One could not ignore a personal summons from the Archon of the Imperium. Not without committing social and perhaps literal suicide. Tiberius simply stared at the ornate scroll case, encrusted with indigo sapphires, for several minutes. Strangely, it had been delivered with a little porcelain cat.
This was either very good, or very bad. He wished he knew more about Demetrius, but there was little more than the publicly available history. Apprentice of Radonis – the previous Archon had also shared a fondness for felines. Married once, though he’d lost his wife and the baby both in the childbed. Curiously dependent on a half-elf bastard (sorry Mal) to run his secret police, which had to mean something. Unexpectedly interested in employing the future Lady Umbra to care for his pets.
Finally, the architect of the barrier that had protected Tevinter for half a decade. Which would make him the most powerful mage in actual ages if it were even a little bit true. Tiberius had his doubts but wouldn’t share them on pain of death with the way the winds were blowing. At last he opened the scroll and stared down at it for some time, eventually rising to fetch himself a drink. It, of course, explained absolutely nothing.
The next morning, he set out for the palace bright and early, dressed in the most formal and severe form of House Umbra’s uniform with the scroll case tucked under his arm. He was, evidently, expected – the guards let him through on sight.
Soon enough, an aide showed him into Demetrius Arvina’s office. Tiberius bowed and subtly looked around, too curious to school himself completely.
Demetrius sat behind an imposing mahogany desk, the morning light streaming through the tall windows of his office, casting intricate shadows on the marble floor. His presence was as commanding as the architecture that surrounded him, a stark contrast to the various cats around the office and estate. Currently, Little Mal was sitting on the windowsill, watching the proceedings with a keen interest. Little Mal was usually around when Demetrius was holding meetings, a silent observer that seemed to add an extra layer of scrutiny to any conversation.
The Archon was a man of contradictions: his austere demeanor masked a complexity that few understood. His office reflected this duality, with its grandiose design juxtaposed against the soft, often whimsical presence of the cats. The felines roamed freely, their quiet movements a testament to the Archon's fondness for them. It was said that each cat held a special place in his heart, much like his former mentor, Radonis. Little Mal, with his sleek black, orange and white fur and piercing green eyes, was a favorite, often seen perched in places of observation.
As Tiberius entered, Demetrius's sharp eyes, the color of molten gold, assessed him with a mixture of curiosity and something that resembled amusement. The Archon's gaze was intense, capable of making even the most confident individuals feel as though they were under a microscope.
Magister Umbra, thank you for coming, Demetrius began, his voice smooth and measured. He gestured to a chair opposite his desk. Please, have a seat. I hope everything is well. There was an opened packing crate off to the side of the desk, filled with a few bottles of wine, one was sitting on the desk breathing. It was from one of the first shipments of Antivan wine that had come through since the barrier went down.
Tiberius took the seat, shifting his attention back to Arvina. As much as he was trying to minimize his prejudices, they were muffled yet still loud in his head. This office had endorsed a number of personal ills. The barrier that kept him locked out of the country. The fall of House Pavus. A midnight raid upon his own home.
Whether this position for Lyric would be number among them remained to be seen – but Tiberius Umbra had the feel of being measured for a collar himself. How strange. How much could be pinned on the title itself, and how much the man? Mal was afraid of or for him, Tiberius wasn’t sure which.
“Wine for breakfast, my Lord? Well, I won't refuse.” At least there was one minor victory to be had. Arvina apparently favored this wine enough to serve it to himself. House Umbra’s sommelier would consider that knowledge a major coup. Perhaps they’d even serve it at the wedding reception.
“All is well, thank you.” Silence for a beat, with the Archon and his cat both staring at him. A bit strange – he wondered if the animal was spelled in any way. This individual cat seemed familiar, perhaps he’d seen it at the ball.
Caretaker of the Cats, or somesuch. It had the ring of a vanity title, like Keeper of the Imperial Consort’s Swans. If it wasn’t for poor Elaria, Tiberius wouldn’t have thought of it as a dangerous position at all.
“May I be so bold as to ask after the catnappers? I find the matter is suddenly dear to my heart.”
Demetrius’s expression shifted subtly as he took in Tiberius’s inquiry, the slight arch of an eyebrow hinting at his thoughts. With a deliberate, practiced motion, he reached for the bottle of Antivan wine, pouring a glass for Tiberius. The wine flowed smoothly into the glass, a deep crimson against the polished marble of the desk. Demetrius handed the glass to Tiberius, his gaze never wavering from the magister’s face, as if gauging his reaction to every small gesture.
