10-14-2025, 07:58 PM
“Yes,” Samóch said softly as the gateway snapped shut behind him, the air whispering with its departure. “I did enjoy that.”
And a part of him had. Watching Ashtaroth writhe on the spikes had scratched a very specific itch.
Still, the practical corner of his mind had believed the fool might actually accept the deal. Wouldn’t that have been simpler? Cleaner? Ashtaroth was skilled, no doubt. A perfect illusionist. A perfect tool.
But he had refused. And while Samóch wasn’t surprised, he was disappointed.
The easier path is rarely the one you get to walk, he reminded himself. But there are always forks. Hence the sudden jump across the world
The first thing he noticed was the cold.
Samóch was never quite warm to begin with. Even the blazing beaches of Arad Doman barely registered as discomfort. But here, the wind cut through his clothes like teeth, and the darkness was thick, soaked into the stones like mildew. He buttoned his coat high, tightening the buckles. Each clasp snapped shut.
The keep loomed in the distance, slits glowing faintly like the eyes of a slumbering beast. The gates were drawn high. At night, in the Borderlands, even a king couldn’t bribe them open. Not with gold, armies, or honeyed words. So he took the slower route.
A raven. Old-fashioned. Impersonal. But effective.
![[Image: SamochForsaken.jpg?strip=info&w=604&ssl=1]](https://i0.wp.com/thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/SamochForsaken.jpg?strip=info&w=604&ssl=1)
![[Image: Ravi3A-1024x732.jpg?strip=info&w=1200]](https://i0.wp.com/thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/Ravi3A-1024x732.jpg?strip=info&w=1200)
Unlike Ashtaroth, Raviel did not keep him waiting.
He arrived at a crossroads outside the fortress wall. He could sense no trollocs in the area, but that did not mean there were not other of the Great Lord’s servants nearby. Samóch stood still, watching his breath curl into the darkness like smoke, unconcerned about such dangers.
“Your bird shit on my window,” Raviel announced, voice dry.
“At least it got there,” Samóch replied, stepping forward. “Rats are slower.”
“Mm. So you’re in a hurry.”
Samóch didn’t answer. He just watched the other man.
Raviel was unchanged: arrogant, perfectly groomed, wrapped in fur and jewels with a prince’s ease. While Ashtaroth wore his immortality like a joke, Raviel wore his like a crown. Regal. Vain. Absurd.
Samóch hated him for it.
“What do you want?” Raviel asked, not unkindly. Just bored.
“I need an illusion.”
Raviel laughed. A full, throaty laugh that scraped at Samóch’s nerves. The sound echoed against the road.
Samóch inhaled slowly. Counted to five. His nostrils flared, just once.
“You went to Ashtaroth,” Raviel said, folding his arms. “And he refused you.”
“Yes.”
“So now you come to me. Second best.”
Samóch didn’t answer immediately. The wrong tone here would send Raviel walking. And if Raviel walked, the plan unraveled completely.
“I need to pass for King Daryen of Arad Doman. You’ve seen enough of him. You can manage it, surely.”
Raviel’s face changed. Not much. But enough.
“Daryen,” he repeated. His voice had sharpened as if he might spit.
Samóch pressed. “I thought you’d appreciate the opportunity for revenge. Come with me and I’ll show you what’s become of him. I think you’ll find it… satisfying.”
Raviel’s silence was thoughtful. Then, after a few moments’ consideration, he extended a gloved hand. They clasped wrists, and the deal was struck.
His illusions were passable for courtiers, servants, soldiers. The dull-eyed faithful. But Daryen’s inner circle would require distance. Deflection. Charm. And just enough compulsion to blur the edges of doubt.
Samóch could work with that, even if it wasn’t ideal.
He told Raviel where Daryen was kept: still bound beneath the E’eve. It would be up to Raviel to catch the necessary glimpse if wanted satisfaction. Slipping into the High Lord’s estate should be easy enough for him.
Until then, Raviel moved through the palace like a shadow that didn’t bother pretending to hide. Everyone he passed was touched softly at first, like a breeze. A little nudge here, a forgotten question there. Compulsion was Raviel’s art, though few truly acknowledged him for it.
While he walked, Samóch lay in Daryen’s bed, wrapped in illusion, every breath synchronized to the real king’s body.
Come dawn, the King of Arad Doman would awaken. His face calm, his voice steady, his eyes full of resolve.
And none would know the difference.
