“The genesis of an Elevated’s specific power has long been a topic of speculation and debate among scholars and practitioners alike. Does ability spring from chance, innate characteristics, or some unknown factor? Could there be some kind of cosmic balance at work, with each ability serving a specific purpose in some grand scheme? Or is it shaped by an individual’s beliefs and values? It is frustrating to this author that, despite years of study and research, the answer to the origins of an Elevated’s ability still elude us.”
– Orhan Malenk, On Faith and Power, Year 311 of the Age of the Tetrarchy
Omvar woke with a jolt. He was in his bed—the one in his office—the soft sheets familiar and comforting. The warm light of the morning sun filtered through the window, filling the room with an amber glow.
Kel.
Home.
He looked around the room, eyes wide with relief and disbelief. Always that same dream. The memories washed over him again. Bone-rattling tremors, dust, deafening roar as the ruins collapsed. Images of Zara’s eyes flat with shock, of Orhan’s eyes, wide open in confusion. He could still taste that raw urgency, that instinct to flee, to survive. He remembered running. Running, running, running. Running until his lungs ached, until he could not feel his legs anymore.
And then... nothing. He remembered nothing else.
He examined his hands, turning them over and over, reassuring himself of their solidity. Omvar rose from the bed, pacing the room slowly, steps quiet against the cold floor. This wasn’t only a dream though, he thought grimly. But no matter—he was back in Kel, safe and sound.
Still, his thoughts turned to Rashaad. Poor, dead Rashaad, his form reduced to a lifeless, charred husk amidst those Belt-blasted ruins. Omvar still could not shake the image from his mind, the spears of light that had snuffed out the life of the Elevated.
Leftos. Leftos had known, somehow. All of it. Omvar’s gut churned at the memory of the delegate’s casual indifference to the horrific death of their companion. He wondered, not for the first time, what Leftos’ true intentions were. Was all of this—that dangerous journey into the ruins, this silver orb—worth the price of a human life?
Questions swirled within Omvar’s mind like a maelstrom. He felt an odd, lingering sense of dread, a shadow at the back of his mind he just could not shake. He was back in Kel, yes, but something was different. He was different.
Omvar had always managed to compartmentalize, to distance himself from the painful realities of this world, to carry on with his duties, unaffected by the horrors he witnessed.
Not this time.
The image of Rashaad’s death, that acrid scent of seared flesh amongst haunting screams that echoed within the chamber, were indelible. He simply could not forget the raw terror he had felt, the desperation, the all-encompassing urge to survive. Could not forget Leftos’ chilling indifference, the sheer ease with which he disregarded Rashaad’s life. Omvar clenched his fists in a familiar instinct to push through the surfacing pain. Yet, this time, resilience felt unreachable.
He was not just physically exhausted, he felt utterly drained. A tumultuous sea churned within him, waves of guilt and wrath crashing against shores of helplessness and confusion. His faith in his choices, his loyalties—his entire purpose—was shaken.
Sitting at his desk, Omvar massaged his temples, the weight of his thoughts threatening to overwhelm him. His eyes scanned the documents strewn before him, not even registering their contents.
Instead, his traitorous mind kept replaying the gruesome images—over and over again—each detail seared into his consciousness as if branded with a hot iron. His heartbeat drummed a painful rhythm, in sync with the throbbing headache that had taken residence behind his eyes.
He needed sleep. He wanted sleep. He dreaded sleep.
Rashaad’s vacant eyes seemed to stare at him from the papers scattered across his desk, each inked letter a crude manifestation of the man’s features. The sensation of fear, of being trapped in a nightmare he could not wake from, was drowning Omvar. His pulse raced, breaths turning shallow.
Exhaling deeply, he pushed himself away from his desk. He did need sleep, but the prospect of nightmares—of reliving that horror—terrified him. He glanced at the window and noticed the sun ascending the sky. The distant, muted sounds of Kel’s streets started to trickle into his office. He decided to take his chances.
