Heading a short distance north, as per his instructions, Stolas arrived at the hot spring. After the unfamiliar effort of bathing, dressing wounds and washing clothing all by himself, he returned warm and clean, ready for food and an exceptional night of sleep. As he stepped back inside the crypt, Caine's voice beckoned him from a new direction. This time, the smell of cooked meat permeated the air. Following his senses, Stolas entered yet another room with a small, handcrafted table and a single chair in which Caine sat with his arms crossed. Stolas couldn't help but beam with excitement as he laid eyes on the cauliflower broth mere feet away. His stomach unleashed a single mammoth growl.
"This looks divine," he said, almost welling up.
"It is. The palace kitchen staff and your father have coveted my recipes since before I can remember. Iordan even attempted to bribe me for this one." He held up a small, aged scroll. "Now, I'm certain you and your father are not on favourable terms now. If I give you this, I think forgiveness may become that bit easier for you to pry out of him, and you can have this delicious meal whenever you like."
"What's the catch." Said Stolas. Caine's devilish comportment vanished, and the scowl Stolas caught earlier spread across his face. The intense glare that pierced through him in the tavern returned.
"Tell me how you are still breathing."
"Do you want me to start from the beginning?" Said Stolas. He took his broth and sat on the floor beside his host. Any usual royal would consider this outrageous, yet his rank and superiority never crossed his mind. Stolas dug into his food. Ravenous.
"Tell me everything." Stolas did. He recounted the ordeals of the past few weeks in vivid detail and throughout the tale, Caine's demeanour reduced into the same hollow husk Stolas witnessed formerly in his father, images of the past elapsing over glossy eyes staring down to the floor.
"Are you alright?" Stolas asked.
"I should ask you," replied Caine with a weak laugh. Stolas reached to rest a hand on his shoulder. He stopped himself. This is my fault, he realized. He gritted his teeth. Desperately he searched for a way to end his uncomfortable uselessness to deal with Caine's upset.
"Can I get you something? Do you have tea? I can make tea." Stolas blurted. I hope he likes tea, he thought.
"I don't like tea," said Caine, pinching the bridge of his nose with a frown. "But it's alright. Although I wonder how your father is feeling. I am now certain he didn't intend for me to engage with you. He's too stubborn to have you sent back, though." Stolas fidgeted. The fear of imposing rested heavily on his shoulders.
"So, uh, does this mean you won't teach me how to fight them?"
"Are you joking?" Stolas hung his head, dispirited. The small embers of excitement he carried for this journey, despite it all, extinguished. "This is an opportunity to spite those angelic cunts." Caine grasped Stolas's hands. "Please, be my apprentice." The tears of frustration brimming in Stolas eyes fell as tears of excitement.
"You will?" He exclaimed, jolting upright.
"Don't cry about it." Stolas turned his attention to the surrounding books, prioritising and ordering the topics to cover. He bounded over to the nearest stack and plucked yet another leather-bound book from the top with a title that read: The Aschan Testament - MCXXIII. The holy book.
"Do you have any other editions?"
"Yes, hundreds," Caine replied with a lopsided grin. Stolas shivered. Suddenly, all the fear and dread he endured until this point seemed trivial. He let out a defeated sigh, tucking his hair behind his ear. As he slipped on his glasses to begin his story, Caine jumped up. "However, I have summarised everything of importance from every book I have studied into five handbooks." He announced, holding up five fingers with the proudest smile. Kalou smiles like that, Stolas thought fondly. A warm feeling blossomed in his chest. Relaxing seemed easier. "You seem happy," said Caine.
"This has reduced my workload by months," replied Stolas.
"Then tomorrow we shall begin. For now, we both need to sleep." Despite the sun refusing to set for many more hours, the pair succumbed to exhaustion. That night Stolas dreamt of nothing at all.
"What is a seraph?" questioned Stolas, staring down at the open pages in his lap. On the yellowed paper, bleeding ink shrewdly depicted this being. A six-winged monster, topless with the torso of a man wearing long black robes and two large horns melded together above the head.
