Azlyth’s markets were once envied throughout Gardyan for their variety of rare goods from all corners of the realm and beyond. Even Nathum, the great merchant city in the east, recognized the amethyst sanctuary as its western equal during both cities’ prime. Due to Azlyth having been linked to the Nether Caverns, foreign ships arriving through the Mael were able to anchor directly at Azlyth’s underground port, supplying the sanctuary of Azwood’s high sorceresses with all kinds of exclusive items. Matriarch Azona’s agents personally inspected all of the new arrivals—from exclusive spices, herbs, gems and cloth to tasteful fruits and vegetables. Bilqith, as one of Azona’s youngest yet closest ambassadors, was entrusted with the task of taking herbal samples for her mistress. Nemesava’s matriarch had a foible for medical plants and herbal incense. Therefore, she always requested her half-brother Azacca’s daughter to bring her the most exquisite items from the market.

       Content about her weekly selection for aunty Azona, Bilqith wandered past the market stands. Just like the temples, shrines, portal halls and dwellings, they were embedded in the canyon settlement that lay behind Azlyth’s amethyst caverns. Overgrown with soft pink cherry and willow trees beneath the basalt mountain peaks, the sanctuary seemed like a majestic open air stone palace carved into the south-western Ray Mountains. A whole world in lilac and purple spun itself around the rocks, spiked with equally lilac and purple monoliths in which crystal fairies guarded ancient magic.

       For reassurance, Bilqith checked Azona’s list whilst walking. Her basket was brim-full with plants she had never heard of, but which smelled so fabulously that she dreamt of once visiting those distant mortal lands beyond the veil where those plants came from. She surely would ask her aunt if she could keep some samples as well. The matriarch’s niece wasn’t less interested in floral harvests than her queen. An apprentice of the Valalfyr mages Bilqith had been for quite some time now. Their craft was a mixture of  sorcery, priesthood and herbalism. At least, in Azlyth, this triad of disciplines still was indisputable. Rumours were making the round that the expelled male branch of Valalfyr in Rayan had long left said noble path, tainting the sacred craft of their lineage by spoiling it with dark alchemy and shadow magic. Stories of horror rang from the borderlands into the forest of Azwood about their fall from grace. Their cruel Witcher Kings had seized power in the North, killing the Maple Daughter Aracera and subjugating her matriarchy under their gruesome reign. But so far, they hadn’t dared to invade Nemesava. Azwood’s arcane shield magic luckily was too strong for them and an old pact with the Sionnaigh made sure that this arcane defence was further supported by an alliance of border rangers from both sides of the Rakatan River. Grateful Bilqith was that she and all the other women were still able to live a life in peace, here, in the sanctuary of Azlyth. Though her peace might have soon found its bitter end.

       Her mood suddenly darkened as she left the market streets behind her to head for her quarters near the large temple structures. With discomfort, she thought about a decision that she was expected to make. A decision that was none at all because her choice had been promised before she could walk. A marriage with her aunt’s oldest son Azan had been arranged at birth, yet she was everything but looking forward to it. Other than his twin sister Azana, who had been a good friend of Bilqith since their youth, Azan was a more difficult character. He lacked compassion when it came to matters of the heart. Whenever they met, he did not spare an ounce of gentleness. Cold and distant was his aura—not vile or twisted, just distant and maybe a bit arrogant. Enough, however, for Bilqith to not develop any sort of romantic feelings for him. In fact, her heart had long chosen someone else. Quite a dilemma, for her choice fell on a Rayonaigh of all things.

       “What is your mind puzzled about again, my Miss Kitty?” the dilemma raised his voice. Shamelessly, he had appeared behind her and started to follow while she wasn’t paying attention.

       “My name is Bilqith, not Kitty, Raji’Draq,” she lectured him with a smile. No greeting, no turning her head to even spot that daring male from beyond the border.

       “But aren’t you a Valalnathar, Daughter of the Panther?” he provoked a more attentive reaction as he caught up with her.

       “How many times do you intend to ask this silly question?” Finally, she spied to her right where a well-trained young  Araqani in his house’s ruby uniform tried to catch her gaze. “My mother was a Valalfyr and therefore, so am I. My father’s bloodline does not change anything about it,” she let him know with sharp tone in her otherwise gentle voice.

       Surely, some saw her as less entitled to name herself a Valalfyr but her aunt had made it clear to everyone in Azlyth that her ancestry was not to be questioned. Azona always vowed for her niece in such situations. After all, the Countess of Owls herself had chosen a fox blood as her companion and so, her children weren’t purely Valalmahar either. Tribes are preserved by affiliation of noble minds, not by wicked thoughts of racial purity, the matriarch always used to say. And her niece had internalized those words.

