Chapter XLI: The Next Quest Begins

“Who are the Four Winds?”

The question echoed through the silent halls of Castle Oztroja. The music had stopped, the voices gone silent. The slumbering masses, overtaken by the mist of Lethe’s mystic river, barely even breathed in their sleep. The torches had gone out and the magical lights faded away, and only the faint silver glow emanating from the aqueous form of Lethe kept the darkness away. Radiating light in the darkness, standing atop the surface of his river, the man appeared more ghost than human. Rykoshet believed that to probably be close to the truth of the matter.

Lethe’s clear, liquid eyes leveled an unreadable gaze on the Elvaan, and he made no move towards him. He stood near the center of the table still, rising up from it like it was a part of him. Rykoshet, his arms suspended in a state of not knowing whether to drop to his sides or reach for a weapon, remained at the head of the table, standing and facing the shade in front of him. His question still hung unanswered in the air, as Lethe, a dream made real, quietly appraised the leader of Those Guys.

“Such a question would require more time than we have if I were to answer it properly.” He finally replied, the water flowing in rhythm with his words. “I am their herald, and I have been told to seek you out that you might preserve the balance.”

“What balance?” Rykoshet asked, finally letting his arms come to rest. He had seen what happened to Fated, who now laid helplessly in the grip of Lethe’s power. There would be no point in trying to attack him.

“Time runs short,” Lethe replied, “I will explain what I can, but you must understand I must be brief.”

Rykoshet glanced about the great hall. To all sides of him, the bodies of those whom had only moments before Lethe’s arrival been at the height of revelry were now trapped in the web of his magicked sleep. His entrance had been enough to prove he was not a man to be trifled with, if he were mortal at all for that matter. Whatever his reason for being here, it was clear enough that the importance was dire in scope. Not taking his eyes from the ephemeral figure, the Elvaan warrior sat down, pulling his chair up behind him, and folded his hands on the edge of the table, careful to avoid what had become Lethe’s river.

“I’m listening.”

Lethe drew in a breath, and the river cascaded as if a gentle breeze had just flitted across its surface.

“The Four Winds maintain the balance. Like the air and water, all things must flow in a precise manner, or our world will be in peril. Many times has the balance been upset, only to be restored through the actions of brave men and women. Now the threat is so unprecedented it threatens the winds themselves. It would choke the very air we breathe from our lungs and stifle all life, forever.”

As he spoke, images appeared just under the surface of the river, fleeting and clouded. It seemed Rykoshet was looking at the snowy north, and the vast, frozen wastelands therein. Here and there, shadowy figures marched by, only to vanish in the water.

“The peril upon your world was engineered and deliberately executed. The perpetrators of the crime now seek to silence the Four Winds to ensure that no possibility of stopping them exists.”

The words widened Rykoshet’s eyes to resemble dinner saucers. “This . . . all of what has happened . . . someone made it happen? Dynamis was unleashed . . . on purpose?”

“Yes, to the foul and twisted purpose of a cabal that would use the strife of millions to further their own ends. Death and suffering mean nothing to them – even the scourge of the Nightmare World is but another means to an end for them. Even as we speak, one of their number lays siege to the frozen Keep of the North Wind, hidden within the ruins of Pso’Xja.

“This is why I have been sent to retrieve you. The North Wind asks for your aid in reaching safety. If even a single link in the chain is broken, all is lost. This cabal will melt the whole chain down, just to be sure.”

“What are their names?” Rykoshet demanded with a snarl. His eyes were narrowed now into slits as his teeth ground together. Everything, all of the suffering, the death of his friends, the loss of life on an untold scale, all part of some twisted plan carried out without remorse. A faceless group of monsters, preying upon the lives of millions, so that they might acquire personal power, were responsible for what Rykoshet had thought up until now was entirely the fault of the demons. The people of Jeuno, the Yagudo, and Those Guys, everything they had been through – nothing but a sick game.

“Tell me their names,” the Elvaan repeated.