"Seraphim are the most powerful form of an angel," replied Caine as he crouched down beside him. Stolas decided the floor would be the most optimal place for his research. In his little nook, he amassed a collection of blankets and pillows Caine didn't realise he owned and sat in comfort. "They are part of the First Sphere. The rarest types, noble beings. Usually, they are solitary creatures who enjoy their own company." Caine's eyes narrowed. "But it is not always the case." Stolas flicked forward a few pages, stopping at another sketch. A phantom ache developed around his throat, and his hand gravitated towards his neck.
"That one."
"That is just a normal angel, the weakest of them all from the Third Sphere. More akin to a dog; lesser creatures easy to tame and command. Although, that makes them dangerous when in the wrong hands." Stolas pulled the claw from his pocket and twisted it between his fingers.
"I was impossibly weak against it. How can I survive against a hoard?"
"You are overestimating their numbers," said Caine, without removing his eyes from the item in Stolas' hand. "I'm assuming you have read the Aschan Testament before?"
"My father read it to my brother and me every night before we slept. But after my awakening, he stopped. I read it again before departing the palace to refresh my memory, but it was a newer edition with no real detail and an exuberant number of metaphors."
"Well, after reading…" Caine lazily gestured to the books surrounding them with a disgusted look on his face, "everything, I learned that in the war both sides lost billions. It reduced their population to the hundreds. It didn't stop God from banishing Belial and his forces onto this miserable plane, though."
"Belial? Who is that?"
"The leader of the rebellion. A seraph." Stolas lowered his gaze.
"Then he is still in charge?" His tone sharpened. "Is it him who we have to kill to rescue my people?"
"Yes," Caine picked up another of the handbooks. "That is my working theory. But we may as well wipe them all out while we're at it." He tossed it into Stolas' corner. "This book has everything you need to know about killing them. What weapons to use, disposal methods and so forth." Stolas frowned, disposal methods? He untied the clasps and opened it. This one had seen more use than the others. The writing seemed somehow worse; the pages ripped. Blotches of either ink or blood stained the corners. Sketches and notes on various weapons took up the first few pages, daggers, chains, swords, spears and scythes. What caught his eye, however, was the title of the second half: Dragons. Caine's mouth curved into a smile. "This is where you become especially useful."
Stolas startled awake at a rude flick of the forehead. "It's time to get up now, your royal highness," said Caine with a condescending smile. Stolas sensed the use of the honorific was not out of respect.
"How cruel of you," said Stolas irritably, overwhelmed with the temptation to flick him back. For three days Stolas pored over the notebooks, dedicating their contents to memory, and now on the fourth day, it was time to depart the crypt in search of a divine angel blade. From what he had gathered, the closest known relic belonged to a collector in Jünden, a town three-hundred odd leagues south, near the borders of Galdria
"Considering your clothing is not suitable for travel nor battle, I have dragged these out for you." Caine nodded to a pile of all black garments folded on a stool, and the pair of high leather boots beside it. "Get changed." He vanished back into the hallways. With a loud yawn, Stolas raised himself from his cocoon and inspected his new gifts. A thick linen tunic, trousers of similar material, and multiple quality leather belts. As he dressed, he recognized the complementary pieces as a custom set. Each item, down to the bootstraps, had matching gold embellishments, all without a single scratch. The coat, however, had the finest attention to detail, with the inside lined in red velvet. Golden thread patterned the seams of the oversized hood draping across his shoulders, and from the chain binding hung a medallion in the shape of a rose, which at the centre nestled a scarlet ruby. Stolas secured Kalou's blade to his hip and plaited his hair into a short braid, tied off with a red ribbon bow at the nape of his neck, and flowing into a long, loose tail. A single concerning word sprung to mind as he regarded his new appearance: Noble. However, he could move, twist, crouch and run as if he were wearing nothing at all. The featherlike weight of his clothes, despite their insulation properties, perplexed him. "You look like your brother." Said Caine as he paraded into the room.
"I have an excuse, but you look sickeningly like my father."
"You think so?" he mocked, twirling around with his hands outstretched. Caine swapped his worn hunter's garb for an equally fine-looking outfit in white and bronze. It was like his own, yet without the medallion and instead of a coat, a long iridescent cloak halted at his heel. "Here," he said, handing him a pair of black fur-lined gloves. "It is too cold to go without."
