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?
Dear Tiberius? That was awfully familiar for a man he’d only spoken to a handful of times in his life. Generally, when anyone but Enzo did anything fanciful with his name, well … It was usually an insult – or prelude to one. Tiberius braced for that, expression genial but a little fixed.
But it did not come. Not exactly.
Instead, Arvina spoke a great deal of strange nonsense about cats and power. Tiberius nodded along for a short time, brows pinching together as he tried to follow the metaphor. If there even is one. He folded his hands in his lap, turning the lynx-head signet on his middle finger, wondering if he was about to be accused of something. When that didn’t come either, he focused less on Demetrius’ face, and more on the trunk of his body – where the essence of his spirit or demon was most likely to be focused.
Indeed, there was something there. A deep violet – though distinct from that of Pride, more wine red than blue – that fluttered toward ascendence even as Tiberius watched. Lips parted, he leaned in slightly, trying to identify Arvina’s passenger. It was not like any other demon Tiberius had ever seen or studied. Curious, like fancying yourself an expert birdwatcher and suddenly hearing a new song outside your own bedroom window. Hastily, he lifted his gaze.
“I’m sorry, my Lord. I don’t think I follow you. They are indeed worthy creatures, but–” He cut himself off abruptly, venting a short, frustrated exhale. A cat was like an Archon's power as much as a raven was like a writing desk.
And the cult’s mission was not absurd if it was successful. Considering they could only guess at their aims – unless Arvina knew and wasn’t saying – Tiberius wasn’t willing to call them poor doomed idiots just yet.
“Is there anything I might do for you, my Lord? I would not wish to keep you from your other appointments.”
Demetrius’s golden gaze glimmered with something between glee and madness as he studied Tiberius’s careful restraint. His head tilted slightly, as though listening to a voice just out of earshot, before his lips curled into a sly smile. He leaned forward again, folding his hands atop the desk as if to deliver a secret, though his voice carried the energy of a performance.
Ah, Tiberius, you cut through my musings with such precision, like a keen blade through fog. But I suspect you’re not here to hear me wax poetic about cats and conspiracies, are you? No, no. There’s a sharper game afoot. He paused, his grin widening, though his eyes seemed to darken. One doesn’t summon a man like you, oh scion of House Umbra, merely to talk about paw prints in the sand.
Demetrius rose from his chair, pacing toward the window where Little Mal had been perched moments before. He gazed out over the sprawling palace grounds, his hands clasped behind his back. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost reverent, but with a distinct undertone of mania.
There’s a storm, you see. Brewing. I feel it in every whisper, every glance, every shadow that moves when it shouldn’t. My reign—it teeters on the edge, like a goblet of wine in a trembling hand. And yet, he spun back toward Tiberius, his expression alight, the goblet does not spill. Not yet. Because I hold it. *I* hold it.
His laughter came sudden and sharp, echoing in the room like the clanging of bells. It faded just as abruptly, and Demetrius strode back to the desk, leaning forward on it with both hands as he stared directly at Tiberius.
But I won’t pretend the hand does not grow weary. My enemies circle like crows. Whispers of poison, plots, and treachery come to me on the winds, and while I stand strong now, I must look to the future. A future where strength and cunning might outlast my mortal years.
He gestured broadly, almost theatrically. Which brings us to you, my dear Magister. You. I have watched you, Tiberius Umbra. You’ve navigated the treacherous waters of our Imperium with a grace that would make even the serpents jealous. I see in you not just potential, but necessity.
Demetrius’s voice softened, and for a moment, he sounded almost lucid. Almost.
I have no son. No heir to carry on my line, to safeguard the Imperium from the wolves that will surely descend the moment I falter. And so, I must look beyond blood. I must look to you, Tiberius. You will be my heir. The torchbearer of the Imperium’s future.
He straightened, his hands spreading wide in a gesture of magnanimity, though his expression held the gleam of desperation. But with such an honor comes responsibility. And risk. Oh, yes, the risk. They will come for you, too, once they learn of this. The crows, the conspirators, the cultists. All of them. But I believe you are the one who can withstand it. If you accept, you will not stand alone. The Imperium will stand with you. I will stand with you. For as long as my strength holds.
