Toren Daen
"Mardeth, First Vicar of the Doctrination of Etril, has been slain," a monotone, near-robotic voice said from the recording artifact in my hands. "In a contest of souls, he was proven the weaker of wills. Thus, the Plaguefire Incursion was halted." High Vicar Varadoth's eye sockets–pierced by his own horns–bled a steady stream of black liquid. "Spellsong has proven his strength to all of Alacrya. But his words have not proven sufficient to me."
I watched the recording mutely, feeling a coiling dread in my stomach. My hands clenched around the artifact, Varadoth's words echoing in my ears.
"The Second Doctrine demands a reason for strength. And now, Toren Daen, that reason has been extinguished by your own hand. So come. Prove to me that you are worthy of the power you still wield. For power without purpose is a sword without a hilt." Varadoth's face was cast in an ominous shadow. "Show me the strength of your blade."
The recording stopped, and the final image portrayed on the pane of mana was entrenched in my mind.
"High Vicar Varadoth issued this decree publicly not an hour ago," Seris said seriously. We'd shifted to her private quarters in the Fiachra Ascender's Association, and I'd quickly discarded my medical equipment as the implications nearly overwhelmed me. "And it must be answered."
I remembered the beating heart of Varadoth's power. How his mana trailed behind him like a never-ending cloak when he entered the ballroom; a portent of doom.
Immediately, I knew him to be more than my match. Even under the effects of the Second Phase–Soulplume, as I liked to call it–I knew my power would not be enough to contend with the High Vicar.
"I'm not strong enough yet to face the High Vicar," I said, grinding my teeth. "If I go to that Cathedral, challenging the man to a straight fight, I will die."
Seris' onyx eyes flashed, her pearlescent hair shifting as she took the recording artifact from my hands. "Yet, Lord Daen?"
I felt the onset of a headache as I tried to work a way out of this. "I have no doubt you noticed my absurd growth in strength," I said, pacing in the room as I tried to think of a way I could stall Varadoth. Put off our confrontation for another few months; maybe a year? "I just need time."
Time I didn't have. If I denied Varadoth his fight, what would happen to Fiachra? If this man felt slighted, was he prone to retaliate as Mardeth was?
I belatedly realized that Varadoth might be one of the most dangerous people I'd ever met. If not in raw power, then simply because he seemed to believe in the words he spoke. A man who truly believed, with every fiber of his being, in the Doctrine of Strength...
It called to mind the men who changed the world in my previous life. Those who were capable of the most change–the most harm–were those who believed in ideals without caring for opposing evidence.
Seris' cool voice flowed like water from a soothing stream. "You will not be facing this alone, Lord Daen."
I halted in my tracks, turning back to the Scythe with surprise. Cylrit's reaction, however, was not so muted. He took a step forward, his expression pinched.
"Lady Seris, I beg you to reconsider," he said, his intent fluctuating with deep-seated worry. "To approach High Vicar Varadoth on his terms within his place of power... You would be disadvantaged in every way."
The Retainer carefully kept his eyes away from me as he essentially promoted sending me to my death.
Dick.
Seris thankfully shook her head, her pearlescent locks swaying rhythmically. "Varadoth will not act with deceit. His own personal philosophy will not allow it when it comes to direct confrontations of power. Yet..."
The Scythe of Sehz-Clar tapped a finger against her chin, scrutinizing me in a way that made goosebumps rise along my skin. "He is sure to know that by threatening one under my protection, he has invited my intervention. This was why I could not outright kill Mardeth myself, despite how much I wished to," she said, a hint of anger entering her tone. "It would have allowed Varadoth an opening toward my operations. An opening toward you, Spellsong. That was why he went out of his way to remind me at the Denoir ball by speaking with you. But now..."
Cylrit looked uncomfortable, his hands tensing behind his back. He seemed to want to protest more, but knew his master well enough to understand when her mind was made up.
Seris tapped a perfect alabaster finger along a nearby table, her expression one of deep thought. "Cylrit, you are to be in charge of operations in Fiachra while I am away," she said without preamble, moving toward the door. "Should anything unforeseen occur during this meeting, you have full authorization to proceed in my absence."
The enigmatic Scythe swept out of the room, clearly intent on her plans.
Cylrit's head slowly, robotically, turned to me as we were left alone in the room. "You've drawn my master into something truly, truly dangerous," he said, his aura flaring with his anger. "Even for her. Do you understand the implications of your actions?"
