In a land that is fraught with turmoil and inevitable conflict, there are few organizations that are more respected than the Pentacle. They send magi to serve as mediators in the land's worst wars. For hundreds upon hundreds of years, the magi have remained neutral, impartial in global affairs. Today they will be tested by the rahlien people and the anthra people. By the Abyss, I hope they succeed, or the streets of my beloved city will run red with the blood of men. Why did they choose to hold these negotiations here? What were they thinking?

- Lord Jadice Fillial, Captain of the White Guard of Deiyil

Another tower stood not far from Ed's home. Unlike Ed's tower, however, this was not a residence. It served as a gateway for the Pentacle.

The tower's heavy front door swung open. A strange purple dust swirled from the doorway, embued with the scent of cinnamon, and a soft, white light was emitted from within.

Behind the door seemed to be an endless corridor.

Two people stepped from the entryway as the purple dust wafted about in the breeze. One was an older man who looked to be in his twilight years. He wore regal red robes, and his face was barely visible from within the folds of a hood. He leaned heavily on a gnarled wooden walking stick that was warped from age and use. Long strands of white hair fell in an unruly mass around his wizened face, traced with lines and wrinkles.

To his left stood a tall woman in deep purple robes. Her violet hair was cropped below the ear, with short, spiky locks that flared out at irregular intervals. Her amethyst-hued eyes flitted about the area, scanning intelligently with quick, analyzing glances, and there was a vivacious curl to her lips.

Her body seemed built like a runner's, lithe and toned, with sinuous muscles that were just barely revealed under her robes. She stood confidently erect, in contrast to the old man's posture, her back straight and chest held high. Her robes were cut long to suit her stature, and the outlines of youthful breasts were visible beneath them.

When they exited the portal onto the graveled ground near the white stone road, she walked ahead and scanned the area briefly. "Why are we here?" she asked. "Aran the Grey should be handling this himself." Her gaze raked the area as she tossed her head with an air of arrogance.

They left the enclosed grounds of the tower, turned onto Fenrin Lane, and walked toward the intersecting roads on the main street of the trade district in roughly the same direction that Penndarius and Soren had just headed. Around them were tufts of spring growth, and the trees were sprouting new, green leaves.

"You speak rashly, young apprentice!" the older magus snapped with unconcealed irritation. "Aran knew full well what he was doing when he sent us," he insisted and then started to wheeze into his robes.

She pushed her fingers through her brightly tinted hair. "Speak clearly, old man!" she said, and her voice had an edge of exasperation.

He raised his head, and his eyes lit up. Unlike the rest of his appearance, they seemed remarkably young.

"No! I will not! You must first look for the meaning yourself, search for the inherent truths in the macroscopic view of topics at hand and then delve deeper to find correlations that can be perceived within the microscopic examinations of the same ideas," he instructed, and when he raised his head, his eyes sparkled with excitement. "Young apprentice, I ask you to think before you speak!" the older man snapped. As he finished talking, the strength in his voice gave out, and he began to cough violently for a few moments.

"Academic talk serves no purpose other than to sooth idle egos," she replied with a heavy sigh. “I can speak in academic complexities, just like you, but the local view of a topic is just as important as the world view, or so I have found. And you are right," she said with reluctance. "I should think before I speak."

"Good. Now I have your attention. We have been brought here to oversee talks between the anthras and the rahliens," the older magus informed her, suddenly seeming to become noticeably tired.

The apprentice shook her head. "How can we negotiate and remain neutral?" she asked.

"Are we also supposed to decide who is right and wrong?"

The older conjurer finally smiled at her inexperience. "Aran the Grey sent us as diplomatic representatives of the Pentacle, and our job is to remain impartial when no one else will, regardless of creed, race, gender, or religion," he responded.

"And what if we are forced to take a side?" she persisted.

