A few days had passed since the unfortunate affair involving the Fateweavers.

Zerath was sitting on his favorite chair atop a lofty balcony in the part of the Great Library that had not burned down in the aftermath of Kaelen's arson. Tucked into a warm robe, he was overlooking the bay area. It was a chill morning, like so many these days, and the air was fresh and pure. And all the while, he enjoyed the tingle of the cold breeze in his beard and how it played on his aging skin.

He was not a young man anymore — but alas, he felt fulfilled.

What he set out to do all these years ago was finally complete, his sister avenged, and balance restored to the world. There would be prosperity and free will, born from the ashes that had followed in Malvorn's wake.

He curled his lip when the thought of all the unnecessary violence tainted his mood.

It did not have to be this way, this … bloody. If only his old friend had shown the patience he implored him for. But then again, that had never been Malvorn's strength, and maybe that was what got him into a position of power in the first place. Although then again, of course, those achievements could largely be attributed to Zerath's counsel and guiding hand. Naturally, Malvorn would never admit that.

But things would be fine, he thought, and a smile played on his old lips.

Such a peaceful morning was meant to be enjoyed.

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The door behind him swung open, warming his back with a gentle gust from the heated indoors.

"So this is where you've spent all your time over the years?" Malvorn scoffed.

Zerath didn't respond, but politely gestured for his visitor to take a seat next to him.

To his surprise, Malvorn had not come alone. With him was a young woman with an intelligent face, and orange hair the likes of which he'd seen before.

Interesting, he thought, and courteously nodded in the direction of Nyu's sister. She acknowledged his greeting but did not reciprocate it.

When Malvorn's massive body sank into the elegant metal chair, its delicate hinges creaked sharply.

"You wanted to speak with me?" Malvorn growled with the discontent of a man who did not like to be summoned.

Instead of responding, Zerath lifted the intricately crafted kettle that stood in the middle of a small side table and poured both of them a cup of coffee. There were only two mugs, and so he gave the orange-haired woman an excusing look. Her features remained hard to read, as she stood off to the side of the balcony and watched them warily.

"Indeed," Zerath murmured, and gently put the kettle back on the small table next to him.

He handed Malvorn one of the two mugs. When the tall man grabbed it, it looked like a child's toy in his massive hands.

He sniffed at the brown brew, then frowned and lowered the mug.

"What Fateweaver concoction is this?" he rasped and gave Zerath a skeptical look.

The old Master smiled politely. "I'm afraid the Fateweavers can't take credit for this."

He gestured with his mug and held it up against the shimmering horizon, briefly taking the time to appreciate the intricate craftsmanship of the elegant ceramic in his fingers.

"This, my friend," Zerath continued, "is a true legacy. One that will outlive both of ours. No king, no saint, but an aromatic beverage."

Malvorn snorted and reluctantly took a first sip, curling his lip when he swallowed. Not feeling the need to express his disgust, he let his gaze drift over the open sea, which was smooth and calm today. A few clouds dotted the blue sky in the distance, and the climbing sun was slowly burning away the morning chill.

They sat there for a long while without saying anything. When Zerath finally spoke, his voice was that of an elderly man inspecting his life's work.

"We did it, old friend," he whispered.

Malvorn glanced at him with his dark eyes, and the silver strands in his hair glittered in the warm sunlight.

"So you have assured me," he said slowly.

The hint of a smile tugged at Zerath's lips. "The fate tomes of the Fateweavers have been destroyed — their owners are gone, turned to dust and blown away by the wind."

Malvorn inclined his head and stared at the mug in his hands.

"You seem awfully pensive, my friend," Zerath admitted. "Should you not revel in your victory?"

Finally, Malvorn lost the frown that had rested on his face.

"You are right," he said with a full voice. "This is a time of celebration. The Fateweavers are gone for good, and finally, the Fateless rule these lands."

Zerath considered Malvorn's words. One of his own conditions for dismantling the Fateweavers had always been that ordinary folk would not come to harm. Yet, in these final days of their decade-long scheme, Malvorn had followed his own agenda, almost ruining his carefully crafted design.

"The Fateless are free to populate these lands, just like the people who have lived here all their lives," Zerath said calmly.

Malvorn's eyes flared up for only a brief moment, but his face remained calm.

"There will be conflict, Zerath," he rasped, "They will not accept us as their neighbors. And when the day comes where they raise their pitchforks and torches, I will crush them under my boot like the vermin they are."

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His words got carried away by a gentle breeze that brushed over the balcony, heavy with the scent of pine and salt. The azure blue finery Malvorn was wearing surged like the sea itself, and Zerath closed his eyes for only a brief moment.

"Of course," Malvorn added with a sinister voice, "it would be easier to just burn their books now. They are here, are they not? What's a few more, I say."

When Zerath opened his eyes, the glistening sunlight almost blinded him. He turned to look at Malvorn and saw malice.

"That was never the plan," he said firmly, but with a gentle smile on his lips.

Malvorn held his gaze. "Plan's change," he breathed, and took another sip of his beverage.

"They are no Fateweavers, Malvorn. They mean us no harm."

"They sided with the enemy for generations," Malvorn growled. "They would have seen us burn without batting an eye."

Zerath sighed. "They just live their lives, follow whoever is holding up a standard. But at the end of the day, their only concern is having enough food on the table for their families to eat."

Malvorn's expression remained grim, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy with conviction.

"After what I've put our people through, I can't risk it. They need safety and security for their new lives, and room to grow. But these are petty affairs, Zerath." He leaned forward, and a gleam filled his dark eyes like a star in the night. "After all, this is only the beginning. We can march on Avera and Batis. We can conquer the mines of Perm and beyond. Maybe we will cross the Northern Mountains, or even the Salted Waste! Once we regain our strength in the light of day, we can expand our reach, old friend! Think about it: a kingdom of Fateless."

