The sleepless nights rolled in. The ignominious revelation of Lyria shattered any hope for my peaceful life with her. A serene and harmonious life with her and Delyn, a mirage of a beautiful dream; so very near; now seemed to slip away. Lyria, despite her unrelenting love and calm demeanour, carries a burden that is far too great for one person. Their combined weight would break any other sane being.

Perhaps, Lyria is broken? And love blinded me to the obvious fact.

What plausible reason could justify slaying her children?

Possession by some daemonic entity. I scoffed at such an absurd, stupid yet willful notion. While praising her brother, Lyria did mention their heritage as Devil-kind. No coherent daemon, incorporeal entities, or evil psions would dare to commit a blunder so reckless.

Maybe, trickery. Lies. Under an illusion enchantment? I doubt that even Vitalia with her Lunar affinity could cast a spell so powerful to deny Lyria, her senses.

And the tormenting agony etched in her voice made it undoubtedly evident. Lyria was in control of herself, at least, to be aware of her surroundings at the moment of her heinous act.

The introspection only made me aware of my own failings. On how self-centred I was when we were together. I barely bothered to know about her family and siblings. Or anything else about her. I presumed her past, trying to pigeonhole her into a comfortable box to fit the narrative. I ignored all the obvious facts, just because, it was easier than having that conversation.

Memories drifted back to the time when I was seated between my Mother and Grandmother during a growth phase in my life where I had more questions than my small life could answer. I broached the subject of why I did not have any siblings or how our great house always had only a single daughter, every generation. Grandmother dismissed my inquisitive nature. Those were the rules of our House and even a Matriarch is expected to uphold those values. Her voice, with its tempered steel and sharpened edge of a surgeon’s scalpel, made certain that I would not have the gall to prod any further.

In an unexpectedly rare moment, my mother threw a glance at my grandmother. A look, seemingly normal to my childish eyes, yet, to my current self, conveyed a lot more. The cold defiance in my mother’s eyes as she silenced her mother. The meaning was evident. She is my daughter. Only I get to mould her. Do not intrude upon my territory.

Even centuries later, the scene was still very vivid, and lively; forever etched in my dull arid memories of her. That was the only moment, when my mother reached out, to touch me. Not as a Matriarch, but just as my mother bonding with her daughter. Reaching out with her soft hands, she gently rubbed my cheeks and tousled my hair. The smile she gave me, was warm, like the first rays of the bright sun on an autumn morning.

“Rillie, the biggest fear for a mother is when she is presented with a choice between her children. To doom one so another might survive. No mother should be forced into that situation.”

Despite my best attempts, my thoughts swirled endlessly around the gentle caring moment with her. Only the clamour of wagons and the pitter-pattering of pair of tiny feet, running up the stairs, broke me out of my reverie. Heavy loud banging on my door followed. From outside my window, a group of heavy wooden wagons accompanied by a group of druids; clad in leather and fur, spilling inside the Hold; greeted me.

As the banging on my door grew louder, unruly. Disturbing my peace. Those uncivilised, yet not-so-callous acts could only originate from only one petulant youngster. Colby.

*****

The next few days passed quickly with the arrival of fresh blood. Organisational issues kept the otherwise spiralling thoughts anchored to immediate problems that demanded my attention. First, there were more camps to be set. Despite, well-allocated spots, minor friction, unavoidable under such circumstances, had to be resolved.

The druid healers, old croons whose looks alone could kill, claiming what war could not, rejected the offered spot for the dispensary and claimed another location, an archery spot reserved for Arlene and her rangers. My protests on the location being open and not-so-optimal for a war camp was met with cold rejection. Looking at those gnarled bones covered in flesh, huddled together, they were more of a witches' coven than druid healers. For a brief moment, it almost felt like T’orrac went too far with his jokes. Seeing, even Zurin and Ar’krak scuttle away before their deep penetrating gaze, finally made me realise that resisting these women was anything but stalling time. Finally, it was Zurin who broke the tension.

“Their skills work far better under the open sun, caressed by the wind and fed by the very solid ground beneath their feet. Not cut stone but a connection to the soil from the very earth,” he explained

All I could say at this point -- it was Arlene’s own fault for being late.

Making sure that the druids were well settled and more importantly that the precious inventory that they carried was secure, I set about in search of Colby. Rodo could only provide that they found the young gnome travelling all on his own without his mother.

Rodo’s own words not my own.

After combing through the Hold for a long arduous moment, I found him in the most unlikely place of all. Safely nesting in Lyria’s forge. Our conversation was strenuous over the relentless strike of Lyria’s hammer on the anvil. Each stroke, louder than the previous one at my unwanted presence. Taking the very obvious cue, I took my leave from her forge.

