Tashlan — Trisoc's Palace, Banquet Hall
Year 8002 A.A., under the amber glow of a waning moon
Tashlan, the opulent heart of Carlon, lay swathed in midnight's velvet, its streets pulsing with secrets, decadence, and shadows older than the stones beneath them. At its core rose the Trisoc's palace: a monolith of white marble, its many towers crowned with gold so polished they caught even the weakest starlight. The banquet hall within rivaled any temple—its marble pillars soared heavenward, as if seeking to pierce the domes of the gods, while a thousand gilded chandeliers spilled molten light upon revelers below.
Silk-draped tables groaned under platters of roasted meats, honey-glazed game birds, and fruits glistening like jewels plucked from hidden groves. Servants scurried barefoot, their shadows slipping across the mosaic floor where mythic battles were immortalized in stone. Bare hooves, paws, and scales tapped the tiles in a restless symphony as noble Tracients—boars crowned in bronze circlets, beasts with manes braided in gold thread, and serpents cloaked in silk—laughed and drank deeply, careless of the hunger gnawing at the city's poorer districts.
Amid the revelry, jewels flashed like captive stars. Golden goblets clashed together in careless toasts; wine, as dark as old blood, spilled unnoticed across embroidered tablecloths. Half-eaten fruits rolled from gilt platters, trampled beneath hooves too preoccupied with pride to see the ruin.
At the hall's far end, raised high upon an ivory dais inlaid with mother-of-pearl, sat the Trisoc himself. A massive boar Tracient, his immense bulk overflowed the throne's polished arms, gold-plated tusks catching and scattering candlelight. Rings of precious stones weighed down thick fingers, each telling a silent story of conquest, betrayal, or uneasy alliance. His laughter rumbled like distant thunder, yet within his small, deep-set eyes danced the wary cunning of one who trusted nothing but power.
By his side, Prince Erezhan loomed—leaner, younger, and carved of a fiercer mold. His tusks, sharper and darker, curved menacingly. Though his father chuckled, Erezhan sat rigid, his gaze cold and unblinking, like a hawk brooding above prey. His bare hooves tapped a restless beat against the mosaic floor, betraying a mind that prowled even in repose.
The grand bronze doors groaned open on ancient hinges. Slowly, the laughter withered into uneasy silence. From the shadows emerged a hunched figure draped in ink-black robes. The Vizier—a lizard Tracient whose scales caught the lantern light in iridescent flashes—advanced, claws whispering against stone. He bowed low, the tip of his tail curling protectively around his bare feet.
The Trisoc's jovial mask slipped, and a tension, sharp as a drawn blade, settled over the dais. Fingers clenched around the stem of his goblet. Erezhan's nostrils flared, tusks grinding audibly as he rose, the movement sending ripples of unease through the hall.
"Noblemen of Carlon!" Erezhan's voice, clear and cutting as glass, echoed off marble and stone. "Your presence honors us, but the night draws late. Retire with my gratitude."
There was a heartbeat of silence, then forced cheers erupted. Goblets raised, spilling wine anew, and noble Tracients bowed before shuffling toward the exits. Their hoofbeats and paw-steps rang hollow on the mosaics, dwindling into the corridors beyond.
With a curt gesture, the Trisoc, Erezhan, and the Vizier turned and slipped through a discreet archway hidden behind velvet drapes, their shadows merging with the torchlit gloom as they descended into the palace's deeper, darker heart.
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Tashlan — The Trisoc's Secret Chamber
Beyond the banquet's grandeur lay a place seldom glimpsed by the palace's glittering guests. Here, stone walls wore heavy drapes of crimson velvet, edges frayed by age. Flickering lanterns cast shifting shadows that danced across cracked maps, faded banners, and ancient scrolls pinned haphazardly on walls blackened by centuries of whispered plots.
Incense coiled through the air, its cloying sweetness failing to mask the scent of mildew and old secrets. A grand chair of dark oak, carved with snarling boars and inlaid with jet, stood at the chamber's center. The Trisoc lowered himself into it, hooves striking the flagstones with a dull thud. Beside him, Erezhan remained standing, arms crossed, tusks gleaming under the lantern light.
Before them, two figures knelt. Sahira, a cobra Tracient, scales the color of burnished bronze, her emerald eyes fixed on the floor. Beside her, Baraz—a massive rhinoceros Tracient—bowed his horned head so low it nearly brushed the stone, his thick hooves pressed into the cold floor, muscles tense.
The Vizier, robes trailing like liquid night, moved to join them. His claws stretched out in a posture of deep obeisance.
"Great Trisoc, may you live forever," intoned Sahira and Baraz in unison, their voices brushing the walls like the first winds of a gathering storm.
The Vizier echoed softly, "Forever."
The Trisoc's deep voice rolled through the chamber. "Report," he commanded, his words weighed with expectation. The beat of his drumming hooves on the armrest filled the silence like an ominous heartbeat.
Sahira raised her eyes, and her voice slithered forth, a quiet yet unmistakable hiss. "Great Trisoc, your humble servant brings news of the Ronins."
At that single word, Erezhan's hooves shifted. His tusks ground together, the air around him seeming to tighten. The Trisoc's gaze sharpened to twin spear points, his joviality gone as though it had never been.
"They infiltrated my city… undetected?" His words, soft yet iron-clad, sucked warmth from the room.
Silence descended, thick as smoke.
The Trisoc's eyes swung to Erezhan. "Explain, my son."
Erezhan lowered his head, though his hands balled into fists, knuckles pale beneath short fur. "Forgive me, O gracious father," he rasped, his voice edged with bitterness. "My failure stains your reign. It shall not happen again."
