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| - Diviara Celegra stared at the reassembled statue of Lorithia that would eventually be transferred from the palace to the New Temple of Hope with a sense of odd foreboding, a sense that had been building ever since the Moglin had left. As a communicant, he could call upon the Powers for guidance, but in matters such as this, experience told him that they wouldn’t answer even if they could. “You are far too distracted to work, Brilhado; you should join your son on Battleonia...” Myr said, slightly irritated. “Your moping about here actually is hindering rather than aiding my progress. I can hold the fort here until you return.” Diviara frowned, for while he wanted to do just that, he questioned the point of such travel. The war between the two factions was spreading. On Deren and Vandar, altercations between the Order of Paladins and the Order of Necromancers had escalated to all-out warfare, just as they had on Battleonia. They did not dare violate the sanctity of Tralin’s city, but passage to the fortress at the Gate had been completely blocked by the armies in motion. “Why bother? I can see the war here just as easily...” Myr looked at the Brilhado with an inscrutable expression. “Because von Krieger and Obsidia are there,” Myr answered pointedly. “If diplomatic avenues are to be pursued, it must be on Battleonia where they occur.” “What’s the point? I would just be blowing hot air. They seem quite determined in their course. Obsidia will not be happy that we refused her summons to begin with, and Artix wouldn’t even see me, no less listen to me...” “He is right, you know,” a voice said from the doorway. It was Slugwrath, who had been spending considerable time with the king ever since Diviara had brought him here. Myr did not particularly care for him, but Tralin seemed to have an odd fixation on the former prince. The prince certainly adapted readily to life in a palace... “I know Krieger all too well. He can be quite single-minded,” the prince continued. “Hello, Prince Drakath,” Myr said noncommittally. “Do you really think so?” “I know so,” Drakath answered with a seeming sense of smug satisfaction over the use of the honorific. “So, unfortunately, do I,” Diviara said wistfully. “Of course, Brilhado, were I you, I would heed the architect’s advice anyway...” “Oh, really? And why, pray tell?” “Because your son is there,” Drakath answered somewhat sardonically, “and he is bound to be caught in the crossfire.” “Point taken. But I have duties to the crown... and to you.” “Neither will have gone anywhere in your absence. I, like Myr, am eager to get out from under your thumb, and the king understands family.” “I certainly do,” Tralin said, entering the room. “I seriously regretted not being at Stone Deep when my father died. I would not have you risk the same fate. Go, Diviara.” Regret was an understatement, Diviara knew. Tralin had consumed metanoia and very nearly died decimating the army responsible. The fact that Diviara himself had been the general in charge of those armies was not lost on him, either. “Were you a lesser man, you might say it would be my just desserts.” “Do not be ridiculous!” Tralin snapped, plainly angry at the mere idea, though he was certain Diviara knew he did not feel that way. “You are my friend. What happened there was lifetimes away...” “And you are not a lesser man...” Drakath supplied helpfully. “No,” Diviara said. “Indeed he is not. The three of you planned this in advance, didn’t you?” Tralin smiled; Myr and Slugwrath merely smirked. “Whatever gave you that impression?” Tralin asked. “Call it a hunch. Your arrivals in such short order were... fortuitous.” “Well, you have been uselessly moping around the castle for three days,” Tralin said. “That might make one think something had to be done. Go and witness history, even if this once you are not to be part of it, my friend.” “As you wish, your majesty,” Diviara answered, though somehow, he was still unconvinced...
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