2412 Qintax 20, Daleth

Ezril held a chain with one hand, fighting the oncoming sigh arising from the depths of her soul. Behind her, the Necrom Orb pulsed with a faint green sheen, its use long passed them. A breeze blew from the east, kissing her skin and carrying a reminder of what transpired below. The chain swung with its direction, rattling the rings hanging from it—the only reminder she had left of a time in her life when everything made sense and not a sliver of war touched their soil.

The sigh came, with her powerless to stop it. With practiced hands, she unclasped the chain's lock. No fear settled in her veins. She wouldn't drop it. Not when she clung to it with her soul and life all these years. Fate would have to claw it out of her corpse if it wanted.

She reached back and locked it around her neck. The rings clinked against each other again as they bounced off her chest. Her fur-lined cloak banished them from her sight when she drew the smooth, black cloth around her. It was particularly cold today in Carleon, and in Drodham, with the reality of what they're facing, even colder.

The rest of Wryshia ranges snaked from her view in the balcony of the war room. It was the only thing that didn't change over the few months of the Temple dealing with everything. Even the low-lying clouds forming the haze over the peaks were absent as much as they're present.

No use looking out windows, though. They have a war to survive, and Ezril ought to get to work soon.

Sounds of metal clanging and screams of defiance and pain followed her wake as she retreated into the war room. A prickling sensation passed across her skin and down the length of her platinum gray hair—a sign the soul barrier worked and was still working. She remembered disagreeing when the Rekshais proposed it, but with them wanting to keep their High Priestess safe from harm, Ezril relented. If it's for her benefit and would give her people confidence and the peace of mind to fight in the front lines, then she'd be fine.

It didn't stop her from feeling caged in, though.

She could go out anytime she wanted, but what for? Some of the invaders might have already figured out how to get inside the Temple and navigate it without soul ports. She wouldn't put it past Kymalin to have taught the Cardovians the mysteries of her home. Of both their homes. Ezril didn't need to be captured alive and used for ransom—her life in exchange for Carleon's surrender—so she stayed put.

And it's unfair for the Rekshais to worry about her so openly when she couldn't do the same. She was always shut down whenever she expressed her concern with them being exposed to priestal artifacts for as long as they did. Since their success in turning away the first wave of the Necrom Invasion, the Rekshais took it upon themselves to wield their artifacts in defense of the Temple and their High Priestess. And when a new siege started, this time, led by armies from Cardovia, the circumstance began anew.

It's only a matter of time until their extended usage would catch up to them. Ezril should never have made those artifacts in the first place. They've just become sources of greed.

Her gaze landed on the poor excuse for tapestries surrounding the walls of the circular room. Splotches of bright lights of various colors littered the stretches of gray, showing her in real time what the state of the war was. She had Anahel to thank for this idea, Marthiaq and Airene's ingeniousness for the execution of the product, and her Reksha Janos for his insight in using their synnavaim in the smartest way. With the help of the Soul Spells, a collection of incantations meant to expound on the full potential of the necromancy synnavaim—Soul Magic.

Inimi leistiva.

Nevertheless, the meaning behind the reflected lights killed the wonder in her system. One map showed her the expanse of Asopus and Gulstead—two important cities despite their smaller landmass—both overrun by foreign souls painted black. Most of the spots in Lifver were banshees, meaning most must have escaped deeper into the mountains. Some daring black spots wandered into the rising peaks, but they must have found an unforgiving forest. They would never find the locals, but for how long?

Oh, look—another concern she stumbled upon.

The two cities she had to focus on were Drodham and Anchester, since they seemed to be their enemies' focus as well. Both were seats of power, and if they succeeded in taking over it, they would take over the entire Carleon. That's why Ezril never called on the Necrom to the Temple. She'd prefer the army to defend their own fortress and help the non-combatant cities. Besides, reinforcements couldn't wade through the blackened sea of enemies if they're coming from the east. The only way inside the Temple would be the Pilgrim Road, and Ezril would rather her soldiers sane and undisturbed by the Guardian's antics on screening the intentions of a soul. Moreover, it could take days, and they didn't have that.

Ezril and every priest and priestess in this Temple had other pressing issues to consider, and watching over the Pilgrim Road's uptakes would just be another addition.

"Worrying again, are we?" a voice speared through her thoughts, followed by a whish of translucent green taking a familiar figure in her periphery.

She turned to find a spirit sitting on the edge of the pedestal where the Necrom Orb sat. "Kalael," she said. "What are you doing here?"

The spirit sighed, though no gust of wind would ever flit out of his lips. His hair flowed in ethereal waves behind him, even though the room's air was undisturbed. "Who says I can't be here?" he tilted his head to one side in such a playful way Ezril wondered why in Pidmena's name she bothered with this man. "I can be anywhere I please."

"You seem to forget one important clause," Ezril rolled her eyes and removed her cloak. It's useless if she's keeping out even the smallest breeze with those damned barriers.

"How can I forget? You keep reminding me," Kalael replied. He waved a hand before his face, scattering wisps of green smoke around his head. "I'm dead. You're alive. And I'm only here because of you and your...freaky seenavym powers."

Ezril snorted. "Synnavaim," she corrected. "When will you learn the language? You've been here longer."

Kalael shrugged. Never in Ezril's lifetime had she seen a conjured spirit act so nonchalant and as if they never died at all. That's why she kept his revival and summoning a secret, even from her own children. It's simply too dangerous, especially with something she didn't understand herself.

"When will you learn to call me by my name, then?" the spirit fired back. "As I said, where I came from, we say our surname first."

Ezril peeled away from the map and perched next to him. "Kalael is still your name, right?"

