Alexander

  “The Darkenlands are nothing like the stories.

  Legends told of blasted plains and poisoned skies, but there is something worse than desolation here. There is hunger. The land itself consumes. Trees twist into spines, rivers run black, and the very air gnaws at the edges of one’s mind. Each breath feels like an invitation to some unseen parasite.

  I thought myself prepared for horror. I was wrong.

  Already, I sense cracks forming in the company. Athelos has taken to muttering prayers in a tongue I do not recognize, his sword never leaving his grip even as he sleeps. Regulus has ceased his explanations altogether, his maps abandoned, his eyes darting at shapes the rest of us cannot see. Cynthia speaks little, though when she does, her words cut sharper than any blade. She accuses me with every glance, as though I am leading her to the slaughter.

  And perhaps I am.

  For the first time, I wonder if I was a fool to leave Hilfen. A fool to leave Sarah. A fool to believe that one man’s blade, however blessed, could carve through the darkness to salvation. Each step forward feels like a transgression. Each hour I march us deeper into this abyss, I feel less a savior and more a betrayer.

  Last night, when I closed my eyes, I dreamed of Sarah and our child. They stood at the hearth, warm and unbroken. Yet when I reached for them, their faces crumbled to ash, and I awoke with my hands clawing at the soil.

  The Corrupted One has not yet revealed himself, and still I fear he has already claimed us.

  If I could turn back now... would I?” - Writings of the Sword-Saint, 2156 Post- Separation (PS).

  Alexander had always found that the world hummed to a particular rhythm.

  It may not be obvious to the general observer, the ones who came into this life screaming and crying, forced to leave the gentle embrace of their mother’s womb against their will, into a reality harsher and colder than the tallest peaks of the Abengardian mountains. The ones who saw life as something to endure, something that happened to them as opposed to something that came from them.

  For him, however, life’s melody had been apparent from the moment of his birth. It had been there right from , a grand composition playing upon his senses like a subtle breeze. He had emerged into the waiting arms of the midwife not with squalls and shrieks, but with enraptured silence, his as-yet unshapen mind wholly incapable of comprehending the magnitude of the symphony presented.

  A silent opera, performed with him as its sole spectator.

  As the years dragged on, and Alexander emerged from the nescience of childhood into the spring of adolescence, it became increasingly obvious to the people in his life that something was fundamentally different about the blonde-haired boy. A touch of the divine, perhaps, casting a protective arm about the child, warding him from evil and harm.

  In the beginning, they had called him lucky. Then, it had transitioned into fortunate. At last, it had evolved into blessed.

  But 'blessed' was a clumsy word for what Alexander experienced. It was the term of the musically deaf trying to describe a concerto. Where others saw chaos in the town square, a maelstrom of bartering merchants, squawking chickens, and braying donkeys, Alexander saw interweaved harmony. The steady, rhythmic beat of the blacksmith’s hammer from two streets over provided the percussive foundation. The merchants’ calls were staccato cries, weaving in and out of the shuffling tempo of a hundred pairs of feet on cobblestone. Even the wind, whistling through the narrow alleyways, held a discernible pitch.

  This perception was not a passive thing. It was his guide, his shield. A falling slate from a rooftop was not a random danger, but a sudden, sharp glissando in the symphony of the street, giving him a full second’s warning to step aside. A pickpocket’s approach was a discordant note, a subtle break in the rhythm of the crowd as one person’s cadence failed to match the flow. Alexander would simply shift his weight or turn to a market stall, and the moment would pass, the thief’s discordant melody receding in frustration.

  To the onlookers, it appeared miraculous. The day the baker’s cart lost a wheel and careened towards him from an unseen angle, they saw a boy, lost in thought, take a seemingly random step to his right just as the cart smashed into the very spot he had occupied. They saw, and believed it to be, the act of a god. Alexander, however, had simply heard it: the shrieking dissonance of a failing axle pin, a sour note in the otherwise pleasant rumble of the cart’s approach. He had moved not out of conscious thought, but in the same way a dancer adjusts to a skipped beat in the music.

  The true burden of this gift was not its strangeness, but its totality. It never ceased. In conversation, he could hear the melodic line of a person’s thoughts forming before they became words, the subtle crescendo of emotion that preceded an outburst. It robbed him of surprise, of genuine, spontaneous connection. People were instruments he could read with perfect clarity, but he could never truly join their song. He was the conductor of an orchestra that did not know he existed, forever on the podium, forever separate. He smiled when the rhythm of the conversation called for it and offered comfort when he heard the mournful tones of a minor key welling in a friend's heart.

