The raucous fanfare outside was so loud it felt like it would burst Zaeyn’s eardrums. His mother’s hands trembled in anticipation while she donned the final touches of his ceremonial attire. A sigh gushed out of him as she finished up; it was nigh time to face his fate. He waddled over to the dressing mirror, which sat in the corner of his chambers, finally having some reprieve to appreciate how he looked. Eighteen years, and he had never looked so gallant. Yet, the sight brought little comfort. The cerulean tinge of his sacred clothing complemented his light-brown complexion, bringing out the chocolatey glow of his skin. His cloak, adorned with ornate beads of sapphire, aquamarine, and lapis lazuli, enveloped him like a bedazzled river, shimmering as it flowed across his form.
She’s really outdone herself this time. His mother’s eyes began to well up as he turned to face her. She approached him and gently tousled his onyx hair, evenly distributing the gold flecks within.
“You look like a vision, Zaeyn,” she sighed triumphantly, basking in the fruits of her labour. Zaeyn had patiently sat for hours as his mother, and countless servants bustled around him, meticulously dressing him in the most lavish Larmerian garb. He attempted a grateful smile, but it emerged as an uncomfortable wince.
“Can we please shut those windows?” Zaeyn suddenly exclaimed to the handful of servants, who were busy packing away his wardrobe and elaborate pieces of jewellery scattered about the room.
“I thought it wise for you to hear the revelry. To dissuade your nerves and incite some pride—perhaps even some excitement—the people out there cheer for you. Does that not delight you?”
The servants dutifully closed the windows, which were composed of a central arched pane flanked by two smaller, rectangular ones, all reaching up to the high ceiling and drowning the room in sunlight. The dampening of the noise outside offered Zaeyn little relief. He could feel rivulets of sweat cascading down his back and forming atop his brow. The confines of his clothing grew even more restrictive as the pressure of his ascension rites loomed ever closer.
“For a family who prides themselves on their modesty and respectability, we sure do relish in making a spectacle of ourselves.” Zaeyn raised a hand in the air, informing the servants to take their leave. He had only seen two ascensions in his lifetime: noble children fortunate enough to gather the resources—they were spared the trouble of looking like a walking inheritance.
However, it had been twenty-five years since the last royal ascension had taken place, and the city of Zy’ean was itching for any sort of royal celebration.
“Well, we have every right to make a spectacle of ourselves,” Azelyn said as she glided over to a table in the centre of the room, where a delightful spread of the finest canapés in all of Arquara sat. She nibbled on a few slithers of cherried duck paired with a glass of Igazi wine to wash it down. She let out a hearty, satisfied groan of contentment upon finishing.
“Someone as studious as yourself surely understands the importance of our traditions. You aren’t some rube from Downstream; the current rages inside of you—have I not taught you well enough?” Azelyn said, with a dash of accusation buried in her tone. Zaeyn fidgeted his fingers with the edge of his cloak.
“I just… I wish we didn’t have to leave home. I’d rather perform my rites in private. I’m not ready for Zoetik’s Rest, not with so many people—strangers—all watching. They don’t know the first thing about me. They just worship our name,” he said brazenly.
“Zaeyn, you’re more than just a name, my love. You carry the blood of Zyena. The people outside—they know that. They honour it. And you must learn to honour it, too.” Honour? Or fear? he wondered. She approached him and cupped his face with both her hands. The cool touch of her fingers momentarily quelled the nauseating churning of his anxieties. She looked exceptionally regal today, her face sharp and elegant. They shared the same complexion, naturally; her dark-brown eyes were deep and knowing, holding centuries of joy and sorrow within their twilight depths. Hers met him, gleaming with admiration.
“My great uncle, Llenzien, is responsible for this tradition. It was during the Rise Out of The Rubble, but crowds rallied to witness the full display of a royal’s vigour. A show of power, a boost of morale. It’s what the people love to see.”
“And what if… I don’t possess a power like his. What becomes of me then? The royal laughingstock for all of Larmes to sneer at,” he said glumly.
I’m sorry, Mother, but I won’t be remembered as a disappointment, he shuddered.
“Oh, Ancients, spare me! Zaeyn Zynaria… what is it that you’re afraid of exactly? That there won’t be enough power offered to you? That you won’t possess any royal abilities? Nonsense. I will hear no more of this rubbish.” She pressed her hands firmly against his cheeks in an act of reassurance before releasing her grip and swaying back over to the food spread.
“Certain royals in the Freelands don’t possess any royal abilities, so who’s to say I’m entitled to any?” Zaeyn countered. Azelyn cocked her head back at her son, clearly fed up with his fearful ramblings.