“I do not have them to tell you.” Lethe said, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “You will have to discover this on your own. All we can see is that each one is possessed of tremendous power, and one wields a terrible weapon. Their names and faces are obscured to us by the shroud of Dynamis, through which no scrying can pierce.”

“What do you want from me?”

Lethe breathed an outward breath, closing his brilliant blue eyes as the scent of freshwater and rain filled Rykoshet’s nose. “My power wanes,” he stated, “but it is within me to bring you back to Pso’Xja with me and assist you in moving undetected for a short while. I can bring others, as well.”

“I’ll have Danienne prepare her division,” the blonde Elvaan replied with a nod, rising from his chair, “some of the Yagudo can – “

Lethe silenced him, slowly shaking his head. “Such a feat is beyond my power. I can, at the very most, bring the two of us and perhaps four others. No more than this.”

Rykoshet gaped at the man for a moment, and then sunk back into his chair.

“What kind of forces is this North Wind being attacked by?”

“Their numbers are seemingly endless. The one leading them is also a wizard with enough power to challenge one of the Four Winds on his own, even without the hordes accompanying him.”

Something like an icy stab jabbed at Rykoshet’s heart. He was not being asked to break a siege, he was being commanded to undertake a suicide mission.

“Rykoshet,” Lethe said, his voice as calming as the ocean at low tide, “I was sent to you for a reason. Out of all the others, you are the one judged to have the greatest chance of success. The North Wind believes salvation lies with you.”

For a long moment, Rykoshet stared at Lethe without responding. One word stuck in his mind, and haltingly, almost fearfully, he repeated it.

“Others?”

Lethe looked at him quizzically. “Yes, the others still struggling against the Kindred. The ones who once bore pearls from the shell strung around your neck.”

Rykoshet felt as if someone had tossed a bucket of ice water in his face. “Still . . . out there?”

The blonde-bearded man closed his eyes, lifting his chin before he spoke. “There is a woman far to the east, traveling to find one who cannot be found. There is a man in the west, searching for an object of great power, though he knows not what it is. I see forces gathering for war in the south, with the survival of hope at stake. To the north, there is a man wandering alone, on a quest to preserve life by bringing death. All of them were ones you once called comrade and friend. They all bear a connection to you, and they yet live.

“I can tell you only what I see, but it would be a small task for the North Wind to guide you more succinctly towards them.”

“Take me to him,” Rykoshet replied without a shred of hesitation in his voice.

This was what he had been waiting for.

Absurd as it seemed, he suddenly felt like joining in the celebration.

“To leave now would be to confront the enemy at its strongest, while the night is high and the shroud eliminates the light they despise. I will return twelve hours from now, and then we will depart for Pso’Xja. Use your time wisely, and decide who will be coming with you.”

The Elvaan’s mind was already working in response to the issue. If he were going to be facing a powerful wizard, he’d need magic of his own, so Vile would be the first person to accompany him. Another fighter to back him up, but he couldn’t take Danienne away just yet . . . perhaps Celeres . . .

“One more thing,” Lethe said, interrupting Rykoshet’s thoughts. He held his hand in front of him, and seemed to be scouring the room with his eyes. “There is one here named Hiraiko.” He returned his attention to the leader of Those Guys, and there was intensity now behind that crystal clear gaze. “She must be among your companions.”

“Hiraiko?” Rykoshet replied, puzzled. “But why?”

“I only know that the slim chance for success we hold to will be lost altogether if she is not with us when we reach Pso’Xja. The other three are yours to decide, but victory demands Hiraiko be present.”

The warrior’s stance shifted perceptibly. His plans had been altered significantly by that declaration, and he was thinking quickly to adjust.

“I can remain here no longer,” Lethe said suddenly, talking over Rykoshet when he raised his voice to try and get a question in. “You have twelve hours to prepare, and then we depart. Farewell, Rykoshet.”

“Lethe,” the Elvaan called out after him, “wait!”

