Maximus stood poised with his ruby-tinted pauldrons atop the chateau battlements as he overlooked nature’s singing eminence protruding from the Divinretin Forest. Beinn Idrah towered beyond, a jagged and mountainous summit covered by swirling clouds, with the sun beaming from high above, rays of christening light. He heard movement from behind, turning to see Minfred’s brindle hair, followed by Oswald and Jerome. They stood opposite Maximus, who spoke, ‘Thanks for meeting me, Jerome. There are some questions I have to ask. Walk with me.’

  Jerome gave a polite nod, his blonde hair shining in the sun as he wore a white and gold collared shirt. ‘Plans are in motion to rescue Elsbeth from Dejero-Obitus. We are certain she is your royal equal and thus, the legitimate queen.’

  Jerome appeared puzzled. ‘Sir Maximus, how will that work? Are men and women not supposed to get to know each other through courting and such things before unifying?’

  Maximus gave a confident smirk. ‘Only if you are confused and chained to the weight of a deceptive mind. The spirit recognises its counterpart. It is all the silliness in between that dampens divine relations. Jerome, don’t let your lesser faculties dictate what the divine intention is. I am convinced it will be as simple as love at first sight and as long-lasting as the eternity of the soul. Do not allow the visions and experiences of others’ dysfunctional relationships to cloud the Benevolent ideal. You will have a kingdom to rebuild and unite when the war is over.’

  ‘It sounds amazing, yet I question myself.’

  ‘As a future king should.’

  ‘And what about the fallout from the war? Can humanity ever rid itself of violence?’

  ‘I believe so. The Isle of Ophlen will rise first.’

  ‘Rise first?’

  ‘Into its natural form, an energetic purity beyond explanation, contextualising the spirit.’

  Jerome pondered for a moment. ‘The first of what?’

  ‘The ascending Isles within the Tyrora Archipelago. Asrundir, Tatulbor, and Hyborea need rejuvenation after the defeat of evil.’

  ‘And you believe that time is coming?’

  ‘It is upon us all already. The knights and the brothers have fought for generations in a cycle of war. We plan to put an end to the cycle, dismantling and uncovering what truly hides beyond the veil. Darkness has defeated us many times, yet we have endured and bided our time for what lies ahead. The pieces of the puzzle are nearing completion.’

  ‘But I am not a warrior or fighter. How am I to help?’

  ‘Nor do we expect you to fight. The knight’s duty is to deliver you to destiny relatively unscathed.’ Maximus smirked.

  ‘That’s comforting.’ Jerome grinned.

  ‘We do not expect you to set foot on the battlefield, nor would we accept you to ride with us into battle. You are not a knight. Our order is ascetically strict, and our duty is to unite you with your queen. When we do that, you will know who you are.’

  ‘Then what is required of me?’

  ‘To stay within the walls of Klertinmor, which guarantees your safety.’

  ‘Even when you’re gone?’

  ‘Yes. This is sacred ground. You have felt the powerful energy of the chateau; darkness cannot enter.’

  ‘And what would be your counsel for me to do during my time spent in Klertinmor?’

  ‘Study and learn. There is an abundance of literature and resources available to you. A future king must know his history by discerning strengths and weaknesses in order to implement the purist of ideals.’

  Jerome remained silent, waiting for Maximus to continue. ‘Trust in the inner longing and never let it fade. It leads us all to what is individually prudent. Now, continue walking along the battlements with us. I think you should hear us converse on our battle plans.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Minfred, what sense are you getting?’

  Minfred’s eyes narrowed. ‘A funnel of darkness churns eastward as we’d expect, but it continues to intensify. As we predicted, it will reach its maximum strength on the ninth day. At which point war comes.’

  ‘And where do we plan to meet the brothers?’ Oswald interjected.

  ‘On the plains of Kalseadur. Battle will have already begun when we arrive.’

  Oswald crinkled his brow. ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘It’s all about timing. Perception tells me that Naldenveer and Seltookra will attempt to dent the Brotherhood’s forces as much as possible before revealing themselves,’ Maximus asserted.

