of the gods. That’s all.”

  “It is more than a legend to the dwarves of Ironstone,” Biaun said quietly, his voice low but firm.

  All eyes turned to him.

  “They believe Glarra Darkspear was real,” he continued. “A chieftainess of the old races—powerful, cunning, consumed by ambition. Her people tried to subjugate the dwarves, to break them in body and will. Briben the Unfading cursed her bloodline for it.”

  He paused, the firelight catching the iron in his gaze.

  “According to their scriptures, she was the last to fall… but her soul did not die. It was sealed away—some say beneath the mountains, others say deeper still.”

  While Melchan and Ean eyed the knight speculatively, Grimus gave a slow nod and produced a small pipe from one of the folds in his robe. He channeled a flame with practiced ease and began to puff thoughtfully, tendrils of sweet-scented smoke curling through his silver hair.

  “Correct,” he said at last. “Glarra was the leader of the Darkspear people in those days. By all accounts, she was a greedy and indolent chieftain who sought to subjugate the dwarves—just as dragons once enslaved elves and men.”

  He tapped the side of the pipe with a knuckle, his eyes narrowing as if peering through the veil of history.

  “What your account leaves out,” he added, “is that both dwarves and trolls were created by Briben the Unfading. They were his children, shaped of stone and will.”

  His voice dropped, becoming more solemn.

  “He was enraged that one of his own would seek to enslave the other. And for such heresy, he cursed them—horribly.”

  No one interrupted. Grimus paused, gathering his thoughts.

  “Trolls, you see, were not always the ugly, dim-witted beasts we know today.”

  He leaned forward slightly, smoke curling from the end of his pipe.

  “Ancient texts preserved by the Avonmora—dating back to the dragon kingdoms—claim they were once no different from any other race living on Taolk. But for their transgressions, Briben warped their bodies and destroyed their civilizations, cursing them to wander the world more beast than man.”

  He let the words hang for a beat before continuing.

  “However, the Stone Father reserved a special punishment for each of the four tribal chieftains who led the betrayal. He twisted their forms like the others, yes—but left their minds intact, and made them immortal… so they would always remember their folly.”

  Melchan finally broke the silence. “Grimus… are you saying that Glarra Darkspear is real? That she’s behind these aberrations?”

  Grimus exhaled deeply, pipe forgotten in his hand. “I do not know,” he admitted.

  “But I suppose I am saying it lies within the realm of possibility,” he added. “We believe we know where Glarra Darkspear is imprisoned. And we are certain that by destroying the Mother Tree… these creatures have broken one of the five seals that keeps her from returning to our world.”

  “Why would they want to free her?” Ean asked incredulously. “Dark trolls are a menace to all races, not just the civilized ones. The only creatures they take orders from are those big enough to squash ’em flat when they start gnawin’ on their heels.”

  “Another good question,” Grimus agreed. “However, if our texts are to be trusted, unlike other dark troll matriarchs, Glarra possesses the rare ability to unite all the tribes into a single, unified force.”

  “Aric’s blood!” Ean exclaimed loudly.

  “We must learn all there is to know about these spies,” Melchan stated, his voice dark and resolute. “We must discover where they come from, who commands them, and what their ultimate purpose is. If you are correct, and they release Glarra from her imprisonment…I fear that not even the combined efforts of all the peoples of Alissia could stop such a terrible force.”

  His voice remained low and controlled, but a flicker of fear glimmered in his eyes.

  “We have no means of infiltration. Illusions might buy time, but we lack the ability to mimic their powers. Any spy would be uncovered too swiftly.”

  Putting his chin in his hand, the emperor turned sharply to Biaun and Ean. “Where are the bodies of the dead assassins?”

  “Those I killed in my arena lie where they fell. The one in the kitchen was moved with the others,” Biaun replied flatly.

  Melchan’s agitation grew. He glanced at Eros, still seated near the fire. “Fine. Send word to the academy. I think Master Kessel’s expertise will be required. If there are no survivors to interrogate, perhaps we can glean answers from the dead.”

  Realizing the gravity of the emperor’s plan, Grimus rose quickly.

  “Your lordship,” he said hurriedly, “I understand the urgency, but is it wise to disturb the dead? We know so little about these creatures. I’ve heard that few necromancers will come within ten feet of a dead troll or ogre during such rites. Their spirituality is so alien to us—often complications arise.”

  “True,” Melchan admitted, “but we are short on options—and worse still, utterly blind. We must uncover what is transpiring, for the sake of both our nations.”

  A steely glint entered his eyes.

  “Besides, if it is possible to séance with the children of Glathorx, why should it not be possible to do the same with these monstrosities?”