  But he yearned, with an ache that was a low, constant hum beneath his own skin, for a moment of silence. Or, even better, for a sound he could not comprehend. A new chord. A rhythm that was not of this world’s making. He longed not to be the spectator of this silent opera, but to finally be surprised by the plot.

  He longed, more than anything, for the unexpected.

  And then, he met the Archon.

  /-0-\

  The air was thick with a silence that felt older than the trees.

  It was the quiet of vacuum, the unsettling stillness left in the wake of a violent storm. Alexander moved through it with a detached sort of appreciation, his polished shoes barely disturbing the damp moss. The Mistmother’s influence lingered here like a stain, a psychic residue that hummed just at the edge of hearing. It was fascinating.

  He was tracking the last one. The signs of his quarry’s panicked flight were laughably clear: a snapped twig here, a scuffed patch of earth there, the lingering scent of fear and sweat. This Marauder, unlike his now-deceased comrades, had managed to flee the initial purge in Fogveil, driven by some primal instinct that had momentarily overridden the Mistmother’s command. A commendable, if ultimately futile, effort.

  Alexander paused, tilting his head. Ahead, the forest floor was disturbed. The Marauder had taken cover behind a gnarled root, thinking himself hidden. Alexander allowed a faint, indulgent smile. He could have ended this from a hundred paces, but a certain artistry was required. He stepped deliberately on a dry twig, and revelled in the sharp crack that followed.

  The sound of it was like a thunderclap in the oppressive quiet. The Marauder leaped up, spinning around with a snarl, crude axe raised. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, the terror of the past weeks etched in the features of his grimy face. He saw Alexander standing there, calm and immaculate in his tailored suit, and a flicker of confusion warred with his feral rage. He saw no threat, only an absurdity. It was the last mistake he would ever make.

  Alexander’s weapon, a marvel of engineering that was neither sword nor crossbow, was already in his hand. “A lovely evening for a stroll, wouldn’t you say?” he smiled, his voice pleasant.

  The Marauder lunged, a wordless roar tearing from his throat.

  The click of the mechanism was almost imperceptible. The metal ball, no larger than a marble, crossed the distance with a loud bang. The man’s forward momentum carried him another two steps before his brain could process the command to fall. His eyes widened, not in pain, but in sheer, terminal surprise. He collapsed without a sound, his fall cushioned by the damp moss.

  Alexander stepped over the body with cloyed indifference, making no move to retrieve the projectile. He knelt, the fabric of his trousers hovering just above the forest floor. From an inner pocket of his coat, he produced a small, velvet pouch. Tipping it, a single, emerald-green gem fell into his palm, glowing with a faint, hungry light in the gloom. He had acquired a small collection of these from his associate. They were proving remarkably useful.

  Placing the gem upon the dead Marauder’s chest, Alexander watched as it pulsed, the light within intensifying. Thin, ethereal tendrils of mist were coaxed forth from the man’s mouth and nose. A faint, soundless whisper seemed to accompany them as they were pulled into the gem.

  It was a dreadful sight to behold, in truth. To pluck a man’s very essence from the grave, to lock his soul in a crystalline prison... it was enough to make one wonder at the properties of heaven. Could a dead man know Paradise, when his soul yet remained in a container?

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  Once the last wisp had been absorbed, the gem’s glow subsided, leaving it little more than a polished, inert stone. Alexander pocketed it, giving the now empty vessel on the ground a final, indifferent glance. He continued his walk, mind adrift in contemplation as he followed a snaking trail through the underbrush.

  The Archon had foreseen the Seedling’s emergence, of course. His own mission had been simple: observe, identify the host, and secure them. What no one had foreseen was the Mistmother’s magnificent, yet brutal simplicity. To dominate every which mind in her domain and turn them into a single-minded cleansing crew was a masterstroke. He had felt the psychic wave wash over him as he navigated the collapsing walkways of Fogveil. Resisting it was akin to a raindrop attempting to compel a river. There had been no room to decline the invitation to madness.

  He smiled to himself as he pushed away a green frond blocking his path. Yes, the Mistmother had proven a truly delightful variable. To so freely disregard the Divine Charter... he could scarce think of an occasion to match. Save perhaps for the Great Corruptor’s subjugation of the western lands, which had been a matter as cataclysmic as it was bold.

  And then there was Pleiades. How did they fit into the picture?

  There had been no need for introductions with them. The appearance of the boy with the Curseblade - Mordecai, they called him - had all but announced their retinue. One did not get to wield such power and remain nameless, after all. But why had they chosen to get involved here, of all places?

  The group’s goals were as enigmatic as its members. A shadow troupe, with no discernible leader nor manifesto, loyal to no faction save themselves. They were something of a myth to the Alwaarian people, a ghost story to tell over the crackling of the campfire and a spot of brandy. But to the Great Houses, they were the worst kind of enemy: the kind that could not be bought, traded or reasoned with. The kind that would wreak havoc for havoc’s sake, before dissipating into the night like a specter.