The older magus rapped the tip of his staff against the ground with a loud crack to forgo further conversation. "Someone takes a side, and someone else takes the opposing side. Argument begets argument, which begets more argument. This leads to war and death. Our job is to remain above all that and study the world around us, to improve society, discover the undiscovered. Never confuse this with weakness!" he insisted and then sighed as the weight of his words crept into his body. “Take me away from here, young apprentice," he asked and proffered his arm. "My old bones creak with weariness.”

"I have a name," she said, slightly irritated.

"So?" he asked with amusement.

"Do you know it?" she asked in frustration and scowled.

"Yes," he replied, as his smile slowly broadened in direct correlation with her widening scowl.

"Will you use it?" she asked.

He started chuckling, and eventually his chortles became a full-blown, wheezing laugh. He finished with a dry, hacking cough. Then he started walking again. "We have a meeting to keep, young apprentice."

"You never answered my question," she said obstinately.

"My apprentice...," he replied with a strangely approving smile.

"Azlea," she said almost to herself with a small sigh, "as if it matters."

"...come. We have a meeting with High Chancellor Mariweather, and we must not be late," he said.

Azlea walked after her master, and he stopped and added, "Many apprentices seek my tutelage. They desire my teachings and my presence. I have turned them all down...but you," he said without a hint of sarcasm. "I will give you a name when you earn one," he added simply and walked on. “A chance to do so is better than they ever got.”

She sighed, but his words did make her feel a bit better.

Diametries walked anxiously back and forth in his office high in the stone keep of the White Guard, and the midnight blue shadow of Kestrel’s presence loomed behind his shoulders as he paced. A sound from the far wall drew his attention, and the Speaker turned. Daymion had managed to scale the walls of the keep so as to not be seen entering the office. He moved the curtains aside and came in through the window, bowing before speaking. "I have news, my lord," Daymion said as he caught his breath and brushed his long, shaggy, gray hair from his eyes. "My men have found Penndarius Greyson." The Speaker motioned for Daymion to continue.

"They were able to destroy his notes but were unable to kill him," Daymion reported.

Diametries clasped his hands behind his back and glowered at Daymion. "Why were welltrained assassins unable to take out one unarmed intellectual?" he demanded.

The assassin leader scratched his nose, slightly embarrassed. "It seems that my brother was drawn out a bit too efficiently, and he has decided to intercede earlier than expected. When my men went to kill Penndarius, Soren interfered and disposed of them," Daymion said with a wry smile.

Diametries leaned back as he processed Daymion's words and realized their implications. "Interesting. I think I will have to take a more active role in a more official capacity. Now make yourself scarce," he said and shooed Daymion away.

Daymion bowed and disappeared through the window again.

"Guard!" Diametries called outside to his personal man stationed at the office door.

The door opened, and a White Guard soldier entered and saluted Diametries.

"Send word to the twin captains that I want an individual by the name of Penndarius Greyson captured and brought to me," Diametries commanded.

The guardsman saluted again and ran to deliver the message. After he left, Diametries whirled toward the door and stormed out.

Within his mind, he felt Kestrel's curiosity. "Where are you off to now, my master?" he said with a sinister hiss. "It is a bit early for a walk."

Diametries’ footsteps sent echoes off of the mortared stone floor as he walked toward the bottom of the keep. Along the way he passed multiple rooms filled with scribes copying documents, guards hauling away prisoners, and other activities that would draw any normal onlooker's attention, but the Speaker did not stop to look at any of it.

He made his way to the lower reaches of the White Guard headquarters, below the street, to the dungeons where prisoners that were deemed too dangerous ever to be set free were left to rot. Stone paving turned to dirt and then to wet grime that squished underfoot. It was a dank and gloomy place, dripping with chilly condensation. Though mostly blackened with rust and grime, scraped slivers of the metal prison bars glinted in the flickering torchlight. The smell of mold and musty dirt pervaded throughout.

Diametries passed by the main holding area where prisoners were crowded together and made his way to the deepest part of the dungeon. There two guards were watching a particular cell that held only one prisoner, despite its large area. The small man was curled up and crying into his bedraggled prison garb.

