Clapping resounded through the courtyard, and all was silent again. People stopped milling, a host of them. All shapes and sizes but equally hooded, with a boy no older than his fourteenth winter striding arrogantly through their ranks. He had raven black hair to match his hood and the same gray eyes as the old man. Looking like Lernin had in the pictures of his youth when he'd attended the academy.

“Quite vicious, but efficient. My only question is why... Exactly?”

“Make yourself scarce, kid. I've had my vengeance.” Tyr replied. “What's done is done.”

“Vengeance on who might I ask?” The boy gestured to the scorched stone where Hastur's body had lay with a wave of his hand. “Do you know how long it takes me to grow these? The answer is a long time, and a lot of energy. I've no quarrel with you, little prince. And I'd prefer if you didn't vandalize my property.”

“...What?”

“Yes.” The boy chuckled. “I am Hastur Casterling. Again, I've no quarrel with you.”

“Hastur?” Tyr paused, brow furrowed and eye twitching.

Nala crossed her arms, opting to observe rather than to squash the boy flat. Her companion had been right, something was wrong here. Her instincts were screaming at her to leave, but her pride wouldn't allow it. “Hastur is old, kid. Leave this place.”

“Time is a construct. Age but a number. All things are subjective. I have been alive for sixty four years, or longer... I suppose that depends on what one considers 'a life'.”

“Then how are you a boy?” Tyr glared. Buying enough time through conversation to draw his sword and don his armor. The clinking of steel plates and chain joined the rasp of cloth against leather as it unfolded around his body. The satisfying sensation of his hands slamming into the spellbreakers, feeling the tingle of latent mana contained in the artifacts on his skin.

“A true master of anima has no need to fear the ravages of time. The greater significance of what I'm capable of would be lost on you, child. Believe me. You are, for lack of a better term, an idiot – but I don't wish to harm a primus. Everything I do is for you and your kind. Won't or can't, not ready to do what is necessary, so I will burden myself with the task – just as Solomon did. Leave now, and take your friend with you. A pleasure, by the way.” Hastur dropped the condescending tone and turned to Nala, bowing low at the waist, a fist over his heart. “To meet one of the true shaped ones is humbling. I have much work to be done before I can call myself his equal.” He grinned, plucking the old mans discarded staff from the ground and clacking it twice against the stone.

“You will pay for your crimes. One way or another. What you're doing isn't right, and no reflection of his legacy.” Nala snorted, caught off guard but not fooled by the respectful display. “You claim respect for the father, and then you do this...? This is madness.”

“I'd thought you and your kind, of all beings, would have understood.” Hastur shook his head in disappointment, his body changing to that of the appearance of a young man in his early twenties. “I have business with the merchant princes. Can this wait until after? I am on a tight schedule.”

“Do you truly feel nothing for all the people you've hurt?” Tyr asked, the question sounded odd coming from his mouth. He was cold, but Hastur was ice in human form. Not a single shred of his incredibly bright spira betrayed any emotion. Unlike the clone or decoy, the soul within the mans true body was as bright as sunlight. Not in the golden radiance that Iscari's was, but plain white and unburdened. As if he'd never performed so much as single act of unkindness throughout all his life.

How is that possible...?

Eight eyes framing the indistinct shape of a face stared back at him through the spira. Watching him as intently as he did it. A territorial thing that wrapped its form around Hastur until it all vanished from Tyr's sight entirely. Now, the soul within the body was as black as the void again. Not a soul, he realized, but rather a total lack of anything. A soulless husk.

“Haemonculi.” Nala clucked her tongue. “The father created living things, all you create are pale imitations. Nothing but puppets.” With a wave of her hand, the young mans body was incinerated. A flash of wild heat that vanished as fast as it had come, what was left of the corpse along with it.

“True. But alas, Solomon had centuries to perfect the art, and I'm just getting started. But you're operating here on preconceived notions about me. Thinking me some villain because of what I've done – something necessary. The people I've hurt? Do not jest, it is not in your character to play the accuser.”

“None of that was necessary, old man.” Tyr snarled, looking about. Every single individual in the crowd was Hastur, removing their robes in unison to put hundreds of the same face on display. A trap, if he'd ever seen one. Each one of them was a mage, and not so weak despite being flimsy copies. Perhaps in body, but not in magic. Hastur's consciousness itself had broken free from the shackles of the flesh and existed now as pure anima. And there, bizarrely, was nobody else. Even the laborers drinking on the side of the street, caps held low, were Hastur. The crowd, the man who'd been thrown from the bar, everyone. As if the city had been evacuated, leaving only this madman behind.

It could be anywhere, as long as one of these foul things remained 'alive'.

“No?” Hastur's voice came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Nothing Tyr did gave him any idea where his true form lay, and even Nala seemed to be having trouble. She could not wield anima, nor influence it. No of the shaped could, no matter how powerful. “You've read the books. Two, at least, and yet their wisdom is lost on you. The petty mages must be culled. Those too weak to bear true fruit of progress. Too many men exist in this realm, it was never meant to be this way, stagnant. I will bring balance to the world.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“You should probably stop there before we fly into copyright territory.”

A snort came from above. Tyr could see the pool of anima sailing through the air on the ether. To transcend flesh and become pure energy. How was that possible? Nothing in Solomon's tome had said anything about that.

