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Memoirs 338 - The coalition
🕑 Added 2025-03-06 22:34:33 +0000 UTCIt was one thing to hear of the wonders the Zuverian civilisation had wrought at the height of its power. Another entirely to witness their remnants with one’s own eyes.
Raimond walked at the centre of the procession, a convergence of figures from different walks of life, faith, and steel. Priests and adherents moved in robes adorned with the golden sunburst of Ittar’s graceful Followers. Mages and wizards bore the sigils and colours of their towers and orders, their flowing garments rippling in the lake-born breeze. The Solar Knights, clad in black and gold armour, marched with disciplined precision, swords at their sides. These groups, often divided by ideology and purpose, now moved as one — united by the gravity of this most momentous of moments.
The sheer scale of what surrounded them was enough to humble even the most stoic. The pristine white stone beneath their feet held carvings so intricate they seemed to shift under the eye, completely untouched by the passage of time or the decline of the ages. It stretched outwards in sprawling terraces, an expanse so vast that it could house a city and still leave room to spare.
Beld Thylelion. A name once nearly lost to the passages of history, now made real before them. The vestiges of a civilisation so far beyond their own that, even standing atop its ruins, they could barely comprehend what had once been. Raimond considered himself fortunate—privileged, even—to be among the first to set foot here in over a millennium. Like his fellow priests, he could not help but tread with a sense of reverence, weaving between towering colonnades and shadowed archways. He glimpsed quiet gestures from his brethren and sistren, fingers tracing signs of devotion as they muttered prayers to Ittar beneath their breath.
Their party of priests numbered nearly a dozen — handpicked by Raimond himself, though not without some interference. His dear colleague Ava had, with her usual stoic persistence, ensured that he did not depart without certain individuals. That would raise questions within the Quorum once word spread of today’s events, but that was a concern for another time.
Four Dawnbringers walked among them, trailing behind Raimond like immovable shadows. Their armour—masterfully forged in gleaming whites and golds, breastplates adorned with the radiant sun—shone with such brilliance it nearly eclipsed Raimond’s own dazzling presence. Their porcelain-white masks, sculpted with serene, closed golden eyes, evoked an air of divine contemplation.
Raimond liked to think he was doing a fairly admirable job of pretending they were truly there solely to guard him, rather than acting as his ever-watchful tenders.
Beyond them, knights, wizards and mages made up the rest of the expedition, their numbers nearly threefold that of the clergy — a testament to the mission’s significance. Raimond did not doubt that even the most jaded among them would struggle not to be awed by what lay before them.
He glanced down at the stone beneath his feet, eyes tracing the elaborate carvings etched into its surface, each line as if a master’s hand had painstakingly etched every detail, glowing slightly. What secrets lay buried beneath, he wondered?
When they had first uncovered Beld Thylelion’s location, Raimond had envisioned a citadel. A grand bastion of Zuverian knowledge rising above the waters of Rellaria, akin to the Rising Isle. Reality, however, had proven quite the opposite. The ruin did not rise above the waters. It descended beneath them, sprawling deep into the lake’s abyss, its greatest secrets buried where sunlight did not reach.
Turning slightly, Raimond peered through the colonnades toward the edge of the structure. In the distance, the great Dawnlight Palace and the rest of Elystead shimmered faintly, separated by a veil of golden light woven like gossamer threads.
The source of that barrier stood atop the lake: floating platforms of wood and metal, their forms arranged in geometric alignment around Beld Thylelion. Constructs of both arcane spells and sacred invocations, hidden from sight until the ruin revealed itself. The magic infused within them had been painstakingly prepared and constructed by a rare collaboration of the mage towers, the Ustrum Assembly, the Followers of Ittar, and the Rising Isle. A boundary wrought in less than a week to safeguard this place from unwelcome hands.
Given how contentious even the simplest collaborations between two of those factions could often grow, what they had managed to achieve while maintaining a semblance of secrecy was nothing short of a marvel of coordination. It was enough to make a man weep.
Raimond was sure his boundless charm and impeccable diplomacy had played no small part in it.
His gaze lingered a moment longer before he turned back, walking near the procession’s heart as they pressed deeper across the ruin.
The architecture bore the unmistakable mark of the ancients. Though he couldn’t discern a clear purpose for them, the pale marble veined with strange, shimmering blue was a wonder to behold. The occasional pillar, carved with intriguing patterns, stood like sentinels to a lost age.
And the greenery…
Even among the hushed reverence of the priests around him, Raimond could hear the soft rustling of leaves, the whisper of unseen movement. Trees growing in places they should not, their colours richer than they had any right to be. Deep emerald, crimson, violet. An unnatural beauty, yet not an unsettling one.
The thought struck him that perhaps this place had been cultivated that way deliberately — designed to awe those who might one day unearth it. A final flourish of Zuverian arrogance, their mastery displayed even in the arrangement of leaves and petals.
