One did not yell at the Oracle of Embers. The owlen knew that. Everyone did. 

Even in his fragile emotional state, even with his perception of risk and the value of his own life skewed after being attacked by his own people, and even though what he knew of this world and his place in it had come crumbling down, crushed like brittle twigs underfoot, Saren still knew where the line was. Where it had always been, as far back as he could remember. 

There were faster ways to die than to disrespect the oracle, or any oracle for that matter, if death was his true aim. 

He could fall on his own sword, for example. Stick himself inside a lit forge. Dive headfirst into the Neversea. Or perhaps offer himself up as tribute to the myriad, menacing beasts that roamed the Severed Hills to the north. Any of those scenarios offered him at least a small chance of survival, however remote. 

And yet… Saren’s eyes flicked over to the massive, heavily muscled bearkin walking beside him. Rage swelled in his chest. Raw, unthinking, and emboldened by his monumental confusion. He wanted to demand more of the oracle. More answers. An explanation. Something. Anything! 

Anything but what he has already given me. The owlen realized, and that realization stung. He was acting as if his beak had never been wet by battle. Raging, as a child might, against the truth. Wishing desperately for reality not to be so, as if wishing could change anything real. 

The commander ordered me slain. Saren’s mind replayed what the oracle had just told him again and again in his mind as they walked down the sewer’s many passageways. And nobody stopped him. 

Saren didn’t bother paying attention to where the oracle was leading him, only making mental note of which turns and tunnels they passed such that he could return this way if necessary. An ingrained habit, leftover from his scout training. Something Isla had drilled into him, should he ever need to retreat from a foe. 

A foe. The owlen almost scoffed at the idea. If the bearkin beside him wanted him dead, he already would be. Without the oracle’s earlier guidance, he wouldn’t have made it even this far.

The commander. The commander! His disbelief was every bit as profound as the feeling deep within his feathers. One that knew it to be true, because too many things made sense now. Or did they? Saren couldn’t know. 

Wisps of grey smoke rose from the edges of cloudy eyes as the Oracle of Embers strode unflinchingly forward through the dark tunnels, neither speaking for long moments. To Saren, the ever-singed fur lining the bearkin’s face had always been intimidating. Now, down here and in such close proximity, the heat that rolled ceaselessly off the oracle and the way nearby shadows flickered fearfully away from him made the bearkin seem more mythic monster than man. 

A pillar of fire, in a world gone dark. 

Saren could only wish he had the power to stand so tall at that age. 

“You may speak plainly, Zealot.” The bearkin rumbled calmly, as if the pair hadn’t just been discussing the discovery of treachery entrenched in the highest levels of their order. “The Light guides all of us better when we walk with our hearts in the open.”

Well, Saren thought, seizing on the opportunity as surely as if it were prey caught between taloned hands. If he strikes me down for questioning him, then so be it. 

“Why?” The owlen asked, that one word filled with all the emotion he couldn’t quite keep suppressed. Pained confusion. Helpless rage. A burning desire to know, to understand. “You told me I should be patient, and I have. You said there was a schism within our order, and I believed you. You asked my help in uncovering it, and now we have. Having me watched after my return was one thing, but why would the commander possibly want me dead?”

“Are we at war with ourselves, now?” The notion was so ridiculous, Saren might have laughed if he had any humor left in him. “Sellis and the others–” 

“Are dead, are they not?” The oracle interrupted, his tone remarkably casual. As if he knew the truth already, which Saren had no doubt he did. 

“Yes. Gel slew them all.” Then, because an irrational part of himself couldn’t help but be curious about the oracle’s reaction, Saren added. “Right before saving me from grievous injury. Again. A monstrous ally he may be, and deadlier than fresh snakegrass, but he has been more helpful than many of my own supposed ‘comrades’ as of late.” 

That last comment had been a step too far, but Saren was finding it harder and harder to care right now. Especially since, as far as he could tell, the oracle hadn’t reacted at all to his provocation. The lack of a response was starting to get to him, but before the owlen could challenge him further the bearkin spoke up. 

“The commander has strayed from the Light.” The oracle said softly, and the pair of them stopped walking at the same time. One on purpose, and the other out of pure shock.

That single statement was not so simple as it appeared on the surface. To an outsider, it might even sound relatively harmless. As if the commander had committed some indiscretion that required atonement. An administrative error in his favor, or something equally nondescript. As if Commander Derald merely needed some guidance after an indiscretion, and then he would be right back on the proper path. A bit of corrective punishment perhaps, slap on the feathers, nothing more. 

But the two of them knew better. 

With that single statement, the Oracle of Embers had just declared the commander unfit to serve. Once the Spire heard of it, Commander Derald would be forced to give up command, stripped of his rank and office, and in all likelihood– executed on the spot after a trial the oracle himself would preside over. There were few accusations Gold Spire took more seriously, or handled more swiftly, and rightly so. It meant the commander had betrayed their purpose– that his judgment was irreparably impaired. That he was now a danger to the cause, the people, and the guiding purpose of the Light itself. 

