Eleven Days Before Avaman’s Attack…

It was cold.

It wasn't really, of course -- the blizzard that raged around Gretchen Hail as she strolled down the hallway was completely fake, images displayed on curved monitors and sound piped through speakers. Still, she couldn't help but reflexively shiver as the snow supposedly fell around her. It was very realistic, after all.

There were two security automatics outside of her ultimate destination, bulky ProudServe models draped in decorative red capes. Their square heads swiveled to follow her movements as she approached.

One stepped forward threateningly, a bulky plasma cannon of an arm pointing in Gretchen's direction.

"STATE BUSINESS," one demanded in a blaring, hostile voice. "ACCESS TO THIS LOCATION IS CURRENTLY PROHIBITED."

Gretchen sighed, reaching up to her eye and holding the eyelids open wider with two fingers, so the automatic could get a good look at her iris. "Gretchen Hail, Seven Blades," she said. "Check your systems. I've got authorization, buddy."

A blue light blinked on the side of the ProudServant's head for a few moments as it communicated with the ship's auto-brain. Then, seemingly satisfied, it stepped back into a guard position, cannon falling to its side.

"AUTHORIZATION CONFIRMED," it said, voice as hostile as ever. "ENTRY GRANTED."

"Thanks," Gretchen muttered, striding past the two automatic guards. The doors slid open for her, and she entered the Child Garden's brig.

A single cell stood in front of her, the window that took up an entire wall allowing her to inspect the prisoner inside.

Hans Allier, hanging from a heavy chain that connected his restraints to the ceiling. Restraints were probably unnecessary in the first place, though -- as expected, the swordsman had really done a number on the leader of the Kingmakers. He was missing all his limbs, and with the wounds he'd sustained to his torso, it was a wonder he hadn't died on the spot.

Yes. A smile curled across Gretchen's lips. A wonder.

Hans Allier had maintained his transformation for quite a while now, and so he did not bleed. As he looked up at Gretchen, though, she could see the fatigue in those droopy eyes. It looked like the Fusion Tools didn't yet do anything for that.

She clasped her hands behind her back as she addressed the prisoner. "We had a look through your belongings."

Hans could speak -- they'd used Panacea to restore just his tongue -- but he remained silent.

"There wasn't much to speak of, really," she continued. "Some basic weaponry, your communicator, a stolen script… and this."

She flicked her wrist, and a hologram appeared on her palm. The golden bead they'd found stashed among Hans' things hovered there, slowly rotating. It was completely smooth and featureless, barely the size of a fingernail -- and when Gretchen had touched the genuine article, it had been warm as flesh.

The analysis equipment they had aboard the Child Garden was limited, but apparently the tiny object had traces of human DNA in it. Gretchen had never seen anything like it before. It was fascinating.

"Care to explain?" she asked, holding the hologram out between two fingers.

Hans remained silent, but a sly smirk tugged at his black lips.

What could he see right now, looking at her, she wondered? His powers of observation were something to marvel about already, but to what degree did the Fusion Tool enhance them? From the reports she'd gotten, it had to be substantial. Just by looking at her, what did he know?

The Fusion Tools worked, as the name suggested, by fusing an Aether-user and an Aether Armament into a single entity, combining and optimizing their structures into one. Rather than the traditional User-Armament relationship, which was additive, a Fusion Tool was multiplicative, enhancing the user's abilities several times over by inducing a pseudo-Awakening state.

Yes, Gretchen understood the principles behind it well. She was the one who’d made them, after all.

"I've turned off the recording, y'know," she said calmly. "You can speak freely."

The smirk faded from Hans' face. Then, with a tongue that had ended up slightly too big for his mouth, he spoke. "When am I getting out of here?" His voice was casual, almost carefree, as if he was no prisoner at all.

Gretchen glared daggers back at him. "I haven't decided if you are getting out of here, buddy. You were meant to thoroughly test the Fusion Tools in the field, not get your asses kicked at the first opportunity. Yun's Fusion Tool is irretrievable, and Nin has gone missing. I'm not happy."

Hans shrugged as much as his present anatomy would allow. "You sent a monster after us, babe. Don't know what you expected."

Gretchen snorted. "You've already disappointed me when it comes to 'what I expected'. That ship has frickin' sailed. What I expect now --" she held up the holographic bead again. "-- is for you to tell me what this is."

Hans grinned. "It's a bead."

Ragnarok Forge.