  He looked to Grimus and offered a small shrug. The idea unsettled him, but he would not flinch from doing what was necessary to protect his people.

  “The children of the Proud God are not like ogres,” Grimus replied, gently but firmly. “And these creatures are more alien still. Are you certain this is the course you wish to take?”

  Melchan nodded, casting off the last of his hesitation. “Eros, see that preparations are made. I want it handled personally.”

  The shadowed figure inclined his head silently.

  With a weary sigh, the emperor rose. For the first time in many months, he felt the full weight of his seventy-two years press down upon him.

  “We shall reconvene the day after tomorrow,” he said. “Speak of this to no one. Let the people enjoy this celebration—it may be the last joy they know for some time. I suggest you all do the same.”

  He turned toward the door. As it opened, he paused and looked back, meeting Lord Greyblood’s gaze.

  “I will mourn the loss of your man, Biaun. I knew Carrigan well. A scoundrel, yes—but your father’s friend, and loyal to the end. He will be missed.”

  Without waiting for reply, the emperor stepped through the doorway, his guard close behind—and Stripes, ever faithful, trailing silently at his heels.

  The room cleared quickly, leaving the knight alone with his restless thoughts. Reaching into a pouch at his side, he withdrew a small letter sealed with the insignia of the fox. He broke the seal with a sigh and read the contents, his scowl deepening.

  Lord Greyblood,

  I look forward to the possibility of seeing you again, as I have often thought of our dance at last year’s New Spring Ball. It has been nearly a year since our meeting, and in that time I have turned away more suitors than I care to count—each, in truth, hoping you might step forward.

  My father says I am foolish to pine for what I cannot have, but he and I can both agree that a union between the Royal House of Faulk and the esteemed House Greyblood would be a formidable one.

  I do not write merely out of duty or design. I write as a woman who has not forgotten the kindness behind your gruff exterior, nor the grace with which you carried yourself, even among kings.

  Please consider my affections. You would find no more loyal wife—perhaps even one who could coax a smile from that storm-dark brow.

  As ever, I await your reply.

  Thera Faulk

  Princess of Iden

  After reading the letter, the wolfish figure slumped against the back of his chair with a groan.

  A year earlier, Carrigan had confided that Biaun’s parents had made preparations early in their marriage to link House Greyblood with the Royal House of Faulk.

  Thinking on it now, Biaun realized Thera likely hadn’t even been born at the time. He himself would’ve been a mere infant.

  Carrigan had practically beamed while sharing the news. Biaun, by contrast, had grown more and more horrified.

  He remembered little of his mother, but enough to know that her death had broken his father.

  He could barely picture her face now. Just fragments remained—soft hands combing his hair, a song he could almost remember the tune to, the way her laugh used to fill the corners of the old keep.

  In the few surviving portraits, her beauty was undeniable: raven-black hair, eyes like stormlight, and a bearing both regal and fierce. She hadn’t been born to House Greyblood. She had tamed it.

  Her name had been Bellatrina, though those who knew her called her Bel.

  Some said she was the only one who ever truly mastered the Greyblood name.

  She had taken her own life when Biaun was only four.

  The manor guard found her body late one night, hands cupped around the very jeweled dagger she had gifted Evan on his last birthday.

  A tragic figure, truly. She had given House Greyblood two sons, but the first—Collin—had died two years before Biaun’s birth. The child had been murdered on the eve of his parents’ sixth anniversary. His killer was never found.

  Biaun often wondered what it would’ve been like to have an older brother. He hoped, when he crossed into the Maker’s light, that they might finally meet.

  After Collin’s death, and then Bel’s, Evan Greyblood had changed. The warm, boisterous man with the thunderous laugh withdrew from the world.

  As a father, he became distant, severe—occasionally cruel. He lectured constantly about duty, discipline, preparation. Training was sacred. Weakness, a betrayal.

  But what Biaun heard all those years was something different entirely. He was too young to understand the grief beneath the commands. The disappointment he perceived in his father’s eyes had felt deeply personal. Unforgiving.

  Only after the man had become a memory did Biaun begin to understand.

  Looking back now, he wondered if the reason his father had never spoken of the prearranged union… was because he couldn’t.

  “Perhaps he wanted to spare me what little pain he could,” the knight murmured.

  His cold gray eyes stared into the hearth’s flickering light, glassy and far away.

  The pain of losing Carrigan left a bitter hollowness in his chest.

  Realizing just how tired he was, the knight took a moment to compose himself—then crumpled the letter into a ball.

  When he left the room, it was already smoldering in the fireplace.

  And as the fire consumed the last traces of the past, Biaun renewed a vow not born of pride or solitude, but of memory—the kind that clings like shadow and binds like chain.

  He would carry it alone.

  Until the bitter end.