"Yes," Stolas pursed his lips, "But do you not think we look too wealthy? Last time-"
"Last time you made the mistake of acting poor and conspicuous. I know you have seldom left the confines of the palace gates. I think it will surprise you how many people avoid you if they think you are powerful enough to ruin their lives. Had you dressed as you are now in the tavern, I doubt that weasel Ferin and his psychotic partner would have come anywhere near you. You do not look like the weak, privileged child you are, but someone fearsome and capable." Stolas struggled to determine whether he meant that as an insult or a compliment. Both even. "We are packing light, don't get too much blood on these, alright? Get anything you need and meet me outside." As Caine walked away, Stolas' gaze fell on the small recipe scroll. A deal is a deal, he thought, snatching it up.
Stolas greeted Bleach, who Caine already geared. "You are very prepared. It makes me think you planned on doing this journey whether I arrived on your doorstep or not."
"Perhaps," A sad smile crossed his lips. "But now I have a reason to get going. Get on your horse Stolas, I have a job to quit." Stolas climbed onto his steed once more and the pair travelled back through the forest and onto Woodpine. He spied no trace of the bodies, save for the fletched end of an arrow sticking up from the fresh snow. They both sped up. At midday, they reached the borders of the town and Stolas pulled on his hood, casting a deep shadow over his face. He jumped as Caine chucked a sword into his arms. "While I go to the tavern, I need you to head to the smithy and get me a new sword. Something light and sharp. I trust you have the funds for something good, but trade that one in for a reduction."
"Alright," Stolas eyed the sword in his hands. It seemed worn, but not unusable. "But why do you need a new one?" he questioned.
"Because I want one and Iordan's paying." Caine chuckled. Stolas let out a bark of laughter. "What?" said Caine, raising a brow.
"No one gets away with treating my father like that, let alone speaking of him in such a familiar way. It's funny." he giggled through his fingers. "You must be good friends." Caine stuck out his tongue and smacked Bleach, sending Stolas flying through the gates and scrambling to pull on the reins. Caine's cackling laughter faded away into the symphonies of the bustling streets in front of him. Unlike the tall stone buildings of the capital, narrow wooden houses fringed the road. Merchants of different wares and services occupied the ground floors, and some less established sellers set up stalls between them. The queue for the butchers extended out into the street, people raced to the heckles of discounted goods and children stalked every move of the man behind the sweet counter. Stolas sensed the same atmosphere he felt when first entering the tavern, a happy community. Yet their faces fell. Eyes widened at his presence as he trotted down the road, some with wonder and others with fear. All averted as soon as he drew close. Mothers ushered their children aside and people rushed into the back alleys, avoiding his path. A heavy shame crushed his joy. The image of the palace court with their noses upturned at their full plates. Viewing a semblance of equality as a fall from grace, entered his mind. Stolas' gaze fell on the blacksmith and the girl hiding in the gutter beside it. "Excuse me," he called out to her, "What is your name?" A dreadful look overtook her youthful features.
"Loïs," she surrendered, in a voice so soft he struggled to hear. Stolas hopped off his horse and crouched down to her level. He took this girl to be no older than nine.
"Would you look after my horse for me while I am inside, his name is Bleach." With a sweet smile, he took her little hand and placed a gold coin in her palm. The girl beamed, awe transforming her face. "I won't be long."
"Yes!" she stammered. Stolas doubted someone stole Iana's horse, but he couldn't be too careful.
As he entered the blacksmith, a bell rang, summoning the largest woman he had ever seen from the back room, presumably the forge. With a large, gapped smile, she greeted him.
"Welcome, uh... sir. I'm Elize, what can I get for you?" She spoke with an accent of the central realms.
"Your best work," he said, approaching the counter. "I need your sharpest one-handed blade, something agile that can cut through limbs." Too much information, he thought, biting his tongue.
"Well, you know what you want!" she hollered, unfazed. She widely gestured to the variety of weapons, shields, pots and pans decorating every wall and surface "These are some of my cheaper options, but if you can pay for it I have some exceptional pieces out back. Works of art."
