Viltar left the chamber at an unhurried pace, leaving the two younger figures behind. The moment he crossed the threshold, Seraph emerged at his side like a ghost given form. Viltar was not startled. This was nothing new.
“Well?” Viltar asked. “Did you find anything?”
Seraph nodded and respectfully returned a small device to his hand. It fit neatly in the palm. An exquisitely crafted box, housing a crystal sphere clear as glass, the size of an egg. Within it, Neru’s likeness hovered in perfect detail, every line of her face rendered without error.
“It is confirmed,” Seraph said. “The name Neru is real. And more than that, her identity is… notable. You know Leoric Aven, do you not?”
“Of course,” Viltar replied. “I know the names of every Frothean great commander. And Leoric is no common warlord.”
“Her full name is Neru Aven,” Seraph said. “His only daughter.”
Viltar stopped and turned to him. “You are certain?”
Seraph gestured to the crystal sphere. “With clarity like this, there is no mistake. They confirmed it at a glance.”
Viltar stood still for a moment, then let out a quiet laugh.
“So that’s it. No wonder.”
He put the device away. “I never expected this toy to prove useful one day. The Tower’s engineers truly are prodigies. Well done. Your effort was not wasted.”
Seraph did not accept the praise. “Leaving you alone for that long was ill-advised. She is dangerous. If she had hostile intent, Elios might not have been able to stop her. And you were standing too close. I could kill her easily, but ending her before she reached you was not certain."
Viltar clicked his tongue. “Enough talk of killing. It dulls the mood. She is an incredible woman, you know that? Even Elios seems fond of her, though he appears blind to it.”
Seraph glanced at him, meaning hidden in his eyes. “And you?”
Viltar’s smile died on his face. “A man like me, if he lives to the end, becomes a tyrant with no heart to spare. And if he falls midway, he brings ruin upon those bound to him. Where is the place for love in that fate?”
Seraph sighed lightly, shaking his head. “I should’ve known better. If even the Queen of Veyra could not sway—.”
“Oh. Her.” Viltar blurted. He had almost forgotten that woman. “I'd better think of something for her in the next stage,” he tapped his fingers against the stone pillar of the house, then stopped. “But maybe later. There are a few matters I still need you to attend to.”
Seraph replied with a warning tone. “I must remind you that danger is pressing in from all sides of late. My frequent absence may prove a fatal mistake.”
Viltar took a deep breath, his voice firm.
“This struggle is like swimming in a strong tide. Life and death are decided by timing alone. When the waters rise, you may sink low, letting the violent wave pass overhead. But the moment the tide turns, you must strike upward without hesitation, ride the returning surge, and seize the crest. Only then do you reach the destination. This is one such moment. If I remain passive now, I will regret it for the rest of my life.”
“Wise words,” Seraph nodded his head. “I will heed them.”
“Rest assured,” Viltar added calmly, “I have already weighed the board. If this move succeeds, I will shatter all our enemies with a single strike. Then there is no longer a need to waste strength on defense.”
Then Viltar handed Seraph a small bundle of letters, wrapped in oiled paper and sealed with meticulous care.
“Open them one by one,” he said. “Follow the order within. Burn each after you are done. If anyone asks, say the plan has shifted and that Viltar will issue clarification in due time. Do not use messengers.”
Seraph accepted the bundle with a nod and turned to leave.
“Ah,” Viltar added, stopping him. “There is a Seeker outside. Name’s Tarth. Tell him in.”
As Viltar’s final words faded, Seraph dissolved into the air itself, silent and seamless, no different from the way he had come.
After a short while, Tarth appeared before Viltar. His face showed a mix of tension and excitement.
“You summoned me, my lord?” Tarth bowed deeply.
Viltar nodded, his smile gentle and unassuming.
“Yes. Elios told me you were carrying the fragments of Drovar Dust recovered at the site,” Viltar said. “May I see them?”
Tarth hastily unfastened the pouch at his belt and offered it up with both hands. “Here, my lord. We examined them. They can be handled with bare skin.”
Viltar took the shards and studied them for a moment.
“Look unremarkable.”
He returned them to the pouch, his gaze flicking briefly inside. About four silver in odd bundles—more than what should be brought to or from the mission. A small piece of red paper with a betting number on it. No personal memo. No religious token.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Elios had spoken in this man’s favor, yet Viltar noted one or two traits here. Not ones to be ignored, and certainly not to trust.
Tarth hesitated, then asked softly, his calm betrayed by the faint tremor in his shoulders.“Did the Captain say anything else, my lord?”
Viltar paused for a heartbeat, then replied instead with a question.
“Oh. You mean about your past?”
Tarth went pale and fell silent. He seemed genuinely hurt.
So that’s it.
Viltar smiled inwardly. His guess had been correct. He eased the man’s tension with a friendly voice.
“No matter,” he said. “From where do you think I started my rise?”
Then he pointed to the garden outside. “Dirt.”
“How could I even compare to you?” Tarth lowered his head.
“Say who?” Viltar chuckled. “And by the way, it’s time for my gardening, and I find myself short of a hand to pull weeds. Would you mind?”
Tarth looked genuinely taken aback, but he recovered quickly. “Of course not, my lord.”
“Good. Then come with me.”
Viltar slipped off his outer cloak, rolled up the sleeves beneath it, and stepped out into the garden as though this were the most natural thing in the world. Tarth left his Seekers' black cloak behind and followed.
