Sylus was wearing a little too much white for Dorius’ comfort. His chosen robes were composed of a heavy off-white as the base layer, with laborious embroidered patterns in viridian green and gold forming the shapes of intwined dragons and vines to cover almost the entire surface. Yes, the white only peaked through the designs, but the fact remained it was there.

  As if sensing his own thoughts, Sylus greeted him with, “Your interpretation of cinder leans a little blue do you not think? One might think you shun the Pentarch’s will?”

  The challenge begged a retort that drew notice to his own choice of wear. Sylus in turn might feign innocence, chide Dorius for overthinking it, set a double standard in expectations that gave him the higher ground. From anyone else it might have come across as a surprisingly simplistic power play, but in the backdrop of their confrontation at the tournament it was a dangerous start.

  Dorius did not fall for the trap the opening likely was, “I spend so little time in formal company, I did not bring much expecting to have to dress…”

  Sylus laughed, “My is that so? Take my advice, cousin, always prepare to dress well. Ladies, you each look stunning…”

  As Sylus turned his attention to his flowers for a moment, Dorius nodded his head to Virconas, Gustave and Alanis who trailed behind. Virconas looked as stiff as usual, her silver curls covered tonight with a jewel coif that had tassels falling down her shoulders to her waist. Gustave was austere in his dress, black and neatly tailored with only the single Viridian dragon on his sleeve to mark his allegiance.

  Politely Dorius inclined, “Cousins,” and consciously kept his place and his hands within his sleeves when custom might have required him to pull their seats before the staff did.

  Virconas sniffed. The staff instead hesitated, unsure if they should approach, and as Sylus settled into his own seat he tsk’d, “I should have invited Elias to keep your manners. Stop being a backcountry peasant and at least offer my Sister a seat!”

  Dorius turned to the seat next to his own, and attempted to draw it out from the table. The act could not have been more perfect if he had planned it, the chair was heavy and his leverage poor from the side compared to if he had properly stepped out from his place to greet them. The legs dragged on the floor, squealing comically until a servant in white approached to help and silence the noise. Dorius gave his best impression of an awkward young man trying his best, and gestured to his youngest cousin for her to sit. His own satisfaction at the ploy helped chase his growing anxiety down again.

  Alanis kept her eyes lowered as she joined him, dressed surprisingly plain in seafoam green compared to her older siblings. Dorius felt a pang of regret she had to be here. Gustave drew a chair for Virconas, who turned slightly to arrange her own robes as she sat.

  Sylus was already amusing himself in conversation with the ladies, poking fun at the furnishings that were out of date with current trends and quality of the Ivory's service. The ladies eagerly joined his game, covering their mouths with their hanging sleeves. Dorius watched him and only felt his own anxiety tight around his heart. As the conversation remained innocent and on any topic other than himself his nerves grew, he felt sick at the thought of having to force himself to eat.

  “How comes your diplomacy with the Free State?” asked Virconas across the table over a course of wild fowl, several plates into the meal.

  Dorius glanced at Sylus, who was flirting shamelessly with one of his women. He lowered his fork and replied, “I uh… that is the Company has had conversation with the Mayor. I’ve been told the Vigilants are the cause of the shut gate.”

  “They have that power?” asked Virconas, covering her mouth to mask her surprise.

  “High Haven is the apex of their sect, the Chapel there the oldest. I suppose they wield some significant influence.”

  “How odd? I am surprised they find apprentices interested in their trade. Seems a dull life to spend forever documenting peasant births and deaths in endless tomes.”

  Dorius tipped his head slightly, “I don’t think it any different from the academics you patron. Human history is just as important as the natural world, and I might guess the peasant class find comfort in the details of their lives being given such credence and care.”

  “What an absurd idea, that some all powerful being bothers itself with the details of all their lives,’ replied Virconas, her tone bemused.

  Dorius cleared his throat, and before he could determine a diplomatic reply, Gustave surprisingly spoke up, “It would be a mistake to discount their beliefs so easily.”

  “What makes you think so?” asked Dorius, suddenly curious, the gravel voiced man had spoken so rarely in their brief interactions.

  Gustave lowered the napkin he was using to pat his mouth, “The concept of a Weave is an interesting philosophical challenge for someone in our trade,” he began. “Think on it. If it works as they truly say and the Weaver casts each of us as thread on some great loom - all action is predetermined, all choice merely an illusion - what need would there be for my Guild’s services?”

  Dorius blinked, confronted with the interesting thought problem, “Yet you believe in the Weave? Is not your trade proof instead the Weave cannot be all encompassing?”

  Gustave opened his hands palms up over the table, “I suspect us closer to kin of the Vigil than not. Tools to be picked up for the enacting of the Watcher’s will.”

