Crispin sat on the edge of the walnut bed, the heavy silence of the High Rest pressing against his ears. He reached for the vellum left by the Feral messenger, his fingers tracing the cold, embossed seal of the skeletal crown.
He cracked the wax with a steady hand. Elegant script flowed across the page. The characters formed from a dark, reddish fluid that shimmered with a faint luster. It did not look like ink.
Shae'Vaelryn,
Your kind has not drawn breath since times of antiquity. My children have watched you since you entered my city. I extend an invitation and hope to see you before tomorrow's dawn.
~ Queen Emalia Ashir, Mother of the Abyss.
Crispin read the words three times, his pulse quickening with every repetition. An insert contained a sketched map; its lines pulsed with a low light that showed a path through the lowest gravity basins of the Shard-Fall. A small, handwritten memo requested the bringer of the map to include a purified crystal cluster as an offering.
"Regulus... I think we should go."
Crispin laid the letter on the silk sheets. He looked at the Aethereal Strand Long coiled on the bed.
"She knows I'm Shae'Vaelryn. How is that even possible? There is no one in Thalandir or the Reaches that I can ask about my ancestors, but if she knows what I am, maybe she knows of past ages. If she has answers, I want to know."
The mystery of his subclass—the Steward of Unspoken Shadows—had been a weight since the moment the Heart of Perseus merged with him. Regulus shifted, his golden eyes fixed on Crispin with an intensity that bordered on the human.
The Long moved, his fluid body sliding across the floor toward the mahogany satchel. He grabbed the strap in his mouth and carried the bag to Crispin, dropping it at his feet with a soft, melodic trill.
"You think we should go too?"
Regulus nodded, his energy whiskers twitching. Crispin let out a long, shaky breath. He knew the risks. The Feral were creatures of the abyss, remnants of a forgotten war that Thalandir had tried to bury in silence.
"Vaelen will not like this..."
He stood up and began the ritual of preparation. He checked the straps of his black dragon-bone armor, making sure the plates secured over the twilight bronze base. With the Void-Lash coiled at his waist, its bone segments clicked with a reassuring weight.
The lobby of the High Rest was empty. Hanging in the air was the smell of expensive incense, a sharp contrast to the smell of brine. Vaelen sat at her usual corner table, a half-empty bottle of dark spirits before her.
The messy nest of her sun-bleached hair caught the amber light of the hearth. Her stormy gray eyes tracked Crispin as he approached.
"Out with it, Crispin," Vaelen said. Her voice was a low rasp. "I can tell you have something on your mind."
Crispin did not answer. He took a seat across from her. He reached into his satchel and slid the vellum letter across the table. Vaelen picked it up, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the reddish script.
"The hell you will!"
She slammed the letter back onto the table. "If you go to that castle, they will rip you apart. Or did you forget what happened in that cavern?"
"I've not forgotten," Crispin countered, his voice steady despite the hammer of his heart. "I'm being offered safe passage. Her messenger gave me his word, and the Queen states it in the text."
"Safe passage from a Feral?" Vaelen let out a dry, bitter laugh. "If I agree to this on behalf of the Guild, you'll bring us her head. It's simple. We don't negotiate with the leftovers of the abyss. We clear them."
"I'm not promising anything, Vaelen. Except that I'm going."
Vaelen leaned forward, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. "Refuse this request and you understand I'll have to report it. You're a tamer of the Guild, boy. You answer to us, not to some blood-starved monarch in the dark."
Her hand moved across the table, her fingers touching his gauntlet. The gesture was gentle; a brief flash of concern that made Crispin's chest tighten. He pulled his hand away, the metallic scales of his glove rasping against the wood.
"Report it. I'm not saying I won't hurt her, but I'll not promise I will either. She has information about my bloodline that the Guild has never offered."
"Refusal means expulsion…You realize this," Vaelen warned. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "They could take Regulus... they could strip you of your bond for associating with the enemy."
Regulus responded to the threat with a defensive hiss. The star-flecked glass of his body glowed with a fierce light; his energy whiskers crackled with a sudden discharge.
Crispin's jaw set into a hard, iron line. "They'd have to kill both of us first."
He pushed himself up from the table. The movement was fluid and cold. He turned away from the handler; his half-cape of midnight-blue silk fluttered behind him.
