Kelin Anadren woke to a sky full of stars.

Around him, the still-smoldering remains of his foes lay silent. Blood burnt black, bones snapped and charred, magic spilling out as incandescent streams, like rivers of light.

They should’ve known better than to challenge him. It was their fault.

Rising, he stretched to his full height, savoring the loosening of his joints with that free-bound energy the body always built up during a nice, long rest. He then turned his eyes down from the star-strewn heavens above, to the rivers of burning power below him, criss-crossing the black earth all around him.

Waving his hand, smiling at his own fortune, he spread his influence down upon the foreign powers, detached from the vessels that had once bound them. Entirely susceptible to the supremacy of his will upon their substance.

And he made of them… nothing. Not even a memory.

Certainly not a Name.

Savoring the emptiness, the raw gaps that stood out, stark as moonlight, all around him and his spiritual sensation- he began to dance. Laughing, dancing under the stars, stepping over the cracks in the world. He was blissfully aware of each crevice he stepped over, feeling it ring in his spirit.

In his Void. It rang throughout the infinite expanse of not, of nothing; kin for kin, like for like. And together, they grew.

Together, they sang a beautiful song of silence.

And with each note, his power grew.

His power that was his, his power that was… Nameless.

The hallowed name.

Selvin snapped awake faster than from a nightmare, from the terrible wrongness of living a life that was not his.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed, “What was that?”

Silence, in harmony with the darkness of sleeping-night around him. Safety. Security, in his own private room.

A few moments later, and he spoke hoarsely to the empty air:

My name… His name… was Kelin. Kelin Anadren.”

Still breathing a little fast, he realized: “My ancestor.”

But as he grappled with that, and with the panic that he may be forgetting his own identity as Selvin- even flaring his Shroud to reassure himself, to solidify his being- the details of the experience began to slip away. As easily, as nonchalantly, as any other dream.

Within minutes, as Selvin lay on his cot in the dark, he remembered nothing of the encounter except that it had involved the man who had forged his Ancestral Name. Of only that was he sure.

“Well,” he muttered, sitting up. “If it was really important, I would’ve remembered, wouldn’t I? Now focus up. A clouded mind is mince-meat on the battlefield.”

Selvin sprung up, began to jump up and down, from foot to foot, warming his blood and Named Power, feeling it spread and solidify within him.

Far away, just, just at the edge of his perception… he could feel a disturbance. Like sensing dawn just under the horizon, even in the dead of night. The first flicker of the first onset of light.

That was what tickled his awareness now. His Perception was not strong, had never been particularly strong- but it was enough to bring large spiritual, magical disturbances within perhaps a two mile radius of his person to his attention.

And this was a large disturbance indeed. The Speaker cache, of course. They were here.

Selvin grinned hungrily at their invisible presence, staring into the dark of his private room in the city keep. “Here I come, dad.”

He found Althony sharpening a blade made of frozen fire. He drew a smaller blade of still-flame, a slightly different shade from the sword, along its length, both sides, meticulously; over and over.

From his hulking frame and his careful repetition, you’d think inside his soul was the cool-calm of a killer. But Selvin narrowed his eyes slightly as he appraised the man.

He was afraid.

All people gave off trace amounts of their Name if you looked hard enough, carefully enough. Speakers, of course, gave off comparatively larger amounts- but it was still subtle. It wasn’t merely an application of Perception that let you track it, either- it was a little of everything, really.

It was like tracking a scent from among a thousand others. And right now, fear was the man’s strongest scent, even more than the flame-tinged aspect of his Named Power.

His mortal instincts, his bodily perceptions, were a little confused. Here he was, skinny, nineteen years old, and he was the calm, collected battle veteran. The hulking, gruff soldier before him was nervous.

And of course, the man had a good foot or so of height on Selvin. Not to mention muscles that looked like they could break steel ropes. His primal mind, a remnant of his mortal frame, his base instincts, told him that this was not a match up he could win.

