A Prologue

A luminous halo of light encircled the twin moons Lys'triel and Nann'tar.

Deemer Hallias frowned gazing up at the ill omen, letting his eyes fall and return to the scenery of the Norhien valley frosted with blue starlight.

Through the steam carriage window there was an endless array rolling hills, outcroppings of stone and juts of gleaming iridescent elarium crystals glowing in clusters near and far. This characterized all the ride thus far from Port Stroudston, and the rhythmic whine of the pistons and steam engine was all too loud to allow for sleep.

He straightened, lowered his hood, and rubbed his face with both hands and then the crest of his bald head, in need of shave after the long journey from the imperial homeland via ayreship.

How inhumane, to have been denied proper time for hot bath and a shave in two days.

The carriage at least, was lavishly furnished, the seats a deep velvet and the inner edges replete with ornate gilded framing—some comfort despite being sent on this loathsome mission as magistrate to Oberia’s proxy mining colonies. He was to cast judgement upon the lawless in this savage frontier land. The Norns were all too ungrateful for the civility and prosperity Oberia sought to bring them, and becoming all too bold in their rebelling

The Deemer reached for the brass voxophone on his right, and spoke into the device.

“Corporal. We are nearly there, I trust?”

“Almost my Lord.”, a thin distorted voice responded. “Just three hours more till we reach the Southwind.”

Deemer Hallias sighed with intent into the horn of the voxophone. “Very well.” The wine he’d had at dinner on departure from the port city had begun to wear off, and his earlier worries returned bringing a sinking sensation to his gut. He cleared his throat. “No sign of raiders, or those savage, dreadful tawros I assume?”

“No my lord. All quiet.”

The Deemer hung up the voxophone on it’s stand with a click. In truth, he should have known better to have been concerned. In addition to the rhythmic whine of the pistons the clanking mechanizations of troops in elaritek armours flanked their caravan. Any attempt to assail or waylay would be a fool’s errand. He leaned his head back against the velvet in an attempt to sleep the rest of the travel away.

As if mocking his thoughts, a lurch and a bang sent him flying forward in to the other side of the carriage, his head hitting the metal of the passenger door. He hissed and swore, and clamored back to his seat. He called for the corporal, or any who might hear but heard nothing in return.The Deemer felt his breath catch at the sudden blankness he beheld out his window. The moon bathed valley had been plunged into pitch dark. He jumped at the first muffled sound that came—a scream as if from behind a wall and some distance away.

The carriage lurched, and the passenger door flung open, and from the blackness to the Deemer’s horror, tendrils of black shadow shot forth and wrapped all around him. He let out an uninhibited shriek, hoping against hope to awake from this nightmare. He was pulled into the black, and found himself rolling upon the cold grass of the valley. Landing face up he beheld the cursed halo moon once more, and turned his head to the side to see the caravan alight with fires.

Hooded men whose faces gleamed in a ghostly silver shimmer from the flames bore torches. One turned toward him, and the Deemer saw that the phantom visage was that of a light silver veil of chain mail, the strands of metal linked on metal swaying all too elegantly amid this chaotic scene.All around, the clanging metals and anguished screams of battle swelled to a fever pitch. The Deemer scrambled to his feet, and turned his eyes away from the carnage of men being torn asunder by Dragi, hulking apparitions of swirling shadow with deep violet juts of crystal shards protruding.

It was no battle, but a slaughter.

So it’s true… The Veiled have returned.

He turned away from the horrific scene and ran, feeling the sense of futile dread overwhelm him. Still he pressed on into the open wide expanse of the valley, his breath labored and heaving and the pace of his heart in a state of perpetual quickening.Then he felt his body seize. He was frozen there, mid stride. He could still breathe, but only just. The sound of his rushing blood pouring through his veins and and pounding in his temples seemed deafening, the only sound apart from the last screams of a dying soldier, squelched out and cut off with a sickening crunch he heard from behind him. Soft footfalls and the light wisp of robes and clothing approached. The men in the chain veils of silver beneath the deep violet hoods and robes encircled him, but kept their distance. He couldn’t turn his head, still frozen with any effort his muscles made to move subverted without effort by the invisible force that held him here.

