The Archcrusade Tome One: The Archspawn: The Archcrusade

By K . M. Hogenson

When bloodthirsty monsters raid the birthplace of the first archangel, the High King of Coserai calls for a crusade to defend the holy land. Basil, a sheltered healing mage's apprentice, marches with the crusade to accomplish his Low King's hidden agenda: to travel to an oracle and gather insight into the fate of the realm. Along his journey, Basil faces threats from demons and criminals, paid to assassinate crusade members. Though Basil's master attempts to spare him from unnecessary suffering, Basil's desire for adventure lands him in danger as he begins to unravel the truth of his divine destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K . M. Hogenson
• Release date: Sep 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223615767

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The ARCHCRUSADE

Copyright © 2023 by K. M. Hogenson

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

Map of Coserai

Map of Vetran

Map of Ikasou

Map of Northern Sovain

Map of Gia

Map of Kazerai

Prologue

Sixteen Rotations Later

Piety

Re’ai

Harrow

High King Painite

Ether

Piety

Watercress

Basil

Zalefyn

Nine

Low King Citrine

Watercress

D-4

Basil

Watercress

Mlaou

Vontomay

Brucite

Casire

Kreskel

Harrow

Re’ai

Caracal

T-15

Basil

Brucite

Watercress

Oncilla

Dantrema

Piety

High King Painite

Plume

Basil

Brucite

Casire

Anatase

Vontomay

Watercress

Felidae

Harrow

Ether

Master Yarrow

Plume

Basil

Jasper

Basil

Watercress

Anatase

Princess Celestine

Watercress

Harrow

Reamer

Kreskel

Plume

High King Painite

Caracal

Pedal

Ether

Plume

Harrow

Basil

Brucite

Thyme

Watercress

Master Yarrow

Anatase

Re’ai

Plume

Parchment

Watercress

Princess Celestine

Basil

Teleost

Thyme

Plume

Princess Celestine

Brucite

Watercress

Bos Niu

Oncilla

Caracal

Piety

Re’ai

Harrow

Jasper

Brucite

Basil

About the Author

Map of CoseraiMap of VetranMap of IkasouMap of Northern SovainMap of Northern SovainMap of Northern Sovain

Dedicated to Mom for being my first reader

Watercress Version 2

Two kings, their guards, and a legion of healing mages gathered in the Limestone Castle for the fulfillment of an oracle’s prophecy. The closest mages attended to a pregnant woman, who lay strewn across a labor bed in the center of the castle’s largest chamber. To count, this was nearing the four-hundredth birth the assemblage had administered since arriving to the kingdom of Vetran. With each passing delivery, the High King’s patience waned, and every mage present sensed it.

Each procedure drained the energy of all the mages collectively; every one of the masters, garbed in their colorful robes, contributed some portion of their magic to ensure a live birth. No one dared fathom the implications of a stillbirth.

One among the healing mages, an apprentice named Watercress, did not possess the credentials to attend, but his teacher, Master Anise, insisted on his audience. Had Watercress not resided in Vetran’s capital city of Sythica and had he not been on favorable terms with many of the other masters, they perhaps would have disputed his presence. As it stood, he was permitted in the castle’s inner chamber.

The apprentice was optimistic about this delivery. Something about it seemed right; although, he had had the same premonition about the previous births too.

As per his master’s instruction, Watercress kept to the outer edge of the airy chamber. Most likely, he would not see any part of the delivery, but he was enthusiastic about having set foot inside of the glistening castle, which he had marveled from afar during his time studying under Master Anise. He admired the architecture of a domed roof and the historical art of the frieze works carved into the stone, lining the walls like tapestries.

Amid Watercress’s appreciation, the baby proclaimed its existence with piercing cries, sending the other mages into a frenzy.

The crowd surged toward the labor bed, constellating around the newborn to steal a glance of them. Watercress registered the wails of the mother seeking out her child, but rejoicing cheers eclipsed her voice.

High King Painite silenced the room. His towering form loomed over the heads of the mages, and as he scrutinized the infant that the High Healing Mage presented before him, he demanded, Is this it then?

Master Gentian confirmed, Yes, he is the one. Even though the master was renowned as the preeminent authority of his trade, unquestionable confirmation would be required.

The High King’s guards organized the swarm of healing mages into a single file line while High King Painite and Low King Citrine withdrew from the birthing chamber with the child. The line shuffled forward, and soon merriment echoed from another corridor of the Limestone Castle.

Watercress’s master gave him a sideways, knowing look. When you are brought before the child, all you need to do is tell the kings what you see, Master Anise said. Our kings are fair and just; you have nothing to fear from them. Honesty is all they require.

Watercress had not previously considered lying to the most powerful men in their kingdom—especially not to Low King Citrine, whom he had never met but whom the people of Vetran respected immensely. So long as the two monarchs gave him no reason to deceive them, the apprentice had no intention of doing so; besides, with so many other mages present, Watercress knew lying would only land him in trouble.

Once it was Watercress’s turn to enter the kings’ private room, he considered he should perhaps feel a degree of intimidation. However, he was nearly giddy. If he had any less sense about him, he would have grinned; instead, he maintained a respectable composure.

The High King clutched the newborn at arm’s length around the baby’s middle. Were the infant to defecate or retch, the mess would miss the king’s bright-crimson caftan and potentially hit the apprentice’s fresh cotton tunic instead. Watercress found the sight peculiar. It should have been humorous that such a domineering majesty would be associated with something so feeble as a newborn, but it disquieted him.

Upon entering the small chamber, Watercress found himself hallucinating a familiar fruity taste, but he could not immediately place from where he knew the flavor. Either I’m experiencing a peculiar case of dysgeusia or the High King adorned himself with overbearing foreign oils.

What is this; a child will judge the fate of another child? The High King demanded, his voice filled with impatience rather than ire.

Without taking offense, Watercress shrugged.

I’m older than a child, but I recognize the High King thinks me inexperienced. Compared to the other healing mages, I am. Even so, such an occurrence is not unheard of, but I won’t delve into religious semantics with him.

