There wasn't any time here to politely convince slaves not to do their jobs and raise an alarm against them.
To be honest, Rom was starting to wish he'd dealt with the little girl more intelligently. It was hard to make himself harm children that occupied a place he'd once been in himself, but all he'd needed to do was put her to sleep, leave her unconscious on the floor there. That was the fate he intended for this particular scrambling messenger, assuming he could reach him before he got away. The others could hopefully cover him as he worked, and these five would be the only ones they'd need to deal with here.
Taking off at a sprint, Rom still didn't draw his weapon, knowing he'd need both hands relatively free to properly grapple onto the running servant. He was quicker than the slave by a fair bit, catching him in only a few seconds in the hallway, where Rom performed a sliding tackle, taking out his legs and bringing him to the ground. His hands were on him immediately after, swiping away attempts to escape, kicking his legs out as he tried to get his feet again, trying to wrap arms around the smaller man's neck. It would take a moment, but it needed to be done.
Leon moved to protect their formation's flank. It meant he didn't engage directly with the leader, rather moving to cut off one of those that emerged from the back of the hallway instead. In a manner that had become familiar to Rom with time, he let a hit glance off his armor, using the opportunity to close to within arm's reach. For now, at least, he appeared to be moving at just about full steam, lowering his shoulder and tackling the other man to the floor.
The Contee guard's helmet clanged against the ground hard. Leon gripped the faceplate of it in one large hand and slammed it back against the stone. Even with the protection, there was no way the force involved didn't do something, and the guard dropped his blade beside him, likely from insensate fingers. He was slack and still, perhaps just unconscious rather than dead. Leon climbed off him when it became obvious he'd be putting up no further fight, casting about the room for the next opponent.
In the time that took, Cyrus had moved up to engage the leader, grimly fending off the greatsword with a well-timed deflection from his left-hand blade. The right-hand one sought a weak point in the man's plate, but skidded away instead when he shifted, letting his armor absorb the hit. Cyrus wasn't a small man, but he was smaller than this fellow, and he didn't try to force a contest of strength, instead sliding away from the engagement and trying again from another angle. His strikes were much faster, and for now at least he didn't seem to be in any danger of getting hit, but one misstep could change that. His own armor wasn't nearly so thick, after all.
An arrow hissed overheard moments before Rom tackled the servant to the ground. It twanged into the kitchen door, down to the shaft, vibrating with the propelled force. A sorry, sorry was heard over the din of metal clattering together. She hadnât seemed to notice that the man was a servant, or had simply reacted before thinking. A by-product of the concoction sheâd taken, perhaps. She pressed herself up against the wall, slightly behind a coffee table, already reaching over her shoulder to produce another arrow from her quiver.
This time, she loosed her arrow a little closer, straight over Leonâs bunched shoulders. Another man had stepped into view, face obscured by the plated helm he wore. The arrow bit into one of the guardâs exposed forearm just as he was readying to rear back, attempting to strike out at Leonâs torso with an unusually curved blade. It clattered to his feet, bouncing off to the side. He screamed and reeled backwards, before he snatched at the arrow, pulling it out in one swift tug. He turned back to face his much larger opponent. Blood welled and lifted into beads, pooling from his wound. It looked as if he were gesturing towards it with his other hand.
Corveus didnât appear to have any weapons to speak of. At least, none that were noticeable on his person. The question as to whether he would simply watch, rather than intervene, was soon put to rest when he flicked his wrists off to the side, producing two small, curved blades. Instead of elbowing his way to the forefront, he had rolled up his sleeves, dagger poised against his palms.
The bloodied guard had used the opportunity to use blood magic, forming a lash made of it and striking for Leon. The commander moved out of the way, but not quite fast enough to avoid the strike entirely; it wound around his arm several times, holding him with supernatural strength. Leon flexed his free hand, then used it to take hold of the whip at a slightly lower spot, turning his other arm so that he had it in a doublehanded grip. Wrenching his whole body, he pulled the guard off his feet and to the floor, where the man skidded for some distance before the whip disintegrated.
Leon didn't waste time letting him get to his feet, charging to where he lay and bringing an armored boot down on the exposed back of his neck. With a crack, the mage went still.
