Velwrith scowled, cutting off his flow of energy 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 kind of 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 over 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.