Where Lethe stood, a whirlpool had formed, and as Rykoshet watched, the mists began receding as the water heaved and splashed. The river heaved and churned towards the center where Lethe was enveloped in a shroud of the mist which gathered over him, drawing back from all corners of the castle where it had reached. There came a great surge as the river drew itself downward, and then, with a flash of light and the sound of a titanic wave crashing against a rocky shore, the herald of the Four Winds was gone, without so much as a single drop of water to mark his passing.

“Rykoshet,” he heard at his side, “you’re doing it again.”

He was sitting down. The lights were bright and full, and music was in the air, filling the great hall as scores of Jeunoans laughed and danced. Though somber as always, the Yagudo willingly joined in the merriment and feasting around them. The scents of roasted rabbit and seasoned meats from exotic game such as cockatrice and skink wafted about freely, along with the tinge of the immensely strong Yagudo spirits. Several Jeunoans had already succumb to the powerful liquor, much to the amusement of their kinfolk.

Odessa was at Rykoshet’s side, chiding him for looking grim. Battousai was right where he had been, the ladies swooning over his scarred visage. Around the table there sat a hundred and more of the people living in Castle Oztroja, eating and drinking, conversing and laughing, enjoying the festive time being had. There was no indication anyone found anything amiss, or that Lethe had ever been there at all. Fated sat where he had been, sword dry and sheathed.

“Are you alright?” Odessa asked, and Rykoshet turned to gape at her. “You really don’t seem yourself tonight.”

He stared at the silver-haired White Mage, and she looked somewhat alarmed at the gaze he returned. His brain seemed temporarily frozen. He may have very well continued staring had the sound of a glass clinking not suddenly brought low the noise filling Oztroja.

Rykoshet snapped his eyes away from Odessa. Baeladar was about to make his toast.

He knew every word the Paladin was about to say.

“- and despite whatever tensions existed beforehand,” Baeladar was saying.

“learned to coexist,” Rykoshet finished, loud enough to be heard. Eyes turned to the head of the table, where he sat with dawning comprehension rising on his face. “Together,” he said, completing Baeladar’s toast, “we shall persevere.”

The partygoers looked back and forth at one another, unsure of whether or not they were supposed to respond.

“Why . . . yes,” Baeladar spoke, sounding taken aback. “That was what I had intended to say, but how did . . .?”

Rykoshet pushed himself away from the table before Baeladar could complete his question. He was already moving.

“Find Hiraiko,” he ordered, “and bring her back here. I need to find Vile.”

“Rykoshet,” Odessa protested from her seat, her teeth clenched, “sit down.”

He ignored her hissed warning, brushing through the confused crowd. “Hiraiko,” he called back at Baeladar, “get her for me. Every second counts, Bael.”

Baeladar called after him, but the crowd was already rushing to fill the void created by the silence. Some people were affronted that Rykoshet would up and leave the banquet he was supposed to be hosting. Rumors began spreading about the girl who seldom left her room, and always carried an ornate staff with her. People wondered if there was something in the wine. A few complained about the weather.

It was all noise to Rykoshet. Lethe’s words were still ringing in his pointed ears. His friends, his comrades, they were still out there. He could still save them. He could find the people responsible for everything and make them pay. He could set things right.

He had twelve hours. There was no time to lose.

Chapter XL: Dinner Party

Rykoshet was not happy. Unhappy was an understatement in point of fact. His mood was downright gloomy. Yet for the first time in two months, that mindset stood out in stark contrast to his surroundings.

Castle Oztroja was in subdued celebration. The glut of refugees from Jeuno whom had come to inhabit the massive walls of the fortress had, in the three weeks since their rescue from the darkened catacombs of Garlaige Citadel, gradually recovered their strength and, in time, their hope. The sections of the immense fortress set aside for their recovery had quickly blossomed into a maze of shelters and hovels, which, under the guidance of the famous doctor Monbereaux, became gradually more organized. Not only that, but Wolfgang had been surprisingly receptive to the idea of incorporating the surviving Ducal Guards into the Yagudo regulars, and as the Jeunoans renewed their bodies, so too did their spirits return. In the last week, several hundred of them had come forth asking to join this burgeoning force growing in the heart of the Yagudo stronghold.