Where Watercress had failed in defending himself, Low King Citrine said, Watercress is nearly a master. He has already returned from the mages’ college and contributed to the art of healing magic. Master Anise and I thought this opportunity would be an invaluable experience despite his lack of a formal title. He’s also written a diagnostic spell tome; it could be revolutionary for future generations of wizards. You may even know of his research. He worked in Master Yarrow’s laboratory, discovering new methods of treating traumatic injuries.

Watercress found his Low King’s remarks flattering, though the statement didn’t properly encompass the topics he had studied. If circumstances had been different, he would have loved to discuss his research further.

The High King paid no attention to the Low King. He eyed the young apprentice with even greater scrutiny. What do you see?

A mess of intangible silver strings hung limply from the newborn’s back. Once Watercress gazed into the infant’s black eyes, the strings became taut and shot out above the child’s head to reveal an intricate, veined pattern of small useless wings. Little by little, the intangible wings elongated along the newborn’s arms and legs and sprouted from the sides of his face too. Soon the baby was laughing and smiling, and Watercress shared his jubilance. Moments later, the silver of the immaterial wings turned to a brilliant yellow. They flapped, but they had no more influence over the physical world than phantoms did.

I can see the baby’s wings, Watercress said.

For the record, you are claiming this to be the archspawn? The High Vizier, the High King’s most trusted advisor, scribbled notes on a sheet of parchment.

He’s certainly a spawn, Watercress agreed. There was no physical indicator to discern whether he was the archspawn or a regular one. It had been the oracle Lemniscate who had foretold that the next archspawn would be born before the end of the rotation in the city of Sythica. Because spawn were born so infrequently—fewer than one in a million—and because an oracle’s prophecy had never been wrong before, this child was almost certainly the archspawn. Moreover, if no more spawn were born for the next hundred rotations or so, they would know this child was the one.

The vizier took Watercress’s answer for a yes, and the apprentice withdrew from the small room.

Before the meeting, Watercress had been uncertain if he had wanted to make eye contact with the spawn. However, the infant had decided for him. Watercress had a good feeling about the child, but he had an ominous premonition about him in the hands of the High King, despite Master Anise’s opinion. Regardless, there was nothing to be done about it.

His master collected Watercress and strolled with him back to the luxurious shop they called home. They never discussed what they saw, for it was not the first time either of them had seen a spawn. In fact, of the two adult spawn residing in Vetran’s capital of Sythica, Watercress was rather fond of them both.

Behind the closed doors of their home, Watercress ventured to ask, What will happen to the archspawn now? I’m assuming he will not stay with his family as the regular spawn do.

I believe it is the will of High King Painite to take the child with him back to Kazerai to raise the archspawn under the spiritual guidance of the High Priest.

I wonder if he’ll be happy there, Watercress mused.

I would think he will be, Master Anise said.

Watercress doubted it. The image of the baby clutched in the High King’s grip flooded back to him, and he anticipated the relationship between the two would not change as the boy aged. The concept again unsettled Watercress. While recollecting his experience during the birth, the wails of the newborn’s mother echoed in Watercress’s mind. I wonder if he’ll ever see his mother again.

An overwhelming guilt built in his gut as Watercress suppressed a memory of his own mother; anytime his past threatened to surge into his conscious mind, he curtailed it. Instead, he climbed the smooth stone steps to his bedroom in the upper area of the shop and worried over the fate of their age’s archspawn.

It was later in the week; the High King had returned to the realm’s capital kingdom, Kazerai, with the archspawn, and the other healing mages had left Sythica. Master Anise had named Watercress a master healing mage in his own right, and on the evening following his graduation, a messenger came from a merchant’s manor.

I was instructed to bring a healing mage, the messenger said with panic in his voice.

Master Watercress glanced up from the letter he had been writing to his fiancée, Poppy, and exchanged a glance with his master who had a heavy text cradled in his lap.

Why don’t you go? His former teacher suggested, It can be your first assignment alone . . . as a master. Anise had to correct himself; Watercress had often cared for patients alone, mostly when Anise was tending to another patient or when he was in the middle of a particularly intriguing passage in his book.

Watercress raised an eyebrow but conceded. Despite sharing the same title, Anise still had many more rotations’ experience on him, and Watercress would respect his request.

The messenger took a brisk pace as he wound through the stone city streets with Watercress. Along the way, he informed the newly minted master that the patient was a slave who was delivering a monstrously bloody birth. After she got blood on a fine rug, the owner of the house told the other slaves to take her outside to bleed in their courtyard. To be paid, the owner requires you to save both the mother and the child. He’s been entertaining this new idea, you see, breeding his slaves in his free time. He thinks it’ll be cheaper than buying them new. A peculiar hobby, if you ask me, but I’m just the courier; who am I to question Mortgagor? The man has more gem than most nobles.

Watercress didn’t respond, but the thought sickened him. When I had been an apprentice, I had been at the disposal of Master Anise, much like a slave. Yet, he would never require something like that from me. How despicable.

In the fading light, the pair arrived in the manor’s gardens, and Watercress could tell by the whimpers that the slave was dying. Her dark curly hair matted to her face with sweat, and her skin adopted an ashen sickly complexion due to blood loss.

He would have to work quickly, but he had faced much more dire situations before. If he cast everything correctly, both the mother and child would live.

Watercress whispered spells to seal the interior wounds while pulling the clean blood back into the body, leveraging both his internal stores of sorcery and the wizardry of tomes. He conjured and directed spinning pools of energy to the tissues that required mending, and he gave her some mellow root for the pain. After directing one such energy well toward the baby, he sensed that the boy was doing fine, so Watercress could focus on the mother.

Her condition improved rapidly in response to Watercress’s treatment. Her skin returned to its natural tawny-brown color, and she became much more responsive. Although her life was no longer in danger, she panicked. My child, she cried, is going to have a horrific life. Do not save them. The life of a slave is worse than death.

The slave’s comments disturbed Watercress, and though he believed the woman, he was uncertain what to make of her request. His purpose had always been to treat patients and ensure their survival.

I know you can do it. Suffocate them. Turn their brain off before they breathe. Anything. Her fierce amber eyes bore into his, pleading desperately.

With a crowd of the manor’s slaves gathering to witness the ordeal, Watercress racked his brain for a solution. If he let the child die, the help would know he acquiesced her request.

