22 of Voidor

Year of 1273 of the Sixteenth Cycle

The Lightless Dregs, Edgehaven

The air is dark; the thin blue light that pours like molten iron sideways along channels in the stone illuminates only enough to see just how truly dark it is. My Light does not work. Even Conjuring something with the express intent of spreading Light fails. The Tomb seems to steal it from the air. There is nothing else to do but put one foot in front of the other as a growing presence seeps its way into my mind. It is a screaming mass of shadow that drapes over me like a cloak, resting on my shoulders; an unknowable and endless presence. It whispers to me in words I cannot understand; yet I do. It guides me even down the singular corridor.

I feel other things besides me. They feel like remnants of something long past, a cinder of a once endless flame. But this one is different. It leads me to a door, then through it, until I stand in the centre of a room. The cloak, now truly physical, lies heavily on me as fifteen statues carved intricately from stone are illuminated through glowing channels of light. They run down the neck, the chest, the arms and the legs; each a distinct colour. Green for Dario, the Champion of the Waves who took the seas from the Tyrnn. Yellow for Farid, who tamed the endless sands and turned them to verdant growing fields. Orange for Amara… she who was first and who claimed the lands that humans now call ancestral. The other statues, pink, purple, brown, white — I do not know. They all stare at me with eyes of blue. One statue is not lit, the channels are empty. A strange excitement builds. Is this to be mine? After I have done everything I can as Champion, then will this statue light up? Will I join these ranks?

It lights up. Red light pours like tears of blood down the stone, unorganised and chaotic compared to the almost carved curves and straights of the others. This one bleeds a deep wound. I count them. Sixteen. Then this one… is the Sorcerer-King. Eudaimon. Why is it different?

A crack runs down the Sorcerer-King’s likeness, jagged and loud as though something had smote it from above. Then it begins to open, a large, deep void emerging from its chest. Another statue steps out, living and physical, walking towards me. I watch the form shift and change from one Champion to another, until it reaches the end and a blinding flash forces me to shield my eyes. I feel the heat from the brightness seep through my gambeson and into my arms and chest, hot even through the thick cloth. Then it is over, and there seems to be only darkness, all the light drained from the room. Until there extends a long blade of Light from the darkness, in a pattern I recognise from storybooks and plays and portraits. A long, slim blade and a wide guard. A handle made for two hands. A face that gives an air of authority, with dark red steel plate covering their entire body, obscured only by a cloak of deepest black. Two piercing steel-grey eyes stare blankly ahead.

The Sorcerer-King.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The eyes set their sights on me. The sword raises, held in one hand that practically coils with muscle. “You are not chosen by the gods. Leave this tomb.” I’m stuck in the non-existent mud that surrounds me. The blade seems infinite, his I’m stuck in the non-existent mud that surrounds me. The blade seems infinite, his body seems invincible. I cannot match my Father — how ever am I meant to match Him. My mind knows it isn’t real. Even if I hadn’t seen him come borne of light, I know it to be true that the Sorcerer-King is dead. I Conjure a blade that seems to be paltry compared to his, holding in a stance that seems so imperfect despite the years and days and hours of practise. I form a shield too, a strong thing that hangs on my arm, thick yet light. He sees this and brings his blade back, holding it in one hand at his hip. “Come then, child of light. Unchosen. Attack me. Rend me from this world. Destroy me, if you can.”

My blade flashes forward, arcing light and sending a long Strike slicing towards the Sorcerer-King. I dash forwards, following up with another weaker Strike, before planting my foot in the ground and stabbing forward for his belly, timed so that I will hit just after the Strikes. He bats aside the first Strike and lets the second hit him, forming a perfect barrier of razor-thin light as defence. As my blade seeks his flesh, he grabs the blade with an armoured hand. My body is stuck fast, his iron grip held tight.

“Elementary. Practically the first trick in the book.” He says, simply, then puts a thumb to my Conjured blade. I am frozen in fear, his very presence sends shivers of fear down my spine and sweat like a pig as though he were as hot as the sun. His thumb pushes, snapping the Lightblade’s tip, and without losing his grip he moves further down, slowly destroying the blades with pure bodily strength. It’s when he gets to the middle of the blade that he grasps it and squeezes. I can feel the Light scream in agony as though it were sentient and alive as his hand crushes the rest of the blade. When he is done, he rears back upright and smiles down at me. I am left with a hilt and nothing more. “Well?” he asks. “Is that all you have, child?” Searing humiliation cuts into me, and a rage comes up to meet it. I Conjure a large hammer above my head and bring it down onto him, channelling as much light as my muscles can take into the blow. He block the hammer with his hand before gripping it and wrenching it from my grip.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