All I could infer from Colby was that without Cyrene’s adult presence, the young gnome was barred from entry to the workshop. So packing a dried loaf of bread with wild berry jam, the naive youngster decided that High-Crag Hold is where he would get a taste of freedom. Which, when translated from gnome, meant, where he would be unhindered to carry out his experiment.

All of which begged the important question. What were Colby and Lyria involved in?

Getting hold of Theko, the only other person with free access to the forge, over an evening dinner, proved less futile.

“She is scary. Forgive me, Mistress,” said Theko apologetically.

Not that I could blame him. Lyria has the same effect on me, at times.

*****

Lyria kept herself away from the war council meetings, preferring the familiar comfort and smell of her smithy to the stiff atmosphere. On occasions, when we accidentally bumped into each other, her demeanour was polite but controlled. News of our awkward dance around each other spread like wildfire among the isolated folks settled in High-Crag Hold. The onset of winter, with its first heavy snowfall, also meant less training outdoors and more campfire with copious amounts of the divine fluid called alcohol being passed around freely. And tongues wagged.

Even Zaehran, the ascetic supposedly oblivious to marital communications, noticed the heavy aura that shrouded Lyria in my vicinity.

“Perhaps, you should have an earnest and open talk with her. It is the key to any successful relationship,” said the monk in passing.

Great!

Now I am being delivered unsolicited relationship advice from Virgins -- from an alien realm.

Knowing that deep down that he still held my best interest, any ill feeling that I felt towards the Psionic monk evaporated like a hazy mist. Nevertheless, I was thankful in the end when he and Rodo decided upon a winter bonfire festival to lift the spirits.

In hindsight, that should not have come as a surprise. After all, way before being hunted like mongrels, Rodo’s life consisted of performing in small isolated hamlet fairs. Besieged by the winter, with heavy snowfalls making the pass untraversable, High-crag Hold was isolated from the rest of civilisation, a community filled with mercenaries, soldiers and poor unfortunate orc Labourers. The sort of rowdy bunch who will not let any opportunity to celebrate, pass.

Soon casks were opened, ale barrels were worshipped like divine deities and lewd bawdy songs, the sort that would make even camp followers blush were sung in generous measure. Over the brilliant orange dancing flames, Rodo gave me a wink, slowly dropping hints at a specially prepared festive spot for two, before scurrying away to mingle with the rest of the drunken lot.

*****

Just a Rodo disappeared from view, a narrow shadowy figure, huddled low with a dark green cloak wrapped tightly around, scuttered haphazardly from my field of view. Covering the ground in two giant leaps with the grace of a prowling panther that was impossible not to admire, I reached the cowering figure.

“Master Dar, or should I say Merchant prince Darius, now,” I greeted with shared mirth.

“Madame,” wiggled the former peddler and now an interesting entrepreneur of multiple talents, “I am just a simple peddler. Such praises are wasted on me.”

“So how is my Spymaster doing? I heard you and Therrin have built a great working relationship,” I asked.

At the mention, of the ill-begotten halfling, Dar’s eyes darted like swallows, seeking escape. If he was a religious person, he would have prayed to his deities for any form of salvation. None came. Either Dar was not religious or he was far deep in trouble that none of his patron deities would raise a hand.

“An occasional mug of ale shared in a tavern hardly counts for anything, Madame,” replied Dar apologetically, proclaiming innocence.

“Really?” The cynicism in my tone could not have been any more obvious.

“Madame, it was only fate that you found me. I was just about to grab a warm mead and pay my respects to you before I take leave,” said the peddler slumping his shoulders and palms clutched in submission.

“Why the hurry Dar? In fact, you are now promoted. Congrats,” I said mischief and malice in equal measure.

“Such roles are wasted on humble me, Ma’am. I am sure whatever you require there are far more capable people in your service,” said Dar in an uncomfortable wheezing voice of a dying old man.

Ignoring his plea, I continued, “Let me officially welcome the new quartermaster of High-Crag Hold,”

“I am but a simple peddler, Ma’am. Providing for an army is far beyond my abilities,” denied Dar. For the peddler, realisation dawned that he was already one foot in the wide-open maw of a ravenous beast.

“Tell me Dar, what did you trade as a peddler? Huge ornate furniture and intricate pianos?” I asked.

“Only simple trinkets, ma’am. I roam from village to village, noting what each one desires. Collecting them for a moderate price and selling for a small profit.”

“Small trinkets for a small profit,” repeated Dar.

