Epheotus, former city of Muraeth, 588 years before the birth of Arthur Leywin—two months after Romulos Indrath was named ruler ad interim.
Romulos Indrath
You see, Lavinia, our Grandfather, for all his magnanimity and wisdom, remains a frighteningly pragmatic ruler.
The gift of Muraeth was not born solely from paternal goodwill—though a part of me, the eternally hopeful child, desperately wants to believe that if he didn't care for me at all, he would have never relinquished even this desolate scrap of land.
No, this was a strategic move. A placation. He named me ruler of this phantom city to give me a new cage of my own, a project to consume my restless energy, all so I would cease my wanderings in Dicathen.
He sought to contain my curiosity within the borders of Epheotus, within a place so saturated with painful history and empty ruins that he likely believed it would serve as a perpetual reminder of the consequences of betrayal.
Oh, Lord Grandfather, I thought, a wry smile touching my lips as I moved through the perpetual, swirling fog that was Muraeth's true sovereign, you underestimate your heir.
The fog was my element. It wasn't the water vapor that forms mundane mist. This was thick with decay mana, a palpable miasma that tasted of decay and old stone on the tongue. It was a natural phenomenon, born from the unique geography of this forsaken place.
Muraeth was cradled between two jagged mountain ranges in the northern wastes of Epheotus, a high plateau where cold air settled and strange mana currents collided, creating this permanent, shifting shroud.
It hid everything, which suited my purposes perfectly.
The city itself was a ghost. The Vritra, in their exodus, had been thorough. Building after building laid not in ruins, but in a state of near-complete dissolution. It wasn't destruction born of rage, but of a cold, calculated erasure.
They had scoured their own history from this place, leaving behind only faint outlines in the rock, foundations that were little more than discolored patches of earth, and a profound, echoing silence.
This emptiness, I knew, was precisely why Lord Kothan had coveted the territory for his clan. It was a blank slate, scrubbed clean of any reminder of the "traitors" who had stolen you and Mother.
There was nothing here to honor, only a void to be filled with something new, something loyal.
So I built my new laboratory myself! Well, not entirely alone.
It was a statement in black iron and ambition: a tower that stabbed upward through the oppressive fog, a defiant finger challenging the grey, weeping sky.
I—well, we—named it Muraeth Caelum. It was still largely hollow, a skeleton waiting for flesh, but its heart beat deep underground. There, in laboratories carved into the very bedrock, I could finally conduct my researches without the feeling of Grandfather's gaze on the back of my neck. And the best part?
I made a friend! A true Asuran friend! Not a sycophant who bowed to the Heir of Epheotus, not a babysitter like Windsom, and not a relative who saw me as a legacy first and a person second. A friend.
The entrance to Muraeth Caelum was a massive door of forged black steel, emblazoned with the proud, complex symbol of the Indrath Clan. As I approached, I didn't need to touch it.
A subtle application of Realmheart, a gentle nudge to the aetheric pathways I'd woven into its structure, and it swung inward without a sound.
"Rommie, already back from your visit to Indrath Castle?" a warm, baritone voice greeted me from within the dim atrium. The sound alone was a balm after the stifling formality of the castle.
"I did, Mr. Denoir!" I nodded, a genuine smile breaking through my usual reserve.
Mr. Denoir—Denoir Roko—was the sole remaining member of the Roko Clan. He had been the custodian, the silent warden of Muraeth, since the long-ago betrayal.
He was a tall, imposing figure with a seemingly severe face carved from generations of stern duty. But I had quickly learned that his appearance was a mask. He had eyes the color of old wine, a deep, thoughtful red, and olive hair that fell to his shoulders.
His horns were his most striking feature: obsidian black and shaped like a wide, elegant 'U', curving from his temples like a dark, natural crown.
"Good boy," he said, and the familiar, affectionate ruffling of my hair didn't feel condescending coming from him. It felt… paternal. "Tell me, have you also brought the crystal you talked so much about?"
My excitement bubbled over. I nodded vigorously, and with a focused thought, I reached into the folded space within my coat. The air shimmered, and the orange aether crystal containing Sae-Areum's consciousness materialized in my palm, pulsing with its soft, internal light.
Mr. Denoir's red eyes lit up with a scholar's pure, unadulterated curiosity. He was a researcher, just like me! A kindred spirit who saw the world as a series of beautiful, complex equations waiting to be solved.
"Sae-Areum, it's Romulos," I said softly to the crystal.
As always, her response was the same flat recitation: "Mana cores are divided into six categories: black, red, orange, yellow, silver, and white…"
"May I?" Mr. Denoir asked, his voice gentle, his hand outstretched.
I placed the crystal in his palm without hesitation. The moment his fingers closed around it, something changed. Tendrils of pure black mana, darker than the deepest shadow in the room, coiled from his fingertips, snaking around the orange crystal like inquisitive vipers.
My own hand shot out in a flash, gripping his forearm. A cold spike of panic lanced through me.
"You will harm Sae-Areum!" I protested, my voice tighter than I intended.
Mr. Denoir didn't flinch or look offended. He simply looked down at me, his expression unreadable, but not unkind. Unlike everyone else, he wasn't afraid of my title or my potential. He saw me.
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Sorry, Rommie. But don't worry. It's completely harmless. I was merely attempting to see if there was something hidden, some deeper layer of fragmentation we could restore in her consciousness. A diagnostic probe, nothing more."
The explanation was so reasonable, so scientific, that my panic evaporated, replaced by a surge of intellectual excitement.
Of course! While I had used healing aether arts to try and stabilize her, I'd never considered using more… invasive, specialized mana arts to truly diagnose the problem.