“Are you a lich?” Tyr asked.

“No, child. This is not so different from an astral projection, only I've no root. No phylactery. For all intents and purposes, I am immortal. You cannot kill me, no matter how hard you try. Neither can the daughter of my master.”

Hastur glided down to the ground, filling another body with his essence. They were little more than jars to contain his energy. Golems he could possess. “Impressive, isn't it? I doubt that even Solomon managed this in his time. Though the magic in his age was so... Clumsy. I digress. This must be done, and your father knows it. They all do. Otherwise, why wouldn't they come stop me? They could, you know. Kill me. That's their job, isn't it? To deal with threats beyond man, and believe me – I am certainly beyond men. But you are too weak. Blind and deaf to your purpose. Just leave. I take no joy in doing what must be done, but I'll do it. As Solomon did in an age long passed. As Ellemar tried to do before he was betrayed. And all the others, those you have not learned from.”

“One day, you'll understand. This is the only way.”

Tyr could ask why, but he was angry. Like a hot nail being driven into the back of his skull. He hated himself for the same reason he hated Hastur. Because he was cold and thoughtless. Jealous, even. On both ends, Tyr could feel Hastur's raw avarice, staring back at him. Some sense of loss in it, like looking at a photo of a deceased relative. All Tyr could think about was their comparison of souls, both bared to one another. How could he have such a murky soul whereas Hastur's was pure beyond reason? There was an inequity in that. Almost like the world itself, or whatever force governed the purity of the soul, had judged him innocent.

It said that what he was doing was right, and Tyr refuted it with all his being. Lives lost were a number, a statistic. The higher the body count became, the more detached he became in consideration, nobody important to him had died. Just strangers. But he cared about justice. If justice didn't exist, then did anything? Perhaps it was how much he hated his father in the moment for allowing these things to happen. Or his arrogance that a non-primus could act so arrogantly, calling him weak. Maybe it was none of these things and rather his bond with Nala subverting his self control.

Barely concealed rage bubbled up inside of him, and he loosed it. Not at Hastur himself, but the haemonculi. They were valuable to him, even if objects, and he killed eight with bolts of flame aimed squarely between their eyes before his limbs were bound by some arcane force. Nala shared the same fate, rooted and pressed down into the stone with a confused look on her face.

“H-how...?” Compared to her bonfire of a mana reservoir, Hastur was a candle. And yet he held her all the same, until the flagstones in the courtyard began to crack and splinter. “How is this possible?”

“What kind of spell is this?” Tyr resisted, or tried to, and failed in the process. His anima was held by a force so heavy it might as well be a mountain. Every individual blood cell was grabbed by this force, stopping its flow entirely. Bending his limbs about, and nothing he pushed against it bore any fruit, it was beyond resistance. He wasn't paralyzed, he could feel his arms and had some control over himself, but his muscles tore long before his bones would move, he could feel his flesh tearing free from the network of veins made iron. Blood magic...

Hastur tutted. Speaking more like a professor than a sworn enemy. “Not a spell. I am squeezing your anima. Your spirit that exists apart from your internal forces is what keeps you standing – while the chimera cannot. I've essentially compressed it and added my own to increase the mass of your body. Anima is merely biological energy in the physical sense. I can take hold of your motor functions, clot the blood in your veins, manipulate your every muscle fiber. It won't hurt if you don't resist it, and like I said I have no interest in harming you in the first place, because you are necessary. Now do you see?”

Not even twenty Nala's would be enough to defeat him. Her entire existence was anima. If one could control that particular brand of energy, no chimera could resist them. Without anima, the bonds connecting their pieces together would fall right apart. Killing her would have been as easy as snapping his fingers. At any moment, he could end her, but the prince... Something was incredibly wrong with that boy, using his spira to force movement from his body even as it was being torn apart internally. Hastur considered the fact that maybe he'd been wrong in his assessment that the kid would be a good student, perhaps even disciple. Most assuredly so, Tyr would be easy to manipulate but far too unpredictable, headstrong, immature... Too many broken pieces for him to put back together. And Hastur was absolutely sure he'd never awaken, the boy had pushed himself down another path, the gluttons way in an attempt to force it. Destroying any chance of ascending in the process.

A shame...

“Fight me like a man!”

“Little brother... Come now. Fight you like a man? What a toxic and frankly juvenile sentiment. What am I fighting you like? A woman? Regardless, if you're interested in a duel or some kind of altercation, as I've adequately explained and put on full display – you can't hope to match me. You refuse to listen to reason, so I'm leaving. But before I do that, take these. Read them, and if you've even half a brain you'll understand.”

Tyr remained locked in place throughout the strange conversation. Hastur was arrogant, conceited, and felt like he was in the right. He wasn't violent, had no interest in fighting otherwise. Everything was cold logic and conviction, a flicker of concern in his eyes for the prince destroying his body in a bid to resist the shackles.

He's awake for now and I need to finish up before that wretched creature notices me. Hastur sighed, a new deadline foisted on his already overburdened table.

Just as he was about to leave the plaza, he turned, all of his clones arrayed out like an army. “And you, chimera. I give you my respect a direct descendant of one of the early shapings, but if you try to get in my way again – I'll kill you. I am a man with a busy schedule and do not like interruptions.”