What trouble would it cause me to concede to the whims of a slave? If the owner of the house was enraged enough, my reputation—or position—could be on the line.

What if I could give your son a better life? Watercress offered impulsively. I’m a master now; I can take on an apprentice. I could choose your child.

The baby’s a boy? the enslaved woman wore a strained smile as she considered the news. A moment later she shook her head. He probably won’t be a sorcerer though.

It doesn’t matter. Even if he isn’t born with innate magic, he could still study to become a wizard; spell tomes will fuel his magic. And the archspawn has been born. We won’t need healing mages to have the sorcerer’s sight until the next age begins. Watercress tried to find any solution he could.

If you honor your promise that my baby will have a better life, then let him live. Otherwise, let him die.

He won’t die, Watercress said firmly.

Then save him, the slave demanded before recoiling in labor pain.

Watercress couldn’t believe the situation he had found himself in. He also couldn’t believe he had offered to take on a newborn as his apprentice. Usually, children had a few rotations with their families before they were selected to be trained. Usually, they displayed a knack for learning and for magic, at least in the case of mages’ apprentices. Usually, a master had a few rotations’ experience before selecting an apprentice. But Watercress knew there would be nothing usual about any of this.

With the mother assuaged, the delivery proceeded smoothly. The child was born screaming and kicking. Watercress looked at the infant that was to become his apprentice, and he didn’t know how he would explain any of this to Master Anise—or even worse, to Poppy.

Watercress wondered if his old teacher would be upset over his irrational decision or intrigued over his choice of student. Either way, Watercress did not believe Anise would be pleased to have another apprentice roaming around after he had just finished training Watercress.

As for Poppy, she was another concern he would have to consider later; this incident might be a discouraging sign for their long-distance relationship.

Perhaps I can request that the mother finishes nursing the baby before I adopt him as my own; it would allow me a cushion of time to sort through some of the logistics.

Before he could propose the offer, Watercress noticed something he had missed in the darkening twilight. Trailing down the infant’s back were black metal scythes that no one in the crowd but he could perceive. With a sinking feeling, the young master realized two truths simultaneously: one, the High King did not have the archspawn in his custody, and two—for the good of the child—Watercress would do anything to keep it that way.

SIXTEEN ROTATIONS LATER

Piety

Aprocession draped in midnight-cowled cloaks sauntered down a gaunt stone tunnel. Illumination from iron sconces flickered across the semi-exposed faces as each shape entered the cavernous shrine. At the channel’s end, black candles replaced the sconces.

Approaching the altar, a priest set a silver sacrificial bowl lined with rubies atop the slab. Another worshiper placed a rusted link of a prisoner’s chain in the bowl’s center. Upon the link rested the bloody eye of a legendary Noble Strix. The next follower curled a wilted flower stem around the eye. Two holy decanters, one with dark liquid in a scarlet glass and the other with cloudy elixir in flawless crystal, flanked the bowl. Lastly, a crooked knife passed to the priest.

One of the worshipers ignited the end of the flower stem with sorcery.

Crawling around the withered line, the flame grew. When the stem shriveled to ash, it audibly cracked under the unbearable heat. The eye charred next. The chain link remained unharmed, but the iron glowed marrow yellow.

The priest struck a bell several times; its penetrating ring reverberated around the ceremonial chamber.

A melancholy chant erupted from the twelve pious worshipers. Ghastly statues of demons stationed above the altar seemed to come alive during the summoning, scrutinizing the gathered worshipers below. Cruel lines carved into the sculptures’ faces deepened with shadows, making the stone appear as something more.

The tenebrous tones of a harp stationed at the back of the chamber enhanced the quality of the chant.

The priest recited a summoning spell in the holy language. Fevered excitement swelled and engrossed the worshipers until the climax of the sacrifice when the knife sliced across the priest’s flesh in an act of agonizing homage and fealty. Blood flowed from the wound and spilled onto the fire until the life of the light extinguished.

Silence gripped the room.

Above the altar, a gnarled hand slid through the cave wall and collected the remains of the offering.

Every cloaked figure dropped to their knees, humbled by the archdemon’s acceptance.

Clawing his way into the cavern, the archdemon, Dantrema, joined the worshipers.

Dantrema was said to have presided over the Seventh Age, to have been a master over all incarcerators, to have been born and raised in the kingdom of Samet, to have tamed a mythical Noble Strix—the greatest and rarest of the owl family—and to have the title of Dantrema the Cruel.

And by the power of the priest’s summoning spell and sacrificial offering, he stood before the congregation.

His face would have looked like the bark of an ancient tree had it not had two long twisted horns protruding from his forehead. Towering bony wings partially hid behind his leathery body, but their tallest point jutted out a full cubit above his head.

Who summoned me? Dantrema demanded.

Some of the followers trembled on the ground in response to his voice. The priest of the dark stood and took a step forward to answer the question. The powerful demon overshadowed the approaching man with his sizable stature.

Dantrema eyed the priest momentarily before redirecting his gaze to the rest of the sanctuary. As far as the priest could tell, the archdemon seemed impressed with their assemblage of holy decanters and the shrine dedicated to him.

The priest said, We worship you, great one, which is why we have summoned you here. You lived and died nobly, and we honor the suffering that you have endured as a result.

I recall your prayers. They are the first I have received from a group this size in ages. Tell me, what is it that you require from me?

We wish to share in your words, your wisdom, your philosophies, your way of life, and . . . your power. The leader trailed off as he lost confidence in his request.

Dantrema smirked, contorting his deformed face further. I will share my words and wisdom with all of you. As for my philosophies, they have already been transcribed in the holy texts, with only minor corruptions over the rotations. Regarding my curses, I will only grant you, who summoned me, with the warlock’s ability.

Pain of a thousand needles jammed into the priest’s back. He collapsed to the floor, clutching at the inflamed area.

My words are as follows, Dantrema spoke to the assemblage while the new warlock flailed in agony, the words of the incarcerators: a whipping chain breaks faster than one adorned. But what you all are interested in is this bit of wisdom—if a prisoner flips a tray of food over after completing their meal and their incarcerator retrieves it, a guard will release the prisoner and walk them to safety, unseen and unheard. Take care with whom you choose to share my wisdom with. And you, Dantrema addressed the warlock, take care in how you use my ability.

