At the zenith of Thamur's Needle, the highest spire piercing the frozen skies of the Far-Ends, Yvain sat perched like a hawk, a weathered book cradled in his hands. Below him stretched an endless expanse of ice and snow, jagged glaciers and frozen wastelands shimmering in the cold light of a pale sun. The brittle wind tugged at his dark cloak, but his attention remained fixed on the tome before him. The spine read Migril's Unspeakable Lexicon, a forbidden compendium he had filched from the tower's library.
If Grandmistress Vaelha learned of his recklessness, she would be furious beyond measure. Yet, Yvain cared little for her wrath. Raised under her stern gaze, he had learned early to heed only his own desires, a trait fitting of a sorcerer emperor. He was Yvain the Younger, scion of the once-mighty Dehmohseni dynasty, Yvain XVIII in lineage of over seven hundred emperors, though for now, he was prince of nothing.
A soft rustle announced the approach of an attendant, clothed in austere grey robes that blended with the tower's cold stone. "My prince," the attendant said, voice trembling slightly, "the Grandmistress requests your presence… and that of the princess."
Yvain inclined his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Then go fetch the princess."
The attendant hesitated, biting his lip nervously. "We have tried… but she is stubborn. She refuses."
Yvain chuckled, a low, knowing sound. He had long been familiar with his cousin's willful nature. "Then I shall fetch her myself."
Rising to his full height, Yvain stood six feet five inches tall, a towering figure silhouetted against the grey horizon. His skin was the deep shade of a starless midnight sky, and streaks of silver marbled through his black hair like the first frost of dawn.
Yvain descended the dizzying spires, weaving through the tower's labyrinthine staircases, the attendant guiding him with measured steps. The air grew warmer as they approached the bathing chambers of his cousin, the scent of herbs and oils faint but unmistakable amidst the cold stone corridors.
He exhaled sharply and pushed open the heavy oak doors to reveal a vast, pool-sized bath carved from alabaster. The water shimmered darkly, rippling faintly beneath the flickering torchlight. Along its surface ran thin streaks of blood, remnants of fallen maidservants whose lives had been cruelly spilled in service of their mistress's vengeance. The crimson marked the water just below Celeste's bare chest, where she lay languidly on the edge, arms propped on the cold slab.
Many believed the Dehmohseni line had ended, wiped from history like a fading shadow. Once, they had ruled the world, masters of potent sorcery and fearsome black arts, their name whispered in dread and awe. But that night, the night the king was struck down, was not the end.
In secret, Vaelha and the most loyal of the old guard fled Babel, escaping into the night with two children in tow, Yvain and his cousin.
Celeste's pale face tilted toward him, her icy eyes glinting with mischief. "Care to join me, cousin?" she purred, standing waist-deep in the water, droplets cascading down her skin.
She was a striking figure, six feet two inches tall, her hair as white as fresh milk contrasting sharply against skin dark like his own, though marked with pale, irregular patches of vitiligo, a common occurence of the Dehmohseni bloodline.
"No, cousin," Yvain replied, a shadow of reluctance in his voice. "The Grandmistress is calling for us."
Celeste groaned, the sound half amusement, half annoyance. "What could that old hag want from us now?"
"We'll find out soon enough," he said, turning away.
She nodded slowly and slid from the water with a grace born of nobility, her wet skin glistening like polished obsidian. Her remaining maidservants rushed forward to clothe her, their hands trembling slightly beneath the weight of their mistress's volatile temper.
Yvain had long believed Celeste embodied the true spirit of the Dehmohseni, wild, untamed, and unburdened by conscience. Unlike him, who often found himself lost in brooding thoughts and conflicted by the sins of their ancestors, those who had shattered worlds in pursuit of power, Celeste knew no such moral hesitation. She was utterly mad, utterly free, bound by nothing but her own will and whims.
Indeed, as it should be, for all Dehmohseni were mad. Whether by their Nephilim blood or their inbred traditions. Yvain's own father had fused with his own twin in the womb and had grappled with a conflicting personality for years, at least that was how the story went.
Now, as Celeste finished dressing, her garments thin and delicate, barely veiling the taut power beneath. She approached him. Her eyes gleamed with a sharp light, equal parts beauty and cruelty, a duality that both fascinated and unsettled him. There were moments when he was unsure whether he loved or hated her.
They were betrothed, bound by blood and duty from birth. Once, in the reckless abandon of youth, they had given in to a forbidden lust, an intimacy charged with both desire and danger, but the memory was a silent shadow, never spoken of again between them.
"Let's go," Yvain said softly, turning to the attendant who awaited silently.
