Many years ago...
The first time Nael met her, it was an overcast day.
Given the recent weather, it was likely it would rain heavily soon -- all but drowning those unfortunate to be outside in the deluge, but the ten year old didn't care. A heroic Regulator wouldn't care about a little water, so why should he? The best thing to do was to consider the whole thing training for the day he was a Regulator too.
So he stood there on the roof of the orphanage, swinging a stick around as if it were a sword, ignoring the cold biting insistently against his skin. His stick struck empty air again and again, but in his mind's eye he was raining blows down upon a mighty dragon.
The orphanage Nael had grown up in was funded by the Regulators, but that didn't necessarily mean it was upscale. The Regulators supported many such establishments in order to provide a direct pipeline for new personnel -- in essence, the governing principle of this initiative was 'quantity over quality'.
As such, the orphanage was small, jammed in between much larger buildings in the only free space that was available in this part of Coren. Fabric presses on one side, a sizable guard station on the other. The orphanage didn't face out to the street, either, but was accessible through an alley.
Because of the taller buildings that thus surrounded it on all sides, even when standing on the roof it was as if you were at the bottom of a square pit. Sometimes, sunlight pierced through the square above, but on rainy days like this there was nothing but cold grey visible.
Little Nael swung his stick again, beheading the invisible dragon before him, and slid the sword that did not exist into the sheath that did not exist.
"You were a worthy opponent," he intoned, as gruffly as his young vocal cords would allow. "Farewell…"
As he turned away from his imaginary foe, Nael glanced towards the roof's 'garden'. The use of that word was hesitant, as Nael could not remember the last time the garden had been maintained. The patch of green that had been set up on a whim had long ago wasted away to a carpet of dying orange.
Today, however, things were different. A young girl around his age, with pale green hair and eyes, was nourishing the surviving plants with the watering can clutched between her hands -- her clumsy grip causing just as much water to splash back on her dirty dress as reached the soil.
For a moment, Nael was beset with embarrassment: had she seen him dancing around like an idiot? No, she was clearly too engrossed in her task -- her brow was knitted in utter concentration as she rained water down upon the plants. He was almost certain she wouldn't have even noticed if it had started raining.
She was the new girl, Nael realized. He hadn't interacted with her before, but he'd heard the other children talking about her.
Apparently, she'd been found by traders wandering on the outskirts of the forest. From the colour of her hair and eyes, it was clear to see she was one of the forest folk -- so it was easy to conclude that she'd been cast out for some reason or another. It was hard to say why the forest folk did what they did.
Something compelled him to speak. "What are you doing?"
A stupid question, really. It was obvious that she was watering the plants.
The girl glanced towards him, back over her shoulder. The concentration on her face eased somewhat, leaving her with a blank expression as she blinked at him. No words left her lips.
Nael frowned. "I'm talking to you," he grumbled. "It's rude not to answer."
For a moment, she simply continued to stare at him, cocking her head slightly -- then she pointed towards her throat. Lightly, she shook her head.
He furrowed his brow. "What?"
The girl sighed silently, then reached down into the dirt -- picking up a chunk of flat broken glass that had ended up there long ago. She breathed heavily on it once, twice, misting it up -- and then traced her finger over it to form words. The glass squeaked as she wrote.
Bad throat, were the first two words -- she then erased those, and wrote further in their place: can't talk.
"Oh," Nael muttered, hot shame rising to his cheeks. He'd been inconsiderate. "Sorry, I didn't know."
O.K. Her reply came in four clean strokes.
Nael straightened up slightly, looking away as he did his best to regain the dignity his insensitivity had cost him. He only looked back when his attention was caught by more squeaking from the glass.
He glanced back down.
Grena, read the glass.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "I don't know what that means."
Squeak, squeak. It took two iterations for the girl to complete her sentence on the small piece of glass. That's my name.
"Oh," he nodded. "Grena. Okay."