I ground my teeth, brushing away Cylrit's intent. "I do," I said honestly. I wasn't powerful enough to even compare Seris with Varadoth in terms of strength, but if this confrontation came down to a battle, I was confident I would be able to assist her in any sort of fight. I wouldn't let her plans of rebellion fall because of me.
"You do not," Cylrit countered. "And perhaps you one day shall understand the true danger of your actions here. But you cannot know the depths of plans you may disrupt." He stepped toward me, his metal boots clinking beneath his feet. He loomed, looking down on me with an upturned chin. "Know this, Spellsong: If you leave the Central Cathedral alive and my master does not, I will kill you myself."
Cylrit swept out of the room with those chilling words, leaving my adrenaline pumping and my Acquire Phase barely beneath my skin.
—
I held Brahmos' horn outward, the inverted palette shining as I threaded my lifeforce through the point. Invisible to my eyes but audible to my ears, the thread elongated into a thick phantasmal artery. My telekinetic shroud slowly layered itself over the thread of heartfire, leaving interlocking plates of crystalline mana. Finally, a layer of vibrating sound mana fuzzed through the structure, making my weapon audibly hum.
In preparation for a potential battle with Varadoth, I'd set myself up in one of the Fiachra Ascender's Association's many training rooms.
The blade swooshed as I scored it against the ground, carving a thin cut into the earth. After a moment, I began to shift through my saber forms at speed, envisioning a myriad of opponents as they attacked me.
I imagined an attack skidding off my own as I held my blade in a hanging guard. I stepped forward and out, using the rotation to shift the blade from a hanging parry to a blurring, sideways cut. Another imaginary attacker thrust for me with the point of a spear. I felt myself flow to the side, using a mana-laden hand to divert the point of the weapon. My saber flashed twice: one cut severing the head of the imaginary spear shaft, the next decapitating my foe.
I ducked under a whirling spell, maneuvering myself to the side with a bare application of my telekinetic pulls. I twisted, using the rotation to kick outward at a perceived hunk of stone. My saber flicked out, impaling a foe who had been hidden behind a shield of imagined fire. My sound-layered saber cared not for his pitiful attempt at protection.
"I do not wish to use your Second Phase–Soulplume, as you call it–so recklessly, my bond," Aurora's puppet transmitted from afar. "You seem to think its use will be necessary in the coming months."
I jumped, using my telekinetic pulls on the ground to twist myself supernaturally as I lashed out with a plume of fire to engulf imaginary bullets of wind.
Are you still uncertain about how close your soul came to overwhelming mine? I asked, the clack of my shoes echoing out as I landed once more, my stance solid and prepared. If that is the case, you need not brush so close in the midst of it.
"That is true," Aurora acceded. "Though you achieve the greatest amount of power in the form by utilizing the stability of my mind and my former experience with the Will. To distance myself too greatly risks losing those benefits."
I parried half a dozen imaginary blows, stepping around in a circle as my shadow opponent pushed me along the training room.
My saber style–the one Aurora had taught me–focused on deft parries and devastating counters. And so as I perceived an opening, I slid forward, redirecting my opponent's momentum and delivering a fire-clad uppercut to their jaw.
Then we need to practice, I thought back. We need to learn to keep close, but not too close. Where I can reap the benefits without succumbing to the dangers of your soul.
I stopped my rapid movements, feeling the heat in my blood cool slightly as the thrumming of mana across my channels slowly receded.
"The next time you use your Soulplume Phase," Aurora said, her puppet circling around me, "It shall be easier. Just like stretching, the first time is always the most difficult."
I held out my hand, the steampunk songbird alighting on my finger with the sound of shifting shears. The little bird whirred and chirped, hopping from one foot to the other.
"It seems we can never get stronger fast enough," I muttered sadly. I gently withdrew the tendrils of aetheric lifeforce from Aurora's relic, watching as it shifted inward while glowing. A brass brooch was all that remained in my palm.
I gently tethered the brooch to my vest, looking down at the inverted horn in my hand.
It conducted both mana and my heartfire superbly well, focusing both in a way I didn't truly understand. The major weakness of my solidified mana constructs was their fragility. My fireshot and soundshot, with minimal physical impact, would disperse or explode. For their intended use as pellets to pepper my foes, that wasn't so bad. But if I wanted to make a blade that would resist contact, then I was well out of luck.
