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Chapter Four

Irin

Today, a staff of the Clifftombs was found among the Julran refugees who gave an interesting insight to the royal

family. Of King Vin and Queen Mila Hilj, there were two children, Maura and Morrette. For royals with more than one

child, a choice is given as to who will succeed the previous ruler. Maura assumed the role of successor as future

queen and Morrette took the role of Princept, a gender-neutral position dedicated to leading the Julran military and

training in the art of war.

-"The Tragic History of Julra," by High Scholar Yuret Wend, Year 37 of Ber's First Reign

T he royal carriage rolled to a stop in front of the only guild hall I could safely say I'd never visited, even when touring the city with my father in my youth.

The sheer oppressive force of the monolithic Gilamorst Necromancy Guild seemed to push away anyone walking along the bustling street running in front of it, the normal passersby giving the dark stone steps a wide berth without even sparing them a glance.

Avoiding anything associated with death was an instinctive choice, apparently.

Staring up at the pointed spires topping the hall, the heavy steps of my personal guard passed by to stop at the carriage door.

Beolf, brows drawn low in a disapproving scowl, made sure I could see the full effect with his helmet held under the opposite elbow.

The livid pink scar over his left temple looked even deeper as the skin pulled around it.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come in with you? "

I scoffed and brushed his concern away as I exited the cabin, Behar jumping after me with his tongue lolling out happily.

He didn’t care that we were going to a literal house of death.

He was just happy to be outside the palace walls.

The scruffy black rinhound wove through the street traffic with no hesitation and took the guild’s staircase two at a time.

He stopped halfway up before turning to sit on the step, large ears perked up and head tilted to the side as if asking, ‘what are you waiting for?’

"I can hold my own, Beolf. If I were you, I'd be more worried about the possible reduction of your wages to make up for the horrendous cost of submitting a request to the necromancers."

"Greedy bunch, the lot of them," Beolf harrumphed.

"Necromancy is unnatural. I'm just waiting for the day these practitioners get stricken down by an angry god.

" He kept running his hand along his jaw where a beard used to be, clearly uncomfortable without it. His last assignment in Highlan Pid’s house required him to be clean shaven, so he was not as noticeable as my personal guard.

“Speaking of, that is the worst version of Wira I have ever laid eyes on. Did the sculptor even know who he was making?”

Every guild in Gilamorst had a statue of their patron Old God—Joles for the pyromancers, Hira the hydromancers, her twin sister Wira for the necromancers, Ber at the terramancers’, Zintar at the aeromancers’, and Colleter for the healers’ guild.

Most of them were larger than life, replicas of the statues at the Eternal Pantheon in the City of Scholars.

They usually carried their weapon of choice or a tome representing their wisdom, as for Colleter.

Wira was the only one who carried both sword and tome, as the Goddess of the Night and Keeper of the Dead.

This depiction of a goddess who was usually portrayed as a fierce warrior was…

sadly lacking. Instead of the armor Wira was believed to don, this version chiseled in a light grey stone wore a diaphanous dress with neither a tome nor sword in hand.

Her hands were folded demurely in front of her waist, and a look that could only be described as doting was carved into her face.

If not for the only accurate piece, the delicate tiara mounted with a red stone to represent a Wiran ruby, there would be nothing about this statue that represented Wira at all.

Even her hair was loose and cascading down instead of tied in a long braid as it normally was.

I wasn’t a stout devotee of the Old Gods, beyond respecting their authority over magic beyond my comprehension, but this statue of the goddess made me balk at the femininity of it all. The way she looked down at the guild’s visitors with that peaceful, loving expression made my skin crawl.

“It’s definitely an… interesting take,” I hedged. “Maybe the artist was trying to make her look more approachable.”

Beolf snorted. “I guess. Still looks unnatural seeing her look so… nice.”

My head swung to the left and right out of habit to avoid traffic, even with the flow now blocked by the rest of my guard to maintain a safe distance from the rest of the populace.