  ‘And the Willowmen?’ Minfred asked.

  ‘They will contact the Brotherhood on the evening prior to engagement. Oswald, do you have an update on our gift?’

  ‘On route to Osela by ship. The Brotherhood should receive our gift any day now.’

  ‘Excellent. They have been of tremendous help to our cause.’

  ‘They have,’ Minfred chimed.

  ‘Is that a compliment?’ Oswald asked.

  ‘Mmm.’ Minfred slyly smirked.

  ‘Any news from Portier Jarvis?’

  ‘None.’

  Maximus had a puzzled demeanour and looked as though he was going to say something, but didn’t.

  Minfred shook his head. ‘Pesky gatekeeper always disappearing.’

  ‘Indeed. I’m sure for a good reason,’ Maximus responded.

  Silence fell between them as the sun continued to touch their faces. Maximus considered the movement of many pieces at once and how everything would come together. He held confidence, feeling assured of victory. The knights weren’t the type to fear or contemplate their own demise, which didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. A lack of insecurity made it less likely. See, the negative emotions that drove civilisation kept people from challenging the status quo, even when insanity was occurring before their eyes, lacking the inner strength to act. When action is absent, civilisation destroys itself—this is the masculine ethos. In a melancholic community, fear of consequences creates a state of inaction, where weakness dresses as peace, which leads to self-destruction. Forced into a hollow pacifism that builds the masculine tomb, and thus confines everyone else to doom. The knights focused on driving the masculine essence into the abhorrent death and destruction of Naldenveer.

  Tasgall stood in front of the fireplace, awaiting Manach and Baku, keen to tap into their knowledge of the Council of Naldenveer. He could hear a door close as both emerged, walking together as they took a seat on opposite sides of the room. Baku was maturing into his Brotherhood role, becoming well-versed in combat and self-study. A growing confidence emanated from the timid and traumatised individual who had first arrived in Osela not long ago. No doubt, Manach was continuing to influence the healing of Baku’s spiritual wounds. He wore a black-hooded robe, leaning on his oak staff, while Baku wore his indigo-blue robe, which suited his neat black hair and tanned skin. ‘I’ll cut to the chase. What do you know about the hierarchy of Naldenveer?’

  Manach stared at the fire as he spoke. ‘The council are made up of thirteen members, and an ancient purveyor of Ophlen. Their leader, Death Lord Karvaan, has been harnessing the power of the Augteeray for as long as history allows us to remember.’

  ‘The ley lines?’

  ‘There are three Augteeray Ley Lines on Ophlen, which are Naldenveer, Atansupra, and Beinn Idrah. They hold a perfect, energetic line between them despite the excessive corruptions in Naldenveer and Atansupra. They can distort and syphon Beinn Idrah’s ley power. Two polar negatives will alter the positive.’

  ‘And they have complete dominion of the Augteeray Ley Lines on Ophlen?’ Tasgall asked.

  ‘Yes. However, the nine remaining ley lines on Asrundir, Tatulbor, and Hyborea are similarly corrupted. The perceived free world of Tyrora has been hoodwinked into endless spiritual servitude.’

  ‘Must we cleanse the ley lines on Ophlen?’

  ‘Indeed. But we cannot do so until we defeat Naldenveer and Seltookra. The warfare that lies ahead is physical and spiritual. Even as we sit here, layers and pockets of reality exist. The council will use every trick at their disposal to keep your senses confined to physical experience. Discerning eyes will see all.’

  Tasgall stood considering Manach’s words before speaking. ‘Is Death Lord Karvaan defeatable?’

  ‘One can kill Karvaan. Previous iterations of brothers and knights found themselves overwhelmed psychologically and spiritually on the battlefield. Exceptionally capable warriors have fallen at the hands of the council, not because of inferior skills; it’s in how they cultivate and weaken people’s resolve before they strike. Calculated we must strive to be.’

  ‘Do the council have souls?’ Baku enquired.

  ‘Not anymore. They did long ago, before they became demonic. To serve the Malevolent, one sacrifices one’s soul.’

  ‘And what do we know about the Malevolent?’