Castle Oztroja, nearly dead when Those Guys had come upon it, was blossoming into a new town within the impenetrable walls, where Yagudo and the Children of Altana lived and worked side by side. With the sky above reminding them of what increasingly dark times they lived in, such a happening was nothing short of miraculous. It was as if there was but a lone bastion of sanity amongst the madness. Today, the inhabitants had decided to revel in their survival, to celebrate having life. A grand banquet was being prepared. Rykoshet was to sit at the head of a table where the Jeunoans and the Yagudo would break bread together, and honor their treaty, however forced by circumstance it may be. The Yagudo did not understand the ways of the Children of Altana, nor did they even hold Altana sacred, but they found in being united against the demons a bond they could latch on to. The mutual enemy had created the most unlikely of friends.

The attack by the demons, the Kindred, the Yagudo had called them, was a touchy subject for the Beastmen. It had been a long while before any had been willing to broach the topic, but in the end Daa Bola the Seer had finally made a startling confession. The Kindred had come with the branch of peace extended, offering the Yagudo a chance to rejoin the ranks of the Shadow Lord as they had done in the Crystal War, some twenty years past. Tzee Xicu, well remembering the outcome, and that her people had been practically forced into servitude during the Great War, had rejected the Kindred. They opted to remain free, but their freedom had come at a terrible price. The blood of their fallen seemed enough motivation for them to accept the hand of friendship when offered from Jeuno.

It also explained Tzee Xicu’s cryptic words to Rykoshet upon her defeat.

So two peoples who would fight for life together had come together, and as it had become clear that they would, in fact, accept one another and live peacefully, the upcoming celebration had been planned. It was spoken of jokingly at first, but slowly, somehow, it had turned into a serious discussion, until finally they reached this very evening. Oztroja was a bustle of activity as the Yagudo donned ceremonial vestments, some of the soldiers retrieving suits of armor not worn for twenty years or more. The Jeunoan Guards burnished their armor as smartly as they would have for any official state dinner at the Ducal Palace. Clothcrafters worked with whatever materials they could lay their hands on to create dresses for the women and passable raiment for the menfolk. It would not just be a perfunctory banquet – this was to encompass all of the multitude now inhabiting the castle.

Baeladar was beside himself with lists, making sure everything was planned to the minutest detail. The kitchens were ablaze with activity as he rushed to and fro making sure that Yagudo cuisine did not get mixed up with the rest, checking to ensure that there would be enough to satisfy the entire castle, and trying to discern which Yagudo spirit was closest to wine. Some of the Jeunoans had thankfully preserved enough Rolanberries that Baeladar had been able to oversee a fresh cask of Rolanwine being pressed, which was to be served at Rykoshet’s table. The dinner itself was just one of a hundred tasks he busied himself with, as the raven-haired Paladin seemed completely caught up in the fervor which had swept Oztroja.

Danienne was similarly engulfed. Having so many fresh recruits in addition to the Jeunoan guards had been overwhelming at first, until she began breaking down her tiny army into units. Four distinct companies had emerged – one headed by Mee Deggi the Punisher, with Huu Xalmo the Savage as his Lieutenant. Mee Deggi had been allowed to hand-pick his soldiers, and had created a unit of devout, steadfast Yagudo templars, a good number of them choosing to fight with their bare hands, like their commander. A select number at their core brandished great katana. The second unit, under the command of Wolfgang, with the now-recovered Raidom at his right hand, was made up of the new recruits which daily came from the Jeunoan people as they found the inspiration to take up arms. Its backbone was made of the surviving Ducal Guards, all of them fiercely loyal to Wolfgang, and far more experienced than any besides the most seasoned Yagudo in the Castle. Danienne herself, assisted by Icon, was in charge of the third unit. Danienne took a little bit of everything, from the red-masked Yagudo with their strange mystic abilities to the rawest Jeunoan recruit.