Ever since the death of my father, may the gods torture his wretched soul, security has been heightened to painful degrees by his lingering advisors until my official coronation.

I was the only male heir alive. If I couldn't take the crown, the entire royal family would shift to a cousin on Father's side.

Pila Monato, while known for her beautiful golden hair, blue eyes, and skill with the lute—but hardly known for being my mother—was nothing more than a valued mistress to Father even after my birth.

No one in her family was even remotely considered to be in line to the throne, despite their distant connection to old Julran nobles.

"Wait here," I commanded, stopping at the bottom of the stairs beside the statue. "I will not be too long."

Beolf huffed again. He was the only person alive who could talk back and not get immediately dismissed for impudence.

We grew up together, him serving as my childhood friend-turned-general, so he earned that right after so many years of putting up with my schemes.

This latest scheme had tested and proven his loyalty the most of all.

"Fine. But only because those bony fuckers creep me out.

Then again, so does this." He jabbed a thumb over at the Wira imposter.

The closest soldier taking place beside Beolf guffawed loudly. "That's your weakness, General Zirch? Some starved old men with gnarled hands? They're hardly—"

"Can you please move? I already told the guildmaster to shove off!

" The demanding voice rang strong and husky from the top of the stairs.

A voice that was most definitely feminine, despite the rough language.

And the unladylike growl that followed. "I said, get out of my fucking way!

Get your hands off me before I turn them into shriveled jerky!

" Another man responded in a lower tone, with boots scuffling on the stone as if a skirmish had broken out from whatever he’d said.

Behar’s ears swiveled toward the noise, and he sprinted the rest of the way up the stairs. I barely needed to glance at Beolf to come with me as we followed him up the staircase to assist. What we walked up on was about as far from what I expected as possible.

A black-robed man howled in agony and gripped his right wrist, holding a gnarled hand in front of his face where it trembled violently.

It looked like it had been pulled from a hundred-year-old crypt, all dried and contorted with pieces of desiccated skin flaking off.

Another man held onto a tall, rather muscular woman for just a moment before ripping his hands off as if they had caught fire.

Her vibrant red-gold hair—half of it pulled from a fat braid draped over a shoulder reaching just past her chest—was disheveled enough to appear she had been manhandled in a brutal manner before we crested the top step.

Now, a vicious snarl pulled her lips back from white teeth and a wild light lit in her eyes.

If I hadn't hear her speak before, I would have thought a feral animal the guild held trapped in their hall had broken loose.

Behar remained at the top step, hackles raised and a low, rumbling growl rattling from his chest.

My mouth opened to call out and insert myself into the fight, when the woman whipped around almost too fast to track and planted a brutal sidekick straight to the center of her captor's chest. His body flew back like a discarded doll to slam against the heavy doors behind them and set him wheezing from the blow.

It was at that moment I realized she was not the one who needed saving.

My arm shot out to hold Beolf back by his bicep, more wary than before of getting involved in this fight.

The guild's door creaked open behind the limp body of the necromancer, slumped against it, and let him fall the rest of the way to the floor as more robed men barreled through.

"Haron Val Toric, by the guild's authority, I command you to halt!" There was hardly any conviction behind the shouted order. Whoever it was sounded utterly terrified, actually. "We just want to talk like civil adults! Come back inside before you make a fool of yourself."

A harsh laugh barked from her twisted lips.

"That's fresh coming from you, Nebold. I know exactly where you put people who don’t fall in your line.

Now, I recommend you let me leave before you have more than just me to deal with!

" Slowly, with the obvious experience of a blooded fighter, the wild woman backed from the door and closer to the stairs where we hovered.

She didn't think we were as much of a threat, it seemed.

She didn't spare us more than a cursory glare.

"Is assistance needed?" Beolf chose to interject, his voice low and authoritative. His hand not held back by my grip moved to rest on the sword pommel at his hip. "What seems to be the issue here?"