Cyrus ducked under another swing from the leader, transitioning into what would have been a smooth riposte, had the guard not taken one hand from his weapon's hilt and blasted point-blank with ice. The force of the spell was enough to throw Cyrus back several feet; only extraordinary balance kept him from losing his footing. Instead, he sidestepped the follow-up, ice crystals cracking away from the joints of his armor with a sound like glass crunching underfoot.
He recovered quickly, however, not slowed long enough to take the full brunt of the crude bolt of lightning that followed. It crashed into the tile floor behind him, blackening the marble and blasting away several small chunks of it. This time, when he ducked in, Cyrus found a proper weakness, one of his falcata piercing the underside of the arm raised to launch the spell. Taking a half-step forward, he redoubled the force, the blade sinking in several more inches with a hard wrench. When he yanked it free, his other blocked the guard's one-handed attempt at a last-ditch defense. The greatsword clattered to the floor with a clang, and Cyrus strafed away from the guard as he fell, the artery in his armpit cleaved in twain and rapidly draining him of his blood.
The blood from the guardâs armpit seemed to quickly coagulate, trembling into a more malleable formârising higher still, until it coiled into serpents similar to the Contee sigil. They danced in the air, beads of red flicking off like discarded scales, specking the carpeted floor and Cyrusâs shoulders and head. The aesthetics of the blood magic crumbled away as soon as the sanguine ribbons formed hardened spikes, and with the flick of Corveusâs extended hands, they lurched through the air and slipped into the neck of another guardsmen, who seemed intent on trying to scramble free of the chaos, tripping over collapsed corpses on his way towards the door.
More than likely, if he hadnât been struck down there, Rom would have finished him off before he even reached the door. The lordling hadnât given him the chance however, skewering him to the floor with the two hemoglobin lances. They fell apart a second later, hailing down like water sifting through someoneâs hands. A mess to clean up. Though no one here seemed particularly worried, including the one person whose home it was. Not anymore. Zee's eyes swiveled toward the last guard who had fallen beneath another body, wriggling from beneath the gore, closest to Rom. Wide-eyed, face bloodied. Doubtfully any was his own.
âStraggler!â Even if Zee hadnât said anything, it was hard to miss the only one not belonging to their assembled group. He was dragging himself to his feet, hands poised on a nearby table, utilizing it to lurch forward. Towards the kitchen door, no doubt unaware that one of his enemies was so close. Or, maybe, he didnât care. Terror had a funny way of blinding any sensibilities.
The fight went quickly, as they tended to do, and by this point Rom had managed to ensnare the fleeing servant in a choke hold, his strong arms and legs refusing him any kind of leverage, and putting the necessary pressure on his neck and head to force him into unconsciousness as quickly as he could manage. Shoving him aside, he got back to his feet and starting running forward for the straggler, drawing his blade on the way. The servants and slaves did nothing to warrant death, but the trained guards, seemingly mages to the last, were too dangerous to be treated the same.
The fleeing guardsman made it to his feet, terror finally beaten by the desire to escape. Just before he was able to make it to the door Rom caught him, going in low from behind, targeting the weakly armored spot at the back of the knee with his pugio. It found the flesh and sank in deep, tearing muscle and striking bone, more than enough to force the man down. He responded aggressively, fighting now that flight was no longer an option by launching flames blindly over his shoulder where he thought Rom would be. His aim was off, but not by much, and just the proximity to the raging flames was almost enough to burn him.
Rom ducked low and drove his blade in again, this time in the gap of the plate near the underarm, the weight of the blow and Rom's forward force pushing the guard over onto his face and stifling the flames. He squirmed and still tried to free himself, but Rom made an end of it, pulling his blade free again and stabbing it in again at the side of his neck. He twitched once or twice more, and then stilled. Rom pulled his blade free, stepping back a few paces and wiping some of the blood that had spurted onto his face. There didn't seem to be any more imminent threats. For the moment.