Gretchen quickly formed the blueprints of the weapon she wanted in her mind, compiling several pain-inflicting techniques into its structure. The materials had to be sturdy to withstand the forging process, but that was no worry. This was not a permanent addition to her arsenal -- she'd be breaking it back down for materials before long.

Her interrogation tool -- the Ghost Nail, she decided -- materialized in her hand, her red Aether blazing like fire as it wrote the implement into existence. She clutched the hilt between her knuckles, pointing the weapon threateningly at Hans through the glass.

"If this were to make contact with you," she warned, waving the Ghost Nail through the air like an orchestrator's baton. "Fusion Tool or not, it'd feel just awful. Imagine a swarm of wasps crawling under your skin, except the wasps are made of acid, and you should get the idea. Now -- I can do that and make you tell me, or you can just tell me. I know which one I'd prefer. How about you?"

Hans' smile faltered, but it did not fade. "The bead? It's a gift. From my sponsor."

"I'm your sponsor," Gretchen snapped.

"What can I say?" Hans chuckled. "I'm a prized commodity, honey. Lots of fingers in the pie that is me."

She'd let that go, for the moment. It was no surprise: she wasn't the one who had broken the Kingmakers out of prison, after all. "Well, what does it do, the bead? What's it for?"

"You're an awful woman, huh?" Hans said. "I went and killed so many of your buddies, and you don't even care. I kinda feel bad for them."

Gretchen rolled her eyes. "The whole world could go to hell for all I care, so long as I keep getting to make my weapons. The bead. What does it do?"

"Well, I don't know if I should --"

She tapped the Ghost Nail against the glass.

After a second more thought, Hans told her.

It took Gretchen a moment to fully absorb the information, but when she did, a slow grin began to spread across her own face. She had to put a hand to her mouth to suppress the giggle. Satisfied beyond belief, she turned and left without another word.

The automatics blared some words at her as she walked back down the hallway, but she did not listen. She was in no mood to. Hot excitement was flooding through her body like magma -- no doubt if someone looked at her, they would see a rosy red blush painting her cheeks. It would have been adorable, if not for the wicked grin beneath it, like a wound carved into a doll.

She couldn't help but smile, though. She'd made contact with utter genius.

It was warm.

----------------------------------------

Swing. Swing. Swing. Swing.

Atoy Muzazi took solace in the repeated mechanical movements of his arms as he went through combat drills with the Supreme Heir. As one, in near-sync, they unleashed heavy overhand attacks at empty air, the wind swishing around their blades. So long as he was doing this, he didn't have to think -- to worry -- about anything.

He could just let his training guide him.

"Um, Mr. Muzazi?" asked the Heir, glancing up at him. Her wooden training sword was clutched in her small hands. "How long are we going to keep doing this?"

Swing. Swing. Swing. Swing.

"Mr. Muzazi?" she asked again.

"Repetition is mastery," Muzazi replied, swinging Luminescence again. His voice was like stone -- heavy, intractable.

"But," she protested. "We've been doing this for nearly an hour now, and --"

"Then you haven't mastered it, have you?" Muzazi snapped at her.

Immediately, he regretted the outburst. His brash voice rang out through the Supreme Heir's personal quarters -- not the arena this time. Over in the corner, Edward Grace raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The look of disapproval on his face was enough.

The worst part, though, was the reaction of the Supreme Heir. She looked away from him, down at the floor, sad but not surprised. He realized with a heavy heart that she expected this kind of harshness from the people around her.

Swing. Swing. Swing. Swing.

She resumed the drill, knuckles white as she gripped the training sword with all her meager strength. Her hair hung over her face, so Muzazi couldn't see her eyes, but he could imagine the disappointment in them. With a sigh of regret, he sheathed the sword called Luminescence, dropping to one knee so he was at eye-level with her.

"I'm sorry," he said truthfully. "I shouldn't have said that. It's been a stressful week for me. That's no excuse, but…"

She looked at him -- and as he'd expected, her eyes were wet. "The mission you went on? Um, Ipsum?"

"In a way." Muzazi frowned. "Who told you about that?"

It was the Heir's turn to snap at him. "I'm not stupid, you know," she said, with a flare of anger he'd not seen from her before. "I hear things. People think I don't get what's going on, but I do. There's another Supreme Heir out there, isn't there? Or someone saying they should be the Heir, instead of me."

The way she said that was curious, like the idea was not so unpleasant to her. Muzazi found himself reminded of his talk with Baltay: if this girl said she didn't want to be the Heir anymore, what would happen? Would she just be allowed to go on her merry way?

