22 of Voidor

Year of 1273 of the Sixteenth Cycle

The Tower of the Das’en’uei

I approach the towering building where the Das'en'uei was held, my heart pounding in my chest. My father had once told me that the event always took place in the grandest tower in the city, and so I made my way there, clutching the Seal of House Daai tightly in my hand. I had ripped it from my father's pocket, and now it was coated with his blood. The blue feathers of the Raven are coated in red. If there were ever a better metaphor for my House’s existence as I know it — I have yet to find it.

I’ve donned a simple set of light armour, something I wear even if I can cover myself with plate. A black gambeson, with a high collar to protect from the wind shear. Blue feathers are laced through it, fluttering ever so slightly as I move. Shoulderguards made of exotic leather, though and extremely light. Bracers of the same, with some kind of blue-tinted fur to protect my forearms from the cold. A gift from my Father when I landed my first blow against him.

The tower ahead of me is obvious in its grandiose. What seems like gold is plated along the normal white, with vibrant green shrubbery and flowering red roses cascading down the sides in infinite, intricately woven knots. It makes me sick.

I am on a bridge like no other, crossing into a tower with no equal. Two men stand guard, in full Hardlight - not the type you form quickly, but the type you form slowly, adding details and extras into the mix. No doubt it increases their Rate of Flow so much that they have to trade shifts every ten minutes. Pathetic opulence. The bridge narrows into a single door, large and darkly wooden. As I walk towards it, I am barred.

“Emblem.” The man simply states. I throw my hand up, letting the emblem dangle from it, the light catching both the shiny blue feathers and the gold embossing and background behind it. I’ve already cleaned my Father's blood from the medallion. The man creases his brow but does not speak any further. “Welcome, Member of House Daai.”

If I should survive this Das’en’uei, I find myself called to the Tomb my Father spoke of. I do not know why, but it is like a hand covered in ice is gripping my heart both in grief and in pure need. Something in that tomb holds my destiny. I’ll find out what it is, no matter the cost.

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The tower is a constant barrage of hallways. I see snickering faces looking my way as I stumble around. It only causes the anger inside to grow. I should have had a guide. I should be beside my Father now. Elegant dresses flow across the ground -- men dressed in bright attire as though this wasn’t all a farce. From fragmented memories, I find the Dae’en and see firsthand the claims lodged against us on a large wooden board. Carved into it are the characters associated with the Bluefeather Ravens, then underneath, three other symbols.

Three other claimants. House of the Ironfur Wolves. House of the Onyxwing Vulture… and House of the Iridescent Lion. It does not tell me what they claim, but my eyes narrow on the House of the Iridescent Lion. House Daraas. The House of the Sorcerer-King, once. I don’t know how I know, but I’m certain that they are the ones claiming the Tomb.

As it so happens, they are the first to claim, and as such, they are the first to fight. It’s almost funny. Mother raised me on stories of the Sorcerer-King, and here I find myself about to slaughter one of his descendants. There are no signs, no directions to go off. I don’t know where to go… but my feet place themselves in front of one another, and suddenly I am below the areas where the Nobles sit. Where I should be sat, watching my Father.

Beams of concentrated light bathe a strangely familiar arena. It’s almost exactly like the one I had trained in my entire life. It just now dawns on me… that was the whole point. I don’t feel… anxious or afraid. I’ve gone into the same arena my entire life, facing an opponent that I have never had a chance against. Somebody up there is talking, probably the Patriarch of House Daraas — the current ruler of all of us, technically. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a portrait of him. I walk up to the steel gate in front of me, trying to listen to the words.

“Welcome my friends, my allies, my Noble Houses. Welcome, House Ashen. Welcome, House Stormchaser - House Kaelis, and welcome house Thorne.” He says, then laughs. As he speaks next, his voice grows louder, like he is talking directly down to me. “And of course, how could we forget, welcome House Daai! How are you doing down there, Reymond?”

There’s a silence, and then the entire crowd seems to laugh. “We can’t hear you!”

My fists are so tight my nails dig deep into my skin. How would he have reacted to this? Is this what he faced, every day? Humiliation? Why? It is pointless… to squabble like this. How many years has it been since Humanity took land from another, subjugated the weak; grew stronger?

