The city didn't feel real.
From the roof of the hotel, all Atoy Muzazi could see of Azum-Ha was distant light and all he could hear was distant sound. Lights of advertisements, videographs, streetlamps… sounds of crowds, cars, bars. Even with all of it so close by… all of it bled together to become nothing.
The script in his hand seemed more real than anything else. He slid away the files that Morgan had sent him, switching the display over to SilverEye Azum-Ha. The latest update on the Dawn Contest had come in.
It was as everyone had expected: the final match would take place tonight, within the next few hours. All that remained was for the participants to take their places.
Two nights ago, Muzazi had stood on this same roof, and Muzazi had received more expected news. Dragan Hadrien had ‘defeated’ Mr. Guest without throwing a single punch, and had gone on to defeat PALATINE too. It hadn't been a surprise at this point. Whatever methods he had used, Dragan Hadrien… that man always got away with it.
He always got away with everything.
That had been what decided things, then. The final battle of the Dawn Contest would be between Dragan Hadrien and Aclima. Yes… that had decided things.
Muzazi was just about to head inside when he heard the roof access slide open. Turning his head, he frowned as he saw who it was.
“It's cold out,” he admonished Aclima. “You should wear a jacket.”
Aclima rolled her eyes as she strode across the roof towards him.
“My body is infused, obviously,” she replied. “Did you forget I'm an Aether-user too?”
She'd clad herself in preparation for the finals -- a black-and-red sleeveless war-robe, with metal clawed gloves covering her hands. Now that Muzazi got a closer look at them, though, he saw that those claws were actually hooks. A fine decision: given that Curse Hand required direct contact with the target’s Aether, anything that would help extend that contact would work well.
The Supreme Heir stopped next to Muzazi, looking out over the indistinct cityscape. Her eyes of tarnished gold narrowed as she took the sight in. Was she thinking about how she'd soon rule over this place?
Muzazi didn't know. He had no idea what was going on in this girl's head. He had no right to know.
“I'm surprised,” he finally said. “How long has it been since you've spoken to me without one of your bodyguards in attendance?”
“Is there a reason I'd need my bodyguards here?” Aclima snapped back. She glanced up at him, then quickly away. “I wanted to talk.”
“Alright.”
Slowly, Aclima tapped her hooked fingers against the metal railing. Tap, tap, tap. Even with the sounds of the city all around them, Muzazi could still hear that tapping clearly.
“Elysian Fields,” Aclima murmured. “Do you… do you dream about it?”
Muzazi winced. “I do,” he said, remembering a hundred nights of torment. “There was… a lot to remember.”
“I dream about it too,” Aclima murmured. “But not… not about what happened. I dream about what… what should have…. what I think should have happened.”
Muzazi looked down at her. “How so?”
“In the dream,” Aclima continued quietly. “I touch down on Elysian Fields, I go through the forest, but I don't -- but I don't run into you, so I keep going. I go to where my father is fighting Esmerelda… and I… and I…”
She swallowed, and the words seemed to spill out of her mouth before she could hold them back.
“...and I help, I save him with my ability -- a-and he smiles at me, so I'm happy, happier than I've ever been… and then I wake up, and I realize that didn't happen… and I feel empty inside… and I feel like that for hours afterwards -- days, sometimes.”
“I'm… I'm sorry to hear that,” Muzazi replied, his mouth dry.
Tap, tap, tap, an anxious rhythm. “What do you dream about?”
A river of gore. A rusted sword. A bloody scarecrow ranting at the sky. A murder. A corpse. A butterfly.
“Blood,” Muzazi replied. “There was… much blood.”
Aclima nodded vaguely. “But…” she swallowed again. “Be honest with me. My dream. That wouldn't have happened, would it?”
“I'm sorry?” Did she know? There was no way.
“If I'd made it there… somehow… and saved my father from Esmerelda… somehow…” She looked up at him again, and her eyes were brimming with tears. “He wouldn't have smiled at me, would he? He wouldn't have cared.”
Distant words crawled out of the past, from the mouth of that scarecrow.
“Who? Oh, that kid…”
“No,” Muzazi replied somberly. “No, I don't think he would have.”
Aclima blinked the tears away. “I figured.”
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The two of them just stood in silence, at the top of this dark oasis in the desert of light, listening to the noises that life produced. How nice would it be, Muzazi thought, if things could just be like this all the time?
No Dawn Contest…
No Supremacy…
No Supreme…
But, Muzazi knew, that was impossible. An unrealistic fantasy. Those things would never go away…
…for that was the shape of this world.
When Aclima finally spoke again, it was so quiet that Muzazi almost missed it.
“I don't hate you,” the girl said, lips barely moving. “I thought I did… for the longest time, I thought I did, but… no. I felt betrayed by you… and I was scared of you… but I don't think I hate you. I only realized when I saw you about to die, but… I really didn't want it to happen.”