Raimond rather liked the notion.
Were he a divinarch of old wielding power near divine, he would have done much the same.
Eventually, after what felt just shy of an eternity of silent admiration, they arrived at the heart of Beld Thylelion.
A vast, circular space of pure white stone opened before them, ringed by archways like the sacred core of some forgotten temple. The ground sloped downward in wide steps, leading to a depression at its centre. There, a single unbroken slab lay at the bottom, smooth, marked by one clean, linear cut across the middle.
A passage. A doorway. A sealed chasm. Several words rose to Raimond’s mind.
On the innermost stone step, Zuverian script sprawled in large, deliberate strokes — clear enough to read even from where he stood.
Though understanding them was another matter.
It was a fact that he had devoted weeks to the study of Zuverian script in his pursuit of Beld Thylelion’s location, but he was still far from fluent. The markings were intricate, obscure, and their meaning eluded him. But even without comprehension, he could feel their weight.
Something here was different.
Their entire procession had come to a halt without a word. No command had been given. No signal passed. And yet they stopped, gathered just beyond the descending steps, held in stillness. It was as if the very space itself had called for it, and they obeyed.
The hush deepened, like the quiet before the first chime of a prayer bell.
Raimond wasn’t sure even the wizards and knights among them realised why they’d stopped yet.
Clearing his throat, he strode towards where the heads of the different delegations had gathered. “Fine gentlemen,” he greeted, gesturing lightly. “What do you make of this?”
The four men turned to regard him, measuring him with their own brands of scrutiny. Raimond, of course, met them all with his most winning smile.
Sir Leon Delmon, Vice-captain of the Solar Knights, was—by all accounts—the epitome of knightly virtue, with his chiselled features, sharp gaze, and a spine as straight as his sword. A man of discipline, honour, and solemn duty. Raimond could not help but think that, if Sir Leon smiled more and looked so perpetually grave a little less, he might find himself nearly as popular among the fairer sex as Raimond himself.
A wasted opportunity, truly.
Then again, perhaps not, considering he was, ostensibly, the fiancé of Baroness Scarlett Hartford. Though Raimond was loath to judge his friends and acquaintances too harshly, for Sir Leon’s sake, he could only hope that arrangement was precisely as nominal as it appeared. He wasn’t sure what kind of person could truly match the Baroness — but he was fairly certain it wasn’t this man.
The knight was here on behalf of the crown’s interests in Beld Thylelion’s appearance.
By what Raimond was sure was pure coincidence, Dean Warley Godwin of Elystead happened to be another fine example of handsome nobility, albeit of the silver-haired variety. Word had it he had stolen more than his fair share of hearts in his youth, and judging by the glint in his eyes, it was not a skill he had left behind entirely.
More importantly, Godwin had played a pivotal role in securing the, at times, tenuous cooperation between the mage towers, making him the shared representative of their collective interests here today.
Arch Wizard Rodmun Ainsworth of the Ustrum Assembly lacked the refined elegance of his peer, but his weathered features and bald head carried a dignified charm of their own. Raimond had spoken with him enough to know that the man wasn’t as unreasonable as one might expect from a wizard of the Assembly — though he did have a certain bluntness that came at the expense of the diplomatic eloquence Raimond so preferred.
And then there was Arch Wizard Newbury of the Rising Isle…
Raimond had long since learned that sometimes, it was best to say nothing at all.
The Rising Isle had offered no small aid in recent weeks, and it would be terribly ungracious to question their contributions simply because their representative seemed to mistake age for a license to dispense with patience, wisdom, and respect for his juniors.
Newbury’s ever-present scowl, buried beneath a tangle of half-unkempt eyebrows and a long beard, did little to dissuade that impression.
Sir Leon stood with his arms crossed, as still and stern as a statue. Dean Godwin studied the markings before them in quiet contemplation. Arch Wizard Ainsworth furrowed his face, considering.
And Newbury?
Newbury frowned harder.
At last, it was Godwin who spoke first in response to Raimond’s question.
“It is rather…curious,” he mused, fingers brushing along his beard.
Raimond chuckled, folding his hands behind his back. “Curious indeed! A lost stronghold of the Zuver, lying beneath our feet like a long-forgotten lover, yearning to whisper its secrets into our eager ears. Or, perhaps, to swallow us whole. Who can say?”
He coughed gently, motioning towards the engraved text near the centre.
“But I was referring more specifically to that.”
Arch Wizard Ainsworth considered it with a measured expression. “Deacon Abram—”
“You can call me Father Ray,” Raimond said.
“…Deacon Abram,” the man repeated, unamused. “Do you know what those symbols say?”