âMight want to replace⊠a lot in this area,â Zee tsked, lowering her bow back down to her side, her eyes roving down the hallway. Blood was streaked up the walls, flecking up towards the ceiling and the carpet was beyond repair. Large, dark pools had already begun absorbing into the fibers, blooming out across the shattered vases and upended tables. Scorch marks where the errant flames had licked across the wall opposite of Rom. An unavoidable mess, though clearly necessary. If any of them had successfully squirreled away, there was no doubt the estate would become much harder to navigate. With the sheer number of guards lounging in one room, there was a sense that the Conteeâs paranoia went far beyond normal conventions. âEveryone good here?â
Corveus lowered his hands. He hadnât cut his wrists after all. No need with all the fresh blood in the vicinity. Rom had seen this before, in Minrathous; blood magic was not ostracized here, certainly not as much as it was in all the other regions in Thedas. Not unless they crossed lines, by summoning demons, making contracts, or conducting unholy experiments, sullying their goodly noble names. A power like any other, in their eyes. He cleared his throat, and tucked the blades into the cloth belt wound his waistline, gesturing that they continue down the hallway.
âApologies,â his smile was thinner this time, speculative in nature, âItâd be best not to linger here. Weâve got quite a bit of ground to cover.â
Zeeâs mouth peeled back as she rounded to Cyrusâs side, looking over the others. Mildly concerned, if the uplift of her brow was anything to go by. She didnât seem to be listening to much of what Corveus was saying or at least, wasnât giving any indication of it. Instead, she turned her attention to Rom, and the servant lying unconscious nearby. Searching. She hopped over some of the bodies, and crossed over to him, hunching down by the man'sâ head. Her fingers slipping beneath his chin, rolling his face towards them. An exhale sounded, somewhat relieved. Her hand retracted. She patted the servant on the head, turning back to face Rom. âNot him, after all. Thought maybe, it mightâve been Maleus.â
âHeâs waiting for us. Up ahead. Which is why we need to go, before anyone questions why he is not where he should be.â Corveusâs impatience was clear, cut into the sharpness of his features. He had already turned his body in the direction he wished to go, eyeing them over his shoulder.
âWell then, let's go." Cyrus didn't bother to sheathe his swords; the one he'd gotten the guardsman with had a slick patina of dark red down the blade still, slowly dripping onto the floor as they went. Given how much of it was everywhere, it probably didn't matter. He paused to let the others go first, then brought up the rear of the formation himself.
With everything said and done, Corveus led them away from the carnage, straight down the hall into an oncoming flight of stairs that spiraled downwards, as gilded and gaudy as everything else in the estate. Familiar scenes had been painted alongside the walls, depicting The Black City as described in the Chant of Light. Off in the middle, were the aforementioned magisters standing vigilant in front of the gates, their likeness twisted, raven-haired and dark-eyed, swathed in robes bearing a draconic sigil. Golden streets spanned close to their elbows, widening out into a city. Their vision, perhaps, of what it looked like.
The lordling himself made no comment. Hardly paid it any mind, continuing his descent at the forefront. Zee brought up the middle, trailing her fingertips across the painted walls, eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips and glanced down at the back of Corveusâs head, casting a shadow across her dusky features. Rom had seen that look before. Knew it well enough to know that she had many questions rattling off in her head, but refused to speak them aloud. She didnât trust him, that much was clear.
The iron sconces built into the wall held lit torches, casting a flickering glow across the wide staircase, built for several people to walk side by side, with no windows or opening in sight. At the very end of the staircase held the epilogue of the painting⊠the magisters pushing the gates aside, hands held wide, blood falling from their hands in long streams; in victory, in celebration. Their cowls, and capes, shed from their shoulders, with the Black City illustrated as a shining beacon. The sun shining down on them. Beautifully composed, but uneasy to behold.
Against the wall was another door, wrought handle in the semblance of a dragonâs open maw.
When Corveus didn't immediately move to open the door himself, Leon turned his head slightly towards the other man, brows knitting, then sighed. "This better not be trapped," he said, tone clipped, rumbling in the way indicative of his reaver tonic. He reached forward and grabbed the handle, pulling it open with minimal fanfare.
âWoahââ
A voice, certainly not belonging to anyone on their side. It had come from behind the door. As soon as it creaked inwards, a person stumbled through, hand still poised on the handle. Not quite a trap, as Leon had speculated. No, a young man. He clearly hadnât expected someone to be pulling the door at the same time as he had been pushing because he stepped into Leonâs chest and immediately recoiled, tripping backwards over his feet, tumbling onto his arse. There was a jangle of metal grating against metal as he huffed out a breath, swinging his gaze towards them, eyes wide as baubles.
