Velwrith scowled, cutting off his flow of magic to the scrying glass. To anyone without the gift of magic, the Valdrathi mirror would have been nothing but a looking glass. But with any arcane power, it became a powerful communication device. 

He let his eyes travel from the sparkling black hex dome at its base, up the handle warped with some foreign leather, to stop on a band of seven colors. The band was a simple ring, stripped with twinning bands of yellow, blue, green, purple, orange, red, and gray. It was an arcane converter, capable of converting any channel of motes into whatever the enchantment required, and not to mention it was also precious.

There was a flicker, the surface of the mirror shimmered as the illusion broke, and it returned to its natural reflective state.

Pathris has remained unmoved, still convinced Edvard’s story to be a deception. He yammered on past instances of fraud from various historical Valdrath, one of whom Velwrith noted was an Aldrem defector. 

Nothing was accomplished with the hour-long talk except giving himself a headache.

He walked about the studio provided for him, considering for a long moment before ringing the small bronze bell that would summon his attendant. The girl was there instantly, seemingly from nowhere. She bowed but said nothing.

“Fetch me something cold to drink, please, something stronger than water. If you have any white wine, that would be ideal.”

The girls bowed again and before practically vanishing.

He knew she was enslaved because she wore a tight iron collar. All Valdrathi slaves wore those bindings, restricting them mentally and physically. Meanwhile, they would be compelled to respond to command the bell. Still worse, unless Their master gave a particular command, they could not cause harm to anything, even in defense. The entire thing made his stomach churn. It was disgusting.

It had only been a moment, but the girl returned with a chilled bottle of white wine, a glass, and a bottle opener. She poured with the skill and confidence of a sommelier, not spilling a drop and portioning the beverage perfectly.

“Thank you, please help yourself as well… if you wish, that is. By no means was that a command.”

The girl smiled a little but did not miraculously produce another glass. Instead, she fidgeted with her hands and avoided eye contact, uncertain what was being asked of her.

Velwrith’s fist tightened on the glass. “That will be enough then, just… go do something that you enjoy for the rest of the night… that is a command…” he immediately rang the little bell to activate the charm without thinking to emphasize the point.

The girl stiffened, bowed, and immediately left the chamber. Velwrith finished his glass and gently placed the crystal goblet on the table. He sipped straight from the bottle while considering his options, watching the great bonfire burn down to bright embers.

#

The following week was considerably more frustrating. Six meetings between the two lords, and nothing changed. While both acted willing to negotiate, neither made any concessions for the other. Most frustratingly of all, when the two did finally speak, they just shouted and balked—the Valdrath accusing the Teklem of stark ignorance and the Teklem wailing about treachery.

Given his services had been rendered useless, his bottle collection grew each day considerably. By the third day, his maidservant had begun bringing them in twos and threes.

On the fourth morning, A black and white liveried Heral announced that the Godking’s caravan would arrive. 

The entire town buzzed in anticipation, and it was amidst this buzz that another guest arrived. The man’s skin was a scarlet pink, hair black, parted with sleek polished and waxed onyx black horns. He swaggered along wearing a glimmering red cloak over an officer's jacket from some foreign country and carried no discernible weapons.

The Valdrath welcomed the scarlet strange, complete with trumpets and criers. Then, as the heralds trumpeted, the citizens parted, clearing a path for him out of respect or fear. 

The mithril knife on his belt vibrated softly; he touched it and heard three voices talking. Two sounded far away, and one as if from the same room as himself. 

“I guarantee he isn’t. Red isn’t a natural color. I’ve never heard of any man or elf with red skin. I don’t think he’s a dragonkind either, no wings, and the horns sound odd.” Theaiss said frankly. 

“Then he’s some sorta trickster, probably an illusionist or the like.” Chalco retorted.

Odordious sighed, bothered at the group’s ignorance.  “Well, possibly, but he’s most likely a Feind. He probably made some pact with a devil.”

The man strolled through the markets, examining many stalls and making a few purchases. Between the obstructions and distance, his face was never clear, but the red tint of the strangers' exposed skin stood out in the crowds.

