As the younger Mage entered her room, Liss took the opportunity to examine him. He had aged since she had last seen him, the softness of youth all but gone and a sharp coldness replacing it. The deep frown on his face reminded her so much of his father, the expression almost exclusively adorning the Archmage’s face. However his features overwhelming reminded her of his late mother and she felt a nagging ache for the loss. She had known Giselle would die eventually, having no magic to sustain her, but that brought little comfort when she passed. She insisted the feeling was disappointment for losing such a valuable asset but a part of her knew the ache was deeper, the pain of losing someone she might have called friend if she could ever bring herself to use such a word.
“That you have,” Liss agreed, inclining her head respectfully in response. “The pleasure is mine, intellectual company is in rather short supply here.”
Pleased with his respectful nature so far, though not surprised as he was a Star Tower Mage of Dawnstar and that title did not come without decades of ruthless training in both magic and politics. Regardless, the usual suave confidence she had come to associate with the Archeims seemed to be lacking somewhat. Soren seemed… distant, withdrawn. Clearly troubled. Whilst a part of her said it was not her business and she had no interest in the man’s life or his problems, a loud voice reminded her that Giselle would be turning in her grave to see him so distraught. She had promised the woman she would keep an eye on the boy and she knew as well as Giselle how cruel a man the Archmage could be.
“Lady Archeim would speak of little else.” Liss said with an amused smile, the woman was sickening at times with her devotion to her young son. All Dawnish prided themselves on their Mage relatives and ancestry but Giselle’s pride went deeper, she genuinely loved her son and Liss couldn’t help but feel a little jealous for the open warmth she showed her child. Something Liss had never had from her own parents and despite it being over a century since their passing, it still stung.
“Perhaps we have,” Lisselá said noncommittally, gesturing for him to take a seat as she pulled a bottle of wine from her stash along with a couple of glasses. “I had heard of the rifting, as we all had.”
She paused to pour them both a glass and allow the man a chance to make himself comfortable. Whilst her room was not the level of opulence either were used to, it was larger than most within the Inn and boasted not only a relatively comfortable bed but a desk and two chairs.
“The Wardens needed help, clearly,” She said, her gaze flickering to the side as she thought of the fumbling children calling themselves Wardens and playing at war. “The Tower did not seem interested in the rifting, believing themselves immune.”
She snorted again, thinking of the aged Mages in the Tower and their refusal to acknowledge the very real threat looming over Eldris. The Tower may have ancient magic sustaining and protecting it but she very much doubted it could withstand an assault from the Netherworld and even if it did, the rest of Eldris surely would not.
“There are many things the Tower can teach, much knowledge it can provide but this is a finite amount. To truly learn of the balance and it’s power, one needs to journey further.” She said, surprising herself with her honesty before her lips twitched upwards. “And one can only withstand so many of Lord Saethor’s lectures.”
“And what of your departure?” Liss asked, meeting his gaze with a questioning look. “I did not expect any others of the Star Tower to follow. Certainly not Lord Archeim’s dearest son.”
The way that Lissela’s eyes lit up when speaking about his mother only left Soren feeling more tense than before. Running a hand through his hair, he glanced to the side, nodding at everything the mage said about his mother. He didn’t need to know from a third party that his mother had praised him. With a sharp nod Soren took up Lissela’s invitation to sit in the chair and was relieved to see her bringing out a bottle of wine. Anything to shove away these unbecoming emotions and the ugliness of guilt.
“I talked with my father, pleaded with the man, even. He does not take kindly to begging.” Soren rested his hands in his lap, furrowing his brow. “He wouldn’t hear of it. He supported the oft-defended belief that we should let the priests handle the Rifts, or try to, rather, and then when they fail, us mages will step in and prove once and for all that we are the superior force in Eldris. Yet on other days, the mages are so wrapped up in their damn politics that the end of the world may very well be upon us!” Soren clamped his mouth shut the moment he heard his voice rising in intensity, but he wasn’t about to offer an apology. “I know that us mages are far superior in every way, but even I can see that we will have no power without a ground to stand on. The Rift will strip us of our magic in time, and I for one am content with my magic remaining as it is.”
Soren accepted a glass of wine and took a long sip, swallowing hard. He’d never been one for drinking. “I left for the same reason as you,” he managed to say after a long pause. “Along with knowing that no self-respecting priest can lead worth a damn.”