  Dorius felt an odd tightness in his chest, and entirely forgot his situation, “It releases you from culpability of your actions then?”

  Virconas seemed slightly overwhelmed by the conversation, “You are debating over a peasant folklore, surely it need not be so serious?”

  Dorius settled back in his chair slightly, “It was once taken seriously by the Monarchy,” he instructed watching Gustave as he spoke, “Histories speak that the Prime Vigilant was once a respected member of the Monarch’s court, and a Vigil Chamber for their use part of the structures of the Forgotten Palace at the Citadel. It may be that this is something the peasants have remembered and we have forgotten…”

  “I have been to the Forgotten Palace, it is a crumbling ruin. If the Monarchy was so great, why is their dynasty dead and their magic forgotten?” interjected Sylus.

  Dorius started, unaware that he had been listening in on their conversation. The histories during and precipitating the Unrest that followed the collapse of the Monarchy were patchy at best. The only true clue they left was that the Monarchy had ended when no ‘true’ heir could be found, and civil war had erupted in the chaos that followed till the five family alliance that formed the Pentarchy created the Peace. What constituted a true heir was a mystery lost with time, the books spoke of a ‘birthright crown’ that only true royalty wore, and was commonly interpreted as some artifact only the royal family could wear. This Dorius did not believe, documentation of the normality of Fae magic and the acts it was capable of were common in history books - so normal it was not strange to find statements that implied people flew from town to town. Non-living objects infused with or capable of magic existed no where else Dorius had read. An odd thought distracted him, it was likely the Vigilants may have their own histories that could shed light. Either way, the 'birthright crown' was either lost, or none who could wear it were found, and the Monarchy had collapsed.

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  “It is an interesting philosophy only, I meant nothing by the discussion,” deferred Gustave, removing his hands from the table as a servant cleared his plate. As the servants moved about the room, one in Viridian bought Sylus a folded note. It was read and dismissed with the other plates.

  Sylus waved one finger, his attention fully on them now as the rest of the table was cleared, “No, Brother. I think it worth debating,” his crystal blue gaze turned to Dorius with a smug quirk to the corner of his mouth. Dorius could not meet his eyes, a black dread was suddenly growing in his chest. “What was my brother saying? All action is predetermined? I’m curious, my well-read cousin, to learn more of this Weave?” there was the drip of poison in his words.

  Dorius gulped his wine before speaking, his mouth was so dry, “The Vigil believes the Weaver casts all our lives as thread in a great pattern of their design. Every life lived, every outcome, good and bad, are out of our control.”

  “And what if one were to strive to be something they were not determined to be?” asked Sylus, placing down his own goblet with an ominous thud. His manner was dark and serious, and the women who had been his comfortable companions merely moments before cast glances between each other.

  “I… I assume belief would follow then that it is futile. Perhaps the striving was part of the plan? Their actions taken necessary for some other pattern…” Dorius didn’t have the courage to continue, his body was screaming for him to flee and his stomach threatened to hurl his dinner.

  “Exactly cousin.”

  The door behind him swung open, two soldiers in Viridian crashed through. Several of the Ivory servants started forward, hands raised and when they noted the swords and armor suddenly drew back. One soldier raised a gloved hand, sticky with thick black liquid and tossed a grey, horned head into the middle of the table. Cutlery scattered from its path as it rolled, a goblet spilled red wine in a violent bloom of crimson. Viscous, black blood oozed from the neck. The head stopped midway down the table, the weight and shape of the horns turning it face down, small gold charms hung from the horns.

  Alanis screamed, petrified in place. Several of the women drew back, giving gasps of shock or fearful shrieks of their own. Chairs toppled to the ground as most of the diners drew up in fear away from the head in a sudden explosion of chaos. Dorius averted his eyes, his heart stopping, and wretched once as the metallic smell of blood reached him. He pushed his chair back and threw up onto the ground, bile dripping from his lip. He then hung there for a moment, shaking and emptying his stomach, with his hands on the table and his head between his knees. His mind grasped for a thought to hold onto as it reeled and found one with a pang of guilty relief - in the short glimpse he had, one horn had been broken.

  “Get him up” cut the sharp order of Sylus over the wails and moans of terror in the room, and Dorius felt himself dragged upwards by rough hands. One grasped his chin and turned his head to look across the table again.