With the cessation of pain, Piety rose. I will. Though he intended to honor his words, the priest already planned to perform the ceremony again with the three remaining Noble Strix eyes in his possession.

The demon acknowledged his promise before leaving through the shrine wall.

The bell echoed again.

Re’ai

Stagnant night air hung across the plains of the human’s northern kingdom, Sovain. The thick, tall grasses concealed sleeping animals, and the plants quivered only when restlessness crept upon a slumbering creature. While the veld had the height to mask the dozing herds, it did not have a stature capable of covering the human settlement called Fagori.

Upon the arrival of a band of rogue rhysiglai, a herd of oryx arose from sleep and instinctively dashed in the opposite direction. Luckily for the hoofed mammals, they were not the band’s intended targets.

The predators surrounded Fagori in a prearranged formation, with every detail meticulously planned. A feast of blood would flow through the streets of the town before dawn ascended.

One rhysiglai, Re’ai, was new to this band. Re’ai had participated in numerous raids on human domiciled towns, but those had been sanctioned from the clans of old ages ago.

Excitement welled in Re’ai’s gut, and they shifted their bare azure feet back and forth while waiting behind a clump of ferns. The dry dirt between their elongated hind claws reminded them of home. Hunting in the savannah was where Re’ai belonged. All philosophical arguments to dissuade them against participating fell away as soon as the hunt began. Re’ai sensed the hunger of all the rhysiglai in the air, and it only heightened their own impulse to feed.

Gregon, the leader, was nearly invisible; their black flesh sat motionless two paces away from Re’ai, and yet the newcomer could not distinguish between the band’s leader and the foliage’s shadows.

Re’ai would scour a few pre-determined residences with Gregon. They had scoped out the dwellings during the day, discovering no humans posing a threat to either of the rhysiglai. As a new addition to the band, Re’ai wasn’t shocked about the assignment. While Gregon ensured Re’ai followed orders, there would be no real danger, even if Re’ai were entirely incompetent.

However, Re’ai was not inept. Back in the time of the clans, Re’ai had been so subtle in bloodletting that they had developed a reputation for it.

Soon a pungent smell sprang through the air, signaling for the feast to commence. Re’ai resented being so close to the radiating source of the scent, but Gregon stopped secreting the overwhelming odor as soon as everyone had had a chance to sense it.

A dozen rhysiglai stalked toward Fagori.

When Gregon and Re’ai approached the first small home on the outskirts of the village, Re’ai peered through a pane-less window. Along the floor, two straw beds lay in the back corners. From a clay fire pit in the center of the room, dying embers flickered up and fluttered around until their extinction. Out of the spraying cinders’ reach, a few hemp hammocks hung from the ceiling’s posts.

An older woman occupied one straw bed while a young man took the other. Even younger humans filled the hammock sacks.

Before Re’ai could communicate with Gregon about preferences, a slight gust of air against Re’ai’s armored plates signaled the leader’s entry into the house. They could not see the dark physique even with the aid of the pitiful embers, but they listened for Gregon’s heartsbeat and located the leader near the woman’s bed.

Re’ai effortlessly squeezed through the opening, taking care not to stir anything that had the potential to awaken the humans. Luckily, the home had few furniture items to mind. Re’ai had to be wary of the straw-covered floor, but that was manageable.

Gregon began to feed on the older woman; the nutty aroma filled Re’ai’s nostrils and enticed them towards their own meal. Re’ai knelt beside the young man and carefully sank their fangs into the underside of his jaw. It was an awkward location to bite, but people rarely bothered to check such places for puncture wounds. As both a matter of pride and practicality, Re’ai preferred the humans they fed upon to remain ignorant of the feast if possible.

One of Re’ai’s fangs pierced a vessel under a molar, and blood flowed into their hollow incisors. The man’s blood tasted as the older woman’s had smelled: mediocre, but satisfying nonetheless. Still, the sensation of drinking straight from a living source reminded Re’ai what they had been missing for so long.

Before the lad lost too much blood, Re’ai sealed the wounds shut with tiny dabs of saliva onto each lesion.

To evade retaliation, it was vital that the band did not kill any of the humans during their raid; it would be ideal for the humans to never learn of the attack, but that was unlikely. Not all rhysiglai shared Re’ai’s preference toward discretion; one of the others within the band were likely to leave bite marks in a noticeable location.

Already, Gregon had finished feeding on the woman and her younger suspended children. It was impressive that Gregon had not roused any of them during the process, and Re’ai admired the rhysiglai’s swiftness and caution.

The two rhysiglai climbed out of the window and proceeded onto the next few houses, pumping out an enormous volume of blood without the slightest suspicion left in their wake. They worked like a marvelously efficient machine, and once their circuit had concluded, they ceased the hunt.

Avoiding detection, the pair hurried out of town and returned to the shadows of the foliage to await the rest of the group.

Another successful raid, Gregon said. The leader’s tone was pleased, but their face’s hard shell could not have divulged the expression, even if Re’ai could see it in the dull moonslight.

I can’t remember the last time a raid went that well, Re’ai replied. I can barely remember my last hunt.

You’ve been living restricted for too long. We all have. Our numbers are small now, but more will join our ranks as word of our efforts spread. Mark my words, Re’ai, the ages of men will fall by the wayside. We will write them out of memory. We will feast upon the blood of their kings and topple their idols. They will serve us as livestock serves them. Gregon spoke passionately about the matter as if it were their destiny to achieve.

Unnerved, Re’ai squirmed. They didn’t particularly care about the overwhelming presence of humans, but the mages within their ranks discouraged rhysiglai from hunting them as a species. If the rogue band weren’t careful, the humans would declare war on them and win by any means they could.

Re’ai had seen it happen that exact way throughout their history. Although, it was not without a price to the humans too; in addition to staggering casualty numbers, there had been losses in scientific and magical advancements.

So long as the band was discreet, their small raids would probably go unnoticed. However, if Gregon succeeded with gathering a large following, an even more sizable force would quell their encroachments. At the first sniff of a human army, Re’ai planned to forsake the band.

Re’ai hadn’t responded to Gregon’s plans. They wished to say something diplomatic but honest.

