A patroling gryphon scout was not a rare sight, especially since we expected it. The grand paladin champion would have spared no resources in his ruthless search. Zelaphiel would consolidate his presence in the barren lands leading to the northern regions. His alliance with Duke Lothmar, though signed on parchments whose ink has not yet dried, would no doubt have hidden clauses to benefit each party without the other party’s knowledge. The unwritten rule of such a strenuous alliance is to have common undesirables eliminated as an overlooked casualties. At the moment, both would have me dead, for different reasons, before they turn their undivided attention towards the One-Horned-Warlord. So when the Dusk Reavers reported of a flying gryphon, I paid no heed and searched for Lyria.

Lyria was chopping woods with a few Ashen Bulwarks when I found her. One of the orcs, working beside her accused another orc, extracting a chuckle like the tolling of a bell from Lyria. She looked up and gave me another of her immaculate smile but I am way past the point of swooning over her.

I steeled my resolve and ignored her adorable candour. “Lyria, this is the end,”

Lyria scratched her hair, slowly parting them to reveal her tiny horn that she usually keeps hidden. Were my words hard to comprehend or is she faking obliviousness?

The rest of the Ashen Bulwarks turned their head. Lyria’s own eyebrows shot upwards, curved like a fully drawn bow. The object of their interest dropped altitude and flew dangerously close to the tall pine trees till both the rider and the gryphon slowly glided towards our position.

But it was not the rider who held my attention but rather the banner he flew. A white flag, the universal sign of parley fluttered from behind the gryphon’s tawny tail while from the underbelly, hung the heraldry sign of a Corvidae snapping a coiling serpent around its beak. The Heraldry sign of Duke Lothmar.

Among the three figures riding atop the dominion gryphon, the first was a standard high-elven mounted gryphon knight. Even without his armour or the ceremonial uniform of their station, the figure sat in an unmistakable gait; with a straight back and stiff shoulders carrying the pride of his office. The second was the familiar form of Lucille T’Fyrestok. He wore a smug look, that did little to hide his idiotic facade. But it was the third person who piqued my interest as well a demanded my undivided attention.

I raised an arm instructing the Dusk Reavers, who strung their war bows, to lower their aim. Against the third figure, their famed archery skill will fare no better than children pelting a sleeping dragon with pebbles. Even in the human form, with flowing dark hair and cool piercing blue eyes, the ethereal aura that hung around her made her remarkable. She sat side-saddled, with her dainty fingers gently curled around the handle; mostly to project an image of noble bearing than for balance, for the fae needed no such support. She commanded the very atmosphere where the mount carrying her flew. Her long transient coloured gown, which flowed till it covered her ankles, and fluttered in the air.

“Magistra, I am glad to see you recuperate well and in good health,” greeted Vitalia nonchalantly as she hopped and tiptoed along the grassy plain.

“Provost,” I returned the greeting, “Your arrival could not be any stranger and even so is the company you keep,”

“We were wrong by a wide margin. Why kill the Stormlord?” came her voice carried by the wind, though her lips barely moved. I was certain, that no one else heard her words.

“Where is Arlene?” I impatiently asked. There is definitely more to it.

“She has been volunteered to lead a regiment of High-Elven phalanx on a regular training exercise,” answered Vitalia while ignoring the sudden change in the wind as it blew dirt and debris along, “but fear not, the land where she leads them is safe. It has been under the protective care of the Viridian Dawn Ranger for centuries.”

No doubt, Vitalia would never give her mentee without a fight. While Zelaphiel hold’s Arlene, within the lands of the Viridian Dawn Ranger, he cannot hope to succeed in harming the ranger. The fae had manoeuvred them into a stalemate.

“Did you have anything to do with the planar breach?” The Fae spoke with the wind.

“I believe you already had the privilege of meeting Lord Lucille T’Fyrestok,” Vitalia’s voice turned to a more professional and open tone, to be heard by all.

Lucille gave a curt bow and then his eyes hawked on Lyria but soon regained his composure and in an act that surprised me, he delivered her another candid bow. Then he opened his mouth and surprised me.