Dark, murky eyes. Familiar. Rom had looked into them before, every time Zee turned to face him, lips cracking open to needle embarrassing moments. Set into a different face, of course, but the resemblance was uncanny. Too similar to be coincidental. An iron-wrought collar had been soldered around his neck, resting on his collarbone. Large, heavy. The last remnants of boyishness clung to his frame, though he seemed to be still growing into it. Broad-shouldered, stocky framed. An exceptional slave, a good bodyguard. Had he been standing in Minrathousâs slave galley, he would have fetched a good price.
âI, uh, Iâm guessing youâre the cavalry? I⊠hope.â The young man scratched at his neckline, underneath the collar. It looked uncomfortable, if the red marks were anything to go by. Chafing. Heavy, sharp-ridged scars were riddled down his forearms, in concise stripes, though none seemed to go any farther. His garments were much different than the ones the other slaves wore. A reinforced cuisse, black dyed-leathers and loose, brown trousers. The Contee sigil had been engraved into the collar instead, earnestly painted. Perhaps, by the same hand that had portrayed the Black City. âIs CorvâŠ?â
He leaned to the side, still seated, searching beyond Leonâs large frame. The Seeker stepped back and slightly aside, shifting so as to no longer be blocking anyone's view all that much.
The man seemed relieved that Leonâs reaction hadnât be outright violent. His gaze lingered on his face, before they swiveled towards the rest of the group. Once his eyes locked onto Corveusâs, a grin crackled across his face, brightening considerably. A breath huffed out, as he brought up a hand to rest above his heart. He gave his head a shake. âOh, good. I was worried. You were taking so long. Thought you mightâve hit trouble⊠er, trouble youâve dealt with already, I suppose.â
From the looks of it, heâd noticed Cyrusâs bloodied blade, still held in his hand.
There was a stirring at Româs side as Zee bristled. Shoulders tensing up. Sheâd taken a step forward, mouth set into a hard line. The expression on her face was unreadable until the torchâs flame lit across it. Recognition. Hope, fear. Her footsteps lacked the normal sauntering gait. They were clumsy. Too rushed, too hurried to reach her destination. Riddled with a desperate edge that propelled her forward, hand reaching for Leonâs arm, perhaps to steady herself. To keep herself from falling.
A hitched breath, expelling into one trembling word.
âMaleus?â
To be honest, Rom was starting to wish he'd dealt with the little girl more intelligently. It was hard to make himself harm children that occupied a place he'd once been in himself, but all he'd needed to do was put her to sleep, leave her unconscious on the floor there. That was the fate he intended for this particular scrambling messenger, assuming he could reach him before he got away. The others could hopefully cover him as he worked, and these five would be the only ones they'd need to deal with here.
Taking off at a sprint, Rom still didn't draw his weapon, knowing he'd need both hands relatively free to properly grapple onto the running servant. He was quicker than the slave by a fair bit, catching him in only a few seconds in the hallway, where Rom performed a sliding tackle, taking out his legs and bringing him to the ground. His hands were on him immediately after, swiping away attempts to escape, kicking his legs out as he tried to get his feet again, trying to wrap arms around the smaller man's neck. It would take a moment, but it needed to be done.
Leon moved to protect their formation's flank. It meant he didn't engage directly with the leader, rather moving to cut off one of those that emerged from the back of the hallway instead. In a manner that had become familiar to Rom with time, he let a hit glance off his armor, using the opportunity to close to within arm's reach. For now, at least, he appeared to be moving at just about full steam, lowering his shoulder and tackling the other man to the floor.
The Contee guard's helmet clanged against the ground hard. Leon gripped the faceplate of it in one large hand and slammed it back against the stone. Even with the protection, there was no way the force involved didn't do something, and the guard dropped his blade beside him, likely from insensate fingers. He was slack and still, perhaps just unconscious rather than dead. Leon climbed off him when it became obvious he'd be putting up no further fight, casting about the room for the next opponent.
In the time that took, Cyrus had moved up to engage the leader, grimly fending off the greatsword with a well-timed deflection from his left-hand blade. The right-hand one sought a weak point in the man's plate, but skidded away instead when he shifted, letting his armor absorb the hit. Cyrus wasn't a small man, but he was smaller than this fellow, and he didn't try to force a contest of strength, instead sliding away from the engagement and trying again from another angle. His strikes were much faster, and for now at least he didn't seem to be in any danger of getting hit, but one misstep could change that. His own armor wasn't nearly so thick, after all.