       “Well then, my dearest Valalfyr Kitty,” a tall shadow with golden hair aimed to continue his sass. “If a father’s bloodline does not matter, you might as well consider me for… procreational purpose.”

       Bilqith almost coughed out her breath. She always knew that the Rayonaigh males were anything but well behaved. This sample right here, though, exceeded them all. His fangs were shamelessly sparkling at her as he grinned to her silent outrage, matching the tiny red rhombus crystals he wore for earrings. Teasingly, they were glistening at her with equal sass in the evening sun. “Why don’t you find yourself a Rayan Valalfyr that matches your pale, Rion?” she hissed at him in jest. Lifting her chin, she walked on towards the portal halls that stood tall on top of stone hewn stairs like monuments of old.

       Rion laughed out loud. He loved her when she became feisty and talked back. A true warrior mage, his young mare was. “What if I prefer my women wrapped in dark ebony?” he asked her nonchalantly. With a swift step forward, he pranced in front of her, stopping her very motion and leaning her against the basalt walls of the canyon alley.

       Bilqith found herself in close encounter, with nothing but her basket separating their bodies. “See? That is why Nemesian women don’t like you Rayonaigh,” she declared, putting her free hand on her hip. “You dragon bloods are uncontrollable, too wild, too sassy and you lack respect for a mistress,” affirmingly she nodded, looking him directly in the eyes with her purple gazers, unimpressed.

       Rion grinned on, licking his lips. “A wild dragon just needs a bit of taming and a proper ride, that’s all.” He leaned in closer over her basket. “Tame me, mistress, with a proper ride, will you?” he then whispered, locked in on her lips.

       Nobody might have known, but she indeed was his mistress already. She had chosen him, silently, in the secrecy of Azlyth’s underground port docks where he regularly helped to unload and secure the ships. His father was admiral on Rayan’s very flag ship, and he was a self-declared prince of House Arayona. At least the Rayonaigh’s fleet was still loyal to the Sisterhood. Together with Nemesava’s fleet, they were the only thing that stood between the Witcher Kings and a naval invasion of the sanctuary. Most men in Rion’s family served in the naval border defence within the Nether Caverns to assure those tyrants would never claim the waters connecting both nations and leading to the Mael. His motivation to fulfil his task had grown tremendously with that little black pearl of the Valalfyr he had spotted a few years ago at the docks.

       Softly, his pearl laid her palm onto the small spot of naked skin underneath his unbuttoned shirt to keep him at bay. “How about you carry that basket for starters?”

       A groaning laugh escaped Rion. Bilqith was very talented in resisting his urges. A true high-sorceress-to-be. “Your wish is my command, Miss Kitty.” He took the basket while she rolled her eyes to that inappropriate nickname he had given her.

       Escorting her to her quarters, Rion nodded well-behaved as they came across some passers-by greeting them. Azlyth’s citizens by now had become used to his face. The women simply deemed him Bilqith’s bodyguard—nothing uncommon for a royal lady of her stand. Nonetheless, some meaningful eye-contacts were made by people crossing their path due to his pale skin and extravagant attire.

       Bilqith’s living cave lay close to the sorceresses’ academy. The term ‘cave’ really didn’t do it justice, though. It was located very high above the ground and throned up there like a divine jewel among the dwellings. The stairways to its entrance were carved into the stone like a spiralling column, making the whole building seem like a tower half shaped out of the basalt rocks. Lovely botanic skills had raised a winding rosé willow tree around the architecture long before the matriarch’s niece had moved in. Additionally, small formations of amethysts guarded the stairs and gave of a subtle glow in the dawning evening light. As usual, Rion took position in front of the stairs for the first half an hour to not make it appear as if he’d follow his mistress into her private chambers. Only after the sun had completely vanished behind the high canyon walls and the alley had cleared from citizens occasionally passing by, did he retreat upstairs. An inconspicuous code of rhythmic knocks from his knuckles to the door would ask permission to enter. When Bilqith opened, she had her white curly hair bound to a loose ponytail hanging over her left shoulder. It was braided at the ends in such a cute and filigree manner that Rion couldn’t help but brush over it with his thumb.

       “Your braid tells of Azebo’s craftsmanship,” he figured, again bringing up the topic of her ancestry.

       Bilqith sighed, audibly annoyed. “Why do you always mention this?” she asked, slightly pouting as she let him in.

