Chapter 1

  A cloudy grey canvas loomed over the city of Morlenfal, an otherwise beautiful marvel of craftsmanship and architecture. The walls and stones that constructed the pointed towers were colored in tones of white. Perhaps an even more impressive feat was the land beneath the city — torn clean from the earth below, now levitating over a crater of ancient, odd power. From the streets to the ramparts, steady pulses of enchanted light flickered through the air, and runic seams glowed between stone blocks, marking Morlenfal as a place built by practical hands and long-established arcana.

  "Easy now," he mumbled, resting his gloved hand over the hilt. "We haven't even met the noble yet." He spoke down to his blade like he was soothing a wild animal. His armor jingled under the cloak as he moved, louder than the wind that ruffled its edges. His eyes, hidden beneath the hood, surveyed the thinning streets as people slipped into their homes and hovels. A storm approached, but bad weather never bothered this man.

  A guard stepped forward and leveled a halberd at him. "State your business," he ordered, barring the man's path.

  "I have audience with Tanric," He slowly said. His low voice pressed through the wind as he presented the invitation from the king himself.

  "The lord doesn't have any scheduled—" The guard's voice strangled itself. In disbelief, he lifted the paper to the torchlight, then showed it to his fellow guard. Both their eyes crawled up the swaying cloak and the sword at the figure's side.

  "You're... that Cratin." One of them spoke, noticing a faint glow under the man's skin.

  Cratin tilted his head. "There another one?"

  The guard's voice trembled. "We just weren't told of any guests today... I mean—"

  Cratin held out a calming hand. "Relax. I'm just here to talk."

  The second guard spoke up. "Sir, with all due respect, people say things get... bloody when you're around."

  Cratin sighed. "People exaggerate. Usually."

  "Right, my apologies, sir—"

  "And don't call me 'sir.'" Cratin's voice cut in, stopping the guard cold. "You'll make rumors worse."

  Silence settled. The guards stood frozen, waiting for something to happen.

  "Gate?" Cratin asked, nodding toward it.

  Both men jumped into action at once, snapping to attention and raising the gate with frantic efficiency.

  "Welcome to Morlenfal," one managed, voice now thinner.

  With a heavy echo of each step he took, Cratin made his way through the winding halls of Morlenfal's Castle. Each hallway was pinched into a tall arch, adorned with motifs and carvings that symbolized its regality. Thin lines of arcana accented each arch, subtle and restrained, never drifting into showmanship. The throne room was equally painted with similar designs, shining it's polished stone floor, which Cratin's appearance almost insulted.

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  On either end of the throne room stood guards. Each one dressed in armor with a similar pale complexion to the walls outside, but held a faint pulse of some arcana at the joints and seams of the plating. At the end of the hall, atop a stepped platform, rested a man with black hair tied back with a little too much care. An elegant cloak that draped around his form as he sat. Framing his head was a small circlet of a silver crown. Two other guards framed his presence on either side of this otherwise shorter-than-normal throne.

  "Ah, our guest of honor, Cratin of the Siphoned Ones!" The lord rose from his throne, arms spread wide as he viewed the cloaked knight. "Come, have a seat, have a drink. It's not every day we have a hero within our halls." He reached over to a small decorated table at his side to pickup a goblet of wine.

  Cratin remained standing with a small breath either from the walk, or something else, "In your letter you mentioned a creature, Tanric." low voice filling the empty air around the throne room.

  "Straight to business? You've changed, Cratin. I don't remember the Siphoned Ones to be so... short." His eyes narrowed, "Very well, but it's not a creature. Mind you. The creature. A relic of war. A mutant. One of the precious few that survived our... what do the commoners call it these days?"

  "The Blue Star." His tone carried none of the pride nobles always assumed he felt.

  "Ah, yes!" Tanric brightened, swirling the goblet of wine as if reminiscing fondly over some holiday, "Such poetry in that name. You leveled entire armies and someone somewhere said it looked like a miracle. People do adore embellishment."