Muzazi's grip on the railing tightened. “You were scared of me?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Aclima nodded. “I mean… I don't think it's that weird. You basically had control over everything around me, and… you wanted things that getting rid of me would get you. You know?”
“I see what you mean.”
“But… that doesn't matter, does it?” Aclima said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… you're Atoy Muzazi,” Aclima gave him the tiniest smile, and her expression softened, just slightly. “It doesn't matter what you'd stand to gain from it. You couldn't betray someone even if you wanted to… and I couldn’t really hate you even if I wanted to.”
She let out a deep, shuddering breath.
“Are you my enemy, Mr. Muzazi?”
Muzazi closed his eyes.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
“No,” he said. “No, I'm not.”
“It's a long walk to the Arena of the Absolute,” she said, standing straight. “The Supreme Heir has many enemies. I think I'd feel a lot better if I had all my bodyguards with me. Don't you agree?”
Muzazi nodded, but he did not smile. “Quite right. After you, my Heir.”
He followed her back inside, casting just one more glance back at the glowing city. It still didn't feel real. None of this felt real, but…
…a sword was a pen with which to write your will onto the world.
…a sword was a pen that decided what was real.
The doors slid shut, and light was banished from the face of Atoy Muzazi.
----------------------------------------
The Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir were gathered in the sitting room, prepared for their final journey to the Arena of the Absolute. There was a strange energy in the air -- whether the coming battle ended in victory or defeat, this would be their final mission. Without a Supreme Heir, this organization had no reason to exist.
Anya Hapgrass and Endo Silversaint stayed in one corner of the room. The armoured knight quietly polished his gleaming broadsword, while Hapgrass just tapped away on her script. She looked up as Muzazi and Aclima entered, her eyes narrowing -- perhaps in suspicion? -- but she said nothing.
Marcus Grace was maintaining his weapon as well, disassembling and reassembling his pistol over and over again, hands moving in a complex dance as he sat atop the arm of a chair. Even so, though, his eyes were distant -- his thoughts elsewhere. That was no surprise, what with the re-emergence of his only son.
Ash del Duran was sitting in an armchair, hands clasped on his lap, eyes closed. Muzazi doubted the man was actually asleep, though. Most likely he was meditating, preparing himself for this final mission.
Gregori Hazzard leaned against the window, his back to the mass of humanity that was the city. Red eyes tracked Muzazi as he followed Aclima to the center of the room. Muzazi glanced away: those eyes were too familiar. It was almost like Marie was watching him, judging him.
Finally, near the door, waited Morgan Nacht and Ionir Yggdrassil. The Fell Beast had spread out into a growth over the wall, winding branches forming a crude bench for Morgan to sit on. The Pugnant looked up as Muzazi crossed the room, and purple eyebrows were raised, just slightly.
Muzazi gave the tiniest nod.
Aclima stood in the center of the room, her bodyguards in a circle around her, each of them watching and waiting for their final order. Aclima acquitted herself well: she stood straight and spoke with dignity.
“Phases,” she declared. “The time has come.”
Eyes watched. Ears listened. The full attention of the moon rested upon the girl, and so she continued:
“A challenger comes for the throne of the Supreme -- one who has defeated many other contenders. But I am not a contender. I am the Supreme Heir. I am the one born to sit the throne and wear the crown. Tonight, with all you have taught me, I shall --”
“Mr. Grace,” Muzazi said. “How is Winston doing?”
The room went silent. Aclima looked up at Muzazi, surprised at the sudden interruption, but he didn't look back down at her. His eyes remained fixed on Marcus.
Marcus looked to both sides before answering, leaning forward as he did so. “Got him to the hospital,” he said quietly. “He wasn't in the best state. Malnutrition, that sort of thing… along with the arm. Not the first time he got absorbed in something and forgot to eat, but…”
Muzazi nodded. “Indeed. I thought he seemed in quite the state myself, when I found him and brought him back to you… as I promised.”
He did not blink. Neither did Marcus. When the man finished reassembling the pistol this time, he didn't take it apart again.
“Mr. Muzazi,” Aclima said, a note of annoyance entering her voice. “If you could --”
“Ash,” Muzazi turned his head to look at the ‘old’ Phase. “It's been a while since the two of us spoke. Are you well?”
Ash's eyes flicked to the face of the Heir, then back to Muzazi. “Is this the time?”
“I find that comrades make time for each other, Mr. del Duran,” Muzazi said calmly. “There's a certain bond between those who have fought together, those who have fought for a common cause. Don't you agree?”
Ash pursed his lips. “Yes. I agree.”
“And are you well?”
Ash blinked. “Mm. I'm well.”
Over in the corner, Hapgrass went to stand up -- but the angle of Marcus’ pistol shifted, just a tad, and she made no further movement. She just stood there, face red with anger, glowering at Muzazi. Aclima looked back and forth between the two of them, baffled.
