NEVEN

He remembered nothing.

Nothing about the high curved ramparts in the corridors. Nothing about the myriad of pictures of people he never met. Only thing he recognized was the family. Two glaives, wrapped with golden ribbons criss-crossed against a pale field. Stout windows along the wall were bolted closed to prevent the flurries from slipping past. Lamps hung on hooks and swung with the wind coursing through the air. The lights from the town shone through the white fog, but he pushed himself over the thick carpet over the grayish blue stones. Fingers in his belt, he rounded the entire estate to return to the foyer, following the split staircases into the second landing, but he drew himself to the metal trapdoor between them.

He tugged on the handles and braced himself when a roar of ice cold mist blasted into his face with a stale touch. Onto the metal ladder, he slid himself down to the sublevels, lost in the silence as he checked in the boiler rooms, then deeper still — until he found what he sought. He ran his fingers down the locks of a pair of doors, listening once more to the click of the locking mechanism until it slid open. Circuits frayed from lack of use, he came closer to the runic generator.

Ice caked the dials when he tried to move one, putting all his arm strength into breaking it past the carapace. Neven went around to investigate the entry point for magick, the pipe which funneled the snow and ice which sought to bury them from the dunes to create it into power. Neven curled his fingers until an icy mist raised out of them, and he put his hand in the core, rustling around to find the object in question to check it. It curled around his fingers, and he pushed energy into it until the runic generator let out a clank and groan. It burned at his fingertips, and he drew his arm out as he tugged down levers, closing up the vents as the runes glowed white with snow. The firelight died for the runes to take the energy from the small circuits, and he went to the other side and repeated the process.

In front of it, he turned the dials one by one. Heat. Water purification. Neven waited for confirmation as the runic generator transformed magick into power. It churned, but the runes persisted, carved with expert accuracy for efficiency. Just need to give it time. Neven turned away to shut the runic generator doors, locking them again before ascending onto the main level. Lights flickered on as the power spread further through the estate, with some of the porchbulbs fluttering in their icicle cages. For thousands of Turns... we've endured. We've adapted, but at what point do our adaptations end? He smoothed out the sleeves of his armor, flicking off dust as he stood in the foyer, breathing deep when the warmth spread through the stones. Now... let's find Father's seal and write that request for a supply route... it'll help them... and us.

Dutybound on two fronts, he went upstairs and into the Lord's study. Books lined in numerical order on the stacks, revealing the organizational tendency of the last person who sat upon the thick, velvet seat next to a fireplace. His gaze drew to the ceremonial glaive on the mantle, but he switched his attention to the desk before sorting through the drawers. Inkwells sat in small sections, with a multitude of quills within small divots. Over to the next, he tugged out a seal stamp before rifling through the cabinet for the wax. Once he had put both on the corner, he rifled through the bundles of paper for a non-torn, or yellowing one.

He found a white sheet and flattened it against the desk, looking at the inkwells for any not frozen or not empty. He found a corked, unused one at the back, tucked behind a myriad of unusable ones. As for the quills, he sharpened one with an icy glyph, dipping it in as he stared at the fireplace. It felt wrong. His leg bounced as he chewed on his tongue, pushing his fangs over his lips as he huffed and tried instead to imagine the table underneath the treehouse in Asairai. This is no different to my capacity as a Warden-Captain. These people are running out of supplies. I'm doing my duty. This is no different from me delegating in Asairai, making sure the Storm Wardens are well-stocked for... longer patrols. His fangs pricked his lips when he clenched his jaw. Pressure cracked against his skull as Kayal's last words rocked through his head, his grief and despair, trapped in a horrific existence as Fenrer all but screamed with his fatal torment.

This is not different.

Introductions out of the way, he wrote down the request with a deft hand, with an opening for the townsfolk to add their own pledges if asked. I don't have the time to sort through everything they need... I need to get home. I need to get back to my family. He kept his Navei short, succinct, and in proper form with what little teachings Father gave him on how to hold himself in a lordly situation. He, a boy who swung at dummies with sticks and had no foresight for anything else. Just a boy with a glaive in his hand singing about his great ancestor, one of the greatest knights in all the realm. Oh, Father... you were never so forceful... I am having to approach this as a Storm Warden, not the nobility in my blood. He tapped his foot against the desk and his dream changed to live the life he knew he would be proud of. Never so forceful, you had a son who knew only how to beat something with a stick and couldn't see past his nose.

He reached the end of the parchment, waiting for the ink to dry before rolling it up tight and shoving the stamp into the wax, creating the seal of his family. He pushed it against the opening, and sighed as he let all the responsibility go free. Question is... I didn't see a gryphling stable here, how am I going to get this letter to Volaris? A soft groan escaped his lips as he dug his fingers into his temples at the multitude of hurdles in his path to keep the townsfolk alive. He slid it into his pack instead for safe-keeping, drawing himself out of the desk which trapped him. Instead, he perused the books, then the records when he drew them out of the drawers for a better, clearer picture of whence he came.

