A cloaked figure appeared at the edge of a scorched landscape with a flash of aetheric light. The folds of her cloak willowed slightly as lingering strands of mana melted into the air, and she held a long gnarly staff lavished in complex blood-red runes.

It was barely evening, and the sun had just dipped behind a swarm of clouds, coloring the sky crimson. Her silver eyes panned over the landscape with a tawny dissatisfaction, and she drawled.

“Leave it to humans to ruin everything.”

Nothing remained of the fog enchantment she helped weave nearly two hundred years ago or the temple it was supposed to hide. The whole forest was an ashy hellscape.

Pavetta’s red lips twisted into a small pout. It was her first wide-scale enchantment, and she’d been awfully proud of it, even more so, because of the blood spells and respect it had garnered her from the blood council. It was a shame it took one scuffle between a handful of knights and her former apprentice to wipe it out.

Not that he’d be missed, she snorted. The fool was more trouble than he was worth.

Pavetta’s ears tweaked as she picked up a sharp twig snap a hundred meters from her left. It was too loud and cautious to be just any scared animal. She was almost sure was her favorite prey—Magic knights.

Her throat watered for a moment as she considered seeking them out and collecting them. They were weak, of that she was certain-- everything in this wood was compared to her-- and she’d be avenging her lost enchantment… and her fool of an apprentice too. Most of the other Lords would not bat an eye, but with a sigh and a wave of her staff, she decided against it. Black tendrils burst from her shadow and snatched at her cloak. They didn't stop until they swallowed her whole. The resulting black mass shimmered slightly before slipping away from the visible plain.

I simply mustn’t.

The Profane Court's secret meeting wouldn’t be very secret if a few magic knights went missing. However convincing her cover-up would be, Ranok would know, and powerful and magnificent though she was, she didn't want to get on his bad side. A sudden chill swept through her at the thought of his name, and she began to walk.

Her trip to the meeting place was quick and tenuous. Navigating the scorched landscape filled her with a strange nostalgia, memories returning of the months she spent there hunting and practicing basic ritual magic. It was lifetimes ago.

“I’m too old for nostalgia,” she said, shaking the sentimentality off.

“Or maybe you’re just too old.” A silvery voice slipped past her ears as she came to the entrance of a small, freshly dug cave shrouded by layers of low-shimmering light. It was the Illusion Mage's work.

“Alavar. I still see you have your wicked tongue.”

A body coalesced from the very air itself, standing on the worn stump of a once ancient tree. The man wore a fitting armor of beast leather as black as night and carried a simple rapier on his hip. He had a cold aquiline face and long flowing red hair.

“Pavetta. Your illusion magic is still shit.”

“I hardly ever have use for it now,” Pavetta said as she lowered her hood and dispelled her cloaking spell. “My enemies don’t survive long enough to see me come.” She flared her fangs, and Alavar nearly fell off his stump.

550 years old and master of shadows and Illusion, and he jumps like a child.

She chortled. “Don’t test me, upstart.”

Alavar hissed at her, but she simply waved him off and stepped into the cave.

Alavar was a twat, but he was right. She was out of practice, but she had little use for Illusion Magic. Her spawns could take care of most of the sneaking and drudgery for her. She practiced ritual magic exclusively now. They took ages to prepare, but the benefits were worth it. All half-bloods raised by her rituals were nothing short of exemplary.

The stone walls of the cave were clean, nearly fresh cut, and formed a dizzying labyrinth that stretched deep into the earth. She navigated through spike pits, acid sprays, poison darts, and all other assortments of traps veiled by--she grudgingly admitted-- well-woven illusion magic.

At the end of the maze, she came to a large chamber with a stone round table and seven chairs lit by floating tongues of flame.

She slowed her advance as she stepped into the room, dispelling her cloak and staff with a snap of her finger to reveal her low-cut dress and porcelain skin that matched her glass-like face. She was glad to be there. Though she loathed leaving her tower and delaying her research, it was always a joy to be in the presence of family.

