'Fair eventide, Vi-Garran,' Juda said, barely out of breath despite the climb to the balconette of Roth Vi-Garran's personal study, high in the Citadel Vault tower. 

He'd been mastering the twisted turrets and moulded pinnacles since his mother had been transported to the dead fields and Roth had taken him in, and he knew every inch of the tower, as if it were a map etched behind the workings of his eyes.

The Master Librarian glanced at Juda from behind a stack of tomes and parchments that never seemed to diminish, although he swore he worked through every single one and merely replaced them with more.

'Eventide, Juda?' He scowled over the top of his reading glasses. 'You'll find it's closer to moontide, and you're fucking late, as always.'

Roth Vi-Garran was still the knot of muscle he'd always been as a Highguard of the Serpent Order, hardly weathered over the years even though his trade of bloodshed and death had been exchanged for guardianship of the Vault and books. There was not one part of his body left unscarred by his servitude to the King, however small or large the affliction. Not one bone, sinew or piece of flesh that hadn't borne the strain of his duty and obligation. Yet hand him a few flasks of ale, and he would tell you that it was his soul that was forever burdened by all that he had done in the name of King Aldolus Ban-Keren.

A mountain of a man, Roth often looked out of place with all the scribes and book-keepers of the Vault Libraries – like throwing a dragerine bear into an enclosure of snow hares – but despite all that he had been, it was in his new servitude he had found something akin to home, even if he didn't look like he should belong there. Devoted to the page since a young age, his brutal past had never dullened his love for books and for learning, and he now protected everything single item in the King's Vault, just as he had protected the King's life – with devotion, honour and a heart closed to anyone who dared to threaten the sanctity of his exalted task.

That was until Juda Vikaris had fallen, quite literally, into his life.

Hungry, alone and full of rage, Juda had thieved and tricked his way into the Regal Libraries, desperate to find the man he believed had abandoned his mother when she had been with child, condemning her to a life in Grimefell, and subsequently, a death in the dead fields. Having not known Aleina, his childhood friend and once thief of his heart, had been punished with such a fate, Vi-Garran had been bereft to hear of her passing, but not so much that he had not seen in Juda something of himself, despite not being the boy's father. The spitting firebrand that was Juda Vikaris had trespassed beyond every barrier, picked every lock, dodged the watchful gaze of every librarian, to find himself in front of the sleeping form of Roth Vi-Garran, slumped over his desk.

Roth had a memory of how every scar he possessed had been obtained, but the blade-width scar he had on his right hand, matched on both sides, front and back, from where Juda had pinned it to the desk with a dagger, was the one he carried with him at all times. It signified a new adventure, a new future, and, he could scarcely dare to believe, hope.

Hope that Juda Vikaris would do what Roth had always wished he could: bring about the end of King Aldolus Ban-Keren's reign of darkness.

With his training, guidance and now, sponsorship to the Order itself, Vi-Garran's hope was an ever-burning ember, ready to catch flame once more and burn down this whole fucking citadel.

'I was busy,' Juda replied, ignoring the dry gaze of his guardian and heading straight for the bookshelf opposite, trailing his fingers along the spines of the tomes resting there. Dust gathered on the peaks of all but one – the same one Juda chose every time he visited. Tugging it free from the stack, he allowed himself a small curl of his lips, as his fingertips traced the worn gilded script on the tired, leather-bound cover. It was a children's story, and one that Roth often told him was full of nothing but ghosts and distractions, but Juda recalled the way in which his mother's mouth formed the words when she had read it aloud to him as a child. Remembered every inflection of her tone and how her eyes had widened dramatically with every tale of forest dragons and dark sorcery, making the young Juda giggle and shriek.

'Busy? That's all you have to say on the matter, boy?' Vi-Garran had never quite outgrown his usage of boy, despite Juda now reaching his twenty-fourth moon. Juda might have become a man himself, but sometimes Roth had to blink and clear his gaze, seeing the same angry, but ever-curious child standing in the exact same place Juda was now.

He removed his glasses and threw them down onto the desk, pinching the bridge of his nose and using his thumb to knead away the remnants of a headache that had bothered him since morntide.

'And pray tell, Juda, what kept you so busy that you couldn't be arsed to be punctual this time?'

'Lord Dageor,' came Juda's casual reply.

Roth stiffened, his eyes widening as he watched Juda saunter towards the armchair, his gaze not wavering from the open pages of the book, even as he sat down, hooking one leg over the arm and slouching into the cushions in a way Roth both hated and warmed to see in equal measure.

