“Field Observation Report,” Vaudrel began, eyes tracing each line with careful eyes. “Submitted by Lord Commander Alric Vaelgard, Lord of War, Commander of the Sixth and Third Legions of Valekyr.”

  He paused, letting the formality settle.

  “On the final day of the siege of Khal-Drathir, during breach operations within the Lord's Bastion, reconnaissance units discovered a ritual hex circle of unprecedented design. The structure was composed entirely of black powder, laid in sigils and geometric patterns absent from all known imperial archives.”

  “At its edge, upon a raised stone dais, bound to a high-backed seat, was the former senator Maerenth Molvane, now turned rebel commnader. His condition upon discovery was as follows: severely tortured, eyes sewn shut with thin black wire, fingers removed, and mental faculties reduced to incoherence. Initial examination suggested prolonged exposure to the hex had rendered his mind irrecoverable.”

  A ripple passed through the Seneschals. None could say if because of disgust, or interest.

  Vaudrel continued.

  "In the course of extraction operations, I, Lord Commander Alric Vaelgard, passed through the hex circle. During this transit, I experienced what I term displacement of soul and will. The hex presented signs similar to other known curses such as haunting and luring hexes, but of far greater potency. Symptoms included visual and auditory distortions, intrusive thoughts not my own, and physical disorientation rendering basic limb movement and coordination, including walking, difficult to perform."

  He glanced at Alric before turning back to the parchment.

  "The effects ceased upon exiting the circle's boundary. However, the rebel commander remains affected. His speech is fragmented, prophetic in tone, and divorced from linear thought.”

  A pause.

  “The summoned medicae stabilized the subject and placed him upon a makeshift stretcher for transport.”

  “During the transit through the city proper to camp, a survivor was spotted by me in the fields outside the city walls. Having reached and interrogated her, I judged her survival necessary for the following reasons: First, she is a witness to the Khal-Drathir hex circle. Second, her contamination during the Crag transit suggests a connection between the two phenomena. Third, her survival allows for controlled observation and interrogation by imperial thaumaturgy academics.”

  “As for the aforementioned Hollow Crag march, the woman exhibited various symptoms, such as: ocular discoloration to gold, involuntary speech patterns including use of names and knowledge she should not possess, and rotational eye movements impossible without supernatural intervention."

  Vaudrel's voice sharpened slightly as he scanned the contents of the document.

  "In light of all that has transpired in this campaign, and its recorded events, I cite Section IX, Subsection IV of the Field Command Discretionary Powers Act, which grants a Lord of War authority to preserve witnesses to unknown sorcery for imperial interrogation, overriding standard spoil protocols when strategic intelligence value exceeds immediate adherence to edict."

  Vaudrel set the parchment down with measured precision.

  "I formally request that the War Council and His Majesty authorize her transfer to the custody of the Imperial Thaumaturgical Division for examination, or permit me to retain observational authority as the field witness most familiar with her condition and history."

  He locked eyes with Alric.

  "Signed and sealed by my hand, Lord Commander Alric Vaelgard."

  Silence descended like a shroud.

  The Emperor's fingers drummed once against the armrest, his violet gaze fixed on Alric alone.

  “Bring them,” he said, voice rolling through the chamber like distant thunder.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Your Majesty?” came Vaudrel’s reply, bewilderment barely hidden beneath a veneer of cordial composure.

  “The rebel commander first. Then the woman. Bring them before me. Now.“

  “Your Majesty,” Vaudrel’s tone carried the syrup of careful deference, “While the Council does not question your wisdom, perhaps it would be prudent to allow the prisoners time to... prepare for testimony? The rebel commander is said to be incoherent, and the woman stain-touched. We would not wish their condition to obscure the clarity of truth, or worse yet, endager The Great Sun of the Empire.”

  The Emperor’s gaze shifted to him, slow and deliberate, frost falling like ash over the chamber.

  “Seneschal,” the Emperor said, voice cold as winter fog, “I did not ask for your counsel. I gave you a command.”

  Vaudrel’s smirk strained.

  “Of course, Your Majesty. I meant only to—.”

  “Their condition,” the Emperor began, leaning forward slightly, eyes hardening into frigid amethysts, “is the truth. If the Lord Commander’s report holds true, we will see it. If it does not. We will see it also.”

  “Bring. Them. In.”