Nersa and Tersa, the blood reavers, sat in the two seats closest to her, their identical dark faces animated with emotions as they telepathically gossiped. They were masters of most weapons known to vampires and humankind and co-wrote dozens of standard Rune traps, blood spells, and alchemical recipes. They were geniuses with nearly unlimited potential, but their lust for flesh and battle consumed them, leaving room for very little else.

They throw great orgies, though.

Orn sat next to them. He was still as square and bottom-heavy as she remembered. His ridiculous thick mustache shone with an absurd sheen, despite the poor light. Her mouth twitched at the very edge. Though she’d never admitted it, she’d pay a small fortune to see that ‘thing’ removed from his face. It ruined his otherwise dapper appearance that she noted he’d added something to – a strange silver monocle covered in hundreds of the tiniest runescripts she’d ever seen, hovering over his right eye. The glass itself was violet and played off well with his crimson robes, studded with small orichalcum plates—runed, of course.

Orn was the court’s Warlord, Rune Sage, and Scholar. The entire cave system was constructed by his clever scripting. Like every other Blood mage seated at the table, she longed for his secrets, but he guarded it jealously like he was some hoarding Wyvern. Even his pastime scribblings were carefully tucked and stored.

He is such a prude.

At the center of the circle was Ranok, their leader, and to his left was Antilla, Pavetta’s favorite.

A pint-sized sweet little thing. She was swaddled in dozens of multi-colored ribbons with her legs crossed, her lips muttering, and her clear eyes staring into nothing. She had a charred bit of armor held up by streams of blood mixed with shadow magic.

It would seem they’d started without me.

“Ah, Pavetta. You’re finally here. Now we can begin,” Ranok said with a sickly sweet voice, demanding her attention.

Ranok’s stone seat was a head taller than the rest, and he wore a welcoming smile on his perfectly symmetrical face. He had pointy ears, deep aquamarine hair, and wore a white robe. The very air seems to twist around him, swaddling the unsettling madness underneath. He was the most dangerous and powerful person she’d ever met, second only to the Blood King himself, and he was their leader.

She hurried to her seat without never consciously intending to, and a sidelong glance revealed that Avalar was about settled in too, looking also mildly disturbed.

“Excellent work with the Illusion again, Avalar. I took some effort to locate the meeting chamber at the end.”

Alavar gave a quick nod and eked out a “Thank you.” Ranok smiled back and planted his palms on the smooth stone table.

“Now, onto the matters at hand.”

His hair seemed to float as he craned his head to the left. “Antilla, what have you found out? what were the humans so desperate to hide?”

Antilla’s lips stopped moving. “Tamir is dead.”

Her voice was small and flat, almost dead-sounding. “The human that wore this armor fought him and dealt him a deathly blow. Tamir had been careless, but the attack should not have been enough to kill him.”

“Then how did the fool lose his life?” Orn grumbled, his mustache shifting. He’d spoken out of turn, but courtesy and hierarchy were quickly forgone at times such as this. Their Father's work was at risk.

Antilla’s head slowly craned over to him, and her white eyes stared deep into his. “I cannot see. He made too many questionable choices. He chose to chase after the intruders instead of complete the ritual. Blinded by his rage, he cast a poorly-weaved transfiguration spell on a human…my Scry revealed no more after that.”

Pavetta snorted. That sounds about right. Tamir never failed to disappoint. He was the most impatient initiate she’d had the displeasure of teaching. He was proud, far more than he had any right to be. In his mind, he was Ranok’s chosen, settled with a holy task only the most talented of Initiates were ever given-- to seek out their Lord’s vessel and commune with Malleck.

Most of the blood mages seated there would give half of their blood pools for a chance to hear from their progenitor, and the gift had been wasted on a poorly-bred fool of a mage like Ranok. If she’d been given full control of him, raised him properly… she let out a silent hiss and focused back on the meeting.