“You are a descendant of Zyena! My minnow—listen closely now—that alone should remind you of your worth. Mother Zyena was cut from a cloth different from all the other Maturos. And… as far as the Freelands go—well—they’ve reaped the consequences of letting futile violence fester in their lands,” she spoke well and truly, hoping to stamp out any lingering doubts within her son. He smiled a genuine one this time. His mother had a certain knack for dispelling any maladies that plagued him, and today was no exception.
“How was your ascension?” he asked timidly, uncertain she’d respond.
A different air possessed Azelyn as she was asked to recall her past, an icy indifference coated her words and her eyes grew dull. “I didn’t have the luxury of being nervous. I had to succeed, lest I face my grandmother's wrath.” Zaeyn treasured any morsel of information he could coax out of her, as she rarely spoke about her past. She had lived lifetimes before her son; there was either too much to fill him in on or very little she wished to share. Zaeyn was pretty sure it was the latter. He didn’t pry further.
He took a deep breath in and turned around to study himself one more time. He was a comely young fellow with eyes that held a demure charm behind their hazel glow. His facial features were neatly arranged as if his creator had taken extra care to ensure that every angle reflected a delicate balance of strength and gentleness. The slight curve of his full lips seemed to convey a warmth and quiet confidence. His hair had been cut short in preparation for today, and he was relieved to find that the style suited him.
“The current is strong,” Zaeyn murmured softly to himself, repeating the phrase as a meek act of self-reassurance.
“The Rivermysts should be ready to see you by now. I’ll see you there once they’ve had their way with you,” she teased.
“Mom—I… I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t, my dear.”
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The rhythmic clicking of footsteps against stone tiles and the metallic clanging of his jewels were the only sounds he could hear now. He cautiously made his way through the halls of Tydalmere. The palace itself was the grandest display of wealth in the country, rivalled only by the Verglas Castle in Syrelone. He revisited fond memories of accompanying his parents on diplomatic missions to the capital; endless summers spent frolicking through the aquatic courtyards with his cousins, and merry trips to the Abyssal Fjords outside the city.
A draft of fresh air flooded his lungs as he reached the atrium. He felt the sweet, nostalgic caress of the river’s wind and couldn't fight off the glee this place brought. The atrium was comprised of a massive double-storey terrace, and in the middle sat an astonishing water feature. Even in her inanimate, stony prison, the very replication of her likeness was enough to inspire awe in Zaeyn.
She looked immaculate, standing with her palms together, staring up longingly to the heavens with a twinkle of starlight in her doe eyes—he reeled in amazement. A deluge of tears constantly streamed down her face and into a surrounding pool of running water. These crystal-clear waters were in a figure eight with the statue situated in the center, swathes of lotus flowers perched atop the surface like gentle clouds hovering over the seas. These flowers were an icy blue; Zaeyn’s dad once called them ‘the colour of frostbite.’ It was a much more impressive sight at nighttime, Zaeyn mused. That was when the flowers emitted a peculiar bioluminescent glow; as a child, he believed it was a sign the statue was alive and trying to communicate with them.
The pool was bordered by pavements on either side, connected by a flight of stairs descending into the main pool. Lush riparian vegetation was scattered about the courtyard like a clandestine river oasis. A lonesome willow tree solemnly sagged alongside one of the pavements. Beneath the spindly wisps of willow hair, which reached all the way to the ground, sat a quaint moss-covered stone bench—one of the few places of true refuge within the city.
Twisting tendrils of viney foliage decorated the second-story bannisters, reaching down tauntingly at the floor. Zaeyn used to love playing here on days of blistering heat—those days when it would have been cruel to ask the servants to take them to the Mouth of Zy’ean. He recalled fond memories of enjoying honeycomb icicles and swimming so much that his entire body would ache the next day. He yearned to be so young again, free from the burden of royal procedure—leading a life of endless fun and frivolity.
He realized he had stopped moving. The rose-coloured fog of nostalgia cleared the moment he saw a group of men awaiting him on the stairs leading into the water. The Rivermysts. They stood eerily huddled together in matching, pious clothing. The ultramarine shade of their cassocks—the truest, holiest blue—was reserved only for depictions of Mother Zyena and the Rivermysts themselves. They appeared as a maritime shadow atop the stairs. These men would soon initiate him into the depths of his royal responsibility. Pity it had to happen here, of all places. Zaeyn was suddenly overcome with bitter melancholy. He cautiously approached, creeping forward like a sacrificial lamb hesitant to offer itself up.
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“From the river, we come, to the river we go,” the Rivermysts muttered ominously as he finally reached them.