“Well, without further ado, I proclaim this year’s Das’en’uei! All who believe they own land and are entitled to its riches must also be able to defend it. House Daai has received three claims. First is my own House which has laid claim to a small tomb in the centre of the city, deep down in the Lightless Dregs. We plan to reclaim it, for it should never have been given to the weakest House. Second, House Kaelis of the Ironfur Wolf claims half the village of Altrdon, citing border friction as their cause. It would seem that peasants from both the village of Altrdon and Ullais are intermingling. The Third claim goes to House Stormchaser of the Redfur Stag. They claim the tributary river of Boor, citing a need for increased fishing and clean water. Now that all claims have been aired, should any dispute these claims besides House Daai?”

This feels like a mockery. He speaks like a child playing with a doll, pulling the arms off. ’Claims’, ’citing’, ’friction’. They hide behind words to justify their taking. “As it would seem, there is no disputation of these claims. Let two Houses clash - and may the victor be glorious.”

The steel gate in front of me opens. I take a deep breath, and then step through, out into the sandy field. Flowers grow around the very rim, and there’s a large wall separating our fight pit from the rest of the Houses. They sit above this wall, in a large amphitheatre.

It seems that not all Houses are here - only the allies of House Daraas. Like we once were. A hundred or so eyes stare down at me, and I watch the Patriarch of House Daraas closely. Once he sees me, his face twists into a malicious grin.

He knows.

He knows my Father is dead.

I would have fought in the last round when Father was weakened. But in absence of him — there is only me.

I feel him staring down at me, and I feel so small. All of these Houses arrayed against me.

Because it’s not really us anymore.

It’s just me.

The fighter across from me looks up at the patriarch too, before he receives a small nod and returns his attention back to me. He’s just a fraction shorter, and he has a full head of blonde hair. Green eyes stare at me, watching how I move, and how I walk. How quick I am to step forward instead of step back. A spike of fear runs through me. I had considered my training expert, that my Father must have taught me so well that I would be undefeated.

That I would be a weapon… but this boy has experience. He’s fought some of these before. He looks at me like I am a prize. My bones feel cold. I stare back at him. In my mind, I imagine my sword cutting through his throat, or my dagger dipping into his entrails. I watch him attempt to repair his own wounded heart.

He narrows his eyes and readies his stance, pulling his freshly-Conjured blade to his hip. I Conjure my own blade, somewhat longer than this, and curved ever so slightly. I grip the handle with two hands, pulling it straight behind my back. My intention is clear, but that doesn’t matter.

“Commence!” shouts the Patriarch. I rip the blade across the air, trailing light down as I do. A perfect Strike arcs towards him, but his stance is prepared. He moves to deflect the blow, angling his blade to change the momentum of the Strike, sending it cutting deep into the sand. I see his eyes widen as he sees the depth of the cut in the dry earth, and a little bit of something inside of me grows. I send another, my movements precise, deliberate.

Again, the boy deflects it, but I see his footing stumble for just a second. I cease my next blow, flowing into a more movement-oriented stance, my feet just a tad from shoulder-width apart. A step to the left, then another. His wearings are incredibly light.

What seems like just a thin piece of cloth to protect modesty more than flesh. As he follows my movements, I watch his speed closely. It’s fast like he’s using Enhancement almost constantly. Either that or there’s very little weight on him. His hips move, and a foot strikes out in front of him, planting in the sand. He releases his guard, putting his blade up over his shoulders before bringing it down, sending me a Strike. It’s a small, almost paltry thing that moves slowly.

As I move to deflect it, he lunges forward, kicking off the sand with an Enhanced movement.

I move my guard up, deflecting the Strike, then bring it forward in a stab. He nearly impales himself on my blade, but his own sword elongates and scores a cut against my leg. It bites shallow, barely enough to get through the tough fabric of the gambeson - but it makes me so angry.

What is this?

This pathetic fighting?

All that movement only to score a tiny cut.

Inefficient.

Wasteful.

Pointless.

He dances back and smiles, gloating. “Ah, the bastard of House Daai. You’re no noble. House Tarant was gone even before your whore of a mother spread her legs for the man of another dead House. So what does that make you?”