Those were the three units ever present in the castle. She had told Rykoshet there was a fourth, but he had yet to see it materialize. Perhaps she had meant that she was only planning a fourth.

Whatever the case there, Danienne had devoted her energies to prepping her forces for impeccable behavior, a simple of pride and unity for the two peoples. It was something to say that the Beastmen and the Children of Altana were working together towards a common goal, to actually see it in action was something else altogether. Rykoshet could see the eyes of civilians light up with wonder every time one of Danienne’s patrols of mixed Yagudo and Jeunoan soldiers passed by.

Everyone had found some task to occupy them. Eig and Kee Taw the Nightingale were composing a new song to be played during the dinner. Darutaru and Liyah set a series of charms throughout the fortress to ensure that a spectacular lightshow would be enjoyed during the festivities, yet not one so grand as could be seen outside the castle walls. Decay, only recently out of bed following his bout with Serket’s poison, had – wisely, in Rykoshet’s opinion – removed himself from the celebration, and chose instead to resume his study of the magicite beneath Oztroja. Another unresolved issue gnawing at the mind of the blonde-haired Elvaan.

Battousai, of course, was already deep in revel. He swaggered past Rykoshet deliberately at one point, a doe-eyed Jeunoan girl on each arm, recounting them with tales of how he saved his helpless brother from the clutches of the Roc. Odessa had been there to prevent a calamity, but even after Rykoshet’s younger brother had vanished down a dark hall, she’d had to talk him out of following him to plant a fist between his eyes. As night crept towards them and he was forced to go put on his armor and don his newest weapon, a massive polearm which had belonged to Tzee Xicu, the incident vanished from his mind, but no sooner had he entered the grand foyer, converted into a banquet hall for the occasion, then he saw Battousai, now with a third girl added to his entourage, flashing him a grin from his place at the head of the table, in the seat set aside for Rykoshet.

Vile was nowhere to be found. The last anyone had seen of him, he’d set a small Jeunoan Hume child on fire for asking if he wanted to play during the feast, and only Konstantine’s quick intervention had prevented disaster. No one had gone looking for him after that.

So it was that Rykoshet finally sat at the head of a full table. It stretched out almost too far to see the end, Yagudo, Elvaan, Hume, Tarutaru, Mithra, and even the few Galka inhabitants of Jeuno whom had survived sitting side by side. Celeres, his massive arms laden with trays, came forth every few minutes to serve up another fresh helping from the kitchen, keeping food and drink in plentiful amounts. Music and magic filled the air, and the miracle of life was celebrated all around them. At his right side, Odessa urged Rykoshet to smile, which he did weakly, before glancing to his left to see Battousai grinning like the coeurl that ate the canary. The little good cheer he pretended to have vanished instantly.

It was not the banquet that Rykoshet was concerned with. He didn’t object to the using up of their food stores or the gratuitous use of magic. Indeed, he loved that they were free enough in this spot to come together in celebration; that they had anything to celebrate at all. He recognized the significance of what they were doing, and knew how important it was to so many people. Everyone at the table, everyone through the entire castle, they had been through a great deal. The preparations for the great feast had temporarily taken their minds away from their dire situation, and the banquet itself allowed them to forget it altogether, if only for a few hours. Even the night sky seemed natural in the open-air areas of the castle, so that people could look up and not remember how the day was nearly indistinguishable from the evening now. Rykoshet would gladly put up with his brother for awhile if it meant seeing the faces of those whom he had promised to protect fill with happiness again.

None of the things going on gave Rykoshet any concern. It was the fact that he had no idea what to do next.