“Of the river I am; in its depths, I find my truth; through its waters, I flow.” Zaeyn bowed his head and knelt before them; he replied without missing a beat. This turn of phrase sat readily on his tongue whenever he engaged with the Rivermysts. He could feel their eyes fixed intently upon him like sharp blades pressed against his throat. He would not rise to meet their gaze, knowing what he would find—the abyss of Midnight Sea. To them, this was a testament of faith: the profundity of blue in their eyes signified the depths they had delved, the lengths they had pushed to achieve divine, mystical power. "Behold, the eyes of the righteous!" The words of the Disdainers crossed his mind—a remark that had never made sense to him until now.
Suddenly, a hand was placed under his chin, lifting his head to meet a familiar face.
“You are the Tears of Arth, once greatest of all Gods. We plead to the Ancients to set a merry course for today’s proceedings. May Mother Zyena protect the blossoming royal and bestow him with the power she deems fit.”
He spoke in the rich glaze of the Arthian tongue. Its esoteric tonalities and crisp rhythms carried a universal understanding across the continent of Arquara—a language of unity, ancient and divine. Zaeyn finally recognized who he was looking at. Keeping it within the family, are we? From what Zaeyn had been told, no one else in the Zynaria family had ever possessed the gall to become a Rivermyst—until Ezekiel. He had harboured an overzealous darkness in his eyes long before his pilgrimage to the Midnight Sea and had returned, reborn, seeing the world through a deeper lens.
“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, dear cousin,” Ezekiel said, studying Zaeyn closely. “Zyena has shined upon you greatly within the past seven years.” Zaeyn braved a look into the watery chasms that were Ezekiel’s eyes. They were fierce and unnerving, yet not entirely unpleasant to behold. Beyond the swirls of oceanic caverns, Zaeyn sensed something amiss—an unsettling feeling that perhaps a piece of Ezekiel's soul remained trapped at the bottom of the ocean floor. How does one truly escape the Midnight Sea? he thought to himself.
“Forgive me,” Zaeyn responded with a courteous tone. “The weight of today has been incredibly taxing… I’m shocked you’ve ventured all this way; the Sanctum of Eternal Waters must be biting at your ankles.” Mom must’ve pulled some strings with the Cardinal. They never send their most powerful acolyte this far from home, he deduced.
“The Tidal Council made sure of my attendance, but either way, I wasn’t missing this for the world. You will need to surround yourself with as much family as possible after your ascension—believe me,” Ezekiel replied. The other Rivermysts were lightly dousing him in the initiatory oils, lily-rose with a faint yet spicy hint of cardamom. They circumambulated while chanting odd verses in the old tongue.
So desperate, aren’t we, for heaven, beggars of the stars! For the magic of the dusk and the lingering dawn of polished marble!
They sang out in a devout and learned manner, totally spellbinding and captivating Zaeyn. A hymn from the age of the Abihtrans, he wagered, as he had never encountered quite such a tune before. Most definitely reserved for the most sacred of occasions.
“Is there any chance I could die?” Zaeyn asked earnestly. Ezekiel chuckled, coming to grasp the extent of his cousin’s nerves.
“Many a thing can happen during an ascension, but the ascended always comes out unscathed; I promise you that much.” Ezekiel patted him on the shoulder. “You won’t let us down,” he added.
Zaeyn’s attention was drawn towards a strange vortex of water brewing on the pool’s surface, directly in front of the statue. He could tell the Rivermysts were controlling it, as the runes neatly inscribed on their clothing were faintly glowing. A sleepy stupor began to overtake him; the bizarre ramblings of the Rivermysts were starting to impart their effects upon him. The incessant flow of their voices blended hypnotically into the brewing whirlpool they were creating. His heart thumped vigorously in his chest, this pulsating urge beckoning him to enter the watery void. His limbs began to move of their own accord. No use fighting whatever this is, he thought.
“You ever travelled through a Slipstream before?” Ezekiel asked, momentarily dispelling the reverent atmosphere.
“Once.”
“Well, I’m afraid this won’t be anything like your first time. The ascension begins as you enter. Zoetik’s Rest awaits you on the other side, where you will show everyone your gifts.” Ezekiel paused briefly and assumed a more dutiful tone.
“Show us your unbridled truth; let loose a flood upon us all. By the hand of Zyena, you may lay claim to the full extent of your powers—may she show you what splendour lays untapped within you.” Ezekiel then began to partake in the Abihtran hymn, stepping aside to allow Zaeyn to approach the rapidly emerging portal. He felt an unshakeable compulsion to enter the Slipstream as if there were some invisible tether he was attached to, and whatever awaited him on the other side was desperately tugging at him.
