The King sat in the middle of the command tent, surrounded by maps and strategic markers, two royal guards standing at attention behind him. His winter-sky eyes tracked invisible patterns across the parchment as he moved pieces with methodical precision.
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Theron murmured under his breath to his maps. "Must he be so dramatic?"
And exactly on cue, the tent flaps burst open.
Commander Aldric strode in but his movements were…wrong, too fluid, too purposeful compared to the Aldric Theron knew.
Aldric advanced into the center of the tent and with a sudden, sickening crack that made the two royal guards flinch, he snapped his neck sideways, his head lolling at an impossible angle. He continued walking toward the King, his voice dropping to a sibilant, multi-layered hiss that seemed to suck the warmth from the air.
"THE BLOOD OF THE UNWORTHY SHALL DROWN THE HALLS OF THE FAITHLESS!" he boomed, arms spreading wide in a gesture of apocalyptic proclamation. "THE STARS THEMSELVES SHALL WEEP FOR THIS REALM!"
The guards snapped their spears into ready position, faces pale. Theron finally lifted his head, his winter-sky eyes flicking from the terrified men to the possessed general with profound annoyance.
"Stand down." Theron commanded, his voice flat. "It's just a pest."
The guards obediently lowered their weapons, though they kept white-knuckled grips on their spears as they awkwardly stumbled out of the tent, their eyes never leaving the commander's twisted form.
Theron rubbed his temples and glanced up to meet Commander Aldric's eyes, or rather, the thing wearing them. "Verum, if you're done auditioning for a traveling theater troupe, get out of my general."
"You're no fun." Aldric's face broke into a wide, familiar grin. Verum's own snarky tone replaced the spectral reverb as the head snapped back into its proper position with another unsettling crack. "I even practiced the voice." He cleared the general's throat, puffing out the chest, and tried again. "BEHOLD, MORTAL-"
"Your pronunciation is atrocious." Theron cut him off before his ears started filing a lawsuit. "The guttural 'kra' sound comes from the diaphragm, not the throat. Amateur."
Verum waggled Aldric's fingers at him in mock offense. "Harsh. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to do eldritch reverb with borrowed lungs? These things were not designed for multi-tonal performance."
"I'll be sure to petition the gods for a redesign." Theron said dryly, his gaze already drifting past Verum's theatrical expression to something else, fresh, glistening runes carved into Aldric's neck and chest, the blood still tacky against the skin. He leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing. "And what is this?"
"Ah!" Verum straightened Aldric's posture with obvious pride, gesturing to his borrowed chest like a merchant displaying fine wares. "I see you've noticed my latest work. Do you know how long it took me to get the spacing right on these? Aldric's hands were not made for the fine arts."
Theron's eyes narrowed as he began parsing the ancient script, his scholar's mind automatically translating even as his expression remained carefully neutral. His gaze tracked slowly up Aldric's hips up to his sternum as he began, his voice flat.
"'When the pale star bleeds at the edge of the sleeping sun, and the rivers run the colour of old debts, the one who walked between worlds shall step back into them.'"
Theron's eyes tracked lower, following the continuation spiraling across Aldric's ribs and collarbone.
"'And the beasts shall know his footfall before the earth does.'"
But he stopped there, not following the runes into Aldric's neck as he gazed deadpan into Verum's eyes.
"The Third Prophecy of the Vel'Karim Codex." Verum confirmed cheerfully. "Abridged, obviously. The full version wouldn't fit. I had to make some editorial decisions."
"You carved your resurrection prophecy into my general's chest."
"Contextualised by supporting scripture." Verum gestured helpfully to Aldric's left shoulder. "That's the corresponding passage from the Ashen Tablets, corroborating source, very important for academic credibility. And along the ribs there I've got the children's rhyme, which frankly does more work than the Codex in terms of public reach-"
"The children's rhyme…"
"'When the stars forget to shine, and the wolves won't leave their den-'"
"I know the rhyme, Verum."
"Then you'll appreciate the annotation." Verum twisted Aldric's torso helpfully. "It's on the back. I cross-referenced it with three separate religious texts and provided a timeline. The calligraphy on the timeline alone took two hours, Aldric's spine is not a forgiving canvas."