“What is this?” she asked. “What are you even talking about?”
She didn't get an answer… not yet.
“Gregori Hazzard,” Muzazi pressed on, turning to look towards Gregori and the window. “Have you heard from Ascendant-General Toll recently? I understand you used to work under him.”
Gregori smirked. “Yeah. We keep in touch.”
“That's good to hear. I've always considered the Ascendant-General a reliable ally. I hope he feels the same way.”
For a moment, Gregori just stared back at Muzazi. A bead of sweat ran down the Full Moon's temple… but then, subtly, almost imperceptibly, Gregori Hazzard nodded.
“Atoy!” Aclima finally cried, the impertinence having gone too far. “What are you doing?! This isn't the time!”
Finally, Muzazi looked down at her, looked down at those angry gold eyes. He tightened his fist and almost -- almost -- swallowed his words. But no: the time for that was passed.
He looked away from her, and spoke.
“Phases. A few minutes ago, I met with the Supreme Heir on the rooftop of this hotel. We talked about a great number of things, but most prominently we discussed the upcoming match between herself and Dragan Hadrien. Within a few hours, the next Supreme will be decided -- whether that be the Heir or the challenger. The Supreme Heir confided in me some trepidation regarding the upcoming match. After having seen his performance in previous matches, the Supreme Heir believed that she would not be capable of defeating Dragan Hadrien in one-to-one combat. Given Hadrien's previous record, she believed the match would instead end in her being killed at his hands. Understandably, this was a situation she wished to avoid at all costs. As such, the Supreme Heir has decided to invoke the ‘proxy law'. If you are unfamiliar with it, allow me to explain. In situations like this, where a Supreme Heir is a participant in a Dawn Contest, but they are not equipped to properly perform their role, they have the right to designate a proxy champion. The proxy champion will receive all the rights and responsibilities of the Supreme Heir, and will be treated as the legitimate Heir from that point forward. In this case, Aclima has decided to pass her title and position as Supreme Heir to me, effective immediately. As such… I will be taking part in the final match against Dragan Hadrien in her place. Is that understood?”
The room was silent for a moment… but only for a moment.
Aclima blinked, her jaw hanging open. “Wh…” she spluttered. “I didn't --”
Muzazi's hands tightened into fists as he looked at Morgan. “Mr. Nacht. The Supreme Heir has discussed the matter of making me proxy champion with you previously. Isn't that right?”
Without missing a beat, Morgan nodded. “That's right,” he quietly lied.
“Marcus Grace, Ash del Duran, Gregori Hazzard… the three of you were present for that discussion as well, isn't that right?”
“Right,” Marcus said. Gregori nodded. Ash grunted.
Aclima turned on the spot, looking at each of the Phases, finding that most of them would not meet her eyes. Her own were wide in disbelief, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Only when she turned back to Muzazi was she finally able to make a noise.
“You…” she whispered. “You…”
“You're a disgrace,” Endo Silversaint spat, uncaring even as Marcus adjusted his aim again to keep the knight in sight. “A disgrace to your title and your life, Atoy Muzazi.”
The Silversaint’s face couldn't be seen beneath his ever-present armour, but Muzazi was sure it was twisted in disgust. Quite right.
For her part, Anya Hapgrass just remained standing there, her face burning red with rage.
Muzazi cleared his throat, tearing his gaze away from the two loyal Phases. “Continuing on,” he said, voice hoarse. “As the new Supreme Heir, I will --”
“Curse Hand!”
In a flash of movement, Muzazi dodged out of the way of Aclima’s desperate grab. Instead the Supreme Heir's hand… the former Supreme Heir's hand… grasped only empty air. Purple Aether coursed uselessly between her fingers as she stared at him, face tormented by betrayal.
“As the new Supreme Heir…” Muzazi went on, his gaze locked with hers. “I'll now proceed to the Arena of the Absolute to take part in the finals. I ask that my Phases please keep the former Heir safe while I'm gone.”
He looked away from Aclima and towards Morgan.
“Mr. Nacht…” Muzazi said. “I leave the home-base in your capable hands.”
“Roger that,” Morgan replied, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
He needn't have bothered. Even as Muzazi stalked out of the circle of Phases and towards the door, Aclima didn't make another move to attack him. She simply watched him go in dismayed silence. Muzazi didn't know what exact expression was on her face, though, because he couldn't bear to look at her anymore.
It was only when he opened the door that he heard it.
The tiniest sob, and the tiniest hitch of breath.
“You liar.”
I couldn't really hate you even if I wanted to.
At this point, wouldn't it be kinder for hate to be wholehearted?
“I told no lie, Aclima,” Muzazi replied, facing straight ahead, his voice dull. “Only an equal can be your enemy.”
And with that, he stepped over the threshold, and into the world of night. It was as Dorothy Eiro had said: his hands were dripping with filth, and his sword was long-since red. He had lost the right to give up.