—Scene 38— No Use Crying Over Spilled Soup

Mayor Aurex unlocked the front door of his home to be greeted by the aroma of his latest attempt at dinner. The manor smelled of boiling bones and herbs—harpy stew, simmering quietly over a low flame. He hoped it covered the stench of last night's visit.

'The inquisition of the four horsemen' he thought, imagining the apocalypse announced by Sol soldiers at his courtyard.

 His footsteps on his bare wood floor felt wrong.

'I'll have to find a new rug soon.'

He stirred the pot slowly, eyes fixed on the stew—anything to avoid the unwavering stare of the bright-eyed soldier that followed in his footsteps. With a curt gesture, he invited Sir Christian to sit by the hearth. The young man tried not to look confused or lost. The mayor, for his part, did his best not to look guilty.

The soldier's arrival was expected. The trogs hadn't returned from their night excursion. Someone was going to ask questions. He just hadn't expected them to arrive while the town was still nailing up shutters and bracing for the fallout.

Sir Christian had ordered his men to assist with the town's fortifications while he spoke to the "Grand Master" privately. A gesture Tiber appreciated, if only slightly.

'At least I won't have to worry about an attack by the four horsemen.' he thought wryly.

This was his first visitor from the Church since his death. He hoped it would be the last.

"Grand Master Aurex–" 

Tiber held up a hand, sighing as he cut off the formality before it could fully leave the boy's mouth.

He dropped the lid back on the pot with a clatter and hung the ladle on its hook by the fire.

"Officially," he began, dry as bone, "Grand Master Tiber Aurex died fifteen years ago in a doomed campaign east of the Ridge."

His voice didn't waver as he recited the report of his death. "The horse was found. The body was not. There was a funeral. There were songs."

He turned, eyes sharp beneath the weight of age.

"I go by Mayor Aurex now. Please address me as such."

It was easier that way. For everyone. Especially the Church.

Christian blinked, trying to recalibrate. "I… don't understand, Grand—excuse me, Mayor Aurex."

Tiber exhaled a long breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a groan.

"And under the Light of the Sun, you will never have to understand, young man." He crossed the room, grabbing two silver cups from the shelf. He filled one with water, the other with something stronger from an unlabeled bottle.

Tiber knew what the visit would be about and wasn't going to hide his involvement under the farce of his former titles. 

"Now," he said, holding the two drinks to Christian, "Tell me. Do I owe the pleasure of your company to a stroke of luck... or is it duty that brings shadows of my former glory to my hearth?"

Christian stared at the drinks. His eyes flicked to the stew, to the boots by the door, to the weapon collection on the wall.

"I've come with questions," he said finally. "About the creatures that attacked my men."

Tiber slid the cup of water toward the young inquisitor and downed the other drink before having a seat.

"May the Light forgive me," he muttered. "The troglodytes didn't cause your men too much trouble I presume? I'm sure they were easily disposed of, yes?" 

Christian's face darkened. His hands folded tightly over his thighs as his eyes searched for the right way to respond.

He didn't speak. Not yet.

Recollecting the night's events.

'Poor boy.'  

He'd worn that expression himself, once—after his first campaign. And after his last. Tiber was no stranger to the weight of duty and the loss that comes with it. He could tell that neither was Christian.

He reached forward, plucked the untouched water from the table, and poured it over the hearth. The flame hissed in protest but kept burning– steam floating up to the beams of the house. 

Then he refilled both silver cups generously with the contents of the unlabeled bottle and handed one to the soldier.

"Drink." 

Christian obeyed. He took a healthy gulp—as if it were water—and set the cup down with a soft thud.

'The boy can handle his liquor at least.' he chuckled inwardly.

"We lost more than I'm proud to say," he clenched the cup as if to take another swig but held on to it before continuing. "They ambushed us at night. Taking out fifty-one of our men." 

Tiber waited patiently. 

Christian's breath grew labored as he found the strength to talk again.

"Had Lord Haart not taken my council of security so lightly— or If I had stayed instead of chasing fantasies I'm sure I could've prevented so much needless loss. Franklin, James, Hadrian…" He trailed off. "If I had just–" 

"Enough!" The word boomed as if a cannon was shot through the room.

