Vekarin pondered what Lesa had told him for a moment, perhaps two. He stared down at the trees and grasslands of the Border Princes that flew beneath them as thy flew. He knew not why Lesa would pour her pains into him so freely, but for some reason he felt glad that she had.
"I understand the Carstein's bids for power. Such was ever their way, ever since the beginning of their bloodline." Vekarin looked down at Lesa, "To think I swore myself to them once..." He laughed quietly, a wholesome laugh, not that of the grinding stones that his voice had produced before. Suddenly, his composition changed, and his chuckle ceased. Beneath the iron mask he wore, his face became solemn.
"Lesa, the oath I swore to you within the cursed lands of Morr's realm has been paid. I have indeed sworn my blade, and those of all within the Violet Citadel to the cause of the Council." She turned to look at him, her brow furrowed.
"But the debt that I owe to you transcends beyond words, feelings, emotions and the ancient laws carved by the Old Ones themselves upon the foundations of the world. Nothing can repay it in full, and to you I owe my person, my sword, and my very soul. I hope that by retrieving your husband from the clutches dark of Nagash and his bastard-son Arkhan, I can repay but a small portion of what is owed to you. My shame knows no bounds over the occurrences that took place within the Black Tower, for it is mine fault, and my fault alone that Milosh now resides in the clutches of the Black Lord." Vekarin looked away.
"You can expect my full support, and those of the Legion. Although I do not speak for the Queen, I expect that she will be as eager to right this wrong as I am. Combined, no army can stand in our way, Lesa. Our resolve is unyielding in this matter, to this I swear."
Far below them, within the great halls of Nexeternus, Victarias wandered. She strode down long, empty passageways, gazing at the rows of masterfully painted pictures, the cases of ancient weapons and coats of armor. She lingered before tapestries telling the tales of battles long since concluded, and the tattered banners of Lord Simon's enemies, until she stumbled upon an old weaving. The tattered, burned and bloodstained arras displayed the ancient curse of Nagash, the betrayal of Neferata and the siege of Lahmia. Among the legions of woven soldiers on either side of burning city, the catapults bombarding it's walls and the commanders ordering their troops to their deaths, Victarias saw a tiny likeness of the queen herself, fighting for her burning city. Alongside the queen stood her handmaidens, tall and unforgiving, cutting down all that would threaten their mistress. To one side of the formation of warrioresses, Victarias could make out...
Herself.
She peered closer, the tiny figure dancing in the flickering torchlight, as if fighting off the hordes of invaders, the fire lighting the tapestry glinting off the woven flames of burning Lahmia, causing them to flicker and jump. Victarias looked yet closer, and the flames of war engulfed her as well. She screamed once, her voice echoing down the hallways, and fell still.
