The carriage wheels ground against the cobblestone streets as they passed through Renault's outer gates. Arlen's wrists burned under the tight ropes, blood seeping into the fibers. The bald headman—Dav—sat across from him, eyes never leaving Arlen's face, as if expecting him to transform into something monstrous at any moment.
"Last look at the city," Dav said, scratching at his stubbled chin. "Won't get another."
Renault sprawled before them in defiant splendor, built backward from the massive cliff edge rather than toward it. The city's famed seven waterfalls—the Cascade—cut through its heart, thundering over the precipice into the emptiness of the Drop Lands far below. Red and white brick buildings clustered in tight neighborhoods, climbing the rising terrain in chaotic patterns. The infamous Overhang section clung to the cliff's edge, supported by massive iron beams driven deep into the stone.
People stopped to stare as the Registry carriage passed. Most returned to their business quickly—Gravers were common enough in Renault—but whispers followed when they noticed Arlen in bindings.
"Someone fucked with the wrong field," a merchant muttered to his companion.
They wound through the Market Circle with its perfect ring of shops surrounding the empty green space locals called the Quiet. The carriage wheels splashed through puddles left by morning rain as they passed into the Lantern Ward, where unlit white stone beacons topped the Registry buildings.
A massive bronze statue dominated the district center—Una Renault, blade raised toward an unseen enemy. The legendary Graver had defeated an Heir a hundred and fifty years ago in a Dead Field spanning over two hundred clicks, earning Mazander its second threshold. Children darted between the statue's base, playing at being Gravers with sticks for swords.
The road steepened as they approached the Interior Authority Hall—Castle Heaven, as commoners called it. Unlike normal castles, this one emerged from three natural stone spires, carved and connected by obsidian bridges that caught the sunlight. The silver dome at its peak reflected the blue sky with blinding intensity.
Guards in silver armor stood watch at the entrance, raven-headed helmets hiding their features.
"Headman Dav, Western Registry," the bald man announced, yanking Arlen forward. "Prisoner for judgment."
One guard removed his helmet, revealing a face split by an old scar. "Registry trouble again?"
"Mind your business," Dav growled. "Just need passage to the chamber."
The guard shrugged. "Protocol says we verify. Name, prisoner?"
Arlen raised his chin despite the exhaustion pulling at him. "Arlen Emundas of Port Ansel."
Recognition flickered across the guard's face. "Emundas? Related to the Seared?"
"His brother," Dav cut in. "Found him standing over his dead squad, fresh threshold nearby."
"Impossible," the guard blurted out, "that's what, the fifth one our kingdom obtained?"
"Sixth," Dav corrected, "best believe the little piggies flying by now if my eyes showed damn truth."
"And this one...? This boy?"
"Just let us damn through, soldier." Dav cut, scoffing at the title as if to show the superiority of Gravers.
The guard waved them through without another word. Field Registry business rarely concerned the regular guards—they were just the first filter against common rabble.
They marched Arlen through Castle Heaven's halls, past faded tapestries showing ancient battles against creatures from Sephelos. Staff pressed themselves against walls as they passed, eyes wide. The Registry—feared even here among the powerful.
The Judgment Chamber took Arlen's breath away despite his circumstances. A perfect half-dome ceiling made entirely of glass overlooked the Overhang and the vast Drop Lands beyond. Sunlight streamed across the polished floor with its intricate map of the known world inlaid in precious materials. The thin curved strip of Mazander pointed upward toward the jagged shape of Esh, while the scattered islands of the Bale chains connected westward to curved Eskadar. Diamonds marked the eternal frost of the Wending Pale, and opal showed the mysterious white nature of the southern bloom.
Six raised chairs faced the chamber's center, the middle one larger and more ornate. Four of the Authority members had already occupied their seats—Epich Yors with his bald crown ringed by long ginger hair; Griffin Galagus, whose hardened face seemed carved from the same stone as the chamber; Zachamund Mirian Di'Jaa with his copper Eshian skin; and Helesta Junivus, tattooed marks of some unknown Balechain clan crossing her face.
Only Dav and two of his men remained with Arlen now. They positioned him directly over the blue sapphire that marked Port Ansel on the map—his birthplace on the western edge of Mazander.
The chamber doors remained closed for nearly an hour before a herald finally appeared, striking his staff three times against the floor.