The instincts his father had honed into him told him coldly, surely, he could kill this man before him as easily as a beetle.

Althony wouldn’t even see Selvin’s hand as it caved in his skull. If he so wanted, of course.

As he approached, the Speaker looked up, briefly meeting Selvin’s eyes before focusing on his task once more.

Selvin stared idly at the bare echoes of the Name of Fire following Althony’s fire-magic, spinning around in the air like insects.. The Speaker honed keenness, focus, and force- the material aspects of Fire- into its edge. An edge to murder without discrimination; alive or dead, good or bad, hard or soft. It would cut anything. Cut it with the piercing, burning fury of the power of Fire.

“Are the others ready?” he said.

“Artillery’s on the battlements,” he grunted. “Rest are waitin’ in the throne room. Or whatever you’d call it, seein’ as how there’s no throne.”

“Audience hall, I think,” Selvin said quietly. He was silent for a moment, then stepped closer to the sitting, hulking form. “Blood is about to spill. Names stand to be taken. Isn’t that exciting?" Selvin gave a tiny, crooked smile. "Or is it dreadful?”

“I suspected you’d say somethin’ like that,” Althony said just as quietly. A low, careful bass. “You’re a Black Speaker.”

Selvin smiled broadly at him, tilting his head. “Why, Speaker Althony, you wound me.” He stuck up two fingers, spun a single line of candescent power around them. “You know we so despise such bleak terms for our art.”

To his credit, the man didn’t back down. He just grunted in vague acquiescence. “It’s a black art, s’all I’ll say. Killing to profit from a man’s soul.” He shook his head. “I don’t like it. Explains how you got so powerful so young.”

“Do you envy me?”

He smiled slightly. “Not really.”

“Yeah,” Selvin sighed. “Can’t say I blame you.” He stepped closer. “All right. Listen up. You cover me, and I’ll cover you when I can. We keep each other alive. Sound like a deal?”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

The man didn’t respond out loud, but he finally nodded. Good enough for Selvin.

They stood on the dismal walls of the city, looking out at the wide expanses stretching below it, lightening in the rising sun’s rays.

As the hundred Named Speakers approached, vague outlines in the distance, just surmounting the horizon with dawn rising before it, Selvin had one thought still left to him that wasn’t coldly focusing on the oncoming prospect of bloodshed and Named magics: They aren’t worth the power they possess.

So I’ll take it away.

Selvin began to speak his True Name in its entirety, then, in a low voice and a dozen paces away from Althony- it was common courtesy among Speakers to not hear one another’s True Names. It would be like trying to see someone naked, only worse. A most terrible affront.

Those defending the city stood a hundred yards behind them and off to the side, on an overlaying rock outcropping- a fair distance above them as well due to the natural elevation of the slope the city rested on. They were specks in the distance, but he could feel the tension of energy brimming within them. They were ready to release their power immediately.

He finished the final syllable of his Name- it echoed out away from him, only in his own ears, of course- and the power that exploded in him shunted him forward with the world a smear of shades rushing past him. And he was not even moving yet. As though his mind was merely preparing him for what was to come. The first few times, when the process hadn’t happened, he had thrown up after moving at such high speeds.

He turned to Althony, shortly after he finished his litany as well. This close to him, and hearing him speak at the distance, gave Selvin a very good concept of what his Named Power specialized in- and he seemed to be, interestingly, a Mirror Speaker. He took the Named Spells others threw at him and turned them back, perhaps with a touch here and there of his own. It was not quite what Selvin partook in- the Mirror Speaker had no real power of his own and couldn’t absorb other Names beyond an artificial level- but it was still very useful. Useful indeed.

He approached him and smiled. “Try to stay out of my way is all I ask and watch my back if I appear to be otherwise occupied. I don’t expect you’ll have to risk yourself much here. I’ll try to keep you alive, and you me, yeah? LIke I said.”

Althony nodded without looking at him, staring at the approaching foe coldly. “Yeah.”