Omvar rose from his desk and went toward the large armchair by his window. He allowed himself to sink into its cushioned depths, pulling a blanket from the back of the chair to wrap around himself. He stared at the steadily brightening horizon, the creeping light a feeble barrier against his encroaching memories. Despite the insistent tug of exhaustion, his restless mind still refused to submit to the sweet oblivion of sleep.
So he reached out, fingers brushing against the cool glass of the window. Omvar watched his city slowly begin to stir, faint sounds of life filtering into his quiet sanctuary. He felt strangely disconnected to it all, like a ghost lingering in a world where he no longer had a place.
As his eyelids turned leaden, his breathing fell into a soothing rhythm. Omvar’s consciousness began to waver, the hazy border between wakefulness and sleep beckoning him. He stared at the rising sun, the golden hues of dawn diffusing softly into the room.
Thoughts began to blur, the haunting visage of Rashaad gently receding.
Casting a final, lingering glance toward the sapphire sky, Omvar allowed himself to sink into his sumptuous chair, surrendering to the lure of sleep. As he drifted off, the city around him woke up, the sun’s bright rays spilling into the room, banishing the last shadows of the night.
The world, the Tetrarchy, marched on. Indifferent. Omvar’s responsibilities, his work, his guilt—all would lie waiting for his return. But, for now, in that still subdued light of dawn, he found a moment of peace, a temporary respite from his nightmares. Sleep, soothing as a balm, eased his troubled thoughts, allowing him to escape—however briefly—from the trials of his existence.
Night. Or was it evening?
Omvar let out a sigh, fingers combing through ruffled hair. He could not sleep anymore, his mind already too busy again with processing all that had happened. He sat up, staring blankly at the wall, his thoughts recommencing to consume him. Omvar rose and paced the room, the cool floorboards under his feet grounding him in the present again.
Every one of them had handled this differently. Was handling it differently still.
Orhan, for one, had thrown himself into work with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Constantly jotting down notes, he brooded over his findings from those ruins, formulating and discarding theories on an almost daily basis. His face was pale and harrowed these days, candlelight casting dramatic shadows across furrowed brows as he worked late into the night. Still, there remained a spark in his eyes, a flame that seemed to grow brighter each passing day. Threatening to consume him.
Zara found herself nursing a particularly nasty cut on her arm from the debris—and an equally bruised ego—yet beyond that remained a picture of resilience until her and Jahan’s departure for Akhantar. Rumor was that she would be taking Rashaad’s place there, leading what was left of its Elevated corps.
Leftos, true to form, remained an enigma wrapped in a riddle, seemingly oblivious to the physical—or mental—wellbeing of their former group. Of his tools. Outside of official functions, Omvar had not seen the man since. He briefly wondered what had happened to the silver orb they brought back from that cursed place.
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His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door. Omvar did not have to ask who it was; he knew that knock. Light, yet assertive.
“Come in,” he called, and watched as the door to his office slowly opened. A figure stepped in, fiery red hair catching the last rays of sunlight. She paused at the doorway, her confident stride faltering for just a moment.
“Ravena,” Omvar greeted her with a weak smile.
She sauntered wordlessly over to his armchair, black dress hugging her curves, revealing just enough to be considered indecent. Omvar watched her and a sense of familiarity washed over him. It felt like an eternity since he had last seen her, but here she was, as beautiful and dangerous as ever.
“I see that you’ve been taking care of yourself,” Ravena remarked, a teasing smirk on her lips as she studied him. Swaddled in blankets, cushioned by an expansive armchair, and looking out the window. Quite likely won the prize for most seductive pose in the history of mankind.
Omvar glanced down at his disheveled state and then back at her with a wry smile. “Oh, absolutely. I call this look ‘Despair, but make it fashion.’ It’s all the rage in the circles of overworked bureaucrats.”
There was a pause, an unusual silence that hung between them. Ravena was usually all about business—always calculating, always plotting. Omvar knew how to handle that. Mostly. But today, she seemed different. Softer, less certain. He was not quite sure yet what to make of it.
“You’re worried,” Omvar observed, probing the depths of her bright green eyes. He saw a flicker of vulnerability there, before she quickly masked it with her customary confidence. “What have you heard?”