Zerath chuckled briefly.

"Without anyone to weave fate, everyone will be Fateless in time, even the common folk you so despise. There is no need to rush things."

Malvorn looked displeased. "You lack vision, Zerath! We should press our advantage, make use of our momentum. Lest someone else will. And our people have been dominated for long enough."

He clenched his fist to emphasize his point, and a miniature wave of brown liquid splashed over the rim of his mug and onto the ground.

They fell silent for a long moment, peering down onto the world. There were no boats out today — the only two noteworthy harbors in the bay had been destroyed, and tale of what had occurred here would soon spread far and wide. No traders would land on these shores for months, maybe years, and travel by land from Orriven and other southern cities would stagnate.

Zerath knew that the cost for their victory had been high — more so than it was supposed to be. Ever since they were children, Malvorn had been an uncontrollable force. He knew this even back then, but he still decided to ally with one who was destined for power. He'd been the face of their mission, the stooge, so to speak, while Zerath acted in the shadows. And when all the Fateweavers' attention was focused on their ancient nemesis and their new leader, he could act freely.

Of course, things were different now. They were at the end of the road. There was no need for further bloodshed, no need to conquer and raze what lay beyond the horizon. Malvorn's ideas of grandeur were those of a man who'd lost his purpose. Soon, his ambition would turn into a hunger that could not be quenched, and he would yearn for more, and more, and more. It would never be enough, until one day he'd reach too far and find an untimely demise.

Zerath sighed. That day would come sooner than Malvorn realized. Regrettably so, but inevitably. Zerath would not be able to control Malvorn for long, if at all. The moment the leader of the Fateless had attacked Cylion when it was already at their command, laid at their feet by Vaelorian Dor, he knew Malvorn was lost to him. His old friend had become consumed with ambition and the desire to wreak havoc, and even if it pained Zerath, he knew he'd done the right thing.

He glanced at Malvorn, taking in the other man's angry features one last time. Then, he took his glasses off his nose and carefully cleaned them with the sleeve of his robe. Through a blurry shroud at the edge of his vision, he could see Malvorn shuffle uncomfortably in his chair, his unoccupied fist grabbing the armrest like the throats of his victims. Then he gagged, his fingers jolting up to his contracting throat, letting go of the delicate mug he still held in his left hand. The porcelain shattered on the ground with a heart-wrenching clatter, shooting hand-painted shards and remnants of brown fluid in all directions.

Malvorn had once been like a brother to Zerath, but those times were long gone. No longer did they share the same view of the world, the same ideas and plans. Still, he would mourn the loss of his dear friend, even if that loss had already happened a long time ago.

A bitter smile crossed Zerath's lips, but Malvorn didn't even notice. Caught up in his death struggle, his retching cut through the serenity of the morning like an untuned instrument, and the blood he spat into the cool air soon dotted the blue silk of his garments.

When Zerath put his glasses back on, he could see that Malvorn's face was red and puffy, his throat swollen to a point where even his massive hands couldn't grab it anymore. His dark eyes were fixated on Zerath, and in their depths, he could see the cruel realization that he was dying.

"I'm sorry, old friend," Zerath whispered. "But you are not the leader this world needs now."

Malvorn tried to say something, but all that left his mouth was a pitiful cawing.

Then, without warning, his body started leaning to the side, and his chair toppled over, sprawling Malvorn's lifeless limbs over the stone floor of the balcony, where they lay in between cracked porcelain and droplets of brown liquid.

When the screeching of the metal chair subsided, there was complete silence.

Zerath breathed in and out.

He examined Malvorn's body for a long moment, placing his untouched mug of coffee back onto the small side table. He would still have to deal with the few remaining Fateless soldiers and their officers who had remained in the Great Library. Now that their enemy was defeated, they had already started to turn back to petty rivalries among them — one of the officers had even been murdered in cold blood just the other day. And now, with Malvorn gone, he needed to find a way to focus their energy elsewhere, to help rebuild what was broken instead of sullying the spoils of their victory.

Behind the remains of his former friend, the orange-haired Fateless woman was standing perfectly still. While her leader and patron had been choking and dying right in front of her eyes, her face had remained motionless and cold, her posture as stiff as a palace guard on duty. Even now, she didn't care to look at Malvorn's remains, but instead gazed at Zerath with an expression of calculating curiosity.

"No tears for your fallen master?"

"I have no master," the woman with the orange hair said sourly, and her words hovered over Malvorn's dead body.

Zerath nodded. "You are Nyu's sister, are you not?"

Something shifted in her expression. "I have no sister, either."

A moment passed as Zerath studied her with interest.

"What's your name?"

She lifted her chin ever so slightly.

"What makes you think you deserve to know my name?"

Zerath folded his hands in his lap.

"What would make me deserving?"

"Opportunity."

A gleam flashed in her eyes. He had seen it before — in the eyes of the very man that lay dead on the floor between them.

"I see," Zerath said pensively as he started stroking his beard.

This woman could be most helpful in convincing the remaining Fateless soldiers that it was time to lay their weapons to rest, and that Malvorn's death was a necessary evil. But even so, it was apparent that she, too, had great ambition and would have to be watched carefully.

But those were concerns for another day.

And so Zerath took a deep breath of ocean air and let his eyes wander across the marble cliffs and dark forests beyond their glistening white faces. His gaze surged up and down with the gentle waves that rolled into the bay, his ears enjoying the songs of the seagulls as they roamed the shoreline.

For the first time since his childhood, Zerath felt at peace.

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