       “Why not?” he asked back. “You shouldn’t be ashamed when someone compliments your father’s heritage, Kitty.” Quite mannered for his fierce character, Rion waited until she had closed the door before he sought closeness to her again from behind, smelling her scented hair and neck and shoulders.

       “I am not ashamed,” she clarified. “But you talk as if my mother’s heritage was non-existent at all.” This, although Bilqith tried her best to keep that only connection she had to her mother alive. “I struggle to remember her face…” she admitted to him as she went back into her bedroom, wrapping her morning robe a bit tighter around her waist.

       Rion would follow her like a shadow yet always in two feet distance. “How could anyone fail to acknowledge your Valalfyr aspects, mistress?” Her lilac eye colour was the best indicator. It told of the legendary communion between Azclioth and Araqan. Only the blue of wisdom and the red of passion were able to create such magical hues. “But you can’t deny that your legs always take on some black fur during full moon.” Black as a rune panther’s fur, he wanted to add but deemed it wiser not to fancy his luck any further.

       “What do you know about fur and feathers!” Bilqith snarled, throwing him a complaining look before entering her bedchamber. It was a wholesome place. Most furniture was directly hewn out of the stone in ergonomic shape. Just a few shelves, a chest drawer, her desk chair, bed and wardrobe were made of wood. She had decorated the rocky interior with light cloths and pillows and some plants here and there, which softened the ambience made of solid mineral.

       Rion was always amazed by her knack for interior design. She could’ve made a shack appear like a little princess’ hideaway. “I know all about it. Test me!” he demanded with self-confidence, wandering after her through the room. An attempt to lift her spirit after he had caused her mourning a mother she lost far too early.

       “Well,” Bilqith smiled. “If you are so desperate to be tested on Valalfyr history, let me hear it.” She sank onto her bed, folding her arms in wait of a tale.

       Her Blade Supreme stopped at her desk, glancing at his dark beauty with a dreamy stare before he took his shirt of. “As you wish.” Heading for the large wardrobe, he opened it to get his lute. Her bedroom was the safest place to store it whenever he was on shore leave. Usually, he only played whilst being on duty aboard his father’s ship in the dark vaults of the Nether Caverns. The lack of sunlight had a depressing effect on the crew’s mood. A few bright tunes sometimes were the only thing that made the caverns feel less daunting. “Now,” he began to think as he tuned the keys of his lute. “We all know that Araqan was out hunting, chasing a majestic white stag deep down to the south of Rayan when he first met Azclioth.” A soothing though fast-paced melody rang from his strings as he gently brushed over them. “For several nights, Araqan had chased that stag, which had challenged him to a match. Hooves versus dragon wings. And while wings surely might be faster, in the Red Forest’s thicket, they were of no use at all.” Rion sat down next to Bilqith on the bed, leaning his back against her shoulder. “The stag was so fast, that it almost started gliding over the forest floor,” he continued his tale. “At height of Redbranch, it ran over some rangers of Araqan’s brother Arion. They cheered after their uncle as he stubbornly kept following the trace left behind by the white stag. Almost, he had caught up with the deer. But when it arrived at the Rakatan River, it suddenly turned into an owl.” Rion’s tunes grew more romantic and significantly slower. “Out of reach, it flew, across the river into the blue thicket that lay ahead. But Araqan would not let it escape. Determined, he spread his wings of red to cross the river, before chasing the owl deep into Azwood by foot. And there, close to Azlyth, she rested—on a bed of moss—sleeping like a fairy beneath the willow trees.”

       Bilqith frowned. “That is not true at all,” she contradicted his narration. “Everyone in Azwood knows that Azclioth caught Araqan hunting illegally in her forest around Azlyth, trampling down her young lilac willow saplings,” she corrected him, looking down on that confused bard leaning against her shoulder.

       “Oh?” Rion looked up to her with a questioning gaze. “Well, whatever. Anyways, they both fell in love at first sight.”

       “No, they did not,” Bilqith again protested quietly but vehemently. “They had an argument and Azclioth ran her claws across his cheek to draw blood as compensation for her damaged saplings.”

       Rion sighed and stopped playing for a moment. “Fine, it was a heated first encounter unforeseen.” Another look went up to her for approval. Her lifted eyebrow combined with closed eyes told him that she at least tolerated that sort of interpretation. He continued playing. “But after tempers had cooled down, Araqan began to admire the beauty Azclioth had created in the realm of her divine mother. He spent several moons around her lilac willow glade, feeling desires of unknown nature awakening in him. And at the first blood moon he spent in Azwood, he would claim her with fierce might.”

