Duras did see a ghost, one ripped from his past and sent forward in time to haunt him still. Had his younger self seen the look on his face, he would have undoubtedly died of laughter. White as limestone, he could scarcely find anything worth saying to the tall woman.
She turned her gaze back toward the stained glass, folding her arms, "'I'll go out on a limb and assume you are the one we have been expecting, given your reaction.".
Strange seeing a half-drake within the halls of the dark keep after everything that happened. She was so similar yet so different. Her gaze. The same as Thorn's. He could feel the same heat when she was gazing down at him. Her size? Just as imposing, despite her shorter stature. Her style? Much better, admittedly - only because she embraced the more refined and stylish clothing that the North had to offer.
"I take it that you are Donaris then?", he managed to mutter amidst his scattered thoughts.
Her eyes twisted from the window and onto him, twin vortexes of thin oranges and even thinner reds burning holes into him. Then, she chuckled before responding, one hand at her mouth, "How'd you come to that conclusion? Do I look like a man to you, boy?"
"You never know these days...".
The woman took him by the hand, leading him away from the window. Duras stole one last glance at it even as he was led away, he could feel a lump forming in his throat. She led him down the hall, past the first windows, through the hall lit by the blazing braziers and back into the initial room he had entered, at the foot of the great spiral stairways.
She led him up. The bricks of the steps were clothed in the same red that was ever-present on the ground floor. On both of the walls besides the spiral stairway paintings were hung. Old and new, large and small, all depicting the past of Alderan and its people. So much art and so little to care for. Duras paid them little mind. His eyes were feasting upon the half-drake, watching her every move with great care. She walked with grace that was ill-fitting for one such as her. She stepped with the same elegance one would expect from a noble, each stride concise and swift, her barbaric roots not at all apparent.
The stairs led to a large hallway, bricks closing in on every side, torches burning dimly against the dark stone. The walls would break into the gaping holes that were the open doorways, each leading to something more or less important. One was bound to lead to this Donaris Venerat, the man who took time out of his day to send Duras an entirely pointless letter.
"Well, here we are.", she gestured to one of the doors. It was a deep brown in color, a large metal ring used for knocking sat it in its center, a banner of a bird with a cross in its mouth hung from just above it.
His eyes narrowed on the half-drake as she reached for the handle.
"Wait here.", she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. He could faintly hear the sound of two voices on the other side, one was the woman's and the other he did not recognize. The walls were too thick to make any of the words out so Duras didn't even try to, tapping his foot on the ground as he waited for the door to open again, each tap echoing down the hall.
It was quiet. He could hear his heart beating.
The handle turned a mere moment later. The door swung open and Duras stepped in. The room was large and dark, lit up by an array of candles and standing torches, a desk in the middle of it. A fireplace off to the side, a sword resting just above it. A suit of fancy armor sitting beside the great arches of the windows, red curtains already drawn. A table on the other side, a pitcher on it. A man sat at the desk.
"Thank you, Lucia.", the voice that spoke out was calm and soothing. The half-drake bowed gracefully before exiting the room, the door closing shut with a soft thud, the metal ring clinking softly. The man stood up from the desk.
"Please. There's no need to be shy.", he gestured toward the chair in front of the desk. Duras stepped forward, his eyes sticking to the man like glue. There was nothing remarkable about the man - mellow, simple, unthreatening. Short hair, stubble around his sharp chin, a body that seemed soft and unimposing under his elegant clothing. An entirely blank slate. Truly unremarkable.
"Duras Donea. It is a great pleasure to finally meet you.", he reached out his hand as soon as the two of them were face to face, "I am Donaris Venerat, the sixth pope of Aurelthia.".
Duras shot him a loaded stare.
His eyes narrowed before widening again, retracting his hand in embarrassment, "Oh, right. I am truly sorry! But please, do sit down.".
Duras sat down, eyes still on the man. He reached for a drawer, pulling out two small goblets and setting them upon the desk. "I kept these here, just in case you were to wander into my humble abode. I hoped you would, in fact. To think I get to meet a hero such as yourself, it fills me with joy.", he reached for the pitcher, filling the two goblets. The crimson liquid poured turned even darker, given the dim light of the candles. Dark as blood.
"Now, please, do tell me how your trip was. Has the world been treating you nicely?".
