A Fresh Reunion

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 4 DAY 20

Having persuaded, sometimes with the help of psychic coercion, several Dracon hamlets and towns embedded in the Green Divide, the trio finally emerged on the western borders of the forest. Soon enough, the moss that silenced their footsteps gave way to stones rustling beneath their boots. Floating ahead over the uneven terrain, Ruxian sent up fireworks, or rather, his recollection of television footage, into the air, informing Naya and Dramien that he had spotted their intended destination.

With cacophony heard from miles away, armoured guards prowling the shimmering walls, and a ring of ivory pillars piercing the clouds, Rokshama seemed more a stronghold than a modest city. Even from his height, Ruxian felt watched. Someone knew he was here. Squeezing himself into a wisp, he joined Naya again.

Dramien shielded his sun from his eyes. “The other thorn in Targonia’s side.” Dramien barked a humourless laugh. “Well, now I know why our western brothers call it the City of Red Tears.”

What are those pillars? Ruxian narrowed his vision on the rising posts but found some inextricable barrier barring his surveillance.

“We have better ones in Mogravale,” said Naya. “Our ones are buried underground.”

Dramien scratched his beard. “All I know is General Balethorn called them the Siegebreakers.”

“When did Kerroth Balethorn attack these walls?” asked Naya. “And Uncle Thogar spoke highly of him.”

“Goddess bless you,” teased Dramien. “Your uncle also said you never read books.”

Naya punched Dramien’s shoulder. Judging by her wince, Ruxian gathered the strike had hurt her more than it did the victim.

“That’s the past,” said Naya. “Can we focus on the present please?”

Ruxian emitted a clapping sound to turn her head. You’re the envoy of Lady Blackmoon. Did you read up on their recent history during jail time?

Naya chewed her lips for a bit. “I think Dramien already answered your question.”

As they approached the walls, a dozen men bolted from the gates on horseback, surrounding the pilgrims with notched arrows trained on Dramien. Ruxian recoiled. His earlier reconnaissance may have given them away. Naya drew her garash while Dramien rested a hand on his sword. The air was heavy with the scent of anticipated slaughter.

“I am Zangar Fonkael,” declared a youth as slim as the spear in his hand. “State your business.”

“Naya Blackmoon,” replied Naya, her eyes following him as a cat watched a mouse. “I come bearing a message from Mogravale, the one true Dracon home.”

Zangar shot out an arm, upon which his men lowered their bows. “Sorry, but given all the recent reports, the Targonians aren’t exactly welcomed here.”

“That’s disappointing,” mused Dramien. “I thought your spies would’ve relayed back the tales of my treachery.” He then pointed to Naya. “Bring your horse around. Surely you didn’t come all this way to make the lady walk.”

Yanking on the rein too hard, he brought his dark stallion face-to-face with Naya. Before he could retreat, the steed, not content with sniffing the Blackmoon, licked her horns, slobbering warm goo all over her face. Hair matted to forehead, cheeks flushed with humiliation and anger, Naya was a moment from unleashing a one-two combination on the beast when Dramien slipped between them and led the creature aside.

“My pigs have better manners,” growled Naya, seething.

“Control, Fonkael!” cried one dismayed rider, though Ruxian could see he was trying not to laugh. “To sully a lady’s horn!”

Chuckling, Dramien stroke the excited horse. “New mount?”

“Yes,” a blushing Zangar murmured before extending an arm, offering Naya a ride. “Miss Blackmoon, we’ve been expecting you.” He then handed Naya a linen sheet while keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. “We weren't...expecting the Targonian and the wraith.”

Ruxian sensed before he saw Dramien’s mischievous grin. It was the same look his father gave him when he brought a girl home during his final year in high school. The discreet laughs from the onlooking riders warmed the ghost. It was a circle of paternal figures watching over a predictably awkward encounter between two teenagers now sharing a horse.

“City’s tense,” remarked Dramien. “Something happened?”

Zangar cast a glance to his deputy before answering. “Multiple skirmishes with Targonian scouts. Been like this ever since they accused the Dracons of unleashing a demon in Immortrium a few weeks ago.”

That’d be me. Ruxian’s psychic speech had even the most grizzled veterans catching themselves in their saddles. I don’t really know what I am anymore, so call me what you will. To strengthen his point, Ruxian transformed into a stick figure and shrugged. The playful emote so distracted Zangar that Naya poked at him and pointed ahead.

“You’re a clump of sentient magic,” the boy exclaimed excitedly. “Pretty sure there’s no record of that. How are you even alive?”

“He survived the harvest,” said Naya, her final word turning heads. “Might be the blessing the Goddess bestows to Otherworlders.”

Zangar fell into a pensive silence. “Wait,” he replied, nodding to himself. “If that’s the case, then there’s someone I’d like you to meet later.”

The gates had just closed behind the riders when horns blared in the distance. Ruxian distinctly recalled this sound. It was the call of the Targonian army. Zangar dismounted and made for the ladder up the wall when Dramien caught his shoulder.

“Relax,” said Dramien. “Only scouts carry those. Save you panic for the drums.”

“Let’s be clear,” said Zangar, brushing away his hand. “I don’t trust traitors. My father always cautioned that treachery is addictive.”

Dramien tightened his jaw. “He’s a wise man.”

Ruxian focused on Zangar like a sniper looking down his scope. Over the past week or so, he had gotten better at sending his messages to the intended target rather than every person within earshot. His nation betrayed his honour. You got it wrong.

“I trust Dramien,” said Naya. “You will too, if you’re wise.”

Passing several bustling bazaars that left Naya salivating, Zangar led the guests through a series of iron gates that barred Ruxian from simply drifting through. Though large in area, the Rokshama grand hall had neither the splendour of the Immortrium Palace nor the daunting terrain of the Blackmoon temple. Even the innermost chamber, with only a miniature Goddess shrine and a pair of battered garash on the wall, lacked the decorations befitting a throne room. It appeared its master, snoring fitfully on the floor, had no care for such fineries.

“Father,” announced Zangar, rousing the man. “Lady Blackmoon’s envoy has arrived.”

The plump Dracon sat up and yawned. Blinking a few times, he pushed away a patchy quilt, smoothed his robe, and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Eyes, lazy and unfocused, lit up with alarm as they swept over his visitors and for once, it was not Ruxian that attracted the most attention.

“Roza?”