An arrow hissed overheard moments before Rom tackled the servant to the ground. It twanged into the kitchen door, down to the shaft, vibrating with the propelled force. A sorry, sorry was heard over the din of metal clattering together. She hadnât seemed to notice that the man was a servant, or had simply reacted before thinking. A by-product of the concoction sheâd taken, perhaps. She pressed herself up against the wall, slightly behind a coffee table, already reaching over her shoulder to produce another arrow from her quiver.
This time, she loosed her arrow a little closer, straight over Leonâs bunched shoulders. Another man had stepped into view, face obscured by the plated helm he wore. The arrow bit into one of the guardâs exposed forearm just as he was readying to rear back, attempting to strike out at Leonâs torso with an unusually curved blade. It clattered to his feet, bouncing off to the side. He screamed and reeled backwards, before he snatched at the arrow, pulling it out in one swift tug. He turned back to face his much larger opponent. Blood welled and lifted into beads, pooling from his wound. It looked as if he were gesturing towards it with his other hand.
Corveus didnât appear to have any weapons to speak of. At least, none that were noticeable on his person. The question as to whether he would simply watch, rather than intervene, was soon put to rest when he flicked his wrists off to the side, producing two small, curved blades. Instead of elbowing his way to the forefront, he had rolled up his sleeves, dagger poised against his palms.
The bloodied guard had used the opportunity to use blood magic, forming a lash made of it and striking for Leon. The commander moved out of the way, but not quite fast enough to avoid the strike entirely; it wound around his arm several times, holding him with supernatural strength. Leon flexed his free hand, then used it to take hold of the whip at a slightly lower spot, turning his other arm so that he had it in a doublehanded grip. Wrenching his whole body, he pulled the guard off his feet and to the floor, where the man skidded for some distance before the whip disintegrated.
Leon didn't waste time letting him get to his feet, charging to where he lay and bringing an armored boot down on the exposed back of his neck. With a crack, the mage went still.
Cyrus ducked under another swing from the leader, transitioning into what would have been a smooth riposte, had the guard not taken one hand from his weapon's hilt and blasted point-blank with ice. The force of the spell was enough to throw Cyrus back several feet; only extraordinary balance kept him from losing his footing. Instead, he sidestepped the follow-up, ice crystals cracking away from the joints of his armor with a sound like glass crunching underfoot.
He recovered quickly, however, not slowed long enough to take the full brunt of the crude bolt of lightning that followed. It crashed into the tile floor behind him, blackening the marble and blasting away several small chunks of it. This time, when he ducked in, Cyrus found a proper weakness, one of his falcata piercing the underside of the arm raised to launch the spell. Taking a half-step forward, he redoubled the force, the blade sinking in several more inches with a hard wrench. When he yanked it free, his other blocked the guard's one-handed attempt at a last-ditch defense. The greatsword clattered to the floor with a clang, and Cyrus strafed away from the guard as he fell, the artery in his armpit cleaved in twain and rapidly draining him of his blood.
The blood from the guardâs armpit seemed to quickly coagulate, trembling into a more malleable formârising higher still, until it coiled into serpents similar to the Contee sigil. They danced in the air, beads of red flicking off like discarded scales, specking the carpeted floor and Cyrusâs shoulders and head. The aesthetics of the blood magic crumbled away as soon as the sanguine ribbons formed hardened spikes, and with the flick of Corveusâs extended hands, they lurched through the air and slipped into the neck of another guardsmen, who seemed intent on trying to scramble free of the chaos, tripping over collapsed corpses on his way towards the door.
More than likely, if he hadnât been struck down there, Rom would have finished him off before he even reached the door. The lordling hadnât given him the chance however, skewering him to the floor with the two hemoglobin lances. They fell apart a second later, hailing down like water sifting through someoneâs hands. A mess to clean up. Though no one here seemed particularly worried, including the one person whose home it was. Not anymore. Zee's eyes swiveled toward the last guard who had fallen beneath another body, wriggling from beneath the gore, closest to Rom. Wide-eyed, face bloodied. Doubtfully any was his own.
âStraggler!â Even if Zee hadnât said anything, it was hard to miss the only one not belonging to their assembled group. He was dragging himself to his feet, hands poised on a nearby table, utilizing it to lurch forward. Towards the kitchen door, no doubt unaware that one of his enemies was so close. Or, maybe, he didnât care. Terror had a funny way of blinding any sensibilities.