“I speak in the name of My Lord, the Noblest Duke Lothmar. His Grace, though cannot make his personal appearance, still sends his greetings to Lady Rylonvirah, Lady Exarch and Countess of High Crag Hold. “

---

Caught between Lyria seeking to gain hold of my ears in private and Vitalia’s constant wind talk, it took all my willpower and every shred of reason to remain calm; to suppress every urge to interrogate Lucille.

Before dusk approached, Zelaphiel, accompanied by his grandiose display of elegance, strutted in. Trailed by his army of scribes, valet and civil staff, his swagger of smugness carried him well. His pristinely decorated uniform, without any creases along with polished buttons and cufflinks, stood out as he walked nonchalantly past the Ashen Bulwarks.

I took my eyes away from the sashaying fool and sought among his scribes and staff. In my experience, in peace talks such as these, the real threat hides there. Not in the form of a paladin inside a polished tin armour but in the form of a diplomat with ink stains on their fingers.

Antilorwe walked with bowed head, the gaze from her bright hazel eyes never roamed beyond a few paces from her footing. Her long black skirt trailed behind as she crossed the grounds in a small peaceful stroll. Her saunter was a stark contrast to the strut of the paladin she followed. Her light green satin blouse, constricted by a brown leather waist cincher, and the dark blue fleece shawl that she draped over her narrow shoulders was the only visible way that she choose to set herself apart from the rest of Zelaphiel’s domestic staff. Her attire was simple and yet skillfully made to her proportions, a feat impossible unless one had a certain measure of social standing. Crossing further, she fell into a full slow saunter behind Zelaphiel, savouring the feeling of solid ground under her feet. She is the real threat.

“Lady Rylonvirah,” he gave another of his magnanimous smile accentuated by his commanding air of self-confidence, “I thank the divines for keeping you safe. Words cannot express how relieved I am to see you well.”

Seeing my cold hard stare and my arms still stubbornly crossed in front, he continued, “After I heard about your unfortunate accident in Arlond, I instructed my medical staff to immediately find you and treat you back to full health. It is only a conspiracy of fate that my soldiers failed. I, and I alone, should take full responsibility for this failure, and for your pain.”

“Rylonvirah, rein your anger. Lord Mirnovian is just a walking bipedal cancerous tissue.” Vitalia’s windspeak brushed through me.

“Your efforts, though uncoordinated, did us a great help in quelling the infestation at Arlond and for that, I am happy to have your bond of friendship.” He tossed his head exuding a higher level of self-esteem and refined decorousness. His long brown hair fell in waves and danced over the two-handed sword strapped to his back. A long strand of white silken ribbon with golden embroidery wound around the hilt and the sheath. The ends of it were tied in a bow-lie knot signifying the ceremonial nature of the blade.

Zelaphiel caught my eyes moving along the length of his swords and volunteered further, “An unfortunate necessity of my station. I would prefer to walk among friends without a sword, especially at such an august occasion but what is a paladin without his sword?” He gave a small inviting laugh and continued.

“It is a symbol of my oath to the divines; an oath to protect those who cannot protect themselves, an oath to be prepared at any time when the need arises.”

The day held multiple surprises but nothing compared to what Zelaphiel did next. He stepped past me and bent before Lyria in the full view of everyone.

“You must be Lady Rylonvirah’s” a brief pause later, he settled on the word companion, “Companion. Mirnovian Zelaphiel Ellandor at your service.”

He took her rough hands in his manicured fingers, disregarding ignominy and in an act that surprised all who gathered, placed a kiss on the back of her hands.

My blood boiled at his shameless audacity. Sheer anger surged, probably at Lyria for injecting herself in the meeting or at Zelaphiel for his effrontery or because of the impudent act of his lips grazing my Lyria.

Lyria stared at him like an enraged cockatrice. Her fingers curled, digging into her palm. Her pale knuckles and fuming nostrils, made even the ferocious orcs, comprising the Ashen Bulwarks, to step a few paces behind.