The old soldier in Tiber rose with it—reflexively. Not out of cruelty, but to steady the younger man before the guilt swallowed him whole.

Christian flinched. He didn't argue.

The old veteran had long since learned to carry his guilt. Nevertheless it hurt just the same as the first time he lost his own men.

Christian stared into his drink as if considering his next words. Watching the faces of the befallen ripple through his drink

"What in Heaven's Light," he said softly, "was the point of last night's massacre?"

Tiber looked down at his hands.

The question hung in the room like incense from a burned-out altar.

'What was the point?"

Grand Master Tiber Aurex used to ask himself that after every campaign, after every pyrrhic victory, after every child burned in the name of absolution.

Before he knew it, his hands were lined with scars he didn't remember earning, and his prayers had become bargaining chips with doctrines he no longer trusted.

Redemption, he had learned, was not something he was owed.

Not after what he saw. Not after what he did.

It had to be earned—slowly, painfully, with every day he didn't pick up a sword.

He looked back up.

Sir Christian set down his cup, hands still trembling—not from the liquor, but from something deeper. A question still burned behind his eyes, and Tiber knew it before the boy spoke.

Tiber unclenched his own. He hadn't realized how tight he was gripping it

"You knew," Christian said quietly. "You knew about the troglodytes. You didn't warn us."

Tiber didn't answer right away. He stood, walked to the stew, and gave it another stir. The harpy bone clacked against the pot like a warning bell.

"I did," he said. Calm. Steady.

Christian rose from his chair, slower this time—his thigh still not fully healed. "You let good men die."

Tiber turned, ladle still in hand.

"And you think I haven't?"

That silenced him. For now.

Tiber set the ladle down again, this time with more care. He walked towards his bookshelf and grabbed the binder of the first volume of The Divine Text– one the many books that he collected throughout his lifetime. He met the young soldier's eyes as he handed him the book and recited the opening line of the sacred tome.

"The Lord made unto Man, Laws unto how he should guide his fellow creature to divine harmony. For only then will man's soul be humbled in preparation to accept the Lord's divinity." he walked behind Christian towards his collection that adorned his wall. "I'm sure you've heard this line more times than you can count."

The weight of the book felt heavy under Sir Christain's grip. Christian watched him from his seat, waiting for a reason—something clean to cling to.

"That line still haunts me to this day," he grabbed a sabre from the wall, admiring the light that reflected off the metal. Its weight natural under his command as he walked through stances embedded in memory of muscle and blood. "How does it feel to 'guide' your fellow creatures at sword point Christian?"

"Guide?" Christian's voice was tight "You consort with wicked creatures and speak to me of guidance?" he rose from his chair to confront the armed veteran, wincing at the pain that came along with using his injured leg.

"I call it harmony," Tiber snapped. "And I'll tell you something else, boy. It isn't the trogs that you should be focused on but the lack of harmony in your ranks."

Christian froze.

Tiber stepped forward.

"I won't deny that I trained the trog commander but by the Light of the Divine I also know its forces shouldn't have been enough to overtake a hundred trained Sol soldiers!" He understated Shakti's strength but he figured the Sol soldier didn't need to know what he was up against. In truth Tiber expected more casualties than reported to him.

Christian looked away, ashamed and furious all at once.

He was a mere child under the scrutiny of Tiber Aurex. The interrogation was becoming more one sided the longer it went– and not in Sir Christian's favor.

"I buried the armor you wear with the friends who bled beside me. And some days… I wonder if I was just too much a coward to wear it again." Tiber exhaled, remembering that he was once that naive, that innocent– believing faith was all he needed to walk the path of the Divine. He decided to turn the heat down, the child didn't deserve the frustration Tiber felt for his own hubris.

"Tell me. Did you meet Shakti? The trog commander." He sat back down and poured himself a drink, taking a sip as he waited for a response.

Christian clenched the side of his chair and barely shook his head in response.

 'I expected you to make a bigger impression than that Shakti' He chuckled to himself, a low, tired sound.

"Back then," Tiber added, "it didn't even speak our tongue. That was the first hurdle. Teaching language to something that never needed it. But it learned– barely but it learned. And it listened. Asked questions."

Christian didn't interrupt. He stood as still as a statue, listening.