  In short, they were agents of chaos. And thus, they commanded his respect, for there were few things Alexander loved more than chaos.

  A bright slash of golden shine cut through the forest ahead, heralding the end of the oppressive, mist-choked effluvia. Moments later, he emerged from the veil with a content sigh, the air at once cleaner. He had survived the Mistmother’s trap, broken free of her domain. His reward was the setting sun, casting long fingers across the rolling hills, and a world blessedly free of the psychic pressure that had saturated the woods.

  In the far distance, he spotted a retinue of soldiers marching across the hills, carrying the purple-on-black banners of House Tarwen, embroidered with the image of a lion standing on two legs, brandishing a halberd. It would seem Lord Varus had sent to check on his son and allies. A telltale sign, then, that a great span of time must have passed since the banquet, while they were under the Mistmother’s spell.

  Alas, Alexander found that he was not quite in the mood for conversation yet. And so, he did not seek the soldiers. Instead, he found a small clearing sheltered by ancient oaks, and began setting up a modest camp.

  He worked with an efficiency that bordered on the ritualistic. First, a small, smokeless fire, built with practiced hands. Then, a bit of effort to roll a toppled stone over to use for seating. Water from a nearby stream to fill his waterskin, and finally a wooden cup and a tin of rare herbs for cold-brewed tea.

  Hardly the most luxurious of quarters, but it was a welcome respite after the ordeal in the forest.

  /-0-\

  The snap of a twig pulled Alexander from his reverie.

  He had fallen into a comfortable stupor after enjoying his tea, eyes spellbound by the flames, mind unshackled to roam freely through recollection and speculation in equal measure. Now, he was awake, regarding the forest with newfound interest.

  The sound was not the cautious tread of a predator, but the heavy, stumbling gait of someone utterly spent, pushing through the underbrush with the last dregs of their strength. He did not reach for his weapon; the larger symphony had already informed him that the approaching party posed no immediate threat to his person.

  A moment later, a figure burst through the treeline, and Alexander raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.

  It was Hadrian Tarwen, son of the Stormbringer, looking anything but his usual charismatic self. His fine tunic was torn and stained with soot, his inky-black curls were matted with sweat, and his golden eyes were wide with a mixture of exhaustion and desperation. In his arms, he cradled the unconscious form of Lady Elena Joyce. Her own state was no better; her silver gown was in tatters, and a dark bruise was blooming on her temple.

  “Ashmont,” Hadrian breathed, his voice a strained rasp. He staggered into the clearing, his strength failing as he nearly tripped over a root. “By the Stonefather... I thought we were the only ones left.”

  “A logical assumption, given the circumstances,” Alexander said, not perturbed in the slightest by the boy’s sudden appearance. “Do put Lady Elena down by the fire, my friend. The ground is warmer there. She appears to be in need of rest.”

  Hadrian, too exhausted to question his authority, did as instructed. He gently laid Elena down on the soft grass, using his own rolled-up coat as a makeshift pillow. Her breathing was shallow but steady.

  “She’s not...?” Hadrian began, his voice tight with fear as he knelt beside her.

  “Merely exhausted, I would say. Both physically and from the after-effects of the Mistmother’s... grand sacrament,” Alexander said, rising from his seat. He knelt beside Elena, his fingers gently probing the bruise on her head with a clinical touch. It whispered its melody to him, speaking of that which ailed the flesh. “There is no serious damage. She was fortunate. As were you.”

  He produced a small tin from his suit, a herbal salve that smelled of winterpine. With delicate movements, he applied a thin layer to her temple. “This will help with the swelling. She will wake in a few hours, with a headache to make her regret every poor decision she has ever made.”

  Hadrian finally collapsed onto the grass on the other side of the fire, running a trembling hand through his hair. He stared at Alexander, at his suit and his empty cup of tea, trying to reconcile the image with the hell they had just escaped. “How are you so calm? Didn't you feel it? That... presence in our minds?”

  “I found it to be a rather unique sensation,” Alexander replied, returning to his rock. “Now, I was just about to prepare supper. I was thinking rabbit and some foraged mushrooms. I trust that will suffice?”

  Hadrian stared at him, bewildered, before a short, humorless laugh escaped his lips. “You truly are touched in the head, aren’t you, Ashmont?”

  “So I have been told,” Alexander said with a pleasant smile.

  He left Hadrian then, to secure the ingredients they would need for the meal. A flight of fancy told him there was a rabbit nosing through the tall grass at the edge of the clearing. A quick bullet through the brain made short work of the little rascal. It was likewise a simple matter to find the mushrooms he desired. They were growing by the dozen a few minutes walk from their impromptu camp.

