Completed A Conversation through Bars

Trajan Meng

An Old Soldier
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The death of a dream is a terrible thing to endure.

Yet Trajan found himself suffering this very fate. Here now in a jail within Alliria, not the prison wherein he was certain to go, but mingled in with the drunks and louts and minor offenders and those likewise awaiting conviction, separated only by the iron bars which comprised the cramped confines of each individual cell and their accompanying doors.

His failures, those known and those unknown, had compounded to such an extent to bring him to this moment. His attack upon the traitorous College of Elbion, surreptitiously alongside the pyromancer Maho "Jerik" Sparhawk, had ended in disaster. Yet even before that, the Luminari and his fellow believers suffered the loss of the Supersledge and the powerful magical catalyst known only as The Vicar. There were some victories: his success in the Pandemonium Crisis, recruiting Aiofe in the healer, and deposing the orcish warlord Gromagg Ur with Madame Valkery. But these did not balance the scales in his favor.

It was during the preparation for his darkest operari, which he referred to simply as "Brightfield," that what little fortune remaining with him had dried to sand and fell from his palm. Feeling pushed to such an extreme as perpetrating a terrible and deadly false flag action here in Alliria, it had proved to be his downfall. Two xenos (Heike Eisen, a vampire, and Szesh, a Draconian) had felled six of his most devoted and loyal men and taken him prisoner.

Those six men were also the only members of the Luminari who knew what Trajan was doing. Where he was. Now, no one--so far as Trajan was aware--knew.

And it was worse still. Unbeknownst to Trajan, one of his most efficacious and core believers, Clarissa Mejeure, was missing, whereabouts unknown to anyone--much like his own current predicament. Worst of all, Trajan did not know the great schism that was happening within the Luminari: the shadowy formation of the Luminari Purists.

In ways he knew and ways he did not, his world and his dream were both crumbling around him.

* * * * *​

Trajan sat in his small cell. A man diminished, for his burned legs had only been tended to enough such that he was not writhing in insurmountable agony. He wore only the garb provided to him by the guards: a rough cloth tunic, very much akin to a potato sack.

He had not told Captain Bronmarch nor any of the guards his name, what he was truly doing in Rennegast's tower, nothing. When he spoke to them, he said only, "Everything I do, I do for my fellow Man." And he knew that within some weeks' time, he would be transferred into the custody of the city of Elbion.

Yet now, someone was trying to get his attention.

A guard. Another man or woman jailed, speaking through the bars. A visitor, for such was allowed briefly within the jail. A xeno, even. Any of these, potentially.

And Trajan looked up and at the person who hailed him. Wondering what it was they wished from him. Wondering, also, if perhaps it was time for a reckoning of sorts.
 
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If you asked the citizens of any major city about the Dreadlords, they would likely tell you one of only a few stories. Dreadlords were powerful and valiant protectors of Vel Anir, a testament to its strength and purity, would say the Anirian populace. Dreadlords were brutal, destructive battlemages interested only in power, would be the tale you'd hear from an Elbion scholar. If you asked any king or noble, they would tell you that Dreadlords were the perfect tool: strong, unyielding, and unquestioning.

In reality, the duties of a Dreadlord were often dreadfully, painfully boring. Especially a Dreadlord sworn to the Royal House Anireth. The king was a figurehead, stripped of his power by the seven noble houses long ago and left in place only to be a symbol for the ignorant masses to follow. As one of the King's elite soldiers, Yrael often had very little to do.

Being part of an inconsequential house had its perks, however. Yrael rarely needed to worry about how his actions might affect the Royal House, nor did he need fear much retribution if he should step a toe out of line. The seven ruling houses kept an eye on the king to ensure he stayed out of trouble, but in general their attention was turned firmly on one another, and Yrael was able to move beneath their gaze.

He was grateful for that anonymity now. Yrael had needed to get out of Vel Anir and clear his head. Recent events had concerned him and made it very clear that his power was not where he needed it to be. Strong as he was, the other houses held legions of Dreadlords of equal or greater strenght. Some of the ruling nobles themselves appeared to have magical strength, and if he were ever to fulfill his goal of reuniting the city beneath a single banner he would need to work very hard indeed.

