Yelena

By the light of a single candle, she read alone.

This was not altogether unusual. She often sat in the library after dark, sequestering herself within the walls of knowledge the Argents before her had passed on. Dimedrious thought it a waste of her energy. To him, the past was the past, and no amount of reading would hone her sword arm.

But in the last week, she hadn’t been thinking about her sword arm.

In truth, she had neglected her practice sessions, forgoing them in favor of delving into tome after dusty tome in this place that felt suddenly like it was the safest place in all the world.

She looked up from her wooden table suddenly, checking around every corner whenever she heard idle footsteps. It turned out to be nothing more than Caretaker Valesk returning some borrowed entries to their slots on the highest shelves. He looked down at her with his amber eyes and wiggled his canine snout just like Dimedrious was often did when he was slightly peeved.

"You really should head to bed, young lady," he said in his gruff voice.

She nodded to him blankly and he trundled away with his books, muttering to himself. Even he would not push the issue with Yelena – the Firvak child born from the ashes of death.

She shuddered suddenly, consumed by an ethereal chill at the thought. Her dreams had become more vivid, lately, and often she found herself transported back to the training Hall on that day when a power hitherto unknown to her had flowed through her veins and bathed her in unnatural light.

She knew that power. She knew what it was called, and she knew where it came from.

But she didn’t know enough. That was why she was here, now. That was why she’d poured through book after book on the origins of the greatest evil to plague the lands of Averix since Amarata herself banished its bearers to the great black throat of the world.

She returned to the book that lay before her – Lord Narathzul’s Glance Bestiary:

*The Glance

The Glance Through The Doors of Perception (or simply 'The Glance') as the ancient mage-lords of old conceived it, was less a system of magic than one of summoning. In the Magisters’ conception, dimensions beyond the physical realm of Averix not only exist, but swell with energies that, when harnessed through the appropriate conduit, can be channeled and funneled into material reality. Those with the capability to harness The Glance are referred to as ‘Glancers’, and through the manipulation of these otherworldly forces enacted the brutal regime of tyranny our world is still suffering the effects of to this day.

Yelena’s eyes flew to her arm on impulse. It was as though she could see the festering wound still bleeding there – an aspect of material reality that something within her had simply denied.

She flicked through images in another book: Historie Averixia. Most of its early chapters included pictures of Glancers electrocuting their slaves and summoning great earthquakes as they warred with each other across the land. She examined sketches of the skies themselves bleeding and rivers of mortal souls being funneled into sacrificial altars to thirsting Gods whose names had long been forgotten. She read the words beneath these images with an even greater sense of primal fear:

And thus the Magisters of old – the bearers of The Glance – used their powers to smite and control the populace of the world. The earth itself was split by their wars, and the people suffered under the yolk of the old masters for a millennia before the Chainbreaker came.

Two whole pages were then dedicated to the long, red-haired image of Amarata, resplendent in her chainmail hauberk composed of all the broken shackles she'd collected during The Rattling. She stood at the top of a raging bonfire of holy flame, her burning longsword – Everflame - aimed at the charred heads of the screaming Glancers as she consigned them to their prison under the earth.

Underneath the picture was the inscription: The Chainbreaker cometh.

Her hand lingered on the image – one familiar to all children of Averix, probably even the Tigrans of them Emerathian jungle who worshipped their own strange fertility Goddess, Yevua. But, flicking through more chapters, her eyes eventually settled on another image that was potentially more infamous in the dreams of children than the Chainbreaker herself.

The Everloft

She looked around her, suddenly filled with the notion that she was being watched. A chill ran up her arm as she looked at the stylized portrait of the great, black mass in the centre of its glacial home. The artist’s depiction showed the hideous living tendrils of the abyss reaching up to curse the heavens where Lady Amarata looked on as she banished the first of the Old Magisters to its depths. The page told Yelena exactly what fate she was consigning them to:

And so did The Chainbreaker rise ‘gainst the nefarious forces that trafficked with the minions of the dark and banished them for eternity to the great abyss they themselves tore into the earth. She took them in binds to the great pit and delivered unto them her sacred judgement: ‘Let this slave bring you before your Dark Masters of the void, and cast you now into their embrace forever’

Yelena shuddered again as she cast her eyes over the image of thousands of Glancers tumbling to their demise at the bottom of The Everloft’s great black throat, and yet, her mind still hungered for knowledge. There was a piece of the puzzle that she hadn’t been able to form.

