As Cyril had discovered firsthand, Ascended beings were not to be taken lightly. Hunger-Made-Alive, the entity he had encountered within the Beljezan palace, had far exceeded the capabilities of a normal human bound to a djinn. The Ascended Reflector was the paragon of the sort of existence Hunger-Made-Alive had craved--a deliberate creation molded to specific purpose, opposed to scavenging a meager existence for itself in the forsaken depths of the Underdark. While Cyril was confident in their chances against it as a trio, it would be a nightmare for any individual to face.

Worse still, they only understood one aspect about the Ascended. No doubt it possessed several high-tier Dominions and an arsenal of techniques. On the bright side, so did he and his companions.

While Cyril stood, rooted in place, contemplating a plan to tackle this new foe, Loras was already charging forward. A strand of ethereal purple qi shot out of his breastplate and connected with the Ascended’s chest; immediately, a parallel line of Gravity qi whipped out in response, slightly thicker than the original, linking back to Loras. The twinned technique yanked both of them off their feet, lashing the two blurred figures together in the middle of their starting positions.

Ebony limbs flashed, a martial barrage that the Ascended didn’t bother to defend against. Hollow peals rang out as the damage was returned toward Loras, caving in sections of his armor, revealing the emptiness within. Though the physical trauma was reflected, the momentum behind his strikes still carried through to the Ascended, tossing it about like a ragdoll.

The Ascended’s eyes widened in surprise as an additional pair of arms sprouted from Loras’ breastplate and seized it by the hair. He pivoted and flung the Ascended with all of his might. A cerulean blur whirled through the air and crashed into the wall of the Obsidian Prison. Loras crumpled into a broken heap from the reflected impact, then reformed into his usual figure a moment later; the Ascended rebounded off the building and landed lightly on its feet.

A cultivator that couldn’t be damaged against a cultivator that could regenerate and felt no pain. The clash seemed pointless at first glance, but it had revealed important details about the Ascended’s defensive technique. Such a potent ability was bound to have limitations. It didn’t halt all incoming force, which meant the Ascended could be physically manipulated. That opened up possibilities.

Tyrin followed close behind Loras. A pair of wings wrought from Sun and Wind qi had sprouted from his back, flares of orange and light-green energy conjoined in harmony. Unlike the elegant contours of a phoenix’s wings, Tyrin’s were broad and imposing, flared out in draconic majesty. He plunged through the air, sword held horizontal, and as he closed in on the Ascended, he lashed out with the vibrant blade.

A cyclone of flame emerged from nothingness, roaring out into the space between them. Its blazing funnel touched the earth a few paces away from the Ascended, just in time to submerge it within a cage of swirling energy.

Tyrin changed course, tilting and tucking his wings to narrowly avoid the Obsidian Prison. He managed to land gracefully enough before the reflected forces struck his body, forcing him to his knees. His hair whipped about in an invisible wind, and his exposed skin flushed pink as his reflected technique scalded him. Tyrin had some resistance against his own affinities, but it wasn’t absolute.

The Ascended remained within the cyclonic prison, an immobile silhouette, as Cyril’s brother suffered all of the ill effects of the technique. After several seconds, it seemed to realize that Tyrin didn’t intend to stop. From behind the shifting veils of violent qi, it lifted both hands into a complex mudra. It moved with languid certainty, in mockery of their desperate attempts.

Cyril forced himself to stop standing around, to stop thinking. The fingers of his right hand moved, clumsy due to his unfamiliar proportions, but still managing to form the approximate handsign.

He channeled Pressure with a thought, the pattern of the Cantrip ingrained into him through repeated practice. This time, it flowed differently, though he wasn’t consciously aware of making any changes. Gravity qi surged down his right arm, through channels and matter augmented with Behemoth’s shard, then burst from his outstretched hand.

The Pressure collided with the Ascended, forcing it to stumble back and disrupting its attempt to form a technique. At the same time, Cyril flew backwards a dozen paces and came to a skidding halt, managing to remain on his feet. A quick glance revealed the imprint of his own enlarged hand caving his breastplate in several inches. He coughed up a mouthful of bronze ichor.

The impact had sent him close to a knot of fleeing mundanes; some of them glanced back at him, eyes wide at the towering golem thrown into their midst. A couple of guards at the rear of their group nodded in encouragement before following the civilians.

Before Cyril could refocus back on the battle, a tugging sensation in the back of his mind caught his attention. A seam of blue-green energy hummed within his mind’s eye. With a thought, he sent a wisp of Knowledge qi into the rift, widening the gap and infusing it with his own personal signature.

