Elias stood at the foot of the capitol building, the King’s Terrace, and watched the Crown glowing at the top. Dusk had settled over Prakash casting everything in blue light. For Preavus it was a beacon of hope, but the reality was it was a tool for domination. The Crown only fed his credibility so he would be followed into battle, justified in his conquest, the Martyr King.
He clenched his fists. A tool so misused, one he was so close to yet couldn’t rescue from it’s captor. At least not now. Elias turned and continued towards the barracks. One week he had worked his plan over, and this was the lowest risk plan with the greatest reward. It was unsettling how easy the plan had been so far, and if Seir trusted the men, then there shouldn’t be any problems executing on it.
The message that was carved into the arch recited itself in his mind as he passed under it out of habit, “Open hands are granted weapons”. All he had wanted was to put the fire out inside himself, the restlessness. His hands were open for the tools to do so, and they provided them.
The prison was guarded by the regulars who greeted him with uplifted hands and let him pass. The instructions must be given to Seir, then he would make his rounds and return to his chambers.
The conversation had returned to him as he descended stone steps into the underground prison; “Why is it you frequent the prisons Elias?” Preavus asked, “I hunger for justice, I find I’m reminded what we stand for when I see what we do not stand for. It clears my mind.” The trips to the prison were two fold: to speak with Seir, and to provide a rouse for when Elias needed to make a special trip like tonight seem not so peculiar.