But the ability to create veins of heartfire solved that weakness. I could only extend my telekinetic shroud over parts of my body, yet the veins of lifeforce were seemingly close enough for the shroud to encompass them. The crystalline segments of my telekinetic shroud were durable and sharp, creating a perfect base for a mana blade. And depending on which element I needed, I could funnel fire, sound, or even plasma through the structure without fear.
I inspected the pulsing lines of orange-purple that ran through the pale horn. It had once been black as pitch, those same lines a deep, bloody red. Yet as I'd siphoned Mardeth's lifespan from his dying body, the event had somehow changed Brahmos' horn.
It was inverted, I thought, looking at the horn. I slotted it into my belt, feeling comforted by the thrumming connection I held with the item. Inversion. A good name.
"Your training is an interesting thing to watch," I heard a familiar voice say from behind me. "Though it is lacking in many aspects."
I turned on my heel, seeing Seris Vritra's unperturbed form as she hovered ever-so-slightly in the air. Her hands were clasped behind her back in a regal manner, an inquisitive cast to her face.
"I rarely have time for true training," I said a bit lamely. "Most of all that I know has been engrained through direct combat and struggle."
As Aurora had said so long ago in the Clarwood Forest, danger was the best teacher. And sure enough, the lessons that stayed with me the most–my swordsmanship, my casting tics, and my reactions to stimuli in a fight–all were honed to a knife's edge by life or death struggle.
"We will have to see about changing that," Seris said primly, settling down on the ground.
I raised a brow. "I don't think our original agreements had any sort of clauses regarding martial training," I said skeptically, thinking of the deal I made with Renea Shorn regarding her sponsoring my musical talents. "I think asking for any sort of training would be considered taking liberties."
Seris' face shifted up in a way I hadn't seen before, an emotion somewhat like amusement stretching across her dark lips. She turned around, walking gracefully toward the exit of the training room. "It is hypocritical of you to point that out, Toren," she said lightly, "Considering the liberties you took throughout our partnership."
I coughed lightly into my fist as I trailed after the Scythe, choosing deliberately not to answer.
Yet as I centered myself more, I found myself wondering about Renea Shorn. About Seris Vritra.
I covertly inspected the way she seemed to glide across the floor, her dark dress flowing around her like a tide of shadows.
In the time since I'd been interacting with Scythe Seris, I'd found more similarities with Renea Shorn than differences. From how they walked, how they talked, to the subtle inflections in their body language. They even enjoyed the same brews of tea. The only differences I could note were the surface-level physical changes caused by the deactivation of her cloaking artifact. Seris' face might have been sharper than her alter ego's. She may have hair of silver and a pair of twin horns thrusting from her forehead, but I'd begun to wonder how much of a mask Renea Shorn truly was to the Scythe in front of me.
Since the reveal of her true identity, I'd started off feeling dreadfully uncertain about how I should treat the Scythe. We'd been relatively informal before, enough to banter and tease without fear. But now that her true status had been laid before me, I wasn't sure how to act.
It was like I'd realized my bartender was secretly the Secretary of State. It felt strange to keep treating them like your bartender after such a ground-shattering revelation.
Yet Seris didn't seem to change how she treated me, either, at least not to a large extent. Maybe her subtle teasing had evaporated. Mostly. But...
But she still treats me like I asked to be, I thought, putting my finger on what exactly had constituted her attitude. She treats me like an equal.
I missed a step as the realization clicked. Perhaps she held herself as my authoritative superior, but she did not expect me to bow and kneel in her presence. When it was truly necessary, the Scythe implored me to act and obey her orders, but it was in a respectful manner that was functionally different from most other interactions I saw her engage in.
The uneasy presence of Aurora, however, reminded me of another possibility. Another worry.
Maybe that is intentional, another part of me thought. She knows that I respond best to respect, and she is certainly talented enough to feign it. Are her intentions pure, or is it just another mask? Is this Seris Vritra the true one?
In the aftermath of the Denoir ball, I'd recognized how dangerous Renea truly was and how I'd ignored the warning signs because of petty loneliness and a desire for companionship. For all I knew, this was another grand ruse that covered my eyes.
I didn't think it was. Not from those bare inflections I'd felt in Seris' intent. But I would be a fool to rule it out.
