Valken Harr is going to be early. He doesn't want to be, he's planned on being ever so slightly late, but he woke up with this restless nervous energy he hasn't been able to shake. So now he's walking through the streets of Edrigad, slowly making his way to the private dueling chamber he's rented for the day, knowing he's not just going to be early but very early. If his opponent could see him right now she'd be laughing.
It's been a while since Valken last set foot in this city. A few years at least. It's just too far from Manara to come here on a whim, and his work has almost exclusively been taking him north, to deal with the princes, rather than west. That's part of why he chose to have this meeting here. He's missed that feeling of traveling somewhere new.
Of course, Edrigad isn't new to him, but it feels like it. The whole city was recovering from the siege the last time he was here. There were still bodies in the streets. Now those same streets are filled with people. Children playing, vendors hawking goods, lovers walking hand in hand. Where before the air had been filled with ash and smoke and the million overpowering scents of war, now all Valken can smell is the salt of the ocean, and the foods cooking in a dozen different stalls.
The dueling chamber is new, Valken thinks, part of the Black Rose, a private club Altmar Selic had recommended during a chance encounter a few months back. The Black Wolf of the North can't be trusted with women, wine, or music, but when it comes to places to fight there are few better experts in the world.
Valken is at the Black Rose in even less time than he thought, unfortunately. A servant that smells like money leads him through to the private room he's reserved. It seems simple at first glance, empty. Clean wooden floors and marble walls carved with tasteful depictions of various famous combats. Valken sees a very flattering version of his duel with Jai Dulac on the western wall, may that bastard rest in pieces. The real value of the place isn't so easily visible. The whole room pulses with magic, enchantments on enchantments, designed to conceal, to protect, to ensure that no stray sound or image can get out and that no outsiders can scry in. Off feeling alone, Valken thinks it would take real effort on his part to even break through the door. A little much for his needs, if he's being honest, but he's not going to complain about a place exceeding expectations.
"Is the room to your liking my lord?" The servant asks. Valken hates when they call him that. He's gotten used to almost everything else, but not that.
"Yes. I was told there was another exit. A discreet one," Valken says. That's something he actually will need.
"Yes, my lord, a door in the southern wall is keyed to a passphrase. Simply say the word with intention, and it will open up to a passage that will take you directly to the street."
"What's the passphrase?"
"Tryst, my lord."
Perfect. Valken dismisses the servant and places his bag in a corner of the room. Then he settles in to wait. He knows his opponent will be right on time.
Valken tugs gently on his shirt, as if to straighten it out, really just to ease his nerves. The clothing he's wearing right now honestly doesn't look that different from what he wore during his traveling days, just a shirt and trousers, and a leather jacket. He's still using the same sword, Octave. It's just the details that have changed.
Valken's pierced his ears. A black diamond dangles from his right ear and gold rings run down the edge of his left. His shirt, cheap hemp in the old days, meant to be easily replaced, is made of an elegant, deep blue silk now. The pants and jacket are drake leather, with black scales that shine under the sun. Everything is heavily enchanted, and exquisitely tailored to show off Valken's physique, and the elaborate amulet that hangs from his neck. Even his sword, Octave, is reforged, turning from something well-made but utilitarian into a work of art, the masterpiece of one of the finest smiths on the continent. The guard of the longsword swirls out from its blade like a metallic rose, and both it and the hilt are made with gold and black pearl and wrapped in great ray leather. Valken cuts an imposing figure now. He has the looks to match his fame. Still, he thinks, hopes really, that those who know him still see the boy he used to be when they look at him, at least in part.
Valken has arrived far too early. Now he just has to stand around, fidgeting, letting his mind race. He should have asked for a chair.
Before he can even call for the servant, Sellia Vad Kest walks into the room. She sees Valken standing there awkwardly and immediately smiles. He can't help but smile back.
Valken first met Sellia ten years ago. He was a spellsword then, squired to the great Henrik Reval after Valken's parents were murdered in the war. Sellia was apprenticed to the White Witch, her student, and her daughter. Both Henrik and Sellia were at the point in their educations where the requirements for growth had gone from practice to experience, so they'd been introduced in the hopes that they'd have a mutually beneficial partnership.
