The Dread Mage.
Even those who had never laid eyes on Vellichor knew his name.
Now, he stood there, among the mourners and guests of a funeral of someone who wasn't supposed to die.
Qualtagh straightened, a flicker of something—respect, caution, or perhaps calculation—shadowing his otherwise calm face.
"I would have preferred your absence," he said. "You're neither as easy to control nor to kill as the others."
"Sometimes that's just the nature of things," Vell replied.
Sonder felt the air tighten around them.
"I have no quarrel with you," Qualtagh said. "You are a relic, Vell. Dangerous, yes. Revered, even, in some circles. But this is none of your business. The Kalandir need change."
Vell tilted his head. "Change can be made, sure—but is this truly what you want? You've stitched yourself together with dubious allies. Have you been pushed to do this under their guidance? Do you think yourself the tailor of your own fate?"
Qualtagh's jaw tightened.
"They only offered me assistance. They didn't force me from my path or put me on a new one. What I learned while working with them has lifted me above my kin. I speak not only as a claimant to the throne but as a new shape of elfhood."
Vell groaned, "Spare me the theology. You murdered your sister and struck a deal I suspect is going to cost you in the future. From what I'm seeing, you're nothing but a usurper."
Qualtagh flinched, just barely—but enough. The word usurper cut deeper than a blade.
The pale-helmed warriors behind Qualtagh shifted, forming a protective half-ring.
Then came another sound.
Not a voice, but a horn.
A single tone, long and low, vibrating through the crystal valley.
From the edge of the gathering, at the crystal platforms, a black banner unfurled when a new figure emerged.
Below it, stepping forward on a dark horse, came a being clothed in purple armor and robes with a white mask carved with seven eyes.
Vell's eyes narrowed. He was sure that it was one of the Irath, but he had never seen one like that before.
Was this one of the heralds he had before?
The Herald descended slowly, more sluggish and uncertain than any other Irath moved.
A miasma of fear rippled outward, not magical, but primal. The kind of fear that gnawed at the minds of even the Kalandir.
The herald's horse clopped heavily across the crystal platform, each step echoing like a drumbeat in the chests of those gathered. The white mask—expressionless, save for its seven unblinking eyes—tilted slightly, studying the assembled mourners.
No one spoke.
Not even Qualtagh.
Even his pale-helmed soldiers, for all their eerie confidence, took an involuntary step back as the Herald approached. The half-ring broke.
Sonder gripped Vell's sleeve. Something primal in her soul screamed out in fear.
The herald reined in its mount beside the queen's coffin. With one smooth, inhuman motion, it dismounted. The hem of its robe trailed across the ground.
It moved with no acknowledgment of Qualtagh. No sign of partnership. No indication of allegiance.
And what it did next shattered the illusion of order.
It broke Qualtagh's plan.