  "So I've noticed." He fought the urge to roll his eyes, instead fluttering them slightly.

  "Yes, well," the lord continued breezily, "this particular mutant slipped through the cracks. My men acquired it years ago. For study, of course. Very educational, I might add." Slightly poking his chin upward.

  "For study?" Cratin crossed his arms. "You nobles here do love your experiments. Some of us remember them."

  The lord waved dismissively, smiling. "Mhmm, I've heard plenty of times about your own experiences here in a particular tower - with a particular enchantress. Ours was quite tame. Sat quietly. Ate whatever we gave it. Really a model prisoner, you must take my word." Then, tightening his jaw, "Until three nights ago."

  "What changed?"

  Tanric tapped his goblet thoughtfully, like the matter was mildly irritating, "Well, you arrived back in the region. Perhaps it remembered you! The great Cratin - who wouldn't? Maybe it caught your scent, or your reputation. Mutants were always terribly sentimental about vengeance." He began to slowly pace around the base of his throne's pedestal. His soft shoes echoing a soft slap with each step.

  The cloaked man shrugged, "People tend to hold on to the parts of me they don't like. I've made my peace with it. Kind of a familiar habit." A smug smirk almost broke free on his face.

  The Lord stopped gleefully, "Habit?" He laughed, "Half the realm spits when your name comes across their table!"

  "And you don't?"

  "Oh, I certainly do." Tanric said cheerfully, "But I'm also very practical. A man can spit and still require services."

  Cratin let the air settle before proceeding, "Keeping a monster in your basement? Brave. Or stupid. Leaning more on stupid. Though, I am responsible for more controversially brave/stupid decisions so who am I to judge?" His tone started to loosen up, but only slightly, and his audience noticed, "Tell me, Tanric, what broke your little toy down there?"

  Tanric, now stepping toward the man, "Ah, I knew you'd make a good companion!"

  "Didn't agree to anything." A faint blue glow emitted under his chin.

  "Oh, but I have a feeling you will." Holding up the goblet to Cratin, inviting him to a sip, "It began mutating. Quickly. Violently. Ate several of my men - or parts of them. Very messy and I need it handled quietly. Ideally before the servants discover an opinion."

  "What about the screams?" Unmoving from the goblet's rim by his lips.

  "Easily explained, we don't need to worry about that part. Stray hounds!" Tanric grinned, "Overactive imagination! You know how the lower classes are, one unexpected noise and suddenly the demons are crawling through the floorboards!"

  Cratin's blood boiled under his skin. Taking a moment, he studied the man. His face, the hands, the demeanor and tone. Something smelled off, something was wrong, "You're not afraid of the Creature, you're afraid of how this looks when people find out."

  There was a brief pause in his form, "Morlenfal is a floating jewel of the realm, " He said cheerfully, "People panic at the slightest flicker of magic. They imagine the city crashing into the crater. They revolt over the shape of shadows. I'm simply trying to spare them distress."

  "And spare yourself a revolt."

  "A happy coincidence." Tanric raised his cup.

  Cratin glanced at the floor, feeling the faint hum beneath his boots. "The city's magic is unstable." Speaking flatly.

  Tanric's eyes sharpened for half a second — then the smile returned, wider. "Old structures groan. It's nothing serious. The mages assure me the levitation spells can handle whatever tantrum the past is throwing."

  "You don't believe that," Cratin said.

  "I believe in opportunity," Tanric replied.

  Cratin narrowed his gaze. "You're staging something. I can smell it. Your words don't line up. Neither does the timing."

  "Oh, Cratin," Tanric said, grinning, "you're giving me far too much credit."

  "Not enough," Cratin answered. "The truth is always worse with nobles." his attention returning to the vibrations of the ground beneath him. Small, subtle, almost not even there, but he could feel it, and it felt wrong.

  Tanric's eyes glittered, "If you want the truth, go beneath the palace. You'll see the problem for yourself."

  "And what problem is that?"

  Tanric leaned in, voice almost gleeful. "One that only you can walk into without screaming."