The fight went quickly, as they tended to do, and by this point Rom had managed to ensnare the fleeing servant in a choke hold, his strong arms and legs refusing him any kind of leverage, and putting the necessary pressure on his neck and head to force him into unconsciousness as quickly as he could manage. Shoving him aside, he got back to his feet and starting running forward for the straggler, drawing his blade on the way. The servants and slaves did nothing to warrant death, but the trained guards, seemingly mages to the last, were too dangerous to be treated the same.
The fleeing guardsman made it to his feet, terror finally beaten by the desire to escape. Just before he was able to make it to the door Rom caught him, going in low from behind, targeting the weakly armored spot at the back of the knee with his pugio. It found the flesh and sank in deep, tearing muscle and striking bone, more than enough to force the man down. He responded aggressively, fighting now that flight was no longer an option by launching flames blindly over his shoulder where he thought Rom would be. His aim was off, but not by much, and just the proximity to the raging flames was almost enough to burn him.
Rom ducked low and drove his blade in again, this time in the gap of the plate near the underarm, the weight of the blow and Rom's forward force pushing the guard over onto his face and stifling the flames. He squirmed and still tried to free himself, but Rom made an end of it, pulling his blade free again and stabbing it in again at the side of his neck. He twitched once or twice more, and then stilled. Rom pulled his blade free, stepping back a few paces and wiping some of the blood that had spurted onto his face. There didn't seem to be any more imminent threats. For the moment.
âMight want to replace⊠a lot in this area,â Zee tsked, lowering her bow back down to her side, her eyes roving down the hallway. Blood was streaked up the walls, flecking up towards the ceiling and the carpet was beyond repair. Large, dark pools had already begun absorbing into the fibers, blooming out across the shattered vases and upended tables. Scorch marks where the errant flames had licked across the wall opposite of Rom. An unavoidable mess, though clearly necessary. If any of them had successfully squirreled away, there was no doubt the estate would become much harder to navigate. With the sheer number of guards lounging in one room, there was a sense that the Conteeâs paranoia went far beyond normal conventions. âEveryone good here?â
Corveus lowered his hands. He hadnât cut his wrists after all. No need with all the fresh blood in the vicinity. Rom had seen this before, in Minrathous; blood magic was not ostracized here, certainly not as much as it was in all the other regions in Thedas. Not unless they crossed lines, by summoning demons, making contracts, or conducting unholy experiments, sullying their goodly noble names. A power like any other, in their eyes. He cleared his throat, and tucked the blades into the cloth belt wound his waistline, gesturing that they continue down the hallway.
âApologies,â his smile was thinner this time, speculative in nature, âItâd be best not to linger here. Weâve got quite a bit of ground to cover.â
Zeeâs mouth peeled back as she rounded to Cyrusâs side, looking over the others. Mildly concerned, if the uplift of her brow was anything to go by. She didnât seem to be listening to much of what Corveus was saying or at least, wasnât giving any indication of it. Instead, she turned her attention to Rom, and the servant lying unconscious nearby. Searching. She hopped over some of the bodies, and crossed over to him, hunching down by the man'sâ head. Her fingers slipping beneath his chin, rolling his face towards them. An exhale sounded, somewhat relieved. Her hand retracted. She patted the servant on the head, turning back to face Rom. âNot him, after all. Thought maybe, it mightâve been Maleus.â
âHeâs waiting for us. Up ahead. Which is why we need to go, before anyone questions why he is not where he should be.â Corveusâs impatience was clear, cut into the sharpness of his features. He had already turned his body in the direction he wished to go, eyeing them over his shoulder.
âWell then, let's go." Cyrus didn't bother to sheathe his swords; the one he'd gotten the guardsman with had a slick patina of dark red down the blade still, slowly dripping onto the floor as they went. Given how much of it was everywhere, it probably didn't matter. He paused to let the others go first, then brought up the rear of the formation himself.
With everything said and done, Corveus led them away from the carnage, straight down the hall into an oncoming flight of stairs that spiraled downwards, as gilded and gaudy as everything else in the estate. Familiar scenes had been painted alongside the walls, depicting The Black City as described in the Chant of Light. Off in the middle, were the aforementioned magisters standing vigilant in front of the gates, their likeness twisted, raven-haired and dark-eyed, swathed in robes bearing a draconic sigil. Golden streets spanned close to their elbows, widening out into a city. Their vision, perhaps, of what it looked like.