I move my guard into Zornhut, pulling it back over my head and pulling it down in one swift motion, Striking and keeping the momentum going into another Strike, then another. Three lines of razor-sharp light bear down on him, seeking his death.

The first is deflected, and I take a step forward. The second, a nearly perfectly straight vertical line, he dodges, pushing him off his defensive guard. The last seeks to only hit the side of his arm, so he Conjures a thick slab of plate, thicker than it needs to be. The art of Lightblading requires you to minimise your usage.

He’s distracted, flustered… and I will be his punishment.

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I kick off the ground, pushing Light into my legs, charging forth like a spear. His eyes widen, and he plants his feet, realising he won’t be able to dodge. As my blade comes into his space, he Conjures a large shield, waits for the impact, and then pushes my blade outwards. His sword comes up to counter, but I’m not there.

As he blocked his own vision, I fell under his shield. With an outburst of light, I push upwards off the ground, placing both of my legs heel-first into his stomach and following it through, lifting him off the ground and making him fly a few feet across the sand before he hands on his back, hard.

It’s like he’s been taught a different style of fighting.

He expected me to be there, so he swung before he even checked. I don’t know what to say. The crowd is silent, wordless.

I stare at him as empties the contents of his stomach onto the ground, and he stares back with eyes full of hatred. He’s close enough that I can see the small wispy hairs on his face. He looks at the ground, so I take a step forward and stab with my sword.

A chorus of gasps goes through the arena, and he snaps his head up, his eyes wide as he watches his death approach. He puts his hand out, Conjuring a large steel-strong sheet of Hardlight. I jump back, aborting my attack. The sheet falls slowly. I can only imagine how much of his Power and Light that had cost, all for a small attack on my part.

The sheet starts to dissipate, and when it does, he is standing on the other side, his blade held above his head, ready for a stabbing motion. He darts forward, thrusting the sword out to try and catch me. I pull my blade up, snapping it in front of his, feeling the clash of blades and the outpour of trapped light.

I take a step back, bringing my blade across my body, edge pointed at him, and with a quick dash of light, I stab it out. He moves to defend and I shift the blade, swinging it around and turning it into a light slash.

His hips move, countering the cut and snapping his own sword back towards me. I Conjure a small knife on the very edge of my fingertip and flick it out. It flies through the air and scrapes across his forehead, leaving a long cut. He aborts his attack, taking a step back, his brow creased and confused.

Blood weeps from his hairline, his brow deflecting most of it - but not all. My heart is beating hard - I’m winning. I take advantage, pulling my blade past my back and letting out a perfect Strike, then Enhancing myself and dashing forward. At such a short range, he opts to create a long shield to block the Strike — but he learns his lesson. As he blocks the strike, he doesn’t lose track of me. That’s only in my favour. He’s looking at my eyes, my hips, he’s expecting a blow to come screaming from me.

He hasn’t learnt a certain trick my Father showed me. A small ball falls down in front of his face. It’s shimmering with excess light, trapped within a thin and fragile membrane. He starts, and he smacks it away, cracking the outer shell and inadvertently sealing his demise.

A blinding flash of light sears into his eyes, and I make my blade weightless to me, then watch it as it comes sailing through his shield, slicing through the thin Hardlight and into his rib cage.

I feel the bone beneath screaming in agony as my Lightblade breaks through everything he has; and wrench it out to a splatter of deep-red blood.

He stumbles backwards, throwing his blade left and right, flailing in true pain.

That blow was almost certainly an Escalit. He puts his hand over the wound and begins to moan in pain, but he’s not Repairing.

Shouts are raining down from the Houses, but my blood is up. I can barely hear them.

Blood pours out from the deep gash, and I can nearly see the thoughts in his head.

I’ve felt them. The pain, oh, the horrific pain.

The question is always this; Do I choose pain, or do I choose death

The blow I’ve given him might be fatal, it might not...

But the only way he survives for sure is to endure the agony.

I take a step back. I watch. I have never seen anyone else make the choice I failed to make — the choice Father had to make for me. I let my blade dissipate. I didn’t even need to use Hardlight armour. He seemed so afraid to attack. I do not understand. My mind snaps to the audience.

They are booing, and shouting. I find myself wondering if this is the treatment Father got every single time. A small flash of light brings me back to the boy.