“Word travels fast, Omvar,” Ravena began, her usually firm voice wavering just the slightest bit. “They say you barely made it out of that jungle alive.”
Omvar looked at her, surprise flickering in his eyes. Accusations, threats, manipulations; these were approaches he expected from her. But this... this hint of genuine concern? “I...” he began, but stopped, not knowing what to say.
His thoughts involuntarily wandered back to the horrors from those ruins. The air around him seemed to chill as the memories clawed at the edge of Omvar’s consciousness, threatening to pull him under again.
With a shudder, he forced himself back to the present.
“Whispers can be exaggerated,” Omvar said, trying to sound dismissive. “I survived, didn’t I?”
Ravena studied him, gaze softening. Then, in one decisive moment, she closed the distance between them, her hand reaching out to touch his. A simple gesture, something you could see on every street, on every day. For him, it roared.
“I’m here, Omvar,” she said softly, a rare vulnerability stealing into her voice. “I get it. After my first brush with death, I couldn’t look at the stars without feeling lost. It changes you, doesn’t it?” She swallowed. “Whatever it is you’re going through, you don’t have to face it alone, is what I’m saying, I guess.”
Omvar looked at her as the warmth in her words sunk into him. He knew her. Knew her manipulative, power-hungry nature.
Yet, in this moment, he allowed himself to believe her. To trust her.
Perhaps, even in the harsh world of Kel—where power and manipulation were the currency of survival—there was still room for something more... something genuine. His hand responded almost of its own accord, a gentle pressure against hers.
The shared silence, their feeling of connection, hung for a moment longer. Then Ravena chuckled, her hand retreating, severing the link. “Never took you for the sentimental type, Omvar.” Her usual air of confidence returned as she slid off his armchair. “But we’ve wasted enough time on this... concern. You’ve got work to do, and I’ve got places to be. I trust I’ll see you soon, my dear.”
With a kiss blown through air, Ravena slid back toward the door, vanishing from sight. If Omvar did not know better, he would have thought this looked suspiciously like a flight. Strange woman.
He stared at the spot Ravena had just occupied, her warmth still lingering. He exhaled a long, weary breath and let his gaze shift to the window, seeking the strength to rise. The mere act of movement pulled him back into reality, forcing him to put aside this unexpected vulnerability he had just witnessed from Ravena.
Finally, he sat down at this desk. Yet, just as he was beginning to settle into his work, his office door creaked open once more.
“Omvar!” The voice was familiar. And loud. In walked Orhan, dressed—as always—like the Kelians of old, ever so appropriate for a historian. His long gray beard seemed to have grown since the last time Omvar had seen him, cascading all the way to his chest now.
“Hasn’t it been too long, my friend?” Orhan greeted him warmly, not waiting for Omvar to invite him in. All Omvar could do was sigh in response, pushing aside his work to give his old friend his attention.
Orhan glanced around the room as if to take stock, before he fixed his gaze on Omvar, a sad smile creeping on his face. “You look worn out. Travel always takes its toll, doesn’t it?”
Omvar responded with a chuckle, massaging his temples. “Trust you to state the obvious, Orhan.” Though, judging from his friend’s sunken eyes and jittery hands, Omvar was not the only worn out one in this room.
Orhan shrugged, eyes on the papers piled high before Omvar, easing himself into the armchair across Omvar’s desk. “Someone has to, my friend. It seems like, otherwise, you forget your mortal limitations.”
For a moment, Omvar found himself at a loss for words. He did feel weary, more so than he would care to admit. But who could really blame him, when every meal evoked the scent of charred flesh, when every flash of light induced a convulsion.
Smoothening the papers in front of him, Omvar blinked slowly and mustered a forced smile. “Well, someone has to. Keep things running smoothly, I mean.”
Orhan studied Omvar for a moment, eyes filled with concern. “You’re not just any bureaucrat, Omvar. You’re now a man who’s seen more than most. Don’t let that weigh you down. You can’t carry what happened in these ruins on your shoulders alone, my friend. It’s not healthy. Nor is it necessary.”