In an effort to accelerate his progress, Yrael had turned to the works of a rather obscure and ancient wizard. Few of his texts survived, and they were heretical at best, but they held the promise of power. Unfortunately, his attempts to retrieve one of the only known copies from Elbion's archives was unsuccessful. The maesters were threatened by it, so it seemed, and had it kept under lock and key. Elbion was no easy place to infiltrate, and so he had left emptyhanded.

Naturally, when he overheard a pair of Captain Bronmarch's soldiers discussing their latest prisoner, he was intrigued. It did not take long to acquire one of the old bounty notices that detailed the theft of not one but three extremely powerful magical artifacts from the college itself. Artifacts that had found their way into a tower, and vanished yet again. A tower that had seen all of its residents slaughtered save one man. Yrael made up his mind on the spot to speak with this criminal at once.

He did not wear his official armor or crests, that would be foolish. Yrael traveled unmarked, although not completely without class. He wore a thin, dark blue cloak over fine Anirian clothes. They were dyed in deep purples and silver, and they complimented his violet eyes quite well. The dark colors would not draw unwanted attention, but he saw no reason to dress beneath his station.

He stood now before Trajan's cell and spoke to him plainly.

"Wanted: Three artifacts taken from Elbion College," he recited off of a crumpled bounty paper. "Found missing, believed stolen. Presumed en route to Allir Reach or The Steppes. Very dangerous. Reward..." he looked up at the broken man in the cell and raised a single eyebrow. "...sizeable."

He folded the paper and returned it to a pocket in his shirt. Yrael was not one to dawdle. The constant bickering of the seven houses saw that nothing truly got done, and it would be one of the first welcome changes to Vel Anir should the dreadlord get his way.

"I believe you were involved in the theft of these items from Elbion, or can tell me the name of who was. Is my belief correct?"
 
A man. Unremarkable in his garb but remarkable in what he said. He knew as much as the guards of the jail did about him, but the stark fact that this unknown man did have some reason to hold his spoken belief was a concern most curious to Trajan; it wasn't as if the jail guards were going around informing the citizenry of Alliria.

Was this man in the dark blue cloak from the traitorous College? As far as Trajan was aware, the delegation from Elbion was still en route.

Trajan glanced to his left and right first, through the bars of his cell and into the other cells crammed adjacent. None of the other jailed men seemed interested at all; they either maintained their own quiet conversations with other jailed men, or lounged about the confines of their cramped cells. Visitors were of little to no significance here, as opposed to permanent prison.

Trajan looked back to Blue Cloak. Stayed seated on the floor of his cell. But he felt himself relenting, for what else did he have to lose? He would not openly admit to anything or tell of the Luminari's involvement (oh how Trajan feared that all the work done to garner a positive reputation was now or would soon be dashed), but he resolved to indulge the stranger in a hypothetical.

"Suppose that it was. What would you say next?"

Yrael
 
Yrael never smiled. His face was young, but usually rested like stone aside from the odd minor movement here and there. His mind didn't seem to care much about feelings, and it certainly cared even less about showing them. The present reality was what concerned him, the facts and figures that dictated it and that determined his next actions. How his actions would in turn affect that reality, and the cascade went on and on.

In this moment, a prisoner could help him achieve his goal, and so this is the course of action that would be pursued. Prisoners were of limited types: those that professed innocence and those that did not. Of those that did not, they were usually either prideful or remorseful. This man had not revealed which sort of prisoner he was. Smart. Yrael could respect that strategy.

"If it were true, I would say that you have a choice. You may tell me what I wish to know willingly, or you may refuse. I will learn the truth one way or another, but it would be in your best interest to cooperate." If Trajan were paying attention, he may notice that there were no sounds of guards nearby.

"I am in a unique position to help you, if you first help me." Yrael did not move, but there was a sudden loud metallic click as the mechanism within the cell door's lock was firmly turned by an invisible hand. It swung lazily inwards by a few inches, the hinges groaning as it did so.
 
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Still, Trajan sat on the floor of his cell. Watched with skepticism as the barred door swung open by those tempting few inches. The loud click caught the attention of at least two other jailed men, coincidentally the men through the bars on Trajan's left and right. One stood up with a look of hope in his eyes, the other actually seemed frightened and mumbled to himself, "What the fu...?" before stumbling back into the stone of his cell's rear wall.