My mind betrays me and refuses to let go as I’m pulled from my feet — right into a smack from his other hand. I’m flying. Then I land, my back smashing into the stone, pressed into it so hard that I feel every bump and grain of centuries-old speck of dust. I wheeze for air that doesn’t come — for my throat is reserved for a seemingly unending stream of bile and blood. Tears well in my eyes. Why? Why does this happen to me? My elbow digs into the sand, and I find traction on the stone with my feet. The journey to standing upright is long, and when I arrive my body sways underneath me. “How could you even begin to think you are worthy of the Gods?” Says the Sorcerer- King, walking back and forth. “Do you even realise what you have sacrificed to come here?” My eyes lock on his. His own narrow. “It seems not. Then let me show you.” He puts his hand down into the ground and seems to close his eyes and wait. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he drags a large panel of stone from the ground, facing me.

He waves his hand over the face, turning it into a reflective mirror which begins to warp. I see flames before anything else; I see the place in which I had trained blackened by soot. The fence around it has been destroyed, the flowers burnt; the well desecrated. In the background… Ravenwatch burns, the Oxbow lake it sits on has been drained dry and the forest outside has become kindling. The wind screams the fire and smoke into the air. The mirror warps again, showing what must be the future; Ravenwatch burnt to a crisp — even the stone foundation melted into magma. Somewhere in there is a charred corpse that was once my Mother. I look away. I don’t know if he will show me that… but I do not know if I can accept it. I do not know if it will break me, so it is best not to look. “Your Father had some wise words. This is the price of defeat.”

My blood boils. “We were not defeated. Father has never lost! I will never lose!” He chuckles, then points back to the mirror. “Then what, pray tell, is this? Victory? There is only one word for this; failure. House Daai has failed. Kyallan the child has failed. Reymond the Stalwart has failed.” With each word my anger grows until it is a tempest. I charge forward, my blade singing for the Sorcerer-King’s heart. He places a blade to defend himself so I Conjure another, stabbing it towards his thigh which he blocks with a perfectly shaped and efficient piece of Hardlight. A flurry of blows and a flurry of blocks, myriad strikes that result in nothing. I fall to my knees, my heart beating the fastest it ever has.

“Why?” I ask. He looks down at me, with no response forthcoming. “Why did you abandon us? We were your greatest allies. When you vanquished the Atacchnai, it was House Daai that carved the path into their caves. When you broke the Titans of Jikan, it was my Uncle that struck the final blow. My Grandfather shared in the feast you made out of the flesh, personally carved, of the Monster of Hrakka. We have always been your left hand. So why? Why did you abandon us?”

“That is the wrong question. If your House was so weak as to die as soon as I was gone; was it really ever strong enough to survive in the first place? You assume that you are owed anything when the opposite is true. You are owed nothing. Ever.” I spit blood onto the ground. “I am owed something. Not by the Gods or my blood - but by myself.” I say, placing one leg forward and pushing on it to lift my body. “I am owed the ability to stand up and to not suffer further defeat. I owe it, and I am owed it. You left House Daai to pick up the pieces. That’s fine. I’ll pick up the entire world if I have to. I won’t let humanity sit in this squalor and failure anymore. I am tired of seeing the Houses bicker instead of uniting. I have seen it since the first day I can remember! It is in the walls, in the windows, in the lands outside. Even in the very food I have eaten! I will be the Sword that puts them to heel, that directs their spears and swords and wolves and whatever else they have towards a glorious future!”

I walk forwards, gripping the great sword, feeling it bite into my skin, and then my flesh. “I will be the next Champion.” The Sorcerer-King closes his eyes and laughs; and the second after I place a blade in his stomach. Light erupts outwards, spilling back into the channels that surround the room. What else could this be except a trial to display my determination? What else could come of pitting me against a foe I could not possibly hope to defeat? My walk is staggered as I head to the door on the far side, walking down steps and feeling a surge of agony every time I do.

I press up against the wall and hold my hand to my stomach, feeling for the damage with the tendrils that pass through my skin and into my stomach, feeling for the damage with the tendrils that pass through my skin and into my body. A thousand micro-cuts permeate me, and I set the Repair going, a fresh new wave of pain shooting through my body. My nails rake against stone as my grip clenches involuntarily and I scream as loud as I ever have, filling the tomb with an echoing remnant of pain. Even as I stop, it bounces back to me and I get to hear my own pathetic whimpering. Even with the Repair, my breathing is shallow and the area is tender… but I can move forward. I do not know what to do now. My plan had been to find the secrets of this place and then return to Mother. Now I am lost despite the corridor that greets me. I place a hand on the wall and follow it — but I do not know to what end.