"Aye, so was my father," Kalael mumbled under his breath. "And my mother and sister and cousin and—"

"Okay, fine," she waved her hands in the air, cutting the conversation before it devolved into a pouting session. "Ardien. There. Happy now?"

Kalael rested his weight behind him, even though he's technically held up by wisps of magic. Surprisingly, she didn't need to do anything for him to stay seated and interact with his surroundings. Compare that to her other summoned spirits who would turn to mush the moment her attention waned, this truly was a feat.

"You didn't answer my question, reyela," Kalael said after a period of silence.

To be frank, Ezril didn't want to answer at all, but this was Kalael. He had the right to know everything going on with her even when he had already passed on. "Worrying is my job. An entire territory will suffer if I didn't," she inclined her head to one side. "Besides, you didn't answer my question either."

Kalael edged off the pedestal's base to retrieve the discarded satchel on the ground. Since when was that lying there? And did he just throw his things on the ground upon arriving? Rude. "I encountered this old book in the recent library I visited," he rummaged inside his satchel and drew out a tattered tome with leather peeling from the cover. "It chronicles Maijen lystrivaen. There was once a time when it worked all over Fantasilia, including Uma Siore."

"Umazure," Ezril corrected again, taking the tome from him. "Do you refer to your home as such?"

Kalael pursed his lips, vacant eyes landing on the space covered by pattern rugs. It's the one thing that didn't go back when Ezril revived him. He always had captivating eyes—those that could pull souls into them for eternity, and after he died and came back...well, it was never the same.

"It's the only name I know," he answered in a quiet voice. "What is it called now?"

It was Ezril's turn to shrug. "How should I know? I'm not from there."

She drew her knees closer to her chest with a deep breath, holding the tome with one hand and letting it hang farther from her kneecaps. It felt ancient in her hands, as if it would turn to dust if she blew a gust into it.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, resting the side of her face against her knees to see Kalael in full. "It couldn't have been lying around all this time."

"Lanteglos," the spirit answered, meeting her gaze. Again, no other conjured spirit could do that. "The Academy of Magical Arts, to be precise."

Ezril's eyes widened. "You went there?!" She whipped towards him and moved to swat him in the arm. Her hand sailed through his skin, batting the pedestal instead. Pain exploded into her hands which she cradled to her stomach and flexed in the air.

"Are you hurt?" Kalael lunged and attempted to take her injured hand. Instead, his touch passed through her skin like a wall of vapor. "Oh. Fyleske."

"No need to apologize," she replied, waving her hand one last time as the pain subsided. "It's not your fault."

"You know it's not about the hand," he answered.

Ezril closed her eyes and blew a breath heavier than usual. "And it's not your fault either," she said. "It's more of mine."

Kalael opened his mouth but she beat him to it. "That's all I have to say about it," she averted her eyes and rested her hand on her knees. The other still dangled the tome in the air. "You shouldn't have gone back to the Academy."

"It's alright," the spirit assured her. "That place stopped giving me the creeps."

"But still..."

He flashed her a stern look. "I'm alright, and that's all I have to say about it," he said. "From what I understand, we can get closer to treating Vaeri with some of the spells and theories I found there."

"Transcendental magic?" Ezril straightened her back and slid her bare feet across the polished stone floor as she turned to him. "Does it really exist?"

"What you call transcendental is something that has always existed," Kalael said. "It doesn't transcend anything...well, maybe the damned borders, but the point stands. Maijen lystrivaen didn't vanish. We just stopped using it."

Ezril scratched her nails against the back of her hand—an annoying habit she couldn't scrape off since childhood. "What do you think of me bringing it back?" she ventured.

"I know why you wanted to, and I can't blame you," he replied. "I won't tell you to stop chasing that path, either. Just...be careful. And don't worry too much."

"You know what will happen if I succeed, right?" Ezril tucked strands of gray hair behind her pointy ear. Compared to Kalael's dagger-like ears, hers look tamer and more...subtle. "A life for a life. A soul for a soul."

"That's Pydmaine's law," Kalael nodded. "But the gods can only go as far. Maybe there's still hope."

Hope for what? That Ezril would complete such a nature-defying spell to heal Vaeri once and for all and not pay the price for casting it? Where would that leave the both of them? The world wasn't exactly a paradise with wars happening everywhere.

The sky outside her balcony lit up green and blue in a shower of sparks. Ezril glanced at the maps and noted how the black lights closed in on the diminishing banshees. "I should go," she peeled off the pedestal's base and placed the tome next to the Necrom Orb. Maybe she'd be able to get back to it later. For now, Carleon would go first, as it should. "Go and...do something else."

"I also got you another thing," Kalael swung his satchel on his way up and dug out a bundle of leaves tied together. "It's the last one in the merchant's cart."

Ezril raised an eyebrow, but took the pack. Then, the familiar sticky-sweet smell hit her nose. "Uguaro?" she said. "What's the occasion?"

Kalael chuckled. "Blessed nameday, Iaro Ezril," he said. "Or in my native language, rozhra davynimi. I'm sorry it had to be under these circumstances."

"Again, it's not your fault. You'll bleed yourself dry, taking all the wrongs as your own," she said, starting towards the door. "I'll see you later, reyela. And maybe we'll burn through a bottle of profigarde too."

"Hmm. Or you will burn through it on your own," Kalael said. "I'm dead, remember?"

Ezril fished the soul port from her neck, jostling it against the rings and their chain, and glanced at him over her shoulder. "As if you'd let me forget," she said, a smile clawing her lips apart.

She summoned the door towards the throne hall which the Rekshais transformed as the strategy room they could enter without inhibition. As soon as she stepped through the swirling gate, she would be in a war.