Triumph

[Sámiel]

Samóch

Bandar Eban, The 3rd Age

The grand estate sprawled on a hillside within the heart of Bandar Eban, its opulent halls shrouded in shadows as dusk settled upon the city. Figures hurried in and out, floating around a man in the center like leaves on a stream, emptying the estate of evidence of its former owner and filling it with the motif of its new one.

The man was average height with a face as pale as the moon and hair light as white-washed sand. He exuded an aura of dark sophistication, reflecting an inherently commanding presence and otherworldly nature. Tonight, he wore a doublet of purple and black split deep down the chest. The rich fabric was adorned with subtle brocade that caught the light in shifting patterns, a midnight cloak spilling behind as he walked. Around his neck, a pendant hung on a delicate silver chain, bearing a sinuous serpent coiled around a crescent moon. His name was Samóch, although in this city, he was known as Cassius Grimwood. 

The entrance hall opened before Samóch, its marble floors intricately patterned with interwoven designs of famed Domani tilework. A vaulted ceiling soared overhead, adorned with ornate frescoes that depicted scenes of battle heroes and mythical beings. Crystal chandeliers, like suspended stars, bathed the space in a warm, golden glow, their shimmering light dancing upon walls adorned with rich tapestries portraying tales of conquest and nobility.

Pressing onward, he emerged upon a balcony. As the fading sky cast a pink and purple glow over the meticulously manicured hedges and ornate fountains below, Samóch’s presence seemed to deepen the shadows around him. His dark cloak billowed softly as he descended the stairs, his steps making no sound against the stone steps as he moved.

High Lord Sivikawa, a Seanchan High Blood known for his ambition, ruthlessness, and being the distinguished guest of the King of Arad Doman acquired the property only hours before. The gold traded hands and the contracts signed almost the minute following the ceremony in Arandi Square legalizing the Seanchan’s opportunity to purchase land. As he continued his approach, the shadows seemed to dance and whisper, the fading view of the sea bearing witness to the dark pact forged behind these walls. It was Samóch’s recommendation that the High Lord select this particular estate, previously owned by a wealthy member of the Council of Merchants. The Seanchan erroneously thought to sweep the grounds of a nobleman into his grasp, but unlike every other nation, money was more powerful than blood in Arad Doman, as Cassian gently explained over the preceding weeks.

Lord Sivikawa awaited him in the main courtyard surrounded by a retinue of his servants and, of course, his Voice. His broad shoulders were adorned with the crimson and gold regalia of his station, his stern expression betraying no hint of uncertainty at Samóch’s presence yet the understanding between them was an unspoken shadow. Samóch bowed deeply before the High Lord, but as he did, his pale eyes fixed upon Sivikawa, peering into his heart with an unwavering gaze. He held them as he spoke softly, even as the Voice was the one to return the speech.

“My Lord, congratulations on your victory today.”

Sivikawa's lips twitched, a faint smile appearing as he assessed the advisor before him. “The treaty. Greatness indeed.”

“I am summoned on another errand this night and will take my leave of you for the time being.” Samóch’s voice was smooth as the flagstones around them, gentle as a stream. Yet there was a whisper of understanding between the two men. He would make the effort to defer and the Seanchan would make the effort to accept.

Sivikawa's eyes narrowed, suspicion mingling with expectation. “I desire your presence tomorrow.”

“Then you shall have it.”

Admiring the gardens around them, Samóch’s smile grew darker, more predatory. “Enjoy your triumph, My Lord.”

As he turned to leave, a low growl rumbled from an iron cage. Attention captured, Samóch approached with no sign of apprehension and all the tranquility of his usual, eerie grace. As he walked, High Lord Sivikawa observed. Within it, snarling and pacing, was a small creature, a captured raken, one of the fearsome beasts used by the Seanchan as mounts once full grown. As Samóch extended his hand towards the bars, the raken's growls seemed to still, its eyes locking onto his with a mix of curiosity and understanding.

A slow, cold smile spread across Samóch’s lips as he met the creature's gaze. His voice, like a whisper of the wind carrying ancient secrets, filled the air. "Hear me,” he said.

It was the Voice who answered.

“It is a hatchling newly weened.”

“An impressive pet.” As he withdrew his hand, the creature returned to its previous state.

“It’s not a pet,” the Voice corrected as Samóch understood all too well.

“You should name it Blackthorne.”

“Animals are not given names.”

“It’s only a suggestion,” he mused.

By the time Samóch took his leave and strode through the streets, moonlight dappled his path. It was into a seemingly night-darkened candle shop that he entered.

