King Barak ruminated while under the light of violet lamps that lit his son’s regal chamber. He opened the armoire. It was still filled end to end with fine wool suit jackets, dress pants, and collared long sleeves. The bed was made, and the servants denied entering his room that morning. He checked the fashionable desk by the wide latticed window; no notes or clues. He rifled through the bathroom to uncover nothing of importance. The gold-framed mirror reflected his image, and he stopped to critique it, determining he aged a great deal; his once sepia skin paled, and his long beard a mixture of blacks and greys. After a deep sigh, King Barak sat on the bed and ran fingers into his temples.

  Lockley, a short and stout fellow, round in both the body and the face, barged in.

  “My King! There’s still no sign of him throughout the kingdom. We’ve checked all lightrail stations and the patrons at the Broken Barrel. Maybe he’s out with some woman?”

  “Mmm.” King Barak extracted a thin shard of glass and commanded it to contact Anwar for the twelfth time. Rerouted to his voice term again, King Barak double checked for sol loc and stowed the pad.

  “Check the stable by Southgate, find out if they are missing horses.”

  “Yes, my King. Right away.” Lockley genuflected and set to the task. The King pondered for a few more moments and made for the door, turned to the room in case he missed evidence, and shut it.

  *****

  White streams vibrated beneath his boots, visible through a glass flooring that stretched the entirety of every passage within the castle. A palette of nocturnal hues bathed the halls through stained glass windows as the King traversed his domain. He pressed an intricately engraved metal door and the Solveil’s light bathed him in warmth. The breeze was cool and dry.

  Beneath the stone arcade he encountered several servants, men and women of business and citizens governing power, bending at the waist. The Veil’s core, high above amongst the stars, shielded the continent from its antithesis. There were several intimidating strands in the day, waving so subtly in the blackness of space, casting awesome light and charging life with divine energy. The King rounded a towering crystal, subtly rotating above a steel pedestal in the center of his grassy courtyard; it drank the light so much its base discharged milky fog that reminded him of breath frozen by winter. Within that pedestal a mechanism where cables and boxes and lines fed power into all that was miles in the vicinity.

  He climbed the steps and peered into the sky; Valek’s gargantuan corpse loomed and cast a vast shadow center of a dense cluster of homes and edifices that made up his kingdom. Like a devil, two curving horns jut out the sides of its skull, stained yellow and dull red. It held no nose, no eyes, just patches of scarred flesh, but its agape muzzle displayed several rows of broken, and sharp teeth. Its body looked like an exaggeration of a humans, long crooked fingers, a torso stretching flesh thin and exposing bones beneath it, inverted knees, a talon bearing toes like a hawk.

  A mountain of smoke trailed from its searing back like that of a destructive wild fire. It looked as if culled during its attempt to devour the world. That horrific view put his people on edge, for such a fiend that threatened to awake and destroy invoked reasonable fear. But it was dead and would stay that way. Soon, he thought, the people of Sundur will know peace until it orbits again.

  Steel-plated knights bowed at tall metal doors that led into the castle, their armor clanking. King Barak’s husky shoulders fit perfectly through the crack, and the castle swallowed him whole. Instead of walking the flight of steps, embellished by a burgundy runner that led to his dais on high, he turned. Another Knight genuflected and greeted him by a modest entrance. Through the dimmer, compact hallway, the King stood in front of the final door and proceeded.

  The sliding of chairs and ruffling of clothing erupted simultaneously as he entered. Twelve members, surrounding a long refectory blanketed with papers, folders, pens, and trinkets, showed their respect in their own ways.

  “I’ve had a bit of a surprise this morning. My apologies for the wait. Please be seated.”

  Magda spoke first. She had drawn her dark hair back in a ponytail, exposing her face in such an unusual but pleasant manner. “My King, is everything alright?”

  “Yes, we’ll discuss it shortly.” He pulled a high-backed chair at the end of the table and sat with a creak. “Let’s start with foreign affairs. I want to know about the holy war in Ashwatt.”

  The conference room was cramped for the stout King. Stained glass in the room converted light into dark blues, casting ominous shadows upon the countenances of his counterparts. Along the walls surrounding them, his painted predecessors judged with solemnity. Once everyone set themselves, his Scout Master began.