“I can understand your reservations for there has been enough bad blood between our races, but I hope to correct that unfortunate mistake. To forge my own path -- our own path. Would you help me pave such a future?” asked Zelaphiel. The impeccable candour in his voice struck deep into the hearts of all who heard his request.

Without waiting for Lyria’s answer, he motioned towards the table which his domestic staff organized with meticulous efficiency. Despite my own reservations, I was impressed by their ability to set up an office for field meetings in a short duration. Seeing Zelaphiel lead us toward the prepared table, his valets took their leave and went about erecting tents. The grand paladin definitely came with a long game; one he worked over multiple sleepless nights.

Antilorwe was the only one allowed to sit near Zelaphiel. Vitalia simply preferred to fade into the background. Seeing only one unoccupied seat which was intended for me, the grand paladin motioned with a flick of his wrist to set another seat for Lyria. His orders were promptly carried out.

“Let me tell you a tale, something simple and something that I personally experienced -- It made me reconsider a lot.” Though he addressed us both, his brilliant hazel eyes were trained on Lyria.

“Before I could depart, I had to settle a dispute between two prominent families in the city. Two prominent high-elven families. As I negotiated between both the parties, it became clear that their mutual hatred ran for generations.”

A valet promptly appeared bearing a tray filled with refreshments. Zelaphiel helped himself to a cup and moistened his dry lips before continuing with his tale.

“Their hatred stemmed from the time when their families settled when the city was not bigger than a growing village. Both their families came from two different regions that contested each other. It made me realise how absurd their hatred was.”

The grand paladin took another swig from his cup and considered Lyria for any sign of acknowledgement. On her part, Lyria clutched the cup. She had other concerns plaguing her mind.

“It made me realise how absurd the hatred between our races ran. Just because some part of our ancestors came from another plane does not mean we need to share their animosity. We are born here. This is our world to enrich and to leave a glorious legacy for our future generations,” concluded Zelaphiel.

With each of his shameless claims, the indescribable urge to slaughter every Aasimar raged inside me. Only the futile knowledge that my own daughter is one of them, held me regain my grasp on reality.

Not wishing to taint my ears with his grandiose plan for a peaceful world; where Aasimars and high-elves will lead the lesser races towards a utopian future, I engaged Antilorwe.

“Antilorwe, it is nice to see a more familiar face here. Are you representing Leyandur and Associates? Is the Grand Paladin Champion also a client of your firm?” I asked.

Before answering me, she turned her head and surveyed the crowd. If it's Vitalia that she is seeking, the fae will not be found easily, unless she wants to be found.

“Actually I represent the interest of Sarenthill in this matter,” she slowly answered.

“Sarenthill was a neutral-free city unless something drastically changed within the last few days. I would require an explanation then?” I asked. If Sarenthill has taken the side of the paladin, it would explain how Arlene found herself in Zelaphiel’s grasp or why Vitalia is forced to support the parley.

“As you might be aware, Sarenthill aims to always remain a beacon of independence and diversity while fostering unity among different races. We will do, everything in our ability, to support this alliance between high-elves and men. Thus, we have stepped forward with our contributions in laying the foundations to bridging both the races.”

“Have you ever thought of sacrificing your career in the law firm to become a state bureaucrat?” I scoffed.

Antilorwe’s hazel eyes met mine and held their gaze for a moment. Her wide plump lips curved ever so slightly.

“I did study racial politics,” she answered. This explains a lot of her reasoning. Zelaphiel did indeed select a cunning competent aide this time.

“Under the provost, I presume,” I prodded.

“Oh no, you are mistaken. I only had the privilege of learning normative moral relativism under her guidance,” she corrected.

Vitalia, could you not have taught her something less nifty? Clearly, as she has demonstrated, the high-elven lawyer before me is able to compromise with various cultural beliefs and plead the one that suits her purpose the most.

Without knowing what offer they brought to the table and with Antilorwe being deliberately obtuse, there was only one course of action left.

“So I take it that, Sarenthill has been forced to its knees by the combined pressure from the empire of men and the High-elven dominion,” I said.

“That is an unfortunate way of viewing Sarenthill’s stance. The ruling city council has seen the merits in providing assistance to the alliance of men and high-elves,” countered Antilorwe calmly.