"Crispin!" Vaelen called out.
He ignored her, his boots clicking against the marble floor as he headed toward the entrance. He felt her gaze burning into his back, a mixture of fury and fear that he didn't have the strength to address.
"Be careful..."
The words were a whisper, lost in the hearth's crackle, but Crispin heard them. He did not look back.
The hunt for the purified crystal cluster led him to the higher tiers of the city. Elvish lords loved the stones cut into elegant gems to make them worthy. His eyes rolled. He found a cluster of raw, high-density matter in a jeweler's vault. He paid three of his gold coins for a piece the size of a man's fist. It was a polished masterpiece of light, humming with an internal energy that made the surrounding air vibrate.
He returned to a secluded alcove near the North Precipice. He set the crystal on a flat stone. Regulus moved from his shoulder, his serpentine body coiling around the radiant cluster. The Aethereal Strand Long began the assimilation process, but he did not break down the molecular lattice as he had with the iron. Instead, he acted as a biological siphon.
Crispin watched as the light within the crystal churned. The vibrant, golden energy flowed from the rock and into Regulus's translucent body, turning his silver strands into veins of liquid fire.
The process was silent and focused. Within minutes, the glow had vanished. The crystal remained on the stone, but it was no longer a sunstone. It was as clear and hollow as common glass, its essence consumed.
Regulus let out a soft, humming vibration of approval. Crispin placed the clear cluster into his satchel. It was no longer a source of power, but it was the offering the Queen had requested.
The journey to the Feral domain came into the lightless basins where the gravity eddies were most violent. Crispin used the Aethereal Strike to cross the gaps between the drifting basalt shards, each shimmer leaving a trail of white embers in the dark. The Gravity Topaz at his throat flared with a constant light as it fought to keep him anchored against the crushing pulls of the abyss.
The Feral Castle loomed out of the mist like a jagged, obsidian tooth. It was a masterpiece of Elvish architecture, ancient and imposing, with spires that reached upward like clawed fingers toward the floating islands above.
It was in surprising condition for a structure that the world had forgotten. Dark moss clung to the black stone, and gravity-etched runes glowed with a soft, necrotic blue along the battlements. It felt like a place outside of time, a sanctuary of stone and shadow.
He landed in the courtyard. The Feral aristocrat who had delivered the invitation waited near a set of heavy, iron-bound doors. The creature stood with a rigid, haunting posture; his ash-colored skin pulled over a frame that spoke of ancient nobility. He did not speak, but turned and gestured for Crispin to follow.
He reached for Void Lash and shook it free. It solidified in his hand as it took its spear form. The black energy of the spear's blade flickered as its butt struck the stone floor with his steps.
The interior of the castle was a labyrinth of high, vaulted ceilings and narrow galleries. Every step echoed against the obsidian walls. Soft candlelight lit the halls. Hundreds of Feral clung to the shadows of the rafters, their golden eyes tracking Crispin's every movement with cold, predatory intelligence.
They reached the throne room. The doors swung open with a slow, grinding sound. The chamber was vast, the air heavy with the scent of old parchment and the sharp tang of iron. A throne of bleached bones sat at the far end of the hall, carved from the remains of beasts that had long since vanished from Eldir-Vahn.
Queen Emalia Ashir sat upon the throne.
She was a terrifying beauty. In the dim light, her skin was the color of polished ivory, flawless and cool. Her raven hair fell in long, silken waves down her back, contrasting with the deep, low-cut, blood-red velvet of her gown. Her lips were a matching shade of crimson, and her eyes held a steady, glowing red light that seemed to pierce through the black dragon-bone helm.
Crispin stopped ten paces from the throne. He felt the Heart of Perseus pulse with a steady, rhythmic heat, synchronizing with the low hum of the castle. He looked at the Queen, and then at the Aethereal Strand Long on his shoulders.
Regulus shimmered into the darkness and disappeared.
Emalia stood. She moved with a fluid, haunting grace that made the shadows of her gown dance. She lowered her head in a slow, deliberate bow.
Crispin felt the weight of his heritage—the Aldyr blood and the Shae'Vaelryn path—surging through his veins. He inclined his head, returning the gesture with solemnity.
"Greetings, descendant of Perseus."