“Well, that is what I need Dar. You see,” I explained as I would with any toddler, “this army, is composed of a lot of small units. Like those tiny villages. Find out what they want and send the list to Tharkas. Make sure they all get what they desperately need. Simple isn’t it?”

“Madame, but....” he never got to the end of his excuse. My finger curled around his cloak, pulling him closer. Close enough that the condensed mist from my warm breath fell on his face. Dar could only flinch in despair.

“Let me get three things clear,” I threatened with a sibilant hiss in my voice.

“First, I am fully aware of the very profitable and somewhat questionable entrepreneurship that you and Therrin are running. I let it pass as long as it does not run counter to my own plans. Try to skim on the war supplies; one substandard shoelace could trip a warrior to his death; one moth-eaten cloak and a flu-ridden soldier will infect his whole unit; and when that happens, I will personally thrust a spear in your hand and throw you to the frontlines.”

Dar’s knees lost their strength at my words. He trembled, tightly clutching my wrist to hold him upright.

“Second, attempt to escape and I will have Rodo’s unit hunt you. You are free to evade an army of hungry werewolves through the pass, but I suspect you will not survive long enough to glimpse at the silhouette of Fort Halcyon.”

“Finally, help me run the army and you will have a tax-free passage through High-Crag pass and a letter of introduction to a reputable banker to protect your newly earned gold.”

“But Ma’am being a quartermaster for an army under siege is a tall order to fill,” said Dar meekly.

“Higher the risk and higher the rewards. Welcome to management.” With those words, I left my new quartermaster to get acquainted with his compatriots and I went seeking Finn.

*****

Certain in my knowledge that Lyria will find an excuse to avoid, I sent Finn, the only other person she was most likely to receive. The young noble soon returned, unsuccessful in convincing a stubborn Lyria.

“Lady Lyriendriath apologises for her absence,” he explained. The young noble was still not used to calling her Lyria.

“But she says it is imperative to the collective effort that she completes her work in time,” added Finn.

I could only surmise what her work means. Since she is with Colby, the obvious answer is gyrocopter. Now all that remains, is for Cyrene to appear.

But where is Cyrene?

Despite the fact that she has too much going for her, she would not have accepted Colby’s disappearance easily. He is her ward.

But Finn’s next statement broke my internal thoughts.

“Something about, smelting exotic special alloy,” he added like an afterthought, “probably some meteor metal I presume.”

Lyria’s current forge is of a higher quality than her previous one, but I would be surprised if she could even process adamantine in there. Her forge is a wartime forge, meant to mass produce and keep up with the standing demands of an army fort under siege. She could barely process mithral there, even if all of High-Crag Hold were to provide their help in billowing the flames.

A second thought narrowly followed. How did she create Adjuration? The whip blades of my Urumi are definitely not composed of any mundane metal or alloy. That much is certain.

Undying forge!

That is the word, I have heard her utter a few times. A name that struck terror in the heart of prime demons like Zor’amoth, made him shiver and retreat in shame. Is it simply a dreaded moniker for her famed ability? Or is it more tangible in nature?

“Lyria is neither rich nor does she have any dwarven connections. She could not have come by any meteor rock,” I said over the sound of another tavern song about a naked Knight in a forest of nymphs.

“My apologies, the exact word, if I could perfectly recall was, otherworldly crystal,” said Finn. If it weren’t for the fact that my back was turned towards the wildly dancing flames, the boy would have witnessed the look of sheer panic etched on my face.

The Ordinance Crystal!!

Vitalia was wrong. I should have followed my gut instincts. One notion cut deep; over the loud cheerful singing; over the glowing embers billowed by the wind; over the howling of the werewolves at the distance; either we were about to behold an abomination so horrifyingly spat out from abyss or something so marvellous that would define a new era.

And Cyrene, the only person to make sense of and steer the deliberate course, is missing. A knot twisted in my stomach as I ruminated over Cyrene’s absence.

Just like Arlene, Cyrene's whereabouts were unknown.

She should have been in Antilorwe’s lavish manor, dining on fine exquisite dishes, and evenings spent, between mediating the negotiation, in the company of fine wine, music, poetry and whatever women of her age did for a relaxing evening. There could only be two outcomes and both were beneficial to my efforts. Either Antilorwe sleeps with Urganza and any terms laid by Urganza would be accepted by Antilorwe. Or Urganza sleeps with Cyrene and the mage with the power as arbiter would rule any dispute in the favour of Urganza. Both paths would lead to the same favourable conclusion.

A deep ominous shadow loomed, slowly spreading, like a silent dark whisper when I contemplated Cyrene’s fate.

It was a simple task. There is no third choice.

So why is Cyrene missing?