  “Certainly,” Shane said as he crossed to the halfway point of the table. He wore an earth colored neo tunic and pants with leather grid on the knees. King Barak assumed he just returned and only made time to stow his torso wrap and battle gear.

  He tapped a metal cone center of the table and out sprang a geographic hologram. Colorful pins decorated the white wispy projection; a red pin marked Sindur in the North, and annotated bold with black diagonal lines from end to end; the morbid forest. Further South, blue and green and yellow markers dotted the region, and Southeast, the Kingdom of Ninovah, marked in red. East of Ninovah, a gradient purple zone covered the once grand city of Ashwatt.

  “Ashwatt is entirely darkened, so much the Veil cannot pierce it. Paladin Odanodan and Sol Acacia are pursuing Daelus beside knights and infantry hailing from Ghusun. A Sol pair hailing from Ninovah is there as well.”

  “Any word from Odanodan or Acacia?” the King said.

  “No, my King.” Shane’s head lowered. “The scouts enter with enough haste to avoid the Demons but, the darkness continues to take ground. Bru spent over an hour inside, and he holds the record.”

  “Then I guess you can’t do your job, can you?” Othre scoffed. He sat opposite of the hologram with his arms folded. His oily scalp glistened, same with the declining hair surrounding it.

  “It’s not us that can’t do our job, it's the damned Paladins,” Shane retorted.

  “How many scouts do you send at a time?” King Barak said.

  “Just one. We’ve tried more and lost Ezra and Keenan. The closer we travel to the center of the city the denser the combatants become, and that zone grows each day.”

  Barak sat in silence, thinking.

  “Aren’t you the Scout Master, Shane? Can you not complete the mission yourself? You send your division like fodder,” Othre said.

  “How about you keep your nose in your business and out of mine,” Shane argued.

  “Now now, let’s play nice,” Magda warned.

  “The Paladins are not dead,” Malshawn said. The King’s general stood and approached. He looked perpetually fatigued, eyes bagged and low, cheeks gaunt, with scarred pale skin. The finest, most intimidating military leader on the continent. “I would know it if they were dead, and this is an area outside of your expertise, Master Shane. What they need is support, a care package.”

  “You’re suggesting we bring them supplies but we cannot find them. How would you know they live?” Shane asked.

  “Three weeks ago that darkness spread at a much faster rate...” He waved his hand carefully and the time displayed center of the blurred map. The purple perimeter shrunk as time reverted. “…And upon our Paladin’s arrival…” He waved his hand again and time moved forward. “Here the growth significantly decreased. Had we not sent anyone, I imagine it near the gates of Ninovah by now.” And the general went on and on, bringing ostensible evidence and anecdotes before the King. He knew them better than anyone, the general said, as their leader and Veil father. Behavior like this in anyone else would portray desperation, but the calculated, fervent general hardly ever fought for a lost cause unless victory was assured.

  “I see.” Barak said. “General Malshawn, you propose our Paladins have made contact with the Demon Lord.”

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  “Yes, not only that, but I have information that suggests Queen Neve will send her Paladins in to aid against the Demon Lord. If we send Asa and Esau along with Ninovah’s might, that affliction will recede entirely.”

  “I’ll have rations and medicinal herbs ready in an hour.” Magda said. “And you can recall the scouts. They’ve done enough.”

  “Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” the King said. “We could assume Daelus has run dry of souls to devour as well. It would be unfortunate to lose our best warriors to assumption.”

  General Malshawn frowned.

  “Shane, have you gathered any other information?” The King’s inquiry turned all eyes to him.

  He cleared his throat. “Queen Neve has an army of three thousand or so outside the perimeter of the darkness, with a large encampment on a hillside. Mostly Knights and infantry with a dozen or so Sols. Her fighters are falling back each day; the Demons are collecting their souls, turning her own army against her.”

  “She’s feeding them, my King, growing their numbers through tentative action,” Othre said. “Anymore and those fiends will be stuffed and hearty. We must act quickly.”

  “There’s more, if I’m allowed to finish,” Shane said.

  He pinched his index and thumb together and hovered it above Ashwatt. He opened them and the map magnified. Three zones radiated outward and became a lighter shade of purple from the center. “Our Paladins are within this center zone; we’ve searched about seventy five percent of everything surrounding it with just a hint of their whereabouts. There is a void preventing us from entry, it's how two of my scouts perished. Daelus is most likely within.”

