Low-Fantasy Occultist

The main plaza was a stage carved from black glass, lit only by the glare of lumen-stones. Nick knelt near the edge of a ruined watchtower, the midnight silk of the Stillness draped over his shoulders, merging his presence with the cold rock.

Below him, the lords of the surface and the masters of the deep circled each other with words.

General Nolan stood at the center of the royal delegation, the undisputed architect of the invasion. His silver plate armor caught the yellow light, polished to a mirror sheen despite weeks spent fighting through tunnels. He was a striking man, cultured and sharp, studying the dark dwarves with a falcon's predatory grace.

Flanking him were three more individuals whose souls blazed with the unmistakable power of the Prestige tier.

To Nolan’s right stood Leon Sadie, the young knight’s golden aura muted but simmering just beneath his skin. He seemed unsure of his position, and several other lords regarded him with equal curiosity and surprise. His rank, he could tell, was a recent thing.

To the left stood an ancient man in the deep violet robes of the capital’s Magic Tower, his gnarled hands resting atop a staff of pale, twisted wood. That one was dangerous, even if he kept his immense mana shrouded for now.

Standing half a pace behind Nolan, projecting the lethal calm of a drawn blade, was his father. Fiery power bubbled in his veins, waiting to be unleashed, and many dwarves watched him cautiously.

Clearly, they were familiar with his brand of violence.

He must have acquitted himself even better than the messages suggested. The old mage is more powerful, but it’s him they fear.

Facing them across the open stone were the emissaries of the dark dwarves. They numbered twenty, all clad in armor of seamless, opaque black glass, yet only two mattered.

The eldest hovered two inches above the ground, the leader of the delegation and the one whose psychic presence could be felt throughout the city, despite not being outwardly hostile.

Behind him stood a younger dwarven woman. Her eyes glowed with fierce light, and the ether around her spoke of tectonic force, of growing mountains and ancient crags.

An earth mage. A powerful one, especially since she can’t be more than five years older than I.

“Your proposal is essentially a withdrawal," Nolan said, his baritone voice smooth and echoing clearly across the plaza. He offered a slow smile that no one was foolish enough to trust. “After coming all this way, you ask King’s army to march back to the surface, abandoning the obsidian gates and the tunnels we sacrificed so much to secure. And in exchange, you offer us shiny rocks.”

"We offer a king’s ransom in star-sapphires, refined ores, and a binding pact of non-aggression," the dwarven elder countered, his voice a grinding rumble. “As you said, blood is costlier than gems, General. The deeps belong to the earth, and any attempt to take them would see you spill so much more. You can scratch the surface of our domain, but you cannot push much further. We both know this is the truth.”

"We seem to be holding First City well enough," Nolan remarked, gesturing casually toward the Royal Infantry lining the plaza.

“You might be able to for a season," the elder agreed. "Until the supply lines snap under constant attacks from the dark, the cold sets in, and the tunnel-drakes breed. What I am offering you is victory, General Nolan. Take the wealth, the glory of breaking our outer gates, and return to your King as a conqueror. Linger here, and your men will become fertilizer for the next generation of monsters.”

Nick found himself amused as he watched the exchange from the shadows, his senses allowing him to read the emotions swirling between the two factions.

It was a show of deception on all sides. Neither side wanted to fight another battle, yet both postured as if they could wage war for a decade.

The dwarves dearly needed the humans gone, even though they’d been the ones to invite Berea’s wrath with their initial incursions.

They were offering an exorbitant sum to buy the Royal Army out of their tunnels. To the casual observer, it looked like the desperate bribe of a defeated nation. But Nick had felt the abyssal rot in Toneburg and recognized the frayed edges of the elder’s aura.

The dark dwarves were too concerned with the demonic tide rising from the abyss. They needed every spear and psychic channeler focused downward, which meant securing their upper border at all costs.

I still do not know whether this is the danger Ephor spoke about. Even if it isn’t, we should be very careful. Demons of any kind are no small matter.

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Nolan, shrewd and ambitious, kept probing the offer, rejecting it at times and demanding more before acting as if they’d reached a consensus, only to step back before giving his word.

He clearly knew his own vulnerabilities. The Royal Army was victorious but spent. Exhaustion spread through the camps, and the supply lines back to the surface were vulnerable to ambushes and would be even more so if they had to go deeper.

More importantly, the high nobles of the kingdom were eager to return to their estates before winter locked the mountain passes. Nolan wanted peace, but he wanted to wring every possible concession from the elder before signing the parchment.

"Your terms are tempting," the General said softly after the old dwarf added a few more resources to the table, pacing a slow circle. "But the Crown requires assurances. We’d leave our backs exposed if we retreated now. What guarantees the pact holds once our positions are dismantled?”

The verbal sparring continued for another hour, winding through complex clauses on hostage exchanges, trade rights, and magical oaths. Nick absorbed every word, cataloging the diplomats’ shifting emotions and subtle tells.

Then, the ether rippled in silent warning as a mind sharpened.

The ancient mage lifted his chin. His clouded eyes narrowed, and he tapped the end of his staff against the floor.