Pushing the door open, a tinkling bell announced his arrival, and the shop's keeper looked up from his work. "Welcome, traveler. How can I assist you today?"

Samóch’s empty eyes swept over the array of candles, each flickering with a unique energy. He approached one with an intricate design. As he touched the wick, the candle's flame surged higher, casting an otherworldly glow across his features.
"I seek a candle of shadows. One that will not hold the light,” Samóch intoned softly, his gaze locked onto the shopkeeper's.

The shopkeeper gasped and suddenly hurried from the room, ushering him to follow.

There, he observed a wretched scene, the deformed and ghastly figure of Hessalam. As Samóch crossed the threshold, she shrank before him, gasping and crawling to his feet with a pitiable desperation. A sneer curled Samóch's lips, and he sidestepped her, keeping his distance to preserve the immaculateness of his attire. Yet, as her misshapen eyes met his, a glint within those grotesque orbs caught his attention, and he knelt, his fingers gently lifting her chin peering into the soul behind her mask.

"Demotion awaits you," he murmured, the news slipping like venom from his lips. And in the next breath, he dismissed her, stepping away with deliberate intent.

But another presence awaited his attention. One he had not failed to notice upon his arrival, the newly chosen servant of the Great Lord.

"Sylvena," his regard held a blend of curiosity and recognition, probing the depths of her being to fathom the source of her newfound elevation. In the weight of his scrutiny, she held her bearing steady, her chin lifted in defiant resolve. "I am Samóch."

Sylvena's reverence was evident, a respect for his inscrutable power, but her pride remained unyielding, a testament to her own strength and convictions.

"I am here to summon you both," he declared, his voice carrying a command that echoed with the authority of shadows and ages past, and his slender fingers grasped the amulet dangling from his neck as he channeled the One Power to his grasp.

[Sámiel]

The searing sun hung mercilessly above Bandar Eban as Samóch, a harbinger of the Shadow, returned to the city. Having pledged his services to the High Lord Sivikawa following the completion of a cryptic errand the previous night, he honored his word with unwavering dedication. Little did he know, a sinister development had unfurled in the dead of night, plunging the Domani king's household into the abyss of dread. While the official story spoke of the king's recuperation from the long night of revelry, a select few held the truth close to their hearts; a truth quickly disseminated through the clandestine network of Seanchan spies.

Samóch met the light of day with all the scrutiny of one born of darkness. His face was pale as the moon, and despite the sweltering heat, the shadows of his robes formed an imposing figure whose being mocked the brightness around him.

The phantom of Samóch's presence had stalked the High Lord's visits to the palace before, akin to other ethereal specters. He was usually dismissed as an oddity, evident in his attire and vacant gaze, clearly marking him as a foreigner in Seanchan territory. However, his whispers invariably found their way into the High Lord's ears. More astonishing still, the High Lord lent a willing ear to this otherworldly advisor.

On this day, as the entourage presented themselves at the palace gate, they were met by a trusted confidante of the King—a mysterious woman whose presence had occasionally graced the edges of court, vigilant as a bird, silent as a mouse. She was someone the King held in utmost confidence.

Bowing gracefully before the High Lord, this elderly woman couldn't help but avert her gaze from Samóch's captivating aura, as if bewitched by his unnatural magnetism.

The High Lord's Voice, Dilek, broke the silence. "The High Lord Sivikawa, in his benevolence, offers a discreet solution to quell your pressing predicament."

With a signal from the High Lord, two women stepped forth and bowed in silence, their enslavement all too evident. Yui's gaze flickered with a momentary doubt as she beheld these bound channelers.

Samóch's lips curled in a sinister half-smile as they were invited into the inner sanctum of the King's abode. Merely a day prior, a treaty had been signed, and within the span of a single sun's journey, the Blood of Seanchan now strode brazenly through the palace's hallowed halls, commanding damane at his whim.

All this, and the truer evil strode among them.

[Sámiel]

Samóch

Daryen's chamber was once the epicenter of frantic whispering, of healers and attendants fluttering like nervous moths, but now it lay in near silence. Only the soft breath of the unconscious king stirred the air.

Samóch stood at window, watching as the moon climbed higher over the  rooftops of Bandar Eban. Its pale light cast a cool gleam upon the polished floors and shimmered faintly across the gold threads of the King's bedding.

"Enough,” he said softly.

The damane flinched, her eyes wide as the collar at her throat shimmered with residual effort. They had tried. Oh, how they had tried. But Daryen’s body remained stubbornly still. No wound to mend. No poison to draw. No thread of spirit to guide back to consciousness.

He waved a hand, and the sul’dam jerked their charges to their feet and bowed their way out of the room.