Trajan's eyes shifted back from the movement of the cell door to Blue Cloak. What was his game? It had been some time since the last patrol of guards came through the jail, but that didn't mean there was not some contingent of them lurking around a corner. Say that this man was conspiring with them? Attempting to extract information for Elbion or the College in particular or even just for that captain...Bronmarch was his name.

Was it possible that he was aware--to some degree--of the Luminari's dark side? Trajan did not know. But he could not allow for his own interests to endanger the Luminari as a whole. Even if his suffering was witnessed by none of his fellow believers, still he had to live with integrity, conviction, principle. The only witness duty required was one's own heart.

Trajan said to the younger man, "What is your name, son?"

Yrael
 
Yrael did not look at the other prisoners, he did not care about them. He didn't particularly care about this jail or these jailers, either. The only thing in this compound that truly interested him was Trajan and the progress he could potentially grant.

The older man did not move as the door was unlocked. He had discipline and was not desperate to escape. Again, qualities to be respected, but his interest had clearly been piqued.

"My name is reserved for those who are useful to me," he said softly. Though the sentence was harsh, his tone was not. "I understand that some men find it easier to trust others when names are known. This is foolish. A name is inconsequential. All that matters is power." At this, the lock of the cell seemed to spiral in a violent screech of metal, and the bars attached to it lurched and bent as it rotated a quarter turn.

"Right now, I have the power to free you and offer you protection from those who would seek to do you harm. But only if you first tell me: who orchestrated this theft?"
 
Trajan understood the impetus not to reveal his name, for he himself used a number of aliases in service to the Luminiari and the Cause. But the man's stated interest: power. That could mean quite a number of things. It might even--for all Trajan knew--be a deliberate falsehood, going along with the potential trap of either falling for this orchestrated ruse of escape or being ensnared into a lopsided deal that could endanger the whole of the Luminari.

He could be working for anyone, this man. Elbion, the College itself, Bronmarch, any number of xeno factions, perhaps even just for himself and whatever ends he strove toward. Regardless, it was far too uncertain.

And Trajan would not place his own well-being above the Cause. Above the well-being of his fellow believers.

So Trajan stood. Slowly, on his crippled legs. Took a few haggard steps toward the ajar door as those other two prisoners adjacent in their own locked cells watched in awe. Then Trajan reached for the door and pulled it shut--a gesture made purely symbolic, given the ruined state of the lock and the door's inability to properly close.

He looked through the bars at Blue Cloak with a soft conviction. Said, "There are causes in life worth dying for. Ideals greater than any single one of us, brother."

Trajan turned and hobbled back to the center of his small cell and sat once more and said, "To these I regret only that I've this sole, meager body to give."

Yrael
 
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Yrael had not expected this. In his experience most men would do anything to help themselves out of a terrible situation. Those that placed their ideals above their own self-interest, those that truly followed a moral code when their very lives were at stake... these men were rare. Again, Yrael found himself admiring Trajan's resolve, and he chastised himself mentally for thinking that he would be so weak.

He collected his thoughts as the prisoner walked back into his cell. If freedom did not interest this person, what could Yrael offer? What ideals was he speaking of and how could he be convinced that cooperation would advance them?

A thought. "And what cause would benefit more from your death than your continued service?" he asked as the door swung lazily on its newly-freed axis. "If that is the way of things then by all means refuse. I can find other means to achieve my goals." He paused for a moment, letting the words linger.

"I'll help you, ser!" A voice called from a side cell. "Anything you want, if you get me out of he-" the man was flung across his cell by an unseen force, and hit the ground with a wheeze. He did not speak again.

Yrael had not moved, and he continued the conversation. "But corpses are rarely useful. It is the living who control the future." He glanced over the man once more. He bore the scars and demeanor of a warrior, and any warrior who lived this long would be no stranger to hardship. On the contrary, they usually prided themselves on it. Perhaps an appeal to his pride, then. "Dying is easy. Continuing to work is difficult. For many, it is too much."

Yrael stepped forwards now and entered the cell. "I am no friend of Elbion. If your mission is against them, I can help you to advance it."
 