He ordered me slain… The words echoed in the owlen’s mind over, and over. 

“No doubt he has already said the same of me.” The massive bearkin continued, an amused and derisive snort implying exactly what the oracle thought of that particular action. “And so now, with the misfortune of your ill-timed jest proven painfully on the mark, which side will you choose, Zealot?”

Saren stared, open-beaked, as the full implications of that statement sunk in. 

They were at war. 

An oracle did not sit within the regular hierarchy of command in Gold Spire. They were spiritual guides, not combat officers. Charged with maintaining the faith, communing with the Light, and sharing what insights they could glean with all they could in whatever manner they saw fit. They were a check against the potential corruptions of the world. A balance. One purposefully placed outside of any regulation. Respected, almost revered, and not just for the extreme power of the Light they all wielded.

But if the highest ranking officer of their order declared one unfit to serve– then that essentially meant their ‘check’ against corruption had, itself, been corrupted. Such a thing was preposterous, and in all of his studies on the order’s history, Saren could only recall a single instance of such a claim actually proving true. The circumstances surrounding it had been unheard of, and yet… 

If it can happen once… Then that means it can happen again. Saren saw the logic behind the move immediately, and had to admit that if the oracle was right, then Commander Derald had played his cards well. The rest of our order won’t know who to believe. Without evidence, how can one make such a choice? Who could possibly discern the true lie, if not one of them?

Gold Spire would split itself in two trying to find answers, and if both sides opposed one another openly then there was no way around it: blood would be spilt, and not just blood. In a conflict such as this, only the eradication of the unfaithful would satisfy the other. 

“That’s why you’re down here. To keep the first blow from being thrown.” Saren said, thinking out loud and ignoring the bearkin’s question for the moment. Rude as it may be not to answer directly, he felt their circumstances allowed it. And my answer should be obvious. 

“For now, yes.” The oracle nodded, turning and starting down the tunnels once more as surefooted as if his sight had never been taken. “The commander is searching for something. As far as I have been able to deduce, it is an artifact of particular power that he – and those who follow him – have been after for some time and believe exists somewhere out here, hidden in the sands. Finding it may even be the reason he was assigned here to begin with.” 

Saren frowned as he caught up to the bearkin’s much-larger strides, but he didn’t interrupt. 

“It is the search for this mystery object that has consumed him. At first, I did not know the extent of his obsession. Only rumors. Whispers. Deceptions masquerading as truth, masquerading as purpose.” The bearkin turned down another tunnel, and while Saren still wondered how the oracle managed to see– he at least felt like they were finally getting somewhere. “The timing of your report the other day confirmed my suspicions.”

Saren felt bile rise in the back of his throat as something finally slid into place for him. A notion he had been running from, ever since he had returned. 

“We weren’t supposed to come back.” 

“No.” The bearkin confirmed, and there was a hint of shame in his rumbling voice now. “No, even if the Morian family necromancer had not been there, your team’s next mission would have been to the Antlion Fields.”

In other words, a death sentence. 

“Some excuse would no doubt have been made,” The bearkin continued. “Some ‘noble cause’ given. But the fact remains that you and the cadre dispatched after your team was lost would have gone there, for the simple fact that you all are – or were – too loyal to the Spire. Commander Derald is not without his own foresight. He knew that I would soon discover him, and has taken a number of actions to remove those whose loyalty he could not rely upon.”

Saren had thought he wanted the why, but learning that his treasured comrades had died for less than nothing felt so… hollow. As if there had to be more to it than a simple betrayal. 

Or maybe I just want there to be. Wain. Bacchus. How would you react to this, I wonder? 

“Will you kill him?” The words came out before he even realized he was saying them. His emotions taking the shortcut from rage to revenge in an instant. 

It was the logical option, at least to the owlen. After all, if anyone in Gold Spire could kill the commander in single combat, it would be the oracle. Even against Isla, the man had an undefeated dueling record. Saren might be dead before he ever drew his sword or cast a spell.

True, the abilities of the bearkin’s class were unknown to him, but the stories fueling their mystique were both legion and legend. Not to mention if anyone could handle the political fallout from committing such an act within the city limits, it would be the oracle. Justice meted out inside their own territory was likely to be overlooked by the city. Dervash’s government would only get involved if its hand was forced. 

“Do you know why we oracles are blinded, Zealot?” The question was entirely incongruent with Saren’s own, and to his dismay the oracle’s voice had suddenly taken on the tone of lecture. 

“No, Oracle.” Saren did his best to suppress his inner frustration, and if his words were a little clipped, the bearkin gave no sign he noticed. He wanted to get their discussion back on track, but since demanding a straight answer would get him nowhere now that the lesson had begun, the owlen just played along. Besides, the scholar in him did actually want to know. 