The catnappers, yes. They are indeed a peculiar group, originating from the depths of Orlais—an eccentric cult, really. Their obsession with felines borders on the fanatical, to the point where they believe these creatures are conduits for some sort of ancient, mystical power. Ridiculous, perhaps, but fanatics have a way of making the absurd seem all too real.
He set his own glass down gently, the sound almost imperceptible against the marble desk. This cult seeped into Tevinter shortly before the barrier was erected five years ago. They were quiet at first, biding their time, likely thinking they had all the time in the world to enact whatever bizarre rituals they had planned. The barrier, however, complicated their movements, isolating them in a land where their influence could not grow unchecked.
Demetrius leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening. But with the barrier down, they grew bold. They saw an opportunity and believed they could act without consequence, perhaps even believing the Imperium would be too distracted to notice their petty thefts. They underestimated us, of course. We are not so easily deceived or distracted.
Little Mal stretched on the windowsill, his gaze flicking between the two men as if sensing the weight of the conversation. Demetrius allowed himself a brief moment of indulgence, watching the cat before returning his focus to Tiberius.
Rest assured, Magister Umbra, this cult is being dealt with. Their actions will not go unpunished. But tell me, what do you think? Does the idea of a group so absurdly fixated on our feline companions strike you as a mere oddity, or do you see something more in their audacity?
Demetrius’s question was laced with a deeper meaning, probing at whether Tiberius saw the catnappers as a genuine threat or just another curiosity in a land already teeming with them.
Tiberius accepted the glass, raising it briefly to his lips to take in its scent and the barest sip, only enough to wet his tongue. He could hardly refuse a glass poured by the Archon’s own hand – though the way Demetrius watched his every movement was slightly unnerving.
Well. If he meant any kind of harm … There had to be easier ways for the Archon to punish a subject than a slow poisoning in his very own office. He had not heard of Arvina possessing a sadistic streak. Tiberius listened quietly, thinking back to the night of the ball. He’d not been privy to the interrogations — despite taking an arm off one of the interlopers in the final scuffle.
What do you think? Tiberius’s brows rose and he shot the cat at the window a brief glance before looking back at Deme, head cocked slightly to the side. Exactly what kind of answer was the Archon looking for? He knew better than to lie when common magics could see through common deceptions.
“I cannot speak to their beliefs – whether it is genuine faith or simply a means to someone else’s end. Only that it is summer in Minrathous, and if it is cats you want, there are much easier ways to collect a heap of them than infiltrating the Imperial Palace.” Feeling no ill effects from the wine thus far, Tiberius drank a little more and set the glass down.
“So. Why your cats, in particular? The cultists may be odd, yes. But with a blood sample and a little lyrium, a powerful mage – studied in certain taboo arts – could turn temporary access to your pets into future access to your person. Or, rather, access to anywhere your animals might wander.” Palace bedrooms, the treasury— confidential meetings such as this one. Ah, but it would take a very patient planner to do much of anything with that, relying entirely on the whims of an animal. More than likely the cult had been up to something else. They had been caging up multiple cats which could not have gone unnoticed.
Only phylacteries and blood magic had been heavy on Tiberius’s mind since inviting not one but two southern mages into his home.
“I’m not so full of myself as to dismiss this matter out of hand, my lord Archon. The Imperium's security concerns us all.”
Demetrius’s eyes sparkled with a sharpness that suggested both amusement and appraisal. For a moment, he seemed to withdraw inward, one gloved hand smoothing the intricate pattern on his desk as though it held some unseen wisdom. The tension in the room thickened as he shifted from the calculated poise of a ruler to something … less conventional.
Oh, Tiberius, dear Tiberius, he began, leaning forward, his golden eyes brightening like smoldering embers. So astute. Yes, yes – the power that certain rituals, certain—taboo arts, shall we say?—might have over a creature connected to the Archon of the Imperium. His voice dipped, halfway between a murmur and a stage whisper, both amused and deadly serious, as if he himself were only half-present. But do you know, these dear little cats, he gave a pointed glance at Little Mal, they tend to bring out the ... *unusual* in people.
He grinned, a strange, sidelong grin that hinted at his faraway thoughts.
Have you ever considered, Magister, that power is often like these cats—both fiercely independent and utterly dependent on how you feed it? Consider the catnappers. Infiltrators who think they’ve come close to … what? To me? To the heartbeat of this place? He clapped his hands, the echo bouncing off the cold marble walls. A paltry imitation of proximity, don’t you think? But proximity is not power, and fear is not strength.
Demetrius paused, seeming to shake off his own musings with a careless wave. He straightened, meeting Tiberius’s gaze with the intense clarity of a man who’d said more than he intended. He leaned back, fingertips pressed together. And yet, to risk their lives for so absurd a mission, he remarked, the question does beg itself, doesn’t it?
