Lord of the realm

Hilda smiled, though the expression held no warmth.

She produced a small leather pouch from within her robes and tossed it to Elizabeth, who caught it deftly. The clink of coins was audible even across the room.

"Count it if you wish," Hilda said.

"But we of the Blaedred Skull always honor our contracts. The Lord values loyalty and reliability." She paused, her unsettling gaze shifting between the two sisters.

"Should you wish for additional employment, you know how to reach us. We always have need of those willing to do what others will not."

Elizabeth's expression remained impassive as she tucked the pouch into her belt, but Katerina's mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Convey our regards to the lord; we are at his service anytime," Elizabeth said.

"Of course." Hilda's smile widened slightly.

"Safe travels, sisters. And remember—speak of this to no one. The Lord's reach is long, and his memory longer."

It wasn't a warning.

It was a promise.

Elizabeth and Katerina left without a backward glance, the door closing behind them with a finality that made Rena's chest constrict.

They were truly alone now, in the hands of people who saw them as nothing more than commodities.

Rena saw the sisters leave, as she saw the sisters grinning at their work. From the moment she saw them, she had a bad feeling about them. Rena then turned to the woman who was now standing before them; she had no idea what awaited them, but she was determined to get out of the hands of these dark sect people.

Hilda turned back to her captives, clasping her hands before her. "I should explain your situation, as it would be cruel to leave you in ignorance. You are in the settlement of Briarhold, a small but loyal community dedicated to the Blaedred Skull's cause. Outside this building, you'll find no allies, no sympathetic faces. Every person here has pledged themselves to the Lord's vision."

"What vision?" Rena demanded, finding her voice despite her fear.

"What do you want with us?"

"Such questions," Hilda said, almost fondly.

"Will be answered with the actions of the sect and our lord in the future. And you people have lots of role to play in it."

Baren spat on the floor between them. "We'll die before we help you."

"Perhaps," Hilda acknowledged.

"But death would be a mercy compared to what awaits if you prove... uncooperative. For now, rest. Conserve your strength. The Lord will want to examine you himself when he arrives from the eastern reaches."

She moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and don't waste energy attempting escape. The guards outside are well-trained, and this building is warded six ways from dawn. You're quite secure."

The door closed behind her, followed by the scrape of a bar being set in place.

Rena and Baren looked at each other, and uncertainty crept up in their minds after hearing her words.

The place where they kept in was present in the Verdant Emera reaches, not far from the tribal location

Baren then said, "We will get out of here, Rena. I will make sure of it."

Rena nodded, her determination matching his.

Rena looked around. "Judging from what I can see and sense, we seem to be in a forest. The settlement seems to be small, so few numbers. We just need to back our connection to the Origin, then we can make a run for it."

Baren agreed.

-

Far to the east, in the depths of the Verdant Emera Reaches, silence had fallen where song should have been. The Ki'thara tribe had lived in these ancient forests for generations beyond counting, their settlement built in harmony with the towering trees and winding streams. Their homes, constructed from living wood shaped by generations of careful magic, had stood for centuries. Their temple, a sphere-like structure, a place of worship for the tribes, had been a beacon of peace and wisdom.

Now, it was a charnel house.

Bodies lay scattered across the settlement like broken dolls, Ki'thara warriors and elders alike cut down in their defense of their sacred home. Blood darkened the forest floor, and smoke still rose from several dwellings that had been put to the torch.

The victors—soldiers bearing the crimson skull upon their armor—moved through the ruins with brutality, searching homes, cataloging possessions, and establishing their dominion over the conquered.

At the heart of it all stood the temple, its walls scarred by blade and power but still standing. The ancient tribe that had existed for centuries strong had finally fallen, breached by forbidden powers and overwhelming force.

Now, Blaedred Skull banners hung from its branches like funeral shrouds.

Inside the temple's main chamber, five figures surrounded a sixth.

The chamber was vast, its walls the living interior of the great oak, covered in carvings that chronicled centuries of Ki'thara history. The floor was polished root wood, worn smooth by countless bare feet over countless years.

At its center stood a giant statue of the goddess on the altar, and before this altar knelt Chief Sikaren.

He was old, perhaps seventy winters, his hair gone completely white and his face lined with the map of a long life. But his eyes—dark and sharp as flint—still burned with defiance. Blood matted his hair from a wound above his temple, and his robes, once pristine white trimmed with green, were torn and stained.

Around him stood his captors.

Commander Vasthren commanded their attention simply by existing.

He was a mountain of a man, easily six and a half feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. His armor was black plate chased with crimson, and he'd removed his helm to reveal a face that might have been handsome save for the cruelty in his grey eyes and the jagged scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his jaw. His voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly cultured.

"I will ask you once more, Chief Sikaren, and I advise you to consider your answer carefully. Where is the entrance to the chamber that guards the godly treasures beneath this temple?"

Sikaren's response was to spit blood at Vasthren's feet.

One of the other soldiers—a wiry man with nervous hands—stepped forward as if to strike the old chief, but Vasthren raised a hand to stop him.

"Commander, we've been at this for hours," said the woman to Vastren's right.

Morveth was the sect's chief interrogator, her specialty obvious in the array of tools hanging from her belt and the cold calculation in her expression.

"Let me work on him. He'll talk."

"The Ki'thara are legendary for their stubbornness," Vasthren replied, his tone almost respectful. "Torture would be... time-consuming. And we have little time. The Lord wants the Vault opened before the next new moon."

"Then what do you suggest?" asked another of the soldiers, younger than the rest, eager to prove himself.

Vasthren crouched before Sikaren, bringing them eye to eye. "Chief, I take no pleasure in what has happened here today. Your people fought bravely. They died with honor. But they died because you chose resistance over reason. The same choice now faces your granddaughter."

For the first time, something flickered in Silaren's eyes.

Fear.

"Ah, yes," Vasthren continued softly.

"Did you think we didn't know? Little Kairya, only seven years old. We found her hiding in the root cellar of your dwelling, clutching a wooden doll. She's unharmed—for now. One of our people is with her, keeping her... comfortable."

Sikaren's weathered hands clenched into fists, his entire body trembling with suppressed rage and terror.

"The choice is simple," Vasthren said.

"Show us the entrance to the chamber, tell us how to bypass its protections, and the child lives. She'll be raised within the Blaedred Skull, given education and purpose. Perhaps, in time, she'll come to understand that what we do here serves a greater purpose."

He paused.

"Refuse, and I'll have Morveth practice her craft on the girl while you watch. Every scream will be your doing."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Outside, crows called to one another, their cries like mourning.

When Sikaren finally spoke, his voice was hollow.

"You are monsters!"

"We are visionaries," Vasthren corrected.

"But I won't debate philosophy with you. Your answer?"

The fight went out of the old chief like water from a broken vessel. His shoulders sagged, and his head bowed. When he looked up again, tears tracked through the blood and dirt on his face.

"The altar," he whispered.

He told them the way to the chamber and how to open it. He couldn't bear to lose the only child of his family. The presence of the chamber, though he himself hadn't seen it, he heard it from his father, who heard it from his father. The secret of the chamber was passed through generations, just like the guardianship of it. He couldn't lose his granddaughter just for something he heard from his ancestors.

Vasthren stood, a slight smile playing at his lips. "Thank you, Chief. That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

He nodded to his soldiers.

"Take him to the holding area. Keep him alive and separated from the other prisoners. He may yet prove useful."