Interlude Five - The Price of Strength
General Summary
The villa crouched on the hill like some hungry beast, its walls of white stone gleaming under the pale, unforgiving sun. It loomed above Tymon as if waiting to pounce, a place of secrets and ambition perched high above the chaos below. Loris Raknian stood at the great window, his massive frame silhouetted against the sprawling city. He stared at the bustling streets, where preparations for the Champion’s Games had turned the town into a living, breathing organism. Banners snapped in the wind. Merchants shouted. The city’s heartbeat thudded louder with each passing moment, and yet Raknian’s thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in darker concerns.
Behind him, Talabir Welik’s voice droned like the buzz of a persistent fly, gnawing at Raknian’s patience. The wizard was meticulous, his words clipped and measured, detailing the final arrangements for the Games. Security protocols. Seating charts. Contingency plans. It was all so… small.
“…the final match?” Welik’s voice punctured the air like a needle. “Director, are you satisfied?”
Raknian turned, his dark eyes heavy with disdain. “Yes,” he said, his voice a low growl. “It’s fine. Whatever you’ve done will suffice.” The words came out clipped, the irritation in his tone unmistakable. His hand rose to his temple, fingers pressing against the dull ache blooming behind his eyes. A breath later, the ache sharpened into something more—a hot, stabbing pressure that made him wince.
When his hand came away, a smear of red marked his palm.
For a moment, the mighty Loris Raknian, conqueror of arenas and master of the Games, was human. Fragile. Mortal.
“Leave,” he barked, his voice brittle with tension. Welik hesitated, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, but the wizard knew better than to question his employer. He gave a curt nod and slipped out the door, his soft footfalls fading into the distance.
Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating. Raknian remained by the window, his breathing uneven, his bloodied hand trembling. He wiped at his nose again, the stain on his skin a cruel reminder of his body’s rebellion. His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly.
And then, in a voice low and taut, he spoke to the empty room. “Enough. Show yourself.”
The air shifted. At first, it was subtle—a ripple, like heat off sunbaked stone. But then it deepened, the very fabric of reality bending under an unseen weight. The shimmer gave way to a figure, stepping out of the distortion as though emerging from a shadow too dark to be natural.
The Faceless One.
His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as if he owned the very air in the room. The iron mask covering his face caught the light, its blank surface betraying nothing, but the hollows where eyes should have been seemed to bore into Raknian’s soul. He moved toward the desk with the casual inevitability of a tide swallowing a shore, his gloved hand brushing the edge as though testing its strength.
“Have the arrangements been made?” The voice was cold, mechanical, each word precise and utterly without warmth.
Raknian straightened, forcing his massive shoulders back as he gestured toward the black scroll case on the desk. “Everything’s ready,” he said. “The Apostolic Scroll is there, just as promised.” His voice was firm, but a tremor ran beneath it, barely noticeable to anyone but himself.
The Faceless One turned his head, the mask tilting slightly—a gesture that felt like mockery. “And the Triad?” Raknian pressed, his tone harder now, as if daring the figure to challenge him. “They’re prepared?”
A pause, long enough to stretch thin Raknian’s fraying nerves. “The High Council is pleased,” came the reply, the words heavy with finality. “Your efforts have not gone unnoticed. All that remains is execution.”
Raknian’s lips curled into a snarl. He took a step closer, towering over the figure, though it felt like towering over a void. “I’ve done my part. Don’t forget the deal we made.”
The Faceless One didn’t flinch. “Immortality,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “The promise will be fulfilled. But only for those who prove… useful.”
Something in the room seemed to shrink around Raknian. He turned abruptly, reaching for the decanter of wine on the table. His hand gripped the glass like a lifeline, and he drained its contents in one swallow. “Strength,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Strength is all that matters.”
The glass clattered onto the table as Raknian’s hand flew to his nose once more. The blood was back, a fresh crimson streak that smeared across his lip. He let out a frustrated growl, wiping at it furiously, but the stain wouldn’t be erased.
Behind the mask, the Faceless One watched in silence. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. But there was something there—something unseen. Had Raknian dared to look closer, he might have felt it: the faintest curl of satisfaction, like the ghost of a predator’s smile.
And somewhere deep in the silence, the price of strength was paid in blood.
