“You know this whole thing is just going to make it worse, right?” Wat'Nar said calmly. Dracon looked over his shoulder at him. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and a stubble of coarse blond hair stretched across his jaw.

“Yes, I know. But what King Ferren says is law. He's determined to keep Artifice at bay. By any means necessary.” Dracon grabbed a stone goblet from the altar against the wall. He poured himself a healthy measure of Semalian mead, and sat down, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“But appeasement? When has that worked for any government in the past? We're weakening ourselves and Artifice and his Menikai are growing stronger. If the threat is to be removed, then we need to do just that to the source—remove it.” Wat'Nar followed Dracon's example, pouring a glass of mead, but remained standing, pacing around the room.

“I know that you can see things others cannot, but you need to leave the deciding to those who have the power to do so.” Dracon growled dangerously. Wat'Nar ran his fingers through his thick brown hair and sighed, taking a long draught from his cup.

“And I realize that,” Wat'Nar said. “I'm just offering my insights. Oracles are allowed to do that, aren't we? I realize that Ferren is your friend, and you're defending his decision, but I don't think it is a smart move on his part. At least listen to your family.”

Dracon glanced at Wat'Nar with his deep blue, weary eyes. The sunlight from the window reflected off of Dracon's armor, casting a glare on Wat'Nar's face. The beam of light continued to pass along the length of stone wall behind Wat'Nar, illuminating the shelves, furniture, and various weapons hung on their racks.

“Do you like the mead? It's imported from Semal.” Dracon said nonchalantly.

“Don't change the subject,” Wat'Nar warned, setting down his cup on the rough table behind him. “This needs to stop. The Menikai need to be taken care of. With the threat of an attack looming over the Empire at all times, it's detrimental to the morale of the people. You can't begin to imagine the amounts of Nairo who come to the Temple every day to pray for the threat to be eliminated. They want peace. And as soon as our resources run out, at the hands of the Menikai, they will decide that they no longer have any use for us, and will attack. It's inevitable.”

Dracon thought hard. He tipped the remnants of his drink into his throat, unsatisfied. He could have sworn he poured himself more than that. He pushed the thought aside, and focused on Wat'Nar's point. It was a good one. The King needed to act. Dracon needed to act. He was one of the only people Ferren took advice from.

“You don't think it's too late for an offensive?” Dracon peered up at Wat'Nar.

“I can't be sure,” Wat'Nar winced. “I can't get any decent visions about it, but logically speaking, better to attack now than later.”

Dracon mulled the possibilities over in his head. They could surprise Artifice in his palace. They could ambush, skirmish, use guerrilla warfare. They could assemble and call him out, mobilize, or even send in spies and utilize espionage and sabotage. It was their only hope. Wat'Nar's fears were well-placed. What if the government gave too much to the Menikai? They would be powerless to stop them. They had to fight.

Dracon stood up. He set his glass on the altar, and strode toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Wat'Nar asked.

“I need to talk with Ferren. You are absolutely right. Action needs to be taken.” Dracon said over his shoulder.

“What will you suggest?”

“You're the psychic—you tell me.”

Wat'Nar closed his eyes. The sacred rune appeared on his forehead, glowing like a beacon in the night. His deep purple robes rustled at his feet, as an eerie wind swept through the room. His head snapped up, his eyes wide. They were glazed over and glowed like the symbol upon his brow.

“When all is lost, new spirits will grow. Whether by will, whether by chance, whether by fate,” Wat'Nar's entranced form stated. Dracon snatched up a spare leaf of parchment and a quill, and began writing as Wat'Nar spoke. “They shall become strong in their skills, which will be many. Doubts will lurk about them like a moon for they are not God-Children. Though they could be denied success, for they will have no knowledge of their ancestors, lest the Flame is rekindled, and the King is found. The way of the Nairo will be reborn and the people will rejoice...” He trailed off. His head bowed, and the wind subsided. Wat'Nar fell back against the altar, supporting himself on the chair Dracon had sat in.

“What did I say?” Wat'Nar asked weakly. Dracon read the prophecy several times over, making sure he scribed the entire statement. He handed it to Wat'Nar, who snatched it up, and read it silently. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed as he read, trying to make sense of it. He sighed heavily.

“What does it mean?” Asked Dracon quietly.

“It means that you need to speak with Ferren. Quickly.” Wat'Nar replied. Dracon stood in the doorway, no doubt trying to figure it out for himself. “GO!” He yelled. Dracon snapped out of his thoughts, and sped through the door.

Wat'Nar read the prophecy once more, and shook his head.

“We're doomed.”