The Obsidian halls echoed to his footsteps as he approached the throne. His father sat upon it, his gaze fixed to the parchments in his hands, and his finger softly tapping against the armrest of the throne. The braziers’ light danced as he walked past them, forming shadows that vanished soon after.

  “What do you think of them?” His question came before Midhir even reached the bottom of the steps his throne sat upon.

  “Believers of the church, through and through.” He walked up about half the steps before stopping. “The ambassador made her dislike for the Old Gods more than clear.” Her words filled with pity and hatred were still fresh in his mind, even after hours had passed. And so were the words of warning of her knight.

  “Indeed.” The Emperor raised his gaze from the parchments. “I want you to accompany them to the Spring of Sun-Touched Waters.”

  Midhir visibly flinched. “If that is your wish,” he bowed. “I doubt they will accept this, though.” He hesitated before touching his left eye. “She saw my eye, and it seemed to trouble her greatly.”

  The silence stretched for a short while before his father breathed out. “The Ambassador has already made her dislike of you clear, Midhir. I doubt it has to do with your eye – it seems she already knows some of what has happened.” His lips curled down as he scowled. His finger continued to tap against the obsidian armrest, the sound of his nail hitting it breaking the silence repeatedly. “I would like to know how.”

  “The clergy speaks, clearly.” Midhir muttered. The question that bothered his father had been on his mind for these past few hours as well.

  “Clearly.” The Emperor’s fingers clenched into a fist. “The Theocracy has sent a poor diplomat.”

  The ambassador’s rash, impulsively spoken words were indeed unbecoming of someone on a diplomatic mission. While Midhir himself cared little about her personal opinion of him, the way she spoke to him was no way to speak to the prince of a powerful empire.

  “What have you come here for?”

  Midhir’s gaze shot to the parchments in his father’s hand. “The noon patrols returned less than half an hour ago – their reports are troubling.” He rested his hand on the hilt of his blade as he spoke, caressing the cloth wrapped around it. “The cultists seem to be everywhere – there were over a dozen sightings between here and An’Larion, seven sightings between here and the Northern Wall, and three by the woods to our east.” He hesitated. The west side was clear, but only for now.

  The Emperor tapped on the parchment. “Indeed.” His eyes narrowed. “There are quite a few of them.” He tilted his head. “Or they travel exceptionally fast. What do you make of the repots?”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Midhir pondered. They were clearly not just a handful of people – every time they clashed, their leader had a fresh batch of armed recruits, seemingly ready to fight and die for their cause. It wasn’t just that either. Every time they clashed, they had new, well made clothes and armour, as well as weapons that were higher than average quality.

  Even if they were so crowded, the groups seemed to be moving across the lands quite quickly. Since they were all at least a dozen or so men, that meant they needed to carry supplies, set up camps and such.

  “I don’t think they are just a few people.” He folded his arms, tapping his foot as he spoke. “I think they’re moving a bit too quickly too – even if they somehow got their hands on holding gems, they would still need several days of travel to reach the Northern Wall from the road leading to An’Larion.”

  His father’s expression didn’t betray his thoughts. It was impossible to make out what he was thinking.

  “Has their leader spoken yet?”

  The emperor clicked his tongue. “No, he’s more resilient than I would hope.” His eyes narrowed. “Despite being here, the weave of resonance around his helmet remains strong.”

  Midhir lowered his gaze. “An artifact of old…” his voice was but a whisper.

  “Indeed.” The Emperor stood up and walked down the steps. “Lady Caarda is working with the best resonance casters of the Honour Guard. No matter how ancient a relic, it will bend to their will.”

  Midhir bit his lips. While that was true, he questioned just how much time they really had. A feeling of urgency had been tugging at his mind for the past few days, and it only got worse with each passing day.

  “I have decided.” The Emperor’s voice rang across the Obsidian Hall. “I will accompany the ambassador myself, along with the Lords Castor.”

  Midhir drew a sharp breath. The Emperor often left Derwen Hold to his aides, to the enforcers, and to the honour guard to join patrols, visit the Northern Wall, and even the handful of remote villages. It was a common, even expected occurrence. “With so many of the cultists around…” his voice faded.

  “They are powerless.” He gently caressed an unassuming, grey ring around his finger. “Enforcer Aoidh and the Honor Guard will oversee the daily operations in my absence. They will refer to you if any abnormality occurs.”

  A lump settled in his throat. “Even in your absence, they shouldn’t be able to assault Derwen Hold.”

  “No, they shouldn’t be able to.” His father walked past him, towards the large doors. “Once I leave and the weaves allow, report to your mother.”

  Banners fluttered in the wind as the convoy set off. It was an impressive sight – a showcase of the military might of the empire. Midhir watched from the balcony overlooking the entrance, his elbows leaning against the wide marble guard.

  The tense, heavy air he had been breathing up until now slowly became lighter. He could still feel the stifled spiritual power around him, but now he could breathe easier.

  “Don’t look so relieved.” Moira’s voice startled him. “You’re in command now.”

  Midhir shot her an annoyed glance. “Hardly,” he scoffed. “You and the remaining Honour Guard are overseeing things. And that is how it should be,” he breathed out, and stepped away from the edge. “It will take them one day to reach the Spring of Sun-Touched Waters, probably about a day to for the Ambassador and her companions to finish their worship, and one more day for them to return.”

  “Three days is a long time.” Moira’s lips curled up.

  Midhir nodded. “Yes.” It certainly was. “Even in father’s absence, Derwen Hold is a powerful fortress, with skilled, experienced defenders. They can’t breach the walls without an army.”

  An army the cultists didn’t have. He was sure of it.