"All rise for His Majesty, King Lundgren of Mazander, Lord of the Western Thresholds, crowned lord of Castle Heaven, and Guardian of the Registry," the herald announced, his voice echoing off the glass dome.
The doors swung open. King Lundgren entered first, his once-powerful frame now softened by years of excess. Folds of flesh hung beneath his jaw, and his blue robes strained across his belly. Yet his eyes remained sharp, cold and assessing as they swept the room. Behind him slunk Prince Mandergest, thin-faced with a short black crop of hair that clung to his skull like a shadow. His darting gaze reminded Arlen of a rat searching for crumbs.
King Lundgren lowered himself into the central chair with a grunt of effort. The prince took the remaining seat, lips curling when he spotted Arlen.
"Another Registry matter?" the king sighed, already looking bored. "Get on with it then."
Epich Yors stood, joints crackling in the silence. "Arlen Emundas stands accused of murdering Field Registry squad members Headman Conroi Tresh, Kindled Renny Wallace, and Lunia Dalamah during assignment to a Dead Field west of Evaun. A threshold, or so the accuser says, was discovered at the site." He nodded toward Dav. "Your account?"
Dav stepped forward, thumbs hooked in his belt. "Found him kneeling among their bodies. Blood on his hands, his sword buried in the headman's throat. Threshold was active when we arrived."
"Impossible," Griffin Galagus spoke up unperturbed, "no Threshold would go unnoticed by us, and did you witness these killings?" Griffin Galagus asked, leaning forward.
"N...no, but—"
"Let him speak," Zachamund interrupted, his accent turning the words into something almost musical. "I would hear the accused."
All eyes turned to Arlen. His mouth had gone dry.
"There was... something out there," he began, struggling to find words for what he'd witnessed. "Not like they told us. The field wasn't cleansed." He swallowed hard. "It came from a tree. Lightning, then rain—but not rain. Blood. So much blood."
"Get to the point, boy," the king snapped, drumming thick fingers on his armrest.
"An Heir," Arlen said, the word hanging in the air. "It took Conroi and Renny up, then..." He gestured helplessly. "They fell. Broken. And Lunia—it touched her and she just... dried up."
"Yet here you stand," Prince Mandergest cut in, voice dripping with contempt. "Unharmed while your squad rots."
"I don't understand it either," Arlen admitted. "It grabbed me. Put its hand through me. I felt myself... end. Then I woke with their blood on me, my sword in Conroi, though I never put it there."
Helesta leaned forward. "This Heir—what form did it take?"
"Blood and lightning," Arlen said. "Like a man but... wrong. It bent the air somehow. Would disappear and appear elsewhere." He hesitated. "It spoke about not wanting to go back to... to the Else."
Murmurs filled the chamber.
"Load of shit," Dav spat. "That field was checked three times by better Gravers than him. No Heir present."
"Yet a threshold appeared," Galagus noted quietly. "There's no record of one opening without an Heir's elimination."
The king shifted his bulk, looking increasingly irritated. "So the Emundas boy killed an Heir powerful enough to slaughter experienced Gravers, then somehow survived being killed himself? Am I to believe fairy tales now? No boy would have us closer to matching the power held by Eskadar's nine thresholds, I won't believe it!" He spit that last part.
"I don't know what happened," Arlen said. "But I wouldn't harm my squad. I give my word as an Emundas."
The prince barked a laugh. "Your word? An Emundas's word isn't worth the spit to seal it." His eyes narrowed. "Your father made plenty of promises too, didn't he? Before he started spreading lies about the crown."
Arlen felt heat rise in his face. The prince's hatred stemmed from years ago, when Arlen's father had accused Mandergest of smuggling poverty-stricken soldiers from the war against the Elgastian Pirates—conscripts whose hearts had been hardened by loss and pain, making them more vulnerable to higher states of the Flare. A resource the prince had apparently been harvesting for the Mazandian militia.
"My father spoke what he saw," Arlen said, his attempt at noble phrasing falling awkwardly from his lips.
"Your father saw what suited him," Mandergest hissed. "Just as you invented this Heir to cover your betrayal."
Zachamund cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should consider the threshold itself. If it was unofficially opened—"
"There is no damn threshold, whatever plan he had he carried out by taking them out there," the king interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "Then killed his squad to keep the glory. A Flicker getting ideas above his station."