Theron stared at him with the expression of a man who had developed, over the course of several centuries, a very high tolerance for this sort of thing and was approaching its limits.
"You possessed my general, performed eldritch theatrics for my guards, and carved an annotated anthology of resurrection prophecy into his flesh."
"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds frivolous." Verum had the decency to look slightly sheepish. "In my defense, I'm here to collect the Sun-Scorched Petal. The runes were just... a creative outlet."
"A creative outlet."
"I've been dead for centuries, Theron. I have to entertain myself somehow."
"Most people take up whittling."
"Most people have hands." Verum paused, then added with a smirk, "And you should know that I'm the best whittler in the world."
Theron stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then he very deliberately pushed a wine bottle across the table.
"Heal the wounds before you leave him. All of them."
"Already on it." Verum answered as he drummed Aldric's fingers on the table, the numerous wounds on Aldric's body already becoming fading scars. "But, what if, and this is purely hypothetical, if I were to also leave the lie threads attached rather than bundling them-"
"No."
"The threads would just-"
"No."
"You didn't let me finish."
"You were going to suggest passive cultivation exposure as a gift to my general."
"I was going to suggest passive cultivation exposure as a gift to your general, yes." Verum pointed at him. "And you could have at least pretended to consider it."
"I considered it."
"I'm sure you did. How do you know it won't help him cultivate his foundational lie?"
"He's thirty-one." Theron said flatly. "The first lie requires you to lie to yourself so completely that the conviction rewrites something fundamental. We were lucky and talented enough to do it when we were children, when the line between truth and desperate wishing hadn't fully formed. So if he is to cultivate I want it to be on his own terms without interference."
Verum was quiet for a moment, which for him was essentially a concession, if that was what Theron had decided for his general then who was he to intervene?
"So bundle it up and get on with it, Verum. Why are you here?"
"Straight to business? No more foreplay?" Verum leaned across the table, his borrowed lips curling. "Fiiiiine. Your niece is plotting against you."
"I know." Theron said flatly, not even blinking. "She's been plotting since she tried to poison my tea when she was twelve." He placed a marker down with deliberate precision, then looked up at Verum with the faintest narrowing of his eyes. "And which jester of mine was responsible for that?"
"Hey hey hey." Verum clutched Aldric's chest in mock offense. "How was I supposed to know she'd end up like that? I nudge a few dominos, do a few lectures, and suddenly every brat thinks they're a chosen saviour destined to save the world from the evil emperor. Not my fault. You knew what you were getting into when you stopped tutoring her and got me to do it instead using a favour."
Theron deadpanned. "I'm commissioning an exorcist. A dedicated one. With benefits."
"You say that every time." Verum picked up the bottle, examining it with Aldric's eyes. "We both know you won't."
"This time I mean it."
"You said that last time too."
"This time I have a budget."
Verum paused, wine bottle halfway to Aldric's lips. "...How big a budget?"
"Obscene." Theron said, almost smugly, "I had the accountants argue about it."
For a beat, they regarded each other. Then Verum smirked. "Centuries on the throne and you still haven't keeled over. Selfish of you, don't you think?"
"You've been dead for centuries and still won't leave. Selfish of you."
They both chuckled, the sound more like knives being sharpened than laughter.
The King let the moment hang, enjoying the rare moment of comforting quiet, then reached into what seemed like empty space. But when he pulled his hand back, seemingly out of nothingness, emerged a small, lead-lined box that landed on the table with a definitive thud. He opened it to reveal a single, withered petal the color of dried blood pulsing with a faint, internal light.
"The Sun-Scorched Petal from the Gardens of Eternal Dusk." Theron stated. "I don't carry the rest with me as your check-ins are not exactly arranged through my secretary, and I would rather not waste space in my spatial box for a mountain of useless leaves. You will find them in your AVERUM vault by tonight."
Verum's eyes, through Aldric's, locked on the box with naked hunger. "You beautiful, meticulous bastard."
"We're even, then." Theron closed the box and pushed it across the table. "Which means it's my turn."
"Name your request, my dear king."