Chapter Twelve:
Drakonsarius awakens to find himself in a dimly lit room ringed by eleven high-backed chairs in a semicircle. He climbs to his feet and is relieved to feel the weight of armour and weapons. The room seems to have been designed and lit in such a way as to obscure the features of the chair's occupants to anyone in his position. The Dragoon sits down on the stone pedestal near him. A harsh male voice shatters the silence with, “And who would seek an audience with the Conclave of Viziers?”
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The knight takes a few seconds to realise that he was being addressed, “Ser Drakonsarius of the Great Spire, Knight of the Order of the Dragoon.” A heated argument breaks out at this.
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The harsh male voice spoke again, “Vizier Romanakov," "What in the name of the Great Unifier were thou thinking bringing a Dragoon before the Conclave?"
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A softer voice, also beloning to a man, responds, “Vizier Marx, any representative may seek an audience before the Conclave, regardless of their region of origin. Would it be the same if the Archduke of Umbracrest was here before us? I think not.”
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A snide-sounding voice seems to disagree, “Vizier Jasper, comparing Dragoons to the Archduke of Umbracrest is preposterous! The Archduchy may be a small territory in the collapsed West, but they are of noble blood and respect Narciss. Unlike those holy book bashing Ceruleans, who do not.”
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Drakonsarius is quick to pick up on the playful voice of the Vizier who brought him here. “The name of Niobite-Tantalite is the only truly preposterous thing in this room, Viziers Petrovsky and Rostov would attest to that. The knight is here for an important purpose.”
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A firm female voice that the Dragoon assumes to belong to the Grand Vizier puts an end to the argument. “Ser Drakonsarius, Knight of the Order of the Dragoon, I invite thou to address the Conclave and share the urgent matter that has brought thou here. We shalt assess thy statement, and proceed accordingly.”
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The knight knows that he can’t show his hand this early. He picks his words carefully because of this.
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“The esteemed Conclave of Viziers, I stand before thou today with a grave revelation. My hunt for the shadowy figure manipulating the pan-regional politics of Empyrea has led me to the region known as the Earldom of Narciss. I have discovered evidence pointing to the involvement of someone close to the Earl, someone who has insidiously woven their web of influence, manipulating the Earl for their own nefarious ends.”
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The room falls into a hushed silence as Ser Drakonsarius pauses, his words hanging heavy in the air.
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The sworn Guardian of Celestial Balance steps forward and addresses the Conclave with a determined tone, his armour bright even in the low light.
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“Through tireless investigation and scrutiny, I have narrowed down the possible culprits behind this vile manipulation. I suspect that the Puppetmaster, as I have come to call them, may be someone alarmingly close to the heart of power in Narciss.”
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“I have reason to believe that the Puppetmaster could only be Aeroadmiral Noble, Marshal Prideheart, or one of the Viziers of the Conclave. One of thy own could very well be who I am looking for, and since the military officials are not politically minded, that leaves the Grand Vizier – the closest to the Earl – as my primary suspect.”
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The Grand Vizier predictably scoffs at this accusation, “Thy evidence is circumstantial at best, Dragoon. Accusing the Grand Vizier and members of the Conclave of much of anything without solid proof is reckless. What thou states could be misconstrued intentions or misunderstandings.”
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The knight begins to formulate a reply but is interrupted by a new, female voice, high in pitch. “This is a mummers farce, and I for one won’t partake in it a moment longer.” There is the sound of chairs scraping on the hard floor, followed by two women clad in white sprinting past the Dragoon before he can react.
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Ser Drakonsarius charges after them, through the dim corridors of wherever he is, his armour clangs with each determined step. In the Dragon's Citadel, he had been made to run in extra heavy armour until he could run in his own without tiring for at least an hour.
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The knight turns a corner, catching a glimpse of white, for a short moment.
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A smokescreen of blue vapour makes the knight cough but fails to slow him down. He breaks through the smokescreen, emerging into brightly lit hallway of bustling with people moving through the building he was in. The fleeing figures, The Puppetmaster and another cultist, are still within sight, their movements swift but betrayed by the occasional flash of white.
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Or at least the movements were betrayed by the occasional flash of white until the Dragoon lost sight of the Cultists.
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Drakonsarius glances around in a panic, desperately searching for any sign of the fleeing cultists. His eyes scan the surroundings, and he notices a smaller corridor that branches off. Exploring it further, the knight realises that there is a single door that is ajar at the end of the short corridor.
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Driven by instinct, he cautiously approaches the entrance. The knight is surprised to find he has cornered his main target, alone. The third Ætharch is a tall woman with chestnut-blond hair and blue eyes with a strange melancholy to them. The Grand Vizier is sat in a wicker chair. A chalice sits on a small table next to her. The knight was confused. Shee could have disappeared and yet did not.
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"Art thou here to kill me?" She asked.
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“Yes.”
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“Tell me, Dragoon, why should I care?”
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The knight was prepared for a lot of things, but that question was not one of them, “What?”
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“I was forced into the role of Ætharch against my will. Death holds no terror for me. Ask thy questions, and be done with it.” Olga told him bitterly.
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“Why did thou, willingly or coerced, choose to align thyself with the malevolent forces that the Covenant worship?”
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The Ætharch looked at him tearfully, “The first god they worship is called Æonex The Tormentor of the Æbyss. It had it out for me the moment I was born. It murmured malevolent prophecies and unfurled ghastly visions of my kin suffering."
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"It showed me a vision of a dystopian future where Narciss withered in chaos. It decreed that only by embracing the Æbyss could i prevent this. My voice was slowly stolen, my communication reduced to guttural screams, and my veins were infected with a malevolent curse promising a slow, excruciating demise."
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"Eventually, at the age of seventeen, I gave in to it when it appeared in a dream, when I awoke, I was greeted by seven figures, who congratulated me and gave me a thick book. I read it all, the whispers told me what to do, and how to do it.”
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The knight felt sympathy for her, but he still needed answers, “Who is the other?”
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“The woman who fled alongside me? She is Rectess Maria Orlov, embraces the Covenant without a hint of remorse. She is a High-Priestess of the void and assists me, I don’t know who the other one is. I hate her with every fibre of my being.”
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Drakonsarius pauses to think of another question. Before he could ask it, she picked up the chalice and drained it.
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The Puppetmaster's body convulses as the poison takes effect, her features contorting in pain. She clutches at her chest, gasping for breath, as the toxin courses through her veins. In moments, the life drains from her, leaving a cold and lifeless shell behind. The poison accomplishes its dark purpose, ending the tortured existence of the Third Ætharch.
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At that moment, the High-Priestess of void enters, evidently furious.
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Drakonsarius raises his sword, choosing to incapacitate rather than kill. With a swift and controlled motion, he brings down the flat of his blade upon the cultist, the impact resonating through the small room.
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Maria staggers, momentarily disoriented by the forceful blow. She falls to the ground, unconscious, but alive.
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The Dragoon makes haste to leave the building, and after asking a sickly looking Vizier for directions. He makes it out of the building without any interference and enters his airship, deciding he will leave when he awakens.
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