When night came, Yvain remained alone by the sea cliffs, a dark silhouette against the moonlit spray, while the others had long since retired to the sanctuary of the tower. He had always preferred solitude, left to his books, and the layered quiet of his own thoughts. The sea's endless rhythm mirrored the currents of his mind.
The conversation with Celeste had eased much of the unease that had haunted him these past weeks. For a time, he even allowed himself to believe he'd been overcautious, overly brooding, perhaps the most paranoid Dehmohseni to ever live. But no, not quite. One of his ancestors, infamously dubbed the God of Whispers, had set that bar far higher. Legend claimed the man had made generous offers to the old houses, deals laced with hidden snares. Those who bartered with him left the table smiling, never knowing that a seed had been planted in their minds, an insidious thought-thread by which his will could twist theirs from afar, subtle as breath.
For a moment, the wind eased and the night fell into a fragile stillness. The world held its breath. And then, something shifted.
A presence. A pressure in the bones rather than the air.
Yvain stood, turning toward the farwoods. His voice low, he muttered a spell. "Eye of the Weirding Way."
The augury took hold like a tide. His vision refracted, stretching outward into borrowed eyes, those of the ravens perched in the canopy, the mice that scurried beneath leaf-litter, the insects pressed against bark and stone. He saw what they saw, heard what they heard, and, more subtly, felt what they felt, humidity on wings, tension in the undergrowth, a wrongness crawling under the skin of the world.
He began to walk, his long coat sweeping behind him, warding off the cold as he crossed the threshold into the woods. The canopy closed above him, blotting out the moon.
"Come on out," he said calmly, to the empty dark. It was not a threat, just a recognition.
A chuckle echoed through the trees, low and knowing. Then, from a high branch above, a figure dropped lightly to the forest floor. He wore no mask this time, but Yvain needed none to recognize him.
It was the same man who had stood in the city square, the masked stranger who had watched on.
"How did you find me?" the man asked, stepping forward from the shadows, his voice a low thread that wove itself into the stillness of the trees. He wore a black cloak, as dark as his bound hair, and his face was painted in stark white. He looked no older than his late twenties, but Yvain knew better, mages had a hundred and one ways to extend their lives.
Yvain didn't answer. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and returned with a question of his own, voice cool. "What are you doing here?"
The man smiled, like the unfurling of something venomous. "I felt it back at the square. Thought I might have been mistaken. But even now, here in the woods, you compress it so tightly, fold it in on itself like a dying star. But your Breath leaks. It leaks and I feel its vigor."
Yvain's gaze sharpened. "I asked you a question."
The smile vanished as though it had never been. The painted face, once mocking, now looked almost solemn. "Tell me," the man said, "what do you think of the current age?"
Yvain opened his mouth to answer, hesitated, then closed it again. The silence stretched. Finally, with thought, he said, "Nothing. My master was a recluse. And so was I. Until recently."
"I despise it," the man said at once, with a venom that burned cold. "This age, this era of rot. The world gasps like a fish on dry land. The breath of creation is faltering. And the worst of it?" He took a step forward, voice tightening with contempt. "Sorcerers, true sorcerers, are shackled by the petty laws of mortal kingdoms. Bound by the whims of bureaucrats and cowards in robes. Leashed."
His eyes gleamed in the dark like twin embers, wild with something ancient. "The Dehmohseni may have been mad bastards. But they understood one thing, something the Sanctuary and the Magisterium have forgotten, or pretend not to know." He leaned in, voice now a whisper. "The strong are meant to rule the weak."
"Let me guess," Yvain said, folding his arms, voice edged with dry disdain. "You consider yourself one of the strong."
Seskel's smile returned, slow and serpent-smooth, but then, behind him, something else also smiled.
It slithered out of the shadows like a wound in the world. Its teeth were long and crooked, yellowed like old bone, and its eyes… its eyes were wells of nothing. Churning, endless, and wrong.
Conjuration. Not an apprentice's parlor trick. This thing had weight, presence, intent. The mark of a conjurer both skilled and dangerously unbound.
Yvain adjusted his posture slightly, grounding himself, and kept his gaze fixed on Seskel.
"I am Seskel," the man said, bowing slightly, his voice dipping into something ritualistic. "Twelfth of the Silent Choir. A name… for a name."
"Yvain the Younger," he replied without ceremony.
Seskel inclined his head. "You, too, are strong. Even hidden as you are. The Choir has fourteen seats. But the fourteenth is vacant. I could speak to our leader, put your name forward."
Yvain narrowed his eyes. "And what exactly is this Choir?"
"You've never heard of it?" Seskel blinked, genuinely taken aback. "You really are a recluse." Then, his voice as though speaking of a dear one. "The Silent Choir is a gathering of like-minded magi who seek one thing above all others. Freedom. Unshackled will. No chains of crown or creed. We do not crawl to the Magisterium for approval, nor let the Sanctuary dictate the limits of our power. We answer only to ourselves."
Yvain made a mental note to ask Minerva about them the moment he returned
"Well," he said, "can't say I'm interested."
"Don't be so quick to decide," Seskel said, the warning gentle, but underscored by menace. Behind him, the creature stirred, its body flowing like ink in water, spreading, growing, or maybe just revealing how much of it had already been there. "You don't think the esteemed Ser Hardron is in Adwini chasing after cultists, do you?"
Yvain didn't answer right away. Truthfully, the thought had already crossed his mind. Hardron's presence had always felt too… odd.
"You know why he's here?" he asked.
"I do," Seskel said with a nod, his painted face unreadable. "You don't have to decide now. In two nights, the good baron of Adwini will be throwing a party for the city's elite, we will meet there."
For a fleeting moment, Yvain considered striking. The runes beneath his skin itched, ready to be kindled, and a half-dozen spells bloomed at the edge of his thoughts like blades waiting to be drawn. He could bring Seskel down, banish the conjured horror behind him, and end this cryptic encounter in fire and force.
But the moment passed.
He was too close to the tower, Ser Hardron was already suspicious enough as it was.
No. Not here. Not yet.
Still, frustration curled in his gut, sharp and bitter. He was growing tired, so tired, of the restraints civility demanded. Of smiling when he wanted to strike. Of silence when his blood screamed for cruelty.
His gaze shifted to the pulsing darkness behind Seskel, the conjured thing that breathed wrongness into the night air.
"Leash your pet," Yvain said coldly, his voice low and dangerous, "or I'll make it wish it had never crawled from whatever hole you dragged it from."
The creature hissed in response, its maw stretching wider, teeth twitching with anticipation.
But Seskel simply raised a hand and made a gentle, dismissive gesture. At once, the conjuration began to unravel, dissolving like smoke in wind, its form thinning, twisting, and finally vanishing into the gloom as if it had never been.
"Two nights," Seskel said without looking back. His tone was calm, almost pleasant, as he turned and walked away into the trees.
Yvain watched him go, eyes narrowed, every sense still sharp. He waited until the last echo of footsteps had faded, until the forest stilled once more.
Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned and made his way back toward the tower, boots crunching softly against the moss and leaves. Returning with more questions than answers.