She brought the bulkiest tome towards her weak candlelight and traced the thickness of its onyx engraving on its front – an artifact from the very place it was discussing.

"Lord Jael Argent’s Ruminations on The True Nature of The Everloft," Yelena said, as though the book itself was a holy tome deserving of worship. Her fingers traced the stark ‘I’ under the text of the title. Volume II was apparently being compiled during Jael’s Last Dive to the nether reaches – the journey from which he and his companions never returned.

She turned to a page she’d marked before and studied the words of the legendary founder with a mix of awe and primordial fear. The ink still felt soft to the touch:

We fear, rightly, that which lies below.

But fear, as with many of our emotions, is clouded by our inherent subjectivity. No clearer is our subjective horror aroused when we consider the doom of The Everloft.

Once the prison for the Magisters of the Old World – the first Glancers to walk our earth and traffic with the darkest spirits from beyond Averix – now The Everloft exists as a curiosity. A story we tell our children to keep them tucked up in bed, secure in the knowledge that if they follow our instructions, they will be safe from monsters. It is a story we have often told since the days of The Rattling. It is also a lie.

In my descent, I have seen what lies beneath our feet. I watched the horrors from the deepest recesses of the abyss claw their way up to the light, seeking the most vulnerable hosts on the surface world we inhabit. Those creatures who are the greatest threat to our world – the spirits the magisters worshipped as profane Gods who’s anger and fury at the Chainbreaker burns strong enough to let their spirits wander our lands and manipulate the weak among us.

Once I saw the mark of the Voidspawn, I knew that reaching the bottom of The Everloft was a child’s game compared to the good that could be done by bringing the knowledge before the Order of Argent. In so doing, I bestow upon us a new purpose: seek out and eradicate the pervasive threat of the Voidspawn who have penetrated into the minds of our people. Be the shield of Averix, waiting in the North, watching the black chasm. Watch, and let them know: we shall drive them back.

"But you still went back down there, Jael," Yelena whispered, as though giving voice to the thought was heretical.

"And he never returned."

Yelena spun round quickly, her hand twitching instinctively – willing itself towards her blade. But her panic abated when she saw the old, venerable form of Proctor Azran appear from the shadows of the library’s darkest corner. His black wings were tucked behind his back and his sharp crow eyes lingered on the book that lay beneath her hand. She looked upon the robed form of the Jilae crow-man and stood to attention immediately, knocking over parchments and scrolls she’d been scribbling on for the past week. It was not every day that the current leader of Caer Argent himself graced an acolyte with his presence.

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"Peace, Yelena," he said with a characteristic clicking of his sleek, dark beak. "I’m just an old man with a talent for sniffing out critical thinking."

He smiled down at her while his eyes darted from each different book she’d piled up on her desk. He meandered over to the seat opposite her own.

"Perusing some of the Histories?" he asked.

She gulped and nodded slowly, much to the Proctor’s amusement.

"Could it be that the talented Swordmistress of our monastery is embarrassed to admit she enjoys her studies?"

Di, Yelena thought with consternation. How far are you going to spread that stupid title?

"The library is quiet, Proctor," she said, bowing her head as she resumed her seat. "And there’s so much I still need to learn."

"Of course," he smiled thinly. "And, might I add, your choice of subject is a popular one around here."

She smiled back at him. Why exactly she felt such a flush of sudden embarrassment, she couldn’t say.

"Lord Jael Argent’s Ruminations," Azran said, sweeping his feathered hand over the tome. "Bound up with the flesh of a Voidspawn Cackler and infused with a dormant portal stone from the nether reaches of the abyss itself. Well, so the legends say."

Yelena stared blankly at him in confusion.

"Jael always was one for theatrics," he chuckled dryly. "Even as he embarked on his Last Dive, I remember him saying he’d somersault down the great pit this time."

"You knew him, Proctor?"

