In a city built on filth, the cleanest hands are the deadliest.
To the west of Glaswold, far beyond the tranquil expanse of the Covenant of Eldara, over the meadow plains of Cairn of Primavelon, the brilliant light of day waned. The countless blooms of every shade folded as the sunlight withdrew, their beauty a hostage to the sun's mercy.
Amidst the meadows, a vast empire flourished. Its buildings were palatial, its streets charcoal-black, and its walls humbling. The empire sprawled in all directions; beyond its mighty ramparts the structures grew less imposing and more functional.
This was Velmorath, the capital of Velmoria Imperium—the Greatest of the Eight.
Rising from the centre of Velmorath, a majestic, imperial castle towered above all else, exuding a near-palpable authority and power.
Though the light was fading, the royal castle's opulence did not dim. Rather, it seemed the light had lost its privilege of shining upon it. The castle's majesty was no wonder of nature; it spoke only of human craft and ambition.
Inside it, a grand hall adorned with swords, armour, and an array of medals and trophies housed several dignitaries and military pundits. They whispered among themselves as they waited for someone.
"Why has His Majesty invited that clumsy fool? What qualifications does he possess?"
"When did he come back from another one of his indulgent vacations?"
"I swear, if he weren't His Majesty's own brother, I would've killed him ages ago; his eyes are just so unsettling."
Though they passed several remarks among themselves, none dared to voice their mockery out loud. For in front of them the King of the Velmoria Imperium, Korvath Zalthun Maelvorn, was present. And nobody was foolish, or courageous, enough to affront his sibling in his presence.
The King appeared placid; there were no signs of unease on his sharp, stoic countenance. Yet for some reason, he kept rubbing his fingers absentmindedly.
Soon, the doors of the room parted and two figures in mauve uniform entered. Behind them in a flowing beige tunic, another figure entered the hall. He had raven-black hair, lean athletic build, and pale white skin.
From his left ears, a silver crescent moon shaped earring dangled. As it caught light, the crescent ear-ring gleamed brightly—almost dazzling the onlookers.
Even more dazzling were the man's face and eyes. His face, pristine and ravishing, as though carved with deliberate artistry.
The man's pupil-less blue eyes, however, were a topic of intense debate—whether they were enthralling or ominous. Either way one thing was certain, they were extraordinary.
The pupil-less man quietly took a seat on the far end of the room beside a window. The other two figures in mauve stood on either side of him.
Silent whispers began again:
"Not even enough manners to bow to his King—how impudent."
"Arriving late again and no apologies, hmph, smug bastard."
"Why's he prettier than my daughter? Are we certain he's a man?"
"Silence! His Majesty, Korvath Maelvorn will speak now," a guard beside the King spoke.
The King stood up and glancing at his brother, he said, "Lumiel, it's good to have you with us, brother. I am certain everyone here greatly appreciates your presence among us."
The pupil-less man, Lumiel Maelvorn, did not reply. He absently stared out of the window—like he was the only person in the room, or the world.
Born on a crescent moon night, Lumiel suffered from an acute case of acoria—complete absence of pupils. It instantly spurred all sorts of rumors about him from birth.
His mother and the former queen died giving birth to him; further inflaming the rumors and bringing forth new virulent tales about him. From his very first breath, Lumiel had been labelled as an ill-omen for the empire. His solitary attitude and the mystery surrounding his work only gave life to the rumors.
He was mockingly called: Cursed by Moon.
If not for his father, the former King Zalthun Maelvorn, and elder brother, King Korvath Maelvorn, he would have been long persecuted from the empire.
The woman on his side answered, "As does Lord Lumiel, Your Majesty. Our long travel has left my Lord tired, so please excuse his behaviour this once, my King."
"Once? He's always like this whenever he comes," one of the dignitaries whispered.
"Of course, young warrior," the King said. "Formalities are just a barrier to keep the peasants away, but among royalties they are a nuisance rather than discipline. Lumiel's being here with us is already enough. Now, the reason why we are here..."
The King paused for a moment, then continued, "Five days ago, one of our camps in Thornridge was attacked by an unknown group in the dead of night. When our forces reached the next noon, not a single person was alive."
