High Priest Kaelen Varis stood atop a windswept hill, his sharp eyes fixed on Greyreach Pass in the distance. The jagged cliffs and narrow paths ahead were cast in muted tones by the overcast sky, a prelude to the harsh autumn storms that would soon batter the region. The chilling breeze tugged at his crimson robes, but he remained steadfast, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture of serene authority. Below him, soldiers bustled about, their armor clinking as they prepared for the arduous march. To Kaelen, their activity was little more than background noise to his thoughts.
The council’s tepid response to his plan lingered in his mind. They had balked at the idea of extending the campaign through winter, pointing out that the beastkin, with their hardy constitutions, could endure the cold better than even the exalted humans. But Kaelen dismissed their concerns. They did not understand the urgency of the situation. They lacked the insight he had been given—the divine mandate bestowed upon him directly by Praxus himself.
That night had been seared into Kaelen’s mory with crystalline clarity. A dream, vivid and unmistakably sacred, had transported him to a vast, glimring city of clockwork and artifice. Every gear turned with precise purpose, the hum of machinery harmonizing with the divine resonance that perated the air. At the heart of it all sat Praxus, the god of order, enthroned upon a construct of intricate chanisms, each component a testant to his perfection.
In the dream, Praxus had spoken. His words, deliberate and commanding, had left no room for doubt. Change was coming, a disruption that would tip the scales unless Aegis acted swiftly and decisively. For a god who espoused slow, thodical advancent to call for urgency—it was unthinkable. Yet it was reality, and Kaelen had heeded the warning without hesitation.
His gaze darkened as he recalled the details of the oracle. The disruption Praxus had spoken of must have been tied to the arrival of the champion. An aetherbeast, but not one of the mindless husks his clergy had managed to create. This one was intelligent, cunning, and—if the reports were to be believed—formidable. Kaelen's lips curled into a faint smile. If he could capture this champion, the possibilities were endless.
The aetherbeasts his clergy had painstakingly crafted were poor imitations of what they sought to achieve. Animated with captured souls and fragnts of stolen aether, the creatures were little more than hollow automata. Their strength was unimpressive, their obedience rigid and unthinking, and their purpose limited to following commands without nuance. Even a soldier of the lowest rank could fell them by the dozens.
Material had been the greatest limitation. Procuring powerful, sentient beings for experintation without raising suspicion was a delicate and dangerous endeavor. But an aetherbeast like this champion? It was as if Praxus himself had delivered the perfect specin into Kaelen’s hands.
Kaelen stepped forward, the heels of his boots grinding into the frostbitten grass. He raised his hand, summoning his steward. The man appeared quickly, bowing low before standing at attention.
“Send word to the commanders,” Kaelen ordered, his voice calm but resolute. “We march at dawn. I want this pass secured by week’s end, and the southern territories swept within the fortnight. No delays.”
“Yes, High Priest,” the steward replied, bowing once more before hurrying to relay the commands.
Kaelen lingered on the hilltop, his thoughts drifting back to the dream, the gears of the clockwork city turning endlessly in his mind’s eye. Capturing the champion was no longer just a goal—it was a divine imperative. He would deliver this prize to his clergy, and from it, they would craft sothing worthy of Praxus’s divine plan.
And if the champion refused to cooperate? Kaelen’s smile returned, sharper now, as he gazed down at the troops below.
There were always ways to make things work.
“Are we there yet?”
Kivvy’s voice, high and full of exasperation, pierced the monotony of the journey.
Rava’s head snapped to the side, her lips twitching into a restrained snarl. “By the gods, Kivvy,” she groaned, her tone laced with weariness. “I said we’d be there by late afternoon. Stop asking.”
“But it’s so far away,” Kivvy whined, throwing her arms into the air as though to underscore the injustice of the endless expanse around them. “I’m having a great ti traveling with you fine folk, really, but these endless fields of grass? They’re boring.”
The steppes stretched around them in every direction, an ocean of rippling green and gold under the midday sun. Occasional gusts of wind swirled through the grass, creating waves that broke against scattered patches of wildflowers and stubborn, gnarled shrubs. The wagon creaked as its wheels rolled over uneven ground, pulled steadily by Vivienne in her humanoid form, her long, clawed toes pressing into the dirt with each step.
Vivienne glanced back, her sharp black eyes gleaming with playful mischief. “We could play a ga if you’re that bored,” she offered.
Kivvy squinted suspiciously at her. “I don’t think I like the sound of any ga you’d suggest.” She shuddered theatrically, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.
Vivienne let out a lodious laugh, the sound carrying over the plains like a songbird’s call. “You wound , little one,” she said, feigning offense. “You an to say you wouldn’t enjoy guessing what soone is thinking with clever questions? Or perhaps revealing silly truths about ourselves in turn?”