Zelaphiel fell silent as his ears perked up. Only Antilorwe continued. As she declared, a still silence settled amidst us.

“On behalf of the free city of Sarenthill and with the support, of His Grace Duke Lothmar and the Grand Paladin Champion Lord Mirnovian Zelaphiel Ellandor, I official present the assignment to The Aberrant Irregulars to defend High Crag Pass.”

“I suppose refusing the assignment is not an option,” I said knowing the answer full well.

Zelaphiel chimed in, “Lady Rylonvirah, even as we speak Fort Halcyon is well guarded by my valiant Paladins. You will receive every assistance you require to set up your forces in High Crag Hold.”

So that is what his smug attitude and altruistic talk of a peaceful co-existence were all about. To trap me between the hammer and anvil. The hordes of the Cambion warlord from the north; assaulting a small pass defended by a few hundred mercenaries, and our retreat, blocked by the Paladin forces at Fort Halcyon. Throw us as cannon fodder, to slow the momentum of the horde before they reach Fort Halcyon.

“His Grace, Duke Lothmar was so worried for your safety, that he convinced the grand paladin champion to place a phalanx under your command,” added Antilorwe. She still maintained her elegant composure as she considered me from the other side of the table.

“A phalanx,” I screamed losing all imposed restraint on my temper, “on mountainous terrain. This is suicidal. Do you take me for a fool? They would just drain my resources assuming your paladins would even let the supply line reach me in time.”

“I am sorry you feel this way but this phalanx under your command is very much sponsored by the city of Sarenthill for your valourous efforts. We would have provided you with a fully sanctioned army but we have yet to find a trained company of veterans ready to work under the command of a stranger,” explained Antilorwe. She had her answers prepared well in advance.

If there has to be a remote chance of turning the tide in my favour, Antilorwe needs to be removed from the negotiation table and the only one who she fears is the fae, who has conveniently removed her presence from our midst.

“You seem to have trouble placing your trust,” said Zelaphiel carefully.

“Of course I do,” I hissed through my teeth, “First you order sequestering all tiefling and then you come here with your altruistic talk of establishing utopian peace.”

Zelaphiel looked like he was about to protest but Antilorwe raised a finger to silence him. The grand paladin champion looked sternly at her but seeing her firm stance, he eventually conceded.

“An unfortunate clerical error, I assure you, Lady Rylonvirah. Since the Cambion warlord, for obvious reasons, targetted mostly tieflings, the aim was to provide them protection. It should have been a well-drafted civil ordinance passed through civil channels. Given the urgency of the issue, in haste, the order was passed through military channels which were interpreted down the line of command as sequestering,” explained the high-elven diplomat without breaking a sweat.

“A successful defence of High Crag pass would make you an Exarch and a Countess of High Crag Hold. You would be free to establish your own land where your friend and her people can settle without fear of persecution.” Lucille who stood silently until this moment, beamed an unpleasant smile at Zelaphiel’s declaration.

“His Grace, Duke Lothmar approves of the reward as well,” added Lucille.

Dripping sheer venom with every word, I lashed back at them.

“So you are bestowing me a title and granting me a land to which neither of you has any claim over?”

Lucille stood stunned. His tongue refused to co-operate. Zelaphiel staggered at my accusatory tone. Only Antilorwe kept her calm composure and collected her wits before answering me.

“We are not gifting something that we never had a claim and nor will we ever stand by such a practice. After defending High Crag pass, the stability and prosperity of the region can be ensured by your continued presence in High Crag Hold. Sarenthill, His Grace Duke Lothmar and the Paladins will gladly support and acknowledge your claim to High Crag Hold.” Antilorwe still held her professional smile, the sort that never reached the ears.

“And?” I prodded cynically.

“The title of Countess that Lord Lucille mentioned is a court rank which His Grace has agreed and not associated with the Landed Nobility.”

As I thought, with her on the bargaining front, I will not get anywhere. It would require a miracle to keep her off the negotiation tables. And the miracle manifested itself in the form of Urganza.