Selvin didn’t hesitate. He turned, jumped off the wall, landed- and in an instant, perhaps half of a second, the enemy Speakers were only a dozen feet away from him as the world blurred to his will.

Kalamosar Maramet, Lion and Sight-Speaker, Prince of the city-seat of House Maramet, gave a strangled cry. “Speakers- Speakers, kill hi-“ Selvin blurred forward towards him and grabbed his throat with one hand and disemboweled him with the other. He then took the broken corpse, even as it was still alive and coughing blood, and crouched behind it, feeling the wave of Named attacks assail him. It was as he thought. Prince Kalamosar’s body served as an excellent shield for the moment. He sent off raw flares of energy in his death throes, deflecting Named attacks wildly.

Far away, he heard the defenders cry out their own Named spells, and moments later a wave of fire and lightning, ice and razor metal poured from on high and pounded against the onslaught Selvin was under. It would scarcely affect Sixth Tier Speakers, especially if their Heart Attribute was what carried them to that Tier. And for Sevenths, it wouldn't matter at all. They could have a Heart as weak as a child and it wouldn't matter.

But It was enough for the moment. Selvin tossed the body aside, then slid across the ground to stay under the barrage roaring through the air.

One errant blast headed towards him, and Althony turned it aside from his perch up the hill with a deft flick of his finger. Selvin was glad to see he was prepared to do his job, and to do it well.

When he straightened, in an area of desolate hillside far to the left of where he had been- out of the line of fire- he began his slaughter. Like a tiger picking off prey in the jungle, striking so fast and with such ferocity for the throat that they didn't even have time to cry out as they died. He killed many in this way- as no one turned to see their comrades falling, so focused as they were on the battle raging in front of them, Named magic spinning and roaring through the air.

One eventually did notice- as Selvin lowered the body a bit too loudly to the ground as it died.

As Selvin approached the Speaker, drawing near, he realized with cold appraisal... this one was clever. He was a fellow Falcon who had fortified his body with ice, giving his blood hardened, verging on supernatural durability.

He stared at Selvin coldly, readying his Shroud for battle- flaring above his shoulders like a small, icy blizzard.

“Control of ice,” Selvin said. “Cute. It won’t help you, but I like it.”

“Go fuck yourself,” he snarled, with the desperate fear of those about to die underlying his fury.

He appeared to the side of Selvin- though Selvin tracked the arc of his motion all the while- and in response, Selvin casually punched him in the face. To his credit, he merely staggered back and thrust himself back into the fight.

They exchanged blows at blurring speed. The Falcon’s fists were like tiny explosions of dynamite, each packing a punch of force and heat, and Selvin didn’t just shrug them off. Most especially because this man was a Falcon Speaker, the same tier as Selvin. His Strength Attribute burned with a fierce, desperate power, supplemented directly in counterpoint by the honed might of his Elemental. His Shroud was a storm of frost blazing around his shoulders, lending ancient, immutable resolve and power to each strike, like the blow of a cold god from atop a snowy mountainpeak.

Selvin pushed his speed further and skirted a particularly strong strike to the side, avoiding most of its power- turning his head slightly to grin as the devastation raced passed him, wreaking an earth-churning gash in the ground behind him- and then dipped into his defenses as easily as diving into a pool of water.

He jabbed him just below the sternum three times, all in the span of a second. The Ice-Speaker fell gasping to the ground. After that, it was a simple matter to crush his throat.

A hail of silvery icicles assailed him, and he turned some aside, punched others outright, destroying them before they could do any harm. The Speaker who had sent them, a dozen paces away, but still well within his grasp- and knowing it well- tried to run away. Selvin, of course, closed the distance and smashed his body into her own. He felt her arm break as she was thrown to the ground.

“This isn’t possible!” The Speaker cried out, cradling her arm. “How are you so strong? A Seventh-Tier Speaker can’t be here, in this backwater… I-“ Selvin kicked her head to silence her.

