Letter Addressed to Obtoxicullous

Obtoxicullous,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you'll thank your mother for the lovely letter she sent me this spring. I intend to write to her again, but I should imagine you'll be reading your correspondence from me sooner. She says you always do.

It is with the greatest excitement that I write this particular letter. Ground has finally been broken on what some of the council members have affectionately deemed "an Island of Dreams"—the expanse of relatively flat land, isolated by a vast ocean, where we're to construct this Citadel of Magic. As you're likely already assuming, I'll neither confirm nor deny my role in the conception of that endearment. But on the subject of names, I learned that the humans call this ocean "The Whispering Sea." It sounds so beautiful in their language. That's quite a name, isn't it? Mysterious and evocative.

So far, we've spent an extended length of time in a newly established port, through which the Serellians have been supplying the stone from the northern mountains and timber from the valleys they promised as part of our agreement. Seeing the raw materials and touching them is almost like magic in itself, breathing life into my dream with something tangible.

I've met some of the mages in Serellia, Obi. Their tragic tales of what they've been subjected to in their short lives, solely because they've presented with magic, are enough that even my brother's heart would be moved; and not all of them are native to this kingdom. Some had traveled across the entire continent, motivated only by knowledge of rumor alone as to what we're doing here. I've heard more are arriving by the day now and that the locals are growing displeased by the influx of refugees. Perhaps it will spur their craftsmen into building the Citadel faster.

My makeshift lodging on the island has been adequate, if not a bit solitary. A few birds have begun to visit my windowsill. I didn't realize they flew so far from the continent, though I suppose it's reasonable to assume that the humans are not the only creatures we've drawn the attention of here. I can't wait to see this place thrive, Obi. It will be even more breathtaking than I imagined. I'm sure of it.

In regard to your previous question, the one I avoided answering in my last letter, as you so astutely pointed out, I did receive correspondence from Sansdan.

It sounded to me as though his parents, along with mine and our community leaders, do intend to proceed with the legal processes of my union to him despite my absence—upon completion of which, I'm certain they'll send orders requesting my immediate return to Kelluciel for the consummation. Though I do miss home and all of its comforts, I've never been more convinced that for now, at least, this is where I'm needed most—seeing this Citadel to fruition. I know how everyone at home has received this stance and may think less of me for it, but I don't see this mission as selfish.

These mages need a place to go, and they do not have the luxury of time as we do. You understand my conviction, Obi. I know you do. Surely, conceiving a child can wait.

Please, do tell me more about how you've been in your next letter. Your last was rather sparse in regard to your own doings, and I should love to read of what you've been filling your time with. I find myself wondering as often as I miss you, which has become terribly often.

Be well, my dearest friend...

-Alikite

***

Ardaik 8th - La'Trest, Lorellia

Folian Spar had never been to La'Trest. In fact, the number of times he'd been this far away from Tulot was so few that he could count them all on one hand. It had taken them nearly seven hours of urgent flying to reach the Lorellian capital, and the stress of travel had clearly affected all involved by the time their dragons landed just outside the city walls. When he dismounted, the soft, rich dirt under his boots didn't help make his knees feel any less weak, either.

"I've been too old for this for at least three summers," Iain groaned, stretching his back as he gingerly paced near his own winged mount.

"At least you're on yer feet," Folian replied before looking and gesturing pointedly at the form of the marquis. Bhalthier was slumped across the back of Folian's dragon like a rolled pelt of bear fur.

Iain let out a wheeze of a laugh before speaking again. "How's Lord Cullach fairing?"

"I imagine this is the most sleep the man's ever gotten," Folian jeered, resting his hands on his waist and sighing. He knew Cullach supposedly didn't sleep, but the marquis had sure as feck fainted shortly after taking off. Very shortly, in fact. The man had no constitution to speak of, and the few times that Cullach had woken up during their flight, he'd promptly screamed like he was being quartered—scaring the daylights out of both Folian and Faranreon—before fainting again.

While the rest of the men were saddle sore, and rightly so, King Liam hardly looked as though he'd spent the better part of the last day or so traveling.

"Get him up," Liam instructed as he retrieved his sword, axe, and pack from Orath's back. "We go on foot from here!"

Liam's dragon, Orath, was green as moss on a river rock and big. He was the oldest dragon that served Serellia. Liam's father had once road him into battle, and now he served as Liam's loyal mount; fates willing, he would someday pass to Flann. Liam paused a moment before shaking the thought from his head. No. Flann was alive; they just needed to find him.