Demetrius’s gaze bore into Tiberius, unblinking, as though he were staring directly into the magister’s soul. Well? What say you, my heir presumptive? Will you embrace the throne’s fire, or step back into the shadows where the crows will be all too eager to pluck at your wings?
It was not often that Tiberius found himself taken aback, at a loss for words. He was that now, watching the Archon of Tevinter strut about the office. His throat had gone quite dry and he gulped what was left of his wine, examining the chasm that had just opened up beneath his feet. As if the floor of the palace were gone, and Minrathous lay below in all of its pointy, dragon-infested glory.
“You … You think because I was away for six years, that I am uninvolved in these plots.” A statement, not a question, as he struggled to understand Arvina’s proposal. It was utterly insane, of course.
Tiberius thought of his grandfather, scheming for a hundred years, always scheming. Devouring his own children with forbidden magic – all in the name of their House – that he might live just a little longer. That he might build a deeper fortune, a more enduring legacy, one crumb of power at a time. And here was Demetrius, offering an entire feast only because some fey whim told him Tiberius was safe and non-threatening. Competent enough to survive the occasional assassination attempt but unable or unwilling to engineer one in turn.
He tried to see Malachai’s shape in it and failed. The chancellor respected his claws more than most – though it was hardly any special mark of character. Mal was paranoid by profession and natural inclination both. Tiberius sank deeper into his chair, as if pressed there by a heavy hand.
“If that is your will my Lord, then let it be so.” There had been a few ifs in Arvina’s offer but Tiberius had few illusions. If he told the Archon no to his face, there would be punishment. Very likely he’d not make it home. He could ill afford to sit here, whelmed. Sitting up and leaning his elbows on his knees, Tiberius winced as the wine sat poorly in his empty stomach.
Accords such as this were usually sealed in blood. A marriage or formal adoption into the ruler’s family. He hoped Arvina would make no such demands, though saw little recourse for refusing him if he did.
“I will need special consideration to expand my household guard, of course.”
Demetrius's grin widened, his golden eyes alight with something that teetered between triumph and delirium. He clapped his hands once, sharp and decisive, like the snap of a trap closing.
Ah! That is the spirit, my dear heir-apparent! So practical, so prepared. Yes, yes, of course, expand your household guard—what is a throne without its sentinels, hmm? A corpse waiting to happen.
He turned abruptly, pacing away before swinging back toward Tiberius, his robes billowing like a storm-tossed banner. His expression flickered, shifting from amusement to something more calculating.
But guards alone won’t be enough. Oh no, no, no. If we are to *survive*—and survival is quite the game in this city, isn't it?—then you must be more than a man with a good sword and a watchful eye. You must be… adaptive. Flexible. Like a cat slipping through the cracks of a closing door.
Little Mal let out a faint chirp from the windowsill, tail flicking as if in agreement. Demetrius’s gaze snapped toward the feline, then back to Tiberius, a knowing smile playing at his lips.
Do you think, Tiberius, that I built all of this, he gestured grandly around the office, encompassing the palace, the Imperium, perhaps even the very sky above, with brute force alone? Oh no. No, no, no. My power, my dear magister, is in *knowledge*. Secrets whispered in darkened halls. Names spoken only once before vanishing from history. And now, you must learn this game, this dance of shadows.
He leaned in suddenly, a predator's gleam in his eyes.
Tell me, my heir presumptive, are you ready for your first lesson?
Demetrius reached into the folds of his robe and withdrew a small, elegant dagger. The blade was dark, almost obsidian in hue, and etched with delicate, spiraling runes that seemed to shimmer even in the morning light. He turned it over in his palm, as if considering its weight.
This belonged to a man who thought he could play this game without understanding the rules. He thought that by spilling my blood, he would take my place. His gaze flickered with something unreadable. He was wrong. Do you know why?
He held the blade out, hilt first, toward Tiberius, his smile widening just a fraction too much.
Because *I* had already spilled his first.
A pause. A moment stretched too long. Then, suddenly, he laughed—light, airy, almost delighted.
Come now, take it! Consider it a gift. A reminder. Every Archon needs a good dagger, after all.
The air in the room was thick, electric. A test, then. One of many, Tiberius was sure. How he responded now would dictate the course of the game to come.
Would he take the dagger? Would he refuse?
Would he play Demetrius’s game… or would he try to write his own?