These thoughts and more flowed through my head as we finally reached the central Fiachra teleportation gates. The attendant bowed deeply, muttering praises to the Sovereigns as he keyed it for Cardigan.
I shook my head, pushing my excess thoughts away. I could ask myself more of Seris' motivations later. I needed to be centered, my mind attuned to conflict.
We had a vicar to confront.
—
Cardigan was massive. The sprawling city dwarfed even Fiachra in size as the sole city in the Central Dominion, nearly all of the High Sovereign's greatest minds congregated in one place.
Yet even from the teleportation gates, with miles of civilization stretching around us, the Central Cathedral of the Doctrination was as obvious as a cyst amidst healthy flesh. Just as in Fiachra, the temple to the Vritra dominated its entire surroundings, standing half a measure taller than any other nearby building. Yawning walls emphasized the vastness of the structure, with black windows blotting out any natural light.
The attendant at the other side of the gate looked up, spotted Seris, and promptly paled.
"Sc-Scythe Seris Vritra," he stuttered, he and his compatriots falling to one knee in a wobbly act of subservience. "Forgive this one for not having any sort of welcome prepared for you. We–we were not informed of any sort of visit. I will see that the cause of the oversight is properly punished, my Lady."
Seris tilted her head, inspecting the gate worker as if he were an interesting new species of insect. "None of you bore the ability to foresee my coming," she said, her tone devoid of inflection. She slowly hovered into the air, orienting on the massive cathedral not far away. "Return to your duties."
The man's terrified eyes flicked to me, then to the ground once more. "Yes, Scythe Seris," he muttered weakly.
His intent was so deeply shaken that it took me a moment to follow the Scythe of Sehz-Clar in her flight, using telekinetic pulls to launch myself above the ground. The buildings moved by us quickly as we approached the cathedral.
The temple was easily twenty stories tall, and the shadow it cast enveloped everything that dared to be nearby. As we reached the courtyard, my eyes tracked around nervously, noting the absolute absence of any sort of life. Not even the heartfire of rats and pests reached my ears.
It was as if I had stepped into a wasteland. I looked at the Scythe at my shoulder uncertainly.
"Are you afraid, Lord Daen?" she said, her eyes tracking the vertical lines of the massive temple.
I swallowed. "I am," I said truthfully. I already felt my heartbeat picking up pace, my blood thrumming in my ears as I stared at the tall, tall entrance to the temple.
It is designed for a basilisk's true form to slither through, I realized with a hint of deeper uncertainty. A true den of snakes.
"That is good," Seris breathed out, her dark lips settling into a determined line. "That fear shall keep you alive."
The Scythe strode forward, the swish-swish-swish of her glittering dark battledress compelling me forward in turn. She laid a small, delicate hand on the massive doors. Each was easily thirty feet tall and sculpted of blood iron, an aura of dark power radiating from them.
Upon their face, a sculpture of dozens of lessers bowing before a Vritra's true, serpentine form was inlaid in excruciating detail. My eyes locked with the three serpentine pupils of the basilisk, each sculpted of perfect rubies. My breathing began to increase as sweat beaded along my palms.
Seris thrust her palm forward. Her small, petite body, defying any sort of logic, pushed open the doors. They swung open with the sound of clanging metal, the dark interior of the temple suddenly illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight outside.
Seris stepped forward without reservations. I followed behind her, my hand staying clasped on Inversion at my waist.
Rows upon rows upon rows of pews led up toward a central altar. The stench of blood hit my nose immediately, causing me to rev my core in response. Dark brown trails stretched from the stone altar into inlaid grooves on the floor.
They are for blood, I realized quickly. There have been sacrifices here.
The mana within the cathedral felt still. Not dead, just tensed, as if in anticipation for a bomb to go off.
Just as in the East Fiachran temple, a massive mosaic of a Vritra's human form stretched on the back wall of the temple, its ruby eyes quietly judging everything that dared enter its path of sight.
"Varadoth!" Seris called out, flexing her mana. I was finally able to feel as the Scythe let loose with her power, the contained strength of a hurricane rippling past me. I grit my teeth as I flared my intent, trying to match Seris' output in a meager attempt. "You have issued a challenge to one under my protection!" she called, her smooth voice resounding across the large, empty house of worship. "Come! Meet your challengers! You have your response!"
There was no response. The air remained silent, ready for someone to fall from the ledge. None raised their voice to match the Scythe's words.