From the river we come, to the river we go—the words echoed like a bell through his mind. The cold, liquid embrace of the water slowly made its way up his body as he ventured deeper into the water. He stood before the Slipstream, a cavernous mouth smiling back at him, waiting to swallow him whole. He looked over his shoulder to catch one final glance at the Rivermysts, now huddled in a circle with Ezekiel standing in the centre. Their chanting had grown louder, causing the whirlpool to spin faster and faster. He stood at the precipice of power, the abyss staring him right in the face. He looked upwards to catch a final glimpse of Zyena, praying she would provide him with the morale he needed to see this through. He was shocked to see her eyes glowing with radiant white light and now looking directly at him. Her right hand carried the most majestic blade he had ever seen—a long and slender obsidian dagger with a sapphire-encrusted hilt. She held it right up to her throat and began to slowly, deeply drag it along her jugular. Zaeyn recoiled, anticipating a crimson shower to spill forth from the statue. There was no sign of blood. Instead, out came a torrent of dark plasma that funnelled directly into the Slipstream. It was unlike anything he had seen before, filled with the darkness of the night sky, glimmering with the sparkle of a thousand celestial bodies.
A warning? Or an offering? The Rivermysts took no notice of the quasi-living statue before them, continuing to recite esoteric Arthian hymns, still intently directing their energy towards the Slipstream. It’s now or never.
Zaeyn was violently sucked into the very centre of the vortex, leaving only blue wisps of residual mystical energy hovering in the aftermath. The last ripples of water finally quelled atop the water’s surface; the atrium returned to its habitual blissful state with no trace of ceremonial mayhem.
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A cacophony of thrashing water engulfed him, a force unlike anything he had ever known. Weightless, he plummeted through the Slipstream, a sensation that felt both ancient and alien.
His vision blurred as though he were submerged underwater. Disoriented and drenched, a wave of nausea hit him, worsened by the sudden glow of the gemstones around his neck. His vision was now a mind-bending kaleidoscopic refraction of oceanic colour.
I’ll be lucky to reach Zoetik’s Rest with my wits about me. He could faintly begin to make out his surroundings as his vision was somewhat focused. A thin layer of protective film covered his body—foamy, slippery, and silky in appearance, yet it was the only thing keeping him from being crushed by the surging water pressure. He was free-falling through a colossal column of porcelain water.
This is like swimming through the air on land—a novel defiance of nature’s laws. He could barely discern where he had entered, catching one last glimpse of light from Tydalmere before the portal's entrance was sealed.
The thundering cry of water pulsated around him, enchanting him with its boundless reach and immortality. He peered below to see if he could make out where exactly he would be landing. The protective encasing around him made it incredibly difficult to see properly, so he could only make out a faint strobing light at the exit.
Ezekiel was right; this is unlike any Slipstream I’ve ever experienced. Travelling via Slipstream was always an intense experience, but he had never been through one of this size. A horde of people would easily fit in here. He pondered when last there had been a need for such a thing, perhaps during the Disdained Exodus.
He peered above. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a strange silhouette. A dark and spectral shadow was diving towards Zaeyn like a falcon about to catch its prey in midair—it shared the exact same cosmic sparkle as the suspicious substance that had gushed out of Zyena. His heart pounded uncontrollably. The water around him was now blotched and stained as if someone had spilled ink all over him. He could feel the state of matter shifting around him—no longer held in a liquid embrace but rather a slimy one. The dark plasma latched onto his leg. In mere seconds, a malignant sludge began growing and covering every inch of his body. Nauseating. Wet squelching noises crescendoed into a weary silence once he was fully covered, enveloping Zaeyn in a limbo of darkness.
He came to a complete standstill as the water around him regained its natural state. He was no longer falling but instead felt a buoyant pull upwards.
This can’t be what Ezekiel had in mind. That thing has half a mind to attack me. He remembered Ezekiel's promise—Ascendees always come out unscathed, right? Now, do they?!
The slimy caress of the plasma wrapped tighter around him, making him writhe like a helpless worm. Panic surged through him.
That creature is going to catch up to me any seco—
The wind was knocked out of him in an instant, a searing void filling his lungs. The hulking force slammed into him, leaving him incapacitated. He clung desperately to consciousness, but his grip was slipping, dissolving into the edges of peaceful oblivion.
From the darkest corners of his mind, a faint voice—like that of an old friend—whispered. Unfamiliar yet strangely comforting, it spoke with a tenderness that was as soothing as it was chilling.
“Welcome to The Kingdom.”