So... this place had defenses, but it seems they were buried sometime after Irimount's fall. He checked outside the window to the distant edge of the town as shadows moved up the streets. Along with the gryphling stables and carriages. He flicked his finger through the stacks, and tugged out a small birth confirmation written in Father's handwriting.

Neven Lotayrin, born in the cusp of Frostmoon within Usokal, observed by Midwife Jaheri and Iceduke Dimitri Lotayrin.

He flipped it over to the other side, where it revealed the line as far as his great grandparents, but not any farther. Drawn by a lineage scholar to confirm status and birthrights. Back to his name, he traced Father's signature, then Mother's right beside his. Bubbles formed in his throat at the remnants of his memories, running through Irimount's streets, singing his songs with the rest of his classmates. Enjoying poundcakes outside the baker's shop with Father, who told him fabled stories with a sense of energy and timelessness, alive through his voice. Mother, who waited for them all the same.

Lives ruined and buried underneath the cracked marble towers of Irimount, echoing throughout Naveera with its lament for ghosts. Underneath the piles of rubble, the bakery shop, and the shattered bench he once sat with Father to share the things they both learned. Fangs over his lips, he sucked in a breath as he sorted through his family's papers, and then Father's maps on his dedicated dream to find Atoran's tomb — to explore their history buried in the Obscura. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and froze all at once when it slipped down his cheeks as he went through old memories. Mother and Father's marriage, their betrothal necklaces that Father kept in a small jewelry box. Anything he had left to cling onto his past.

Anything to prove their pride in the choices he made; unable to ask them himself.

He put the memories back where they belonged, rubbing his fingers together as he swept some of the dust out of his way as the thermal vents opened with a breath and allowed the warmth from the runic generator to churn through the estate. I... I shouldn't waste anymore time. Maria's right... apart from making sure there is power, that there is safety... I can't do much else. Defeat washed down his chest as he left the study and shut behind the part he might've played instead of the one he chose for himself. Performances. Mendacity. He walked through the corridors and listened to the deep song, reciting the words of his family.

I am the shield shining bright; in memory of the song. He recited it in his thoughts, precious as a prayer as he slowed to a stop at the wide, curved halls. Wind rustled his feathers, against the tips of his ears as he studied the arches of the roof. Lamps flickered shadows across the cold stone, and he sighed out a plume of mist, gathering the energy in his lungs as he continued around the estate. Hands loose at his sides, he counted the cracked windows, and then the ones which remained whole against time.

Back to the largest one which overlooked the entire town, he folded his arms at the dead end of a master bedroom, the door gently swaying on its hinges. Mist slipped past his lips as the wind ceased, and it coursed through his feathers to stiffen them against his ears. Another breath of fire, he turned against the pressure sliding down his jaw.

A silhouette stood framed against the white abyss. They drew their hands to their hood, and feathers flowed past their dark gold curls, though a white mask kept their face hidden. Neven held himself on poised heels, and he asked, "May I help you?" He studied the icesteel seax's on their belt, but refused to take his attention off the newcomer.

"Neven Lotayrin, someone has asked me to retrieve you to take you to Volaris," their Navei came out cold, sharp, and intentful.

Neven straightened out his spine. "By your weapons... you are expecting it to be unwillingly." He folded his arms and studied the shape of the mask, keeping his tone even, polite, and most of all, sharper than a razor's edge. "You're an Iceshard. By the shape of your mask... a Master of a branch. I'd be flattered, but..." Neven narrowed his eyes and let the mist steam between his lips. "I'll head to Volaris at my own pace, thank you."

"I'm afraid your pace would be a little too slow for my client," the Iceshard replied. "I have others waiting outside. You are coming with us to Volaris. You... and the Hanekan you left outside. You can choose to come without a fight, or... we can do this as wyverns. It is your choice, Lotayrin."

Maria. Neven breathed out. "It doesn't sound like much of one," he said, reaching around his back. The Iceshard tensed when he conjured a golden, flowing glyph. It curved and forged a glaive of whispering ice into his hands. He brought it out, placing the shaft against the carpet as he faced down his opponent. He stiffened his grip when the Iceshard barked out a sudden laugh.

"Now... I've seen that trick before," the Iceshard said with a crinkled sneer around their eyes, a taunt, a jab, but Neven found himself falling for the hook at his next words. "Alright, I'll bite, Lotayrin. You aren't the first Warden I've fought. Not with that style of magick, either."

Yuven's blatant refusal to reveal the truth. Fenrer's terror when he thought no one saw. "You know... you seem to know quite enough about me from your client, whomever that is. It is your confidence against Storm Wardens which compels me to act," Neven whispered, and energy crackled along the blade made out of golden ice. "If we are to do this as wyverns... I would have you give me your name."

"Master Mazril."

"Well, Master Mazril," Neven hissed, digging his fingers into the ice as a wyvern growled in his soul, and Mazril brought out his seax's. A cloak of magick wrapped around him, its source from his heart. It cast the entire estate he was born within in a single, cold color. "I hope you understand why I have to return the favor of the damage you dealt to my family tenfold."