"Let's cut the crap. What do you want with me?", Duras could feel his breath catching while he spoke. In spite of his appearance, this was no ordinary man. His gaze did not burn like Thorn's but it carried the same weight.
"Me? Nothing, truth be told.", the man sat back in his chair, "I am truly blessed to be faced with one of the legendary Eight. How long I have dreamed of talking to you.".
Duras did not respond.
He took the goblet in his hand, "Really now, Duras.", he took a sip of wine, letting it seep in his mouth before swallowing, "You are an admirable man. I admire you and all the things you have done.".
"Admire me? What is there to admire?", he shifted in his seat, fingers tapping on the leather of his pants.
A smile curled upon his lips, "Are you not the one who decided to face Thorn by himself? I find that quite commendable. Inspiring even.", he put down the goblet, "Legend says you drew first blood on him. Is that true?".
It was true. Duras did manage to draw first blood on the fiend, although only because he had become reckless and impatient during their duel. He would have never wounded the half-drake if he hadn't tried to bite him after deflecting one of Duras' blades.
There was nothing to admire. He failed. Alderan burned.
"You wounded him, did you not? You must have, I can see it in your eyes.", he sat back in his chair, arms folded on the fine cloth of his surcoat, "You gave him that scar across his eye, I know it to be true. How did it feel? To be face to face with such a monster?".
"I wounded him but that's nothing to be proud of. I got lucky. Anyone could have done it had they been in my shoes. I should have stuck to the plan. Lives could have been saved.", Duras' frowned as his mouth spoke without consent, "But enough of that. Why did you call for me?".
"That is where you are wrong, Duras. You saved people too. Your people are living proof of that. As for why I summoned thee.", He sat up, "Well, I wanted to meet you. That much is true. You are a hero for many, myself included.", he spoke while walking to the windows, pulling one of the curtains to the side, "As you may know. Tomorrow is the day of the tourney. Two of my boys are taking part in it. We have made a habit of attending the tourney these last few years, it is a great opportunity to make ties with the larger world.".
Donaris looked back, his eyes urging Duras to stand up and join him near the window. Duras did so in a moment. Below he could see a part of the keep's yard. There, on the cobbles, two figures could be seen partaking in a monotonous dance. Two boys, no more than fourteen, both wielding fencing blades, dashing back and forth. One would thrust their blade forward only to have it pushed away, the other repaying the effort in kind. That would keep happening over and over again, neither of them making any headway. Given their age, they were rather skilled, by today's standards. He could see no bravado from either, just the concise movements that had been ingrained into them. All substance and no style. A bore to watch but, ultimately useful.
Duras won his first tourney at fifteen. Back then, he didn't shy away from putting on a show but he still practiced and refined the basics. He was glad he did. Had he not, he would have had to retire after losing his arm. A good grasp of the basics meant he knew how to overcome his new-found shortcomings.
"This year we have been invited courtesy of a queendom to the west. They say that the woman is from beyond the ridge. They say there's land and that it is rich. They just need people to work it.", he spoke, arms behind his back, his eyes on the two boys sparring.
"And do you believe all of that?".
"Not now. I will send men. They will return. They will tell me and then I will believe. Until then, I am more interested in the tourney.", he smiled as he spoke, "Thank you for choosing to be with us.".
An unconvincing smirk took hold of Duras' lips, "Why ask me to officiate?".
Donaris turned his head, their gazes locking, "The tourney had always been officiated by the nobles. By their rich sons. Men who never had no struggle. Men who never had to fight for their survival. Men who are not like us. Doesn't that leave a poor taste in your mouth? Besides, it's only fair that one such as you should get that honor. That, and I wanted to meet you.".
"Aha. That's it?".
"Pretty much. Although, I do have one more request for you.", his gaze returned to the young boys. The shorter one stepped in deep as he parried the blade of his opponent, only to trip on his feet and stumble down to the cobbled ground face first, "Anders, you'll never get anywhere if you rush things. Younglings, they never listen, do they?.", he shook his head.
Duras bit his lip before speaking, "And what would that request be?".
"Would you grant me the honor of crossing blades?".
Crossing blades? Duras would have never imagined that those words would ever come out of a man who looked like Donaris Venerat. He was soft, meek. Too easy to push back. Too easy to topple. He looked more akin to a victim than a warrior. He looked like the kind of person who would claim that the pen is mightier than the blade. But then again, his eyes told a different story. They were brimming with confidence. He cast down on Duras the same gaze Thorn once had and it proved to be quite unnerving. The feeling was much akin to the one Duras felt whenever he encountered a foreign beast during one of his journies. He knew he was dangerous, just not in what sense.
