The region Chustern did not have four kings when first light broke into Entherah. They had a grand lake. Serous Chairon was the elemental that rested at the very heart of the realm. With her expanse, she gave birth to rivers and lands that fill and run across even into the fields of Fibi Enderi. Her strong currents eventually divided large masses which were now the Chravs. Cheron to her north, Momkho to her south, Solven to her east, and Vesta to her west. When Enthah decided her world was too large for one person to inherit, she divided her humans into regions, and her regions into empires. And her chosen royal guardians of Chustern were the Chrovestera.

Malrow stared at the dimmed history of the Chustern heritage. The stained windows were midnight and their depictions of crowned royals in the midst of Enthah’s hands were stark. All regions were accounted for. It was easy to say what empire was and who the Acolytes were when each chosen had their familiars basking in either corners of their pane. The faharan Sravani, a cougar with white fur rested at the feet of its Acolyte, the Arlinmon gift of the mind. The healing gift, Woe Mana, was nightmarish under the webs of the faharan Fanfaya. Faharan Gianta, wise and ancient like that of its Acolyte, seeing the future due to the Sansan Xi. Malrow can enumerate them all like a song. A familiar yet sorrowful cadence. A gladual dance into the reality as to why the glass holding the past was spotted in dust and blocked by earth.

Malrow sighed.

“It is the hard truth,” Lady-Mistress Beramontin said as she glanced with him into the abyssal ceiling.

The Master of Civics had welcomed Malrow to the underground library with great pride in her eyes. Malrow was glad that Monterpelagious made himself scarce since his past tutelage still bore scars and troublesome snides. Men of the eth, the Blesseds, tend to die years later than those of the normal folk. Malrow had only wished he'd even get a moment's breath without the mage watching his every move. For the library, it was told to hold second to the Pillar-State library that was out on the surface. And Malrow could not disagree. For what was like a rice valley, the library was spacious and organized. Chustern loves its circles and the library was entirely domed while pillars of shelves rose from the floor that stretched to the glass above. Had the repository been open to the sky, the entire facility would have been very bright. The most important feature the place had to offer however was the raised platform at the center. Just below the stories of Acolytes and their faharans, right in the middle where the crescent tables and shelves gave space. The main reason why it was built in the first place. The Nest. 

Malrow lowered his sight to where Lady-Mistress Beramontin now stood. Her leather gloves were tight under her clenched knuckles. Her breathing, torn, as she bent her head solemnly in front of the Nest. For what it's worth, the Nest was roomy. The size could have even been a bed to a gianta calf. As of the moment, the roost was bare.

“My Master had given up so much for this,” Lady-Mistress Beramontin recounted. By Master, she had meant Dabgha of the Nehawki clan. Sorrow tinged the volume of her loss. “He went above and beyond to save the Faharans from perishing. Had the jealous men of his research been thwarted, we could say he would have even revived Chrovo.”

Odd greenish mage light illuminated the pedestals that surrounded the Nest, giving it a sickly dead color. Abandoned parchments, quills and ink pots littered across the study tables. Malrow took note of two corners however, across to each other that had piled books with a personal lamp on the side. Despite the leader of the study having passed, it was clear that the Masters of Civics and Lore still forged on.

And for what other reason should they stop? The severity of hopelessness had slowly crept into Malrow’s core. When the Master of Civics did not utter more, Malrow’s attention was rapped again to the stained ceiling. True and traditionally, all Acolytes of every region are always paired with their familiars, the Faharan. These fae-divined creatures were known to mirror the gifts of their masters, often becoming conduits of their eth. As what has been told by many scholars in history, and naturally so, they are symbiotic in nature. A Faharan was nothing without its Acolyte. An Acolyte was nothing without its Faharan.

But it has been years since the Chrovo and the Nehawki had been absent from their Acolytes. Gone, not extinct. An exception for the faharan Drocon, Krugan had already lost both their Acolyte and Faharan in the Faharian War. Regardless, none from history has ever been optimistic.

Lady-Mistress Beramontin pulled away from the Nest but her quiet-spelled gear did not  hide her frustrated sob. From the corner of his eye, Malrow saw the Lady-Mistress draw out a book from her cloak. “Those who have supported Master Dabgha did their best to save what was left of his studies when my Overseer wanted everything to be cleansed.”

Malrow abandoned his scrutiny of the faharan Nehawki, a giant snow owl that had perched at the shoulders of its Acolyte and narrowed his thoughts to the Lady-Mistress instead.

“Fear not. Your Master, the late Doyen Lord Visor Zazun was one of his many friends,” the Lady-Mistress assured Malrow with a blank gaze. “My Overseer had charged Master Dabgha for Tarmorein corruption that was why he was declared to be burned with his research years ago.”

Malrow swallowed his throat and nodded. Like his guardian, Master Zazun was burned when the corruption on his arm from trying to save King Arleous, had turned him into a Humana, the Faharian equivalent to a tainted human.

“And by simply looking back at those who had a hand in destroying the people who we most admired. Those who have been heroes and had seats of power, we can make obvious conclusions of who our suspects are.” Leather bound in hand, the Lady-Mistress made her way to where Malrow pounded in consternation and passed him the book. Shock and reluctance made Malrow second-guess his involvement in the case, his calloused fingers inspecting the brisk stitches on the book’s skin.

“I’ve written everything in Gahades. An apprentice of mine neglects its practice. Stating that anything from Krugan is not relevant in this day and age. Maybe that irrelevance will alleviate our required secrecy.” Whoever that apprentice was, Malrow saw that their disobedience really made the Master of Civics smile.

Malrow had remained silent since he had entered the library. Now, he was even at a loss for words. His mind was still digesting what the Master of Civics had intended him to do when she went on, “Everything about the High Adjunct is in that book. His schedule, his history with the Chrav Alliance, his every movement outside the King’s orders. Study everything tonight and communicate with his Majesty once you are done. Perhaps you might be the one who can snare the snake that lies in its own den.”