The goblin gave her an incredulous look. “What kind of truths?”
“Oh, nothing dire,” Vivienne assured, her grin widening to reveal her pointed teeth. “Just the harmless sort of truths that make us laugh—or cringe.”
Kivvy shook her head, her thick braid bouncing against her shoulder. “No thanks. I’d rather take my chances with silence than get wrapped up in that kind of ga.”
Vivienne giggled again, her claws digging slightly into the soft earth as she trudged on. “Well then, what about a guessing ga? One where you’d try to na an object I can see?” She gestured broadly to the open plains around them. “Granted, the scenery is less than inspiring. Even I admit the steppes lose their charm after a while.”
Kivvy groaned, her frustration practically vibrating off her small fra as she tipped her head back dramatically. “Why couldn’t we be marching through a forest? Or even a swamp? At least there’d be sothing to look at!”
The endless expanse of the steppes surrounded them, a sea of muted greens and browns punctuated by the occasional stubborn wildflower or patch of scraggly grass. The sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue, its beauty doing little to ease Kivvy’s restlessness.
“I could drop you in a swamp if you want,” Rava interjected, her tone sharp with irritation as her patience wore thin.
“You an drop off, right?” Kivvy shot back, narrowing her eyes at Rava.
Rava deadpanned her in response, her expression as unyielding as the rocky outcrops scattered across the plains. She didn’t bother to dignify the comnt with a reply.
Sensing the tension, Vivienne glanced back from her place at the head of the wagon, her dark eyes glinting with amusent. “How about a ga?” she suggested smoothly, her voice lilting as if the idea had just occurred to her. “We could tell a story, but with a twist. One person starts, but they stop before finishing the sentence. The next person has to pick up from there.”
Kivvy tilted her head, her curiosity montarily outweighing her irritation. “That actually sounds fun,” she admitted. “Unless soone—” she shot a look at Vivienne, “—decides to make it weird.”
“Why, Kivvy, I’m insulted!” Vivienne gasped in mock indignation. “I’m perfectly capable of keeping it entertaining without being too... creative.”
Kivvy let out an exaggerated groan before throwing up her hands in defeat. “Fine.”
As the day wore on, the monotonous landscape of the steppes blurred together, the sun dipping lower in the sky. The wagon wheels creaked rhythmically, and the gentle sway lulled the group into a comfortable, if sowhat drowsy, silence. It was Kivvy’s voice that broke it first, her enthusiasm growing as the ga progressed.
“...And the rchant opened the chest to find—” Kivvy stopped dramatically, pointing to Elira.
Elira, perched delicately on a crate in the wagon, her hands wrapped around a mug of cooling tea, tilted her head thoughtfully. “—a swarm of enchanted frogs that imdiately began—”
Kivvy cackled with glee, her earlier complaints forgotten. “Singing a ballad about lost treasure!”
Vivienne, from the front tilted her head to the side. “The frogs sang so beautifully that they attracted—” She turned to Rava with a raised eyebrow, passing the story to her.
Rava, who had been quietly listening with a bemused expression, leaned back against the wagon’s side and sighed, clearly reluctant to participate. “—a group of bandits who were so enchanted they forgot to—”
“...steal anything and instead began performing interpretive dances,” Elira added, her voice laced with dry amusent.
The group burst into laughter, the absurdity of the tale drawing even Renzia’s gaze from her slate, where she scribbled faintly glowing symbols.
Kivvy clapped her hands, grinning widely. “See? I knew this would be fun. Alright, next part—”
Rava’s smirk curled as she cut her off. “Hey, Kivvy?”
“Yeah?” Kivvy turned her head toward her, curiosity piqued.
Kivvy’s clapping hands stilled mid-motion as Rava’s words cut through her excitent. She looked up, her eyes narrowing in surprise. “Wait, what?”
Rava’s smirk was barely visible beneath the hood of her cloak, but the glint in her eyes was unmistakable. She raised one arm, pointing ahead toward the distant horizon. “We’re here.”
Kivvy blinked, her mouth falling open for a mont before she followed the line of Rava’s finger. Her gaze lifted, taking in the sight that stretched out before them. The city stood at the edge of the world, frad on either side by thick forests that seed to spill from the base of the towering greyreach mountains. The distant skyline shimred in the afternoon light, bathed in hues of gold and silver as the sun began its descent behind the jagged peaks.
At first, the city appeared smaller than she expected, but as the group drew closer, the stone walls lood larger, more imposing, their smooth, pale surfaces gleaming under the fading sun. Kivvy could already feel the difference in the air, as if the very atmosphere around them shifted when they neared the place. The sll of wood, earth, and fresh crops was carried on the wind from the farms scattered across the landscape, but there was sothing else—sothing guarded, calculated, as if the land itself was holding its breath.