"Once it learned to speak, it made itself clear what it wanted," He gave a bitter smile. "Power. It wanted power." A hint of pride echoed behind his laughter as he re-lived that moment.

"It isn't a humble creature, but its honesty is more than I can say for most Lords and Saints I once knew," He smiled as he spun the contents of his cup in small circles. "It was refreshing to talk to something– someone so simple." 

Aurex could feel the liquor loosening his tongue and poured himself some more.

"Sit boy, I'm not your enemy," He poured his guest another cup as Christian sat back down. "Neither am I an ally." Tiber didn't mean to say the last part out loud but didn't regret it.

The truth was Sir Christians innocence and pious nature won the old Grand Master's admiration from the moment they met. He knew the boy as well as he knew himself and felt no need to filter his words– especially after a few drinks.

'It's not everyday I get to drink with a spitting image of my former shame'

"They let me go quietly," he said, voice level, almost conversational. "The Church that is, in exchange for my silence. A grave was cheaper than a trial. I was allowed to take the people who worked my estates, though the estates themselves went to the State."

He waved a hand lazily at the room around them.

"And now I live here. By the sea. A town of twenty-four families. Three horses. One bridge. No ambition." He felt himself rambling. "Five horses yesterday but that's the price of doing business with the greedy." 

Yet he couldn't help himself as he stared into Sir Christians eyes. Recounting all the setbacks and triumphs he experienced while on his small peninsula– away from the constant contradiction that was his former life.

Sir Christian was captivated as he sat across from a living legend. A man he admired all his life, the man he trained himself to become. 

"I had my doubts," Tiber said, softer now. "Yet Shakti and its kind never touched a human. Not once. Not if they were fed. That was our arrangement. Food for our safety. They left us alone." 

Tiber gestured toward the window, where the sea stretched beyond the hills. The skerry was clearly visible from where they sat.

"I saw them. One evening. Harpies—circling two young girls in the prairie. The town attempted to fight, yes. But they didn't see the rest of the flock—hiding, waiting." Tiber took another gulp from his cup.

"It would've been a massacre. But Shakti was nearby. It tore through them like fire through straw." The mayor stared off into distant memories that seemed closer in his mind.

"Shakti's spawn now guard the town's edges. Adorned in ribbons. Horsehair wigs. Old dresses. Trogs dressed as girls, stationed by the coast and mines." Christian's face twisted— disbelief mingling with the desire to laugh at the image.

"The harpies can't tell the difference," Tiber said. "And now even they show restraint. They circle. They watch. And Shakti, bless it, still protects my people."

He hesitated for a moment. "Then came along Damacon." The name came out drenched in venom.

A long pause sat between them as Tiber's face contorted at the thoughts that followed. 

"From the look on your face I'm sure you met this slimy villain." Sir Christian pressed his cup against his lips.

"It wanted to trade. Trade became work. Work became its schemes. Before I knew it, Damacon was destroying the balance I built here single handedly." Tiber's hand found the bottle too readily for his liking.

"My people were safe," he said. "Not by the sword. Not by law. But by understanding. Or cowardice– I'm not sure which anymore."

Christian finally found his voice.

"You made yourself their servant." Christian said through clenched teeth, standing firm despite the tremble in his limbs.

"I made my fellow creatures useful," Tiber corrected. "Which is more than I can say for most."

Christian clenched his fists.

"They butchered my men."

"Because someone," Tiber said, voice sharp, "thought he could create divine harmony without raising a sword." 

He saw the recognition in Christian's eyes before drinking and pouring himself more.

Tiber nodded once.

"The Sun burns, boy. It scars. It doesn't care for our sense of justice."

Christian's jaw clenched. His breath trembled, but he said nothing.

"You want justice," he said, "but I want order. You want meaning. I want my people alive tomorrow."

He picked up Christian's cup and poured the last of the bottle for his guest.

"Now sit down. And drink. Because tomorrow, we're going to wake up with the same demons that tormented us the day before." Mayor Tiber forced the cup into the boy's hand and held out his own towards Chirstian– it's content spilling a bit from the movement of the outreached arm. 

Aurex waited a moment for Christian to meet his cup half way before impatiently tapping his cup with Christians.

"So why don't you tell me what sort of demons seem to be chasing you?"