Good, Tyrin spoke directly into his mind. Loras is linked in as well.

Present, said Loras.

As far as Cyril could tell, the telepathic bond appeared to transmit thoughts and ideas instantaneously. He understood their intention as spoken language, but there was no delay in transmission or comprehension. Less than a fraction of a second passed in the real world. An impressive piece of work, Elys’ technique.

What followed next was a passing flood of ideas and impressions--a battle plan, mostly between Loras and Tyrin. A twinge of resentment flared and died off in Cyril’s heart at his glorified support role.

He forced himself to return his attention to the Ascended.

The initial salvo of techniques had ended in a stalemate, as expected. Now that the opponents had taken the measure of one another, a brittle note of tension thrummed in the air. Swirls of infernal wind continued to cage the Ascended in place, but it wouldn’t last for long.

The scent of brine tickled Cyril’s nose. A moment later, the Ascended’s cerulean aura exploded outwards, unfurling into complex geometric shapes resembling raindrops and snowflake fractals. The billowing qi extinguished the encircling flames and broke down the chains of wind. Earth rippled and surged beneath their feet as if the ground itself had been turned into a tidal zone.

Tyrin and Loras barked out warnings at the same time as the Ascended’s domain imposed itself upon reality. Their own auras flared outward, converging upon the mystical environment extending about the Ascended. Together, they managed to disrupt the domain, weaving their energy signatures together in an assault at its conceptual foundations. The budding expression of the Ascended’s Inner World reversed and was forced back into its body.

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A small success, but the damage was already done. The cyclonic prison had collapsed. Instead of taking advantage, the Ascended stood in place, smiling.

Tumorous growths bulged out from its cheeks, its neck, along its exposed arms. Skin split open in showers of foul liquid, and wyrmlings burst out from the abscesses. They were no larger than a finger at first, then grew mid-air until they were long as an arm. By the time they struck the ground, the riverwyrms had almost matured, plunging down into the earth as if it was their home element.

Cyril and his companions’ thoughts mingled with a shared emotion—disgust.

Spawner, they cursed in unison.

As if being a Reflector wasn’t annoying enough, the Ascended was a walking fountain of monsters as well.

Communication flowed back and forth between Cyril's companions at the speed of thought, barely including him in their projected calculations and commands.

Loras leapt back into the fray, a barrage of limbs striking the Ascended. This time, the blows carried the vibrational power that Cyril had experienced for himself when clashing with the metallic cultivator. In a bizarre loop, the redirected vibrations resonated within Loras’ hollow armor and returned back to the Ascended, back and forth, growing with each oscillation until the air itself distorted and reverberated. Loras disintegrated into shards, reformed himself just as fast, over and over; only his head remained wholly intact, the hair-like protuberances clamped down in a protective shell around it.

Tyrin flew overhead, lashing out with his sword and expelling crescents of radiant Sun qi into the tight space between Loras and the Ascended.         

The various techniques from the combatants blended together into an esoteric conflagration that nearly overwhelmed Cyril’s senses. He was forced to look away as the area surrounding the Ascended became a blinding scar upon reality.

At least the tremors from the newborn wyrmhorde caught his attention, gave him something to do. Dozens, perhaps even a hundred, of the creatures had escaped from the Ascended before they managed to stem the flood. A cluster of wyrms traveled close to the surface, heading directly toward the nearest group of mundanes.

Some of the tribesmen cried out in alarm as Cyril surged into their midst. He pressed both palms into the ground and poured qi into it, manifesting a platform of blessed stone beneath the mundanes. In a moment, it grew upward in a rapidly-expanding cylinder, carrying them high above the incoming monsters. Mundanes clung to one another, shouting in dismay, but they had enough sense not to fall off the sides. Wasteful, he cursed at himself.

The earth beneath Cyril roiled and burst open as the swarm redirected their gluttony his way. Gaping maws closed in from all directions. He directed a full-strength Pressure down upon himself, forcing him down to his knees. Wyrms imploded upon themselves, blossoms of gore staining the ground.

Sensing more tremors below, Cyril Transmuted the deep stretch of earth beneath him into blessed stone, trapping the follow-up wave of monsters like insects in amber. By instinct more than anything, Cyril funneled their death energy into his Dominion of Earth.

His extermination failed to contain the flood of riverwyrms. More tremors spread throughout the area. Geysers of earth exploded upward, sinuous forms shining iridescent as they feasted upon packs of mundanes.

