A surly storm had cracked open the once soft wind patterns of the blueberry sky which often graced the monastery's lands at this time of year. Now, under the harsh, snarling moonlight, dark clouds ravaged the skies. Pellets of sharp rain crashed and scratched against the intricate stained-glass windowpanes. The somber pattern of three knocks were scarcely heard over the roars of thunder. Below, the monastery as it had been built on the uneasy balancing act of a reinforced cliffside continuously felt as though they were inches from tipping into a monster's belly as gurgling sounds of rain wove themselves into the land. The waves lapped so high, it felt as though they might swallow the carved stone fortress whole.  

Once again, three echoing knocks shook the oak door. Simple, slow and demanding. The sound roused Ymos into a new state of lucidity. He had been hunched at his desk in the depths of the library. Fingers pulling unconsciously at the coverings of the seeds he had collected the day prior.  

He rose without a second thought, dragging his tired bones towards the gargantuan monastery door. To his right, a figure grew from the dark shadows of the hallway, only the edges to be illuminated by the dim candlelight fluttering across the cold stone surrounding them.  

“Olson?” Ymos called out, “What are you doing awake? Return to bed, I’ll get the door.” Olson’s buzzed blonde hair brightened at the edges as he stepped into a stronger cut of the candlelight as well as into the path of the windows.  

“No,” He countered with a low yawn, “I wish to yell at whoever has disturbed my beauty sleep.”  

“Perhaps they are in trouble.” They fell into step together, moving towards the front door of the monastery.  

Olson’s eyebrow raised skeptically, “You always say that, and somehow, it never is. Isn’t it?”  

Instead of responding, Ymos reached out and cracked open the small metal plate attached to the door, displaying only a small cutting of the stranger.  

Radiating through the thick door, a presence like none other stood before him. Imposing and otherworldly. It was akin to staring the sun in the eyes. That brilliance and growing decay. He could see nothing of their face however, a red and black mask concealed their features displaying something akin to a demon of fiction and tale than a woman.  

The stranger spoke with a glass-tipped voice, crackling through the thunderous groans from the skies above, “I have been sent by the Order of King Dumar. I am Celine-.”  

“Of Dumar.” Olson interrupted gravelly in his half-awakened state, pushing Ymos to the side. His voice crackling with grogginess. The action sent ripples of private stress down Ymos' back. Without hesitation once Olson's interruption had settled on uneasy silence, the two Javhir dragged the heavy door open. Lightning crackling and screaming above them. Rain poured in with unmerciful droplets.  

The Heir of Dumar, despite being dredged in rain had the unwavering presence of a commander. Shoulders tight and back, body language slipping between ease and attention. Rainwater flicked and slipped down her shoulders and back, down onto the stone with echoes.  

“Welcome to Solaris monastery. Come in by the fire.” Ymos spoke to the Heir of Dumar with a stoic tone before turning to Olson and having his voice squeak ever so slightly, “Wake the All-Father quickly. Go! Go!” 

Moments later they stood upon the cusp of a great, towering fireplace. The three stood sharply with their backs to the licking fire as it drank and embers and crushed the pieces of oak from below. All while crackling a sonorous song, feeding into the tune of the pouring rain. Between the shadows and red-tipped light, the fire danced along the walls of the All-Father's office, illuminating and visualizing the simple colourings of his many tapestries in the night.  

The All-Father was a burly man, shoulders rounded with stony musculature dragged down by obvious age and stress. He wore a thick red beard around his mouth, which was mirrored in his thick fiery eyebrows. Below, pronounced eye bags added grey colourings to his white face.  

Celine of Dumar, still wearing the wooden mask which looked like a demon. Ymos could not even begin to imagine what the woman looked like under the mask. He was not sure he would want to know. She spoke, and the world hushed, holding its breath, “I apologize for my late arrival, the storm kept me back only some hours.” 

Thinking she would continue her explanation, there were a few moments of silence which were filled by echoing droplets of rainwater on the stone floor. When the All-Father realized she would not, he cleared his throat and had a booming voice, “I, and the Solaris Monastery, of course take no offense. I am more so surprised at your ability to withstand it, the winds already destroyed the fencing to the West. She is a nasty, gnarling thing tonight.” A few moments dragged on as the All-Father left her time to speak, she did not take it and simply stood still in the fiery quiet. “I, unfortunately did not receive post concerning your arrival, and for this reason I am unaware why you have graced our Monastery with your presence.” 

