Triumph

[Sámiel]

Samóch

Bandar Eban, The 3rd Age

The grand estate sprawled on a hillside within the heart of Bandar Eban, its opulent halls shrouded in shadows as dusk settled upon the city. Figures hurried in and out, floating around a man in the center like leaves on a stream, emptying the estate of evidence of its former owner and filling it with the motif of its new one.

The man was average height with a face as pale as the moon and hair light as white-washed sand. He exuded an aura of dark sophistication, reflecting an inherently commanding presence and otherworldly nature. Tonight, he wore a doublet of purple and black split deep down the chest. The rich fabric was adorned with subtle brocade that caught the light in shifting patterns, a midnight cloak spilling behind as he walked. Around his neck, a pendant hung on a delicate silver chain, bearing a sinuous serpent coiled around a crescent moon. His name was Samóch, although in this city, he was known as Cassius Grimwood. 

The entrance hall opened before Samóch, its marble floors intricately patterned with interwoven designs of famed Domani tilework. A vaulted ceiling soared overhead, adorned with ornate frescoes that depicted scenes of battle heroes and mythical beings. Crystal chandeliers, like suspended stars, bathed the space in a warm, golden glow, their shimmering light dancing upon walls adorned with rich tapestries portraying tales of conquest and nobility.

Pressing onward, he emerged upon a balcony. As the fading sky cast a pink and purple glow over the meticulously manicured hedges and ornate fountains below, Samóch’s presence seemed to deepen the shadows around him. His dark cloak billowed softly as he descended the stairs, his steps making no sound against the stone steps as he moved.

High Lord Sivikawa, a Seanchan High Blood known for his ambition, ruthlessness, and being the distinguished guest of the King of Arad Doman acquired the property only hours before. The gold traded hands and the contracts signed almost the minute following the ceremony in Arandi Square legalizing the Seanchan’s opportunity to purchase land. As he continued his approach, the shadows seemed to dance and whisper, the fading view of the sea bearing witness to the dark pact forged behind these walls. It was Samóch’s recommendation that the High Lord select this particular estate, previously owned by a wealthy member of the Council of Merchants. The Seanchan erroneously thought to sweep the grounds of a nobleman into his grasp, but unlike every other nation, money was more powerful than blood in Arad Doman, as Cassian gently explained over the preceding weeks.

Lord Sivikawa awaited him in the main courtyard surrounded by a retinue of his servants and, of course, his Voice. His broad shoulders were adorned with the crimson and gold regalia of his station, his stern expression betraying no hint of uncertainty at Samóch’s presence yet the understanding between them was an unspoken shadow. Samóch bowed deeply before the High Lord, but as he did, his pale eyes fixed upon Sivikawa, peering into his heart with an unwavering gaze. He held them as he spoke softly, even as the Voice was the one to return the speech.

“My Lord, congratulations on your victory today.”

Sivikawa's lips twitched, a faint smile appearing as he assessed the advisor before him. “The treaty. Greatness indeed.”

“I am summoned on another errand this night and will take my leave of you for the time being.” Samóch’s voice was smooth as the flagstones around them, gentle as a stream. Yet there was a whisper of understanding between the two men. He would make the effort to defer and the Seanchan would make the effort to accept.

Sivikawa's eyes narrowed, suspicion mingling with expectation. “I desire your presence tomorrow.”

“Then you shall have it.”

Admiring the gardens around them, Samóch’s smile grew darker, more predatory. “Enjoy your triumph, My Lord.”

As he turned to leave, a low growl rumbled from an iron cage. Attention captured, Samóch approached with no sign of apprehension and all the tranquility of his usual, eerie grace. As he walked, High Lord Sivikawa observed. Within it, snarling and pacing, was a small creature, a captured raken, one of the fearsome beasts used by the Seanchan as mounts once full grown. As Samóch extended his hand towards the bars, the raken's growls seemed to still, its eyes locking onto his with a mix of curiosity and understanding.

A slow, cold smile spread across Samóch’s lips as he met the creature's gaze. His voice, like a whisper of the wind carrying ancient secrets, filled the air. "Hear me,” he said.

It was the Voice who answered.

“It is a hatchling newly weened.”

“An impressive pet.” As he withdrew his hand, the creature returned to its previous state.

“It’s not a pet,” the Voice corrected as Samóch understood all too well.

“You should name it Blackthorne.”

“Animals are not given names.”

“It’s only a suggestion,” he mused.

By the time Samóch took his leave and strode through the streets, moonlight dappled his path. It was into a seemingly night-darkened candle shop that he entered.

Pushing the door open, a tinkling bell announced his arrival, and the shop's keeper looked up from his work. "Welcome, traveler. How can I assist you today?"

Samóch’s empty eyes swept over the array of candles, each flickering with a unique energy. He approached one with an intricate design. As he touched the wick, the candle's flame surged higher, casting an otherworldly glow across his features.
"I seek a candle of shadows. One that will not hold the light,” Samóch intoned softly, his gaze locked onto the shopkeeper's.

The shopkeeper gasped and suddenly hurried from the room, ushering him to follow.

There, he observed a wretched scene, the deformed and ghastly figure of Hessalam. As Samóch crossed the threshold, she shrank before him, gasping and crawling to his feet with a pitiable desperation. A sneer curled Samóch's lips, and he sidestepped her, keeping his distance to preserve the immaculateness of his attire. Yet, as her misshapen eyes met his, a glint within those grotesque orbs caught his attention, and he knelt, his fingers gently lifting her chin peering into the soul behind her mask.

"Demotion awaits you," he murmured, the news slipping like venom from his lips. And in the next breath, he dismissed her, stepping away with deliberate intent.

But another presence awaited his attention. One he had not failed to notice upon his arrival, the newly chosen servant of the Great Lord.

"Sylvena," his regard held a blend of curiosity and recognition, probing the depths of her being to fathom the source of her newfound elevation. In the weight of his scrutiny, she held her bearing steady, her chin lifted in defiant resolve. "I am Samóch."

Sylvena's reverence was evident, a respect for his inscrutable power, but her pride remained unyielding, a testament to her own strength and convictions.

"I am here to summon you both," he declared, his voice carrying a command that echoed with the authority of shadows and ages past, and his slender fingers grasped the amulet dangling from his neck as he channeled the One Power to his grasp.