Royston Galt’s compass spun with violent intent, its brass needle vibrating against the glass. It pointed, unwavering, at the scrawny man in the hospital gown, at the grubby avian perched on his shoulder. This was no mere bird, no common street pest. It hummed with a faint, discordant energy, a raw, stolen power that grated on Galt’s very bones. The glyph-etched dial of his artifact glowed an angry crimson, confirming the theft. The intel. His employer’s last hope. This gaunt, wild-eyed figure had intercepted it, likely consuming its essence for his own dark purpose. “You,” Galt’s voice was a low growl, honed by years of confrontation with shadows and whispers. He strode across the manicured grass, his heavy boots crushing the dew-kissed blades. “The bird. The message. Surrender it, now.” Vaskar watched him approach, a predator observing a clumsy, lesser beast. The man moved with an aggressive confidence that spoke of unearned victories, of a sheltered life. His stance was wide, almost theatrical, not the grounded readiness of a true warrior. The garment he wore, a dark, flowing trench coat, was a pathetic imitation of battle-scarred leather. Vaskar saw only soft, uncalloused hands, eyes that knew only the domesticated fear of a city rather than the true, primordial terror of the Qal’Tir Peaks. “This ‘bird’,” Vaskar replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate the very air, “is a scout of the Vaskarran Ascendancy. Its acquisition of intelligence is not for discussion with a common street-brigand.” His gaze swept over Galt’s posture, lingering on the slight, almost imperceptible tremor in the exorcist’s left knee. Weakness. Always weakness. Galt faltered for a fraction of a second, thrown by the man's complete lack of fear, by the bizarre, archaic phrasing. Street-brigand? He was Royston Galt, exorcist of the Order of the Veiled Sun, personal consultant to Magnus Croft, and the last hope against the spreading corruption. “I am no brigand,” he snapped, his voice sharp with affront. “I am here to reclaim what you stole, charlatan.” He lifted his left hand, and from beneath his coat, a silver-bound gauntlet snapped into place. Runes blazed across its surface, crackling with pure, sanctified flame. “Relinquish the stolen spiritual essence, or face the consecration of the Sun-Veil!” He didn't wait. Fierce protectiveness for Croft and the city propelled Galt forward. He thrust his gauntlet out, unleashing a torrent of searing, holy light. It shot across the courtyard, a blazing spear aimed directly at Vaskar’s chest. Vaskar stood his ground. He did not flinch, did not even blink. The light struck him, not with the explosive force Galt expected, but with a strange, almost soft impact. It spread over his chest, bathing him in a blinding brilliance. For a moment, Galt thought he had succeeded, that the man would dissolve, purified. But then Vaskar merely tilted his head, a faint, almost imperceptible frown creasing his brow. He absorbed it. Every last particle of the blast. The holy energy, meant to scorch and expel, simply dissipated into him, leaving no mark. It felt… weak. A mere tickle, a faint warmth that reminded him of a sunbeam on volcanic rock after a cold night. Nothing like the searing, reality-bending energies of the Qal’Tir Peaks. “A pathetic display,” Vaskar stated, his voice devoid of emotion, a clinical assessment. “Your ‘consecration’ is a child’s spark, not a warrior’s flame. Your aura is thin, your spiritual cultivation amateurish. And your footwork,” he paused, a flicker of disdain in his eyes, “it leaves your left flank entirely exposed. Such sloppiness would have meant disembowelment on the Obsidian Steppes.” Galt stared, mouth agape, the gauntlet still extended, useless. His most potent rite, the Blight-Scourge of the Veiled Sun, absorbed without effort? Critiqued like a clumsy training exercise? Blood burned across his gaunt cheeks. This was… something else. Something fundamentally wrong. Before Galt could retort, before he could recalibrate his understanding of reality, a new voice cut through the strained silence. “What in the name of all that is reasonable is going on out here?!” From the glass doors of the main ward, a stocky orderly charged out, thick neck red with fury. He was built like a brick, his scrub uniform stretched taut. “Vaskar! Return to your room immediately! And *you*!” The orderly pointed a thick finger at Galt. “You are not authorized on these grounds! Get out before I call security!” The orderly took another heavy step toward Vaskar, shoulders rolling forward to tackle him. Before the boot landed, a dark blur broke from Vaskar’s shoulder. The pigeon let out a sharp, territorial coo. It dipped and weaved, streaking directly at the guard's face. It wasn’t alone. From the eaves, from the branches of the sparse oaks, from every gutter seam, hundreds of gray shapes lifted in a single motion. Dozens, then hundreds, a swirling, cooing vortex of gray and white feathers. They moved with an impossible precision, like a living, feathered siege weapon. They didn’t peck or scratch randomly. Instead, they formed tight, disciplined formations. A vanguard of ten slammed into the guard's chest, not with the force to truly injure, but with enough impact to make him stagger back. A phalanx of fifty swarmed his head, a dizzying, disorienting cloud. Others pecked relentlessly at his knees, his shins, in perfect, synchronized strikes. They drove him back toward the glass entry, step by step. The orderly roared, flailing wildly, his shouts drowned beneath thrashing wings. Galt watched, rooted in place, frost settling in his stomach. This was not possession. This was command over beasts, ancient and disciplined. Just as the orderly scrambled back inside, Dr. Kenna Sterling shoved through the threshold, brandishing a metal clipboard like a buckler. Her gaze pinned Galt. “Mr. Galt, I presume? The caller demanding an audience with my resident? This is an accredited medical facility, not a staging area for your roleplay group! Trespassing is an arrestable offense, and you are agitating my ward!” Galt’s mind reeled. Felony? LARPing? He had to play along. Legal consequences, the clinical absurdity, the unnatural stillness pouring off Vaskar—it unmoored him. “Doctor Sterling,” he managed, forcing a strained smile, “my sincerest apologies. My… theatrical methods got a bit carried away. I merely wished to… roleplay with the patient, as part of his… fantasy therapy.” He winced internally at the words, but Dr. Sterling’s expression softened, just slightly, into a look of weary skepticism. “Fantasy therapy, indeed,” she muttered, making a quick, aggressive note on her clipboard. “Well, your ‘therapy’ just caused a disturbance that will require a full incident report. You will leave, quietly, now. And if you ever attempt to breach the security of the Oakhaven Institute again, I will personally ensure you face the full extent of the law.” She gestured curtly to the gate. “Out.” Galt backed away, his eyes never leaving Vaskar. Vaskar stood motionless, an emperor amidst his flock. This wasn’t delusion. This was absolute, undeniable control. Vaskar was not possessed; he *was* the ancient, terrifying entity. This was worse than any Blight. As Galt reached the perimeter, the lead pigeon, Vaskar’s original scout, landed lightly at the edge of the courtyard. With a faint flutter, it dropped its payload onto the neatly trimmed grass. It was a chunk of petrified, pulsing concrete, dark and viscous, clearly not from the sterile grounds of the institute. It throbbed with sickly, malevolent rot, a miniature, decaying heart ripped from the foundation of Magnus Croft’s tower. The curse had already breached the hospital grounds.

Diplomacy of the Sword