"Cullach!"

The king's shout jolted Bhalthier awake, and the lank man fumbled for a moment before regaining his senses and sliding off the dragon. His legs were weak and buckled under him the moment they were forced to bear any weight, leaving him to cling onto Folian's red dragon for support, though Faranreon scarcely seemed bothered.

"Single worst way imaginable to travel," Bhalthier murmured as he fished out his handkerchief and held it over his face a moment until he was sure he wouldn't be sick.

The signs of devastation were clear to the party even as they approached La'Trest. The city's great white outer walls were blemished and scorched. The once beautiful watchtowers that guarded it were gone—marked only by the mishappened piles of rubble that remained. The gates were torn open from within as if a great bull had smashed through them, and a steady stream of travelers shuffled past.

At first, they mistook them for villagers—peasants that worked in the city—on their way home for the night. But as they drew closer, the gruesome truth became clear. They were undead. Rotten, shambling, mindless corpses that neither seemed to notice nor care about the presence of Liam and his company.

Folian's voice cracked. "Undead!"

"Aye! Yer Majesty, shall I do the honor of cleaving their skulls in!?" McKee asked eagerly, his axe already in hand.

"Hold!" Bhalthier shouted, but Folian's blade had already cut through the shoulder of one of the monsters; it sunk nearly into its chest before he stopped his swing.

"Hold? Are ya mad?" McKee balked. "They aren't natural!"

"Your Majesty, evil may have created these creatures, but it is not compelling them. Might I suggest not drawing undo attention if they seem willing to let us pass unnoticed?" the marquis pleaded.

Liam's face was pensive for a moment before he motioned with his chin. "Leave 'em. As long as they make no violence against us, we shall return the kindness."

"Unfeck'n believable," McKee said as he stowed his axe roughly, and the group continued into the city...or what was left of it.

"I've ner' seen anything that felt so akin ta walkin' through a forest of the departed without it bein' so," Iain whispered reverently when they passed through the gates.

Folian had to agree. La'Trest was the kind of quiet that felt oppressive—like the trauma of what happened days ago was still hanging in the air, just waiting to sit heavy on the shoulders of anyone it could cling to.

The main street was covered in debris, and an entire building had collapsed after being gutted by fire. Some attempt had been made to keep the way passible. At the end of the main road, in the city's heart, was the gate to the castle grounds—the only gate left untouched.

"Stop there!" a voice demanded from the high walls of the gate. A Lorellian guard, backlit by unseen lanterns, along with a small handful of archers, peered down at them—bows drawn taut. "And sheath your weapons!"

"I s'pose it's good we left the dragons outside," Folian muttered out of the corner of his mouth, scanning the dark road around them for any other threats before feeling comfortable enough to comply with the demand. He supposed his uncle had the same idea because Iain was slow to sheath his sword as well.

"State your business!"

Liam raised a brow and then motioned to Bhalthier to go ahead and answer for them. The Serellian in him disliked handing these things over to Bhalthier. However, the king in him recognized the value of having an ambassador who understood the customs better and could handle the little things. After all, it was their mission that was important, not how it came about.

"His royal Majesty, King Liam of Serellia, has responded to the call of your king, as per the treaty that binds our two kingdoms. Will you allow us entry?"

The guard on the wall seemed to consider them a moment before raising a hand; in a single motion, he signaled for the archers to stand down. "Do you have with you a flag or a royal seal?" he replied while one of the archers next to him disappeared from view.

Iain tutted and shook his head, turning away from the gate in the direction of his nephew. "These fools had their capital nearly leveled an' are concerned with bureaucracy an' formalities..."

Folian's upper lip curled while he crossed his arms over his chest. "Feck this... We shouldn'ta come here," he whispered, glancing at Liam and Bhalthier.

"My axe, Gildébast, handed down from king to king, bears the seal of our kingdom and family!" Liam pulled the axe from his belt.

It was a handsome weapon—the blade polished to perfection and etched in the names of his forefathers. The handle was carved from elk horn, and where any normal felling axe would have a spike, Gildébast's spike was blunted and held the Serellian royal seal—though Liam doubted that the guard could see any of that from where he perched. "Would ye like to come down and take a closer look for yerself, or would ye prefer that we save your king from his affliction?"