He’s Repairing. Small white tendrils slither down onto his flesh and bite holes into his skin. Others draw his flesh into those holes. He’s screaming so loud it can be heard over the booing. From the seating of House Daraas, a mother shouts down at him, encouraging shouts, shouts of love. Sisters and Brothers throw abuse at me.

I start to seethe, my feet move on their own. I walk left and right in small loops, waiting for him to finish. That’s one of the only rules. After serving an Escalit, you must let the opponent Repair. I can’t ignore the shouts from House Daraas.

My Mother should have seen me deal this blow.

She should have seen me win.

Father should be watching — proud that his forge produced an excellent blade.

But no.

Mother is far away, tucked in a degrading fort, half-starved so that I may eat my fill and become strong, and so that Father could protect us.

Father is… dead.

I think… I hadn’t truly realized that yet. I knew he was dead… but I didn’t think men like that could die. I’d seen the carnage he’d wrought. A tear comes to my eye, and I bring my head down to make sure it isn’t seen. Not here… but… why did I have to fall asleep?

He told me to stay awake. I failed that. I let them waltz right into our domicile and murder him.

It’s only because he was strong that I am alive. Why didn’t I wake up?

A blade flashes in front of me, and I instinctively dodge backwards. A long cut opens up and spits blood out of my chest. The gambeson saved me there — not allowing it to go deep. The boy has a snarl on his face. “You fucking dreg. You piece of shit. I’m going to fucking kill you. Just like we killed your fucking daddy.”

I feel a pair of eyes staring down at me. No doubt the Patriarch of House Daraas. I Conjure my blade again, but this time I make it straight and strong.

I bring the guard in front of me, ready to parry any blows. The boy is frothing at the mouth, but he’s not attacking. I take a step forward, and I feel the fear in his eyes. All bark, no bite. He brings his blade down, sending a Strike forward.

I Enhance my muscles, dodging to the side. It’s more efficient to deflect, but I don’t want efficiency now.

I want fear.

So I drop my guard.

I release myself from any stance… and I walk towards him.

His brow creases up, he stares at me and I can see the uncertainty in the way his hips refuse to move either to attack or defend. He’s stuck in the middle, hopelessly indecisive.

Until I am close enough to him for him to make a stab forward. He drives it towards my heart, and I bring my own blade up to readjust his trajectory, letting the blade dig deep into my shoulder, cracking the bone beneath.

I push forward, letting the blade dig deeper and deeper, fighting through the pain until I am barely a breath away from him.

He’s frozen in fear, his legs shaking under him.

I put a hand on his head, gripping his nice precious blonde hair in my hands.

“My Father would have slaughtered you like a lamb.”

Conjuring a dagger, I stab it forward with such force that I bury it to my wrist.

I don’t let it dissipate, leaving it in, and let him fall forward onto me as his blade disappears into thin air. He falls face-first into the sand.

I look down at him whilst I put my hand over my shoulder and let the tendrils of light cure me with exquisite pain.

I feel the bone knit together, feeling the muscles pull like wool across them, then feel the skin pull taught like a cover at bedtime when I was a child. The boy has started crawling.

A small trail of blood seeps behind him in the sand. I Conjure a dagger and stab it into his calf.

He stops moving.

I look up, and I keep my eyes on the Patriarch as I walk over, then kick the boy of House Daraas over, exposing his wound. Tears are streaming down his face. He looks at his mother. He’s nothing more than a scared child calling for mommy to save him from the monster in the dark.

Such immense satisfaction goes in waves over me as I watch House Daraas in their myriad responses. I see the Mother beg for me to have mercy. I see the brothers stare at me with malicious eyes full of hatred.

I can nearly see their blood-soaked thoughts.

The sisters are perhaps the most entertaining. They sob tears of sorrow, and without a halt in sight. Their tears drip onto their bone-white dresses. The Daraas boy screams as he places his hand over his wound, trying desperately to Repair himself. Each time he does, the flesh knits together, he blacks out and the flesh unravels.

If you don’t complete the Repair fully, then it is just wasted Light and wasted time.

Over and over he does this, screaming and healing and fading and dying.

I watch for just a few moments, and then I look up at the Patriarch of House Daraas and shout up to him.

