#pevrea

Cyran cracked his knuckles and looked at his friends around the Hexes Over Hoaxes table in their meeting room. Losana met his gaze evenly as he dealt the cards, placed markers on the board. Everyone whistled and clapped in anticipation. He was acting as dealer for the first round, but he would become a player on the second round.

This was the Rainglen Certification College tournament. Winner would actually win a scholarship to the college and a free seat on the highly-venerated debate club. Cyran aimed to win today. A queue of participants had formed around the table, but the existing members were selected first since they had the experience and had won the qualifying round.

To win Hexes Over Hoaxes, you had to play with precision. Sometimes, it was even expedient to aim to lose... loss wasn't confirmed until everyone was dead in a geopolitical landgrab game. It was even possible for characters to come back from the dead, using necromancy. Never say die until the final dice is cast. And he always aimed to win.

With his quick wits and sharp thinking, he was a shoe-in to win. Everyone took their starting positions and discussed invasion and trade strategies. They took the obvious spots. Where could he go, second, that was less obvious? How could he make his play?

Surprisingly, he chose a less-used position in the north, on an island. From this point, he would have to draft many trade treaties and start an armada of boats to get those goods to other countries and players and also start construction a navy.

Games could last hours. Some of the early attendant players left. Only the current boardgamers and judges remained, close friends, families, and fans of the tournament. It was always like this. Popular at first, then whittled down to the hardcore enthusiasts or those that had real reason to be here and participate.

It wasn't about pride. It was about power. It was about control of the board, even when you were at a disadvantage.

Cyran's mind was whirling, calculating the wins and losses he had sustained in battle. It was close. In fact, his closest competition was his girlfriend, Losana. God, he loved her sharp mind. Everything he loved about that woman and in playing this game was the reason why he wanted to marry her someday. Maybe even start a family. No, stop, Cyran! You're getting distracted...

He had a boat send a peace treaty offer with a white flag.

She shot it down before it even got to shore. So much for that.

With his last remaining forces, he made a suicidal charge for her borders. Through careful play and use of his remaining units, he whittled down her military. She might have a fortress, but he would starve her out and he did. Cyran was frequently known for his ruthless final plays.

This time, it won him the game.

Losana cried tears of both happiness and anger that he won and not her. He hugged her, crying, promising to make her proud. When they got outside for a picture to be painted, he erupted his breath of fire into the air to make a column of smoke, he was so happy. The wyvern finally made the dragon proud. So much for not being a "real dragon."

They handed him his plaque for winning the tournament, which he took beaming. A full year of college and he owed nothing, all thanks to what his mother once called "a huge waste of time." The next week, he was on the debate team. By the end of the year, he was the advisor to the debate team.

Cyran thought of all this as he prepared to kill one of his subordinates in the Artifact Guild for thievery. The man had already lost a hand and this was the final cost for disobeying Cyran's directives here. Even the tighter regulations and rules hadn't stopped some from stealing what has rightfully his.

Every dragon has a right to his hoard. No one wants to lose what they've worked for, what they've earned, no matter what the cost or means to get it.

And Losana was dead now. He had only Omen to look after and he was determined to completely own Mistseek by the time she came of age. Here, baby, an entire city just for you. Just like in Hexes Over Hoaxes.

All those lessons served him well now.

Cyran Moonsplit lowered his trident as the handless guild member quivered and cried. His name was pointless. Cyran didn't even remember it. He just remembered the twisting feeling of betrayal in his gut, the darkness. Just like the night he found out Losana died of Devilstongue. Finding out it was possibly genetic in origin. Just like her own father had died of it, so too, she had gone.

The guild member was trying to crawl away. Cyran made a motion and the bodyguards kicked and punched him into submission. Cyran raised the trident and pushed the sharp ends directly into his heart. The guy screamed and cried more, wailing. Musical, almost.

This was what thieves deserved. This was what all thieves deserved.

Cyran made this guild into what it was based on order and clarity: we regulate the unsafe curses. We protect this town. We sell what we make, we buy more supplies, we expand and we keep everything running. Without order, what did you get? Chaos. And he hated disorder and chaos.

Cyran burned the poor stallion alive and ground him beneath his claws. He was nothing but charred embers by the time he was done. Then he pumped his fist over his head, still clutching his trident. It wasn't about just pride... it was about power.

It was about control.

"Clean up this mess!" he told his underlings and they obeyed. He went to the washroom to clean his suit until it was immaculate again and then washed his trident under the taps. Here, the water was filtered from safe groundwell sources and water-trees. By Losus, someday, he would have this town curse free again. Then no one would have to suffer like he had.

Maybe, if they hadn't all been beset by the curse, Losana might still be alive and Omen might still have a mother. Now, he was the mother. He was the mom. It was a heavy burden for him.

Mocha took his coat as he left. The loyal boar was always at his side with a quick quip or funny joke. Today, no joke. He looked extremely serious and coughed.

"Sir, your tie too? Now that we're done?"

"We're never done," Cyran growled. "There's always another traitor out there coming to get what I've build and they'll all get what's coming to them. I hate thieves. I hate thieves more than anything else in the world. They're cowardly and they're scared. They don't want to earn what they have, they just want to take."

Mocha just nodded, a little pale. His older brother was one of Cyran's best fighters in a pinch. Everything here, he made! Not without help, certainly, but he deserved this. He deserved to enjoy the fruits of his labors. He came from nothing and he gave Omen a home, a future.

He still had Losana's boat in the harbor. All that work to become a certified captain and she never really got to sell her own vessel unattended. He hoped someday soon, Omen would show interest in sailing again and she would take the rudder just like Losana had wanted her to someday.

In fact, he let his feet take him outside the Artifact Guild building (a massive white square edifice dominating the center of the city.) His wings took him further, out to the harbor beside the hollow burned-out church to Losus. Against the pier, it bobbed quietly. It was a massive craft and would have made any dragon proud. Harmonywood, still polished. He kept it painted. About once a week, he would take it on the sea and fish and look for fresh sources of new cursewater for the deadglass artifactory. Her name was Losana now.

Once, Losana had named her boat after him.

Now, he had named in after her, in memory of her. The years weighed down on him, like a stone. Times like this, facing the salty air and the open skies, he wondered if it was worth it. His daughter was showing a worrying interest in thievery and had taken to common burglery herself in the guild. He was trying to crack down on it, restricting her hobby time, increasing chore time, giving her time-outs and restricted quarters to her room but it just didn't seem to be working.

She was smart and resourceful, just like him. His favorite artifacts kept going missing and he pretended not to notice, but he knew. In his own way, he was proud of her. She was fighting what she saw as an unfair system and taking what belonged to her. In her own way, just like him. Truly his daughter.

Everything he did, he did for her. His precious Omen.

He still remembered picking out a name for her. His precious blue hatchling in his arms, with her big red eyes looking up at her. He picked out Omen... a religious name that Losana had suggested. In Losan literature, there would be an omen of hope born that meant that the tree would eternally return, over and over, to the coast of Pendalosa and always grow anew every year.

Even though they lost their Losan god, people still believed in their hearts that the stump would begin growing again, when faith was strong enough.

In his heart, Cyran believed it too. And that's why she was called Omen.

He paced up and down the pier for close to an hour, just thinking. How to handle his unruly child? The thieves, the traitors, the spies? They all wanted to bring down what he built but he couldn't allow that, obviously.

At that time, he began work on the Tear.

It started as a coin with a single frozen curse imbued in it: the power to see and hear for long distances. Then a quadruplicate curse was overlain.

In time, the coin would carry seven curses in all and become The Tear In Reality. It would never leave Cyran’s side.