  Vaudrel bowed his head, hands folded.

  “As Your Majesty commands.”

  He then gestured sharply to a clerk waiting along the perimeter. The man bowed and slipped through a side door.

  The chamber settled into a deep hush once more, cold shafts of light reverberating through the white stone.

  Minutes passed, and a distant clatter of boots sounded beyond the great doors. When they opened, two Imperial Guardsmen entered, a stretcher borne between them.

  Upon it lay Maerenth Molvane, once a proud Senator of the Empire. His dismembered limbs twitched with brittle motion, fingers grasping at something in the darkness he saw. The thin black worm sealing his eyelids glimmered faintly beneath Valekyr’s autumn sun.

  Murmurs rippled through the crescent. Some averted their gaze, while others recoiled in displeasure at the sight of a once proud noble reduced to such ruin.

  The guards halted before the throne and lowered him onto the marble. He came to rest between Alric and the Emperor, their forms divided by distance and height.

  The Emperor regarded the dilapidated man with an unreadable gaze, his features carved from inscrutable stillness.

  “Former Senator of the Southern Regions Maerenth Molvane. Can you hear me?”

  Nothing but a faint loll of the head and rasped breath.

  The Emperor leaned forward slightly.

  “I ask again. Can you hear me?”

  At his second question, Molvane’s hands twitched once more before he turned his face to him.

  Though his eyes were sewn shut, he angled his head as if he could see through the wire and blocking flesh, into something deeper.

  His mouth opened.

  “The revolutions of the Great Sun of the Empire speak of concentric quadrangles. Their sides touch mortality and beget a Child. One He cradles in His bosom and calls His own.”

  His voice, raked from torture, scraped against the flesh of his rotted gums.

  “The shepherd’s staff comforts me. It caresses me into sublimation, gives me life, gives me death, gives me purpose.”

  Caellis’ fingers drummed against the table in mounting annoyance.

  “Your Majesty, if I may, it is evident this man is delirious. To question him further would simply bring more confusion than clarity.”

  The Emperor drew breath to answer, but the mad prognosticator spoke first, head still tilted toward himself.

  “I know of a snake which reared a child, one acquainted with muzzles, chains and swords. Its venom stricken dull, it lulled itself in dreamless sleep thinking it might heal him. It bore a Son, but could not accept him, so it cast him out in the nether regions of perpetual night.”

  “Do you wish to continue with your babbling, Senator?” The Emperor’s gaze hardened a fraction.

  Molvane’s face split into a smile of broken teeth.

  “Madness is not of me, but of them. Of those who fashion themselves shepherds and are worms. Who feed the sheep but make themselves spoil of them. I have been stripped of splendour and molded by glass. Borne of hatred, carried by sin.”

  He turned toward Alric, eyes tracing nothingness behind their sutures.

  “You have two fathers, yet you carry the image of one, and the mirror of the other. Do you know whose voice is whose?”

  Alric’s hands clenched at his sides, but he said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on the broken seer’s figure.

  “Explain yourself, Molvane. Who do you speak of?” The Emperor pressed, voice cut from stone.

  Molvane’s smile cracked wider, droplets of blood threading down the corners of his lips.

  “It is useless to speak of how gold wears silver and parades itself as just. Brass covers silver. And silver, brass.”

  Silence descended once more.

  The Emperor’s amethysts remained on Molvane for a long moment before he leaned back against the throne.

  “Remove him.“

  The Imperial Guards stepped forward at once, each lifting one side of the stretcher from the ground.

  Molvane's head lolled to the side as they carried him toward the chamber's edge, his breath coming in shallow, wheezing pulls through ruined ribs.

  As he passed Alric, he spoke one final time.

  "The jewel pines for you, Lord of Grey Ash," he whispered. "Will you call back?"

  Then he was gone.

  The doors sealed behind him with a resounding thud, letting a new drapery of silence descend upon them.

  The chamber felt hollow, as though something had been drawn out of the air and not returned.

  Alric’s mind surged with the weight of those words, but he forced them into submission. His hands unclenched and his heart steadied once more.

  Across the benches, Vaudrel leaned toward Caellis, voice low. Durell’s smile widened a fraction with predatory glee.

  The Emperor’s voice broke the murmurs asunder, enveloping the room in its deep austerity.

  “Bring the woman.”