"Leave me," Diametries said, dismissing the guards.

A guardsman looked to Diametries skeptically. "You sure, gov’?" he asked.

"Aye," Diametries replied and kept his attention focused on the pathetic figure in front of him. "Give me the key."

When the guards left, Diametries walked to the door and unlocked it.

Sitting against a wall and smaller even than the average therran, the figure looked tiny indeed. As pathetic as he seemed to Diametries, the Speaker cautiously kept his distance as he walked in.

"Do you remember me from this morning?" he asked warily.

The gray little man on the ground wept into his hands. "No! Why am I here?" he asked pitifully.

Diametries continued to keep his distance as warning bells went off in his mind. He knew there was something wrong here, something odd about this individual. Obviously he was not right in the head, but there was something more—something Kestrel had said to him: that his previous host's mind would be shattered.

"Do you remember trying to take my life?" Diametries asked as he approached carefully.

"No, I…." The pitiful man grabbed his head and slumped to the ground, sobbing.

His shaking shoulders then fell still, and he straightened his posture. The hairs on the back of Diametries's neck stood on end as his sense of danger jumped to high alert.

The prisoner looked up from his kneeling position, and his eyes glinted a feral golden in the darkened cell.

"Therran, you speak to his other now: Craven."

Despite his small frame, his voice was dramatically lower than before and rumbled from deep within his throat, reminiscent of untamed cats in the wilds.

"Creature, do you recognize me?" Diametries asked, unflinching.

The man unfurled himself before Diametries, and though he was smaller, his hunched form appeared all the more threatening in the light of the torches.

"Fragments prowl my memories like broken glass. Aye, I remember you, Speaker, I remember trying to take your life. I remember failing, and then I remember the shattering of this consciousness. Beyond that there are only blank outlines and ghosts," he said with a malicious rumbling sound. "Our other was once strong; his roar shook the heavens themselves. Now he is reduced to us."

The Speaker continued to examine Craven for a brief moment. "I can heal what was broken, if you wish it. I can return your mind back to what it once was," Diametries said.

"What do you want in return, therran?" Craven asked as he considered the Speaker's offer.

"Bring me Penndarius Greyson's head," Diametries said with cold, deadly directness.

The shadowy figure's grin split the darkness in an ivory crescent. "The death of an innocent is obscene, but for our other I would do anything. Unchain me, and I will consider your offer. If I do this for you, and you do not hold our bargain true, I will come back for you, and the next time I will rip out your still-beating heart," he threatened.

Diametries smiled and locked eyes with Craven for a brief moment. "Let us hope it does not come to that," the Speaker said and then called out, "Guard!"

A White Guardsman came running to Diametries. When he saw the diminutive man standing next to the Speaker, he readied his weapon for a fight.

"Sir?" he asked.

The Speaker held out his hand to stop the guard. "My eyes appear to have failed me in the low light earlier," he said. "I was mistaken. This anthra was not my attacker." "Are you sure?" the guardsman asked.

"This creature tried to defend me," Diametries lied. "The other left before your men got to us."

The guard shrugged his shoulders and let the two of them out of the cell.

"He will lead you out of this place," Diametries said and motioned toward the guardsman.

Then Diametries left on his own.

Kestrel's shadow reared up behind the Speaker. "You do not have the power to heal his broken mind," he cackled inside Diametries's brain.

"But he does not know that," Diametries replied with a smile.

Outside, a guard let the little man into an alleyway on the side of the keep that smelled of rotting garbage. He kept a careful eye on him. "You stay out of trouble!" he said.

The small man waved him off, and the guard went back through the doorway.

When the guard was gone, the small figure's body began changing. It grew larger and larger, with pops and crackling, snapping, and a strange stretching sound, until it grew to twice the height of a man.

Craven grinned to himself, and his white teeth shone like a hungry half-moon. He reached out and dug obsidian-like claws into the stonework. Slowly he pulled himself upward and climbed the wall. 

- End of Episode -

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