As if sent and preserved by Altana, Raidom had managed to find his way to Oztroja, not even knowing there were people there, and almost by chance Icon had discovered him. The Lieutenant’s story had led to the rescue of the Jeunoan refugees, and the current bustle of activity in Oztroja. It was inspiring to be sure, and not a day had gone by where Rykoshet questioned if he had done the right thing or not. His actions had saved countless lives.

Then, in the three weeks since, nothing. No one had come from San d’Oria or Bastok, no stranded refugees from Windurst seeking asylum or aid for their country. Not another living soul had crossed their way for nearly a month. More and more he felt as if all he had done was brought people clinging to a life raft ashore on an island encroached upon by an ocean of death. With every passing day when no word came of any new survivors being found, the tide came a little closer.

More metaphors about water. He chewed at a leg of some meat dish, not really tasting it. It seemed everything he thought about went back to water since his battle with the Roc. Not just water, but a river, shrouded in mist, with a man standing upon the surface. Every night when he dreamed, he could see the man, beckoning to him from the river, yet Rykoshet could never find a way to reach him. As the days passed, his gestures seemed to grow more and more urgent, but even with a sense of desperation now attached to his actions, Rykoshet could never find a way to reach the man in the river. The misty air around the water had grown darker and darker over time, and it seemed that the inky blackness was seeping into the water itself, threatening to surround the man whose face Rykoshet could just barely make out, yet he still could not reach him . . .

The last time he had the dream, just a few days earlier, after all the time he spent fruitlessly calling out to the man, he had finally heard a response. A voice soft and deep, coming not from the figure but from the river itself, telling him one thing, one sentence, before he was jolted back into consciousness. It had said “I will come for you.”

But upon waking, Rykoshet had no more answers than he had in the dream.

“Rykoshet,” he heard at his side, “you’re doing it again.”

The Elvaan was startled by the voice at his side, and turned to see Odessa, her silver hair tied into a single braid which reached down her chest, tied with an exquisite ribbon, staring at him with her soft brown eyes. She had not exasperation in them, as was usual, but concern.

“Are you alright?” she asked quietly, trying not to be overheard. “You really don’t seem yourself tonight.”

He searched for words, but had none to offer. His lips finally curled into what he hoped resembled a smile enough for her to forget her concerns, but whatever happened seemed to make her even more worried. Rykoshet remembered that he might have to practice smiling.

A ringing sound sounded out through the hall, and gradually the dull roar of revelry came to a halt. The music was muted, and the glowing spheres of magic in the air dulled, conversation coming to a close as eyes focused on a man at the center of the grand table. A silver spoon tapped against a crystal glass, calling everyone’s attention to Baeladar, gleaming like a lighthouse beacon in his white-and-silver mail, a deep red mantle spread out from his shoulders to brush the floor. As always, there seemed to not be a speck of dirt anywhere within three feet of him. One hand clasped behind his back, he raised his glass, a symbolic gesture instantly mimicked by all those around the banquet table.

“A toast,” he proposed, “to our new alliance, and our survival.” A murmur of agreement rose around him, along with scattered cheers, and he continued as if urged on by their approval. “We have, against all odds, gathered together in this most unlikely of locations, and despite whatever tensions existed beforehand, learned to coexist.” A few Jeunoans, deep in Yagudo spirits, slapped some of their feathered companions on the back in appreciation, a gesture which, even more remarkable considering the circumstances, didn’t ruffle any feathers. “Together,” Baeladar intoned, his face as stony serious as it always was, “we shall persevere.” He raised his glass high, and all around him, voices called out in agreement. “Together,” he repeated.

“Together!” a thousand responses came. “Together!” a thousand more voices called from out in the halls. “Together!” it rang one more time, as in unison it seemed everyone in the halls of Castle Oztroja joined in the chant. An approving look on his brow as cheers and whoops of celebration rang out around him, Baeladar nodded down the table towards Rykoshet, lowering his glass to his lips.

Baeladar sputtered once, then leaped back with an exclamation as his glass fell to the ground and shattered. His wine never reached his lips.