My own studies had been so focused on aether that I'd neglected the profound possibilities of pure, applied mana, especially of the decay variety.
"How did you understand how to do that?" I asked, my curiosity overriding my earlier alarm.
Mr. Denoir's smile widened. "Sure, let me teach you."
——
What followed was a period of intense, exhilarating study. Mind-related decay mana arts were a profound taboo outside the Basilisk Clans. They were considered dangerous, invasive, a violation of the self.
And due to Grandfather's strict prohibitions, my exposure to other Basilisks—the true masters of such arts—had been virtually nil. I had been isolated from an entire branch of my own heritage.
But Mr. Denoir? Lavinia, I tell you, he is the smartest person I know, second only to Grandfather himself. I would even dare to say he could compete with the legendary Wren Kain IV, the artisan whose craftsmanship is revered across all of Epheotus.
Mr. Denoir's knowledge was deep, practical, and he had a gift for explanation that made the most complex concepts feel intuitive.
Under his guidance, I learned to harness decay mana in its purest, most refined form. I learned to spin it into tendrils of black energy so delicate they could be used not to destroy, but to explore. To gently probe the architecture of a mind, to map the scars of trauma, to trace the pathways of memory.
It was like learning a new language, one that spoke in whispers and shadows. The power was intoxicating, not for its potential for harm, but for its potential for understanding.
"Rommie," Mr. Denoir said one evening, as we sat amidst a constellation of glowing mana diagrams etched into the air of the laboratory. "Don't you think it's time you tested your new magic? And I'm not speaking only about what I just taught you, but everything you've learnt in the months since we've known each other."
I shifted uncomfortably, my hand instinctively rising to scratch at the base of my horns—a nervous habit.
"Yeah, that would be good…" I mumbled.
He reached out and stilled my hand. "Relax," he said, and his voice was like the deep, resonant toll of the Leviathan's Anchor bell in Ecclesia harbor—a sound that promised stability and safety. "You like to wander the continent of Dicathen, don't you?"
"I do…" I admitted cautiously. "But Grandfather doesn't like me going there. The only way to access it is either through Windsom or the Rift in the south, and both are heavily monitored."
"And can't you go there yourself with your aether arts?" he asked, his red eyes intent. "Your control over spatium is exceptional."
"I can… theoretically," I confessed, the admission feeling both traitorous and thrilling. "I've studied the coordinates. I believe I could create a temporary gateway. But… I don't know how to return home alone. The energy signature of a return portal would be like a beacon. Windsom would sense it instantly."
I saw a flicker of something in his eyes then—a brief, intense flash that was gone before I could identify it. It wasn't disappointment in me, I felt. It was something else, something deeper, as if my limitation was a frustration he shared for reasons of his own.
Of course, he probably wanted to go to Dicathen himself, to study the lessers firsthand. But as the overseer of Muraeth, leaving his post for a lesser continent would be seen as a profound dereliction of duty by Grandfather and Lord Kothan.
"Then!" Mr. Denoir exclaimed, the moment passing as if it had never been, his expression brightening with a new idea. "How about I give you a topic for a field research project, and you report everything back to me?"
My eyes went wide. "A field research!?"
"Yes, a field research," he confirmed, his smile encouraging. "I want you to tell me everything about the war between the humans and elves in Dicathen. Its root causes, its key battles, the strategies employed, the societal impacts. A full, comprehensive analysis."
"You know about it?!" I gasped.
Most Asuras were blissfully ignorant of lesser affairs. They knew Dicathen existed in the same way they knew a certain rock existed on a distant shore—it was there, but it was irrelevant.
Only the Great Lords and their immediate circles paid any attention, and even then, it was mostly strategic. And Alacrya… information from there was choked off by the Vritra, a problem that clearly vexed Mr. Denoir as much as it did me.
"Don't underestimate my knowledge, Rommie," he winked, a gesture that felt conspiratorial and exciting. "So? What do you say?"
The prospect was irresistible. It was everything I wanted: a purpose, a mission, a reason to use my skills, and the approval of someone I deeply respected.
"I want to! But… how do I get back without alerting Windsom and, by correlation, Grandfather?" The old fear of consequence reared its head.
Mr. Denoir leaned forward, his expression shifting. The warmth was still there, but it was now underscored by a fierce, challenging intensity.
"Are you afraid?" he asked. The question wasn't accusatory; it was… motivational. It was a challenge. "Rommie. Listen to me. You are the first true hybrid in history. You are the Heir of Epheotus. You are a genius who has mastered arts that take centuries for others to grasp. No one can tell you what to do or not do."
He paused, letting the words sink in, before adding the most radical statement I had ever heard from another Asura: "Not even Kezess."
He had used Grandfather's name. Just his name. No title. There was a childish saying among the young ones that if you said "Kezess" out loud, he might appear to chastise you for disrespect.
It was nonsense, of course.
Grandfather couldn't hear everything, and even if he could, a mere name wouldn't summon him. He was a benevolent ruler; his reign had brought peace and prosperity. But he was also… Kezess Indrath. His power was absolute, his presence omnipotent in my mind.
The casual use of his name was a tiny, seismic shock that somehow made Mr. Denoir seem bolder, stronger, more independent than anyone I'd ever known.
His words ignited something in me. A spark of defiance, of self-belief that had been smothered by centuries of protocol and isolation.
"I will then!" I declared, my voice firming with a resolve I hadn't known I possessed. "To Alacrya with the consequences!"
Mr. Denoir's laughter was rich and full of approval. He reached out and ruffled my hair again. "Good boy."