Battlemaster Thorge wiped his scimitar clean, his face wet with sweat from a recent training bout. Eyeing the young Targossian up and down, he finally nodded in approval. "We'll make a fighter from you yet, boy.", he muttered, dismissing the lad with a quick flick of the wrist.

Sitting back onto a nearby bench, Thorge reflected on the recent years. His succinct summons from Lady Talarna, the quiet discussion with Maeris, the Architect of Targossas, and then the meeting with Them. All in all it had been a fair few years since his arrival from Delos. The Gauntlet was an ever increasing source of enjoyment and interest, his keen eyes missing little of the young and old alike who fought to the death inside the gates. His report handed in several months ago, now he could sit back and enjoy and wait.

A casual breeze twisted through the gates of the Gauntlet, tugging at his clothes. Borne on the wind, a soft voice uttered, "It is time.". With a slight grin to his wizened face, the old warrior fastened his scimitars to his side and strode off in the directon of the North Mirror Isle. There, the fate of the Dawnblade awaited, his role to guide the warriors of the Dawnspear on their way.



Meanwhile, within the Great Library of Ram, Niusha, the High Cleric studied an aged scroll, her lips pursed and a heavy frown on her face. Arrived from New Hope several years before, the Cleric had hardily embraced life within the Dawnspear. Her thoughts so seldom drifted towards the Abbess and her old home that she often had to stop and force herself to consider her past life.

The arrival of a messenger tugged at her senses, her face enquiring as he handed her a small letter. "At last, news from the Abbess!", she breathed. Tearing into the note, she read with growing glee, finally tucking the letter into her pouch with a delighted cry. Rushing towards South Mirror Isle, she spared little thought to the citizens of the Dawnspear, her only intent to reach the isle and the Manor beyond. "Tell Maeris I'm here to stay!", she yelled at a passing acolyte, before bursting through the doors to her new home within the estate of the Harbingers of Redemption.


Cenys worked quietly at his desk, his head buried in a vast pile of parchment and scrolls. Pacing agitatedly behind him, Sir Gladius mused aloud, wearing the old scribe's patience down to the quick until he finally threw his quill down in disgust. "Gladius, calm yourself. It will be what it is, and nothing more or less.", frowned Cenys.

Gladius sighed, his expression pained. "He said it would be finished far before now, Cenys. What is the holdup? We simply cannot wait any longer. The need is too great!", he finished with a glare.

Before Cenys could reply, a young messenger rapped on the door, shuffling inside with terrified eyes. He quickly threw a small letter on the desk and raced out, slamming the door behind him. Slitting the note open with a small knife, Cenys scoured the contents, a smile breaking upon his visage. "He did it, Gladius. Come, let us go!". With nary a word between them, the two men walked out of the Heart of Dawn and traversed around the milling crowds, too intent on their journey to notice the cheers and celebrations within Silverbright Square. Reaching their destination, they nodded once to the newcomer and, as others looked on in astonishment, faded away into the shadows, simply disappearing.


Penned by My hand on the 4th of Daedalan, in the year 650 AF.