"Please, show me." She led him into the darkened room she came from and on his temple, sweat beaded. Heat radiated from the forge. Glowing coals and metals lit the room in a red haze patterned by the swirling of smoke and steam. In the corner a masked woman hammered, sending sparks flying. Stolas beheld the rack of gleaming armaments displayed proudly along the far wall, wiped clean of soot and dust. Accents of precious minerals decorated the grips and pommels. Etchings travelled down the centre of blades. One caught his eye, a slightly curved sword with a silver hilt, the pommel carved into the head of a dragon. From the hole in its jaws, a red tassel hung. "You are patriotic," Stolas observed. He plucked it from the mount, surprised at the weight. Perfect for the likes of Caine.
"This country's done a lot for us. You have an expert eye too; this is one of our finest blades and it will meet your criteria." He slipped off his glove and ran his finger along the edge.
"It's exquisite." Elize handed him the matching sheath and on it, Lazeria's emblem. "I should like to buy it. Could I trade in my current sword and pay the difference in value?"
"Can I melt it?" Shouted the masked woman from across the room.
"If you want," replied Stolas, amused, although they could hardly make out his expression. Past her, he glimpsed something shining in the flame's light. A long tool that didn't see the same care as the others, coated in black grime and cobwebs. Building sensations that he couldn't define drew him to it. "What is this?" he said, folding away the spider's silk.
"My Renée found it a few years ago." Said Elize, smiling, resting her hand on her partner's shoulder.
"I found it buried in the remnants of an avalanche." Renée continued. "We tried selling it, but you are the first to even glance at it. Melting it didn't work either, it has sat in the forge since." He held in his grasp a war scythe. It appeared fine, yet simultaneously crude. Ripples and stripes of black and shining steel made up the tall chine. The snath light yet thorned and not made of wood. On contact, he felt it cold, yet a strange artificial warmth permeated his skin. A curiously alluring weapon, yet he sensed it wrong in his hands. A guttural warning repelled him from it. He experienced a similar sickly feeling to the… The dark image of the angel's dagger dawned on him. Identical in fashion. War scythes belonged to the Powers, the third angels of the Second Sphere. His mouth fell open.
"This-"
"Sto-fuck, Éirean!" Caine's voice bellowed from the shop. Stolas whipped around in alarm. "We need to go, now."
"Tell me how much for the sword and the scythe," demanded Stolas, fumbling with the weapons and his coin purse
"With the old sword, one and fifty should do it."
"Take two and buy yourselves something nice." He said roughly, handing them the sword and two gold coins before rushing back out into the shop. A dishevelled Caine faced him. "What's wrong? What happened?"
"We need to leave town as quickly as possible. Come, do you have my sword?" Stolas handed him the new one. Caine whistled, "Nice. Let's go."
"Where?" he questioned as they exited back out into the street. Caine ignored him and jumped atop his horse. The little girl stood beside both their horses now and excitedly handed Caine his reins.
"Here ya go, misters!" she said, handing Stolas his own. "Have a safe trip," she called as they galloped away at gaining speed. Stolas tensed.
"Caine, are we in danger?"
"Caine? That's your name, is it?" They came to an abrupt stop. Stolas saw the blood drain from his comrade's face as he laid eyes on the woman blocking the gateway. He recognised her as the waitress from the tavern. "You lying son of a whore."
"Go," Caine whispered under his breath. Stolas frowned.
"What?"
"Go!" Caine cried, and despite himself, Stolas listened. His hood flew back as he sent Bleach bolting forward, hurtling past the waitress at breakneck speed. Through the gates, he didn't stop and carried on dreading the wrath of a scorned woman, albeit indirectly. Stolas needn't look back as he heard the thundering of eight hooves, four hot on his tail.
"What did you do?" he shouted into the wind.
"Her!" Caine laughed. Stolas couldn't help but join him. His mentor and friend of the crown, a common scoundrel. Never had he pictured himself riding wildly through the planes in such a ridiculous escape, laughing until his stomach ached with tears streaming down his face.