He couldn't risk it. He still had a promise to uphold. "Maybe another time.".
"Oh, well. At least I tried.", Donaris deflated, his posture slumping, "Another time it is then.".
"Were you looking forward to it?".
"How could I not? I have always dreamed of testing your mettle. But alas, I remain unchallenged", he shook his head gently, "The peak of sainthood is high but also lonely. It's hard to find reliable partners, people who can keep up with me and push me beyond. Haven't you had the same trouble during your youth?".
Duras nodded. To what? He didn't care. His mind had become a jumbled mess of scattered thoughts but one rang out very clearly. Sainthood, eh? He was the same as Thorn. Same as his beloved Victoria. He was no ordinary man. Duras did well to turn him down. He could never match that kind of power or skill. That much was very clear.
"I'll take my leave then. I'll see you tomorrow at the tourney.", Duras turned to leave.
"Wait, I have something for you. I'll have Lucia bring it to you in front of the keep, if you are so kind to wait.", he smiled with the corners of his mouth.
"I would rather you keep your scaly friend far away from me.", he spoke, clearly tense at the prospect of meeting the woman again.
"Lucia? What do you have against her? Then again, maybe sending a half-drake out of all people to welcome you was in poor taste.", he chuckled, "Then, I'll give it to you myself. Come, I don't want to keep you any longer than you want to be kept.".
Donaris led Duras to another room, one deeper into the keep. It was dark, pitch black, filled with boxes of all kinds, the air thick with dust and the smell of humid wood. Moving about the room in a hurried manner, Donaris scoured every corner in search of something. There, in the dark, a battle was being fought. A battle between the 6th pope of Aurelthia and the deep dark of the dusty room. The dark was winning.
Donaris looked about, struggling to find his way around the darkness, too proud and too stubborn to retreat just to come back with a torch in hand. No, he kept persisting, only to hit his shins on the corners of the shorter boxes, stumbling and bumping into a larger stack of crates before regaining his footing, walking into a wall soon after. He pushed on, undeterred, unwilling to allow himself to be defeated by the lack of light. Eventually, he did find the box he was looking for, taking it out into the hall, where it could be seen in all its beauty. It was an ornate box. Not too big nor too small, carved out of the palest wood Duras had ever seen. Its front was fully carved and painted over in an array of greys and blues with a few shades of orange, its backside as white as snow.
The image etched on the front was striking, impressive even. Two figures, one blue and the other orange, fighting in a field of ash gray and thin black. Looking at the larger figure, anyone could recognize that four-armed orange fiend, him and that large head of his, full of teeth and malice. One would mistake this depiction for one of glory, it was anything but that however. It depicted Duras' courage, courage that was to be followed by his inevitable failure.
Forgetting that moment was all he dreamt of and yet, fate made it clearly apparent that the past cannot lie buried for too long. His summons, the woman, the box, all of that was proof. Proof that his past will always haunt him, no matter how far he runs.
"Isn't she a beauty?", Donaris oozed satisfaction out of every pore, "That's fine craftsmanship right there. I wanted to keep it, seeing how well it turned out but that would have been selfish. My tribute to you wouldn't been complete without it.".
Duras struggled to muster any words, beset by a concoction of volatile emotions, he could barely keep himself from bursting.
"I had a little something made for you. Use it for tomorrow's tourney.", he turned and walked away, " And Duras, don't be late.". His steps rang out down the hall, his figure disappearing in one of the doorways.
Duras did not move. His eyes were frozen on the two figures that were stuck in an endless conflict. He could feel his restraint unraveling from within. He wanted to burn it, to see the pale wood grow black as the flames took it. He wanted to turn it to cinders, to destroy it, to rid himself of it and of everything it showed. But that wouldn't work. He struggled to pick it up, barely managing to carry it under his arm. It wasn't heavy but it was cumbersome, cruel man that Donaris to give him a gift that was so troublesome to carry around with only one arm. Two metal latches kept it shut and yet, it had no handle.
As he walked out of the keep, as the sun shone gently on his skin, Duras was finally able to breathe easy. But even now, he could feel it stirring within. He was used to it but still.
It was hungry.