'Dageor? You're certain it was Dageor?'

When Juda gave a non-committal hum, Roth slapped his palm down hard on the desk, prompting Juda to finally drag his gaze from the book, dead-eyeing his guardian in a way Roth had seen too often lately, and had not cared for it either. It was a look he'd worn himself for far too long. A dullening of the eyes which he sometimes still saw in the mirror, even after so many years of being free of the Order.

There were some that would say, the only true freedom from the Order was death itself, for only then could you lay the ghosts to rest that haunted the backs of your eye sockets. Vi-Garran's ghosts didn't just live in his reflection. Their screams lingered in his ears. Their hands clawing for him as he stood and bathed in the small, circular iron tub, the Dreynian water at his feet turning to blood.

'Well, The Grim referred to him by name, so yes, I am certain.'

Roth ignored his ward's sarcasm. 'And what did he want with you?'

'He wanted nothing from me, although it appears I have piqued the priest's interest,' replied Juda, albeit with muchdisinterest, as his gaze was drawn back to the book. Next was the tale of the Naiad, when his mother would lower her voice to barely more than a whisper, telling Juda they had to be quiet, else the water witch would drag her scale-covered body from the Setalah and scratch at their windows with her poison-tipped talons.

'By the dead gods, Juda! Leave the fucking book and look at me!'

Juda closed the book without protest, resting his palm upon it as if some power still lingered in the leather binding, a connection with his mother that he could not dare to lose.

'You seem rattled, Roth. What ails you? You should leave the confines of your study more. I think the dust as addled your mind.'

Roth pressed his knuckles into the wood and stood up, his huge bulk suddenly making the room seem far smaller. He leant forward, the light from his desk lantern reflecting off the silver streaks in the braids that lined either side of his head. 'What addles me is you, Juda. You dare mention Lord Dageor's name like it is as insignificant as the names of the whores you lay with in Grimefell? He is a High Priest of the Druvari.'

Juda arched a single brow. 'I am well aware of who he is. And anyway, you are wrong. My ladies of Grimefell are far from insignificant. They hold a very dear place in my heart.'

'You and I both know that your heart rots in the dead fields, boy. The only place you hold those women is against your côck.'

'Then it is a mighty fine place for them to be, for they are as happy for it as they are for the coin I give them for their time.' Juda sighed and unhooked his leg from the arm of the chair, so he could return to the bookcase and place the tome back where he had found it.

Roth shook his head, watching his ward as he gave the book one last wistful look.

When he turned to face Vi-Garran once more, the curious boy was gone and in his place was the man he had become – all sharpened bone and unforgiving flesh, who surveyed the world with a coldness that verged on cruelty. Roth could only blame himself. He'd moulded Juda Vikaris in his own image, conditioned his heart and soul for one purpose, taken the boy's desire for revenge and twisted it between his hands until he'd constructed the perfect weapon.

'They found Luca Zar-Kuron washed up on the shore of the Setalah. Someone had tossed him into the water.'

'The missing novice!' Roth's eyes shone. 'But, how?'

'I care not,' Juda replied. 'He is dead, as is Terrick Bo-Dreven. Lord Dageor witnessed his final breath be ripped from his body, by my hand.'

'The shipmaster's son?' Roth couldn't help but be impressed. And glad for it. One less noble's son was always a blessing. 'If Dageor was called as spectator, then surely The Grim has earmarked you for advancement. Juda, this is fine news, indeed.'

Juda scowled. 'Well, it would be if Dageor wasn't seeking a connection between me and the two dead novices.'

'He suspects you?'

'In truth, I know not, but he is asking difficult questions of The Grim and has demanded he present Zar-Kuron's murderer to the King within five moontides.' Juda stepped closer, the lantern light brightening his eyes amidst the black streak of oil slashed across his face. 'And he was asking questions of you, Roth, more specifically how you came to sponsor an orphan-brat such as myself. The Grim told him the story of how it all came to be, but I am not certain if Dageor was satisfied. He may come in search of you.'

Roth bared his teeth and growled. 'Let the bastard come. That man has not been satisfied since he gave leave of his mother's tit. I'll send him back to his black temple pissing in his britches.'

'Be mindful, Roth. As joyful as that image might be, we need him, as you well know. We are close now.'

The guardian grinned and scratched at his beard. 'That we are, boy.' He grabbed the lantern from the desk. 'Which is why we must make use of what little time we have and get back to work. Come now.'