  ‘The history books have eradicated several accounts of knowledge. We know the Benevolent and the Malevolent are rulers of the Tyrora Archipelago. Commonly, from our perspective, we are driven towards our destiny by the Benevolent, representing goodness, whereas Naldenveer is driven by the evil of the Malevolent. It’s a classically dualistic perspective of reality, black and white.’ Manach paused before continuing, ‘Knowledge is our greatest weapon, advancing what we believe we know at every opportunity. Thus, we nourish the spirit. Otherwise, a mental folly will imprison us.’

  ‘Why is history inaccurate and elusive?’ Tasgall asked.

  ‘It’s a tool of control, disrupting and distorting the asking of questions. Conformity and unanimity are the perils of weakness. We cease to go any further when we trust the corruption that marks the pages. Thus, we inundate the scholar with knowledge they cannot understand or possess. Thus, they say and repeat what they are told. For an intellectual label, no less.’

  ‘Manach, if I am following what you are saying, are you alluding to something grander being at play?’

  Manach’s intensity came through his voice. ‘Absolutely, this is not a simple war. This is a reclamation of the Isle of Ophlen. We will know the truth by overcoming the darkness that swirls within our adversaries. Countless lines of brothers and knights have succumbed to the Malevolent’s will. Although vastly outnumbered on the plains of Kalseadur, we must march into the abyss.’

  Baku frowned. ‘Can we read the council's moves on the battlefield?’

  ‘Our duty is to keep High Elder Tasgall alive. We have not seen a fraction of the cunning Naldenveer is capable of. As I speak, they are growing in power through the activation of the Salfizor constellation. We await the Knights of Klertinmor calling upon the Neltudar constellation, the seven-point cluster shaped as an upward-facing sword, representing strength and truth, guiding the knights with the Benevolent light.’

  ‘The disperser of darkness,’ Tasgall said.

  ‘Precisely. Now, if you would excuse me, I must attend to matters elsewhere,’ Manach said.

  ‘Of course, and thank you, Manach.’

  He nodded, returning towards the crypt.

  Baku got up, sensing the meeting had reached its conclusion, disappearing out the monastery doors.

  Tasgall paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. Trying to understand the sheer complexity of everything that stood before him. As conflict approached, the burden became heavier with each passing day. He tried to release such binding and negative energy, for he had done everything within his power to prepare, and he appreciated the abundance of skilful and knowledgeable brothers at his side. But etched in the back of his mind like a nightmarish dream, there were two words.

  Death comes.

  He gritted his teeth, clenching his fists, shadows flickering through his blue eyes, taking a deep breath, attempting to come to terms with everything that had happened. A mounting pressure wrestling inside of his body, past mentors and brothers haunting him without reprieve, and then a black-crowned skull, appearing in his mind’s eye as Tasgall grabbed his head with both hands, trying to shake the skull from his mind. It persisted, staring at him a little longer before disappearing.

  The war games had begun.

  Manach sat at his paper-filled desk with his black pipe, blowing hordes of smoke out of his thin-lipped mouth, grasping the pipe in his free hand as he rustled in a side drawer before revealing a tightly wrapped object which he unfolded, setting it down on the table as he peeled the cloth wrapping back with his dry hands. He gazed at the smouldering black-obsidian stone, charcoal-coloured energy leeching out from it. Seeing the stone brought back memories of the night he had trapped the demonic spirit, releasing it from Baku’s body. He knew the risks of dealing with such entities as a projected darkness cast across his worn face. His inquisitive nature to know things brought wisdom, but trouble would even out the brightness of his life path.

  He remained poised, continuing to puff as a multitude of smoke bubbles and rings levitated up towards the ceiling. The temperature within his room continued to rise, with fresh sweat shaping across his brow. He placed his pipe down as he sat up straight before casting his left hand over the stone. His hands arched into claws as his veins became more visible and magnified through the tension. Manach’s green eyes flicked between a half-open, half-closed state as a voice spoke into him.

  ‘Release me!’

  Manach responded with his mind. ‘No. I must know who and what you are.'