Omvar’s smile waned. He turned to the window, watching the stars glitter in the dark canvas of the night sky. His voice barely rose above a whisper when he finally replied, “I appreciate your concern, Orhan. I do. But this is the job I was given, the responsibility I chose. I can handle it.”
There was a silence. This time Orhan did not attempt to break it. Instead, he simply watched Omvar, eyes filled with a mix of understanding and concern. The man could be infuriating. Omvar kept his eyes to the window, probing the distant night sky.
Finally, Orhan rose from his armchair. “Just a friendly warning, Omvar,” he said, voice serious yet not unkind. Omvar turned and watched as Orhan ambled toward the door. The old man paused, hand resting on the door handle, “Don’t isolate yourself in these turbulent times. Remember, my friend, even the mightiest rivers need tributaries.”
Silence returned to the room as he heard the door close behind his old friend. Omvar took a moment to collect his thoughts. Finally, he sighed, running his hand through his hair and down his face. He returned his gaze to his desk, to the papers scattered across its surface. Of course, he knew Orhan was right. But there was work to be done, responsibilities to be fulfilled. He could occupy his mind.
For now, that was all that mattered. For now.
The Tetrarchy paid bureaucrats well. Exceedingly well, in fact. The one thing you did not want is someone bribing themselves to godhood, after all. Good thinking, that. Problem was, you could—quite literally—never have ‘too much’ or even ‘enough’ gold, if you would ask him. Which is how his arrangement with these letters from the continent had come about in the first place. Quite a while since he had received one, come to think of it. Maybe his mysterious patron was finished with his grand rearrangement.
But even beyond the gold, Omvar found a different kind of value in his work: order, stability, and the finesse of subtly wielding power. Not the ostentatious power wielded by a Delegate or a tetrarch. No. This was a quieter kind of power, less attention-seeking but just as potent. The power of knowledge and understanding, of control and manipulation.
And he was oh so good at it.
Omvar returned his attention to his work, meticulously reviewing the files and logs of assigned believers. This was the heart of his work—the heart of the whole Tetrarchy, really—the delicate task of allocating these precious assets to Elevated in a balanced and fair way. And in a policy-aligned way, of course. His latest directive had been to slightly diminish the Elevated of Limrod, a cautionary measure prompted by delayed tariff payments. Should’ve stuck to their theaters for drama, Omvar thought.
Yet, as he sifted through the documents to formulate a plan, his eyes caught on something in the change logs. An anomaly. Nothing obvious, just a slight imbalance in the believers assigned to Ravena in some of the new documents that should not be there. An irregularity that would go unnoticed by a casual observer, probably even by the complex calculations used to monitor these allocations. But he had pored over thousands of such documents by now. He could read them at a glance, use them to make great leaps of intuition that would baffle an initiate. Something here just did not feel right.
Omvar frowned. He double-checked and then triple-checked the numbers. This had to be an error.
But the more he studied the documents, the clearer the patterns became. They emerged like ghostly trails at first, until they coalesced into an inescapable conclusion. A minor shift of believers from Ravena to another Elevated here, a small group suddenly without any Elevated there.
Far too convenient to be random, too subtle to be a mistake. This was something else.
A dreadful realization started to take shape in Omvar’s mind. Someone was doing this deliberately. Someone was systematically siphoning away Ravena’s believers. But who? And for what purpose? It seemed to be a meticulously planned operation, as clever as it was insidious. In fact, he might have admired its audacity, if it were not so unsettling. He had done something not too different on the continent, after all, if he was being honest with himself. But this, this was personal. This was Ravena.
Omvar’s heart pounded against his chest as he continued to check and recheck his calculations. But the numbers did not lie. The pattern was there, a sinister undercurrent disrupting the carefully guarded balance of believers within the Tetrarchy. It was subtle, yes, almost imperceptible unless one knew what to look for. But there was no doubt about it.
Slowly leaning back in his chair, Omvar’s gaze was drawn to the window again. Stars winked back at him, their silent observance only serving to amplify the magnitude of his discovery. If he was right, this was just the beginning of a much larger, much more deadly game. A game among gods.