Toren Daen
The large hardwood doors to the ballroom creaked open like the sound of a coffin's lid, a presence like a bottled thunderstorm echoing outward. The soul seemed to leave the ballroom as the announcer's words echoed like a reaper's judgment.
High Vicar Varadoth, I thought, fear spiking through my body. An instinctual part of me prepared to run or fight or hide, the name of the Doctrination's head sending chills along my body. But before I could do anything else, he stepped into the room.
In contrast to his heartfire's storming pulse, Varadoth's footfalls were softer than a feather. His feet were bare as he took slow, methodic steps through the room. Deep gray skin absorbed the light greedily, the man casting a shadow that was far too long. His robes were decrepit and ragged, shredded tatters barely clinging to the rest of the whole like a sailor who grasped a piece of wood. He bore no hair on his head, but a short goatee thrust from his chin like the point of a knife. His hands were clasped behind his straight back, the picture of power and quiet surety.
But that was nothing. The vicar stared directly at me, his sockets seeming to burrow into my soul. I found myself transfixed in a mix of mute terror and uncomprehension as mage after mage knelt in his presence, the power billowing around him a silent demand.
I could not understand how I knew he was looking at me, for two spiraling onyx horns erupted from his forehead, then curled inward like twisting black spikes to pierce through his eye sockets. It looked like someone had hammered railroad spikes one grisly strike at a time deep into his skull.
The rims of his eye sockets dripped a slow stream of blackish liquid, making it seem like the mage was constantly weeping corrupted blood. I couldn't decide which instilled the greatest unease in me: his horn-pierced eyes, or his unerringly calm intent.
This is the strongest mage I have ever seen, I thought, unconsciously settling into a fighting stance. The thunder of Varadoth's heartbeat drowned out the placating and nauseating words of the terrified mages around me as the vicar neared. Those who had once been so eager to put me down as a perceived threat shied away from the oncoming Varadoth as if he were a forbidden memory. Why is he here?
My thoughts immediately jumped to the assault on Mardeth's base I'd performed not even an entire week ago. Had the horrid vicar set his protector against me? I knew Varadoth had interceded to protect Mardeth from Melzri, but would he call on his backer to eliminate me?
That didn't seem right. Mardeth wanted to deal with me himself. Did Varadoth want to kill me for other reasons?
My thoughts jumped along every single secret I held as the pressure followed Varadoth like cloying hands. My lack of spellforms. My control of aether. My strange effects on the Relictombs. The survival of Aurora's spirit. My future knowledge.
If my sense of his heartfire had not told me already, the blanket of dark mana that covered the entire room would have alerted me instead. Every single highblood in the room knelt nervously, the silent intent of the room stinking of terror. It clogged my nose like a cloying rot, threatening to overwhelm my own thoughts.
Aurora's mind bolstered my own, her clockwork form settling nearby in a conveyance of silent support. Internally, I considered the possibility of running away, using the djinn relic's alternate form to make a quick getaway. But we both knew that if this man tried to kill us, we would be unable to run. The metal contraption slowly dissipated into its bronze brooch form. If this came down to battle, my only chance came from Lady Dawn's full focus on supporting my mind.
Varadoth stopped several yards away from me, tilting his head as if he could still see. Those black-blooded tears seeped into his robe. We watched each other: me with concealed apprehension, he with something I couldn't understand. He had no eyes to read.
"Why do you not kneel, Toren Daen?" the man finally asked. Despite his monstrous appearance, his voice was smooth and even without deeper inflection. I found myself taken aback by how soft it nearly sounded.
My mouth felt as dry as cotton. Taking a breath of my bond's mental support, I worked up the courage to respond. Just one sentence. "Do you want me to kneel?"
Varadoth's face didn't twitch. He didn't furrow his brows. He didn't smile, or frown, or even change anything at all. His response was robotic. "When my horns began to curve toward my eyes, I felt fear. Every day I awoke, the first thing I witnessed was the encroaching spikes of my own body. As my power grew over the years, so too did my horns. They inched closer and closer to my eyes, those spikes a paranoia-inducing reminder."
If the Vritra-blooded high vicar still bore eyes, they would be boring into my own. Instead, a black tear splashed against the ground. In the still silence of the room, I could hear the impact like that of a rainstorm.