Raimond shook his head. “Alas, I do not. As lamentable as it is—and as divinely fortuitous as it would be to decipher the wisdoms of the ancients who once tread this world—I must confess that my studies of their script began only recently. I am, regrettably, no scholar.” He paused, glancing among them, his expression innocent. “But I do trust that all of you are more familiar with it. Except Sir Leon, of course.” He turned to the knight with an easy smile. “No offence meant, my good sir.”
Raimond’s impression of the man didn’t mark him as someone prone to taking offence, but it never hurt to be polite.
“It is…humbling to admit, but I am not familiar with all the characters used either,” Ainsworth admitted with a slight sigh. His gaze shifted. “Newbury, you should be more familiar with this.”
The Isle wizard remained silent for a long moment before speaking.
“Bound by decree of the accord, this sanctum stands in vigil of its purpose,” he recited slowly. “Once, it bore the weight of the world’s unmaking, a price paid in silence. When the world turns and the veil thins, what was once stilled shall stir anew, bound by oath, by purpose, by…”
He paused, his scowl deepening, as though the next word personally offended him.
“…by geas unbroken,” he eventually continued. “The toll shall be met. The cycle shall resume. Let those who stand upon these stones heed well. To know is to bear; and to bear is to be weighed.”
The old man’s scowl only darkened further as he finished, and both Ainsworth’s and Godwin’s expressions clouded with thought.
Raimond tilted his head. “I assume there is something in that passage that unsettles you fine wizards?”
“One could say that…” Ainsworth replied.
“Is it, perhaps, this ‘geas’?”
The man nodded.
Raimond studied all three of them. “And what is it?”
He was unfamiliar with the term, but if it was enough to earn such a reaction from three arch wizards, he had no doubt it was of considerable significance. Or possibly, more pressingly, a colossal headache waiting to unfold.
Newbury scoffed. “It’s meaningless yarn — an unobtainable myth that preoccupies wizards with more years than sense and less to show for it than they’d like to admit.”
Raimond raised a brow but, out of sheer courtesy, refrained from pointing out the rather unsatisfying lack of explanation in that answer. Instead, he turned to Dean Godwin.
The Dean of Elystead Tower stroked his beard in further contemplation, his gaze distant, before speaking. “To refine Newbury’s explanation, a geas is an ancient concept among wizards, one that predates even The Severance. Yet much like the First Flame or the Old Paths, it has never been proven to exist. Whether it is truth or merely the residue of myth and fable, we cannot say.” He motioned towards Raimond’s robes, then to Raimond’s fellow priests. “Beyond even divinity, a geas is said to be a contract with the world itself.”
Raimond’s fingers twitched slightly at the phrasing. Beyond divinity?
Godwin continued. “It’s said there is no power beyond what a geas can grant — no force it cannot bind, no will it cannot enforce. But such power does not come without a clause. A contract, after all, requires both parties to uphold their end.”
His gaze shifted back towards the entrance, and the script etched into the stone. “If this inscription is to be believed…it suggests that a geas is responsible for Beld Thylelion’s sudden reappearance. Perhaps that was part of the cost. As for its purpose…”
Raimond followed his gaze, a quiet intrigue settling over him.
A power beyond divinity… Beyond Ittar’s light, and his grace…
The thought alone no doubt toed the line of blasphemy for those with a more rigid mind, so it was little wonder such a subject was rarely spoken of among his peers. Yet if such a force did exist, they could hardly afford to turn a blind eye to its implications.
And it did provide an explanation — or at least, the beginnings of one.
For quite some time, both the Followers and the mage factions had been utterly confounded by how Beld Thylelion could have remained hidden for so long. A structure of this magnitude and weight should have left some trace, yet there were no arcane signatures, no divine impressions, not even the faintest spatial disturbance detected until it emerged. It was as if it had never existed at all.
Perhaps that was precisely the answer, then.
It hadn’t been hidden away all these years.
It simply had not existed. Its very being bound—suspended—by the power of this geas.
Raimond turned his gaze from the inscription to the greenery that flourished throughout Beld Thylelion. The trees and the vines. All of it had flourished undisturbed, untouched by time.
If they were to fell one of those trees, cut into its trunk, and count its rings, what would they find?
His eyes drifted back to the steps and the stone threshold before them.
Godwin’s question lingered. What exactly was the purpose of this place, if a concept as powerful as a geas had been woven into its very return?
He exhaled softly. A certain passage came to mind.
“…And in the turning of the age, that which was veiled shall be made known, and what was bound shall stir again, for no oath is beyond the reach of time.”
“…The Book of Canon, Edras 7:16, I believe,” Godwin said.
Raimond looked over, smiling. “Indeed. It seems somewhat apt, doesn’t it?”
Newbury let out a disparaging snort. “Prayers won’t make a difference here. We are dealing with forces of the arcane and forgotten law, not the whims of the divine.” His gaze flicked towards Raimond’s priests, their hands still clasped in silent prayers, while his expression was edged with barely concealed disdain.