Do you disagree with my intentions? Gregon asked after registering the pause.

If those are your intentions, then you must be strategic in gathering your forces. Once the humans sense something is out of place, they will strike with overwhelming numbers and magicians. Nothing scared Re’ai more than sorcerers, though they had never faced a warlock or a wizard.

Gregon reclined into a sandy spot in the dirt and ruminated on Re’ai’s words. The speckles of moonslight reflecting in the leader’s eyes vanished as they turned aside. With the disappearance of the illuminations, Gregon slid into the background, imperceptible to Re’ai.

The pair of rhysiglai waited in the darkness for the rest of their band to return. Gradually, the others crept from the town and regrouped. Re’ai recognized some of the forms as fellow ex-clan members and some from more recent group meetings. The end of the raid drew near; the band would return to the nest after the stragglers departed the town.

Rhysiglai! The word was screamed out in the middle of the village repeatedly. Other voices echoed incoherent chaos, shouting something about the chief. A final villager hollered, Check the spawn!

This was almost a worst-case scenario—short of killing a spawn. The humans were fanatical about protecting their precious religious symbols. If a rhysiglai had harmed one, the band could expect Painite’s armies at their doorstep the next morning.

A clawed hand grabbed Re’ai’s forearm before they smelled the scent signaling the group to flee. Most rhysiglai retreated toward the nest. Will you come with me to scout the village? Gregon asked.

Invigorated with fresh blood, Re’ai was prepared for battle if necessary. They nodded.

Gregon and Re’ai darted back towards the village, careful not to make a sound. As they approached, they witnessed a public demonstration in the pitiful town square. By the light of the torches they carried, at least seventy humans shifted upon their recently drained, unsteady feet.

They listened to an older woman speak. It was the same one from the first house that Re’ai and Gregon had visited that evening.

I am perfectly fine. There is nothing to worry about, she said. I have found marks on myself, but they chose not to drain me completely. Their intention was simply to eat, not to kill. For all we know, they could have been a starving caravan passing through.

But what if they aren’t? Another voice demanded from the group.

We could ask the prisoner . . .

At that comment, Gregon and Re’ai crept along a narrow gap between buildings to get a better vantage point. A few men dragged forward a rhysiglai ensnared in netting. One of the men faltered from wooziness, and additional humans supported him.

Thick steel ropes forced a yam-colored rhysiglai into a curled position, and its claws struggled against the trappings without progressing toward freedom.

Does it even speak the common tongue? someone else from the crowd called.

The captured rhysiglai spat at the assembled group. Yes, I do.

Why has our town been attacked? The older woman asked as she approached them. We have lived in peace with rhysiglai for decades.

Tell me, are you a huntress?

No, the woman replied.

Then you would not understand. Our band feels a calling to earn our feast.

I will not pretend to understand your inclinations. However, your band has violated the truce between our races this evening.

Any truce between our kinds is an agreement with a leader I do not follow.

The young man that Re’ai had first fed on stepped forward toward the older woman. In the light, the human’s skin was nearly as dark as Gregon’s flesh. What do we do? he asked.

A man from the crowd answered with a voice carrying an authoritative tone, We will inform Low King Tanzanite about the occurrences here, and he will determine the consequences. For now, we will hold the rhysiglai.

Who will deliver the message? someone else asked.

I will, the dark-fleshed young man decided resolutely.

Harrow, the woman said, reaching her hand out to him. You don’t have to.

I wasn’t bitten, so I’ll be better suited for the journey than most others, he said.

That adolescent might not feel the effects of being drained now, but he will if he tries to cross the desert in his condition.

Shuffling shadows of men crossed each other, blocking the torch light and spinning it in all directions. Re’ai tried to follow where the captive was being taken but lost track of them.

Gregon scampered off. Following suit, Re’ai crossed the stretch of sandy dirt to the new lookout position.

Re’ai watched the unknown captive. A group of humans dragged them inside a nearby building and locked it. After Re’ai sought out the keeper of the prison’s key, Gregon had disappeared again.

This time, Gregon moved into the streets of Fagori. If Re’ai hadn’t used all their senses in conjunction, then they would not have recognized the nearly invisible movement of Gregon pickpocketing the key.

Re’ai could not imagine what audaciousness the leader possessed that they could stalk right up to a man and steal something from his trousers. Gregon had impressed Re’ai again that evening.

Once the street cleared, Gregon opened the prison door and disappeared inside. Re’ai held their position in the event the humans discovered either Gregon or the captive. The unknown rhysiglai darted out the door and plunged into the shadows with Gregon trailing close behind.

Nodding once, Gregon signaled for Re’ai to join them. On all fours, the three rhysiglai scurried back to their nest in the Vampiric Lands to the north.

After they were certain they had escaped to safety, the trio slowed their pace and walked upright.

The captive introduced themselves. I’m Kreskel.

Re’ai.

Kreskel is my most trusted advisor, Gregon said.

Re’ai, it is a pleasure to meet you; although, this is the most embarrassing of circumstances. I appreciate you helping Gregon with my rescue. I haven’t seen you before—you must be new, Kreskel said.

Think nothing of it. This was my first hunt with the band.

Gregon always groups up with the new recruits—likes to show off, Kreskel said with a smirk in their tone.

Gregon brushed off the comment. I have the impression that Re’ai is not easily impressed. Decades ago, Re’ai had quite the reputation themself.

I have not heard, Kreskel admitted.

Gregon flatters me too highly. I’m particular with how I enjoy a meal, Re’ai said.

Ah, a modest talent. That’s a rare find in these times, Kreskel said. Gregon, it looks like you’ve stepped up your recruiting efforts. I would suggest we maintain this streak if I didn’t fear losing my title from it.

It’s odd Kreskel is inclined towards a jocular manner after being held captive so recently. Perhaps they are trying to steady themselves after the escape.

You have not to concern yourself over retaining your position so long as your council is honest and your friendship remains true, Gregon said.

Kreskel touched their tridactyl claws above their bulbous eyes and brought them down in a tight arc in front of their face’s shell. Of course, Gregon, I live to serve.