Leading the way, Roth stalked through the narrow passages, the lantern held aloft in front and Juda Vikaris at his back. The tower was a maze of winding gangways, gloom-drenched nooks, and neck-breaking staircases, some barely wide enough to manage the imposing form of Vi-Garran. Meet someone along the way and they would have to return to the closest recess to wait until the other passed, which meant this part of the journey could be the most precarious, should they encounter anyone who might wonder why a novice of the Order was away from his quarters and in the company of the Master Librarian.

Thankfully, Vi-Garran knew the odds were in their favour.

The bookkeepers and scribes often whispered of the phantoms that lingered in the shadows of the library towers, stories of such terror peddled discreetly by Roth himself. Of course, it had helped when he'd ordered a novice scribe to fetch a particularly important parchment in this very tower, only to ensure the lad couldn't find his way back and had become lost for the best part of two moontides. When they had finally found him, curled into a ball so tight it took three men to unlock his limbs from his body, the tales of the haunted tower became almost as infamous as the tales of Highguard Vi-Garran himself.

Half the tales were brogboar shit, but Roth was glad of them. The wider the berth people afforded him, the less he had to deal with them. He cared not for company, and besides, none of the stories could be worse than the truth of it all.

Nothing more horrific than what he had been witness to.

Nothing more shocking than what he had done.

The Citadel Vault, also known as the Library, was a mass of interwoven towers, located at the uppermost point of the mid echelon, where the streets that encircled the citadel began to widen and the structures became greater in size. From the window of Vi-Garran's study, he could see down into the twisted chaos that was Grimefell, and when the storms hit, and the winds shuddered in violent gusts, he would watch the waves burst against the sea stacks and will them to consume everything. Especially him.

But look up, and he would see Ban-Karen's exalted keep, the jagged spires as if they had been hacked from the black rock itself, the gates as wide as the wingspan of a spider dragon, which seemed apt to him, knowing the monster who lurked in the centre of that dreaded lair.

And between the two opposing worlds, Roth Vi-Garran sat, as he always had, in servitude to one, and his boot raised over the other, despising both roles with which his life had cursed him, but despising neither as much as he did himself.

It was only this – this mad mission he had undertaken – that lifted the dark cloud in which he'd been enshrouded before Juda Vikaris had come looking for him. It was only this that had made his heart begin to thump hard in his chest again, the heart that had shrivelled and hardened to black rock on the very moontide when he had carried out the orders of his King without question.

Now, the waves burst against his ribcage as ferociously as they beat against the shore and he was awakened again – alive, instead of the dead thing he had become.

Reaching the enclave at the base of the tower, Roth unlocked the door, and they swept inside, with Roth locking it again behind them. Here, the bookstacks crammed into every space, giving off a claustrophobic, musty air, even though the ceiling stretched high above their heads. In the farthest most corner, where the shadows converged as black as pitch, Roth lit another lantern as Juda busied himself to drag a heavy rug to one side, revealing a large square hatch, its iron ringed handle embedded into the dark wood.

Twisting the ring, Juda tugged the hatch open, pushing it back as far as it would go.

An endless pit of darkness awaited, the stench of damp and rot reaching upwards, plugging their nostrils, the taste sour on their tongues.

'We are almost there, Roth. By the end of this moontide, the entrance to the catacombs will be within our reach.'

Vi-Garran looked directly into the maw of the tunnel, the one that lead through the depths of the Vaults, through the centre of the Citadel, right down into the caves and waterways beneath Druvaria. As dark and foreboding as it appeared, what Roth saw was hope. Juda was right. They were almost there. Their path to Ban-Keren was within reach.

'Then I will wish fair moontide to you, Juda,' Roth said, embracing his ward, his mouth close to his ear. 'By the blade, my boy. By the blood. May Aleina guide you in the dark.'

As Juda began to climb down into the mouth of the tunnel, Vi-Garran took one last look as he watched him descend into the shaft they had been trying to break through for the last three cycles.

'Do not tarry, Vikaris,' he warned. 'Ensure you are gone from here before the first light beckons.'

Juda grinned but said nothing, fading into the darkness, leaving Vi-Garran to think about that embrace and how each time they bid goodbye now, Juda's grip weakened a little more, the coldness seeping from his body like the rot that spread from the catacombs.

How long would it be before Roth Vi-Garran's ward became a ghost to him?

How long did he have before the Juda he knew became the monster he had once been himself?