Muzazi couldn't imagine a future like that, but even so he almost opened his mouth to ask the question. Do you want to be the Supreme Heir? The only thing that stopped him was Edward Grace's gaze. Muzazi got the feeling that Edward was not the kind of man who would take kindly to such notions.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

"If someone has an important position," Muzazi spoke carefully. "There will always be threats to that position. It's a good thing -- it's through the crucible that such a situation provides that the Supremacy improves itself. The mission was regarding that matter, though, yes."

The Heir's voice was quiet. "Did you kill them?"

Muzazi took a breath. "I was attacked, and I responded in turn." He adjusted the grip on his sheath as he changed the subject. "More importantly -- your meditation. Have you been keeping it up while I've been gone? Have you gotten any closer to discovering your Aether Core?"

"Yeah," the Heir blinked. "I actually unlocked my Aether last night."

Muzazi raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"No."

Well, she could joke now. It was probably the first thing the Heir had said to Muzazi that wasn't tinged with anxiety. Did that mean she was growing more comfortable with him, or that he wasn't someone she respected?

"At any rate," Muzazi sighed. "It's concerning that your other tutors haven't emphasized this more. In Nigen Rush's writings, he stresses the importance of meditation. Didn't he teach you that, when he… was around?"

The Heir's weak smirk faded into her usual frown. "Oh, that's…"

"If it's painful to speak about," Muzazi replied hurriedly. "There's really no need to…"

"No, no," she shook her head. "It's just… um… he was a good teacher, I guess, I was really young though, but…"

Edward spoke up from the corner of the room, where he was still dutifully standing at attention, his hands clasped behind his back. "Nigen Rush was a splendid leader and a peerless warrior, but I always found him somewhat… distant. He didn't deal with people well."

"He was a misanthrope?" Muzazi asked, surprised.

"No," Edward shook his head. "He liked people well enough, he just wasn't… comfortable around them, I suppose you'd say. Hence why this ship is mostly staffed by automatics. He found it more calming. Apart from Baltay and -- of course, Mariana -- none of us Blades could really get close to him. I myself worked alongside him for several years, and I can count the number of personal conversations I had with him on one hand."

The Heir looked up at him, eyes wide. "But he was always nice! He wasn't a bad guy or anything!"

"I'd be surprised if he was, given the way he's spoken about," Muzazi smiled softly. "Still… it's gratifying to hear that he wasn't some perfect figure."

She cocked her head. "How come?"

"Flaws make things real," he explained. "I don't think a perfect thing exists anywhere in this world, nor should it. If a thing is perfect, how could it ever improve?"

"Oh," the Heir murmured -- and then: "You know, I heard Nigen Rush snored, too!"

Not exactly what he had in mind.

"If you can talk, you can swing," Muzazi said gruffly, drawing his sword and reassuming his own stance. "Twenty minutes more should do it. Here, match my timing."

The Heir groaned quietly, but she complied all the same.

Swing. Swing. Swing. Swing.

Silver metal and dull brown wood whipped through the air, nearly in unison, again and again and again. The room was empty, save for the sound of that movement, and quiet breathing. Even the monotonous motion, then, could not distract Muzazi from his own thoughts.

With each swing, that one simple question echoed through his mind.

Since when? Since when? Since when? Since when?

Morgan Nacht had innocently brought something into the light, something that shook Atoy Muzazi to his core. He'd done his best not to consider the implications of it, but they crept in again and again like spreading kudzu. The light of the sword in his hands had begun to feel more blinding than hopeful.

Since when? Since when? Since when? Since when?

Since when had he gotten Luminescence? No matter how hard he wracked his brain, that was not a question he could answer. There was the vaguest impression, yes, the idea that he had been with the sword a long time -- but when he asked himself when he'd first obtained it, no memory came to him. It was as if he'd always had it.

Since when? Since when? Since when? Since when?

So, as he swung, he asked himself. Surely, if he thought back methodically, mission by mission, he would reach the point where he'd gotten his hands on this bright sword. He'd had it on Panacea, he'd had it on Nocturnus, he'd had it on Taldan, he'd had it on Caelus Breck -- and before that Eo, Sharne Sands, Gristlo, and his Special Officer Certification Exam on Tribulation.

Since when? Since when? Since when? Since when?

Before even that, then. Before he became a Special Officer. He must have been given it as a young man, when he was at the combat school on Paradavarin. Was there anyone who he could ask about it? Any classmates who'd remember him from those days?