"Ah, I was but a chick when he ventured back down to the depths. I don’t remember much about him, really. But I remember his voice. Nobody could forget that voice."

The Proctor suddenly grew pensive, staring deep into the tome as though there were some secret hidden there he had to focus on. It was like his eyes were attempting to peel back the pages of the book to reveal some hidden message waiting within.

"They say the Dive into the deep brings with it a curse," he said. "That none who enter the great pit can return the same. They come back with a desire that haunts them. A longing that dwells deep in the marrow. Only those with the greatest strength of will can enter The Everloft and return unscathed to the world of light. But it is said one’s mind never truly does return from that place, where only darkness reigns."

Yelena looked on at the great Proctor, rapt with attention, transfixed by the glimmer in his eyes.

"Jael never was the same when he returned," he said quietly, patting the Ruminations fondly. "He put on that same smile he always had, but inside there was something burning. There was something burning in all his squad-mates who made it back here after their first Dive. After they’d seen what lay below, this world’s concerns seemed trivial to them. They knew they had to go back, and that this time would be their last."

He slowly came out of the reverie and his eyes suddenly flew to Yelena.

"You’ve always been fascinated by it, haven’t you?"

She blinked.

"The Everloft."

"Knowledge of one’s enemy is the key to unlocking their weaknesses," she said, quoting the exact words of the Argent’s Guide to Blademastery.

"Come now, my young acolyte," Azran sighed. "Plenty of pupils within these walls have skimmed the ancient texts here for their secrets, and all of them have then promptly turned their attention to the blade – to the hacking of their enemy’s limbs and the burning of those Glancers that are still out there even now in our world. Yet, in all my years serving as Proctor, I have never seen a student so transfixed by a text she has already read countless times."

Yelena bowed her head. The healed wound on the crook of her arm throbbed, and her hand flew to grab at the spot reflexively.

"Yelena," the Proctor said, and his tone of concern jerked her head back to the reality before her. "There is a question that burns in your mind. Isn’t there?"

She nodded once, slowly, and then turned to a very specific page of the Ruminations that had been earmarked by many students throughout their days in the monastery – a page with a depiction of a beast clouded in shadow – a wolf composed of thick, blackened thorns that roared with an unnatural maw of serrated teeth. Above its head dangled a single word: Voidspawn.

"Proctor," she began tentatively. "The hymns of Amarata and the teachings of Lord Jael both tell us that the Voidspawn of The Everloft are capable of possessing a vulnerable host on the surface of Averix."

Azran nodded sagely as Yelena turned to another picture – a sketch of a human female with long, dark scars cut under her eyes.

"And that the mark of such possession can be found on all its victims – the Claw-Kiss of the Voidspawn."

"Correct, Yelena."

"And that such possessed beings are granted powers and capabilities beyond mortal ken. They can perform feats only those beings of The Everloft are capable of. They can channel The Glance."

"Also correct."

"But Proctor," Yelena began, gingerly stroking her healed arm. "Is this the only sign of possession? How does someone know if they bear the curse of the evil ones?"

"Well," Azran laughed. "The clearest indication would be that they would go berserk and attack anyone and anything within a five-foot radius. A Voidspawn is an inelegant beast, especially when it has assumed a mortal body."

Yelena bit her lip. "But what if there’s a type of Voidspawn we don’t know about yet? One in the deeper regions that not even Lord Jael returned from? What if there’s a Voidspawn that can possess a host without making it so obvious? What if one of them is smarter?"

She looked up to see Azran staring at her with absolute authority, his eyes fixed and serious for a moment. Her first thought, from nowhere in particular, was that he was about to fly from his seat and strangle her, then and there.

But the moment passed, and slowly he sank back into his chair, and his eyes once again grew soft.

"You remember what the purpose of Lord Jael's First Dive was, Yelena?"

"Yes, Proctor," she replied. "Lord Jael and his personal squad, the Dauntless Hand, were sent by Amarata to secure an artifact deep in the heart of the Everloft."

"An artifact," Azran finished. "From the Seventh layer."

Yelena nodded. "The Prophet."

