CYRDEL SONASSON IS AFRAID. When cannons and flintlocks open-fired on the pacifist territory, Alkara, signaling an invasion by Synketros, he is left with no choice but to watch destruction grip more than he is ready to let go. With his fiance and her...
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2412, Iclis 1, Daleth
Cyrdel awoke to voices. His mind lurched with the jumble of memories that came rushing back. Right. His parents died in front of him while saving him. Why? Synketros open-fired on Alkara. Elshire was too far and too occupied to help. Edgerift, instead of prosecuting such crimes against the pacifist territory, was uncharacteristically silent, allowing the Sovereign and the Heiress to move without shame across the island.
He saw Ravalee and Airene for a short time. He was sure a wagon and some tarp were involved—what was that about?—and now, he's back in Depandes, with at least a thousand voices for company.
His hand snaked up to a sore spot in his neck. A little harder and whoever hit him might have broken his neck. What did they strike him with? And what for? It's not like he'd bother fighting them off. Not when it was clear what the outcome would be.
Staying away from war didn't mean it'd shy away from them in return. That had been their weakness. In their aim to preserve tradition—the one their ancestors left them—they have brought doom earlier. Their ancestors must have smoked oshella on the side. This was war. No one would be safe, and choosing not to fight didn't mean something noble or righteous.
It just meant cowardice.
In a way, Cyrdel deserved every bitter dish handed to him. He brought it upon himself and his people.
A chain clinked nearby. He lowered his gaze to find a metal hewn out of lesium around his shoulders. He could never mistake that deep purple sheen anywhere. This was mined deep in Rabante. How in the world was the Sovereign able to procure so many in a short time? Moreover, how much did she know about the results of the Alkaran siege so as to prepare every bit of necessities?
He yanked at the chains but it came up short. A wall. He was chained to a wall like a damned creature bound for slaughter. His analytical mind attempted to look into the mechanism of the lock—maybe he could crack it open when no one was looking—and found he couldn't. The instant understanding he sported for all things mechanical was replaced with nothing but confusion. Was this how everyone else felt when looking at machinery? He forgot the names, what they did, and how they fit into the system. He discovered that, in fact, he knew nothing at all.
And it couldn't have been all the blood in his recent memory.
Lesium blocked magic—all kinds of it—from manifesting in any Umazuran form. It cuts a person off from the abundance of magic in the air, preventing them from performing something as simple as a barrier spell. While it worked as a temporary disabler and containment measure, prolonged usage would deteriorate the captive. Fairies, after all, couldn't survive without magic.
He wouldn't past the Sovereign to know that information but still using lesium anyway. To her, everyone was simply a means to an end. Her intended end. They were merely prices to pay, lives to gamble. She would claim she's playing a bigger game, reducing everything Cyrdel and his people stand for to just playing sticks.