A wave of sensory magic, staggering in breadth, erupted from the wood, a net cast wide to catch any hidden listeners or scrying eyes. It rushed up the walls of the cavern, washing over the ruined watchtower.

Nick tightened his grip on [Sovereign’s Parsimony]. He drew his vast power inward, condensing his soul into a microscopic point, then let the Stillness do the rest. The midnight silk shifted his frequency, aligning his existence with the cold stone and the distant rumble of magma.

The sensory wave passed over him, and the old mage paused, his head turning slightly toward the watchtower. A frown creased his withered face, but after a moment he turned to the other side of the cavern, where, with a crackle of spent magic, a hidden ward cracked open.

His job done, he grunted as he lowered his staff.

Nick let a slow, silent breath escape his lips. He would need to keep a wide berth of that one when he got to the capital.

"We will consider your terms, Elder," Nolan declared after giving the Archmage a glance, bringing the first day of negotiations to a close. "The King's commanders will convene. We shall meet again at the seventh hour of the morrow to deliver our decision.”

The dwarven elder inclined his head in a stiff, formal gesture, then floated backward. His honor guard turned as one, melting into the deeper tunnels the moment they were out of sight.

The royal delegation broke up. Nolan walked toward the command pavilion, flanked by aides and scribes, while the old mage shuffled off toward the quartermaster's tents.

Eugene spoke with Sir Leon for a while, seemingly giving directions, then walked off on his own.

Nick tracked his father’s fiery signature through the occupied streets, watching as he moved through the city.

Sentries in enchanted armor stood near defensible positions, lit by more lumen-stones, gambling with dice to pass the time, and greeted him respectfully as he went by. Wagons carrying rations and replacement weapons choked the narrow obsidian alleys. The smell of unwashed bodies, roasting meat, and stale ale filled the cavern as the army relaxed, relieved that the talks were going well.

Eugene’s pavilion sat in a cleared courtyard near the eastern gate. It was a utilitarian structure of waxed canvas and sturdy iron poles, lacking the silken finery that marked Nolan’s quarters.

No one was foolish enough to live in any of the buildings, given the dwarves’ mastery of the stone.

Six Crowley guards in dark mail stood watch outside the tent, warily scanning their surroundings, which told Nick the human camp wasn’t as united as it appeared.

He floated down from the rooftops and walked across the courtyard, making no sound. He passed directly between two guards, close enough to smell the oil on their chainmail, then slipped through the pavilion's flaps.

The interior was warm, heated by a small iron stove in the corner. A large table dominated the center of the space, covered with hand-drawn maps of the subterranean tunnels and stacks of logistical reports.

Eugene stood by the table. He unbuckled his sword belt, setting the dark, polished scabbard on a wooden chest. He looked tired. The lines around his eyes showed his fatigue, even though his body still held enough strength to fight for years to come.

He reached for a silver goblet resting near a map of the Gullet Gate, the one leading down into the deeper underworld, poured a measure of dark red wine from a bottle, then took a long drink.

Nick moved silently to the cot in the tent's corner, where he pulled a small piece of parchment from his coat and laid it gently on the blanket.

He stepped back, retreating into the shadows near the iron stove, stifling a smirk.

Eugene lowered his goblet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned toward the cot to set aside his fine woolen cloak.

He stopped abruptly, staring at the folded parchment. His body went perfectly still.

The shift from a weary soldier to a lethal predator happened in the span of a heartbeat.

Eugene’s hand dropped from his cloak, a dark dagger clearing its sheath without a whisper.

He took a slow step toward the cot, his eyes fixed on the parchment, and used the tip of the dagger to flip it open.

The ink was fresh. Two words were written in a familiar script.

Hello, Dad. Eugene’s breath hitched. His gray eyes darted to the pavilion’s corners. "Show yourself,” he rumbled, though no sound left the tent at Nick’s command.

Complying, he let the intent fueling Stillness fade. The midnight silk loosened its grip on the World, settling back into ordinary fabric. At the same time, Nick released a fraction of his aura, allowing his true self to brush against his father’s senses.

Eugene spun around, holding the dagger raised in a reverse grip. The blade’s point stopped mere inches from Nick’s chest as he froze.

He looked at the young man standing in the shadows and recognized the familiar features, the calm expression, and the staff resting casually in his grip.

The dagger trembled as his metaphysical senses grasped the presence. Then, Eugene’s eyes opened wide in true shock.

"Gods," he whispered, the word thick with raw awe. He lowered the dagger, staring at his son as if seeing him for the first time. "You actually did it.”

“Not everyone takes as long as you do,” Nick replied with a faint smile.

Eugene let out a short, barking laugh that bordered on disbelief. He tossed the dagger onto the map table, then stepped forward to grip Nick by the shoulders. His grip was like iron, anchoring them both to the moment.

“My son, the genius," Eugene breathed, his gray eyes searching Nick’s face. “All without a long line of elders to help you, without a royal sponsor. A young mage ascending on his own. If the Royal Court knew…"

"They already do," Nick grimaced. “But I was given three months to present myself before the King.”

He returned his father’s grip, warmth spreading in his chest. The political games could wait a moment. "It is good to see you, Dad.”

Eugene sighed and pulled him into a tight embrace.

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