“It is so we learn to truly use our remaining senses. To ensure our attention remains focused on the details that truly matter. So we do not get lost in the myriad distractions of life that lead so many astray,” The oracle stopped, turning to face the much-smaller owlen. “And so we do not miss that which is right in front of us.” 

“I… see.” Saren said, resisting the urge to go to one knee before the oracle looming over him. The raw sewage sloshing about his boots helped. He realized his inadvertent pun too late, though the slight upward twitch of a singed brow told him the bearkin had not missed it. 

“What are you missing, Zealot?” 

The pair stared at one another for a long moment, while Saren racked his brain for a suitable answer. When it was clear he wouldn’t come up with one, the bearkin took pity on him. 

“That was not a metaphor. You came out here with goods for this ‘Gel’. Despite being ambushed, you managed to deliver most of them.” The bearkin raised one mighty finger for emphasis. “But not all. Can you guess which item never made it out of the city? Which one slipped from your possession without notice, right from your very hands?”

Saren’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. The life weapon! How had he not noticed?

The bearkin pointed his raised finger at a nearby ladder leading up to a broken opening not unlike the one the pair had descended to get down here in the first place.

“Your ally is above. You will need its aid for what’s to come. Go now, we will see each other again soon.”

The oracle turned and began to walk away, but Saren wasn’t going to let the bearkin leave without answering him. Not on this, at least. He had to know. 

“Will you kill him?” His voice was soft as he asked again, but there were precious few other sounds down here. “Or are you not answering, because you believe I will have to?”

The Oracle of Embers paused, but only for a moment. 

“You are growing in wisdom, Zealot.” There was approval in the bearkin’s rumble now, something that hadn’t been there before. “See that you and your ‘ally’ grow in might too, and may the solace of Light smile down upon you both.”

“I have a feeling you shall need it.” 

—------------------------

Saren’s mood was dark as he ascended the ladder and climbed through its broken opening. Blood splatters adorned the nearby stonework and the sounds of one of Dervash’s wealthier districts came muted through the walls, just enough that the owlen was certain he was on a street reserved for merchants even if he couldn’t tell yet which one. Those two details were interesting, but not so much as the sounds of furious shouting coming from above. He could make out the words, but the language itself was foreign to him. 

Oh no, what are they– Saren dashed for the stairs, grateful that his ability to see in near-total darkness mitigated the complete lack of lighting. Arriving on the first floor of a shop whose wares on display held little rhyme or reason to him, the owlen could hear the sounds of scuffling and clattering kitchenware mix in with the shouting now. Second floor, ten meters behind my own position and four to the right. 

Briefly, the paladin considered going through the floor. If Gel was in danger, or if the undead was locked in a battle against the townsfolk, then he would be forced to intervene. Intervening may have even been why the oracle had brought him here in the first place. But if he broke through the floor, there would be no hiding either the fight or Gel’s presence from the city guard. 

Caution for now. Decision made, Saren all-but-flew up the stairs leading to the second floor. 

What the owlen saw when he got to the landing baffled him. 

Gel was happily stirring away at a massive, silver pot with what appeared to be an entire human leg sticking out of it. The undead’s crimson slime half was draped over its thick skeleton like an apron, the armor he had seen it wearing after the evolution process somehow missing. Beside the undead, an open book with a half-dozen claws on either end was shouting at its apron in that same, strange language while one of the crimson whips the paladin had seen the undead use in battle was waving exaggeratedly in the air behind it. 

The undead turned to face him, and Saren could have sworn he saw the skull around its burning orbs contort into an expression reminiscent of a raised eyebrow. A mouth on the apron Saren hadn’t seen initially opened, speaking to him as if the owlen’s presence had been expected. 

“Finally, now here we can get a second opinion! Feathers! Get over here and tell this leather-sack hack of a cookbook that ear cartilage is in no way superior in taste to spinal cartilage. The audacity. It’s absurd! They have two entirely different flavor profiles!” 

The book, which had been shouting in some tongue unknown to him, smoothly switched to peasant just as Gel had.

“Do not bring ze opinion of others in to win an argument you cannot win for yourself, you plebeian! Ze spinal column has layers of flavor that your paltry imitation of taste buds cannot begin to comprehend!” 

“You have no tongue,” Gel shot back immediately. “You cannot ‘comprehend’ any flavors!” 

“I will have you know zat I have had many tongues, and all of zem were more discerning zan yours!” 

In the midst of the back and forth shouting, the skeleton half of the undead gave Saren a simple shrug of its heavily plated, bone shoulders as if to say: “And now you know what I’ve been dealing with” before returning to its stirring as if dealing with the food vice the argument  were its preferred task. 

For his part, Saren didn’t immediately react. Instead, the owlen felt his sudden panic at the idea of Gel being discovered drain away. It was swiftly replaced by concern however, as the paladin noticed another detail. Feeling this new item deserved immediate attention, the owlen voiced said concern. 

“Pardon my interruption here, but uh… whose leg is that?”