The two of them had traveled together for seven years and made their way across the known world in search of knowledge, fortune, and adventure. They'd done every odd job under the sun, been mercenaries, spies, thieves, negotiators. They had fought man and monster and found their way deep into the forgotten places of the world. Perhaps most importantly, when the princes of the New Algaian Empire had united under their mad sovereign and once more set their sights on the Free Cities, Valken, and Sellia had joined the league opposing them and found their way to the center of the greatest war on the continent.
It had always been the two of them, together through it all. Sure, there'd been others along the way. Altmar was one. Kasha the knife, Cyman, Brynn, Philosopher, who in his search for greater truths had erased his very name from existence. But they had all come and gone. Sellia and Valken had stayed together.
Valken still remembers the first time he saw her, this tiny girl with a cloud of golden-brown curls and these brilliant green eyes that shined with a magic and wonder he had never seen before. Back then, he had thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
Sellia has only gotten more radiant since. Light brown skin, completely free of blemishes. Long, pointed Embrian ears. Full lips, perfect nose, that same curly hair, those same green eyes, they shine even more than when she was young. She's dressed to work. Like Valken. The same sort of traveling clothes that they basically lived in back in the old days, though again, much finer now. Her silk shirt tucks into a pair of drake leather pants, both white as snow, but where Valken's shirt is cut to accentuate his muscles, Sellia's clothes cling to her curves, showing off every inch of her perfect body. Fine jewelry dangles from her ears, they're heavily pierced, and a few fine rings adorn her fingers, but her necklace is what draws attention, not because it's some fine piece of art but because it's the opposite, just a pretty green stone, the same color as her eyes, hanging from a fine silver chain. It's a gift, an old one, from Valken. He gave it to her near the beginning of their travels together and Sellia's held on to it ever since. It's probably the most powerful thing on her person now, covered in endless layers of complex, experimental enchantments.
Sellia's makeup is perfect, and her glamor. Both are light, they always have been, but her glamor is a work of art, subtle and complex, layers upon layers of magic woven together into something almost alive. It instantly responds to her whims, ebbs, and flows to perfectly match her needs. If he wasn't so intimately familiar with it, he wouldn't even know it was there. Sellia had explained one night when they'd both been just the right level of drunk, that her work on her glamor was not done out of vanity, but fascination. She had seen so many different types of glamor. Endless variations designed for endless purposes, to inspire, to calm, to frighten, to disarm, to meet people's expectations, and to escape their notice. She spoke about the whole thing with such passion, she always did when she was talking about magic and all he could do was just watch and listen, enthralled by her words.
Valken's body is much like his sword, reforged into a masterwork by years of hard labor and no small amount of magic. He was always tall, but now he towers over most people, and where in his youth that height was accompanied by a lanky physique that concealed his real strength. He's now broad and powerful, thick layers of built-up muscle covered with a thin layer of fat. He isn't handsome, he thinks, but he has at least grown into his features. His nose is no longer too big for his face, the fat of his youth melted away, sharpening his jawline and he's gained a few scars, the most prominent a thick line that carves from his eye to his ear, a remnant from his duel with Dulac. It's been a long time since he didn't look at least a little dangerous.
Valken's glamor is not active. It's not meant for casual use. It's not subtle or beautiful. It's a sword one that when wielded turns him into a black sun, overwhelming awe made manifest. It is brutal and powerful and dominant and it's why he's known as the Doom of Dornai. Sellia had helped him create it, guided him through the process, and took him deep into the theory. He's added to it immensely over the years, truly made it his own, but it wouldn't be half as powerful if it wasn't for her.
"Val!" Sellia shouts, running toward him. Her hug is more like a tackle. He holds her tight and lifts her off her feet for a moment before letting her down. Sellia just laughs and beams at him.
"Finally," she says, "It feels like it's been months since I last saw you."