“What of the Grimoire?” Ranok asked, his voice less sweet. “Tamir’s death was unfortunate given the time and resources it took to breed him, but another can take his place. Losing Amandriel could set us back decades.”

“Hunting it down from the Mormon swine would be most tedious… if moderately entertaining,” Tersa spoke for both reavers, her face nearly split in half with a lop-sided grin.

“I… do not know. I can’t sense it.”

Antilla’s words gave everyone in the room some pause. Even Ranok’s twisted affable aura faltered for a bit.

What in the hells happened in that temple? Pavetta perked up.

Very few things were beyond Antilla's eyes. Under cover the of night, her gaze penetrated everything the darkness touched, both past and present. There were only a handful of Light Mages that could escape her scrutiny, and even then she would recognize them by their touch. To say that she couldn’t sense it meant they were dealing with an unknown player, possibly not even human… Every member of the council seemed to share her realization with the varying looks of displeasure, irritation, and rage. Orn was flexing and curling his fingers.

Ranok broke his silence, his unnatural smile waxing on again. “Can you locate what is left of Tamir’s body then? Perhaps, it could provide us with a clue of where to begin our search?”

“I cannot believe that idiot boy lost the grimoire.” Orn whinged out. “I insisted he was too young and groomed for the task. Tarya wouldn’t have made this mistake.” His pudgy face twisted, his pale dead skin somehow flashing red. “Malleck will have our necks for this. Your apprentice just destroyed nearly four hundred years of work! I can’t believe I let this happen.”

“You did not let it happen. I chose Tamir,” Ranok spoke in a low voice, his eyes flashed to Orn. “He had the most magical talent and head for ritual magic. Tarya might have been adequate, but Tamir was a prodigy, his faults withstanding. He was the only choice.”

Orn seemed to grumble at this, and Pavetta spoke.

“Oh, calm down. Only blood mages can wield the grimoire, and the book can’t be destroyed either. The humans are only holding it for us until we choose to retrieve it. There’s hardly any need for panic.”

“Isn’t there?" Orn raised a brow. "Antilla can’t find it, and she doesn’t know who has it. What if we are dealing with someone from the Unorthodox towers or one of those wandering mages?”

“We would gladly hunt all those that stand in our path,” the reavers hissed together as one and eagerly licked their lips. “Their affiliation hardly matters.” Tersa and Nersa were ever eager to hunt. They were the only blood mages among the profane court that still sought out abyssal beasts and polished their skills. With enough time, every foe they’ve ever faced succumbed.

Orn opened his mouth to protest again, but a piercing look from Ranok that revealed just a bit of unbalanced aura shut him up.

“There is no evidence of external influences, large or benign.” He gestured to his left. “Anitilla, if you would please, where is his body?”

The woman blinked before she answered. “It was taken by Roko to Brightmont. It would seem the gods are choosing new knights again.”

“Fresh lamb to the slaughter,” Alavar muttered, voicing his opinion for the first time that meeting. He had somewhat of a history with the Inquisitors. The first members of their order had apparently murdered his parents, and now he had a small fetish for hunting them down. He was otherwise mute except on matters of Illusion Magic,

Pitiful, Pavetta thought.

He had the right sentiment but wrong motivations. Revenge, while sweet, was never satisfactory. But research into siring new bloodlines and half-blood creatures—her lips formed a slight smile-- that was reason enough for generational genocide.

Nersa and Tersa seemed excited too. Their mouth almost seemed to water at the thought of tearing down the Empire capital. It wouldn’t be the first city they’d bled.

“We won’t be attacking the capital,” Rank clarified, as though there was ever any doubt.

“We will be sending a retrieval team instead. Someone from each of our broods. Two illusions masters, an adept with rune crafting, one reaver, a healer from Pavetta’s order, and a Scrying Witch.”