He reached for names…

…and found a yawning void.

Since when? Since when? Since when? Since when?

He'd gone to Paradavarin for five years, trained thoroughly, performed well. There was simply no way he hadn't known any of his classmates. Even faces, just faces, should come to mind -- or anecdotes! Surely there must be at least one thing outside of facts that he remembered!

What did the campus look like?! Where did he live while he attended there?! Who -- who sent him there?! His parents?!

His heart dropped.

Who are my parents?

He swung his sword.

He swung his sword.

He swung his sword.

He swung his sword.

Since when, Atoy Muzazi? asked Nigen Rush.

His eyes wandered, panicking, over the room around him. The Supreme Heir's chambers. Yes. This was the place where she lived, slept, spent free time. Her personality bled out over the space. There were old toys in the corner, no longer used. Pictures of her by her bedside. Posters of movies and boy bands.

This was a place that was lived in.

In his own quarters, there was nothing but wall and floor and bed. Nothing except for what he'd been given. Nothing but the sheath for the thing he was holding in his hands. Luminescence. A poison light that bleaches everything away.

His hands slipped off the hilt of his sword, and it clattered to the floor.

I have been meddled with.

Atoy Muzazi collapsed to the ground, the last thing he saw being two surprised faces, the last thing he heard being their cries of alarm.

Since when?

----------------------------------------

"What happened to him?" Edward asked the medical automatic, his arms crossed as he looked down at the bed. "Is it serious?"

The automatic that made the infirmary it's home was egg-shaped and pale, floating through the air with carefully concealed repulsors. The countless sensors and pieces of diagnostic equipment that rested within it were small enough to be invisible, allowing it to monitor a person's health with a minimum of invasiveness.

Whirr, went the single black eye in the center of the automatic, adjusting zoom and angle. It was focused on Atoy Muzazi, who was resting in one of the infirmary's beds, still unconscious.

It spoke with a calm female voice. "The diagnosis is inconclusive, Edward Grace. Long-term observation may be necessary. For the moment, I would recommend rest. This may be a case of simple fatigue and accumulated stress. Note speculatory tone."

Edward sniffed. He disliked automatics, these medical types most of all. They could never say anything with certainty, lest they make a mistake and get the manufacturers sued. It was always may and perhaps and possibly.

Most people these days were the same. Unable to declare.

Still, it was a shame. He looked down at Atoy Muzazi in the bed. His face was a bright red, and he was gasping for breath in his unconsciousness. Edward had been impressed by the young man's conduct since he'd arrived at the Child Garden, but this sort of mental weakness spoke poorly of his capacity as a warrior.

Frailty like that wasn't the sort of thing he wanted the Supreme Heir inheriting. He would have to speak to Kojirough about it.

He turned and strode out of the infirmary, ignoring the medical automatics pleas behind him to disinfect his hands. He'd already spent too much time getting Muzazi to the infirmary in the first place. Having to ask Kojirough to assume his duties guarding the Heir in the meantime was disgraceful. Training hours were now long over, and he'd been gone for half of them.

It would be best to return to their prior training regime from tomorrow onwards, then. Muzazi's attempts at imitating Nigen Rush's training methods had been intriguing, but the clear frailty of the young man made it clear he was unqualified to direct the Heir in such a way.

Combat drills had been the method through which Edward had been trained, and it was the way he had trained his children. Once the Heir grew up a little, she would naturally unlock her Aether Core. There was no need for such a soft touch when it came to creating a Supreme.

Edward paused as he emerged into the hallway, the screens around the tunnel displaying an expansive orange desert. The Fell Beast of wood and leaf that stood in the middle of the hallway couldn't have stood out more. The thing's square face stared at Edward as he approached.

"This is the infirmary, Beast," he said gruffly, glaring up at it. "What business have you here?"

It trumpeted at him, the sound deep and reverberating.

Edward's eye twitched in annoyance. He knew perfectly well that the Fell Beast could understand human language, so why did it insist on such a primitive reply? Surely it could form words from its branches, or some other such thing?

As expected, though, no words came. Edward sidled past the monster and continued down the hallway.

To this day, he didn't understand why Nigen Rush had spared the last of the Fell Beasts. On the field, that man had been an unrivaled warrior, but there'd been a lingering sentiment to him that had always undermined that. Even knowing what the Fell Beasts had done, he'd been unable to sentence them to execution -- and now the rest of the Blades constantly had to watch their backs for treacherous branches.

