“Dark Mistress,” Taltil wrapped her arms around, pulling me with a strength bestowed by her heritage. Strong and yet soft. “We should go to your wife.”

“Perhaps, that would be the prudent choice,” said Rodo and as an afterthought added, “for the moment.”

“Give me a brief moment to recollect.” Even those words burned through my throat before liberating themselves from my lips.

By dint of my own volition, I rolled out of my pit of retch and fear. Taltil, immediately reached out to wipe a bit of my filth, rebelliously still clinging to my hair. For all her attempts, she would not undo what the miserable, ill-begotten circle prince did to me in the walled city.

Rodo stood a safe distance, his animal senses still sharp to catch any danger, though against the one I just faced, even the skill of the werewolf alpha or perhaps, even a primal werewolf lord would pale.

“Grand Dark Mistress.” There was a certain finality to Taltil's intonation, as she gently tried to lay a hand on the wreath of flowers. “You are truly troubled.” She glanced at me again, eyes hooded with concern. Yet, her gaze was calm, steady. Perceptive among all the goblins, but there was no hiding her truly worried she was.

It took all my concentration, but I managed to roll away from Taltil, -- my legs still numb and was my body and soul -- until I clung to a wall.

Rodo watched, a deep crease furrowing his forehead, his primal senses following the unnatural. “There is something more at work. Far more malicious than sanguine magic. Right?” His words were a barely audible whisper.

As if I would have fallen apart into some kind of weeping mass had he ever posed such a question in a louder tone. But, I wanted to and again, it wasn't true, either. With every thought I dredged through my soul, the gloom kept coming back. My failure came back to haunt me like a bloody reminder of my resolve, of my incompetence and a mockery of my love for Lyria.

“She is…" Taltil struggled with her words. The gap in the momentary pause was wide, like an abyss. “… catatonic.”

“There is very little we could do here. Waiting is not an option.” Rodo shrugged, and a visibly perceptibly shiver ran down his frame. “Back to High-Crag Hold.”

“And then?” questioned Taltil.

“Zaehran would have some insights. Failing which, the fae is our last option.”

“That will not be necessary.” I replied. “The warmth of Lyria would clear my head.”

Neither of my companions spoke. Only a silent nod of acknowledgement passed between them, while a pregnant silence made an awkward stand-off.

Finally, understanding what made them both hesitate, I added. “I am still addled, so some help with the movement would be appreciated.”

And Taltil reached out, with her palms holding my waist for support.

Darkness had already settled over feydance. The long shadows cast by the gargoyle statues looked even more threatening under the star-lit sky. Still, no insects chirped. No fireflies winked intermittently. Only a cautious silence warning us of the nature of the domain we intruded. A constant reminder of how far out of place we were. But to my tainted self, none of those imbibed a fraction of fear.

After being spirited away… no… kidnapped to the walled city, the seat of power of Hell, with all it subtlety and twisted lies, the threat placed by the Sanguine Lords, was more akin to broken waves on the shores of shattered cliff.

Even now, the mind warred. It was somehow hard to believe. Like some dreadful dream or nightmare, twisting the very notion of myself. And like every bad dream, they never stay buried. They claw and tear when least expected. That was how the touch of Rhea festered like a plague boil, bursting, spilling the rotten puss, every time when I gathered myself.

Her presence, with wild unkempt hair, the lone tear and her pleading voice, the Circle Prince succeeded. They were always the most painful because there was no waking up to realize the whole thing was merely a feverish hallucination. Because, it isn't.

Rodo sniffed the air. Nostrils hooking into imaginary trails, he stiffened and resisted the urge to howl for his pack.

“Is something bothering?” I asked.

“We are not alone. Someone is nearby.”

The possibility that the horde of the Cambion Warlord could have someone managed to evade the patrols of Merowyn and Theko seemed unlikely.

“A singular presence.” Rodo continued.

Taltil's hands immediately went to the handle of her crossbow, silent, calm and with fluid motion.

“But I sense no antagonism.” Rodo added, to Taltil in particular. “Almost tranquil.”

“Zaehran?” I asked.

“No,” denied Rodo. “He has a…” The powerful alpha pack leader shook his thick mane. “It is a sense, like a feeling. No words to describe.”

“One of the priestesses of Resh'Ketu?” Unlikely that the cultist in their misguided notion would relent so easily.