“I have been sent by the Order of the King. I am to oversee your work.” The All-Fathers' back straightened, tension winding itself through his body. As though the tendons and muscles of his fibrous back were yanked downwards. Celine of Dumar continued, either ignoring or unaware of the obvious fear winding itself like a venomous snake around the aged man, tangling with thin red strings of anger which furrowed his white eyebrows. Her voice was placid, verging on boredom, “Think not of my presence. Continue as you have done the past weeks. I am simply here to facilitate resource management and oversee the complete eradication of this growing…issue.” 

The All-Father was silent for a moment. The room was still with the icy sounds of rumbling waves and gurgling wind just beyond the thin windowpanes. “Of course, my heir, welcome to the Solaris Monastery.” His head turned to Ymos, whose eyes dazedly reflected the raspberry red and scorned maroon of the fire. “Ymos show her to a room.” 

“The Stormhold?” Ymos replied. The Stormhold room overlooked the gardens. Agreeing with his choice, and without another word the All-Father nodded shortly. Ymos could almost see the exhaustion and undulating waves of anger folded out from within the stout man.  

They all broke in a moment, Olson scurrying off back to the warmth of his bed and the All-Father flopping into his ornate chair. Ymos and Celine of Dumar curled the corner and down the hallowed halls. Bowed ceilings dragged the sound of their steps across the corridor. Walking in silence, he found himself concentrating on the rhythm of her steps.  

It was peculiar having a stranger in the monastery, much less the heir to the throne of Dumar. Her hands were pressed over each other behind her back, her shoulders tight, more akin to a general than an heir. The shuffling of his own feet, the clacking of her boots rhythmically tapping together. 

They rounded the ornate staircase, stepping upwards to the muffled and reticent chambers of the Javhir. Paintings of past All-Fathers hung on the wall as they ambled forwards. Each detailed oil painting hung slightly higher than the last as though to mimic the ancient steps. Each also had a similar immovability to their expression. Eyebrows drawn inwards, edges of their mouths curled, necks straightened and postures maintained. Neither Ymos nor Celine said a word, the tumultuous skies roaring against the windowpanes, crashing luminous bolts of moonlight and lightning against the shadows of the monastery. 

A few more steps ahead and Ymos stopped before a door with a curved top, a brass handle sticking out horizontally from the ochre wood. Carved into a chestnut was a humbly detailed creation. Not painted but carved and with a light brush of fingertips or with inklings of light swooning down its crevices, one would see a crane stretching its wings from one edge to the other. 

Ymos rested his palm on the door handle, “You may rest here. Wake us without hesitation if you desire something.”  

She did not look impressed by his political platitudes. He did not desire the presence of the King at the foot of the Monastery, his own daughter was terrifying enough, if not more. All he wanted to do was to saunter back down into the depths of the library, return to his work until his eyes fluttered to an exhausted close or the day broke above the horizon.  

“Thank you Ymos of…” She trailed off, pinning her ever-watchful eyes upon him. Her head tilted just slightly, and it was as though the face of a demon painted on her mask rose to life; blinking in the dark. Such an overwhelming presence, he felt as though his chest had been punctured, air leaking from even the alveoli.  

“Of Tyria.” He answered swiftly, fiddling with the light-yellow tassels draped across his shawl. 

With a voice constructed of impassiveness, she only responded, “You are a long way from home.” 

“Many of us are. This life we have chosen demands us to make a difference far from home.”  

The thunderous sky outside had frozen like sheets of ice, still for a few moments. Celine of Dumar filled the void, “And the blonde Javhir, how does he call himself?”  

“He is my cousin, Olson of Tyria.” Still feeling uneasy about him interrupting Celine of Dumar, “Excuse his earlier interruption he had just been roused from slumber.”  

“I apologize for waking the grouchy boy. I seem not to have woken you, however.” 

A jittering laugh curled out from him, echoing within the Monastery. Quickly it turned into a feigned cough as Celine of Dumar's body language only rippled impassivity and boredom. Perhaps it was not a joke. His hand fell from the door handle, “I was working on potential cures. I will show you our work in the morning.” 

“Very well.” She nodded curtly, “Good night, Ymos of Tyria.” Her bored voice flicking upwards on the last syllable. 

He allowed the door to shut quietly as she retired inwards, allowing the heat of the words to burn into his dark skin. Yes, he thought grimly, much more terrifying than the King of Dumar.