       “You’re talking nonsense, Rion, and you know it,” Bilqith once more interrupted him.

       Her Blade Supreme had to smile. Silence overtook him, so only his lovely tunes would continue to underline her further corrections to his narrations.

       “Araqan’s blood fell on the saplings which would grow with unprecedented speed into little pink catkins on Azlyth’s soil. The blood of the maple goddess within him resonated with the willow bloom, which would give birth to Azclioth’s and his first generation of Valalfyr maidens,” Bilqith continued the story with the lyrical tone of Azwood’s ancient tomes.

       Rion enjoyed listening to it, though he couldn’t help making some remarks himself now. “But then, he took her, with fierce passion of ancient. Relentlessly, he broke in his mare and made her sing his name to mother willow.”

       Bilqith rolled her eyes as he continued.

       “A whole clutch of beautiful daughters they raised within the protective vaults of Azlyth. Hundreds of them. But no son—not a single one. Araqan became concerned. How should his legacy endure eternity without male descendants to add to it?”

       “You males are all the same,” Bilqith pouted. “Only thinking about one thing.”

       Rion leaned deeper against her chest. “We cannot help it, being forced to live among daughters of the goddesses,” he claimed. “How is a male supposed to resist all those pretty flowers?”

       “Being unable to resist them is one thing,” Bilqith responded. “Having a whole army of Rayonaigh and Valalmahar males called to Azlyth for them to mate with your daughters is another!”

       A smug grin sneaked over Rion’s lips. “A father with a sense of duty!” he joked in mock seriousness. “After all, Azclioth gave him permission to do so.”

       That was enough. Bilqith took the lute out of his hand and put it down next to the bed. Then she hopped onto his lap with a judgemental face. “He tricked her!” she claimed. “He told her that it would be necessary for their creation to endure when in truth, the daughters of Valalfyr would’ve perfectly managed to endure without Araqan’s distribution of mates.”

       A Rayonaigh let his head sink into the pillows, defeated,  watching his mistress taking a riding position on top of him. “And how would they have managed to do that?” he asked, letting his fingertips run up and down her thighs. “I mean, I have yet to find a woman who is capable of getting pregnant by her own.” His hands started wandering up to her hips beneath her violet morning robe. “Besides, I’m pretty sure they enjoyed being spoiled with toys.” As far as he had read up on that, the Valalfyr daughters had freely chosen among their father’s male gifts. “Shall I spoil you with your own favourite toy tonight, Miss Kitty?” His hands gently pressed her bottom against his lap.

       Bilqith laid her palms onto his chest. “They could’ve just raised more saplings and infused them with the magic of Azlyth’s Zazabiku,” she made her case.

       “No, no,” Rion refused her thought with a voice that slowly started to sound ecstatic. “You always need a male and a female inflorescence.” Having her that close made him feel dizzy. A rush of joy wandered through his entire body. It felt similar to an inebriation but was more subtle.

       “Rion, I’m scared,” it broke out of his mistress all of a sudden. “I must marry him although I don’t love him.” The idea that moments like this would end soon took over Bilqith’s mind again, causing her to wrap herself around his body.

       “No, you don’t,” he calmed her down, holding her in consoling embrace. “Nemesava is still a matriarchy. You are not obligated to any man. Not even me.” His strong arms locked her up in his embrace as if to shield her from the outside world. His thumb then proceeded to caress those distinctive, dark brown dots beneath her eyes. Rion counted three on each of her cheeks, so six in total, plus a seventh on her cute stubborn forehead—the mark of Azlyth’s sorceresses. Usually, the mighty wizard women of the western crystal shrine wore two or four. But as next in line for the seat of Arch Sorceress, Bilqith was born with two additional dots adorning her face. An ancestral spell that would forevermore identify her as a member of Nemesava’s royal family and, after her initiation, as their High Magistra in particular.

       “Let us leave, together,” she begged. “We can just take a portal and travel the worlds.” It was a naïve fantasy, but in this moment, she wished he would have said yes.

       “Mh…” Rion pondered. “They would probably declare us deserters.” He couldn’t tell if it was exactly that fact that made him warm up for her idea. The Rayonaigh loved the thought of living the life of an outcast, far away, together with his mistress.

       “I don’t mind.” Her cheek got squeezed against his shoulder. “As long as I can be with you.”

       “We could visit the lands of Zaba…” he guessed. “A beautiful merchant empire in the mortal world, surrounded by soft dunes and canyons similar to Azlyth.”

