The frigid air swept over Odymm Tal as he dashed towards the Citadel. The chill eating at his bones had little to do with the gusts blowing across Xygarrion, for today, he feared his city would fall. And if Xygarrion fell, all the Realms would follow.
Tal pushed his way through the early morning crowds, not pausing to apologize when he bumped a shopkeeper or cut off a school matron leading her flock of children. If he failed to stop what was about to happen, momentary lapses in propriety would matter less than a falling leaf in autumn.
“This is my fault,” he said, not realizing he’d spoken aloud.
“You warned them,” came the resonant bass of his archon, Jurredix, who kept Tal’s pace with ease. “On multiple occasions. They did not listen.”
Tal cast an appreciative glance at the mechanical man, his gift from the Primarchs, the Lords of Order, upon achieving the rank of Grandmaster. The archon was a symbol of Tal’s high status, and it comforted him to have him by his side as the entropy of human folly threatened to destroy everything Tal had worked his entire life to protect.
“And there was no way of knowing they had progressed so far, so quickly. We all thought we had more time.”
