Every eye in Heliocarsus directed itself up to the Acropolis mount as the sun retreated down beyond the mountains. Stacks of fire wood had been accumulating upon the summit throughout the afternoon and could be seen through most of the city, heralding a funeral pyre the likes of which had never been seen before in Calydon's history. 

Septilios ascended the coiled switchbacks of the Sisters' Way for the second time today, this time on horseback as an escort to the royal funeral procession. The royal contingent was, of course, pitifully small; comprised of a single carriage occupied solely by Queen Lyca. Septilios guided the horse alongside the wagon regularly to ensure that she was well - or as well as she could be for given the circumstances. The guard captain found the widowed queen curled into the back of the wagon amongst the cushions, sobbing dolorously into velvet pillows. Lyca was beyond any consolation; Septilios veered from the wagon without bothering her. It had already been a torturous day for the queen - no need for futile attempts to comfort her. Nothing anyone could say could ever hope to console one in such grief, for there are no words in Calosae, Qarese, Copsi, or the magical clicking tongues of the Ebon Folk that could ever hope to calm a woman whose only child and husband had perished.

The guard captain's peg dangled in the stirrup as he took his place in front of the carriage, bouncing annoyingly against the belly of his horse with each step it took. Indeed, the peg of strapped upon the withered stump of his right thigh had always been a source of irritation. Had it not been lost - had the healers not failed him - Septilios was certain he would still be at the mighty side of Syros the Inexorable, putting to the sword any savage that dared to raise his filthy hand against the greatest king Calydon would ever see. If he had still been capable of serving as the personal guard to Syros and his son as they marched ever forward, Septilios was certain that Galos would not have taken that cursed arrow to the neck - such a thing could have never happened under his protection. The calamity that had befallen Syros' great empire would never have been allowed to transpire if Septilios had not been so grievously wounded in battle.

The Djom had stolen that brighter future. The war-wizards of Ctaqar conjured their dark magics in the defense of the Sjarran heartland during the Calydonian conquest. Septilios himself fought his last battle in the Siege of Ctaqar. A powerful Djom sorcerer had killed scores of valiant Calydonian warriors and rendered Septilios' leg a bleeding mass of shattered bone and ribboned sinew - Septilios repaid the wizard by cleaving his head from his shoulders. Though the wizards were butchered to the last man, their dark magic lingered on in the wounds they left behind. The healers could do nothing for Septilios and could only ease his pain with poppy sap as the whole of his leg withered and died. He could no longer march alongside Syros, and so was relegated to more sedentary duty - protecting the beloved wife Lyca.

A cohort of purple-clad horsemen led Septilios and the carriage through the torchlit Pilgrim's Passage out onto the Acropolis plaza beyond. A teeming throng of mourners split before Lyca's escorts as the wagon clattered past the smaller shrines and gardens to the Temple of the Eight. Honor guards formed a wide arc around the cobbled walkway before the steps of the temple, within which a massive funeral pyre ringed with large cobblestones was being assembled. In dancing torchlight, workers donning plain tunics stacked heaps of firewood in somber silence. Sweet spiciness wafted through the air as the pyrebuilders unwrapped leather faggots of yellow-orange twigs and inserted them throughout the pyre. The handful of bundles of aromatic camphorwood branches - imported from deep in the Ebon Lands - cost far more to procure than any other component of the funeral ceremony; no expense had been spared. Atop a towering bed of punky logs lay two lifeless masses under blankets doused in oil. A chilling scream rang through the night as Lyca saw her husband and child.

"Do not burn them!" The queen wailed, her voice hoarse from a day of weeping. "They are not dead! They cannot be dead!!"

Half a dozen guards subdued Queen Lyca as she threw herself from her carriage and made for the pyre, drawing a nervous glance from Septilios. Upon seeing the queen was under some semblance of control, he swung his peg leg over the side of the horse and dropped down onto his remaining foot, gathering the purple cape that had spilled out from over his shoulders around him. As the guard captain hobbled over toward Queen Lyca, a rider draped in a hooded crimson cloak intercepted Septilios and immediately dismounted.

"Captain Septilios?" The rider asked as he approached.

"Indeed." Septilios affirmed, tapping his peg against the cobble. "Who else might I be?"

A humored smile stretched across the rider's face, but immediately collapsed and his face returned to its stoic stoniness.

"Forgive me, Captain. These times are too dark to take delight in anything."

"These dark times shall pass, brother. Let us not forget to find such delight when peace returns to us... You are the messenger of the House Mithrid?"

"Aye."

Septilios nodded tacitly and extended his left arm, reaching for the rider's left wrist. The rider was stunned briefly, and then hesitated to reciprocate the gesture. With hands locked on the other's left wrist, they each gave a deft shake of the arm.

"You know of the greeting?"

Septilios nodded and lifted his left palm to the rider's face. There, amongst a dozen small nicks and a missing tip on his pinky finger, was a deep, jagged scar across his palm.

"I, too, tend the flame."

Septilios led the envoy away from the pyre and retreated into the very edge of the crowd of mourners, at the dim boundary of the torchlight where they could be assured they would not be overheard.

"The eagles bring ominous words from the North. Onesimus of the House Milatid is slain."

"The Rhumids were fortunate with Galos." Septilios growled. "They would not have have had such fortune again. This was treachery."

"Indeed." The messenger affirmed. "They say it was dagger to the back - such weapons are foreign to the Rhumids. A Calydonian did such a thing."

"The situation has deteriorated faster than I would have ever thought. Did they name suspects? Official or otherwise?"

"Scylla has appeared many times among the accused. But the generals and patriarchs all blame one another; it is only a matter of time before they make good on their accusations. Twelve armies stand now in the Rhumid desert waiting for their commanders to destroy one another. The armies will be annihilated and the satrapys will revolt if something is not done."

Septilios nodded thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.

"The House Solonid is not yet gone." The guard captain reminded in a low voice. "The family of Syros has not been destroyed entirely."

"There is another?!" The messenger asked excitedly. "Another son?"

"No." Septilios shook his head, and turned toward the wailing widow fighting against the guards restraining her near the pyre.

"Lyca? No queen can rule Calydon! You know this!"

"Queen Lyca is the blood of Prince Galos - heir to the throne. The legitimacy of this thing does not concern me - the generals and the satrapys need a leader. That is all that matters. It would be most just for Lyca to lead the Calydonians. Syros, after all, did chose her to give her a son... I can think of no greater endorsement."

"The families will not agree." The messenger contested. "They will not heel to Queen Lyca."

"Perhaps not." Septilios agreed, watching as the Queen fought against the guards as the torchbearers approached the funeral pyre - her anguished wails echoing across the Acropolis and likely throughout all of Heliocarsus. "Though some will. And perhaps the generals will as well. If enough of the generals and the families back our queen, the opportunists will have no choice but to back down. We can avert this disaster yet. Only through Lyca can we keep this empire together."

The messenger watched as the torchbearers cast the flames onto the pyre. The queen tore through the guards at last and screamed as the tongues of fire erupted throughout the towering pyre. She dropped to her knees in despair as the oil-soaked blankets draped over the king and son ignited.

"Will she be in any condition to rule?" The messenger asked incredulously. "I am unsure myself if I trust that she will be of one mind after such tragedy."

"She must." Septilios answered. "If not, all is lost."

"Ride back to Mithreum. Tell your brothers and send eagles to the North. Inform the generals that their Queen is coming."