A man in a hood of deepest black stepped into view, his hands wrapped in the same silvery chain mail, but his face uncovered though indiscernible beneath the unnatural shadow his hood provided. Then a boy, no older than many of the young soldiers in the now defeated and slaughtered caravan stepped up next to the dark cloak. His hand was outstretched, and a whirling vortex of black and violet encircled it. The Deemer felt with clear acuity that this power was what held him there. It was a force field of dread, that filled his heart with a sorrow so deep and a hopelessness so bleak he wanted to give up his spirit then and there.

“Your men are dead.”, the boy said. His face was rife with sweat, and his stringy dark hair fell in pieces before his tired, sullen looking eyes. “There is no point in resisting.”

Deemer Hallias throat was dry, swallowing hard to accomplish, and he felt in this state if he were to try and speak it would be futile. To his own surprise, he was able to painfully croak out a response.

“What do you heretics want?”

The boy twisted his outstretched arm and a snake of dark shadow lashed forward and wrapped around the Deemer’s neck, and he felt the force that held him there release as he fell to his knees, now being strangled by this black tendril that felt searing hot and piercing cold all at once. Hallias choked and felt his vision blur, wanting nothing more than to be out of this dread nightmare, even if it meant death taking him.

“Enough.” The voice was commanding. “Release him, Thom.” The boy gritted his teeth and sneered, but obeyed. The Deemer clasped his neck and gasped desperately for the chill night air.

A figure in a robe of dark black stepped forward, hands of silver mail shimmering in the moonlight.

“You are the key to our way forward.”, the hooded figure said.

“I don’t understand.”, the Deemer replied. “What do you want from me?”

“Simply for you to be the spark. The catalyst for your empire to act with a firmer hand here in this frontier.” A silver hand reached out. The Deemer continued to rub his neck and he looked upon the outstretched appendage with trepidation and suspicion, but clasped it anyway and was helped to his feet without consequence.

“Why? Who are you really? Of course. One of my enemies sent you. Was it Kallan? Ephus?”

Hallias puzzled at the shadowed face attempting to discern the face beneath the hood but beheld nothing still but a deep blackness. The boy with the violet veins running upon his face riled. “Do not look at the High Blighter in a such a manner and ask such questions.”

Deemer Hallias winced and jolted back, and this so called blighter raised a hand toward the boy called Thom, bidding him to desist.High Blighter? So he is a leader, or a priest of some kind. The Deemer’s mind began to whir and work. Perhaps there would be some path forward through negotiation. He had been ready for death only seconds prior but it seemed a new opportunity was presenting itself. The hand belonging to the dark hood joined the other at rest and clasping one the other in front of him. “Our reasons are not for the knowledge of the masses, for then what must be will not come to be.”The riddled talk was making him more nervous, and he felt the urge to scramble for whatever handholds he could in terms of a way out. “Tell me what it is you require from me. Whatever it is I will do it.”The Deemer was a proud man, and so wouldn’t go as far as to beg for this life, not when it seemed the people who had him under the duress and threat of such needed him alive.

“We need your title.”, said the dark hood before him.

“My… title? As Deemer?”

“That is correct.”

“But, this is not mine to give.”, the Deemer spurted. “We are appointed in a special session of the imperial council, and carefully selected.”

“We are well aware of this.”, the dark hood said. “Which is why we need you to vacate your seat so the next in line may secede you.”

Any semblance of hope the Deemer had felt was snuffed out as a candle flame beneath a brass bell snuffer.

“I will… give up my title. I will resign.”“You will be killed this night. Made a martyr for the cause of imperial justice.”

The deep sense of dread and panic returned to his body in fierce measure presently, his veins once more pulsing with rivers of the blood he feared would be spilled, and the panic sent a spike of anger and indigence.

“I’ll see you all hanged and shot!”

“No." The High Blighter tightened his gleaming chainmail glove. "You will not see the light of another morning.”

The flash of silver hands beneath the dark cloak gave way to a flash of violet.

The Deemer felt a seething pain that subsided into a welcome numbness throughout his body as slumped to the cold dirt below.

The haloed moons above shone brightly upon him, the last blessed light he would see.

Then for Hallias, there was only dark void.