  “A void?” King Barak asked as Lockley quietly entered the room. He nodded to the King and stood smart against the wall behind.

  “Yes my King. We’re not sure how our Paladin team entered, if they’re in it at all. It’s unlike anything I have ever witnessed. The pressure alone is enough to repel us. The scouts call it a Hellgate, but…”

  “You do not agree, Scout Master?” inquired the King.

  “Those of us who have fought against the Demons know what a Hellgate is, and indeed that could lie inside. This, barrier of sorts, could be blocking us from something much greater—"

  “Something greater the scouts are not equipped to handle; they have done enough. Recall them and we will send support to assess what is inside that zone.” Malshawn said.

  “General we are not done confirming, and I find it oddly suspicious—”

  “Scout Master, you have represented us to satisfaction. The Kingdom of Ninovah will receive the support it needs,” the King said. “Northwest is Karrigan. I’ll send your division there for a reprieve, I imagine we will need them in the coming days. The mayor is welcoming enough.”

  “As you command.” Shane acquiesced.

  “We must know what’s inside the zone and the task will be transferred to the Paladins. Send a messenger, allow the Shane’s division two more days to gather information, and thereafter we will take decisive action.” He cast eyes on a gentleman that frantically stood and exited the chamber. He returned his gaze to Shane. “You will remain here. I have an urgent task that requires your expertise.”

  “My King?”

  Silence pervaded as the King turned to Lockley, cueing him to speak.

  “The southside Stable Master mentioned he’s missing a horse; Hadie is his name. Also, one of the guards at the Southgate tower swore he saw the prince exit on horseback before the Veil’s embrace. He assumed the boy was out for an early ride.”

  “You’re saying the prince has fled?” Othre exclaimed. The atmosphere shifted. There were twelve members, many of which were not as vocal until the announcement, and they were the most worried. Magda and Othre shot a strange look to Malshawn.

  “Scout Master, do your digging and come to me before nightfall. When we have confirmed his absence, I will send you to retrieve him,” the King said.

  “I will do my best,” said Shane as he genuflected.

  “He’s off running about again!” Othre retorted. “And what if he doesn’t return before the Strike on Valek…”

  “Light forbid he’s entered the forest!” Magda said.

  “Leave it to me, my King. I’ll have him here before nightfall,” Malshawn said.

  “Have I not been clear?” the King growled. Othre turned wide eyed and looked to the table, Magda nodded, her eyes fixed on her King. The room watched him closely, like children frightened of a wrathful father. It had been long since he made an example, and the mounting stress almost brought it to reality. They had forgotten their predecessors. He glared at his general. “Was my decision unsatisfying?”

  “Of course not, my King,” Malshawn genuflected.

  “The task is for the Scout Master and him alone. That will be the end of it. We are no longer speaking about the Prince. The Strike on Valek is in three days, we have fanatics in our cells, and there are other pressing matters we must discuss.”

  *****

  Stepping on a circular platform where the stairs terminated deep beneath the castle, King Barak approached a colossal chamber door made of darkwood at the end of a narrow passageway. He flicked his fingers and lit a row of sconces upon the ornate hall, and it brightened the looming iron ward upon the entry. The massive doors rumbled like an earthquake to his touch, carefully turning inward, and he entered into a hall much smaller. It shut behind him.

  Within was King Barak’s personal treasury, a chamber the size of a coliseum, a fantastic display of cursed and forgotten familial wealth, dating centuries upon centuries ago. More sconces activated and illuminated the chamber, exposing ancient possessions that overtime housed dust; however, the ceiling remained a dark abyss. Against the walls, rows of locked doors, some chained or locked and others ajar; amid the stone floor, piles of trinkets and jewelry laid haphazardly about; hanging from lengthy chains, clear boxes contained Demon remnants, trophies alive and inanimate. The deeply inlayed flooring was a protection ward that required short wooden bridges to traverse its winding gaps. The stale air smelled of aged books. Each footfall echoed as if another walked with him.

  Upon each bridge a sign, and crossing it, a sweet sound like chirping bells. Only twice he had stopped to rethink the correct pathing. Memories recalled as he gazed upon seized trinkets linked to successful excursions, and the bridges reminded him of his failure to follow directions as a child, crying and frozen by fear, and rescued by his thieving grandfather. In the office ahead he spent valuable moments of solitude that which no one could interrupt. It was also the grave of his maddened father.

