One year until the Doom of Elcasia. Away, in the night-void, the Unnamed stirs.

The time is near.

Selvin sits at a campfire in the northern wilderness, ignoring the chill winds biting him. In the distance, a shardwolf howls in its metallic, tinny voice.

Lost in thought, Selvin idly spun coals, ember-white and hot, around his forefinger.

Drowning in thought.

He had used the last of the power remaining to him to flee as far as he could from Alteria, heading hundreds of miles deep into the Northern Wastes.

They were well named.

Here, they wouldn’t be able to find him. His father had taught him well. He had made sure to double back several times, to willfully manipulate his energy trail and pattern, and…

His father. The name, son. You have to find… the hallowed name.

And suddenly Selvin was standing, and then he was screaming. “I can’t do it! I CAN’T DO THIS WITHOUT YOU!” Strings of fire lashed out around him with his angry gestures, charring the road and grass beside it. “You were the one who could shake the heavens. You were the wise one, the one who knew everything. And all you leave me with is THAT! This?”

Panting, Selvin spat into the darkness, rage burning in him like dark coals. He drew the item his father had given him and stared hatefully at it, then gritted his teeth and threw the smooth, dark stone out into the forest and night.

As expected, it zoomed straight back into his outstretched hand. His father wouldn’t let it abandon him so easily. He could almost hear the man’s reprimanding, kindly voice. Not so fast, son. Breathe. Take it easy.

Selvin breathed, and sat back down, turning the stone idly in his hands. What was in it? His father had said… it was knowledge he would need, but could not handle at the moment.

So when would he need it? How would he know?

He slipped the stone back in his pocket, and did what he always did to soothe his nerves, the same as his father.

Selvin stood and let his Shroud burn freely. He stared into the depths of its self-reflecting power, and it stared back. Coldly burning.

Organizing, ascertaining, and scrutinizing the soul. There were few things better for perspective-righting and mood-soothing. He felt like a mechanic or blacksmith, working meticulously on a great, many-parted machine. Honing it to perfection. Oiling out the kinks and righting the errors.

His soul was in a sorry state. A very sorry state. Not since he had first left with father, nearly five years ago, now, had he seen it burn so lowly.

He was not sure it would ever rise again to the heights it once did, under his father’s careful, watchful gaze.

Selvin had never been so lost in all his days. Just the mere thought of the undertaking left to him daunted his spirit to a tiny candle.

How could he possibly do this alone? Whenever he had a question, or a demand, his father had been right there to provide it. The World of Elcasia was a massive place, home to billions of souls, and the Named Magics were even more elusive and grand in scale.

He wouldn’t even know what plants he could eat out here, without his father, for sure. Much less the best paths for spiritual advancement.

A year left. That’s what his father had said. Then the Nameless would arrive in the skies, bringing death and fire… and void.

Selvin shuddered, recalled that void-dark, monstrous creature that had prowled down from the abysmal heavens. Elusive, its form ever-shifting- until the moment its clawed hand had torn his father in two.

“That must’ve been a Nameless,” he muttered softly. “Why… how… did one arrive before the Doom? That shouldn’t be possible. Should it?”

Selvin cursed softly. “It’s not fair. It’s not right. And I have to do it anyway.”

Sadly, tiredly, Selvin looked up at the heavens and saw the stars twinkling back at him. “Do you still think I can, dad?”

His father’s last words had been encouragement. He had said he trusted Selvin. But… was he being realistic? Was he trying to soothe his child with his dying breaths? Selvin’s mission had now become a thousand times harder without his father’s guidance.

And it appeared he now had to start from the beginning. In some Attributes, he was even weaker than he was before this all started.

In quiet, despairing desperation, with no real urgency, his fingers passed through his Shroud.

[My Shroud]

Strength: 3

Mind: 4

Heart: 2

Elemental: 4

Perception: 2

Cosmic: 1

Nameless:

“Son of a bitch,” Selvin muttered. He turned his eyes to the heavens, staring into the spaces between stars far above.

One year.

He walked a gray road, surrounded by gray land. He should’ve been running- he had no time. But if he tried to run, he’d collapse. He was certain. His soul was shredded by whatever… that creature had done to him. Just being in the presence of its power, trying to heal his father… it had seeped into him- residue. And broke his soul down bit by bit, attribute by attribute. Even now his soul was firing at full capacity, Shroud blazing above him, trying to purge his body of the toxins through a combination of Elementalism, Heart, and Strengh- primarily Heart, of course. The power of healing and durability.

But all three of them were needed for this. He idly pulled in air- oxygen and moisture to speed up the healing- giving the Heart extra power and resources to work with aside from its own innate properties. And the Strength merely supplemented the Heart’s resilience.