"That's not—" Arlen began.
"Was I addressing you?" King Lundgren's voice cut through the chamber like a blade. "I've endured enough Emundas insolence for one lifetime." He turned to the Authority members. "Your thoughts?"
Before they could speak up, Dav cut in, formaly, changed from his usual self.
"Your majesty," he began, "I'm not vouching for the boy, but we did see a threshold when we found him, and you said so yourself, if he did this for glory, than where's the glory if you believe there to be nothing but him and the dead ones?"
"What did you say?" The king leaned forward before being cutoff, more lenient to the authority.
Griffin Galagus stroked his chin. "The evidence is... there.—"
"Evidence?" Prince Mandergest scoffed. "Three corpses and his blade in one of them. What more do you need, hell, who's to say this headmen isn't lying.?"
"The Reckoner's blade marks the true killer," Helesta Junivus said, her tattooed face impossible to read. "If he killed the Heir, the threshold would bear his signature."
A signature, Arlen recognized, under every threshold, an engraving naturally formed to resemble the heart of the doer. But this was Arlen's first time ever witnessing such a thing in person, and if true, what would it even bare to engrave, he thought.
"Did you check the threshold's signature?" Zachamund asked Dav.
"You still believe there to be a threshold, Zachamund?" Prince Mandergest laughed.
The bald man shifted uncomfortably. "It was... unstable. Couldn't get close enough."
"Convenient," the prince muttered. "There you go."
Epich Yors leaned forward. "Boy, you say this Heir spoke of the Else, or Sephelos, so to speak. Those were its exact words?"
Arlen nodded. "It said it couldn't go back. Never again." Arlen felt comfort in knowing someone was at the very least hearing him out.
The old man exchanged glances with Galagus. Something unspoken passed between them.
"Enough of this," the king said, slapping his hand against his chair. "I've heard what I needed to hear." He heaved himself up, his bulk casting a shadow across the map. "Arlen Emundas is guilty of murdering his squad. The sentence is immediate execution, and send a few Gravers to the sight to collect anything forgotten." He finished off uncaring.
"Your Majesty!" Arlen said, desperation rising, "I beg you—"
"You'll beg the Reaper for mercy instead," King Lundgren snapped. "I've wasted enough time on an Emundas."
He turned to leave, his heavy frame lumbering toward the door. "Call the Reaper," he commanded over his shoulder. "And be quick about it."
From a shadowed alcove emerged a figure in black robes, stark wings implanted from cloth and metal adorned the back, curling into a perfect circle where the tips were two black feathers. He carried a golden scythe that caught the sunlight streaming through the dome. The executioner's face remained hidden behind a plain silver mask as he approached with unhurried steps.
The prince remained seated as his father departed. "I'll stay to witness justice," he said, settling back with undisguised pleasure. "The Emundas family has avoided consequences for too long."
Guards forced Arlen to his knees on the map of his birthplace. The prince leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"Your mother's death was such a tragedy," Mandergest said conversationally. "Strange how the assassin was never found. Even stranger how quickly your father and brother silenced any... investigation."
Arlen's blood ran cold. His mother's murder had been blamed on a rival house, but Amund and Kael had quickly suppressed the matter—keeping Arlen from speaking out, preserving their precarious place among the nobility. He'd never forgiven them for choosing status over justice.
"The Emundas name dies with you today," the prince continued. "Your brother may be Seared, but he's still just a Graver. Useful but replaceable."
As the Reaper raised the scythe, Arlen glanced up at the mezzanine circling the chamber's upper level. Among dozens of officials and nobles stood one figure in stark white—Kael Emundas, his brother, one of the rare Seared Gravers in the Authority.
Their eyes met across the distance. Kael's expression held no warmth, only disappointment and something deeper—resignation. He turned away before the blade could fall, disappearing into the gallery's shadows.
The sight brought back the memory of why he'd locked away the sword his brother had given him. That blade—still stained with Conroi's blood—had been Kael's attempt at reconciliation, one Arlen had never truly accepted.
The Reaper's scythe caught the light, momentarily blinding him. Then, strangely, the world around him began to shift. The four Authority members seated before him warped like reflections in disturbed water. The sky visible through the glass dome shimmered and twisted.
The prince's smug expression faltered as he noticed something wrong.
The scythe descended—and missed as Arlen vanished from the Judgment Chamber.