After a few words passed between the guard and the archers closest to him, the lot descended from their position, leaving the Serellians to wait without any indication of what may be happening for several moments. Then, the telling signs of iron and wood scrapping signaled that the gate was being opened before the great doors actually moved.

"Follow me, my lord," the Lorellian guard said curtly before turning to lead the way across a bridge that spanned what they could scarcely make out as a deep moat. Once they'd reached the courtyard, they spotted more royal guards dressed in Lorellian blue tunics and plate mail, accompanied by the archer who'd left the wall before the others, presumably to report their arrival.

The gate guard went no further than the fountain in the center of the courtyard, and Folian couldn't resist giving him a blatant shove on his way past, to which the Lorellian looked completely taken aback. "Royal seal..." Folian scoffed, again shaking his head before Iain urged him along.

Once inside, a head servant took over leading them, while twice as many Lorellians as their party of five followed them at what they likely considered a polite but prudent distance.

Cristaldo's room was dark, and not just because it was well past sunset. One didn't need to be a mage to sense the foreboding weight that smothered the room so completely that it seemed to press against the walls—threatening to pinch out the weakly dancing flames quivering within the confines of their glass lamps.

Iain refused to step inside. "I'll wait 'ere," he mumbled softly, stopping just short of the threshold. "I came fer his Majesty an' fer Flannie-boy. Not ta carry home a curse."

"Hmm, not a bad idea. McKee, stay with him," Liam instructed before entering the room, Bhalthier trailing closely behind him.

It wasn't until Folian was two paces into the room that he began to wish he'd stayed back to shiver in his boots along with the old men. Before he'd even noticed what he was doing, his hand moved to rest on the hilt of his sword, spurred solely by how deeply uncomfortable he was.

"Your Majesty," the servant stated gently once he was beside Cristaldo's bed. "The Serellian king is here...as well as his marquis."

Cristaldo stirred. Then, with the servant's help, he sat up enough for another servant to tuck a few more pillows behind his back to provide him precious, needed support. "I didn't expect you'd arrive so quickly. Nor did I...expect so much company..." Cristaldo's voice was strained. He sounded terribly winded and looked a decade beyond his actual years. His skin held no color and appeared parched. His cheeks were gaunt, and the dark circles under his eyes easily rivaled Cullach's. "You'll have to forgive me for dressing down. As you clearly know, I'm not well..."

"Heh, I'm sure you'd have done the same if the tables were turned." Liam didn't believe his words. Bhalthier didn't need to use his magic to know that; however, there was still a hopeful quality to his tone that made Bhalthier believe the king thought that could change. "Well, let Cullach look at ye, see what he can do." Liam nodded for the marquis to step forward.

"If I may?" Bhalthier asked, checking with the servants and guards before daring to approach the Lorellian king.

Liam knew that Bhalthier held magic, but not many others did. They'd worked hard to keep it that way for many reasons. One of which was the nature of Bhalthier's magic. It was triggered by touch, which Liam felt made the marquis more and less dangerous all at the same time. On the one hand, he wouldn't be throwing fireballs at anyone; on the other, Bhalthier could see everything about a thing, person, or place just by making contact with it. It made him a great spy, but now Liam was concerned with how long Cristaldo had been aware that their ambassador was a mage.

Once he was given the approval to continue, Bhalthier approached and placed his hand gently against the king's forehead, as if he were doing nothing more than checking his temperature. The moment skin met skin, Bhalthier's eyes closed as his mind flooded with the Lorellian king's thoughts. His fears and skepticism were clear and upfront. It took no digging for Bhalthier to feel his anger or sorrow, but he was looking for something deeper.

Bhalthier's brows knitted together as he pulled on the threads of the king's thoughts, trying to unravel his memories back to the night of the ceremony. A thought caught his attention—terrifying, powerful, and dark. Obtoxicullous came into view. He was breaking into the palace, making demands that Cristaldo refused, and there it was...the incantation.

Bhalthier's eyes opened, and he stepped back, rubbing his hands together as if they'd become colder just by making contact with the ill king.

"It is a dark magic which afflicts you...I've never—"

"Of that, I'm aware," Cristaldo said. "Can you fix it?"

"Hum... I cannot undo what's been done. Magic has rules and conditions that must be met," Bhalthier explained. "But there is a way to counter the spell and save yourself... At the cost of another."