  Sylus stood, one hand extended to turn the head to face him by a horn. Dorius retched again as he looked into the clouded eyes of Til’wane, his face smeared with a mix of sanguine red blood, and his own black blood in sticky, clotted, globs was dotting the table and dripping from one nostril. Only the rough, firm hands that held him prevented him from collapsing into a shaking mess. His hands were held behind his back, his torso upright, and the another kept his face turned to Sylus. The women had all fled the table, huddled in one corner with the servants all as pale and shaken as Dorius, some retching like him. Alanis still screamed, until Gustave collected her and averted her eyes, his hand clamped firmly around her mouth and her body pulled into his waist. Virconas sat stiff in her place still, her skin pale and her eyes distant, her mouth set firmly. She did not look at the head nor her cousins, and stared resolutely ahead, her lip trembling.

  “Look cousin!” Sylus demanded, rocking the head by the horn, “This is what you have bought upon you by fighting the Weave! Are you looking?!” His voice, while raised, was controlled.

  Dorius shut his eyes, and felt himself shaken by his handlers. The smell of blood was overwhelming.

  “ARE YOU LOOKING!?”

  Dorius opened them again, and looked his cousin in the eye. Sylus watched him back, a satisfied grin on his face.

  “You are a dead end!” he declared, “You are a worthless branch of this family! I will not have you humiliate me to my own men, to my own women, to my sisters!”

  He let go of the head, Til’wane’s face tipping forward as the weight of the horns rolled his head again. Dorius watched his clouded eyes disappear from view. Sylus picked up a napkin to wipe his hand as he continued.

  “This game you think you are playing, it is not a game you are welcome in. It is your fate to be nothing, else you would not have been born as you are! I am teaching you this lesson now, before someone else less compassionate teaches a harsher one, be thankful. Are you thankful?”

  Dorius hung limply in the hands of those who held him, his mind oddly distant from his body. The sight and sounds of the women disappeared into the background, his vision seemed to narrow to only the gristly details of the grey head. Sylus’ words were barely audible. Instead the only sound was only the rush of his own blood in his ear. He stared at the black horned head, so surreal without a body.

  “Are you thankful?” asked Sylus again, raising his voice higher.

  Dorius felt himself shaken, his chin turned again to focus his gaze on Sylus. His mouth burned from his own bile and he didn’t have the strength to compose any reply, his eyes travelling back to Til'wane.

  “The idiot is too shocked to respond,” muttered Sylus, turning from the table, “Get that ghastly head out of here. Disgusting creature.” He was still wiping his hands on the napkin, though there was no more dirt to clean.

  Dorius was dropped by the hands that held him, and he collapsed to the ground kneeling in his own vomit. His hands and knees were shaking, and he remained on all fours unable to do anything for several moments. Around him, the room began to clear as the Viridian soldiers escorted out the women. Dorius raised his head, and the sight of a familiar black mask hanging from one of the soldier’s hips suddenly shot adrenaline through his system. Enough for him to crouch against a chair and survey what he could of the chaos.

  Sylus was in one corner, hand on Gustave’s shoulder hissing a reprimand, “It is the wrong one! Your men got the wrong one!”

  Gustave opened his palms defensively, but his manner was bland, “You ordered the horned guard in his room. This was the one that was found there.”

  “I wanted the female one, where was it?”

  Gustave shrugged. Dorius ducked his head below the chair, terrified one of them might have seen him looking. He leant his back against the legs of the chair hoping they might continue their conversation, but they both walked out together as they spoke, Sylus calling back to the room, "Clean yourself up Cousin. Then make your arrangements to leave. I expect you gone by the morning..."

  Dorius sat on the ground, back against the chair for a moment, and tried to wipe the vomit caught in his rings with the corner of his robe while he collected his mind. He didn’t dare stand up to see if Til’wane’s head was still in the room.

  He felt too shaken to stand, so instead crawled under the table to the other side. As he emerged between the toppled chairs, a hand touching his shoulder startled him.

  “Sir, I’m Company,” said a quiet voice dressed in Ivory. Dorius grasped for the hand, looking up at the face, and her hands helped pull him to his feet. The woman was dressed as the Ivory maids were, but she was strong and steady and got a shoulder under his to help him get to his feet.

  “We need to flee,” he croaked, his voice raspy, “We have to find Bastian and Val."

  Vaguely he was aware she spoke back, but none of the words sunk past the rushing sound of his own blood in his ears. Like his head was wrapped in layers of fabric.

  As they reached the doorway, he wrestled with his own fear. He did not know why, but he felt a responsibility on him to look, and only fear and trepidation at what his might see. With a shaking breath he exerted control and turned.

  Half the chairs were fallen to the ground, serving platters from the buffet tables to the sides were tipped and drink was dripping down the furniture. The table had been cleared of plates, but cutlery and drinking goblets were scattered, an ominous path cleared where the head had rolled.

  But, there was no head. The table was splattered with clotted globules of black blood mixed with red wine.