He stood in front of a circular, ornately carved basin. His hands were placed on both sides, and his hollow eyes were fixed upon the swirling contents within. It was a portal-image, rudimentary magyk, and he was using it to scan the kingdom from a bird's-eye view. It was always good to know where his enemies and... allies were at given points in the day. Using his will, he focused the swirling mass onto an image of a city of spires. The Ever-City.

Yet his mind was not focused on the scene only he could see. Instead, he kept on coming back to that Stellam Matutinam brat. How dare he? How dare he even attempt to defeat him, the great sorcerer, the Shadow Man? The brat was stupid, and lacking intelligence, just like the rest of his cursed family line.

He gave a snort of disgust. How he reviled those people... Something would have to be done about the brat - yes, something, something painful and very soon. The brat would pay.

Satisfied, and imaging gruesome scenarios of possible demises, he now focused his attention on the scene in front. Nothing was currently happening, but he studied the streets, the pathetic people who scurried about their own miserable lives, the chimes of the clock and any other detail. Having lived for so long, and seen so much, he was intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of Xeverron, but the makeup of cities changed, the people changed, and it was always good to study future battlegrounds. Only fools went into battle without knowing exactly the layout, the habits, the people of where battle took place. And he was no fool.

A blur of movement caught his sharp eyes. It was a guard hurrying to a destination, a rolled-up parchment clutched in his gloved hand. He ran across the main crossroads where all newcomers and strangers had to pay homage, gray cape fluttering behind him. By the make and condition of his visible swords, and the way he ran and scanned his surroundings at the same time, it was clear that he was not a run-of-the-mill guard. No, a highly trained and experienced guard, who carried the ring of the Chosen on his hand.

This was too good of an opportunity to miss. Willing the image to move forward, he focused on the guard's trek. The problem with the magyk he was currently using was that it would not follow a person. For whatever reason, the magyks would not allow that, and when the magyks did not allow something, there was no way to corner around it or to go against it. However, the magyks did allow the scanning of roads, of buildings, of cities and kingdoms. All he had to do was follow the roads that the guard was taking, and he would be able to see everything that was going on. As to the guard's destination, that was a given. One of the Chosen, running like the shadow army was behind him, a missive in his hand - the only place he could possibly go was the Hall.

Now the guard was on the steps, and climbing into the Hall. He shouldered past disgruntled sentries who clearly could not see that the guard was a deadly one, not to be bothered.

"What can you possibly be up to? Not that I am vain, or anything, but this could not possibly be about my latest... disturbance, right? So what is it now?" His curiosity was piqued now, and he was memorizing every last detail. He watched as his target requested a meeting with the General, a grizzled old man who still had nerves and skills of steel and fire. Once alone in a subdued room of faded green velvet, the missive was produced, the ribbon holding it closed broken, the contents read.

"What..." breathed the General, his shrewd, lined face expressing quite a bit of shock. Whatever this was, it had to be serious.

He tried to focus close on the document held in now shaking hands, but it was blurry, unfocused, and his head started to pound. If it were anyone else, there would now be a dead body - for hardly no-one can bear the Curse. Hands shaping into fists, he dearly wanted to read the contents of the document himself - but that was yet another restriction. If a missive was wrapped up in protective enchantments, as this one clearly was, he was not allowed to read it. If only the General would speak, read it aloud...

Luck, though he never believed in the stuff, was on his side, for the General did start to speak, reading out the contents of the one sheet. He had been right - this was serious. Mayhem, a mysterious assassination, the kidnapping of an heir... The forces of Xeverron that sought to protect the kingdom and its people were now in disarray, and had lost some of its assets. The more trouble for them, the more success and fun for him. These were great times, truly. With all the wars and the shadows and the deaths, he was having a riot. They would never find the One Who Will Arise anyhow, so the good times would continue.

Smirking a harsh, inhuman smile, the Shadow Man watched the scene of disbelief and despair that was in front of him, and knew that his empire would continue to reign and to expand. The one person who could stop him was nothing more than a figment of a prophecy's vivid imagination, after all.

***

She was dressed up in a gaudy red dress, tapping her heels and clapping her hands to the music, and indulging in a bit too much drink than was good for her. Ver was having a great time, just like she had been for a while, and she was reveling in it. Swaying her body to the playing of the instruments, she downed the rest of her drink and set the cup on a nearby table. Gods, these people had great parties.

"Enjoying yourself, lady?" came a sinister voice from behind her. Still smiling and dancing, Ver gripped the knife hidden in her bodice and turned, as if she had no care in the world. Like she had thought, it was Hidden Scar. Ever since she had started turning up to the nightly revelries of this cramped, lively establishment, a hooded man, decidedly a mercenary, with a thick scar the long of his face and a perpetual ferocious expression, had been watching her, staring at her.

Every night he would sit in the same corner, drink the same amber liquid and finger the same hilt of the same black sword. His eyes, so dark that you could not tell which color they were, would bore into her and take in her every move. But Ver was not that worried. Sure, she knew more than she wanted about dangerous men who stalked her every move, but this was a bit different, and she did not sense the same vibe of slimy evilness. It was a different sense that she got from Hidden Scar, as she called him in her thoughts. For some reason, Ver knew that he was not an immediate threat, that she was not in grave danger from him. Not that she welcomed the attention and convinced herself that this could be ignored. She was much too jaded for that.

"This is the first time you have dared spoken with me, traveler," she said in a regular voice, using the common word for a soldier of the roads. Like she had known, the mercenary heard her just fine, though there was a lot of noise and commotion around them.

He did not speak, instead just studying her, as if she were an opponent he had been told to vanquish. Ver knew that it was up to her to do something, for he would just stand there the entire night. She gestured to the counter of drinks, and started walking toward it, saying, "May we?" It was always good to be polite to strangers who had a fascination with you, especially if it was one that was no stranger to weapons and killing.

For the rest of the evening, they sat at the counter, downing glass after glass. She did all of the talking, and tried not to say too much mundane things. Instead, she focused on what was currently happening in the kingdom - politics, war reports, festivals and events. She did not speak of herself, of course, and kept a bland accent, telling the traveler that she had secrets and that they would stay with her.

"Same time tomorrow?" Ver said as a parting goodbye, when it was sunrise and she had exhausted her supply of words and the last stragglers were being encouraged to go back home. They were outside the establishment, and Hidden Scar had his hood pulled down low. He did not say anything, but before Ver started to walk off, he dipped his head low in ascent. It was a promise, and one he clearly intended to keep.

Letting herself in her rented room, Ver sighed in contentment. She was enjoying it here in the Isles. Of course, she planned to travel elsewhere in Xeverron, but she was determined to have as much fun here as she possibly could.

It was good being free, she thought to herself before she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

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