Still.
As he lay there in the darkness, the silk sheets against his skin, a thread of unease coiled in his belly like a nest of worms.
If Raviel failed… if he left… if the illusion cracked… He’d have to face the Nae’blis with nothing but excuses. And he did not forgive failure.
And a part of him had. Watching Ashtaroth writhe on the spikes had scratched a very specific itch.
Still, the practical corner of his mind had believed the fool might actually accept the deal. Wouldn’t that have been simpler? Cleaner? Ashtaroth was skilled, no doubt. A perfect illusionist. A perfect tool.
But he had refused. And while Samóch wasn’t surprised, he was disappointed.
The easier path is rarely the one you get to walk, he reminded himself. But there are always forks. Hence the sudden jump across the world
+++
The first thing he noticed was the cold.
Samóch was never quite warm to begin with. Even the blazing beaches of Arad Doman barely registered as discomfort. But here, the wind cut through his clothes like teeth, and the darkness was thick, soaked into the stones like mildew. He buttoned his coat high, tightening the buckles. Each clasp snapped shut.
The keep loomed in the distance, slits glowing faintly like the eyes of a slumbering beast. The gates were drawn high. At night, in the Borderlands, even a king couldn’t bribe them open. Not with gold, armies, or honeyed words. So he took the slower route.
A raven. Old-fashioned. Impersonal. But effective.
+++
Unlike Ashtaroth, Raviel did not keep him waiting.
He arrived at a crossroads outside the fortress wall. He could sense no trollocs in the area, but that did not mean there were not other of the Great Lord’s servants nearby. Samóch stood still, watching his breath curl into the darkness like smoke, unconcerned about such dangers.
“Your bird shit on my window,” Raviel announced, voice dry.
“At least it got there,” Samóch replied, stepping forward. “Rats are slower.”
“Mm. So you’re in a hurry.”
Samóch didn’t answer. He just watched the other man.
Raviel was unchanged: arrogant, perfectly groomed, wrapped in fur and jewels with a prince’s ease. While Ashtaroth wore his immortality like a joke, Raviel wore his like a crown. Regal. Vain. Absurd.
Samóch hated him for it.
“What do you want?” Raviel asked, not unkindly. Just bored.
“I need an illusion.”
Raviel laughed. A full, throaty laugh that scraped at Samóch’s nerves. The sound echoed against the road.
Samóch inhaled slowly. Counted to five. His nostrils flared, just once.
“You went to Ashtaroth,” Raviel said, folding his arms. “And he refused you.”
“Yes.”
“So now you come to me. Second best.”
Samóch didn’t answer immediately. The wrong tone here would send Raviel walking. And if Raviel walked, the plan unraveled completely.
“I need to pass for King Daryen of Arad Doman. You’ve seen enough of him. You can manage it, surely.”
Raviel’s face changed. Not much. But enough.
“Daryen,” he repeated. His voice had sharpened as if he might spit.
Samóch pressed. “I thought you’d appreciate the opportunity for revenge. Come with me and I’ll show you what’s become of him. I think you’ll find it… satisfying.”
Raviel’s silence was thoughtful. Then, after a few moments’ consideration, he extended a gloved hand. They clasped wrists, and the deal was struck.
+++
His illusions were passable for courtiers, servants, soldiers. The dull-eyed faithful. But Daryen’s inner circle would require distance. Deflection. Charm. And just enough compulsion to blur the edges of doubt.
Samóch could work with that, even if it wasn’t ideal.
He told Raviel where Daryen was kept: still bound beneath the E’eve. It would be up to Raviel to catch the necessary glimpse if wanted satisfaction. Slipping into the High Lord’s estate should be easy enough for him.
Until then, Raviel moved through the palace like a shadow that didn’t bother pretending to hide. Everyone he passed was touched softly at first, like a breeze. A little nudge here, a forgotten question there. Compulsion was Raviel’s art, though few truly acknowledged him for it.
While he walked, Samóch lay in Daryen’s bed, wrapped in illusion, every breath synchronized to the real king’s body.
Come dawn, the King of Arad Doman would awaken. His face calm, his voice steady, his eyes full of resolve.
And none would know the difference.
Still.
As he lay there in the darkness, the silk sheets against his skin, a thread of unease coiled in his belly like a nest of worms.
If Raviel failed… if he left… if the illusion cracked… He’d have to face the Nae’blis with nothing but excuses. And he did not forgive failure.