"And one day, they finally pierced my eyes. My innate mana arts tried to heal them over and over and over, turning my days into those of constant agony as my eyes attempted to reform around my horns. And still, they continued to grow despite my terror. Despite my pain. Despite my hate. And yet when they fully pierced my eyes, I experienced the greatest clarity any mage has ever enjoyed."
The High Vicar unclasped one hand from behind his back, then slowly and methodically wiped away the streaking black blood from the edges of his eyes. Sparks of black soulfire erupted over his fingers, burning the corruption to nothing.
"My emotions seeped away as if on the wind. The agony remained. The pain remained. But what truly entered my mind was not the tips of my horns. It was perspective. No longer did pain burden me. No longer did fear overwhelm me. I was stripped of those burdensome emotions, and I recognized the power of perception." He turned to observe the quaking highbloods, somehow able to see through his empty sockets. Wherever his head turned, men cowed in submission. The greatest politicians and the smallest servants alike.
"Through perception, power is leveraged. And through power, self is enforced," Varadoth's smooth voice echoed with the air of quotation. "This is the Second Doctrine of our lord god, and only when I was released of my emotion did I understand it. Your question, Toren Daen, is not the one you should be asking. What you must ask is what they believe I want."
I felt my jaw work in a mix of disgust, sympathy, and dripping uncertainty as the vicar completed his story. And as he spoke of his change, something equally horrifying revealed itself to me.
High Vicar Varadoth had been lobotomized by his own horns. His body broke his emotion.
"You refuse to kneel, Toren Daen, because you are strong. You believe–perceive–yourself strong enough to resist," the vicar said at last.
Internally, I acknowledged his point. Several months ago, I would have knelt in this man's presence, regardless of my principles. Survival was key.
And as the vicar told me his story, I felt a strange sort of emotion come over me. He wasn't acting hostile toward me. Far from it, in fact. While he did not speak as if we were friends, the way he spoke mirrored something else. I felt off guard. The first thought that had crossed my mind upon hearing Varadoth's name was that he wanted me dead. That those thundering heartbeats were my death toll; a bell signaling my execution. Yet instead of fighting, he was... questioning me? Questioning my principles?
"If everything is up to perception," I said, almost on instinct, feeling off-kilter from the unexpected speeches, "Then that means what you define as power isn't as simple as what spells you can leverage or the depth of your insight. It can be defined as nearly anything that uses strength."
Varadoth cocked his head, making him look like a horrifying sculpture. "Elaborate," the Vritra-blooded vicar demanded.
I swallowed. "If sense of self is enforced through strength alone," I started, drawing from the notes I'd scribbled alongside my book earlier, "Then the self would have no substance."
I paused, feeling I might have pushed too far. But Varadoth stood still, silently compelling me to keep speaking. "If self is derived from strength for strength's sake, then it's circular. It forgoes effect, treating the middleman as the goal instead of a means. One needs strength for something outside of strength itself. A means to an end, not the end itself." I licked my lips. "And once there are no enemies left, where will your self go? You can't exist without foes or conflict."
A long, foreboding silence followed in the wake of my words. I noticed Renton Morthelm's masked face slowly rise as he looked at me with something uncertain. A few of the other nobles around us–those who were powerful–raised their heads to watch this exchange between Varadoth and me.
"There will always be enemies as long as there are people," Varadoth said contemplatively. "Always be challengers. Though I accede that if one grows powerful enough to vanquish every single enemy, then there are none to exert one's power over."
Varadoth looked over the crowd once more, flexing his mana in a way that made my stomach curdle. All who had dared to raise their heads lowered them like whipped dogs. "You and I, Toren Daen, are the only ones in this room with souls."
I blinked. "What do you mean?" I asked slowly.
"Every single mage in this room cowers at the slightest breeze," he said, his voice devoid of inflection. Everything he said was almost robotic in cadence. "And only the two of us have the strength to choose our fates. These people are changed by your presence, rather than the other way around. You leverage your power instead of having power leveraged over you."
Inwardly, I recognized that there was a grain of truth in Varadoth's philosophy. Those with power wrote history. Left legacies. Changed the world. And then there were those denied power.
It was the ultimate statement of might makes right.
And it was only true because the High Sovereign's framework forced that unequal existence upon everyone present.
