The Obsidian Imperium thrived on order, on the meticulous alignment of all things. Contentment, the scholars posited, emerged from an affinity of minds, a congruity of station, a careful balance of influence and resource. Like the gears of a master clockwork, each component, properly matched, contributed to the smooth operation of the whole. A young Elian, ever the diligent student of such doctrines, had absorbed this truth with the solemn conviction of a true believer. Happiness, he reasoned, was merely the inevitable consequence of such rational pairings. Then, in his seventeenth cycle, an unscripted current coursed through him. A nascent, fervent devotion, illogical in its intensity, inconvenient in its source. He, a pragmatic acolyte of fact, had swiftly, brutally, dismissed it. A momentary fever. A fleeting anomaly in the precise calculations of his youth. Nothing more. Still, that nascent feeling, tightly coiled within the chambers of his spirit, had never truly dissipated. Instead, it had tightened, an invisible garrote, constricting his very breath. The sensation, always present, subtly tainted every triumph, every quiet moment of scholarly pursuit. He learned to live with its pressure, to navigate around the silent blockage in his throat. A whispered summons, sudden and invasive as a crack in ancient vellum, had fractured his pre-dawn peace. It was not a physical sound, but a subtle impress, a known arcane signature, that jolted him awake before the first light could paint the eastern spires of Aethelgard. From his modest pallet in the Scribe’s Wing, Elian sat upright. His chambers, usually a sanctuary of quiet reflection, felt suddenly too small, too confining. A low curse, barely a rasp, escaped him. Below, the household staff of the Imperial College of Arcane Letters would still be lost in the deeper currents of sleep, oblivious to his departure. No eyes would note his passage. He rose. He moved with the practiced silence of one accustomed to libraries and hushed corridors. His simple tunic and trousers, dark as unpolished obsidian, offered anonymity. Stepping from the shadowed arch of the Scribe’s Wing into the cool predawn air, Elian paused. The great walls of the Imperial College loomed, slumbering giants under a sky bruised with the first hints of violet. Across the cobblestone alley, against the unadorned wall of a smaller, more discreet residence – one whose occupants remained largely unknown to the College’s more formal circles – a singular object lay. Not a great carriage, nor a sturdy transport-cart, but a finely wrought saddle. Its leather was aged, yet meticulously cared for, hinting at a rider who prized swiftness and independence over pomp. The bridle, too, spoke of bespoke craftsmanship, its silver filigree glinting faintly. It was a harness for a light, powerful courser, perhaps a High Vaylen charger – mounts not favored by the heavy Imperial Cavalry, but by those who preferred speed and discretion. It seemed to mock the rigid structure of the Imperium, embodying a certain untamed spirit. He, Elian, often felt similarly tethered, carefully curated, presented to the world in a specific manner. The saddle, discarded yet potent, held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Then, he averted his eyes, stepping into the waiting, enclosed litter he had pre-arranged with the night watch, its curtains drawn for absolute privacy. --- The journey was a short, jarring affair. The litter swayed and jolted over uneven paving stones, its motion an unwelcome tremor that stirred a familiar disquiet in his gut. Elian, typically immune to such physical trivialities, found his stomach clenching. A subtle nausea, a dull, persistent ache behind his eyes, had become an unwelcome companion over the past year. He closed his eyes, seeking to quell the rising unease, but the interior of his own mind offered no solace. For twelve long cycles, he had grappled with a subtle corruption within. Not a physical ailment, not a spell-borne blight, but a systemic dissonance that defied the meticulous logic of his inner world. He had mastered the art of impassivity, of projecting a placid surface, even as his spirit struggled against its own indigestible truths. Just as now, stepping from the litter onto the paving stones of the Lower Noble Quarter, his face a mask of serene composure, his body a well-rehearsed vessel of control. Before him stood a residence of subdued grandeur. Not the ostentatious manse of an Elder House, but a private lodge, discreetly positioned, its windows dark and uninviting. The air here was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the fainter, more unsettling aroma of stale, expensive spirits. A tremor ran through Elian’s hand as he clenched it, his knuckles whitening. Within his palm, the obsidian shard, bearing the faint, unique sigil of the summons, dug into his flesh. He drew a slow, deliberate breath, steadying the tempest in his chest, before releasing his fist. He scanned the lodge’s façade, his memory instantly recalling the details of the arcane signature, matching it to the particular suite Kaelen often appropriated for his more… private indiscretions. He located the correct door, a heavy slab of polished, dark wood, unadorned save for a single, bronze knocker shaped like a coiled serpent. Elian raised his hand. His knuckles connected with the wood – three precise, measured taps. A hushed silence answered him from within. Only the distant cries of night-birds disturbed the stillness of the quarter. He waited, his jaw tightening, a flicker of irritation sparking behind his placid gaze. Such disregard was typical, yet infuriating. “Lord Kaelen,” Elian called, his voice a low, precise murmur, yet edged with an unmistakable sharpness. “Cease this pretense. Unbar this chamber.” Still, only silence. The faint scent of jasmine seemed to curdle. A cold, quiet fury, unfamiliar in its intensity, began to seep into Elian’s careful composure. He pounded on the door, the bronze serpent rattling against the heavy wood. The sound resonated through the hushed street, raw and undignified. “By the Void, Kaelen!” he snarled, abandoning all pretense of courtly decorum. “Unbar this chamber, now!” The entire situation was… revolting. The imagined scene within, the languid indulgence, the stench of indolence and base appetites that permeated the very air around such places – it made his skin crawl. Yet, he could not leave. Kaelen had issued the summons, and Elian was here, enduring this repulsive tableau, because Kaelen had been the source, the vector, of that first, insidious tremor of disarray in his precisely ordered life. Kaelen, who had infected him with that ‘illness’ he could not quite name. “What arcane folly possesses you,” Elian hissed through gritted teeth, “to summon me from my duties, only to wallow in such base company?” The words were meant to sting, to lacerate. But beneath them lay a deeper, more profound ache. God, this was unbearable. Eighteen cycles of the moon, and this blight already upon him.

A Blighted Summons