"Leave,” he added, soft but unmistakable. The remaining attendants obeyed without question. Save one.

"I will not go," Yui said from the foot of the bed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You’ll have to drag me from him.”

Samóch regarded her coolly, his brows lifting ever so slightly. Then, with a faint, amused sigh, he turned to the guards at the door.

“Stay then. You there, close the door. Remain outside. Inform Lord Sivikawa that I am watching over the King.”

The guards hesitated, but Samóch's tone allowed no dissent. The heavy door shut with a click, sealing the three of them in.

Yui said nothing. Her jaw set, she pulled a chair to the opposite side of the bed and sat like a sentinel. Samóch took no further notice of her. Hours passed.

Servants came and went on tiptoes. Guards checked through the door and were waved off. Yui drifted in and out of sleep, but always snapped awake with a start. Samóch never moved. He watched. He listened. He waited.

Midnight. Outside, the bells of the harbour tolled once, mournful and slow. Within, all was still.

Samóch turned his head to Yui. She had finally surrendered to exhaustion, her chin dipped toward her chest. He raised his hand and channeled.

The weave settled over her like smooth velvet, and a deep, dreamless sleep claimed her. With a whisper of movement, Samóch stood and approached the bed. He knelt at its side.

Samóch tilted his head, studying him. Daryen’s sun-kissed face was still in the candlelight, his features calm. Almost boyish without the weight of command on his brow. A single strand of hair had fallen across his forehead. So much power, he thought bitterly. So much strength buried beneath this fragile mask. It was offensive.

He leaned closer, close enough to feel the warmth of the King’s breath, and his fingers reached out and slowly, reverently, brushed the strand aside.
“You look peaceful,” Samóch murmured in his ear, voice soft as falling ash. “It doesn’t suit you.”

He hovered there, his lips  inches from Daryen’s. And at the last moment, he  tilted Daryen’s face up and pressed a single, tender kiss to the king’s forehead like sealing a grave with a lover’s farewell.

He reached into his coat and withdrew a small metal clasp, no larger than a brooch. Intricately wrought, it seemed inert at first. But the moment he placed it against Daryen’s forehead, it came alive.

With a faint, whispering click, the device unfurled. Thin metallic limbs arched outward, unfolding like petals. An ornate circlet wrapped around the King’s brow, a central jewel glimmering to life. Filigreed strands slid down to veil his eyes and upper cheeks in a lattice of black and silver. A crown? A shackle? Perhaps both.

Samóch took a slow breath and reached into his pocket again. From within, he produced a ring. Plain, at first glance. But as he slid it onto his finger, it pulsed in resonance with the headpiece.

A thread of power flowed between them, invisible but undeniable. And there it was. The taste of Daryen’s strength. Fierce, vast, barely contained. Samóch shuddered as disgust curdled in his gut.

“He's stronger,” he whispered, voice now sharp with quiet fury. “This boy is stronger.”

He stood, eyes locked on the unconscious form before him. Disdain twisted his elegant features.

“It’s obscene. You, of all people. Weak. Pathetic. Loved.” He nearly spat the word. “And yet you are bestowed this.”

He flexed his hand. The ring responded, brightening for a moment with inner light. The link deepened. Samóch smiled an unkind smile.

Samóch stepped back, the folds of his coat swirling like blood on water. His pale face gleamed with satisfaction. He no longer looked curious. Or contemplative. Or even disgusted. He looked victorious.

“I’ll take good care of your kingdom, Your Majesty,” and at that moment, Daryen’s eyes slid open.

[Sámiel]

Samóch

A gateway opened onto a dark courtyard, moonlight spilling like silver blood across the flagstones. The sudden brightness glinted off the iron bars of the raken cage, and within, a low growl stirred. The beast's eyes slitted open to study the disturbance.

Through the gate strode Samóch, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow with weight. On his heels came the King of Arad Doman, barefoot and clad only in his silken nightclothes, the fabric clinging to him with a sheen of cold sweat. The Shaidar’an clung to his skull like it had grown there, its mechanical arms fanned across his brow, veiling his vision. Only the ground directly before his feet remained visible, and even that was warped by the lattice of silver and shadow that stretched across his world.

Every time Daryen tried to speak, agony clenched his jaw shut with a spike of invisible force. The message had been made clear: silence was not optional. He could open his mouth, but only if he made no sound. A sharper lesson had come earlier, when he'd reached instinctively for saidin. He hadn’t even touched the Source before something seared through his nerves like lightning dipped in acid.

His scream was strained soundlessness.

Now, he followed.

Stumbling over uneven flagstones, half-blinded and half-frozen, he obeyed.