  Returning, he set to his work with mechanical precision, gutting the animal and slicing the mushrooms with a small, sharp knife. All the while, Hadrian watched him, a storm of questions clearly brewing within him. He waited until the rich, savory aroma of the rabbit-mushroom skewers began to fill the air before he spoke, his voice low and intense.

  “What in the blighted hells are you really doing out here, Alexander? It can't be mere business for the Central Banking Authority.”

  Alexander paused his work, looking up from the sizzling meat. The firelight danced in his dark-green eyes, making them seem ancient and knowing. “My work for the Central Banking Authority is a matter of public record, my friend,” he said. “My work for the Archon, however, is not.”

  The reaction was instantaneous. Hadrian was on his feet in moments, his face a mask of shock and betrayal. “The Archon? You’re one of those fanatics? Of Nathaniel’s ilk?”

  “Please, Hadrian,” Alexander said, tone perfectly even, a parent chiding a frantic child. “Nathaniel is a zealot. I am a pragmatist. There is a significant difference.” He gestured with his knife toward the ground. “And before you do something rash that you will surely regret, you should know that your father is the one who approved my mission. He has, for all his bluster about honor, always understood one thing: the fragility of the status quo.”

  Hadrian froze, his expression crumbling from fury into utter disbelief. He sank back to the ground, staring into the flames as if searching for an answer they could not provide. The revelation that his own father - the stoic, unyielding Stormbringer - was secretly aligned with a figure as masked in shadow as the Archon had surely done some damage to his perception of the world.

  Seeing he had his full attention, Alexander continued, turning the skewers so they could cook on both sides. “Imagine the board, Hadrian. The Archon, with his gift of foresight, anticipated the emergence of a new, powerful piece in this region: the Seedling. As such, my task was simple: to identify the host and, if possible, secure them. The power of a Seedling could certainly shift the tides of our shadow-war, after all.”

  He lifted a skewer to inspect it, before deciding that it needed a little more time over the flames. “The plan was proceeding apace. The banquet was the perfect venue to observe the key players. And then, the Queen of this little chessboard decided to flip the table over.” He let out a soft, appreciative chuckle. “It was a magnificently direct solution to her pest problem. She placed every mind under her sway and commanded a purge. Marauders, nobles, guards... everyone became an instrument of her will. A truly impressive, if somewhat messy, variable. For that, I must applaud her.”

  “Applaud her?” Hadrian’s voice was incredulous. “She slaughtered hundreds! She turned her city into a graveyard!”

  “She pruned her garden, Hadrian,” Alexander corrected, his tone yet light. “A garden under siege by several pests, through the union between the Marauders and the necromancer they call the Bone-Feeder. One cannot deny the effectiveness of the method.” He removed a perfectly cooked skewer from the fire and offered it to Hadrian. “Here. Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

  Hadrian accepted the food with a slight tremble, but did not put his mouth to it. “My father... he would never ally with a man like the Archon. He despises those who work in shadow.”

  “Does he?” Alexander said, taking a bite of his own skewer. He chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. “The Great Houses play at honor in the daylight, but they rule through power brokered in the darkness. The Archon offers an advantage your father understands is necessary to counter... other forces at play. Forces like the Great Corruptor. Sometimes, to fight one monster, you must align yourself with another. A truth Lord Varus has never shied away from.”

  He let the words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. Hadrian’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining from him, replaced by a cold, dawning comprehension.

  “Unfortunately for the Mistmother,” Alexander continued, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, “and fortunately for us, her purge seems to have been incomplete. The host survived. He escaped, along with the Harthway girl, and your father’s favorite attack dog, The Azure Devil.”

  Hadrian’s head snapped up at the mention of Cliff, his golden eyes burning with renewed intensity.

  “They are together now,” Alexander said. “Three powerful, unpredictable pieces, loose on the board. The Archon’s plan may have been disrupted, but the game has become far more interesting. And you, my friend...” He gestured with his skewer towards Hadrian. “...are a part of it. Your father’s alliances, his secret wars... they are your inheritance. Whether you wish for them or not.”

  Hadrian looked away, his gaze falling upon the distant, fluttering banners of the Tarwen soldiers, now making their own camp on a nearby hill. He had likely seen them as a symbol of rescue only moments ago. Now, they were naught but a reminder of his father’s duplicity.

  Alexander watched him, a faint, calculating smile on his lips. The boy was caught between the world he thought he knew and the one that actually was. The dissonance was a powerful catalyst. The symphony had just introduced a new, powerful, and very confused instrument.

  He could not wait to hear what notes it would play.

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