"Precisely. Lord Jael committed himself to facing the horrors of the Everloft in order to give us our Prophet – our guide – our eyes and ears out there in the snowcapped plains of the North or sun-blasted fields of the South. Where Jael’s squad found her, no one knows, but she has been bound to Caer Argent ever since. Jael's First Dive was our finest moment, Yelena. It gave us our greatest weapon against the ever-looming darkness that waits below: knowledge."

He stopped, looked down at the piles of books, and became strangely pensive.

"It also changed Lord Jael and his squad forever," he said in all but a whisper. "They endured for our sakes, but why they returned to that damned pit in the earth, none of us may ever know."

Yelena smiled at that. Azran had a flair for the dramatic too, it seemed, in bringing their discussion back to its origin. It was true, of course. The Prophet’s Wakes had been instrumental in identifying and warning the warriors of the monastery whenever a Voidspawn threat was near, and even pinned down exactly which town had to be defended. It was an alarm system both sophisticated and terrifying in equal measure – the cold, dead air, and the horrifying screams the Prophet made during the last Wake still played themselves over and over again in Yelena’ s mind.

"So, Yelena," Azran said. "We are assured in our knowledge of the darkness of the depths. If ever a greater Voidspawn threat were to rear its ugly head, the Prophet would warn us before such a creature even opened its eyes in our world."

She looked back down at the image of the possessed human and felt her stomach clench. Yet another part of her heard and absorbed the Proctor’s words and wanted to believe them.

Is this just something else I’ll have to tell myself, now? she thought. Something that I have to make myself believe?

"Call it faith, Yelena," Azran said, and she looked down to see that he had wrapped his warm, feathered arm around her wrist. "Faith in yourself and the strength of your brothers and sisters will carry you further than stressing yourself out here, amidst these dusty books."

He smiled at her, and she felt herself reciprocate. Even amidst the darkest darkness, Azran’s smile was infectious.

"On that note," he laughed. "I believe I spotted a certain Tigran girl lockpicking her way into your chambers on my way here. Something about ‘surprising the stuffy Swordmistress with some cake since she apparently doesn’t eat in the canteen anymore.'"

"Aggie!" Yelena shouted, only to be mercilessly shushed by the dark form of Caretaker Valesk still at his desk. Azran simply chuckled and shrugged his shoulders at the Caretaker, who begrudgingly got back to his work.

Yelena looked from the mess she’d made of the table to the door, her spirit caught between two extremes: wanting to keep up a good impression in front of the Proctor, and wanting to make sure Agathae didn’t steal her necklace or Amarata forbid try and snuggle her way inside her bedsheets again.

"Go on," Azran said. "I’ll clean up here. A young warrior needs her rest, and she needs to be among her friends more than among tomes written by stuffy old men."

Yelena smiled and bowed to him.

"Thank you for your wisdom, my Proctor."

She then ran out without another word, leaving Azran to look after her with a begrudged smirk on his face.

She really is the complete opposite of her Captain, he thought.

His mind wondered as he returned his attention to the books she’d so meticulously laid out on her desk, and deep within his Jilae consciousness he dredged up the dream from his childhood memories in which he had seen this exact same picture – of these three books laid out in the exact same way. He sighed as he made sure that every little detail was exactly as the dream had painted it.

He did not enjoy lying to children. He did not enjoy having to lead them down the path they were destined for. Yet, his own conniptions about such things were trivial, in the grand scheme of the world. Cogs had to turn, wings had to beat, and the tiniest ripples on the pond of Averix’s fate had to be made, would be made, with or without his input.

But, even knowing this – even abiding by the strange logic his people always held, he still maintained his boyish resistance. Though she was a Firvak by birth, Yelena was not a thing of evil. Yet he could see, as plain as day, the suffering she would have to endure laid out plainly before him – a path of fire, buffeted by a dead wind, and he was powerless to stop it.

He looked at the open page in front of him. It contained lines from Amarata’s Divine Hymns which the child had been perusing:

And they shall know they are unnatural. And they shall know the might of our conviction. They shall feel the searing of their flesh and the dawning of light over their dark home. They shall look one day upon the rising sun and they shall know: we are coming for them.

He closed the book and filed it away