"Must be some suicidal unit from a rival kingdom—rascals don't know their place," one of the military personnel remarked.
"I agree. However, what concerns me is not the loss of a minor camp and a few hundred soldiers, but the whereabouts of a War Architect who was residing there that night," the King said.
At the mention of the War Architect, everyone's attention suddenly spiked. Even Lumiel Maelvorn's unreadable eyes glinted with interest for a fleeting moment.
"Is he dead?" one of the persons asked.
Korvath Maelvorn took a moment before replying, "Unfortunately, we do not know. If he was merely dead, we could've assessed our losses and planned ahead. However, with his survival and location unconfirmed, things have become far more dangerous."
"You mean to suggest treason, my King," the man beside Lumiel spoke.
"The possibility thereof, yes. That is why I have gathered everyone of import, save for our military stalwarts; busy conquering territories and defending the conquered ones... Use all the resources at your disposal and locate the War Architect, Alvric Veskor, as soon as possible. I want this fiasco ended—one way or the other. And remember, there are no restrictions on the methods you may employ."
The King waved his hand. "Adjourned. Go and enjoy the ball below."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the dignitaries replied, and left the room.
As Lumiel and the two figures with him were leaving, Korvath gestured for them to approach: "Brother, I don't mean to interfere with your methods, just ensure there are no unnecessary casualties."
"Of course, Your Majesty. Your wish is our command," the man with Lumiel responded.
Korvath smiled, and said, "Good. Now go to the ball—your niece will be pissed at me if you don't attend."
A soft smile formed on Lumiel's face. He gently caressed his brother's shoulder and departed with the others.
He's becoming more open these days, hmm... good, Korvath thought.
On the ground floor, an expansive apsidal hall was decorated with rich vermillion banners bearing triquetra insignia. Its floor had obsidian marble finishing with golden pillars rising from them. On the ceiling, several extravagant chandeliers hung—illuminating the ground below.
Hundreds of lords and ladies of renowned families mingled in the royal ball. Some danced, some drank, while others gossiped their boredom away. All the while, deep, evoking opera-like music played in the background.
Strolling between them, Lumiel moved with four figures in mauve circling around him. The heavily scented air visibly lifted the four figure's mood, though Lumiel himself remained indifferent to the fragrance, as he did to numerous gazes, both friendly and unfriendly.
Suddenly, his face lit up as a little girl in yellow ran past him while shouting, "Uncle Lum, I'm going to play. I'll be back in a while; don't you dare leave!"
Behind her other children followed.
"Princess Seliana is growing up right before our eyes, right Lord Lumiel?" a woman in mauve spoke.
Lumiel nodded once and kept moving.
"Indeed. The last time we saw her she was what, six? Now she must be eight or ten?" a man in mauve with long hair said.
The woman lightly hit the long-haired man. "Don't guess a girl's age, you brute. That's why you're still single."
"It's better to be young and single than to be old and married four times, you hag," the long-haired man retorted.
The woman and the long haired man exchanged a fierce look—then suddenly a shriek echoed throughout the hall.
"That was Seliana's voice. What happened? Guards!" King Korvath had come down.
Soon accompanied with guards, Seliana Maelvorn along with other children came downstairs.
Her dress was slightly torn and marks of scratches were visible on her shoulder. Another child, a boy of seventeen, had bloody fingernails and bruises on his face.
"Who dares do this to my son!?" a middle aged man shouted. "Korvath, I demand answers! You allowed this within your roof. He's my only son; there will be consequences for this."
"Cousin Tarnell, I beseech you to remain calm. My daughter is also injured. Whoever is the culprit will face the harshest of punishment. I assure you," Korvath said.
"Only because you say so." Tarnell calmed down.
Lumiel and the four mauve figures observed the scene quietly from nearby. Lumiel was seated on a modest stool, yet with him atop it, the stool appeared more regal than any seat in the vicinity.
Korvath turned to the guard. "Explain."
"What's there to explain? He struck me! The son of Tarnell Arcrest—that lowly peasant struck me!" the boy with the bruised face yelled in anger.
"Your Majesty, I can explain—"
The guard was interrupted mid-speech as Tarnell grabbed him by the collar and slapped him. "You think you can explain hitting my son..."