The Vizier dared to raise his head, claws twitching. "Great Trisoc, if I may, let the generals—"
A blur of motion. Erezhan's hoof struck the Vizier's stomach, the impact echoing. The lizard crumpled, scales scraping stone, a strangled gasp forced from his lungs.
"Imbecile!" Erezhan spat, tusks bared. "You dare interrupt?"
The Trisoc's raised hand cut through the tension. "Desist, Erezhan. The Vizier's point stands. Continue, Sahira."
Sahira exhaled, scales rippling. "We engaged two Ronins aiding refugees in the catacombs. They concealed both their Mana and Rank."
The Trisoc leaned forward, gold tusks catching lantern light. "A Hazël technique," he mused. "Are you suggesting these Ronins possess such skill?"
Baraz shifted, hooves rasping stone. His deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. "They intercepted my Combustion Blast, Great Trisoc. No ordinary Özel could manage such a feat."
"And… they weren't alone," Sahira added, words barely a whisper.
Erezhan's gaze turned glacial. "Speak plainly, Sahira. The Trisoc waits."
She swallowed. "A third Tracient appeared… wielding the Kurtcan Arcem."
At the name, the chamber seemed to shrink. Erezhan's Mana erupted—a crushing, suffocating presence. His roar shook ancient dust from beams above. "LIES! Kurtcan vanished two millennia past! Are you certain?"
"I swear on my life," Sahira gasped, scales pressed flat against her flesh. "He broke my hold on the refugees, shattered my power."
The Trisoc's heavy hoof landed gently on Erezhan's shoulder. "Calm, my son."
Erezhan drew a ragged breath, tusks lowering. The lanterns' flames steadied.
The Trisoc's eyes glinted. "If this is truth, the whispers speak rightly. The Narn Lords live—and that wild cat, Azubuike Toran, harbors them."
From the floor, the Vizier wiped a trail of blood from his mouth, claws tapping stone. "My Lord, all these afflictions—Ronins, Narnans—trace back to one root: the Fall of ArchenLand. Its architect must be reminded of the debts his war brought upon your dominion."
The Trisoc's tusks curled into a wolfish grin. "A fair thought, Vizier. Summon the Shadow."
The Vizier's claws carved symbols into the chamber's stone, lines of cold light bleeding from his etchings. As his chant rose, a chill swept through the room, lanterns guttering.
From the heart of the rune, darkness coiled and birthed a figure. Fur of moonlit white, paws as silent as a breath. Twin eyes, luminous and ancient, gazed out from beneath a hood of living shadow.
The Shadow had come.
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The Shadow's presence hollowed the chamber's air; even the embers in the lanterns burned smaller beneath his gaze. Around him, darkness itself seemed alive, swirling like a patient serpent. His white fox fur shimmered where stray light dared touch, and dark energy pulsed at his paws, fracturing the stone floor in faint veins of shadow.
"Trisoc," he said at last, his voice low and ageless, as though it had echoed through centuries. It neither challenged nor submitted, merely existed, immutable.
The Trisoc leaned back into his grand chair, tusks flashing in a grin that barely reached his small eyes. "Too long, old friend."
The Shadow's gaze flickered across the room, lingering on Sahira and Baraz before returning. "What is it you desire?"
"Straight to it, as ever," the Trisoc mused, hoof drumming once on the stone armrest. "Your campaign in ArchenLand—its ruin has spilled into my dominion. These Ronins, once yours, now flit about my city like wraiths. See them ended; it was your hand that tore their world apart, let your hand finish what it began."
The Shadow's pale brows lowered. "I serve no master, Trisoc. Do not mistake our alliance for chains upon me."
A moment passed, heavy with ancient grudges and unspoken bargains. Then, as his gaze slid once more to the kneeling generals, a subtle energy gathered at his fingertips—dark Mana twisting into crystalline shards.
Two icicles, pulsing with violet flame, hovered in the air, drifting toward Sahira and Baraz. The generals did not flinch, though even the Vizier leaned back, claws splayed against the floor.
As the dark shards sank into their bodies, transformation began. Sahira gasped, her scaled brow splitting to reveal a third eye—black at first, then glowing with malevolent amethyst light. Baraz's shoulders ignited with violet flame; arcs of Mana danced around his horn and coursed down his thick arms, sparking at his hooves.
"Punisher Duo," the Shadow intoned, his voice resonating against the chamber's walls. "I grant you strength to raze what dares oppose Carlon's will."
The darkness about him shivered, and the Shadow turned his gaze back to the Trisoc. "Will this suffice, old boar?"
The Trisoc's tusks gleamed, his voice a soft chuckle. "It shall do. You have my gratitude."
Without another word, the Shadow dissolved, fur and claws fading into curling black mist, until only the chill of his passing remained. The lantern flames sputtered back to life, though they seemed dimmer, their warmth bruised by his touch.
The Vizier rose, shoulders hunched, blood still staining his robe. "Your majesty, superbly handled," he murmured, claws clacking on stone.
The Trisoc exhaled, the grin lingering like a scar. "Now," he rumbled, voice returning to its former weight, "we shall see what power can accomplish where caution failed."
Erezhan, who had watched in silence, stepped forward. His hooves struck the floor with sharp certainty, and he bowed deeply. "Great Trisoc," he said, tusks low and gleaming. "Permit me to finish what was left undone. I will bring you their heads, and bury their legend with them."
The Trisoc studied his son for a moment, weighing something unseen. Then, slowly, he nodded. "So be it. Go, Erezhan—hunt them, and let none escape."