The Marquee Allant-Ratan-Rosse sat chained in the catacombs beneath the Church of Tenebrous. His legs lay upon carved stone, his torso draped over a cold sepulcher.

When they dragged him in, he had been vocal. He had threatened them, pleaded, bargained. He had called every soldier within earshot and demanded his defense, invoked the power he wielded as a Marquee of the Lawful Council. The Arms of Law did not care, but impassively dragged him into the depths of the church and chained him up.

His arms were sore. They had deep marks where the manacles sat, where he had pulled and jerked in a futile attempt to free himself from the iron bonds. His legs were cramped, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep. His stomach rumbled complaining of the poor quality of the meals, barely enough to keep him alive.

Footsteps. Light. The clank of metal on metal, metal on stone. A soldier of the Arms of Law walked in, followed by an elf.

Rosse had met Icoriol before, of course. The elf was a frequent visitor to the workshops of the OTIA, often sitting and chatting with the artisans or working himself to craft eclectic devices and tools. Even with his pointed ears and the rainbow feathers that composed his hair, it was easy to think that Icoriol was just another artisan working his craft.

Not today.

Rosse had hoped for sorrow, pity at his disheveled state. He would have accepted anger, righteous fury at his own actions. The elf’s eyes had none of that, but instead glared at him with uncaring disdain - as if, before the ancient elf, he were nothing more than a pest to be swatted.

“You have been working with the baron of Nildazi.” It was not a question, nor an accusation, merely a statement of fact.

Rosse pleaded. Yes, he had made overtures. Yes, he had knowingly bargained with an enemy of the Crown, of Solemnity, but surely Icoriol would understand why! The faults of the Crown, the weaknesses of the Queen! All Rosse desired was to give more power to the guilds he held dear, who truly deserved to have influence. Surely, surely a fellow artisan would understand!

The elf’s expression flashed with disgust. “Fool.” He responded, accusingly, with the crimes that the Baron of Nildazi had committed, and of which Rosse had known when he had made his pilgrimage to Nildazi. The invasion of the Beastmen. The emergence of the Dragon. Even - and this was new to Rosse - an opening to the red realm of madness in the cellars of New Ornos.

Aloud, Rosse dreamed of an Orthos in which the Crown was no more, the guilds took up their rightful place as leaders and guides. Influence, industry, the casting out of the Ajira-ni rivals and their influence.

The elf and the Marquee argued for a time over the work of the Crown and the Powder Guild. Rosse hotly argued for the failures of the monarchy, the threats of the Ajira-ni immigrants. Each argument the elf disdainfully swept aside with fragments of history and culture, casually invoking memories farther back than any in Orthos could recall.

At last, the Marquee protested that though he desired the removal of the Queen, he had no intention of killing her. At this, the elf’s eyes lit up with a dark amusement, and he bared his ever-so-slightly-inhuman teeth in a mirthless smirk.

“Long live Queen Cecily. Long live High Priest Oland, High Priest Lancely - in the kingdom of Heaven!”

Rosse’s blood ran cold.

Impossible. Impossible. The Queen was dead?

“Yanapo too,” replied the elf without a hint of emotion - not a speck of sorrow at the deaths of his monarch and king-consort.

“But how?! Balthazar promised he wouldn’t kill them!” Rosse shook with horror and betrayal, thoughts flitting through his mind on the inhuman actions of the angel.

The elf only shook his head. “Not Balthazar. Oland killed them.”

Again, Rosse’s blood ran cold.

“Yes. Oland the oathbreaker slaughtered them with his own hands.” Icoriol glared balefully at the chained Marquee. “And now he is dead, and king Balthazar reigns!”

King Balthazar. Rosse’s world was crumbling around him. His Queen was dead, his fellow Marquees were dead, his luxuries stripped from him and replaced by cold metal and cold stone. His dream of a magnificent future for his guild seemed farther and farther away. And all the while, that elf just stood there smirking!

Rosse hung his head in despair. “Is there no hope for the OTIA? Or even for that damnable Powder Guild?”

The elf shook his head. “Amaratos of Emerald Fronds has been placed on the Lawful Council, as have I.”

A glimmer of hope awoke within the Marquee that the elf noticed. With yet another insufferable smirk, Icoriol raised his arms into the air. “Rejoice, Marquee! All that you desire has been made. The king listens to the wishes of the guilds.”

Fueled by the first hope he had felt in days, Rosse closed his eyes and thought. Then, he addressed the elf. “Can I speak to Balthazar?”

The elf sneered, baring those inhuman teeth, eyes glimmering with amusement. “I don’t know, can you?” Turning his head to the soldier beside him, he tilted his head questioningly.

The soldier stepped forth. His metal armor shimmered and sparkled like a mirage, before fading away to reveal royal robes. His weapons and gear evaporated into jewels and his iron helm was replaced by a crown - the Ruby Crown that Rosse had seen many times on the head of his Queen. The grizzled face of a soldier fell away to reveal the face of Balthazar, king of Orthos.

Balthazar stepped forward, reaching out with his arm, and the Marquee was powerless to resist as he was grabbed by the neck and pinned against the wall, struggling to breathe. Even the emotionless elf seemed taken-aback, whispering softly to the Divine to ask for restraint.

Balthazar turned to Icoriol and whispered, “No.”

The Marquee Rosse felt a flash of white-hot pain, and then dark oblivion.

Icoriol wiped blood and bits of gore off his eyelids. “Really, Balthazar? I was so very close to convincing him!”

Balthazar turned impassionately, striding out of the room, his shoes stepping through puddles of blood. “He was a traitor.”

The elf followed, cursing. “He could have been useful to us. I could have gotten him to work for us again. Agh, do you know how hard it is to get gore out of feathers?!”

With one last whisper of cold breath, the tomb fell silent once more.