Filling the Days

[Jaxen Marveet]

Chapter 11: The Tongue Weaves as the Tongue Wills

Ah, so she knew of him, the man, the myth, the dreadlord reborn—though not by his former title. Jole watched with amusement as Devika’s jaw tightened, her stony face betraying a wrath that churned beneath like magma, barely contained. No, she didn’t merely hate Arikan. She despised him, abhorred him in that fierce, unrestrained way that spoke of personal vendettas, of grudges that ran to the bone.

Good. She was going to need every ounce of that fury if she planned to face him.

“Arikan,” Jole began, savoring the syllables, letting them roll off his tongue with a mocking reverence, “is the weapon. The kind of creature the Wheel itself dreads to weave into the Pattern. The kind of creature so steeped in potential that even the Dark Lord himself holds his breath—metaphorically, of course.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing, his tone dipping just enough to betray a glimmer of genuine concern. “It’s a shame, really. Arikan has barely scratched the surface of his own power. But Mordred—Mordred knows.”

Jole leaned in, his playful tone giving way, just for a moment, to a sliver of genuine gravity. Even he, master of glib remarks and calculated jests, wasn’t entirely free from a certain... disquiet when it came to Eshamir and his blood-soaked legacy.

“But, credit where it’s due,” he continued, his grin returning, irrepressible. “With a ragtag army and a handful of third-rate dreadlords, he almost succeeded. Almost. Imagine if a single one of the Chosen had bothered to lift a finger in his favor. Don’t you see? That whole massacre wasn’t about handing the White Tower to the Dark Lord on a silver platter. No, no—it was a test. A little blood-drenched performance review, if you will, to see if our dear Arikan could rise to the occasion.”

He shrugged, as if a mountain of corpses was a trivial footnote in a grander story. “We both know how it ended. But isn’t it fun to imagine what might’ve been?” His eyes sparkled, relishing the way Devika’s scowl deepened, the way her revulsion twisted into something more complex. She hadn’t even scratched the surface of what he was telling her, but that was the beauty of it.

“At the risk of repeating myself—yes, I know where to find him. See, I tell the truth. If one is willing to listen for it.” His voice dropped to a silky murmur, one that teased, tempted, and promised all the right kinds of trouble.

Then he gave her that wicked smile, the one that was all teeth and mischief, and leaned back with the relaxed satisfaction of a cat stretching in the sun. ”Tel. Aran. Rhiod.” He let the words drip from his mouth, each syllable clicking softly, lingering in the air like a secret he’d left just within reach.