“Wouldn’t sending a single team would be too much of a risk?” Orn browns furrowed his brow. “This mission is of the utmost importance. If we commit anything less than our full fighting force, we could lose the opportunity to retrieve the grimoire.” Orn said to everyone, suddenly finding his voice again. None of them spared him a look of support.

Ranok spoke.

“The greater risk would be alerting the humans of our plans before we are ready. A team too large would warn them of our coming. Our first priority is to learn of the location of the book. We will only try to retrieve Amandriel should the opportunity present itself. As Pavetta said, we are in no rush to retrieve the book. We don’t have another young genius ritualist trained, and Antilla has not received word from the Blood King.”

Orn’s pudgy face twisted into a deeper frown, and Ranok’s face eased back into his unsettling smile. “We could send out more scouts and search the rest of the Empire if you'd like, but we’d have to set up warp gates, Obelisks, and Blood Pools to communicate effectively and keep the scouts fresh. You will personally oversee this, of course, and with your expertise, I have no doubt you’d finish timely. Though, I suspect, at that point, we might as well launch a full invasion. Is that what you’d like, Orn?”

The council's attention shifted to the perturbed Rune lord, and Pavetta couldn’t help but smirk at the clever maneuver.

“No,” he looked up at Ranok, his monocle glinting, and grumbled. “A single probing force should be sufficient.”

There was a short silence as the tension between both men mounted. Both were proud, loyal men. Ranok was the only vampire from the Blood King’s first brood that did not lose himself entirely to his bloodline.

All except him had faded into the echoes of the beings they consumed. Their bloodline, the Devourer, allowed them to subsume their prey entirely—blood, bone, and knowledge—but at a cost. Echoes of the fallen’s souls are grafted onto theirs, forever changing it. They lost themselves entirely after a few hundred souls, becoming mindless beasts, driven by impulse alone.

In isolation, they were manageable, but when they broke out their holds, they were glutinous masses of pure chaos-- nearly unstoppable. They laid waste to an entire race of humanoids and would have grown to threaten the continent if Malleck had not personally taken out a decade of his time to purge them, all except one.

He was oddity who fully embraced the Devourer's bloodline, and Malleck found in the Northern Tundra, amongst the remains of a Frozen Village he'd laid waste to. His name was Ranok, and he'd somehow managed to beat the madness-- at least partly. Beholden to Vampire tradition, Malleck made his true firstborn his heir and right hand.

“Orn, you must remember, all we do is for the benefit of the King. We will burn the human Empire if it comes to that, but we shall do until we're well prepared. All must be perfect for Father's return.” His eyes glazed, and for a brief moment, they saw the madness that lurked within.

“I know, Ranok," Orn said. "I remember how it used to be. We used to rule these lands.”

Orn was the Blood King’s left hand and of his second brood, blessed with the Titan bloodline. It was an abstraction of the Devourers', made to inherit a silver of the strength of the body of every beast they fell, but Orn proved to be more of a scholar than a bruiser.

With his uncanny mind and aptitude for Runescript, Orn helped the King perfect the Profane Runeology and birth the many bloodlines that followed. When the Devourers wreaked havoc on Iphica, he’d been left in charge of the King’s affairs, elevated to the King’s standing heir and most trusted confidant. He’d been looking forward to ruling after Malleck ascended. He was mortified when his Lord and Father returned with a first son and his right hand.

Orn was not one for drudgery and politics and rejected Ranok. He tolerated the man but never enjoyed his company. They only made peace after the Blood King’s passing.

Their rivalry raged between them for decades before Pavetta was born, and after over 600 years of watching them squabble, she found it all melodramatic. She'd been forced to play mother and peacekeeper for centuries before the God-King fell. Centuries later now, she still policed meetings and relationships. It was all exhausting but ultimately necessary. After all, without them, she will never succeed where her Father had failed and become a god. Gaia be damned!

“Now that we are all decided,” she announced, “Who are we sending?” her eyes swept from left to right, waiting on their answers.