Mithras Atrelle Tethebrum, Light Bringer and Noctis’s holy sovereign, drank deep from a goblet of honey wine.
He drank so deeply, in fact, he nearly choked.
Mithras stifled a curse and rubbed his mouth, recoiling at the film of honey that clung to his tongue. The taste wasn’t unlike the rest of his tent—overpowering and miserable. Still rubbing his mouth, he eyed the walls of his tent, which were draped in gold-threaded tapestries and shiny artifacts from across his kingdom. It all stank. Reeked of Noctis’s finest, most cloying perfume.
Beyond his tent, his legionnaires were probably telling tales over roasted meat and mulled cider, relishing that their hunt was nearly through and their tents didn’t reek of perfume and honey wine. One more village, a swift ride to collect two Corrupt, and they’d travel with pride and glory back to Istralla, victorious.
He hated it all.
A throbbing in his temple—one, two —told him they were close and there might be others, too. No matter. He’d deal with that when they arrived.
He could sense the kingdom’s Corrupt as if they were festering wounds. It was his power and his curse. Knowledge of the Corrupted’s existence assaulted him in waves, pulling at his throat or pricking his chest the closer they were. A cursed gift, but one he carved his life around.
A gift he was worshiped for.
It was why he usually hid or disguised himself when making rounds to the villages, though that was becoming increasingly more difficult as of late.
He was contemplating ripping his tent into shreds when a hooded figure slipped into his tent, unannounced and unnoticed by his guards.
Mithras lifted his glass. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He added, mouth twisting into a scowl, “Or to whom?”
Theia, immortal Weaver of the Future, settled beside him, arranging her legs atop a velvet cushion. Pale as bone, with eyes and hair to match, she moved like a ghost formed to life.
A haunted woman indeed.
“Mithras,” she acknowledged, pouring herself a glass of his wine. Her eyes, luminous underneath her hood, found his. It unnerved him when she did that. It was as though she saw something in his soul that he could not. “Your tent is as golden and as gaudy as ever.”
“Mmm,” Mithras agreed, idly swirling the liquid in his own glass. The more he drank of it, the more sour it tasted. “Surely you didn’t come here just to insult my good taste.”
Theia frowned. “To business, then, if you prefer.”
He lifted his glass in a mock salute. “To business.”
“There is something telling in the air tonight. And it is not your legion’s roast pig,” she said, her gaze roaming to his tapestries as she took a drink. She gestured to the nearest tapestry, a depiction of the Seven’s banishment of the Shadow Bringer. Seven Weavers formed a ring around the Shadow Bringer’s broken body, sealing him with chains of light. At the center, shaping the final seal, was Mithras, clad in golden armor up to the ends of his golden hair.
“We are nearing five-hundred years. The tide is shifting, Light Bringer.”
“What have you seen?” Mithras asked, forgetting his goblet and leaning forward on his knees.
She stilled, considering him. “A girl, singing the song of one left to the dark. It is promising. Soon you will see her, and soon you will know.”
“He is restless. She will not be safe.”
Theia nodded, lips tightening. “But she will be his lock and his key. If you can manage just a bit longer, I’m certain we can—”
A sudden pain lanced through Mithras’s skull, doubling him over. It was a specific pain—one that spoke of death and hatred. It felt like shifting skies, the crush of bone under an iron fist, and the insufferable stench of something masking its rot. Theia caught the look in his eye, at the shifting of his expression.
She retreated quietly, tucking her face into her hood, and slipped into the night.
Alone in his tent, unseen, Mithras’s goblet slipped from his fingers. The last of the wine spilled out, yellow, sick, and slow.
He did not try to stop it.
