“It's going to happen soon, Mareth.” Myriel said. They were in Mareth's study, a modest room that was attached to the side of the tower. Mareth was seated at a large hunk of carved oak that served as a desk. The writing tools and books that the Prelate was studying were arranged immaculately. It was a contrast with the way Myriel usually arranged his own desk when studying. He could never bear to waste time organizing when he got hooked on an idea. The result was papers and books being strewn about while he scrawled notes and outlines, but he respected those like Mareth who possessed enough self control to adhere to structure.

“How soon?” The Prelate asked.

“The Cataclysm will happen within this day. Are we ready?” Myriel said. He waited for a reply and studied the Blade's eyes. He had often admired them with a sort of fear. They were, of course, black; but that was not what unsettled him. No it wasn't the color, it was something else. When one really looked, it became clear that the eyes were much more than black. There was a subtle depth, a certain movement that betrayed the presence of something far older and stranger than one could imagine. It was the Black, the Place whose influence was so terrible that the Blades were founded to resist it.

Mareth shifted and answered, “No.” There was a long pause, “Not yet.”

“Well that's just great. What are we going to do about it?” Albert said from beside Myriel. He gulped when Mareth looked at him.

“We're going to train them harder.”

“But they're already being pushed-”

“It doesn't matter. We have no choice.”

“But do we? I mean you're still here, its not like last time when It came late. We could get soldiers to help as well. It's not as if the Blades are the only ones who care about surviving the Cataclysm…” Albert trailed off. Myriel frowned.

“Have you ever seen a Batrachus, Albert?” Mareth asked.

“N- No, well not in person. I've read about them.”

“Ah I see.” Mareth glanced at Myriel and got up. “Well I had never seen one either until seventy fulldays ago. Two Batrachi were reported in Aldor and we didn't hear about it until late, because the local government thought it could deal with them on its own. Do you know how many people died in Aldor?”

“Well, ah,” Albert stammered. “No I, it must have been a great number.”

Mareth paced back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped. “Yes, a great number.” He turned his back and looked at the ground. “The fool lord was an avid hunter of big game: boar, deer, bear. He fancied that counted for something. When he heard reports of beasts in the forest on the outskirts of his land, instead of locking his vassals up in the castle and sending a messenger to us he took fifty men and tried to track the Batrachi down. The only thing they achieved was to agitate the beasts.”

“Soon after the lord and his men disappeared into the forest the Batrachi descended on the town… I don't know why they didn't eat the people. Scholars have theorized that the beasts are so unnerved at being ripped from their world by the Black that it sends them into a frenzy, but I once heard a priest preaching that they were driven by a darker purpose - some kind of retribution for the blood shed when humanity overthrew the Old Ones. I don't know about that, but those bodies. The Batrachi just… killed them. When the soldiers rode out they killed them too. Somehow they got into the castle, climbed the walls maybe and… ” Albert flinched when Mareth's black eyes found him.

“We found the Batrachi in the great hall, sitting on a pile of corpses. They were using them like some kind of nest... We entered that hall with thirty-three men: myself and two other Blades who were chosen by the Black, along with our squads.” Mareth turned his gaze, somewhat softened now, on Myriel. “Only four of us came out.”

They stood in silence. Albert inspected the floorboards. Myriel and Mareth stared at each other. Mareth seemed about to say something. He could see it in the way the tightness in the Prelate's jaw relaxed for a moment. The wrinkles around the once brown eyes betrayed the expectation of a word or perhaps a sentence to give some meaning to the loss of so many good men and women in service of the Dawn - but the Blade remained silent. Myriel knew well the limitations of such words, and Mareth knew it too. Instead the Prelate returned to his desk.

“Thirty-three of us accomplished what five hundred well equipped knights couldn't on that day. Many have had the same thought as you Albert, but the Blades wouldn't exist if the Cataclysm could be dealt with conventionally,” Myriel heard Albert let out a sigh of relief when Mareth sat down. “However,” the breath caught in Albert's throat. “In spite of the evidence of history, some still persist in the notion that the Blades are not necessary. That our power,” his black eyes stared into Albert's widening blue. “Is better used in their hands. Do you know anything about these factions, Albert?”

The bald man stuttered. “I- I- I don't know what you mean.”

Mareth's nose twisted as if he smelled something foul. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”

All three men didn't move. The oil lamp, which had been flickering from some un-felt wind also stopped. The moment was frozen like a painting.

Albert bolted, shoving the old librarian and running for the door. Myriel didn't try to stop him, he didn't have to. Albert jerked to a stop. Mareth was blocking the exit.

“How did-” Albert's eyes went wider as he backed away from the door. Mareth lunged and blinked out of space, emerging behind Albert with an arm outstretched, pouncing on the smaller man and gripping his throat between forearm and bicep.

“You will pay for your crime,” Mareth hissed in Albert's ear while the one time librarian in training gasped for air. “And you will tell us who you did it for.”

Albert wet himself.