Bridged to the Third and Second wall, Mountain Peak City of Dragons Landing, Landing port.

  ...

  The wyvern stables were not always so loud at this time of day. The only reason the wyverns would be so excited, chirping and roaring, was because of the return of the riders.

  Lady Vemm Ann Vardaro, walked out of her palace and to the stables to greet her husband, her two sons, and grandsons. She was Duchess to the Archduke Desmond Deimos, her husband.

  To those who saw her, she looked like a woman in her sixties. But those who knew of the many gifts of the church knew she had lived much longer than that beside her husband. She walked at a steady pace to the edge of one of the wyvern stables, where she stopped and watched her husband show his children and grandchildren how to care for the beasts.

  "Wooh! Whooh! Boy, I told you to rub the scales, not rinse the scales in oil," he said, grabbing the thick rag from her youngest grandson and dipping it in the bucket of oil. Then, making sure the boy was watching, he rubbed the soaked rag against the small wyvern's thin scales. "Even when they are young—especially so—you must oil the scales at least once a month to prevent them from cracking. If the scales crack, they get sick, and you lose your wyvern," he said, handing the boy the rag.

  "When will I be able to ride?" young Aiden asked.

  A laugh came from both his father and his grandfather. Both looked similar to each other. The only difference between them was that his father was younger with a much fuller face, while the grandfather had a more toned face with edges of wrinkles.

  "When you can strap the saddle twice and knot it thrice," his father said, lifting the boy up and placing him on his much older green wyvern. The beast, as if knowing his thoughts, lowered itself.

  "I see the lessons are going well," Ann pointed out.

  "Mother," a formal voice said.

  "Mother," the youngest of her sons hugged her as the eldest gave her a slight nod that she returned with a curtsy.

  The three grandsons seemingly ignored her and kept rubbing oil into the scales of the chosen flying, soon-to-be lizard companions.

  "Sorry if the wyverns are too loud. I had to fight off a horde tide beasts a month away in the deep forest. That’s why the wyverns are so excited," Deimos said.

  It was like this every year. The wyverns knew when the beasts were coming, and they always grew excited. When the riders returned, the other wyverns caught the scent of whatever they had killed, whether dire hounds or Slads. It raised the entire nest's primal nature.

  "That’s not what brings me here," she said.

  "Oh? What is it then?"

  "It’s a missive from Srok," she said.

  "Srok... Srok... where?" Desmond thought aloud, tapping his finger to his chin.

  "It’s one of the three Baron Cities in the fifth wall," his eldest son read, seemingly from memory.

  "Ahh. Yes, and what’s the problem?"

  "As of two hours ago, when the sun was setting, there have been reports of someone using old magic," she walked up and taped her grandson's head gently the boy did not mind or rather he did not care for the motherly action.

  That dampened the somewhat cheerful tone in the large stables.

  "Old magic? Are you sure, mother?" the youngest asked.

  "Isn’t it just another unknown spell?" his oldest son asked.

  Desmond looked thoughtful at first. "And who did this missive come from?" he asked.

  "From the Zarynth spymaster. He says that the master assassins wanted nothing to do with it, as it was church business, and will not be taking any actions on the matter."

  "So they sent it to us and probably the other archduke lords." the oldest leaned forward on his wyvern red.

  "We can be certain of that," Ann said.

  "And we are sure it’s old magic?" her oldest asked.

  "Yes. Word is that the spell covered a sizable part of the city," she said, nodding to her oldest son.

  "What leyline was shifted, mother?" her youngest asked.

  "The shadow leyline."

  "Hmm. Do we know who has the ability to cast such a spell in the lower cities?"

  "No one has yet claimed such a feat," Ann said.

  "How intriguing. Send a carrier to Barony city to gather information. When the time comes for us to fight the beast tides, I will send someone to speak with the Baron of Srok."

  Desmond Deimos knew that by now, the other high lords who would have received the message would be sending out their own inquiries.

  ...

  Second wall, Mountain Peak City of Lona, Aasimar royal palace.

  ...

  "Yes, come in," King Trinan de Vernin, lord of the Aasimar, said, placing the painting brush on the stool next to his painting.

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  He looked like a man in his early seventies, but even this appearance was a lie. In fact, he had held his crown for over four hundred years—or was it three hundred—with none opposing, none amongst his own people or the other races.

  "My king," a female Aasimar came before him and went to one knee before him. She was dressed like any noble, but before the king, they all knelt.

  "What is it?" he asked, never looking up from his artwork.

  Art—painting and drawing—that’s all he had. At least until it became something passing him by as he lived his long life. At least it made him feel alive as he drew and redrew all the scenes in his life. He could draw a face three or four times, making sure it looked and felt as if he remembered the person. He could draw his battles, and when he forgot about fighting warriors here or there, he would draw the scene again, filling in the missing pieces here and there. How long had it been—a century or two? One has to find ways to pass the time without losing one’s mind.

  The messenger, seeing his interest elsewhere, had waited to speak, only for him to ask again, "What is it?" This time, he looked up, and his eyes were locked to the back of her head.

  "It’s a message from the seers on the third wall. And another message from the spymaster."

  "What does it say?" he asked, his eyes moving back to his drawing and his fingers slowly tapping the brush against the stool.

  Not knowing where to begin, she unscrolled and read the first missive with glowing purple psychic words.

  "My king, the scholars say the ley lines shifted," she said without missing a beat, holding her back straight.

  Waiting for a response and seeing that her king was never going to respond, she looked back down at the parchment and continued to stammer out her report. Then, she opened the second letter from their spymaster.

  "They say it’s old magic… message from Srok says it’s old magic," she amended, trying to look dignified in the presence of her king.