Harrow

The trip to Sovain’s capital, Hisophe, proved more exhausting than Harrow had remembered. The majority of Sovain’s unprotected climate ranged from hot savannah to boiling desert. Along the Arid Aisle, he resupplied his food stores with wild figs and other fruits from occasional oases each time he found a lush patch of vegetation surrounding fresh water. As a farmer, Harrow’s body was sturdy, but he rarely traveled outside his town’s temperate weather barrier. He was a fast runner as well, but the heat of the two suns exhausted him.

If the journey is this strenuous, then perhaps I was fed upon after all.

But he still hadn’t found bite marks on himself.

Despite enduring periods of severe dehydration, Harrow eventually reached Sovain’s capital to await an audience with Low King Tanzanite in the Mosaic Castle.

Lofty sandstone columns and a honeycombed vaulting archway marked the entrance. Dozens of bulbous towers protruded out of the center, and stained-glass windows decorated the upper levels. It was refreshingly cool within Hisophe’s vicinity, but nothing grew in the lands outside of the castle. Instead, lines of market stalls greeted newcomers.

Harrow hadn’t time to browse the wares; he passed between the castle’s columns and drank from one of the countless fountains inside the open, shaded area. After filling his leather waterskin, he glanced around, intimidated by the crowds of unfamiliar faces.

Never before had he sought an audience with his Low King, so he hadn’t known how. For a moment, he watched the people around him. After completing the longest leg of his journey, he could not return without seeking aid. Unfortunately for him, that meant approaching someone to ask for their assistance.

Each time he built the nerve to approach someone, they strode away before he had the chance. To avoid social interaction, he meandered around the entryway to the castle’s interior, hoping someone else voiced their intention to speak with the king.

When a pair of rhysiglai casually strolled past him, Harrow flinched. He stared at their monstrous forms in horror. Their long back-bent legs raised them taller than his fellow man by several heads. Their fleshy joints, armored limbs, and bulging black eyes reminded Harrow of humanoid cicadas. They sheathed their fangs, and their claws splayed in precise gestures throughout their discussion, but Harrow still found the civilized rhysiglai petrifying.

The flash of terror boosted Harrow’s resolve. This is foolish. Mother’s life had been at risk, and I’m wasting time.

Out of annoyance with himself, he asked the nearest guard about seeking the king’s audience.

Go ask that vizier. She’s handling those administrative responsibilities today. The guard pointed to a finely dressed woman.

Harrow alerted the vizier about his interest in presenting his case to the king.

King Tanzanite’s vizier seated him on velvet-cushioned benches in a waiting area outside of the court’s main chamber. Anxiously, Harrow rubbed his hands back and forth, but he knew he couldn’t do anything else. It was a relief to relax after racing for the capital. Thirst occasionally caught up to him, and he was grateful to have his leather sack full again.

Others waited ahead of Harrow. More trickled in, and the viziers called each person according to the order they arrived.

A woman, who had been periodically sighing, turned to Harrow. Do you know why I’m here?

How would I know? Harrow shook his head.

She readjusted her white headscarf. I am here to report sacrilege.

What’s been said?

Piety, my village’s priest, preaches demon worship, and I believe he has encouraged mages across the land to study its dark magic. We fear for the fate of the kingdom—and the realm at large.

Harrow shivered at the thought of the forbidden practices. How do you know?

A house collapsed the other week. Then a few days ago, there was a sandstorm.

That’s not so unusual.

The sand ate stone and melted glass. Our village’s alchemist could do nothing to reverse the effects. I believe the Demonists made the sand acidic with magic. I rushed here as soon as I saw it. I can’t allow this to go on any longer without the king knowing.

A dark warlock would be dangerous business. How many other horrific events have occurred in the kingdom that we never hear about? It must be a difficult thing to be king and solve every problem.

Harrow, the king’s vizier called.

Good luck with the priest, Harrow wished the woman before approaching the overseer.

Follow me, the vizier instructed. And clean out your nose; you are about to appear before the Low King.

Self-consciously, Harrow cleared the crusted mucus wedge with his thumb and tried to ignore it as it fell and sullied the pristine tile.

Led into court flanked by a guard, Harrow’s uneasiness returned, and he felt daunted to speak to Sovain’s Low King.

The throne room reeked of wealth and supremacy. The ceiling stretched so far above his head that he could not see the end of the enormous columns. Spiraling support pillars were thicker than his whole body. Up close, the glass windows were comical how large they were. He had no idea how it was even possible to construct such massive panels; it must have been with the aid of architectural magic. Considering the proportions of the room and its features, he felt like he must have shrunken to the size of a shrew.

The mosaic pattern of the fountains also coated the floors and ran along the walls to depict great achievements of the past kings and archangels. On the wall behind the thrones, a magnificent scene of the first archangel, Aciol, framed King Tanzanite. Bombarding Harrow’s senses with its exquisite grandeur, the court was glorious yet distracting.

While taking in the sight, Harrow periodically bumped into the vizier until they arrived before the Low King and queen consort sitting in gemstone-infused thrones. They whispered between themselves solemnly.

Will they find my news of importance or yet another problem that their gem and coin will need to solve?

Their canvas portraits hung in Fagori’s chief’s office, but up close, Harrow realized the images hadn’t captured their likenesses well. However, their symbolic tangerine-colored garments served to plainly identify them as the rulers of Sovain as easily as their crowns and thrones had.

Approach closer. What have you to say? Low King Tanzanite instructed. His tone was even, his eyes curious despite being bloodshot.

Harrow honored the royalty with the standard gesture of raising his hand to his forehead then bringing his hand down towards them with a slight bow of the head. Following custom, when he spoke, he stared at the feet of the thrones.

My name is Harrow of Fagori, your majesty. My town has been attacked. I came as fast as I could to tell you, but I worry about the current condition of my village. We are not a large one, and I fear that these attacks will prove fatal to every person in my village, including my mother, who is a spawn. He tried to speak with confidence throughout his plea, but he feared he sounded like a whining child.

I can spare a soldier or two to protect your village, the king declared, Should that dissuade the attackers from further action?

Maybe, this is the first time it has happened. And we don’t know how many there were. We captured one, but it escaped, so there must have been more than one.

I’ll spare two soldiers. If there is nothing else, then I will see the next person on the list.