Tarnell brandished a small knife. "Korvath just give the word and I'll drop this ingrate right here."
"No, father. He was hurting me... the guard only protected me," Seliana said.
Korvath looked at his daughter, then another child spoke, "Yes, Your Majesty, Lorvane was trying to..."
"They're lying!" the boy, Lorvane, shouted.
Korvath stared at Lorvane coldly. "Call my daughter a liar again and I'll have your tongue, boy."
He looked at Tarnell next: "You're done... The House Arcrest is done."
Korvath took his daughter and left in rage.
Tarnell scornfully threw the guard, and told his son, "Don't worry Lorvane. We have too much political clout for even the king to threaten us. He won't do anything. All of this was for the sake of saving his public image."
On his way back, the guard brushed past someone but paying it no heed he moved on. However, his sword was now missing. Lumiel walked past the guard and approached the father-son duo.
"Lord Lumiel, this is his mother," a man in mauve uniform spoke as he tossed a middle-aged woman toward Lumiel.
Tarnell saw his wife thrown forward and snapped, "What's the meaning of this, Cursed by Moon!" His face trembled with fury.
Lumiel's pale-blue eyes, however, were locked on Lorvane. A cold shiver ran down the boy's spine as he felt a deep sense of foreboding; his back suddenly chilled and his palm turned wet with sweat.
"I asked—" Tarnell's mouth fell agape.
With a single, unhurried stroke, Lumiel severed his wife's head. It rolled across the polished obsidian floor.
"Mom!" Lorvane screamed.
Words deserted Tarnell. His eyes welled with grief, then burned with rage. But before he could lift his gaze from his beloved's decapitated head, Lumiel's sword flashed again. His face split cleanly in two.
A frozen silence devoured the hall. Glasses fell. Drinks spilled. Several nobles staggered, pale as ghosts.
Military officers gestured for the guards to intervene, but the four mauve figures stepped forward, blocking their path.
"Don't go past us, lest Lord Lumiel kill you," one of the mauve figures warned.
"Guards! Help! Stop!" Lorvane's cry for help was cut short by a sword-hilt slamming into his one eye. He collapsed with a shriek and writhed in pain.
Lumiel crouched over the boy and struck him twice more. Lorvane's one eye blackened and swelled shut; thin fractures of blood burst around it.
Throwing away the sword, Lumiel punched the boy barehanded—again, then again... and again.
Each strike landed with tremendous force. Every blow splintered the boy's skull, the sound sharp and wet.
What began as the cracking of bone and muscle soon dulled into sluggish thuds against a scarlet pulp.
At last, when he stopped, all that remained of Lorvane was a mangled lump of flesh, bone fragments, and blood. The obsidian floor beneath lay cracked.
Some onlookers fainted, others vomited, but most simply stared, disgust and terror etched on their faces. Only the four mauve figures remained unmoved, barely even noticing the bloodshed as if it were a matter of course.
Lumiel's hands dripped scarlet and his face was smeared with crimson drops. As he rose, the hall no longer saw the man they once mocked. They were appalled—shocked and in utter dismay—at the sudden turn of events.
For standing in front of them was no longer the clumsy, introverted Cursed by Moon.
He was one of the youngest Mundukar in the world, yet almost no one knew of him. He was the leader of a secret elite unit of the Velmoria Imperium—the Axiarchs, answerable only to the King.
Those who truly knew Lumiel called him something else: the Crescent Fiend.
The Crescent Fiend examined his latest work, then kicked the mangled lump of flesh. His nostrils flared slightly.
Everyone took an involuntary step back.
An absolute lull permeated the ball—abruptly broken by a sweet, feminine voice: "Uncle Lum!"
The fiend lifted a hand; the four mauve figures, members of the Axiarchs, swiftly covered the bodies with tablecloths.
Seliana had changed into fresh clothes and her small injuries had been neatly bandaged. She weaved through the silent crowd, holding a slice of cake, and stopped before the Crescent Fiend.
"Uncle, taste it. This one's my favorite."
The fiend hid his hands behind him and shook his head.
"Uncle Lum. Taste the cake. Now." Seliana took a spoonful and held it up to him.
Lumiel crouched down and tasted the cake. "So tasty, love."