The attendant led them deeper into the spire, descending a spiraling staircase carved from black stone, the air growing heavier with each step. At last, they arrived in a vast hall nestled far below the upper reaches of the tower. The chamber was dimly lit by flickering braziers, their flames casting long, trembling shadows across ancient tapestries depicting battles long past.
There, seated with an unyielding presence, was Grandmistress Vaelha. An elderly woman with silver hair pulled back into a severe knot, her face etched with lines of discipline and authority, and a permanent scowl that seemed etched into her very flesh. But to mistake Vaelha for a mere old crone was to court disaster. She was an archmage of formidable skill, a master of one of the six disciplines of the mystery thaumaturgic, necromancy to be precise.
Celeste stood beside Yvain, her posture as regal as ever. She was adept in vitalism and enchantments, the arts that manipulated the living essence and minds of others. Yvain himself had reached mastery in augury, conjuration, and necromancy, a rare and dangerous combination that made him a sorcerer of formidable power.
From their earliest days, both had been immersed in the dread arts of the mystery thaumaturgic, taught spells before they could crawl, taught to speak in dead dialects before the age of six, their minds sharpened as much by pain as by instruction. Yvain could still recall the harsh discipline of Grandmistress Vaelha, who had forced them to recite their family's genealogy, seven hundred generations deep, with a whip ready to lash any mistake.
It had not been a childhood worth remembering, but it had forged them into something fearsome, heirs to a legacy of ruin and power, tempered in suffering and ruthlessness.
Vaelha gestured curtly to the obsidian chairs set before her, and both Yvain and Celeste sat without protest. The grandmistress's posture was rigid, her gnarled hands folded over one another like a clasped spell. Yet when her gaze fell upon Yvain, her habitual scowl softened, just slightly.
"Today," she began, her voice slow and deliberate, "marks twenty-one years since your father perished." She paused, the weight of memory thickening her tone. "It also marks the day of your birth, young prince."
There was a tremor beneath her words, anger barely held in check, and something akin to reverence, though it pained her to show it.
Celeste leaned back in her chair, a lazy sneer curling her lip. "I've never known you to be sentimental, Grandmistress."
Vaelha's eyes snapped toward her, sharp as knives. That single look silenced Celeste at once.
"I have something for you," Vaelha continued, returning her attention to Yvain. She reached into the folds of her robes and withdrew a small, furled piece of cloth, offering it to him with both hands.
Yvain accepted it and carefully unwrapped the cloth, revealing a silver ring shaped into the form of an ouroboros, the ancient sigil of House Dehmohseni, the eternal serpent devouring its own tail.
"That belonged to your father," Vaelha said quietly.
He turned the ring over in his palm. It was simple in form, unadorned by jewels or flourish, yet there was weight in it, ancestral weight. He slid it onto the ring finger of his left hand. It was cold, biting against his skin.
"Thank you, Grandmistress."
Celeste, watching the moment unfold, sniffed. "And what did I get on my twenty-first birthday?" she asked with mock outrage. "An extra hour of scullery duty?"
"Probably because you're a nuisance," Yvain said, grinning.
"Watch your tongue, boy," she snapped, smirking. "I'm three years your senior."
Their exchange drew no reaction from Vaelha, until she stood. Her movement was slow but precise, as if every step was calculated in some quiet spell. "There will be guests tomorrow," she said flatly. "I expect the both of you to stay out of sight."
Yvain straightened. "What guests?"
But she did not answer. She simply turned and began to walk toward the arched door behind her, her long robes whispering against the stone.
He didn't need a reply. He already knew. For years, Vaelha had been rallying the scattered tribes of the Far-Ends, weaving them into a fragile coalition. But even with an army of frost-clad barbarians, it would never be enough to reclaim Babel or the imperial throne. Now, she sought new allies, elsewhere. Dangerous ones.
The doors shut behind her with a hollow boom, leaving only silence in the vaulted hall.
"There she goes," Celeste said, stretching with feline grace. "Scheming and planning, as always."
"Manners, Celeste," Yvain chided mildly.
She scoffed. "You can't lecture me. Don't think I've forgotten that jab. I should challenge you to a duel and beat some manners into you."
"Or try to kill me," he joked, though he kept his voice light.
"Not yet, my love," she replied sweetly, brushing past him. "I'll wait until you've done all the work, restored our empire, won our enemies' heads on pikes, then I'll kill you and make myself empress."
She laughed, but her eyes shimmered with something unreadable. With Celeste, the line between jest and threat was always too thin to trust.
And truly, it wouldn't be out of place. In the long and bloodstained annals of House Dehmohseni, hundreds had worn the imperial diadem. Of those, only six had died of natural causes. The rest had been poisoned, stabbed, drowned, immolated, or devoured, often by their own blood.
Quite fitting, really, that the sigil of their house was a serpent devouring itself.