He’d live. But he could feel it.

He had been taken down entire stages of advancement by this. And it was going to cost him dearly.

Selvin almost didn’t notice the bandits until they were right on top of him. Didn’t even need to turn his head up and look- their Shrouds, hidden, gave off through their muted impression a dirty, musty, violent feel.

Selvin eyed their Shrouds with a barely conscious eye, noting 4’s and 5’s of various combat Attributes. Pathetic.

Of course, his own power was at that level right now. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so arrogant.

But the Anadren Name, even so long after he had spoken it, still burned with in his soul and power. The last of its energy.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

These men were way in over their heads. And they had no concept.

The bandit stopped half a breath away from Selvin’s face. He resisted the urge to turn away from the man’s filthy breath.

“I suggest,” Selvin said quietly, “you go on your way. I have little patience right now.”

“I am a Speaker Warrior,” the bandit nearly hissed. “Who the fuck are you to speak to me that way? To act with such-“

Selvin caved in his ribs. The last dregs of his Strength flashed through his arm as he did so. He thought he could feel them wisping away, out through his finger tips, as he uncurled his hand and let his fingers fall, dead, at his side.

Selvin cracked a grin as he watched the filthy man fly a dozen feet off the road, into some nearby shrubs.

The other four moved into action immediately. Weak as he was, they were dangerously fast to Selvin.

And if they landed a hit on him, there was a good chance it would be a mortal one.

So he wouldn’t let it happen.

Selvin spun backwards, creating distance between them, and held out his palms flat as he did so- until they traced a perfect circle around his body as he moved.

Crouched on the ground, Selvin spoke the Name of Fire. And he felt the last of his Named Power leave his body as he did so.

Selvin sagged in his crouched position, nearly fell over, panting. His blood was a cacophony in his ears, an endless pounding drum. Sweat, cold and distracting, poured down his face and body.

But still, Selvin managed to watch as his iridescent circle flashed out, and replicated itself ten feet in front of him.

The bandits walked right into it. And then a well of flame rose up, as suddenly as a bonfire with oil set on it.

One fell instantly, burned to char and ash. The others weren’t so lucky. Trapped in the well, flames rising higher and higher- two dozen feet, four dozen, more- the air inside began to boil, so hot was the fire Selvin had called forth.

Their screams lasted a few seconds.

With a shaking hand, Selvin dispelled the well.

And collapsed to the ground, with the intention to sleep. It lay heavy over him- and he closed his eyes to eagerly let it claim him.

But he rolled to the side as he felt something coming for him. Fire blasted out where he had been moments before on the side of the road, a slightly different shade from Selvin’s own magic.

Hiding behind the tree, the remaining wretch hurled balls of burnished flame at Selvin.

And Selvin had no magic left to him. His bare bodily functions- wisps of Strength and Heart- were all that was left to him. The same amount that normal people had. Selvin forced himself up, dragging breaths from his agonized lungs, and, with the last of his bodily energy, charged across the road and into the grass, towards the treeline.

As he did so, he unsheathed the dagger at his waist- not a combat dagger, but something for cutting things or preparing food.

He nearly impaled himself in the leg as he slipped beneath a roar of three gouts of flame. Running low to the ground, he continued, the sky filled with fire above him, his head and ears hot with it.

Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten. The man’s filthy hair and snarl came into greater detail as Selvin approached- and so too did the wisps of fire gathering around his hand, forming into another swirling, incandescent spell of ruin.

Selvin aimed his dagger into that hand, between the concentric flames forming around his fingers. And stabbed him straight in it. Selvin forced him to the ground with his momentum, gritting his teeth as he struggled to push the dagger deeper- he had hit bone right away almost. With a burst of strength, he cracked through it.

Then, with another, he wrenched out now-bloody, glistening length, straddling the man below him. Selvin stabbed down once, scraping along bone, then slid home the second time- right into the man’s heart. Just like his father taught him.

Face still locked in that final-snarl, the bandit’s grasping hands grew less and less strong, until they were like wisps of wind pulling at his arms. He made no sound as he died.

Strangely, most never did, Selvin had found. It was like their ability to speak leaked out of them with their blood.

Selvin sat there atop him for a while after he died, hands still gripped together on the sticky hilt tightly, leaning against it as he caught his breath.

Almost against his will, his eyes flickered up, following the line of light and power flowing up the man’s head.

His Name.

The bandit’s shroud had burned brightly as he had fought in his last moments, and it glowed the same still- but it was dissipating now, flowing away from its natural place over the shoulders to well above his head, almost into the sky above. Lines of smoke condensed into shining letters before Selvin’s feverish eyes.