“Am I mistaken in thinking that this boy continued fighting after an Escalit?” I ask. I want to hear him say it. To hear him give me permission to kill his son.

“No. You are not. His life is forfeit to the victor.” He says through gritted teeth and barely held anger. “But you should know, Boy of House Daai, that you never stop being hunted.”

I smile at him. “I could save him, Patriarch,” I say, then raise my voice so the entire collection of Houses can hear. “I spent barely any of my Light and Power. I could Repair your son if you so wished.”

The Daraas boy’s head snaps up to look at his Father full of teary eyes. If the Patriarch had been angry before, now I can feel it behind his mask. I can feel the hatred in him. He shakes his head. My turn to feel anger flood me.

He won’t debase his pride for his own son's life?

The flutter of hope in the boy’s eyes disappears, replaced with a heap of dread.

He’s going to die.

He knows it.

It’s coming, the silent cold of death is coming.

No more sun, no more food or women or glory or honour or victory.

Just death.

I see it sink in.

I crouch beside him, and I whisper to him.

“Do you wish to live?” I ask. His eyes speak of a hatred that matches my own, but his are full of fear. He can feel the end coming. Those without the ability to Repair would feel it coming and then die, fading into the void, almost a peaceful experience.

Not so here.

Every time he wakes and Repairs, he’s going through all the pain again, constantly keeping himself on the edge of death whilst completely unable to push through and save himself. He pleads with our God, he pleads with his family, with the ground, with the sky, and he breathes for air that will not come.

What should have been the very last seconds of his existence have become the entirety of it. “You are going to die. Unless you give me your Light, your Power. I’ll Repair you in exchange for a single thing.” He doesn’t speak, but I continue. “What do you seek in the Tomb?”

He gurgles and then tries to speak. He’s nodding, and I put my arm on him, letting his Light transfer to me.

I put my hand over his wound and begin to feel a fraction of the pain he felt. I watch as he screams silently, feeling his body contort in pain. The bleeding is stopped, but I halt the Repair. I see the wave of relief on his face before he realises I haven’t completed it yet.

“Now, you will answer me,” I say, and he starts to sob, looking at the wound with fear. I smack him across the face and put my blood-soaked hands into his pretty hair, ripping his head up to look at me. “Now you will answer me or you will sink slowly into the abyss without any ability to help yourself, and I will parade your corpse like a trophy.” I say, loudly.

“Old power… old secrets. Daddy didn’t tell me, not everything. Please! Please fix me!” he screams out. I smile, cupping my hand over my ear.

Out of fear, out of desperation, he shouts at me. Begs me with no hesitation. “Please! Please Repair me! Please, I don’t want to die! Please! I’ll do anything! If you save me, maybe our Houses won’t fight. We could make amends.”

I take a quick glance at the Patriarch, but he’s sat down, seething silently as the family around him continues to hurl hatred at me.

They wait for my judgement. I am their God until I make my choice.

My hand pulls away from him and I watch as he enters into death once more.

I relish the betrayal in his eyes, the price of dishonour.

He thrusts his hand up, trying to Repair himself, but I’ve taken all of his Light and Power.

Then it drops, limp, and the grass ring around the arena will finally feast on his Death.

Everything is silent now, barring the weeping sobs of his family — the mother, the sisters, and the smallest of the children.

Such a large House. My fury isn’t sated. I point to the Patriarch, then point to the boy.

I Conjure a small blade, and the meaning becomes obvious.

I kneel down and put the blade to the boy’s throat, then start cutting.

I cut, I hack, and I rip.

I’m tired.

My muscles ache from the Light channelled through them. The blood rush makes me feel uneasy.

Soon, though, I have the boy of House Daraas swinging from my fingertips. His blonde hair is matted and bloody, clenched between my fingers.

A few staggered steps get me close enough to House Daraas to swing and throw the head up towards them.

It lands, blood still dripping, on the white dress of one of his sisters, his now-faded green eyes staring up at her.

Her dress was designed to be worn on the advent of victory. She begins to sob wildly as I turn and walk across the sand.

I watch other Houses as they eye me up, with either fear or admiration.

House Daai has gone from a laughing stock in their minds to a terrifying thing.

A spectre.

A House on the rise.

The price of which is the eternal hatred of House Daraas...

A worthy trade.