The white-haired wizard stood at the broken docks, his cloak billowing in the cold sea breeze; his gaze drifting over the wreckage of the port: the bloodied corpses of knights and wizards, the remnants of the ships and the piers.
In the distance walked Marquis Duskwatch, his steps slow and ponderous; his features pale, the lines of worry wrinkled deep into his skin.
The white-haired wizard didn't turn as the marquis neared him. His voice was steady, calm, almost bored, "The gate is neutralised." He spoke softly. "Your port will not see another tide."
Duskwatch opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the white-haired wizard gestured to the wind mage standing as a statue, Seraphine Windrow, still trembling from casting the spell. With one step, the two of them disappeared in a crack of thunder travelling beyond the speed of sound, the air reverberated with the silence they left behind.
Duskwatch remained at a standstill, the words taking a while to register in his mind. His port, his lifeline, was destroyed. Knights and mages were already tearing through the ruins, pulling bodies from the wreckage—some were broken and lifeless, others were bloodied but alive.
He moaned, collapsing to the ground, his eyes staring off at the sea. "All gone," he said quietly. "All of it."
The old butler approached him slowly, silent but sure, though he was not in a hurry. "My Lord," he said gently, "the noble from the capital has arrived, he is waiting in the audience hall."
He closed his eyes and pushed himself upright, his limbs felt like lead. "And Sir Ren?" he rasped.
"He lives my lord," the butler said gently. "The healers say he will recover, but it will take time…"
The Marquis let out a shaky breath. "Then there is still a shred of hope."
One day later, in Eclion, Luenor was in the central square listening to the news as it arrived—of one of the gates that opened in Duskwatch, of destruction, of a white-haired mage, and of a seven-star beast that had been slain.
He looked at Thalanar, calm but contemplative. "Pack a few crates of gold." he said. "I am going to see the Marquis. I guess it is sooner than expected."
Thalanar raised an eyebrow. "The Marquis will be desperate. He may be grasping at a chance to profit from us... or it may be a test."
Luenor nodded. "I know."
The next day, back in Duskwatch, the Marquis sat alone in the manor, his great oak desk covered in papers. His quill scratched violently across his parchment, ordering things and writing requests, plans to raise the funds that would allow him to reconstruct the port which had been the heart of his kingdom.
A single candle lit the dark room, the only color in an otherwise dreary grey morning.
The royal ambassador had come and gone, smiling cheerfully while offering hollow words of condolence. Duskwatch had seen through the empty words, and had known before he left the city that no help was coming from the capital.
He cursed the royal family under his breath... "When they want something from me, I am to comply. When I need something from them, they vanish like ghosts."
The butler entered quietly, bowing deeply. "My lord," he said carefully, "I have news of the Duke's answer."
Duskwatch's head shot up. "Well? What did he say?"
The butler swallowed. "The Duke agreed to send some building materials, and he allows you to do what you want with the rest of the beast."
Duskwatch's brow knitted. "What of money? Gold, loans, anything?"
The butler's gaze fell. "Nothing, my lord. No monetary support."
Duskwatch's hands were clenched on the desk, the veins were taut in his arms. "When he wants troops, I give them. When he wants men, I send them," he said, low and angry. "And when I ask for help....nothing. Nothing at all."
The old wood of the desk creaked beneath his hands, his breath ragged from his anger.
At that moment, the door flew open and Varin ran in, his face drawn and bandaged from the fight. "My lord!" he gasped. "A man has arrived--he calls himself Alfrenzo. He waits in the hall with a small escort of elves and humans."
The Marquis's eyes narrowed. "Alfrenzo… here? Now?" His heart thudded heavily in his chest.
Varin nodded, swallowing hard. "He… he demands an audience with you."
___
The Marquis Duskwatch sat rigid in his high-backed chair, eyes fixed on the dark wood of the table in front of him. His knuckles were white where his hands gripped the carved arms, the faintest tremble in his jaw betraying the storm that roared behind his calm mask.
He was already a man frayed at the edges. The port that had been his lifeline lay in ruins, and the mighty Ren—the knight he'd trusted more than any other—lay in the healers' tents, broken and silent. Most of the Marquis's mages were dead or crippled, the few survivors tending to the wounded or staring blankly at the horizon.
And now… now Alfrenzo was here.