“I suppose I should have expected nothing less from the empire’s clergy. Standing at the threshold of the greatest magical discovery since the Rising Isle itself, and all they can do is whisper to their god.”
Sir Leon’s eyes darkened, a quiet warning flashing across his features. Dean Godwin and Arch Wizard Ainsworth both gave Newbury pointed looks, but neither spoke.
Raimond, however, simply studied the man. His eyes moved past him, sweeping over the assembled wizards. Then his eyes drifted past him, scanning the assembled wizards. He suspected many shared Newbury’s sentiment to some degree, even if they didn’t voice it so openly. Even among the imperial mages, he’d caught more than a few sideways glances at his priests since their arrival.
To them, Beld Thylelion represented the very pinnacle of magical achievement — the ultimate testament to the Zuver, who, though mere mortals, had wielded the arcane so masterfully that they were almost revered as gods.
To see the servants of an actual god treading upon it as if it were their holy ground…
Raimond suspected the thought did not sit well with many of them.
“I suppose I cannot fault you for that mindset,” he said at last, returning his gaze to Newbury. “It would be difficult for you to tell, after all.”
The arch wizard’s brows drew tighter.
“Tell what?” Ainsworth asked, sharp-eyed.
A slow, earnest smile curved Raimond’s lips. “The immanence of this place.”
The three archwizards exchanged uncertain looks.
Raimond spread his arms, gesturing around them. “You say the power of the geas is beyond divinity, but I am not so certain that is entirely accurate. Or if it is…then it’s not the only force whose presence lingers here. Because the touch of the divine…is everywhere.”
He closed his eyes, reaching inward.
And there it was.
A sensation both unshakable and undeniable, woven into the very fabric of this place. The air hummed with it. The stones beneath his feet seemed to resonate with something beyond the mere arcane — a power that was neither pure magic nor mortal law.
Never before had he felt such a strong connection to Ittar’s teachings. Even the Sanctuary of Ittar paled in comparison to this.
He opened his eyes and met the skeptical stares of Ainsworth and Newbury. “I am aware that, to you, this may sound like the ramblings of a devout priest, but I assure you — there is no other place with such a powerful connection to the realm of the divine.”
Ainsworth frowned slightly, glancing towards the inscriptions. Newbury scoffed under his breath, but said nothing.
Godwin, however, hummed in thought. “It is…unusual,” he said. “While I cannot claim to feel what you do, there is something to be said about the nature of this place. If a geas can bind not only magic, but the very existence of a structure so vast, it stands to reason that the surrounding forces—be they divine or otherwise—could be entangled in its wake.”
“Can we be sure that it’s divinity he feels?” Ainsworth asked, rubbing his chin. “What is to say that is not simply how the echo of a geas presents itself?”
“Hmm. Perhaps,” Godwin replied. “But I’m not so inclined to dismiss it outright. It may be that this place does carry some connection to the gods that we simply cannot perceive.”
The two arch wizards fell into discussion, beginning to dissect theories.
Raimond let them. Wizards did love their theory-crafting.
He watched for a moment longer, listening to the way their debate quickly spiralled into conjecture, with Newbury reluctantly drawn into the exchange. Then his attention shifted back toward the entrance.
His thoughts strayed to a certain Baroness.
She had told him once, in that knowing way of hers, that Beld Thylelion would first reveal itself — then, one by one, those who desired what it held would come running.
And in time, it would open.
When was that, he wondered?
How much time did they have?
His gaze rose.
High above, the distant silhouette of the Undead Council’s citadel loomed, a dark monolith suspended in the sky like an omen yet to be spoken.
A warning had given them just enough time to prepare — to weave part of the barrier around Beld Thylelion to contain the citadel as well. But that was nothing but a temporary stopgap. A delaying measure. A thin ward against an oncoming tide.
The Undead Council had come. The Hallowed Cabal would follow. All converging upon this place for what lay buried within.
Conflict was inevitable.
The question was…
Were they truly ready?
Comments
Nael
I can't wait for thé next chapter and Scarlett's exploration of the place! SO HYPED !
Martin
>>>A man of discipline, honour, and solemn duty. And yet, Raimond could not help but think that if Sir Leon smiled more and looked so perpetually grave a little less, he might find himself nearly as popular among the fairer sex as Raimond himself.<<< Sir Leon definitely won't smile; he is too busy to fight off the insults aimed at his fiancée. It would be great, though, if this were an opportunity for them to meet again. I was half expecting they would not be able to translate the Zuverian inscription and resort to requesting Scarlett's expertise. By the way, nice verbal spar between Raymond and wizards. Any other priest would probably be raining fire and brimstone at them for their dissenting opinions.