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Trajan found the man disturbingly callous. His practicality was extreme, such that it had turned his heart to ice--it gave him the air of a xeno, despite how human he appeared to the naked eye. He spoke of cold usefulness, of benefits and detriments, of things that advanced one's ends and of means of control. Of nothing save that which was related to power, and the pursuit thereof.

Where Trajan had conceived of the operari called Brightfield and sought to carry it out with a crippling reluctance, with the heaviest of hearts, this man would have killed twice the number as Trajan had intended and spared not a mournful tear nor lost a minute of sleep.

It was regrettable, but the broken state of Mankind upon Arethil produced men such as this. Men who cared nothing for their fellow man or woman, who saw them as nothing more than tools of varying usefulness and means to some scheming end. These were tragic men who knew not the love of their fathers, their mothers, their blood siblings and their brothers and sisters in humanity as a whole. These men were the product of the malaise Trajan and his Luminari sought to combat and dispel once and for all.

Trajan remained seated. He looked up to the younger man then, who stood now within the cell.

If your mission is against them, I can help you to advance it.

"If," Trajan said. He was more loath than ever to reveal anything to this man, knowing his nature; concerns of for whom the man worked were now secondary in Trajan's mind. If he saw his brothers and sisters as mere tools, then surely he would discard them as such.

"I will tell you this. An idea is more powerful than a single man could ever be. For while men are mortal, an idea may live on. Mayhap if I had been born centuries earlier, given my life to the right idea so long ago, today you would be a different man. One immersed in love, rather than broken by its lack. And I am truly sorry that you must suffer so, brother."

Trajan made a small, dismissive gesture with his head.

"Go and find those 'other means' of which you spoke."

Yrael
 
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This was disappointing to say the least. Yrael had never cared to learn much about people and in general he hadn't needed to. Most people bent quite easily under the threat of his magic. The badge of the Royal house that he wore, while symbolic at best, carried great weight amongst the common, uninformed citizens of Vel Anir.

It was suddenly clear to him that he had only ever dealt with cowards and brutes. Cowards he could intimidate and brutes he could impress. Other dreadlords followed orders and nobles... well... he hardly bothered with nobles.

The words of his late mentor floated back up in his mind. "Strength is important, but cunning is greater. You cannot force victory against an opponent you do not understand." He had thought, at the time, that the old man had been talking about military tactics. All at once, the greater meaning became clear.

It was a weakness of his, though he would never admit it as such. Yrael did not understand people. He did not understand emotions beyond what could be leveraged. He did not understand goals that did not align with personal gain or immediate benefit. Martyrs were fools, and weak men were inconsequential. This served him well enough as a living weapon, but when it came to negotiations he was sorely lacking.

It was clear that this prisoner would not be swayed by promises of power or freedom. What else could Yrael offer him, then? He did not know the man's goals and they certainly were not being shared freely.

With a touch of embarrassment, he realized he would need to play this man's game of trust. He sat down and crossed his legs within the cell. For a long while he was quiet, simply observing. The conditions here were abysmal, why any normal person would wish to remain here even a second longer than necessary was beyond him.

Finally, he lifted a hand and gave it a small twirl. Trajan might have felt a slight fog in his ears as the pressure around the two shifted ever so slightly. The cell had become quite silent, with none of the shuffling from the other prisoners or wind outside the walls reaching them. Yrael had enclosed them in a small soundproof bubble, keeping whatever was said strictly between the two of them.

"Now that we have privacy, perhaps we can speak freely. My name is Yrael, second-level dreadlord of the royal house Anireth." A pause, as people usually seemed to need a moment to process this information. "Vel Anir does not know I am here. I am visiting you for a... personal matter."

He hoped that revealing his name and station would erode some of the walls the old man had erected.
 
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A dreadlord. And not only any dreadlord, but one who served the King. He had a grasp of magic, of that there was no doubt: the door, the newly formed bubble of silence around them. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding on Trajan's part, but he did not think that the dreadlords leveraged subtlety and subterfuge as a tactic; he thought of their lot being quite direct in their methods. Misunderstanding or no, the man--Yrael--said that he was here for a personal matter, and such was a readily available explanation for his lack of insignia and the plain clothes.