The lordling himself made no comment. Hardly paid it any mind, continuing his descent at the forefront. Zee brought up the middle, trailing her fingertips across the painted walls, eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips and glanced down at the back of Corveusâs head, casting a shadow across her dusky features. Rom had seen that look before. Knew it well enough to know that she had many questions rattling off in her head, but refused to speak them aloud. She didnât trust him, that much was clear.
The iron sconces built into the wall held lit torches, casting a flickering glow across the wide staircase, built for several people to walk side by side, with no windows or opening in sight. At the very end of the staircase held the epilogue of the painting⊠the magisters pushing the gates aside, hands held wide, blood falling from their hands in long streams; in victory, in celebration. Their cowls, and capes, shed from their shoulders, with the Black City illustrated as a shining beacon. The sun shining down on them. Beautifully composed, but uneasy to behold.
Against the wall was another door, wrought handle in the semblance of a dragonâs open maw.
When Corveus didn't immediately move to open the door himself, Leon turned his head slightly towards the other man, brows knitting, then sighed. "This better not be trapped," he said, tone clipped, rumbling in the way indicative of his reaver tonic. He reached forward and grabbed the handle, pulling it open with minimal fanfare.
âWoahââ
A voice, certainly not belonging to anyone on their side. It had come from behind the door. As soon as it creaked inwards, a person stumbled through, hand still poised on the handle. Not quite a trap, as Leon had speculated. No, a young man. He clearly hadnât expected someone to be pulling the door at the same time as he had been pushing because he stepped into Leonâs chest and immediately recoiled, tripping backwards over his feet, tumbling onto his arse. There was a jangle of metal grating against metal as he huffed out a breath, swinging his gaze towards them, eyes wide as baubles.
Dark, murky eyes. Familiar. Rom had looked into them before, every time Zee turned to face him, lips cracking open to needle embarrassing moments. Set into a different face, of course, but the resemblance was uncanny. Too similar to be coincidental. An iron-wrought collar had been soldered around his neck, resting on his collarbone. Large, heavy. The last remnants of boyishness clung to his frame, though he seemed to be still growing into it. Broad-shouldered, stocky framed. An exceptional slave, a good bodyguard. Had he been standing in Minrathousâs slave galley, he would have fetched a good price.
âI, uh, Iâm guessing youâre the cavalry? I⊠hope.â The young man scratched at his neckline, underneath the collar. It looked uncomfortable, if the red marks were anything to go by. Chafing. Heavy, sharp-ridged scars were riddled down his forearms, in concise stripes, though none seemed to go any farther. His garments were much different than the ones the other slaves wore. A reinforced cuisse, black dyed-leathers and loose, brown trousers. The Contee sigil had been engraved into the collar instead, earnestly painted. Perhaps, by the same hand that had portrayed the Black City. âIs CorvâŠ?â
He leaned to the side, still seated, searching beyond Leonâs large frame. The Seeker stepped back and slightly aside, shifting so as to no longer be blocking anyone's view all that much.
The man seemed relieved that Leonâs reaction hadnât be outright violent. His gaze lingered on his face, before they swiveled towards the rest of the group. Once his eyes locked onto Corveusâs, a grin crackled across his face, brightening considerably. A breath huffed out, as he brought up a hand to rest above his heart. He gave his head a shake. âOh, good. I was worried. You were taking so long. Thought you mightâve hit trouble⊠er, trouble youâve dealt with already, I suppose.â
From the looks of it, heâd noticed Cyrusâs bloodied blade, still held in his hand.
There was a stirring at Româs side as Zee bristled. Shoulders tensing up. Sheâd taken a step forward, mouth set into a hard line. The expression on her face was unreadable until the torchâs flame lit across it. Recognition. Hope, fear. Her footsteps lacked the normal sauntering gait. They were clumsy. Too rushed, too hurried to reach her destination. Riddled with a desperate edge that propelled her forward, hand reaching for Leonâs arm, perhaps to steady herself. To keep herself from falling.
A hitched breath, expelling into one trembling word.
âMaleus?â