What's yours?
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Present Day...
"Nael," he mumbled -- and the sound of his own voice jerked him awake.
Instinctively, he went to reach for Shamichoro -- but his hands were tightly bound, fingers restrained so that even they could not move. He could summon his Guardian Entity, to be sure, but in his current condition there wasn't much he could do with it once it appeared. Summoning it would accomplish nothing but drawing attention.
He and a few other prisoners had been packed into a wheeled cage, which was now being driven down a backroad by a group of Grinhe escorts. Dark forest surrounded them on all sides, and more than once Nael had spied the hungry eyes of wild beasts through the treeline.
Their destination was Coren. Nael had heard some of the guards talking.
It seemed that the disaster that had struck the Regulator army had emboldened their adversaries -- this moment of weakness may never come again, after all. They sought to seize control of the capitol before the state could reconsolidate it's forces. A fine strategy.
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Nael adjusted his posture as he sat morosely in his cage. It was obvious at this point that he had been betrayed -- but what haunted him was that he did not know when he had been betrayed.
Recently? Or so long ago? He knew that Grena was among his captors, but she hadn't shown her face to offer any enlightenment. He vaguely wondered if he'd ever see that face again.
Memories rose to his mind of Grena's youthful smile. Surely deception couldn't have been behind those eyes, all the way back then. Surely...
A mirthless chuckle rose to his lips -- and the head of one of his guards snapped in his direction, eyes wide in alarm.
"What's so funny, Regulator?!" the man snapped, his voice youthful. There was an undeniable panic in his tone.
Amusing: even with all these precautions, they still feared his retaliation. How could they not? He was considered to be the strongest Regulator, after all. One only had to look at his accomplishments for proof -- at the sea of fire and soot that he'd just been carted away from.
A second guard, keeping watch from a tree branch, reprimanded the first one: "Pay him no mind. He's done."
Still, the laughter didn't stop -- like dry, rhythmic coughing, forcing its way up out of Nael's throat. His body shook with each laugh, and the chains binding his legs jangled in tandem. It was quite the noisy affair.
The first guard thumped his fist against the bars, only adding to the din. "Hey!" he roared, voice cracking. "I told you to shut it, Regulator!"
However -- even through all the laughing, and the rattling, and the shaking of bars, Nael's mind was near silent. It was an ocean of terrible tranquility, disturbed only by a single thought, endlessly repeating.
What a mess, he thought. What a mess this whole world is.
A crackle of red ran along his arm.
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There is a term used more and more among those who study the use of Aether: Aether Core. It isn't something that's yet widely accepted, but the basic principles of it are indisputable.
The difficulty of first activating Aether differs heavily from person to person. Some can work for years trying to achieve that first tiny spark, some can do it in a matter of months, and some can achieve it without even intending to. This difference in difficulty is not a matter of physical strength -- one could train their body more than any other living creature, and still never achieve Aether for as long as they live.
This theory posits that Aether cannot be activated until the individual has reached a certain state of mind -- the emotional core of their Aether. A light of the mind can only be used after it is found, after all. Only by tapping into their Aether Core can a person first begin generating Aether.
After it is first activated, of course, generation of Aether can take place no matter the individual's mental state -- but that original Aether Core remains the best for replenishing their stores.
For some, the Aether Core is a sense of insistent self-determination. For others, it could be the fierce desire to protect those closest to them. Ambition, vengeance, duty -- all of these can serve as the core where Aether originates.
Nael Manron didn't know this, but the emotion that served as his own Aether Core … was despair.
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Strength ran through Nael, like fire filling his bones.
The laughter that had been coming from his throat had long ago died down to hacking coughs -- no less animated -- but his eyes were dull and dead, like stagnant pools. They were eyes of purposeless duty. As a human being, he'd failed, so the only remaining recourse for him was to serve as a weapon for the state. That was what his body had been trained for -- it could accomplish at least that.