More and more people continued to flee into the supposed safety of the central compound, herded into pockets of slaughter just beyond the reach of the guards. The reserve forces were trying their best, unleashing infernal devastation and attempting to form united fronts against the swarm, but they were spread too thin. As more people flooded in from the outskirts of the tribe, seeking salvation, they found themselves in the middle of a death trap.

Moments felt like eternities as Cyril knelt there, hands pressed against the earth, watching as mists of human blood tinted the world around him. Helpless people—his people—battered on the doors of the glass buildings that had already been stuffed to full capacity. The sight was surreal, a fever dream.

The growing cacophony around the Ascended dragged his attention back to the fight. Tyrin and Loras were attempting to herd the enemy closer to the Obsidian Prison, harassing it with synchronized physical blows and constructs of superheated air. For a moment, Cyril hung in a limbo of indecision, wondering if he should contribute to their battle or help his people.

The choice was obvious.

Nearby mundanes cried out in alarm as his gravity domain descended upon them. Cyril focused his will on directing most of the force toward the monsters, but it was nearly impossible as they weaved through the crowd, shedding a sea of blood. And more and more people kept surging into the compound, forced into the fray as they noticed too late the horror awaiting them—unable to backtrack against the press of desperate bodies behind them.

Cyril flung his consciousness into the ethereal network of Knowledge, trying to keep the hysteria from tainting his thoughts. At first, nothing seemed to happen. Then, other minds answered his call. The guards throughout the area accepted him into their frantic hive of mental anguish.

Wyrm breach east of Orange—

Blood is flowing weird. The Ascended is doing something? Creating a blood lake?

Help! My family! They’re just mundanes! Can anyone—

No one has time for your godsdamned—

Chaos. Panic. Most of the battle-scarred veterans had already left to secure the frontier, leaving behind the untested and unprepared as a token force. Without Loras and Tyrin to hold back the Ascended, the entire encampment would have been slaughtered from within. They couldn’t spare a moment to help fend off the wyrmhorde without giving the Ascended room to spawn even more.

Cyril found himself almost despising the inept guards, then dismissed the thought. Was he any better? Were they not trying their best while he knelt there, frozen, judging?

Behemoth, he thought, attempting to link his mind with the uncaring titan deep within his soul. Help us.

No answer.

His thought must have transmitted across both channels of communication. Silence greeted him—a poignant, hopeful silence, as if everyone was awaiting a miracle. Nothing came.

Cyril attempted to keep the dismay, the disappointment, from leaking out to the others.

Blood sprayed.

Wyrms feasted.

People screamed.

His mind and body pumped full of elixirs and pills, the world had never seemed clearer, more focused. But that clarity brought no answers.

He clenched his fists. Watched his people die.

NO.

It was Behemoth’s voice and it was not Behemoth’s voice. A metaphysical rumbling throughout the earth. For the briefest moment, the rampaging wyrms paused, as if they had sensed something. Silence reigned across the mental network—both from the guards, and from the separate connection to Loras and Tyrin. In the real world, his people called out in terror, begging for salvation. For a miracle.

NO.

Cyril had never felt more exhausted, more useless. But the dismissal, the refusal, overwhelmed his mind. He rejected what was happening. Rejected his own self-defeating helplessness.

What was he thinking, begging Behemoth for assistance? He was Behemoth, as much as he was Cyril. More, perhaps—the relationship between mortal man and Titan could never be one of true equals. He had desperately attempted to maintain the distinction, to cling to the life of a pampered prince, as if he had stumbled upon some potent weapon he could wield when convenient. In truth, he had fused himself with a being beyond mortal comprehension. He thought he had come to terms with his new reality, but deep down, he had never accepted the truth.

That delusion could fester as long as he only harmed himself with it. But his folly was costing innocent lives.

Cyril stood. The earth rumbled around him. A greeting. An acknowledgement. He could feel the countless grains of sand around him, the unfathomable depths of bedrock below, leading down to the ever-flowing Magmatic Heart at the core of his very world. Flurries of sand whirled about him as his gravity domain shifted, evolved, growing into a vortex of spiraling force that scoured the world around him.

For a moment, his spiritual senses felt infinite—then it was reigned back in, as existence remembered that despite his revelation, his spiritual channels could not yet handle the true output of a Titan. Tiny cracks had already formed throughout his spirit, but they were already sealing over, stronger than before.

Cyril was still limited. Still chained by his mortal constraints. But despite that, he was far more than he thought he was.

His projected thought cut through the silence:

BEHEMOTH STANDS FOR THE WANDERING PHOENIX TRIBE.