The man’s name had been… Linadras Yesine. It was utterly meaningless to Selvin’s knowledge.

Selvin took another deep breath and stood, bringing the candescent lines to eye level.

He nearly flinched and turned around when a voice echoed in his mind. Breathe it in, and make it yours.

Selvin spoke his Name, and the lines composing the dead bandit’s soul shivered in response, like a rung gong. Then, with a gentle palm, he guided the smoke into his own Shroud, burning behind him. It resisted at first- Selvin heard the man’s memory screaming insults and rage at him, promising vengeance- but with a minute extension of his will, Selvin crushed its protests. Like wood to a fire, his Shroud began to hungrily consume it- breaking down its unique, Named-Power into something more raw and general, something that was compatible with Selvin’s own soul.

Selvin gasped aloud as he felt the sudden wave of clarity and refreshment wash over him, as his Heart Attribute soared. Even the searing pain of the void in his chest lessened. His muscles sucked up energy like men dying of thirst, filling back up to a content level and buzzing afterward, like bees.

And as his Mind restored to its proper state, his brain filling with necessary energies and chemicals- Selvin’s thoughts raced back to what they had been before.

He had a goal. He had a year to do it. And father… father had trusted it to him.

Selvin began two actions simultaneously- first, stripping the dead bandit of all his useful resources, like money, food, or water- and with another examined his Shroud, taking careful note of the way its Attributes interacted with the sudden burst of energy, absorbing it eagerly.

Grimly, he watched as his Heart rose to 5 and stopped, as suddenly as a ticking clock finally breaking. He felt healthy, better than healthy, even; lively and energized- but his years of experience told him it was a facade.

5… was pathetic. Average. Weak. A healthy, young… mortal… adult could be expected to have that. A Speaker like him, one who warred against demigods and searborn, could not afford to have such a weak constitution. The first monster he encountered, one that meant something, would crush his body like dry wood.

His Strength was a meager 6. And a low 6 at that.

That particular concept had taken Selvin quite a while to grasp. His father had explained it to him many times, in theory and in practice, until it had finally, really clicked: the difference between a low and high Attribute of the same level could be as great as the difference between a 1 and a perfect 10: insurmountably large.

He could contest with average Speakers and likely win because of his skill advantage- but nothing beyond that. Not even close. Any particularly talented sixer that came along would give him a run for his money, and might kill him- especially if were caught after having Spoken the Anadren Name.

The one thing that still burned brightly in him was his Elemental statistic, he was happy to see: it flickered along at a healthy, potent 7. It was why the Name of Fire had come to him so readily, the first thing his mind had conjured up- he had always had an affinity for the worldly powers of Speaking. He preferred manipulating matter and energy as a weapon rather than using it directly empower his own body.

And because this Speaker- if you could call him that- had been a healthy Elementalist as well, Selvin’s Shroud eagerly snapped it up to further stabilize his energy level in that domain. It wasn’t a large power boost, particularly compared to the boosts Selvin was used to when dealing with his father, but it was something… consumable. Substantial, in the way bread could be.

It let him walk, to say the least.

And walk he did- limping, still, from the wounds the voidcreature and Goddess-Queen had dealt his body and soul, until he arrived back on the other side of the roadway, now grayer with darkness and ash. Two bodies within were still recognizable… as being people.

Selvin stared down at them for a moment, his face as dead as a grave. And then rage flickered across it. Then it exploded. “I’m here to fucking save you, and this how you repay me?” He turned and spat on their charred bodies. It was just like father had always said. This was exactly why they did what they did! You couldn’t trust other humans to do what needed to be done. The fools, the tyrants, and the lost, as his father always called them. Cowards, lechers, and greedy children.

Idly, he began to consume their Names. And sat down by the ruins of his campfire to think.

While the mighty Elcasian Speakers grubbed for power and dominion over one another and their nations and kingdoms, the very abyss descended from the edges of existence to wipe the slate clean. And if every single one of them was like the thing that had slain father… or worse, if it were on the lower end of that spectrum…

“Not enough time,” Selvin muttered. “Never enough god-damned time. But now… definitely not enough time!”

Selvin lifted a muted gold coin that had fallen out onto the ground on a flow of air, tied to the tip of his finger. He brought it to his palm gingerly, and curled his fingers around the engraved likeness of Elestra upon it. “But I’ve gotta see it done anyway,” he murmured. He flipped the coin off into the darkness with a supercharged burst of strength, so strong it whistled.

Selvin didn’t really need gold. It’s not like he’d be buying his way to the top.

He’d be killing his way there.