Grasses grew by nature’s law. But if they choked the garden beyond balance, that failure would belong to the one who tended it.
Viltar began pulling weeds, his movements smooth and precise, quicker than one could expect from an Archon.
“Start with the nearer rows,” Viltar said, hands never slowing. “Just the vegetable beds. Leave the old trees alone.”
Tarth nodded and followed suit. After a short while, he ventured a question.
“These sorts of tasks… Why not leave them to the servants, my lord? Do you not mind dirtying your hands?”
“Oh, do not be fooled,” Viltar replied lightly. “Gardeners make the real effort. I only do this from time to time, so I do not forget who I once was.”
Tarth worked behind him, awe creeping into his voice. “You remember the laboring class. You wish to keep their hardship in mind. That is… admirable.”
Viltar laughed. “No. You misunderstand me. I am not that sublime. What I mean is this. I came from hardship. My upbringing was long, and it was ugly. I did nearly everything one can do to thrive. If we speak of dirty hands, this barely counts. And yet I still choose to do it. Do you know why?”
Tarth shook his head — either he truly did not know or simply did not dare to answer.
“So that memory may keep warning me,” Viltar said, calm and steady. “So I never fall back into those days. That is what drives me forward.”
Tarth froze, weeds forgotten in his grasp. Viltar noticed and laughed.
“We’re just talking here. Don’t let that distract you.”
Tarth nodded quickly, though his expression had grown even more distant, thoughtful.
The light slowly dimmed. By the time dusk settled, the rows of vegetables stood clean, free of weeds.
Viltar straightened and turned with a smile. “Not easy, is it? Even a Seeker will discover muscles he never knew he had.”
His back gave a faint crunching sound. Viltar clicked his tongue. “Tch. It seems I truly am getting old. Time turns quickly. You young ones, you and Elios, must not waste it.”
Tarth hurried to wipe his hands and steady him. “You are not old, my lord. This is not work meant for you. Let us handle such things.”
Viltar looked at him then, and for the first time, his expression sharpened.
“Even these dirty jobs?”
Then before Tarth could answer, he changed the subject.
“You know, I have always held you in high regard,” Viltar said quietly. “You are quick to grasp things, resilient, adaptable. After Elios, you are the one most fit for the rank of Captain. What you lack is just one opportunity. And perhaps the right amount of ambition.”
“Ambition?” Tarth echoed, startled. “Isn’t that… a bad thing?”
“That,” Viltar replied, “is what those above carve into the minds of those below. ‘Climb too high and you will fall.’ ‘Be content with what you have.’ ‘Ambition breeds corruption.’ Those are what they teach you, aren’t they?”
He did not wait for an answer.
“Do not mistake fear for virtue, and restraint for wisdom,” Viltar grinded his words. “The lower classes stay lower classes because they never once rise to see for themselves that we are all the same. Put a noble in a pitfight with a lowborn, and they’d be indistinguishable. I’m fighting. I’ve always been fighting. Do you see me in a bad light?”
When he stopped, Tarth’s eyes had already been brimming with passion and reverence.
“Gods’re with you, my lord. You’re fighting for us.”
“Wrong again,” Viltar cut plainly.”You think that on my climb, I never had to trample on our people? Never had to disappoint people around me?”
“But, my lord. That was just inavoidable…”
“Look at you, fool. Don’t just believe in me. Don’t waste time cheering for me. Fight your own battle. For yourself.”
Then his voice softened.
“I do have a vision. A future where every lowlife has the same chance as a king. A society not built upon lies and oppression, but each one’s merit. However, until that day comes, each person must fight for their own dream.”
Tarth remained dazed for a moment. When his light came back, he asked. “What’s my battle, my lord? What should I do?”
Viltar smiled. “You do not need to understand it now. Let the words sit in your ears. Keep them in your heart. When the time comes, they will make sense.”
Viltar gave Tarth a final pat on the shoulder and casually had him recount the events of the recent mission from start to finish. Only when every detail aligned did Viltar ease his guard.
He then slipped a silver ring from his finger and offered it to Tarth as payment for the gardening. It was plain, unadorned, nothing remarkable in size or craft. Yet on Viltar’s hand it had looked graceful, almost noble.
“Silver is soft,” Viltar said. “Easy to shape. Whose hand it rests on, it learns to fit.”
Tarth refused at first adamantly. He would not accept it. Only when Viltar proposed a trade instead— the ring in exchange for one fragment of Drovar Dust, did Tarth finally relent, and even then with visible relief.
Viltar slipped the fragment into his coat and said quietly, “Elios and the Frothen woman are preparing for a task that may decide the fate of many. For reasons of my own, I cannot watch over them directly. If you go with them, I will rest easier.”
Tarth straightened, chest out, his voice firm. “I will not disappoint you.”
“Good,” Viltar said. “They are in my old upper chamber, planning. I imagine they will welcome you. Catch up.”
Tarth bowed deeply, then strode off with renewed purpose, leaving Viltar alone amid the darkening garden.
The trees were now little more than black silhouettes against the dusk.
Pulling weeds alone will never be enough. Not when their roots have already wound themselves between every stone of the garden.
There was only one way to cleanse it completely. One that will break the gardener's heart.
Viltar struck a flame and lit a lantern, the ember glowing briefly in the dark. He smiled to himself.
In the end, he was Viltar, not any gardener.