Kivvy’s excitent faltered as her thoughts caught up with her. “So, that’s Duskvale?” she muttered, her tone both curious and wary.
Rava nodded, her expression thoughtful. “The first of many walls to co.” Her gaze swept over the horizon, her sharp eyes following the smoothstone fortifications that curved gracefully yet unyieldingly into the distance. The walls seed to flow with the terrain, their seamless construction a testant to the craftsmanship of the Duskvale clan. “They don’t actually have as many people as so of the other clanhos,” she continued, her voice steady, “but inside those walls, it’s mostly more farms. They provide at least so food for each of the other clans.”
Vivienne tilted her head, her black eyes reflecting the glint of the setting sun. “You know,” she said, a sly grin tugging at her lips, “from out here, it looks even more impressive than Serkoth.”
A brief silence followed, broken only by the soft rustle of the wind over the steppes. Rava’s response was asured but surprising. “I agree.”
The admission drew a few raised eyebrows. Vivienne herself blinked in mild surprise, her grin widening. “Oh? I didn’t expect you to say that.”
Rava’s expression softened, almost imperceptibly, as she elaborated. “The Duskvale clan is respected among all the clans for good reason. They are smart, hospitable, and patient. But when their hand is forced...” Her voice took on a sharper edge, her words laced with quiet reverence. “They are fierce warriors. Back when the clans were less... amicable with each other, many assud the Duskvale, being a clan of farrs, would be easy to subdue.”
She allowed herself a faint smirk, her golden eyes glinting. “Duskvale proved them wrong. Their warriors are a blend of ingenuity and raw determination. They know the land like it’s an extension of themselves and use that to their advantage. And their patience… It’s their greatest weapon. They wait, biding their ti, until the mont is right to strike.”
Vivienne folded her arms, nodding slowly. “They sound like people who know the value of their roots.”
Rava gave a curt nod. “They do. They’ve endured much and yet remain steadfast. Their strength isn’t just in their walls or their warriors—it’s in their spirit.” Her gaze lingered on the distant city, and for a mont, a rare flicker of admiration danced across her features.
“Admirable! I look forward to tasting them,” Vivienne chirped, her tone far too cheerful for the reaction it elicited.
Elira’s brow furrowed, and she glanced nervously between Vivienne and Rava. “Doesn’t she an ‘eting them’?” she asked tentatively, as though hoping for reassurance.
Rava sighed heavily, her golden eyes narrowing. “No, she doesn’t.”
Vivienne giggled to herself, clearly pleased with the ripple of unease her comnt caused. She gave a playful flick of her tail, which glead obsidian under the fading sunlight. The glances they started receiving from the patrolling guards and the odd farr tending to their fields only seed to heighten her amusent. Her black eyes sparkled as she caught sight of a guard openly staring, the poor man quickly looking away as she flashed him a grin filled with far too many sharp teeth.
When they reached the city gate, they found a modest queue of citizens lined up to enter before nightfall. Farrs with their carts of produce, rchants carrying wares for the market, and weary travelers—all stood in a loose line, chatting softly among themselves as the guards at the gate conducted their checks.
Vivienne trotted up behind the queue with her usual exaggerated grace, her claws clicking softly against the stone road. To her credit, she did keep a small distance, as if that alone would put anyone at ease. It was the least she could do—or at least all she chose to do.
The man directly in front of them, a wiry fellow carrying a sack of grain over his shoulder, turned at the noise of her approach. His face went pale as his eyes landed on her, his gaze quickly taking in her horns, obsidian claws, and far too many teeth. He stumbled backward with a yell, dropping his sack with a heavy thud.
“Aetherbeast!” he cried out, his voice ringing loud and clear above the murmur of the crowd.
Heads turned at once. Conversations died, leaving an eerie hush that settled over the line. Farrs froze mid-gesture, rchants craned their necks, and even the guards at the gate halted their routine checks to stare.
Vivienne, ever the perforr, tilted her head at the man’s outburst, her expression one of exaggerated innocence. Then, with a deliberate slowness that only heightened the onlookers’ unease, she sat down on her haunches. She opened her mouth wide, her black tongue lolling out like that of a pleased dog, and began panting theatrically, her tail wagging back and forth with deliberate enthusiasm.
The mixture of reactions was almost comical. A few people gasped and took hurried steps back, their faces pale with fear. Others, perhaps more curious than cautious, leaned in slightly, their expressions caught sowhere between awe and disbelief.
Vivienne’s panting grew louder, and she added a soft whine for effect, glancing toward the guards as though waiting for soone to pat her head. Her giggle bubbled up again when one of the younger guards flinched and gripped his weapon tighter.
“She’s doing it again,” Rava muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Why does she always do this?”
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