Inside the grand house, torchlight flickered against domed ceilings and painted walls. Samóch called for a servant.

“Inform High Lord Sivikawa that Cassius is returned and I bring news of the King.”

The servant blinked, uncertain. His eyes flickering toward the ghostlike figure behind Samóch, who shivered and swayed in place.

“But, sir... the High Lord is sleeping.”

Samóch smiled, the way a serpent might before striking.

“If you do not wake him, I will. And when he learns you kept urgent intelligence about the King’s condition from him... shall we imagine what he will do for withholding such information from him?”

Pale, the servant fled.

In the waiting chamber, Samóch motioned the floor.

“Sit.”

Daryen didn’t move.

The pain came again. A needle of fire behind his eyes, through the back of his teeth, in his joints. So sudden and surgical it buckled his knees. He dropped with a ragged breath and folded himself cross-legged on the floor, shoulders trembling.

Samóch studied him, unreadable. Still not broken. Not at all. What was he thinking behind that silent mask? Fear? Rage? Hope?

Doesn’t matter, he told himself. None of it matters. None of it will save him.

The High Lord arrived moments later, barefoot, dressed in a silk robe hastily tied around his wide frame. Despite the lateness of the hour, his presence was still commanding. Enough to cow lesser men. But not Samóch.

“High Lord Sivikawa,” he said by way of greeting, pairing his words with a bow. “I bring you a gift.”

The High Lord halted, eyes falling upon the figure seated on the floor. His face was unreadable as it shifted sharply toward Samóch who reached for the ring on his thumb and held it out, palm up. He had promised to deliver the king as gift to the High Lord’s feet, but never once mentioned a ring.

“This,” he said quietly, “is the gift.”

Sivikawa eyed it warily, as if it might bite. “What is it?”

Samóch said. “When worn, it links you to him through the Shaidar’an. You’ll be able to use his power fully without touching the One Power yourself. It won’t stain your soul. It won’t leave a mark. I promise.”

He tilted his head, continuing. “It does more than that. You may send your emotions into him. Bend his mind with your anger, your joy, your pain. It’s not unlike the a’dam in that way. But more confined. You’ll see.”

Sivikawa recoiled, a sneer forming. “You suggest I am like a sul’dam? That I wear a slave’s leash and handle this... thing?”

“I suggest nothing,” Samóch said, voice still soft. “I deliver. The Empress… may she live forever… called you blessed.That is why you are here, and not another High Lord. Do you question her wisdom?”

That struck home. Sivikawa sneered.

“I would never,” he said stiffly. He took the ring.

The moment it crossed his finger, his eyes widened. He staggered slightly, as if something vast had just settled over him.

Samóch watched with silent amusement as the man whispered Old Tongue phrases with grotesque accent. He could feel Sivikawa feeling it. The connection, the weight, the power.

“As sworn,” Samóch said with a slight bow, “I have brought you this gift.”

He looked down at Daryen. Still silent, still still.

“If you wish to give him a new name,” he added, almost absently, “I suggest Coren’dor Saorin al’Revaine’maren.”

Sivikawa blinked. “Why?”

Samóch’s gaze lingered on Daryen.

Halo of the sun over fields of plenty, he thought. But the words had come unbidden, and their beauty unsettled him. He didn’t answer.

“Saorin, perhaps, for short,” he finished, a little colder. He offered no farewell.

+++

Another gate opened beneath his feet, the weave precise and cold. He vanished into the east.

Salt air choked his nostrils as the smell of rot and refuse assailed him. This city was no glittering dome like Bandar Eban. It was a hive of smoke, sewage, and wet stone. The streets glistened with filth and decay of the surrounding swamps.

Tear.

The Takudillar, the Stone Fortress, which the fools now called it the Stone of Tear, rose above the city. He remembered its walls carved like the molten lava of the One Power itself shaped it. He had once longed to wrench the crystal blade from its belly and watch the fortress crumble into dust. But those were the hungers of a younger man.

Now, he had other pursuits to occupy his mind.

He stepped out into the shadows of the lower gate and demanded… gently, always gently.. to see a particular resident.

“Inform Master Jorin that Cassius Grimwood brings word of his mother. Sad tidings. May her soul rest. He’ll want to hear it at once.”

Predictably, they barred him from full admittance. And compulsion was messy for him. It left people limp and leaking if he wasn’t careful. But there was a far simpler solution.

He pressed a pouch of gold into a palm, then another. “I offer twice as much if he comes quickly.”

The man bowed low, the weight of coin sealing the deal more tightly than any weave could. Samóch leaned against the stone arch and smiled.




((Sivikawa's dialogue with permission))