I blurted the next words that came to mind, feeling almost invigorated by our back and forth. "Under that idea, if I managed to change your mind about the Doctrine of Strength," I said, "Would that not make me more powerful than you? My own strength of mind; strength of reason, would have overcome yours."
Varadoth was quiet for a long, long time. The mana in the air swelled, and I began calling on the power of my Phoenix Will as I sensed my mistake. Gooseflesh rose along the back of my neck. The men and women around us gasped like fish on dry land as Varadoth's King's Force bore into them. "Every time I meet another with a soul," he finally said, his voice as cool as a grave, "I ask them what drives them to their heights." His horns glistened with dark blood. "Tell me why you fight, Toren Daen."
The chain on my arm glowed as I engaged my Phoenix Will, sinking into the familiar depths of its power. The runes under my eyes burned with the warmth of hot coals. My fingers twitched, adrenaline racing along my veins. Outwardly, Varadoth showed no change, but I could almost feel his mana revving in turn. I hadn't fully engaged my Acquire Phase yet, but I was on the cusp.
I could feel it in the air; in his intent. Whatever my answer was, it would decide whether he would try and kill me or not. The silence slowly grew taut between us, an unspoken understanding connecting our mana.
"There is someone I need to kill," I said at last, choosing to speak part of the truth. "I made a promise to rid this world of their rot."
The vicar's mana swelled further. "You do it for others?" he said, a hint of contempt in his voice. "You present weakness, Toren Daen. To rely on others is a crutch."
"The one who wished this of me is dead," I said cryptically as I struggled to resist the vicar's King's Force, fighting not to buckle under the weight. It was technically true. My breath came in spurts as Lady Dawn's mind struggled to support the clearness of my thoughts. "Their voice compels me from beyond the grave."
I considered diving deeper into my Phoenix Will. To engage my Second Phase. If I wanted to survive a battle with this mage, I didn't see any other way to escape. And for once, Aurora didn't protest.
For one thundering heartbeat, then two, the pressure continued unabated. Then it gradually melted away, leaving my skin cold and clammy. I felt as if I'd been in a sauna for hours, only to be suddenly thrust into an arctic chill. "Ah..." Varadoth breathed. "Vengeance. The purest of motivators. It is the pinnacle of all emotions, for it is what drives our High Sovereign," he said. "I can no longer feel the drive of such pure emotion. You are among the privileged, Toren Daen."
I swallowed, forcing my knees not to tremble.
"Mardeth wants to kill you," Varadoth said, as if he hadn't just been threatening me with death two seconds ago. I heaved for breath, blinking as stars finally cleared from my eyes. "Your actions not a week ago with your companions infuriated him deeply. He wishes you to know he won't let your friend live a second time."
Lenora's head, which had remained bowed in a curtain of brilliant white this entire time, slowly rose to look at mine at Varadoth's words. I ignored it for the time being. "Are you here to kill me for him?" I asked, feeling drained.
"Your quarrel with Mardeth is your own," Varadoth dismissed. "It is a true clash of strength. A driver of souls. I find myself wondering who will emerge victorious. And besides," the vicar said, tilting his bald grey face. "To kill you when I intervened in Mardeth's blunder at the Victoriad would be hypocrisy."
I furrowed my brows, still feeling cold sweat trickle down my back. "And why is that?" I asked, not following.
"You are under protection from the greatest retributions, Spellsong," Varadoth said with a wave of his hand. He turned around, seemingly done with the conversation. "Most of the aforementioned higher powers do not even recognize the shield that has been placed before you, but regardless of their understanding, it will move to try and protect you from ones such as I. The strength of that shield is undeniable. Just as I granted Mardeth his one-time favor. Were I to breach that, it would invalidate Mardeth's soul, and I would need to kill the vicar myself to make things right."
The High Vicar continued to walk away, leaving me with a swirl of questions. I internally tried to go back over our conversation, feeling like I'd missed something.
"What is this shield?'" I called out as Varadoth walked toward the doors, feeling dizzy and confused. I took a few steps forward, my legs shaking from the effort. "What do you mean?"
He didn't answer me. His shadow stretched from one end of the ballroom to the other as his footsteps receded, the sound of bottled thunder echoing in my head.