Or perhaps this was all mere fabrication. Just because Yrael said that he was a dreadlord did not make it so. Elbion had their accomplished mages too, produced by the traitorous College. The very same College that knew that Captain Bronmarch of Alliria had captured a man associated with the theft of the Catalysts. The possibility strongly remained that this could be some kind of ploy, a tactic to perhaps coax Trajan into volunteering information in the hopes of freedom.

Suppose that it was not, though. Suppose what Yrael said was all true. Still, a great risk remained. For he was a broken man, this Yrael, who played cold games of power and viewed his brothers and sisters around him as mere pieces upon the board. He spared no love for anyone save himself, and men like that would inevitably betray Trajan and his Luminari when it suited him. Perhaps it would be immediately, as soon as Trajan had finished aiding him in whatever "personal matter" of which he spoke, to remove all possibility of anyone knowing anything of it. Perhaps it would be later, when he concluded that there was something to gain by--as some cutthroat merchants would say--"selling out" the Luminari to their enemies. But it would happen.

All this was the reason the Luminari favored devotion above all else in their recruitment. No single man or woman could hope to match Yrael in power, certainly, for the vast majority were all mundane. But every single one of them was committed to the Cause.

(Yet Trajan remained unaware of the great schism splitting the family he had worked so tirelessly and diligently to create.)

Trajan looked to him. Said, "Yes. You have alluded to such. A matter--personal or not--which you believe I may be able to help you with. This, the sole impetus behind your ascribing of worth to me." A deep hmph rumbled in Trajan's throat. "To me, you seem as someone who would treat their fellow Man as they would a horse with a broken leg. And because of this I do not know which would be worse: the tender mercies of the Allirian and Elbion authorities, or yours."

Yrael
 
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The prisoner had appeared to have given up, at least this is how it seemed to Yrael. Would he really rather die here than offer aid to a stranger? Yrael had promised to free him, but he didn't seem to like his would-be savior very much at all.

Frustration started to work its way forward. Should he just torture this man? Get the information by force? No, that was unlikely to work. Yrael could see that Trajan had more resolve than even most dreadlords, and the fact that he had not shown the slightest hint of fear at Yrael revealing his rank spoke volumes.

Brother, fellow man, love, these were strange ideals for a thief to confess, and stranger still for a man who had clearly seen many battles. Dreadlords were intentionally trained against these values. What good was a sword that refused to cut down your enemies? What use was a warhound that wished to live in harmony with the one it was sicced upon?

His voice was still level, but his tone had shifted every so subtly. "A curious metaphor, as a horse with a broken leg cannot be cured. There is no way to mend such a wound, and the horse will suffer endlessly until it is culled. Trying to aid it would waste resources that could be used to save other horses with less severe injuries. In this instance, it would be cruel not to slay such a creature." His violet eyes peered at Trajan, trying to read any change in expression. "There are some men who are just as broken. There are those that cannot be saved, and who will only serve to hold mankind back until they are released from their suffering." He wondered how the prisoner would react to this. Would he balk at the idea of irredeemable souls, or would he agree? Or, Yrael realized suddenly, would he believe Yrael himself to be one of these broken men?

He would not reveal that he was speaking of the nobles of the seven ruling houses, that he wished to slice through the twisted bureaucracy and corruption, to restore a single and just monarchy to Vel Anir. If he revealed as the driving factor in his quest for power, he would have to kill this man.
 
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"Yet I fear a man such as yourself cares nothing about what is cruel and what is not. About salvation and suffering."

Trajan glanced off to the side. Pointed at the man in the adjacent cell that had spoken up, that had said "I'll help you, ser" and had been launched by some magic into the wall and who now lay on the ground unmoving.

"The only reason that has not happened to me is because you perceive some knowledge or usefulness that I possess and you desire. To you I surmise that there is only your personal matter and the tools which you believe will help you accomplish it."

The potential cost of being in league with Yrael seemed too great. He could and very much would levy every possible demand, reasonable or unreasonable, upon Trajan, in service to whatever task in Elbion he wished to see done. And what if he found out about the Luminari, for surely the task in question was of considerable difficulty or else Yrael would have done it himself--Trajan would inevitably need to involve his faithful. And should Trajan perish and while the task remained undone? Surely Yrael would not absolve Trajan's fellows of the debt, and upon pain of death would force them to continue on to the task's completion.