  The chamber growled, stone rubbing against stone. He crossed the final bridge. Up ahead, where the final security measure awaited, a discrepancy. From a short distance, he crouched to inspect scorched and blackened marks several meters from his office door; central of the mark a patch of grey untouched stone. Fresh as they looked, King Barak sensed a recent intrusion, and urgency brought haste to step. There was no longer a need to acquiesce to the chamber. He knew that, of all the things that could be stolen from this treasury, there was one item worth them all combined.

  He continued through an unseen threshold. Six wards, like projections of divine light, activated in two rows of three and illuminated the abyss above. They increased in white brightness. A buzz reverberated. Each ward pulsed, and hundreds of lightning strands rained upon him like crooked whips over his body. They blinded him momentarily— a minor inconvenience as he pressed forward without a flinch. It did not tear his attire, his flesh, or strike a blemish, but it singed stone and smoke spewed in heavy plumes. The concentrated storm persisted until he reached his office. A simple push and the ward separated.

  Lightning ceased and the lights overhead faded into nothingness.

  Before entering he ran his fingers along a few dents in the iron ward. Whoever entered beforehand discovered the mechanisms in this chamber as they traversed it. One shot would have done the trick, but there were multiple attempts at breaking the seal. The door to safety would not unlock until someone crossed the threshold. Not only that, it was a difficult shot, especially while bombarded by lightning; that part inconceivable. He had one suspect.

  A pillar of warm radiance spilled from the slit and into the chamber. A focused ray of artificial sunlight ambushed his desk through a lattice window situated against the wall across. Before it lay a circular hand woven and colorful motif rug in the center. Atop the magnificent rug a carved podium. To the left, two rectangular columns attached to grey and gold trimmed walls framed various weaponry that hung from iron hooks. Stuffed bookshelves filled the gaps between the pillars, covering the entire wall. To the right, a large painting depicted a centuries old Holy War: mutilated humans, disembodied half human half Demon cambions, blood and ichor, limbs and corpses, laying among blood-stained war grounds that underlined a descending sky, occupied among furious battles between the celestial and damned; hundreds of souls cried, screamed, and shouted.

  Atop the podium an empty sword stand.

  King Barak approached with intrigue. There what lied for less than a decade was his father’s sword, deprived of the flesh and blood of Demons both trivial and grand; the Dark Drinker. He hadn’t battled in ages, felt that his lack of combat made him complacent; weak. All of those who knew the layout could be numbered on one hand, and of those with enough skill and intelligence, two fingers. If it was his son, that meant he was truly gone and desperate, and if another, a symptom of insurrection. The formidable King, even if he lacked his divine weapon, could vanquish whatever spawn threatens him or the kingdom, but couldn’t Banish them from existence.

  It was here he sensed inevitable danger. He sat at his desk, sliding himself beneath it, and fetched himself a paper and pen.

  *****

  Scout Master Shane, donned in leather and plate armor, his brown hair drawn back into a tail, waited promptly at Southgate. The stubborn Earth had almost faced away from the Veil, but the tips of its larger veins waved. The gates closed soon, and some of the citizens rushed to make it in before the guards forbid entry. They bowed as it took precedence, and the King ignored it, waving away everyone’s prerogative so that they make through in time. He tasked his guards to herd them in while he addressed his finest scout, who knelt before him.

  “Scout Master, I hope you know that I’m grateful for your work in Ashwatt.”

  “I understand, my King.”

  “I assume we have come to the same conclusion.”

  “Yes. I was able to gather enough information for Midtown and a few of the farms by the border; your son is in the forest.”

  “I see. Knowing him, what are the chances he lives?”

  Shane furrowed his brow. “The nearest rest point is only a few miles from here, and if he knew of it, chances are high. If not, unlikely, however not zero percent. He’s a clever boy, lucky in fact.”

  King Barak leaned in to whisper. “It is very likely that the prince has also stolen something valuable from the treasury. Bring him here by any means non-lethal.”

  “Understood.”

  They rose together. Shane nodded and started to walk away.

  “Deliver this letter to him.” He held out an envelope, closed by the seal of Sundur.