Can you send two who are knowledgeable about fighting rhysiglai? Harrow implored. The word rhysiglai caught everyone’s attention within the court.

The attackers were rhysiglai? King Tanzanite questioned immediately. Disquiet supplanted the grief on his face.

Yes, Harrow answered, struggling to keep his eyes trained downward, At least a hundred people were fed upon.

The Low King contemplated the new information for so long that Harrow deliberated if he should be doing something during the wait. Harrow broke with polite custom to glance at low queen Mellite, and she smiled at him.

I do not want to make any hasty movements, the Low King announced. If this is a singular occurrence, I do not wish to deplete our soldiers elsewhere and risk the wellbeing of the entire kingdom. However, I am troubled that they attacked a spawn. I will send ten guards to Fagori for a full cycle of the moons. I trust that another attack will not occur again, but if it does, then I will keep the ten stationed there and send reinforcements.

While Harrow was pleased that his concerns were acknowledged, he still feared that the small grouping of soldiers would not suffice. Before Harrow could offer his opinion or give his thanks, his king’s administrator ushered him away.

High King Painite

T here are several issues to discuss today. Most reports bring unfortunate tidings, Admonition, High King Painite’s High Vizier, started. The administrator swept his displeased grey gaze over the company he managed.

Within the Impenetrable Castle at Kazerai’s capital city, Athlia, a general council meeting convened between the High King, his staff of mages and viziers, the archspawn, the representatives from the twelve other kingdoms, and a few additional choice selections including high-ranking military officers. The large group met within the High King’s isolated personal tower to avoid wandering ears from listening in on the discussion.

From the other side of the castle, a message came to the High King that was inaudible to the rest of his audience. The ambassador to the sea folk has arrived.

Painite returned an answer with his thoughts. I’ll be down after the general council meeting. The High King returned his attentions to the interlocutors seated among him.

Admonition looked down his pudgy nose to review the agenda. Internal updates first. Master Tympanum, if you will deliver your assessment.

Tympanum, a newly hired middle-aged architectural mage, hesitated, glancing around his colleagues.

For reassurance, the High King furrowed his thick brows inquisitively.

Tympanum rolled back the draping sleeves of his robes and gestured to his fellow mages with a large, open palm. My fellow architectural mages and I cannot sustain the weight of the castle with our sorcery alone. We are overburdened by the load. Every new mine dug underneath the castle has increased the magic required to support its massive weight. We need additional resources, whether physical reinforcements or magical ones. If left unattended, however, the castle will kill us.

The status displeased Painite. Still, he could not risk losing his architectural mages when they were already in short supply across the realm. Admonition, ensure Master Tympanum and the other architectural mages have whatever support and supplies they require. Next item.

Admonition has not made light of the unfortunate tidings. The meeting has only begun, and the castle is crumbling. Ideally, that’s the worst of it. Master Crocket had just reassured me of the castle’s fortitude, not half a rotation ago. Was the High Architectural Mage’s assessment incorrect?

Master Nimbus, your status report, Admonition said.

The High Weather Mage shook his narrow head. Nothing to report. All is normal. The weather will continue to be temperate during the day, and it shall rain between second and third moonfall every other night.

The remaining healing, combative, defensive, alchemic, and transportation mages likewise reported fair tidings.

Admonition cleared his throat. I received word from the prison guards that several members of the Vehantry have been detained and are ready for judgement to be passed upon them. These members are responsible for the burning of houses, the assassination of nobles, the slaughter of hundreds of innocents . . .

If I have time, I’ll visit these prisoners. The notorious criminal organization has decimated the realm for ages. It’s time to placate them.

. . . along with a few other recent additions to the dungeons. One of those comes from Sovain. Admonition turned to the Sovainy representative.

The representative rushed his words. Yes, the prisoner in question from Sovain is a priest leading a group of Demonists. We fear their group has successfully summoned an . . . archdemon.

Dismayed gasps echoed around the chamber.

Fully attentive, the High King eyed the Sovainy representative. He had sat at this table for over a decade, relaying news of Sovain, and Painite trusted his words. Painite could also read him well. His caving posture signaled his deep uncertainty.

Painite’s resolution to venture into the dungeons after the meeting strengthened. He sent a follow-on response to his earlier message. I may be delayed in meeting the sea folk’s ambassador.

Which archdemon? the High King asked aloud to the general council.

Based on the corrosive nature of the damage, likely Dantrema. We aren’t certain how many of them may have summoned him to become dark warlocks—or warlasses. Furthermore, we’ve had rhysiglai attack one of our northern towns. The Sovainy representative took a deep breath. They assaulted a spawn.

Panicked sensationalism took hold of the attendees. Fists pounded the table, insults hurled about the rhysic race, and shouts cried for action.

The archspawn, Ether, who had initially taken interest in the prospect of rhysiglai, slumped into his chair and pouted like the child he was; matters of any other spawn beside himself disinterested him. However, everyone else in the room was attentive. Spawn wellbeing was critical not only to individual citizens but to the realm overall.

I do not want to be indelicate to our rhysic ambassador. Painite paused to nod to He-len gon. However, I must insist that we proceed in such a fashion that borders on the side of wariness. Tanzanite reports one attack? Painite chose his words carefully.

Indeed, Your Majesty, the representative replied.

Another silent message came to the king. The kitchen staff are preparing the evening meal.

The gears turned inside the High King’s mind, and they did so quickly. Each factor interacted with another; each variable changed from a tangible thought to a lucid one until he built a solution to fit each piece into its desired location. From the chaos, he crafted an answer.

It may be a rogue group operating outside of the city-states. Still, if they are willing to hunt inside our lands, they could strike again. Between the rhysiglai and the dark warlocks, I insist that all spawn residing in Sovain and the neighboring kingdoms of Wohjet and Furden take shelter in their respective kingdoms’ capital cities’ castles until this threat has passed.

The representatives from Wohjet and Furden exchanged an irritated glance. Simultaneously, the tension in the Sovainy man’s long face relaxed. He-len gon watched Painite, but the rhysiglai’s expression was otherwise unreadable.

He-len gon and I will have words later; I’m certain.