"Something is wrong," Aurora thought, her words mirroring my thoughts. "There is an aura to the air. Something we have missed."
I agreed. Seris slowly lowered her arms, an uncertain cast to her face as there was no response. "Do you cower, Varadoth?" she goaded instead, tilting her head. "I did not take you for a coward. It was you who called for confrontation first."
"You need to leave," my bond insisted suddenly, a deep, wrenching terror splaying over our bond like a bleeding wound. It came in slow, pulsing heartbeats at first. Then faster. Overwhelming. "Get out, Toren! Get out now! Before he catches you!"
My arm snapped out to the Scythe near me on pure instinct, my hand clasping her shoulder. She looked at me, seeming confused and affronted by the wrenching physical contact. But the pure, raw terror simmering from my bond's connection made my knees tremble and my eyes go wide. I opened my mouth, trying to voice something. Anything through the pervading fear that made my limbs shake.
"We need to leave," I croaked, my voice sounding pitifully weak. "Run. Hide. I don't know why, but–"
Seris' onyx eyes widened as they met my own, seeming to sense the barest fraction of fear that coursed through my mind. Her pristine lips parted, preparing to reply.
The massive metal doors of the temple slammed shut with a resounding boom, like the sound of a coffin lid sliding closed. My head snapped to the side, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.
Then, nothing.
My connection with Aurora went completely and utterly blank. I stumbled, feeling as if a hole had been ripped in my mind. Our tether went cold as stone. The sudden change from overwhelming terror to simply nothing caused me whiplash that made my vision swim. I stumbled, nearly falling over.
The image of Seris in front of me doubled as my head throbbed, my vision struggling to focus. I wavered, feeling lost.
The Scythe turned, grasping my shoulders with her delicate hands. She held my shoulders firmly, steadying me with a solid yet gentle touch.
"Toren," she said, her voice straining calm. "Toren, tell me what you sense. Look at me. What is it that–"
A pulse of heartfire brushed against my ears. It wasn't the roaring pulse of a star, as mine was. It wasn't the thundering death-drum of Varadoth.
It was as if a hundred different rhythms–all disjointed and chaotic–were forced into one, broken sound. It was so utterly wrong.
The sound traveled through my head, along my body, and through my arms and legs. Like a hundred skulls breaking apart over and over and over, but transformed into demented sound. The shrill scream of a violin's highest pitch melded with the deepest rumble of an angry drum–and it tore at me.
I fell to my knees despite the Scythe's steadying touch. She knelt with me, her brow furrowed in exponentially increasing concern. Her mouth moved, but I could not hear the words.
The pulse came again. Almost quietly; soothingly. Like the cool breath of a winter storm as it promised death to all you loved.
I vomited on the ground, unable to think through the wrongness of that heartfire. It shouldn't exist, like someone had stapled every single sound imaginable into one discordant chorus that scraped away at the ears. Scraped at my soul.
I blinked, feeling my mind fuzz. Blood–not stomach acid–dripped from my mouth, the red staining the dark cobbles around my hands.
"Such an interesting reaction," an amused, smooth voice said from nearby. "Certainly not one I have seen before today." I heard the tinkling of jewelry, each chime so much more melodic than the last.
Seris froze, her eyes blowing wide with a fear that mirrored my own. My limbs seemed frozen in place as my head slowly tracked up to the source of the voice, my foggy mind clearing at a wretched rate.
But I wanted to stay uncertain. I wished for the fog to return and take my mind with it.
And in its place, terror returned all the more powerful. The vast cavern in my mind, where Aurora usually dwelt, was horrifyingly empty, allowing every flavor of primal fear to take its place.
I saw God.
The figure wore dark, gold-patterned attire over his gray skin, the opulent robes framing a powerfully built body. Unruly black hair danced along a gently smiling face, scarlet eyes pinning me to the floor like a bug. The way he smiled almost made me feel comforted. Almost made me feel safe. Almost reassured me of my fate.
Twin horns, like those of an elk, spiraled up from his forehead. Rings and trinkets hung from each diverging path, creating a glimmering flare of reflective gold. They clinked as he tilted his head, those eyes of his dancing happily. His shadow was that of the world itself. No darkness I had ever seen before could match the depths I stared into now.
"Spellsong, was it?" the High Sovereign of Alacrya, Agrona Vritra, said with a smattering of joviality. "I wonder what's going on inside that head of yours."