  ‘What suffering can you put me through that I have not already endured?’ the spirit cunningly responded.

  ‘I cannot and will not make you suffer. I seek information; that is all. Where did your soul originate?’

  A deafening silence remained for several moments as he held his hand unfaltering over the obsidian stone, a gripping pressure bleeding into his palm.

  ‘The village of Ranar, on the Isle of Tatulbor.’

  ‘I am Manach. Were you a mining slave? What is your name?’ he asked with concern.

  ‘Why do you insist on recycling my pain?’

  ‘Please, there are many who have suffered on your path. I need to understand how it came to be.’

  A shadowy whimper rang in Manach’s ears. Through his communication with the stone, he was conscious of the spirit’s presence, hearing each audible noise. He possessed the power to overpower the spirit for the information he wanted, but he was empathetic about the pain these spirits endured. They lost everything; left with imprints of the identity they claimed previously. It was imperative that he understood the spirits’ story, and that went for each individual who inhabited the Tyrora Archipelago. The truth lived within the one and all. Often lost within an unenlightened seabed, the depths and chasms of consciousness, drowning us in a foggy malaise of fractured spiritual parts.

  ‘My name is Cairbre. I was kidnapped into the slave trade on Tatulbor before being sent to Ophlen. In my first memories, I suffered from a nagging pain I could never relieve myself of. The day my body gave out in the mine was the first time I felt happiness. I thought I was free…’

  ‘What happened?’

  Cairbre’s deep, smouldering breath pierced Manach’s ears. ‘I saw light and felt my spirit rise from my body. What I felt in those moments I cannot put into words, euphoria wouldn’t give my experience justice… but then… it grew cold, my spirit felt frozen in place, and darkness came from all sides devouring the light, I could smell rusting chains, there was a metallic air, overwhelming my spirit before being latched up.’

  ‘By whom?’ Manach enquired.

  ‘I-I d-do not know. All I know is my spirit was being abused. I had no control, which in some ways was reminiscent of my time as a mining slave,’ Cairbre despairingly said. ‘My spirit had become a vehicle for darkness to use as it willed.’

  ‘I’m deeply sorry. How did you end up possessing Baku’s soul?’

  ‘It’s all fragmented. It’s that damn tower! I don’t know the specifics, but spirits become drawn or bound to Dejero-Obitus—thousands of spirits, endlessly cycling through the tower. The Council of Naldenveer uses living bodies to harvest energy, experiment, extract information, and to observe.’

  He frowned, keeping his hand in place. ‘What information?’

  ‘Something to do with the soul. They are looking for specific components or anomalies. They know more about reality than they portray. This world—universe—has more layers than any of us can even imagine,’ Cairbre took a pause. ‘Save me, please! I never asked for any of this! Doomed at childhood, but I cannot endure this endless servitude to darkness.’

  ‘Cairbre, I can only release you from the stone I have trapped you within. I do not know what will happen if I let you go. I know the Demonslayer has been releasing spirits that were trapped within the lochs. Do you know anything?’

  ‘I do. The Demonslayer has sent major shockwaves through the lower demonic realms. However, I am not trapped within the lochs as those other spirits were, at least not consciously. You must release my spirit, please, Manach.’ Cairbre took a harsh breath. ‘Until you figure it out, leave me within the stone. Commune if you find anything.’

  ‘Very well. I’m sorry I cannot do more for you,’ he said carefully, pursing his lips together.

  He released his hand from over the black-obsidian stone, folding the stone carefully back up before returning it to the desk drawer. Manach leaned back in his chair. He had learnt more than he had bargained for from Cairbre. His suspicions about the goings-on within not just Ophlen but the Tyrora Archipelago were a lot to compute in his mind. A cloud of spiritual deception, tormenting and anchoring countless spirits from peace. Manach would probe deeper. He felt as though something obvious was in front of him, yet evasive; it remained. How long had they been trapping these spirits? If history was correct, this was the third age of the Tyrora Archipelago, but something far more sinister was gnawing at his soul, a trapped fragment of truth desperate to reveal itself. And it came, life existed before the records.