The representative from Davor presented next. Unrest continues in Davor. After this most recent tax collection, the people claim the percentages are too high. Protests once murmured are now hollered around markets and other public gathering areas. Davorian citizens no longer shield their words from imperial soldiers, and in some cases, they disobey their orders. With his regional forces, Low King Pyrope prevents violence from breaking out; however, he supposed he should bring the matter to your attention.

I will speak with the High Financier and review the tax laws. I do not have a response to Pyrope yet.

The representative bowed his head.

Is that all? the High King asked.

Admonition answered, For the whole of the council, yes. This session is closed. Everyone is excused except for B-1 and myself.

The representatives and mages rushed out. Ether did not fuss about staying this time.

He must be as curious about the new prisoners as I am.

When the room had cleared for all but the High King, his High Vizier, and the lead general, B-1, Admonition stated the next order of business. Informants report a rise in the level of violence across the realm. It spans far beyond the large-scale criminal organizations or the uprisings in Davor. We have heard tale of violent protests and secretive meetings. Some motivated by religious discrepancies, some by taxes, and some by land disputes.

B-1’s silvery armor reflected the candlelight as he referred to the hanging map of Coserai behind Painite. Imperial guards in every kingdom have generated reports of this nature for the past few days. Regional soldiers resent imperial ones. Some of these outbreaks are into their second week.

Again, the news displeased Painite. He sat a moment, considering. Which town was the subject of the rhysiglai’s attack?

Fagori, Your Majesty. Admonition clasped his corpulent hands in front of him on the table.

An empty, desolate place. Painite approached the map of his domain. But it was the birthplace of Aciol.

Forgive me for asking, but what relevance does that information hold for us? Admonition asked.

Another message came to the king. Of the supplies that arrived yesterday from Hyiri, there were more than initially anticipated.

Painite ignored the inconsequential trade report in favor of maintaining his train of thought. Keep me updated with news concerning the occurrence of additional rhysiglai attacks—I want to know as soon as they happen—especially if they occur in Fagori again.

Admonition nodded. Of course, Your Majesty. I will tell the Sovainy representative your instruction without delay.

Is that all?

Indeed, Admonition stated.

The three rose and departed the council chamber in separate directions. Painite climbed up farther into his tower while the other two descended toward the lower levels.

In his private bed chambers, Painite found his wife and newborn son in a deep sleep.

Another mental message reached the High King. Ether is heading towards the dungeons.

As I suspected.

Painite shut the door to his private office behind himself. Once alone, he wrote twelve letters to the Low Kings and Queens of his realm. After rereading each inked word, Painite secured the parchment papers with onyx-colored sealing wax and a stamp of his family’s crest, marking an official decree. However, he would not yet send the messages; he had to wait until the proper time.

His gaze drifted to the empty chair in the back corner of his office.

Watch closely. You won’t want to miss this.

Ether

After the council meeting, Ether dreaded visiting the dungeons.

The Impenetrable Castle was terrifying, although Ether would never have admitted it aloud. Every bit of the building was cold hard granite, steel, or silver. The style was harsh, and the light of day barely slipped into the upper corridors let alone the ground level. In most common areas, hallways, and stairwells of the castle, blue-flamed lanterns did not provide enough light to see the floor.

Lit with only an occasional candle, the dungeons were nearly black; when the dim lighting was just right, shadows of toad rats blew up to the size of a boar. Corpses hung in the narrow passageways to terrify the other prisoners. Screaming echoed from the torture room.

As with most days, the passageways between the rows of cells reeked of metallic blood, and Ether wished to return to the higher levels.

I’ll have to meet with the prisoners eventually—better to get it over with. I wish I could do it in a more comfortable setting though.

When Ether entered the viewing chamber, the new prisoners stood in a line with their eyelids already sewn open. They had no choice but to meet Ether’s gaze of judgement.

Most protested, turning their heads to the side or their eyes upwards in their sockets. Eventually, they could no longer resist, and their eyes would catch Ether’s. Once they did, their eternal fate rested in his hands.

That was one of the privileges of being the archspawn; regardless of whether someone had held a gaze with another spawn previously, his judgement trumped all others.

Despite the perk, Ether disliked being the archspawn. With the position came fame and fanatics: both of which he could do without. If he could forsake his title to avoid venturing into the bleak dungeons, he’d do it.

As he progressed down the row, one older prisoner spoke to him. So you are Ether of Vetran.

Prisoners occasionally tried to persuade Ether to let them go, insult him, or otherwise stall returning to their cells. He decided to indulge the charismatic inmate. I am.

My name is Piety.

You’re a priest then?

I am.

You must have been preaching heresy to land yourself in here, Ether reasoned. You wouldn’t be the first.

I’m here because the truth was deemed heresy by an arbitrary authoritative figure, Piety said.

You mean High King Painite?

Him, among others.

There was a pause, and Ether realized he had not looked directly into the man’s eyes yet. The conversation had distracted him. He would be sure to do so.

Would you like to know something? Piety prompted.

And what is that? The truth of a heretic? As much as Ether despised the dungeons, his religious duties bored him, but he enjoyed taunting the prisoners when provoked.

Come closer. We don’t want everyone to know the secret, the prisoner said.

Ether was wary about getting too close. People had spit on him when he had made that mistake previously. Still, he edged closer. The man was filthy with a disgusting mixture of blood and shit caking his face and clothes. It was revolting, and Ether would not have shifted any farther toward the priest if his life depended on it.

The man whispered something unintelligible.

What did you say? Ether asked.

He raised his voice. You are not the archspawn. At the same time, Piety looked into Ether’s eyes as though the priest was the one passing judgement on him.

Ether recoiled. No one had ever claimed that before, but it was preposterous. He laughed. Piety, it was prophesied and confirmed rotations ago. How in the world have you deluded yourself otherwise?

I have spoken with the archdemon, Dantrema The Cruel.

You? You spoke with an archdemon? Specifically, one that hasn’t been seen since the end of the Seventh Age? Forgive me if I struggle to believe your claim.

I learned how to summon him. I am a dark warlock, and that is the reason I am here, Piety explained with conviction.

He must be insane. Or he’s goading me. Either way, it isn’t true. I’ve got this position whether I want it or not. Plainly, Ether said, "You will