Rykoshet rose in alarm. All around the table, people were crying out, and the sound of glass breaking echoed countless times through the grand hall. Weapons were drawn in alarm, and shouts of confusion began overpowering all other noises.

“What’s happening?” Battousai demanded, and Rykoshet turned to see him already out of his chair, hands on the hilt of the great sword which, only a few weeks prior, had been slung over the back of his elder brother. “Are we being attacked?”

Before Rykoshet could answer, his glass, of its own accord, tipped over, joining every other glass around the table in spilling out over the dark blue cloth spread out over the grand banquet table. Yet the spill did not stain. Instead it . . . rippled.

The entire table rippled, shifting and undulating as people backed away from it in fear. It rose up and crashed down again, shifting and turning, never leaving its place over the table, yet coming more to life with every passing second. Unbelievably, plates and dishes began sinking into the surface, floating visibly just beneath the surface of the cloth. One woman even fearfully reached into it, snatching a plate free with a wild grab, and her hands emerged soaking wet. She fainted almost instantly.

Rykoshet watched in disbelief as he realized he was looking at a river.

At the center of the table, the cloth began rushing in, driven by some invisible rapid, crashing together, rising higher and higher. From the surface of the cloth, a mist began to rise, and the partygoers backed away from it with terror as it swirled around them, hovering just over the table. The gathering tide crashed higher yet, and before their astonished eyes, a shape began taking form. People gasped as a hooded face crested the surface of the tablecloth river, rising up with a rush like the crashing tide to reveal a man, stepping out of nowhere to stand atop the surface of the river which had once been a banquet table.

Rykoshet’s dark eyes were wide as his open mouth.

The figure from his dreams stared back at him.

Ripples followed after him, stopping as if the edge of the table were the banks of this impossible river, as the robed man came forward. He shimmered and quavered as if he himself were made of water, and indeed it seemed there was no point where the river ended and the man began. Both were one, and both were coming straight for Rykoshet.

“No!” someone cried out, and shockingly, Fated burst forth, his sword drawn. Before anyone could stop him, the young knight thrust forward, seeking to cut down the intruder where he stood.

The man from the river raised his arm and let the blade sink in through his hand. It vanished in his arm, which shook and rippled. His shadowed visage turned, and the man raised a single finger to his lips.

“Shhhhh,” he whispered, and the voice came not from the figure, but from the surface of the entire enchanted river itself. Fated’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his sword, coated with a sheen of water, dropped to the floor as the Paladin collapsed into slumber upon the castle floor.

People cried out and weapons came forth, but the mist around the man suddenly spread out, blanketing the room surrounding him. All over, Yagudo and Jeunoan alike succumbed, their limbs going slack as they clattered downwards. Sleep overtook them without discretion, and silence fell over the castle as in short order, the mist claimed every living person for the realm of dreams.

Everyone, it seemed, except for Rykoshet. Odessa and Battousai lay unconscious on the floor behind him as he stood, the mists parted around him, staring down the man from the river.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

“You know who I am.” Once again, the voice came not from the man, but from the river itself.

“Why are you here?” Rykoshet continued, admitting that he did know who the man was. It was the same figure from his dreams, it was clear that they both knew as much.

The man paused, the water-which-was-cloth at the edges of his robes waving slightly. Two hands came up to the hood of his robe, and as he pushed it back, it was if a waterfall flowing down a cliff more than garment being altered.

Beneath the hood, Rykoshet found himself staring at eyes of the purest blue, shining like the sky reflected in the surface of a crystal lake. Framing the eyes was a Hume face, with flowing blonde hair streaming down from his head, and a bright yellow beard covering his cheeks. He fixed those eyes on Rykoshet, and it seemed almost like clouds were drifting beneath their surface. His arms dropped to his side, chin raised as he spoke, the entire room echoing his words.

“I am Lethe, herald of the Four Winds. You are needed, Rykoshet, and time is short indeed.”