Chapter 7

Locked away in his chambers, Exle hyr Dirk sat before a wall-sized map of the Rodinian continent with eyes hardened by years of cunning curiosity. As a blessed Knight of Dirk, the fallen angel of chaos, Exle held the highest seat in the king's coveted Red Clade. As the Right Hand of the throne, he was afforded a considerable amount of power, to the extent that he served as the king's second on every matter except inheritance of the throne. Such an honor was saved for Prince Cade, the king's son and only true heir. Exle did not envy the prince, though; the king's ear was all he ever needed.

For years, the map of Rodinia had tormented Exle, and yet he always returned to the same spot, hunched over and pensive. Under daylight and candlelight alike, Exle studied the great map; he knew every etch in the paper as well as his own heartbeat, every crease and wrinkle familiar as the patterns of veins in his own hand.

He never looked within the borders of Calydon for long, the kingdom unchanging and familiar. As any other member of the Red Clade would, Exle knew his kingdom inside and out; every river, forest and hamlet etched into his mind by the relentless schooling that governed his youth.

He didn't study the Isle of Draohain for long, either. Instead, he regarded the island kingdom in the way that stablehand may regard a rat, noting its presence and shrugging in annoyance, but nothing more. To Exle, the Arcodytes were merely vermin of a larger variety; their ways savage and their weapons and battle tactics dated. While they raided Calydon on occasion and their Skepmadyr continued to be an annoyance, they posed no true threat to the kingdom; their resources simply couldn't compare.

What truly concerned the king's Right Hand lay illustrated on the upper side of the map, with little information beyond the confines of its borders.

Situated on to the north of the Dil'Farans, a great forest that proved to be as impenetrable as it was vast, stood the kingdom of Nord'Umbra, or the Northern Shadow in the old tongue.

Working in silence, Exle filed through the pages of notes he'd written over the years, all dedicated to finding a way for his king's forces to enter Nord'Umbra. According to legends that were as old as Calydon itself, the king that could conquer the entirety of Rodinia in the name of Sŏnne, the all powerful god of light and creator of worlds, would be blessed by the deity himself. And so Exle had made the conquest of Nord'Umbra his personal mission; it would be him, and only him, that would one day present the king with a plan of attack. And it would be his carefully crafted planning that would bring Calydon to its full glory and his king to the acquisition of such a sacred accolade.

Most days, his quiet, dutiful assessment of the sprawling map ended in headaches and frustration. No records of a successful crossing through the Dil'Farans existed, only countless failures, spanning from small expeditions to attempts at razing the forest in its entirety. On Rodinia's eastern shores sprawled the Swarcian Sea, where the waters were fierce and deadly, with currents capable of capsizing ships, and winds that snapped masts. On the western shore lay the Bay of Astel, but to traverse it with a fleet large enough to attack the enemy kingdom would surely result in trouble with the Arcodytes. It would be possible, Exle supposed, to distract them somehow but still, it was hardly a plan at all.

His gaze shifting between his notes and the map, Exle noticed a small stream that threaded through the heart of the Dil'Farans. He scratched his chin, unsure how he hadn't noticed it before and recorded the finding at the bottom of his endless notes.

Surely the stream wouldn't be large enough to guide a traveling army but still, he wouldn't cast it aside just yet. Such a talent for detail; for weaponizing the overlooked, was what ultimately afforded Exle his positions as the Right Hand and Knight of Dirk.

Where his fellow Cladesmen were revered as exceptional mages or masters of combat, Exle's weapon was his mind. Born in the bogs of the impoverished Gealuin Lowlands, Exle was slender and meek as a boy, often bordering on the edge of frail. Because of such limitations, he spent the majority of his youth being cast aside and rejected by others, until he was ultimately cast out by his own family when he failed to earn his keep working the fields and marshes. But what his body lacked, he made up for with his brilliance; a gift he'd forged to be as lethal as any blade. Even now, as one of the most powerful men in Calydon, he slaved away, unwilling to leave anything to fate.

A soft knocking at his door tore Exle from his thoughts and had him crossing the floor of his chambers. Despite the lavish expanse of the room, the space was decorated only by his bed and the materials of his various studies. Anything more was an unnecessary indulgence in his eyes.

"Sorry to disturb you, my lord."

Exle was unsurprised to see Slen, his personal servant at the other side of the door. Where other members of the Calydonian elite boasted a multitude of servants that they kept crowded around them, Exle had only Slen. For the most part, the mousy boy remained unheard and unseen, a quality that Exle valued. In exchange, he asked little of the boy beyond his basic duties.

"What is it, Slen?" Exle asked, his voice raspy from a lack of speaking, and his mind still half clouded by his project.

"The Clade is assembling for a council, my lord. The king requires your presence."

Exle knew better than to ask Slen the purpose of this unscheduled meeting. Such information was not openly shared with servants.

"Very well", he said instead, giving his servant a shallow nod to signal a dismissal.

Slen bowed his head in return, and left as silently as he came.

Sighing at the interruption of his work, Exle donned the hallowed crimson robe that marked him as a member of the Red Clade. But where the others drew up the hood of the heavy robe, shrouding their features from Dirk, Exle placed a matching crimson mitre atop his head. Such was the attire of the king's Right Hand. Lastly, eyed his gold plated staff; the symbol of his position as the Knight of Dirk, the pathfinder between chaos and light. He rarely saw the reason for such finery and ceremony, but he picked up the crosier-like staff nonetheless, the metal cool and slightly dusty from its lack of use. Whatever the king had summoned him for, Exle hoped that the matter would at least yield something of interest.