“No, male and oddly it carries a strange scent.” Rodo darted a few paces ahead and, soon, returned. “Yes. Something feels familiar. Whoever it is, they are not looking for a fight.”

The unspoken message was evident. Whoever they are, they are in our path.

“Proceed.” I gave the order. “Avoid them if we can, and keep our interaction to a minimum if we must.”

“Please, I am tempted to invite you to share this campfire,” said the figure. A large form, casting even darker shadow, huddled in front of a campfire, well travel-worn cloak wrapped.

No, visible weapon of any sort lay nearby. A fact did not escape the too observant Taltil as she relaxed the grip on the long blade dangling from her hip.

“Under different circumstances, I could have been convinced to host a more respectable entertainment but, here, I believe this is the best.”

Both Rodo and Taltil exchanged a quick glance, and then their gaze settled on me, seeking the obvious.

The voice, despite the bulky frame hidden inside the travel cloak, was soft. Almost as if, all the hardness, bass, gravelly and grating tones were distilled away to leave only the soft thin resonant note.

“I reckon friendships can be found in awkward places. So it should not come as a surprise, at the campfire, in the middle of blood-soaked land.” A long arm shot out from inside the darkness of his cloak. Palms, the colour of deep rich brown, like clay moulding in a kiln, beckoned.

“You know of this land?” I asked.

His arm receded back into the folds of his cloak. One fluid motion devoid of jingles. No clink of metal on metal. No hidden armour beneath, I noted.

“I would assume so, but only minor details gleamed from sources.”

The languid roam of his dull slate grey-eyes, even the campfire flickering in them, failed to add depth to his gaze as he considered the surrounding. All the tenebrosity and gloom of the desecrated tomb rolled away from his unnerving presence.

“I was told that these lands were the domain of a Vampire High-Lady, and she fell in love with a mundane commoner.”

The peculiar manner of his speaking, 'I was told', 'I would assume', 'I reckon', 'I could be convinced', 'I am tempted to'… Sentences beginning with an uncertainty clause, before stating his facts, stood out. An obvious attempt to avoid making a precise statement, but not in the manner of a statesman or a politician, but very contrary to his nature of stating things precisely.

What manner of beings resorted to such a peculiar way of speaking? Like an envenomed thorn, the conundrum of invaded by flailing thoughts.

“Not that vampires were forbidden from dallying with other lesser beings, but emotional investment…” The figure clicked him tongue in pity. “That did not sit well with Sanguinaris.”

His causal manner of uttering a dreaded creature's names, only consolidated Rodo's claim further.

“So Sanguinaris and his Sanguine Lords, they tricked her into feeding on him. When she realised her error, she tried to take her life. A sad tale.” He clicked him tongue again. No falsity or feigned emotion. “But Sanguinaris would not allow that. Not a Vampire High-Lady, a Sanguine Lord to take this own life, would shatter his myth of immortal vampires. So he imprisoned her, holding blood-wards for eternity.”

With typical unflinching gaze, his dull slate grey eyes, moved from Rodo to Taltil and eventually locked on to me.

“You don't seem afraid of the Vampire King, Sanguinaris?” I stated.

The laugh that followed could crush rocks to gravel. Even Rodo stiffened as reached for the primal spirit inside. “Why would I? To give him credit, he did attempt, on more than one occasion, and I reminded him that immortality is invulnerability.”

Pushing is cloak aside, he waved his other arm. “Besides, he is dead. Well, twice dead to be precise. He was assassinated, inside the heart of Sanguine Bastion, and all his Sanguine Lords and Sanguine Blood Lords, slaughtered. It is a devious plan."

“Who would be reckless enough to try to pull that?”

“Dellynthelaara of course, but please do not belittle my intelligence, Rylonvirah.” Pushing aside the hood of his cloak, he slowly craned his neck in my direction. “Wasn't that your plan all along? You hold this barren rock with a ragtag group, all eyes on you, while she just obliterates the walled kings.”

This is all going wrong. So very wrong. The involvement of demons was a disaster. The involvement of a Circle prince was a calamity, but Dellynthelaara is a catastrophe.

“But please allow me to introduce myself.”

Under the star-lit and moonless sky, before the crackling campfire, sitting atop his mauled forehead, extending from his temples, twin horn protrusions -- the right-side horn broken…

“You are the One-Horned Warlord.” I gasped.

“One of my monikers, but I insist, please, call me Lyle.”