Edward could very easily imagine that Nigen's mercy had turned against him at the end -- when he'd fought Kojirough in that final duel, had sentiment softened his blade? Had he hesitated to strike down his dearest friend? And what had that gotten him?

Death. The end to every warrior, differing only in glory.

The doors to Edward's quarters slid open as he approached, the trials of the day wearing upon his shoulders. The Child Garden was shaped like a massive wheel with eight spokes -- and at the end of each spoke rested the personal quarters of one of the Seven Blades -- along with the Supreme Heir herself, of course. Edward's own quarters were a spartan affair, with little in the sense of ornamentation save a shelf holding a selection of books on combat philosophy and military history.

Edward unclipped and removed his shoulder pads as he entered the room, carefully laying them down on the armour stand next to his bed. A grunt of relief shook through his throat as he felt the weight of the armour leave him -- although that was more infuriating than anything. It was becoming increasingly clear to Edward Grace that his time as a warrior was coming to an end. His body would not be able to swing a sword for much longer.

He'd done things wrong, really, been too strong if anything. If he'd been just a tad less skilled, he would have perished on a battlefield long ago -- a glorious death for the honour of the Supremacy, rather than slowly wasting away like this. His mind wouldn't be occupied by thoughts of his disappointing children and grandchildren, worries of how they'd ruin the family name once he was gone. His son had already gone and married a Pugnant -- who knew what indignity he'd take a fancy to next?

No, no. Edward shook his head. Tranquility was the bedrock of a warrior. He'd consider such matters at the appropriate time.

He was just about to make his way over for a well-earned bath when he saw something had been left for him, right on the bedside table. A golden bead, barely the size of a fingernail, with a note left beneath it.

This was found in the possession of Hans Allier. We're having trouble with the analysis. Was hoping you could contact your old friends in the Tree of Might to see if they knew anything about it?

Thanks -- Gretchen!

Then followed an insipid smiley face. Edward sighed heavily. If this was so important, couldn't Hail have just approached him directly? No doubt she was busy with her experiments in her forge, rather than doing her actual job. It had been months since she'd even spoken to the Supreme Heir.

Edward took the bead between two large fingers, turning it this way and that to inspect it in the light. It was strangely warm in his grip, like he was placing his hand upon someone's skin. He'd never seen anything like it, either, and he didn't know why the Tree of Might of all people would be familiar with it. Their traditionalist warrior culture didn't exactly give them vast scientific skill, but he supposed there was no harm in asking. Soren Rain had supposedly been taken ill recently, but Edward was sure he'd answer the call of an old friend.

He glanced over his shoulder to look for his script --

Warmth. Pain.

A sense of lightness, and misjudged balance. Edward turned his head back towards the bead, just in time to see his severed arm fall to the floor. Blood gushed from the clean stump, staining the carpet as it cascaded down. A disgraceful gasp of shock and pain erupted from Edward's mouth involuntarily before he suppressed it.

At first, he could spot no source of the attack -- then he glanced down. There, barely reaching his waist, was a young boy with a bald head and blank eyes, a golden cloak draped around him. His hands were stained with Edward's blood.

The false Heir.

The bead was gone, and the false Heir had appeared. Edward didn't understand how, but that wasn't his present concern. What he had to do now was survive.

After all, he could tell… this child was incredibly strong.

The boy tensed up, crouching expressionlessly on the floor, clearly about to pounce again. Petals of the Scattered Dream needed at least five seconds to activate -- given the child's speed, Edward wouldn't be able to use it here. Instead, he slashed out with his greatsword, fast as lightning, intending to slice the false Heir in half right there and then.

It didn't take.

The false Heir let out an inhuman screech as he leapt up, dodging Edward's blade and clinging to the ceiling instead. Then, as the sword slammed into the ground, the boy launched himself again -- this time aiming right for Edward's face. Edward roared in exertion as he pulled his sword back up to block the attack he knew was coming.

Not a soul in the Supremacy would say that Edward Grace was slow. There was no denying, though, that he'd once been faster.

Edward would never realize it, but that fact sealed his fate.

The Heir shot past him, tearing off Edward's jaw with his bare hands -- and taking half of the old man's head with it. He was killed instantly, but his body still slashed at empty air, acting on empty memory. It took one step, two steps, towards the false Heir…

…before collapsing to its knees and lying still.

A second later, the thing that was not a child leapt up -- and went into the vents.