Fiends were rare, and Velwrith had never met one before, so this one was fascinating. He watched for over an hour before realizing that he would also need to be ready for the Godking’s arrival.

#

The Grey Emperor arrived in the late afternoon.

Velwrith watched from his window as the leading rider for the caravan passed from the underworld into the town. The man found the entire population gathered at the massive door.

They erupted in cheers and applause the second he passed into view. When the hulking form of the god-king himself appeared, the cheering stopped as everyone dropped to their knees and averted their eyes.

The living god Emperor Edtharan Tyberian was a Valdrath, twenty feet tall and powerfully built, handsome with silvery eyes that radiated authority.

He wore a long white robe under a midnight black chest plate. Around the crown of his bald head was a mithril circlet. 

Despite the contrasts of shade and texture, there was no color anywhere on the man himself or his clothing. Everything within a hundred feet of him was entirely monochrome.

The aura consumed the entire palace as the god took it up as his literal seat. While he sat reclining on the great throne structure. The usually dreary hallways took on imperceptible unreal aspects in the filtered reality. 

When summoned, Velwrith was guided swiftly through the manor—exiting the building brought forth a wave of relentless calm. A thick haze of reverence swirled in the air. Chalco stood nearby, clearly taken by the same supernatural peace as well. Velwrith stepped beside his friends as he waited his turn to speak. 

An eternity passed when suddenly the prince found himself shoved forward. He came before the towering god with measured steps, announced himself, and knelt. Then as he fell under the deity's gaze, a surge of unparalleled terror washed over him.

His physical being was a tiny piece of what those eyes could see. They examined every secret, thought, every emotion, every possibility, and it burned his every cell inside and out. 

“Velwrith Silverwind. I have called you here to inspect for myself. I see you harbor a potent god-seed. But, unfortunately, your heart will destroy you before it can root too deeply.’

Confusion wracked the prince. What was a god-seed?

 The baritone of the giant went on. “I know that you slew one of my people in the woods and took my hound captive. But you have come willingly in the end, and so I will forgive your transgressions. Thusly, to demonstrate my generosity, I will indulge you with one request."

Shame Velwrith’s heart; he knew Emperor Edtharan could grant unconditional peace between his underlings and the local Teklem, but as a deity, he could also grant nearly anything else.
“I would ask how to make Nina love me again,” he said before he could stop himself. His stomach dropped as he realized what he had just said.

The deities' usually dispassionate face did not twitch, but disappointment seemed to emanate from his stone features.  “Do not fool yourself. I cannot say how to reclaim something never possessed. The woman’s heart was never yours: it had only appeared so. The enchantment you placed on her expired. If you wish to bewitch her once more, find another potion.”

Ashamed Velwrith started to speak, “Forgive me, but I-”

The god snapped like lightning, cutting the Lightbring’s sentence short. “You did not misspeak Velwrith. You cannot lie to me. I know why you asked me what you did, and I know that you have placed it before your duty. I have anticipated this and will grant you a reprieve. My last Ironheart, my hunter, has fallen. I must pick another. You will assist me in this. All you must do is compete in my trial of Four-thousand Steps. If you impress me, I will order peace with Tok’Pathris.”

Velwrith swallowed, inhaled, and spoke, “Might I know the nature of the Trial?”

The god-king chuckled. “You are aware that like all of my brothers and sisters, except of course Galoe, your goddess, I too have an avatar, The Ironheart. When one dies, I take up this throne and use the course below us to choose a successor.”

The Diety motioned to the massive stairwell with a flat palm, indicating the course within it. “The first person to reach the top of the slope will be granted a fraction of my power. During the game, those pitted against you will fight to kill, for the armor of the Ironheart is worth their very lives.”

Velwrith didn’t hesitate: with one breath, he snapped. “I accept. I will climb the Four-thousand Steps.”

The deity waved a hand dismissively.“Your decision will prove most entertaining. You are excused. Chalco’Tevta, you may go as well.”