Trajan would not allow such a fate to possibly befall Khadija. Dio. Clarissa. Everyone. No, he would not.

A hard regarding of Yrael then. "The life you lead is vacuous, brother. Not your work for Vel Anir and Mankind, but the manner in which you approach it. Continue down this path and you will perish cold, unfulfilled, and with your tombstone as the sole attendee at your funeral. And that, my friend, is a fate that is truly tragic."

Yrael
 
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Yrael was quiet as the man spoke. It seemed that the answer was no, and this would not change. Trajan was not wrong about him, he cared little for moral preaching, of right and wrong, of anything else he deemed to be inconvenient. When Trajan pointed at the man in the other cell it took a moment for Yrael to understand why. He had been silencing an interruption, much like one would swat a fly.

This, it seemed, was Trajan's issue with him. Yrael had relied too heavily on the man's desire to free himself, on his self-preservation. He had assumed that Trajan was like him, and that had been a mistake.

The soundproof bubble dropped, and Yrael stood up slowly. "Everything you have said about me is true." he confessed, though there was no remorse in his voice. "You do not wish to work with me. I understand. You are not alone." In truth, no one really wanted to work with him. While he was a skilled tactician, his soldiers feared him, and his fellow Dreadlords found little joy in his company. Yrael honestly didn't mind this, for he had no desire to form bonds of any sort. He never had, and he suspected he never would.

"It is... regrettable that you do not wish to help me. Things could have been much simpler." He reached back and pulled the cell door shut from a distance, and with a twist of his wrist the bars warped and bent around each other. The door would be quite impossible to open now. He extended the same hand forward next, and with a loud bang a hole was blasted through the stone. It was large enough for a man to crawl through, and sunlight streamed inwards from it.

"If you change your mind, you will know where to find me. I am not completely heartless, and service will be well rewarded." Half of that statement was true. He strode forwards and ducked through the opening. As he did so he dropped a small coin. It bore the sigil of the royal house Anireth on one side, and the mark of the Dreadlords on the other. Presenting it to a royal guardsman would see that Trajan received an audience.

Yrael did not close the opening after himself, leaving the choice of escape up to Trajan. The guards would find his handiwork soon enough. He had managed to move stealthily to the cell block, but he had needed to kill two of the patrolling guards to make sure that their conversation was not disturbed.
 
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Trajan remained seated. As the door was rendered useless to mundane men until another mage of sufficient ability came to fix it, as the hole was blown open in the back wall of his cell and the fresh air from the outside leaked in, as the coin was dropped on the floor of his cell, he remained seated. Watched with a stolid gaze all of these things and as Yrael took his leave.

Chin to his shoulder, he looked back at the gaping opening in his cell. Of course he wanted to escape, to be free of this miserable circumstance into which he had fallen. Ahh, but this was the essence of temptation, was it not? An enticement to engage in something that will ultimately prove detrimental to one's body, one's soul, or both.

Yrael was a man who did not do something like this--offering what someone wanted--out of the goodness of his heart. Trajan surmised that the moment he were to step through that hole, Yrael would consider him indebted. And then followed all of Trajan's previous concerns stemming from simple acceptance of Yrael's proposition. Simply, that the price the man would ask would be too great.

He would have to pray for an intervention in his fate that was more agreeable. Whether it be here in Alliria, on the road, or in Elbion. Pray, that somehow his fellow believers would learn of what had happened and act, or that some unknown fortune might befall him.

Trajan did, however, reach out to and pick up the coin Yrael had dropped. Examined its front side and its back. He pondered Vel Anir. The Guard. The Dreadlords. Pondered whether, in the face of his recent and astounding failures with the Luminari operating independently, that the Cause would be better served with cooperation with the shining beacon of humanity that was Vel Anir and its considerable power and influence. Not all the Dreadlords were like Yrael, no--at least that was Trajan's hope.

So Trajan sat in his cell, with the breeze from the outside cooling his back.

If this did indeed end with his execution, then so be it. Better him and him alone, than any of the Luminari who had been tainted by the terrible sin of Brightfield. They deserved life, and they could carry on with the work of Cause without him.

For he was just a man. A humble man, with a dream he shared with each and every one of them.

Yrael
 
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