Already, as their power fled their broken bodies, Selvin could feel their Names beginning to leave them, return to the world. And as they did… Selvin breathed them in, and made their strength his own. Memories that were not his tickled at his mind. And the will of his True Name immediately attacked then, rearranged their structure, and added it to the sum total of his identity. Their hopes and dreams, the pure essence of their will- he broke it down and added it to his own, and he felt the tiniest bit more growing certainty in his path and what it would take to get to the end. He took their tricks and techniques, their experience and tactics- everything, using it as the mortar and brick in his mind’s eye to build his own road, piece by piece.

Lisa, the Speaker he had just kicked and slain, had been a craftswoman turned Speaker. A very common path. But she had risen unusually high along the path. She was proud of that fact. She thought it would protect her.

How wrong she was.

Once, he would have felt sorrow tickle at him. Years worth of life times’ memories had banished that weakness; that endless, human guilt, for he knew the nature of those lives in and out. And it was so, so common for these Speakers, these men above other men, women above other women… to have gotten to that place atop the bodies of their lessers. A twisted staircase to the heavens.

Selvin continued his work, taking a dozen names, then three dozen, and then more. It was all in a matter of minutes. Perhaps even less.

Their proud line was in shambles, covered in a perpetual haze of magical assaults flying through the air and crashing into the earth around them, and shattered by the broken corpses lying wherever Selvin fell upon. The region had taken on the characteristic atmosphere of a battlefield, the sky covered in smoke and ash and the sun a dark smudge before it.

They quickly realized that what they thought would be a simple feast was now their own execution. Their new leader, now that their Prince was dead, tried to rally them.

Selvin raced to him, dodging his attacks of lightning like they weren’t even there. He lunged into a royal bodyguard elbow first, caving in his throat, and slashed the other in half with his left hand.

The Brother- Prince, now, really- called lightning into his palms and thrust it at Selvin only a few paces before him-

And Selvin punched it. Lightning was fast, but not fast enough that he could not counter it. And his first instinct was to punch it.

He felt the energy crackle along his knuckles, stabbing at him with a thousand little forked knives, trying to find purchase in his flesh- but his flesh would not give it.

And it, of course, was rejected by his own Name. An explosion erupted between them, throwing the brother back and causing Selvin to cough away smoke where he had been standing.

“You,” the Prince’s brother said, panting, cradling burns and a gaping stomach wound from his own power. “Miserable bastard. I didn’t think I’d ever have to use this in my life-“ He groaned, moving as if to double over but holding himself back. “Ha… but here we go-!” And he pulled out a sword that glowed like the sun.

Immediately, Selvin’s Named senses sparked in alarm. That was no ordinary weapon, not even a mere Seventh Tier Speaker weapon. That was something with real power… and ancient.

Whatever it was, it could kill him. Even from the distance separating him from it, the sword began to shear away at his will, making it known to him that he would die on the edge of its blade even for all his power and speed.

Selvin tilted his head at it and brushed aside its influence offhandedly. Then, he crouched against the ground, and exploded towards the Prince’s brother-

He slammed into something, and pain exploded across his body. He was thrust back into mortal motion, skidding backwards the direction he had come from, the hardness of his body scoring the earth with dark streaks. He threw himself backwards and into a standing position from the ground, unnecessarily, perhaps, but he was done taking chances with whatever this artifact was.

With roving eyes, he immediately saw what had happened. The royalty stood gaping down at the sword, as if shocked at what it had done as much as Selvin should have been. This was rare indeed. An object with a Name and a real intellect, that could wield Named Magics… dangerous, and powerful.

It’ll taste great, I bet. It might even be enough to get me all the way to the Seventh.

You think it will be so easy? A sharp, hissing voice suddenly sounded in his mind.

You can speak? Selvin asked, shocked. That was not something he had heard of except in legend…

That and more, little Falcon, it said, and Selvin had the sudden impression it was smiling. Final Contingency assessed and deemed worthy. Objective: Defend the final scion of House Maramet.