As he felt the warmth spread through him, Nael's body too began to change. The veins of his body turned a vivid, almost glowing red, a spider web of cracks running along his entire form. He could hear himself creaking as the red spread -- both the veins coating his body, and the tendrils that surrounded his form.
Right now, like this, he felt as if he could do anything.
There was a cry of alarm from the young guard -- but too late. In an instant of effort, Nael broke free of the bindings covering his arms and legs: the rope around his hands disintegrating into fibre, and the chains snapping in a shower of sparks.
The second his hand was free, Shamichoro appeared in a flash of red godsblood. He knew immediately how best to use it.
Shamichoro had three flexible, prehensile strings which could be used for gripping or whipping. Two of them lashed out, wrapping themselves around the necks of the nearest two guards and squeezing until they cracked, throats compressed to the width of pencils.
At the same time, the third string ripped free one of the cage bars and hurled it at a third soldier -- who was struck with such force that he was impaled upon a nearby tree by his midsection.
There were shouts from the rest of the caravan. It didn't matter.
With six precise strikes from the strings, targeting the weakest parts of the cage's structure, it was destroyed -- and Nael stepped free onto wet grass. An arrow came flying at him from one of the remaining guards, but Shamichoro slapped it out of the air with ease -- and, with the same string, struck the shooter with such force that his face was torn free from his skull.
Two strings continuously shredded through the grass and dirt beneath him, creating a green-and-brown smokescreen -- while the third sliced through it, cutting into any Grinhe unfortunate enough to be within range. A head sliced off here, a torso opened up there. Nael simply watched, eyes cold, as Shamichoro did it's grim work.
He was reasonably confident there had been sixteen guards escorting this caravan. So far he'd ended six of them, leaving ten. None of them had fit her proportions or her silhouette. Nael wasn't sure whether he was glad of that or not.
The strings weaved death.
One. They sliced away a jaw.
Two. They plucked out a stomach.
Three. They shredded through a windpipe.
Four. They ripped out a spine.
Five. They smashed open a skull.
Six. They punctured a lung.
Seven. They cut apart a groin.
Eight. They pried open ribs.
Nine. They eviscerated a body.
When all was said and done, all that remained were himself, the corpses, and her. He looked at her with empty eyes. Her own eyes were wide with shock, flicking around to look at the wreckage of the fight.
Grena.
By sheer circumstance, she'd been the furthest one from him when he'd broken free. Perhaps she'd been unwilling to look him in the eye? It didn't really matter. It was time to conclude things.
She reached for her crossbow, but Shamichoro was faster. In less time than it took to blink, all three strings were upon her -- the trifecta ready to tear her to shreds the second they received the command. But they would move no further than that. They just hovered there impotently.
Grena gulped, Shamichoro's first string almost brushing against her throat. The hand that had been reaching for her crossbow slowly retreated back into a neutral position. Her eyes flicked back to Nael.
A bitter smile crossed his lips, but his gaze remained dull and clear. "They won't move any further," he whispered, almost imperceptibly. "It seems I am still insufficient."
And then, without another word, the strings retreated -- shredding the ground beneath Nael to such an extent that the resultant smokescreen allowed him to exit with ease. Within the span of a few seconds, his presence had completely disappeared. Grena could only stand there and gape at empty space.
She had been unable to kill him, and he had been unable to kill her.
That was fine, though, Nael reflected as he rushed through the forest, spurred on by his new strength. He'd been unable to conclude things, but it didn't matter. There were other things for him to do. His body was a weapon. He'd use it appropriately.
Prester Garth.
That man had led them into this situation, led them into hellfire and ran away when the situation had suited him. Just like Grena, he'd repaid trust with annihilation. Grena was all he had, so he'd been unable to kill her, but Garth was under no such protection.
He'd conclude things, and remove the insufficient leader.
He was the strongest Regulator, after all. That was his role in all of this.