       “Let us go!” Bilqith immediately fell for his suggestion.

       Rion took a long gaze at her. As much as he would have loved to, he knew that her departure would have shook Azclioth’s dynasty to its core. “We can’t do this, mistress,” he tried to reason with her. “Your duty towards Azlyth is a divine fate. And I will not be the one to ruin it.” Lovingly, he gave a kiss onto those pretty little dots. “I will, however, take things up with Azona’s son, if you so desire.” Defending her honour and independence was his duty as her Blade Supreme, and he would not miss out on this task if she decided to give the order.

       Bilqith sought for his gaze, concerned. “You cannot kill him. He is a young Valalmahar lord. They will come after you.”

       Rion’s eyes met hers in tight embrace. “I won’t kill him,” he promised. “But I will challenge him to a duel for your hand in marriage.” He was a young lord himself, so that right was his without any consequences to fear.

       “You life-weary male,” she murmured, hiding away in his arms. “I love you.”

       That was order enough for Rion. Determined to write a formal letter of challenge to Spiritwaters, he left Azlyth the next morning. His mistress had no parents remaining to represent her needs. Therefore, it was now upon him to secure her freedom.

       Lord Azacca, matriarch Azona’s half-brother and Bilqith’s father died decades ago due to seeking revenge for his wife Azumi’s death. The Witcher Kings had sent his severed head to Spiritwaters’ court. A humiliation the royal family of Nemesava had not recovered from to this very day. Bilqith’s parents were two out of many tragic casualties in this Second War of Houses. A visit to the raven priestesses at Zakuray should seal her mother’s fate. As head of the Valalfyr priesthood, Azumi regularly held meetings with the raven priestesses. But her last visit about a hundred and fifty years ago, fell on the day the Witcher Kings massacred all of them. Since then, no Nemesian woman was willing to set a foot into Rayan again.

       Thoughts about this incident rang through Rion’s head as he travelled through the Shivering Moors by horse. His big brother Arayon had the hard task to bury the priestesses after the Massacre of Zakuray. Rion had helped him, and they both received greatest praise from War Mistress Roxana, who led the resistance’s troops. Afterwards, the brothers’ ways parted. Arayon was made Lord Commander of the Dragon Blades’ young, chaotic warband that had formed under the banner of House Arayona. Meanwhile, Rion was sent to aid their father on the house’s flagship Draq’an to one day become its admiral. Rion was wondering how his brother was doing right now. Arayon always had the greater talent for martial arts, whereas his little brother was more of an archer. Probably the reason why he settled around Redbranch after all. And that’s where he was heading the morning after paying devoted service to his mistress.

       The Shivering Moors were an unpleasant part of Azwood to cross through on the way to his destination. Many dark tales circulated about the swamps. A place where lost dead souls wallowed, bound to the moist soil, until the veil picked them up to continue their journey. Some were never to be picked up again, they said. Dying here, was a risky end to a life cycle.

       Rion’s horse felt uncomfortable. Over and over again, it shied away from the muddy path, intending to return to Azlyth. At one point, Rion had to dismount and lead the animal by foot along the swampy trail. Sticky was the ground, and hard to escape. He didn’t take that route often. But all portals from Azlyth to Rayan and vice versa had been sealed over the past few months for security measures, so he had no choice.

       Mist rose from the wet soil, thickening the further he went. Dead silence crept up on him and the horse, making him feel isolated from his surroundings. With an uncomfortable hollowness in his chest, he advanced into the unsettling grey, his horse growing more and more erratic. Soon after, the animal would neigh loudly, rear up and away from Rion’s grip around the reins.

       “Rinthan!” the Rayonaigh yelled after his horse in outrage as it vanished into the mist. He could hear the galloping of its hooves become more silent by the minute, making it impossible for him to trace it. And as he stood there, left on his own, those gnarly trees of the Shivering Moors appeared even more terrifying than they had before.

       Sudden cold rose around him after Rinthan had vanished. A cold usually attributed to death itself in such eerie environment. It crept up his back like a dark premonition, making him shiver, before it laid around his neck with a rough jolt like an invisible yet sharp sling.

       He couldn’t breathe anymore… Well, sure, he tried but… those breathings vanished unsuccessfully in his throat, just like his horse into the mist. And what was that warmth starting to leak onto his chest?

       Rion should not get to recognise the blood seeping from his throat anymore. Because the moment he attempted to look down to his chest, his vision hit the moist ground of the Shivering Moors and his body sank into the mud behind him, decapitated.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

End of Chapter 1: Echoes of the Past