Trion

Rowan had a faint fear that he might not be able to read the diary, but thankfully his premonition proved false. The words at first seemed like gibberish, but slowly they began to make sense. This process happened very fast, almost instantaneously. Those grim words were pressed into the pages as if written in distress. Again, Rowan tried to remember the past and the relationship he had with his father, but it mostly remained a blur.

From what he could infer, the Third Prince was generally known and loved by the populace. The city he governed was thriving, his policies were fair, and he gave back to the merchants and citizens. He had a keen eye for great trade deals and brought wealth to his city. But that was on the surface. That was a part he knew the Third Prince played. He was not interested in the propaganda for the masses; he wanted the real truth.

He knew the Third Prince was not to be trusted when he was hugged by him; it felt like being smothered in the coils of a giant snake.

Placing his focus back on the book he held, Rowan noticed that the ink used on the first page was red while the rest of the diary used traditional black ink. He brought the page closer to his nose and caught a faint whiff of iron. Was this written in blood? Red was one of the primary colors of the Kuranes family; it represented the burning flames in the heart. It had no ties with blood.

He did not remember writing this. He did not remember much of anything, really. He mentally chastised himself: if he was going to analyze every word he came across, he wouldn't make any progress with his patchy memory of the prince not helping matters.

He continued reading, as he turned to the next page, anticipating yet dreading what he was to find.

It turned out to be a standard diary, with inconsistent details from a writer who expected to understand the jumbled recollection and writings. Essential terms were missing, and there was no background for many of the strange terms used. Rowan made a mental note to properly investigate them.

He began reading:

***

Yuleti 7, 0074

It was said that when the gods slept, Primos stole their weapons and used them to battle the calamities that plagued mankind. I confess I do have a fanciful idea that what I, together with Dennis and Clara, are about to undertake is similar to that epic undertaking, but I digress.

The auction was successful, and I was able to collect all the pieces of the divine weapon of ice. It was a shame I had to fork up three bottles of Redwyn wine; my heart still pains me for that loss. But that damn greedy merchant Beirut will never do any transaction at a loss.

***

It was a relatively short journal entry. He saw two names, Dennis and Clara, and after racking his memories, he could recall details of these two. Dennis was a rambunctious noble brat, constantly looking for new thrills. He had deep pockets because he was part owner of a large steel mill. Rowan took advantage of the fact that Dennis was a thrill-seeker and used his resources to pursue his occultic agenda, and achieve his burning desire—freeing his mother.

Clara was a librarian who had an impressive grasp of ancient texts and languages. She was multilingual and had a knack for research. Although her family was not well-to-do, her father being a train station attendant, her expertise made her an invaluable member of the trio.

He took out a ballpoint pen from the drawers and a new hardcover notebook. He would jot down specific words and names so he could flesh them out properly. Biting the end of his pen for a second, Rowan began to write: Divine weapons? Auction? Merchant—Beirut? He was satisfied with this entry. He slowly turned the page of the diary to the next.

***

Yuleti 10, 0074

I had a falling out with Dennis today. It's an understatement to say he was not pleased with the idea of crushing a divine weapon to feed a demon, even if it's the lowest tier. It took a while to convince him about the sheer difficulty of such a task and that we would most likely fail, but he was adamant that we could not risk the divine weapon.

I may have underestimated Dennis's desire for power. His cheerful personality was a facade, I think. Clara warned me about his lust for power.

Why would anyone want a power like this? One that leaves your humanity behind and makes you a thing of despair?

***

Hmm... trouble in paradise. From what he could piece together from Rowan's memories, he was a typical scholar, head buried in books and heart set on dreams. He pursued knowledge just to quench his thirst for the unknown, and although he was born in affluence, he was not affected by his status.

His sickly constitution

made him unable to compete in the political arena of a large royal family, and his interest cemented away any chance of playing in power games with his brothers and sisters. So, he was ignorant of how much the allure of more power was to a Noble.

He turned the pages and slowly sank into the retelling of Rowan's life, occasionally bringing up his notebook and jotting down specific phrases. The light began to dim as evening came around. He switched on the gas lamp beside him. It burned with a green flame, illuminating his face in a ghoulish manner, and he sank back into reading. At that moment, no one who saw his figure would mistake him for a child.

The chair was low, and the table was a little too high for him, so he had to hunch to read comfortably. He sat on the edge of his chair, yet his focus was intense and his concentration absolute. This was not the demeanor of a child.

As the sun set and the moon rose, Rowan had been sitting down for over four hours. He stretched to relieve fatigued muscles, having been able to sort through most of the diary. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as he placed each memory in its place and sorted out his thoughts.

This world was a strange and terrible place, where the supernatural was not the stuff of nightmares and imagination but a reality experienced by everyone in varying degrees. This world contained gods and monsters, and they had left their mark on its surface. Every trace of life had felt their touch, whether for good or ill.

Some Nobles chose to let their people live a life of ignorance, separating the supernatural from the mundane. Most were not successful, for the magic inevitably bled through the facade of normalcy. It was hard to explain away the massive shape of a Dragon flying overhead or why some children were born with the capability to bend reality.

This world was called Trion.

From the edge of his perception, he heard whispers, and he smelled ozone, almost as if a storm were coming. But his eyes were still closed. He had overdrawn himself and had pushed his young body far beyond its limits, and exhaustion pressed down on him.

If his eyes were open, he would have seen the area around his chest light up, and like smoke, moonlight streaming through the windows diverted and poured into his chest.

A shock of cold drove him up and saw the light from the moon bending and flowing into the tattoo on his chest. With each passing moment, the glow from the tattoo increased. The tattoo of the eyes that had faded before had returned. His breath caught in his throat, as he was not just witnessing something fantastical; it was happening to him.