  Trinan de Vernin slouched back, left his arm draped over the chair, and looked up at the ceiling of his study. "The elements have not shifted. Why is this important?"

  She looked up but could not sense the elemental leyline as he did, then back to the letters.

  "There have been signs of old magic in one of the lower cities, and the spymaster’s letter proves what the seers sensed," she said like a daughter trying to make her father understand.

  "Which leyline shifted?" he asked her.

  "The shadow leyline was attracted to the magic, my king," she answered.

  "Shadows—an affinity for liers and thieves. I am not worried."

  "Of course not, my lord," the noblewoman said.

  "Do you think I should bother with this?" Trinan asked, his voice unbothered.

  "No, your majesty, I—"

  "Fine," he relented. "Send someone to find out what’s going on... the tide grows closer," he said, motioning with his fingers, dismissing her.

  "After four hundred and fifty years… this… it’s always the same," he mumbled to himself.

  "Vedran," he called to the shadows, and from the nothingness, a figure appeared before him. "It has been long, hasn’t it?"

  "Yes, my lord?"

  ...

  Fourth wall, city of Zlork, the Coliseum.

  ...

  As the night drew in and the last fighters had their final matches, a Goliath marched past the onlookers who stumbled out of his way, past the nobles and aides, until he reached the highest seating platform of the nobility.

  "There has been an incident in the lower city of Srok," he said, kneeling in front of a large Goliath man whose eyes were fixed down at the sandy pit, and subsequently ignored his first call.

  There were only so many ways the Great Chieftain Kazalath could find to entertain himself. He had tried going on hunts in the forgotten forests. Those had been somewhat exhilarating. He had looked for the strongest monsters out beyond the wall, but that had been a futile effort, and without the tides, he could only watch the fighting.

  But there was something else to be had here, where the men and women of all races from across the cities of Taelaris came and were forged into the greatest of warriors.

  Focused on the match happening before him, the Great Chief did not know the exact minute his seers saw aether ley lines shift, feeding a spell of great power. In fact, among the leaders of the Goliath people, he was the second to know of the missive from his spymaster—The Marchess Zakon had to send word back down to the fourth wall. At that minute, Kazalath’s eyes were fixed on a fight happening in the arena, and the many who would have dared to interfere with him did not dare.

  "Great chief, a message from the fifth wall," the kneeling Goliath man said, grabbing the attention of a few shifting eyes in and amongst the Goliath lord’s aides.

  "What does it say?" he asked. Then, watching the man fumble to open the letter, Kazalath reached out with a huge meaty hand and grabbed it from the hands of the kneeling guard warrior and tried reading it. Lacking the patience for it, he handed it back and focused his gaze back to the arena.

  "There is a claim of old magic in the Lower City of Srok," the kneeling man said, this time grabbing the attention of all the aides around him.

  "Are we sure it’s not one of the other Houses?" Kazalath asked.

  "Lord, our seers saw it originate from Srok, and there are no notable figures—except," he hesitated, eyes shifting to the faces now turned to him.

  "Except?"

  "Except ‘the Butcher,’" one of the lords seated in the viewing platform answered.

  "Speak lightly," a Goliath said.

  "Watch your mouth," a Goliath noble warrior woman added turning her head to face the noble. She was dressed in a thick noble gown and wore a chestplate over it.

  "The Butcher," the Goliath chieftain repeated, turning his entire body downward to face the guard or messenger. "Has there been a word from the prison warden?"

  "N–no, great chief."

  "Then what are you waiting for?" he slammed his hand on the side table. "Find out what’s going on," he continued, the thick fur of the manticore he wore as a cloak swaying with the motion.

  "We cannot let that man leave his cell, not after what he did to our people," a Goliath aide said.

  Kazalath turned to the Goliath seated at one of the observation tables to his right and pointed at her. "You, find Arlath. Tell him to find out what’s going on in Srok."

  "My lord," she hesitated, "sending Arlath is not wise," the aide tried to point out.

  "I advise against it as well," another voice said. By now, they had all stood and moved closer to their chieftain and were listening to the report about the Butcher of Thanath with great intent.

  "No, that’s my final decision. Unless any of you are willing to fight the ‘Butcher of Thanath.’" He looked around—looking for anyone to challenge his decision. "Good. After he’s done with his investigation of this old magic and the Butcher, he will report back to me directly."

  "Great chief, Arlath meeting you in person is too dangerous—he wields the sword Scarlet Brand," one of his closest confidants warned, and others nodded along with this sentiment.

  But he had other ideas. That was the plan—an opportunity to strengthen his position among the Goliath tribes and cities. If what Kazalath was hearing was true and the Butcher indeed was the one who cast the spell, then Arlath would have no choice but to fight Vedran. Then and only then would he invite him back and meet him in person.

  Arlath—that was a name most did not want to stand against in any arena or battlefield. If there was ever a list that mentioned the strongest lords in Taelaris, he would be among them, along with the old ancients like the King and the Dragon Lord.

  Kazalath knew that if Arlath fought Vedran, he would be weakened, and he would finish it with his bare hands. He was hedging his odds—however unlikely they were—that Vedran would not let the opportunity to fight Taelaris’s strongest swordsman pass him by.

  "And if he rejects the order, can we send another?" an aide asked.

  "If he rejects the order, it will make you look weak and further divide our people," the female aide, Nithea, added.

  "That will be a crime against the horde," Kazalath said, yelling and standing to tower over every Goliath. He looked at them, his eyes bloodshot with anger, daring any of them to speak against what he had just ordered.

  ...

  That night, the most powerful Lords and Ladies, including the three Archdukes, received word of this. Some were interested, others worried, and others made plans, while others halted to see what would come of the new change.